Page 9 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)

The house was dark. The sea whispered below the cliffs, a restless hush broken only by the creak of the sash window as Mrs. Younge pushed it open. She turned to the trembling girl behind her.

“Quickly now, Georgiana. Give me your valise and then I’ll help you through.”

Georgiana nodded, her face pale beneath the black veil that concealed her golden hair. They had dressed alike in their darkest gowns and traveling cloaks, each bearing a single valise and weighed down with fear of George Wickham.

Mrs. Younge urged her charge. “You can do this, my dear.”

The girl climbed through with difficulty, landing gracelessly but safely in the garden beyond.

Mrs. Younge followed, closing the window without a sound.

They slipped through the hedge at the rear, away from the leased home and its secrets.

Wickham might be watching the front, or squandering her hard-earned wages at the gaming table.

They climbed the cliff path, the chalk trail gleaming faintly under a moonless sky. The sea loomed at their right, the wind tugging at their veils. Mrs. Younge cast frequent glances behind, the press of exposure gnawing at her courage.

“If anyone sees us,” Georgiana whispered, “they’ll know. They’ll know who I am.”

“That is why we must not be seen.”

They moved with care, keeping to the cliff path above the beach. The flats of Pegwell Bay lay cloaked in shadow, vast and somber beneath the faint moonlight. Shapes moved below, shadows, perhaps, or something less benign. A dog barked in the distance. Georgiana flinched.

Mrs. Younge pressed her arm. “Only a farm dog. Come now.”

Beyond the cliffs, they descended into low, scrubby grassland. Salt marshes scented the air with brine and rot. The night was quiet, but every so often, the rustling reeds played tricks on the ears. Once, Georgiana halted, clutching Mrs. Younge’s sleeve.

“What was that?”

“A hare, nothing more. You are safe with me.”

The road ahead stretched long and bare. Flat farmland and hedged lanes offered no cover. Still, they walked, slower now. Georgiana stumbled more than once. Her soft shoes were soaked with dew, her hands blistered from gripping the valise.

“How much farther?” she panted.

“Probably two and a half miles yet.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.” Mrs. Younge’s voice sharpened. “For your life, and mine.”

They walked. The sky remained mercifully dark. But as they neared Garlinge, they heard the distant clop of hooves.

“There,” Georgiana hissed, eyes wide. “He’s found us!”

Mrs. Younge seized her arm and yanked her into the ditch, covering them both with her cloak. The rider passed; he was a farmer, not Wickham. But Georgiana sobbed silently, her nerves broken.

“I cannot go on,” she whispered.

“You can. Perhaps thirty minutes more, then we will reach warmth, a bed, and safety.”

And so they pushed on, through the hedge, across one last pasture, to the low-roofed building nestled beside an orchard.

It was the Inn. They paid with what little Georgiana had hidden away; Wickham had taken the rest. They had enough for two nights.

Mrs. Younge spent her few remaining coins on food, which she ordered delivered to their room.

Inside the bed chamber, she barred the door after telling the servant girl that her older sister was mortally ill.

Mrs. Younge cleaned the hearth herself, swept the floor, and drew the curtains.

She gave the name Mrs. Clare and said her sister lay sick with consumption.

They refused the maids and kept to their room.

The next morning, she sat by the hearth and penned a letter.

The Albion Inn

Garlinge, near Margate

March 02, 1811

Mr. Darcy,

I am ashamed to write this letter, and more ashamed still of the part I have played. I was recommended to your household by Mr. George Wickham, who claimed affection for me and intentions of marriage. I believed him. I am now ruined by him, compromised and with child, and utterly deceived.

I beg your forgiveness for failing in my charge.

Mr. Wickham gained entrance to the Ramsgate house through intimidation.

The servants are intimidated and allow him to come and go as he pleases, day or night.

I did not understand the extent of his intentions until it was almost too late.

When he spoke of eloping with your sister, I could not allow it.

We fled the house last night under the cover of darkness, bringing only what we could carry, and traveled on foot until we reached Garlinge.

Miss Darcy is unharmed, but the journey has exhausted her.

We now hide in a modest inn under false names.

I overheard word of Mr. Wickham offering a reward for information about a blond child and her companion. We dare not go out.

Georgiana is bearing up well, sustained by the hope that you will soon arrive to rescue her.

I will not ask for pardon, only mercy. I wish only to escape George Wickham and protect the child I carry. If you would be so good as to provide the means for passage to America, I would count it a gift of salvation.

We await you here.

With remorse and hope,

Mrs. Younge