Chapter Ten The Dinner of Deception
The dining room of Darcy House was a cavern of mahogany and candlelight, designed to make its occupants feel small, mortal, and inadequately dressed.
Old Mr Darcy sat at the head of the table. He ate his turtle soup with the rhythmic precision of a metronome. To his right sat Darcy, his spine rigid, his spoon moving in perfect silence. To his left sat George Wickham, who appeared to be vibrating.
Viscount Keathley and Captain Richard Fitzwilliam occupied the remaining seats, having been invited to celebrate the family reunion. Richard was eating with the focus of a man who feared the plate might be snatched away. Robert was inspecting his silverware for smudges.
"You are quiet, George," Mr Darcy observed, breaking the silence.
George jumped. His spoon clattered against the china rim, sending a droplet of brown liquid onto the tablecloth. He stared at the stain in horror.
"Apologies, sir," he squeaked. He dabbed at the linen with his napkin. "I am... contemplative. The soup is profound."
"It is turtle," the patriarch noted. "It is not meant to be profound. It is meant to be hot."
He turned his gaze to his son.
"And you, Darcy. You have barely touched your wine. Is the vintage unsatisfactory?"
Darcy stared into the dark velvety liquid. It reminded him of the Butcher's coat.
"The wine is excellent, Father." He forced a sip he did not enjoy. "I am merely resting my digestion. We studied late last night."
"Ah, yes. The diligence." Old Mr Darcy beamed. "I was telling Mr Wickham senior just yesterday how proud I am. George, your father says you wrote to him about economizing. He says you plan to live on half your allowance this quarter."
George choked. He covered his mouth with his napkin, coughing violently.
Richard thumped him on the back—perhaps a little harder than necessary.
"A crumb, sir," Richard explained to the table. "George often inhales his food. It is his zeal for life."
"Economizing," George managed, his eyes watering. "Yes. I intend to be frugal. I have realized that material possessions are fleeting. Waistcoats are dust."
"Remarkable," Mr Darcy mused. "Most young men of twenty are racking up debts at the tailor. And here you are, preaching the vanity of silk. Darcy, you could learn a lesson from your friend."
Darcy gripped his spoon until his knuckles turned white. The irony tasted more bitter than the soup. "I learn from George every day, Father. He teaches me resilience."
"And humility," Robert added, raising his glass. "Let us not forget humility. George has recently discovered a deep appreciation for the simple things. Wool, for instance. And coal."
George let out a low whimper.
Old Mr Darcy frowned. "Coal? Why would he appreciate coal?"
"The warmth, sir," Robert improvised smoothly. "The industrial spirit of Britain. George is fascinated by the extraction process."
"Indeed," the patriarch nodded. "A practical mind. I approve. Perhaps you should visit the mines when we return to Derbyshire, George."
George paled to the colour of the tablecloth. "The mines? Underground? In the dark?"
"It builds character," Mr Darcy decided. "Pass the salt."
The servants cleared the soup and brought out the fish course—a turbot that stared up at George with an accusing eye.
Mostyn refilled the wine glasses. The butler moved around the table with his usual ghostly discretion, though Darcy noticed him giving George a wide berth, as if the young man might explode.
"So." Mr Darcy sliced his fish and put a bite in his mouth. "What is the news from town? I hear rumours of the French. They say Bonaparte is building a fleet."
George dropped his fork. It hit the plate with a chime that rang through the room.
"French?" George whispered. "Here? In London?"
"Not yet, George," Mr Darcy chuckled. "But they have spies everywhere. Agents, provocateurs. Men who infiltrate society to sow discord."
George pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floorboards. His eyes darted to the window, then to the door.
"Spies," he breathed. "They know. They always know."
Mr Darcy paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Know what, George? You seem agitated."
Darcy felt the cold sweat break out on his neck. George was cracking. The trauma of the "French Assassin" was too fresh.
"He means they know our fashions," Robert interrupted loudly. "George is afraid that the French will steal our tailoring secrets. He is a patriot of the wardrobe."
"Tailoring?" Mr Darcy said sceptical.
"The cut of the British coat is the envy of Europe," Robert insisted. "George believes that if Napoleon gets his hands on a proper English buckram, the war is lost. He has been having nightmares about Jacobins in ill-fitting trousers."
"It is true," Richard added, buttering a bread roll. "George wakes up screaming, 'Save the lapels!'"
Mr Darcy stared at his godson. At the trembling hands, the wide eyes, the sweat beading on his brow.
