Chapter Four
The discussion in the Pemberley drawing room was conducted with more decorum but no less good humor than the one in the music room.
“Always in the carriage, Russell,” George Darcy said jokingly. “The mere notion of your schedule is exhausting. I believe that of the two of us, you are the younger.”
“Young indeed!” cried Phillip. “Your birthday is fast approaching, and then perhaps you shall truly know what it is to be old like me.” He clapped the man on the shoulder before sitting in a chair beside his wife’s. “Fifty. I never thought I should see the day.”
“Russell,” scoffed Darcy, shaking his head and taking a seat opposite, “neither you nor your lovely wife shall ever be old. You have learnt the secret to remaining young.”
“Whatever might that be?” asked Olivia, a small smile on her lips.
“You have brought a child into your home,” Darcy chuckled.
“One can never be old when there is a young person in the house, particularly one as clever and kind as your little Miss Russell. Miss Coulter tells me my daughter is quite taken with her, and I am happy for both Georgiana and myself that you are able to visit as often as you do.”
“It is for Lizzy’s sake that we visit you so often, you know,” Phillip joked.
“It has little to do with you, my friend.” There was a grain of truth in the jibe, for the Russells would not have ventured quite so often to Derbyshire were it not to encourage their niece’s friendship.
Lizzy did not have many girls to visit, and despite the difference in their ages, she and Georgiana got on very well.
Phillip thought Lizzy might see Miss Darcy as a younger sister, and he and Olivia did what they could to further the girls’ time together.
Olivia smiled and nodded her head once, as Phillip grew contemplative.
“Having a friend is good for her, Darcy. She has four sisters in Hertfordshire, but it is a more difficult distance than Pemberley, and the family situation there is complicated.” He frowned.
“We have asked her father to bring the family to town, but he does not care for London, and it would be an imposition to house the required staff should we visit Longbourn.” Not that they had been invited.
“Do you know, Darcy, that Lizzy has read Thornton? Of her own volition, mind you. Wanted to know why leaving all her money in the funds was a poor way to manage her allowance. Tells me she wants to invest a bit.” He smiled a little.
“I mean to start her off with five hundred pounds and see how we can make it grow.”
Darcy’s brows lifted in surprise. “Truly?” He cleared his throat and unconsciously tugged at his cravat. “I know you are the man to teach her, Russell, but do you think, I mean, is that wise?”
Olivia’s expression hardened, and Phillip grinned. “Darcy,” he laughed, “unless you desire my highly intelligent wife to dispatch you on the end of a single pointed look, you will reconsider your words. Should Georgiana show an affinity for mathematics as your son has done, would you deny her?”
The younger man began to speak in affirmation, but then closed his mouth. “No,” he said at last, his expression rueful. “I do not suppose I would.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Olivia said archly, “to deny a child his or her talent is to deny everyone who might one day benefit from it.” She raised her chin defiantly.
“Consider me properly chastised, Mrs. Russell,” Darcy said gallantly.
Olivia harrumphed. “I shall have to keep an eye on you, George Darcy,” she said, wagging one finger at him. “You are far too charming.”
George smiled widely, revealing a single dimple in his left cheek. “I thank you, Mrs. Russell.”
“Oh, well,” she huffed, coloring a little. She changed the subject. “That smile of yours puts me in mind of your son. Is Fitzwilliam well?”
Darcy chuckled. “He is indeed.” Unconsciously, he drew himself up. “He recently earned Fifth Wrangler.” He seemed far away when he added, “He is his mother’s son.”
Phillip’s face lit up. “You must send our heartiest congratulations to him. My goodness, it seems he was heading off to Eton only a fortnight past.” He shook his head. “Wrangler. Well done, indeed.”
“Is young Mr. Wickham still at Cambridge?” Olivia asked, her disdain clear. Phillip gave her a quelling look.
“Of course,” Darcy said though he appeared startled by her vehemence. “Why do you ask?”
Phillip placed a hand over Olivia’s. She gave her husband an annoyed look but shook her head. “Forgive me. I have spoken out of turn.”
Darcy held his hand out to stall Phillip and leaned forward. “Come now, Mrs. Russell. What have you to say?”
