The Road to Pemberley

by Marsha Altman

  “Say, there,” he asked dubiously, “how is this come to be on the chair?”

  Elizabeth laughed at the look of astonishment on his face. “I must admit that I went into an attic today and found that in an old trunk in a corner.”

  “What were you doing there, Elizabeth?” Darcy chided her.

  “Searching for clues to your youth.”

  “For what purpose?” he asked disapprovingly. “You could have fallen.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “My dearest, I am with child, but I am not an invalid. Am I not to climb a few stairs? My dear husband refuses to allow me leave to do anything for myself, and I am oh so very bored.”

  Darcy sat back down in his chair and grinned in a boyish manner, “I thought this had been lost. Certainly cast out in the rubbish bin.” He looked at Elizabeth, the grin still on his face. “It disappeared the summer that my aunt and uncle came for holiday at Pemberley with my cousins. I laid the blame on my eldest cousin, Edward, for taking it and burying it, repayment for the mischief Richard and I played on him that summer.” Darcy took a swipe through the air with the toy weapon, “Odd, how I remember it being much larger.”

  “Pray, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth teased, “I want to hear of it.”

  “And so you shall,” he replied, “If you promise you will not go again into the attics. If you want something, you have only to ask Mrs. Reynolds and it will be brought down.”

  “Until I have gone through every article within?”

  “If that is what you wish,” Darcy said and chuckled. “I do not believe that there is any cause for reproach. Or perhaps I should look for myself first.”

  Although she would not have admitted to it aloud, Elizabeth had encountered some difficulty managing the steps to the attics. Her own adventures would, for now, have to wait until her child was delivered. For the time being, she would be quite content to listen to Darcy’s stories of his youth. She sat back in her chair and placed her feet up on the ottoman, trying to find a comfortable position despite her awkward state of impending motherhood.

  “Were you a knight—a defender of truth, justice, and distressed damsels?” Elizabeth eagerly looked to him for an answer.

  “Hardly,” he said and chortled. “I fancied myself as Robin of Loxley.”

  “Robin Hood!” she proclaimed with amusement. “You were a thief—you who are a man of means!”

  “The Earl of Huntingdon—or Robin Hood, as he is commonly known—was a champion of what he believed was his right as a master of his property and as a free man” Darcy smiled at the thought of it. “There are some ruins not far to the east of the of the entrance to Pemberley Park. My cousins and I would run down to them and spend our days pretending to defend them from the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  “I know them,” Elizabeth declared. “I found them one day on an outing.”

  Darcy recited a child’s ballad for her: “Now bold Robin Hood to the north would go, with valor and mickle might, with sword by his side, which oft had been try’d, to fight and recover his right.”1

  Chapter 2

  “Who goes there?” a dark-haired boy called down from atop the rubble.

  A fairer-haired boy replied, “’Tis I, Will Scarlett! I have come to pursue Robin the Hood!”

  The darker boy jumped down from his perch atop an old pile of masonry rock, wielding a carved toy sword, and said, “No one sees Robin the Hood!”

  The other boy put his hands on his hips, and gave a look of defeat. “How are we to play if no one can see you?”

  “Of course, you can see me, Cousin,” the boy said and sighed. “You are supposed to fight me for the right to join my band of men!”

  Young Richard Fitzwilliam unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Master Fitzwilliam Darcy. “Very well, you—whoever you are. I shall not leave until I have bested all present and have earned the right to live amongst you!”

  The two boys pushed and shoved, and clashed swords. The summer day was fine and the sun shone down on the battle scene, as the boys playfully fought each other until they could barely stand up because of exhaustion and laughter.

  Yet another voice came from behind: “You there, you scurrilous pair. Prepare to meet your doom!”

  The two younger boys stared, wide-eyed, at the intruder, and then looked at each other with broad grins. Yelling at the tops of their voices, they charged the taller boy, who held a toy sword in either hand and wore a wicked grin.

