Miss Darcy Falls in Love

by Sharon Lathan

  The horses and their riders walked, trotted, and cantered over the damp green fields in various sized clusters. Lord Caxton utilized the opportunity to converse with Georgiana in a one-on-one scenario, the open pasture providing nearly complete privacy while never being out of sight of at least a few of their companions.

  “Are you a man unafraid of a challenge, my lord?”

  “Not typically, no, but how do you mean?”

  “See that cracked boulder yonder?” She indicated a massive rock jutting from the earth a good one hundred yards away, the jagged edge on one side resembling the tooth filled maw of a beast. Caxton nodded. “I challenge you to a race, the winner naming her, or his, prize.”

  She was already tightening her hands about the reins, the rush of adrenaline making her heart beat faster and breath hitch. Her eyes assessed the uneven turf and obstacles ahead, projecting the images onto a canvas in her mind not only for the purpose of winning but to displace the visions of Mr. Butler and her on similar races across grassy plains.

  “Interesting idea,” Lord Caxton responded, “however I do not think this would be proper, Miss Darcy.”

  She looked at him then, her brows lifted in surprise. The baron was frowning, his expression faintly disapproving.

  “Ladies should not gallop, nor, I must add, participate in wagers, although I understand you meant nothing of a serious nature.” He smiled and leaned across the space separating their mounts to lightly clasp her gloved hand, his voice soothing. “I would be crushed if you were to lose control of your horse, who is unfamiliar to you and much stronger, or misjudge the terrain and suffer an accident, Miss Darcy. Furthermore, those rocks are quite far and not easily seen. As greatly as I desire it, it is highly improper to be secluded with a gentleman, no matter how innocent.”

  He patted her hand, smiled again, and resumed their casual walking gait and conversation as if the subject had never occurred. Georgiana said no more and managed to push the matter aside and enjoy her afternoon. Yet she could not shake the feeling that Lord Caxton’s remarks about being alone with a gentleman were not general or regarding him, but were a reference to her and Mr. Butler being chaperone-less and very close to each other both times he had encountered them together. Oddly, instead of feeling ashamed by his reproach and being reminded of what she could not argue was improper behavior, the incident brought Mr. Butler into clearer focus.

  And that thought lay heavy upon her heart no matter how she tried to ignore it.

  The days turned into weeks, the two since Mr. Butler departed and Lord Caxton initiated what could only be viewed as a serious address flowing into a third week. Each day was packed with adventure and entertainment, and in most of them the baron played a part. If Georgiana had expended what residual energy she had on contemplating the situation she discovered herself in, she would have logically deduced that separation from Mr. Butler—who attracted her but was on a different path—and constant togetherness with Lord Caxton—who offered everything any woman could possibly want—were positive developments.

  However, Georgiana had limited time alone and fell into her bed each night—or in the hours immediately before dawn—utterly exhausted. Mr. Butler’s portfolio of psalms lay on her nightstand forlorn and untouched, a consequence she was aware of but too weary to lament. Yet each night her eyes rested upon the brown leather, and in those seconds before sleep claimed her, she felt a sense of peace. And when she did remember her dreams, he was always there.

  ***

  Sebastian Butler sat in the pub at the inn where he and his friends had dwelt for the past two weeks. It was noisy, as most pubs were in the late afternoon, but spacious enough that he managed to claim a secluded booth near the back. It was his favorite spot, mainly for the relative solitude but also because the wide window provided light. Here he could drink a pint or two of ale after the day’s lecture ended while rewriting the hasty notes taken during the session.

  No one needed to point out that seldom had he taken notes during a lecture, infrequently were they more than a few jotted lines of major significance, and rarer still had he recopied them! He knew it was an oddity, and he knew very well that he was doing it for Miss Darcy. The pouch of parchment sheets sitting on the table beside him was thick, would be thicker when he finished the pages he was working on, and if luck held would be even thicker if the ordered music compositions arrived before they were set to leave tomorrow. The shop owner promised they would be in by today.

