Page 61 of Ashes and Understanding
“I am sorry, Fitz,” said Wickham. “He could be...demanding, but he was a good man. Fair. Better than most.”
“Yes,” Darcy replied stiffly.
A silence stretched between them—not the companionable kind they once knew, but brittle, taut with all the things unsaid. Wickham shifted his weight, then leaned an elbow on the back of a nearby chair.
“So,” he said at last, breaking the silence, “why am I here?”
“It seems my father has left you the living at Kymptom.” Darcy reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a sealed envelope. “Along with a bequest of a thousand pounds.”
Wickham gaped, then uttered a sharp, incredulous laugh. "A living? Fitz, you must be joking. You know I would never make a good clergyman. The whole parish would be scandalized before the end of my first sermon."
"Then what do you propose?" Darcy had asked, his tone even.
“The law, I think. It is respectable enough, and I have always had a good mind for argument.” Wickham paused, his smile fading just slightly. “But studying the law, well—it is not exactly inexpensive.”
Darcy folded his arms. “Not the military?”
Wickham scoffed. “Please. You know I have never had the stomach for rough sleeping and battlefield horrors. No, I am better suited to something...more civilized.”
I knew it, Darcy thought to himself. There it was. That subtle manipulation—Wickham’s old talent for turning a request into a favor owed, a failing into a charm.
“Five thousand pounds should set me up for the schooling and lodging in London.”
“Three,” Darcy said promptly, having already been prepared, “in addition to the one thousand in the bequest. Four total.”
“Done.”
Darcy handed over the envelope, and Wickham opened it. Upon seeing the bank note already made out for four thousand pounds, he smirked. “Well, Fitz, it seems you know me better than I know myself.”
As he exited the room, Wickham turned back to Darcy, his face solemn. “You may not believe it, Fitz, but I promise I am going to prove myself.”
A knock at the door interrupted Darcy’s memories. “Enter,” he called, leaning forward once more and retrieving his pen to sign the final letter.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” said a maid, “but there is a caller for you.”
“This early in the morning?” Darcy asked in surprise. “Who is it?”
“He did not leave a name, sir, but he’s waiting in the front parlor. Said you would know him.”
Darcy stood, frowning, but he set aside the letters, straightened his waistcoat, and made his way down the main staircase.
The door to the front parlor stood ajar, and as he stepped inside, his suspicions were confirmed. George Wickham stood at the hearth, glancing over a portrait on the wall with an air of easy familiarity.
Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose. “Of course.”
Wickham turned with a grin. “Fitz. It has been a long time. How have you been? How is Georgiana?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Darcy sighed. “It is too early for social niceties. How much do you want?”
Wickham’s smile faded, replaced by something quieter. “Nothing. That is, I do not need any money.”
Darcy blinked. “No money?”
“No money.”
Flummoxed, Darcy asked, “Then what—why the uniform? Why are you in the uncivilized militia rather than studying law as you once claimed?”
“Ah.” Wickham rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I can see why you thought I must be here in search of funds. I am making a mess of this already…May I sit? To explain?”
