by J Dawn King
She smiled as she raised onto her toes and kissed him full on the lips. Unlike the first missive in the glen, she would not linger before reading it. Wishing the horses to run all the way to Longbourn so she could secrete herself in her room with a brightly lit candle, she reached into her pocket to feel the thickness of the letter, lifted it, and weighed it in her hand. Yes, four pages. Her man was a creature of habit. Her man. Her joy. Her letter.
Miss Anne de Bourgh returned to Rosings Park a far different woman than when she had left.
“Where have you been and who have you been with?” Lady Catherine was no less livid than she had been earlier with Darcy. The colour of her face and the pointing of her finger spoke of her fierce determination to set things back to her desired order in her home. Having her daughter run off in her nephew’s carriage with no concern for her had been a flagrant rebellion she would not tolerate.
“You are ending a sentence with a preposition, Mother. It is not done.” Anne breezed by Lady Catherine and walked up the stairs to her room, leaving the older woman sputtering ineffectually behind her.
A week after her return, she drove her little phaeton about the park to enjoy the remaining glories of spring before summer’s intense heat made the sojourn uncomfortable. Mr. Collins was tending his cucumber patch when on impulse she decided to stop. He was such a different sort of fellow from her two male cousins that her curiosity was stirred. Where Darcy and Richard were men of action and good sense, she wondered about the clergyman.
“Miss de Bourgh!” He wiped his sweaty brow on the back of his sleeve. “Are you well? You look well. Is Lady Catherine well? I imagine she is fine as well. Well…”
She interrupted him before he could say another ‘well’. “Mr. Collins, I was wondering if I might obtain a small piece of information.”
“Certainly.” Mr. Collins turned to face the parsonage, immediately demanding the presence of his wife. “Charlotte! Charlotte! Miss de Bourgh has come. Hurry!”
Sedately, Mrs. Collins moved until she was at her husband’s side. Her greeting was calm and her welcome…well, it was welcoming.
“Mr. and Mrs. Collins, I am wondering if you know of any needy children on the estate who might enjoy playing in the gardens and glens of Rosings Park.”
“But, your mother?” Mr. Collins was horrified on Lady Catherine’s behalf. In Bible times, it was the habit of kings to extend a scepter to notify a visitor if they would be allowed an audience. If not, the person attempting to gain access was put to death. Since his appointment as parson to the great lady, he had found himself frequently checking her hands to see if a jewel-encrusted wand was in her hands. She would not tolerate uninvited guests. Death or banishment often seemed a possibility. Even for innocent children.
“In less than eleven months, I will be the mistress of the estate. My mother will be living in the dowager house. Changes will be made to its running, its purpose, and its use.”
“I applaud you, Miss de Bourgh.” Charlotte Collins took a small step closer to her, a smile on her face. “Yes, there are many children and families who might enjoy a visit.
“Then I shall count on your help in seeing it done.” With a flick of the reins, she drove off, leaving the stunned couple behind her.
Philanthropy did not come easily to Anne, quite unlike her ability to routinely ruffle her mother’s feathers. Over the many years the younger woman served as mistress of Rosings Park, she never grew to tolerate children. Neither did her mother. They were noisy, messy, quick, and always seemed to be in her way.
Nonetheless, children of every age adored Anne de Bourgh. Babies wanted to be held by her where they would drool on her clothing and try to discover the dark secrets in her nostrils. Toddlers begged her attention to demonstrate new skills such as walking, running, and ‘look how much mud I can squeeze between my fingers.’ Adolescents desired her attention as they shared their dreams and visions of their futures.
Yet, she was contented. Regularly, she sparred with her aged mother over the management of the property. Nonetheless, Anne held a secret sort of pride in her accomplishments.
One month after setting her plans into motion, Mrs. Collins informed Anne of a letter she had received from Elizabeth Bennet. She had accepted Darcy’s offer and the Collins’ and Anne were invited to the wedding which would be held at Longbourn Chapel three weeks hence.
Anne immediately made plans to attend. However, she failed to consider the possible actions of her mother. Thus it was that Mr. and Mrs. Collins left for Hertfordshire without her. By then, the contest between the two strong-willed women was fully developed and, after a lengthy exchange of fiery darts at each other, Anne called for the carriage and set off for London.
She arrived at Darcy House early on the morning following the wedding and was appalled when neither Darcy nor Elizabeth were downstairs to greet her. Inconsiderate newlyweds!
“Anne is downstairs, dear.” Darcy had heard his cousin’s complaints and demands all the way up the next floor, down the hallway, and through the master’s bedchamber door.
The servants had been commanded not to disturb the couple on their wedding night, which was as it should be.
He could feel the puffs of Elizabeth’s breath against his neck and the movement of her lips when she smiled. Though it had been less than twenty-four hours, he loved married life. He adored his wife. Stretching his long legs until his feet hit the bottom of the bed, he turned on his side to face his bride. In truth, there was not a more exquisite woman in the kingdom.
“My heart, are you prepared to greet your first guest as Mrs. Darcy?” he enquired.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes at him and lifted the bed clothes. She gazed down to where his feet were entangled with hers.
