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Prologue

Posted on 2010-08-18

A tall young man stood silhouetted against the rising sun. The morning mist lay like velvet across his great coat and hat, touching his somber features with a cold softness that somehow matched the state of his heart. From the window of the grey stone parish church, his observer watched the vigil, repeating the ritual they shared most mornings. A familiar pull tugged at the curate's heart. John Bradley pursed his lips and nodded his grey head. It is time.
 
Donning his own coat, worn at the collar and elbows, he reached for his cane. I'll be glad for spring. I'll be able to set this old stick aside when the warm wind touches these old bones again. Pulling on his wide brimmed hat, Bradley made his way toward the heavy wooden door. A chill wind buffeted him as he stepped into the morning. Thanks God the young master saw fit to install proper windows and doors in this old sanctuary. Don't think I could keep time here otherwise. He's a good man from a long line of them.
 
With unhurried steps, the older man approached the younger. For several minutes they stood in silence, side by side, contemplating the neat graves, one long set, the other much more recent but showing signs of settling into the quite response of the family resting place.
 
"Someday I will take my place there beside them." The young man's voice was flat, empty of feeling.
 
A less astute companion would have mistaken the tone to be cold and unfeeling. But Bradley knew better. Years ago he had held this young man in his arms to baptize him into the church. Through the years he had spent many hours in the company of the serious, earnest boy who asked questions that reflected an understanding well beyond his years. No, there is nothing about young Darcy that is cold. So many misunderstand.
 
"You will indeed, young master. And I will likely be there." He pointed to an empty plot near the church wall. "Keeping watch on you even then, sir. You will never be rid of me."
 
A small smile lifted the corners of the young man's mouth. "I suppose that is for the best." Darcy drew a deep, almost painful sounding breath. "I miss him, Mr. Bradley. I miss him. How will I ever walk in his shoes? He always seemed to know what to do, what decisions to make, what was best for everyone! Everyone trusted him so. I trusted him." Broad shoulders slumped in defeat.
 
"We did and for good reason young master. Your father was a man of principles and he did not compromise them. He was kind and generous, but we trusted him because of his principles." Another cold gust blew through the graveyard, blowing the iron gate closed with a loud ringing clang.
 
"I do not know if I can do this." The wind tore the anguished confession from Darcy before he could stop it. There is no other man I would speak of this to.
 
"Of course you do not." A strong hand squeezed the young man's shoulder. "Your father said the same thing."
 
"He did?"
 
"Yes son, he did." Bradley thought back to the many hours of conversation he had shared with the elder Mr. Darcy in the quiet comfort and privacy of the well fitted manse that Pemberley established for its curate. "We spent many evenings over tea and biscuits discussing just that."
 
"He trusted you. You know that? He told you I hope? In private moments, he told me he valued your advice and insight over all others."
 
"I am deeply honored that he should feel that way. But he was not a man of mean insight himself." Bradley sighed.
 
"I'm not like him sir. I lack his wisdom, his understanding…"
 
"But you were given good principles, the same principles that made your father what he was."
 
"Is that enough?"
 
"That is what your father began with."
 
"But how will I know how to apply them?"
 
"I am a man of faith son." Bradley smiled kindly. You look so much like your father--you have his brow and his jaw. But the eyes are definitely your mother's. "I will help you, as I did your father, for all the days that the good Lord grants me on this earth. Then, when my time is through, I have to believe there will be another to take my place that will have the words you need in the season that you need. If you want to follow the principles you have been given, I am certain the good Lord will make a way."
 
Darcy turned to look at the old curate in the eye. Bradley's blue eyes held steady under the young man's scrutiny. "Yes, son, I am sure."
 
A look of relief softened Darcy's sad features. "Would you care to join me for coffee and breakfast this mooring? I have a tenant quarrel to mediate today and I find I am in need of my father's wisdom."
 
"A warm fire and a hot cup would be a welcome thing indeed for these old bones."
 
Taking the curate's arm in this, Darcy led them back to the manor house, some of his pain and uncertainty melting under the minister's warm gaze.
 

Chapter 1: The Measure of a Man

Darcy sighed contentedly as he settled back into the overstuffed wing chair. The faded upholstery and somewhat threadbare arms spoke of the welcome familiarity of the place. The fireplace crackled warmly, driving what remained of the spring chill from the air. He smiled to himself, seeing the cane leaning up against the bookshelf that flanked the fireplace. It is good to see him leave that behind again. Leaning his head back into the soft seat, he closed his eyes, drinking in the comforting smells of the place: firewood, books, leather. After a few minutes, his repose was disturbed by the sounds of someone entering the room.

"Glad to see you're making yourself at home," Bradley cried warmly. He walked slowly, laden with a tray of tea and biscuits. He preferred to do the task himself than have a servant disturb his private retreat. "That was your father's favorite chair, you know."

"I remember the times he would let me join you both here when I was small. I would sit on the rug there by the fire, looking at those picture books you always had set aside for me." A warm smile of remembrance lit the young man's face.

"I still have those books, on the shelves there." The curate, too, smiled warmly at the memory. "You would sit that way for hours with us. I lost count of the times your father carried you back to the manor house fast asleep." A deep chuckle followed.

"Do you think my son will have such memories?" Darcy asked wistfully, taking the cup Bradley had poured for him.

"The good Lord willing, I would be happy to have another generation of Darcys playing on my hearth rug." He paused to sip his tea. "So how did you find Rosings this year?"

Rolling his eyes, Darcy pressed his head back into the chair again. "I would much rather be here than in any of Rosings' well fitted drawing rooms. I think there are five, or is it eight now?" He shook his head with a little shudder. "Lady Catherine does, after all, like to preserve the distinction of rank." He snorted.

Bradley smiled understandingly. "I have only met the great lady twice now, I believe. She was singularly unimpressed with my status as curate. She was quite put out with the fact that I did not pursue higher standing in the church." He leaned back in his own well stuffed leather chair, biscuit in hand.

