Darcy & Elizabeth: Hope of the Future: Darcy Saga Prequel Duo Book 2

by Lathan, Sharon

  When the butler’s footsteps clunked down the staircase, Lizzy slumped onto the edge of the bed and closed her eyes.

  The request had been logical, of course. Just not easy. The Darcy coach was spacious and sturdy enough to handle several trunks and a dozen luggage cases, but she only owned a few and wasn’t about to mention this fact. She knew William well enough to be certain he would dash out and purchase a whole new set of the most expensive traveling paraphernalia on the market. Such extravagances would soon be a part of her life, but she wasn’t Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley yet.

  So, she had packed, unpacked, and repacked the baggage she owned a dozen times at least, making sure they could contain what she required for the next week. The lone trunk and three bags now waited for the final packing day. They were vivid reminders of the fast-approaching end to this period of her life.

  Opening her eyes, Lizzy’s gaze fell on the open trunk and then lifted to slowly scan the room.

  Indeed, the reminders of her life changing were all around her. Or rather, the lack of them was the reminder. The once-cluttered bedchamber had been gutted. The walls were bare, not a trinket was in sight, the majority of the drawers were empty, and the back wall of the wardrobe was visible for the first time in well over a decade. Gaps amongst the furniture from those pieces Lizzy was sending to Pemberley made the room appear ravaged and uneven. It was her familiar sanctuary no longer, and the sensation was deeply unsettling.

  Envision William’s eyes and how he spoke of our home.

  It helped, to a degree.

  Standing, she strolled the room from corner to corner. Feeling sentimental, she brushed her fingertips across the worn furniture, stroked the dusty curtains, ran her palm down the faded wallpaper, and so on. All the while she scanned the shadows along the floor just to be sure a precious object hadn’t fallen to the ground. A small portion of hers and Jane’s personal belongings and clothing remained hanging inside the wardrobe, folded in the bureau drawers, and strewn atop the dressing table. Lizzy was thankful for the clothing and toiletries yet in place as they provided a semblance of normalcy. The contrast between their homey, lived-in abode and this far-too-clean, sparse room was stark, but if there were some personal effects, it wasn’t too jarring.

  A pair of slender arms slipped around her waist, squeezing tight as a chin rested upon her shoulder. As if reading her thoughts, a dulcet voice whispered near her ear, “There is no shame in shedding a tear, my Lizzy. I have shed my fair share, and I am not moving as far away. I can gradually adjust to being away from Longbourn. For you, the pain will be stronger, even with Mr. Darcy to comfort, as I am certain he will.”

  Lizzy brushed a tear off her cheek and attempted to laugh at her childishness. It came out as a choked squeak. Hugging Jane’s arms tighter about her, she confessed, “I vacillate between feeling an utter fool, to telling myself mourning is healthy. Oh, Jane! I want to marry William with all my soul. I can think of little else, to be honest. Deep into the marrow of my bones, I know he is the perfect man for me, gifted by God. I am confident Pemberley will become my home, but I cannot relinquish the melancholy either. How does that make sense?”

  “It doesn’t make sense. How could it? Perhaps wise quotes of philosophy, the Bible, or a poet would instill some comfort. But, in the end, I believe we are normal soon-to-be-brides dealing with nervousness, as all brides have since the dawn of time. They survived, so I am sure we will too.”

  Lizzy turned and embraced Jane, the sisters holding each other in silence. Then Lizzy pulled away to kiss her beloved sister on the cheek. “As always, dearest Jane, your serene soul soothes me. What will I ever do without you to tame my tumultuousness?”

  “Once, I might have submitted that Mr. Darcy, being the epitome of calm, disciplined logic, would replace me and be superior. However, I am no longer sure, in light of your vivid descriptions of his wild, passionate personality. Thus, I can extend no hope for you in that area.”

  “Then I am doomed,” Lizzy sighed dramatically.

  “That I seriously doubt. Now, I came upstairs not with the intent to cheer you or depress further, but to inform that Mr. Darcy has arrived. He expressed his desire to personally oversee the loading of your possessions before they headed to Pemberley.”

