Page 144 of Near Pemberley

Where had he once found shelter?

His thoughts returned irresistibly to Ramsgate.

Wickham had not acted alone. Mrs. Younge had opened her house to him then. She had deceived Georgiana. She had risked her own reputation for his sake. Why had Darcy assumed she would have vanished entirely from his life afterwards?

He was out of bed within moments.

He lit a candle and made his way to the library.

There, among old correspondence relating to the Ramsgate affair, were memoranda he had not examined for many months. He searched patiently until he found what he sought: Mrs. Younge’s full name, together with the London address she had occupied before accompanying Georgiana to Ramsgate.

He read it twice.

How had he never thought of it?

Not because the information had been hidden, but because he had allowed himself to think only of Wickham. He had searched for the man while overlooking the woman who had once been his indispensable accomplice.

He wondered whether fatigue had driven him to grasp at the first idea that seemed different. Perhaps Mrs. Younge had long since disappeared. Perhaps she had married. Perhaps she had died. Perhaps, by morning, this would seem no wiser than the dozen fruitless leads he had already pursued.

He remained standing with the paper in his hand, weighing the thought. Then he folded it carefully. No. He had ignored her once already. He would not make the same mistake twice.

Darcy looked towards the eastern windows. The sky remained dark. There were still several hours before dawn.

For perhaps the first time since Lydia had been found, he felt that he possessed something more substantial than another uncertain report. If Mrs. Younge still lived at that address, or if someone there knew where she had gone, the search might at last begin to move in the right direction.

He had no intention of waiting any longer than necessity required.

Chapter XXIX

Before the household assembled for breakfast, Darcy had already crossed half of London.

The address proved respectable enough. A narrow brick house in a quiet street, neither fashionable nor shabby. Nothing about it suggested intrigue.

He knocked.

After a short delay, the door opened only a few inches.

Mrs. Younge had altered little. She started almost imperceptibly at the sight of him before recovering herself with remarkable speed. “Mr. Darcy.”

“Mrs. Younge.”

“I did not expect…”

“No,” he replied calmly. “I imagine you did not.”

For several moments neither spoke.

“I should like to ask you a few questions.”

“I fear I cannot assist you.”

“You have not yet heard the questions.”

“I believe I know what they are.”

Darcy regarded her steadily. “Mr. Wickham.”

Her expression did not change. “I have neither seen nor heard of Mr. Wickham for many months.”