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Forget Me Not, Elizabeth, Chapter 2

What could possibly go wrong on Darcy’s wedding day? Hmm…

Photo by Anna Rozwadowska on Unsplash Chapter 2

Fitzwilliam Darcy checked his pocket watch again. The seconds did not tick any faster for his constant scrutiny. Fifteen minutes had never felt so long. Longer than the last year and half during which he had met, felt himself in danger of, and fallen in love with Elizabeth Bennet.
He glanced through the open entrance door to the carriage which would convey him and Bingley to Longbourn’s chapel. The horses pawed impatiently. Darcy resumed pacing.
After another turn about the hall, he paused by the doors. Pulling out the ring he had selected especially for Elizabeth, he held it up to the morning sun, appreciating how the light gleamed crimson reflections off the polished garnets. Five glistening, red gemstones shaped into a forget-me-not encased with gold stretching around the band symbolized everything he had already promised in his heart to give Elizabeth: faithfulness, dependability, constancy, love, his very self.
He had fallen in love with her despite his best efforts to the contrary. Despite her better judgment, he thought with a chuckle. How proud he had been — insulting her, leaving her vulnerable to others’ self-serving lies, and demeaning everyone she held dear in a madcap declaration of his undying love. Of course, he had expected her to throw herself at his feet, grateful he would condescend to make an offer for her when he had so graciously overcome all the obstacles he had taken pains to enumerate. What a fool he had been.
Thank goodness their worst troubles were in the past, the valuable lessons learned and applied. It was easy — even for Darcy — to laugh at their faults now.
He had won Elizabeth’s heart, and he would cherish it all the more, knowing she gave her his hand in full understanding of his weaknesses (of which she was foremost). While Darcy was tempted to believe his lessons learned and his pride conquered, his character was too firmly formed to believe such deeply ingrained tendencies entirely subjugated. But he would always exert himself for Elizabeth.
He loved her so much. She demanded as much from him as he demanded from others, forcing him to soften his expectations and leaving more place in his heart for her. Would that she remained the same always.
Tucking the ring back into his pocket, he glanced again at his pocket watch.
Two minutes passed. With a grimace, he resumed his pacing.
Were it up to him, he would have applied for a common license and married Elizabeth weeks ago in a small, private ceremony. However, Elizabeth’s eyes had sparkled like flutes of champagne when Bingley had suggested a double wedding. Blast Bingley.
Darcy was not so cruel as to separate Elizabeth from her family before she was ready, and so he had been forced to develop patience as he waited for the banns to be read, contenting himself that he would not have to share her once they were wed. He had dutifully informed his family, his invitation lackluster in an attempt to discourage them from attending for that very reason. Otherwise, his relatives (except for his aunt Catherine) would descend on them and he would have to share Elizabeth, and he had waited long enough. Surely, a gentleman ought not be deprived of his wife after the ceremony and the wedding breakfast.
Soon, this same morning, he would give his name to Elizabeth. Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. He would swear before God, her family, and friends that he would never part from her side from that day forward. He would love her and cherish her so long as they both lived. The blessed day had finally arrived, and Darcy was impatient to begin his life with the woman he adored.
He checked his pocket watch again and groaned. Ten minutes. The longest ten minutes of his life.

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Forget Me Not, Elizabeth, Chapter 1

When working together to solve a mystery is the surest path to love… Darcy and Elizabeth are the main targets — for Cupid and for crime — in a new Mysteries & Matrimony standalone novel.

Here’s a taste of the adventure that awaits you.

CHAPTER ONE

Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Elizabeth Bennet wrinkled her nose at her signature. Much too commanding and formal. Dipping her quill into the inkwell, she tested another variant.
Mrs. Lizzy Darcy. She twisted her lips. That was not quite right either. Far too inelegant, informal … no matter how lovely the “L” swooped and curled on the page.
Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. She sighed contentedly, signing her forthcoming name once more, exaggerating the loop on the “Y” with flourish. Nearly perfect.
She filled the cream surface with the surname she would forever use once she signed her name beside her husband’s in the marriage register that morning.
Her husband. Elizabeth’s heart hummed. The three previous weeks, during which the banns had been read, were a torture, forcing her to be patient when she would rather not, but today was her reward. Finally, she would marry the man she truly, deeply, madly — nay, not madly. Never that! — ardently … Yes, ardently loved.
“Sit still, if you please, Miss. I am nearly done,” Sarah repeated. The maid had spent the past hour braiding and twisting Elizabeth’s hair into submission, carefully poking bunches of bishop’s lace between sprays of pink and white roses from Mama’s garden — the first blooms of summer.
Daydreaming of her Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth traced her finger over her favorite signature, and attempted to be still while her emotions twirled and rejoiced. Today was the day.
“There,” Sarah said, stepping back and clasping her hands at her chin to admire her handiwork. “You are lovely, Miss. As beautiful as ever.”
Elizabeth was grateful. She was not given to vanity, but for days she had dreaded waking on her wedding day to an uncontrollable mane and a face full of unsightly blemishes.
“Sarah! Oh, where is that girl?” Mama called from her rooms.
Sarah pinched her eyes closed with a forbearing sigh.
Elizabeth stifled a laugh. Her mother was renowned for her nervous spasms, and today being the day which would go a long way in alleviating the source of her nerves — that of seeing two of her daughters married well and settled — she had been particularly demanding that morning and would remain so until vows were exchanged, their unions official. “Thank you, Sarah. Your nimble fingers accomplished what I could not have dared.”
Pleased, Sarah bobbed a curtsy. “I will see to Mrs. Bennet,” she said, her step lighter than her usual trudge.
For the first time since waking, Elizabeth was alone. She knew it would not last for long, nor would she wish it to, so she enjoyed the moment, the calm before the storm … or, more appropriately put, the celebration.
Billowing curtains and the soft, sweet breeze beckoned Elizabeth to the window. Even the weather cooperated, adding to the perfection of the wedding day she and Fitzwilliam would share with her sister Jane and Mr. Bingley. A double wedding.
Her father came into view from the direction of the orchard behind the house. He was difficult to miss with his white, wide-brimmed hat and long, damask coat joined with a frothy veil of the finest lace. Elizabeth smiled, remembering how Mama’s rapture when Papa had brought the delicate lace home had turned to horror when he cut a big circle out of the center and had Mrs. Hill stitch it onto his old hat and stiff coat. What she had thought to be a rare, thoughtful gift was the start of Papa’s latest obsession — bees. Mama did not approve, but she was relieved enough that he had moved on from collecting beetles — they all were — that she did not object so long as the hive’s residents stayed in their dwelling … and far away from hers.
Mama’s shrill voice traveled the length of the hall. “Mary, do not dawdle. Fordyce’s sermons are not so enthralling you cannot resume your reading until after the service. Kitty, if you insist on this incessant coughing, you shall have to watch the ceremony through the stained glass window. I will allow for no interruptions on this glorious, blessed day.” A clap of her hands, and Elizabeth imagined her mother raising her face heavenward when she continued in one breath, “We are saved! A few more hours, and we are saved! Such clever girls, my Jane and Lizzy. They will put you in the way to marry well, Kitty, and I daresay, even your chances of making a match are much improved, Mary, with such handsome, wealthy gentlemen as your brothers-in-law.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She had never been Mama’s favorite, but her engagement had covered over all of her sins so far as her mother was concerned.
Jane drifted into the bedchamber, golden tendrils framing her porcelain cheeks, an English rose in full bloom.
“You are beautiful, Jane.”
Ever the modest, soft-spoken one of the five Bennet sisters, Jane looked down, a becoming blush gracing her features. When she looked up again, her eyes beamed brightly, her smile wide. “As are you, Lizzy.” She crossed the room, clasping Elizabeth’s hands in her own. No embraces. Not yet. Easily crushed muslin and wrinkled silk did not allow them. However, once their new gowns had been properly and dutifully admired, Elizabeth planned to hug her sisters, her mama, and papa until her arms grew heavy.
“Can you believe this day has finally arrived? I thought it would never come,” Jane said with as much impatience as Elizabeth had ever heard her sister express.
“I have been pinching myself all morning to be certain this is not a dream. It is all so perfect, so wonderful.”
“To think I shall be the mistress of Netherfield Park before the day’s end, and you of Pemberley. I can hardly believe our good fortune.” Jane plucked at the satin ribbon tied at her waist. “I almost wish Charles had not invited so many relatives and friends for the ceremony and wedding breakfast.” She dropped her voice. “I am happy to share my joy with those who are important to him, but I hope it is not selfish of me to wish to have those first precious hours after we are wed to ourselves. Just my husband and me.”
Elizabeth chuckled in commiseration. “I should worry more if you did not wish to spend more time with your new husband.” More comfort than that, she could not offer, for unlike Bingley, Fitzwilliam had invited no one from his side of the family at all. Elizabeth had agreed it was for the best. His aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh would only stir up trouble. His little sister, Georgiana, was busy preparing Pemberley for their arrival with the help of his uncle and aunt Matlock. And his cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, the only other relation besides Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh of Elizabeth’s acquaintance, would dine with them that evening at Darcy House in London.
Each of them had sensible excuses. Completely comprehensible, given the shortness of their engagement. But a little niggle of suspicion — fed by the repeated and indisputable proofs Fitzwilliam had given that his love was stronger than his aversion to her sometimes offensive-but-always-well-meaning family — spurred her to expect that his side of the family would not be so poorly represented.
As constant as Fitzwilliam had always been, he was a man of surprises. The depth of his attachment had been tested to the full. Not only had she rudely refused him once, accusing him of the cruelest, ungentlemanly behavior toward a man undeserving of her sympathy, but when her youngest sister, Lydia, had run away with that same ne’er-do-well, Fitzwilliam had hunted them down and covered over their transgressions with a layer of respectability. He had arranged their marriage and saved her family from ruin.
And still, after all that trouble, he chose her. Shame at how wrongly she had misjudged him heated her cheeks. However, those same formidable obstacles which had so nearly prevented them from seeing each other for who they, in reality, were, also convinced Elizabeth that their love would endure. Theirs was not a love easily won … and, therefore, just as easily lost or neglected. No, they had fought for each other, longed for each other when hope was gone, changed their views and refined their characters. There was nothing left but for them to be splendidly happy.
Jane tried to smile, and Elizabeth reeled her wandering thoughts back to her sister. Of what use was it to lament the present or ponder the past when a delightful future awaited both of them? Elizabeth squeezed Jane’s hands. “We have the rest of our lives to spend with our husbands.”
“That is what I keep telling myself, but I still envy you for being able to depart for London after the feast when I shall have a houseful of guests.”
“You, envious?” Elizabeth teased, then groaned inwardly when she observed her usually serene sister chewing on her lip and furrowing her brow. She ought to sympathize with her. After all, she would be equally displeased had she been in Jane’s position, having her capabilities as a hostess tested so soon and under the critical eyes of Mr. Bingley’s pernicious sisters. “Oh, Jane, you will rise to the occasion as you always do.”
“It is not only that. I will own I am nervous, but…” She paused, searching for the right words. “It is that … I hope I shall always be kind … but neither do I wish for others to take advantage of my kindness or that of my husband.”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth lifted Jane’s chin, looking her firmly in the eye. “You will make Mr. Bingley an excellent wife and an exceptional mistress of Netherfield Park, and I have no doubt that you will both be very happy.”
Creaky floorboards and the uneven rhythm of Mrs. Hill’s arthritic footstep announced Longbourn’s housekeeper. “I had hoped to catch both of you,” she said, squinting her eyes and clucking her tongue at Sarah’s handiwork before expressing her approval with a firm nod. Her purpose seen to, her face softened. Brushing her rough fingers over Elizabeth’s cheek with one hand and Jane’s with the other, Mrs. Hill said tenderly, “I wish you all the happiness in the world on this blessed day. Longbourn will not be the same without you.”
Elizabeth reached up, placing her hand on top of Mrs. Hill’s, leaving Jane to express the gracious words the elderly woman needed to hear. While fewer ladies in the household would certainly lessen the housekeeper’s workload, Elizabeth was certain her mother would have little difficulty finding other ways in which to occupy Mrs. Hill’s time.
Mrs. Hill dropped her hands to dab at her cheeks. With a sniff, she turned toward the window. “As many times as I have shut this window for you, Miss Lizzy, I daresay I shall miss chastising you for leaving it open so often.”
As unapologetic as Mrs. Hill was forgiving, Elizabeth merely smiled. She hoped Pemberley’s housekeeper was as caring as Longbourn’s.
A heavy tread caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she looked out to the hall to see the new footman stand beside the doorway. Thatcher cleared his throat and tapped on the door frame. “Mrs. Hill, if I might beg a moment.”
Mrs. Hill rolled her eyes. Elizabeth bit her tongue. Thatcher was her mother’s pride and joy … and the bane of the Hills’ existence. Men of a certain age suitable for service were scarce while the country was at war. They preferred to seek their fortunes in the Navy or satisfy their obligations to nation and family by enlisting in the regulars. The few who remained behind were usually unfit in some way, and Thatcher was no exception. However, his deficiency was not visible, and being young and handsome in his livery, Mama was quick to praise her find. So long as he was not given too many instructions, he showed her choice to advantage.
“What is it, Thatcher?” Mrs. Hill asked through an exasperated sigh.
He scratched his head. “I am sorry to disrupt you, ma’am, but I cannot find Mr. Hill. I thought I saw him going out to the carriage house, but when I followed him there, I saw nobody. And by the time I returned to the house, I could not recall why you had sent me to find him. I swept the flagstones outside the kitchen, hoping the activity would help me remember.” Bowing his head, he added quietly, “I regret to say it did not work.”
Good-naturedly, Mrs. Hill suggested he reserve his mental exertions for the wedding breakfast and leave Mr. Hill to her.
“Mrs. Hill! Mrs. Hill, I need you!” shrieked Mama.
With a parting glance, the housekeeper disappeared down the hall with Thatcher, no doubt repeating the same instructions she had been instilling in him since the first reading of the banns.
“Poor Mrs. Hill. Mama will run her off her feet by the end of the day,” said Jane.
Elizabeth had not added her sympathy to Jane’s before their mother burst into their bedchamber.
“It is a disaster! I am at my wit’s end, and Mr. Bennet is nowhere to be found. He is not in his study.” Mama flailed her arms in the air, adding, “The father of the brides is missing, we will be late unless we depart soon, and I just now realized that we cannot all fit into the carriage without crushing your gowns beyond reparation.” She flicked her fan open, waving it fitfully at her flushed face. “My poor nerves. If Mr. Bennet does not return soon, I shall have to send the footman out to fetch him. I daresay he is dawdling with his bees.”
Suspecting her father’s absence had as much to do with avoiding Mama’s nerves as the inevitability of Elizabeth’s departure to a far-away estate, she suggested, “Mama, why do you not go in the carriage with Jane, Kitty, and Mary? I will send Thatcher to find Papa, and by the time the carriage returns, he will be ready to accompany me.”
Mama shook her head. “I should rather the brides arrive at the same time.”
“The distance is short, and the delay will only be minutes. However, our dresses and slippers will be pristine, and you will be allowed to ensure everything else is arranged by the time I arrive. If you depart now, the ceremony will start on the appointed hour.”
Elizabeth saw her mother was still unconvinced. She added, “Nothing will go wrong, Mama. What could happen on such a perfect day?”
Mama huffed. Tapping Elizabeth on the shoulder with her fan, she added, “Never tempt fate aloud, Lizzy. Until your names are signed beside Mr. Bingley’s and Mr. Darcy’s, I will have no rest. There is nothing else to be done. We shall have to make two trips.” In a flurry of eau de parfum, she gathered her daughters and herded them out to the waiting carriage.
Alone once again, Elizabeth stood in the center of her room, taking a deep breath and spinning in a slow circle.
Today was real. She and Jane had spent their last night together in the bedchamber they had always shared. The faded floral wallpaper, the scarred chair by the window, the collection of candle stubs by which she read at night, the dressing table which had belonged to her great-grandmother, the armoire with the squeaky door, the rug Mrs. Hill had knitted to keep the chill from her feet when she woke in the morning. Longbourn had been a wonderful, comfortable home.
As much as Elizabeth looked forward to exploring Derbyshire with Fitzwilliam, she was certain she would miss her childhood abode … eventually. Just not today.
Today was for unbridled joy and hard-won celebration. The excitement of exploring her new home (and her new husband) sent tingles of anticipation through her limbs.
She would leave this room for the last time as Miss Elizabeth Bennet. When she next returned, she would be Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.

