Chapter Persuaded to Believe Herself in Love #4
A maid was sent for the sketchbook, and Georgiana and Mr Wickham were directed to a settee near the window.
Mr Wickham sat close, only a hand width separating them, and Georgiana smelled his cologne, something spicy and warm. He leaned towards her to help her hold the sketchbook, and his breath brushed across her cheek like a feather, leaving her to stifle a shiver.
He was everything admiring as she pointed out sketches of bowls of fruit, vases of flowers, her schoolmates, and scenes from Pemberley.
“These were mostly from memory, as I drew them at school,” she admitted.
“And very true to the originals,” he murmured. “This is the prospect from the entrance drive?” He leaned closer to point.
“Yes.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
They came to the end of the sketchbook, an effort to draw the bathing wagon from memory, and she was relieved and disappointed when he pulled away.
“Your companion is correct. You are a very fine artist. But I would expect Miss Darcy of Pemberley to be a proficient at anything she tried. I know you play the pianoforte. What else do you do? Paint tables and screens? Net purses?”
“Miss Darcy is, indeed, a proficient.” Mrs Younge took a seat across from them. “But as we are on holiday, for the next fortnight she is to do only that which gives her pleasure. Tomorrow we hope to attend an afternoon concert at the parade grounds.”
“Might I escort you?” he asked, turning to Georgiana. “My departure date is still uncertain, but I would not forego a moment in your presence while I remain.”
The sun behind him turned his honeyed hair into a halo, leaving his face in shadow, but Georgiana could feel the intent gaze. A pang of disappointment hit at the thought of his departure but was overcome by a thrill as he took her hand in his entreaty.
“You will not refuse to grant the boon of your presence, will you?” He lightened his tone.
“Of course not, we would welcome your escort.”
After tea and further plans for the following day, Mr Wickham departed, and Georgiana, after escorting him to the front door, collapsed gracelessly on the settee. At Mrs Younge’s frown, she sat up more properly, then jumped up to wander the room.
“You begin to believe that he is your suitor?” Mrs Younge sounded amused again, but this time Georgiana could not protest, even silently.
“This is not what I have expected—what my brother expects for me,” she said thoughtfully. “I expected to make my curtsey before the Queen, then attend Almack’s and the London Season and meet someone through my brother or Aunt Rebecca.”
“Sometimes Fate has other ideas for us,” Mrs Younge said soothingly.
“Have I told you I met Mr Younge at just your age? He was a second son, but with good prospects. My parents would have preferred we wait, but we wed when I was just sixteen. And we were very happy until illness took him from me. If we had waited, I might never have known such happiness.”
“That is a romantic story,” Georgiana admitted. “But my brother—”
“Your brother will wish you to be happy. And from what I have gathered, your brother does not anticipate your Season with any great pleasure. He is a busy gentleman, with his own interests, and escorting a younger sister to balls and routs will be a burden rather than a pleasure.”
Georgiana felt a pang at the thought of being a burden to her brother. She had always looked up to him, but it was true he had little time for her.
“Is that why he sent us on holiday, and wants me to have my own establishment? Because it is a burden?”
Mrs Younge raised a hand in a suggestion of a shrug. “He has not spoken to me of such, but he has insisted we set up your own establishment and is very eager to have you prepared for your come-out, and entrance to society.”
The words echoed through Georgiana’s mind that night, as she tried to sleep.
A burden, eager to be rid of her. She tossed the twisted sheets aside and walked to the window, where a faint breeze just barely rippled the window coverings.
He had been in a rush to send her off to her own establishment, and off on holiday.
And he still had not written to her since the first letter announcing his arrival in London, despite her twice weekly missives.
Only the letters from their London housekeeper to Mrs Younge reassured her of his safety.
Saturday dawned grey and overcast, and Georgiana alternately stared out the window and paced the sitting room as she fretted about whether the concert would be held. She had been looking forward to hearing Herr Beethoven’s military marches played properly, since hearing about the concert.
The sky cleared, and Mr Wickham appeared on time, gallantly offering an arm to each lady as they exited the house and entered the Darcy carriage.
At the parade grounds, he consulted with Mrs Younge on the best seat location, then disappeared, returning with lemonade for each of the ladies.
He took the seat between the two and devoted himself to entertaining them with tales of his travels.
