Our Message Board archives can be found at <a href="/archive/">http://www.dwiggie.com/archive/</a>. Our story archives are here: <a href="http://www.dwiggie.com/toc/">http://www.dwiggie.com/toc/</a>.https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/index.phpFri, 04 Sep 2026 11:30:31 +0100 Phorum 5.2.22 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131868,131871#msg-131871 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131868,131871#msg-131871 Doris Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 04 Sep 2026 02:53:27 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131868,131870#msg-131870 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131868,131870#msg-131870 LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 04 Sep 2026 02:09:39 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131863,131869#msg-131869 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131863,131869#msg-131869 Kimberly F. Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 04 Sep 2026 02:07:10 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131868,131868#msg-131868 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131868,131868#msg-131868My plans changed and I had a nice and quiet evening at home.


Chapter 2

The morning air at Rosings was cold and clear, with a sharpness Elizabeth had not previously observed. Wrapped in a warm cloak, she watched as the last of her belongings were stowed in the carriage. The scene was markedly different from her arrival. There was no Mr. Collins bowing to the floor while attempting to oversee every detail, only the quiet efficiency of Anne’s servants. Anne stood beside Elizabeth, watching the preparations with unusual composure. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy were already on horseback, prepared to accompany the carriage for the first part of the journey.

Elizabeth settled into the carriage, still much affected by the extraordinary events of the preceding evening. Anne’s presence afforded Elizabeth comfort which she had never expected to find at Rosings.

“Are you quite comfortable, Elizabeth?” Anne asked, as Elizabeth arranged herself in the carriage. Mrs. Jenkinson, looking somewhat flustered but obedient, took her place opposite them.

“Perfectly so, Anne,” Elizabeth replied, smiling. The events of the preceding evening still seemed scarcely credible, yet Elizabeth could not deny her relief.

As the carriage moved away from Rosings, Elizabeth glanced out the window toward the lane that led to Hunsford Parsonage. A faint pang of disappointment touched her heart. She had expected Charlotte to appear, if only to offer a few words of comfort or a private farewell after the events of the preceding evening. Yet, as the parsonage disappeared from sight, Elizabeth began to think herself fortunate that no farewell had been required. After Charlotte’s silence during Lady Catherine’s accusations, an awkward, evasive farewell would have been difficult. It was better that matters should remain as they were.

For some time, neither spoke, yet the silence was not disagreeable.

Anne was the first to speak, with a slight smile. “I hope you did not find the packing too abrupt,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I instructed the servants to be swift, but not careless. If anything is missing, you must tell me at once.”

Elizabeth shook her head, grateful for Anne’s concern. “You are too kind. I assure you, all is well. I am grateful for your thoughtfulness, and your courage. The events of last night tried us all.”

Anne gave a rueful smile. “I never imagined I would have to banish my own mother from the dining room. Mrs. Jenkinson, did you ever think you would see such a thing?”

Mrs. Jenkinson, usually so reticent, allowed herself a small, approving smile. “Miss Anne, I have always known you had strength. Sometimes, Miss Anne, a person’s true character is not known until it is put to the trial.”

Anne looked away, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I only wish I had acted sooner. There were so many times I wished to speak, but I was afraid. Afraid of what I might lose, or what I might become. But now, I see there are worse things than change. There is great relief in it, is there not? To be at last delivered from such constant authority.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly. “Indeed, Anne. I confess, I have never known a force quite so unyielding as your mother.”

Anne sighed, though with less despondence than Elizabeth had ever heard from her before. “Nor I, until last night. For so long, I simply allowed it. It was easier, you see, to yield to her direction in everything. But there must come a time, must there not, when one is obliged to act according to one’s own judgment, and for the protection of those one values?” Anne looked at her, and Elizabeth returned the look with ready comprehension.

“There certainly does,” Elizabeth agreed, thinking of her own stepmother’s relentless pursuit of advantageous marriages. “Though my stepmother’s methods are perhaps less grand, she is equally determined to direct the future of her daughters.”

Anne nodded. “It is a singular trial to have one’s future so entirely arranged by the expectations of others.” After a pause, Anne looked at her with greater confidence.

“That letter, Elizabeth,” Anne continued, referring to the letter Elizabeth had recovered from the table after the disturbances of the preceding evening, “if you would rather say nothing of it, I shall not press you. And I must apologize, most deeply, for the abhorrent manner in which my mother spoke of you. In her arrogance, my mother cannot conceive that a gentleman of high rank could have any honourable business with a gentleman’s daughter from Hertfordshire. The sight of an earl’s crest, joined to her suspicions concerning my cousin, persuaded her that no honourable explanation could be possible. To malign your character so vilely was wholly indefensible. If you are inclined to tell me, I confess I should be curious to know from whom it came, but I have no claim to your confidence.”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment. Anne had behaved with such generosity towards her that Elizabeth found herself willing to trust her. “I accept your apology, Anne, though you bear no blame for your mother’s tongue,” she began, pulling the letter from her reticule. “It is from my cousin on my mother’s side of the family. He is an Earl, and he insists that my sister, Jane, and I spend the entire season in London with him and his sisters.”

“An Earl? I had no idea you had such connections.” Anne’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, her composure momentarily slipping.

Elizabeth smiled, though with some embarrassment. “It is not widely known in Meryton. My stepmother prefers it not to be spoken of. You see, my own mother was Mr. Bennet’s first wife. She died shortly after my birth, leaving Jane and me a considerable fortune, and placing us in our father’s care. My father, without a male heir, remarried rather quickly. My stepmother, a woman of little fortune and less sense, was quite eager for the match. Then came Mary, Kitty, and Lydia.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts. “My own mother’s family, the Sinclairs, are of some consequence. The Duke of Westbury is my grandfather. His displeasure at my father’s hasty second marriage was, and remains, quite profound. A serious breach arose between them. My father, while he is a kind man in his own way, is a man of books and quiet contemplation. He had no wish to contend with the difficulties between them, and gradually withdrew from all communication with my mother’s family. Our portions were secured by our mother’s marriage settlement, but all other relations between the families has remained strained. My father never visits my grandfather, nor does he accompany us when we go, and he always requires our return to Longbourn at a time of his own choosing.”

From conversations with her uncle, Maxwell Sinclair, Elizabeth knew that the breach between the two families was not what her late mother would have wished. Their association with the Sinclairs was continually interrupted by the uncertain wishes of those at Longbourn. Her stepmother was only too willing to prolong their visits whenever it suited her economy, eager to have fewer mouths to feed and delighted by the expensive gifts and fine London clothes the girls brought home, only to require their immediate return whenever her temper was provoked, or she feared her own daughters might suffer by comparison.

“My grandfather insisted that Jane and I be presented and that we spend a fortnight in London each season with his family to maintain our connections in ton,” Elizabeth continued. “He considers it his duty to ensure that his granddaughters are properly known in society. My stepmother, though pleased to be spared the considerable expense of our presentation and dress, envied the consequence it afforded us. She feared it would diminish her own daughters’ prospects if our connections were too widely discussed.”

Elizabeth smiled with some embarrassment and picked at a loose thread on her glove. “Thus, to satisfy her and preserve domestic peace, my father agreed to a private arrangement. In Meryton, we are known only as the daughters of Mr. Bennet. We enjoy all the distinction of the grandest lineage in town, provided we never breathe a word of it to a soul.”

Anne smiled with quiet irony. “A most extraordinary means of keeping a secret, Elizabeth. Though I imagine such restraint must be very trying.”

“It is a peculiar sort of comedy,” Elizabeth agreed, but her smile soon disappeared. “Yet the recollection of such petty resentments will sometimes return. Most recently when a gentleman of great fortune, a Mr. Bingley, leased a nearby estate. He was greatly attached to Jane, but my stepmother’s indiscreet efforts to promote the match, together with his sister’s designs, brought the attachment to nothing. Miss Bingley was determined to separate them. She convinced her brother of Jane’s total indifference and kept him in London, quite unaware of Jane’s presence there. And when Jane called upon her in town, Miss Bingley delayed returning the visit for nearly a fortnight, only to stay a cold fifteen minutes and make it clear our family was beneath her notice.” Elizabeth paused, and sighed. The recollection of her stepmother’s conduct was still painful to her.

Anne listened intently, her expression sympathetic but also thoughtful. “I can readily comprehend you,” said Anne, with increasing seriousness. “The claims of family, and the expectations which attend them, may be very oppressive. It appears that we have both been obliged to contend with mothers who are very certain of their own superior judgment.”

They looked at one another with mutual comprehension.

“I confess,” Anne continued, a faint smile on her lips, “the name is not entirely unfamiliar to me. Georgiana’s letters from London have often mentioned the Bingley sisters, generally with some fatigue at the frequency of their civilities, and Richard has more than once amused himself by observing that Will’s friend was entirely captivated by a beauty from the country. I had heard such varied things that I scarcely knew what to make of it all.”

Elizabeth smiled in spite of herself. “A country beauty? I suppose I must thank the Colonel for his charity, though I doubt his cousin shared his amusement.”

Anne laughed softly in agreement. “No, I imagine Will’s face was a study in severe disapproval. Yet what you have now told me gives a new meaning to all I have heard. The fortune which you and Jane possess, your manners, and the advantages of your upbringing... It is not so difficult to comprehend your stepmother’s jealousy. To see a gentleman of Mr. Bingley’s consequence arrive and perceive him so strongly attached to a sister whose beauty and manners must recommend her to everyone, your stepmother must have seen the match for her own daughters as impossible.”

Anne considered this for a moment before speaking again. “Her conduct, however unkind, is not difficult to account for. By encouraging Miss Bennet’s attachment, she may have hoped to see one of you advantageously established and thereby leave greater opportunity for her own daughters. It was a scheme of considerable artifice, though not of much generosity.”

Elizabeth smiled at Anne with evident esteem. “You are quite a credit to your sex, Anne,” she said warmly, “and to Mrs. Jenkinson’s education. Your mind is as keen as any I have ever encountered. I shall have to be careful what I say in your presence, for you will surely unravel all my secrets. Your protection and friendship have been of greater consequence to me than I can express. I will not forget it.”

Anne was silent for a moment, visibly affected. “We must be of service to one another, when we can. The world is not always kind to us.”

Elizabeth smiled with quiet irony. “No, it is not. But I find it is easier to bear with good company.”

Mrs. Jenkinson, perceiving that the conversation had become less grave, spoke gently. “Miss Anne, you have always been wise, even when you were silent. Your mother’s influence has long been very powerful, but you have at last shown that your own judgment is not to be disregarded. You have given me every reason to be proud of you.”

Anne looked at Mrs. Jenkinson with gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Jenkinson. Your affection and care have always been of the greatest comfort to me.”

Their conversation, though arising from circumstances so extraordinary, established between them a degree of confidence which neither had previously expected.

After a moment’s pause, Mrs. Jenkinson cleared her throat nervously. “Miss Bennet, if I might be so bold, I hope you will find comfort in London. The season may, perhaps, afford some relief from disagreeable reflections.”

Elizabeth looked at Mrs. Jenkinson with gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Jenkinson. I believe I shall be glad of any diversion.”

Anne smiled gently. “You have friends who will support you now, Elizabeth. And I shall see to it that you are well cared for. Rosings has been a trial, but those difficulties are now at an end.”

Elizabeth could not help reflecting on Mr. Darcy, on the candour he had shown, and on all that had been revealed concerning Wickham. The day had been one of severe trials, yet Elizabeth now understood far more than she had understood before, and could not entirely despair of what might follow.

~*~

Will rode alongside Richard as the carriage rolled steadily through the countryside. The morning sun cast long shadows, and the regular sound of the horses accompanied their progress.

At a small coaching inn along the London road, they halted to change horses and refresh themselves. The party gathered in a quiet room for a light repast. The air was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and steaming tea.

After some time, Will broke the silence. “There is one matter which I must confess before we proceed further. It concerns my part in Mr. Bingley’s departure from Netherfield.”

Richard turned towards him with evident attention. Elizabeth looked at him with evident apprehension.

Will paused before continuing. “I observed Mr. Bingley’s growing attachment to your elder sister and the general expectation of their marriage. Yet, from my own scrutiny, I was convinced she did not return his affection with equal fervor. Her countenance, though amiable, seemed to me without any particular regard. If I erred in this judgment, your superior knowledge of your sister must make that clear.”

He paused, observing that Elizabeth was no longer able to hear him with composure. “My objections extended beyond mere passion. More troubling were the defects of her nearest relations, their want of propriety, frequently betrayed by your mother, younger sisters, and occasionally your father. Pardon me if I offend, but this was a matter of grave concern.” Anne, seated beside Elizabeth, looked at her with deep sympathy. “After the Netherfield Ball, every inducement heightened to preserve my friend from what I deemed an unhappy connection. I persuaded him of your sister’s indifference, an assurance that, combined with Bingley’s modesty and dependence on my judgment, swayed him from returning to Netherfield.”

“My only regret,” Will continued, “is that I concealed from him your sister’s presence in London. I believed his regard insufficiently extinguished to risk their meeting. Perhaps this concealment was beneath me, but it was done with the best intentions. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done, and though my motives may seem insufficient, I offer no further apology.”

He waited for Elizabeth’s reply, but it was Anne who first spoke, with evident outrage.

“You were not justified!” cried Anne. “By what presumption did you venture to decide a matter which concerned Miss Bennet and Mr. Bingley alone? To presume to interpret her feelings, condemn her family, and separate two persons whom you believed attached, what could excuse such interference? What consideration could persuade you that such interference was either proper or just?” Anne then addressed Elizabeth more gently. “He deprived your sister of the opportunity of knowing Mr. Bingley’s true sentiments, Elizabeth, and Mr. Bingley of the opportunity of proving his own.”

Anne turned again to Will, her countenance marked by the strongest indignation. “You speak of propriety and family defects, but what of your own? Is it not a far greater defect to meddle in affairs that do not concern you? To presume to interfere between two persons who appeared sincerely attached? You have acted with the very arrogance you so detest in others. You may call your motives honourable, but your conduct has proceeded from a pride which admits no error in its own judgment. And you acted without Mr. Bingley’s knowledge! You did not even acquaint Miss Bennet with your objections, but chose instead to influence Mr. Bingley in secret! That is not a sign of honor, Will. It is the conduct of a man who supposes his own judgment superior to every obligation of honour!”

Elizabeth, deeply affected, attempted to restrain Anne’s indignation. “Pray, Anne. Mr. Darcy, I comprehend the motives by which you were guided, though I cannot approve the judgment which directed you. But you must comprehend too, that Jane did care for Mr. Bingley. You have ruined what happiness they shared.”

Before Will could respond, Richard interjected, with an irony softened by real concern. “You may, perhaps, have spared Miss Bennet a greater disappointment, should Bingley’s affections have been transferred elsewhere, as they have been before, to his next ‘angel’. He has a habit, I am afraid, of such trifling affections.”

Elizabeth turned pale, and Will involuntarily rose from his chair. “Next angel?” she whispered.

Richard’s expression became grave. “Indeed. Bingley has been ‘in love’ with at least two other young ladies since he left Hertfordshire. One of them was my cousin. His affections are soon excited and, I fear, not always lasting. Will’s interference was undoubtedly severe, but he did not mistake the uncertainty of Bingley’s attachment.”

Elizabeth started at him. “Your cousin?”

For some moments, the table was silent. Will watched as Elizabeth sat silent, looking down at her tea. All animation had left Elizabeth’s countenance, and he could not see her distress without pain. She appeared painfully mortified by what she had heard, and Will could not but regret that it had been spoken before her.

Anne moved nearer to Elizabeth, as if to spare her further observation. “Elizabeth, you need not attend to them,” said Anne. “They ought not to have spoken so freely before you.”

