Other Mr. Darcy

by Monica Fairview

  Copyright © 2009 by Monica Fairview

  Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Brenden Hitt

  Cover images © Bridgeman Art Library

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  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.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fairview, Monica.

  The other Mr. Darcy / Monica Fairview.

  p. cm.

  Originally published: London : Robert Hale, 2009.

  1. Courtship--Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6106.A38O84 2009

  823’.92--dc22

  2009021800

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In loving memory of my mother

  Sophie

  You would have laughed

  Prologue

  Caroline Bingley sank to the floor, her silk crepe dress crumpling up beneath her. Tears spurted from her eyes and poured down her face and, to her absolute dismay, a snorting, choking kind of sound issued from her mouth.

  “This is most improper,” she tried to mutter, but the sobs—since that was what they were—the sobs refused to stay down her throat where they were supposed to be.

  She had never sobbed in her life, so she could not possibly be sobbing now.

  But the horrible sounds kept coming from her throat. And water—tears—persisted in squeezing past her eyes and down her face.

  Then with a wrench, something tore in her bosom—her chest—and she finally understood the expression that everyone used but that she had always considered distinctly vulgar. Her heart was breaking. And it was true because what else could account for that feeling, inside her, just in the centre there, of sharp, stabbing pain?

  And what could account for the fact that her arms and her lower limbs were so incredibly heavy that she could not stand up?

  She was heartbroken. Her Mr Darcy had married that very morning. In church, in front of everyone, and she had been unable to prevent it.

  He had preferred Elizabeth Bennet. He had actually married her, in spite of her inferior connections, and even though he had alienated his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose brother was an earl. Caroline simply could not comprehend it.

  She had that tearing feeling again and she looked down, just to make sure that it was not her bodice that was being ripped apart. But the bodice, revealing exactly enough of her bosom as was appropriate for a lady, remained steadfastly solid. So the tearing must have come from somewhere inside her. It squeezed at her with pain hard enough to stop her breathing, and to force those appalling sobs out even when she tried her best to swallow them down.

  She rested her face in her hands and surrendered to them. She had no choice in the matter. They were like child’s sobs, loud and noisy. More like bawling, in fact. Her mouth was stretched and wide open. And the noise kept coming out, on and on.

  On the floor, in the midst of merriment and laughter, on the day of William Fitzwilliam Darcy’s wedding, with strains of music accompanying her, Miss Caroline Bingley sobbed for her lost love.

  ***

  A long time later, someone tried to open the door. She came to awareness suddenly, realizing where she was. The person on the other side tried again, but she resisted, terrified that someone would come in and catch sight of her tear-stained face. No one, no one, she resolved, would ever know that she had cried because of Mr Darcy.

  Whoever was on the other side gave the doorknob a last puzzled rattle, then walked slowly back down the corridor.

  She rose, straightening out her dress, smoothing down her hair with hands that were steady only because she forced them to be.

  She needed to repair the ravages her pathetic bawling had caused. At any moment, someone else could come in and discover her. She moved to look into a mirror that hung above the mantelpiece.

  And recoiled in shock.

  For the second time that day, she lost control completely. Her hand flew to her mouth and she squeaked—for that was the best word one could honour it with—squeaked in absolute horror.

  For there he was, reflected in the mirror, sitting with his legs stretched before him, watching her gravely. He was a complete stranger. He had sat there, all that time, silent witness to the one moment in her adult life when she had broken down in such an utterly demeaning fashion.

  Like the snap of a riding-crop, her surprise jolted her into motion. The heavy sensation scattered. She spun round to face him.

  “How dare you sit there and watch me, sir, without the courtesy of letting me know of your presence!”

  The stranger stirred and came to his feet. His face, which had been in the shadows, entered the light as he shifted, and she drew in her breath. In her befuddlement, she thought for a moment it was Darcy himself. Then she knew it was not, merely someone who resembled him, somewhat, someone with a clear family relationship.

  “You are entirely correct,” said the stranger. “I have been very remiss. I realized my error after the first minute. But by then it was too late. I could not interrupt such an outpour, and I felt it would be ill advised of me to try.”

  “If you were a gentleman,” she remarked, with as much haughtiness as her anger would allow her, “you would have left the room.”

  He waved his half-empty glass towards the door. “Unless I left through one of the windows, I really had no option but to stay.” His hand indicated the rest of the room as if to prove to her the truth of his words. Because she was still befuddled, her eyes followed it, noting that the room had no French doors, and that the windows were quite narrow.

  “Well,” she persisted, but her anger had abandoned her, to be replaced by exhaustion, “you ought to have thought of something.”

  “I did try,” said the stranger. “Believe me, I tried. It was not a spectacle I relished.”

  The spark of anger rekindled, along with the sharp sting of shame. “And you have the gall to refer to me as a spectacle?” Those deplorable sobs were threatening to burst out again. They made her voice uneven and appallingly unfamiliar to her ears.

