Chapter Three

July 9, 1810

The Lake House

Ramsgate

Darcy

Darcy rolled his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, his neck aching from hours of poring over the many letters demanding his attention. It seemed the work of a landowner was never done, even when one was on holiday at the seaside.

Mr Hobbs, his steward, wrote of a minor tenant dispute, seeking Darcy’s approval for how he had handled the matter. Hobbs, of course, had dealt with it exactly as Darcy would have, a testament to the steward’s intelligence and his knowledge of his master’s ways. Though he appreciated his faithful servant’s efforts to keep him informed, Darcy sometimes wished a few weeks could pass without receiving a letter from him.

Amongst his correspondence was a missive from his friend, Charles Bingley. Charles was younger than Darcy by several years, but their bond was no less for the age difference. Darcy had met Bingley at Gentleman Jack’s one afternoon. The wiry young man had drawn a large crowd as he sparred with some of London’s best pugilists. Despite his lean physique and light figure, Bingley had beaten his opponents again and again. With each bout, the bets placed grew greater until someone declared they would grant five hundred pounds to the man who could beat Charles Bingley.

The money held no allure, but the young interloper’s presence threatened Darcy’s undefeated status in the club. He accepted the challenge and stepped into the ring. Tensions were high as the spectators placed new bets. With neither man vanquished yet, no one could be certain how this bout would end.

It took a matter of minutes for Darcy to analyse Bingley’s fighting style and to identify his weakness. His left side was slightly weaker than his right, though not by much. A knee injury, perhaps? Unwilling to land a devastating blow to the man’s pride, he kept the bout going for some time before striking. Once Darcy went on the offensive, it took only minutes for Bingley to yield.

The spectators cheered wildly, and Darcy collected the five-hundred-pound marker from Viscount Trent, a reckless young man with more money than he knew what to do with. After accepting the onlookers’ congratulations, Darcy turned to his opponent, expecting to see dejection and bitterness. Instead, Charles Bingley was grinning widely as he extended his hand.

“Good show!” he cried. “It has been many a year since I faced such a challenge. I do hope we can spar again!”

Perplexed, Darcy replied, “It would be my pleasure. I frequent Gentleman Jack’s twice a week.”

“Charles Bingley, at your service,” the cheerful gentleman said. “Lately of Scarborough, but now dwelling in London.”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” he returned. “Of London and Pemberley.”

“Pemberley? Where is that?”

Had Bingley’s expression not been so open and honest, Darcy might have thought the man was being disingenuous. “Pemberley is in Derbyshire,” he replied.

“Alas, I have never visited that county! Is it as rugged as people say?”

Darcy smiled at Bingley’s innocent inquiry. “It is, but I have a long-held fondness for it, nonetheless. Derbyshire is the best of counties, and none can convince me otherwise.”

“Come with me to Boodle’s and we can speak more of it. I would wish an acquaintance with you if only to have an adequate sparring partner.” Bingley grinned and patted his face with a cloth to remove the beads of sweat from his brow.

Darcy nodded. “The idea has merit. I, too, have lacked any real challenge since my cousin left with his regiment.”

“Glad to be of service, then. Come now, my treat.”

Darcy followed Bingley from the room and soon they were aboard a carriage, trundling off towards Boodle’s. They settled into a private parlour and ordered a meal. At first, Bingley’s constant flow of conversation was burdensome for Darcy, but he soon realised his new acquaintance required neither loquacity nor detailed responses. Since Bingley spoke more than enough for both, Darcy soon felt himself relaxing and enjoying himself.

Ever cautious, however, he remained alert for any usual signs of social climbing or opportunism that often marked new acquaintances. Bingley exhibited none of these indicators, much to Darcy’s relief, and when the man mentioned his two unmarried sisters at another lunch, he was quick to reassure Darcy that he was not one to use his friendships to secure matches for his relations. In consequence, Darcy asked about the Bingley ladies—inquiring about sisters was something he would never dare to do with most gentlemen.

“Louisa is the elder,” Bingley said. “She is petite, with brown hair and brown eyes. My sister has been out for two years and is growing fretful that her dowry has yet to attract any suitors. I have told her that her fortune only just lessens the stench of its origin, but she refuses to believe me.”

Darcy’s nose twitched slightly before he schooled his expression. “You are from trade?” he asked.

“Yes. My father made his fortune in the mills and shipping, and though I still hold some interest in the companies, I have sold off most of it. His fondest wish was that I purchase an estate. I have yet to do so.” Bingley noted Darcy’s look and raised his eyebrows. “Does my background bother you, Darcy?” His cheerful expression had faded, and he regarded Darcy with a shrewd expression. “I wager you never suspected it. I present myself well, and had I not disclosed that detail, I doubt you would have known. I do not shy away from my origins. My father worked hard for what I now enjoy, and I will not be ashamed of it.”

