A careful search of all the late Darcy’s records and correspondence find no instance of any changes to that arrangement. The only alteration he made was one curious document regarding Georgiana’s settlement. The stipulations therein placed very heavy constraints on the release of her dowry, in case he should disapprove of her future husband. He seems to have issued this condition only a year and a half ago; a few months after she was taken from school, as I understand. In any case, this matters little, as the document named you as a secondary person of authority in that regard. Even were it not so, the entirety of Darcy’s fortune falls to Georgiana, therefore thirty thousand pounds seems hardly worth troubling ourselves about.
This is all excellent news, for it permits us to shield Georgiana properly and completely until her marriage. I know you find the duty a disagreeable business, my boy, but I think in time you shall overcome your discomfort. Georgiana will greatly depend upon you these months. In my experience, there is no surer way to a man’s heart than the trust of one who needs him, nor to a woman’s heart than the faithfulness of a protector. I trust you will make good use of your time at Pemberley.
Fondly,
JF
Richard groaned and tossed the letter aside. His father had an inarguable point—no one else could yet be relied upon to care so tenderly for Georgiana. It seemed scarcely possible that she might find one better suited to her fancy, in whom he could trust utterly to preserve her best interests. Though the quest was a worthy undertaking, the chances of success seemed too slim to risk her heart on yet another rogue like Wickham. Could he, himself…?
An inner shudder tightened through his stomach.No!seemed to be his own heart’s vehement response. She was… why, she was everything sweet and delightful, but she was a child! Besides that, his were eyes that had seen too much of the horrors of the world for him to wish to impose his scars on one so innocent. He had expected never to marry, but if he did, the woman he chose would be… would be….
He swallowed. That hope was long gone, and there was no sense in mourning it.
Grimacing, he turned to the next letter. His eyes leapt wide in glad shock when he read the script. It was from an old correspondent in the Bow Street Runners, one who had many times proved his worth in clandestine affairs. He tore eagerly into it and flew over the words.
My dear sir,
My deepest condolences on your recent loss.
Regarding the matter of which you wrote, I have obtained some little information that might be of interest. Please advise how to proceed.
Richard turned the letter over, not truly expecting to find more. The man was always discreet and succinct, never penning a word or even a name that might be traced back under unfavourable circumstances. He was a spare, taciturn fellow, but extraordinarily well connected to London’s underbelly, and perfectly willing to take on private matters for one able to pay.
Perhaps he had at last unearthed details of Darcy’s attackers. Not that it would bring back his cousin, but Richard still burned with fury at the audacity of it all. Nobody murdered one of his family without bringing the wrath of Colonel Richard Andrew Fitzwilliam, and of every resource among his formidable connections!
He could not summon his investigator to Pemberley—no, it must be somewhere unremarkable, on the road to a large town where two men meeting quietly could not generate much interest. Nottingham or Leicester might do, though both were still too near Derby for his comfort. The outskirts of Birmingham seemed more promising, though it would mean leaving Georgiana alone for nearly a fortnight while he made the trip. To obtain the information that might avenge Darcy, however, was worth every inconvenience.
Richard took the seat at the writing desk and addressed himself at once to pen and paper—noting how well-stocked all the supplies were. It was yet one more innocuous reminder of the workings of that great house.And Georgiana and I must now manage it all.Oh, what he would give to exhume Fitzwilliam Darcy from the grave and demand some life-restoring miracle from the man’s Creator!
As he shifted the letter tray out of his writing space, the third and final letter caught his eye. He glanced at the seal, froze, and studied it again. It was from his aunt.
What could she want of him now? She had retired to Kent a few weeks prior, and had been remarkably silent in her correspondence. His toes beginning to curl in dread, he ripped open the letter, then let it fall in shock.
Lady Catherine was coming to Pemberley.
12 October, 1813
At Sea
Theheavywoodendoorgroaned on iron hinges, swinging open to a flood of light. It was the first time it had done so in days—was it weeks? When was the last time he had seen a human face?
Twice daily a smaller door had opened and a hand had delivered food, but otherwise he had been entirely and maddeningly alone. In the dark. And at sea… he had never known sickness such as had plagued him those first days. With no proper horizon, no fresh air, and no means of orienting or bracing his body, he had endured most of the journey in a wretched indisposition.
The bucket placed in the corner of his fetid cell was wholly inadequate to the demands of his present affliction, and the entire chamber stank.Hestank. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the gentleman of impeccable dignity and one of London’s most eligible bachelors, whose estate was the jewel of Derbyshire and whose family pride traced well over six hundred years of nobility, had been reduced to a displaced, nauseated, and thoroughly revolting example of humanity.
Two men entered through the blinding portal, speaking in low voices to one another. Darcy squinted, panting. He braced one hand beneath himself, preparing to rise, while the other shielded his weakened eyes from the sudden light behind the door. Just as he began to focus on the men’s faces, a trickle of sweat mixed with grime stung his eyes and he was obliged to wipe them before once more trying to identify his visitors. “Who are you?” he demanded in his best approximation of authority. “Why have I been brought here?”
Neither of the men answered him directly, but one of them bent low. His nose wrinkled in disgust, but his hand wrenched open Darcy’s jaw, inspecting his teeth as if he were a horse. With a briskness born of long practice, he next inspected Darcy’s hair, peeled back his eyelids, and lastly turned over each hand for a quick perusal of his fingers. Darcy flinched and writhed away with each new discourtesy, swatting and protesting the indignity of such treatment, but the quick little man was not troubled.
At last the stranger stepped back, gesturing plainly for him to rise. Darcy crouched hesitantly, sweeping his gaze up and down the pair. He was not entirely certain that such an act would not inspire another beating such as he had sustained upon boarding the ship. What could they want of him? Their appearance was not remarkable to his eyes, but there was something immediately foreign about their mannerisms, and the words the pair had exchanged sounded alien to his ears.Where the devil am I?
Long as he had been at sea, he might be halfway around the world—but no, there had been too many ports of call for the ship to have crossed the Pacific. Spain, then? Italy? The heavy, smothering air of his little chamber exchanged now for fresh air from the sea, and he hungrily sucked it in. Warm—not quite warm enough for a tropical port, he thought, but far more temperate than the crisp autumn air back home.Home!
A bitter shudder rent his being, and the anger surged once more. No man could feel loss more deeply than one who has lost much, and none had more to lose than he. His freedom and dignity as a man; his home, the pride of generations. He choked—his family—dear Georgie, and Richard, and his aunts and uncle… what did they think had become of him? Were any searching for him, or did they believe the worst?
Yet the deepest pang, the most crippling heartbreak of all that had been ripped from him, he reserved for the one thing that had never truly been his own.Elizabeth!his heart cried out in agony. Greater even than the deprivation of his worldly treasures had been the loss of his hope—the one energy that had driven and inspired him to prove worthy of all the others. Where once he had been a man with a dream for the future, now he knew not whether he would be permitted another day, nor what purpose he was destined to serve.
The man had grown impatient with Darcy’s reluctance to rise. He flicked a head to his companion, and the pair each took one of Darcy’s shoulders to force him to his feet. “Wait!” he cried, pushing them away. “I will stand on my own.” Yes, at least he would do that much! No man need assist Fitzwilliam Darcy to his feet.
