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It was a truth universally acknowledged that George Wickham was a bastard. However, as Miss Amanda Price had once informed him, he was the right bastard at the right time.
Dear Miss Amanda Price. She was about to become Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. In about an hour, if the large, exceedingly ornate clock in the hall was to be believed. It was slightly ridiculous, really, but oh, was he proud of her. Her story was simple, if eccentric. A girl with nothing, sweeping in and taking everything.
And giving everything in turn. As he surveyed the assembly, crowded into the grand ballroom of Pemberley, it occurred to him that there was not one life that Miss Amanda Price had not touched in some way, excepting his own.
The newly married Bingleys certainly owed her everything. Married only just a month, they had opted for a small, private ceremony due to the scandalous nature of Jane Collins' annulment. Wickham had been there, naturally, as his involvement in the plot had merited an invitation. Not only did the Bingleys owe Miss Price their happiness, but they also owed her society's silence. After all, not anyone could strike a bargain with Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were likewise forever changed by Miss Price's workings. Not only in the (second, and last) marriage of one daughter, and the absence of another daughter to Hammersmith, but in the appreciation of each other. It was obvious to even the most casual of observers that Mr. Bennet's brush with death had changed him. While still sardonic, he had lost the dourness that had plagued his person.
Wickham's gaze shifted to the remaining Bennet daughters next. Miss Mary, Miss Kitty, and Miss Lydia. Of the three, Lydia had been the most changed by Miss Price's presence, and he could not deny that it entranced him. She was lovely--and would no doubt grow lovelier in time. But it was the discovery that her sense of adventure and lack of propriety mirrored his own that had piqued his interest, and his favor.
"Wickham!" Lydia gestured him close. "I will die of boredom," she declared. "Why can't they marry yet?" Although her mouth was fixed in a pout, her eyes danced brightly, belying her complaint.
"I believe the pastor is not here yet," Wickham confided, sotto voce. He had been prepared to speak at some length upon ways in which they might entertain themselves, but his attention was immediately drawn elsewhere as Miss Darcy entered the room.
A flutter of activity followed in her wake. Half of the whispers, no doubt, concerned himself, but that was less interesting to him than the fact that Georgiana had gone to Miss Price's side and laid a gentle hand on her arm. Her posture was, as always, perfectly correct, but her serene countenance was tempered by a subtle tension in her mouth and eyes.
A tension that Miss Price herself would embody from head to toe at Miss Darcy's words, the contents of which, unfortunately, Wickham could not make out. She stormed out to the balcony, obviously searching for something--or, he guessed, someone.
"Excuse me, ladies," Wickham announced, distractedly. "I have yet to pay my respects to the bride." He bowed, noting Lydia's pout, and threw her a wink as he exited.
He could hear Lydia crowing about it, Kitty's vehement denial, and Mary's annoyance as he made his way to Miss Price, and it provoked a smile, one that ebbed when he approached Miss Price from behind, taking care to make no sound that might betray his arrival until he wished it.
"You seem distressed, my dear Mrs. Darcy."
"Oh, George!" Amanda turned and flung her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're here."
The woman would continually take him by surprise. "Always at your service, mum," Wickham replied, attempting to extricate himself from her delicately. "What seems to be the matter?"
Amanda rolled her eyes and sighed, slumping in an unladylike posture against the stone railing. "What do you think? Darcy."
Wickham paused before answering. "You don't think he's..."
"Of course not," Amanda replied archly. "Once he's committed he's committed for life. The man's a bloody penguin."
"A penguin?" Wickham tried to parse that but failed. "The aquatic bird, mum?"
Amanda waved off his question with a flailing hand. "The point, George--he's missing. You grew up here. I know you two played together when you were boys. Tell me--where would he go if he wanted to be alone?"
Wickham, as point of fact, knew exactly where he suspected Darcy would have gone off to brood, but Miss Price knew he would. It was one of the most irritating things about her; the way she knew about him without ever having revealed exactly why.
"I will do my best, mum," George replied, his voice softly gallant, and he bowed again.
The relief was evident in her face, and she smiled that smile that was too large for her face. It never failed to make him feel respectable, a feeling he disliked immensely. "I knew you would. You're a good man, George Wickham," she said, her tone steeped in fondness.
"An accusation you never fail to make, mum," Wickham replied, fingers touching his hat as he turned to go and seek out the missing bridegroom.
***
It was not particularly difficult to discover where Darcy had hidden himself. Wickham knew Darcy's haunts because they had once been his own, in another lifetime. He had been the one to share them with Darcy in the first place.
He found Darcy in the orangery, his form camouflaged by the foliage. Even from this distance, however, Wickham recognized Darcy's pensive and brooding shoulders. "Your lady wife desires your company," Wickham informed him.
"She is not my wife yet," Darcy replied, sounding tired to Wickham's ears.
It was a strange reply, and one that only made sense in the context of the event not happening, which would only happen if Darcy's insufferable pride had not yet relinquished its claim. "Can it be true?" Wickham laughed, not unkindly, but out of amusement. "Can the great Fitzwilliam Darcy be reconsidering his choice of wives? Could his enormous sense of propriety be not at ease with Miss Price's unorthodox manners?"
