Mr Darcy’s Legacy

Chapter 16

T he Duke of Blandford was expecting him; Darcy was taken directly to the library, where he found an impatient man. The duke’s letters to his mother were uppermost in Darcy’s mind, and he could see the man in front of him, young and in love. As he was. He could not imagine his life without Elizabeth. And he did not want to imagine how the duke could live without Lady Anne.

The butler swirled the brandy in the glasses, its amber depths catching the light, and for a time, they drank in silence—not the strained hush of unspoken words, but a silence that drifted between them like a slow-moving tide, tranquil and unhurried.

“It seems to me,” the duke finally began, “that you already know my story.”

Darcy nodded—not yet ready to talk—but Blandford’s voice was so caring that he gradually overcame his hesitation.

“I know, Your Grace, what Lady Edwina remembered and what we found out yesterday evening…from your letters.”

“Stop calling me your grace, please,” the man murmured, and Darcy nodded in acceptance.

Reading his letters seemed more like an indiscretion, but there was no embarrassment among them; the duke smiled at the memories, for he likely remembered his words to Lady Anne.

“So, you have my letters,” he said, his voice cheerful yet composed.

“Yes, sir,” said Darcy. “We might have been indiscreet, but we were all beholden to my mother’s last wish last night. I must confess that, at the time, I was far from imagining…what we had discovered. I do not attempt to justify our actions. I just wish to explain our state of mind. My mother never imposed any demand on me—on us—my sister and me. I decided to read your letters in homage to her because they were her most precious treasure.”

“How do you know that?” the duke asked looking attentively at him.

Darcy hesitated; Blandford seemed amiable, even friendly, but they were in delicate territory. It was, after all, his life they were discussing.

“My boy,” the duke said, “the weeks I shared with Anne were the happiest of my life. Afterwards, I did everything expected of me. I complied with every duty, but nobody could ask more from me, nor was I willing to give more. I have lived with her in my heart and mind. In my bedroom, opposite my bed, is her portrait, which has been there for the last twenty-five years.”

Darcy was stunned and whispered, “Opposite to my mother’s picture in her parlour is your portrait.”

“Is it?” the duke asked incredulously. “You mean—now? At this time?”

“Yes, sir. It was hidden beneath a wooden panel, but I often looked at it in my childhood while my mother was reading or writing.”

Darcy felt genuine sympathy for the impressive man before him. Blandford was grieving a thirty-year-old love. There was so much sadness in his face and eyes—in his entire being—that no words could comfort him.

“How much of our story do you know?” the duke asked.

“Not much, sir. Just the things Lady Edwina remembered and events we inferred from your letters and…the ring.”

“The ring—my God, the ring! I asked her to marry me in the third week of our acquaintance. I was confident in our love, as was she. We were born for one another. When you hear such a statement, you tend to believe it is only a fable, but we lived it. It was our reality. I knew my father had plans for me, but like any young man, I believed no one could stand in our way. I was sure I could change my father’s mind, and I gave her the ring before talking to him. We were together for the first weeks in London. Then, we met at the Countess Edwina of Rothes, but Edwina recovered, and Anne’s mother wanted to go home. It was a bad dream. We decided that I would find a friend near St Albans and stay for a while, but nobody was close enough to the Matlock estate. Imagine, I slept for two nights in a hunting cottage on the estate!”

“Oh! I know the cottage, but it is only for basic shelter—certainly not for living,” Darcy said, remembering hunting with his father and often pausing there to rest.

“Exactly—I slept on a wooden bench, and your mother brought me food and a blanket, but it was wonderful. We were wild to be together, so we made a plan: I was to ride from St Albans and fall off my horse. A servant from the Matlock estate found me with an allegedly swollen ankle, and the plan worked wonderfully. Her parents were happy to take care of me, so I stayed perhaps five days.”

Darcy could picture that week with perfect clarity. His grandparents were unlike the people of Hertfordshire despite living in the countryside. With a title, a substantial income, and stronger ties to London society, they moved in different circles and harboured greater ambitions than the people of Meryton. Their daughters were meant to marry above their station. Certainly, the arrival of the Duke of Blandford’s wounded son at their doorstep must have seemed nothing less than the hand of fate.

