A Very Austen Valentine

by Robin Helm

  Charity Envieth Not: George Knightley is the owner of a considerable estate, a landlord, a magistrate, and a bachelor--a state that his brother John is perpetually prodding him to change. Thankfully, there is no one remotely suitable in his entire circle of acquaintance...or so he thinks. An unwanted interloper, a few romantic mishaps amongst his friends, and the dawning realization that Emma Woodhouse is no longer a child might just change everything

  Lend Me Leave: A rival for the hand of Emma Woodhouse has brought about George Knightley’s realization of the true nature of his attachment to her. He is determined to win her in spite of Frank Churchill’s charming ways, and he has only to figure out how to make her realize that they were meant for each other. As he joins the ranks of the heart-sore men of Donwell, hope grows ever more faint, but good news sometimes comes at the most unexpected moments.

  A Fine Young Lady: When her mother's death plunges her into reduced circumstances, Verity Hollis must leave her life of ease and privilege in London and make her home in the small country village. Her dreams of marriage to a wealthy Christian man with status now seem impossible. With the comfort of her Bible and the amusement of her favorite novels to bolster her spirits, Verity embarks on a life she couldn't have imagined a year ago. Is her faith sufficient to sustain her in her new circumstances? Are her dreams of love, marriage, and family gone? An awkward Baptist minister, an orphaned baby or two, and a village of new friends help her discover what she truly values and the plans the Lord has made for her life.

  MY VALENTINE

  Mandy Cook

  MY VALENTINE

  My Valentine © 2018 Mandy Cook

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher and author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  1827

  “Today has been quite boring,” she sighed aloud, tapping her fingertips impatiently along the windowsill, and so it had been.

  Upon waking, the great and daring escape from Nanny was barely worth noting, now that the dame was so old and undeniably deaf.

  Sneaking into her father’s study to play at being a cat had been only slightly more entertaining, given that it had taken her nursemaid, May, nearly an hour to find her and had thus delayed lessons. But May had been flushed and cross from the exertion, so the lessons were even more dull than usual.

  Cook had now given up all hope of stopping sweet bun thievery from the kitchens, so strategic games were unnecessary there.

  Even young Thomas, the gardener’s boy, had ignored her entreaties for fishing at the pond. The entire house and all who lived within seemed to go into hibernation when her parents were away.

  “Miss Charlotte!” the stern, annoyed voice of the nursemaid called. “There you are, naughty girl. Why you must behave in this manner during your mother’s absence is beyond me.”

  May held the door of the larder open for the child to exit and pointed toward the stairs. “Now, up to the parlour for your piano lesson. Perhaps Miss Kirkland will have better luck holding your attention today.”

  With a brother nearly ten years her senior and no other siblings or nearby children deemed appropriate for playmates, little Charlotte frequently found herself in trouble. She never intended to be a nuisance but rather wanted attention and activity.

  Her imagination knew no limits, and she longed for the social interaction of friends. Father understood, but had responsibilities that often called him away; Mother could be fun and tried to include Charlotte in household duties and daily exercise when she was home; brother Bennett had no interest in little girls.

  Julia Kirkland was indeed the closest thing Charlotte had to a playmate though she was sixteen years old and, more often than not, held responsible for the wayward child during their time spent together, but she was considerate, bright, and active which made her a wonderful companion.

  “Miss Julia!” demanded the little imp. “We shall play outside rather than play at piano.” Her little fists were curled imperiously as they perched about her waist.

  “I am afraid not, Charlotte, for it rains today,” Julia replied gently, “but you may pour the tea after our lesson.”

  One must understand that the pouring of the tea was the height of dutiful treats.

  Charlotte considered this new predicament. Was she to comply so readily with lessons and show her enthusiasm for pouring tea, or should she enact a little drama and consequently risk losing said honour?

  “We shall take turns playing ‘The Star’ and singing, one turn each, then we shall ring for tea,” Charlotte compromised, her eyes studying her favourite’s face in search of disapproval or amusement.

  Julia also paused as if in deep meditation, tilting her head to one side and drawing her eyelids down to better hide her expression.

  “So be it,” Charlotte finally agreed.

  The rest of the afternoon went by splendidly.

  “Mama!” she cried joyfully, shrieking across the grand hall to throw herself into her mother’s arms. “You are home early! Oh, I am glad! Have you decided to leave my brother at school after all?”

  “What was that, dear?” the lady asked in reply, dark eyes dancing, “I am afraid you have made me deaf as poor Nanny with your enthusiastic welcome.”

  She stood frozen for a moment before swooping down to embrace the girl. “You little wretch! How I miss you when we go away! Have you been a very good girl, pray?”

  “Oh no, Mama, not a very good girl. Shall we go for a walk? I think the rain has let off for now, and the garden path to the pond should not be overly muddy.”

  Charlotte danced around her mother, clapping her hands, and generally making noise and movements as much as she was able. “Mama!” she said, suddenly stopping to stare. “Who is that boy with Ben and Papa?”

  “Well, dear, he is why we are home early. Something about a school prank or squabble – you know boys have a code against tattle-bearing.” She ushered Charlotte into the courtyard where the menfolk were giving directions for the horses, carriage, and luggage.

