Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Georgiana was animated at breakfast. “When I asked Mrs. Younge about the warm baths, she said they were not suitable for young ladies but I cannot imagine why. Mrs. Morgan and Elizabeth say they are perfectly respectable.” She paused, then blinked.
“She did not want me out of her sight in case I spoke to someone about . . .”
“She is gone now,” Darcy assured his sister, who nodded and continued to discuss all the things Elizabeth said and read and did.
He was not certain how he felt about this.
Georgiana needed friends who might draw her out of her shyness and remind her that the world contained more than duty and disappointment, but Miss Bennet was a gentleman’s daughter of modest means, with a companion who was the widow of an officer rather than a woman of rank.
In Ramsgate, where the usual rules relaxed somewhat, such an acquaintance was acceptable enough.
In London, where Georgiana would need to navigate the expectations of the ton, it would be another matter entirely.
He would not say this today. For now, she could speak to Miss Bennet of matters that she ought not with any of the London ladies, and her friendship made his sister happy. That was enough.
“I do so want you to like Elizabeth, Brother. She is clever and kind and she makes me laugh.” Georgiana looked up at him, her eyes bright with hope.
“I mean to write to her when we return to London. And do you think she might come to visit? Elizabeth says her family is in Hertfordshire, which is not so very far.”
Darcy imagined Miss Bennet arriving at Bereford House during the season or introducing her to Lady Matlock.
The countess would take one look at the worn pelisse and discover her lack of connexions before dismissing her entirely.
What would Miss Bennet’s reaction to such a dismissal be?
With her sharp tongue, those flashing eyes .
. . Darcy found himself smiling despite himself.
He would have to deal with this situation very carefully. “We shall see,” he said, which was not a no but was not quite a yes either.
Georgiana beamed as though he had promised her the moon. “I knew you would like her. I told Elizabeth you would, once you had the chance to know her properly. She seemed sceptical, and now I shall be able to tease her about it.”
Miss Bennet was rather accomplished at the gentle tease herself. Darcy took a sip of coffee.
“We should go,” Georgiana said, rising from the table. “Elizabeth said they would meet us at ten o’clock, and I should hate to keep her waiting. This is going to be the most wonderful day.”
Darcy watched Georgiana hurry from the room.
She was distracted from what had nearly happened.
That was what mattered. The shadows had not entirely left her eyes, and when a door closed too loudly, or a male voice carried from the street below, she cringed.
But she was eating properly. She had slept well the night before.
She was looking forward to something, even if that something was only a visit to the warm sea baths with a friend.
This was the right decision. The additional day had been worth it.
Tomorrow morning they would leave, and Ramsgate would become nothing more than an unpleasant memory. Wickham was gone. A coward like him would never risk remaining after being discovered. The danger was past. Whatever Franks had heard below stairs was merely rumour.
They walked together towards the baths, the morning sun warm on Darcy’s shoulders. The sea glittered in the distance, impossibly blue, and the air smelled of salt and something sweeter. Flowers from a nearby garden, perhaps.
At the corner near the establishment, they met Miss Bennet and Mrs. Morgan, who had walked from their lodgings. Mrs. Morgan looked composed, watchful, her hair pinned beneath a sensible bonnet. But Miss Bennet—
Miss Bennet looked well this morning. There was colour in her cheeks that had not been there last evening, a brightness in her eyes that suggested she was nearly recovered.
She wore a light muslin suited to the warm day, a walking dress in pale yellow that stood out prettily against the pink in her cheeks.
He blinked. What was he doing? This inconvenient attraction he felt for Georgiana’s friend would contract back to its proper proportions once they were in London and life returned to its regular rhythms. She would write to Georgiana, Georgiana would write back, the correspondence would eventually wane, and that would be the end of it.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bennet’s voice carried a hint of amusement. “You look as though you slept poorly. I hope the arrangements for tomorrow’s journey did not keep you from your rest.”
This was rather direct, but he already understood that it was a friendly salvo. It was her way. “I slept adequately.”
Miss Bennet’s lips curved into a small smile. They stood looking at each other for a long moment, until Mrs. Morgan cleared her throat.
