The Shades of Pemberley
Or
A Faithful Narrative of All My Dealings by Mr Wickham
Part One
I am born

Mother told me the first thing I did when I was put into my father’s arms after my safe, if somewhat prolonged, delivery into this world, was to smile at him. She may think that if it brings her comfort. I myself am inclined to believe I made a grimace. But that, of course, is of no consequence as long as the appearance is the desired one.

My father was the steward of Mr Darcy of the Pemberley estate in Derbyshire and according to all accounts he was well respected, diligent, loyal and devoted to the family. A complete fool, in other words, who ran that great family’s great estate and never had the nerve to really profit from it. The way those people took advantage of him and his devotion sickens me to this day. He had started out well enough, as an attorney with quite a prosperous practice in Lambton, I believe, but apparently the lure of the promise of becoming old Mr Darcy’s confidant and right hand was too big for him. He always did have a most subservient attitude to nobility and was, I believe, blinded by the glory of that great estate. Hat in hand he scraped and bowed and had I not taken care of myself at an early age with regards to that family, he should have left this life without a penny more than he came into it to settle on me.

My mother was the daughter of the Head Gardener at Pemberley and predictably enough her name was Violet. Her sisters were Rose, Daisy and Lily. Thankfully, my Grandparents never had a son and even more thankfully, that simpleminded penchant for naming their children was not passed on to my parents. I was therefore named George Henry William Wickham in the first and last attempt of my father to cleverly ingratiate himself with Mr Darcy and ensure me the future I deserved.

I have no siblings. The reason for this I suspect is some reluctance for the business caused by my birth on my mother’s part, total lack of initiative on my father’s part and possibly the conviction of the two that one child – male at that – was quite enough to fulfil the need for devotion. The fact that my mother was a woman with no sense whatsoever and the only commendable characteristics she possessed, besides a pretty name, was her beauty and letting money run liberally through her fingers, probably also contributed to our poor financial situation. A circumstance which should induce any sensible man to put serious restrictions on his wife’s purse strings and go after the income where it was most readily available, but as I said, my father was not a very prudent man and somewhat lacking in self-preservation.

I am taken to the big House

I was, naturally, proudly shown off to everyone on the estate and being born only 8 months after the heir to the Darcy name, fortune and estate, was very quickly expected to provide a suitable and humble companion for him. It is to my advantage that the royal habit of whipping boys had lost favour in England by this time; otherwise I am quite certain the noble family would have no qualms of filling the position with me. If I had not known of my father’s complete lack of cunning ways and far too reverent attitude towards his employers, I could have congratulated him on the slyness that this very timely procreation brought my family and me. I was let into one of the most illustrious Houses and ancient families in England simply on the merit of the time of my birth. But I am convinced the initiative did not originate from my father. It was most likely old Mr Darcy himself who had the brilliant idea, seeing as he took such an interest in the lives of his underlings and held my father in such high esteem. Or possibly he was just out to secure another generation of Wickham’s tied to the Darcy grind and wanted to make certain the hat was securely in hand and the scraping began early on.

However that may be, I soon found that being allowed unlimited access to the family and the house brought with it comforts and privileges I had not thought existed. You cannot imagine the life of such a rich and noble family if you have not lived it! Everything is reasonable and within your reach. Nothing is impossible and every luxury is your right. Every discomfort is an insult and not to be born. Every single thought you dare entertain is level-headed and every wish is sound. They have servants for chores you did not even knew existed. The only obligation assigned to you is the up-hold of the estate and the trappings of your position. Your only duty is to make certain that your family is secured in that luxury at the expense of everyone and anyone else for generations to come.

In order to do that you have tenants, who provide for you, servants, who meet your every need, employees, who make sure you are not made to pay for anything in vain and companions, who’s only task is to prop you up in your self-importance.

I earn a patron

The Master of Pemberley agreed (or maybe even offered) to be my Godfather, which is a very good start in life by any measure. So in my assignment as companion to the young precious Fitzwilliam Darcy, I quickly discern the power politics of the House. Old Mr Darcy is the old, benevolent, anxious King of the Castle, eager that his son should become aware of his heritage as soon as possible and practice it with enthusiasm. I gather my presence is further illustration of that fact, but soon enough I manage to secure my, if not equal – oh never equal in that House! – then at least respected place within the hierarchy.

As I said, Father Darcy adores his son, cherishes him, and showers him with assurances of his uniqueness and obligations and position in society and among his underlings. He props him up, indulges him and pets him and very soon I find out that it doesn’t take much to induce affection from this old gentleman. An adoring smile, a “Yes, Sir!”, “You are perfectly right, as always, Sir” and some very subtle flattery is quite enough. So very soon he is gazing upon the two of us in our schoolroom or on the crocket lawn or on evening visits to be presented to various guests in the drawing room with not only a proud smile for his son but a wink and a kind look for the companion. He starts calling us “the lads” and treats us as one entity. But let there be no mistake, I am amusing and a good boy, but I am no heir. That fact seems to ensure that whatever I do, whatever cleverness I display or whatever skills I develop is always treated with mild surprise at unexpected prowess of the lower classes, whereas the heir is always expected to do well and rise to the occasion, which he, of course, as a Darcy, never fails to do.

