by A J Woods
Darcy’s Winter Ball
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
A.J. Woods
Darcy’s Winter Ball copyright © 2019 by A.J. Woods.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by J.R. Woods
Cover image Courtship by Edmund Blair Leighton (1903) {{PD-US-expired}}
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
London – December 1811
In all her life, Elizabeth Bennet had never seen so many books in one place. And it was possible, given her current situation, that she had also never in her life experienced such unguarded delight. For she was absolutely surrounded by volumes of every variety and size.
“Dearest Jane,” Elizabeth said to her elder sister, who stood beside her upon entering number 173 Piccadilly, “I believe this event may be cause enough for my first case of the vapors. Should my feet rise above my head, it will be most unfortunate that Mama is not here to ply me back to consciousness with her smelling salts.”
Jane Bennet giggled sweetly, as she did all things. “It would be unfortunate indeed. Let’s not allow such a thing to happen. As a precaution, I shall hold fast to your arm while we browse.”
Jane offered her elbow, which Elizabeth accepted, and they strolled further into Hatchards Bookshop.
“Where will we begin, Lizzy?” Jane asked with wide, wandering eyes. “In the history section, I should imagine.”
“Do you not wish to start over there?” Elizabeth countered, indicating a section nearby.
Jane followed Elizabeth’s direction and squinted. “But I cannot even read from here what sort of books it houses.”
“It does not matter,” Elizabeth said, grinning, “as they are closest to the fire.”
“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane scolded gently before giving in. “Alright, but we can stay only a moment. We must collect your research and then begin the journey back to our uncle’s home if we are to arrive in time for tea.”
“I suppose you are right,” Elizabeth said, and the sisters hurried toward the large fireplace, choosing to warm their gloved hands while standing rather than taking one of the comfortable-looking chairs, inviting though they were. For Jane was correct—there was work to be done and not a great deal of time in which to accomplish it.
The two women had arrived at Gracechurch Street, where their uncle and aunt resided, shortly after dear Jane had her heart broken by a gentleman called Mr. Bingley. Though she would not reveal as much to her sister, Elizabeth herself had all but suggested the invitation to her gracious and likeminded aunt, hoping some time away from their home at Longbourn would serve as a balm to what was surely among the kindest hearts alive. And she longed to see Jane’s good humor restored, almost as much as she resented the cause of its absence.
But Elizabeth would no longer dwell on past events, and instead vowed to count her blessings more often that Mr. Bingley, his sisters, and a very particular friend of his were most certainly far, far away. After all, Christmastide was over, and the harshest stretch of winter had set in; the London streets were sparsely populated as many fashionable families had retreated to spend the season in the countryside.
She was once again consoled by the knowledge that the chance of the two eldest Bennet sisters meeting again with Mr. Bingley or Mr. Darcy were comparable to those of Jane or herself receiving a marriage proposal from a duke.
That is to say—very unlikely.
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “Come, Jane,” she said, rubbing her hands together once more before leaving the fire’s warmth. “Let us make our way to the geography section. There is a question of distance I must sort out if I am to get my characters to their ship on time, and the solution requires a map of the Bay of Bengal.”
“Oh, Lizzy, they must make it! I cannot bear it if Thomas and Meera are unable to escape,” Jane pleaded.
It was their most guarded secret, hers and Jane’s.
Elizabeth had begun the serious work of composing a novel just after their father had recovered from a recent cold—short-lived but nonetheless severe. His brush with death had caused much distress among Mr. Bennet’s wife and five daughters as, upon his eventual demise, their home and provision were entailed to his cousin, and the women would be left destitute thereafter but for the hope of familial charity.
After their father’s health had fortunately improved, Elizabeth’s three younger sisters had all but forgotten that fear, but Jane and Elizabeth could not, and the two had begun planning how to provide for the rest—God forbid—should he not be so fortunate a second time.
Though they had a fair number of accomplishments between them, none were the sort that could be counted upon to earn an income. It was only their shared love of books that gave Elizabeth the idea that, by contributing to the increasingly popular selection of novels available, she might be able to provide for her mother and siblings in a way that would not compromise her family’s station. What had begun as perhaps a foolish whim—bits of story Elizabeth had scribbled down over the years, on rainy days when diversion was scarce—was now a growing stack of paper which she believed might be of help should the very worst come to pass.
“You are too kind, dear sister,” Elizabeth answered, though in truth her heart swelled with pride that Jane possessed such affection for her writing. “I fear other readers will not care for it as you do. Our sisterly bond influences your view of my work.”
“I do not agree,” Jane said, clasping her hands together before her chest. “I only wish you did not need a nom de plume under which to publish. Would that all of England could know the true creator of my beloved Thomas and Meera.”
