When Anne had declared herself tired enough to retire to their room to rest before dinner, Wickham had excused the both of them from sitting any longer in the parlour with Darcy and Elizabeth. He was not tired, himself, and having ensured his wife was not truly unwell, merely tired, and seen her contentedly sleeping, he had sought some sort of entertainment of his own. He did not care to read, and certainly was not inclined to retreat back to the parlour and seek conversation with either Mr or Mrs Darcy, and instead fell to exploring the house that had once upon a time been as familiar to him as his own.
It has not changed so very much! he remarked to himself, as he prowled the corridors in the East Wing, recalling a hundred childhood stories with each antique he passed, dredging up the personal histories of those ancient Darcy ancestors immortalised in portraits that lined the wall. He slowed to a stop before one, in particular, recognising the stern brow of Fitzwilliam Darcy in his father's features, albeit softened by the kindness that gentleman had always exhibited.
What a pity his son did not inherit his generosity along with his scowl, he thought, but immediately chastised himself for the comment. Darcy was generosity personified in allowing he and Anne to seek refuge here at Pemberley at all, let alone in advance of a more permanent relocation to the Lodge. Wickham shook his head, marvelling that the man he had spent his whole life vying to better had, in one small gesture, bested him. He could never repay this good deed, and he knew it. He glanced up at old Mr Darcy once more, recalling the interview he had had with young George in the aftermath of Wickham's father's death. The young Wickham had been reeling from the loss of his father, struggling to resolve the complexity of their relationship. He had never pleased his father, never once won direct praise from him. When he did regard George it was in comparison to Fitzwilliam Darcy, as if he, George, could never step out of his shadow. It was hardly a fair comparison, he had thought then, and continued to think now. Darcy had possessed every bit of advantage that had eluded the young George: a father and mother who cared for him, a sister who idolised him, intelligence, education and the promise of a future and a position. George felt bitter jealousy burn hot in his chest and breathed deeply to still it. Old Mr Darcy had tried to help, had somehow seen that George did not want sympathy. You're a man in your own right, now, George, and must step out of the shadow of your father. What you do in life is yours to decide, and your success will be its own reward.
Wickham sighed. What success did he have to boast of? A living sold and squandered. A trail of disastrous attempts at success littering the country. And now, a wife stolen from one of the fine families of England, and resultantly disinherited by her mother. He shook his head. He had lain claim to Anne's wealth before he had appreciated his wife's character. Now he noticed her, and loved her - for what else could explain his willingness to allow Darcy to help him? It had cost him a great deal to swallow his pride and come here at his friend's request, to accept Darcy's terms. No gambling. No drink. You must work, and prove your commitment to change, for Anne's sake if not for your own.
Wickham did not need reminding that they were here for Anne's sake and not his own. If they were not married, he was quite sure Darcy would have cheerfully left him to rot in the Borders and escorted Anne home alone. That he was her husband was a mere inconvenience, but it would not prevent Darcy doing what was best for his cousin, which fact Wickham was forced to admire, however grudgingly.
Bidding a silent farewell to old Mr Darcy, he moved on, pausing by a portrait of Darcy's mother. She offered nothing but pleasant memories for him, memories of happier times. She had treated him with as much warmth and affection as if she had been his own mother, for Mrs Wickham had died when George was still young and his memories of her faded to just a few hazy recollections. Lady Anne Darcy had been soft-spoken and as ethereal as this portrait suggested. She was caught in repose, here, in the classical style, where she looked not unlike an angel. If I were at all religious enough to believe in angels I could certainly credit the notion that she was one, Wickham acknowledged, appreciating the beauty of the picture. There was something about her that reminded him of Anne. Her likeness to Georgiana was striking, but as he regarded the portrait this time it was his wife's likeness he saw, and feared that she, too, delicate as Lady Anne had been, might also depart this earth early.
She will not, he promised himself. She will rally: I will ensure she does. He walked faster, now, his promise giving purpose to his steps. He would go into the gardens and find some pine boughs that might bring some vibrant greenery to their rooms. The East Wing, reserved for guests, had long remained unused, and despite the hasty airing it had received upon the knowledge that its rooms were to be occupied by the new Mr and Mrs Wickham, they still smelt faintly of dust and stale air. Anne enjoyed the scent of pine, she had written as much to George once in one of her many letters. He felt guilty, now, that he had given each note only the most cursory of glances. Enough to ensure his paramour was still undoubtedly his, and to isolate one or two words he might mention in his own missives to intimate the letters had been read, cherished, memorised. He scowled. He had not kept but one of them, and that the most perfunctory of the lot, the one that made arrangements for their final meeting in London before their flight north. George Wickham did not have a sentimental bone in his body, yet now he regretted not treasuring the words his beloved had written to him before they were married. She would not write to him now - nor could she, if the weak pressure of her hand on his was anything to judge.
"She will soon be well again," he muttered aloud, as if hearing the words would give them more truth. "And if she does not write to me again, it is only because there is no need. I do not intend on leaving her long enough to ever require letters."
He pressed on towards the stairs, and down to the grounds, bracing himself for the blast of cold air when he pulled the door open. He relished it, after days of travelling cooped up in a carriage and was glad he had thought to go outside. The grounds had changed a little, or it seemed so to him, yet still, he found his way quickly and easily to the pines that lined the lawn, pulling a small knife from his pocket and looking for the choicest boughs to greet Anne when she awoke. He fell to work with a will, enjoying the feel of the rough greenery against his fingers, the cold air in his lungs. I forgot how pleasant it is to be out of doors, he thought, lifting his head to admire the view. I shall not forget so easily next time.