“Miss Anne is right,” Mrs. Jenkinson said softly, and her words restored some calm to the room. “Take comfort, Miss Bennet. A gentleman who leaves his heart in every parlor he visits is no loss to a lady of true worth.”

Elizabeth took a long breath, her hand tightening around the napkin she held. At length, she looked at Richard and spoke with an effort at composure.

“Thank you for your candour, Colonel,” said Elizabeth, with a gravity unusual to her manner. “It is painful, certainly, but it is better to know the truth than to remain in error.”

“I shall deal with Mr. Bingley and his sisters,” Anne said softly, a sharp, unyielding spark in her eye.

Will observed their silence, uncertain what Elizabeth’s decision might be. He had offered his apology, explained his reasoning, and endured their censure. Elizabeth’s distress persuaded him to speak again.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, after a pause, “If, after what you have heard, you still wish Mr. Bingley and your sister to meet again, I can bring it about. I can bring Bingley to you, or convey your wishes to him. It would be a matter of but a few days.” He waited for her answer with an anxiety which he could not wholly conceal.

Will watched her with considerable agitation. He perceived that what she had heard had wounded her deeply. He had expected the strongest reproaches, instead, she was silent. Her silence affected him more than any reproach could have done.

She looked towards Anne, who returned her look. Then she turned again to him. Her expression was grave rather than angry, and Will found himself more uneasy than he had ever been. Having confessed his conduct, he could only await the opinion she might now form of him. Her silence appeared to require from him more than apology, it required a change of conduct.

“No, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice firm. “No. What good would it do to force a man’s affections, or recall one so easily swayed? My sister deserves more than a fleeting fancy, more than a heart so inconstant.”

Anne nodded, her indignation now subdued. “Precisely, Elizabeth. If Mr. Bingley’s affection is so readily transferred from one ‘angel’ to the next, he is unworthy of Jane’s regard. She deserves a constancy he clearly does not possess. We will not pursue him.”

Mrs. Jenkinson then spoke with quiet gravity. “Indeed, Miss Anne. A fleeting affection is no foundation for happiness. A woman of worth, such as Miss Jane, deserves a gentleman whose heart is as steadfast as his word. Better to know the truth now, however painful, than to be deceived hereafter.”

Elizabeth spoke quietly, almost to herself, “I wonder what Jane will say when she learns all that has happened. I hope she will see, though she may suffer for a time, that an attachment so easily relinquished could not have secured her happiness.”

Anne looked at her with kindness. “Your sister will have your affection, and, if it may be of service, she may depend upon ours. And if you wish, you may always write to me. I should like to hear how you fare in London.”

Elizabeth smiled with real gratitude. “Thank you, Anne. I think I should like that very much.”

Mrs. Jenkinson laid her hand affectionately upon Anne’s, and smiled. “Now, Miss Anne, do not fret. You have acted rightly, and Miss Bennet will, I trust, be happier. The season in London may, perhaps, bring more agreeable prospects to us all.”

Will listened in silence, relieved by their decision and increasingly impressed by the firmness with which it had been made. What must follow was less certain than he had once supposed, but Will could not entirely despair of a more favourable understanding among them.

~*~

Will watched as the carriage rolled on, the countryside giving way to the outskirts of the city of London. The ladies sat three abreast, allowing Will and Richard places opposite. He looked out the window as the first rooftops of London came into view.

The increasing bustle of London left Will more uneasy than he had expected. He had spent much of the journey in silent reflection, watching Elizabeth and Anne, now on easy terms, share quiet conversation in the carriage. Their manner towards one another was far easier than it had been at Rosings, but Will could not forget the events which had lately passed, nor anticipate what might yet follow without uneasiness.

As the carriage slowed to navigate the increasingly crowded streets, Elizabeth turned to him. “There is something I must tell you, Mr. Darcy. My sister and I will not be staying with my aunt and uncle at Gracechurch Street. We are to visit another uncle, who has most kindly invited us to remain with him during the season.”

Will looked surprised, but, after a moment, appeared to comprehend her meaning. He gave a slight nod. “Then you have other relations in London who are prepared to receive you,” he said, with increased kindness. “My carriage is at your service, if it may convey you where you wish to go.”

Elizabeth smiled, with something of her usual spirit. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. That is a most generous offer.”

Upon their arrival at Gracechurch Street, Will assisted Elizabeth from the carriage. As soon as she had alighted, Elizabeth hurried to embrace a fashionable-looking woman who waited upon the steps. The sight affected Will more than he could readily account. Elizabeth’s manner towards her aunt was so affectionate and unrestrained that it formed a striking contrast to the reserve of Rosings.

As Elizabeth withdrew from her aunt’s embrace, she immediately joined Miss Bennet, whose improved health and spirits were evident at once. Mrs. Gardiner turned her attention to the rest of the arrival party.

Before she could speak, Will found himself regarding her with sudden attention. Something in the turn of her head and the intelligence of her countenance appeared immediately familiar to him. The recollections of his youth in Derbyshire returned at once and before she had spoken, Darcy understood who she must be.

He stepped forward, removed his hat, and bowed with a degree of respect which surprised Elizabeth.

“Mrs. Gardiner,” Will said. “Or perhaps I should say Miss Weston? It has been some years since Lambton, but I could never fail to recognize the daughter of one of my father’s most esteemed friends.”

Mrs. Gardiner completed her curtsy, looking at him with the greatest astonishment and pleasure. “Mr. Darcy! I am utterly astonished you remember me. It has been a great while indeed.”

“Your brother remains my nearest neighbor,” Will replied, smiling. “And the memory of your late father is highly cherished at Pemberley. It is a very pleasant surprise to renew the acquaintance.”

Beside her aunt, Elizabeth listened in astonishment. Will observed Elizabeth looking from him to her aunt with evident surprise. Her usual vivacity was for the moment subdued. The reserve which had marked her manner throughout the journey gradually disappeared. She appeared unable to reconcile the civility he now displayed with the man she had formerly known in Hertfordshire.

Miss Bennet, whose improved spirits were immediately apparent, greeted Will and Richard with her usual gentle civility.

As the grooms began to rearrange trunks, Elizabeth turned to Will with an expression he could not interpret.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly. “You, Anne, and Colonel Fitzwilliam have been exceedingly kind to see me thus far, but I believe you need trouble yourselves no farther. I am safely with my family. Should we not proceed in my uncle Gardiner’s carriage to my other uncle’s house in town, rather than occasioning you further trouble?”

Will hesitated before stepping closer. “Surely not, Miss Elizabeth. I gave my word to you and Anne that I would see you safely delivered to your destination in town, and I intend to complete the journey. There is no need to trouble your uncle’s stables when my own carriage is already at your disposal.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, smiling in reluctant acquiescence. “I perceive it is now too late to dispute the matter, since the servants have already placed Jane’s trunks with our own. I shall not dispute your generosity further.”

“Come,” said Mrs. Gardiner, turning towards the door with a smile. “You have all had a long, dusty journey from Kent. Pray come in and take some refreshment before the carriage is prepared to proceed.”

The invitation was gratefully accepted, and the small party moved indoors. It was a pleasant, bustling hour of tea and quiet conversation, a welcome respite from the road.

When Will returned to the street, the day was already declining, and the carriage stood ready. Mrs. Jenkinson, preferring to avoid the evening chill, had already ensconced herself inside the coach, leaving the others to exchange their final farewells on the pavement. Will stood beside the Gardiners’ townhouse, watching as the equipage was given a final inspection.

Elizabeth emerged first, her bonnet slightly disordered from embracing her aunt, and her spirits visibly improved. Anne followed with more reserve, though there was colour in her cheeks that had been absent in Kent. Miss Bennet came out last. Mrs. Gardiner touched her eyes with her handkerchief, and gave Will a cordial, attentive nod.

The Bennet sisters approached the waiting vehicle, and this time, when Will moved to assist Elizabeth, she accepted his hand.

“May I have the direction for the coachman, Miss Elizabeth?” Will asked.

Elizabeth exchanged a look with her sister before turning to Will with an expression of amusement. “Very well, but I daresay you will be surprised. Our uncle’s house is in Upper Brook Street. Number seventeen.”

“Upper Brook Street?” he repeated the address, as recognition began to dawn. “That is the Marquess of Claremont’s residence.”

Will was indeed surprised.

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied calmly. “He is our uncle. Our mother’s brother.”

A silence fell between them, scarcely the duration of a breath, yet long enough for the very foundation of his world to tremble. Will’s gaze remained fixed upon hers.

“Claremont?” Will repeated, after a pause. “You mean the Marquess of Claremont is your uncle?”

She nodded. “And his son, the Earl of Fairhaven, is our cousin. It was he who sent the letter which Lady Catherine was so determined to read, insisting that Jane and I should spend the season with his family.”

For a few moments, no one spoke. Somewhere nearby, a cart clattered past. Will for once, was entirely unable to speak. He blinked. It was as though he were addressed in an unknown tongue. The individual words were familiar enough, yet the sense they conveyed was utterly beyond his comprehension.

“Castor Sinclair? You are cousins of Fairhaven?” he asked, in astonishment. “I have known him these fifteen years. I spent a summer at Claremont. I dined with the marquess not three months past. And yet, I had no notion.”

Elizabeth looked at him with an expression of mischief. “You know my cousin and uncle?”

“I have fenced with them. Gambled with them. Lost to them both, frequently, and won. I visited Claremont twice in the past five years. And yet, I never once heard your names.”

Elizabeth’s voice was level. “No, you would not. It is not generally spoken of in Hertfordshire. My stepmother prefers it so. She is of a different persuasion.”

Will looked from one sister to the other, scarcely able to reconcile this intelligence with all he had supposed of Longbourn. “Then your mother...” he stopped.

“Was Mr. Bennet’s first wife, Lady Augusta Bennet, née Sinclair,” Miss Bennet said softly. “She died shortly after Lizzy was born.”

Elizabeth continued, “And left us both rather well dowered. Our father remarried rather quickly. He was distraught and hoped for a son to inherit his entailed estate. Our stepmother thought it best not to remind anyone of our family connections, especially as her own daughters would eventually come of age.”

“I see,” Will said quietly, though he hardly did. He thought of how he had once spoken of their connections at the Meryton assembly, how carelessly he had dismissed their circle. The recollection now mortified him.

“Claremont,” he murmured again, still in astonishment. “He is your uncle.” He turned to Elizabeth. “And you never thought to say?”

Elizabeth looked at him with calm amusement. “And when, Mr. Darcy, would you have listened? At the Meryton assembly? At Rosings?” Her manner remained perfectly composed, though the reproach was unmistakable.

He flushed. “No. I suppose I would not have.”

Richard approached, adjusting his gloves, and caught the last of the exchange. “Will,” he said, observing his cousin’s altered countenance, “you look as though you have just inherited a dukedom.”

“It is nearly that,” Will replied. He spoke with outward composure, though the intelligence still visibly astonished him. “Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet are the nieces of the Marquess of Claremont.”

Richard stared at him in astonishment. “What? Your Lord Claremont? The gentleman with whom you fence and study astronomy?”

“The same.”

“Well, that is a remarkable turn,” Richard said, recovering from his astonishment. “So, our formidable aunt has been accusing the niece of a marquess, and the granddaughter of a duke, of being a nobleman’s mistress and a ‘common girl.’”

Will could only agree. It was absurd. Entirely absurd.

Then he froze.

The consequence of Richard’s words became clear to him at once. The Marquess of Claremont’s sister. The Duke of Westbury’s daughter. Lady Augusta Sinclair.

Granddaughter of a Duke.

He had been so entirely absorbed in the shock of Claremont himself that he had failed to consider the consequence of her mother’s birth. He was overwhelmed by the mortifying extent of his own folly. For months, he had considered her want of consequence an insurmountable objection. He had separated Bingley from Jane for the same reasons. His pride had governed his conduct at Meryton. He had despised her relations and considered himself infinitely their superior, when, in truth, her mother’s family ranked among the first in the kingdom.

Will gave an involuntary exclamation, so unlike his usual manner that Elizabeth regarded him with surprise. He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, unable to endure the recollection of his own presumption.

Richard could no longer restrain a burst of laughter. “Good Lord, Will,” he said, with unconcealed amusement. “You look as though you have just discovered you have spent these six months past condescending to your social superior.”

“I came very near,” Will muttered through his fingers, his voice thick with mortification. At length, he lowered his hand and endeavoured to recover his customary composure, though he coloured deeply.

“I would give a year’s commission to hear how she attempts to defend herself,” Richard continued. “To think, she, the daughter of a mere Earl, spent the better part of dinner reproaching the granddaughter of a Duke for a want of consequence. She will be forced to reconstruct the entire British Peerage, I suppose, simply to preserve her own opinion of her consequence.”

Elizabeth laughed, and the gravity of the moment was immediately relieved. Even Will felt the corner of his mouth twitch in spite of himself. For a disorienting moment, he saw the entire Meryton Assembly anew. His own careless words about her connections, his refusal to dance, the quiet scorn he had thought so justified. All of it, he realized, had rested on assumptions that were not merely unkind, but entirely mistaken.

“He was never insensible to merit,” Miss Bennet gently interposed, looking at Will with composure. “I always thought, Mr. Darcy, that you possessed a far higher opinion of my sister than your manners at first suggested. Though perhaps you took some pains to conceal it.”

Will coloured at the reminder, but looked at Miss Bennet with gratitude. “I took very great pains, Miss Bennet, and I have paid dearly for the folly of them.”

“I suspect my aunt shall find some manner of explaining it. She always does. I imagine by dinner she will have convinced herself that being a duke’s granddaughter somehow makes Miss Elizabeth less suitable, rather than more,” Richard mused, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I shall keep a prudent distance when the news reaches her. I have no wish to witness the ingenuity with which she will contrive to preserve her former opinion.”

“She will not attempt to reconcile them at all,” Anne interposed softly, with an irony unusual in her manner. “She will simply declare that the peerage has taken leave of its senses, and that her own discernment remains entirely unassailed.”

Richard laughed outright, a broad grin crossing his face. “Well spoken, cousin. The student surpasses the master.”

Elizabeth turned more directly towards Will, her expression still touched by amusement. “To think, Mr. Darcy, that you spent the greater part of the autumn persuaded that my family was beneath your notice, while my mother’s relations were of such consequence.”

Darcy looked at her with the deepest mortification. “I was a fool, Miss Elizabeth. My pride and my regard for worldly consequence blinded me to every thing which ought to have guided me.”

Elizabeth smiled a little, though her reproach was not entirely withdrawn. “You were indeed excessively disagreeable, sir. Yet, I am bound to confess that you grow better upon acquaintance. Though I should be ruined in your opinion if I admitted it too loudly.”

Miss Bennet covered her smile with her glove, though a quiet laugh escaped despite her best efforts. “Forgive me. I cannot but think it rather amusing.”

Elizabeth shook her head, still smiling.

Will looked at her, his own amusement fading into something quieter. The laughter over, he was left to consider the full consequence of what he had learned. She had never hidden who she was. He had never thought to inquire, having too readily supposed that he understood her circumstances.

Their eyes held for a long moment. Her expression conveyed neither triumph nor resentment, only honesty.

“I confess,” he said at last, meeting her eyes, “you have astonished me, Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth smiled, though with some irony. “It is a habit I am often accused of, Mr. Darcy.”

