Chapter 30

Pemberley, Derbyshire

Two and a half days after the invasion of his home, Darcy finally ventured into the passages to look for the South Sea gold. He asked Bingley to come with him, still somewhat guiltily wishing he had taken his friend into his confidence beforehand, and worried over losing his original confidante. Henry's condition remained as good as could be hoped for, but they were entering the time when they must worry about fever, and worry they all did.

Darcy was grateful for Bingley's presence, for death and danger seemed to linger within the passages. Perhaps because of his better natural cheer, or perhaps because his childhood friend and the man who had plagued his wife had not died here, Bingley seemed less affected by such things.

It was no difficulty to find the place where the boys had emerged, nor to push open the panel with their boots. What was exceedingly difficult was for two grown men to lie down upon the floor and crawl through the opened panel. At his height, Darcy struggled more, but both of them emerged awkwardly into a little room, coughing from the dust they had roused up. Bingley rose first, lifting his lantern from the floor. Darcy followed, illuminating two wooden chests on the opposite wall. Some combination of time, damp, and vermin had affected one of them, leaving a substantial hole near the bottom. Spilling from that hole were golden guineas.

Darcy sighed. There had been two possibilities that could have led to the boys finding a the guineas in this space. One was that the entirety of the fortune was still within, and the other was that it had been spent over the years, but some few coins remained and had been found by the boys. When he and Bingley tested the weight of the intact chest, it was clear the fortune was still here in its entirety.

The chests were heavy, but not too much for the two of them to carry them back to Darcy's study, flipping the damaged chest upside down and dropping the loose coins back within before they did so. Both chests were locked, but the intact one was not much stronger than its brethren, and easily enough breached with a fire poker, a golden stream pouring forth onto the study floor.

"Good God," stated Bingley. "How much is it supposed to be?"

"Sixty-two thousand," said Darcy.

"It will take days to count it, and I do not even want to contemplate how you might get it all down to your London bank."

"I will deposit some of it locally, at least for now. The study door will certainly need to be locked at all times until it is dealt with."

"You could always put it back in its hiding place, once you verify how much is here."

Darcy brushed at the shoulders of his coat, where a layer of dust seemed to have taken up permanent residence. "Nay, I have no wish to return it to that room, to be forgotten for another few generations. I intend to put it to better use. And as for counting it, I have a thought for who might be my best assistant in such endeavours.

That assistant was little William, with little Henry added on to aid him when it was determined the younger boy could effectively count to ten. Together, they counted out piles of ten guineas each, and then when they had ten piles of ten, they merged them into a pile of one hundred. Once they got to ten piles of one hundred, they called their father over so that a thousand guineas could be dropped into one of the bags that had been sewn by the maids for this purpose.

It took a very long time, of course, for two little boys to count out what did indeed turn out to be sixty-two thousand guineas, but it was clear they enjoyed being given such an important task, and went about it with care and pride. Darcy smiled, to watch them, his dear little careful boys. They were working with no other motivation than knowing it was an important task for their papa – and, perhaps, the very real appeal for boys their age of touching so many shining coins – but he determined he would give them some sort of goodly reward for this. Perhaps a trip to the store in Matlock where they might choose their own toys, funded by some of these guineas.

As for their mother, Darcy knew he needed to tell her of the fortune, although it was a conversation likely to prove painful for the both of them. That first evening after he had moved the guineas into his study with Bingley, he waited until they had retired for bed and were lying there, Elizabeth nestled within his arms.

"Elizabeth, I went with Bingley today to check the room the boys discovered, to see if the South Sea fortune was within. It appears that it was – it will be some time before we can verify the amount, but it does appear that the full sixty-two thousand pounds was within."

She sighed. "I do not know if I feel better or worse, to have it confirmed that what Neston sought was legitimate."

Her voice was thick as she spoke, and Darcy wondered whether it was the action she had been forced to take within the passages or the marriage to Neston itself that troubled her. He tightened his arms about her and kissed her forehead, hoping to comfort her and yet knowing his comfort might not be enough. Perhaps it was inevitable that she should see a return of her nightmares after such an event, but Darcy wished they had not come back, wished everything that had led to them could have come out differently so there was nothing to trouble Elizabeth's dreams.


