by Jennifer Joy
“What is your name?” asked Jane.
The boy thought for a moment. He squinted his eyes like he could measure their trustworthiness. Elizabeth returned the look.
“My name is Danny Dixon, miss.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Dixon?”
“Up north.”
Elizabeth waited for him to add more information, but he remained silent.
“What are you doing in Hertfordshire?” Jane persisted in her efforts to extract more information.
“I did not have anywhere else to go. My family is gone, so I ran away.”
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other in shock. There were times when Elizabeth dreamed of running away from home, but she would never attempt it outside of the safety of her imagination. Danny Dixon did not look like he was living the life of adventure she craved. He looked dirty and hungry.
“When was the last time you ate?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the floor.
“That does it. Mary is always talking about godlike charity, and he needs some of it.” Elizabeth pointed toward the boy as she spoke to Jane.
“We should get Father. He will know what to do.” Turning to Danny, Jane said, “We will fetch our father. Perhaps he can help. At the least, we can give you a meal. Will you stay here until we return?”
Danny licked his lips at the promise of a meal. They needed no further assurance. They ran into the house and straight into Father’s study.
Chapter 1
Late summer, 1811
Darcy did not believe himself impulsive. He calculated every step before taking it, considering the consequences of every outcome. He knew Georgiana would not be overly pleased to see him. She had expounded persuasive arguments for weeks before he had agreed to allow her to travel to Ramsgate for the summer. Independence was granted under the watchful eye of her companion, Mrs. Younge— a woman whose references and recommendations commended herself to Darcy. Yet, here he was. On the edge of the coastal town, on his way to the house he had rented for his sister two months earlier. He had come on an impulse.
The two story house had a view of the ocean and large windows in the front through which to appreciate it. A soft breeze ruffled his shirt and flapped his coattails as he slid out of his coach. The sun warmed his shoulders, and the salty air coming off the water refreshed him after his long travel.
Hopping up the steps to the door, he was greeted by the butler, who led him into the parlor.
He looked at the view from the front window, watching the door in its reflection for Georgiana. He needed reassurance, and then he could be on his way.
The door creaked. Darcy turned around to greet his sister, but took a step back when it was not Georgiana. It was Mrs. Younge. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her face was flushed. She swallowed hard before speaking.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Darcy. We did not know to expect you.” Her attempt at lightness fell flat, giving her voice an accusatory tone.
The hair on Darcy’s arm stood on end. “Where is Georgiana?”
Mrs. Younge stepped forward, raising her hands like if in prayer. “She is out. Had she known you were coming, she would have received you.”
She had not answered his question. He forced himself to calm down, though panic rose in his breast. Had he failed to protect his sister just as he had failed to prevent his father’s death?
“Where is my sister?”
Mrs. Younge looked to the ceiling. “She is paying a call.”
“On whom?” Her diminutive answers wore on his patience.
The lady’s companion with impeccable references shuffled her feet and looked at the floor, apparently not having found her answer in the ceiling.
Darcy’s voice reflected the increasing tension in his muscles. “On whom?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“On a young man of your acquaintance. A childhood friend.” She waved her hand flippantly in the air, but it was too calculated. She was hiding something.
“Mrs. Younge, speak plainly. Whom is my sister with? She is too young to receive a gentleman caller.”
She finally looked at him. “Mr. Wickham.”
The fear in her eyes told him more than her admission did. Why was she afraid? Unless…
He took a step toward the door. The fabric across his arms and shoulders stretched taut, his muscles tensing as he struggled to maintain his composure. He must find his sister. Something was dreadfully wrong.
Darcy would search the house with or without her help. If Georgiana was out, he would scour all of Ramsgate to find her.
“Mr. Darcy, you cannot—” Mrs. Younge stopped abruptly when Darcy glared at her.
“You will take me to her right now. Then, you will tell me exactly what you have been about.”
“Come with me,” she said in a low, resigned voice. Her pace was quick as she led Darcy to the garden at the back of the house. It was a secluded setting and the sweet smell of roses only added to the nausea Darcy felt when he saw Georgiana sitting with George Wickham, clasping hands. Their knees touched, they sat so close.
“Get your hands off my sister,” he commanded. In four long strides, he crossed the lawn to stand in front of the couple.
Wickham stretched his feet out in front of him, patted Georgiana on the hand, and stood slowly— as if he had every right to be precisely where he was and wanted Darcy to know it.
He posed an impressive figure in his bright red regimental coat with gold trim and shiny buttons. He was unarmed as far as Darcy could see— a circumstance to Wickham’s advantage considering Darcy’s current inclination.
“Darcy, how good to see you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye and an expression so smug, Darcy clenched his fist at his side. How he wanted to pull him up by the collar, but he was a gentleman. Gentlemen did not strangle their friends. No. Not friends. They had not been friends since Wickham’s last pathetic attempt to extract money from him. Any respect he had for Wickham died that day. Once his good opinion was lost, it was gone forever.
“Explain this,” Darcy demanded.
