by Jann Rowland
Chapter XXIII
Jacob Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock was a man who was acutely aware of his position in society. Jealous of his family’s honor, Lord Matlock demanded the best of behavior from his family, eager that their name remained unsullied, unlike that of so many other nobles.
But the knowledge of his position did not lead to false pride or arrogance. The privilege in which he lived was, after all, a mere accident of birth, having the good fortune to be born into such circumstances. Though Lord Matlock demanded the best from his family, he never lost sight of the truly important things in life, and he did not look down on those less fortunate than he was himself.
All possessed qualities which contributed to society, when directed properly, from the lowliest scullery maid to the prince regent himself. One thing his second son had learned during his time in the army, toiling amid war and hardship, was that any man, whether born high or low, could display a superior form of nobility to that of the most powerful duke. It was a lesson Lord Matlock could not have taught his son so well himself, though he knew Anthony was a good boy, one who had proven himself time and time again. His other son and his daughters were of similar characters, though it was true his eldest daughter could be a trial at times.
With such an outlook on life, Matlock had always thought it ironic that those beneath him by society’s standard were themselves far more arrogant and impressed with their position in life. Take his sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, for example. Now there was a lady who could benefit from a month spent as a scullery maid. Her husband, Sir Lewis, was of a like mind with Matlock, and he controlled his wife’s excesses admirably. Lady Catherine had always been a trial on them all, and Matlock himself was eager to avoid her wherever possible, even though he enjoyed Sir Lewis’s company.
It was another of his relations who was testing Matlock’s ability to hold in his vexation at present. There were few better men than Robert Darcy, and the man had made his dear sister, Anne, a very good husband. Darcy was affable with his tenants and servants, diligent in the management of his estate, brought up his children to be creditable members of society, and though reserved, was as firm a friend as any man could ever want. But he was also a proud man, one who took a great deal of satisfaction in his family history—which was much longer and more prestigious than Matlock’s own, to own the truth. This made him inflexible, particularly with respect to those with whom his family associated. Considering such truths, his continued support of George Wickham, against all the evidence of the boy’s worthlessness, was something Matlock could not explain.
“I cannot imagine what the boy is thinking!” exclaimed Darcy for perhaps the tenth time since he had invaded Matlock’s study, his animated hand gestures punctuating his words.
“First,” said Matlock, directing a severe look at his brother-in-law—not that the man noticed it, “at present you have nothing more than the unsubstantiated report from your godson. It would be best if you waited until you spoke with your son to form an opinion.”
Darcy scowled at him, but at least he stopped his infernal pacing. “I know you have been poisoned against Wickham by your son and mine, but I have never found him to be anything other than trustworthy.”
It was a discussion which had played out many times, and Matlock was in no mood to revisit it. “If you recall, Darcy, I did not question Wickham’s character—only his report. My opinion of him is not at issue. For all I know he is telling the absolute truth as he knows it. But the existence of rumors is not enough to substantiate anything. London is always rife with rumors—this you know.”
“Not usually at this time of year,” snapped Darcy. “With most prominent families seeking their estates, there is usually little enough occurring there. If there are rumors there at this time of year, there must be something behind them.”
“Or it is something Wickham heard and saw fit to inform you of for reasons of his own.” Matlock waved his hand in dismissal when Darcy turned to him, his annoyance clear. “No, Darcy, I will say nothing against the lad. But I would urge you to remember that Wickham and Fitzwilliam do not get on at all, and given the enmity between them, you must acknowledge his reasons for quitting his position and rushing to inform you are suspect, at best.”
Darcy frowned. “Wickham did not rush to inform me. In fact, he had been at Pemberley for hours before he made it known. Wickham did not even bring up the subject himself—as I recall Georgiana did. Or Anne.”
