The Road to Pemberley

by Marsha Altman

  When Mr. Darcy entered his apartment that evening, he said only, “We shall be returning to London tomorrow morning, Preston. I expect us to be gone by eight at the latest.”

  “Yes, sir.” In spite of the impulse to inquire whether Mr. Darcy had again seen Miss Elizabeth Bennet (surely the event would have been inevitable; he’d spent the entire afternoon within the walls of her home), Preston resisted, as he knew he must.

  Instead, he commenced packing the trunks, which had only just been unpacked a few days earlier.

  Two days following their arrival in town, Mr. Darcy received an express from Mr. Bingley. Mr. Darcy happened to leave it lying open on his bedside table. Pretending to be replacing a spent candle there, Preston’s eyes scanned the words with disgraceful curiosity.

  My dear Darcy,

  I must solicit your immediate congratulations. I have made the offer for Miss Bennet’s hand and, by all that is most wonderful, she has accepted. What luck, what chance has deigned to favor me! Her father proved himself to be a splendid gentleman and granted his consent with no argument and very little embarrassment.

  Believe me when I say that I count myself as the most fortunate of men. But will you not consider following me in the happy state of marriage, Darcy? Or are you no longer infatuated with her sister, as you were this summer? (Great God, I wish I could witness your expression as you read this, for I am certain you thought yourself inscrutable in the matter.)

  Alas, forgive me if I am sounding like an addled schoolboy, but I fear I have suffered thus since my dearest Jane assured me of her own unwavering regard.

  I shall see you very soon, probably within the next week, for I have much to arrange in town. I must entreat you, my friend, not to mention this news to my sisters. I wish to take full pleasure in their reactions when I speak to them myself.

  Until then, may God be with you,

  Charles Bingley

  Carefully replacing this missive in the position he had found it, Preston considered its contents as he continued his daily tasks.

  So Mr. Bingley and the eldest Miss Bennet were now betrothed. Would Mr. Darcy, as his friend had so ecstatically suggested in the letter, soon follow suit?

  As that week progressed into the next, however, there was no outward sign of his master’s taking even a moment to ponder such advice.

  Each day passed much as the one before, until one evening when the eminent Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, came to call. Preston heard the details later in the staff dining hall when Sarah, the maid attending her ladyship, related the whole of it to the others.

  “Apparently,” Sarah shared excitedly, “milady was not pleased with a young lady by the name of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.…Have you ever heard of her, Elsie?” she asked Mrs. Watson with breathless wonder.

  As Mrs. Watson shook her head, Preston concentrated on his roast beef. Of course, no one in town would be aware of Miss Bennet’s brief history with Mr. Darcy. Only himself, really. This realization filled him with a deep satisfaction that surprised him.

  “In any case,” Sarah was going on, “Lady Catherine was scolding… actually scolding Mr. Darcy to make him tell her what he obviously did not wish to. Lord, you should have seen his face. I think the man would have liked to bludgeon her with a poker.”

  “Sarah!” cried Peg, a kitchen maid. “Have a care!”

  “I’m only telling you what I saw,” she defended herself. “Do you want to hear or not?”

  No one said anything, so she continued. “Lady Catherine was carrying on something awful, saying things like, ‘This Bennet girl cannot be trusted,’ and, ‘Poor breeding will always tell.’ And all the while, Mr. Darcy just sat and drank his wine without answering back two words! Well, I don’t know who this Miss Bennet is, but it made me feel rather sorry for her just the same.”

  “What happened next?” breathed Peg.

  “Well, Lady Catherine went on for quite a while in the same vein, until she said something that made Mr. Darcy look very different.”

  “Different, how?” asked Mrs. Watson skeptically in the very same moment that Bess, yet another maid, chimed in with, “What did she say, Sarah? Tell us!”

  “She said…” Carefully, the girl worked on recalling every word. “She said that Miss Bennet refused, absolutely refused, to promise that she would not accept an offer from Mr. Darcy if he were to give it.”

