Page 115 of Mr. Darcy’s Diamonds

Having no answers, he turned to leave the now-empty room when he saw the rug was curled up on one side, as though someone had kicked it up or tripped while crossing there. Yet the curled edge was near a wall, on the side of the room away from the bed, closet, and window. Why would it be lifted on that edge. He kicked it down easily, so the rug was not malformed but had been moved on purpose. He bent to lift the rug in the same location and saw a plank of the wood floor with a knothole. He put his thumb in the hole and lifted the board up.

The small space inside contained a red silk reticule. Darcy removed it and replaced the board and rug. He took the bag to the table by the bed and dumped out the contents. Two old letters and three loose diamonds. Neither letter was addressed to Minny Younge, however. Could this reticule have been here for far longer than this summer?

Grasping at anything to take his mind off his present troubles, Darcy thought of Gardiner and sat on the edge of the bed to take a closer look at the letters. Would they tell him something of the diamonds? It was far-fetched to suppose any connection with Mr. Green’s diamonds of so long ago, but Ramsgate was only about twenty miles from Dover, and that old story had him curious.

The first letter was well-worn, and he handled it carefully. It was addressed to Guillemine Baudains in Rouen, France. It was dated March 1792 and appeared to be a love letter. He tried to make out the signature. Amice Coutanche.

“Amice!” Was that not the name in Georgiana’s letter to Anne? Amice was the man Mrs. Younge had been engaged to when she was only fourteen. What had his sister’s letter said? They had been separated. He checked the cover page again. The letter had been sent from Amice in London to Guillemine in Rouen.

“Guillemine is Minny,” he whispered. Mrs. Younge was French! He had been sure her application had stated Devonshire as her birthplace. Not that he should be surprised she had lied about this, too.

Darcy quickly looked at the second letter. It was addressed to G. Bowden Jeune and was from Pierre Jeune. This one was sent in 1802 from London to Bath. Like the first letter, it was in French. He soon realized Monsieur Jeune was Minny’s husband. Of course! Jeune meant youthful or young.

This Guillemine Baudains Jeune had long been trying to deceive. By the time of this letter from her husband, she was already using a partially anglicized name. He wondered when she had taken on the fully English Minny Bowden Younge. And why?

Darcy shook away his suspicions. Changing her name did not mean she was hiding anything. The wars had made the French unwelcome in many parts of England, and perhaps it had been difficult for her to be accepted when she first arrived. Many French immigrants tried to hide their foreign heritage once reaching England.

The letters said nothing about the diamonds, of course, and he packed everything back into the reticule and returned to his own rooms. He had more important issues at hand than pondering his disgraced servant. Darcy dropped the reticule unceremoniously on the table beside his bed, knowing his valet would pack it when he arrived later that day.

Wickham would not return for his sister, so he needed to prepare to comfort her.

Monday afternoon, Georgiana still refused to believe Wickham would not come for her. It had been a trying few days. His sister had refused to leave the house, despite her claims of wanting him to see Ramsgate. She was afraid she would miss Wickham’s call if she stepped out even for a quarter of an hour.

“Georgie, we must return to London today.” Darcy spoke as gently as he could, but they had delayed their departure long enough.

“No. Not London. George will expect me to have gone to Pemberley to prepare for our wedding. He will come for me there.”

“My dear, I have business in Lon⁠—”

“Please, Brother! Do not make me go to that wretched place. I cannot bear it.” His sister burst into tears, giving no further explanations, and nothing would console her but a promise that he would take her directly to Derbyshire.

“Minny, we should return to your home. We have been in London for a month, and I miss the comforts of Bath.”

“Not yet, George. I told you, someone found my reticule in the Ramsgate house. It was not in its hiding place when I returned once Georgiana had left. If it was Mr. Darcy, he may look for me and ask questions, and I have no wish to upset my life in Bath with scandal. I should never have agreed to your silly scheme.”

“Forgive me, my darling. You know I do not wish to be dependent on you or your fortune. If Darcy had not thwarted me again, I could have proved myself worthy of you.”

Minny Younge may be wealthy, but she was also weak and afraid. Wickham suspected she had spent only a fraction of the wealth she had inherited, but she had always hidden such details from him. She had never told him what made her so cautious, but he was grateful she had not allowed her late husband to spend her fortune. She had been married to the man for less than a year, and he had died nearly a decade ago.

Still, she had refused, repeatedly, to marry Wickham, likely fearing his charm would convince her to reveal all. He had been biding his time, accepting whatever crumbs she offered. Unfortunately, he sometimes lost favor with her, so an independence such as he had sought from Elizabeth Bennet or Georgiana Darcy would have given him much comfort. He would, of course, remain with Minny now, but these rooms were not up to their usual standards.

“But darling, Southwark is not the place to hide. Could we not at least find a cleaner hovel?”

“Get out of bed and help me sort through this crate if you wish to depart sooner. I asked my maid in Bath to send a few pieces of jewelry I could sell. Which of these do you think would bring enough for us to live in the style you prefer?”

Wickham picked up a necklace and placed it around her neck, grazing his fingers down her spine.

“This one is too fine to sell. What about the bracelets? You never wear them.”

“Very well. But they will not be enough.”

George turned over a miniature portrait and gasped.

“What is it?”

“Why do you have a painting of Elizabeth Bennet?” Wickham sneered as he looked at her image.

“What? Oh, that is not her name. Who is this girl you speak of?”