Chapter 28 #2
Wickham placed one hand to his chest in mock injury. “Such a welcome, Darcy. And after all these years.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I should have thought that obvious. I have come for Georgiana. To marry her, as your dear father always intended.”
Georgiana made a small sound. Elizabeth moved at once, crossing to her side with such instinctive swiftness that Darcy’s heart twisted even through fury. She put an arm around Georgiana, drawing her close. Georgiana did not resist. She looked too stunned to do anything but stare.
Darcy took one step forward. “You will not speak her name.”
Wickham’s smile sharpened. “But it will be mine to speak soon enough.”
Richard came to stand beside Darcy. “Explain yourself.”
“Gladly, Colonel.” Wickham gave him a shallow bow. “I am here to claim my bride. Georgiana’s father promised her to me when she reached sixteen. A touching arrangement, really. One made out of affection, gratitude, and the recognition that I was raised almost as a son of Pemberley.”
“That is a lie,” Darcy said.
“Is it?” Wickham slipped one hand inside his coat. “How rash of you to say so before seeing the proof.”
He drew out a folded paper.
Darcy stared at it.
No. Father would never…
Wickham crossed the room with maddening ease and held it out, not to Darcy but slightly away from him, as though enjoying the delay. Darcy snatched it from his hand and unfolded it.
The writing blurred at first because rage clouded his sight. He forced himself to read.
A betrothal agreement.
Georgiana Darcy, daughter of George Darcy of Pemberley, promised in marriage to George Wickham upon her sixteenth birthday. A consideration named. Language of settlement and obligation. Witness lines. A date from years earlier.
And at the bottom—
His father’s signature.
Darcy’s stomach dropped.
It looked legitimate.
He knew his father’s hand. He had seen it on letters, accounts, debts, orders, apologies that meant nothing, promises that meant less.
This signature had the same sweep, the same careless confidence, the same infuriating flourish beneath the name.
There were differences, perhaps. Or perhaps he only wished to see them.
Richard was reading over his shoulder. Darcy wordlessly passed him the paper.
Richard’s face darkened as his eyes moved down the page.
“This proves nothing until it is examined,” Richard said.
“It proves enough for a solicitor,” Wickham replied. “Or enough to begin a very interesting suit. Breach of contract, perhaps. Damages. Public discussion of Miss Darcy’s promised marriage. Her dowry as recompense if the family refuses to honor dear George Darcy’s intention.”
Georgiana burst into tears.
The sound cut through Darcy more sharply than any threat Wickham had made.
He turned at once. Elizabeth had both arms around his sister now, Georgiana’s face pressed into her shoulder, her slim frame shaking.
Mrs. Bennet sat frozen, one hand at her throat.
Jane had risen, pale with distress. Bingley looked horrified.
Mr. Bennet’s indolence had vanished completely.
Darcy turned back to Wickham.
“There is no world in which I allow this marriage,” he said, his voice low.
Wickham’s eyes gleamed. “Then you had better prepare to pay dearly for preventing it.”
“You will get nothing.”
“I shall get either my bride or my compensation.”
Richard moved half a step forward. “You will leave this house.”
“In good time.” Wickham gave Georgiana a look that made Darcy’s vision darken at the edges. “I am a reasonable man. I shall give you seventy-two hours. Post the banns, and all may proceed honorably. Refuse, and I go to my solicitor.”
Darcy’s hands curled into fists.
Wickham looked around the room again, as if committing each shocked face to memory for later enjoyment. “You may send word to me at the inn in Meryton. A delightful village, I find. So full of interest.”
Then he bowed extravagantly, turned toward the door, and left as he had come: smiling, unhurried, and poisonous.
Lydia and Kitty passed him in the doorway, giggling as he exited around them.
“What a charming man,” Lydia exclaimed, then frowned when her declaration was met with stony silence.
Darcy stood in the middle of Bingley’s drawing room, the world around him altered past recognition. His own father’s signature lay across the bottom of a paper that, if valid, could destroy his sister’s peace, his family’s honor, and every fragile happiness that had begun to take root.
Georgiana wept in Elizabeth’s arms. Richard held the document as if it were something vile. Elizabeth looked up from Georgiana’s bowed head.
Her eyes met Darcy’s.
There was fear in them, yes, and shock, and anger enough to match his own. But there was something else too. Steadiness. Resolve. The silent promise of a woman who had once climbed into a hidden Roman chamber because truth lay below and would not be frightened from seeking it now.
