A Very Austen Valentine

by Robin Helm

  I feel extremely uncomfortable, but so happy.

  Though I am yet a month from my time to deliver, I begin to have pains every few hours.

  One day, Fitzwilliam finds me sobbing over our baby’s empty cradle.

  Alarmed, my overly protective husband sends for our physician from London.

  Beckett arrives just in time to deliver our beautiful little William into the world.

  Darcy looked up at her, his eyes glistening. “Are you with child?”

  “I think I am. Remember my sickness?”

  He gazed at her in confusion. “But I was so tired for all those weeks. How?”

  “That was my first thought, too,” she replied. “However, once I wrote out the dream, I began to think back over the past few months. In my dream, William was born in autumn. That would be September or October. Since I have not had my courses since December, I must be nearly three months along. As I have skipped a month or so in the past, I thought nothing of it, especially as we, ah, abstained for so long.”

  He stood to pull her into a fierce hug. “My beloved Elizabeth. Are you well? Shall I send for Beckett now?”

  She chuckled, reaching up to cup his face with her hands. “No, love, though we might consider a short visit to London. We could see Beckett and order clothes for my confinement. Perhaps Georgiana might wish to come back to Pemberley with us. She would be a great help to me, and you know she loves to be of assistance. We shall return in time to greet my sister and her husband.”

  “I will send an express to Beckett immediately. We shall leave the day after tomorrow. I must alert the staff at Darcy House to be ready.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides, and he began to pace.

  “Do not be anxious, husband. Wait until tomorrow to send the express. We have six months to prepare for little William. All will be well.”

  “I have much to do,” he said, running both hands through his dark hair. “Hire a nursemaid, refurbish the nursery, buy a baby carriage, interview nursemaids, research your condition – ”

  Elizabeth stood, brows drawn together. Stepping into his path, she placed her hands on his chest. “Why are you distressed? I thought you would be happy. Have I misunderstood you? Did you not want children?”

  His agitation increased.

  “Of course, I want children, but what if I am not a good father? I have no idea what I should do.”

  “What if I am not a good mother?” she asked calmly.

  He stared at her. “You will be the best mother in the world. I have no doubt of it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know you, Elizabeth. You are loving and kind. Intelligent and wise. I am not at all like you.” He paused. “Do you really think I will be a good father?”

  She nodded. “I am convinced of it. You have been both brother and father to Georgiana, and she is wonderful. I know no one else so kind and loving as you, husband, and your wisdom increases daily.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “You have defeated me at chess on several occasions, so I know you are intelligent. We are not so different after all.”

  He bit his lip. “I value your opinion, for your judgment is sound. If you believe in me, I must be better than I thought.”

  “Very true. Do not forget it,” she answered.

  Darcy turned away, hiding his face.

  “Is there something else?” she asked, touching his arm. “Something you have yet to tell me?”

  He faced her, an expression of intense sadness marring his features. “What if you or the baby are not well? I cannot bear to lose you, Elizabeth.” His voice nearly broke.

  “We shall both be fine, husband.” She stood on tiptoe to circle his neck with her arms.

  “I lost both my mother and my father. My mother died in childbirth. How do you know you will be fine? How can you be certain?”

  “My love, you have forgotten my mother bore five children with no difficulties. I am from sturdy stock. You married a country girl, you know, not a frail society lady,” she answered, caressing his face, smiling in reassurance.

  Darcy sighed, drawing her to his chest. “You must promise me that you will take especially good care of yourself.”

  “I promise readily, for to do less might endanger our child.”

  “You seem to have no fear at all,” he said. “Why is that?”

  “My dreams have all come true, have they not?”

  He smiled, bending to touch his lips to hers. “They have. As have mine.”

  “You dream? You must write them out and allow me to read them. That is only fair.”

  “I have already begun to do so.” He kissed her a bit more forcefully.

  “Of what do you dream?”

  He put his lips to her ear. “For nearly two years now, I have dreamed only of you.”

  “When did you first dream of me?” she asked, grasping his hair with her fingers.

  “The night of the assembly.”

  “Truly? Did that dream ever come true?” She tilted her face up to his, watching his expression.

  “It shall.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have planned it to the last detail. It shall happen.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.” His tone spoke his determination.

  “But the walls are glass,” she whispered.

  “They are, but look at the arrangement of the trees. What do you see?” He pointed to her left.

  She looked back, squinting in the low light of the candles and moonlight. “Is that a tent among the trees?”

  He swept her up into his arms. “It is. I plan and pay attention to detail.”

  “Both necessary qualities for a good husband and father. You must admit I was right about your qualifications for fatherhood,” she said rather smugly.

  “Enough talking for now,” he replied, striding into the tent with her.

  “Mr. Bossy!”

  And they spent the remainder of the evening making their dreams come true.

  The End

  If you enjoyed reading I Dream of You,

  you may like these other books by Robin Helm, available at Amazon.com.

  For news of her new releases, follow her on her Amazon author page.

