Chapter 7

The Bookstore

Elizabeth loved the feel of new books in her hand, the stiff leather and fragrance of paper and ink. She was careful with each book that she picked up to examine, making an effort not to bend or mar the pages. Milly stood nearby, basking in the sunlight through the window, with little interest in the offered wares. Elizabeth and the maid had been dispatched on the task of acquiring reading materials for the convalescing Mrs. Gardiner, who was feeling restive. Given that aunt and niece shared similar taste in books, Elizabeth was confident that she would find several volumes that both would enjoy.

Elizabeth glanced up and over at her companion, waiting patiently before the window. But then her eyes slid over Milly's shoulder to the couple standing outside. She recognized Miss Darcy's two companions, Mrs. Younge and Mr. Wickham, but there was no sign of the girl herself. Elizabeth frowned, puzzled; it was not so unusual to see Mr. Wickham, perhaps, but why was Mrs. Younge away from Miss Darcy? Perhaps the girl had remained at home with the maids to look after her while Mrs. Younge did some shopping?

But in that case, why was she standing so very close to Mr. Wickham in such an improper way? The pair was chatting quite cozily indeed, and Elizabeth's frown deepened. Seconds later her unease deepened to shock and consternation as Mr. Wickham lifted the governess's hand to kiss it, gazing ardently into the woman's eyes.

Elizabeth turned away from the window, feeling rather as though she had just witnessed something shameful, and sustained another surprise. There, at the other end of the row and slightly around the corner – quite out of sight of the window – stood Miss Darcy, looking lovely in blue and entirely absorbed in the shelf before her.

"Miss Darcy!" she exclaimed, hurrying over.

"Miss Bennet! How lovely to see you here! I hope you are well."

"I am very well, yes," Elizabeth replied, though her brow was knit.

"I hope your aunt is well also?" Georgiana replied cheerfully as she considered the books on the shelf in front of her, which held the newest Gothic novels. She was very fond of Gothics, even if they were not considered the greatest of literature.

"Yes, but Miss Darcy..."

Georgiana turned curiously and finally noted the look of concern on her new acquaintance's face. "Is something wrong?"

"I ... forgive me, as I know I am being forward, but I am worried. Mr. Wickham – is he a close friend to Mrs. Younge?"

Georgiana's brow knit in confusion, and she shook her head. "No, of course not. They met for the first time here in Ramsgate."

The look of concern grew even more marked, and Elizabeth said, "I just saw Mr. Wickham kiss Mrs. Young's hand, and they looked very intimate."

Georgiana stared at her in open disbelief and then shook her head vigorously. "That ... you must be mistaken."

"I am not, I promise you. I saw it."

Georgiana walked over to peer toward the front of the store. Mr. Wickham and Mrs. Younge were now standing side by side, their backs toward her, looking toward the ocean.

"I see nothing amiss," she said and was suddenly aware that she was angry. "Mr. Wickham is a very gallant man, and perhaps my governess said something that he found amusing or charming or something of the like. It means nothing."

Elizabeth bit her lip. She really did not have any right to interfere, but she was genuinely worried for the girl. Something was wrong.

On the other hand, Miss Darcy was looking as outraged as a gentle person could, so Elizabeth took a step backwards and said, "I do apologize, Miss Darcy, for my interference. My youngest sister is fifteen and still overly trusting of others, along with being unaware of the ways of the world, and that has caused me to overstep my bounds. Will you please forgive me?"

Georgiana was at heart a kindly soul, and she quickly said, "Of course I forgive you. And pray do not be concerned. Mr. Wickham is the very best of men."

Elizabeth saw the adoring light in the younger woman's eyes, and her heart sank, though she merely said, "I am glad. If I may say just one thing more, Miss Darcy, if you find yourself in need of a friend, you can send a message to Number Six Cliff Street and I will come at once."

"That is kind of you," Georgiana replied and turned as the door opened to reveal Mrs. Younge, who bustled forward with a smile, which disappeared at the sight of Elizabeth.

"Miss Bennet," she said coldly, "good morning."

"Good morning, Mrs. Younge. I hope you are well?"

"I am well, though I confess to being surprised at how often you seem to encounter Miss Darcy."

The tone was not a pleasant one, and Elizabeth had to bite back a sharp reply. Given that Miss Darcy was already uncomfortable, she subsumed her anger and said, "It is not a very big town, and the bookstore must be one of the favorite haunts of gentle ladies?"

"I suppose," her companion replied haughtily and turned her attention on the younger woman. "Miss Darcy, have you found any books you wish to purchase?"

Georgiana had watched the interaction with a frown, but she merely said, "Yes, I would like these two books."

"Excellent. Shall we? Good day, Miss Bennet."

"Good day, Miss Darcy, Mrs. Younge."