Olivia took a deep breath. “I shall be blunt, Mr. Darcy. He does not treat your son well and he is not appropriate around the maids.” Phillip let out a little groan. “There,” Olivia stated tersely, “I have said it at last.” She turned to Phillip. “The man did ask.”
“Once you prompted him to it,” Phillip grumbled. “Darcy, it is none of our concern.”
“Regardless, you agree with your wife?” Darcy asked plainly.
Phillip sighed. “I do.” Darcy stared at him, waiting for him to continue. “Just before Elizabeth came to us, when I arrived to pick up the pony, do you recall?”
George Darcy gave him a sharp nod and motioned for his friend to return to his narrative.
“You had business and said you would meet me out at the stables. As I approached, I saw young Wickham pull his arm back to throw a good-sized stone at your son’s mount. Fitzwilliam’s back was turned, and he was not yet fully in the saddle.”
Darcy’s expression grew dark, and well it should. Such a stunt went beyond boyish competition. Wickham might have seriously injured Fitzwilliam, and even had he not, the horse might have been hurt.
“Why did you not tell me then?” Darcy demanded.
“Because we have spoken about this before,” Phillip said bluntly, “and it has not made a difference.” He met Darcy’s conflicted expression with regret but pushed on.
“When he saw me, he dropped the stone and I did what I could—I threatened young Wickham with a thrashing, which he laughed away. I also warned your son to be careful.” He paused.
“Young Wickham stopped laughing when the stable boys told him who I was, and he understood I had men to do the thrashing for me.”
“It was not your place,” Darcy said, his face a mask.
“It was not,” Phillip replied evenly, “but I was worried for your son.”
“I was of the mind that Fitzwilliam would need to learn to deal with this sort of thing at school,” Darcy murmured, “so I have let it go, but I had no idea it was more than just boys competing.”
Olivia nudged her silent husband. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Darcy, but you have always insisted that it was naught but a friendly rivalry. I have not ever truly believed it, but I understand that your son and godson are your business and not mine.”
George Darcy frowned. He turned to Olivia. “You mentioned the maids, Mrs. Russell?”
“Mr. Darcy,” Olivia said insistently, “the way that boy eyes the maids, particularly the young ones, is absolutely indecent. He is not afraid to do it openly, and I would wager that even Mrs. Reynolds is afraid to tell you. You must ask her for the truth and let her know you will not fault her for telling it.” Phillip shook his head and murmured something to her about the word wager, but Olivia ignored him.
George Darcy briefly appeared as though he might brush aside the comment. It was, after all, coming from an older woman inexperienced with raising young men. Eventually his expression grew thoughtful. “He has never done anything in my presence that would cause concern,” he mused aloud.
Phillip, clearly uncomfortable with the turn in their discussion, shifted in his seat.
“That is not surprising. He is careful not to show that part of himself to his benefactor, and he is nothing if not self-interested.” He leaned forward.
“I will say just this, and we shall end the conversation. I intentionally did not bring Elizabeth to Pemberley until the boys left for Cambridge.” His expression was troubled.
“Your steward is an excellent man, but I would not allow anyone I care about to be alone with his son.”
Spring, 1804
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat alone in his room, holding a letter from his father that had deeply surprised him.
The surprise was not that his father was demanding information.
He was quite accustomed to that. It was, rather, the subject of the inquiry that perplexed him.
His father was asking about the conduct of George Wickham.
After all these years, why would he be interested now?
The letter began with an explanation, of sorts.
His father had written about a visit from his friends, the Russells of Weymouth House, and laid out their observations.
He added that he had himself noted that once the boys were separated at Cambridge, George had done just as poorly as he had before, but his own son had performed a good deal better.
Not once had the heir to Pemberley been in Dutch since leaving Eton.
Fitzwilliam remembered Mr. Russell fondly.
He had taken Wickham to task several times on his behalf, the last time during an altercation at the Pemberley stables a few years ago.
He knew Mr. Russell as a rather clever man who was not much diminished in vigor despite his age, and who had been a friend to the Darcys since his grandfather’s time.
He had never expected the man to speak with his father about Wickham—or perhaps Mr. Russell simply knew it would not matter, as his father never listened to any pronouncement against George Wickham.
Yet for some reason, at last, George Darcy had not only listened, but understood.