Derbyshire, Autumn 1806

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood by his father's open grave. The parson droned on endlessly.

Finish, Mr. Pruitt, finish.

Every kind word said about his father was a lie.

Darcy looked at the carved oak surface of the coffin, and he saw his father's face as it had been that day yet again. He felt the helpless rage — the sickness of learning his father, his hero, was a worthless spendthrift.

Ninety thousand pounds? Why have we never economized?

Darcy had begged his father. The image was burned into his memory: his father had worn embroidered red silk dressing gown that had cost near fifty pounds. The room was filled with sculptures, paintings, and expensive curiosities from around the world. A beautiful blue porcelain snuff box sat on the corner of the desk.

Father, we must spend less. It will not be very painful to economize.

Darcy remembered his father's open face harsh and hard for once. We are gentlemen; our comfort and consequence must be maintained. I shall hear no more of your timid tradesmanlike obsession with pennies and shillings. We are Darcys. We are not vulgar.

Darcy had completely lost his temper then. We will be nothing! Nothing when the estate is sold. You will have no damn comforts then. Georgiana? Me? Have you no care for us? Were your words about duty lies? So help me, by God! I swear. I swear to God I shall be nothing like you. Damn you. Damn… Damn!

Fitzwilliam. His father's voice was ice. Gentlemen don't lose their temper.

There had been a terrible pause, and his father's gaze had bored into him until Darcy flinched back.

I am your father. It is not your place to make demands. I will hear nothing more on this subject. Go back to your university and be glad I do not disown you.

It had been four years. How much more debt had Father accumulated?

Tears — Darcy was not sure if they were of anger or of grief — tried to gather. The old parson wouldn't stop talking, and Darcy's eyes stung in the chilly winter wind. The mourners had gathered like a flock of ravens to pick at the dead. They wore beaver top hats and black overcoats. The sun was bright, painfully glinting off the February snow.

A drunken midnight race across a snowy field with George Wickham. Even knowing his father was a fool, what was a man near fifty thinking to accept his godson's challenge?

Ha! If you had listened to me, you would be alive. I wanted you to get rid of that vicious, dissolute gambler years ago. But no, you were a vicious, dissolute gambler yourself.

George Wickham openly wept.

He should. He had killed Father.

Darcy wanted to strike him, to take his glove and slap his young rival across the face. He would challenge Wickham to a duel and gain revenge. He would gain satisfaction for how Father had loved Wickham better and for how Wickham killed him with that race.

Darcy saw Bingley's concerned eyes looking at him. His anger loosened. He was exceedingly glad his friend had dropped all plans to travel to Derbyshire with him. Bingley somehow saw when Darcy needed quiet and a sympathetic presence and when he needed conversation.

Darcy let out a long breath.

Mr. Pruitt spoke the last sentences of the rites. The funeral was almost complete. He would not let his anger against Wickham control him. Gentlemen don't lose their temper.

The other mourners, local gentry mostly, watched sadly. Tears showed in a few eyes besides Wickham's. George Darcy had been well-liked in the neighborhood, and though deeply in debt, he was generous to his friends and the largest employer for ten miles around.

At last the service ended. The other people present left or shuffled by to shake Darcy's hand.

Mr. Windham, an older man whose estate bordered Pemberley, laid a sympathetic hand on Darcy's shoulder. Darcy had always seen Mr. Windham as an extra uncle, and unlike Darcy's father, Windham sincerely cared for his tenants and estate. "It is not easy, even if you are prepared, to learn an estate — I hope your uncle will give you much help, but I am far nearer. Do not hesitate to seek help."

With a stiff nod Darcy thanked him. Mr. Windham's bald forehead gleamed in the thin sunlight.

Mr. Windham hesitated. "Fitzwilliam, there is another matter. A month ago I received a substantial inheritance invested in government funds. Your Father intended to sell me the lands between our estates to me when I took final possession of the money."

Darcy clenched his jaw. So Father had planned to lose yet more of the land which had been held by the Darcys for more than a century. Darcy hoped to save it all, every fragment of Darcy land left. He would be the opposite of his father.

