Forsaking All Others (Pride And Prejudice Variation #7)

Prologue

Georgiana started at the loud rapping on the front door.

“Mrs. Younge, is Mr. Wickham dining with us?”

"He is." Mrs. Younge giggled, like a love-struck girl.

“He is exceedingly amiable, do not you think? He sent a note pressing for an invitation.”

“You admire him.”

“I do, my dear. I admire him very much.”

The butler announced Mr. Wickham, and the two ladies stood and curtsied.

George Wickham was handsome, with a pleasing address, if one did not attend too closely. Without fortune, and not even passably attractive, Georgiana wondered what he wanted from her companion, who was older than him by at least five or six years.

He was unlike the men she knew. Fitzwilliam and Richard always spoke plainly. Mr. Wickham, however, measured their reactions to every word that left his mouth. It was especially unsettling when his cheerful expression dropped like a discarded mask.

He was a liar. No man could look upon Mrs. Younge and declare her as lovely as a rose in June. She was no such thing. He was a liar, plain and simple.

She did not trust Mr. Wickham, and now she must endure another evening in his company. His first visit had appeared a matter of chance. But was it?

She sat quietly, knitting, as she observed the pair and tried to understand their connection. His hand often rested upon Mrs. Younge in a familiar manner, like that of an affectionate husband toward his wife.

Dinner was finally announced, and Mr. Wickham offered his arm. Georgiana recoiled from his touch and deliberately dropped her knitting. “Please, go on. I will follow in a moment.”

Mr. Wickham was sitting at the head of the table, in her brother’s place. How dare he? He rose and drew out the chair at his right, and seated her.

He pressed another glass of wine upon her companion. It was her third, for she had already had two in the drawing room.

Mrs. Younge giggled again. “George, I fear I shall be quite overset if I drink anything more.”

“Never. You are too much a lady to lose command of your senses.”

Her companion simpered.

Had Georgiana not been so well brought up, she might have rolled her eyes at his cajolery.

Then his eyes settled upon Georgiana. “Miss Darcy, you have not touched your wine.”

His tone, meant to please, struck her as insincere. She dissembled. “Sir, I have a headache and fear it would grow worse if I drink the wine.”

“I understand. Shall I have the servant bring you a glass of water?”

“No, thank you, sir. I am not thirsty.”

She bent her attention to her plate, cutting her roast beef into neat portions, and he directed himself once again to Mrs. Younge.

Georgiana resolved to write to Fitzwilliam. He must be informed of Mrs. Younge’s conduct. Something about the situation was peculiar, and she longed for her brother.

When dinner concluded, they removed to the drawing room. Mrs. Younge was clinging to Mr. Wickham’s arm; her gait was unsteady. He settled her in a cushioned chair and then crossed to the sideboard.

“Mrs. Younge, I shall indulge in a glass of this fine brandy. It is the best I have had. What shall I bring for you?”

“I ought not drink anything more. I am certain I am a little tipsy.”

Laughing, he said, “Nonsense. Everyone is allowed, from time to time, to relax and enjoy an evening among friends.”

Mrs. Younge snorted with laughter, and Georgiana felt a stab of fear. What would become of her if Mrs. Younge surrendered herself entirely to drink?

“And you, Miss Darcy? May I serve you a glass?”

His gaze traveled slowly down her form, and then, alarmed, she wondered whether his visit was meant for Mrs. Younge or for herself.

“No, thank you, Mr. Wickham. My headache has grown worse.”

He paid no heed to her refusal, but poured brandy into a third glass. Then she saw him pour several drops from a small vial into two of the glasses. He carried one to Mrs. Younge, who drank the spirits in a single swallow.

He then presented the other to Georgiana. “Come now, Miss Darcy. A little brandy will relieve your headache. It is medicinal.”

Georgiana accepted the drink with feigned civility.

When he returned to the sideboard for his glass, she set hers upon the table.

She must avoid drinking it. Could she exchange it with his?

That would oblige him to sit near her. If she invited him, would he mistake her invitation for encouragement while Mrs. Younge slept?

Fear twisted her belly. Her heart was beating so hard, it deafened her. What was she to do?

When he returned, she indicated the couch. “Pray join me, sir. I wish to learn more about you. Do you intend a long stay in Ramsgate?”

The man’s smile provoked a shiver. He set his glass near hers and seated himself at a proper distance.

He did not answer her but asked, “Do you remain until the summer? Mrs. Younge informs me you have both resided in Ramsgate since September.”

