A Virtue of Marriage

by Elizabeth Ann West

  “But, if we wait too long, you might not be able to travel!”

  “I have it on good authority that not only one Bennet sister is stubborn in her travel arrangements in spite of her health.” Darcy matched his future wife's arched eyebrows with one of his own, bringing her to a fit of laughter at his comical face.

  “Speaking of my husband, perhaps I shall nip downstairs to see how he fares.” Jane announced her awarding of privacy to the couple as smoothly as she could manage, and gave her sister another kiss on the cheek and warm hug before rising from the bed.

  “Be careful of the stairs!” Elizabeth called earnestly behind her, making Jane turn around shocked that she, the well-behaved sister, should be warned such.

  “And you be careful of Mr. Darcy! I'm leaving the door open.” Jane announced before leaving.

  Darcy wasted no time in rushing to Elizabeth's side, peppering her bruised and battered face with kisses, as he held her head tenderly in his cupped hands. Elizabeth tried to return his passions, but her lips remained off kilter from the minor swelling refusing to abate just yet.

  “Is it true? Truly true? Two weeks time and we shall be married?” Elizabeth rushed her words and she panted for air in the crush of Mr. Darcy's arms.

  “Truly true. The second you are well, we make haste for the border my love.”

  Darcy pulled back for a moment and looked down at his beloved's face, refusing to dwell on the ugliness of violence displayed across it. As she began to tear up at such strong emotions, Darcy took a page out of her book.

  “And while we may honeymoon at Carver House, I cannot promise there to be a stick of furniture left in the home.”

  The two laughed and Elizabeth teased her husband for worrying about such frivolous matters. The last reason in the world she was marrying this man was for his furniture!

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Charlotte Collins plucked strawberries from her garden keeping a keen eye out for lizards. The mid-day sun felt relentless on her bare neck and she chided herself for not rising early and picking fruit in the cool morning's shade. A large shadow loomed suddenly over her, blocking out the sun and acted a reminder of her responsibilities.

  Sighing, she removed her garden gloves and lifted her basket full of her labors. She was out of time and would not wish to make her visitor wait for all of the world. Squinting up, she looked at the burly man with the sun's intense ray framing his person.

  “You're so perfectly punctual, Declan, I'm thankful the big house can spare you this afternoon.”

  “Mrs. Collins, I am happy to be of service.” He offered a hand down to assist the woman up, a woman placed directly in his protection from his employer, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. Declan took the basket and earned Mrs. Collins' thanks.

  “I am so sorry to call on you, but I fear after just two short weeks, my husband has run away again with his ideas and become rather demanding.”

  Declan grunted, remembering well the squeals of the portly man half his height on the night of retribution for his sins. The joy of inflicting further pain on this excuse for a man delighted the stocky Irishman down to his toes.

  “Has the mister been hurting ye?”

  “No, no, he knows better, but I thought perhaps a reminder of his new position was in order, if you do not mind. Would you care to stay for luncheon?”

  Declan grunted his approval, and followed the petite woman into the cottage, ducking his head to properly enter the doorway.

  “Charlotte! Charlotte!” Mr. Collins called out as the door opened, only for a scream best described as a woman's cry left his person and he dropped the post as he covered his mouth.

  Declan gave his lopsided grin and took off his simple hat as a sign of respect.

  “No, I've not raised a hand to her. I swear! Leave, leave at once. Tell him, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte looked to her husband trying to hide behind the corner of the wall that led to the kitchens and back to the tall specimen of man standing next to her. A flush of warmth overcame her. Fanning her face from her blush, she beckoned Declan to follow her, thoroughly enjoying the further shirking of Mr. Collins as they approached.

  “Oh, Declan is here for luncheon, I thought it would be nice to host company for once. What do you think, William?” Charlotte asked with a fake air of innocence.

  William Collins gulped as the man chiefly responsible for the worst thrashing of his life stood not two feet away from him. Only a few days ago, the pastor managed to sit upon his posterior without twinges of pain, and the gash over his forehead from Mr. Darcy's signet ring would likely scar.

