12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

T he following day dawned with a crispness that lent an invigorating edge to Darcy's resolve. His mind felt fresh once more—a very fine thing, for by the time he retired last evening, his brain felt like a throbbing pile of mush. He had need of all his faculties today. In fact, a bit of his father's wisdom would not go amiss just now, but lacking that, Darcy could at least try to affect his manner and employ what intelligence he possessed.

Wickham was seated alone when he entered, a cup of tea in hand and a newspaper spread before him. Bingley was conspicuously absent.

"Good morning, Darcy," Wickham greeted with an eagerness that seemed nothing but sincere, setting the paper aside. "Please, join me."

"Good morning, Wickham," Darcy replied, his voice cool and, he hoped, revealing nothing. He took a seat opposite Wickham, arranging his utensils with deliberate care.

Wickham signalled to a maid, who promptly poured Darcy a cup of tea before retreating, leaving the two men alone in a room bathed in the golden light of morning. "I trust you found your accommodations satisfactory?"

"Indeed. Netherfield is quite comfortable."

Wickham's smile broadened. "I am pleased to hear that, and from you, of all men! It is truly a fine thing to win the approval of a man I respect like no other."

Darcy blanched for a moment, his fingers still twisting his knife about beside the plate. Wickham… respected him? When did that happen? "I… I thank you."

"Of course. I am a firm believer in granting credit where it is due." Wickham paused, glancing down at his own plate before meeting Darcy's gaze. "I know we have had our differences. Lord knows my youth was peppered with wrongdoing, but all my father's prayers and, dare I say, your father's unfaltering faith have, I hoped, wrought some good in me after all. I should like to lay aside the past, Darcy, if you will be so good as to grant me some measure of your goodwill."

Darcy narrowed his eyes. "The past… even so recent a past as this summer?"

Wickham smiled. "I might have guessed my motives could be misconstrued. That was why I wrote you that little letter, but I knew you would not take my word for it. I trust Miss Darcy has assured you that when I encountered her in Ramsgate this summer, I was the perfect gentleman toward her. No less, I think, than you would have expected Bingley to be, had he found himself living but a few doors down from the sister of a dear friend."

Darcy took a measured sip of his tea, unblinking as he appraised the rascal opposite him. "She did make such assurances," he conceded.

"Good. I would not have you think me capable of deceiving or taking advantage of any lady, but most particularly not the daughter of the man who nearly raised me. Now that we have dispensed with that bit of unpleasantness, I was hoping to ask your advice."

Darcy raised his brow and set his cup aside. "In what matter?"

"Why, Netherfield! I am rather new to all this, of course, but I have taken a keen interest in ensuring the estate is in good order. Even you must confess that it is a fine property with much potential, and I should like to do it justice with my humble efforts."

Darcy glanced around the room, noting the tasteful decor and the warmth of the sun streaming through the windows. "It is evident that great care has already been taken. The house feels both grand and welcoming."

Wickham nodded. "Thank you. I have already made one or two improvements since taking up residence. The gardens have been a particular focus—being dormant just now, of course. My steward advised me that this was the ideal time of year to consider next spring. I have ordered more wildflowers, more lavender and violets and daisies, and fewer of those stuffy hedges. I did have to keep that rather stunning maze, though."

"I noticed the gardens upon my arrival. They should complement the landscape rather well next summer."

Wickham leaned back slightly; his expression relaxed yet contemplative. "That is the goal. A place that feels like home yet retains its grandeur. We have had some challenges, though."

"Challenges?"

Wickham's expression turned serious. "Yes, I was just reading my steward's latest reports on the flooding. It seems the situation is worsening."

"Bingley mentioned some troubles with the lower fields. Is it very widespread?"

"It is," Wickham agreed, his brow furrowing. "The economic strain on the local community is becoming significant. Many families will struggle to make ends meet if their fields cannot be planted in time. I even heard of three families who lost nearly everything in their root cellars."

Darcy's gaze sharpened, his thoughts aligning with the gravity of the situation. "In such times, one must be wary. Troubled areas can become political pawns for ambitious individuals."

