The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (33 page)

There were trinkets to be distributed, for the Darcys had purchased things for their beloved family in Rome and had been able to bring these mementos on the ship without much trouble. Mr. Bennet and Mr. Bingley were exceedingly happy with their rare books and Mrs. Bennet with beautiful yarns, for she did love sewing for her many grandchildren. Kitty had outgrown ribbons but still loved bonnets, especially those beyond the limits of what could be found in England, and Mary was given a little book of hymns. Little Georgiana Bingley was given a doll that she would carry around for years.

The Chatton crowd—and it was, indeed, a crowd—was very unhappy at the idea that the Darcys would not be staying the night. But Darcy put his foot down and said he wanted to see Pemberley in the worst way after the long journey, and if they stayed for dinner, they could not introduce it to his brother properly. The mention of “his brother” turned some heads, for Brother Grégoire's presence had not been explained fully, but Darcy assured them there would be time for that when other, more pressing matters were settled. And so, after only a few joyous hours of reunion at Chatton, the Darcys set off on the road
with the addition of Geoffrey, who was told he would receive his present when his punishment was over, though his punishment was not specified. The five of them traveled the last three miles to the great house of Pemberley.

A large audience—almost the entire staff of servants—had gathered to greet their long-absent master and mistress. They also awaited the return of Georgiana and her nephew, who trailed behind his father's coattails. What they did not expect was the last member of the party, the young monk who bowed to them deeper than they bowed to him and would have no one attend to him.

As housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds was at the head, and she paled at the sight of Grégoire, even though he had not been identified. Darcy put his arm around the monk and approached her. “This is Grégoire Bellamont from the Monastery of Mont Claire. Mrs. Reynolds, I believe you have something to explain.”

In the master study, the aged Mrs. Reynolds had to face not one, but three Darcys, as only Geoffrey and Georgiana were excluded, with Geoffrey seeming very annoyed at being pulled away from his mother. When the door was soundly shut behind them, Darcy took his seat at the desk. Above him hung the portrait of his father, looking regal and proper. “Now,” he said as his wife sat next to the terrified housekeeper, and Grégoire stood, “You have undoubtedly surmised Grégoire's heritage. Though I doubt you have ever said a dishonest thing to anyone present in your life, that does not mean certain things were not made known to me, I assume under Father's instructions. But now I would like to know how you came to know these things.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy, of course.” Mrs. Reynolds was shaking. “Oh, please forgive me, but your father's last wish to me was that you not know of these things until the proper time.”

“Which would be now,” Darcy said.

“Yes, of course.”

1797

Mrs. Reynolds had to quietly admit to herself that she did enjoy her position as housekeeper. It did bring tremendous responsibility, and the status was not something she had sought greedily, but there was something to be said for taking pride in keeping Pemberley in top shape. It had been hard at times with three children in the house, one a toddler and two in their teens at the time of her elevation, and no guiding mother to rein them in. Mrs. Wickham and Mrs. Darcy had died during or immediately after childbirth, and young Master Fitzwilliam, who did so dislike being called that, was the only one who had experienced having the pleasure of a mother for his first thirteen years.

While their nurses and governesses were responsible for the children, they answered to Mrs. Reynolds as well as Mr. Darcy, who was busy and a gentleman and, therefore, not quite expected to act paternally toward Miss Georgiana in an overly interested way, though he did at times. Until the end of his days, Mr. Darcy was often busy with keeping up the estate or away from Pemberley, and while he was there, his chief concern was raising his son, the wild Fitzwilliam, who had to grow up some day to be a gentleman and master.

And grow up he did. In fact, despite their single year of age difference, Master George and Master Fitzwilliam seemed to
be going in opposite directions with their lives, despite a fierce (and often, outright indecorous) competition between them at all the things boys competed about. When they were children, they competed at riding, fishing, and fencing. When they were young men, the competition turned to women, though the young George Wickham certainly had the edge there, because Mrs. Reynolds never heard a word about Master Fitzwilliam and any servants or local girls from Lambton, and she heard every word that Pemberley whispered.

When Mr. Wickham, the steward, died, Mr. Darcy took on all the responsibilities of raising and educating Wickham's son. The master was not known for being unkind, but he certainly exceeded the general expectation of generosity in doing this. By the year the boys went to Cambridge, he was actively turning his eyes away from the young Wickham's actions. Mr. Darcy said nary a word when Mr. Wickham was sent down from Cambridge, embracing him back into the estate while Master Fitzwilliam continued his studies.

The year that Mr. Darcy's illness became obvious was the year that Master Fitzwilliam returned from touring the Continent, as required by any respectable gentleman newly graduated from university and not quite ready to settle down for the rest of his life. Upon young Darcy's return, his training as future master, which had truly begun the day he was born, resumed actively and even sped up a bit when Mr. Darcy's prognosis was delivered. They learned they had a year left together, and it was well spent, so that the transition between masters would be smooth. The little boy who had once refused to bathe after jumping in a lake stepped up to his responsibilities in a way that made everyone proud.

Late fall should have been a pleasant time for everyone before it got truly cold in Derbyshire, but the angel of death hung over Pemberley. To his dying day, Mr. Geoffrey Darcy would not be idle. He was signing contracts and record books until forcibly locked in his chambers for rest. A week before the angel came, Mrs. Reynolds was called into Mr. Darcy's office— not an unusual occurrence, except that Master Fitzwilliam was not present, as he had been at every meeting for months now, and she knew of no particular topic to be discussed. Clearly the master had one; she merely didn't know it.

