Chapter Nine #3
“She did.” Tears were flowing freely now.
“She bullied me into the carriage. She said if I did not come willingly, she would tell you I had been sneaking out to meet Mr. Wickham in secret, that I had been conducting a clandestine courtship behind your back. She said you would send me away to some horrible school where I would never see you again.”
Darcy pulled her to a stop and placed both hands on her shoulders. “I would never have sent you away. Never.”
“I know that now. But then—I was so frightened. I got into the carriage.”
She drew a shuddering breath.
“It was not one of our carriages. It was hired. That was the first thing that seemed truly wrong. Why would we travel in a hired carriage? Yet Mrs. Younge said our carriages were all in use, that this was more convenient.”
“Where did you go?”
“Through London. Through parts of London I had never seen.” Georgiana's voice took on a hollow quality.
“The streets grew narrower. The buildings were... they were not the sort of buildings you would ever take me to, Fitzwilliam. There were people shouting, washing hanging between houses, children in rags. I asked Mrs. Younge where we were going, and she told me to be quiet.”
Rage built in his chest, white-hot and dangerous.
“We stopped at an inn. A wretched place, with a broken sign and dirty windows. I refused to get out of the carriage. I told Mrs. Younge I would not enter such a place, that you would never allow me to set foot in such an establishment.”
“What did she do?”
“She went inside. And then Mr. Wickham came out.” Georgiana's voice broke entirely. “He opened the carriage door and told me to come with him. I refused. I told him I wanted to go home. He said we were getting married, that every thing was arranged, that I would do as I was told.”
“And then?”
“He picked me up. He lifted me out of the carriage and carried me inside.” She was sobbing now. “I was screaming, Fitzwilliam. I was screaming for help, but no one came. Everyone just stared, or they laughed, or they looked away.”
Darcy pulled her into his arms, holding her as she shook.
“He carried me up stairs to a private parlour. There was a man there, wearing a clerical robe. Yet it was not clean, and he smelt of spirits. Mr. Wickham put me down and closed the door.”
She pulled back slightly, wiping at her face with shaking hands.
“He produced a document. It had seals and ribbons, official-looking. He said it was a special licence, that we would be married immediately. I said I had never agreed to marry him, that this was madness. He said it was all arranged, that the licence was legitimate, that I would comply with his demands or suffer the consequences.”
Georgiana’s voice was a mere whisper. “The man in the robe began reading from a prayer book. I do not think it was a real prayer book. The words were wrong, too brief. Mr. Wickham made his responses, but when the man asked me to make mine, I refused. I said I did not consent, that this was not lawful, that I would not marry him.”
“Good girl,” Darcy whispered fiercely.
“Mrs. Younge stepped forward. She said she had charge of me, that she had been given authority over me in your absence, and that I would agree or I would suffer for my disobedience.” Georgiana's voice was hollow now, recounting facts mechanically.
“The man asked again if I consented. I said no. I said it three times. I said no.”
She looked up at her brother, her eyes red and swollen.
“Mrs. Younge took the register from the clergyman. She signed my name. I watched her forge my signature, Fitzwilliam. She wrote 'Georgiana Catherine Darcy' in the book as though I had agreed, as though I had consented, when I had said no.”
Georgiana stopped speaking. She stood still, staring at the gravel path.
Darcy waited. He knew there was more. The timeline did not add up—the failed ceremony, and then somehow she had ended up in Hertfordshire, in a barn, found by the Bennet sisters.
“Would you like to go inside?” he asked gently. “You are growing cold.”
“No.” Georgiana's voice was firm. “There is more. I must tell you the rest, but it is—” She swallowed hard. “It is shameful.”
She raised her eyes to his.
“Nothing that was done to you is shameful,” he said. “You were the victim of a scheme. Whatever happened, you bear no fault for it. You must know that.”
She shrugged, though tears were streaming down her face again.
“We returned to the carriage,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Mr. Wickham congratulated me on our marriage. He looked at me in a way that—” She shuddered.
“I cannot describe it, but I felt such revulsion. Mrs. Younge told him to keep his distance, that there were eyes everywhere in London, that they needed to get away from the city.”
Darcy's hands clenched at his sides.
“They spoke of going north. I feigned sleep, hoping they would not notice I was listening. They began to argue.” Georgiana's voice grew even quieter.
