Chapter Text
1805
I checked my pocket watch again. The thin black needle pointing to XI signified that I was perfectly on time. Wickham, of course, was late. I looked around, gazing frantically at every passerby hoping my friend would emerge amongst the crowd. My palms started to sweat and, defensively, I pulled out my watch again trying to appear as though I studied it intensely, all the time praying Wickham would appear to relieve me of my agitation.
Would I always feel this uncomfortable regarding my own existence or was it simply the normal affliction that comes with being twenty and two years old trying to emerge into society? But no, Wickham never seemed to shy away from attention or wish to be invisible in the face of a crowd. In fact, he very much seemed to thrive under those conditions. I, however, willed the ground to open up a chasm beneath me in such circumstances.
“My dear Darcy, I do wish you wouldn’t wait around in the open like this. Would you not take a seat inside?” Wickham strolled over, pulling a pipe from his waistcoat. His blond hair was getting longer, it now came past his cheekbones. I had teased him that he was beginning to look like a pirate.
I myself am best, when least in company, thought I, in regard to his question but replied dryly, “I enjoy being outside.”
Wickham gazed around at the meek, desolate day. The rain drizzled, the sky sombre. A crow flitted from a rooftop with a desolate caw. It was late December, Christmas had just gone by and the weather was turning even bleaker. Perhaps it would snow soon if the rain ever let up.
“Yes… the most wonderful weather we’re having,” Wickham said grimly, “Shall we enter?”
We ducked into the coffeehouse.
The coffeehouse was full to the brim with throngs of men gathering around in groups, pointing at wads of papers and notes scattered about the tables. Their eyes intensely finding each other, mouths working to improve their companion’s mind or impress some dogma upon them. One of the gentlemen flickered his attention briefly to me and I quickly looked away, pretending to be busy searching the room. The coffee that sat amongst the cluttered tables were left forgotten by the conversing gentlemen, a cold black sludge in delicate bone-china cups decorated with yellow hyacinth. My throat was dry and when I swallowed my saliva was also a cold sludge.
We took a table in the corner.
“Now Darcy, I think you will be pleased,” Wickham said, adding snuff to his pipe and preparing to light it.
“And why is it that you think that?”
I most definitely wouldn’t be pleased with anything Wickham had to profess. I hadn’t been pleased with anything in my life.
“Well don’t look so melancholy or I shan’t tell you.”
“Wickham, must we always play these games?” My focus darted around the room and when I made my way back to Wickham, I noticed him studying me.
“What is it about you and crowds of people?” He paused, “Perhaps you won’t be pleased with what I have to say after all.”
Wickham sat back in his seat, eyes boring into me. I clenched my hands into fists under the table. Wickham paused, waiting for me to answer. When I didn’t, he said, “Well, unfortunately for you, I have sought out a party for us.”
My stomach dropped. I must have looked positively seasick for Wickham continued hastily, “Now, now my dear friend do not get yourself all worked up.”
“I am not–” I said through gritted teeth, “–worked up.”
At this moment the group standing around the table next to us let out a loud commotion and one of the gentlemen stepped too far back, bumping into Wickham’s chair.
“Watch it you devil!” Wickham cried out as he sprung from his seat, “Watch where you’re stepping god dammit.”
My heart sped up at the confrontation, I hated when Wickham got irritated. He had a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later.
The other gentleman gave a series of apologies to which Wickham waved off and regained his chair.
He turned back to me, “Dreadfully sorry for that commotion dear Darcy. These people should behave better. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
He continued the conversation we were having before interrupted, “So…we will simply show up, do the rounds, and we can tell your father we’ve successfully got a headstart on announcing ourselves into society.”
“Oh please Wickham, he’s more your father than mine. We both know he’s more proud to announce you into society as his son than I. I may as well be invisible. And did we not successfully do that at Christmas?” I breathed a sigh.
“Darcy, do not be ridiculous. I would take a fraction of your so-called invisibility over the constant scrutiny.”
I could barely hear him, I was desperately searching for the nearest exit.
“Who’s house is it? And when?”
“Oh some new fellow just purchased the Highworth Estate. A Sir Benjamin or other and it’s not for a week. Twelfth Night. A masquerade ball. The most glorious celebration of them all!” Wickham paused, “But that’s hardly important. What’s important are the ladies we will meet there.”
Wickham grinned mischievously and I felt the blood drain from my face.
After downing several cups of coffee, we stumbled back out into the streets of Cambridge. My head was thick with the effects of the caffeine taking over, my nerves even more jittery.
“This way,” Wickham said, as he sliced through pedestrians like a sword and I followed him down a narrow street. We turned the corner and the black framed windows of the tailoring shop came into view.
Of course. My father would expect us to look our best and it would be solely my job to represent our wealth. I'd be expected to purchase a new suit, but something told me that Wickham’s reasons for purchasing a new outfit were a bit more self indulgent. He was definitely far more excited about the prospect than I was, his eyes lit up when he took in the array of clothing as we stepped over the threshold into the shop.
