When Given Good Principles (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Northmore Estate, Wiltshire

Nineteen-year-old George Wickham was rather enjoying his time at Viscount Northmore’s estate.

The summer weather was beautiful, the sport marvelous, and best of all, he was having the time of his life on someone else’s coin.

George had met the viscount at Cambridge at the beginning of his first term.

After being tormented for years at Eton, even with Darcy’s protection, it was a nice change to have a peer to be paying him some attention.

Darcy had been his only friend through their years in school up until last term.

Now George had been invited to spend the summer at Northmore with the viscount and several other friends. Yes, things were truly looking up.

The door to the salon opened and a footman entered. “For you, sir,” said the stiff-lipped servant, as he handed the envelope in his hand to George.

Immediately, George’s curiosity piqued. This was an express. No one he knew would send him such a missive…He tore it open, reading rapidly before collapsing in the chair.

George,

Your father fell ill three weeks ago with a spring cold. He has been unable to recover, and it has moved to his chest. We do not expect him to last through the summer. Enclosed are some funds to see you home to Pemberley.

G Darcy

George reread the missive in his hands many times, barely daring to breathe.

His father? No. The man was a tower of strength.

He had fallen from a ladder and broken his leg five years ago.

The doctors had all claimed he would never walk again, yet six months later the man had been about his business as the Darcy’s steward as if nothing had happened. Surely Mr. Darcy was mistaken.

Not that it mattered. He would be on the next post coach home, if possible. George refused to risk the chance that he would not be present if his father passed.

He gathered his thoughts and strode out to find the viscount.

There were voices coming from the library, and George assumed that was where the rest of the gentlemen in the party were.

As he approached the door, he happened to hear his name.

He stopped outside, interested to hear what was being said.

“Come now, Northmore!” Lord James Rutherford said loudly. “What do you see in Wickham? He’s the son of a steward! Hardly a gentleman and definitely not worth your time.”

“I concede that point, James,” Northmore said, “but Wickham is a useful fellow. He is passingly good at cards and willing to do just about anything to keep my patronage.”

“So, he is a lapdog?” snorted Marcus Hawthorn, heir to a baronetage.

“Very much so,” Northmore said. “Obviously he will not be in our circles once university is complete, but for now, I do not mind having him around. Besides, it is a connection to the Darcys, tenuous though it is.”

“Ha!” guffawed James. “In that you are correct. We know old Mr. Darcy favors him. Young Fitzy is too much of a stuck-up prig to get close to. I hardly know anyone else in our set that is at Cambridge to actually learn.”

The three laughed uproariously at their humor.

George stood just outside the doorway, equal parts angry and dismayed.

He had thought he was accepted in the group based on his own merits; that besides his lack of fortune and breeding, those of the first circles had seen his value and sought to cultivate his friendship for that reason.

To find out he had been acquired due to his connections to the Darcys was appalling.

For a moment, he wondered if this was what Darcy felt like all the time.

George retreated a few steps, then made a show of entering the room loudly, which stopped all conversation. “Gentlemen,” he said in greeting. “Northmore, I have received an express and am required at home immediately.”

Northmore’s apparent concern would have seemed genuine if George had not just heard their discussion. “Nothing terribly wrong, I hope?” he said.

George swallowed tightly. “My father is ill,” he said mildly, trying his hardest to hide his distress.

Northmore’s response was lukewarm. “Oh, well,” he said, “I do hope that all is resolved shortly. ‘Tis a pity that your holiday has been cut short.”

Nothing was said about feeling regret at his departure.

There was no expression of distress at his news.

George felt as if the world had been laid bare before him.

He was not wanted here. And so, he bowed succinctly at that remark and excused himself to pack.

He was on the next post coach back to Pemberley, determined to forego all comforts until he was at his father’s side.

George fairly threw his hat, gloves, and coat at the maid before rushing up to his father’s room in the steward’s cottage.

He would have to apologize to Molly for his rude behavior later.

He tapped lightly on the door before opening it.

There was a nurse by his father’s bed, stitching quietly at the cloth in her lap.

Mr. Wickham Senior lay there unmoving, propped up on pillows.

His face was white against the bedsheets, and George could see a handkerchief spotted with blood in his hand.

His hopes of his father’s imminent recovery were immediately dashed.

The nurse put a finger to her lips, indicating her patient’s sleeping state. George nodded and requested he be summoned when his father next awoke. He quit the room quietly, returning to his own chambers to freshen up.

He pushed open the door just down the hall.

It was musty from disuse and a layer of dust covered everything.

George opened the window to air it out before depositing his things on a small table nearby.

His father’s position as Pemberley’s steward meant that they had many comforts others of his station did not.

Since his mother had passed, they employed a cook along with their maid, a footman, and his father’s man.

It was clear that with the master of the house sick, priorities were in other areas rather than maintaining the room of an absent son.

Exhausted both physically and mentally from his journey, George collapsed on his bed.

Instantly, his mind replayed that overheard conversation for what seemed the millionth time.

He had been at Cambridge two years, Darcy three.

That last year alone at Eton had been very hard without his closest friend.

When he reached university, George had been desperately lonely and looking forward to Darcy’s friendship again.

But then Northmore had started showing interest in his friendship.

Darcy had immediately expressed his disapproval, warning him that Northmore’s set was fast. They gambled and ignored their studies, participating in all sorts of licentious behaviors.

George had paid no heed to Darcy’s advice, disdaining it as jealousy.

Finally, he was being accepted. His first year at Cambridge, he had made a token effort to keep his grades up but had not done well.

His second year had been far worse, and halfway through the year, Darcy had requested to change rooms. George had in turn opted to share with another of Northmore’s friends.

It seemed as if he had finally found where he fit in.

Oh, he still made some effort with his grades since Darcy Senior was financing his education.

He had to, for fear of being recalled home due to poor performance.

But most nights were spent staying up too late, participating in the viscount’s many diversions.

George still recoiled at the memory of that overheard conversation.

Two years wasted chasing around with wastrels that apparently had no more regard for him than a lapdog. It was humiliating and appalling.

George was pulled from his musings when Molly appeared at his door to inform him that his father was awake. He nodded, apologizing to the maid for his earlier behavior as he followed her from the room. The young girl smiled, telling him to think nothing of it, and that she understood.

He entered his father’s room quietly. The nurse stood up as he walked in and left with Molly, giving George and his father privacy to talk.

“Son,” he rasped. “You came.”

“Of course, I came!” George replied. “Did you doubt I would?”

“I had wondered if anything could pull you from your friend’s estate,” he said. “I have scarcely seen you in the last year.”

George’s guilt multiplied. “I have been busy with school concerns…” he trailed off as his father began to chortle.

His father laughed, his chuckles soon devolving into a coughing fit. “Do you really think you can fool the man who raised you, son?” he said when he could speak again.

“No, I suppose not,” George said wryly. He should have known he could hide nothing from his father.

“It is why I wished to see you before I die,” he said. “No, do not protest. I know my body, and my strength is failing. I have fought as hard as I could, partially in hopes of seeing you here before I go. I have much I wish to say to you; a father’s final words of wisdom, so to speak.”

George nodded to him to continue.

“Son,” his father said. “I have watched you these last years with growing concern. I had hoped that when you joined Fitzwilliam at Cambridge, the chip on your shoulder from Eton would be worn away. Instead, I find that it has grown. You cannot deny it. I know you have felt like you finally found your place in these friends of yours, but their influence is destroying you.”