“Surely you do not believe that,” said Matlock. “Whoever brought it up, the fact remains that Wickham rushed to Pemberley, leaving a position you had selected for him, and informed you of Fitzwilliam’s supposed activities when another allowed him the opening to do so. Do you not think he was waiting for the opportunity, knowing sooner or later one of you would speak of your son?”
“Perhaps he was. Wickham knows my concerns—if he did come to Pemberley specifically to bring the information to me, I find myself very much in his debt.”
Matlock shook his head. His brother’s devotion to that bounder was aggravating at times, as he often favored the boy over his own son. Having heard enough of the exploits of George Wickham from his own younger son as well as Darcy’s, Matlock had no trust in anything he said or did. Over the years, Matlock had ensured his daughters were kept well away from Wickham’s influence and had even spoken firmly to Wickham on one occasion when he had made suggestive statements to Charity, Matlock’s youngest daughter. The man was all glib insincerity, claiming Charity misunderstood him. Of course, Matlock had not believed him for an instant, but he was as slippery as a snake. The present concern was Georgiana, for she was now sixteen and of an age where a bounder such as Wickham might consider her his prey.
“Whatever you do, I suggest you approach your son with delicacy,” said Matlock. “As I said, you do not truly know the situation, regardless of whatever Wickham has said. And if Fitzwilliam has found a woman to admire, what of it?”
Darcy whirled on him, aghast. “Do the standards of society mean nothing? Fitzwilliam can aspire to marry the daughter of an earl, or perhaps even a duke! At the very least, a woman who has been brought up in the same sphere must be his choice.”
“As long as she is a gentlewoman, she is his equal in society, though perhaps not in consequence.”
“I will not allow it!” snapped Darcy. “It cannot be allowed. Fitzwilliam needs to marry a woman who will raise our consequence in society, and any acquaintance of his friend Bingley cannot be acceptable.”
“If you will forgive my bluntness,” said Matlock, “he is a man full grown, capable of deciding what he wants in a wife.”
“I can disown him.”
A long silence ensued, tense and uncomfortable. Matlock ignored it, gazing at his brother, trying to decipher his determination in this matter. Fitzwilliam possessed the ability to be a great master of the estate when his time came and had become a truly good man in his own right. Surely his father would not overlook all of that.
“I hope you are jesting, Darcy. If it is a jest, it is in very poor taste.”
Darcy laughed, though it was particularly mirthless. He sank down in a nearby chair and put his chin in his hand, staring morosely at something only he could see.
“Perhaps I am. Perhaps not.” Then he chuckled again. “In a moment of madness, I even thought to disown him and make Wickham my heir in his stead.”
“Now that is madness,” growled Matlock. “Surely you cannot be contemplating such an action. For all your going on about expectations and your son’s choice of an unsuitable woman, Wickham is nothing more than the son of a steward. Good heavens, Darcy, what are you thinking?”
“It was a stray thought, nothing more.” Darcy paused and attempted to smile. “I would never consider making Wickham my heir.”
“I hope you do not. If you persisted with such madness, you know I would have no choice but to oppose you.”
“I know,” replied Darcy with a nod. “And I sho
uld not blame you.
“The thought has occurred to me that I could disinherit Fitzwilliam and make Georgiana my heir, but I would not do that either unless there was no other choice. Regardless of my opinion about his choice of a wife, Fitzwilliam is my heir, my blood, and I would not leave my family’s legacy to any other. He is everything I could ever have wished for in a son, and I know Pemberley will be in good hands when I am gone.”
“It is heartening to hear you acknowledge that. For a moment, I thought you had forgotten it.”
“No, I have not. That is why I am at a loss to understand how he could have forgotten himself in this manner. I thought I had taught him better.”
Matlock considered his brother for a moment and then said: “Have you considered the possibility that she might be suitable?”
Looking up, Darcy’s expression invited clarification. Matlock was only too happy to oblige. “You know nothing of this woman—even Wickham has said he only knows her name.”
“He knows she is connected to trade!” snapped Darcy.
