Page 48 of Colour My World
The air outside was warm but unsettled, the sky a patchwork of blue and grey as shifting clouds played with the light. Rain threatened at the edges of the sky, but for now, bright summer light gilded the Derbyshire peaks.
Inside his study, Darcy reviewed the estate accounts. The butler entered, a calling card in hand.
“Mr George Wickham, sir. He waits in the front hall.”
Darcy looked up. The name carried a weight time had not lightened. He took the card and turned it over once, twice.
Six months since the funeral. Eight years since Wickham had left for Ireland with his mother. And now he had returned, uninvited.
“You may show him in,” Darcy said, already rising.
Wickham entered, well-clothed and poised, his demeanour polished. He greeted Darcy with practised ease and took the offered seat.
“You look well,” Wickham said, casting a glance about the study. “Pemberley stands as grand as ever.”
“And you? Ireland has been kind, I take it.”
“It has.” Wickham touched his cravat. “I put my late father’s training to good use. The Darcy lands I managed flourished. My reports were always filed, I assure you.”
Darcy offered no praise. “You outlasted your welcome when your father died. What brings you back now?”
Wickham’s smile cooled. “My obligations in Ireland concluded with the year. I mean to re-establish myself in society. Properly. Respectably.”
Darcy wondered at the veracity of his claim. “Last year, thewoman who served as Georgiana’s companion, a Mrs Younge, was in fact your wife.”
Wickham blinked. His smile held, but just barely. “Was that her name? She never did care for formalities.”
“She lied to gain access to my household. To my sister.”
Wickham shrugged. “She did what she thought best—for both of us. I was abroad. She was not idle.”
Darcy’s voice turned cold. “She was dismissed. You, however, have returned.”
Wickham smiled faintly. “And yet here I sit.”
Darcy said nothing. He simply watched.
Two may play at this game.“The Kympton living is vacant,” he said at last. “If you would take orders—”
Wickham frowned. “What of Thornhill Ridge?” Though his tone remained smooth, his facade cracked at the edges. “You know it was promised to my father.”
Darcy’s voice turned to granite. “That promise died last year as well.”
Wickham stood. “I see.”
“I do not offer the living out of trust,” Darcy said. “Only to see whether you have changed, or merely learned new tricks.”
Wickham tipped his head, something unreadable in his eyes. “And what have you gleaned?”
Darcy gestured for Wickham to depart. He walked him to the front. As the door opened to the courtyard, a peal of laughter rang out.
He halted.
Georgiana.
She stood with Mrs Reynolds, smiling at something unseen. The sunlight caught in her curls, the moment unguarded, innocent. She looked up, and her laughter died.
Wickham’s grin spread, slow and predatory. “Why, if it is not little Georgie. My, my, how you have grown.”
