Chapter Five
Weeks. For weeks, Darcy had scoured the border towns of Scotland.
He had men combing over every village, no matter how small.
Searching up and down the road to London as well, and in Town, in case, for some inexplicable reason, Wickham had hidden Georgiana away there rather than racing for Scotland.
Yet it seemed no amount of time, money, or effort could uncover the location of his sister.
“Sir? Mr. Darcy?” Patrick’s voice.
Darcy looked up from an untouched meal of mutton pie and dark ale. His was the only table occupied in the small common room of what passed for an inn in this miniscule Scottish town. He’d already forgotten the name of the place. He’d passed through so many.
Patrick stood before the table, proffering a letter. “A letter from Mrs. Reynolds, sir. The courier said it is urgent. He said he has been through half the border towns in Scotland seeking you, sir.”
Darcy accepted the missive with trepidation. An urgent letter was how this whole nightmare began, though that one had been from Mrs. Younge. He cracked the seal his housekeeper had placed and unfolded the page.
Dear Mr. Darcy,
I write to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Wickham have arrived at Pemberley.
Darcy stood, his chair skittering back, earning him a startled look from Patrick.
In the past, we would not have permitted Mr. Wickham entrance, per your orders, but we did not want to turn Mrs. Wickham away, and they would not be separated, so we permitted him in.
Per Mrs. Wickham’s request, they have been allotted adjoining rooms in the family wing and are being offered all hospitality.
I await your instructions.
Mrs. Reynolds
“Pack,” Darcy said, shoving the letter at Patrick. “I will see about fresh horses.”
He must call off the search as well, Darcy realized as he crossed the little common room. And make arrangements for those who had aided him to be paid. Then, he would travel to Pemberley as quickly as his considerable wealth allowed.
He stepped out into the afternoon warmth, but rather than turn in the direction of the stable, Darcy continued forward, across the street, then down another.
Long legs carried him from the little village and into the open grazing land beyond.
Leaping a low wall of stacked stone, he started up a steep hill, rapidly claiming the summit.
He halted to a view of craggy, lichen-spattered rock and meandering sheep.
His hands fisted. He squeezed his eyes closed, fighting down anger.
He had failed. Utterly and miserably. Oh, he could blame Mrs. Younge, or Wickham, or even Georgiana, but the truth was, Darcy had failed. He was Georgiana’s older brother and guardian. Responsible for her well-being.
And he had failed.
He sucked air through bared teeth, trying to quiet his anger. To tamp it down into something manageable. To find a way not to unleash an unseemly, stricken yowl of rage out over the contentedly grazing sheep.
His eyes opened. He spotted several weathered outcroppings that would be perfect to kick. Through force of will, he remained where he stood. Abusing rocks would not change his failure, and if he broke his foot, that would only be one more torment to plague him.
He forced his hands open, though the muscles remained as tight as when they’d been balled into fists.
Every movement wooden, he walked carefully back down the hill.
All that remained to him, all he could do, was to return to Pemberley and learn what he would have to pay Wickham in order to keep Georgiana safe.
Darcy had no illusions that Wickham would care for his sister.
At least, because of Richard’s strange premonition, Wickham would not have Georgiana’s dowry. Not yet. When next Darcy saw his cousin, apparently the better of Georgiana’s two guardians, he would have to thank him.
They departed as the sun set, the going slow by lanternlight.
Changing horses so often Darcy reflected that he could have bought a new team for what the use of others’ cost him, they made all haste back to Pemberley.
Even traveling at a pace only wealth could provide, the better part of two weeks passed, each day augmenting Darcy’s misery, before they turned up the familiar drive to his family home.
Normally, the serenity of the well-tended grounds and stately facade would soothe him.
Darcy took great pride in his holdings. In maintaining them and the Darcy name.
Today, however, the manor house appeared austere and withdrawn, almost judgmental, as he disembarked before broad steps that had underscored the comings and goings of so many of the Darcy line.
Steps that should never have been made to bear the footfalls of a Mrs. Georgiana Wickham.
Swallowing bile, Darcy went up. His butler, grim-faced, opened the door, saying, as Darcy removed his outerwear, “Mr. Wickham asked to be informed of your arrival, sir.”
Darcy passed a hand over his eyes.
“Give the master a moment to rest,” Mrs. Reynolds’ voice said.
Darcy lifted his gaze to find her descending the broad front staircase. She carried a tray, as any kitchen maid might. He raised his eyebrows, looking the question at her.
Mrs. Reynolds grimaced. “Unless Mrs. Wickham is with him, I do not send any of the girls into his presence.”
Darcy scowled. His glance taking in both Mrs. Reynolds and the butler, he said, “I will be in my study in fifteen minutes. I will see Wickham then.” Darcy marched past them, seeking his quarters.
In ten minutes, he was in his study, wanting to arrive before Wickham. Fifteen more minutes ticked by. Darcy began to wonder if he should call a footman, or three. If Wickham required dragging in, Darcy would be happy to oblige him.
Ten minutes later, Wickham finally sauntered through the study door, so smug that Darcy’s hands twitched. He spread his fingers flat across the top of the desk, so as not to give Wickham the satisfaction of seeing him make a fist.
Wickham’s gaze dropped to Darcy’s hands, the skin white with the downward force he exerted, and his grin widened.
“Home at last, I see. It is not like you to be so derelict in your duties.” He dropped into the chair across from Darcy, bringing them more or less eye level, as Darcy had not troubled to stand.
“I hope you enjoyed gallivanting about Scotland for no reason at all, for I am certain your estate missed you. I’d begun to think I would need to take matters here in hand. Supervise in your absence.”
