“I will consider it,” he said at last, weighing duty against trust.
Georgiana’s hope was unmistakable.
That night, Darcy reread Lady Catherine's letter once more and wondered—uneasily—whether vigilance alone was enough to keep history from repeating itself.
Before Georgiana’s planned retreat to Ramsgate, Darcy arranged a short visit to Rosings Park, eager for his sister to spend time with their aunt. Lady Catherine had in recent years developed a particular fondness for Georgiana, and he hoped the quiet elegance of Kent would offer a measure of ease.
The visit exceeded expectations. Lady Catherine, delighted by Georgiana’s modesty and musical progress, positively doted on her. She ordered special teas, recounted stories from her own youth—some half-true, others wholly embellished—and even insisted on rearranging the drawing room furniture to accommodate Georgiana’s preferred angle for practicing the pianoforte.
“Your sister,” she proclaimed to Darcy with unusual warmth, “will outshine every girl in London when she comes out. Graceful, accomplished, and properly brought up. Not at all like the silly creatures one finds haunting Almack’s these days.”
Darcy did not argue.
When it came time to depart for Ramsgate, Georgiana gave her aunt a shy smile and a promise to return.
Ramsgate proved everything Mrs Younge had promised: quiet, orderly, with clean sea air and wide views of the channel. Georgiana settled intoher lodgings with cautious delight. She wrote to Darcy every third day—of cliff walks and gulls wheeling outside her window, of painting by the light of the sea, of the simple relief of being unobserved. Her letters were steady, even cheerful. Reassured, Darcy turned at last to business he had delayed too long.
His Devonshire holdings required his presence—leases to renegotiate, accounts to examine, a dispute between tenants that could no longer be ignored. Such matters demanded weeks, not letters. Confident his sister was settled and protected, Darcy departed without foreboding, unaware how swiftly trust could be exploited, or how opportunely Wickham would seize upon the quiet interval duty afforded him.
When he returned to Ramsgate, weary and expecting rest, he found instead a sight that chilled his blood.
George Wickham stood in the parlour, at ease by the fire, smiling as though he belonged there.
Darcy did not hesitate. He ordered him out—at once, without courtesy or explanation. Wickham’s brief surprise gave way to smug amusement.
“Foiled again,” he growled, just loud enough to be heard. His face was a picture of pure fury, and Darcy began to feel some danger at the thought of remaining in his presence.
Darcy repeated the command to leave. Wickham straightened his shoulders, lingering only long enough to deliver his final cruelty to Darcy’s sister—reducing her worth to that of her fortune and casting his insult with deliberate precision—before departing at last.
The door closed. The sea answered, relentless and loud.
Georgiana stood pale and shaking. The truth came haltingly: letters written in secret since March; professions of repentance and affection; assurances that Wickham had changed. Mrs Younge, she admitted in a whisper, had urged forgiveness.
That was enough.
Mrs Younge confessed within the hour. She was dismissed without reference or pay, her belongings removed, her protests ignored. Darcy did not waver.
When he returned to Georgiana, she was sobbing, folded in on herself with shame and fear. He sat beside her in silence until she could speak.
“I did not mean to disobey you.”
“I know,” he said. “You were deceived.”
“And now you must hate me.”
“Never.”
Wickham had come too close. Darcy would not allow it again.
They left Ramsgate within three days. Darcy showed no outward haste, but never once let Georgiana out of his sight. The sea that had comforted her now felt harsh; the wind carried warning. She did not look back.
At Pemberley, Georgiana withdrew into herself. Her music went untouched, her sketchbook closed. Darcy tried—reading aloud, gentle conversation, quiet evenings by the fire—but her replies were spare, her smiles thin. She seemed diminished even beyond the grief of their father’s death.
That night, Darcy wrote to Richard.
Richard arrived four days later and sobered at once upon seeing them. Darcy told him everything—the letters, the betrayal, his absence, Wickham’s presence, the whisperedfoiled again, and how narrowly disaster had been avoided.
“We shall find someone better,” Richard said at last. “Someone kind. Steady. Entirely uninteresting.”
