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It was a hot late-summer day, and the stream running through Pemberley’s grounds seemed to have been infected by the sense of lethargy pervading the air. It flowed sluggishly, the foliage of the tree branches hanging low over the riverbed giving the water a greenish tint. Now and then, the barest breath of a breeze rustled through the treetops, but apart from this, no sound but the occasional call of a bird and the busy hum of various insects disturbed the pleasant stillness.
On the riverbank, two young gentlemen appeared to have abandoned even the pretence of fishing in favour of lounging in the comfortable shade of an old oak. The taller and darker-haired man sprawled languidly against the trunk of the tree; the other, a little slighter of build but no less handsome, rested prone in the grass with his head pillowed in his companion’s lap. Their hats and coats lay in a careless pile not far off, along with a pair of fishing rods and a landing-net.
“I wish,” said the young man leaning against the tree, “that I would never have to move from this place again.”
“As do I,” agreed the other man drowsily, eyes closed, “except to take another dip in the river if it becomes too hot.”
The first man made a sound of assent, running his fingers through the other’s hair in a leisurely caress. He remained silent for a moment, but then, in a more hesitant tone, continued: “Wickham, do you ever think about what we shall do after this summer? About” – he waved a hand to indicate their comfortably dishevelled state – “all this?”
This time, Wickham’s eyes slid open to squint up at his companion. “No,” he replied in apparent unconcern. “Thinking is a foolish endeavour, when one has more pleasant ways to occupy oneself.” He shifted a little, and one hand drifted up to run suggestively along the other man’s jaw.
Wickham’s companion, however, was not to be so easily distracted. “Perhaps you might like it better if you ever gave it a try,” he retorted, grasping the distracting fingers – but then undermined his words by bringing the captured hand to his lips. “I am trying to plan for the future – our future. It will require some consideration, you know, to arrange matters in a way that does not attract gossip—”
“Oh, pooh,” Wickham interrupted him airily. “That is nothing to worry about. We shall go off to Cambridge and amuse ourselves for a year or two. Then, once we are of age, we’ll find a pair of sisters to marry – rich and handsome ones, of course. You will settle at Pemberley, and I shall take the grandest house in Kympton, and on summer days like this, we’ll leave our wives to take tea together and come here with a bottle of wine to make merry.” A lewd gesture indicated clearly what sort of merry-making he was envisioning.
His companion, appearing torn between amusement and exasperation, demanded, “Will you be serious for once?”
“No,” declared Wickham unrepentantly. “You, my dear Darcy, are serious enough for the both of us. It falls to me to ensure that you do not think too much.” He pushed himself into a seated position. “But if you insist, I suppose we may practice our future wooing of those heiresses.” With a disarming grin, he reached out to pluck a dandelion from the ground. He proffered it to Darcy, fluttering his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and—”
The recitation was abruptly cut off by a shove from Darcy. Wickham, with a theatrical air, collapsed back into the grass. Clutching his hands to his heart, he cried, “Ah! My lady has rejected me! I shall perish in agony—”
“You are an ass, Wickham,” declared Darcy. His sternness, however, was more than a little belied by the twitching of his lips.
Wickham grinned up at him. “Yes, and that is why you love me so well.” He reached up to grasp Darcy’s arm and pull him down into the grass, and after only a token protest, Darcy surrendered. Serious conversations could wait. After all, it was summer, they were young and in love, and autumn felt very far away.
The stream was dark under the dreary sky. Darcy strode swiftly along the familiar path, still wet from the previous night’s rain. Mud spattered his boots and the cold air burned in his throat and lungs, but he pressed on nonetheless, craving what little release the exertion could grant him from the painful jumble of his emotions.
This was certainly not the first time that he and Wickham had parted with harsh words and bitter feelings, but Darcy hoped – prayed – that it had been the last. Perhaps the three thousand pounds he had paid would speed Wickham far enough on his way that he would never think to look back. Perhaps they were finally free of each other for good.
Once, such a thought would have been unimaginable. Once, Darcy would have given almost anything to keep Wickham by his side. Yet today he had gladly paid a third of his yearly income for the pleasure of never seeing the man again.
The trees, devoid of leaves, stood silent and dark against the grey sky. The contrast to the warm, sunny days of memory could hardly have been greater. Nevertheless, Darcy’s mind was inexorably drawn back to that one, glorious summer of five years past. At the time, he had thought it merely the beginning of something even better, the prelude to a lasting alliance. Instead, it had been the beginning of the end; a brief, brilliant blossoming, never meant to last.
Had the seeds of future heartbreak already been sown back then? Should he have perceived, in Wickham’s carefree disregard for any planning or foresight, the signs of a temperament that would always choose the pleasure of the current moment over the rewards of discipline and exertion? Should it have occurred to him that a man who jested so flippantly about breaking his marriage vows might not give much weight to other promises either?
He did not know. Perhaps it was only the foolishness of hindsight; perhaps he was imagining portents that had never been there to see. Yet he could not help but suspect that Cambridge, and the sudden freedom from parental supervision that it had entailed, had only unearthed some fundamental difference in their characters – that the grounds for whatever had thrust them on such different paths must have been laid long before.
Darcy had applied himself to the pursuit of academic honours. Wickham, with equal determination, had pursued gambling, drink and general dissolution. Wickham had accused Darcy of turning into a bore; Darcy had not deigned to conceal his disapproval of Wickham’s imprudent and increasingly immoral habits. They had argued, made up, argued again – and inevitably, the chasm between them had widened. By the next summer, they had been all but strangers to each other.
And now, with the passing of both their fathers, the final lingering ties between them had at long last been cut. Till death do us part, indeed. Perhaps, one day, Darcy would be able to find amusement in the irony.
Still, there was also a profound relief in this final farewell. There would be no more quarrels and disappointments, and no more forced pretence of civility in front of their fathers. Whatever Wickham did next – and Darcy harboured no illusions of his actually intending to study the law – it would be no business of Darcy’s.
The stream was swollen after the recent rains. If one or two saltier drops happened to fall into its waters, they were swiftly carried off.
It was autumn, and summer felt very far away.