Chapter Two
Fitzwilliam Darcy had never desired a title, least of all the one his uncle now held out before him like a poisoned chalice.
The earl’s letter lay upon his desk in the morning room at Pemberley, its heavy parchment and elaborate seal speaking to the gravity with which Lord Matlock regarded his own correspondence.
It was a masterwork of familial flattery and political self-interest, each phrase calculated to appeal to what his uncle presumed were Darcy’s ambitions.
In the space of two sides of paper, Darcy was assured that it was his duty to England to take up the offered title of baron, his birthright to serve in Parliament, and his privilege to restore the family’s political standing.
All this despite the inconvenient fact that the barony had been unceremoniously stripped from the Darcy family by Henry VIII, its holder executed for standing on the losing side of a rebellion.
That his family had never sought to reclaim it in the intervening centuries seemed, in Lord Matlock’s estimation, merely an oversight to be corrected by the present generation.
After all, why dwell on the insult to the Darcys when there was the chance to wear the ceremonial robes of Parliament while he nodded off during a five-hour speech on whether rotten boroughs ought to be eliminated?
He disliked debating things that had obvious answers.
Darcy knew why his uncle was pressing this now. The peerage of England was currently expanding into the peerage of the United Kingdom, bringing many new aristocrats and their titles into the fold, and his uncle wished to make the most of the moment by resurrecting the Darcy’s ancient standing.
He stared at the letter, written in his uncle’s smooth political language—the latest in three years of increasingly pointed suggestions.
The Barony of Ashworth carries with it not merely honour, but influence.
In these times of change, when the very fabric of our society faces challenges from those who would tear down all that our fathers built, men of sense and property must take their rightful place in the governance of the nation.
Your father, God rest his soul, was ever a man of quiet virtue, content to manage his estates and care for his tenants.
But you, my dear nephew, have the opportunity, nay, the obligation, to serve England in a greater capacity.
He read these lines with mounting irritation.
His father had indeed been a man of quiet virtue, and Darcy could think of no finer epitaph for any gentleman.
That Lord Matlock chose to frame such virtues as somehow insufficient spoke volumes about his uncle’s own character and very little about his father’s.
Lord Matlock was not a malicious man, but he was an ambitious one.
His eldest son and heir had been pushed into a match to secure a political alliance, and when Richard, his younger son, had refused to resign his army commission and submit to similar management, their uncle had turned his attention to his sister’s children.
Darcy sighed.
The campaign had begun in earnest at the reading of his father’s will three years prior, when Lord Matlock learned that Darcy and his own second son, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had been named co-guardians of Georgiana, and therefore he would not be arranging her future.
What had started with wounded dignity and veiled criticisms of Darcy’s and Richard’s youth had evolved into orchestrated introductions to “suitable” young ladies, pointed remarks about family duty, and now, a resurrected barony.
Darcy knew his uncle’s manoeuvring had made him a more sceptical, suspicious man. But it was better to be constantly on his guard than for one of his uncle’s schemes to take him by surprise.
The letter continued with detailed descriptions of the political advantages the barony would afford, the connections it would provide, and the respect it would command. It was, his uncle implied with barely concealed triumph, the opportunity of a lifetime.
Darcy was inclined to agree, though his interpretation of opportunity differed markedly from his uncle’s.
A title, in his view, was not a prize to be claimed but a chain willingly fastened about one’s own neck, a chain that bound a man to endless obligations and forced him to spend his days in the stifling chambers of the House of Lords.
What could possibly be more delightful than listening to a week of speeches about amending an amendment to an amendment without acting on anything at all?
The letter would have been consigned to the fire at once, were his attention not drawn to a second missive, a smaller one, written in a more precise hand.
The contents were equally unwelcome. Miss Lancome, the headmistress of Georgiana’s small seminary in London, had written with the careful delicacy of a woman accustomed to delivering unwelcome news to protective relations.
I feel it my duty to inform you that Miss Darcy, whilst maintaining her usual excellent deportment and applying herself diligently to her studies, has of late suffered from melancholy.
She is much withdrawn from her companions, preferring her own company to that of the other young ladies, and seems to find little joy in those activities which formerly gave her pleasure.
The dancing master remarks that she no longer displays her former enthusiasm for his lessons, and her music instructor observes that whilst her technical skills continue to improve, her performances lack their previous animation.
I do not wish to alarm you unnecessarily but merely wish to suggest that Miss Darcy is in need of a change of scene more conducive to her spirits.
Darcy read the page twice, then a third time, in the vain hope that repetition might soften its meaning or reveal some more benign interpretation. It did not. He knew immediately the source of the problem: Georgiana missed her mother.
Their father had been gone for three years now, their mother for only just more than a year.
They had recently emerged from mourning, resuming their normal dress and the ordinary patterns of life, but that did not mean the grief itself had stopped.
How could it? The echo of those beloved voices still rang through Pemberley’s halls, still created unexpected moments of heartache.
Darcy still turned to share some observation with his father from time to time, or entered the breakfast room expecting his mother to join him.
He was learning to carry the burden of loss, to lose his sorrow temporarily in the countless responsibilities that came with his position.
But Georgiana had only recently turned fourteen, a time when she was keenly in need of her mother’s guidance, when the transformation from girl to young woman raised questions that a brother, however devoted, was ill-equipped to answer.
His mother had been looking forward to preparing Georgiana for her come out, but she would never have the chance.
Darcy had endeavoured to be both parents to his sister, writing long letters filled with news of Pemberley and professing his own affection, ensuring that her material needs were met and her education continued without interruption.
He had visited when his duties permitted, had sat through her music recitals, and admired her watercolours with genuine pride.
Yet there were limits to what even the most devoted elder brother could provide, boundaries that propriety and simple male ignorance would not allow him to cross.
His uncle would scoff. Here was Lord Matlock, offering him political advancement, social elevation, a chance to make his mark upon the world, and all Darcy could think of was a fourteen-year-old girl sitting alone at a table surrounded by companions she did not know, putting on a brave face while her heart ached for a home that would never be the same.
But Darcy did not want what his uncle offered.
By both inclination and duty, his sister came first.
He sat at once to write not to his uncle, but to his aunt.
Lady Matlock was a woman of sense and genuine kindness, possessed of all the familial instincts that her husband lacked.
She and the earl had arrived in London a week ago for the opening of Parliament, and their house in town was but a half hour’s carriage ride from Georgiana’s school.
His aunt, he knew, would understand immediately.
She would take Georgiana into her household and provide his sister with the company, conversation, and female guidance she required.
Lady Matlock had daughters of her own, both married now; she would know how to draw Georgiana out of her melancholy, how to restore her spirits and help her form the connections that would serve her well in future seasons.
She could never be Georgiana’s mother, but she could be her loving, compassionate aunt.
He did not like Georgiana being so close to his uncle, but it could not be helped.
His only other female relation was his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, a woman possessed of an overweening pride and an unshakeable conviction that her opinion on every matter was not merely superior, but essential to the proper ordering of the world.
Along with his cousin Richard, Darcy had visited Lady Catherine each Easter for the past three years as a sort of peace offering to his uncle.
Lord Matlock, of course, could not be bothered to make the journey himself.
It was the worst week of Darcy’s year.
The thought of subjecting his gentle sister to Lady Catherine was insupportable.
He sealed the letter immediately, before he could doubt his decision. He was decided: he would go to London himself. He would meet with his aunt, assess Georgiana’s situation with his own eyes, and make whatever arrangements might be necessary for her happiness.
If the trip also allowed him to reject his uncle’s offer in person, so much the better.