Chapter Nine
Winter was bitterly cold that year. So much snow fell that there were great drifts all over the grounds.
Wind whipped through the trees, shaking the limbs and dropping bits of snow and ice onto the heads of unsuspecting passersby.
The Darcys spent Christmas together, unperturbed by their solitude.
Darcy gifted his sister with new music, handkerchiefs, and a new shawl.
She gave him a handsome walking stick, a pair of thick leather gloves, and a stack of books to add to the library.
The days were quiet and contemplative, filled with fireside readings, snow-laden walks when the wind relented, and long evenings spent with music and games. Though the great halls of Pemberley were vast and often silent, their companionship rendered them warm.
December gave way to January and the new year. On a chilly morning, Georgiana came to Darcy’s study. She stood in the doorway, a nervous expression on her countenance. “Come in, dearest,” he said when he noticed her. Carefully, he placed his quill aside and leaned back in his chair.
Georgiana came forwards hesitantly, her hands clasped in front of her. “I wished to discuss a matter of importance with you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She fell silent, as if afraid to continue.
“Go on,” Darcy encouraged. He tried to keep his usual stoic, serious expression at bay, concerned his foreboding appearance might deter her.
“I do not wish to return to school!” she cried. It burst forth as if propelled by something. Weeks of silence, perhaps. “It is dreadful! The girls are cruel, and the only young ladies who wish to know me often pepper me with questions about you.”
Darcy frowned—he could not help it. “School is important,” he said. Besides, Miss Fairfax, the governess, had found a new position when Georgiana departed for Miss Minchin’s School for Girls in London. It would not be easy to find someone as qualified to take over Georgiana's education.
“I am aware my education is important, but why must it be at a school? Can you not hire tutors? A companion, perhaps? Oh, Brother, it is so dreadful! I cannot face it. Please do not make me go.”
He considered her carefully, unwilling to dismiss her concerns and fears without thoroughly examining them and their impetus. “You said nothing of your misery in your letters,” he said slowly, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
“I did not wish to disappoint you,” she murmured. Georgiana’s hands were twisting together, her fingers interlacing and then releasing over and over again. “Miss Minchin and Miss Isabel encouraged us to include only the best of our news in our correspondence.”
Darcy thought back to his sister’s letters. They had, indeed, been very cheerful, filled with the minutia of her day-to-day life. There had been no sign of conflict. But the missives had felt strangely…flat. He recalled wondering if Georgie’s spirits would ever recover.
“I can promise only to consider the matter,” he finally replied, standing and moving around the desk. He placed both hands on Georgiana’s shoulders. “You require more aid than I can give to become a proper young lady. A brother is a poor substitute for a mother.”
“You are the best brother!” she cried, throwing her arms around his waist. “Thank you!”
Darcy chuckled and kissed the top of her head.
“I have not agreed to anything yet,” he cautioned.
“I shall write to Lady Catherine and Lady Matlock for their advice before making a final decision.” Their opinions would vary widely, he felt certain, but it seemed a prudent path to take.
Besides, he had letters from both to which he needed to reply, anyway.
Sighing, he finished balancing his ledger and drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him.
Lady Matilda Matlock—Tilda, to those permitted affection—would be first. He dipped his quill and began with safe, familiar matters: the snow lying thick over Pemberley, Georgiana’s delight at the prospect of sledding, the quiet pleasures of winter that required no explanation between them.
Such details were easy. They cost him nothing and asked nothing in return.
It was only when his thoughts turned to Georgiana in earnest that his hand slowed.
He wrote of her schooling more carefully, distilling what she had confessed that morning into measured phrases—how Miss Minchin’s establishment had proved isolating rather than improving; how the other girls showed curiosity without kindness; how letters home had been subtly managed, the students encouraged to present cheer where little existed.
He did not write of tears, nor of the way her voice had faltered when she begged not to return.
Some truths were better conveyed in person—or at least softened for the page.
