Page 49 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

Day 98/70: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Darcy shifted anxiously as he waited in an empty sitting room at the militia’s headquarters. Yesterday had been their rest day; today, he and Elizabeth intended to begin their campaign on Mrs. Bennet and he had decided to visit Wickham. Over the past twenty-four days, he had continued his experiment: whenever he had encountered Wickham, he had opened the door to that turbulent sea of emotions. Somehow, day by day, it had grown less restless. More sullen. More sad.

Darcy had grieved, and he could not even quite articulate to himself why that was—something about losing all that time being tied to Wickham and about Wickham making poor choices, over and over, and injuring others.

Over and over, he had reminded himself of the truths he had learned: he could not blame Wickham for everything (though the man had certainly caused much harm), he had in fact helped create the monster, and he was only tying himself more securely to the reprobate by dwelling on his rage. If he truly wanted freedom, he would have to take action that led to that outcome.

Gradually, Darcy’s ocean had calmed and the water level had receded. His mind felt clearer, as though his rage towards Wickham had clouded his vision in other areas as well. He still did not like Wickham and likely never would, but he no longer dreaded meeting him. And he had begun dwelling on ways to help Wickham and to protect his victims.

In the meantime, though, Darcy had concluded that setting himself free from the man required a conversation. He needed to say things to Wickham. For too long, Darcy had held his tongue or had made things worse by saying the wrong things. One of these repetitions was the perfect opportunity to rectify that—which was why he was now in the sitting room at the barracks, waiting for Wickham to be fetched. Today had seemed like an ideal day as he had just spent yesterday’s rest day with Elizabeth, and he wished to complete his task with Wickham (as completed as it ever could be) before turning his attention to Mrs. Bennet.

“Hullo Darcy. Fancy meeting you here,” Wickham said with false bravado as he breezed through the door.

Darcy rose and inclined his head the merest bit. “Indeed.”

“I had thought you would not want to risk me saying anything about Miss Darcy.”

Darcy stared at this man, for the first time struck by the realisation of what a pathetic worm he truly was, wriggling this way and that, trying to avoid whatever imagined fate he feared. “Actually, I did not come to talk to you about Georgiana.” He gestured to a chair and then sat down across from it.

Wickham stared at him for a moment before seating himself with an insolent smile. “Oh? Come to warn me about overstaying my welcome?”

“I came to apologise.”

Wickham raised one eyebrow.

“I have come to realise, Wickham, that I have done you no favours all these years by protecting you from consequences. It was—it was selfish of me to protect my father at the expense of your character.” The words stuck in his throat and he almost gave the whole thing up as a bad job. Freedom and Elizabeth were worth it, he reminded himself. “I am sorry.”

“You are sorry?” Wickham repeated slowly.

Darcy gave him a curt nod. “I thought only of the short-term effects and did not consider how it might result in a more difficult situation for you. I have seen the results now, of how wretchedly you live―”

“Only because you are unwilling to give me my due!”

Darcy shook his head. “No. I do not mean your financial situation—I am speaking of your soul. You must be miserable lurching from one scrape to the next, always running from bill collectors and angry relatives. I do not think I could stand such a life.”

Wickham blinked at him for a moment, before recovering. “I get by,” he said jauntily.

“I would rather that you did more than that,” Darcy admitted. “I have hated you for years. I wished that you would die on more than one occasion. None more so than when I discovered what you had done to Georgiana―”

“And how is Miss Darcy?” Wickham asked, smirking.

Darcy fancied the man had begun to pale and was now lashing out against the truths he did not wish to hear. “You have no right to ask that,” he said calmly. “I pity you though—alone, friendless―”

“I have friends! Some people understand my true worth!”

“Only until they get to know you. You have ever been able to make friends and never been able to keep them.” Darcy leaned forward. “Do you really want to continue living this way?”

“I see nothing wrong with how I live.”

Darcy raised one eyebrow. “You do not see the wrong in preying on innocents?”

“It is nothing more than what life owes me!” Wickham said through clenched teeth. “Yes, I may take advantage of a situation now and then, but I have been disadvantaged since the moment I was born.” He sneered. “You would never understand.”

“Perhaps not. But I do know that life does not owe anyone anything. We are all given the same number of hours in a day and it is up to us what we make of them. I wish you had made better use of your hours.” Darcy sighed, trying to remember why he had thought this conversation a good idea. Looking at Wickham now, the man nearly snivelling internally, he could not fathom why he had let Wickham’s actions affect him so much. It was as though all those years the wounds had come from being caught in the crossfire. Truly, he had only himself to blame for staying in such a painful position.

Months ago, Darcy had longed to throw every wrong—real and imagined—in Wickham’s teeth and to watch as they weighed him down, leaving Wickham (hopefully) as miserable as he had been. Now, though, it just seemed so silly.

Perhaps he could just—move on.

A boulder fell from his shoulders. He did not have to continue interacting with Wickham, even mentally. All that energy had not accomplished anything, save for keeping his own misery alive.

He held Wickham’s gaze. “I wish you were different. I wish that you could hear rebukes and accept them. I wish that you truly desired to honour my father’s memory—this is not at all the life he would have had you live―”

“He would have understood and ensured that I did not have to scrape by―”

A laugh burst from Darcy’s throat at the thought of his father knowingly subsidising the ruin of his own daughter. “Clearly, Mr. Wickham, you knew my father less than I realised,” he said, the truth suddenly crystal clear. If his father had used Wickham as a break from duty, Wickham had experienced only the smallest fraction of Mr. Darcy’s nature. Perhaps Wickham had not actually been his father’s favourite. The revelation loosened an ache in Darcy’s chest.

Wickham gaped at him.

“I do not need anything else from you,” Darcy continued. “If I asked for promises of good behaviour, you would not keep them anyway. If I warned you away from the good people of Meryton, you would only seek to hurt those I care about.” Darcy took a deep breath, his lungs filling full and deep as though the years of pain had fallen away. “I will simply say ‘May Providence be gracious to you,’ for certainly you will change no other way.” He stood. “Good day, Mr. Wickham.”

Wickham remained seated, apparently frozen in shock, as Darcy walked out of the room. A light flared—more blinding than any thus far, and a cord as thick as a tree trunk turned a vibrant green and disappeared.

Wickham did not react. Perhaps he was unable to see the manifestation.

It did not matter. Darcy found that he no longer cared what the man thought or did not think.