Chapter 9
Matlock House had not changed nearly so much as Darcy had.
That was his first thought upon waking in the guest chamber that had been assigned to him the night before.
The same heavy curtains framed the tall windows, the same carved bedstead occupied the center of the room, and the same portrait of some long-dead Fitzwilliam ancestor glowered down from above the mantel with an expression suggesting disapproval of everything after the reign of Queen Anne.
Outside, London looked damp and colorless beneath a February sky that threatened more rain without yet delivering it.
Darcy stood at the window while tying his cravat, his gaze drifting over the wet street below.
He had obtained leave from the Derbyshire militia with some difficulty, though no one had objected to his purpose when he explained it.
Georgiana would turn fourteen that week, and he had not seen her since the previous autumn.
The thought of missing another birthday had been intolerable.
He had intended to arrive earlier, but the roads made their own arguments and won nearly all of them.
Rain, washed-out lanes, overturned carts, and endless mud had turned travel south into a trial of patience.
By the time he reached Matlock House the previous evening, Lady Matlock had declared him half-starved, Georgiana had nearly knocked him backward with the force of her embrace, and Lord Matlock had taken one look at his boots and ordered wine with the air of a man overseeing battlefield triage.
Now, with the household gathered for breakfast, Darcy found himself subjected to Lady Matlock’s inspection once more.
“You are thinner,” she declared from her place beside the tea tray.
“I am not, Aunt.”
“You are.”
“I assure you, militia officers are fed at regular intervals.”
Lady Matlock gave him a look that informed him she placed little confidence in either militias or intervals. “Fed and nourished are not always the same thing. You have always had a most provoking habit of believing food unnecessary when work presents itself.”
Across the table, Viscount Milton hid a smile behind his coffee cup.
As Lord Matlock’s eldest son and Richard’s elder brother, Milton possessed the Fitzwilliam height and coloring, along with a talent for appearing indolent while missing almost nothing.
“Take care, Darcy. Mama has been deprived of her sons long enough that she must distribute all unused maternal concern upon you. Submit gracefully, or she will begin ordering broth.”
Georgiana giggled.
Lady Matlock turned upon her son. “You may jest, Milton, but if you looked as though you had been living upon dispatches and discipline for three years, I would say the same of you.”
Milton set down his cup with mock solemnity. “Then I shall endeavor always to look idle and overfed, merely to spare your nerves.”
“An ambition at which you have long excelled,” Lord Matlock said without looking up from his newspaper.
Georgiana laughed outright at that, then covered her mouth as though remembering she was nearly fourteen and ought to be more composed.
Darcy watched her with a warmth that eased something in his chest. She had grown taller since he last saw her, though she remained slight, with the same gentle gravity that had marked her even as a child.
At Pemberley, she had always seemed too quiet for her age.
Here, among the Fitzwilliams, she appeared less burdened.
Lady Matlock’s affectionate fussing, Milton’s teasing, and Lord Matlock’s steady presence had given her something Darcy could never have provided alone: a household full of easy attachment.
For a moment, he felt the pang of it.
He could imagine it too clearly—remaining at Matlock House, dining with family, seeing Georgiana every day, allowing other people to bear some portion of every burden.
It was a dangerous thought because it was so pleasant.
There were no damp tenant cottages waiting here, no militia rosters, no accounts to balance until his eyes burned, no constant reminder that Pemberley had survived only because sacrifice had become habit.
Then he looked down at his hands, at the faint ink stain upon one finger from the ledgers he had carried even to London, and the foolishness passed.
His life was not here.
His duty was in Derbyshire.
“How did you fare during the flooding?” he asked, turning the conversation before Lady Matlock could insist upon another egg. “The roads suggest London has been attempting to become Venice.”
“Venice would at least have the advantage of intending it,” Milton said.
Lord Matlock folded his newspaper and set it beside his plate.
“We were inconvenienced rather than endangered, thank God, though half the city seems to have suffered in some form. Warehouses, cellars, low streets—anything near the river was struck dreadfully. Bath has had its own troubles as well, from the reports. It was not a London calamity only.”
“I understand there was damage to Vauxhall? And to Windsor as well?”