Stay tuned for Chapter 2! And you can preorderyour copy here.

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Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Wager—The Next Chapter…

What happened to the green ribbon? If you’ve already read the first installment, you may well wonder.

I won’t make you wait. Here’s what happened next!

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Longbourn, fifteen years and seven months later…

Elizabeth Bennet shook her hands and stretched her neck from side to side.

It was rare for her to lose, but the stakes were higher today.

Widening her stance, Elizabeth raised her fist, her two youngest sisters standing opposite — Lydia as her opponent, Kitty as their mediator. On Lydia’s nod, they began.

“One! Two!” Elizabeth counted, her vision trained on Lydia’s hand. “Three!”

“Scissors cut cloth! Lizzy wins,” exclaimed Kitty.

Elizabeth exhaled.

Lydia crossed her arms and stamped her foot. “It is not fair! You always win at that stupid game.”

“If you thought the game so stupid, why did you consent to play it?” Kitty’s point was good, but she must have regretted expressing it when Lydia pinched her.

“You are supposed to be on my side,” Lydia complained.

Kitty rubbed her arm, wisely keeping her peace, though a grimace displayed the severity of her displeasure.

“Girls, please, do not fight,” said Jane, their eldest sister and the Bennet family’s peacekeeper. “It is only a ribbon. I have several shades of pink and blue which will suit your complexion most becomingly.”

Elizabeth smiled her thanks, grateful for Jane’s attempt to distract Lydia from her objective — Elizabeth’s green ribbon. The green ribbon.

Too many precious memories were entwined in that satin for her to allow anyone who did not appreciate its value near. It marked the day Uncle Gardiner had met the lady he would later make his wife. Elizabeth adored Aunt Madeline, and she liked to think her green ribbon had something to do with their romance. That it might, somehow, someday, bring her a romance like theirs … if she ever had a chance to widen her society outside Longbourn.

Lydia stuck out her bottom lip. “But that shade of green is perfect for my complexion. I already have a bonnet with a feather to match.”

Mary, their reasonably minded middle sister, paused in the hall outside Elizabeth’s door. “Does it signify when you will not wear your bonnet inside the assembly rooms?”

“Of course not! It would crush my coiffure. But you care nothing for ribbons, Mary. You cannot possibly understand the importance of being seen wearing the perfect color.”

Assuming her best (and oft-practiced) pious mien, Mary said, “You ought not place so much importance on them either. Such things are vanity. It is the inner quality of a lady which adorns her with beauty, not baubles and fripperies.” Her point made, she continued past Elizabeth’s room and down the squeaky stairs where one could easily presume from the harsh staccato notes resounding through the halls and open doors of Longbourn that she had seated herself at the pianoforte.

Elizabeth held out her hand and wiggled her fingers until Kitty draped the ribbon over her palm.

She had not yet placed the green satin inside the drawer when Lydia tugged on her arm. With a sweet smile, Lydia said, “I have a lovely pink which I am certain would suit you splendidly.”

“The same pink you declared you would never wear again after seeing Maria Lucas wearing the same color in Meryton only yesterday?” Elizabeth closed the drawer and waited for Lydia to reveal her self-serving scheme.

“Green is such a difficult color to wear.” Lydia fluttered her lashes and pouted, continuing, “With the new arrivals from London coming to the Meryton Assembly, you will want to appear to your best advantage — especially if they bring young ladies with them who have easier access to the latest fashions. See how considerate I am to put your interests first?”

“How gracious of you to call attention to your consideration. I might have missed it otherwise,” Elizabeth mumbled dryly, earning a look from Jane.

Lydia, however, did not hear her sarcasm. Or, more likely, she had not heard Elizabeth over the cacophony Mary produced downstairs. Clutching Elizabeth’s arm, she continued, “That ribbon is old, and I would hate for you to be cast aside as outdated. Or, even worse, for its reflection to cast a sickly pallor over your skin. Handsome men of fortune do not want sickly wives.”

“If you think the ribbon is so old, why do you wish to wear it?” Kitty asked.

Elizabeth sucked on the insides of her cheeks when Lydia hissed at Kitty yet again. Once her merriment was contained and it was safe to open her mouth, Elizabeth said, “I see. So, you are doing me a favor?”

Lydia opened her eyes wider, giving the appearance of innocence, and nodded. “Oh, yes. I would never forgive myself if you gave a poor impression and ruined your prospects over a silly ribbon.”

“It would be silly for my future happiness to depend on a ribbon,” Elizabeth owned. She was tempted to wear the ribbon to see if it would repel unworthy suitors who despised her favorite color. Could she love a gentleman who did not like green? She thought not.

Lydia flashed her dimples. Many were fooled by that smile, but Elizabeth had caught Lydia practicing the expression in the mirror too many times to believe her sincere.

Continuing her display of sisterly concern, Lydia said, “You already stand in Jane’s shadow. She is the beauty of the family … for now. And I am infinitely more lively than you are and will soon best Jane in looks once she is past her bloom. Everyone says so. If you wear that ribbon to the assembly, you risk going unnoticed.”

Elizabeth bit her lips together. Jane was hardly close to being shelved as Lydia implied. If they could widen their circle, Jane was certain to attract a gentleman who would appreciate her for more than just her pretty face and comely figure. Nor did Elizabeth believe herself so unfortunate in appearance as Lydia also implied. Perhaps Elizabeth would be fortunate enough to meet a gentleman who would appreciate her mind as much as society touted the importance of beauty, position, and fortune. She craved intelligent conversation and good-natured, witty banter … traits sorely lacking in her current limited society.

If only she and Jane could accept Aunt’s invitation and go to London!

“What about me? I am lively, too,” Kitty whined.

Jane ushered their younger sisters out of the bedchamber. Elizabeth was glad. Between Mary’s zealous attention to the pianoforte and her sisters’ arguing, a dull pounding had commenced at the base of her skull.

Mercifully, Jane closed the door, and the pounding which threatened to spread to Elizabeth’s temples appeased.

“Lizzy, do not pay Lydia any heed. Everyone in Meryton says you are a beauty, and I know it to be true. Yours is the kind which will not fade, as it stems from within.”

Elizabeth smiled at her dear sister. “Thank you, Janie, but you know I place little importance on my appearance. I am content how I am.” Did there exist a man who would love her as she was? She had to believe it possible.

“As you ought to be. Handsome features fade with time, but your cleverness will only improve with more experience.”

Elizabeth considered her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table. The gold strands with which the summer sun had brightened her hair had faded into an insignificant brown. The ringlets framing her face never quite stayed smooth or in place, despite her maid’s coaxing. Freckles spattered over her nose and cheeks. They were light, and Elizabeth rather liked them, but they were the bane of her mother’s existence.

She smoothed her hands over her skirts. She lacked the pleasantly plump roundness of Jane and Lydia, but they had to endure the ogling stares of indiscreet men and pinching corsets. They could keep their curves.

Jane wrapped her arm around Elizabeth’s waist. “You ought to wear the green tonight. The color suits you. It brings out the golden glow in your eyes.”

Elizabeth kissed her on the cheek. “You are everything good and kind, Jane. If we are expected to sign away our freedom — as is our lot — and come under the control of our husbands, to depend on a man so entirely for every comfort and kindness, then I want for both of us to have a choice in the matter. And I would rather choose from a larger selection than is available to us here.”

“All I require is a gentleman who is truly kind. But what of you, Lizzy? I would not see you marry a fool or anyone cruel.”

“For you, I wish a gentleman who will appreciate your character as much as your beauty.”

“You know that is not what I meant. What do you want for yourself?”

Elizabeth chuckled. “A man who will think me beautiful despite my overactive curiosity and frequent impertinence. If, indeed, such a man exists.” She twisted her face, then, more seriously, she added, “A gentleman I can laugh with … and in whose embrace I find solace when I am sad. Someone who will challenge me while never making me feel less than beloved. Who has enough depth of character for me to explore over a lifetime and who has a will as strong as my own, for you know I hold little respect for indecisive, inconstant men.”

