Chapter 2
Ramsgate, 1811
T he gentle sea breeze swept across the shore at Ramsgate, filling the air with the tang of salt and a cool freshness that Darcy hoped might bring some ease to his young charge. Little Andrew, only two years old, sat quietly on the sand, his pale face framed by soft wisps of blond hair. He watched the other children with wide eyes as they scampered across the beach, their shouts of laughter and play echoing in the air.
The child’s nurse— a kind woman named Rebecca— seated nearby, kept a watchful eye on him, ready to attend to him at a moment’s notice. Yet, it was Darcy himself who sat closest to the boy, bending down to brush sand from his small hands and answer a thousand questions that spoke of a bound deeper than what was customary for a father of Darcy’s status.
His gaze softened as he watched Andrew, a mixture of affection and worry in his expression. Since birth, the child had struggled with “the asthma,” as the doctors called it—a wheezing and difficulty in breathing that seemed to worsen during times of illness or excitement. It pained Darcy to see him so subdued, unable to run and play as the other children did. But he tried his best to offer him a comforting presence, one that would reassure him of his place in the world, despite the trials he faced.
“Do you see the waves, Andrew?” he asked, pointing to the rolling blue water. “They come in and out like this every day. Perhaps, one day, you might run in them yourself.”
Andrew nodded slowly, a faint smile flickering on his face as he looked up at Darcy. The sight tugged at Darcy’s heart, and he smiled back, reaching out to brush a stray hair from the boy’s forehead.
“I don’t think he understands you, sir,” Rebecca said in her thick brogue.
Smiling ruefully, Darcy nodded in response, his gaze wandering back out to the water. As he sat there, his thoughts drifted back to Town, where he had spent recent weeks struggling through dreary gatherings and shallow conversations.
The past months had been a trial for him since coming out of mourning for his late wife. Lady Catherine had been enraged over her daughter’s death, forcing him to banish her to the dower house. Her fury was such that she had become almost manic; ranting and raving to everyone within earshot that Darcy had murdered her daughter in order to gain Rosings Park.
Darcy’s uncle, Lord Matlock, had attempted to reason with her, but her mind was too far gone. Darcy was forced to move her to the Dower House in Kent— without a carriage— where she could only spew her vitriol to the servants he paid to keep her contained.
Time was no longer Darcy’s ally. Free from two years mourning for his wife, he had been swept into the social demands of his position once again, a responsibility he daily grew to resent. Between the cloying debutantes and their matchmaking mothers, he began to feel that his world truly had become a stage.
This trip to Ramsgate with Andrew was a welcome respite from the monotony of London and its upper class. The excuse was to visit his sister and attempt to improve his son’s health with the sea air, but he couldn’t deny that the sudden trip was as necessary for him as it was for them.
“Brother!” came a cheerful voice from behind, breaking his somber thoughts.
He turned to see his younger sister, Georgiana, approaching with a small parcel in her hands. There was a spring in her step and her face was alight with excitement. Beside her walked Mrs. Younge, her chaperone, who observed with a mild expression as Georgiana hurried forward.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam, look at the ribbon I bought!” Georgiana exclaimed, holding up a delicate pale-blue ribbon that matched her eyes. “And there were the loveliest bonnets in the shop! I couldn’t decide between one with flowers and one with feathers, but Mrs. Younge told me I should wait and think on it a little longer.”
Darcy smiled indulgently, though he noted Mrs. Younge’s strained expression as she kept her distance, watching them with a polite but detached demeanor. He longed to see Georgiana happy and social, making friends her age rather than clinging to him and her governess for companionship.
“And have you made the acquaintance of anyone else here, Georgiana?” Darcy asked, hoping she might have found some new friends among the other young ladies.
A faint blush crept into her cheeks. She glanced nervously at Mrs. Younge, her gaze dropping as she murmured, “No, Fitzwilliam, not yet.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed, and he cast a quick, appraising glance at Mrs. Younge. It struck him as peculiar that his sister, who was young, shy, and easily influenced, had yet to make any acquaintances. After all, Mrs. Younge’s primary responsibility was to guide Georgiana into the company of those her age and social class. Surely, she could have arranged an introduction or two.
Turning to Mrs. Younge, he raised an eyebrow. “I should think that, by now, Miss Darcy would have had the chance to meet a few young ladies of similar standing. Are there no other acquaintances in Ramsgate?”
