Page 3 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

As far away from his father as he could manage, building a life earned under his own name, where every success was his alone—no Darcy legacy to open doors, no family influence to smooth his path. He had proved himself in ways his father never could have anticipated, in places his father would never condescend to look. And for what? The bitter hope that one day he might return and lay it all at his father's feet like a wayward son's offering. See? I was worth something after all.

Darcy felt ill. He looked at the lifeless face in the coffin. Had his father regretted their parting, or had he been relieved to be rid of his disappointing son? He would never know. The finality of it settled like a stone in Darcy's chest. It was too much to explain—too much to feel.

He waved about the vacant room. “Why is nobody here?”

Richard's jaw tightened, but his expression shifted—anger giving way to relief, or perhaps exhaustion. “Most of them have already paid their respects; the service is this afternoon. Rest assured, the halls of White’s will be empty until Uncle’s body is placed on a cart to transport him to Pemberley.”

A credible explanation, but it did not account for the lack of relatives. “And Lord Matlock? Lady Catherine?”

A bitter smile flickered across Richard’s face. “They will be at Pemberley for the burial and the reading of the will.”

Darcy scoffed. “Of course they will.”

“Things did not improve after you left, but Aunt Catherine will hold out hope until the end that she might sink her claws into you.”

“Anne is not married?”

“Aye, she married.” Richard guffawed. “A brilliant man who knows how to keep Anne happy and Aunt Catherine subdued.”

“I would not have believed such brilliance existed.”

“I look forward to introducing you to him.” Richard rubbed his hands together. “I cannot wait to see Aunt Catherine’s face when she learns she will get no share of your fortune.”

“Not my fortune.”

That stopped Richard’s tongue long enough for Darcy to take pity on him. “Father wrote me out of the will. For all I know, you will inherit.” To lose Pemberley to anyone else but Richard would be unconscionable. Richard, at least, had tried to be a constant friend. But there was so much he did not understand.

Shaking his head as though he refused to countenance the idea, Richard said, “Only your father’s solicitor knows. Uncle George was tight-lipped until the end about his final wishes, but I am confident he made things right.”

Darcy cast Richard an incredulous look.

“He was a kinder man toward the end,” Richard added.

Just as Reynolds had written in his letter. Father was kind to others, but Darcy had too rarely experienced it himself to believe he would have been happy to see him. “Was he ill?”

Richard nodded gravely. “He lost his appetite. Poor Mrs. Reynolds tempted him with all his favorites, but he only managed a bite or two.” Darcy's chest constricted as he imagined his father wasting away. “This went on for months. When he started coughing, he was too weak to recover. It happened quickly.”

That was some small comfort. Mrs. Reynolds would have been there, faithful as always. Darcy nodded, his throat too tight to utter a word or even breathe.

Barnaby entered the room with a maid and four footmen. “My apologies, gentlemen, but the cart is ready to take the master away. Do you require a few more minutes?”

Darcy glanced at his father one last time, unable to move or speak. The servants waited for him to reply, but no words came.

Richard tugged on his arm, pulling him away. “Thank you, Barnaby. We will leave you.” To Darcy, he said, “The service is not for two hours, and we have a great deal to discuss. When did you arrive?”

Darcy stumbled toward him, trying to set one foot in front of the other and formulate a reply. “This morning.”

“Good Heavens! Have you eaten? Do you need to rest? You can ask Barnaby⁠—”

Darcy held up his hand, bringing a stop to the outpouring of questions. He could think of nothing worse than staying here, at Darcy House. “I need an occupation.”

“Gentleman Jackson’s?” Richard raised his fists and grinned. His levity lightened Darcy’s steps and loosened the vise-grip around his stomach somewhat.

“You would enjoy that too much.”

“I would.” Richard rubbed his side whiskers, falling into thought again. “Angelo’s?”

“Too many people. Too much noise.”