Chapter Nine
When Darcy entered his father’s study, he found that by chance George Wickham was in the room.
Papa was saying with some frustration, “If only I had not sent the letter to Fitzwilliam at all. That would have been better. That would have—” Seeing his son he said, “If only you had seen Moscow! I meant for you to see Moscow! But what is done is done. Your mistake cannot be repaired now.”
His father’s tone was querulous in a way that Darcy had never heard before. Always before when Papa had criticized him—which was not infrequent—it was in complete privacy. Poor Papa. Perhaps his famed management of himself was breaking down with his advancing illness.
Wickham grinned at him.
Darcy had failed in a duty. He had let inconvenience and a natural hesitation before engaging in an unpleasant task stop him from speaking to his father about his godson in the summer. And now come autumn, the harvest was here: George Wickham was engaged to poor Jane Bennet.
Darcy took a deep breath to settle himself.
He sincerely hoped that the damage could be undone.
He put his hands behind his back and stood taller.
“I must speak about Wickham, and I believe it best that he is here to defend himself, as is right. Papa, you must not permit him to marry Miss Bennet, and you must not give him any position in the church. I ought to have spoken to you this summer, but it was an unpleasant topic, and I delayed when I should not have. While we lived together in Cambridge, it became clear to me that Wickham’s habits and attitudes are dissolute, imprudent, immoral, shocking, and wholly unworthy of a man of the church, and they make him the opposite of what a man seeking the hand of a respectable woman under your care ought to be. ”
Mr. Darcy very much was unhappy that his son, after abandoning his Grand Tour over a matter of pointless sentiment, had now brought this additional difficulty before him.
He was dying.
Why must Fitzwilliam bother him with these concerns? He was tired. The pain was always there with him, even in his dreams. The one joy that Mr. Darcy saw before him was to see these two persons married.
And Fitzwilliam wished to stop that. He was not surprised to hear this said about George. There had been enough in what he had heard of his godson’s behavior to make him suspect that the young boy was not of the most religious disposition, but Mr. Darcy did not particularly care.
George was a good boy. A sweet boy.
Mr. Darcy pressed his hand against his forehead. “We’ve always meant George for the church. And for Jane.”
“He is not worthy. His behavior at university shows that. George frequented bawdy houses. He often played cards, he spent beyond his means and avoided paying his debts to tradesmen and shopkeepers, and he took on substantial debts of honor.”
“Is that all?” Mr. Darcy closed his eyes. He pressed at his side. “Bawdy houses and card games? Son, I applaud you for your concern. But not every man is a Darcy. Not every man can be expected to behave perfectly in all matters.”
Thankfully Fitzwilliam did not say anything.
If only he had not written the letter to Fitzwilliam, telling him about his illness.
That had been a moment of unusual weakness.
His boy might be in Moscow now, storing up impressions and experiences that would serve to make him more knowledgeable and admired for the rest of his life.
Instead, he wished to destroy poor George’s life because he expected others to match his own high standards.
Opening his eyes, Mr. Darcy sighed. “Well, George, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Wickham smiled in that appealing manner of his.
He might be a man of twenty, and not a boy of six, but his manner had lost none of its charm for Mr. Darcy.
“I confess, I confess, I did some such things. I, well, you did say that I might be wild—but not too wild. I know...but everyone gambles some—I swear that I did not gamble to any excess. Not so much as Fitz is saying. You know. But I did some. But I did nothing that would bring your name or consequence into disrepute.”
“And the women?” Mr. Darcy smiled softly at Wickham. “I hope you know that you must not do anything of that sort once you are married to Miss Bennet.”
“Never!” Wickham looked up appealingly. “My dearest friend, I would never violate my vows to her. She is too beautiful for any man to wish to stray. But I did not know then, not know for sure...we were not engaged yet. I’d made no promises. But now—I know what I owe you.”
Mr. Darcy smiled warmly.
He hoped for Jane’s sake that Wickham would truly not stray, but if Wickham proved to be the sort of man to keep a mistress—many were—the two could still be perfectly happy. Mr. Darcy was a man who loved his friends, and he would not abandon them for any small fault in their characters.
It was only Fitzwilliam who saw anything in the tales he had told to keep George from marrying.
