D arcy sat alone in the study at Netherfield, the morning sunrise light filtering weakly through the tall windows. A small stack of letters rested on the desk before him, newly delivered and still bearing a fine coating of frost from their journey. He reached for the one addressed in Georgiana’s flowing, youthful hand and carefully broke the seal.
Dear Brother,
It is so dreadfully cold at Pemberley now. I told Mrs. Annesley this morning that I felt like one of those little frosted hedgerow birds, chirping despite the chill and quite determined to be brave. I wish I were still in town—well, not town exactly, for I know how dangerous it has become, but I do miss the bustle. Mostly, I miss Ramsgate. The air was so mild and salty, and I still dream of the sound of the waves. Do you remember how the wind tangled my hair every morning, and you pretended not to mind when I borrowed your books and never returned them?"
He smiled at her cheerful tone. Their time in Ramsgate had brought them closer together, making their bond more one of siblings than caregiver and ward. His little sister was certainly growing into a charming, confident young woman, in spite of her childhood timidity.
Mrs. Annesley and Mrs. Reynolds are determined that I shall learn every part of running an estate before I turn twenty. I do wish you had warned me how dull some of the accounting is, Fitz. But I feel quite useful—Mrs. Annesley even let me plan how we will distribute firewood this winter, and I toured the still room yesterday.
I like Mrs. Annesley much better than Mrs. Younge. It is just as well she fled during the fire, though I still cannot believe she left me like that. At the time, I thought we were going to die. Perhaps that’s what she thought, too. But I suppose that’s what fear does to people—it causes them to react and reveal their true natures. In hindsight, I am rather glad to be rid of her.
He read that line twice, frowning. Mrs. Younge had come highly recommended, but after she abandoned her charge when news of the fire came, he had investigated her further, discovering that her letters of recommendation were forgeries. I can only thank God that she had such a limited time to influence my sister. That was one of the few blessings that came from the fire. That, and seeing Elizabeth for the first time.
Elizabeth .
He leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing her fine eyes and light, pleasing figure. She was more than her appearance, however; with her razor wit, her quiet bravery, and her maddening ability to take root in his mind and permeate his every thought.
He saw her still as she had looked that first day in Hyde Park, Hands on her hips, brow furrowed with concern. He had never seen someone so at ease amidst chaos.
She unsettled him. She made him want—things he had never allowed himself to want. Love. Companionship.
Enough! He shook his head. He had no business thinking of her as often as he did. He knew it. Her connections were modest at best, her family often appalling.
Forcing himself back to the present, he turned his focus back to finishing Georgiana’s letter.
Now, are you minding your health? I know you. You are probably doing far too much and ignoring your cough again. Just because you can breathe without wheezing, does not mean you are invincible. Please rest. And remember that it is nothing to be ashamed of if you have to cough in public. Honestly, you act like it is akin to fainting at Almack’s!
Write soon and tell me everything. And do not work too hard. And for heaven’s sake, try not to terrify the local populace with your silent glowers. They are only trying to be kind.
Your ever affectionate,
Georgiana
Darcy huffed out a small breath of amusement, his lips twitching at the corner. Georgiana had grown more confident—more herself—since the fire. He only wished she could have remained near him. But London was no place for her now. He folded the letter with care and reached for the next.
The seal of the Earl of Matlock stared up at him, the wax a deep crimson. Finally.
But his anticipation dissolved as he read.
Nephew,
I understand your concerns regarding this Mr. Smithson fellow, but I would not be overly troubled. Insurance men, by their nature, are an obstinate breed—prone to dramatics and well-versed in avoidance. Likely, he is no more than a penny-pinching functionary hoping to delay a claim.
As for this business about the baby and the fire’s origin, I am certain it is nothing. Surely you misunderstood the man’s questioning. It will all come to nothing, as these matters often do.
I urge you to take things in stride. I know your sense of justice is great, but not every oddity is a threat. If you like, I shall make a few inquiries, though I doubt it will amount to much.
Yours, etc.
Matlock
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the page.
Useless. His uncle had dismissed everything—Elizabeth’s interrogation, the attempted break-in, the flight of Smithson—as if it were a mere billing dispute.
He let out a quiet, irritated sigh and tossed the letter aside. This is how he writes to Georgiana, he thought bitterly. Not to me. Platitudes and reassurance, as if I were some child alarmed by shadows.
Still no word from his solicitor. Still no sign of the Bow Street Runner he had requested. He pushed back from the desk and stood, pacing the length of the study.
Something was not right. And it was not just the fire.
There are too many things that do not add up. Elizabeth in London, then here. Mr. Smithson’s interest in the baby. And now Wickham’s arrival.
Wickham.
Of all the improbable turns in recent days, seeing him again in Meryton had been the most startling. He had not seen Wickham in over two years. And then, just like that, there he was—in the middle of Meryton, looking older, thinner, but with the same careless smile, the same easy charm.
