A Fair Prospect

by Cassandra Grafton

  A Fair Prospect

  ~o0o~

  A Tale of Elizabeth and Darcy:

  Volume I

  ~o0o~

  Disappointed Hopes

  ~o0o~

  By Cassandra Grafton

  Copyright 2013 Cassandra Grafton

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is available in print at most online retailers

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  ~o0o~

  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.

  ~o0o~

  This book is dedicated to

  Gwen and David Grafton

  With deepest affection and heartfelt gratitude for indulging my passion for reading throughout my childhood and for unconditional love and support in my adult years

  ~o0o~

  Author’s Note

  A Fair Prospect is a story inspired by Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice. It begins at the point in that story where Mr Darcy makes his first, ill- fated proposal of marriage to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  For the purpose of this particular story, the Gardiners have no children of their own and the Militia left Meryton before Elizabeth travelled to Hunsford to visit her friend, Charlotte Collins.

  Acknowledgements

  A heart-felt thank you to those who supported me in the writing of this tale, tolerated the lengthy breaks between chapters and the two-year break between Volumes I and II! Your patience, support, and your kind and generous feedback were what kept me going to the end, and I thank you for making the journey with me.

  ~o0o~

  A special thank you goes to the following:

  Adrea, Barbara, Helen, Marita, Mary, Rita, Sandy, Sylvie, Tara and Tess – words alone cannot express what my Pinker sisters mean to me!

  The Readers at Pen & Ink and The Derbyshire Writer’s Guild, with a particular shout out to Mel and Jan for their encouragement and support, to Renée for promoting my story on the wonderful Mrs Darcy’s Story Site, to Abigail and Sybil for the feedback, suggestions and priceless editing advice, and to everyone who ever took the time out to comment throughout the four years that this story took to be posted online!

  Adrea and Diane, for the beautiful artwork they produced for all three volumes of this story, and to Rebecca for the lovely cover design – you are all awesome!

  Last, but never least, to Julian – for everything.

  Thank you!

  ~o0o~

  Prelude

  One inclement Sunday in April…

  Fitzwilliam Darcy strode rapidly down the path, a man in torment, his mind and heart in conflict with one another.

  Fetching up beside his tethered conveyance, he released a frustrated breath. Almost against his volition, and certainly against his reason, he had engaged upon a pursuit that he prayed would satisfy – oh how he hoped it would do so – his fascination with one Miss Elizabeth Bennet by securing her hand in marriage. Having been raised in a family where wealth and status meant little was denied, Darcy suffered no doubt of his reception; his struggle remained all with himself, for what he desired so strongly vied with what he knew to be his duty to his family and went against the conventions of his upbringing.

  He cast a wary glance heavenwards at an ominous rumble from the thickly quartered clouds above. Then he regained his seat on the bench and flicked the reins, urging the pair forward as the curricle he had hastily acquired from the mews at Rosings, a concession to the threat of a storm, made its way along the lane.

  Darcy’s call at Hunsford Parsonage had failed to deliver the end to his quest, hence his now scouring the landscape for sight of Elizabeth. The lady, who had cried off from drinking tea at Rosings that afternoon with a plea of indisposition, had taken herself off on a solitary ramble. He could only assume she had thought the cool spring air a balm to whatever ailed her, unless she hoped he would act, that he would grasp this opportunity to speak, for she must surely discern his interest and knew of his impending departure for Town.

  Throwing another glance at the heavily laden sky, Darcy resumed his search, soon rewarded by a glimpse of colour amongst the trees, and before long he drew the conveyance to a halt, dismounted from the bench and wrapped the reins about a convenient branch. Patting each steed on its silken neck, he straightened and drew in a calming breath. The moment had come, and he must silence once and for all the dissenting voices in his head.

  With determination, he turned and made his way along a dirt track, his feet soon finding a flagged path under an over-hanging of branches, guiding his steps towards a circle of birch trees.

  Memories of childhood days flooded his mind, rendering him insensible to the sporadic droplets that foretold the rain’s proximity. He had forgotten this place! Nature had formed a natural canopy, providing shade from the sun’s heat and shelter on more inclement days. Oft, when seeking a place of solitude to escape his overbearing aunt or his boisterous Cousin Richard, he had taken refuge under its protection, a favourite book to hand or even his writing case, a letter to his mother being foremost in his mind.

  The distraction of such thoughts stood Darcy in good stead, so much so that, as he emerged from the pathway into the circle of trees to find Elizabeth seated on the stone bench there, he silenced any remaining doubts with little effort and focused upon his carefully rehearsed speech.

  Elizabeth gave a visible start on discerning his presence before getting slowly to her feet, the letter she had been perusing still held in one hand as it fell to her side. Her cheeks appeared pale, but she seemed otherwise well, and he felt his heart swell within his breast as he gazed at her. Then, he recalled himself.

