Darcy
ThedinnerpartyatMatlock House sparked with a vigor I had seldom witnessed at my father’s table. George commanded the conversational space before the fire, keeping Lord Belmont and even the reserved Lord Winston entertained with colorful tales and humorous anecdotes. Lady Lucilla’s occasional trilling laughter wove silver threads through their rumbling tones like a sparrow’s song lifting above the station clock’s steady chime. I observed it all silently from the fringes, smiling when expected but seldom venturing to add my voice to the livelier discourse.
My uncle regarded me pensively over the rim of his wine glass during a brief lull when George paused to wet his throat. “You are quiet tonight, Fitzwilliam. I would have thought Lord Belmont’s gracious manner would put you more at ease. He has been nothing but good-humored, has he not?”
I twitched a shoulder, eyes following Lady Lucilla as she drifted closer to murmur privately to George. “I find such easy conversation does not come naturally when I have weightier matters occupying my thoughts.”
I regarded my uncle pensively over the rim of my wine glass. “Still no word from Richard’s regiment?”
Matlock’s gaze darkened, and he shook his head.
“I see.” I swallowed the rest of my drink and stared at the carpet. Richard had been on the Continent for six months, but letters had been regular until just over a month ago.
My uncle laid a sympathetic hand on my arm. “Do not abandon hope. Communication around the Spanish conflict is slow and unreliable. And Richard was ever one to land on his feet.”
Despite his consoling tone, shadows lingered in Matlock’s eyes. My chest squeezed with the shared burden of concern. But my uncle promptly masked his anxiety and nodded toward the fireplace where George was now deep in amused conference with Lord Winston.
“Take a page from your brother’s book tonight and try to relax. This gathering is a triumph—see how Lord Belmont includes him as one of the family!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Why, at this rate, George could be announcing his betrothal by Michaelmas!”
My answering chuckle rang hollow, but I thanked my uncle for his tireless support and turned my attention back to the party. If even Richard’s fate remained uncertain, how much more this improbable courtship balanced on a sword’s edge? Yet I must not let idle misgivings spoil the promising camaraderie blossoming before us. With a concerted will, I joined the outer fringes of lively discussion, determined to play my part.
Some hours later, the last of the ladies had retired upstairs for the night. But George showed no inclination to abandon the comfortable gathering by the fire, which the replenished glasses of port had transformed into our own gentleman’s club. His ease and status amongst our noble guests no longer surprised me—when had my gregarious brother ever failed to shine at the center of jovial society?
Feeling suddenly restless as the night grew long, I excused myself. George and Winston, and even Bingley, had descended into racing tales to which I had little to contribute. Though bedrooms had been prepared for our party, sleep did not tempt my wandering thoughts. I found myself pacing the corridor outside the drawing room instead, straining to decipher threads of conversation that floated up the stairs.
What devil had possessed George that he could not convince his companions to make their revelry elsewhere? I clenched my hands behind my back. If Belmont took offense or thought poorly of George’s frivolous friends so close to receiving an offer for his daughter’s hand... But a reprimand from me at this point would only undermine George.
A soft footstep sounded on the stair behind me. I whirled, then inclined my head politely to find Lady Lucilla slowly descending, her small hand skimming the banister.
“Pardon me, Lady Lucilla. I could not sleep and often pace when restless.”
“Oh! Think nothing of it, sir.” She halted two steps above, peering at me through golden lashes with an inquisitive smile. “I expect that I, too, will find slumber elusive tonight.”
Her manner was all gentle grace and modesty. Such a contrast to George’s exuberance. How complementary they could be. I studied her silently. Years of fostering harmony between my unrestrained brother and fastidious father had taught me to discern deeper motives and truths from what lay beneath the surface. Yet nothing but sincerity of affection shone from Lady Lucilla’s candid eyes.
“Derbyshire is a lovely part of the country, Mr. Darcy. I do hope we shall have the pleasure of touring Pemberley soon. Particularly...”
Her cheeks bloomed rosy pink, and she dropped her gaze as delicate footsteps echoed down another corridor, followed by a maid’s gentle call that Lady Lucilla was wanted below stairs. With a look from lowered lashes that I could only call giddy, she dipped her head as she passed by me to complete her descent. Watching until she disappeared, my earlier tension eased. There was true fondness kindling behind her coy manner. And though George’s suit seemed mismatched and unlikely, who was I to oppose it?
Alone once more, I followed her down a few steps so that I could see some of the activity below. And there was George—no longer laughing over the billiards table in the far drawing room but standing in the hall outside Lord Matlock’s study. His face was ashen, and he was tugging at his collar.
Lady Lucilla passed by him, her head turning slightly and her hand secretly slipping into his before she was summoned into the study. Only then did he look like he took a breath, but the instant she vanished again, he was back to blinking and gulping.
“George?” I called quietly.
He glanced up, giving me a wan smile. “Wish me luck, brother.”
I inclined my head, and he nodded with a jerk.
I did wish him luck, but perhaps not in the way he hoped. I wished for whatever his best might be—be that with his fair lady or with a righteous blow to his pride that set his future on a more directed path. I straightened my waistcoat and addressed the looking glass across the hall without seeing. “Tonight, you seal your fate, George Darcy. For good or ill, may it be the making of you.”
Hours later, Jefferson roused me from weary dreams with a summons to the study. En route through the darkened corridors, I espied George’s valet sleeping upright against the wall like a sentry abandoned at his post. No doubt, standing ready for the order to help George prepare for celebration or commiseration. I edged past his lightly snoring form without disturbance. Some welcome, or warning awaited me—of what nature I was about to discover.
My brother sprawled in our uncle’s old leather chair before the dying embers of a neglected fire—the only light in that shadowed room. Was this symbolic? His quest for true love already burnt through, leaving only ashes? Or perhaps carrying the last hope of reigniting a steady flame if properly tended? Such fanciful thoughts did not sit well in my usually practical mind. I shook off my imaginations and cleared my throat into the gloom.
George turned, spectacles glinting in the dim glow. Our father’s reading glasses—an odd accoutrement for my fashion-conscious brother. Where the devil had he found those? Had he been reading books or poring over documents while awaiting my arrival? Even more peculiar. My skin prickled, sensing portents on the air beyond common comprehension.
“Well, George?” I took hesitant steps nearer. “Do not keep me in suspense. What did Lord Belmont say?”
