Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The last time Fitzwilliam Darcy saw his father as a healthy man, he had been sixteen years old.
The room at Pemberley was quiet except for the low crackle of the fire and the measured ticking of the clock upon the mantel. Outside, rain moved steadily against the windows, blurring the dark shapes of the yew trees into one indistinct mass. Darcy stood beside the bed. His father looked smaller than he had that morning. The old man had been ill for weeks, but until this evening there had remained in his face something of the authority which had governed Pemberley for more than three decades. Now his features were pale and sharpened, his breath uneven, his hands lying motionless upon the coverlet.
Darcy had spent the better part of the day attending to physicians, servants, correspondence, and the endless practical concerns which appeared whenever death entered a great house. He had performed every duty expected of him. There was one duty remaining. His father opened his eyes.
“Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy moved closer.
“I am here.”
His father studied him for several seconds.
“You have something to say.”
It was not a question. Darcy's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
His father gave the faintest sigh.
“Wickham.”
Darcy did not answer immediately. The name alone seemed to alter the air in the room.
At length he said, “Yes.”
His father closed his eyes.
“I had hoped,” he murmured, “that you had outgrown this.”
Darcy's expression hardened.
“I had hoped that I had.”
The old man opened his eyes again. There was something almost like amusement in them, though it was weakened by exhaustion.
“You have always been stubborn.”
“I learned it from you.”
A faint smile touched his father's mouth.
“Perhaps.”
Darcy pulled the chair nearer to the bed but did not sit.
“I have tried to speak to you about him before.”
“I know.”
“I tried when I was sixteen. I was old enough to know what he was.”
“You were a boy.”
“I was old enough to know that he lied.”
His father's expression changed. Darcy continued.
“I told you then that he was stealing from you. I told you that he was gambling. I told you that he was taking advantage of your kindness. You would not hear it.”
“He was George Wickham's son.”
“And that was precisely why you would not hear it.”
His father's breathing became somewhat heavier. Darcy forced himself to lower his voice.
“I tried again before I left for school.”
His father turned his head slightly.
“You remember?”
“I remember everything.”
Darcy looked toward the fire.
“I told you that he had already learned how easily you could be persuaded by his charm. You told me I was jealous of him.”
His father said nothing.
“You told me,” Darcy continued, “that I ought to be more generous. That he had lost his father, and that I had no reason to resent the affection you showed him.”
His mouth tightened.
“So I stopped.”
“You stopped?”
“I stopped trying to convince you.”
The words came more bitterly than he intended.
“After I left for school, I did not speak of him again.”
His father watched him.
“And you suffered for it.”
Darcy gave a short, humourless laugh.
“At Eton, he was beside me. At Cambridge, he was beside me. Everywhere I went, he was there.”
He paused.
“He made a sport of me.”
His father's brow furrowed.
“I did not complain. Not to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you had already made your decision.”
Silence settled between them. Darcy looked down at his father's hand.
“I thought perhaps I was wrong. I thought perhaps you were right and I was merely proud. So I endured it.”
His voice grew colder.
“I endured his debts. His lies. His insinuations. His attempts to turn friends against me. I endured hearing men repeat things about me which he had invented because they found him amusing.” His father shifted beneath the blankets.
“And yet you remained friends.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I never called him a friend.”
The old man looked at him carefully.
“But you protected him.”
“I protected your name.”
That silenced him. Darcy drew a breath.
“I paid debts because I would not have your son disgraced publicly. I prevented scandals because I would not have Pemberley's name dragged through the mud. I helped him when he had nowhere else to go because you had made it clear that he was under your protection.”
His eyes hardened.
“And every time, he took it as permission to do worse.”
His father closed his eyes.
“Fitzwilliam.”
“No. You must hear me now.”
The words were quiet, but there was iron in them. His father opened his eyes again. Darcy leaned slightly forward.
“I have remained silent for all those years because I believed obedience to you required it. I was wrong.”
His father stared at him.
“I was your son,” Darcy said. “I was not your servant. And I should have told you the truth even when you did not wish to hear it.”
His father's lips parted, but Darcy continued before he could speak.
“George Wickham is a scoundrel.”
The words seemed almost shockingly blunt in the quiet room.
“He is selfish, dishonest, reckless, and without gratitude. He uses affection as a weapon and kindness as an opportunity. He has learned that people will forgive him because he can smile while he deceives them.”
Darcy's voice trembled once, with anger rather than fear.
“He deserves nothing from Pemberley.”
His father watched him in silence.
“Nothing,” Darcy repeated.
The old man's face was tired.
“The will.”
Darcy went still.
“Yes.”
“You have seen it.”
“I have.”
“And you object?”
Darcy hesitated.
“That is not why I am speaking to you.”
His father frowned.
“Then why?”
“Because you are dying.”
The words were harsh, but neither man misunderstood them.
“You may leave the will exactly as it stands. I will not alter it. I will not dispute it. I will carry out your wishes when you are gone.”
His father's eyes searched his face.
“But?”
“But I will not have you die believing I agreed with you.”
