Darcy & Elizabeth: Hope of the Future: Darcy Saga Prequel Duo Book 2

by Lathan, Sharon

  She could remember, however, early discussions when he spoke with tenderness, pleading softly with her to understand. Anne, too, had echoed her cousin’s sentiments, begging for an end to the topic.

  Lady Catherine had flatly rejected doing so. For a host of reasons, a union between Darcy and Anne was the sensible, only acceptable course. Now, with the latest repugnant development, Lady Catherine’s conviction of her superior wisdom was stronger than ever.

  Setting her jaw, she fixed a stony glare on her guest and, in a voice of iron declared, “The past is irrelevant. Darcy will marry, and it will be to my Anne, not a worthless country girl lacking a drop of noble blood. Whatever it takes.”

  1

  Optimistic Expedition

  October 27, 1816

  Darcy House in London

  Fitzwilliam Darcy dipped the tip of his sharpened quill into the silver ink jar, tapped it onto the edge to remove the excess fluid, and etched a precise X inside the square for the twenty-sixth of October.

  Smoothing one hand over the calendar page while returning the quill to its stand, he gazed at the rows of squares, each with a bold X indicating the date had passed. It was tempting to mark today as complete, but doing so would be premature, considering his breakfast tray sat on the table, and the pot of coffee remained half full.

  Best not to violate the rules, no matter the satisfaction in seeing precisely one month remaining until the day scheduled for his marriage to Elizabeth Bennet.

  In one respect Darcy did not wish to rush the time. Each day within this season of courtship brought new delights and increased the hope of their future happiness together. The remaining month promised to be especially splendid. Managing to keep a tight grip on his passions, he determined, was the only obstacle to a blissful engagement period!

  Coffee cup in hand, Darcy relaxed into the chair and lifted his eyes to the window where sunlight glistened on the drops of dew coating the panes. The small patio outside his bedchamber had transformed from the lush, green-shrouded privacy of summer with bright colors of wisteria, lilac, and potted flowers, to an open terrace of faded blooms and semi-bare branches with clinging leaves of oranges and yellows.

  While perhaps not as gloriously beautiful, Darcy tended to prefer the rustic, earthy colors of autumn. For some, this season too vividly illustrated decay and death. To Darcy, autumn marked a gradual easing of life’s busyness and ushered in a period of restful, solitude. For as long as memory served, he had embraced the tranquility of winter at Pemberley. This upcoming winter, with Elizabeth in his life, anticipation for the season was multiplied tenfold.

  Nay, after yesterday’s miraculous revelations, make that a hundredfold.

  Before arriving in London two days ago, the rapport forged with Elizabeth in the month since their engagement had exceeded Darcy’s wildest imaginings. He had lost count of the times when their easy conversation, similar humor, and reciprocated insights had amazed him. Gradually his guilt over past missteps had faded, as Darcy accepted that by some miracle Elizabeth loved him—almost as deeply as he loved her.

  On this fine autumn morning, Darcy freely admitted to his error on two points.

  One, Elizabeth already loved him as deeply as he loved her, this being the first miracle revelation from yesterday’s fiery encounter in his mother’s bedchamber.

  The second miracle revelation was how thoroughly Elizabeth understood his heart and mind. Clearer than he did, as it turned out.

  Oh, my Elizabeth! How remarkable you are. With that thought, Darcy set the empty coffee cup down, slid his journal atop the calendar, and opened at the marked page for last night’s entry.

  Once again, she defied my direct order, proving, as she undoubtedly did when confronting Lady Catherine, that she is fearless. Brave and bold, perhaps more so than I. She refused to leave the bedchamber as I commanded, charging toward me until nearly nose to nose for a scathing rebuke I shall never forget.

  “Tell me truthfully Fitzwilliam Darcy. Am I to conclude that our mutual love and desire are emotions to be disdained and ashamed of? Is this contempt and repugnance to continue after we wed? Or is it that you honestly reckon you are such an uncontainable beast that you would hurt the woman you love? Or do you have so little faith in my self-control that you assume I would willingly allow you to ravage me like a bought woman?”