But he knew all too well the immorality and vice behind the mask. Some might say to forgive and forget—to move on—but Darcy could not forget.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and just like that, he was eighteen again. Two boys arriving at Cambridge, their eyes bright with the promise of independence. Wickham had been giddy with freedom, full of jokes and plans and schemes. Darcy, more reserved, had tried to keep up, tried to believe they could still be what they had been at Pemberley.
But Wickham’s vices had bloomed quickly in that fertile ground. Gambling houses. Women of questionable character. Late nights and mounting debts. Darcy had warned him, more than once.
"You must stop. One day, this will catch up to you."
"You sound just like the parson," Wickham laughed, tossing his cards on the table. "So blasted moral. I will be fine, Fitz. I always am."
“This is not who you want to be. I know you, George!”
Wickham scoffed. “Is it not? And what do you know of it, Fitz? You, who have always had everything handed to you. The name, the estate, the future, all neatly wrapped with a ribbon. I have had to scrape for every opportunity I have ever had. You are just uncomfortable because—here, outside Pemberley—for once, it is me that people seek. Me they follow.”
Darcy shook his head, feeling the frustration coil tight in his chest and forcing a cough. “They follow your charm, not your character. And that only lasts so long.”
Wickham’s mouth twisted. “Better to be loved for charm than tolerated for principles.”
Darcy said nothing; there was nothing more to say. And when Wickham turned away with a half-smirk and gathered his winnings, Darcy felt the final, irrevocable crack in what had once been friendship.
But that was not the last time he would see Wickham—no, the attorney had sent Wickham a notice to appear for the disposition of any bequests. He had still been reeling from the loss of his father; although the man had berated his son for his weaknesses, he also spent a considerable amount of time teaching him to run the estate. Georgiana, being at such a tender age, was crying herself to sleep at night, mourning the loss of the man who had treated her so well.
And Darcy was all alone, about to face the friend who had abandoned him for debauchery and sin.
Wickham sauntered through the door with his usual confidence, but for once, his face was solemn and his voice was low—it seemed as though his father’s godson was not entirely untouched by genuine grief.
“I am sorry, Fitz,” said Wickham. “He could be...demanding, but he was a good man. Fair. Better than most.”
“Yes,” Darcy replied stiffly.
A silence stretched between them—not the companionable kind they once knew, but brittle, taut with all the things unsaid. Wickham shifted his weight, then leaned an elbow on the back of a nearby chair.
“So,” he said at last, breaking the silence, “why am I here?”
“It seems my father has left you the living at Kymptom.” Darcy reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a sealed envelope. “Along with a bequest of a thousand pounds.”
Wickham gaped, then uttered a sharp, incredulous laugh. "A living? Fitz, you must be joking. You know I would never make a good clergyman. The whole parish would be scandalized before the end of my first sermon."
"Then what do you propose?" Darcy had asked, his tone even.
“The law, I think. It is respectable enough, and I have always had a good mind for argument.” Wickham paused, his smile fading just slightly. “But studying the law, well—it is not exactly inexpensive.”
Darcy folded his arms. “Not the military?”
Wickham scoffed. “Please. You know I have never had the stomach for rough sleeping and battlefield horrors. No, I am better suited to something...more civilized.”
I knew it , Darcy thought to himself. There it was. That subtle manipulation—Wickham’s old talent for turning a request into a favor owed, a failing into a charm.
“Five thousand pounds should set me up for the schooling and lodging in London.”
“Three,” Darcy said promptly, having already been prepared, “in addition to the one thousand in the bequest. Four total.”
“Done.”
Darcy handed over the envelope, and Wickham opened it. Upon seeing the bank note already made out for four thousand pounds, he smirked. “Well, Fitz, it seems you know me better than I know myself.”
As he exited the room, Wickham turned back to Darcy, his face solemn. “You may not believe it, Fitz, but I promise I am going to prove myself.”
A knock at the door interrupted Darcy’s memories. “Enter,” he called, leaning forward once more and retrieving his pen to sign the final letter.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” said a maid, “but there is a caller for you.”
“This early in the morning?” Darcy asked in surprise. “Who is it?”
“He did not leave a name, sir, but he’s waiting in the front parlor. Said you would know him.”
Darcy stood, frowning, but he set aside the letters, straightened his waistcoat, and made his way down the main staircase.
The door to the front parlor stood ajar, and as he stepped inside, his suspicions were confirmed. George Wickham stood at the hearth, glancing over a portrait on the wall with an air of easy familiarity.
Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose. “Of course.”
Wickham turned with a grin. “Fitz. It has been a long time. How have you been? How is Georgiana?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Darcy sighed. “It is too early for social niceties. How much do you want?”
Wickham’s smile faded, replaced by something quieter. “Nothing. That is, I do not need any money.”
Darcy blinked. “No money?”
“No money.”
Flummoxed, Darcy asked, “Then what—why the uniform? Why are you in the uncivilized militia rather than studying law as you once claimed?”
