Mr. Darcy’s Bargain Bride (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Prologue

Pemberley, Derbyshire

The rain drummed against the tall windows of Pemberley’s study with a persistence that matched Fitzwilliam Darcy’s own relentless attention to the ledgers spread before him.

Each entry required scrutiny, each decision weighed against the future prosperity of the estate his father had entrusted to his care.

At four-and-twenty, Darcy bore responsibilities that would have crushed a lesser man, yet he approached them with the same methodical precision that had served him well at Cambridge.

The fire crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows across the mahogany desk where neat columns of figures chronicled the spring quarter’s expenditures.

Tenant repairs, seed purchases, wages for the groundskeepers—all the minutiae of a thriving estate demanded his consideration.

Such tasks had once been his father’s domain, guided by years of experience and an intuitive understanding of the land.

Now they fell to Darcy alone, a burden made heavier by the persistent ache of loss that settled in his chest whenever he recalled his father’s steady voice offering counsel.

A soft sigh drew his attention to the corner of the room, where Georgiana sat curled in the window seat with a leather-bound volume in her lap.

At fourteen, she possessed their mother’s delicate features and their father’s thoughtful disposition, though grief had rendered her quieter still.

The book lay forgotten as she stared out at the rain-soaked grounds, her fingers tracing patterns on the condensation that clouded the glass.

“The new plantings in the south pasture appear to be thriving,” Darcy offered, setting down his pen. “Mr Griffith believes we shall have an excellent harvest this year.”

Georgiana’s lips curved in a wan smile. “Papa would have been pleased.”

The simple observation hung between them, carrying the weight of a year’s worth of unspoken sorrow.

Their father’s absence pervaded every corner of Pemberley, from the empty chair at the head of the dining table to the untouched volumes in his personal library.

Darcy had maintained the pretence of normalcy for Georgiana’s sake, but he knew his sister perceived the hollowness beneath his composed exterior.

“Indeed he would.” Darcy returned to his ledgers, though the figures blurred slightly as he blinked away the moisture that gathered at his eyes.

The steady rhythm of their shared silence was disrupted by the distant sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive.

Darcy frowned, glancing at the mantel clock.

Half past three—an unusual hour for callers, particularly given the inclement weather.

He had no appointments scheduled, and their neighbours rarely ventured out in such conditions without a good cause.

Georgiana straightened in her seat, pressing her face to the window. “It appears to be a hired conveyance rather than a private carriage.”

Before Darcy could respond, a firm rap echoed from the entrance hall, followed by the murmur of voices as Wilson, their butler, attended to the unexpected visitor. Moments later, the study door opened to reveal the elderly servant’s composed features.

“Mr Darcy, there is a Mrs Younge requesting an audience. She claims the matter is of some urgency and concerns the family directly.”

The name struck Darcy with immediate recognition—Mrs Younge had served as Georgiana’s governess until they had secured a more suitable replacement two years prior. “Show her in, Wilson.”

Mrs Younge appeared much as Darcy remembered—a woman of middle years whose severe black dress and pinched features suggested either mourning or habitual disapproval.

She clutched a worn traveling case in one gloved hand while her other arm cradled a bundle wrapped in a woollen blanket.

The bundle stirred slightly, emitting a soft whimper that caused both Darcy and Georgiana to start in surprise.

“Mr Darcy.” Mrs Younge executed a stiff curtsey. “I apologize for arriving without notice, but circumstances have compelled me to act with haste.”

“Please, be seated.” Darcy gestured towards the leather chair opposite his desk, his eyes fixed on the mysterious bundle. “What brings you to Pemberley?”

Mrs Younge settled herself carefully, adjusting her hold on her burden. “I come bearing a responsibility that rightfully belongs to this family, though I suspect you may not welcome the news.”

The bundle stirred again, and a tiny fist emerged from the blanket’s folds.

Darcy’s breath caught as understanding dawned—Mrs Younge carried a child, no more than a year old by appearances.

The infant’s dark hair and delicate features bore a disturbing resemblance to someone Darcy knew all too well.

“This child,” Mrs Younge continued, her voice taking on a note of resigned duty, “is the son of Mr George Wickham.”

The name fell upon the room like a stone cast into still water, sending ripples of tension through the air. Georgiana gasped, her book sliding forgotten to the floor, while Darcy’s jaw tightened with barely suppressed anger.

“Wickham.” The word emerged as little more than a growl. “What possible concern could Wickham’s offspring be of mine?”

Mrs Younge shifted uncomfortably, her grip tightening on the child. “The boy’s mother, Miss Eloise Phillips, succumbed to fever three days past. She had been under my care since the child’s birth, as Mr Wickham departed for the continent shortly after learning of her condition.”

“Then let Wickham return to claim his responsibilities,” Darcy replied coldly. “I fail to see why this matter requires my involvement.”