Fidgeting on the bench, Georgiana found her courage enough to exclaim, “William, I love him. We want to marry.”
Darcy’s heart stopped, but one look at the victory in Wickham’s face set it racing. This man did not love his sister. This man was incapable of caring for anyone other than himself.
“Without my consent?”
She jutted her chin out and crossed her arms. “Uncle Richard would consent.”
“Your Uncle Richard is on the continent. Until then, I am your sole guardian.”
“You never let me do anything.”
“Would you prefer to wait for Richard’s return on the chance he would approve your union with… him?” He would not stoop to insults, but that did not stop several from coming to mind. High-flying dandiprat… unscrupulous rake… ingrate…
Throwing her hands up in the air, she huffed, “Why did you have to show up today of all days?”
Darcy paused. Why was Georgiana so upset he should appear on that specific day? What was she up to? He looked around, taking in every detail of his surroundings. Through the yard between the house and the stables, there was a coach waiting. A trunk sat next to the baggage hold.
Wickham snickered as realization struck Darcy. “Georgiana and I were to elope. Your timing is most unfortunate.”
“The money and commission I gave you was not enough? You had to toy with the innocent emotions of a child?”
Darcy heard Georgiana’s gasp as she stood. “I am not a child, and I thank you to stop treating me like one.”
“Falling in love with this worthless man is the work of a child. I should never have trusted you to come here alone.”
Georgiana stood with her arms rigid at her sides. With a huff of her breath and a stomp of the foot, she tromped out of the garden and into the house. Darcy knew he would pay for his words later.
Wickham clapped his hands. “Bravo,
Darcy. She hates you now and guess who she will run to for comfort at the first opportunity? Thank you, my old friend.”
“We have not been friends for some time. Have you squandered away the value of your living with your debaucheries so soon that you must trifle with my sister?”
“It was easy enough to do.”
Darcy was not a man given to violence, but Wickham was tempting him thoroughly. He stepped closer to Wickham until the toes of their boots touched. “You will leave her alone.”
“You think you can be rid of me so easily? For years, I have watched you play the prince. I will get what is rightfully mine. And if you do not give it to me, I will take it.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“You owe me the dowry I lost thanks to your inopportune visit.”
“Nothing on this earth would persuade me to put Georgiana within your reach. You would see her ruined, then cast her off as easily as the last one.”
“Oh, do not concern yourself too much. I would return her as soon as the dowry was spent. I care not for the chit— only her money.”
Darcy counted his breaths, struggling to keep his composure before the miserable excuse of a being in front of him.
“Enough with your threats. We both know they will never come to pass. Do not test me, Wickham. Do not force me to show you what I am capable of to keep my family safe.”
He turned his back on Wickham and ordered a footman to escort him off the property through the stable. They could breathe threats all day, but that would only feed Wickham’s anger and waste Darcy’s time.
The sound of sobs reached him from Georgiana’s room upstairs, growing louder as Darcy climbed the steps two at a time. Her door stood wide open and Mrs. Younge had her arm around Georgiana, patting her back and shushing her.
The traitorous woman stiffened when she saw him. Georgiana lifted her head, her sobs coming to a halt with a hiccup.
Darcy did not enter Georgiana’s room, but stood at the door. He had some mending to do with her. But there was one more mess to deal with and she stood holding his sister. “Tell me what happened.”
Mrs. Younge stepped away from Georgiana, her arms out in supplication. “It was Mr. Wickham. He made me do it.” She pointed an accusatory finger toward the back of the house.
Georgiana stepped back so abruptly, Darcy worried she might swoon. He rushed forward to her aid.
She put her hand out and shook her head, refusing his help. She sunk into a nearby chaise.
He stopped, feet planted on her carpeted floor.
He turned his attention from Georgiana, who suffered from a blanched complexion but no further malady, back to Mrs. Younge. “How did Wickham force you to deceive me and manipulate my sister?”
“He knew something about my past, something that would have ruined my prospects at decent employment had it been known. He used it against me so that he could woo the girl. He used me just as badly as he used her.”
Georgiana smothered her face in a cushion. Her whole body shook as she cried into it.
Darcy’s heart hurt for her. She had been foolish, but she had been tricked. Wickham had preyed upon her innocence, and Mrs. Younge, her companion and her guide, had misled her purposely.
“Mrs. Younge, you are dismissed. Any woman with strength of character would have put the needs of her mistress in first place. It is very possible I would have believed you had you chosen to confide in me. I could have helped you.”
She curtsied and left the room as quickly as her feet would take her.
Alone in the room with a crying young lady, Darcy felt at a loss. What would Mother have done?
He crossed the room to Georgiana. Sitting beside her, he touched her shoulder and tried to think of something comforting to say.
She winced at his touch. He pulled his hand back. Maybe what she needed was a little time alone.
Getting up, he closed her door behind him. She could have a few moments peace, but they needed to leave soon. He gave orders for the rest of her things to be packed, thinking it better to spend the night at an inn on their way to London than stay in this place a moment longer than necessary.
