Chapter Twenty-Nine
His solicitor received him with all due deference.
Discretion was paramount, but so too was competence.
The business at hand required both in equal measure, and the gentleman now seated opposite him in a well-appointed office off Lincoln’s Inn Fields possessed the air of one accustomed to managing affairs that demanded precision.
“You understand,” the solicitor said, adjusting his spectacles as he reviewed the preliminary notes, “that such an arrangement is…unusual.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I do.”
“The sale of an estate such as Pemberley is no small matter,” the man continued. “And to a private party, without advertisement or open negotiation—”
“It is not a matter for public discussion,” Darcy said calmly. “You have Mrs. Wickham’s letter before you. All is in order.”
The solicitor paused, then nodded. “Very well.” He set aside the notes and folded his hands.
“The terms, as you have described them, are clear. Mrs. Wickham—formerly Miss Darcy, sole heir to all her brother’s properties—will convey the entirety of the estate, including all holdings, to yourself, under the agreed sum.
In return, you will assume the name Darcy, thereby preserving the lineage in a manner that satisfies both legal and social expectation. ”
“Yes.”
“And the consideration,” the solicitor went on, “is to be fixed at double the amount of her dowry.”
Darcy’s expression did not alter. “It is.” This would give Georgiana ninety thousand pounds—thirty thousand being from her original dowry. She could live exceedingly well on the interest.
The solicitor’s brows lifted, though he did not comment further on the arrangement. Sixty thousand pounds for Pemberley and all the Darcy holdings was a pittance to pay.
“It is a modest figure,” he said instead. “But not beyond your means, I presume.”
Darcy allowed the faintest hint of a smile. “It is not. I also mean to leave Darcy House for Mrs. Wickham.” He could not bear to live there, not after all that had occurred.
“Very good.” The man reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipping his pen with careful deliberation. “There remains the matter of your name,” he said.
Darcy’s gaze settled upon him.
“It must be formalized within the agreement,” the solicitor dictated. “You will not merely purchase the estate. You will assume the identity under which it has long been held. As such, it is paramount that it be done correctly and with ample consideration.”
Darcy drew a breath. “For that purpose,” he said, “I shall take the name Sebastian Fitzwilliam George Dantès Darcy.”
The solicitor paused only briefly before committing it to paper.
A merging of identities, Darcy observed privately. A reconciliation of who he was with who he had become.
The pen moved steadily. When at last the documents were drafted, reviewed, and amended to satisfaction, Darcy affixed his signature with a firm hand. The act itself was simple, though the weight of it was not lost upon him.
This was no longer pretense. It was the beginning of something new.
The legal formalities that followed served to unite, in name as well as in fact, the several lives he had lived.
As Sebastian Fitzwilliam George Dantès Darcy, he acquired Pemberley, and all that had once been entrusted to his care.
In that single act, the man he had been, the man he had become, and the man he hoped to be were joined together.
Pemberley was his again—not by inheritance alone, but by deliberate choice, and with the willing consent of the sister for whom he would have sacrificed everything.
At Matlock House, a different sort of activity prevailed.
Wedding plans had a way of taking hold with remarkable speed, particularly when guided by those who considered themselves both experienced and determined.
Lady Bramley and the countess, once recovered from the shock of Darcy’s return, had seized upon the forthcoming union with an enthusiasm that left little room for delay.
“It must be done properly,” Darcy’s aunt declared, her tone brooking no argument. “There has been enough irregularity. We shall have everything in order.”
Jane, though more gentle in her approach, was no less committed. “The breakfast shall be here,” she said, her eyes bright with satisfaction. “We cannot have it elsewhere.”
Elizabeth, seated beside her, smiled with a composure that did little to conceal her amusement.
Darcy listened to these arrangements with a mixture of gratitude and mild astonishment. “I fear,” he said at one point, “that I shall have little say in the matter.”
“You will have the best of everything,” Lady Bramley replied. “That is all the say you require.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, her eyes alight. “You see,” she murmured, “you are quite overruled.”
He inclined his head. “I submit myself to their authority.”
She laughed happily.
The date was set for two months hence. It seemed both near and impossibly distant, though Darcy found that the anticipation of it brought with it a sense of steadiness he had not known in years.
