Author's Note: This is the kind of story I've been looking for and asking around for in the past months - but nobody seems to be aware of the existence of anything of the kind. So I decided to try my hand at it myself.
But just to make one thing very clear: this is a prequel to the story we all know and love - no less, no more. The story will be following Darcy in the trials and tribulations of his early days of being the master of Pemberley, with the intention of staying as canon-compliant as possible. Therefore, there will be no mention whatsoever of people named Bennet, or anything connected to them; I intend to conclude the story long before Darcy ever sets foot in Meryton.
So if it's another happy ending for Darcy and Lizzy you are looking for, this is not a story for you. At least you have been warned...
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Master of Pemberley
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Urgent, almost frantic knocking on his door startled young Master Darcy out of his Socrates.
"What?!"
"Master Darcy, are you in?" came a hurried male voice through the door.
"Yes, I'm here." Darcy put down his book and crossed the room to open the door. "What is… Rogers?! What are you doing here?" He stiffened in realization. "Is something wrong at home? Come in. Please."
The bedraggled Darcy groom made a perfunctory bow before stepping across the threshold. And as he closed the door behind the man, Darcy urged him once more to share his news.
Rogers took a deep breath. "It's your father, sir. There was trouble with his heart, and he is weakening by the hour. Dr. Harris says…" He gulped. "Dr. Harris doesn't expect him to live much longer."
Darcy staggered back a step as if he'd been slapped in the face.
"And he's asking for you, sir. Your father, I mean. You should go right away; there is no guarantee how long he'll be able to hold on."
"Yes. Yes of course," Darcy stammered. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep calming breath. "Rogers, you should stay here a while and rest. Get a bite to eat. I'll set out for Pemberley directly. Andrews!"
His valet appeared, and Darcy quickly acquainted him with the situation. "Could you…?"
"I'll pack your things and follow you, sir. You should be on the road as soon as possible. I'll have a valise ready for you in five minutes."
"Thank you, Andrews." He was already in the process of putting on his riding boots.
"The coach is also on its way for you. If you stick to the usual route, you'll encounter it tomorrow," Rogers informed him.
Darcy nodded. He put his arms in the greatcoat Andrews held up for him, grabbed his cloak, his hat and his gloves, and the next moment he ran out the door to the stables.
The roads were serviceable at best – as one would expect in an English February. No snow to slow him down at least here in the Cambridge area, but how would it be further up north? Much as he felt the need to race home as fast as he could, he could not in all conscience put the other people on the road – or himself – at unnecessary risk. So he rode as fast as he felt was safe – all the while dreading this would turn out as a repeat from last time, but hoping, praying, beseeching the Lord that it would not.
Last time…
There was a succinct knock, and as the classroom door opened, all the boys got respectfully to their feet. It was the headmaster, Mr Hamilton-Poole. He nodded to Mr Dubois, their teacher, before addressing one student in particular.
"Master Darcy, a private word with you, please."
He felt his knees shaking as he stepped out of his bench and walked up to the front of the classroom. No one of course dared to utter a word in Mr Hamilton-Poole's presence, but he felt the other boys' stares on him – some pitying, some relieved, some curious – and some straight-out gloating. For they all knew what it meant to have a private word with their headmaster: Darcy was in trouble. Big trouble.
Darcy struggled to hold his head high. He wasn't aware of any serious infraction of the rules that he had committed. Which left him with only one explanation: George had been up to his tricks again, and had somehow managed to have him – Darcy – blamed for it. Again.
Mr Hamilton-Poole closed the door behind him, and then – to his surprise – laid an almost paternal hand on his shoulder to lead him along. "Master Darcy, your uncle is here and has requested to see you."
Somewhat flabbergasted by the unexpectedness, he echoed stupidly, "My uncle?"
"Yes. The Earl of Matlock."
"I know. I only have one uncle." Silence as he assimilated the news. "What does he want?"
The look the stern headmaster gave him was almost compassionate. "I believe he has some bad news."
They had reached one of the small private meeting rooms, and before Darcy could ask any more, Mr Hamilton-Poole knocked, opened the door right away, and ushered him in. "Your nephew as requested, my Lord."
Uncle Matlock turned around from facing the dreary courtyard. "Thank you, sir."
