Page 12 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

T he ballroom glittered with candlelight and crystal, but Fitzwilliam Darcy stood motionless near the fireplace, his posture ramrod straight, his expression unreadable.

The sound of laughter, clinking glass, and rustling silk filled the air, yet none of it seemed to reach him.

His gaze moved from one face to another without settling.

Crowds had always made him uneasy—but not like this.

Everything had changed three months ago.

He had returned to London in May, after supervising the early planting at Pemberley. Georgiana had remained at school in Town, and he had expected no more than a month or so of business, quiet dinners with family, and perhaps a few obligations among the ton .

Instead, the first note had arrived.

Slipped beneath the door of his chambers at his club—pink paper, a neat, feminine hand. No signature. No address. Only the words:

I can see it in your eyes and in your smile. You are all I have ever wanted, and my arms are open wide.

He had dismissed it at first. Some society miss with more daring than sense. He had burned it and thought little more of it—until the next arrived, this time on the front stoop of his home.

This one was a small parcel: a sprig of lavender tied with a ribbon, accompanied by a card.

Do the simpering society misses know this is your favorite scent? You smell so good, and I am coming for you .

Darcy had frowned and checked with his valet—no one had brought a parcel, and none had seen anyone near his door. He began paying more attention.

The third arrived folded into his morning paper.

You look so severe as you survey a crowded room; perhaps it is me, Darcy, who you are looking for?

And then a fourth, this by regular post.

I have been alone with you inside my mind, and in my dreams, I have kissed your lips a thousand times .

By the fifth, he could not ignore it. That letter had not come by post either—but had been placed directly upon his pillow. Neither the butler nor his valet had seen anything. And this one had mentioned Georgiana.

Darcy, is your sister home? Or did you go away and leave her all alone?

His blood had gone cold. Within an hour, he had gone to collect Georgiana from her school, despite her protests that there was still one more week of the term left. She had called him overbearing, paranoid, ridiculous.

But he had remained unmoved.

He arranged for her to set up her own establishment in town with a new companion, a stern and competent widow named Mrs. Younge. Her references were unimpeachable, and she seemed unlikely to coddle or flatter. He had paid her well and instructed her to report weekly.

But when a seventh note arrived, making it clear that he was being watched, he decided to send Georgiana away.

I saw you yesterday in Bond Street. You looked very fine. I reached out, but you did not even see me. If I were to have screamed out for you, would you have heard me?

The idea of a seaside stay at Ramsgate finally appeased the surly girl, and Mrs. Younge took her smiling charge away.

That was last week, and there had been no more notes sent. Still, he did not sleep well.

He attended social functions as necessary, but his friends noted the change.

He spoke little, danced rarely, and no longer accepted invitations that were not a matter of business or duty.

Tonight, his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam had caught him scowling into a glass of wine and made a pointed comment.

“If you glower at the musicians any longer, Darcy, they may pack up their violins and flee.”

Darcy had allowed a ghost of a smile. “I am perfectly civil.”

“You are a statue. A handsome statue, but stone, nonetheless. It is a miracle you danced with Rebecca, and as she is happily engaged to my brother, it does not truly count.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I thought it might soothe your mother’s nerves if I stood up with someone before midnight.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Yes, but now the gossips are saying you may have decided to persuade her from him.”

Darcy looked away. The weight of eyes seemed to press against the back of his neck—real or imagined, he could not tell.

“I need air,” he muttered.

Without another word, he made his way to the vestibule, gathered his greatcoat and hat, and ordered his carriage home.

The London air was thick and damp. Horse hooves echoed down cobbled lanes as gas lamps flickered weakly. Darcy said nothing as he dismounted from the carriage at his townhouse and ascended the stairs.

One of the footmen met him in the entryway. “A message came for you, sir,” he said. “Delivered by hand not long ago.”

Darcy froze. “Did they say who sent it?”

“No, sir. It was just left with the butler. He thought it might be from your solicitor.”

Darcy took the envelope with deliberate care. He recognized the handwriting at once.

Slanted. Feminine. Too perfect.

He moved to the study, shut the door, and broke the seal.

