Georgiana
The words blurred for a moment as his eyes refused to believe them.
He read them again.
And again.
His breath caught, sharp and silent. The edges of the paper crumpled beneath his fingers.
He had known—of course he had known—that she would be angry. That she would grieve what she thought she had lost. But this…
Hate? Shehatesme?
The word echoed like a gunshot through his chest.
Georgiana. The same little girl who had once clung to his waist in tears when he left for university. Who had begged him for just one more story at bedtime, long after she was too old for such things. Who had trusted him with every secret of her childhood.
Now she could not even bring herself to call him brother.
“I hope you are miserable.”
“Well,” he murmured aloud, his voice hoarse, “then at least you may be satisfied.”
He sat heavily in the chair, the letter limp in his hand. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, but he felt cold to the bone.
Was it truly so wrong to protect her?
He had seen the truth on that beach. Wickham, pale with guilt. Georgiana, clinging to a man who had only ever seen her as a pawn. Darcy had acted—perhaps harshly, perhaps without enough gentleness—but had he not acted in love?
Now she reviled him for it.
He dropped his head into his hand and stared down at the letter again, trying to reconcile the scathing words with the soft-voiced sister who had once written poems for him in her childish script.
It was all done for her sake,he reminded himself. Better a sister who hated him than one married to a man who would have ruined her.
But the ache in his chest did not care for logic.
Only for loss.
He sighed heavily and sank into his chair before picking up the second letter, which bore the tidy, controlled script of Mrs. Younge.
Mr. Darcy,
Your sister is well in body but quite volatile in spirit. I am thankful for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence—without him, I fear she would become completely ungovernable.
I must be honest, Mr. Darcy: she blames me for everything that occurred in Ramsgate and has taken to addressing me with outright scorn. I no longer believe I am the best companion for her. I have exhausted every tactic known to me. I am no longer effective in this role.
Additionally, I fear that when she is presented to society, her behavior will reflect poorly not only on herself but on those responsible for her upbringing. Miss Darcy’s behavior—both now and in the future—may affect subsequent positions, as I doubt any patron or patroness would place confidence in a governess whose charge behaves with such impropriety.
That having been said, I will remain with Miss Darcy until a replacement can be secured, but I ask that it be accomplished within the month. I have recently been offered a position as a governess for a family traveling to India—a lifelong dream of mine—and the compensation is generous.
If you desire, I can provide you with a few names of ladies who specialize in difficult charges. I hope you will understand my decision and allow me to part with thanks for your past trust and patronage.
Respectfully yours,
Agnes Younge
Darcy exhaled slowly, folding the letter with deliberate care and setting it beside the other.
