Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sir,
It is with no small astonishment—and, I confess, mounting indignation—that I write to you upon the recent reading of your late father’s will.
I had expected, given the many assurances made to me over the years, that my position would be properly secured by the benevolence of my godfather, the late Mr George Darcy, a man to whom I was as a second son in all but blood…
Darcy read no further before his fingers tightened, crumpling the page in his hand.
The cheap paper crackled beneath the force of his grip as a cold, consuming rage settled in his chest. The remainder of the letter required no careful study; its tone was already unmistakable.
Wickham railed against imagined injustice, casting himself as a wronged favourite and Darcy as the ungrateful beneficiary of stolen affection.
He dismissed the living at Kympton as an insult, sneered at the very notion of labour or restraint, and hinted—none too subtly—that his father’s final decisions must have been shaped by jealousy or manipulation, especially after their return from Kent.
By the end, Wickham had transformed expectation into entitlement, and grievance into demand, urging Darcy, as executor, to “correct” the will and provide what he claimed had been promised him.
He even alluded to a London property once spoken of as his by right, as though such things could be claimed by familiarity rather than law.
That the man dared to write at all—dared to accuse, to insinuate, to demand—was beyond endurance.
Rage coursed through Darcy, steady and unrelenting, every buried grievance flaring anew at the sight of Wickham’s familiar scrawl.
He did not need to read another line to know precisely how the letter concluded: with a plea disguised as a threat, and fraternity invoked only as leverage.
It had been over a month since the reading of his father’s will, and Wickham had vanished soon after.
At first, Darcy had felt nothing but relief.
He had assumed the man’s pride—or cowardice—would keep him far from Derbyshire, far from Kympton, and far from Darcy himself.
But he had underestimated Wickham’s shamelessness.
The letter was arrogant and condescending, a gentle “reminder” that, as godson to the late Mr Darcy, Wickham had expected more.
The second arrived days later, its tone noticeably sharper—laced with bitterness and veiled accusations.
By the third, civility had given way to outright entitlement.
Wickham wrote of betrayal, of promises broken, of a life unjustly denied.
The fourth letter was venomous—more bile than ink.
Darcy read each one only once, and then, with silent contempt, consigned them to the fire. He never replied—he refused to lower himself so far. He declined to give Wickham the satisfaction of knowing he had stirred a reaction.
And yet, he read them each time, as though compelled. As though something within him—pride, duty, dread—would not allow him to turn his back completely.
Instead, he turned his attention inward—to Pemberley, to his role as master, and most of all, to Georgiana.
His sister had not been the same since their father’s death.
The light in her had dimmed. Where once she had laughed easily and walked the gardens with flowers in her hand, she now moved quietly, like a ghost haunting the edges of rooms. She avoided company and flinched when addressed too suddenly.
Her music sat untouched; her sketchbooks were unopened.
Lady Matlock, ever perceptive beneath her haughty exterior, had taken him aside during a brief visit. She warned him gently that Georgiana was fragile, and that such frailty must not be ignored. He could not allow his grief or duty to blind him to hers.
Darcy had taken those words to heart. He made time each morning to walk with Georgiana, to coax her into conversation. He did not press, but he was present, steadfast, and patient, believing she would come back to herself in time. She was a Darcy—strong, if quiet. And she had him.
Then September came, and with it, one final letter.
The envelope bore no return direction. The hand was unmistakable. Darcy stared at it for a long time before breaking the seal, the familiar prickle of foreboding crawling down his spine.
Darcy,
It is with no small satisfaction—indeed, I might even say elation—that I take up my pen once more.
You will be gratified, I am sure, to hear that at last Fortune has deigned to smile upon me.
That which was denied me through the narrowness of your father’s final will and the severity of your own conscience has now, by Providence or fate, been restored through other means.
You see, despite the efforts made to thwart my advancement, despite the meagre offering of one thousand pounds and the insult of a clerical living I had no intention of accepting, I have managed nonetheless to secure a future of comfort, position, and respectability.