"Trust you, Darcy, to look beyond the immediate. I thought only of what must be done to alleviate the concerns at hand, but you bring up yet another concern. I hope no such travesty occurs on my watch. The people here deserve stability and support, not exploitation."

Darcy studied Wickham closely. The man before him seemed a far cry from the irresponsible youth he remembered. Wickham's demeanour was earnest, respectable—truly, everything Darcy's father had ever hoped for him. How… curious.

"Have you found any support from local authorities?"

Wickham sighed. "Not as much as I would like. You know how it is—natural causes, so no one is truly at fault, and no one wishes to claim responsibility. As it so often does, it seems that those who need help the most are the last to receive it."

"Indeed, it is a common issue. The government is often slow to act, and by the time aid arrives, the damage is done."

Wickham nodded. "It is a delicate balance. Too much government intervention can stifle local efforts, yet too little leaves people vulnerable. It is a challenge to find the right approach. Tell me, for you ought to know better than I, what is your opinion on the current political climate?"

Darcy's mouth turned up on one side. "That is a rather wide topic. Perhaps you might be more specific?"

"Oh! I care little enough for Parliament, all those laws and debates, back-door dealings, and such. What have I to do with that? But people, you see, they care very much about the Prince Regent. That is the figure everyone knows, from the lowliest kitchen lad to the nobility. But from what I hear, there is much debate on his ability to lead effectively. After all that business in France, why, one likes to know whether the man on the throne is an asset or a liability to the rest of us."

Darcy considered this for a moment, his gaze distant. Naturally, this was a thing he and his friends had canvassed in the club. No one wanted the bloody sort of upheaval of a class war, and it seemed the only way to avoid that was to serve his tenants well, look after his business affairs with integrity rather than avarice, and maintain relationships between farmers, labourers, and gentry. But Wickham was right: there was only so much a gentleman such as himself could do when the crown's every action drew so much attention.

He settled on an answer that sounded diplomatic yet clear. "The Prince Regent is a controversial figure. His extravagance and the ongoing war with France have strained the nation's resources. Many people are disillusioned with the leadership, but it is a war we must win. Napoleon's ambitions are boundless, and the cost of failure… I do not wish to consider it."

Wickham's expression had grown serious. "True, but the cost of the war is felt deeply in rural areas like this. Families are losing sons and fathers, and the financial burden is immense."

Darcy observed Wickham's thoughtful responses, feeling a growing sense of respect. The man seemed knowledgeable and genuinely concerned about the welfare of the community. This was not the reckless youth he remembered. He drew another sip of tea, then, after resting his cup aside again, commented in a casual voice, "You seem to grasp the matter quite well. Father would be pleased."

"I like to think his efforts on my behalf were not wasted," Wickham replied lightly. "Admit it, Darcy. You thought I would be lodged in a debtor's prison by now."

Darcy could not help the tip of his head or the arch of his brows. "I confess myself… surprised, but pleasantly so. May I ask how you came into such a fortune so recently?"

Wickham chuckled. "Ah, I knew that question would come eventually. It is quite the story—simple enough in particulars, however long the odds. A third cousin of my father's had accumulated a great deal of wealth through trade in tea and spices. When the old man passed away, it was found that I was the only surviving relative."

Darcy thought carefully, trying to recall any details about Mr Wickham Senior's history that might disprove the story, but nothing came to mind. "Trade can be quite lucrative. It seems you were fortunate to have such a relative."

"Indeed," Wickham said with a smile. "It was quite unexpected. I had no idea of his wealth."

"Really?" Darcy raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "And when did you learn of this windfall?"

"It was in July," Wickham replied, his tone almost casual. "I did not even know of this relative's existence until then when the solicitor came looking for me at the inn where I was staying at the time. I thought he was putting me on at first—so much so that I bought him a drink for telling such an amusing story."