He said nothing more as he assisted her into the carriage and took his seat opposite the sisters. As the door was shut fast and the horses moved off, Will remained in silence, unable to dismiss the unexpected turn of events from his mind. The irony of the situation could not escape him. He had once regarded her as a young woman whose connections could not recommend her, when in truth she had possessed rank and consequence from birth and chosen, with quiet stubbornness, to live as though it meant nothing. It was his own pride, and his own prejudice, that had been chiefly to blame.]]> LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 04 Sep 2026 02:05:48 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131865,131867#msg-131867 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131865,131867#msg-131867But what about the strange letter?? Who was it from?]]> Micha Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 03 Sep 2026 09:54:24 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131864,131866#msg-131866 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131864,131866#msg-131866 Micha Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 03 Sep 2026 09:34:57 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131865,131865#msg-131865 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131865,131865#msg-131865I plan to post the next chapter this weekend.



Chapter 1

Fitzwilliam Darcy, known as Will to his family, perceived his cousin strolling through the park with Miss Elizabeth Bennet and hastened his pace to join them. “May I intrude, or is this a private discussion?” he asked, unable to repress a sudden curiosity.

“Not in the least,” returned his cousin, smiling. “Miss Bennet and I were simply discussing the particular hardships of the younger son of an earl.”

“Ah, yes,” Will said dryly. “The troubles of the penniless second son. Let me guess, you must make your way as a soldier and require a large dowry. If you would accept one of the situations I have endeavoured to procure for you, you need not remain in the army. And do not imagine I am unaware of the allowance you receive from your father.” Hearing a gasp, he turned and asked, “Are you well, Miss Bennet? You appear disturbed?”

“No, sir,” Miss Bennet replied, still looking at him with evident astonishment.

“Are you still exceedingly puzzled by my character?” Will asked, a slight smile on his lips. The remembrance of his conduct at Meryton now struck him with renewed shame. He found himself no longer thinking of her as ‘Miss Bennet’ but simply, instinctively, as Elizabeth.

Before she could respond, Richard broke in, smiling. “Puzzled? Nonsense. You are one of the most honest men I know, not one to mislead or deceive. Though I cannot say as much for every gentleman of our acquaintance.”

Elizabeth stopped short, and looked from one gentleman to the other in silent astonishment.

Will, instantly alert, fixed his attention immediately upon her. “Richard, I think it is time we spoke plainly with Miss Bennet regarding the history of Mr. Wickham. He joined the militia in Hertfordshire, did he not, Miss Bennet?”

“Cousin...” Richard began, but fell silent beneath a pointed glance.

“No Richard, Miss Bennet must know the whole,” Will said grimly. “Last night I had a dream of so disagreeable a nature that I can scarcely think of it without shuddering. It seemed to contain every species of humiliation.”

“So grievous as that? Pray enlighten us,” said Richard, with an assumption of solemnity.

Will hesitated only a moment before relating his dream. “I was, quite innocently, perusing a volume in the Pemberley library, when suddenly, Miss Bingley contrived to throw herself into my lap, her toilette in shocking disarray, whispering terms of endearment which made me recoil. I sprang to my feet with such haste that she was deposited upon the floor. My own esteemed uncle and aunt, with looks of utter disgust, declared that they should know me no more. And you, my dear cousin, bore Georgiana away as though I were no longer fit to be in her presence. Even Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Jones, those paragons of discretion, declared they could no longer remain in my service in protest! And Bingley, poor confounded Bingley, was so distressed by the affair that he insisted, with the greatest seriousness, that I must marry the woman! The affair grew, I assure you, into such a scene of domestic misery and public disgrace, until I awoke in such alarm as to disturb myself with a cry.”

Richard, who had at first listened with becoming gravity, could no longer command his countenance. A chuckle escaped him, then another, which he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to suppress. Tears streamed down his face as he struggled to regain composure.

Though she strove for sympathy, the smile she struggled to repress betrayed Elizabeth’s struggle against laughter.

“Miss Bennet,” said Will, “are you laughing at me?”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” she managed, struggling for composure. “I do beg your pardon. I would not, for the world, treat your dream with levity. But I cannot help imagining your countenance when Miss Bingley found herself in your lap, and still more, when you so precipitately deposited her upon the floor.” She pressed her hand to her mouth, her shoulders quaking with mirth.

Soon, all three were laughing heartily, the tension of moments before having quite vanished.

“Sir, I do believe that is the first time I have heard you laugh. You ought to do so more often,” Elizabeth said, dabbing at a tear. “Though, if libraries and unexpected ladies are so dangerous to you, I must warn you to avoid the book-room at Rosings entirely. Lady Catherine’s choice of upholstery is formidable, but I assure you, none of the cushions bite.” The twinkle in her eye was unmistakable.

Will looked at her with an expression in which amusement was not wholly concealed. “Miss Bennet, your wit is as keen as ever. Nevertheless, I shall avoid libraries, be upon my guard against unexpected ladies, and, indeed, renounce every design upon your younger sister.”

Richard’s laughter subsided, and he looked at Will with greater seriousness. “Will,” he began, his voice losing its earlier lightness, “I know that dream was absurd, truly, a masterpiece of the ridiculous. Yet it appears to have awakened reflections which you do not willingly indulge regarding your father, Pemberley, character, and dealings with women.”

After a pause, he continued. “Let me assure you, cousin. You are George Darcy’s son, through and through. There is no question of your legitimacy, and the idea of some secret Scottish marriage to Wickham’s mother is utter madness. Good heavens, Will, my mother loves to tell the story of how your father pursued Aunt Anne for two full years! He was at Matlock so constantly that Grandfather threatened to set the hounds on him if he turned up at the gates unannounced again.”

Richard gave a quiet, fond laugh before continuing. “From every story our family tells of those two years, there was not a single fortnight, even in the dead of winter, where your father was unaccounted for, let alone long enough to travel all the way to Scotland, marry a steward’s daughter, and return. Pemberley is yours by right, by blood, and by the declared wishes of your late father.”

Richard continued with a rakish grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “As to any supposed impropriety towards women, those who know you best could never believe such a slanderous lie. Your honor, unlike some, is unblemished. It was no more than the wild invention of a disordered night. You are not the man Wickham is, and you never will be.”

Will looked at his cousin for a moment, before recovering his customary composure.

“Miss Bennet,” Richard continued, his tone now returning to its usual amiable warmth, “my cousin has been entrusted with serious duties at a very early age. At three-and-twenty, most first-born sons of our rank are still leading a carefree existence. But he was already guardian to his eleven-year-old sister, managing at least four estates, and two townhouses in London. Yet even these concerns are scarcely equal to the persecution he endures from every ambitious mother whenever he appears in society during the season.”

“I saw a little of that in Hertfordshire, before he spoke, that is,” Elizabeth said with a twinkle in her eye. “I never considered the matter from a gentleman’s point of view before. I can understand why one with ten thousand a year might be reserved in company.”

“Ten thousand a year?” Richard laughed heartily. “My dear Miss Bennet, that may be what the estate was worth in his grandfather’s day! It is a figure so far beneath the truth that Darcy has never thought it worth while to correct.”

Will gave his cousin a wry smile and then looked at Elizabeth. “My grandfather’s friends are notoriously fond of gossip, and the figure proved useful. It discourages fortune hunters while avoiding any hint of vulgarity. Miss Bingley, as you might imagine, found the challenge of its circulation most agreeable.”

Elizabeth gave him a long look, her earlier amusement giving way to something softer, more thoughtful. “You are not at all what I believed you to be.”

He met her gaze. “Nor am I proud of what I was in Meryton. I was rude, dismissive. I thought myself superior to the company, and now believe I never knew myself at all.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I am obliged to you for your honesty,” she said.

“Why then, Colonel, did you speak of misleading? Has someone been deceptive?” Elizabeth’s gaze sharpened as it turned to Richard. “For I was led to believe by Mr. Wickham that Mr. Darcy’s character was of a much harsher, more vengeful nature.”

Richard’s smile vanished instantly. He exchanged a sharp, dark look with his cousin. “What has Wickham told you?”

“Please tell Miss Bennet what you believe he did,” Will countered.

“I imagine he was charming and engaging, and soon made himself agreeable throughout the neighbourhood, particularly among the young ladies,” Richard said, pausing to give Elizabeth a speculative look. “Once he learned you were in Meryton, he would have seized every opportunity to blacken your name, spreading his tale of misfortune while attaching himself to the wealthiest young woman he could find.”

Elizabeth’s smile faltered.

“I confess that is a most pointed assessment, Colonel,” she said slowly, her gaze flicking from his face to Will’s. “And remarkably particular. You speak as though you knew it to be true.”

She folded her arms and was silent for a moment. “Mr. Wickham has ever appeared a gentleman of pleasing manners and genteel bearing. I should be most sorry to think myself so deceived.”

Though her tone was light, her expression had grown pensive. Will stepped forward slightly, but Elizabeth raised a hand to stay him.

“No, sir, do not trouble yourself. You have already said you mean to tell me all. And though I cannot promise to receive it well, I do promise to listen.”

Will watched as Elizabeth folded her hands, apparently preparing herself to hear what he had to say. He exchanged a glance with Richard, who gave a slight nod, and led her a few paces from the gravel path to a sheltered stone bench beneath a spreading oak.

Settling himself beside her, Will said, “Miss Bennet, you offered to listen.” He cleared his throat and, in measured tones, outlined the history of Mr. Wickham.

“Wickham was the son of my father’s steward, a boy of sprightly manners, whom my late father befriended and desired to be educated for the Church. Upon my father’s death, Wickham was given one thousand pounds. He then approached me, claiming a right to a living in my father’s gift, an expectation founded on informal discourse, but one for which no legal promise existed.” Will sighed.

“Some months after I inherited, a letter arrived from Wickham. He had resolved against taking orders and wished to study the law. I gave him three thousand pounds for the living, and he signed away all claims. All connection between us appeared, at that time, to be dissolved.” Will paused, then continued, “He then sought advantage through falsehood. He spread tales of injury and injustice, portraying me as the villain of the piece through Lambton, all while incurring debts he never intended to pay.”

“Will, allow me to finish,” Richard said gently. “Miss Bennet, I must now speak of a circumstance we would rather forget. I must ask for your confidence.”

Elizabeth looked between them before nodding. “You have it, Colonel.”

Richard closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “My own cousin, Miss Georgiana Darcy, who is more than ten years our junior, was left to the guardianship of her brother and myself. Last summer, she travelled to Ramsgate with Mrs. Young, who presided over her school. Mr. Wickham also went, by design, for there was a prior acquaintance between them.”

Will watched as Elizabeth put her hand over her mouth and said, “Oh dear.”

“Yes, Miss Bennet,” Richard said gently. “His object was simple. To persuade her to elope with him, obtain her fortune, and leave her in such disgrace as might have ruined her for ever. You may imagine what we felt and how we acted.”

“I believe I have some notion.”

Richard sobered. “That man’s charm is skin-deep, Miss Bennet. I can only hope he has not wrought any lasting harm.”

Elizabeth was silent, her countenance expressing the deepest astonishment and distress. She looked down at her folded hands, unable for some moments to speak. “He deceived many,” she whispered, her voice thick with mortification. “Myself chief among them. I praised him. I defended him to my family. I believed him implicitly, while all the while...”

She closed her eyes, utterly astonished by the depth of her own blindness.

Will watched her with a concern he could not entirely conceal. The animation which had so lately distinguished her was wholly gone. She appeared deeply distressed, and he could not see her suffer without pain.

Gently, Will leaned forward, drawing her attention away from her lap. “Miss Bennet, please do not reproach yourself. He was raised under my father’s roof. He has spent a lifetime perfecting the art of appearing a gentleman. If I, who know his true nature, could not prevent him from deceiving my own sister, how could you possibly have guessed his character?”

Elizabeth looked up at him with an expression of grateful surprise.

Will paused a moment before speaking again, with a seriousness which left no room for doubt. My behavior in Meryton, my pride and arrogance, was inexcusable. I gave you every reason to believe the worst of me. I spoke and acted with a presumption that was wholly unwarranted, and I am deeply sorry.”

For a few moments, neither spoke. Elizabeth looked at him with increasing astonishment. The opinion she had so long entertained of him could no longer remain unchanged.

Will met her look, and a slight smile appeared. He turned slightly toward his cousin. “Richard, perhaps you would do us the honor of introducing us? Properly, this time.”

Richard, who appeared immediately to comprehend Will’s meaning, stepped forward with a smile. “It would be my distinct pleasure, Will. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, may I present my cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”

Elizabeth rose and curtsied, smiling with unaffected pleasure. “Mr. Darcy,” she said softly.

The ceremony, slight as it was, pleased Darcy more than he could have expected. To Will, it seemed to mark a change in their acquaintance, one which he could only hope might prove favourable.

“I am beginning to think my first impressions of you were entirely mistaken,” Elizabeth said, her beloved eyes bright with amusement.

“Then perhaps we might begin to improve our second impressions?” Will asked.

“I believe I should like that,” Elizabeth said softly. “Very much indeed.”

~*~

The Rosings dining room, usually governed by the strictest propriety, was this evening in a state of unusual agitation. Will, seated beside Richard, soon perceived that some extraordinary disturbance had occurred. His gaze, habitually discerning, looked about the room, settling on the source of the disquiet.

A letter was clutched in Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s hand. The letter, bearing a conspicuous seal, was the occasion of Lady Catherine’s indignation and Mr. Collins’s most obsequious remarks. Servants whispered in corners, and even the footmen at the doors exchanged uneasy glances.

“The housekeeper brought it straight to me, Lady Catherine, the moment it arrived at the Parsonage and I knew you must have it as soon as possible! A most unusual occurrence, a letter of such consequence for a mere guest, and bearing such an impressive crest!” Mr. Collins appeared highly gratified by the importance of the occasion, and wholly unconscious of the displeasure it had excited.

Lady Catherine held up the letter as though its very existence were an affront. Her outrage grew with every word, her voice echoing. “Sealed! Addressed to a guest! And with a noble crest! I am the mistress here, how dare anyone presume to send such a letter without my knowledge? Why, the very notion that one would presume to send correspondence of this nature, marked with arms of consequence, without so much as a thought for my position!”

Will felt himself uneasy. He began to apprehend the direction which Lady Catherine’s suspicions might take. Elizabeth’s countenance betrayed both mortification and resolution. Miss Lucas, beside her, looked utterly bewildered. Mrs. Collins retained her usual composure, though she looked briefly at Elizabeth with evident concern.

“It is clearly a matter of utmost gravity, Lady Catherine,” Mr. Collins continued, with all the eager officiousness natural to him. “The servants, you see, are already whispering! Such a commotion over a letter!”

“And rightly so!” cried Lady Catherine. “Such a seal! Such an air of importance! I am the mistress of this house! I have every right to know what arrives under my roof, addressed to anyone residing within its walls! Indeed, it is my duty to ascertain its contents!” She made to break the seal, her long, bony fingers hovering over the wax.

As Lady Catherine moved to break the seal, Will spoke at once, with a firmness which commanded attention. “Lady Catherine, you cannot. It is not yours to open.”

Richard, with his usual composure, added, “Indeed, madam, it would be a grave breach of propriety. A letter addressed to another person, madam, is not to be opened without that person’s consent. Such a liberty would be wholly improper.”

Lady Catherine rounded on them, her look sufficiently severe to have discomposed a less determined party. “Liberty? Improper? I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh! In this house, I alone must judge what is proper! And as for its contents, I have my suspicions! I have seen the way Darcy looks at Miss Bennet,” she declared before she turned her fury on Elizabeth. “You, Miss Bennet, have invited this scandal. I have seen my nephew’s attentions. You would cast aside every former attachment in pursuit of a more advantageous connection!”

A general exclamation of astonishment arose. Elizabeth coloured deeply, and looked at Lady Catherine with rising indignation. Will’s hands closed involuntarily beneath the table.

Elizabeth rose, trembling but proud. “Lady Catherine!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with outrage. “I assure you, you are entirely mistaken! Your accusations are wholly without foundation and deeply insulting!”

