Posted On: Wednesday, 23 October 2002, at 1:24 a.m.
Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence. True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation.
His auburn hair dangled over his eyes carelessly and he smiled at his best friend while raising a glass to his lips. The group of soliders laughed, hooted and holled while flirting horribly with ladies alike in the modest pub. Running his fingers through his hair, he smiled and turned to his acquaintance which smiled at him with want lurking in her eyes. She whispered something in his ear which he grinned and tried to push her entreaties away, but that only made her insist all the more.
Finally he gave in and spoke, "So, who 'fessed and told you that I was the storyteller? No matter." He took a drink and slowly moved a hand through her silky blonde hair and when he put it down he smiled graciously, "I just must insist for your patience throughout this story. For it is a story of love, of valour, of gratitude, and mostly of family. It is a long one I know, however, the ending is well worth the wait."
A man with chestnut hair patted his friend's redcoat and scoffed while throwing an easy smile at the girl, "Don't believe the man, I tell you. Just because he is good at the 'telling doesn't mean he has to have the advantage over us."
"Oh sod off, Fitzwilliam," the man winked with his green eyes. "Besides I thought you were only concerned with those of fortune."
Fitzwilliam shook his head easily and mumbled, "Even I need some sort of satisfaction."
"Even if those around you don't get any," the auburn man retorted. He turned to the girl and stopped in his tracks, puzzled. "Now where was I?"
When she paraphrased his last sentence, he grinned and moved on. "However, since I was not intensely involved I'm not sure if I'm the best one to tell this story. Maybe Fitzwilliam should. No? So be it. Once upon a time there was the Darcys of Pemberley. On a side note, Fitzwilliam here is related to the Darcys, but he is not important to the story."
"How did you find this story out?" The blonde lady drawled.
"No matter," he dismissed her. "Do you want to hear this story or not?" When she nodded he continued.
"Once upon a time there was the Darcys of Pemberley. Now, Mrs. Darcy was blonde, beautiful, from a noble family and everything a noble man should want. Mr. Darcy was an extremely wealthy man and was extremely kind-hearted to those he was around. Unfortunately they had a son. Oh, I guess it was fortunately...Darcy wasn't that bad. He was just stubborn to a fault. Mr. Darcy had a steward named Wickham. Wickham was a good ole chap, liked his jokes, his women, his drink and his children. Wickham had four children. The smallest two were twins, and the eldest a boy and a girl.
"The eldest two which were named George and Patricia were the man's pride and joy. The elder Darcy liked them enough himself, but he really fell in love with George and looked upon him as a son. This made the younger Darcy jealous, however, he still treated the two decently enough. Then the mistress Darcy passed away giving birth to her daughter, Georgiana Anne Darcy. This news was taken hard by all that lived at Pemberley, but none took it harder than the master of Pemberley himself."
Fitzwilliam softly spoke up and cleared his throat, "I remember that. It was horrible. Darcy blamed Georgiana for a time and wouldn't even see his sister."
The auburn haired man softly spoke up, "Yes, I know. What made matters worse is that Georgiana turned out to be in every likeness her mother. She was blonde, radiant, kind, and there was an undeniable sweetness about her that never could be forgotten."
"And knowing that just makes it worse what he did to her," Fitzwilliam spoke bitterly.
"Wait," his friend spoke up. "She doesn't know. Do you want me to tell this story correctly or not?"
"Fine," Fitzwilliam smiled at his friend. "By your leave." He bowed.
Part One The Beginning
Posted On: Wednesday, 6 November 2002, at 8:00 p.m.
Once upon a time there was a young boy who always had a smile on his face. His green eyes always captivated those who looked at him, and with one glance he was theirs. He had the talent, the grace, and the character. However, the only thing he did not have was the money. He grew up with a loving family. With a father who was always constant and true to his children, and a good sense of humor whom he took after greatly. He looked upon his siblings like a mother hen, and tried to help them learn from his own experiences. George Wickham knew that people fell easily in love with him, but quite honestly if you inquired him about it he would tell you that he was quite uncomfortable with it. Too much pressure, he would say. He detested being the poorer one, but admitted to easiness of his life because of it and made him respect others more for being able to handle it.