  He paused to flip open his pocket watch—nearly three o’clock—take a gulp from his mug, and stretch his aching neck before dipping the quill and getting back to work.

  He was exhausted. The symposium had been as fascinating and educational as he had hoped, more so, in fact, because through it all, he had imagined Miss Darcy sitting next to him. Well, not literally. But in the figurative sense, he had listened to every word while imagining how he would share the knowledge with her. Better yet, he could vividly envision her face, knowing precisely how she would feel. He would enjoy the entire lecture all over again with her.

  “Why are you smiling as an imbecile while sitting alone in a pub? Most unusual.”

  Sebastian looked up at Gaston, continued to smile, and waved at the bench across from him. Not that Gaston was waiting for an invitation, with his hat already tossed onto the seat and his bottom halfway there. He plopped a large envelope onto the table while simultaneously gesturing the barman for ale.

  “I was passing by Mollet’s so stopped in to check. There is your package. So now we can head home without you crying all the way.”

  “Thank you,” Sebastian said simply, slipping the tied bundle under the pouch without opening it and resuming his task without further comment.

  Gaston waited until his tankard was brought and drained a third of the way before interrupting the silence. “So, do you have a strategy or prepared speech? Something insipidly mawkish and riddled with purple prose?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Gaston’s initial response was a derogatory phrase that turned the heads of several near neighbors. Sebastian received the full impact of Gaston’s condescending expression, flinching involuntarily at the combination.

  “Spare me,” Gaston said scathingly. “I have been married for ten years and happen to still love my wife—most of the time. She must be mentally deficient to put up with me, but damned if I can see it. I do, however, frequently need to pull out the romantic nonsense in order to keep her from leaving me for someone handsomer or richer.” He shrugged, sitting back and draining the ale. “It seems to work, though, so that would be my suggestion.”

  “As fascinating as your marriage advice is, Gaston, I still have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Balderdash! I prefer a stronger expletive but do not want to upset the delicate ears of yonder fellows.” He pointedly glared at the group sitting closest, the three men ducking their heads for being caught eavesdropping. “The last thing in the world I want to do, Butler, is play matchmaker or give courtship advice. Curls my hair to even think on it.”

  “You sure you are French?”

  “It’s worse. My mother was Italian. I should be the most sentimental sop in the country instead of the irascible bloke I am.”

  “Bloke? Seriously?”

  “I have been associating with bloody Englishmen for too long. The colloquialisms are rubbing off. And do not try to change the subject. I am here to beat some sense into you and give advice, since God knows you need it, even coming from me. First answer my question—do you have a plan for wooing Mademoiselle Darcy?”

  “How do you…? That is, what gave you that idea?”

  “You honestly look surprised.” Gaston laughed aloud, again drawing the attention of the neighboring drinkers, but he ignored them and instead gestured for another ale from the barmaid, who had also turned to stare at his enthusiastic bray. “Ah, you amuse me, Butler, you truly do.” He wiped a tear from his eye, continued to chuckle, and reverted to
his typical French slang-laced syntax. “Merde, was I ever that innocent? But then I am French and Italian, so no. You, my sad, repressed English friend, are in dire need of a swift kick in the ass. Or several tumbles amid the sheets, but since that is unlikely considering your affection for Mademoiselle Darcy, I will settle for the kick. We can keep it figurative for now, unless you remain denser than a post or in denial.”

  Sebastian glanced around but the eavesdropping men had left and the other patrons were paying them no mind. Still, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Very well. No need to threaten me. I just thought I was better at shielding my emotions.” Gaston interrupted with a rude sound and then raised his hand in apology, Sebastian continuing, “Apparently, I am transparent or enough so for you to decipher my thoughts.” He sighed. “It is not as easy as simply wooing her, Gaston. It is… complicated.”

  “Amour is always complicated. My first point of advice is to forget imagining it ever will not be complicated. Accept that and move forward. You want her, so go and get her.”

