Welcome to our Pride & Prejudice prequel! P&P: Prelude to Pemberley tells the story of the time leading up to the events of Pride & Prejudice, including what Darcy and Elizabeth were doing and thinking, Georgiana Darcy’s story, the events of Ramsgate, how Mr. Bingley came to lease Netherfield, and much more! Join us on our journey as the Austen Variations authors post the events of 1811 in real time on the date they happened – 214 years in the future.
A Collusion Takes Shape
February 12th, 1811
George Wickham took a spot in the window of a too-expensive tea shop across from Miss Dalrymple’s Seminary and grudgingly paid for a cup. He had not parted with his hard-won coin for anything so expensive and lacking in alcohol in years, and doing so rankled. At least the tea was strong and warming on a cold February day, though not as warming as a more fortified beverage would be.
If only he dared enter Miss Dalrymple’s Seminary, the vantage point of the tea shop wouldn’t be necessary, but he knew better than that. A place such as the one Georgiana Darcy attended would have a list of those permitted to call on her. Still, Wickham would normally attempt to charm his way in, but he feared the seminary before him, one which housed the young female relations of peers and the most wealthy of the ton, would also report any unauthorized visitation attempts back to the girls’ families.
So instead, he must watch and put his faith in his always excellent luck. The window of the teashop faced the open iron gate of the seminary, allowing for a view up the wide drive that led between the high stone walls. He could see all the way to the front of the school. Unfortunately, looking was all he could do. Those walls, able to keep him out more because of their symbolic representation of propriety than as a physical barrier, placed Georgiana as far out of reach as she would be on the moon. Which was the entire point of writing to her, or should have been.
After spending a ridiculous sum on a stack of fine foolscap and strong black ink, he’d written to her immediately upon her return to school…and received no reply. Undeterred, he’d written a second time, still to no avail. He assumed she’d received his missives, the ink, paper, and his best handwriting all calculated to raise no point of alarm.
The contents of the letters, too, had been chosen with care. An eloquent mix of shared youthful recollections rife with reminders of how much her father cared for him, subtle suggestions that Darcy was an overbearing bore who would never understand her, and made-up confidences designed to evoke like secrets from his prey.
For Georgiana was his prey, and right now, she eluded him. No answering letters were forthcoming.
Wickham feared Darcy had somehow intervened. Perhaps spoken harshly enough about him to put Georgiana off the idea of their budding correspondence. Worse, Darcy could have shown his sister Wickham’s last missive, a vitriol and curse-filled tirade against Darcy’s callous ill-treatment.
Wickham sighed, lifting the too-delicate cup to his mouth for a now-cold sip. He should not have permitted his temper to get the best of him, but he had tried to reach Darcy’s heart in every way he knew. In an attempt to secure the living that Darcy’s own father wished for him, Wickham had written a polite, cheerful letter, then a cajoling one, and finally, he’d debased himself by pleading. It was Darcy and his obstinance that left Wickham with anger as his only recourse.
Anger, and revenge. At first, when he’d encountered Georgiana in the stables in Pemberley, he’d thought possibly to torment Darcy, perhaps even to coerce him into doing what was right and handing over the living, by presenting a pile of correspondence with Georgiana. Oh, he might also have charmed a pound or two from her. She had, after all, no need for pin money, living as she did at school or under Darcy’s roof, whereas Wickham was always shy of funds. That being Darcy’s fault, and Georgiana’s money being provided by Darcy, it only made sense to take it from her.
Now, after Darcy’s continued rejection, Wickham wanted more. Something that would pain Darcy for the remainder of his days, as his defection pained Wickham.
At one point, years ago, he’d thought his one-time friend understood. That Darcy comprehended the shame continually heaped on Wickham. The humiliation of wearing Darcy’s made-over clothing. Of always being seated below him at the table, even though Wickham was a few months older. Of pretty girl after pretty girl only having eyes for Darcy in public, even if most of them were willing to trade kisses with Wickham in secret. The Darcys had continuously dangled their wealthy, influential, privileged existence before him, and yet Wickham was only ever tossed scraps. They’d treated him as little better than a dog.
His thoughts carried on in that vein as he took tiny sips of tea, glaring balefully at Georgiana’s school. He did not want to have made the journey from London, a degrading trip on the mail coach rather than by private carriage, for nothing, and he did not want to pay for more worthless swill from the establishment in which he sat, but he caught no sight of Georgiana, nor of anyone of interest entering or exiting the school.
Finally, the afternoon waning and the proprietor of the shop eyeing him with increasing agitation, Wickham downed the remaining sugary swill in his cup and stood. Obviously, reaching Georgiana wouldn’t be accomplished with ease. He would have to investigate other avenues of entrance into the school and select one that suited his needs.