She felt ill from the panic that was rising from her belly to her throat. A fine moisture glistened upon her brow.

He studied her. “Miss Darcy, is your headache worse? Take a sip of the brandy. It will do you good.”

She raised her eyes to his. “Mr. Wickham, would you be so kind as to ring for the servant? If I may first take my headache powders, I will soon be restored. I shall be able to enjoy the evening and hear of your adventures.”

He laughed, pleased. He rose and went to summon the servant. When his back was turned, she exchanged the glasses.

She saw that Mrs. Younge’s head now rested against the back of the chair, her mouth slack and open. A shiver ran up her spine. She was alone with a scoundrel.

The butler presented himself, and Mr. Wickham requested the headache remedy.

When he returned to the couch, she said, “Pray, tell me of your adventures, Mr. Wickham.”

“Adventures, Miss Darcy?”

“Yes. A woman does not have adventures. We live quietly at home, reading our books or practicing an instrument, while men attend university, travel the Continent, or enter the world of business.”

Then as if in an aside she added, “Sir, do not feel you must wait on me. Enjoy your drink. If it pleases you, I shall fetch the bottle, that it may stand near at hand should either of us desire more.”

He chuckled. “I believe I shall.”

He took up the glass and drained it in a single swallow, then rose. “Excuse me while I retrieve the bottle. This brandy is remarkably smooth.”

She fumed inwardly. It is Fitzwilliam’s favorite. How dare he make himself at home in this manner? She hoped he would succumb to the substance as quickly as her companion had done. But he was tall and muscular and might require more. She would encourage him to drink as much as possible.

When he returned, he poured himself another measure, which he drank in a single swallow.

She felt relief when the butler entered bearing a tray with her remedy. “Miss Darcy, for your headache.”

He stirred the mixture and presented it to her. She drank deeply, then said, “Grimes, pray serve Mr. Wickham more brandy.”

“At once, mistress.”

He complied and then inquired, “Is there anything further, Miss Darcy?”

“Yes, we have not had nuts or dried fruit this evening. Pray bring them now. I would not have our guest want for anything.”

He inclined his head and left the room.

Mr. Wickham must be a hard drinker, she thought, for he now drank the brandy one glass after another, but appeared unaffected.

They remained thus until the butler returned with a tray of nuts and dried fruits, arranged in elegant bowls. He placed it upon the table.

“Thank you,” she said. This is very prettily set out. Pray serve Mr. Wickham. His glass is empty.”

The butler complied. The bottle was now almost half empty. She watched him down the drink and then, mercifully, he swayed as he leaned forward to set down his glass.

The butler’s eyes narrowed. Then his gaze passed over Mrs. Younge, who snored in her chair, and his brows lifted.

Georgiana rose and handed her glass to the butler. “You will excuse me, Mr. Wickham. I must step away to refresh myself, but I shall return directly, sir. Do try the dried fruit. It is the finest.”

She left the room, the butler following. He closed the door behind them, and Georgiana sagged against the wall, trembling.

“The blackguard has drugged the brandy. I exchanged my glass with his, and I trust he will soon be overcome as well. Do you think he has killed Mrs. Younge? She succumbed within a few minutes of drinking the substance.”

“I trust not, miss. Perhaps she will sleep it off.”

“If Mr. Wickham succumbs to the drug, you will have him secured and confined in one of the cellars. I must also send an express to Fitzwilliam. Do you place confidence in either of the footmen?”

“Christopher is my nephew, and the other footman is kin to the cook. They both understand the value of their positions and will keep silent.”

“Very well. Pray send for them, for I believe Mr. Wickham will soon be insensible.”

Georgiana sat at the desk in the housekeeper’s office with her head buried in her hands, weeping. Her entire body trembled, and she still felt sick to her stomach.

After several minutes, she straightened and began a letter to Fitzwilliam. It was ready when Grimes returned.

“Please send Christopher to deliver this to my brother.”

“Yes, mistress.”

In the end, the entire matter was accomplished with little difficulty. Wickham was locked in the kitchen cellar, while Mrs. Younge slept in her chamber with a footman standing watch outside her door. And Christopher had left immediately for London to deliver her note to Fitzwilliam.

“Miss Darcy, is there anything further I may do for you?”

“Sir, you have protected me from the wretched man, but I fear that I shall not be able to sleep tonight.”

“Pray do not distress yourself, Miss Darcy. Mr. Wickham is bound and locked in the cellar. All the doors are secured, and I expect your brother will arrive by early afternoon tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course. I shall go up now. Thank you, Grimes.”