While the little boys were counting guineas, they all continued to look after Henry, watching his slow improvement. All of his family came to spend some portion of the day with him, but it was the Colbournes and Kitty Bennet who were his most faithful nurses.

Georgiana's life had changed drastically since she had first committed to Kitty that she would help ensure there was a chaperone present when she was in Henry's bedchamber, but she did not renege on her commitment. Instead, the two women were to be found sitting in chairs by his bedside, Georgiana holding baby Julia or smiling down at the child as she slept in a basket by her feet. When Henry was awake – spans of time that thankfully grew longer and longer – they would ensure he had his sustenance and laudanum, and then Kitty would read to them all. She had started with some of her favourite histories, but upon finding that she had put the entirety of the room to sleep – the general, the lady, and the baby – she had gone back to the library for a novel, which was more suspenseful and therefore more engaging for her audience.

Henry greatly enjoyed listening to her read, watching her close concentration and the illumination of her face as she made her way through an enlivening passage. Sometimes, she would raise her eyes for a moment and catch his, and in that moment it was possible to forget about his pain, to just give himself over to adoration of the young lady before him. And he did adore Kitty Bennet. It was an adoration he would not have reached so soon without his injury, but her apparent care for his welfare, her kind and pretty countenance, and her sweet, smooth voice had captured a heart that had not much else to do but endeavour to fall in love and not succumb to an infection from the knife blade that had come so dangerously close to its beating presence. It was an adoration he might not have reached so quickly without realising that her own affections were engaged – a young lady did not spend so much time as she had, did not look at a man with such impassioned concern, unless she cared for him with something far beyond familial friendship.

Georgiana and Philip were diligent about chaperoning them; if they had not been, Henry wondered if he might have made a declaration by now. Perhaps it was for the best that they did – he felt his affections to be true, but did not wish to speak of them under the effect of so much laudanum. Nor was Henry happy about having to consume so much laudanum, but the pain was nearly unbearable even with the draughts that coursed through his humours. It was going to be a long, difficult recovery, and he could only be grateful that it would be made with Kitty as one of his nurses.

She was reading to them at present, and Henry focused on the pleasures of watching her do so rather than the pain of his wounds. The door to his bedchamber was always kept open, with maids and footmen entering and leaving throughout the day and night to replenish the supply of broth, laudanum, clean bandages and the like. So their first notice of an unusual visitor came when Kitty glanced at the doorway, standing abruptly and curtsying so nervously she dropped the book upon the floor. Henry then turned his own attention to the doorway.

"Papa!" he cried, wincing at the pain of speaking with such force. For standing there in the doorway, looking exhausted and dishevelled from the road, was his father. Standing there with tears brimming in his eyes and leaning so heavily on his cane that Henry worried for him, and longed to be able to stand and assist him. Tindall did the office instead, gently guiding the earl towards the bed and the chair Georgiana had by now vacated there.

"Henry, my God, my poor Henry," was all his father said as he sank wearily into the chair. The others left them quietly, a click signalling that someone had closed the door.

"It hurts a great deal, papa," Henry said, "but Allen was optimistic that I could make a full recovery, so long as there is no fever. And we are reaching the time where fever should be less of a concern. It will be a long time before I am well, but I do think it likely that I will be well again."

His father sobbed – sobbed! – and laid his head down on the bed beside Henry. "I feared I was going to lose you. The whole drive here, ever since I received Darcy's letter, I feared I was going to lose you."

It still hurt too much for Henry to move his left arm, but thankfully papa was seated on his right side, and he raised his hand and laid it upon his father's head. He hated that his father had been afflicted with such worry, had felt compelled to make such a wearying journey so soon after he had returned to town. And yet he was humbled that his father had done so and grateful for such evident affection.

Eventually, his father raised his head and wiped at his eyes. "Please forgive an old man for such a display."

"There is nothing to forgive, papa," Henry said, his own voice cracking.

Papa smiled weakly through his tears. "It seems you are ably nursed, but I have brought you additional assistance. Mr. Kent has come with me, to aid you in your recovery."

"I am grateful to have him here, but what of Bow Street, papa? I cannot think they would appreciate his absence so soon after he started there."

"Officially, he is here as part of his investigation," said papa. "However, there are things we should speak of, if you are well enough for it."

