A Reason to Hope Read online

  A Reason to Hope

  A Pride & Prejudice Novella

  Christie Capps

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  From the Author:

  Already Available - From Christie Capps

  ALREADY AVAILABLE - FROM J Dawn King:

  Thank you very much!

  Copyright © 2019 by Christie Capps

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Christie Capps is a pen name for Joy King, who also writes as J Dawn King.

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  For those who love a happily-ever-after

  Chapter 1

  Blood!

  Fitzwilliam Darcy crumpled the linen square in his hand, unwilling to allow anyone to see the evidence of his illness. Flinging the stained handkerchief into the burning fire, he rested his arm against the mantel, his free hand clenched into a fist.

  His father had died five years prior at the young age of seven and forty from what the surgeon referred to as a cancer of the abdomen. The pain of watching the long-term failure of a powerful body had almost destroyed the son. At the end of his life, George Darcy had coughed up blood.

  His cousin, Anne de Bourgh, suffered from consumption. Lately, Darcy had noted spots of red on her linens after a coughing fit. According to her physician, his cousin’s future was grim.

  Slamming his fist against the hard wood, a sense of panic enveloped Darcy.

  In the three months since rescuing his young sister from an almost-elopement with a scoundrel, there had been repeated bouts of stomach pain that felt like his chest was on fire. Meals he typically enjoyed in the past now made him miserable. At night, he could barely sleep. When his head finally hit his pillow, the suffering increased.

  Looking into the flames, Darcy counted back to when he and Georgiana had rushed back from Ramsgate in July. In the twelve weeks since they had been home at Pemberley, he had ruined four handkerchiefs. Two of those four had been in the past se’nnight alone.

  Turning to gaze out the large window next to the fireplace, he studied the view.

  He loved Pemberley, the estate where he had been born and raised. To him, the stone walls, the aged oak trees, the constantly flowing river that ran across the southern boundary, and the hills and peaks of the property represented permanence. It was only the life contained within those walls that was fleeting, like the morning mist over the moors.

  Good Lord! What was he to do?

  Rubbing his hand over his mouth, Darcy considered his responsibilities.

  His estate employed over two hundred. His properties inside and outside of England were many. His investments were almost endless. He was the co-guardian of a sister who had recently reached her sixteenth year. Her other guardian, their cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, was in the active military. She rarely saw Richard.

  Moving to his desk, he removed a copy of George Darcy’s Last Will & Testament. Attached to the file was a letter addressed to him from his beloved father. Unfolding the parchment, Darcy was flooded with all the emotions he had struggled with upon reading the letter for the first time—heartbreak, an overwhelming anxiety, panic, and agony.

  Mr. George Darcy, Esquire

  Pemberley, Derbyshire

  My Dear Son,

  The surgeon tells me I will soon be joining your mother in the grave. Therefore, I want to take this opportunity to tell you how proud I am of you.

  Since you were a lad, you have willingly accepted every task I have assigned you. Your devotion to Pemberley and to Georgiana will serve you both well.

  What has impressed me the most about you, Son, is not just your attention to duty, but your honor. I have witnessed the sacrifices you have made for the sake of the Darcy name. You have not gone off and foolishly pursued the same course as your worthless peers. No, your attention to your studies, your humbly accepting suggestions from those with more experience, and the attention you give your sister have been reasons for joy.

  William, what burdens my mind now during these final days is your future. You see, I am confident you will do the best for your sister. Will you do the best for yourself? You cannot if you choose to travel the path of life alone.

  Your mother was a strengthening aid to me on more than one occasion. When a weighty decision was in front of me, she wisely allowed me to talk matters out, giving her opinion when she felt I was veering away from my duty. Daily, she reminded me of my blessings.

  Pemberley is a wonderful place to raise a family.

  With this in mind, I will remind you that the continuation of our estate in the Darcy family is by a male heir. You must have a son, William. Georgiana cannot inherit Pemberley on her own. Should you not marry and produce an heir, well, I do not want to consider the consequences, but they would be dire indeed.

  Marry well, my son. Should you not find a young lady who would be your true partner in town, look outside the ton to a gentleman’s daughter from the country. Find a woman who is kind, who will challenge you, who would be a proper mistress of Pemberley, and in whom you would find delight.

  Raise and train your children to be exactly like you, William. Only then will you know the happiness and peace you have brought me.

  I remain your loving father,

  GD

  Folding the parchment, Darcy reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, only to remember it was no longer there. Resting his forehead in his hands, his elbows planted firmly on the desktop, Darcy pondered how quickly his life’s purpose had changed. Until Ramsgate, he felt he walked in a straight line at a constant pace toward the accomplishment of the goals his ancestors had achieved. With this illness he was facing, he needed to move faster, to run if necessary.

  For five years he had danced to the tune of those in the marriage mart. Not once had he been tempted to engage in a second dance with any of the ladies he had stood up with. How could he marry any of them if he was not able to be in their presence for longer than thirty minutes? Impossible!