As the musicians warmed up, Georgiana turned her attention to the performers, forgetting, for a time, her perplexity with the man beside her and his intentions.
After he escorted them home, Mrs Younge insisted on inviting Mr Wickham in for tea, and bustled in and out of the room as they awaited its arrival. Mr Wickham claimed the spot on the settee next to Georgiana.
“I hope you enjoyed the concert as much as I did,” he said in a low voice, forcing her to lean toward him to hear.
“Watching your face as you were absorbed by the music was a pleasure. It is clear you have the heart of a musician. I beg you to play for me. It would be the greatest honour to turn pages for you.”
He took her hand, bowing low over it, then turning to place a feather-light kiss on the bare skin of her wrist. A wave of hot, then cold, washed over her, and she froze for a moment.
“I would be pleased to do so, at another time,” she said shakily. “My mind is still too full of the concert.” And from the gentleman touching her bare skin, but she could not tell him that.
Late that evening, clad in her long cotton nightgown, Georgiana stared into the darkness beyond her window. The clouds had returned, hiding the full moon, and bringing with them a brisk breeze that sent the curtains whipping about and foretold more rain to come.
“Will there be anything else, miss?” Lane, who had been tidying the room after helping her dress and braiding her hair, spoke from the door to the dressing room. “Shall I close the window?”
“No—yes, but not entirely.” She slept better with the fresh air, but no need to explain.
“And yes, please place a lamp on the writing desk. I believe I will pen some letters before I sleep.”
Since she had gone away to school, Georgiana had been in the habit of writing to her brother every Wednesday and Sunday.
Until this trip, he had replied promptly to every letter, even if with only a short note.
Perhaps he was travelling between London and Pemberley, and her letters had not reached him.
Or perhaps he was too busy doing whatever gentlemen do when not encumbered with much younger sisters, she sniffed.
Dear Brother,
I do not know if you are in London, or Pemberley, but hope you are well in either case. The fortnight since you left has passed quickly and pleasantly. As I told you in my last letter, we have done a great deal of shopping.
The weather has been fine, except for today, and we have enjoyed walks and one day of sea bathing.
I made a sketch of one of the bathing wagons, which I hope to use for a watercolour.
I am sorry not to be able to study with the watercolour master, but I continue to sketch and paint on my own, when our time allows.
Today we attended an outdoor concert. They played several of Herr Beethoven’s military marches, and it was most enjoyable.
I will close now. The rain is beginning to fall, and will be most soothing as I sleep.
Wishing you well,
Your sister, Georgiana
She sanded, folded and sealed the letter, leaving it on the desk to go out in the next mail. Turning the lamp down, she retreated to her bed, where she lay until late in the night, listening to the rain, the sensations wrought by Mr Wickham’s touch, and Mrs Younge’s words spinning through her head.
The sky was a soggy grey when she awoke, the air thick with the memory of the rain. As she stretched and yawned, Lane appeared with chocolate and sweet rolls.
“Thank you.” Georgiana yawned again. “What time is it?”
“Half past nine. Mrs Younge sent a message that she wishes to forgo church this morning. She has a bit of a megrim from the rain.”
When Mr Wickham arrived, Mrs Younge apologised for inconveniencing him, as they would not attend services that morning, after all. “But you are most welcome to join us for breakfast.”
“Join two lovely ladies for breakfast? Who could refuse such a fine offer? Miss Darcy.” He bowed in Georgiana’s direction.
The rain began to pour as they ate, or, rather, Georgiana ate, as Mr Wickham devoted himself to entertaining them, and Mrs Younge tore a roll to pieces without eating more than a bite or two. As the rain continued, Mrs Younge invited Mr Wickham to adjourn to the sitting room with them.
“I had thought we might read some Bible verses, and Miss Darcy can play a hymn, as we are to miss services this morning. You have such a fine voice, perhaps you could read for us.”
“As long as it is not Fordyce, or one of his ilk, I will be happy to oblige,” he said with a grin toward Georgiana.
Georgiana played her favourite hymn, then joined Mrs Younge on the settee near the fireplace where Mr Wickham stood. His voice was fine, and he read the verses Mrs Younge had selected in an almost theatrical tone.
“To think,” he said, as he sat down across from them, “at this very moment I might have been offering the services at Kympton.”