Page 2 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

He rubbed his chest, rubbed his eyes. He had not been in England for an hour, and already every sight and sound conspired to drag him back to what he had lost. If he possessed less resolve, he would have fled on the next tide rather than endure this relentless parade of the sweet and the sorrowful. Taking a shaky breath, he felt for the letter in his pocket. Would his father receive him? Would they be capable of having a civil conversation? He had traveled half-way across the world at an exhausting pace to find out.

If you harbor any hopes of reconciliation…

Hope swelled in Darcy’s chest. He tried to calm it, but it overcame him, and he imagined the sound of his father’s voice, the smell of his cologne, the feel of his hand resting on Darcy’s shoulder.

The carriage clambered to a stop in front of the four-bay house, and Darcy hopped out to pay his fare, his heart racing with anticipation and dread… until he turned and it nearly stopped beating.

Black ribbons fluttered from the mourning wreath hanging on the front door.

CHAPTER 2

The ground beneath Darcy pitched like a ship's deck in a storm. His throat tightened. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“Have you come to pay your respects?” Barnaby stood in the open doorway. The butler looked much older than Darcy remembered. Darcy tried to smile, but his own shock and the blank expression on the old butler’s face weighed like lead against his lips. He was too late. Barnaby looked at him more closely. Darcy waited for the light of recognition to brighten his face, but none came. Had he changed so much in ten years that he was now unrecognizable?

The butler stepped aside, allowing Darcy to pass. “There is still time for you to bid your farewells before he is taken away.”

Oh, he had bid his farewell before. He just prayed his father had forgotten his angry speech. Darcy wished he could forget; he remembered every bitter word. When you are old and alone, remember that you chose to trust your unbendable judgment rather than your own son, whose happiness you would sacrifice to satisfy your pride. I hope your pride will give you comfort because I shall not be here to bury you.

In a daze, he followed Barnaby across the entrance, past the grand staircase, where the butler stopped in front of the first door. Empty chairs lined the rim of the front parlor. Black draped the walls, covering his mother’s paintings. Darcy wanted to tear the dreadful fabric away, but the sight of the coffin in the center of the room bled the fire from his veins. His father lay encased in elm on a bed of white fine-weave crepe.

Slowly, cautiously, Darcy approached. Father was thinner, gaunt. A shell of the hard man he had known. Drawing closer, Darcy examined his features. Father’s bold eyebrows, so similar to his own, his strong chin, just like his, the scar on his forehead—a souvenir from an old hunting accident—now a faded, jagged line.

Darcy stood over him for some time, expecting him to rise, to open his eyes and demand an explanation for Darcy’s delay.

None came.

Pressure built in his chest, stirring fresh guilt with that old, familiar anger. After a lifetime of failing to meet his father’s expectations, Darcy could not even travel fast enough to see him one last time before he died.

If Father had truly wanted to see him, why had he not written? Unless… he had not wanted Darcy. Had no need for him anymore.

It had been a mistake to come. He ought to have spun on his heel and left the moment he saw that blasted wreath. He should have torn Reynolds’s letter and burned it in the fire the day it arrived.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to compose himself, to leave his father’s house with dignity, but his body was heavy and slow to reply to the commands of his mind. “Damn you,” he mumbled to his dead father, to himself.

“Darcy?” a deep voice called behind him.

Darcy wiped his face and spun around, bringing the man who charged at him with fists clenched stuttering to a halt. His cousin was set to strike a blow. Lord knew as well as Darcy did that he deserved it.

“My apologies”—Richard’s eyes narrowed and his words slowed—”I thought you were someone else.”

Dear Lord! Not him too! Frustrated, Darcy cried, “Richard!”

Lowering his chin, Richard crossed his arms over his chest, a picture of angry restraint. “Darcy.” It was not a question but an accusation. “I should have popped your cork while I had the chance.”

Would that he had. A throbbing nose was preferable to the ache gnawing in Darcy’s chest. “I have missed you.”

“Is that why you quit writing? Why you disappeared?”

“You were the only one who noticed.”

Richard jutted his chin toward the casket. “He noticed.” Darcy doubted that. His father had not written to him. Not once. In an undertone, Richard added, “If only his pride would have allowed him to admit it.” His posture relaxed and his eyes softened, and when he stepped forward it was not to jab Darcy in the nose but to wrap his arms around his shoulders.

A few slaps on the back later, peace was restored and Richard stepped away, shaking his head and whistling as he inspected Darcy from head to toe. “You really fooled me, Darce. As brown as you are and with that beard… Had I not heard your voice and were you not the same stature as Uncle George at his prime, I would not have recognized you at all.”

“So I am coming to learn.”

“My God, man, where have you been?”