“Without foundation? Insulting?” cried Mr. Collins, in a tone of offended surprise. “Miss Bennet, such impertinence. How dare you contradict her ladyship! Your impertinence exceeds every expectation! To presume to attract the notice of gentlemen of superior rank, and then to receive clandestine correspondence, it is an affront to all decency! What further proof of improper conduct could be required? Lady Catherine is merely stating what is obvious to any discerning eye!”

“Indeed!” Lady Catherine sniffed, straightening her already rigid posture. “This letter, with its noble seal, and your obvious distress, leave little room for doubt! It confirms my worst fears! You are engaged, I see, in some disgraceful scheme to raise yourself by means which no woman of principle could employ! I will not have such deceit under my roof! This instant, Miss Bennet, you will leave Rosings Park! And from Hunsford Parsonage! You are no longer welcome!”

For a moment, the room was silent beneath the weight of Lady Catherine’s accusation. Elizabeth stood, struggling to preserve her composure. Miss Maria Lucas looked on, aghast. Mrs. Collins, though outwardly calm, was clearly distressed.

At that moment, a quiet voice was heard above the general agitation. “Mother, that is enough.”

A hush fell. All eyes turned to Anne de Bourgh.

She had risen from her seat, and there was an unwonted firmness in her manner. Will exchanged a surprised glance with Richard. They had lately observed a change in Anne’s manner; but neither had expected her to oppose her mother so openly.

“You will stop this at once, Mother,” Anne continued, her voice gaining strength. “Miss Bennet is my guest, and she will remain as such.”

Lady Catherine stared at her daughter in astonishment. “Anne! What are you saying? Have you lost your senses? This common girl is a nobleman’s mistress!”

“She is nothing of the sort,” Anne said, with unexpected firmness. “And you, Mother, are no longer the mistress of Rosings Park. I have read my father’s will many times, Mother. I ought perhaps to have acted sooner.”

The room was silent. Only Mr. Collins gave a faint and inarticulate exclamation. Lady Catherine stared at her daughter, utterly speechless.

“My father’s will,” Anne explained, her voice steady, “left Rosings, with the income and property belonging to it, in my possession when I turned five and twenty. I have hitherto allowed you to direct the household, because I had neither the inclination nor the confidence to oppose you. And because I could not be certain that my family would support me, should I presume to act for myself. And as Will had shown no inclination to marry elsewhere, I saw no immediate necessity for acting sooner.” She glanced towards him with an expression of particular kindness. “But now,” she continued, turning back to her mother, “when my cousin’s happiness may be at stake, and Miss Bennet has been so unjustly accused, I can endure such behaviour no longer.”

She stepped forward with an authority which surprised them all. “Miss Bennet,” Anne said, her gaze softening, “I should be very happy if you would remain at Rosings as my guest. A room near my own shall be prepared for you immediately, and every attention shall be paid to your comfort by the footman stationed in the hallway.”

Will regarded his cousin with surprise and growing respect. Richard, too, looked immensely proud.

She turned to the nearest maid. “Go to the parsonage and pack Miss Bennet’s belongings. Bring them here at once.”

Lady Catherine turned pale. “Anne! You cannot...”

“I can, Mother, and I shall,” Anne replied, with unexpected firmness. “This evening I shall give the household such directions as are necessary. Tomorrow I shall consult my solicitor respecting the disposition of my affairs. Your marriage settlement secures to you a residence at Rosings. It secures no greater authority. My father’s will contains no provision that you must remain in this part of the estate. You will respect my authority in this house, and govern yourself accordingly. After this meal, you will retire to your rooms. You are a guest here now.”

“And Mr. Collins,” she turned to him with perfect composure, “you would do well to remember that the living you hold was presented by my mother, a woman who possessed no legal title to Rosings or its advowson. She acted entirely without authority after I had attained my majority, usurping a right that belonged solely to me under my father’s will. In the eyes of the law, your presentation is questionable. Should I direct my solicitor to question your right to the living, you may find the security of your situation far less certain than you suppose. I find a man who so eagerly debases himself for favor to be of little use to anyone, least of all the Church. I shall consider whether your conduct merits my support, or whether I ought to seek another disposition of the living. You would do well to return to your parsonage at once, and consult your wife on the proper conduct of a clergyman. Unlike yourself, she possesses good sense, and has never forgotten her place.”

Lady Catherine, her face mottled with rage, turned sharply toward her nephews. “Fitzwilliam! Richard! Are you to stand by and permit this madness? You are trustees of Sir Lewis’s estate! Tell this ungrateful girl that she cannot overturn her mother’s authority!”

Will stepped forward, his voice calm, measured, and entirely unyielding. “I am indeed a trustee, Lady Catherine, since my father passed away. And as such, I am bound by honor and the law to enforce my uncle’s explicit terms. Mr. Collins only holds his living because you hurried his presentation behind our backs the moment the old rector died, taking advantage of a vacancy before the trustees could intervene. But that administrative overstep ends today. Anne speaks the truth. The estate, the property, and the patronage of Hunsford Parsonage became entirely hers upon reaching her majority. Richard and I are here to see her rights upheld, not suppressed.”

“Every word of it is law, Aunt,” Richard added smoothly, his arms crossed, a small, grim smile touching his lips. “Sir Lewis knew his business well when he drafted this trust, having the foresight to name Lord Matlock as trustee until I came of age. He knew precisely who would stand against your tyranny. Anne is the sole mistress of Rosings Park, and we shall support her in every measure she chooses to take.”

“And if you wonder why my cousins did not contest your overreach sooner,” Anne added quietly, meeting her mother’s furious gaze, “they stayed their hand solely at my request. I chose to bear your dominion in silence until the time was of my own choosing.”

At these words, the remaining doubt in the room evaporated.

Mr. Collins turned a ghastly shade of grey. His knees visibly trembled beneath the table, and he gripped the back of his chair as though it were the only object keeping him upright. The realization that he had not only alienated his true patroness, but that his very bread and shelter rested upon an improper appointment, reduced him to absolute, terrified speechlessness. His mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded fish, no sound issuing forth save a series of faint, pathetic squeaks.

Beside him, Mrs. Collins remained remarkably still. Though a faint flush rose to her cheeks, her dark eyes flickered from Anne to her husband with sharp, calculating intelligence. Will noted with quiet admiration that Mrs. Collins displayed neither panic nor hysteria, rather, her countenance betrayed a swift, pragmatic assessment of their new reality. She offered Anne a low, deeply respectful curtsy, a gesture that quietly signaled her transfer of allegiance, before placing a firm, steadying hand on her husband’s trembling arm to keep him from collapsing entirely.

Poor Maria Lucas, on the other hand, looked as though she wished the floor might open and swallow her whole. Clinging to her sister’s sleeve, her eyes wide with terror, she stared at Lady Catherine as if expecting a thunderbolt to strike the room at any second.

The servants, perceiving that Anne’s authority was no longer to be questioned, became still more attentive. Will and Richard exchanged looks of astonishment and approval.

Anne’s gaze softened as she addressed Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, your room shall be ready presently. While you remain at Rosings, no one shall treat you with disrespect.”

Will watched Elizabeth as she struggled to maintain her composure. Gratitude and astonishment were evident in her countenance. For the first time that evening, Will allowed himself to hope.

“Miss Bennet,” said Anne, after a moment, “we have now passed through circumstances which make ceremony seem almost unnecessary, and the friendship which I hope may now exist between us, I think we may now dispense with a little of our former ceremony. Would you permit me the liberty of addressing you by your Christian name? And you, mine?”

Anne’s directness, once a source of gentle amusement, was shocking to Will.

“With pleasure, Anne,” replied Elizabeth, smiling. “I should be very happy.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Anne said with a smile. “It is a small thing, perhaps, yet it feels important.”

She then turned to Will and Richard. “We shall leave for London early tomorrow morning,” she announced with decision. “Mrs. Jenkinson will accompany us. Miss Lucas, you will remain with your sister until we can make arrangements for your return to Lucas Lodge.”

Richard, recovering from his shock, was the first to speak. “Anne, are you certain? London? The journey alone would be taxing, and the rigors of the season...” He stopped, seeming unwilling to express the whole of his concern.

Will, his own shock giving way to worry, stepped forward. “Richard is right, Anne. Your health has always been a concern. Are you sure you are well enough for this? Is this wise?”

Anne offered them a small, reassuring smile. “I am perfectly well, cousins. My ‘delicate constitution,’ as Mother always called it, was less a malady of the body than of the spirit.” She took a breath before continuing, “For years, she was persuaded that I suffered from a nervous disorder, and I was too accustomed to yield to her opinion to dispute it. But with Mrs. Jenkinson’s help and the connivance of our cook, I have been taking daily walks in the gardens and fields for some time. Mrs. Jenkinson has taken care that I am more regularly and sensibly nourished than formerly. I have been too much confined to the house. I am persuaded that a change of scene will be of service to me.”

Mrs. Jenkinson stepped forward, her hands clasped. “Indeed, sirs. Miss Anne is stronger than she has ever been. Her constitution is sound; and, as you have seen this evening, she possesses more resolution than has generally been supposed.”

Will and Richard exchanged a look, each now better understanding the other’s concern. They began to perceive how completely Lady Catherine’s opinions had governed Anne’s life. The Anne they had long considered delicate and retiring now appeared before them in a very different light.

The dining room, so lately the scene of accusation and disorder, was now silent. For the first time in her life, Anne de Bourgh exercised the authority which Rosings had placed in her hands.

~*~

Elizabeth followed Anne through the quiet corridors of Rosings, still scarcely able to comprehend the events of the evening. The great house, so lately the scene of humiliation and distress, now seemed to offer her an unexpected refuge.

Anne paused outside a door. “Elizabeth, this room is yours for the night. I am right next door. I have instructed the maid to unpack your things and ensure your comfort. You have had a most trying day. I hope you will rest well tonight.”

Elizabeth managed a curtsy, her voice soft. “Thank you, Anne. I scarcely know how to thank you for such kindness.”

Anne offered a rare, gentle smile. “You have friends at Rosings, Elizabeth. Good night.”

Left alone, Elizabeth entered the room. It was spacious, elegantly appointed, and already warmed by a cheerful fire. She seated herself upon the bed, and for some minutes could only reflect on all that had passed.

She could scarcely reconcile the Anne she had known with the firmness Anne had displayed that evening. And Mr. Darcy, Will, as his cousins called him, how different he now appeared from the proud, silent man she had once despised. His defence of her, his candour, and the kindness she had perceived in him forced her to reconsider every former opinion.

The truth concerning Mr. Wickham still mortified her, yet it had freed her from a most serious error. She saw now how easily she had been deceived, and how much she had misjudged Mr. Darcy.

Lady Catherine’s accusations still recurred to her mind, but she no longer attached consequence to them. Elizabeth perceived, with some relief, that Lady Catherine’s denunciation need not determine her future. She had found, where she had least expected them, friends disposed to protect and support her.

As the firelight flickered upon the walls, Elizabeth began to hope that the morrow might bring a happier prospect than she had once thought possible.]]> LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 02 Sep 2026 22:29:26 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131864,131864#msg-131864 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131864,131864#msg-131864This book is completely written, currently at 16 chapters, but as I review before I post, I have been adding stuff so it might end up being more.



Prologue

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not easily astonished. Yet, on finding Miss Caroline Bingley seated upon his knee, with her hair disordered and her gown in studied confusion, he could only stare. He felt a clammy hand snake up his neck, pulling him closer. He could smell her cloying perfume, a scent he now associated with impending doom.

“Fitzwilliam, my dear,” she murmured, drawing nearer, “you need not be ashamed. Our friends will soon know all.”

At that instant, the doors opened. Lord and Lady Matlock entered the library at Pemberley with the rest of the company.

Miss Bingley immediately pressed a kiss to Will’s cheek.

Will sprang to his feet, and she descended to the carpet with far less elegance than she had intended. He scrambled away from her as if she were a snake, turning to the horrified audience. A silence followed, deep, dreadful, and perfectly suited to the occasion.

“This is not what it appears,” said Will, colouring violently. “I came here to read my letters. Miss Bingley was already, she had somehow...”

“Do not distress yourself, lover,” cried Miss Bingley, raising a trembling hand. “My dearest Fitzwilliam I shall not reproach you for wishing to conceal our attachment.” She looked at the onlookers with wide, innocent eyes, as if he were the villain.

Charles Bingley looked from his disheveled sister to Will in speechless alarm.

Will backed away further, bumping into a large globe, which wobbled precariously. He turned to his good friend whose face was a mask of utter bewilderment. “Charles, I assure you, this was entirely Miss Bingley’s contrivance. I have told you often enough that I could never marry her. I should have read in my study with the door securely locked, bolted, and perhaps bricked up.”

Lord Matlock, Will’s esteemed uncle, a man whose very presence commanded respect, stepped forward. He regarded them both with grave displeasure. “Whatever the origin of this scene, Will, it has been witnessed. Miss Bingley’s reputation is now in your hands.”

“Uncle,” Will began desperately.

“There can be but one conclusion,” said Uncle Matlock. “You are both completely and totally compromised and must marry. There is no other recourse. The scandal... the whispers will be deafening.”

Aunt Matlock, observing Mrs. Haselhurst and Lady Rochford already in earnest whisper, turned coldly to her husband. “I think, my dear, that we have remained long enough.”

Uncle Matlock’s expression hardened. “A Darcy allied with the daughter of a tradesman, and one whose conduct has invited such a spectacle! You must not expect to be received by us in town. You have done the family a serious injury.”

“It was not my doing!” Will protested. “Miss Bingley arranged it all.”

“It is of no consequence now,” returned his uncle. “Half the county will have the tale before dinner,” Lord Matlock thundered. “Good lord, Fitzwilliam, even a maid would be better than her! Everyone in town hates her! She has the manners of a fishwife and the ambition of a snake! To think, a Darcy, tied to that!”

“How dare you!” Miss Bingley shrieked, scrambling to her feet, her face contorted with fury. “I have been educated in every accomplishment proper to a lady. I sing, draw, dance, speak the modern languages, and possess a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. My brother is Mr. Darcy’s dearest friend. What possible objection can there be to my becoming mistress of Pemberley?”

“Miss Bingley,” said Aunt Matlock, “you mistake accomplishments for consequence. What do you think ladies?” she asked turning to Mrs. Haselhurst and Lady Rochford. “Do you think the daughter of a tradesman is more worthy to be Fitzwilliam’s wife than your daughters?”

“Absolutely not!” exclaimed Mrs. Haselhurst, fanning herself vigorously. “My Penelope has been presented at court!”

“A Darcy tied to a tradesman’s daughter?” Lady Rochford said coldly. “Come, Laura. We have spent enough time in this house. Let us take the long way and make a few stops before dropping you home,” with a last hard look at the new, disgraced couple, they swept out, their departure a chilling pronouncement of social death.

Georgiana looked from her uncle and aunt to her brother and cousin, her countenance white with terror. Her voice, usually so soft, was now a desperate plea. “Fitzwilliam, I never loved you, I always thought of George Wickham as my brother. I refuse to live with you and your betrothed. I cannot! The shame. The sheer vulgarity of it all!”

She crossed to her cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and caught his hand. “Richard, you are my other guardian. Please take me with you, I cannot live with her! Not now!”

She stopped. Her cheeks burned, her eyes filled with tears. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that, in the dreadful stillness of the room, every word was heard.

“I am with child. He is not a gentleman. He is the blacksmith’s apprentice from Lambton. I am ruined. Entirely ruined. I must leave Pemberley forever, before the scandal destroys us all!”

A horrified, suffocating silence fell. Will could neither speak nor move. His own disgrace, so overwhelming a moment before, seemed insignificant beside this fresh calamity.