But every chessboard needs its Queen and although the King decides when the game is over, the Queen rules the Board. Her Majesty of Pemberley is Mrs Darcy. That does not take long to discover and unfortunately I find little opportunity to work on her. Lady Anne Darcy, of course, is not merely a Darcy by marriage, but she is a Fitzwilliam by birth, and that, you understand, makes all the difference. She has none of the eagerness to spread affection like her husband and although her son never suffers a shortage of displays of fondness, it seems she works upon the principle of keeping that commodity strictly within the family. I can tell she is devoted to her husband and he has both the greatest respect and love for her, but there it ends. Of course, her sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, Kent, is another fortunate recipient of her Ladyship’s open affection and esteem. Now there’s a dragon to watch out for. “What are you smirking about, young man”, was her kindly greeting at one of the presentations of young Darcy and myself in the drawing room before dinner for the gentry and dismissal to the nursery for us. I was merely trying to be civil, showing myself in the best light, “politeness” I believe some would call it. So this haughty and arrogant specimen eyes me closely and continues: “You’ll need more than a sparkling smile and friendly address to make yourself into a gentleman”, is her verdict. So not only arrogant but shrewd – the worst combination in a female.

Lady Anne is hushing her, I’ll give her credit for that, but does nothing to affirm her husband’s patronage. Her circle of affection is closed and exclusive. Or is on hold until her daughter is born. How is such a woman to be worked on? I fear I never get to discover it, although I have a shrewd inkling that I was doing quite well through my obvious closeness to her son and the reverence I never failed to show her husband.

This kindly bestowed, but never fully earned, place as an intimate of the family, is proven shortly before my tenth birthday, when, Mr. Darcy gives my father a voluntary promise of providing for me. Good thing that, since I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of affection to myself but my father would never have had the presence of reminding him of it even in his dire situation and I am taken in on even more generous terms. It is time for the heir to leave for school and after a very anxious campaign on my part, I have convinced the old man my intellect is worth developing and Darcy cannot be trusted to go away without his childhood companion.

I am assigned a friend

Yes, Fitzwilliam Darcy is my friend. You would form entirely the wrong notion about me if I did not point out in the strictest terms that I do consider him my friend during my childhood. He is a most loyal friend, he treats me equally regardless of what, I am sure, is his fundamental attitude. He trusts me, he laughs at my jokes, and he makes me laugh. He defends me in front of his father if I stray from my assignment, he shares whatever he has generously with me, and he never patronises me. He is a good soul and I despise him. Of course, that is a feeling that slowly grows on me. At first I am flattered by his attentions, I am surprised by his kindness, and I am grateful for his genuine friendship. We have a lot of fun and as we go away to school together I appreciate the way he implicitly regards me as a gentleman on the same par as himself and all his other schoolmates.

But slowly those feelings are replaced. Everyone knows I am a steward’s son – a poor steward’s son, mixing with the gentry simply because of noble condescension. Oh, I hear all the insinuations: how the likeness in our countenances indicate kinship, how much I must work being a charity case, how I would never be there were it not for the Darcy’s. It is not the first time kindness and affection turn the recipient sour because it is applied too abundantly and without regard for the reality of surrounding circumstances. Darcy stands by me – stubbornly – when all I want to distance myself from his infuriating respect. Familiarity breeds contempt.

But as he grows from the shy boy without a friend with his awkward ways into a respected gentleman, I turn against him. Can you really blame me? It is a transformation that is completely effortless. He does not need to apply himself to it all because it is a transformation and a position that relies not on what he is but who he is. He never has to adapt, develop or transform. He does not need to learn the art of flattery, subservience or tact. He is Darcy of Pemberley.

I, on the other hand, am clever, amiable, respectable and hard working but I am merely a steward’s son, a pigeon among the cats. I need to prove myself every single day. I do prove myself. I delight my patron with excellent progress, glowing assessments from my tutors and achievements in every sport and activity I enter. Would you suppose this is enough? Would you assume this earns me respect and comradeship among the fellows? Is my future even comparable to the prospects of the boys beneath me? And you blame me for bitter thoughts?

I am educated

So this fine education at this fine institution gives me the airs and accomplishments of a gentleman but in the eyes of others that is not enough to actually render me a gentleman. Do I care about what the others think? Of course. Our portion of society, the portion I have been elevated into, could not exist if not a careful ledger was kept with intricate score-counting mechanisms employed to assert where one stands in relation to the other and the highest scores are earned by pedigree and money. In that order. Not that is matters in which order for I have neither. That is my true education.

But that does not matter either, for my future is already decided before I prepare myself to once again scrape and bow and smile to be able to follow my friend up to Cambridge. My patron, old Mr Darcy, has it all worked out and I am grateful. Truly I am. He intends me for the church and has the living picked out in the village of Kympton. Very good of him. I know this with my mind but my heart is despondent. I know that it is only reasonable to provide for me and take advantage of my received education by giving me an active but respectable profession. I also know it is no more than reasonable and desirable that I should repay the years of condescension and privilege by putting my accomplishments to use in the field wished by my patient patron. But what about my heart and my dreams?

