Page 188 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"That can be arranged, sir," Peters said, already moving to the wardrobe.

Darcy stepped forward, his face bearing his usual grave expression. "Before you vanish into steam and redemption, there is one matter we must discuss."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "Elizabeth again? For heavens sakes, Darcy, have you not a mind of your own?"

Darcy ignored the jest. "Thornwood. My estate in Kent. It is small, profitable, too far from Derbyshire for me to manage properly. The steward grows old. The place requires a firm hand."

Richard's eyes narrowed. "No."

"You have not heard the offer."

"I do not need to hear it. The answer is no."

Darcy pressed on. "Richard, it is a business arrangement. You would be doing me a favour. The rents are steady. The house is sound. The land is fertile. You could live there, oversee it, draw an income that would allow you—"

"To play at gentleman on borrowed land?" His voice rose, sharp with sudden heat. "No, Darcy. I was born a second son and I will die as such. I have made my peace with that. I will not take your estate."

"It is not taking. It is managing. You would earn your place."

"I would be your pensioner with a title. I would be the poor relation kept in the country while you reside in splendour at Pemberley."

Darcy's jaw tightened. "You are my cousin. You are family. This is what family does."

"Family does not turn one man into a steward so that another may feel noble. Keep Thornwood for your children. I am sure they will not be far behind."

Darcy's face flushed crimson. "Elizabeth and I are not—we have not—Can we please focus—"

Robert threw up his hands. "For heaven's sake, Fitzwilliam, stop blushing like a debutante. Richard, listen. You need income. You need purpose. You need to stop planning your death in tropical fevers. Thornwood is perfect. Take it. Manage it. Use it to build a life that does not depend on a dowry you no longer wish to pursue in dishonour."

Richard looked at the floor. The boards were cold. The room was quiet except for the distant chime of the clock and the faint hiss of steam from the dressing room beyond.

"I was born to soldier," he said at last. "I have a commission. I have debts. I have a horse that bites the farrier. That is my lot."

"Your lot," Robert pointed a manicured finger at his younger brother, "is changing. You fell in love with a woman who has twenty thousand pounds and a tongue sharp enough to skin a pig. You cannot offer her poverty. But you can offer her a husband who has something to his name beyond a sword and a frayed cuff."

Richard's laugh was short, bitter. "And what would she think of a husband who lives on his cousin's charity?"

"She would think," Darcy said quietly, "that you are a man willing to swallow pride for her sake. That is no small thing."

Silence stretched. Richard looked at the door to the dressing room, where Peters was doubtlessly laying out fresh linen and plotting his own escape from the Fitzwilliam family drama.

"Give me time," he said finally. "I will consider it."

Robert grinned. "That is all we ask."

Darcy nodded once. "Take the bath first. Consider later. You stink."

Richard allowed himself one last theatrical groan. Then he walked to the dressing room, his bare feet slapping against the boards.

Behind him, Robert murmured to Darcy, "Do you think he will take it?"

"I think," Darcy replied, "that if he does not, Elizabeth will have words with all of us. And none of them will be kind."

Richard emerged from the dressing room thirty-three minutes later, bathed, shaved, and smelling of sandalwood and soap instead of despair. The nightshirt had been consigned to the fire. Peters had laid out a fresh shirt of fine lawn, a waistcoat of sober grey, and clean breeches. His hair had been tamed into order, though a few rebellious strands still stood at attention. He looked almost human. Almost.

He stopped short in the doorway.

His father stood in the centre of the room. Robert lounged against the mantelpiece, attempting innocence and failing. Darcy stood near the window, his expression grave, the only expression he had, really.