The Difference of a Darcy (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations)

Prologue

Fitzwilliam Darcy sat straighter in the saddle as the sea breeze tugged at his coat. Ramsgate’s rooftops crested the rise before him, and his horse quickened without command. He had made excellent time—better than expected. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He had told Georgiana to expect him at week’s end.

Instead, he had finished his work two days early and had decided he would surprise her.

It had been far too long since he had seen his sister in spirits as high as they sounded in her last letter.

She had written of fresh air, long walks, and piano practice—and while her companion Mrs. Younge had not significantly impressed Darcy at their introduction, the woman had seemed competent enough.

The sight of the townhouse, which was their rented home for the summer, filled him with satisfaction. He dismounted quickly, handing his reins to the groom and ascending the front steps two at a time.

The butler opened the door in surprise. “Mr. Darcy! We were not expecting—”

“No matter,” Darcy said as he removed his gloves. “Is Miss Darcy at home?”

“She is in the drawing room, sir. I shall announce you.”

But Darcy waved him off, smiling faintly. “No need. I should like to see her expression when she realizes I am here.”

He stepped lightly down the hall and pushed open the door.

“Georgie?”

His sister looked up—and in the next moment, let out a delighted cry. “Brother!”

She flew to him without hesitation, flinging her arms around his neck. Darcy stumbled back half a step, then caught her with a soft laugh.

“You are in excellent spirits,” he said. “It is good to see you, dear girl.”

“Oh, you are just in time!” she said breathlessly, her eyes alight with joy. “I have the most wonderful news!”

Mrs. Younge, seated by the window, half-rose. “Miss Darcy, perhaps it is best if—”

Darcy lifted a hand, frowning. “Let her speak, madam. What has you so flustered, Georgiana?”

The girl drew back and clasped his hands, beaming. “I had hoped you would come in time. Now you shall not miss the wedding!”

Darcy blinked. “Wedding?”

“Yes!” Georgiana twirled once, breathless with excitement. “I wanted to wait until you arrived before we eloped, but now we need not delay! Here, I will send a note to Mr. Wickham to let him know the good news.”

The name struck him like a blow.

“Wickham?” he repeated, his voice flat.

Mrs. Younge had gone ashen. “Sir—please, allow me to explain—”

“You will remain silent.” He turned on her sharply. “Do not move.”

The woman’s mouth opened again, but a quick motion brought a footman to the door. Darcy’s voice was low and cold. “Do not allow her to leave this room.”

The man nodded and took his position.

Darcy turned back to his sister. “Georgiana… what madness is this? You cannot mean to marry George Wickham.”

She looked hurt. “But why not? He is kind and attentive and speaks of you with such warmth. He said he was certain you would approve. He remembered all the times you played together as boys. Even Father admired him—”

“No,” Darcy said, his tone low and dangerous. “Absolutely not.”

Georgiana’s face crumpled. “Why are you angry? Why should it matter who I marry, if I love him?”

“Because you are not out. Because you are not of age. Because you are being deceived.”

“You do not know him!”

“I know him better than you ever could,” he snapped. “And there is no world, no fortune, no condition under which I would approve of such a match. He is a liar. A scoundrel. Lowborn filth who preys upon young girls for money and revenge.”

Her lip trembled. “That is not true. He said you had a quarrel at university, but he had hoped—”

Darcy’s voice rang out like a thunderclap. “You will not see him again.”

Georgiana flinched as if struck. “You are cruel!”

“And you are a child,” he growled. “A na?ve girl being manipulated by a man who does not love you.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “You do not understand. You never try to understand.”

“I understand far more than you think.”

“You are heartless!” she cried, backing toward the door. “You do not care who I love, you just want to control me! Well, I wish—I wish I did not have a brother at all!”

The words landed like a knife.

Darcy said nothing. He only raised a hand and pointed.

“To your room. Now.”

Sobbing, she fled.

Silence crashed down over the room.

He turned toward Mrs. Younge, who stood trembling in the corner. Her hands were folded tightly at her waist, knuckles white. Her composure had slipped—just a little. Enough for him to see the fear beneath it.

“You will tell me everything,” he said darkly. “Every word. Every meeting. Every note. And God help you if I find even one lie.”

Her lips parted, then closed again.

Darcy stepped forward. “Do not waste my time with denials.”

