Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  I’ve never been a crier, but once I was in my hotel room, I threw myself on the bed and sobbed until my nose was stuffed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Even when I was looking at my puffy eyes and flushed face in the bathroom mirror, I was thinking that I was glad Darcy would never see me like this. Never again tell me that he’d admired me from the day we’d met. Never again ask to “protect me.” Never kiss me. Never make love to me.

  There really wasn’t any other answer I could have given. I knew that. Darcy hadn’t denied that he’d worked to separate Jane and Charles. He’d made fun of George.

  But he’d also accused me of “choosing to believe” George’s story. He was, in effect, calling George a liar.

  Just another attack, I told myself. But I lay awake in bed, watching one of those endless thigh-buster infomercials, and wished I could order up a nice, all-consuming black hole from room service.

  CHAPTER 11

  BY MORNING I WAS MY USUAL SELF, DETERMINED to put last night’s fiasco out of my mind. But when I pulled on my robe and stumbled toward the bathroom, there was an envelope lying just inside the door. I opened it to find expensive-looking stationery painstakingly covered in an elegant cursive.

  Be not alarmed, madam, that this letter contains any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten.

  I nearly tossed the letter on the floor, but an obsessive curiosity kept me reading. I won’t repeat everything he said here; let’s just say that when I was finished, I was very tempted to throw myself on the bed and cry for a couple more hours.

  It wasn’t an apology. It was a calm, cool recitation of facts laying out what Darcy had felt and done since we’d met. He talked about observing Charles with Jane, and noting that Charles had never showed such “partiality” for a woman before. He’d learned that there was an expectation of marriage and had watched even more closely.

  Instead of concluding that Jane and Charles were in love, he became certain that Jane, open and friendly as she was, didn’t have the same regard for Charles as he did for her. He’d concluded that her heart “was not likely to be easily touched.”

  That alone would have been enough for me to tear the letter into tiny pieces and flush it down the toilet, but he went on to admit that there was even more behind his objection to the potential marriage. He had come to believe that Charles’s generous concessions in the negotiations with BL were the result of a deliberate attempt by my family to influence him by getting him to fall in love with Jane. Because of this conviction, Darcy had persuaded Charles to leave America, avoid Jane in England and give up all idea of marriage to her.

  I was seconds away from raiding the mini-bar for every tiny bottle of alcohol it contained when I read the bit where he admitted that he might have been wrong in his suspicions and his judgment of Jane—that, in fact, he should have known that any sister of mine would never consent to such deception. From a guy like Darcy, this was a major confession.

  So I kept on reading. About George Wickham…almost the same story George had told me, but from a very different perspective. Darcy’s father had loved George as a son, put him through school and given him everything he could want. When Darcy had inherited the estate, George had lived in “idleness and dissipation” and thrown his money into gambling, chasing women and flitting from one career to another.

  There was more about a “living” Darcy’s father had meant George to have, and George’s demand that he be given the worth of the living in cash. Sometime while he was off in London wasting the money, George had been turned into a vampire. Darcy later learned that he’d acquired a bevy of women followers and had converted more than a few against their will.

  Once George had gone through all the money in his usual way, he’d returned to Pemberley to demand the living as his due. When Darcy had refused, George had decided to take revenge and had begun to work on seducing Darcy’s sister, Georgiana, who was only sixteen years old at the time.

  That wasn’t the worst of it. When Wickham found out that Darcy had discovered what he was up to, he’d run off with Georgiana and forcibly converted her. Not only had Georgiana become a vampire like her elder brother, but she had nearly died as a result, falling prey to some rare disease that affects only one in a hundred converts.

  This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together. If you accept any part of it as truth, I hope you will acquit me of any cruelty toward Mr. Wickham. I do not know how he convinced you of his lies, but considering how little you knew of him, and his natural ability to charm, I can hardly be surprised that you believed him.

  My eyes were getting blurry by the time I read the last line. Maybe I should have been more skeptical of the things Darcy had revealed in his letter. He hadn’t said anything about how he had become a vampire, or why Georgiana wasn’t still under Wickham’s power. But Darcy didn’t want me anymore; he had no earthly reason to lie about anything.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and let the letter fall from my hands. I had every reason to be furious with Darcy over his opinion of my family, his belief that Jane had conspired against Charles and his assumption that I’d be thrilled to offer my neck to him.

  But Charles had told Jane that Darcy might have reason to dislike George, and I remembered that Wickham, for all his pretty words, had made promises he hadn’t kept. He’d run away rather than face Darcy as he’d claimed he intended to do. He’d dropped me, and my family, like a stone.

  Darcy was far from perfect; he’d improve considerably if someone would take him down a few pegs. And at least he was sincere. He hadn’t forced me when I’d refused him, when he could easily have done so.

  I fell back on the bed and covered my face with a pillow. I wasn’t fooling myself. There was one more reason I didn’t crumple the letter into a ball and consign it to the trash can.

  I was in love. In love with a vampire.

  I laughed until my throat was sore and my chest ached. The joke was on me. I barely knew the guy, and what I did know about him wasn’t exactly reassuring.

