23. The Measure of a Man #2
Georgiana’s lips parted.
“George?”
Wycombe swore under his breath. “You do not understand. My estate is mortgaged beyond reason. One thousand a year in theory, half that in practice, and creditors who do not accept sentiment. I must marry money.”
Mrs. Younge whispered, “George.”
He ignored her.
“I was prepared to marry her. Properly enough, once the matter was done. She would have had rank of a kind, a house, my name—”
“And you would have had thirty thousand pounds,” Darcy said.
“Yes!” Wycombe snapped. “And what of it? Every man in England marries fortune when he can. Do not pretend virtue merely because yours was inherited before you had to beg for it.”
Georgiana made a small sound. It could not be called a sob, for it was not robust enough for that. She sounded fragile, as if she would break at any moment.
Darcy moved toward her, but she stepped back.
“No.”
The word was faint this time.
Wycombe looked at her, irritation overcoming any remaining tenderness. “Do not be foolish. Your brother will calm himself. Once we are married—”
“We cannot have the money?”
He hesitated.
She looked suddenly very young. “That was why?”
“My dear—”
“That was why Mrs. Younge told me you did not care for a season. And why you said Fitzwilliam would be pleased to have me established. That was why you said we must go before he changed his mind.”
Georgiana’s gaze moved from Wycombe to Wickham, and fresh humiliation sharpened her expression.
“I suppose you find this amusing.”
Wickham frowned. “I assure you, I do not.”
“No? You wished for my fortune once. Perhaps if Fitzwilliam prevents this marriage, you will want me and my thirty thousand pounds instead of Miss Lydia.”
Wickham went very still.
Darcy stared at his sister. “Georgiana.”
She flushed but lifted her chin. “I am only saying what everyone seems unwilling to say.”
Mrs. Younge covered her face.
Darcy looked at her with cold fury. “You told my sister I wished to be rid of her?”
“I told her you would be relieved to see her happy.”
“You told me he did not wish to be troubled with me,” Georgiana whispered.
Darcy’s anger faltered beneath the hurt in her voice.
“Georgie.”
She whirled to face him, furious. “You did think it. You sent me away with companions and tutors and plans. Everyone deciding what would make me less troublesome.”
“No.”
“You never asked what I wanted.”
“I asked too little,” he admitted. “That is true. But I never wished you gone from me.”
Her face worked, pride and pain battling in silence.
Wickham spoke from the door, low and firm. “Miss Darcy.”
She looked at him as if remembering his presence.
“You are wrong about one thing,” he said.
“What?”
“You said just now that if your brother prevented this marriage, I would want you and your thirty thousand pounds instead of Miss Lydia.”
Darcy sucked in a breath, shocked that his sister could speak in such a manner.
Georgiana flushed.
Wickham’s expression hardened in a way Darcy had never seen. “No. I would rather have Miss Lydia Bennet and her meager dowry than a woman who would deceive those who love her best and then offer her fortune as compensation for the injury.”
Georgiana recoiled.
Wickham bowed, the movement brief and severe. “Forgive the plainness. I have spent enough of my life valuing money over honor. I am not returning to it.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Georgiana broke.
She covered her face with both hands and sobbed like the child she had insisted she was not.
Darcy went to her then, and this time she did not step away. She collapsed against him with such force that he staggered. He held her while she shook, one hand against the back of her bonnet, the other around her shoulders.
“I thought he loved me,” she cried.
“I know.” Darcy longed to offer her some greater comfort than words.
“I thought you would send me away.”
“Never.” How could she believe it of him?
“You were so angry.”
“I was frightened,” he protested.
She glared at him. “I hated you for it.”
“I know.”
“I am sorry.” The words dissolved into sobbing. “I am sorry, I am sorry.”
Across the room, Wycombe reached for his hat.
Darcy looked up.
“You will remain.”
Wycombe’s lip curled. “I think not.”
Wickham moved before Darcy did, barring the door. “You will answer for this.”
“I owe none of you anything.” Wycombe’s eyes went to Georgiana, then away from her tear-wet face with visible distaste. “The venture has failed. Keep the girl. Keep the fortune. Keep your moral lectures.”
Mrs. Younge rose unsteadily. “George, do not—”
“Do not what? Remain to be arrested? Called out? Dragged before some magistrate with a Darcy holding the purse?”
Darcy’s voice dropped. “If you leave this room, I will find you.”
Wycombe gave him a shallow bow. “Then I shall endeavor to be elsewhere.”
He did not leave then, not with Wickham at the door and Darcy holding Georgiana. But that night, after arrangements were made for rooms, after Mrs. Younge was confined under watch, after Georgiana had cried herself into exhaustion behind a locked door, George Wycombe vanished.
He left no apology.
Only an unpaid bill and Mrs. Younge weeping in the chamber where the innkeeper’s wife had placed her.
Darcy discovered it near dawn.
He had spent the night seated outside Georgiana’s door, not trusting sleep, locks, servants, or his sister’s own despair. Wickham had taken the chair at the end of the passage and dozed in his coat with his arms folded, waking whenever Darcy shifted.
When the landlord came up, pale and stammering, Darcy knew before the man spoke.
Wycombe was gone. The explanation was soon found.
A narrow window at the rear of his chamber stood open above the sloping roof of the inn’s kitchen offices.
From there, he had lowered himself into the yard, taken a groom’s coat from a peg beside the stable door, and departed on one of the horses before the ostler understood that anyone had given an order.
The animal was discovered several miles away, blown and riderless.
Wycombe had evidently abandoned it and continued by some conveyance no one could identify.
Georgiana heard it through the door.
A single cry came from within, followed by muffled sobs.
Darcy stood with one hand against the wood, unable to enter until she permitted it.
Behind him, Wickham said, “Let him go for now.”
Darcy’s shoulders drooped, and he looked over his shoulder.
Wickham appeared exhausted, unshaven, and older than he had the day before. “Your sister needs you more than Wycombe deserves pursuit.”
Darcy closed his eyes.
For once, he listened.
Darcy did not leave the passage.
The innkeeper’s wife emerged once to ask whether he would permit her to bring Miss Darcy a posset.
Georgiana answered through the closed door before Darcy could speak, thanking the woman softly and refusing everything.
Later, a chambermaid carried fresh candles upstairs and cast him an uncertain glance, plainly wondering what gentleman chose to spend the night in a wooden chair rather than in the comfortable room for which he had paid.
He neither explained nor moved. The hours passed with the slow, relentless tread peculiar to anxious nights.
Floorboards creaked as travelers retired.
Doors opened and shut. Somewhere below, laughter from the common room dwindled to scattered voices before disappearing altogether.
Rain began shortly after midnight, tapping first against the windows, then settling into a steady rhythm upon the roof.
Across the passage Wickham shifted, stretching one stiff leg before folding his arms once more. “You will accomplish little by remaining awake until dawn.”
Darcy kept his gaze upon the closed chamber door.
“I am aware.”
“It was not meant as criticism.”
“No.”
Silence fell again. It proved less uncomfortable than many they had shared over the years.