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The road smoothed and widened as his carriage drew closer to the seaside village of Ramsgate, but Darcy’s head still pounded as though he were being dragged down a rutted lane. He heard the sounds of gulls and breathed deeply of the salty air, hoping his brain would clear. He anticipated Georgiana’s response at seeing him unexpectedly on her doorstep, and smiled. The action felt unfamiliar, even odd; he wondered if he should practise it before arriving, resisting the urge to dig out a mirror from his kit for fear it, instead, resembled a grimace.
As he drove past the various medical establishments on Chapel Place, he wondered if he should perhaps make an appointment for a sea cure. He immediately shuddered at the thought of trying to explain himself, of giving voice to complaints of discomfort in a life he knew to be uniformly desirable. He could only imagine what his father would have thought of such a display of weakness. No, the best possible cure had been removing himself from Elizabeth’s taxing presence, exchanging sleepless nights for peace of mind. Press on, Darcy, he commanded himself in familiar refrain.
At long last, his carriage turned onto his own drive, and he rested his tired eyes upon Sea Cliff Lodge.
Entering the large, well-lit hall, Darcy was surprised by the quiet of the place. No servants greeted him; he directed his own man and Frost, his coachman, to deal with his trunks. The music room was empty, so he proceeded up the stairs to his sister’s favourite parlour. He almost called out when he reached it—as he heard low murmurings from within—but head throbbing, he could not bring himself to make the effort.
He strode into the pale blue room, expecting to see his sister—perhaps bent over her writing desk or her sewing, conversing with her companion, Mrs Younge. Instead, he halted in shock.
Georgiana was wrapped in what could only be described as a passionate embrace; her arms were locked around the neck of a man, her fingers clutching his hair. The man’s hands were…were…
Darcy made a sound—not words, some exclamation that could not begin to express his horror. He did not know what he meant to say; he was already choosing his second, planning the scoundrel’s death. Perhaps he would not wait for a field of honour—a gutter was too grand a place for this ne’er-do-well to die.
Georgiana heard him…he saw her startle…saw the moment she recognised just who was witness to this gross impropriety. She shrieked, dropping her hands and shoving at her lover; the man stumbled back awkwardly, whirling to see the source of the interruption, his face reflecting annoyance, not shame.
“Wickham!”
“Fitzwilliam! It is not what you think…” Georgiana’s plea faded at his obvious fury, but she caught her courage and tried to continue. “We are to be married—”
But Darcy could not look at her, only at the villainous source of her potential ruin. “Marry? You think to marry my sister?” His tone was incredulous, his anger spiralling beyond his control. “That so vile a blackguard as you should even speak with her is an outrage, much less…” His words choked off, cut into shreds by rage. He could hardly draw breath to fill his lungs.
George Wickham laughed. “This is rich,” he said between guffaws. “If you could only see your red face, Darcy! I suppose your puritanical tyranny would not allow for men and women to behave as mere mortals. Your bride shall anticipate a buss on the cheek for her wedding night bliss, with only your money to keep her warm, eh?”
Darcy stood frozen, chest heaving. He watched, as though from a distance, Wickham’s continued hilarity. Darcy reached out to his sister, intending to order her from the room so he could throw the first punch. His mouth worked around the words but failed to form them. He tried to stretch his arm to her—but it was unresponsive to his brain’s demands. His vision clouded, black and red dots obscuring his view. His limbs grew heavy, unyielding. He thought perhaps he was seeing through a red haze of his own making, his fury tunnelling through his senses and paralysing him. He attempted to reassert control of his body—failed, and collapsed where he stood, his consciousness fading to the sound of Georgiana’s screams.
