Chapter Persuaded to Believe Herself in Love #3
Tuesday morning, as they sat at breakfast a knock at the door presaged the appearance of the footman, James, bearing two bouquets.
A little shiver ran down Georgiana’s back as he presented the larger to her.
It was made up of forget-me-nots, with a single pink rose in the centre. The card bore only the initials, G.W.
“Well, it seems you have an admirer,” Mrs Younge raised her eyebrows and stretched the syllables of the last word. “Such a handsome young man, and so suitable, with his connexions to your family.”
“But he said he and Brother are not on good terms!”
“Oh, these young men.” Mrs Younge brushed away her protest with a wave of her hand. “They are always falling out about this or that, then they are the best of friends once more. I am sure your brother will be very pleased to see him again and learn how well he is doing.”
Mrs Younge let the subject drop, turning her attention to carefully buttering a slice of toast, and Georgiana was left to study her flowers, wondering whether Mrs Younge was correct, and whether Mr Wickham did admire her.
He had looked rather warmly at her, she recalled, flushing at the memory of his gaze.
Georgiana was still in her dressing gown the next morning when Mrs Younge knocked and bustled into the room.
“Oh, good, you are awake. We need to go back to the dressmaker this morning. If you are to have a suitor, you need more than the three new gowns you have ordered. And it is very likely that your handsome Mr Wickham will arrive as soon as calling hours begin, so we must accomplish our business quickly. Come, Lane, help your mistress dress,” she called into the dressing room.
They returned before the sun reached its zenith, having ordered three more day dresses, a carriage dress, a pelisse and an evening gown. Georgiana’s weak protests had been swept away by the force of nature that was Mrs Younge, and her reminders of her upcoming birthday.
“A girl’s sixteenth birthday is a turning point in her life, from girl to woman. You must prepare to come out in society, perhaps marry,” she said with a significant look.
Back at the cottage, a letter from Pemberley’s housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds, to Mrs Younge awaited, reporting that Fitzwilliam had arrived safely.
Georgiana was disappointed to find that she had no letter from her brother, but her dismay was washed away by the appearance of Mr Wickham soon after their arrival.
“Miss Darcy, you are radiant!” he exclaimed softly, bending low over her hand, close enough she imagined she felt his warm breath through her gloves. “Mrs Younge, a pleasure to see you again.”
A hint of satisfaction ran through her as she noted his bow was not as low for her companion, nor his tone so warm. And so the visit continued, civility as he spoke to Mrs Younge, warmth and admiration in every comment addressed to Georgiana.
She flushed under his admiring gaze, and her hands shook as she poured his tea and handed it to him, their fingers brushing together just long enough to wonder if it was deliberate. His smouldering gaze fixed hers, rendering her unable to speak, then roamed briefly down her body.
“May I tell you again, how lovely you are?” he said huskily. “I truly had not expected little Georgiana to have become such a stunning young lady. I am surprised no one has swept you away to be wed.”
Mrs Younge looked on with a bland smile, and Georgiana swallowed the lump of nerves that had settled in her throat.
“You are too kind. But as I said when we met, I am not even out yet.”
“But that will not be so for much longer,” Mrs Younge interjected. “Your brother was very clear that he wished me to help you prepare for coming out in the next Season. That is why he was so insistent on you having your own establishment.”
“You will be the Season’s diamond,” Mr Wickham said.
“Just think of it. Men swarming you at every ball, ladies wishing to be your friend to bask in your reflected glory. You will attend routs and levees, Venetian breakfasts and musicales. At the opera and theatre the men will knock on the door to the Darcy box at every intermission, hoping to see your lovely face.”
“That sounds… overwhelming,” she squeaked. “I don’t believe I wish such attention.”
“Perhaps you will have a proposal early in the Season,” Mrs Younge offered. “Society has far fewer expectations for a married lady.”
“I…”
“In any case, you have the summer to enjoy.” Mr Wickham changed the subject. “I hope you will allow me to assist in your entertainment before I must return to my duties.”
Mr Wickham soon took his leave, but not without another almost kiss on her hand, leaving Georgiana shaken for the rest of the day.
That evening she tried to write a letter to Fitzwilliam, despite having not received a reply to her last, but was unable to concentrate.
The prospect of a Season in town had always been a distant worry, but the idea of such a Season as Mr Wickham described, and so soon, was, she sought for a word.
