A Very Austen Romance

by Robin Helm

  Lady Catherine gave a sharp sigh. Elizabeth Bennet was the last person she wished to converse about. Her gaze moved to Darcy. What business had he to scowl at the soup? It was perfectly good soup. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

  Tomorrow—the day for which she had schemed and planned.

  Darcy would be apprehended as soon as he went out for his morning ride. He would be alone in the stables; at that early hour there was no risk of Colonel Fitzwilliam joining him. Later in the morning, Anne would be sent to the rose garden to look for early buds. Lady Catherine would detain Mrs. Jenkinson while the abduction took place.

  Abduction! It was horrible to think that it had come to this. If Darcy had only done his duty and proposed—but no. His stubborn refusal was forcing Lady Catherine’s hand.

  Her gaze moved to where Anne sat, listlessly stirring her soup. It pained Lady Catherine to admit that her daughter was also to blame. She did nothing to engage her cousin’s affection. One might assume that she was completely indifferent to him.

  By this time tomorrow, all that would change. Lady Catherine’s instructions were explicit: Anne was to be treated gently and given every consideration. Granted, she must be bound and gagged —such barbaric terminology! —but this could not be helped. Anne would return within the week, safely wedded to Darcy. Lady Catherine had seen to the special licence herself.

  She turned to Darcy. “Is something wrong with the soup? Why do you scowl so?”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke up. “Black looks become him, ma’am. After all, we leave the day after tomorrow. This has been a pleasant visit.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Darcy spoke with stern formality. “A matter of business has presented itself and requires my attention.”

  “Business at the dinner table! Gracious, has it come to that? You modern gentlemen are too preoccupied with business. In my day, it was never so. Unless—” Lady Catherine sent a coy smile in Darcy’s direction “—the state of my own fortune is at risk.”

  She had said this in jest, but Darcy’s frown deepened. “As you recall, ma’am, we were given explicit instructions to refrain from looking into your personal finances.”

  Indeed yes, for there would be much to discover!

  “It is a sad day,” she replied, “when one’s own aunt cannot make a simple observation. Heavens, you are disagreeable tonight.” Lady Catherine gave a nod to the footman, and the soup tureen was cleared away.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said crisply, “as your cousin is too preoccupied with business, would you kindly carve the joint of beef when it is brought in?”

  He agreed readily, and again conversation came to a standstill.

  Lady Catherine sighed. Since no one would talk, she began a silent catalogue of tasks that must be complete by morning. She soon hit a snag: clothing. Botheration!

  Darcy’s valet watched over his garments like a fiend, and her maid Dawson was just as protective of Anne’s clothing. And yet, Darcy and Anne must take with them several sets of clothes.

  This Lady Catherine must see to herself, but when? She suddenly realised that with everyone at dinner—including the staff—the time was now. Abruptly Lady Catherine pushed back from the table and rose to her feet.

  Darcy and Fitzwilliam politely followed suit.

  “If you will excuse me for just a moment—” Lady Catherine deliberately kept her tone vague. There were a multitude of reasons why an older woman must step away from the dinner table!

  With hasty dignity, she climbed the long staircase. In one of the attics waited two aged portmanteaux. Lady Catherine had cleaned them herself, for whom could she trust? Into Anne’s rooms she slipped. Soon one portmanteau was filled to overflowing.

  Darcy’s rooms were also deserted. Lady Catherine could not exactly thank Providence for her good fortune tonight. However, she would certainly send several bottles of wine to the servants’ table. If Darcy’s man had a little too much wine, so much the better. As for Dawson, Lady Catherine knew that she indulged in a nightly glass of liqueur. It was said to be a tonic for arthritis, but Lady Catherine knew better.

  Long years of married life acquainted her with what a gentleman would need. Down to the entrance hall she came, lugging the two portmanteaux. If her luck held, Darcy’s man would not notice the loss until morning.

  Cloaks and hats were in the butler’s cloakroom. But what reason would there be to keep two pieces of luggage overnight?

