The Heart Does Whisper (Echoes of Pemberley Book 2)

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  Also by CYNTHIA INGRAM HENSLEY

  ECHOES OF PEMBERLEY

  This 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 or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE HEART DOES WHISPER

  Copyright © 2013 by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641

  ISBN: 978-1-936009-24-4

  Graphic design by Ellen Pickels

  Dedication

  To my mother-in-law, June H. Shope,

  for her love of reading and for giving me my Mr. Darcy.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to express my deepest appreciation to my closest family and friends, all of whom have given me continuous support and encouragement throughout this endeavor. The following quote is for each and every one of you.

  “The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in the circle of those who are.”

  — C. S. Lewis

  To my editor, Jakki Leatherberry, thank you for laughing and crying in all the “right” places. Thank you for polishing my humble words to a shine. But most of all, thank you for genuinely caring about Sean and Catie.

  Many thanks to Michele Reed, Ellen Pickels, and everyone at Meryton Press for making all of this possible. Ellen, once again, you have brought the story within to life on the front cover. Michele, words cannot express my gratitude for this sequel and your continued devotion to my characters.

  Lastly, to Jane Austen, in this year 2013, your novel, Pride and Prejudice, has excited, inspired, and touched people for two hundred years. Generations have read the whispers of your heart and soul. Thank you, Miss Austen, for exciting, inspiring, and touching me. I am one of your greatest admirers.

  Forward

  “Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her.”

  — Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

  This statement was reflected by Elizabeth Bennet on Fitzwilliam Darcy’s actions in securing her sister Lydia’s marriage to Wickham. Clearly, Jane Austen understood that . . . in matters of love . . .

  The Heart Does Whisper.

  Author’s Note

  If you are reading this and are familiar with Echoes of Pemberley—the modern-day story of Darcy and Elizabeth’s descendant Catherine Elizabeth Darcy and the prequel to The Heart Does Whisper—then I welcome you back and hope you will enjoy this continuation. If you are a new reader, then I invite you to travel forward in time, many years after Fitzwilliam Darcy carried his bride Elizabeth over the threshold of Pemberley House, and meet a new generation of Darcys.

  In Echoes of Pemberley, Catherine Elizabeth Darcy, a young heiress of Pemberley Estate in Derbyshire, England, blossomed into a strong, beautiful young woman, befitting her lineage. Very much like her ancestor Fitzwilliam Darcy, Catie’s heart would be commanded by her alone. She fell in love and married a man she could respect: a man who would love her, cherish her, and challenge her in equal measure. She married Sean Kelly, the son of an Irish horse farmer. We join the newlyweds at Pemberley House on the morning after their wedding.

  Chapter 1

  Catie Kelly, née Catie Darcy, opened her eyes and looked over at her new husband, sleeping soundly next to her. His unruly, wavy, black hair was more disarrayed than usual. Behind closed lids crowned with long black lashes, his cornflower blue eyes fluttered. Dreaming, she mused as she rested her chin in her palm and stared at him intently. She was married. What now? In her midsection, a sudden panic grew. In every romance novel she’d ever read, “the kiss” was always followed by “the end.” So what does a woman do with a man after the nuptials? The chase was over. He had her—legally, binding, before God. “My Lord,” she whispered, “I’m married.”

  Sean mumbled something softly, unintelligibly and shifted his pillow. The sun flooded in through a split in the curtains and washed over his naked chest, solid with a smattering of black hair as soft as down. “I’m married,” she whispered again, smiling now.

  Never again would she be that silly, little girl who paced the front hall of Pemberley in lip-biting apprehension, waiting for Sean after a long separation. Never again would she fall victim to Rose’s motherly scold of how her pacing would wear a trench in the floor, or encounter Sarah’s sympathetic sisterly smile. Never again would she avert her eyes from Ben’s gaze, sensing his begrudging enthusiasm once reserved only for a father or a brother. Never again would she anxiously count down the days until she and Sean were together again or curse the minutes that passed so quickly when they were in each other’s arms. Sighing through another smile, she remembered sitting on the steps of Pemberley with him, clinging to each other and their last seconds together before he had to leave in order to catch the Dublin ferry. He always started off late, and she’d worry that he would speed and have an accident. She chuckled softly in her reminiscence. Young as they were, their courtship had been rather tragic and lovesick—like a romance novel.

