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John Willoughby
John Willoughby, six years old, was loved and cared for - a more fortunate child than most - but he was, perhaps, slightly ignored by his parents. It was a benign sort of neglect; John was their beloved boy, but there was a time and a place for children and he stayed well within those boundaries. He had a competent (if somewhat indulgent) nurse; his needs were provided for; he was spoiled in that way that first sons often were. As long as he was healthy and thriving, his parents need not get overly involved in the details of his rearing. He was, therefore, not always corrected when he should have been; he grew up getting his own way without learning very much at all about the consequences of such an existence.
***
John Willoughby, eighteen years old, still lived a life largely immune from the consequences of his actions. He was blessed with good looks, charm, and a liberal dose of luck; he had escaped unscathed from the worst of his misadventures, and this perceived invincibility only served to increase his confidence. Why worry about ramifications, when one could smile and flirt and compliment one’s way out of them?
And why fret about a life that was becoming wild, expensive, dissipated? He was young and he was enjoying himself immensely; it seemed as though he was being rewarded for it. He had neither the will nor the inclination for self-denial.
***
John Willoughby, twenty-five years old, found himself where he had never found himself before: in a noose that he could not slip easily free from. What was worse, he himself had done the tightening. The entire business with Eliza Williams was unfortunate, of course, though he maintained that the minx had only gotten what she had asked for. Her passions were as wild as his were; he had not created their little bastard alone. He would not take responsibility for her or the child, no matter what it cost him.
But here was where the repercussions finally began to ripple, spilling over into other areas of his life. If not for his actions with Eliza Williams, he would not have been turned away from Allenham; without his inheritance from Mrs. Smith, he would have to marry well; to marry well, he could no longer entangle himself with Marianne Dashwood.
There was no other option. He would have to marry Sophia Grey.
***
John Willoughby, twenty-nine years old, had decided to make the best of it. He was not made to dwell long on contrition and atonement; he would not waste his life pining over Marianne Brandon; he was certainly not going to do anything that would endanger his own contentedness and comfort. He did not love his wife, but what did it matter? Most men of his acquaintance did not love their wives. Sophia was not entirely bad; she was attractive and occasionally amusing; she brought him wealth and she bore his sons. When her society was unsatisfactory in other ways, he took a mistress. Such was life.
He would rather have money - and with it, a greater capacity for enjoying himself - than a more suitable companion.
John Thorpe
John Thorpe, nine years old, was one of many loud, naughty Thorpe children, but as the oldest, he was more and more often the target of his father’s authoritative strictness. He should not cause such mischief, said his father. He should set an example for the younger ones. He should be more careful; lower his voice and behave himself; stop sprinting around and upsetting the furniture.
His mother was more indulgent. She saw little wrong in his behavior. Boys were meant to be rowdy and mischievous, she said. Let him be a child for a little longer; there would be no harm in letting his spirits run free; he was not a man yet.
Mr. Thorpe did not find these to be effective arguments. John chafed against his father’s discipline and escaped out of doors as often as possible, eager to be with the other neighborhood boys, to make as much noise as he pleased, to boss them around, to do exactly as he wished.
***
John Thorpe, nineteen years old, had grown into a wild and ungovernable young man. The death of his father - uncompromising to the end - had been a release; he was free to be his own master now; his mother would certainly not stop him.
There was plenty to occupy his attention - wine and women, horses and dogs, gambling and sport - and he was quite willing to be drawn into all of it. He quickly fell into a crowd of like-minded men at Oxford and passed his time in a drunken haze; parties every evening, diversions around every corner. He would put in his time, making connections and living for his own amusement. His father’s existence had been a dull one. Thorpe would never be so tedious.
***
John Thorpe, twenty-three years old, was not going to let Belle be the only one to get a bite at the Morland fortune. If James Morland was to marry Thorpe’s sister, then Thorpe was going to marry Morland’s; it was only fair. Catherine Morland was a pretty little thing, and so very impressed by him. He’d been sure to awe her with his horse and his gig, his driving and his dancing. She was one of those wide-eyed, trusting, innocent sort of creatures often bred by clergymen; it wasn’t difficult to woo a girl like that.
Between the fortune she’d receive from her father and whatever she was entitled to from Mr. Allen, she would make Thorpe a good little wife indeed.