“I confess I share your wish,” Elizabeth said quietly. “And perhaps in time I will be at liberty to declare ownership of my work, if it is indeed published in the first instance.”
“It will be,” Jane said, squeezing her sister’s elbow. “I know it as surely as I know my admiration of it. Now, let us find that volume you seek.”
After inquiring after the location of the geography section, Jane and Elizabeth ventured up a spiral staircase until they landed at the correct floor. Jane spotted the area where the latest poetry was on display and went to browse, promising to return shortly. And when she was certain no other customers were in view, Elizabeth located the book of maps she sought, retrieved a very small notebook and pencil from her reticule, and began writing down the facts her manuscript lacked, confident that the specific details would add authenticity to her story.
Her Uncle Gardiner’s library in Cheapside, though quite satisfactory, did not contain the particulars she needed for her own book. And, though at one time she might have done so—considering recent events at Longbourn—Elizabeth could not justify the expense of buying the book for herself when wh
at she needed might be gleaned from a single page; nor could she in good conscience purchase a membership to a circulating library when she and Jane would be in London no more than a month’s time. On each occasion she received it, Elizabeth carefully tucked away her pin money, just in case there came a day when her mother and sisters might need it.
This is the best way, she reassured herself, jotting down a few more lines before she closed the thick leather cover and replaced the book in its spot on the shelf.
Satisfied that the errand had been worth the journey despite the threat of snow to come, and looking forward to the warm tea that would greet them on their arrival back at Gardiner House, Elizabeth glanced around one last time, tucked her notes and writing utensil back into her reticule, and went to find Jane.
“No, no,” said Fitzwilliam Darcy as he flipped the pages of yet another book in Hatchards’ poetry section. “I am afraid this will not do.”
“My apologies, sir,” said the young attendant who had been attempting to help Darcy going on half an hour now. “But this is all the poetry in stock at present.” He wrung his hands nervously. “‘Twas just the Christmas season, sir. Books tend to make popular gifts, and we have not yet fully restocked our shelves.”
Darcy looked up at the strain in the fellow’s tone—it was clear the lad had grown weary from the unsuccessful endeavor—and slid the book he’d held back into its place. The poor soul appeared apprehensive of disappointing his customer, though Darcy had not issued any unkind words. He did sometimes have that effect on people, despite his intent for quite the opposite.
“It is no matter. I thank you for your help and require none further,” Darcy said, and the clerk gave a small bow before apologizing once more and taking leave to assist another customer.
It wasn’t the boy’s fault anyway. Under normal circumstances, Darcy would have no trouble choosing a birthday gift for his younger sister; he had served as her guardian for years following their parents’ early deaths and knew his beloved sibling well, but these last few months his mind had been elsewhere, and he had not paid heed to current literature as attentively as was his habit.
After leaving Netherfield, the country abode in Hertfordshire leased to his good friend Charles Bingley, Darcy’s concentration was not as it should have been. Of course, he maintained his responsibilities with care the way he always had done, and his business acumen remained intact, but he could not say the same for those hours when he was not engaged in the management of his properties. Moments of quiet leisure were the true cause for concern, for it was during those moments that his focus turned to a young woman he’d become acquainted with at Netherfield and, for reasons still unknown to him, could not quite release from his thoughts; it was almost as if his own brain conspired against him.
His mind turned again, unbidden, to that same woman now, and he decided to try a second time tomorrow to find a present for Georgiana, perhaps at an earlier hour before everything around him had a chance to remind him of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. From the moment of their introduction, the young woman had done all in her power to rile him, and he had been convinced that leaving Bingley’s country home, and vowing never to return, would be all the solution he would need to forget her.
Never in his life had he been so mistaken.
“Mr. Darcy, is that you, sir?” sung a soft voice from behind.
He turned at the vaguely familiar sound to find Jane Bennet standing before him, smiling pleasantly as she bowed.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, the greeting, as a result of his surprise, coming out rather more gruffly than he would have liked as he bowed in return. “How do you do? I trust you and your family are well.”
“Indeed, I am well, Mr. Darcy, and my family are in good health,” Jane confirmed. “I hope the same is true of you and yours.”
Darcy noted that she did not specifically include his friend in the wish, but he supposed he could hardly blame her, for he himself had discouraged Bingley’s growing fondness for the lady. The eldest Miss Bennet appeared true to her word and indeed looked well, confirming Darcy’s previous suspicion that she had not returned Bingley’s interest with the fervor his friend had expressed—for if she had, surely she would not appear in such fine spirits now. In that, among other reasons, it seemed Darcy’s disapproval of the match had been justified.
