Chapter 40
The knock at Darcy's door was more of a formality than a request. Richard barged inside before the echo faded, stopping short when he saw Darcy sitting by the fire.
“Robbie? Or should I call you Darcy now? I hardly recognize you without all that hair.” Darcy rubbed his smooth chin.
He had been so long with a beard that it felt strange to have it gone.
With his usual familiar ease, Richard dropped into the chair across from him. “I had begun to fear you had decided that Pemberley was not worth your trouble and had gone back to your turquoise water and white sand beaches.”
“And miss seeing you again?” Darcy teased.
Richard chuckled but then leaned forward, forearms on his knees, his smile gone.
“We must speak about tomorrow. Wickham has been attached to Miss Bennet's side like a barnacle all evening. Whether he thinks that she is his property or he believes that she requires his protection, I cannot say, but in every way his manners are possessive.”
Darcy's jaw tightened. “She will rebel against such treatment. Has he no discernment?”
“He has discernment enough to know that his time is running out. Desperation dims his charm.” Richard paused.
“Miss Lucas has been exemplary. She has scarcely left Miss Bennet's side. I confess I did not know what to make of her at first, but she is formidable in the quietest possible way.” There was admiration in his cousin’s tone, and Darcy intended to tease Richard about it later.
“How is Wickham received by the rest of the family?”
Richard’s admiration quickly soured. “I am loath to report that not one person here has threatened to run him through, though Lady Catherine has come close.”
“You might have made the threat yourself.”
“Without you here to enjoy the show? I am not so cruel.” He looked Darcy over from head to toe. “Especially after the apparent ordeal you went through to get here. You look like you need a few good meals and a week of sleep.”
Darcy smiled. God, it was good to see Richard again. “I appreciate your consideration. It was certainly an adventure.”
“What happened? I expected you to arrive with the others, not allow Wickham any advantage.”
Richard did not know of Darcy’s dismissal from Longbourn.
There had been no time to pen a letter, nor would Richard have received it before he left town for Pemberley.
“Circumstances prevented me from traveling with the Bennets. What about Wickham? He has not met with success?” He knew the answer, or rather, he thought he did. Hoped he did.
“Not for one moment. Miss Elizabeth did not take well to his proprietary manners, and as desperate as he is to ruin your inheritance and seize what is yours, he pushed his suit too aggressively. Her maid told my batman that Miss Elizabeth refused him vehemently.”
Music to Darcy’s ears. “Vehemently?”
“That was the exact word the maid used. Miss Elizabeth said she would not marry Wickham if he were the last man in the world. And this she heard directly from Miss Lucas, who does not seem like a lady given to exaggeration.”
Relief loosened the knot Darcy had carried since the Meryton road.
He is closing a door, he had told Richard about Wickham—and Elizabeth had reached it first and bolted it herself.
A cheerful chorus erupted in Darcy’s mind, and it was only his certainty that Richard would never let him forget it that kept him from leaping from his chair to exclaim his joy aloud.
“Remind me to send the Lucases a fruit basket full of the choicest selection from the orangery.”
Richard grinned. “I would be honored to deliver it to them myself.”
“How did the family receive Elizabeth?”
Richard heaved a deep breath. “Precisely as you would suppose. If Miss Elizabeth ever doubted how you could stay away from your family for so long, I believe they provided her with a satisfying answer.”
Darcy had expected their reception might be cold, but he had hoped ten years had perhaps thawed their manners.
Switching tacks, he said, “Tomorrow. Tell me what Wrayburn has arranged.”
“Everything is in order. He will manage the room. Reynolds is prepared to testify. I will be there.” He met Darcy's eyes. “The rest is yours.”
Darcy nodded. The rest was his. As exhausted as he was, he would get little rest that night. Too much hinged on Elizabeth’s reception of what he must reveal on the morrow.
The library smelled exactly as Darcy remembered.
He stood behind the false panel in the dark passage and breathed it in—old leather and beeswax and the dusty warmth of a room that had been accumulating books for two hundred years.
