P&P Prelude to Pemberley: Darcy Races to Ramsgate

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.

Darcy Races to Ramsgate

August 27, 1811

Darcy Races to Ramsgate

The evening air of London hung thick with the stench of horse manure and dust-pits. Darcy adjusted his hat as he descended the steps of his club, his mind still occupied with the tedious discussion of corn prices and parliamentary reforms that had dominated the better part of his evening. The gentlemen still in town seemed determined to debate every minute detail of the nation’s affairs, yet rarely possessed the understanding or inclination to effect any meaningful change.

He had spent the day much as he had spent all his time in London at this hot, malodorous, unfashionable time of year—attending to matters of business in the morning, calling upon his solicitor regarding some concerns with his smaller Yorkshire estates, and then retreating to his club for dinner. It was a routine that had suited him for a time, but now he found himself increasingly restless.

As he entered his carriage, Darcy reflected upon the past few weeks with a mixture of satisfaction and unease. His business affairs were in excellent order, his smaller estates which had been somewhat neglected of late, were now prospering under new leaseholders and careful management. Yet he remained concerned about Georgiana, who was settled in Ramsgate with her companion, Mrs. Younge.

The girl who had been tormenting Georgiana at school had certainly received her comeuppance, though Darcy could not approve of his sister’s methods. Still, he understood the provocation. When he considered the incident as her brother rather than her guardian, he felt some compassion for her. If his sister had been a boy, she would have simply been caned and the matter quickly forgotten.

The memory of his response still caused him discomfort. He had been too quick to judge, too ready to assume the worst of his sister’s conduct without understanding the full circumstances. She had told him she was unhappy and he had sent her back.

He began to think it was better that Georgiana had shown some backbone rather than continuing to suffer in silence.

Upon reaching Brook Street, Darcy was greeted by his manservant, who informed him that the evening post had arrived, and then headed off to find his bed. Among the various letters and calling cards was one bearing Georgiana’s familiar hand. Darcy felt his pulse quicken slightly as he recognised the careful script. His sister’s correspondence had been infrequent, and he feared she was still displeased with him.

Retiring to his study, Darcy settled into his favourite chair and broke the seal. It was dated the day before and as he began to read, he was initially relieved by the cordial tone and her apparent contentment with her situation in Ramsgate. The apology touched him deeply, for he knew it could not have been easy for his proud sister to acknowledge her part in their disagreement.

But as he continued reading, a growing sense of unease began to gnaw at him. The formal language, the careful phrasing—it all seemed calculated to achieve some particular effect. And then came the paragraph that caused his breath to catch in his throat:

I have news of great import I wish to speak of to you. These are the sort of happy plans I should prefer to discuss face to face if you would be so kind as to journey to Ramsgate within the next se’enight. If you are unable to come, I am resolved to act in such a manner which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness without reference to you, or to any person whether connected to me or not.

Darcy read the passage twice, then a third time, his frown deepening with each perusal. Happy plans? What manner of plans could Georgiana have that would require his presence? And that final sentence. The threat was unmistakable. She would act without reference to him, or to any person connected to her. At fifteen, there was only one sort of plan for a young lady that would require such a resolution.

Georgiana was contemplating marriage, and she was prepared to proceed without his consent if he failed to present himself in Ramsgate within the week.

Darcy rose abruptly from his chair, the letter still clutched in his hand. This was impossible. Georgiana was but a child. She would still be in the schoolroom had she not brawled her way out of it. What gentleman could possibly have gained access to her in Ramsgate? And how had Mrs. Younge allowed such a situation to develop under her supervision?

His mind raced through the possibilities, each more alarming than the last. Some fortune hunter, no doubt, who had identified Georgiana as a prize worth pursuing. The Darcy name and fortune would make her an attractive target for any unscrupulous gentleman seeking to improve his circumstances. But how had such a person gained her confidence so quickly? Georgiana had been in Ramsgate for barely a month.

The thought that his sister—his responsibility, his ward—might be contemplating such a step filled him with a mixture of rage and panic. He had failed her once already by not understanding the true nature of her troubles at school. Had he failed her again by leaving her in Ramsgate with only Mrs. Younge for protection and guidance?

