Chapter Nine

August 3, 1810

The Lake House

Ramsgate

Darcy

The afternoon sun shone through the study window, raising the temperature in the room beyond Darcy’s comfort. He rose from his desk and crossed the room, unlatched the window, and pushed it open. A welcome breeze offered relief, carrying with it the salty scent of the sea. The soothing rhythm of the waves crashing against the shore, mixed with the occasional cry of seabirds overhead, filled the air with a sense of tranquillity. Darcy breathed deeply, taking in the calming sounds and scents of the ocean.

The door opened behind him, and Smythe announced, “George Wickham to see you, sir.”

Darcy stiffened, and fixing his expression into an impassive mask, he turned to confront his visitor.

“Wickham,” he said tersely. “What an unexpected… surprise.”

His childhood companion flashed that familiar, cheeky grin—the same smile that had charmed ladies and deceived gentlemen alike over the years. Darcy felt the urge to erase it from his face. “Come now, Darcy,” Wickham said with an exaggerated air. “Is that how you greet your oldest friend?”

“Our business concluded three years ago. Why are you here?”

Wickham hesitated a bit before he drew closer to the desk. “Might I sit?” he asked, his tone dripping with false humility.

“If you must.” Darcy moved to his own chair, sitting with his back rigid, a faint frown tugging at his lips. “What brings you to Ramsgate?”

The chair creaked as Wickham shifted in his seat. His expression turned contrite, his gaze dropping to his shoes. After clearing his throat, he spoke. “I have heard rumours that the incumbent of the Kympton living means to retire by the end of the year.”

How had Wickham heard that? Darcy wondered briefly. He must still have friends in Lambton. “And what of it?” he said aloud.

“I wish to be granted the living.” Wickham’s gaze rose to meet his, determination etched in his expression. “My situation is dire, and I believe that I am suited to the church, after all.”

“No.”

Wickham’s shock was palpable. Had he truly expected Darcy to respond differently?

“Is this all the reply I am to receive?” His tone carried incredulity, and Darcy nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

“What more needs saying? I have it in writing that you relinquished all claims to the living in exchange for three thousand pounds. That, combined with your inheritance from my father, ought to have secured your future—had you invested wisely and lived within your means. Your behaviour gives me no reason to grant you the position of spiritual advisor for the parish of Kympton.”

Wickham scowled. “Your father would be ashamed of you,” he spat, his voice filled with venom. “I was like a son to him. How can you cast me aside so easily?”

Darcy rose from his chair, towering over his former friend. The barb about his father stung, but he had long made peace with George Darcy’s blindness when it came to his godson. “My father would be ashamed of you, ” he countered firmly. “You abandoned every principle he instilled in us and squandered every privilege he bestowed. You received a gentleman’s education, yet you have wasted it! No, Wickham, your misfortunes are entirely of your making, and you will not bully me into offering you the living out of some misguided loyalty to my father. Tell me, what became of your study of the law?”

Wickham’s frown deepened, and he looked away. “It did not suit,” he muttered.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Darcy’s sarcasm earned him a venomous glare, but he ignored it. “I will offer you one last opportunity,” he continued, moving deliberately around the desk. “I will help you secure honest employment at a reputable firm or warehouse. If, after three years, you have proven your constancy and dedication, I will consider aiding you further. If you refuse, then our dealings are at an end, and I shall have nothing more to do with you.”

Wickham shot to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. “This is not over, Darcy,” he hissed. “You will regret this slight. I will have my revenge on you and your family for this lack of consideration.”

Darcy walked to the bellpull and summoned Smythe. “Good day, Wickham. I wish you success in your future endeavours.” The butler opened the door and turned to his master for directions. “Mr Wickham is leaving,” he informed the servant. The butler stepped forward to escort him out, only for Wickham to jerk his arm away forcefully.

“I have warned you, Darcy,” he growled as he strode towards the door, Smythe following closely behind.

Darcy held his breath until he heard the front door close, and the lock click into place. “Thank heaven he is gone,” he muttered, sinking into his chair with a weary sigh. He ran a hand over his face, the tension finally lessening.

“The post, sir,” Smythe announced as he re-entered the room, extending a stack of letters. Darcy accepted them absently, barely registering when his butler left, closing the door softly behind him.

