Chapter 23
FINAL MOMENTS
Often spoken words of praise now seemed quite daunting: “He is the best landlord and the best master. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name.”
Such were the sentiments Darcy had heard being ascribed to his father for as long as he could recall.
I must endeavor to step into my father’s role in a manner that would make him proud. I believe I am ready. I have been preparing for this my entire life, and in the face of it all, my greatest wish is to have more time with my father.
Darcy pushed open the door to his father’s room. The dimly lit room, the somber air, his father’s life slipping away, and in the midst of it all sat George Wickham, clutching the dying man’s hand.
“Leave us,” Darcy said. His commanding voice prompted his father to open his eyes.
Hesitating, Wickham threw his godfather an inquiring look. The older man nodded, albeit nearly imperceptibly.
“I shall return in a little while. Now you must do your part by promising me you will be here when I return.” Squeezing his godfather’s hand, Wickham gradually lowered it to the bed. He stood and prepared to quit the room. “You cannot keep me from him,” he said to Darcy on the way to the door.
Darcy had no intention to do so. He knew how much his father cared for the man. His understanding of the matter did not mean he planned to share what might prove to be his father’s last hours with someone whom he detested so much as he detested his former friend.
When Wickham was gone, Darcy went to his father’s bedside.
“I have spoken with Georgiana,” he began, “and she is on her way to see you. She will be here shortly.” Taking his father by the hand, Darcy sat in one of the two chairs by the bed.
His eyes flooded with unshed tears, he leaned forward and clutched his father’s hand to his chest.
“You have known for some time that which I tried to hide.”
A teardrop escaped and trailed down his face. Darcy nodded.
“Thank you for arranging a reunion with my friend, Bennet. What better gift is there than the companionship of one’s oldest, fondest acquaintance? You have made me proud.”
His suffering painfully evident, he said, “I have lived a long and fruitful life. I have been blessed with everything the heart of mortal man can desire. Do not mourn overlong for me, my son.”
As though unable to summon the words that deep down inside, he wanted most to say, Darcy said nothing.
“You are a good son,” the older man said.
“You shall be an excellent master.” His voice growing weaker with each word, he struggled through.
“I know you will take prodigious care of your sister, and when the time comes, you will be a faithful husband and a devoted father.” He endeavored to sit up, mostly in vain.
“There is but one thing about which I am rather less certain.”
“What is it, Father?”
“My godson, George. Do not forsake him.”
Darcy lowered his father’s hand and commenced fussing with the bedclothes as a means of comforting him. “Please, Father, do not exert yourself.”
“But, I must—while there is still time.” His voice grew weaker. “Son, I know you and I have rarely agreed on matters where George is concerned. I am asking you to do this for me.”
Before Darcy could utter a response, the door flew open and in rushed Georgiana, her eyes full of tears, and just in time to embrace her father and tell him how dearly she loved him, all on the cusp of his final moments on Earth.