"It was an informal agreement — you are not honor bound to sell." Mr. Windham spoke into the silence after Darcy froze. "I know your father had great debts, but I do not know how great."

"I shall find out the particulars this afternoon. But I will not sell if I have any other choice. The land is my heritage, my duty. I will care for it if I can."

"I expected you to speak so. You always — your father was a good man in many ways, but he was not a good master. You always showed more true Darcy dignity. I hope it does not come to this, but if you are forced to sell any land, I promise I will give a good price."

Darcy did not reply.

Mr. Windham stuck out his hand and Darcy took it. They shook hands firmly.

Soon only Darcy and Bingley remained.

The gravedigger went about his business. He held the spade with one hand far forward, nearly touching the metal, and the other far back along the handle. Remembering geometry classes, Darcy realized the gravedigger had created a lever and fulcrum that let the man push the shovel deep into the dirt and with an efficient motion quickly toss the moist pile of mud into the grave.

Each shovelful of dirt hit the wood with a soft plop.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Now dirt fully covered the polished oak.

Why?

Why wasn't his father honorable and good?

Darcy tensed to keep from crying. The hole slowly shrank. He would not grieve for a man who tried to ruin his family.

The gravedigger finished and Darcy handed him a shilling as a tip. He left to go about his day. Only Bingley was there, stomping his feet and clapping his hands together to stay warm in the cold. Darcy ignored the chill on his face and the painful bite in his feet.

He stared at the freshly turned dirt.

Bingley pushed Darcy's arm. "Your solicitor and steward. You have an appointment. Remember." Darcy took a deep breath and straightened himself. Silently the two friends walked out of the churchyard.

Despite Bingley's presence Darcy felt empty and alone.

He would not let himself cry.

Tomorrow he would see Georgiana. His uncle, Lord Matlock, had pulled her from school and taken her to his estate fifteen miles south of Pemberley. Tomorrow Matlock would bring Georgiana with him and stay for three weeks to help Darcy settle into management of his estate.

Matlock had always been kind to Darcy. He also counseled his father to be reasonable and economize.

Georgiana.

She must be taking this so hard. She adored Father and had been torn by the years of strife between Darcy and him.

Though he avoided his father, Darcy wrote many letters to his sister and spent as much time visiting with her as he could. Though she was twelve years younger than him, until he had met Bingley a year before, she had been his only real friend.

After his first term at university, Darcy came home for Christmas and found the fields near Lambton sold and vast debts remaining. There had been vast debts for years and years. And he'd never known. It was that dizzying loss of security which made Darcy return to Cambridge determined to save every penny of his allowance. He moved from his expensive rooms to a small boardinghouse mostly inhabited by poor second sons seeking to become clergymen. He sold his horses and made do with only one servant. His old acquaintances laughed at him. Darcy now realized he should not have isolated himself, while many of his aristocratic peers sneered, some of his old friends had genuinely cared about him. Besides, he had never needed to live so shabbily.

The walk back to Pemberley took fifteen minutes. Darcy received and returned sad nods from each person he met on the road. The ground was hard from the cold.

The house had been decked out in mourning for its lost master. All the drapes had been changed to black, and planters of black flowers had been set round the windowsills and portico.

Wickham sat in one of the velvet-trimmed waiting chairs in Pemberley's entryway. He stood before Darcy's eyes adjusted to the comparative dimness of the room. "Fitz, I must speak with you."

Darcy's face curled in disgust at his childhood friend's continued familiarity. If charming George hadn't flattered his father's every notion, Father wouldn't have been such a fool. Half his father's excesses were the fault of George Wickham.

Darcy stared down from his superior height. Wickham's eyes were red from his tears. Darcy felt a stab of guilt: He had not cried: should not the son be saddest? Without speaking Darcy walked past Wickham.

"Your father promised to support me in establishing a profession —"

Darcy turned. "I shall deal with you later. After I speak with Mr. Harding and Mr. Henry."

With a frown at the delay, Wickham gestured his acceptance.