"You are a strange man, George," the patriarch decided. "But I suppose artistic temperaments are prone to hysteria. Darcy, see that he drinks more port. It will stiffen his spine."
"Yes, Father."
"But speaking of spies," Mr Darcy continued, oblivious to the panic he was inducing. "I heard a curious story at the club. A friend of mine—Lord Metcalfe—mentioned a disturbance in Covent Garden last night. At a gaming hell."
Darcy stopped breathing.
"A gaming hell, sir?" he asked, his voice strangling.
"The Serpent's Tooth, I believe. A vile place. Apparently, a group of young ruffians flipped a table and started a brawl. One of them claimed to be a Viscount. Can you imagine? The aristocracy brawling like dockworkers."
Robert scrutinized his turbot. "Shocking behaviour. Truly. The youth of today have no dignity."
"Indeed," Mr Darcy nodded. "They say the ringleader was shouting about bad wine and whatnot. Madness. I trust you boys stay away from such places."
"We prefer the study, Father. We spent our evenings discussing Plato."
"And crop rotation," Richard added helpfully.
"And wool," George squeaked.
Mr Darcy smiled warmly. "Good lads. It relieves my mind to know the Darcy name is in safe hands. No scandals. No gambling. Just honest study."
He took a sip of wine.
Darcy looked at his father. He loved him. He respected him. But in that moment, realising how easily the older man believed the lie, he felt a crack in his own innocence. The pedestal was not quite so high anymore.
The meal concluded without George swooning, though it was a near-run thing during the cheese course.
Mr Darcy stood, wiping his mouth. "I shall retire to the study to attend to my correspondence. You boys stay and enjoy the port. Mostyn, bring the good bottle."
"Certainly, sir."
The patriarch departed, tapping his cane on the floorboards. The door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of George exhaling a breath he seemed to have held since the turtle soup. He slumped forward, resting his forehead on the mahogany table.
"He knows," George moaned into the wood. "He knows about the spies. Did you hear him? 'Agents everywhere.' He was warning me, Fitz. The Butcher has reached him."
"He knows nothing." Richard reached for the decanter Mostyn had left behind. "He was making conversation. Drink this. It will stop the shaking."
He slid a glass across the table. George grabbed it and downed the vintage port in one gulp.
"Philistine," Robert sighed. "It is a sacrilege to down it like this."
"It is medicine," George gasped. "My nerves are shredded. I saw a shadow in the hallway earlier. It resembled a guillotine."
Darcy sat at the head of the table—his father's chair. It felt too big for him. He traced the grain of the wood with his finger.
"We survived dinner," he said quietly. "We returned the box. We paid the debt."
"We lied," George whispered. "We lied to his face. He called us honest. He was proud."
"He is proud." Robert swirled the wine in his glass. "Because he sees what he wants to see. He sees the surface. We handled the mess beneath."
He stood up and walked around the table, his velvet coat catching the candlelight. He placed a hand on Darcy's shoulder.
"You grew up tonight, Prig," he said softly. "You realised that being the Master is not just about truth. It is about protection. You protected your father from a truth he did not want to acknowledge. You protected George from ruin."
"It feels dishonest," Darcy admitted.
"It is leadership," Richard corrected. "Officers lie to the men to keep morale up. You lied to the General to keep the unit together."
Darcy studied George, who was pouring himself a second glass with a trembling hand, before shifting his gaze to his cousins—the reckless Viscount and the cynical soldier.
They were his unit.
Darcy picked up his glass. He stood.
"To the School," he proposed.
Robert stood. Richard stood. Even George, after a moment of hesitation, dragged himself upright.
"To the School," Robert agreed. "May it be permanently dismissed."
"And to the Emerald Snuffbox," Richard added. "May it stay in a drawer for the next fifty years."
They drank. The port was rich, heavy, and sweet.
"I think," George said, wiping his mouth, "that I shall go to bed. I plan to sleep for a week. And Fitz?"
"Yes, George?"
"Thank you. For the lie. And for the rest."
George stumbled out of the room.
Darcy sat back down, his eyes landing on the empty chair where his father had sat. He realised that the fear of the last two days had faded, leaving behind a callousness that grounded him. He could lie now. He could wear the mask.
"Well." Robert tugged at his waistcoat. "Who is for a game of cards? Low stakes. Penny-ante."
Darcy looked at his cousin. A slow, dry smile spread across his face.
"Deal," Darcy smiled.