  By the time she returned to the dining room (a little out of breath), Lady Catherine had her answer. Her butler was attending the table, which suited her purpose perfectly.

  “Mrs. Collins was telling me the other day of several needy families in the parish,” she announced, while Darcy held her chair. “I wonder whether either of you have items of clothing that are ready to be discarded. I have set aside a few garments of my own, but if you have anything to contribute, do add them to the pile in the cloakroom.”

  “My man sees to that himself,” said Darcy.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam gave a shrug. “I brought precious little with me into the country, ma’am, and thus I have nothing to add to your pile. Convey my apologies to Mrs. Collins.”

  Lady Catherine turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam with a smile. “I shall be pleased to do so,” she said. “You will not mind if I speak to her privately. I find it distressing to talk of my charitable works outside the family circle.”

  She took up her fork. “Do you not agree?”

  No one said anything, which of course meant they did.

  At the conclusion of dinner, it was Colonel Fitzwilliam, not Darcy, who helped Lady Catherine with her chair. “It would be a mercy, Aunt,” he said quietly, “to give Darcy leave to attend to his correspondence, instead requiring him to hang about in the drawing room.”

  “Hang about? What sort of talk is this? This is his last evening with us—or almost his last evening, I should say. Of course, he wishes to join us in the drawing room.”

  Lady Catherine heard Colonel Fitzwilliam sigh. Gracious, the manners of this younger generation! It was the duty of her nephews to attend her. A fine example she would be if she allowed them to forget this!

  CHAPTER 6

  The following morning brought no relief to Elizabeth’s troubled mind. If only Mr. Darcy had not spoken! If only he had not been so disastrously precise! He, who prided himself on honesty, had certainly been honest.

  Yes, and so had she. She had also been petty and mean and spiteful.

  No matter that she was shocked and astounded to learn of his love for her—and of his disdain for her family. Poor manners on his part did not give her leave to respond with malice. There was no other word for it. How ashamed Jane would be to hear of her behaviour! Gentle Jane would have refused Mr. Darcy’s offer with graciousness, instead of casting insults.

  Elizabeth took a turn about the room. Why was she feeling remorseful? Did not arrogant people deserve to hear the truth about themselves?

  And yet she had used truth to deliberately wound him. Even now, she could recall the shock and pain in Mr. Darcy’s eyes. He so obviously expected that she would return his regard!

  Was she feeling pity? Why should she pity Mr. Darcy? Charles Bingley was lost to Jane forever—and this was entirely Mr. Darcy’s doing. She would never forgive him for parting them. Not ever.

  And yet at the same time, Elizabeth knew better. Bitterness was an ugly, sour thing. She would eventually be called on to forgive him.

  Worse, Mr. Darcy must one day forgive her for her part in yesterday’s disaster.

  Oh, why had he spoken of his love for her? Why had she spoken of her contempt?

  She must forget his proposal entirely; she must seal off the memory and never think of it again. Unfortunately, all her efforts toward this end were in vain. She could think of nothing else.

  In time, Mr. Darcy would forget his love for her, but not his resentment or pain—pain that she had deliberately inflicted!

  Elizabeth continued to pace about, as
waves of shame warmed her cheeks. She must do more than attempt to forget. She must confess her fault.

  Oh, but she did not wish to do so! It was mortifying to humble oneself!

  Elizabeth fought against this idea for some time. Presently, however, she surrendered to the promptings of conscience and went searching for a pencil and paper. She would jot a brief note to ease her guilt.

  I would like to apologise for the way I spoke to you yesterday. I was not feeling well, and your declaration took me completely by surprise. As you know (because I made it abundantly clear), I have never sought your good opinion nor have I attempted to beguile you in any way. Doubtless you now see that we would not suit and that you have escaped a miserable union. Nevertheless, I am ashamed of the spitefulness of my response to you.

  Several months ago, I declined an offer that was presented with equal, if not greater, fervour and condescension. My lack of fortune, the fact that I would never receive another offer, and even the faults of my character, were thrown in my face. I suppose you were the unwitting beneficiary of my dislike for this person’s presumption.

