Mr Darcy's Mail-Order Bride

by J Dawn King

  He thought of all his wife had done for him and realized he’d not had the pleasure. “No, Whitney. I don’t have any slivers. Do you?”

  Her sweet voice giggled at the question. “No, silly. I don’t move branches.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “I play with my dolly like a good little girl.”

  Darcy could hear Cynthia Pedersen’s tone in her reply.

  “And where is your doll?”

  “She broke her leg and is in bed.”

  “She broke her leg? How did she break it?”

  Six-year-old Whitney, the precocious half of the girl twins, tilted her head sideways as if wondering at his intelligence.

  “A branch fell on it.”

  He wanted to laugh out loud, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  “Well, how about that. What a coincidence.”

  “What’s a coincidence? I kiss my dolly’s leg to make it better. Does Mrs. Darcy kiss your leg? It will make it better.”

  What a thought!

  “No, she hasn’t yet done so.”

  “Then you better tell her to try it. Or, probably the doctor should tell her. He would know a kiss is always the best medicine. My daddy says so.”

  “Your daddy is a smart man.”

  “I know.” She took in a deep breath. “He told me that you have a first name last name like me.”

  “A first name last name?” He wondered if the little girl had understood and repeated her father correctly.

  “Sure, Mr. Darcy.” She rolled her eyes like he was a bonehead. “My first name, you know, Whitney? It used to be Mommy’s last name. Now it’s my first name last name like yours.”

  It made perfect sense. His mother had chosen his Christian name. When he was little and spent time in his cousin’s company, having the Fitzwilliam’s being called by their full names when they were into mischief, which was often, had been confusing.

  “Do you like your first name last name?”

  The little girl shrugged her shoulders. “Not so much.”

  “Then what would you prefer me to call you?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “You can call me Princess Cinderella Whitney Pedersen.”

  “I can? That sure is a mouthful. Are you sure Whitney isn’t good enough?”

  She huffed out her little breath and dropped her chin. The resemblance to Elizabeth when she was frustrated with him was uncanny.

  “Why do you growl like a bear?” she demanded.

  “Why did you change the subject?”

  “I didn’t change the subject, silly. You did.” With that, her eyes moved past him.

  He shook his head in confusion. However, Princess Cinderella Whitney Pedersen was distracted by a butterfly who apparently needed chasing as she flew down the stairs and around the corner of the house.

  When Elizabeth joined him, he was still shaking his head. Her smile indicated she had possibly been attending to the conversation before coming out onto the porch.

  “Why do you growl like a bear, Mr. Darcy?” She laughed, and he didn’t mind at all.

  “I’ve never been asked ‘why’ so many times in one conversation since the last time she visited me. That little girl is quite unlike Georgie when she was that age.”

  “Oh, dear. I hope you do not mind. She is, according to what my mother has long said about me, very much like I was, or am.”

  He automatically reached for her hand when she sat.

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  Over the weeks, a blissful relationship had developed in his household and he was grateful. Georgiana delighted in her interactions with the Pedersen children and Elizabeth was finally able to relax some with the additional help. Harald Pedersen was as knowledgeable as any man about the workings of a cattle ranch and tree farm. John and Maggie were spending less time at the main house and more time together in the evenings. Each building at Pemberley seemed to be filled with contentment.

  Life seemed good. Then, he smelled smoke.

  The regular discussions between Darcy and Elizabeth about the weather were no longer conversations of the mundane. The water levels in the creeks had fallen to a trickle and the banks of the river below them could be seen where the water line had fallen, turning the muddy soil into parched earth. Even the trees were weeping and drooping from the lack of water. The earth had gone from green to brown and the air popped with static from the dryness. Darcy was worried. Because of him, Elizabeth worried as well.

  September weather had been even harsher than July and August, with temperatures remaining hot throughout the night. Dr. Henderson had told Darcy on the day before that he was approximately two weeks from being able to start putting weight on his leg and her husband rejoiced at the news. But his constant fretting over the lack of rain placed a damper on their relief.

