Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Darcy poured himself a glass of wine. After Miss Bennet’s departure, Georgiana had slept for a time, taken dinner with him, and then excused herself soon after, still weary but no longer inconsolable.
The carriage would be ready at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.
Darcy had confirmed this personally. The trunks were being packed.
The servants had their instructions. Tomorrow, at first light, they would quit Ramsgate and return to London, and this wretched incident would fade into nothing more than a foul memory.
All that remained was the letter.
Darcy sat at the writing desk in the parlour, a single sheet of paper before him.
As Georgiana’s other guardian, Fitz needed to be informed about what had occurred—the attempt, the betrayal, the narrow escape.
His cousin had been back in England for some months now, but that meant little where Fitz was concerned.
Whether Darcy’s cousin was presently in London, at his father’s estate in Derbyshire, or on some assignment for Whitehall that he would never speak of directly, Darcy could not say.
Fitz had a habit of appearing and disappearing without warning, usually on matters he described only as tedious army business before changing the subject.
And even if the letter reached him, there was the question of what it might say.
The attempt on Georgiana. Mrs. Younge’s treachery.
Wickham’s greed. Any letter might be seen by servants, might fall into the wrong hands, might somehow find its way to precisely the people who must never learn of it.
Gossip travelled faster than the post, and scandal faster still.
Better to wait. Better to have the conversation in person, behind closed doors, where nothing could be overheard or intercepted.
Yet Darcy took up his pen regardless. Perhaps he might write something vague. A request that they dine together at Bereford House at Fitz’s earliest convenience. Cousins dined together all the time. Nothing in such an invitation could be misconstrued.
Dear Fitz—
He paused. His mind, which ought to have been composing the next line, drifted instead to the hallway yesterday afternoon.
To Miss Bennet standing before him, her colour high, her eyes bright with something that was not quite anger but was certainly not gratitude.
To the precise angle of her chin when she had informed him that his gratitude was indistinguishable from insult.
I confess I am curious to know the price you have set on my character.
She had misread his intention, but her response had been magnificent.
Magnificent, infuriating, and admirable.
He had offered her compensation, a reasonable thing in recognition of the trouble she had taken, and she had looked at him as though he had suggested she were a mercenary of the highest order.
Her eyes were not brown. He had thought them brown at first, but they were not. They were more of a dark amber with flecks of gold that caught the light when she was vexed.
She had been very vexed.
He stared down at the letter and discovered that he had written Miss Bennet where Fitz ought to have been. The name sat there on the page, taunting him, in the neat slant of his own handwriting.
He drew a line through the name.
The door opened, and Franks entered bearing a tray with the coffee service. He set it down on the sideboard and then, somehow, failed to leave.
“I thought it might be a long night and coffee might serve better than wine.” He paused. “Shall I collect your letter for the post, sir?”
“It is not yet finished.” It was not yet written.
“Ah.” Franks moved closer, peering at the page while pretending to straighten something. “I see you have made a correction.”
“The pen slipped.”
“Of course, sir.” There was a pause, delicate as lace.
Darcy frowned at the paper and set down the pen. “Miss Bennet is on my mind because of her friendship with my sister. She has been very attentive to Georgiana during a difficult time. It is natural that I should think of her when contemplating our departure.”
“As you say, sir.”
The words hung in the air between them. Franks’s face remained perfectly neutral. There was no smile, no raised eyebrow, nothing that could be considered insubordinate, and yet Darcy had the distinct impression that his valet was enjoying himself immensely.
“You are dismissed, Franks.”
“Very good, sir.” Franks did not move.
“I mean it. You may go.”
“Certainly, sir. Shall I take the coffee with me?”
“No.”
“Then I shall remain to pour it, sir. Unless you wish to dismiss me in earnest, in which case I shall require a character reference and request two months’ wages.”
“You may request all you wish,” Darcy grumbled. “I am not dismissing you from my service. I am dismissing you from this room.”
“Ah.” Franks nodded. “A temporary dismissal. Those I do not mind so much.” He poured the coffee, taking rather longer about it than the task required. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No.”
