by Nora Kipling
“Oho!” George cried out, sitting forward, having just taking a giant glug of his brandy. “You flatter her, and she is not yet out! She will think all men owe her praise, when she emerges in lace and silks.”
“I hardly think so, Papa,” Georgiana said, quite bravely too, and she offered a smile to her drunken father that Darcy felt he rather did not deserve. “For it is only a vain woman who thinks only upon the praise she might garner, and my governess has properly guided me away from such vanities. I should be lucky for a smile or two in my direction at all.”
“Ha! With your pounds, you shall warrant more than a smile, my girl,” George said, and then got to his feet. Darcy moved to straighten his arm so his drink would not spill as the old man tottered across the carpet to the pianoforte. Bingley stepped back, allowing him to take pride of place beside his daughter. He peered down at her and she gave him another smile, although Darcy could see it was weak at the edges.
His grip on his patience frayed. Georgiana was afraid of their father. The very thought enraged him. What had passed between them, during the months of his absence, that would make Georgiana afraid of George Darcy?
He would speak to her governess, and find out for himself, and then if there was not an adequate answer from her, he would seek out the housekeeper and demand it as his right to know. He was heir to the Darcy estates. He would know under what villainy and cruelty his sister has suffered while he had been gone.
“I shall play you a piece, Papa,” she said quietly, and then her fingers floated along the keys. The sound seemed to mollify the old man. He closed his eyes and hummed, tunelessly, along with her precise and emotive playing. Bingley caught Darcy’s eye, and a very real look of concern played across the man’s face.
Darcy bit back a curse. He could do nothing to spare his sister of any ill treatment, if only… if only… for the first time, perhaps, he wished ill upon his father, and he felt no guilt for it.
As George Darcy closed a shaking hand around Georgiana’s shoulder and urged her play faster, damn you girl, Darcy could not contain the noise of dismay wrested from his throat.
“I think,” he said when George Darcy looked up at him, rage on his face, “I think perhaps Georgiana has played enough for the night.”
George Darcy scoffed, and then slapped the top of the pianoforte with one large, meaty hand.
“Oh you do think that, do you?” he asked, peering at his son with a scowl in his face.
“I do,” Darcy repeated, standing his ground. George growled.
“Let us to my study. Georgiana, to your room,” he snapped, and then stormed out of the drawing room without a word to Bingley. With a look of pain towards Bingley and his sister, Darcy followed without comment.
Chapter 4
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Pemberley, Derbyshire
“And this is the words you have for me? The news that you have not found a wife, the opposite outcome as you had been instructed to present to me?” George Darcy, master of all of Pemberley, along with several estates across the country, some in Scotland, and properties in the colonies, stared down his only son.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, manfully, did not squirm despite the hot daggers that were in his father’s eyes.
“I did send a letter-“
“And is that how I raised you?!” George was already in his cups, Darcy noticed. Not even noon, and the old man had been at the brandy. For one long moment, Darcy regretted leaving Georgiana behind but she was not yet out, and a season in London with nothing to do but stay home at Darcy house while he himself went out… well he’d had few choices about the matter. Until she was married, or twenty-one, Georgiana was stuck under the tender care of their father. At least George had the sense not to beat the child that was his namesake. Darcy could not say that he had fared so well as a youth as Georgiana did now.
“It was not as if I did not look, Sir,” Darcy said, choosing his words carefully. His father scrutinized him with narrow eyes, before letting out a huff of a laugh.
“Ah yes, particular Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy,” George said, his words laced with cruelty and mockery. “There is not a woman alive that would catch your eye, is that it? I had word you did not even visit the bawdy houses-“ Darcy blanched, and George Darcy laughed loudly. “Yes, my agent had quite the time, keeping me abreast of your activities, as boring as they were. Dullard, is your son, Mr. Darcy, he said. Doesn’t drink and doesn’t wench as most young men might.”