  After battling for some time, young Richard charged the tall boy and stuck him in the ribs with the blunt point of his sword. “I have wounded you, you lecherous cur!”

  “Nay, nay, you did not injure me at all.”

  “I say, Edward, he did so!” young Darcy complained.

  “Oh, very well,” Edward huffed, and he fell on the ground and rolled round, writhing in mock agony for some minutes.

  “Edward!” Richard yelled. “How long does it take someone to perish, for heaven’s sake?”

  Edward stood up and looked down on his brother. “As long as I say it does!”

  Richard stood his ground. “You never play fair—you fool!”

  “Fool? Fool, you call me, and another thing—I am becoming bored with always having to play the evil character. Why do you not do it for a while, or are you afraid of being pummeled?”

  “This is getting very tedious,” young Darcy said and stomped over and stood between his two cousins. “Do you carry on like this all the time?”

  Richard sheathed his sword and turned around to stomp back over to the ruins and sit down. “Only when we are breathing,” he muttered.

  “Well, stop it, or I shall tell your father,” Darcy threatened.

  There was no worse crime that could be committed by young boys than fighting each other. In their father’s eyes, it was a punishable offense and simply was not tolerated. The three cousins sat atop the pile of stone quietly for a while, contemplating how they would draw to see who would have to be the villain.

  “Hallo there!”

  The three boys turned their heads in unison in the direction of the uninvited voice. A tallish boy trudged up the path with a littler boy, and the two came to a standstill, gawking up at the cousins.

  “It is George Wickham,” Darcy whispered to his cousins. “The steward’s son.”

  “I do not give three figs who he is, as long as he is willing to be the villain.” Edward jumped down from his perch atop the ruins and stood before young Wickham. “Do you want to join us?”

  “Depends. What is it that you do?”

  Young Darcy scrambled down from the rubble, followed closely by Richard. “We are in need of a Sheriff of Nottingham to battle our trio of men,” Darcy replied.

  Wickham smiled broadly. “Indeed. If you need a sheriff, I shall be your man.”

  “You there,” Darcy said to the other boy. “You can be Sir Guy of Gisborne.”

  The other boy nodded enthusiastically. “What shall we do for weapons?” he asked.

  “I shall be happy to lend you some of mine,” Richard threw the boys a few pieces of his vast arsenal.

  Darcy laid out the scene: “These ruins are your battlement, and you must come find us in the forest. ’Tis ordered by the king.”

  The cousins ran off into a stand of trees and waited for their adversaries to begin their search. Darcy and Richard climbed up into two of the trees and practiced their birdcalls, in case secret communications would be necessary.

  “Quiet, you are going to give away our positions,” Edward snarled in a whisper. “Besides, you sound like sickly pigeons!”

  Edward ducked as a handful of the previous year’s walnuts were hurled out of the tree and landed all about him. Darcy eagerly awaited the arrival of Wickham, or rather, the Sheriff of Nottingham. He had a score to settle with the boy, for it seemed that young Wickham was always getting Darcy into trouble with old Mr. Darcy.

  Mr. Darcy had taken a liking to the son of his steward and young Wickham’s easy manners and deportment. Mr. Darc
y had also taken on the responsibilities of benefactor to young Wickham that spring, when Wickham’s father had taken ill. Master Darcy, however, had learned to trust the steward’s son only as far as he could toss him. There had been a few times during play that Wickham had led Darcy down a crooked path, only to deny it in the end, leaving young Darcy to take the blame and face his own father’s disapprobation. As far as Master Darcy was concerned, it would be a pleasure to best the blackguard in battle.

  While waiting, Darcy began to recite to himself one of the child ballads his father had taught him. The boy loved to sit in the library in the evenings, listening to his father tell him stories of long ago.

  “Here is one of us for Will Scarlett,

  And another for Little John,

  And I my self for Robin Hood,

  Because he is stout and strong.”

