In the next moment, the dog on the far carriage launched himself at the other, carrying both animals off the perch to land snarling in combat at Sheba’s feet. The little bay started and then sprang into a run away from the track and through the trees. “Elizabeth!” Darcy shouted, but before he could get his own agitated mount turned, two riders passed him in swift pursuit of the fleeing horse and its rider. “Merciful Heavens, hold on!” Darcy prayed as, finally, he was able to turn Nelson and give him his head.
Elizabeth pulled desperately on the reins as Sheba carried her in full, terrified flight away from the dogs, but the mare paid her no heed. Trees and bushes crowded fast upon her, catching at the skirts of her new riding habit. Then, in a sudden change of direction, the mare took her straight into a cruel tangle of low-hanging branches that snatched at her sleeves and the veil of her hat. Briars ripped away a sleeve at the seam and tore the smart shako, pins and all, right off her head.
A voice behind her that was not her husband’s shouted something, but Elizabeth did not dare to look over her shoulder for fear of losing her seat. Her eyes stung from the rush of wind; her hair was in her face. The voice sounded out again, nearer. A park bench arose out of nowhere. “No!” she wailed, but her protest was lost in the pound of hooves and Sheba’s labored breathing. Elizabeth twined her gloved fingers into Sheba’s mane and stiffened in anticipation. Why, oh why hadn’t she conquered that dratted pony—
“Oh-h-h!” Elizabeth felt Sheba’s gait shift and her muscles bunch. Clutching at the mane, she closed her eyes and instinctively leaned forward. Sheba’s hindquarters pushed and her forequarters lifted. Up—up—and over the bench. For a moment she felt as though they were flying, but the shock of landing on the other side drove the breath from Elizabeth’s lungs and nearly unseated her. Not yet satisfied that danger was not still at her very heels, Sheba resumed her flight. To her horror, Elizabeth saw that they now followed one of the footpaths that wound through the park. Any moment they could come upon some unfortunate soul!
A rider flashed past on her right, crowding Sheba so closely that Elizabeth feared the tangle of legs would trip them both and send them all crashing into the trees. Anger at the other rider lent her strength, and she hauled back on the reins again. Sheba stumbled and Elizabeth fell forward upon the mare’s neck. Slowly she slid off its back, clinging to its mane and the saddle rest as the animal struggled to regain its footing. For some interminable seconds, Elizabeth was dragged along the path. Then, the saddle shifted. A second rider appeared on her left just as Elizabeth lost her grip and toppled to the ground.
“Elizabeth!” Darcy cried and swung from Nelson’s back. “Elizabeth! My God, love,” he choked and scooped her up to gently set her in his lap. “Easy, dearest,” he murmured. “Breathe … slowly!” Her eyes fixed on his face, Elizabeth nodded and then fell upon his neck, trembling so violently from head to toe that she barely noticed Georgiana and Richard carefully advancing upon Sheba, blocking the path ahead.
“Ho, there!” Richard bellowed and dove for the reins, pulling the mare’s head to the side as he signaled his mount to slow, then walk in a tight circle. It was not until the third time around the circle that Elizabeth recognized Richard as the rider who had crowded her. Where Georgiana had come from, she could not guess.
“Elizabeth!” cried Georgiana when she came to a stop. “Are you all right, sister?”
“So sorry to frighten you, old girl,” Richard apologized, “but if your horse had taken the other path …”
Georgiana slid from her horse and rushed to Elizabeth’s side while Richard gathered the reins from all their mounts and led the animals a short distance away. “Oh, Elizabeth! How terrible!” she said, stroking her arm. “When you are able, we shall walk back to Erewhile House. Richard can lead Sheba back to the mews.” An indistinguishable sound from Elizabeth caused brother and sister to look in question at each other.
“What love?” Darcy tipped up her chin and brushed his thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear that had started to brim over her eyelashes. “What did you say?” Shaking her head, she pushed away from him and sat up. Darcy’s heart sank. Would she not allow him to comfort her? Would she not even speak to him? He observed her in helpless silence as she slowly stood and tugged her riding gloves into place and then noticed the torn sleeve hanging limply from her elbow. “My new riding habit!” she murmured. “Well, there is nothing for it, I suppose, but we must test Annie’s skill with her needle.”