And compounding his fears was that his sister was behaving in such an irresponsible manner. Could his sister truly be so calculating? The Georgiana he knew was sweet-natured and biddable, perhaps too much so. It was her very compliance that had led to her troubles at school. How could such a girl suddenly develop the cunning necessary to manipulate him in this way?

But perhaps that was precisely the point. Perhaps Georgiana had learned from her recent experiences that directness and honesty yielded little in the way of results. Perhaps she had decided that subtlety and manipulation were more effective tools for achieving her desires. The thought was deeply troubling, for it suggested that his sister was not the innocent child he had believed her to be. Darcy paused in his pacing to re-read the letter once more.

There was nothing for it but to go to Ramsgate himself and assess the situation in person.

Whatever game Georgiana might be playing, whatever genuine crisis she might be facing, he needed to understand it fully before he could determine how to respond.

But as he stood, preparing to begin the arrangements, Darcy found himself grappling with a more fundamental question: when had his sister become such a mystery to him? When had the open, trusting child he remembered been replaced by someone who could craft such a perfectly calculated appeal? He closed his eyes. For all his suspicions about her motives, he could not forget that Georgiana was still very young, still very much alone in the world save for him and Fitzwilliam. If she had indeed formed some attachment in Ramsgate, it might be born of loneliness rather than genuine affection. And if some gentleman had taken advantage of that loneliness . . .

Darcy’s jaw tightened at the thought. If any man had dared to trifle with his sister’s affections, to prey upon her youth and inexperience, he would answer for it.

He strode to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, his pen scratching urgently across the surface. A brief note to his solicitor postponing an appointment. Another to an acquaintance begging pardon for having to cancel their planned meeting at the club. A third to his sister.

My dear Georgiana—I have received your letter. I find myself with—

He stopped, his pen hovering over the half-formed words. A cold realization washed over him. If Georgiana’s letters were being watched—and why should they not be, if she was indeed contemplating elopement?—then his own correspondence would certainly be scrutinized as well. Mrs. Younge, or whoever was facilitating this business, might rush Georgiana off before he could reach her.

More troubling still was another thought. What if Georgiana’s letter had been deliberately delayed? What if it had been written days ago, but held back until now? If so, her se’enight might already have passed. She might already be gone.

His hand tightened on the pen until his knuckles ached. No. He would not allow panic to cloud his judgment.

He stared down at the incomplete message on the paper before him. To send word of his coming would be to announce his intentions to her captors—for that was surely what they were, whether Georgiana recognized it or not. Better to arrive unannounced, to catch them unprepared.

He wished desperately that Fitzwilliam, Georgiana’s other guardian, was in London or anywhere near. It would have been a tremendous help to have a trustworthy man inquiring along the road to Kent while he travelled directly to Ramsgate.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed midnight, and the long summer evening had at last faded into darkness. Seven days. Georgiana had given him seven days, and two of them were nearly spent.

Darcy returned to his chambers and rang for his valet with unusual force, the bell’s echo sharp in the quiet house. When the man appeared, Darcy was already pulling out a few things he would need for the journey.

“Pack immediately,” he commanded without preamble. “We leave for Ramsgate at first light. And send word to the stables.”

“Sir?” The valet’s confusion was evident. “For how long shall I—”

“A few days.” Darcy’s voice was clipped, his movements efficient.

As his valet hurried away, Darcy pulled Georgiana’s letter from his coat pocket, studying it once more by candlelight. The careful script now seemed deliberately mocking. Resolved to act without reference to you. The words carried a finality that turned his blood cold.

The conventional hour for departure would be mid-morning—civilized, unremarkable. But convention be damned. He would leave the moment there was sufficient light to travel safely.

He did not sleep well, and a soft knock interrupted his churning thoughts around five o’clock. His valet stood in the doorway, already dressed.

“The bags are ready, sir. And the carriage will be in front of the house by six.”