"Be assured, the fact continues to disturb her ladyship to this day," Darcy agreed, stretching to help himself to the plate of biscuits. Biting, he chewed thoughtfully a moment. Even these taste like home somehow. "She cannot seem to understand why you did not accept her invitation to take the living on her estate. It would have allowed you to begin your ascendency in the church, or so she says." The glint in Fitzwilliam Darcy's eye suggested that he wondered this as well, but was too well-bred to ask.

"She has not a pastor's heart." Bradley shrugged. "I love my parish and its people. I cannot leave here, leave them, any more than I would cut off my own arm. What higher calling can there be for a man like me than to be given such people to care for?" His bright blue eyes glittered with his sincere passion for his calling.

"But sir, taking the living…"

"…would have meant leaving my people to the hands of I know not who."

"So you sacrificed yourself for your parish." Darcy sighed. "You know, Mr. Harris has been never to us what you have been. No one will feel his loss. He is here only as often as need be to fulfill the terms of the living. He did not even allow you the use of the parsonage!" Somehow Darcy felt shallow noting such things.

"Yes, all of that is true. Sadly, Harris has made few friends and endeared himself to even less. Difficult though he may be, he is a good man, Fitzwilliam, and what he does do is valuable. I am grateful that he has allowed me to stay here with my parish instead of looking for someone younger and more like himself." He sighed, shaking his head. "Leaving here is far too high a price for a living. My needs are well met here as curate. Thanks to the generosity of a certain family," he winked at the younger man as he reached for another biscuit, "and the grace of the good Lord."

"Would you take the living if it were vacant?" Darcy pressed, ignoring for the moment the challenge the curate presented to his own way of thinking.

"Well, young master, that is an academic argument, is it not? You know me to be much too practical a man to have the taste for engaging in such things," the minister gently deflected the uncomfortable question.

Darcy looked away, his dark eyes fixed on the sunset through the window near the bookcase. "I had a letter in the post waiting for me when I returned from Rosings. Reverend Harris died a little over a week ago."

A cloud of grief descended over Bradley's features. "Do you know…"

With a fractional nod, Darcy continued, "He was staying with his sister in town when he took a cold. It settled in his lungs. He died with his sister and her son in attendance. His last wish was to see you take the living. They report he said you love the people here, you deserve it after serving here so many years."

Tears burned the curate's eyes as he stared into the fire. "I am glad he was not alone. Difficult though he may have been, I have no doubt he is resting in our Savior's arms now."

A soft silence descended, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace and the crunch of their biscuits.

"So, my old friend, would you take the living now?"

He has not yet learned his father's commanding tone. George Darcy would have made those same words a command. "And risk the great Lady Catherine's approval?" Bradley teased gently.

"Oh no, sir! I could not ask that of you! She will certainly not approve," Darcy laughed. I remember Bingley telling me that I never laugh, that I was too serious. I wonder if he would find my curate lively enough for his tastes.

"As long as we are clear on that point, young master." Another sip of tea paused the conversation. "I do not know, sir. I do not know."

"You would not have to leave your parish. I cannot force the new vicar to continue your curacy, though he would be a fool not to." Darcy watched the distress that flickered across his companion's face.

"I do not want to leave my parish," the curate whispered under his breath, grief heavy in his voice.

"In fact, the living would allow you a few more servants. How often have you gone on about wishing you had the means to employ some of the young people in hard straights? If you wished, you could stay here in the cottage Father built you and use the parsonage for parish purposes. Or the other way around…" Darcy offered excitedly.

Bradley chewed his lip thoughtfully. "All of that is true, son. Yet, it is so much more than I need…"

"Have you not taught me, sir, a worker is worth his wage*? Do you not say that it is our Lord's command to those who would accept the work of others? Would you reject such a principle?" A measured smile spread across Darcy's face, knowing he had played his trump card.

A slow, wry smile lifted the corner of the curate's thin lips. "Well spoken, young sir. So you have been listening to something all these years." Bradley gazed into the fire, a distant look in his eyes. Finally he leaned back and set his teacup softly on the table between them. "I will take the living, young Mr. Darcy…" He held up his hand to hold back the gentleman's pleased reaction. "However, you must first show me that you can do more than parrot back those words of mine. You must show me you have lived that tenant, and tell me what you have gained by it." Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back, having played his own trump.

Darcy snorted, taking another biscuit, looking for something to hold in his hands while he spoke. "What has it gained me? Where shall I begin? It has gained me the contempt of my Aunt. Lady Catherine declared me the most preposterous fool for clearly allowing you, sir, far too much influence over me. The lower classes, she says, only put such wealth to nefarious uses, thus it should be kept from their hands for more noble purposes. On the other hand, it nearly cost me the privilege of reviewing Rosings' accounts each spring, a privilege I would be quite vexed to lose." Darcy's dark eyes rolled with his sarcasm.

'Tis a shame so few are allowed to see this side of him. Too many on the outside believe him cold and aloof. How wrong they are.

"But alas, better a fool like me, related by blood, than her steward who she says she does not trust. So I cannot count that loss. Yet. Let me see, I also gained several long lectures from my good Uncle, Lord Matlock, warning me that I would be giving away my future and Gerogiana's, handling my affairs differently than he advised." The young man's frustration showed clearly on his face."Who was I to question tradition? Moreover, how could you, a man of God condone such thoughts? Is it not your sworn duty to uphold the social order, as we know it, as holy itself?"

What have you done, young Darcy? "Speak clearly now, young master. I must know what you have done and what has happened." Bradley leaned forward, listening intently.

Darcy sighed, hanging his head, oddly embarrassed. "After you preached so eloquently on the topic, I had my steward go over the books with me. We carefully examined the income of Pemberley and how it was distributed. Knowing how Rosings is run, I could compare Pemberley's performance against Rosings, our own people with theirs. I did just that. Lady Catherine is not liberal with her people." Darcy sighed again, stopping to gaze into the fire for a long moment.

As much as I hate the influence of that woman, perhaps there is some good to be worked through his association with her. Bradley studied the young man's face, noting the regret that haunted his eyes.

"Despite my father's goodness and benevolence, I find that there was not as much difference between the two estates as I would have liked to find."

"You are disappointed in your father?" The older man gently asked.