“Is that all?” Jane teased.

It was not all. Now that Elizabeth considered the subject, she realized she held a much higher standard than she had initially contemplated. More than anything, she wanted someone who understood her … and liked her anyway.

It would also help if he knew how to kiss properly. Not that Elizabeth had much — or any — experience with kisses, but she had a competent imagination and was confident she would know a proper kiss when it was given to her.

These thoughts she kept to herself. They would shock Jane. Aloud, she said, “I will stop at nothing until we have secured a season in London. Our odds are better there than they are here.”

Jane squeezed her. “Or, perhaps, Mr. Bingley and his friends from London will prove to be everything we seek, and we will not have to leave at all.” Jane pulled back, looking intently at Elizabeth. “You must allow that it is possible.”

Possible, but not likely. However, for Jane’s sake, she would keep an open mind. “I am curious to meet Mr. Bingley and his party.”

“Will you wear your green ribbon?” asked Jane.

“No,” Elizabeth answered immediately. “I am looking forward to the assembly, but I do not think the occasion so special to merit wearing it.”

“You have not worn it once.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “Not so! I wore it to Uncle Gardiner’s wedding.”

“That was years ago, Lizzy. What is the use of having something so lovely if you never use it?”

Elizabeth was taken aback. She expected this from Lydia, but not from Jane. “I see my ribbon every day, every time I open the top drawer of my dressing table.” She had even cut a strip to mark the page she left off reading in her books. It was the worse for wear for its constant use, and, therefore, further proof the rest of the length was better kept in her dressing table drawer.

Jane just looked at her.

Elizabeth chewed on the corner of her mouth. How could she explain that seeing the ribbon, that knowing it was there, was enough for her? That she did not know which occasion would be special enough for her to wear her treasured satin until she felt the importance of the event? Elizabeth would have pondered the question at length, but Jane was not finished.

“Contrary to what Lydia says, the color is perfect for you.”

Jane opened the door to leave, and the silence in the house made the hairs on Elizabeth’s arms stand on end. She rubbed her hands over them, a sick feeling twisting her stomach before her mind drew the same conclusion her instincts had.

“Lydia!” Her feet moving of their own accord, Elizabeth brushed past Jane and charged down the stairs.

Mother would think nothing of taking her ribbon away from her when Lydia wanted it. Lydia was her favorite.

Lydia would spill mulled wine on the perfect green and leave it stained and trampled on the floor when the evening’s diversions were through. She cared not for the significance behind the item. She only saw a fetching color nobody else would be wearing.

Elizabeth entered the drawing room to a medley of fake tears and mendacious wails. Mother wrapped her arms around the talented actress, patting Lydia’s arm and clucking her tongue while her eyes narrowed into slits at the entrance of her second daughter, her least favorite.

Papa lowered his book, peeking over his spectacles at her. “Ah, Lizzy, perhaps you can restore peace to our household. I have attempted to assure Lydia that ribbons are hardly worth crying over, that only silly girls can become heartbroken over a length of satin, and she insists on proving my remark correct.”

Mother rose to Lydia’s defense. “Mr. Bennet, have pity on our poor nerves! Lydia only wishes to look her best for Mr. Bingley and his gentlemen friends. Why should she not wear a ribbon which her sister has not cared to use these many years?”

Elizabeth’s pulse thundered in her ears. “I do plan to wear it,” she blurted, wincing at the loudness of her own voice.

Her father chuckled. “So much commotion over a ribbon. Why do you not go into Meryton and purchase more of your own?” he asked Lydia.

She wailed, “I have already spent all my pin money.”

“Is that what this fuss is about? You are out of pin money, and so you are attempting to procure Lizzy’s ribbon for yourself? Well, my child, consider this an advance on next month’s allowance.” He pulled some coins out of his pocket.

Lydia recovered with miraculous speed, snatching the coins from him quicker than she could hiccup or summon another tear. “Thank you, Papa!” She planted a kiss on his cheek and fled from the room (no doubt to boast to Kitty about how she had extracted extra pin money from Papa).

Father looked rather pleased with himself, though he would surely regret his lenience when Kitty came downstairs to demand an advance on her allowance as well.

Mother fanned her face, leaning against the couch cushions contentedly. “I am pleased you will finally wear the ribbon, Lizzy. It is such a becoming color on you, and we all know you can use all the help you can get with Jane and Lydia at your side.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes to keep from rolling them. Mama was of the opinion that marriage was the means to happiness, and any means of attaining it was fair. Elizabeth did not agree. She did not want her wedding day to be the happiest of her life. She wanted every day after her wedding to be the better than the one before, for her and her husband’s happiness to grow long after they exchanged vows.

Mother inspected her with pursed lips. “We shall ask Sarah to cinch your corset tighter to lift the little you have on top and create roundness where you lack on the bottom.”

Elizabeth sighed. If Mother had her way, she would squeeze all the diversion out of the evening.

“If Lizzy faints from lack of breath, you may take comfort knowing it was done in the pursuit of a suitor,” Papa commented dryly, raising his book.

Mama clapped. “An excellent idea, Mr. Bennet! Only, Lizzy, do take care to faint within arm’s reach of Mr. Bingley or one of his wealthy friends so they might catch you.”

Over my dead body, thought Elizabeth. She was not the simpering, swooning sort, and she refused to resort to such tactics. Jane would loosen her stays for her.

Seeing her father in an agreeable mood, Elizabeth brought up the topic foremost in her mind. “Papa, Aunt Gardiner wrote last week with an invitation for Jane and me to stay with them for the season in London. I have yet to give her an answer.” Because her father, as was his wont, had not made a decision.

Mama was quick to protest. “Why should you wait until the season to marry when Mr. Bingley is here now? I have it on good authority he intends to bring back several of his friends from London. If you do as I suggest, you will be married before the end of the year and well before the start of the season.”

Papa shook his head. “I do not know, Lizzy. Your mother makes a valid argument. You may not need to go to London at all.”

Elizabeth would not give up so easily. “Consider the probability, Papa. Is it not reasonable to consider that Jane and I have an improved chance of successfully making better matches with a larger selection from which to choose?”

“You make marriage sound like an arithmetic problem,” her mother huffed.

Her father rubbed his chin, and Elizabeth could only hope his deliberations would land in her favor.

He said, “Nobody will argue that the number of unmarried gentlemen in London far exceeds the number here. However, you have not taken into account the increased number of females vying for their attention. It is another factor to add to the equation.” He winked at Mother.

Mama fanned her face with increased vigor. “If you cannot secure the attentions of a gentleman here, what makes you think you will do any better in London? It is a pity you are not as beautiful as Jane, nor as attractive as Lydia. If only you would not think so much. Men do not want clever wives.”

Elizabeth felt her chin jut out. How could one live without curiosity and wonder? What a dreadful existence that would be! “Please, Papa, may I accept Aunt’s invitation on behalf of myself and Jane?” she asked.

He rubbed his chin, his gaze settling on Mama. “While gentlemen like to think themselves more intelligent than their companions, they do not wish for silly wives.”

Mama huffed. If her tendency was to think too little, then Papa’s was to think a great deal too much, to the incitement of biting sarcasm and the exclusion of action.

“I will give you a reply four days hence,” he continued, “after the Meryton Assembly. Your aunt has already waited a week for a reply, and a few days more can do no harm. You will have the opportunity to meet our new neighbors, and your mother will see for herself if there is any hope for you and Jane in that quarter.”

Mother positively gloated. She found encouragement where there was none.

Elizabeth contained her excitement. She had no intention of encouraging affection in Mr. Bingley or any of his gentlemen friends — no matter how rich and handsome they might be. Not when she and Jane would have more opportunities in London.

She smiled. “Thank you, Papa.” The season in London was as good as theirs. She returned upstairs to tell Jane the news.

Coming soon, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Wager !

Master Darcy Meets Little Lizzy

How old were you when you learned this game? Lizzy was 4, and she had a wonderful teacher!

Rock, paper, scissors? In Regency England? Why, yes, although the name of the game has changed a bit over the years. Master Darcy will explain how he came to learn it in this preview of the first chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

