The room felt unnaturally silent.
Fitz had imagined his father’s death before, though never consciously. Some distant future event. A grim inevitability that would one day place Pemberley in his care.
But not now.
Not suddenly.
Not like this.
The servant twisted his hat nervously between his hands. “I am very sorry, sir.”
Fitz stared past him toward the rain-streaked windows. His father was dead. George Darcy—the immense, overpowering figure who had shaped his entire life through criticism, neglect, and impossible expectations—simply… gone.
And Fitz did not know what he felt. Grief? Shock?
Relief.
Guilt immediately followed the last thought. Slowly, he looked back toward the servant.
“Two weeks ago, sir.” The servant was now so pale, Fitz thought he might faint.
Two weeks?
“Why,” Fitz asked very quietly, “was I not informed immediately?”
The servant visibly flinched, and Fitz’s eyes narrowed. “Well?”
“It was… against orders, sir.”
A dangerous stillness settled over the room. “Whose orders?”
The servant hesitated only briefly. “Mr. Wickham’s, sir.”
Something cold flashed across Fitz’s face then.
“And why,” he asked with frightening calm, “would anyone in my father’s household obey orders from George Wickham regarding the death of the master of Pemberley?”
The servant gulped so hard that Fitz thought the man would choke. “Because Mr. Darcy always instructed the staff to treat Mr. Wickham as—” He stopped uncertainly.
“As what?”
The words emerged reluctantly. “As though he were a son of the family, sir. Or… or heir.”
Fitz felt physically ill.Of course he had.Even dead, his father still managed one final humiliation.
The servant rushed onward nervously. “At first no one questioned it, sir. Mr. Wickham said you ought not be disturbed before examinations concluded, and he continued managing matters at the townhouse as usual.”
“As usual,” Fitz repeated flatly.
“Yes, sir. Only…” The man faltered again.
“Only what?”
The servant lowered his voice instinctively despite there being no one else present. “Some of the servants became uneasy.”
Fitz folded his arms slowly across his chest. “In what way?”
The man glanced toward the door before answering. “Mr. Wickham has continued entertaining, sir. Cards. Drinking. Company arriving at all hours. He has behaved…” The servant searched visibly for a safer phrase and failed to find one. “As though nothing has happened.”
