Author's Note: I don't know about you, but so far, I pictured Darcy in this story much as we know him from the screen, Colin Firth style. However, I did find that the Colin Firth from 1995 doesn't exactly look like a 22-year-old. So I went on youtube this week, and found some more appropriate role model material from a much younger Colin Firth: an interview from 1984 (where he must have been about 24 years old), and an entire movie from around the same time, Another Country, in which he played an older student in some boys' school like Eton. It helped me a lot with the way I picture him now in this story: a slender, almost lanky boy, who so far has *nothing* of the self-assurance of the Mr Darcy we know from Miss Austen's tales!

If you'd like to picture the young Darcy as I now see him before me in this story, I can recommend checking out those two videos!

Hm... Perhaps I should also go and look for snippets of a younger Anthony Calf and Emilia Fox then... not to mention Adrian Lukis...

.

Once they had finished with the will, Uncle Matlock and Mr Crawford had left Darcy and Fitzwilliam to take care of the business at hand. There were a lot of bequests for the servants that could be handed out right away, and they might as well get started.

But while Fitzwilliam sorted out the copies of the sections of the will that applied to the various servants, Darcy still hovered in front of his father's desk.

"Come on, Darce. Sit down. I'll call in…" Fitzwilliam stopped himself. "What is wrong?"

Darcy shook his head, almost as in a daze. "I can't sit down there, Fitz. It's Father's desk."

Fitzwilliam looked from the desk to his cousin and back, understanding dawning in his eyes. "No, Darcy," he spoke quietly. "This is the desk of the master of Pemberley. And that is you now."

Darcy shuddered, his eyes flitting from the revered desk to his cousin's face. "But…"

"No buts. You are the master of Pemberley now, and this is your study. With your desk. And painful though it may sound, you are going to have to chase your father's ghost out of here in order to claim this room as your own."

"But Mr Crawford suggested I could set up my study in any room I wanted."

"You could, yes. But even if you would turn this room into a shrine, you'd still have to violate it at every turn. For you need the books and the maps and the ledgers and I know not what in here in order to run Pemberley. And if you'd move those to another room entirely, this place would totally lose its character anyway."

Darcy looked only half convinced, even if he had to concede that his cousin had a point. "Then what do you suggest?"

Fitzwilliam looked around. "Rearrange the furniture? That should help."

"But the bequests…?"

"Can wait. Come on. Maybe the desk here off to the side, and those bookshelves in the corner behind it?" He already took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Unsure, Darcy looked around. "Should we not ask the servants to do that?"

Fitzwilliam gave him a hard stare. "Believe me, Darcy, there are some things in life that you need to do with your own hands." He began to push on the heavy oak desk, and Darcy reluctantly joined in the effort.

But he found Fitzwilliam was right: with every piece of furniture they moved, the room became less his father's study and more an exercise in interior decorating. It was actually quite exhilarating!

"There," Fitzwilliam said, once at last they were standing in the middle of the room, surveying the result. "Is that better?"

Darcy nodded, his eyes critically appraising the totally changed room. "Though I do think I want another painting there."

Fitzwilliam grinned, and immediately took down the disgraced artwork. "You can go hunting for another one later. But first: sit!"

"I'm not a dog," Darcy scoffed – but he still did as he was told without the slightest hesitation.

And – it was miraculously alright. He could now sit at this desk without feeling as if he was desecrating his father's sacred territory. True – it was not his desk yet, but surely that would come with time.

Fitzwilliam nodded at him, his face sporting a huge grin. "See you can do it? Now let's get those bequests out of the way."

"No, let's have a drink first," Darcy countered. "I think we deserve that."

A minute later found them languishing in the easy chairs by the window, each with a large brandy in hand, and with the bottle within easy reach.

It was Darcy who at last broke the companionable silence. "What are you going to do with your inheritance?"

Fitzwilliam shrugged a little. "Put it in the four percents, I guess. Or maybe invest it elsewhere – Father is bound to have some good tips for that."

"Not ready to hang up your bayonet yet?"

"And hang around doing nothing?" A shake of the head. "I wasn't born for idleness, Darce."

"You would be more than welcome here, helping me with the estate."

A vague smile. "You need to stand on your own two feet, Cousin. You'll be fine, I'm sure. Better let me fend for myself."

Darcy averted his eyes, and sipped from his brandy with a sense of disappointment. And dread. It really would have been so much better to have Fitzwilliam by his side in the herculean task ahead. Providing a sense of security in facing it all together. But in the long run, apparently it was not to be. His cousin wanted to be his own man. As he himself now had to be.

"The thing is," Fitzwilliam continued at last, "Your father is right: as a bachelor, I could live very well off those five thousand pounds. Still, if I ever marry, it would make for a rather spartan existence."

