Chapter 1
One
Darcy was at the milliner’s shop, impatiently waiting for his sister to make her choice.
Her governess, Mrs Peterson, clucked her tongue at his pacing.
“We are just fine here without you, Mr Darcy. You certainly may cross the street to the bookstore. Once she has chosen her bonnet, we will come and fetch you.”
Her words made sense, but Darcy had a rather dour outlook on life—for good reason, he would plead; experience had taught him that bad things often happened to good people—and his impatience was not a good enough reason to leave Georgiana alone in a store with only her governess in attendance.
His young sister was only now regaining her equanimity and needed his presence to sustain her spirit.
He made himself sit down. “Thank you, Mrs Peterson, but I am fine. I will stay here with you both until Miss Darcy tries on every bonnet in the store, if that is what it takes.”
His body urged him to leap up again and resume pacing; at age two and twenty, he found it difficult to be wholly disengaged.
It was not as if he disliked sitting, per se.
In fact, he did a great deal of sitting.
He adored fencing and, even more, riding, and he loved a brisk walk through forests and around lakes or, here at Ramsgate, along the clifftop paths.
Still, he spent most of his time reading or writing, obviously while sitting somewhere, inside or out.
Looking for something to occupy his mind, Darcy directed his eyes out the window.
He saw two young ladies walking past the store, a footman in livery following behind them.
They stopped to look at the bonnets in the window, and the shorter lady must have said something humorous; the taller one listened, looked surprised, and began to laugh.
The shorter one, who appeared younger, kept speaking, and the other seemed to laugh harder and harder.
Suddenly, Darcy’s blood ran cold as a very familiar man appeared behind the ladies.
Wickham! Darcy stood and watched for a few moments; the ladies both immediately assumed politely pinched expressions that, it seemed to Darcy, indicated that they did not know Wickham and were slightly alarmed at whatever he said.
Darcy’s eyes flicked to the footman, and he was gratified to see the young man step up protectively; he said something, but Wickham ignored him and said something else to the young ladies.
The face of the taller, older lady became quite uncertain, and Darcy felt dread for her, knowing how skilful Wickham could be at reading ladies’ emotions and playing on them. He looked to the shorter lady to see her feelings; her expression remained wholly reserved, although her eyes were fierce.
He swiftly decided he must do something; he said, “Mrs Peterson, stay here with Miss Darcy, and do not let her out of your sight until I return.” He knew that the command in his voice alerted her to the fact that he sensed danger, and, satisfied that his sister would be well attended, he strode to the door of the milliner’s shop and stepped outside.
Wickham immediately noticed him, and he paled and then practically fled.
Darcy bowed to the ladies and said, “Excuse me, ladies.” He turned to the footman and said, “That man who spoke to the ladies is well known to me, and he is not the gentleman he appears to be. He is dangerous to ladies and even girls.”
The footman’s eyes were wide, and he bobbed his head nervously. “He—he seemed mighty bold,” the young man said. “Thank you?”
The servant had likely not meant for his thanks to be a question, but Darcy knew how unusual his own behaviour was—interceding in whatever had happened or was about to happen, speaking to another family’s servant, even addressing ladies to whom he had not been introduced—none of that was considered gentlemanly unless there was obvious and immediate danger.
Darcy nodded his head again and started to turn back to the door, back to Georgiana, but one of the young ladies said, “Thank you, sir.”
He turned back to see that it was the shorter girl who had spoken.
She went on, “I had a monstrous chill when the man addressed us, as if I had been transported into a Gothic novel, and the smooth-talking but evil villain had made an appearance. I know that Robbins would have protected us if necessary, but I preferred the man to immediately leave us alone. That is what you accomplished by just showing your face. I am grateful you did so.”
Suddenly, something seemed wrong. Not with what the young lady had said—he was very happy that she had sensed Wickham’s base character, when so many others merely felt his charm.
No, there seemed to be something wrong with Darcy’s body.
He felt lightheaded, and his hands had turned cold and clammy.
He had certainly never felt that way before; it was a most unpleasant sensation.
The ladies were, of course, turning away—he managed to say, “Do not mention it,” as they began to walk away. After waiting a few steps, their footman followed.