  The Bingleys were expected within the week… if their arrangements had turned out as planned. They’d had no news since the couple left Boston with Caroline to travel to Baltimore. Elizabeth could not imagine Jane not corresponding with their latest plans, but suspected the letter had been lost in the long distance it needed to travel. She was excited and anxious to hear about the rest of her family and whether or not the Gardiners would be joining them soon in the Willamette Valley.

  Caroline Bingley was a mystery. Each time Elizabeth had asked Will about the younger woman, he merely shrugged and replied, “You’ll see.” Georgiana had never met Charles’ sister, so she was no help at all. It was Maggie who finally shed light on the soon-to-be newest addition to their neighborhood.

  “She’s a sharply dressed gal with a regal bearing, elegant manners, and the personality of a possum.”

  Elizabeth had been quite taken aback at the description. Her first contact with the small marsupial, she more commonly knew as an opossum, had been less than pleasant. One had wandered onto the back porch in the early evening when she had surprised it. The teeth-baring, long-nosed critter growled, snarled, and hissed—a frothy foam coming from the sides of its mouth. Scared to her core, she grabbed the broom to swat at it only to have it fall over as if it were dead. Nasty creature! And Maggie had compared Caroline to that animal? Unless the school Miss Bingley had attended for the past year had not done their job, it would be a horrible return trip and home life for Jane. Elizabeth was grateful to be at Pemberley and not at Netherfield Ranch.

  Looking over the trees off of the back porch, a thin column of dust-colored cloud drifted towards them on the slight breeze. It was the worst of signs. What started as a trickle of smoke and a waft of the smell soon turned into a pillar making their eyes water.

  Netherfield!

  No orders had to be given. Will was proud of his crew as they grabbed axes and saws, throwing them into the back of the wagon along with blankets the women hauled from the house. Georgiana took the kids to the front porch to get them as far from the putrid air as possible while Elizabeth, Maggie, and Cynthia filled every canteen and covered container possible from the pump. The men were off in minutes.

  Darcy yearned to be next door more than he longed for his next breath. Charles Bingley was a good friend who had already suffered devastation from the loss of his parents. Losing his home…well, Will couldn’t think of it. He’d hoped the younger man had gone ahead and instructed his foreman to clear the land around his house. At this point in time, that’s all that would save his property.

  “Will,” Elizabeth moved next to him and rested her hand on his shoulder. It was a comforting touch. “Whatever happens, we will help out how we can.”

  Though it was a statement, it was cloaked in question and concern. Surely she knew him well enough by now to know he would do anything for someone he cared for. Surely.

  “Yes.” He nodded, looking to the sky.

  Fire has a funny way of telling its own story. Whatever is burning can change the color of the smoke from pale to black. Dry Douglas fir, hemlock, spruce, and pine would snap and spark, sending up smoke that was fairly pleasing to t
he nostrils—a woody smell common in campfires and fireplaces. Adding in foreign substances found on a home site would alter the sight and fragrance until you didn’t have to be close to know what was burning.

  By the afternoon, Darcy knew the fire had reached the house or the barn. A summer’s worth of stored hay would disintegrate in seconds, fueling the flames and intensifying the heat. All the memories Bingley had treasured of his parents were possibly gone, as were the items the new Mrs. Bingley had packed and brought west from Baltimore. He suffered for their loss.

  “Will, the children need you.” Elizabeth roused him from his negative thoughts. “They are fearful the fire will reach Pemberley and want to run home and grab their things. I don’t believe they will be able to settle down unless you talk to them.”

  Again, he nodded his head. Grabbing the crutches from where he had earlier rested them next to his chair, he hobbled into the house. He had barely sat down when Whitney took up her post.

  “Are you afraid of the fire, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Yes and no, Whitney.”

  “Why is there a fire?”

  “Because we have had no rain.”