Darcy moved not a muscle, and it was the stillness that illuminated his struggle, and his temper. "It is not my reputation I fear for," he said darkly, which Wickham knew was as close as he was going to get to an admission.
"You are worried for Miss Price," Wickham guessed. "A pragmatic concern. You think she will not be able to handle the ton?"
"She is...sensible," Darcy opined after a moment's consideration. "I am confident in my ability to bear any slander that might come my way. I am not so confident in hers."
"A discussion which, perhaps, should have taken place before now," Wickham replied lightly.
"Among others," Darcy allowed, and turned to face Wickham. "Amanda has informed me of her thoughts regarding your involvement with my sister."
Wickham cursed internally. "Has she?" he asked mildly. "Miss Price has a great number of thoughts about a great many things."
Darcy's expression softened the slightest bit. It was only the long years of their acquaintance that allowed Wickham to see it. "She is not wrong on this," he said quietly. "I have spoken to Georgiana, and Mrs. Younge. They have admitted Amanda has the right of it. Which means that I have done you a great wrong, George."
The use of his proper name was an intimacy Darcy had not presumed for many years. The use of it now, under these circumstances, took Wickham's breath away. "Darcy--"
"You used to call me Will," Darcy interrupted. "I should like it if you would do so again." His eyes were shimmering with intensity, and Wickham simply nodded, and sighed. "You rebuffed my sister's advances at the cost of your own reputation. I cannot think of how to repay you."
"I can," Wickham replied promptly. "Marry Miss Price."
Darcy's gaze shifted. "I am not sure I understand your interest in this enterprise," he admitted.
Wickham sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "It's simple, Will. She's a good woman, and she's stronger than you think. If you trust my judgment now, trust it in this--if you marry Miss Price I think all of us will benefit from it, if for no other reason than she will keep you exceedingly occupied." He declared, an amused smile playing on his lips.
It seemed to work. A small smile appeared on Darcy's face, and he nodded. "Very well. If this is the boon of which you ask me, I cannot refuse."
"It is," Wickham assured him. "Come, my friend. I believe your bride will be a trifle less worried if you remain within her sight."
As the two former friends walked side by side in an unspoken renewal of their friendship, it occurred to Wickham that he had been mistaken in his earlier summation of Miss Price's general effect. His own life had been irreparably changed as well, and he found he could not mind.
***
The ceremony at the Lambton chapel was surprisingly simple, but Darcy liked his pretensions of simplicity. After the wedding party had been properly waved off the guests made their way back to Pemberley to enjoy the resplendent feast that had been provided for them.
He had seen Caroline Bingley discreetly wipe away a tear during the ceremony, and, never one to let a moment like that remain unused, approached her with a tender smile. She stood alone in the ballroom, a fact to which she appeared to be oblivious, but Miss Bingley was often alone these days now that her brother Charles had married.
"Mourning for Darcy, Miss Bingley?" he asked, his handkerchief at the ready.
Caroline took the favor from his hand after a moment's consideration. "I am simply...overjoyed," she replied coolly.
"Are you indeed?" Wickham responded, the tender smile turning to one of cunning consideration. "I thought a woman of your station was beyond sentimentality. Is not Lady Catherine de Bourgh your model in every affect?"
That seemed to catch Caroline off-guard. "I am not sure of the nature of your meaning, Mr. Wickham," she replied aloofly.
"That is my mistake, Miss Bingley," Wickham replied. "But let me remedy it now. If you are not mourning for Darcy, perhaps it is the removal of Miss Price that provoked such a display."
Caroline flushed, her usual composure faltering. He knew that Caroline was of the Sapphic disposition. Miss Price--now Mrs. Darcy--had let it slip in a moment of disoriented rage, along with other information that he planned to share in a moment. Still, it was a pleasure to watch her squirm, stunned into silence.
Wickham smiled again, in confidence. "Do not fret, Miss Bingley," he murmured. "The nature of my inquiry is not for purposes of the blackest arts, but rather to preface the intention of the information I wish to share with you."
He cast his gaze around, looking for his intended target, and found her standing near her sisters. He smiled as Lydia realized his attention and waved to him, a gesture which he returned. He wondered if Lydia's adventurous nature and wanton lack of propriety was true in all facets of her life.
"She crawls into her sisters' beds at night," Wickham murmured, conspiratorially, in Miss Bingley's ear. "And they wake her up with stroking."
Caroline actually gasped aloud and flushed, hiding her face behind her fan. "You know this for certain?" she whispered. And he fought the urge to laugh as she fought against her revile for him and the desperate want to believe his words were true.
"An unimpeachable source, Miss Bingley," he assured her and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Our mutual friend of Sappho herself, Mrs. Darcy." And, that bit of mischief managed, he stole away, a secret smile gracing his countenance.
The first duty of an officer was also Wickham's personal motto: Gaiety, always gaiety.