There was no greeting. No signature. Only a line:

Some men take a beautiful young girl and hide her away from the world. But she still will want to walk out in the sun with her parasol. Girls just want to have fun, after all .

He stood frozen for a long moment. Then, without hesitation, he rang for his valet.

“Pack my trunk,” he said sharply. “I am leaving for Ramsgate at first light.”

∞∞∞

The sea wind howled as Fitzwilliam Darcy dismounted in front of the leased house on the cliffs of Ramsgate.

His coat was stiff with dust from the road after almost two days of riding in the carriage.

The horses had been pushed mercilessly, but he had not stopped, except to change them every few hours—not since reading that note.

But she will still want to walk in the sun…

The words seemed so innocent, but he knew better. He had not even waited to have breakfast at the inn that morning, choosing instead to eat some cold biscuits in the carriage in order to leave as soon as the sun had risen.

Flinging the front door open, he ignored a gaping maid who had paused on the stairs. “Where is my sister?” he demanded of the footman, who was hastily closing the door behind his master.

Before he could answer, Mrs. Younge burst from a room down the hall from the foyer, her cap askew and her face pale. “Mr. Darcy! Thank heavens!”

He caught her by the elbows. “Where is she? Where is Georgiana?”

She motioned for him to follow him into the drawing room she had just vacated.

“She left this morning after sending down a note that she was too unwell for breakfast,” she told him grimly after having closed the door.

“I sent an express to you this afternoon, sir. I have been unable to locate her at any of her usual places.”

“Her usual places? Are you telling me she often leaves the house unaccompanied?”

Mrs. Younge shook her head with vehemence. “Absolutely not, sir. This is the first time. I mean to say that I have checked the lending library, her favorite place to sit on the beach to sketch—all places that she would request to go to with me .”

“Then why the devil would she leave unaccompanied.”

“I think an old friend of yours may be part of the reason.”

“An old friend?”

She swallowed hard. “I hate to say such a thing about a man you and your late father have held in complete trust, but I am afraid that Mr. Wickham has been quite a negative influence on your sister.”

He froze. “ George Wickham.”

“Yes, that is what she called him. We met him by chance walking along the boardwalk one day. She claimed they were family friends, and that you and he had often played together as children.”

“Well, that part is true, at least.”

“I was reluctant to allow it, but she seemed very happy to see him, and even a few of the older servants recognized him.” She shrugged helplessly.

“I allowed it, but something seemed… off. He is quite handsome, but he is also too… confident. Too smooth. I warned her the day before last that I would not allow him to call anymore until I heard from you about him, and she went into such a rage.”

Oh Lord, please do not let her be eloping with him, he thought. But surely he would not do such a thing? Not with her.

Mrs. Younge paused and swallowed again before saying, “To be honest, sir, that is why I did not insist she come down to breakfast. I thought she was still upset, and that giving her space and time would do her some good. I confess I did not know she had left until I went upstairs to insist she come down to lunch.”

“Did anyone see her this morning?”

“Only her maid, who took her a tray for breakfast.”

“Summon her,” he ordered.

Mrs. Younge pulled the bell and told the answering maid to “fetch Sally, quickly.” Darcy paced the room as they waited, his composure near its breaking point.

“I have kept it from getting out to the servants, though, sir,” Mrs. Younge assured him. “Only Sally knows, and she will not tell—she is quite loyal to the Darcy family.”

“Yes, she is from Derbyshire; her aunt is my housekeeper,” he replied, absent-minded. “That is why she was chosen for the position.”

The door opened, and Sally entered the room. She did not have much information, other than Miss Darcy had requested her muslin walking gown with a sash in the back, and that her slippers she used for walking on the beach were missing.

“But I checked the shoreline and did not see her,” Mrs. Younge cried.

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I will go myself. You remain here in case she returns. Sally, come with me.”

The door had scarcely shut behind Sally before Darcy was out of it again, striding across the gravel path and around the hedgerow toward the cliff trail that led down to the beach.

The sky had darkened from the east, sea wind pressing cold and sharp against his cheeks, but he scarcely felt it.

His boots slipped once on the narrow path, but he did not slow.

Sally hurried behind him, her skirt catching brambles, nearly running to keep pace.