Ignoring that, Darcy asked, “What will it take to see you gone from here, without my sister?”
“No, ‘It is pleasant to see you, George.’ Or, ‘Welcome to the family?’” Wickham drawled. He sprawled back in his chair, hooking a leg over one arm.
“What will it take?” Darcy reiterated.
Wickham shrugged. “Georgiana’s thirty-thousand pounds. Hand it over and you will never have to set eyes upon me again.”
A gasp sounded.
Darcy raised his gaze from glaring at Wickham to see his sister in the doorway and reflexively came to his feet. “Georgiana.”
Wickham’s leg swung free of the chair arm as he turned a frown on her. “I thought we agreed that I would speak with your brother alone.”
“No, we did not. You ordered me to remain away.” She raised her chin. “I did not choose to do so.” She marched into the room. “What do you mean, my brother will never see you again? I will not be kept from my family, if that is what you are thinking.”
She looked so young, so vulnerable, for all her show of firmness. Darcy shook his head, hating to agree with Wickham, and said, “Perhaps you should permit us to discuss this. I will come to your room after and provide you with our decision.”
“No.” Georgiana crossed her arms over her chest, appearing younger still. “You are speaking about my life. I am staying.”
Wickham shrugged again and turned back to Darcy. “My thirty-thousand pounds, please.”
If his failure were not so profound, Darcy would take joy in informing Wickham… “I am afraid that is impossible. Before her twenty-fifth birthday, Georgiana’s dowry cannot be paid out without both my and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s signatures.”
“What?” Georgiana gasped. “That cannot be true.”
Darcy shifted his gaze to her, where she’d moved to stand beside Wickham’s chair. A chair he did not offer to vacate for her, leaving Darcy standing as well. “It is a provision Richard added.”
Wickham’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, I cannot touch her dowry until her twenty-fifth birthday?”
“Precisely.”
Wickham’s mouth worked, his face blotching with red.
“Oh, but you will sign, will you not?” Georgiana’s voice wavered. “I truly am sorry for how George and I went about marrying, but we are in love. We require my dowry to start our life together.”
Darcy didn’t look away from Wickham as he said, “Even were I to sign, I can assure you that Richard will not.”
“He will if I speak with him.” Uncertainty colored Georgiana’s words.
“He will not,” Wickham snapped. He came to his feet, whirling to glare at her. “How could you not inform me of this? Twenty-five! That is a decade hence.”
So palpable was his anger that Darcy could not prevent his hands from fisting this time. Georgiana took a step back, her mouth gaping open.
“She did not know,” Darcy stated. “So kindly reserve your ire for me.”
Wickham’s head whipped around. “Oh, I have ire for you aplenty.”
“Unfortunately for you, expressing it will change nothing.”
Wickham’s mouth curled.
“George, d-dearest,” Georgiana stammered. “Please, I am certain my brother will see us well cared for until I can convince Richard to sign. Or…or until I am old enough.”
Wickham’s eyes, locked with Darcy’s, narrowed. “That is a fair point. You will see I am cared for, Darcy?”
“How much do you want?”
“Ten thousand a year.”
“Two.”
Georgiana looked back and forth between them. “I am certain you can be more generous with us than that, Fitzwilliam.”
Wickham flicked a glance at her. “If I have to keep her somewhere, twelve.”
“Three.”
“Keep me somewhere?” Georgiana squeaked. “I will be with you.”
Wickham held up a hand, palm facing her. “Quiet. I am speaking with your brother, and I want nine thousand.”
“But what do you mean, if you must keep me somewhere?”
Dropping his hand, Wickham pivoted his ire. “I mean, if I am forced to speak with you, listen to you, or even see you on any regular basis, I want more money. To compensate for the imposition.”
“I-imposition?” Georgiana’s wide eyes shimmered. “You want to be with me. You l-love me.”
“How is it you are so stupid?” he muttered and turned back to Darcy. “Eight, if she remains here with you.”
Wrenching his gaze from his sister’s heartbreak, Darcy said quietly, “Three, and you will make no mention of your union with my sister. She will be permitted to pretend, at least until her twenty-fifth year, that she does not so much as know you.”
“Three thousand did not go so far as I had hoped last time. I want five, and I will be happy never to speak of your sister. For this year, at least.”
“What do you mean, last time?” Georgiana whispered. Tears trailed down her cheeks, but she made no effort to brush them away.
“He refers to when I paid him for a living he did not want.” Darcy scrubbed a hand over his face.
Five thousand pounds a year. Quite the sum, and he had no thought Wickham wouldn’t repeatedly raise the amount.
Even for Darcy, five thousand pounds was an imposition.
A sum which would impact his tenants, even.
Across from him, at Wickham’s shoulder, Georgiana continued to cry.
Darcy dropped his lids, blotting out her white cheeks and stunned eyes. For now, five thousand must do. In truth, he would pay more if needed. Darcy wanted…no, he needed, Wickham away from his sister and out of his house.
“Well?” Wickham prompted.
“Five thousand, and you leave now.”
“If I leave, how do I know you will keep your word?”
Darcy leveled a cold stare on him.
After a moment, Wickham swallowed. He held up both hands, palms out. “Very well. I believe you.” He backed away.
“George,” Georgiana croaked as he reached the study door.
Wickham halted, but didn’t turn.
“You do not love me? Not at all?”
Darcy closed his eyes against the pain squeezing his sister’s voice, crumpling her visage.
“You are a fool to think I could.” With that, Wickham strode from the room.