Chapter 8
Darcy adjusted the weight of the basket in his lap as the decrepit hackney jolted forward, its wheels creaking in protest against the uneven London stones.
Beside him, Elizabeth sat with her hands folded tightly atop her reticule, her gaze fixed on the window though the glass had already fogged over from their breath.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke.
Then she said softly, “You are very quiet.”
He looked down at the leather strap holding the basket closed. “I am thinking.”
“That,” she murmured, “is always a dangerous thing in your case.”
He almost smiled. “I am thinking,” he repeated, “of how strange it must have felt for you to sit across from people who have known you your whole life, only to find they have no idea who you are.”
“It was more difficult than I anticipated,” she said in a shaky voice. “I wished for nothing more than to throw myself into my aunt’s arms and tell her everything.”
“You are quite close to them, then?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Mr. Gardiner is my mother’s brother, and Jane and I have spent many a month in their home over the years.”
He raised his eyebrows in shock that the fashionable, refined man he had just met was Mrs. Bennet’s relation. On seeing his expression, Elizabeth gave a watery laugh. “Did you expect them to be vulgar?”
He hesitated. “No. Not vulgar. But…” He trailed off.
“But what?” she prompted.
“I had heard they lived in Cheapside. I… assumed a certain tone would accompany such an address.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “And now?”
He turned to look at her fully. “Now I see they have more warmth, more refinement, and more natural grace than half the drawing rooms of Mayfair. Good company has less to do with address than I might have thought.”
She blinked, clearly startled.
He exhaled slowly and added, “Your aunt is a remarkable woman.”
Elizabeth smiled, but it was a subdued smile, touched with something more fragile.
He continued, “It was strange, though. Sitting across from her, hearing her speak of you, yet knowing she spoke of someone else entirely.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice quiet. “I kept waiting to feel comforted. And instead… it felt like mourning.”
Before he could respond, the hack came to a halt. Darcy stepped out first and offered his hand. Elizabeth took it, her fingers cold in his.
They stood before the gates of Darcy House.
Or what remained of it.
The shutters were bolted. The door chained. No lights. No staff. The windows were boarded over.
A metal placard hung beside the gate:
Property of Crown Bank of London
Auction Pending
A paper notice flapped damply underneath it.
Darcy stared in shock, a cold, hollow ache forming in his chest, his hands clenching into fists. The house looked… abandoned. Stripped of dignity. As though it had died and no one had noticed.
Elizabeth stepped closer. “I am sorry,” she whispered, her hand tightening around his arm.
He swallowed, a lump having formed in his throat. “This house has been in my family for generations. Since the reign of Queen Anne.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you think the safe you mentioned is still in there?”
“I believe so,” he said. “It was built into the masonry—my father’s doing. The staff did not know of it, and Georgiana—my Georgiana—was also unaware of its existence.”
She eyed the ramshackle building. “Do you think it safe to go in?”
“I doubt anyone lives there now, and it was solidly built. Even if it has been neglected for a year or so, the worst danger should be no more than dust and cobwebs.”
“Perhaps I should go in with you, then.”
“No.” His voice was firm. “I need you to wait outside, to keep watch. I will go inside alone.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Smith, you will wait under the lamppost. Keep your cloak drawn about your face. If anyone comes, or if I do not return in ten minutes, you must leave at once. Return to your aunt and uncle’s.”
She looked far from satisfied, but she nodded. With a wry smile, she said, “I will do my best to look disinterested, not anxious. No one suspects a woman who is bored.”
Reluctantly, Darcy removed her hand from his arm and approached the entrance. The snow muffled his steps as he approached the chained gate. He pressed his gloved hand against the iron—cold, unyielding—and stared up at the house that had once been his sanctuary.
“Not anymore,” he muttered, glaring down at the brass D on the knocker that was now tarnished green from neglect.
With a glance over his shoulder at Elizabeth’s form beneath the lamplight, he removed his set of keys from his greatcoat pocket. Fortunately, it still fit the gate, which meant it would also be able to open the door. At least Wickham’s laziness is good for something.
The gate creaked open with a protesting groan. Darcy stepped inside, boots crunching through the icy drift that had accumulated on the front steps. The massive door loomed dark above him, and though the key turned easily in the lock, it took all his strength to shove it open.