Not leaving any extra coin, for the proprietor had hurried him out, Wickham ventured into the chill, glad he’d spent so freely on his coat and gloves. In truth, the first thing he’d done once he’d come into his father’s fortune was to purchase a fine wardrobe. No more secondhand, remade clothing. To be certain, that was several wardrobes ago, as fashion changed quickly, but he hadn’t scrimped on his current attire either, for he’d been flush with money from Darcy at the time.
Money Darcy had used to practically trick him out of that living. Three thousand pounds? That was nothing compared to what Wickham would have over his lifetime with the Kimpton living, and Darcy knew as much. He’d taken advantage of Wickham’s grief over losing George Darcy, his godfather and namesake.
Wickham stalked the wall of the seminary, searching for secondary entrances. He found none along the side which he walked, but hadn’t truly expected to. Turning the corner, he continued along the back. There, he saw several women leaving by a smaller gate. Most were garbed as maids but one stood out, her clothing finer, if a touch shabby, and her features pinched. She did not look his way as she turned and hurried up the street, clutching her reticule.
Passing some of the servants who came down the street in his direction, he looked from the woman to the gate and back. From within, the gate closed. With a shrug, Wickham followed the woman, the desperate, harried look on her face calling to him.
Desperate people were easy to control.
He trailed her to a less savory part of town where, to his surprise, she entered a large, dilapidated building with a flaking sign denoting it as a boxing salon. He waited a moment, but she didn’t reemerge. Intrigued, Wickham followed.
He entered to the sight of two burly doormen, their attention, like everyone else’s, on a large boxing ring. Inside, two men pounded on one another, much to the nearly rabid delight of the gathered throng. With a casual nod to the doormen, who paid him little mind, Wickham strode in and began to skirt the room, seeking the woman he’d seen leave Georgiana’s school.
He found her near the banker’s table, clutching a receipt, her attention fixed on the match. A handsome woman of approximately five and thirty, she worried at a plump lower lip, her attention on the fight. Wickham wandered over to stand against the wall behind her, out of her line of sight.
The bout ended with one of the opponents prone on the floor of the ring amidst equally loud cheers and shouts of dismay. Along with others, the woman hurried to the match’s banker, relief easing some of the strain from her features. Behind the line of winners, the unconscious man was removed. Two boys with rags and buckets scurried out to scrub sweat and blood from the floor of the ring to make ready for the next bout.
The woman took her winnings and left, clutching her reticule all the more tightly. Wickham followed, seeking some means of interaction. He would prefer she believe meeting him to be an act of fortune, not by design.
So he trailed behind, staying back far enough that if she turned, she wouldn’t take particular note of him. She scuttled up the street, bag clutched in both hands, the heels of her boots a distant patter on the uneven cobbles. Perhaps he should pretend to trip? Call out? Was the woman before him the sort to assist a gentleman in—
Hands grabbed her, pulling her into an alleyway as she let out a shriek.
Wickham halted, hardly believing his good luck, then rushed forward. He paused outside the alleyway to take in the woman clinging to her reticule, shrieking. Only one man menaced her, his hands occupied as he tried to wrest the bag from her and his cheeks hollow with hunger. Liking his odds, Wickham charged in.
One swing to the jaw saw the man crumple like a cut paper doll, and did not hurt Wickham’s hand too badly through his glove. Still, as he turned to the woman, he cradled his fist as if he’d suffered for her.
“Miss, are you harmed?” he demanded, wide-eyed and solicitous.
She sucked in a sob, shaking her head. “No, only frightened. Thank you for your assistance, Mr….” She trailed off, waiting.
Wickham bowed, deciding in an instant to give his real name, as that was how Georgiana knew him. “Mr. Wickham.” He gestured to the mouth of the alleyway. “Shall we leave here, miss? I am happy to walk with you until we reach a more respectable part of town.”
She nodded, keeping close to his side as they left the wretch he’d hit unconscious in the alleyway and started back along the street. Wickham remained silent, waiting, certain that once her fear wore off, the woman would speak.
“It is Mrs.,” she said first, slanting an assessing look his way. “Mrs. Younge. Thank you again, Mr. Wickham, for your aid.”
“I am simply glad I happened along.” He infused easy amiability into his voice. “But if I may so say, in the future it might do to give up your purse. It is not worth being harmed over.”
She clutched the bag against her chest. “I am afraid it is.”
“Full of family treasures?” he asked with a light chuckle. Should he discover what her bag held? No, it could not contain anything worth more than the combination of Georgiana’s dowry and Darcy’s suffering.
