Isabella curtseyed to Darcy as he came up, and Raimundo clasped his hand and, in the Portuguese manner, warmly greeted him. Through much signing and gesticulation, Raimundo persuaded Darcy to inspect his boat, purchased by hard, long hours fishing during the past three years. Glancing towards Isabella, who nodded shyly to him, he retrieved a Spanish sovereign from his purse, which he proudly presented to Darcy.
“A Spanish sovereign—why should the man give you such?”
“As I said, a long story. But he has pride, Raimundo. I’m sure he’s saving to repay the thirteen gold sovereigns required to free Isabella from the convent in Madeira, but they would be better spent to secure a prosperous future for his children. Let us return to theSwiftsure—I’m as eager as you to come to Falmouth: for you to rejoin your wife and for me to journey yet another three days to London to seek the company of my father and sister. ‘Tis four long years since I’ve laideyes upon them.
***
Disembarking from the coastal lugger that had brought him from Falmouth to London, Darcy hailed a hackney, giving the direction to number forty-four Grosvenor Square, Darcy House. A great nostalgia overwhelmed him—had he not done the same but four years before? Then he had brought the news of his departure for New South Wales to his father and Georgiana. Now, he was returned. An impatience assailed him. After a journey of four months and three days from leaving Sydney, the streets were blocked by revellers celebrating the birthday of the King, George III—the 4th of June, of the year ‘13.
Darcy ascended the steps of the House; the door opened, and Winthrop, the butler, greeted him.
“Master Fitzwilliam, what a pleasure to see you.”
“Yes, indeed, Winthrop—too long. Is my father at home?”
“Let me enquire, sir.” A footman stepped up and took Darcy’s hat; in his eagerness to depart the lugger, Darcy forgot that in London, gentlemen wore gloves and carried a cane. He no longer looked the part, perhaps a merchant or sea captain—his wearing trousers, his jacket ill-fitting following his exercise on the pumps, his complexion dark from the sun and windburn of the journey.
“He’s resting in the library, sir.”
“Thank you, Winthrop. I know the way.”
The butler watched Darcy walk through the vestibule towards the library. His eyes moistened, his normally stoic demeanour unsteady. Indeed, Master Fitzwilliam, we’re all of us so glad you’ve come.
The library was dark, its gloom heightenedby shafts of light from the south-facing windows, which contrasted the shadows cast by the Ionic pilasters. Darcy faltered; his father, George Darcy, was wrapped in blankets and shawls, seemingly asleep in a large winged chair by the glowing coals of the fire. Abruptly, rheumy eyes opened.
“Fitzwilliam, is it truly you, or yet another fever-induced hallucination? Winthrop said you had come, but I could scarcely believe it!”
Darcy knelt by the chair, taking his father’s hands in his. “I am returned, Father; I am, indeed, returned.”
The hands were cold, the skin upon them loose and flaked. What was left of that ebullient man Darcy remembered four years prior? He struggled not to enfold him in his arms, his sire, who lay shrunken before him. Tears welled in his eyes; he fought them back, but still they threatened to overwhelm him.
“Stand up, Fitzwilliam, I will see the man you have become. You’ve grown larger somehow, your shoulders broader than mine. Even Frederick, big man that he is, would appear diminutive beside you.” Abruptly, Darcy senior stared towards the windows of the room. “But, of course, Frederick is gone. He was the best of sons. A great man, as you once told me. And to be slain by that coward…”
Darcy drew up a stool, decorated in silk brocade, to sit close to his father. “Sir, though it pains you, please tell me as to how Frederick died. These past four months, the nature of his demise has haunted me without my knowing the circumstance.”
“As it has haunted me. But where to begin?” Once again his father stared towards the windows, the shafts of light enabling him to focus his mind. “You were correct that Wickham was a scoundrel, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe it, as his father was the best of men. But his plan had been hatched for some time prior to those grievous events of August past. Certainly, he colluded with Mrs. Younge, Georgiana’s companion at thetime.”
“Georgiana! Tell me she was not importuned—compromised?”
“Calm yourself, Fitzwilliam. Georgiana is indeed well, as may be.”
“Georgiana was unhappy at school. She came to discover most of her acquaintances befriended her, not for herself, but to contrive introductions to Frederick, he being the heir to Pemberley. Once she discovered this, she found their disguise offensive and begged me to take her from the place. Mrs. Younge suggested we form an establishment for her in London, and subsequently, last summer, she went with the lady to Ramsgate for some months by the sea. And thither also went Wickham, undoubtedly by design for, as I’ve said, there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and the companion, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived.”
At this moment, Winthrop entered with a tray upon which were placed two cups of coffee. “I made the assumption, Master Fitzwilliam, that you do not take cream?”
“Indeed, in some habits, I’m unchanged—though in many more I’m quite the different man.”
Once Winthrop departed the room, Darcy senior continued the narrative. “Wickham contrived to recommend himself to Georgiana, claiming by chance that he saw her in Ramsgate. With Mrs. Younge’s connivance, he so far recommended himself to her, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love and to consent to an elopement. As you know, she was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse.”
“The artful villain!” Darcy grasped his father’s hands. “And my dear, dear sister—when I left, she was but twelve years, of such a tender heart that I can truly believe she was taken inand deceived. Wickham always had a honeyed tongue.”
“Frederick, who had come to London for business, on a whim decided to join her, arriving a day or two before the intended elopement. Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, his being fourteen years her senior, acknowledged the whole to him. You can imagine how he felt and how he acted.”
“So he called him out?”
“No, not Frederick,” replied his father, sadly. “By chance, your cousin, Richard, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was in Town on leave and decided to accompany Frederick to Ramsgate. Enraged, it was he who called out Wickham.”
“But how was it that Frederick was killed? And, as you say, murdered?”
