“Oh! Miss Darcy—I have not even told her we are going. Do you know where she is?”
“She told Sarah she was walking in the Orangery this afternoon and that she was not to be disturbed.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Indeed. I should speak with her before we go.”
She went downstairs and twirled into her thick winter cape—a gift from Mr Darcy just before he had left. After a moment of deliberation, she declined the offer of a footman to escort her across the grounds, and hurried out.
Miss Darcy would be glad to hear of her going. Elizabeth was already anticipating the false look of remorse, the insincere request to stay, the muttered promises of goodwill and well wishes. Or perhaps the girl would be honest and tell her good riddance—either way, the parting would not be a regretful one.
The Orangery was to the south of the house, situated on a knoll, and overlooking the valley below where a person with clear eyes could see the taller buildings from Lambton. The structure itself was magnificent—more glass and marble in that one oversized greenhouse than Elizabeth had ever seen before coming to England, and it was crafted with the magnificence of a Grecian temple. Mr Darcy told her it had been built over a century before and remained precisely as his great-great-grandfather had designed it so long ago. She stepped inside and closed the door, admiring how the breath that had chilled on the air outside now seemed to be cooler than the environment. She did not see Miss Darcy, but there was a stone bench near the back of the building, the view of which was obstructed by three trees in the centre. If the girl were still here, that was likely where she would be.
“Georgiana, have you made up your mind or not?”
Elizabeth stopped at the sound of a masculine voice through the lemon trees, her stomach sinking in dread.
“All I said is that I wanted to wait,” came Georgiana’s reply.
“Wait for what? You said your funds were available and ready for you in London!”
Elizabeth tucked herself better out of sight, into the boughs of an orange tree, and strained to hear a muffled, indistinct reply from Georgiana. Though Elizabeth could not quite understand the girl’s answer, her companion apparently did, and was not pleased.
“You promised!” he thundered, then followed this bit of temper with an oath. “You said we would go as soon as your account was ready. What possible reason can you have for wishing to delay?”
Georgiana’s tones were flat, with that stubborn lilt to her inflexion that Elizabeth knew all too well. “I decided it would be wiser. What do you care if I wait a week or two?”
“What do I care? I put all else aside to go with you! What is this, have you grown soft and weak, Georgiana? Do you think to wait on Darcy’s return and kindly ask his blessing on the scheme? You said you cared nothing for his permission! What has he done besides manipulate you and keep you locked away? I say, let him rot.”
“You do not understand,” Georgiana finally replied. “He has made me responsible here, and he will cut off my allowance—in fact, has already done so, which is why it was such trouble to pull together enough funds for now. And I have been thinking—you know he could close off my accounts, or worse, he would have the bank inform on me when I try to withdraw my money.”
“He cannot cut everything off,” the man growled. “You have money that is yours alone, and if we were to go to Paris now, he could do nothing to withhold it.”
“What money?” she asked.
“Why, your dowry, of course. We’re eloping, Georgiana, and all that money will be ours.”
Miss Darcy was silent for a moment. “George… We agreed—”
“Youagreed. What, you thought I would simply see you to Miss Younge’s flat in Paris and leave you there? That I would let you kiss me and use me and get nothing for it? I’ve been waiting on Darcy long enough, and it’s time I got mine.”
“No!” Her voice raised a pitch higher. “I do not wish to marry yet! I deserve a society wedding and—”
“And a humble steward’s son is not welcome at the grand St James’ Cathedral? Stuff it, Georgiana. Whatever you imagined in that pretty little head of yours, you can forget it. The plan has always been for us to marry as soon as we got to Paris. We can live fat and content on your 30,000 pounds the rest of our lives, and who knows? Maybe Darcy will even give our children allowances if we convince him they would be badly off without his help.”
“But I never agreed to marry you. I thought we were friends!”
Mr Wickham laughed. “Friends do not trade kisses and secrets as we have. Either you truly are that stupid, or you are nothing but a little whore. If you do not come now, you’re worse than ruined. What will everyone say when word gets out? What will Darcy say when he hears his precious little sister has been deflowered?”
Elizabeth flinched at the sound of a palm cracking against skin.
“I am not! If you dare—”
Miss Darcy’s vehement protest was cut off, and Elizabeth could hear muffled cries snorting and gasping from behind a fierce hand.
“Come, my dear, no reason to become violent,” Mr Wickham crooned. “I had not intended it this way—I meant for you to come of your own will. Are we sailing for Paris or not?”
An enraged shriek was Miss Darcy’s only answer.
Elizabeth was biting her fist, the tears starting in her eyes as her body froze in fear and indecision. Her pulse was in her throat now, and she clutched instinctively at a whip-like branch of the lemon tree. Her hand tensed, and the branch began to rip from the tree—a weapon now in her white fingers. She stiffened and prepared to leap from around the tree, but her knees were like water, and her head felt light. She forced herself to step away, snapping the branch off in her hand with an audible crack.