That this has occurred without the assistance of those who once claimed to be friends and benefactors only sweetens the result.
No doubt you will hear of it soon—such news travels fast—but I thought it only right that you hear it from me: my situation has changed.
I am to be aligned by ties of marriage and connection to a most advantageous family, and the doors which once seemed barred to me have now been opened.
I daresay when next we meet, I shall stand as your equal in fortune if not in name.
You may keep your inheritance, your estates, your solemn pride—but know that I am no longer dependent upon your mercy nor beneath your notice.
In truth, I am glad to be done with the days when I played the role of supplicant, when every hope I had was tied to the whims of a godfather who proved false and a childhood friend who turned cold. I have risen, Darcy, despite you.
And now, I look to the future with unshakable confidence. When next we meet—at some gathering, some ball, or drawing room—you may extend your hand not in charity, but in recognition of one who has claimed what he was always destined for.
We are, at last, on equal footing.
Yours, in victory and independence,
George Wickham
The tone was different this time—no longer desperate or angry, but unsettlingly triumphant.
Darcy lowered the letter slowly. His jaw was clenched, his expression unreadable. He did not crush this one. Not yet. Instead, he crossed to the fire. For a moment, he hesitated, staring into the flames. Then, deliberately, he tossed it in.
The letter curled, blackened, and vanished. But the unease remained.
Darcy sighed heavily, hoping to relieve the tension that had lodged itself like a lodestone in his chest. The flicker of firelight danced over the ledgers before him, but the numbers swam in and out of focus. Wickham’s final letter—the gloating tone, the implied triumph—still haunted his thoughts.
“So,” he muttered bitterly, rising to pace the study, “he has coerced some poor heiress into marriage. I pity the lady. She has no idea what manner of man she will wed.”
The outcome, in Darcy’s mind, was inevitable.
Wickham would squander her fortune with no thought to propriety or the future.
He would gamble away her dowry, charm her acquaintances into disrepute, and, when her usefulness expired, discard her without hesitation.
Such was the man’s nature—idle, selfish, and ruinous.
Still, a part of Darcy breathed easier at the thought that Wickham was now some other family’s burden. At the very least, he would no longer darken his doorstep, no longer plague them with over-familiarity or manipulate others into granting him favours undeserved.
With effort, Darcy sat once more and resumed his perusal of the estate books. The figures provided a welcome distraction—tangible, orderly, controllable. But his brief reprieve was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Enter,” he called, not looking up.
Mr Simmons, his long-serving butler, stepped in with the measured grace befitting his station. In his hand, he held a sealed envelope.
“An express has just arrived, sir,” he announced. “It is from Rosings Park.”
Darcy’s head rose sharply. The name alone was enough to tighten his jaw.
His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had not written him since her last scathing missive.
That letter—nearly three months past—had followed his formal and carefully worded refusal to propose to her daughter.
Her expectations had been made plain: Anne was soon to be of age, possessed a handsome fortune, and had the appropriate pedigree.
The union, in Lady Catherine’s mind, was preordained.
A joining of cousins, a consolidation of legacy.
And, most importantly to her, a means of ensuring Rosings remained under her influence, even once Anne had a husband.
Darcy, still mourning the sudden loss of his father, had replied with courtesy but firmness. He would not rush into matrimony out of obligation. If, after observing his year of mourning, he and Anne found themselves inclined, then—and only then—would he consider a proposal. But he would not be led.
Lady Catherine’s response had been blistering. She accused him of ingratitude, of disrespect, of selfishness. She implied that his refusal was a personal slight, and that Anne’s health—always delicate—was likely to suffer from his neglect. No further letters had followed.
Until now.
Darcy took the missive with a nod, his fingers tightening slightly as he broke the seal. The wax cracked sharply in the quiet room. He unfolded the paper, eyes scanning the contents swiftly.
My Dear Nephew,
You are to come at once. Anne is gone.