“Indeed, my family are all healthy and happy,” Darcy answered.
Both were silent as a few seconds passed, Jane no doubt recalling the events of his time in Hertfordshire just as he was. Thankfully, they were surrounded by books, so there was no shortage of subjects to turn to before it was polite to bid their adieus.
“May I ask what brings you to Hatchards on such a cold day?” Darcy inquired.
Jane paused before answering, seeming to search for the right thing to say, and he wondered what disclosure she might be avoiding.
“We”—she hesitated—“that is to say, I…am simply browsing for something to read.” Jane nodded as if to add finality to her less-than-sure statement.
“Would you not prefer to borrow from a lending library?” he asked. “I know of several here in London. I believe this very shop may offer a subscription.”
He’d truly meant to be helpful, but the lady’s complexion took on a brighter color and he understood instantly how callous he’d been to ask such a thing; it implied that the Bennets could not afford to purchase books to own, which he knew full well not to be the case, having heard much about the size and scope of their father’s library.
“We are being careful of late, you see,” Jane explained, all politeness despite his daft statement. “Our father had a spell not long after you and…your friends…departed from Netherfield, and it gave us all a scare.” She paused. “In more than one way.”
He should have apologized immediately for his indiscretion; he knew it as surely as he knew the names of his household staff, but somehow, he could not form the words. He believed himself so above Miss Bennet’s station—had made that clear on more than one occasion when visiting her village—yet it was he who had made a terrible social blunder just now. Instead, he scolded himself silently and moved quickly to a sunnier topic.
“I am in search of a birthday gift for my sister, Georgiana,” he explained, “and I am afraid I have not found the success for which I’d hoped.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Jane said. “I am a lover of books myself,” she added tentatively, clasping her hands together. “Do you suppose I might be of some help?”
She searched his eyes as he formed a response. She really was kind, Darcy thought, and her demeanor was such that he had never seen her anything but perfectly pleasant—very like his friend. It was no wonder that Bingley should have been attracted to her; unfortunately, attraction was of little importance regarding a proper marriage, and from what he had observed in his time at Netherfield, Jane possessed naught else where Bingley was concerned.
Still, he could not, and would not, behave toward her with less than gentlemanlike manners. He offered a smile.
“In what sort of books do you take particular interest?” he asked Jane.
She looked down at her hands. “Well, sir, I enjoy poetry, and the occasional novel.” She paused. “But I am sure my sister is a more voracious reader than I, and would be far more advantageous to you in her recommendations.”
At this, Jane’s eyes, which had taken on a sudden look of excitement, shifted to a spot just over Darcy’s shoulder, and his own curiosity, combined with an increased rate of breathing at the mention of the eldest Miss Bennet’s sister, caused him to turn and look before he could think to do otherwise.
Chapter 2
If his breathing rate had increased before, now that very breath was stolen from him entirely as Miss Elizabeth Bennet approached. He had last seen her just over a fortnight ago, at Bingley’s Netherfield ball, but he was quite certain her beauty had increased in that short time.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth greeted, dipping into a bow.
/>
“Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, returning her gesture.
They exchanged pleasantries and then fell into a disconcerting silence which did nothing to quell the rapid beating of Darcy’s heart.
The younger Miss Bennet’s eyes sparkled with a teasing humor he had come to recognize as one of her defining characteristics, and curls spiraled away from the confines of her winter hat. She was bundled in warm clothing covered by a wool pelisse of forest green that accented her cheeks—a lovely color of pink, no doubt from the cold outside and the heat of the fireplace within.
The physical reality of her, standing before him as if they had never parted, caused him to experience sensations he had spent the last month trying very hard to ignore.
“Miss Bennet informed me that you and your kin are well. Have you been long in Town?” he asked, hoping to learn the reason Elizabeth Bennet had come directly to the very place he’d sought to escape her.
“But a few weeks, sir,” Elizabeth answered. “We have been visiting my uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, in Cheapside. It is their custom to journey to Longbourn at Christmas, but my young cousin Edward injured his leg and cannot travel, so Jane and I came for the season while the rest of my family spent the holiday at home. We will remain another fortnight.”
The mention of their temporary residence shamed him as he relived the unpleasant moments in which Bingley’s sister, Caroline, had harshly ridiculed that part of London. It was but one of many of Caroline’s comments to Elizabeth he wished he had the ability to expunge. A change of subject was in order.
“Your sister has just given a welcome offer of assistance,” he explained, issuing what he hoped was a nice smile, and not that of a lunatic. He found it difficult to discern the difference in her presence, for she made him uncommonly nervous.
