Page 36 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

People were variables in an equation. Apply the correct pressure—fear for Wickham, money for the Butcher, silence for his father—and they aligned.

"Mr Darcy?"

His gyp, a small man named Flanders, entered.

"The post, sir. A letter from London."

Darcy took the envelope. He recognized the handwriting instantly. The florid, looping script of Viscount Keathley.

He broke the seal.

To the Victor,the note read.Peters is still trying to get the smell of coal out of my second-best boots. I trust the Saint is still praying? Do not let him wear hairshirts. They scratch the furniture. - K.

Darcy allowed a small, dry smile to touch his lips. He folded the letter and placed it inside his copy ofLocke.

The Saint was indeed praying. Or at least, he was pretending to with remarkable conviction.

A knock sounded at the door. It was a timid, respectful knock—the sound of a mouse asking permission to enter a cathedral.

"Enter," Darcy commanded.

George Wickham slipped into the room.

He still wore brown. A shade of brown so dull it seemed to absorb the light around him. He carried a stack of books that would have crippled a lesser man. His hair, usually a riot of curls, was plastered down with water, giving him the appearance of a startled otter.

"Darcy," he whispered, closing the door softly. "I hope I am not disturbing your meditations."

"I am merely studying." Darcy closed his book. "What is it, George?"

"I have finished the translation," George announced, placing the stack on the desk. "TheGeorgics. All four books. I found the section on beekeeping particularly spiritual."

"Beekeeping?"

"The industry of the hive," George nodded solemnly. "The submission of the individual to the greater good. It resonated with me, Fitz. I feel I am a drone, serving the Queen."

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "I assume the Queen in this metaphor is my father?"

"He is the sun around which we orbit," George agreed. He walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. He stared at the cricketers below.

"Look at them," he sighed. "Wasting their hours on sport. Do they not know that time is a finite currency? Do they not hear the clock ticking towards judgment?"

"They are playing cricket, George. Not dancing on a grave."

"It is the same thing," George shuddered. "Frivolity is the gateway to ruin. One moment you are batting a ball, the next you are in a cellar wearing wool."

He turned back to the room. His eyes were wide, earnest, and filled with a performance so layered Darcy almost applauded.

"I have a request, Fitz."

"Name it."

"I wish to sell my horse."

Darcy paused. "Your horse? She belongs to my father, George. You cannot sell her. Also, you love that mare. You named her after an opera singer."

"She is a vanity," George declared. "I do not need to gallop. I shall walk. Walking keeps one close to the earth. It reminds one of the mud."

Darcy studied his friend. He saw the tremor in George's hand—a lingering phantom of the duel. He saw the desperation to please.