  “Fiction is referred to as fiction for a reason, Sis,” her brother often told her, forever trying to instill a degree of sagacity into his young, romanticizing sister. “And men in romance novels are not real men.” She didn’t know why he always overly accented the “real” when he made this proclamation. If men in romance novels were not real, then why were real men so daunted by them?

  But Sean was real. Their love was real. It wasn’t created. They didn’t just “fall” in love with each other. They belonged together, were drawn together, despite the fact that they were star-crossed lovers in every sense of the word. He loved her and adored her. He also cursed her and the day he met her. They were poles apart yet each other’s complement—lovers and foes who were destined and condemned to each other from the first time they locked eyes. They were only children then but old enough to understand Fate, which clearly had a sense of humor.

  Sean and Catie had had a whirlwind, Brontë romance for the last four years, passionate and dysfunctional. She loved him. She would always love him, and though now a woman of twenty, she still bore a ridiculous schoolgirl honor at being his girl. He unconsciously reached for her, and she snuggled into the crook of his arm against his chest, a place that felt carved and molded just for her. Nothing would ever be easy between them. She knew that early on in their relationship, but she didn’t care. She wanted him, all of him, including his bloody pride and his archaic, Irish male ego.

  A soft summer wind caused the curtain panel to billow, and Sean’s eyes fluttered open. He yawned, stretched, and then drew his wife deeper into the folds of the covers. “Why are you smiling at me like that, my sweet?” he whispered, his voice gruff from sleep.

  He felt her shrug against him. “Just happy, I guess. I was remembering when you proposed to me.”

  Sean grunted derisively. “Christ, don’t remind me.”

  “But I loved the way you proposed to me!” She pulled away from him and sat up. The sun shone in the window at her back, illuminating her fair, naked shoulders and sleep-rumpled hair in a halo of light. She spoke in a dreamy tone. “On a white horse, you rode up to Pemberley right out of the morning mist, dressed like an Edwardian gentleman. Oh, Sean, it was just like a movie. It was the most romantic proposal ever.”

  He brushed his hand lightly down her arm. “I meant, don’t remind me what happened the day before—Boxing Day…remember?”

  “Oh,” she replied, blushing slightly.

  ***

  Sean stood at
the window and stared out at the white, icy front lawn of Pemberley. It was Boxing Day and cold—bloody cold. He had arrived late last evening and had only a short time with Catie before her brother “hinted” it was time for the couple to be off to bed. They never seemed to have enough time together. Their courtship had been long-distance, and absence did not make the heart grow fonder…only yearn and ache. When he and Catie were apart, Sean constantly felt as if he had misplaced something, something extremely important…like his breath. But they had beaten the odds and proved wrong all the naysayers. And they had done it with a lot more than the Irish Sea between them.

  The Irish Sea. How many bloody times had he crossed those choppy, cold waters for a few short days with her? At the local pub back home, his mates ribbed him and called him “Selkie” because of his coal black hair and the many hours he’d spent on the ocean pining for a lass who was not of his world—many hours to be sure, and for what? To find himself sitting in Ben Darcy’s drawing room and under the man’s watchful eye, that’s what, he thought bitterly. God, Sean thought desperately, how he wanted to have Catie to himself for more than a few hours with no one to answer to.