Darcy wished to stop them, to say—well, there was nothing he could say.
He wished to find out—but that was completely out of bounds, and quite predatory—after all, he was not Wickham!
He had no reason to stop the ladies, to follow them, or even to speak further to them.
Looking to where his carriage sat by the kerb, Darcy’s eyes met the eyes of his valet, Jameson.
Jameson was an incredibly intelligent and discreet young man, someone Darcy had known and trusted for more than a decade.
Darcy realised that Jameson had watched this brief interaction; he had likely heard every word, as well.
When his valet lifted his eyebrows, Darcy had no idea what question he was silently asking; still, Darcy nodded, and Jameson spoke to the driver and then walked in the same direction as the two ladies.
Darcy returned to the store, murmured his thanks to Mrs Peterson, and regained his chair.
Still feeling a bit dizzy, Darcy began to think about what had just happened.
Wickham had been dressed very well and looked as handsome as ever, he supposed. The reprobate being in Ramsgate was surprising—he had assumed he would be in London.
But the sight of Wickham had not made Darcy feel so unsteady, nor had it interfered with his speech. He had made a decision and acted—and he had felt entirely himself.
Neither had the sight of the young ladies impacted Darcy.
They were both pretty but not, he thought, remarkable.
He had seen them, had even looked carefully at their facial expressions in an effort to decide if Wickham might influence them; and that careful observation had been made before he spoke to Wickham.
What it was—what it seemed to be—was something to do with the young lady who had spoken up, thanking him for interceding with Wickham, who she likened to the villain of a Gothic novel.
Her words were unexpected and sincere. There was something open about her expression of gratitude and her mention of the “chills” Wickham had elicited.
As she spoke, her mobile face adopted a medley of expressions, one moment looking pert, the next fierce and soon after vulnerable. Such transience was captivating, and he felt as if he wished to watch for the next and then the next expression.
Her voice, too, seemed special. It was lower than expected from such a diminutive person. It was firm. Lively. Bright.
Was this the feeling of attraction some men spoke about? His young friend Bingley once said, “I was rooted to the spot, Darce; I could hardly speak. I just held out my arm, and thankfully the angel who had so moved me took it, and we danced, and….”
Well, Bingley had gone on and on about his angel, but Darcy had heard very similar words from his friend more times than he could count, and so he had barely paid heed to them. He had assumed that Bingley being “rooted to the spot” and hardly able to speak were exaggerations, but now….
For him, this was a first. He had seen beautiful ladies before—many, many pretty ladies and not a few stunning ladies—but although he smiled and exchanged polite conversation, and although he danced (only one dance per lady, not matter how lovely—and never the first, the last, nor the supper dance), he called on none of them, he began no courtships, and he never found himself thinking and dreaming of a single lady of his acquaintance.
But now—this particular lady—
Darcy remained sitting, not paying attention to anything around him, for a timeless period.
The image of the young lady—the very young lady, he suspected—stayed in his mind, lingering like a daydream.
He did not pace, he did not stare at his sister trying on yet another bonnet, he did not even so much as shift in his chair.
When Georgiana emerged, a broad smile on her face and a charming poke bonnet hiding her golden hair, Darcy stood up, smiled at his sister, and acknowledged the shop assistant with the words, “We are much obliged for your patience, miss.”
The assistant handed him the hatbox containing the old bonnet.
Escorting Georgiana out, he handed the hatbox to his footman and helped Georgiana and Mrs Peterson into the carriage.
Then he stood for a moment, looking at the path the two ladies and his valet had taken.
There being nothing in particular of interest in that direction now, he shook his head at himself and climbed aboard, and they set off for Seaside Cottage.
Jameson returned with many more particulars than Darcy could have ever expected.
The taller of the young ladies was Miss Bennet; the shorter was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
They were daughters of a gentleman, but they were staying with their uncle, aunt, and cousins, the Gardiner family.
Mr Gardiner was wealthy, but in trade. As to the Bennets, Miss Bennet was seventeen—which was very young—but Miss Elizabeth was far too young, at fifteen.