  “An offer from Mr. Darcy!” repeated several of her listeners in open disbelief. “Mr. Darcy?”

  “But pray,” asked Peg, returning their attention to the former statement, “how did her saying such a thing affect him?”

  “Yes, Sarah,” said Mrs. Watson, frowning. “Why do you say he looked different after that?”

  “I was watching him, out of the corner of my eye, of course, and I swear by all that is holy, he almost seemed to light up.”

  “Light up!” said Peg.

  “Yes.… What I mean is, before, when she was speaking, he looked…well, dreadful really, but when she came to that point, he glanced at her real quick, and I thought he nearly smiled.”

  “Sarah,” Mrs. Watson asked, “are you sure? You would not be reading more into it than what really happened, would you?”

  “I swear it to be so, Elsie,” replied Sarah, meeting the older woman’s eyes.

  A few moments of shocked silence followed, interrupted only when Sarah added almost timidly, “So what do you make of it? Do you think Mr. Darcy has intentions toward this Miss Bennet?”

  “Obviously,” Mrs. Watson acknowledged as she pushed herself away from the table, “none of us will likely know for sure until we’ve either been ordered to prepare the wedding dinner…or not.”

  After such an enlightening discussion, Preston was not surprised when Mr. Darcy announced their imminent return to Hertfordshire on the following afternoon.

  “Lady Catherine has gone back to Rosings without the satisfaction she was seeking, yet her visit proved most useful to me,” he mused aloud as Preston busied himself laying out his master’s evening clothes. “I only pray that I am not acting prematurely.… Do I stand a chance at last? Can her disinclination mean anything at all? Or is she merely following the tenets of her own nature and refusing to be bullied? To consider the possibilities, only to have my hopes dashed once more, would be truly unbearable. Still…I must find out one way or the other, and that, I cannot do here.” Glancing at Preston, he added with an expression of self-mockery, “You’ll begin to believe me mad very soon, Preston. Indeed, I half-believe it myself these past months.”

  “Oh no, sir,” Preston responded with practiced impassivity. “Would you prefer the vermilion waistcoat this evening?”

  A flicker of a smile played at one corner of Mr. Darcy’s mouth. “The vermilion will do.…You are a study, Preston.”

  “Sir?”

  “In other words,” he elaborated, “you are not as insensible as you would wish me to believe.”

  Avoiding his master’s gaze, Preston said only, “The wind has picked up, sir. Will you desire your greatcoat?”

  And so they returned again to Netherfield. Mr. Bingley and his sisters were there to meet Mr. Darcy at the top of the driveway, and as Preston supervised the unloading of the trunks from the carriage boot, he heard the ladies’ fervent greetings.

  “Mr. Darcy, welcome!” cried Miss Caroline Bingley in an overly bright voice. “Have you heard the good news? My brother is to be married to Miss Bennet!”

  “Of course he knows, Caroline,” Mr. Bingley said as he stepped forward to shake his friend’s hand. “Why, Darcy had as much to do with the happy outcome as anyone.”

  “What? What can you mean?” returned Miss Bingley, obviously astonished by this disclosure. “Mr. Darcy, pray, what does he mean?”

  A moment of thick silence followed, during which the footmen conveying the trunks indoors were impatiently waiting for Preston to precede them, and so nothing more of the conversation could be heard.

  Duri
ng supper, Preston casually addressed Roster. “The household will soon have a new mistress, I understand,” he remarked as he waited for his soup to cool.

  Roster replied, “Yes. We are overjoyed at the prospect. Few young men deserve happiness as much as Mr. Bingley.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Roster answered, “Why, because it did not come easily to him—the engagement, I mean. There were several of his friends not convinced that the match was prudent.”

  “Were there?”

  “Indeed. I do not know who these friends were, but Mr. Bingley, being a modest man himself, relied on them to guide him, and they refused to condone the union at first.”

  “What changed their minds, do you suppose?” Breaking a piece of bread up into the soup, Preston pretended an indifference to the answer.