  “What if she does not want me?”

  “Oui, that does make it tougher to be sure, but not impossible. That is where romancing comes in. Poems, flowers, sweet treats, flowery words of love! If that fails, take her into your arms, kiss her, and show her what passion really is.”

  Sebastian shook his head, hoping his friend was partially jesting, but rather doubting he was. The image of kissing Miss Darcy—one that was easily envisioned—made rational conversation difficult, but he tried. “I would never force my desires upon her, Gaston. Whatever I feel for Miss Darcy, and I am not so sure I even know, I am her friend and want her to be happy. It is complicated and I cannot move past that as easily as you suggest.”

  “How so?”

  “She is to return to England and I must stay here. I cannot ask her to wait for me to finish my education, but I cannot give up this opportunity.”

  “What prevents you from having both? Marry her and study together. Everyone knows Professor Florange endorses her. When you have absorbed all that the Conservatoire has to offer, return to England and your estate. Problem solved!”

  “She was fairly adamant that she does not want to accept the professor’s invitation, Gaston. Furthermore, for me, it will never be a matter of finishing my education. Even after I am Lord Essenton, I will pursue my music and compositions. Miss Darcy longs for the stability of a home and family, nothing more.” Sebastian shook his head, gazing at the dry ink lines of text on the table but not seeing the words.

  “Yet you take notes and buy compositions for her. Strange habit if you are convinced she is uninterested.” He smirked at Sebastian’s startled expression, drained his tankard, and rose from the bench. Smacking three coins onto the surface of the table he concluded, “Butler, I have a wife, five children, a house to maintain, work at my father’s pâtisserie, perform regularly with the symphony, and teach at the Conservatoire. I do all of this on an income a tenth of yours and only three servants. Excuses are for imbeciles and incompetents. You are neither. I think both of you are making it complicated. I do not know why, other than that you are English. There is no feeling in your country! Your souls scream for freedom! Here is my final advice, my friend. Search your heart without reserve. Then, once you face your truth, confront the fair mademoiselle and search her heart. Complication will vanish in the air and only desire will remain. Trust me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Love Is the Refrain

  Sebastian was a believer in love. He was a composer living in an age of romance, so a belief in love was somewhat obligatory. This innocent, idealistic exaltation of love’s power conquering the evils of the world and giving birth to every expression of art was ingrained. His mind had rationally yearned for the all-consuming bliss of passionate love to enter his heart, sure that when it did, the beauty of the emotion would open his eyes and unlock his soul. Ah, yes! Then music would have deeper understanding. Poetry would be more poignant. Life would be richer.

  Nevertheless, by the time he mounted the steps of the townhouse owned by the Marchioness of Warrow—his home while in Paris—his opinion of love was not as favorable.

  Gaston’s words echoed through his head the entire journey from Reims. Gaston said nothing further and gave no indication of having the conversation in the first place. This suited Sebastian just fine, and thankfully none of the other gents brought up Miss Darcy either. In between ribald conversation and crude jokes, there were long periods of silence with only the revolving wheels to listen to. It was then that Sebastian ruminated on the situation.

  He relived every moment spent with Miss Darcy, replayed their conversations, and summoned to mind each expression upon her lovely face. He dug into his heart, extracting feelings and attempting to analyze. When the overlapping impressions jumbled in his mind, melding into a solid mess of incoherences, he shoved it aside and decided to formulate a plan as Gaston had suggested.

  Nothing.

  Sebastian wanted to kick his own rear end—saving Gaston the duty—for having little idea how to proceed in wooing a lady. Has my bragging of five sisters giving me an advantage been a laughable boast? Apparently, the answer was yes. He had never been in love and never gone to any extreme to curry a woman’s favor. Single-mindedly, he had focused on his professional pursuits, pouring his energy into that course alone while fighting his father along the way. He was a believer in love, but the emotion had manifested on the pages of a musical score and flowed from a piano’s keys. Foolishly, he assumed true passion would leave him be until he was prepared to handle it and never imagined that he would encounter any problems when it did!