  His turned his gaze to the bedside table and the envelope he had placed there before going to bed. That ordinary rectangular white envelope contained what, he hoped, would be the perfect start in life for him and Catie. Inside that envelope was a chance to begin their marriage without the meddlesome interference of their families, a chance to be alone in a place where no one knew that he was the son of a horse farmer and her the heiress to a fortune. All he had to do now was garner the courage to ask Ben for his blessing—not an easy task considering he was planning to take his new bride to America for a year. “Oh, God,” Sean muttered, meaning it, as he raked his fingers roughly through his hair then jumped at the solid and unexpected knock at his door.

  “Sean!” called the master of Pemberley from the other side. “Are you awake, man?”

  Sean’s eyes screwed shut in annoyance. “Yeah, Ben, wide awake. Come in.”

  The door opened, and Bennet Darcy stood in the door frame, looking every bit a nineteenth-century oil painting. He wore white breeches, black top boots, a canary waistcoat, and a scarlet hunt coat. It was Boxing Day and Pemberley’s annual foxhunt. Sean swallowed down his urge to laugh at the spectacle the man made. Country gentlemen, even in these modern times, took their sport seriously. “Good morning,” Sean said pleasantly. “Fine day for a ride, eh?”

  “Actually, it’s damned cold, Kelly,” Ben replied gruffly, stepping into the room. “Still, I am glad to hear you say so. I want you to join us this morning.”

  “On the hunt?” Sean asked stupidly, voice croaking.

  “Of course on the hunt! And I shan’t take no for an answer this year. My sister can make do without you for a few hours.”

  “I…” Sean stammered, searching for an excuse. Catie, the woman he planned on proposing to that day, deplored blood sports. Without doubt, a row over hunting would not set the proper mood for such an important occasion. “I’d love to, Ben. But…er…unfortunately, I left my pink in my wardrobe back home.” Sean gestured to the man’s red coat and, affecting to look disappointed, added, “Damn!” for good measure.

  Ben smiled shrewdly in response. “See Rose. She’ll make sure you’re properly attired. We meet in front of the house at eleven.”

  Sean watched Ben leave and, as soon as the door closed, repeated, “Damn!” with emphasis. Of course, there was no scarlet hunt coat hanging in his wardrobe back home; he wasn’t a hunter. That type of recreation was for the rich. On many a cold, winter night in County Down, his da had grabbed his fowling piece and run outside in his pajamas and bright orange wellies to chase one of the varmints out of his mother’s henhouse, but Sean was sure that didn’t count as hunting in the true sense of the sport. He went over, picked up the envelope, and sat down heavily on the bed. An administrative internship, a solid start to his career, and a year in America—thousands of miles from bright orange wellies and foxhunts. He had to speak with Ben. Maybe joining the hunt wasn’t such a bad idea after all. An afternoon afield, just man, horse, and hound, might present the perfect opportunity.

  Always the proficient, Rose, Pemberley’s housekeeper for the last twenty-two years and Sean’s aunt, managed to get him suitably dressed in a borrowed hunt coat that Sean was sure belonged to someone now residing in the Darcy family cemetery. He really didn’t want to know. As she fussily brushed and tidied the garment, Sean watched his aunt in the mirror. He never would have met Catie were it not for his Aunt Rose. She had gotten him the post of summer riding instructor at Pemberley to help with his university tuition, never foreseeing her vital role in his and Catie’s seemingly predestined union. She was, however, thrilled. Having cared for Catie from birth, Rose could not have been happier about the union. She loved them both dearly and had been the young couple’s chief champion for the duration of their courtship. “I’m going to ask Catie to marry me, Auntie,” Sean whispered confidingly, his face reddening as the words left his lips.

  “Well, it’s about time.” She stopped brushing and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “She has a bit of school yet, which leaves us plenty of time to plan a grand wedding for the summer following her graduation.”

  “No.” Sean shook his head and turned from the mirror to face her. “We must marry this summer. Aunt Rose, I’m taking Catie to America.”

  “America!” the woman cried.

  He smiled reassuringly and took her gently by the shoulders. “Only for a year, not permanently.”

  “A year!” she cried again. “But…Catie’s still at university!”