Darcy calculated in his head. Wickham must have already obtained his wealth by the time he met Georgiana in Ramsgate. That eliminated that suspicion, at least—if Wickham were already expecting a vast fortune, he would not need to take advantage of hers… Well, no more so than any other young buck in the ton . He listened silently as Wickham continued.

"The solicitors said they had the devil of a time tracking me down." Wickham said with a laugh. "I had been in Newcastle at the time, considering joining the regiment to earn a living."

"Newcastle? You a soldier? I can scarcely credit it."

"Well, my prospects were rather limited, but I had just enough left over from that…" he cleared his throat, "… consideration you so generously bestowed on me some years ago to purchase a commission. A low rank, to be sure, but I thought the army might offer some stability. Little did I know that fortune would find me in such an unexpected manner."

Darcy's thoughts tumbled over one another as he tried to reconcile this new information with what he knew of Wickham's past. Everything seemed to align, yet there was an unease he couldn't shake. His head began to ache slightly, a dull throb at his temples, probably his own prejudices surfacing. Wickham's story was plausible, and his demeanour seemed genuine, but the discomfort in Darcy's head only added to his lingering doubts.

"The solicitors must have been quite relieved to finally locate you," was all he could manage to say.

"Indeed. They were quite exasperated by the time they found me. But all's well that ends well, as they say."

Darcy nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the story. Despite his reservations, Wickham's account seemed consistent and believable. There was no immediate reason to doubt him, and yet... the memories of boyhood were impossible to erase so completely.

"Your fortune must have come as a great relief," Darcy said carefully. "It certainly changed your circumstances."

"Immensely," Wickham agreed. "I was able to settle my debts and establish myself comfortably. It was a blessing I never expected."

Darcy was silent for a few moments. If all these things were true, then perhaps he had misjudged Wickham. Fortune had favoured the man, to be sure, but the fellow Darcy remembered from his youth would never have put that inheritance to good use or spoken so warmly of hope for good relations with his neighbours.

No, he would have frittered it away in vice, whether the task took a month or ten years. This man who spoke of investing and improving… well, this was a stranger.

"You have said very little of Miss Georgiana," Wickham said. "All I know is that she left Ramsgate shortly after I did. I hope she is well."

Darcy's grip tightened on his fork at the mention of his sister, another faint twinge beginning to form behind his eyes, but he forced himself to relax. Perhaps he had been wrong about Wickham's intentions toward Georgiana. She had insisted that Wickham was only looking out for her during their time in Ramsgate last summer.

"She is flourishing under the care of Lady Matlock," Darcy replied slowly. "Preparing for her debut next year."

Wickham seemed genuinely pleased. "I am glad to hear it. She is a lovely and accomplished young lady. I have no doubt she will be a credit to the Darcy name."

At that moment, the breakfast room door opened, and Bingley entered, his face alight with cheer. "Good morning, gentlemen! I see you have started without me."

"Good morning, Bingley," Darcy said, managing a smile as he settled back into his seat, twisting his fork so he could eat with it rather than consider spearing his host.

Bingley helped himself to a plate of food and joined them at the table, quickly becoming the centre of the conversation. "Darcy, Wickham and I were discussing plans for some shooting later today. The pheasant population seems particularly abundant this season and ‘left to themselves far too long,' as Mr Bennet says. We have permission to hunt on Longbourn's lands as well, you know."

Wickham straightened in interest. "Hold a moment. You have met Mr Bennet?"

Bingley blinked innocently, rolling a bit of his breakfast in his cheek until he could swallow it. "Me? No, no. But I spoke with Mrs Bennet at the Assembly, and she promised her husband would save all the best coveys for us. I believe it was Miss Elizabeth who quoted that line about the pheasants being left to themselves. Yes, it must have been she, for she seems to like a good joke."

Darcy's spine stiffened at this second mention of Miss Elizabeth's name. Drat it all, why did he care that Bingley had met the lady again? But an afternoon outside of Netherfield's walls… particularly if that outing took them near Longbourn… could not be entirely disagreeable .