That his father’d had him followed should not have come as such a surprise, and yet it did. Darcy felt injured, that his father regarded him with so little respect as to infringe upon his privacy in that manner. He also was somewhat grateful that whatever agent his father had used was poor in his detective work, since Darcy had indeed visited not a bawdy house, but a place of evening entertainments for the discerning gentleman with Mr. Bingley at his side. He was a good man, but he was not a saint, and saw no reason to remove himself entirely from the comforts of women until he was married. Why, he might not have any idea of what to do with the girl if he had waited to discover the true nature of his husbandly duties on the night of his wedding!
“I have nothing to offer, Sir, other than my apologies for not doing as you bade me. I did look, and indeed sought to find a wife for myself, but I did not find a girl who suited me and one who I felt would be a credit to the Darcy name,” Fitzwilliam finally said, hoping that his quiet and apologetic manner would be enough to satisfy his father. It was not.
George Darcy banged his fist on the side table next to the chair he occupied, and Darcy had to fight not to jerk in surprise at the noise and movement.
“And what of this Mr. Bingley,” George sneered, leaning forward in his seat. “Did he find a woman suitable for himself?”
There was a hint in his father’s voice that made Darcy’s spine tighten and tingle. He looked at the older man, a frown on his face.
“I apologize, but I do not follow, Sir,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. The corner of George’s mouth quirked up, and a nasty smile sprawled across his face.
“Is that women are not suitable to you, Fitzwilliam?” he asked, and suddenly the meaning of his words were all together too clear. Darcy felt his stomach tighten up and he tried not to recoil.
“I do not find the company of men appealing in that manner, if that is what you are implying, Sir,” Darcy said with vehemence. George just chuckled and leaned back in his seat.
“Well that is good news then, quite good news,” he replied, and the words were half-muttered, half-slurred. Darcy felt his stomach uncoil, somewhat. Still, he was uneasy, wary. Men who sought the companionship of other men… well, no one was safe from the taint of that sort of rumor, and Darcy did not relish spending any time fighting the stains that would leave on his reputation especially since it was wholly untrue!
“Is there anything else, Sir?” he asked, as he watched his father, who’s head was nodding down against his chest. George jerked his head up again and glared at him, pointing one bony finger at him.
“You will find yourself a wife!” he snapped, and then growled. “I will not have my son be known to turn away a woman, not have my line stained by a son who would be unmanned other men! I have arranged… yes, I have arranged, for you to wed the daughter of one of my greatest and longest acquaintances.”
Fear suddenly suffused Darcy’s emotions as he stared at his father. Was the man mad? He had arranged for a marriage without Darcy’s consent? It was not as if he were a babe in arms, for such a thing to be discussed, and he knew that it had been intimated that he should wed his cousin, Anne, but never with any great seriousness.
“Who is this… pardon, my questions are many, Sir, but I had not known you were planning on arranging for a wife for me,” Darcy said, stumbling over his words. George cackled, clapping his hands together.
“Yes, well, debts must be paid, and a Darcy never owes! So I will pay my debt to John and rid myself of the shameful rumors
surrounding you at the same time. You’re lucky, Boy, since he has five daughters all told, although one is not out. You’ll have your pick. The eldest is reputed to be quite the beauty, and the rest are tolerable enough that getting yourself an heir will be of no great difficulty, even if you do indeed suffer from unnatural tastes,” George finished with a grunt, sitting back in his seat and scowling at his son. For his part, Darcy could do nothing but stare at his father, unsure of how this turn of events had occurred, or to whom he owed thanks for the terrible rumors that had apparently surrounded him without his ever knowing.
“I am grateful that you have looked out for my welfare in this manner. When am I to meet the ladies in question?” he asked, his voice steady despite his tumultuous feelings inside. George sighed and closed his eyes slowly, his head leaning back against his chair.
“As soon as may be arranged. Within the next month or two.”
“And if none of them suit me?”