  His eyes remained grave, though the corner of his mouth moved, just marginally. “I was not referring to you. I was simply remarking that I would have rather been anywhere else than a witness to your grief.”

  His statement mollified her. Indeed, she could think of no response. She rearranged the wrinkled skirt of her dress around her, gathering together the shreds of her dignity. What did it matter, after all, what this stranger thought of her? She would most likely never see him again.

  Then it crossed her mind that he had complete power over her, that he was in fact free to disgrace her completely if he revealed her outburst to the assembled guests.

  “I would be grateful to you, sir, if you would be good enough to keep this episode to yourself,” she said, her gaze lowered to the ground, abject in her fear.

  He came forward and with a touch of a gloved finger, raised her chin so that she looked up into h
is eyes. There was sympathy in them.

  “You may consider this episode forgotten,” he said. “But if at any time you wished to speak about it, I would be honoured if you would confide in me.”

  She did not want pity. Nor would she let him take advantage of her weakness. She stepped back out of his reach, stood up straight, and answered, her voice quite distant.

  “That would be highly unlikely, sir. We have not even been introduced.”

  With that she swirled round and, her footsteps deliberate, she walked to the door, opened it, and closed it firmly between them.

  Chapter 1

  A dark form glided out of the fog, growing steadily larger, then resolving itself into the shape of a carriage. It drew up to the house, claiming every right to stop there.

  “We are not expecting visitors, are we, Charles?” said Caroline Bingley, turning to her brother Charles, and his wife, Jane, formerly Jane Bennet of Longbourn.

  “Certainly not,” said Charles, tossing aside the book he was reading and rising eagerly. “Did you recognize the carriage?”

  “I cannot see clearly through the fog,” replied Caroline.

  “It is hard to imagine anyone wanting to drive in such weather,” said Jane. “But I would welcome the company.”

  After being cooped up in the house for two days with only her brother, his wife, and her widowed sister Mrs Louisa Hurst, Caroline was badly in need of diversion. Briefly, curiosity propelled her towards the window. Then dignity won and she came to sit on the sofa, picking up the book her brother had put down.

  By and by the sound of footsteps outside the room rewarded her patience. The door of the parlour opened and the footman announced their visitor.

  “Mr Darcy.”

  Caroline jumped and dropped the book. To cover her confusion, she busied herself fumbling with the book on the ground. When she looked up, however, it was not Darcy’s familiar face that she saw.

  The eyes that regarded her were not brown like Mr Darcy’s. They were deep blue, and framed with long black eyelashes. Their gaze pierced hers with inappropriate directness. They suggested an intimacy that brought the blood racing to her face. Another jolt went through her and she almost dropped the book again. “I believe we have not been introduced,” said the stranger.

  “This is my sister, Miss Caroline Bingley,” said her brother. “Mr Robert Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s cousin. Mr Darcy made a brief appearance at his cousin’s wedding, but was called back home suddenly. He has recently returned to England from the Colonies.”

  “From the United States of America,” Mr Darcy corrected. “That is the current term, I believe. From Boston.”

  He put out his hand to take hers. Caroline shifted the book from her right to her left hand and in a kind of waking nightmare placed it in his. He bowed over it.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Bingley,” said the voice she remembered only too well.

  He was waiting. What was he waiting for? She realized everyone was looking at her expectantly. “A pleasure,” she said stiffly, because she did not trust herself to say more. Fortunately, nobody seemed to expect more of her because Mr Darcy greeted Louisa and took a seat close to Jane.

  “What a pleasant surprise you have given us,” said Jane, in that calm voice of hers. “I have not seen you since we were last in Derbyshire in May. I hope you mean to stay with us for some time.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Charles, beaming. “You must stay as long as you wish.”

  But Mr Darcy—the other Mr Darcy—looked grim.

  “I would be very pleased, under any other circumstances,” he said. “Unfortunately, I have come to convey unwelcome news.” He looked gravely at Jane. “I am here to take you to your sister’s side. Darcy sent me with the carriage to convey you to Pemberley.”

  Jane’s face drained of colour. She leaned quickly forward and clutched Mr Darcy’s hand. “Oh—pray tell me! What has happened?”

  Mr Darcy shook his head. “I will tell you everything, but first you must make arrangements to leave.”

  Jane looked around her in agitation. “I must send a message to my family.”

  “Mrs Darcy expressly said not to mention anything to your family,” said Mr Darcy, “She does not wish to alarm her parents unnecessarily.”

  “Then it cannot be so very alarming,” said Charles, looking relieved. He walked to the back of the sofa where Jane was sitting and placed his hands on his wife’s shoulder.

  “Yes, you are probably right,” said Jane, but she continued to stare at Mr Darcy in distress.

  “Shall I inform the maids to start packing?” asked Caroline, standing up. Jane was not one to make quick decisions at the best of times, and she was clearly distraught now.

