Wickham looked up sharply.
“You have just received more than your father could ever have dreamed of leaving you. Ten thousand pounds. A landed estate. Tenants. Income. Respectability.” He shook his head. “You have been handed a life most men would sacrifice anything to obtain.”
Wickham sneered. “I deserve more.”
“No.” For the first time, genuine steel entered Darcy's voice. “No, you do not.”
The words landed hard.
“You have been given an opportunity. Take it to Scotland. Improve the estate. Marry wisely. Live responsibly.”
Wickham stared at him. Darcy almost wished he would listen. For old times' sake. For old Mr. Wickham's sake.
For the memory of two boys at Pemberley who once shared lessons together.
“You are now wealthier than ninety-nine men out of every hundred in England,” Darcy said quietly. “Stop behaving as though you have been cheated.”
For one brief moment, something flickered across Wickham's face.
Then greed swallowed it.
He gathered the papers.
“Go to hell.”
Darcy nodded.
“Goodbye, Wickham.”
The former steward's son spun on his heel and stormed from the room. A moment later, the front door slammed.
Silence settled once more, but gradually, people began speaking again.
But Darcy scarcely heard any of it.
His eyes had fallen upon the bank draft ledger still lying open before him.
Ten thousand pounds.
The final large payment. The very last substantial sum remaining under his control.
Everything else was gone.
The debts had consumed nearly all of it.
When the meeting finally ended and the room emptied, Darcy remained seated alone at the table. Outside, rain continued falling softly against the windows.
The house was his.
Pemberley was his.
The responsibility was his.
And in the estate safe downstairs remained only a few hundred pounds.
Darcy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes briefly.
At twenty-one years old, he had inherited one of the finest estates in England.