  “Here she is!” exclaimed Ben, rushing to Charlotte’s side and grabbing her shoulder. He firmly pushed her forward, as if in presentation. “What did I tell you?” he asked rhetorically.

  “Unhand me, sir!” Charlotte ordered, swatting at the offending hand gripping her person, but her brother was in full command. After a moment more of struggle, she called, “Mama!”

  “Now, Bennett,” the stoic lady began, “is this any way to introduce your sister?”

  “My apologies, Mama,” the boy replied with a bow. “Of course, you are right.”

  He turned to his friend, straightened his posture, and cleared his throat. “Mr. Tom Brandon, may I present my sister, Miss Darcy. Charlotte, this is my friend, Tom. Thomas. Mr. Thomas Brandon,” he concluded.

  Charlotte curtsied very prettily to the boy as he made a show of bowing.

  “You are very welcome here, I am sure. Is that your father?” she asked imperiously, nodding towards the man who stood at a distance with her own father.

  “Eh?” the boy stood abruptly to glance over his shoulder as if his father could, indeed, be standing there.

  He sighed in relief.

  “My father? Good heavens, no!” he laughed. “That is just Brandon, eh, Henry, my brother.”

  Tom turned his gaze to Charlotte’s mother to continue his explanation, knowing the finer details are more interesting to adults than to mere children.

  “Henry is the eldest. He prefers his first name. None of us are quite sure why. The rest of us lads use our middle names, due to the fact that o
ur Mama had the silly notion to give us grand names with too many syllables. Even my middle name, Thomas, we shortened to Tom. Easier.”

  He squinted into the distance, deep in thought. “Nathaniel Thomas, that would be me,” he said with a wink. “My twin brothers are Alexander Francis and Augustus Charles.” He furrowed his brows. “Come to think on it, we none of us go by any of our given names.”

  He laughed again and focused on the dame. “Just goes to show you that only fathers should name sons, no matter how pretty and convincing the mother is.” Tom finished with a flourish, rather proud of his astuteness.

  Eager to have her share of attention, Charlotte chimed in. “You have not told us Henry’s full name.”

  “Eh?” Tom asked with surprise, as if he had forgotten the girl altogether. “Well now, that is a mystery,” he said with a wink, “but we call him King Henry the Fifth.”

  Charlotte rolled her lips in frustration and was going to protest when her mother sent her a quelling look.

  Thankfully, her father and the young man came her way.

  “Papa,” she said with a shy smile. The soft, pink cheek tilted up for a kiss, which was supplied, before her father scooped her up in his arms. “Papa!” she squealed, giggling. He spun her around for good measure and put her down again.

  “You were missed, little one,” he said, touching the flushed cheek with his finger.

  “But how much did you miss me?” the child teased.

  “Miss who? Who should I have missed?” the man asked with mock surprise, standing to look with vacant expression at his wife.

  “Only me, Papa!” Charlotte cried, jumping around eagerly. “Please, Papa! May I have it?”

  “Have what, child?” The father looked again to the mother. “Do we know this ill-bred, unkempt child?”

  Mother’s face attempted a serious expression but was betrayed by dancing eyes. “Shall I call for the constable to remove her?”

  “Mama! Papa! It is only your little Charlotte!” the child said demurely, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress and seeing the dirt smudges on her fingers for the first time. She held her hands behind her back. “Have you forgotten your promise?”

  Papa looked to Mama. Mama smiled at Papa. Papa turned to their guest.

  “I suppose this,” the young man began, “could be yours.”

  He presented a box wrapped in paper and tied with string to the girl. “Your father tried to pass it off to me, but I will wager that it belongs to someone else. Could it be for you?”

  He bent lower when the girl hesitated to approach him. She looked to her parents, who nodded, and cautiously closed the distance between them. Once the target was attained, she stood on her tiptoes to check the tag on the package. She smiled, pointing.

  “That is my name, just there,” she explained, smiling widely. “Charlotte Darcy.”

  “So it is,” agreed Henry, turning the package as if reading the tag for the first time. He smiled at Charlotte and presented the gift again. And this time, it was accepted.

  Charlotte danced off to the steps with her promised treasure. “May I open it now?” she asked her parents as she looked over her shoulder.

  At their nods, she asked again, “Now?” They nodded again, and paper and string went flying, the box opened, the treasure revealed. She gasped as she lifted it from the box. “A music box!”

  She hugged it to her chest and held it out again, rotating it in order to find the wind mechanism.

  The others had reached her now and stood watching, waiting. The small, childish fingers found the key and turned, turned, turned. The melody was released.

  ⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟

  Once the boys were set up at the fishpond the next morning, a very interesting conversation was struck. It began sometime between the host’s fifteenth cast and Henry’s second, because Henry had been delayed leaving the house.

  He and Charlotte had quickly become the best of friends, for he had a gentle and understanding way of dealing with the child when the boys were threatening to leave her out. Again. A game of chess was scheduled after tea, which she was to pour, and a trot on her pony was promised later in the day.

  “What did I tell you, lads?” young Darcy began as he studied the end of his line. “My little sister could never be a … what they said.” His jaw clenched.

