Gallant mr darcy, p.1
Gallant Mr. Darcy, page 1
Gallant Mr. Darcy
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
By Laraba Kendig
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Sneak Peek of Longbourn’s Son
Regency Romance Books by Laraba Kendig
Note from the Author
Dedication
Copyright © 2022 by Laraba Kendig
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Chapter 1
Longbourn
Hertfordshire
November 27th, 1811
Elizabeth curled up in her bed with her covers pulled over her head, her mind swirling with anguished images. How could she have been so wrong about George Wickham? He had seemed so charming, so kind, so gentle; how could he attack her like he did? As tears streamed down her cheeks, she recalled how the horrifying events of the morning had unfolded...
/
Two hours earlier
Elizabeth Bennet crept down the stairs and, after ascertaining that the front hall was empty, hurried out the front door of her family home of Longbourn; it was early in the morning, and only the night previously the entire Bennet family had been up very late at the ball at Netherfield Hall. Thus, the Bennets, along with their guest, the irritating Mr. William Collins, were planning to sleep late.
Elizabeth, however, had woken early and found herself entirely unable to fall back to sleep. After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, she had decided to rise and take a brisk walk along the familiar paths of the estate of Longbourn.
Two minutes later, she had reached a trail leading toward the west, towards Netherfield Park. She felt herself relax as she slowed her pace, confident that no one would call her back. If Mrs. Bennet had seen her, she would have ordered Elizabeth to stay within the house. The mistress of Longbourn had never understood the active temperament and quick mind of her second daughter. Furthermore, Mr. Collins was doubtless intending to hover over Elizabeth at breakfast, harassing her with pompous and ponderous compliments.
Elizabeth’s face twisted in disgust, and she huffed aloud. Mr. Collins, a clergyman, was her distant cousin and, regrettably, heir to Longbourn, as Mr. Bennet’s father had entailed the estate away from the female line. The Bennets had never met him before, and Elizabeth heartily wished that Mr. Collins had chosen to avoid the estate until her father had passed on to his reward.
It was not, of course, that she disliked clergymen. Mr. Allen, who held the living at the church near Meryton, was a sensible, well bred, generous man who had done much good for those under his spiritual care.
“But Mr. Collins is entirely absurd!” Elizabeth suddenly exclaimed aloud, causing a squirrel on a nearby tree to freeze in surprise. She smiled at the sight and shook her head. “I apologize for my outburst,” she said to the little creature. “It is merely that...”
She trailed off, aware that talking out loud to a forest animal was ridiculous. She found Mr. Collins tedious and annoying, but the worst aspect of his presence was that he had obviously chosen her to be his bride. On the one hand, it was a kind plan; the five Bennet daughters would be effectively rendered impecunious when their father died. Mr. Collins’s stated desire to ameliorate the pain of losing the estate by marrying one of the Bennet daughters was actually quite generous, given that Elizabeth and her sisters were poorly dowered.
On the other hand, Elizabeth knew that in all of England, there were few men whom she despised more than Mr. Collins. He was an odd mixture of subservience and self-conceit, talked incessantly, and spent most of his waking hours driveling on about the glories of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, his patroness in Kent. Elizabeth would be miserable if she married the man and was resolved not to do so; better the hedgerows than to wed and share a bed and children with a man whom she could not respect at all. No, she would never marry Mr. Collins, and having the man staying in her very house was exasperating.
Her pace picked up as her mind reverted unwillingly to yet another unpleasant experience from the Netherfield Ball, when she had danced with Mr. Darcy. The man was master of a large estate in Derbyshire and was handsome, tall, and the nephew of an earl. Naturally, Mr. Darcy considered himself far superior to mere mortals and had been a thorn in Elizabeth’s side since the first night she laid eyes on the man. That notable moment had been at a public assembly at Meryton, where the master of Pemberley had announced in penetrating tones that she, Elizabeth Bennet, was not handsome enough to dance with. Their relationship ever since had been one of veiled antagonism.
It was really quite odd that the gentleman had asked her to dance last night; perhaps he felt some compunction at overtly disdaining her at the Meryton assembly? Darcy’s closest friend, Mr. Charles Bingley, was in love with Jane, Elizabeth’s elder sister; perhaps Darcy thought it wise to present a more courteous face to the Bennet family?
If so – and at this thought Elizabeth’s lips curved into a satisfied smile – Darcy was no doubt quite surprised at their conversation during the dance. Elizabeth disliked Mr. Darcy for his arrogance and pride, but she loathed him for his treatment of Mr. George Wickham, a lieutenant in the militia regiment currently stationed in Meryton. Mr. Wickham was as handsome as Darcy, but far more congenial and charming; the man was godson to Mr. Darcy’s father, and the elder Darcy had sought to provide for Mr. Wickham by setting aside a good church living for the man. The younger Mr. Darcy, fueled by jealousy, had cruelly refused to give Mr. Wickham the living. Now the lieutenant was forced to earn his bread in whatever way he could find. It was unconscionable, and Elizabeth, while she could not bluntly tax Darcy on his treatment toward the man, had made enough subtle comments to render the master of Pemberley uncomfortable indeed.
