A/N: I hope you enjoyed your brief reprieve from Darcy's brood-a-thon because today's post is positively thick with some fresh meat for the broodiest broody broods ever brooded (though not all Darcy's)!
Thank you for reading, faving, and following!
xo brynn
CHAPTER FOUR
"But what will not ambition and revenge
Descend to? Who aspires must down as low
As high he soared, obnoxious first or last
To basest things."
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book XI –
Friday 24 April, 1812
London
On the morning following the unsettling evening at White's Darcy had awoken to find that an equally unpleasant miasma of grime and vapour had settled over town during the few hours sleep had claimed him. The thick, sodden air refused to retreat as the days passed—an unusual, irritating, and confounding misfortune that was therefore destined to become the chef d'oeuvre of every drawing room of consequence in London. The sons and daughters of the ton were only too glad to set aside the usual prattle regarding the mildness of the spring and its fashions in favour of much weightier topics. As such, they were soon engaged in the very serious business of relating every nuance, expression, and consequence of the ominous weather to one another—each of their colourful narratives more tastefully exaggerated the last.
For Darcy, the murky haze settling upon town mirrored his own uncommon feelings of apprehension and doubt well enough that no exaggeration as to a prophetic bent was necessary. Three long days had passed since the ill-advised trip to his club, the quarrel with his cousin, and his uncomfortable meeting with the gentleman who called himself Hyatt Hadley. Although Colonel Fitzwilliam had somewhat warmed to Mr. Hadley after the shock of their first meeting, a greater familiarity with the gentleman's estate and former connections with the Fitzwilliams did nothing to increase Darcy's own comfort in his presence. Though he could not fix upon a precise look, turn of phrase, or sensation that struck him as either dangerous or even particularly insincere on the part of the stranger from Northamptonshire, Darcy remained unaccountably wary of the gentleman.
Initially, he had no wish to investigate the source of his unease in Mr. Hadley's presence. He certainly had enough on his mind as it was. He had no need to imagine any additional burdens for himself related to any vague, guarded feelings he encountered in the presence of a man very likely to remain a complete stranger. However, a further acquaintance with Mr. Hadley left him with two distinct impressions. The first was the unwelcome—yet not wholly unexpected—realization that no matter his present or potentially future concerns, he was unable to free himself of the spectre of Elizabeth Bennet. Despite all his present worries and concerns, she continued to suffuse his every thought.
In the past several days he had sought nearly every possible distraction in an experimental effort at self-preservation. The findings were grim. Perhaps most troubling, he realized that his reveries were no longer limited to simple reflections of time spent in her presence—both pleasant and unpleasant. Instead, his musings on Elizabeth—Miss Bennet were as irrevocably, wretchedly fixed to his present as she was to his past.
What was she doing now? Was the thinking of him? Regretting him? Censuring him? Did she spend her nights playing lively tunes for company or was she bent over a book, her fingers gracefully stroking the pages as she pursed her lips in contemplation? It had been unseasonably damp this season—what sort of book would she enjoy on a rainy day? Would she curl up in front of the fire to devour a romantic novel, or was she inclined to reconsider the classics? He already knew her feelings on poetry, of course. It was nearly noon. Was she walking through the footpaths of Hertfordshire at this very moment—her chestnut locks uncovered and bare cheeks kissed by the sun?
