Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The house on Marine Parade was smaller than Darcy had expected.
Respectable, certainly. The address was good, the facade well-maintained.
It was not, however, a house he would have chosen for his sister’s first summer away from home.
He had trusted Mrs. Younge to secure appropriate lodgings.
The sum he had had sent to the solicitor ought to have purchased a larger house than this.
Franks descended from the carriage behind him and fell into step at his shoulder. “Shall I make myself useful below stairs, sir?”
Darcy did not look at him. “Keep the servants occupied. I do not wish to be interrupted.”
“Very good, sir.”
The maid who answered the door was young and flustered, clearly unprepared for him to appear early and unannounced. She bobbed a curtsy and stammered something about Mrs. Younge being out on an errand.
“I am not here for Mrs. Younge. Where is my sister?”
“In the sitting room, sir. Shall I announce you?”
But Georgiana had already heard his voice. She came flying down the stairs, her face alight with joy. She looked thinner than when he had last seen her. There were shadows beneath her eyes.
“Brother!” She threw herself into his arms with an enthusiasm she had not shown since childhood. “Where have you been? I have written you every week, begging you to come!”
He held her tightly, breathing in not the familiar rosewater but something else, something heavier, a floral he did not recognise. A new perfume.
“I received your letters,” he said. “But there was nothing in them about wishing me here.”
Georgiana pulled back, her brow furrowed. “But I wrote you each week. I asked for you to come at least three times. Mrs. Younge said she was sure you would come as soon as you were able to find the time.”
Mrs. Younge had told his sister he would come, but he had not received his sister’s requests that he do so.
Mrs. Younge had posted letters from Georgiana that covered precisely one topic, which might have made it easier to remove pages she did not wish sent.
Mrs. Younge was, at this very moment, conveniently absent.
“Come.” He guided Georgiana towards the sitting room. “Tell me everything.”
The room was pleasant enough, with wide windows overlooking the sea and furniture that had been chosen for comfort rather than elegance.
Darcy noted the pianoforte in the corner that had been leased for the summer, and the stack of sheet music beside it.
Georgiana had been practising. That, at least, was something.
“I have been mostly happy here,” Georgiana said, settling onto the settee.
“The sea air is lovely, and I have made a friend. Miss Bennet is from Hertfordshire. She is here for her health, and we walk together every morning with her companion Mrs. Morgan. And . . .” She hesitated, colour rising in her cheeks. “And there is someone else.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened. “Oh?”
“Yes. He has been very attentive. I know you have quarrelled, but he regrets it and hopes you will be able to reconcile, especially now.”
It felt as though his heart was being squeezed until no blood could run through it. “Who, Georgiana?” He already knew, of course. Who else would claim a quarrel he wished to end?
She drew her slight shoulders back and lifted her chin. “Mr. Wickham. George.”
His sister spoke the blackguard’s name with a tenderness that made Darcy’s blood run cold.
“He has been visiting Ramsgate. We met quite by chance one day, and I introduced him to Mrs. Younge. He has come to see me every day since, and he has been so attentive . . .”
“George Wickham is in Ramsgate and he met you by chance?” He could not help but be sceptical.
Georgiana faltered. “Are you displeased? George warned me you might be, but you were friends once.”
Friends. Darcy remembered the boy who had followed him about Pemberley like a shadow, bright and laughing and impossible to dislike.
He remembered his father’s fondness for Wickham, the way the man’s eyes had softened whenever his godson entered a room.
“He has a great deal of charm,” his father had said.
“You could learn something from him, Fitzwilliam.”
What Darcy had learned, as time passed, was that charm without character was insidious, spreading like damp through a house. One never saw it for what it was before a great deal of damage had been done.
Had Wickham employed that same charm on Georgiana? “It has been a very long time since we were friends, Georgiana, and there are reasons for that.”
The sitting room door opened. Mrs. Younge entered first, and behind her was Wickham.
Darcy had not seen him in nearly two years.
He looked well. Certainly more prosperous than he had any right to look, given the debts he had left scattered across three counties.
His coat was new, his boots polished, his cravat tied with the careless elegance that had always come so easily to him.
And beneath the scent of sea air, Darcy caught something else: bergamot.
An expensive cologne. One Wickham could not possibly afford.
