Georgiana’s memory faltered, and she looked down at her hands. “I do not remember exactly. I think it had something to do with being a steward for someone, but I am not sure. I wish I could remember more.”
A steward? This was a dead end. Darcy’s heart sank as he watched her struggle to recall the details. His own thoughts were slipping away from him, like water draining from a cracked vessel. He could not speak for a moment, the words refusing to form on his lips. He was barely able to concentrate, his mind swirling with blackness, threatening to engulf him.
“Fitzwilliam, you truly are unwell, are you not?” Georgiana asked, her voice trembling with concern. “Or is it my story that upsets you?”
Darcy forced himself to speak, though his voice was strained. “It is not your fault, Georgiana. Please, continue. How much longer did Wickham remain in Ramsgate?”
She hesitated, her eyes filling with worry, but she pressed on. “About a fortnight longer, waiting for a letter from Mr Billings to confirm the position. During that time, we encountered each other frequently in the public rooms, and he would introduce me to other ladies he had met on his morning outings. Really, Fitzwilliam, it all seemed entirelyinnocent at the time. Mrs Younge even permitted him to escort me back to our hired rooms, where we served him tea twice before he left.”
Darcy’s cheek twitched, his mind reeling as the implications of her words sank in. He could not speak; his throat was constricting with the effort. Georgiana was alarmed again, her voice filled with desperation as she continued.
“I know it was not proper to receive a gentleman, even though Mrs Younge was with me. But Mr Wickham was so friendly, so easy, just as though he were still a part of the family. I never meant to deceive you, Fitzwilliam. Please believe me.”
Darcy closed his eyes, the darkness threatening to consume him. “I believe you, Georgiana. I truly do. I see now, in a way I did not credit before, how perfectly convincing Mr Wickham must have been.”
Georgiana visibly relaxed, but her face clouded with confusion. “Why are you asking me all this now? What is happening?”
Darcy sighed, his heart heavy with the weight of the truth. “Because I was fooled, Georgiana. I was fooled, just as you were.”
Her eyes widened in shock, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You? What do you mean? What has happened?”
Darcy hesitated, the truth almost too bitter to speak. “Mr Wickham has charmed an entire town, including some… very intelligent people… into believing he is the most benevolent man alive.”
She puckered her mouth. “I… I do not understand.”
“Neither do I,” he sighed. “But there it is. He is living the life of a gentleman of means who is currently hailed as the saviour of Meryton in Hertfordshire.”
Her face broke into a look of utter bemusement, and she shook her head. “A gentleman of means! How?”
“He has somehow stumbled into great wealth. Enough to lease an estate and essentially purchase the favour of all his neighbours by his magnanimity.”
Georgiana shook her head in disbelief. “But that cannot be! He had almost no money when I saw him in Ramsgate. In fact…” She paused, her voice faltering. “I was embarrassed to tell you this before, but I gave him some of my spending money one day when Mrs Younge was not looking. He told me that his coin purse was stolen on the coach, and the bank where he kept his money was delaying on sending him more funds.”
Darcy felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under him. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind reeling with the implications. “How much did you give him?”
“More than fifty pounds,” Georgiana admitted, her voice small and filled with shame. “He promised to pay me back, and the day he left for London, he did return half the money to me. But I have not seen the rest.”
Darcy’s hands shook as he absorbed this new information. Wickham had lied about the timing of his supposed inheritance. Had he not told Darcy that he was already a wealthy man by the time he met Georgiana in Ramsgate? Or was he remembering that detail wrongly?
No, no, he was sure of it. The timing was wrong, and Wickham had used Georgiana’s sympathies to live off of her until he could secure more money elsewhere. And undoubtedly, Wickham had known that Georgiana would be too embarrassed to tell Darcy about it.
Darcy took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Georgiana, I believe you. I should have listened to you before. You were right… George Wickham probably behaved every inch the gentleman, save for the part about taking money from a lady.”
Georgiana straightened in her chair, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and worry. “I am glad you believe me, Fitzwilliam. But I still do not understand why you are asking me all this. What is going on?”
“I wish I knew. Something is not right, and I wish I could think it through clearly, but I am struggling. It… it has been a trial of late to recollect and make sense of my own thoughts. I cannot even trust my own memory right now.”
Georgiana scoffed. “What could you mean by that? You probably remember everything that ever happened in your whole life, even something silly, like… oh, like the name of Mrs Reynolds’ favourite laying hen.”
Darcy’s face blanched as he realised the truth. “I…” He swallowed. “I do not remember,” he whispered, his voice filled with a deep sense of loss. “What is her name?”
Georgiana’s face paled in horror as she realised that Darcy was not jesting. “Henrietta,” she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. “Her name is Henrietta.”
Darcy closed his eyes and cupped his face in his hands, the realisation crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He was losing his grip on reality, on his memories, on everything he had once been. The sickness was taking more from him than he had ever imagined. Where would it end?
“There is something very wrong with me, Georgiana,” he confessed, his voice barely audible. “I have been experiencing crippling megrims. The dizziness, the nausea… I have even experienced palsies, and… well, that explanation will suffice. The doctors do not know for sure what it is.”
Georgiana’s mouth dropped open, her eyes wide with fear. Her hands shook, and she reached out as if to steady herself. “How long before you recover, Fitzwilliam? You… youwillrecover, will you not?” The desperation in her voice matched the terror in her eyes, her fingers clutching the edge of the table as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded.
