8. A Most Unwelcome Discovery #3
His hand came to rest on Georgiana’s back because she was his sister and she was in his arms and whatever horror had just entered the house, she must not feel him recoil from her.
Over her shoulder, he looked at Mrs. Younge.
“Barton,” he said.
His valet, who had entered behind him with the traveling case, stepped forward. “Sir.”
“Escort Mrs. Younge to the study. You will remain with her until I come.”
Mrs. Younge gripped the banister. “Mr. Darcy, I must protest—”
“You may do so in the study.”
Barton set down the case and moved toward her with perfect professional calm.
Darcy kept one arm around Georgiana and did not take his eyes from Mrs. Younge as she was led away.
Georgiana did not at first understand that anything was wrong.
She clung to Darcy with all the relief of a girl whose happiness had received one more blessing than she had dared hope for, and the warmth of her embrace made the words more dreadful.
Wedding. Come to my wedding. She said it with such innocent confidence that Darcy, who had prepared himself for tears, excuses, even defiance, found himself for several seconds without the power of speech.
At last he set his hands upon her shoulders and moved her back far enough to see her face.
“Georgiana,” he said, “of what are you speaking?”
Her smile faltered. “My wedding.”
“Yes. I heard you. What wedding?”
She glanced toward the passage where Mrs. Younge had disappeared, then back to him with a small crease between her brows, as if the answer ought not require explaining.
“Mrs. Younge said it was the right thing. That you would understand when all was done. She said you did not truly wish to be concerned with a season and all the expense and bother of bringing me out. By marrying now, I would no longer be a burden to you.”
Darcy went very still.
The hall had been noisy minutes before. Servants had hurried, trunks had scraped along the floor, Mrs. Younge had issued orders with brisk command. Now the house seemed to listen.
“A burden,” he repeated.
Georgiana’s color faded by degrees. “She said you loved me, of course. And that gentlemen do not always know what is best in matters of feeling, and that you would be relieved once I was married.”
“Who?”
Her fingers gripped in the fabric of her skirt. “Fitzwilliam—”
“Who was to marry you?”
Her mouth trembled. She looked younger than her years then. Younger than she had at Pemberley when she ran to him with a torn music book and asked whether it could be mended.
“W-W…”
Darcy’s hand closed over the newel post hard enough that the polished wood pressed into his palm.
“Wickham.”
The name came out before she could finish it.
Georgiana nodded.
For a few moments his mind supplied too much at one time.
Wickham in his father’s study. Wickham laughing beside the river at Pemberley.
Debts. Women. Lies offered with a smile so easy that people wished to believe him innocent of everything he had done.
His insolent letter refusing the living and demanding three thousand pounds instead.
And Georgiana, his shy, affectionate, foolish, beloved sister, dressed for departure with trunks already being loaded into a hired carriage.
“Georgiana,” he said, and heard the harshness before he could call it back, “you know I had a falling out with him.”
“I know you were angry, but—”
“He is a blackguard. A spendthrift. A man without principle or honor.”
“But he said—”
“No.”
The single word struck harder than he intended. Georgiana flinched.
Darcy released the newel post and drew a breath that did nothing to assist him. “You are not to defend him to me.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. “You do not understand. He loves me. He said he has loved me for years, and Mrs. Younge said you would never listen because you had become proud and unforgiving. She said if I waited, you would send me back to Pemberley, and then I should be presented, and Miss Bingley would marry you and always be with me, and every lady in London would stare, and I should never be allowed to choose for myself.”
The mention of Miss Bingley, absurd and painful amid so much worse, nearly unseated him.
Did his sister not realize that it was Elizabeth he meant to marry?
Mrs. Younge had used every small fear, every private dread, every weakness Georgiana had been too young to hide.
She had not merely opened a door to Wickham. She had laid the road.
Darcy spoke before sympathy could soften what had to be stopped.
“You were not choosing for yourself. You were being deceived.”
Georgiana shook her head. “No. No, you are mistaken.”
“I am not.”
“You have not even heard him.”
What was this nonsense? “I have heard him all my life.”
“He said you would say that. Others have maligned his name, too.”
That silenced him more effectively than a denial. How could his sister defend one who used to be their friend, but had abandoned any sense of decency and honor?
Georgiana wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing tears across skin still flushed from her earlier joy. “He said you would call him wicked and forbid me because you could not bear to be opposed.”
Darcy stared at her. “And you believed him?”
The question wounded her. He saw that. He saw it and did not stop.
“I did not wish to deceive you,” she whispered. “I meant to tell you after. When it was done and could not be undone. Then you would see that I was happy.”
“You meant to marry without my consent.”
“I thought—”
“You meant to leave this house in a hired carriage while I was away.” When had he gone so wrong in his sister’s education?
“Mrs. Younge said—”
“Mrs. Younge will be dismissed.” The woman had proved she could no longer be trusted.
Georgiana’s hand flew to her mouth.
Darcy’s temper, held by a thread since the moment he saw the trunks, snapped into something colder than shouting. “You will go to your room and speak to no one. You will write no letters and you will receive none without my first examining them. Do you understand me?”
“Fitzwilliam, please.”
“I would never have approved such a match. Never. If every clergyman in England and Scotland had stood ready to perform the ceremony, I would have stopped it.”
Her tears came freely now. “You hate him so much that you will not see—”
“I see more than you do.”
“Because I am a child?”
“Because you have behaved like one,” he snapped.
She recoiled.
He hated himself then. Not enough to unsay it.
“You are not out. You are under my guardianship. And you have fraternized with a man in secret, lied to me, and placed yourself in the hands of a woman who was paid to protect you and instead delivered you to ruin. I am disappointed in you, Georgiana. More than I can say.”
The last words did what anger had not. All resistance left her. Her face crumpled.
“I am sorry,” she said, barely audibly.
Darcy’s mouth opened, but no comfort came. He wanted to take her into his arms while simultaneously shaking sense into her. He wanted to go into the street, find George Wickham, and beat him until the man’s charming face could no longer purchase trust from anyone.
None of those things could happen in the hall.
“Go to your room.”
She stood a second longer, pleading without words. When he did not move toward her, she backed away and ran up the stairs, one hand clutched to the banister and her sobs breaking before she reached the landing.
A maid began to follow.
Darcy stopped her with a lifted hand. “Let her go. Wait outside her door. She is not to leave, and no one is to enter unless I send you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He remained at the foot of the stairs until Georgiana’s door closed above.
Then he went to the study.
Mrs. Younge sat in the chair nearest the desk, her back very straight, hands folded in her lap. Barton stood near the door with all the expression of a man prepared to become furniture until instructed otherwise. At Darcy’s entrance, Mrs. Younge rose.
“Mr. Darcy, I must beg you to allow me to explain.”
“You will sit.”
She sat.