Revised Reclamation - Chapter 29 -32

New subscribers, you can start reading from Chapter 1

Hi Everyone! Thanks for all the suggestions. As always, I look forward to reading your comments. ;o)

Sorry for the late post. OMG, it’s Saturday already! I’ve been working on this for the past seven hours with a short dinner break. Hopefully, many redundancies are gone. Plus, I’ve got Mr. Jones into Matlock House. o)

Please let me know if this longer chapter is more suitable for everyone’s taste. I’m trying to get to the finish line… that HEA everyone wants to see for ODC, especially Anne de Bourgh.

Finally, for new subscribers: I’m reading your comments on earlier chapters, and once this draft is complete, I'll re-read all comments and incorporate as many feasible suggestions as possible into the final draft before sending out ARCs. I’ll let everyone know how to receive an ARC soon.

---

Chapter 29

June 27, 1812 – London, Darcy House

Darcy House was hushed in the early hours, servants moving with deliberate quiet out of respect for their master’s mood. In his study, Darcy broke the seal of a letter that had just been delivered by express. A summer breeze lifted the curtains, but he scarcely noticed.

Richard entered, still in his riding clothes, brushing dust from his breeches. “You have news?”

Darcy handed him the page. “From Mr. Jones. He will attend upon Anne tomorrow, and he requires that the interview be private.”

Richard’s brows lifted. “So soon? Good. The fewer days Aunt Catherine has to rally herself against us, the better. My father will contrive to keep her occupied while the solicitor is in attendance. We need only stand ready to lend Anne courage.”

Darcy folded the letter with care. “Courage is what she has lacked longest. When Georgiana and I saw her, she clung to us as if afraid we might vanish. I believe Elizabeth’s kindness in Kent first gave her strength when little else did.”

Richard’s keen glance did not miss the softened tone. “Elizabeth again,” he said lightly, though not without sympathy. “She bore the news well yesterday. And I daresay she looks upon you with something warmer than civility.”

Darcy’s silence spoke more than denial would have. Richard only smiled faintly. “Patience, cousin. Anne’s affairs must come first, but do not doubt yourself entirely.”

The butler appeared to announce the carriage. Together, the cousins joined Georgiana, who was waiting for them in the foyer.

June 27, 1812 – London, Gracechurch Street

At Gracechurch Street, the bustle of Cheapside gave way to the calm order of the Gardiners’ home. Elizabeth, Jane, and Mrs. Gardiner rose at once. Elizabeth’s eyes sought Darcy’s, reading the confirmation in his expression.

“You have heard from the solicitor,” she said softly.

Darcy inclined his head. “Yes. Mr. Jones will meet with Anne tomorrow. He promises she may speak without obstruction.”

Elizabeth’s shoulders eased. “Then she is at last to have her voice. That is more than I dared hope.”

Jane added, serene as ever, “It will comfort her greatly to know she is supported.”

Mrs. Gardiner set aside her sewing. “Poor Miss de Bourgh. This step may grant her peace in her final months. You and Colonel Fitzwilliam have done well.”

Richard, standing near Jane, gave a brisk nod. “My father will see that Lady Catherine is kept far away. Darcy and I will sit with Anne so she does not meet Mr. Jones alone. Once her wishes are written and witnessed, no one, however formidable, can undo them.”

Elizabeth’s eyes warmed at his words, then returned to Darcy. “She is fortunate indeed in her cousins’ fidelity.” Her voice carried an undertone Darcy did not mistake, and for a moment her gaze lingered with a softness that unsettled his composure more than any reproach could.

Georgiana, seated beside Jane, turned her face toward Elizabeth and spoke with shy earnestness. “Anne smiled when your name was mentioned. It was as though the remembrance gave her courage.”

Elizabeth blushed faintly but held Georgiana’s gaze. “We shall all do what we can for her.”

A thoughtful silence followed, the noise of the street seeming far away. When Mr. Gardiner entered, his glance fell upon the letter in Darcy’s hand.

“The solicitor has answered?”

Darcy laid it upon the table. “He comes tomorrow. The arrangements are secure.”

Mr. Gardiner’s satisfaction was grave. “Then let us be thankful. Miss de Bourgh’s voice shall not be stifled. Justice, though delayed, may yet be done.”

The weight in the room lifted somewhat; conversation turned gently to lighter topics. Georgiana laughed softly at something Jane observed, Richard drew a smile from Jane with one of his anecdotes, and Darcy, watching Elizabeth’s countenance brighten, felt for the first time in weeks that hope might coexist with duty.

When they departed, Mrs. Gardiner pressed Georgiana’s hand kindly. At the door, Mr. Gardiner drew Darcy aside. “You go now to Matlock House?”

Darcy inclined his head. “Yes. Without my uncle’s authority, Catherine will overbear every attempt to keep her away during the solicitor’s visit. With it, Anne may speak without fear.”

Mr. Gardiner laid a hand on his arm. “Then go with all speed. Just remember that there are two young ladies here whose futures may yet be entwined with you and Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“You have my word, sir,” Darcy replied gravely.

June 27, 1812 – London, Matlock House

The carriage rolled westward, silence falling among the cousins until Grosvenor Square came into view. Georgiana watched the passing streets with quiet concern, Richard’s finger tapped restlessly against the seat, and Darcy gazed outward, intent on the task ahead.