  If he was being honest, he was terrified and hid behind a mask of ineptitude.

  When the quiet and rocking carriage lulled him into interludes of slumber, the tumult inside led to bizarre dreams that exhausted instead of refreshed and brought him no closer to a solution. A sudden storm forced them to abandon the plan for a straight ride to Paris, causing them to spend two nights holed up at an inn before the washed-out road was navigable. For Sebastian, it was more time to agonize over the predicament with nothing to occupy his mind but how much he missed her.

  The streets of Paris stirred his soul and tendrils of excitement brushed the edges of his heart. She is here. The thought made him smile despite his weariness. Tomorrow I will call upon her and will trust my instincts. As a plan it was not the best, but it would have to do.

  Fatigue of body and mind assailed him. So much so that when the butler informed him that Lady Warrow was away from home Sebastian sent a rapid prayer of thanks heavenward. He felt a bit guilty about it, but talking to his grandmother at that moment was most unappealing. She was far too astute. She would see right through him and probably break her silence on the subject, Sebastian sure she suspected his attachment to Miss Darcy since she missed nothing. In truth, her ideas were undoubtedly superior to his at the moment, although knowing his grandmother, she might suggest a bold attack similar to Gaston’s.

  Wasting no time, he headed directly to his bedchamber. Stripping down to shirt and trousers, he poured a glass of whisky and reclined on the bed in relief. A stack of mail sat on the nightstand, Sebastian rifling through them as he sipped and relaxed tense muscles. One from his mother, his sisters Adele and Reine writing together, three from friends back home, one from his father, and the last from de Marcov.

  He started to open de Marcov’s, knowing his friend would cheer him with his words, but Sebastian stopped before breaking the seal. “You will also have something to say about my sister’s marital satisfaction and that is not a thought I want spinning in my head before sleep,” he murmured, shuffling de Marcov’s letter to the back of the slack.

  His sisters greatly entertained with their letters, a joy he savored so that one would wait. It was similar with his pals from school, each of the three fellows he had known since boarding school. Start with mother, he thought, yawning and burrowing deeper into the pillow. Her letters are loving a
nd safe.

  Indeed, it started out that way. Lady Essenton began with her typical caring salutation and opening paragraphs, expressing how great her affection and pride, and reminding him to be safe and cautious. He smiled at the familiar refrains, but with a flip of the page the smile faded.

  Dearest son, I do pray you have chosen to read my missive prior to the one your father is writing as I pen this. Undoubtedly they shall be posted together but one never knows how the whimsies of the mail carriers, especially when traveling across water and vast lands, will affect the delivery of a letter. I hope to warn, although I can do no more than that in this message. Please know, my son, that today we received word that Lord Everest has asked to pay court to Lady Cassandra, the intent clear that he will ask formally for her hand once the necessary arrangements are documented. The reasons for the match are not proper for us to speculate upon within the indelible markings of a letter, however I am sure you can comprehend it is not a match based on affection. Your father is certain of this, not that his reaction to the news would be improved or altered if his Lordship was deeply in the throes of passionate love for Lady Cassandra. Lord Essenton applauds Lord Everest’s good sense in aligning himself with a noble family of great wealth and standing. I fear his wrath is not in any way directed toward any of the persons involved in the situation here but rather firmly directed at you.

  Oh, how it pains me to pass on this tragic news! My only consolation is in knowing that I will reveal in a softer tone and choice of phrase than your father shall. His anger is fierce, Sebastian. The only point that prevents him from being utterly incensed is that Lady Cassandra has vocally conveyed her displeasure in Lord Everest’s suit. Of course, Lord Burrow has scant interest in his daughter’s distress or wishes, but enough concern to privately appeal to your father, upon the weeping behest of Lady Cassandra, to counter the advance of Lord Everest with one tendered by Lord Essenton on behalf of Viscount Nell.