PROLOGUE #2
George Wickham sat at his writing desk, the letter from William Collins—boasting of his newly acquired position as vicar of Hunsford—laid open before him. He tapped his quill lightly against the inkwell, considering for a moment before setting it down with quiet decision.
The notion of Darcy’s likely reception of what he was about to propose afforded him a moment’s private satisfaction; yet the matter required care, and he turned to it with deliberate attention.
“Dear Mr. Darcy,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and in the continued enjoyment of your prosperity.
I am obliged to you for your recent reply, though I confess myself disappointed that the steward’s position has been filled.
I must beg leave to apologise for the presumption of my former request, which, upon reflection, I perceive to have been ill-judged. ”
Wickham paused only briefly before continuing, his expression composed, his tone measured.
“It has since occurred to me that my inclinations may be more properly directed toward the Church, a profession for which my education, I trust, has not left me entirely unprepared. Should an opportunity present itself, I would consider it both an honour and a duty to devote myself to such a path.
I understand that a living at Kympton, within your patronage, may in time become available, and I would not presume to press my claim beyond what you deem proper.
Yet, if you should think me not wholly unworthy of consideration, I would be grateful to be remembered when the matter is next under review.
Alternatively, I have reason to believe that a situation in Shrewsbury may soon be within my reach, though I would not willingly enter upon any engagement without first seeking your guidance, which I have long valued."
If, therefore, you should feel inclined to favour me with a word of recommendation, I would endeavour to justify your confidence by the utmost propriety of conduct.
I remain sensible of the advantages I have already enjoyed through your family’s kindness, and would not willingly forfeit the good opinion which has, I hope, not been entirely withdrawn.
Allow me to add that I remain, dear sir, your most obedient and humble servant.”
Wickham concluded, signing his name with the same elaborate and familiar flourish that had long distinguished his hand.
He set down the quill and regarded the page with a faint, composed satisfaction, as though the matter had been arranged with as much advantage as circumstances would permit.
***
The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow upon the worn oak desk as Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy held a letter before him.
The paper was slightly crumpled, and the ink had spread in places where the quill had pressed too heavily into the parchment.
With a furrowed brow that spoke of concern and curiosity, he read attentively the uneven scrawl that lay before him.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed, recognising the familiar tone of the writer. He continued, now with an edge of caution, his attention fixed upon each phrase as though something of consequence might lie concealed within it. He read “a living at Kympton, within your patronage…” God forbid.
The words did not pass without effect; a quiet tension settled upon him, born less of surprise than of recognition. He went on: “not wholly unworthy of consideration…”
Mr. Darcy paused, drawing a measured breath before proceeding. The humility was well expressed—too well expressed. He continued reading: “a situation in Shrewsbury may soon be within my reach…” That, at least, presented an alternative.
“If, therefore, you should feel inclined to favour me with a word of recommendation…”
The request, though cautiously framed, admitted of no misunderstanding.
How strange that this man would still seek his support.
Darcy shifted slightly in his chair, more from deliberation than agitation, and resumed reading until the close.
The letter concluded in terms of studied civility, marked by that elaborate signature which Darcy had long since learned to associate with the man himself: George Wickham.
Taking a slow breath, Darcy set the letter down.
His gaze lingered not upon the page, but upon the wavering flame of the candle, as he considered the implications of Wickham’s request and the extent, if any, of his obligation to assist him.
Could he find it in himself to grant the man another opportunity, or would doing so only expose others to risk?
“Generosity and spirit of justice,” he repeated under his breath, the phrase his father had often used as an exhortation.
There was, however, one point upon which his judgement did not hesitate.
To place Wickham in Derbyshire—within reach of Pemberley—would be to invite a danger he was not prepared to countenance.
Proximity, in this instance, could serve no good purpose.
If the man must succeed, let it be elsewhere.
Shrewsbury, though not without its own uncertainties, offered at least the advantage of distance.
Mr. Darcy did not arrive at his decision lightly. For a moment, inclination and prudence stood opposed; yet the balance, once considered, could admit of but one conclusion. If a measured concession might direct Wickham away from Pemberley, it was not without justification.
“Very well,” he murmured at last, as he took up his pen. “If it keeps Wickham at a distance, even if it is a short one, I shall provide the necessary recommendation.”
A slight relaxation of his expression followed—rare, but not without meaning—born less of satisfaction than of a duty deliberately assumed.
Little knew Darcy the full extent of Wickham’s machinations.