At Matlock House, ivy softened the stone façade, and flowers bloomed beneath the windows in large boxes. Within the library, Lord Matlock stood by the hearth, commanding in his presence, while Lady Matlock regarded them with warm composure.

“You have come quickly,” the earl said. “I trust the matter admits no delay.”

“None, my lord,” Darcy answered. “Anne worsens daily. The solicitor comes tomorrow, but unless Lady Catherine is prevented from interfering, all may be undone.”

Lady Matlock’s brow furrowed. “Poor child. She has lived too long in her mother’s shadow.”

Richard stepped forward. “We need your authority, Father. Aunt Catherine will crush any attempt at privacy if unchecked. With your cooperation, there is hope to exclude her from the interview.”

The earl’s tone was resolute. “Very well. You shall have it. If Catherine seeks to enter the room, she will find herself opposed. Anne shall speak with Mr. Jones, and what she declares will stand.”

Relief softened Darcy’s stern features. Georgiana exhaled, and Lady Matlock pressed her hand gently. “Then it is settled,” the countess said. “Tomorrow we go to Anne. Catherine shall be detained. For now, let us visit Anne. She must be informed of Mr. Jonde’s visit.”

Anne received them propped upon her pillows, frailer than before yet alight with fragile animation.

Richard drew up a chair and took her hand. “We bring better news than you have had in years. Mr. Jones will wait upon you tomorrow. You shall receive a visit tomorrow afternoon from Mr. Jones, and we will see that no one prevents you from speaking your mind.”

Tears brightened her eyes. “Tomorrow… I scarcely thought such a time would come. And Mama… she does not know?”

Lady Matlock bent close, voice firm but tender. “She shall learn only when it is too late to undo it.”

Anne gave a tremulous laugh. “Then at last Rosings is mine—and not hers alone.” Her gaze turned to Darcy. “Tell me, did Elizabeth Bennet believe me too weak to act?”

Darcy stepped nearer. “Miss Elizabeth thought you were kind and undeservedly overlooked. She insisted that I help you. It is for her sake, too, that I am resolved you shall have justice.”

Anne’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “You speak her name with such care, Fitzwilliam. When will you confess you love her?”

Color rose to his cheek, though he did not flinch. “Anne…”

“Do not trouble to deny it,” she said gently. “If you would make me happy, you would not let pride hold you back. Speak your feelings before it is too late. If you purchase a special license, it might be possible for me to attend your wedding. Come to think of it, get a special license for Richard, too. Then you can have a double wedding here and a wedding breakfast, too!”

Richard leaned forward with mock severity. “Is this your new sport—teasing us about matters of the heart?”

Anne’s faint laugh held rare playfulness. “And why not? Georgiana told me of your dream about Miss Bennet, Richard. Will you never admit you have found a lady who tames even your boisterous ways?”

Richard flushed, laughing. “I see I must guard my tongue in your presence, Georgiana. Otherwise, you will repeat my words to everyone.”

Ignoring Richard, Georgiana pressed Anne’s hand with warmth. “You see everything clearly, Anne. And you are fearless.”

“Not fearless,” Anne whispered. “Only weary of silence. Promise me, all of you, that you will all marry only for love. No fortune, no pride, no command of others must dictate your happiness.”

Darcy bowed his head. “You have my promise.” Georgiana whispered, “And mine.”

Richard added softly, “Of course. And if my parents agree, I’ll do my best to win Miss Bennet’s heart and have a private wedding here so you may attend it.”

Anne’s eyelids fluttered, but peace suffused her features. “Then I can rest easier, knowing some happiness may come to my life after all.”

The chamber grew hushed, sacred in its stillness.

June 27, 1812 – London, Darcy House

Later that evening at Darcy House, the cousins met in the parlor; a quiet Georgiana sat on a comfortable armchair. Darcy sprawled his body on a chaise, holding a glass of brandy. Richard paced, glass in hand. “It will not do. If Aunt Catherine is in the house when Jones arrives, she will intrude. We must prevent it.”

Darcy replied steadily, “Uncle has promised to summon her to his study after breakfast, offering her tea laced with laudanum. She will sleep until dinner if the dose is exact. By then, Anne’s wishes will be secured.”

Georgiana clasped her hands. “And if she wakes early? She knows when she is excluded.”

“Then Richard and I will contrive a diversion,” Darcy assured her. “Mr. Jones will work swiftly.”

Richard gave a dry laugh. “The man will need more courage to deal with an angry Catherine than ever he did in court.”

Georgiana’s lips curved despite herself. “If Anne’s business is complete, it will be worth it.”

Darcy raised his glass. “Then to Anne’s freedom.”

They drank together, silence heavy with hope and dread. Later, when Georgiana retired, Richard fixed Darcy with a frank look.

“Well, cousin,” he said, “shall we speak of the ladies who occupy our thoughts? Jane Bennet listens with patience, and her smile undoes me. And Elizabeth… she looks at you with more than kindness.”

Darcy turned to the window. “Her manner has changed, but I will not mistake a kind look for regard. I will not press her until I am certain. I do not think I can survive another rejection.”

Richard shrugged. “Certainty is a rare luxury in love. You need only see how she forgets herself when she looks at you. As for Jane, I think I’ve won her heart.”

