Read Online The Plight of the Darcy Brothers by Marsha Altman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marsha Altman
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husband announced, startling her, but she hid her surprise as she turned around. “Some financial notations from a local bank where, according to the date, my father set upan account shortly before his death. It should still be there, and I should be the benefactor. If you wouldn't mind, I'll inquire with our hosts as to its precise location.”
“Since when did you become so money-hungry, Darcy?” “It is not that, and you know it. I am the financial head of the Darcy fortunes, and I should at least take the time to know where they are. It may be nothing, some charitable fund. But as long as we are here…” he trailed off as he passed her, giving her a quick kiss.
Elizabeth had little understanding of the Darcy fortunes beyond what he had taught her that she would need to know upon his death. She had never studied economics, but she prided herself on having a keen sense of when her husband had some kind of scheme or plan running through his head that he did not want to share with her. Well, that was fine. She had one, too.
The bank turned out to be but a half hour's ride away, giving them enough time to be back for dinner, if their inquiries took a reasonable amount of time, and Darcy was fairly sure that they would.
The bank itself was an old, crumbling building but very much still in service and full of guards like any proper bank that had survived the Revolution. Unfortunately, as he had warned on the way, Darcy had to leave Elizabeth at the door to the office of the bank manager, because they were to discuss an account to which she had no rights. So she walked around a bit outside, admiring the wonderful fountain in the center of town, while Darcy was called into a stuffy office where an exceptionally fat man was struggling to seat himself behind his desk.
The bovine banker before him put on his reading glasses, looked briefly at the note, and then finally turned to his visitor. “So you are here to inquire about the account of Geoffrey Darcy. May I assume you are the executor of his estate?”
“I am his son, and yes, I am.”
The banker squinted at the records before him again. “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Yes. Do you require proof of my identity?”
“No, Mr. Darcy, I do not, unless you wish to alter the nature of the account. Which, according to Geoffrey Darcy's own specifications, only you may do, and in person.”
“I admit to not knowing his specifications. I was only recently informed that he had an account here. It is not in the record books in England.”
The banker grunted or possibly snorted. “Yes, well, if you wish to alter the arrangements, you may do so, but I must require the proper papers for that.”
“Arrangements?”
“Yes.” The banker glanced over the records again, which he shared with Darcy. “Three thousand pounds are sent to Mont Claire annually, drawing on a reserve of some fifty thousand.”
“Mont Claire?” Darcy did his best to hide his surprise at the staggering sum.
“Yes. It is, I believe, in the west.”
“The money goes to an estate?”
“No, it goes to a person. Grégoire Bellamont. As the account specifies, he is permitted to do as he pleases with it, with the exception of redepositing it in the same account. What I mean to say is, Monsieur Darcy would not allow him to refuse it.”
Darcy was trying to stay focused on the bizarre information being thrown at him. “I am not familiar with this man. Have you met him?”
“No, Monsieur. The account was set up in the presence only of your father and a Mademoiselle Bellamont.”
Now with the blood rushing to his head and the pounding in his ears, Darcy could barely manage his last question, “And the date of that event?”
The banker squinted again. “February 7, 1797. Do you have any—”
“I wish all of the records to be made available in copy form at once,” Darcy said, standing up. “I will return tomorrow for them. Thank you for your time.”
The banker nodded, and Darcy left,
“Since when did you become so money-hungry, Darcy?” “It is not that, and you know it. I am the financial head of the Darcy fortunes, and I should at least take the time to know where they are. It may be nothing, some charitable fund. But as long as we are here…” he trailed off as he passed her, giving her a quick kiss.
Elizabeth had little understanding of the Darcy fortunes beyond what he had taught her that she would need to know upon his death. She had never studied economics, but she prided herself on having a keen sense of when her husband had some kind of scheme or plan running through his head that he did not want to share with her. Well, that was fine. She had one, too.
The bank turned out to be but a half hour's ride away, giving them enough time to be back for dinner, if their inquiries took a reasonable amount of time, and Darcy was fairly sure that they would.
The bank itself was an old, crumbling building but very much still in service and full of guards like any proper bank that had survived the Revolution. Unfortunately, as he had warned on the way, Darcy had to leave Elizabeth at the door to the office of the bank manager, because they were to discuss an account to which she had no rights. So she walked around a bit outside, admiring the wonderful fountain in the center of town, while Darcy was called into a stuffy office where an exceptionally fat man was struggling to seat himself behind his desk.
The bovine banker before him put on his reading glasses, looked briefly at the note, and then finally turned to his visitor. “So you are here to inquire about the account of Geoffrey Darcy. May I assume you are the executor of his estate?”
“I am his son, and yes, I am.”
The banker squinted at the records before him again. “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Yes. Do you require proof of my identity?”
“No, Mr. Darcy, I do not, unless you wish to alter the nature of the account. Which, according to Geoffrey Darcy's own specifications, only you may do, and in person.”
“I admit to not knowing his specifications. I was only recently informed that he had an account here. It is not in the record books in England.”
The banker grunted or possibly snorted. “Yes, well, if you wish to alter the arrangements, you may do so, but I must require the proper papers for that.”
“Arrangements?”
“Yes.” The banker glanced over the records again, which he shared with Darcy. “Three thousand pounds are sent to Mont Claire annually, drawing on a reserve of some fifty thousand.”
“Mont Claire?” Darcy did his best to hide his surprise at the staggering sum.
“Yes. It is, I believe, in the west.”
“The money goes to an estate?”
“No, it goes to a person. Grégoire Bellamont. As the account specifies, he is permitted to do as he pleases with it, with the exception of redepositing it in the same account. What I mean to say is, Monsieur Darcy would not allow him to refuse it.”
Darcy was trying to stay focused on the bizarre information being thrown at him. “I am not familiar with this man. Have you met him?”
“No, Monsieur. The account was set up in the presence only of your father and a Mademoiselle Bellamont.”
Now with the blood rushing to his head and the pounding in his ears, Darcy could barely manage his last question, “And the date of that event?”
The banker squinted again. “February 7, 1797. Do you have any—”
“I wish all of the records to be made available in copy form at once,” Darcy said, standing up. “I will return tomorrow for them. Thank you for your time.”
The banker nodded, and Darcy left,
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