Author's note: Thank you all so much for the kind words! A few of you mentioned that you have read a similar story somewhere else - I'd love to hear where! I promise it's not the same story, nor was it even inspired by it (and I would give credit if it were!). I honestly cannot remember every reading one where Collins was raised by the Bennets. I've read where the older Mr. Collins took over Longbourn sooner and tried to marry his son to Jane or Lizzy and ruled with an iron fist, but not one where he died when the younger Collins was still young.

As always, I really appreciate feedback! I hope you'll enjoy the direction I'm taking this story. I'm working on it for NaNoWriMo, so you'll be getting a lot of chapters quickly over the next few weeks! :)

Chapter 3

Cambridge, 1803

"Look, there it is!" shouted an excited George Wickham.

Fitzwilliam Darcy smiled at his friend's enthusiasm at seeing the stately buildings of Cambridge come into view from the carriage window. The younger man was about to begin his first year of studies at old Mr. Darcy's alma mater, while the elder was returning for his second year of study.

"Now, don't forget, Darcy," he continued, "you must call me Wickham from now on. I am to be George no longer."

Darcy laughed and said, "Yes, Wickham, I am familiar with the forms of address a man receives when he reaches his majority. I have been here a full year, after all."

Wickham gave his friend a rakish grin and replied, "I just wanted to make sure you would not embarrass me in front of everyone. First impressions and all that."

Darcy let out a bark of laughter. "I think it is rather the reverse – hopefully your antics will not reflect poorly on my reputation!"

The two friends smiled at one another, then Wickham said, "I wish we could share a room, Darcy. Then I would have at least one friend whom I could trust."

Darcy looked at his friend in bewilderment and said, "What in heaven's name do you mean? You are one of the most gregarious people of my acquaintance. I cannot imagine you having difficulty finding friends!"

"In Lambton, yes, because I was on equal standing with those in the village. Here, however, I am merely the son of a steward. Mr. Darcy is my godfather, yes, but I am hardly of the same social circle as you," answered Wickham soberly.

Darcy stared at his friend. "You know that has never meant a thing to me," he replied emphatically.

"But it matters to them," retorted Wickham, "and since I will be living with them, how they think of me will make a difference in how pleasant my time at school will be."

Fitzwilliam frowned in response. He knew Wickham was correct. The previous year had shown him that rank and societal position mattered even at school, where boys were treated with respect or with rancor based on their parents' status.

"I'm sorry, Wickham," he said softly. "I wish there were something I could do to change the situation. All I can say is that I will not allow you to be mistreated when I am around."

"Thanks, Darcy," Wickham said gratefully. Then his face tightened, and he straightened his shoulders. "I will, however, need to stand on my own two feet. I cannot expect you to protect me all of the time."

The boys fell into silence as the carriage reached the front building of the school. The previous years had brought them closer together as they weathered the deaths of their mothers and their entrance into adulthood. Now, with university looming, Darcy could not help but feel everything was about to change.

Three months later

Darcy crossed the manicured lawn, heading towards his dormitory. The long shadows from the sinking sun stretched across the grass as his long stride carried him quickly towards his bed. He had been studying with classmates to prepare for an upcoming exam, and it was almost past time for curfew.

His footsteps paused as he heard singing coming from the distance. Drunk idiots, he thought in disgust as he spied a group of five or six boys stumbling towards him. As they approached, he squinted his eyes and looked more closely at a familiar figure.

"Wickham?" he exclaimed in dismay.

"Darcy!" Wickham's voice echoed loudly across the empty campus. "I haven't seen you in ages! Come meet my new friends!"

Darcy looked more closely at the boys with his friend. "Stanton?" he asked in surprise.

"Hello, Darcy old boy!" said the young viscount. "You know our new friend Wickham? Jolly good sort, even for a son of a steward."

Wickham beamed with delight, but Darcy frowned. "I'm surprised to see you spending time with him," he said slowly. "You typically do not care to associate with those below your station."