Mr. Darcy coughed and asked that she make sure the door was closed, and then he had her lock it on his behalf.

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Mrs. Reynolds.” He did not get up. First, she was a servant. Second, she doubted he could do so easily. He was leaning on the desk, propped up by an elbow, his eyes bloodshot. Had he been crying? “Thank you for coming. Do be seated.”

Another strange occurrence; the good master was obviously out of sorts. He fumbled with something in his hands—a locket that she recognized as having belonged to his late wife. “I know you are a busy woman, and I will not take up much of your time and mine, which I am told by my doctors is now precious. Instead I will merely burden you with the most terrible of secrets, as it should be spoken once more before I die, and as you will come to understand, it cannot be told to my son—yet. I will also thrust upon you the trust that you will find the day to tell him.”

She did not know quite what to say to this.

“You will recall the affair with Ms. Bellamont, my wife's lady-maid. You were, I believe, laundress at the time? But it must have been known all around Pemberley. I have no doubt of that.”

“I do, sir, though I recall few of the specifics, and those that I do, I care not to repeat.”

“Then I will summarize. Ms. Bellamont was discharged when my wife discovered she was with child, and the part you perhaps do not know is that the child was mine.”

No, she did not know that. She could not fathom it, even as he said it, even as the intensity of his gaze confirmed it. The French-born maid was of excellent standing until her dismissal, working her way up the ranks of Pemberley. That she was dismissed during Mrs. Darcy's confinement with Georgiana was the most damning thing about her departure—until this point. This implied, of course, that not only had he had a dalliance with a lady-maid (not entirely unknown, but something she would have never expected from Mr. Darcy), but he did so during his own wife's confinement.

“Earlier this year,” he continued, expecting her stunned silence, “I went to the Continent on business, and that business was to set up an account for my son, who was apparently named the French version of Gregory, after me in some fashion. He lives with his mother in the west of France and intends to join the church. According to the specifications of the account, he will receive a considerable yearly income for the rest of his life. No records of this account exist in England, and the account can only be altered by myself or the executor of my estate—meaning, Fitzwilliam, who obviously knows nothing of this.

“The timing is terrible, because I do not wish my son to lose both me and his esteem of me at the same time. I do not know what would happen to him or to Pemberley, but I cannot take the chance. He might go the way George went—as they are so very closely related.”

He had another coughing fit, and Mrs. Reynolds rose to pour him a glass of water, for he had dismissed the servant meant to do exactly that. After swallowing some, he was able to continue in a hoarse voice. “I do not know which sin is more terrible, but there are two. George Wickham is also my son.”

Her heart quickened. Yes, that made sense, on a logical level. He had raised George as a father would raise a son, beyond normal responsibilities, and his affection for his steward did not explain it beyond a certain point. Mr. Darcy had had many fights with his own son—his proper son—over Mr. Wickham, who was meant to receive a sizable living in the church upon Mr. Darcy's death. Master Fitzwilliam felt this inheritance was undeserved, and many servants believed he had every right, knowing Wickham well enough, to insist that that man deserved no more assistance from Pemberley. But Mr. Darcy would not relent, and no one could figure the reason. Now, of course, it was clear.

“I love my sons—all three of them. I have provided for all of them, partially I suppose out of guilt… guilt I should rightfully feel for being part of the worst kind of deception with Mrs. Wickham, a lovely woman until the day she died, as we never told George. He believed his son was his and named him so, and I did not prevent it. I did not have the courage to come forward and torture this man with the truth. So I am a coward as well as an adulterer. I am the worst master Pemberley has ever had.”

“No, Sir—”

“Do not try to contradict me. Any good I tried to do in this life will not lift this terrible guilt from my heart. There is no absolution for me because Anne would not give it.” He coughed again. Mrs. Reynolds, her mind still reeling, could not help but
notice that Mr. Darcy, despite his affection for his wife, never called her by her first name in front of a servant.

“On her dying day she cursed me. She had found out about Miss Bellamont, and so she cursed me by refusing forgiveness and naming our new daughter Georgiana. The whole story had come out, and I would always hear that name—George, the name of my first sin—when I spoke the name of my own daughter, who I would have to raise alone. Anne forsook me, and she had every right and reason to. But I could not stand my son doing the same at my own deathbed—for he could hardly do otherwise, with the morality I've raised him with. Some things, Mrs. Reynolds, are worse than death.” He seemed to shield his eyes from her. “Surely you will try to understand why I ask this of you.”

“To be plain, sir, what do you wish of me?”

“That you tell Fitzwilliam and Georgiana at the proper time, whenever you judge it to be. For some day, they should know. Perhaps when they are settled and happy and are ready for a blow such as this. When they are, do you know of the old d'Arcy estate? The Hôtel des Capuchins?”

“I've heard of it, sir.”

“I have an account at a bank near there that is funding Gregory, or Grégoire as he is called. He knows of his heritage because I spoke to him in February, but I doubt he would come to England of his own motivation. That is perhaps the best way to find him, if this is to be years away. And God, I hope it will be.” He wiped his eyes with his trembling fingers, because he was definitely crying now. “I have not said a word of this to anyone but him and his mother since the day Anne died. And now, you will be the only one who will know. I will trust you with this
awful burden, Mrs. Reynolds. It is the last thing I will ask of you before Pemberley goes into my son's capable hands.”