Chapter Ten
When thick-stick-Fitz left the room, George Wickham sat next to his patron.
Mr. Darcy took slow, pained breaths of air.
Despite a refusal to say so, George was more than a little anxious.
He knew that Mr. Darcy would seriously consider what his son had said, despite George’s every effort to guide his thoughts in the proper directions.
The pained rasps were unpleasant for George.
At least the notion that he’d given Mr. Darcy that Fitzwilliam was in love with Jane had been a product of inspiration.
It was not true. He had studied how Fitzwilliam looked at Jane.
He wanted to see the same desire for her that he saw in everyone else’s eyes.
He wanted to be able to triumph over Fitzwilliam by showing him that he was a man who could have a woman who was better than whatever ugly rich girl Mr. Darcy would one day make him marry.
Near as Wickham could perceive, Fitzwilliam cared no more than a tuppence for Jane’s beauty.
Wickham would be considerably less surprised if Fitzwilliam declared that he wished to marry the scarred blind creature who was going to be his sister than Jane.
Mr. Darcy did not know that. Over the many years of talking to him, Mr. Darcy had said enough that Wickham understood that while he never indulged in his interest in women, he was most fascinated by them, by their beauty, by their ways of walking and by the pleasure that could be gained from intercourse with them.
Mr. Darcy thought that he was a better man for being able to resist that desire.
Wickham agreed that he was. His father could never resist his mother and look what it had brought him.
Pain and shame.
While he would always take every opportunity he had to gain entrance to the inner sanctums of the female form, Wickham was determined to follow his patron’s example, rather than his father’s, in essentials.
He had solemnly sworn to himself to never let either lust for a woman, or affection for her, to command him.
“Does it hurt a great deal now? Might I bring you the opium?”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Darcy kept his hand pressed against the side. “The pain spreads day by day. Bring the jar.”
Wickham wished that Mr. Darcy had never become sick.
He poured his patron a glass of water from the decanter kept in the study and then dripped the proper count out before giving the old man his glass.
At least when his mother died, he had not been forced to watch a person he loved fade away. He wished right now that he did not feel love for his patron. Then it would not hurt to watch.
“Jove,” Mr. Darcy at last said. “I am so proud of that boy. I may have never been so proud of Fitzwilliam.”
Wickham did not like to hear this. He felt jealousy.
He wished…he wished that Mr. Darcy was his father.
He had always wished for that. He wished that Mr. Darcy loved him the way that he loved Fitzwilliam.
He wished that Mr. Darcy saw him as part of himself in the way that he did not see a real separation between himself and Fitzwilliam.
“You do not worry that he will make a foolish marriage?” George said with some surprise. “He refused to swear that he would not.”
“He’s never refused me before,” Mr. Darcy said with a smile.
“Never. Not when I insisted. Jove. I am so proud of him. Oh, but if he makes a fool of himself over a woman, he’ll still not be a fool.
But he won’t. Your Jane is the only girl pretty enough to make him forget himself.
And he has sworn not to speak to her.” Then Mr. Darcy laughed.
“But after you are married to her, you must promise to care for your health and to never die young, not until my son has married.”
Wickham laughed with his patron, though he did not find the joke amusing at all. Mr. Darcy’s laugh’s cut off as he pressed his hand against the painful area in his side.
“Ah, but Fitzwilliam is right, I fear.” Mr. Darcy then became more serious and he sat up higher. “What shall we do about you?”
Terror. Cold sweat. “You must—you must let me marry Jane. You must. And—”
Mr. Darcy smiled warmly, “Do not worry about that. I shall certainly not interfere with young love. No, I speak about the matter of your career. I wish it was not true. I do wish it. But you are not well suited for the church.”
A wave of cold relief went through Wickham. He was to be given something still.
“I have always been meant for the divine path…” Wickham said slowly. “And—”
“Have you even any notable part of the Holy Book memorized? What great theologians have you read? What opinions do you have on the book of Revelations?”
“I—”
“You would not like to be in a position where your duty is to serve and care for those who are lowest in our community. Do not say that you would.”
The best reply was to say nothing at all.
“You were such a sweet child. You liked to memorize the prayers and say them in front of us all. I loved to see it. I think…I think you did so well with the memorization because you knew that I loved to hear your childish lisp repeating the catechism. You have always liked to make me happy. I love that in you.” Mr. Darcy pressed a hand against his side. “I was so young. So happy then…”
“I love to see you happy,” Wickham replied.
And it was true. Mr. Darcy and his mother were the only persons who he had ever cared about seeing happy.
And soon Mr. Darcy would be dead, and there would be no one whose happiness he truly cared about.
His other friends, he only wanted them to think that he was a great man.
“I am still happy. It is strange, this dying; I do not mind. I truly do not. I always thought I would be unhappy. A little unhappy. I thought that I would need to fix myself upon the promise of my future reward to avoid despair when it came time to die. I expected it to be difficult. But there has never been anything so easy…except for the pain. I do not like the pain, but that is not of any great import.”
“Yes, sir.” Tears came to Wickham’s eyes. He brushed them away. He was glad that Mr. Darcy would allow him to shed them, even though he despised seeing tears in himself and in his children. “But what do you mean for me to do, if I am not to take on the pastoral role? What can I do?”
“Perhaps your father’s duties? Except no. No. That would be impossible. Fitzwilliam must have a steward who he trusts and loves, as I have trusted and loved your father. I do not believe that you would be that man. And it would not be kind to him to keep Jane forever so near him.”
“No, sir.”
“What do you think of the law?”
Wickham frowned. Was there any alternative? Those who succeeded at the law were known for obsessively reading, for a capability to memorize massive minutiae, and an ability to ingratiate themselves with those gentlemen who had legal business.
Only one of these tasks appealed to Wickham.
“No, no,” Mr. Darcy said contemplatively.
“You will not like the law. Such a pity in that. But I cannot bear to send you into the army. Not when we are at war, and officers are killed in such great numbers. No, my heart could not bear that. And medicine or some sort of trade would be beneath our consequence. Besides, they are best for persons bred to them. I have no pull with any ministry such that it would be easy for me to get you a sinecure. It must be the law, I think.”
“But maybe—” Wickham fell silent.
“Go call your father to join me.” Mr. Darcy waved him away.
“Do not worry. I’ll make sure you have enough that you and Jane can live in comfort without you becoming a notable success.
It shall be a deuced sight more expensive than if I could put you in the church, but the loss of that money is what Fitzwilliam deserves for burdening me with such concerns at this time. ”