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Darcy was just about to go to his room and retire for the night when the distinct sound of riders at a fast pace could be heard in the distance. Odd that it was more than one, he thought. It then came to him that it was Richard making one of his grand entrances with a party of his fellow officers. Hope filled his heart as he jumped up from his chair and tossed the book he had been trying to read back onto it.

A footman was already waiting at the door. Darcy dismissed him with orders to have the kitchen be ready in case a meal for the riders was needed. He then stepped outside into the brisk night air. His tiredness had disappeared upon hearing the riders. The night air invigorated him more. His heart pounded with nervous excitement, something he rarely felt.

As his eyes adjusted, he could make out five riders slowing their mounts as they came up the drive. The one in the middle, not carrying a lamp, was too small to be Richard. His hopes of a reunion were dashed, but his hope for good news remained. The middle rider signaled for a halt, dismounted and headed for Darcy.

“I am here to see Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. Take me to him at once,” he said as he approached.

“That would be me.”

This stopped the man short, as he had been expecting a servant. He turned his head as he raised a hand and snapped his finger, calling for a lamp. The closet soldier swung off his horse and hurried over.

“If you do not mind, sir. I was shown a portrait at Darcy’s house before I left. I need confirmation as the correspondence was to be delivered straight into Mr Darcy’s hands.”

Darcy began feeling uneasy. “Naturally,” he managed to say, trying to swallow the lump forming in his throat.

The officer stepped close as the soldier held up the lamp. Darcy tried not to shut his eyes as the soldier mumbled his apologies. The officer gazed up and only took a moment before being satisfied and pushed the soldier’s arm down.

“My apologies, my Lord. I had to be sure,” the officer said with a bow.

Darcy’s heart sunk, and his legs quivered at the implication. He took a deep breath to hold back his emotions and steady his legs. He watched as the officer opened his satchel and pulled out letters.

“Correspondence from the Prince Regent and the Duke of York at Whitehall.”

Darcy numbly took the letters and managed to ask if quarters were needed without his voice breaking. The officer declined the offer.

“I have other dispatches to deliver.”

Darcy looked down at the ones in his hands.

“My condolences, my Lord,” he said with another bow before hurrying back to his horse. He swung up, taking the reins from the man holding them, giving Darcy a final look and tipping his hat. He pulled the reins around, and they started off at a sedate pace.

Darcy squeezed his hand, feeling the letters crumple as he watched the soldiers depart. Once they reached the road, they quickened their pace. He looked after them until the light of their lamps disappeared. He stood there until he heard a familiar clearing of a throat, one used to get his attention.

“I am coming, Rutledge,” he said to his valet.

“Will you be retiring for the night?”

“No,” he replied, turning, “not yet. You are dismissed until morning. Be ready to leave for London if needed.”

“Ill news, sir?”

Darcy passed him, holding up the letters. “I fear so.”

“I…”

“I wish to be alone,” he said harsher than intended. “You are dismissed for the night. Let the kitchen and stable know they will not be needed. Wake me at my usual hour. I shall know then if I am to leave, so be prepared.”

Rutledge nodded. “Yes, sir,” he replied, locking the doors.

Darcy went back into the drawing room. He was about to sit when he saw the book and stopped. Picking it up, he set it on the table. This was the chair where he had kept his vigil, as it gave a view down the driveway to the arched entrance of the property. In it he had spent many hours waiting for word of his cousin or wishfully see Richard coming to show his return.

He sat back on the overstuffed couch, looking at the two letters. He tapped them against his palm as images of Richard flooded his mind as he fought back tears. He broke the seal on the one from the Regent’s brother, Prince Frederick the Duke of York. He leaned toward the lamp and read the brief letter. It did not go into any details but informed him that Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had been mortally wounded somewhere called Albuera in May. An oversight had left him off the rolls of the dead as he had been on temporary assignment away from his unit.

After reading the Prince’s condolences, Darcy let the letter fall to the floor. His head aching, he leaned back and pressed his fingers gently to his eyes and rubbed, trying to hold back the tears and the pain. Richard had been killed in battle two months before his parents and brother died.

It was sometime before he could bear to read the missive from the Prince Regent. While it began with conveyed condolences, in light of his now elevated position, it ended with matters of State. He was to present himself at Carlton House no later than Saturday next. The only relief he felt was that he had not been immediately summoned and been provided time to process the change in his life. He got up and poured himself a drink. He was about to put the decanter down and instead took it back with him.