Darcy's Secret Garden

by Jane Grix

  DARCY’S SECRET GARDEN

  A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Jane Grix

  Copyright 2018 Beverly Farr Giroux

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover design by beetifulbookcovers.com

  Cover image by stock.adobe.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Darcy's Secret Garden

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

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  PROLOGUE

  Darcy looked up from his desk when Bingley was announced. His friend walked into the sitting room at Darcy House, hat and gloves in his hand. “What’s this about changed plans?” he demanded.

  Darcy said, “I thought my note would be sufficient.”

  “You said you no longer wished to go to Pemberley this summer.”

  “That is correct.” Darcy removed his dark glasses and set them aside.

  “But why? We have been planning this trip for weeks. Caroline has been looking forward to it especially, and I am certain Georgiana feels the same.”

  “I have obligations in Town,” Darcy said. Obligations he did not intend to share with Bingley. It was bad enough to consult with multiple physicians; it would be worse to complain of his ailments. Darcy did not know whether he should be alarmed by his symptoms, but one thing was for certain – he did not want Bingley’s sympathy.

  “Perhaps we can go later in the year,” Darcy said.

  Bingley said, “Whatever you wish is fine with me, but I was surprised, that is all. Would you like to go riding?”

  Normally, Darcy would agree, but not today. His head ached and going out into the bright sunlight would only make it worse. “I have a better plan – a suggestion for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Instead of travelling with me to Derbyshire, you should return to Hertfordshire.”

  Bingley looked uncomfortable. “To Netherfield Park?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am thinking of giving it up,” Bingley said awkwardly.

  “That would be a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “It is a pretty property, and you have a most pretty neighbour.”

  “Miss Bennet? But I thought you wished for me to avoid her. That I was making a cake of myself when she did not care a button for me.”

  Darcy smiled at the absurd mental image his friend’s words created. “I was wrong,” he said clearly, recalling the words Miss Bennet’s younger sister Elizabeth had used when she refused his suit. She had accused him of ruining her sister’s happiness by separating Bingley from Jane. Darcy could not change the past, but perhaps he could do one thing to make Elizabeth happier. “I should not have interfered. If you care for Miss Bennet –”

  “I love her,” Bingley corrected.

  “Then you should speak to her. Declare yourself. If she cares for you, you will soon know it. If not, you can stop moping about and fall in love with someone else.” It was the advice Darcy gave himself now that he knew that the woman he loved did not love him. But he had no wish to fall in love again. If he could not have Elizabeth Bennet, he would die a bachelor.

  “Do you think there is hope for me?” Bingley asked.

  More than there was hope for himself, Darcy thought. Bingley, unlike himself, was an intelligent, amiable man with excellent manners. He was not proud, arrogant or conceited. Over the past few months, Darcy had realized his own flaws. Elizabeth was right. He had been a selfish being all his life, choosing to think well of himself and ill of others, and she had humbled him.

  Darcy often remembered Elizabeth’s words that fateful day:

  I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.

  But he would try not to think of her.

  “Of course, there is hope,” Darcy said kindly and smiled at his friend. “And I wish you success.”

  Bingley beamed. “Thank you, Darcy. I will follow your advice.”

  THE DINING PARLOUR of Pemberley was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely furnished. Elizabeth Bennet stood with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner admiring it. They were currently touring Derbyshire, and Mr. Gardiner had expressed a desire to see Pemberley. Elizabeth had tried to dissuade them for she feared meeting Pemberley’s owner Mr. Darcy, but a servant at the local inn had promised that the family were not down for the summer, so reluctantly, Elizabeth had agreed to go. And now she stood in the grand home thinking, of all this, I might have been mistress!

  But that was not to be for she had refused Mr. Darcy’s proposal only a few months before.

  Elizabeth often thought of his offer and her heated refusal, but more often, she thought of the letter he wrote in response. She had nearly worn the paper through by rereading it.

  She walked over to a window to enjoy the view.

  There was a lovely hill with a small river and trees clustered on its bank. She sighed. How she would have enjoyed walking along that landscape, walking and talking with Mr. Darcy.

  Months before, she had often walked with him at Rosings Park, the home of his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She had been visiting her friend Charlotte Lucas, Mrs. Collins now, who had married her cousin Mr. Collins, Lady Catherine’s clergyman. Elizabeth had enjoyed her walks at Rosings and had been surprised when Mr. Darcy chose to join her day after day.

  In hindsight, she realized that Mr. Darcy had been in love with her, but at the time she had been blind to his feelings. And to her own. She thought she despised him, but the truth was he infuriated her because he fascinated her.

  She remembered his words that fateful day.

