Darcy took Georgiana’s hands in his. “I’m sorry, dearest, but I have to return to Pemberley on urgent business.” His expression darkened as he looked away. “I cannot explain, but matters of great concern have arisen. I cannot leave you here in London—Richard is due to resume duties at Horse Guards, and you are too young to set up your own establishment. Certainly, a boarding school is out of the question. As soon as my business is resolved, we shall return—perhaps a visit to the theatre to see a play?”
“Could I stay with Aunt Alice and Uncle Gerald at Matlock House, then?”
“They’re planning to visit relatives in Scotland, far from London. Maybe, when they return to Masson Hill in Derbyshire, you could stay with them. But that might not be for several months.”
Georgiana sighed. “All right. I can see you’re deeply worried—and I’d much rather live with you than be sent back to school. Is there anything I can do to help? I know someone who’s quite skilled with money, if that’s the problem.”
Darcy glanced at her sharply, then drew her into an embrace. How could Georgiana know anything about money? She hadn’t even been born when his father made the investment—or so the solicitors claimed. Please let the papers and deeds be at Pemberley, he thought, since they are certainly not in London.Father, surely you left some record of the transaction and the sale of the shares?
The journey from London to Pemberley took three days. Fortunately, the weather stayed fair, and they made good time—about forty miles each day, changing horses three times per leg. Georgiana’s spirits lifted as they entered Derbyshire, and by the time their carriage emerged from Pemberley Woods and the Great House rose before the lake, she was nearly bubbling with excitement.
Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, and Winthrop, the butler, greeted them and led them to the drawing room. There, a pleasant, well-mannered lady stood and offered Darcy a graceful curtsey.
“Mrs. Younge,” Winthrop announced.
“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Darcy said, turning to Georgiana. “I’ve hired Mrs. Younge to be your companion while we’re in Derbyshire. She’s from Bakewell, so she knows the area well.”
“Mrs. Younge,” Georgiana murmured, “it’s very nice to meet you. I’m sorry, but the journey has left me rather tired—I think I’ll retire for the evening. Perhaps we can talk at breakfast?”
Darcy was a little surprised by his sister’s quick departure. After all, despite the long journey, she’d been bright and eager to return to her beloved Pemberley.
“I’ll retire as well, Mr. Darcy, since I’m sure you have much to attend to,” Mrs. Younge said, curtseying again as she followed Georgiana out. She seemed younger than he remembered from their interview in London, but that hardly mattered. In fact, perhaps a companion closer to Georgiana’s age would be better—his sister rarely had friends her own age when staying at Matlock House with Aunt Alice.
* * *
This would never do! His study was more disordered than he had ever seen it, with bundles of documents scattered across his desk and piled on the floor.
Darcy rang for the housekeeper. “Mrs. Reynolds, I wish to have the large dining room cleared—remove all the silverware and plates from the benches and table. Also, have the chairs removed, for I wish to use the table to sort through my documents.”
The housekeeper regarded the Master, whom she had known since he was four years old, with wry compassion. She had never seen him so distressed. When his father had died, the young master had held his tears, remaining stoic through a harrowing period of despair; but there was never this desperation, this search consuming all his attention. Then, he had focused on his responsibilities: managing Pemberley and protecting his young sister, Georgiana.
Mrs. Reynolds hurried away, calling footmen and maids to clear the dining room—as to where the plate, candelabra, and epergnes would go, she scarcely knew. But, in Pemberley, it would be done, quietly, efficiently, as it always had been.
Footmen carried the bundles of documents from the study and placed them on the long dining table. Darcy, together with his steward, Baxter, began sorting them into categories: letters, bills and invoices, investments, agreements, and contracts. They covered the whole table with scattered piles, a jumble of different paper sizes, folios tied with linen string, some vellum scrolls so out of place among the modernity of hot-pressed paper.
“Once we have searched, we shall search again—you take my place, and I’ll take yours, so we check each other.” Darcy began the tedious task of reading every piece of correspondence, starting at one end of the table, Baxter at the other. Somewhere, in the middle, they would cross and repeat the search.
“The documents we look for are likely printed certificates, dating from 1789,” said Darcy, taking the top sheet from a pile. “As you know, my father dabbled in all sorts of joint-stock companies and other similar investments. I had thought that I had discovered them all, but recently, I received a note from my solicitor that a call had been made on shares in the Royal Canal Company, held under his name, and now passed to me. I had never heard of it—surely, he sold the certificates many years ago. So, we are searching for the share certificates, a receipt for their sale, a transfer certificate, or the like. Also, bank records—perhaps in a ledger—recording the transaction.”
“I take it, Mr. Darcy,” acknowledged Baxter, “that such certificates might have been lodged with other documents, perhaps bundled up with receipts and suchlike. Many such bundles were taken into the basement archive, filed away in the dead-storage, secure from fire. Should we not search those also?”
“Let us search these first, for the study is the most likely place they were kept. But my father’s business affairs were in some disarray when he died. Indeed, he could have papers we seek stored away. I suspect we should also include Mrs. Reynold’s household ledgers in our search, for I recall as a boy that my father and Lady Anne often shared a desk together. Also, you will have inherited many bundles from old Wickham, your predecessor.” Darcy furrowed his brow. “I suspect, unless the deeds or certificates are found quickly, we are in for a long search.”
“Is there none who can assist us, sir?” asked Baxter, aware of the enormity of the task.
“Unfortunately, much is confidential,” said Darcy. “It would be unwise to allow any of the staff, apart from yourself, Winthrop, and Mrs. Reynolds, to know the details of the estate business. And both Winthrop and Mrs. Reynolds cannot bespared from supervising the household, the stables, and the grounds.”
Baxter nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “Then we shall do our best, sir. I shall send for a pot of strong tea—best to fortify us, but I fear we may be here for more than a few hours, perchance well into the week.”
Darcy offered a brief, grateful smile, but his eyes did not leave the papers before him. He tugged at the nearest bundle, untying the linen string and spreading the contents wide. The room was silent save for the soft rustle of parchment and the distant clatter of servants in the hall. Hours passed in this fashion, the sun shifting westward as shadows lengthened across the polished floor. Every so often, Darcy would pause, brow furrowed, lips moving silently as he read an old letter from an unfamiliar hand or a faded invoice for timber from Derby or hessian sacks from Dundee. Baxter moved methodically, his hands practised from years of managing Pemberley’s labyrinthine records.
“William, you must eat—you have been at your task since breakfast!” Georgiana stood at the door. “Come, you must, at the very least, allow Baxter his dinner. And while I can tell the urgency of your task, you will burn all the candles in the house if you continue into the night. I will not have it!”
“Perhaps, sir,” said Baxter, “Miss Darcy is correct. I find my eyes are fading, and were we to miss the document in our weariness, our continued search would be in vain. Shall we not recommence early in the morning? I shall have the boxes from the dead-storage brought up—perhaps to the great ballroom—and also any records from the steward’s offices.”
Darcy realised that both Georgiana and Baxter were correct—fatigue was affecting his concentration. They would resume in the morning. Now was the time to dress for dinner, relaxafterwards in the family parlour, and then retire early—ready to assault Pemberley’s daunting store of records spanning two decades from the century before.
The following morning dawned grey and heavy with the promise of rain, but Pemberley’s household was already awake. Servants, at Baxter’s direction, ferried stout wooden boxes up from the basement archive and set them in the vast, echoing ballroom, the parquet floor now serving as a battlefield for Darcy’s campaign against the disorder of his father’s affairs. Mrs. Reynolds had commandeered a cadre of maids to dust and arrange the room, and even Georgiana, usually so reserved, appeared at the door, determined to be of use.