Elizabeth watched as the two ladies made their way to pay for their purchases and then returned to browsing through the historical offerings of the store, though her mind was on the previous conversations. She did not trust Mrs. Younge or Mr. Wickham, not at all. But there was nothing she could do but pray, and she did pray, that Miss Darcy would be kept safe from any machinations on the part of her governess and the elegant and dashing Mr. Wickham.

/

Miss Darcy's Rented House

After Dinner

Georgiana gazed into the fire absently. Her governess was across the room, sorting music on the pianoforte, while Mr. Wickham had settled comfortably into a wingbacked chair nearby with navy blue cushions. The house still smelled faintly of dinner, a most pleasant aroma. Georgiana had no doubt that the food which had produced the scents had been equally pleasing, but she had little memory of it.

Her mind was instead consumed with much less salutary thoughts. Despite her earlier confidence, she found that Miss Bennet's concerns had niggled down into her brain and taken root. She had been certain that Wickham was in love with her, as she had fallen quite in love with him – but was it possible that she was mistaken? Was it Mrs. Younge who had caught his fancy? The woman was no longer in her bloom of youth, but she was handsome, refined, and elegant, and most certainly closer to Mr. Wickham's age. Could it be that Mr. Wickham – so kind, so gallant, so attentive – still saw her as merely a child and indulged her as one might a child in order to pay attentions to her governess?

And all this time she had been falling in love with him! Did he suspect? Had he realized? Georgiana thought she might wither of the embarrassment of it, even as her tender heart cracked.

"Miss Darcy," Mr. Wickham said, drawing her attention. He was sitting across from her but now he rose to his feet and held out his hand. "I have something I wish to say to you."

Her heart began beating faster, and she looked at Mrs. Younge, who was looking on indulgently.

"I do believe, Miss Darcy," the lady said, "that it would be appropriate for me to step outside for a few minutes, if that is permissible."

"Oh," Georgiana gasped joyfully. "Oh yes, that is quite, erm, that is…"

Mrs. Younge laughed and made her way out of the door and into the hall, leaving Georgiana with the man she loved.

"Miss Darcy," Wickham said, beaming down on her youthful face, "In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. I know that we have only recently renewed our acquaintance after a long separation, but I respected and honored you as a child, and now am in wonder at the beautiful, intelligent young lady you have become. I am well aware that I am not worthy of you, but I love you so very much, and I…"

/

Georgiana's Bedchamber

Midnight

Georgiana Darcy snuggled in bed and felt tears of joy slipping out of her eyes and down her cheeks. Miss Bennet was wrong and Mr. Wickham – George – loved her, not Mrs. Younge. They were to be married, and soon, and she would be the happiest woman in all of England.

She blew out a breath and snuggled deeper into her linen sheets. It was true, as George had admitted, that he was not wealthy, but that hardly mattered – the interest from Georgiana's thirty thousand pound dowry would easily support them and their children. More than that, George Wickham was a close friend of her brother, and she had no doubt Fitzwilliam – so kind, so generous – would be pleased to let the Wickhams dwell at Pemberley for much of the year.

She was also relieved that she would not be forced to endure a high society wedding. She and George and Mrs. Younge had discussed the matter at some length the previous hours, and while dear George was willing to wait months so that the arrangements could be made for a lavish affair in London, Georgiana had no desire for that! She was shy and did not like being the center of attention; far better for them to hurry off to Scotland and be married over the gavel. It would be a gift to Fitzwilliam, too. His last letter had indicated that he was overwhelmed with work. Should he be forced to deal with a large wedding as well? No, far better for her to arrive in London with her handsome husband at her side, and Fitzwilliam would be overjoyed to welcome George as a brother without any worry over wedding breakfasts and the like.

Rather to her surprise, she felt her body relax as drowsiness overtook her. She had thought she would be too excited to sleep, but it had been a busy day, and…

She was very nearly asleep when a word formed in her mind, causing her to startle awake.

Stokes.

Stokes?

Why would she be...

She frowned into the darkness, her brain struggling to grasp the thought which had led to the word.

Stokes…

She threw aside her sheet and blanket and carefully made her way to light a taper from the low burning fire, which she then used to light the candles on her little writing desk. She pulled a robe on to ward against the chill, sat down, opened the small drawer in the desk, and pulled out the previous letter she had received from her brother while she had been in Ramsgate.

Ah, here it was.

Darcy House

My dear Georgiana,

It pleases me to hear that you are enjoying the sea air of Ramsgate. The Metropolis is not particularly salubrious this time of year, and your health is most important.

I miss you, of course, but my work is keeping me excessively busy and would not permit me to spend the time with you that you deserve.