Mrs. Younge offered a polite smile, inclining her head. “I am afraid, sir, that I am not well-acquainted here myself. I had hoped, now that you are here, you might attend a local assembly this evening. Should you do so, there may be an opportunity to meet some of the local families or other seaside guests. If any of the ladies have younger daughters or sisters, they might provide Miss Darcy with suitable companionship.”
Darcy considered her words, his gaze drifting back to Georgiana, whose hopeful expression betrayed her eagerness for approval. He could see that she longed for a wider circle, and he felt a pang of guilt that his preoccupation with Andrew’s health had kept him from attending to her needs as he should.
“Yes,” he agreed at last with a faint sigh. “I suppose I could attend. Perhaps there will indeed be a few familiar faces, and introductions can be made.”
Georgiana’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at her brother. “Oh, thank you, Fitzwilliam! I know you don’t enjoy assemblies, but I’m ever so grateful.”
He offered her a soft smile, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “You deserve friends, Georgiana. And if attending an assembly is what it takes to find you good company, then it shall be done.”
Mrs. Younge inclined her head respectfully; a faint, satisfied smile on her lips. “Then it is settled. I shall make all the necessary arrangements to secure the exact details for you, sir. Miss Darcy and I will be eager to hear of your success tomorrow morning.”
As they stood there, Darcy felt Andrew tug on his sleeve, his small hand clutching Darcy’s coat as he pointed to the shore.
“Look, Papa,” the child murmured in his soft voice, pointing to a crab scuttling across the sand. Darcy felt a pang at the title, which came naturally from the boy’s lips, though it was not his own child he held.
“Yes, Andrew,” he said. He lifted him up and placed him in his lap. “Isn’t it remarkable how it moves sideways?”
The child nodded, his tiny hand reaching out toward the little creature, and Darcy held him close, feeling a surge of tenderness as he cradled the boy. He had never intended to take on the role of a father to Anne’s child, but the bond he felt with the boy, the affection that had blossomed in his heart, was undeniable.
He sat there quietly, holding Andrew, knowing that for all the struggles and duties, he would continue to do all he could for the boy. And that night, he would also strive to fulfill his responsibilities to Georgiana, for both children deserved every bit of love and protection he could give.
That night, as Fitzwilliam Darcy entered the assembly room, a hush fell over the gathered guests, followed almost instantly by the telltale hum of whispers. His arrival had been duly announced, the master of ceremonies drawing attention to his name and status, and Darcy felt the weight of countless pairs of eyes upon him.
“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley!” He had heard the whispers as soon as he stepped inside. “A wealthy widower, still in want of an heir, they say.”
“Have you heard? He’s just out of mourning… he’s quite eligible now.”
“Imagine, a second chance at Pemberley’s fortune…”
Darcy clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar sense of irritation rise within him. He knew his return to society would mean increased scrutiny, but to see people openly speculate on his marital status and his need for an heir felt invasive, even vulgar. Yet, he reminded himself of Georgiana, her shy request for friendship lingering in his mind. Tonight was about her, about her chance to find companionship; he would bear this for her sake.
Despite his hopes, however, Darcy realized quickly that he knew no one in attendance. The room was filled with faces unfamiliar and expectant. He scanned the sea of guests, searching for anyone of mutual acquaintance, but his search yielded no familiar connections. Resigned, he made his way toward the master of ceremonies, who received him with a polite bow and immediately set about introducing him to a number of nearby families.
“Mr. Darcy, may I present Miss Clarissa Harford and her mother, Mrs. Harford?” the master of ceremonies intoned, his voice respectful yet formal.
Darcy inclined his head politely, his gaze settling on the young woman before him. Miss Harford, a bright-eyed girl with golden curls, dipped a curtsy, her cheeks pink with excitement. Darcy’s courtesy was returned with an eager intensity that was unnerving. He had the distinct impression that she was holding her breath in anticipation.
“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted, in a breathless voice. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Miss Harford,” he replied politely, offering her his hand as the music began for a dance. The pair moved to the floor, joining the other couples in a set, but Darcy’s enthusiasm was already flagging. As he led her through the turns and steps, Miss Harford’s giggling responses to his polite questions felt hollow, insipid, her interest in him clearly overshadowed by her eagerness to make an impression.
