by Jennifer Joy
Next, the women would conspire to convince him that marriage to Miss Bennet was a certain path to the marital bliss his father and mother had enjoyed together. Darcy cherished those memories, though he did not trust them anymore. How could his life have been so happy when every day was a struggle to hold the last shred of his family together?
He had no time for troublesome females with romantic ideals or beauties who faded like the roses at the end of summer. His heart — what was left of it — was already taken by the tiny girl sleeping against his shoulder. He smoothed a wrinkle on her gown, swearing once again, as he had hundreds of times before, to protect her.
Chapter 2
Elizabeth Bennet stood before the fireplace, her damp dress steaming. Curiosity about what would happen in the next chapter of her novel, and a shower of rain, had forced her to return to Longbourn before she had walked as far as she would have liked over the fields. Her mother and sisters had not yet returned from making calls in Meryton, meaning that Elizabeth had a few glorious, uninterrupted minutes to read in peace by the warmth of the fire.
She nestled into the nearest chair, pulling her stockinged feet up under her skirts, and opened the novel. Her finger skimmed down the page, searching for the spot where her spent candle had forced her to stop reading the night before.
Ah, yes. Lady Gwendolyn was locked in the cellar of an abandoned castle while her evil stepfather arranged for her to marry a man in whose debt he had fallen. Isolated and without a protector, her only hope lay in Sir Knightly.
Lady Gwendolyn pulled on the chains binding her wrists, the irons biting into her flesh. Cold seeped through her torn slippers. Would Sir Knightly reach her in time?
Elizabeth’s concentration was interrupted when someone stepped on a squeaky floorboard. Ancient stone castles did not squeak as Longbourn did.
Mrs. Hill greeted Elizabeth with a smile. “Your father asks for you. He is in his book room,” she said.
Elizabeth sighed. Lady Gwendolyn’s fate would have to hang in the balance a while longer. Closing her book with an air of resignation, Elizabeth thanked Mrs. Hill and made her way down the hall to her father’s sanctuary. It was not often an invitation was extended to join him there, but Elizabeth prided herself in being the recipient of the majority of his invitations amongst her sisters. She was his favorite.
Father sipped from a wine glass, breathing with his hand over his chest as she entered the room and sat in the chair beside his desk.
“Is your cough improving, Papa?” she asked, following his gaze when he glanced at the door. Father enjoyed the peace his book room provided from the usual noise of his household, and he had trained her well. She had closed the door behind her.
His bushy eyebrows knitted together, and he frowned.
Suspecting she knew the source of his melancholy, for they often thought so much alike, Elizabeth said, “It is much quieter without Lydia here. Sometimes I miss her, too.”
Lydia, her youngest sister, had eloped with Mr. Denny, a dashing officer who had arrived in Meryton the year before with the militia. Father had disapproved of the match, but Mr. Denny had proved over the past few months to be steadier and more level-headed than his impulsive marriage to Lydia had suggested. They would never have enough money, but they loved each other. Elizabeth prayed they would be happy.
Father smiled sadly. “I wish all my girls were comfortably settled.” He cleared his throat, reaching for the wine bottle when he started coughing again.
Elizabeth jumped to her feet, pouring the wine for him before he spilled it over his desk and stained the manuscripts he toiled over.
Holding the glass up to his lips, she helped him drink.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” he wheezed.
“The draughts Mr. Jones prepared are not strong enough. I will write immediately to Aunt Gardiner. There must be a physician in London who has better medicine. If she cannot send it, I will collect it myself,” she said, noting how pale his skin was that morning and how much deeper his cough sounded. Where his collar had fitted snuggly around his neck the month before, it now sagged.
Father held up his hand, attempting to dismiss her concerns. “Do not trouble yourself, Lizzy. I am only agitated because I have received a letter from Mr. Collins. He has a talent for putting me out of sorts.”
