Chapter Persuaded to Believe Herself in Love #6
Georgiana kept a hand on the railing as she descended the stairs, then squinted as she entered the breakfast room, where open windows admitted the early morning sun.
“Bit of a megrim?” Mrs Younge chuckled quietly. “My apologies, my dear. You are such a young lady that I did not think to water your wine yesterday.”
“I do not need watered wine!” she huffed, sitting down with her back to the window. She accepted the tea Mrs Younge prepared for her, and sipped it with relief, eyeing the dishes on the sideboard with distaste.
“Perhaps it was simply too much sun yesterday,” her voice was amused, and Georgiana bristled at being made sport of.
“Have a bit of dry toast with your tea, then lie down with a cool cloth over your eyes,” Mrs Younge directed. “You will be right as rain by the time your gentleman comes calling.”
By the time Georgiana finished her toast, the pounding in her head had diminished somewhat. She retreated to her darkened room, where Lane procured a cool cloth scented with lavender, and rested until calling hours were set to begin.
Once downstairs, she desultorily paged through her novel until the housekeeper entered with the mail, presenting it to Mrs Younge.
Mrs Younge shook her head with a sympathetic smile. “There is nothing for you. Well, here is another letter from Mrs Watkins at Darcy House. Perhaps she has news.”
She perused the letter, frowning, then nodding, before addressing Georgiana.
“As I suspected, he is much occupied with his business and social activities. Mrs Reynolds wrote to her that he is to leave Pemberley for a house party, which will delay his arrival at Ramsgate. He will arrive to collect us at the end of June.”
A house party? Her brother? Her surprise warred with disappointment at his delayed arrival and pique that he could not inform her himself or even write to her.
She dropped her book and stalked to the pianoforte, searching through the music for something fitting her stormy mood. As she became engrossed in the music, a footman appeared, followed by Mr Wickham.
“Are you well, Miss Darcy? You did not suffer any ill effects from our outing? The sun and wind were rather strong.”
“I am well.” She mustered a smile.
“I am afraid we had distressing news,” Mrs Younge interjected. “Mr Darcy was to spend a week here before we returned to London, but his arrival has been delayed, and he will not arrive until the end of the month.”
“I am sorry you must bear such disappointment.” Mr Wickham bowed from his seated position. “I have always known Fitz takes his business seriously, but to miss your birthday and not even spend part of your holiday with you? Bad form, that.”
“He is going to a house party! He hates house parties!” The words tumbled out, and she just stopped herself from an accusation that her brother was avoiding her.
“Fitz? A house party? Well, well.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “I would never have thought it of him. Perhaps he is in pursuit of a lady?”
Georgiana shrugged, and Mrs Younge raised an eyebrow. Georgiana straightened in her seat. “Not that I have heard.”
“Well,” Mr Wickham offered a lop-sided smile. “I am sorry to bear more bad news, at least I hope you will consider it bad news. My business calls for me to return to London. I came today to take my leave of you.”
Her heart sank, but she forced a smile.
“We shall miss your cheerful company. It has been delightful becoming reacquainted.” The words felt stiff and forced.
“Come, Miss Darcy, no need to be so formal. It grieves me to leave you alone on your birthday. You should be surrounded by family and friends on such an auspicious day. I feel I am abandoning you, just as—well, enough said on that.”
He then stood as if reluctant to depart.
“Before I leave, might we take a stroll about the garden?” He offered an arm, and at a nod from Mrs Younge, she accepted.
They walked in silence, then turned at the end of the tiny garden.
“I wished to tell you, seeing the little girl I adored, grown into such an elegant and lovely lady—” His voice was low and hesitant, his arm tense under her hand, and she leaned closer to hear.
“It has been a revelation. I—could you—would it be too much to hope that you would welcome me back if I were able to return?”
“Of course—” she began, but he raised a hand, turning to take both her hands.
“Then I shall do everything in my power to return to you—and celebrate your birthday with you!”
He placed her hand back on his arm, covering it with his right hand, and they returned to the sitting room in silence. His farewell to Mrs Younge was formal and proper, to Georgiana silent and full of promise. The touch of his lips on her hand lingered long after he walked out the door.