After the dance ended, he was immediately introduced to another family, followed by another, and then another; each young woman more eager than the last. Their smiles were wide and fixed, their attempts at conversation faltering as they resorted to trite compliments about his estate, his dancing, his very presence.
After a fourth dance, Darcy withdrew to the edge of the room, stepping behind a pillar to gain a moment of respite. He closed his eyes, grateful for the brief break from the suffocating parade of forced smiles and shallow conversation. The noise of the room buzzed around him, but his attention was caught by a pair of voices nearby, the words unintentionally clear.
“Darling, you simply must find a way to get Mr. Darcy’s attention,” a woman’s voice urged, soft but insistent.
“Mama, I don’t think he will notice me,” replied a girl’s hesitant voice.
“Then make him notice!” the mother insisted. “Why, during your dance, you could… perhaps find a way to stumble. Fall into his arms, let him catch you. No gentleman could refuse a compromise in such a case—he would be honor-bound to offer his protection.”
Darcy felt a surge of anger and disgust rise within him, his face hardening at the notion. So this was the scheme? To manufacture a situation that would force him to take responsibility, to entangle him through a false pretense of duty? He clenched his fists, disgusted that even here, his honor was something to be manipulated.
The woman continued, her voice a low murmur, “Imagine, a life with all that wealth and comfort at your disposal, my dear. You simply must try.”
Darcy had heard enough. Without a second glance, he straightened and walked toward the exit, his back rigid with determination. He had tolerated this assembly for the sake of Georgiana, hoping for some semblance of decency among the guests, but this was more than he could stomach.
The night air was cool outside, the calm of the open sky a stark contrast to the stifling assembly. He took a deep breath, letting the cold wind fill his lungs, grounding himself after the evening’s vexing display. His thoughts turned to Georgiana—perhaps it was na?ve of him to hope for her to find suitable friends among such company. He must protect her from this insidious world for as long as he could.
As he walked away from the assembly hall, he resolved to look elsewhere for Georgiana’s companions. This experience only confirmed what he had feared: there were those who would stop at nothing to ensnare him, and by extension, his sister. He would not let them succeed.
∞∞∞
Darcy arrived home earlier than expected, his footsteps echoing on the stone steps of the quiet townhouse. The footman stationed by the door started at his unexpected appearance.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” the footman stammered, quickly regaining his composure. “I—I wasn’t expecting you quite yet.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Clearly,” he replied, his tone clipped. “Is something amiss?”
The footman hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as though uncertain whether to speak. “There’s… a guest, sir.”
“A guest?” Darcy’s brow furrowed. No guests were anticipated in his absence, and Georgiana was not yet of an age to be entertaining company unsupervised.
Without waiting for further explanation, he strode down the hallway and made his way to the drawing room, his steps quick and purposeful. He reached the drawing room and paused. Peering in through the crack of the partially open door, his heart froze.
There, on the settee, was the one person in the world he actually despised.
George Wickham sat on the settee, his frame too close to Georgiana’s slight form. He was leaning in, his head inclined toward her ear, whispering something that made her cheeks flush. Wickham’s hand rested on the back of the settee behind her shoulders, his gaze fixed on her with a look Darcy knew all too well—a perfect predator cornering its prey.
A surge of rage coursed through Darcy’s veins. He slammed open the door. Wickham jumped up in alarm.
“Wickham!” Darcy’s voice cut through the room like a blade, every syllable laced with fury.
“Ah… Darcy,” Wickham said, his false casualness betrayed by the widening of his. He rose from his seat, adjusting his coat as if trying to brush off Darcy’s presence.
Darcy’s jaw clenched, his hands trembling with rage. “What do you think you are doing here?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Have you no shame, Wickham? Do you truly think I would permit you near my sister, after everything you have done?”
Wickham, momentarily stunned, quickly regained his composure. He leaned against the arm of the settee with a practiced smirk. “Darcy! I was merely keeping your dear sister company in your absence,” he said smoothly. “I thought it would be a kindness to her, as she seemed so… lonely.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he took a menacing step forward. “You have no right to be here, near her, or in this house.”
Wickham’s face paled, the smirk slipping. He shifted uneasily, glancing toward the door as if calculating his chances of escape. “Now, Darcy,” he said, a flicker of fear in his eyes, “there’s no need for threats. Surely you would not resort to such… unsavory measures.”