He remembered summers at their estate as a perpetual drudge, his grandmother trying to make them behave as if they were at court. He was sure many of his defects came directly from her dinner table or parlour, where they had to act according to a rank they did not have. The future duke possessed such a rank, and everyone in the house knew how to receive their guest and show him they were prepared for even the king’s visit.

“We were so happy that it seemed the world outside did not exist—such a mistake!”

The duke paused occasionally as some of his memories were too painful. Completely submerged in the past as a spectator in a theatre, Darcy assisted in a strange play as he had intimate knowledge of the characters. He did not want the duke to stop sharing this history, but he was also afraid he might discover too much about a past that did not belong to him.

“We had some wonderful days, but then I understood that we could not live like that, and we had to marry as soon as possible. I returned from St Albans full of confidence, knowing her family—your grandparents, in fact!” He suddenly looked at Darcy as if he were aware of that fact for the first time: Darcy was Lady Anne’s son; her parents were his grandparents…

“Your grandparents were very respectable people with a good income. I had in mind all the things I wanted to tell my father, all the evidence to convince him. I was certain he would eventually agree because I knew him to be a reasonable man—though severe. He was not a loving parent, you can imagine. In my time, children were not raised close to their fathers, but I could find no fault in him until then!”

The duke had not forgiven his father nor forgotten that day.

His story was alive; Darcy was in that present-life library, yet he followed the characters from a thirty-year-old tale as if they were in that room.

The 5th Duke of Blandford awaited him in his grim, cold study. It was one of the rooms that, as a child, Fitzroy did not enter. It was not forbidden, but as a toddler, he was intimidated by the portraits of the dukes who held the title before his father. The 5th Duke of Blandford wanted his ancestors nearby; he arranged his massive desk in homage to them and, Fitzroy suspected, as a reminder of family greatness to anyone with business there.

“The first decision I made as the 6th duke was to move the portraits into the main hall where they now resided,” the duke said, interrupting the memories.

That day, he entered the study with the same sentiments as when he was a child: fear! He was not pleased to admit it, but the room, the portraits, and his father made him shiver. It was the worst attitude he could have, but the dread arose regardless of his attempt to control his feelings or to think about his beloved Anne. In that gloomy space, her face refused to appear. His father was aimable enough, but his disposition could change quickly. He knew his father would forbid their marriage. In truth, the fear came from that presentiment and prior knowledge of his father’s character, wishes, and feelings. His mother had died a year before those events, but he doubted she could have helped him in any way. Nothing could stop his father once a decision was made.

“I am listening,” his father said imperiously. They had just finished breakfast, and he liked to be at ease for an hour in his study. Fitzroy realised he had chosen the worst possible moment. But he sensed such an urgency to move things along that he lacked patience.

“Father”—Fitzroy spoke in his most courageous tone—“I need your consent to marry.”

He wanted to continue, but the old man cut short his intention. “You have my consent to marry Hilda of Hanover. You may choose the date, but it should be this year.”

It was decided that Fitzroy had no right to oppose or question his father.

“But, sir, I am in love with another lady!” Fitzroy finally said.

His father raised his eyes from the papers he pretended to read. He even tried a condescending smile. “Good for you, my boy. A gentleman must know love and be in love as many times as possible in his life.”

His tone was sarcastic, referring to the kinds of love a gentleman of the ton might find in London.

That allusion was so distasteful and offensive that Fitzroy felt his body shake. His face turned purple-red, and he could scarcely breathe but resisted. “I am talking about true love for a precious lady I intend to marry.”

These words tore away the apparent calm and the falsely benevolent conversation. His father rose and stood before the chair in which he was seated. Even at seventy, he was a force of nature; he had buried three wives, and it seemed he would live forever. He was not shouting, but his whisper-like tone was even more dreadful.

“You can have no inclination regarding your marriage, boy. I make all decisions in such matters.”

“Please, sir, let me tell you the whole story and introduce to you the young lady I love!” It was a desperate plea, but it was all he had left.

His father laughed—a burst of superior, sardonic laughter meant to sully his son’s love.