Darcy faced him again. “Then we must both wait for the right moment. Anne’s affairs must come first. If providence grants us the chance, happiness may follow. Perhaps we may have that double wedding Anne hopes to see.”

Richard lifted his glass. “To the two ladies who may yet make us the happiest of men.”

Darcy inclined his head, though his thoughts strayed to Elizabeth’s steady gaze, her hand upon his arm, and her delightful laugh.

When Richard finished his drink, he clapped a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Rest, cousin. Tomorrow we fight a different sort of battle.”

Darcy nodded. “We must meet it clear-minded.”

Alone in the parlor, Darcy stood long in thought reflecting on Anne’s fragile courage and Elizabeth’s quiet strength… before extinguishing the candles and retiring.

June 28, 1812 – London, Darcy House

Morning light fell in pale beams across the polished floors, stirring the household to life. Servants moved with hushed efficiency; the carriage was ordered to stand ready. In the breakfast room, Georgiana sat beside her brother, her tea scarcely touched. Richard consumed his meal with brisk appetite, though the rhythm of his knife against the plate betrayed his restlessness.

Darcy unfolded Mr. Jones’s reply once more, though he knew it by heart. “He will attend Anne at two o’clock today,” he said at last, laying the letter aside. “He promises discretion and dispatch.”

Richard leaned back, cradling his coffee cup. “Then all rests upon our plan to drug Catherine. If Father succeeds in keeping Aunt Catherine asleep, Mr. Jones will have the time he requires.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “He will succeed. He knows what is at stake.”

Georgiana lifted her gaze. “And if she should wake before the interview is concluded?”

Richard gave a wry laugh. “Then your brother and I must be quick upon our feet. We will lock her away if necessary.”

Darcy turned to Georgiana with gentleness. “Do not distress yourself, Moppet. Whatever happens, we will do our best to protect Anne’s privacy. She must not go to her grave without a last will and testament.”

Georgiana pressed her brother’s hand lightly. “Then I will pray for success.”

For a time, silence reigned, broken only by the faint chime of the mantel clock. Darcy rose. “It is settled. We go to Matlock House after breakfast and speak with your parents. I have an idea that will distract Aunt Catherine from everything but her anger for a while. Your mother will have no trouble pressing a glass of laudanum laced wine or tea on our aunt.”

Richard stood, his bearing grave. “Then let us be about it.”

Within the hour, the two men were cloaked and booted, Georgiana bidding them farewell from the doorway. The carriage rolled out from Grosvenor Square toward Matlock House.

Chapter 30

June 28, 1812 – London, Matlock House

The great entrance door of Matlock House closed with a sonorous thud behind Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, shutting out the bustle of Mayfair. Within, the hush of polished oak wainscoting and marble floor tiles lent the place an air of solemnity, befitting the importance of their errand. A footman led them directly to the study, where the Earl and Countess awaited.

Lord Matlock stood at the empty hearth, hands clasped behind his back in a posture of quiet command. Lady Matlock, serene as ever, sat by the window with her embroidery frame, though her needle lay idle in the fabric. Both greeted their kin warmly.

“My boys,” the earl said, clasping their hands in turn. “You have come in good time. Catherine is restless already. We must set our stratagem in motion quickly.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Mr. Jones arrives at two. Anne is prepared for him, but her mother must be kept far from her chamber until the business is concluded.”

Lady Matlock’s calm eyes flicked toward her husband. “Leave Catherine to me. The tea is steeping already. I have placed the laudanum in her favorite cup. Once I add the tea, she will drink it. If she manages to remain awake, I shall lure her into my sitting room to discuss alterations to the decor. She will be caught between thoughts of upholstery and the effects of laudanum… silent at last.”

Richard allowed himself a crooked smile. “I almost pity you, Mother. Enduring Aunt Catherine’s opinions on curtains may be the highest sacrifice of the day.”

The countess’s lips curved faintly. “I have endured worse for less cause. Today’s plans shall not be lost for want of patience.”

They drew nearer the long table, speaking in low tones. The study door had been left ajar at Lady Matlock’s suggestion—it gave the appearance of openness, while ensuring that if a servant passed, overheard words would sound like innocent family talk once their voices were raised.

Darcy, frowning slightly, spoke with uncharacteristic hesitation. “There is another matter, Uncle, which must soon be faced. Yesterday, Anne urged me not to delay; she spoke of Miss Elizabeth and her wish to see us wed.

Lord Matlock gazed appraisingly at Darcy and replied, ”I have long suspected your heart lay there, Fitzwilliam. You must bring her to me, and her sister too. Jane, is it not? The one who occupies Richard’s thoughts.”

Richard flushed, though he did not deny it. The earl chuckled, clapping his son’s shoulder. “So! The cousins of Pemberley and Matlock were caught by the Bennet sisters. A fine symmetry to it. You will be brothers if all goes well!”

Lady Matlock pressed gently onward, her eyes alight. “Let us speak plainly. These young ladies must be seen with us at once. I propose Tuesday next. You will bring them to tea. On Wednesday and Thursday, I shall take them with me on morning calls, to the park on Friday, to a dinner party on Saturday, and to the theater the week after. The world will have no doubt of our approbation.”

The earl nodded. “Excellent. That shall silence the tongues before they wag.”