Pemberley, 1796
 
Fitzwilliam Darcy bolted from the parlor, tripping over his feet at the bottom of the stairs.
“Let him go, Anne.” His father’s voice echoed over the marble floors.
Darcy scrambled up the steps, clipping the edge of the banister with his arm. He pressed his hand over his aching flesh, tears that had nothing to do with his injury soaking into the carpet. 
He wished he could start the day over. He would walk down to the breakfast parlor. He would kiss his mother on the cheek. Father would ruffle his hair and suggest a ride over the estate. Darcy loved riding over their property. He loved every inch of Pemberley, knowing that generations of Darcys had cared for the land and its tenants just as he would do when he was of age. He knew every rise and stream. It was a part of him. An inheritance his father had taken pride in teaching him to manage one day.
When would that day come now?
Darcy stumbled forward, catching himself before he fell to his knees. Blasted feet! Father told him he would grow into them eventually, that he would be as tall as him someday. Darcy wanted to believe him — to grow up to be just like his father.
But he did not know what was true anymore.
Balling his fingers into a fist, Darcy rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, squinting and blinking until his vision cleared.
Besides the library, Father’s study was Darcy’s favorite room. He stepped inside and found the solace he sought. Darcy’s life would never be the same, but this room was unchanged. Morning sun gleamed off the rich mahogany desk, warming the leather chair positioned behind it with its light. Darcy had imagined himself sitting in that chair, pouring over ledgers and meeting with their land steward just as his father did. Had done. Would do no more.
Hopelessness gripped his chest and reached for his throat. Darcy gasped for breath, the tears he held back clogging his nose and clouding his vision. He rubbed his eyes, angry with himself for acting like a child when he must think like a man. 
Mother’s portrait smiled softly beside the window, encouraging him. All will be well she seemed to say. It was an empty reassurance frequently uttered by other mothers, but Darcy’s mother was so wise and so often right, he trusted her. She had not wept when Father told them the news. “All will be well,” she had said, only Darcy had not seen how it was possible.
Until now.
He could fix this. He would fix this.
Bound with staunch resolve, he turned to the bookshelves lining the wall to his left, running his fingers along the spines until he reached the section nearest Mother’s portrait. It was not for nothing he had rushed to the study. Somehow, he had known to come here. Some hidden logic had guided him.
He looked up.
Vibrant colors gleamed six shelves high. Darcy stretched to his full height, his fingers brushing against the base of the Chinese vase. Not quite.
Dragging a chair across the carpet and climbing on top, Darcy wrapped his hands around the delicate porcelain.
This was it. The solution.
Cradling the vase to his chest, he lowered himself from the chair and tiptoed down the hall.
Two footmen carried a trunk down the stairs. Darcy waited for them to pass. Maids chattered as he walked by bedchamber doors. He heard his parents’ voices outside the parlor. For a moment, his step faltered. Father would be proud of him for thinking of a solution so quickly.
But Father had made this mess.
Bunching his quivering chin determinedly, Darcy ran past the parlor, past the servants carrying luggage out of the entrance door, past the carriages sitting in the drive, and out to the stables.
“A horse, please. And hurry,” he said.
The weathered groom regarded him with sad eyes. He knew. Of course, he knew. The entire household knew. The maids packing, the footmen carrying, the groom harnessing…. Everyone but Darcy had known. Father had told the servants before he had told his own son. What else had he told them? Would he prevent them from helping Darcy when he was the only one doing anything to stop this awful thing from happening?
For a panicked moment, Darcy feared the groom would refuse. Or worse, he would rest his gnarled hand on Darcy’s shoulder. His resolve was not so firm he could endure a display of sympathy. It might make him crack.
Sucking in his breath, Darcy took a step away and returned the groom’s steady look, willing him to allow Darcy to try. He had to try. Darcys did not quit. They did not surrender. Why had Father surrendered? How could he allow this?
Darcy blinked hard, his throat swelling and his eyes burning. He held his breath as though his dignity depended on it.
“As you wish, Master Darcy.” The groom slipped inside the stables, returning minutes later with two horses — one for Darcy and one for himself.
Darcy jutted out his chin. When would his father learn to trust him to ride without a nursemaid? For Heaven’s sake, he was hardly a child! He was nearly twelve.
Carrying his precious cargo close to his chest, Darcy rode slowly into Lambton, where he was forced to admit the value of the groom’s company when he was able to hand the fragile vase to the man while he dismounted.
Taking the vase and scraping his boots clean, Darcy straightened his shoulders and entered Mr. Selkirk’s shop.
Mr. Selkirk was an honest man who filled his shelves with objects of beauty from other countries to sell. He would know what to do with the valuable vase. “Priceless,” Darcy’s uncle had called it.
Only, everything had a price, did it not? Even things which should not be sold — or lost — had a price.
The shopkeeper leaned against his counter, his spectacles perched partway down his nose and one hand cupping his chin as he listened to a young man standing on the other side. They were deep in conversation. So much so, Mr. Selkirk greeted Darcy distractedly.
Darcy looked around, his boldness rapidly deflating.
“Master Darcy. How good it is to see you,” said a sweet voice to his side. “Is there something with which I may be of assistance?” Miss Madeline Selkirk stepped out from behind a cupboard full of knickknacks.
Sweet relief. Miss Selkirk was as knowledgeable as her father. And she was kind. She always had a friendly word and sincere smile ready.
However, like her father, she, too, had company. Two little girls Darcy had never seen before clung to her skirts.
One peeked behind Miss Selkirk with wide, blue eyes. Her hair was neatly braided, unlike the girl beside her. She had dark hair and large, brown eyes trained on the Chinese vase he held. Wisps of hair fuzzed free of her braids and her ribbon dangled lopsided over her ear. She walked around Miss Selkirk, her inquisitive eyes examining both Darcy and his vase.
When his gaze met hers, she pulled her lips into a smile revealing a full mouth of milk teeth lined up like the string of his mother’s pearl necklace. She could not have been a day over four years of age.
“That is a beautiful vase you have, sir,” the brown-eyed girl said articulately.
It was not every day he was addressed as a grown man when everyone around Pemberley had known him since his birth. Now that he noticed, he was nearly as tall as Miss Selkirk. He stretched his legs, straightening his back and neck as high as they could go.
“Thank you,” he replied, holding his treasure out to give the little girl a closer look, and only then remembering why he had come into the shop bearing his uncle’s treasured gift.
Shaking his head at himself, he turned to Miss Selkirk. “It is a precious vase my uncle brought back from his travels in China. See how vibrant the colors are, even after centuries of age?”
The little brown-eyed girl gasped. “Is it really so old?”
“Do you know how long a century is?” he asked. Perhaps he had underestimated her age.
She lifted her chin saucily. “A century is one hundred years. Everybody knows that.”
It felt wrong to smile. People in the throes of despair did not smile. Minutes ago, Darcy would have sworn the expression impossible and resigned himself to a life of stoic solemnity. But the curious child with the curly hair and the crooked ribbon looked so charmingly stubborn and adorably offended, he could not control the corners of his mouth when they turned upward.
Darcy did not realize how widely he smiled nor how long his gaze had lingered on the child until Miss Selkirk spoke. “Centuries, you say? How extraordinary!”
Pulling his attention away from the curious girl, determined not to lose his focus again, he pointed to the design on the widest part of the vase where a red and a brown carp swam together. “Fish are often used by Chinese artists as a symbol of wealth and abundance. These two signify a happy marriage.” Darcy racked his brain for more tidbits he might use to convince Miss Selkirk of the vase’s worth, to secure her assistance. “The painter’s use of red is significant in Chinese culture. It symbolizes happiness and success.”
“They made a mistake with the fish,” said the child’s voice rather forcefully.
“I beg your pardon?” Darcy looked down at the girl sharply. Her brow furrowed, and her tiny lips pinched together. He pulled the vase away from her, shielding it from her criticism.
“Lizzy,” the shy one whispered, “remember what Mama said about keeping some thoughts to yourself? I think that was one you ought not to have said aloud.”
Lizzy. Lively Lizzy. The name suited her, though Darcy heeded her sister’s warning and kept the thought to himself.
Lizzy looked up at him, her mouth twisted. Heaving a sigh, she said, “You are right, Janie. But it is hard for me to be quiet when I see something so horribly unfair.” She crossed her arms, ensuring that they understood how firmly held her opinion was … and how unwillingly she yielded.
Darcy blinked between her and the vase, his own curiosity growing despite his offense. “What is unfair?”
“Why should only one fish be happy in its marriage? Should they not both be happy? I would rather not marry at all than live most of my life unhappy. Is that not rea-son-able?” She stretched out the big word, pronouncing it as though it were still new to her, and looked at him expectantly.
Darcy looked at the fish.
One brown, one red.
He had seen the vase perched on his father’s study shelf his entire lifetime, and he had never concluded that the artist’s choice of color bore any significance. That this little waif of a girl had took him quite by surprise. That she had engaged him in a discussion requiring him to state and defend his view on marital bliss stunned Darcy even more. She expected a reply, but he hardly knew what to say to the child.
A child. She was a young child. Why was he defending a precious artifact to a child when he must determine its value and attempt to sell it? He had no time for distractions.
Darcy held the vase closer to Miss Selkirk, trying to ignore Lively Lizzy (which was exceptionally difficult to do when her honey-brown eyes loomed at the edge of his vision). “Surely, such a valuable item would fetch a large sum.”
“Are you seeking to sell your vase, Master Darcy?” Miss Selkirk glanced at the counter, catching her father’s attention before returning her concerned expression back to Darcy.
He felt his face warm, but he pushed aside his shame. Of what use was pride to him now? He replied, “To the highest bidder, yes. That is why I came here. I had hoped you might be able to give me an approximation of its value. You are the only family I know with knowledge of such things, and I am in need of a large sum.” He shuffled his feet, adding in a burst, “Immediately.”
Father and daughter exchanged another look.
Darcy reminded himself to breathe.
Mr. Selkirk mumbled to the man in front of him, who stepped aside eagerly enough, then asked, “How large of a sum?”
Darcy took a deep breath. “One hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”
Mr. Selkirk coughed.
The young man the shopkeeper had been talking to spun around to face Darcy. “Pray forgive my boldness, young man, but perhaps I might be of assistance. My name is Edward Gardiner. I have established a successful business exporting goods from England and importing precious items of interest from foreign lands, items similar to the vase in your hands.”
“I am Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pem… of Pemberley.” How would he introduce himself from now on? He was a Darcy. The Darcys belonged at Pemberley.
Mr. Gardiner motioned toward the vase. “May I?” he asked.
Darcy hesitated. He did not know this man. He did not know if he was trustworthy. On closer inspection, Mr. Gardiner looked to be in his early twenties. His waistcoat did not quite match his coat, and he had certainly tied his own cravat, but his shoes were polished and his collars were stiff and neat. He seemed reliable, but Darcy did not trust his own opinion.
He glanced at Mr. Selkirk, who had finally recovered from his coughing fit. “Mr. Gardiner is a reliable businessman. I am looking to invest in his company myself. A look cannot hurt.”
Mr. Gardiner’s gaze flickered briefly to Miss Selkirk, the pink in his complexion deepening. “I am grateful for your patronage. I will not disappoint you.”
If the Selkirks trusted Mr. Gardiner, then Darcy could too. He handed the vase to the tradesman.
Holding the delicate porcelain by the rim and base, Mr. Gardiner turned it slowly and carefully — much to Darcy’s satisfaction — inspecting first the bottom and then the design. “May I consult with Mr. Selkirk for a few minutes?” he asked.
The delicacy with which the gentleman treated his uncle’s gift, and his complete lack of condescension, persuaded Darcy to consent.
He would have stood nearer to the counter, anxiously awaiting their assessment, but Miss Selkirk placed her hands on the girls’ shoulders, saying, “These young ladies are Mr. Gardiner’s nieces.” She smiled down at them. “Master Fitzwilliam Darcy, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Jane Bennet and her sister Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire?”
Mr. Gardiner colored, apologizing for the oversight in his enthusiasm to appraise an antiquity.
Darcy could hardly fault Mr. Gardiner. Introductions had been far from his mind when he had entered the Lambton shop.
The Bennet sisters curtsied, saying in unison, “It is our honor to meet you, sir.”
Darcy sensed that politeness came naturally to the fair-haired miss, while it required more effort from Miss Elizabeth. Not that she was without manners. But it was clear that, like Darcy, she would rather have listened to Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Selkirk’s conversation about the vase than engage in courteous chatter. She was a curious creature, unintimidated by adult discussion.
Miss Selkirk smiled at Mr. Gardiner, adding, “Ladies, if you have time, you must convince your uncle to take you on a tour of Master Darcy’s home. Pemberley is the most beautiful estate you are likely to ever see.”
Darcy swallowed hard. She did not know. And he could not tell her without humiliating himself.
He felt a tug on his coat sleeve and looked down to see two lively eyes dancing up at him. “Have you been to China, Mr. Darcy? I should like to go when I am bigger.” Miss Elizabeth’s eyes looked about the room as though she was about to share a great secret. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think they really have dragons there? Uncle promised to take us to the caves later today, and I hope to see a dragon. They live in caves, you know?”
Leaning down so he was not towering over her, he answered, “I have not been to China, but my uncle is a great traveler. I—” Darcy’s throat went dry. He had been about to say he hoped to travel as extensively as his uncle had, but Darcy would have to alter his plans. His future had changed. All his plans, his dreams… They were gone now.
“Just like my uncle!” Miss Elizabeth beamed. “He is traveling to the colonies soon. I shall miss him dearly, but he promised to write us letters every week. My father is helping me im-prove my reading so I can read them for myself.” Her mouth puckered and her cheeks bunched. “I am not very good with the big words yet, and he says I must be patient when I am not at all patient.” She shrugged, clasping her hands together and twisting from side to side in a solitary dance. “But he lets me borrow his books so I can practice, and for that, I am thankful. I do not understand most of them. But I will.”
Darcy struggled to control his smile. The girl was so serious, he did not wish for her to think he was laughing at her when he found her utterly charming. If he had a little sister, he would very much like her to be like Miss Elizabeth — Lively Lizzy.
He looked at her sister. Miss Bennet still stood behind Miss Selkirk, but she smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. How different the two sisters were.
Glancing over his shoulder at the counter, Darcy saw Mr. Gardiner examining the signature at the bottom of the vase while Mr. Selkirk flipped pages in a book. If more time ensured a better assessment of his prize, then Darcy would ensure the gentlemen got all the time they needed.
He turned to the ladies. “Would you like to learn a game my uncle taught me?” 
Miss Elizabeth clapped her hands, clasping them together as if she suddenly remembered that she was not supposed to do that either. But her excitement would not be contained. She bobbed up and down on her toes and said very politely, “Oh, yes, would we not, Janie?”
Miss Bennet agreed. “We would like that very much, Mr. Darcy. Thank you.”
“I admit I am intrigued,” Miss Selkirk added. “We would be delighted to learn your game.”
Darcy rubbed his hands together, readying his reflexes. “My uncle learned it from the children where he stayed as he traveled. It is called Rock, Cloth, Scissors. You close your hand into a fist like this.” He demonstrated. “Then, you pulse it in the air two times while counting aloud. One, two.” He paused, continuing when they nodded understanding. “On the third pulse, you either keep your fist tight like a rock, flatten your hand out like a piece of cloth, or shape your fingers into scissors.” He showed them the figures with his hand.
Miss Elizabeth twisted her lips to one side, her eyebrows bunched together. “How does one win at this game? Would not the rock always win? It would crush the scissors and dirty the cloth.”
She was clever. Darcy explained, “The cloth covers the rock, the scissors cut the cloth, and the rock crushes the scissors. You see? All three have an equal chance. Would you like to play a round?”
The ladies agreed, and they all pumped their fists in front of them as they counted. “One, two…!”
Darcy figured Miss Elizabeth would choose the rock, so he chose the cloth. He would let her win the next round, but surely the master was allowed to best his student on the first try.
“Three!” they said in unison, revealing their chosen figures.
Miss Bennet and Miss Selkirk’s hands were flat like a cloth, just as his was. 
Miss Elizabeth, however, had formed her fingers into scissors and giggled as she took turns “cutting” everyone’s cloth. “You thought I would choose the rock!” she said between trilling laughter.
Appreciative of the brief reprieve her lightheartedness granted him, Darcy said, “That was a fair win and deserving of a prize.”
Before he could settle on a suitable reward worthy of the grin covering Miss Elizabeth’s face, Mr. Selkirk called him over to the counter.
Right. The vase. Expectation wrestled with fear, but Darcy shoved them both aside to hear the gentlemen’s conclusion.
Pointing at a model with a similar shape to his in the book, Mr. Selkirk said, “I am afraid your vase is not going to fetch the price you seek, Master Darcy. According to this reference, this vase seems to be from the Qianlong Dynasty, which means it is only fifty years old, give or take a decade.”
Darcy leaned against the counter. Tears surged like floodwaters choking his throat, and all he could do was nod at the gentlemen.
He had failed.
They had not given him reason to hope, but they had been kind to assist him as much as they had. He would not forget them for that.
Mr. Gardiner said gently, “Only the porcelain from the more ancient dynasties have a chance of fetching such a large sum, and even then, they would not likely sell for the price you require.”
Darcy’s head felt too heavy to hold up, but it was not in him to admit defeat. The only business he knew was estate management, but he would learn more. He would learn how gentlemen increased their fortunes.
A hand settled on Darcy’s shoulder, the pressure comforting. Darcy looked up. Mr. Gardiner met his gaze directly as he spoke. “However, we are not the experts. I would be happy to make inquiries when I return to London in a week’s time. I have acquaintances at Sotheby’s auction house. They will know for a certainty. I will ask before I leave, and I will find a way to let you know what they say.”
Darcy was convinced Mr. Gardiner meant what he said. He would keep his promise. “Thank you, Mr. Gardiner. That is very kind. I thank you for your time, Mr. Selkirk.” Darcy hated how his voice cracked and squeaked like a girl’s. He reached for his vase to make a hasty retreat before he could no longer conceal his disappointment.
Mr. Gardiner removed his hand. “If your father is available, I should very much like to meet him. I have some ideas which might prove beneficial to you.”
Darcy straightened so abruptly, Mr. Gardiner stepped back. “My father has nothing to do with this,” he snapped, embarrassed by the violence of his emotion and the forcefulness of his reply. “What I meant to say is that I came here of my own volition.”
Mr. Gardiner nodded. “I will keep my promise.” He pulled a card out of his waistcoat pocket. “Would you do me the favor of presenting my card to your father? Otherwise, I might not be able to get word to you.”
Darcy tucked the card into his pocket. He would keep it. If Mr. Gardiner had more ideas, he was eager to hear them.
Just as Darcy had finished giving the address to Darcy House in London, the bell over the door rang.
It was his father. He stood tall and proud in the doorway. Darcy did not know how. How could he face his tenants? Their neighbors? Society? What of their family?
Father motioned for him. “It is time to go, Fitzwilliam. Your mother is waiting in the carriage.”
People often remarked on how similar they were in appearance. He studied his father’s face. He looked as he always did, but Darcy struggled to think of him the same. Darcy wished he favored his mother.
His feet refused to budge. Voices buzzed around him, and logic told Darcy his father was greeting the Selkirks and their new acquaintances. Still, Darcy stood rooted in place, his gaze fixed on the floor.
If he got into the carriage, they would leave Derbyshire for good. He would be Fitzwilliam Darcy of … where? His home would be gone. Everything he knew and loved, his family’s legacy, gone.
Gambled away at a toss of the dice. 
Darcy’s vision blurred. His heart hammered against his skull.
His father crossed his arms.
Darcy felt his disapproval, but he could not move.
With a growl, his father stomped over to him, pushing him forward, shoving Darcy toward the door. “Your mother is waiting,” he said tersely.
If only his father had thought more of Mother — more of him. How could he have been so selfish? Darcy dug in his heels and shrugged his shoulders free.
They stood there facing each other. Motionless. Speechless. Darcy watched the blood pump through the veins poking out on Father’s forehead. He had never seen him so angry.
Darcy looked around the shop for any excuse not to follow his father into the carriage.
The Selkirks bade him farewell. Mr. Gardiner’s nieces curtsied politely. Lively Lizzy waved.
Darcy gasped. “Your prize! Pray forgive me, I almost forgot.” He clung to the excuse for the precious minutes it granted him.
Father tightened his arms over his chest. “Fitzwilliam, your mother is waiting and my patience is wearing thin.”
Darcy turned to the counter, scanning the shelves behind Mr. Selkirk for something appropriate for a small girl.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy—” Father seethed.
Darcy glared at his sire. “I am paying a debt of honor. You, of anyone, should understand the importance of that.”
The bell over the door rang and a villager entered the shop, sending the ribbons hanging above the counter fluttering.
That was it! Girls liked ribbons. Turning to Miss Elizabeth, Darcy asked, “What is your favorite color?”
“Green.” Her definite reply, confidently spoken, almost made Darcy smile again. She was a happy lass.
“A length of the green for Miss Elizabeth, please,” he said, pulling a coin out of his pocket to pay before accepting the satin ribbon from Mr. Selkirk.
“Your prize, Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a bow.
She plucked her prize from his hand and curtsied, as if he were bestowing some great honor upon her. “I hope we meet again, Mr. Darcy. I should like to play that game with you again.”
“Me too,” he said, and he meant it.
Her smile widened. “You are a good sport, Mr. Darcy, but I am too. I will give you the opp-or-tu-nity to re-deem yourself.”
Darcy chuckled until he saw her scrunch up her face.
“Did I not use the word correctly?” she asked, her face turning a pretty shade of pink.
“You used it perfectly. I was only surprised. For such a young girl, you have an impressive vocabulary.” And a whole lot of spirit, he added in his own mind.
Her smile restored, he bowed his farewell and walked past his father and out of the shop where their carriage awaited.
Darcy kept his emotions in check remarkably well. Nary a sniffle or a tear. Until they reached the rise which offered the best view of Pemberley out of the window. His home was so close, he thought he could reach out and touch it. He tried to wrap his hand around Pemberley; press it against his palm.
But Pemberley slipped through his fingers. He craned his neck back, but it was gone.
Father glowered silently, his expression hard and unapproachable. He was a stranger to Darcy. 
Mother rubbed his back. “All will be well. You will see. We are together, and that is all we need.”
Darcy struggled to believe her. He needed his father back. He needed Pemberley.

