Mrs. Reynolds, a gray-haired woman with a kind smile, curtsied in deep respect. “Sir, you are a sight for sore eyes. I will not inquire if you are well, for how can you be? Rather, I ask what I can do to be of assistance to you.”
He bowed. “I thank you. You have heard from Wickham then?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Wickham’s new man of business, Mr. Foster, has been going from room to room, cataloging every item. He had your personal effects moved into one of the unused rooms on the main floor with instructions to release them to you at the first opportunity.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
Darcy took a slow, deliberate breath. “Has he been kind to you?”
She surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Yes, sir. Mr. Foster arrived yesterday. He has yet to learn the true nature of Mr. Wickham, I fear. The servants at Pemberley have taken every opportunity to tell him the sort of master you are, that duty andresponsibility are intrinsic to your character. He seemed disinterested in confiscating your possessions, so we had the freedom to gather items for you without hindrance. Our only instructions were to direct you to him and then encourage you to be on your way. According to Mr. Wickham, this will be your last opportunity to step foot on Pemberley’s property.”
Each word cut him deep enough that he thought he should make sure there was no blood dripping at his feet. Closing his eyes, he felt the loss keenly.
The housekeeper cleared her throat. “Mr. Foster is most eager to sort through the contents of the safe. You are the only one with the key and the combination of the lock. So far, he has not attempted to open it on his own, as far as I am aware.”
Sighing, Darcy said, “Let us locate Mr. Foster.”
Darcy entered his study. The familiar surroundings haunted him.
A stranger sat at the small desk where Simon Cole used to tend to business. Ignoring him, Darcy swung the large Gainsborough landscape, revealing the safe hidden behind. Removing the key from his waistcoat pocket, he inserted it into the lock, then spun the five tumblers on the secondary device. Pulling the heavy door open, Darcy transferred the contents to his desk.
Placing stock certificates and land deeds in one pile, he quickly sorted through the jewelry boxes until he found the family pieces his mother intended for Darcy’s future bride. Now that she was married, Georgiana would also receive a selection of jewelry. He stacked three hundred gold sovereigns neatly before revealing the last item: the Darcy crest, carefully embroidered on a scrap offine wool by an ancestress. He placed the crest on the jewelry chest that belonged to him.
Mr. Foster’s chair rubbed across the wooden floor. Hurriedly, Darcy stuffed the jewelry not intended for Georgiana or his future bride back inside the safe, closed the door, and spun the tumblers, placing the key back inside his pocket.
“Sir!” Mr. Foster hurried toward him. “Open that door immediately.”
Darcy turned toward him and lifted the small jewelry case and fabric. “I will not. My sister’s eldest son will receive the combination when he inherits Pemberley, provided Wickham hasn’t lost it from gambling by then. These are family pieces passed from generation to generation. Your employer would not hesitate to sell them as soon as he finds himself in financial difficulty. I refuse to go to the trouble of eventually repurchasing them.”
Mr. Foster’s shoulders dropped in defeat. “Very well. I shall need to inform Mr. Wickham.”
“That is your business.” He took one last look at the room. “I will walk through the house before I depart. You are welcome to accompany me, although I am not a thief like Wickham. You can trust that I value Pemberley more than that man ever shall.”
Mr. Foster hesitated before replying, “I will join you.”
The light of the summer sun pouring through the tall windows beckoned Darcy into the library. The rich smell of leather prompted memories of his mother as she read to him. He had done the same with Georgiana, with her curled up next to him, enraptured by tales of knights and dragons, princesses and kings. He noted that the family Bible was missing from the table at the center of theroom. For a certainty, Mrs. Reynolds would have seen the priceless work packed safely with his belongings since the history of the Darcy lineage would be his, not his sister’s.
After instructing a footman to pack his private collection of cherished books resting on the shelf closest to his desk, along with his parents’ private journals, he moved to the next floor. His well-used toy soldiers and carved horses, displayed on the nursery shelves, tugged at his sentimentality. He asked Mrs. Reynolds to secure the pieces in a box for him, leaving the dolls and doll furniture behind. One day, he might have a son. They would be his playthings, not Wickham’s heir.
The master’s chambers, draped in deep blue and gold, were where he spent years dreaming and planning for a future he would no longer have. Every wooden beam, woven tapestry, and painted portrait tormented him. Missing was the faded quilt his grandmother Emmaline Darcy made him when he was a youth. The folded, tattered blanket typically rested on the top shelf of his wardrobe. Thankfully, Mrs. Reynolds knew its value to him, too.
He walked through the portrait gallery, berating himself for losing it all from a single lapse in judgment. He would never forget his heritage. He would never forget how easily he was swindled after excessive drink.
Once he finished his tour, he spoke privately with the housekeeper.
“What are your plans?” For as long as he had known Mrs. Reynolds, she was an integral part of Pemberley.
“I only awaited your arrival. I shall move to Bakewell to be nearer my sister. Thanks to the generosity of yourfamily, I have enough to sustain me. After Mr. Wickham informed the senior servants of the change in ownership, he asked me to stay. I have no interest in remaining at Pemberley without you. I just worry for Miss Georgiana…Mrs. Wickham.” She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “Sir, I do not know how this came about, nor do I care to know, but I am confident there was some treachery. I could never remain here to work for him.”
He rested his hand over hers. “Would you permit me to see you to Bakewell, then?”
Her eyes twinkled. “I would be delighted to start my new journey with the one man I respect above all others.”
Her words lifted his heart. “Then have your belongings added to the cart. We will soon be on our way.”
Outside, on the top step of the portico, Darcy drank in the familiar vista, knowing that if he ever did return, it would never be the same. His soul felt as if it were ripped in two.
He warned Wickham’s lackey. “Watch your back, Foster. Wickham is not to be trusted.”
Without waiting for a response, Darcy descended the steps. Climbing into the carriage, he tapped on the ceiling. Behind them, two carts carried their belongings. Leaning his elbow on the windowsill, he pressed his fingers over his mouth to hold in the raw emotions threatening to burst from him, not knowing whether he would ever see his beloved Pemberley again.
