Page 67 of A Question of Character

Darcy did not move. His sister clung to him, laughing, trembling with excitement, speaking against his coat of happiness and surprises and how glad she was that he had not missed it after all.

His hand came to rest on Georgiana’s back because she was his sister and she was in his arms and whatever horror had just entered the house, she must not feel him recoil from her.

Over her shoulder, he looked at Mrs. Younge.

“Barton,” he said.

His valet, who had entered behind him with the traveling case, stepped forward. “Sir.”

“Escort Mrs. Younge to the study. You will remain with her until I come.”

Mrs. Younge gripped the banister. “Mr. Darcy, I must protest—”

“You may do so in the study.”

Barton set down the case and moved toward her with perfect professional calm.

Darcy kept one arm around Georgiana and did not take his eyes from Mrs. Younge as she was led away.

Georgiana did not at first understand that anything was wrong.

She clung to Darcy with all the relief of a girl whose happiness had received one more blessing than she had dared hope for, and the warmth of her embrace made the words more dreadful. Wedding. Come to my wedding. She said it with such innocent confidence that Darcy, who had prepared himself for tears, excuses, even defiance, found himself for several seconds without the power of speech.

At last he set his hands upon her shoulders and moved her back far enough to see her face.

“Georgiana,” he said, “of what are you speaking?”

Her smile faltered. “My wedding.”

“Yes. I heard you. What wedding?”

She glanced toward the passage where Mrs. Younge had disappeared, then back to him with a small crease between her brows, as if the answer ought not require explaining. “Mrs. Younge said it was the right thing. That you would understand when all was done. She said you did not truly wish to be concerned with a season and all the expense and bother of bringing me out. By marrying now, I would no longer be a burden to you.”

Darcy went very still.

The hall had been noisy minutes before. Servants had hurried, trunks had scraped along the floor, Mrs. Younge had issued orders with brisk command. Now the house seemed to listen.

“A burden,” he repeated.

Georgiana’s color faded by degrees. “She said you loved me, of course. And that gentlemen do not always know what is best in matters of feeling, and that you would be relieved once I was married.”

“Who?”

Her fingers gripped in the fabric of her skirt. “Fitzwilliam—”

“Who was to marry you?”

Her mouth trembled. She looked younger than her years then. Younger than she had at Pemberley when she ran to him with a torn music book and asked whether it could be mended.

“W-W…”

Darcy’s hand closed over the newel post hard enough that the polished wood pressed into his palm.

“Wickham.”

The name came out before she could finish it.

Georgiana nodded.