The grin on Wickham's face disappeared and was replaced by a scowl. "You saying I'm not good enough, Darcy?"

Alarmed, Darcy said, "Now, Wickham, that isn't what I meant at all. You know that."

Wickham scowled further. "Then what did you mean?"

Great, he's belligerent when he's drunk, thought Darcy wryly. "I have known Lord Stanton for some time now, and he has always been quite vocal about only association with Peers and their children, that is all."

"Well, I was about to have some fun with Wickham here down at the pub, maybe dump him in the horse trough," explained Stanton, clumsily clapping his hand on Wickham's shoulder, who stumbled to the side. "But then he offered to buy us all a round of drinks. How could I say no to that? Besides, it would be ungentlemanly to dunk him afterwards!"

Stanton began to laugh uproariously at this, and the remaining lads joined in with him. Several patted Wickham on the back, who stumbled a bit under the pressure.

"I see," Darcy said. "In that case, might I suggest we all head off to bed before curfew so you can sleep off the drink?"

"Excellent idea!" Stanton said. "Come along, lads."

The young men all stumbled off towards their different dormitory buildings. Fitzwilliam watched them in concern until they were all safely inside. Then he turned back towards his own building, resolving to speak with Wickham the following day.

Unfortunately, it took nearly a fortnight before Darcy was able to catch Wickham alone. Each time he had found his friend, the young man was surrounded by some of the more prominent members of society. One afternoon, however, he spied Wickham walking alone towards the gate that led off the campus.

"Wickham!" Darcy called, hurrying to catch up to his friend.

Wickham spun around, eyes flashing slightly with panic. The tension in his face eased as he saw who had called his name. "Darcy!"

"How are you doing, Wickham? I've barely seen you since we arrived, and it's already almost time for us to go home for Christmas."

"Er, about that, Darcy. I've been meaning to tell you – truly, I have – but I won't be going to Pemberley for Christmas. Stanton invited me to join him in London."

Darcy looked at his friend in surprise. "Why would he do that?"

"Maybe because he enjoys my company?" retorted Wickham sarcastically. "Really, Darcy, I don't know why you are always so surprised that someone other than yourself wants to be friends with me."

"Wickham, that isn't what I meant!"

The conversation was interrupted when Lord Stanton himself approached the two friends. "Darcy!" he exclaimed congenially, "I hope you don't mind I'm borrowing your friend for Christmas. I'm sure your father won't mind the loss, though, eh?"

Darcy's brow furrowed. "I'm sure my father will miss Wickham's company," he said cautiously, "but I imagine Mr. Wickham might feel the loss more keenly."

Wickham shot Darcy a look of alarm, then said, "Well, I daresay my father will miss my company, but it's not to be helped. Stanton insists on my attendance."

"Ah yes," Stanton said drolly, "for who else will buy my drinks and lose badly at poker to me?"

Darcy's eyebrows shot up at this last statement, for he was quite familiar with Wickham's ability to count cards. He'd lost a fair amount of pocket money before he learned not to play against his friend.

"Well, then, that's settled," Wickham said hastily. "Come, Stanton, I believe you owe me a chance to win back what I lost last night!"

"With your luck? I doubt it! But you can console yourself with the charms of the barmaid again. I'm sure she wouldn't mind!" Stanton laughed uproariously and clapped Wickham on the back.

Darcy watched in concern as the two friends walked away, feeling as though a stone had settled deep in his stomach. He dreaded telling his father and Wickham's about the situation in which his friend had found himself.

As circumstances would have it, Darcy never did get the opportunity to tell either man about his concerns. The snow fell heavily the next day, and the roads towards Derbyshire became impassable. Darcy spent a lonely Christmas holiday in an inn with other stranded travelers halfway to his home. By the time the roads had cleared enough for travel, it was time for him to be returning for the new semester. He considered writing his concerns in a letter, but he did not think he would be able to properly convey the worries he had over his friend.