  Guardian, SoulFire, and Legacy (The Guardian Trilogy)

  Accidentally Yours, Sincerely Yours, and Forever Yours (Yours by Design series)

  Understanding Elizabeth

  A Very Austen Christmas: Austen Anthologies, Book 1

  A Very Austen Valentine: Austen Anthologies, Book 2

  To Be Released in 2019:

  More to Love

  Lawfully Innocent

  Maestro

  A Very Austen Romance: Austen Anthologies, Book 3

  SIR WALTER TAKES A WIFE

  Laura Hile

  SIR WALTER TAKES A WIFE

  Copyright © 2018 Laura Hile

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writers’ imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  ⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟

  Faced with a lonely future, and finding himself strapped for cash (as the young bucks say), Persuasion’s Sir Walter Elliot manfully decides that the time has come to marry again. But his careful plans go sadly awry … until he gets a look at a certain lady’s estate.

  A lighthearted Valentine mash-up featuring two of Jane Austen’s worst snobs.

  Chapter One

  Sir Walter Elliot, baronet, had chosen for himself a very public table, the better to see and be seen. Everyone who was anyone in Bath came to the Pump Roo
m for the morning promenade. A bit of gossip here, a smiling nod to friends there … and for Sir Walter it was an opportunity to inspect the contents of everyone’s closets.

  Apparel divided gentlefolk into two distinct camps: those With Taste and those Without. Sir Walter was certainly one of former. He glanced fondly at his new waistcoat. It suited his figure to perfection.

  One, two, three, four… Sir Walter counted off the podgy gentlemen as they passed by. Why must such persons parade their flaws of face and figure? They offended on every level! The women were no better. Seventeen freaks he had counted in the last hour, with defects of complexion or hair or choice of gown.

  Sir Walter stifled a sigh. Such persons really ought to remain at home.

  Such as, for instance, that heavy-set woman in the hideous turquoise pelisse. Wearing such a hat—if such a thing could be called a hat! Sir Walter broke off counting to have a better look. Not only was she on the wrong side of sixty, but her gown was too youthful—and rather too snug! How on earth had she been inserted into it? She looked wealthy enough to dress well, and that patrician nose spoke of breeding…

  Well, then. Here was more proof that Bad Taste was no respecter of persons. Sir Walter hid a smirk and signaled the footman to refill his teacup.

  A moment later, over the cup’s rim, Sir Walter again looked round the room—and sucked in a scalding mouthful of tea. For the turquoise-clad woman was heading his way, accompanied by the Master of Ceremonies! Was she coming to speak with him?

  And she was no stranger, though they had never been introduced. This was Lady Maria Ridlington, one of the leading matrons of Bath.

  Sir Walter reached for a napkin. He hurried to blot his burned lips and rose from his chair to greet her.

  Without a word, Lady Ridlington passed by. Sir Walter kept his smile in place and gracefully resumed his seat.

  He was alone at the table; of course she would not stop to converse. No well-bred woman would. Now if Elizabeth had been here… Sir Walter surveyed the empty chair with a sigh. In his daughter Elizabeth he had had the perfect companion. She was as lovely as Sir Walter was handsome; they made a striking pair. And then Elizabeth had married, leaving him alone.

  Sir Walter turned in his chair in order to resume his catalogue of the unattractive. But somehow the appeal was gone. After all, there was no one with whom to share his observations—and some of them were very clever. Quietly Sir Walter finished his tea and went out of the Pump Room.

  Alone. This troublesome word was his companion during the walk home. The act of walking was itself an insult; for he ought, as baronet, to have a carriage of his own. He had intended to purchase one after taking up residence in Bath, but somehow there was never enough money. This was Elizabeth’s fault; her dressmaking bills were beyond belief! It was a very good thing she was so handsome, or he would never have stood for the expense.

  Well, it had been high time for her to marry—after all, she was thirty years of age. But she had done so without regard to the consequences. His consequences. Who would act as hostess for his parties now? As his companion to dinners and concerts and assemblies?

  And the fellow she had married. He possessed a fortune, but no title—at least, not one that mattered. Worse, he insisted that her mother’s settlement money come with Elizabeth when they married. The brute! Income from £3,000 meant nothing to a man of his wealth, but to Sir Walter Elliot the loss meant a great deal.

  “One hundred pounds,” he muttered, reliving the indignity. “One hundred lovely pounds.”

  Walking uphill did not improve his temper. Naturally, the more fashionable neighbourhoods would be in the upper section of Bath! Sir Walter slowed his pace and willed himself not to sweat.

  It was cruel indeed that he, a man blessed with good looks, a landed estate, and a splendid heritage, should be—as his son-in-law Charles Musgrove would vulgarly say—strapped for cash.

  Oh, to have a larger income!

  He had economized in every possible way. His fine coach and horses—sold! His yearly foray to the Metropolis during the height of the Season—given up! His ancestral estate—let!

  The latter sacrifice was the most painful of all. Kellynch Hall, the pride of generations, was now inhabited by an admiral and his wife. Who were the Crofts? No one of note. They were military upstarts who, thanks to the cursed war, could afford an estate. As well as a fine equipage to drive around the countryside, while he, who was to the manor born, must walk.

  Sir Walter arrived at his house in no better frame of mind. He gave his hat and gloves to his butler and went up to the drawing room. Alone.

