The rain was still pouring down the following morning. Not exactly favourable weather for a funeral, but that could not be helped: his father wouldn't keep – he had to be buried.
Two men from the workshop had fashioned a coffin, and the undergardiners had dug the grave – right next to his mother's.
And here he stood now with Reverend Emmett, unexpectedly in the centre of a crowd.
Mr Wickham and Twelvetrees, his father's valet, were among the men holding the ropes. The reverend was speaking, but Darcy found it impossible to focus. All these people around him – servants, tenants, and even some merchants and friends of his father's from Kympton and Lambton had gathered to see his father off. All of them people he – Fitzwilliam Darcy – was now directly or indirectly responsible for. For their welfare. Their livelihood. Their well-being.
What did they see? Did they see someone they would willingly entrust their lives to? Someone worthy of their respect, someone who inspired confidence in the future? Or what was more likely: was it the relatively unknown son of their beloved master they saw, green as grass and totally overwhelmed by the massive responsibility that had crashed down on his shoulders?
He tried to project the former, but he felt very much the latter. What reason did they have to trust him? He was practically a stranger: he had been away at school for the past ten years. He'd be lucky if they remembered him as a boy; he certainly did not recall many of their names or even what they did. And what with the general reputation students had, they would be wise to be wary of him. He would seriously have to earn their trust, their loyalty before they would really accept him as their landlord and master. Yet another task on his overflowing plate...
He glanced to the right, to the slight mound and the headstone of his mother's grave. It was nearly nine years ago that he had stood here with his father, at his own request. He hadn't made it home in time to say farewell in person; the least he could do was to be present at her funeral, even if he was fair young. The sun had been shining that morning. It had been just as wrong as today's rain. Maybe there just was no weather suitable for burying a beloved parent.
He tried to picture his mother in his mind: her golden hair, the big blue eyes, the radiant smile… Georgie really took after her; it was a shame she probably barely remembered her.
But he did. Not as vividly as before – memories had a way of fading over time. But he remembered her laugh, her smell, her piano playing, the loving way she looked at his father, at little Georgie, at him…
He swallowed with difficulty. Pemberley had been such a happy home when he was a child. But happiness had been lost when she died, far too young, turning the place into a tomb. His mother had often had to keep to her bed – it wasn't until later that he learned this had been a precaution whenever she was expecting: to avoid losing yet another child. She had already lost two before she managed to carry him to term, and several more before Georgiana was born prematurely, yet managed to survive thanks to the vigilance and loving care of her mother and her nurses.
And still… And still, despite all that grief, his mother had been full of love and happiness. Love and happiness she had shared freely with everyone around her, no matter their station. That was the kind of life he wanted. The kind of wife he wanted. And preferably one with a strong constitution, so she could give him a plethora of heirs who once and for all would eliminate the threat of extinction that currently hung over the Darcy family.
"Amen," Mr Emmett spoke, and Darcy started. He felt his cheeks flush – here he was at his father's funeral, and he couldn't even keep his thoughts on the man?!
"Sorry, Father," he mumbled.
Mr Emmett cast him a surprised glance, but then he nodded at the men holding the ropes.
This was it. Slowly, carefully, the coffin with his father's remains was lowered into the grave. Six foot under, right next to his beloved wife.
Darcy swallowed with difficulty as he watched the men retrieve the ropes. Someone placed a small spade in his hands. Without conscious thought, he shoveled a spadeful of wet sand into the hole, before handing the spade off to the person next to him.
It was done. His father was dead and buried, and his only consolation was, that after all these years, his parents were finally reunited. Surely they'd keep a careful watch over Georgie and him from above?
Though he would gladly give his right arm if at least one of them could have been at his side to help him cope with the yoke of being the master of Pemberley…
Back at the house, the kitchen staff had hot soup waiting for the mourners. Of course, that was customary after a funeral. But it made him feel awfully inadequate – shouldn't he have given the order for that?
"Come in everyone." Mrs Reynolds ushered everyone into the great hall. Maids were handing out the mugs of soup, that were gratefully accepted. Everyone was shivering after that wet ordeal outside.
"Come here, by the fire." Mrs Reynolds steered him with a firm hand towards the fireplace. "We can't have you getting sick now." She patted his hand encouragingly – she really had been like a surrogate mother for him all those years.
And there he stood now – soup in hand, accepting condolences from people he barely knew, but who henceforth were his tenants and his servants. So many of them, so many names to memorize…! He struggled to take each and every one of them in. Apparently, the strain was visible, for all of a sudden he heard Mr Wickham whisper by his ear that he need not worry about learning their names just yet. "They sure are important, but right now it can wait. We'll get to that later."
He let out a sigh of relief and cast a grateful glance over his shoulder. Mr Wickham was a rock – he knew the estate like the back of his hand. If he couldn't have his parents guiding him into this role, at least he had Mr Wickham at his back.
The first men were already beginning to leave to return to their jobs when Mrs Reynolds sidled up to him. "Mr Darcy, your sister is asking for you, if you can spare a moment. She is in the nursery."
He nodded, drained the last of his soup, and excused himself to the people around him.
The nursery was at the other end of the house. It was oppressive, he found, as he marched through the halls and the different rooms: so much space for just two people. 'Rattling around' was the only apt description for their living situation.
Up the stairs he went with a heavy tread. He was exhausted, and it wasn't even noon yet.
A knock, and he opened the door to the nursery. "Georgie?"
"Fitzwilliam!" She came flying at him, still dressed in her nightgown and dressing gown despite the late hour.
Awkwardly, he caught her in his arms. "What is wrong?"
The girl's eyes flashed as she pointed back at the mourning dress draped over a chair. "That is what's wrong! Look what they did to my favourite dress!"
Darcy frowned. "Why, what is wrong with it?"
"What's wrong with it?! It's supposed to be yellow, and now look at that hideous colour! I'm not wearing that – it's ugly!"
Over her head, Darcy raised an inquiring eyebrow at Ms Bosley, her nurse, who gestured in a resigned manner that she had tried all she could. And he sighed. "Georgie, listen to me. We're in mourning. It's a way of honouring the memory of our father. And to show that, for a while, you and I will only be wearing black and grey. So they dyed some of your dresses for the occasion."
She pushed him away. "I know that," she growled. "I'm not stupid, Fitzwilliam! But why this one? It was my favourite, and now look at it! It will never be the same again!"
"No, I suppose not." So what did she expect him to do about it? Maybe…? "What do you say we get you some new dresses once we come out of mourning?"
"But I want this one!" she whined on the brink of tears. "Papa always said…" She swallowed a sob. "He always said I looked like a ray of sunshine in this one." Suddenly the tears were streaming down her face again, and she buried it against his chest. "I want Papa back…" she wailed. "I want Papa…"
There was little else to do than to put his arms around her in a clumsy attempt to comfort her.
He couldn't cry.
He really could not cry; it was imperative that he stayed strong in front of his baby sister, but, "So do I, sweetie. So do I…"