“Character,” Wickham repeated, the word laced with disdain. He shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “I have always thought your father was stern with you based on what you said, but this... I never imagined.”
Darcy offered a wan smile. “He’s different with you, George. You are not his son.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Wickham frowned, his earlier good humor evaporating. “It does not excuse him,” he muttered. “You do not deserve that, Fitz. No one does.”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and a maid entered, carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. Darcy offered her a faint smile. “Thank you, Emily.”
She curtsied, her cheeks pink. “Of course, sir.”
George stood and took the tray from her hands with an easy charm. “Allow me.”
Emily lingered, her eyes darting toward Wickham. “If you need anything else, Master George, just call.” Her voice was soft, almost coquettish.
Fitzwilliam braced himself for one of George’s usual flirtatious comments, but instead, his friend hesitated and looked back at him. Something shifted in his eyes, and he gave the maid a polite nod. “Thank you, Emily.”
She curtsied again, looking puzzled, then left the room. Wickham set the tray down and poured a cup of tea for Darcy, his movements unusually subdued.
Darcy took the cup with a curious glance. “What happened to the George Wickham who never met a pretty face he could not charm?”
Wickham shrugged, handing him a saucer. “I do not know. These last few months... helping you, being here—it feels different. Better. Not the usual ‘sneak into the stables’ kind of fun, but real. Like I have done something right for once.”
Darcy studied his friend, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s what it feels like to do good, George. To help others, to think beyond yourself.”
Wickham settled back into his chair, his usual bravado replaced with a quiet introspection. “It is strange, though. I have spent so much time causing trouble, I almost do not know what to do with this... feeling.”
“You get used to it,” Darcy said simply. “It is why I try to do what is right, even when it is difficult. It is worth it.”
Wickham stared at him for a long moment, his usual bravado replaced with something quieter, more introspective. “You are a strange one, Fitz. But maybe you are onto something. I think... I will try it your way. Being good. At least for a little while.”
Darcy chuckled softly, though it was punctuated by a brief cough. “A good place to start.”
Wickham grinned, though there was a new sincerity behind it. “Then it is settled. I will try to be more like you. Though do not let it go to your head.”
Darcy smirked faintly. “Perish the thought.”
The two boys lapsed into a companionable silence, the tension of the earlier encounter fading into the warmth of their shared resolve. For the first time in months, Fitzwilliam felt a glimmer of hope—not just for his recovery, but for the bond they had forged through hardship.
Perhaps going to school will not be so terrible after all; not when George is going with me.
∞∞∞
Hertfordshire, December 1805
Twelve-year-old Elizabeth Bennet looked down anxiously at her seven-year-old sister, Kitty.Just keep breathing, she pleaded.
The household had been struck by an influenza of some kind that had resulted in everyone feeling ill with fevers, body aches, and coughs for a week. Each member of the Bennet family had recovered— save Kitty, who was left with a cough that wracked her thin frame. More than once, Elizabeth had watched in terror as Kitty’s lips turned blue, the sight haunting her even in her dreams.
Mrs. Bennet’s nerves were shattered, and she retreated to her chambers. The matron claimed she was unable to handle the stress of tending to her second youngest daughter, so the care of the girl was left to Jane, Elizabeth, the nurse, and the occasional visit from Mr. Jones, the apothecary.
But even Mr. Jones had been candid about his limitations.
“I have done all I can,” he had admitted after his latest visit, shaking his head as he packed up his case. “The usual remedies are failing her, and I have no knowledge of anything else that might help. I am sorry, but you all may need to prepare yourselves for the worst. She will only decline.”
Elizabeth had stood in silence, her chest tight with frustration and fear. As she sat beside Kitty now, dabbing a damp cloth across her sister’s forehead, her mind whirled with questions. There had to be something they could do. Someone, somewhere, must know of a remedy.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where the late afternoon light streamed through the curtains. A memory surfaced of her Uncle Gardiner and his tales of far-off places—exotic spices, silks, and herbs brought to London from lands she could scarcely imagine. The thought planted a seed of hope.
“Jane,” Elizabeth said softly, looking up at her elder sister. “Do you think Uncle Gardiner might know of something? He imports goods from all over the world, does not he?”
