“Well…Let us get back to stringent matters. A week ago, I found out with horror that Lady Catherine had empoisoned London society with her hate towards your future bride. The duke is the most influential man with whom I am well acquainted in London, so I went to ask him to help Anne’s son.”
But Lady Edwina chose not to inform them about certain parts of her conversation with the duke. William Fitzroy, Duke of Blandford, admitted he had never stopped loving Lady Anne and had always kept an eye on her children, ready to help them in any way possible. It was a touching encounter, with the image of Lady Anne vivid in their hearts.
“I shall let you continue your discussion now and shut the door!” Lady Edwina said with a wry smile.
As soon as the door closed, Elizabeth turned to Darcy. “All the questions are answered now, my love. Go to the duke as you wanted to do this morning and give him the letters. I have reason to believe he would be grateful for any sign from Lady Anne.”
Chapter 16
The Duke of Blandford was expecting him; Darcy was taken directly to the library, where he found an impatient man. The duke’s letters to his mother were uppermost in Darcy’s mind, and he could see the man in front of him, young and in love. As he was. He could not imagine his life without Elizabeth. And he did not want to imagine how the duke could live without Lady Anne.
The butler swirled the brandy in the glasses, its amber depths catching the light, and for a time, they drank in silence—not the strained hush of unspoken words, but a silence that drifted between them like a slow-moving tide, tranquil and unhurried.
“It seems to me,” the duke finally began, “that you already know my story.”
Darcy nodded—not yet ready to talk—but Blandford’s voice was so caring that he gradually overcame his hesitation.
“I know, Your Grace, what Lady Edwina remembered and what we found out yesterday evening…from your letters.”
“Stop calling me your grace, please,” the man murmured, and Darcy nodded in acceptance.
Reading his letters seemed more like an indiscretion, but there was no embarrassment among them; the duke smiled at the memories, for he likely remembered his words to Lady Anne.
“So, you have my letters,” he said, his voice cheerful yet composed.
“Yes, sir,” said Darcy. “We might have been indiscreet, but we were all beholden to my mother’s last wish last night. I must confess that, at the time, I was far from imagining…what we had discovered. I do not attempt to justify our actions. I just wish to explain our state of mind. My mother never imposed any demand on me—on us—my sister and me. I decided to read your letters in homage to her because they were her most precious treasure.”
“How do you know that?” the duke asked looking attentively at him.
Darcy hesitated; Blandford seemed amiable, even friendly, but they were in delicate territory. It was, after all, his life they were discussing.
“My boy,” the duke said, “the weeks I shared with Anne were the happiest of my life. Afterwards, I did everything expected of me. I complied with every duty, but nobody could ask more from me, nor was I willing to give more. I have lived with her in my heart and mind. In my bedroom, opposite my bed, is her portrait, which has been there for the last twenty-five years.”
Darcy was stunned and whispered, “Opposite to my mother’s picture in her parlour is your portrait.”
“Is it?” the duke asked incredulously. “You mean—now? At this time?”
“Yes, sir. It was hidden beneath a wooden panel, but I often looked at it in my childhood while my mother was reading or writing.”
Darcy felt genuine sympathy for the impressive man before him. Blandford was grieving a thirty-year-old love. There was so much sadness in his face and eyes—in his entire being—that no words could comfort him.
“How much of our story do you know?” the duke asked.
“Not much, sir. Just the things Lady Edwina remembered and events we inferred from your letters and…the ring.”
“The ring—my God, the ring! I asked her to marry me in the third week of our acquaintance. I was confident in our love, as was she. We were born for one another. When you hear such a statement, you tend to believe it is only a fable, but we lived it. It was our reality. I knew my father had plans for me, but like any young man, I believed no one could stand in our way. I was sure I could change my father’s mind, and I gave her the ring before talking to him. We were together for the first weeks in London. Then, we met at the Countess Edwina of Rothes, but Edwina recovered, and Anne’s mother wanted to go home. It was a bad dream. We decided that I would find a friend near St Albans and stay for a while, but nobody was close enough to the Matlock estate. Imagine, I slept for two nights in a hunting cottage on the estate!”
“Oh! I know the cottage, but it is only for basic shelter—certainly not for living,” Darcy said, remembering hunting with his father and often pausing there to rest.
“Exactly—I slept on a wooden bench, and your mother brought me food and a blanket, but it was wonderful. We were wild to be together, so we made a plan: I was to ride from St Albans and fall off my horse. A servant from the Matlock estate found me with an allegedly swollen ankle, and the plan workedwonderfully. Her parents were happy to take care of me, so I stayed perhaps five days.”
Darcy could picture that week with perfect clarity. His grandparents were unlike the people of Hertfordshire despite living in the countryside. With a title, a substantial income, and stronger ties to London society, they moved in different circles and harboured greater ambitions than the people of Meryton. Their daughters were meant to marry above their station. Certainly, the arrival of the Duke of Blandford’s wounded son at their doorstep must have seemed nothing less than the hand of fate.
He remembered summers at their estate as a perpetual drudge, his grandmother trying to make them behave as if they were at court. He was sure many of his defects came directly from her dinner table or parlour, where they had to act according to a rank they did not have. The future duke possessed such a rank, and everyone in the house knew how to receive their guest and show him they were prepared for even the king’s visit.
“We were so happy that it seemed the world outside did not exist—such a mistake!”
The duke paused occasionally as some of his memories were too painful. Completely submerged in the past as a spectator in a theatre, Darcy assisted in a strange play as he had intimate knowledge of the characters. He did not want the duke to stop sharing this history, but he was also afraid he might discover too much about a past that did not belong to him.