"That is a strong word, sir. " Darcy frowned, his smooth brow furrowing. "But yes, it was hard to see that he was not as liberal a master as I had believed. So," he turned his gaze to the curate now, "with your admonishments ringing in my ears, I chose a different path."

"What did you do, son?"

"After collecting the rents at Michaelmas last year, I purchased two seed drills, one for the home farm and one to be shared among the tenant farmers. My only stipulation was that they maintain and repair the tool at their own expense. My steward administers those details now. I have purchased new stock for the home farm and extra breeding stock as well. I have offered the use of the stud animals to the tenants to improve their lines for one part in ten of their profits on the animals. I also chose not to increase their rents for the coming year as has been the fashion on other estates."

The curate sat up straighter, lifting his brow high in surprise. "That was a very liberal move, young master. Very liberal."

Humbly, Darcy looked at the worn hearth rug. "I am sure you know this already, but much needed maintenance has not been done on the estate. I assembled a team of men, older men who knew a craft, but were not fit to work the fields this spring, and younger men who for other reasons were in need of learning useful skills. I sent them to the tenant houses to make repairs and note the improvements needed. My steward and I are working with those lists now to determine how best to accomplish them. I am uncomfortable with the state I found many of the houses in."

Bradley chewed his lip a moment. "So, what results have you seen from these improvements?"

A wry smile lit Darcy's faraway expression. "Well, several bar fights in Lambton have been credited to my decisions." The smile broadened as he saw the bemused expression on his mentor's face. "Apparently there were words spoken by one of the villagers against the Master of Pemberley, and several of our people took great offense."

The men laughed and sipped their tea. Bradley reached to refill their cups.

"The fall harvest is not in, so the final tally is not yet available. I truly do not know what all will come of this. However, I have many applicants for the two small farms that have become vacant over winter this year when the Smiths went to live with their children and the Martins took the larger farm here. Those applying are of a different caliber than I have seen recently."

The minister raked his grizzled hair with his hand, nodding, pleased with this report.

"The fields are already showing signs of a fruitful harvest, as are the gardens. A number of new fields have been developed and pasture lands improved. All signs suggest that we will see profits over and above my outlay."

Restraining the urge to comment proved difficult as the patient man awaited the young gentleman's comments.

"It appears, at least for now, that you were correct, but perhaps not exactly in the way you thought."

"Oh? How exactly do you see that?"

"You suggested it was right to pay them what they were worth. It seems they are becoming worth what I am paying them." Darcy's eyes glittered with good humor as a warm smile lit his face.

"So it would seem." Bradley laughed heartily.

"Uncle Matlock will credit good seed and good weather for my good fortune." Darcy's gaze wandered out the window once again, surveying the twilight bathed landscape.

"His ideas of men and their worth are very traditional." The curate gently suggested. This was a point that your father and I perpetually disagreed upon. I wonder if you will be open to hear other ideas.

Darcy slowly nodded, clearly struggling with his thoughts. "He believes that a man is great because of his birth, the money and the rank that he inherits. What he would earn with his own hands, produce of his own efforts, is of little or no value." The soft words contained an air of uncertainty that was unusual for the young man.

"This troubles you?"

"I do not know, sir. My father, I know, shared most of my uncle's beliefs. He taught me that being a Darcy, Master of Pemberley, made me a great man. He insisted that our circle was more important than anyone else. He seemed sad though that George would not be… be so significant. The son of a steward could only have limited aspirations. That troubled him. I believe there were times when he wished George had been born his own son so that he could have been a greater man. "

"And you?"

"I do not know yet, sir. I do not know. What makes a great man, Mr. Bradley? I do not understand. When I was at Cambridge, I saw many first sons, heirs to great estates, who behaved as George did. But as long as no respectable woman was involved, a blind eye was turned, and conversations always focused on the greatness of their families and the estates. But George, well what could one expect form a steward's son?" The weight of his question seemed heavy on his shoulders.

Perhaps you will surpass your father, young Darcy. He never asked these questions. "What do you think makes a man great?"

A thoughtful sigh and frown followed. "When I went to Cambridge, I would have told you it was in the nobility of his name and the size of his estate and fortune."

"And now you are not so certain?"

Darcy merely shrugged.

"So because you were born a Darcy, it means you are a better man than Mr. Martin, your tenant?"

"I have been taught so." Dark eyes lifted, searching his mentor's face.

Bradley rose to the challenge, holding his gaze for a long time before he issued his challenge. "Or perhaps it is because you are less than him?"

Darcy sat up sharply, fairly glaring at the curate.

"Our savior, the Good Book says, came to us in the form of a servant,** did He not? The same book tells us He said the first would be last and the greatest would be the servant of all.*** So, perhaps, young master, you were born a Darcy because you were not strong enough to be born a Martin."

*Matthew 10:10. Luke 10:7
**Philippians 2:7
***Matthew 20:26, 23:11

Chapter 2: To whom much is given

Posted on 2010-08-22

The curate's words haunted Darcy's sleep that night. 'Not strong enough to be a Martin. Not strong enough to be a Martin'. His own response to this challenge hardly served him better. He flushed at the memory of storming from the manse without a word to the curate.
 
Unable to sleep, he stood at the windows in his nightshirt, gazing out overt the estate. How can it be, a farmer stronger than me? Knowing he would not sleep further, he reached for the bell to ring for his valet. A sudden realization stayed his hand. Anders is asleep right now. He does not sleep until after I do and is usually up before dawn. He little does he sleep? How would I feel in his place, ready to jump day or night at the sound of a bell? Would I be strong enough not to resent it, to serve so patiently? I pay him well for the task, but still.
 
He decided to dress without assistance. Quietly he moved down the stairs, nodding absently to the footmen he noticed along the hallways. Do they stay at this post every night? When do they sleep? He could not recall what Mrs. Reynolds had told him regarding the house guard. They had discussed it once and he left it to her jurisdiction.
 
Unconsciously, his feet carried him to the kitchen, a room in which he had found much boyhood comfort. There too, he encountered members of his staff already busy at their trades. How many are at work already while I am still abed? Refusing the food his startled kitchen staff offered, he walked out into the still dark hours of the early morning. Automatically he headed for the stables only to find one of his grooms already at his labors.
 
