CHAPTER 23 – Reckoning
An uneasy silence surrounded Darcy as he sat in the parlour at the beach house near Rosings.
He had been there for nearly an hour, and conversation had long since dwindled after the obligatory courtesies had been exchanged.
Anne, unaccustomed to entertaining, shifted restlessly in her seat, teeth catching at her lower lip, her gaze flitting again and again towards the door.
The hope in her eyes was unmistakable. She was waiting for Fitzwilliam.
So was Darcy, though with a notably different purpose.
“We are thinking of repairing the house,” Anne said abruptly. “A good part of it is still usable. We hope to move back in a year or so.”
“That is good news.”
“Or perhaps we shall build a new one. It is not certain.” She fidgeted. “An architect is to advise us. Richard has already sent for one.”
Darcy was unsurprised by her erratic turns of thought. “Whatever best suits your needs.”
“Mr. Taylor is no longer our steward,” she said after a pause. “Richard dismissed him. He was displeased with his work. He says Rosings can be managed better and has assumed the task himself.”
That was a development worth noting.
“Was anything salvaged from the fire?” he asked. “Many books and documents were in the library.”
“I know not. Richard says I should not concern myself with such matters.”
Of course he would. Darcy half smiled, something close to pity stirring in his chest. Fitzwilliam’s ascendancy had already begun.
“Then we must trust he manages it well. An estate is no small task.”
Anne nodded, heel rapping the floor.
“How is Miss Bennet?” she enquired a moment later.
“Very well, thank you. She is in London with her sister and Mrs. Collins.” After a brief pause, he added, “Where did you marry? Here, or in Ceredigion?”
“In Ceredigion, a sennight ago. I still do not see why we had to wait—or repeat the ceremony. We had already received the parson’s blessing.”
“You know there are legal formalities regarding marriage that we must all respect.”
Anne huffed, and flung up her hand. “Yes, yes, the blasted banns, that tiresome will. I am fed up with it all. Fed up with obeying rules I never agreed to. And now the earl has written, demanding explanations about Mama, claiming to be my warden.” She drew a sharp breath.
“Oh, how I wish everyone would stop meddling in our lives!”
Her features twisted with frustration, rage, and beneath it something far more fragile seemed to stir. Darcy regarded her warily, choosing his next words with care.
“Lady Catherine was his sister, Anne. And he is your guardian too. Your uncle wishes only for your well-being. We all do.”
The restless twitching ceased. She grew unnaturally still, and her gaze met his, cold and unwavering. When she finally spoke, her voice was guttural and hollow, a sound that seemed scarcely her own.
“No one has ever cared for me. Only Richard.”
A chill stole over Darcy. The transformation was unsettling; her eerie stillness more disquieting than her anger.
The door swung open, startling him. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered, all affable ease, his smile perfectly in place.
“Darcy! What an unexpected pleasure.” His eyes flicked briefly between Anne and him. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
Darcy schooled his features into an amiable smile. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”
The colonel strode into the room, unfastening his gloves. “I trust my dear wife has been keeping you entertained?”
“We were just discussing Rosings’ future.”
“Ah, yes. A rather consuming matter, is it not?” His eyes lingered on Anne a moment before returning to Darcy. “Tell me, cousin, what brings you here?”
He leaned back slightly, his forced smile never wavering. “There are pressing matters that warrant a conversation.”
A pause—brief, almost imperceptible, but there. Then Fitzwilliam grinned with polished ease. “Then by all means, let us talk.”
Anne’s mood shifted once more. She sprang to her feet, eyes locked on her husband’s back, her fingers plucking at her nails while her mouth quivered in nervous contortions. Fitzwilliam, by contrast, walked away without looking back—as though without a single care in the world.
***
In the library, the colonel gestured to a chair and opened the decanter of brandy. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you. It is a bit early for that.” Darcy settled into the offered seat.
Fitzwilliam reached for the decanter. The generous pour, the quick swallow: his cousin was drinking too much—seeking in the glass a composure he clearly did not feel.
“You said you wished to talk.” Fitzwilliam took his seat across the desk, a polished boundary between them. “I assume it is a matter of some consequence. It seems too long a journey for idle conversation.”
Darcy came directly to the point. “I spoke with the notary regarding the will. Were you aware there was an amendment?”
