Page 13 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

At the base of the trail, the shoreline stretched wide and empty, the tide drawing long foam-edged lines across the sand. No parasols. No picnic blanket. No signs of his sister.

“Are there coves nearby? Places she could be hidden from view?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Sally called, catching her breath. “To the left—behind the rocks—there is a small one she likes for sketching. It is just round the bend!”

He broke into a run.

The sand was loose and clinging, but he pressed on, boots pounding. His heart was a roar in his ears, louder than the wind or the sea. Let her be alone. Let this be a misunderstanding. Let her be safe.

He rounded the rock and saw them.

His sister—fifteen-year-old Georgiana—was seated on a man’s lap. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her pale muslin skirts gathered up around her calves.

Darcy stopped, thunderstruck. For one moment, he could neither breathe nor move.

Then he surged forward.

Wickham saw him first.

His face drained of color. He tried to shift Georgiana, to push her off with a murmured “Get off—Georgie, let go,” but she clung tighter.

“Brother?” she called, blinking up as Darcy stormed closer.

“Georgiana!” His voice cracked like a whip.

He reached her, seizing her arm. She let out a squeal as he pulled her bodily off Wickham’s lap and to her feet. Her gown was rumpled, her hair, unbonneted, hung loose down her back.

“Let me go! You are hurting me!” she cried.

He gripped her wrist; not roughly, but firmly enough that she could not escape. “What in the name of everything holy do you think you are doing?” he bit out.

“I love him!” she cried, attempting to pull her arm free.

Darcy turned to Wickham, his voice low and deadly. “You despicable cur.”

Wickham raised both hands. “This was her idea. She threw herself at me.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “She is a child.”

“I am aware of that,” Wickham retorted hotly. “One look at her bony frame makes it abundantly clear.”

“You snake,” Darcy snarled.

Wickham stepped forward, hands up. “In spite of her boyish figure, she is nearly sixteen, and it was her idea. She wanted this—she begged for it.”

Darcy froze. “And you just went along with it, did you?”

Wickham spoke more quickly, a hint of pleading in voice. “I tried to talk her down. You know I would never…” He gave a strained laugh. “I have never fancied women like her, as you well know. Not my usual… type .”

Darcy’s breath came hard through his nose. His fist clenched.

Georgiana twisted in his grasp. “You do not understand! I love him! George loves me!”

Wickham turned on her, startled. “No—I mean—Georgiana, we talked about this—”

“Stop lying!” she screamed. “We were going to elope! You said we would!”

Wickham paled further. “Please, Darcy—” he took a step forward, his hands raised as if in prayer. “I care about her, and I missed Pemberley. I thought this would—”

Darcy shoved his sister behind him. “Not. Another. Step. You have done enough.”

“Do not blame him!” Georgiana shrieked. “I love him, Fitzwilliam, and you cannot stop me—”

Darcy grasped her upper arm and began hauling her away, up the rocky path toward the house.

“George!” she screamed. “ George !”

Wickham followed a few steps, shouting, “She may be your ward, but she is not your property.”

Darcy ignored him, pushing forward even more quickly. His sister’s slipper caught on a stone, but he did not slow down.

“She is a human being with feelings…and needs,” Wickham continued to shout, “which you choose to ignore, as usual. Do you truly think she would be in this position if you were not so cold and controlling? She needed affection! A kind word! You remove her from her friends and lock her in a house with a paid chaperone and wonder why she reached for someone familiar?”

Darcy stopped suddenly and turned on his old friend. “You dare—” He paused and took a calming breath before enunciating each word. “Go back to hell, Wickham, where men like you belong. Or I will call for Richard to come and deal with you himself.”

Wickham froze, his face even more pale than before. “Would you really, Darcy? I mean so little to you, then?”

Darcy’s heart hammered in fury. His grip on Georgiana tightened, and she began to cry.

