‘There isn’t a man in Cambridge can wear a coat like you do, George,’ he said. ‘And if there’s one thing I want from my friends, it’s that they don’t disgrace me. We’re going to a party at old Geffers’s rooms tomorrow. You’ll like old Geffers and you’ll like his company more. He has a way of finding the prettiest and the most willing women in any city he’s staying in, and his cellar’s the best you’ll find anywhere in the county.’
18th February 1791
We had a riotous night last night and I was just returning to my own room at seven o’clock this morning when I saw Darcy. He was up early and going out for a morning ride.
‘Join me,’ he said.
‘My dear fellow, I am in no state for a ride.’
He eyed me distastefully.
‘So I see. If you must drink, George, do it in better company. De Quincy has a bad reputation.’
‘Are you afraid he’ll lead me astray?’ I asked, laughing.
‘Yes, I am,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s easy to get into bad habits somewhere like this, where there is no regular life to drag you out of them.’
‘Good God, Darcy, you sound like my father!’ I said.
‘Will you come with me, George? The fresh air will do you good.’
For a moment I wavered. The thought of riding through the early morning countryside had a certain appeal. But my head hurt and in the end I declined. There will be time enough for riding in the holidays when I am back at Pemberley. I mean to enjoy myself whilst I am at Cambridge.
6th March 1791
Damn! My head hurts. I wish I could remember what I was doing last night, where I went and who I was with. What was it that Mama said: that I should never get drunk, that I should keep a clear head, particularly if I was playing cards? Oh God! Mama! Oh God! I had forgotten. The fever took her so quickly… Where is the bottle?
8th March 1791
I was roused from my stupor this morning by the sound of my door opening and then footsteps which stopped by my bed, and then the curtains were pulled back and sunlight flooded the room. I groaned and clutched my head and said, ‘Close the damn curtains. What is the matter with you?’
‘It is twelve o’clock, time you were up,’ said a voice I recognised.
‘Darcy,’ I said with a groan.
‘This has gone on long enough. I cannot stand by and watch you sink any further.’
I put my head under the pillow.
‘Just look at yourself,’ he said, ripping the pillow from me and throwing a jug of water over me.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘I know we have grown apart, George, but you were never like this. You were always so careful with your appearance.’
I looked down, bleary eyed, at my clothes and saw that they were dirty and creased, for I had slept in them for God knows how long.
‘I told you de Quincy was trouble. Where is your comb?’
‘Somewhere,’ I said, waving towards my desk.
I heard him rummaging through the papers and empty bottles and half-eaten sandwiches.
‘You’re worth more than this, George,’ he said. ‘For a few weeks there’s no harm in it, but it can all too easily become a habit. Just look at your desk,’ he said, throwing an empty bottle into the bin. ‘Everything a mess, papers everywhere…’
He stopped and there was a deathly silence.
‘I had no idea,’ he said, and I knew he had found my father’s letter. ‘George, I am so sorry, I had not heard.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ I said, with a feeling of hollowness. ‘We live, we die, and there’s an end of it.’
I pulled a half-empty bottle out from under the bed and put it to my lips, but he took it from me and sent for his valet.
‘Get him up,’ he said to the man when he arrived. ‘I want him ready in half an hour. I am taking him to Pemberley.’
15th March 1791
I wish I was back at Cambridge. I am glad I am at home. Lord, I do not know what I think or what I feel; I do not know where I am or what I am doing. Nothing is the same. The house without Mama is not a home. Papa is broken. Mr Darcy is thoughtful. Fitzwilliam is kind. God damn him! Why could he not have left me alone?
7th May 1791
I avoided Peter de Quincy when I first returned to Cambridge, but he keeps seeking me out and it is easier to go along with him than resist him. Besides, he knows all the best people and, when he is not frequenting low taverns, he is introducing me to useful friends. I see less of Darcy than I used. Something about him makes me uncomfortable. He wants to save me, to put my feet on the right path, but his idea of the right path for me does not involve heiresses. On the few occasions I have seen him, I have rebuffed him.
21st May 1791
I went to a party, a respectable one, tonight and saw Darcy for the first time in weeks. He was looking very handsome. For a moment I was jealous, for I knew that my own body had started to show the signs of too much drinking and wenching and not enough signs of riding and fencing. I shrugged it off, but when I saw the women hanging on his every word and ignoring me, I knew I must do something about it. To be sure, a lot of it is to do with the fact that he is Darcy of Pemberley, but not all. And I must not forget that I intend to be Wickham of Rosings. It would not do to go to seed before I have my future secure.
23rd May 1791
I went to bed sober last night and got up early this morning. I had forgotten how much I enjoy being out of doors when the sun is rising. I felt invigorated and full of new energies. It is time to put the past behind me and look to the future.
