The Open Gate
Richard’s younger brother Edward Fitzwilliam arrived on Easter Saturday with two leather cases and three sealed packets.
He laid them on Lady Catherine’s writing table before removing his gloves, as though the documents had been the true purpose of the journey and the greetings merely a pleasant necessity.
“The larger case concerns Pemberley,” he said, accepting coffee from Lady Catherine. “The smaller concerns what may be done about it.”
Richard looked up from the letter in his hand. “Good news?”
“Useful news.”
Darcy reached for the nearest packet.
Edward placed one hand over it. “That one requires your signature, not your impatience.”
Darcy withdrew his hand.
Lady Catherine said, “Begin.”
Edward opened the larger case. “The tenant accounts are worse than we thought. Finch has altered receipts, delayed entries and moved payments between quarters. The copies Mrs Reynolds kept are consistent. His are not.”
Darcy unfolded the first sheet. “And Wickham?”
“Named nowhere he need not be.” Edward drew out another paper. “But the money reaches him.”
Richard folded his letter. “How close are we?”
“Close enough that Father has begun speaking to men who prefer not to be surprised by scandal.”
Lady Catherine held out her hand. Edward gave her the paper.
She read the page once, then turned it over. “This proves Finch has lied.”
“It proves his accounts cannot be trusted,” Edward said. “The distinction matters.”
“It matters to lawyers.”
“It matters to judges as well.”
She returned the paper. “Then find one who dislikes being lied to.”
Edward accepted it without comment.
“What am I signing?” Darcy asked.
“A statement confirming which accounts you examined before leaving Pemberley, and when.”
“And after that?”
Edward opened the smaller case.
“After that, we begin removing Wickham.”
Richard leaned forward. “From the guardianship?”
“From Pemberley first. Father believes we have enough to seek an order restricting his access to the estate accounts while the discrepancies are examined.”
“How long?” Darcy asked.
“If no one objects, days.”
“And if Wickham objects?”
Edward met his gaze. “Then he must explain the accounts.”
Lady Catherine reached for her coffee. “He will not explain them.”
“No,” Edward said. “He will attempt to prevent anyone else from doing so.”
“Which means,” Richard said, “that we need to know where he is.”
“South of Newmarket,” Darcy said. “Richard’s man has him as far as Cambridge.”
“As of yesterday morning,” Richard said.
Edward turned to his brother. “You did not tell me he had moved.”
“I am telling you now.”
“Cambridge is not Kent.”
“No,” Richard said. “But it is not London either, and a man riding from Cambridge has choices about which road he takes.”
“If Wickham is served while he is in transit,” Darcy said, “before he reaches wherever he is going, he cannot claim he was not notified.”
“Yes,” Edward said. “That is one possibility.”
“And the other?”
Edward closed the smaller case with a precise, unhurried motion.
“The other is that he arrives here before the order is in place.”
Lady Catherine set down her cup. “Here. Why here?”
“Because Richard is here,” Edward said. “And where Richard is at Easter, the family’s business tends to follow.
A man who understands he is about to lose his guardianship will go where he believes the decisions are being made.
If he means to prevent the order being obtained, he will go where he believes the family to be.
” He paused. “He does not need to know Darcy is here. He needs only to know that Richard is.”
“And he would know that,” Richard said.
“He has always made it his business to know where you are. You have been watched for some time. Both of you.”
“How long?” Darcy asked.
“Long enough.” Edward opened the smaller case again. “Which is why I want your signature now, and the application lodged before the week is out.”
Darcy reached for the unsigned packet. “Give me a pen.”
Edward produced a travelling inkwell from the smaller case and set it beside the papers.
“I had expected that request.”
Richard pushed the pen towards Darcy.
“You always were an optimist,” Darcy said.
“No,” Richard replied. “I merely know you.”
Darcy signed the first page, then the second where Edward indicated. Edward checked each signature before sprinkling sand across the wet ink.
“These will go to Father this afternoon,” Edward said.
“And the application?” Richard asked.
“It cannot be lodged until Tuesday.”
“Until then Wickham still has the authority he had yesterday,” Edward continued. “Once the application is before the court, every attempt to interfere with the accounts becomes part of the case against him.”
“You dislike waiting,” Lady Catherine said.
“I dislike giving the other side time to think.”
“So do I.”
Edward gathered the signed papers into a fresh packet, sealed it with wax, and impressed it with his signet.
“There,” he said quietly. “On Tuesday, Wickham begins answering to someone other than himself.”
