by Olivia Kane
She heard a knock at the door. Before she had time to jump up a voice said, “Georgiana it’s me.” She recognized her brother’s deep familiar tone, ran to the door and opened it slightly.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood outside in the hall, still dressed but holding his neatly folded nightclothes.
He pushed past her and entered the room. “Pack up your nightclothes and any other necessaries and bring them with you. There are two beds in our suite and I would prefer you not sleep alone tonight. I will occupy your room.”
“But brother, no,” Georgiana protested but Darcy was already walking about the room, gathering up her novel and sleeping cap.
“It is simply impossible for me to allow you to sleep without a chaperone with that man in the house.”
“Wickham? Why what do you imagine he will do? Assault me in my room while the whole house sleeps around us?”
“The man will be lucky that I do not murder him in his bed tonight,” he snarled. He stood at the door, and waited but Georgiana was resolute.
“I will not move.”
“Now Georgiana be reasonable.” Fitzwilliam refused to lose his patience.
“No.”
“Fine, then I will sleep here on the floor, in front of the door.”
He exited the room and was back minutes later with a set of blankets and a pillow. Years of experience had taught her that arguing with her brother when his mind was made up was always a losing proposition. The hour was late, her head was heavy with fatigue and she was too tired to mount an impressive enough argument to persuade him otherwise. She was planning to be up and out early in the morning, she didn’t want to delay her sleep.
She sighed dramatically, as that was the only weapon in her arsenal that could penetrate Darcy; he absolutely hated when she sighed or cried or dared to act moodily.
“Fine, I will do as you prefer. I will not be the cause of your sleeping on the floor. But what harm can come to me from George Wickham? Have you seen the man? Why the sheep at Pemberley are better groomed than he is.”
Fitzwilliam laughed heartily, breaking the tension. Georgiana was glad to see him smile for once that evening. “Now please turn your back while I pack. I do not wish to expose my undergarments to you.”
“Do hurry,” Darcy urged. “Did you not see the way his eyes followed you tonight? The man is desperate I tell you. I heard confirmation from some guests tonight, no I will not tell you who, that Wickham is indebted to almost every establishment in Meryton. There is no doubt that they will be forced to look for a fresh start elsewhere, and soon. A man in such straits will not act rationally, let me assure you and I would not be surprised if he were to engage in blackmail with us.”
“Wickham? He doesn’t have the backbone for blackmail. But I would warn the Radcliffes to lock up their silver instead,” she predicted.
“No one says anything to anyone in this house about your history with Wickham.”
Georgiana refused to meet her brother’s eyes. Hastily she gathered up her belongings for the night and shuffled out of her room and into the wide dimly lit hallway. Her shadow loomed large against the walls and she noted that the carpets were plush and soft beneath her bare feet, muffling the sound of her steps. She prayed that Hugh would not witness her humiliation at being ordered about by her brother. She fumed inside, unsure whom she was most angry with—Wickham or Fitzwilliam.
Fitzwilliam watched her every step until she safely closed the door of Elizabeth’s room behind her. He settled in to what should have been Georgiana’s bed but sleep eluded him. His senses were acutely heightened; he could sense Wickham’s evil intentions in a primitive way. But as the clock chimed midnight, then one o’clock, Fitzwilliam could no longer prop his eyelids open and succumbed to sleep.
Presently, he was awakened by a gentle knocking on the door. Keeping his senses about him, he tiptoed to the door, unsure if the sound was of a dream or real. There it was again, and then a voice, soft but distinctly male.
“Georgiana, are you in there? It’s me, Georgie.”
Fitzwilliam’s heart pounded in triumph. Of course he had read George Wickham correctly!
He remained calm, however and whispered a high-pitched, “Yes,” followed by an insistent “Shush.”
Wickham was fooled and interpreted the hushing as a sign to continue on, but in hushed tones.
