Darcy rubbed his hand over his chin before he spoke. He glanced, again, at his son in time to see raw emotions flicker across his face. “First, Greenwood, I apologize that this conversation has been necessary while you and your family are guests in our house. Second, I appreciate your loving protection of your daughter’s reputation while considering her preferences. Third and lastly, the respectful observations of my family are precious to me, for I too hold the happiness of each member of my household to be my highest priority.”
Now, it was Mr. Greenwood who quietly nodded.
“As to the matter of whether our children should enter a courtship or become betrothed, I would offer the following,” Darcy looked at both men. “Should Alex and Miss Penelope become engaged, they would have the freedom to send letters if they were unable to be in company. No one would look askance at them conversing at length by being seated next to each other at the table or in the drawing room.”
Alex’s shoulders relaxed.
“I ask you to recall your own courtship, Greenwood… the frustrations of not being allowed two minutes with your lady to determine whether she was the bride for you. The interference of well-meaning friends and family members whose intent was to thrust the pair together while, in reality, keeping them far apart.”
“Yes, this was the way of my courtship with my wife,” Mr. Greenwood agreed.
Alex’s jaw unclenched.
“Should they find, say, at the end of three months rather than six, that they are not compatible, the engagement can be called off by your daughter with no repercussions to her character,” Darcy amended. “However, should they find at the end of that period that their affections are engaged equally, the marriage would take place six weeks later.”
Alex’s hands moved from gripping the chair to folded on his knees. When Mr. Greenwood took a considerable length of time to ponder Darcy’s suggestion, all the signs of tension returned to his son.
Finally, Miss Penelope’s father gave one sharp nod. The deed was done. Mr. Alexander Fitzwilliam Darcy was engaged to marry Miss Penelope Greenwood. Darcy’s inclination was to jump up and click his heels. Instead, he gave a dignified tip of his head. He was a Darcy after all.
***
“Our son was overjoyed, dearest,” Darcy confidently proclaimed when he and Elizabeth were alone that night. The Greenwoods had departed, the children were abed, and Pemberley lay quiet. Harrison Bingley had stubbornly determined to stay and help his eldest cousin proceed unscathed through his betrothal after proclaiming in front of the family his absolute confidence Alex would muck it up on his own. After the kiss at breakfast, Darcy calculated his son was fully capable of doing well all by himself.
“He was? How could you tell?” Elizabeth teased. “Was it the twitch of his hands that gave him away or the slight hitch in his breathing?”
“Elizabeth Darcy!” Darcy ran his fingers over the ticklish spot on her rib cage. “Are those the clues you snoop for to know my responses?”
“Snoop?” Her mouth pursed and her nose looked like she had smelled something offensive. “Mrs. Darcy does not ‘snoop.’” Clasping her fingers to his, she smoothly pulled his hand away from her sensitive skin. “I do believe him to be pleased. I only hope our two youngest do not follow his example and kiss the first pretty girl who attracts their attention. I fear their desire to be exactly like Alex might put them in the center of a muddle they will need our help to get them out of.”
“They will be happy?” Darcy had to ask.
When she sighed, Darcy discerned she was aware he was speaking of the young couple. “Have we been too hasty, Elizabeth? Have we missed something integral about Miss Penelope that will cause our son harm?”
“You dear man.” Elizabeth leaned up and kissed his jaw. “Although the young lady in question has been unaware our son was on the premises until this morning, once he planted himself on her lap, she did kiss him back, did she not?”
He chuckled. “That she did.” Darcy lowered his voice to a whisper, his breath stirring his wife’s hair where she rested her head on his shoulder. Pulling the bedclothes up to cover her arm, he shared, “Privately, after the Greenwoods departed, Alex told me he could never imagine holding any other woman in his embrace. He claimed she was sweeter than honey on the comb.” He hugged her tightly. “I would imagine no sweeter compliment to a mother than her son wanting to attach himself forever to a woman like her.”
He did not need to see her smile to know she wore one.
“I do believe our son is beginning to feel what we have known for many years, dear wife.”
“A forever kind of love?” she responded, kissing her way from just below his ear to his chin.
When she raised her mouth to hover over his own, he gulped, then replied, “Yes, a forever kind of love.”
EPILOGUE
Four weeks later, Darcy was awakened from a comfortable sleep by the banging of the front door against the wall on the inside of the house. Pounding footsteps ran up the staircase and down the hall. His son-in-law, Clayton Masterson, normally one of the most composed men of his acquaintance, yelled at Darcy to wake Elizabeth and come to Briarwood immediately. His wife was having their baby. He then spun around and ran back the way he had come.
Master Matthew Darcy Masterson possessed the same hair his mother had at her birth. When Darcy held the babe in his arms for the first time, he felt power infuse him, an invigorating spirit that ran up to his shoulders and down his torso to his toes. Gone were the aches and pains, the fretting over the grey hairs, and the glimpses into the old age of a man. In their place was a dynamism he would feel as each one of his grandchildren were born.
Alex and Penelope did marry. Within a year, they had their first son. By the time their eldest attended Eton College, they had four more sons to rear. The Mastersons also birthed male children, adding three more to the nursery.