Henry replied that he was.

"I fear you and I have not been entirely forthright with each other, Henry, resulting in consequences I could never have fathomed. You could have told me more of Kent's situation – why he wished to become a Runner."

Henry swallowed. His father's chastisement was gentle, yet still he felt it. "I did not wish to make it seem as though I was complaining over my lot. You have already been very generous, to a second son."

"I have never given you more than you deserved, Henry. In truth what you have received – so far – is far less. I do not want Kent to continue with Bow Street. I want him to train with Faraby so that he can eventually replace him as Willicot's steward."

"Papa, no – to have him work under Ashbourne – "

"Let me finish, Henry. I told you we had both not been entirely forthright with each other. Kent should replace Faraby as Willicot's steward so that you have a trusted man in place when you inherit the estate."

For a moment it felt as though Henry had fallen through the bed, as though his entire body had dropped to the floor. Inherit? Willicot? It could not be.

"I had my will changed some years ago, to leave you everything save a small stipend for Ashbourne. I want to ensure you know now, before – before events to come. I did not tell you because I feared it would corrupt you as it had Ashbourne. It was nonsensical of me, I know – a man in his thirties is set enough in his character, and your character is excellent."

"When you told me I could marry for love – that was what you meant. I do not need a wife with a substantial dowry," Henry said, feeling his heart soar. To take up a life with Kitty as master and mistress of Willicot seemed an impossible dream.

"Which is for the best, I think. I observed you and Miss Bennet, before she noticed me. I saw the way the two of you looked at each other. I will admit I had not been thinking you would find love so readily within the family."

"You think the lady returns my affections?" Henry asked.

"'Tis not for me to tell you that, it is for her to do so. However, you might consider why my presence discomfited her so substantially."

Henry grinned. "I am perhaps getting ahead of myself, for I will not be ready to meet any young ladies at the altar for quite some time. I must ask, though – if I offer for Miss Bennet, will you support the match?"

"I am a man of my word, Henry. I told you to find a woman you loved, and if you have done that, you will have my full support. As for Miss Bennet herself, she seems to be a kind, pretty sort of girl, and she read delightfully until she noticed me."

"May I tell her of my true expectations?"

"It is not likely that will be necessary."

"I do not understand you, papa."

The earl's eyes filled with tears again. "I do not need for you to tell me that you cannot remember who it was that stabbed you, for this conversation would have been of a very different tenor if you did. Now you know who would have had motive to do so, though."

The pain was too unbearable to go without it, but the laudanum had noticeably stilted Henry's mind since he had been stabbed, and it was some effort to follow his father's insinuation. "Ashbourne," he whispered, and it all gradually came to make sense – not just the events of that awful night, but what had come before it. The fire at the inn, the carriage accident, Lucinda's missing shoe: it had not been Neston, trying to harm the Darcys; it had been Henry's brother, attempting to restore the inheritance to himself. With this realisation, he forced his mind back to that night, to standing there in the moonlight by the window, and he remembered. "Ashbourne," he whispered again. "I remember, papa."

The earl nodded. "He slipped several times, when last we spoke. I knew he was the one who did this to you. He must have learned of the changes to my will – I expect through that Wickham fellow. I wish deeply that I had told you of your inheritance. You had no idea your own brother bore such ill will towards you."

"What is done is done, papa. I am likely to recover."

"You could very well have died, Henry. By the grace of God you were spared, but Ashbourne very nearly took you from me. He will pay for what he has done, but not in a court of law."

"Papa, what have you done?"

"I did what was right and necessary for this family. You may ask me more on this subject, but I shall not answer," said the earl. "It might be for the best if you continue to forget who it was that did this to you."

Henry stared at his father. He ought to have felt his respect for the man diminish, to hear what could only be his father's acting as judge, jury, and executioner where his elder brother was concerned, punishing an attempted murder with actual murder. And yet he could not. His father had acted under the laws of God, if not the laws of man, and moreover Henry's affection for the man was just too strong. Papa had done this in his defence. Papa had done this out of love for him. So instead he gazed at his father's countenance and said merely,

"I am glad you are here, papa. I know the toll that journey must have taken on you, but still, I am glad you are come."

"There is nothing I would not do for you, Henry," papa said, and Henry felt the truth of these words fully.