  “Miss Bennet.” Taking a step forward, he bowed formally, and as his eyes met hers, he swallowed against the tightness that gripped his throat.

  He knew he must speak, yet before he could utter a word the heavens opened fully. Though the overhanging branches afforded them some relief, the spring leaf was not yet at its fullest and raindrops would persist in finding their way through, and conscious that time was of the essence, Darcy hurriedly began:

  “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  Chapter One

  Raindrops stung Darcy’s face as he emerged from the stone pathway and black clouds rolled menacingly overhead, a fitting backdrop to his inner turmoil.

  How could it have gone so wrong? His encounter with the lady, far from realising his dreams, had unfolded into a nightmare of wretched proportions, and his mind reeled with the relentless sound of her voice and its cutting accusations.

  “… your arrogance, your conceit and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others…”

  Oblivious to the expletive that escaped him, so intent was he on gaining distance from her, he remained insensible to the rain and unheeding of the thunderous noise in the heavens.

  “…the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

  Darcy willed her voice into silence, but failed to displace her image from moments earlier; the expression of mingled fury and shock upon her face smote him to his core, and he winced, his pace slowing as he neared the curricle and pair. How he h
ated the prospect of returning to the soulless house of his aunt, yet what choice had he? He was soaked to the skin and could remain exposed to the elements no longer.

  With little option, he walked on, attempting to unclench the fists he had made earlier.

  The fists he had made…

  That had been the only physical thing he had been able to manifest to prevent himself from doing the unthinkable – grabbing Elizabeth by her damnable, stubborn, misdirected shoulders and kissing her soundly.

  Darcy bit back another oath. What madness possessed him? How dare he permit it to cross his mind? And worse, how was he to endure the truth of the matter: that he repented the thought far less than not acting upon it.

  “…had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner”

  The import of such words was not lost upon him; with so ill an opinion of him, would satisfying his momentary desire to silence her tirade with his mouth have made it any worse?

  Angry with the direction of his thoughts, Darcy came to an abrupt halt as he reached the curricle. Though the raised hood of the conveyance had protected the seating, no such benefit had been afforded to the horses, one of whom greeted him with a baleful eye.

  In the meantime, a disgruntled Elizabeth Bennet paced back and forth in what little shelter was afforded by the copse, outraged and distressed at Mr Darcy’s nerve in so addressing her.

  Questions raced through her head: how dare he even approach her? Was it not blatantly obvious to him how much she despised him? What conceit could have him believe she would welcome such an application? Elizabeth sighed and brushed a hand across her damp forehead. Was she ever destined to be offered marriage by men she could not respect?

  Coming to a halt, she dropped down onto the stone bench once more, insensible to the chill stealing through her clothes. Had her manners been so at fault throughout their laboured acquaintance? Or was her family’s position in society so very dreadful that he would expect her to welcome his offer, despite her marked aversion to his company? And to be proposed to in such a way – Elizabeth’s cheeks burned at the memory, and she quickly got to her feet and resumed her pacing.

  Over and over she dwelt upon his words: his arrogant assertion that he willingly parted Jane and his friend; his disdain for Mr Wickham’s reduced circumstances; the mortification of his appraisal of her situation. How dare he tell her that he loved her despite her family’s shortcomings?

  Her anger and disgust carried her along on a wave of temper that heeded not the rain as it further permeated her shelter. That he could admit to ruining her sister’s chance of happiness, and with no sign of remorse – how dare he?

  Preoccupied as she was, it was a moment before Elizabeth realised she was no longer alone and, with a gasp, she found herself face to face once more with the source of her displeasure.

  “Mr Darcy!”

  Forcing himself to execute a bow, Darcy ignored her outraged tone and launched into speech.

  “Be not alarmed, Madam. I have no desire to continue our discourse. I am come merely to escort you back to the parsonage; you cannot walk in conditions such as these.”

  “Really, Sir? Is that so?”

  He was unsurprised at the indignation in her tone. Yet despite her lack of regard for his conduct, when presented with the curricle and thus the means to remove her safely home and dry, he had been unable to do anything but rein in his own humiliation and anger and return to do just that.

  As the older brother and guardian of a young teenage woman, Darcy knew full well how to stand his ground, and he met the challenging look in her eye with one of his own. Yet before he could respond, she spoke again.

  “And how do you propose to escort me, that I might have no need of the power of walking?”

  “I have a curricle waiting at the end of the path, Madam. I must insist upon your accompanying me. This storm shows no sign of abating.”

  "And pray who are you, to determine what I may and may not do?”

  Darcy was cold and wet, almost to the point of numbness. It went without saying that she must be experiencing something similar, if not worse, for her garments were hardly proof against the rain that was even now making its presence duly felt. If he was not so very angry, he was certain he would feel something – frustration, despair even – but this was no time for such indulgence.