  Hurt Elizabeth? God no! The very thought brings me to my knees. Had my actions unwittingly given her the impression that I distrusted her virtue and strength of character? Had I shunned her affections to the point of damaging our future marital relations? Suddenly my fear of losing her respect and love was far greater than my ridiculous physical struggles. Then, with her next words, I abruptly comprehended that fear was the true root indeed, just not the fear I had surmised.

  “William, listen to me carefully. I do not believe any of the questions I asked are true of you. What I do believe is that you are afraid to express your emotions freely. You are wrapped in an inflexible cocoon of discipline and righteousness, terrified that if you loosen one single cord, you will unravel completely. You love me and desire me, yet resist showing me how much because you fear I will be disgusted or disappointed if I discover you are not this towering paragon of virtue and excellence you deem yourself.”

  Ah, such truth. Indeed, I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man forever prideful of his intelligence and clarity, have been stupid and blind. Elizabeth pierced through every facade. She saw the truth of my fears and laid them bare. Elizabeth, who faces me boldly as few can, knows of my weaknesses yet loves me for them and still trusts me with her entire being. How can I not trust her with the same? There is an amusing irony to the charade when viewed in light of our past. Fearing to release my “inflexible cocoon of discipline and righteousness” and fearing the free expression of my emotions at this point in our relationship is nonsensical when it is exactly those negative traits that caused Elizabeth to refuse my first proposal of marriage.

  “Do you not yet comprehend how deeply I love you?” This singular question, uttered with raw emotion, was alone adequate proof of how wrong I was to judge her feelings as being of a lesser intensity than mine. If I needed additional validation, her subsequent words—her endearment, her touch—were amply sufficient to lift the yoke from my shoulders. My dearest Elizabeth shall forever be my sufficiency.

  This was the extent of his entry. Volumes more could have been added, but chronicling every impression was unnecessary. Darcy would eternally remember the whole of last evening’s conversation as vividly as he would their argument after his horrendous first proposal. Thankfully, the aftermath of this most recent confrontation was encouraging, rather than the heartbreaking outcome from last April.

  Minutes later Darcy entered his dressing room whistling a jaunty tune. His valet, Samuel Oliver, greeted him politely and commenced the routine morning toilette as if Mr. Darcy whistling was normal.

  Nearly laughing aloud, Darcy suddenly realized that whistling had become a normal activity—whistling, along with humming and involuntary smiles. Extraordinary!

  Samuel’s natural reticence and impassive expressions gave no hint as to his opinion regarding Darcy’s unusual mannerisms of late. Based on Samuel’s reaction to his master’s engagement news, Darcy doubted his severely proper valet dwelt upon the matter beyond the professional regard for which waistcoat, cravat knot, or cologne selection was best for the planned activity of the day.

  A month prior, on the afternoon of his engagement to Elizabeth, Darcy had informed his valet, as calmly as possible, “We shall be staying in Netherfield for an indefinite period.”

  Samuel had nodded once and replied with a simple, “Very well, sir.”

  When no further questions were asked, Darcy pressed on, “As it happens, I have asked for the honor of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s hand in marriage, and she has accepted my proposal.”

  Expression unchanged, the valet had given a second nod identical to the first and continued brushing Darcy’s coat without the slight
est falter in rhythm. “Congratulations, Mr. Darcy,” he had offered in his typical bland tone. “Will you need particular wardrobe requirements for the weeks ahead? I can send a footman to Pemberley or London for additional supplies and garments.”

  In the weeks since, wardrobe and grooming concerns were still the main topics of their conversations. Clothing selection and a detailed awareness of Mr. Darcy’s daily schedule was the closest Samuel came to touching upon the subject of his master’s upcoming marriage. For twelve years Samuel Oliver had been in Darcy’s employ, inarguably familiar with his physical person above anyone in the world. Regardless, as two men with similarly introverted personalities and strict adherence to protocols, conversations beyond the business at hand were rare and always had been. Darcy preferred it this way and was unfazed by Samuel’s indifference to his engagement.

