Page 29 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"That," Robert exhaled, "was the most exhausting performance of my life. The cape was incredibly heavy and unfashionable."

"You were terrifying," Richard grinned, raising his glass. "Seven feet tall?"

"The hat added five inches," Robert confessed.

Darcy stared into the fire, watching the last of the frock crumble.

"He believes it," he said quietly. "He truly believes he survived a duel."

"Let us hope the belief lasts." Robert lifted an elegant eyebrow. "Because if he gambles again, I am not wearing that mask a second time. It smelled of mildew."

Friday morning arrived with the relentless precision of a ticking clock.

Darcy House was scrubbed. The windows gleamed. The servants moved like a well-oiled machine.

In the drawing room, Darcy stood by the window, watching the street. He wore a fresh coat of sombre blue. His cravat was tied with mathematical perfection. His boots were polished to a mirror shine, every inch the responsible heir.

Behind him, George Wickham paced the rug.

He was clean. The soot was gone. He wore a suit of modest brown—a choice Robert had advised to suggest humility. He held a book in his hands (Sermons of Fordyce), though he was holding it upside down.

"Is that the carriage?" George asked, jumping as a cart rattled past.

"It is a milk cart." Darcy did not turn. "Calm down, George. You are vibrating."

"I cannot help it. The phantom sensation of the pistol grip remains on my palm. Am I sufficiently scholarly? Robert said brown suggests a contemplative mind."

"You look fine. Just do not mention the French. Or the Butcher. Or coal."

"I shall discuss only the weather," George vowed. "And perhaps the price of corn. Is corn expensive? I feel I should know."

"Read the book, George. It helps if you open it."

The sound of heavy wheels on cobblestones drew Darcy's attention. A black carriage, bearing the Darcy crest, turned into the square.

"He is here." He felt the air leaving the room.

George dropped the book. "Oh God. My heart. It flutters."

"Stand up straight," Darcy commanded, turning to face the room. He walked to the mantelpiece where the Emerald Snuffbox sat. He picked it up and inspected the catch and the polish. He put it in his pocket.

It was perfect.

The front door opened below. Mostyn's voice drifted up, respectful and welcoming. Heavy footsteps ascended the stairs.

Darcy turned to his friend. He saw the terror in George's eyes, the raw, unfeigned fear of judgment. It was the same fear Darcy felt, buried under layers of duty.

"We did it," he whispered. "It is over."

The drawing room door opened.

Old Mr Darcy was not old at all. He was in his fifties, and he filled the frame. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and imposing, with the same dark eyes as his son. He leaned on a cane which he did not need to walk, but carried nonetheless.

"Father," Darcy bowed.

"Sir!" George bowed so low his nose nearly brushed his knees.

"Darcy," Old Mr Darcy rumbled, stepping into the room. He stripped off his gloves. "George. You both are pale. London air does not agree with you?"