“Very good, sir.” Franks withdrew at last, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow conveyed amusement.
Darcy stared at the letter. At Miss Bennet crossed out, the ink still glistening faintly where his pen had pressed too hard. At Dear Fitz sitting above it, leading nowhere.
He picked up the page and dropped it onto the coals, where the fire burned low. The paper caught at once, curling, blackening, the crossed-out name disappearing into ash. He watched until there was nothing left.
Then he took up a fresh sheet, smoothed it flat before him, and wrote nothing at all. He was still sitting there, contemplating the blank page, when Georgiana appeared in the doorway.
She was wrapped in a thick silk dressing gown. There was a light blush in her cheeks. Her eyes, though still shadowed, held something that was almost calm.
“Am I disturbing you, Brother?”
“Never.” He set aside the pen and turned to face her. “Come in.”
She crossed the room and sat in the chair nearest the writing table.
Darcy remembered her at eight years old, curled up with a doll next to his desk, the one in his father’s study, as he was taught about the estate, glancing up every few minutes to assure herself that they were both still there.
She was not so very different now, though the children’s toys had given way to books and the glances had become more subtle.
“I believe I shall sleep well tonight,” she offered quietly.
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Elizabeth said—” She paused, uncertain. “She said it is better to get on with things. To keep oneself occupied. That too much time for reflection only leaves one feeling more foolish.”
Sound advice, even if he disliked that Georgiana was taking advice from a woman he barely knew. A woman whose name he had just written on a piece of paper that he had then burned.
“Miss Bennet seems a sensible young woman,” he said carefully.
Georgiana nodded, twisting her hands in her lap. “You will not be vexed with me, will you? If I still feel rather foolish from time to time?”
“Georgiana.” He waited until she met his eyes. “You could never vex me.”
“That is not true. I would have done, had I gone through with it. Had I gone with George—with Mr. Wickham.” Her voice dropped. “I fear you must believe me very stupid.”
Darcy thought of what he would have felt, receiving word that his sister had eloped with George Wickham. Terrified. Desperate. Furious, at Wickham, at Mrs. Younge, at himself for not seeing the danger sooner. Georgiana was not stupid. But he might be.
“You were deceived,” he said firmly. “By Mrs. Younge, who was paid to protect you and instead delivered you to a wolf. By Wickham, who ought to have honoured his connexion to our father and instead used it to insinuate himself with you. That is not stupidity. That is trust, misplaced through no fault of your own. Do not forget, Georgie, that Lady Matlock recommended Mrs. Younge, and I hired her. She fooled us as well.”
She nodded, though she did not look convinced. Her hands were still twisting in her lap, and Darcy recognised the gesture. She was gathering courage for something, working herself up to speak.
“Brother,” she said at last. “Miss Bennet was very kind to me. Kinder than I deserved.”
“You deserve every kindness.”
She hesitated, and he saw the struggle in her face. Georgiana adored him. She always had. Contradicting him did not come naturally to her; it cost her something every time. “When Miss Bennet left earlier, you spoke to her in the hall. I saw you. And she seemed . . . displeased.”
Darcy said nothing.
“I do not mean to pry. Only . . . She has been so good to me. And I should hate to think that—” Another pause, longer this time. “What exactly did you say to her?”
“I offered her compensation. For her trouble.”
The words sounded different spoken aloud. Flatter. More obviously wrong.
Georgiana’s face fell. “Oh, Brother.”
“I meant no harm. She went to considerable trouble on our behalf, and I wished to acknowledge that.”
“But it was harmful.” She said it quietly, almost apologetically, as though the correction caused her physical pain.
“She is a gentleman’s daughter. To offer payment makes it appear as though her kindness were a service to be purchased.
As though she were a servant.” Her voice dropped further.
“As though she could not be trusted otherwise. It was not a kind reflection upon her honesty.”
Darcy stared at her. Had he done that? “I had not considered it in those terms.”
“No.” Georgiana’s voice was very small. “Sometimes you have so much to accomplish that you do not consider how your words are received.”
“I have never done so with you, have I?” He hoped fervently that he had not.
“Not with me, no. But with those outside our family . . . yes.”
