Darcy wished to stop them, to say—well, there was nothing he could say.
He wished to find out—but that was completely out of bounds, and quite predatory—after all, he was not Wickham!
He had no reason to stop the ladies, to follow them, or even to speak further to them.
Looking to where his carriage sat by the kerb, Darcy’s eyes met the eyes of his valet, Jameson. Jameson was an incredibly intelligent and discreet young man, someone Darcy had known and trusted for more than a decade. Darcy realised that Jameson had watched this brief interaction; he had likely heard every word, as well. When his valet lifted his eyebrows, Darcy had no idea what question he was silently asking; still, Darcy nodded, and Jameson spoke to the driver and then walked in the same direction as the two ladies.
Darcy returned to the store, murmured his thanks to Mrs Peterson, and regained his chair.
Still feeling a bit dizzy, Darcy began to think about what had just happened.
Wickham had been dressed very well and looked as handsome as ever, he supposed. The reprobate being in Ramsgate was surprising—he had assumed he would be in London.
But the sight of Wickham had not made Darcy feel so unsteady, nor had it interfered with his speech. He had made a decision and acted—and he had felt entirely himself.
Neither had the sight of the young ladies impacted Darcy. They were both pretty but not, he thought, remarkable. He had seen them, had even looked carefully at their facial expressions in an effort to decide if Wickham might influence them; andthat careful observation had been made before he spoke to Wickham.
What it was—what it seemed to be—was something to do with the young lady who had spoken up, thanking him for interceding with Wickham, who she likened to the villain of a Gothic novel. Her words were unexpected and sincere. There was something open about her expression of gratitude and her mention of the “chills” Wickham had elicited.
As she spoke, her mobile face adopted a medley of expressions, one moment looking pert, the next fierce and soon after vulnerable. Such transience was captivating, and he felt as if he wished to watch for the next and then the next expression.
Her voice, too, seemed special. It was lower than expected from such a diminutive person. It was firm. Lively. Bright.
Was this the feeling of attraction some men spoke about? His young friend Bingley once said, “I was rooted to the spot, Darce; I could hardly speak. I just held out my arm, and thankfully the angel who had so moved me took it, and we danced, and….”
Well, Bingley had gone on and on about his angel, but Darcy had heard very similar words from his friend more times than he could count, and so he had barely paid heed to them. He had assumed that Bingley being “rooted to the spot” and hardly able to speak were exaggerations, but now….
For him, this was a first. He had seen beautiful ladies before—many, many pretty ladies and not a few stunning ladies—but although he smiled and exchanged polite conversation, and although he danced (only one dance per lady, not matter how lovely—and never the first, the last, nor the supper dance), he called on none of them, he began no courtships, and he never found himself thinking and dreaming of a single lady of his acquaintance.
But now—this particular lady?—
Darcy remained sitting, not paying attention to anything around him, for a timeless period. The image of the young lady—theveryyoung lady, he suspected—stayed in his mind, lingering like a daydream. He did not pace, he did not stare at his sister trying on yet another bonnet, he did not even so much as shift in his chair.
When Georgiana emerged, a broad smile on her face and a charming poke bonnet hiding her golden hair, Darcy stood up, smiled at his sister, and acknowledged the shop assistant with the words, “We are much obliged for your patience, miss.”
The assistant handed him the hatbox containing the old bonnet. Escorting Georgiana out, he handed the hatbox to his footman and helped Georgiana and Mrs Peterson into the carriage. Then he stood for a moment, looking at the path the two ladies and his valet had taken. There being nothing in particular of interest in that directionnow, he shook his head at himself and climbed aboard, and they set off for Seaside Cottage.
Jameson returnedwith many more particulars than Darcy could have ever expected. The taller of the young ladies was Miss Bennet; the shorter was Miss Elizabeth Bennet. They were daughters of a gentleman, but they were staying with their uncle, aunt, and cousins, the Gardiner family. Mr Gardiner was wealthy, but in trade. As to the Bennets, Miss Bennet was seventeen—which was very young—but Miss Elizabeth was far too young, at fifteen.
They would be at Pegwell Bay almost every morning.
Jameson was a marvel. When Darcy asked how on earth he had learnt so much, he just shrugged, modestly, and said, “Yourservants do not talk about the family, because they are too well compensated to risk being dismissed, but most servants talk. Some talk far too freely.”
Darcy knew that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was far too young for him to meet and get to know, but when Georgiana woke the next morning and asked if they could go to the Main Sands or Pegwell Bay, as they did most days, he found himself guiding his sister to Pegwell. He spotted Miss Elizabeth immediately, but he wrenched his eyes away from her and kept his focus on Georgiana and the rock pools they were exploring.
Soon, a man approached. He looked to be, perhaps, five and thirty, and Darcy rose from where he had squatted down and nodded to him. The man said, “Pardon me for interrupting you, sir, and addressing you without an introduction, but my niece told me just now it is to you that I owe thanks. Yesterday she reported that an unworthy young man had approached her and her sister with honeyed words that seemed to her entirely improper, and she said that you managed to urge him away, warning my servant about the danger he posed. I wish to thank you for doing so.”
Darcy shook his head and said, “You owe me no thanks. I know how odd it is for me to intercede in such a situation, but the reprobate, George Wickham, seemed to be alarming your nieces. I only did what any gentleman would do.”
“My name is Edward Gardiner,” the man said with a shallow bow.
“Pleased to meet you. Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service.” He nodded his head
Mr Gardiner hesitated, to Darcy’s surprise—he had thought that, having broken with propriety and approached without an introduction, the man would scuttle away as quickly as possible after saying what he had wished to say. However, Mr Gardinerlooked troubled, and he said, “Is there anything I can do to limit my nieces’ danger from Mr Wickham?”
Darcy said slowly, “I had thought that forewarned was forearmed.”
Mr Gardiner blushed. “Most certainly. I must entreat your forgiveness, again, for so bold an intrusion on the customs of propriety, and I offer my most sincere thanks, once more.” Bowing again, he hurried away, back to his family. But Darcy had seen his continuing disquiet.
