10. A Changed Man
ten
A Changed Man
Darcy brought Georgiana to London three days after Mrs. Younge’s dismissal.
He had told himself the removal was practical.
Ramsgate had become impossible. Every street suggested the secrecy that had taken root there; every cheerful visitor upon the promenade might, for all he knew, have passed Mrs. Younge without suspecting she had nearly delivered his sister into a ruinous marriage.
London, with its servants, relations, and the solid walls of Darcy House, offered greater command.
Georgiana could be watched without appearing imprisoned.
Letters could be intercepted. Wickham could be found.
None of this improved Georgiana’s spirits.
She obeyed him. That was almost worse than defiance.
She came down to breakfast when summoned, answered when spoken to, practiced if asked, and sat by the window with embroidery in her lap while her needle remained idle between her fingers.
His sister did not plead for Mrs. Younge.
She did not speak Wickham’s name. Her eyes followed Darcy sometimes with a hurt restraint that made every meal an exercise in self-reproach.
He could not decide whether she was repentant or merely wounded.
Perhaps she did not know herself.
On the fourth morning in town, Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived before noon, boots dusty, coat unbrushed, and temper already engaged before he crossed the threshold.
Barton admitted him directly to Darcy’s study, where Darcy stood over a half-written letter with more lines crossed through than preserved.
Richard took in the desk, the open drawer, the fire burning too hot for the season, and Darcy’s face.
“Tell me everything.”
Darcy did.
He gave it with as much order as he could command: Bingley’s summons to Kent, the miserable estate, the hired carriage upon his return, Mrs. Younge in the hall, Georgiana’s joy, wedding.
He did not embellish. He did not soften.
Richard interrupted twice, once to curse under his breath and once to demand whether Wickham had been in the house.
“No,” Darcy said. “Had he been, I might have killed him.”
Richard’s jaw worked. “I would have assisted.”
“That is not helpful.”
“It is honest.”
Darcy moved to the window, then back again because standing still had become intolerable. “Mrs. Younge is gone. No character. Barton watched her trunks packed and sent her from the house. Georgiana has been brought here. I have ordered all letters delivered first to me.”
“And Wickham?”
“I began a letter.” Darcy took the page from the desk and handed it over. “I did not send it. I wanted to speak to you before proceeding.”
Richard read it, scowled, and flipped the page over, though nothing had been written on the reverse. “This is too civil.”
“It was the third attempt.”
“I should dislike to see the first.”
“You would have approved the substance.”
“Would I?”
“It contained several threats.”
“Then why abandon it? Threats are useful when deserved.”
“Because I need him warned away, not provoked into some retaliatory stupidity that exposes Georgiana.”
Richard tossed the letter back upon the desk. “He has already committed retaliatory stupidity by attempting to marry her.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “Do not.”
His cousin’s anger checked, though only just. Richard took the chair opposite the desk without being asked and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Does she understand what he intended?”
“I do not know. She says nothing now.”
“Nothing?”
“She answers if I ask a direct question. Otherwise, no. She has neither defended him nor condemned him since we left Ramsgate.”
Richard rubbed a hand over his face. “Poor child.”
Darcy’s head came up sharply.
“Yes, Darcy, poor child. I know you are angry. You have every right to be angry. But she is a girl, and she was trapped by a woman employed to guide her.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Darcy sat at the desk and began aligning the pages that did not require alignment. “I know it when I am not in the room with her.”
Richard’s expression altered, the anger giving way to a reluctant sympathy Darcy did not want. “Ah.”
“Do not say ah.”
“I shall say nothing, then.”
“You have never done so in your life.”
“That is untrue. I am silent during sermons.”
“Especially since you are asleep.”
Richard sat back with a short, unwilling laugh that faded quickly. “What will you do with her?”
“I have written to Mrs. Annesley. She will come if she is able. Until then, Georgiana remains here.”
“No more companions chosen for agreeable manners.”
“No.”
“And Wickham?”
Darcy’s hand stilled upon the paper. “That is where I require your counsel.”
“My counsel is to find him and frighten him out of England.”
“That is not counsel. That is temptation.”
“Very well. A strongly worded letter first, followed by frightening him out of England if necessary.”
Darcy took a fresh sheet from the drawer. “Sit properly if you mean to be useful.”
“I am always useful.”
“You are often loud.”
“I have many gifts.”
Despite himself, Darcy felt the smallest easing of the tightness that had held him since Ramsgate. Richard had always possessed that infuriating ability: to make the unbearable remain unbearable, but less solitary.
Darcy dipped his pen. “We must be precise. He is to cease all communication with Georgiana. He is to make no attempt to see her. He is to preserve absolute silence concerning Ramsgate.”
“And if he fails?”
“He will answer to both guardians.”
Richard pointed at the page. “Write that. Both guardians. My father’s name will carry weight, even if Wickham is too debased to respect yours.”
Darcy wrote. The scratching of the pen filled the study for several moments.
“I genuinely hoped,” he said, keeping his eyes upon the paper, “that he was going to study the law.”
Richard’s chair creaked. “When?”