  And then it happened, as it always did—the mere mention of his name, particularly when said in conjunction with his physical person being nearby, was all she needed to zoom from sorrow to euphoria in seconds. The tears dried in an instant, the sulk replaced by a gleeful grin. Following Jane down the stairs, it was a challenge not to skip past her. At the landing, she resisted the urge no longer, swerving around the snail-paced Jane and dashing toward the door.

  “Lizzy! Come here! You have to see this!”

  Kitty was in the parlor, standing by the bank of windows overlooking the front drive. She vigorously waved one arm in a come-here gesture, mirth lighting her face and deepening her dimples. Curiosity winning over her yearning to greet her fiancé, Lizzy diverted into the room with Jane at her heels.

  “What is it? Oh!” She took one peek out the window and clamped a hand over her mouth to stay the giggles.

  Mr. Darcy was outside on the gravel drive, dressed as he always was in an impeccable suit probably costing more money than half her wardrobe combined. The surprise wasn’t in his pristine ensemble, the precise cravat loops, and his boots polished to a bright shine. Rather, it was in what he was doing.

  Circling the wagon, he was tugging on the ropes, adjusting the thick canvas tarp, and testing the packed boxes and furniture for security. One of the drivers followed alongside, repeating the same actions and responding to Mr. Darcy’s instructions to tighten this or add more padding there. The second driver crouched in the bed of the wagon, doing much the same. All the while, the three men were laughing and chatting as if old friends.

  “A moment ago,” Kitty whispered, “I cracked the window wider and heard them talking about a sporting event in London. A pugilism match, I think. Mr. Darcy admitted to losing his bet on someone named Clubber Clyde. Then, that man”—Kitty indicated the lanky fellow trailing alongside Darcy—“his name is Mr. Hocking, or Tims, according to the other driver, who is Scotty, or Mr. Scott”—she pointed at a short man in the wagon bed—“told Mr. Darcy that he should never bet against Gentleman Joe. You should have seen the way Mr. Hocking was taunting Mr. Darcy. It was hilarious, but Mr. Darcy was giving it back good, which was even funnier!”

  Lizzy’s smile grew as she listened to the snippets of conversation audible through the narrowly opened window. The three men were discussing the laxity of police patrol at the docks, the topic itself not amusing, but the casual discourse and relaxed familiarity were fascinating. Just a few weeks ago Lizzy would have stood there in absolute shock and amazement to witness prim, aristocratic Mr. Darcy hobnobbing with rough working men. While still not the society he preferred to keep, Lizzy now knew the truth of why he could interact familiarly with such men, thanks to an enlightening conversation earlier that very week.

  Since returning to the sedate country life of Hertfordshire—with birthday celebrating and successful shooting expeditions past—the engaged couples had greeted each day with nothing of import on the agenda. The snowy cold spell had lifted, but the weather remained too chilly and unpredictable for extended outdoor activities. Meaning, the bulk of the day for the past week had been spent lazing about the Longbourn parlor.

  While it might seem a pathetically boring development, the lovers had discovered the inactivity to be advantageous. They had hours to do little else but relax together and talk. Even if playing a card or board game, or embarking on a short stroll about the garden, the pace was leisurely, and conversation was the highlight.

  Mr. Darcy tended to prefer silence, unabashedly admitting to Lizzy that he often went days without saying more than a handful of words, and those only out of necessity to thank a servant or give a command of some sort. While not nearly as reticent, Lizzy was not a chatterbox either. Conver
sation came easily to her—a gift Darcy constantly marveled over—but she also craved solitude and tranquility. They equally split their hours together between silence and casual communication. Curiously, she learned as much about the man she was soon to marry in the nonverbal interludes as she did when they talked!

  In small increments, he had begun to share more about his life at Pemberley. He avoided the past, Lizzy sensing the pain of lost loved ones weighed heavy on his heart. Instead, he spoke of his life as a landowner and horse breeder, Lizzy adoring how his eyes glowed and face relaxed. Passion and pride imbued his entire being, giving her glimpses of the confident Master of Pemberley she would learn to greater appreciate as time moved forward.