  So they fell to it hard and sore;

  It was on a midsummer’s day;

  From eight o clock till two and past,

  They all shewed gallant play.2

  Before long, the enemy was in sight and the boys sprang down from the trees to defend their territory. It was all-out war for upward of fifteen minutes. The odds were definitely in the merry men’s favor; they outnumbered the villains, three to two. They were fortunate, in this instance, to have Edward on their side. He was a boy of fifteen, very tall and broad for his age. What he lacked in wit, he made up for in brawn, which he used to menace his younger brother and cousin.

  He was no match for Richard and Darcy, however, when it came to imagination and slyness. He had learned to lament the times when they were all together, for he might find a live creature in his bed or wake up in the morning to discover that every pair of shoes he owned had been laced together and strung outside his window. All in all, he had a relatively good nature when it came to their teasing, and was even known to defend the younger boys against other boys.

  When the battle had been waged and it was determined to be a victory on the side of truth and justice, the boys rested together beneath the trees.

  Wickham grinned in the direction of young Darcy and said, “I heard your father say that you were to go to the assembly in Lambton tonight.”

  Darcy grimaced and said, “Good God, not an assembly!”

  “What is wrong with an assembly, Wills?” Edward asked.

  “You have to dance!” Darcy rolled his eyes in disgust. “I have no stomach for it at all. I would rather drink a bottle of castor oil than dance.”

  “You would have to dance if you drank a bottle of castor oil!” Richard laughed at his cousin, and the other boys laughed, too. Darcy frowned. He abhorred assemblies.

  “Are there many pretty girls in town?” Edward inquired of Wickham; unaware of what a reliable source young Wickham truly was on that subject.

  “Indeed, quite a few, and all are eager to dance. Occasionally, they will bestow on their partners an obliging kiss,” Wickham ventured.

  The rest of the boys looked like a bevy of owls as their eyes widened at Wickham’s comments. Edward and Richard grinned together, as Darcy simply groaned at the thought of having to tolerate being slobbered upon by some nonsensical female, no doubt adorned in some shade of pink.

  “I suppose it is our duty to dance with them, then,” Edward replied. “I would not wish to disappoint them.” He got up from his place beneath the tree and proceeded to walk back to the house. Wickham and his friend left as well, leaving Darcy and Richard under the trees.

  “What do they see in them?” Darcy asked and sighed.

  “In who? Girls?” Richard asked. “I suppose they are wanting to marry one day.”

  Darcy could only snarl, “I shall not marry a girl, unless I am sure she can arm wrestle.”

  “What has that got to do with it?” Richard asked and guffawed.

  Darcy stood up and looked toward Pemberley house, “What else would a fellow do for amusement?”

  Elizabeth laughed, shifting positions in the chair. “Well, my dear, you have not yet asked me to arm wrestle.”

  Darcy cleared his throat. “No, indeed.” He noticed his wife’s discomfort, and, making an attempt to avoid telling Elizabeth any more of his tale, said, “If you are ailing, Elizabeth, we can take this up at another time.”

  “Not likely, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s eyes squinted to show her displeasure, realizing her husband’s ploy. “You shall not get out of this so easily.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, entered the library with a tray of tea and cake, and she set it down beside Elizabeth. “Thank you,” Elizabeth said and smiled warmly at the servant. “Oh, husband,” she said and sighed. “This child of yours likes to kick his heels at this very time each evening. Perhaps with such eager feet, he will find assemblies more agreeable than his father does, but for now he seems satisfied after having a little something sweet.”

  Elizabeth took a sip of tea prepared for her by Mrs. Reynolds, and a small bite of the cake. Then she lifted her chin resolutely. “Pray, continue.”

  Darcy smiled. “Where was I?”

  “You were to attend an assembly in Lambton,” she reminded him.

  “Indeed, that regrettable event,” he muttered.

  Young Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped into his father’s study and waited near the door. “Come in, Son,” Mr. Darcy said to his eldest child. “And how go your adventures today?”

  “Quite well,” the boy replied quickly. “Papa, are we to go to an assembly tonight?”