The colonel’s mouth tensed slightly before curling into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Indeed? And what does this mysterious amendment declare?”
“That Lady Catherine would inherit Rosings should Anne die unmarried or be deemed unfit.”
“Curious,” Fitzwilliam mused, rubbing his chin. “But Lady Catherine is dead.” Then, with a shrug: “And Anne is perfectly well—and already married, as you know.”
His gaze lingered on him. “The timing was certainly. . . fortuitous.”
A pause. Just long enough to acknowledge the weight behind the words.
Then Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Quite so. Does it mention my father’s guardianship? Does this codicil reaffirm his role as Anne’s warden?”
The precision of the question was evident, as clear as if it had been shouted. Fitzwilliam knew what the document omitted.
“Regrettably, no such provision was included. Someone with a vested interest might contest it in court.”
The colonel swirled his brandy, his tone light. “A rather pointless endeavour, since she is already wed. As her lawful husband, I possess that authority now. Our union is unassailable.”
He took two long gulps—half the glass gone in a blink—then leaned back, still smiling, though his eyes had turned cold.
“I have Georgiana’s letters, you know.”
Darcy’s entire body tensed up. Perhaps he should have taken a drink after all.
“Tied with a pretty blue ribbon. I risked my life to retrieve them, not knowing what they were. Now I understand why you were so tense this Easter.” Fitzwilliam’s smile turned cruel.
“I wager the old dragon was using them to compel you into something you had no wish to do. Quite the motive for murder, would you not agree?”
“You would use them against me?”
“Only if you give me cause.” The colonel shrugged one shoulder, as if it were of no importance.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. His cousin was testing him—taunting him.
But this was not the place for confrontation.
He was alone, surrounded by Fitzwilliam’s servants, in a house where every loyalty now belonged to the colonel.
If he pressed too hard, he might not walk out unscathed.
Fitzwilliam knew it—relished it—sitting there with his drink, toying with him like a cat with a trapped mouse.
It was time to attempt a different approach. “Let us leave the past behind. That is not why I have come.”
Fitzwilliam arched a brow. “No? Then what is it, cousin? You have never been one for pointless visits.”
“Your father is concerned. He has made inquiries—about the fire, about Lady Catherine’s death. I thought it prudent to speak with you first. To understand your position.”
The colonel’s expression soured. “If he was so concerned, he would have spared a moment to come here himself, to speak to his son and his ward. But I suppose we are not important enough to drag him from his golden throne.”
“You know that is not true,” Darcy kept his voice calm. “And I did not come solely at his bidding. I came to see if I could be of use, especially if you are required to return to your regiment. Rosings is in disarray. Managing it. . . Well, it could prove more demanding than expected.”
A slow smile spread across Fitzwilliam’s face, though his eyes remained sharp. “How thoughtful of you, cousin. But rest assured, I am more than capable of managing a house and a woman, though I admit the latter presents far greater challenges.
“Come tomorrow, and I shall show you just how well we are faring. We can ride to the mansion, and I shall share all the grand plans I have in store. Rosings Manor will stand proud once again.”
With a firm nod, Darcy agreed, fully aware that he was most likely stepping into a carefully laid snare.
***
Darcy arrived at the site at the appointed time in a rented phaeton driven by Ferguson.
He met his cousin at the main entrance, and together they walked around the building.
This was the first time Darcy had set eyes upon the manor since the fire, and the sight struck him like a blow.
Everything was blackened by soot and ash, and the air was thick with the scent of charred wood and ruin.
His stomach turned. Visions of death and desolation rose unbidden: Collins swallowed by dark waters, the searing terror as he clung to a crumbling balustrade, convinced he too would be dragged to his death.
Yet, despite the tumult within, he proceeded with outward stoicism.
The first stage of their tour carried a strange civility as Fitzwilliam pointed to remnants of the past, his tone tight, almost forced.
Darcy kept the pretence, but beneath the surface, the ease of old companionship was gone.
Nothing between them could ever be the same.
They entered through the ballroom and proceeded down the passage towards the grand staircase, which stood beside the ruined section of the house.
A few wooden planks and scaffolding had been laid to permit safer crossing from one side to the other, and the structure appeared steady enough. No labourers were presently in sight.
It was time. There was no reason to delay this further.
“Enough of these games, Fitzwilliam. I want answers.”