Prologue
Ramsgate, April 1811
The tall windows shuddered beneath the wind’s steady assault. Lamps had been lit below stairs, and the house was quiet after dinner. It was near eight o’clock when Georgiana Darcy rose from her chair in the little parlor set aside for her use. She had been attempting to read, but the book was dull, and at last she recalled her embroidery, left downstairs in the drawing room.
Georgiana stepped into the corridor with her candle in hand. The stairwell was dark, and the shadows deep along the wooden banister. She had descended halfway down when loud, ungenteel laughter, edged with a harsh hilarity, rose from the floor below. Georgiana halted. She recognized Mrs. Younge’s voice. Another answered, low, insolent. George Wickham.
She held her breath. She had seen too much of him these past weeks. His glances unsettled her; worse, she had learned he had a fondness for gin and how quickly strong drink soured his humor. She turned to run back up the stairs, but Wickham’s voice drifting upward fixed her to the spot.
“Did you receive your wages from Darcy? I need the money to hire a chaise from the posting-house. Four days will see us at Gretna Green.”
Mrs. Younge gave a sharp laugh. “Four hundred and eighty miles will take longer, even with changes. I cannot afford chaise, lodgings, and food. We must travel by stagecoach; it’s slower, but it is all I can manage.”
Gretna Green. Georgiana was confused. They were traveling to Gretna Green? But why?
“Give me your wages,” Wickham pressed. “I’ll try my hand at the Black Bull. Perhaps I’ll win.”
“No,” Mrs. Younge returned briskly. “You would gamble it all away, and then we must wait until I am paid again. Georgiana already grows uneasy with your constant presence.”
Wickham laughed. “She will do as she is told. That little fool is half in love with me already. Once we are wed and Darcy lays down her dowry, we shall rid ourselves of her. Then off to America, where we can purchase land for a pittance or get into trade. Hand over the money.”
Georgiana clutched the banister. The very air seemed to stifle her.
“I will not,” Mrs. Younge said after a pause, her tone cajoling. “But see, here is a bottle of brandy from Darcy House. I saved it for our celebration. Drink, and then return to your rooms. We must rise early to meet the coach. I’ll have Jenny pack a portmanteau for Georgianna tonight.”
“That is damn fine brandy,” Wickham declared after draining the glass. “Pour me another.”
There was the clink of crystal, the splash of liquor.
“Come with me.” Wickham’s voice was thick. “The night is still young. There is still plenty of time to pack after we have amused ourselves.”
Mrs. Younge’s laugh was coarse. “Very well, Mr. Wickham. I’ll fetch my cloak.”
The coarse language and raucous laughter frightened Georgiana, and she quickly extinguished the candle, crouching down. She trembled as she listened to the pair cross the hall below her. From the dark landing, she watched as they left the house. Mrs. Younge had drawn her cloak around her shoulders, while Wickham hurried her along. The door slammed closed, leaving the house in silence.
Her hands began to shake as she started to understand what was happening. The truth was dreadful and undeniable. Wickham meant to carry her to Gretna, to force her into marriage, and to seize her dowry before discarding her. Unless she acted, this was to be her fate.
Sobbing, she turned and ran up the staircase to her bedchamber. She drew her shawl close and tried to still her frantic heartbeat. She must do something. She must think. She must find some way to save herself.
The night was dark, and the little house by the sea seemed a frightening place to Georgiana. The day-servants had long since gone to their homes, leaving only the butler in his quarters below stairs and Jenny, her maid, asleep in the servants’ quarters above stairs. Most of the rooms stood in darkness, and the hush of the hour seemed to press down upon her. The silence was so profound that Georgiana could hear her every breath and thought she could almost catch the pounding of her heart.
She locked the door, then walked on tiptoe through her bedchamber. She relit the candle, then sat down on the edge of her bed, and watched the shadows as they played against the papered wall. Her heart was frantically beating against her breast, yet her mind was strangely frozen, incapable of forming any plan to help herself. She rose and paced the chamber, wringing her hands in helpless distress. Once again, she droppedto the bedside and whispered, “Georgiana, you must think. How much money do you have? It’s time to think.”
She sprang up to check her little reticule. It was empty. A quick search of her jewel box revealed the same: nothing remained. Mrs. Younge must have taken it all, her purse, her few trinkets of gold, and her pearl ring, every item stolen for this mad scheme to carry her to Gretna Green.
She pressed her hands to her face and only then perceived that tears were streaming unchecked down her cheeks. Struggling for composure, she sat at her small writing desk. With trembling hand, she penned a letter to her brother, warning him of Wickham’s plot and begging his protection. She sealed it with wax, then stared helplessly at the folded paper. How was she to post it? Still, she slipped it into her empty reticule. Somehow, she must contrive a way.
But the greater terror pressed in; where was she to go? Without money, she could not flee, nor could she provide for Jenny, even if she were to wake the girl and attempt escape together. To rush into the world unprotected was a fate perhaps worse than Wickham’s vile scheme. “Think, Georgiana, think,” she urged herself aloud, pacing again. “What would a heroine in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels do?” The absurdity of the question forced a small, incredulous laugh from her lips, and the release strengthened her.
Why indeed must she flee the house? Her brother had leased it for the entire summer. It was hers by right of his name and protection. If Wickham and Mrs. Younge could be made to believe she had already gone, then they would search elsewhere, leaving her safe behind.
Seizing the notion, Georgiana returned to the desk and began another letter to Fitzwilliam. She wrote that she had overheard the plot, that Wickham meant to force her to elope to Gretna, and that she was running away instead to Margate, where she would wait at an inn until her brother might come. She added a line about a small sum hidden away in her pelisse, though in truth all her money was gone. Deliberately, she left a blot upon the page, then crumpled the letter and tossed it into the little basket beside the desk. She prayed Mrs. Younge would find it and be deceived.
Resolute now, Georgiana packed quickly: hairbrushes and other accouterments, stockings, underclothing, nightclothes, and two modest walking dresses, folded into a portmanteau. Her stout boots went in beside them, and she threw her heavy cloak over her shoulders. She tucked her slippers into the case so that she might tread in silence upon her stockinged feet. Reticule in hand, she crept to the staircase and stole softly up to the third floor. She passed Jenny’s chamber, then the shuttered nursery, until she came to a narrow door at the end of the darkened passage. The knob turned beneath her hand. She breathed a prayer of gratitude when the door opened. It was unlocked! With sudden tears of relief, she entered the darkened attic.
The room smelled musty, and the trunks and old furniture were covered with dust. At the far end of the long room, she saw several cots folded against the wall, with two standing ready. She set down her case, then returned to the second floor, careful to walk silently and equally careful as she gathered the things that she needed to survive on her own. From two unused bedchambers, she carried away blankets, a tinderbox, and candles; from her dressing room, she exchanged the filled water pitcher with an empty one.
Georgiana finally crept down to the kitchens, and though it was very dark and quiet, she realized that she was not afraid. She found a canvas bag used for market day and filled it with apples and oranges, bread, cheese, and several boiled eggs. From a basket, she took biscuits and scones that were doubtless baked for tomorrow’s breakfast. With the heavy sack slung on her shoulder and a brimming pitcher of water clutched tightly to her chest, she crept once more to the attic.
