by Rowland Jann
The Angel of Longbourn
Jann Rowland
By Jann Rowland
Published by One Good Sonnet Publishing:
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE VARIATIONS
Acting on Faith
A Life from the Ashes (Sequel to Acting on Faith)
Open Your Eyes
Implacable Resentment
An Unlikely Friendship
Bound by Love
Cassandra
Obsession
Shadows Over Longbourn
The Mistress of Longbourn
My Brother’s Keeper
Coincidence
The Angel of Longbourn
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE VARIATIONS
Co-Authored with Lelia Eye
WAITING FOR AN ECHO
Waiting for an Echo Volume One: Words in the Darkness
Waiting for an Echo Volume Two: Echoes at Dawn
Waiting for an Echo Two Volume Set
A Summer in Brighton
A Bevy of Suitors
Love and Laughter: A Pride and Prejudice Short Stories Anthology
THE EARTH AND SKY TRILOGY
Co-Authored with Lelia Eye
On Wings of Air
On Lonely Paths
On Tides of Fate*
*Forthcoming
This is a work of fiction, based on the works of Jane Austen. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are products of Jane Austen’s original novel, the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
THE ANGEL OF LONGBOURN
Copyright © 2017 Jann Rowland
Cover Design by Marina Willis
Published by One Good Sonnet Publishing
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1987929608
ISBN-13: 978-1987929607
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
To my family who have, as always, shown
their unconditional love and encouragement.
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Please enjoy the following excerpt from the upcoming novel On Lonely Paths, book two of the Earth and Sky fantasy trilogy.
For Readers Who Liked Coincidence
Also by One Good Sonnet Publishing
If you’re a fan of thieves with a heart of gold,
then you don’t want to Miss . . .
About the Author
Chapter I
Great sheets of rain pounded on a horse and rider as they picked their way across the sodden landscape. At times, the downpour seemed to fall sideways, or swirl in little funnels, so violently did the wind whip it up into a frenzy. In the distance, rumbles of thunder sounded, like some titan pounding the earth with his massive hammer, though no hints of lightning could be seen through the haze of the storm. The ground was quickly turning into a quagmire of pools, rivulets of rainwater flowing from the hard path through the trees, and in the distance, the rush of a river could be heard. It was an altogether miserable afternoon.
Fitzwilliam Darcy turned his eyes skyward, cursing the weather which had turned foul with all the warning of a cat pouncing on a mouse. The day had started out in such a pleasant fashion, the sun shining down on the land with cheery warmth, despite the lateness of the season. The weather was wont to turn suddenly sour in October, however, as Darcy well knew. His current circumstances certainly proved that fact.
“There is nothing to be done but to forge on,” muttered he under his breath, as he drew his great coat around his shoulders, trying to ward off the incessant pounding downpour.
It was, of course, of little use. The waves of rain had soaked him to the bone within minutes of the sky opening up, and even now he could feel the clammy damp coldness on his skin. His horse, Jupiter, seemed little affected by the intense rain, as he cantered along with unconcern, occasionally shaking his head to dislodge a spray of water or swish his tail free of droplets. Darcy envied his horse—would that he could simply shrug off the cold and damp, ignore it as if it was nothing more than a minor irritation.
Added to Darcy’s woe was the fact that he had not felt quite right for days. It was nothing specific: his appetite was weak, his stomach had been unsettled, his head had ached, and he had experienced a general feeling of malaise, where he had always been robust and active. Snell, his valet, had asked Darcy if he was well this morning, and Darcy, not wishing to give his weakness any power over him, had replied in the affirmative.
“You wish to ride on ahead of the carriage, sir?” The tone with which Snell had spoken to him was as close to censuring as Darcy would ever expect to hear from his sober, faithful servant. “Would it not be better to ride in the carriage, Mr. Darcy?”
“Three days is enough,” Darcy had replied, unable to bear the thought of another day cramped in the confines of the vehicle. The poor weather had slowed their progress, delaying the journey by an extra day, and by now, he was heartily tired of it all. “It is only another ten miles to Netherfield. It will allow me time to work out the tiredness in my knees from being stuck in this carriage.”
The look with which Snell had favored him had told him that his servant was aware of Darcy’s habits, but in this instance, he thought his master would be better served to apply discretion. In the end, however, Snell contented himself with a softly spoken: “Of course, sir.”
Looking back on it, Darcy knew that Snell had had the right of it, though it could be said that hindsight was much clearer than foresight. Stuck now in this wasted countryside, this wretched torrent of wind and rain, Darcy had to allow the wisdom of his valet’s words.
But there was nothing to do for it. He was certain he was close to Netherfield—the small village through which he had passed just before the skies opened had yielded that much information. But exactly how far away he was, Darcy could not be certain. It seemed there was no choice but to continue to ride in the hopes he would arrive soon.