  “Ye—yes, anything you desire, my dear.”

  “Perfect! Now, were there any letters for me?”

  Collins jumped to collect the post from the floor, scrambling to find the letter for his wife from her friend and his cousin.

  Charlotte thanked her husband and tore open the missive.

  Dearest Charlotte,

  I apologize for not taking my leave of you before departing Kent but I have it on good authority your circumstances are most heartily changed.

  Charlotte looked up at poor Declan trying his best to take a graceful seat at her dinning room table. Cook and Eileen brought out the fare, and Charlotte nodded at their perfect manners towards a footman from the main house. There was no mistaking that Declan's position in the Collins' household exceeded his official rank in actual worth.

  Wish me luck as I am to board a carriage this very afternoon to hasten to Scotland! Mr. Darcy and I are finally seeking out own destinies, and Jane and Mr. Bingley are to come along!

  I confess I am jubilant at finally securing my knight in shining armor. Please pray for my soon to be sisters-in-law. The scandal of Wickham's business dealings are rippling through London and neither Georgiana nor Caroline are seeing many invitations for their company.

  I received a lovely gift by way of Jane from Kitty! She has made a portfolio of her art and Mr. Darcy has said we shall invite her and your younger sister, Maria, to Pemberley at the end of this summer. I hope you will consent to a visit as well, though I'm afraid the invitation does not extend to my cousin.

  Well, I am off and must send this quickly. All of my love and best wishes, until we see each other again. This is my last letter as . . .

  Elizabeth Bennet

  Charlotte smiled, refolded the letter and placed the parchment in the pocket of her apron. With luncheon served, before she took a bite, she asked Declan a straightforward question.

  “How would you enjoy a trip to Derbyshire this summer, Declan?”

  ~*fin*~

  And off we go to Scotland! The Blessing of Marriage coming June 2015 to all major book retailers!

  Visit the Rose Room, an exclusive reading club, for more information and to read free stories. Available free at http://elizabethannwest.com/roseroom

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Elizabeth Ann West is a jane-of-all-trades, mistress to none. Author of the best-selling women’s fiction, Cancelled, and historical romance series Seasons of Serendipity, she began her writing career in 2007 writing advertising copy for websites. Since then, she has learned to make apps, code websites, and make a mean cup of coffee. Originally from Virginia Beach, VA, her family now moves wherever the Navy sends them.

  You can contact her at

  writer@elizabethannwest.com

  Or join her Pemberley Possibilities mailing list:

  http://bit.ly/emailpemberley

  Visit the Rose Room, an exclusive reading club, for more information and to read free stories. Available free at http://elizabethannwest.com/roseroom

  One of the best parts of being an author is the wonderful men and women working beside you to tell their wonderful stories of Our Dear Couple. Please enjoy the first two chapters of J. Dawn King's A Father's Sins, available in ebook, paperback and in both English and Spanish.

  PROLOGUE

  November 11, 1805 – Hatchards Book Shop, Piccadilly

  Twenty-one year ol
d Fitzwilliam Darcy perused the tall shelves, looking for an intriguing title to add to his growing personal library. The selections appeared endless. Hatchards, one of the more established booksellers in London, had shelves upon shelves filled with first editions and copies of modern and ancient-language manuscripts. Stacks were carefully arranged and displayed on tables to draw the reader’s attention. Carefully studying the gold-stamped spines on the leather volumes, he became aware of a melodic voice repeating the words, “they are not to be found”, “they are not to be found”, with a variation once in a while of “no, they are not to be found”.

  “I wonder what the lady is looking for,” the young man thought. It was rather an odd section of the store to find a female and her voice sounded quite youthful. Unable to stifle his curiosity, he walked to the end of the aisle and peeked around the corner.

  He was correct; she was young, possibly in her thirteenth or fourteenth year. Slight of stature, with long, wavy, chocolate-brown hair, she was extended up on her toes with her arms outstretched and her small fingertips trying to reach the top shelf.

