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.
Springing the Trap
May 14, 1811
In the cramped room he’d taken in a ramshackle building on the edge of Ramsgate, George Wickham dressed with care. He did so standing before the bedroom door because the narrow bed took up most of the room. Besides which, the ceiling was so sloped that by the door was the only place where he could stand upright. With a loud smack, his elbow connected with the course wood behind him as he attempted to don his coat.
George paused to rub the offended limb, and to mutter a low curse. This was no way for a man to live, and George having to do so was all Fitzwilliam Darcy’s fault. What sort of man went against his father’s wishes so? Darcy Sr. had always been willing to pay for Wickham’s rooms. His meals. The odd trip to the tailor, souter, or haberdasher, but when Darcy Sr. died, his son put an end to all that. Even though the whole of England knew that Darcy Sr. loved his godson like a son. More, even, than he loved his flesh and blood.
Still muttering, Wickham managed to struggle into his coat without further injury. Pocketing Georgiana’s latest letter, he stepped out into the narrow hallway and locked the door to his room. Not that he was under any delusion that the proprietor, a string man with no front teeth, didn’t regularly use his key to enter and rifle through George’s possessions. Hence, taking the letter. George would burn it in the fireplace of the one small parlor reserved as a sort of common space for those who rented rooms.
He went there now, both to burn the letter, lest it fall into any hands other than his own, and to tie his cravat. He’d never been able to do a proper barrel knot without a mirror. Not that the dingy little parlor offered one, but there was a dully polished bit of silver above the mantlepiece in which George could catch his reflection. He cast the letter, containing Georgiana’s childish hopes and sorrows, onto the hot coals in the grate, watched to ensure the pages caught, and turned his attention to his cravat.
He ought to have a large room, with a mirror. Rather, he ought to have a valet, so he did not even need a mirror, or to spend precious coin having his shirts and cravats laundered. His staff should see to such trivialities.
As they would, once he had Georgiana’s thirty thousand pounds.
As if the girl needed such a sum. She already had the Darcy name. She could marry where she chose. That money should have been settled on George. It was only Darcy’s interference in his father’s will that had denied George such a sum. He was certain of it. His godfather had adored him.
Which was why George had no remorse when it came to his plan. Even though he did care somewhat for Georgiana, having been raised as a doating older relation…perhaps a cousin…he deserved her thirty thousand. If Darcy hadn’t somehow cheated George out of what his godfather had surely wished to leave him, none of this would be necessary.
Pleased with his cravat, or as pleased as he could be when viewing the article in the dull, pitted metal that served as a mirror, he glanced down to check that Georgiana’s latest missive was ash. As it was, Wickham pivoted and left the parlor. He did not slow, making his way to the cramped entrance hall and out into the open warmth of the seaside air. He breathed deeply, happy to be free of his flea-infested residence.
Soon, so very soon, he would never need to set foot in such a place again.
Adopting an easy air, he set out along the street, his mind ranging over the day’s plan. He was not meant to have read Georgiana’s latest letter yet, where she told him she had won over her brother and would be taking up residence in Ramsgate. Insofar as Georgiana knew, that letter had been sent on to London by Mrs. Younge, his faithful accomplice and Georgiana’s guardian, and would not have caught up with him in Ramsgate yet. As if he would actually spend the money to have his mail sent on. He snorted at the very thought.
Georgiana must think this a chance meeting. Fate bringing them together. That sort of drivel appealed to a young woman’s heart, after all. She could, quite obviously, never know that the moment Ramsgate was settled upon, George had set out. He’d arrived first, to get the lay of the land, as it were. To scout out where a young woman like Georgiana might go. What she might do. How he could easily, in a completely natural way, meet her.
He strode now to the East Cliff Promenade, trying to gauge the precise hour as he went. A fob chain draped across his waistcoat, but there was no use pulling out the attached watch case. He’d long since sold the mechanism within. The chain, as well, had been pawned, the one he wore now mere pinch. The whole of it had been a gift from his godfather. He was certain George Darcy wouldn’t mind that he’d pawned the mechanism and chain. His godfather would want him to have the little luxuries the money had brought.
The only reason George kept the watch case itself was that, as some sort of Darcy family heirloom, the Darcy crest was stamped into the bottom. On occasion, it served George well to let that crest be accidentally seen, to give the impression that he had a powerful patron. The only trouble was, it was often inconvenient to permit someone to accidentally see the back side of a watch case. He did not bemoan the location, however, for that had left the front free for adornment. The gems that were once there had been pried out and sold, and replaced with paste.
George claimed the East Cliff Promenade in high spirits. Above him, the sun shone down, a touch over hot, but a fine salty breeze blew in off the sea. Gulls squawked in the blue sky, and the ocean issued low rumbles that alternated with soft sighs. Gentlemen and ladies strolled by, the wind offering many a glimpse of a well-turned ankle.
