Chapter 3 Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man
by Suzannah Addison
Rosings Park, Kent
For Mr Darcy, trouble always came in the form of George Wickham.
The first instance was his birth. From the moment George could walk, he always led towards mischief; the moment he could talk, he fibbed.
Transgressions were never his fault. A broken precious vase was blamed on a maid, who then lost her position.
At Cambridge, his dissipated existence increased.
Opium dens, increased gambling stakes, loose women, and bolder lies.
Then George set his sights on Georgiana, or to be precise, her thirty thousand pounds.
With a beaming smile Georgiana announced her intention to marry Mr Wickham.
His expression changed when the circumstances regarding the release of her dowry were revealed, and Wickham broke off the engagement.
How heartbroken Georgiana had been and how she still suffered from his lies poured into her willing ears and open heart.
The latest insult: Wickham ended up in Meryton, fairly upon Darcy’s doorstep—poisonous smirk in place.
Oily charm oozed off him in gallons. Armed with insidious intentions and incredible self-assurance, Wickham zig-zagged the truth.
With ease, he poured an abridged version of his history into the delicate and willing vessel of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
That she had taken Wickham’s part angered Darcy. He should have expected it, his experiences taught him that—
He could not be angry. He was disappointed. He had thought better of her perspicacity and wit. Had he offended her so much that she would listen to a snake? His spirit was crushed, in heart, in mind.
Disgust pierced his soul as he stared into the dwindling fire in his room. At Rosings, Wickham had once again inserted himself in Darcy’s business. What had he been doing in Hunsford chasing Miss Elizabeth Bennet?
Darcy was grateful for his cousin’s presence in Hunsford. Richard could never tolerate Wickham, and after the last offence, Richard’s patience had reached its limit.
Darcy sipped his brandy, the liquid burning down his throat as his mind reviewed his association with Miss Elizabeth Bennet and the events that led to the tragedy that had befallen her.
It all began in early September.
Darcy had thwarted the attempted elopement of his sister, Georgiana, and had settled in London before the season started so that he could concentrate on his sister without Pemberley as a distraction.
Darcy thought to show a pretence of regularity to the world and went to his club. There, by some strange luck, he met his cousin Viscount Wessington, Cyril Fitzwilliam, in the reception hall.
“Darcy, I have not seen you in an age!”
Darcy groaned. “Wessington, how are you?”
“How do you do, you irascible old man?”
“I am three years younger than you, I will have you know.” Darcy said, ice lacing his tone. Darcy rubbed the temples of his head to work away the headache that had formed at the sound of the boisterously happy Viscount.
“Then act young. It is a fleetingly short time we can behave as we want to.”
“What do you want?” Darcy groaned. Where were headache powders when you needed them? Darcy tried not to scowl as the effort worsened the throbbing at his forehead.
“I need to lie low for a bit,” Wessington said. “Someplace not related to the earldom where I can hide and have a little holiday.”
“I am not sure I want to know the reason.”
“Nothing scandalous, I assure you—just tired of London and mama’s excessive matchmaking.
Honestly, one more simpering so-called jewel of the Season and I know I could not keep my equanimity.
My man of business has found a place—a nice little estate called Netherfield.
Why not come with me? You look like you could use a little country air.
” Cyril leaned in close and whispered, “It might be just the thing to divert you after the incident. By-the-by, how is Georgiana?”
“She is still melancholy, playing dour compositions on the pianoforte.”
“Maybe we can invite her along, too.”
“Perhaps. Though I imagine she would prefer to remain in Town.” Darcy checked his watch. “Where is Netherfield again?”
“Hertfordshire. It is a four-hour drive from London.”
“I suppose it could be restful.”
A few days later, he and his cousin took a carriage with another for their luggage and personal servants; they arrived in time for afternoon tea.
A month had passed; the weather cooled, but the passion his cousin held for Miss Bennet burned bright—Wessington had become attached to a Miss Jane Bennet, whilst Darcy had developed a fascination for Miss Bennet’s younger sister, Miss Elizabeth.
Despite his cousin’s readiness to ally himself with a family so deficient in both connexions and decorum, Darcy could not, for his own part, be persuaded to countenance such an attachment.
He could not let the youngest Bennet sisters influence Georgiana.
Wessington had no impressionable younger sisters to protect.