The door opened. Anthony came in first, carrying a wooden horse by one leg. Lewis followed in tears, one shoe missing and both hands outstretched.
“Took Bucephalus,” Lewis said, pointing at Anthony and the horse.
“It is my horse,” Anthony replied. “He only had him because I was at breakfast.”
Lady Catherine regarded the sealed packet, then her grandsons. “Bucephalus appears to have caused sufficient disorder for one morning.”
Lewis climbed directly onto Richard’s knee. Edward moved the ink out of reach.
Anne appeared in the doorway carrying Lewis’s missing shoe. “I wondered where he had gone.”
“He has brought a grievance,” Richard said.
Lewis pressed his face into Richard’s coat.
Anne turned to Anthony. “Did you lend him Bucephalus?”
“For a little while.”
“And then take him back?”
Anthony considered the question. “Breakfast was over.”
Edward gathered the remaining papers into the larger case.
Lady Catherine held out her hand. “Give me the horse.”
Anthony hesitated.
“Anthony.”
He surrendered Bucephalus. Lady Catherine placed it beside the sealed packet.
“Both disputes may wait until after luncheon.”
Elizabeth found them in the morning room some time later. She stopped upon discovering Bucephalus sitting beside a sealed legal packet.
“I am almost afraid to ask.”
“I should advise against it,” Richard said.
“It is my horse,” Anthony informed her.
“Then I am relieved.”
Lewis immediately abandoned Richard’s knee in favour of hers.
“I see I have been replaced,” Richard observed.
“Temporarily,” Elizabeth replied.
“Lewis has always been judicious about these things,” Anne said from the doorway.
Lewis settled comfortably against Elizabeth.
“He is not generally wrong,” she said.
“No.” Anne glanced at her son, then the sealed packet beside Bucephalus, and finally Edward. “You have been productive.”
“I have been adequate,” Edward said. “Productive remains to be seen.”
Anthony had drifted to Elizabeth’s other side and was explaining something about Bucephalus that required gestures. Elizabeth listened without interrupting.
Lewis reached up and patted her hand once, apparently for reasons of his own.
“On Tuesday,” Lady Catherine said from her chair, “things will begin to resolve themselves.”
“And before Tuesday?” Elizabeth asked.
“Before Tuesday,” Lady Catherine said, “we have luncheon.”
Easter Sunday brought sunshine and more noise than Rosings had seen in years.
Anthony had been promised his pony after church and had spent the greater part of breakfast reminding everyone of the fact.
Lewis had attached himself firmly to Darcy’s hand and appeared to have decided that separation for any purpose was unreasonable.
Lady Catherine regarded them both over her coffee. “I should like it noted that neither of them was this troublesome before they learned there were horses at Rosings.”
“They have been here less than two days,” Anne replied. “I do not think Rosings may yet claim the entirety of the blame.”
“That has never prevented Rosings from accepting it before.”
Richard laughed.
By the time they gathered in the hall, Anthony had asked twice whether church might be shortened on account of the pony.
“It may not,” Lady Catherine said, taking up her gloves.
He appealed to Anne.
“It may not,” she repeated.
Lewis retained Darcy’s hand as they went down the steps and showed no intention of surrendering it when the party turned towards the church path.
“You will have to walk,” Darcy told him.
Lewis considered this, then lifted both arms. Richard turned away. Darcy bent and picked him up.
“You encourage him,” Lady Catherine said.
“He is two.”
“That is when encouragement does the greatest damage.”
Lewis settled against Darcy’s shoulder, satisfied with the result.
Anthony walked ahead with his mother, describing Bucephalus in detail.
The pony had, in the course of one morning, developed an extensive set of accomplishments that Anthony considered remarkable and Sir Alexander heard with appropriate gravity.
Sir Alexander fell back to walk beside Darcy.
“He named the pony,” he said, “before he had seen it.”
“I heard.”
“Bucephalus.”
“After the wooden horse?”
“Apparently the name has proved satisfactory and he saw no reason to change it.” Sir Alexander glanced at Lewis. “He has decided you are his.”
“For the moment.”
“Lewis’s moments tend to last. Anthony is the same. He decides, and that is generally that.”
“He asked me last night whether dragons were dangerous,” Sir Alexander continued. “I told him that some dragons were and some were not, and that the important thing was to know which kind you were dealing with before you got too close. He seemed satisfied with that.”
“That is a useful distinction,” Darcy said.
“I thought so. I am glad you are here, Fitzwilliam. Whatever the circumstances.”
“So am I.”