He had spent more hours in that room than anywhere else at Pemberley. His mother had been a great reader.
Through the crack between the shelves, he watched the library fill.
Wickham arrived early, bringing with him his own solicitor, a narrow man with a leather case whose eyes darted about, noticing every detail.
Lord and Lady Matlock filed in behind them, claiming the best chairs nearest the fire with the authority of people who consider comfort their natural right.
The viscount and his wife followed, then Richard, then Anne and her husband, and then Lady Catherine, who objected to the positioning of the chairs, the brightness of the room, and the heat of the fire, in that order.
Richard offered to close the curtains near her, a suggestion to which she took greater offense.
The Bennets and Miss Lucas arrived last. Wrayburn directed them to the chairs nearest the bookshelf—the arrangement Darcy had requested—with the smooth authority of a man accustomed to managing various and dissenting personalities.
Only Lady Catherine opposed his suggestion, but she had a history of never finding pleasure in anything.
Her character had not softened with age.
If anything, it had soured more. Darcy saw so little of his mother in her.
Elizabeth settled directly in Darcy's line of sight.
She sat very straight, her hands folded in her lap, her face composed into a careful stillness he recognized as the expression she wore when she was most determined not to show what she felt—a difficult feat for her.
Miss Lucas settled behind her and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder.
Mr. Bennet, beside her, had gone the color of old plaster.
Darcy's hand found the edge of the shelf. Soon, he told himself. Not yet. Let it play out.
Lady Catherine pounded her cane against the floor. “What is she doing here?” She had fixed her glare on Miss Lucas, not yet having exhausted that morning's supply of indignation. “She is not a beneficiary as well, I hope?” A murmur of concurrence came from the direction of Lord and Lady Matlock.
Wrayburn did not hesitate. “Considering the nature of the news I must impart today,” he said with the measured gravity of a judge, “I thought it advisable to allow Miss Bennet a comforting presence.” More murmuring.
Elizabeth's knuckles whitened in her lap.
Mr. Bennet turned, if possible, a shade paler.
The guilt nearly undid Darcy entirely. Ten years of absence and deception and careful planning, and Elizabeth sat ten feet from him not knowing whether the man she had been promised to was dead or alive, and he had put her there.
He knew why. He still knew why. It did not make watching her any easier.
From across the room, he saw Wickham sneer. Darcy breathed and tried to relax. Let Wickham think he had won. Give him enough time to reveal his own duplicity.
Wrayburn arranged his papers with deliberate slowness. “Very well. As the parties are assembled, we may begin.”
“About time,” said Lady Catherine. “Everyone is present, are they not?”
“Everyone,” Wickham noted smoothly, “except for Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Wrayburn leveled his gaze at him. “So it would appear.”
Wickham cleared his throat. “Before we proceed, Mr. Wrayburn, allow me to offer my condolences to the family for their tragic loss. Darcy was”— a pause, well-calibrated for sincerity—”a man of many qualities.
He will be remembered with great fondness.
” Another pause, this one to display the depth of his sorrow.
“It is a tragic loss, but we must face the facts and proceed for the better of the estate and those who rely on it for their living.”
“What does the estate matter to you?” Lady Catherine cut in. “Are you seeking employment? Your father was the land steward here, was he not?”
In the silence that followed, Lord Matlock rose.
“Following the reports of my nephew's death,” he began with the unquestioning authority of a man accustomed to being listened to, “I took it upon myself to investigate the matter personally. I examined the passenger log of the Britannia with my own eyes. I interviewed the surviving crew.” He paused.
“And I have seen the signet ring recovered from the wreckage by a rower who brought it forward.” Lady Matlock emitted a small, practiced sound of distress.
Wickham's solicitor moved to the desk, paper in hand. “My client is prepared to file a formal petition to have Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy declared legally deceased, allowing the estate to pass according to the terms of the will.” Darcy’s jaw tightened.
Wickham’s plan was so bold that only an earl’s word could lend it credit—and Lord Matlock, Darcy’s own uncle, had given it.
He watched from behind the shelf as the whole design revealed itself.