She returned to the sitting room in a daze, only to be bombarded by questions from Mrs Younge.
“Well, did he declare himself? Are you engaged?”
“Yes—no—I am not sure!”
“Foolish girl. How could you let him leave without securing him? Without showing your preference to him? The most handsome man you have ever seen, with a long history with your family, and you have allowed him to slip from your fingers?”
Georgiana winced at the vituperative nature of her words. Why would Mrs Younge be so angry?
“He is to come back,” she said weakly. “He said he would return for my birthday, if possible.”
“Indeed,” Mrs Younge straightened and took a deep breath.
“That is more promising. Forgive my outburst. I was simply afraid…” She took another deep breath.
“I was afraid you would lose the chance of a marriage of true affection. I have seen too many young ladies forced into society marriages.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a lace-edged handkerchief.
“But if he has assured you of his return, it shows his good intentions. We may have more to celebrate than just your birthday.”
Georgiana nodded, still unsure if she had understood Mr Wickham’s intentions correctly.
The following days were notable for their tedium and isolation.
Friday, as planned, they returned to the shore for sea bathing, though this time Mrs Younge did not indulge, making the excuse of a slight megrim.
She disappeared for a nap as soon as they returned to the cottage, and later requested a tray in her room, leaving Georgiana to a lonely dinner.
Saturday, when her companion did not appear for breakfast, Georgiana returned to her room and poured out her frustration and questions in her journal.
She wrote of her worries about her brother’s silence, about Mr Wickham’s attentions, and the lack of any other society, and her dread of coming out in the approaching season.
When her worries had been transferred to the pages of the leather-bound book, she sighed in relief, then began a letter to her brother, duly noting their activities and plans for the following days.
She could not bring herself to elaborate on her concerns or sound as if she was chastising her brother for his inattention. He might be willing to neglect her, but she would write her letters as appropriate.
“It is such a shame your Mr Wickham is not here,” Mrs Younge said over dinner later. Mr Wickham and his return were her most frequent topics of conversation. “You must miss him very much. I do hope you are prepared to welcome him when he returns. You would not want to lose your chance with him.”
They attended church Sunday morning, then after a light luncheon, Mrs Younge retreated to her room with another megrim. Georgiana wandered the small garden behind the house, remembering her walk there with Mr Wickham, and addressing the birds which twittered in the shrubbery.
“Dear birds,” she said. “Are you as happy as you sound? Do you fall in love? What does it feel like? I shiver and feel butterflies when Mr Wickham looks at me, or touches me. I must be in love. Mrs Younge certainly believes I should be.
“She says my brother will force me into a society marriage. And since he has abandoned me here, without even a letter, why should I not believe her? I would do far better to choose Mr Wickham. After all, I have known him all my life.”
Monday, Georgiana awoke bleary-eyed, her head aching from lack of sleep. She had spent much of the night sitting by the window, listening to the distant surf, her thoughts tumbling.
At breakfast, Mrs Younge was silent. When Georgiana suggested a walk to the beach, or arranging another appointment for sea bathing, she stirred herself to refuse, looking sharply at Georgiana.
“You look peaked, dear. You should rest a while, then perhaps we can walk this evening.”
“I am not a child to be sent to her room,” Georgiana muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs.
She flopped onto the bed, unconcerned about wrinkling her dress, and stared at the ceiling before returning to the window and taking a deep breath of the calming air, then descended to the sitting room, where she addressed herself to the most demanding music she could find on the pianoforte.
Mrs Younge reappeared, and at a break in the music, suggested a short walk before dinner.
Georgiana collected her spencer and bonnet and joined Mrs Younge at the front door. Her companion was suddenly as chatty as she had been silent before, suggesting outings for the upcoming days, and speculating on whether Mr Wickham would return.
“Perhaps sea bathing tomorrow, and shopping Wednesday,” she suggested. “Then, if Mr Wickham does return in time, perhaps a carriage ride and picnic for your birthday.
“You must understand, his return will be a sign of his regard for you. You must be prepared to fix his attentions—a fine young man like that must be highly sought after.”
As they reached the corner, Georgiana heard hoofbeats and her name being called.
“Miss Darcy!”