“Darcy, you look at me as though I have committed a crime,” Wickham said whilst stroking the ugliest patterned cravat I’d ever seen hanging nearby.
I replied half under my breath, “It might very well be a crime if you intend to pair anything with that cravat.”
Wickham wasn’t listening. He was ogling a pair of shoes.
The shop was small and crowded. All around were ready-to-wear suits hanging from rails and also a series of different fabric samples. At the end of the shop was the tailor's bench, sheets of linen draping over it and scattered needles, measuring tapes and various other sewing tools. To the right of the bench, was another counter that a young boy sat behind. Upon seeing us he leapt up and rushed through a door behind him.
He reappeared with, who I assumed was the tailor, from the back room.
“Ah gentlemen, what can I help you with today?”
The boy, who must be his apprentice, stood idle behind the counter waiting for orders.
“Good afternoon. We are in need of new evening wear if you please,” Wickham stepped forward.
There was then a foray of measuring tape, various cloths and fabrics, and the pinning of linens. The apprentice was sent for different samples; fabrics of silk, cotton, wool and fine woven linens of sheer crepe, silk taffeta, satin and velvet. Not to mention the choices of colour. For the shirt, pure white or off-white? The waistcoat, an ivory perhaps or light blush, or beige? Would I like brushed gold embroidery here, or buttons encrusted with diamonds or jewels?
It was exhausting. And all the while, Wickham seemed in his element. He reveled in the expensive materials, stroking each fabric with a delicate hand, smoothing out the creases and grinning enthusiastically as the tailor explained the richness of the fibres.
“This is the most luxurious piece we have.”
“Extraordinary. What do you think, Darcy?”
I sat up straighter in the easy chair I’d taken to after the first hour of preening, “Yes it’s fine.”
I’d chosen my suit already, a classic; white shirt paired with an ivory waistcoat, black cotton knee breeches with silken stockings, finished with a black tailcoat with subtle silver embroidery decorating the edges.
“Fine? Is that all you can say? This is pure silk satin!”
Before I could answer, the tailor was turning him around again and measuring some more. Wickham carried on talking, arching his neck around, “You’re a gentleman Darcy, sometimes I wish you would act like it.”
I almost laughed. Where had I heard that before?
“I do act like a gentleman. I just don’t need to spend as much time as you to preen over myself.”
The tailor finished up his measurements and retreated to the back room. The apprentice boy sat atop the workbench sewing away at some other order.
“How about this?” Wickham spun round, whipping a top hat seemingly out of nowhere and placing it upon his head.
Now I did laugh.
“What? Doesn’t suit me?” He started laughing too. He began prancing around the shop, doing extravagant bows with over-dramatic “how do you do’s.” The apprentice stifled a giggle.
Wickham did one final spin then removed the hat, placing it atop my head. He took a step back and his face dropped.
“Well that’s just unfair. It looks magnificent on you.”
I scoffed, “I doubt that entirely.”
“No… I think you should wear it. It suits you very well my dear friend.”
He was being sincere. It struck me suddenly how although Wickham could be rash, he was always there for me. He really was like a brother to me. It was moments like this that sharpened the horror of what, at the time, I didn’t know was to come.
The tailor returned and went over finalising the pattern for Wickham’s suit and, finally, after deciding on the style, the colour, the material of the waistcoat and tailcoat, we were finished in the shop. He had chosen an ivory shirt of the softest linen, a cream waistcoat with golden threads of embroidery, deepest navy breeches with matching coat and silk satin stockings, the cravat to match. Maybe my suit would be too dull in comparison. What would my father prefer? I already knew the answer, of course, it didn't matter what I chose. It would always be the wrong choice.
Before making the journey home, Wickham had one last request—a haircut.
*
The journey from Cambridge to our home was a near four-hour carriage journey and was filled with Wickham exasperatedly trying to convince me of the merits to attending the party and chastising me for being “so rude” to the tailor.
“I despise being fussed over.”
Wickham laughed, running his fingers through his freshly cut hair, “I don’t believe that for one second.”
“What will you do when Mr Darcy requires you to seek a wife?” He continued after a moment of silence. His eyes sought me out, his focus on me as one of a marksman looking down the scope of a gun.
The thought had obviously crossed my mind. It was only right for a gentleman of my age to start thinking about carrying on the family name.
“Then…I will seek a wife,” I said, turning to look out the carriage window. The landscape whirled past in a blur.
“Well yes, I assume you will. Only… you have not exactly spoken to a woman let alone court one.”
I turned my attention back inside the carriage, “Are you suggesting that I cannot speak to those of the fairer sex?”
Wickham raised an eyebrow, “I am suggesting that you cannot speak to those of any sex–except for me, that is.”
He chuckled.
An uncomfortableness started to snake through my body.
“I am of a great and wealthy family. I’m sure I will have no trouble procuring a wife, Wickham,” I said sharply.
