“Indeed, for such a man must be in want of a wife,” she said with a laugh.
Papa’s expression was both tender and sorrowful. “He was. He has found her.”
“Oh, Papa,” Elizabeth said, taking his arm.
Papa kissed her forehead and then stood, too embarrassed by his sentimentality to remain. He strode to the shelves and examined each tome in minute detail.
Elizabeth allowed him his privacy for the ten minutes it took Mr. Darcy to return.
He quite literally filled the doorway, and she smiled at the incongruity between his size and his announcement. “Tea will be served in the parlour.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam sat up rather suddenly. “Tea?”
Mr. Darcy rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
“Excellent idea, Darcy,” his cousin said and brushed past him through the door.
Papa laughed. “You will never make him less than a soldier.”
“Nor would I wish it,” Mr. Darcy admitted. “Though I do find him ridiculous at times.” He approached Elizabeth, who had to crane her neck to look up at him from her seat. He helped her up and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
Elizabeth glanced back at the stack of books. The pile that they had read was finally larger than those they had left to read.
“I should be delighted, Mr. Darcy,” she said.
They had finished reading all of the journals with no luck. Hardiman had written that they were very close to finding Theophilus Darcy, and Darcy was at least anticipating good news on that front soon.
He stepped into the old master’s quarters and assessed each of the repairs on his list. They were at last complete and appeared to be well done. Now he waited only to be wed for Miss Elizabeth to decide whether she would like to redecorate. They would share the room, but she would have a small sitting room for her own use. The workers had taken out a wall between two smaller rooms on the other side of the house for Fitzwilliam, who preferred a window over the street. Darcy appreciated the view of the back garden, so they were both well pleased with their accommodations. For reasons that had nothing to do with the more limited space in town, Darcy was even more pleased that Elizabeth would not mind sharing a room with him. She had cast her eyes up to the ceiling when he had asked.
“Four sisters, Mr. Darcy,” she had said. “Two bedrooms between us, most of the time.”
There had been an expression of exasperation on her face he was quite fond of. Of course, he had not been alluding only to the issue of space, but there would be time for that discussion later.
A few boxes of books remained, waiting for the servants to dust them off and put them back now that the repairs were complete. He pulled a few of them out to have a look and then spied something familiar.
He reached into the box and withdrew a few leather-bound journals that matched the set he had found in the study. Each had a few months and the year on the inside cover, and this one was labelled as 1807. It must be his final London journal, for he had left for the summer and remained at Pemberley for the final years of his life.
As with the other journals, many of the entries were about interesting events—the first gas lights being installed in Pall Mall at the end of January, the Slave Trade Act he had written Darcy about, the Duke of Portland’s election campaign, the new Gold Cup races at Ascot and the hundred guinea prize. It would not last, he had predicted. Darcy chuckled, as the race had been held in June every year since.
He paged methodically through the book, reading each entry in order. In the middle of June, there was something different.
Had another argument with Theo about selling the estate’s timber because he is short of funds again. If it is not the timber, it is the northern fields or the mill or anything else of value. I do not know what has happened to my brother, but he has not been the same since his loss. Truly, he was never careful with his coin, but until he sold his practice in York, I do not believe he ever spent more than he had. His business should have brought him a goodly sum, and he still has an allowance from me. Where has it all gone?
I have always assumed that should Theo outlive me, he would serve Pemberley well. Now I fear that should he inherit he will sell our family estate off piece by piece until death takes him or the property is severely diminished.
My brother is nearly as old as I am myself and has no direct heir. Would he sell Pemberley outright to finance his final years? I cannot now imagine him taking part in the management of the estate. I have nearly begged him to remove to Pemberley so that he might understand what will be required of him, but he has refused. He wished to live in Darcy House in London, but there I refused him. He is needed in the north with me, not in town where he can spend even more funds he does not have.
Silvius’s grandson Fitzwilliam has long been my choice should I survive Theo. He loved Pemberley as a boy and has become a man who is vigorous, active, intelligent. His replies to my letters are thoughtful and kind, yet as a field officer, he must also know when to give an order and expect that it shall be obeyed. He would be an excellent master of Pemberley, and inheriting would bring him home from the war.
Can I betray my brother? He has always expected to inherit, but it is my duty to act in a manner that is best for Pemberley. Just now, that is not Theo. If only I could make him see . . .
After a blot of ink where his great-uncle Horatio had evidently rested his pen for a moment, the writer had changed the subject, mentioning how terrible London was in the hot weather and how he was eager to complete his journey to Pemberley.
Well. Here was the answer. Horatio Darcy had changed his will once. He had mentioned nothing to Darcy, because he still thought that one day, he might change it back.
Darcy closed the journal and set it atop the box of books. Would Theophilus have changed his behaviour if he knew what rewards awaited him? Given how violent the man had become, Darcy rather doubted it.
He would do everything he could to take care of Pemberley, and he would have not only Fitzwilliam but also Elizabeth to help him.