Wickham’s Ward (Pride & Prejudice Variation)

The Younger Brother

The children came to the drawing room for tea at four o’clock, as they did every day. Fitzwilliam Darcy sat with a book open in his lap and had not turned a page in half an hour.

At twenty, Darcy was still his brother-in-law’s ward, and Pemberley remained under Wickham’s management. His majority was months away. Neither man had ever spoken of it.

Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, guiding little Anne’s hands across the keys. At seven, her daughter already showed her mother’s ear. Young George, not yet five, played with wooden blocks at their feet under the eye of Nurse Thomas.

“More tea, brother?” Wickham lifted the pot. His warmth never varied. He had arrived after the children, separately, as was his habit at these gatherings.

“No, thank you,” Darcy said.

Georgiana’s shoulders tensed over the keys.

“Mama, play my favourite!” Anne demanded. Georgiana turned to her daughter, and a light Mozart air filled the room. The girl’s face lit. She had her mother’s curls and her mother’s eyes, and watching her, Darcy could believe he was seeing Georgiana in the nursery, years before his own birth.

“Uncle Darcy!” George abandoned his blocks and climbed onto his lap. Darcy settled him and found himself smiling. The boy reached at once for the book and traced the leather binding with one finger.

“I see George has inherited my love of books,” Wickham said, reaching over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Let us hope he takes after his mother in application to study.”

Georgiana laughed. “You do yourself a disservice, my dear. You were merely… selective in your interests.”

Darcy’s grip on his nephew tightened. “I received a letter from Bingley this morning,” he said. “He has taken a house in Hertfordshire.”

“Has he indeed?” Georgiana’s fingers stilled. “Your friend moves quickly when something catches his fancy.”

“He has invited me to stay. He wishes me to help him assess the estate’s potential.”

“How kind of Mr Bingley to offer guidance to those less experienced in estate management,” Wickham said, his smile sharp. “Though perhaps you might learn more by staying at Pemberley, brother.”

“I believe the change of scene will be instructive. Bingley has specifically requested my opinion on the hunting grounds.”

Georgiana’s hands fell into her lap. “You mean to go, then?” A small frown creased her brow. “But you have never been away so long before.” Her gaze moved to her husband. “Perhaps George could accompany you? He has such excellent knowledge of estate management.”

“Your concern does you credit, sister, but I would not wish to take Wickham from his duties here. Besides, Bingley specifically requested my company. You know how he depends upon my opinion.”

“And will Miss Bingley be joining her brother?” Georgiana asked lightly. She had not missed that lady’s marked attentions to Darcy during their London season.

“I believe she means to keep house for him.”

“You are still very young to be thinking of marriage,” Wickham observed. “There is so much to learn about estate management first. Would you not agree, my dear?”

Little George squirmed and reached again for the book. Darcy gave it to him.

“Indeed,” Georgiana agreed, watching her husband fondly. “Though I confess I was younger than Fitzwilliam when we married.”

“That was different,” Wickham said, pouring himself more tea.

“You had your father’s guidance in the choice, and I was already well versed in estate matters through my own father’s position.

” He set down the pot. “We would not want your brother taken advantage of by someone seeking Pemberley’s position rather than his personal qualities. ”

Darcy helped his nephew turn a page.

“When do you leave?” Georgiana asked, drawing Anne back to her lesson.

“Bingley expects me next week. I thought to go down on Tuesday, if the weather holds.”

“So soon?”

“I have already arranged matters with your steward regarding the autumn planting,” Wickham said. “You need not worry about leaving matters here unattended, brother.”

Darcy shifted his nephew in his lap. The estate could survive a few months of Wickham’s management. It would have to.

Later that evening, a soft knock preceded Georgiana into his dressing room. Fletcher, who knew his mistress’s habit of late visits, had already withdrawn.

“I thought I might find you here.” She settled into the chair by the fire, still in her evening dress, her maid dismissed for the night. “George is reading to the children before bed.”

Darcy finished with his cravat and watched her reflection. His own memories of their mother were vague; what he knew of her face he knew from the portrait in the gallery. In the firelight, Georgiana might have sat for it.

“You need not worry about me, Georgiana. Bingley will take good care of his guest.”

“It is not Mr Bingley’s care that concerns me,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “You have seemed unsettled these past months. I had hoped you and George might grow closer as you learned more of estate management from him.”

Darcy turned from the mirror. “Wickham has his own methods,” he said. “And I must learn to find my own way.”

“You are so like Papa sometimes.” A fond smile. “He too preferred to work things out alone. But you need not be so independent, dearest. You have family to support you.”

Darcy said nothing for a moment. “And I am grateful for it. But surely you can understand my wish to prove myself capable of managing my inheritance.”

“Of course I do.” She leaned forward. “But there is no need to prove anything to anyone. George and I both know how seriously you take your responsibilities to Pemberley.”

She hesitated, smoothing a fold of her gown that did not need smoothing. “He only wishes you would trust him more.”

Something in her voice was too light, too rehearsed. She met his gaze with a smile, and the moment passed.

Darcy turned back to the mirror and adjusted his cuffs. His majority was still months away. A great deal could happen in that time.

“I think perhaps some distance will help me gain perspective,” he said at last. “And Bingley truly does need guidance with this new estate.”

“Perhaps it will do you good to meet some new people. You spend too much time alone in the library. A few country assemblies might be just the thing.” She smiled at his reflection. “Though I doubt any young lady there will be quite up to Miss Bingley’s standards.”