“The baths take about an hour,” Miss Bennet said. “We shall collect you at the bookshop when we are finished.”
“It is very near,” Mrs. Morgan added. “Just past the milliner’s on the corner.”
“You cannot miss it,” Miss Bennet added. “There is a very ugly statue of Athena in the window that the proprietor believes lends the establishment an air of classical learning.”
“But the books are good, and Mr. Andrews knows better than to make conversation when his customers wish to be left alone.” Mrs. Morgan glanced at Darcy. “A quality I suspect you will appreciate.”
Darcy nodded. He watched the four of them—Georgiana, Miss Bennet, Mrs. Morgan, and the attendant who emerged to greet them at the door—disappear into the bathing establishment.
He stood there a moment, suddenly reluctant to leave. This was foolish. Georgiana was safe. Miss Bennet and Mrs. Morgan were with her. There was nothing to fear.
One hour, he told himself. One hour, and then we shall leave, and I shall not have to think about Miss Bennet’s eyes or her cough or her maddening little smile.
He turned and walked to the bookshop.
The shop was small but well-stocked. The statue of Athena dominated the front window as promised, her blank marble eyes staring out at the street.
The proprietor, a thin man with spectacles and ink-stained fingers, recommended a volume on architectural principles, and Darcy sat in a chair by the window where he could see the street.
He opened the book to a chapter on proportions, but his mind kept drifting.
Miss Bennet’s laugh when he had called the soup adequate, a laugh surprised out of her despite her evident determination to find him disagreeable.
The way her eyes had sparked when she debated with him about novels.
The quiet “Thank you” when she had sat in the chair he had moved to the fire.
He consulted his watch. Forty minutes had passed.
Twenty minutes more. Then the ladies would emerge, flushed and relaxed.
They would collect him as promised. They would walk back to Marine Parade together, and Darcy would make polite conversation about the sea air and the weather and whatever other safe topics presented themselves.
The ladies might spend the day together.
Tomorrow he and Georgiana would depart for London, and he would likely never see Miss Elizabeth Bennet again.
He tried to imagine the journey home. The roads would be good this time of year, the weather fair.
They would reach London before dinner. Eventually Fitz would call.
There would be talk of finding Wickham and dealing with him permanently, and Darcy would have to decide how much of that talk he wished to become action.
And once that was over, he would resume his ordinary life. This nightmare would fade into the past, Georgiana would recover, and life would return to its ordered course.
He took out his watch again. Forty-five minutes.
Miss Bennet would be finishing her bath now.
Dressing. Pinning up her hair, her fingers working the dark strands into some arrangement that would inevitably be both proper and not quite tamed.
He closed his eyes. He should not be thinking about Miss Bennet dressing.
He should not be thinking about Miss Bennet at all, not in that manner, not when she was a gentleman’s daughter of modest means who had made her opinion of him abundantly clear, and he was—
A boy burst through the doorway. He was twelve, perhaps thirteen, breathless and wild-eyed. He stumbled over the threshold and looked frantically about until his gaze landed on Darcy.
“Mr. Darcy, sir? You’re Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy was on his feet before he thought about standing. Georgiana. A cold dread flooded his chest and turned his hands to ice.
“What is it? What has happened?”
“Mrs. Morgan sent me, sir.” The boy was gasping, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. “There’s a man at the baths trying to take Miss Darcy. You must come at once, sir. You must come now!”
The world stopped, then narrowed to a single point. Wickham.
“Where is she?”
The boy hurried away and Darcy followed, his strides long and hasty, the street blurring around him. He nearly collided with a woman carrying a market basket; she shrieked something after him that he did not hear.
He had failed his sister once. He had trusted Mrs. Younge, had believed Georgiana safe, and Wickham had slithered in like a serpent.
Now he had failed her again, had let himself be distracted by fine eyes and witty conversation when he ought to have been acting to protect Georgiana, not placating her with visits to places where he could not follow.
The bathing establishment loomed ahead, its facade respectable and unassuming. Pale stone, neat windows, a discreet sign advertising the healthful properties of warm seawater. It looked exactly as it had an hour ago, when he had watched the ladies disappear inside. It looked safe.