Elizabeth sighed unhappily as she considered poor Mr. Wickham, who was quite alone in the world. She wished she could do more than be a sympathetic friend, but alas, it was not in her power to provide any true assistance. She was attracted to Mr. Wickham, and she was confident he was attracted to her, but there could be no happy union between an impoverished steward’s son and the poorly dowered second daughter of a country gentleman.
The path she was taking met another, and Elizabeth turned toward home; the other end of the trail led to Meryton, and while she would enjoy visiting her Uncle and Aunt Philips, it would not do. She really must return to Longbourn, and soon, or her mother would be upset. More than that, her dearest Jane would worry, and Elizabeth did not want that.
She glanced at her wristwatch and noted it was later than she realized. She picked up her pace and turned a bend, only to stop in delighted surprise.
“Mr. Wickham!” she exclaimed.
/
George Wickham grimaced and lifted his gloved hands to cover his cold ears. He had long been prone to ear pain when he was in frigid environments, and today, in particular, he wished that his military hat came down lower on his head.
He grumbled as he strode down the path which led to Meryton. He had intended to take the stage to the little town where his militia regiment was currently stationed, but one of the carriage wheels had failed on the road from London. The passengers had, depending on their character and personality, clucked, cried, or cursed, but the coachman had merely climbed down and said he would go for help, while advising all to stay within until he returned with another conveyance.
Wickham, with no desire to spend any more time with the other passengers, several of whom were rather smelly, had decided to walk the five miles to Meryton along the northern path of the Longbourn estate.
He did not truly regret that decision, but he was now hungry and quite fatigued. At least his body felt warm enough. He lifted a flask from his hip pocket and poured another few ounces of gin down his throat. The flask had been full when he departed this morning from London, and he had not intended to drink so much so quickly, but the alcohol relieved the cold. Indeed, he felt very pleasant except for his overly chilled ears, though perhaps a trifle bosky.
He had been nine years old when he had run away from his home near the great estate of Pemberley, angry at his father for refusing to purchase his only son a pair of fine linen breeches. It had been a cold day, and he had wandered too far, only to be caught in a snowstorm. Mr. George Darcy, alerted by the elder Mr. Wickham, had sent numerous servants out to search for his godson. Young George had been found before any serious damage was done,
Wickham frowned heavily as his thoughts wandered toward Pemberley, and both Mr. Darcys. The elder Mr. Darcy had been a kindly, generous man who had graciously extended his patronage to his steward’s son. Wickham had been raised as a gentleman and attended both Harrow and Cambridge under the auspices of the master of Pemberley. It was entirely unfair that the current Mr. Darcy disdained his responsibility toward his father’s godson. It was Darcy’s fault that Wickham was languishing in a desolate little town in the back end of nowhere instead of serving as a clergyman in Kympton, near Pemberley. Wickham had been only two and twenty years of age when the elder Mr. Darcy had died, and far too young to realize that giving up a valuable living was an idiotic decision. At the time, Wickham had thought he would enjoy studying law, only to quickly realize that the law was far too dull for a man of his talents and temperament. The current Mr. Darcy had been all too ready to take advantage of him by offering a mere three thousand pounds to give up all rights to the living; it was entirely unfair!
Wickham slowed his pace slightly as the path entered a large stand of trees, which cut him off from the brisk wind. It was, he mused resentfully, Darcy’s fault that he was freezing his ears off right now! He had been eagerly welcomed in Meryton, of course; he was a charming, handsome gentleman, and set off the red coat of the militia exceedingly well. It had been a horrible shock to discover that Darcy was currently living at nearby Netherfield Hall with his gregarious and cheerful friend, Mr. Charles Bingley. Wickham considered fleeing when he first caught sight of his enemy’s tall form on an impressive black horse, only to discover, to his considerable relief, that Darcy’s haughty manners had alienated the local gentry. Wickham was confident that he was safe enough so long as he did not openly confront the master of Pemberley. Wickham had nearly succeeded in running off with Georgiana, Darcy’s much younger sister, only four months previously, and Darcy, while furious with him, would not move against him for fear that it would damage the reputation of his precious little sister.
All the same, Wickham had chosen to avoid the ball at Netherfield the previous night, where Darcy was bound to be very much in evidence. Instead, he had rushed off to London on the pretext of having urgent business there. Now he was weary and hungry, and his feet hurt.
The trees on the right suddenly opened and Wickham turned his head to look down a hill toward Longbourn, where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet and their five daughters lived. Wickham’s face flushed at the thought of the women; four of the five Miss Bennets were the acknowledged belles of the neighborhood, and their beauty drew many a militia officer like to a particularly bright flame.
It was a great pity that none of the women were well dowered, as Wickham would enjoy tying himself to a woman as beautiful and fascinating as the second Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth. The girl was not quite as lovely as her more serene elder sister, but she was intelligent, passionate, and despised Fitzwilliam Darcy. She was the perfect companion and would be an excellent wife if she were wealthy, but alas, the Longbourn estate was entailed away to a fool of cousin, and the girls were, one and all, poor prospects for marriage.