“I know all about the story and the lady!”

Fitzroy froze. All his intentions disappeared in the face of that man who could destroy destinies with that hated, superior smile.

“Or do you think I am an imbecile? It is one of the daughters of that earl who so kindly hosted you after your shameful fall from a horse! Do you think society’s behaviour has changed since my youth? I should have told you how many earls’ daughters tried to catch me in marriage! Go to Madame Laure, my boy, and cool off, then be prepared to leave for Hanover. As I see the situation now, I shall announce your departure for next week.”

Fitzroy knew he had lost the battle, and this new decision to hurry his marriage in Germany was unexpected and dangerous.

“ Even after thirty years, the wretched desperation is still present in my heart,” the duke murmured.

They sat silently for a long time, yet both longed for the story to continue.

“When I told him I loved Anne and wanted to marry her, I remember his asking disgustedly whether I fell in love during the five days I stayed in St Albans. I have lived my life in an attempt to be different from my father. Despite his sister’s attempts to reconcile us, I never spoke to him again. Aunt Roberta used to say to me that if he died, I would regret my resentment. But I never did!”

The duke stood up and took a few steps to gather his thoughts. “I left his study desperate, broken, and helpless. He had been peremptory and relentless: no marriage was possible. A signed settlement for the wedding between Hilda of Hanover and me was already signed, and His Majesty had approved it. My father wanted me to marry one of the king’s daughters, but it seems he failed and looked lower within the royal family. It was his mad, unreasonable idea to make me a sort of prince or even king. I had to tell Anne the truth. But then an insane plan came to mind, the only one allowing us to be together. I decided to marry her in secret.”

Darcy could scarcely stay seated; he wanted to stand and pace or even run. When he had left home, his intention was clear: to deliver some letters and share polite talk about his mother. Not for an instant did he imagine the duke would trust him with such a confession, and he now feared he might hear things that would confound his life. The duke wanted to marry his mother, evident from the ring he gave her and the messages addressed to her but he thought that was all.

Darcy finally stood, unable to master his turmoil any longer. He was aware of his rudeness but needed to escape the tension that weighed on him. He went to the window, and only seconds later, the duke came to him with the glass of brandy. They drank again, wordlessly, but the silence did not last.

“Yes, my boy, I was married to Anne for nearly two hours.”

The duke fixed his eyes on the ground, trying vainly to control his pain.

How was it possible to be married for two hours? Darcy’s silent question was reflected in his face. But the duke was too far away, and Darcy feared he would never know the whole truth.

He was not an emotional man—at least not before Elizabeth. It was she who opened the door to feelings he had long denied. And now, he suffered along with the man in front of him who, thirty years ago, lost his wife. He thought he knew all the threats that might arise before marriage, but he suddenly discovered that some dangers had the power to destroy it afterwards .

Darcy sat and then stood again, moving to the duke’s armchair. He wanted to give him the letters but, overwhelmed by sorrow and compassion, put his hand on the duke’s shoulder. The duke looked up at him and caressed the helping hand, receiving the younger man’s comfort with an open heart. Darcy gently placed the letters in the duke’s lap and returned to his chair. He was profoundly touched as he could not remember a moment in his life being so close to a person. Elizabeth was the exception, but in the duke’s library, there was another kind of communion he never had with his father.

George Darcy had been a good-natured man. They had spent countless hours together in long rides or endless conversations. They shared a brandy each evening from the moment Darcy became an adult. However, they did not show their feelings or acknowledge many emotional states. Even on his deathbed, his father retained his composure and only gave his son advice on administering the estate. Ultimately, he said, “You have been a good son.” That was all, and minutes later, he was gone. But in Blandford’s presence, Darcy felt much more: a human sorrow that could be shared, the need for compassion, and gratitude for his concern.

After a few moments, he took his concerned eyes off the duke and absently admired the library. Elegant but also unpretentious, it was arranged to provide peace and comfort—a place to study and read for enjoyment. There were books everywhere, some with silver bookmarks indicating various interests. Darcy grew calmer, enjoying the atmosphere, but suddenly, he felt something was wrong. And indeed, Blandford was as white as snow, breathing unsteadily and struggling for air. Darcy jumped from his chair while the duke tried to loosen his neckcloth.