Someone was paying for George Wickham’s finery. Darcy had a very good idea who had been benefitting from his overpayment of this lease.
Wickham’s face underwent a rapid series of adjustments: surprise, calculation, then that smooth, familiar mask. “Darcy.”
Mrs. Younge had gone pale. “Mr. Darcy. We did not expect you.”
“I have already apprehended as much.”
Wickham turned to Mrs. Younge, his voice low, and said something about a fortnight, and the scheme became clear. Darcy’s eyes alit on his sister, then moved back to the pair.
Mrs. Younge had used Miss Bennet’s acquaintance with his sister to ask him for another fortnight in her letter, ample time to reach Gretna Green and make his sister Mrs. George Wickham before he was aware she had left Ramsgate. But why had they not departed before if this was their plan?
Georgiana, oblivious to the tension thickening the air, rose from the settee.
“Brother, now that you are here, George can speak with you.” She turned to Wickham with a shy smile.
“And now we need not travel to Scotland. I told you he would come if I asked, and now we shall have his approval.” Her face brightened.
“Oh, and now Miss Bennet can attend as well. I know you have not met her, George, but she is my friend. I asked her to write to me once we are married.”
Darcy watched Wickham’s understanding dawn.
If Miss Bennet was to write to Georgiana, she would require Darcy’s direction.
And if she had Darcy’s direction . . . The timing of Darcy’s arrival .
. . Darcy saw the moment it became clear.
But he could not think about that now. He could think only of one word.
“Married?” He took a breath to steady himself. “I see. You intended to elope with my sister.”
The room went silent.
Georgiana looked between them, confused. “I wrote to ask you to come, that I had a suitor. Mrs. Younge said—”
“Mrs. Younge said what, exactly?”
Mrs. Younge’s composure cracked. “Mr. Darcy, I assure you, there has simply been a misunderstanding.”
Georgiana glanced at her companion, confused. “No, there has not.”
There was a knock at the door, and they all froze.
Mrs. Younge glanced out the window. “It is Miss Bennet and Mrs. Morgan, here for tea with Miss Darcy.”
Georgiana’s face crumpled. “Oh. With the surprise of your arrival, Brother, I was not attending to the time.” She looked to Mrs. Younge. “What shall I do?”
Darcy’s mind raced. He could not turn them away.
Ramsgate was small but filled with denizens of London, and servants talked.
If Miss Bennet and Mrs. Morgan were refused entry and departed looking affronted, it would be all over the town by evening.
Whatever had happened here, whatever was about to happen, must remain within these walls.
“Show them in,” he said.
The door opened to reveal a young lady, and Darcy had a single unguarded moment in which he thought, absurdly, that she was especially lovely.
This must be Miss Bennet. The letter had suggested someone older, perhaps, someone with enough experience to know when it was more important to bend propriety than to uphold it.
But the woman before him was young, perhaps twenty.
She was possessed of dark hair and eyes that swept the room with an unnerving precision.
She took in everything. He could see it in the slight tightening of her mouth, the way her gaze moved from Georgiana’s tear-bright eyes to Mrs. Younge’s rigid posture to Wickham’s too-easy smile. She might not know the particulars, but she knew something was wrong.
The older woman beside her, dark-haired and sharp-featured, murmured something too low for Darcy to catch. Miss Bennet’s response was equally quiet, but he saw her chin lift almost imperceptibly.
Georgiana, clinging to the rituals of courtesy, stepped forward. “Miss Bennet, Mrs. Morgan, how good of you to come.” Her voice trembled only slightly. “May I present my brother, Mr. Darcy, who has only just arrived?”
Miss Bennet’s gaze was knowing. She curtsied. “Mr. Darcy.”
He bowed, stiff and distracted, but grateful. “Miss Bennet.”
“And this is Mr. Wickham, a friend of the family.”
Darcy watched Miss Bennet’s face as she was introduced. There was no recognition in her expression. He did not believe she had seen Wickham before, nor had any notion of who he was or what he had done. That, at least, was something.
Wickham stepped forward with a bow that was impeccably executed. “Miss Bennet. I understand you have been a great comfort to Georgiana during her time in Ramsgate. It is a pleasure to meet the lady who has been so kind to our dear girl.”
Our dear girl. Darcy’s hands curled at his sides.