“I must speak to you. My goodness it is ghastly being married to Lydia—what with her insipid chatter and always being in debt—but enough of her. My heart desires to know only this: Do you despise me, my sweet girl? I pray that you do not.”
Fitzwilliam listened intently, quietly, as Wickham spilled out his heart’s miseries. “My life’s regret is being forced to abandon you; it was never my intent and our parting was a cold-hearted cruelty forced on us. Do you understand that it was your brother’s doing, and never mine? No, my sweet, he would not permit me to write to you, you know that, don’t you? I had no memento to remember you by. I would love to know you were still thinking of me. I hope you are still thinking of me ... you don’t know how long I’ve dreamt of seeing your sweet face again.”
Fitzwilliam could bear Wickham’s nonsense no longer. He opened the door a crack, the hinges creaking audibly into the quiet night, and held the flickering candle upright. “Did you mean this sweet face?”
Wickham stared, aghast, and then scowled. “You!”
Fitzwilliam sneered at Wickham in disgust, his words dripped with enmity.
“What an utter disgrace you have become to the Wickham family name. My only relief is that neither my father nor yours lived to witness your miserable descent. Slugs have more honor than you.”
Wickham laughed in Fitzwilliam’s face. It was not the first time he had been on the receiving end of his high-horsed attitude. It caused him no pain. “Easy to say when one is born into riches Fitzwilliam. The privileged always have so much to say, don’t they? Not that any of it is worth minding, it is all noise and fribble. My I’ve met cobblers with more wisdom than you. You never bypass an opportunity to judge me; you are entirely too predictable. Not like your sweet sister who was surprisingly easy to ...”
Fitzwilliam cut him off swiftly.
“If I so much as see you look at Georgiana tomorrow I will kill you,” he threatened, his eyes narrowed to a slit. “If I even see you speaking with her I will grab the nearest hot poker and then you will wish you had never been born.”
Wickham laughed rebelliously in Fitzwilliam’s face, his sour breath hitting him full force. “Don’t be stupid Fitzy. You would never risk the gallows on my account.”
Fitzwilliam scowled at Wickham. His gaze travelled to his forehead, where his unbandaged gash was clearly visible from beneath his hair.
“For goodness sakes, put something on that gaping wound. You are going to turn the company off of their breakfast if you show up like that tomorrow morning.”
Wickham raised his hand to his wound, then stared, unbelieving, at the smear of blood that stained his fingertips. He turned away from the door, deflated, then he stopped and turned back to face Darcy.
“So this,” he sneered, extending his arm and waving it with a flourish, “This is what you have chosen for Georgiana’s future? Don’t think your intentions are not obvious to everyone here.”
Fitzwilliam played it cool. “I have no idea what you are babbling about. Elizabeth is an old friend of the family; we are here on Mrs. Lancaster’s invitation.”
Wickham laughed again, a low, menacing chuckle. “Lying doesn’t suit you. No, I do not think it was an accident that your sister was placed across the table from the rich, unattached heir. I could tell him a thing or two about your sister. Tell him what she likes.”
Wickham held Fitzwilliam’s gaze with the threat, laughed again, and then pivoting, walked unsteadily down the dark hallway.
Fitzwilliam waited until he heard Wickham’s door shut firmly then he too, shut his door quietly but with a sense of victory.
He was right.
<
br /> He was always right regarding Wickham.
There was no precaution he would not take to keep that selfish, self-serving cad separate from Georgiana. It would have been safer to leave her at Pemberley, this he now understood. It was an ill-conceived plan to bring her into a house party where he had no control over the guest list; a rare misstep on his part, and his mind whirled. He considered following Wickham back to his room, asking him his price to leave immediately. But that would be like stuffing a balled up sock into the hole of a bursting dam.
