What he found in Ramsgate chilled him: Lady Anne pale and drawn, her usual steadiness frayed; Georgiana subdued and uncertain. And the young man—Viscount Delacourt, second son of the Marquess of Rothley—smiling too easily and calling too often than was appropriate.
It did not take long for Darcy’s quiet investigations to yield information that surprised no one. The viscount was deeply in debt, and his father was threatening to cut him off. The young man had seen an easy mark in fifteen-year-old Georgiana and her thirty-five-year old mother, and he was attempting to court them both.
It had taken only two quiet conversations—one with Lady Anne, the other with Delacourt himself—for Darcy to settle the matter. Delacourt was told in no uncertain terms that any further communication with either lady would result in public disgrace and private ruin. The man had enough self-preservation to slink away.
But the residue of the experience lingered.
Darcy had taken them back to London directly and meant to remain there. When Bingley’s letter arrived, he intended to decline. But Lady Anne—always gentle, never forceful—had quietly insisted.
“You are not responsible for us, Fitzwilliam,” she had said, placing a hand on his. “Not always. You must not put your life on hold for mine.”
He had protested. “You are under my protection now. You know what your brother would do if he—”
“Then have the knocker turned for him,” she said firmly. “You are master of Darcy House. Not the Earl of Matlock.”
It still astonished him, sometimes, how much steel lay beneath her kindness.
And so, he had come. Begrudgingly, but obediently. It would be only a fortnight, perhaps less. Bingley would grow tired of the country soon enough.
Darcy rubbed his thumb along the edge of his glove. He should be grateful. Grateful that Georgiana was safe. Grateful that Lady Anne, though shaken, was not cowed. Grateful that Delacourt had gone north, tail tucked, and that the matter could be left behind them.
But it was unease that rested on Darcy’s shoulders as he left London, not gratitude.
He thought, not for the first time, of the day his father had died—of the first time he met the Earl of Matlock.
George Darcy had spoken little of his second wife’s family and what brought about their marriage. Fitzwilliam had known only that she was a daughter of the nobility, younger sister to an earl, and something of a recluse from society. He had not questioned it—Lady Anne was a gentle presence, always composed, always kind to Georgiana, respectful to her stepson.
Young Fitzwilliam had liked her well enough, and it was no business of his what his father chose to do. A man such as George Darcy did not explain himself to his ten-year-old son. By all appearances, the two appeared to be content in their marriage for the last eighteen years of the elder Darcy’s life.
Though the two estates were in some proximity, being in neighboring counties, Lady Anne rarely saw her family. She had, on occasion, visited her sister Catherine in Kent, taking her husband and stepson—and later her daughter—with her. There had also been formal encounters in London during the Season, where she exchanged pleasantries with her father and brother at soirées, musicales, or charity balls. Once young Master Darcy was old enough to attend with her and his father,he realized that these meetings were never long and never warm.
She had attended her nephew’s wedding, years before, and had taken her place dutifully at the wedding breakfast held at the Matlock townhouse. She had worn a gown of pearl gray and kept her eyes lowered throughout most of the toasts.
But she never visited the Matlock estate. Not even when their father died, and her brother inherited his title. Darcy did not think it was all that strange—after all, the Darcy side of the family was rarely visited as well—but his stepmother’s reasoning became clear the day after George Darcy passed away.
The earl of Matlock had arrived like a storm before his father had even been laid in the ground, demanding his sister return to the family estate. Darcy came upon her weeping, which shocked him greatly. He realized then that he had never seen her cry before, and he gently asked her what was troubling her.
It was then she told him the truth: George Darcy had not married Lady Anne because he wanted her dowry or her company, but because he wished to protect her.
Their wedding had, in fact, been a rescue: an escape from a forced union with a lecherous duke, arranged by her father, enforced by threats. George Darcy, mourning his lost Sarah and finding Lady Anne sobbing in a small retiring room at a ball, had offered his protection.
When Georgiana was born two years into the marriage, it was nearly a surprise to them both. But Lady Anne had raised her with unfailing patience. And she had given young Fitzwilliam what his grief-stricken father could not: gentle guidance, steady warmth, and unshaken loyalty.
He owed her everything.
So, when Lord Matlock appeared, demanding his sister be remanded to his care, the young, newly-minted master of Pemberley summoned all of his courage and put his foot down.
“I am head of this family now,” he had said quietly. “And Lady Anne is undermyprotection. Should you attempt to remove her from Pemberley by force, I shall call the magistrate.”
The earl had laughed. Briefly.
And then he had seen that Darcy was serious. He had blustered, of course—threatened solicitors, invoked the family name, even attempting to offer a bribe, but Fitzwilliam—now simplyDarcy— would have none of it.
The earl finally rode away, furious and thwarted.
Darcy had never once called Lady Anne “Mother,” but from that day forward, he had made it his business to see that no one—not even a peer of the realm—ever frightened her again.
His musings were interrupted when the carriage turned sharply onto a gravel drive. Netherfield Park emerged fully into view—broad lawns, stone walls, ivy clinging to the west facade. It was a fine enough house, if lacking the dignity of Pemberley. But Bingley would make it cheerful. He always did.
