Chapter 3
“Robbie?” Richard repeated, staring at his cousin with mouth agape.
Turning, Darcy recognized his old friend from the portrait he had been admiring—a man of medium build, thinning hair, and the warm brown eyes of his mother. A smile slowly spread over Reynolds’s face as he gazed at Darcy’s altered countenance. “Is it really you?”
A bark-like laugh escaped Richard as he finally understood. “You, Darcy? Of course! Robinson! How did I not know it sooner?”
Darcy greeted Reynolds with a back-patting embrace.
“It is you! Mother will be overjoyed to see you after all this time.” Reynolds stepped away. “You are taller than I remember. I hardly would have recognized you.”
“Richard did not recognize me.”
“Perhaps I might have, had I been looking for a Robinson instead of a Darcy. Did you really do it? Assume a different name?” Richard shook his head, his jaw still open wide. “I never would have believed you so bold.”
Darcy clasped his hands together and looked at the floor. What had seemed so clever and courageous as a boy now felt like the height of foolishness.
Reynolds turned to the door. “Come with me to my study. We have a great deal to discuss.” He led them out to the reception hall and up a flight of stairs into a grand room.
A mahogany desk sat in front of windows overlooking the square on one side, and two Windsor chairs faced a fireplace on the other.
Reynolds gestured for them to sit by the fire while he retrieved another chair, a decanter, and three tumblers.
“When did you arrive?” he asked.
“This morning.” Darcy reached his hands closer to the flames, only then realizing how cold he had been when his fingers prickled and burned.
Reynolds handed him a drink and sat beside him. “I am terribly sorry, Darcy—”
“Pray, do call me Robbie. I have not gone by my given name for so long, it sounds strange to me.”
Reynolds nodded. “Robbie, then. I sent that letter with no real expectation it would reach you in time, or that it would reach you at all. But Mother insisted I try. She said if anyone could find a way home, you would.”
The housekeeper’s faith in him stirred his heart, and Darcy found it necessary to close his eyes until he could collect himself.
“How did you even know to look for Robinson?” Richard asked, leaning forward.
“I did not, not for the longest time. Until a few months ago when Mother said the name aloud—she was reminiscing about when you were boys. That was when it struck me. Robbie. Robinson. It seemed almost too simple, but then I thought, how else could you have disappeared so thoroughly?” Reynolds offered Richard an apologetic smile.
Richard shook his head ruefully. “Of anyone, I should have been the one to puzzle it out. I was the one who gave him the appellation!”
Guilt twisted Darcy’s stomach. “You had no reason to think of it. I was a headstrong, arrogant young man relying on impulse more than reason.” He cleared his throat. “Is Mrs. Reynolds still at Pemberley?”
“She would not dream of being anywhere else. Mr. Darcy offered her a generous pension, which she refused. Said she would not give up her post until you returned.”
Darcy looked down at his glass. He had been selfish to leave as he had done, to stay away as long as he had.
He was certain Mrs. Reynolds lovingly overlooked his hotheadedness, but had his father?
“In your letter… you wrote that he…” Darcy clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, his eyes burning again.
“He had changed?” Remembering the drink he held, he took a sip.
Reynolds sat forward, commanding Darcy’s full attention.
“I did not lie. My mother urged me to write to you.” He fell silent, visibly grappling with his thoughts until he made a decision.
“Actually, that is only part of the truth. There is more, and I see no harm in revealing that it was your father who confirmed your name and provided the address.”
Richard went still. “Uncle knew where Darcy was? All this time?”
Darcy set down his glass before he dropped it. He had gone to Vienna as Daniel Robinson and stayed there for several years before continuing to Smyrna, where he managed the business interests of the family who treated him with more kindness and trust than his father ever had.
His father had known where Darcy was. Why had he not written? Or traveled to see him before the war made travel perilous?
“Mr. Darcy softened a great deal these past few years, but he was still a proud man,” Reynolds said quietly.
“Too blasted proud!” exclaimed Richard, pounding his fist against the arm of the chair.
Reynolds smiled sympathetically. “He gave no explanation for his silence, and I was not in a position to ask for one. He believed Robbie would not reply to a letter penned by him. That is why he had me write instead, at Mother’s behest. He knew you would not refuse her.”
