Chapter Text
May 1797
Charles Fitzwilliam, fifth Earl of Matlock, was in the midst of a passage d’amour with his mistress when the express rider arrived.
It was a beautiful spring afternoon, bedecked with green and warmed by a pleasant breeze. Matlock paid no attention to the pounding hooves of the messenger’s horse since Jenny’s pretty squeals deserved his full attention.
After a last grunt, the earl finished and sprawled on the lush red sheets. He looked at her through a haze of masculine self-satisfaction. Jenny grinned at him, and she was panting with her face still very red.
By Jove, he still had it.
Lord Matlock had only passed forty, and none of the disgusting and debilitating matters of health which had started to attack his contemporaries had yet touched him. It was his solemn duty to those poor souls to enjoy his vigor as fully as possible while it lasted.
Jenny leaned across him to reach the nightstand, supporting herself with one pretty hand on his stomach. Her movement gave him an eyeful of her full breasts. She was a damned good looking girl. It would only take him another ten minutes to be ready for a second turn about the bed.
She pulled a cigar from the green porcelain case on the bed stand. Then, lying across him, she cut and lit the fine cigar. Jenny handed it to him, and Matlock took the first pull of tobacco as the knock on the bedroom door sounded.
“Damnation.” Matlock filled his mouth with the mellow, flavorful smoke again as his valet cracked his knuckles against the oak door once more. “Jones, what is damned important enough to bother me?”
His man quietly opened the door, and a cold premonition snaked up and down Matlock’s spine destroying his genial mood.
Jenny pulled the satin sheets up around to hide herself, but Jones was too intent upon his task to pay attention to the naked girl. The black color surrounding the envelope proclaimed its significance.
Matlock felt the punch in his gut. Who this time?
Embossed into the wax sealing the letter was the Darcy seal.
No! Not the babe. Not Georgiana. Anne died bringing Georgiana into the world — the little girl had always been so robust since her birth.
Or…was it young Fitzwilliam?
Matlock ripped the paper of the envelope apart. The stiff letter was written in an unfamiliar hand. He stared blankly at it. Only a scattering of phrases popped out:
George Darcy… Shot himself… You were named the guardian.
Shot himself?
Anne’s death had broken him, but Matlock had never thought George might do this.
How could he do this to Fitzwilliam and Georgiana? Why hadn’t his love for his children kept him from murdering himself?
Anne was present in Georgiana’s face and chubby giggle. She was there in Fitzwilliam’s coloring and the dimples he showed when he smiled. Most of his face showed the Darcy traits, but those dimples were just like Anne’s happy smile.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Matlock stamped his cigar hard into the ashtray and swung his legs off the bed. Mr. Jones handed him his dressing robe and helped him fit his arms through it. Jenny had pulled herself up and sat with blankets pulled around her throat. She stared at him with sympathy.
Matlock paced the room as he read the letter more closely. Darcy had made a new will and left a suicide note with his lawyer before walking out into the woods to shoot himself. To avoid a scandal, the staff claimed it had been a hunting accident. Jones made a cautious half grunt, and Matlock saw the anxiousness on his valet’s face. The man had been with him since his university days and was nearly as fond of the children as Matlock himself.
“It was Mr. Darcy.”
Jones breathed out a soft, “Oh.” His expression was half sad and half relieved.
Jenny spoke from the plush, oversized bed, “It is awful — so soon after your sister, Lady Anne. Why would the Lord—”
“He shot himself.”
Matlock’s voice came out harsh and clipped. He looked between them and breathed heavily. He should not contradict the story about a hunting accident.
Damn him. Fitzwilliam loved his father. And having Darcy had been a little like still having Anne. They had been such close friends for so long. Matlock paced to window and looked out at the drowsy day which went on heedless of the fact that George Darcy had killed himself.
Suddenly Matlock punched a hole clear through the plaster. “Damn him! Damn him! God damn him!”
Matlock swallowed and collected himself.
Jones and Jenny stared at him. Jenny was wide eyed, while Jones’s expression shared his grief.
He peered at the letter again. The lawyer had sent no news to Fitzwilliam, thinking Matlock should decide how his nephew would be told.
He needed to tell Fitzwilliam that the father he adored had killed himself.
Matlock pulled in a deep breath; he let it out.
Just a few months before, when Darcy had been drunk, his brother-in-law confessed that he believed Anne’s death was God’s punishment for him not being a virgin at his wedding.
A disgusting idea — more irreligious than Matlock’s own suspicion that all religion was superstitious nonsense — to think that the Almighty would punish Anne for his behavior.
Matlock didn’t understand. Affection, caring deeply for another, wanting their happiness — he approved of that. The people we cared for were what made life worthwhile. Darcy had abandoned his friends, his children, himself because another fragile human had died, and he refused to go on without them.
Fitzwilliam must never be allowed to think that way. The boy was only thirteen, he could be influenced yet. With proper guidance, he would grow up to be a sensible gentleman who thought of sexual congress and women in reasonable terms.
Matlock would try to make sure the boy never fell in love. He would ensure Fitzwilliam kept a mistress as soon as he was old enough to want one, and he would make sure the boy knew that marrying for love was dangerous nonsense.
Anne would be so angry with George. Maybe the priests were right, and she lived on in some way. Maybe right now she was screaming at Darcy for his selfishness and stupidity. It was pleasant to pretend they still existed.
He’d been pacing for some minutes. Jenny had at last overcome her embarrassment and scooted into a dressing gown while Jones theatrically turned around so he could not see her.
“Jones, have them prepare the carriage. We shall set off immediately for Eton.”
His man bowed and went off.
Matlock turned to Jenny, who stroked her hand along his cheek and gave him a calming kiss. He pulled his mistress close to him and embraced her tightly. He needed to feel a warm, living body against his.
Darcy was dead.
They would never again enjoy a morning hunt. They would never again drink together late at night while laughing and slapping each other’s backs as the room spun. They would never subtly tease Cathy when visiting her and Sir Lewis again. They would never…be able to comfort each other in times of sadness.
His own children would miss their uncle greatly.
Jenny made cooing sounds, and he cried without embarrassment.
A phrase from Hamlet crossed his mind: “A’ was a man. Take him all in all. I’ll not see his like again.”
How could he have stopped Darcy? He should have known.
Jenny handed him a perfumed handkerchief, and he rubbed at his eyes. Nothing could be done now. He would always watch his friends closer when they suffered such a loss.
Life was short and beautiful, and his affection for others, even for Darcy, demanded he live as happily as he could. He must care for those still left.
“The story put about is that he died in a hunting accident. I fear I shall be much engaged in managing affairs. It will be some weeks before I see you again.”
She nodded, and Matlock kissed her quickly. He saw through the window that his carriage had been pulled around to the front and was near fully loaded.
What was he going to say to Fitzwilliam?