8. A Most Unwelcome Discovery #4
Darcy crossed to the desk and pulled open the drawer where ready money was kept for household expenses.
His hand was steady enough for the task, which surprised him.
He counted out her quarter’s wages, placed the coins upon the blotter, then took up paper and wrote a receipt with strokes so hard the nib tore once.
“You are dismissed,” he said, sanding the page. “Without character.”
Mrs. Younge’s face altered. “Sir, you cannot mean—”
“I mean every word.”
“I have served your sister faithfully.”
That was laughable. “You have promoted an unsuitable man to a girl not yet out, encouraged a secret correspondence, conspired to remove her from my protection, and attempted to carry her to a wedding without the knowledge or consent of either guardian. You are wholly untrustworthy and irresponsible, and if the law offered me a punishment equal to your conduct, I would employ it.”
Her hands clenched. “Miss Darcy wished it. I did not compel her.”
“You are old enough to know the difference between a young lady’s wish and her welfare.”
Mrs. Younge swallowed. Some of the practiced dignity left her. “The gentleman assured me his intentions were honorable.”
“Then you are a greater fool than I took you for.”
Color rose in her cheeks, whether from anger or fear he did not care.
“He is a gentleman by birth.”
Wickham? Not at all, but Darcy did not protest. Wickham could certainly act the part. “He is a scoundrel by habit.”
“I believed—”
“No.” Darcy leaned forward, both hands flat upon the desk. “You believed there was profit to be made from my sister’s fortune. Do not insult me with any other explanation.”
Mrs. Younge said nothing.
That, more than protest, condemned her.
He pushed the receipt across the desk. “You will sign for your wages and leave this house within the hour. You will take nothing that does not belong to you. Barton will inspect your trunks before they are loaded.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “This is an indignity.”
“It is the courtesy you will receive.”
She signed with a trembling hand. Darcy took the page from her before the ink had fully dried.
“One more matter. If my sister’s reputation suffers in any respect, from any whisper, any letter, any recollection conveniently shared after your departure, I will know where it began.
I will see you utterly ruined. No respectable house will employ you.
No acquaintance will receive you. No lodging will be made comfortable to you if my influence can reach it, and Mrs. Younge, my influence reaches farther than yours. ”
The room had grown so still that the scratch of a gull against the windowpane outside sounded indecently loud.
Mrs. Younge’s lips parted, but whatever she saw in his face persuaded her to silence.
“Barton,” Darcy said.
“Yes, sir.”
“See it done.”
Barton opened the door.
Mrs. Younge rose slowly. For one instant Darcy thought she might attempt some final defense. Instead, she gathered what remained of her dignity and walked past him without a word.
When the door closed behind them, Darcy stayed where he was.
The desk bore the evidence of ordinary life: Bingley’s letter, folded and dusty from travel; a memorandum from Pemberley; a book Georgiana had left there two days before with a ribbon marking her place.
He picked it up before he knew he meant to.
A novel, of course. He had told her nothing too foolish, and she had laughed.
The sound of her sobbing still seemed to cling to the staircase.
Darcy lowered himself into the chair behind the desk.
His boots were coated with Kentish dust. His coat smelled of travel and horse. He had planned to wash, dine, write to his man of business, perhaps ask Georgiana whether the circulating library had produced anything fit to read. He had planned a hundred ordinary things.
He covered his face with one hand.
“How,” he said to the empty room, “did I fail so spectacularly?”
Georgiana crept from her bedchamber long after the house had gone silent.
She needed to write George a note. Her maid had carried the last two without question, persuaded that she was assisting a young lady cruelly separated from the gentleman she loved.
Georgiana supplied the girl with a few coins for the post and enclosed, with each letter, a fresh outer wrapper addressed in her own hand.
Mr. Wycombe used those wrappers for his replies, allowing them to pass among Georgiana’s ordinary correspondence without attracting Mrs. Annesley’s notice.
Fitzwilliam cared for her, but he could not understand what would make her happy.
With her brother’s edicts in mind, Georgiana was quick to craft a plan to continue her romance with the man her brother so disapproved of.
She scrawled the instructions quickly, with the wavering light of a candle to illuminate the paper.
As she sanded and sealed the missive, she saw an unfinished letter tucked under a sheaf of clean paper. She pulled it forward.
Quickly, she scanned the words, recognizing her brother’s hand. The name at the top caused her to pause, and her brow furrowed. Had her brother so misunderstood?
All was not lost after all. If he could be but made to understand… Here was an opportunity. And she intended to take it.