“Even that is suspect,” soothed Matlock. “Regardless, if the connection is an uncle, he can be safely kept out of sight. Furthermore, Darcy, you know that tradesmen are becoming more accepted and wealthier. In time, they may even exceed the influence we landowners possess.”
Though he appeared to little like it, Darcy nodded.
“More to the point, this woman must be a gentlewoman—I doubt Fitzwilliam would consider her if she is not. Let us say she has a dowry of fifteen thousand and is a member of the second circles. Further, let us say she is an intelligent girl, one engaging and comfortable in society. Would you be willing to alienate your son, even if such a woman were to be a benefit to him?”
It was to Darcy’s credit that he did not respond with a statement to the effect that such a woman could not be anything other than a detriment to the Darcy family. It was clear he still did not appreciate the notion of such a woman joining his family, but Matlock thought he had at least induced his brother to consider the matter in a more rational way.
“It may be that I have no choice but to accept her,” said Darcy after a moment’s thought. “But I hope you will excuse me if I attempt to persuade him. I would wish my grandson and the future master of my family’s legacy to come from more acceptable stock.”
Matlock knew he was not about to gain any more concessions from his brother, so he did not even make the attempt. “No, I will not blame you. But I would advise you to take care. If Fitzwilliam truly loves this girl, you may push him away. You do not wish to alienate your son.”
When Darcy left Matlock’s study a short time later, he was thoughtful. It was all Matlock could ask for.
The footsteps of the footman receded down the hall, allowing George Wickham to breathe a sigh of relief. Though he might have succeeded in explaining his presence outside the earl’s study door to Mr. Darcy, the earl himself was a different matter. Whereas Mr. Darcy enjoyed his company and did not hear anything against him, Lord Matlock had always listened to the words of his nephew and son. Charming him had been as difficult as stopping the tide.
When the footman was gone, Wickham heard another sound—the footsteps of his patron, moving away from his position of concealment. Wickham risked a glance around the corner, noting Mr. Darcy’s retreating form until he turned a corner, and when he was gone, Wickham took the opportunity to make his own escape.
Not knowing what to think of the conversation he had overheard, Wickham found himself in a part of the house which would not result in uncomfortable questions and slowed his pace, walking deep in thought. Though his heart had soared when Mr. Darcy suggested disinheriting his prig of a son and making Wickham his heir, even then Wickham had known it was unlikely the man would follow through with it. Mr. Darcy had been obligingly easy to flatter into being Wickham’s firmest supporter, but he was, at heart, still a proud man, his reaction to his son’s reported courtship evidence of that fact. Making Wickham his heir was an impossibility. Much as Wickham wished it to be different, he was the son of a steward, and nothing would change that.
The question was, could he use the knowledge he now possessed for his own gain? In the end, Wickham thought it was possible Mr. Darcy might be induced to disinherit his son if he was pushed to it. If he did so, Wickham had no doubt Georgiana would assume the position of his heir, likely with the stipulation her future husband take her name to preserve it for future generations. Could Wickham resign his name in order to gain the great wealth of Pemberley?
The mere thought caused Wickham to chuckle under his breath. There was very little Wickham would not do to become a rich man himself. He had no particular attachment to his name, it being in no way prestigious or having done him any good in his life. Besides, gaining the Darcy name, being in a position to thumb his nose at Darcy that he, Wickham, was to inherit the estate would be a most delicious revenge.
The sound of a pianoforte reached through Wickham’s ruminations and he paused, listening. While both Lady Anne and Lady Susan were accomplished pianists, Wickham was certain it was Georgiana Darcy who was the current author of the music floating through the halls. A grin suffused Wickham’s face—perhaps the time to begin charming the girl was now.
The music room at Snowlock was situated in such a way that the pianoforte was on the other side of the room, the musician’s back to the door. Silently, Wickham opened the door, a quick look about confirming that she was alone in the room. Then he slipped inside, leaving the door ajar to give the appearance of propriety—appearance was everything at present.
