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Georgiana, his ten-year-old sister, spent a great deal of time with their father, going back and forth between Matlock House and her own; she was always such a sunny, cheerful little girl. Was she frightened? How aware was she of her beloved papa’s precarious health? Too young, too young.

Darcy felt much too young himself. He had been gradually assuming his father’s responsibilities regarding Pemberley and their other properties, but it was not until George Darcy had decided to remain in London, instead of attending to the many duties related to the harvest season, that Darcy had truly realised the possible extent of his father’s illness. How did one prepare for the loss of one’s sire, one’s greatest mentor, one’s closest ally? He had not. Instead, he had only thrown himself into the estate books, trying to glean a lifetime’s worth of experience in a few short months. When he had visited the month previous, it had been primarily to ask dozens of questions.

I ought to have simply cherished the time with him, he mourned.

He nearly held his breath as he turned the corner onto Grosvenor Square, the site of their London home, and sighed in relief. No black crape; no hatchment appeared above the door. By the time he entered his father’s bedroom, his hair still damp from washing off the road dust, he was beside himself with anxiety.

Darcy did not recognise the nurse who was sitting quietly at his father’s side; almost, he did not recognise his father. He had lost weight, when he had never been heavy, and his skin was so colourless, he was so still, that for a moment he did not appear to be breathing.

Papa, Papa. Oh, my dear papa.

His father’s loyal valet, Simpson, leant over and spoke softly in his father’s ear. His father’s eyes fluttered open, and they were still the same as ever, alert and forceful.

“Fitzwilliam,” he said softly. He held up a trembling hand, and Darcy took it.

Simpson said a word to the nurse, and they both quietly exited.

The lump in Darcy’s throat prevented speech.

“I am sorry to be leaving you and your sister so soon,” his father said, his voice more rasping than before. “It was not in my plans.”

Darcy gripped his hand, still unable to speak.

“I must tell you of a few changes I have made to my will in recent months, that require some…explanation. There is a copy of the document in my desk, and the original is with Barnes.” He named one of his chief solicitors.

Darcy nodded.

“Firstly, I have removed George Wickham from it, and terminated our relationship. You are never to allow him near Pemberley again. Or near anyone you care about, for that matter.”

“What?” Darcy could almost not believe his ears. He had hated George for a long, long while, but he knew his father had loved him almost like a son. There was no love in his voice now. “But—his father…”

“I have informed Cyril Wickham. He grieves, but he understood.”

“I am afraid that I do not.”

“It is not entirely necessary that you should. How long have you known he was a scoundrel?”

Hesitatingly, Darcy answered. “It has been many years since I could tolerate his company. I apologise, Father. I should have told you.”

George Darcy closed his eyes. “I am sure I did not make it easy,” he said, after a minute of silence. “I was so proud of the man I thought I had made of him.”

“You did nothing except grant him opportunities,” Darcy retorted. “It is his own fault that he has failed to profit from them. He still has his education, and if he is wise, he will yet make something of himself.”

“I beg leave to doubt,” his father replied. “But whether he does or does not is no longer my concern. I have washed my hands of him.”

For long moments he was silent, and Darcy wondered if his father had drifted off to sleep. His hand remained clasped about Darcy’s own, however. After a time, he spoke again.

“About Georgiana,” he said, and a tear trickled down his cheek. It nearly broke Darcy’s heart, knowing how much his father wished to live and raise his little girl. “She visited me this morning. I could not promise her to remain another day, even though she begged. I will not see her again, this side of heaven.”

Darcy kissed his father’s hand, trying to offer comfort when there was none to be had.

“I have removed Lord Matlock as her guardian. He is too fusty to properly deal with a young girl, especially one so sensitive as Georgiana. You are old enough now to see to her, and she adores you. I know you are young—and have much living to do yet, before settling down to a home and family. Therefore, I have designated both you and Colonel Fitzwilliam as her guardians, together. You two have always got on well, and if anything happens, God forbid, to either of you, her future will remain secure.”

Darcy nodded his agreement. “We will protect her.”

“Good, good.”

After several moments, his father’s grip loosened as he dozed. Darcy managed to pull a chair closer, to sit beside him without losing hold of that hand, feeling almost as if, should he release it, it would be the same as releasing his sire from Earth’s boundaries. The next time his father spoke, he did not open his eyes, as if the effort required was too much.