Courting Elizabeth
by
Renata McMann
and
Summer Hanford
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From Ashes to Heiresses
In the wake of a devastating fire at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Jane are taken in by their aunt and uncle in Meryton. Concerned about their situation, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come to Hertfordshire, but not before Mr. Wickham attempts to use Jane’s heartache to his advantage.
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With special thanks to our editor, Joanne Girard
Cover by Summer Hanford
Copyright 2016 by Renata McMann & Summer Hanford
All rights reserved
KENT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
LONDON
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
HERTFORDSHIRE
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
PEMBERLEY
Chapter Twenty-Two
KENT
Chapter Twenty-Three
PEMBELREY
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
LONDON
Epilogue
KENT
Elizabeth woke with her mind full of Mr. Darcy’s unexpected proposal.
Chapter One
Darcy set aside his pen. He flattened his hand alongside the word-covered sheets resting on the mahogany desk, surprised at the stiffness in his fingers. He, a man often deemed terse, had filled the pages. It seemed, for once, he had much to say.
Was it too much? He looked down at the letter he’d written Elizabeth, his rejoinder to her startling rejection of his proposal. Jumbled candlelight made the words seem almost to move, alive on the page. Now that Darcy had it all down, he was unsure he shouldn’t simply burn it.
He’d begun, he knew, in anger. Why shouldn’t he have? She’d pricked him, heart and pride, her rejection made all the more painful by its inconceivableness. A woman of her means, rejecting him? It was unprecedented, surely.
He’d never before put forth his heart in such a manner. He wouldn’t have done so that afternoon if he’d any inkling she would decline him. Now, he must bear this bitter weight pressing down on his chest. Bear it and give no indication of it, for a man did not reveal such sentiments and a Darcy of Pemberley certainly did not acknowledge how sorely it hurt to be rebuked by such a low person as Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy leaned back in his chair. So why, then, had he permitted himself to write the letter? He reached for it, thinking to crumple it. He knew the secrets it revealed better belonged to the flames in the hearth than in Elizabeth’s hands.
With a sigh, Darcy returned his hand to the desktop, leaving the pages untouched. He wrote to her out of hope, and he couldn’t persuade himself to lightly abandon it. A small, lingering sliver of that cursed emotion whispered that if he could set right her misconceptions about him, he could still win her. He knew after her vehement rejection it sullied him to curry her favor, but he couldn’t deny himself the painful boon of a second chance.
Yet, the secrets contained within those neat lines weren’t his alone, and the emotions portrayed, for all his careful wording, were too raw. Darcy shook his head. He needed to walk, to think. He couldn’t deliver the letter now, in the dark of night. He would employ the time he had to decide between delivering it to Elizabeth or to the flames.
Pushing back his chair, he stood. Taking his coat for warmth, not for appearances, as all had retired for the evening, he left his room. He caught a glimpse of a skirt disappearing around the corner ahead but, sparing little thought to whatever servant had been scurrying about, he made his way outside. For long hours, Darcy paced in the moonlit garden, Elizabeth’s words and visage his lone companions.
Finally, resolved, Darcy retraced his steps. He would give the letter to Elizabeth. There was no shame in further revealing himself to her. He’d already been laid bare. As for the secrets contained therein, though she’d hurt him, he still deemed her trustworthy. He’d seal the letter tonight, and tomorrow would see it in her hands.
Darcy entered his room and crossed to the desk, but the letter was gone.
***
Elizabeth woke with her mind full of Mr. Darcy’s unexpected proposal. She lay abed, unsure what to do. Her eyes traced the sloped ceiling of her guest room in her dear friend Charlotte Collins’ new home, a parsonage in Kent. Elizabeth took in the austere curtains muting the morning sun, likely selected not by her hostess but by Lady Catherine, patroness to the parsonage. Trailing her fingers over the tightly woven fabric of the coverlet, Elizabeth frowned.
Somehow, in the wake of Mr. Darcy’s words, everything seemed changed. Though nothing was truly different, Elizabeth felt as if something ought to be. To see Mr. Darcy, a man so sure in his ways and so indifferent to her charms, proclaim love for her . . . it seemed to shake the foundation of how the world was ordered.
Knowing she would soon be sought out if she failed to appear, Elizabeth roused herself. With as much normalcy as she could muster, she readied for the day, though Mr. Darcy’s words continued to spiral through her thoughts. She was still unable to banish them as she reached the parlor to join her host, hostess, and Maria Lucas for breakfast.
“Elizabeth,” Charlotte greeted, smiling. “You are later than usual. I trust you slept well?”
“Tolerably well, thank you.” How much easier Charlotte’s question than Mr. Darcy’s, yet mustering a reply seemed effortful. Elizabeth turned toward the sideboard, hoping the back she presented would discourage further discourse. She reached for a plate, though none of the offerings appealed to her.