“George, do look at me seriously. Look at me. You shall be a man. A married man. You shall have responsibilities. I am happy that I can let you marry early, but I am sorry that it removes from you the chance to be free for longer. There is a cost to all that is good. You understand that you must not act irresponsibly, no matter how freely your friends behave, when you return to university after I am dead.”
George nodded seriously.
“Now say it, do promise me.”
“I promise.”
“This is ridiculous,” Fitzwilliam exclaimed.
“You have always been blind with respect to Mr. Wickham, but this is beyond anything before. Papa, listen to me. He is not worthy of the church. The manner in which he speaks to his friends, the casualness with which he ignores his duties—after all you have taught me, I cannot believe that you show so little concern about these matters. Behavior that he freely admits to himself.”
“Most gentlemen sow wild oats before they marry. I will not concern myself with this.”
“Most gentleman! I certainly never have.”
George chuckled and looked at Mr. Darcy with a friendly smile. “Thick-stick-Fitz.”
Mr. Darcy laughed. “Is that what they called him in the schoolyard? Better than my nickname. I was No-Whore-George. My dear Fitzwilliam.” Mr. Darcy now spoke in a voice that was much weaker than how his son remembered it being.
“My dear Fitzwilliam. You must not expect all the world to be perfect. George, though I love you, you are not a Darcy. I have never expected you to hold yourself to such standards. Fitzwilliam, you were born with more fiber in your character. You have neither the ability nor the right to lower yourself to such base pleasures. Sometimes I wish...sometimes I have wished that I was not a Darcy, that I could act as others. To be a fool about a woman. To enjoy such joys as others may permit themselves to enjoy. But I never would, and you never will either. Yet, I beg you, my son, think more kindly upon the frailty of ordinary persons. You must love them, and not hate them, even when you grow frustrated by their immorality and weakness.”
This conversation was different from any that Fitzwilliam had ever had with his father, and yet this expectation that all others would behave in an immoral and irreligious manner was something that he was very much used to hearing.
“Papa, I do not expect...Mr. Wickham is worse than the usual run of gentlemen. I know you love George, but I do not say this because I can only respect those who are perfect. I know I am not, as you often tell me.”
“That is a serious claim,” Mr. Darcy said, straightening in the chair.
Fitzwilliam needed to have his say, and it was in fact his responsibility to Jane, and to Kypmton parish to listen, even though he knew that there was nothing that his son could say that would shake his determination to see George happy and well provided for.
Almost everything Mr. Darcy did was for his duty, for his family. He could never indulge in such softness with his own children. But with his godchildren, he could indulge his own whims. “In what way is he so bad as you say? You have only spoken of youthful dalliances and a few games of cards.”
“Many of both.”
Mr. Darcy waved the distinction away.
“Is that not enough?” Darcy replied. “Do you mean to marry your ward to a man who I positively know frequents prostitutes, and who will gamble away all her fortune, and who—”
“Good God,” Wickham exclaimed. “You are in love with Jane yourself.”
“I am not,” Fitzwilliam replied. “Wickham, you know that I have seen you—”
Mr. Darcy held up a hand. He stared at his son with a twisted expression. And suddenly the whole of the conversation took a different tone.
He understood.
Oh, that longing. The wish that things could be otherwise.
There had once been a girl, Mr. Darcy remembered her.
He let his memory bring forward the oval of her face, the flashing sharpness of her eyes, the curve of her bosom, the happy lilt of her conversation.
That girl had been very far beneath him, but Lady Anne had never seemed so beautiful to him as she had.
Yes, Fitzwilliam must go through his trial, and he knew that his son would overcome it.
Mr. Darcy leaned forward, his eyes intent. “I should have foreseen this danger long ago. Of course you are in love with Jane. With her beauty, and the freshness of her bloom, any sensible man of your years must be.”
“I am not.”
“Please, Fitzwilliam, I beg you to say no untruths.”
“I am not in love with Jane Bennet.”
Mr. Darcy stared at him.
He knew his son never lied. But that only meant that Fitzwilliam did not yet understand his own motivations.
That was not surprising. He would come to understand himself in time.
“You are, even if you do not know it. With her beauty, of course you are. Any man would be. My poor boy. There is much that you might want that you cannot allow yourself to have.”