As he wrote, his doubts pressed in. Georgiana was no longer a child, yet she remained painfully vulnerable, and he felt keenly the absence of a woman’s guidance in the house.
Tutors and a resident companion were sensible alternatives, but he questioned whether sheltering her would strengthen her—or merely delay an inevitable reckoning with the world.
Still, the memory of her distress made the thought of forcing her return to sit poorly with him.
In the end, he asked for counsel rather than absolution, and suggested—carefully—that Tilda might visit, should she deem it wise.
Folding the letter at last, Darcy felt the familiar mix of relief and unease.
He had been honest, but discreet. And if anyone could bring clarity without judgment, it was his aunt.
Next, he penned a missive to Lady Catherine. His relationship with his domineering aunt had blossomed in the years since Anne’s disappearance. It was a transformation Darcy could hardly countenance, even after several years of steady correspondence and occasional visits.
His earliest memories of Rosings were not ones of warmth.
He remembered vividly the chill that would sweep through the corridors of the great house, matched only by the sharp tone of his aunt’s voice.
One image persisted: Lady Catherine towering over him and Richard, her gloved finger wagging furiously as she chastised them for sliding down the bannisters in a moment of boyish rebellion.
His small self had cowered, tears welling in his eyes, running to his mother, who had knelt and drawn him into her arms. He had buried his face in the familiar silk of her gown and declared, between hiccupping sobs, that “the dragon lady” had frightened him.
The memory made him smile now, if faintly. His mother had laughed at the title, kissed the crown of his head, and murmured with warmth and mischief, “A most apt name, my darling. But even dragons may surprise us, in time.”
If only Mama could see her sister now, he mused, watching the snow drift lazily beyond the frost-rimmed windowpanes.
Since Anne had disappeared—presumed to have eloped with a tutor or distant cousin, depending on which Rosings gossip one preferred—Lady Catherine had softened.
Not entirely, of course; she would never be docile or delicate.
But she had grown more reflective, more receptive.
Less consumed by titles, and more by loneliness, he suspected. And, perhaps, regret.
He dipped his quill and began, addressing his other aunt with the same measured warmth he always employed—regrets over a missed winter visit to Kent, polite inquiries after her health, and a few remarks on Christmas invitations and tolerable company.
Such courtesies flowed easily; they were the language of habit and affection and required little thought.
He lingered longer when he came to Georgiana.
He wrote of her music, of her astonishing progress and the quiet pleasure she took in playing for him alone.
Aunt Catherine would appreciate that—would understand how deeply his sister’s talent ran, and how carefully he guarded her from public notice.
He even allowed himself a small indulgence, mentioning that Georgiana had committed Corelli’s Christmas Concerto to memory simply because her aunt once praised it. That, at least, brought a faint smile.
The real purpose of the letter demanded greater care.
Darcy chose his words deliberately as he explained Georgiana’s sudden reluctance to return to school.
As he wrote, his own uncertainty pressed close.
He was determined not to sacrifice Georgiana’s future to momentary comfort, yet the thought of forcing her back into unhappiness sat heavily with him.
Tutors and a companion at Pemberley were sensible alternatives—but would shelter serve her, or merely delay the trials of society?
In the end, he asked his aunt’s advice plainly and without pride, inviting her counsel as she might once have offered it to his mother.
Folding the letter at last, he sealed it with the Pemberley crest and rang for a footman, instructing that the letters to his aunt be sent at once, along with another for London.
Left alone again, Darcy leaned back in his chair as the fire crackled and snow fell steadily beyond the windows.
The house was quiet, the hour late. He found himself wondering—not for the first time—what his mother would have done, or what she might say now, seeing both his devotion to Georgiana and the unease that accompanied it.
It was a new year, and perhaps it might yet mark a gentler beginning for his sister.
Until answers came, all he could do was wait—and hope.
Darcy was appalled when, the next day, George Wickham had the audacity to appear again at Pemberley.
He gaped openly at Simmons, such was his shock. The butler, usually composed to the point of stoicism, looked mildly uncomfortable, a rare lapse in his otherwise impenetrable exterior.
