Lady de Bourgh’s Lover (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

PROLOGUE

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the reserved and dignified master of Pemberley, sat alone in his study, where the morning light, softened by the height of the mullioned windows, fell in long, measured bands across the polished surface of his mahogany desk.

The scent of freshly cut roses from the garden filled the air, a subtle reminder of the estate’s beauty and order.

Before him lay an opened letter, the seal already broken with more deliberation than haste, and now resting beside it like a small, defeated token of ceremony.

Darcy held the sheet between his fingers—not carelessly, but with a certain stillness that suggested he had already read enough to know that what remained would not please him—and yet he resumed, as a man does who prefers certainty, however unwelcome, to conjecture.

“Dear Mr. Darcy,

I hope this note finds you well and that Pemberley is flourishing and prospering under your capable ownership.”

Darcy could not help but smirk at the flattery, though the expression bore little resemblance to amusement.

Wickham had ever possessed the talent of pleasing in his opening, as though civility alone might stand in place of character.

Also, Wickham had always been one for pleasantries, so it was difficult to discern his true intentions.

Then Mr. Darcy continued reading, and his brow furrowed.

“It is gratifying to inform you that I recently graduated from Cambridge and am currently endeavouring to find a suitable position for my studies.”

Darcy’s gaze did not immediately proceed to the next line, but lingered, as if the words themselves required examination beyond their plain meaning.

That Wickham should invoke his education was not in itself surprising; that he should rely upon it was another matter entirely.

He knew that George Wickham had attended Cambridge; his late father, Mr. Darcy, had supported the young man’s studies in the first year, and he himself had continued that generosity thereafter.

He had known the student long enough—known him, indeed, with a familiarity not easily set aside—to doubt whether diligence had ever been his companion there. Intrigued, Darcy continued reading.

“Thus, I wrote to inquire about the vacant steward position at Pemberley, which I understand still needs to be filled.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. The alteration in his countenance was unmistakable.

The stillness remained, but it had acquired a sharper edge, like a drawn line where none had been before.

The office in question—so long and so faithfully held by Wickham’s father—was no ordinary employment, but one that demanded judgement, steadiness, and a loyalty not easily professed, and still less easily proved.

For a brief moment—no more—Darcy’s thoughts turned to the elder Wickham, who had served Pemberley with quiet fidelity for more than twenty years, his constancy requiring neither advertisement nor defence. That memory alone rendered the present request more intolerable, not less.

“Should your kindness and benevolence allow me to serve you in my late father’s position, I would be honoured to continue his work and contribute to the prosperity of Pemberley.”

Mr. Darcy paused again. The letter concluded with the most humble and polite terms and a pathetic attempt to add a flourished signature, filling the remainder of the page.

Darcy sighed, setting the letter down on his desk.

He stared at the bold strokes of ink and felt a mixture of emotions.

He was glad for Wickham’s accomplishments, yet wary of the request. It was not the letter he saw, but the long and uneasy chain of recollections it had summoned: boyhood freedoms shared too easily, indulgences granted too readily, and, at their end, laughter, betrayal, and disappointment.

“Could George truly be capable of this responsibility?” Darcy wondered, his thoughts in a whirlwind of doubt and curiosity. “Though his father was an exemplary steward, can the son follow in his footsteps?”

The questions formed themselves not as idle speculation, but as a challenge to his own judgement, and they were answered almost before they had been fully conceived. No man who required the language of humility so carefully arranged could be relied upon where honesty must act unobserved.

Yet it was not Pemberley alone that stood in question.

Mr. Darcy allowed himself to consider Wickham’s charming and amiable character, yet one that concealed a depth of cunning that had caused more than one heartache.

Would it be wise to bring such a man into his employ or to trust him with the wellbeing of Pemberley? No, and no. The answer was twice no.

“Good God!” Darcy murmured to himself. The very idea of Wickham anywhere near Georgiana Darcy, his sister, was intolerable.

After discovering the true character of this man, he was acutely aware that his charm and charisma were only a facade for his deceitful and heartless nature.