Wickham nodded enthusiastically. "Then, to the northern woods, we shall go. We have yet to enjoy a proper hunt. How perfectly fitting, Darcy, that you are here for it!"

Oh… He winced at the thought of fowling pieces blasting off beside his head. He had not anticipated that … heaven have mercy, he might be locking himself in a dark room by mid-afternoon. Darcy smiled tightly. "That sounds like a fine idea."

Bingley beamed. "Excellent! It will be like old times. We could use your expertise, Darcy. I fear," he confided to Wickham, "that I am not the shot my friend is. I scare the birds away more often than I bring home dinner, but Darcy almost never misses."

"Of course he does not," Wickham laughed. "He rarely ever did. But you know, it was always Colonel Fitzwilliam who was the eagle eye. I do not suppose you know Fitzwilliam, do you?"

"By Jove, I do," Bingley vowed. "And you are right there. I've a hope of aspiring to Darcy's skill one day, but Fitzwilliam is another thing altogether."

Darcy pushed his plate back. "Your skill will only improve if you practice, Bingley."

"There, I knew you would say that. Well?" Bingley hastily scraped the rest of his egg onto his fork. "Let us away as soon as may be."

Bingley was still chewing his last bite when a footman entered the room and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir. There is a Mr Bennet at the door. He wishes a moment of your time."

Bingley swallowed and exclaimed with pleasure, "Mr Bennet! How wonderful that he has come."

Wickham rose, jerking the front of his jacket. "Well, well, this is, indeed, a surprise. Darcy, if all I have heard is true, this is a gentleman you will want to meet."

" G ood morning, gentlemen," Mr Bennet announced, his voice carrying the weight of a man interrupted from his preferred leisure. His steps were brisk, eyes sharp and slightly amused as he surveyed the room. "I suppose you already know, but I may as well introduce myself. I am Bennet of Longbourn, here to discuss matters of less than joyful nature, I am afraid."

Wickham came forward, extending his hand with a practised air of authority. "Mr Bennet, welcome. George Wickham, at your service."

Mr Bennet accepted the handshake. "Ah, Mr Wickham, the master of Netherfield. I trust your stewardship is treating the estate well, though I hear the river has other ideas."

"Yes, I understand the same. Mr Bennet, sir, allow me to introduce my guests. You have probably heard of Mr Charles Bingley, I presume?"

Mr Bennet's gaze flickered to Bingley, who offered a polite nod. "Mr Bingley, a pleasure. I have heard your name mentioned with great frequency and enthusiasm by the younger members of my household. It seems you have made quite the impression."

Bingley's cheeks reddened slightly, and he gave a modest smile. "I am honoured to hear that, sir."

"And," Wickham said, extending a hand toward Darcy, "a very old friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire. Darcy only arrived last evening and has yet to explore the delights of Hertfordshire."

Darcy bowed slightly as Bennet's eyes flicked over him. Interesting eyes…

He stiffened when he realised he was staring, just to sketch a resemblance to the man's daughter. A daughter, he reminded himself, to whom he was not supposed to have been introduced already.

"Pemberley, you say?" Mr Bennet's brow arched, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Never heard of it, but do not take that personally, sir. I have yet to visit Derbyshire, though my brother-in-law claims it the most breathtaking part of the world."

"I would be dishonest if I did not agree with him," Darcy replied.

"As would I," Wickham put in with a laugh as he extended an arm to welcome Mr Bennet into the study. "But I am also quite smitten by the charms of Hertfordshire. Please, Mr Bennet, do be seated and tell us what brings you here this morning."

Mr Bennet settled into a chair with an air of reluctant duty, his expression suggesting he would rather be anywhere else but here. He was a man of middling height, his once-dark hair now liberally salted with grey. His features were marked with the lines of long-standing contemplation and occasional wit, giving him an air of both intellect and benign neglect.

He glanced at each of them in turn until everyone else had settled. "The matter at hand, gentlemen, is a broken weir on the River Mery. I am afraid it is rather deep in the woods, and the original breech went undetected for far too long. The flooding it has caused since its rupture is quite severe."