  “Miss, may I be of some assistance?”

  She was so focused on her search, his deep baritone voice startled her and she nearly toppled over. With her hand to her chest, she dropped her heels back to the ground and glanced at the handsome gentleman. Tall, with dark, wavy hair and dark eyes, he was smiling slightly as he stepped closer. She returned his smile with a delightful twinkle in her hazel eyes. “Unless you can miraculously extend my height or shorten the shelves, I am unsure how you may be of help, sir”.

  Delighted with her countenance and her wit, Darcy did something completely outside his character; he proceeded to converse with a complete stranger. Her clothing proclaimed her, not of the first circle, but certainly a young, gently-born miss; even though not of his sphere. He had finished his first season, which his peers referred to as the “marriage mart” and had become used to ladies of every age, including those far too young to be “out”, and their mothers preening and prancing around him trying to attract his attention. This girl did nothing of the sort. “I am terribly sorry, Miss, that I am unable to do either of those tasks.” He paused and put his finger to the side of his cheek as if in deep thought. “However, if you would tell me which volume you are so diligently searching for, I would be pleased to help you in your search.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Removing a small scrap of paper from her reticule, she read off the journals of four explorers: George Vancouver and his discovery of the North Pacific Ocean, the voyages of Captain James Cook, and Meriwether Lewis and William Clark of the American expedition. “Do you know where I might find any of these books?”

  “Yes, miss, I do know of these writings.” Again, he paused as if in thought.

  “Sir, are you uncertain as to how to tell me their location?” She raised one eyebrow and smiled again. Looking closer at the man, she found him to have such a pleasant face. Relaxed and contented.

  He looked down at her and his smile grew. For someone so young, her eyes sparkled with life and joy. “The first books you asked for, the journals of Vancouver, I have read myself. They are located…” reaching up, he easily found the three volumes from the top shelf just an arm length from where he was standing …“here”. Before he handed them to her, he turned back to the young girl to get her attention. “Nonetheless, I am saddened to tell you that the journals of Captain Cook and those of the American adventurers have not yet been published. I, too, am anticipating their arrival. I do believe that Mr. Lewis and Mr. Clark have yet to finish their expedition, so it might be a length of time before we are able to read of their activities.” He bowed slightly, “I am sorry to disappoint.”

  “Please do not be concerned.” The young lady reached for the three books that were in his hands. “I so enjoy learning of different parts of the world and have a longing to travel to all the remote places I read about. My father teases that I would rather have geography books and old maps than ribbons. He knows me well.” She still held out her hands, but he refused to place the volumes there. Instead, he turned and walked up to the shop assistant and set the books on the counter.

  When the owner saw the man standing at the counter, he quickly pushed the assistant to the side and inquired of Mr. Darcy how he might help him. “Please wrap these up for the young miss.” Without thought as to the propriety of the situation, he proceeded with the transaction as he would with his 9-year-old sister, Georgiana.

  “Sir!” interjected the girl, quickly glancing toward the door to see if her uncle’s maid, who accompanied her to the store, noticed the exchange. “I am prepared to settle my own account.” Turning to the proprietor, she directed, “Before they are wrapped, if I may, I would be most pleased to record my name and today’s date on the inside, as I want all to know that they belong to me.” Her brilliant smile moved the man to action. While the man obtained quill and ink, Darcy remained at her side. Carefully and methodically, she wrote in a lovely swirl, “Elizabeth Anne Bennet – November 11 in the year 1805.”

  As the owner, after waiting for the ink to dry, wrapped and tied the books, the two young people stood in silence, he thinking, “her name is Elizabeth Bennet”, and she thinking, “he is Mr. Darcy.”

  One year to the day later - November 11, 1806

  Longbourn, Hertfordshire

  Thomas Bennet stood and shook with rage. “Pack your things and go!” His face purple with heightened emotions, he pointed his index finger to his once beloved daughter, Elizabeth, and shouted, “I have never been as disappointed in another human soul in my entire life as I am with you, Elizabeth Anne!” He turned to leave his young son’s room. Glancing back from the doorway, his pain and grief poured out of him as he shouted once more at her, “You have stolen my future, my dreams, and my family from me and I NEVER want to see your face again!”