  “Yes, thank you, Caroline,” said Jane, giving her sister-in-law a weak smile. “You are so good at taking care of things.”

  When Caroline returned, Jane was still sitting on the sofa, engaged in a hushed conversation with Charles. Mr Darcy was standing by the fire, warming his hands.

  “Mr Darcy,” said Caroline, “I am sure you must be very cold and tired after your journey. I have had a fire lit in one of the guest chambers, and I will have a bath drawn up for you. The housekeeper will show you to your chamber.”

  “Thank you. You are very kind,” he said. With a slight bow, he left the parlour.

  Having assured herself that he had gone, Caroline walked across the room to Louisa and drew her chair next to her sister’s. “Have you discovered the nature of Elizabeth Darcy’s illness?” she asked Louisa in a half-whisper.

  Louisa nodded. “I believe she is ill as a result of her confinement. She lost the child, and she is very weak after losing blood. It seems she is quite dejected, and will only be cheered by her sister’s presence.”

  Caroline was glad Mr Darcy had left the room. She wondered that such a delicate topic had been discussed openly by a gentleman. But after all, Caroline had been the only unmarried lady in the room, and he did not speak in front of her.

  Still, revealing Eliza’s condition to everybody showed a certain lack of restraint, and perhaps a tendency to gossip. Caroline fervently hoped that he had not gossiped about her.

  “I think it is only an excuse to have a member of her family by her side in Pemberley,” murmured Louisa. “I am certain Mr Darcy has forbidden them from visiting, which is quite the right thing to do. Such common persons should not be tolerated at a grand estate like Pemberley.”

  Caroline squirmed. Her sister could be quite extreme when she did not like somebody. “Hush,” she said. “That is absurd, and you know it. She would not send for her sister so urgently, if that were the case. Besides, the Bennets have visited Pemberley at least twice since the wedding. You must not say such things. You do not wish to offend Charles, do you? They are his connections too.”

  “I would not offend my dear brother for anything. He has been so kind to me after my dear Mr Hurst’s sudden death. And Jane is all a sister-in-law should be. But it would be too much for me to pretend I like the rest of the Bennets.”

  The whispered conversation of Charles and Jane had stopped. Afraid they had overheard Louisa’s comment, Caroline held her breath and prepared herself to say something to repair the damage. Instead, Charles came to his feet and pulled Jane up, giving no indication of noticing anything wrong. Caroline breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I think it would be best if Jane and I set out in Darcy’s carriage. If we leave tonight, we will need to spend an extra night on the road,” said Charles, “but we will reach Derbyshire sooner. I do not wish to delay a moment longer than I must. Jane is really most anxious to reach Elizabeth.” He turned to his sisters. “Caroline, neither you nor Louisa are required in Pemberley.”

  “Oh!” cried Jane. “But Caroline must accompany us. I have never dealt with a household as large as Pemberley. She will know what to do.” She looked appealingly at Caroline. “You will come with us, will you not?”

  “The housekeeper, Mrs Reyno
lds, is very capable,” said Caroline, smiling faintly, “you do not need me.”

  “But what will you do here, then, with us away?” said Jane. “Charles, you must convince her to come.”

  “Yes,” said Charles, impatient to set out. “You may as well come to Pemberley, if we are to remove there. You, too, Louisa. There is little to amuse you here when we’re gone. You need not hurry. I am sure Robert Darcy is tired after such a long journey, and would prefer to rest a day or two. Upon his return, however, he can escort you there. Meanwhile, you could oversee the packing.”

  He went to the window and peered out. “You will probably be more fortunate with the weather, too. I admit I do not like travelling in the fog.” Lines of worry etched his face.

  “Pooh! It will not be foggy all the way to Pemberley!” said Louisa. “But what are we to tell the Bennets if they call? They will descend upon us as soon as the weather clears, you may depend upon it, and we will have to explain your absence.”

  “I will send a note informing them that Eliza is taken slightly ill, and that I am going to attend her,” said Jane. “If they call and shower you with questions, you must say we disclosed nothing more than that.”

  “Knowing Mrs Bennet, that will surely arouse her determination to discover all the details,” said Caroline.

  “I am sure you are more than capable of keeping my mother at bay,” said Jane, with an affectionate smile.

  “I am, indeed,” said Caroline, and embraced her quickly. “Now go, get yourself ready. Your sister is expecting you.”

  “You’ll take charge of the arrangements, then?” asked Charles. “I would be most grateful.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  But when they left the room, Louisa remarked, “What would they do without your management, I wonder, Sister? They rely far too much on you.” She sighed, drawing her black dress about her. She was growing restless of wearing widow’s weeds, and had already had several dresses in grey, black and white, and lavender made, anticipating the end of her one-year mourning period. “You are always so busy you scarcely have any time for amusement. I do wish my dear Mr Hurst were here. Then we could at least play cards together.”