I gain influence in one quarter

So we go up together to Cambridge. Me to study theology, Darcy to study whatever take his fancy. Philosophy does. Mathematics does. Latin and Greek do. We share the private quarters of the Hall at the College. But there it ends. Darcy apparently, is very fond of study. This does not surprise me since he always was a serious man and quite the teacher’s pet. He likes to learn inane things, ponder theorems, debate facts, engross himself in hypothesis and find out “the truth” as he calls it. I do not. I like to find out about life. Cambridge is a revelation. I find there are others like me who were not born with that silver spoon in their mouth: clergymen’s sons, tradesmen’s sons even poor men’s sons. I also find out that all noble men’s sons are not so eager to adhere to the few rules imposed on them to uphold the distinction between the classes and up-holding the trappings of your position. They like life: they like women, gambling, food, wine and feeling the blood run through their veins and the thrill of danger. I learn how easy it is to get friends here with the right smile, compliment and address. Not to mention extension of credit and a free meal and drink. So here Darcy’s and my paths necessarily must part.

As I break free of my gilded cage my song seems to sound higher and clearer. I am attractive to a lot of people in my pleasant manner. Quite the opposite from Darcy, who still recommends himself chiefly through name and possessions. One person in particular notices this, perhaps on account of her cage being of the same quality and there is less gold to keep her there than there was for her brother.

Miss Georgiana Darcy is 12 years younger than me and her entry into the world seems like the perfect gift to me. Not that I think that at first: what does a 12 year-old-boy know about how the world works in the matrimonial department? But slowly I see her potential. She grows up in front of me, a sweet, happy, precious young girl. She has more of her father’s temperament and she is very easy to be fond of, even love. If I am Darcy’s brother then surely Georgiana is my sister. She loves horses – I teach her to ride rough through the terrain. She loves to laugh – I entertain her for hours. She is desperately shy – I draw her out, flatter her, am kind to her. She is desperate for affection and company – I am there for her.

Lady Anne Darcy leaves her children motherless at an early age and Mr Darcy never recovers. For Miss Darcy it seems as if both her parents have been taken away from her and her brother, presumably because of the grief he feels, neglects her, too. At that most desperate hour of her childhood, he withdraws and is incredibly stingy with the love and direction his sister so obviously wants. But I am not. She is gullible and naïve, her craving for love is sometimes pitiful, but I am very fond of her and I care about her.

I loose influence in another quarter

While I finally form a life and reputation at Cambridge as something other than “Darcy’s steward’s boy”, the old man dies. Quite inconvenient as this event co-insides with Darcy’s growing doubt in my character. It seems he is narrow-minded enough not to grant me my hard-earned freedoms and objects to (among other things) gambling – which I am rather good at – women frequenting our quarters, spirits being consumed for no particular reason except company and nights away from home leading to an increase in absence from the prescribed curriculum. Of course, he takes no trouble to see my side of the story; he applies his privileged understanding of the world to everyone regardless of circumstance. Also, he has quickly replaced me with his cousin Fitzwilliam as his chief confidante, which only proves the “blood’s thicker than water” axiom of the high and mighty, for cousin Fitzwilliam is a high-spirited, happy-go-lucky lad living out his own particular freedom away from the stern eye of his parents and the confines of being the younger son of an Earl.

Six months later my own father does an unspeakable blunder and dies as a poor steward without the protection of his old Master, leaving a spendthrift wife and a young son behind. My Mother is thankfully convinced to rejoin her family at the other end of the estate in their cottage but my fortune and future now lie with the one man who has managed to form an unappeasable resentment against me. Of course he is disappointed in me refusing to be moulded into his likeness after all that the family has done for me, but I see no obligation in it. Charity asks not for cause only need. And in the situation I find myself now, I have more need than ever.

I am free

But with the death of the elders the door to my cage was broken and my path down to the parsonage interrupted. It would have been against everything I had come to realise and discover about world, the reality, and myself were I to have continued towards that ridiculous end. I know Darcy knew it, too. Therefore, he was not so very reluctant to release me from the future planned by his father. After all, he knew me much better than he did and surely could realise that our relationship was becoming so strained, it was better for me to be paid off and sent on my way. I had not turned out as I was planned to.

Old Mr Darcy had also bequeathed me with one thousand pounds, but obviously that was dependent upon the family living additionally providing for me. If I gave up that, it was inconceivable a thousand pounds could support me in the gentlemanly life I had been set up for. Of course Darcy saw the reason in this. Of course, he also saw the reason in paying me off and getting rid of me. So I requested, and was granted, three thousand pounds as compensation for relinquishing my claim to the living in the neighbouring parish.

Now with three thousand pounds and a decent gentlemanly education, the world was open to me like it had never been before! And where to go when you are finally released from the shackles of patronising serfdom? To London! Had not my own father studied the law in London and made quite a start in his life before cracking under the Darcy whip? I knew I would be brilliant. Who could doubt it when my address, my wit, my logic and my charm had stood me by admirably in the advocacy of my own cause all my life? I could do the same for others and for a fee. It was self-evident I was destined to be a barrister.
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