He wanted to help, but Blandford said in a thin, barely audible voice. “I am well—do not worry…”

Then he pointed to the letter on the ground, likely responsible for his dizziness.

“May I, sir?” Darcy asked, still apprehensive.

“Yes…”

As Darcy picked it up, he saw this was not a letter but a larger sheet of paper. At the top was written ‘Watford Parish.’

Darcy had to sit as he began to understand the meaning of the document.

It was from a marriage registry, hurriedly cut with a sharp knife. The page contained three registrations: three couples who had married. The third, Darcy read, was ‘Husband: William Fitzroy, Marquess of Brimpsfield, son of the Duke and Duchess of Blandford, Wife: Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Matlock,’ followed by the witnesses and the minister: John Somerville.

Darcy was stunned, his heart pounding while his hands trembled in torment. He had imagined all sorts of stories surrounding his mother and Blandford the last two days, but he never had the audacity to go that far.

“I do not understand, sir,” he said in a low voice, not daring to allow his mind to accept the obvious.

“Nor do I,” the duke said. “I thought my father had destroyed this after cutting it from the book.”

And once again, the library became the past, nothing more than a scene in which Darcy could see events unfolding from the powerful words the duke uttered. Blandford unveiled his soul, yet Darcy was not prepared to think of his mother as the duke’s wife, so he closed his eyes and imagined witnessing a story about Will and Anne, two strangers…

The plan grew in Fitzroy’s mind as he left his house after the conversation with his father.

The two nights he spent in the hunting cottage made him understand he had to find a way to be with Anne—not a stolen night in someone else’s house but a life together. In the past, he had never thought of marriage. He regarded his father’s plans to marry him to an heiress as an illusion his father held. But since the ball, his life completely changed. Anne was his woman; he sensed this truth with his heart and body. There was no other way to have her but to get married. He wanted his father to be on his side, but the 5th Duke of Blandford clarified his position. His son had to marry the German heiress and not the earl’s daughter, who could never supply the honours his father desired.

He had to wed hastily and secretly. And most of all, he needed everything to be legitimate, leaving no possibility of an annulment. He knew from the past—not from direct experience but still first-hand information—that his father was a dreadful enemy. He had every protection one needed from the king and an army of servants ready to please their master.

The licence was the first important step to be taken. But, as Anne was only nineteen, he needed Lord Matlock’s consent. The same day, he headed again for St Albans. Strangely, he relied on something his father said during their conversation. Lord Matlock might be interested in marrying one of his daughters to the son of a duke as powerful as his father was. Fitzroy only hoped that he would not ask too many questions. He prepared himself with answers—some lies, some truths—a combination that would eventually convince Anne’s father.

The family was at dinner, and he was placed next to Lord Matlock. He was not hungry, although he did not eat much at breakfast while in his father’s company. In the morning, he had been nervous but hopeful that his father would renounce his plans; in the evening, he was angry and determined to marry his love. Anne looked at him with her sweet smile as they no longer hid their feelings. His arrival at that hour meant only one thing: he had come for her. She laughed and spoke happily, and seeing her so delighted, Fitzroy forgot about his father. The image that had tortured him all the way from London had been dissipated by Lady Anne’s joyful disposition. He looked at her neck, knowing his ring hung on the delicate gold chain, hidden from view. As dinner ended, he whispered a few words to Lord Matlock. He asked permission to talk to Anne for ten minutes and then asked for a private discussion with him, only the two of them.

Lord Matlock stood and ordered everybody to retire to the music room.

“Not you, Anne!” he said. “The marquess will lead you to the library, and when you finish your discussion, I shall be waiting in the parlour for him—only for him!” emphasised her father.

But Anne was no longer listening. She was hastening to the library, and the second the door was shut, she threw herself into his arms. They did not think clearly when they held each other. An irresistible power swept them away from the rest of the world.

That night was the last time they were together.

In the library, she asked, still in his arms, “Why have you come?”

“Will you marry me?” he said and looked at her as she smiled and showed him the ring hidden at her bosom.