  “Why hasn’t it rained?”

  “Because there are no rain clouds.”

  “Why aren’t there any rain clouds? Don’t they like it here anymore?”

  Although he sighed, he smiled at her questions.

  “My Pa says the rain will come.” Markus, or maybe it was Timothy, spoke up. He had yet to be able to tell them apart, though Elizabeth and Georgiana seemed able to do so.

  “He’s right. The rain will come.”

  “When?” All four little voices chimed in at once.

  “That, I don’t know.” Darcy sat straighter in his chair. “But what I do know for a fact is that a fire at the Bingley place will not make it as far as Pemberley. My father took on the task of cutting the timber back from the creeks between us to clear the way for the water to run freer and to keep a fire from having anything to burn. Once it gets to the water, there will be no place for the fire to go but out.”

  “Pemberley won’t catch on fire?” the other boy twin asked.

  “Son, listen closely. Pemberley will not catch on fire. We are safe here.”

  “Is my dolly safe in the bunkhouse?” Whitney’s eyes appeared bigger and brighter than he’d ever noticed before.

  “Yes, missy. Your dolly is safe and snug, which is where you should be right now, in your beds snuggled down for the night.”

  Whitney’s twin, Christine, was the shyest of all the Pedersen children. She’d never approached him and, as far as he could remember, she’d never said a word to him. Before he could guess what the little girl was up to, she’d carefully climbed onto his lap and tucked herself under his left arm. The wispy softness of her hair tickled his chest where his top shirt button was opened. Christine laid the side of her face against him and started worrying the second button on his shirt with her little fingers.

  He hadn’t held a child of six since the day he left for university. Georgiana had been exactly the same size and shape. Her hair even held the same smell of sunshine he’d remembered all those years.

  Searing pain ripped through his middle at the amount of time he’d lost with his sister. Instinctively, his long arms captured Christine to him and he began to whisper comforting nothings only she could hear. He was so grateful his family was close—pleased Georgiana enjoyed her place on the ranch and that Elizabeth was his wife. So pleased.

  At that particular infinitesimal second in time, Elizabeth Darcy fell heart-stoppingly, overwhelmingly, head-over-heels in love with her husband. How could this tender man be the same person who, almost three months ago, had used such harsh words against her? The memory seemed so long ago, and she vowed right then that she would bury it as deeply as possible so it would no longer affect her view of this man.

  The door to the back door slammed, causing them all to jump. The men must be back.

  Darcy looked in the direction of the noise, but Elizabeth knew he couldn’t get up with his leg and the little one on his lap. However, when she went to investigate, she found the hallway empty. Before she could turn around, the front door shut with a resounding bang.

  “Elizabeth!” Darcy yelled. “A storm is coming. The wind closed the doors. Everyone to the porch.”

  Cynthia hurried to remove Christine from Darcy where he pulled himself up to walk to the front porch. Blessedly, in the setting sun the approaching dark clouds were a welcome sight. Lifting his nose, beyond the acrid smell of the neighbor’s turmoil, he smelled the dampness signaling incoming rain.

  “Come!” he yelled back into the house. They were about to witness a marvel not often seen this close to the Oregon coast. Thunderstorms and lightening were not exceptionally rare. Nevertheless, the typical rainstorm was one heavy cloud attempting to lighten its load after another with very little reprieve, noise, or flash.

  Once the children were gathered on the porch, he instructed, “Look for the first strike of lightning and then count as far as you can until you hear the thunder. In this way, we can find out how close the storm is.”

  As soon as he sat in his chair, the twins surrounded him, the boys at his back and the girls at his side.

  “I’m afraid of the noise,” Christine whispered as close to his ear as she could get.

  “It’s a smart girl you are, Christine,” Darcy reassured her. “What we will witness is power unlike anything man can perform. It is fear-inspiring. But think of what it will do for the earth, little one. What will it bring?”

  “Rain.”

