Georgiana's Bedchamber
Later
10th July
Dearest Brother,
I am having a wonderful time. I am grateful that you allowed me to come here; London is hot and dusty in July, and Ramsgate is cool and clean and the ocean – oh brother, I am painting a picture, and while it is no great thing, I hope that it will give you some idea of how lovely it all is. Indeed, I hope you are able to join me here soon, if your business permits you to leave Town in the next week or two.
I recently met a charming young lady named Miss Bennet, whose aunt grew up in Lambton, though my friend lives in Hertfordshire. Her father is master of an estate there.
I know you were concerned I would be lonely, but I am not in the least. Mrs. Younge is pleasant company, and Mr. Wickham joins us for dinner almost every day. I am so very glad that you and he met in London recently; it has been too long since we Darcys have spent time with Mr. Wickham. It is odd, really, how much has changed in the last years after Father's death…
But I cannot repine, when I have you as a wonderful brother, and Mr. Wickham as a friend. Indeed, sometimes I wonder…
Georgiana put down her pen and yawned hugely, her eyes straying to the clock on the mantle of the cold fireplace. It was nearly midnight, and she was exhausted. It would be best for her to finish this letter in the morning.
She carefully set her pen aside, blew out the three candles on the candelabra set nearby her desk, and made her way cautiously to her bed, whose covers had already been pulled back by a maid. She climbed in, relishing the clean sheets, and pulled the thin quilt over her. She rolled onto her side and found herself smiling in memory of the pleasures of the day.
George Wickham was some thirteen years older than she was, and she had not seen him since the year her father died. When she was a child, she had been in awe of his height and strength and good humor, and delighted with his attention and care. They had played Fox and Geese, and hoops, and spillikins … and then her father had died, and Mr. Wickham had been forced to make his own way in the world. Now he was with her again, and it seemed, though she could not be certain, that he saw her as more than a child now. He was so handsome, of course, and intelligent, and she was only fifteen and while pretty, not a beauty. It seemed unlikely that he truly cared about her. But the way he looked at her sometimes was not the look of a man toward a child. No, it was more; there was an ardency in those blue eyes that spoke of more than mere friendliness.
She smiled again, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
/
Matlock House
London
Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of the vast estate of Pemberley in Derbyshire, was annoyed.
He had received with pleasure the invitation from his aunt, Lady Matlock, to dinner, and had eagerly accepted. His business had occupied his time so fully of late that there had been few opportunities to visit his relations and acquaintances. He had arrived at Matlock House, and his pleasure had vanished up like smoke as he observed the drawing room full of guests. Four eminently eligible young ladies would be sharing the table with them, along with their father or mother or both.
He had stripped off his gloves, scowling, and executed a perfect bow to his aunt's guests. As little as he liked the situation, he was not terribly surprised by it; his aunt was an avid matchmaker at the best of times. Already his cousin the viscount was successfully married through Lady Matlock's machinations, and one of his female cousins too. Now, with Richard on the Continent fighting the Corsican Tyrant, Darcy had become the object of her matrimonial arrangements. Lady Matlock was determined that her nephew would marry well and had set out to find him a bride with wealth and connections equal to his own.
Thus it was that he found himself seated at dinner next to Lady Diana Barrington, a handsome young woman with a substantial dowry whose father was a marquis. Darcy was passingly acquainted with her already. She had come out the previous season and had not wanted for admirers. Plainly, she had accepted none of them, and now Lady Matlock had chosen her as a fitting bride for Darcy.
Darcy himself was concentrating heavily on the table before him in lieu of the Lady Diana's rather dull conversation. Lady Matlock had ordered an expansive dinner, varied and delicious. Beef and pork and fish sat between asparagus and apple pie and white soup and pudding and potatoes and fruit and peas and carrots. He had a portion of ragout on his plate, alongside several vegetables, and now was eating steadily.
"Of course, the weather is dreadfully hot," Lady Diana said in a languid tone as cut a piece of beef into dainty bits.
Darcy shoved a bite of ragout into his mouth and chewed vigorously, even as he shot an indignant look at his aunt. Lady Matlock was immune to glares, though; indeed, she merely returned his look with raised brows and a slight nod of her head toward Lady Diana.
Darcy sighed softly and turned back to the lady in question, who was looking vaguely aggrieved, presumably at his silence. "Yes, it has been hot," he concurred. "Does your family intend to leave Town soon?"
"I fear not. My father, Lord Heathrow, as you doubtless know, is high up in the government and…"
Lady Diana continued to ramble on at some length, obviously intent on boasting about her family's connections and power, while Darcy spoke as minimally as possible without being overly rude.
He knew, and accepted, that Lady Diana was an excellent match. Her father was a marquis, her mother the daughter of an earl, and she herself was well educated and, based on her claims, an excellent performer on the pianoforte and the harp, along with speaking reasonable French and Italian.
It said much for Darcy's contrary nature that none of this mattered in the least. Yes, when he chose a wife, he would expect the lady to be very accomplished, and while he did not care greatly about Italian, he did believe that any woman worth her salt would love books.