Terrifying came to mind, even more terrifying than her Aunt Catherine in high dudgeon.
Surely Mrs Younge had not been correct when she said Fitzwilliam intended her to come out in the upcoming Season. She would only be sixteen!
Thursday, as previously arranged, they met Mrs Harvey to sea bathe. As she prepared that morning, Georgiana chattered to Lane about the prospect.
“Do you suppose the water will be cold? It felt cool when I dipped my hand in, but I have heard it can be rather warm. No, just a chemise and bib-front dress, I will not have your assistance to change. Do you suppose I can float? Oh, what if I sink! But Mrs Harvey seemed very strong, I am sure she will assist me.”
She accepted her bonnet and rushed out of the room, her hurried steps only slowing to a more decorous pace when she encountered Mrs Younge.
Too excited to eat, she sipped tea, sent James to collect some carrots for the dipper’s horse, and waited as Mrs Younge ate her usual toast slathered in jam.
Finally, they arrived at the beach to find two wagons sitting closely together.
Mrs Harvey introduced the second dipper as Mrs Johnson. “We did not know if you wished to dip as well,” she explained. “If so, my friend will assist you.”
“I believe I would,” Mrs Younge said, after a moment’s reflection. “You will keep us close, so I can assist my charge?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Georgiana divided her carrots between the two horses, patting each on its velvety muzzle, then entered the wagon, where Mrs Harvey indicated an assortment of bathing costumes.
She selected a long flannel gown, white, with pink ribbons to draw closed the neck and sleeves.
The dipper withdrew and closed the door, leaving Georgiana to change. She jumped as the wagon began to move, steadying herself with a hand to the wall and a low giggle. “Of course, silly, we must go to the water.”
The wagon stilled, except for a gentle rocking as the waves advanced and retreated with a swish and gurgle. Georgiana changed quickly, stacking her clothing neatly on the bench. Mrs Harvey knocked, then opened the door.
“Are you ready, my dear?”
Georgiana followed her out. A small platform was just above the water, and the steps she had climbed earlier disappeared beneath the waves. Mrs Harvey descended the steps and stood chest deep.
“It is shallow here, you can stand, or float, as you choose,” the dipper instructed.
She stepped down, holding back a squeal as the chill water hit her toes, and accepted the steadying hand Mrs Harvey offered. Her second step brought the water to her knees, and she used her free hand to hold down the bathing dress, which threatened to float around her.
With each step, the water felt warmer to skin already exposed, while still chilling at first touch.
Finally, she stepped off the last step, the water nearly to her shoulders.
She bounced experimentally. She felt lighter, as if she might float.
As each wave gently rolled in she jumped, rising with the water, then descending as it passed.
“Are you ready to try floating, my dear? See how yer friend is doing it?” Mrs Harvey nodded toward the other wagon. Mrs Younge floated on her back, bobbing in the waves.
Georgiana nodded uncertainly.
“Lean back against my arm. I will steady you. Then push your feet up.”
She felt a loss of control, as if she were about to fall, then Mrs Harvey’s sturdy arm caught her.
“There you go. You are floating!”
Mrs Harvey stepped back, holding only Georgiana’s hand, and Georgiana closed her eyes against the bright sunlight.
The sensation was indescribable—the gentle rise and fall, the pressure beneath her lighter than the softest of feather beds, the contrast between the warmth of the sun on her face and cooling water beneath her.
She felt adrift, weightless, tethered only by the clasp of Mrs Harvey’s hand.
She was brought back to reality by that lady’s voice. “Well, dear, we’d best be getting back in the wagon. Wouldn’t want to burn that pretty face of yours.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she allowed her feet to drop and righted herself. With Mrs Harvey’s help she mounted the stairs, with each step growing heavier from the loss of buoyancy and the weight of the heavy flannel gown clinging to her.
Friday morning, Georgiana paged restlessly through a French novel Mrs Younge had recommended until the knocker sounded.
“Mr Wickham.” She curtseyed as he entered the sitting room. “Welcome.”
“Miss Darcy.” He took her hand, his lips just brushing the back of her hand. “I hope you enjoyed your outing yesterday? I must say, you appear positively radiant.”
“I did. It was a most enjoyable experience.”
After a brief discussion of the previous day’s sea bathing, Mrs Younge suggested that Georgiana show Mr Wickham her sketchbook.
“Miss Darcy is most talented, so much so that I felt she could take a holiday from her masters while we are here.”