Wickham's second half of the school year continued much like the first. Darcy hardly saw his friend, but the few glimpses he caught of the man did nothing to alleviate his concerns. Wickham avoided Darcy's gaze and conversation, but Darcy could not help but notice the fine cut of newly tailored clothing, carefully styled hair, and a devil-may-care attitude.

How can he afford these things? Darcy frequently asked himself. Perhaps his skill in poker has improved?

The worry over his childhood gnawed at his stomach every time he wrote home, but he held back answering the questions his father asked. He only responded that he rarely had occasion to see his friend, to which his father always replied with a chastisement to put his books away and look out for his friend. "Your relationship with a man you have known since infancy should supersede your desire to improve your education," stated Mr. Darcy's most recent letter.

Darcy had crumbled the missive and thrown it across the room in frustration. How can he think that I do not care about Wickham? Does he think me cold and heartless?

In an effort to distract himself, he dug deeper into his studies. He found solace in the logic of Latin and mathematics, and he spent his anger with boxing and foils. The passion he felt deep inside was used to fuel his debates, and soon Darcy was well known across campus at being a sharp debater, a keen intellect, and a master with both fists and blades.

Finally, the end of the term arrived. Darcy's high marks paled in comparison to the relief he felt at being able to present Wickham to their fathers. Arrangements were made for the carriage to take them home, and Darcy's rooms were packed quickly.

The evening before the journey, Darcy sent a note to Wickham to meet him the next morning at the carriage. Shortly after sending it off with a servant, a knock was heard at his door.

"Enter," Darcy called from his bed, where he was reading a history of the Roman empire.

Instead of Wickham, whom he was expecting, a young boy from the local village entered.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," the boy said, "but me Pa sent me to ask 'bout the payment for yer bill at the tavern."

"I beg your pardon?" Darcy sat up and fixed a stern look on the lad, who swallowed nervously. "I do not believe I have ever visited that establishment."

"N-no sir," the boy gulped and stepped backwards, "but yer brother has."

Darcy's frown deepened. "I have no brother," he said in an icy voice.

Now the boy looked confused. "Y-yer Mr. Darcy, right?"

"Yes, I am."

"Yer brother said that ye'd pay fer all his debts, sir. Fer the drinks and the company."

Suspicion welled up inside of Darcy. No, he wouldn't. Forcing himself to say the words, he asked, "What is my brother's name?"

The boy looked at him confused. "They called him 'Wickham,' and I reckoned it was on account of 'is bein' younger than you. A middle name, p'rhaps."

Darcy closed his eyes and sat back, understanding pouring over him. "I see."

Opening his eyes, he went across the room and opened his valise. Pulling out a handful of notes, he asked, "How much does Wickham owe?"

The boy gave a number that caused Darcy's eyes to widen in surprise, then narrow in anger. He counted out the money, then handed it to the lad. "Now listen closely," he said sternly. "That man is not my brother. Tell your father that no Darcy will ever pay that man's account in the future."

The boy swallowed hard and took another step back. He turned to leave, then paused. "But what about th' others, sir?" he asked hesitantly.

"What others?" demanded Darcy.

"There's the tailor, for one," the boy said quickly, "and the cobbler. They's goin' to come tomorrow fer payment. Me pa was goin' t' come tomorrow, too, but he heard Wickham tonight at the pub talkin' bout goin' home early in the mornin' so's me pa sent me right away."

Darcy's face went white with fury. "It would be their own fool's fault for taking credit for such large amounts from a young man with no references," he said. "However, I am not unsympathetic to their plight. You and I will go to the village now and ensure each man has received his due."

The boy looked at Darcy in astonishment. "Yer goin' to pay?"

"Yes," said Darcy firmly. "I cannot allow a man to lose his livelihood because a childhood acquaintance made use of my name."

Darcy donned his coat and hat. He and the boy left the room, which Darcy closed and locked securely.

"What is your name?" he asked as they walked quickly towards the village.

"Peter, sir," the boy said, running to keep up with Darcy's long stride.