It had brought him to further heights of anguish to discover that thoughts of Elizabeth intruded on his time spent in company just as well as they did in solitude. Her pert opinions and sly smiles refused to part from him whether he conceded to think on her or not. Visions of her fine eyes flatly refused to abate no matter the inducement. Riding, fencing, conversation, rather too much port—none of it forestalled the cascade of Elizabeth Bennet for a moment. The soft bounce to her steps as she strolled the parks at Rosings. The light melody of her laughter over the crisp morning air—a sound he found he preferred to the finest aria or concerto. The flush of desire which coursed through him each time she thoughtfully pressed her teeth into the tantalizing, delicate flesh of her bottom lip when she thought no one was looking. The way she arched a teasing brow in response to his awkward attempts at polite conversation…
How he wished to reach out to her in those moments! How he longed to crush her exquisite form to his chest, to take those irresistible, soft, supple lips in his own and draw her in his mouth, to taste her—of what did she taste? Sweet honeysuckle? Soft lavender flowers? Rich summer berries—as intoxicating as fine wine? He would drink of her to his pleasure, her soft moans of desire answering his own as he felt her fingers snake through his hair while his own traced the no-longer forbidden delights of her arched back, the light curve of her waist, the fullness of her enticing, perfectly formed, ample—
No! This will not do!
With an audible groan, Darcy sprung from his seat and sought to put a physical distance between his increasingly depraved thoughts and his exhausted body. He suddenly felt as inflamed and overheated as the incessant mists touring the garden outside his window.
As he strode the length from his desk to the hearth, the hearth to the window, the window to the desk and back again, he attempted to retrace his thoughts—Oh, yes. Hadley.
The second distinct impression that he had formed in the hours and days since the incident at White's was that—whoever he was—Hyatt Hadley was not a man to be trusted. Any precise reasons for such fixed suspicions continued to evade him, vanishing from his mind almost as they began to take shape, as though determined to remain just out of reach. Still, there was something about the man—something familiar that he could not place…
Darcy thought back to the night at White's in a half-hearted effort to try again.
After the debacle in the courtyard, the small party had returned to their previous table—the only visible change in their company being the addition of a third partner. Hadley had been cordial, gregarious even, but Darcy could not help but notice that the gentleman's good cheer never seemed to extend to his eyes. As a consequence of his lingering bad-humour—and perhaps owing to his general discomfort in the company of strangers—Darcy had left the bulk of the conversation to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
His cousin—seeming happy to oblige in the service of distraction if not genuine feeling—had engaged Hadley in a lengthy and lively discussion concerning the orchards, walks, streams, and fields between his childhood home, Milton, and Mr. Hadley's estate, Foxhollow Hall. Though the name was unfamiliar to Darcy, Richard seemed to have a clear enough recollection of the place Mr. Hadley had once called home. However, any further consideration that might have been given to the gentleman's family name or home was quickly thrown aside in favour of Colonel Fitzwilliam's favoured quarry—any and all information regarding the wealth, women, and wine which Mr. Hadley had occasion to sample during his many years spent in India.
India?
Darcy had not been entirely sure how the conversation had shifted from the property lines of Milton and Foxhollow to the mystical secrets of the Orient, though he had found himself struggling to pay attention in either case. It was no matter—Richard's attention was certainly rapt enough for both of them. And so, Darcy had amused himself by studying the chilled glass of wine in his hand and imagining the feel of Elizabeth's cool skin against his own.
Unfortunately, the conversation had turned to Darcy just as his thoughts had taken an unwelcome turn. Could she believe Wickham? Trust Wickham? Love Wickham? Would they sit together in some drab parlour room in Nowhereshire, England—heads bent together, lips curling in shared laughter as they regaled one another with tales of Darcy's feeble attempts at conversation and courtship? The blackguard! He would not dare! If George Wickham so much as—
"Darcy?"
He had started at the sound of his cousin's voice as it tugged him from the depths of his most recent undesired revelries and made every attempt at a smile. If the looks on the gentlemen's faces were any indication—his efforts had been unsuccessful.
"My apologies, gentlemen. I am poor company tonight."
Richard had waived this pronouncement away with a flash of his hand and shook his head with a laugh, but Mr. Hadley's silent gaze continued to bore into him. Again, Darcy had felt a confusing pang of near-recollection. What was it about this man?
"Mr. Hadley has mentioned an acquaintance with your mother," Fitzwilliam grinned.
Darcy shifted in his seat.
"Is that so?"
Hadley raised a brow.