“I have already said yes…have you forgotten so soon?” She was teasing him, and he did not have the heart to tell her the horrible truth, but he had to.

“My father has refused his consent to our marriage,” he said and watched as the happiness drained from her face.

Suddenly, she was feverish, her face on fire, but she tried to comfort him since he was the desperate one.

“Let us run away!” she said. It was not an unreasonable choice, made during the momentary tension. Her voice was determined, even cold, but steady, unlike her shivering body.

“Now, immediately, I do not care about marriage—I want to be with you!” She was almost crying, and for a moment, Fitzroy was afraid someone might hear them.

Thirty years after that night, he still regretted his decision; he should have listened to her, run far away, and never come back. But he wanted a normal life for her, to appear on his arm in society, not to expose her to a scandal that would eventually ruin her reputation. She seemed reckless, yet she had a clear and determined mind, while he had been nothing but an arrogant young man. He thought he could solve all their problems.

He told her his plan in a few words. “Do you think your father would consent so we could have the licence to marry?”

It was a difficult question. Anne did not know her father well enough to answer it. In the torrent of problems around them, he forgot about the only plan that could have saved them, the single clear and straightforward plan: to run away that very night.

“My father will probably allow us to marry, but you must not tell him the truth. After the marriage, we shall tell him more, but for now, just tell him your father was against it because we are too young…”

It was precisely what he intended to say to the earl.

∞∞∞

As he expected, Anne’s father realised in an instant all the benefits such an alliance could bring.

“I shall accompany you to London tomorrow to help you get a Bishop’s Licence. My presence is compulsory as Anne is under twenty-one,” the Earl of Matlock said, proving he was well accustomed to those problems regarding his daughters’ marriage.

It was more than Fitzroy could hope for, and he began to see the future in brighter colours, an unforgivable mistake. In desperate cases, only vigilance brings success.

He obtained the licence with less difficulty than he expected; he had to wait a few days before marrying, but there were no banns to be read, so nobody would be aware of their marriage. Suddenly, he felt that fate was on their side, a judgement that proved misleading and wrong.

The earl had the estate near a parish he knew well, as he had grown up in the region. The clergyman was an old, trustworthy man who had baptised him and his brothers. In fact, this was not a favour they were requesting but a legitimate marriage. The presence of the bride’s parents would have reinforced the legitimacy if any doubts remained.

He went home that night as he did not want his father to believe he had run away. Fitzroy descended for dinner, but few words were spoken. It was a horrible evening, but not different from any other meal they shared. He was happy to leave after his wedding and hoped he would never return to live in that house. He had a lovely estate in north Wales where he intended to live with Anne, but first, he arranged to depart for Ghent. A ship would be waiting for them to cross the sea.

It was the first night he had slept in a long time; there had been little time for rest between the passion and worries. Yet he woke tired and with a terrible headache, as if his mind and body refused to be away from Anne. Yet he had to wait a few more days, and he did so, still in his father’s house, as he already suspected that his father would have a man following him.

As planned, they met in front of the church at nine o’clock, a week later. It was a cloudy day, but as they entered the church, a ray of sunshine passed through the clouds and lit the steps of the church as Anne arrived. It was an image that would haunt his life: Anne, with a little bouquet of flowers, climbing the few steps and wearing a smile that competed with the sun. He wondered whether his heart, which was so full, might explode and return to earth as an ethereal rain to envelop his love.

It was too painful to remember the wedding. He never did during all the years that passed because the moment she said, ‘Yes,’ he thought they would be together forever.

“At the end, Mr Somerville, the minister, invited us to the Parsonage…” the duke’s voice was only a whisper. Darcy moved his chair closer to hear every word.

“In thirty years, I have never thought—not once—of that day.”

He stopped and silently asked Darcy to give him the paper from the register. He looked at the writing intensely as he continued to speak.

“We agreed to go to the parsonage, which was another mistake. At that moment, my plans with the boat and Ghent were secret—not even Anne knew. I did not conceal it from her deliberately, but we did not have time to discuss it in the madness of those last days. Nobody would have found us if I had taken Anne away at that moment. My father could have ripped out all the pages in the world; from Ghent, we would have gone even further away!”

