by Iris Lim
“And so you give up your trust and friendship because the man has wronged your neighbor.”
“Yes, sir. His actions are – unpardonable.”
Both men fell silent. Mr. Bennet’s pipe moved up and down, as if the man dozed or nodded.
Several minutes passed, and Mr. Bennet spoke, “You value these women and their hearts – more than a man closer to you than a brother?”
Darcy sighed. He fought the tears that struggled towards the surface of his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Bennet.”
“Yes.”
Then, suddenly, the older man stood and leaned over the breadth of his desk. Darcy tried to turn towards wherever he pictured the man’s face to be.
“If I had a son half as upright as you,” said the older man, “then I would be proud for the entirety of my life.”
The single tear that Darcy shed was inevitable, as he fumbled to find and shake his host’s sincere hand.
• • •
Fourteen Years Ago
• • •
“Now! Now!”
Darcy tugged on the reins – and felt the full gratification of his young horse drawing to a stop. Father approached him. Mother, frail, could only wait for them to finish their lessons before hearing of how they had fared.
“You have done well, Fitzwilliam.” Father’s hand landed upon his shoulder.
Darcy smiled. He enjoyed his perch upon the saddle. The position made him taller, stronger. “It is not too difficult.”
Father laughed. Father nearly never laughed these days – not since Mother fell ill.
Darcy was happy to please Father. Father needed to be pleased.
Also, young Georgiana needed to be protected.
“Your determination, son, shall impress even Hannibal’s army.” Father helped him down from the horse. The ground felt solid, though rather boring, beneath his feet.
“Thank you,” Darcy replied.
The thought to ride by himself had not been hard – the necessary determination had been easy to find.
It was the endurance of the physical aches and pains – from every fall and every turn – that had cost him the most.
Darcy trailed Father’s footsteps with ease, instinctively knowing each step towards the familiar entrance. He decided, even then, that no one would ever see the scars his back now bore.
“There is no limit, son, to what you shall do yet,” Father said, when at last they reached the door.
Darcy swallowed, suddenly moved. The servants flocked to aid their entry – all hands serving their current and future master.
They both wandered, without words, towards Mother’s room. Darcy would grant Father the privilege of sharing what he’d witnessed today.
“See what our son has done,” Father announced, within minutes of their entry.
Mother expressed her joy, though she spoke weakly. For Darcy and his aching back, arms, and legs, every compliment ran deep.
“With a son as diligent and courageous as you,” Father declared with a hand on Darcy’s fast-growing shoulders, “I never need any other.”
The two tears that ran down his face were inevitable. He believed he heard Mother cry as well.
Chapter 12:
The Double-Crosser
In her heart of hearts, a small part of Georgiana knew that her brother would dislike her current actions. George was a dear friend – nearly a cousin – but still a person of employ. It would not be proper to spend so much time in his solitary company.
Yet, somehow, with Richard calling at Lucas Lodge every day, every hour – and Fitzwilliam so withdrawn – she could not help but seek comfort and protection elsewhere.
“Not quite as pretty as your person, dear – but as a simple token, it suffices – I most sincerely hope.” Her brother’s former assistant knelt before her on the grass, a beautiful rose between his fingers.
Georgiana giggled as she took it.
It did smell very, very good.
“Is all well at Netherfield, love?” He sat beside her on the rock.
Her smile – so easily beckoned by charming George’s actions – slipped away at the reminder of the source of her melancholy.
“Have I caused you pain? I hope I did not –”
“Oh, George. It’s fine.” She sniffed. The clearing where they met wasn’t far from her current residence – but shrouded by foliage enough to afford privacy. It helped her, each time, to step away from the somber house filled with people far too detached from her pain to care.
It was a pity Longbourn was too far for her to walk.
“Is the rose unsatisfactory, darling?”
“Oh, no – not at all.” She swiped away her treacherous tears and tried her best to force a smile. “Is it truly too hard to forgive my brother, George?”
George Wickham’s face fell then – from a hopeful smile to a stern frown within the span of a single heartbeat.
“George –”
“Do not worry over our affairs, Georgiana.” He placed a hand over the fingers she’d laid upon his arm. “Men’s debts are hardly easy to overlook.”
“But he has cut you off so cruelly.”
“I forgive him.” George sighed. The sadness reflected in his eyes – keen and deep. “It is disappointing, of course, that he trusts hearsay more than a man who –”
She pulled him close when he choked upon his words, her heart both heavy and full. The quarrel between Fitzwilliam and George had caused plenty of commotion in Netherfield. The men thought her asleep – but she had been fully awake and aware of every grumble and shout that had echoed down the hallway. Their words had felt jumbled – but their attitudes had been indubitably clear.
Her brother hated their friend – and had given her no explanation for his anger.
“I fear he shall take you away from me,” said George, a moment later. The warming sun corresponded with her own warming soul. George was a dear. No one else seemed to care. “I do not know what I would do, darling, if he –”
“Please, do not –” She sniffed again. The thought of losing the only man still by her side was unbearable.
