Darcy gestured towards a chair, and the two sat facing one another. It was silent for several moments before Wickham said, “I know I have earned your distrust, Fitz. At Cambridge, I was a disaster. Cards, women, brandy—I chased every indulgence and ignored every warning. Especially yours.”
Darcy did not respond at once. He could still see the boyish grin across a stack of cards, the careless shrug when debts were called in.
“I did study the law,” Wickham went on. “After I received the money from your father’s will, I completed schooling in London. Upon completion, I found a post in a barrister’s office in London. Clerk work, mostly, but I was working to supportmyself and allowing your father’s funds to grow in interest. Until the fire.”
Darcy’s arms dropped to his sides, his expression unreadable. “The fire?”
“It destroyed the building. The office. Files, clients—all gone. The firm’s older clerks were taken in elsewhere, but I—well, I am not exactly a shining prospect. With so many displaced men seeking work, there was little left for me. So, I joined the militia. Not for glory or uniform—just for stability. A roof, meals, a purpose.”
Darcy stared at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “I see.”
“I do not blame you for doubting me, But I have changed. Those reckless days—what once felt thrilling now just started feeling empty shortly after we left Cambridge. I remembered how it felt to be needed…like when you were ill as a boy. I liked being the one to help. I wanted to be someone I could respect.”
Another silence as Darcy gazed steadily at his old friend, searching his face for signs of deceit.
There was a pause, the weight of years settling between them. “Speaking of your being ill, how are you?” Wickham asked softly. “Miss Elizabeth told me the fire aggravated your lungs.”
Darcy stiffened. “Did she?” His voice was tight. “I did not think she was so little to be trusted.”
“She was not gossiping,” Wickham said quickly. “It was after…after you rode away in town. I was hurt. I thought—I feared your good opinion of me was gone forever. I told her about our childhood. She told me perhaps it was not personal. That you might have simply been trying not to cough.”
Darcy looked away, lips pressed into a tight line.
“She said she found you mid-fit once,” Wickham added. “That she kept your secret. I was… surprised. You never used to let anyone see you in that state.”
“I still do not,” Darcy murmured. “Miss Elizabeth happened upon me in a time of weakness, that’s all.”
Wickham studied him for another moment before saying quietly, “She sees more than you think.”
Darcy did not respond at once. His fingers curled into a loose fist at his side. “Perhaps she does.”
Wickham smiled faintly. “She’s remarkable.”
Darcy gave the smallest nod, his throat too tight to reply.
Wickham picked up his hat. “I should go. I have duties to attend to.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Thank you—for explaining. I hope you are able to continue on the path you say you’ve begun.”
At the doorway, Wickham hesitated. “Showing weakness does not make you weak, Fitz. I had to learn that the hard way. I do not drink anymore, and I have not touched a deck of cards in over a year. Some things are harder to resist than others, and when I could admit to myself that I struggled with self-control, it actually made it easier to change.”
With that, Wickham let himself out, leaving Darcy alone with the silence and the gentle ticking of the clock to ponder the strange turnaround of his old friend.
Perhaps people could change. Perhaps some things once broken could yet be repaired.
But couldheforgive?
It was, after all, the mark of a true Christian to do good to those who would harm you, so surely forgiving a penitent man would be even more important.
But at what cost? Could he risk it?
He did not know. Not yet.
Darcy stood still for several long moments, the air in the room thick with the past. The memories, the hurt, the sense of betrayal—they all clung to him like damp fog on a chilly morning. And yet, there had been something honest in Wickham’s face. Something weary, but not false.
A knock came at the doorframe. “Darcy?” Bingley’s cheerful voice cut through the haze. “Fancy a ride? The sun’s out at last, and I have been itching to take Titan out before the roads turn to muck again.”
Darcy turned, glancing out the window. The morning light was pale but promising, catching the edge of a frostbitten field and the glint of dew on the hedgerows. He felt the familiar ache in his chest, a dull tightness that spoke of stiff lungs and unvoiced worries. And yet—he wanted to ride. He wanted to breathe sharp air and feel the wind bite his skin.