He shook his head, trying to hide his smile, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
I crossed my arms and stared out the window again. The countryside zoomed by as the carriage rolled into Derbyshire. Soon the gorgeous hillsides sloped down to reveal the lengths of gardens and grounds that made up Pemberley estate.
There was the lake that reflected the grey clouds like a mirror, the grasslands damp from rain making each strand a darkened green. As we got closer to the house, the hedges appeared larger, manicured to perfection by the gardeners, perfect squares in a row. The fountain in the centre of the cobblestoned patio gave a serene patter as the thin stream of water sprinkled from the sculpture. The giant house stood colossal among the freshness of nature surrounding it. In the distance beyond the lake, the woods were a darkened shadow.
The driver halted the carriage outside the front doors of the great house and we disembarked, as servants arrived to escort the horses away. Georgiana came running down the steps from the house.
“Is it true, is it true?” She screeched, reaching us and grinning excitedly, “Are we invited to a party?”
“We are invited to a party Georgie,” I said, “you are not.”
Her face fell.
Wickham chortled, “You’re far too young to be out in society just yet, my dearest Georgiana.”
She was about to argue when he added, “however, I can offer you a dance or two right now.”
He held out his hand to her and, now blushing and smiling, she took it. He spun her around as she giggled, her feet causing little splashes on the wet ground. Her white frock seemed to shine against the dreary grey backdrop of the grounds, her blonde hair hanging down around her face like a veil.
“Perhaps you are ready for your first party after all, you dance extraordinarily well.”
Georgiana’s face lit up and she turned to me.
I felt suddenly irritated.
“He’s only teasing you, Georgie. You’re twelve years old, our father will not allow you to go to a party. Not until you are at least Fifteen,” I said before she could get her hopes up, and glaring at Wickham for attempting to.
“It is only what’s proper, I suppose. But you are skilled beyond your years in dancing,” Wickham twirled her around two more times to which she blushed profusely at, before we all headed into the house.
“Ah Sir Darcy, and Sir Wickham. Welcome home,” The butler said, receiving our coats. Georgiana ran off to play by herself.
“Is Mr Darcy here?” I asked.
“He is out taking care of business I’m afraid, but he did leave a message,” He paused, looking sort of helpless “—Er, for Wickham.”
“Oh but Mr Darcy sir, just to remind you…” The butler continued, “That you are expected to set off to Rosings tomorrow to dine with Lady Catherine for New Years. With your father.”
My heart sank.
Wickham and the butler turned into conversation and, clearly dismissed, I left the room seeking the comfort of my own space. As I climbed the stairs I heard Wickham say, “I do everything he wants of me, I don’t wish to—” and then a slammed door.
Sitting in my own chambers, I held a book in my hands but stared numbly at the fire I’d gotten a maid to make up for me. A headache was beginning to form at the corners of my mind, probably due to the cups of coffee earlier, and my thoughts worried over the importance of upcoming events. Life at Cambridge had been a joy for the academic mind such as myself; I’d deeply enjoyed the thrill of seeking out knowledge, learning Latin and Greek, arithmetic, and losing myself in the world of literature. But I knew the expectations that would fall upon me in the coming year.
Wickham was right, my father would expect me to start looking for a wife. My heart stuttered at the prospect. Because Wickham was also right that I had never so much as said two words to a lady.
And now with the dinner at Rosings tomorrow, he would surely expect me to make advances with Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne. We had been betrothed since infants…or so my father claimed. I liked Anne as much as I could having barely spent any time with her besides in our childhood. I couldn’t imagine marrying her.
A bit later there came a knock at my chambers. Wickham poked his head around the door.
“Hello…” He said, coming into the room and sitting down at the edge of my bed opposite me in my chair. He let out a sigh.
“What is the matter?”
He gazed wistfully at the fire, “Do you ever wish you were someone else?”
I took in a sharp breath.
“Do not misunderstand me Darcy, I… am grateful to your father, I have my whole life to be thankful for to him. I know I should be…but I…”
I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t really know what he was trying to say exactly. I had always felt that if it were possible, I would switch places with him if it meant I would receive the love and pride my father seemed to boast of him and never of me.
He cleared his throat, “Anyway, it’s not why I came up here. Would you like me to accompany you to Rosings tomorrow?”
I lifted my face up, “Would you?”
“Yes Darcy, of course, I know I enjoy torturing you but I could never be so cruel as to make you suffer Lady Catherine by yourself.”
“But would you not want to spend New Years Eve with your parents?”
He raised his eyebrow, “Is that even a question, Darcy. Of course I would much rather spend it with you.”
He pushed himself up from the bed, continuing, “Let’s see how much debauchery we can get up to under the watchful eye of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
He gave me a playful shove, then quit the room.
I stared at the flickers of flames in the hearth until the sun sank well below the horizon. I let myself sink deeper into the chair, the book now closed on my lap. Through the window, the stars speckled the sky and a heavy dusk settled on Pembereley estate. I tried to clear my mind but the eventuality of tomorrow's proceedings formulated a dense fog behind my eyes. Somewhere in the forest, a fox let out a mournful cry.