Chapter Two
Georgiana Darcy paced the cramped cabin, the roll of the ship making the exertion more difficult, and nauseating, than usual.
She hated the small space, with its one sloped wall and the little bed in which George would not join her.
Eloping was meant to be far more romantic than this.
Carriage rides and luxurious inn rooms, and her intended should not be able to resist her charms. That was how it always happened in the novels she’d read, smuggled and traded with school friends.
And in the whispered stories, shared in the dark of night when the headmistress thought they slept.
Instead, George insisted she remain locked in this cabin while he spent his days above deck in the crisp sea air, and nights in a cabin of his own.
She rarely saw him, and he had yet to even kiss her.
Doubt as to the depth of his love wriggled inside her like a worm ruining an apple, and if George did not love her, she had made a terrible mistake.
One from which she could not hope to be rescued, as their plan, George’s plan, was perfect.
They’d departed in George’s rented phaeton and made their way into the park at East Cliff.
There, amongst thick trees, they’d swapped outerwear with two people George had found who bore them sufficient resemblance.
Money had changed hands as well, and the two rode off in the phaeton, going north.
Meanwhile, Georgiana and George went west, through the trees, and sneaked to the docks and onto this ship.
No one, not even Fitzwilliam with all his resources, would find her now.
Her hand went to the little heart-shaped locket she wore. Her most treasured piece of jewelry, given to her by George when she was eight. On her first Christmas without a father, for Papa had died that spring, leaving her with little memory of him and none of her mother, gone many years before.
All would be well, she decided as she clasped George’s token.
George loved her. He must. Why else would he have spent over a month with her, planning this escape?
Playing at him being her cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam?
Fooling her silly companion, Mrs. Younge, so thoroughly?
And the whole time, George had been nothing but attentive, and many long, lovelorn looks were exchanged between them.
Ones they were careful to keep Mrs. Younge from seeing.
Georgiana smiled. What a game they’d made of it, playing out a courtship they’d joked about since she was little.
One that had, now that she was fifteen and talk had begun of her coming out, become suddenly quite serious, for Georgiana had long since decided she would marry no man but her beloved George Wickham. No mere chaperone would prevent that.
Despite how fun their deception had been, Georgiana couldn’t contain a wince, her fingers dropping from the necklace.
Poor Mrs. Younge. The day of their escape, Georgiana had dosed her tea with a draught supplied by George.
Then she’d helped a suddenly groggy Mrs. Younge to her room while George went to the kitchen to inform the staff that, as her guardian, he was taking Georgiana somewhere safe from whatever ailed Mrs. Younge.
George promised that Mrs. Younge would not be made too ill.
That the potion Georgiana added to her chaperone’s tea would simply make Mrs. Younge sleep for a time, like Juliet.
His allusion to Shakespeare struck Georgiana as dreadfully romantic at the time.
Now, looking back, it seemed a rather awful thing to have done to her chaperone.
When she woke, Mrs. Younge must have been horrified to find that Georgiana’s ‘cousin’ had taken her off somewhere.
Mrs. Younge would have panicked, searched, and likely written to Georgiana’s older brother, who would not be forgiving no matter how long they’d made Mrs. Younge sleep.
After all, she had but one function, to keep Georgiana out of the clutches of an unworthy man.
Not that George was unworthy, of course. He was the most handsome, charming, adorable man of Georgiana’s acquaintance. Just thinking about him made her feel so…so… Oh, like she wanted to fling her arms wide and her head back and cry out her joy to the sun.
Which she could not because she was sequestered in this tiny cabin, supposedly unwell.
At least, that was the story George told the crew.
That he was taking his sister to Scotland for a special treatment.
A last resort. He’d pleaded with them to permit her onboard as women, apparently, brought bad fortune at sea.
Being a woman at sea certainly seemed unfortunate to Georgiana, stuck in her little cabin.
She heaved a sigh and plunked down on the narrow bed, which had no give, being nothing more than boards firmly attached to the walls and covered in musty straw and blankets.