Darcy smirked involuntarily. "Coming from the man who boasts about being comfortable sleeping on rocks."

But Fitzwilliam remained serious. "I would want to provide my wife and children with some security and comfort, Darce. So I suppose I would still need an heiress of some sort – though perhaps not quite the huge dowry that I used to have in mind."

Darcy nodded. "Just know that you will always be welcome here."

"I know." Fitzwilliam raised his glass to him. "And thanks. I appreciate it."

Another silence ensued.

"How about you then?"

Darcy raised an eyebrow.

"There were no relatives of your father's mentioned in his will, so I assume there are none left. Or…?"

Darcy shook his head. "The last one was Aunt Amelia, Father's elder sister. But she died a couple of years ago. And to my knowledge, there are no others left alive."

"Just Georgie and you then, to carry on the Darcy name."

Darcy nodded and sighed, and Fitzwilliam grimaced in sympathy. "You're going to have to hit the marriage market once you're out of mourning."

"I know." Another sigh, this one of resignation.

"Or do you have a sweetheart waiting for you in Cambridge?"

Darcy merely shook his head.

Frowning, Fitzwilliam mulled the situation over for a while, until suddenly he put down his glass and leaned forward. "Cousin, can I give you some advice?"

"Always." The corner of his mouth tugged at a smile. "Though based on previous experiences, I cannot promise you that I will heed it."

But Fitzwilliam did not return the jest. "This time you had better. For your own good, Darcy, I am in earnest: finding a wife in your situation is going to be a nightmare. I've seen it with Stephen: you're going to be hunted down like a fox with a hundred hungry hounds on its trail. You may not be a viscount, but you're still the grandson and nephew of an earl. But more importantly: you are already in full control of your family's great fortune, and your estate is financially sound. No debts. Really, you'll have the entire ton after you: not just the eager young ladies, but also their mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts… Please, Darce, if you have a sensible bone in your body, don't ever attend anything without the company of a trusted friend who comes along with the sole purpose of watching your back. I guarantee you: you will regret it for the rest of your life if you don't."

Darcy had blanched a little under the fervour of his cousin's plea. "Is that what happened to Stephen?"

Stephen Fitzwilliam, the heir apparent to the Earl of Matlock, was several years older than his brother. Darcy had still been at Eton when he married. He had met the couple only once since, for due to the age difference, Stephen and he had never been very close. But from what he had heard, Stephen's marriage to the young, beautiful, rich and well-connected Lady Agnes was not a happy one.

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "Not quite. There were numerous close calls, yes. Very close ones in fact. Agnes however didn't exactly compromise him; ensnare is probably a better word for it. She was all sweetness and light during their courtship, but it didn't take them long afterwards to discover that they simply can't stand each other. She obviously only wanted him for his position, and not for himself." He grimaced. "Oh yes, she did her duty and gave him his heir and spare – and little Virginia. But she mostly lives in London nowadays, living her own life, while Stephen takes care of the estate. The children are with him; they rarely see their mother." He heaved a sigh. "It's much like Mother and Father really. I assure you, it's not a happy childhood that way. I'm ever so grateful that your parents let me stay at Pemberley for most of my school holidays. They showed me what family life could be like."

Darcy smiled at the memory, and suddenly he had to swallow. "Father told me…" he croaked. "He told me to find a wife I could love. It was the very last thing he said, before…" Another swallow.

"And so you shall," Fitzwilliam assured him. "As long as you bring along that trusted friend I was talking about when you hit the marriage mart. For even if every young lady in the country will want to marry you, it's your life, too. So don't let them make the decision for you."

At long last, they got around to the bequests for the staff. Mr Twelvetrees was the first to be summoned.

"Master Darcy," he bowed respectfully. "How can I be of service?"

Seated at the desk, Darcy's hand went to his collar to wipe away some sweat. Mr Twelvetrees was actually the most difficult case: his services were not needed anymore. "Erm… Mr Twelvetrees, my father has left you a bequest in his will." Fitzwilliam handed him the section in question, and Darcy read, "To my trusted valet, James Ian Twelvetrees, of the parish of Baslow, Derbyshire, I bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds, as well as a lifetime freehold on a cottage on Pemberley's grounds, should he – now or at a later date – wish to leave the service and settle down. Should there not be found suitable employment for him in the Pemberley household upon my passing, I hereby charge my son, Fitzwilliam George Darcy, to write him a glowing reference in my name, and to do everything in his power to assist Mr Twelvetrees in finding employment according to his wishes. Thank you, Mr Twelvetrees, for your many years of faithful service."

Mr Twelvetrees seemed to struggle a moment to retain his composure. "Thank you, sir. Your father was always a good and generous man. And a good master. I am honoured to have served him."

There was an awkward silence.

