Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

ELIZABETH PACED IN her bedroom. "You heard what he said, didn't you, Harmony?"

"I didn't, no. I wasn't listening, ma'am. That was your private conversation, and—" The girl broke off as Elizabeth stopped pacing and turned her gaze onto Harmony. "Oh, all right, I suppose I sort of heard."

"And? What do you know about Ramsgate?"

"Nothing," said Harmony.

Elizabeth put her hands on her hips.

Harmony wrinkled up her nose. "They came back here afterwards and he was angry and she cried a lot."

"Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy, you mean?"

"Oh, yes, apologies," Harmony said. "Mrs. Younge did not come back, conspicuously. We heard that she had been let go. And since then, it seems she runs a boarding house in London, which seems to indicate it would be impossible for her to get another governess job."

"So, she did something awful, then?" said Elizabeth.

Harmony twisted her fingers together.

"Did she not seem like the type to do something awful?" said Elizabeth.

"Georgie Wickham is a schemer and everyone says so," said Harmony.

"So, you're saying he's lying to me now." Elizabeth resumed pacing. "Why not? After all, he lied to me before, and he admitted it was just to make himself look good. So, this, now, why not?"

"Why not, indeed?" said Harmony.

"It's only that it is ludicrous to take someone to Ramsgate if one is planning on eloping to Scotland," said Elizabeth. "Why, even if one were in London, it makes no sense to travel all the way down there first. And to think that a governess would assist in such a thing when she would lose everything afterwards? And what would she gain?"

"Well, some of the dowry, maybe?" said Harmony.

Elizabeth sat down in the chair that was in front of her writing desk. "What sort of dowry does Miss Darcy have?"

"I think it's quite a lot," said Harmony. "And maybe Mr. Wickham said he'd keep Mrs. Younge on, that they'd still be entangled, and he would only marry Miss Darcy in name, for the money, but never touch her. And then—"

"You've thought this through," said Elizabeth.

"I suppose there's been a lot of talk," said Harmony.

"Would you have thought it of her?"

"Of Miss Darcy?"

"Of Mrs. Younge."

"Oh," said Harmony with a sigh. She shook her head. "At the time, no. She seemed very proper. But she was always sneaking about with Mr. Wickham. There can be no doubt she was being improper with him. Even so, she seemed to be quite concerned with Miss Darcy. It seems unlikely she would do anything to deliberately harm her."

"So, you're saying his version of events could be true, then."

"I suppose anything could be true," said Harmony. "Still, I would stay clear of him, ma'am."

"Yes, that's sound advice, no doubt," said Elizabeth. "I should write to Mr. Darcy, I suppose, and tell him that I've seen him. If he comes home and I've said nothing, he'll think I am keeping it from him."

"Just so, ma'am," said Harmony.

Elizabeth nodded. She turned around at her desk and got out a sheet of paper. "Harmony?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I shall set this down and read it aloud and you will tell me what you think of what I have written, yes?"

"Of course."

Two hours later, there were crumpled up letters all over the floor from all the aborted attempts to write the letter. Why was it so hard to write to Mr. Darcy about Mr. Wickham? She'd done nothing wrong.

At any rate, the letter was done now. She would send it off on the morrow.

MR. DARCY GOT the letter from his wife the day of the opera. He read it.

Balled it up in one fist.

Smoothed it back out, his heart pounding, and reread it. Dash everything. Wickham must have heard the news that Georgiana was set to come back to Pemberley and rushed back there to be there when she arrived. That blackguard.

It was no secret that Georgiana had looked up to Mr. Wickham when she was younger. As an adolescent girl, she'd even had some kind of girlish crush on him, at least this was what she'd told him. When he'd begun showing her actual attention, at first she was flattered and excited, but then it began to frighten her.

She didn't like the fact that she must keep things secret from everyone, she said. That was why Georgiana had written her brother the letter from Ramsgate in the first place. She didn't like what Mr. Wickham had been hinting at, because he seemed to think that they were going to get married.

When it came right down to it, his younger sister had not truly wanted to be tied down to someone like Mr. Wickham. Whether he would have been able to convince her to go through with it or not, Mr. Darcy wasn't certain.

Georgiana said no. Of course I wouldn't have married him! The letter I sent must be proof, Fitz, and you are beastly to be so cruel to me about it, even now.

He didn't mean to be cruel. He didn't blame her. She was a victim in all of it, far too young to know how to guard herself against a man like Wickham.

It was only that she had never really seemed sorry about any of it, he supposed. She'd only been angry. When Darcy had arrived in Ramsgate only a day after receiving her letter (for he'd been roused to immediate action when he read it), she had been appalled that he'd come there.

I didn't mean for you to ruin everything like this, she had sobbed, beating her tiny fists against his chest. Now there is no more holiday at all and no more fun.