  Hearkening to his words, she began to grasp the scope of his duties, which were essentially the same as those at Longbourn. Mr. Bennet was an indifferent estate manager, content to trust his steward and tenants. Darcy, however, was an enthusiastic participant in his estate’s management, up to and including getting his hands dirty upon occasion. While a slight surprise, this hadn’t shocked her all that much. What had been a huge revelation was to learn of his other business dealings.

  “At some point after we are married, I shall take you to Derby,” he had tossed out one afternoon while playing a game of backgammon. “It is the largest city close to Pemberley, not as metropolitan as London, of course, but clean and modern, excellent stores and historical places of beauty as well. We both appreciate history, so visiting will be a pleasurable diversion. Also, you can see the mill where I send our wool. Not that touring a wool mill or my cotton mill is riveting entertainment, but your curious mind would be fascinated—”

  “Wait a minute,” she had blurted, the badly lobbed dice scattering the flat discs across the board. “Did you say you own a wool mill and a cotton mill?”

  “Not exactly. I invest in the wool mill and in a silk mill too, but those are merely financial deals. I have nothing to do with the running of them. The cotton mill I do own. Well, a third of it, that is.” He had said all of this in the most offhand manner, his attention on the disordered game pieces and the double sixes she had thrown.

  “But, isn’t it…abnormal, even unacceptable, for a man of your station to be tied to such ventures?”

  Still more absorbed by the game than the topic, he had nodded sagely and then shrugged. “You might be surprised just how many of the gentry, and even the aristocracy, invest in businesses related to trade. They will often deny it and pretend it is beneath them, but the fact is, a wise man with a head for business is prudent to seek ways to increase his capital. I will admit, however, that my insatiable curiosity inspires me to diversify more than most and to get personally involved, which is atypical.”

  At her silence, he had finally looked up, noted the ludicrous expression upon her face, and smiled. “Have I shocked you, my dear?”

  Then, he had gestured toward the dining room where, visible through the open door, was the frame edge of a huge painting hanging over the sideboard. “If you recall, we Darcys have a long history of delving into various outside endeavors, Clara Steen being only one example. My grandfather tended to dabble in outside business, although not as much as me, whereas my father was totally uninterested. He said I was more like his brother George, my uncle the physician.” Darcy had shrugged again. “Perhaps, but I don’t see it. I’ve done my fair share of traveling abroad, but it isn’t a passion as it obviously is for my uncle George. Then again, the trait is evinced in differing ways. For me it is the aforementioned insatiable curiosity. One curiosity leads to another and to another, and on it goes until now I have far too many financial fingers stuck into places that are taking up my precious time! Solving that is now my new priority.”

  Darcy had spoken a bit more on the subject, enough so that when he broached the prospect of transporting Lizzy’s possessions to Pemberley, she wasn’t at all taken aback when he insisted on utilizing the company he employed to carry cargo. Between Pemberley estate, the cotton mill, and the ships he shared ownership of—she learned about those in another conversation—readily available and reliable land transport was essential. He and his partners didn’t own or invest in a cargo company, nor exclusively contract with a particular one, but they knew of the best wagoners in London and paid very well for their services. Hence his familiarity with the company whose wagon was now parked in front of Longbourn and his comfort with the drivers.

  As he had said to her flabbergasted father, after sharing a truncated version of his business affairs, “It will ease my mind to use a wagon I know to be sturdy and have it driven by competent men I’ve personally interviewed and seen in action. There will be no doubt that Miss Elizabeth’s prized belongings will reach Pemberley safely.”

  While she mused, the discussion around the wagon had veered away from London crime to the road conditions between Hertfordshire and Derbyshire.

  Now kneeling inside the wagon bed, Darcy was frowning at something she could not see. “This padding is not thick enough for my taste. I can’t risk this being harmed. Hand me one of those blankets, Mr. Scott. We can move it in between the boxes of books and wrap the blankets tightly around. Better stability and less space to slide around if items do shift from the bumpy roads. Do you agree?”

