There was a handsome bequest for Theophilus Darcy and another for Georgiana. She shall be quite the heiress when she comes out in a few years’ time.
Darcy my boy, you must arrange to sell your commission at once. Indeed, I have already written to the House Guards at Whitehall and told them to expect it. In a time of war such as this, there will be many willing to purchase. I know you lead your men well, but now you must come home, if not for yourself then for those who depend upon the Darcys for their livelihoods. Please write to me as soon as you know when you shall arrive, and I will send a carriage and endeavour to meet you in London.
God be with you.
M. Fitzwilliam
Darcy closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. It surprised him to see the letter still in his hand, for he was sure this must be some dream, and the personal signature proved it—despite their warm relationship, his uncle Matlock was normally quite a formal man.
It felt as though something very significant had shifted, and it had thrown him entirely off balance.
He loved and respected his great-uncle Darcy, but he had always known he was not the man’s heir. Darcy had never met his other great-uncle, Theophilus Darcy, who lived in York, but his own father had said once that they would not inherit because a brother was closer than a nephew. As the man’s great-nephew, Darcy was even further from the line of succession, or so he had believed. Whatever had happened?
Darcy sat very still for some minutes, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, then winced.
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said. “You have gone quite pale. Is anyone else ill?”
Most of the fortune. The townhouse in London. Pemberley itself. They are all yours.
He was the son of a barrister, an officer in his Majesty’s army. He was not a landowner. How was he to do this?
He could not, not alone. The hand on his shoulder gripped a little harder, and Darcy’s eyes moved up to meet his cousin’s. Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened in response to Darcy’s gaze—he was beginning to panic. Darcy understood the feeling.
“No,” Darcy said hurriedly, “everyone else is well, so far as I know.” He held out the letter. “I have merely had a shock. Perhaps you could read it and confirm what it says.”
Fitzwilliam took up the letter at once. As he read, he sat heavily. “Did the judge never tell you he had made you his heir?”
Darcy shook his head. “He made no reference to it at all.” He reached for the last two letters the old man had sent. There was nothing about an inheritance in either one, though he did speak at length about Pemberley’s steward, a Mr. Ralston.
When he glanced up again, Fitzwilliam’s grave expression suddenly brightened. “We should make arrangements for you to travel back to Lisbon.”
Darcy knew what Fitzwilliam was about. There had been a sense of foreboding between them lately about which they rarely spoke. They were each convinced that it would not be long before one of them was seriously wounded or killed, and neither of them wished to be the one left behind.
“I cannot return to England now,” Darcy protested. He indicated his great-uncle’s letter. “There is a steward in place at Pemberley. I shall leave him in charge for a time, as General Bennet did with his estate.”
“The general had family nearby to keep an eye on the steward. You know my father cannot spare the time, and Fane would simply help himself to your funds.” He leaned back and evaluated Darcy, who was still trying to gather his scattered wits. “You must go, Darcy. It is foolish to remain here when you have so much awaiting you back home.”
Darcy shook his head. “I will stay.” He picked up his hat and gingerly raised the arm on his good side to put it on his head. “Come. The general will be waiting.”
Fitzwilliam’s expression was stony, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “This is madness. You are selling your commission.”
There was only one way Darcy was leaving the army. “Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said, “even if I wished to do so, I will not return to England.”
“Why is that?” Fitzwilliam demanded.
Darcy stood. The pain in his every movement exhausted him, and he was too tired to hide it. He could see his cousin was troubled at the sight and hoped it would work in his favour.
“Because, cousin,” he told Fitzwilliam, “I am not leaving Spain without you.”
London, England
31 July 1811
“If you need us for anything, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Connors said, taking up all his papers and standing to leave, “all you need do is send a note around.”
“I shall be in the country for the remainder of the autumn,” Darcy said. He motioned to the top document. “I have left the direction with you there.”
The man nodded and exited the room.