Once again, the door was closed behind him. And there he stood, with fear creeping up his spine like a chill. What happened?!
His uncle took a step towards him. "Darcy…" He had to clear his throat before he could continue. "Darcy my boy – it's your mother. You know she has been very frail these past years, don't you."
Darcy nodded numbly.
"She has recently taken a turn for the worse and… well, Dr. Harris does not expect her to live much longer. So your father has sent for you – to say your farewells."
Darcy swallowed with difficulty. "Is she… is she really that bad?"
His uncle nodded. "I've already sent your valet to pack a small trunk of necessities. I hope we will be on the road in a matter of minutes."
And so they were. Four grueling days on the road, wondering, worrying, and only stopping to change horses and when the dark made further travel too hazardous.
It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day that they finally, finally pulled up to the courtyard entrance of his home. He didn't wait for the steps to be put in place; he jumped straight out of the carriage and up the stairs.
A sombre Mrs Reynolds was waiting for him at the door.
"Where is Mother!" he all but demanded.
The housekeeper shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Master. She's already gone to stay with the Lord."
If he'd been but a few hours earlier, he would have been able to say goodbye. And now… Was history so cruel as to repeat itself?!
It was halfway the second day that he met the Darcy coach. He quickly held in his horse, and the coach stopped beside him.
"Any news?"
"No, sir. We set out at the same time as Rogers, so I'm afraid we don't have an update."
Darcy looked grim, and already made to spur on his horse again.
"Will you not rather ride in the coach?"
A terse shake of the head. "The horse is faster." And what he didn't say, was, "Besides, I cannot countenance sitting still with nothing to do but agonize about being too late again."
"Let at least one of the footmen ride with you."
To that, Darcy acquiesced. "But be quick about it."
And indeed, within minutes, both men took off again on the road north at as fast a speed as they dared.
It was another two days before they approached Pemberley: once again, in the afternoon of the fourth day, and in the pouring rain. If that was not a bad omen…
He rode right up to the entrance before jumping off and storming up the stairs.
In the door opening stood Mrs Reynolds. "Thank God you made it, sir!"
"My father?" he brought out anxiously as he swept off his soaked cloak.
"In his bedroom."
The cloak fell unceremoniously to the floor as Darcy ran up the stairs taking them two at a time. Down the corridor he ran, only skidding to a halt at the door to his father's room. A swift knock, someone – not his father – calling him in, and there he was: his father, pale as a ghost in his bed, with a teary Georgiana at his side, and Dr. Harris holding his wrist.
"Father," he croaked before crossing the room.
"Son."
The doctor stepped back as the old Mr Darcy made to reach out to his son.
Darcy grabbed his hand. And was shocked at how weak his father's grip was.
They looked at each other, intently, before the father took a difficult breath and whispered, "Doctor, I want to speak with my children. Alone."
"Yes, sir." Dr. Harris bowed and left the hot stuffy room.
The three of them were left alone in the room, with no other sound than the laborious breathing of the father.
"Father," Darcy at long last struggled out. "How are you?"
His father's eyes flashed for a moment with the old familiar chastisement. "Don't… waste my breath, boy." He closed his eyes for a moment, took in another difficult breath, another one, and then addressed his son and heir. His pride. "Son, Pemberley… is yours now…. Be the best master… and the best… landlord… that you can be." Drops of sweat pearled on his forehead as he wheezed for air.
"Of course, Father." Darcy squeezed the man's hand, but got no reaction.
It took several minutes for the man to catch his breath sufficiently to continue his last instructions. "Don't let your aunts… take Georgie… You and Richard… her guardians… Know you two… will be good… to her."
Darcy nodded mutely; his little sister on the other hand began to sob.
Her father's hand sought hers. "I love you, sweetie…" he wheezed. "Mind your brother now."
This set off the girl's tears for real, and Darcy awkwardly offered her his handkerchief.
"Son," his father demanded his attention again. "Help George… if you can… He only… has you now…"
Darcy couldn't quite help a slight grimace, but he dutifully nodded his assent.
"And son…" The man wheezed and struggled for breath constantly now.
"Yes, Father?"
"Find…"
Darcy had to lean forward to make out the breathless whisper.
"Find a wife you can love…"
With that, he took his most laborious breath yet – and became still.