“I think not, my husband. My profound belief is that we have far better means of occupying our time on this day.”
He could only agree to the most intelligent, insightful woman of his acquaintance.
“What?” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was stunned. Never had he been taken by surprise in such a way. “What on earth could you mean by this?”
His father, Lord Matlock, stood in front of him alongside his eldest son, Simon Fitzwilliam, the heir apparent to the earldom. At least, he had been such.
“Your brother has prepared an announcement renouncing his title.”
“Why, Simon?” Richard looked to his brother. They had always gotten along, though they had little in common. Simon was a bookish sort, while Richard was all about action.
“I have the opportunity to use the funds left me by grandmother to travel to the continent to establish a missionary home to tend to the spiritual needs of those who have lost much during the war. I have no desire to marry and produce and heir or sit in the House of Lords. None at all.”
“But you love to argue.” Richard was vehement.
“No, Richard, you love to argue,” was his brother’s quick reply.
“He has you there, son.” Lord Matlock looked upon both his sons with affection. “I have known since Simon’s youth of the possibility of this taking place. Rich, you are a born commander of men and know the ways of the world far more than even I. Change is coming and this is one of them. You will take it in stride, I have no doubt.”
“But to become the viscount?” The colonel sat back in his chair and considered the implications. Horror covered his face. “Oh, Lord in heavens! With Darcy married yesterday and off the marriage mart, you just placed a huge bull’s-eye in the middle of my back.”
“You are correct, son. You will need to marry fairly soon to start filling the nursery. As soon as you sell your commission, your mother will see to accepting as many invitations as possible before the season ends. I am certain there are still many accomplished ladies from which to choose. If you follow Darcy’s example, you could have your own wife in the next few weeks.”
Of the three men in the room, only Richard was privy to the length of time it had taken his cousin to find, court, and capture
his bride. He rubbed his hands over his face, wondering how his life had come to this. Thinking back on his conversations about love and romance with Darcy, he reflected on the type of woman he would attract in this new position being thrust upon him.
He sighed.
One month later, Darcy and Elizabeth were happily ensconced in their sitting room when they heard the pounding on the front door of Darcy House. It could only be Lord Fitzwilliam, the next Earl of Matlock—Richard.
The season was coming to a close and the former colonel had found the unattached women to be more single-minded in their pursuit of matrimony with the viscount than Napoleon was with conquering the British. As was often the case, Richard sought refuge in his cousin’s study.
“How did you stand it Darce?” Richard swallowed his second glass of brandy in short order.
“Stand what, Rich?”
“Do not be dense in front of your wife, cousin. It makes you look bad.”
Elizabeth snickered at the men. Kissing her husband’s cheek, she excused herself, but not before she added, “You poor gentlemen. Unable to handle the gentler sex. I cannot imagine.”
“Women!” Richard ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. “They are everywhere. They smile their silly smiles, they laugh in titters, and blink their eyes at you so rapidly I cannot tell if they are trying to wink or if they have caught a fly in their eyelashes and need my assistance.”
Darcy smiled. All the years his cousin had teased him about being the target of scheming debutantes were being repaid exceedingly well.
“Both father and mother are after me to select a female to wed.”
“Has no one caught your attention?”
Richard dropped into a chair and put his head in his hands.
“In truth, the only female I can tolerate is my horse or yours.” He looked up at Darcy’s cough. “Oh, and Elizabeth, of course.” Throwing himself back into the soft leather of the chair, he slid his feet out in front of him. “You would not consider giving her up would you?”
“My wife?”
“Your horse.” He completely missed the huge grin on his cousin’s face. “How did you do it? How did you sort through the riff-raff to find someone so precious, so valuable, so perfect for you, Darcy? You, the least capable man I know of courting a woman without insulting her, have a treasure. Tell me the secret to your success.”
Fitzwilliam Darcy closed his eyes in memory, a small smile on his face. Elizabeth’s joyous laughter flowed on the gentle breeze in the glen, bouncing off one tree to the next. The sun had glinted off her chocolate tresses and her eyes had been alight with the joy of living. Water babbled over rocks in the brook and butterflies flitted from flower to flower. Her dress was green. When he had made his presence known, the pleasure momentarily flickered from her face. By the time they had left the glen, her smile had returned and she had the secret to his success in her front pocket.
“A letter, Richard. I wrote her a letter.”
Miss Cordelia Rose Berning-Smythe was the epitome of elegance and the debutante most desired by Richard’s mother for the next countess of Matlock. Her thick raven hair and icy blue eyes had caught the former colonel’s attention from his first glance. In fact, he had looked twice, or possibly three or more times. With that said, she had caught the attention of many other gentlemen of means and position as well, and he simply refused to enter competition for a female. Had it been a race to claim a new filly? Well, that would have been an entirely different matter altogether.
He sighed to himself. The events at the ball the night before had been most unfortunate. Momentarily forgetting he was no longer with his boisterous band of horse soldiers, he had proclaimed his disinterest in the young woman with vigour. He refused to be grouped in with the pack of pansies currently in pursuit of the lady as a wife and let it be known that he, Richard Fitzwilliam, found her barely tolerable.
