Chapter 4 #3
Impossible.
The debts exceeded nearly everything liquid the estate possessed.
London accounts.
Gaming debts.
Loans discreetly hidden through intermediaries.
Mortgages against future income.
Outstanding obligations attached even to portions of the estate itself.
Pemberley remained intact. Barely.
But only because generations of Darcys before George had built enough wealth and land to withstand one man’s recklessness.
“Good God,” Bingley muttered softly beside him after glancing at the numbers.
Wentworth removed his spectacles tiredly. “There is positive news in one respect.”
Darcy looked up.
“Miss Darcy’s fortune remains untouched. Lady Anne’s marriage settlements protected the entirety of her dowry and all associated interest for Miss Georgiana exclusively.”
For the first time since entering the office, Darcy felt genuine relief loosen his chest slightly. “How much?”
Wentworth named the figure.
Darcy let out a slow breath of relief. It was enough.
Not vast wealth by Pemberley standards, but enough.
Enough to ensure Georgiana’s future remained secure regardless of what happened to the estate itself. Enough annual interest to support her education properly. Enough for governesses, masters, servants, and eventually a respectable dowry should Pemberley fail entirely.
George Darcy might have neglected his daughter in life, but Lady Anne’s family had protected her in law.
Darcy sat back slowly. “And the estate?”
Wentworth’s silence answered before the words did.
“The house requires substantial repair. Several tenant leases have lapsed for want of attention and the western farmland has not been properly worked in years.” The solicitor folded his hands on the desk. “If every debt is honored immediately, liquid reserves will diminish… considerably.”
“Say it plainly.”
Wentworth looked genuinely uncomfortable. “You are not bankrupt, Mr. Darcy. But unless income improves rapidly, Pemberley may become dangerously close.”
The words hung heavily in the room.
Dangerously close.
Darcy thought suddenly of Rome again. Not collapse through catastrophe, but collapse through long neglect while those responsible insisted everything remained splendid.
Outside the solicitor’s windows, London rolled onward in complete indifference.
At last Darcy nodded once. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Every legitimate debt shall be paid.”
Bingley turned toward him immediately. “Darcy—”
“No.” Darcy’s voice remained calm but immovable. “The name Darcy will not become synonymous with dishonor.”
And so the coffers began slowly emptying.
Each week more money disappeared.
Jewelry accounts.
Wine merchants.
Stable debts.
Furniture makers.
Tailors.
Printers.
Servants’ delayed wages.
Darcy paid them methodically one after another while the numbers in the estate ledgers dwindled lower and lower beneath his hand.
At night, exhaustion settled so heavily upon him that even sleep became difficult. He often remained alone in the study long after midnight surrounded by candlelight and account books while rain whispered against the windows of Grosvenor Square.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at his father’s chair with a strange mixture of anger and grief so tangled together he could scarcely separate them.
Bingley remained as long as he reasonably could.
Long enough to help restore order to the townhouse. Long enough to quietly intercept several particularly aggressive creditors before Darcy lost patience entirely. Long enough to coax actual meals into him when he became too absorbed in work to notice hunger.
But eventually obligations called him northward again.
His father remained heavily involved in trade, and Bingley’s sisters required escorting through a seemingly endless parade of social engagements and family visits.
The evening before his departure, Bingley found Darcy alone in the study once more, sleeves rolled back and candlelight illuminating the exhaustion carved sharply into his face.
“You look dreadful,” Bingley announced.
Darcy continued scanning a ledger. “Thank you.”
“I mean it seriously.”
“So do I.”
Bingley sighed and crossed toward the desk. “You cannot continue at this pace indefinitely.”
Darcy finally looked up then.
Dark shadows lingered beneath his eyes now, and strain had sharpened something already naturally severe in his expression. Yet Bingley noticed something else too.
Purpose.
For the first time since knowing him, Darcy no longer seemed like a man merely enduring life.
He seemed determined to master it.
“I must continue,” Darcy said quietly. “No one else will.”
Bingley leaned one shoulder against the desk.
“Well,” he replied after a moment, “for what little it is worth, I believe Pemberley fortunate to belong to you rather than your father.”
Darcy paused, an unknown feeling he hardly recognized stirred deep in his chest. He closed the ledger before him. “I think,” he said slowly, “that may be the first time anyone has ever suggested Pemberley fortunate to have me.”
Bingley smiled faintly. “Then everyone else has been remarkably stupid.”