For a few moments, Wickham listened to the girl play. As his understanding of music—and interest—was rudimentary, he was not certain what she was playing. One of the great composers, no doubt. But Wickham could easily see that she was quite talented, notwithstanding her tender years. When she finally finished what she was playing with a flourish, he took the opportunity to take the first steps to ingratiating himself into her affections.
“Marvelous, Miss Darcy,” said he, clapping. “Absolutely marvelous.”
It was to some disappointment that Wickham watched the girl as she turned, apparently unsurprised by his presence. She was a mousey sort of girl, shy and reticent, and he had thought he might provoke her to fright, which he could use as a pretext to comfort her.
“Mr. Wickham,” said she with perfect civility. “Thank you, sir. I have been practicing this piece for some time.”
“Simply breathtaking, my dear,” said Wickham. “I do not think I have ever heard such a wonderful rendition of Mozart in my entire life.”
Miss Darcy smiled at Wickham, and he had the distinct impression she was laughing at him. “That was Bach, Mr. Wickham.”
Though Wickham was not at all versed in music, he thought he was familiar with all the principle composers—or at least their names. Bach was a name with which he was unfamiliar. Miss Darcy appeared to realize his confusion, for she nodded and said:
“Bach was a German composer who died many years before Herr Mozart, Mr. Wickham. It is unfortunate his music is not well-known today, for it is quite impressive, do you not think?”
“Impressive, indeed,” said Mr. Wickham, pushing his mistake to the side. “Have you any other pieces you could play for me? I find myself highly desiring to hear you continue to play.”
“Oh, there are many others I could play, Mr. Wickham. But as my mother is now here, I believe we are to walk in the gardens for a time.”
Startled, Wickham, turned his head, noting that Lady Anne had, indeed, entered the room and was watching him with what could only be termed distrust. But Wickham was not one to allow surprise to pierce his mask of amiability. Thus, he bowed to his patron’s wife.
“Lady Anne. I am certain you must be quite proud of your daughter. Her skill is nothing less than exquisite.”
“We are very proud of her, Mr. Wickham,” said Lady Anne, a clear reference to her husband. “Now, if you will excuse u
s.”
“Of course,” said Wickham smoothly. “I would not dream of keeping you from your exercise. I hope you enjoy yourselves.”
“Thank you,” said Lady Anne, before guiding her daughter from the room.
When the door closed behind them, Wickham stood there for some time, looking at it, considering. Lady Anne had been as immune to his charm as Lord Matlock had been, which made Wickham’s task all that much more difficult. The woman was watchful over her little daughter, and Wickham doubted he would find it easy to maneuver around the mother hen.
But it mattered little. There was plenty of time still. The first step was to convince Mr. Darcy of the merits of disowning his son. When that had been accomplished, he would have plenty of time to complete the wooing of the man’s daughter.
“I do not trust Mr. Wickham, Mama,” said Georgiana Darcy as she exited the house with her mother.
“A wise stance, Georgiana,” said Lady Anne. She turned and looked at her daughter. “What did he say?”
“Nothing in particular,” said Georgiana with a shrug. “He complimented me on my playing.” Georgiana paused and giggled. “He mistook Bach for Mozart.”
“As you know, Bach is not at all popular,” said Lady Anne, distracted by her thoughts.
“Perhaps he is not,” replied Georgiana with a hint of exasperation. “But their styles are so different that even if Mr. Wickham did not know I was playing Bach, he should not have thought it to be Mozart. Handel, perhaps, but Mozart?”
Lady Anne turned a smile on her only daughter. “It has never seemed to me that Mr. Wickham cared much for music. I doubt he knows Vivaldi from Beethoven.”
“That much is evident.”
“He is planning something,” said Lady Anne, still considering her husband’s unwanted protégé.
“Is he not always engaged in some stratagem? William does not trust him at all.”