He very much looked forward to seeing Georgiana. It would be so much less work to finish her seduction in person. All the letter writing he’d been doing had been entirely too arduous. Worse, he’d squandered a small fortune on ink and paper. There would be no need to labor over pretty words once he could simply smile at her. He knew from experience the effect his smile had on the fairer sex.
He strode along the promenade, nodding to people as if he knew them. He’d been doing so for enough days that most of them nodded back, assuming they were acquainted. He made certain not to pay undue attention to any of the ladies, no matter how encouraging their glances. There was no way to know precisely when he would meet his prey, and it wouldn’t do for Georgiana to see him pay court to another.
Or would it? Some women grew quite possessive. Envy and jealousy were powerful weapons. Almost as useful as subtly undermining a woman’s confidence in herself. That nearly always bore fruit.
A lovely blonde returned his nod, and Wickham fought down a grin. Perhaps he should—
“George,” a high-pitched voice cried.
Mastering a wince at the way that voice pierced his ears, George adopted an incredulous look and turned.
Georgiana Darcy rushed along the promenade, Mrs. Younge trailing behind. She reached him, somewhat breathless, and exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here? Did you get my letter?” Craning her neck to look back at Mrs. Younge as she approached, Georgiana added, “Look, George Wickham is here,” as if her companion could have missed the fact.
Joining them, Mrs. Younge curtsied. “Mr. Wickham.”
Wickham offered a cordial nod, appreciating the inherent grace in Mrs. Younge’s obeisance. She was everything prim and proper. Precisely the sort of woman a man like Darcy would want watching over his precious younger sister. If only Darcy knew what Wickham had, through persistent query, discovered. Mrs. Younge required only a bit more funds to purchase the other half of her parents’ boarding house from her dead sister’s husband, and she would do whatever required to earn that sum.
Even assist Wickham.
“Letter?” George repeated to his prey. “I have no recent correspondence from you, but then any mail of mine must be sent on from London, for I have been in Ramsgate for some days.” A good beginning. Half truth, half a lie. The best mixture for being believed. To emphasize his point, he tipped his hat to a couple who strode past, and received nods in reply.
Turning back from watching the fashionably dressed gentleman and lady stroll away, Georgiana asked, “But what brings you, then? It is so wonderful you are here. You could not have chosen a more fortuitous place to be. How long will you remain?”
George chuckled, aiming a look of amusement carefully touched by condensation on her. The way one would look at a puppy who toppled over trying to climb stairs. A look that would make Georgiana want to prove to him just how grown up she was.
He’d hoped, in fact planned, for her to ask why he was in Ramsgate. “Why am I here?” He caught one of her gloved hands and bowed over it. Raising his gaze, for he had devastatingly blue eyes, he murmured, “I can only assume my presence is fate.” He gave her hand the lightest squeeze. Then, as he released her, he added, “As to how long I will remain, in that I must bow to fate as well. My business is concluded, but for so long as I may be useful to you, I will be prepared to remain.”
He paused, but she did not immediately ask him to say. Letting his smile slip, he looked down, as if abashed. “That is, if I am welcome to be of some use to you. I did not mean to presume. I know I am not…” He looked up and slanted his gaze meaningfully to Mrs. Younge. He’d carefully led Georgiana to believe that Mrs. Younge thought they were cousins. The misbelief that the two of them colluded to fool Mrs. Younge brought Georgiana more under his spell.
“Are not what?” Mrs. Younge said with a frown, as if condemning him.
George held his breath. He needed Georgiana to ask him to stay. To call on her. This had to be her idea, but the girl was so slow and inept. It was painful, watching her mind attempt to work. Once they were married, he would do his best never to be around her. He could shove her in some boarding house in Scotland. Or, better still, foist her back off on Darcy. Darcy could pay to keep her.
“Perhaps, if you are not ready to speak with Mr. Wickham, we should be going, miss,” Mrs. Younge murmured.
“Oh, no,” Georgiana squeaked. “I… George was going to say that he is not my brother,” she said in a rush. Staring at her feet, she continued, “He, ah, he and Fitz used to argue over who loved me more and, ah, Fitz would say, ‘You are not her brother.’”
Could the girl appear any more guilty? Wickham met Mrs. Younge’s gaze and gave the barest grimace.
“That is true. He is not your brother,” Mrs. Younge stated.
Georgiana glanced up, then dropped her gaze again. “But he is my very dear, ah, cousin, and I would like to walk with him and for him to call on me.” She managed to stand taller, setting her jaw and squaring her shoulders.
“I can see no reason why a cousin may not be permitted to call,” Mrs. Younge said lightly.
“And to walk with us,” Georgiana reiterated firmly.
“Certainly,” Mrs. Younge agreed.
Wickham offered a genuine smile, relieved. He proffered his arm, “Well, then, let us begin with walking.”
Georgiana wrapped her arm through his. He hugged it close, feeling a glow of affection. She was tall and gawky, with middling hair and nothing about her to spark a man’s interest, but he was fond of Georgiana Darcy. When he looked at her, he could see every farthing of that thirty thousand pounds, and all but taste the agony Darcy would know when George married his precious little sister.
Recent Comments