Elizabeth dropped back into her chair. She liked Mr. Collins as much as her father did. That the clergyman had managed to marry Elizabeth’s best friend, Charlotte, eight months prior (after she herself had refused him) did nothing to put the gentleman into her good graces.
“Does he write of Charlotte?” she asked.
“He implied — with the utmost delicacy, of course — that she is well despite her present condition. I remember how miserable Mrs. Bennet was toward the end of her confinement, and I suspect Mr. Collins would never admit to his wife’s suffering, lest it reflect poorly on either of them. He wishes to visit us before the birth of his first child. Is that not considerate of him?” Father added sarcastically.
“All the more reason for you to get well. You must live forever and frustrate his plans of ever inheriting Longbourn,” Elizabeth said cheerily.
Father did not laugh. He rubbed his hands against his face.
Elizabeth’s smile suddenly felt out of place. Her imagination ran wild with explanations for his strange behavior, each one more dramatic than the last. Leaping from one conclusion to the next left her short of breath. “Papa, what is wrong?”
He took off his spectacles, laying them on top of his open book. Looking up at her with watery blue eyes, he said, “My dearest girl, I am dying.”
“Nonsense!” she replied violently, her stomach sinking. “You only require different medicine. I will write to Aunt Gardiner this moment, and I will go to London myself to fetch a better draught.” She rose, her need to act stronger than her desire to understand.
“Sit, Lizzy. You must listen to me.”
“But you are wrong. Surely, you are wrong.” He had to be wrong. People did not die of colds.
Father held her gaze, his eyes sunken and his cheeks gaunt. “Sit, Lizzy. You will listen.”
“I must write to Aunt. There is no time to lose,” she repeated, determined to make herself useful. Father only had a cold. He would be well in no time. She only needed to write to her aunt in London. The best doctors were to be found there. She turned toward the door.
“I have already written to your uncle Gardiner.”
Elizabeth froze.
“There is no medicine to help me.”
She reached for her chair, all the strength of purpose seeping out of her limbs.
He continued, “I wrote of my symptoms in detail, and your uncle did me the immense favor of inquiring the educated opinions of several physicians of good repute. They all agreed. I do not have a cold.”
“Would it not have been better for you to go to London for a proper examination?” she asked, her voice echoing in her own head as if someone else spoke.
“Every movement brings on another fit of coughs. No, my dear. I could never make the trip.”
Elizabeth shook her head. It buzzed. “We could send for a doctor to come here. Surely, if we paid enough—”
“It is no use, Lizzy. Were I an ignorant man, I might have more hope, but I read the list of symptoms. I have all of them.”
The clock ticked several seconds, each one rebounding through the room more loudly than the last until the deafening noise pounded against Elizabeth’s temples.
“I have consumption.” With one sentence the clamor silenced.
She pressed her eyes together, her throat tight. She dropped her elbows to her knees, her forehead pressed against her palms.
Consumption. People died of consumption.
Father was beside her, pressing a teacup full of wine into her hands. “Drink, Lizzy. You must keep your strength up. You will need it. I need you to stay strong.”
Powerless to do anything but obey and already missing the beloved fat
her she would soon lose, Elizabeth took the cup and drank while he settled back in his chair. What would she do without him? All the conversations they had? The humor only he understood?
“I swore I would never use your refusal of Mr. Collins against you, and I would not mention it now were I not desperate. When I die, you, your mother and sisters…” his voice shook and his chin trembled, “…will be without a home. I have kept the true nature of my illness from your mother, and I wish for you to do the same.” Taking a raspy breath, he continued, “The Gardiners have kindly offered to take Jane, but with their large family, they cannot receive Mary or Kitty.”
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and strained to listen. The drums in her head had calmed, but the buzz resumed.