  “She can take a gap year, and I happen to think the time abroad will be good for her.” Rose’s expression remained doubtful, so Sean continued in a more convincing tone, “I’ve been granted an internship under the headmaster at Norbury, a boys’ school in Georgia. It’s an excellent opportunity, Aunt Rose.”

  “And what have your parents to say?”

  “You’re the first to know. Catie knew I was going to send the inquiry but… Why don’t I just show you?” Sean hurried across the room and retrieved a royal blue velvet box from the bedside table. “I wanted my internship to be a surprise to her.” He handed the box to his aunt. “Along with this.”

  Rose lifted the lid and gasped at the ring inside, dainty and brilliant—perfect.

  “I know it’s not very—” he started, but his aunt put a finger to his lips and stopped him.

  “It’s perfect, Seany,” she said softly. “Simply perfect.”

  Once Sean had laid out his plans to Rose, he set out in search of Catie. His stomach growled as he bounced down Pemberley’s elaborately carved staircase, reminding him that he had thus far that morning neglected his breakfast. The grand hall smelled homey with a mixture of fried bacon and festive greenery and was busier than usual with staff running to and fro, preparing for the field to arrive and share a glass of port with the master. Sean stopped a hurried maid. “Excuse me. Have you seen Ca...er…Miss Darcy this morning?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kelly.” Wrestling a large vase being moved to make way for more glasses, the young woman gestured towards the kitchen stairway with her chin. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks. May I help you with that?” Sean nodded to the vase.

  “No, sir,” she replied, looking at him oddly as she bustled passed.

  “Right,” he said to the departing form, inwardly cringing at his gaffe. In four years, he’d yet become accustomed to the pomp and circumstance of Pemberley—and probably never would.

  Catie had her back to him, pounding furiously on something. “Here’s my girl.” He embraced her from behind and nuzzled her neck. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes, very,” she lied sweetly. In truth, Catie had been awake all night contemplating her counterattack to the foxhunt, an event she despised. The Boxing Day battle between the siblings over the annual foxhunt had become as traditional as the hunt itsel
f. Bennet Darcy was a hidebound traditionalist in matters concerning his ancestral estate. Whereas Catie, to her brother’s great chagrin, took a more progressive stand on some of her country’s deeply entrenched customs.

  “What are you doing there?” He peeked around her and gasped, “Catie!”

  “What?” She turned to him, and it was her turn to be shocked. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. Sean stood before her in a black hunt coat, a tattersall waistcoat, white stock, and top boots. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “I’m joining the hunt,” he declared boldly, squaring his shoulders. “Never mind me. What do you think you’re going to do with those placards?”

  “Traitor!” she cried. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

  “Oh, calm down. Sarah detests foxhunting as much as you, yet Ben carries on each year.” A fair argument, Sean thought. Sarah Darcy, Ben’s wife, was somewhat avant-garde in respect to being the mistress of a large English country house. So much so, she was outright intimate friends with many of her staff, often offering her home and gardens for weddings or the like. Nevertheless, she endured Pemberley’s foxhunt—once a year anyway.

  Catie huffily crossed her arms. “Is it your plan, Mr. Kelly, to pattern our relationship after my brother’s marriage?”

  “Of course not.” He reached down and picked up one of the placards. “Is it your plan to cause your brother to pop a clog? ‘Ban Blood Sports’ God, Catie, Ben will explode if he sees this.”

  “I hope he does! Pemberley’s hunt is small and rural, too small to draw protesters. So, several of us Newnham girls decided to take up the cause. Never did I think I’d be protesting my own boyfriend.”

  “Aren’t you always asking me to get on better with your brother—to improve our relationship?”

  “Yes,” she conceded contritely. “But really, Sean, hunting?”

  “When in Rome, my love. Now, why don’t you and the girls take a wee drive to Derby instead? Have a nice lunch or do some shopping, eh? It’s bitter cold outside, and there are better ways to get your point across than protesting, aye?”