Darcy suppressed a shudder. “I have no intention of seeking a wife in Hertfordshire,” he said. He had no wish to draw an innocent woman into his situation.

“No, of course not.” Georgiana rose and came to straighten his collar. “But a little society might lift your spirits. You used to laugh more, before…” She caught herself, her hands falling to her sides. “Before Papa died.”

The silence stretched between them. “I should let you finish dressing,” she said at last, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “George will wonder where I have gone. Promise me you will at least try to enjoy yourself in Hertfordshire?”

“I promise to try.”

“And I shall be counting on you to write to me regularly,” she added at the door.

“You must entertain me with all the delights of county society that I miss as a married lady. Every assembly, every dinner party; I want to hear about them all.” Her smile turned wistful.

“Particularly if Miss Bingley finds them wanting. Her observations can be quite… pointed.”

“I suspect Miss Bingley will find fault with everything from the quality of the tea to the height of the gentlemen’s cravats,” Darcy said. “You shall have pages of complaints to amuse you.”

After she had gone, Darcy sat in the chair she had vacated. Her happiness rested upon her faith in her husband. Even if he reached his majority safely, he did not know how he would ever make her question it.

The fire burned low. For now, in the privacy of his own rooms, he could admit how very tired he was of being afraid.

The next morning was crisp and clear, perfect September weather for riding. Darcy had made it his habit to exercise Wicked early, before Wickham was likely to be about. The stables were quiet at that hour.

“Good morning, sir,” Miller said, touching his cap. “He’s near ready for you. I gave the saddle a last look-over. Just as well, too.”

Darcy glanced up. “Why?”

Miller held out the girth strap. “Worked nearly loose, sir. Could be wear, or someone not fastening it properly yesterday. I would not trust it.”

Darcy examined the leather. There was nothing obviously damaged. “Replace it.”

“Aye, sir. Better not take chances.”

“Thank you, Miller.”

Wicked shifted his weight, ears flicking towards them. Darcy laid a hand along the stallion’s neck. “A careless fastening might have ended badly.”

“Aye,” Miller said. “Best not dwell on what did not happen.”

Wickham’s voice rang across the yard. “Ah, Darcy! An early start?” Wickham’s tone was all genial civility. “Surely you are not wearing out Georgiana’s gift already?”

“She will forgive me,” Darcy said, swinging into the saddle before Wickham could draw nearer.

“Then perhaps I will accompany you. A fine morning for the north pastures.”

Darcy gave a courteous nod. “As you wish.”

They rode out side by side, hooves muffled on the damp grass, the early light silvering the fields. Wickham’s conversation was easy, full of brotherly concern and talk of Pemberley’s welfare. Darcy heard, beneath the pleasantries, a girth strap giving way.

Beyond the home wood the road gleamed with dew. For a time they rode in silence. The estate spread wide about them, fields ripening to gold, hedgerows thick with late berries, low mist curling in the hollows.

Wickham broke the silence first. “Bingley’s estate is in Hertfordshire, is it not? A fair distance for a short visit.” His tone was pleasant. “Rather inconvenient, I should think, with winter so near.”

“Bingley has requested my assistance in assessing the land,” Darcy said. “He has little experience managing an estate.”

“Indeed?” A soft laugh. “And you have so much?”

“Enough to be of use to a friend.”

They turned down towards the river, where the old stone bridge on the southern track arched over fast-running water. The mist clung thickly there, veiling the opposite bank. Darcy slowed Wicked; the stones were always slick after rain. He did not ask why they were no longer going north.

Wickham gestured lightly. “After you.”

Darcy guided Wicked forward. The stallion’s ears flicked. Halfway across, Wickham’s voice carried through the fog, careless, conversational.

“Your sister was anxious about your going. She fears you will forget the comforts of home, and of family.”

“Georgiana need not fear that.”

“Ah, but she will. She is devoted to you, Fitzwilliam. Too much, perhaps.” A low chuckle. “It would grieve her if you were to distance yourself from us. Especially now, when so much depends on mutual trust.”

Darcy reached the far bank and turned Wicked to face him. “Trust is best maintained by honesty.”

“Just so,” Wickham agreed, bringing his horse alongside. “And honesty requires care. There have been… irregularities in the tenant accounts. Small matters, of course, but I would hate for such things to cause misunderstanding in your absence.”

“Irregularities?”

“Trifles. A few rents unpaid, a late delivery of timber. Nothing that cannot be resolved.” Wickham’s expression was the picture of concern. “Yet you know how gossip grows. Your sister might hear such talk and imagine you inattentive to your duties. That would be unfortunate.”

“I have every faith,” Darcy said, “that you will set such matters to rights before they reach her ears.”

“Faith.” Wickham smiled. “Yes. It is the foundation of every family, is it not?”

They rode on, the mist thinning as the sun rose. Any observer would have seen two amiable brothers discussing crops and weather.

By the time they returned to the stable yard the day had brightened. Wickham dismounted with practised grace and handed his reins to a waiting groom.

“A fine ride,” he said. “You are fortunate in your horses, brother. See that Wicked is well cared for. I should not like anything to befall so excellent a creature.”

“Nor I,” Darcy said. “Good day, Wickham.”

Inside the stable he lingered to stroke Wicked’s neck. The stallion’s breath was warm and steady, which was more than could be said for his own.

“We will be away soon, old friend,” he murmured. “A few more days.”

Wicked flicked an ear. Beyond the stable doors the gravel shone in the morning sun, and Darcy stood a while in the shadow before crossing it.