Darcy shifted, color rising in his cheek. But before he could reply, the change of light upon the floor outside the door drew his eye. The unmistakable silhouette of a lady’s skirts stretched long across the threshold.

Darcy’s gaze hardened. “We have a listener,” he murmured.

Richard glanced swiftly toward the door, soldier’s instinct alert. “And who but Catherine herself would stoop so low?”

At once, Lady Matlock raised her voice deliberately. “Then it is settled. Tuesday next, we shall meet Miss Bennet and her sister. Soon after, they shall be seen with me in public, under the full sanction of this family.”

The earl added firmly, “So be it. Let it be understood that the House of Matlock embraces these unions.”

The words had scarcely left his lips when the door burst open with a crash. Lady Catherine stormed into the room, her countenance dark as thunder, her complexion mottled purple with rage.

“How dare you!” she cried, her voice shrill enough to rattle the windowpanes. “Plotting marriages in secret… against my wishes, against decency! Fitzwilliam, you betray me! And you, Richard—my own nephews!—to disgrace us with country nobodies! I will not endure it. I forbid it!”

She advanced upon them all, finger quivering with indignation, pouring out a torrent of reproach.

Through it all, Lady Matlock remained unmoved. Crossing to the tea-tray, she poured a cup with deliberate grace, added a large dollop of honey, and held it toward her sister-in-law.

“Catherine,” she said, her tone low but commanding, “you are overwrought. Take this. It will steady your nerves. You must not agitate yourself so violently about matters not your concern. Deciding to court these ladies is a decision of my son and Darcy. The Earl of Matlock and I have chosen to approve their choices, and you would do well to be gracious. Regardless of your beliefs, your brother is in charge of the Fitzwilliam family, just as our nephew leads the Darcy family. You have no power over us.”

The cup hovered between them. Lady Catherine trembled, torn between rejecting it and seizing it. At last, with a hiss, she snatched it and drank deeply.

“If I must endure traitors, then I shall do so fortified even if this is the worst-tasting tea you’ve ever served.”

She swept to the sofa, skirts swishing, and collapsed with violence enough to send the cushions askew. She drank a long swallow, still raging. “Plots! Lies! Conspiracies against me!”

Lady Matlock resumed her seat with untroubled poise. “The tisane will calm you. Rest, Catherine. Do not squander your strength fighting the inevitable.”

Catherine sniffed, glaring in every direction, but her tirade faltered. She drank again, set the cup down with a clatter, and leaned back against the cushions. Slowly, the fury drained from her features; her eyelids drooped. Still muttering of “impertinent girls” and “dishonorable nephews,” she blinked, sagged, and at last yielded to slumber.

Darcy’s eyes met his uncle’s; the earl inclined his head. Lady Matlock drew a quilt over Catherine’s ample frame, murmuring, “She will not disturb us for hours. When she wakes, we shall contrive a tale.”

Lord Matlock straightened. “She cannot remain here. Darcy, Richard—lift her carefully. You two shall carry her to her chambers. I will summon a maid.”

Richard sighed but obeyed. “So I am reduced to a pack mule for Aunt Catherine. God grant she never learns of it.”

Darcy took her other arm, expression composed but eyes glinting with suppressed amusement. “Mind her head. If she strikes it against the frame, the whole house will hear.”

Awkwardly, they bore her weight, her head lolling, her wig tilting askew. The earl led the way up the grand staircase, motioning for silence. At the chamber door, a maid stood ready.

“Lay her upon the bed,” the earl ordered. They eased her onto the coverlet; she stirred, muttered, then sank back into heavy sleep.

The maid curtsied nervously. “Shall I undress her ladyship, my lord?”

“Only what is needful for rest,” he replied. “Remove her shoes and jewels, draw the curtains, and keep watch. If she stirs, send word at once.”

The three men withdrew, leaving Catherine to her uneasy slumber. Lady Matlock, at the threshold, touched her husband’s arm.

“Go to the parlor. I will see to Catherine’s comfort myself, and then I will attend Anne.”

Darcy and Richard exchanged a glance—half relief, half disbelief at what they had just carried off. Lord Matlock allowed himself a wry smile before leading the trio down to the parlor.

There, the midday light streamed across polished furniture, the mantel clock ticking steadily toward the appointed hour. Darcy stood at the window, pulse quickening at each rumble of carriage wheels. Richard lounged with affected ease, though his tapping fingers gave him away. The earl sat composed, eyes fixed on the door.

Meanwhile, Lady Matlock went to Anne’s chamber. She found her niece propped against her pillows, pale but radiant with anticipation. Seating herself beside Anne, she took Anne’s hand.

“Courage, my dear. Mr. Jones will soon be here. Speak your desires, and we shall see them done.”

Anne’s hand tightened. “Then I am ready. Let him come.”

Lady Matlock kissed Anne’s forehead and left the room to make her way to the parlor.

Chapter 31

The mantel clock struck two with deliberate solemnity, each chime echoing through Matlock House like the tolling of fate. In the parlor, Lord Matlock straightened in his chair; Darcy moved to stand beside him, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon the door. Richard abandoned his feigned lounging posture and rose, alert as though awaiting a summons to the field.

Moments later, the butler entered, his voice grave. “Mr. Jones, my lord.”

Into the room stepped the solicitor, his countenance composed, his bearing respectful but steady. He bowed low. “My lord, my lady,” he said, acknowledging each in turn before bowing toward Darcy and Richard.