He sorted through the pile, setting aside invitations and bills, before his attention settled on two letters from Elizabeth—he shook his head. No, not Elizabeth. Miss Bennet. He ought not to think of her so familiarly. He opened the thicker letter first, startled as a ‘fresh’ sprig of lavender slipped from between the pages and landed on his desk. He picked it up, inhaling the soothing fragrance before setting it aside and turning his focus eagerly to her words.

July 31, 1812

Dear Mr Darcy,

Imagine my overwhelming astonishment, sir, as I strolled in your lovely garden earlier today only to view flowers that were not there the day before. I could scarcely believe my eyes, yet there they were—ten lavender plants, fully in bloom. A vase full of the blossoms is now set beside me as I write. Thank you. Your kindness humbles me—no one has ever done something so thoughtful for me. Do tell, was the sprig I enclosed still fresh, or did it wither as it crossed the barrier of time and space?

Added to that surprise, was the pleasant appearance of your likeness enclosed with your letter. I must say, there is much to admire, and you look nothing like the ogre I had imagined. From your first letter, I pictured a figure with long fangs and a dreadful scowl, but the reality is definitely an improvement over my fanciful imaginings. I shall endeavour not to inflate your pride, but I must say, I have never seen a more well-favoured gentleman in my life.

As for Jane, she is feeling much better, and we believe the worst is behind her. She is awake more often now and is taking more nourishment each day. We hope that within a week or so, she will leave her chamber entirely.

You asked me to tell you more about my sister, and I am most happy to oblige. Jane is an angel, sent to Earth to show us mere mortals the true meaning of goodness. In nearly all cases, she sees only the good in people and desires that those around her exhibit the same kindness and compassion she so naturally possesses. Her ladylike conduct has been an example to all her sisters, and it is only through her gentle guidance—and that of our dear Aunt Gardiner that I did not grow into a complete hoyden. If there ever was an impoverished gentleman’s daughter who deserved to marry well, it is Jane. Fortunately, she is completely smitten with her husband, and he with her.

Jane’s improvement allows me the freedom to venture out more often. Twice now, I have encountered a gentleman during my walks. The first meeting was memorable, for he had a large black dog with him that was very interested in me and my brother-in-law. On the second occasion, Mr Blandishman was alone. I am not fond of dogs, so I was relieved he left the creature at home.

My brother will send his card around to the gentleman when Jane is well enough to entertain. Mr Blandishman has invited us to dine but has kindly agreed to wait upon my sister’s recovery. In the meantime, he has expressed a desire to visit me at the Lake House. His interest is unmistakable, and I am endeavouring not to dismiss him without a reason. It is only that he is so very… well, he is nothing like you or my brother.

Shall I describe him to you? Pray, be so good as to inform me if you wish for a description.

I have had a letter from my father. You would not know this, but it is a rare occurrence. Papa is not a faithful correspondent, and upon opening it, I presumed he was writing to beg me to come home. I was not entirely wrong; he lamented my absence, complained about my mother and sisters, and declared that with both me and Jane gone, Longbourn has been devoid of rational discourse for weeks.

He also tells me that Lydia has gone off to Brighton with her ‘particular friend,’ Mrs Forster, the young wife of the colonel of the regiment recently stationed in Meryton. The presence of the officers provided a boon to the local merchants and a ‘delightful’ diversion for the young ladies of the area. Do you detect my sarcasm? For months, my two youngest sisters had nothing to speak of but officers, and it grew rather tedious to remain in the same room as Kitty and Lydia.

How long do you stay in Ramsgate during the summers? I imagine that, as a landowner, it is necessary for you to attend to your estate during the harvest and spring planting. From your words, I gather you are a diligent master and oversee matters at Pemberley yourself, rather than relying entirely on a steward. Will you be journeying north to Derbyshire soon?

Your sentiments about my cousin Collins’s failure to secure my hand echo my own, I assure you. Mama was furious at my refusal; by me marrying the heir to my father’s estate, her future would have been secure. She does not understand when I explain that I desire more than mere security in life. I have witnessed my father’s unfeeling treatment of his wife, and though my mother is not clever enough to fully grasp his barbs, she knows he mocks her. I have seen the hurt in her eyes, and I have no wish to enter into such an unequal union. I shall marry for love, and nothing less, just as Jane has done. Her husband is everything he ought to be—handsome, amiable, kind… that he is also rich had no bearing on her decision, I promise.

