He entered the breakfast parlor and announced, “Mrs. Younge, as requested by the maid, I opened Miss Darcy’s bedchamber. It appears that Miss Darcy has left the house. Her portmanteau is gone, along with nightwear, brushes, and several articles of clothing.”
“What nonsense is this?” cried Mrs. Younge, pushing back her chair.
“Find her,” Wickham snapped, rising despite himself. “Bring her down and be done.”
“Stay,” Mrs. Younge said over her shoulder, already at the door. “I will see to this myself. The girl is a simpleton; she cannot have gone far.”
Mrs. Younge ascended the stairs, the butler and the maid following behind. “The windows are closed,” she observed, attempting to raise one, but it was fixed fast. Her gaze swept the chamber. “And what is this? A crumpled letter in the basket?” She stooped, spread it flat, and gave a sharp exclamation. “The little wench has written to her brother.” Turning to the two servants, she added, “You may go. Jenny, go to your quarters at once for the remainder of the day. If I find you below stairs, I shall dismiss you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jenny breathed, curtsying before she fled.
“As you wish, ma’am,” said Smithers, withdrawing.
Mrs. Younge examined the chamber more thoroughly. The girl had most certainly flown out of the house. Her heavy travelling boots and cloak were gone, as well as her reticule and every personal accoutrement.
Mrs. Younge returned to the breakfast parlor and shut the door with a snap. Then, she rounded on Wickham. “She left. This is what comes of your schemes. I should have stayed in the house with the girl. She overheard us, and she is gone. She writes here that she runs to Margate to wait for Darcy. She must have taken the morning stage. She will already have arrived and could be in any one of a dozen inns.”
“Margate is a popular resort,” Wickham said, beginning to pace again. “There are a considerable number of establishments that cater to travelers. How do you propose we search them all? I thought you had taken her money and her jewels. With what will she pay for lodging?”
“She writes that she had money squirrelled away in her pelisse,” Mrs. Younge replied, tapping the letter. “A deceitful girl. I never thought to look in her pockets. Darcy sent her with a full purse. I was certain I took it all. She may have enough with her to suffice for several days’ lodging, though nothing grand. We shall begin with the modest houses. With that bright flaxen hair, she will not be hard to mark. Someone will have seen her.”
“There is a chance yet,” Wickham conceded. “Pack light. Go upstairs and make yourself ready. I will go to my quarters and do the same.”
Mrs. Younge mumbled an oath. “Once we find her at Margate, we must travel directly on to Gretna. We have two, perhaps three days before Darcy appears.”
“Then we use them,” Wickham answered, snatching up his hat. “The little bird will be gone with us before he sets foot in Kent.”
“Do not fail me again, George,” Mrs. Younge said, gathering the letter.
“See that you do not fail me,” he shot back, as he moved to the door.
Georgiana woke in confusion. The chamber was dark, heavy with dust, and for a moment she did not know where she was. Then memory returned. She was barricaded in the attic, hidden away from Wickham and Mrs. Younge.
She rose and lifted the corner of the heavy drape she had hung across the windows. From the crack of a broken shutter, she caught sight of the road below. She tried one of the small windows, and after half an hour of effort, succeeded in forcing it open by three inches. The rush of fresh air was a blessing. Through it came the rumble of a lone carriage on the lane and the thin cries of gulls wheeling above. The sky was beginning to lighten; she guessed the hour must be dawn.
At the cot, she took up her pocket watch, which lay on the floor where she had set it the night before. The hands pointed to half past five. Wickham, she thought with relief, would still be abed, given the state of intoxication in which he had returned the night before. She had time to wash and dress.
Her toilet was managed sparingly. She used but a little of her precious water, tearing a ruffle from her petticoat to serve as a cloth and hanging it afterwards to dry. She twisted her hair into a loose chignon and dressed herself, though she could not fasten her corset; after several minutes of fruitless effort, she gave it up and set it aside. She buttoned as much of her gown as she could while still able to draw it over her head. There were a few buttonsthat remained undone, but as no one was there to see her, it didn’t matter.