  A smile came to Mr. Darcy’s face. “Indeed, Son, so it would seem. Your mother and your aunt have expressed a desire to attend such an event.”

  “Might I remain home?” the boy asked, slumping into a chair in front of the large study desk.

  “No, you may not,” Mr. Darcy said without hesitating. He knew his son disliked such social engagements, even at his tender age. Mr. Darcy and his wife had tried to do what they could to discourage the boy’s taciturn bent, and they offered guidance when necessary.

  “But Papa…” the boy began to protest.

  “Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Darcy said firmly, “summer is a time for families to participate in local society. It is a time for young men to put down their books and learn the refinements that will one day be required of them. You do not have to like it, my boy, but you do have to participate.”

  Mr. Darcy was a kind, patient father, but he was not always indulgent, and he expected his children to know their places within his household. A disappointed scowl began to emerge on young Darcy’s face, until he thought better of any such display in the presence of his father.

  “How will you know how to behave in society if you do not learn now?” Mr. Darcy inquired with a wink. “Besides, it is good to go while your cousins are present. They are very amiable young men, and you would do well to follow their examples.”

  “Truly?” the boy wondered at the statement. “But if I am already betrothed, why must I need to know these things at all?”

  “Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Darcy said as his eyes widened. “You must know it because I say you must; and as to the matter of a betrothal—I think it rubbish, my boy. You will choose your own wife .” Mr. Darcy added beneath his breath, “And, I hope, one with a little life in her.”

  Young Darcy sighed, realizing he was losing a battle of wills with his father. It was a hopeless business, and he was fated to spend an evening bowing and affecting some sign of pleasure for the sake of young maids whose mothers pushed them toward the boys’ general vicinity. He would loathe every excruciating moment of the whole affair.

  Mr. Darcy stood up from his desk and put his hand upon his son’s shoulder. “A country assembly provides good practice for the balls you shall attend in your future. You never know whom you will meet, Fitzwilliam. One day, you may meet the love of your life at just such an assembly.”

  The boy’s shoulders slumped forward in subjugation. “I imagine not, Papa.”

  ’Twas neither Rosamond nor Jane Shore,

  Whose beauty was clear and bright,

>   That could surpass this country lass,

  Beloved of lord and knight.

  The Earl of Huntingdon, nobly born,

  That came of noble blood,

  To Marian went, with a good intent,

  By the name of Robin Hood.

  With kisses sweet their red lips meet,

  For she and the earl did agree;

  In every place, they kindly embrace,

  With love and sweet unity.3

  The Darcys and the Fitzwilliams entered the assembly room at Lambton to the great amazement of the other prestigious town folk. They were not often seen at assemblies, so this was indeed a distinguished occasion. Young Darcy moved off to the courtyard with the other boys, as their parents engaged in polite conversation before the dance. The children present held their own dance of sorts out on the courtyard, in the shadows of their parents. It was how one practiced proper etiquette at such functions and prepared to be ladies and gentlemen.

  Darcy and Richard stood in a corner and looked on as Edward boldly approached one young lady to ask for the favor of a dance. The young girl blushed and gladly accepted, knowing, even at her tender age, what an honor it was to be noticed by the eldest son of an earl.

  The whole business made Darcy’s stomach churn. His shyness and reserve did nothing to recommend him to others, and some of the children thought him conceited.

  “Wills, do you see a girl who strikes your fancy?” Richard inquired with a grin.

  Darcy glanced around the courtyard, shyly eyeing the young girls as they all giggled and blushed.

  “They are laughing at us, Richard,” Darcy whispered.

  Richard smiled at his cousin, “They are not laughing, Wills, they are flirting.” Darcy furrowed his brow as he attempted to digest his cousin’s counsel. Richard put his hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Think of this as a game. Surely, if it is a game, you can overcome a little fright.”

  “Fright!” Darcy exclaimed. “You are wrong, Richard. Girls do not scare me!”