The Knights of Derbyshire
By DJ Clawson
This story continues the series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point, you really have to go read the others before trying to read this one. New characters abound. This is story 6.
Introduction
We're back! First, there's a website for a revised version of the old stories, a character guide, and a forum where you can bug me about my inconsistencies:
www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com / myseries.htm
Since mainly spammers seem to join my forum, if you do decide to join and comment on the goodies hidden in the forums (like character pictures and short stories), drop me an email and let me know to approve your user ID.
In our last story, we learned that George Wickham the Second/Third (depending on how you look at it, but the point is he's Darcy's nephew) is more like his uncle than his father. Mrs. Bennet passed away shortly after Mary Bennet's marriage to Dr. Andrew Bertrand, and Mr. Bennet closed Longbourn and retreated to be with his favorite daughter in Derbyshire. Dr. Maddox retired from his position as royal physician and was granted the professorship at Cambridge, and was knighted for his loyal service to the crown. Gregoire Bellamont was cast out of the Order of Saint Benedict and wandered around in a daze before falling in love with Caitlin MacKenna, and married her after she was finished mourning her late husband. They had a son, named Patrick after the saint.
It's now 1823. George Wickham is 19 and attending Oxford. Geoffrey Darcy is 17 and finishing Eton, and Georgiana Bingley is out in society. This is the turning point in the series, where the "kids" begin to share the spotlight with the "adults," in terms of taking responsibility, or attempting to do so. The results are pretty disastrous, but it wouldn't be a very interesting story if everything went smoothly, now would it?
I'm gonna knock my "twice a week or 10 comments, whichever comes first" policy up to 15 and see how that goes. You'll see why in later chapters. Otherwise I'll be posting every day and my beta (Brandy) needs room to breathe.
Chapter 1 – The Problem with Mr. Wickham
"Master Darcy," said the servant. "Mr. Wickham here to see you."
At this hour? Darcy removed his spectacles and put down his pen. "Send him in."
The servant opened the door, and George Wickham the Third entered, his face still flushed from the cold, dark circles under his eyes. "Uncle Darcy." He bowed slowly, like a man exhausted.
"George." He rose to greet him. "Please sit. You obviously require refreshment. Do you have a preference?"
"Whiskey, sir, if it's not too much trouble."
Darcy nodded, and the servant poured them two glasses and then quietly exited. Darcy took his own as George held his glass contemplatively for a moment before taking a large gulp. It struck Darcy that whiskey – single malt – had always been his father's preference, over brandy or gin. In looks as well, the son had the unfortunate favoring towards his father, though not quite the spitting image of him. In manners, he was entirely different. Shy, exceedingly proper, uncomfortable in unknown company – in this respect, he was a Darcy. The handicap, Darcy decided, was preferable to having his father's nature.
George was silent for a time, and Darcy thought it best not to press a man obviously in some distress. George was only a year older than his own son, and never came to Pemberley un-requested or with a complaint, as his mother did often enough. Whatever it was, the man – barely more than a boy, at eight and ten – was obviously hesitant to say it.
When he did speak, he made no attempt to be anything but blunt. "I was tossed from Oxford."
Without a hint of judgment, Darcy asked, "Why?"
"I was absent for my exams, thereby failing all of my courses." He took another sip. "The head was not understanding of my excuse and I refused to resort to bribery to be allowed to take them late."
"And your excuse?"
George took another sip. "I was in Scotland. At Gretna Green." He assiduously avoided his uncle's shocked expression. "I was there to prevent the marriage of my sister to a man who was quickly revealed to be after nothing but her fortune."
Isabella Wickham was only fifteen, but already out, and her inheritance was considerable thanks to the trust fund. "Your parents knew nothing of this?"
"They encouraged it."
Darcy settled back in his chair, his mind trying to work itself around this indecipherable comment. "Mr. Wickham, I apologize, but you will have to explain that."
"Unfortunately, I cannot do so without slandering either of my parents," George said. "Which I am not wont to do. But I suppose it is necessary."
"It is."
George once again had to ready himself, as if his own words weighed him down. "Since I came into my fortune, I admit that relations with my parents have been ... strained. To be straight, my mother requested a portion of it for the family needs, and I thought the sum outrageous."
Exactly something Lydia would do, Darcy thought, but kept that to himself for the moment.
"Mr. Bradley has an income, and has a responsibility to provide for his – own children, which have always been regarded differently from myself and Isabel."
