I was roused from my stupor this morning by the sound of my door opening and then footsteps which stopped by my bed, and then the curtains were pulled back and sunlight flooded the room. I groaned and clutched my head and said, ‘Close the damn curtains. What is the matter with you?’
‘It is twelve o’clock, time you were up,’ said a voice I recognised.
‘Darcy,’ I said with a groan.
‘This has gone on long enough. I cannot stand by and watch you sink any further.’
I put my head under the pillow.
‘Just look at yourself,’ he said, ripping the pillow from me and throwing a jug of water over me.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘I know we have grown apart, George, but you were never like this. You were always so careful with your appearance.’
I looked down, bleary eyed, at my clothes and saw that they were dirty and creased, for I had slept in them for God knows how long.
‘I told you de Quincy was trouble. Where is your comb?’
‘Somewhere,’ I said, waving towards my desk.
I heard him rummaging through the papers and empty bottles and half-eaten sandwiches.
‘You’re worth more than this, George,’ he said. ‘For a few weeks there’s no harm in it, but it can all too easily become a habit. Just look at your desk,’ he said, throwing an empty bottle into the bin. ‘Everything a mess, papers everywhere…’
He stopped and there was a deathly silence.
‘I had no idea,’ he said, and I knew he had found my father’s letter. ‘George, I am so sorry, I had not heard.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ I said, with a feeling of hollowness. ‘We live, we die, and there’s an end of it.’
I pulled a half-empty bottle out from under the bed and put it to my lips, but he took it from me and sent for his valet.
‘Get him up,’ he said to the man when he arrived. ‘I want him ready in half an hour. I am taking him to Pemberley.’