  His eyes settled on the post received only that morning. On the top was an easily identifiable letter from his good friend, Mr. Charles Bingley. Breaking the seal, he found exactly what he needed: an invitation to Bingley’s newly leased country estate in Hertfordshire.

  Darcy would do as his father directed him. He would find a gently born wife from the country who would be his full partner until he was no longer able to manage estate business. Then the burden would fall upon her. Yes, he would discover a paragon with a lovely countenance and personality, whose kind heart and ready wit would make her presence in his company tolerable.

  Hah! In his dreams, perhaps.

  Most likely, he would meet the same sort of avaricious female as would be found in the ton. Well-dressed females who were in reality blood-sucking debutantes, trained by their mothers to claw at him with their talons, hanging on until he could not escape without harm.

  The fire that had been simmering in his gut flamed into a conflagration. Rubbing at his chest, he drank the luke
warm tea he had abandoned before his coughing fit.

  He had no choice, Darcy had to admit. He needed a wife and an heir. Soon!

  Drawing paper from the desk drawer, he first listed the candidates he had felt even a modicum of physical attraction to. Then he crossed off those who bored him to tears within five minutes of being in their company.

  Setting the quill back on its rest, he considered the four names remaining. They were well-dowered, with excellent connections, and conducted themselves well in society.

  Growling, he also recalled why he had rejected each of them.

  Dropping his head in his hands, he wished he was not in his current situation. Inhaling deeply, he sat up, his spine stiff.

  He would accept Bingley’s invitation for a fortnight in Hertfordshire, then he would return to London and place the names of the four contenders in a hat. He would draw a name randomly, making the chosen one an offer of marriage.

  There! That settled the matter.

  His plan tipped upside down not long after he arrived in Meryton, a small farming town in Hertfordshire. During his fortnight with Bingley, his purpose changed, his opinion changed, and his future was set.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esquire, decided, without wavering, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn would be his salvation.

  Chapter 2

  Upon their first encounter, Darcy had overlooked Miss Elizabeth. A few days later at a gathering at Lucas Lodge, her quick wit, her delightful laughter, and her attempts to constrain her younger sisters into more ladylike behavior set her apart. However, it was when she arrived at Netherfield Park to care for her ailing sister, Jane, that Darcy finally admitted to himself that Miss Elizabeth might be without equal.

  The first evening, she refused to dally at a table with two wealthy eligible gentlemen. Instead, Miss Elizabeth removed herself to return to attend to Miss Bennet. The second evening, upon evidence of her sister’s recovery, she joined the company after dining.

  “You write uncommonly fast,” Caroline Bingley, his host’s unmarried sister, praised Darcy as Miss Elizabeth strolled into the room.

  “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly,” Darcy replied. He covertly watched Miss Elizabeth as she took up a needlework project, a small smile on her face, undoubtedly at the inanity of the exchange.

  Where Darcy knew Miss Bingley’s intent of capturing him as her matrimonial prize, he had no clue about Miss Elizabeth’s goals. She appeared to be uncommonly content with her circumstances. Yet how could that be so? Her father’s estate was entailed to a distant cousin. Each of the five Bennet girls would receive an exceedingly small portion upon marriage. Little more would come their way at the death of their parents. None of the daughters had been presented at court or had a season in town.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir!” Miss Bingley’s nasal tone finally caught his attention. “You are not attending.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he easily apologized.

  “Surely you were not distracted by a letter to your sister to the extent you failed to continue the conversation.” Caroline Bingley attempted a tease only to fail spectacularly.

  Darcy admitted, “I was thinking of something else.”

  “Oh, do share, I pray you, for we will all be astonished by the depth of your intelligence, will we not?” Caroline Bingley smirked, waved her hand in the air to dismiss the attention she sought, then looked to the other guest in the room to see if the lady was at all impressed.

  “Miss Elizabeth, how can you choose not to participate in our stimulating conversation? You sit quietly like a servant in a corner, working at her craft to earn a few extra coins for her pocket.”

  The insult was painfully obvious.

  Darcy’s instinct was to barge in and defend Miss Elizabeth. Nonetheless, something held him back. At her response, he was grateful he had held his tongue.

  “Miss Bingley, might I inquire, if you do not mind, whether you know of Sir Martin Frobisher?” As evidence of her continued good manners, Miss Elizabeth placed the needlework aside, devoting her full attention to her hostess.

  “Sir Martin Frobisher?” Miss Bingley’s nose was now pointed directly at the ceiling. “Why, who does not know of him?” She preened as she looked away from her guest to Darcy. “Mr. Darcy, do you know of Sir Martin? Surely he is in the same sphere as the Darcys and the Matlocks. In fact, I believe he has an estate close to Bath, does he not?”

  He wanted to chuckle. His uncle, the Earl of Matlock, had recently reached the age of sixty. Darcy was not yet eight and twenty. Sir Martin had been dead for over two centuries. No, Sir Martin Frobisher was not a recent acquaintance.

