Sarah Johnson
Copyright © 2014 Sarah Johnson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed and online reviews without the express written consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction based on the characters in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and is otherwise completely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Floral references and meanings within this novel are taken from The Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway
Cover Design by: Peculiar World Designs
Section Dividers by: Media Militia
Title Font: Jellyka Delicious Cake
Courtesy of: Jellyka Nerevan from CuttyFruty
To my husband of fifteen years, Paul. You are truly my own Mr Darcy. Without your love and support I would have never found the courage to complete this journey. Thank you!
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
Connect with Sarah Johnson
The inspiration for a deaf character came from reading a letter Jane Austen wrote in 1808 in which she mentioned talking with her fingers. Her second eldest brother, George, was deaf and mute. Though little is known of what caused his impairment, it is known that he knew how to sign. So it is Jane Austen herself that has inspired this tale.
I have a wonderful editing team and I would be remiss if I did not take this opportunity to personally thank them for their hard work and wonderful ideas. So thank you to Anita, Linnea, Linda, and Rose for all the time and energy you have put into this story with me. Also thank you to my brother, Joshua, who has done the tedious task of formatting my eBooks. I could not do this without the support of each of these wonderful people, so from my heart to yours—Thank You!
January 1799
COLD! So cold! She could not open her eyes because of the shooting pain it caused. She had to fight! Move, she told herself. Tiny pin pricks all over her body! She could not continue like this—she had to stop—she needed to be warm. Suddenly she felt her body go limp—floating in a weightless suspension somewhere. Where am I?
Suddenly everything changed. Even without opening her eyes she could tell the difference. Warmth encompassed her whole being and she no longer felt the sharp pain of needles poking her.
Opening her eyes, she saw that she was standing in a field of flowers. The sun shining overhead was just enough to be bright and warm, but not overpowering. She looked all around. As far as her eye could see were rolling hills—fields covered with flowers of every kind. It was like looking at a rainbow poured out over the lands.
Off in the distance she noticed a tree on top of one hill. She wondered about its lone existence and suddenly she was there, beneath its shade. She turned all around, spinning so her dress came up, then she saw someone. She stumbled to a stop and looked to the lady who appeared before her.
“Mama? Is that really you?” The little girl standing by her side looked just as she imaged her baby sister would have looked at that age. “Lydia?”
The lady reached down and grasped the hand of the child beside her, then they turned to walk away. Suddenly she turned back, reaching her hand out to Mary, the words coming from her lips echoing in Mary’s mind—‘Come with me, my child. I love you’.
She stretched her arm, trying with all her might to reach them, but the harder she reached the further away they became. Everything around began to fade. The sunlight grew dim and the flowers on the distant hills disappeared. Mary looked all around and when she looked back to where the tree should have been, there was nothing. Complete darkness encompassed her world.
She felt her way a few steps, but was so unsure of her footing that she stopped. “I cannot see! No! I must be able to see!” She collapsed on the cold ground below her, the darkness engulfing her to the deepest part of her soul. She did what any young girl of eight years would do—she began to cry for her Papa until she was so tired she could no longer remain awake. Finally she gave in to the drowsiness and sleep overtook her.
Heaviness surrounded her. Her arms were weary and something was weighing down her entire body. Slowly she opened her eyes and the familiar surroundings of her room came into view. The once bright floral wallpaper was faded and peeling, just as she remembered. The bed curtains were pulled back and tied at the corner posts of the bed. A chill in the room was driven away with the roaring fire in the fireplace, but something was wrong.
She looked around and saw her father sitting in the chair across the room. His head was resting in the wing and one leg was crossed over the other, an open book laid across his knee—just as she remembered him. She smiled and tried to sit up.
Suddenly she saw someone come running into the room, making it to the side of the bed before Mr Bennet could. Elizabeth! Oh she looked so tired! She was saying something, her lips were moving, but nothing was coming out.
Mary’s brow furrowed and she looked around at the faces now surrounding her bed—Elizabeth... Papa... Aunt Philips... the next face that came into view was that of Doctor Jones. He was saying something to the others, then he reached out his hand and felt her forehead. His fingers were ice cold and she cringed at the sudden feel of them on her skin.
Aunt Philips was nodding at what he said, then she handed him a cup of tea. He turned back and lifted her head, helping Mary drink the awful tasting liquid, then he helped her lie down again, pulled the blankets high to her neck, and tucked them in all around, all the while talking to the others.
