Part six of my never-ending short story…

Happy August to you! Will my modern take on P&P never end? Who knows! Given how I can go on and on, I will attempt keep this intro short, except to say the following:

• You all are the best! Thanks for continuing to read this still-untitled short story. (Any suggestions for a title?)
• You can find earlier parts of this short story here: part one, part two, part three, part four, and part five.
• As a heads up, there are non-graphic references to assault in this installment. To any readers who are survivors or who love a survivor, I send my love and support.
• Please feel free to leave any feedback in the comment section. This is a very rough draft! Still, I hope you enjoy…

Liz was something of a bibliophile (occupational hazard), so she’d read nearly every version of this plot already: a villain of the worst kind (i.e., one who believes he is not the villain but a victim) takes advantage of a heroine who seems weak but is actually just vulnerable (a crucial difference). This trope allows for a variety of endings: from the unequivocal happily-ever-after (villain suffers painful death or, if set in modern times, public embarrassment) to the tragic conclusion (villain thrives, heroine suffers, reader thrives through suffering: catharsis).

But Liz cared less about the villain’s fate than the heroine’s journey; for her, the real story lived in the details. Yes, George Wickham was a greedy bastard who saw Georgiana as nothing but a body and a bank account. His was a pathetic tale—as pathetic as the man himself.

Georgi, though? She was what all heroines ought to be: a jumbled mix of virtues and flaws, courage and fear, resignation and hope. Her story existed in the messy middle, always leaving her breathless and bruised when she retold it, which was why she had not retold it to anyone except her therapist and her brother—until now.

“My dad, you know, he was very sick,” she began—for this was, in her mind, when the trouble with Wickham had started.

Blessed with wealth, health, and the Darcy name, Georgiana had, at 14, seemed destined to follow the family tradition of attending Meryton Academy. But then her father had been diagnosed with cancer, and while Georgi may have been wealthy and healthy, she was above all a Darcy, and Darcys stuck together. She could go to Meryton later. Perhaps even soon. After all, her father—who had never met a problem he could not solve—declared he would be in remission within six months, a year, tops.

So as a ninth grader, Georgi stayed home—an easy sacrifice, really. Not even a sacrifice! If Will could give up his role as a medical researcher to take on his father’s business concerns at Pemberley (just temporarily, for six months—a year, tops), then surely she, Georgi, could study online and swim with the local club team.

Ten months later, just as she was beginning to imagine her sophomore year at Meryton: a new tumor, and then another. Her father begged her not to miss another year of school; he was improving, no matter what the doctors claimed. A few more months of chemotherapy and then he’d be fine, perfectly fine!

But she would not, could not go—not when she saw how the chemo drained him of all his energy. Sure, he had the best nurses, doctors, and caregivers money could provide, but it was Georgi who played cards with him for hours on end or binge-watched Ted Lasso and—his guilty pleasure—Bridgerton to help distract him from his pain. On good days, he’d joke about the irony of it all—a pharmaceutical tycoon, dying of cancer. What a laugh! On bad days, he’d spend hours on Zoom, railing at his best scientists (not to mention his own son) for refusing to give him treatments not yet ready for human trials.

He died the day she would have started eleventh grade.

“Two weeks before he passed,” she whispered, still holding tight to Liz, as if letting go might keep her from finishing the story, “I told him I absolutely was not going to Meryton. Dad was so mad at me! I almost gave in, just to placate him. It was Will who came up with a compromise.”

Georgi glanced at her brother, smiling tearfully. He merely shook his head.

“Will suggested I continue studying at home until Dad got better. We never stopped believing Dad would get better. In the meantime, I would work with a private swim coach so that I’d be competitive when I attended Meryton as a senior. You have to understand,” she said, pulling back to look Liz in the eye. “I was the one who wanted to swim competitively. I don’t want you to think Will is one of those people who only cares about winning.”

“I know, I know,” said Liz, her voice hoarse. She made the mistake of glancing at Will then, and the misery in his eyes—well, she was glad she had never taken to wearing mascara.

“Dad was really happy with this plan,” Georgi continued. “For the next day or two, he was sitting up in bed, laughing and telling stories. He was even taking business calls, and I thought, This is all going to work out! It’s all going to work out.”

Except, it didn’t. After their dad died, both Darcys threw themselves into doing whatever they could to honor their father’s legacy. For Will, that meant devoting himself almost entirely to the business of running Pemberley (despite his desire to return to basic research); for Georgi, that meant studying hard and swimming even harder so that she could make her father proud when she finally arrived at Meryton.

At first, Georgi loved her sessions with Wickham. He, too, had gone to Meryton; in fact, he’d been just a year behind Will, and it had been through their shared school connections that Will had learned of Wickham’s coaching clinic. Wickham had the funniest stories about his time at school, and he was such a gifted swimmer. What could be better that talent and wit combined?