Elizabeth had written to her parents, though she assured him that her consent was not dependent upon theirs.
“They will be pleased,” she said. “Even if they are astonished.”
Darcy did not doubt it.
That evening, he returned to Ashcombe House.
Lucien awaited him in the drawing room, his posture relaxed, though his gaze sharpened as Darcy entered.
“Well?” he asked. Darcy’s adopted brother had absented himself of late, choosing to allow reunions to occur without his presence.
Darcy removed his gloves, positioning them aside with deliberate action. “It is arranged,” he said. “Georgiana has agreed. The solicitor has drawn up the necessary papers.”
Lucien’s expression warmed. “Then it is truly done.”
“It seems to be so,” Darcy replied. He crossed to the mantel, resting one hand lightly upon it as he considered his next words. “Georgiana will retain Darcy House,” he said. “It is her home as much as it was ever mine. I see no reason to alter that.”
Lucien nodded. “And you?”
“Ashcombe House will remain mine, as we agreed,” Darcy said. “Though I do not expect to reside here often.”
Lucien’s brow lifted. “You prefer Derbyshire.”
“I do.”
“And Elizabeth?”
Darcy grinned. “She prefers it as well.”
Lucien smiled faintly. “Then I see no difficulty.”
“There is none,” Darcy said. “You are, of course, free to do as you wish. Remain here, purchase another house, or come to Pemberley.”
Lucien considered this.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that I shall accompany you to Derbyshire.”
Darcy turned toward him.
“The quiet of the country appeals to me more than it once did,” Lucien said thoughtfully. “After all that has passed, I find I have little desire to remain amidst the noise of London.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You will be welcome.”
Lucien’s smile deepened. “I do not doubt it.”
A brief silence followed. Darcy hesitated.
Lucien observed it at once. “There is more,” he said.
Darcy did not immediately reply. “There is,” he admitted at last.
Lucien waited.
Darcy moved away from the mantel, his thoughts turning toward a matter not resolved, though it pressed upon him with increasing urgency. “I must make a call,” he said.
Lucien’s brows rose. “At this hour?”
Darcy did not answer the question directly. “It cannot be delayed,” he said instead. Not any longer.
Lucien regarded him with curiosity. “And may I inquire as to the nature of this call?”
Darcy met his gaze, though he did not offer explanation. “In due time,” he said.
Lucien inclined his head, though the curiosity did not entirely leave his expression. “Very well.”
Darcy reached for the doorknob. “I shall not be long.”
Lucien watched him as Darcy opened it to leave, his gaze thoughtful, though he did not press the matter further.
Darcy paused only briefly before departing. There remained one final thread to be drawn together. And he would see it done.
The carriage turned toward Newgate just as the last of the afternoon light began to fade.
Darcy sat within, composed as ever, though there was a sober gravity to his demeanor that marked the purpose of his journey. He had not spoken to the driver beyond the single instruction, nor had he summoned Lucien to accompany him. This, he knew, was a task he must complete alone.
His hand rested lightly upon his knee. The ring upon his finger caught the dim light.
Georgiana had given him the Darcy signet upon his last call.
He turned his hand in the light, regarding it.
It felt at once familiar and strange, as though it belonged to a life both his and not his.
Once, he had worn it without thought. It had been a symbol of inheritance, of expectation, of a future that seemed fixed and unassailable. Then it had been taken.
Now, it was returned, not as a simple restoration, but as something earned, reclaimed through endurance rather than granted by right.
I have come full circle, he thought.
The carriage slowed. The looming structure of Newgate rose before him, its heavy stone walls casting long shadows that seemed to swallow what little light remained.
The air here carried a different quality, one tinged with confinement and consequence, a place where the influence of a man’s actions was no longer abstract.
Darcy stepped down.
The guard who received him did so with proper deference, his manner respectful without excess. Darcy gave his name—his assumed name—and was admitted without difficulty.
“I wish to see Mr. Langford,” he said.
The guard inclined his head. “This way, sir.”
They passed through narrow corridors, the sound of their steps echoing faintly against the stone. The air was cooler within, the silence broken only by distant murmurs and the occasional metallic clang of a door secured or opened.
At length, they stopped. The guard stepped forward and unlocked the outer door that shielded the bars of the cell beyond. It opened with a dull creak.
Darcy stood just outside.