Page 55 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
Georgiana held out a folded letter, her fingers trembling. “She left this on her pillow.” Her voice faltered. “It says… it says…”
She swallowed, curling her hand into a fist, biting at her knuckle.
Kitty, unable to bear the suspense, snatched the letter and scanned it quickly. She gasped, her face draining of colour.
“Good heavens—she has run away!” Her voice shook.
Elizabeth snatched the letter from her sister’s hands, her eyes flying over the page. The words blurred before her as if her mind refused to comprehend them.
Dear sisters,
By now, I am certain you have invaded my privacy and entered my locked room. It is no less than I expected. But whatever the case, you now know that I am gone.
Do not fret. I am safe. I am with someone who values me more than any of you ever could—someone who trulyunderstands me. My dear George Wickham. He has been as misunderstood by the Bennets and mistreated by the Darcys as I have.
He and I shall be married and settled elsewhere, far away from your influence. I know Mr Darcy will fill your ears with tales of horror about George, but they are as empty as Darcy’s proclamation to care about our family. He is all about appearances, nothing else.
In any case, once we are settled, I shall send you my address, but not before then. I do not wish for you to interfere.
This is my wish to you: Do not. Do not come for me. Do not search for me. I do not wish to be found. Trust that I know what is best for me.
Mary
Elizabeth’s pulse pounded in her ears.
“George Wickham?” she whispered. “How is she even in contact with him? She scarcely spoke to him at Longbourn—and when she did, it was never with favour.”
“Indeed,” Kitty murmured, still pale. “She used to tease Lydia for being so enamoured of him.”
Elizabeth turned to Georgiana, whose slippered foot was tracing anxious patterns on the marble floor.
“Georgiana,” Elizabeth said, her voice carefully measured. “Do you know something?”
Georgiana hesitated before nodding. “I think I do.”
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. “Tell me.”
Georgiana exhaled. “I saw him. In Lambton. About two months ago. Do you remember, Kitty? The day we went to town for shaved ice—when you stubbed your toe and returned home early?”
Kitty blinked, then nodded.
“It was then,” Georgiana continued. “I saw Mr Wickham walking, and Mary… she was watching him. I pointed him out, and she said she had seen him before—at the convalescent home, visiting a friend.”
Elizabeth’s hands clenched around the letter.
“Why did you not tell your brother?”
Georgiana bit her lip. “Because Fitzwilliam loathes him. And things were so peaceful—you and he were getting along, the house was happy… I did not think there could be any harm in it. Mr Wickham has friends in Lambton—he always had. I did not think he and Mary would do more than exchange a few words. And she has heard much about him by now to know what he is …”
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her forehead. Mr Wickham, again. Always Mr Wickham.
Elizabeth’s breath came in shallow bursts as she stared at the letter in her trembling hands. The words burned into her mind, the finality of Mary’s decision crashing over her like a wave. How had this happened? How had they not seen it?
Her mind raced, sifting through memories, searching for any clue—any indication—that Mary had been capable of such recklessness.
And then, like the pieces of a puzzle slotting into place, she saw it.
Mary’s change in demeanour.