Darcy pressed his eyes closed. “He knew where I lived, my name. What else did he know?”
“He knew you carved out a place for yourself based solely on your own merits, gained through your intelligence and initiative. Mother told me his best days were when he received a letter from Vienna.”
This shocked Darcy. “He exchanged letters with someone at Reinhardt House?” How had he not known? Why had no one in the family told him? Neither Filippo Reinhardt nor his son, Agustin, had breathed a word of receiving any correspondence from Father.
“How else would he learn about you? He praised your discipline and responsible nature. He was proud of you.” How painfully ironic that he had become what his father wished him to be only after severing ties. How truly, achingly sad.
Darcy reached for his glass and downed the rest of the liquid, comforted in its burn. “I shall rent a room in London for a week or two. I am exhausted, and my valet is certain to arrive within that time. Once he has rested, I intend to return to the continent.”
“While I understand your hesitation to attend the burial at Pemberley,” said Richard, “your presence will be required at the reading of the will.”
“There is no need. Aside from you, nobody in the family will be pleased to see me. Father threatened to disown me when I left, and he has always been a man of his word. There is nothing for me here.”
Reynolds rotated his glass between his fingers, his brow furrowed. Richard exchanged a meaningful glance with him.
Feeling guilty all over again because his hasty retreat would mean that, once again, he would not bid farewell to Mrs. Reynolds, Darcy assured them, “I shall begin drafting a letter for Mrs. Reynolds begging her pardon and—”
“I do not believe your father disinherited you,” Reynolds interrupted.
Darcy stared at him. “What? Did you not imply as much in your letter nine years ago?”
“I cannot recall my precise wording, but I clearly must apologize for my lack of clarity if that is what you understood.”
Richard’s voice cut through the buzz in Darcy’s head. “What are you saying, Reynolds?”
Reynolds lowered his voice. “On the first day of every month, Mr. Darcy arranged for a fruit basket from his own orangery in London to be delivered to Longbourn, to a family named Bennet. He was very particular about it, selecting the fruit himself and adding books and music and paint and any other gift recommended to him. He was very generous.”
Darcy rubbed his hands over his face. This could not be. After all he had done…
Reynolds continued, “The Bennets’s behavior these past years suggests that they still very much expect the match to take place.”
Darcy clutched his stomach, regretting the brandy he had imbibed. “Miss Bennet expects it, or her family?”
“Your father could not cut you out of his will without adversely affecting the prospects of a young girl whose family had already come to rely on the connection he had put in place,” Reynolds said.
“So, he trapped them both,” Richard said bitterly.
Reynolds held Darcy's gaze. “I am not a betting man, but I would wager that you are still named in your father’s will. Furthermore, I would wager my last farthing that Elizabeth Bennet still holds the key to your inheritance.”
Darcy slid down in his chair, limp and weak.
His abrupt departure had been mostly selfish, but he had appeased himself over the years by convincing himself that, by leaving the country, he had guaranteed that young lady's freedom, her family would move on, and she would be allowed a childhood free of any expectation concerning him.
He had hoped it with all his heart, and after so many years he had come to believe it was true.
Apparently, he was still a fool.
A tap on the door sounded, and the same clerk from below carried in a tray with a tea service and several dishes covered with silver domes.
“On this table, if you please, Mr. Lightwood. Postpone my morning appointments. If anyone inquires, I am not available.”
“Consider it done, sir. Is there anything else with which I may assist you?”
“Thank you, Lightwood. That is all for now.” Nodding toward the door closing behind the clerk, Reynolds poured tea and removed lids. “Forgive my presumption but, given the hour you must have landed and the tumultuous morning you have had, I assumed you might be in need of sustenance.”
The smell of fresh bread and sausage slammed into Darcy, seizing his senses. He had not enjoyed a decent meal in weeks, had not eaten a morsel of dry biscuit since the day before. Mouth watering, he served his plate and waited for Reynolds to continue.
“I believe the change to the will I wrote to you about had to do with George Wickham,” he began, looking at Darcy for a response.
George Wickham? There was a name Darcy had not thought about in years and would have been pleased never to hear again in his lifetime.
Reynolds continued, “Mr. Darcy’s steward died a year after you left.”
“I am sad to hear it. Father considered him a friend.” Darcy had never understood his father’s choice. Even so, the loss would have pained him.