Urging Jupiter forward, Darcy leaned forward in the saddle, drawing his coat around his shoulders as tightly as he was able, hunching down to make himself as small a target for the barrage as he could. It was an abject failure, as the water found any opening and filtered down through it, creating the unpleasant sensation of rivulets running across his skin.
As he road, a peculiar lassitude seemed to settle over Darcy, and though the damp and the cold were ever present, they grew strangely less able to touch him. The path over which he road was barely more than a track, and without its guidance Darcy might have wandered off in another direction, though in truth he could not quite determine in what direction he was traveling.
What was he doing here? Where was he going? The name “Netherfield” and the image of his closest friend rose in his mind, like a weak light filtering down through a thick fog. What he intended to do there, Darcy could not quite fathom, though he thought it was desperately important that he remember.
Darcy did not even notice his swaying in the saddle, though Jupiter did, and slackened his pace, his eyes flicking back toward his master, wondering what the human on his back was doing. By this time, staying awake was difficult, and he kept his seat by
nothing more than the force of habit.
And then, in one long, graceful motion, Fitzwilliam Darcy slid from the saddle, insensible to the world.
It had been a dreary month in Hertfordshire, with unrelenting rain, storm followed by storm, followed by more rain and other unpleasantness. It was the kind of weather that seeps into the bones, saps the strength, and chills the blood.
After another morning of rain, a long shower which had left the land saturated and colorless, Elizabeth Bennet dressed in her pelisse and stout leather boots and prepared to walk out. It was undoubtedly dirty, the paths not fit for man nor beast, but she had been cooped up in the house for most of the past month, and she could not bear it any longer. She simply must be outdoors, even for thirty minutes, before she was once again forced back indoors, and given the lightening of the sky, she judged that now was as good a time as any.
Under the bemused eye of Cook—the elderly woman who was an especial favorite—Elizabeth left through the kitchen door, intent on avoiding her mother’s notice, knowing that the uproar which would ensue would almost certainly ruin her mood and steal any opportunity of escape.
The ground to the side of the manor house was much the same as the rest of the sodden backdrop, though the path which led from the door to the front drive had withstood the constant pounding of the rain quite well and was already showing signs of drying out. The rest of the foliage, however, was not so lucky, as pools of water had gathered here and there, and the leaves on the trees—what still remained—glistened with the soaking they had received.
Knowing that to stray into the puddles would result in wet feet, leather boots or not, Elizabeth picked her way carefully down the path, at the same time avoiding the side where the clatter of water dripping from the soaking foliage filled the air and would drench her if she strayed too close. Somewhere in the distance, a bird trilled in the silence of the gloom, heartening Elizabeth with its song. Even in the inclement weather of the past days, there were still birds present to lighten the mood and fill the air with their song.
The path Elizabeth walked took her to the north and east of Longbourn, near the village, but it was short enough that she could return before her absence caused one of her mother’s infamous bouts of nerves. But not wishing to delay and provoke them regardless, Elizabeth stepped along with verve and swiftness, delighting in the feeling of strength and health her steps brought to her.
Elizabeth had walked for perhaps five minutes when, she saw a horse, standing to one side of the path. The beast was magnificent—a stallion, tall and lean, coloring a smoky grey, with a powerful frame made for running. It swung its head around as Elizabeth came near, greeting her with a quiet nicker. About its girth was a saddle of supple leather, and a bridle and bit that appeared to be well-made and likely costly, though both were saturated with rain.
“Hello,” said Elizabeth, approaching at a slower pace. “What are you doing here?”
The horse snorted in greeting and danced to the side. And that was when Elizabeth saw it—the crumpled form of a man lying by the side of the road, with the faithful horse standing sentinel over him, guarding him from harm.
Gasping, Elizabeth stepped forward, hurrying toward the man. The horse made a loud snort, catching her attention, and she noted it watching her as she approached, a hint of challenge in its eyes and stance.
“If you wish me to help your master, you must let me past,” said Elizabeth, stopping to place a reassuring hand on the horse’s nose. “Though I do not doubt your good care, there is only so much you, as a horse, can do.”
The horse seemed to sense that she meant no harm, and he nudged her shoulder, as if telling her to step quickly to her task. Elizabeth shook her head. “I would already have done it, had you not interfered.”
The man lay on his side, unresponsive, and though he was covered with a great coat, much like the one her father possessed, it had obviously done him little good. He was dressed in fine clothes underneath: trousers, a linen shirt tucked in, with a waistcoat and coat over top, the material of which was obviously fine and costly. He appeared to be several years older than Elizabeth’s twenty summers, and his dark, curly hair was plastered to his head, though she thought it would be soft to the touch.
Blushing at such a thought, Elizabeth reached out with one hand, though she hesitated for a moment—as a young maiden of her time, she had not ever touched another man, except to take a partner’s hand on the dance floor. Then, berating herself for her silly hesitation, she reached out and touched his shoulder, nudging him.
