Page 30 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"We have been studying, sir." Darcy tried for deceptive earnestness. "Late nights."

"Diligent," the patriarch nodded approvingly. He walked to the fireplace to warm his hands.

Then, he turned.

"Well? The box, George. Did the jeweller do a good job?"

George froze. He opened his mouth. No sound came out.

Darcy stepped forward. He held out the box.

"It is here, Father." He steadied his hand discreetly. "George retrieved it this morning. It is flawless."

Old Mr Darcy took the box and opened it. He inspected the hinge and the shine of the emeralds. He nodded.

"Excellent," the older man smiled. He clapped a hand on George's shoulder. George flinched violently.

"Nervous energy," Old Mr Darcy chuckled. "You always were high-strung, boy. Good work. Your father will be pleased."

George let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. "Thank you, sir. I live to serve."

Darcy exhaled. He looked at his father, then at his friend. The lie held. The scoundrel was safe.

And school was dismissed.

Chapter Ten: The Dinner of Deception

The dining room of Darcy House was a cavern of mahogany and candlelight, designed to make its occupants feel small, mortal, and inadequately dressed.

Old Mr Darcy sat at the head of the table. He ate his turtle soup with the rhythmic precision of a metronome. To his right sat Darcy, his spine rigid, his spoon moving in perfect silence. To his left sat George Wickham, who appeared to be vibrating.

Viscount Keathley and Captain Richard Fitzwilliam occupied the remaining seats, having been invited to celebrate the family reunion. Richard was eating with the focus of a man who feared the plate might be snatched away. Robert was inspecting his silverware for smudges.

"You are quiet, George," Mr Darcy observed, breaking the silence.

George jumped. His spoon clattered against the china rim, sending a droplet of brown liquid onto the tablecloth. He stared at the stain in horror.

"Apologies, sir," he squeaked. He dabbed at the linen with his napkin. "I am... contemplative. The soup is profound."

"It is turtle," the patriarch noted. "It is not meant to be profound. It is meant to be hot."

He turned his gaze to his son.

"And you, Darcy. You have barely touched your wine. Is the vintage unsatisfactory?"

Darcy stared into the dark velvety liquid. It reminded him of the Butcher's coat.

"The wine is excellent, Father." He forced a sip he did not enjoy. "I am merely resting my digestion. We studied late last night."

"Ah, yes. The diligence." Old Mr Darcy beamed. "I was telling Mr Wickham senior just yesterday how proud I am. George, your father says you wrote to him about economizing. He says you plan to live on half your allowance this quarter."

George choked. He covered his mouth with his napkin, coughing violently.

Richard thumped him on the back—perhaps a little harder than necessary.

"A crumb, sir," Richard explained to the table. "George often inhales his food. It is his zeal for life."

"Economizing," George managed, his eyes watering. "Yes. I intend to be frugal. I have realized that material possessions are fleeting. Waistcoats are dust."