“Cousin Elizabeth, I have been informed Mr. Darcy called on you yesterday afternoon.” Mr. Collins’ whining tone cut through the silence. “I am sure you were honored. You must consider any attention from a relative of Lady Catherine’s to be of the best sort and a compliment you can hardly presume yourself worthy of, and of course for Mr. Darcy to pay a call, why, that’s nearly as great an honor as if Lady Catherine herself had come. You must tell me how he was, and each word that passed between you. I am sure her ladyship will want a full report of her nephew’s doings, so she may properly praise and guide him. Come, select something, for all of it is good, and sit beside me and relate every detail.”
“Mr. Collins, she’s only just come in. Do recall Elizabeth wasn’t feeling quite herself yesterday.” Charlotte’s tone was one of mild reprimand. “Elizabeth, are you feeling well now?”
Returning her plate to the stack, Elizabeth turned to face them. Mr. and Mrs. Collins appeared composed, but Maria Lucas’s wide eyes indicated Elizabeth wasn’t pr
ojecting the vision of normalcy she wished to. She smoothed her palms along her skirt. “In truth, I’m not feeling quite well.”
“We shall go to Lady Catherine, then,” Mr. Collins said. “She will know what ails you and what best to do. She is a font of wisdom on all things.”
“I should think I might be the best judge of what ails me, sir.” Elizabeth worked to contain her ire. “As such, I also feel myself ready to point to a cure, and that treatment is a walk. I shall take it now, finding myself with little appetite.”
Charlotte and Maria regarded her with matching eyes and mirrored concern.
“A walk is just the thing for a poor appetite,” Mr. Collins said. “Lady Catherine has advised as much on many occasions. I would never presume to speak for her ladyship, but I can put forth that she would approve of your course, cousin.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, taking his words as a chance to hurry away.
Her host began speaking again, but she lengthened her stride, all but fleeing the parsonage. In truth, she hadn’t fabricated. She had little appetite, her stomach twisting along with her thoughts as she replayed Mr. Darcy’s hurtful words and her too-angry reply. Along with her appetite had fled her patience and she knew she couldn’t endure a meal spent in her cousin’s company. Even Charlotte, whose friendship she had long cherished, today seemed but an unwelcome intruder into Elizabeth’s turmoil.
As she walked, Elizabeth soon realized her disquiet was as much from the cruel nature of Mr. Darcy’s proposal as with herself. She’d permitted her temper to run free, a shameful act under any circumstance, but especially in reaction to Mr. Darcy proffering his heart. Elizabeth did not like to think herself cruel, but she had been. She could defend herself by enumerating the ways her feelings had been attacked, but that wasn’t a worthy reason not to have spared his. Men’s feelings, so seldom acknowledged or shared, were delicate things. She should have taken more care.
Elizabeth looked about, surveying the bright greens and blues of the world, sunlit and cheerful, in spite of her woes. It was, she admitted, in the nature of an extreme complement that Mr. Darcy had proposed. This was especially in view of how offensive he apparently found her standing and her family. In truth, he’d sounded almost as if he’d rather be forced from England than bind himself to her in any way, yet he’d offered for her all the same. She smiled slightly, beginning to see the amusement in what he’d done. The grand Mr. Darcy of Pemberley had figuratively bent his knee to so much of what he loathed in the world, all for the illusion of love.
For an illusion it must be. Elizabeth could never bring herself to see true love where only one side was engaged. Furthermore, how could it possibly be such a pure emotion as love, when he knew her so little as to think the words he’d used would stir her? Just as with her cousin Mr. Collins, whose proposal she’d rejected politely, Mr. Darcy’s proposal had pertained more to himself and his view of the world than to her. As such, she could easily be substituted, his affections directed toward another woman. Hopefully, for Mr. Darcy’s sake, one with better connections and more greed, to ensure her acceptance of his offer.
“Miss Bennet,” a woman’s voice called.
As if the words drew Elizabeth’s senses back from her musings, she became aware of the sound of an approaching vehicle and horses. She turned, squinting into the slanting morning light. The air about her teemed with the clicks, chirps and buzzes of nature, and through them approached a low phaeton. It trundled down the wide path at moderate speed, coming ever more near.
To Elizabeth’s surprise, it appeared as if Miss Anne de Bourgh, daughter to Lady Catherine and cousin to Mr. Darcy, manned the phaeton and owned the voice. In an additional oddity, Miss de Bourgh wasn’t accompanied by her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson. Rather, a young woman in a maid’s uniform sat beside her. She was crowded against the side of the carriage, giving Miss de Bourgh’s slight frame more than half of the seat.
“Miss Bennet,” Miss de Bourgh repeated as she drew the vehicle to a halt beside Elizabeth. “I would like to speak with you. Will you come up and ride with me?”
Elizabeth hesitated. It hardly seemed possible Miss de Bourgh had stumbled upon her accidentally. Elizabeth worried a turn in the phaeton would mean listening to talk of Mr. Darcy, for what other topic did she and Miss de Bourgh hold in common? Elizabeth wasn’t sure she wished a conversation about him, whether he’d confided his failure to his cousin or not.
“Please. It’s important.” Miss de Bourgh’s tone was imploring, her narrow face betraying worry.
Elizabeth saw no easy way to put off those words, or that look. “Then I will ride with you.”
At a nod from Miss de Bourgh, the maid climbed out, allowing Elizabeth to get in. Miss de Bourgh turned to the maid. “Wait here. Go over in the shade of those trees if you grow too warm. I will return for you.”
