CHAPTER 1
15 October 1811
DARCY
On the long journey south from Pemberley, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s body felt heavier, his energy lower, every mile they travelled. He dug deep, minute after minute, attempting to rally his own spirits so that he could cheer his much-younger sister, Georgiana. But looking at her drawn face, the circles under her eyes—Darcy could not help losing heart. His sister’s gaze never met his eyes, let alone focused on him, even when he spoke.
So he spoke less and less.
It was not a surprise that she was in low spirits. She had suffered from melancholy at home, too. But at their country estate, he had managed to urge her to ride with him every day, and after that, he had to tend to his own duties. Riding alongside her and working apart from her—in neither activity was he face-to-face with her sad eyes.
Now it was just the two of them, facing one another in a carriage.
Darcy had tried conversing with her on light topics, but her answers were flat and monosyllabic, and he was not chatty enough to fill the silence without her help. He had tried reading to her, but her sad countenance never changed, evenas he switched from Wordsworth’s poetry to a well-regarded novel. With her showing no interest even in an exciting tale of shipwreck and of determined efforts to survive on an untamed island, he gave up the notion of reading aloud.
It was almost a relief when Georgiana became ill. Of course, he was horrified that she was bent over with intense pains, and he was desperately worried, but at least their focus on the recent, unhappy past was replaced by the need toactin the frightening present.
“What is wrong, Georgiana?” he asked for the third time.
This time she was able to gasp out an answer. “I hurt so badly…. I might have eaten tainted food?” She went silent for a few seconds, her cheeks paling, and then she gasped again: “It almost feels like my stomach is being ripped in half, but then I feel as if the pain is lower.”
Darcy pounded on the roof of the carriage, and it halted. He leapt out and consulted with his drivers and with Georgiana’s lady’s maid, who rode in the carriage behind with several other servants.
Since they were much closer to London than to any other town of moderate size, he decided to abandon his former intention to head off the main road towards a village in Hertfordshire. He had had plans to visit a good friend, but he decided to go instead to his uncle and aunt in Town, and to the Darcy family’s physician.
He gave directions to the drivers, sent a footman on his fastest horse to ride ahead and engage the services of Dr Planchard at Matlock House, and arranged for Madison, Georgiana’s maid, to sit with them in the main carriage. Once underway, Georgiana clutched the woman and wept, and both Madison and Darcy tried to comfort her with words. Darcy willed the horses to go faster, to get Georgiana to help morequickly, but he knew that his driver was going as swiftly as was safely possible.
Being forced to take action and make decisions had afforded Darcy some relief—but then he had to sit and wait. There was nothing more he could do, nothing further he must decide. It was one of the most miserable periods of Darcy’s life. Not only was he worried for Georgiana in the short run, the usual long-standing concerns reared up again in his mind.
Georgiana had never been a radiantly happy child, but since she had grown up without a mother and had lost her father at age ten, nobody could blame her for being a bit too serious and much too shy.
In truth, being overly serious and quite reticent were two of Darcy’s own faults. He too was an orphan, but he had grown to age twelve with his loving mother still alive, and while his father’s death had been utterly tragic for him, thrusting him into almost overwhelming responsibilities not long after he came of age, he had at least had two decades of his father’s training, support, and love.
Georgiana has been cheated by life’s vicissitudes, he thought for the thousandth time.
That summer’s brush with ruin had proved that Darcy’s guardianship of his sister was imperfect at best. With Georgiana’s other guardian, their cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy had carefully chosen Mrs Younge as a companion to replace Georgiana’s governess, who wished to retire to care for her aged parents. After several months during which both Georgiana and Darcy grew to respect and trust Mrs Younge, she suggested setting up a household for the summer in Ramsgate, and because Georgiana loved the idea of doing so, Darcy agreed.
Unfortunately, Mrs Younge had a secret relationship with Darcy’s greatest enemy, George Wickham. The two conspired toconvince Georgiana that Wickham loved her and that she was in love with him. Mrs Younge had also brought into Georgiana’s life a stream of mass-market novels from Minerva Press, novels that painted Gretna Green as the height of romance. Eventually, Georgiana agreed to elope with Wickham.
Mere chance had foiled the miscreants’ plan. Of course their goal was to control Georgiana’s dowry of thirty thousand pounds, but Darcy surprised his sister with an unplanned visit, and Georgiana confessed her plan to elope. Darcy confronted Wickham mere minutes later, as he arrived with a hired carriage, and Darcy never even considered the fact that Georgiana would likely hear her supposed lover’s voice during the confrontation—but she did.
She heard Wickham admit that he could not abide the idea of romance with Georgiana—“Don’t worry, Fitzy, I haven’t laid a finger on her. My God! It’s not like she has any appeal in that way!” She heard Mrs Younge protest her innocence in the matter but then admit in a small and shamed voice that “George is awfully persuasive, and we must have something to live on!” Georgiana saw the sneer on Wickham’s face as he rushed past her, attempting to get away from her brother, and she saw the apologetic expression Mrs Younge sent her as she hastened after him.
And thus, Georgiana’s heart was not merely broken, but shattered. Also crushed, apparently pulverised, was her trust in other people, her self-confidence, her sense of self-worth, her hopes for the future.
His sister had flung herself onto Darcy’s chest, and his arms had closed over her protectively. He was so very grateful that he had arrived in time to prevent her utter ruin. She had cried long and bitterly, and at that time he had had no idea that she would still be melancholic months later.
Still, he had done the best he could do. He had closed up the house at Ramsgate, had paid the servants a large bonus for their silence on the matter, and had reminded them that he had their names and directions. He had taken his sister back to Pemberley with the goal of healing all that had been riven, and the only person he had told of the events had been Richard. His cousin was, after all, Georgiana’s co-guardian; he deserved to know.
However, Richard was also a soldier. When Darcy learnt that Richard had searched for and discovered Wickham, had challenged him to a duel, had killed and secretly buried the man—well, Darcy had been very angry. Not only was duelling illegal, but it also was a huge risk when dealing with someone wholly without principles.
When she heard about Wickham’s death, Mrs Younge had hung herself. “Suicide for reasons unknown” was the official story. Darcy did not even wish to consider that Richard might be directly responsible for that death, as well.
Even though Darcy had been angry at his cousin’s actions, he was a bit surprised at the enormity of relief and, to be honest, satisfaction he also felt. Wickham and Younge had received justice for their awful plot, and they would not be able to gossip about his sister. Wickham would not lurk in the shadows the rest of their lives, constantly demanding money and threatening Darcy that he would reveal his sister’s near ruin. But now….
Now Georgiana was curled up in a ball and weeping. Darcy felt sick himself, he was so anxious about his young sister.
Thank God!