Apparently, his sister thought she could write him a letter that indicated that a grown man was going to spirit his very young sister off, marry her, steal her fortune, and then his sister expected that he would simply take this under advisement and do nothing.

Oh, I don't know if he was even serious, she had wailed. He says he was joking. Maybe he was joking, Fitz. Now he hates me.

Perhaps that was what rankled the most. She still cared about the blackguard. She wanted him to like her, after he was trying to take advantage of her.

What sort of man was Mr. Wickham that he could make people behave in that manner? It didn't even make sense to Mr. Darcy.

Now, the letter from Mrs. Darcy, it was even more troubling. It was so stiff and formal that it read as if someone besides Elizabeth had written it. All the words seemed carefully chosen. She happened upon him on the grounds, she wrote, and "he insisted on speaking to me" though she did not encourage him. He had told her things, but she was "well aware that he is a liar" so Mr. Darcy should not worry that she was believing whatever he said wholesale.

He wasn't worried that his wife was going to take up with Mr. Wickham.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Some part of him couldn't help but be horrified at the prospect, and if he thought of it, his whole body shriveled in a sort of terrible shock, but he didn't think she'd do anything untoward. His wife was not the sort of woman who would do anything dishonorable, and he trusted her.

However, it would be better if he could get back there sooner rather than later. It was only that he wasn't sure how Georgiana would feel about it.

At the opera that night, he brought it up to her.

"What is he doing at Pemberley?" said Georgiana. "Why would he go there? He would know he wouldn't be welcome."

"He's apprised of my movements somehow, I suppose," said Mr. Darcy. "He knew I wouldn't be there."

"But who would he wish to see?" said Georgiana.

"You," said Mr. Darcy. "He wishes to be there when you arrive."

"No," said Georgiana, shaking her head, dismissing this utterly.

"But Georgiana, he clearly wishes—"

"No, he does not," said Georgiana. "Depend upon it, Fitz, I am certain that he would not go to that trouble for me. Whatever it was with me, he is passed it. So, who does he wish to see?"

"His father is our steward."

"Oh, they hate each other," muttered Georgiana.

He tilted his head to one side. "All family has friction, but all family is—"

"No, I know for a fact that the elder Wickham told Georgie that he was dead to him and that if he came back, he would not be staying in the elder Wickham's lodgings."

Mr. Darcy drew back, blinking. "Really." He sighed heavily.

"Really, and don't think they've just patched things up, because it was not the sort of thing that's easily mended, if you know what I mean."

He groaned softly. "If it's not about you, then he's come to see Mrs. Darcy."

"He knows your new wife?"

"I didn't mention that?"

"Fitz, how does he know her?"

"I think she fancied him at one point. He paid attention to her and then I think he sort of ignored her, and I think—"

"Oh, we must go, then." Georgiana got to her feet in their box at the opera.

He peered up at her. "Right now? The opera hasn't even started."

Georgiana hesitated. "We likely couldn't prepare and leave tonight, I suppose."

"No," he said.

She sat down. "Well, in the morning, then. He is on a mission to cuckold you, undoubtedly, Fitz, and you—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Georgiana, don't say ‘cuckold.' You shouldn't even know about such things."

Georgiana gestured all about her. "It's the plot of every single play and opera I've ever seen."

He gave her a withering look.

"All right, well, not every one, but… anyway, I'm sixteen years old, Fitz. I know about cuckolding."

"I sincerely hope you do not," he muttered. "I daresay we should have more faith in the new Mrs. Darcy than that, anyway."

Georgiana snorted. "Yes, of course, you think that."

"What?" he said.

"Well, look at you, Fitz, and then look at him." She rolled her eyes. "There's a reason I'm so conflicted about him, after all." Then she sighed, morose, and her lower lip started to tremble.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with the way I look," said Mr. Darcy, affronted.

"Oh, stop thinking about yourself," said Georgiana, who was now on the verge of tears. "Comfort me, for goodness sake, Fitzwilliam." She wiped at her tears.

"Ought we leave?" he said softly, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. "This is hardly a proper display in public."

Georgiana sniffed hard and composed herself. "I'm not going to let George Wickham ruin this opera for me. I've waited too long to watch it."

"Excellent," said Mr. Darcy, but now his head was swimming. He knew his wife didn't want to be touched by him, sullied by him. For some reason, he hadn't given much thought to the idea that she might be quite willing to be sullied by some other man.

He had known she fancied Mr. Wickham, but the idea that she might have some fascination with him that was physical in nature, hadn't occurred to him. It had hitherto seemed ludicrous. She was not that way. Women were not that way.

Except, his sister was correct. It was the plot of many, many plays and operas. The playwrights had not plucked the idea from thin air but had observed it in the real world. Women were, sometimes, that way.

He didn't like that idea, he found.