Fitzwilliam Darcy
Meryton, Hertfordshire
It was upon an excursion to Meryton that they were informed that one Mr. Wickham had recently travelled to the town at the behest of his own father, the late Mr. Wickham who had wished his son to be well versed in all of England's areas before he settled down into a living that the elder Mr. Darcy had arranged for his steward's son.
"Mr. Wickham!" Bingley exclaimed. "Wasn't he the fellow that you used to run around with before you went to Oxford. We shall have to say hello, and you must introduce him to me."
Mr. Darcy couldn't keep the smile back from his face. Mr. Wickham had been a close friend for many years, and and they had played as boys quite frequently up until the time had called for Mr. Darcy to be sent away to school, and later Oxford. He remembered his friend with fondness, and a certain amount of eagerness beset him.
They left a message for Mr. Wickham at the carriage in where the man was said to be staying, and made their way about Meryton.
"Quiet little place, but a delight for the eyes and other senses," Bingley remarked as they settled in for a luncheon and hearty ale at the local pour house.
"Indeed," Darcy replied as he dug into the potted pie with no small amount of hunger. The fresh air was stimulating his appetite, and the walking had cleared his head from the evening of the Assembly. He was still having some trouble concentrating; the remembrance of the beautiful Miss Elizabeth Bennet's face falling when she overheard his unkind remarks. The memory of his behavior, and worse, that she had caught him at it, was like a thorn in his side.
They had barely finished their meal when he heard his name being called. He looked up to see George Wickham striding across the inn's common room, a bright smile upon his face.
"If it isn't Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, as I live and breathe," Mr. Wickham said, and Mr. Darcy rose from his bench seat to be embraced with a hearty back slap. Mr. Wickham had always been larger than life, and Mr. Darcy could recall the many boyish scrapes they had gotten into as young children.
"Wickham, it is good to see you," Mr. Darcy said before turning to Mr. Bingley, who had also stood. "Allow me to introduce you to my companion, Mr. Bingley. He has let Netherfield Park."
"I was about to ask what you had done to find yourself so far from Pemberley's halls," Wickham commented before giving a short bow to Bingley which was returned. "I myself find traveling to not be entirely to my taste, except, for in the cases where there are many fine new women to introduce myself to." There was an odd tone in Wickham's voice when he said that, but Darcy was so pleased to see his old friend that instead he brushed off the feeling of discomfort and sat down.
"Join us, won't you," Bingley offered.
"But you've already just finished."
"Ah, we can order another round of ale. It was good, hearty, the excellent stuff you don't find easily outside of these small places."
More jackets of drink were brought, and a potted pie for Wickham at Bingley's insistence. They spoke at length of Pemberley, and of Wickham's travels. Darcy's old friend was almost as he had remembered him- still full of life, laughter, and charming tales of the people he had met.
There was a thread of… something though, that Darcy could not quite put his finger on. As the inn's common room emptied out when the lunching hour ended, that thread pulled sharply, revealing a side to Wickham he had never yet experienced.
"Ah, so London. I had heard there's a great deal of wenches to be had there," Wickham said out of the blue, startling both Bingley and Darcy. Darcy stared at his old friend, who leered. "Well, tell me, Darcy, any wicked tales from London's dirty streets? Tupped anyone you'd recommend to another fellow? I'm always up for a lady who's no better than she ought to be."
"Wickham," Darcy said, the one word an admonishment for his vulgar speech. Bingley had sat back straight, and was looking at Wickham with an entirely new set of expressions on his face.
"Oh don't tell me that a fancy britches such as yourself is above that. I know they've got the salons for those of my station, and then the very different ones for men of yours-" Wickham's voice had turned snide, almost mocking, and Darcy could only think that the copious amounts of ale that the man had drunk were behind the difference in his mien.
"Perhaps later-" Darcy started.
"Ha! I knew it, didn't tup a single one? I had heard the rumor, but I did not think it to be true," Wickham cackled, and lurched backwards, almost falling off of his seat. Darcy felt a splash of cold water dousing his nerves. Heard the rumor? He stared at Wickham with narrowed eyes.
"A civil tongue in your head, man, for there are others about," he hissed. Wickham just smirked, slapping down his jacket of ale. The drink sloshed over the side.
"Oh, you'd be happy with that, would you not? That I be silent while you carouse unnaturally. Well, your father spoke to mine, and he made it quite clear that if you didn't clean up your acting, that he'd have you out." Wickham then leaned forward, slapping his hand on the table. "Wouldn't that be a sight. Precious Fitzwilliam Darcy, with no family to turn to at long last, brought down from his high horse."
"You're drunk," Darcy said flatly, so astonished in the change in his friend he could do nothing else but say those two words. Bingley cleared his throat.
"I think we must be off," he said diplomatically as one could in that situation. Darcy shifted in his seat and then gave Wickham a brief nod before getting up. "I will settle with the innkeeper," Bingley continued, before shooting both men an awkward look and departing as he reached for his purse.
Wickham looked up at Darcy, a lazy, smug, expression on his face.
"Wicked words travel quickly, do they not, Mr. Darcy?" he asked. Darcy's heart gave a hard squeeze.
"You are much changed, Mr. Wickham."
"And you are so very, very much the same."
"You are much changed, Mr. Wickham, and I cannot say that I care for it. I shall leave you to your luncheon, and I wish you the best," Mr. Darcy said, biting out the words in as neutral a tone he could muster before stepping away. Wickham waved at him, giving a small laugh.
"Best of luck with your upcoming nuptials, if you manage to convince a girl to meet you at the altar," Wickham said in a teasing lilt, and Darcy turned to look at him. It sounded as if Wickham knew something more. He was about to question the man, descend upon him with the full weight of his fury, when Bingley returned to his side.
"Mr. Darcy, we must return to Netherfield," Bingley breathed out, his face flushed. What could have possibly happened? "Your father, he has arrived unexpectedly."
In that moment, Mr. Wickham was forgotten behind him and Mr. Darcy strode out of the inn. He needed to return to Netherfield.
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