She swallowed hard. “I—Mr. Darcy, I—”

“Start with how you came to be in my household,” he bit out. “Those references you provided—who wrote them?”

Mrs. Younge’s eyes flicked toward the door. The footman still stood there.

“I… I was desperate,” she whispered. “My last position dismissed me without warning, and I—”

“The references were forged.”

She gave a faint nod.

Darcy’s nostrils flared. “And how long have you known George Wickham?”

Her gaze dropped. “Since childhood. My mother was his aunt.”

“Of course,” he muttered. “Nepotism and deception—Wickham’s favorite tools.”

“I only meant to introduce them,” she said, voice rising slightly. “It was George who pursued the matter further. He said… he said there would be no harm in it. That you would come round once the wedding was done.”

Darcy’s hands curled into fists. “You aided and abetted a planned elopement with a girl not yet sixteen. That is harm, madam.”

Mrs. Younge flushed. “I did not know she was so young. And he said—he promised—five thousand pounds. Once the marriage was complete and the dowry settled.”

Darcy gave a short, humorless laugh. “Then you are a greater fool than I thought.”

Her head jerked up.

“Georgiana’s dowry is only released upon marriage with the approval of both guardians. Otherwise, she receives only the quarterly interest directly to herself. You would have been waiting a very long time.”

The woman stared at him, dumbfounded.

“And Wickham,” he added with a sneer, “was in the room when my father’s will was read. He knew all of this. He lied to you.”

Mrs. Younge’s face contorted with rage, but it did not last. A heartbeat later, she turned as pale as parchment when he stepped forward again.

“You should be grateful I do not call the magistrate,” he said icily. “Fraud. Forgery. Attempted abduction of an heiress.”

Her knees nearly buckled. “Please… Mr. Darcy, have mercy, I beg you—”

“Do not insult us both by pretending remorse,” he snapped. “The only reason I shall not drag you before the law is for Georgiana’s sake. The scandal would be unendurable.”

She nodded quickly, trembling.

“You are dismissed at once. If you provide an address, your wages to this day shall be sent to you. To this day, mind—there will be no payment for the full quarter.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“You will not ask me for a reference. I shall not give one. If I hear your name again in connection with any position as a governess, companion, or teacher—anywhere in England—I shall ensure no respectable family will ever consider you again.”

Tears began to fall.

“You have ten minutes to gather your things,” he said. “My valet will accompany you to ensure you take only what belongs to you.”

Mrs. Younge dipped into a clumsy curtsy and stumbled past the footman.

Darcy stood alone in the drawing room, the fire behind him too weak to dispel the chill that had settled in his limbs.

His sister had nearly been ruined.

And it had all happened under his name. Under his roof.

He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the mantel. What would Father say?

Without looking, he raised his hand and rang the bell with more force than necessary. Within moments, the housekeeper entered wiping her hands on her apron and casting a wary glance at the smoldering fire and the tense set of his shoulders.

“Mr. Darcy, sir?”

“I require Miss Darcy’s maid. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” She curtsied and turned to fetch the girl.

Darcy remained by the hearth, pacing twice before forcing himself to stillness. He did not blame the housekeeper or the butler—neither had been of his choosing. The furnished house had come with a partial staff, and he had made only minor additions of his own.

But the maid—Georgiana’s personal attendant—had come from Pemberley. She was Mrs. Reynolds’ niece, of all things. He expected better.

When she entered, he turned sharply. She was no older than twenty, red-cheeked and pale-eyed, with a nervous expression and trembling fingers wringing the edges of her apron.

“You are Sally, Mrs. Reynolds’ niece.”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “You have known my sister since she was a girl.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then tell me why you allowed her to believe she might marry George Wickham without my knowledge.”

Sally’s mouth parted. Her face crumpled.

“I—I tried to stop it, sir. I truly did. I begged her not to agree to it, but she would not listen. She was so happy, and Mr. Wickham was so charming—at least to her.”

“And to you?”

The girl hesitated, then dropped her gaze to the floor, flushing. “He would look at me strange-like when Miss Darcy was not in the room.

“Then why did you not sound an alarm? Send for help?”

“Mrs. Younge, sir. She said if I tried to meddle or sent word to you, she would report me for theft and have me arrested.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Theft?”

Sally nodded miserably. “Said she’d claim I stole a brooch. That it would be her word against mine. I was terrified.”

He exhaled harshly and pinched the bridge of his nose.