Colonel Fitzwilliam grew pale. “Georgiana, no.” Then, turning upon Will, he said, “How can she remain here? Before this evening is over, Lady Rochford and Mrs. Haselhurst will have carried the story through every drawing-room in the county, and improved it at every retelling.”

“Richard...”

“I shall take her with me,” Richard continued, with a look of bitter reproach. “I am also her guardian, and I will not leave her here to endure the consequences of this day. My father will support me in removing her from your care. She shall go abroad, if necessary, to France, to a convent, to any place where she may be spared the cruelty of public notice. Anywhere but here.”

Georgiana wept silently. “I cannot remain after this.”

Miss Bingley, whose indignation had at last overcome her astonishment, rose in a fury. “Then you may all leave my house immediately!” she cried. “You are not welcome here if you cannot rejoice in our happiness.”

Will stared at her, scarcely able to comprehend that she could speak of happiness while Georgiana stood before him in tears, preparing to abandon Pemberley, and him.

When the family had gone, and their retreating steps had died away in the passage, Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Jones entered the library. Both appeared grave. Both, Will thought with a sudden uneasiness, had the air of persons come to deliver a settled resolution.

Mrs. Reynolds curtsied. “Mr. Darcy, sir, I am sorry to say that I must leave your service. My sister’s health is failing, and she has pressed me to live with her. I can no longer refuse her.”

Her eyes moved, for only an instant, towards Miss Bingley.

Mr. Jones bowed. “I also must give notice, sir. My family have an opportunity to enter my sister’s employment, and we intend to accept it.”

For one dreadful moment, Will could say nothing. Pemberley had always seemed permanent. Its rooms, its people, its order, all secure. Yet within a single afternoon Georgiana had left him, his family had rejected him, and now the oldest servants of his house were preparing to go.

Elizabeth would have understood, he thought. She would have valued Mrs. Reynolds’s loyalty, treated the servants with kindness, and made Pemberley warmer rather than diminished it. The knowledge came too late to be borne.

“You are dismissed without a character!” cried Miss Bingley, her face flushed with rage. “How dare you abandon your master in this manner?”

“Caroline, pray compose yourself,” said Mrs. Hurst. “Their departure may prove fortunate. A new mistress has seldom an opportunity to appoint an entire household according to her own wishes.”

Miss Bingley’s indignation softened at once. “Indeed. Perhaps it is for the best.” She glanced about the room as though Pemberley were already hers to command. “I had hoped Georgiana would remain, so that she might marry Charles, as we intended, when Miss Bennet was removed with Fitzwilliam’s assistance. But since I am to be Mrs. Darcy, we may find Charles a daughter of an earl, or even a duke.”

Will looked at her in stunned disbelief. The servants’ departure, which had seemed a calamity moments before, was eclipsed by the cold horror of what she had just revealed

“What was that?” asked Charles Bingley. His voice was low, but something in it caused the room to fall still.

Miss Bingley looked irritated. “What is it now, Charles?”

“You said that Miss Bennet was removed, with Darcy’s assistance.” His eyes were fixed upon his sister. “What did you mean?”

“Precisely what I said,” returned Caroline. “Surely you did not expect us to rejoice in such a connection? A fortune of scarcely a thousand pounds, relations in trade, and a family without consequence. You might have done infinitely better.”

Will stepped forward, appalled. “No, Miss Bingley. There will be no marriage. This scheme is intolerable.”

Charles turned towards him. His face had altered so completely that Will scarcely knew him.

“Oh, there will be a marriage, Mr. Darcy. Whether you intended an assignation or not, one has taken place before witnesses. Lady Rochford and Mrs. Haselhurst will have the account in every drawing-room between here and London before nightfall.”

“Charles...”

“Mr. Bingley,” he said coldly. “You have no claim to call me Charles.”

Will fell silent.

“You knew what Miss Bennet was to me,” Bingley continued. “You knew I loved her. Yet you joined my sisters in separating us. You permitted me to believe that she did not care for me.” His voice tightened. “I trusted you above every man living.”

“Bingley, I believed...”

“You believed you had the right to direct my happiness.” He turned away for a moment, struggling for command. “I ought to call you out. Instead, I shall ensure that you marry my sister. If the law, the Church, and every paper in England must be employed, I shall employ them.”

Caroline blinked at him. “Charles, what can you mean? You speak as if such a marriage were a punishment.”

“It is one,” he replied. “You know Darcy despises you. You have known it for years. Yet you would willingly destroy his life to secure Pemberley.”

Tears stood in his eyes now, though his voice remained steady. “And Miss Bennet?” Charles asked. “What did you write to her? What lie did you tell her of me?”

Caroline gave a disdainful little laugh. “If you loved her so deeply, you would have returned. You did not struggle very hard to remain in Hertfordshire.”

“Louisa,” said Charles, turning to Mrs. Hurst, “do you think Miss Bennet unworthy of me?”

Mrs. Hurst hesitated only a moment. “She was a pleasing young woman, Charles, but you might certainly have made a more advantageous marriage.”

Charles looked from one sister to the other. “Then I have been mistaken in my family as well as my friend.”

“Mr. Bingley,” said Will, “you are right to condemn us.”

“Do not presume upon my forgiveness,” Bingley replied. “You and my sisters have reminded me that I am the son of a tradesman. I had thought affection and character sufficient grounds for esteem. I see that you do not.”

He faced Will again. “I shall send notice of your engagement. I shall speak to the rector at Kympton regarding the banns. You will marry Caroline.”

“Bingley...”

“You will marry her,” he repeated. “Miss Bennet has suffered enough from the actions of my family and my former friend.”

Then his anger seemed to leave him, and only grief remained. “When this business is concluded, I shall give my fortune to charitable uses and withdraw from society. I have no wish to marry now. I shall go to Kympton. Afterward, I will return to my quarters and consider what is left of my life.”

Without waiting for an answer, Charles Bingley turned away and looked out a window.

“Congratulations on your approaching marriage, sister,” said Mrs. Hurst, with a smile that had little kindness in it. “You see, Caroline, there was never any cause to fear Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her fine eyes. She disliked our future brother from the first assembly.”

Will went pale. “She heard me?”

“Certainly she heard you,” said Mr. Hurst, with a coarse laugh. “You stood beside her and spoke loudly enough for half Meryton to hear. The remark was discussed for days.”

For one sickening instant, Will saw Elizabeth exactly as she must have appeared that evening. Silent, composed, and fully aware of his contempt. No wonder she had despised him. He had given her every reason.

Mr. Hurst continued, oblivious to his distress. “As Charles has chosen to leave, and Mrs. Reynolds means to resign, Louisa and I must remove to Pemberley. Caroline will require assistance in ordering the household.”

“Indeed, you must!” cried Miss Bingley. “Send for everything from your townhouse at once. We shall be such a charming family party, just as in London, only with considerably more room for my gowns.”

Will looked from Miss Bingley to the Hursts. Georgiana was gone, his servants were leaving, and now Pemberley was to be surrendered to people who regarded it as an enlargement of their own drawing-room.

Will had scarcely begun to comprehend the ruin of his day when a violent knocking sounded at the library door.

“Darcy! Open the door!”

The voice was Wickham’s.

Will looked up. The doors were thrown open, and George Wickham entered with the easy confidence of a man who believed himself already master of the house. He was handsomely dressed, perfectly composed, and carried a packet of aged papers beneath his arm.

“Ah, Darcy,” said he. “I had hoped to find you alone, but perhaps an audience is preferable.”

“What do you want?” Will demanded.

Wickham smiled and laid the packet upon a table. “Only to correct a family error. I have spent the morning with a solicitor, and it seems that your father was not always the honourable gentleman you have believed him.”

He unfolded a document bearing an old seal. “This is a certificate of marriage, performed in Scotland. Your father married my mother before he married Lady Anne. She died shortly after my birth, and I was placed with her relations, the Wickhams, while our father concealed the affair.”

Will stared at the paper. “No,” he said at last. “It cannot be.”

“Yet it is.” Wickham produced another sheet. “Here is my baptismal record, and here are letters in our father’s hand. I am George Wickham Darcy, his firstborn and legitimate son.”

The room seemed to recede from Will. His father, his proud, honoured father, had married before. Wickham was not the son of a steward, not merely a favoured dependent, but his brother. His elder brother.

“My solicitor has examined the settlement,” Wickham continued. “If these documents are admitted, as he has no doubt they will be, the estate passes to the eldest legitimate son. Pemberley, its lands, its income, all of it belongs to me.”

“You cannot simply walk in and claim it,” said Will, though the certainty had gone from his voice.

“I need not walk in,” returned Wickham. “The law will do it for me.”

His gaze shifted to Miss Bingley. “And I understand you are soon to marry. A fortunate lady, no doubt, provided her dowry has been properly settled. I should hate for Miss Bingley to discover that Mr. Darcy can no longer offer her Pemberley.”

Miss Bingley’s colour rose. “How dare you!”

Wickham bowed. “Forgive me, madam. I only mean to say that a woman of spirit should choose a husband with a secure establishment.”

Will looked at the yellowed papers, then at Wickham’s satisfied face. Georgiana had abandoned him. Bingley had renounced him. His household was breaking apart. Now even Pemberley, Pemberley, which had seemed as fixed and enduring as the hills around it, might be lost.

And he could not decide which revelation wounded him more. That Wickham might take his home, or that Wickham was his brother and his father kept the truth from them both.

Rather than turn to Wickham, Miss Bingley fell upon her knees before Will and seized his hands.

“Oh, Fitzwilliam! My dearest Fitzwilliam! What do I care for Pemberley, fortune, or the opinion of the world? I love you. I have always loved you, and I shall never abandon you, even if you are penniless and disgraced.”

Will tried to draw back, but she only clung more firmly to him.

“We shall be happy in a cottage,” she continued through tears. “We shall live upon love, fresh air, and the knowledge that I am your wife. Let the world scorn us! I will not leave you, never!”

A murmur, half horror and half suppressed laughter, ran through the company.

“Think of it, Fitzwilliam,” cried Miss Bingley. “You, myself, and our little children. Our dear little Fitzwilliams. We shall have a dozen of them, all with your noble features! Oh, how romantic our poverty will be! We shall live on love and fresh air! We will endure it together.”

Mrs. Hurst went pale. “Caroline, have you lost your senses? Your dowry is gone. You must accept Mr. Wickham, or you will be reduced to nothing.”

“I do not care!” wailed Miss Bingley. “I will not leave my Fitzwilliam.”

Wickham gave a mocking bow. “How affecting. Love in a cottage. Perhaps, Darcy, when I pass your little dwelling, I shall toss a few coins through the window, for young Fitzwilliam’s milk.”

Before Will could speak, before he could even form a coherent thought, the doors crashed open yet again, this time with a thunderous bang that shook the very foundations of the house. A sudden, unnatural chill swept through the room, extinguishing half the candles, plunging the library into an eerie gloom. The fire in the hearth dimmed to a low, flickering blue, casting long, dancing shadows.

From the shadows above the mantle, a thick, swirling mist began to coalesce, smelling faintly of damp earth and forgotten dreams. The air thickened, growing heavy and oppressive. Then a voice. Deep. Stern. Familiar. Echoing, as if from the very depths of the earth. “At last, the truth comes to light.”

Gasps erupted as the translucent, spectral form of Mr. Darcy Senior emerged from the wall above the fireplace, clothed in spectral finery, his eyes glowing an unholy, malevolent white. His gaze, usually so proud, was now filled with a cold, piercing contempt.

“Father?!” Will gasped, stumbling back, tripping over his own feet. “What, what is this madness?! You are... you are dead!”

The ghost floated forward, his gaze fixed on Will with icy disdain. “Silence, boy. I come not to console, but to clarify. The solicitor speaks true. George is my eldest, legitimate son. Why do you think he bears my name?”

Will paled. “No.”

“You are my son, Fitzwilliam,” the ghost continued. “Lady Anne’s son. But you were always the second.”

“Then why?” Will whispered. “Why did you let me inherit?”

“Because I concealed my first marriage to preserve this family from scandal. Because George was reckless, and Pemberley required a steadier hand. I gave you the estate to manage. I kept my firstborn hidden and provided for him as I could. You have served Pemberley well, Fitzwilliam. You have kept Pemberley safe, prosperous and worthy of the son for whom it was always intended.”

His gaze shifted to Wickham, and the coldness in his face softened into terrible pride. “But the entail follows the elder son, not the more convenient one. The truth has come out at last. Pemberley is yours, George.”

Wickham bowed with exaggerated grace. “Thank you, Father. I shall take excellent care of Pemberley. Once I have it properly aired out and rid of its current unpleasant odors.” He gestured dismissively at Will.

“No!” Will cried, clutching at his head. “This cannot be real!”

The ghost glided nearer, its voice like cracking ice. “Begone from the heir’s chair, Fitzwilliam. You are a Darcy, but not the Darcy Pemberley was meant to have.”

Miss Bingley wailed, “But... but I love you, Fitzwilliam! Even if you are nobody, we shall live in a cottage! I shall milk cows and churn butter and...”

“NO YOU WON’T!” her sister, Mrs. Hurst, shrieked, seized Miss Bingley by the arm and shook her violently. “Your dowry is gone, you fool! You will marry Wickham! He has Pemberley now! He is your only hope of not starving in a ditch.”

The ghost looked at Will with disdain. “For too many years my ancestors have had to look upon the younger son in my firstborn’s place. They turn from you now.”

Will was shocked when the images in the pictures around the library all glared at him, before turning their backs and giving him the cut direct. He cried, “No! This cannot be! Father, I beg you, have mercy! Surely this is some monstrous jest, some fevered vision.”

The library doors burst open once more.

Mrs. Bennet rushed in, wild-eyed and breathless, with Lydia clinging to her arm. “Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “You villain! You have ruined my daughter!”

Will could only stare. Lydia stood before him with one hand pressed dramatically to her middle, her cheeks wet with tears.

“He said he loved me,” she sobbed. “He said I was prettier than all my sisters, and that he would marry me as soon as he could!”

“Miss Lydia?” Will whispered.

“Do not speak her name,” Mrs. Bennet shrieked. “You knew what Mr. Wickham was! You knew he had tried to ruin your own sister, and yet you let him come amongst my daughters. Why did you not warn us?”

The accusation struck Will harder than any blow. He had known. He had said nothing.

“And now,” Mrs. Bennet continued, her voice breaking, “now you have proved yourself no better than he is. You have ruined my Lydia yourself!”

To be compared to Wickham was bad enough. To have made a victim of Elizabeth’s sister was unbearable.

“No,” Will said, backing away. “No, I would never...”

“Would never what?” Mrs. Bennet demanded. “Seduce a foolish girl? Abandon her when the consequences appeared? You have done it, sir. And now my Lydia is ruined!”

Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the room, her face purple with fury. “Fitzwilliam! You knew what Wickham attempted with Georgiana. You knew the sort of man he was, and yet you have brought the same disgrace upon another family!”

She spun back to Wickham, her fury now redirected. “Do not think this changes anything, you are still a cretin! A usurper of my nephews rightful place! I demand a duel for honor! For the honor of the Darcy name, which you now defile!”

“I ACCEPT!” shouted Charles Bingley, his eyes wild, brandishing a fireplace poker like a sword. “FOR JANE! And for my ruined life!”

“WHAT IS HAPPENING!?” Will shouted to the heavens, his voice raw with despair, his hands tearing at his hair.

The room spun, voices rising to a deafening cacophony: “Scandal!” “Ruined!” “Duels at dawn!” “Banished!” “Disgraced!” “Destitute!” “Outcast!” “Fraud!” “Pauper!” “Shame!”

Will fell to his knees, trembling uncontrollably, his hands clamped over his ears, desperate to block out the horrifying sounds. “Make it stop. Please. Someone, save me. I beg you!”

