Only a month ago she was still trapped within the prison Wickham had built for her. Her confidence had been systematically undermined. Her sense of her own worth made dependent upon fears that had not yet come to pass and might never do so. Now she was improving. Truly improving.
Even that evening she had spoken with a lightness he had not heard in more than a year. She had repeated portions of her conversation with Elizabeth, reflections upon confidence and self-possession and entering society without surrendering oneself to it. She had been animated.
Happy.
And now a George Wickham had appeared in Meryton.
A George Wickham whom Darcy had sought for nearly a year without success, finding only the traces of debts left in his wake. Debts Darcy had quietly acquired and now held himself. Debts sufficient to send Wickham to a debtor's prison the moment Darcy chose to act upon them.
Could it truly be the same man?
And if it was, what then?
What would become of the progress Georgiana had fought so hard to make?
What would happen when she learned he was nearby?
Darcy's jaw tightened.
No.
He would not permit Wickham near her again.
The decision settled something within him.
He turned from the window, crossed to the writing desk, and sat down.
This time he did not hesitate.
Taking up a quill, he began a letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Richard,
I write to you tonight on a matter I would not commit to paper were it less urgent. I trust you will read this with the discretion it requires.
You will be glad to know that Georgiana is considerably better than when I last wrote. I will not say she is fully herself — I do not think either of us expected that so soon — but there has been a marked improvement these past weeks, in no small part due to a friendship I took some care to encourage. A lady I met here in Hertfordshire, a Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, has proven herself to be everything I could have hoped for in a companion for Georgiana. She is intelligent, warm, entirely without affectation, and possessed of a quality of confidence that I believed, when I first observed it, might do Georgiana more good than anything I could say myself. I was not wrong. You must therefore understand why what I am about to tell you concerns me as much as it does.
This afternoon I spent some time in company with your friend, Colonel Forster. In the course of conversation he spoke casually of several new members recently joined to the regiment, remarking on their good conduct and general impression. Among the names he mentioned was George Wickham.
I need not tell you what that name means to me, nor what it would mean to Georgiana were she to hear it. I have said nothing to her and I do not intend to until I know more. I am aware that the name George or Wickham is not exclusive to that particular scoundrel — I myself once met a Fitzwilliam Darcy on a journey to Hull, which gave me a moment's pause I can assure you. It may well be nothing.
However, I cannot in good conscience dismiss it. I intend to keep a close eye on wherever the militia men are gathered and to make further visits to Colonel Forster on the pretence of renewing the acquaintance. I do not wish to raise suspicion by asking him to produce the man directly.
I ask only that you make enquiries through whatever channels are available to you. I need to know whether this is the same man. If it is, I will require your assistance in managing the matter quietly and without public exposure. Georgiana's name must not enter into it under any circumstances.
Come to Hertfordshire if you are able. I would rather have this conversation in person than on paper.
Your cousin,
F. Darcy
He folded the letter, sanded it, sealed it, and set it upon the corner of the desk.
The candle had burned low. Darcy sat for a moment in the quiet of the room and thought of Wickham. Unwilling to surrender the remainder of the evening to thoughts of the scoundrel, he forced his mind elsewhere. It turned naturally to Georgiana, to the happiness in her voice that evening, to the ease with which she had spoken, and to the girl he remembered slowly returning by degrees. Two encounters with Elizabeth Bennet had accomplished what a year of his own efforts had not.He did not know whether to feel grateful or humbled. In the end, he settled on both.
He would find more opportunities to bring them together. Whatever else remained uncertain, that much was within his power.
He reached towards the candle snuffer and stopped.
