Georgiana’s New Household
May 7, 1811
The moment the sea came into view, Georgiana pressed her nose to the glass like a child. The coach had been groaning over hills for the better part of the afternoon, and the rutted lanes leading into Ramsgate had begun to wear on her nerves—but now, at last, the sapphire edge of the horizon flashed between rooftops, and she forgot everything else.
“It is exactly as I pictured it,” she breathed.
Mrs. Younge, seated opposite her with her gloved hands neatly folded in her lap, offered a well-bred smile. “I do hope so, my dear. Your brother made every inquiry to ensure the most suitable situation was found.”
“I do not mean the house,” Georgiana said, wriggling to see better through the window. “I do not even know which one it is yet. I mean the sea.”
The companion’s smile twitched. “Of course.”
Ramsgate stretched out below them now—cream-colored villas cascading down toward the harbor, the cliffs glowing amber in the late light. It was smaller than Bath, less severe than Brighton, and infinitely more romantic. Georgiana’s heart gave a little flutter.
The carriage turned and rattled past a row of prim stone houses, each with painted doors and tidy hedgerows. Then they turned again, and the wheels slowed before a house set slightly apart—whitewashed, with green shutters and ivy just beginning to creep along the side. Two shallow steps led up to a narrow portico with a brass knocker that gleamed.
“This is it?” Georgiana asked, leaning out the window despite the footman already descending.
Mrs. Younge nodded. “The house on Westcliffe View. Do mind the paving stones, they can be rather treacherous.”
Georgiana did not mind them at all. She leapt down from the carriage before the footman could assist her, clutching her skirts in one hand and whirling to look at the house again.
“It smells like salt!”
“Seaside houses often do,” said Mrs. Younge, descending with more grace. “You shall become used to it, I am sure.”
The door opened, and a woman with stiff posture and a cap tied to within an inch of its life gave a proper curtsey. “Miss Darcy. I am Mrs. Hartwell, the housekeeper. Welcome, miss.”
Georgiana bobbed her head, half-remembering the proper acknowledgment. She had practiced this in theory—but now that she was here, with an entire household of her own, it all felt like a game.
Mrs. Hartwell stood aside, and Georgiana swept into her new domain.
The front hall was pleasantly sized, with a pale runner down the stairs and a small round table bearing a vase of fresh flowers. The air smelled faintly of lemon oil and musty paper. Georgiana turned in a circle, blinking up at the high ceiling and trying not to grin like a fool.
“I shall give you a brief tour, if you please,” said Mrs. Hartwell. “This way.”
They moved from the drawing room (soft green walls and a pianoforte in the corner) to the morning room (light blue with a writing desk), then to the dining room, which Georgiana dismissed as “stuffy” before the housekeeper could begin her recitation of the sideboard’s history.
Mrs. Younge’s voice, warm and amused, trailed behind her. “It is merely unfamiliar, my dear. A few of your own touches and you will find it much more agreeable.”
“I am not sending for anything from London,” Georgiana said. “Not yet, at least. I want to feel as though I have begun something.”
Mrs. Younge did not disagree. She only nodded and shared a glance with the housekeeper that Georgiana, walking ahead, did not see.
Upstairs, her bedchamber faced the sea. The curtains were heavy, but she flung them back at once and pressed her hands to the glass. “I want to sleep with the window open.”
“That is not advisable,” said Mrs. Younge gently. “The damp may aggravate your throat.”
Georgiana looked back. “I do not have a delicate throat.”
Mrs. Younge only smiled.
Her new lady’s maid was named Esther and looked nearly as young as Georgiana herself. She bobbed a nervous curtsey and then tried to ask how Miss Darcy would like her gowns arranged, but Georgiana waved her off.
“I shall decide later. You may go.”
Esther hesitated. “Yes, miss.”
Mrs. Younge did not correct her. She did not say, “One must not dismiss servants so abruptly,” or “It is usual to offer a preference.” Instead, she studied Georgiana’s face with faint curiosity, then said, “I believe the cook has prepared a little repast in case the journey made you peckish. Shall we?”
“I am ravenous,” Georgiana admitted. “Though I suppose it is improper to say so.”
“I shall not tell a soul,” Mrs. Younge said smoothly. “Come, my dear.”
They descended to the kitchen, which Georgiana found delightful—bright and warm with low beams and the scent of fresh bread—and took her supper on a tray before the kitchen hearth. Mrs. Younge did not object, though she did arch one brow in gentle surprise.
“You are not like other girls your age,” she said softly.
Georgiana paused mid-bite. “Is that a compliment?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Younge. “Entirely.”
Georgiana beamed. Then she leaned back in her chair, stretched her feet toward the fire, and thought that this—this—was freedom.
1 comments
I’m surprised that Darcy didn’t take her himself! I would have thought he’d have wanted to see her settled there himself. Georgiana seems happy with it though 😏🥰