A Convenient Marriage Volume 1

by Meg Osborne

  “I hope no ill has befallen her.” He stood and walked towards the window, peering out into the darkened street as if he might, by intention, see her coming and be reassured of her wellbeing.

  “I am sure she is quite well,” Elizabeth said. “She knows London a little, after all, and Mr Bingley would not have allowed her to return home unescorted, considering the hour.”

  “You are quite right.” Darcy still seemed perturbed. “I wonder, though...perhaps I will send a runner to enquire after her health. If she has taken some turn and decided to lodge there for the evening at least we might be informed of it.” The thought gave him energy and he dashed off a note, dispatching it with a servant, and offering a coin and a curt apology for the late hour of the errand.

  Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth could relax with the notion that Anne was not safe at home, and Darcy kept his dark gaze fixed on the fire. Elizabeth, agitated with concern for her friend that would not quite die away, despite her insistence to herself and her husband that all was well, began to pace, eager to work out some of her anxiety before attempting to sleep. The peace and comfort they had both felt mere moments before had vanished, and been replaced by an anxiety that would not allow the same calm confidences that had tripped easily from their lips on their return home.

  “It was good to see Colonel Fitzwilliam looking well,” Elizabeth offered, when she could bear the silence and the waiting no longer.

  Darcy nodded, shifting in his seat and, at last, lifting his gaze to her.

  “Indeed. I think he is rather too cavalier in his attitude towards his health, and Mary perhaps too easily worried.” He smiled, grimly. “Between them, I am sure there is a balance that will serve them the best.”

  They lapsed into silence once more, and eager for some distraction, Lizzy reached for a book. She had barely found her way through a page before there was a knock at the door, and both she and Darcy lifted their heads as the runner came in, breathless and clutching a note.

  “Please, Mr Darcy,” the lad said, struggling to get his breathing under control. “Mr and Miss Bingley send their apologies, but say that Miss de Bourgh never did call on ‘em today. They said she is not there, and has not been there one single hour today. They’ve neither of them seen her since last evening.”

  DARCY’S HEART CONSTRICTED with anxiety for his cousin. She had not been to call on the Bingleys all day: that meant she might have been missing for hours, with nobody aware of her predicament.

  The runner had been summarily dismissed, for his words had done their job, and goaded both he and Elizabeth into action.

  “Surely nothing has happened,” Lizzy asked, her face pale with concern. “Anne is -”

  “My responsibility, whilst she is staying under my roof.” Darcy grimaced. “She did not say anything to you about her plans for the day. Think, Elizabeth. Did she mention any names, any places she might go to other than calling on the Bingleys?”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Not a thing. I believe she had plans with another friend...” She frowned, casting her mind back. “She gave no name.”

  Darcy cursed, and strode towards the door, summoning a servant with the coat he had so recently discarded.

  “Where are you going?” Elizabeth asked, clinging to him.

  “I mean to go and look for her,” he said. “London is not a big place -”

  “It is quite big enough!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You have no notion of even the part of it she might have been in. Perhaps she has merely lost track of time, and will return to us soon full of laughter and apologies.” Elizabeth spoke quickly, but it seemed to Darcy that she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

  “Perhaps there might be some clue to her whereabouts amongst her things. At least permit me to check?”

  He nodded, and Lizzy flew with all haste towards Anne’s room. He was grateful at least that he might defer the task of rooting through his cousin’s belongings to another young lady, for he certainly would not wish to be charged with such a job. Still, he did not like waiting while Elizabeth searched, and paced angrily about the room. The fire that, mere moments before, had been warmly inviting now felt stifling, and he cracked a window open, gulping in the cold night air and wishing it would clear his already racing mind. It was in this position that Elizabeth found him when she returned, pale and anxious, and clutching a note to her breast.

  “What is it?” he asked, turning towards her.

  Elizabeth shook her head, wordlessly holding the note out towards him.

  “What?” He crossed the room in two long strides and snatched up the piece of paper.

  My dear Fitzwilliam, and my even dearer Elizabeth, he read, the words penned in his cousin’s familiar elegant script.

  You are not to feel any concern for my wellbeing, although I do not doubt it has worried you to come home and find me gone. I apologise for the slight deception, but I comfort myself in knowing it was not an outright lie. I did intend to meet a friend today, but I confess I never did mean to call on Mr and Miss Bingley: you must pass on my apologies.

  The truth is that I have decided to follow your example and seize hold of my happiness with the two hands God has given me. Mother will never consent to my marrying - and not only because she willed me to wed you, William. She despises the man I love without even knowing more than his name, and every description I gave of him met with more and stiffer disapproval. It was that which brought me so quickly to London, for it allowed me to escape from Mama’s iron grip, and also enabled me to be nearer George.

  For that is the name of the man I love: George Wickham. It makes me smile to think of your eyes landing on his name, William, for he tells me you have been friends almost all of your lives. What providence that he should be the very man I have fallen in love with!

  I know you must be angry that we did not tell you, but knowing how Mama felt about the match he did not think you would be disposed to allow it, and so we take the bold move of making our own decision. I do not doubt you will think me foolish and perhaps I am, but I have lived so long cooped up and playing the part of politeness that I feel I must now have liberty to do as I please or I shall die.