Little Elizabeth was a breath of fresh air to young Darcy, helping him find his smile in the midst of the saddest day of his life. I don’t think he’ll ever forget her. Do you?

Coming to Amazon in November: Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Wager!

A New Nail-Biting Regency Romance!

Readers often ask where the ideas come from. Most of the time, I’m not exactly sure, but I can tell you the exact moment for my latest book.

It all started with Pinterest. One moment, I’m looking at Regency jewelry … which turned to modern jewelry … which turned to engagement rings … which led me to an ad that said that the rock always wins.

Naturally, my mind jumped to the children’s game: Rock, Paper, Scissors. Did you know there is an official web page dedicated to the history of the game? There is.

From ancient hand games, my search led me to antique treasures, namely, Chinese vases … and then to famous historical figures, who graciously agreed to make cameo appearances in my novel.

What do you do with a ring, an old children’s game, an elephant, a clown, a Shakespearean actor/theater manager, a retired soprano, and a Chinese relic? You use them to bring Our Dear Couple together. That’s the makings of a story, friends. (And a great way to justify Pinterest scrolling!) 

Here it is! Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Wager!

Get your copy here!

It’s Ready for You!

Click on the picture to snag your copy!

Chasing Elizabeth—Chapter Two!

First of all, I want to give a special shout-out to Sarah Powell, who was instrumental in helping me settle on a spy name worthy of Fitzwilliam Darcy. (We couldn’t let Richard choose The Purple Pansy, now, could we?) Thank you, Sarah! Mr. Darcy is ever grateful.

Photo by Barby Dalbosco on Unsplash



Chapter 2

Fitzwilliam Darcy rubbed his thumb over the monogrammed casing of his compass as he oversaw the packing of his last trunk, eager to take his leave before his return to Pemberley was postponed yet again. He had not set foot on his estate for nearly three years. A reprieve was well past due. Lord knew he had earned it.

He was tired. Weary. In sore need of a brief retreat to the familiar. To the verdant fields he knew as intimately as the back of his own hand; away from mucky roads and crowded towns. To families and tenants he had known his entire life; away from malicious strangers and two-faced traitors. To the warmth of his own fire and the comfort of his own bed; away from smoky tavern chimneys and bug-infested mattresses.

Darcy needed to go home. He needed to see his sister.

Since his cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had recruited Darcy, Georgiana had taken residence with their aunt Matlock. It was safer and Georgiana enjoyed the company of her cousins in town.

Surely, she must miss the place where she had been born and had grown into a young lady. Surely, she missed it as badly as he did. Georgiana had not implied otherwise in her last letter. Other young ladies might resent being pulled away from the entertainments of town at the height of the season, but not Georgiana.

Darcy would collect her that morning, and together, they would return to Pemberley.

Pemberley. The tension in his shoulders melted away. He thought more clearly at Pemberley. Problems became more manageable at Pemberley. He could forget about the war and his role in it at Pemberley. Darcy opened the lid of his compass, looking down at the engraving on the inside. “Home is where the heart is.” Darcy’s father had often quoted Pliny the Elder’s words.

Though Darcy stood in his bedchamber at Darcy House, his heart was already at Pemberley. At his home.

One fortnight. That was all he required. One fortnight after a three-year interim. Then he would get back to work. He would see his assignment through to his satisfaction.

A knock on the door pulled Darcy’s thoughts back to the present. Gone was the glorious silence he had anticipated at his Derbyshire estate, replaced with the noise of London — clambering carriage wheels, horses’ hooves, and voices getting louder as they drew nearer.

Wilson, Darcy’s trusted valet, closed the trunk and hobbled to the opening door. Wilson never complained of his old army injury, and Darcy never spoke of it. They each bore scars in their own manner.

“The colonel is here,” Wilson said as the gentleman in question breezed past the valet, charging into the room.

Darcy’s stomach twisted. Richard was highly respected among the tightly knit circle who knew of their clandestine activities, but Darcy would not disguise his displeasure in seeing his cousin in uniform in his house. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What? Nary an offer of brandy? How do you know I have not come to congratulate you on the success of your latest mission?” Richard teased.

Darcy did not laugh. Richard always used charm and humor to get what he wanted, and his use of it put Darcy’s senses on alert. If anything, it convinced him that this was not a social call. Leo had sent him.

Wilson did not send the last trunk downstairs where the carriage awaited to convey him and his master to Pemberley. He stood at attention at the door, awaiting orders. He, too, knew something was amiss.

“What do you want?” Darcy asked, watching as Richard helped himself to the contents of the decanter on the bedside table.

Pouring another glass and handing it to Darcy, Richard said, “To a job well done! I salute you, Cousin.”

“It is too early in the day to imbibe.”

Richard shrugged, tossing back the contents of his glass. Smacking his lips together, he grinned. “It is not too early when one has been up all night, and it is never too early to celebrate. The papers caught wind of the story, and they have printed a flattering account of how the French spies were thwarted once again by an anonymous son of England.” He produced the offensive article from his breast pocket.

Darcy turned away from it. “They glorify unlawful rebels in the same paragraph in which they extol the cleverness of the men who prevent them from selling secrets to the enemy.”

“Allow me to reassure you on that point. They said nothing of your cleverness.”

Darcy glared at Richard.

The ingrate’s grin widened. “You ought to embrace your fame, Darcy. When the war is over, they will proclaim you a hero. Already, there is talk of your nom de guerre. I am rather partial to The Oxford Orchid, although I admit there is a romantic appeal to The Crimson Carnation.”

Darcy’s fists clenched. “Ridiculous!”

“Do you prefer The Purple Pansy?”

Darcy should have accepted the drink Richard had offered him. Then he would have had something to throw at his cousin’s smirking face. But Richard would love to provoke Darcy to anger, and so that was precisely the reaction of which Darcy would deprive him.

Taking a deep breath and feeling his cheeks cool, Darcy said levelly, “I do not wish for fame. My sole desire at this moment is to see Georgiana and return to our proper place.”