Chapter 2
They had traveled a full day in silence. Georgiana’s preferred form of communication had been the occasional glare followed by more tears. How could he make her see that Wickham was unworthy of her sorrow?
Darcy’s anger with himself grew. He knew Wickham was untrustworthy, yet he had not believed him to be a real threat. The white, puffy clouds in the azure sky annoyed him. The cheerful laughter and chatter of the people in the villages they passed through taunted his surly mood. He had relaxed his guard. He had been too trusting and now Georgiana was paying for his mistake. It would not happen again.
By their second day of travel, Georgiana’s tears calmed to the same degree that Darcy’s guilt and self-reproach increased. How could he help her?
“How are you, Georgie? You have hardly spoken since we left.”
“You, too, are quiet.” She folded her arms and looked intently out the window.
“True.” That had not started out well.
His frustration grew as Georgiana purposely avoided him. They drove by monotonous fields of wheat. There was nothing worthy of her scrutiny out the window, yet she refused to look at him. Crossing his arms to keep from throwing them up in the air, he asked, “What can I do to help you?”
Georgiana finally looked at him. Glared, really. Her nostrils flared and her cheeks burned bright pink. “I do not want your help. You ruined my chance at true love and happiness, and I shall never forgive you.”
“What? You would still marry Wickham? Even after what Mrs. Younge said?” Darcy tried to comprehend how he had become the villain in this scenario. He had saved her from a lifetime of bitterness and disappointment. How could she so stubbornly refuse to see Wickham for what he truly was?
“George loved me. He promised me that we would purchase a charming cottage along the shore and we would go to the theater every weekend. He had a plan.”
Oh, how naive she was. Darcy leaned forward and spoke softly. “He needed the money to cover his debts. You would have lived the life of a destitute woman before long. He would have used you, spent your money, and left you ruined. How could I stand by and let that happen?” Being a lousy gambler was one of Wickham’s lesser sins. Darcy would not taint her mind by expounding on his other deplorable vices.
“You are not my father.” Her chin jutted out and she focused her gaze out the window once again.
Darcy kept silent. He did not trust himself to speak until his emotions were put into place. Part of him wanted to quip, “Be grateful for that, you ungrateful child.” Mostly, he wished they had had their parents longer. They would have known what to do. They could have helped her where he failed. Unfortunately, dwelling on what was lost would not help his sister.
He looked at the view out the window. He had to focus past the hurt feelings and guilt to what was most important. She sat in front of him with a pout on her face. Georgiana was his priority, and keeping her safe was his responsibility. She may hate him for it now, but he would not let her ruin her life.
Darcy leaned back against his cushioned seat, trying to find a more comfortable spot. The sun soaked through the carriage roof to warm the inside like an oven. He needed some air, but even if they could open the glass, dust from the dry roads would cover them and make them cough.
He thought of Pemberley and his outlook improved. He would take her home. That is what he would do. They would rest a week or two in town; then they would go home to Pemberley.
A week passed, and Georgiana still did little more than mope about the house.
Darcy’s concern for her grew. She would not speak. She would not eat. She would not play the pianoforte. None of the things she had enjoyed before Ramsgate brought her pleasure.
When she refused to leave the house, Darcy bought books for her to read and oranges to entice her appetite. He even bought her a diary
with brown leather so soft, it felt like butter in his hands. If she would not speak, perhaps she would write. It had helped him through his grief when they lost their mother to consumption shortly after Darcy had reached his majority and he had no one with whom to unburden himself.
Looking out his study window overlooking the garden, Darcy squeezed the back of his neck. It was too lovely a day to spend indoors. Birds hopped from one branch to the next, chirping their melodies. The flowers bloomed fully, searching for summer’s last rays of sunshine. They knew autumn was soon to come.
He needed to get Georgiana out of the house— to see that there is more to the world than her broken heart.
The butler knocked on his door to announce a visitor.
“Mr. Bingley and Miss Bingley are here to see you, sir. I showed them into the waiting room.”
They were the perfect callers.
“Excellent. Tell Georgiana to meet me there. She will want to see them.” He did not know that to be true, but Charles Bingley was the sort of chap to chase the most extreme cases of melancholy away. The gentleman simply refused to let a little rain ruin his sunny outlook.
Darcy heard the Bingleys’ voices before he reached the waiting room. Like most siblings, they spent a good part of their conversation in arguments— something Darcy was growing more accustomed to with Georgiana.
“How pleasant to see you in town, old chap.” Bingley rose from his chair and strode over to slap Darcy on the back.
“It has been quite some time, Bingley. How good of you to call.”
“You have been hiding away in Pemberley, and I have difficulty getting away from town. You remember my sister, Caroline, of course.”
Darcy bowed to the young lady, who curtsied stiffly in return. He had not spent much time in Miss Bingley’s company, but if she was anything like her brother, Georgiana would find a friend in her.
Bingley beamed as he sat in a cushioned, yellow chair next to Darcy. He looked like a dandelion with his ginger hair surrounded by the soft creams and yellows in the room.