Chapter 1 A Foiled Elopement
She was Persuaded to believe herself in love and to Consent to An Elopement.
–Fitzwilliam Darcy, Pride and Prejudice
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in silence, his gaze fixed upon the inky darkness beyond the carriage window. The rhythmic clatter of hooves upon the road offered no comfort. Beside him, Georgiana shifted in her slumber but did not wake.
He looked down. A cascade of golden curls had tumbled across her face, the ends brushing against the black cloth of his coat. Gently, he lifted one silken ringlet, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, his hand trembling.
A breath hitched in his throat. He turned his face away and pressed his lips together, willing the swell of sorrow to remain unspoken.
His thoughts whirled in a storm of regret and fury. Had I arrived but a day later, you would have been lost to me. Georgiana, how could you bring such distress upon me, upon our family? What in heaven’s name were you thinking?
He shut his eyes and brushed away a tear. I have been most careless. I very nearly did not make the journey to Ramsgate, but your letter, I could not dismiss it.
The scene replayed again and again in his mind, each iteration quickening his pulse, drawing a sheen of sweat to his brow.
Astride his horse, with hunger gnawing at his stomach and exhaustion dragging at his limbs, he scanned the cliffs.
Then, through the shifting mist, his eyes fell upon a young couple, hands intertwined, facing the sea.
The fog curled about them like specters, but through the grey mist a thick braid of flaxen hair, bright against the gloom, caught his attention.
He leaned forward, peering into the haze.
Georgiana?
His stomach turned to stone. What the devil is my fifteen-year-old sister doing alone in the company of a gentleman? And where is her companion?
Darcy’s gaze narrowed as he saw the man’s hand slide, with objectionable familiarity, down the small of her back. Rage surged.
Leaping from his horse, he let the reins fall and strode toward the pair.
“Wickham!” he bellowed.
Wickham stiffened. “Curse it, it’s Darcy,” he muttered through clenched teeth, before spinning on his heel and vanishing into the thickening fog.
“Wickham! Where are you going?” Georgiana called after him, her voice unsteady, eyes wide and swimming in unshed tears.
Darcy gave immediate chase, his boots striking sharply against the cobblestones, but after several minutes, he returned, breathing hard, eyes blazing.
“Where is Mrs. Younge? And what, pray, are you doing unaccompanied in the street, hand in hand with George Wickham like a common trollop? Georgiana, you are the granddaughter of an Earl. This conduct is beneath you.”
She did not meet his eye but answered softly, “But I love him. George is dining with us this evening.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, and his voice dropped into a growl. “George, is it? How have you come to be so familiar that you feel free to use his given name, little sister?” He mumbled a curse. “We shall collect Ares and return to the house at once.”
Minutes later, striding into the vestibule of the leased residence, he dispatched the butler to locate the paid companion.
“Bring her to me, but see that she remains unaware of my arrival.”
“Yes, sir. At once.”
A trunk near the front entrance arrested Darcy’s gaze.
“What does this mean, Georgiana?”
He led her by the elbow into the drawing room, shutting the door with a snap.
“Do not tell me you plan to elope with Wickham?”
Her voice caught. “George loves me, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana cried, her voice trembling.
“He asked for my hand, and we are to leave for Gretna Green at first light.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she added, “He said you would never approve our union, that you would tear us apart. But why did he curse your name and flee? Why would he do such a thing?”
With a sob, she collapsed onto the settee, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Darcy stood rooted to the floor, his heart pounding, his jaw set. What words could possibly reach her now? How might he ease her sorrow when the vile truth threatened to shatter her?
Would that Aunt Helen were here, and Richard. His spirits rose. He would write to Richard at once and urge him to come.
Darcy crossed the room and lowered himself beside Georgiana. For a moment, he hesitated, then gently slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close in a rare gesture of comfort.
The door opened, and Mrs. Younge entered quietly, only to stop short upon seeing him.
Darcy rose at once. “Do sit down, Mrs. Younge. I have a matter to discuss with you.”
With deliberate motion, he closed the door behind her, barring any attempt at retreat.
“Tell me, were you expecting George Wickham? And for how long, madam, have you been in his employ?”
She remained silent.
“Speak,” Darcy commanded, his voice sharp with restrained fury. “I will have the truth. You have aided a scoundrel in the attempted abduction of your charge, a child entrusted to your care and placed under your protection by my own hand.”
