Chapter Four #2
The Russells must have said something very shocking to provoke this response. It was the only rational explanation for the sea-change in his father’s attitude, as he was now demanding a full accounting of Wickham’s behavior both at Cambridge and Pemberley.
I do not wish for you to dwell on boyhood grievances, but do not spare any detail, good or bad, about his behavior these past three years.
I have been told quite directly that he is careful to guard his behavior from me, but his actions, I know, could not escape the observation of a young man nearly the same age, who has the opportunity to observe him in unguarded moments.
It is this man he is becoming I apparently do not know, and I must. If he is to represent our name, Fitzwilliam, he must behave in a manner that will not shame it.
The words brought on a swell of relief and resentment.
He had tried to tell his father countless times that George Wickham was not his friend, that they had not been friends since they began at Eton.
He had tried to tell his father for years that Wickham was not representing their family well.
Despite his entreaties, his father had dismissed him out of hand, saying, in a variety of ways, that he was too sensitive.
It was Wickham his father spoke to in his study, Wickham he asked about school.
His own company was clearly too solemn for his father to abide.
Wickham had taken his godfather’s attitude as tacit permission to continue tormenting him and had made Darcy’s first two years at Eton a misery before he finally hauled off and planted Wickham a facer.
It had been well worth the caning he received for fighting.
Indeed, he had earned the respect of the senior boys, including his cousin the viscount, because when the caning was finished, Darcy had smiled.
Acta non verba, they had whispered gleefully amongst themselves. Deeds, not words.
George had let him be for a time, but he always came back, telling his charming lies, managing to persuade some new innocent into enacting his schemes.
When Darcy’s things went missing, or his name was attached to some misdeed in town, or he was locked in his room and late to chapel, Wickham was never a suspect.
The boys all knew who was to blame, but they would never tell tales.
His other cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, had made it known that Darcy was not friendless; between them, Wickham was thwarted more often than not.
At Cambridge, Darcy had at last managed to separate himself from his personal daemon, for they had settled in different colleges, he at Trinity and Wickham at Downing.
The latter college, only six years old, was not yet completely built, but it was the only place available for a boy with Wickham’s marks, and his father had little choice but to agree to it.
Darcy was simply grateful his father had not then insisted he move to Downing as well.
The possibility had given him a good deal of anxiety.
Now they were nearly finished, three years in.
He had taken Fifth Wrangler in January, but he had heard nothing from his father about that triumph.
He suspected George Darcy had expected his son to place higher.
Mother would have been thrilled, he thought, imagining how she would have asked him to describe each problem and then try to solve it herself.
Not tried. She would have kept at it until she had the answer.
Then we would discuss it. His mother had understood about Wickham, but his father had not listened to her, either, and she had stopped trying.
He could not even admit how much he missed her; his friends at Cambridge would not understand.
Wickham had not even entered the competition. The kind of application required for a forty-hour examination over five days would be foreign to him.
His father had many times indicated that he meant to help his godson to a good living, and Darcy hoped with a kind of wild desperation that his father would put nothing in writing that required them to be responsible for the man, particularly not in the church, especially not nearby at Kympton.
It would be a grave mistake to set George Wickham loose upon a congregation in need of a spiritual leader, and besides, he hoped to widen the gulf between the two of them permanently after they left university.
He could not spend his life always watching his back.
It was with a perverse sort of pleasure, then, that Fitzwilliam Darcy prepared a pen, dipped it in ink, and filled six full sides of paper.
He was careful to be fair-minded, but he was also ruthless in detailing the wreckage Wickham left in his wake, listing all the ways he saw Darcy money being spent: gambling, women, fine clothes, drink.
He copied out the debts he had assumed to protect the Darcy name, and he mentioned the name of at least one woman who had been abandoned and the two who had fallen with child.
He wrote about the one who had then been lost to childbed fever, the babe with her.
He believed there was another but could not provide evidence in that case and so did not include the charge.
In the end, Father do what you think you must for George Wickham. From this moment on, he shall have nothing from me but my contempt.
He signed the letter with a flourish. As he sanded, then folded the letter to be sent, sinking his seal into the soft wax, he felt a burden lifting from his shoulders.
Someone had finally gotten through to his father--never mind that it had not been him.
He had only given the information his father had required, but there was a deep satisfaction in ripping away the old man’s blinders, to list all the ways in which his preference for his godson over his own son and heir had been misguided, even dangerous.
At least now, he need not feel compelled to cover up the messes Wickham made everywhere he went; at least now, he could have some peace.