Mr. Henry, the family's solicitor, and Mr. Harding, the man who replaced George's father after he died, both stood upon Darcy's entrance to his father's study. It was a lavishly decorated room. A vividly colored painting was set in the door itself dancing nymphs surrounded a muscular man with a sword. The tall walls of the room were bordered all around with life-size portraits of Darcy's ancestors. For more intimate discussions, there was a fine stuffed sofa and several armchairs around a table with a collection of the best crystal glasses and a decanter.

A Ming vase, a real one, unless his father had been hoodwinked, sat above the elaborately carved fireplace. That would fetch a pretty penny when he sold it.

Darcy had not stepped into this room since his argument with Father years ago. There were different paintings, a mechanical music box now stood in a corner. The armchairs were new: heavy walnut with beautifully chiseled lion's paws for feet. Later he would decide which items he would he sell and what items would be kept for sentiment or practicality.

At least the heavy desk was the same.

Darcy gestured for the two men to sit. He took his own place, for the first time, in his father's seat. Before he spoke to the lawyer and the steward, he pushed his chair back and looked through the large windows at the expansive vista. It all belonged to him, the product of a proud family tradition which went back nearly to the Civil War. This was his land. His responsibility. By Jove, he would meet his responsibility.

"Begin," he said to Mr. Henry. "How much debt did my father accumulate?"

The solicitor raised his eyebrows at the way Darcy phrased the question and pulled a large calfskin notebook from his bag. He opened it to a long list which he handed to Mr. Darcy. "Here are all of the various debts, commitments, and promises your father has made — including the bequests in his will. The mortgages on Pemberley and your other estates, together with various unsecured debts owed by your father, come to a sum of one hundred and seven thousand pounds sterling. This does not include the thirty thousand settled upon the female descendants of Lady Anne Darcy by your father's marriage articles. No interest charge is associated with your sister's dowry, but it is a sum which you are required to deliver upon your sister's marriage."

Darcy nodded and tapped his finger against each item in the list. While extremely large, the debts were smaller than he had feared. Near the bottom he saw Wickham's name. His childhood companion received a bequest of one thousand pounds and a promise to provide him with the living at Kympton upon the death of the current holder.

By Jove, Wickham a clergyman?

Darcy carefully examined each item on the list. Mr. Henry began to speak, but Darcy held up his hand and shook his head. Once finished, Darcy settled the notebook onto the table and squared his shoulders. "Mr. Henry, what did you wish to say?"

"Mr. Darcy, despite your debts, your assets are extensive. Mr. Harding" — he pointed his elbow at the steward who sat next to him — "will know every detail, but the income of the Pemberley estate has averaged a little more than ten thousand. You own a townhouse in London and another in Bath. All the minor landholdings and estates scattered around the country have been sold to protect the main holdings around Pemberley. Additionally, you have an account used to meet ongoing expenses which currently has three thousand pounds at Hoare's bank."

Mr. Henry grabbed the notebook he had handed Darcy and opened it to a different page before returning it. "This summarizes the income and expenditure for the estate over the past years. Your father spent roughly twelve thousand before interest charges in each of the last five years of his life, adding to his debts each year. While substantial economies could be achieved in the management of Pemberley house, you cannot maintain the manor house and the house in London and pay the interest charges. I recommend you put Pemberley up for rent and obligate the lessee to pay for the servants needed to maintain the mansion. You can live comfortably in London or Bath on the net income and — if you are careful — slowly retire the debt."

"No." Darcy spoke in a tight passionate voice, "This is my land. Darcy land. Land continuously inhabited by us for a century. I will never abandon it."

Mr. Henry pulled his hand through his blonde hair at Darcy's vehemence. "Mr. Darcy, you are a very young man; you have a romantic attachment to the notion of family responsibility, but you have no sense how expensive this house is. It requires a large crew of maids to keep the rooms clean. Your carriages and stable cost far more. When you entertain or travel to London, it costs yet more. Your estate is unentailed — which is why your father could mortgage it so heavily — if you add to those debts, eventually no one will extend you further credit, and you would be forced to sell your land and be left with little money. Do you understand?"

Darcy's jaw tightened at the patronizing question.

