Page 60 of Ashes and Understanding
Darcy huffed out a small breath of amusement, his lips twitching at the corner. Georgiana had grown more confident—more herself—since the fire. He only wished she could have remained near him. But London was no place for her now. He folded the letter with care and reached for the next.
The seal of the Earl of Matlock stared up at him, the wax a deep crimson. Finally.
But his anticipation dissolved as he read.
Nephew,
I understand your concerns regarding this Mr. Smithson fellow, but I would not be overly troubled. Insurance men, by their nature, are an obstinate breed—prone to dramatics and well-versed in avoidance. Likely, he is no more than a penny-pinching functionary hoping to delay a claim.
As for this business about the baby and the fire’s origin, I am certain it is nothing. Surely you misunderstood the man’s questioning. It will all come to nothing, as these matters often do.
I urge you to take things in stride. I know your sense of justice is great, but not every oddity is a threat. If you like, I shall make a few inquiries, though I doubt it will amount to much.
Yours, etc.
Matlock
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the page.
Useless.His uncle had dismissed everything—Elizabeth’s interrogation, the attempted break-in, the flight of Smithson—as if it were a mere billing dispute.
He let out a quiet, irritated sigh and tossed the letter aside.This is how he writes to Georgiana, he thought bitterly. Not to me. Platitudes and reassurance, as if I were some child alarmed by shadows.
Still no word from his solicitor. Still no sign of the Bow Street Runner he had requested. He pushed back from the desk and stood, pacing the length of the study.
Something was not right. And it was not just the fire.
There are too many things that do not add up. Elizabeth in London, then here. Mr. Smithson’s interest in the baby. And now Wickham’s arrival.
Wickham.
Of all the improbable turns in recent days, seeing him again in Meryton had been the most startling. He had not seen Wickham in over two years. And then, just like that, there he was—in the middle of Meryton, looking older, thinner, but with the same careless smile, the same easy charm.
But he knew all too well the immorality and vice behind the mask. Some might say to forgive and forget—to move on—but Darcy could not forget.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and just like that, he was eighteen again. Two boys arriving at Cambridge, their eyes bright with the promise of independence. Wickham had been giddy with freedom, full of jokes and plans and schemes. Darcy, more reserved, had tried to keep up, tried to believe they could still be what they had been at Pemberley.
But Wickham’s vices had bloomed quickly in that fertile ground. Gambling houses. Women of questionable character. Late nights and mounting debts. Darcy had warned him, more than once.
"You must stop. One day, this will catch up to you."
"You sound just like the parson," Wickham laughed, tossing his cards on the table. "So blasted moral. I will be fine, Fitz. I always am."
“This is not who you want to be. I know you, George!”
Wickham scoffed. “Is it not? And what do you know of it, Fitz? You, who have always had everything handed to you. The name, the estate, the future, all neatly wrapped with a ribbon. I have had to scrape for every opportunity I have ever had. You are just uncomfortable because—here, outside Pemberley—for once, it is me that people seek. Me they follow.”
Darcy shook his head, feeling the frustration coil tight in his chest and forcing a cough. “They follow your charm, not your character. And that only lasts so long.”
Wickham’s mouth twisted. “Better to be loved for charm than tolerated for principles.”
Darcy said nothing; there was nothing more to say. And when Wickham turned away with a half-smirk and gathered his winnings, Darcy felt the final, irrevocable crack in what had once been friendship.
But that was not the last time he would see Wickham—no, the attorney had sent Wickham a notice to appear for the disposition of any bequests. He had still been reeling from the loss of his father; although the man had berated his son for his weaknesses, he also spent a considerable amount of time teaching him to run the estate. Georgiana, being at such a tender age, was crying herself to sleep at night, mourning the loss of the man who had treated her so well.
And Darcy was all alone, about to face the friend who had abandoned him for debauchery and sin.
Wickham sauntered through the door with his usual confidence, but for once, his face was solemn and his voice was low—it seemed as though his father’s godson was not entirely untouched by genuine grief.