Darcy leaned forward, his expression serious. "Yes, I have heard of the troubles. It is essential to restore the weir as swiftly as possible. Perhaps a temporary barrier could be constructed to divert the water until permanent repairs can be made?"

Mr Bennet regarded Darcy with a blank expression, his silence stretching uncomfortably. "Mr Darcy is… what was it… Pemberley currently underwater?"

Heat surged to his cheeks, his discomfort intensifying as he felt the eyes of the room upon him. "No, sir, it is not."

"Then, with all due respect, Mr Darcy, your advice, though undoubtedly sound, is somewhat lacking in immediate applicability to our current predicament." Mr Bennet's tone was pointed, and he turned back to Wickham, leaving Darcy feeling the sting of his dismissal.

Wickham met Darcy's eyes with a subtle, almost pitying smile. Darcy's face burned, his mortification complete as he realised the room had fallen silent, everyone witnessing his rebuke.

"My friend Darcy is a clever fellow," Wickham apologised. "He only wishes to be helpful, and I daresay, we will be asking his advice before we have had done. Now, Mr Bennet, my steward tells me that some farmers may be unable to replant their fields, and the economic strain is escalating. It seems that outside support is imperative."

Mr Bennet nodded approvingly. "Exactly, Mr Wickham. We need actionable solutions and the will to see them through. Sounds a bloody nuisance."

Wickham smiled indulgently. "Am I to understand that is why you are at my door, because you would prefer that someone else took the organisation of the matter in hand?"

"You are not so foppish as you look."

"Oh, more is the pity. I do try hard to look like an utter macaroni, but you have caught me out," Wickham laughed. "Now, then, have you a list of the affected properties? Any accounting of the economic damage thus far?"

Darcy would have added to the discussion, but after Mr Bennet's chastisement, his words died in his throat. His opinion was neither wanted nor, apparently… needed. Save by Wickham, but he could not quite stomach being defended again by George Wickham.

Mr Bennet produced a sheaf of paper, and the strategising began in earnest. At each new detail, Wickham's responses—articulate, measured—cut through the room like a blade. How had he not seen this before? Wickham, the scoundrel, suddenly cloaked in humility and intelligence. A fa?ade?

No, it seemed genuine, blast it. Darcy's own advice now felt like cold ash, distant and theoretical, crumbling under the weight of Wickham's practicality. Skepticism gnawed at him, but there it was—a grudging respect. The man had changed. Or had he? Darcy's mind whirled, his confidence shrinking back, leaving him to grapple with this unsettling revelation.

"Well, then, we probably ought not dally," Mr Bennet sighed. "I suppose a direct inspection of the river and the surrounding damage is necessary."

Bingley stood. "Then let us forego the shooting and instead take my carriage. We can see for ourselves what must be done."

"Agreed," Wickham said, rising smoothly.

Darcy stood as well, his thoughts a tangled mess. Mr Bennet's blunt honesty hit like a hammer, and Wickham—competent, poised—who was this man? None of these fit with his expectations. Everything felt skewed and off-balance. The ground beneath him seemed to shift and… oh, egad, there went his equilibrium. Darcy clutched his stomach and prayed against the queasiness that would probably follow next.

Wickham started for the door, all his energies now fixed forward as he led them from the room. "Mr Bennet, I trust you would like to accompany us?"

"Not a bit of it," the older man grumbled, though there was a twist of satisfaction about his mouth. "But my Lizzy will never let me hear the end of it if I do not."

Darcy's skin prickled with fire again at the mention of the lady, even as his feet felt as though they were rooted to the ground, and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Dash it all, he would have to meet her again just so he was not stricken by these waves of guilty panic whenever someone said her name. A proper introduction with nothing for either of them to be embarrassed about—that would suffice.

But that would have to wait until after this present shock. Wickham, of all people, taking charge of a community concern? It was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard, but there was no escaping it. Difficult as it was to credit, he had no choice but to follow.

Perhaps he would learn something.