Silence stretched between them. Darcy turned the idea over in his mind, examining it from this new angle, and found that the description fit rather better than he would have wished.
He had meant to express gratitude. Instead, he had implied distrust, had suggested that Miss Bennet’s kindness required compensation, that without payment she might prove unreliable.
No wonder she had looked at him with such fire in her eyes.
“I have been very foolish, it seems,” he said at last.
“Not foolish.” Georgiana’s smile was tremulous. “Only very . . . you.”
He almost laughed. Almost. “That does not sound like a compliment.”
Georgiana pressed her lips together. “I know.” She took a breath. “Might I see her again? Before we leave? To say goodbye properly. I cannot leave her with those words. Not after all she has done for me.”
Darcy considered. They were to leave in the morning. There was no time for formal calls, for the elaborate dance of cards left and invitations extended. But Georgiana was looking at him with such hope.
He owed Miss Bennet an apology, it seemed. Whether he could bring himself to deliver it remained to be seen, but he owed her one, nonetheless.
“I shall write to Mrs. Morgan and invite them both to dine with us tomorrow evening,” he said with a sigh.
Georgiana brightened. “Mrs. Morgan?”
“Miss Bennet is an unmarried gentlewoman, and you are not yet out.” He reached for fresh paper, grateful for the excuse to look away from his sister’s knowing expression. “Such an invitation should come from me, on your behalf.”
“Thank you, Brother.” Georgiana rose and fairly skipped from the room.
The invitation proved more difficult to write than it ought to have been. Darcy’s first attempt was too brief. He crumpled it and began again.
Mrs. Morgan,
Miss Darcy and I request the pleasure of your company, and that of Miss Bennet, for dinner this evening at seven o’clock. I beg pardon for the short notice.
He read it over. Stiff. Formal. But at least better than the first.
More warmth would be inappropriate. He was merely being polite, performing a social obligation for his sister before quitting Ramsgate forever. There was nothing more to it than that.
He would have it sent over in the morning. Darcy signed his name, sealed the letter, and rang for Franks before he could reconsider.
The note was sent early and the reply came before he had finished breakfast. A single sentence.
Mrs. Morgan and Miss Bennet accept with pleasure and shall wait upon you tonight at seven o’clock.
With pleasure. That seemed unlikely, given the circumstances of their last meeting. Miss Bennet had not been pleased when she departed yesterday. She had looked as though she would quite happily never see him again.
And yet she had accepted. She was coming.
He read the line twice. Three times. Then set it aside.
Franks reappeared late in the afternoon, hesitant in a way that immediately put Darcy on his guard.
“What is it?”
“Likely nothing, sir.” Franks clasped his hands behind his back. “But there has been talk below stairs.”
Darcy’s gaze snapped up to his valet’s. “What manner of talk?”
“Regarding Mr. Wickham, sir.” A careful pause. “It is possible that he has not yet departed Ramsgate.”
A cold anger simmered. “No. He is gone.”
“The intelligence is not certain, sir, but a man matching his description was seen near the harbour yesterday evening.” Franks clasped his hands behind his back. “One of the footmen heard it from a groom at the inn, who heard it from the innkeeper’s wife, who heard it from the fishmonger, who—”
“It was not Wickham,” Darcy said. He was certain.
Wickham knew better than to remain when he had been warned away.
He had always been a coward at heart. Whatever else he was, he valued his own safety above all things.
“He would not risk my displeasure by lingering.” And even if Wickham would risk Darcy’s displeasure, he would not risk Fitz’s.
Unless he was truly desperate.
Franks inclined his head. His expression suggested he was not entirely convinced, but he knew better than to argue. “As you say, sir.”
Franks withdrew, and Darcy turned back to the window.
The sea was blue today, glittering beneath a clear sky, the sort of view one might admire, under different circumstances. He wondered if Miss Bennet had walked along the shore this afternoon, if the sunshine had brought more colour to her cheeks and brightness to those remarkable eyes.
He stopped himself. This was not productive. But no matter what he did, his mind continued to wander to the evening ahead and the woman who would be sitting at his table.