The trees closed in again and Wickham found his mind wandering from Miss Elizabeth’s winsome face and enchanting banter to her thoroughly desirable body. It had been too long since he had taken a woman to bed, and he had been disappointed when a female acquaintance in London had turned him away from her door only the night previously. It was no great surprise that the woman had found a new paramour, but why could she not save some of her embraces for an old friend?
Miss Elizabeth was, he feared, too sensible to give up her virtue, but perhaps he could, at least, steal a kiss when the time was right? Or perhaps enjoy a close embrace?
The lady was an independent soul and often walked alone. Perhaps he would be fortunate enough to find her at an opportune time...
He rounded a bend in the path and then stared in disbelief. It appeared that God himself was smiling down upon him as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, dressed in a charming red walking dress, strode briskly toward him.
Her beautiful face lit up at the sight of him and she cried out happily, “Mr. Wickham!”
/
The black stallion, Phoenix, halted at a touch of the reins and whickered softly, his breath puffing tiny clouds from his mouth.
Fitzwilliam Darcy looked around as he leaned a little closer to the great beast’s neck for warmth. Here at the highest point on the Netherfield estate, the cold wind penetrated his wool coat and buckskin breeches, and he shivered. It was time to return to the warm mansion a mile away, where his valet had no doubt finished packing his clothing for the return to London.
Darcy sighed aloud and discovered, to his annoyance, that he had unconsciously turned Phoenix so that he could look upon Longbourn, the estate which lay along the eastern border of Netherfield. Mr. Bennet was an intelligent and well-read man, but he was not a diligent husband, father, or master of his estate. His wife, Mrs. Bennet, the daughter of a solicitor, was a shrill, vulgar woman whose only attraction lay in her still considerable beauty. The lady spent her life throwing her five daughters at gentlemen in the hopes of snaring wealthy husbands for them; indeed, if it were not for Mrs. Bennet, Darcy would probably not be leaving for London today.
His mind shifted back to the night before when his younger friend, Charles Bingley, the current lessee of Netherfield, had hosted a lavish ball for the neighborhood. Bingley, a generous and charitable soul with an eye for handsome women, had spent much of the evening dancing with and hovering over the eldest Miss Bennet; a blonde, blue-eyed lady who was, even to Darcy’s critical eye, one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. Mrs. Bennet, eager for her daughter to wed Mr. Bingley, had loudly proclaimed to those in attendance that Jane Bennet would soon be mistress of Netherfield.
Darcy huffed in indignation and nudged his horse into a walk. Phoenix was four years old, full of energy and vigor, and this would be the last country walk he would enjoy in some time. It was a pity in some ways; Darcy far preferred the country to London, but as Bingley’s closest friend, he could not allow the younger man to tie himself to a vulgar family of poor connections and little wealth. It was not as if Jane Bennet truly cared for his friend. Unlike her mother, she was a charming, genteel young woman, but there was no true affection in those celestial eyes when they looked upon Charles Bingley. Miss Bennet would certainly accept an offer of marriage from Bingley because her family’s estate was entailed away to a distant cousin, but his friend deserved better than to be tied for life to a woman who looked upon him with courteous indifference.
Only two hours previously, Darcy had risen early and met Bingley’s two sisters, also alarmed by their brother’s infatuation with Miss Bennet, at the breakfast table. It had not taken long for the threesome to agree that Bingley must be separated immediately from Jane Bennet. Bingley had left before dawn for London to visit his man of business, and Darcy, along with Bingley’s two sisters and brother by marriage, would journey to the City this afternoon to urge the man to stay away from Netherfield. Darcy was not entirely certain that they would succeed – Bingley’s attachment to Miss Bennet was stronger than he had ever observed in his friend before – but he had to try, for the sake of their friendship. It was the right thing to do.
Phoenix neighed softly, and Darcy looked up in surprise. Without thinking about it, he had directed his horse on the path that led toward Longbourn, toward the second Bennet daughter, Miss Elizabeth.
Not for the first time, his heart beat faster at the thought of Miss Elizabeth, whom he found both intriguing and alluring. It was not, of course, love. He could hardly be in love with a woman of poor connections and no fortune, even if her beauty was considerable. It was merely that he was fascinated with her singular nature, surely. The lady did not flutter her eyelashes or show off her décolletage, but rather debated his views with arch vigor, and disagreed with him for what seemed to be the sheer joy of being contrary.
No, that was not adoration fluttering in his breast. Absolutely not! It was merely that he was so very tired of the typical women of the gentry, who boasted of their accomplishments and eyed him greedily, like matrimonial sharks in search of wealthy prey. He had been pursued and hunted and annoyed for so many years now. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was different, that was all. Her manners were unusual, as was her beauty and her intelligence and her wit and her boldness. Only last night, when he had asked her to dance a set, Miss Elizabeth had berated him over his supposed mistreatment of the vile George Wickham!