“You are welcome, Mr. Jones,” the earl stated, his voice measured but warm. “We are prepared for the business at hand. My niece has expressed her desire for the four of us to attend this meeting. Her mother, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is otherwise occupied. We will conduct you to my niece, who awaits you upstairs.”

Lady Matlock, serene as ever, rose from her seat. “This way, sir. Miss de Bourgh is ready to receive you in her private sitting room. We have arranged enough chairs to be available.”

Darcy felt the shift of mood in the room, as though all air had gathered around this moment. Catherine slept, subdued at last, but her presence lingered like a storm-cloud on the horizon. Anne lay upstairs, frail yet determined. The path they had chosen could not now be unmade.

Richard leaned toward his cousin, his voice pitched for Darcy’s ear alone. “The first volley is fired, Darcy. Now we shall see where the lines are drawn.”

Darcy gave a single grave nod. “So we shall.”

The party moved from the parlor toward the stairs, the solicitor following Lady Matlock’s assured step. At the head of the hall, a maid curtsied and led the way to Anne’s sitting room, her tread hushed upon the carpets. She knocked lightly, waited for a response, opened the door, and swiftly departed, heading down the corridor toward the stairs.

Within, Anne sat upon a wingback chair, pillows at her back and sides, her face pale but composed, a book resting forgotten upon her lap. At the sight of Mr. Jones, she straightened with a flicker of determination.

Lady Matlock crossed the threshold and bent to kiss her niece’s brow. “Here he is, my dear. Speak freely, with no fear. We are all present to witness.”

The solicitor bowed low before Anne. “Miss de Bourgh, I am honored to serve your interests. Whatever you desire shall be set down faithfully, in accordance with law and conscience. Are the persons here attending at your request?”

Anne’s voice trembled, yet it carried a clarity none had heard from her before. “Yes. These four are here to assist me, if necessary, by asking and answering questions that will expedite this meeting. They all have my best interests at heart. I am ready to start, sir. Is the table we have prepared adequate for your needs?” Anne pointed to the mahogany table near the empty fireplace. Darcy realized that the table should be closer to the solicitor, picked it up, and placed it near Anne’s right side.

The solicitor glanced around the room, decided that he had everything needed, and placed his portfolio on the indicated table. He then took out a large pad of paper, a pencil, ink, an inkwell, a quill, and a document that appeared to have a large amount of text written on it.

Anne’s slender fingers tightened upon the book in her lap as Mr. Jones drew a chair close beside the table and her. He placed his pad upon his knee and picked up the pencil. His quill, already trimmed, gleamed faintly in the light from the tall windows.

Lord Matlock remained standing, leaning against the closed door that led to the corridor, his presence both dignified and protective. Darcy and Richard flanked the door leading to the bedroom, silent but steadfast, while Lady Matlock remained at her niece’s side, her hand resting lightly upon Anne’s shoulder.

“Miss de Bourgh,” the solicitor began, his voice measured and calm, “you have requested to speak with me regarding certain matters of inheritance and personal testament. It is my duty to remind you that your words will be taken as binding, should Providence not grant you further years. Are you resolved?”

“I am resolved,” Anne said, surprising them all with the firmness of her tone. Her pale cheeks were tinged with a delicate flush of color. “I have been silent all my life, sir. I will not be so at the last.”

Richard’s brow softened; Darcy felt a tightness in his chest, a mix of pride and sorrow.

“Then let us proceed,” said Mr. Jones, dipping his pen. “What are your wishes, Miss de Bourgh?”

Anne lifted her gaze, meeting first Darcy’s eyes, then Richard’s, before fixing them upon the solicitor. “I wish to dispose of my personal property. My books, jewels, my private fortune, all that is rightfully mine. I ask that all be sold and 50 percent of the funds be divided equally between my cousin Georgiana Darcy, whose gentleness has ever been my comfort, and my cousin Richard Fitzwilliam, for his laughter has long been my tonic, though he did not know it. Fifteen percent of the proceeds are to go to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose kindness gave me courage when I had none, and five percent to Miss Jane Bennet, who has made my cousin Richard happy. Ten percent must go to Lady Matlock, my aunt, because she is kindness itself and constantly gives her funds to charity. The remainder shall be given to my cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, in partial repayment for all the funds he spent to prevent Rosings Park from bankruptcy. Also, like my mother, I bequeath one pound to my other cousins who have never visited me at Rosings or found time to see me here at Matlock House when my days grow shorter. I leave it to my Aunt Matlock to decide whether to give her part of her gift since she has a kind heart and a forgiving disposition. Uncle Matlock, I give you my heartfelt thanks for providing me with protection and shelter during my final days. You may have use of the hunting cabin at Rosins for the rest of your life and ten thousand pounds to spend on whatever manner you think best, but excluding gambling, womanizing, and debauchery. According to my mother, you spend enough of your funds on those activities already.”

Darcy drew a sharp breath, but said nothing. The solicitor nodded gravely, his pencil scratching across the page.

“Mr. Jones, is Rosings Park mine to dispose of?” asked Anne.

