Page 68 of A Question of Character

For a few moments his mind supplied too much at one time. Wickham in his father’s study. Wickham laughing beside the river at Pemberley. Debts. Women. Lies offered with a smile so easy that people wished to believe him innocent of everything he had done. His insolent letter refusing the living and demanding three thousand pounds instead.

And Georgiana, his shy, affectionate, foolish, beloved sister, dressed for departure with trunks already being loaded into a hired carriage.

“Georgiana,” he said, and heard the harshness before he could call it back, “you know I had a falling out with him.”

“I know you were angry, but—”

“He is a blackguard. A spendthrift. A man without principle or honor.”

“But he said—”

“No.”

The single word struck harder than he intended. Georgiana flinched.

Darcy released the newel post and drew a breath that did nothing to assist him. “You are not to defend him to me.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “You do not understand. He loves me. He said he has loved me for years, and Mrs. Younge said you would never listen because you had become proud and unforgiving. She said if I waited, you would send me back to Pemberley, and then I should be presented, and Miss Bingley would marry you and always be with me, and every lady in London would stare, and I should never be allowed to choose for myself.”

The mention of Miss Bingley, absurd and painful amid so much worse, nearly unseated him. Did his sister not realize that it was Elizabeth he meant to marry? Mrs. Younge had used every small fear, every private dread, every weakness Georgiana had been too young to hide. She had not merely opened a door to Wickham. She had laid the road.

Darcy spoke before sympathy could soften what had to be stopped.

“You were not choosing for yourself. You were being deceived.”

Georgiana shook her head. “No. No, you are mistaken.”

“I am not.”

“You have not even heard him.”

What was this nonsense? “I have heard him all my life.”

“He said you would say that. Others have maligned his name, too.”

That silenced him more effectively than a denial. How could his sister defend one who used to be their friend, but had abandoned any sense of decency and honor?

Georgiana wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing tears across skin still flushed from her earlier joy. “He said you would call him wicked and forbid me because you could not bear to be opposed.”

Darcy stared at her. “And you believed him?”

The question wounded her. He saw that. He saw it and did not stop.

“I did not wish to deceive you,” she whispered. “I meant to tell you after. When it was done and could not be undone. Then you would see that I was happy.”

“You meant to marry without my consent.”

“I thought—”

“You meant to leave this house in a hired carriage while I was away.” When had he gone so wrong in his sister’s education?

“Mrs. Younge said—”

“Mrs. Younge will be dismissed.” The woman had proved she could no longer be trusted.

Georgiana’s hand flew to her mouth.

Darcy’s temper, held by a thread since the moment he saw the trunks, snapped into something colder than shouting. “You will go to your room and speak to no one. You will write no letters and you will receive none without my first examining them. Do you understand me?”