The old man's expression changed. Darcy continued.
“If you intend to leave Wickham what you have promised him, then do so. If you intend to forgive every debt, every insult, every deception, then do so. It is your money. Your estate. Your choice.”
He drew himself upright.
“But you must know that I believe it is a mistake.”
His father looked toward the window. For several moments, there was only the sound of rain.
At last he said, “You hate him.”
Darcy considered the accusation.
“No.”
His father looked surprised.
“I hate what he has done.”
Darcy's gaze fell upon him.
“I do not have the luxury of hating him. One day, everything you leave to me will become my responsibility. Including him, if you insist upon it.”
His father gave a weary sigh.
“You would cast him out.”
“Yes.”
“Even if I forbid it?”
Darcy's expression did not change.
“If he breaks the law, dishonours Pemberley, or attempts to take advantage of my household, I will not protect him.”
“Fitzwilliam—”
“I have protected him long enough.”
His voice broke slightly.
“I will not do it any longer.”
His father stared at him. Darcy reached for the dying man's hand.
“I want you to understand one thing before you go.”
His father said nothing.
“I have obeyed you.”
His fingers tightened around the old man's hand.
“I have honoured your wishes. I have carried your burdens. I have kept your secrets. But I cannot carry a lie with them.”
His father's eyes grew wet.
Darcy swallowed.
“I needed to tell you the truth.”
For a long moment neither spoke. Then his father said, very softly,
“I remember when you first warned me.”
Darcy looked at him.
“I thought you were jealous.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were too proud to accept that another boy might be loved.”
Darcy's mouth tightened.
“I know.”
His father closed his eyes.
“I was wrong.”
Darcy stood utterly still. The words were so unexpected that for a moment he could not answer. His father breathed in slowly.
“You should have spoken again.”
Darcy looked down.
“I did not know how.”
“No.”
The old man's voice was barely audible.
“You knew exactly how.”
Darcy's eyes burned. His father squeezed his hand, though there was almost no strength in the gesture.
“You should have been harder.”
Darcy gave a faint, broken laugh.
“I am afraid I have learned.”
“Yes.”
His father's eyes opened one last time with something like pride in them.
“I can see that.”
The room fell silent. Darcy remained beside him. He did not ask his father to change the will. He did not ask him to disinherit Wickham. He did not ask for an apology. He had come for only one thing: the truth to be spoken while there was still someone alive to hear it. Whatever happened after tonight would be Darcy's responsibility. But at least his conscience would no longer accuse him of having remained silent.
His father died three days later. There was no dramatic struggle at the end. He simply became quieter. By the final morning, Darcy had taken his place beside the bed and held his father's hand as the old man's breathing grew gradually weaker. The physician stood nearby, silent and grave. At a quarter past six, the old man opened his eyes. Darcy leaned closer.
“Fitzwilliam.”
“I am here.”
His father's fingers moved faintly against his.
“Pemberley.”
“Yes.”
“Take care of it.”
“I will.”
“And Georgiana.”
“Always.”
The old man breathed out. His eyes closed. Darcy waited. The next breath did not come. For several moments he remained perfectly still. Then he lowered his father's hand gently onto the coverlet. He did not cry. Not then. There were too many things to do. The household was informed. The church bells were ordered to be rung. Letters were sent to relatives and acquaintances. The servants moved through the house with lowered voices. The solicitor arrived before noon, carrying the necessary papers and wearing the grave expression of a man who had attended many such occasions. The will was read privately. Darcy already knew what it contained. His father had not changed it. The arrangements were precisely as they had been discussed. Pemberley passed to Darcy. Georgiana was provided for generously. Various servants received bequests. And George Wickham— Darcy's mouth hardened. Wickham received exactly what his father had intended him to receive. Not Pemberley. Not an estate. But the Living at Kympton and enough money to live comfortably for some years if he showed the slightest prudence. Which, Darcy knew, was precisely the problem. He signed where he was required to sign. The solicitor gathered the papers.
“I believe that concludes the principal matters, Mr Darcy.”
Darcy looked at him.
“No.”
The solicitor paused.
“There is one matter remaining.”
The solicitor's expression became cautious.
“Mr Wickham?”
“Yes.”
“I have already prepared the notification.”
“Do not send it.”
The solicitor blinked.
“Sir?”
“Wait until he comes himself.”
“But—”
“He will.”
There was no uncertainty in Darcy's voice. The solicitor understood. Wickham would come. Of course he would. And Darcy was right. He arrived six days after the funeral. He came in a handsome carriage, dressed in mourning which was just sufficiently expensive to demonstrate that he expected to be treated as a gentleman of consequence. His boots were polished. His coat was new. His expression was solemn. He had waited nearly a week. Not, Darcy suspected, out of respect. He had merely calculated how long propriety required him to wait before presenting himself to the heir of Pemberley. Darcy was informed of his arrival while he was in the library.
“Mr Wickham is asking for you, sir.”
Darcy continued reading the letter in his hand.
“Where is he?”
“In the drawing room.”
