“Miss Fairfax has taught you well,” he said, “but even she agrees you are ready for more. She says you’ve outpaced her in several subjects already.”
Georgiana’s lip trembled. “Then hire someone else. Please, Fitz. Could you not find masters to come here? Or a companion—a lady who can stay with me?”
It was a fair plea—and one he could not grant. Not now.
“I have already made the arrangements,” he said softly but firmly. “We leave in a fortnight. Please, Georgie, try to rest on the idea. Everything may feel brighter in the morning.”
She shook her head, eyes wide with disbelief. “No, it will not.”
And then she fled, slippered feet pattering down the corridor. A door slammed.
Darcy exhaled, rubbing his hand over his face. She was only twelve—a sensitive, intelligent girl who had already lost too much. He had tried to delay the inevitable, to keep her close whilst still ensuring she was prepared for the world. But he could not give her everything she wanted and still be the guardian she needed.
Why must raising a child be so difficult?
He stared into the fire, the wind moaning at the windows, the estate suddenly vast and uncertain. He would write to Lady Matlock for advice. Tonight, he would let Georgiana cry. Tomorrow, he would speak again—more gently, perhaps. More like a brother than a guardian.
Forthe moment, he simply sat, wondering whether doing what was best always had to feel this wrong.
The next day brought an unexpected—and most unwanted—caller.
Darcy was sequestered in his study when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
“Mr George Wickham to see you, sir,” Mr Simmons announced. The butler’s expression bore a rare flicker of disdain. “He said nothing of his purpose. But… he looked rather rattled, sir. Unshaven. Worn. Desperate, perhaps.”
Darcy’s hand stilled. “Send him in,” he said after a pause. “And have footmen prepared to see him off the grounds.”
When Simmons returned, Wickham trailed behind him like a man who had forgotten he was unwelcome.
“Look at you, Darce!” Wickham said with forced cheer, flinging himself into a chair without invitation. “All gravitas and leather-bound books. I would wager you’ve begun lecturing your sheep on the virtues of order.”
Darcy did not rise to it. “What is it you want, Wickham? Let us not waste time.”
Wickham’s smile faltered. He looked thinner than Darcy remembered; his coat was worn at the seams, his boots scuffed, his cravat tied carelessly.
“You have caught me out,” Wickham said at last, leaning forward. “I wish to discuss the Kympton living.”
“It has yet to fall vacant,” Darcy said, every muscle tensing.
“Oh, I’ve no desire to take holy orders.” Wickham gave a humourless laugh. “I came to make a proposal. A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Darcy’s brow rose. “I cannot imagine any arrangement between us that would benefit both parties.”
“Then use your imagination.” Wickham’s voice dropped. “I will relinquish all claim to the Kympton living—for a sum. Consider it a businesstransaction. You are freed of an obligation you never wished to honour, and I gain the means to make something of myself.”
“And what, precisely, would you make of yourself?”
“I mean to study the law,” Wickham said, jaw clenched. “A solicitor’s life suits me better.”
Darcy let the silence stretch. Wickham began to fidget.
“What sum?”
“Three thousand pounds,” Wickham said quickly—too quickly.
Darcy studied him. Desperation, unmasked.
At last, he said, “Acceptable.”