"Well, Peter, I hope that this will be a lesson to your father and other sin the village. Just because someone is a student here at school does not mean they are honest. Even those of the peerage will not often pay their debts."

Peter did not respond, and the two continued towards the village. Upon arrival, Darcy went to teach place of business. Many had closed for the night, but Peter was able to find the owners of the establishments. Darcy paid each amount in full, leaving behind a stern warning to not give credit to Wickham in the future. He also insisted on collecting the vowels of each debt paid as evidence.

The look on the tailor's face was one of relief and gratitude as he looked at the money Darcy handed him. "God bless ye, sir," he said as a small, disheveled girl peered out from behind the man. His wife, clearly in the family way, stood behind him in the doorway, holding the hand of yet another child.

At last, the deed was done. Night had long since fallen, and Darcy knew it was almost time for curfew. He walked Peter towards the pub, where he saw a drunk Wickham stumble out the door with his friends. He considered confronting his friend, but one look at Wickham's unsteady gait told him that such a conversation would be fruitless. Instead, he returned to his room and fell into an uneasy sleep.

After a restless night, a knock on the door told him the carriage had arrived to carry both himself and Wickham home. Darcy was somewhat surprised to see that Wickham was already in the coach, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

"Darcy, there you are! Let's get moving, shall we?"

Wickham's smile looked somewhat unnatural, and Darcy smirked when he saw the green pallor on his friend's face.

"Rough night?" he asked loudly.

Wickham winced, making Darcy smile in satisfaction. "Not at all, old boy. I'm just eager to be home. Shall we get going?"

Darcy looked at his friend in mock confusion. "Don't you have some unfinished business in town? Perhaps some unpaid debts?"

Wickham turned pale underneath his green pallor, causing his usually handsome features to take on an ill-favored appearance. "No, nothing like that. I took care of it all yesterday."

Darcy felt rage well within him at the realization that his friend had intended to leave without paying any of the tradesmen, but he forced it down. "Excellent, then. Let's be on our way."

Wickham sighed in poorly-concealed relief as Darcy tapped on the roof of the carriage. The coachman snapped the reins, and off they went towards Derbyshire.

The few days it took them to journey home passed slowly. Wickham, once he recovered from his hangover, did his best to entertain his friend with stories and anecdotes from the semester. He appeared to not notice that his stoic friend was more solemn than usual.

Darcy, on the other hand, heard little of Wickham was saying. He kept picturing the thin face of the tailor's daughter looking up at him from behind her father's legs. Her dress was worn and threadbare, and by the amount Wickham had attempted to leave unpaid, she may not ever receive another one. Entire families could be ripped apart by unpaid debts, forcing the families to starve or even to sell their children.

At first, Darcy was inclined to hide the situation from both his father and Wickham's. The longer they travelled, however, the more indignant Darcy became on behalf of the tradesmen. His own father is a member of the working class, Darcy thought in anger. How could he behave in such a way?

Then he imagined the looks on the men's faces as he told them the truth about George Wickham. His heart ached at being the one to cause sorry to men whom he loved and admired. Mr. Wickham was just as much a father figure to Darcy as his own father.

Fitzwilliam had just resolved to keep the knowledge to himself when suddenly he heard his father's words to his mother all those years ago. A man should never, ever avoid meeting his obligations.

Suddenly, it was clear to him. Wickham tried to avoid his obligations this time. He may have also done it while in London. If this goes unchecked, how many lives could he ruin by leaving unpaid debts? Not to mention consorting with barmaids, like Peter hinted at. No, I have a duty to protect those beneath me. That includes making sure Wickham does not feel free to continue taking advantage of others.

Immediately, Darcy felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. If the roles were reversed, Father would rather be informed of my behavior than to be in the dark. Why should this be any different?

Firm in his decision, Darcy resolved to seek a private word with his father and Mr. Wickham the day after he arrived home. His heart light at being able to share his burdens, the remainder of the journey passed somewhat more tolerably than the beginning. He only hoped it was not too late for the older gentlemen to reform his friend's character.