Windswept: A Pride & Prejudice Variation

Prologue

16 July 1811, Tuesday - Ramsgate

“Do you despise me so much that you would rob me of every chance at happiness? Do you not want your sister to be happy in her marriage as well?” George Wickham ran his hands through his hair. “I would have tried to be a good husband. We could have had a good life together.”

Fitzwilliam Darcy’s despair at learning that his former friend coerced his innocent young sister into agreeing to an elopement overwhelmed him. Georgiana was not yet sixteen. Anger, disgust, and a considerable measure of fear drove him to act.

“You do not know the consequences of taking Georgiana as a wife—for her and for you.”

“Consequences?” Wickham threw his hands up in the air. “What consequences could there possibly be for me other than finally having enough funds to live the life I desire with a girl I have known since her birth? You, with Pemberley’s wealth, have no clue what it is like to scrape by, facing one humiliation after another. I could have had it all.”

Bitterness almost choked him. Darcy stood firm. “That you sought to use Georgiana to make your way easier is reprehensible, even for you. But there is more.”

“Yes, I know. Fearless Richard Fitzwilliam would make me pay for taking his ward out from under his nose.” Wickham snarled. “He has always hated me, Darcy. Since we were in leading strings, he wanted me away from Pemberley’s nursery.”

“You know that is not true.” Mental pictures of the three boys playing together at his Derbyshire estate flashed through Darcy’s mind. “It did not matter that Richard and I were cousins while you were not. Before you and Richard left for Eton, the three of us were a team. Your actions since have not always been honorable, George. You created the breach. This is what enrages Richard.”

“But I love her, Darce. I do. Georgiana has always been a delightful child who used to follow me around the gardens when I took the time to play games with her. She likes my company. She even enjoys my attempts at humor.” George pleaded, “We get on, Darcy. We could have been happy. I know we could have.”

Bile churned in his gut. The walls in the drawing room of the summer cottage Darcy rented for his sister felt like they were pushing in on him. In the five years since his father died, leaving him the responsibility for Pemberley’s assets along with the care of Georgiana, there had been frustrations and joys. And secrets.

Lifting the saddle bag from the table, Darcy opened the flap. Pulling out a well-used leather-bound journal, he inhaled sharply before turning to the marked page.

Thrusting the book at Wickham, he said, “Read this.”

Wickham hesitated slightly before he took the journal. “Why?”

Darcy snapped, “Just read it.”

When Wickham’s gaze dropped to the page, Darcy saw the exact moment the meaning of what he was reading became clear. All color drained from Wickham’s face, his knees wobbling until he had to sit down.

Darcy knew the feeling. He was fortunate that he was already seated when he discovered the life-altering secret that haunted Pemberley’s halls for the generation prior to him in the pages of his father’s diary.

“Good god!” The book slid from his hands to the table. “This means…”

“Yes, it does.”

“It says, ‘Mistakes were made. The consequences could have been grave had we not chosen to make the best of the situation. Little George is family.’” Wickham jumped to his feet. “Good god! This makes everything I ever wondered fall into place.” Wickham hesitated before standing to approach Darcy. Extending his hand, he said, “I have done more wrong than good, but know this to be true: I will never say anything to besmirch Gerald and Lady Anne Darcy. They were everything to me. Any morsel of good in me is because of them. I will take this secret to my grave.”

More than anything, Darcy wanted to believe him. Now, for the first time, they both had something to lose. Taking his hand, Darcy promised, “As will I.”

The handshake, swearing fidelity, was brief. Rubbing his face, Wickham asked, “Does Richard know?”

“Not yet.”

“I am a dead man once he does. He will not stop to consider extenuating circumstances like you, Darcy. He will act first. I know he will.” Wickham slumped back into the chair. “If I promise to stay away from Georgiana and try to do better, you have to keep Richard away from me.”

“Very well.”

Wickham spoke the truth about Darcy’s cousin. Richard Fitzwilliam loathed George Wickham. Although he was not normally a violent man, his serving as an active colonel in the British army had honed skills that could easily accomplish the deed.

Rubbing his hands together, Wickham jumped from the seat. Pacing the room, he said, “This, if it is known, could ruin you and Georgiana.”

“And you as well.”

“Me?” Incredulous, Wickham stopped in front of him. “Rather than ruin, I see this as a way to insure my future prospects.”

Weariness from his hurried, exhausting journey from London to rescue his sister vanished. Stepping closer, hands fisted, he loomed over his half-brother. Darcy spoke through gritted teeth, “Brother or not, if you ever attempt to slander, blackmail, or in any way gain an advantage over me or Georgiana, I, not Richard, will not hesitate to take you down with me into the bowels of hell.”