Chapter XXVIII #3
No one had asked whether he himself was tired.
Their eyes met unexpectedly.
Darcy straightened almost at once, as though he had been caught neglecting a duty. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I fear I was thinking.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You have earnt the privilege.”
***
The evening after their return from Longbourn brought little satisfaction.
Among the correspondence awaiting him was yet another report concerning the search for Wickham.
Darcy read it slowly, though before he reached the end, he already knew what it would contain.
Several gentlemen answering Wickham’s description had been questioned; none proved to be the man they sought.
Another gaming establishment had been visited without result.
One informant claimed to have seen him near the river; another swore he had left London altogether. None of it led anywhere.
He folded the report carefully and laid it aside.
For the first time since Lydia’s rescue, impatience began to overcome his accustomed self-command.
Somewhere in London, George Wickham was moving about with the same easy confidence that had carried him through every previous escape.
Each unsuccessful day increased the likelihood that he would disappear again before justice could reach him.
That thought remained with Darcy long after he retired.
When sleep finally came, it carried him back more than a year. He stood once again in the drawing room at Ramsgate.
The afternoon sunlight fell through the windows exactly as he remembered it.
Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, laughing at something Mrs. Younge had just said.
She looked so perfectly happy, so entirely unsuspecting, that the sight filled him with so much anger at what Wickham dared to do to his sister.
He attempted to call her name.
She did not hear him.
Instead, Wickham entered the room with all the ease of a welcome guest. He crossed directly to Georgiana, who greeted him with a smile of complete confidence.
Mrs. Younge watched them with unmistakable satisfaction.
Darcy tried to move forward.
The room seemed to lengthen before him. Every step carried him no nearer.
Wickham offered Georgiana his arm, and she accepted it without hesitation.
Then, as though they shared some private triumph, Wickham glanced towards Mrs. Younge. She smiled in return, and together they turned towards the door.
As they disappeared, their laughter echoed through the empty room.
Darcy awoke abruptly.
For several moments, he remained where he was, breathing heavily while the familiar surroundings of his bedroom slowly reasserted themselves. Moonlight lay across the floor, and beyond the curtains, the house was perfectly still.
He passed a hand across his face.
It had been only a dream.
Yet one detail refused to leave him.
Mrs. Younge.
He sat motionless, thinking.
Throughout the search, every effort had been directed towards Wickham himself. Reports arrived daily describing coaching inns, gaming houses, taverns, creditors and acquaintances. Every possible haunt of Wickham’s had been investigated.
But where had Wickham gone when all those places failed him?
Where had he once found shelter?
His thoughts returned irresistibly to Ramsgate.
Wickham had not acted alone. Mrs. Younge had opened her house to him then. She had deceived Georgiana. She had risked her own reputation for his sake. Why had Darcy assumed she would have vanished entirely from his life afterwards?
He was out of bed within moments.
He lit a candle and made his way to the library.
There, among old correspondence relating to the Ramsgate affair, were memoranda he had not examined for many months. He searched patiently until he found what he sought: Mrs. Younge’s full name, together with the London address she had occupied before accompanying Georgiana to Ramsgate.
He read it twice.
How had he never thought of it?
Not because the information had been hidden, but because he had allowed himself to think only of Wickham. He had searched for the man while overlooking the woman who had once been his indispensable accomplice.
He wondered whether fatigue had driven him to grasp at the first idea that seemed different. Perhaps Mrs. Younge had long since disappeared. Perhaps she had married. Perhaps she had died. Perhaps, by morning, this would seem no wiser than the dozen fruitless leads he had already pursued.
He remained standing with the paper in his hand, weighing the thought. Then he folded it carefully. No. He had ignored her once already. He would not make the same mistake twice.
Darcy looked towards the eastern windows. The sky remained dark. There were still several hours before dawn.
For perhaps the first time since Lydia had been found, he felt that he possessed something more substantial than another uncertain report. If Mrs. Younge still lived at that address, or if someone there knew where she had gone, the search might at last begin to move in the right direction.
He had no intention of waiting any longer than necessity required.