In the way of twins, James and Gerald married sisters. Like their siblings, their children were all boys.
The exception to the masculine progeny was Harrison Bingley. His flirtatious ways caught up with him when he angered the wrong father by being overly familiar with Miss Percival’s youngest sister, Patience. In the end, Harrison, who had years prior given up the moniker, Harry, had six daughters born by a wife he adored.
“My love, are you ready?” Darcy took the hand of his bride of forty years. They were moving to the dower house, leaving the running of Pemberley in the capable hands of their eldest. Elizabeth still had streaks of brown in her hair while his was mostly white. They walked together more than he rode, or took a carriage when they needed to travel between properties to see their children. Their grandsons were growing, the eldest at Cambridge. Soon, they would be looking for mates of their own, something his wife repeatedly warned him to allow them to tackle without their grandfather’s interference. He wanted to snort.
“I am, dearest.” Elizabeth gazed around the master’s chambers they would be leaving behind. “I am excited for this next phase of our married life. I have been pleased to be your wife at Pemberley, and do not doubt I will at our new home as well. We will carry our love and our memories wherever we go.”
He kissed her cheek. “I love you, my wife, and I will do so— “
She met his eyes with a smile. “Forever.”
The End
For Pemberley
By
Christie Capps
A Pride & Prejudice Novella
Timeless Romance for the Busy Reader
TRIGGER WARNING:
There is a FAILED sexual assault in chapter one. While there is no graphic description of what took place, the emotions displayed are gripping. Please do NOT continue reading if this will trigger negative or debilitating emotions in you. Request a refund of your purchase, please. I understand. If you choose to continue, you do so at your own risk.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In being completely honest, this story was a tremendous challenge to finally get on paper. The amount
of research needed was incredible. I interviewed professionals in the field of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), rape and assault victim’s assistance, and victims themselves. My greatest fear was that a reader would not be able to see beyond the initial failed attack to the love story that grew from one human offering compassion to a vulnerable friend.
One thing that was a constant was not to insist there was only one way to recover. Some, like Elizabeth Bennet, clung to whom they perceived as their rescuer—desperately needing his comforting embrace until she could stand on her own. Other victims were horrified at the thought of someone touching them. For those individuals, I beg you to realize I am not minimizing the steps you need to take, or have taken, to feel trust again.
Any victim of an attack who can stand up and move forward is as much a hero in my book as Mr. Darcy is in this story. If you choose not to call yourself a victim, to walk beyond the label, you are a ROCK STAR!!!
Best wishes to all of you!
ONE
She killed him.
Pushing herself to her knees, she wiped her hands on the front of her dress, dropping the large, jagged stone she clutched in her right hand to the ground. Her fingers stiffly flexed, then immediately returned to a fist. Forcing herself, she opened her hands to inspect her nails. The residue undoubtedly matched the deep scratches on his face. She wondered if his hands matched her own. She desperately hoped it was so. Her swollen jaw and the wounds on her cheek would heal. His wounds would not.
She scrubbed her palms against the rough fabric of her skirt repeatedly, as if they would never come clean. Pulling the edges of her spencer together, she paid no attention to the fasteners. It would have been a futile attempt to find the buttons which had launched from the garment into the surrounding grass at the beginning of the assault. She never wanted to see them again.
She wanted to spit in his face.
Blood trickled from his temple into his silky, golden hair as mottled shades of purple and red grew around the wound. He was the most despicable man of her acquaintance. With one foolish decision, he had gone from being a favorite to being abhorred—hated with a righteous vengeance she had never, in all of her twenty years, felt before.
She would not look anywhere but at his face. Not at the shirt she had ripped in an effort to gain escape. Not at the opened fall of his trousers which undoubtedly continued to display his wicked intentions. She would not look.
Lt. George Wickham was evil incarnate. A shiver traveled up her spine as a spasm hit her gut. Her vomit splattered his red coat. Kitty and Lydia would no longer find it attractive.
A manic chuckle burst from her as quickly as her breakfast had done. The incongruity of her thoughts, the randomness of her emotions, shocked her.
In her distraction, Elizabeth failed to hear the approaching horses.Voices, male voices, reverberated in her mind, bouncing like a ball let on the loose. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rocked back and forth, drawing comfort from the rhythm of her movements.
“Miss Elizabeth! Miss Elizabeth!”
She kept rocking.
“Bingley, go to Longbourn and return with her father. Do not alert anyone other than Mr. Bennet of what has taken place.”
A shadow moved to block her sunlight. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the few rays peeking through the obscuration.
Was it raining? Dampness trickled to her ears and off her jaw.
The comfort of a warm, heavy garment settled around her shoulders while strong arms pulled her close. Sandalwood and citrus. A fragrance from the past filled her senses as memories flooded her mind. Hours spent on her paternal grandfather’s lap while he read her favorite story over and over and over again. Safety.
They rocked together, her back against his chest, as he mumbled indistinguishable sounds. No, they were words.
“Breathe in,” the voice whispered. “Breathe out.”
She found an element of relief in obedience.