"Sir! May I help you, sir?" the young man stammered in surprise.
 
"No," Darcy replied, surprised by the anger he heard in his own tone. Quickly, he saddled his mount and left the stables at a fast clip.
 
As he rode through the estate he saw, as if for the first time, he saw tenant farmers and craftsman begin their workdays. Days filled with heavy, hard labor, dawn until dusk, only to trudge home wearily for a meal and the opportunity to do it all again the next day. Moreover, most were thankful to live in a place like Pemberley. The question kept ringing over and over in his mind. Could I live such a life myself?
 
The thought tormented him, drawing him to ride further and further. Finally, he found himself in a familiar copse, a favorite place for repose. He was not quite sure how he had gotten there. Sliding from his tired mount, he tied the stallion near the small stream that ran through the peaceful grove. Still breathing hard from his ride, his feet carried him to the mossy fallen log he often rested upon.
 
Pausing as though seeing it for the first time, he reached out to touch the soft moss, noting the curious feathery texture under his fingertips. A far cry from the fine leather of my study. How well would I do if this was the best I had? Heavily, he landed on the log, sighing. Closing his eyes, he tipped his head up, breathing deeply of the smells of the morning. His thoughts wandered again.
 
Richard, my cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam. How many nights has he spent in a place like this one. Or worse? I know he has seen battle, even though he will not speak of it. All because he is the second son. If I had an elder brother, what would have been my lot?
 
Dropping his head into his hands, he rubbed hard at his temples, noticing for the first time the emptiness of his belly. How often have I missed a meal? Have I ever even had to prepare one of myself? Would I even be able to? Where would I be without my staff to do such things for me? I know Richard has cooked for himself when on maneuvers. I know he chooses to at times. Is this sense of helplessness why? How little can I actually do for myself? Disgusted, he sprang to his feet to pace.
 
What use am I? Aside from what I own, what value am I? How many masters have I studied under? To read, to write, for history, literature and sums. Cambridge told me I was a man of sense and education that those without such preparation could know and understand little. Yet I stand here and wonder could I measure up to any of those I looked upon so meanly? How much sense does Richard have--to command men in battle! Yet I lack it because I have no elder brother. Could I take over Farmer Martin's role and fill it half so well? Just how much sense am I really in possession of?
 
The gentler nicker of his horse drew him to the great beast's side. A velvety black nose pressed his hand, seeking attention, affection. I've been called a good horseman, excellent in the hunt. But what good is it if only for sport? Is that all I can do, spend my days like a child at play in the nursery? Is Pemberley my nursery? Another hunger pang rumbled through his stomach, loud enough for his mount's ears to prick in response. Sighing with resignation to his base nature, Darcy mounted and urged his animal back to the manor house.
 

With a sigh he handed his reigns to a waiting groom, nodding his silent approval of the man's service. The young man seemed startled by his master's acknowledgment. What am I that my notice should disquiet him so?
 
Halfway to the house, Darcy paused, realizing that once he entered he would have to face his staff. Thinking of Mrs. Reynolds's compassionate green eyes, he knew he could not face cope with them, not yet. So he changed directions, not recognizing until he arrived that he was heading for the church yard.
 
How does the world seem so different from when I stood here just yesterday? He sighed as he stood beside the quiet graves, the warm morning sun kissing his face. A soft bird call broke the silence of the graveyard, a reminder of life in the somber place.
 
"So you have returned after all." The familiar, kind voice at his shoulder startled Darcy from his reverie. Immediately he flushed, reminded of his earlier rudeness to the curate. Turning, he saw the gentle smile on the minister's face, assuring him all had been forgiven.
 
The young man drew a deep sigh of relief. "I can see why my Aunt has chosen her own vicar so carefully." A wry grin crept across his face.
 
"How is that?" He has found his humor once again. That is a good sign. Laughter is a good balm for so serious a heart.
 
"It does not look good to commit one's vicar to Bedlam, sir. That is surely where she would have sent you if you had spoken to her as you did me yesterday." Although he smiled, the pain was still clear in Darcy's eyes.
 
"Ah, yes. You are indeed a patient master to keep such a madman in your manse. I believe your Aunt would tell you that is what one should expect for encouraging lowly curates by supplementing their pay." Bradley winked, laughing himself. "Would you break fast with me?"
 
At that moment, the young man's stomach grumbled again. Blushing, he chuckled, "I suppose I must now. Thank you." Graciously, he offered the older man his arm, relieved that the tension between then was broken. They walked together to the manse, a welcome peace finally descending upon Darcy.
 
The meal was simple and shared in companionable silence. The young man's hunger kept him silent while the elder knew the value of discretion. He remained keenly aware of the presence of his own servants. It would not do to tempt them to gossip. I would not place such a stumbling block in their path.
 
Finally, brining a pot of tea with them, they excused themselves to Bradley's study. Taking their familiar places soothed Darcy's ragged nerves further.
 
"Thank you Mr. Bradley," he said softly, staring out the window.
 
"You are always welcome here." You have been wrestling with yourself all night, haven't you? That is to your credit young master.
 
"You have left me with many questions, sir, but few answers."
 
Bradley simply nodded, allowing the youthful gentleman to speak freely.
 
"I find I am in need of answers, sir." Darcy turned his eyes to the curate, the intensity of his gaze revealing the depths of his turmoil." You have challenged all that I have been taught about myself, who I am, what I am."
 
Yes, I have, I suppose. What have you done with that challenge?
 
"You are right, I do not know if I am strong enough to be a farmer, sir. Although I do not much like the thought. So then, what am I? And how is it that I am to fulfill my father's wishes that I become a great man and a great master?"
 
The curate paused, sipping his tea thoughtfully before he answered. "Young master, you are asking difficult questions."
 
"Ones that you fully intended me to ask, no?"
 
Pressing his lips into a smile, Bradley nodded, pride in his blue eyes. "I must confess that was my purpose."
 
"So then, sir, have you answers for those questions you are forcing me to ask?"
 