  As the driver identified by Kitty as Tims lithely climbed into the wagon, Mr. Darcy lifted the canvas away from the object in question. Gasping, Lizzy saw the small curio she had received for Christmas nearly fifteen years ago. The poor old thing was cracked along the bottom edge and the door no longer closed straight. For days she debated bringing it, certain it would look even more pathetic amid the splendor of Pemberley’s furnishings. It was perfect for her miniature teacup collection, however, and the sentimental value tugged at her heart, so in the end she had been unable to part with it.

  Nevertheless, her cheeks flamed red to watch William fuss over it, as if it were the most precious object in the universe, when it probably cost less than a single china plate at Pemberley—even when brand-new. He was either the silliest man alive or the most thoughtful, wonderful, dearest…

  Her heart touched, she pivoted from the window and dashed out of the room. Down the steps in a bound, she reached the wagon just as Darcy leaped over the side to land gracefully on steady feet.

  “Miss Elizabeth! Excellent timing. I believe we have secured your belongings unless there is more we have missed?”

  At her shaking head, he nodded. Smiling gaily, he indicated the two workmen. “Mr. Scott and Mr. Hocking are two of the most capable drivers I know. They promise with their lives to safely deliver every last hair clip and handkerchief to Pemberley. Is that not so, gentlemen?”

  They bobbed their heads and offered their assurances, adding that they planned to drive through the night so as not to risk thievery at an inn. Lizzy stammered her thanks, which took a bit of time with the gregarious fellows, and then walked to the end of the wagon where Darcy had moved. He was bent over, inspecting the wheel or something underneath, and when he straightened, he took a step toward the far side. Grabbing his hand, he stopped and turned toward her, one brow lifted.

  “This is all so very kind of you, William,” she whispered. Feeling the heat spreading across her cheeks, she darted her eyes to the drivers, who were thankfully busy with the horses. “You are a dear man to exert yourself. I do hope you know how tremendously appreciative I am. But…these things are not worth fretting over or consuming so much of your time. Frankly, I am embarrassed to bring most of this into Pemberley.”

  Her gaze drifted to the dirt by her feet to avoid his penetrating stare, so she didn’t see the arm bent her direction until his resonant voice made her peek upward. “Walk with me please, Elizabeth? Gentlemen, carry on. You are free to go whenever ready, but do not forget Mrs. Price has a basket waiting in the kitchen.”

  Holding onto his arm, they walked in silence around the corner to the sheltered garden where they had shared their first kiss a little over six weeks ago. Utilized numerous times since
when wishing to be alone but within proper monitoring distance, leading her here was not at random. Only on this occasion, rather than kissing her, he gripped her upper arms firmly and looked down with a severe glower.

  “Listen to me carefully, Elizabeth. My home will soon be yours. With very few exceptions, and even those are negotiable, every room down to the smallest closet will be under your jurisdiction as Mrs. Darcy, the Mistress of Pemberley. Foremost, you absolutely must be comfortable within your private chambers. Strip them bare, transform them into a replica of your suite here at Longbourn, furnish them with battered furniture, or decorate in Chinese or Egyptian motifs for all I care. As long as you are happy dwelling within, that is what matters to me.”

  He paused only long enough to slide his hands upward and cradle her face. He softened his expression but maintained a serious cast and a stern tone as he continued, “You are precious to me, do you not understand? By extension, your belongings are important to me, especially a treasured childhood cabinet. If it adds to your happiness, it will break my heart to see it harmed. Tell me now if you have chosen to leave anything else behind for fear it would somehow be at odds at Pemberley. I am emphatic about this. I shall be extremely vexed to learn you have done so.”

  He was so serious, as if the weight of the world depended on her answer.

  “No, nothing else,” she choked out, the sound a cross between a laugh and a sob. “I promise,” she added when he cocked his head and arched a brow dubiously.

  “Very well, then. I shall believe you, although I do think I will inform Mr. and Mrs. Bennet to keep an eye out for anything they think you might regret leaving behind.”

  Then he smiled, and she laughed. Steering her to their favorite bench, he clasped her hands and settled them upon his thigh.

  “I suppose it is time to disabuse you of an erroneous conclusion. When you were at Pemberley, both on your tour with Mrs. Reynolds and later with me, you saw only the public rooms. Those are formal and thus furnished with the best. You have yet to see the private parlors, breakfast room, and, of course, the bedchambers.”