Richard sighed. “I suspected as much. Left to your own devices, you would hide away at Pemberley like a hermit as you did before. You do know that is why I convinced you to occupy your time for a more worthy cause?”

“I have not set foot on my estate in three years, Richard. Three years!”

“Has it really been that long?” Richard rubbed his hand over his face, looking every bit as exhausted as Darcy felt.

Seizing the opportunity presented to him, Darcy said, “I am leaving. Do you want a lift as far as Matlock House? I intend to collect Georgiana and be on our way within the hour. She is expecting me. I already spoke with our director at Leo, and he agreed that a fortnight at Pemberley was reward enough for the latest capture.”

“About that,” Richard said, gesturing to the chairs by the unlit fire. “Pray hear me out before you decide on the direction of your coach.”

“It is already decided,” Darcy enunciated, wishing to Heaven he had told the butler to deny Richard entrance until he could depart. What had been a mere twist in his stomach seconds ago was quickly turning into a sinking sensation.

“Yes, well, The Four Horsemen rallied quicker than we had supposed. We received word only this morning.” Richard’s eyes bore into Darcy’s.

Darcy sat, his ears buzzing while his cousin prattled on. The Four Horsemen were the plague of England, disguised as modern-day Robin Hoods. Their supposed generosity had bought the allegiance of an immense network of smugglers and ruffians who lined their pockets with blood money.

He had been so close to catching them. He knew their names. Sir Leonard Sharp. Sir Benedict Voss. Sir Harcourt Grant. Sir Erasmus Clark. Gentlemen of fortune. Gentlemen held in high esteem. Gentlemen influential among the upper classes as well as the lowest. All knighted by King George and friendly with the Prince Regent. All suspected of treason by the elite branch of the British government with whom he worked.

Darcy had been so close to catching them, but just as they had done many times before, they vanished, leaving a middleman who guarded his silence as vigilantly as a monk to take the fall. The middleman’s family had since come into some money — enough to purchase a comfortable cottage in the country. Darcy pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. Had life become so cheap, a price could be put on it? A life for a country cottage?

The Four Horsemen denounced the extravagances of the Prince Regent while they grew their wealth at the expense of those who would offer their lives in exchange for a meager cut of the spoils. They were despicable. The lowest of the low. They had to be stopped.

“I knew that would get your attention, Darcy.” Richard nodded at Wilson, who immediately began unpacking the trunk.

Darcy was too numb to stop him. Duty trumped desire. Pemberley would have to wait. Georgiana would have to wait. Drat it all! Cooling his disappointment, he asked, “What can you tell me?”

Richard leaned forward, clasping his fingers together. “Only enough to alert our agency to upcoming trouble. Leo suspects The Four Horsemen have ties to a family in Hertfordshire. As you know, the men themselves are never seen together, but each of them individually has been seen in the presence of a gentleman we wish for you to befriend. He may very well prove to be the link which will lead us to the vipers’ den … and, we pray, to their capture. I have made all the arrangements.” He sat back, squirming in his seat.

Darcy watched his cousin warily, his sense of foreboding growing with every crossing and recrossing of the colonel’s feet. Why was he nervous?

Clearing his throat, Richard added, “Next week, it is my hope you will accompany Bingley to a comfortable estate he recently let near Meryton.”

“Bingley?” Darcy shot up from his seat, unable to remain still. Pacing before the fireplace, he demanded, “What on earth convinced you to involve Bingley in this?”

Richard joined him, stopping Darcy with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Only my confidence in your extreme discretion and incomparable skill.” There was no humor in his voice now.

Charles Bingley had been Darcy’s friend since their Cambridge days. Bingley’s innocent belief in the good of people had often put him at a disadvantage to which Darcy’s skepticism often came to the rescue. Darcy had saved Bingley from harm, and Bingley kept Darcy’s optimism from dying (no small feat when every day his faith in the good of humanity was put to the test.) It was a friendship of opposites restoring balance, and Darcy resented Richard for manipulating, and potentially endangering, his one truly good friend.

Darcy shoved his hands through his hair. “But Bingley? Of all people, Rich, why him?”

“I am sorry. Truly, from the depth of my soul, I am. Bingley was interested in letting an estate in Hertfordshire. You know how he is.”

Darcy groaned. “Half of London knows of his plans.”

“Exactly. So, when we found out the property was located right where we need you, and he was finally convinced to let the estate—”

Darcy interrupted, “Convinced by you, I presume?”

Richard bunched his cheeks with a grunt. “It was not difficult. Persuading Miss Bingley was another matter, but her objections calmed considerably when I suggested the almost certain possibility of you joining their party.”

“I hate you.”

With a wide grin and another squeeze, Richard released his hold on Darcy’s shoulder. “That is the spirit! I will give you details as I am informed, but for now, all I know is that you must travel with Bingley to Hertfordshire in a week’s time. Miss Bingley will ensure her brother sends you an invitation to accompany them. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to travel with them to Netherfield Park so you may befriend the gentleman we have seen in the company of The Four Horsemen. Do you accept?” Richard extended his hand.

Darcy stared at the appendage, the enticing vision of Pemberley blurring Richard’s hand. How badly he wanted to refuse. But he could not. Bingley was no match for The Four Horsemen, and Darcy would hate himself for all eternity should his friend come to danger when he could have prevented it.

Softly, Richard added, “I am sorry, Darcy. I did not intend to involve Bingley, but Leo does not have the freedom to spare one man when the lives of thousands are at risk.”

Darcy could only nod. He knew how it was, as callous and unjust as every war fought before.

“This is the last one, Darcy. I feel it. One last mission, and then you may ensconce yourself at Pemberley.”

Richard did not understand how cruel it was to kindle his hope after he had snatched it away. “You cannot know what you are doing to me. I miss it so badly, I ache.”

“That ache has nothing to do with Pemberley, Darcy. It was there when I dragged you away after your father died. It is the people you miss. You are lonely.”

Darcy shot him another glare.

Richard held up his hands. “When you meet the right young woman, you will learn the true meaning of home.”

Utter nonsense. They were spies. They did not get close to anyone. It was too dangerous. What did Richard know of love and women?

“What shall I tell Georgiana? She is expecting me.” Would she be as disappointed as Darcy was?

“My mother has taken care of that. With the London season in swing, there is much to distract her here. Georgiana will not have time enough to miss her grumpy older brother. In fact, I believe she was relieved when I gave her the news.” Richard shoved his hand closer to Darcy. “Do you accept?”

Darcy shook before he could convince himself not to or take offense at his cousin’s presumption. “The gentleman I am to investigate, what is his name?”

“Sir William Lucas.”

Darcy mulled the name over in his mind as Richard detailed the connection between him and The Four Horsemen.

Sir William was a gentleman of fortune with an estate bearing his name. His humble origins in trade made him a favorite with lower classes, but the gentle class also respected him. More significant was this: Sir William had been knighted by King George. Just as each member of The Four Horsemen had.

There were too many similarities to ignore. By all appearances, The Four Horsemen had recruited another member.

Sir William Lucas, a spy? What?!
So, when will Chasing Elizabeth be published? VERY soon, I promise!

Chasing Elizabeth—A Sneak Peek!

Photo by Timur Romanov on Unsplash



Chapter One

Elizabeth Bennet flung off her covers, morning chill and anticipation prickling her skin and awakening her senses. She had to leave quickly if she were to leave at all.

Every floorboard groaned. Every breath thundered. Every brush of fabric as she donned her costume scratched. Sounds nobody heard during the daytime deafened at dawn, and no matter how many times Elizabeth had performed this same routine, the nerve-tingling urgency and panic never ceased to accompany her.

She could not risk waking the household.

Plaiting her hair and pinning it in place, she reached in the dim light for the brooch she always left beside her book on the bedside table. It was her favorite — the one Uncle Gardiner had bought for her in Italy ages ago, before the war. Elizabeth ran her finger tenderly over the uneven stones — emerald malachite; bright turquoise; vibrant lapis lazuli; and aventurine in Spring grass green, Summer sun yellow, and Autumn orange — carefully arranged in an intricate, miniature puzzle creating a colorful mosaic of the Italian countryside. She would travel there. Someday.

Until that blessed day, Elizabeth wore her uncle’s thoughtful gift on the lapel of her riding habit with pride. Were it not for her dear aunt and uncle’s efforts on her behalf, she doubted her father would allow her and her sisters to venture so far as even London.

That Aunt and Uncle Gardiner had persuaded him to allow Elizabeth to accompany them North through Derbyshire the approaching summer — where her aunt had spent most of her youth — was a modern-day miracle. They might even travel farther to the Lake District. Elizabeth hoped so.

Less than two months remained until her grand adventure. Forty-seven days to be precise. Forty-seven days which could not pass by quickly enough to suit Elizabeth.

Her morning escapades were her only relief from the tedium of watching the clock tick through the never-ending days.

Elizabeth tiptoed down the hall to the stairs, skipping the creaky fourth step from the bottom.

She paused, holding her breath and listening. Nothing.

Heart in throat, she checked the time on the mantle clock in the drawing room, suspecting the hour before the device confirmed it. The soft glow of dawn’s first light meant she would not have to tarry about Longbourn until it was safer to walk alone through the fields. It was bad enough for a young lady, a gentleman’s daughter, to deprive herself of an escort when stories of spies and highwaymen filled the newspapers.

But, of what use was stolen freedom if she was unwilling to seize it? Of what use was life if it was not lived fully? She was not careless. Her father knew the path she walked, and he knew she would be home by breakfast. She walked quickly, with purpose, and she always carried in hand whatever stone or twig she could find should she require it for her defense (although it felt silly and unnecessary, for nothing of significance ever happened around Longbourn.)

With a sigh of relief, Elizabeth backed away from the front door, watching the upstairs windows should a candle appear. Then, turning, she ran across the drive, every step lighter than the one before. This was the moment she lived for — the glorious anticipation of what was to come, the energizing prospect of seeing Tempest.

The air was damp from yesterday’s rain, but the path Elizabeth had worn through the fields connecting her father’s estate of Longbourn to Lucas Lodge had dried enough to lose its slickness. She would have to exercise greater caution today lest Tempest lose her footing on the saturated earth.

Her dear friend Charlotte Lucas stood in front of the stables, beside her father’s groom.

Elizabeth hoped she had not kept them waiting long. Tossing her stick to the side and scampering forward, she shouted, “Good morning!”

Charlotte held her hands out, greeting Elizabeth with a warm smile. “I was hoping you would arrive earlier than normal,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the groom as if to say I told you so.

Mercer’s face creased in a smile as wide as Charlotte’s. He had been the groom at Lucas Lodge stables since Sir William had purchased the estate before Charlotte was born. Mercer and Charlotte had taught Elizabeth everything she knew of horses and equestrian skill.

She teased, “After two days of poor weather, Papa would have had to lock me in my room to keep me away.”

“Nonsense,” Charlotte retorted, allowing the groom to help her onto her mount. “Mr. Bennet would never do something so contrary to his character, and if he did, I imagine you would climb out of the window. He is not ignorant of your morning activities, and yet he has not prohibited you from coming.”

“Not directly,” Elizabeth mumbled. Her father did not prohibit much at all where his family was concerned, lacking the initiative required to exert himself in setting such limitations or the persistence to enforce them. But he held strong feelings against the two things Elizabeth longed for the most: travel and a horse of her own she was free to ride whenever she wished. One complemented the other, and both promised everything Elizabeth lacked in her life: adventure. The thrill of having new experiences and meeting new people with customs she had only read about — would only read about, if her father had anything to do with it — would have to wait another forty-seven days. An eternity in Elizabeth’s mind.

Not wanting to waste time dwelling on things she would rather not, she turned to Joe, the stable boy. He held a grumbling bay mare tightly by the reins.

“I see you have selected my favorite this morning, Mercer,” she said. Flipping the forelock out of the horse’s big, brown eyes, Elizabeth rubbed the star underneath. “Good day to you, Tempest. I have missed you dearly.”