Her eyes fixed upon Sheba, and then, with an arched brow, she looked down at her husband. “I said, I shall ride back to Grosvenor Square.”
It was only after they had ridden home and Darcy had personally overseen Elizabeth dressed comfortably and ensconced on a divan with a soothing pot of tea that the rest of the story was told. For Richard and Georgiana had not been at the park by happenstance.
“Oh no!” Richard laughed as he cradled his tea. “No, I for one was not about to leave you to Fitz and his ideas of equestrian education.”
“I taught Georgiana,” Darcy countered. His cousin’s lack of confidence in him was wounding, but how could he argue against it? He’d shown remarkably bad judgment this day.
“We both taught Georgiana to ride, if you would take the time to recall.” Richard smiled at his younger cousin. “By-the-bye, that was well done, my girl. Quick thinking!” Coloring at the compliment, Georgiana turned to Elizabeth. Taking her hand, she said, “Dear sister, I hope you do not think us presumptuous. It was only that since you had not yet learnt to ride, I thought that, perhaps, the company of your family might be an encouragement to you.”
“I am entirely at fault, dearest Elizabeth. Can you forgive me?” Darcy held his wife tenderly in his arms as they lay in the expanse of their bed. “It seems my cousin and sister saw what I was blind to see myself. You are not inclined to ride. And yet, I cajoled and pressed upon you a horse you did not want, a riding habit you had not asked for, and induced you to ride unprepared in a setting fraught with danger.”
“Please, Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth held his face in her hands and kissed him lightly.
“No, you must allow me to lay blame where it is due. I have acted selfishly and I came very near to paying dearly for my mistake.” Darcy buried his face in the sweetness of her curls and whispered, “What if you had come to harm, dear wife? What would I do?”
Both were silent, listening to the familiar sounds of Erewhile House at the close of another day. From somewhere far below came sounds from the kitchen and pantry. Soon the nurse would bring Alexander in for his nightly routine and their reverie would come to a quick end.
“It’s just that you have done so very splendidly in all else. Riding seemed a small thing,” Darcy mused. Elizabeth stirred, but he continued, “I should not have forced you to take a part in what is my own passion.”
Elizabeth raised herself to look into her husband’s eyes. “You think I have done splendidly in all things?” She gave a troubled sigh and nestled again against Darcy’s chest. “It pains me to admit that Lady Catherine was right in anything regarding our marriage, but I fear she was.”
Darcy gently rubbed her arm and back. “Aunt Catherine? What part has she in this?” He kissed the top of her head.
“Oh, the popular novels make it sound so easy.” She turned to look at him earnestly. “I lost my patience and quite shocked poor Nedley by pitching a book into the street.” She sighed and snuggled against his chest. “I’m sure there is scandalized talk below stairs. Sometimes I feel that I am not equal to the sphere in which our marriage has placed me.”
Darcy tensed. “What do you mean, Elizabeth?”
“Lady Catherine accused me of having no regard for your honor and credit.” Elizabeth raised her head again and searched Darcy’s face. “She told me that who I am was cause enough to disgrace you in the eyes of everybody.”
“That is ridiculous!” Darcy asserted vehemently.
“Yes, it is … in Meryton, in Hertfordshire, perh
aps even in Derbyshire.” She tapped a finger against his chest for each locality.
“Absolutely!” He possessed himself of her hand and kissed each finger.
“But, I have come to see there is some substance to her words. You, my beloved husband, have always lived in this world. You can move through it without thought, whereas I must consider everything I do and say, whether they may redound to your credit or end in disgrace. Here, in London, I am still finding my way.” At his look of astonishment, she responded quickly, “Oh, fear not, dear husband, I am determined to rise to this challenge. As for the other, Sheba and I are destined for a long acquaintance. But,” she sighed, “there is the matter of this ball.”