  “Yes, Christine, it will. And what will the rain do for Pemberley and Netherfield Ranch? And the rivers and the trees?”

  “They will fill up.”

  “Absolutely.” He leaned over and buried his nose in her hair. “So we need to look at the thunder and lightning as God’s way of announcing good news to us. Rain is coming.”

  Timothy—or was it Markus—spoke up. “I imagine God would have to make such a big noise cause he’s so big.”

  “I imagine so.” Darcy’s explanation and agreement seemed to ease the concerns so when the first flash hit, the children started counting in unison.

  Elizabeth wanted to throw her arms around her husband and hug him tight or, better yet, bump little Christine off his lap and take her place. Bright red flushed her cheeks as Cynthia cleared her throat, a knowing smile on her lips.

  When the thunder clapped, they all jumped. None of the children heard the wagon approach, so intent were they on watching the sky.

  Elizabeth noticed first and immediately stepped from the porch to welcome the weary, soot-covered men. Earlier, the women had taken turns hauling bucket after bucket into the reservoir for cleaning the men when they returned. Cooler water had been set aside to tend any burns the men might have sustained.

  With intense satisfaction, only minor wounds dotted the arms and hands of the tired firefighters, though their shirts and pants had small pinholes where the fabric had been scorched. Behind the men came another wagon, this time with Bingley’s ranch hands in the back. Exhausted and discouraged, they accepted Darcy’s hospitality, quickly eating the meal Elizabeth provided, and then settling in the end of the bunkhouse where the Whites lived to sleep the night away.

  The children followed their parents to their home, while John Reynolds sat on the porch in Elizabeth’s rocking chair.

  “It’s not good news, Will.” Weariness sat on the foreman like a heavy blanket. “Bingley hadn’t cleared the land so the barn went up first. Damage to the house is fairly minimal, but the smoke will take some time to clear and things are mighty charred.” He wiped his hand over his face, smearing the ash from cheek to cheek. “I hate to say it, but it could have been much easier contained had he done so.”

  “I know.”

  “And there’s something else you need to know.” John swallowed, as if biting back bitter words.

  “Go ahead.”

  Shaki
ng his head, the foreman drained the cup of cool water Elizabeth had set on the small table next to him.

  “Bingley’s foreman, old Hank, is a good man. He knows his job and he knew what should have been done.” He waited for Darcy’s nod. “Before the couple left for the east, Bingley hired a couple of extra men to help out.”

  Darcy started to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Yep!” The foreman nodded his head. “I believe you guessed it. Bert Denny and George Wickham.” Leaning forward, he huffed out a breath, his hands hanging uselessly in front of him. “According to Hank, Wickham had used his tale of being raised here and being trained by your Pa to convince Bingley that he needed to have as much authority as his most trusted employee. It became a constant battle to get the work done. The rest of the men chose sides. Those who supported the foreman were few. The others lazed the days away, smoking, drinking, and playing cards.”

  Darcy’s instinct to strike at something was strong. Anger boiled and his rage became a living, breathing thing. Instantly regretting that he hadn’t aimed lower when he shot the peach above Wickham’s head, he vowed to bring the miscreant to justice. Why had he never told Bingley about Wickham? The guilt he felt was intense.

  “As soon as the fire got out of control, those men high-tailed it off the ranch.” The foreman sat back and rubbed his face again. “I hope they run until they hit Portland or beyond, because if I ever see either of those two again, I’ll shoot ‘em.”

  “You will have to get in line.” Bitter remorse at not having taken a more direct course against his old friend filled him.

  “We’ll ride out tomorrow to roundup the cattle and bring them over to Pemberley. Harald says we can put them in the lower pastures now the rain’s here.”

  Fat drops of rain hit the dirt, bouncing off the hardened ground as if unwelcomed.

  John Reynolds stood and stepped to the porch railing. “I suppose the women should take a gander at the house. They’ll know what can and cannot be saved, I imagine.”