The groom’s eyes smiled, adding to the creases lining his face. “Ay, Miss Elizabeth. Tempest needs a good run. She is restless today.” Taking the reins from Joe, who looked relieved to hand them over, Mercer led Tempest to the mounting block. Elizabeth settled onto the sidesaddle while he checked the cinch one more time, a cautious habit of his that both she and Charlotte appreciated. Those who extolled the propriety of riding aside had never had their feet trapped under them when their sidesaddle slipped. Elizabeth would have disregarded such pious arguments and ridden astride, but she was not so foolish as to believe her reputation — and consequently, that of her family — would not suffer if she chose to rebel against society’s restrictive rules. It did not, however, prevent her from dreaming of dressing as a boy one day merely to experience what it was like to ride astride as the men did. Shocking!

Tempest pulled at the reins. “You are restless, too, are you?” Elizabeth said in a soothing tone.

“Much like the lady who rides her, I should say,” Charlotte said, leading them past the length of the stables to the open fields beyond.

Elizabeth chuckled. “We are a match. I am grateful you have held on to her as long as you have.”

Charlotte sighed, her smile fading as she looked at the bay mare. “Nobody wants her, poor girl. George has tried to sell her several times, but her temperament is too strong. My brother is not one to give up, though. He heard of a gentleman who is planning to let Netherfield Park soon, and he intends to offer Tempest to him for a price few would refuse.”

Elizabeth’s heart sank. Tempest was not obstinate or headstrong. She merely knew what she wanted and accepted nothing less. Was that so wrong? Should a lady — er, horse — not have a mind of her own? Must she always succumb to the will of others obediently, without question?

Forcing a lightness she did not feel, Elizabeth said, “Someone is to let Netherfield Park at last? Now, that is good news!” She prayed he would be a kind master to Tempest. Too many treated spirited horses harshly in an effort to break them, and Elizabeth could not bear to think Tempest might be subjected to such a life.

“It is rumored he is unmarried,” Charlotte added with a sly smile.

Elizabeth tensed. “And so the race begins,” she muttered.

“Indeed. My mother is already scheming.”

“As will mine as soon as she finds out. The poor gentleman will sooner wish he had not settled in Hertfordshire when the matrons chase after him like a fox in the hunt to be caught like a prize for their daughters’ matrimonial felicity.”

Despite her comment, Elizabeth understood her mother’s tenacity. Still, understanding did not make it any less painful to witness her mother’s ruthless persecution of prospective husbands for her five unmarried daughters. Especially when Elizabeth was in no hurry to marry. She knew what she wished for in a husband, and she would accept nothing less.

Charlotte smiled softly. “I only hope he is slightly past his prime. Old enough to have developed an appreciation for maturity and sensibility. In looks, I would rather he be plain. That would suit me nicely, for no woman wishes to marry an ugly man. However, I do not flatter myself that I shall marry a handsome one.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit, Charlotte,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “What of love? Do you not wish for a man to stir your heart? You would have me believe you could be content with a stodgy clergyman when I have always seen you more suited to a dashing army captain.”

“I am not like you, Lizzy. I am not romantic. Give me a cottage and a constant heart, and I will declare myself happy enough.”

Elizabeth rebelled at the thought. She wanted more — for herself, as well as for Charlotte and her own sisters. Surely, the world contained enough love matches to suit them all … if ever she could see more of it.

Knowing better than to voice her concerns aloud to her overly practical, exceedingly rational friend, Elizabeth changed the subject. “Did you read the latest news in the papers? About the British spy who thwarted a ring of smugglers selling secrets to the French?”

“I am only shocked they have not yet bestowed a clever nom de guerre on the gentleman. Some combination of color and flower,” Charlotte said dryly.

Elizabeth laughed. “Like The Scarlet Pimpernel? Or The Pink Carnation? Or The Purple Gentian? Perhaps they will call him The Yellow Archangel, The White Orchid, or The Jolly Daisy.”

“Jolly is not a color. You know what I mean, Lizzy. The papers feed the romanticism of their readers to sell more copies. He will have a name soon enough, and young ladies and old alike will swoon over his daring adventures.”

“You must admit that being a spy is a rather romantic profession.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I fear for you. You only have one more year until you reach your majority, and I can attest to how swiftly the time goes by … and how cruelly … when you have no prospects and must face the disappointment of becoming a burden to your family.”

Elizabeth could not stomach the commonly held view that a lady’s sole purpose in life was to marry, and to marry well. “It is not so bad as that, Charlotte. You have time. There is more to life than matrimony.”

“You would do well to clear your thoughts of romantic notions before you must settle down and marry. It is our duty.”

Those were provoking words. Charlotte knew that. Her controlled expression revealed nothing, but something must be wrong. Charlotte never incited an argument when her calm sense proved more effective in making her point.

“You are particularly practical this morning, Charlotte. What has brought this on?”

Charlotte looked over her shoulder. As usual, Mercer rode behind them — at a sufficient distance to allow them private conversation while offering protection.

Whatever Charlotte said was not meant to be overheard.

For the second time that morning, Elizabeth’s heart lodged in her throat.

“I can confide in you, Lizzy, I know,” Charlotte whispered. “I overheard my father talking with my brothers.”

Charlotte admitting to eavesdropping? This bore ill.

“The estate is in debt, and unless John marries into a fortune — a vain hope, I know as well as you do—” the words tumbled out of Charlotte’s mouth only for her to cut them short.

Elizabeth huffed. She held little compassion for irresponsible older brothers. John Lucas would not marry just anyone. Oh no. He had been brought up for greater things, and now past the age of forty, he required not only a fortune but also a title. Anything to wash the tint of trade from his name and to be addressed by something grander than his father, Sir William … who had at least done something other than marry to secure a knighthood and the title that came with it.

“I see you understand my predicament,” Charlotte said, her voice quivering. Emotion never overcame Charlotte, and the hopelessness in her tone tore at Elizabeth’s heart. This was grave.

There had to be a way out. “What of George’s horses? Can they not save the estate?” Elizabeth asked.

George Lucas was the second son. Unlike his elder brother, he was responsible. Once Sir William had sold his interests in trade, along with all means of increasing his fortune, George had taken up the only method of gain society permitted gentlemen. He bred and trained horses.

Charlotte sighed. “It is not enough. One of our stallions would have to sire a racehorse or some other impossible scheme for the ton to take notice of us. George does well enough, and I am grateful he does what he can, but we cannot forget to take into account my eldest brother’s habits. It is a pity he is to inherit instead of George. My future would not feel so precarious…”

Elizabeth understood precarious futures. The Bennet daughters’ interests were not provided for any better than Charlotte’s were, and Elizabeth’s mother lived in constant dread of her husband perishing before all five of her offspring married and settled.

As much as Elizabeth wished for a love match, she knew that if she did not find it in a timely fashion, she would soon enough find herself in the same situation as Charlotte — desperate and on the edge of spinsterhood without a penny to her name. A burden to her family.

She shook the dreadful prospect from her mind. This morning was not providing the release she craved at all. If anything, she felt encumbered. Trapped. Defeated.

No, never defeated! She would not succumb, nor would she allow Charlotte to wallow in gloom and doom. Not when they still had their freedom and sense enough to plan a better solution. Why waste the beauty of a new morning full of promise on distressing possibilities which might never come to pass? No. Elizabeth possessed too much hope to fall prey to the depths of despair.

“… And so, you see how the responsibility to marry into a fortune falls onto me,” Charlotte said. “Forgive me if I seem downcast, but it is a desperate situation. I am neither very young nor sufficiently pretty.”

Elizabeth snapped, “I will not hear you speak ill of yourself, Charlotte. Not when you are the most sensible, wise lady I have the privilege of knowing. Any gentleman would be fortunate to have you for his wife.”

“If he got past my lack of fortune, connections, and youth.”

“Superficial matters of no consequence.” Elizabeth dismissed the lot with a wave of her hand. “Or need I remind you of my lack of fortune and connections?”

“Ah, but that is as far as our similarities go, Lizzy, for you are both young and quite pretty. There is a vivacity about you which will draw gentlemen like flies to honey.”

“Flies! I would sooner swat the troublesome creatures away! I have no patience for bothersome vermin, nor would I wish you to suffer their company. I most certainly would never agree to marry one. Would that we could away to London … or anywhere other than here! What I would give for one season away. For you to meet a gentleman worthy of your sensible heart. For some excitement before we must succumb to marriage.”

Charlotte laughed. “Marriage is not a disease! No wonder you dread it.”

Pleased her humor had restored lightness to their conversation, Elizabeth said, “I do not dread marriage. Not really. I only fear I will have to marry before I have a chance to do anything consequential. Is it too much to wish for one adventure to cherish forever? I could endure almost anything so long as I was allowed that. You are not the only one who can be practical, Charlotte. I know the likelihood of my meeting a man I could love with my whole heart and soul is slight in Hertfordshire. I am convinced the gentleman I would gladly marry resides outside the county, and, yet, my father is determined to keep me from traveling.”

“He agreed for you to travel with your aunt and uncle.”

“And I am grateful. I am. However, I know very well that he will deny every future request, just as he has done in the past. He believes I ought to be content with Mr. Pinkerton’s books and one short trip when I fear they shall only whet my appetite.”

“Oh, Lizzy, I am sorry.” Charlotte did not argue against what she knew to be true.

“We are a pitiful pair this morning. Let us not behave like damsels in distress. We are masters of our own fate, captains of our own destiny.”

“In a just world, perhaps.”

Elizabeth frowned. The world was not always just, and until that changed, Charlotte would accept the first hand offered to her and Elizabeth would have to continue sneaking out of Longbourn for the Lucas Lodge stables at the crack of dawn. Which reminded her…

“We should get going if I am to return to Longbourn before breakfast. Are we going to ride or not?” Clucking her tongue, Elizabeth tapped Tempest’s flanks and leaned into her right hip in expectation of the thrill of a good gallop.

What do you think? Will Elizabeth get her adventure?

A Sneak Peek into My Latest Novel!

Photo by Timur Romanov on Unsplash



Chapter One

Elizabeth Bennet flung off her covers, morning chill and anticipation prickling her skin and awakening her senses. She had to leave quickly if she were to leave at all.

Every floorboard groaned. Every breath thundered. Every brush of fabric as she donned her costume scratched. Sounds nobody heard during the daytime deafened at dawn, and no matter how many times Elizabeth had performed this same routine, the nerve-tingling urgency and panic never ceased to accompany her.

She could not risk waking the household.

Plaiting her hair and pinning it in place, she reached in the dim light for the brooch she always left beside her book on the bedside table. It was her favorite — the one Uncle Gardiner had bought for her in Italy ages ago, before the war. Elizabeth ran her finger tenderly over the uneven stones — emerald malachite; bright turquoise; vibrant lapis lazuli; and aventurine in Spring grass green, Summer sun yellow, and Autumn orange — carefully arranged in an intricate, miniature puzzle creating a colorful mosaic of the Italian countryside. She would travel there. Someday.

Until that blessed day, Elizabeth wore her uncle’s thoughtful gift on the lapel of her riding habit with pride. Were it not for her dear aunt and uncle’s efforts on her behalf, she doubted her father would allow her and her sisters to venture so far as even London.

That Aunt and Uncle Gardiner had persuaded him to allow Elizabeth to accompany them North through Derbyshire the approaching summer — where her aunt had spent most of her youth — was a modern-day miracle. They might even travel farther to the Lake District. Elizabeth hoped so.

Less than two months remained until her grand adventure. Forty-seven days to be precise. Forty-seven days which could not pass by quickly enough to suit Elizabeth.

Her morning escapades were her only relief from the tedium of watching the clock tick through the never-ending days.

Elizabeth tiptoed down the hall to the stairs, skipping the creaky fourth step from the bottom.

She paused, holding her breath and listening. Nothing.

Heart in throat, she checked the time on the mantle clock in the drawing room, suspecting the hour before the device confirmed it. The soft glow of dawn’s first light meant she would not have to tarry about Longbourn until it was safer to walk alone through the fields. It was bad enough for a young lady, a gentleman’s daughter, to deprive herself of an escort when stories of spies and highwaymen filled the newspapers.

But, of what use was stolen freedom if she was unwilling to seize it? Of what use was life if it was not lived fully? She was not careless. Her father knew the path she walked, and he knew she would be home by breakfast. She walked quickly, with purpose, and she always carried in hand whatever stone or twig she could find should she require it for her defense (although it felt silly and unnecessary, for nothing of significance ever happened around Longbourn.)

