Page 74 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

Darcy had expected their reception might be cold, but he had hoped ten years had perhaps thawed their manners.

Switching tacks, he said, “Tomorrow. Tell me what Wrayburn has arranged.”

“Everything is in order. He will manage the room. Reynolds is prepared to testify. I will be there.” He met Darcy's eyes. “The rest is yours.”

Darcy nodded. The rest was his. As exhausted as he was, he would get little rest that night. Too much hinged on Elizabeth’s reception of what he must reveal on the morrow.

The library smelled exactly as Darcy remembered. He stood behind the false panel in the dark passage and breathed it in—old leather and beeswax and the dusty warmth of a room that had been accumulating books for two hundred years. He had spent more hours in that room than anywhere else at Pemberley. His mother had been a great reader.

Through the crack between the shelves, he watched the library fill. Wickham arrived early, bringing with him his own solicitor, a narrow man with a leather case whose eyes darted about, noticing every detail. Lord and Lady Matlock filed in behind them, claiming the best chairs nearest the fire with the authority of people who consider comfort their natural right. The viscount and his wife followed, then Richard, then Anne and her husband, and then Lady Catherine, who objected to the positioning of the chairs, the brightness of the room, and the heat of the fire, in that order. Richard offered to close the curtains near her, a suggestion to which she took greater offense.

The Bennets and Miss Lucas arrived last. Wrayburn directed them to the chairs nearest the bookshelf—the arrangement Darcy had requested—with the smooth authority of a man accustomed to managing various and dissenting personalities. Only Lady Catherine opposed his suggestion, but she had a history of never finding pleasure in anything. Her character had not softened with age. If anything, it had soured more. Darcy saw so little of his mother in her.

Elizabeth settled directly in Darcy's line of sight. She sat very straight, her hands folded in her lap, her face composed into a careful stillness he recognized as the expression she wore when she was most determined not to show what she felt—a difficult feat for her. Miss Lucas settled behind her and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. Mr. Bennet, beside her, had gone the color of old plaster.

Darcy's hand found the edge of the shelf. Soon, he told himself. Not yet. Let it play out.

Lady Catherine pounded her cane against the floor. “What is she doing here?” She had fixed her glare on Miss Lucas, not yet having exhausted that morning's supply of indignation. “She is not a beneficiary as well, I hope?” A murmur of concurrence came from the direction of Lord and Lady Matlock.

Wrayburn did not hesitate. “Considering the nature of the news I must impart today,” he said with the measured gravity of a judge, “I thought it advisable to allow Miss Bennet a comforting presence.” More murmuring. Elizabeth's knuckles whitened in her lap. Mr. Bennet turned, if possible, a shade paler.

The guilt nearly undid Darcy entirely. Ten years of absence and deception and careful planning, and Elizabeth sat ten feet from him not knowing whether the man she had been promised to was dead or alive, and he had put her there. He knew why. He still knew why. It did not make watching her any easier.

From across the room, he saw Wickham sneer. Darcy breathed and tried to relax. Let Wickham think he had won. Give him enough time to reveal his own duplicity.

Wrayburn arranged his papers with deliberate slowness. “Very well. As the parties are assembled, we may begin.”

“About time,” said Lady Catherine. “Everyone is present, are they not?”

“Everyone,” Wickham noted smoothly, “except for Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Wrayburn leveled his gaze at him. “So it would appear.”

Wickham cleared his throat. “Before we proceed, Mr. Wrayburn, allow me to offer my condolences to the family for their tragic loss. Darcy was”— a pause, well-calibrated for sincerity—”a man of many qualities. He will be remembered with great fondness.” Another pause, this one to display the depth of his sorrow. “It is a tragic loss, but we must face the facts and proceed for the better of the estate and those who rely on it for their living.”

“What does the estate matter to you?” Lady Catherine cut in. “Are you seeking employment? Your father was the land steward here, was he not?”

In the silence that followed, Lord Matlock rose. “Following the reports of my nephew's death,” he began with the unquestioning authority of a man accustomed to being listened to, “I took it upon myself to investigate the matter personally. I examined the passenger log of the Britannia with my own eyes. I interviewed the surviving crew.” He paused. “And I have seen the signet ring recovered from the wreckage by a rower who brought it forward.” Lady Matlock emitted a small, practiced sound of distress.

Wickham's solicitor moved to the desk, paper in hand. “My client is prepared to file a formal petition to have Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy declared legally deceased, allowing the estate to pass according to the terms of the will.” Darcy’s jaw tightened. Wickham’s plan was so bold that only an earl’s word could lend it credit—and Lord Matlock, Darcy’s own uncle, had given it. He watched from behind the shelf as the whole design revealed itself.

Wickham was not waiting to see whether a dead man failed to appear. He was racing to bury him on paper before Darcy could interfere. Let the heir be declared drowned with an earl’s word behind it, and any man who rose afterward to claim the name of Fitzwilliam Darcy would not be an heir claiming his own; he would be an impostor disputing a settled fact. And all the while, Wickham had not the faintest notion that the will about to be read would never once connect his name to Pemberley.

Elizabeth's chin lifted fractionally. She watched Wrayburn intently.

Lord Matlock spoke again. “Mr. Wrayburn, the estate cannot remain in limbo. As acting administrator, surely you must see the necessity of resolving this matter in a timely fashion.”

“The estate is managing adequately under my stewardship, my lord.”

“Adequately is not sufficient. We require permanent resolution.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Wrayburn,” said the other solicitor, “the evidence my client has collected is substantial. Furthermore, the family is in agreement⁠—”

“I am not in agreement,” interjected Lady Catherine.

“A petition to declare Mr. Darcy deceased could be filed within days,” Wickham finished.

“How dare you presume to speak for this family, you—you insignificant son of a servant!”