Darcy shifted her onto her back and looked down into her troubled countenance. “Georgiana’s ball? That is what has you tossing books into the street—”
“Oh, yes, Fitzwilliam! There are a thousand arrangements to be made. You have no idea! There are protocols beyond numbering. Every detail is of exceeding importance. I wish everything to be perfect for Georgiana, but I fear it is beyond me and that, in the end, your aunt will be proved right to the whole world!”
“Elizabeth! My dear, dear wife, listen to me. Recall the riding incident this very day that so nearly ended in injury and disaster. Richard and Georgiana—your family—love you and came to your aid. So it shall be with this ball.” Darcy lay back and pulled her into his arms. “Send to my aunt Matlock. She knows everything worth knowing about these things. She has no daughter of her own and would move heaven and earth for Georgiana. She only waits to be asked, I assure you. Let her be your advisor.” He laughed and hugged her tightly. “Even Richard may have his uses. Believe me, love! All will be well!”
“Truly, Fitzwilliam? As easy as that?” Elizabeth looked at him with wide eyes sparkling with that wit and humor that had first drawn his interest so long ago in Hertfordshire.
“Yes, love, as easy as that. Consult her in confidence, hear her suggestions and implement them yourself. You will not fail, and London can go to the devil!” His finger traveled down the curve of her dimpled cheek. “You shall see, your novel had it right all along. Now, am I forgiven?” His finger traced her lips.
She smiled under his touch.
“Ahh,” he whispered, “as easy as that?”
PAMELA AIDAN is the author of the Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman series. She has been a librarian for over thirty-five years and a fan of Jane Austen even longer. She and her husband own and operate Wytherngate Press, Inc., which specializes in Regency fiction. Ms. Aidan lives in scenic northern Idaho, where she is at work on a continuation of the Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman series and Young Master Darcy, a new series that explores Darcy’s growing-up years.
wytherngatepress.com
I never expected to pull a mystery out of a self-addressed stamped envelope. One yellowed page removed from a novel. In my hand, it flapped in a sudden breeze that rose up that November morning. One page. Torn from a book. Something I’d never read before. At the time I couldn’t know that this page would change my life forever.
My own spidery scrawl leapt up at me from the snowy paper of the envelope: Dr. Mark Hinton, followed by my post office box at the medical school. As a new doctor about to finish my residency, I had sent out a stack of SASEs to medical groups around the country who were looking for physicians in my specialty. Though I’d already accepted a position to practice with a prestigious local group, I’d been curious to know what was in the envelope. It was odd, though. I thought I’d got the last of them back months ago.
The fragment came from page 307 and 308 of some unidentified book. The top of the sheet had been torn so that I could not see the title of the work. I read it, front and back. The style of writing was old-fashioned, as if from a classic. I felt I should recognize it, but the fact was that I only did well enough in my undergraduate English courses to maintain my GPA for medical school.
That’s how I’d met Justine. She’d been my English tutor. An unwanted memory invaded my thoughts—the slim arch of her neck as she bent over my term papers, shaking her head in mock horror and wielding her red pen like a scalpel. I could watch for hours the way she twirled a long strand of her honey-colored hair around one finger.
Wind stung my eyes but I stood glued to the spot. I shook my head, determined to clear it of the bothersome thoughts, and concentrated on my surprising “fan mail.” Or a blackmail letter, maybe. In the movies, sometimes, threat letters were cut and pasted from magazine pages. Was this a threat?
In the text on the page, a gentleman had entered a room to leave a note for a lady named Anne. For some reason, they could not speak. I assumed it was because they weren’t alone.
After this man—the captain—left, Anne found the letter to be a declaration of his love. Unjust I may have been, the captain wrote, weak and resentful I have been but never inconstant.
The wind intensified, sending needles of ice into my uncovered face. Fog billowed out from my mouth; I was still breathing heavily from my run. I retreated to my apartment and threw the mail aside to listen to my phone messages while I stretched.
For some crazy reason, instead of listening to my mom drone on about the plans for Thanksgiving at my sister’s, I kept thinking about lines from that mysterious page.