The duke had tears in his eyes, but he did not try to hide them. He was too tired.

“And…?” Darcy inquired like a child eager to continue an enchanting tale, and the gentleman smiled between his tears. “How did your father find you?” Darcy insisted.

The duke looked again at the document and read, “‘Watford Parish.’ I had decided to forget that name a long time ago. What a way to remember! We were at the table where the clergyman’s daughter had prepared a light meal and glasses of wine, a pleasant surprise for which we were grateful. Anne placed the document certifying our marriage on the table between us. Now and then, she glanced at it and smiled.

We were happy, while the earl had one drink too many and told us stories from his youth. Then, suddenly, there was a disturbance in the courtyard. Mr Somerville went to see what was happening, but when he returned, he was so troubled that he could hardly speak.

“’ It is for you,’ he said, looking at me with great sadness. He was not afraid but sad—that I remember well. The next moment, my father was in the room. And not alone—six or more people were waiting in the hall. He was very polite, only I could see the anger beneath his courtly manners. He asked for the register, and as the minister was not moving, he ordered his daughter to get it, and in front of us, one of the men cut out the page. Then my father, as politely as you please, made the terrified minister copy the two marriages written before ours on the next page. He took the marriage document from the table and tore it apart until it was nothing but small pieces, which he threw on the floor with a theatrical gesture.

All traces removed! He grabbed me against my will with the help of four men against whom I could not defend myself. And we left forever.”

“And Anne?” shouted Darcy, forgetting that the ‘Anne’ from the past was his mother.

“The last thing, which was seared in my mind and my soul, was her cry for help, her begging them not to hurt me, and her face filled with tears. I never knew the details of the following events. Still, I assume my father and your grandfather arranged the marriage with Mr Darcy, a man—I later found out—to be respectable and worthy. For months, I wallowed in such despair that life lost all meaning for me.”

Suddenly, the duke stopped as if struck by lightning. “My God!”

“What is it, sir?” Darcy had the impression that the day they were reliving would never end, bringing into focus events from a past that seemed more powerful than the present.

“This page!” the duke said. “Do you not see it?”

Darcy saw clearer than a bright day. He was confused yet somehow happy for the duke, but then again, he was plunged into confusion as he better understood how that page would affect his own life—and Georgiana’s.

Maids arrived to light candles, and the gentlemen remained quiet until they were alone again. But they both knew.

“This page, my boy”—and he handed it to Darcy—“means I am still married to Anne!”

A burst of impromptu, disturbing laughter broke the silence of the library, betraying the relief for which the duke had longed for so many years.

“My God,” he said, patting Darcy on his arm. “Anne is my wife! All the trouble my father took to separate us, and he failed. Beyond life or death, she is my wife.”

Only then did he realise that, in front of him, was Anne’s child with the man to whom she was no longer married…

“Do not worry!” the duke said. “If Anne had decided to change our lives after she received the page, she would have done what was necessary, but she just wanted me to be happy that, before God, she was still my wife. How could a thirty-year love not die, still hurt, and make me happy at the same time?”

In his lap, an unopened letter was still waiting to reveal its contents, so well hidden for a lifetime.

“Let us read the letter together, Darcy. I completely trust you, and you deserve a proper conclusion to this tale as much as I do.”

“One more thing, sir, before that. Do you know how your father found you the day you married my mother? Who betrayed you?”

“I can only guess; I have no proof. I believe my father suspected I was preparing my marriage, so he probably went to the office of the archbishop. It would not have been difficult for him to discover I had acquired a licence to marry from a local bishop.”

“Yes,” Darcy said, “but how did he know where and when the marriage would occur?”

The duke was silent for a moment. It was one of the questions of his life.

“I have no evidence, but he likely went to St Albans, and someone told him where to find us. Anne’s brother and her sister knew I suppose. In fact, it was not a villainous act; it could have looked like a natural demand from a father who wanted to attend his son’s wedding. Still, I could never tolerate Catherine or your uncle because I decided one of them told my father about us.”

Darcy said nothing, as his own suspicions were similar.