Sure, it was a little weird that he’d sometimes rub her shoulders when she got out of the pool, but then, wasn’t he always telling her she needed to relax or else she’d injure herself? Surely other swim coaches did the same, and it just felt odd because she and Wickham were the only ones on the pool deck during her sessions. He didn’t think of her like that, anyway! He was an adult with a life of his own, and he was way too handsome—not that she was interested, not really, but well, it was kind of flattering when he told her that he’d never found it so easy to talk to anyone. Also, did she have any idea just how gorgeous her smile was? (And if he happened to be looking at her chest instead of her face when he said this, well…was she just imagining things?)

So she told herself to stop being silly, to focus on improving her swimming skills and put all other thoughts out of her head. Besides, if it got really weird (like when he followed her into the locker room once, but then, he’d been so caught up in the story he was telling her; he’d probably just forgotten where was!), they were never alone for long because, right after their session, the local club team used the pool, and Georgi joined them for another practice. (Only later would it hit her: the coaches of that team never rubbed her shoulders or followed her into the locker room “by accident.”)

For months, Georgi told herself that she was making way too big a deal of things. Everything was fine, perfectly fine.

Until it wasn’t.

“What happened—well, it wasn’t as bad as you’re likely imagining,” Georgi said in a breathless rush, meeting Liz’s eyes and then, quickly, looking away. “I mean, I know what I’m making it sound like, but nothing really terrible happened to me because Will rescued me. Without him—”

“Georgi.” This, from Will, who sounded as if he hadn’t used his voice in days. He said nothing else, but that single, ragged word was enough to convey the hurt and worry he must have felt.

“You don’t have to say anything more,” Liz assured Georgi, though in fact she was assuring Will. The more Georgi spoke, the stronger she grew. It was her brother who had begun to pace, to run his hands through his hair, to clench his jaw as if he were just barely holding back a roar of pain.

“I want to explain,” said Georgi, stepping back from Liz and looking her squarely in the eye. “I want you to understand. See, I was so naive—I know, I know, it’s not my fault! Everyone says that, and I know it’s true, but I don’t always feel it’s true. Anyway, I’m finding it weirdly helpful to talk about this, to realize I wasn’t just imagining things. The thing you have to know is that he—Wickham—he didn’t manage to hurt me, not really. He didn’t do anything except grab my arm and kiss me—”

Unable to control herself, Liz let out a string of curses about Wickham—then silently cursed herself. She had been working so hard to keep her emotions in check, knowing that any interjection might cause Georgi to freeze up or feel judged.

Luckily, Georgi didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, I completely agree. I only wish I’d realized it earlier.”

“I’m so sorry for what you went through, Georgi.”

She shrugged. “It could have been much worse. Of course, at the time, I was scared—really scared! I didn’t know what to do. I pushed him away, but we were on the pool deck, and I was in my swim suit, and the floor was slippery, and I just sort of froze. I remember looking at the clock, thinking, Will isn’t supposed to pick me up for another 20 minutes, and there’s no one else here. And Wickham, he said something like, Come on, I know you want this, and then he grabbed me again and—”  Georgi squeezed her eyes shut. “Sometimes I think, What if he’s done that to someone else? Or—what if he’s done worse to someone else?” She shook her head. “At least I had Will. He rescued me.”

Eyes shining, she turned to her brother, who stood with his back to them, head bowed, one hand on the nape of his neck. “No, Georgi,” he said. “I didn’t rescue you, I—”

Reaching out to touch his shoulder, his sister said, “Yes, you absolutely did. If you hadn’t come early, I don’t know what I would have done. As for what happened afterward—well, I’m just glad you were there.” To Liz, she said, “Will was always doing little things to cheer me up in those days after Dad’s death. That night, at the pool, he had brought peppermint hot chocolates from my favorite cafe—not just two hot chocolates, but three. One for me, one for himself and…well, one for Wickham, too.”

Liz guessed they never did drink those hot chocolates. She could almost imagine the scene unfolding: Will, pushing open the door of the pool deck, using his shoulder instead of his hands because he was juggling a trio of steaming cups; Will, smiling in spite of his own exhaustion and grief because he was determined to be upbeat for his sister’s sake; Will, blinking in the fluorescent lights, initially not comprehending, and then comprehending only too well, what he was seeing: George Wickham, the man he had hired, looming over Georgi, taking her by the arm, pressing his mouth against hers.

Liz looked at Will, who remained turned away from them, his back ramrod straight. She wished she knew him better—or at least well enough to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest. More than anything, she wanted to hold him tight and whisper, It’s not your fault, you lovely, lovely man.

“The important thing is that Will was there,” said Georgi, grabbing her brother’s hand. For a moment, he remained stock still. Then, all at once, he relaxed and pulled her into a hug.

They stood like that for a long moment until, at last, Georgi released Will and said, “I still want to swim today, you know.”

“Of course you do,” said Liz, smiling. From the muffled sounds filtering into the lobby, she guessed the meet hadn’t progressed beyond the 100m heats.  “Well then, what are you waiting for? Get back in there, then, Darcy, and do your best—as you always do.”

Georgi grinned at her coach, then glanced at her brother, who gave a quick nod and said, roughly, “I’ll be in to watch you soon.”

