Nephew,
I write to inform you that I shall attend Georgiana’s wedding. I trust suitable arrangements will be made at Darcy House for my accommodation. I shall arrive on the Friday preceding the ceremony and depart the day after.
Furthermore, I wish to see the child. It is time I meet my granddaughter. You will present her to me upon my arrival.
I remain, etc.
No enquiry after his health. No mention of Anne by name. No softening phrase, no courtesy beyond the bare scaffolding of the form. Lady Catherine did not request. She announced, and the world was expected to arrange itself accordingly.
Darcy set the letter on the desk and stared at it.
I wish to see the child.
His aunt had never laid eyes on Anne. She had not visited Cornwall while he waited there for the date of birth to become plausible to society. She had not come to London, nor asked for portraits, for reports, for any scrap of information about her granddaughter growing up. Whether this was grief or fury or something more complicated, Darcy had never determined. Lady Catherine did not explain her silences any more than she explained her demands.
Darcy pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The laughter from the nursery was still warm in his chest, and the letter on his desk was dismantling it word by word.
There was a sharp knock, and the door opened without waiting for an answer, which narrowed the possibilities to one.
“You are brooding.” Richard marched inside and dropped into the chair opposite the desk, stretching his legs. “I could hear it from the corridor. Your brooding has a frequency, Darcy. Dogs could detect it.”
Darcy did not dignify that with an answer. Instead, he said, “Read this.”
He pushed the letter across the desk. Richard picked it up, scanned it, and set it down. His expression did not change, but there was a steadiness, a weight in his eyes.
“Well.” He shrugged. “She was going to come eventually.”
“She wants to see Anne.”
“Yes. I read that part.”
“Richard.” Darcy’s voice was low, taut.
“So what?” Richard’s tone was mild. “She arranged the entire affair. It is time to meet the consequences.”
The silence between them cracked open. Seven years of shared knowledge carried without acknowledgement, the way they had carried everything since boyhood. Richard had been at Rosings. He had stood in the corridor while Lady Catherine issued her edict. He had watched Darcy emerge from Anne’s chambers, grey-faced and obedient, and he had said nothing, because there was nothing to say that would not have made it worse.
They had never spoken of it. Not once. He had come to Anne’s funeral in Cornwall, but they barely spoke. The truth about Anne—about the child, about the marriage, about allof it—had existed between them as a presence rather than a conversation. Acknowledged in glances. Understood in the things they did not discuss. The Fitzwilliam way.
Until now.
“She has a right, Darcy.” Richard’s voice was quiet. “Anne is her blood. Her daughter’s child. The only piece of her daughter left in the world. You cannot keep them apart.”
“I can try.”
“You cannot, and you know it. She will come whether you invite her or refuse her, and if she comes uninvited, you lose every advantage. Control the visit. Set the terms. Welcome her graciously and manage the situation from the inside.”
Darcy stood, crossed to the window and gripped the sill, his knuckles whitening against the painted wood.
“She ismine, Richard.” The words came out rough, scraped raw. “Not hers. Mine. I was there. I held her not long after she drew her first breath. I carved her a wooden horse because I did not know what else to do with my hands while I waited out the months until it was safe to bring her home. I have read every story, answered every question, weathered everywhy. I have been her father every single day of her life, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh does not get to walk into my house and claim her because ofblood.”
Richard did not flinch. He sat very still, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, and let the silence absorb it.
“No one is claiming her,” he said, after a moment. “Least of all Aunt Catherine. She is your daughter, Darcy. Legally, publicly, and in every way that matters. That will not changebecause an old woman wants to sit with the child and see her daughter’s face.”
Darcy’s grip on the sill loosened and his shoulders dropped a fraction.
Richard rose and crossed to the desk. He picked up a fresh sheet of paper and set it before the inkwell.