“When he signed away his rights to the Kympton living. He came to me humble, or so I thought. Ready to change. He spoke of his unsuitability for the church, said he had no wish to dishonor my father’s hopes by taking orders without conviction.
I believed that much, at least. I wanted to believe the rest.”
“He wanted money.”
“Yes.”
“And you gave it.”
“I thought I was being just.”
“You were being rid of him.”
Darcy set the pen down harder than necessary. “Do you think I do not know that now?”
Richard did not retreat. “I think you are blaming yourself for failing to see through a man who has practiced deception since boyhood.”
“I should have seen enough.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Wickham’s character appears to be fixed. Men may recover from folly, from debt, even from idleness if shame finds them early enough. Wickham has made charm into a profession. I do not think he wishes to be better. I doubt he ever has.”
Darcy stared at the unfinished letter.
“I told Elizabeth people seldom change when wrongdoing profits them.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“And did she agree?”
“Mostly.”
Richard’s brows rose at the name, but for once he did not pursue it. “Then you were right. A rare occurrence. Mark the date.”
Darcy gave him a flat look.
“Fine,” Richard said. “We shall save levity for after the villain is threatened.”
They worked over the letter for the better part of an hour.
Richard’s first preference was for direct violence expressed in elegant terms. Darcy removed half of it.
Darcy’s first preference was for legal precision with implied menace.
Richard restored several teeth. Between them, they produced a warning that said nothing which could injure Georgiana if repeated, yet promised consequences no sensible man would invite.
When Darcy read it aloud, Richard listened without interruption.
“Sir,” Darcy began, voice low in the close room, “your conduct at Ramsgate has been discovered. Any attempt to communicate with Miss Darcy, directly or indirectly, will be treated as a deliberate assault upon her safety and reputation. You are to make no claim upon her, no reference to any imagined engagement, and no mention of these events to any person. Should one whisper of this matter reach society, Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will hold you responsible and act accordingly. You know enough of my family to understand what that means.”
Richard nodded slowly. “Good.”
“It is too much?”
“It is not enough, but it is good.”
Darcy sanded the page. “How do we get it to him?”
“His last lodgings?”
“I can send there.”
“Send a servant first. If he left a forwarding address, have the letter delivered by hand and obtain proof it was received.”
“And if there is none?”
Richard reached for his hat, then seemed to remember they were not leaving that instant. “Hire a runner. Someone accustomed to finding men who do not wish to be found. Wickham cannot vanish so completely if he has no money.”
“He had enough to arrange Ramsgate.”
“Mrs. Younge may have assisted. Or he has debts enough that another foolish creditor expects repayment from Miss Darcy’s fortune.”
Darcy folded the letter but did not seal it. “I will send to his lodgings today. If there is no direction, I will hire a runner.”
“And I shall speak to my father.”
“No.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Darcy.”
“Not yet.”
“My father is her guardian.”
“I know.”
“Then he must be told.”
Darcy’s fingers closed around the folded page. “I will tell him. I ask for a day. Georgiana can bear so much shame at once.”
Richard studied him for a long, uncomfortable interval. “A day.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I am still angry with you.”
“With me?”
“Yes, with you. With Wickham more, with Mrs. Younge most, but you are available.”
Darcy nearly smiled. “How convenient.”
“Very. Someone must absorb my temper until Wickham is found.”
A knock came at the door before Darcy could answer. Barton entered with a note upon a salver.
“From Mrs. Annesley, sir.”
Darcy broke the seal and read quickly. “She will come tomorrow.”
“Good,” Richard said. “Georgiana likes her?”
“Yes.”
“And you trust her?”
“With more cause than I trusted Mrs. Younge.”
“That is a low standard.”
“It is the standard currently available.”
Richard rose and crossed to the sideboard without invitation, pouring himself a small glass of brandy though it was not yet one o’clock. “Do you want one?”
“No.”
“Liar.” He poured a second and set it near Darcy’s elbow. “Drink it or stare at it. I am indifferent.”
Darcy took the glass after a moment. The brandy burned all the way down.
Richard stood by the mantel, watching him with an expression less severe now and more brotherly than either of them would have cared to name.
“She will recover,” he said.
Darcy looked toward the ceiling, toward the rooms above where Georgiana sat alone with whatever remained of her illusions.
“I hope so.”
“She will. But you must decide whether you prefer her repentant or safe.”
Darcy’s grip tightened around the glass.
Richard continued, less sharply. “If you make your forgiveness depend upon her understanding everything at once, you will both suffer longer than necessary.”
“I know.”
“Knowing is not doing.”
“No.”
“Then do it.”
Darcy set down the glass, took up the letter, and pressed the seal into the wax before he could reconsider the wording. “I shall send this.”
“And then?”
“And then I shall speak to Georgiana.”
Richard gave a brisk nod, satisfied for the present. “Good. Begin by apologizing for whatever you said in the hall.”
Darcy looked up.
His cousin’s face was unforgiving. “You said something. I know you. You were frightened, and when frightened, you become either silent or cruel.”
Darcy said nothing.
Richard’s mouth thinned. “Apologize.”
Darcy slipped the sealed letter into his coat pocket.
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”