The hinges shrieked.
He winced and paused, listening—but no voice answered, no hurried footsteps came to investigate.
The house was still. Empty.
Darcy stepped into the entry hall and pulled the door closed behind him. The familiar scent of oak and lemon oil was gone. In its place was the sharp tang of mildew and cold stone. The air felt hollow, as though the very walls were holding their breath.
He did not light a lamp—there was no need. His steps were sure, his path etched in memory. The soles of his boots echoed too loudly on the marble floor.
To his left, the grand staircase curled upward into darkness. He looked away.
Georgiana had once tripped down those steps in slippers too large, laughing as the governess gave chase. He had caught her at the bottom. She had thrown her arms around his neck.
He turned his face toward the corridor and walked on.
Past the music room withs its door ajar, a sheet of music left yellowing on the floor.
Past the salon where his mother once read aloud, her voice lilting over a novel, her hands busy with embroidery. The fire had always been lit there. Always.
Now the hearth was dark. The ashes long cold.
He reached the study.
This door was closed, as it had always been in his father’s time. Darcy placed his hand on the latch, hesitated—and pushed it open.
Dust motes swirled in the beam of gray light filtering through the cracks in the shuttered window. The old desk stood sentinel by the fireplace, its surface covered in a fine film of neglect. Books sagged on the shelves. A pair of gloves lay curled and brittle beside an empty brandy decanter.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
His breath misted faintly in the air. He went to the far corner of the room, knelt, and reached behind the false panel of the wainscoting.
The latch stuck—swollen from cold or damp—but after a moment it gave way. The panel creaked open, revealing a narrow cavity.
There, nestled inside, was the old iron strongbox.
He drew it out with both hands and set it on the desk.
There was no lock. His father had always said that anyone who knew of its existence had no need to pick a lock—they were trustworthy.
Darcy opened the lid.
His heart clenched.
Inside were several small bundles of pound notes wrapped in oilskin, their edges slightly curled with time. Sovereigns glinted dully beneath a folded bank ledger. He exhaled sharply—it was more than he had hoped for. More than enough for the next steps.
But it was the envelope beneath the ledger that caught his eye.
For a moment, his breath caught.
It was familiar—his father’s handwriting. Bold. Precise.
He reached for it—but as he turned it over, his stomach turned to ice.
The envelope was blank.
No name. No direction. No “To my son, Fitzwilliam.”
It had once been there. He was certain of it. He had seen that envelope, years ago, after his father’s passing. But now… nothing. Only silence and parchment.
He opened it with trembling hands.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. Also empty.
Nothing written. No signature. No parting wisdom.
No acknowledgment.
His throat burned.
He shoved the envelope aside and turned back to the bundles of money with renewed urgency, wrapping several in an oilcloth and slipping them into the inner pocket of his greatcoat. The sovereigns he transferred to his purse. When he rose, it was with clipped, purposeful movements.
He was not angry, exactly.
But he was no longer stunned.
He understood now.
This world had not only moved on without him—it had been rewritten. He had never inherited this house. He had never been born to receive that letter. His father had never known him.
He was a shadow in someone else’s story.
Darcy closed the lid of the strongbox, returned it to the panel, and shut it with finality. A speck of dust fell from the ceiling.
He paused one last time, surveying the room. The air felt colder now. Still hollow.
No trace of him. Not even a ghost.
He turned on his heel and strode for the door, the weight of the stolen money heavy against his ribs. The familiar scent of dust and aged wood followed him like a ghost as he unlocked the latch and eased the door open—
A shriek split the air.
High. Frantic.
Elizabeth!
The sound pierced straight through him. His breath caught—then he was moving.
He flew down the front steps, boots sliding on ice-slick stone, his greatcoat billowing behind him. The iron gate clanged as he wrenched it open, the chain long-since rusted through.
She wasn’t under the lamplight.
He whirled toward the alley beside the neighboring townhouse, then the opposite curb, panic flaring hot in his chest.
“Elizabeth!”
Another cry—this time muffled. Closer.
He ran.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth drew her cloak tighter around herself and shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she watched Darcy disappear into the townhouse. The street was nearly empty, save for the occasional hackney rattling past or the distant clip of hooves on cobblestone.