If the younger sisters did behave, the mother could not be tolerated. No, Darcy had a standard to protect.
Whilst on a ride to Longbourn, the Bennets’ estate, three miles from Netherfield, they spotted the five Bennet sisters standing next to a Lieutenant Denny and another man.
When the man turned, Darcy swallowed his rage!
How dare Mr Wickham show himself as a respectable gentleman?
How dare such wickedness stand near Miss Elizabeth?
Her fine eyes smiling, she had been laughing with him!
His blood boiled. Wessington managed a strained greeting.
When his cousin lingered to speak with Miss Bennet, Darcy, unable to contain his violent thoughts towards his former friend, urged his horse around and galloped out of the high street.
He next saw Miss Elizabeth at the Gouldings’ dinner party.
Her cheeks positively glowed; her laughter enhanced the amber flecks in her green eyes that glimmered in the candlelight.
There was some cruel fate at play, for Darcy was seated next to Miss Elizabeth.
Their conversation was confined to polite discourse, and he sensed his monosyllabic answers did not please her.
But given her connexions and paltry dowry, he knew it would be wrong to encourage her.
Thank goodness Wickham had not been invited. Still, her eyes fell on Lieutenant Denny across from them, who scowled at Darcy. Miss Elizabeth offered him a smile, and Denny relaxed.
“Do you often walk into Meryton?” Darcy asked her as he sipped the inferior wine. He tried not to show the distaste on his face, but the grimace was too pronounced, and she pursed her lips.
“Why, yes,” she said. “The other day you caught us as we made a new acquaintance.”
“Mr Wickham has the happy manners to make friends easily; keeping them is the difficulty.”
“He has been unfortunate to lose your friendship,” she snapped. “The fact that he may suffer all his life is not distressing to you?”
“You take an eager interest in that man’s concerns!” hissed Darcy, making Miss Elizabeth shrink back. No further words were exchanged.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Miss Elizabeth’s face mirrored his own displeasure. How could a woman of her discernment be so thoroughly deceived by a man like Wickham? Father was not a dullard, yet he was also taken in.
Knowing he must escape her charms for fear of committing himself to one so below the standards he had for himself, Darcy left Hertfordshire the following morning unsatisfied. The season had just started, so he was kept busy by attending the important events.
The day after a particularly tedious ball, Darcy read a missive from his cousin.
Wessington sent astonishing news: that not only was he engaged to Miss Jane Bennet, but also Miss Elizabeth Bennet had become an heiress—a distant Aunt Fanshaw had heard of her intelligent great-niece and, after investigation and consideration, decided, of all her great-nieces, Miss Elizabeth should be her heir.
Now Elizabeth had an estate and a dowry of thirty thousand pounds.
Once news of her inheritance made the rounds in Meryton, Elizabeth Bennet, much to her and her younger sisters’ chagrin, became a favourite of all the officers.
It was so laughable to her. Mr Wickham was the only one to show her any respect, and for that, she had warm feelings for the man.
He had even played the gallant, breaking up a few skirmishes between men who suddenly vied for her hand.
Meanwhile, Longbourn’s heir presumptive arrived, willing to offer for one of the Bennet girls. After being soundly rejected by Miss Elizabeth, he engaged himself to Miss Charlotte Lucas, Miss Elizabeth’s best friend.
Three days before her wedding, Charlotte turned nervously to her friend and begged her attendance: “My father and Maria are coming to visit by the end of winter. I wish you were one of the party to accompany them. Your presence would give me something to look forward to. I am told that Rosings has many walks and would be glorious in the spring. Say you will come?”
“If it means that much to you, then I shall. I look forward to travelling and seeing more of the world.”
No one repined Mr Darcy’s leaving Netherfield.
Good riddance, some had said. Who wanted Mr Darcy, who needed him when his handsome and charming cousin was near.
Much to the chagrin of many a mother, the Viscount Wessington had courted Jane assiduously to the rapturous delight of Mrs Bennet, who knew Jane could not be so beautiful for nothing.
Two days after Charlotte’s wedding, Longbourn rang with the violently delightful cries of Jane becoming a countess.
It took all of Elizabeth’s patience to explain that Jane would not be a countess by marrying a viscount…
. But her mother saw only the title, understanding nothing more.