The words carried their usual sting, though Wickham’s tone remained light, almost affectionate. This was their way—the constant push and pull of familiar rivalry wrapped in barbed jest. Darcy had learned long ago not to rise to the bait.
“Your father’s affections were never in question,” Darcy replied, unlocking the cottage door. “Come in, then. Though I should warn you, I haven’t much in the way of refreshment.”
“How disappointing. I thought of nothing but what high quality whiskey you might have stolen from your new employer. Then I remembered what a bore you are and lowered my expectations.” Wickham swept into the cottage with his characteristic flair, surveying the modest furnishings. “Not as grand as I imagined.”
Darcy shot him a glare but then motioned to a seat. He could live in a castle and Wickham would find something toneedle him about. “It serves my needs well enough. How goes the living at Kympton?”
Wickham’s expression shifted, losing some of its practiced charm. “Ah, Kympton. Well, that’s rather what I came to discuss.” He settled into the best chair with casual entitlement. “I’ve taken something of a sabbatical, you might say. Left young Morrison—the curate—to tend the flock whilst I… consider my options.”
“Consider your options?” Darcy’s voice sharpened despite his efforts at composure. “George, that living was a considerable gift from Mr Havisham. You cannot simply abandon it on a whim.”
The words carried more weight than Darcy intended. He remembered his surprised upon hearing that Wickham had been giving the living. He had never been the sort to occupy himself with religion, and he could most certainly not see George Wickham in the role of spiritual counsellor to anyone.
Judging by his face at the time, he assumed Wickham was as surprised as anyone. And displeased. He would likely rather have received what Darcy had. A sum of money.
“A whim?” Wickham laughed, though there was an edge to it now. “Fitzwilliam, you always did take these things so seriously. It’s a dusty country parish filled with locals who consider a travelling preacher the height of entertainment.”
“It’s an honest position with a good income,” Darcy countered. “What could possibly make you consider abandoning it?”
Wickham rose and moved to the window, his reflection ghostlike in the gathering dusk. “I’ve been thinking of readinglaw, actually. There’s more scope for advancement, more… possibilities.”
“Law?” Darcy studied his childhood companion’s profile, noting the familiar restlessness that had always preceded Wickham’s more dramatic decisions. “That requires considerable funds for training. Have you such resources?”
“Well, that’s rather why I’m here.” Wickham turned with that charming smile that had once convinced Lady Anne to overlook muddy boots on Persian carpets. “I wondered if you might consider a small loan. To help with the initial expenses.”
Darcy’s laugh held no humour. “George, I’m a steward earning wages, not a gentleman of independent means. I’ve hardly enough to lend.”
“Come now, surely that inheritance from the Havishams has grown nicely under your management? You always were the prudent one.”
“The money has been invested, I haven’t got access to the funds. Even if I had, I’d need to know you were serious about this course. Is this genuine interest in the law, or merely your latest fancy?”
Wickham’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “You wound me. When have I ever been anything but serious about my ambitions?”
“Shall I provide a list?” Darcy asked dryly. “There was your passionate interest in medicine that lasted three weeks. And let us not forget your brief but intense desire to study at Cambridge.”
“Those were youthful enthusiasms,” Wickham protested, though his colour had risen. “I’m older now, more settled in my purposes.”
“Are you? Or is this simply another means of avoiding responsibility at Kympton?”
Wickham’s mask of charming insouciance slipped entirely. “Responsibility? To whom? The living is perfectly managed—Morrison is more capable than I ever was. And it’s not as though the new owners of Pemberley care what becomes of Havisham’s old arrangements.”
“Your father cares,” Darcy said quietly.
“Father…” Wickham’s laugh was bitter now. “Father has made his feelings about my choices abundantly clear. Which is why we have not spoken much in recent months.”
The admission hung between them, heavy with old pain. Darcy had observed the growing distance between the Wickhams over recent years, the way George’s visits to Matlock became increasingly infrequent, increasingly strained.
“Perhaps if you showed more commitment to the path he helped secure for you.”
“Perhaps if he showed more understanding of my nature,” Wickham cut him off. “Not all of us can be content with steady employment and modest ambitions, Fitzwilliam.”
“And what would you consider worthy ambitions? If the law is unattainable?”
Wickham’s grin returned, sharp as a blade. “Well, there’s always the militia. I understand they’re recruiting officers with the French making such a nuisance of themselves. Or perhaps…”His eyes gleamed with renewed mischief. “I might seek a more permanent solution to my financial difficulties. A wealthy wife, for instance.”
“George—”
“I hear your employer has five daughters. Surely one might be persuaded to overlook my unfortunate lack of fortune in favour of my considerable charm?”