You probably remember Mr. Stokes, who has served as my man of business, and my father's as well, for the last twenty years. He died unexpectedly a few days ago of a sudden apoplexy, and his nephew, a Mr. Donovan, who has been assisting him for some time, is now the head of the firm. I do not know the young man well and intend to spend substantial time with him in the next few weeks to see whether he has the capacity to manage the Darcy interests…

Georgiana stopped reading, put the letter down, pulled out the most recent missive from Fitzwilliam, and then scanned it in search of the section she was looking for.

I have an appointment with Mr. Stokes in an hour – I am most grateful for his long service to our family – and then I must call on the Matlocks.

Mr. Stokes was dead, so why had Fitzwilliam spoken of meeting with him?

Perhaps Fitzwilliam had been distracted and merely made a mistake? But no, her brother was a very meticulous, careful man. He did not make errors like that.

So what did this mean? Was it possible that this letter was from earlier, from before Mr. Stokes died, and had been lost in the mail for some days? That was impossible, though, as the latest letter mentioned Mr. Wickham, and was obviously in response to her letter regarding her encounter with George here.

She felt her heart beating faster in her chest, this time not from joy, but from alarm. Something was wrong, and she did not know what it was, but she was frightened.

She put the letters side by side and compared the writing. They were certainly very similar, but the way that the o's and e's were formed in the second letter was different from the first. And the capital L's were different as well. Was it possible that the second letter was not actually from her dear brother? That somehow it had been forged?

Miss Bennet had expressed concern about the intimacy between Mrs. Younge and Wickham. Could it be that they were acquainted prior to their respective journeys to Ramsgate? Was this some kind of scheme to trap her in marriage?

It seemed impossible. She loved George Wickham to the depths of her being, and he had shown, through his words and actions, that he adored her in return. He had such a noble countenance, and his speech was charming and amiable. Moreover, the Wickhams had always been good friends of the Darcys.

And yet, what to make of this difference in the letters regarding Mr. Stokes and penmanship?

She set the letters aside and stood up, too agitated to sleep. Perhaps in the morning she could speak to Mrs. Younge? But what if the woman was not to be trusted?

Surely that was absurd. Fitzwilliam was a careful man and would have made certain that the lady was honorable. There must be some reasonable explanation for the disparity in the letters.

She sighed and looked around her. She wished to go back to sleep, but she was sufficiently agitated that it would be difficult. Perhaps she could read a book?

She realized with frustration that she had forgotten her new purchases of the day, caught up in the joy of her engagement to Wickham.

It was well after midnight, and the house and its inhabitants were asleep. She would creep downstairs and collect the book, bring it upstairs, and read until she tired. Tomorrow, she would speak to Mrs. Younge on the matter of the letters ... or she would not. She was too tired to make good decisions at the moment.

Her door swung open on silent hinges, revealing the hallway dark save a single shaft of moonlight from the window at the end of the hall. Georgiana paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. After a moment, she stepped out onto the plush carpet that ran the length of the hallway and started towards the stairwell, trusting to the candle left in the hall below to light her way. But halfway there a sound from behind her caught her attention. She paused and looked over her shoulder.

The moon smiled in through the window to spill pale light across the floor, washing the dark blue carpet a delicate powder color. But what drew Georgiana's attention was the band of yellow candlelight visible beneath her companion's door. Even as she watched, it was briefly occluded, and the sound came again – now that she was listening, it seemed like someone was having a conversation in the bedchamber.

Intrigued and uncertain, the girl turned to creep down the hall, past her own room and the next to Mrs. Younge's door. She hesitated a moment, feeling a flush of shame at her plan. But it had been an odd night, and an unnerving one, and she steeled herself and pressed her ear to the door.

The voices were yet too low for her to distinguish words. She heard Mrs. Younge laugh softly, answered by a masculine voice – a very familiar voice. Wickham was in Mrs. Younge's bedchamber! In the middle of the night!

Georgiana pulled away, stifling a gasp into her hand. She felt ill – this could only mean one thing. Miss Bennet's concerned warnings were entirely correct. Mr. Wickham and Mrs. Younge were indeed in league and plotting against Georgiana. There was no possible excuse for an unmarried man and woman to be in the lady's bedchamber at night.

She took a deep breath and carefully retreated from the door and back to her own bedchamber, the book forgotten. She took off her robe and crawled into bed, hot tears cascading down her cheeks. Mr. Wickham did not love her, and Mrs. Younge was unsafe.

She was suddenly, painfully aware that she was alone in the house except for her governess and a few maids and manservants, none of whom she was well acquainted with. Hannah, the girl who acted as her personal maid, had been hired here in Ramsgate, and for all Georgiana knew, was working with Mrs. Younge.

She had a little money in her purse, but she could hardly journey from Ramsgate to London by herself, nor did she have any idea how to do so. She was, she thought with a twinge of fear, quite helpless in managing her life by herself.

What was she to do?