Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You now hope to secure the fundsandthe living?”
“I see no reason why I should not have it,” Wickham snapped. “My father gave his life in your family’s service. I was raised as a second son. And what did I receive in return? Charity repaid with neglect!”
“Neglect?” Darcy’s voice was ice. “You squandered every opportunity you were given. My father wished to provide for you—he did more than any man of his position was obliged to do. You rejected the law. You rejected the church. And now you appear at my doorstep demanding what you signed away in desperation.”
“I signed nothing,” Wickham growled, all pretense of civility gone. “You and your kind have always taken from me. I have been cast off like refuse, whilst you sit here in your fine house, wearing your father’s name like armour.”
The lie grated on his ears, and Darcy’s patience cracked. “You are a coward and a scoundrel, Wickham. You prey upon generosity like a vulture, and you twist the truth to suit your vanity. The living willneverbe yours. Not now. Not ever. I shall see to it personally.”
Wickham’s face flushed crimson. “You think you can dismiss me? I willnotbe made a beggar at your feet! You will regret this, Darcy. One day,yourreputation will be the one dragged through the mud. I shall have what is my due!”
Darcy stared him down, unmoved. “Get out of my house.”
Wickham hesitated, then turned on his heel and stormed from the room. The door slammed behind him so hard the panes in the bookcase rattled.
Darcy rang the bell at once. Simmons appeared promptly, having clearly hovered nearby.
“Wickham is to be denied entry to Pemberley,” Darcy said, his tone sharp and final. “He is not to be admitted underanycircumstances. Inform all the household staff.”
“Yes, sir.” Simmons bowed. “Shall I also notify the Lambton constable in case he attempts to return by force?”
Darcy nodded slowly. “Yes. Discreetly.”
As Simmons departed, Darcy exhaled heavily and turned back to the hearth. The encounter had been brief, but his pulse still thundered. Wickham had shown his true colours—rage, resentment, shameless entitlement. There was no honour left in him, if there had ever been any to begin with.
Whatever goodwill had existed in their youth was long dead. There was no remnant left to mourn.
Now more than ever, Darcy was resolved: Wickham could not be trusted—not with property, not with people, and certainly not with power.
Chapter Ten
Darcy had read Lady Matlock’s reply several times since it arrived in January, and still it troubled him. Her reasoning was sound—Georgiana would have to endure the world eventually, and it would not soften for her simply because she was gentle. Tilda had always spoken plainly, and he respected her for it. Yet she had not seen Georgiana’s face that morning, nor heard the careful way she measured every word, as though bravery itself required restraint. Another school, however improved in reputation, seemed only a change of setting for the same judgments. Endurance alone did not guarantee strength.
Lady Catherine’s reply came weeks later, and struck a different chord entirely. Darcy read it once—then again, more slowly. She wrote of Anne, of schoolrooms where perseverance had been demanded without mercy, of accomplishments gained at the cost of confidence. Education mattered, she conceded, but not more than the girl herself. There were other ways to prepare a young woman for the world than forcing her to suffer it too soon.
When Darcy set the letter aside, his thoughts felt clearer than they had in weeks. Georgiana’s happiness was not a weakness to be corrected, nor her sensitivity a flaw to be hardened away. He would not mistake suffering for strength.
He sent for his sister that morning.
Georgiana entered the library with quiet composure, anxiety flickering beneath her calm. Darcy did not sit.
“I have made a decision,” he told her. “You will not return to Miss Minchin’s. You will remain at Pemberley. We shall arrange tutors and a proper companion here.”
For a moment she could not speak.
“Truly?” she whispered.
“Truly.”
Relief overtook her restraint, and when she embraced him, Darcy understood that this was not merely a guardian’s choice, but a promise—one he intended to keep.
Mrs Agatha Younge arrived with the spring rain: composed, observant, and quietly kind. Within days, Georgiana’s confidence began to return. She resumed her studies with purpose, her music with feeling, her conversation with ease. Darcy approved—cautiously, but sincerely. He watched his sister grow steadier, lighter, more herself.
Yet unease lingered.
When Georgiana asked, timidly, whether she might spend part of the summer in Ramsgate with Mrs Younge, he hesitated. She spoke of the sea, of air and peace, of wishing—just once—to see beyond the horizon.
He remembered Anne’s cage. Her longing.