“Excellent.” Darcy stood. By the time he slipped on his travelling coat, he checked his watch. It was time to head downstairs.

The pre-dawn air was sharp with the promise of summer heat to come as Darcy descended the steps of his house. His carriage waited, the horses stamping impatiently in the dawn, his bay tied to the back. The driver touched his hat respectfully, but Darcy caught the curious glance he exchanged with the groom. Such an early departure would be remarked upon, but there was nothing for it.

“Ramsgate,” Darcy said curtly as he stepped into the carriage. “And make all haste consistent with discretion.”

As the carriage lurched into motion, Darcy settled back against the leather seats, Georgiana’s letter in the inner pocket of his coat. The familiar streets of London passed by in shadows and lamplight, but his mind was already in Ramsgate, wrestling with whatever crisis awaited him there. He would reach his sister in time. He had to.

But as the minutes crawled by, Darcy found himself increasingly unable to bear the confines of the carriage. The enclosed space was stifling. He was accustomed to action, to movement, to taking direct control of situations that required his intervention. Sitting passively while the horses bore him toward Ramsgate at their steady pace was nothing less than torture.

They had been traveling for nearly two hours, halfway to Ramsgate. London’s sprawling outskirts were well behind them. The August morning was brightening, the long summer day stretching ahead of them. Darcy made a decision.

He rapped sharply on the carriage roof with his walking stick. “Stop!”

The carriage rolled to a halt, and within moments the coachman had climbed down to open the door, his face creased with concern. “Sir? Is there some difficulty?”

“Saddle my horse,” Darcy commanded, already stepping down from the carriage and heading toward the back where his bay had been tied.

“Yes sir.” The coachman’s confusion was evident, but he was too well-trained to question his master’s orders.

Darcy turned to his valet, who had been asleep but was now peering out from the carriage with obvious bewilderment. “Continue to Ramsgate as planned. Take rooms at the best inn and await me there.”

Within minutes, the bay was saddled and ready. Darcy swung up into the saddle with an ease born of years of riding across the hills of Derbyshire. The familiar weight of the reins in his hands, the feel of a powerful horse beneath him, restored something essential that his sister’s letter and the confinement of the carriage had stolen away.

“I will see you both later in the day.” Darcy touched his heels to the bay’s flanks. The horse sprang forward eagerly, hooves drumming against the dry packed earth of the road.

They thundered along the Dover road, the steady rhythm of the bay’s gait eating up the miles between him and his sister. Here, finally, was the speed he craved, the direct action his soul demanded. No more waiting, no more passive travel. He was racing toward Ramsgate now with all the urgency the situation demanded.

As the miles fell away beneath the bay’s hooves, he could finally think. And as he did, he began to see Georgiana’s letter in another way. That carefully crafted, deliberately formal letter had not been a manipulation at all, not really. It had been a test. A desperate appeal from a young woman who had found herself in circumstances she could not successfully navigate, uncertain whether she could trust the one person who should have been her greatest protector.

Georgiana could have run off without a word. She could have eloped in secret, married without his knowledge or consent, and presented him with a fait accompli. Instead, she had written to him, hoping he would care enough to come, that he valued her happiness enough to involve himself in her affairs.

Now he understood the careful phrasing, the formal language that before had seemed so calculated. Georgiana had armored herself in propriety and distance because she could not bear to reveal how desperately she needed him to care, how much his response would mean to her. She had written the letter that would give him every excuse to ignore her plight if he chose to do so, while simultaneously offering him the chance to prove that he would not.

The brilliance of it took his breath away, even as it broke his heart.

The countryside rushed past, fields and hedgerows blurring together as the bay maintained his punishing pace.

But speed was not the only thing driving him now. With every mile that passed beneath the bay’s hooves, Darcy felt his understanding of his sister deepen. She was not the biddable child he had thought her to be, nor was she the calculating manipulator he had briefly feared. She was just his sister, who found herself in a situation she did not know how to navigate and had reached out to him for help.

I’m coming, Georgiana, he thought as he rode into the strengthening light. Wait for me.

Read all the scenes in Prelude to Pemberley here!