Of course, money had torn the family apart. It was not unforeseeable. Darcy had set up trust funds only for the Wickham children, being quarter Darcys, but not for anyone else, including Lydia's three children with her new husband, to which he was only connected to by marriage. The older children had a fortune and the younger ones had a father. "I understand. Please go on."
"So – as I said, things became strained. And my sister wanted to go out and my mother didn't discourage her, and I was at Oxford and couldn't prevent it, though I did speak to Mr. Bradley by post and asked that he say something against it, which I have no idea if he did. Anyway, a few weeks before my exams, I received a post that my sister was engaged, and they requested that I – help pay for the wedding."
It was ludicrous, but that had surely occurred to George, too. The responsibility laid with Isabella's parents, not her brother. Her own inheritance, of course, she had no access to. It would only be accessible to her future husband, and a fortune it was.
"I said that I would, despite my own feelings on the matter, if only they would delay the wedding until after the term so I could attend. They refused. She was too eager to marry, they said. Why should I deny my sister this pleasure?" He shook his head. "I didn't think I was being unreasonable."
"You were not," Darcy said carefully.
"A day before I was to sit for my first exam, I received a letter from my sister, saying that since her parents refused to put in any money for the wedding and her intended had no funds of his own whatsoever – which made me extremely suspicious immediately – she was going to Gretna Green to be married, as it was cheapest, and had the permission of our parents. Obviously, I dropped everything and rode to Scotland, making the ceremony by a few hours. In that time, I decided to test her fiancé by saying that her inheritance was considerably smaller than she knew, to see if their love would hold up to any financial strain. Apparently it would not, because he left immediately."
Darcy had only the will to nod at this point, overcome with his own emotions.
"My sister was distraught. She could not return to Town alone, so I went with her. Upon our arrival, Mother threw a fit. I had ruined my sister's happiness. I was ruining the family by refusing to contribute anything of my grand fortune. And, I admit I was a bit ... exhausted and I might have said some things to my parents which, upon retrospection, were not entirely respectful. So they tossed me out of the house.
"I went back to Oxford and tried to explain myself and my situation, but the head would not have it. So I was told to leave. And now ..." He looked down, then up at his uncle. "I will have to set myself up in Town somewhere. I don't know."
"No," Darcy said firmly, rising from his chair and walking around the desk. "You will stay here until this is all sorted out. Which it shall be." He patted the red-eyed George on the back.
"I am sorry to inconvenience you – "
"You should not be. You are my nephew and it is no inconvenience." My only relief is that you came here! Or he didn't know what would have happened to him. "The servants will see to your things and get you set up. Now if you will excuse me, I must go inform my wife, who has already retired. Geoffrey may still be up. And if you pass the library, you may want to check if your grandfather has fallen asleep in there again."
"Thank you, Uncle Darcy."
Maybe it was just exhaustion, but the relief on George Wickham's face was not complete. It was, however, significant. Darcy hid his own relief and showed his nephew out of the room before heading upstairs to rouse his wife and tell her of their new guest.
George Wickham was shown where his room was to be and his baggage unloaded, small as it was, as he had ridden from Town with only as much as his horse could carry. To his surprise, he was not ready for sleep yet, still rocking from the horse. He wandered downstairs. It had begun to snow, and most of Pemberley was closed up for the night, but the library's fire was still smoldering. There was Mr. Bennet, in the armchair by the fire, half-emptied glass of wine on the table beside him and a book still in his hands.
"Grandfather Bennet," George said quietly, but he had to physically nudge him to rouse him, at which point the senior Bennet mumbled something and straightened his glasses so he could get a proper look at his intruder.
"George," said Mr. Bennet. His hair had been white for as long as George had known him, but it was even more wild, and his voice not as bold, though his tongue was not lessened by a senile brain. Mr. Edmund Bennet, of almost three quarters of a century in years, had a mind not dulled by time, even if his body was. "What a sight you are! I was not expecting you."
"My arrival was abrupt," George said. "I was told to see if you'd fallen asleep in the library again."
"There are certainly worse places to fall asleep than Pemberley's library. Nonetheless, for the sake of my back and my neck, I ought to perhaps retire more properly." With George's considerable help, he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. "My son is so good to dismiss his servants when it is cold and dark. Too good perhaps, though not the worst qualities in a man."
They did quickly locate the servants as they left the library, who were ready to escort Mr. Bennet to his chambers. "Good night, George."
