After all matters regarding the will were resolved, Darcy learned that Wickham had been removed from the estate by his father after another explosion of temper. The sadness he felt at the downfall of his friend was profound.
Later that evening, Darcy finally had the opportunity to read the letter his father had written. He opened it tentatively, both worried and excited about what it contained.
My dearest Fitzwilliam,
If this letter finds you, then I am no longer at your side—and I confess, that is a thought I struggle to bear. I hope it is a good deal in the future. The idea of departing this life without seeing what kind of man you will fully become, of not being able to speak plainly and honestly whilst still living, compels me to write these words now.
Let me say first what I ought to have said long before: I am proud of you, my son. Deeply, fiercely proud. You have become a man of honour, conviction, and steady principle. Your mind is sharp, your temper steady, and your integrity is beyond reproach. I know I was not always the easiest of fathers. I held you to high standards and was sometimes more tutor than parent. But I hope you know that it was always because I saw the strength within you—strength that I wished to see tempered into wisdom.
I have watched you navigate the world with dignity and care, and it is my most earnest hope that you will not walk through life alone. You are reserved by nature, but not cold. You feel deeply, and your love, when given, will be steadfast and true. My greatest wish is that you marry not for duty or connection, but for affection—for love. Choose a woman who will challenge you, steady you, and soften you. A partner. A home for your heart. Your mother was all those things to me, andmore.
Now, to matters more practical, though no less fraught with feeling. You are now aware of certain…bequests, and that expectations might have been somewhat different from certain parties. You are conscious of my long-standing affection for George Wickham, the son of my dearest friend. I once hoped that, in time, he might take up his father’s place as steward of Pemberley. I encouraged him, supported his schooling, and envisioned a future where you and he might worktogether,as I once did with his father.
That hope has not borne fruit, nor is it likely to ever be so.
You may recall he accompanied me to Rosings Park this past January. I had intended to name him the recipient of one of our smaller London rental properties, along with a bequest of two thousand pounds, that he might have a foundation upon which to build a stable life. But what I observed during that visit altered my thinking in a way I could not ignore. Wickham’s conduct was disappointing. He disappeared from the house for hours at a time, returned without explanation, and showed inappropriate familiarity with the lower staff. Worse, his interest in estate management—which I had encouraged—proved shallow and performed. I had hoped to see a man mature into responsibility. Instead, I saw evasion, entitlement, and indulgence.
It grieves me. But I will not reward indolence nor perpetuate an illusion. Accordingly, I altered my will. I left him a lesser sum—one thousand pounds—and instead offered the living at Kympton, should he choose to take orders. I do not know that he will,and I suspect he will squander this chance as he has others. But I felt it was only right to offer him one final opportunity to earn an honest living and redeem something of his father’s name.
I know this change may surprise you. And so, I must offer another apology: I regret not listening to you sooner. You tried—gently and not without tact—to warn me. I mistook your caution for coldness. I wanted so much to believe that George Wickham was what I once imagined him to be that I blinded myself to whathe had become. You saw clearly when I would not, and I am sorry for dismissing your concerns. You were right.
All this is behind you now. Pemberley, and the burdens and blessings it brings, is yours. Care for your sister, love well, and live with the honour that has already become your legacy. You were born a Darcy, but you have earned the right to carry the name with pride.
Take care of Georgiana.
With all the love and esteem a father can give, Your affectionate father,
George Darcy
Darcy folded the letter, these final, precious words from his father.I understand,he thought, hoping somewhere his father could hear.And I shall do all you ask.
The glass stayed in his hand, undrunk as he stared into the darkening room. The memories returned every day. Georgiana still wept bitterly in the privacy of her rooms. He could hear her in her chamber across the hall. He, Darcy, master of the house, wished to do the same. Yet, he was required to put on a strong front, to carry everyone through their sorrow.Three months.
Georgiana’s birthday had passed with little ceremony. They had found a gift prepared by their father in his chambers. It was a collection of new music, and it now sat on the silent pianoforte. His sister had not touched it since George Darcy’s death.
Three months.I can endure this.Darcy chanted the same mantra over and over again. Perhaps he would soon believe it.
Chapter Four
Sir,
It is with no small astonishment—and, I confess, mounting indignation—that I write to you upon the recent reading of your late father’s will. I had expected, given the many assurances made to me over the years, that my position would be properly secured by the benevolence of my godfather, the late Mr George Darcy, a man to whom I was as a second son in all but blood…
Darcy read no further before his fingers tightened, crumpling the page in his hand. The cheap paper crackled beneath the force of his grip as a cold, consuming rage settled in his chest. The remainder of the letter required no careful study; its tone was already unmistakable. Wickham railed against imagined injustice, casting himself as a wronged favourite and Darcy as the ungrateful beneficiary of stolen affection. He dismissed the living at Kympton as an insult, sneered at the very notion of labour or restraint, and hinted—none too subtly—that his father’s final decisions must have been shaped by jealousy or manipulation, especially after their return from Kent. By the end, Wickham had transformed expectation into entitlement, and grievance into demand, urging Darcy, as executor, to “correct” the will and provide what he claimed had been promised him. He even alluded to a London property once spoken of as his by right, as though such things could be claimed by familiarity rather than law.
That the man dared to write at all—dared to accuse, to insinuate, to demand—was beyond endurance. Rage coursed through Darcy, steady and unrelenting, every buried grievance flaring anew at the sight of Wickham’s familiar scrawl. He did not need to read another line to know precisely how the letter concluded: with a plea disguised as a threat, and fraternity invoked only as leverage.
It had been over a month since the reading of his father’s will, and Wickham had vanished soon after. At first, Darcy had felt nothing but relief. He had assumed the man’s pride—or cowardice—would keep him far from Derbyshire, far from Kympton, and far from Darcy himself. But he had underestimated Wickham’s shamelessness.
The letter was arrogant and condescending, a gentle “reminder” that, as godson to the late Mr Darcy, Wickham had expected more. The second arrived days later, its tone noticeably sharper—laced with bitterness and veiled accusations. By the third, civility had given way to outright entitlement. Wickham wrote of betrayal, of promises broken, of a life unjustly denied. The fourth letter was venomous—more bile than ink.
Darcy read each one only once, and then, with silent contempt, consigned them to the fire. He never replied—he refused to lower himself so far. He declined to give Wickham the satisfaction of knowing he had stirred a reaction.
And yet, he read them each time, as though compelled. As though something within him—pride, duty, dread—would not allow him to turn his back completely.
Instead, he turned his attention inward—to Pemberley, to his role as master, and most of all, to Georgiana.
His sister had not been the same since their father’s death. The light in her had dimmed. Where once she had laughed easily and walked the gardens with flowers in her hand, she now moved quietly, like a ghosthaunting the edges of rooms. She avoided company and flinched when addressed too suddenly. Her music sat untouched; her sketchbooks were unopened.