There was no way to control the wild card that was George Wickham. He worried that he had angered Wickham to the point of recklessness. He had so far successfully hidden the dashed elopement from all society but now, just when he was positioning Georgiana in so delicate a matter, would be the worst possible time for Wickham to squeal like the pig he knew him to be. Timing was everything in life, and this situation had all the makings of a perfectly timed disaster. It appeared George Wickham existed solely to torture him, he mused.
He tossed and turned the rest of the night.
Chapter Twelve
Georgiana woke early and moved about the room silently so as not to disturb the sleeping Elizabeth. She dressed in the dark, tossed water on her face and smoothed her hair. Opening the bedroom door slowly and glancing backwards to confirm that Elizabeth still did not stir, she then slipped out into the empty hallway. The landing was quiet but she could hear the clinking of cutlery and the murmuring of the staff down below setting up an early hunt breakfast. The smell of fresh bread mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and savory meats.
Stealthily, she descended the polished stairs. She anticipated that she might be arriving before the servants had completely set up, and therefore might need to wait alone in the drawing room before being called into breakfast. That was fine with her. She was not sure when Hugh would show up at the breakfast, but she did not want to miss him.
Possessed of a similar mindset, Hugh also rose early, although as he had not been kicked from his room he therefore had the benefit of daylight in which to dress, and went downstairs. He did not want to miss a chance to visit with Georgiana Darcy again. It was his experience that the bulk of attendees at a hunt party did not come down early, and that many women preferred a tray in their rooms. He did not know whether or not she would be part of that sleeping majority, but thought it best to err on the side of caution should she be an early bird.
Upon entering the dining room the smell of hot food stirred his stomach, which was achingly empty after eating so little the night before.
“Good morning sir,” Hastings greeted him.
“Splendid job Hastings,” he said, surveying the silver trays filled with shelled boiled eggs, plump tasty sausages, fresh baked breads, strawberry and pear preserves fresh from that summer’s yield. A large tray of hot white codfish made a command appearance per Lady Catherine’s request. The table was full.
He poured himself a steaming cup of tea and loitered anxiously amidst the traffic of the servants, his eye on the door, awaiting the arrival of his guests.
His eyes met hers the moment she cautiously poked her head into the room. Her expression wore all the hope of a new morning, and lit up further upon seeing the room empty save for the one person she desired most to see.
Hugh and Georgiana could not help but smile upon seeing the other, then each worked just as quickly to assume a mask of polite disinterest.
“Good morning Miss Darcy,” Hugh bowed.
“Good morning Mr. Radcliffe,” she countered with a slight curtsey.
Her pulse quickened.
Hugh’s did the same.
“May I fill a plate for you?” he said, as Hasting pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
“Yes, please. You are too kind.”
“Nonsense.”
“Eggs?”
Georgiana nodded.
“Toast?”
“Yes please.”
“What kind of preserves? Pear, or strawberry?”
“How about strawberry?”
“A good choice.”
“Stewed apples?”
“A small portion, thank you.”
“Smoked cod?”
Georgiana frowned.
“No thank you. “
Hugh turned his nose up at the fish as well.
“Good choice. I do not care for smoked cod in the morning.”
Georgiana smiled back.
A kindred spirit, indeed.
She watched while Hugh filled a plate of his own and sat down next to her. Hastings, who had great affection for the young heir, purposely held the staff back for a few moments so the two could be alone.
Hugh beamed at his breakfast partner. He started to say “The day appears to be a beauty” when the sound of heavy boots clomping on the floorboards drew their attention to the doorway. There was Mr. Darcy, up and dressed but looking decidedly worse for wear. He too, had risen early, anxious to get to the breakfast and perform guard duty.
Mr. Darcy stopped short upon seeing his sister and Hugh so amiably situated together. A rush of relief flooded his weary system. He did not imagine the looks of disappointment on both of their faces upon his interrupting their tete-a-tete. All the doubts he had harbored about the rightness of bringing Georgiana to Bennington Park were swept away. He felt he no longer had to jockey Georgiana into place anymore; from the looks of the situation the young Mr. Radcliffe was already taking the reins into his own hands, a development that pleased Mr. Darcy greatly. His esteem for the young man continued to grow.
