Page 44 of The Difference of a Darcy
There, nestled inside, was the old iron strongbox.
He drew it out with both hands and set it on the desk.
There was no lock. His father had always said that anyone who knew of its existence had no need to pick a lock—they were trustworthy.
Darcy opened the lid.
His heart clenched.
Inside were several small bundles of pound notes wrapped in oilskin, their edges slightly curled with time. Sovereigns glinted dully beneath a folded bank ledger. He exhaled sharply—it was more than he had hoped for. More than enough for the next steps.
But it was the envelope beneath the ledger that caught his eye.
For a moment, his breath caught.
It was familiar—his father’s handwriting. Bold. Precise.
He reached for it—but as he turned it over, his stomach turned to ice.
The envelope was blank.
No name. No direction. No “To my son, Fitzwilliam.”
It had once been there. He was certain of it. He had seen that envelope, years ago, after his father’s passing. But now… nothing. Only silence and parchment.
He opened it with trembling hands.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. Also empty.
Nothing written. No signature. No parting wisdom.
No acknowledgment.
His throat burned.
He shoved the envelope aside and turned back to the bundles of money with renewed urgency, wrapping several in an oilcloth and slipping them into the inner pocket of his greatcoat. The sovereigns he transferred to his purse. When he rose, it was with clipped, purposeful movements.
He was not angry, exactly.
But he was no longer stunned.
He understood now.
This world had not only moved on without him—it had been rewritten. He had never inherited this house. He had neverbeen born to receive that letter. His father had never known him.
He was a shadow in someone else’s story.
Darcy closed the lid of the strongbox, returned it to the panel, and shut it with finality. A speck of dust fell from the ceiling.
He paused one last time, surveying the room. The air felt colder now. Still hollow.
No trace of him. Not even a ghost.
He turned on his heel and strode for the door, the weight of the stolen money heavy against his ribs. The familiar scent of dust and aged wood followed him like a ghost as he unlocked the latch and eased the door open—
A shriek split the air.
High. Frantic.
