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Darcy has ever been gladdened to return to the bourne of Pemberley after time away; never more so than since he married.
At present, he can hardly bear to be away. Under the circumstances he is of the opinion that Lady Catherine should not expect it. Having undertaken one last journey to tell her so in no uncertain terms, he intends to stir himself not an inch for quite some time.
He is not surprised to find his wife in the library.
She is intent on the text that has caught her attention, and has thus not noticed his arrival. Darcy permits himself the indulgence of watching her from the doorway; she has little patience at present for his "moon-eyed gazing", and has been known to speculate tartly on whether he has perhaps been unduly influenced by Mr Bingley.
Unobserved, he need not restrain himself.
She has long been pleasing to his eye, but never more so than in her present condition. Her eyes seem brighter, her skin more luminous, and for all that she finds herself to be ungainly he thinks her beauty now should outshine every other woman in England.
The nursery in which he spent his infancy awaits Pemberley's heir. Mrs Wood thinks the babe will be a boy, while Mrs Hatcher is certain it will be a girl; Elizabeth joked that it is unfortunate it is not expected that she will have twins, for the redoubtable women are old friends she fears may come to blows.
Elizabeth shifts to adjust herself relative to the afternoon light by which she is reading, and in doing so glances up and sees him.
"Ah. My doe-eyed husband." She smiles, and Darcy is relieved. Her temper has been a tad waspish of late. He has been assured by a number of men of his acquaintance that it's very normal at this stage. "Come and tell me what you think of this." She taps the page in front of her - the Pembrokeshire Herald, he sees as he obediently approaches.
Ah. A piece noting the passing of Mr Alexander Halder, Member of Parliament. "It was not a surprise. He was rather elderly," Darcy says, unsure of her object in asking his opinion.
Elizabeth looks up at him, brow elegantly arched. "My dear Mr Darcy, you control his and two other boroughs outright."
"I admit that." He kneels to save the strain on her neck and is amply rewarded with a kiss. "Is it that you disapprove of my doing so? Would you like me to have a Radical put in his place?" He is not particularly attentive to matters of politics, but electoral reform is quite the issue of the day.
"I think they still would not have the votes for change. The will of the electorate is rising, but it is not yet there. No, I had another object in mind."
Her eyes sparkle with both purpose and mischief, and Darcy knows that her object will be his own in the moment she has explained it.
~
Lydia Wickham is pleased to be returning to her husband's childhood home at Pemberley. They have visited before, of course, as well they might, but on this occasion they have been specifically invited. Lizzy asked them to come, and to make no particular plans for what they might do after their visit.
Perhaps, Lydia thinks, she has convinced her husband to give Lydia's husband the living of the curacy at Kympton at last.
A servant shows them to the drawing-room where Lizzy is waiting - with, Lydia is surprised to see, their mother and Jane as well!
Their father and Mr Bingley must surely be somewhere around, but it would appear that Mr Darcy is not playing host to them - he's standing beside Lizzy's chair, looking as stuffy and serious as ever. Lydia hasn't seen him much in a very long time - he's often been away or busy when she has been to Pemberley.
Lydia will, she supposes, forgive her sisters for not coming to greet her - Lizzy must surely be due at any moment now, to look at her.
The Wickhams are most welcome at Pemberley today, she notices. Even Mr Darcy greets Mr Wickham, not minding the way Lizzy is looking at him - a strange look, Lydia thinks. Almost like avarice, as if Lydia had not already won the contest for his affections.
There is some family news, but Lydia forgets it all when Lizzy mentions that the Darcys have been considering who best to place at an important position.
Not the curacy at Kympton.
The House of Commons.
"Of course, it's a very responsible place," Lizzy says seriously. "Deciding the laws of the whole country - we need a man who is well-spoken and persuasive and will represent our interests to advantage."
"What of Mr Wickham?" Mama says, effusive. "Is he not well-spoken? You could hardly do better, I'm sure!"
"Oh, yes," Lydia exclaims, in total agreement. Her husband would be in the newspapers, and they would have to live in London and mingle with the best of society, no doubt. He might even have a knighthood, in time, and Lydia would be Lady Wickham!
"I'm not sure I'm suited to politics," her husband demurs, all too modest. "I can't imagine giving even the first speech. I've no idea what I would say."
Lizzy smiles. "If you will permit the presumption, Mr Wickham, I may have considered some few suggestions. I am quite confined at present, you understand."
Mr Darcy steps away from her and takes a short stack of paper Lydia had disregarded from a table, which he then delivers to Lydia's husband.
"This would appear to be my maiden speech to Parliament," Mr Wickham says slowly.
Lizzy smiles brightly. "Mama, we thought you might like to see it. We've arranged accommodations for all of you."
Mama gasps. "But - Lizzy, the baby! What if I'm away when -"
"Jane will be by my side. I'm sure we shall endure - if that happens, of course. Did I mention we have secured tickets to a box at the Theatre Royal? Mr Grimaldi will be performing."
It's so thoughtful, Lydia thinks, for Lizzy to risk Mama missing the arrival of the baby so that she can be there to see Lydia's husband make his debut on the national stage.
Marriage has been so good for her.
~
It could, Wickham thinks, be worse. London has many entertainments to offer, and Darcy is paying him handsomely enough for what amounts to very little work. As ever, the man keeps his distance, unwilling to soil himself by association with the son of a servant. Wickham's orders are relayed by his wife, conveyed via letters she receives from Elizabeth Darcy.
Wickham goes to the House of Commons to vote on matters he has been told to vote on, and give speeches that are sent to him. He also goes to dinner parties and the theatre, and makes himself agreeable to a great many people.