"Yes, though I knew her when she still bore the name Fitzwilliam." The gentleman had leaned back in his seat then, taking his eyes from Darcy for what felt like the first time since joining the table. "And only a little after, very briefly."
Darcy had cleared his throat, attempting an air of indifference great enough to quell the tumult of raw emotions which churned within. His mother. The only person, save Elizabeth—Miss Bennet—who could raise in him such a storm of sharp agonies.
The two men regarded one another with all the calculating precision of enemy generals approaching the field. Richard, however—for all his military training—had clearly missed the call to arms.
"How about that, Darce! Small world, would you not say?"
Darcy had been so startled by his cousin's interruption that he nearly missed the spark in Hadley's eye as he acknowledged the Colonel's words. With a tight smile, he had raised his glass in a toast.
"And getting smaller every day."
Thankfully, the evening had drawn to a close soon after—though not uneventfully. As the gentlemen had gathered their coats and hats, the Colonel found himself distracted by some Lieutenant General or other, as he so often was when in town. Guffaws were shared, hands were shaken, the weather was criticized, and Darcy's thoughts had turned to Elizabeth Bennet once more. He had not noticed Mr. Hadley's approach until the gentleman spoke.
"I should like to pay you a call before I leave town, Mr. Darcy. It seems we have some business to discuss."
"Do we?" Darcy had replied with some surprise, recalling his earlier thoughts of clandestine tradesmen and their unsavoury machinations. "Is this business of ours a personal or a professional matter, Mr. Hadley?"
Once again, Darcy did not fail to miss the spark.
"I would say it is something of both, Mr. Darcy."
If either gentleman had felt a sudden chill pass through the air at that moment, they did not show it.
"Should that be the case I will expect your call on Friday, Mr. Hadley," Darcy had announced. "If that would be convenient."
"I will look forward to it, Mr. Darcy. I assure you."
Darcy had never been so glad to leave his club in his life.
Though he had not heard from Mr. Hadley since, Darcy had attended a small dinner presided over by Fitzwilliam's mother, the Countess of Matlock, only the night before. It had not been his intention to spend the few words he reserved for social occasions asking after any acquaintance with a Mr. Hadley of Foxhollow Hall, but so it was.
He had found nothing with overly surprised him, which, given Darcy's ill-ease in the gentleman's company, was in itself rather surprising. Those who were familiar with Hadley's name appeared to know him more by reputation than acquaintance—hardly extraordinary given that he had spent the majority of his years building a fortune on the markets and docks of India. There was some mention of an elder brother, now long dead, though scant details were available. And, of course, everything else that Darcy already knew—an estate in Northamptonshire, replete with imported orchards and the standard corn crops of wheat and barley, a smattering of other investments Mr. Hadley had mentioned himself.
It was of all of little consequence and even less illuminating. Mr. Hadley's reputation as a popular, impressive wit intrigued Darcy far more than his crops. Though the gentleman had returned from India with the bulk of his fortune less than a year ago, there were few among the party who had not heard something of his exceptional wealth, quick tongue, and captivating tales of the Orient. He was unmarried, a fact which—in combination with his fortune and assumed ties to both imported silks and fine teas—likely had something to do with his sudden popularity amongst the higher circles of town. But the point Darcy found most irritating had as little to do with his silks as his oats. Not a single, solitary person could remember making the acquaintance of Hyatt Hadley before his return to England, despite the generous proclamations made by some of the more competitive matrons as they crowed over one another from where they held court to the side of the room. To Darcy, each profession of longstanding familiarity sounded more unlikely than the last.
Mr. Hadley was a puzzle—or rather, Mr. Hadley puzzled him. It was a rare occurrence in itself, let alone at a time when he had puzzles enough to fill his every waking moment. Yes, Darcy was not necessarily disposed to like strangers, but he was not typically disposed to dislike them either… Yet for some, unfathomable reason, he had to admit that he did dislike the gentleman. In fact, he disliked him very much.