  “I could not guess, other than perhaps the lady’s charm winning them over. She seems a very charming, pretty girl, after all.”

  “So I’ve heard. Are his sisters overjoyed as well, would you say?”

  Reddening, Roster glanced around the table to see if anyone was listening. Then, ducking his head, he confessed, “They say they are to his face, but when they are by themselves, they put forth a very different view. It makes me feel rather bad for the lady. She can’t know the mischief they are planning.”

  “What mischief?”

  “I could not say exactly,” Roster said and frowned. “But I understand they intend to make the turning over of the household as disorderly as possible.”

  Considering briefly the effect of such a scheme on a young bride, Preston pushed on: “Are Mr. Bingley’s sisters to remain in residence at Netherfield, then?”

  “For a time, I understand. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are said to be returning to town after Christmas, but it is unclear whether Miss Bingley will follow their example. I suppose she shall be invited to remain if she so chooses.”

  “If they are successful in their scheme, I expect she will not be invited,” Preston speculated.

  “Perhaps, or perhaps they hope that the ensuing chaos will cause Miss Bingley to appear indispensable to the supervision of the staff,” Roster suggested, his face wrinkled with distaste. “In any case, it makes me glad I see but little of her.”

  “But why would you suppose them to wish her such unhappiness at the very beginning of their wedded life?”

  Accepting a plate of roasted pheasant and potatoes from Mrs. Maucker, the head cook, Roster thought the question over before answering. Finally, he said, “I think…I feel they look down upon the Bennets…I mean, all of the Bennet family. They make constant sport of the mother, whom I only vaguely remember from the ball. And there is another sister, the second eldest, whom they seem to despise without constraint.”

  Here, Preston straightened almost imperceptibly.

  “Apparently,” Roster continued, “she is a barbaric creature. At least, that is what I’ve been told by Miss Bingley’s maid. She runs and plays like a child, and cares nothing of emulating the better class. They, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, are dreading having such a connection in the family.”

  “I suffered no such notion when I was fortunate enough to speak with her,” Preston said stiffly. “She appeared to be most ladylike and intelligent.”

  “You spoke to her?” Roster turned to stare at him in disbelief. “Directly?”

  “Well, not directly,” the older valet corrected himself. “But my master’s sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy, asked my opinion on some matter, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet was in attendance at the time. I was impressed with Miss Bennet’s manner. I saw nothing barbaric about her at all.”

  This silenced Roster for several moments, until he asked in a very low voice, “So the other part of the gossip I heard—is that false as well?”

  “What would that be?”

  “That Mr. Darcy has been harboring feelings for her? Miss Elizabeth, I mean.”

  “That,” Preston answered coolly, “I cannot comment on. Where have you heard such things?”

  “Oh,” was the determinedly offhand reply, “the staff overhear bits of the family’s conversations and make the most of them. Much of the time, the rumor is false, but because of the frequency with which this rumor has been repeated, I am almost believing it myself.” Glancing sideways at Preston, he added, “Miss Bingley, especially, seems concerned with the truth of it. Perhaps you could settle the matter once and for all, and the staff’s gossip could be stopped.”

  “Why should it be stopped?” Preston inquired with a look that could only be described as sanguine. “Perhaps it is not simply a rumor, after all.”

  Preston regretted this breach of confidence almost immediately. Still, he knew that what he said at the table would be quickly routed through the household. And, in fact, when considering the subject of his master’s ultimate happiness, he was counting on it.

  Beneath the Greenwood Trees

  BY MARILOU MARTINEAU

  Marilou Martineau is a lifelong enthusiast of eighteenth and nineteenth century English and American culture and manners, and a collector of Regency antiques and original art. She has written numerous period fiction short stories for websites. She lives and works in Carson City, Nevada, with her husband, a teacher, and frequently visits her son, an illustration student, in San Francisco, California.

  “Beneath the Greenwood Trees” is the only story in this anthology that concerns not only the imagined Darcy children, but Darcy himself as a child and the parallels between generations. It also is an excellent representation of growing up in Regency England.