I am half agony, half hope. The guy had it bad. I felt sorry for him. I offer myself again with a heart even more your own than when you broke it eight years and a half ago. Don’t do it, Bro. She’ll only squash it again. Like a grape.
It was impossible for me not to think of Justine. I gritted my teeth, sinking into a series of challenging squats. I’d spent six years putting her out of my mind. I was proud of myself. I had succeeded. Until last summer.
I finished my lunges and went to the kitchen of my studio, where windows overlooked the Denver skyline. The Rocky Mountains cut a jagged horizon in a partly cloudy sky that promised snow soon. I’d smelled it on the air during my run, heavy and wet.
Downing a liter of water before coming up for air, I continued to puzzle over my mystery mail. I returned to the mail pile again, in search of more pages. Nothing. Postmark? Again, nothing. I’d had the self-addressed envelopes stamped POSTAGE PAID when I’d sent them out. There wasn’t even a mark of the city of origin. No clue as to who had sent it or why. Just one page. Torn from an old novel. And I didn’t even know which one.
Hours later, I sat in my favorite study carrel on the fourth floor of the university library with a thick copy of On Call: Principles and Protocols. Medical board examinations loomed: the last great test of every doctor early in his career. Once boards were out of the way, I’d be ready to get on with my new life.
But I could not concentrate on the open book before me. My eyes slid over the highlighted page like a pedestrian on an icy sidewalk. Nothing gained purchase in my brain. I doodled. I unfolded and refolded dog-eared pages. And yet only the lines of a fictitious love letter dominated my thoughts: You pierce my soul. Tell me not that I am too late …
I sighed in frustration and nodded at my study-buddy, Eric, elbow deep in a handbook on toxicology. Then, I descended to the second floor. Literature. I’d had no further interest in reading those musty old books once I was no longer an undergrad. They were haunted by ghosts. Or, rather, just one ghost. From my past.
Was it my imagination when I heard the whisper “Justine …” as the elevator doors slid open? I willed the odd sense of foreboding away as I trod over to the desk of the librarian’s aide. I mustered my best ignorant-science-guy grin and placed the page before her.
“I didn’t ruin one of your books, I swear,” I said in response to her raised eyebrows. “It’s kind of a weird story, actually. I got this in the mail. I have no idea where it came from or what it means. Can you help me out?”
She sat up, eyes widening in interest as she took up the page. “Oooh. A mystery! A secret admirer, perhaps?”
“Do you know what it is?”
She took less than a minute to read it.
“Yep. It’s Jane Austen.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is that like Jane Eyre?” I’d been forced to read it in high school. I didn’t remember much besides its weirdness—something about a madwoman locked in an attic.
The librarian’s eyebrows crinkled in exasperation. “Jane Austen is an author. Jane Eyre is a book.”
“Okay. So Jane Austen wrote this. What book is it?”
“Persuasion. Is that a clue, maybe? Are you being persuaded to do something?”
I shrugged. “Do you guys have a copy of this book, maybe?”
She appeared to suppress an eye roll. “I’m sure we have several. You up to reading it?”
My doubt must have been clear on my face because she laughed. “It’s not all girly stuff, you know. Men like Jane Austen, too. Besides … there might be a clue in the text of the novel.”
I followed her down the farthest fiction aisle, skimming the books’ spines and noting the names of authors whom I recognized but had read only under the duress of my English grade—Zola, Fitzgerald, Dickens, Conrad. At the A’s, I scanned the brightly tagged book spines. Would this Persuasion be as impossible to decipher as Heart of Darkness? And would it be worth the slog through the archaic prose just for a clue to this little mystery?
“Here you are. This copy is annotated, coming complete with margin notes that give definitions of word—”
“Hey now, I’m an M.D., I do know how to read the English language.”
“Really? So you know what a ‘curricle’ is?”
At my frown, she laughed and handed me the book. “I’ll check it out to you down there. It’s a type of carriage, by the way.”
Carriage … great. I scowled. Horses, carriages, people dying of smallpox and children getting caught in soot-clogged chimneys. This will be a fun read.
Back in my carrel, I cracked open the novel to the first page:
Jane Austen Made Me Do It Page 34