27th May 1791
I went round to Darcy’s rooms early this morning, and after a little coldness I confessed that he had been right and I had been wrong and that I had fallen into bad company. He looked relieved and offered me a horse to ride and we went out together, talking of Pemberley and our experiences at Cambridge and our futures.
‘My father intends to give you the living at Pemberley,’ he said, as we returned to our rooms, ‘but I am not sure that you are suited to the church. Are you comfortable with the idea of preaching sermons, George? Because the church is not a profession to enter lightly. A clergyman has the good of his parishioners in his care and if he cannot set them an example…’
‘My dear Darcy, I have learned my lesson,’ I said, and I used all my charm to help me. ‘It went to my head, the new place, the new people, the easy friendship, the parties, the… yes, why not say it?… the wine and the women. And then Mama… But such a life palls before long, and I do not think a man is any less fitted for the church because he has found this out through experience, rather than finding it out through the experience of others.’
‘There is something in what you say.’
‘To understand sinners, I have to understand their sins. I have to understand their temptations, too, for how else could I treat them with understanding and grant them forgiveness?’
He was satisfied. Indeed, as I spoke, I more than half believed it myself. But I must be careful if I am not to lose his family’s patronage. Mama was right: there is something implacable in Darcy, some strength of character that will not allow him to be bullied or persuaded out of doing what he thinks is right. Moreover, his good opinion, once lost, is never regained, a fact James learned to his cost, for when he approached Fitzwilliam to help him with some trifling debts, Fitzwilliam refused him; he has never forgiven him for tormenting Georgiana by taking her doll, all those years ago.
I am lucky I did not lose his good opinion entirely this year and that he remained my friend. But I must be careful if I am to keep it, for until I marry an heiress, I need influential friends on my side.
30th October 1791
I have taken to carousing in London rather than Cambridge, where I comport myself with more or less dignity. Peter’s family have a house there and we often escape and go to town, where we have several sweet little dancers and opera singers who keep us amused, as well as several taverns where the serving wenches are
willing, when we are in a mood for lower company.
We were escorting two dancers back to our rooms tonight and were just having fun in the carriage when it stopped outside Peter’s house at an inopportune moment.
‘Oo, don’t stop,’ begged my partner, and like a gentleman I obliged, only to hear the door open.
I looked up, annoyed, only to see Darcy standing on the pavement!
By some ghastly chance he had been to the theatre and had decided to take a hackney cab home instead of walking. Thinking the stationary cab was empty, he had opened the door, meaning to climb inside. He had then been confronted by more than he had seen since we were boys swimming naked together in the river at Pemberley, and more of Molly than anyone has ever seen without paying her.
To his credit, he simply raised his eyebrows, said, ‘I beg your pardon, I did not know the cab was taken,’ and closed the door again.
I burst out laughing, Molly did the same, and I hastily fastened my breeches and tumbled out of the cab.
‘Darcy!’ I called. ‘Darcy! Wait.’
But he did not stop.
My little dancer followed me, for she had not been paid. I handed her what I owed her as I watched Darcy’s retreating back and I thought, It is all up with me now.
I felt a sense of relief, for going into the church is not something I have any desire to do, no, not even for a large rectory and an easy living for the rest of my life. But I felt a sense of disappointment, too, that he should have found me like that.
Damn! Why is it that he makes me feel like that? Without ever saying a word he makes me feel inadequate.
But as he dwindled into the distance I felt a sense of sympathy too, for as I watched his retreating back it came over me that he was a lonely man, for all his money, his family, and his friends.
I remembered him telling me that he was looking for something.
Whatever it is, he has not found it.
I wonder if he ever will?
1794
7th June 1794
There are great changes at Pemberley. Old Mr Darcy has died. My father wrote to me and gave me the news.
I am sure you will be as sad as I am, George, for he was always a good friend to you, sending you first to Eton and then to Cambridge. And he has helped you even after his death, for he has left you a legacy of one thousand pounds and given instructions for Fitzwilliam to help you in your chosen profession. Are you still of a mind to go into the church? If so, you are to be given a valuable living.
I put the letter down.
‘Bad news?’ asked Peter.
‘Old Mr Darcy has died,’ I said.
‘What, Darcy of Pemberley?’ asked Matthew, a new member of our set.
Matthew is a very good fellow, but alas! he is as poor as I am.
‘Yes.’
‘Then Fitzwilliam is now the master.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You are very thoughtful. Why?’
‘Because it changes things.’
‘How?’
‘I am not sure. And that is why I am thoughtful. I think I must go home, Peter. Yes, in fact, I know I must. My future is changing.’
‘Do you want it to? You have a sweet life here, George. Friends to amuse you, a good set of rooms, and a willing widow, with plenty of money to spend on you.’
‘That is all very well,’ I said thinking, ‘but it will not do forever.’
‘You surely do not mean to get rid of her? She has been very useful to you.’
