Chapter 6
Chapter Six
A cool breeze stirred the curtains in the morning room at Pemberley. Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the window, arms crossed behind his back, watching the trees beyond the open window blush gold and russet. For a brief moment, he allowed himself the quiet pleasure of the season’s gentler turn.
Behind him, the pianoforte sounded—soft, tentative, but real.
Darcy turned. Georgiana sat at the bench, her posture careful, her fingers poised as though uncertain they would obey.
She had returned to her music slowly over the past months, beginning with simple exercises, advancing only when confidence allowed.
A few days prior, she had played an entire sonatina without faltering, and something long knotted in Darcy’s chest had loosened.
The house had known too much silence since their father’s death.
And then Anne… The thought intruded unbidden.
“Georgie,” Darcy said gently.
She looked up, uncertainty still lingering in her eyes. She was eleven now—still a child, yet already changed by grief.
“I received a letter this morning,” he continued. “From Rosings.”
Her hands stilled above the keys.
“From our aunt.”
Georgiana frowned. “Lady Catherine?”
“Yes. It is the first I have had from her in some time. Why, I have not heard from her since I left Rosings last Christmas to join you here.” He hesitated. “She asked for you.”
“For me?”
“She says the house is too quiet. That she misses your music.”
Georgiana glanced down at the keys. “Rosings was always so loud before.”
“It is not so loud now,” Darcy replied quietly.
He chose his words with care. “The anniversary of Anne’s disappearance approaches.
I must go to Rosings to review the accounts and manage the harvest. I would like your company—but only if you feel ready.
” Darcy’s steward had Pemberley’s harvest well in hand.
The cooler climate meant crops being brought in sooner.
Georgiana pressed a gentle chord. “I think I would like to see Rosings—and my aunt—again,” she said softly. “And if Aunt Catherine is lonely… perhaps I might help.”
Darcy smiled. “I think you would.”
The journey south was undertaken at a gentler pace than Darcy might once have chosen. For Georgiana’s sake, they lingered in market towns, rested at clean inns, and spent a night at Darcy House in London.
It was there, standing once more in his father’s chambers, that Darcy felt the old weight return. The rooms were immaculate—and utterly lifeless. His father’s presence had been erased with ruthless efficiency, but the heavy red drapes still hung at the windows.
Darcy stood before them, scowling.
Later, he left instructions with the housekeeper: lighter fabric, fewer shadows, fewer reminders of his loss.
When he joined Georgiana for tea, her laughter warmed the space in a way the house had not known for years.
Rosings appeared beneath a grey sky, its stone facade imposing as ever. Yet as Darcy stepped down from the carriage, he noted subtle changes: new hedging, improved paths, careful maintenance.
Lady Catherine greeted them herself.
She wore no mourning black. Her bearing was still proud—but her expression was warmer than Darcy remembered.
“My dear Fitzwilliam. Georgiana.”
She embraced them both.
Tea followed—seed cake, ginger biscuits, and Darcy’s preferred blend. Lady Catherine spoke calmly, without command or censure.
“I have taken a more direct role in managing the estate,” she said. “We have introduced incentives for the tenants rather than increased rents. Productivity has improved.”
She described the new schools—separate, modest, effective. Darcy listened in quiet astonishment.
“My father would approve,” he said at last.
Lady Catherine nodded once. “I believe he would.”
The following afternoon, Darcy reviewed the Rosings accounts. Everything was precise. Responsible. Thoughtful.
Then he opened a small, locked box he kept stored in his aunt’s home. Inside lay the remnants of a mystery left unresolved: the innkeeper’s account, the glove Anne had left behind, the map marking their futile search northwards.
He held the glove between his fingers.
Anne had vanished. Perhaps with child. Perhaps willingly. Perhaps forever.
Closing the box, Darcy exhaled slowly. Whatever choice Anne had made, it was beyond his power to undo. Rosings, at least, would move forward.
“But I do not want to go to school!”
Georgiana stomped her slippered foot and folded her arms across her chest. “I want to stay here—with you!” Her voice cracked; tears gathered and spilled, bright and humiliating.
Darcy set aside the papers on his desk with deliberate calm. He had known this conversation would not be easy. Still, seeing her like this—so distraught, so small—struck him deeply.
“Georgiana,” he said gently, “you know this is not a punishment. Girls of your age and station require a proper education. It is expected, and it will serve you well in time.”
“I do not care what is expected!” she burst out. “I don’t want to go anywhere—I want to stay at Pemberley.”