“Enough.” Darcy’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “I swear to you, if you speak one more word—”

Wickham faltered, then replied hotly, “You think dragging her back will make her pure again? That everyone will just forget? She is ruined , Darcy. That is on you !”

“Then thank God I found her before anyone else did.”

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, I hate you—”

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 the world 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 that he believes 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.

She swatted his hand away and ran up the stairs, sobbing loudly. Mrs. Younge looked to Darcy, who nodded at her, and she followed her charge to the family wing on the second floor.

Darcy turned and motioned silently toward the study. Once inside, he shut the door and walked straight to the sideboard, pulling down a pair of glasses and uncorking the brandy. He poured generously and slid one toward his cousin.

“Well,” Richard said, settling into the nearest chair. “That went poorly. What happened?”

Darcy sank into the seat across from him and took a long swallow before telling him everything.

The meeting. The manipulation. The cove.

Wickham.

Richard listened, his face growing graver by the minute. When the story was finished, he rubbed a hand over his face. “God in Heaven. I imagined Wickham hated you when you refused to give him the living, but I had no idea he would act in revenge. Is Georgiana… did she—”

“No one saw. No one knows.” Darcy’s voice was flat. “And I will see to it that no one ever does.”

“Will there be any… consequences of her behavior?”

“A child?” Darcy snorted. “I doubt it. She was still mostly clothed when I found them, and that was the first time they had truly been left alone together. Mrs. Younge was quite diligent in her care.”

“Thank heaven for that.”

A knock interrupted them. A footman entered silently and placed a sealed envelope on the desk.

“For you, sir. It was delivered just now.”

Darcy paled.

He broke the seal and read the contents, his mouth hardening as his eyes moved down the page.

“What? What is it?” Richard’s voice was urgent.

Darcy handed it to him, then poured himself more brandy. Richard read silently as Darcy downed his glass.

I fear we are facing a problem, Darcy… I spend my nights awake, wondering what I could have done in another way so that you will say that you love me, that you need me. I cry, and I pray, and beg for you to do so.

“Who wrote this?” Richard demanded. “How could they already know what occurred?”

“I have no idea,” Darcy said glumly. “I have not been able to discover the source of these letters.”

“Letters? As in more than one? This is not the first?”

“No.”

Darcy moved to the corner cabinet and withdrew a small wooden box, locked with a brass clasp. He unlocked it and handed it over.

Richard opened the lid and slowly lifted several folded notes and tokens: a ribbon, a dried sprig of lavender, pressed petals. Each with handwriting so exact and so delicate it made his skin crawl.

Richard swore under his breath. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since May. The handwriting is female. The messages never come by post, but simply appear on the doorstep. But at times they have arrived somewhere in the house. One even showed up on my pillow with Bates none the wiser.”

Richard turned back to the letter. “She knew. She knew about Ramsgate.”

“I believe she has a servant’s access. Or is being helped by someone who does.”

Richard was silent for a long moment. “You need to disappear.”

Darcy looked up.

“Not to Pemberley. Not here in Town. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one expects. Give this creature time to grow bored or make a mistake. You are being hunted.”

Darcy stared down into his brandy.

“I do have an invitation,” he said after a moment. “From Bingley. A small town in Hertfordshire. Meryton. He has taken a house there for the autumn.”

“Go,” Richard said instantly.

“I had intended to accept at first, but now... with Georgiana… someone needs to keep an eye on her. And she is safer in London than trying to move her to Pemberley.”

“I will stay here with her. I can secure emergency leave without difficulty—thanks to Father’s meddling, I have not seen the front lines in two years. They call it a commission, but it is little more than parade dress and paperwork. My uniform is more ornament than duty now.”

Darcy hesitated.

“Go,” Richard repeated. “You are being stalked. Your sister nearly eloped. Your nerves are as taut as a bowstring. Get out of the city. Rest. And leave Georgiana and your mysterious admirer to me.”

Darcy managed a bleak half-smile. “You do know how to issue orders, Colonel.”

Richard raised his glass. “Then consider this one of them.”