“Unsavory measures?” Darcy repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “After all you have done? If it weren’t for Georgiana, I would summon the footmen to finish what Lady Catherine began.” His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “Or I would call you out myself and ensure you paid for the ruin you brought to Anne and the stain you nearly cast upon Rosings.”
The threat hung heavy in the air, and the color drained from Wickham’s face, his usual bravado vanishing entirely. Without another word, he hedged around Darcy toward the door, his gaze darting from Darcy to the hallway. He gave a final glance at Georgiana, whose expression was a mixture of confusion and horror, and then bolted from the room, disappearing before Darcy could grab him.
Georgiana looked up at Darcy, her face a mixture of confusion and shame. Before she could speak, Mrs. Younge appeared in the doorway, a perplexed expression on her face.
“Mr. Darcy?” she asked, looking between him and Georgiana. “Is something the matter?”
Darcy’s eyes met hers, and he wasted no time. “Mrs. Younge,” he acknowledged her coldly. “Your employment here is terminated. You have failed in your duty to my sister, and I will not tolerate your lack of discretion.”
Mrs. Younge’s face paled. “Sir—surely there’s some mistake—”
“There is no mistake,” Darcy interrupted sharply. “You were charged with the care and protection of my sister, and yet you allowed her to be alone with a man I specifically forbade from ever approaching my family. Your negligence is unforgivable.”
Mrs. Younge opened her mouth to protest, but Darcy’s expression silenced her, and she bowed her head, retreating from the room without another word.
Once she was gone, Darcy turned his attention to Georgiana. His expression softened as he took a seat beside her. She looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, her voice trembling as she asked, “Fitzwilliam, what… what did he mean? Why did you send her away?”
Darcy took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking. “Georgiana, there is much you do not know… and I fear I must now explain. Wickham—” he paused, struggling with the words, “—Wickham is not the man he appears to be. His presence here, near you, was a violation of trust and decency. He is a man of deceit and cruelty. His actions are the very definition of dishonorable.”
Georgiana listened in silence, her gaze fixed on him. He knelt beside her and took her hands in his with a steadying breath. He continued, his voice growing heavier with each word. “Georgiana, I need you to understand something very important.” His tone was gentle but firm. “Wickham is not our friend.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened. Tears gathered as she whispered, “But… why?”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. This was not a truth he had wanted to share with her, but Wickham’s presence in their home had left him no choice. He looked at her with somber eyes, his voice thick with the weight of revelation. “Georgiana, the child… Andrew, whom you know as your nephew—he was not born of love or choice. Wickham forced himself upon Anne, and it was his intention to use her for his own gain. He… he violated her in an attempt to gain wealth and status he did not deserve.”
Georgiana gasped, her hand covering her mouth as the color drained from her face. “Oh… oh, Fitzwilliam… I did not know…”
Darcy squeezed her hands, his gaze filled with sorrow and resolve. “You could not have known, and I did not wish you to carry this burden. But you must know now that Wickham cannot be trusted, nor can you ever permit him to approach you or our family.”
She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks, her expression one of devastation and horror. “How could someone do such a thing?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “How could he be so… so cruel?”
“Because of greed. He tried to secure Rosings for himself by… vile means, hoping to gain control of Anne and the estate. There are those in this world, Georgiana, who seek only their own gain, regardless of the cost to others. But you are safe now, and I will protect you, no matter the cost.”
Georgiana’s cheeks flushed with shame and fear as she looked down, trembling. “Oh, Fitzwilliam… I did not know. I thought… I thought he was kind, that he… cared about me.”
“It is not your fault, Georgiana,” Darcy said. “Wickham has spent his life deceiving people, preying upon kindness and innocence. He will not trouble you again—I swear it.”
She nodded, her face still pale, but there was a faint glimmer of relief in her eyes. “Thank you… for telling me,” she whispered, squeezing his hands. “I understand now.”
Darcy felt a surge of protectiveness and he placed an arm around her shoulders. “You are safe now, Georgiana. I will see to it that you are protected, always.”
As he held her close, he felt the weight of his promise settle within him. Wickham’s despicable schemes would find no purchase here. He would ensure that his sister and Andrew were shielded from the darkness Wickham had brought upon them, for they deserved a life free from his treachery and harm.