  “Beasts, the lot of them,” affirmed Tom with a quick nod of his head. His line was also a fascinating study.

  “Of course not!” laughed the eldest, finding much amusement in the situation, that is, until he realized the other boys were in earnest.

  He quickly cleared his throat and recovered. “That is to say, those lads were just sour grapes about losing the row to freshmen. They said all sorts of things until they landed on the one that bothered you.”

  The boys sat silent and unmoving for another awkward moment, so Henry continued, if a mite uncomfortably. “It is a mark in your favor that you rose up in defense of your sister. Nothing wrong in that! I shall verify your statements to the lot at once upon our return. If they do not apologize …”

  “We shall smash them!” Tom declared, striking fist against palm, subsequently dropping the pole. He flushed, snatching it back up into a tight hold.

  “If they do not apologize,” Henry continued with a glare towards his younger brother, “then they will appear even more foolish when we produce Miss Darcy’s likeness.”

  “Charlotte’s likeness?” stuttered the girl’s brother.

  “You can contrive to take a small likeness of your sister, I presume?”

  “I, well, I,” he laughed nervously, “that may not be possible.”

  “Not possible to take a small likeness of your sister?” exclaimed Tom in disgust.

  Some people were so unimaginative.

  “Well, how would I! What excuse would I give Mama and Papa for wanting to take a likeness of Charlotte to school?” he cried defensively.

  The other boys finally nodded. Ben had a good point. A brother who had showed occasional tolerance but never interest in his little sister would have no claim to her likeness.

  “I shall take it,” concluded Henry after some thought.

  “You are going to steal her likeness?” asked Ben in distasteful surprise.

  “Of course, I am not going to steal it, you muttonhead!” Henry retorted in equal distaste.

  He then straightened his posture and held his head high. His following words were either going to be brilliant or ridiculous. The younger boys sat motionless in anticipation. “I shall sketch her likeness.”

  Silence.

  Silence.

  Snickers. Followed by snorts. Then full out, belly-hugging laughter.

  Henry stood quietly waiting for the raucous to abate. He was older and therefore more mature. He knew could handle the situation. If a droplet of sweat trickled down his neck, it was most likely due to the exertion of fishing.

  Tom reigned himself in with much effort, wiped his eyes, picked up his pole, and nodded. Then he hiccupped. Another tear coursed down his cheek before he could speak with any conviction.

  “Tis true, you know,” he began. “The king is very talented with portraits. He spent many an afternoon amusing our Mama with his exaggerated representations of our family and acquaintances.” He became thoughtful. “But can you draw a real portrait? Not a silly one?”

  Henry’s nod was sure, and the boys relaxed. They had a plan. The beasts were going down.

  ⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟

  After tea, as Charlotte and Henry sat down to their game of chess, the distracted girl unwittingly agreed to compiling paper and pencils for sketching on the lawn the following morning.

  Throughout the rest of the day, while in her company, Henry studied the little face intently. So lost was he in the almond shape of her eyes at dinner that his lapse of attention was noticed by the girl’s parents. As a result, and because the girl was sure to mention it later anyway, Henry decided to confess his intention to sketch the girl, stating he needed the p
ractice of drawing a new face for an art competition at Eton.

  “An art competition?” Darcy repeated to his wife later that evening. “The boy did not strike me as an artist type!”

  He shuddered. The only artists he had met were frivolous and irresponsible, not to mention disgraceful. The thought of letting his Charlotte sit for this aspiring artist was repugnant.

  Mrs. Darcy considered the facts very carefully before speaking her thoughts aloud. “While I agree with you that he does not seem to be an artist-type, I must also point out that not all artists are evil,” she said with a gentle smile. “Monsieur Francois was quite normal when he painted our family portrait.”

  “Normal for a French artist,” muttered Darcy. His wife laughed.

  “Well, if you are not comfortable with the idea, then tell him ‘no.’ I must say that I believe there is something afoot with all three boys. Something happened at Eton to ruffle Bennett’s feathers, and it concerns Charlotte. Our son’s friends were invited here as judge and jury, and that likeness is their proof of innocence.”

  “I had no idea I married a dramatist!” exclaimed Darcy, but, upon consideration, and after observing Henry and, of course, Henry with Charlotte, the following morning, he had to confess that his wife may be on to something. To seal his confidence in Elizabeth’s conjecture, he was witness to Bennett’s attentions to his sister.

  “Now, Charlotte, will you not sit prettily beside the fountain while young Brandon here takes your likeness?” her brother asked beseechingly.

  “No!” was the emphatic reply.

  “But, Charlotte,” the boy practically begged, “you must!”

  “Why must I?” she asked slyly. No fool was she! Those boys were planning some mean trick, possibly involving her taking a little swim in the frigid fountain water and in her new frock no less! Then she would be scolded for sure! No and no. She would not comply.

  “Would you sit for a chocolate?” Tom suggested in a low whisper.

  Charlotte scoffed. They thought she was a simpleton. But, what if she really was turning down a chocolate? Hm. No! She glared at them. The chocolate would melt on her new frock, and she would be scolded. Those boys would stop at nothing!