A faint smile touched Lord Matlock's face.
“You have more of Anne in you than George.”
The remark caught Darcy entirely by surprise. For a moment he found himself unable to answer. Throughout childhood he had heard endlessly of his resemblance to his father—the same dark hair, the same height, the same serious disposition. Yet sitting there amidst the wreckage George Darcy had left behind, he realized no compliment could have pleased him more.
Silence settled comfortably between them. At length Lord Matlock cleared his throat. “You know, Fitzwilliam—”
Darcy glanced up.
“If you wished it, there would be room for you as well.”
For a brief moment, the offer tempted him, but then he shook his head. “No, I must go to Pemberley.”
He rose and crossed toward the rain-streaked window. Beyond it, London blurred beneath gray skies and gathering evening. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, making him look far older than his twenty-one years.
“The servants who remain stayed despite everything. If I am asking them to sacrifice and endure while matters improve...” He paused briefly. “Then I cannot very well hide in comfort elsewhere.”
The earl watched him quietly.
Darcy continued. “I shall live simply.” The words felt oddly freeing. “No large staff. No entertainments. No unnecessary expenses.”
He looked back toward his uncle. “Just work.”
For a moment, Lord Matlock's eyes grew suspiciously bright, then he stood and crossed the room to place his hand on Darcy’s shoulder. When he spoke, his voice trembled. “Anne would have been very proud of you.”
Of all the compliments Darcy had received in his life, none struck deeper.
Because for the first time since his mother's death, he found himself wishing desperately that she could see what had become of her son.
∞∞∞
The morning Darcy was to leave London arrived gray and overcast, with low clouds hanging over Grosvenor Square and a fine drizzle misting the windows.
He stood alone in the drawing room and looked around.
For the first time in his life, the house felt honest.
Gone were the marble statues his father had imported from Italy simply because another gentleman possessed similar ones. Gone were the gilded French tables, the elaborate clocks, the collections of porcelain, and the paintings George Darcy had purchased more to impress guests than because he admired them.
The room still contained furniture. It remained comfortable. A future tenant would find it entirely suitable.
But all pretense had been stripped away.
The realization ought to have saddened him.
Instead, Darcy found it oddly satisfying.
His father had spent years pretending to possess wealth that no longer existed. Every room in the house had been designed to project prosperity, influence, and consequence. Yet beneath the glittering surface had lurked unpaid accounts, mounting obligations, and financial ruin.
Now, at least, appearances matched reality.
He crossed to the window and looked out over the square.
A tenant would soon occupy the house under favorable terms. The lease would provide desperately needed income for several years. It was not enough to solve Pemberley's problems, but it would help.
Everything helped.
A hundred pounds helped.
