The price of fortune
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.
William Darcy groaned as he deleted the message and tossed his phone back onto the desk. He watched with detached amusement as it skidded across the paper-strewn surface and disappeared out of sight, dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. If only all his problems could be so easily taken care of.
Sighing, he got up and strode around the desk, bending to pick up the phone. Examining the device – it appeared to have survived the fall - he smiled ruefully. The issues in his own life were far more prone to damage. His smile faded, and he tossed the phone into the air and caught it, clutching it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
"Will?"
The familiar voice of his sister jolted him from his increasingly bitter thoughts.
"Georgie, I thought you were in bed." He checked his watch, and winced. When did it get that late?
She gave him a frank look. "At this hour, even you should be in bed, big brother." She padded over to him, her bare feet slapping on the wooden floor of their library, and slipped one arm around his waist.
"Come on."
When he didn't move, she looked up quizzically. "What gives, bro?"
He rolled his eyes – she knew he hated her using slang – and waved the hand with his phone still in it. "Another gentle hint from our dearest aunt."
Her frown melted into a mocking smile. "Let me guess. Find a girl, get married, start a family?"
Nodding, he allowed her to pull him a few steps towards the door, draping one arm across her shoulders. "Mostly. Of course, as far as the girl goes, she clearly has one in mind."
His sister affected a look of innocent surprise. "Why, you can't mean Anne, can you?"
Smiling despite his tiredness, he moved slowly across the library floor, his sister still insistent.
Aunt Catherine was nothing if not determined, and since she had become reacquainted with a distant relative of hers, Anne de Bourgh, had been bringing up the poor woman's name with alarming regularity. The latest ploy had been these late night messages culled from the pages of various dusty old tomes, all on the subject of marriage.
At first it had been amusing, but as the months wore on, it just got - wearisome. It wouldn't have been so bad, he mused, if Anne de Bourgh had been an attractive prospect for alliance. Granted, she had inherited the Rosings Park hotel group, but her personal attributes were somewhat - limited.
Georgie summed it up more succinctly. "If that girl were any more stupid, she'd be a turnip," she said as they made their wending way between the library stacks.
"Georgie," he said warningly, but smiled nevertheless. He looked down fondly at his little sister, almost ten years his junior. It was good to see her in such good spirits. For a moment, she had almost sounded like her old self, before-
"You're frowning again," Georgie said, her own expression mirroring his. "What's really bothering you?"
He shook his head, his arm tightening around hers. She was safe now, and that was all that mattered. "Oh, just work," he said in as airy a manner as possible.
She stopped and looked up at him, her blue eyes clouding over. "Will, are you thinking about-" Her voice trailed off, her expression stricken.
"Of course not," he lied smoothly, steering her towards the door. "It's this damn recession, that's all. Makes every decision so much more complicated."
She nodded slowly, but lapsed into silence, her fleeting good mood vanished.
He made no attempt to console her, but kept her close to his side as they walked down the long hallway to the main staircase. He could feel her delicate fingers digging into his side as she clung to him, and his already troubled mood darkened further.
When would they ever be free of that man?
~PoF~
The next day saw him once again at his desk, his mood no less sour. He glowered at the papers on his desk, covered with his neat handwritten notes. This was impossible. He turned to his computer and clicked open another file, examining the cost projections once more. It was no use.
He picked up the phone and dialled his portfolio manager. "Nick? Will here. Look, I've spent the weekend looking over the figures for the Berlin project, and it's as bad as we feared."
Rubbing his eyes he listened to the other man. "No, that won't work. It's haemorrhaging money that the division can't stand. There's no choice, I'm afraid."
His expression hardened. "Do you think I don't know that? It may have been my father's pet project, but I'm not going to lay off any more employees to keep it alive."
Looking down, he could see his free hand shaking with tension. Frowning he stilled it, and spoke more evenly. "We have to consolidate Nick, as you well know. I've made my mind up. Cut it. Today."
After exchanging a few more terse words, he slammed the phone down and sat back, breathing hard. Springing out of his chair, he cast around for some inanimate object to take out his frustrations on, but unfortunately the furniture in the library had been designed with longevity in mind.
He eyed the massive desk speculatively. If he took a swing at that, he'd be nursing much worse than a pounding headache.
Muttering stormily, he flung open the French doors and swept out into the sunny morning. As he crunched down the gravel pathway his feet sent angry spits of stone in all directions, but his mind slowly calmed.
By the time he had made his way down across the wide expanse of lawn to the tennis courts, he was feeling somewhat better, in body if not in mind. He stopped and turned, surveying the great house.
Back in the nineteenth century, the master of Pemberley would have had only the house, grounds and estate to concern themselves with. Over successive generations, the Darcy fortune had grown to encompass a diverse portfolio of investments and enterprises across the globe.
His own father had been a major influence on the expansion of their influence in more recent years. Widely regarded as a financial genius as well as an astute operator and a generous benefactor, John Darcy had left a formidable legacy to preserve and a challenge that his son frequently felt unequal to.
Will felt his face flush with displeasure as he recalled his most recent decision. In the five years since his father's sudden and unexpected death, the global financial markets had suffered a setback that not even the great John Darcy could have anticipated. The Darcy fortune had weathered the storm better than many, but he had been faced with a seemingly unending series of increasingly painful decisions to be made.
The Berlin project, exploring ways of generating clean energy from deep borehole technology, had been his father's great hope for a lasting legacy. Unfortunately, the costs had so far outweighed the results that Will had no choice but to mothball it, in the hopes of better times to come.
Deep down, he knew it was the right thing to do. If he were forced to roll up the entire renewable energy division the job losses would be extreme. Just as his ancestors had a responsibility to the Pemberley workers, he had to preserve the livelihoods of those he employed.
"Hope you agree, Dad," he said to the house. It made no reply.
Sighing, he turned and continued towards the tennis courts. As expected, Georgie was there, practising her groundstrokes. He watched her for a moment, smiling. Moment like these gave him hope that Georgie was truly well on the way to recovery. He fervently hoped so.
Georgie caught sight of him and jogged over to the machine, turning it off. "Hey Will," she shouted, waving cheerily. She bounded over to him, her blond hair bobbing in a neat pony tail.
Extending her tennis racket like a rapier, she waggled it near his face. "Come to test your mettle, have you?"
He snorted. "Georgie, when was the last time you actually beat me at tennis?"
She considered for a moment. "True. But you've been stuck in the library, counting beans, while I've been honing my skills out here." She grinned and prodded him gently in the stomach with the racket.
"Besides you're old and flabby, whereas I am young and-"
"Overconfident?"
"I was going for hot, actually," she said, tossing her head prettily. "Anyway, got time for a set or two?"
It was on the tip of his tongue to turn her down – the phone in his pocket was buzzing insistently – but something in her countenance gave him pause. She looked happy enough, but the shadows under her eyes told him that their conversation of the night before had left its toll.
He took the phone out, and eyed her speculatively. "Well, let's see how well you return this."
Without pausing, he lobbed the phone towards her, watching in admiration as she sent the phone high over the chain-link fence with one smooth stroke. Resisting the urge to chase after it, he rolled up his sleeves and headed for the bank of rackets.
"Okay, little sister. Let's see what you can do ."