Mrs. Younge sank into the nearest chair, her composure faltering. Georgiana turned, wide-eyed, to stare at the woman she had trusted.
Darcy stepped forward, towering with indignation.
“Explain yourself, madam. What part have you played in this scheme? Are you to share in the spoils of Georgiana’s dowry?”
She remained frozen, shrinking beneath his gaze.
Darcy raked a hand through his hair and began to pace, his mind reeling. How could this woman, with impeccable references, have aligned herself with George Wickham?
Georgiana, though her tears had ceased, kept her eyes fixed upon her companion, her expression stricken.
The room fell into heavy silence. Both siblings waited.
At length, Mrs. Younge lifted her eyes and met Darcy’s, her lower lip trembling. In a low, broken voice, she confessed:
“George is my lover. He takes a portion of my wages each month for his expenses. It was he who informed me of this post.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her voice low and bitter. “He is a gambler and a drunkard, and his demands have become unbearable.”
With trembling fingers, she pulled back the sleeve of her gown, revealing a dark purple bruise upon the delicate skin of her forearm. Then, loosening the modest collar at her neck, she exposed a greenish mark upon her shoulder.
“My body is mottled with bruises,” she whispered, “and George has threatened my complete ruin should I fail to comply with his wishes.”
Darcy stood stricken, the blood draining from his face as the terrible vision of Georgiana falling prey to such a depraved creature seized his mind. Mrs. Younge buried her face in her hands and wept.
Wickham had become unrecognizable; this man was no longer the boy he had once called friend. Against his better judgment, compassion stirred within Darcy for yet another soul ruined by Wickham’s wickedness.
He drew a slow breath, then spoke coldly.
“Mrs. Younge, though your conduct is utterly reprehensible, I cannot help but feel some measure of pity for your situation. That said, your role in the attempted abduction of my sister, a child, defenseless and vulnerable, cannot be dismissed. She may already be ruined, perhaps even carrying the scoundrel’s child. ”
His eyes darkened as he stared her down.
“You deserve imprisonment for abduction, or at the very least, to stand trial for criminal conspiracy.
But it serves me no purpose to bring this matter before the courts and risk the exposure of my family's private affairs. However, I will not remain vulnerable to extortion, neither from you nor from Wickham. Such a position is wholly intolerable.”
He straightened, his voice cold as steel.
“Madam, I will secure you passage aboard the next ship bound for America. There shall be no negotiation.”
Darcy moved swiftly to the door.
“Where are Wickham’s lodgings?”
“He lets a room at the Crown on Poverty Lane,” came the subdued reply.
Opening the door, Darcy summoned the butler.
“Willis, escort Mrs. Younge to her chambers. Place a footman at her door; she is not to leave unaccompanied.”
The butler gave a curt bow and departed, following the woman out.
Two days passed in anxious dread before the door to the study opened and a welcome figure crossed the threshold.
“Richard!”
The two men embraced, a rare moment of affection between them.
“Good God, Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, stepping back to study his cousin’s haggard features. “You look as though you've been through the wars. But no matter, tell me, what of Georgiana?”
Darcy ran a hand down his face, wearied beyond measure.
“You will scarcely believe it. She was packed and prepared to flee with Wickham; Gretna Green was their intended destination. I arrived in Ramsgate mere hours before their departure. But I fear I may be overly hopeful. There is every chance she is with child.”
Richard stiffened.
“With child? Surely not! What leads you to think so?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“He visited her daily, for a fortnight before my arrival. And I found him with his hand upon her person in public, no less. God only knows what liberties he presumed to take in private.”
The memory settled like a weight upon Darcy’s shoulders. It had been five harrowing days since he discovered the depth of Georgiana’s disgrace. He let out a long, shuddering breath, more grief and guilt than relief.
Would she recover? Would she ever trust again? Had she contracted some disease from her liaison with that scoundrel?
She had scarcely emerged from her room, choosing instead to weep in solitude and remain silent. Whether she ate or drank, he could not say. The girl he had sworn to protect had been so nearly lost to him.
Thank Providence for Richard, who had immediately taken the burden of Mrs. Younge’s voyage into his own hands. With those affairs managed, Darcy could at last devote himself to Georgiana’s care.
Now, seated beside her, he allowed his shoulders to relax against the squabs and gently rested his cheek against her curls, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude for her narrow escape.
She was not lost, not yet. Even if she were to bear Wickham’s child, he would manage it. He would stand by her. Come what may.