When Georgi had disappeared through the main doors, Liz took a deep breath and said, “Will, I am so sorry. You never wanted her to come to Ramsgate, and now I’ve caused her more–“

“Liz.”

Tentatively, she glanced up at him.

“You were brilliant,” he said quietly. “Utterly brilliant.”

She managed something like a laugh.  “Brilliant? Since when is throwing a bag into the pool brilliant? I’ve played the scene out in my head a dozen times already. I should have told him to step away from Georgi, and that would have been the end of it.”

“No, it would not have been the end because I was already halfway across the pool deck when you grabbed his bag. If you hadn’t done something so unexpected—if you hadn’t caught everyone by surprise—I would have gone straight for Wickham and hit him so hard that he would have ended up in the pool instead his bag.”

“Actually, that would have been a much more satisfying resolution.”

Will smiled wanly. “It might have felt better in the moment, but in the long run…” He shook his head. “It only would have made things worse, especially for Georgi.”

“Because she doesn’t like to be in the spotlight?”

“In part, but mostly because it would have meant reliving the night he attacked her. When I saw him grab Georgi, I…I lost it. I beat the shit out of him that night, Liz.”

Truthfully, she couldn’t find it in herself to be appalled. She certainly didn’t feel sorry for Wickham. “You were angry, Will. That’s understandable.”

“Perhaps understandable, but certainly not legal.”

Her eyes widened. “Were you arrested?”

“No, but Nick, the night custodian, must have heard Georgi screaming, because he rushed in and pulled me off Wickham. I’d broken his nose, so there blood everywhere. Nick—he ought to have called the police, but Wickham told him not to bother.” Will grimaced. “He knew that if he pressed charges against me, then Georgi would press charges against him.”

“Oh,” whispered Liz, realizing the full implications of what he was telling her. By hitting George Wickham, Will had exacted a measure of revenge, but he had also made it impossible for Georgi to seek justice for herself.

“I made matters so much worse for her that night, Liz. She was already traumatized, and instead of protecting her, I made her stand by and watch as I hit a man until he was bleeding. Worse, I…I took away what little power she had.” He drew in a long, ragged breath. “Afterwards, I begged her to go to the police. I told her it didn’t matter what happened to me, that she had to tell them what he had done to her, but…” He gave a curt shake of his head.  “Georgi will always put her family above herself. In her mind, going to the police was no longer a viable choice.”

Never mind not knowing him well enough. Never mind the mistakes he had made. Liz wrapped her arms about his waist and rested her head against his chest. “What he did to her, Will…that was not your fault.”

“How I reacted—“

“Yes, your reaction was even less brilliant than mine,” she said, and felt the slightest rumble of a laugh roll through him, then her. Leaning back so she could look up at him, she added, “Surely what matters most is that you continue to show up for her. Speaking of which…” Reluctantly, she tugged herself free and nodded toward the pool deck doors. “Georgi’s bound to be up for a race soon.”

He frowned. “You ought to be allowed inside.”

“It’s fine. The girls will tell me all about it afterward. Or perhaps…” She hesitated, knowing she shouldn’t say what was on the tip of her tongue. But it was no use. Holding him had weakened her resolve. “Perhaps you could tell me about the meet afterward?”

Their eyes met.

“Any chance you want to join the team for dinner at the Hunsford Grill?” she rushed on, telling herself with each word that she ought to stop talking, immediately. “We take the girls there every year after Ramsgate. It’s a pretty good restaurant. Not great, but it is supposed to have some of the best…”

Crap. Why, why, why hadn’t she stopped talking earlier?

“The best what?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

She made a face. “The best fries, all right?”

“Hmm. And here I thought you only liked Wendy’s.”

His tone was teasing, but she could tell, by the way he didn’t quite meet her eye, that he was thinking of the gift he’d sent—the gift she’d ignored.

“The delivery—it was lovely, Will, really, and I should have responded, but—”

He held up a hand. “Please. You don’t have to explain. I…I overstepped. The note I sent—”

“No, that’s not it at all.” She bit her lip, then said in a rush, “When I read that note, Will, I wanted to drop everything and drive to Cambridge—immediately.”

“And would that have been”—he leaned forward and ran a thumb along her jawline—“such a terrible idea?”

She swallowed hard, trying to find some way of explaining her feelings—to him, as well as herself. They barely knew each other (she wanted him); they lived hours apart (she wanted him); he was one of her student’s guardians (good god, she wanted him).

A buzzer sounded, and a muffled voice sounded from inside the natatorium, announcing the next event.

Liz forced herself to take a step back. “You should go.”

“Right, of course.” He turned away, then turned back again. “But Liz, afterward…”

Afterward, she would regret it. Afterward, she would remember all the reasons why this couldn’t work.

But now? Now she held out her hand to him and he pulled her close, kissing her forehead, her nose, and then, ever so lightly, her lips.

“Liz,” he murmured, his skin warm against hers.

She spun on her heel, calling over her shoulder, “Put on that hat I sent you, Darcy, and cheer loudly for my sake.”

Thanks for reading! Here’s part seven, available on August 18.