  “Your response, Madam, whilst not unexpected, does you no favour.”

  “How so, Sir?”

  “What do you gain from refusing to return to the warmth and security of the parsonage in such a swift and easy manner?”

  “I retain the freedom to choose the manner and timing of my return, without recourse to one such as yourself!”

  Part of him wished he could leave her there but Darcy knew he would regret it later, and he said in a biting voice: “If you will not accompany me willingly, then you leave me no choice. I shall remove you to the curricle myself!”

  He was in no fit state to acknowledge his triumph as, for the first time in their acquaintance, he appeared to have robbed Elizabeth Bennet of the power of speech. She glared fiercely at him, a blush staining her damp cheeks, her mouth slightly open.

  Then, she bit out, “You would not dare, Sir!”

  Darcy let out a bitter laugh. “Do not tempt me, Madam. I am in no humour for games.”

  Pursing her lips, she threw him one more glance full of fire, then stormed past him down the path at a rapid pace.

  Within moments, they were both installed under the raised hood of the curricle, and Darcy guided the horses up a bank in the direction of Hunsford parsonage. The journey progressed in a powerful silence; the only sounds were the soft thud of hooves against the sodden earth and the staccato raps of the rain on the leather hood.

  He focused his gaze on the horses, his fierce desire to look at Elizabeth countered by the disparagement he might perceive on her countenance. Impatiently, he flicked the reins. Despite his endeavour, it was impossible not to be conscious of her beside him. The sodden fabric of her coat was so close to his own equally saturated leg that every lurch of the conveyance threatened a touch he was ill-equipped to contend with. Thus it was with no little relief that he determined the low wall that formed the boundary to the parsonage’s garden, and soon he halted the curricle and vaulted from his seat with almost indecent haste.

  Hardly pausing to draw breath, he made his way round to the other side. Despite her ill opinion of him, he could not allow her to descend from such a height without assistance, yet it was no surprise when he fetched up in front of her to see that she was poised upon the edge of her seat, clearly intending to dismount unaided.

  She met his look with a glare, raising her chin as their eyes locked. Resolutely, Darcy held out his hand, his intention apparent, struggling to contain the flash of anger that flared when he detected the look of disbelief that briefly crossed her features.

  The fury Elizabeth had felt during her earlier confrontation with Mr Darcy vied with her annoyance at being obliged to accept a place in his conveyance. There had, for a fleeting moment, been a look in his eye back there that had persuaded her she had pushed him as far as it was wise to go and that his proclaimed intent to pick her up and bodily throw her into the curricle was no idle threat.

  Yet here she was, safely returned to the sanctuary of the parsonage, blissfully empty of its sycophantic incumbent for a few hours, and certainly drier than the gentleman in front of her, who was currently being drenched anew by the treacherous onslaught of a fresh downpour, whilst she remained protected by the large hood of the curricle.

  Elizabeth refused to acknowledge his outstretched hand. Agitated as she was by their angry confrontation and by his insistence on seeing her safely home, she remained in no mood to give him credit for his gesture and in no humour to accept it.

  Refusing to break eye contact, she fixed him with a glacial look as she stood up and took the prideful step that must preface a fall. Her foot slipped on the wet footboard, and she fell forward with nothing to grasp
onto but the shoulders of the one man she least wished to encounter.

  As the full weight of Elizabeth’s body struck him, Darcy took a step backwards. His arms had reflexively caught her, but as the speed of her fall propelled her forward into his unintentional embrace, he found himself clasping her to his body, her hands tightly gripping his shoulders and her eyes wide with surprise mere inches from his own.

  For a long, portentous moment silence reigned. Unable to tear his eyes away from her, achingly conscious of her weight against him, he swallowed hard on the sudden constriction that gripped his throat. How he had dreamed of holding Elizabeth in his arms, yet he knew that this would be his only taste of such painful pleasure. Though his mind screamed at him to release her before she regained her senses and lashed him once more with her tongue or, more likely, her palm, his heart begged for one more moment, one further second of stolen comfort.

  Unable to help himself, his eyes dipped to her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted from surprise, and he swallowed hard. He was too close to her - much too close. If he had been tempted by the raw emotion pulsing between them earlier, it was nothing to the desire he now felt as she rested unresisting in his arms. Yet he feared perceiving the expression in her eyes – at present lacking in censure and almost accepting of their situation – change to one of loathing and disapproval. He had suffered sufficient for one day and wished for no more.

  Resolutely, he released his grip, his arms falling to his sides as he awaited the backlash of abuse that was certain to rain down upon him.

  The mist that had clouded Elizabeth’s mind slowly lifted. Suddenly, acutely aware of her situation, she caught her breath. Taking a stumbling step backwards, she righted herself and released her grip on the gentleman’s shoulders as though the fabric burned her hands.