He could not help but think—not for the first time—that he was missing something with regards to the gentleman. And that, perhaps if it had not been for the lingering presence of a certain Miss Bennet in his every thought, he might had divined it himself by now. But, it was not to be—and hardly necessary in any case. If there was some great mystery surrounding Hyatt Hadley, Darcy would find out soon enough.
After all, it was Friday.
A knock at the door brought Darcy back to the present. As he called for Maxwell to enter, he returned to his seat behind the great oak desk that had belonged to his father.
xxx
"I have waited a very long time for this day, Mr. Darcy. I must thank you for accommodating me with such short notice."
"Not at all, Mr. Hadley. But you say you have had some business with me for some time? You will forgive me but, as you say, we have only just met."
"Yes."
Though Hyatt Hadley had not been in Darcy's study for more than five minutes, Darcy was already beginning to suspect that their entire meeting at White's must have been contrived for the gentleman's benefit.
Their first attempts at polite conversation had gone well enough, but one could hardly call them gripping. They had discussed the weather, of course, and Darcy was almost pleased to find that Mr. Hadley seemed to hold as little interest in the topic as himself. This momentary confederacy was soon thrown asunder when it occurred to Darcy that they must have some form of conversation—and given his uneasiness towards the man, he suddenly preferred the tedious speculation surrounding the fog outside his doors rather than within them.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hadley was not at a similar loss for topics of conversation.
"Were you very close to your father, Mr. Darcy?"
The question stunned Darcy so much so that he momentarily lost his equilibrium and Mr. Hadley was forced to repeat himself. Who was this man to be asking such a question? They were hardly acquainted after all, and he had no desire to discuss his father—worse, his feelings for his father, with some strange travelling gentleman-merchant who had shown up on his doorstep with barely an introduction and refused his frequent entreaties to move the conversation towards the undoubtedly more appropriate conversation topics of the weather, the war, or wheat.
"As close as any father to his son, I imagine," Darcy lied.
"Yes, I have heard that you were brought up in his very image," Mr. Hadley observed. For a moment, Darcy almost thought the look on his face expressed some distaste—but it was fleeting. Soon enough, his countenance was as clear and devoid of feeling as his own.
Darcy opened his mouth to reply—he was not sure with what precisely, but he was stopped by a sudden and hasty stream of conversation from the man reclining with such infernal ease across from him.
"As I was acquainted with him for a time, of course I have been impressed with some similarities in character since meeting you myself. I suppose it is not surprising, and yet—I had thought—well, I suppose it is no matter…" Mr. Hadley's voice trailed off. Although this statement was delivered with all the airy ease of the gentleman's earlier comments on the weather, Darcy could not fail to miss that this was not some similarly casual observation meant to encourage idle parlour talk.
"Am I to understand that your visit here today has something to do with my father? How well acquainted with him were you, Mr. Hadley?" Darcy asked.
Mr. Hadley seemed to straighten in his chair. "Well enough."
Darcy considered his response for a moment before replying. He did not like the direction this conversation was tending, and yet, in his exhaustion, he could not find a way past it. He would have to charge ahead, full steam. He pressed his fingertips together before him and leaned back in his chair in an effort to match the gentleman's relaxed posture.
"Then you must know I take your compliment to heart. My father was an excellent man. I have yet to meet his equal in honour or pride." In this, at least, Darcy felt he had told the truth.
Hadley let forth a slight chuckle before leaning forward and loosening the hold on the countenance that had heretofore blinded Darcy to his feelings. He watched with interest as Hadley's features slid into a show of pure repulsion.
"And do you call yourself an honourable man? Are you a proud man, Mr. Darcy?"
Unbidden, memories of Elizabeth rose to the forefront of Darcy's mind. A painful recollection of their exchange in the parlour of Netherfield was unavoidable and his own words returned to haunt him.
'Pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.'
What a fool he had been!
He shook his head in a vague effort to return from his thoughts and attend to his present conversation.