“I have said nothing to your aunt Phillips. She is a terrible gossip and would only worry your mother before it is time. But I trust she will take Mrs. Bennet and Kitty in.” Father’s voice quavered, as he added, “I have not been able to secure a place for Mary … nor for you, my dear, dear girl.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, rubbing it against his eyes. “Your aunt Gardiner has family in Derbyshire who might be able to help. The Bambers. Some of them are in service, and the rest are in trade, so they are only to be sought out as a last resort.”
“You speak to me of status as if I care? When you tell me you are dying?”
“I will not risk ruining your prospects when your happiness is my priority.”
They were words Elizabeth was grateful to hear her father pronounce, but not like this.
Father continued, “Mrs. Gardiner’s assistance has been invaluable to me of late, and I know she will not rest until you and Mary are properly provided for, should I die before you have a chance to see to your own futures.”
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. Pressing her cold fingers against her burning cheeks, she said, “Do not say such things, Papa. You have always recovered your health before.”
“Not this time,” he said, repeating with his shoulders slumped in defeat, “Not this time.”
“Not if you give up so easily. You must fight!” Elizabeth insisted, her tone shrill in her ears.
She would take the evening coach to London, and she would drag a physician back to Meryton to see her father or her name was not Elizabeth Bennet. She would do what she must, but she would not let her father die if she could prevent it.
Reaching forward to clasp her hands between his own, Father said, “You must promise you will look after your mother and sisters. I am sorrier than you can ever know to charge you with this great burden, but you are clever, Lizzy. I trust you. I know you will find a way—” A violent cough interrupted his plea, and his hands tugged away from Elizabeth’s in his haste to cover his mouth with the handkerchief.
That was when Elizabeth saw it. The blood.
Chapter 3
“The letter has arrived, sir,” said the butler, entering the study to hold a thick envelope resting on a salver out to Darcy.
“Thank you, Grayson,” Darcy mumbled, rising from the desk and promptly forgetting the papers strewn across the surface as he cracked the seal and held the letter up to read by the light of the setting sun.
“Is there anything else you require, sir?” asked Grayson, lingering in the doorway.
Darcy looked up, irked at the interruption until he saw the concern reflected in Grayson’s wrinkled brow and the hope in his attentive eyes. Like Mrs. Reynolds, Grayson had proved himself to be a reliable ally through the trials of the past year.
Relaxing his shoulders, Darcy said, “Stay, please, while I read Mr. Rochester’s report. I must rely on you to keep Mrs. Reynolds informed.”
Grayson bowed his head, and Darcy resumed reading.
It was not good news, but it was the news Darcy had expected unless some miracle had changed the laws since Anne’s arrival into the world.
Pressing his fingers against his temples, Darcy motioned for Grayson to sit. Bad news was best heard sitting down.
Darcy skimmed through the pages again on the chance he had missed a promising detail.
He had not, unfortunately, and reading it again would do nothing to change its contents. Resisting the urge to crumple the papers and throw them into the fire, Darcy folded them and tucked the letter inside his pocket.
“Have a drink with me, Grayson,” he said.
The butler did as he was bid, though Darcy noted his hesitation in drinking with his master.
Darcy had long ago ceased to measure a person’s status by the norms of society. The past year had shown him who could be trusted. Honesty and loyalty were of far greater worth than one’s name, fortune, or connections. In these attributes, the few servants entrusted with Anne at Pemberley were exceptional. Darcy was grateful to them for it — especially so for Anne’s sake, who relied upon them entirely.
Therein lie his difficulty. Anne.
Darcy could not fail her.
He must act — and quickly.
Darcy began, “The law will not allow us to keep Anne while her father lives. Wickham’s deficiencies do not signify. Unless we can convince him to sign over her guardianship, the Court of Chancery will force us to hand over the child.”
At that, Grayson drank deeply. Setting down his glass, he said, “Forgive me for speaking freely, Mr. Darcy, but we cannot allow it. He would never agree to sign her care over to you when she is his means to gain a hold on Pemberley. He would use her to avenge himself against you.”
Did he not know it?