“Yes, the estate has been yours since you turned twenty-five years of age. You are the mistress of Rosings Park. The land, tenant farms, income, plus the manor house and its contents are yours. The living is yours to gift to a deserving man ordained by the Church of England. There is an entail prohibiting the sale of the land to anyone outside of the de Gourgh family, but you may gift it to a member of the Fitzwilliam family who has no property for their lifetime and their heirs. If the de Bourgh line dies out, it can be passed on to a male or female Fitzwilliam heir.

“Are there any de Bourghs left alive besides me?” Anne asked.

“No,” was the prompt reply. “You are the last surviving de Bourgh. You may designate an heir and gift the estate to a Fitzwilliam of your choice.”

Anne paused, her eyes warming as they sought Richard’s. “I designate Richard Fitzwilliam as my heir to Rosings Park. He will designate which of his children, male or female, shall be his heir. I want to change the entail to specifically include the Darcy family as the offspring of Anne Fitzwilliam and George Darcy, in case Richard Fitzwilliam’s line dies out, since the Darcys are cousins by blood to the Fitzwilliams. Can this be done?” Anne directed her words to Mr. Jones with a hopeful expression on her face.

Richard’s mouth curved into a smile, though his eyes glistened. “You honor me, Anne. I never expected this honor.”

Anne softly replied, “Your gift of treating me as though I were not fragile was priceless. That was worth more than you suppose. Plus, you spent hours playing with me during our childhood and came every year to visit with Darcy. Even now you’ve found time to visit each day.”

The solicitor continued to record each word, his pencil moving steadily. Lady Matlock’s hand never left Anne’s shoulder, a silent anchor.

Anne’s voice, though weakening, pressed on. “Finally, I charge that only one pound be given to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who has ruled every facet of my life too long. My wishes must be preserved entire, under the protection of the following executors: my uncle, the Earl of Matlock, Lord Henry Fitzwilliam, and my cousins, Richard Fitzwilliam and Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Lord Matlock stepped forward, his countenance grave but resolute. “You have my word, my dear. Nothing shall prevent your will being honored.”

Mr. Jones raised his head. “These instructions are clear. If you are content, Miss de Bourgh, I shall prepare the instrument for your signature. Two witnesses are present already. It will be done in full accordance with the law.”

Anne leaned back, her strength nearly spent. Yet her eyes shone with peace. “Then I have spoken. At last, I am free.”

Darcy bowed his head, unable to speak. Richard placed a steadying hand upon the back of a chair, swallowing hard. Lady Matlock bent to kiss her niece’s temple, whispering, “Bravely done, my child.”

The solicitor began to gather his papers, careful not to disturb the quiet triumph that hung in the chamber.

Anne started to rise, then abruptly settled in the chair. She called out, “I almost forgot! My mother has refused to relinquish the de Bourgh family jewels. Are they lawfully mine? If so, can they be sold or gifted?”

“Miss de Bourgh, those jewels became yours on your twenty-fifth birthday. Lady Catherine was present when your father’s will was read. I have brought a copy of his will and the entail for your perusal. I’ve also brought statements and checkbooks from all the bank accounts held in trust for you and Rosings that were created. Your investment accounts are listed separately, including the trust fund that holds your dowry of approximately £ 60,000. Based on the additions made to the Rosings emergency fund every Spring for the past six years, I believe Mr. Darcy has been imposed upon for approximately £48,000 when the estate didn’t need the money. There is approximately £95000 in that account, and you may want to write a check to your cousin at your earliest convenience. Even wealthy individuals need to make repairs and investments in their own properties.

“I need to look into the legalities regarding adjustments to an entail. Then I’ll prepare a cocidile for the entail as per your request and have a courier deliver it to Lord Matlock by the end of next week for your signature.” The man closed his lips and looked around the room, expecting a barrage of questions. From the shocked expressions on each face, he decided to remain quiet and began filling in the blank spaces on the copies of the standardized Will he had brought with him.

“Miss de Bourgh, do you wish to pay your executors the standard fee of £ 200 or another sum?” asked Mr. Jones.

“Pay them £1000 each since they will have to deal with my mother, and that alone is worth more for the sheer aggravation she will cause when the Will is read and she is forced to leave Rosings and live in the dower house.” Everyone smiled at Anne’s comment.

A faint chuckle rippled around the room at Anne’s tart observation, quickly smothered into silence out of respect for her frailty. Yet the moment lightened the air, easing the tension pressing upon every breast.

“Very well,” Mr. Jones said with professional composure, though a glimmer of amusement lingered in his eye. He bent once more over his work, his quill scratching steadily as he set the instructions into their proper legal form. The crisp strokes of pen against paper filled the chamber, mingling with the faint tick of the mantel clock.

Anne leaned back against her cushions, her eyes drifting closed, though her lips still moved faintly as though she repeated her instructions to herself, assuring that each desire had been voiced. Lady Matlock’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, while Darcy shifted closer to the window, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw set with mingled pride and disquiet.

At last, Mr. Jones placed his quill aside and lifted the completed document. “This is but a draft copy, miss, though it is sufficient for your signature to render your intentions binding until the fair copy is prepared. Two witnesses are required, who are not named beneficiaries. If you are prepared, I will read the testament aloud to ensure all is as you desire.”

Anne opened her eyes and inclined her head with surprising authority. “Proceed.”

