Page 3 of I Thee Wed (Pride And Prejudice Variation #2)

Her toilet was managed sparingly. She used but a little of her precious water, tearing a ruffle from her petticoat to serve as a cloth and hanging it afterwards to dry.

She twisted her hair into a loose chignon and dressed herself, though she could not fasten her corset; after several minutes of fruitless effort, she gave it up and set it aside.

She buttoned as much of her gown as she could while still able to draw it over her head.

There were a few buttons that remained undone, but as no one was there to see her, it didn’t matter.

She walked to the opposite end of the attic and worked until she was able to force another window open a few inches.

The cross breeze helped to freshen the stale air.

She peered out and was able to see the neighboring house.

It was built in the same style as the one they had leased and didn’t appear to be occupied, as it was dark and still.

The walled garden was charming, with a small folly in one corner, large shade trees, and thick hedges.

By contrast, the yard of her own house offered little concealment.

There was only a strip of green and a couple of benches.

She turned back to her own quarters and considered what she would do if Wickham discovered her hiding place.

She crept through the room in bare feet, quietly opening trunks and looking into old boxes that were stacked everywhere.

In a dark corner, she found a stout truncheon like those a watchman might carry.

She laid it on the couch that barricaded the door, then sat down on the cot and wished she had a book to read.

The day would be a long one with nothing to do.

Some hours later, she woke with a start, surprised by the shafts of light falling into the attic.

She had fallen asleep without meaning to.

Her watch told her it was only nine o’clock.

Wickham was not an early riser on the best of days, and drunk as he had been, she guessed he still slept.

She drank water, ate an apple with a bit of bread and cheese, and continued her quiet search through the trunks.

In one, she discovered a pile of books, among them Matthew Lewis’s Tales of Terror.

She settled upon her cot to read. The Gothic stories, with their lurid mixture of horror, sensuality, and the supernatural, were unlike anything she had read before.

She soon learned to skip the more indecent passages, but the thought of them made her shudder.

Were these the degradations Wickham intended for her, had he succeeded in his design?

And once abandoned, what further fate would await her?

A brothel, perhaps, and then an early grave.

She shivered anew, grateful that she had acted in time to save herself.

At length, she dozed again, only to start awake at the sound of wheels upon the road.

Creeping to the window, she peered out through the shutter and saw Wickham and Mrs. Younge descend from a hackney.

Wickham’s posture betrayed the lingering effects of his debauch.

The couple entered the house. Georgiana’s heart began to thud in her chest when she thought of her maid and prayed Jenny would not be blamed for her mistress’s flight.

If blame was to fall on anyone, it should fall on Mrs. Younge, who had recklessly abandoned her charge the night before.

Shivering, Georgiana watched at the window, and finally, after about twenty minutes, she saw Wickham leave the house and walk down the road.

She remained where she was, anxiously watching.

About an hour later, a hackney drew up, and Wickham hopped down and entered the house.

After several minutes, both Mr. Wickham and Mrs. Younge stepped out of the front entrance; she carried her fabric bag.

They walked quickly to the waiting hackney and drove away.

Georgiana felt the impulse to run down and post her letter to Fitzwilliam, but fear restrained her. If she were seen by the servants, they might betray her to Wickham when he returned. They all feared him, including herself. She decided to remain where she was, safely barricaded.

When she woke again, it was half past two.

Hunger pressed her, and she ate more bread and cheese and an orange, with a draught of water.

She then confronted another necessity she had not prepared for.

Searching the attic, she found a planter with a bit of soil at the bottom, which served in place of a chamber pot.

She set it back in the far corner, relieved yet abashed at the indignity.

The afternoon dragged on, and she continued reading the Tales of Terror until weariness overcame her, and she fell asleep once more.

At half past five, she woke to the sound of another carriage.

This time, women’s laughter and cheerful voices followed.

Looking out, she saw the commotion came not from her own door but from the house next to it.

A family, dressed modestly, alighted: two women and a gentleman carrying a small child.

She sat and watched the servants carry in several trunks.

She sat still as the carriage rolled away, and the street was again deserted.

Georgiana was interested in the members of the little family.

They were dressed plainly, but their attire was respectable, and they had behaved decently, which made them seem like a safe family who would help if she appealed to them for aid.

But her safety was at risk. She feared that Wickham would return while she was in the street.

She resolved to continue to watch them before making any attempt.

For the present, she remained where she was. Her water and food would suffice for another day, possibly two, and she might fetch more during the night when the household slept. She dusted off a wooden chair from the corner and sat down to read, hoping the time would pass quickly.

When the sun set and the attic grew dark, rather than light a candle, she crept into her cot, drawing the warm blanket about her. Fear bit at her, yet she consoled herself that she had bought another day. Whether she was doing the right thing, she could not say, but for the moment, she was safe.

Georgiana woke early. The attic lay dim and heavy with dust, and for a moment she stared at the narrow cot as if it were a stranger’s bed. Then memory returned. She had hidden herself here to escape Wickham and Mrs. Younge.

She rose, made a careful toilet, and put on a clean dress.

The muslin was crushed. She regretted not hanging it when she first came up.

She drew out her other gown, shook it, and hung it upon the peg.

The dress she had worn the day before was streaked with dirt, cobwebs, and dust, and was likely beyond saving.

She took stock of her provisions. She consumed the last of the hard-boiled eggs, but she still had apples and oranges, bread, biscuits, and cheese.

Her little food supply would last at least two days.

Water was the greater need. She was very thirsty, and she resolved to fetch more water that night and to bring at least twice what she had carried before.

Georgianna remained at the front and side windows, keeping a watchful eye.

Toward ten o’clock, the family emerged from the house, and she saw them walking toward the shore.

The child ran ahead along the grassy path; his laughter was sweet and seemed to make the day feel so natural and safe.

The two ladies were talking together, and the gentleman, whom she supposed to be the father, strode along keeping up with the little boy.

They appeared to be decent, good-humored people.

Georgiana believed they would offer assistance if asked.

If Wickham meant to return, it would be today or tomorrow. He and Mrs. Younge would have spent the previous day searching Margate. Another fruitless day might send them back to collect their things, or else drive them to flee at once, expecting her brother’s arrival. She felt she must act.

At noon, the neighbors returned; it was the hour for luncheon, and the child was no doubt ready to eat.

Hunger stirred, and she ate bread and cheese, then peeled an orange.

The juice from the orange eased her thirst, so she ate another.

When Georgiana resumed her watch at the window, she saw that the younger lady was walking in the garden with a small book in her hand.

She watched her cross to the little folly, sit down on a stone bench, and begin writing.

The young woman wrote for several minutes with intense focus.

Georgiana watched in quiet fascination until, at last, she felt the stirrings of resolve and knew that she must act.

She must go down and ask for help, even though she was afraid.

Now was the moment. Fear pricked at her chest. If Smithers or Jenny saw her in the yard, they might send word to Wickham.

However, if the neighbors took her in, they could also shelter Jenny.

She took a deep breath, then twisted her hair into a fresh chignon, put on her stockings and slippers, dusted off her skirt, and crept to the door.

She moved the couch a few inches at a time, then the settee, lifting each piece so it made no sound upon the boards.

She slipped through the narrow opening, closed the attic door behind her, and stole along the passage to Jenny’s little room.

It was empty. Surprise and concern caught her.

Where could Jenny be at this hour? Georgiana turned toward the back servants' stairs, went down quietly, and let herself out through the garden door.

She was amazed at how easily it was done.