Mr Bennet sighed again, rubbing his temples as though trying to relieve some of the tension that gripped him. “I do not know, Lizzy. I truly do not. But I intend to find out. Tomorrow evening, I am invited to Netherfield for drinks with a few others, and I expect Sir Anthony will be there. I mean to ask him whatever questions I can think of to prove his credentials.”
Elizabeth watched the play of feeling over her father’s face in silence. She could sense the worry and doubt in him, emotions he rarely showed so openly. This was the man who deliberately laughed at convention and provoked others for his own amusement. But he did not look amused now, and it frightened her.
He swirled the contents of the glass she had brought him, then downed the remnants in one go before heaving a long sigh. “Say nothing to Jane or the others. I ought not to have mentioned it to you, but I knew you would give me no peace unless I confessed.”
Elizabeth smiled thinly. “Of course, Papa. I shall leave you to think of what to do.”
He grunted, his temple leaning against his index finger as he rested his arm on the desk. But as she reached the door, her father’s voice stopped her again. “Lizzy,” he said, his tone hesitant, almost vulnerable. “If you think of any questions that might test the man, perhaps you could write them down for me. I find… I find I have begun to distrust my own senses lately, and I would appreciate your help.”
Elizabeth turned back to him. “Papa,” she began softly, “I have been wondering the same about myself. Whether I can trust what I see and hear. But I will try to think of something that might help.”
Mr Bennet gave her a faint, weary smile, one that did little to alleviate the tension in his face. “Thank you, my dear.”
Darcy could delay nolonger. He must see Georgiana, must ask her about Ramsgate—there was something there, some detail that either he had never credited, or had slipped through the cracks of his memory, and he could not rest until he had it. He signed the last document placed before him by his man of business and rose from his desk, though the movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He gripped the edge of the desk, willing the room to stop spinning.
When the world finally steadied, he made his way to his uncle’s townhouse. As he arrived at the Matlock residence, he handed his coat and hat to the footman and inquired quietly, “Is Miss Darcy available?”
He did not want to speak with his aunt. Lady Matlock, though well-meaning, had a tendency to fuss, and Darcy was in no state to endure it. He needed to see Georgiana alone.
The footman returned with a nod. “Miss Darcy is in the music room, sir. Lady Matlock is presently occupied with guests.”
Darcy breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be spared an encounter with his aunt. He nodded his thanks to the footman and made his way to the music room, his steps slow and measured, every movement a reminder of the illness that was eating away at him.
When he reached the door, he paused, collecting himself before entering. He could hear the soft strains of the piano—Georgiana must have been practising. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Georgiana sat at the piano, her back to him as her fingers danced lightly over the keys. The gentle melody filled the room, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging in Darcy’s mind. For a moment, he simply watched her, trying to gather the strength to speak.
Sensing his presence, Georgiana turned, her eyes widening in alarm as she took in his appearance. “Fitzwilliam,” she said, rising quickly from the bench. “You look unwell.”
Darcy winced, though he managed a faint smile. “It is nothing for you to worry over, Georgiana. I have been unwell, it is true, but nothing serious. Come, sit with me.” He gestured to the settee, his heart twisting at the lie. He was lying to the one person in the world he had sworn never to deceive.
Georgiana hesitated, her gaze flickering with uncertainty, but she did as he asked, seating herself beside him. For a moment, Darcy struggled to find the words, his mind a jumble of fragmented thoughts. He forced himself to focus, to push through the haze.
“Georgiana,” he began, his voice low and controlled, “I need to ask you something about your time in Ramsgate. I know we have spoken of this before, but there are some details I must clarify. Please, indulge me one last time.”
She looked at him, suspicion clouding her features. “Why are you asking me about it again? You did not believe me before, Fitzwilliam. What more can I tell you now?”
Guilt gnawed at Darcy, an ache deeper than the relentless throb in his head. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it closed over hers, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. How had he not seen it? How had he dismissed her so easily? “You are right,” he murmured, his voice thick with remorse. “I should have listened to you—how could I not have? I failed you, Georgiana, and I cannot undo that. But please, I need you to trust me now. I need to understand. Start from the beginning... tell me everything you remember.”
Georgiana bit her lip, uncertainty flashing in her eyes, but she nodded. “Very well, if it will help you. I first encountered Mr Wickham at the public rooms. It was a surprise—he seemed just as shocked to see me as I was to see him.”
“He was alone?” Darcy asked sceptically.
“That day he was, but he told me that he was waiting for a friend to arrive in Ramsgate. He was not sure what day the man was to arrive, so he was simply amusing himself and biding his time.”
Darcy’s head throbbed with a pain that muddled his thoughts, each pulse drowning out the details of Georgiana’s words. He struggled to find something—anything—coherent to ask, but the pain made it impossible to focus. Finally, desperate to keep the conversation going, he blurted out the first question that came to mind. “Can you describe Mr Billings? Do you remember anything specific about him?” It was a grasp at straws, and he knew it, but his mind could not conjure anything better.
“Mr Billings,” she replied, her brow furrowed in concentration. “He did not say much about him at first, only that they were close and that Mr Billings would be joining him soon.”
“Did he ever clarify what sort of friend this Mr Billings was?” Darcy pressed, trying to focus on her words despite the pounding in his skull.
Georgiana shook her head. “Not at first. But I did meet him about two weeks later when he arrived in town. They were at the public rooms together.”
Darcy’s vision blurred, the pain intensifying as he struggled to keep his thoughts in order. “So, you saw this Mr Billings? Could you describe him to me?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I remember him. He was a shorter man, stocky, with very curly red-brown hair and eyes that were almost the same colour. He had the shoulders of a blacksmith but the hands of a gentleman. I thought he was striking in appearance, so I remembered him. He was only in Ramsgate for a few days before he left. Mr Wickham told me that Mr Billings had offered him an opportunity and that he had to return to London to arrange the details.”
“What kind of opportunity?” Darcy asked, though his voice trembled slightly as he spoke.
