Page 136 of Ashes and Understanding
“I can sit in a chair,” Darcy muttered as Bates entered the room with a fresh cup of willow bark tea. “Or walk to the study. I am not an invalid.”
“Of course not, sir,” Bates replied neutrally as he set the cup on the table. “Shall I carry you or fetch a bath chair from the village, perhaps?”
Darcy shot him a glare.
“Forgive me,” Bates added, not entirely managing to hide the amusement in his tone.
Darcy exhaled heavily and rubbed his temple. “I apologize. This confinement has made me short-tempered.”
A bark of laughter came from the doorway.
“Now that sounds familiar.”
Darcy turned his head. Wickham leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “You were the exact same way when you were twelve.It is a relief to see that even the impeccable Fitzwilliam Darcy has a flaw or two.”
Glaring, Darcy hurled one of his dozen pillows towards his old friend. The throw was weak, and Wickham was able to easily avoid being hit.
“Now, now—is this the thanks I get for coming to cheer you up?” Wickham smirked, sauntering into the room and producing a familiar deck of cards from his coat pocket. “I am not as lovely as the fair Miss Elizabeth, I will admit—but I have been told I am moderately good-looking and quite good at cards.”
Darcy gave a soft huff that could almost be called a laugh. “Your modesty remains unchecked, I see.”
“Never had any use for it.” Wickham pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down, and began to shuffle the cards. “And besides, I needed something to do during my liberty now that I am not playing the part of a suspect.”
They played in silence for a few moments, until Darcy looked up and asked quietly, “Are people treating you any differently now?”
Wickham’s eyes did not leave the cards. “Some are. Word has begun to spread that I am not a murderer after all. But most people still give me a wide berth. Reputation, once spoiled, does not wash clean with a single rinse.”
Darcy nodded, absorbing that. “And what will you do now?”
Wickham shrugged. “I am not much of a soldier. I have always preferred ledgers to rifles. I miss clerical work. London, the noise of the docks—making sense of other people’s chaos.”
“Do you think you might go back to your old post? Have you had any word about your former employment?”
A humorless smile touched Wickham’s lips. “It seems that many of the insurance companies have run out of funds. The barrister for whom I worked is no longer in business.”
Darcy hesitated. Then he said, “I could hire you.”
Wickham’s head shot up. “What?”
“You are clever. Capable. You understand trade, and I have been ill too long. My affairs need careful tending, especially if my recovery is… prolonged.”
“I do not need charity,” Wickham replied. “I am hardly destitute, as you well know. I still have nearly the entirety of your father’s bequest.”
Darcy met Wickham’s eyes evenly. “This is not charity. It is an offer.”
“You would trust me? After everything?”
“You have earned it,” Darcy said simply. “You protected Elizabeth and Benjamin. That cannot be repaid, but I can offer you honest work.”
Wickham looked away, blinking rapidly. “I will think about it,” he said gruffly. “It would be… nice. Honest work. Being useful again.”
They returned to their cards, and as the morning wore on, the tension between them softened, replaced by familiar rhythms and quiet laughter.
And for the first time in years, Darcy did not hear his father’s reprimands echoing in his ears.
Chapter 30
One month later…