“Mr. Wickham berated Mrs. Younge for failing to secure my consent. Mrs. Younge said he was such a fool that he could not even—” She stopped, her cheeks flaming.
“She said he could not even seduce an innocent girl.”
“Go on,” Darcy said, though his voice was curt.
“He became exceedingly angry. He said he would ruin me at the next posting inn and be done with it. Mrs. Younge argued that they should continue to Scotland, that by the time we arrived I would see I could not escape the marriage and it would be legitimate. Mr. Wickham was drinking from a flask. He said he would have his way in the matter.”
Ice began spreading through his veins.
“They stopped at an inn. I had no idea where we were. I had decided I must escape, no matter the cost. When the carriage stopped in the stable-yard, I stepped down as though I meant to go inside. Then I ran.”
She drew a shaky breath.
“Mr. Wickham caught me easily. He was so much stronger. He seized me by the arms—his grip was brutal. I have bruises still. He took a length of rope, the kind used for halters. Then he demanded a room from the innkeeper and dragged me up stairs. He tied me to a chair.”
Darcy could not speak. He did not trust himself to form words. The rage rising within him was a physical weight, pressing against his ribs until he could scarcely draw air.
“I was left there for hours. I could hear them arguing with the innkeeper about fresh horses. The weather was worsening—it had begun to snow heavily. The innkeeper did not wish to let his beasts out in such conditions.”
“How long did they leave you in that state?”
“Hours. It grew dark—four in the afternoon, perhaps. I was—” She stopped, her voice breaking. “I thought no one would find me.”
She drew a shuddering breath.
“At last Mr. Wickham returned. I believe he was drunk. Quite drunk. And angry.”
“Georgiana, if this is too much—”
“No. You must know.” She straightened her shoulders, gathering what remained of her courage. “He untied me from the chair, but he held me fast. He threw me on to the bed and said—he said terrible things. Things I did not fully understand, but I knew them to be vile—indecent.”
Darcy's vision began to blur at the edges.
“He tried to kiss me. I kept turning away. He was enraged. He was touching me, trying to unlace my stays. He covered my mouth so I could not cry out.”
“Georgiana—”
“I knew I ought to drive my knee—” She stopped, her face scarlet. “Richard once told me that if a man ever tried to interfere with me, a well-placed knee would be my best defence. Yet my skirts—I could not move properly.”
Darcy drew back. “Richard told you that?”
“Yes. He said I should know how to defend myself if ever the need arose.” Georgiana's voice grew steadier. “He also told me that the strongest muscle in the human body is the jaw. That a bite, if I had the opportunity, could be an effective weapon.”
“Dear God,” Darcy breathed.
“Mr. Wickham's hand was on my face, to silence me. Part of it slipped into my mouth as he was distracted, trying to—trying to disrobe me. I took the chance. I bit down as hard as I could. I clenched my jaw until I saw stars.”
A savage satisfaction warred with Darcy's horror. She had fought. His gentle, timid sister had fought.
“He leapt up, screaming. He was swearing in ways I had never heard. He was so loud that Mrs. Younge came through the connecting door from her chamber. She told him to be quiet, that he would draw attention. They argued. She said he needed to control himself or they would be discovered.”
Georgiana's hands were shaking violently now.
“He ordered a bottle from the innkeeper. Then he tied my wrists to the chair again—but he was so drunk that he tied the knots poorly. He drank for what seemed like hours, berating me, threatening that he was going to take what was rightfully his. He threatened me, but he was tired, and seemed to fall asleep. After a time, he fell into a stupor upon the bed.”
“You remained bound throughout?”
“Yes. But I had been working the ropes loose. Once I was certain he was truly asleep, I freed myself. I was terrified of going down stairs—I knew Mrs. Younge could be there, that she would stop me. So I tried the window.”
“It had snowed for hours. There was a large drift directly below. I eased the window open and climbed on to the sill. I decided that a fall into the snow was a mercy compared to remaining in that room.”
“You leapt from an upper window into a snowdrift?”
“I did. The yard was deserted—no one saw me.”
“Were you injured in the fall?”
“No—the snowdrift was deep. It broke my fall. I was only wet and cold.” She trembled at the memory. “It was full night, and there was only moonlight. I took the first lane I could find leading away, and I ran. I ran until I could run no more.”
She was trembling so violently now that Darcy pulled her against him, holding her upright.