  Now what to do? More tea? Certainly not! Sir Walter rang for a glass of Madeira—and had the footman leave the decanter.

  Presently the mail was brought in—a woefully small pile. He loathed to admit it but invitations were becoming scarce, and no wonder! Without a hostess, how could a gentleman entertain? Sir Walter was not of a mind to host his friends to dinner at a restaurant. Not only was the expense considerable but guests expected entertainment, such as a concert. He had no intention of paying for dinner, let alone tickets.

  Sir Walter finished his wine and refilled the glass.

  The afternoon spread before him, offering nothing. Never mind that Sir Walter was perfectly attired to receive visitors, no one came to call. He stood in front of the windows, sucking his teeth and looking down into the street. Carriages and chairmen passed by, but no one stopped.

  Elizabeth had left behind a stack of fashion periodicals. Sir Walter had been through them so many times that he knew the illustrations by heart. The latest issue of the Bath Gazette lay on a table, but only the social pages were worth reading. The rest of the newspaper was devoted to Parliament, or news of a war in some distant place, or dreary lists of numbers relating to trade.

  The only book Sir Walter kept on hand was The Baronetage of England, and presently he took it down. Of its own accord it opened to his page, the listing for Elliot. Such a pity that a man so blessed—a widower, for heaven’s sake!—would now be forsaken and alone. There were ladies aplenty right here in Bath who would be thrilled to consider him as a suitor. What had Elizabeth called the practice? Ah yes, dropping the handkerchief.

  Sir Walter gave a snort of derision. Perhaps if one of the handkerchief-droppers were handsome, he might be amenable to courtship. As it was, he charmingly distanced himself. What need had he for a wife?

  Financial need, yes, there was that. It was painful to see how his resources were dwindling. Even if he could afford to reside at Kellynch, he would not like living alone.

  He would not like living with any of his daughters and their husbands, either.

  An interesting thought, taking a wife. Sir Walter poured another glass of wine and considered this new and daring idea. Should he marry again?

  The lady must be of proper lineage—no merchant’s daughter for him! The title Lady Elliot would be an enticement, and so would being mistress of Kellynch Hall.

  Sir Walter warmed to this theme. Yes, he would certainly give notice to Admiral and Mrs. Croft, therefore his bride must bring with her plenty of money. A yearly income of £500—no, an even thousand—was crucial.

  He went hunting for a pencil and paper. Sir Walter was no wizard at arithmetic, but the need was pressing. At last he sat back and studied his figures. His bride must bring a settlement of at least £10,000. This was not asking too much. Elizabeth Stevenson had brought the same amount when he married her, so Sir Walter knew it could be done.

  “I am worth it,” he said to the empty room.

  His new wife must also be beautiful. No chinless wonder for him! Nor a Roman nose or a horsey-face!

  As to age, she must be—say, here was a thought! Since he had to marry, why not have a go at fathering a son? Thus he would remove the cursed entail, while at the same time giving one in the eye to William Walter Elliot, his insolent heir.

  Yes, this marriage scheme had merit.

  Sir Walter scanned the pages of
The Baronetage, running his finger down the list of surnames. Presently he gave a cry of victory.

  Delacorte. Sir Henry passed just last year, and Sir Walter knew that he left behind a whopping fortune. Eleanora, Lady Delacorte, was the daughter of a baron but … heavens, was that date right? She was his own age, 55. One foot in the grave! Sir Walter turned a page.

  Dowell. Judith, Lady Dowell, was another widow. But her late husband was only a knight, thus she must be counted as unworthy. Heavens, if he wished for the widow of a knight he could have married Lady Russell! That thought brought a shiver, for she was, in the words of his eldest grandson, a bossy-boots. Sir Walter began turning pages the opposite direction.

  De Bouer. Sir Walter sat up. Here was the unmarried daughter of a marquis, Lady Catherine, and of proper age, 31. Why, he had met her! She spent the winter here in Bath. Lady Catherine had been so praised for her beauty that Elizabeth was jealous!

  That settled it. He would court Lady Catherine de Bouer.

  She would be pleased to receive him as a suitor, for was he not remarkably good-looking? Sir Walter’s looking glass said so, and so did everyone else. At 55, he was in his prime. Never mind the fact that his eldest daughter was 30; his youngest was 24. Whenever a conversation turned to daughters, he would focus his remarks on Mary.

  Now then, how to begin the campaign? But of course. He would write a little note to break the ice, so to speak. Because the Elliots did nothing by halves, his letter must make an impression.

  Given the time of year, what could be better than to send a Valentine? Most unmarried girls received Valentines. If intercepted, where was the harm? The father of an unmarried women in her thirties would welcome Sir Walter Elliot with open arms.

  Sir Walter removed his spectacles—he did not need them; they were only a convenience—and rose to his feet. Down he went to the entrance hall. Selecting a hat, his gloves, and a walking stick, he sallied forth to purchase a Valentine.

  ⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟

  The wording presented the greatest difficulty, and for a few days Sir Walter fretted over what to say. He must pen an eloquent message, one worthy of his crusade. For a crusade it was, a crusade of love. And words were the artillery.