“Yes, well…” Reynolds rubbed his finger over his thumb, weighing his words. “It was only after Mr. Wickham was not there to make light of the conduct of his son that your father learned how deplorable Wickham’s behavior had truly become.”
Darcy restrained his hands from flailing heavenward and his voice from shouting, Finally! There was no disgrace George Wickham could commit that the boy’s father had not turned to his son’s advantage. Half of Derbyshire thought him a hero! Calmly, he commented, “It was a matter of time.”
Reynolds was too honorable to his profession to give his opinion, though he showed it in his eyes. He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Ah, but the damage goes beyond Mr. Wickham’s ability to blind others to his son’s trespasses.”
Darcy set his plate on the table. “You have my attention.”
Richard swallowed his mouthful. “And mine!”
“Mr. Wickham encouraged his son to believe the reason he had been chosen as Mr. Darcy’s godson, granted a gentleman’s education, and taught the ins and outs of Pemberley’s property was so he might take your place.”
“And place his steward’s son on a pedestal above his own flesh and blood? It is the height of presumption!” Richard looked offended enough for the both of them.
Darcy took a deep breath. “I ought to be surprised, but I am not.” Father had been disappointed in him as his son.
How many times he had held Wickham up as a worthy example to imitate?
Every time Father sided with Wickham over Darcy, it would have confirmed Wickham’s belief. “Was Father aware of this?”
“Eventually, yes. He warned Wickham in no uncertain terms what would happen if he did not amend his course. However, Wickham was too accustomed to having his crimes dismissed, and so he continued as before, albeit with much more caution. He is not a fool, which makes him a more dangerous foe. He believes himself entitled to your inheritance.”
“Good God,” Richard muttered. “The nerve of that blackguard knows no bounds.”
“Which is precisely why,” Reynolds said, “you have a great advantage if you act before it becomes known you have returned to England.”
Darcy shot him a look. “Act? By doing what? I am having difficulty seeing any advantage right now.”
Reynolds leaned forward. “The Bennet estate is located outside the village of Meryton”—Darcy raised his hand in protest, but Reynolds continued, louder and faster—”an easy distance on horseback from here.
You could travel to Longbourn, before anyone in your family knows you are in the country, before the reading of the will.
You could see if Elizabeth Bennet’s character is as strong as your father credited and her appearance as pleasing as a man might hope. ”
“Absolutely not! Nothing good can come of it.” Darcy jumped to his feet, too agitated to remain sitting or swallow another bite.
“You would not have to talk to her, only observe as a curious stranger might,” Reynolds argued. “Much can be discerned by watching a person’s interactions with others.”
Darcy spun around, mid-pace. “You want me to spy on her?”
“Not spy. Observe. Just… watch how she interacts with her neighbors… to discover her genuine nature.”
“What is that, if not spying?” Darcy tugged at his cravat, the room too warm. “There are few things I despise more than disguise. I will have nothing to do with this plan you suggest.” He looked to Richard for support.
“He has a point, Darcy,” Richard said reluctantly. “You told me yourself that you know almost nothing about her. What if she has spent the last ten years being groomed to be the perfect Mrs. Darcy? What if her family has filled her head with expectations of wealth and position?”
What a dreadful thought.
“Or,” Reynolds added, “what if she resents the arrangement as much as you do?”
Darcy rubbed his face. This is why he had fled—to spare them from this exact situation!
“What is a brief sojourn into the country?” Reynolds shrugged as though the matter were not of life-changing import. “It will do you good and, if you are fortunate, you might learn a little bit about Miss Bennet.”
“It is dishonest and imprudent.”
Reynolds leaned forward, expression grave. “Like it or not, Robbie, her future is intertwined with yours. Pemberley's tenants and servants depend on your next step.”
“He is right,” Richard added quietly. “If this arrangement still stands, if your inheritance depends on it, you need to know if Miss Bennet will make a good partner.”
“My mother. Barnaby. Cook. All of them rely on you now.”
Feeling his arguments burst and scatter like startled birds flushed from their cover, Darcy grappled with the duty he wished to discharge with honor and this terrible injustice to Elizabeth Bennet.
If she was anything like him, she would have spent the last ten years defying the arrangement. “What if she hates me?”
Offering no reassurance, Reynolds poured Darcy another drink.