Sneak Preview

Up next is a story, which still doesn't have a good title. Look for Chapter 1, "The Problem with Mr. Wickham" up soon on FFnet.

Aside from the short plotline at the beginning, it's a very action-oriented story, so it was hard to pull a scene without giving a lot away. Here's something that occurs in the middle of the story.

Despite his gregarious nature, Geoffrey Darcy wanted to keep his birthday to family and friends, and since he spent little time in London, his friends were largely his family. He had never spent a Season in Town, being an Eton boy, and he did want to contemplate marriage at eight and ten. Though the tenants and servants of the grand estate of Pemberley loved a free meal as much as anyone, the celebrations were not open to the public.

While not every Bennet sister came, The Bertrands made three out of five (Lydia was invited but apparently did not wish to venture to Pemberley again) and the Maddox clan came as well, being closer to Derbyshire than the Townsends and the Bradleys. There was a relaxed supper and many toasts, though few of his rights and privileges had changed upon his birthday. They had already happened; he was a man able to sign legal documents, be a member of clubs, play the field as an eligible bachelor, gamble, drink, and consort with prostitutes – the fact that he did none of those things was of little consequence. In fact, the most significant milestone was not to be his birthday but his University entrance in the fall, and that was the real celebration. There he would learn some classics, make all the notable friends he would need for social success in life, perhaps have a bit of fun (or more than a bit), and then graduate to a life of bachelorhood and possibly matrimony before his father died and he inherited the estate. Such was the future for him and he knew what was expected of him, and he had never failed to rise to the occasion before, so they gladly toasted to the Darcy heir.

But the day did not begin with celebrations. It began much earlier, in the morning before the guests rose, in one of the back rooms of Pemberley.

Geoffrey Darcy relished many things about fencing, but the occasional spar with his father was not one of them. Not that there was anything particularly unpleasant about the behavior of either person, but he found it positively confounding to face someone who fought on their left side. His only experiences, in his sheltered existence at Pemberley, were with his coach, and with the only other cousin who practiced the sport, Frederick Maddox, and both fought properly, with the right hand. But his father was left handed, or had been since an accident long ago that he hardly remembered, because his right hand was lame, and though he could use it, not to do anything precise. And fencing was indeed very precise.

Even though he was in his late forties, Master Darcy of Pemberley had not fully abandoned his favorite sport, even at an age when it was quite appropriate to do so. Occasionally he lacked in stamina, but when the match came down to wits, he was a master. And he made it abundantly clear that if his son was to bother at all with a foil, he should be, as well. He was remarkably patient, even with his son's occasional fit of frustration, or the time when Geoffrey actually tossed his faceguard across the room with such ferocity that it put a dent in the stone wall. The anger was at his father, of course. It was that damned tricky left-handed foil! But Father only shook his head and said, "You will get it. Though I would prefer if your youthful exuberance did not destroy all of Pemberley."

"Then you should never let me spar Frederick again."

Father merely raised an eyebrow, his way of demanding a thorough explanation.

"It wasn't my fault."

"Or you would not have admitted to it. Does this have anything to do with the pillar I needed to replace?"

His parents were astoundingly, frustratingly clever. "Perhaps."

"And the fact that he pushed you into it?"

"You – you knew?"

"Of course," his father said, taking the servant take his foil and armor away. "There is very little in Pemberley that happens without my knowledge."

"But – you didn't say anything?"

"You did admit to me that a pillar had been destroyed and did not supply specifics. If I wanted them from you, I would have asked."

Geoffrey sat down beside his father on the bench, trying to puzzle out exactly what Father was expecting from him. There was clearly something there, but he could not get at it. His father always wanted him to think things through, even when his mind was in a daze from the rush of combat, and he wanted nothing more than to dunk his head in cold water and perhaps rest for a while. Perhaps he was mistaken and nothing else was required – but it was better to be safe. "So – are you asking now?"

"As I have said, I already know the specifics. But, while we are on the topic, I would like to hear your commentary. I think it would be interesting."

Interesting. It was probably not that. Father was probably expecting to glean something from the reply. He knew that much. "I don't have much to say about it. Fred shoved me into the pillar and since it was wood and half-eaten by termites on the inside, it broke."