“Damn it, Boy, if none should suit you then you might no longer consider yourself a Darcy,” George snarled, his eyes flaring open, blazing with fury. “You will find one to your liking, and you will get her with heir, or I will pass over you in favor of other, more palatable men that may not be of my own damn blood, but might as well be! Now get out. I should be without your company for a few hours, and be happy to be alone.”
Chapter 5
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Pemberley, Derbyshire
“Surely not, Darcy,” Bingley said, where he lay sprawled across the divan in a truly relaxed pose. “He would not disinherit his only son because of some baseless rumors! I hardly think much of his agent if he was not able to follow us to Madame Charlotte’s house. You? For men? I think not!” Bingley scoffed, then took in Darcy’s somber mien and cleared his throat. “Well… well, old man, I should think that you’ll find a wife amongst the four girls who are out, then, if you must?”
Darcy sighed and let his shoulders slump as he sat close to the fire. Truly, Bingley was a gift of a friend and companion. To any other man, he would not have been comfortable admitting the truth of his father’s accusations, but with Bingley he knew he had the other man’s complete confidence and trust. They were brothers, in everything but blood, and Darcy was grateful to have such a fine man to stand at his side during this troubling episode.
“I will do as my father bids me, and I am sure the girl will be at least pleasant. Even if she is not…”
“If she is not, then get her with a babe and leave her at your estate, although I would hope for a love match for you, Darcy, perhaps? Four girls is plenty to choose from-“
“I did not find one that was to my liking out of all those I met in London,” Darcy said, feeling justly pessimistic. His father had given no more details as to his mysterious friend, nor his daughters beyond the span of their ages. “Fifteen to twenty, all of them.”
“Not on the shelf then, you are lucky, not like your cousin, Miss de Bourgh,” Bingley commented. Darcy gave a low snort.
“I am lucky my father has not sought to renew that age-old betrothal, real or imagined as it might be.” Darcy shook his head and dispelled the thought. His cousin was well enough, a quiet soul, but she was definitely not the kind of woman he wished to spend his year with. Truthfully, he had never met a woman that quite measured up to his expectations for the fairer sex, and he held no hope that he would find such a companion in amongst the four girls he was to select a wife from. He put the thought from his mind as much as he could for the time being and paced across the room they currently inhabited.
“Perhaps you require a change of scenery,” Bingley offered and Darcy turned to him, raising an eyebrow.
“A change of scenery? We have just come to Pemberley,” Darcy said mildly, although he had to admit that his homecoming had not been the relaxing, warm welcome he had hoped for. “You would away again?”
Bingley snapped his fingers in the air.
“It is not right that a man should treat his son as you’ve been treated, Darcy, if I might be so bold to speak against your father-“
“Bingley,” Darcy warned but Bingley jumped to his feet and walked to the fireplace, rapping his knuckles against the marble mantlepiece before turning back to Darcy, a determined look on his face.
“No, I shan’t speak out against your father as such, Darcy, but were you my son I would take you in hand, not cut you as he has done. Can he not see that your heart yearns for the love of a good woman just as any young man’s does?” Bingley asked passionately, and Darcy had to hold back his derisive snort. Bingley was a good man, but he was romantic where Darcy was practical.
“I am not quite sure that my heart yearns as you think,” he muttered to himself, but Bingley paid him no mind.
“Passion!” Bingley cried, “It is the thing that all young men seek, and all women swoon for. The romance of the chase, of the engagement, the fulfillment of one’s heart once one is finally married. Your honored father, esteemed as he might be, has beat the passion out of your heart by not appealing to your desire for love. He speaks of marriage only in terms of duty and heirs, and while yes, those are admirable things to marry for, he has missed out on the very real nature of your heart, Darcy.”
For his part, Darcy did not wish to offend his friend’s zealous nature and so kept quiet that he felt the real nature of his heart was to long for peace and quiet, not feminine company.