"I do my best to act as honour dictates, sir," he offered steadily, still wondering at Hadley's purpose. "As I am sure you do."
"I am glad to hear that, Mr. Darcy." Mr. Hadley was all but sneering now.
"May I ask to what these questions tend?" Darcy replied in a voice suddenly as tight as the set of his shoulders. He was in no mood to be trifled with, and he would not be trifled with any longer.
In response, Mr. Hadley stood from his seat and pulled a thick packet of folded papers from the inner pocket of his coat. He leafed casually through the parchment and almost seemed to forget Darcy's presence as he made a final examination of their contents. Darcy could only watch—frozen in a state of rigid anticipation inspired by equal parts eagerness and dread.
Finally, Hadley seemed to find what he had been searching for. With a raise of his brow, his cold gaze matched Darcy's in a trice.
"What say you, Mr. Darcy? Does an honourable gentlemen pay his debts?"
Darcy shrugged, aware that he could do nothing but follow where Hadley led. Whatever this man had come to do, now was the time to do it. Soon enough, Darcy would be rid of him.
"Of course. It would be impossible for any gentleman deserving of the name to deny a debt."
"Well then," Hadley started—and with a flourish of his wrist, the papers he had been holding in his hand skated across the smooth polished oak of Darcy's desk. "As we are both agreed on the proper behaviour of a gentleman, I must inform you that I have come to collect."
Darcy's brow pinched together as he picked up the closest piece of parchment to his person and held it up against the dim light from the window beside him.
A long moment passed.
And then another.
Neither gentleman moved, and neither did they speak—yet both seemed to understand that the papers on the desk had changed everything between them. Darcy would not be rid of this man any time soon. In fact, he might never be rid of him at all.
Though the paper was worn and had faded somewhat around the edges, Darcy recognized the sweeping signature at the bottom immediately. He did not have to wonder long at the document's significance. It was the work of a moment to recognize what lay scattered before him on his father's desk.
The implication took somewhat longer to set in, but Mr. Hadley was glad to assist.
"I trust you recognize your father's marker?"
Darcy cleared his throat, not trusting his voice to say what must be said.
"Yes."
"They are vowels, of course," Mr. Hadley confirmed. He pulled another piece of paper from the stack which remained in his hand, but Darcy hardly noticed as his eyes remained trained on the documents scattered before him—each denoting a more incredible sum than the last. The documents which bore his father's signature. The documents he never would have believed possible. The documents which would likely ruin him—and in doing so—destroy the Darcy name forever.
Hadley straightened his coat and peered down at the younger man evidently reeling before him. Darcy was not sure what the gentleman had been expecting him to feel at this moment, but at the moment he felt nothing. What should he feel? What should one be feeling at a moment such as this?
Let him delight in his victory elsewhere, Darcy told himself. He did not know what score Mr. Hadley had come to settle with his father today, but he would not give him the added satisfaction of seeing his George Darcy's son brought any lower. He was a gentleman. He would behave as such.
"So I see. And you say that these wagers were made by my father?"
"I have had them authenticated, of course, but I have included a letter for your solicitors should you wish to have the process repeated."
"And where was he to have made such wagers?"
"You will notice the text about the bottom. The seal and corresponding signature comes from Bombay."
"India?" Darcy asked, the slight rise of his voice indicating the first evidence of his shock.
"Yes," Hadley replied in a low tone. "I believe you must remember your father's trip to the Indes in the summer of—"
"Yes, I remember," Darcy interrupted. He had no need to relive those memories in the presence of Mr. Hadley or his pile of betrayal.
"Of course," Hadley prompted. "I believe it was just after your mother's death."
Though his eyes did not leave the papers before him, Darcy felt Hadley's needling gaze resting upon him as he waited for some outward sign of his inevitable rage. He could hear the hint of innuendo in the man's voice as he pressed his suit, but Darcy would not be provoked into an argument. Not by this man. Not to defend these documents—the irrefutable evidence of his own father's deceit. A feeling somewhere beyond anger began to boil within him as yet another document was slid before him.