As the uproar in the library reached its fever pitch, the doors swung open once more. Elizabeth Bennet entered, composed and radiant, her eyes flashing with indignation. The room fell silent.

Will, desperate, pushed through the throng. “Miss Bennet, Elizabeth, surely you do not believe these monstrous accusations? You, at least, have always seen me truly.”

“Save you, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth said. “From what? From the consequences of your own actions? From the just deserts of your pride and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others? You speak of saving, but you have ruined. You have acted in a manner that has destroyed the happiness of many, and you expect pity?”

She stepped closer, her expression one of utter contempt. “You are not a gentleman, sir. Your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, have been such as to inspire nothing but disgust. I could never marry a man who has behaved with such abominable pride. You are not worthy of compassion. You are not worthy of a single kind thought.”

“Elizabeth, I beg you...”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, though it resonated louder than any shout. “You knew Wickham’s character and chose silence. You have wronged my sister, ruined my family, and now expect compassion because you are sorry for what you have lost.” Her gaze was cold and unwavering. “I once thought you proud. I find you dishonourable. You, sir, are the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

Will reached for her hand, but she drew back. “Please, Miss Bennet, you must believe, this is all a dreadful mistake! I have been wronged, misrepresented.”

Elizabeth interrupted, her voice steady. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy, you have been wronged, and you have wronged others.”

A smooth, confident voice cut through his plea. “Miss Bennet, might I have a word?”

Wickham stepped forward, impeccably dressed and beaming with triumph. He dropped to one knee and produced a ring. “Elizabeth, dearest, you have always been the brightest star in my firmament. Now that my name has been restored and Pemberley is mine, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Elizabeth looked from Wickham to Will. For one dreadful moment, amusement flickered in her eyes. “Mr. Wickham,” she said, “I cannot imagine a greater irony. However, you are no more worthy of my esteem than Mr. Darcy. One has deceived by charm, the other by pride. I shall have neither of you.”

Wickham froze, his triumphant smile faltering into a mask of stunned disbelief.

Elizabeth offered Will a final, chillingly indifferent glance. “I leave you both to the misery of your own making. Good day, gentlemen.”

She turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving a deafening silence in her wake.

Then, the library erupted.

The crowd began to laugh at Will. Caroline Bingley, realizing even poverty with him was a lost cause, wailed in despair. Lady Catherine fainted dead away. Bingley shook his head in utter contempt, turning his back forever.

Will, completely shattered, rejected by Elizabeth, disowned by his father, abandoned by his family, and ruined before the world, fell to his knees. “No! This cannot be.”

The crowd pressed in, their faces distorted with anger and malicious delight, the voices rose in a cacophony of, “UNWORTHY! DESERTED! SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!”

He began to scream, a primal, guttural sound of pure terror.

~*~

Rogers, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s valet, heard his master screaming and hurried into his bedchamber and shook him awake. “Mr. Darcy, Sir! Wake up, Sir!”

Will awoke with a violent start, sitting bolt upright, drenched in sweat, his eyes wide and unfocused, still seeing the spectral glow of his father’s eyes.

Rogers stood over him, visibly alarmed, but maintaining his professional composure. “Sir! It is all right. You were dreaming.”

Will’s eyes opened wide and frightened, darting around the familiar room as if expecting to see Wickham or a pregnant Lydia Bennet. “Rogers, oh please, where am I? What day is it? Am I married to Miss Bingley? Is Pemberley gone? Is Georgiana?”

Rogers was unable to contain a grimace at the mention of Miss Bingley before he answered, his voice reassuring but with a hint of dry amusement. “Sir, it is the morning of Thursday, April 9th. We are at Rosings, visiting Lady Catherine for Easter. And you are still very much unwed, thank heavens. As for your sanity, I shall reserve judgment. My goodness, what a fright you have had! Oh, do forgive me, sir, I ought not have said that last bit.”

Will groaned, rubbing his temples, trying to clear the lingering horrors from his mind. “I think my father’s ghost just disowned me for the benefit of Wickham, Lady Catherine disowned me too, and Charles Bingley challenged me to a duel with a fireplace poker over Jane Bennet.”

“Did you feel as though your life was closing in on you?” Rogers asked dryly after a pause, a knowing look in his eye.

“Yes,” Will whispered, horrified.

“Then, sir,” Rogers said, a faint smirk playing on his lips, “you have had what we call a nightmare. A rather comprehensive one, by the sounds of it.”

Will swung his legs over the side of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Um, Rogers...”

“Yes, sir?”

“I know you keep an ear to the servant’s gossip, it has saved me on more than one occasion. You are privy to all the whispers.”

“Yes, that is correct, sir,” Rogers agreed, adjusting a curtain to let in the morning light. “It is a necessity of my profession, sir. To be well-informed.”

Will mumbled, his voice muffled by his hands, “Does everyone know... That is to say... The comment I made about Miss Elizabeth at the assembly...”

“Not handsome enough to tempt you? Yes, sir, her mother was very vocal in her displeasure of you. And the young ladies of Meryton found it quite a topic of conversation for weeks,” Rogers confirmed.

Will saw the valet’s smirk widen, a sight that made him groan aloud. He dropped his head into his hands, utterly mortified, as Rogers’ voice drifted over him. “It was rather widely disseminated, sir.”

The full weight of his past arrogance came crashing down on him. “That is why she was always so cold to me. Rogers, I have a lady to track down and give a humble apology. A very, very humble apology.”

“An excellent plan, sir. Shall I fetch a cushion for your knees, or do you intend to grovel directly in the gravel paths of Rosings Park?” Rogers asked as he picked up a freshly pressed shirt. “If I may, I would recommend apologizing before she dreams up her own revenge. Your nightmare, sir, sounds like a gentle warning compared to what a lady scorned might conjure.”

Will looked up, his eyes now determined, the last vestiges of the dream fading, replaced by a resolute purpose. “Yes. I must make amends. Immediately. I do not care if I must face Lady Catherine’s wrath or battle Wickham in the streets. I must find Miss Bennet. And I must do it before she orchestrates my actual ruin.”

Rogers, grinning, reached for his master’s clothes. “Very good, sir. Shall I dress you for a pilgrimage of repentance, sir? Perhaps something in a suitably humble grey?”

Will winced. “Do not say it like that, Rogers. Just dress me. And make sure I look presentable. For the most important apology of my life.”

“Very good, sir,” Rogers said, unfolding a starched length of linen with an aggressive snap. “Though if this apology is to be as monumental as you claim, we cannot rush the cravat. A poorly tied Osbaldiston knot will only make you look like a desperate schoolboy, which I simply will not allow.”

He draped the linen around Will’s neck, jerking it just firmly enough to force him to lift his chin. “Furthermore, while you walk, I highly recommend you acquaint yourself with every polite variation of ‘coxcomb’ before you begin, sir. It is best to be thoroughly prepared.”

“I am not a coxcomb, Rogers,” Will muttered, holding perfectly still as the valet began the intricate folds, though his confidence felt desperately fragile.

Rogers offered a polite, entirely innocent blink as he handed over the shirt. “As you say, sir. As you say. Let us hope Miss Bennet is not a believer in poetic justice.”]]> LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 02 Sep 2026 22:05:58 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131863,131863#msg-131863 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131863,131863#msg-131863I thought I had posted the Epilogue, but I must not have hit Post and ended up timing out.



Epilogue

Two Years and Six Months Later

The sun hung low over Longbourn’s gardens, casting long, honey-coloured shadows across the grass where Bennet children and grandchildren now played.

Mary Bennet Carmichael sat upon a stone bench, a small, leather-bound volume forgotten in her lap. For once, the world before her eyes proved far more compelling than any tale set down in ink. She remained the observer, but she was no longer the outsider.

At the centre of the festivities was Thomas, the young heir of Longbourn, celebrating his second birthday by attempting to share his cake with a very patient spaniel.

Mary watched her parents, standing together near the refreshment table, their heads bowed toward one another in quiet consultation. The arrival of a son so late in their years had been a shock that set all Meryton’s tongues wagging, but Thomas had become the quiet centre of a transformed Longbourn.

The change had begun long before her brother’s birth, sparked in that harrowing autumn when she had forced them to truly see one another, but the presence of an heir had forged a lasting partnership. Mama no longer spent her days in a flutter of nerves over ribbons and lace. Instead, she could often be found in the small morning room, assisting her husband with the estate ledgers or discussing tenant repairs. Her restless energy had finally found a productive channel in ensuring the prosperity of the land Thomas would one day inherit.

Papa, in turn, had emerged from the dusty solitude of his library. He was no longer a stranger to his own halls, often found assisting with the finer points of household management or debating the merits of his son’s early instruction. They moved through their days in quiet partnership, almost always with Thomas between them. Whether walking the fields with the boy perched on Mr. Bennet’s shoulder or sitting in the garden as a family, they had replaced their old habits of retreat and agitation with a quiet, shared purpose.

They were no longer two people living separate lives under one roof. They were truly partners now, and the peace of their union radiated through the entire estate.

Not far off, Jane and Michael sat beneath the shade of an ancient oak. Their son, Edward, a sturdy boy of eighteen months, was engaged in a serious tug-of-war over a wooden horse with Elizabeth and William’s son, little Bennet.

Born within a mere forty-eight hours of each other, a coincidence Mrs. Bennet declared a sign of divine favor, the two cousins were as inseparable as their mothers. Elizabeth and Jane traded smiles, their faces reflecting a deep, settled peace. William, though still the most dignified man in any county, was currently on one knee, helping the boys negotiate the horse with a patience that would have astonished the man he was three years earlier.

A soft weight pressed against Mary’s side, and she looked up to find Aubrey standing beside her. He held their one-year-old daughter, Alice. The child had Aubrey’s thoughtful eyes and Mary’s stubborn chin.

“She is finally asleep,” Aubrey whispered, his gaze dropping to Mary with a look of such unadulterated devotion that it made her heart ache with a sweet, familiar pressure. He reached down, his fingers brushing Mary’s hand.

They had been married in a grand double ceremony with Richard and Amelia, and every day since had been a testament to the ordinary happiness they had once doubted. In the quiet of their shared library and the warmth of their home, Mary had found a voice that was heard, and a heart that was understood.

Near the hedgerow, Kitty walked with Mr. Sterling, a cousin of Lord Aubrey’s and a man of sensible, steady character. Kitty had matured into a young woman of poise. She no longer sought attention nor followed Lydia’s lead. She spoke with a quiet confidence that had clearly captivated Mr. Sterling, who had recently asked Mr. Bennet for permission to call on her at Longbourn.

Further down the path, the most improbable duo held court. Lydia, vibrant as ever but with her edges smoothed into a sharp, fashionable wit, walked arm-in-arm with Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

“Now, Lydia,” Lady Catherine’s voice carried across the lawn, “if you are to visit the Hastings estate with us this autumn, you must learn to distinguish between a genuine interest in agriculture and mere empty agreement. My sister Elaine will not tolerate an empty-headed companion.”

Lady Catherine and Lady Elaine had taken Lydia under their imperious wings, treating her as a project in which spirit must be tempered by sense. Lydia, surprisingly, thrived under the discipline, finding the strength she had once sought in the wrong places.

Mary’s gaze drifted toward the edge of the lawn, where the Fitzwilliam family had gathered in a vibrant tableau of the lives she had helped mend.

In the shade of the stone balustrade, the Earl of Matlock stood with his wife. The former Mrs. Walters moved with the effortless grace of a woman born to the role, though her eyes still held that same quiet, steady kindness Mary had first admired. At her side, she carried their infant daughter, a late and unexpected joy whose arrival had seemed to melt the last of the Earl’s sharp, frosty edges. To see them together was to see a house finally at peace with itself.

Beside them, Richard and Amelia were the very picture of harmony. Richard had taken to his role as master of Rosings with a tactical brilliance Mary found endlessly amusing. He applied the same military precision to agricultural drainage and crop rotation that he had once to a battlefield. Their own one-year-old daughter toddled between them, tugging at the hem of Amelia’s walking dress while they greeted their Meryton neighbors with genuine warmth.

Anne and Lord Gresham stood nearby, laughing at the child’s antics. Though they would never have children of their own, they had become the most sought-after godparents in the three counties. Free from the stifling shadows of Rosings, Anne’s health had bloomed. She and her husband spent their days traveling between London and Bath, their lives no longer a study in frailty but in quiet, joyous adventure.

Mary’s thoughts turned briefly to those not present. A letter had arrived only yesterday from Charlotte Lucas, now the wife of the vicar of Kympton. She was heavily with child and strictly forbidden from traveling the long road from Derbyshire, yet her words were radiant. She lived a life of profound utility and love near the gates of Pemberley, a fate far happier than the one she had once feared.

A movement near the rosebushes caught Mary’s eye. Emma Woodhouse was gliding through the crowd, stopping to speak with Louisa Hurst. Emma had become a cherished fixture in their circle, her once-meddlesome nature matured into a genuine, benevolent influence. She was currently listening with rapt attention as Louisa spoke of her own son, now nearly two. Louisa stood tall, a woman of recognised integrity who had firmly severed herself from the disgrace of her siblings. When creditors still occasionally inquired after Charles, Louisa offered them nothing but a cold, silent dismissal. She had chosen a new family, and she guarded its honor with determination.

Then Mary’s breath caught.

Down by the pond, where the water glimmered like a sheet of hammered silver, James Fitzwilliam walked with Georgiana Darcy. Their heads were close together, their steps falling easily together in a way that spoke of years of shared confidences. James had remained a beloved fixture in the Bennet household, a brother in all but name, yet today his posture was different, tensed with a nervous, singular purpose.

Mary watched them stop. James took Georgiana’s hands, his mouth moving in words that were lost to the breeze. Then with a slow, deliberate grace, he knelt upon the grass.

It was no spectacle for the crowd. It was a private moment in the midst of a family’s triumph. Georgiana’s hands flew to her face, a joyous, radiant “Yes” visible in the way she threw her arms around him as he rose.

Mary felt a lump form in her throat. It did not feel like an overshadowing of young Thomas’s birthday. Rather, it felt like the final, perfect piece of the family puzzle falling into place.

The shadows of the past were few and far between. Word had reached them that Mr. Wickham had perished in a common gaol, his charm failing him in a final, fatal dispute over a ration of bread.

Lieutenant Thorne had met a swifter end at the end of a rope, justice finally catching up to the man who had dared to strike at a Peer of the realm.

As for Miss Bingley, she remained in her solitary room in Cheapside, the Great Miss Bingley, now a woman who could not keep a maid for more than a week, as no woman of spirit would endure her bitter tongue for any wage. Charles Bingley remained a ghost on the Continent, a man who had traded his honor for a sister’s schemes and found he had nothing left to buy it back.

Mary let the thought go, as one releases a closed book. The past had taken care of itself. Her concern was for what lay ahead.

“Shall we go in, Mary?” Aubrey asked, offering his free hand.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Mary looked at the vibrant, laughing, healing world around her.

Mary stood. “Yes,” she said, her voice clear and sure. “Let us go in.”

She realized then that none of this, not the safety of her sisters, not the birth of the heir, not the redemption of the Fitzwilliam name, would have existed if she had remained the silent, pedantic girl she once was.

As they walked toward the house, she felt the weight of the life she had built. It all changed, she thought, because for one hour in a drawing room where she had finally refused to be invisible. The Mary Bennet who once quoted dead philosophers now lived a life that was itself a beautiful, living philosophy. She had been the plainest sister, the most overlooked, yet she had been the one to hold the line. She had taken a stand against the expectations of her family and the safety of silence, and in that single, defiant moment, she had saved them all.

THE END]]> LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 02 Sep 2026 21:26:55 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131862#msg-131862 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131862#msg-131862Excessively Attentive reach an ending eighteen years after it began, but it's a real gift to the JAFF community that you stuck to your guns until you completed it.

