Chapter 14 - The Funeral
A week after turning 23, Darcy rushed to Pemberley to hear the news that his illustrious and much loved father had died. Servants, tenants, merchants and fortune-seekers all turned their beady gazes towards him, and Darcy was exposed to such displays of obsequiousness as to make him long for someone to insult him. But of course the new master of Pemberley could not possibly admit this to anyone, least of all those socially under his power. No, he would keep a passive face, straight back and formal demeanour before his tenants and servants - he would be someone they would look up to, would not dare to question; someone his father would be proud of.
The funeral was as lavish an affair as was warranted by a member of the Darcy clan. Endless streams of villagers, friends and neighbours came to pay their respects. Through all this the new Mr. Darcy let no one see his grief, though grief there was and in abundance. There were but two people who sensed the extent of his unhappiness - Georgiana, his young but sharp- minded little sister, and George Wickham. Though he did not acknowledge Darcy, Wickham did feel some faint obligation to attend the funeral of the man who had provided so much for him. As usual, he stood amongst the swarms of fashionable gentlefolk, now and then sneaking a glance at Darcy standing alone overseeing the whole exhibition.
Look at him, thought Wickham viciously, acting the grand lord of the manor, when in fact he is longing to curl up and weep like a babe. Good! Let him suffer somewhat.As heartless as Wickham did seem, he himself was not untouched - oh, that he would feel this much for me if I were to die. He momentarily turned himself towards Darcy, intending to comfort him, when he spied a blond curly head making his way towards him. Damn! Would that Bingley should fall to the ground and turn into a vegetable - such beauty as his is wasted on one so dumb. Ah, well, let the blond convey his sympathy, he is sure to muddle his words something awful and cause Darcy to walk away in disgust. Now *that* would be a spectacle worth watching, far more enjoyable than this dreary affair.
Bingley stepped up to Darcy and put his hand on his shoulder. 'I did not know your father, but I'm sure he would be proud to see you as you are now.' Darcy attempted to smile faintly and mentally debated whether to remove Bingley's hand from his shoulder. But no, their friendship was not sexually charged like his relationship with Wickham - he was safe. He turned and thanked Bingley for his well-meaning words. 'Why do we not go to my study for a glass of wine? The constant activity has been a strain, I owe.' With a final pat on the back, Bingley turned with Darcy towards the peace and solitude that a comfortable room and a glass of claret could bestow.
Having viewed his spectacle, Wickham was the one to turn away in disgust. I will not stay here to watch them get all cosy and romantic. Seems I was wrong - it is not my looks and demeanour which repulsed Darcy, it was my lack of status. Well, if he prefers his whores to come from rich families, *let* him have them as they please. I care nothing for them both!
The following morning, Darcy heard from the housekeeper that Wickham had left yesterday evening for London, where it was presumed he would make his fortune. By what means, Darcy did not wish to know.
A week after turning 23, Darcy rushed to Pemberley to hear the news that his illustrious and much loved father had died. Servants, tenants, merchants and fortune-seekers all turned their beady gazes towards him, and Darcy was exposed to such displays of obsequiousness as to make him long for someone to insult him. But of course the new master of Pemberley could not possibly admit this to anyone, least of all those socially under his power. No, he would keep a passive face, straight back and formal demeanour before his tenants and servants - he would be someone they would look up to, would not dare to question; someone his father would be proud of.
The funeral was as lavish an affair as was warranted by a member of the Darcy clan. Endless streams of villagers, friends and neighbours came to pay their respects. Through all this the new Mr. Darcy let no one see his grief, though grief there was and in abundance. There were but two people who sensed the extent of his unhappiness - Georgiana, his young but sharp- minded little sister, and George Wickham. Though he did not acknowledge Darcy, Wickham did feel some faint obligation to attend the funeral of the man who had provided so much for him. As usual, he stood amongst the swarms of fashionable gentlefolk, now and then sneaking a glance at Darcy standing alone overseeing the whole exhibition.
Look at him, thought Wickham viciously, acting the grand lord of the manor, when in fact he is longing to curl up and weep like a babe. Good! Let him suffer somewhat.As heartless as Wickham did seem, he himself was not untouched - oh, that he would feel this much for me if I were to die. He momentarily turned himself towards Darcy, intending to comfort him, when he spied a blond curly head making his way towards him. Damn! Would that Bingley should fall to the ground and turn into a vegetable - such beauty as his is wasted on one so dumb. Ah, well, let the blond convey his sympathy, he is sure to muddle his words something awful and cause Darcy to walk away in disgust. Now *that* would be a spectacle worth watching, far more enjoyable than this dreary affair.
Bingley stepped up to Darcy and put his hand on his shoulder. 'I did not know your father, but I'm sure he would be proud to see you as you are now.' Darcy attempted to smile faintly and mentally debated whether to remove Bingley's hand from his shoulder. But no, their friendship was not sexually charged like his relationship with Wickham - he was safe. He turned and thanked Bingley for his well-meaning words. 'Why do we not go to my study for a glass of wine? The constant activity has been a strain, I owe.' With a final pat on the back, Bingley turned with Darcy towards the peace and solitude that a comfortable room and a glass of claret could bestow.
Having viewed his spectacle, Wickham was the one to turn away in disgust. I will not stay here to watch them get all cosy and romantic. Seems I was wrong - it is not my looks and demeanour which repulsed Darcy, it was my lack of status. Well, if he prefers his whores to come from rich families, *let* him have them as they please. I care nothing for them both!
The following morning, Darcy heard from the housekeeper that Wickham had left yesterday evening for London, where it was presumed he would make his fortune. By what means, Darcy did not wish to know.