Lydia loves it, and her happiness makes Wickham's life easier, which is pleasing. She thrives - one loud and outspoken woman among many, but the thoughtless vivacity that first drew him to her makes her one of the most popular.
Having no desire to unburden himself of this life of relative ease, Wickham votes in accordance with his instructions when he has them, and in accordance with his own interests when he does not. He does not actually care about the issues themselves, but there are those in London society who are all too eager to reward parliamentarians if it serves to their advantage.
He dines at the finest clubs, and plays cards with men of great significance and little skill. It's a finer life than he'd imagined it would be. He is rarely at home of an evening, and hardly sees Lydia when not in the company of at least a dozen others beyond the briefest of domestic encounters.
Over time, it becomes more common for him to have instructions than not, and it takes him several years to realise that not all of his instructions have their origin at Pemberley.
Wickham had not given much thought to what Lydia was doing while he was at the House of Commons, or dining with his many friends and acquaintances. Something, no doubt. Sometimes her mother visits.
He was not inclined to care, and remained so disinclined until an otherwise unremarkable Thursday morning, upon which he suddenly became intensely aware that he had been ignoring his wife despite her tendency to activity and ambition.
The routine by now is well-established. Wickham rises about ten, whereupon his man Wilson brings his breakfast, shaves him, and lays out his clothes. Once he has dressed, Wickham emerges from his room to greet his wife before she departs and allow her recitation of her schedule for the day to wash over him. She'll have a luncheon with Mrs Someone, and tea with Miss or Mrs or even Lady Whoever. Sometimes he will be expected to dine wherever she is dining.
Today she says, "And this afternoon you will be called to speak to the Prime Minister."
Wickham was drinking late last night - he doesn't feel entirely well. He thinks for a moment he must have imagined she said that. "The Prime Minister?" he repeats weakly.
"Yes. You'll be accepting his offer of a position in the ministry." She smiles so prettily, he thinks distantly.
"I have heard nothing of this." He's sure he'd remember.
"Of course not. Neither had the Prime Minister, but I imagine he has now been informed." She points at a small bundle of folded papers on the corner of her writing-desk. "You'll be expected to give some comment in the House. There's an explanation of the question under discussion and of your responses there."
Wickham stares at the papers as one might a bared blade. "Did - did your sister send instructions?"
"She was quite agreeable to the course," Lydia says, which is not at all the same thing.
It is only then that he begins to pay attention to what his wife is doing with her time, and realises that the many women with whom she has luncheon, or tea, or who host the many dinner parties she attends, not always even with Wickham, are all of them the wives of politicians - members of the House of Commons or even of the Lords.
Her conversation is no longer about hats and dresses and fashion, but about politics and law and reform.
He notes that her letters from Elizabeth Darcy - once brief missives of a page at most, and not all that frequent - are now quite long and frequent. He realises that between her social engagements Lydia, who once dismissed all literary pursuit as tiresome, spends hours at her writing-desk corresponding with her sister and others.
Wickham has not felt so trapped since Darcy found him and forced him to marry the girl in the first place.
There is no possibility of escaping his unsought political career - without Darcy's patronage he is sunk, and he can imagine no occupation more agreeable that is available to him, even though he has rather more obligations as a Minister of the Crown.
He has heard mutterings about giving women the vote. He wonders if it would save him if his wife and Elizabeth Darcy were able to exercise their apparent political ambitions more directly.
As the years pass his star rises ever higher, forced aloft by his wife's vast network of connections. The Wickhams dine at the home of the Duke of Wellington, where Wickham himself avoids the gaze of several men who knew him during his ill-fated time in regimental service. He keeps making himself agreeable to everyone and wonders when this will all come crashing down.
It is in his eleventh year of parliament that his morning orders from his wife are strikingly novel.
Lydia smiles at him quite brightly. He found her smile so charming, once. Now it stirs in him only a dull resignation. There will be instructions, and he will obey them, because he can do nothing else.
"Today the Prime Minister will ask your opinion on the appointment to the vacant bishopric," Lydia tells him. He hadn't been aware there was one. "You will recommend my father's cousin, Mr Collins."
For a moment he wonders if this will be when it all ends - but no, the Prime Minister will hardly expect anything else. The only surprise here is that somehow Lydia has arranged it so that no-one else is ahead of him in the awarding of such a valuable appointment.
How many favours, Wickham wonders, has he unwittingly done for people in positions of great power?
"You despise Mr Collins," he says, because she does. "So do your sisters."
Lydia nods. "Utterly," she confirms, quite blithe. "But we are very fond of Charlotte Collins, and this will suit her well. The timing is quite a relief - both my father and Reverend Colter are getting quite old, you know."
Wickham sits heavily.
Reverend Colter - the vicar at Kympton, a living superior to that of Hunsford, where Mr Collins now resides under the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Obviously a bishopric is a superior position, and any obligation for Darcy to bestow Kympton on his wife's kinsman will be utterly extinguished.
"What of Longbourn?" he asks. His voice is unaccountably hoarse.
"Mr Collins can hardly take possession of it when he has such obligations." Lydia has a hint of condescension in her voice as she explains the obvious conclusion of her machinations. "I expect Mr Darcy or Mr Bingley will rent it from him so Mama doesn't have to move."
This is the course of his life, Wickham realises: a mere pawn in service of his wife and her family, caught in a well-gilded cage.
Lydia has turned to her writing-desk, and is composing a letter.
"I protest," he says weakly.
"I think not." Lydia doesn't look up. "I do not recall giving you any such opinions, nor can I imagine I will."