Darcy felt a little chagrined at Bingley’s words and he swallowed. “I was raised to avoid trade and those associated with it,” he confessed. “Though your disclosure has given me pause, I value honesty, and believe trust is necessary in a friendship. Your candour reveals you as forthright and honest, and I will not forfeit a potential acquaintance for such a paltry reason as an accident of birth.”

Bingley grinned and raised his glass. “I am pleased to hear you speak so reasonably. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Louisa! She has recently attracted the attention of a gentleman by the name of Reginald Hurst. He is the heir to a decent estate, and my inquiries reveal his father has cut off his allowance due to dissolute living. He seeks a wealthy bride to fund his lifestyle until he inherits. I have tried to dissuade my sister, but she will not listen. She is of age, so if Louisa chooses Mr Hurst, I shall grant her my blessing and release her dowry.”

“It is hard watching those we love make poor decisions, especially when they have lifelong consequences.”

“Indeed! My sister Caroline is as headstrong as they come. She will be out this season, and I pray she makes a match soon. She does not listen to reason, and I fear she will run roughshod over me. I dislike confrontation and she takes full advantage of that. Have you any sisters, Darcy? Or brothers? I should have liked to have a brother.”

“I have one sister. Her name is Georgiana. She is very young, only thirteen, and as sweet and angelic as they come.”

“She sounds lovely. Do you have the care for her, or…” Bingley trailed off and waited for Darcy to answer.

“My father died two years ago, and my mother three years before that,” he said soberly. “I have had the care of Georgiana since she was eleven. My cousin shares guardianship with me, but his career in the army keeps him from us far too often.”

Bingley nodded sympathetically. “Such is the nature of service to our King.” Darcy tipped his head in agreement.

Bingley became a frequent visitor to Darcy House, and his easy manner fostered their growing friendship. By summer, Darcy had extended an invitation for him and his sisters to visit Pemberley. He thought he was prepared for their stay, but soon realised he was sorely mistaken. Miss Bingley was by now engaged to Mr Hurst, but Miss Caroline took one look at Darcy and his estate and became unbearable. The avarice that glinted in her eyes was obvious to those who cared to see it, and Darcy found he had to employ certain measures to keep from being left alone with her.

His friendship with Bingley was worth enduring Miss Caroline’s presence on occasion.

Darcy shook himself from his musings and opened his friend’s letter. As usual, Bingley filled his letter with crossed out words and ink blotches, making it difficult to decipher. The gist of it, though, was that Bingley wished to meet Darcy in London in the autumn. His brother-in-law had requested the use of Bingley’s townhouse, and his friend wished to know if he was welcome at Darcy House, if he needed to make an escape.

Darcy penned his reply and added the finished missive to the stack of outgoing mail. He stood and stretched, arching his back against the dull ache that had begun there. Enough work for today, he told himself. Georgiana would certainly be waiting for him in the parlour. His shopping expedition had proven fruitful, and he was prepared for his sister’s birthday, which was just days away.

He gathered the letters that needed to be posted and left his study to deposit them on the salver. As he moved to place the stack on the shining silver tray, he hesitated. There was a letter there. Odd . Smythe had already delivered the post for the day. He scooped it up, slipped it into his pocket to read later, and deposited the stack in his hand onto the salver.

His sister was indeed waiting for him in the parlour. They partook of a delightful tea before taking a walk on the beach. Georgiana’s responses pleased Darcy when he quizzed her on her schoolwork. Clearly, she was being attentive to her studies, just as a Darcy should.

Upon returning to the Lake House, Darcy left to dress for dinner. He removed his tailcoat and handed it off to his valet, Williams, fiddling with his cravat in the mirror.

“Sir?” Williams returned, a missive in his hand. “This was in the pocket of your coat. Would you care for it now, or shall I deposit it on your desk?”

The letter. He had forgotten. “I will take it, Williams,” he replied, holding out his hand. The valet handed the letter to his master, and Darcy clenched his jaw when he recognised the handwriting. He flipped it over and sure enough, the sender was none other than the presumptuous Elizabeth Bennet.

How dare she! Darcy seethed; he wanted to crumple the letter in his hand. Instead, he allowed Williams to put on his evening coat before sitting down to open it. He broke the seal and unfolded the paper, reading the words. He felt his temper rising, and he tugged at his cravat in irritation, pulling it askew.