He had thought of nothing else since he had discovered at seventeen his father was determined to spend and spend and spend. "If it takes so many maids to keep the rooms of Pemberley clean, I will let them become dirty. If I cannot afford my carriages, I will sell them. If I must entertain more than I can afford to maintain my consequence, it shall not be maintained. I care nothing for appearances. I will not act to impress vain fools who measure a man by how many carriages he owns or on what street his London townhouse is. The land. It is the land that matters. My responsibility is to my land, to my tenants, and to the future of my family name. Pemberley is my birthright. I'll never leave her. I am not my father."

The lawyer straightened. "You are not. I think you are little like him. If you know what you are about, if you will do what is necessary to cut your debts and protect your family's heritage, you'll be a far better gentleman than most. I think you'll do. I could never convince your father to cut anything."

With a thin smile, Darcy said, "I am prepared to cut everything. We shall sell the house in Bath and the house in London. I will sell the jewelry the family has collected. We will sell the artwork in the galleries and any valuable first editions from the library. I shall sell my father's wine collection and the two newest carriages."

Darcy pointed at the Ming vase on the mantelpiece, "Much of what my father has collected can be sold at a good price. Every room, every knickknack, every object in my possession shall be examined. Anything with enough value to be worth the effort will be sold. The staff will be enormously reduced, and I will make no pretense of maintaining appearances. However" — Darcy looked at Mr. Harding — "everyone who loses their place here will be supported 'til they are well-settled elsewhere. All of my dependents are my responsibility, like my land and tenants. I will never shirk a duty."

Once alone Darcy slumped in his chair and covered his face with his hands.

More than one hundred thousand pounds. Even if everything went well, it would take well over a decade to clear. To a man of twenty and two, it seemed an endless prospect.

He had already deprived himself and cut his expenditures to the bone at Cambridge, so he could save three quarters of the allowance his father gave him. Darcy had expected he would only possess what he saved and earned through his own efforts. Now he would live in a dirty house, with a cheap carriage and poor stables, for another fifteen years.

No matter. He could face any task, no matter how unpleasant, so long as it was his duty.

At a knock on the door, Darcy straightened himself. "Enter."

It was Wickham. "I saw Mr. Henry and Mr. Harding leave; you said we would speak once they left."

As he stared at the well-dressed young man with his expensive haircut and fine black coat, the rage which each sight of Wickham had brought since it happened built again in Darcy's chest.

A drunken midnight race.

Wickham said, "I'm sorry for — I am sorry that — by Gad, I can't speak — I see it again and again, Musket's legs stumbling and, and your father — if only I had not suggested — Fitz, your father was the — he was the best damn gentleman in England. He was the best damn — I'll never meet another man of his quality. He was my best friend."

Wickham's arm brushed at his eyes.

Darcy's hand curled into a fist at Wickham's girlish grief.

After a pause for Darcy to reply, Wickham wiped his nose and said nervously into the silence, "Your father, he promised me the living at Kympton when it becomes vacant. But he promised me that if I wished to pursue law, he'd help me establish myself. I do not believe — I would not make a good clergyman and I wish to study law."

Darcy did not break his stare at Wickham, and Darcy took a perverse pleasure in seeing Wickham rub his hand against his leg as he spoke. "I thought you could give an immediate sum to allow me to study law and establish myself. The value of Kympton is seven or eight thousand, so six thousand would be a fair recompense for giving up my claim on the living."

Without altering his glare, Darcy thought quickly. Now was the time to get rid of Wickham. If Wickham gave up his claim to the living, Darcy would never need to see him again. Father wanted Wickham to have money to set himself up at law; Darcy would happily give the minimum that would accomplish that. The current expense would be amply repaid when he sold the living to a man with a decent character after Mr. Pruitt died. Wickham would not hold out for the living itself when he wanted money now.

At last Darcy said, "Your calculations are poor. We do not know when the old vicar will die — the promise was to support you in establishing yourself, not the full value of the living — I will offer two thousand. With your bequest of one thousand pounds that is ample to live on while you study law and to let you purchase a clerkship with a respectable lawyer. If you apply yourself assiduously, you will earn more than you could as the rector of Kympton."