It's particularly nice because this story has such an unusual premise. I've read multiple stories in which Elizabeth is a lost Fitzwilliam (and sometimes Jane along with her) but can't think of another in which she's a lost de Bourgh. That twist is particularly nifty because it allows Lady Catherine to occupy a maternal role for Elizabeth. It's refreshing to read a story in which she's Elizabeth's determined advocate instead of a stuffy antagonist.

Kudos!]]> Alan Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 16 Aug 2026 04:56:03 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131861,131861#msg-131861 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131861,131861#msg-131861 Kimberly F. Tea RoomSat, 15 Aug 2026 22:35:06 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131860#msg-131860 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131860#msg-131860
About the story itself - a true gem! It was an amazing, original, well-thought-out variation not to be missed. I was drawn in by the unusual premise from the very first chapter. Plus, I'm always a sucker for a Darcy who is so besotted with Elizabeth that he can't get out of his own way.

Thank you, dear author for giving me a few days of time well spent. ]]> dpennell Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 27 Jun 2026 01:32:34 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131850,131859#msg-131859 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131850,131859#msg-131859
If you're looking for stories that stay in a somewhat more period style, have you tried these?

A Little More Practice by Sandy W.

This Piece of Civility by Amy C.

Unequal Affections by Suzanne O. is one of my absolute favorites. It used to be here at DWG but is now only available on Amazon, where it's titled "Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling" by Lara Ormiston. It's well worth the $2, though.

A New Beginning by MaxineB.]]> Alan Tea RoomFri, 12 Jun 2026 03:43:49 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131858#msg-131858 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131858#msg-131858
Congrats and many thanks to you for finishing this story! I'm going to re-read from the beginning so I can remember all the plot twists, but I'm looking forward to doing so :-)]]> Alan Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 12 Jun 2026 02:54:55 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?6,131856,131856#msg-131856 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?6,131856,131856#msg-131856
Edmund's letter shifted as she breathed, the edge of the paper catching on her skirt. He'd written of visiting the Parsonage soon. Fanny pictured him laughing with Mary Crawford by the fire, their heads bent close over some book, and a hot, unfamiliar ache spread beneath her ribs. It wasn't jealousy. (It was.)

Aunt Norris sniffed, adjusting her shawl. "Such idle hands. You ought to be practicing your embroidery—Sir Thomas expects better." The rain thickened into a downpour, blurring the garden outside. Fanny pressed her lips together. She'd finished three handkerchiefs last week, each stitch perfect. But praise, like sunshine, rarely reached her corner of the house.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eleven. Somewhere above, Julia shrieked with laughter—Maria's doing, no doubt. Fanny exhaled slowly, smoothing Edmund's letter against her lap. His words had been kind. Always kind. Too kind to mention how long it had been since he'd last visited her.

A floorboard creaked outside the door—someone lingering. Fanny's pulse jumped. But it was only Betsey, the scullery maid, scurrying past with an armful of linens. The scent of lavender soap trailed after her, oddly comforting. Fanny tucked the letter into her pocket, where it settled like a secret.

From the kitchen yard, the clang of a copper pot made her flinch. Portsmouth had been loud too, but differently—fishmongers shouting prices, her brothers scrapping over crusts of bread. Here, the noises were polished, contained. Even chaos had manners. She traced the embroidered edge of her sleeve, counting stitches to steady herself.

Edmund's handwriting had been slightly smudged at the corner—ink splatter? A teacup set down too hastily? Fanny bit the inside of her cheek. Imagining him distracted was worse than imagining him deliberate. The rain hissed against the window, and she caught her own reflection superimposed over the streaming glass: pale, watchful, a ghost between worlds.]]> Umshire A Novel IdeaWed, 10 Jun 2026 21:53:35 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?6,131855,131855#msg-131855 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?6,131855,131855#msg-131855
Her slippers whispered against the floorboards as she crossed to the writing desk, the only sound in the otherwise silent house. Even the clock in the hall seemed to hold its breath. Fanny traced the edge of the envelope with one fingertip, wondering if she ought to wait—if this was the sort of moment that demanded patience, or courage.

Downstairs, a door clicked shut, and footsteps echoed faintly up the staircase. Fanny’s pulse jumped. She hadn’t realized until now how tightly she’d been holding the letter, how the corner had bent slightly under her grip.

With a quick breath, she broke the seal. The paper unfolded like a secret, revealing Edmund’s familiar handwriting—but the words were anything but familiar. *"Meet me in the orchard at noon. There’s something I must ask you."* Her stomach fluttered, a strange mix of dread and anticipation curling through her.

The clock ticked loudly now, each second stretching as she reread the lines. What could possibly require such secrecy? Edmund had never been one for clandestine meetings—unless he meant to confess something he couldn’t say within earshot of Sir Thomas or Aunt Norris.

She pressed the letter to her chest, exhaling slowly. The orchard was safe—just far enough from the house to feel private, but not so far as to raise suspicion. Still, her hands trembled as she tucked the note into her pocket. Noon couldn’t come soon enough. Or perhaps it was coming too soon.

The morning dragged like honey dripping from a spoon. Fanny busied herself with needlework, but the stitches came out crooked, her mind straying to Edmund’s uncharacteristic secrecy. Had he finally noticed the way her breath caught when he laughed? Or—her stomach twisted—had he decided to announce his engagement to Mary Crawford after all?

When the clock struck half-past eleven, Fanny slipped out unnoticed, her heart pounding louder than her footsteps. The orchard air hummed with bees and the scent of ripening apples. She spotted Edmund leaning against the gnarled trunk of their favorite tree, sunlight dappling his coat. His expression was unreadable.

"Fanny," he said softly, stepping forward. Her name sounded different on his lips—like a confession. He reached for her hand, and she nearly forgot how to breathe. "I’ve been thinking…" The words hung between them, fragile as the petals drifting from the trees overhead.

She searched his face—the way his brows knitted together, the faint blush creeping up his neck. "Thinking?" she echoed, her voice barely louder than the rustling leaves. His fingers tightened around hers, warm and slightly rough from riding.

"It’s absurd," he admitted with a shaky laugh, "but I can’t stop imagining you—here, always." His thumb brushed her knuckles. "Not just as my cousin. Not just as… Fanny." The orchard seemed to tilt around her.

A bee buzzed near her ear, startling her into meeting his gaze. His eyes held something raw and hopeful—something she’d only ever dreamed of seeing. "Tell me I’m not mad," he whispered. The apple blossoms trembled in the breeze, or maybe it was just her hands.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The truth lodged in her throat like a swallowed sunbeam, too bright to voice. Instead, she squeezed his fingers back, her pulse racing where their skin touched. Edmund exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath for years.

"You feel it too," he murmured, more statement than question. His other hand came up to brush a fallen petal from her shoulder, lingering there. The contact burned through the thin fabric of her dress. Somewhere beyond the trees, a thrush sang—bright and reckless, just like the hope unfurling in her chest.]]> Umshire A Novel IdeaWed, 10 Jun 2026 20:52:12 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131854#msg-131854 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131854#msg-131854Thanks for sharing it wit( us]]> BTroisi Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 28 May 2026 15:13:39 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,130137,131853#msg-131853 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,130137,131853#msg-131853 gregg02169 Tea RoomWed, 20 May 2026 17:01:43 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131852#msg-131852 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131818,131852#msg-131852 kimevans62 Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 23 Apr 2026 11:31:20 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,130136,131851#msg-131851 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,130136,131851#msg-131851 kimevans62 Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 23 Apr 2026 11:30:53 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131850,131850#msg-131850 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131850,131850#msg-131850Pride and Prejudice stories on here. My only requirement is that they're set in the Regency era (basically, canon divergence; no modern AUs) and keep the characters as close to the original source as possible in terms of characterization.

So far I've read and really enjoyed Adventures at Morecastle by Suzanne O and Behind The Scenes by Locarol. I recommend them if you haven't read them already.]]> Mariya Tea RoomThu, 23 Apr 2026 11:26:08 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131849#msg-131849 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131849#msg-131849 EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 19 Apr 2026 20:02:11 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131848#msg-131848 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131848#msg-131848 LisaY Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 16 Apr 2026 19:17:03 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131847#msg-131847 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131847#msg-131847
I would be interested if anyone got my obscure Sherlock Holmes reference - in my head Lydia is the mother of Major Sholto, who stole the Agra Treasure in The Sign of Four.]]> DavidG Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 16 Apr 2026 14:45:19 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131846#msg-131846 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131846#msg-131846Thanks for sharing the story DA]]> Lynette Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 16 Apr 2026 12:56:49 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131845#msg-131845 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131845#msg-131845 Anne V Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 15 Apr 2026 23:24:54 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131844#msg-131844 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131844#msg-131844 Micha Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 15 Apr 2026 20:52:34 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131843#msg-131843 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131843,131843#msg-131843
Prideful.

And prejudiced.

There could be no other interpretation of the committee’s response after I offered to deliver a lecture on Victorian comedy at their science fiction book fair.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are in desperate need of more interesting speakers.

I told them so.

They told me to get out.

Ruffian interns shepherded me to the street.

I received a call.

“Did you hear they approved a symposium on Jules Verne?” asked my agent.

Another blow.

I had been drawn to Texas, confident of the community’s embrace. Thousands would attend the fair, each a potential fan of my work.

I needed to be heard.

The moment the fair opened, I rushed inside.

As the Jules Verne panel was preparing to convene, I climbed onstage and claimed one of the seats.

The host of the panel—a minor publisher’s rep—opened the event by reading a prepared statement by Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.

Partway through her remarks, another panelist arrived. There were no available chairs.

The flustered host asked, “Who are you?”

“Andrew Bingley,” the newcomer replied amiably.

There was applause.

His popularity did not bode well.

Names were requested. Schedules were checked. Guards were called.

I was marched out of the fair, finally receiving the attention I deserved, though poorly timed.

My early efforts to reenter were rebuffed.

(My photo had been distributed to security.)

Thank God for cosplay.

I approached a local seamstress and informed her that I required a costume in a rush. Something bland. I wished to be disguised without attracting attention.

She cut a triangular wedge from a huge block of yellow foam, then carved out a hollow for me to fit inside.

The outfit was absurdly bad. I looked like a slice of cheesecake.

Per our agreement, I gave her my iPad.

Three additional pieces of foam were then affixed to my face, giving me the sort of seamless appearance only a professional can deliver.

The disguise allowed me to waddle discreetly past security.

Roaming the fair, I encountered a familiar face. It was one of the authors from the Jules Verne panel. I cautiously approached.

“Hey,” he greeted me, “I feel bad about what they did to you. They shouldn’t have embarrassed you like that.”

I agreed.

I offered him a free copy of my novel. He examined the back cover, then returned it.

“Interesting,” he observed, “but not interesting enough to tempt me.”

I was about to share some observations of my own when he stopped me cold.

“Is this how you make a living?” he inquired, scanning me up and down. “Restaurant promotions?”

I began to experience doubt.

Perhaps attending the fair dressed as cheesecake had been a professional mistake.

I mumbled a clumsy goodbye and wandered off to a dark corner of the convention hall, where I stood beside an equally morose cosplay cheeseburger.

“Another writer?” the burger inquired.

I admitted that—to my increasing chagrin—I was.

“Don’t let that guy get to you,” he encouraged me. “Panelists only think they’re special because they win a lot of awards and sell a lot of books. But that’s entirely superficial. Craft, not art. The entire industry is rigged, designed to lock the genuine creatives out of opportunities.”

I had never agreed more with a cheeseburger.

“I’m Stanton Fenwick,” I announced, maneuvering my wedge to extend a friendly hand.

“Wickham,” the burger replied, shaking it.

“Did you write a cookbook, too?” he asked.

“No, Victorian comedy.”

After a brief silence, I asked, “Who was that guy I was just talking to?”

Wickham frowned.

“You don’t know him? That’s Darcy Pendleton. Stole one of my book ideas once. Won a Hugo with it.”

Wickham told me his story, and I told him mine.

We soon realized our time was being wasted complaining to one another rather than to the public. The two o’clock writers’ symposium on world-building seemed to offer us the best opportunity to be heard. We proceeded thither.

I would never have attended had I known that Darcy Pendleton—the poseur who slighted me in the lobby—was one of the facilitators, along with Andrew Bingley and the publisher’s representative.

It was a Jules Verne panel reunion.

Fortunately, the rep didn’t recognize me, though Darcy clearly did. He glowered when I entered.

Wickham had dignity. He didn’t enter the room behind me.

The rep from HarperCollins kicked off the event by sharing the many lessons she had learned from Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature, on the importance of proper world-building.

The baton was then passed to Bingley.

Andrew Bingley was a happy man. After a series of bestselling novels, he had just completed his tug-at-the-heartstrings autobiography, Confidence Building through Wealth.

Darcy Pendleton followed. It turned out his “claim to fame” was a book about a guy who gets stuck on Mars. It sounded terribly boring.

Only afterward were attendees permitted to speak. As an exercise, we were instructed to “build a world” in the form of a book pitch.

I proposed a Regency comedy about matchmaking.

Their stares said, “Why are you here?”

Fine.

I pitched the fanatics a story called Last Ship from Lydia.

“On the geologically unstable planet Lydia, soon to explode, five people are placed in the unenviable position of deciding who will escape death on the final available spaceships. They each choose themselves, secure in the knowledge that no one will ever know. But a final transmission leaks out.”

The publishing representative’s jaw dropped.

She loved it.

I was terribly depressed.

The rest of the hour was too boring to relate. People talked about their books. Nobody cared.

As I was leaving the symposium, Darcy grabbed me by the wedge and whispered, “That cheeseburger is bad news.”

I wriggled free.

“He told me you stole his book idea,” I challenged.

“No, the truth is very much the opposite. Wickham is notorious for his unethical behavior.”

I cleared my throat.

“Just so you know, I was unsatisfied with the symposium and will be giving you a one-star rating,” I said.

Darcy sighed.

I marched out.

When I found the burger in question, I shared Darcy’s accusations.

Wickham scoffed.

I asked, “What plot idea did Darcy steal from you?”

“A guy goes into space,” he replied.

There was an unexpectedly long pause.

“And?” I prodded.

“Well, see, he runs into technical issues. He spends the book fighting them.”

“How does it end?”

“He fails and dies. He is found, five hundred years later, mummified in his spacesuit.”

Another unexpectedly long pause.

“That’s very dark,” I suggested.

“Thanks!” he replied.

The HarperCollins rep came running up.

“How fortunate it is that I was able to find you,” she observed.

I was wearing a gigantic foam costume in a large open space. How fortunate could it have been?

“I was just on the phone with Catherine Martin, our Vice President of Classic Literature,” the rep said. “You might have heard me mention Catherine before.”

I had.

“I told Catherine about your fun, sciencey book idea. She loved it.”

The rep paused, allowing me to bask in the praise of some random publishing veep.

“Your book is just the sort of timely starter project I need to get my foot in the door,” the rep continued. “Space is hot, so we should act quickly. I want a sample to take to Catherine. How soon can you have that ready?”

I explained that I wasn’t interested in writing Last Ship from Lydia.

Besides, I didn’t have a single fun, sciencey idea in my head.

The rep wouldn’t accept my refusal. After considerable back and forth, I told her I would write a treatment for a fifty thousand dollar advance.

I then gave her my agent’s number so she could negotiate with him.

It was a harmless bluff. Such a ridiculous demand should have been enough to scare her off. But it cost me a friend. She left to give him a call.

Wickham asked what the conversation had been about.

I told him about my gag novel proposal and the rep’s enthusiastic response.

He laughed rewardingly. He called me a brilliant satirist. Wickham was a burger with taste.