Having only ever slept on mattresses stuffed with goose down, Georgiana did not find straw at all comfortable.
It poked, it itched, and it made rustling noises when she moved, interrupting her rest.
Heaving out another sigh, she consulted her mother’s pendant watch.
George would arrive with her dinner in perhaps an hour.
Hopefully he would not be late again. She felt no hunger at all amidst the churning waves, but meals were the only time she saw him, or anyone.
Except for one morning when she put out her chamber pot and came face-to-face with one of the deck hands, but that was so mortifying that she’d immediately ducked back into her room.
Her cheeks aflame and the door firmly closed, she’d wished fervently that George had permitted her to bring at least one maid.
Then, too, she would not be so interminably bored, for a maid would have given her someone with whom to play cards or talk.
Georgiana would press her face to the little, salt-clouded window and attempt to guess their progress up the coast, but her seaward-side view did not offer even that comfort.
Instead, she plucked up one of the two, now dog-eared, novels she had brought with her.
She sank into the heart-pounding romance of Isabella and Theodore, the latter, in Georgiana’s imaginings, wearing George’s face.
Not that she supposed George to be a secret prince, but he would soon be a gentleman, had she any say in the matter.
Finally, a knock sounded. Georgiana sat up, tucking the book away. She smoothed her skirt, then pinched her cheeks. Schooling her expression into demure sweetness, she called, “Enter.”
The door opened to reveal George with a steaming bowl from which a hunk of bread protruded, and a tankard of what she knew would be watery ale.
All she could expect under the circumstances, she’d found.
He smiled at her and she came to her feet, love welling through her at the sight of his strong jaw and even white teeth.
His bright blue eyes and tawny curls. Her perfect, oh-so-handsome soon-to-be-husband.
He stepped in and pushed the door closed. “Georgie, dearest, I have brought your meal.”
“Thank you.” She took the bowl and tankard, quickly setting them on the little shelf that acted as a table, then reached to catch his hand as he made to depart. “You will not eat with me, my love?”
One of his eyes twitched, but his smile didn’t falter. “You know the men believe you to be quite ill. It would be odd for me to remain here overlong.”
“I know, but you only now arrived.” She tugged his hand.
“And we have been at sea for almost a week, so I know we near our destination. We will be married soon enough and I thought…that is…” Heat raced into her face, but she pressed on, determined.
They were nearly husband and wife, after all.
She fixed her attention on the wooden planks of the floor, unable to meet his gaze as she continued, “I thought we could practice for our wedding night.”
The hand she held jerked. She darted a look up to take in his blank face. Catching her watching, he quickly smiled, but his eyes didn’t light up as they usually did.
Georgiana dropped his hand, stepping back. She was too bold. She’d scandalized him. What must he think of her? She plastered both hands to her face. “T-that is, I mean…” she floundered.
George caught her hand back. “My dearest, I want our union more than anything. You know that. You know the risk I am taking, running off with you. If your brother were to catch us, you would be taken home with a reprimand, but I would be hanged for abducting an heiress, no matter what you tell Darcy. You know how he hates me. How he has never forgiven me for how much your father preferred me over him. How he was so petty, even, as to deny me the living your father promised me. A living that would have kept me near you.” George heaved a sigh.
“As if it is my doing that Darcy is so lacking in charm that even a father could not truly love him.”
“It is not your fault,” Georgiana assured him, squeezing his hand.
“But you must know that if we are caught, and we have, ah, well, we have reason to suspect I may be with child, that my brother will insist we marry. He would not see the father of his nephew or niece hang, surely.” Even Fitzwilliam was not that rigid.
“I cannot say for certain, which is one of the reasons we cannot risk such an outcome.” George’s eyes shone with love and compassion, making her heart ache for how good he was. “I would not doom you to widowhood, to bringing up a fatherless child. I love you too much.”
“But that will not happen.” She leaned forward, willing him to believe her. “Could we not simply, well, kiss?” Like in her novels. She longed to feel George’s lips pressed to hers. To experience firsthand the welling up of true love the characters in her books felt. “We have not even done that.”