The urge to empty her bladder eventually forced her from her refuge. With her slightest pressure, his arms dropped. He helped her stand, her skirts dropping to tangle around her feet. Her legs shook as she ran to the trees. She gulped air, turned and wrapped her arms around an oak trunk, pressing her injured face into the rough bark, almost welcoming the pain, wanting to weep in gratitude at feeling anything at all.
A small branch snapped in the grass not far from her. Panic—sheer terror shook her body and she grabbed the tree tighter, trying to blend in, to become invisible.
“Elizabeth, I am here. You are safe.” The baritone of his voice settled over her like his cloak had done a few moments prior. “Elizabeth, may I be of service? Might I help you?”
“No,” she whispered, hoping he heard so she would not have to try again. The effort it took drained her.
“Yes,” she squeezed her eyes shut, hearing his steps drawing closer on the forest floor.
Sandalwood and citrus. Strong arms. Soft whispers.
Peeling herself away from the tree, she turned into him. Sobs filled the air. She felt the noise in her throat, though the sound did not seem to come from her. It must have done.
His fingers rubbed her scalp and she felt like purring. Like a lone barn cat who finally allowed the touch of a friend. Trust. Relief. Warmth.
Again, she pushed back. Again, his arms dropped to his sides.
“Look away from me.” Her whisper was a plea. He obeyed.
She moved behind another tree. The width of the trunk separated him from view. She rested her hands on the sides of her skirt, grasped a handful of the muslin, then, she looked down.
Her mother would be angry. Dirt on her hem. Again, she wanted to chuckle. Yet there was nothing funny. Nothing at all.
She lifted the fabric to her ankles. Another sob filled the air. Her walking boots had been almost as effective a weapon as the stone. That man, that vile man, surely had bruises covering his lower legs. She did as well.
She lifted the fabric to her knees. She whimpered. Bruises, dark shadows under her pale skin.
She lifted the fabric to her thighs. Exhaling slowly, she examined each visible inch. Nothing. No evidence of his intent. Quickly, she relieved herself, dropped her skirts, and ran back to him. Security. Sandalwood and citrus.
Consequences forced their way into her thoughts. “Will I hang?”
“No!” His arms pulled her to him even tighter. “He will.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, as tight as she possibly could. “I killed him.”
“You did not. He yet lives.”
Tears washed her face and dripped into her soul. Relief.
“Your father approaches.” She felt the vibration of his vocals in his chest.
She nodded, feeling the muscles tighten in her arms. Her hands slid up his back as her palms pressed him even closer. Sandalwood and citrus. “I cannot let go.”
“Then, do not.”
She felt his movements as his heavy greatcoat rested on her shoulders once again.
“Mr. Bennet,” his voice rose. “We are here.”
“Oh, God in heaven, Lizzy!” Each hurried step brought her father closer. She still could not move.
“My daughter.” He exclaimed between pants, the exertions and emotions taking their toll. “Come to me.”
It was reflex. She loved and trusted her father. She always had. Nonetheless, her face turned away from him as she buried her nose into Mr. Darcy’s cravat.
“Sir?” Mr. Bennet bellowed. His curiosity warred with anger, disappointment with shock.
She could never remember being the source of her father’s displeasure, but she could not force herself to move.
Mr. Darcy did not move, nor did he attempt to release her. Gratitude filled her to her toes.
“Mr. Bennet, would you send Mr. Bingley for Colonel Forster? I will bring Miss Elizabeth to Longbourn and would appreciate you riding with us. You will best know how to get her to her room unseen.”
“Yes, sir.” Her father quickly
walked away. The sound of Mr. Bingley’s horse galloping towards Meryton blended with her father’s return. He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Darcy, I feel it best to take Lizzy to Mrs. Carr. Her cottage is isolated and she lives alone.”
“She can be trusted?” Elizabeth felt his breath against her forehead as he spoke.
“She was the midwife for each of my daughters. Yes, I trust her. Lizzy does as well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bennet.”
She had been unaware they had been swaying gently back and forth until he stopped. When he removed his right arm from around her shoulders, she whimpered involuntarily.
“Place your arms down the sleeves,” he suggested, gently clasping her shoulders to move her away so she could accomplish the task.
She feared standing alone, isolated from the security of his touch, his voice. The second her fingertips passed into the fabric, her arms returned to him, her hands clutching the lapels of his jacket. The velvet smoothness felt good against her palms. She slid her hands to his neck and stepped forward until they touched from head to toe, holding him as fiercely as he held her.
Quickly, he lifted her. She tightened her grip and buried her forehead in his neck. “Do not let me go,” she chanted in her mind, a mantra she wondered if she could ever move beyond.
“Pray, bring my horse.” She felt the rumble of his voice on her forehead. With his words, Elizabeth finally opened her eyes. He was walking along the tree line, away from where Wickham still laid on the ground. She refused to look back. She never wanted to see him again—ever.
Elizabeth wanted to shoot him—to put a bullet between his eyes. She wanted to take a heavy tree branch and beat him until her arms gave out. She wanted to kick him and kick him and kick him until her toes hurt and the leather wore thin on her boot. She wanted to…she wanted to…
Something: Old, New, Later, True: A Pride & Prejudice Collection Page 19