The following morning, Georgiana lay in bed, praying Fitzwilliam would arrive by early afternoon and deal with Mr. Wickham.

When Jenny brought up two buckets of hot water, Georgiana asked, “Is Mr. Wickham still confined in the cellar?”

“Yes, miss. He was offered water an hour ago. He remains securely bound, so you need not fear his escape.”

“And Mrs. Younge? Has she taken her breakfast?”

“Your companion still sleeps.”

“She is still asleep? She should have woken by now.”

Georgiana sent the butler and housekeeper to check on Mrs. Younge, but she remained in the hall, fearing the worst.

A cry sounded from within. “Oh, Clarissa, what has befallen you?”

Georgiana’s heart began to race, but she did not enter the room. She remained rooted to the floor.

“Her lips are blue, Jonathan.”

Mr. Grimes asked, “Does she still breathe?”

“Yes, I believe so. Ah, I can feel a weak pulse.”

“I shall send for the doctor. I believe it is a case of poisoning.”

Georgiana leaned against the wall, trembling. Would Mrs. Younge die?

Within a few minutes, Mrs. Elliot emerged. “Miss Darcy, my dear, you ought not to remain here. Return to your chamber and close the door. I shall come to you once the doctor has attended Mrs. Younge.”

Georgiana was not able to move.

“Jenny, come and assist your mistress.”

Jenny took her arm, and Mrs. Elliot the other, and together they guided her back to her chamber, settling her upon a chair near the hearth.

“You’re shivering.” Turning to Jenny, she said, “Stoke the fire and cover her with a blanket.”

Two hours later, Georgiana was dozing on the couch when there came a loud rap upon the bedchamber door, and a gentleman entered.

“Fitzwilliam!” She sprang from her chair and threw herself into her brother’s arms. He held her close, then drew her back to look upon her.

“Georgiana, are you well?”

She was weeping. “Yes, brother. How I have longed for you. I did not know what I ought to do.”

He held her until her tears subsided, then settled her on the couch.

“I must speak with the doctor dearest, and then I need to deal with Wickham. Shall I send Jenny to you?”

“Yes, please.”

Darcy left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Mrs. Elliot, send Jenny to attend to my sister. Has the doctor come out?”

“Not yet, sir. He should be out soon.”

Darcy found the physician to be a reliable man. The doctor recounted the events briefly and without embellishment. “Sir, Mr. Wickham administered a tincture of laudanum to Mrs. Younge. In combination with the quantity of wine and brandy she consumed, it very nearly proved fatal.”

“Doctor, you believe she will recover?”

“I believe so. The color has returned to her lips and skin, and I expect she will be fully awake within a few hours.”

“And what of Wickham?”

“He is completely recovered. Mr. Wickham took a lesser quantity, though he drank freely of the brandy, and did not wake until this morning.”

“In your opinion, has a crime been committed?”

“Had the companion died, it would indeed have been so. But he claims his design was merely to render both ladies insensible, leave the companion behind, and proceed to Gretna Green with your sister in your carriage. He insists he never intended the companion harm.”

Darcy paid the physician and saw him out. Then he went upstairs to his sister.

He tapped on the door. “May I come in, sweetling?”

“Yes, pray come in.” Jenny withdrew to the dressing room.

He sat beside Georgiana and related all he had learned. “No crime has been committed.”

“Then he is to escape punishment? He nearly killed Mrs. Younge and might have carried me off, and there is no crime?”

“It would be difficult to prove intent, my dear, but there is another course I will pursue. I have purchased his debts over the past five years. With this final act, he has overstepped every boundary, so I have decided to deliver him to debtor’s prison.

His debt is so large that he will remain there for the rest of his life. ”

She regarded him with unease. “I wish you might send him far away, Fitzwilliam. While he remains in England, I shall not feel secure.”

“You would have me send him to Australia?”

“Yes. I should feel far safer if he were transported there.”

“Very well. That shall be done, and you need not fear him again.”

He took his sister's hand.

“Georgiana, you understand that you must not speak of this to anyone. You may tell Richard, and perhaps Aunt Helen, but no one else must know, or your reputation will suffer. People will assume you have been compromised by that scoundrel.”

“Yes, Fitzwilliam, I understand. I am capable of keeping this to myself.”

“I shall see that the servants are well compensated for their discretion. I believe we can keep this matter contained and preserve your reputation.”