“Yes, miss,” the maid said, heading for the indicated cluster of elms without looking back.
Miss de Bourgh flicked the reins with a more practiced hand than Elizabeth would have credited to her. The team, a matched set of smart looking chestnut mares, stepped out at a slow trot. For a moment, there was only the steady thrum of insects, punctuated by the jangle of tack, the creak of springs and the horses’ steady hoof beats.
Miss de Bourgh cast a quick look toward Elizabeth, then cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I must speak to you on a topic that is of a somewhat sensitive nature, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I suspected as much.”
“There was an . . . incident, shall we say, last night at Rosings.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I hope all is well now?”
“That remains to be seen.” Miss de Bourgh pursed her thin lips, her eyes forward. “It seems Darcy was up quite late, writing a letter.”
Elizabeth frowned. Mr. Darcy’s writing habits were an unexpected topic. “Oh?”
“It also seems Darcy left the letter and took a walk in the gardens. I believe he was gone for some time, though I don’t know when he returned. I also surmise the walk was in an effort to settle his thoughts, which seem to have been quite agitated, but I suppose you must guess that.”
“Indeed I must not.” Now they were coming to topics Elizabeth wished to avoid. “It is not my place to make suppositions on Mr. Darcy’s state.”
“But it might have been.”
Though Miss de Bourgh’s statement seemed to confirm she knew of Mr. Darcy’s proposal, Elizabeth saw no reason to issue a response to what hadn’t been a question.
“While Darcy was out, my mother entered his room.” Miss de Bourgh sighed. “She considers it her right, perhaps even a duty, to know what takes place under her roof. She was curious why Darcy was up so late. As she seems to have no compunctions, Mother took Darcy’s letter and read it.”
Elizabeth couldn’t contain a small gasp at that. Even for Lady Catherine, it seemed highhanded. Entering Mr. Darcy’s room at all was not in keeping with good behavior, but to take his private correspondence and read it was disreputable.
“The letter put her into such a state, she came with immediacy to my room, insisting I rise from bed to read it.”
“And you did so?” Elizabeth knew her voice betrayed her condemnation, but didn’t care. The act was deserving of such.
“In my defense, I was roused from sleep, candles lit, and the letter thrust into my hands before I realized whose letter it was or that my mother must have taken it without permission.” Miss de Bourgh cast Elizabeth another sideways glance, a wry smile curving her lips. “I will not pretend that I didn’t quickly comprehend what my mother had done, or that I suffered much in the way of qualms. The letter was already taken. My mother had read it. I was curious.”
“I still fail to see why you wish my conversation, Miss de Bourgh. If you’re looking for absolution, I am not the one to seek it from, nor inclined to grant it.”
“The letter was to you, Miss Elizabeth. My mother and I both know Darcy proposed to you, and that you
refused him, among other things contained therein.”
Elizabeth felt her face heat. She was unsure which reigned, anger or mortification. “I see.”
“No, you do not, but you soon shall.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You have come to remind me you and Mr. Darcy have an agreement of sorts, to warn me off. You need not fear. I do not believe he shall ask me again, and I remain firm in my intention not to accept.”
“No. To remind you of my mother’s hopes for us is not why I’ve come. I’m here to give you Darcy’s letter, as he surely intended you to have it when he wrote it.”
“You have it?” Elizabeth was further horrified.
Miss de Bourgh nodded. “My mother believes I burned it. Myself between her and my desk, I substituted a letter I’d written with Darcy’s. I then proclaimed we didn’t have a right to read his and, in a great show, crumpled the pages and threw them on the fire.”
“But, then, Mr. Darcy must know his letter was taken.” Elizabeth was baffled. “Why would you not simply return his letter, hiding the entire incident? Surely, Mr. Darcy must be angry.”
“Quite,” Miss de Bourgh said. “He and Mother had a terrible row over it this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but if you are not here to assure yourself I have no intentions toward Mr. Darcy, I am still confused as to why we are speaking of what, to me, seems to be a matter for family, regardless of who Mr. Darcy addressed the letter to.” Elizabeth was growing a bit vexed with Miss de Bourgh’s meandering line of conversation. She’d sought Elizabeth out, insisted on speaking, and asserted the importance of the matter. Having done such, Miss de Bourgh ought to convey what was in her mind.
“First, I would like you to read the letter.” Pulling the horses to a walk, and moving both reins to her left hand, Miss de Bourgh pulled out several folded sheets, offering them to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth eyed them, sure they could contain nothing she wished to know. Did he rail against her? How could he not? With his pride, there was no chance the letter was placating, especially in view of the adamant nature of her refusal. Elizabeth felt her face heat as it occurred to her the letter might contain her ill-chosen words, one of the only signs she believed she’d ever given that her breeding might not be to his standards. Had Miss de Bourgh read that? The pages fluttered in Miss de Bourgh’s hand, offering Elizabeth tantalizing glimpses of words. “I cannot accept a stolen letter and I doubt it contains anything I wish to know,” she finally said.
Courting Elizabeth: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 1