“Has he been offered anything?”
“Tea, sir.”
“Remove it.”
The servant hesitated.
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy folded the letter.
“Tell him I will see him now.”
He entered the drawing room five minutes later. Wickham turned. For one instant, something like surprise crossed his face. Then the familiar charm returned.
“Darcy.”
Darcy stopped several feet away.
“Wickham.”
“I am sorry to intrude upon you at such a time.”
“You are not.”
Wickham's smile faltered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are not sorry.”
A pause. Wickham recovered quickly.
“I assure you—”
“Do not.”
Darcy walked to the mantel and stood with his back to the fire.
“I have no patience for performances today.”
Wickham looked at him carefully. Then his expression softened into something meant to resemble sympathy.
“I understand that you are grieving.”
“I am.”
“I cannot pretend that your father's death does not affect me as well.”
Darcy looked at him.
“Then do not pretend.”
Wickham's smile disappeared.
“I had always considered him almost a second father.”
“You considered him a source of money.”
“That is an outrageous thing to say.”
“It is an accurate thing to say.”
Wickham's colour rose.
“I came here to pay my respects.”
“No.”
Darcy's voice was calm.
“You came to learn what he left you.”
Silence. Wickham's eyes narrowed.
“You have always thought the worst of me.”
“No.”
Darcy stepped closer.
“I have always known the worst of you.”
That struck harder than an insult. Wickham stared at him. Darcy continued.
“My father is dead. I owe him obedience no longer.”
Wickham's expression changed.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“I mean that I will not lie for you.”
Wickham laughed.
“You make me sound like some criminal.”
“You have been one in everything but the law.”
“That is slander.”
“It is observation.”
Wickham took a step forward.
“I think grief has affected your judgment.”
“And I think you have mistaken my father's kindness for my weakness for so long that you cannot imagine what will happen now that neither is available to you.”
Wickham went very still. Darcy reached into his coat. He removed a folded document and placed it upon the table.
“The will.”
Wickham's eyes immediately dropped to it. There it was. The hunger. Darcy had seen it too many times before.
“You have been provided for,” Darcy said.
Wickham's temper broke.
“You have been waiting for this!”
Darcy did not move.
“For what?”
“To have me dependent upon your generosity. To see me humbled.”
“No.”
Darcy's eyes were cold.
“I have spent half my life trying to prevent you from being humbled by your own actions.”
Wickham stared at him.
“I paid your debts.”
“I never asked you to.”
“My father did.”
“And you enjoyed obeying him.”
“I obeyed him because I was his son.”
“And now?”
Darcy's expression became very still.
“Now he is dead.”
Wickham went silent.
Darcy continued.
“So I shall honour his will. You will receive every penny he left you.”
He paused.
“In exchange of the Living of Kympton I prefer to study law.”
“Very well, you get 3000 pounds in exchange. My father's kindness toward you has ended with his life. I will not continue it merely because you have grown accustomed to it.”
“You would cast me off completely?”
“No.”
Darcy looked directly at him.
“I will give you what is yours.”
“And nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
Wickham's face hardened.
“You will regret this.”
Darcy's expression did not alter.
Wickham's eyes flashed.
“You think yourself very superior.”
“No.”
Darcy looked at him with something colder than anger.
“I think myself responsible.”
He placed the will back upon the desk.
“My father trusted me with Pemberley. His will regarding you is clear. I will not pretend otherwise simply to spare your feelings.”
Wickham's hands clenched.
“You have always been hard-hearted.”
“Perhaps.”
Darcy opened the door.
“But I will not be cruel. You will receive exactly what my father left you.”
Wickham stood.
“And if I cannot live upon it?”
Darcy looked at him.
“Then you must learn to live within your means.”
Wickham's face darkened.
“You know very well that is impossible.”
“Then you have learned nothing.”
For a moment they faced one another in silence. Then Wickham said bitterly,
“Your father would never have treated me so.”
Darcy's expression changed.
“No.”
His voice was almost quiet enough to be gentle.
“My father would have forgiven you again.”
He held Wickham's gaze.
“I will not.”
“If you incur debts, I will not pay them.”
Another.
“If you lie about me, I will expose you.”
Wickham's face had gone pale.
“If you attempt to take advantage of Georgiana, my household, my tenants, or anyone under my protection, you will find me your enemy.”
He leaned slightly forward.
“And if you ever imagine that my father's death has made Pemberley available to you, you will discover how badly you have misunderstood me.”
Wickham swallowed.
“You cannot cast me out.”
Darcy's expression became cold.
“I do not have to.”
He opened the door.
“You have never belonged here.”
Wickham stood motionless. Then Darcy said the words he had once been too young to say.
“My father protected you.”
He held Wickham's gaze.
“I will not.”
Wickham left in anger. The door closed behind him. Darcy stood alone in the room. He looked down at the will. Many years Darcy had allowed himself to believe that his father's affection for Wickham was something he must respect, however deeply he disagreed with it. Now his father was gone. The responsibility was his. And Darcy had no intention of making the same mistake.