He hugged her then, drawing her close – no fear for the light of day.
It was a blessing to be loved.
• • •
“Are the nights very long?” George inquired as he sat beside her.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Rather.”
“My poor darling.”
His arms wound around her, pressing her close. The cooling air swarmed around them. His chest brought her rest.
“And your brother?”
“Has not relented.” Georgiana sighed. She barely saw her brother these days. He wandered the woods by himself, more often than was advisable. Whenever Mr. Bingley visited Longbourn, Fitzwilliam and Richard followed.
It had been ages since she’d met any lady of her age – or gentlemen, really.
“Is life so sorrowful for you, dear Georgiana?” George kissed her brow. He did it first three days ago. It was comforting to find him doing so again. “If I had but the money – I would give you every luxury you ever wished for.”
“Money is useless, George.” She snuggled against his shirt. “Happiness drifts away from it as waves roll away from the shore.”
“It cannot be so bad.”
“But it is.”
She looked up then, feeling more desperate than she ever had in her young life. All the people around her – beset with their own problems – barely noticed hers. The sympathy Elizabeth had offered after Richard’s rejection subsided nearly as quickly as the first few weeks in Hertfordshire had flown by.
Here, at last, was a person who cared.
Surely Fitzwilliam was in the wrong over their quarrel?
“George.”
“Yes, darling?”
“Would you truly care for me forever?”
The sadness in his eyes made her feel guilty – for how could she ever have doubted his sincerity?
“Forever, d
arling – to my dying, last breath.”
“And Fitzwilliam’s claims –”
“Are lies – every single one.”
Georgiana felt her heartbeat rising – soaring, dreaming. Her hands slid up to rest on George’s shoulders.
“George – darling.”
“My dearest Georgiana.” He kissed her then – all sweetness and passion. Her eyes closed. Her body fell freely against his frame. The wonder of this hour, this moment, branded itself into her heart.
Here was a man who loved her. Here was a man who cared. Here was a man who promised to love her to his dying breath.
Who would ever push such a dear, kind person away?
“Georgiana!” A voice cried – wailed. Footsteps – fast, furious – stomped their way closer.
Slowly, she pulled away and opened her eyes.
Who could have seen them here, where no one –
“George Wickham!” Her brother thundered, two yards away.
Georgiana whipped around, hands still anchored in George’s shirt.
“How can you –” Fitzwilliam did not finish, for George took flight.
Aghast, Georgiana watched as the man who had just sworn her his love fled in large, desperate paces – eager to be far away from her now.
Two feminine hands held her by the arms.
“Come, Georgiana,” said Elizabeth, “let us go inside.”
• • •
He shook the entire way back indoors. His walking stick provided little guidance but – thank God – sufficient support. It only took two tumbles before he was safely inside. Fragile, female footsteps behind him indicated that his sister and her friend were not far behind.
Darcy knew his face looked stormy.
There was simply no other way to look.
“Fi – Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana called – weak, despondent, condemned.
Darcy scowled. Any lingering sorrow he had felt over George Wickham’s dismissal had vanished into thin air the moment he’d realized what exactly transpired before him – a bitter servant accosting his master’s sister.
All chance of reconciliation crumbled – all hope of forgiveness lost.
“Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana pleaded.
He turned away, unable to face reality. Miss Elizabeth helped her – that was enough.
His ignoble sister did not need him.
This time, this hour – he needed to face himself.
Epiphanies, resolve, and reevaluations swirled around him in a starry, stirring storm. Every memory of every moment he had trusted George Wickham pushed him further into the winds. His pride and his confidence withered – chipped away by the merciless gale.
Had he brought about this conclusion by his own hand? Had his misplaced trust and familial neglect concocted a potion that harmed the woman he had loved from her birth? Had his morning wanderings – so selfish, so distracting – turned him away from his sister’s true heartache?
Had his false expectations of Georgiana and Richard – caused that heartache to begin with?
“Mr. Darcy.” It was Elizabeth this time.
He sighed – groaned – against the table that supported his weight.
“Mr. Darcy –”
“Leave me be,” he growled. He felt Georgiana step away. Miss Elizabeth remained.
“Mr. Darcy, you could not have foreseen the vengeance in his –”
“Leave me be!” He felt like beast – felt that he sounded and acted like one.
But he needed to mourn. He needed to think.
He needed solitude to aid him in a rare moment of soul-searching sorrow.
“Fitzwilliam, please – do not blame him. He –”
“He assaulted you!” Darcy thundered. The thought that his sister would still wish to protect the scoundrel sickened his stomach. “He used you, Georgiana, to perform his revenge at me.”
“He – he didn’t –” Sobs overcame his sister. They threatened to overcome him.
“Mr. Darcy, perhaps we can all first calm ourselves before we –”
“No,” he barked. He needed to understand – needed to find a resolution. He needed to see Wickham and drive him thousands of miles away.
