Darcy smirked. That was Walker, indeed.
“You know whywe have come.”
“Aye, sir.”
Of course, Ferguson would never say more than he was asked.
Darcy tapped a finger against the table. “Then you must know that my conversation with the colonel might turn sour. I am not certain he will willingly give me the answers I seek.”
Ferguson appeared to weigh his next words carefully. “Begging your pardon, sir, but your cousin—he’s got a way of saying things without meaning ’em.”
“Until this Easter, Fitzwilliam had never given me reason to doubt him. And yet now, I know not whether I can trust him at all.”
His manservant gave a slow nod, as if he had expected this. “Some men don’t need to lie outright to get what they want.”
Supper arrived, and they dined in silence. Once they finished, Ferguson rose and holstered his weapons.
“’Night, sir. Must see after your coachman. He’ll still be cryin’ over his fours.” He reached the threshold, then hesitated. “Mrs. Smith don’t speak just for the sake of it, sir. If I were you, I would not trust your cousin too far.”
The manservant closed the door behind him.
Darcy sat motionless, the words hanging in the air. In the flickering candlelight, he poured himself a drink, turning the glass absently between his fingers. One phrase came back to him, as chilling now as it had been that fateful night.
Truth ain't always a kindness, and when it comes knockin’, you best be ready to face it.
***
The western wind blew intently as it always had this time of year, sweeping over the island with the scent of salt and seaweed. From the top of the cliff, Fitzwilliam pulled his horse to a halt, sparing a moment from his morning ride around the island—his island—to take in the untamed vastness of Rosings.
He had always found the sea air invigorating. Filling his lungs, he removed his hat, letting the wind rake through his hair, closing his eyes against the cold rush. For a moment, he let himself forget.
This was what he had always loved most about Rosings. Its wildness. Its unyielding defiance of the elements. A place of wind and rock, ocean and mist, where only the strongest endured.
As a young man, he had dreamed of becoming master of this land. He had envisioned himself riding these cliffs, not as a guest, not as a visitor, but as its rightful lord. However, Fitzwilliam was,above all, a soldier who had lived the crude reality of war and learned not to cling to youthful fantasies. His aunt’s plans were clear enough: Darcy was the chosen one, and he had accepted it with the pragmatism of those who must make their own way.
Had this path not opened, had Lady Catherine lived, he would be in London now, dancing attendance on some banker’s ill-favoured daughter with a fifty-thousand-pound dowry.
Fitzwilliam’s future had never been his to command. That was the curse of the second son. The colonel had known it since childhood. His elder brother, the rightful heir, was the one who mattered, and he was just an afterthought. Yet he, too, had been born to wealth. It had wrapped around his early life like a warm, invisible mantle, expected, unearned, but never questioned. And once tasted, it was not something he had ever wished to relinquish.
It was the same with Darcy. Darcy, who had been born into fortune, was raised with a sense of purpose Fitzwilliam had never been allowed. Darcy, who never had to fight for his position, never had to wonder what his worth was beyond a name and a uniform.
But now, with Rosings finally in his grasp, he could not shake the feeling that it had claimed him instead.
The once dashing colonel had lost his freedom. His will. He woke every morning to an insane wife, dutifully attending to her whims, playing along in her fantasy of domestic bliss.
To the growing weariness Anne inspired in him—and the daily effort of pleasing her in bed—was now added a far more pressing concern: he needed to produce an heir.
It was only a matter of time before Anne lost her mind completely, and someone would eventually take notice. If the marriage were to be contested, and no child secured the maternal line—along with it, his continued hold over Rosings—he would lose everything. All would have been for nothing.
Sighing, Fitzwilliam followed the flight of a passing chough, the red-legged crow—Brân-Goesgoch, as the islanders called them—drifting over the rocky coast. It drew his eyes towards the ruins of Rosings.
There, atop the tallest cliff, dark and sombre against the sky, the shattered remains of the manor stood, a monument to his aunt’s tyranny and his own sins.
The sight of Rosings pulled him backward into the past—dragging him back to Easter Sunday, to the day it all began.
***
Anne had been in one of her moods. A full-blown hysterical fit, screaming over her mother’s latest interference in her affairs. He should have known something was wrong that day. She had been more desperate than usual.