  In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

  Mr. Darcy’s housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds interrupted Elizabeth’s memories by guiding her and the Gardiners into another room. “If you will follow me,” she said. Mrs. Reynolds was a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine than Elizabeth had anticipated. She had thought that Darcy with his pride would want more pretentious staff, similar to the superior servants at Rosings Park.

  In one room, her aunt called her over to look at a picture. Elizabeth approached and saw three miniature portraits over the mantelpiece. Mrs. Gardiner pointed to one and asked how she liked it.

  It was a portrait of George Wickham, a soldier currently stationed in Meryton near her home. Elizabeth had met him the year before and for a while, he had flirted with her and she, not knowing his true nature, had liked him. Mrs. Gardiner had met him at Christmas, six months before,
and had liked him as well, although she had advised Elizabeth not to fall in love with him because he could not afford to marry.

  Mrs. Reynolds said, “That is the son of the late master’s steward who was brought up by the late Mr. Darcy’s expense. He has gone into the army, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”

  Elizabeth nodded. In his letter, Mr. Darcy had described Wickham’s villainy. Wickham had tried to elope with Darcy’s younger sister the year before, but she doubted the housekeeper was aware of it.

  The housekeeper added, pointing to another of the miniatures, “And that is my master. And very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other, about eight years ago.”

  Elizabeth looked closely. It was definitely Mr. Darcy with his dark curling hair and brilliant blue eyes, but he looked younger, more carefree in the portrait than he had been at Hertfordshire. She supposed him to have been about twenty years of age at the time. The artist had captured him as an intelligent young man before he inherited the heavy responsibilities as Master of Pemberley and his sister’s guardian.

  Mrs. Gardiner said, “It is a handsome face. But Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like him or not.”

  Elizabeth felt herself colour.

  Mrs. Reynold asked, “Do you know Mr. Darcy?”

  Elizabeth prevaricated. “A little,” she said.

  “And do you not think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”

  The handsomest man of her acquaintance. “Yes, very handsome,” she admitted.

  The housekeeper explained that there were additional portraits in the gallery and one more recent. “I would like to see them,” Elizabeth said.

  The tour continued, and soon they were standing before a large portrait of Mr. Darcy with a smile on his face that Elizabeth had sometimes seen when he looked at her.

  She heard Mrs. Reynolds outlining his virtues. “He is the best landlord, and the best master that ever lived. Not like the wild young men nowadays who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name.”

  “That is fine account of him,” Mr. Gardiner said.

  “And true, every word,” Mrs. Reynolds assured him.

  Elizabeth did not pay full attention to her words for she was looking at Mr. Darcy’s portrait. She thought, where are you now, Mr. Darcy, and what are you thinking? Do you ever think of me?

  CHAPTER ONE

  EIGHT YEARS LATER

  Mrs. Gardiner sighed happily. “The rose garden is just as I remember it. What do you think, Lizzy?”

  Elizabeth stood in Pemberley’s gardens admiring the ornamental design. “Yes, I think it is the same.”

  “It is a disappointment they no longer give tours of the house,” Mrs. Gardiner continued. “But at least we can see the grounds.”

  According to the young woman at the inn, there were no more tours of the house because Mr. Darcy was always in residence and he did not wish to be disturbed.

  Elizabeth looked up at the house, glancing at the windows, wondering where he was. If he looked out a window, would he see them? But even if he did it was unlikely he would recognize her with her face hidden by a bonnet, so she had felt safe in her decision to visit his home again.

  Mrs. Gardiner said, “It is so beautiful,” and sighed.

  She did not mention Mr. Gardiner, but Elizabeth knew that he was on her mind. This trip had been tinged with sadness as her aunt often remembered their journey years before with her husband. How long ago that seemed, and so much had happened since then.

  Mr. Gardiner had died a year earlier, but Mrs. Gardiner preferred to keep dressing in mourning clothes. As she said, “It is easier that way. And economical, too.”

  The Gardiner children, older now, worked in the family business or attended school. Mrs. Gardiner had accompanied Elizabeth to Derbyshire to see family friends and to introduce Elizabeth to a Mrs. Rowe who needed a governess.

  But Mrs. Rowe had taken one look at Elizabeth and declined. As she later told Mrs. Gardiner privately, “I am certain your niece is a fine young woman with an excellent character, but she is too pretty. I believe it is better not to bring temptation into a house.”

  Elizabeth, who strove to maintain her sense of humour, had joked to her aunt, “I suppose that compliment is some compensation, but I would still prefer a position.”

  Mrs. Gardiner had said, “You don’t need to leave, Lizzy. You will always have a home with me.”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth appreciated her aunt’s generosity, but she knew that it was time for her to become independent. Mrs. Gardiner needed to tend to her own children and not support her as well.