Her insults were harsh, and his ego hurt from the notion that this nobody proclaimed him to be of equally inferior status. How had she not heard of the Darcys of Pemberley? Had she been living in a cave or under a rock? And what of her audacious claim that the railing was green? He stood and paced the room; the letter clenched in one hand. Pausing before the window, he looked out at the garden. The flowers were in full bloom, and he allowed their beauty to calm him.

Darcy looked at the missive in his hand and read it once more, pausing on the paragraph about his railing. What was this? Miss Bennet claimed to know the future!

The year is 1812, and I drop a nugget of information in your lap to prove it. In the year 1810, Napoleon annexed the Kingdom of Holland as the first part of the French Empire. The official annexation was on July ninth, and I am certain it will be some time before you receive the information. The Little Corsican’s reign of terror is just beginning, and the war will claim many lives in the years to follow. Lest you accuse me of being a French spy, I will tell you I read of the event myself in the London paper when it arrived at my father’s estate.

He drew in a sharp breath. Could it be? Everyone was aware of Napoleon’s rise to power in France, but would he seek to conquer all of Europe, as Miss Bennet implied? There was only one way to find out. He glanced at the clock; there was still time before dinner to pen a few missives. In the past, he used certain avenues to track his cousin’s whereabouts when news was scarce. He would write to his contacts in London. Perhaps they had heard something. But first, these insults could not go unanswered. Something compelled him to put pen to paper, even though he knew there was no need to reply to Miss Bennet’s latest letter. Darcy stalked to his desk and sat hard in his chair. He pulled a fresh sheet towards him and dipped his quill into the ink and weighed his words before beginning to write.

The Lake House

Ramsgate

July 9, 1810

To Miss Elizabeth Bennet,

It seems, madam, that my previous correspondence did little to dissuade you from presuming upon my acquaintance, and so I find myself compelled to write again. I am as pleased as you are that we are unknown to each other, for I would hesitate to have the acquaintance of one who possesses such impertinence. Did your mother not teach you to behave better?

How dare you impugn my honour as a gentleman! You claim to have never heard of the Darcys of Pemberley. If you speak the truth, you are not the lady you claim to be, or you are a lowly gentleman’s daughter of little means. Nothing else would prevent you from having the information.

You will kindly refrain from writing of my sister. I wrote what I did to protect her, and you will not use her name or her existence to malign me any further.

As for your suppositions that you know the future, by tomorrow, an express will be in London with my contacts there. I expect to have your claims fully refuted. Should they not be… what I shall do then remains to be seen.

I bid you good day and goodbye. Do not contact me and mine again.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

~

The next day, Darcy found himself unable to focus on his work. The letter from Miss Bennet and his hasty reply consumed his thoughts, and he found that the anger he had felt the night before had softened into curiosity. More importantly, the information she relayed about Napoleon was concerning. Richard Fitzwilliam, his cousin, had just received a promotion to the rank of colonel and granted command of his own unit. If Napoleon were indeed making his way through Europe, it was only a matter of time before Richard found himself in the thick of battle. Darcy’s aunt, the Countess of Matlock, would not be pleased.

A noise from the front of the house drew him from his musings, prompting him to leave his study and make his way to the entrance hall. When he opened the front door, shock coursed through him as he saw that someone had painted his formerly blue railing a fashionable green. A servant he recognised as the groundskeeper for the Lake House yelled at the back of a departing feline, shaking his fist and scolding the beast.

“Kerr! What goes on here?” Darcy asked brusquely.

The groundskeeper straightened and doffed his hat, bowing to his master. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” he stammered. “A cat ran through the paint and left tracks everywhere. Ah can try tae wipe it up, but ah dinnae ken if it’ll work, sir.”

“When did I approve this change?” Darcy’s tone was curious, not harsh, for he did not remember making this decision, and he was seldom stern with his servants unless absolutely necessary.

“It were last winter, sir,” the servant replied. “Mr Smythe made me wait ‘til summer tae do the work; what wi’ the storms blowin’ through since spring. Ah’m finally getting ‘roond tae it.”

Darcy nodded, and a memory slowly surfaced. He remembered writing to Smythe of the matter in December. All the London homes were utilising the fashionable green, and he had wished for the Lake House to follow suit. Darcy House had already adopted the change. It seems Miss Bennet had been correct… about the railing and the tracks made by the cat.

“C-carry on,” he stammered slightly. He turned and went back into the house, closing the door behind him. Darcy made his way to his study and collapsed into a chair. He ran his hand over his eyes and stared blankly at the wall. It was simply not possible… was it? Somehow, Miss Bennet was writing to him from the future. When he received the replies to his inquiries, he would know for sure.