Darcy drew one breath.
Then another.
He would not fail Georgiana.
He would not fail Elizabeth.
And if George Wickham thought he had come to Netherfield to claim a bride, he would soon learn he had walked into the one room in England where every person who mattered would stand against him.
∞∞∞
Georgiana was trembling so violently that Elizabeth feared she might collapse.
The girl clung to her as though the rest of the room had fallen away, one hand twisted in Elizabeth’s sleeve, the other pressed against her own bodice as if she could not draw enough air.
Her breaths came too quickly, shallow and broken, and every attempt to speak ended in a frightened little sound that made Elizabeth’s heart ache.
“Hush,” Elizabeth murmured, holding her more securely. “You are safe. You are safe here.”
She did not know whether it was true.
No—she would make it true.
Darcy crossed the room toward them, his face pale beneath the rigid control he had forced upon himself.
Elizabeth had seen him angry before, or thought she had.
This was something else. Not mere anger, but fury leashed so tightly it seemed to strain every line of him.
Colonel Fitzwilliam remained near the door with the paper in his hand while Mr. Bingley stood beside them looking as though a villain had stepped from a play and into his drawing room.
Georgiana saw Darcy approach and reached for him without releasing Elizabeth. “Brother,” she sobbed. “Please. Please, I cannot. Do not make me marry him. I know who he is. I know what he is. He is like Father. He is just like Father.”
Darcy dropped to one knee before her at once, all his fury transformed, in an instant, into tenderness. “No. Georgiana, listen to me. I will not allow it.”
“But the paper—”
“I do not care for the paper.”
“But if it is true?”
“It is not true in any way that matters.”
Georgiana shook her head, tears spilling over. “There may be no choice. If Papa signed it, if the law—”
“Then I will give him every farthing of your dowry before I allow you to fall into his hands.”
The room went very still.
Elizabeth tightened her arms around Georgiana.
She had known Darcy loved his sister. She had seen it in the way he watched over her, remembered her preferences, and listened to her small anxieties as though they were worthy of his full attention.
But this was different. There was no hesitation in him, no calculation, no weighing of fortune against security.
Georgiana’s dowry had been meant as protection, comfort, future independence—and Darcy would surrender all of it without a breath of regret if that was the price of keeping her safe.
Georgiana broke into a fresh sob and reached for him. Darcy took her hand, bowing his head over it for one brief, stricken moment.
Lydia, seating herself near her mother, frowned in confusion. “La, I would not be complaining about marrying such a handsome man!”
“Lydia!” Elizabeth said sharply.
Even Caroline Bingley appeared shocked.
Lydia shrank back, startled less by the correction than by Elizabeth’s tone.
Kitty looked frightened now, and Mary’s face had gone very grave.
Mrs. Bennet pressed a handkerchief to her lips, her eyes moving from Darcy to Georgiana to the door through which Wickham had disappeared, as though she had not yet decided whether the scandal was more terrifying than the fortune involved.
Jane stepped forward, pale but composed. “Perhaps we should leave. You must wish to discuss this privately.”
Mrs. Bennet began, “But surely—”
Elizabeth looked across the room to her father.
She did not know what she asked of him, only that she needed him to understand it without teasing, without retreating, without hiding behind a book or a jest. For once, he did. His face was sober—more sober than Elizabeth could remember seeing it—and there was no trace of amusement in his eyes.
“Yes,” Mr. Bennet said quietly. “Girls, gather your things.”
Elizabeth loosened her hold on Georgiana, intending only to help her sit before she obeyed, but Georgiana’s hand clutched at her sleeve with sudden desperation.
“No.” The word was so faint it almost vanished beneath her breath. “Please, Elizabeth. Do not go. Please. Do not leave me.”
Darcy looked up, torn between gratitude and propriety. “Georgiana, Elizabeth cannot—”
“I shall stay,” Elizabeth said.
His eyes moved to hers.
She did not look away.
Then she turned back to the girl in her arms and smoothed one trembling hand over Georgiana’s hair. “Of course I shall not go. You and I are to be sisters, are we not? Sisters never abandon one another.”
Georgiana gave a broken sob and buried her face against Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Darcy’s expression changed. The gratitude there nearly undid her, but he still glanced toward Mr. Bennet.