She had heard.
Elizabeth Darcy had taken pains to visit Matlock House during the proper hours to call him to task. Miss Cordelia had, over the past few weeks, become one of her closest friends. According to his cousin’s new wife, who did not hesitate to express her displeasure, the unmarried debutante was delightfully witty and genuinely cordial.
“Though you do not want to hear it, Richard, you need to follow William’s example in this or you will never succeed with her.”
He was offended, or at least he pretended he was. Follow Darcy’s example? Him? He was far better in society than his cousin.
“My husband did much the same at our first meeting, opening his mouth and sticking his boot in before he gave any consideration he might have insulted his future wife.” Elizabeth was gathering items from his desk drawer as if it was her study and not his, lining them in front of him like obedient soldiers. “Come now. Take your medicine. I promise, it will only hurt for a bit and then you will look to your future happiness.” She smirked. “You have no need to thank me.”
Richard shook his head briskly. What had happened here? When Elizabeth moved behind him to push his chair forward, with him in it, he observed her purpose. In front of him was parchment, ink with the top opened, a sharpened quill, wax, and sand.
“Humph!” He felt small. Staring at the blank paper in front of him, he sought any means to escape the task. “This is highly improper, Elizabeth, and you know it to be so.”
She walked in front of his desk and stood with her arms crossed under her breast. He could hear the tapping of her slipper on the carpeting as she firmly pressed her lips together. He knew then she would be an immovable object.
“Write, Richard.”
“My conduct was horrid and my words disparaging,” he painfully admitted. He hated that he had embarrassed himself in front of the young lady and wished more than anything his comments unsaid. Yet, he also hated being backed into a corner with no seemingly way out. “What good is a simple note going to do?”
Her lips started moving until her smile filled her face and her eyes sparkled with glee.
“What good, you ask?” Her arms dropped and her stance relaxed. “Let me tell you about the power of a letter.”
Joy Dawn King started telling stories from an early age. However, she did not write any of them down until she was 57 years old. While living high in the Andes Mountains of Ecuador with her husband and family, she read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice for the first time. It was love at first page. After she was done, she longed for more.
When searching for another copy of Jane Austen’s writings, she happened upon several books that offered alternative paths to happily ever after for Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. She purchased and read as many as she could find. Finally, in early 2014, she had an idea for a story about the couple that would not go away. Thus, her first book, A Father’s Sins: A Pride and Prejudice Variation, was born.
Since then, Joy and her husband moved back to the U.S. and plot bunnies kept hopping in and out of her imagination. Now, it’s all she can do to keep up with them. But, she tries.
THE HONORABLE MR. DARCY: A Pride & Prejudice Mystery
by Jennifer Joy
Everyone has a secret. Who will kill to keep theirs?
Lieutenant George Wickham is dead.
The shot rings out in Wickham's tent as the good citizens of Meryton dance the night away at Mr. Bingley's Netherfield ball. The only person who can confirm Fitzwilliam Darcy's alibi faces the loss of her reputation and her freedom if she comes forward.
Convinced that her sole motive is the pursuit of justice— and not her growing attraction to Mr. Darcy— Elizabeth Bennet begins an investigation to clear his name and evade an unwanted marriage.
If Darcy didn’t shoot Wickham in cold blood, who did? Which of Longbourn’s neighbors is not who they seem?
With a killer on the loose, can Elizabeth avoid being the next victim as she comes closer to revealing the truth?
Bestselling author, Jennifer Joy, brings you The Honorable Mr. Darcy, the first standalone
book in the A Meryton Mystery romance series. If you like falling in love with characters as they fall for each other while uncovering shocking secrets, then you’ll love this mystery romance.
Excerpt from CHAPTER 3
A rustle in the corner of the room startled Darcy from his thoughts. Squinting his eyes against the darkness, he saw a lump on top of the couch.
He drew closer, his steps hushed against the carpet. When he saw that it was a young lady, he started. He ought to leave the room. But something about the lady made him peer closer.
Her dark hair blended into her surroundings. However, the familiar curve of her lips and the mischievous arch of her brows-- even in sleep-- identified her. It was Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She had avoided him all evening, and now here she was. He would have enjoyed her conversation.
Leaning down, he appreciated how peaceful she looked in slumber with her eyelashes spread across her cheek. She sighed and shifted her weight, freezing Darcy in place. Slowly and deliberately, he shifted his weight to his toes so that he might depart without waking her. He took a step back and lost his balance when he stumbled on an object lying on the floor. Flailing his arms out to avoid toppling over, his hand whacked against a vase or lamp or something inconveniently placed. It clattered to the floor in the one place not covered by a rug to soften its fall just as the clock struck the top of the hour. Darcy reached for the offending object which had caused his stumble and soon held in his hands one of Miss Elizabeth's slippers.
"Who is there?" asked Miss Elizabeth in a startled voice.
Darcy groaned. "I apologise if I startled you, Miss Elizabeth. I was not aware anyone else was in the library. I shall depart."
He had closed the library door behind him. If anyone chanced upon them alone in the dark room, Miss Elizabeth's reputation would be compromised.