The solicitor rose to his feet, adjusted his spectacles, and began to read. His voice, low yet distinct, filled the chamber with the solemn cadence of law and finality. Each provision fell like a stone into still water—rippling, inevitable. With every bequest named, every slight uncovered, every kindness rewarded, Anne’s lips trembled, though no word escaped her until the reading ceased.

“Is this your wish in its entirety, Miss de Bourgh?” Mr. Jones asked gravely.

“It is.”

“Then let us call in the witnesses.”

Lord Matlock opened the door and beckoned. The houskeeper and the butler entered, their eyes widening slightly at the august company, yet they carried themselves with dignity. Mr. Jones indicated the places for their signatures, then set the last page before Anne.

Her hand trembled as she accepted the quill. Darcy, silently at her side, steadied the inkwell. She met his gaze, and for a fleeting instant, he saw not fragility, but a core of iron long concealed. With deliberate care, she wrote her name: Anne Eleanor de Bourgh.

The witnesses added their signatures, one after the other. Mr. Jones blotted the ink, folded the papers, and slipped them into his portfolio with measured precision.

“It is done,” he said softly.

Anne sagged against her pillows, the strain of exertion evident in every line of her slight frame. Yet her expression was luminous, suffused with the peace of one who had at last seized the reins of her own destiny.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” she whispered. “You have given me freedom.”

The solicitor bowed deeply. “It is not I, madam, but your own courage that has wrought this. Yet I count it an honor to be of service.”

Lady Matlock pressed a kiss once more to her niece’s brow. Richard moved to the side of her chair and quietly adjusted the pillows, while Darcy took a silent step back, swallowing the knot in his throat.

Lord Matlock, his hand upon the door, spoke with quiet solemnity: “Then we are bound, all of us, to defend these wishes with the full weight of the law, of family, and of honor. Let no one forget it.”

The words fell heavy in the hushed room, a vow sealed as surely as Anne’s own testament. Lord Matlock turned to his two most faithful servants and said, “Do not speak of this to each other or anyone else. We do not wish to upset Lady Catherine.”

The housekeeper and butler both dropped into deep curtsies and bows, their faces grave. “Yes, my lord,” they replied in unison.

Lord Matlock straightened, then addressed them with the weight of command softened by courtesy. “Mrs. Langley, Thomas—you have long served this household with loyalty. I charge you now with a delicate duty. Miss de Bourgh has concluded business of the highest importance with her solicitor. Lady Catherine must not be disturbed until evening. See that she has every comfort, but send word to me the instant she wakes. Do not give her the slightest hint that anything out of the ordinary has happened today. Do you understand?”

Mrs. Langley folded her capable hands before her apron. “Her ladyship shall be well tended, my lord. I will sit with her myself and prepare her restorative tea when she stirs.”

Thomas bowed low. “I shall have a footman remain outside her door, my lord, and ensure no caller or message intrudes. If she attempts to rise, you will know of it at once.”

The earl’s keen eyes softened with rare approval. “That will do. I rely upon you both.”

The pair withdrew with silent steps, leaving behind a sense of order, their very presence a reminder of the household’s steady discipline.

Within the chamber, Mr. Jones packed and closed his portfolio with deliberate care, the clasp snapping shut like the tolling of judgment. Rising, he inclined his head to Anne. “Miss de Bourgh, I will see that three fair copies of this instrument, along with the codicil regarding the entail, are prepared without delay. Within the week, they shall be delivered into your hands. Ensure that the signatures are in place. Please keep one copy in a secure location and return the others to me. The second copy will remain securely in my safe, and the third will be filed with the court.”

Anne gave him a faint but resolute smile. “You have my thanks, sir. You will never know what you have given me this day.”

Darcy, finding his voice at last, stepped forward. “Mr. Jones, the family is in your debt. I shall personally see to it that your diligence and discretion are recognized.”

The solicitor bowed again, his expression unchanged, but his eyes reflecting quiet respect. “I serve my clients, Mr. Darcy, and nothing more. Yet I am honored by your words.”

Lord Matlock gestured toward the door. “Come, I shall see you out myself.” He offered his hand to Anne, who pressed it weakly, gratitude shining in her tired gaze. Then, with his countenance set in solemn lines, the earl ushered Mr. Jones from the chamber.

Lord Matlock did not at once dismiss Mr. Jones, but led him back down the broad staircase. The household’s quiet order was again apparent—no servant loitered, no sound carried, save the muted tick of the tall case clock in the hall. When the party entered the parlor, they were greeted by a welcome sight: the table was newly laid with a fresh pot of steaming tea, a tiered tray of sandwiches, and a plate of small cakes, all arranged with neat precision.

Lady Matlock’s lips curved in satisfaction. “Ah, Mrs. Langley is ever a step ahead. Come, Mr. Jones, you have labored long for us this afternoon. You will take refreshments before returning to your office.”

The solicitor hesitated, bowing slightly. “My lady, you are most gracious, though I would not wish to impose…”

“Nonsense,” said the earl, cutting him off with kindly authority. “Sit, man. Even the law must bow to a cup of tea.”

Richard gave a short laugh, drawing a chair forward. “Come, sir. We shall not let you escape without at least one sandwich. It is the Matlock way.”

Mr. Jones, unable to resist such united courtesy, seated himself. Darcy, with quiet precision, poured the tea, while Lady Matlock herself offered the plate of sandwiches, selecting a cucumber round for her guest before passing the plate to the gentlemen.