  But that was why I couldn’t just sit here in my hotel room and wallow in emotional martyrdom, or return to New Haven and pretend none of this had happened. It had happened. And the only way to prove to myself that I hadn’t gone stark raving mad was to face the problem head-on.

  Tossing the pillow aside, I sat up and scrubbed at my face. Darcy was in New York, which meant I’d probably be safe enough for the time being. Jane would be in London for one more week. I could catch a flight first thing tomorrow; the hope of finding some sort of resolution was worth the expense.

  First I’d see Jane and tell her what I should have told her weeks ago. Oh, not everything—not until I was satisfied that I had a few more answers. I’d already done the research on Darcy’s public business connections in England; while in London, I’d talk to anyone I could find who was willing to be honest about his or her dealings with him. I’d scour the neighborhood around Charles’s flat for any clues about Darcy’s habits, behavior and treatment of the mortals he came in contact with every day. If that wasn’t enough, I’d take a trip up to Derbyshire and grill the people living around Pemberley.

  I’d bluff, wheedle and lie my way to the truth about Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy—whether he was the monster George had described, or a basically good guy who’d been handed a raw deal two hundred years ago.

  A guy I might actually be able to love without despising myself. Not that it would make any difference now that Darcy had made clear how much he despised me. If I had been wrong about him all along, I had only myself to blame.

  JANE REACTED EXACTLY THE WAY I’d expected she would, but much more nicely than I would have done in her place.

  The only thing that convinced her in the end was her absolute faith in me. Once she kne
w I wasn’t teasing, she could only sympathize with what I’d been through.

  “Oh, Izba. And to think you’ve had to carry this secret for weeks! You should have told me right after you talked to George!”

  Dear Jane. Once she was with me, she was with me all the way. I naturally didn’t tell her how Darcy had conspired to separate her and Charles, or what he’d believed about her motives; I was deliberately vague about Darcy’s proposition to me. But I explained what George had said, and how Darcy had refuted Wickham’s claims.

  “It’s unbelievable!” Jane said, completely unaware that she seemed far more shocked by George’s apparent lies than by the fact that he wasn’t human. “He seemed so nice. And you liked him, Lizzy!” She didn’t let me defend myself, but went on to sympathize with poor Mr. Darcy.

  “Just think how awful it must have been to see his sister turned into a vampire against her will. I can’t believe that any friend of Charles would punish George by doing the same thing to him, or hurt people just for the fun of it! And Lizzy, he couldn’t possibly love you if he were so bad.”

  I’d protested that he didn’t love me, but she’d made up her mind. And Jane, having made up her mind, was a formidable opponent. She insisted on helping me in my investigative work, but I begged her not to get involved and promised I’d give her regular updates as to my progress.

  Making progress was not as difficult as I’d feared. Not everyone was willing to talk with me—a strange American—about Darcy. But those who did had almost entirely good things to say about him. He was not effusive in his behavior but was uniformly generous, kind and pleasant with his employees, fellow businessmen and the people who worked in the surrounding area. I saw no indication that anyone knew what he really was.

  I thought several times about visiting Charles’s London flat in hopes of finding him there, but that meant I’d probably meet Caroline, as well. I didn’t want to give Jane any further cause for humiliation.

  I finally decided that I had to take a shot at Pemberley. Like so many historic estates in England, the place was open part of the time for tour groups. The odds of Darcy being there were small; I hadn’t heard that he’d come back to London.

  I had just returned to Aunt Sally’s flat from my latest interrogatory outing when Jane told me that she’d been invited to spend a few nights in Paris with one of our English cousins. She didn’t want to leave me, but I convinced her that the opportunity was too good to pass up.

  Once she found out that I was going to Derbyshire, Aunt Sally insisted on coming with me. She’d been born in Derbyshire—in the very area where Darcy’s estate stood—and I couldn’t think of a good way to refuse her.

  My first sight of Pemberley gave me a thrill I hadn’t expected. It was a magnificent stone structure set on a low hill amid an extensive wood of fine old trees, and I could imagine it having looked exactly the same way two hundred and more years ago, inhabited by elegant lords and ladies of the ton.

  And vampires.

  Part of me wanted to turn tail then and there. But Aunt Sally was bursting with praise and enthusiasm, so my sense had a chance to overcome my sensibility. Several tour buses were parked in a gravel lot off to the side, along with a dozen or so cars. We parked, bought tickets and joined one of the tour groups.

  I could never think about that visit again without remembering how beautiful it all was, how well-proportioned and handsomely furnished the rooms were, suggesting that someone had good taste untainted by a need for ostentation. The views from the windows were astonishing. When the guide led us through a gallery filled with portraits of Darcy ancestors, I noticed right away that the last few resembled him to the point that they were almost indistinguishable except for dress and background.

  “Mr. Darcy’s recent ancestors,” the woman guide announced with obvious pride. “His father, his grandfather and his great-grandfather. All were painted at the age of thirty years. The entire family has been blessed with longevity as well as good looks, as you can see.” Some of the women in the group tittered, and I felt a spark of irrational jealousy.