"I have enclosed a translation, of course."
Darcy tightened his grip on the edge of his chair as he finally raised his eyes to meet the storming grey glare of Hyatt Hadley. He was no longer surprised by the malice he found there, though he was no closer to understanding it.
This, Darcy thought to himself, is not the work of a moment.
However, he lacked the time or energy to follow this thought any further, as Colonel Fitzwilliam—ever the expert on abominable timing—suddenly burst through the doors to Darcy's study.
The Colonel cast a wide grin upon the room, belying his ever-pleasant disposition and—Darcy bitterly lamented—once again displaying a characteristic unawareness of the dire circumstances surrounding them.
How did this man make it through The Battle of Maida?
As the Colonel made his grand entrance, Mr. Hadley gathered the small pile of parchment from Darcy's desk and replaced it with a smooth, rounded calling card.
"I will take my leave now, Mr. Darcy. The card contains the information you will need to contact the appropriate parties." Hadley turned to bow to the Colonel as he made his way to the door. Darcy stood—his only response a menacing glower which cast a gloom over the room that not even the colonel could ignore.
Mr. Hadley opened the door himself, seemingly already at home in his surroundings. Darcy scowled.
"I will contact you within a sennight to discuss the details of our transaction, Mr. Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam, I bid you good day."
And with that, the gentleman turned and was gone from the room, gone from the house, gone from the neighborhood—but he remained firmly lodged in Darcy's tumultuous, disordered, violent thoughts—the sole living recipient of his burgeoning anger, though certainly not its principal object.
It was some moments before Darcy realized that Richard had moved to stand by his side, his hand gripping his shoulder.
"What has happened, Darce?" The Colonel urged in a low voice. "What brought Hadley here today?"
Richard Fitzwilliam nearly lost his own footing when Darcy turned to face him—revealing a countenance so grim and pale that it shook him to his very core.
"I hardly know why he has come, Richard," Darcy breathed in a voice so quiet he nearly failed to hear himself. "Though I suppose it would not matter if I did. The result remains regardless. It is lost. It is all lost."
"What is lost?" The Colonel demanded. "Cousin, you are speaking in riddles."
Darcy sank back into his chair and placed a hand over his eyes, his fingers rubbing the space which had begun to ache between his brow. He did not expect it would be remedied soon. He barely wished for it—at least the pain ensured him that what had come to pass was no dream. He would not wake from this nightmare. He could not wish Hyatt Hadley away. He could no longer imagine a future with… No, he could no longer imagine a future.
"Then let me be clear, Richard," Darcy rumbled back, his voice quaking. "Everything is lost."
The Colonel pulled a bottle of port from the sideboard and joined Darcy at his desk. He poured them both a glass as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. Though he remained perplexed by Hadley's visit and his cousin's visible distress, his characteristic blend of good humour and loyalty was not formed to expect adversity—only to face it when necessary. He handed his cousin a glass, took a deep drink from his own, and charged forward.
"Everything? Come Darcy, surely you cannot mean—"
"Yes, everything," Darcy whispered as he looked up to meet his cousin's now thoroughly bewildered mein. He took a deep breath, as if to steel himself for the next words he knew must fall from his lips—must make it all real to more than just himself. He did not wish to say it. He could not bear to say it. But say it he must. And so, he did.
"Everything," he repeated solemnly. "The Darcy name, the Darcy fortune, the Darcy… Pemberley, Richard."
The Colonel was aghast—as any sensible man would be. "It's not possible, Darcy! How can you even think such a thing?! Surely there must be—"
Fitzwilliam Darcy—son of George Darcy, master of Pemberley of Derbyshire, the great-nephew of a Duke, the grandson of an Earl, and the direct descent of enough French nobility to keep any Darcy from an English title for at least three more generations—raised a still hand to quiet his cousin.
"Pemberley is lost."