She fumbled a rumpled handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks with jerky motions. Darcy moved towards her, but she stepped back, shoulders hunched and stubborn.
“Miss Minchin’s is a respectable place,” he continued, careful.
“You will have lessons in music, dancing, French, deportment—all the things you enjoy with Miss Fairfax, but taught by specialists. And Aunt Matlock has written to say she will be delighted to have you visit on holidays or weekends. You will not be alone.”
“But you are not there!” Georgiana cried—no longer loud but broken. “I want you to hear me play, and I want Cook’s hot buns in the morning, and I want to ride Honeybell after lessons. Why can I not just stay here?”
Darcy’s chest tightened.
“Miss Fairfax has taught you well,” he said, “but even she agrees you are ready for more. She says you’ve outpaced her in several subjects already.”
Georgiana’s lip trembled. “Then hire someone else. Please, Fitz. Could you not find masters to come here? Or a companion—a lady who can stay with me?”
It was a fair plea—and one he could not grant. Not now.
“I have already made the arrangements,” he said softly but firmly. “We leave in a fortnight. Please, Georgie, try to rest on the idea. Everything may feel brighter in the morning.”
She shook her head, eyes wide with disbelief. “No, it will not.”
And then she fled, slippered feet pattering down the corridor. A door slammed.
Darcy exhaled, rubbing his hand over his face.
She was only twelve—a sensitive, intelligent girl who had already lost too much.
He had tried to delay the inevitable, to keep her close whilst still ensuring she was prepared for the world.
But he could not give her everything she wanted and still be the guardian she needed.
Why must raising a child be so difficult?
He stared into the fire, the wind moaning at the windows, the estate suddenly vast and uncertain. He would write to Lady Matlock for advice. Tonight, he would let Georgiana cry. Tomorrow, he would speak again—more gently, perhaps. More like a brother than a guardian.
For the moment, he simply sat, wondering whether doing what was best always had to feel this wrong.
The next day brought an unexpected—and most unwanted—caller.
Darcy was sequestered in his study when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
“Mr George Wickham to see you, sir,” Mr Simmons announced. The butler’s expression bore a rare flicker of disdain. “He said nothing of his purpose. But… he looked rather rattled, sir. Unshaven. Worn. Desperate, perhaps.”
Darcy’s hand stilled. “Send him in,” he said after a pause. “And have footmen prepared to see him off the grounds.”
When Simmons returned, Wickham trailed behind him like a man who had forgotten he was unwelcome.
“Look at you, Darce!” Wickham said with forced cheer, flinging himself into a chair without invitation. “All gravitas and leather-bound books. I would wager you’ve begun lecturing your sheep on the virtues of order.”
Darcy did not rise to it. “What is it you want, Wickham? Let us not waste time.”
Wickham’s smile faltered. He looked thinner than Darcy remembered; his coat was worn at the seams, his boots scuffed, his cravat tied carelessly.
“You have caught me out,” Wickham said at last, leaning forward. “I wish to discuss the Kympton living.”
“It has yet to fall vacant,” Darcy said, every muscle tensing.
“Oh, I’ve no desire to take holy orders.” Wickham gave a humourless laugh. “I came to make a proposal. A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Darcy’s brow rose. “I cannot imagine any arrangement between us that would benefit both parties.”
“Then use your imagination.” Wickham’s voice dropped. “I will relinquish all claim to the Kympton living—for a sum. Consider it a business transaction. You are freed of an obligation you never wished to honour, and I gain the means to make something of myself.”
“And what, precisely, would you make of yourself?”
“I mean to study the law,” Wickham said, jaw clenched. “A solicitor’s life suits me better.”
Darcy let the silence stretch. Wickham began to fidget.
“What sum?”
“Three thousand pounds,” Wickham said quickly—too quickly.
Darcy studied him. Desperation, unmasked.
At last, he said, “Acceptable.”
Relief flooded Wickham’s face.
“I shall have the contract drawn up,” Darcy continued. “You will sign. It will be witnessed. No money changes hands until it is made official.”
Wickham attempted a smirk. “Very proper, as always. I am staying at the Rose and Crown. Unless you mean to extend your hospitality—”
Darcy rang the bell once.
Simmons appeared as if conjured. “See Mr Wickham back to the inn.”
Wickham gave a mock bow. “Until we meet again.”
Darcy merely inclined his head. “You shall receive my note when all is prepared.”