Mr. Darcy smiled to himself as he strode around the table and contentedly filled his plate to overflowing, knowing that at that moment he was an unwanted third wheel, and happy to be so.
He sat down across from the couple and complimented Hugh on the spread. Then, his voice grew serious.
“With regret I must report that my dear wife is not well. She has caught a cold and I am afraid she will not be joining in the festivities of the day.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Hugh replied. “I will inform the staff to make special inquiries of her needs.”
“She insists no effort is needed beyond a little broth sent up and desires that we go about our day as planned. I must honor her wishes,” Mr. Darcy said, “Although it grieves me to do so to stay back will only agitate her delicate sense that she is ruining our day and I cannot upset her.”
Georgiana expressed her distress. “As she will also insist that I not stay back I will go to her now to see if she needs anything,” she said, rising quickly, her breakfast plate untouched.
Hugh stood as she left the room, gazing at her back with regret, hoping that their meetings together would not continually end so abruptly.
Mr. Darcy and Hugh sat down and began quietly eating, each absorbed in his own thoughts, and soon a trickle of guests entered the room, filling their plates and taking a seat at the table. First Lord Radcliffe, then Guy, then Anne de Bourgh joined the party. Anne looked quickly around the room for Oliver Cumberland, but sadly he had not yet arrived. It was traditional for the Master of the Hounds to join the party for breakfast. She found a seat at the table an agreeable distance from those there before her and sat herself down, determined to wait for his arrival.
Hugh forced himself to attend to Anne’s needs. He felt no guilt on her behalf; it was evident to him that he had failed to pique her interest, judging by her subdued reactions to his attentions. Or else she was a master at hiding her affections, which he felt sure was not the case.
He offered to fill a plate for her, which she agreed to.
“Any preferences?”
“No. Oh, I am supposed to eat the codfish, so there is that,” she said stodgily.
He filled her plate with codfish and eggs, toast and jam, and set it before her, where it remained untouched. She stared across the table silently. Remembering her low, inaudible speaking voice from the night before, Hugh passed on making conversation with her.
> Suddenly the sound of barking dogs and horses’ hooves filled the morning air. Oliver Cumberland had arrived. Lord Radcliffe dropped his fork and napkin and hastened outdoors to greet him, then shepherded Mr. Cumberland and his small party of itinerant hunters into the dining room as the staff hurriedly replaced the depleted eggs and sausages.
From the corner of his eye, Hugh saw Anne de Bourgh pinch her cheeks and discretely adjust her dress at her bosom.
Cumberland and his party settled in and the decibel level of the room rose sharply. Minutes later, George Wickham sauntered in. He stopped just beyond the threshold, looking superficially pulled together in a natty well-fitting red coat but his matted hair and yellowing head bruise were at odds with his sartorial efforts. Scanning those gathered for that one head of golden curls that he hungered to see, he saw only a sea of men’s heads bobbing before him and the waxen high forehead of Anne de Bourgh. Darcy’s venomous gaze was present and accounted for, to which he naturally averted his eyes.
Set out on the table before him was a breakfast display the likes of which he had not had the pleasure of partaking in a long time. As he stepped forward he felt suddenly lightheaded and grabbed the back of the nearest chair to steady himself, slowly sinking down onto the upholstery until the episode passed.
All conversation stopped.
Lord Radcliffe approached him.
“Are you all right young man?” he bent over the white-faced Wickham and spoke directly to him.
Wickham took a long, deep breath and exhaled but he could not steady his trembling nerves. Nevertheless he looked his host in the eye and assured him that he was in perfect health. Wickham then motioned to Hastings.
“Brandy, please.”
Hastings bowed and exited the room, returning shortly and placing a small cut crystal glass of brandy at his place. Wickham reached for it, but instead knocked it over.
