Chapter 3 #2
“It was to be mine!” Wickham’s voice cracked through the calm like a knife.
Darcy bristled. He had not realised the reprobate had remained. He turned to his former friend with a frown. “And what, pray tell, put such a ridiculous notion into your head? Richard is my cousin. He shares my blood. Why would my father settle an estate worth three thousand a year on his godson?”
“Because I am his godson!” Wickham came forwards. “I was his particular favourite—you know it! Did you conspire against me, Darcy? Or was it you, Richard?” Wickham shook with rage, his fury barely contained.
“Sir.” Mr Smithson stepped forwards. “Mr Darcy’s will was updated six months ago.
I can assure you, neither of these gentlemen influenced those decisions.
In fact, Mr Darcy asked that I give you this letter if any…
unsavoury behaviour occurred at the reading of his will.
It will explain everything.” Mr Smithson handed a sealed letter to Wickham, who took it.
“I shall read this in privacy,” he growled, stalking from the room. The door swung closed behind him.
“There is another letter for you, Mr Darcy.” The solicitor handed a similar envelope to his new employer.
“As for you, sir.” He nodded to Richard.
“I was instructed to tell you that your uncle loves—loved—you as a son and did not wish to see you die in battle. As the war on the continent has grown worse, his concern for your life grew. Mr George Darcy intended to inform you about the estate when you reached your twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Next month.” Richard sighed. “Thank you, Uncle George.”
After all matters regarding the will were resolved, Darcy learned that Wickham had been removed from the estate by his father after another explosion of temper. The sadness he felt at the downfall of his friend was profound.
Later that evening, Darcy finally had the opportunity to read the letter his father had written. He opened it tentatively, both worried and excited about what it contained.
My dearest Fitzwilliam,
If this letter finds you, then I am no longer at your side—and I confess, that is a thought I struggle to bear.
I hope it is a good deal in the future. The idea of departing this life without seeing what kind of man you will fully become, of not being able to speak plainly and honestly whilst still living, compels me to write these words now.
Let me say first what I ought to have said long before: I am proud of you, my son.
Deeply, fiercely proud. You have become a man of honour, conviction, and steady principle.
Your mind is sharp, your temper steady, and your integrity is beyond reproach.
I know I was not always the easiest of fathers.
I held you to high standards and was sometimes more tutor than parent.
But I hope you know that it was always because I saw the strength within you—strength that I wished to see tempered into wisdom.
I have watched you navigate the world with dignity and care, and it is my most earnest hope that you will not walk through life alone.
You are reserved by nature, but not cold.
You feel deeply, and your love, when given, will be steadfast and true.
My greatest wish is that you marry not for duty or connection, but for affection—for love.
Choose a woman who will challenge you, steady you, and soften you.
A partner. A home for your heart. Your mother was all those things to me, and more.
Now, to matters more practical, though no less fraught with feeling.
You are now aware of certain…bequests, and that expectations might have been somewhat different from certain parties.
You are conscious of my long-standing affection for George Wickham, the son of my dearest friend.
I once hoped that, in time, he might take up his father’s place as steward of Pemberley.
I encouraged him, supported his schooling, and envisioned a future where you and he might work together, as I once did with his father.
That hope has not borne fruit, nor is it likely to ever be so.
You may recall he accompanied me to Rosings Park this past January.
I had intended to name him the recipient of one of our smaller London rental properties, along with a bequest of two thousand pounds, that he might have a foundation upon which to build a stable life.
But what I observed during that visit altered my thinking in a way I could not ignore.
Wickham’s conduct was disappointing. He disappeared from the house for hours at a time, returned without explanation, and showed inappropriate familiarity with the lower staff.
Worse, his interest in estate management—which I had encouraged—proved shallow and performed.
I had hoped to see a man mature into responsibility.
Instead, I saw evasion, entitlement, and indulgence.
It grieves me. But I will not reward indolence nor perpetuate an illusion.
Accordingly, I altered my will. I left him a lesser sum—one thousand pounds—and instead offered the living at Kympton, should he choose to take orders.
I do not know that he will, and I suspect he will squander this chance as he has others.
But I felt it was only right to offer him one final opportunity to earn an honest living and redeem something of his father’s name.
I know this change may surprise you. And so, I must offer another apology: I regret not listening to you sooner.
You tried—gently and not without tact—to warn me.
I mistook your caution for coldness. I wanted so much to believe that George Wickham was what I once imagined him to be that I blinded myself to what he had become.
You saw clearly when I would not, and I am sorry for dismissing your concerns. You were right.
All this is behind you now. Pemberley, and the burdens and blessings it brings, is yours. Care for your sister, love well, and live with the honour that has already become your legacy. You were born a Darcy, but you have earned the right to carry the name with pride.
Take care of Georgiana.
With all the love and esteem a father can give, Your affectionate father,
George Darcy
Darcy folded the letter, these final, precious words from his father. I understand, he thought, hoping somewhere his father could hear. And I shall do all you ask.
The glass stayed in his hand, undrunk as he stared into the darkening room.
The memories returned every day. Georgiana still wept bitterly in the privacy of her rooms. He could hear her in her chamber across the hall.
He, Darcy, master of the house, wished to do the same.
Yet, he was required to put on a strong front, to carry everyone through their sorrow. Three months.
Georgiana’s birthday had passed with little ceremony. They had found a gift prepared by their father in his chambers. It was a collection of new music, and it now sat on the silent pianoforte. His sister had not touched it since George Darcy’s death.
Three months. I can endure this. Darcy chanted the same mantra over and over again. Perhaps he would soon believe it.