Chapter 11
Eleven
IT HAD HAPPENED SO QUICKLY. Fitzwilliam Darcy had not left his sister’s bedchamber in three days.
The vigil showed in the stubble darkening his jaw, the crumpled state of his shirtsleeves, the hollow beneath his eyes.
Dawn crept through the windows now, pale light touching Georgiana’s face where she lay against the pillows, her breathing finally even after the violent coughing that had wracked her through the night.
Dr. Ingram had departed two hours past, cautiously optimistic. The fever had broken. The inflammation of the lungs was retreating. Barring complications, Georgiana would recover—though slowly, with weeks of careful convalescence ahead.
Darcy knew this. Had heard every word of the physician’s instructions. Yet he remained at the bedside, watching the shallow rise and fall of his sister’s chest, counting seconds between each breath as though his attention alone kept her tethered to life.
The connecting door from the dressing room opened.
Elizabeth entered, already dressed for the day in a simple morning gown, her dark hair pinned back with the efficiency of a woman who had slept little.
She crossed to the bed, checking Georgiana’s temperature with the back of her hand against the girl’s forehead.
“The fever is gone.” Relief softened Elizabeth’s features. “Dr. Ingram was right—the crisis has passed.”
Darcy rose stiffly from his chair, his body protesting the long watch. “She will need constant care during recovery.”
“Which she will receive.” Elizabeth turned to face him. “From Mrs. Reynolds, from Hannah, from myself—and from you, when you have rested. You can barely stand, Fitzwilliam.”
The gentle observation carried no criticism, only practical concern. Darcy felt resistance stir—Georgiana was his responsibility, his charge since their father’s death. To leave her side felt like abandonment, even now that the worst had passed.
Elizabeth seemed to read his hesitation. “She is my sister now,” she said quietly. “Where else would I be but at her side when she needs me?”
The simple statement struck deeper than elaborate reassurances might have done.
Darcy looked at his wife—this woman thrust upon him by scandal, who had spent three days nursing his sister with a dedication that spoke nothing of duty and everything of genuine care.
When had she stopped being the bride he resented and become the partner he needed?
“An hour or two,” he conceded. “No more.”
“As you wish.” Elizabeth settled into the chair he had vacated, a worn volume of poetry already in her hand. The domestic tableau—his wife reading beside his sister’s sickbed—lodged itself in Darcy’s chest with unexpected force.
He left them there, the two women who had somehow become the heart of his household, and made his way to his own chambers where Fletcher waited with hot water and clean clothes.
The study felt too bright when Darcy returned to it mid-morning, the June sun streaming through windows he had barely noticed during Georgiana’s illness.
The desk held accumulated correspondence: estate reports from his steward, letters requiring response, a stack of invitations to summer gatherings he had no intention of attending.
Graves appeared at the door. “An express has arrived, sir. The messenger insisted it was most urgent.”
The letter bore no familiar seal. Darcy broke the wax, scanning the brief lines with growing cold.
Darcy—
I find myself in temporary financial difficulty through circumstances beyond my control.
Given our long acquaintance and your family’s past generosity, I trust you will extend assistance one final time.
Five thousand pounds, delivered to the Bull and Crown in Lambton within three days, will suffice to settle pressing debts and allow me to establish myself in a venture far from Derbyshire.
Should you decline, I regret that certain information regarding your hasty marriage may become known to London society.
My inquiries in Hertfordshire have revealed interesting details about your relationship with the former Miss Bennet before that convenient storm.
Prior meetings, careful arrangements—the truth has a way of emerging, particularly when gentleman’s honor is questioned.
I await your response.
Yours, etc.,
George Wickham
Darcy read it twice, anger building with each pass. The threat was explicit. The sum outrageous. And Georgiana, barely recovered from illness that might have killed her, was to be leveraged alongside his marriage as pressure for payment.
“Shall I send for Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Graves asked from the doorway.
“Yes. And Mrs. Darcy, if she can leave Georgiana safely with the abigail.”
They assembled in the study within the quarter hour. Elizabeth read Wickham’s letter in silence, her expression shifting from shock to calculation. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had remained at Pemberley through Georgiana’s illness, swore with a soldier’s fluency.