“Because, sir, there is no one else.” Mrs Younge’s voice carried a note of desperation.

“Miss Phillips was cast out by her family upon discovery of her situation. Mr Wickham has not been seen or heard from in months—some say he fled to escape creditors, others claim he joined a military company bound for India. The little boy has no living relatives willing to acknowledge him.”

Darcy rose from his chair, pacing to the window where rain continued its relentless assault on the glass.

The weight of obligation pressed upon his shoulders, though he resented its source.

Wickham had been his father’s godson, raised alongside Darcy as a brother, yet their friendship had soured years ago when Wickham’s true character revealed itself.

The man possessed neither honour nor responsibility, caring only for his own pleasure and advancement.

“There are institutions,” Darcy said at length. “Foundling hospitals in London that accept such children.”

“Orphanages, you mean.” Georgiana’s voice, though quiet, carried surprising steel. She had risen from the window seat and now stood beside Mrs Younge’s chair, her young face etched with compassion. “Places where children disappear into anonymity, if they survive at all.”

The child in Mrs Younge’s arms began to fuss, his tiny face scrunching with displeasure. Georgiana reached out, her finger brushing against his cheek. The touch seemed to soothe him, and his wide eyes—startlingly blue and achingly familiar—fixed upon her face with innocent trust.

“He cannot help his parentage, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana continued, her voice growing stronger. “Papa always said that children should not bear the sins of their fathers.”

Darcy closed his eyes, remembering his father’s voice speaking those very words years ago when discussing Wickham’s wayward tendencies.

George Darcy had possessed an abundance of compassion, perhaps too much where his godson was concerned.

That generosity had ultimately been repaid with ingratitude and betrayal.

“The boy requires immediate care,” Mrs Younge pressed, sensing his wavering resolve. “I have done what I could, but my circumstances are… reduced. I lack the means to provide for a child’s needs.”

“What do you propose?” Darcy asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“Take him in, sir. Raise him as your ward. He is innocent of his father’s failings and deserves a chance at respectability.”

The suggestion hung in the air like smoke from the fire, acrid and difficult to dispel.

Darcy’s practical mind immediately conjured a dozen objections—the expense, the complications, the inevitable questions from society.

Yet as he looked upon Georgiana’s hopeful face and the child’s trusting gaze, other considerations intruded.

His sister had been inconsolable after their father’s death, her grief manifesting in long silences and listless days.

Perhaps caring for this helpless creature might provide the purpose she desperately needed.

The child was blood relation to Wickham, but he was also connected to the Darcy family through bonds of history and obligation.

“The arrangement would be temporary,” Darcy said slowly, more to convince himself than the others. “Until suitable permanent placement can be secured.”

Mrs Younge’s relief was palpable. “Of course, sir. Most generous of you.”

“What is his name?” Georgiana asked, her attention fixed entirely on the child.

“Ambrose,” Mrs Younge replied. “Miss Phillips choose it herself before… before the end.”

Georgiana smiled, the first proper expression of joy Darcy had witnessed from her in months. “Hello, little Ambrose. You are safe now.”

The child gurgled in response, his tiny hand grasping at the ribbons of Georgiana’s morning dress.

The sight stirred something unexpected in Darcy’s chest, a protective instinct he had not anticipated.

This innocent creature bore no responsibility for Wickham’s failures, yet he would suffer for them unless someone intervened.

“Mrs Younge,” Darcy said, his decision crystallizing with each word. “You may inform anyone of interest that young Ambrose will remain at Pemberley for the foreseeable future. I shall arrange for a nursemaid and whatever additional staff his care requires.”

The woman’s gratitude was effusive, but Darcy barely heard her thanks.

His attention was captured by the tableau before him—his sister, animated for the first time in months, cooing softly to the child she held with instinctive tenderness.

Perhaps this unexpected responsibility would prove a blessing in disguise.

As Mrs Younge took her leave, promising to return with the child’s few possessions, Darcy approached his sister and her new charge.

Ambrose had fallen asleep in Georgiana’s arms, his features relaxed in innocent slumber.

Stripped of Wickham’s characteristic smirk and calculating expression, the resemblance was less pronounced, allowing Darcy to see the child for what he truly was—a helpless soul in need of protection.

“We shall need to convert the nursery,” Georgiana said quietly, her voice filled with purpose. “And hire a governess when he is older. Oh, Fitzwilliam, think of all the things we must teach him!”

Darcy nodded, though his thoughts had already turned to the practical considerations of raising another man’s child.

The decision felt simultaneously reckless and inevitable, as though fate had conspired to place this responsibility upon his shoulders.

Time would reveal whether his choice was wise or foolish, but for now, it was enough to see hope return to his sister’s eyes.

The rain had begun to ease, pale sunlight filtering through the study windows to illuminate the small face that would forever change the course of their lives.