Conversation, lighter now, turned to the day’s weather, the bustle of town, and the quality of the Earl’s French cook, who had evidently taken some pains with the food. Yet beneath the polite ease ran a current of shared relief: the task upstairs had been accomplished, and for the moment, the storm was held at bay.

When, at last, Mr. Jones set down his cup and rose, he bowed once more, his tone respectful yet touched with warmth. “You have honored me with your trust and with your table. Rest assured, all shall be done in strict accordance with Miss de Bourgh’s wishes.”

Darcy inclined his head gravely. “We rely upon it.”

The earl clapped the solicitor’s shoulder with hearty approval. “And so you shall return to us, sir, once the documents are ready. Until then, my thanks—and my house’s thanks—go with you.”

Mr. Jones departed soon after, conducted by a footman to the waiting carriage. The parlor grew still again as the family exchanged glances, each aware that the respite was brief. Upstairs, Lady Catherine still lay in her drugged slumber, and what storms might break upon her waking none could yet foresee.

The parlor fell into a companionable quiet after Mr. Jones’s departure, broken only by the faint chime of the mantel clock striking three and the distant sounds of the street beyond the windows. The air smelled faintly of bergamot and buttered bread, and for a fleeting moment, the family allowed themselves the comfort of relief.

Yet even as Darcy replaced his untouched teacup upon its saucer, a soft tap came at the door. The housekeeper entered and dipped a curtsy, her expression sober.

“My lord,” she said, her voice low, “Lady Catherine stirs.”

Lord Matlock lifted his chin, his eyes glinting with determination. “Then let it be so. If battle must be waged under this roof, we shall not yield. Catherine will learn, once and for all, that her dominion is ended.”

Chapter 32

The housekeeper’s report fell like a stone into the fragile calm of the room. Richard straightened at once, his soldier’s instincts keen, while Darcy’s jaw hardened. Lady Matlock set aside her embroidery with deliberate grace, though a spark of steel lit her eyes.

“Has she spoken?” asked the earl, his tone grave.

“Not clearly, my lord,” the housekeeper replied. “She muttered something that sounded like impertinent tart, then turned upon the bed, striking at her pillow. I feared she might wake fully, so I came at once. A maid remains at her bedside, and a footman is stationed outside her door, both awaiting orders.”

Lady Matlock rose with composed dignity. “Then I will go to her. If Catherine wakes confused, she must see a calm face at her bedside, not a servant’s frightened one. She must not suspect what has passed this afternoon. Most likely, she will begin railing against the young ladies without another thought.”

The earl inclined his head, though his gaze was flinty. “If she discovers what we have done before the solicitor’s work is beyond her reach, all is lost. You may need every art of patience to keep her off the scent, my dear.”

Richard muttered under his breath, “Heaven preserve us if Aunt Catherine regains her full strength. Her shouts will be heard clear to the mouth of the Thames.”

Lady Matlock allowed herself the faintest smile. “Then let us hope her voice fails her, or she develops a sore throat.” With serene resolve, she swept from the parlor, the housekeeper at her side. The door closed behind them, leaving the three men in taut silence.

Darcy exhaled sharply, pacing from window to hearth and back again. “It was inevitable,” he said grimly. “The laudanum was a reprieve, not a victory.”

Richard prowled the room like a restless sentinel, halting only to cast wary glances at the door. “The question is whether my mother can hold the line—or whether we must brace for another diatribe against the Bennet ladies.”

The mantel clock ticked mercilessly, every sound in the still house magnified. Darcy stood by the window, his reflection rigid in the glass: jaw tight, hands clenched behind his back, eyes restless. He longed only for Elizabeth’s steadiness, her presence, her counsel—yet here he was, waiting for a storm to break.

Richard stopped at the mantel, one hand braced against it. “If she wakes in force, peace will be a memory. Even my mother’s composure may not suffice.”

The earl remained firm in his chair, fingers steepled before his lips, his voice level though edged with steel. “Your mother has withstood tempests before. But she must not be left to face this one unaided. If Catherine rises, we meet her together. Keep her turned against your courtships—let her rail against every imagined fault in women of the gentry until her rage is spent. Your task is to endure without flinching.”

Darcy turned sharply. “If Catherine discovers Anne’s testament has been secured, she will stop at nothing. The solicitor’s work may yet be undone.”

Richard’s mouth curved in a dry soldier’s smile, though his eyes remained alert. “What then? Would you have us stand guard at her chamber door like gaolers? That may be our only course.”

Lord Matlock shook his head. “Not yet. If Catherine senses she is watched, she will fight harder. We must trust my wife’s art. But be ready. Catherine has ruled unchecked too long. She will not yield with grace.”

The earl’s eyes settled firmly on his nephews. “Remember—this is not her dominion, but mine. Whatever comes, we meet it as one.”

Richard gave a short, sardonic laugh. “Then let her come. I have faced French cannon with less dread.”

Darcy managed a faint smile, though his heart was drawn taut as a bowstring. His gaze flicked again to the door through which Lady Matlock had gone. Beyond it lay Lady Catherine, restless in her chamber, and Anne, frail but resolute. Between them balanced the peace of their family.

The clock ticked on, relentless, each stroke carrying them nearer the hour of reckoning.