  I share this incident by way of explanation, not as an excuse. I behaved badly. Will you forgive my cruel and unkind words?

  Please accept my best wishes for your future happiness.

  Elizabeth signed her name and then folded the paper into a small square. What she ought to do was cast it into the fire, as this was a confession to God more than it was to Mr. Darcy. Instead, she slipped the note into a pocket. A few minutes later, fearing that it might fall out and be found by someone, she tucked it into her shoe.

  Not that she would give this note to Mr. Darcy. But if opportunity presented itself—

  Oh, surely not! She hadn’t the courage to face him, even if only to hand him the note.

  His departure tomorrow would mean a courtesy leave-taking. A small nod and a polite smile were all that propriety demanded; she could certainly manage these. To part from Colonel Fitzwilliam would be more difficult, as he was such a pleasant gentleman. Granted, he was not as handsome or as charming as her new friend, Mr. Wickham, but then few men were.

  Yet she had to admit that even Colonel Fitzwilliam shared some of Mr. Darcy’s arrogant pride. Had he not confessed, half in jest, that he was expensive in his habits and must marry an heiress?

  Money and matrimony! Elizabeth was sick to death of both.

  She paced about some more, pausing occasionally to gaze out the window. The cheerful beauty of the spring morning was at variance with her low spirits. Presently she decided that nothing was to be gained by remaining in her room. Although it was early, a walk through the park would clear her mind of these oppressive feelings.

  oOo

  Once out of the parsonage, Elizabeth had a change of heart. She had several times encountered Mr. Darcy on her favorite ramble through the grove; today she would go elsewhere. She therefore crossed the lane and entered the grounds of Rosings Park itself, with the intention of examining the formal rose garden. If she met the gardener, she could claim to be looking for early blooms.

  It was a good half mile to the mansion itself, but Elizabeth was in no hurry. She wandered the immaculate gravel paths, grateful to be without Mr. Collins’s enthusiastic commentary. How much more did she enjoy the natural beauty of her favorite walk! However, by this time tomorrow Mr. Darcy would be gone, and she could return to the grove without worry.

  The ornamental rose garden came into view; its bushes were covered with new leaves and tight buds. Elizabeth was about to pass by when she noticed a large basket, adorned with a red bow, lying on its side. Spilled onto the ground were a pair of garden shears and a note instructing Anne to cut only the pink buds.

  Were there pink buds?

  And why would Anne de Bourgh be set to such a task?

  Without thinking, Elizabeth righted the basket and placed the shears and note inside. A sound caught her attention, and she straightened. Was someone here? Yes, there must be, for she heard footfalls on the gravel. The gardener perhaps? But the greeting Elizabeth planned to utter died on her lips.

  From behind, strong fingers took hold of her shoulders; a large hand was clamped roughly over her mouth. Elizabeth twisted and tried to scream, but the fingers held hard.

  “This be the one,” a man’s voice announced. “Dark hair, yallow dress, hat with a ribbon, gloves.”

  Elizabeth twisted round, but was unable to see her attackers. The hands that held her were terribly strong.

  “All ladies wear gloves,” another voice said.

  “She’s got the basket; that’s enough for me. She came smash up to it, like.”

  “A quarter-hour early. I don’t like it, Manny. That dress ain’t yellow; it’s more the colour of spoiled milk. And she’s supposed to be puny. Delicate-like.”

  Elizabeth aimed a kick at the man who held her shoulders. “Ow!”

  Someone slapped her cheek, hard. Elizabeth gave a cry of pain and fought harder.

  There was anger in the first man’s voice. “Look, she’s the only one here; she fits the bill. I say we take her and clear out. We ain’t got time to dawdle, not with the gent already aboard.”

  “Gent?” Elizabeth longed to cry. “What gent?”

  But the men were now marching her away from the rose garden. With horror, she realised they were heading for a tall laurel hedge. What would happen to her when they reached a concealed area? Then the noise of horses and wheels met her ears—a team of horses, coming at no slow pace, pulling what sounded like a heavy coach.