“The man’s timing is unconscionable,” the Colonel said. “Georgiana not three days past crisis, and he—”
“Wickham has always possessed an instinct for exploiting weakness.” Darcy kept his voice level through effort. “He would see this moment as opportunity.”
Elizabeth set down the letter. “His claims about prior meetings are false. Before the Netherfield ball, we had exchanged perhaps a few dozen sentences total, always in public view.”
“Truth has never constrained Wickham’s narratives.” Colonel Fitzwilliam paced to the window and back. “The question is response. Do we pay him?”
“No.” Darcy’s answer came without hesitation. “Paying blackmail ensures further demands. Five thousand now becomes ten thousand within the month.”
“Agreed.” Elizabeth’s firm tone surprised him. Many women would have counseled payment to avoid scandal. “Moreover, paying lends credibility to his insinuations. Why silence him if we have nothing to hide?”
The Colonel nodded. “Then we threaten legal action. Blackmail is a crime with severe penalties.”
“Which would require public proceedings.” Elizabeth’s practical mind cut to the weakness in that approach. “Precisely the exposure Wickham threatens us with.”
“But what he threatens is entirely fabricated,” Darcy pointed out. “We have nothing to conceal beyond the hasty nature of our marriage, already known. The embarrassment of court proceedings would be temporary. The consequences for Wickham, lasting.”
Elizabeth considered this. “You suggest we call his bluff. Inform him that any attempt to spread falsehoods will result in immediate prosecution, regardless of temporary discomfort to us.”
“Precisely.” Darcy found himself grateful again for her clear-sighted assessment. “Wickham’s calculations balance gain against risk. We need only increase the risk beyond acceptable levels.”
“I could meet with him,” Colonel Fitzwilliam offered. “Outline the legal consequences with sufficient... emphasis to discourage pursuit.”
“A good first move,” Elizabeth agreed. “But we should also neutralize his potential audience before he approaches them. If key figures in local society already know his character—”
“His threats lose power.” Darcy saw her strategy immediately. “You’re thinking of your uncle and aunt.”
“The Gardiners are respected in Lambton. If they were to mention, quite casually, certain observations about Mr. Wickham’s behavior in Meryton—his debts, his falsehoods—society would be inoculated against his insinuations.”
The plan had merit. Three-pronged: legal threat via the Colonel, social discrediting via the Gardiners, and their own united refusal to be intimidated. Wickham would find no purchase for his schemes.
“I’ll draft letters to your uncle,” Darcy said. “And to several other contacts who might prove useful.”
They continued refining strategy until Graves interrupted again, this time with news that sent ice through Darcy’s veins: “Miss Darcy has received a letter, sir. A maid thought you should know it came from the same messenger who delivered yours.”
Georgiana sat upright in bed, a folded paper clutched in her pale hands. Hannah hovered nearby, distress written plainly on the maid’s face.
“I thought it was from my music master,” Georgiana said as Darcy entered with Elizabeth close behind. “Inquiring after my health. But it’s from him.”
“I am sorry, sir!” Hannah cried. “It was a mistake. Thought it was already approved by you to go the miss since it was on the same tray.”
“It’s all right,” Mr. Darcy said. He took the letter she offered, already knowing what he would find. Wickham’s familiar hand covered the page:
My dear Georgiana,
I write with sincere concern for your welfare, having learned of your recent illness. How distressing it must be to recover whilst your family faces scandal of their own making.
Your brother’s marriage to Miss Bennet has prompted considerable speculation in certain circles.
Should the truth of their arrangement become public—prior meetings arranged to force compromise, a calculated entrapment—the resulting disgrace would touch all who bear the Darcy name.
Your own prospects would suffer, I fear, rendering you damaged goods in society’s eyes despite your fortune, given previous indiscretions within the family.
I have attempted to secure your brother’s cooperation in preventing such exposure, but he seems determined to refuse reasonable assistance. Perhaps your influence might prevail where mine has failed. Five thousand pounds is a modest sum to preserve your family’s honor and your own future.
Your devoted friend,
George Wickham
Darcy crushed the paper in his fist. To threaten Georgiana directly, to manipulate her guilt over Ramsgate, to use her illness as leverage—
“It’s my fault.” Georgiana’s voice was small but steady. “If I hadn’t been so foolish last summer, he wouldn’t have this power over our family now.”