  The grief Elizabeth felt as she watched her father storm away was almost more than she could endure. Head bowed, tears ran down her cheeks, dropping into a puddle on her lap. Turning to her dear little brother, his lifeless body still on the bed, she gathered him to her 15-year-old breast to snuggle one last time. She had done all she knew to do for the fever, the pain, and the pustules infecting her brother and three younger sisters. With no apothecary to lend them aid, the nursing had fallen to her. Elizabeth’s older sister, Jane, had not the emotional fortitude to tend her siblings. Her mother had taken to her bed with a case of nerves at the first sign of the outbreak. The smallpox had devastated the small village of Longbourn and the surrounding area. While in London visiting their Uncle and Aunt Gardiner, the two oldest Bennet siblings had been inoculated with the vaccine, developed over 10 years before by Dr. Edward Jenner, but the single pox scar left on Elizabeth’s right temple persuaded Mrs. Bennet to not allow her youngest three daughters, Mary, Kitty and Lydia, and her only son and heir, Thomas James Bennet to receive the needed medicine. Mrs. Bennet would do anything to not have her most precious offspring marred by such scarring. Satirical cartoons depicting people turning into animals after receiving the vaccine fed her fears. How senseless that had been! Her husband, always longing for peace, to the exclusion of all rational thought, went along with the constantly expressed opinions of his wife. Her father’s blame for something that Elizabeth was unable to control added to the agony in her heart for her beloved little brother. To lose little Thomas, her dear sisters, and many of her friends and acquaintances in such a short period was a devastating blow. Then, to have her father unfairly place the blame on her young shoulders was a weight she did not think she was able to bear.

  Descending the stairs to the hallway, Elizabeth noticed her sister, Jane, hovering in the doorway of the front parlor. Tears streamed down Jane’s face as she wordlessly transmitted the pain and anguish for all they were losing that day. The orders from their father had been clear. Not a word to Elizabeth. No acknowledgement that she existed. Elizabeth gathered her small valise containing her meager possessions and turned to
the door.

  Hill, the Bennet’s longtime butler, took the valise from Elizabeth’s small hands. He handed her a sealed letter and then reached into his pockets to retrieve a few shillings that always jingled there. Pressing them into Elizabeth’s hands, he sighed deeply, “I only wish it were more, Miss.” His beloved Elizabeth glanced up and gave him a tearful smile. “It should see you to your uncle’s house in Cheapside.” He continued, “May God be with you.”

  Reaching back, Elizabeth removed the garnet necklace that had been a gift from her father. She dropped it into Hill’s hands. With a final sob, Elizabeth Anne Bennet walked away from her home, not looking back.

  November 11, 1806 – later that same day

  Pemberley Chapel, Derbyshire

  The young man stood in front of the family crypt in the chapel, his head hanging in silent grief; his ten-year-old sister crying silently beside him. It had been unexpected, their father’s death. The pain of their loss was sharpened by the whispers from their neighbors in the chapel, from the servants that wandered through the hallways and rooms of their home, and from the distant Darcy family that came at the first news of distress. “Who will be the new master of Pemberley?”

  Running his long fingers over the name engraved on the tomb next to the newly opened vault, he read aloud, “Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy”. Before the week was out, the name “George Adam Darcy” would be carved next to his neighbor. Truly, they were now closer in death than Fitzwilliam Darcy had ever seen them in life.

  “Come, dear Georgie, let us return.” His little sister remained unmoved. He bent and lifted her, holding her close, carrying her to the carriage that waited outside the chapel. He did not see the craftsmen waiting to finish their job. Nor did he see the other mourners gathered in clumps, their own eyes trained on Mr. Darcy’s second son. But, he heard the whispers. “Who will be the new master of Pemberley?”