Page 32 of Companions of Their Youth
Darcy began walking once more, pulling his sister along behind him. Georgiana sobbed and struck his arm with her free hand. “I hate you! I hate you, Ihateyou—”
He said nothing, and Wickham had ceased to follow them.
By the time they reached the top of the path, her sobs had softened to hiccups.
And as they stepped inside the house, Mrs. Younge gasped and pressed a hand to her heart, pale and shaking.
Darcy did not stop. “Do not ask,” he growled. “Fetch her maid. Have a bath drawn. Burn that dress.”
He carried his sister up the stairs himself. She would sleep in her own room tonight with Sally sleeping in a cot beside her bed and footmen at the door.
And in the morning, Georgiana would pack.
He would deal with Wickham later.
∞∞∞
The following morning broke gray and still, as though theworld held its breath.
Fitzwilliam Darcy did not wait for the sun to climb above the sea before summoning the footman with his boots and a hot brick for the carriage. The message he had dispatched to Wickham’s lodgings at the tavern had returned with sour news: the man had slipped away the previous evening without paying his bill, leaving only a half-eaten dinner and an irate innkeeper behind him.
Of course he did.
Darcy slammed the door hard enough to make the hinges groan. Behind him, Georgiana scowled like a wronged princess, arms folded across her chest. When told to get in, she stomped toward the carriage and flung herself inside with all the restraint of a petulant child.
No—Darcy corrected himself as he climbed in after her—a tenant’s child would have better manners. She is behaving like the Prince Regent when he was a lad.
Her tantrum, loud and theatrical, lasted through the outskirts of Ramsgate and into the first stretch of countryside. Mrs. Younge, seated across from them, stared out the window with a face like carved stone. Darcy ignored his sister’s shrieking, folding a sheet of paper on his knee as he penned an urgent express to Richard.
He kept his strokes precise. Brief. Coded only where necessary. He folded and sealed it the moment they reached the first coaching inn, handing it off with orders for an express rider to take it immediately to Richard’s London barracks.
Georgiana fell silent not long after, her face turned away from both chaperone and brother.
Sally rode up top with the driver, and the remaining staff had been given a stipend and three days’ leave to enjoy the sea before returning to London to assist with closing the house. Darcy had included an additional coin for their silence, though the housekeeper—a cousin of Mrs. Reynolds—assured him no one knew more than that Miss Darcy had been acting like most upper-class girls her age: spoiled and secretive.
He had only himself to blame.
He should never have sent her to that school.
She had been spirited before—prone to silliness, yes, but loving. But something in her had changed after two years in that place. She had become brittle. Withdrawn. Sharp-tongued. Her letters were full of shallow details and frequent complaints, but every woman of his acquaintance had insisted this was a necessary stage. Lady Catherine had all but insisted Georgiana attend, just as Lady Anne had before her. Even Lady Matlock had chimed in, declaring it was vital for her niece’s preparation.
He had agreed.
What did he know about raising a girl twelve years his junior?
And now—this.
They arrived at Darcy House just before dusk. The sky had dimmed to a sullen pewter, the lamps in the entry casting long shadows on the black-and-white tiles. A footman opened the door, but before he could speak, Richard’s voice echoed from within.
“There you are.”
He stepped forward from the drawing room in full uniform, though his coat was unbuttoned, and his cravat was loosened. Georgiana froze mid-step.
“Hello, poppet—” he began with a smile, but her scowl deepened.
“I do not wish to be spoken to like a child,” she snapped. “I am a woman, little thathebelieves it,” she added with a hateful look at her brother. “And I supposed you will just trust everything my brother tells you anyway. I hate you!”
“Georgiana—” Fitzwilliam reached out to her, confused.