‘She has, but I have no mind to marry a widow, no matter how wealthy she is, especially one whose money came from a husband in such a low line of work. The widow of a gentleman, now, that might tempt me, if her position were high enough and she were rich enough. But no, not even then. I am too young to settle for a widow.’
‘You are too young to settle at all,’ he said.
‘Yes, very true,’ I said, pursing my lips. ‘I have no desire to hurry into matrimony. But I must not neglect my future interests.’
He gave a shrug.
‘Well, go if you must, but hurry back. You amuse me, George. Things won’t be the same without you.’
9th June 1794
I found my father stricken with grief over the death of old Mr Darcy, for he was devoted to the old man.
‘He gave me my chance in life, George. I had nothing before I came here; I was a simple country accountant. But by his good offices I had this house and a good income, and I know that both of them pleased your mother. And now he is gone.’
He sat silently for some minutes but then he roused himself and said, ‘So, Fitzwilliam is the new master of Pemberley. He comes back here often, to spend time at home, but I seldom see you. Why is that, George?’
I felt uncomfortable, for the truth of the matter is that, without Mama, I have no desire to be at home; quite the reverse, I would rather be away. I could not tell him that, however, so I said, ‘I have to study, Father, you know that. Fitzwilliam does not need to work hard, but I do. He does not need to get his qualifications, he has no need of a career, but I must have a means of earning my own living. His time is his own, mine is not.’
He gave a sigh.
‘True, true. I am glad to know that you are taking your future seriously. Your mother would have been proud of you. Have you had any more thoughts about your career? Do you still mean to go into the church?’
‘I have not decided yet. Perhaps, or perhaps I might go into the law.’
‘Well, they are both honourable professions. Fitzwilliam will help you whatever you decide to do, I am sure, for his father expressly asked him to do so in his will. They are all very affected at the big house. This death has come as a sad blow.’
I put on a grave face and said it was a sad blow to all of us.
My father then attending to his duties, I went out of the house and walked round the park, coming at last to the stables. I found Georgiana there and I remembered my mother saying that she would not be a little girl forever.
All the opportunities of home, which had been obscured by the pleasures of London, arose before me anew. I preferred Anne de Bourgh as a wife, for she was the richer of the two girls. However, I knew it would be sensible of me not to neglect Georgiana. And so I spoke to her kindly and invited her to ride with me and she did so, with a groom behind her. We spoke of her father and I said that he was a great man, and we spoke of Fitzwilliam and I said how proud I was to call him my friend, and I was pleased to discover that she did not know about the falling out between us.
We returned to the stables at last and I thought, as I had not thought for a long time: George Wickham of Rosings. Or George Wickham, husband to Georgiana Darcy.
20th June 1794
Old Mr Darcy is buried, and I am back in London, and now Fitzwilliam is the catch of the Season. Not that he will be going into society so soon after his father’s death, but the drawing-rooms are already ringing with the sound of his name and of his income.
Peter and I laughed about it, but my laughter was tinged with envy, for Fitzwilliam can have his pick of heiresses without making any effort, whilst I have had little luck in securing one for myself. I have made enough friends at Cambridge to be sure of my share of invitations to the best balls, for a single man is always welcome at these things, especially if he dances, but I have not been able to catch an heiress. The girls are willing enough, but as soon as their mamas enquire into my fortune, they keep their daughters well away from me, whereas not one mama in London would keep her daughter away from Fitzwilliam Darcy.
17th November 1794
It is a year for deaths. Papa has followed old Mr Darcy to the grave.
And so now I am clearing out all my possessions, for the house is to be the new steward’s house and I am to live here no more. I hinted to Darcy that I would like the position of steward, but he told me that the appointment had already been made and I knew better than to press him. His manner has been distant since the incident with the hackney cab and I am afra
id that I have lost his good opinion. However, by means of a friendly and respectful demeanour every time I see him, I hope that, gradually, I might be able to wear down his resistance and make him, if not my friend, at least useful to me.
1795
5th April 1795
Peter’s family have finally grown tired of his dissipated way of living and they have sent him out to the Indies, where one of his uncles is trying to make something of him. Not only have I lost his company, but my creditors are becoming a nuisance. Peter’s friendship kept them complacent, but now that I do not have his backing they are sending in their accounts. I cannot believe I have spent so much money, for the bills come to almost two thousand pounds. Matthew and I were bemoaning the sad state of affairs, for he has run up debts that are almost as large as mine, when he said, ‘I wonder you don’t ask Darcy. Weren’t the two of you friends?’
‘We were but I will not ask him for money again. I did it once before and he gave me such a look that I have not asked again.’
‘I don’t see why he should refuse you. He has plenty of the stuff. A thousand pounds, to a man like Darcy, is nothing.’
Wickham's Diary Page 4