  Exiting his suite, Darcy went in search of his sister. Too often over the past several years he and Georgiana had not resided in the same house at the same time. Usually, this was the result of her remaining at Pemberley while he was away in London or elsewhere. Rarely were they at Darcy House together, and he suddenly saw the error in eating from a tray at his desk rather than meeting her in the breakfast room to share in the morning repast.

  Old habits die hard, he thought. Then, smiling, he realized that with his marriage there would undoubtedly be a long list of “old habits” needing to die, like it or not.

  Georgiana was in the parlor, as he expected, but not playing the pianoforte, as was typical. Instead, Darcy heard the murmur of voices rather than music and, before reaching the half-open door, distinguished his sister’s dulcet tones from Mrs. Smyth’s gruff accent. It only took a minute to ascertain they were discussing the luncheon scheduled for the following day.

  Much to Darcy’s amazement, at some point during the evening dinner with the Bennets two nights ago, his shy sister had invited Jane and Elizabeth Bennet to Darcy House for an afternoon of female gossip and food. Based on her terrified expression when she told him of it, Darcy deduced her invitation wasn’t the result of extended forethought. With his own emotions in turmoil after his passionate exchange with Elizabeth on the terrace, he hadn’t been in the proper state of mind to ease Georgiana’s concerns. Fortunately, yesterday had changed everything, enabling him to soothe Georgiana’s fears over hosting a party solo for the first time in her life.

  Still, aware of Georgiana’s timidity, and equally aware of Mrs. Smyth’s bossiness, he listened from behind the door for a few more minutes, feeling not at all guilty to be eavesdropping. Once assured Georgiana was holding her own well enough, Darcy decided to leave them be. Later he would talk to the housekeeper privately, adding a handful of his own requests for the party, but primarily to clarify that Miss Darcy had his unwavering support and was ultimately in charge. From time to time Mrs. Smyth needed to be reminded that he was the master of Darcy House, not her.

  Another reason to postpone what could be a lengthy conversation with Georgiana or Mrs. Smyth was his eagerness to embark upon his quest for the day. He was determined to unearth the perfect wedding gift for Elizabeth.

  Attacking the job with his thus-far-reliable logic and superb organizational skills, Darcy climbed into his waiting carriage at nine o’clock sharp. With most of the elite still abed or barely sitting down to breakfast, the street traffic was thin as the hordes had yet to descend upon the shops, which were just opening their doors. Additionally, Darcy wanted to make sure he completed his mission before Mrs. Gardiner and the Bennet brides-to-be commenced their planned shopping day. Running into his betrothed with her gift in his hands would not be ideal.

  All in all, his ideas were solid—the execution of them was not.

  The first indication of poor preparedness was deciding upon Conduit, Bond, and Savile Streets for his shopping destination—force of habit, as this is where Darcy’s tailors were located and where he acquired the bulk of his personal items. After more than a decade, how had he never noticed there literally was not a single store selling products for the female gender?

  On the heels of that failure, Darcy directed the driver to Oxford Street. Multiple stops later and long before reaching the last business—presuming there was an end to the row of merchants—Darcy was grasping his second error. By the time the carriage traversed a third of Piccadilly and Pall Mall, his predicament was glaringly obvious. In contrast to the precinct dedicated to men’s requirements, these shopping zones were primarily dedicated to women. While this might sound like a boon, where does one begin when the possibilities are endless and, quite frankly, every retailer looks identical?

  For most gentlemen, buying a gift for a lady was a straightforward task. Jewelry is always a safe bet, so Darcy had been told, as was perfume or anything made of fur. Unfortunately, this was the extent of what Darcy had learned from those scarce occasions when he had paid attention to what his friends said about their ladies. Only in recent weeks had the folly of his indifference occurred to him.

  Nevertheless, surely it could not be that difficult to find a necklace or broach worthy of his future wife. It sounded simple enough until faced with a half dozen jewelers on one block alone, each with hundreds of gorgeous pieces to choose from. And who knew there were scads of perfumers and furriers? If that had been the end of his options, maybe he would have muddled through and settled on something. To his dismay, there were milliners, haberdashers, hosiers, hatters, cobblers, and innumerable other specialty stores.

