Page 108 of The Difference of a Darcy
“I—”
“That is perfect,” Mrs. Reynolds cut in, suddenly animated. She seized Georgiana’s other arm. “Yes, that is exactly right, missus. A dreadful fever. The master will not wish to catch it.”
They hurried down the corridor, feet muffled on the worn carpets, just as the heavy front door banged open below with a deafening crash.
Georgiana gasped and stumbled.
“Almost there,” Elizabeth murmured, her heart pounding. They made it into the bedchamber, and Mrs. Reynolds immediately moved to the window to pull the drapes shut.
“I will go help—” Elizabeth started, but a desperate grip on her hand stopped her.
“Do not—do not leave me,” Georgiana whispered, eyes wide with terror.
Elizabeth turned back, startled. She looked from Georgiana’s pale, stricken face to Mrs. Reynolds’.
The housekeeper’s expression hardened with sudden resolve. “It is probably best if you stay in the room with your mistress,” she said briskly. “You must tend to her, after all.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to object, but Mrs. Reynolds shook her head sharply.
“Mr. Wickham will not care that you are married, Beth,” she said, voice low and urgent. “For your husband’s sake, you must remain as unseen as possible.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She gasped, horrified—and nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Heavy, uneven footsteps stomped up the stairs.
“In there.” Mrs. Reynolds pointed to the small dressing room off the bedchamber. “I will handle him.”
Elizabeth darted into the space, heart thundering. She knelt behind the edge of a tall linen press and gently eased the door nearly shut, leaving only the smallest crack near the hinges through which she could just glimpse the room.
Mrs. Reynolds helped Georgiana into bed, yanked her hair down from its careful braid, and drew the covers up to her chest just as the bedchamber door burst open.
“Georgie!”
Wickham’s voice was loud—too loud—and thick with alcohol. He staggered in, one arm raised in mock greeting. The stench of spirits wafted into the dressing room, making Elizabeth’s stomach churn.
Georgiana whimpered.
Wickham swaggered over to the bed and blinked at her, his lips curling. “What happened to you?” he asked. “You have gotten fat.”
Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward swiftly. “It is the babe, sir.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Wickham let out a raucous laugh. “A father! Well, then! I knew I had it in me. Just a few nights of fine work, and look what it got me!” He grinned wide and leaned down, lips puckered.
Georgiana turned her head quickly, gagging.
He drew back sharply, offended. “Do I disgust you now, Georgie? You were not like this a few months ago. As I recall, you were quite eager for my kisses. Is there someone else?” His voice grew harsh, angry. “Is the babe even mine?”
Elizabeth’s nails dug into the linen press.
But Mrs. Reynolds was already speaking. “Of course it is yours, sir! Mrs. Wickham has been terribly unwell. The babe made her sick enough, but then she caught a fever—or something like it. Stomach pains. Vomiting and the like. We suspect one of the maids or the tenant children passed it on.”
Wickham recoiled.
“Very contagious, whatever it is,” Mrs. Reynolds continued smoothly. “She has not left her rooms for two days. We were just about to summon a physician when you arrived.”
He sniffed and took a step back. “Well then. I suppose I shall leave you to it, my dear.”