  Gazing at Miss Elizabeth, he could not miss the twinkle in her marvelous eyes. What was she up to? Why had she mentioned the name? Lifting his right brow, he tipped his head slightly, the universal gesture of a curiosity demanding satisfaction.

  With a slight movement of her lips, Elizabeth said, “I am unsurprised at your hearing of the man for he was quite famous several years ago. You see, he was an adventurous sort who was devoted to the progress of England. Traveling repeatedly across the Atlantic seeking the Northwest Passage, he discovered what he thought was a rich source of gold. Can you imagine his excitement at the potential for great wealth?”

  Miss Bingley put her hand up to her throat to stroke the precious metal of her heavy gold necklace. The glee at imagining a pot of gold somewhere in Canada waiting for detection lit her face, highlighting her avariciousness. “Yes, I can imagine.” She sighed longingly.

  Miss Elizabeth continued her tale. “Sir Martin loaded three ships with a total of two hundred tons of the ore. The assay value at his return was over one thousand pounds. Encouraged by the results, and encouraged by the Queen, he sailed back to Canada with a fleet of ships. This time, they carried over thirteen hundred tons of ore. Can you conceive of the value he would receive once back in England?”

  “Oh my!” Miss Bingley was ecstatic. “I would buy a new gown for every day of the year, with accessories and jewels to match, with those funds.”

  “I do imagine you would always look your finest, Miss Bingley.” Bowing her head to her hostess, Miss Elizabeth added, “It is an unfortunate matter of history that those tons of ore produced little actual gold. The rest was pyrite. The metal looks like gold but is comparatively worthless.”

  “Oh!” Miss Bingley’s countenance fell. “Why ever did you tell me this? What did you hope to attain with this sorry story?”

  “I merely was considering how often appearances are deceptive. You spoke of Mr. Darcy writing quickly. His expressed opinion was that he was slow. I suspect we shall never know the complete truth of the matter.” Miss Elizabeth stood to leave the room. “Pardon me, I need to return to Jane.”

  With a curtsey, she was gone.

  Darcy wanted to laugh when Miss Bingley blandly stated, “What an odd sort of girl.”

  Ever one to pursue peace, her brother noted, “I am most impressed with the ladies of Longbourn. Miss Bennet is an angel. Miss Elizabeth appears to have a keen understanding beyond fabrics, lace, and social niceties. I find them both refreshing.”

  Caroline scoffed. “You know nothing, Charles.”

  When Miss Bingley joined her sister in watching Bingley and Mr. Hurst play cards, Darcy was left alone to consider the exchange. He had recognized Miss Elizabeth’s purpose immediately. It had nothing to do with the letter he was writing. No, Miss Elizabeth put Caroline Bingley on notice that the second daughter from Longbourn was far from being a lowly maid of all work. Instead, she was well-educated, able to defend herself with her intelligence without resorting to meanness, and shrewd enough to recognize the lack of character in her hostess.

  Brava, Miss Elizabeth!

  At that moment, Darcy decided he would do whatever he needed to make her his bride.

  Not two hours later, Darcy struggled to catch his breath. The burning in his chest and throat eventually resulted in him coughing until he cast up his accounts. He mopped his mouth with
the cloth provided by his valet, the tell-tale sign of dark red streaking the linen.

  As he wiped his brow with a cool, damp cloth, the physical discomfort and the weight of his future consumed him. Unwanted tears trailed down his cheek. Brushing them away with his hands, he rested his head against the wall.

  In his heart and mind, he knew it was too soon to offer for Miss Elizabeth. Yet his circumstances demanded that he not wait any longer.

  He sighed deeply at his situation. Darcy knew his inability to converse freely with someone he had recently met would hinder any attempts he made to seek her agreement.

  Determination had him standing. Perseverance had him walking to his writing desk. Stubbornness had him pull several sheets of parchment from the drawer.

  His hand quivered, the remnants of the physical weakness that had assaulted him. Calling his valet, he asked for water. When it was placed on the table within arm’s reach, Darcy said, “Thornton, I would ask for your discretion in delivering a note to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who is here caring for her sister.”

  “Yes, sir.” Thornton’s brows shot up his forehead. “I will gladly perform this task.”

  When his valet shifted from one foot to the other, Darcy asked, “Yes?”

  Clearing his throat, his eyes firmly planted on the carpets covering the floor, Thornton said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I know better than to gossip with the staff. But you should know how well the maids speak of both Miss Bennets. They are considered to be the finest ladies in the shire. That is all I have to say.”

  Darcy studied the man who knew him better than any other. “I see. Well, yes, you should not listen to idle chatter. However, in this instance, I am pleased with this report.” Darcy drained the glass, the water feeling cool on his abused throat. “If I am successful, Miss Elizabeth will become my wife. If I do not meet with success, I will act as my cousin the colonel does and think of alternate strategies until I leave Hertfordshire a married man.”