Page 7 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“I did not, not for the longest time. Until a few months ago when Mother said the name aloud—she was reminiscing about when you were boys. That was when it struck me. Robbie. Robinson. It seemed almost too simple, but then I thought, how else could you have disappeared so thoroughly?” Reynolds offered Richard an apologetic smile.

Richard shook his head ruefully. “Of anyone, I should have been the one to puzzle it out. I was the one who gave him the appellation!”

Guilt twisted Darcy’s stomach. “You had no reason to think of it. I was a headstrong, arrogant young man relying on impulse more than reason.” He cleared his throat. “Is Mrs. Reynolds still at Pemberley?”

“She would not dream of being anywhere else. Mr. Darcy offered her a generous pension, which she refused. Said she would not give up her post until you returned.”

Darcy looked down at his glass. He had been selfish to leave as he had done, to stay away as long as he had. He was certain Mrs. Reynolds lovingly overlooked his hotheadedness, but had his father? “In your letter… you wrote that he…” Darcy clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, his eyes burning again. “He had changed?” Remembering the drink he held, he took a sip.

Reynolds sat forward, commanding Darcy’s full attention. “I did not lie. My mother urged me to write to you.” He fell silent, visibly grappling with his thoughts until he made a decision. “Actually, that is only part of the truth. There is more, and I see no harm in revealing that it was your father who confirmed your name and provided the address.”

Richard went still. “Uncle knew where Darcy was? All this time?”

Darcy set down his glass before he dropped it. He had gone to Vienna as Daniel Robinson and stayed there for several years before continuing to Smyrna, where he managed the business interests of the family who treated him with more kindness and trust than his father ever had.

His father had known where Darcy was. Why had he not written? Or traveled to see him before the war made travel perilous?

“Mr. Darcy softened a great deal these past few years, but he was still a proud man,” Reynolds said quietly.

“Too blasted proud!” exclaimed Richard, pounding his fist against the arm of the chair.

Reynolds smiled sympathetically. “He gave no explanation for his silence, and I was not in a position to ask for one. He believed Robbie would not reply to a letter penned by him. That is why he had me write instead, at Mother’s behest. He knew you would not refuse her.”

Darcy pressed his eyes closed. “He knew where I lived, my name. What else did he know?”

“He knew you carved out a place for yourself based solely on your own merits, gained through your intelligence and initiative. Mother told me his best days were when he received a letter from Vienna.”

This shocked Darcy. “He exchanged letters with someone at Reinhardt House?” How had he not known? Why had no one in the family told him? Neither Filippo Reinhardt nor his son, Agustin, had breathed a word of receiving any correspondence from Father.

“How else would he learn about you? He praised your discipline and responsible nature. He was proud of you.” How painfully ironic that he had become what his father wished him to be only after severing ties. How truly, achingly sad.

Darcy reached for his glass and downed the rest of the liquid, comforted in its burn. “I shall rent a room in London for a week or two. I am exhausted, and my valet is certain to arrive within that time. Once he has rested, I intend to return to the continent.”

“While I understand your hesitation to attend the burial at Pemberley,” said Richard, “your presence will be required at the reading of the will.”

“There is no need. Aside from you, nobody in the family will be pleased to see me. Father threatened to disown me when I left, and he has always been a man of his word. There is nothing for me here.”

Reynolds rotated his glass between his fingers, his brow furrowed. Richard exchanged a meaningful glance with him.

Feeling guilty all over again because his hasty retreat would mean that, once again, he would not bid farewell to Mrs. Reynolds, Darcy assured them, “I shall begin drafting a letter for Mrs. Reynolds begging her pardon and⁠—”

“I do not believe your father disinherited you,” Reynolds interrupted.

Darcy stared at him. “What? Did you not imply as much in your letter nine years ago?”

“I cannot recall my precise wording, but I clearly must apologize for my lack of clarity if that is what you understood.”

Richard’s voice cut through the buzz in Darcy’s head. “What are you saying, Reynolds?”

Reynolds lowered his voice. “On the first day of every month, Mr. Darcy arranged for a fruit basket from his own orangery in London to be delivered to Longbourn, to a family named Bennet. He was very particular about it, selecting the fruit himself and adding books and music and paint and any other gift recommended to him. He was very generous.”

Darcy rubbed his hands over his face. This could not be. After all he had done…

Reynolds continued, “The Bennets’s behavior these past years suggests that they still very much expect the match to take place.”

Darcy clutched his stomach, regretting the brandy he had imbibed. “Miss Bennet expects it, or her family?”

“Your father could not cut you out of his will without adversely affecting the prospects of a young girl whose family had already come to rely on the connection he had put in place,” Reynolds said.