Would it not be interesting if you knew my dear aunt when she lived in Lambton? Her maiden name was Partridge; does that aid you as you search your memories? I will have to tell you of the Gardiners when I next write, but I am tired, and my candle is burning low. My dinner sits cold on a tray beside me, forgotten in my haste to read your missive. I have fallen into a dreadful habit of writing letters into the wee hours of the morning, and I shall suffer a megrim if I do not make my way to bed soon.

Will you tell me more of your family? You said little of your parents, other than that they are no longer living.

I do hope your day is a pleasant one.

Sincerely,

E. Bennet

Darcy sighed. If only his day had been pleasant. He set the letter aside and picked up the other, much lighter missive. He broke the seal and read the brief note at the top of the page.

August 2, 1812

Dear Sir,

It is only fair that I grant you the same courtesy that you have bestowed upon me. Behold, a passable likeness of one Miss Elizabeth Bennet, rendered by my dear sister Jane as she lay abed. Jane is not as gifted artistically as Miss Darcy, but the likeness is accurate enough to give you some idea of my appearance. My hair is a riotous mess of dark brown curls, touched with hints of red that grow more noticeable in the summer. My eyes are dark, too, brown with a hint of green. Of my stature, I will tell you I am the shortest of the Bennet ladies.

I bid you farewell for now, sir, for I am to attend my brother as he goes to the shops.

E. Bennet

Darcy hungrily absorbed Miss Bennet’s likeness, his eyes tracing every line. Her sister had done fine work, though the sketch was not as detailed as Georgiana’s. Miss Bennet’s eyes sparkled on the page; she seemed to be looking right at him, and he could not tear his gaze away. She was not a conventional beauty, but there was a distinct loveliness about her that made his heart stutter.

I am falling in love with her, he realised with a start. When the expected abhorrence of the idea did not immediately follow his epiphany, he paused to consider. Could he love Miss Bennet, a penniless country girl from Hertfordshire? And if he could, would he condescend to marry her?

His heart screamed yes to those thoughts, and he sat back, still holding her likeness in his hand. With one finger, he traced the curve of her lips and the arch of her brow. She appeared mischievous, as though she held a secret.

Yes, he was falling in love with Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, and he had no inkling what to do about it. The matter would be simple were it not for the fact that she dwelt two years in the future. How was he to pursue the lady when he was unsure how he could even meet her in person?

Darcy’s distraction lasted through dinner. Georgiana, noticing his preoccupation, tentatively asked if something was wrong, so deep in thought was he.

“I am well, Georgie,” he told her in response to her inquiry. “There is a matter of some importance that I am reflecting on; nothing more. Forgive me for woolgathering and neglecting you.”

She smiled. “Of course, brother,” she said, returning to her meal. “I know you have many weighty matters on your mind.”

If only you knew , Darcy thought.

Georgiana retired early, citing fatigue and the onset of a megrim. Darcy bid her good night, pressing a fond kiss to her cheek as she departed the dining room. With his mind still restless later that evening, Darcy donned his hat and gloves and left the house, determined to walk until he reasoned out a solution to his conundrum. How could one possibly meet a woman from the future? She could not travel back to meet him, nor could he leap forward into her time. What if she began a courtship with this Mr Blandishman before he even had the chance to meet her? The very thought filled him with unreasonable jealousy.

But… an idea struck him, and he seized upon it, determined to examine it fully before presenting it to Miss Bennet. It was so mad, so brilliant, that it just might work.

Turning back towards the Lake House, Darcy mulled over the idea, working out the particulars and crafting the details of what he would write in his next letter to Miss Bennet. It was madness—this need to meet the lady behind the letters—yet he resolved to pursue a solution until he found one.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Darcy entered his chamber, removing his coat and boots. Yanking at his cravat, which felt as though it were strangling him, he tossed it aside and took his seat at the desk and reached for a sheet of paper. Dipping the quill into the ink, he tapped off the excess. His pen hovered over the page, his thoughts churning. But then, resolute, he began to write. He wrote until the clock chimed midnight before his cramped fingers forced him to set the quill aside and finish the letter in the morning.

Exhausted, he prepared for bed and climbed beneath the coverlet. As he closed his eyes, visions of the lovely Elizabeth swirled through his mind, lingering as he drifted into sleep.