  They walked about the gardens for twenty minutes, and then Mrs. Gardiner chose to sit on a stone bench. “Do not mind me, Lizzy,” she said. “I know you would prefer to explore. I will sit and wait for you.”

  “I will not go far,” Elizabeth promised.

  She walked along the gravel paths and across the neat lawn. Her boots made little sound as she walked. She admired the sculpted bushes and the ornamental flowers. Along a brick wall there was a wooden door, left slightly open.

  Intrigued, Elizabeth pushed on the door and looked inside. “How lovely,” she breathed out, as she saw that it was a courtyard, a gated garden. There was a large oak tree in the centre with a swing.

  And Mr. Darcy sitting on a stone bench.

  “Excuse me,” she said, shrinking back. “I did not mean to intrude.”

  He turned to face her, but she could not see his eyes for he wore glasses with dark green lenses. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Had she changed so much in eight years? Elizabeth knew she had grown older, but it stung to think that he had forgotten her entirely when he had once professed to love her.

  She straightened her shoulders. “I came with my aunt to visit your gardens.”

  “Your name,” he demanded. “What is your name?”

  “Mrs. Holt.”

  Mr. Darcy reached for a cane at his side and fumbled.

  He was blind, she realized with horror. That was why he was always in residence. Why he did not recognize her now.

  Her heart was saddened to think that such a strong, vibrant man had suffered the loss of his eyesight. “Please do not trouble yourself,” she said quickly. “I will go and let you have your privacy.”

  Mr. Darcy stood before her. He was still tall and straight with broad shoulders and a noble mien. His hair was longer, curling about his ears. There were a few strands of grey in the curls, and he had more sideburns than she remembered – as the current styles demanded. His face was thinner.

  Elizabeth had often wondered if her memories of him were faulty, but no, he was still as handsome as she had remembered.

  “No, please,” he said, with more graciousness than she had ever heard from him before. “Stay for a few minutes. I would enjoy the company.”

  How could she refuse him? “As you wish,” Elizabeth said.

  He said, “As you may have surmised, I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of this house. I take the introduction upon myself since there is no one else to do the duty.”

  Elizabeth nodded, then remembered that he could not see the gesture. She said, “Yes, sir.”

  He looked questioningly toward the wooden door. “You mentioned an aunt. Is she with you as well?”

  “No, sir. She is sitting in the rose garden.”

  He raised one expressive eyebrow. “But you were more adventurous.”

  “Yes, if one can consider walking in a garden adventurous.”

  He smiled at her weak attempt of humour. “I suppose that depends on the garden. I fear that some of my neighbours think me an ogre.”

  “Surely not.”

  “No, it is true. I am like the minotaur.”

  She was surprised that he could laugh at himself. He asked, “What brought you to Pemberley?”

  “My aunt and I visited here many years ago. We were in Lambton and thought to visit the estat
e again.”

  He nodded. “Are the grounds the same? I ask only because I cannot see more than shapes and shadows. No details. I presume my servants are doing their duty, but short of crawling about and feeling each bush and shrub, I cannot know for certain.”

  Elizabeth reassured him. “The garden is just as it was before. Beautiful.”

  He asked, “Where are you from?”

  “London. Cheapside.”

  “And your husband, Mr. Holt. What does he do?”

  Elizabeth smiled wryly, glad that Mr. Darcy could not see her expression. For a moment, Mr. Darcy reminded her of his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had also interrogated her years before. At the time, she had been young and bold with nothing to hide. She had given her opinions freely, but over the years she had learned caution. “My husband is dead,” she said carefully.

  “Forgive me if I have caused you pain.”

  “No, you have not.”

  “What brought you to Lambton?” he asked.

  “My aunt spent her youth here. She is friends with Mrs. Harper.”

  “Ah, yes. At the bakery. They make excellent Chelsea buns.”

  Elizabeth had a sudden thought. Mr. Darcy might be able to assist her. As a landowner, he would know more of the neighbourhood. She said, “I came with the hope of being hired as a governess with Mrs. Rowe, but she did not want me.”

  He frowned. “Then you are fortunate. From her voice, Mrs. Rowe seems to be a most irritating woman.”

  Elizabeth decided to be brave. “I was wondering if you might know of somewhere else where I could work?”

  “As a governess?”

  “Or a companion.” Elizabeth wanted employment and she was not particular.

  He nodded. “I have an idea. Follow me.” He walked slowly out of the walled garden, using the cane to keep himself on the proper path. He called to a gardener to send for a footman.

  Within a few minutes, a footman appeared. “How may I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “Arrange for some sandwiches, fruit, and lemonade to be set up outside the ballroom. But first, fetch me several books here: a history and a novel.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I hope you and your aunt will accept some refreshment.”