  “They do seem to show a remarkable resemblance to the current Mr. Darcy,” my aunt said. “Of course, I’ve only seen his photographs in the papers, and then only once or twice. Is he really as handsome as that in person?”

  The guide looked at me with interest. “Does the young lady know Mr. Darcy?”

  I could feel my face turning red. “A little,” I mumbled.

  She looked very pleased at this admission, and quickly led the group to another portrait, this of a young girl with cascades of blond hair and a sweet expression.

  “Mr. Darcy’s sister, Georgiana Darcy. She was named after a distant relation, a cousin of Mr. Darcy’s great-grandfather.”

  “She’s lovely,” my aunt murmured.

  She was. Like Darcy, she probably hadn’t changed a bit in two hundred years…perpetually sixteen, with no hope of getting any older, of having regular dates, a real boyfriend or any of the other growing pains most kids lived through before they were wise enough to know better.

  “The Darcys have always had an excellent reputation in Derbyshire, and in the whole of England,” the guide said. “They have been excellent employers. Many charitable institutions have benefited greatly from their generosity.” She lowered her voice to whisper in my ear. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never known a better boy or man. Not like the wild young men today, who think of nothing but themselves. Some people think he’s proud, but in my opinion, it’s only because he doesn’t speak until he has something to say.”

  I didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. This was exactly what I’d wanted to know, wasn’t it? Didn’t it confirm what I’d already been told by the people in London?

  The tour group moved on, but I stayed behind, staring at the portraits. When I found myself alone, I didn’t run after the others but turned straight for a door marked No Entry.

  The door opened up to a corridor, and the corridor led to several rooms which I guessed must belong to the family. One of them held a huge grand piano; another was an office with bookshelf-lined walls and thick binders on a wide oak desk.

  Feeling like a thief, I snuck into the room and closed the door. Some instinct drew me to the desk. It was neat, without a single random sheet of paper or loose pen anywhere in evidence. The blotter was spotless. I knew without looking any further that it must belong to Mr. Darcy.

  I thought about it for a few seconds and then opened one of the binders. It was stuffed with page after page of sheets mounted behind plastic, letters and certificates that offered sincere gratitude to a man named Mr. F. Darcy. Some were honorary degrees, others formal acknowledgments, still others simple thank-you letters. Each one mentioned some liberal donation to a charitable institution or medical center, a children’s hospital or human-rights organization. One letter told of the work that would be done with the money: experimental research on the blood disorders and cancers of children. The amounts received were in the tens and hundreds of thousands.

  Darcy had done this. A vampire, contributing to the welfare of the mortals he had seemed to despise. Caroline had said as much, and I, in my anger, had refused to believe it. I closed the binder and opened another one, my heart filled with a terrible joy.

  “Hello?” a soft voice said.

  I spun around, guilt pasting a stupid smile on my face. “Um, hello!” I said brightly. “I know I shouldn’t be in here, but—”

  I stopped. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen, with very pale skin and cascades of golden hair.

  I’d met Georgiana Darcy at last.

  CHAPTER 12

  “YOU’RE MISS DARCY!” I BLURTED BEFORE I COULD think.

  The girl smiled. “Yes, I am. Are you with the tour group?”

  “I, uh…I’m really sorry. I wandered off and lost my way….”

  “It’s all right.” She came nearer and laid her small, pale hand on the desk. “I don’t mind.”

&n
bsp; My heart settled into a slow gallop. “I didn’t know the family was here,” I said.

  “I’m here most of the time,” she said. “Usually it’s just me, Mr. Cavendish and my governess.”

  A governess, for God’s sake. Poor kid. “Your house is beautiful,” I said.

  “Yes, it is. My brother always makes sure it’s comfortable, too.” She pushed a strand of hair away from her gentle face. “You’re an American, aren’t you? How I’d love to see the Grand Canyon, and the deserts, and the Pacific Ocean.”

  “You’ve never been?”

  “No. I—” She lowered her head, covered her mouth and coughed. I remembered what Darcy had written about her having suffered from some kind of strigoi disease.

  I started toward her. “Are you all right?”

  She dropped her hand. “Yes, thank you for asking.” She looked at me as if she could see past all the defenses and peer into my soul.

  She’s a vampire, idiot, I told myself. But there was no threat about her. She behaved like any ordinary teenager, except that she was a lot more polite.

  And innocent. Could a vampire be innocent?

  “Your brother,” I said cautiously, “seems to be quite a philanthropist.”

  “Oh, yes.” Her face lit up again, nearly blinding me with the love that shone from it. “He’s such a good man.”

  I looked down at the binders. “I didn’t know,” I muttered.

  “Didn’t know what?”

  “Um…I didn’t know…that anyone could be so generous.”

  She cocked her head, and I had the distinct feeling that she didn’t believe my answer. “My brother doesn’t usually advertise it,” she said. “You’re very interested in him, aren’t you?”

  I knew my expression was much too bland. “It’s always interesting to find out about the people who live in these mansions.”