As an older brother, it was his responsibility to shield his younger sister from individuals like Wickham, and he was determined not to let her down.

His sister’s peace—her safety, both of mind and reputation—admitted of no compromise, and if there remained in Darcy any lingering disposition toward generosity, it must yield entirely to prudence.

Weighing his options carefully, Darcy considered the implications of granting—or denying—Mr. George Wickham the opportunity to serve as a steward at Pemberley. The answer was a polite but definitive no. The decision, once admitted, required no further debate.

With a firm hand, Mr. Darcy penned a response:

19th June 1811, Pemberley, Derbyshire

Mr. Wickham,

I am sorry to inform you that the steward position at Pemberley has been filled. I hope that you will find success in your future endeavours. Should circumstance permit, I shall be gratified to hear that your pursuits have met with steadiness and propriety.

Sincerely, F. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy read the letter once, neither to amend nor to embellish, but merely to confirm that it conveyed precisely what was intended—and nothing more. It was sufficient; restraint, in such cases, was its own form of clarity.

Having dispatched the matter, Darcy turned his attention to seeking out a suitable candidate for the position.

He composed, with greater care and rather more inclination, several letters to gentlemen whose judgement he respected, requesting recommendations of integrity rather than mere competence; for it was not skill alone that Pemberley required, but character.

When at last these were sealed and set aside for delivery, he permitted himself the smallest relaxation of countenance—a smile so slight that it scarcely altered his expression, yet sufficient to mark the quiet resolution of a difficulty settled before it could take root.

Assured that he had done his utmost to thwart Wickham’s designs, he allowed himself a small smile, one that rarely graced his austere features.

***

21st August 1811, Norwich, Norfolk.

The crisp parchment gave a faint rustle as Mr. William Collins dipped his quill into the inkwell, leaving, in his haste, a small pool of ink upon its rim. The soft scratching of his pen echoed across the quiet room as he began to address his letter to his former Cambridge colleague, George Wickham.

“My dearest Mr. Wickham,” he wrote, with an air of consequence entirely suited to his present satisfaction,

“I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I write to you from my current abode in Norwich, though I must confess my stay here shall soon come to an end.”

Collins paused a moment, not from hesitation, but to savour the importance of what he was about to relate, allowing himself a self-satisfied smile as he imagined Wickham’s curiosity properly engaged. With a hint of arrogance, he went on to say,

“I am pleased to announce that, due to my own accomplishments and certain distinguished connections, the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh, has taken me under her patronage.

As a result, I am humbly honoured to have been entrusted with the promise of the living of Hunsford, in Kent, and I shall ever strive to show my utmost respect for her Ladyship.

I shall abide by the doctrinal teachings of the Church of England, officiating its sacraments to the best of my abilities. ”

Mr. Collins felt his chest swell with pride at the thought of his new position, his posture unconsciously improving in response to his own words, and his penmanship grew more elaborate with each line.

“Furthermore, I have had the honour of visiting her Ladyship at Rosings, a most grand and impressive estate, and can report that Hunsford Parsonage, my future dwelling, lies less than a mile away. The residence itself boasts well-kept gardens, trees of considerable height, and no fewer than two servants to attend to my needs.”

As Collins penned these words, he imagined Wickham’s astonishment at his good fortune, and lingered, perhaps longer than necessary, upon each detail, as though determined that none of his advantages should pass unremarked.

Satisfied with the impression he had made, Collins continued in a more genial tone.

“Nevertheless, my dear friend, I must not forget to convey my warmest wishes for your own success.

I do most sincerely hope that you shall soon find a post befitting your education and station.

Pray consider this an open invitation to continue our correspondence, as I am eager to hear news of your own endeavours.

May fortune smile upon you as it has upon me, and may our friendship endure across the miles that separate us. I remain, as ever, your most devoted and humble servant.”

Mr. Collins concluded his letter in terms of careful civility, signing it with a flourish: “William Collins”.

***

Three days later, in Milton.