Chapter 5 1779-1788
It was the smell that struck George Darcy first.
Polished wood floors, warmed candle wax, and a faint hint of lemon oil—the scent of a room that had seen more dancing shoes than meaningful conversations. George adjusted the fall of his coat sleeve and stepped forward into the noise and light of the Lambton assembly room.
Conversation hummed like a hive. Shoes scuffed against the floor in gentle syncopation.
A string quartet sawed valiantly through a country dance at the far end of the room, and the din of local merriment rose in waves, broken only by the occasional shriek of laughter or the squeal of a chair dragging too quickly across polished oak.
He stood at the top of the short steps beside his father, surveying the room like a general inspecting a battlefield.
He had not wanted to come.
He had said as much that morning, when his father casually mentioned that he would be expected to attend the local assembly that evening.
George had protested—gently, but with as much force as he dared.
He was not ready. He had only just returned from the continent.
His coat had not yet come back from the tailor.
He had not danced in years. He had forgotten names.
He had forgotten faces. He had no wish to be inspected like cattle and asked a dozen times if he would settle down now that he was five-and-twenty.
His father had smiled—one of those smiles that was both affectionate and immovable—and said only, “I suppose then you will have to practice pretending to enjoy yourself. It is a skill every man of property must master eventually.”
And so here he stood. Polished boots. Crisp cravat. The heir to Pemberley.
And just self-conscious enough to wish he were anywhere else.
“Darcy, my dear fellow!”
The master of ceremonies, a stout man with a flushed face and exuberant enthusiasm, greeted them both with a bow that nearly toppled him forward.
“Mr. Darcy. Mr. George.” He gestured toward the room with the air of a man presenting a particularly well-furnished inn. “The turnout this evening is excellent. The expectation of your presence has drawn the best company.”
George doubted that. But he bowed respectfully and kept his mouth shut.
“Come, come,” the man added. “Allow me to make a few introductions.”
He turned toward the nearest knot of young ladies, clearly scanning for someone not already engaged in conversation. George’s father leaned toward him and murmured, “Try to enjoy this. I promise it is not as painful as you remember.”
George gave him a sideways glance. “I was seventeen the last time I came to one of these, right before I went to school. It was painful then, and that was before I was eligible on the marriage market.”
“Yes, but now you have the maturity and experience that comes with age. Look, the master of ceremonies is bringing over the daughter of Lady Amelia. She is a pretty little thing.—”
“I can already tell you she is not handsome enough to tempt me,” George said without looking, more out of nerves than cruelty.
His father froze, then gave George the most severe look he had ever seen.
“So, you have been to Rome, seen the ruins of Athens, gazed upon the cathedrals of France, and returned home to be an arrogant fool? This is what my money has paid for?”
George hung his head, then looked over at the master of ceremonies and the girl at his side. The girl said something with a smile on her lips, then began walking in the opposite direction of the Darcys.
“I daresay she heard you,” the elder Mr. Darcy said. “That was very badly done, George. Badly done, indeed. I am ashamed of you.”
His cheeks burned as he watched the girl begin speaking with Lady Amelia, to whom he had be introduced the week prior. She whispered something in her mother’s ear, and the two women burst out laughing.
Ears burning, George fled to the corner of the room, where he remained for the rest of the evening, his eyes on the girl he had insulted.
It was torture.
She laughed often, but not loudly. She danced frequently, but not extravagantly. Her gown was several seasons out of date and mended at the hem, but she wore it without apology.
He did not learn her name until the following day. His father had wordlessly handed him a ledger—not one for wheat or barley, but of people.
The quiet, charitable backbone of the estate.
And there, written in his father’s precise hand, was the name:
Lady Amelia Wickham (née Fitzwilliam)
Widow (b. 1730); two children—Sarah (b. 1761), John (b. 1765)
Residence established Lambton, April 1765. Patronage includes housing, education, and dowry. Reason: Family estrangement. Noble descent (maternal). Catholic.
George stared at the page.
Fitzwilliam?
That Fitzwilliam?
He found his father in the smaller sitting room that evening.
“You support her,” he said without preamble.
His father glanced up from his paper. “I do.”
George frowned. “Why? She is a Fitzwilliam.”
