Chapter 6 #2
When Wickham was gone, Darcy did not feel triumph—only reprieve. Relief for the parishioners of Kympton. Relief for the dignity of the church. Relief that Wickham, for now, could be steered away from causing further harm.
Still, the man always returned. Like a shadow.
This time, at least, there would be a contract.
Three days later, Darcy received Wickham in the most formal drawing room, as though ceremony alone might keep impropriety at bay. The contract lay on the mahogany table beside a pen; Mr Elias Brown of Lambton sat prepared to witness. Two footmen waited discreetly near the doors.
Wickham arrived freshly brushed, boots polished with unusual care. His smile was smooth, practised.
“Mr Wickham,” Mr Brown said, bowing. “Good morning.”
Wickham’s gaze went straight to the papers. “I assume that is it.”
Darcy nodded once. “You relinquish in writing all future claims to the living at Kympton in perpetuity. In return, you receive a one-time payment of three thousand pounds.”
Wickham lifted the document, squinted, and gave a quick laugh. “I trust you would not cheat me, Darce.”
Mr Brown cleared his throat. “The terms have been written with clarity and neutrality. If you wish separate counsel, we may delay—”
“No,” Wickham said quickly. “This will do.”
He signed with a flourish. Mr Brown signed as first witness. One of the footmen signed as second.
Darcy did not sit. He unlocked a small box and withdrew a leather folio tied with cord.
“Three thousand pounds,” he said, setting the banknote on the table beside Wickham's copy of the contract.
Wickham’s eyes glittered as he tucked both away. “I thank you.”
“It is done, then,” Darcy said, voice low.
Wickham grinned. “And you may rest easy knowing the fine people of Kympton shall never be subjected to my spiritual leadership.”
Darcy stared until Wickham’s humour thinned.
“Mr Tompkins will escort you back to Lambton,” Darcy said.
“Very kind,” Wickham replied lightly, and left.
Only when the last footfall faded did Darcy release the breath he had been holding. Darcy suspected, even then, that three thousand pounds would not guarantee Wickham’s absence forever.
“I should hope it will be the last,” he said to Mr Brown.
“A pleasure, Mr Darcy,” the solicitor replied, gathering his papers. “And indeed, the most straightforward transaction I have seen involving that gentleman.”
Darcy remained by the fire after he departed. The matter was closed. The threat ended.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt something like peace.
The next week, Darcy and Georgiana departed for London.
Inside the coach, Georgiana sat bundled in her winter cloak, hands folded in her lap, her face turned to the window. She did not fidget, nor cry, nor ask how much longer the journey might be. She was perfectly still.
The silence that had followed their final conversation about school sat between them like a cold weight.
“I have arranged for your maid to stay with you the first two nights,” Darcy said softly. “And I have spoken to Miss Minchin regarding your music. She has added an extra lesson each week.”
Georgiana nodded once, without looking away.
“Aunt Matlock will expect you for Easter,” he continued. “She has asked if she might take you to the theatre.”
No reply.
Darcy folded his hands tightly in his lap. How he hated this—to watch her close herself off, this sweet, clever child he had sworn to protect. Yet he also knew she could not remain a child much longer. There was no keeping the world at bay forever.
When at last the carriage turned onto the narrow street where Miss Minchin’s School for Girls stood—a grey stone building with high windows and iron gates—Georgiana flinched.
The carriage stopped. The door opened.
Darcy stepped down first and offered Georgiana his hand. After a brief hesitation, she took it. Her fingers were cold even through his glove.
Miss Minchin appeared, tall and angular, her expression neutral, bordering on stern. “Mr Darcy. Miss Darcy. We are prepared for your arrival. Your chamber is ready, Miss Darcy, and we have placed the piano near the west window, as requested.”
Georgiana stood beside him, shoulders straight but her face pale. Her lips trembled before she bit down gently, determined not to cry.
Darcy turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“You are brave, Georgie,” he said, voice low and warm. “And capable. This is only the beginning, not the end. You may write whenever you wish—and if you are unhappy, we will reassess everything. Do you understand?”
She nodded, blinking fast.
“I shall come to see you in a fortnight. And if you need anything before then—”
“I know,” she whispered.
He kissed her forehead. Then he let go.
Georgiana turned and followed Miss Minchin into the quiet, orderly halls. The door shut behind her with a firm thud.
Darcy remained on the steps for a long moment, staring at the closed door. Then, with a heavy heart, he returned to the carriage.
As they pulled away, he did not look back.
Not because he did not care—but because he did.