"It is not my answers you need, sir. I believe our good Lord a better source of wisdom."
 
"Then it is your job as my vicar to…"
 
"Your vicar? I do not believe I…"
 
"My vicar," Darcy firmly insisted, the commanding note in his voice sounding like his own father's. "I find myself in great need of your wisdom, sir."
 
Bradley said nothing, staring into his teacup.
 
"If you do not fill the living soon, George Wickham will be at my door demanding it as the legacy my father promised him." A dark cloud descended over Darcy's face.
 
"Surely he would install a curate to carry out the duties of the parish. He is not inclined to the pulpit himself." Bradley's heavy brow lifted in question. "I cannot see him looking far to find one, especially a cheap one."
 
The young gentleman scowled. "You know George Wickham as well as I do. He is not the man his father was. Would you see him given a place in the church?"
 
"No, but he has not taken orders yet either…" The curate looked away. Carefully he placed his teacup on the small table and rose. Slowly he made his way to the window. Thoughtfully he looked out over the landscape, sighing.
 
"If he sees the living as available, he will find a way to take orders quickly or force me to keep it open for him until he does. You know he has many friends who do not see him for what he is. I cannot take the chance that he would choose to keep you as curate. He knows you have had a long relationship with our family and that alone would tempt him to put you out. He harbors neither of us good will. Who might he put in your place? Can you risk being separated from your parish?"
 
Slowly Bradley shook his head, his back to his guest. "Now you have touched my heart." He paused for another long moment. "I have not desired wealth or position, now you are putting me in a position where I must accept it."
 
"Perhaps, sir, it is so that you may teach me what I am to do with my own."
 
Bradley turned to stare wide-eyed at the serious young man, a hint of mischief glittering in his dark eyes. A moment later, the curate began to chuckle, then laugh. The laughter overtook him until tears rolled down his cheeks and returned to his seat beside Darcy. "Touché', young master. I cannot argue with such reasoning." Wiping his face with his handkerchief, he added, "I will take the living."
 
Darcy breathed a deep sigh of relief , sinking back into the deep chair. "Thank you, old friend. I cannot tell you how much that means to me."
 
A few more quiet moments passed before it was broken by the as yet unanswered question.
 
"You still have not told me, sir, how then do I see myself and become the man my father wished me to be?"
 
Bradley shook his head, raking his hair with his hand. "The answer to that is both very simple and quite complex at the same time. I do now know if you will like it."
 
"I am listening," Darcy leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin in hands, earnestly waiting what the curate offered.
 
"You sir, are one to whom much has been given and much entrusted. With that blessing comes much responsibility for much will be required of you as well. * Far too few of your rank understand that."
 
The young gentleman considered these words for a few moments. "My father often said that Pemberley was given to him with the charge to keep it and increase it to pass on to his son, but I do not think this is the responsibility that you are speaking of."
 
"I suppose, that could be a part of the whole, but by no means is it the greatest part. Your legacy, Fitzwilliam, is important and worth caring for, but there is more here. How many lives are dependent on Pemberley? How many families, children grow up in the shadow of the decisions you make? "
 
Darcy brows knit in consideration of this new perspective.
 
"It is indeed a precious trust to be given people under your care, young master. If you wish to be the man your heavenly Father wishes you to be, you will care for his people. Our precious savior taught that the two greatest commandments were to love God and to love his people ** and to love our brothers is in fact to love God. ***"
 
"I have been taught," Darcy sighed heavily, "to love my family and to protect them and our reputation with everything that I have. Father and my Uncles have long schooled me to protect our name and our legacy, to love that above all else. Now you tell me what I must love are those very people the Ton would declare insignificant." He rubbed hard at his temples.

"Yes, I am afraid I am, sir." Bradley shrugged his shoulders. "It is no easy thing."
 
"What does it look like, sir? I do not even know where to begin? What will you do with your new-found wealth to obey this very directive?" Although the words were challenging, the young man's tone was seeking.
 
"A fair and right question, Mr. Darcy. Well put and deserving of an answer." Bradley paused, leaning back to think a moment. " In truth, I do not fully know it all yet. But I have considered and these are my thoughts. Though I would like to, simply giving it all away in charity is not good. There are cases of benevolence, but those instances aside, the good book teaches that if a man does not work, neither should he eat.+ I must honor that. So I shall seek to hire those who need work, to give them meaningful labor and references for the future. I do not need many servants, young sir, but there are those who need the employ, so I will keep servants. I want to find a way to provide some education to those who want it, hire a teacher, find a place for classes. Maybe find a small cottage to establish as a place for refuge for young women in trouble. Hire a housekeeper to maintain it. There are so many needs, I will have to pray and seek our good Lord's wisdom to know which of them are given to me to meet."
 
Darcy smiled at the unconscious excitement in curate-come-vicar's voice. "Your passion is clear in your tone, old friend. We will do well with you as vicar. You will be a very different kind of master. I can see that now. "
 
"The good book says the greatest will be servant of all. I believe that is how you will be a great man, young Darcy. "
 
Darcy's dark eyes misted. "You think I will be?"
 
"Yes, sir, I do."
 
The young man's head fell back against his chair, soaking in the affirmation his mentor so freely offered.

* Luke 12:48
** MT 22:37
***1JN 4:19
+2 Thes 3:10

Chapter 3:Masters, provide what is right

The spring weeks flew by, the busyness of estate affairs filling the hours of each day and most of Darcy's thoughts. Stretching , Darcy rose form his desk and yawned. Absently he found himself wandering toward the window. Outside around him, the estate bustled with activity. He sighed. Twenty and six, father, you left me in charge of all this at twenty and six. You always loved the spring. I wish you had been here to see it with me this year. Without realizing it, he shook his head and turned to look at his parent's portrait that hung beside the window. Their gentle faces smiled down on him, filling him with a tender warmth. I'm grateful you were with me as long as you were. Those last three years, father… He shuddered. Georgiana misses you as well. Oh, father how am I to raise a girl of fifteen? What do I know of such things?
 
His reverie was disturbed by the solemn entrance of a footman who presented his master with the post that had just been delivered.
 
