Page 2 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)

Darcy’s mother sighed. “And so, you feel you must go above and beyond to satisfy the debt. Pray, is your honor more important than your son?” Her tone was low and unyielding.

“Young George’s attacks grow more pronounced.

Fitzwilliam no longer confides in you because you do nothing.

Will he die because you believe your honor demands it?

And what of this child? We have hoped and prayed for another for so long…

Can you not see what the boy is doing? He acts as though he is a second son—and you treat him as such.

Would you make him your heir if our children died? ”

Mr. Darcy scoffed. “That is ridiculous. I treat him—”

“You treat him no differently from our son—the heir to Pemberley!” Anne snapped. “’Tis clear you will not see reason. I shall have to ensure my son is safe in my own way.”

“Anne,” Mr. Darcy said tenderly. “You will come through the birth safely. There is no need to fear.” Unspoken was the master of Pemberley’s true fear—Fitzwilliam had overheard it. He feared the child would bear the same unfortunate mark upon his or her face as their elder brother.

“You do not know that. The sense of foreboding has only grown. I shall act in any manner I can to ensure my son is protected should I not survive. To begin with, I wish to propose a compromise: send young Wickham to Harrow. Fitzwilliam can join his cousins at Eton.”

Darcy thought it a wonderful notion—and a sound strategy. He hoped his father would agree.

Mr. Darcy sighed. “Very well. I believe that is a suitable compromise.”

“I want the papers drawn up and everything finalized before my lying-in,” Lady Anne warned. “Should the worst happen, I shall consider this part of my final requests. Know this, husband—I shall haunt you if you go against my wishes!” She was being playful now, yet still serious.

Darcy backed away from the door slowly before turning and hurrying to his bedchamber.

The conversation both worried and elated him.

Perhaps he would be away from Wickham at last. I shall be able to breathe, he told himself.

He would go to Eton in January; it was not so far off.

And Mama would have the baby before then, too.

Yes, the future looked brighter already.

Darcy sat in the parlor as his father paced the floor. Mama had been in her chambers for three days and the master of Pemberley looked frantic with worry. Each time a maid brought word, there was nothing new to report.

“She will be well,” Mr. Darcy murmured to no one in particular as he stoked the fire. “She and the child will be well.” He resumed his pacing. Turning to his son, he said, “You ought to go to bed. ’Tis late.”

Darcy shook his head. “I would prefer to wait with you, sir.” It was the honorable thing to do.

“As you like.” His father continued to wear a path in the rug, hands clasped behind his back and brow furrowed in concentration. From time to time, a maid came to refresh the teapot, though she need not have bothered—it went untouched.

At last, near midnight, word came. “You have a bonny daughter, sir,” the midwife said, holding out the precious bundle. George Darcy took the babe carefully, his face awash with relief and joy. He sighed heavily, his finger tracing the baby’s cheek. “Perfect,” he murmured.

An icy knife struck Darcy’s heart, but he said nothing.

“Little Georgiana,” his father murmured. “You are as beautiful as your mother.” Turning to the midwife, his smile faltered. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.

“Your wife is sleeping, sir,” she replied solemnly, “though I do not know if she will survive the rest of the night. Best say your goodbyes.”

George Darcy gasped. “No!” he cried. “There must be something you can do!” He bolted from the room, the precious baby still clutched to his chest.

Darcy’s heart sank. She knew, he thought, recalling all the little things his mother had done for him the last few months. Still in shock, he hurried from the room and upstairs to find her.

Pushing the door open slowly, he saw his father seated in a chair beside the bed. Georgiana lay in his lap. Mother’s eyes were open. Darcy entered the room and came to his dear mama’s side.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said hoarsely. “My dear boy. Remember all I have taught you—character and goodness of heart above all.”

“I will, Mama,” he replied, struggling to suppress his emotions.

“Take care of your sister,” she instructed. “Tell her about me and make sure she grows into a worthy woman. Teach her everything I have taught you.”

“I promise.” He fell silent as his mother turned to his father.

“George,” she murmured, “remember your promise.”

Mr. Darcy nodded, reaching out to take his wife’s hand. “I shall do it all,” he vowed, raising it to his lips and kissing it tenderly.

Mrs. Darcy’s eyelids fluttered closed. The little family sat in silence as her breaths grew shallower and shallower, until they stopped completely.

George Darcy let out a gasp of anguish and began to weep in earnest. Frozen in disbelief, Darcy did not know what to do.

Suddenly, his sister was in his arms, and his father had collapsed beside the bed, his face buried in the coverlet as he clutched his wife’s hand.

She looks as though she is sleeping, Darcy observed. Beautiful as ever, Lady Anne Darcy looked angelic against the white pillows. Her golden hair was plaited and lay across her shoulder. One hand rested on her stomach; the other lay in her husband’s grasp.

George Darcy was never the same after his wife died.

He kept his promises, though, and Darcy went to Eton without Wickham.

The two youths drifted apart. The former became the gentleman his mother had hoped for, and he grew to understand that true worth and beauty came from within.

His unfortunate, blemished appearance meant he went largely unnoticed by his peers.

There were other, more desirable targets for their cruelty—at least, that was what he told himself.

In truth, he suspected his cousins had warned the others against teasing and mockery.

He became close to his cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, the second son of the earl of Matlock.

Richard had plain, unremarkable features, unmarred by the so-called ‘mother's mark.’ Unlike Darcy, however, his gregarious personality made up for the lack.

Darcy, on the other hand, remained a solemn, stoic sort of person. After Eton, Darcy went on to Oxford.

Wickham went to Harrow and then to Cambridge.

Darcy hardly saw his former friend—and current enemy—except during the summer months.

Though Wickham came to Pemberley for meals, Darcy rarely encountered the miscreant.

His time was better spent learning all he could from his father.

Still, tales of Wickham’s misdeeds reached him, and though Darcy heard them all, there was nothing he could do—so long as his father remained content to clean up his protégé’s messes.

They were both still in school when word came that Mr. Darcy had died.

Suddenly, the unsightly Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was master of a large estate.

With all the responsibilities came an unexpected turn of events—Darcy found himself the object of much speculation.

Ladies began to show interest where once there had been none.

Ever mindful of his mother’s warnings, Darcy retreated to Pemberley to mourn and to consider how he might move forward.

At least I have no need to deal with Wickham any longer, he thought one afternoon.

The man had accepted three thousand pounds in exchange for the living Mr. Darcy had intended for his godson.

With four thousand pounds, he ought to be able to make something of himself.

Though Darcy doubted Wickham’s intentions, the man’s affairs were no longer his concern—not now that he was master of Pemberley.

Georgiana’s guardianship was shared between Darcy and his cousin, Richard. The little girl missed her father fiercely, but in consequence, she grew close to her brother. Darcy vowed to do everything he could for his sister, and in doing so, fulfill his promise to his mother.