Fitzwilliam was the one to break it. "The thing is, Mr Twelvetrees, that Mr Darcy here already has a valet with whom he is more than satisfied. So I'm afraid that currently leaves you without a job."

Mr Twelvetrees nodded in understanding.

"Have you given any thought to your future, now that your master has passed away?"

Mr Twelvetrees cleared his throat. "Indeed I have, sir. Much as I love Pemberley and all its people, I would really prefer to work as a valet."

"I understand." Fitzwilliam looked at Darcy. After all, making the decisions was Darcy's job – not his.

Darcy shifted uneasily. "Yes. Um… I will write you that glowing reference of course, Mr Twelvetrees. I am not aware of anyone in need of a valet at this time, but I will keep an ear out. You, too, Fitzwilliam."

Fitzwilliam nodded. "Father might know someone who does."

"Yes. Indeed." Darcy seemed relieved. "Meanwhile, Mr Twelvetrees, you are welcome to stay in your quarters here at the manor until new employ for you can be arranged. Or… um… should we find you that cottage?"

Mr Twelvetrees was quick to negate that. "That will not be necessary at this time, sir. Though I am grateful to have a home to return to once I retire."

"Very well." Darcy handed him a check for one thousand pounds, together with a copy of the section of the will pertaining to his father's valet, and with a respectful bow, Mr Twelvetrees backed out of the room.

"Phew…" Darcy blew the hair off his forehead. "That was one."

"Only sixteen to go," Fitzwilliam announced blithely, which earned him a punch in the side from his cousin.

"Who is next?"

"Mrs Reynolds."

Darcy smiled. "Good old Reynolds." He rang the bell to summon the housekeeper, and soon, the lady appeared in the doorway.

"You rang, Master?"

"Yes, Mrs Reynolds. Please, come in."

She did as she was bid, and closed the door behind her.

This was easier, although – at Uncle Matlock's advice – there was one uneasy question he really ought to ask her as much as every other servant: whether or not she was willing to stay on. He really, really hoped that she would…

"Mrs Reynolds, I have called you up here because my father has left you a bequest. Shall I read it to you?"

"Yes, please, Master."

Darcy took the paper Fitzwilliam handed him. "To my trusted housekeeper, Mrs Dorothy Reynolds, of the parish of Kympton, Derbyshire, I bequeath the sum of two thousand pounds, as well as a lifetime freehold on a cottage on Pemberley's grounds, should she – now or at a later date – wish to leave the service and retire. Thank you, Mrs Reynolds, for a lifetime of wisdom and service to me and my family, and for being a surrogate mother to my children after the death of my dear wife. I do hope that you will be able and willing to stay on for a while, in order to help my son and possibly the new mistress to settle into their new role, but the choice is yours. Just know that you have been invaluable to my family, and for that, you have my eternal gratitude."

He looked up. Mrs Reynolds had tears in her eyes. "Mrs Reynolds…?"

The housekeeper stealthily dabbed her eyes. "Tis too much, Master."

"Nonsense," Fitzwilliam scoffed. "You are the glue that keeps this household together, Mrs Reynolds. Everybody knows that." He stepped in front of the petite lady and let his hands rest on her shoulders. "Besides, are you seriously going to deny your old master his last wish?!"

With a little laugh, she swatted his hands away. "Oh, you… Of course not. How could I? Only: I'm really not ready to retire yet, Master Fitzwilliam. I'm not that old. Besides, I can't leave the young Master here in the lurch, can I now."

Darcy let out a huge sigh of relief. "I am very glad to hear that, Mrs Reynolds."

She gave him a motherly smile. "Don't you worry, my boy." Her address was perhaps overly familiar for a mere servant, but no one in the Darcy household had ever objected to that. It just came with her role as the surrogate mother for the Darcy children, and the surrogate auntie for Fitzwilliam, whom she loved almost as much as Darcy and Georgiana.

"There was one other thing I wanted to ask you," Darcy continued.

"Yes, Master?"

Darcy seemed to collect his thoughts for a moment. "I have been away from home so much these past years, that I don't know half the servants by name. Or maybe I just don't recognize them anymore. Or I simply forgot. It's rather awkward. Could I perhaps come down to the kitchen, so you can introduce them all?"

Mrs Reynolds nodded. "Yes, I noticed. I need to discuss the staff with you anyway. Would on the morrow be convenient? After breakfast?"

Darcy nodded.

"Then I will expect you in the kitchen tomorrow." She smiled. "But I may have a solution for the name problem already."

Both Darcy and Fitzwilliam raised their eyebrows.

"What's that?" the latter inquired.

"You'll see." She turned to go.

"Mrs Reynolds!"

"Yes, Master?"

Darcy held out the check and her copy of the will. "Don't forget these."

She smiled bashfully. "You are too good, Master. Too good."

When they sat down to dinner that night, every servant in the room was wearing an improvised name tag.