***
John Thorpe, twenty-seven years old, had moved on to new acquaintances and greater adventures; he no longer thought of the Morlands or Bath. He had no use for such false friends, no patience for a family that had so misled his own. James Morland, the prig, had not been able to handle Belle’s spirits and charm, and would not have been able to keep her in comfort even if he weren’t such a narrow-minded, suspicious bore. But Catherine Morland was even worse, encouraging Thorpe while actually setting her sights on that Tilney fellow; she was a scheming, duplicitous fortune-hunter.
Well, Thorpe had better friends and could find better women. He had no doubt about that. In the meantime, he would do what he always did: amuse himself terrifically.
Henry Crawford
Henry Crawford, eight years old, was an uncommonly self-assured boy. His appearance was nothing to speak of: he was slight and dark and plain, his eyes too small and his mouth too large. His hair was lank. He was thin and bony. There was something odd about the way he walked.
But what he lacked in looks he made up in sheer presence; one did not often meet with such a personality, and certainly not in so young a boy. He was clever and appealing; he knew how to mold himself into different roles, to play-act to please his audience. He was lauded and praised by all of his family, and positively hero-worshiped by his younger sister.
He was, in short, already in possession of the strong foundation on which his future confidence would be built.
***
Henry Crawford, twenty years old, knew well his own power and influence. He found it easy to ingratiate himself with those who could benefit him; his connections were already varied and wide-ranging. He was not a handsome man - he had not grown into his looks; his features remained irregular and disproportionate; he was still thin and undersized - but he enjoyed an unusual degree of popularity with the young ladies for one not blessed with personal beauty. He flirted and flattered, teased and complimented; always carefully walking the line of propriety, never crossing over into attachment, never giving his objects enough hope that he was serious in his pursuits.
It was a game he played well; he had received a thorough education from his uncle, the Admiral. Crawford enjoyed his little flings and he satisfied his appetites with those who would not bring him trouble. He doubted he would ever marry. He was young and rich, with a mysterious and unaccountable allure; the Admiral all but forbade him to give up such gifts by tying himself down to a wife. But if he ever did defy his uncle by falling for the right sort of woman - beautiful and elegant and wealthy - he knew, from the Admiral’s example, that it would not require him to change his ways; his freedom need not be affected.
***
Henry Crawford, twenty-four years old, felt the full consequence of his own hubris. He ignored Maria Rushworth’s eyes, glaring and hate-filled, and took another sip of his port. It had been an odd, destructive sort of year; he had tested his limits too far. He should have contented himself with flirting with the Bertram sisters and wooing sweet little Fanny Price. He should not have tried his luck by winning Mrs. Rushworth’s attentions back to himself. Now he was riddled with scandal, living with a woman he had never loved and had now come to despise.
His confidence in his abilities had taken a blow when Fanny Price persisted in refusing to be his wife, and though it had been a novel excitement, attempting to change her mind and win her over, his attention had started to wander. He was not used to rejection; he wanted an easy win. He never should have allowed himself to be tempted by Mrs. Rushworth’s anger; never should have chased the fleeting high of having her once more under his command; never should have given way to his vanity.
Well, he would get rid of Maria. He was never going to marry her; she would tire of him eventually. He would weather the public disgrace. The stain would fade in time; it would not be a mark against him forever. The loss of Fanny Price would be a harder regret to bear, but that, too, would be overcome. He had been brought low, but he would rise again.
***
Henry Crawford, thirty years old, had always expected to rally, to recover from his infamy; his reformation had come as more of a surprise.
Miss Harriet Bragg had money; that had been the greatest of her attractions and virtues when Henry had first met her. Her family wealth was new and unfashionable, but they were on the ascent; Henry would not quibble with a fortune acquired by trade. The Braggs were from the north, far removed from the gossip that had tarnished Henry’s image for a while. Harriet seemed like a good candidate for a wife.
She had not Fanny Price’s gentle sweetness; she was not as tender-hearted and good as Fanny, nor, Henry suspected, was she the most virtuous maiden in the land. But she had a wry sort of wit about her, a sardonic, unromantic realism that he liked; he doubted she would mind much, if certain stories reached her ears. She would be an agreeable companion. He could live with that.
He had not expected to grow devoted and faithful; he had not intended to change for her the way he had tried to change for Fanny Price. And yet it had been some time now since he had been tempted by another woman. The Admiral, had he still lived, would be ashamed.
Henry felt a pang, now and then, for Fanny, and for all he had thrown away, but could not regret that it brought him Harriet instead.