Wickham's mouth fell open. "You plan to rob me! This… this is because you blame me — you should not. It was an accident. No one — I assure you no one is more grief stricken by your father's death than I am. His death struck me as hard as my own father's — nay, harder."

"He was my father. Not yours." Darcy ground his jaw shut to keep from shouting. He had never yelled since that argument when his father said that gentlemen don't lose their temper.

Darcy slowly mastered himself. "That is my offer. You will receive no more."

George Darcy's lesson to never yell had been better learned by his son than his godson. "Damn you, Fitz. Damn you! It is not that you blame me — you are jealous. You hated that he loved me more than you. I deserved his love more. You don't mourn him at all — you are happy he is dead. You are pleased to finally have this great estate for yourself. Damn you. He deserved better than you. He deserved better than a heartless prig. I ought to have been his son. He loved me as though I were."

Darcy's jaw hurt from how he clenched it. "Get out. I will send you an agreement which you can sign or not as you will. But if you do not, you can bring suit against me when I award the living to another, for you shall never enjoy my patronage."

"I deserve more. But you are a damned thief. I will sign your damn agreement, but one day" — Wickham slammed his hands onto Darcy's desk — "one day you will regret stealing from me. One day I will get revenge."

Darcy tried to sort through his father's papers before he joined Bingley for dinner. But there was a note written in his father's hand, and the sight of that familiar script caused Darcy's throat to tighten again and tears to well up. Nothing more would ever be written in that hand.

It took Darcy several minutes before he had calmed himself enough to stand, and he sought out Bingley. The two spent several hours playing billiards. Bingley made Darcy debate inane subjects to keep his mind occupied. Darcy ignored the emptiness in his stomach. But as they entered the dining room, Darcy caught sight of a large portrait of his father staring down at him with his friendly smile.

He should've removed that portrait so he couldn't see it.

Darcy clamped his lips together and ignored the food. He drank glass after glass of wine. It took several hours before Darcy was intoxicated enough to say it.

The two had moved to the fine wingback chairs in Darcy's library. They faced each other across a small coffee table.

"I can't understand it." With a shaking hand, Darcy placed his drained glass down. "Why? Why am I sad? I should not be sad."

"Of course you should be sad, your father just died."

"No, I shouldn't! I should not. I… I cannot, not in sober thought, think it anything but a blessing he died when he did. He was not a good father. He was a wastrel and imprudent. He brought his own death upon himself. I should not mourn him. I should not."

"Darcy, when my father died, I — he was a better father than I believe yours was, but he was a very imperfect man. However, when he died I could only think that I would never see him again. There was an empty space in the world which he used to occupy."

Bingley took a deep breath, "I am not ashamed to say I wept like a woman. It is natural. Think on the happy times, and mourn the man he was and the man you wish he had been."

"No, I won't. I won't —"

Darcy could not keep speaking. He remembered a moment from his childhood: He had been a small boy, and his father lifted him onto a pony. His father's hands were large and protective. Father laughed; the boy had felt warm and happy.

He sobbed. Darcy could not stop it. Bingley stepped close to his friend and pulled him into an embrace. For long minutes Darcy's tears fell into the shoulder of his friend's coat.

When the spell ended, Darcy pulled his muslin handkerchief out and blew his nose. He could not speak his gratitude, but he gave Bingley a nod that Bingley returned. In the companionable silence which followed, Darcy knew his friend understood.

Darcy pushed the mostly empty second bottle of wine away with disgust. He had work to do on the morrow, and feeling sick would not help. Darcy stood unsteadily to his feet and saw the room spin slightly around him. "I shall retire — I may mourn my father, but I will be a better man than he was."

AN: So this story is complete and now posting. There are about 100k words, and it is thirty chapters which I plan to publish three times a week. Mr. Darcy's Vow was published on Amazon 9 months ago to admittedly mixed reviews. I have removed it from Kindle Unlimited so I can share it with all you lovely people here. It is however still available at all the major ebook retailers if you are interested in supporting the author or finding out what happens faster. I hope you enjoy.

Also I want to thank Steelio, Publicola, BethJH, Elle, Naomi, LisaMarie, and BettyJo for reading the manuscript and offering thoughts and corrections.