“Sir, your sister wishes that you would –”
“Another time, Elizabeth.” He sighed – suddenly tired. The gasp that had escaped his walking companion upon their approach of Netherfield was forever etched – like a painful carving – into his mind and heart. Her gasp had led to his hearing – and then his discovery of what was occurring before them.
He hadn’t dared to ask if they had been clothed or not.
“Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana wailed.
“No,” Darcy said – spent, depressed. “Leave me be.”
His sister relented then – running away upstairs towards the guest quarters.
He heard Miss Elizabeth pause – perhaps wondering which sibling she would comfort – before leaving in pursuit of Georgiana.
Darcy lowered himself to the nearest chair. His palms and knuckles hurt from his unforgiving clasp of his walking stick. He was the one who had raised the expectation at the very beginning. He was the one who had exposed his sister – allowed her vulnerability to evil and charm.
He owed it to Georgiana to confront her attacker.
He owed it to her to see George Wickham one final time.
• • •
Six Years Ago
• • •
“He owes more than that, Mr. Darcy. You know that.”
Darcy sniffed. The room itself stank. If he had not been certain that George was kept captive here, he would never have ventured even close to its rickety door.
“Fitz,” George called.
He wasn’t too far – perhaps merely the other side of the room. It was unfortunate that George had crossed this gang of men who clearly bathed in rum rather than water.
“Mr. Darcy?” Their leader demanded.
Darcy reached into his coat and tossed another hefty pouch of coins upon the table. Its resounding clinks, clanks, and thud wore a hole in his soul.
The money did not matter. He had plenty of it.
It was the thought that his friend had chosen such miserable company that worried him.
“There you go, sir – knew you could do it.”
“Here,” a coarse, deep voice bellowed.
George was deposited beside him.
Darcy nodded. “I believe our debts are settled.”
“Yes, sir.” The man sneered.
Darcy stood taller, unwilling to stoop even another inch closer to the pungent men.
“I promise, Darce, I will never do this again,” George swore beside him.
Darcy sighed. Cambridge was a place of many temptations. It was perhaps human for a man as friendly and healthy as George to be easily caught in unsavory company. God knew George had friends enough.
It was he – stately young master of Pemberley – who lived a lonely life.
One may claim he made such social choices for his own protection.
He himself truly did not know if his choices were driven by wisdom or fear.
“Shall we go, Darce?” George squealed. Darcy wondered if they had tortured him.
“Yes.”
George assisted him towards the door. Darcy, eager to depart from the slums, did not overly inquire over how the men had treated his friend. George was strong enough still, at least, to support his towering frame as they tumbled into the street.
“This way,” George led him.
Darcy found comfort that George knew the way.
He found comfort, as well, in the fact that George had promised never to act so foolishly again.
Chapter 13:
The Emotional Dichotomy
“Did you think such happiness could ever be true?” Charlotte clasped her friend’s hands. “I – Richard is everything I could ever –”
“Yes, I know.”
Elizabeth smiled. Charlotte – ever sensible – seldom looked this vulnerable an
d happy. It was the eve of Miss Lucas’ wedding. Nothing could deter her joy.
“It feels unfair, Eliza, that I should find felicity when you do not.” Charlotte settled deeper into the couch. “For perhaps the first time in my life, Papa and Mama are happy with me.”
Elizabeth smiled wistfully.
She knew what she waited for – since her youngest of years. She rejoiced for Charlotte that she, having waited for so long, had finally found her own happiness.
It was only a matter of time, Elizabeth hoped, until she found her own.
“I mourn over your departure,” said Elizabeth. “Your happiness – reigns above all – but I do wish, Charlotte, dear, that your prince had come from Hertfordshire instead.”
Charlotte laughed. Elizabeth laughed too.
“You have seen our neighbors, Lizzy. Surely, you would not condemn me to their lifelong company?”
Elizabeth smiled. Her hands gripped Charlotte’s more tightly. “A soldier’s wife shall have many adventures.”
Charlotte nodded, looking radiant from every angle. “And many responsibilities.”
“You shall take it all in stride, dear.”
“I certainly hope I shall. I cannot bear the thought of being a poor wife for Richard.”
Elizabeth smiled – resisting her laugh – at Charlotte’s hopeless attachment to her future husband.
Around them, the Philips, Bennet, and Lucas family members all indulged in their own forms of pleasure. Food flowed abundantly; candles lit every corner.
It was the night before Charlotte married a colonel – and the son of an earl, no less. Lady Lucas might not have survived the thought if she hadn’t been so very obligated to the opportunity of boasting to her neighbors.
“You shall do well, Charlotte – I am sure of it.” The wistfulness continued. Elizabeth sighed – awed by the presence of joy. “There can be nothing that would overcome your good sense and insight.”
“You flatter me, Elizabeth.”
“No – happiness is earned.” A new revelation took root in Elizabeth’s heart. “Once discovered, it is you who fosters its growth.”
Charlotte smiled. “You sound different, my dear, from your usual self.”