“Sir! Sir, will you not wake up?”
Her words had no effect whatsoever, as the young man remained unresponsive to her touch. Gaining more confidence, Elizabeth pressed her hand against his forehead, and under the clammy wetness which still clung to his skin, the heat of a raging fever seemed to scorch her hand.
“He still lives, at the very least,” muttered she.
Changing tack, Elizabeth attempted to slap him lightly to bring him around, then resorting to shaking his shoulders when he did not respond. The result was the same, however—it was clear that she would not be able to wake him.
Behind her the horse whinnied softly, and Elizabeth nodded in her distraction. “I believe you are correct. It appears I will require assistance.”
Elizabeth stood and surveyed the situation for a moment. Though there was ready means of transportation at hand, Elizabeth knew it would be impossible for her to manhandle him onto his horse; Elizabeth was the daintiest of her sisters, and this was a tall man, and his lean frame appeared to be muscular and athletic.
If she could not lift him, the best thing for her to do would be to return to Longbourn and rouse her father and Mr. Hill—they could bring the wagon to bear him to the house. Once there he could be installed in one of Longbourn’s rooms until he recovered. Elizabeth looked at the horse, noting its returning scrutiny.
“I don’t suppose you will leave your master and allow me to ride you to Longbourn?”
The horse once again whickered at her, pawing at the ground with one fore hoof. Though that might have indicated agreement, she was not about to test it.
“No, it is best that you wait here and maintain your guard over your master. I am not much of a horsewoman anyway, though I suspect you are well-trained enough for me to ride you.”
Elizabeth stepped forward and laid her hand on the horse’s face, stroking his damp fur with a gentle touch designed to reassure him. “I shall return directly.”
Then turning, Elizabeth darted away, heedless of the puddles she had so carefully avoided earlier. This man’s life might depend on speed, and wet feet were a small price to pay.
“Papa! Papa!” called Elizabeth as she entered the house.
Longbourn’s longsuffering housekeeper—Mrs. Hill—appeared at the far end of the vestibule and took one look at Elizabeth, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “Miss Lizzy, you know your mother will not be happy with you traipsing about in this foul weather.”
“There is no time for that now,” snapped Elizabeth, perhaps a trifle more shortly than she had intended. “Papa! I need you now!”
The commotion in the entranceway prompted footsteps from her father’s bookroom down the hall, and a sudden burst of female voices from the sitting-room. At the same time, two doors opened, and her father stepped out of his study, while Kitty and Lydia looked out through the cracked door to the sitting-room, and as soon as they saw Elizabeth, they began to giggle.
Mr. Bennet threw an annoyed glance at his two youngest as he passed them before turning his attention on Elizabeth. “What is it, Lizzy?”
“I found a man in the lane, fallen from his horse.”
“A man?” asked Mr. Bennet in seeming incomprehension.
“A gentleman, by his clothes. He is wet through, and I could not wake him. You must hurry, Papa, for I know not how long he has been laying there!”
“Where is he?” asked her father, to Eli
zabeth’s relief.
“On the short path to the south and east of Longbourn, just out of sight of the church.”
Mr. Bennet nodded and called to Mr. Hill and the footman to bring the wagon around while he looked about for his outer wear. Anticipating his request, Mrs. Hill brought his great coat and settled it over his shoulders, as he pulled on his long, leather boots.
“Come, Father,” said Elizabeth. “I will show you where he is.”
“No, Lizzy,” replied her father, putting his hand out and restraining her from leaving. “We will find him, given your directions. For you, I believe it would be better if you were to change your clothes and await our return. We would not wish for you to become ill by going out again in wet stockings and boots.”
All at once Elizabeth realized the state of her clothes. Her boots, which she had kept dry with such painstaking care during her walk, were now soaked, no doubt due to the mad dash, heedless of anything other than the need to return to Longbourn. Her stockings were wet up to her knees, and the hem of her dress and petticoats were liberally spattered with mud. And though her pelisse seemed to have escaped any similar indignity, she was certain that her hair had come loose, as she could feel her long curls brushing her cheeks with feather touches, and she could even see one out of the corner of her eye. She must look a fright!
“Of course, Father,” said Elizabeth, little though she wished to be left behind.
“There’s a good girl,” said Mr. Bennet, kissing her on the forehead.
Then he turned and stepped from the house. Within a few moments, the wagon had come around, and Mr. Bennet stepped up and sat on the bench beside one of the stable hands, who was driving, while Mr. Hill settled onto the bed of the vehicle along with the footman. The light had darkened considerably, suggesting that more inclement weather was on its way, as it was still not past the second hour of the afternoon. Elizabeth was afraid for the unnamed man—hopefully they could retrieve him before the rain began to fall again.