  We are to be married, George and I, and I hope that your home will be open to us upon our return. I shall write again from Scotland, and until then bid you farewell and thank you for all the kindness you have shown me. I am forever your cousin -

  - Anne

  Darcy's heart constricted. It was a joke, surely? Some lie constructed to cause him pain. Anne could not have been so foolish, so stupid as to allow herself to be enticed away, and by Wickham? How had they even come to meet?

  He read the note again scouring it for some sense, some explanation, but finding none he cast it aside with a cry of anger.

  “I am sorry,” Elizabeth faltered, drawing a step closer to her. “It is not at all what I imagined -”

  “And why should you have imagined such a thing?” Darcy asked. “Certainly even in my worst nightmares it had not occurred to me that Wickham would - that he -” He could scarcely finish the thought, but when he looked at Elizabeth her eyes were bright - too bright, and when she spoke she stammered, just a little.

  “I had a notion that there was some - that is, I discovered a note, at Rosings...”

  “A note?” Darcy drew his eyebrows together, willing his bride to speak plainly that he might understand her words, for he felt as if he were in a dream, and any sense he might grasp was ephemeral and fleeting. He cast a glance towards the liquor cabinet, wondering if a nip of brandy might settle his nerves enough to allow him to think, to plan, to know what to do to prevent this dreadful thing from happening.

  Elizabeth nodded, miserably.

  “It was in the library, at Rosings. A love note, to Anne, signed...” Elizabeth faltered. “Signed G. I thought it was George Martin, and assumed some affection between them, and-”

  “And yet you chose to keep the secret to yourself, instead of sharing it with those
who cared for Anne, who might have helped her in such a dilemma, who might have prevented this?”

  His tone was sharper than he intended, and Elizabeth recoiled. Taking a breath, his next words were spoken with a calmness he did not feel.

  “George Martin, I might have tolerated. It would be a pitiful match for her, but he is a good man, there might have been something to be done for him. A property purchased, perhaps, or...” he flung his hands up. “Something, I don’t know. But Wickham! It is beyond belief.”

  Elizabeth ventured to speak again, her words scarcely a whisper.

  “He is - he is not your friend, then, as Anne suggests?”

  “Emphatically not my friend,” Darcy muttered. “The man is a scoundrel, and bent on destroying those close to me.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Curse our absence. We have no notion of how long they have been gone. They will not have waited, but perhaps already be well on their way north.”

  He smoothed the note out once more, and glanced over it.

  “I must go after them,” he said, eventually. “I might be able to stop this, to put an end to it without word ever reaching Kent.”

  “You cannot - you cannot mean to go alone,” Elizabeth countered, laying a hand on his arm. “Let me come with you. There must be something -”

  “I can travel faster alone,” Darcy said, coldly shrugging off her grasp.

  Elizabeth snatched her hand back, as if burned, and Darcy felt a momentary flash of guilt for dismissing her desire to help. Then he recalled her confession that she had known, or suspected, some romance between his cousin and some unknown fellow and instead of bringing the matter into the light, had proceeded to keep the secret. What good did she imagine coming from such deception? He would not admit that it was her lack of trust in him that stung more than the fact of her keeping a secret.

  “I will write as soon as I get the chance,” he said, a little kinder. He looked her over, concerned by the pallor that still rendered her cheeks too pale, her features pinched. “Here.” He strode over to the drinks cabinet, pouring a thimble full of brandy and another, larger measure. He took the latter, swigging it down and relishing the burning warmth that trailed down his throat. “You have had a shock. You must drink something.” He passed her the cup, allowing their fingers a moment to brush one another and not lifting his eyes from her until she obediently drank the measure down. His lips quirked at the grimace of revulsion she made at the taste of the dark amber liquid.

  “Are you sure I may not come?” she asked, turning an imploring glance to him. “Surely I might be able to do some good, or -”

  “I would rest easier knowing that you are here, and safe,” he confided. “I do not yet know what I will find, or even if I will find them.” He drew his lips into a line. “I only know I must try.”

  The End

  Also by Meg Osborne

  A Convenient Marriage

  A Convenient Marriage Volume 1

  Longbourn's Lark: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Three Weeks in Kent: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Suitably Wed: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  A Visit to Scotland: A Pride and Prejudice Variaton

  The Consequence of Haste: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  A Surprise Engagement: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Fate and Fortune

  Too Fond of Stars: A Persuasion Variation

  A Temporary Peace: A Persuasion Variation

  Three Sisters from Hertfordshire

  A Trip to Pemberley

  An Assembly in Bath

  An Escape from London

  Standalone

  After the Letter: A Persuasion Continuation

  Half the Sum of Attraction: A Persuasion Prequel

  A Very Merry Masquerade: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Novella

  The Other Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Novella

  In Netherfield Library and Other Stories

  Mr Darcy's Christmas Carol: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Such Peculiar Providence

  A Chance at Happiness

  The Colonel's Cousin: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Watch for more at Meg Osborne’s site.

  About the Author

  Meg Osborne is an avid reader, tea drinker and unrepentant history nerd. She writes sweet historical romance stories and Jane Austen fanfiction, and can usually be found knitting, dreaming up new stories, or on twitter @megoswrites

  Read more at Meg Osborne’s site.