Chapter 5
Two days after Bingley's departure, George Darcy's will was finally read.
The gathering took place in the library of Darcy House, a room that had already seen more lawyers, bankers, and accountants pass through its doors in the previous month than in the previous decade.
Rain tapped softly against the windows, though for once London seemed content with a gentle drizzle rather than the violent storms that had plagued the spring.
Darcy sat at the end of the table beside Mr. Wentworth, the family solicitor.
He felt exhausted.
The debts had consumed nearly every waking hour since his arrival. Entire fortunes had vanished from the estate coffers under his hand. He had signed payment after payment until his signature scarcely looked like his own anymore.
Still, this business needed finishing.
Several servants were present, including the housekeeper Mrs. Yates, and his valet Mr. Bates, who had been with him since Cambridge. A few other longtime employees were given specific requests as well.
Darcy had momentarily considered Georgiana’s presence at the reading, but upon Mrs. Reynolds’ assurances that they were in much better circumstances for the time being, had decided she was better off in the country, away from the dramatics.
Three women sat together near the fireplace, all dressed in expensive mourning and all very clearly former mistresses of George Darcy.
Darcy deliberately avoided looking at them.
Then the library door opened.
George Wickham sauntered inside.
He was dressed entirely in black, though the effect was spoiled somewhat by the smug satisfaction practically radiating from him. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who believed he was about to become extraordinarily wealthy.
His gaze swept across the room.
When it settled upon Darcy, he smiled.
Darcy felt almost sorry for him.
Almost.
The reading began.
Several servants received annuities.
Mrs. Yates burst quietly into tears when she learned she had been granted enough money to retire comfortably if she wished. The valet received a smaller but still generous sum. Two elderly footmen exchanged stunned glances at their own unexpected inheritances.
Then came the mistresses.
One received jewels.
Another a townhouse lease.
The third was granted five thousand pounds outright.
Wickham's smirk widened steadily. Darcy folded his hands beneath the table and waited.
Finally Mr. Wentworth cleared his throat. “And to George Wickham, my godson and the son of my late steward…”
Wickham sat up straighter.
“...I leave the sum of ten thousand pounds sterling, together with full ownership of Glenroth Estate in Perthshire, Scotland, including all lands, buildings, tenants, and associated revenues.”
Silence followed.
Wickham blinked.
Then blinked again. “That cannot be all.”
Mr. Wentworth adjusted his spectacles. “It is what is written.”
“No.” Wickham laughed shortly. “No, continue.”
The solicitor frowned at him. “I have finished that section.”
The smile vanished from Wickham's face. He looked toward Darcy, then back toward the solicitor, then back to Darcy again.
“What about Pemberley?”
No one answered.
“What about the rest?” Wickham’s face was turning red.
Mr. Wentworth looked over at Darcy, who nodded, and he slowly turned to the next page. “The remainder of the estate, including Pemberley, Darcy House, all associated properties, investments, and holdings, passes in its entirety to my son, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Wickham shot to his feet. The chair crashed backward behind him. “NO!”
Several people jumped. Mrs. Yates actually gasped.
“This is fraud!”
Darcy remained seated, and Wickham rounded on him immediately. “You forged it!”
Darcy raised one eyebrow. “I did?”
“You cheated me!”
The room watched in horrified fascination.
Wickham's face had gone red with fury. “He promised me!”
Darcy's patience finally snapped. “Promised you what, precisely?”
“The estate!”
Several people exchanged uncomfortable looks.
“The estate?” Darcy repeated. “You received an estate, Wickham.”
“Not that one—Pemberley!”
Now Darcy actually laughed.
The sound infuriated Wickham further. “You think this is amusing?”
“A little.”
Wickham looked ready to strike him. Instead Darcy reached calmly across the table and withdrew the final page of the will.
“This document was witnessed by three individuals.”
His finger moved down the page.
“Mr. Wentworth.”
The solicitor nodded.
“Mr. Holland.”
The banker nodded as well.
“And George Wickham.”
The room became very quiet, other than a nervous giggle from one of the mistresses.
Darcy slid the document across the table. There, near the bottom, sat Wickham's unmistakable signature.
Wickham stared at it, then pointed a finger accusingly at Darcy. “I was drunk.”
Darcy nearly laughed outright. “You were drunk?”
“Yes!”
“You witnessed a legal will while intoxicated?”
Wickham hesitated, realizing too late what he had just admitted. He looked around the room, taking in their expressions.
Darcy smiled coldly. “I suggest you choose a different argument.”
Wickham's hands clenched into fists.
For several moments, nobody spoke.
Then abruptly he spat out, “Fine. Give me my property.”
Mr. Wentworth reached into the leather portfolio beside him and removed the deed, along with the bank draft.
“There.” He slid them neatly across the table.
Wickham snatched them up immediately, and his eyes widened.
Ten thousand pounds, he mouthed. Even he could not entirely hide his surprise.
Darcy watched him for a long moment, then spoke quietly. “You are a fool, Georgie.”
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.
And he was almost penniless.
∞∞∞
A week after the reading of the will, the Earl of Matlock finally arrived.
Darcy was in the middle of cataloging paintings when the butler announced him.
The drawing room looked more like an auction house than the London residence of an ancient family. Paintings leaned against walls awaiting valuation. Several marble busts stood grouped together near the windows. Furniture inventories covered nearly every available surface.
Darcy looked up from his ledger just as the earl entered.
Lord Matlock had aged considerably since Darcy last saw him. Gray now dominated the dark Fitzwilliam hair, and lines of responsibility marked his face, but his carriage remained erect and commanding. He crossed the room immediately and clasped Darcy's shoulder.
“Fitzwilliam.”
The use of his Christian name felt strangely comforting.
“My lord.”
The earl studied him carefully. “You look exhausted.”
Darcy almost laughed. “I am.”
Lord Matlock's expression softened briefly before he looked around the room. “I came as soon as I was able.”
His gaze settled upon the stacks of furniture. “Though plainly not soon enough.”
Darcy motioned him toward a chair.
The earl sat heavily.
“There was a fire at Matlock,” he explained. “Nothing catastrophic, thank God, but enough to occupy my attention for weeks. Then Parliament resumed, and by the time word finally reached me regarding George...” He shook his head. “I should have come sooner.”
Darcy did not blame him. The past month had taught him how quickly one crisis could consume all available time and energy.
“I understand.”
The earl's eyes moved again over the room. “What precisely is all this?”
Darcy followed his gaze. “Inventory.”
“Inventory of what?”
“What can be sold.”
The older man's brows rose. “Everything?”
“Not quite.” Darcy closed the ledger before him. “Though a surprising amount.”
The earl leaned back slowly. “Tell me the truth.”
Darcy hesitated only briefly; then he did.
He explained the debts. The empty tenant homes. The neglected repairs. The status of the estate. The dwindling reserves, and the money already paid out.
As he spoke, Lord Matlock's expression grew steadily grimmer. By the end, he sat staring silently into the fire. At last he shook his head.
“Good God.”
Darcy said nothing. For several moments, only the crackling of the fire filled the room, then the earl sighed heavily. “I wish I could do something. I would give you a loan, if I had the funds to do so.”