Chapter Twelve
The following day dawnedwith a crispness that lent an invigorating edge to Darcy’s resolve. His mind felt fresh once more—a very fine thing, for by the time he retired last evening, his brain felt like a throbbing pile of mush. He had need of all his faculties today. In fact, a bit of his father’s wisdom would not go amiss just now, but lacking that, Darcy could at least try to affect his manner and employ what intelligence he possessed.
Wickham was seated alone when he entered, a cup of tea in hand and a newspaper spread before him. Bingley was conspicuously absent.
“Good morning, Darcy,” Wickham greeted with an eagerness that seemed nothing but sincere, setting the paper aside. “Please, join me.”
“Good morning, Wickham,” Darcy replied, his voice cool and, he hoped, revealing nothing. He took a seat opposite Wickham, arranging his utensils with deliberate care.
Wickham signalled to a maid, who promptly poured Darcy a cup of tea before retreating, leaving the two men alone in a room bathed in the golden light of morning. “I trust you found your accommodations satisfactory?”
“Indeed. Netherfield is quite comfortable.”
Wickham’s smile broadened. “I am pleased to hear that, and from you, of all men! It is truly a fine thing to win the approval of a man I respect like no other.”
Darcy blanched for a moment, his fingers still twisting his knife about beside the plate. Wickham…respectedhim? When did that happen? “I… I thank you.”
“Of course. I am a firm believer in granting credit where it is due.” Wickham paused, glancing down at his own plate before meeting Darcy’s gaze. “I know we have had our differences. Lord knows my youth was peppered with wrongdoing, but all my father’s prayers and, dare I say, your father’s unfaltering faith have, I hoped, wrought some good in me after all. I should like to lay aside the past, Darcy, if you will be so good as to grant me some measureof your goodwill.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “The past… even so recent a past as this summer?”
Wickham smiled. “I might have guessed my motives could be misconstrued. That was why I wrote you that little letter, but I knew you would not take my word for it. I trust Miss Darcy has assured you that when I encountered her in Ramsgate this summer, I was the perfect gentleman toward her. No less, I think, than you would have expected Bingley to be, had he found himself living but a few doors down from the sister of a dear friend.”
Darcy took a measured sip of his tea, unblinking as he appraised the rascal opposite him. “She did make such assurances,” he conceded.
“Good. I would not have you think me capable of deceiving or taking advantage of any lady, but most particularly not the daughter of the man who nearly raised me. Now that we have dispensed with that bit of unpleasantness, I was hoping to ask your advice.”
Darcy raised his brow and set his cup aside. “In what matter?”
“Why, Netherfield! I am rather new to all this, of course, but I have taken a keen interest in ensuring the estate is in good order. Even you must confess that it is a fine property with much potential, and I should like to do it justice with my humble efforts.”
Darcy glanced around the room, noting the tasteful decor and the warmth of the sun streaming through the windows. “It is evident that great care has already been taken. The house feels both grand and welcoming.”
Wickham nodded. “Thank you. I have already made one or two improvements since taking up residence. The gardens have been a particular focus—being dormant just now, of course. My steward advised me that this was the ideal time of year to consider next spring. I have ordered more wildflowers, more lavender and violets and daisies, and fewer of those stuffy hedges. I did have to keep that rather stunning maze, though.”
“I noticed the gardens upon my arrival. They should complement the landscape rather well next summer.”
Wickham leaned back slightly; his expression relaxed yet contemplative. “That is the goal. A place that feels like home yet retains its grandeur. We have had some challenges, though.”
“Challenges?”
Wickham’s expression turned serious. “Yes, I was just reading my steward’s latest reports on the flooding. It seems the situation is worsening.”
“Bingley mentioned some troubles with the lower fields. Is it very widespread?”
“It is,” Wickham agreed, his brow furrowing. “The economic strain on the local community is becoming significant. Many families will struggle to make ends meet if theirfields cannot be planted in time. I even heard of three families who lost nearly everything in their root cellars.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened, his thoughts aligning with the gravity of the situation. “In such times, one must be wary. Troubled areas can become political pawns for ambitious individuals.”
“Trust you, Darcy, to look beyond the immediate. I thought only of what must be done to alleviate the concerns at hand, but you bring up yet another concern. I hope no such travesty occurs on my watch. The people here deserve stability and support, not exploitation.”
Darcy studied Wickham closely. The man before him seemed a far cry from the irresponsible youth he remembered. Wickham’s demeanour was earnest, respectable—truly, everything Darcy’s father had ever hoped for him. How… curious.
“Have you found any support from local authorities?”
Wickham sighed. “Not as much as I would like. You know how it is—natural causes, so no one is truly at fault, and no one wishes to claim responsibility. As it so often does, it seems that those who need help the most are the last to receive it.”
“Indeed, it is a common issue. The government is often slow to act, and by the time aid arrives, the damage is done.”