  A cloth now replaced the hand over Elizabeth’s mouth, and it was bound tight. “I’ll belt you one if you scream, missy. It’s no use; no one will hear.”

  Incredibly, someone was binding her hands with rope. “Into the wagon you go.”

  Wagon? Elizabeth aimed another kick. It must have been successful, for she heard a man’s voice curse. Someone gripped her ankles, and they too were bound with rope.

  Was she being kidnapped? In broad daylight? She could see a high, closed delivery wagon with its rear doors open. Someone wearing dark clothes was lying on the floor. Was he—dead?

  “I hope you’ve had yourself a good breakfast, missy,” a rough voice said. “We got miles to travel before you’ll have another.”

  “But you ain’t alone,” said someone else. “We brought a companion, see? All the proprieties for a lady.”

  Elizabeth squirmed and twisted, but the hands that lifted her into the wagon were none too gentle. She joined the body on the floor the wagon, and the doors were pushed shut. Next, she heard the metallic click of a bolt being pulled to. There she lay, on rough wooden boards that were none too clean.

  Behind her, someone groaned. Whoever this was, he was still alive. If she could work her hands loose, perhaps they both might find a way to escape.

  “We change horses at Bromley,” she heard someone say. There came the crack of a whip, and the wagon lurched into motion. Out of the garden it rumbled, and with each bump Elizabeth’s head knocked painfully against the floor. Mr. Darcy and the note she had written were all forgotten. Elizabeth now begged God for deliverance.

  Presently she felt the wagon take a sharp turn. Had they reached the gates of the Rosings estate? Was Mr. Collins at the parsonage, and did he come rushing to the windows to see—what? A delivery wagon was of no consequence. Surely he would call to Maria and Charlotte, and they would exchange a knowing smile. Mr. Collins was so silly over who came and went at Rosings.

  But not today. Her foolish cousin could well be the only means of rescue.

  Elizabeth longed to cry out for help, but she could make no sound. There was a faint taste of blood in her mouth.

  What would her friends do when they discovered that she was missing?

  What would these men do when they learned that her family could pay no ransom?

  And who was the man lying beside her on the floor?

  CHAPTER 7

  Hours passed. By this time Elizabeth was thoroughly cold
. The hardness of the wagon’s floor and the continual rattling awakened pain she never knew she could feel. She had given up trying to free her hands; the ropes were too tight and cut into her skin. Her feet were numb. When she attempted to free them, she ended up kicking the man who lay beside her. She heard him groan.

  If only she could discover his identity! But her shoulders and hips would not cooperate; she could not manage to turn herself. The wagon rattled on, dark and fearfully noisy, like a night terror.

  As the horses were being changed, Elizabeth felt a stab of hope. Surely there were people at the coaching inn in Bromley; could she manage to alert them? Would a miracle enable her to escape? But the doors remained firmly bolted. Soon enough the wagon was again on its way to—where?

  Even if she could see properly, how could she begin to guess their direction? Would it matter if she did?

  After a time, the wagon pulled to the side of the road. The bolt was drawn back, and the doors came open. The daylight hurt her eyes.

  “Are ye daft?” she heard a woman’s voice complain. “Where’s her blindfold? Gad, if something wants doing, it’s me as has to do it.”

  Had this woman been with them all along? No, she had likely joined them at Bromley. This kidnapping was no random event. It had been carefully planned.

  Elizabeth gave a heavy sigh. She was found wandering the grounds at Rosings Park, wearing beautiful clothes that gave the lie to the true state of her family’s financial situation. In short, thanks to her mother’s love of fashion, she appeared to be an heiress. But there would be no money to pay ransom!

  What would happen to her when this was discovered?

  The wagon swayed a little as the woman climbed inside. Elizabeth struggled to raise her head, but the woman’s hand pressed her temple against the floor. “Don’t fight, dearie. You’ll not be getting a look at any of us.” There was a pause. “If a task calls for brains, it’s hopeless to send a man.”