“Mr Wickham again, sir,” Simmons said, though there was no mistaking the distaste in his tone. “He is at the door and insists he must speak with you immediately.”
Darcy stood frozen for a breath. “I cannot imagine what possible business he believes remains between us.”
Simmons gave a discreet incline of his head. “Shall I turn him away, sir?”
Darcy hesitated—not because he wished to see the man, but because he could not trust what Wickham might do or say if turned off too abruptly. A quiet confrontation was better than a scandal. “Send him to the smaller study,” he said. “And inform Tompkins to remain nearby.”
“Very good, sir.”
Darcy moved quickly to the aforementioned room.
He paced the length of the room whilst waiting.
He had made it clear during their last meeting—crystal clear—that Wickham’s only interaction with Pemberley henceforth would be in the presence of legal oversight.
And yet here he was again, unannounced, bold as brass, as if they were childhood friends rather than estranged adversaries.
The door opened.
“Mr Wickham, sir,” Simmons announced flatly before standing aside.
Wickham sauntered in, looking less pleased with himself than usual. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, his eyes sharp and darting around the study as though expecting to see someone else.
Darcy remained behind the desk, arms crossed. “You are remarkably persistent, Wickham. I suggest you state your purpose quickly.”
Wickham didn’t sit. “The living at Kympton,” he said. “I came to inquire—” his tone took on a falsely casual air, “—when I might expect to take up the post.”
Darcy blinked once. “What nonsense is this?”
“The living,” Wickham repeated, more forcefully now. “I have decided I shall take it, after all.”
Darcy rose slowly. “You offered to sell your claim to the living for three thousand pounds. I accepted, and the matter was done.”
Wickham waved a hand. “A mistake. I was…not in the best frame of mind.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You now hope to secure the funds and the living?”
“I see no reason why I should not have it,” Wickham snapped. “My father gave his life in your family’s service. I was raised as a second son. And what did I receive in return? Charity repaid with neglect!”
“Neglect?” Darcy’s voice was ice. “You squandered every opportunity you were given. My father wished to provide for you—he did more than any man of his position was obliged to do. You rejected the law. You rejected the church. And now you appear at my doorstep demanding what you signed away in desperation.”
“I signed nothing,” Wickham growled, all pretense of civility gone. “You and your kind have always taken from me. I have been cast off like refuse, whilst you sit here in your fine house, wearing your father’s name like armour.”
The lie grated on his ears, and Darcy’s patience cracked. “You are a coward and a scoundrel, Wickham. You prey upon generosity like a vulture, and you twist the truth to suit your vanity. The living will never be yours. Not now. Not ever. I shall see to it personally.”
Wickham’s face flushed crimson. “You think you can dismiss me? I will not be made a beggar at your feet! You will regret this, Darcy. One day, your reputation will be the one dragged through the mud. I shall have what is my due!”
Darcy stared him down, unmoved. “Get out of my house.”
Wickham hesitated, then turned on his heel and stormed from the room. The door slammed behind him so hard the panes in the bookcase rattled.
Darcy rang the bell at once. Simmons appeared promptly, having clearly hovered nearby.
“Wickham is to be denied entry to Pemberley,” Darcy said, his tone sharp and final. “He is not to be admitted under any circumstances. Inform all the household staff.”
“Yes, sir.” Simmons bowed. “Shall I also notify the Lambton constable in case he attempts to return by force?”
Darcy nodded slowly. “Yes. Discreetly.”
As Simmons departed, Darcy exhaled heavily and turned back to the hearth. The encounter had been brief, but his pulse still thundered. Wickham had shown his true colours—rage, resentment, shameless entitlement. There was no honour left in him, if there had ever been any to begin with.
Whatever goodwill had existed in their youth was long dead. There was no remnant left to mourn.
Now more than ever, Darcy was resolved: Wickham could not be trusted—not with property, not with people, and certainly not with power.