Darcy leaned his elbows against his desk, the acid churning in his stomach stinging his throat. “I cannot allow him near her, and yet every day that passes increases Anne’s risk of exposure. However, we must endure longer still.”
Dread chilled Darcy to the bone. But there was no other option. Happiness may never be his again, but he could secure Anne.
Looking up at Grayson, Darcy voiced the maneuver he had hoped to avoid — that only desperation would move him to act upon. “I must marry as soon as it can be arranged and produce an heir of my own. Until then, Anne is not safe.” He waited for the resolve of a firm decision made to fortify him, but it did not come.
“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, please. I know you refused the idea before, but could you not consider—”
“No!” Darcy snapped. “I will not ruin Georgiana’s reputation further by suggesting that the child has a father other than her husband.”
“The babe’s resemblance to your sister is striking. Nobody would question it after what we told Mr. Wickham…” Grayson’s words trailed off.
Darcy was not a fool. Grayson’s suggestion would put an end to all of their problems. But it would ruin Anne’s prospects and add another lie to the growing web of deceit Darcy had been forced to build to protect her. He could not destroy her future nor would he sully Georgiana’s virtue more than her elopement had already done. At least Wickham had married her. Anne had a family name. Unfortunately, it was not Darcy … nor could it be until the courts were persuaded to allow Darcy to keep her — an impossibility according to Mr. Rochester and every other knowledgeable solicitor, barrister, and judge well-versed in the laws of guardianship and adoption at Chancery.
Grabbing a piece of paper, Darcy said, “Wickham is greedy and selfish. He will only be interested in Anne for what he can gain through her. If she no longer stands to inherit Pemberley, then she will no longer be of any use to him. She will be safe.” He scribbled a hasty note. He would have to act faster than his emotions allowed or he would never be able to do what he must. Once the ink dried, Darcy folded the paper and wrote Bingley’s name on it. “See this is delivered to Bingley immediately. I will leave for Hertfordshire as soon as the preparations are made.”
“Hertfordshire?” Grayson’s eyes widened, and he downed the last of the amber liquid in his glass in one gulp.
“Wickham is too well-known in Derbyshire. I cannot risk marrying a lady who might sympathize with him. I must attempt to unite myself with a lady who will prove loyal
to a child not her own — a lady recommended to me by the persons I trust most.”
What Darcy sought was impossible, but he had to try. The eldest Bennet daughter was his most promising solution, and so he would begin his daunting search in Hertfordshire.
He would do anything for Anne. Even forsake his own love and happiness to marry for convenience.
Chapter 4
One week later
Darcy rubbed his eyes and drained his cup. The coffee was bitter and strong, and Darcy prayed it would serve its purpose. He needed his senses about him.
“The carriage is ready,” Bingley said, clapping his hands together. He had talked of nothing but the Meryton Assembly all day.
Darcy wished he could share in his friend’s excitement. He would rather have retired early. He had only arrived at Netherfield Park the day before. What Darcy had intended to be an easy journey had been complicated by Mrs. Reynolds when she insisted he travel in style — as befits a gentleman seeking to woo a lady.
The housekeeper, no doubt motivated by warm memories of Darcy’s own parents, still hoped for a romance. Theirs had been love at first sight.
Darcy was too practical for that. There was not time for love. By necessity, his would be a marriage of convenience — a small sacrifice when Anne’s security lay in the balance.
While he was practical, Darcy was not cruel. He allowed Mrs. Reynolds and his valet to pack more clothes than he could ever wear in the time it took him to complete negotiations with the father of the lady he would choose. (He had, however, drawn the line in their interference when they suggested he stop in London for a new wardrobe. He was not a dandy, nor did he wish to wed a woman who fancied his waistcoat more than his character.) His aim was simple. A marriage of convenience with a trustworthy lady who would be content with the security and comfort he could purchase for her. There were few who required more, and he expected nothing less. He had brought his mother’s wedding ring.