"Thank you, Davis." Darcy nodded at the broad shouldered man, smiling to himself as he watched him straighten his shoulders and stand a little taller.
 
"Will there be anything else sir?"
 
"No, that will be all for now." Smartly, the footman turned and left the study. Such a change, I can hardly fathom. The young gentleman smiled to himself, eyes fixed at the door.
 
Just a fortnight before he had learned from Mrs. Reynolds that despite the fact he had always called said footman 'Smith', the man's name was in fact Davis. Unbeknownst to the young master of Pemberley, the estate followed the common custom of retaining the name of a long forgotten servant who held the position rather than inconveniencing the family to learn the new servant's names.
 
"You mean I have been calling that man Smith for well over a year now and his name is not…" Darcy exclaimed incredulously.
 
"Not a Smith, sir. Yes exactly so. It was the custom of your father." Mrs. Reynolds patiently explained, surprised by Fitzwilliam Darcy's disquiet. What has that vicar of his been up to now?
 
"My servants do not even have the dignity of their own names!" Darcy spat, disgusted. "This must change. I am yet a young man and I would venture to say I am capable of learning the proper names of the servants who I deal with regularly."
 
"Sir, it is not necessary to trouble yourself so. It is well understood that this is the custom in the great houses…"
 
"But it will no longer be the custom here," he declared firmly.
 
"Yes sir." Mrs. Reynolds swallowed hard, shaking her head as she thought of the confusion that would ensue. How am I going to explain this to them? How will it sound to them that the master wishes to know their names?
 
"I trust your management, Mrs. Reynolds. It will be well. And if I must put forth some effort, then that is my choice, is it not?"
 
The smile on the young man's face startled her further. When did he begin to smile so?
 
Turning more thoughtfully, Darcy asked. "Do the staff confide in you often?"
 
Raising her eyebrows in surprise, she replied, "It is my job to know whatever is going on in the household."
 
"And that would include what is going on in their own homes and lives?"
 
"Yes sir." She responded warily. "Have you concerns regarding any of the household staff?" The grandmotherly woman's brows knotted in concern.
 
"No, no, not at all. Not in the way you fear at least. I have no fault to find with your impeccable management of my home."
 
She flushed under his unexpected praise as she wondered where the conversation was going.
 
"A great many people make up the staff here."
 
"Yes sir."
 
"It would seem reasonable then to assume that from time to time emergencies would arise, needs in the staff, sickness, injury, accidents, the like." He rubbed his left palm with his right thumb. I wonder what she will say to this.
 
"Yes sir. But it is my responsibility to make sure none of those things ever interfere…"
 
"And you do it exceedingly well. I have never seen the household show the effects of any of the personal trials of my staff."
 
"Begging your pardon, sir, I really do not understand these questions. Is there something that has displeased you?"
 
"Far from it, I am quite impressed by your efficiency, Mrs. Reynolds. So much so, that I would like you to manage one more thing for me. He enjoyed watching the look of surprise that spread across her face. He removed a leather bound ledger book from his desk and handed it to the startled housekeeper. "I have invested a sum of money in an interest bearing account, the details of which are in the ledger in your hands. The purpose of this investment is to give you a yearly sum--the interest earned off the funds--to be used at your discretion to assist those among my staff who experience such tragedies as we have mentioned and lack the means themselves. I prefer you do not offer an explanation for where those funds come from, however. I am sure you will know best how to manage such a thing." Let not your left hand know what your right is doing *, or so Bradley has taught.
 
Shocked, the woman opened the ledger. "Sir! I cannot…"
 
"Yes, you can. I have complete faith in your ability to do this." He met her eyes seriously. "And it is best that they not know more of this than the appearance of your benevolence, Mrs. Reynolds. I fear more would disrupt the household too much."
 
"I…I am honored sir. You are truly the best…"
 
"No, Mrs. Reynolds. Not yet. But I am learning to be." The warmth in her green eyes touched his heart.
 
He smiled in remembrance of the housekeeper's expressions. Uncle Matlock would be appalled! He believes every servant would cheat him and they deserve the hardships of their lives. How recently would I have agreed with him? And my Aunt! He snorted at the thought. She firmly believes their hardships are the revenge of the Almighty against them for being of low birth! Oh Mr. Bradley, how you have disrupted my neatly ordered life!
 
With a small laugh, he returned to the stacks on his desk. Sighing, he sorted his pile of letters. Business. Business. Invitation…that one to decline…Ah! Bingley has written at last! Leaning back in his dark leather upholstered chair, he broke the wax seal on his friend's letter.
 

Darcy ,
 
I could not have been more pleased to receive your invitation to Pemberley. You were right, it has been far too long since we have kept company.
 
My father's intention was to make me a gentleman but even now at twenty and three, I do not yet feel up to the task of running an estate on my own. Your offer to teach me the tasks of a gentleman could not have come at a better time! I must say I have rarely been so excited by the prospect of being a student!
 
Including my sister in your invitation was generosity itself. Are you certain it would not trouble your good housekeeper too much to begin preparing Caroline for the task of running my household? Since it will be some time before I am ready to consider having a proper mistress for my home, she has claimed the role in the interim. My sister is anxious to exercise her hostess skills in my home and is anxious for me to get on with the process of establishing one. In her eyes, your offer is a sign of divine providence that it is time for me to seek out an estate of my own.
 
I should warn you, my friend, that unlike myself, my sister is actively seeking a match. While you share much in common with her, please understand I am not trying to further a match between you two. I would be honored to call you brother, but would leave the matchmaking to the women. I would only ask that should you decided against her, let her know quickly and clearly lest I have to endure her endless scheming. Should you decide in her favor, you will forget I ever said that and never, ever speak to her of it.
 
Our party should arrive Tuesday of the last week in April, assuming of course that the date is still agreeable to you. Thank you again for your invitation.
 
CB

*Matt 6:3

Ch 4: Bad Company Corrupts Good Character**

Posted on 2010-08-31

Darcy stood outside his study and sighed. Tipping his head back, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he drew a deep breath. He struggled to calm his gnawing frustration. First, guests arriving on a day's notice now, Wickham showing up unexpectedly rocked his usually neatly ordered life.
 
