Chapter Ten
Darcy had read Lady Matlock’s reply several times since it arrived in January, and still it troubled him.
Her reasoning was sound—Georgiana would have to endure the world eventually, and it would not soften for her simply because she was gentle.
Tilda had always spoken plainly, and he respected her for it.
Yet she had not seen Georgiana’s face that morning, nor heard the careful way she measured every word, as though bravery itself required restraint.
Another school, however improved in reputation, seemed only a change of setting for the same judgments.
Endurance alone did not guarantee strength.
Lady Catherine’s reply came weeks later, and struck a different chord entirely.
Darcy read it once—then again, more slowly.
She wrote of Anne, of schoolrooms where perseverance had been demanded without mercy, of accomplishments gained at the cost of confidence.
Education mattered, she conceded, but not more than the girl herself.
There were other ways to prepare a young woman for the world than forcing her to suffer it too soon.
When Darcy set the letter aside, his thoughts felt clearer than they had in weeks. Georgiana’s happiness was not a weakness to be corrected, nor her sensitivity a flaw to be hardened away. He would not mistake suffering for strength.
He sent for his sister that morning.
Georgiana entered the library with quiet composure, anxiety flickering beneath her calm. Darcy did not sit.
“I have made a decision,” he told her. “You will not return to Miss Minchin’s. You will remain at Pemberley. We shall arrange tutors and a proper companion here.”
For a moment she could not speak.
“Truly?” she whispered.
“Truly.”
Relief overtook her restraint, and when she embraced him, Darcy understood that this was not merely a guardian’s choice, but a promise—one he intended to keep.
Mrs Agatha Younge arrived with the spring rain: composed, observant, and quietly kind.
Within days, Georgiana’s confidence began to return.
She resumed her studies with purpose, her music with feeling, her conversation with ease.
Darcy approved—cautiously, but sincerely.
He watched his sister grow steadier, lighter, more herself.
Yet unease lingered.
When Georgiana asked, timidly, whether she might spend part of the summer in Ramsgate with Mrs Younge, he hesitated. She spoke of the sea, of air and peace, of wishing—just once—to see beyond the horizon.
He remembered Anne’s cage. Her longing.
“I will consider it,” he said at last, weighing duty against trust.
Georgiana’s hope was unmistakable.
That night, Darcy reread Lady Catherine's letter once more and wondered—uneasily—whether vigilance alone was enough to keep history from repeating itself.
Before Georgiana’s planned retreat to Ramsgate, Darcy arranged a short visit to Rosings Park, eager for his sister to spend time with their aunt. Lady Catherine had in recent years developed a particular fondness for Georgiana, and he hoped the quiet elegance of Kent would offer a measure of ease.
The visit exceeded expectations. Lady Catherine, delighted by Georgiana’s modesty and musical progress, positively doted on her.
She ordered special teas, recounted stories from her own youth—some half-true, others wholly embellished—and even insisted on rearranging the drawing room furniture to accommodate Georgiana’s preferred angle for practicing the pianoforte.
“Your sister,” she proclaimed to Darcy with unusual warmth, “will outshine every girl in London when she comes out. Graceful, accomplished, and properly brought up. Not at all like the silly creatures one finds haunting Almack’s these days.”
Darcy did not argue.
When it came time to depart for Ramsgate, Georgiana gave her aunt a shy smile and a promise to return.
Ramsgate proved everything Mrs Younge had promised: quiet, orderly, with clean sea air and wide views of the channel.
Georgiana settled into her lodgings with cautious delight.
She wrote to Darcy every third day—of cliff walks and gulls wheeling outside her window, of painting by the light of the sea, of the simple relief of being unobserved.
Her letters were steady, even cheerful. Reassured, Darcy turned at last to business he had delayed too long.
His Devonshire holdings required his presence—leases to renegotiate, accounts to examine, a dispute between tenants that could no longer be ignored.
Such matters demanded weeks, not letters.
Confident his sister was settled and protected, Darcy departed without foreboding, unaware how swiftly trust could be exploited, or how opportunely Wickham would seize upon the quiet interval duty afforded him.
When he returned to Ramsgate, weary and expecting rest, he found instead a sight that chilled his blood.
George Wickham stood in the parlour, at ease by the fire, smiling as though he belonged there.
Darcy did not hesitate. He ordered him out—at once, without courtesy or explanation. Wickham’s brief surprise gave way to smug amusement.
“Foiled again,” he growled, just loud enough to be heard. His face was a picture of pure fury, and Darcy began to feel some danger at the thought of remaining in his presence.
Darcy repeated the command to leave. Wickham straightened his shoulders, lingering only long enough to deliver his final cruelty to Darcy’s sister—reducing her worth to that of her fortune and casting his insult with deliberate precision—before departing at last.
The door closed. The sea answered, relentless and loud.
Georgiana stood pale and shaking. The truth came haltingly: letters written in secret since March; professions of repentance and affection; assurances that Wickham had changed. Mrs Younge, she admitted in a whisper, had urged forgiveness.
That was enough.
Mrs Younge confessed within the hour. She was dismissed without reference or pay, her belongings removed, her protests ignored. Darcy did not waver.
When he returned to Georgiana, she was sobbing, folded in on herself with shame and fear. He sat beside her in silence until she could speak.
“I did not mean to disobey you.”
“I know,” he said. “You were deceived.”
“And now you must hate me.”
“Never.”
Wickham had come too close. Darcy would not allow it again.
They left Ramsgate within three days. Darcy showed no outward haste, but never once let Georgiana out of his sight. The sea that had comforted her now felt harsh; the wind carried warning. She did not look back.
At Pemberley, Georgiana withdrew into herself. Her music went untouched, her sketchbook closed. Darcy tried—reading aloud, gentle conversation, quiet evenings by the fire—but her replies were spare, her smiles thin. She seemed diminished even beyond the grief of their father’s death.
That night, Darcy wrote to Richard.
Richard arrived four days later and sobered at once upon seeing them. Darcy told him everything—the letters, the betrayal, his absence, Wickham’s presence, the whispered foiled again, and how narrowly disaster had been avoided.
“We shall find someone better,” Richard said at last. “Someone kind. Steady. Entirely uninteresting.”
Darcy agreed.
The search was brief but exacting. Three candidates were dismissed outright. Then came Mrs Annesley—a widow from Derby with sterling references, quiet warmth, and no inclination to impress. She sat beside Georgiana and asked, simply, whether she preferred reading aloud or listening.
“Reading aloud,” Georgiana whispered.
“So do I,” Mrs Annesley replied. “Shall we take turns?”
Darcy felt his shoulders ease for the first time in weeks.
Within days, Georgiana began reading poetry by the fire—only a few lines at first, her voice trembling, but the sound was more precious than music.
Darcy spoke Wickham’s name no more.
Privately, however, he wrote once to the man himself, having received his direction from Georgiana, making it clear that any future approach to his sister would be met swiftly and decisively. He mentioned debts, obligations, and consequences. It was not a threat. It was a boundary.