The earl’s mouth twitched. “Ah, yes. His Majesty was quite unable to remove from Windsor, which created no small degree of alarm amongst those who make it their business to be alarmed. The Prince, of course, treated the matter with his usual mixture of concern and levity. I shall leave you to determine which quality predominated.”
Lady Matlock gave her husband a warning look. “Henry.”
“What? I have said nothing treasonous. The Prince knows perfectly well I think him ridiculous upon Tuesdays, Thursdays, and most Sundays.”
“You are acquainted enough with him to be more cautious.”
“I am acquainted enough with him to know caution rarely improves his opinion of anyone.” Lord Matlock’s expression sobered.
“Still, the damage is serious. There will be families ruined by it. Merchants especially. Goods stored near the river, warehouses flooded, transport stopped, insurance contested—London shall be untangling the effects for months.”
Darcy thought at once of Edward Gardiner.
It had been nearly three years since the tradesman had quietly allowed him time on his debt.
He had settled the account as soon as he could, but not in person, and though Gardiner had insisted by letter that there was no debt between them, Darcy had never forgotten the kindness.
If the flooding had reached the warehouses near the river, as Lord Matlock suggested, Gardiner’s business might well have suffered.
“I had intended to call upon a merchant in Gracechurch Street while I am here,” Darcy said. “It seems I had better not delay.”
“Gracechurch Street?” Milton asked with the mild curiosity of a man who did not object to trade so long as it did not require him to do any arithmetic. “That is unfashionably useful of you.”
Darcy ignored him, which only made Milton smile.
“Have you heard from Richard?” Darcy asked after a moment. “I had hoped there might be a letter waiting here.”
The mood around the table shifted at once. Lady Matlock’s hand stilled upon the teapot, and even Milton’s levity faded.
“Not since Lisbon,” Lord Matlock said quietly. “He wrote before the regiment moved again. He is under Wellesley now.”
Darcy nodded. Everyone in military circles knew enough to respect the name, though respect did little to quiet concern. “Word in Derbyshire is that matters are proving more difficult than Parliament hoped.”
“Matters are always more difficult than Parliament hopes,” the earl replied. “French forces do not vanish merely because English gentlemen declare them inconvenient.”
Lady Matlock lowered her eyes. “Richard sounded cheerful in his letter.”
“Richard would sound cheerful at his own funeral if he thought it would ease your mind,” Milton said, though his voice had softened.
No one answered immediately. The silence that followed was not dramatic, but it was heavy.
Darcy knew something of military life, but militia service in Derbyshire was a pale shadow beside campaigning on the Continent.
Richard had wanted active service for years; now that he had it, his family could only wait for letters and pretend cheerful reports were sufficient protection.
At length Lord Matlock turned toward Darcy with the air of a man deliberately setting anxiety aside because nothing useful could be done with it. “And Pemberley? How do matters stand there?”
Darcy accepted the change with gratitude.
“Improving. Slowly, but truly. Nearly half the tenant farms are leased again, and the farms that remain empty are at least being kept from total neglect. We have begun repairs upon the north service wing, which was worse than I knew. The roof there had been patched so many times that the patches had become more numerous than the sound tiles.”
Lady Matlock’s face softened. “And you are not attempting to repair all of it yourself, I trust.”
“No, Aunt. I allow other men to climb ladders.”
“Very wise,” Milton said. “A colonel falling through his own roof would create a most untidy scandal.”
Georgiana, who had been listening with careful attention, leaned forward. “And how long may you stay?”
Darcy looked at her, wishing at once that the answer were different. “A week.”
Her disappointment was immediate, though she tried to hide it. “Only a week?”
“I have duties to return to, and some business to attend while I am in town. Darcy House must be inspected, and there are accounts and leases requiring attention.”
“But you will be here for my birthday?”
“I should not have come otherwise.”
That comforted her a little. Darcy reached for her hand where it rested near her plate and squeezed it gently. “We shall make it a very excellent week.”
Georgiana lifted her chin with a dignity that did not conceal her pleasure. “Then you must promise not to spend all of it with letters and business.”
“I promise to spend only an unreasonable portion with such matters.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It was not intended to be. It was intended to be honest.”