Nothing—she heard nothing. Not a sound, not a twinge, not even what one would expect to hear when you plug your ears up and hear your own heart beating. Silence. Deep, dark silence, then everything went black once again as sleep overtook her body.
When she awoke again she saw Elizabeth sitting in the chair that had now been moved to right beside the bed. Elizabeth was holding Mary’s favorite book in her hands—one their mother read to them often. It contained a list of flowers and what meaning they held, as well as pretty drawing throughout—some from the author and others drawn by their mother.
Mary looked back to Elizabeth’s face and realized she was reading aloud, but once again nothing was heard. She reached up to her ears, pulling at them frantically as tears began to well in her eyes. She felt her father’s strong arms wrap around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. She looked up into his eyes and s
aw him moving his mouth, but she did not know what he was saying. She could do nothing but cry in his arms. Even her crying was in silence.
The words she heard her mother say rang out in her mind—‘Come with me, my child. I love you’... ‘I love you’... ‘I love you’. Would she ever again hear those words?
Summer 1807
The crowded coach ambled down the road. She was certain the letter that preceded their unexpected journey would arrive only hours before they did and she hoped her uncle would think to have a footman waiting at the appointed stop. That was something they did not think about until after the missive was on its way. Oh well, there was nothing they could do about it now.
The heat of the summer day was making the conditions inside the carriage almost unbearable. Mary decided at the next stop she and Elizabeth would try to sit next to a window instead. Until then, she would remain in the tiny space available to them in the middle of the carriage, glad to at least not have to listen to the babe that was in obvious distress across from them. Poor thing—even he cannot handle this heat.
The four hour coach ride would leave the two sisters a mile from their relations home on Gracechurch Street and they would have to walk from there. Luckily their uncle did send someone to escort them. Neither of them knew exactly where they were going, but they followed closely as the footman led the way down the crowded streets of London.
Before they knew it the two stood before the door of an unfamiliar home in an equally as unfamiliar city. The bustle of the busy street faded around them and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, each grasping the other’s hand as the footman knocked and then stepped back to enter through the servant’s door.
Almost immediately the door swung open and the familiar face of their aunt appeared. She embraced and greeted the two, and then ushered them into the small home and into the sitting room.
Mary sat where their aunt indicated, taking a cup of tea when it was offered, and watched as Elizabeth spoke with their aunt of the tragic events the two had left behind in Hertfordshire. Mary looked down, refusing to know what was said—it was too much to bear in detailing the loss they had suffered all over again.
Finally she felt someone touch her arm and she looked up into the teary eyes of her aunt. The words that formed on the lady’s lips would forever be forged on her heart—you are welcome to live here with us, both of you.
Her life was not one filled with much acceptance, even from the small neighborhood in which she had spent the entirety of her fifteen years, but she knew somehow they would make a life here.
Elizabeth reached over and squeezed her sister’s fingers, then she signed, “Uncle has gone to Hertfordshire and will return when everything has been settled.”
Having never been as proficient at signing as her nieces were, Madeline let Elizabeth do the service for her as she told them both of the black crepe, muslin, and bombazine materials already being pulled from the shelves at their uncle’s warehouse. They were to be fashioned into the mourning clothing the two would be required to wear for the next year. Some material had already been draped around the home on the doorways and in the proper places, and Madeline’s maid was currently dying a dress for her to wear until more could be fashioned in the coming weeks. Black ribbon had been delivered already and was to be placed appropriately by the household staff as the day wore on.
Madeline reached for Mary’s hand and when the younger girl looked up at her face, she said slowly, “My maid is awaiting you above stairs and bath water is being prepared already so you can wash the smoke from your hair.” She smiled, “Your Uncle has even brought back some scented oil from his warehouse that may help.”
Tears filled her eyes. She thought no one noticed—thought she was unseen in the dramatic hours since their family had suffered so great a loss—but her aunt saw what the girls needed and was prepared to do everything in her power to provide for their well-being. The tears began to run down her cheeks and in the next moment her aunt’s arms were around her in a strong embrace, her hand running soothingly through Mary’s long knotted hair. When Mary was finally calmed again, Madeline led the two up the stairs and to the room they would share. Then she went to the nursery to check on her own children. They were all asleep for their nap. She nodded to the maid who sat in the corner.
When her husband returned from burying Mr Bennet and their nieces, Jane and Kitty, who did not make it out of the fire at Longbourn, they would need to discuss the possibility of moving to a larger home. With their three children and their nieces now living with them permanently, this one would become too small very quickly.
She returned downstairs and sat at her desk, pulling out paper to begin the necessary letters to others who would need to be told of the family’s loss.