The study door was open. Within he could see George Wickham standing at the window. The young man's face was drawn in a familiar expression. He's scheming again. Trying to figure out what he can get out of me I 'd wager. How many times did I cover for his misdeeds back at school? How many times did I shelter him from the consequences of his own actions? Funny. I think somehow that taught him he would not pay the price and taught me that I would always have to. Perhaps it's time for this to change. I am so tired of the way it has always been.
 
He watched as Wickham moved from the window to Darcy's massive dark wood desk. Purposefully, the steward's son began rifling though the papers left neatly there. A moment later, he paused, apparently finding something of interest. His long fingered hand deftly retrieved a small ledger book bound in red leather. His eyes narrowed as he quickly scanned the pages.
 
How dare he? He had no business in my private papers! That ledger has records of all the accounts my father established! What could he want with that?
 
Wickham set the papers down and began searching the remaining material on the desk. Finally Darcy could take no more. He strode angrily into the room.
 
"Would you care to explain yourself, Mr. Wickham?" Darcy demanded angrily.
 
Wickham concealed his surprise, turning smoothly to his boyhood companion. "Quite formal today, are you not Darcy?" He chided. "I just suppose it is a habit of my father's coming out, old friend. You keep his desk quite a fright." He smiled ingratiatingly.
 
The master of Pemberley choked back the bile that rose at the sight of the familiar expression. "Your father was an honorable man. He did not go rifling about another man's papers!" He snarled. "You will not be permitted in my study unaccompanied again. If I ever even suspect you have touched my private papers or any private family records again I will have my footmen throw you out of the house and you will never be permitted on my property again." His fiery glare left his companion unaffected.
 
"Temper, temper Darcy." Wickham laughed dismissively. "Has your favorite horse turned up lame?"
 
Glaring again, Darcy stalked to his chair and landed there heavily. "What do you want Wickham? You never darken my door without a list of demands. What is it? Creditors coming knocking at your door? Or is it gambling debts this time?" He rubbed his temples hard.
 
"What a dim view you have of me, indeed! What would your father say to hear such things?" George Wickham chuckled, draping himself over a nearby chair.
 
My good father never saw you for what you were. He was so blinded by his love for you…I still don't understand. "What would it have done to my good father to see you being chased down by your gaming companions."
 
"You still hold that against me! How long can you carry that grudge? It was a bit of harmless fun…"
 
"Harmless fun that nearly cost me…"
 
"Cost you nothing! You know with your father's standing and your Uncle Matlock's rank you would never…"
 
"That is not the point!" Darcy's large hands slammed the desk as he jumped to his feet.
 
Wickham's lips drew into a wry grin. That's the Darcy I know. You are so easy. "Relax, Darcy."
 
Grinding his teeth, Darcy growled. "What are you here for, Wickham? My patience is wearing thin."
 
"Since you asked, old chum." Wickham's smile broadened. "I'm here about the living your father promised me."
 
Unable to control his disgust, Darcy's head fell back against the leather of his chair and he rolled his eyes.
 
"I have heard tell that you, the dutiful son and heir have chosen to disregard your father's dearest wish and given that old curate of yours the living your father promised to me." Wickham schooled his features into the picture of a mistreatment.
 
"I suppose you mean to tell me you intended to take orders?" Darcy's heavy brows rose high on his forehead.
 
"In exchange for a life of a gentlemen's son, taking orders seems like a small thing." The steward's son shrugged and folded his arms over his chest.
 
The image of George Wickham in pulpit flashed through his mind, sickening him. "Well, it is a moot point. The living belongs to John Bradley now."
 
"You have disregarded your father's wishes, does that not mean something to you?" He challenged scornfully. "I thought you honored your father's memory." A dark brow quirked over flashing eyes.
 
A stone cold mask descended over Darcy's face. "My father promised you nothing. Nothing. Have you forgotten that I was the executor of my father's will? I know all his last requests and orders. Had he truly wanted you to have that living he would have left you the advowson# in his will and you would have been able to appoint yourself to the living. My father was not a careless man. Had he intended to see you in the living, he would have left nothing to chance. It would have been provided to you in his will." Darcy leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
 
A look of alarm crossed Wickham's face for the first time as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Your father was quite clear when he told me…"
 
"He told you he hoped you would take orders and find your way into a respectable life. He said he would like to see you in that living some day. That can hardly be construed as a promise."
 
"Darcy, you owe me the value of that living!" The lanky young man leaned forward in his seat. "At the going price for advowsons that would be three thousand pounds at least!"
 
Nodding knowingly, a small smile crept over Darcy's face. "So it is about money after all."
 
"I just need some help to get started. Your father would have wanted that…"
 
"What about what my father left you? I recall his will provided you with a thousand pounds. The interest alone should have been sufficient…"
 
"Can you not forgive the indiscretions of youth?" Wickham's dark eyes widened to affect innocence. "He would have forgiven me."
 
"Good Lord Wickham! It has been less than a year!"
 
"I've learned my lesson Darcy. I have. Truly I have." Absently, Wickham rose and walked to the window. "I have seen the error of my ways old chum. I finally understand the love your father lavished on me, the undeserving son of his steward. He could not give me the life of a gentleman as he wished, but he loved me like a son and wanted to give me a better life." A sad note filled the young man's voice.
 
Darcy stared at his old companion. I've never heard him talk like that before. Could he understand, finally what he has done? I would truly honor my father's desires if I thought…
 
"I have wasted that chance, and I know it, Darcy. But I'm begging you, give me another chance." He turned from the window to look at Darcy once again. "Does not that vicar of yours teach of forgiveness? Am I not the prodigal son, returning to the fold?"
 
The warmth that had risen in Darcy's chest suddenly turned ice cold. How can he make the words of the Good Book sound so vile? "What do you know of the teachings of my vicar? I don't remember you often darkening his door." Scorn filled his voice.
 
A disdainful sneer lifted his upper lip. "Since when have you turned into a church mouse Darcy! Has that vicar finally turned you into a religious man?" When he received no response, Wickham could not contain his laughter. "He has! He'll have you taking orders soon! So when is your japanning+ Darcy? Are you eyeing the living for yourself after the passing of your vicar?"
 
