Page 17 of To Love And To Cherish
The rest of eighteen hundred and ten passed in a blur of ledgers, legal filings, and long rides across muddy fields. Darcy met with every steward and reviewed each account. To his quiet satisfaction, the Gardiner housing development had doubled his investment.
He did not write to the Gardiners again himself; he could not bear the deceit it required. No one could know he had been a spy; such knowledge might endanger those still serving. Instead, he ensured that Mr. Kendal became a regular correspondent with Mr. Gardiner.
The laughter on that ship lingered in his memory, along with the wind, and Richard’s quiet insistence:You have nothing to regret.
That phrase became his shield.
And so Fitzwilliam Darcy, at the age of seven and twenty, became master of all his father had left behind and guardian to the sister to whom he would now stand in place of a father.
Chapter 9: Ramsgate
The house was dark. The sea whispered below the cliffs, a restless hush broken only by the creak of the sash window as Mrs. Younge pushed it open. She turned to the trembling girl behind her.
“Quickly now, Georgiana. Give me your valise and then I’ll help you through.”
Georgiana nodded, her face pale beneath the black veil that concealed her golden hair. They had dressed alike in their darkest gowns and traveling cloaks, each bearing a single valise and weighed down with fear of George Wickham.
Mrs. Younge urged her charge. “You can do this, my dear.”
The girl climbed through with difficulty, landing gracelessly but safely in the garden beyond. Mrs. Younge followed, closing the window without a sound. They slipped through the hedge at the rear, away from the leased home and its secrets. Wickham might be watching the front, or squandering her hard-earned wages at the gaming table.
They climbed the cliff path, the chalk trail gleaming faintly under a moonless sky. The sea loomed at their right, the wind tugging at their veils. Mrs. Younge cast frequent glances behind, the press of exposure gnawing at her courage.
“If anyone sees us,” Georgiana whispered, “they’ll know. They’ll know who I am.”
“That is why we must not be seen.”
They moved with care, keeping to the cliff path above the beach. The flats of Pegwell Bay lay cloaked in shadow, vast and somber beneath the faint moonlight. Shapes moved below, shadows, perhaps, or something less benign. A dog barked in the distance. Georgiana flinched.
Mrs. Younge pressed her arm. “Only a farm dog. Come now.”
Beyond the cliffs, they descended into low, scrubby grassland. Salt marshes scented the air with brine and rot. The night was quiet, but every so often, the rustling reeds played tricks on the ears. Once, Georgiana halted, clutching Mrs. Younge’s sleeve.
“What was that?”
“A hare, nothing more. You are safe with me.”
The road ahead stretched long and bare. Flat farmland and hedged lanes offered no cover. Still, they walked, slower now. Georgiana stumbled more than once. Her soft shoes were soaked with dew, her hands blistered from gripping the valise.
“How much farther?” she panted.
“Probably two and a half miles yet.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.” Mrs. Younge’s voice sharpened. “For your life, and mine.”
They walked. The sky remained mercifully dark. But as they neared Garlinge, they heard the distant clop of hooves.
“There,” Georgiana hissed, eyes wide. “He’s found us!”
Mrs. Younge seized her arm and yanked her into the ditch, covering them both with her cloak. The rider passed; he was afarmer, not Wickham. But Georgiana sobbed silently, her nerves broken.
“I cannot go on,” she whispered.
“You can. Perhaps thirty minutes more, then we will reach warmth, a bed, and safety.”
And so they pushed on, through the hedge, across one last pasture, to the low-roofed building nestled beside an orchard. It was the Inn. They paid with what little Georgiana had hidden away; Wickham had taken the rest. They had enough for two nights. Mrs. Younge spent her few remaining coins on food, which she ordered delivered to their room.