With a sigh of relief, Elizabeth backed away from the front door, watching the upstairs windows should a candle appear. Then, turning, she ran across the drive, every step lighter than the one before. This was the moment she lived for — the glorious anticipation of what was to come, the energizing prospect of seeing Tempest.

The air was damp from yesterday’s rain, but the path Elizabeth had worn through the fields connecting her father’s estate of Longbourn to Lucas Lodge had dried enough to lose its slickness. She would have to exercise greater caution today lest Tempest lose her footing on the saturated earth.

Her dear friend Charlotte Lucas stood in front of the stables, beside her father’s groom.

Elizabeth hoped she had not kept them waiting long. Tossing her stick to the side and scampering forward, she shouted, “Good morning!”

Charlotte held her hands out, greeting Elizabeth with a warm smile. “I was hoping you would arrive earlier than normal,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the groom as if to say I told you so.

Mercer’s face creased in a smile as wide as Charlotte’s. He had been the groom at Lucas Lodge stables since Sir William had purchased the estate before Charlotte was born. Mercer and Charlotte had taught Elizabeth everything she knew of horses and equestrian skill.

She teased, “After two days of poor weather, Papa would have had to lock me in my room to keep me away.”

“Nonsense,” Charlotte retorted, allowing the groom to help her onto her mount. “Mr. Bennet would never do something so contrary to his character, and if he did, I imagine you would climb out of the window. He is not ignorant of your morning activities, and yet he has not prohibited you from coming.”

“Not directly,” Elizabeth mumbled. Her father did not prohibit much at all where his family was concerned, lacking the initiative required to exert himself in setting such limitations or the persistence to enforce them. But he held strong feelings against the two things Elizabeth longed for the most: travel and a horse of her own she was free to ride whenever she wished. One complemented the other, and both promised everything Elizabeth lacked in her life: adventure. The thrill of having new experiences and meeting new people with customs she had only read about — would only read about, if her father had anything to do with it — would have to wait another forty-seven days. An eternity in Elizabeth’s mind.

Not wanting to waste time dwelling on things she would rather not, she turned to Joe, the stable boy. He held a grumbling bay mare tightly by the reins.

“I see you have selected my favorite this morning, Mercer,” she said. Flipping the forelock out of the horse’s big, brown eyes, Elizabeth rubbed the star underneath. “Good day to you, Tempest. I have missed you dearly.”

The groom’s eyes smiled, adding to the creases lining his face. “Ay, Miss Elizabeth. Tempest needs a good run. She is restless today.” Taking the reins from Joe, who looked relieved to hand them over, Mercer led Tempest to the mounting block. Elizabeth settled onto the sidesaddle while he checked the cinch one more time, a cautious habit of his that both she and Charlotte appreciated. Those who extolled the propriety of riding aside had never had their feet trapped under them when their sidesaddle slipped. Elizabeth would have disregarded such pious arguments and ridden astride, but she was not so foolish as to believe her reputation — and consequently, that of her family — would not suffer if she chose to rebel against society’s restrictive rules. It did not, however, prevent her from dreaming of dressing as a boy one day merely to experience what it was like to ride astride as the men did. Shocking!

Tempest pulled at the reins. “You are restless, too, are you?” Elizabeth said in a soothing tone.

“Much like the lady who rides her, I should say,” Charlotte said, leading them past the length of the stables to the open fields beyond.

Elizabeth chuckled. “We are a match. I am grateful you have held on to her as long as you have.”

Charlotte sighed, her smile fading as she looked at the bay mare. “Nobody wants her, poor girl. George has tried to sell her several times, but her temperament is too strong. My brother is not one to give up, though. He heard of a gentleman who is planning to let Netherfield Park soon, and he intends to offer Tempest to him for a price few would refuse.”

Elizabeth’s heart sank. Tempest was not obstinate or headstrong. She merely knew what she wanted and accepted nothing less. Was that so wrong? Should a lady — er, horse — not have a mind of her own? Must she always succumb to the will of others obediently, without question?

Forcing a lightness she did not feel, Elizabeth said, “Someone is to let Netherfield Park at last? Now, that is good news!” She prayed he would be a kind master to Tempest. Too many treated spirited horses harshly in an effort to break them, and Elizabeth could not bear to think Tempest might be subjected to such a life.

“It is rumored he is unmarried,” Charlotte added with a sly smile.

Elizabeth tensed. “And so the race begins,” she muttered.

“Indeed. My mother is already scheming.”

“As will mine as soon as she finds out. The poor gentleman will sooner wish he had not settled in Hertfordshire when the matrons chase after him like a fox in the hunt to be caught like a prize for their daughters’ matrimonial felicity.”

Despite her comment, Elizabeth understood her mother’s tenacity. Still, understanding did not make it any less painful to witness her mother’s ruthless persecution of prospective husbands for her five unmarried daughters. Especially when Elizabeth was in no hurry to marry. She knew what she wished for in a husband, and she would accept nothing less.

Charlotte smiled softly. “I only hope he is slightly past his prime. Old enough to have developed an appreciation for maturity and sensibility. In looks, I would rather he be plain. That would suit me nicely, for no woman wishes to marry an ugly man. However, I do not flatter myself that I shall marry a handsome one.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit, Charlotte,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “What of love? Do you not wish for a man to stir your heart? You would have me believe you could be content with a stodgy clergyman when I have always seen you more suited to a dashing army captain.”

“I am not like you, Lizzy. I am not romantic. Give me a cottage and a constant heart, and I will declare myself happy enough.”

Elizabeth rebelled at the thought. She wanted more — for herself, as well as for Charlotte and her own sisters. Surely, the world contained enough love matches to suit them all … if ever she could see more of it.

Knowing better than to voice her concerns aloud to her overly practical, exceedingly rational friend, Elizabeth changed the subject. “Did you read the latest news in the papers? About the British spy who thwarted a ring of smugglers selling secrets to the French?”

“I am only shocked they have not yet bestowed a clever nom de guerre on the gentleman. Some combination of color and flower,” Charlotte said dryly.

Elizabeth laughed. “Like The Scarlet Pimpernel? Or The Pink Carnation? Or The Purple Gentian? Perhaps they will call him The Yellow Archangel, The White Orchid, or The Jolly Daisy.”

“Jolly is not a color. You know what I mean, Lizzy. The papers feed the romanticism of their readers to sell more copies. He will have a name soon enough, and young ladies and old alike will swoon over his daring adventures.”

“You must admit that being a spy is a rather romantic profession.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I fear for you. You only have one more year until you reach your majority, and I can attest to how swiftly the time goes by … and how cruelly … when you have no prospects and must face the disappointment of becoming a burden to your family.”

Elizabeth could not stomach the commonly held view that a lady’s sole purpose in life was to marry, and to marry well. “It is not so bad as that, Charlotte. You have time. There is more to life than matrimony.”

“You would do well to clear your thoughts of romantic notions before you must settle down and marry. It is our duty.”

Those were provoking words. Charlotte knew that. Her controlled expression revealed nothing, but something must be wrong. Charlotte never incited an argument when her calm sense proved more effective in making her point.

“You are particularly practical this morning, Charlotte. What has brought this on?”

Charlotte looked over her shoulder. As usual, Mercer rode behind them — at a sufficient distance to allow them private conversation while offering protection.

Whatever Charlotte said was not meant to be overheard.

For the second time that morning, Elizabeth’s heart lodged in her throat.

“I can confide in you, Lizzy, I know,” Charlotte whispered. “I overheard my father talking with my brothers.”

Charlotte admitting to eavesdropping? This bore ill.

“The estate is in debt, and unless John marries into a fortune — a vain hope, I know as well as you do—” the words tumbled out of Charlotte’s mouth only for her to cut them short.

Elizabeth huffed. She held little compassion for irresponsible older brothers. John Lucas would not marry just anyone. Oh no. He had been brought up for greater things, and now past the age of forty, he required not only a fortune but also a title. Anything to wash the tint of trade from his name and to be addressed by something grander than his father, Sir William … who had at least done something other than marry to secure a knighthood and the title that came with it.

“I see you understand my predicament,” Charlotte said, her voice quivering. Emotion never overcame Charlotte, and the hopelessness in her tone tore at Elizabeth’s heart. This was grave.

There had to be a way out. “What of George’s horses? Can they not save the estate?” Elizabeth asked.

George Lucas was the second son. Unlike his elder brother, he was responsible. Once Sir William had sold his interests in trade, along with all means of increasing his fortune, George had taken up the only method of gain society permitted gentlemen. He bred and trained horses.

Charlotte sighed. “It is not enough. One of our stallions would have to sire a racehorse or some other impossible scheme for the ton to take notice of us. George does well enough, and I am grateful he does what he can, but we cannot forget to take into account my eldest brother’s habits. It is a pity he is to inherit instead of George. My future would not feel so precarious…”

Elizabeth understood precarious futures. The Bennet daughters’ interests were not provided for any better than Charlotte’s were, and Elizabeth’s mother lived in constant dread of her husband perishing before all five of her offspring married and settled.

As much as Elizabeth wished for a love match, she knew that if she did not find it in a timely fashion, she would soon enough find herself in the same situation as Charlotte — desperate and on the edge of spinsterhood without a penny to her name. A burden to her family.

She shook the dreadful prospect from her mind. This morning was not providing the release she craved at all. If anything, she felt encumbered. Trapped. Defeated.

No, never defeated! She would not succumb, nor would she allow Charlotte to wallow in gloom and doom. Not when they still had their freedom and sense enough to plan a better solution. Why waste the beauty of a new morning full of promise on distressing possibilities which might never come to pass? No. Elizabeth possessed too much hope to fall prey to the depths of despair.

“… And so, you see how the responsibility to marry into a fortune falls onto me,” Charlotte said. “Forgive me if I seem downcast, but it is a desperate situation. I am neither very young nor sufficiently pretty.”

Elizabeth snapped, “I will not hear you speak ill of yourself, Charlotte. Not when you are the most sensible, wise lady I have the privilege of knowing. Any gentleman would be fortunate to have you for his wife.”

“If he got past my lack of fortune, connections, and youth.”

“Superficial matters of no consequence.” Elizabeth dismissed the lot with a wave of her hand. “Or need I remind you of my lack of fortune and connections?”

“Ah, but that is as far as our similarities go, Lizzy, for you are both young and quite pretty. There is a vivacity about you which will draw gentlemen like flies to honey.”

“Flies! I would sooner swat the troublesome creatures away! I have no patience for bothersome vermin, nor would I wish you to suffer their company. I most certainly would never agree to marry one. Would that we could away to London … or anywhere other than here! What I would give for one season away. For you to meet a gentleman worthy of your sensible heart. For some excitement before we must succumb to marriage.”

Charlotte laughed. “Marriage is not a disease! No wonder you dread it.”

Pleased her humor had restored lightness to their conversation, Elizabeth said, “I do not dread marriage. Not really. I only fear I will have to marry before I have a chance to do anything consequential. Is it too much to wish for one adventure to cherish forever? I could endure almost anything so long as I was allowed that. You are not the only one who can be practical, Charlotte. I know the likelihood of my meeting a man I could love with my whole heart and soul is slight in Hertfordshire. I am convinced the gentleman I would gladly marry resides outside the county, and, yet, my father is determined to keep me from traveling.”

“He agreed for you to travel with your aunt and uncle.”

“And I am grateful. I am. However, I know very well that he will deny every future request, just as he has done in the past. He believes I ought to be content with Mr. Pinkerton’s books and one short trip when I fear they shall only whet my appetite.”

“Oh, Lizzy, I am sorry.” Charlotte did not argue against what she knew to be true.

“We are a pitiful pair this morning. Let us not behave like damsels in distress. We are masters of our own fate, captains of our own destiny.”

“In a just world, perhaps.”

Elizabeth frowned. The world was not always just, and until that changed, Charlotte would accept the first hand offered to her and Elizabeth would have to continue sneaking out of Longbourn for the Lucas Lodge stables at the crack of dawn. Which reminded her…

“We should get going if I am to return to Longbourn before breakfast. Are we going to ride or not?” Clucking her tongue, Elizabeth tapped Tempest’s flanks and leaned into her right hip in expectation of the thrill of a good gallop.

What do you think? Will Elizabeth get her adventure?