"And nothing about that strikes you as odd?"

"Well - ," Yes! Now he had it. "It is not gentlemanly behavior to engage in physical combat in a duel of swords."

"Correct. But it is also not gentlemanly behavior to pass judgment on another fighter. But I will take into account that until I pressed you, you clearly did not, except for your original comment, which was another response to mine."

"But he's a cousin."

"So are you making a judgment on him or his fighting style? Because they are the same."

Geoffrey looked at him quizzically.

"A man reveals almost everything when he fights. Very few are capable of subterfuge in the heat of battle. On the most basic level, if he constantly attacks, then he wishes to either scare you or defeat your quickly. This you know."

"Right. And if he parries constantly, he is waiting for an opening."

"Yes. But it goes beyond that. If you know the fighter, character can be taken into account. If you don't know the fighter, you can learn a lot about him from fighting him. It requires astute observation, but it is often the key to winning a match. For example," his father said, "you are very young – "

"I'm not a child!"

" – in comparison to me, and are at an age when you have a certain ferocity that is fueled by the particular position of being six and ten. And also, when your face is particularly flushed, you are too aggressive for your own good, and will fail to block. In fact, I have just told you the great secret to how I beat you, because I assure you, it is not by stamina, or skill, as my left side was, originally, my weaker side, and not the one I trained with." He gestured and the servant brought them water. "I win not because you lack any particular skill for your age, or do not have the coordination. I win because I have spent many years learning to read my opponent."

Geoffrey nodded and swallowed that particular information with his refreshment. His father seemed tired, and needed a breather anyway, even from talking. He could remember a time when his father did not have so much grey around his ears. After some silence he asked, "Did grandfather fence?"

"As a boy, I believe so. He had long given it up when I was of age."

"Then who was your partner? Uncle Bingley?"

"No, I had not met him, and he has never once fenced. I spent a great deal of my years before Cambridge sparring your Uncle Wickham."

"I never met him, but I remember his funeral."

"No, I vaguely recall that Bingley hosted him at Kirkland while you were there. But you were very young and therefore simply may not remember it. It was not a remarkable visit or they would have informed me so."

"What was he like?"

His father hesitated for some reason before answering. "As a fighter, very aggressive. But then again, so was I. I would say, we were even until the day I first beat him, and then he threw down his sword and would not fence me again. Or did not, for some time."

"So, like Fred."

"I would hardly put them in the same category," his father said. "This is not to make an assessment of Frederick. You should be very careful when making assessments of people, son. It can misconstrued as gossip."

Geoffrey knew his father held gossip in very low esteem, even though everyone seemed to do it, all the time. It seemed to be the entire purpose of any social gathering, as far as he could tell.

"On the other hand," his father continued, "if you felt that your cousin was engaging in behavior that was unsafe, you should bring it my attention, as I am responsible for you safety – and his, while he is under my roof."

"But you said already you will learn it anyway."

"Slowly and through many mediators. Entirely different than if you say it yourself. And it is partially your own responsibility to bring it forward."

"I'm confused," Geoffrey said. "Am I supposed to say it or not?"

"Well, since we've gotten this far, I suppose you should."

He swallowed and decided that he would. "I don't think Fred is very ... gentlemanly ... when he fights."

"How so? Besides shoving you into a pillar hard enough to break it."

"He is – ferocious."

"Both a danger and a weakness. It is important to look out for one and take proper advantage of the other – in a duel, that is."

"He's so – I don't know. Different. Like, say, from his father."

His father said nothing.

Geoffrey took his as an urge to continue. "Does Uncle Maddox know how to fence?"

"He does not."

"Because – I can't imagine Uncle Maddox fighting anyone. He's so proper and – not to say this isn't proper – pacifist. Fred is so different from him."

Darcy did not respond directly. After a few moments of sitting, when his breath was truly and finally caught, he slapped his son on the shoulder. "We're all different, son. The changes just happen more gradually than we perceive them to. We celebrate a year's growth, all in one day." He added, "On the other hand, the day you beat me, that will be very dramatic. And traumatic, for me."

His son smiled as he smiled, and Darcy thought inside, But I'm looking forward to it.