Chapter Persuaded to Believe Herself in Love #5
“Kympton?” Georgiana and Mrs Younge said in unison, Georgiana in surprise and Mrs Younge, perhaps, curiosity.
“That was what led to the falling out with your brother.
Your father wished me to take orders and have the living at Kympton when it became available.
I was young and, I dare say, rather stupid, and thought being a parson to be entirely dull.
By the time old Mr Mitchell died, I had realised it would suit me well, but your brother said I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing.
Certainly, he had developed a determined dislike for me, and it grieves me to think of those happy days as children gone forever.
“But still.” He brightened. “I have an excellent position now, and as my patrons do not object to my investing my own funds in their projects, excellent prospects, if I say so myself.”
Georgiana smiled. He faced his situation with such courage and grace.
Other men might rail angrily against their fate, but he made the best of it.
Her brother had never shared the reasons for severing his friendship with George, but she knew quite well he had an implacable temper and that once a decision was made, he seldom reconsidered.
The clamour of fat drops of rain hitting her windows awakened Georgiana on Monday morning. Only a hint of grey light peeked around the curtains, and she settled back in the bed. Should she rise, or allow herself to drift back into sleep? A low tap at the door answered her question.
Lane entered with chocolate and a roll, as had become habit, and asked of her plans for the day and preference for clothing.
Once dressed, Georgiana turned to her writing desk to collect the letter to Fitzwilliam for the post. It was not there.
“Did you see my letter?” she asked Lane.
“I dropped it in the post box yesterday on the way to church. Should I have left it?”
“Not at all, thank you for thinking of it.” She adjusted the neckline of her new print muslin—it seemed even lower than the first gowns—then pulled a matching shawl around her shoulders.
“Thank you, Lane.”
She was engrossed in her music, Mrs Younge having joined her in the sitting room at some point, when the footman announced Mr Wickham. His smile and golden hair brightened the dreary day, as did the small box, tied with a gold ribbon, containing flavoured barley sugar drops.
“For the two loveliest ladies in Ramsgate.” He smiled as he presented the box to Georgiana with a bow. He took Georgiana’s hand, brushing a kiss across it. “I hope you are pleased to see me.” His voice was low and intimate.
“Of—of course. You are very welcome.”
Mr Wickham took the seat nearest Georgiana, opposite Mrs Younge, and accepted her offer of tea and cakes with a particular smile. He raised his cup, as if in a toast.
“Ladies, I have come with a proposal for an amusing scheme—a picnic! I have found a spot with a delightful prospect, overlooking the sea. Perhaps Wednesday, if the weather clears and you have no other plans?”
“That sounds an excellent plan. I am sure we would both enjoy it.” Mrs Younge accepted the invitation for the two of them. “Being without escort, we have not explored beyond the immediate area.”
Mr Wickham nodded his thanks, then turned to Georgiana. “And, Miss Darcy? I hope you will bring your sketchbook. I would be greatly honoured to have a sketch as a memento of our reunion and friendship.”
His voice was warm, as if he spoke only to her, and Georgiana leaned toward him as he spoke, dropping her eyes at the admiration in his gaze.
The rest of the conversation was of reminiscences of Pemberley, and of Georgiana’s father and mother.
“As a child I believed Lady Anne to be a fairy princess.” He chuckled.
“She was the loveliest woman in the world—you quite resemble her, you know. I remember one time, Fitz and I watched from the stairs while she and Mr Darcy greeted their guests for a dinner. We thought we had been very quiet, but when the last of the guests had entered, she simply turned to the stairs and shooed us back up without a word.”
As the call concluded, Mr Wickham offered another of those almost kisses to her hand, and she watched him disappear through the doorway with a pang.
The picnic location was everything Mr Wickham suggested, a bluff overlooking the sea, with a glorious prospect in every direction.
After placing their blanket and baskets, Mrs Young shooed Georgiana and Mr Wickham away to explore.
“A beautiful view, is it not?” Mr Wickham asked.
“Amazing, look at the ships coming in.”
“A navy frigate, I believe,” Mr Wickham said with assurance.
“It looks like one of Mr Turner’s works. But without the threatening skies which characterise his paintings,” Georgiana mused. “I would paint it just as it is, with the azure sky, and billowing white clouds.”
They stopped at a rustic bench, placed for its fine view, and Mr Wickham brushed it off with his handkerchief.