"Goodnight, Grandfather."
George did not wander the darkened hallways of Pemberley, heading back up the stairs. In the children's wing, he caught sight of Gawain, Geoffrey's hound, curled up obediently outside the half-opened door. "Hello, Sir Gawain," he said to the dog, who recognized him with a growl of approval. "What's this?" he tugged the fabric out of the dog's mouth, which it only gave up with some fight.
"One of my socks, I'd imagine," said Geoffrey Darcy, emerging in the doorway. He raised a glass to his cousin. "Mr. Wickham."
"Mr. Darcy," George replied, and they both chuckled before embracing.
"It is good to see you," Geoffrey said, "for whatever reason you're here. G-d, I haven't spoken to anyone my age since I returned. Come in, if you'd like."
George entered the chambers of Geoffrey Darcy, heir to Pemberley and Derbyshire. And impressive they were – this was just a sitting room, with a desk for writing and piles of old schoolbooks stuffed on the shelves. "Here," Geoffrey said, offering a seat across from him at the writing table. "Would you like a drink?"
"Sure." He had already had the whiskey, but unlike his cousin, he could hold his liquor. Geoffrey poured him a glass of wine from his own little personal stock. "What about Charles? Isn't he around?"
"He's been visiting his Aunt and Uncle Maddox since we returned from Eton," he said. Charles Bingley the Third was one year younger than Geoffrey and a year behind in school. Geoffrey was finishing up his last year before Cambridge. "He came back today. Or yesterday, depending on the time." He took a large sip of his wine. "So – what brings you to Derbyshire? Other than the complete lack of things to do."
"You could go to Lambton."
"And do what? Everyone knows me at Lambton. Everyone in the county knows me, or has at least heard of me. At least you – " He broke off. "Well, I wouldn't say your name would be unknown."
"Father did have a bit of a reputation, or so I understand," George said with a smile. He had made his peace with it years ago. No, he would not be making use of any of Lambton's female offerings. His visit to the Darcys would be an exercise in celibacy. "What about your usual other half? Georgie?"
Geoffrey scowled and leaned back. "Georgie's a – she's a proper lady now. She's different."
"Really?"
"Really." But when he saw George did not relent, he added, "She presents herself as one. So no, I do not know what she's really up to. Even she won't tell me. She went out; she does all of the ... proper lady things they have to do ... and that is it. As far as anyone knows."
So Geoffrey's foul mood was explained. George nodded and did not offer further commentary. "So how is your family?"
"Fine, fine." Geoffrey pat his hound on the head as he trotted up next to his owner. "Anne is rather eager to go out."
"She's young yet."
"So Mother keeps reminding her. At least Anne has the sense not to mention it in earshot of Father, unless she wants to get his mood up. Which can, at times, be amusing. As far as he's concerned, they're all to nunneries." He paused. "What about Isabel? I heard she entered society in the fall."
"When she turned fifteen, yes," George said.
"Where is she now? She usually follows you around. Are you intending to stay for Christmas?" He frowned. "Why are you here? Not that you're unwelcome."
"The story is rather long," he said, "and depressing. If you want to hear it, more wine is definitely called for."
Geoffrey, obviously starved for any sort of conversation with a peer, refilled George's glass, then his own. Slowly but surely the whole tale came out. George was surprised with the ease that he said it, having already told it once to his Uncle Darcy under more trying circumstances and with less alcohol in his overtired system. He had saved his sister. He might have lost a term at Oxford but there was always just repeating the term, or changing to Cambridge. Uncle Darcy would make everything right. That was what he always did, and in a drink-induced haze, George believed it.
Geoffrey listened to the tale with compassion, saying little but always being supportive. It was really beyond either of their scopes to understand, and at the end he had to add, "Did you really say that to your own mother?"
George found himself smiling. "Unfortunately."
"Called her a – "
"Oh G-d, don't say it. I never want to use that word again. I never want to hear that word again." He emptied his glass again. "So here I am; flunked out of University, tossed out of my own home by my own mother, and drunk off cheap wine with my cousin because I have nowhere else to go and no one else to talk to."
"This wine is anything but cheap!" Geoffrey said. "Don't smudge the honor of Pemberley! But seriously – you have money, education, a family – all right, an extended family – that will take care of you, and you saved your sister from the worst kind of disaster a woman can befall. Your lot's not that bad."
George smiled tiredly. "I suppose you're right."
Next Chapter ... Fashion in Kirkland