But he wanted more than an icy queen who flaunted her abilities some of the time and complained about the weather or the dusty streets the rest of the time.
He sighed. He was eight and twenty and had been in London for many a Season, and still had never met a woman who stirred his heart in the least. He was not certain if he ever would, and while he was not so very old, at some point he would absolutely need to marry in order to sire an heir for Pemberley. Was he, perhaps, hoping for too much? He took a sip of wine and composed himself, then turned toward Lady Diana again. Perhaps if he instigated a topic of interest, she would respond
"Do you enjoy Shakespeare?" he asked.
"Oh yes, especially the tragedies! There is so much pathos, and sorrow and, erm, poignancy. A few months ago, I went to a production of King Lear and the Duke of Sussex was in the audience, you know! Oh, and Lord and Lady Jersey were in attendance as well…"
Darcy kept his face blank and suppressed a moan. She was dreadfully dull, Lady Diana, and he could not bear to think of marrying her.
Unfortunately, he could not bear to think of marrying any of the women he knew.
/
The Beach
Two Days Later
A breeze tugged and teased at the curls wisping from beneath Georgiana's cap, but she had practice now in ignoring this. Her brush dipped in the paint and swooped across her paper, leaving a long streak of azure blue behind it. Lower down, greens and blues and grays all frolicked together in imitation of the sea beyond the easel, the painted sands tawny and matte in the bright sunlight. Mrs. Younge leaned forward to indicate with a pointing finger. "Perhaps a seabird right here, Miss Darcy, to break up the monotony? Not as large as a cloud?"
Georgiana considered and turned her head slightly to solicit Mr. Wickham's opinion before changing her mind. She was quite old enough to decide on her own painting. "You do not think it would be too busy, with this rock right here?" she said to her companion timidly.
"I do not think so," Mrs. Younge assured her, "for the rock is gray, and the bird is white."
"You are correct, of course," Georgiana acknowledged, and with a few swift strokes a white bird wheeled above the painted ocean.
A minute later, Georgiana blew out a breath and set down her brush, shaking her hand to dispel a mild cramp. She rose to her feet, and Mr. Wickham, who had been lurking in the background, stepped forward and held out an arm. Georgiana took it with a blush and a smile. He really was so very gallant, Mr. Wickham, absurdly so, given that she was only walking a few feet to stand at the railing which allowed her to look down at the beach below.
The day was a beautiful one and warmer than usual, and at least two dozen people were wandering up and down the sands below, some of them children, who squealed and splashed with joyous abandon. Georgiana was startled to recognize Elizabeth and her cousins; apparently she had been so intent on her painting that she had not noticed them descending Jacob's ladder some dozen feet away from her perch.
"Miss Bennet, is it not?" Mrs. Younge remarked, stepping up next to Georgiana.
"And her cousins," Georgiana answered, smiling at the sight before her. Her only brother was more than a decade older than she was, and while she would not trade him for the world, she had often longed for a sibling closer in age. Miss Bennet's cousins were fortunate to have one another.
"Would you like to descend to the beach and speak with her for a time?" Mrs. Younge asked, which provoked a look of pleased surprise from Georgiana.
"Oh, yes," she said, "I would like that very much. Do you, erm, wish to come as well?"
"I would rather not, if you do not mind, Miss Darcy. I took a bad step off of the stairwell this morning, and my ankle hurts a trifle."
Georgiana now turned a hopeful gaze on Wickham, but her governess said, "I believe Mr. Wickham has a prior engagement shortly and will be leaving us soon?"
"I fear so," Wickham replied with a bow, "but I hope I will be welcome this evening at dinner?"
Georgiana, who had been looking disappointed, nodded happily at these words and curtsied. "Until then, Mr. Wickham."
The gentleman bowed dramatically, and she blushed before hurrying to Jacob's Ladder and descending to the beach below. Mrs. Younge and Wickham watched as she walked over the soft sand to Elizabeth Bennet and engaged her in conversation.
"Is something wrong?" Wickham asked in a low tone, though there was no danger of anyone overhearing him.
"Read this," Mrs. Younge said, handing over the letter which Georgiana had trustingly given her to post.
Wickham did so rapidly and shrugged. "It is just as well that you are intercepting her mail."
"Yes, but Darcy is a diligent correspondent, and my charge will be expecting some comment from her brother on your presence in Ramsgate, so it is not as if I can merely intercept Darcy's letters and throw them away."
Wickham bit his lip, his brow furrowed with concentration, and said, "Yes, that is true enough, but if we can convince Georgiana to run away in the next few days..."
"'Tis far too soon, George," his accomplice interrupted. "You have only been here in Ramsgate a little more than a week, and while I freely admit you are the most attractive and winsome gentleman of my acquaintance, if you rush her, she will spook. But I also fear that if too long a time goes by without a letter from her brother, she will be distressed and perhaps even concerned."
Wickham cogitated then grinned and patted her on the hand. "My dear Dorothea, do not worry your beautiful head about such matters. Leave it to me."