“Tell me, Caroline, why is it impossible?”
“Because I am your responsibility!” She thought quickly of Chirpee and her eyes obediently became teary.
Bingley felt himself weakening at the sight of his sister’s wet eyes, but then recalled his conversations with the Colonel and Darcy. His heart hardened. “There is no point in your crocodile tears, Caroline. I am abrogating any responsibility for you. Tomorrow morning, you and I will set off for London, where I will meet with my banker and my solicitor. I will release your dowry to you and then I will send notices to your various dressmakers and what not, telling them that I will no longer be responsible for your bills. Have you any questions for me? No? Very well, Caroline. You may stay at Bingley House until we finda townhouse that you can afford, and then you will no longer be welcome either at Bingley House or Netherfield.” He turned to go.
Caroline put out a hand to stop him from leaving. “No, Charles, wait. I am sorry for anything that I have done to upset you.”
“Truly, Caroline?” He turned back to face her.
“Truly, Charles.” She made her voice penitent.
“And what might you have done to upset me, do you think?”
She immediately lost her patience and stamped her foot. “Charles, seriously, you know you can do better than Jane Bennet! For heaven’s sake, stop pouting.”
“So you truly have no idea what I am talking about.”
Caroline was silent. She was beginning to think that she might have truly overstepped.
“Begin packing, Caroline. We leave tomorrow morning. You may take Peggy with you or not, as you wish, as you will be paying her wages from now on.”
He leaned against the wall outside her door, shaking. He had stood up to both his sisters. The earth had not fallen into the sun, but his stomach was roiling and his heart was pounding. He would need one of Dunstan’s tonics tonight.
He knew he had been able to speak so to Caroline only because he had been so angry at having lost Miss Bennet. He had become a strong man, perhaps one worthy of Miss Bennet, only after he had lost her. The irony was not lost on him.
Why, oh why, could he not have had a different younger sister? Someone like Miss Georgiana Darcy, perhaps; nowtherewas a lovely young lady. She was everything gentle, kind and good. Likely she never gave Darcy a minute’s trouble. How he wished he could trade Caroline Bingley for Georgiana Darcy!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The next morning, Georgiana rose with the sun to prepare for her first day of work. She had secreted Mrs. Younge’s marriage lines in the pocket of the skirt she would wear to Madame DuBois’ establishment, and now could only pray that Mrs. Younge would not discover its absence before Georgiana was safely away.
George had insisted on doingthatwith her the night before. She had almost vomited, knowing that he had very recently been engaged in the same activities with Mrs. Younge – who should rightly be called Mrs. Wickham – the day before. She managed to control herself, but only with difficulty.
George seemed to linger over breakfast forever, but he was finally ready to take her to Bond Street. “Do whatever she tells you, Georgiana. We need this money to feed you and little George.”
She tried to smile in response, but she knew it did not reach her eyes. He took her chin in his hand and roughly turned her face to his. “You are not sulking, I hope?” His tone was dangerous.
“No, George,” she said, submissively.
“Good. Your princess days are behind you.”
“Yes, George.”
Finally, they arrived at their destination. Madame DuBois – who Georgiana discovered was no more French thanGeorgiana herself, for the woman looked baffled when Georgiana addressed her in French – shooed Wickham out, took Georgiana into the workroom, and introduced her to a Mrs. Boyle, who would supervise Georgiana. There were half a dozen seamstresses at work, among them Mrs. Cartwright. Mrs. Cartwright glanced up as Georgiana entered, gave her a minute nod, and then focused her attention back on her work. Georgiana was given a dress to embroider and she began immediately.
After about an hour of silent sewing, Mrs. Cartwright cleared her throat. Georgiana looked up at her. Mrs. Cartwright cut her eyes over to one corner of the room. Georgiana followed her glance and saw the back door Mrs. Cartwright had mentioned the previous evening. It was painted the same colour as the rest of the wall and she would not have seen it without Mrs. Cartwright’s help. She inclined her head an inch to show that she understood and returned to her sewing.
Georgiana waited another thirty minutes. Then she rose, dropped the dress she had been working on, and walked out of the room through the back door.
“Hey!” Mrs. Boyle called out after her. “Where are you going?”
Georgiana did not respond; she was already running away from the shop as fast as she was able.
She knew the Matlocks lived in Grosvenor Square, but she did not know where that was. She knew she had to hurry – for what if George returned early for her? – so she stopped a gentleman to ask directions. “Excuse me, sir; can you tell me how to get to Grosvenor Square?”
“Be off with you!” he yelled, waving his stick at her.
She scurried away. What had she done wrong? Of course, they did not have an acquaintance, but she was only asking directions! What harm could there be in that?