“My lady, your throne.” He bowed extravagantly. “I shall be your servant as you sketch.”
She giggled and sat, scanning the view in all directions, then focusing on the approaching ship, now much closer.
“I believe I will try to sketch the—frigate, you said?”
“Of His Majesty’s fleet!”
She opened her sketchbook and took pencil in hand, beginning with the line of the horizon, then the shape of the hull as it broke the water.
“There are so many sails, I shall have to count,” she said with a giggle. “Oh, no.” The breeze caught the sketchbook wafting it up.
“I will assist,” Mr Wickham said, sitting down to her left, and leaning close to hold the sketchbook in place. She caught the heat of his breath on her cheek and the scent of his cologne.
“Let me continue,” she said unsteadily. “I shall count the masts, then I will know how many sails.”
Mr Wickham was silent, allowing her to draw without comment, but her awareness of his proximity left her hands shaking.
“There, I believe that is enough to begin,” she said finally, holding up the book to compare the sketch to the original. “I will copy it and paint with watercolours later.”
She accepted the hand he offered her to rise. As she stood, he stepped closer, almost, but not quite touching, and murmured quietly. “It has been a pleasure”—the word was drawn out and emphasised—”to assist you, today. I hope this is the first of many excursions we may enjoy together.”
Her body tingled, and her breath caught, then she nodded shakily. She had no idea what to say in reply.
In the distance, Mrs Younge motioned to them, and she turned away in relief. “I be—I believe it is time for our meal.”
They returned to partake in their feast. The wine was still chilled from the cellars and refreshing in the heat, so Georgiana gulped her first glass before beginning the meal.
The second she sipped more slowly as she nibbled on bites of roast chicken, bread and cheese.
Mrs Younge refilled her glass again, then served small bowls of strawberries, sprinkled with sugar.
“Oh, you spilled some,” Mr Wickham said gently, leaning forward to dab at the side of her mouth with a napkin. “There, all better.”
She shivered at his touch, her head spinning, and face flushing with heat. His eyes focused on her mouth, which was suddenly dry.
“Well,” Mrs Younge’s voice came from far away. “If you both are finished eating, I will rest with my book while you explore a bit more.”
Georgiana helped her companion pack up the remains of their picnic, fumbling a bit as her hands seemed disconnected from her mind. Within a few moments, she was walking again with Mr Wickham, sketchbook still in hand.
Back in the carriage, Mr Wickham and Mrs Younge entered a conversation about the sights to see near Ramsgate, and how they compared with other seaside destinations. She stared out the window, absently watching the countryside until she heard her name.
“Miss Darcy?” Mr Wickham’s voice held a hint of laughter. “Miss Darcy, are you quite with us?”
“Oh, yes, just woolgathering, I fear.”
“I merely wished to ask if there is anything particular you wish to do while you are in Ramsgate.”
“I would enjoy sea bathing again. And more walks on the beach.”
“No grand parties to attend?” He stopped, as if struck by a thought. “Do you not have a birthday soon? I seem to remember celebrating during the summer.”
“Yes, later this month.” She met his brown eyes briefly, then dropped her own.
“Miss Darcy will be sixteen on June 20, little more than a week away,” Mrs Younge said, her tone taking credit for the important date.
“I offer my felicitations. It is likely my business will take me away before the auspicious date.” Mr Wickham bowed from his seated position, and Georgiana giggled, then winced. She was beginning to get a bit of a megrim.
“I imagine Fitz has planned a grand event for the occasion?” Mr Wickham continued. “Is he to whisk you away to London for a dinner with all your relatives? Or a trip to the theatre, or an art exhibit? I know he would not choose a ball…”
She giggled again. Mr Wickham was correct; her brother hated balls.
“No, he will not return until the following week, and then we will travel to Pemberley.”
“He will miss your birthday? Tsk, Tsk.” Mr Wickham shook his head. “For shame.”
“Mr Darcy is a very busy man.” Mrs Younge defended her brother.
“He personally escorted us to Ramsgate and will personally return to collect us at the end of our holiday. Though,” she looked sympathetically at Georgiana.
“My understanding is that we are to return to London to begin setting up your establishment. He has other business to attend to before he returns to Pemberley for the harvest.”
Georgiana clenched her teeth, holding back an angry comment. Fitzwilliam had promised to take her to Pemberley after Ramsgate and further discuss her living situation then. But it appeared he had made his decision and not even shared it with her. Her brother could be so high-handed at times.