Mrs. Younge shook her head but made no other reply.
He had to get her talking. “I would not be in such a neighborhood myself, but I was told there was a diverting bout taking place.” He adopted an expression he’d often seen Darcy wear, as if all the world offended him, from the cracked cobbles under his feet up to the cloud-laden February sky. “I imagine I should have known from the exterior, but the crowd was not to my liking. I did not remain long.”
“I am certain you will find other entertainments to better suit you.”
Wickham made several other forays as they walked, but the woman was a vault. Finally, she turned onto the street that led to the back of the seminary and halted, bringing him up short.
“Thank you for escorting me, Mr. Wickham.”
He looked about, as if he’d never set foot on that street before, and frowned, his mind racing for more to say. “Is this the back of Miss Dalrymple’s Seminary?”
“It is. I am an instructor there.”
He shook his head, doing his best to appear glum when really, relief shot through him. He’d finally brought her to the subject he wanted. “A thorn in my side, this place.”
She looked down the street to the back gate, and his relief soured. Surely, she would say something? He could turn most anything to his need, but the woman must speak. He watched curiously as prudence and interest warred on her features.
“Why would a girls’ school be a thorn in your side, sir?” she finally asked.
He gestured casually to the wall. “I have a cousin within. When last she was home, she was quite distressed by her performance at school, so I promised to correspond. I assume she is receiving my letters, but she has yet to reply. I grow worried for her.” He added a heartfelt sigh, turning his gaze in the general direction of the school.
“You are likely not on her list.”
He shook his head, not needing to feign confusion. “List?” Greatly daring, for he had not confirmed the existence of such a restriction beyond speculation, he added, “Do you mean, the one of people permitted to call on her? For I made the attempt and was turned away. Can you imagine? Turning away her very family.” Which he all but was after being raised alongside Darcy, and would be even more so once he executed his plans for dear, sweet, innocent Georgiana.
Mrs. Younge shook her head. “The list of acceptable callers is quite narrow, but each girl has a separate list for correspondence. Any letters she has written to people not on her approved list will be kept and handed over to her guardian.”
Shock raced through Wickham. He hadn’t known that. That meant that if Georgiana was writing, she could be ruining his entire plan. “It seems hardly fair to keep my cousin’s letters from me. She is struggling, you know, and was relying on me for solace.”
Mrs. Younge pursed her lips.
Wickham did his best to look like a pup whose master was eating a roast without sharing.
“Who is your cousin?” she finally asked.
“Miss Georgiana Darcy, and a sweeter child no one will ever meet,” he replied, trying to contain his eagerness.
Mrs. Younge’s wariness softened. “She is struggling, poor dear. She stutters when she recites her lessons, or freezes altogether, and many of the other girls are not kind to her.” She shook her head. “Girls that age can be so petty and jealous.”
Wickham sighed. “My poor cousin. If only I could have her letters, so I might reply accordingly. I do not imagine there is a way to add my name to that list of hers?”
Mrs. Younge studied him. Her eyes were keen, shrewd even, but Wickham was a superior actor. He knew he could fool her. He could fool anyone.
Accept Darcy.
“Our headmistress keeps the list, and will already be familiar with who is on it, but I could perhaps intercept Miss Darcy’s letters to you and see that you receive them,” Mrs. Younge finally said.
Wickham smiled at her, a full, bright smile. As he’d expected, she blinked, slightly dazed by his golden beauty. His smile generally had that effect on the fairer sex, and he employed it without remorse. After all, women constantly taunted men with their charms, wafting about in their gauzy gowns. They deserved to suffer the same treatment.
Mrs. Younge shook herself, like a cat come in from the rain. “But I will need to be compensated for my trouble.”
Wickham stared at her, his smile fading. “Compensated?”
“I am sorry to be mercenary, Mr. Wickham, but I am in dire need of funds, and you can obviously spare a coin or two.” She gestured to his fine attire. “If you care for your cousin as much as you say, it seems a small imposition.”
Wickham worked not to scowl. “You will bring me what she has already written, and send on anything more she writes?” he finally asked.
Mrs. Younge nodded. “I will secure any letters she has already attempted to send to you and bring them to the tea shop across the way tomorrow.” Her eyes narrowed. “They will, I assume, be addressed to Mr. Wickham?”
He smiled affably. “They will indeed,” he replied, and they descended into a quick back and forth about days, times, forwarding addresses, and compensation. In the end, Wickham felt that Mrs. Younge was cheating him, but as she was his best option for receiving Georgiana’s letters and not being caught, he would have to rely on her. It would all be worth it, once Georgiana and her dowry were his, and Darcy was made to suffer.
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