Chapter Text
Darcy, what the devil are you up to? Colonel Fitzwilliam asks a junior officer in a dark green rifleman’s uniform at the training grounds.
Lt. George Wickham at your service, sir, the man in green replies, coming to attention and saluting smartly.
George Wickham? Really Darcy, I must protest. Leave off this lunacy. Colonel Fitzwilliam says, smirking.
Sir?
I know the lads from the 95th are getting rested and refitted, but this is a long way from Derbyshire. You have a sister to look after and an estate to manage. Leave the war fighting to second sons.
Begging the Colonel’s pardon, sir. I know not of whom you speak. I believe your Excellency mightn't have me confused with someone else, sir.
Colonel Fitzwilliam studies him closely. The man before him was identical to Darcy, with subtle alternations, broader in the shoulders and leaner. The face had a hint of exposure to the elements, somewhat lessened by the sea voyage back to England from Portugal.
My apologies, Lt. Wickham. Would you join me for a drink? Colonel Fitzwilliam asks.
I’m a Methodist, sir.
A Methodist?
Aye, sir.
Then have a little wine for your stomach’s sake, Timothy, Colonel Fitzwilliam quotes in an amused tone.
You know your Scriptures, sir. Wickam replies grinning.
I permit myself a glass of cider with a meal, but nothing stronger.
They walk together to the local inn, and the Colonel orders a pitcher of cider along with some pot pies.
From whence hail ye, Lt. Wickham?
Berkshire, sir.
Your parents, did they move there from Derbyshire?
Nay.
Are they still living?
Nay, the ague took them.
What school did you attend before you bought your commission?
I was promoted from the ranks, sir.
The Colonel stares at him in shock.
When did you first enlist?
When I was seventeen, sir.
Who promoted you?
General Moore, sir.
On the field of battle, before his death at Corunna?
Aye, sir.
How old are you?
Five and twenty, sir.
When is your birthday? The first of April, sir.
Damnation – Colonel Fitzwilliam mutters under his breath.
Does the name Darcy mean anything to you?
Nay.
Tell me about your experiences in the Peninsular campaign, Colonel Fitzwilliam orders.
***
London House
The footman delivers an express from Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Darcy, you must come at once. Proceed with all urgency to the marshaling grounds outside -------shire. Do not delay. I’ve found the perfect substitute for you. The chance to serve England and achieve martial glory is now within your grasp.
***
Darcy came immediately that selfsame evening and was taken to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s billet in a nearby residence.
What is this talk of a substitute?
He’s a dead ringer for you, Darcy. It’s uncanny. He’s a junior leftenant in the 95th Rifles, promoted from the ranks, for gallantry under fire.
I like the sound of that, Darcy admits.
For a thousand pounds, we can purchase a captaincy, and transfer you to my regiment, the 60th Foot.
Darcy’s eyes light up with excitement.
I must meet him. What do you know of him?
I like what I’ve seen and heard of him, Colonel Fitzwilliam admits. His name is George Wickham. He's a devout Methodist – no wine or wenching or gambling for him. I believe he could actually stand in as your replacement, while we went to war in Portugal together. To fight the French as we had always dreamed.
Where is he? Darcy asks.
I put him up at the inn in town.
***
Darcy and Wickham stare at each other in wonder after having been introduced.
George, you are my twin brother! Darcy exclaims and then hugs him.
Can it be true? Wickham whispers in an awed tone.
You both share the same age and birthday. Colonel Fitzwilliam notes.
My father – our father - told me a secret on his deathbed, Darcy says earnestly. That early in their marriage, in their desperation to produce an heir, he and my mother sought out a surrogate. When her time to deliver the promised child came, there was a complication: twins were born. Your mother insisted on keeping you, in addition to the full purse of gold. Then you both disappeared.
I know nothing of this, George admits. I never knew my mother.
Darcy looks at him somberly.
What was your life like, brother?