William Elliot
William Elliot, ten years old, lived in a state of cautious anticipation. Should Sir Walter Elliot continue without a son, William would be the heir. His mother’s hopes were so high that she considered his position as the future baronet to be all but secure. She taught her son how to be generally agreeable; to fawn and to flatter; to win the approval of the connected and powerful. She knew the art well. Her husband was long dead and their branch of the family was the humbler one; she knew her own dependence; she curried favor to survive. It was important that William hone this skill until it became second nature, as reflexive as breathing.
His mother was fortunate: whether through early instruction or intrinsic talent, William was charming in a way that fluctuated to reflect the predilections of whatever crowd he found himself in. It was an ability he would call upon constantly throughout the years.
***
William Elliot, twenty-three years old, was glad that his mother was not alive. She would be appalled to see him disregarding his lifelong training; throwing off Sir Walter without a second thought; refusing to marry Miss Elliot; distancing himself from their grander Elliot connections. He wanted nothing to do with the baronetcy. He would take Kellynch, of course, and gladly (or, at least, he would take all that Kellynch could give), but what was the value in being an Elliot? What did family honor bring him?
It was money that he wanted. He would marry as soon as he could find a woman with enough of it. He would enrich himself and disappoint Miss Elliot’s ambitions, all in one fell swoop. He would shake off the baronet, too, and live in peace until it was time to receive his inheritance.
***
William Elliot, thirty-five years old, found himself in a very different place than he expected to be in a dozen years ago. His wife was dead; he had as much money as he could spend; he now saw the value of a baronetcy.
And, it seemed, a youngish, handsomish widow had her eyes on Sir Walter.
Well, William Elliot wasn’t about to have his baronetcy threatened by a potential future son. He was going to do what he did best: ingratiate and charm and maneuver his way into someone’s good graces, and make things work out to his greatest advantage.
By God, he’d even marry Miss Elliot, if he had to.
He found it embarrassingly easy to be readmitted into the family. Sir Walter, the fool, was only too willing to believe all the silly little apologies and compliments Elliot threw at his feet; Miss Elliot smiled and fluttered her eyelashes and looked quite ready to welcome his advances; the devious Mrs. Clay seemed aware that he saw through all her arts and schemes. Things were going well.
And then Miss Anne Elliot arrived in Bath, and things started looking even better.
***
William Elliot, thirty-seven years old, was philosophical about the way things had turned out. He had not married Anne Elliot, but he had at least managed to separate Mrs. Clay from Sir Walter… by taking her away himself. He had had no intention of keeping her, of course, but she had amused him for a while, and at any rate, she could no longer go running back to Sir Walter. Unless something very unexpected happened, Elliot would likely be baronet. All he had to do was wait.
If nothing else, he had dodged the bullet that was Miss Elliot. He was no worse off than he had been two years ago; indeed, his position was safer now. That was good enough for him.
Frank Churchill
Frank Weston, two years old, was too young to understand the recent changes in his life. He did not know where his mother had gone or why he was saying goodbye to his father. After a gruff kiss and a whispered, “Be a good boy for your aunt and uncle,” he was bustled off into a carriage to join two unfamiliar faces. Strange hands smoothed his hair; a lady’s high, clear voice said, “You are safe now, dearest.” A man gave him a small smile.
Frank looked at them both with wide, bewildered eyes. He did not understand that he was leaving home; he did not know that he would not be back for a very, very long time.
***
Frank Weston, seventeen years old, could not remember life before Yorkshire. He had no recollection of any existence before his current one, and he had no desire to change his situation. He saw his father every year in London and that was enough; Highbury held no interest for him; he did not ache for a homecoming. He was comfortable where he was, brought up as the darling of his aunt and uncle Churchill, groomed to be his uncle’s heir, the pampered little prince of Enscombe.
It mattered very little that his aunt could be difficult to deal with, her temper and her health always uncertain. He did not mind managing her; the rewards for doing so were great. He owed all of his future prosperity to the Churchills. Why on earth would he jeopardize that?
***
Frank Churchill, twenty-three years old, rather enjoyed this secret of his. To have fallen in love and gotten engaged and for no one to know about it… well, there was a thrill to it, an exhilaration that appealed to him. He must sneak around and spin tales and keep everyone misdirected; he must flirt with another young lady - a very pretty one - which was exciting, and he must use all of that young lady’s fanciful conjecturing to his advantage, to confuse everyone further.
It was an embarrassment of riches, to have all of this entertainment and Miss Fairfax, too.
Of course, the intrigue would have to last for a while, as their engagement would need to remain a secret while Mrs. Churchill lived. How they were to keep Miss Fairfax from her fate as a governess in the meantime, he did not know. They would figure something out. But he could not risk angering the Churchills with a marriage that they would undoubtedly consider imprudent. It was one thing to play games in Highbury; it was quite another to face consequences in Yorkshire.
