Page 8 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood motionless, his hand trembling. The seal was his uncle’s, the handwriting unmistakable. A chill had passed through him even before he broke the wax, and his hair had risen with a sudden premonition.

My dear nephew,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of your father’s passing.

He died in London today, the result of a sudden seizure of the heart while meeting with Mr. Kendal.

I am grateful to say he did not appear to suffer.

According to the solicitor, your father collapsed and passed within five minutes.

Though the physician was summoned at once, there was nothing to be done.

Your sister was not present, and this we may count as a small mercy. Georgianna will travel with us to Pemberley tomorrow afternoon. I notified Lady Catherine and Anne by express, and they have already begun their journey to Derbyshire.

I am making arrangements to transport the body to Pemberley this afternoon and shall await your arrival for the interment.

I urge your immediate return.

With deepest sympathy,

Uncle Henry

Darcy perused the letter twice more, trying to absorb its meaning, then once again, as if repetition might force his mind to grasp the weight of the loss.

“You look like a man who’s had his breath knocked out,” Richard said quietly, stepping into their room.

Darcy didn’t speak.

Richard’s gaze dropped to the letter. He reached for it, and Darcy handed it over, still unable to speak.

Richard read in silence, then looked up. “I’m sorry, Will.”

Darcy sank into a chair, elbows on his knees. “He was in London, with Georgiana. They were en route to Rosings for Easter. He collapsed in his study.”

Richard was already nodding. “We must return at once.”

Darcy closed his eyes. “He died, and I was drinking Burgundy in France, preparing to attend yet another ball.”

“You were serving your country.”

“I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t have known. None of us could. Your father was still a young man; no one could have foreseen his death.”

They received approval to return within the day. Richard would take a month's leave, then report to the War Office to assist with espionage operations based in London. Darcy would sell out.

“We made a damn fine pair,” Richard said as they secured passage on a merchant cutter bound for Dover. “Best intelligence team in all of France, and that’s why there’s a post waiting for me at the War Office. We had it figured out.”

“In civilian dress,” Darcy murmured, a ghost of a smile flickering. “You, the rakish heir. Me, the discreet diplomat. Who would have guessed?”

“They bought every bit of it. The compliments I received on my waistcoats alone…”

Darcy shook his head. “And your insatiable gambling.”

“Calculated losses, all of them. I won most of the time. Keeps a man interesting, and gained us entry to places we would never have accessed otherwise.”

The crossing was rough, and the sky hung low and grey, the sea heavy and dark, as though mourning alongside Darcy. Salt stung his eyes and throat. Wind whipped his coat, but he remained at the railing, silent.

Richard joined him. “Come, let’s head down to the cabin and get out of this howling wind.”

Once seated and sipping from their flasks, he said, “Your father was proud of you, you know. He understood how important the work was to our country.”

“But I wasn’t there with him.”

“You were where you were needed.”

“He died without me. I abandoned my family.”

“No, you didn’t. You were serving your country.”

Darcy turned to face his cousin. “I should have written more often.”

“Enough! You know perfectly well we weren’t allowed to write.” Richard frowned.

“You honored him in every way you could. You’ve risked your life. You’ve served England. You have nothing to regret, Will.”

Darcy didn’t answer, but the words settled somewhere deep. He would hold onto them.

That night, they finished the brandy as they reminisced over the past four years.

“Do you remember the officer in Dijon who swore he’d been invited to tea by Napoleon himself?” Richard said.

Darcy chuckled. “And we told him you were the Duke of Kent’s cousin.”

“He bowed and scraped his obeisance.”

“Twice.”

They laughed, and for a moment, the grief loosened its grip.

Once back in England, Darcy sold out of the military. He donned black, buried his father, and comforted his sister, who viewed him as a stranger. He took up the mantle of Pemberley.

Amid the many letters and engagements he attended that month, he penned one brief note that stirred memories of a simpler time.

Mr. Gardiner,

I write to honor a promise I made to you and your family many years ago. I have returned to England. You may coordinate any matters about my investment through my solicitor, Mr. Kendal.

My travels in France were extended due to family obligations. Many of my father’s relations still reside there, and I took the opportunity to visit them at their country estates.

I trust you, your family, and Miss Elizabeth are all in good health. My own family is in deep mourning over the loss of my father, and I’m doing all I can to support my sister during this difficult time.

Please extend my warm regards to Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Elizabeth.

Respectfully,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Later that evening, once the house had quieted, Darcy retired to his study.

The fire had been lit in advance, casting a soft, flickering glow over the shelves and the great mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father.

It was there that his valet, James, brought in the worn wooden box, the one that had travelled with him across borders and years, battered but constant.

Darcy opened the lid with a measured hand.

Near the top, precisely as he had left it, was the small journal bound in brown calfskin. He lifted it from its place and brushed the cover with his thumb. When he opened it, the inscription caught his eye at once.

He traced the letters of her name with a single finger, slowly, thoughtfully.

Elizabeth Bennet.

He sat down, the journal resting in his lap, and stared into the flames, his thoughts carried far from the shadowed walls of Pemberley.

Where was she now? He had not heard her name in years, not since the letters had ceased. She would be nineteen, perhaps twenty. Was she married? Had she children of her own? Had she returned to her home and, when her feelings grew too large to contain, did she still sing to herself as she once had?

He pressed the journal closed and held it for a moment before placing it back in the box, near at hand, in plain sight.

So much had changed. His father was gone. England felt heavier with the war raging on. Yet some part of him remained suspended in time, in a drawing room in Cheapside, filled with laughter and light.

And somewhere in that remembered light was Elizabeth.

The rest of eighteen hundred and ten passed in a blur of ledgers, legal filings, and long rides across muddy fields. Darcy met with every steward and reviewed each account. To his quiet satisfaction, the Gardiner housing development had doubled his investment.

He did not write to the Gardiners again himself; he could not bear the deceit it required. No one could know he had been a spy; such knowledge might endanger those still serving. Instead, he ensured that Mr. Kendal became a regular correspondent with Mr. Gardiner.

The laughter on that ship lingered in his memory, along with the wind, and Richard’s quiet insistence: You have nothing to regret.

That phrase became his shield.

And so Fitzwilliam Darcy, at the age of seven and twenty, became master of all his father had left behind and guardian to the sister to whom he would now stand in place of a father.