  Three hours later, with not a single object purchased, Darcy was beginning to fear he had discovered the one challenge destined to be his defeat. The breadth of his ignorance was boundless. He painfully admitted this to himself, but the embarrassment of confessing his inexperience publicly and ask for help was a blow his ego couldn’t take.

  Then, amid his self-pity, Darcy remembered a conversation several months past. One night, while dining at the Matlock residence, he overheard a conversation between his aunt and another guest. This was during the period of Darcy’s despair over losing Elizabeth Bennet, so while he recalled the guest was a woman, he drew a blank on her name or face. At any rate, the pertinent point for his current dilemma was that the topic involved shopping.

  “Harding and Howell is by far the best London shopping mall,” Lady Matlock had gushed. “It has everything one needs all in one central location, and as a mall, it is much nicer than the Pantheon Bazaar. Unless you are shopping for an exotic product or specialty children’s item, of course. Then the Pantheon is preferred. Otherwise, I save my efforts and patronize Harding and Howell.”

  It was worth a shot.

  A short time later, Darcy paused on a walkway across the busy street from the massive building with windows spanning the entire front facade. An enormous sign nearly the width of the building declared in bold lettering: Harding, Howell & Co. Below the sign and between the expanse of clear glass panes stood a gaping portal where a veritable sea of people poured in and out.

  Perhaps that is a slight exaggeration, he thought, although not by much.

  The bustling throngs were reminiscent of the Royal Exchange. However, at the Exchange men were the predominant sex and the seriousness of financial business yielded an air of hushed solemnity, no matter how large the crowd. At Harding and Howell, the swarm of shoppers were principally female, although there were enough males mingled in to prevent him attracting undue attention. The chief difference was the audible gay chatter and laughter, and kaleidoscopic colors from the variety of garments worn to the brightly decorated boxes and bags carried by trailing servants.

  So much for missing the hordes of shoppers. Flipping open his pocket watch, Darcy noted the hour hand closer to the one than the twelve. Time was ticking away. Get on with it already. How bad can it possibly be?

  Inhaling deeply, he squared his shoulders, stepped off the curb, and marched across the street toward the doors.

  Once over the threshold and into the entrance foyer, he halted in stunned awe as waves of sensation del
uged his senses. First was the steady rumble of hundreds of voices from every direction, at times ringing and then dropping into a constant hum. Wafts of smells pricked his nostril, the majority pleasant, such as the aromas of perfumes and clean fabrics, though interspersed with the intermittent stench of perspiration, dust, and other scents best left unnamed.

  The greatest assault to his faculties, however, was the profuse array of merchandise lining every inch of available space. Wall to ceiling, case upon case, stretching on with no end in sight. With a one-hundred-fifty square feet interior, the mall was gigantic by any standards. The mathematical computation of how many items it was possible to fit into a building that size was beyond his capacity.

  How will I ever find the perfect wedding gift for Elizabeth?

  Scanning the quantity of furs and fans proudly displayed in the partitioned section closest to the main entrance—a mere drop in the bucket—Darcy felt the edges of panic creeping in.

  It will take me weeks to search the entire store. Why have I paid scant attention to the unique requirements for a woman?

  As if by chance, his gaze was captured by an exquisite ermine muff and stole paired together on a wooden mannequin. A sudden epiphany restored clarity to his jumbled mind.

  Why limit himself to purchasing only one gift for his beloved Elizabeth?

  Until now, he had resisted showering her with presents, aware that outward displays of his wealth made her uncomfortable. He had vowed to wait until after they married and she had adjusted to a higher standard of living before letting loose his innate desire to express his love and appreciation through gift giving. After all, he had it on good authority—his sister—that all women adored jewels, dresses, and other pretty accessories. Anything he purchased now could be sent off to Pemberley to await his new wife, thus not breaking his self-imposed vow.