The young gentleman gritted his teeth and drew a deep breath. I know better. I will not allow him to push me down to his level. "This interview is at an end, Mr. Wickham."
 
"Darcy! No! Please." Genuine alarm filled his voice. "Truly Darcy, help me this time and I will never darken your door again. On my honor."
 
What I would do for that promise to be true! Perhaps this would rid me of him forever. Darcy sighed and glanced toward the locked drawer that contained his bank orders. An odd check in his guts stayed his hand. Three thousand is no small sum. I need advice. I know what father would have done. I know what Uncle Matlock would say and I am still no better off. What does Bradley say? With many advisers plans succeed.* I'll make not decisions now. "I will consider your request, Wickham."
 
"Thank you Darcy…" He rose to offer his hand.
 
"I said I would consider it, nothing more. Do not thank me yet." He countered severely, rising to his own feet.
 
"I heard you are celebrating your new vicar with a dinner tonight." Wickham quickly changed the subject. "May I be so forward to ask if I could join you? I should like to meet the man who is filling my…ah…the living."
 
With a heavy sigh, Darcy acquiesced. "All right. I shall inform Mrs. Reynolds. However, do not expect guest rooms to be prepared for you. My staff has already been inconvenienced enough."
 
Since when has Darcy ever cared for anyone's convenience? "I have a room in Lambton, never fear, old friend, I shall not impose further on your hospitality." He bowed stiffly and turned to stride out of the room.
 
Darcy watched them retreat down the hallway, shaking his head. Squeezing his temples he wondered what to do with George Wickham's demands.

Wickham sighed as he sauntered down the long corridor. What has happened to Darcy? He has changed somehow. He used to be so easy.
 
"George!" A new voice called from the stairway. Dainty feet pounded down the steps until Georgiana's innocent face peered into the Wickham's. "I thought I heard your voice! It's been so long since I've seen you! Oh have you seen my brother yet? Is it good to have you here with us again!" She smiled brilliantly, her blue eyes glittering with youthful joy.
 
"How you have grown Miss Georgiana!" Wickham bowed over the girl's proffered hand. "You have quite the look of a lady now." He smiled broadly at her. "I should like to take a turn about the grounds with you, for old time sake. What say you, Miss Georgiana?"
 
She frowned, prettily. "Oh, George, I will have to ask my brother. He is so awfully strict with me; I cannot see how he would be willing…"
 
"Do you truly think he would mind? It has been ever so long since I have been here and I do not know when I shall return again."
 
"Well, you used to take me for walks when I was such a little thing. You and me and Fitzwilliam and Richard…" she murmured, biting her lower lip thoughtfully.
 
"That's right. I remember those days so fondly now. How could he possibly object to what we used to do?" Wickham smiled wistfully.
 
"No, he couldn't possibly object to that. But I must mind the time. I am being permitted to join them all at dinner tonight. My first dinner in company! Brother has told me this is a special honor. It would not do for me to be late." Excitement danced in her eyes.
 
"Of course, I could not allow you to risk your brother's ire. We will mind the minutes carefully!" He gushed, offering her his arm, he escorted her out to the gardens.

"How you have blossomed, Georgiana!" Wickham gushed as they strolled past the blooming spring garden. "You have become quite a beautiful woman."
 
The blonde girl giggled and blushed prettily. "My brother doesn't seem to think so."
 
"What? Has he criticized your beauty? I will call him out!" He dropped her arm and stood akimbo in the path with mock outrage on his face.
 
"No! No!" Georgiana laughed, laying her hand gently on his arm. "My brother is the best of men. He has never said such a thing. It's just that he doesn't see me as a lady…" The disappointment was clear in her voice.
 
"I understand, my dear, dear Georgiana." Wickham consoled, squeezing her hand encouragingly. "I understand. He sees me as no gentleman. So we share than in common."
 
"Oh, George! What has he done? My brother is so good..." Her delicate brow knit in consternation.
 
"My dear girl, you are a lady, you have no need to listen to the troubles of a man such as me." He took her arm once again and led them through the garden.
 
"No, no, please tell me! Maybe there's something I can do. I know he would never do anything wrong knowingly."
 
"You are so innocent, my dear girl. But the sad truth is that your brother has always been very jealous of me. But really, I should not tell you such things. I am sorry…"
 
She stopped in the middle of the path. "George! My brother jealous? How can you say that?"
 
"It is not something you should hear…"
 
"I am almost a woman now. I should hear these things!" Outrage filled her blue eyes. "Tell me!"
 
"Your father loved me, very dearly, Georgiana. I was named for him. But your brother didn't like sharing your father's affection. He has always been jealous. Now that your father's gone, he means to deny me what your father wanted me to have. He gave my living to your curate and I am left with nothing." Wickham sighed heavily, shrugging. "But that is not something for a lovely young almost woman to concern herself with. I would not have you creasing your lovely brow with worries not befitting a lady."
 
Stepping toward the distraught young man, she laid a warm hand on his. "I'm so sorry, George. I can't believe he would do this to you. It is not like him at all. I will talk with him, I will make him understand…"
 
"No, no, my dear. You leave such worries out of your pretty head. These are things far too much for you. For tonight is your first dinner! That is indeed a special event. I am so glad I am here to share that with you. It may be the last such event I am permitted to spend with you. I wish to make sure it is special for you. So tell me everything, who is to attend, what you are to wear. Take my mind off my troubles with your good fortune." He smiled bravely at her.
 
"Oh George, you are too good."
 
He took her arm once again and guided her through the tranquil park as the young woman excitedly detailed her expectations for her first dinner.

#Advowson: right of presenting a clergyman to a living, viewed as a form of property. A few of the clergy were so much a part of the gentry that they owned advowsons and could lawfully appoint themselves to a living. - The Regency Encyclopedia
+ Japanned: ordained, to put on black cloth from the color of japan ware which is black. - The Regency Encyclopedia
* PR 15:22
** 1CO 15:33
Continued In Next Section