The footman bowed slightly, retreating from the room with a worried expression. The door closed softly behind him, and Darcy was alone once more with his thoughts and the mounting pressure in his head.
Hours passed in a dizzy fit of ink-stained fingers and rustling papers. Darcy’s vision blurred and swam, his headache only worsening after he surrendered and sampled the brandy the housekeeper had sent.
“No, not this one…” he muttered to himself as he tossed one paper aside. “What is this? From Uncle…‘To my dearest sister’… this ought to be with Mother’s affects, not here.”
He picked up another document, scanning it briefly. “Bills of sale for cattle... irrelevant.” He tossed it aside and grabbed the next, reading aloud, “The tenant of Watkins Farm... compensation due... no, no.”
A ledger book followed, and he thumbed through it impatiently. “Expenses for the spring planting... invoices from the blacksmith...” Darcy groaned and set it aside with more force than necessary. “This is all useless!”
His fingers fumbled through more papers, eyes straining to make out the script in the dim light of the study. “Mortgage agreements, land grants… curse it all.”
At one point, he paused over a letter that looked like his father’s hand, hoping it might hold some clue, but it turned out to be a missive from his great-aunt about a long-forgot feud. “Rubbish!” he exclaimed, flinging it onto the growing pile of discarded documents.
His frustration mounted with each futile discovery. “Why can I not find anything useful?” he growled, running a hand through his hair. He rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the pressure building within his skull. It was all this dratted tumour. His memory might have been vindicated where “Halstead” was concerned, but he was by no means certain of it anymore. He might have dreamed this all up.
Another document caught his eye, and he quickly scanned it. “Arrangements for the annual harvest festival... how did this even get in here?” He shoved it aside, reaching for the next.
Pages from old account books, letters of correspondence, even a few poems penned by his mother—none of them held the information he sought. Each item was read in part, then discarded in frustration.
At last, his persistence was rewarded. It ought to have been the first place he looked—rather, itwas,but he had not seen it before. Darcy had been so sure that he had looked thoroughly through the very depths of the drawer where he kept his father’s documents that he had only opened it again now in sheer desperation.
And there it was. Surely, he could not have missed this the last time he searched for it, could he?Hadhe actually searched here? He rubbed absently at his forehead as he pulled out a thick sheaf of documents tied together with a faded ribbon.
It was his father’s will—nothing he had not read a hundred times already. But within it, a separate bundle marked with Wickham’s name that, at some point, Darcy must have stuck there and forgot about. His hands shook as he untied the ribbon and spread the papers out before him.
There, in the elegant script of his father’s hand, was the will of Wickham’s father, who had been the steward of Pemberley. Darcy scanned the document, his eyes narrowing as he reached the section detailing the elder Wickham’s wishes for his son, George. As was to be expected, there was a list of all known family members, each meticulously noted, along with their circumstances and where they might be found, should the need ever arise.
Darcy’s father had later penned notes beside each name, indicating the decease of nearly all of them. The remaining two—a widowed aunt in Leicester and a grandmother on his mother’s side—Darcy himself had received notice of their demise.
According to this, Wickham had no remaining relatives. Darcy’s breath caught in his throat as he read and reread the names, the annotations. Not one among them could match the description of this mysterious relative who supposedly left Wickham his fortune.
He had doubted his memory—for ample reason, as the pain and stress clouded his thoughts daily—but here was the proof. His father’s meticulous record-keeping had vindicated him. Unless there was something that his father’s solicitor had overlooked—and that was unlikely, for the Darcys paid the man to be thorough—Wickham had lied about his inheritance, about how he leased Netherfield, about everything.
Darcy slumped back in his chair, the tension in his body releasing in a wave of exhaustion. He had been right, at least about this. The truth was a small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless.
The door creaked open again, and the footman reappeared, his expression cautious. “Sir, may I bring you anything else?”
Darcy shook his head, his eyes fixed on the papers before him. “No, thank you. I have what I need.” He waved the footman away once more, his mind already turning to the next steps. He wanted nothing more than to piece together the rest of the puzzle, to confront Wickham and expose his lies.
For now, though, he allowed his poor head a moment of respite. The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Darcy closed his eyes, the pounding in his head dulling to a persistent ache as his mind wandered back to the conversations he had had with Wickham over the years, the lies woven into the fabric of their interactions. How had he missed the enormity of it? How had he allowed Wickham to manipulate him this autumn, to plant doubts and fears that had no basis in reality?
And then, there was Elizabeth Bennet. He winced, recalling the look in her eyes when she had defended Wickham. She had believed in the man’s charm, just as everyone else did, including himself. And Wickham seemed to hold no little interest inher. There could be no doubt that Wickham intended to make a conquest of her.
That notion alone sent the blood coursing through Darcy’s veins. Elizabeth Bennet might be beyond his reach—why would she wish to bind herself to a dying man? She was not the sort of woman who would be content to marry for a comfortable fortune. She expected—demandedmore, and she deserved it. But she would not find it with Wickham if that was what she was hoping. Just like Georgiana…
Darcy sat bolt upright once more, a quill somehow finding its way into his hand. Was Elizabeth Bennet in just as much danger of being used as he himself had been? Why did Wickham seem so interested in her?
It had to be more than merely the attraction of a beautiful woman, because Darcy had seen the man dancing and flirting with nearly every woman in Meryton, some ofwhom were prettier by the common standards. But Darcy had never seen Wickham so gallant and accommodating as he appeared to be toward Elizabeth Bennet.
Then again, there were many things Darcy had not seen until lately.
What was he to do about any of it? He had already sent a letter to Doctor Pembroke at Cambridge, and the man was expecting him next week. Even that was too long to wait for Darcy’s taste. Every day only heightened the agony inside his head and narrowed the chances that something might be done for his relief.
But… well, hang it all, Meryton was very nearly on the road to Cambridge. He could leave London tomorrow and break his journey at Netherfield. Whatever Wickham was about, he could not afford to send Darcy away after introducing him to everyone as his friend.
Still, what could he hope to accomplish? No one would believe him if he declared his suspicions—that Wickham was put into place by a powerful man to curry favour and sway votes. It seemed preposterous, even to his own ears. And it was probably the product of his addled head. A bloody shame Richard was not here to help him sound out the idea.
Shemight help him make sense of it. If she would listen to him.
