Prologue
January 12, 1811
Georgiana started at the loud rapping on the front door.
“Mrs. Younge, is Mr. Wickham dining with us?”
"He is." Mrs. Younge giggled, like a love-struck girl.
“He is exceedingly amiable, do not you think? He sent a note pressing for an invitation.”
“You admire him.”
“I do, my dear. I admire him very much.”
The butler announced Mr. Wickham, and the two ladies stood and curtsied.
George Wickham was handsome, with a pleasing address, if one did not attend too closely. Without fortune, and not even passably attractive, Georgiana wondered what he wanted from her companion, who was older than him by at least five or six years.
He was unlike the men she knew. Fitzwilliam and Richard always spoke plainly. Mr. Wickham, however, measured their reactions to every word that left his mouth. It was especially unsettling when his cheerful expression dropped like a discarded mask.
He was a liar. No man could look upon Mrs. Younge and declare her as lovely as a rose in June. She was no such thing. He was a liar, plain and simple.
She did not trust Mr. Wickham, and now she must endure another evening in his company. His first visit had appeared a matter of chance. But was it?
She sat quietly, knitting, as she observed the pair and tried to understand their connection. His hand often rested upon Mrs. Younge in a familiar manner, like that of an affectionate husband toward his wife.
Dinner was finally announced, and Mr. Wickham offered his arm. Georgiana recoiled from his touch and deliberately dropped her knitting. “Please, go on. I will follow in a moment.”
Mr. Wickham was sitting at the head of the table, in her brother’s place. How dare he? He rose and drew out the chair at his right, and seated her.
He pressed another glass of wine upon her companion. It was her third, for she had already had two in the drawing room.
Mrs. Younge giggled again. “George, I fear I shall be quite overset if I drink anything more.”
“Never. You are too much a lady to lose command of your senses.”
Her companion simpered.
Had Georgiana not been so well brought up, she might have rolled her eyes at his cajolery.
Then his eyes settled upon Georgiana. “Miss Darcy, you have not touched your wine.”
His tone, meant to please, struck her as insincere. She dissembled. “Sir, I have a headache and fear it would grow worse if I drink the wine.”
“I understand. Shall I have the servant bring you a glass of water?”
“No, thank you, sir. I am not thirsty.”
She bent her attention to her plate, cutting her roast beef into neat portions, and he directed himself once again to Mrs. Younge.
Georgiana resolved to write to Fitzwilliam. He must be informed of Mrs. Younge’s conduct. Something about the situation was peculiar, and she longed for her brother.
When dinner concluded, they removed to the drawing room. Mrs. Younge was clinging to Mr. Wickham’s arm; her gait was unsteady. He settled her in a cushioned chair and then crossed to the sideboard.
“Mrs. Younge, I shall indulge in a glass of this fine brandy. It is the best I have had. What shall I bring for you?”
“I ought not drink anything more. I am certain I am a little tipsy.”