His father set the paper down and folded his hands over his knee.
“Precisely.”
George blinked.
“She made a foolish choice,” his father continued.
“So did many women before her. She was cast off for it. Forgotten by her family, her society. Left to starve. I heard about it from an old friend in London and made some inquiries. She was proud. She refused help at first. She asked what was expected of her. I told her, ‘raise your children in faith. Teach them. Let them live in peace.’”
He looked at his son steadily.
“One day,” he said, “you may have a daughter. A granddaughter. And if she ever makes a mistake—God forbid—I hope someone would help her too.”
His father’s words rang in George’s ears for an entire week, which is when he next saw her as he rode along the path between Pemberley and Lambton.
Cresting a bend, he saw two figures walking ahead of him: a young woman, and a tall, gangly lad.
They turned upon hearing his hoofbeats, and his stomach lurched.
Sarah Wickham.
George urged his horse forward until he reached the spot where they waited. He dismounted and removed his hat, offering a bow. “Miss Wickham.”
She looked at him coolly. “I am sorry, sir, but I do not believe that we have been introduced.”
His face heated, and he gulped nervously. “And that is entirely all my fault, Miss Wickham. Please, allow me to rectify the error. I am George Darcy.”
“We know who you are,” the lad said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “What do you want?”
George looked askance at Sarah, who said, “My brother, John, asks a valid question.” Her posture was poised, her chin high. Her eyes, green as the moss lining the trees behind her, did not blink.
“I wish to apologize,” George said.
Her expression didn’t change. “For what offense, Mr. Darcy?”
He flinched. “At the assembly. I said something unkind. Foolish. Unworthy of a gentleman, and certainly of my father’s name.”
Now her brows lifted—just slightly.
“I was nervous,” he went on, “and vain. I said a thing without thought, and I regret it. I’ve regretted it every day since. I did not look. I did not see. And I judged you without knowledge or cause.”
Silence fell, broken only by a breeze through the dying leaves. John shifted beside her, looking uncertainly between them.
“I see,” Sarah said at last. “So, I was not handsome enough to tempt you—because you never bothered to look.”
The heat that rushed to George’s face could have boiled tea.
“No,” he said. “I mean—yes. That is, I said the words. But I was a fool.”
She studied him for a long moment, then turned to her brother. “Go on to the smithy, John. I’ll catch you up.”
John hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“I am.”
With a reluctant glance at George, the boy trudged off down the path.
When they were alone, Sarah folded her hands neatly over the handle of her basket. “That sort of insult,” she said evenly, “might have ruined another girl. One with less sense. Or one whose pride was more brittle.”
“I know,” George said, subdued. “I am sorry.”
Her eyes held his. “I appreciate your apology, Mr. Darcy. And your courage in offering it.”
His mouth quirked ruefully. “My conscience and my father would not allow otherwise.”
“Still, it is rare. Most men of your position would not have troubled themselves.”
“But then I would have trouble from God, and that would be worse.”
That, at least, drew a ghost of a smile from her.
“You are not what I expected,” she admitted.
“I hope,” he said, “I can become better than I was.”
Her gaze flicked over him, and this time, her expression softened. “Time will tell.”
And time did tell. Over the course of the following months, George Darcy found himself taking more and more excuses to ride through Lambton.
Sometimes he had letters that needed to be carried personally to the curate.
Other times it was a delivery of books from the Pemberley library for the schoolmaster.
Once, he invented a vague interest in the smithy’s new apprentices, though he had never before cared one whit for horseshoes or tongs.
And yet, Sarah Wickham always seemed to be nearby.
Walking with her brother. Carrying baskets from the market.
Reading on the stone bench outside the churchyard, her bonnet slipped back just enough to let the sun touch her brow.
She never sought him out, but neither did she avoid him—and she never failed to speak plainly when he engaged her.
He had never met a woman quite like her.
She did not flatter. She did not fawn. She listened, and she laughed when he deserved to be laughed at.
She had strong opinions and a quiet wit.
She knew how to manage a garden and a household, and once he found her soothing a neighbor’s sick child with a mixture she had made herself.
Her Catholic faith was clear, but not ostentatious—woven into her habits like thread through linen.
She made him feel seen.