An hour later, Mary came back down the stairs. Finding her aunt at the desk, she retrieved a chair and sat, watching as she completed the task before her.
Madeline looked to her niece and smiled, “You have always had lovely hair. Did the oil work in removing the smell?”
Mary lifted a section of her hair and smelled it, smiling slightly as she nodded her head.
“Would you like to help me dip the edges of these pages in ink?”
Mary nodded again, and her aunt helped her set up an area where the tedious task could be completed with minimal mess. When the two were done, Madeline retrieved the traditional black melting wax and they sealed the letters, then stacked them on the desk to be posted the next day.
Madeline stood and held her hand out to her fifteen year old niece, “Come, you can join me in the garden.”
She took the offered hand timidly and went with her aunt outside into the small space they had made into a garden. It was only large enough for one bench that seated two comfortably, but it was nicely designed and a peaceful retreat in the middle of the bustling town all around them. The high wall covered in ivy at the back was meant to keep the noise to a minimum, but Mary would not notice such things. What she did notice was the Spruce Pine tree that grew in the back corner. She smiled as she recognized it from her mother’s book of flowers—‘hope in adversity’.
With a determined stride she went to the tree and ran her hand over the needles, smiling when they made her palm itch. She had to believe what it meant was true. She had to hold onto the hope that all this would be a distant memory for them one day. She had to trust that the physical limitations that had held her back since she lost her hearing at the age of eight would not become a deterrent to what the future held.
She felt her sister come up beside her.
“Are you well?” Elizabeth signed.
Mary turned and signed back, “Yes, I am well. And you?”
Elizabeth gave a small smile and reached for her sister’s hands, holding them tightly in her own. “We are well.”
April 2, 1811
He raced furiously through the familiar lanes, dodging the carriages littering the streets in the late afternoon; an ominous feeling settling deep within him. He tried to push it aside, but could not outpace it. What did she do? Will I arrive there in time to save her from whatever has occurred?
Finally arriving at the very house where he delivered his sister just four weeks prior, he jumped down from the horse, tossed the reins to the stable hand, and nearly knocked over the butler as he threw open the door to rush inside.
“Mr Darcy... sir... we did not expect you...”
“Where is she? Where is my sister?” He hastened from one room to the next, flinging open doors as the staff followed behind him.
“Sir?” The housekeeper was trying to determine what had taken place to bring her employer here so unexpectedly. “We know not what you mean?”
It was then he saw the sheets over the furniture and the minimal staff present. “Where is everyone? WHAT is going on here Mrs Lewis?”
“Sir, your sister left three days ago.”
“WHAT? She was to remain here until next week when I was to collect her for our Easter holiday at Rosings.
”
“Yes, that is what you said when you delivered her, but when you sent orders to have the house closed up immediately upon her taking her leave I assumed your plans had changed.”
“NO! I did not write to you!” His stomach lurched as he closed his eyes and asked, “Where is the letter?”
“Right this way, sir,” she quickly went downstairs to her work—room, the master of the house following closely behind. With shaky hands she rifled through the crate on her desk until she came across the correspondence. “Here it is, sir.”
He was taken aback. The imprint in the wax was indeed the Darcy seal, and the writing was eerily similar to his own. If he did not know better, he would say he wrote it. He wadded it and threw it onto the desk, cursing loudly in frustration. Seeing the shocked look on the housekeeper’s face he quickly apologized, “I am sorry, that was uncalled for. I heartily apologize for assaulting your ears, Mrs Lewis.”
“Do not concern yourself, Mr Darcy.” She picked up the wrinkled letter, smoothing and folding it before she placed it back in the crate, “Are you saying you did not write this?”
His hand ran agitatedly through his long dark curls, his brow furrowing further as he answered, “No, I did not, but I think I know who did.” He slumped into the chair as he asked, “What has occurred over the last four weeks? Who has visited my sister?”
“Mrs Younge had a visitor a few times; a man. He seemed nice enough, but he only came two or three times and stayed only a short while,” she answered. “At first I thought I recognized him, but I could never determine what was so familiar about his features. I just assumed his appearance was similar to someone I have seen before.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No sir, but he may have left his card. Would you like me to ask Mr Porter?”
“Yes... please do. Was this man the only visitor?”
“No sir, there was another—a young lady named Miss Bennet walked along the beach with your sister nearly every morning. She returned with Miss Darcy several times when their walk was completed.”
Just to Hear 'I Love You': An Alternate Tale of Jane Austen's 'Pride & Prejudice' Page 1