“Ah.” Wickham rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I can see why you thought I must be here in search of funds. I am making a mess of this already…May I sit? To explain?”
Darcy gestured towards a chair, and the two sat facing one another. It was silent for several moments before Wickham said, “I know I have earned your distrust, Fitz. At Cambridge, I was a disaster. Cards, women, brandy—I chased every indulgence and ignored every warning. Especially yours.”
Darcy did not respond at once. He could still see the boyish grin across a stack of cards, the careless shrug when debts were called in.
“I did study the law,” Wickham went on. “After I received the money from your father’s will, I completed schooling in London. Upon completion, I found a post in a barrister’s office in London. Clerk work, mostly, but I was working to support myself and allowing your father’s funds to grow in interest. Until the fire.”
Darcy’s arms dropped to his sides, his expression unreadable. “The fire?”
“It destroyed the building. The office. Files, clients—all gone. The firm’s older clerks were taken in elsewhere, but I—well, I am not exactly a shining prospect. With so many displaced men seeking work, there was little left for me. So, I joined the militia. Not for glory or uniform—just for stability. A roof, meals, a purpose.”
Darcy stared at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “I see.”
“I do not blame you for doubting me, But I have changed. Those reckless days—what once felt thrilling now just started feeling empty shortly after we left Cambridge. I remembered how it felt to be needed…like when you were ill as a boy. I liked being the one to help. I wanted to be someone I could respect.”
Another silence as Darcy gazed steadily at his old friend, searching his face for signs of deceit.
There was a pause, the weight of years settling between them. “Speaking of your being ill, how are you?” Wickham asked softly. “Miss Elizabeth told me the fire aggravated your lungs.”
Darcy stiffened. “Did she?” His voice was tight. “I did not think she was so little to be trusted.”
“She was not gossiping,” Wickham said quickly. “It was after…after you rode away in town. I was hurt. I thought—I feared your good opinion of me was gone forever. I told her about our childhood. She told me perhaps it was not personal. That you might have simply been trying not to cough.”
Darcy looked away, lips pressed into a tight line.
“She said she found you mid-fit once,” Wickham added. “That she kept your secret. I was… surprised. You never used to let anyone see you in that state.”
“I still do not,” Darcy murmured. “Miss Elizabeth happened upon me in a time of weakness, that’s all.”
Wickham studied him for another moment before saying quietly, “She sees more than you think.”
Darcy did not respond at once. His fingers curled into a loose fist at his side. “Perhaps she does.”
Wickham smiled faintly. “She’s remarkable.”
Darcy gave the smallest nod, his throat too tight to reply.
Wickham picked up his hat. “I should go. I have duties to attend to.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Thank you—for explaining. I hope you are able to continue on the path you say you’ve begun.”
At the doorway, Wickham hesitated. “Showing weakness does not make you weak, Fitz. I had to learn that the hard way. I do not drink anymore, and I have not touched a deck of cards in over a year. Some things are harder to resist than others, and when I could admit to myself that I struggled with self-control, it actually made it easier to change.”
With that, Wickham let himself out, leaving Darcy alone with the silence and the gentle ticking of the clock to ponder the strange turnaround of his old friend.
Perhaps people could change. Perhaps some things once broken could yet be repaired.
But could he forgive?
It was, after all, the mark of a true Christian to do good to those who would harm you, so surely forgiving a penitent man would be even more important.
But at what cost? Could he risk it?
He did not know. Not yet.
Darcy stood still for several long moments, the air in the room thick with the past. The memories, the hurt, the sense of betrayal—they all clung to him like damp fog on a chilly morning. And yet, there had been something honest in Wickham’s face. Something weary, but not false.
A knock came at the doorframe. “Darcy?” Bingley’s cheerful voice cut through the haze. “Fancy a ride? The sun’s out at last, and I have been itching to take Titan out before the roads turn to muck again.”
Darcy turned, glancing out the window. The morning light was pale but promising, catching the edge of a frostbitten field and the glint of dew on the hedgerows. He felt the familiar ache in his chest, a dull tightness that spoke of stiff lungs and unvoiced worries. And yet—he wanted to ride. He wanted to breathe sharp air and feel the wind bite his skin.
He paused with one hand on the edge of the door. A dozen times in the past, he had refused to participate in such things with others. What if I have a coughing fit? What if Bingley sees?
And then, quite suddenly, he remembered Wickham’s parting words: Showing weakness does not make you weak.
He looked at Bingley’s open, earnest face—the friend who had never judged him, who had only ever looked up to him, even when he had not deserved it. For once, he let the inner voice of his father fall silent, the voice that had always said a Darcy must never falter, never show vulnerability, never let anyone see.
Darcy took a breath—not entirely easy, but freer than it had been in some time.
“Yes,” he said, stepping into the hall. “A ride is perfect.”
And as he did, a strange sensation unfurled inside him. It was not joy exactly, or peace, or even certainty. But it was something like hope.
And for now, that was enough.