She walked to the opposite end of the attic and worked until she was able to force another window open a few inches. The cross breeze helped to freshen the stale air. She peered out and was able to see the neighboring house. It was built in the same style as the one they had leased and didn’t appear to be occupied, as it was dark and still. The walled garden was charming, with a small folly in one corner, large shade trees, and thick hedges. By contrast, the yard of her own house offered little concealment. There was only a strip of green and a couple of benches.
She turned back to her own quarters and considered what she would do if Wickham discovered her hiding place. She crept through the room in bare feet, quietly opening trunks and looking into old boxes that were stacked everywhere. In a dark corner, she found a stout truncheon like those a watchman might carry. She laid it on the couch that barricaded the door, then sat down on the cot and wished she had a book to read. The day would be a long one with nothing to do.
Some hours later, she woke with a start, surprised by the shafts of light falling into the attic. She had fallen asleep without meaning to. Her watch told her it was only nine o’clock. Wickham was not an early riser on the best of days, and drunk as he had been, she guessed he still slept. She drank water, ate an apple with a bit of bread and cheese, and continued her quiet search through the trunks. In one, she discovered a pile of books, among them Matthew Lewis’sTales of Terror.
She settled upon her cot to read. The Gothic stories, with their lurid mixture of horror, sensuality, and the supernatural, were unlike anything she had read before. She soon learned to skip the more indecent passages, but the thought of them made hershudder. Were these the degradations Wickham intended for her, had he succeeded in his design? And once abandoned, what further fate would await her? A brothel, perhaps, and then an early grave. She shivered anew, grateful that she had acted in time to save herself.
At length, she dozed again, only to start awake at the sound of wheels upon the road. Creeping to the window, she peered out through the shutter and saw Wickham and Mrs. Younge descend from a hackney. Wickham’s posture betrayed the lingering effects of his debauch. The couple entered the house. Georgiana’s heart began to thud in her chest when she thought of her maid and prayed Jenny would not be blamed for her mistress’s flight. If blame was to fall on anyone, it should fall on Mrs. Younge, who had recklessly abandoned her charge the night before.
Shivering, Georgiana watched at the window, and finally, after about twenty minutes, she saw Wickham leave the house and walk down the road. She remained where she was, anxiously watching. About an hour later, a hackney drew up, and Wickham hopped down and entered the house. After several minutes, both Mr. Wickham and Mrs. Younge stepped out of the front entrance; she carried her fabric bag. They walked quickly to the waiting hackney and drove away.
Georgiana felt the impulse to run down and post her letter to Fitzwilliam, but fear restrained her. If she were seen by the servants, they might betray her to Wickham when he returned. They all feared him, including herself. She decided to remain where she was, safely barricaded.
When she woke again, it was half past two. Hunger pressed her, and she ate more bread and cheese and an orange, with a draught of water. She then confronted another necessity she hadnot prepared for. Searching the attic, she found a planter with a bit of soil at the bottom, which served in place of a chamber pot. She set it back in the far corner, relieved yet abashed at the indignity.
The afternoon dragged on, and she continued reading the Tales of Terror until weariness overcame her, and she fell asleep once more. At half past five, she woke to the sound of another carriage. This time, women’s laughter and cheerful voices followed. Looking out, she saw the commotion came not from her own door but from the house next to it. A family, dressed modestly, alighted: two women and a gentleman carrying a small child. She sat and watched the servants carry in several trunks. She sat still as the carriage rolled away, and the street was again deserted.
Georgiana was interested in the members of the little family. They were dressed plainly, but their attire was respectable, and they had behaved decently, which made them seem like a safe family who would help if she appealed to them for aid. But her safety was at risk. She feared that Wickham would return while she was in the street. She resolved to continue to watch them before making any attempt.