Then there was another boy. This boy was born to wealth and not much else. He was clumsy, had little talent, although impeccable character. His father said his grace and talent would develop within time, and he was right. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a boy that developed within his own time, not within anyone's typical sort of standards. Where the other boy had sparkling emerald eyes, he had amber eyes. The mix between hazel and a brown that bewildered anyone that looked at them. Fitzwilliam was his name, but hardly anyone with much sense would call him that. Since his cousin's name was Fitzwilliam and preferred to be called that he gave him deference. Instead, George called him Wit, for that was obviously what he wasn't. And Fitzwilliam called him Egg, in retaliation mixing up the letters in his name one day.
In jealously, George's sister, Patricia asked for a name of her own. She was his pet, although she was only five years his junior. George in a sudden token of inspiration gave her the name of Rice, which hardly anyone used since it was bequeathed upon her. Instead, they called her Trish. Fitzwilliam's sister Georgiana was only two at the time, however, he felt it unfair to leave her without a nickname so studiously both him and Wickham pulled out a name that would greatly suit the young one someday. Regina was Wickham's choice since it would combine letters of her name and still be beautiful. However, Fitzwilliam wanted something whimsical and yet beautiful for his sister, which is how she came to be known as Rain.
Both boys were sincere, kind, and nervous for they have come of age and it was time for them to travel onto Cambridge. Wit to become a good landlord, and because he had scholarly aspirations. And Egg because he was floundering and Mr. Darcy thought this would give him some sort of inspiration what to do. Egg was bored. He loved Derbyshire, yet he felt there was nothing to do. He wanted to meet people, learn new things, and just do new things. Wit loved Derbyshire, yet like Egg he too wanted more.
"Wit," the boy came in eating an apple into the stables. "What are you doing?"
"Just riding," the boy said pulling out his long wavy brown hair from the inside of his collar. "Why you ask?"
Egg looked at him thoughtfully, "You know, I can cut your hair off for you. It wouldn't be such a bother then."
"No way," Wit said stubbornly. "There is no chance of you cutting off my hair. It's lucky for me to have it this way. Besides, I think girls like it."
"Seriously, they do," Wit folded his arms stubbornly as he sat on his horse giving him the cold Darcy look.
"Oh, please," Egg rolled his eyes, "Now, I know why your nickname is Wit." Egg considered him carefully and suddenly had a surprisingly mischievous grin then started to yank him off his horse. "I can do it right here and right now, Wit."
"Loser.." Wit mumbled as he struggled against the stronger and taller Egg. "This is not fair! Fight like a real man not like the priss you are."
"What shall I chose, Lord Fitzwilliam?" Egg laughed usual false superiority. "My dueling pistols or my sword?"
"Oh, everyone knows your sword is not big enough for anyone," retorted Wit.
"Master Fitzwilliam!" Mrs. Reynolds entered without their knowing. "I cannot believe that you would use such youthisms in front of such a young girl!"
"But there are no young girls in here-," started out Wit. Then he turned around and saw young Patricia Grace Wickham in the barn with them and as he looked at her and she at him, they both blushed a deep red. "I am deeply sorry, Miss Wickham." He bowed.
"Think nothing of it, Mr. Darcy," said the thirteen-year-old as her face remained crimson to have been caught in the barn. "I was just wondering, if I could possibly ride the horses."
Wit in his distress would agree to anything. As both of the females left, Wit sighed to himself and raked his fingers through his dark hair.
Egg hit him on the shoulder with a friendly pat, "Think nothing of it, Wit. She hears worse from me. She is a Wickham, what do you expect?"
"I know, I know," Wit smiled and his eyes followed Wickham's sister and he joked, "It was kind of pervy of her to be there, wasn't she?"
"Yes," Egg smiled fondly. "But you know Trish, she'll wait all day for everyone to leave if it means that she can have a good ride on that horse."
"I swear your sister..." Wit grinned nonchalantly. "She reminds me of a boy sometimes more than a girl."
"Just don't let her know that," Egg mumbled under his breath so Wit couldn't hear. "For she might not like hearing that especially from you."