Tired on my feet, I made my way out of the fair to remove the foam suit. After grabbing a bite to eat, I refoamed and headed back in to attend the evening gala.

While cosplay wasn’t atypical during the day, it was almost de rigueur at night. Never had I been more at one with the crowd while less among my people.

The HarperCollins rep spotted me. I quick-waddled in the opposite direction.

I found my agent.

“Did a woman from HarperCollins call you?” I hurriedly asked.

“Yes, she told me you wanted a huge advance on your sci-fi concept,” he confirmed.

My agent studied me closely.

“You really don’t want to write the book, huh? I mean, your preposterous demands aside, I probably could have gotten you a few thousand dollars.”

“No, I don’t. And the rep is here at the banquet. I think she wants to harass me about it.”

“She wants to talk to you, Stanton.”

After a pause, he added, “We both do.”

What was that supposed to mean?

I found out when the rep arrived and handed me a legal document and a pen.

It seemed my agent had written a book of his own—a scandalous tell-all, spilling his clients’ shameful secrets.

HarperCollins had signed him to a deal.

Now the rep wanted me to grant him permission to include stories about me.

Legal formality or not, I refused.

(Just as you should refuse to purchase that tawdry collection of slanders, published without my consent.)

As we talked, Darcy Pendleton and Andrew Bingley passed by.

I acted as nonchalantly as one can in cheesecake.

“Oh, Mr. Pendleton! And Mr. Bingley!” the rep called out. “Won’t you join us?”

They did so with visible reluctance, revealing an enthusiasm gap between the meeting’s organizer and the other attendees.

The rep observed how fortunate the encounter was, as she wanted to solicit their opinions of my workshop idea. She hadn’t given up on Last Ship from Lydia.

“Put it out under a pen name,” Bingley advised.

“You can’t be thinking of publishing that book, can you?” Darcy asked. “We all heard the pitch. You’ll ruin the poor man. Can you imagine what gibberish he would produce?”

His comments drew blood. So arrogant. I lashed out.

“Just because sci-fi isn’t my thing doesn’t mean I’m incapable of…”

“What genre do you write?” he interrupted.

“Victorian comedy,” I explained.

The group roared with laughter.

Even my agent, who already knew that I did.

“You’re fired,” I told him.

“I figured,” my ex-agent shrugged.

“Stick to your weird brand, Fenwick,” Darcy advised. “No attempt of yours to write sci-fi will ever sell.”

“I’ll bet Last Ship from Lydia would sell if you wrote the foreword,” my ex-agent prodded, out of habit.

“If I did,” Darcy scoffed, “you might as well call it Last Words from Pendleton.”

“True,” my ex-agent agreed. “Stanton would be terrible for your brand…for anyone’s, really.”

I stormed out.

Physically and spiritually exhausted, I returned to the sanctuary of my motel room.

In the morning, I suited up and raced back to the book fair. I wanted to reach the breakfast buffet before they ran out of scrambled eggs.

The person ahead of me cleaned out the chafing dish.

I registered my displeasure.

A convention center employee was hurriedly dispatched to the kitchen for a refill.

I was thus trapped in line, for what seemed like forever, next to Andrew Bingley, who was a morning person, in the worst way.

(Retreat was unthinkable. I would not relinquish my claim to the eggs.)

To my shock, Andrew offered to write an introduction to the Lydia novel.

“Provided,” he added, “it isn’t total crap.”

(To think, the man had won literary awards. I was hoping for better dialogue.)

My integrity, at that moment, could be purchased for a very low price. I shook Andrew’s hand with an enthusiastic smile and stepped out of line, yielding my scrambled egg rights to him, in perpetuity.

I dashed back to my motel.

A morning spent crafting my best sci-fi, ruthlessly editing, and honing the product to a fine edge left me with an outstanding opening sentence.

I was anxious to share it with Andrew, to prove my worth.

He didn’t respond to my text messages.

Knowing that people appreciate a warm, in-person visit after a text, I returned to the book fair, but Andrew was nowhere to be found.

Instead, I was accosted by Darcy Pendleton.

“Are you busy?” he asked, rhetorically.

“What do you want?” I groused (wondering where I could go to escape him).

“I was informed that my treatment of you could be misconstrued as rude.”

“So you’re here to prove it?”

“No, I’m here to make a peace offering. I want to help you, with the least potential reputational exposure to me. As so few people are aware you exist, my publicist and I agreed the risk of association is tolerably low for someone in my position.”

I marveled at the man's arrogance, conceit, and selfish disdain for my feelings.

“So here’s the deal: if your science fiction writing isn’t hideously embarrassing, I’ll write a foreword for your book under a pseudonym. Though, if I do, I’ll be brutally honest. I’ll pull no punches.”

I have rarely felt such powerful antipathy for someone, but then I don’t get out much.

“I would pull my book from the market before I’d ever let your name appear on its cover,” I announced haughtily.

He blinked. I could hear the shock in his voice.

“You can’t be serious. Against my better judgment, I am offering to lend my prestige to your book. And not only do you refuse it, but you show no gratitude whatsoever? This, from some weirdo with a Victorian comedy fetish?”

I detest a genre snob.

“I never asked for your pity. I plan to write a legendary sci-fi novel. After all, how hard can it be?”

He turned to walk away.

I twisted the dagger.

“Also, Bingley offered to write an introduction for me, so I don’t need you.”

Darcy turned back.

“Andrew won’t be doing any such thing, Stanton. He told me so himself.”

I felt reputational exposure.

“That can’t be! Why would he change his mind?”

“Because I talked him out of it. Life is finally going so well for him. He doesn’t deserve a…you.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“I won a Hugo. Try again.”

“Then what is it?”

“I told you. I’m protecting Andrew.”

“I think the actual reason you drove Bingley away…”

“I wasn’t influenced by what your agent wrote,” he assured me.

“…is that you’re planning to steal my book like you stole Wickham’s. Wait, what did you just say?”

“You should have taken whatever money that publisher’s rep was putting on the table, Stanton. She’s a go-getter. She got your agent ten minutes on the main stage after lunch, to read excerpts from his book. Invaluable publicity. As an author at your level, that’s not the sort of mistake you can repeat.”

After a pause, he added, “At least he’s getting your name out there.”

“For public humiliation,” I replied coldly. “What did that traitor say about me?”

Darcy sighed.

“Stanton, a writer must develop a thick skin. The slings of critics and the arrows of gossip...”

“So now you’re Shakespeare?” I mocked.

“No, I’m a successful author, something you’ll never be.”

“You may be successful, but you couldn’t write a decent Victorian comedy in a million…”

“I’m done,” he replied.

He stormed off.

Technically, he had not withdrawn his offer to write a foreword for my book.

I pulled out my cell phone to make sure the conversation had recorded properly.

It had.

It never hurts to have insurance.

I was in a workshop about writing narrative from an alien’s point of view, hoping to ask a question about Victorian comedy, when my phone vibrated.

A series of text messages from Darcy Pendleton arrived in quick succession.

“Look, I don’t mean to cause further offense,” the chain began, “but I would strongly suggest you stick to your genre. If Victorian comedy is your passion, that’s what you should write. Strive to be as authentic as possible, while remaining marketable, if extremely niche.”

I’m unique, not niche.

He was blind to the distinction.

“And I must repeat my warning about Wickham,” the messages continued. “You are aware of my hit novel? Well, Wickham stole my original idea for it. I planned to have my hero die at the end.”

What was with these modern authors and their depressing endings?

“I was new to the book-fair world when I met Wickham and trusted him with the plot. He released it as a sloppy novella before I could publish. That’s the only reason my protagonist lives. I was forced to make the change.”

I had no idea why he thought I would care.

“Wickham once hurt a young writer I cared for by leaving her a viciously cruel book review, in person, at a book signing. She was so hurt she gave up writing entirely. Mind you, Wickham was correct. Her book was absolute rubbish. But you don’t say that to someone’s face at a public event.”

I struggle to reconcile his Wickham stories with the burger I knew.

“On that note, since I genuinely can’t remember, I’m sorry if at any point I’ve called you, or your book, rubbish. I know how hard it is to hear critique when you’re an absolute nobody. Please understand I bear you no ill will. Best of luck, Darcy Pendleton.”

This was followed by a screenful of social media links.

After waiting a full minute to ensure the barrage was over, I replied, “We should talk. Call me.”

Then I blocked his number.

Returning to my motel, I found a package waiting for me at the front desk: a signed first-edition Darcy Pendleton novel.

I was disgusted, though I considered the resale value when electing to keep it.

I plopped into my motel room’s uncomfortable chair and opened Darcy’s book with relish.

It was horrifying. I kept laughing. I didn’t want to.

He cruelly failed to be unfunny.

I set the book down and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps, as others had suggested, I knew nothing about literature, after all.

It was a somber thought.

Momentary, but somber.

I considered returning to the convention center, but since my costume was giving me rashes in unsettling places, I decided to skip disco night.

The following morning, I once again donned the foam and headed back to the fair.

My former agent ambushed me near the entrance.

He said, “I know you’re in a hurry, Stanton, but what I have to tell you is more important than scrambled eggs. I’ve been made aware of something extremely damaging to your reputation. You may not believe this, but I still want to help. Can you come with me to a short meeting?”

I followed him to a small side room.

Within, at the head of a long conference table, sat an imperious woman, who glared at me.

My agent made introductions.

“Stanton, this is Catherine Martin, Vice President of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.”

“I demand you explain yourself,” she greeted me politely.

Her desire for further self-expression delayed my response.

“First, my quisling comes forward with an intriguing book idea—from you, of all people—attached to an outrageous price tag. Then I ask five important people their opinion of it, only to watch you throw my hard work away.”

She turned her computer around.

On the screen was a book listing.

Specifically, it was a listing for Last Ship from Lydia, by Stanton Fenwick.

I felt like I had stepped into a seminar on parallel universes.

“I didn’t write that,” I protested.

“So you made a book proposal in public, followed by the sudden appearance of the very book, with your name listed as the author, and you have no idea where it came from? That’s the best you can come up with on the spot?”

She scoffed, “I can see why you needed AI to write Last Ship from Lydia.”

Catherine was my new least favorite person.

I pointed at the listing.

“Lady, I may have my authorial deficiencies, but I wear them proudly. AI doesn’t write for me. I would never publish something like that.”

“Then we have something in common,” she observed.

“Now, if you want to consider a book I actually wrote…”

“The Stone Age comedy?” she interrupted.

“Victorian.”

Another scoff.

“What if it had a foreword by Darcy Pendleton?” I tempted her.

“That’s not happening.”

I felt a rising dread.

“Is Darcy…”

“…a HarperCollins author? Yes, he is.”

“So you…”

“…would never allow him to do something so reckless? Correct. There will be no foreword to any novel you self-publish by Darcy Pendleton.”

We closed the scrum with a mutual exchange of indelicacies.

I staggered out.

Back in the hallway, my ex-agent said, “Wickham.”

Right. It had to be.

I wandered off in a daze. It felt like a setback.

In addition to angering an industry giant, Wickham had rendered my name mud in the sci-fi book fair world.

I was no longer viewed as the man I once was, dignified even when dressed as cheesecake.

Now I was considered an AI cheat.

I walked to the end of a long hallway and rode an escalator to the second floor. I wished to be alone.

Above the book fair, a hospital association was hosting a conference. I found myself in a crowd of surgeons, none of whom had chosen to engage in cosplay.

As nothing could be more demeaning than returning to the book fair, I lifted my nose and shuffled past, to the sound of medical snickering.

The crowd’s amusement drew the attention of a security guard. My identity was compromised. He began his approach.

I scurried back the way I had come, but my foam suit was generating too much friction against the escalator walls. I was embarrassingly easy to catch.

Keeping a firm grasp on my arm, the law marched me back toward the convention center’s main exit.

I put on a huge grin as if enjoying the situation immensely.

It was all I could do.

The guard led me straight into the belly of the beast. Half of Texas seemed to be in the lobby. There was much pointing, both of fingers and camera phones.

Suddenly, before us, stood Catherine Martin.

She stared down the security guard.

“I demand you follow me,” she introduced herself.

He was immediately taken with her (as I had been).

“Lady, get out of my way,” he ordered. “Who on earth do you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m someone who provides money—and I mean a lot of it—to the people who pay your salary,” Catherine replied, “for now.”

The woman, to her credit, was an effective communicator. She had his attention.

“I am heading upstairs to speak with the event organizers. They are meeting with representatives of the convention center, as we speak. They need to know their biggest sponsor was just insulted.”

She snapped a photo of the security guard.

“I will be sharing my side of this story,” she informed him. “Whether you wish to relate yours is for you to decide.”

She turned and strode away.

With a grunt, the guard followed. We caught up with her at the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed, the veep laid into me.

“Mr. Fenwick, you are an intolerable nuisance. I don’t know precisely what you’ve done, but you have made my stable of authors very upset. Darcy Pendleton practically blackmailed me this morning! He threatened that if I didn’t use HarperCollins’ weight to get your plagiarized novel pulled from the market immediately, he would boycott the rest of the book fair. The fool!”

“Darcy? Are you sure?”

“I am. We had a long chat. Darcy made me aware that you’re nothing more than a patsy…a simpleton…an easy mark. Wickham started this trouble, and I will have my revenge. I signed that cookbook of his to a development deal. I plan to make his life a torment. I can string him along for years.”

She smiled.

“But it will never be published.”

I considered a career change.

The elevator arrived on the second floor. We followed Catherine to Bluebonnet Meeting Room B.

She threw open the doors, entered, and began speaking over the person at the whiteboard.

There was general shock.

A man detained in cosplay cheesecake might have registered as highly unexpected, but Catherine's story was genuinely stunning. Apparently, someone was still trying to write Victorian comedy.

“So you see, this sad, little man was a victim of fraud,” Catherine sniffed. “If you forcibly remove him, it will cause no end of headaches for HarperCollins. I demand you release him, at once!”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are reluctant to issue apologies.

But I was set free.

I staggered from the room, only to encounter Darcy pacing the hall.

“You?” I gasped. “You’re the reason I didn’t get thrown out?”

Darcy took a bow.

(I found it a bit much. I mean, it was only a book fair.)

“I did something better than that,” he revealed. “I got you a reserved slot on the schedule to deliver your talk on Edwardian Comedy.”

“Victorian,” I corrected him.

“No,” he corrected me. “I read your book. It’s Edwardian.”

“You…read it?”

He chuckled.

“I did. You may not write well. You may not be well. But I couldn’t help but laugh.”

“At my book?”

“Of course! You have a knack for writing the comedic fool. Most authors would struggle to write such a ridiculous protagonist. You make it look effortless.”

I smiled, hoping for more.

“It was…surprisingly good,” he added.

I didn’t agree with the entirety of Darcy’s appraisal, but he was a very successful author. Who was I to question his judgment?

If he said my book was a classic, I had to accept it as fact.

I thanked him, unblocked him, then hurried away to research Edwardian comedy.

(He was correct. My book is Edwardian. I researched who Edward was.)

The organizers assigned me the coveted 6:45 to 7:00 AM slot at the small stage near the concessions area on the fair’s final day.

Many, many people passed by. I think I reached them.

My mission completed, I returned home.

I missed my iPad.

Desperate for money, I self-published Last Ship from Lydia under a pen name. Darcy Pendleton wrote a foreword, also under a pen name. But everybody knew it was him.

It remains my best-selling work.]]> Stanton Fenwick Derbyshire Writers' GuildTue, 14 Apr 2026 22:03:23 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131842#msg-131842 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131842#msg-131842 Steph D Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 10 Apr 2026 05:08:00 +0100 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131841#msg-131841 https://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131836,131841#msg-131841 Micha Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 09 Apr 2026 22:00:10 +0100