Page 14 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived
Day 20: Tuesday, November 19, 1811
Sisyphus sidled uneasily, and Darcy patted him. “Everything will be well,” he murmured to his restive horse, hoping the statement was accurate. He had considered seeking out Wickham before they found the Bennets, but Bingley was unlikely to accept his intention to remain in Meryton without explanation. In the end, Darcy had determined to take Wickham aside after they reached the group.
The moment he saw Wickham, the hatred he had so often felt flooded through him like lava, curling up in his belly like an angry dragon waiting to flame someone to a crisp. Wickham had not only already hurt Georgiana but he fully intended to do it once again.
With rigid control, Darcy dismounted. His jaw set, he nodded to the group and acknowledged the introductions.
“Wickham, may I have a word?” Darcy asked the moment there was a break in the conversation.
Wickham inclined his head, a jaunty smile pasted on his face.
The urge to punch the man was nearly overwhelming as Darcy faced him some ways from the group. “What are you doing here?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Wickham adopted an innocent expression. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Are you following me?”
Wickham sneered. “Not everything is about you, Darcy. Some of us have to make our own way in the world, and I have heard that the —- shire corps is an excellent place to do so.”
Darcy glowered at him. “I hope that you make good on that intention.”
Wickham shrugged. “It will depend on the people and circumstances around me.”
“You mean it will depend on whether they allow you enough leeway to swindle them,” Darcy ground out. He took a step closer to Wickham. “I have had enough of cleaning up your messes. The next time an angry father comes after you or you are in dun territory and sent to debtor’s prison, I shall not lift a finger.”
Wickham sneered again. “The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, paragon of virtue.”
Darcy loomed over Wickham. “And if you ever so much as come within a mile of Georgiana, I shall inform Fitzwilliam that any scruples I had about his method of dealing with you are gone.”
Wickham paled before giving Darcy a small smile. “And how is dear Miss Darcy? I have missed her a great deal these past months.”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Oh, I think that Miss Darcy might say that it is—after all, we were nearly married. I still have kindly feelings towards her.”
Darcy glared at him. “You do not even deserve to speak her name. Pursuing a fifteen-year-old girl—you are scum of the worst sort,” Darcy hissed.
“And yet you cannot bring yourself to do anything about it, can you, old boy? You still feel responsible for me—that is why you have come to ask why I am here. Denying me my rightful inheritance gnaws at you day after day, does it not? You would not give me what I am owed—what choice did I have but to take it?” He smiled at Darcy. “You refuse to admit the truth: your father loved me far more than he loved you.”
Wickham was on the ground, Darcy’s fist smarting before he could even draw another breath, before Darcy had even considered punching the man. Wickham groaned, putting a hand to his jaw.
“Never thought you had it in you,” he said with a huff.
Darcy forced his clenched fist to relax. “Stay away from Georgiana.”
“Darcy?” Bingley called uncertainly from somewhere behind him.
Darcy turned to see the group all wide-eyed. His heart sank. That was the exact reason he had not trusted himself to speak to Wickham the first day he had re-encountered him. Wickham had always known how to get under Darcy’s skin, and he could not his self-control around the man. Not when Georgiana’s tear-filled face was superimposed over Wickham every time he looked at the man. He dared anyone who had seen their dearest relation so injured to be circumspect in the face of Wickham’s taunts and continual presence.
Not to mention that he now knew that Wickham would never stop pursuing Georgiana.
His cheeks burning, Darcy mounted Sisyphus and rode away without a word. His last look had been at Miss Elizabeth, who appeared to be utterly aghast at his behaviour, and shame twisted in his stomach. He had behaved in a way unbefitting a Darcy.
He shook out his hand; his knuckles were tender, but that was the extent of the damage.
Why did Wickham always have to push and prod?
The thought that his father preferred Wickham was.... It was not a new thought. Wickham had long claimed his father’s preference. And honestly, Darcy had nothing with which to refute the claim.
His father lit up around Wickham. With his favourite, the older Mr. Darcy was nearly the man he had been before his wife’s death. Darcy had tried to tell himself that his father simply was not demonstrative and that he loved his son, even if he did not always know how to express it.
It was a difficult position to hold when his father continually praised Wickham for his successes and pointed out all the ways Darcy could do better.
He had tried to believe that it was only because his father knew that he was capable of more and was helping him to live up to the Darcy legacy.
Still, the doubt had remained. Perhaps his father had wished that Wickham had been his son rather than Darcy.
Nothing could be done to change it, though. And no matter how hard Darcy tried to please his father, he only rarely succeeded.
It had not been until he had inherited Pemberley that he had appreciated his father’s rigorous preparation. The transition had been difficult—but less difficult than it would have been had he not been groomed to assume the position from his earliest childhood.
And now Wickham was back. Once more trying to steal away someone Darcy loved. But unlike his relationship with his father, this time it was not merely someone’s affection that Wickham was stealing—he would destroy Georgiana’s very soul were he to marry her. She would shrivel up until there was almost nothing left of the sweet girl she was today. She was already crippled by the experiences of the summer—why could not Wickham simply leave her alone!
Darcy’s hands tightened again, the burn from his smarting knuckles a welcome counterpoint to the ache in his chest. He could not let Georgiana down. He would not let Georgiana down. No matter what it took, he would rescue her from that—that excrescence.
Wickham had lost his humanity—he no longer cared who he harmed or what he did.
Darcy nearly growled at the thought of being stuck in this Tuesday any longer, forced to encounter Wickham over and over again or, worse yet, to leave him free to spin his web of lies around Bingley and the Bennets. Every time Darcy had not been there to prevent Bingley from encountering Wickham alone, his friend had come back to Netherfield, spouting off how congenial his new acquaintance had been. True, Bingley thought everyone was congenial, but still, it galled Darcy to have his dearest friend believe Wickham was anything but a scoundrel.
Mrs. Engel had said that these repeating Tuesdays were a boon. They did not feel like a boon.
But if he saved Georgiana, it would indeed be a true gift, one that was priceless.
Though he regretted his loss of temper, perhaps the show of force would convince Wickham just how serious he was. Mrs. Engel had not been in Meryton, so he could not ask, but hopefully, Wickham would not be there tomorrow. Hopefully, he would wake and it would be Wednesday—and perhaps he could finally be free from Wickham’s machinations. For the first time in many days, Darcy went to sleep easily.