  Chapter 1

  The attics of Pemberley house were far larger than those of most great estates. The upper rooms had somewhat of a musty smell, although they looked clean enough. Cases and trunks from generations of Darcy families were placed about within; some concealing treasured possessions, long forgotten by the present owners of the place. Elizabeth Darcy had let herself through the door by using the keys she had been given upon taking up residence as the mistress of the manor. She had gone round to every room in the house, trying the locks, until she discovered that this particular key fit into the lock of an attic door.

  A small stream of light shone through the undersize windows, yet there was enough light for Elizabeth to see her way through the trove of belongings. Given her curious nature, she was certain there would be no harm in opening a trunk or two and examining the contents. She was eager for a hint of her husband’s family and of his childhood; she had always been curious to know what he had been like and how he had lived. He had admitted to being tall and gangly, or “all legs” as his mother had said of him, evident from the portrait of himself and his mother hanging in the library that had been painted during the early summer of his eleventh year.

  Darcy had, at all times, been extraordinarily quiet on other aspects of his childhood and adolescence. Thus far, he had spoken mostly of Elizabeth, saying barely a word about himself, nary a story to satisfy Elizabeth’s ardent interest. Elizabeth knew only that he had been left at the age of three and twenty with the duty of a great estate and the responsibility of a young sister to care for, as well as the loneliness of being a young man without the benefit or counsel of parents. She had never pressed him to tell her of his childhood, but now she was more curious than she had ever been before.

  Elizabeth’s fingers unfastened the latch on one of the trunks and she opened the lid. Within were stored three old morning gowns, which perhaps had once belonged to Darcy’s mother. Elizabeth pulled one from its place and held it to her own frame. Even in its wrinkled state, it was three or four inches longer than would have fit her petite figure. She arched an eyebrow, understanding why Darcy was so tall. She closed the trunk and opened another, which had been placed far back in a corner beneath some old blankets.

  Once opened, to Elizabeth’s delight, she found it to contain a child’s toys. There was an elaborately carved wooden horse and carriage, with working wheels and tiny leather harnesses, somewhat dried and stiff f
rom the effects of time and use. She set the piece down and pushed it back and forth on the floorboards. Again, she peered into the trunk and found a small leather ball, a tin whistle, several small quills, and a leather bag. There were some folded clothes at the bottom, and she reached in and pulled out a pair of small shoes, a little blue waistcoat, and white breeches. She laughed at their small size and shook her head in disbelief that they would have ever fit her husband.

  She happened to notice something beneath the clothing, and she reached in and pulled it from its resting place. It was a plainly carved piece of beech wood, resembling a sword. She was astonished to see such a thing made from such material, for certainly Darcy’s father would have considered a beech tree a trespasser on his lands, worthy only of being chopped down. The initials FD were naively carved into the handle. Elizabeth held it in front of her, and then took a swipe through the air with it, pretending to wield it in battle. Elizabeth was sure Darcy would be able to tell her about its origin—whether he had made it or it had been the gift of a devoted servant to his master’s child—and she hastily returned all the other items back to their hidden sanctuary and closed the lid to the trunk.

  After dinner that evening, Elizabeth made haste to the library and eagerly sat in the chair beside the one Darcy always took up to read his newspaper from London. The publication came by post once weekly on Friday, and Darcy savored every word within, usually taking until Sunday to finish reading it. Elizabeth’s eyes followed her husband as he went to the desk and picked up the newspaper, and then walked over to his chair, all the while skimming the articles on the front page. Methodically, he stood in front of his chair, turned about, and sat down, still occupied with his reading.

  With a flurry of arms, legs, and newspaper, Darcy launched himself out of the chair. Something unfamiliar was beneath him. He quickly turned around to look at the seat, and Elizabeth tried her best not to laugh aloud at such a disorderly scene. Darcy’s expression changed as he picked up the toy sword from his chair and held it before him.