“And what, do you suggest, do I do, for my passionate heart?” he asked, almost not able to keep the sarcastic drawl out of his voice. Bingley missed it though, because his dear friend turned on him, eyes bright with ideas.
“Come with me to Netherfield,” he blurted out.
“That heap you let?” Darcy asked, surprised. He’d almost forgotten that Bingley had gotten it into his mind that no gentleman was truly a gentleman without having let a country getaway, close enough to London to be convenient and yet far enough away that the trip there felt like a journey or adventure.
“Yes,” Bingley said decisively. “I have decided to summer there, and I would be most pleased should you join me.”
“But we have just arrived here…” Darcy said but then stopped his thought right there. Come winter he might just be shackled to his new bride, and denied the freedoms he currently enjoyed at least until the girl was heavy with his child and well into her confinement. He felt guilt at being so mercenary in his thoughts, but he forgave himself - a wife was a means to an end: prevent his father from disinheriting him, and prove to whomever might be speaking in salacious terms about his ‘unnatural desires’ that he was indeed a true man.
Guilt panged him. But Georgiana? How could he leave her when she was so exposed to their father’s drunken behavior? He would have a word with her governess. Perhaps Georgiana could come for an extended visit… it would show her a different part of England, and get her neatly out from under George Darcy’s less than tender mercies.
The thought of offering her a bit of freedom tied it up tightly for him, and he looked at Bingley.
“If you would agree to allow me to extend the invitation to Georgiana,” he said. Bingley grinned, the smile splitting his face.
“But of course! My sister, Miss Bingley, will be coming as well, because I think she tires of traveling as the newly made Mrs. Hurst’s wedding trip companion. She will be pleased, I think, to make acquaintance with Miss Darcy.” Bingley tapped on his lower lip as if thinking and then smirked at Darcy. “What do you think? One last hurrah as a bachelor, Darcy? Will you attend Netherfield and enjoy the best fruits of summer with me?”
Darcy looked at his friend, wondered at the madcap plan, and then thought of staying another minute in Pemberley, being cursed by his father.
“It sounds the very plan,” Darcy said, and Bingley clapped his hands together in triumph.
“Ready the horses, and warn the fair maidens, for Darcy and Bingley ride again,” his good friend quipped, and Darcy could not help himself: for the first time in days, he laughed
.
Chapter 6
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Netherfield, Hertfordshire
Netherfield was beautiful as Bingley had described, and the pastoral scenes as well as the break from George Darcy’s presence had Darcy finding himself more relaxed than he’d felt in months. Their party was small, just the Hursts, along with Miss Bingley, although Bingley had thought to offer for Colonel Fitzwilliam to join them if he was so inclined, which he was.
Fitzwilliam arrived with much fanfare, riding a dashingly handsome gray gelding instead of coming by carriage.
“Did you ride all the way from your station in Brighton?” Bingley asked as the other man dismounted with a flourish. The gelding pranced in place but steadied under Fitzwilliam’s hand. Bingley and Darcy had come out to the stabling yard to see Fitzwilliam arrive. The Hursts and Miss BIngley had remained within.
“This is a fresh horse, but the short answer would be no. It was only in the last few miles, from Meryton, that I rode,” Fitzwilliam said with a smile, giving his faithful gelding a gentle pat before letting one of the stable boys lead him away. “I find it always a good recommendation to ride in the fresh air for a time before one arrives. It gives good color to the cheeks, and lends oneself the mien of an outdoorsman.”
“It also allows you to wave at all the prettiest of ladies without the encumbrance of a carriage that might not slow down at your instant command, unlike a horse,” Darcy said in a dry tone, for he well knew his cousin’s unwavering affection for the gentler and fairer sex.
“You wound me, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, although his jovial chuckle put to rest any concern for actual upset. Together the three men walked into Netherfield’s grand entrance hall. “Quite the pile of stones,” Fitzwilliam said with admiration as he looked about him. Bingley smiled, pleased at the compliment.
