Page 79 of Companions of Their Youth
Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed and sank into a chair, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “I did not know what else to do, Darcy. There was absolutely no other choice.”
Darcy waited.
“She has become completely ungovernable. Refuses to follow any schedule laid out for her. Mrs. Younge tried everything—lessons, letters, music, gentle walks, even new frocks as incentive. None of it worked. If she was meant to go to the piano room, I would have to lift her from her bed and carry her there myself. If she was scheduled to read, she would tear pages from the books. She locked Mrs. Younge out of her own sitting room at one point and set her petticoat on fire in the fireplace ‘for amusement.’”
Darcy gawked at his cousin. “Surely you must be joking.”
“I wish I were. She would not even bathe unless I threatened to summon the apothecary to bleed her for malingering. Darcy, it was getting dangerous. The neighbors were beginning to talk. I had to confine her to her rooms, and even that proved inadequate. We had to post two footmen—one outside her door, one beneath her window—because she would shout that she was going to run away to find her dear George if we so much as turned our backs.”
Georgiana snorted and smiled faintly at the mention of Wickham.
Colonel Fitzwilliam rubbed his temples. “Mrs. Younge was doing her best. She promised to remain until I found a replacement, but yesterday morning—” He broke off and shook his head.
Darcy’s voice was tight. “What happened?”
“She tried to rouse Georgiana from bed. Georgiana refused. Mrs. Younge—frustrated, exhausted—took up a glass of water and warned her she would pour it on her head if she did not rise. Georgiana responded by throwing her chamber pot—herfullchamber pot—at the poor woman.”
Darcy inhaled sharply.
“It struck her arm,” the colonel continued. “Hard. Bruised and swollen now. The filth ruined the bedding and carpet. Georgiana thought it was hilarious.” He shot the girl a look of disbelief.
Georgiana gave a theatrical shrug. “It was. You should have seen her face.”
Darcy turned to her, stunned. “It is no laughing matter.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “You are such an old fuddy-duddy.”
The surge of anger came so swiftly, Darcy literally saw red in front of his eyes.
At that moment, a knock sounded. “Darcy?” came Bingley’s genial voice. “The rooms are ready.”
Georgiana’s entire manner transformed. She sprang up with a bright, simpering smile and darted toward the door, calling sweetly, “Mr. Bingley! What perfect timing. And where are your dear sisters? Oh, I cannot wait to take tea with them this evening and catch up oneverything. You know, I feel like they are myownsisters.”
Darcy stepped sharply between her and the doorway. “You will not. You are not out, and you are under my guardianship. You will dine in your room, and a tray will be brought.”
She tossed her head and laughed, twirling a curl around her finger. “And what exactly will prevent me from coming downstairs at dinner anyway? I am far too big for you to throw over your knee.”
Darcy gaped at her.
She grinned and added mockingly, “Besides, you will have to let me visit with them atsomepoint—or people might talk. Would not that betragic, brother dearest? A scandal about the famed Darcy name?”
Pressing his lips together, Darcy did not respond. Instead, he crossed the room and opened the door. Bingley stood waiting, his brow furrowed in concern.
“I shall take her upstairs myself,” Darcy said quietly. “Might I have the key?”
Bingley blinked. “Of course.” He passed it to him without question.
Darcy grasped his sister’s arm. She did not resist, only swayed her hips slightly and batted her eyes at the footmen as they passed. Once inside the guest corridor, he stopped at the small yellow bedroom. Without ceremony, he unlocked the door, pushed her in, and shut it again.
“You will remain here until you can conduct yourself like a young lady.” Darcy locked the door with a sharp turn of the key and stepped back just as the knob jiggled violently.
“Do not dare, Fitzwilliam!” Georgiana shrieked from within, her fists pounding against the wood. “You have no right! I hate you!”
Darcy said nothing.
There was a pause. Then her voice dropped into a falsely calm sing-song: “Fine. Let us see how well you manage to keep this from the servants.”
A moment of silence—and then came the shattering crash of porcelain against plaster, accompanied by a feral scream.
