Chapter 11
Darcy went directly from Gracechurch Street to Matlock House.
It was not, he acknowledged as he walked, the most convenient course.
He had intended to stop at Darcy House, then at his solicitor’s, and only afterward return to his uncle.
Yet the coin in his pocket seemed to weigh more heavily with every step, and by the time he reached the Fitzwilliams’ door, his mind had already arranged and rearranged the same arguments a dozen times.
Lord Matlock heard him out in the library, his expression passing from curiosity to astonishment, then into the grave concentration Darcy had seen upon his face only when Parliament, family, or war demanded the whole of his attention.
Darcy told him everything: Gardiner’s death, the orphaned children, Mr. Philips’s position, Elizabeth Bennet’s discovery beneath the cellar, the solidus of Honorius, and the possibility that more lay hidden beneath the house.
When he finished, he placed the coin upon his uncle’s desk.
Lord Matlock did not touch it at once. He leaned forward and studied it in silence, one finger tapping slowly against the arm of his chair. “Good God,” he said at last, very softly. “And in Gracechurch Street?”
“Yes.”
“And the young lady found this by climbing into the hidden chamber herself?”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “So I understand.”
“An enterprising girl.”
“Reckless,” Darcy said before he could stop himself.
The earl’s brows rose slightly, but his only answer was a thoughtful hum.
He picked up the coin at last, turning it with more care than Darcy had expected from a man whose interests lay far more with politics than antiquities.
“You were right to come to me. This must be handled properly. Quietly at first, but properly. I know two men at the British Museum who ought to be consulted before any exciseman or local official gets wind of it and decides to make himself important. As for the Prince, I can speak where speaking will do good and remain silent where silence will do better.”
Darcy felt the first knot of tension loosen. “Mr. Philips is concerned for the children’s interests. If the Crown claims the treasure entirely, it will do them little good.”
“Leave that to me.” Lord Matlock returned the coin to the desk with unusual gentleness.
“If this discovery proves what you think it is, His Highness will be delighted to appear generous. He likes magnificence, antiquity, and public gratitude nearly as much as he likes being admired. We shall contrive, if possible, to make all three point toward the Gardiner children.”
The following days passed with a speed that left Darcy vaguely resentful.
He took Georgiana to the museum as promised and found his own pleasure nearly equaled hers when one of the antiquarians he had met years earlier remembered him from a lecture and agreed, after seeing the coin, to call discreetly upon Mr. Philips.
He attended Georgiana’s birthday dinner, listened while she played a new piece upon the pianoforte, endured Lady Matlock’s determination that he eat as though he had been starved since leaving Derbyshire, and let Milton draw him into enough foolish conversation to remind him that not every moment of life needed to be borne like a campaign.
It was a good week. That made leaving worse.
On his final morning, Lord Matlock summoned him to the front steps, where a traveling carriage waited with four fine horses and two outriders. Darcy stopped short.
“I am not taking that.”
“You are,” said the earl.
“I came by post.”
“And you shall return in comfort.”
Darcy looked from the carriage to his uncle. “I cannot accept such an expense.”
“Nonsense. I am not selling it to you. I am sending it with you. Keep it at Pemberley. The horses as well. It is all arranged. A groom has already been engaged and paid for a year in advance, with a budget for feed and repairs.”
“That is far too generous.”
“It is family.”
Darcy’s refusal rose at once, habitual and almost instinctive.
He had spent three years learning to measure every comfort against its cost. A carriage such as this represented repairs, wages, seed, timber, winter coal.
It was impossible not to calculate, even when the expense did not come from his own accounts.
Lord Matlock seemed to understand the thoughts before they were spoken.
His expression softened, though his tone remained firm.
“Fitzwilliam, you have sold furniture from beneath yourself, closed half your house, served when another man would have paid a substitute, and denied yourself comforts I would not have wished any nephew of mine to lack. You have done all this without complaint. Allowing those who love you to do something in return is not extravagance. It is not weakness either.”
Darcy looked away, his throat tightening despite himself.
Milton, who had been leaning idly against the doorframe, spoke before Darcy could answer.
His usual levity was absent, which somehow made the words more difficult to hear.
“You would do the same for any of us if matters were reversed. Worse, probably. You would be insufferably noble and make us all feel idle by comparison.” A faint smile touched his mouth, but his eyes remained serious.
“You are not poor because you gambled, drank, or played the fool. You are poor because you chose honor after another man chose folly. There is a difference, and you ought to let us acknowledge it.”
Lady Matlock sniffed suspiciously and pretended to adjust Georgiana’s bonnet, though Georgiana was standing perfectly still.
Then his sister stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Darcy bent to receive the embrace, one hand resting against the back of her head as he had done since she was small.
“You must write as soon as you arrive,” she whispered.
“I will.”
“And you must not pretend everything is well if it is not.”
Darcy gave a faint smile. “That is a more difficult promise.”
She drew back enough to look at him, her young face solemn and painfully dear. “You are the best brother in the world. Truly.” A blush rose in her cheeks, but she continued bravely. “I hope, when I am grown, that I may marry a man as good and honorable as you.”
For a moment Darcy could not speak. Praise often made him uncomfortable, but this was not praise in the ordinary sense. It was trust. Love. The sort of innocent admiration that made a man wish desperately to deserve it.
Milton saved him, though perhaps not gently. “Well, that is a dreadful ambition, Georgiana. If all young ladies insist upon marrying men as good as Darcy, the rest of us shall have no chance whatsoever.”
Lord Matlock scowled at his son. “Milton.”
Lady Matlock swatted his arm with her handkerchief. “Must you ruin every tender moment?”
“I did not ruin it. I rescued Darcy from weeping upon the gravel, which would have embarrassed us all.”
Darcy, who had been perilously close to some outward display of emotion, gave his cousin a look. “I assure you, I was in no danger of weeping.”
“Of course not. You were merely preparing to inspect the clouds with great intensity.”
Georgiana laughed, and the sound eased the ache in Darcy’s chest. He kissed her cheek, bowed over Lady Matlock’s hand, received a firm clasp from his uncle, and allowed Milton one last irreverent salute before he entered the carriage.
As they pulled away, Georgiana stood between her aunt and uncle, waving until distance and the bend of the street hid her from view.
The carriage was impossibly comfortable.
That was his last coherent thought before exhaustion overcame him somewhere beyond the city.
The springs absorbed the worst of the road, the cushions were soft without being absurd, and the steady rhythm of horses and wheels worked upon him more effectively than any lullaby.
He tried to think of Pemberley, of militia duties, of the antiquarian who would visit Gracechurch Street, of Lord Matlock’s promised protection for the Gardiner children.
Instead, as sleep drew him under, the darkness behind his eyes filled not with Roman gold or estate ledgers, but with a pair of fine eyes looking up at him from a London cellar.
∞∞∞
The weeks that followed were unlike anything Elizabeth had ever imagined.
Gracechurch Street, which had so recently seemed a house of grief and damp linens, became a place of continual footsteps, hushed exclamations, and ink-stained importance.
Men from the museum came with notebooks, measuring rods, boxes lined with cloth, and expressions of such reverent delight that Elizabeth began to think scholars were merely children who had been allowed to grow older without giving up their treasures.
Antiquarians bent over fragments of tile as though they had discovered the crown jewels, while laborers under careful direction brought up trays of coins, broken pottery, bits of worked stone, and once, to everyone’s astonishment, a small carved figure so worn with age that no one could immediately agree whether it represented a household god, a merchant’s charm, or some pagan deity whose name made one elderly gentleman nearly tremble with scholarly excitement.
Elizabeth found the whole proceeding fascinating.