I remember the orphanage. Always being hungry and cold. Then I was adopted by the Wickhams, who were very good to me. The ague took them several years later, and I was returned to the orphanage. The master apprenticed me to a wainwright, and I worked at that trade until I was of age to enlist. I’ve fought in several campaigns since.
Which was the worst? Darcy asks eagerly.
The sea battles.
Why? Colonel Fitzwilliam asks.
I cannot swim, George admits.
You cannot swim? Darcy repeats incredulously.
Aye, Mr. Darcy.
Call me brother, henceforth.
Yes – brother, Wickham says with some hesitation.
Have you any schooling, George?
My father was a steward. I can read and write and do basic sums.
Have you read any of the classics?
Pilgrim’s Progress. And many times that.
Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchange an amused glance.
I was prepared to pay you a large settlement to be your substitute, but now that I know without a doubt that you are my twin brother - we shall just exchange lives. From henceforth, you are to be Fitzwilliam Darcy, gentleman, master of Pemberley, living a life of luxury and ease, while I am Lt. George Wickham of the 95th Rifles, valiant and steadfast, raised from the ranks.
You wish to take my place? Wickham asks incredulously.
Yes. My cousin, the Colonel here, assures me that you are a devout man. Even you cannot deny that our meeting is providential.
It is indeed providential, as you say brother. But I have my appointed lot and you have yours. Neither of us is prepared for the other.
George, imagine an allowance of 10,000 pounds a year.
Wickham gasps. I would not know what to do with a tenth of such a sum.
My steward and business manager run the estate and my investments. Mrs. Hill runs the house. So time be thine, and thy best graces spend it at thy will.
You have a way with words, brother. Wickham pronounces with admiration.
Darcy grins. Shakespeare, old boy. Hamlet - to be precise. The collected works are in the library at Pemberley. You can read them at your leisure and we'll discuss them upon my return from campaigning.
What about Georgianna? Colonel Fitzwilliam asks.
Yes, you will also needs be the guardian of my little sister. She is extremely shy and retiring, and content with her piano.
You have a sister? Wickham asks.
My mother gave birth almost a decade later.
Wickham frowns. Her age?
Fifteen. She is not out yet in society. Don't worry about her. She has her own paid companion.
I abhor lying and deceit, Wickham exclaims.
I appreciate your Methodist scruples, Darcy responds. George, I do not ask you to lie, but rather to hold your peace, so that you do not besmirch the name of our father or the memory of my mother.
As our father's son and my twin brother, you have every right to a half share of our inheritance. Brother, spend freely. Enjoy life. You’ve earned this. Anyone who has come up through the ranks to make leftenant is worthy of being the master of Pemberley. I hereby entrust my life – such as it was – into your able care.
Why would you wish to do this? Wickham asks.
George, as the only son, I have long borne the burden of managing the ancestral estate, Pemberley. I yearn for my freedom. It has long been my dream to join my cousin in commanding men on the field of battle. He knows this to be true.
Colonel Fitzwilliam nods his assent.
When the campaign is over, I shall return content, and settle down and produce an heir.
Wickham frowns.
Brother, to go from an allowance of 10,000 pounds a year to living on a leftenant’s pay is foolhardy.
You’re quite right, George. I’ll give you the name of my business manager. Have him send Colonel Fitzwilliam a settlement of two thousand pounds, so that I can purchase a captaincy in the 60th and have some ready coin for expenses. Also arrange for a letter of credit for the Colonel to draw on during the duration of the campaign.
There is no time to waste, Colonel Fitzwilliam declares, if I am to get you transferred to the 60th.
Quick, exchange clothes with me, brother. Darcy announces, tearing off his cravat.
They do so, and find the clothes a near perfect fit.
They shake hands.
Thank you, George, for allowing me to live my dream.
We must get going if we are to make reveille, Colonel Fitzwilliam insists.
Godspeed, brother. Wickham announces.
They embrace and then part.
One for London. One for the marshalling grounds.