***
Frank Churchill, twenty-seven years old, had had an abrupt and unwelcome revelation over the past several years. As it turned out, when secrets no longer had to be kept, when intrigues grew commonplace, when the first heady rush of romance gave way to reality, excitement was no longer an everyday occurrence. Life plodded on now, day by unremarkable day; his clandestine engagement was replaced by a far less fascinating marriage, complete with a frail wife and a fussy child.
He had been very young when he had married. Perhaps he should not have given up his youth and freedom so easily. Frank still loved Jane, of course. It was just that he did not love his situation.
He’d escaped to his study that evening to avoid the fourth straight week of Jane’s horrifying, raspy cough. It grated on his nerves, making him irritable - it was a ghastly sound - but still more terrible was the thought that this would be the illness that caught her and would not let her go.
He could handle neither the thought nor the noise tonight. He drowned himself in his cups instead, and even as he grew numb, he felt the roots of regret begin to snake in and take hold.
George Wickham
George Wickham, seven years old, already knew, in a childlike way, how much his family depended on the bounty and beneficence of Pemberley. They were fortunate, his father said, that Mr. Darcy was a liberal man and a fond godfather. Their family owed him much.
His father's relationship with Mr. Darcy was a fine start, his mother said, but they should bind the families even closer. How good it would be if George could befriend the boy! Young master Fitzwilliam, the precious and beloved heir, would carry on the Darcy legacy and bless the Wickhams for years to come. George should take advantage of every chance to grow close to him.
But the boys were very different, not natural allies; and, in any case, Lady Anne was loath to allow her darling to associate with the steward's son.
***
George Wickham, eighteen years old, had long since wormed his way into his godfather's heart. It was easy to charm the kind and tender-hearted; Mr. Darcy wanted to believe Wickham was an amiable, upright young man, and it took very little effort for Wickham to maintain that image where Mr. Darcy could see it. His godfather expected to be pleased, and so he was.
Fitzwilliam was another matter. Fitzwilliam was suspicious and superior; he had never warmed to Wickham; he was probably jealous that his father was fond of someone so low and unimportant as the steward's son.
It was a nice story to tell himself, but deep down, Wickham knew the truth. His godfather loved him, but Wickham would never come close to supplanting the heir. Fitzwilliam was perfect, without flaw; the very model of what a young man should be. Though he was stiff and serious and snobbish where his father was easy and affable and warm, and though Wickham's manners and temper mimicked the elder Mr. Darcy's, Wickham would never come close to receiving the sort of affection that was lavished upon Fitzwilliam. He would not be provided for in any meaningful way. He would never be accepted as a second sort of son.
***
George Wickham, twenty-eight years old, was just about sick of being thwarted by Fitzwilliam Darcy. He had forever stuck his nose into Wickham’s business at Eton and Cambridge, and now he had once again shown up where he didn't belong, tracking Wickham through London to demand that Wickham marry Lydia Bennet.
Darcy had that look in his eye, the one that Wickham found intimidating. He clearly hadn't forgotten Wickham’s attempted seduction of Georgiana Darcy last year; he was out for blood and compliance, and Wickham’s position was a weak one.
Might as well take the path of least resistance. Darcy was willing (nay, eager!) to lift him out of the mire. Wickham’s pride was mortified, but he was willing to debase himself for a price.
***
George Wickham, thirty-two years old, could have had it worse. Oh, he would complain about his ill-usage, about how fate conspired against him, about how his lot in life was supposed to have been a better one. There were still plenty of silly young women who were hungry to listen to his tales of woe, to comfort him in his distress, to become passionately devoted to him and his plight.
Wickham may have been a married man, tied down by law to Lydia and their growing family, but he did not let that keep him from doing what he wanted. Domestic life was not his particular talent. Lydia could not keep him from drinking and gambling and wenching.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, however, could - to a degree. Wickham had a thin line to walk; if he even inched over it, Darcy could ruin him in an instant. As long as Wickham stayed fairly quiet about the worst of his misconduct, reigned himself in just enough that Darcy would not hear about it, he was safe. Wickham was fairly sure that Darcy was too honorable to destroy him - and too unwilling, for his wife's sake - but he wasn't about to test the boundaries of the man’s liberality. Wickham had freedom enough; he wouldn't try for more and risk the consequences.
It was a tolerable existence; he could live with it. He only wished that he had not ceded so much power to Fitzwilliam Darcy.