Page 82 of Heiress of Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variations)
Pemberley
May 16th, 1813
Elizabeth Darcy, mistress of the great estate of Pemberley, lifted her face toward the spring sun and closed her eyes in pleasure. Spring had come late to Derbyshire, or at least later than Elizabeth was used to, given that she had lived her girlhood in the more southerly county of Hertfordshire. But at last the temperatures were warm, and the verdant leaves had unfurled on the great trees.
Not that she had been unhappy through the winter. She and her beloved Fitzwilliam had married only the previous September, and these months in the great house of Pemberley had been glorious. Fitzwilliam was less busy in winter than in spring and summer, and they had spent whole afternoons talking together, reading books, playing chess, and had enjoyed many nights of wedded bliss. Georgiana, Darcy’s young sister, had proven as delightful a companion as Elizabeth could ever wish for, and she was confident that Georgiana found her a pleasant addition to the family party at Pemberley.
The change of the seasons had brought new life to the flowers, the trees, the spring lambs, the piglets, and, most importantly of all, in her womb. She had felt sick for many weeks but was delighted to be carrying Pemberley’s heir.
“Elizabeth?”
She opened her eyes and turned in her seat, smiling up at her tall, dark, and handsome husband.
“Fitzwilliam! My dear, the rose garden grows more beautiful every day, does it not?”
“It does,” he agreed, sitting down next to his lovely bride and placing an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “My mother worked for many years to make the rose gardens a beautiful respite, and our staff has maintained her vision since she passed on.”
“It is marvelous,” Elizabeth said, leaning her head against his chest. Poor Fitzwilliam, to have lost both his mother and father by the time he was five and twenty.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“An express arrived half an hour ago.”
She sat up and turned in concern. “An express? Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” he began, and then seeing the alarm on her face, continued quickly, “not for any of our loved ones, my dear. Cousin Anne sent a message from London. It regards the work of the League of the Golden Daffodil.”
He pulled one sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over. Elizabeth read it with growing anger and, once finished, said, “We must help, Fitzwilliam.”
He frowned in concern, his gaze dropping to her abdomen. “Are you certain you are well enough?”
“Oh yes, I am so much better. Nor will we need to travel far; if Anne is correct, their carriage will pass within fifteen miles of Pemberley.”
“Yes indeed. Very well, let us prepare.”
***
Road to Gretna Green
The next morning
Sir Walter Greystone, Baronet, master of the estate of Wynsworth in Kent, leaned against the squabs of the hired carriage and smiled at the lady across from him, Miss Annabelle Bryant. She, in turn, gazed adoringly at the man who would soon be her husband.
Even now, Annabelle could hardly believe her good fortune. She knew that she was not particularly handsome. She was not especially plain either, but the gentlemen she met were always, always , far more interested in her older sister Felicity.
Annabelle sighed. The lovely Miss Felicity Bryant, with her black hair, dark eyes, voluptuous figure, and musical voice, had been breaking hearts since she had entered society some three years previously. Annabelle knew that her older sister had turned down more than a dozen marriage offers from both noblemen and gentlemen. She had been so envious; it was the way of the world that her sister, as heiress of the estate of Greensides in Wiltshire, would be far more appealing to gentlemen than she was, a mere younger sister. Nevertheless, it stung; it hardly seemed fair that Felicity was blessed with not only an estate for her dowry, but beauty and musical giftedness too.
Annabelle truly loved her only sibling; Felicity had always been a caring sister, and she and their mother, Mrs. Bryant, had worked strenuously to prepare Annabelle for her own launch into the ton more than a year ago. It was not their fault that Annabelle had not “taken”; she knew she was rather shy and did not dance particularly well. Annabelle had received no offers during her first London Season, and precious little attention from eligible gentlemen.
It was not as if she was even so very poor; her dowry of ten thousand pounds was quite respectable. But it seemed that every gentleman alive, when considering the two Misses Bryant, chose to focus on Felicity, the heiress of an estate, not Annabelle.
Until now.
She smiled mistily as she regarded Sir Walter, who was now gazing out on the passing scenery of Derbyshire. The Baronet, age two and thirty, was many years older than she. He was also a widower whose first wife had died two years ago. Greystone had mourned a full year in Kent and had only come to London for the Season a few months ago. Annabelle had met Sir Walter at Lady Mostyn’s ball, and the master of Wynsworth had asked for two dances and then called at their family’s hired house in London the day after. In the ensuing weeks, he had visited often, and the two had met at several private parties and gatherings. They had fallen in love.
And it was love – genuine, heartfelt, adoring love. Her parents and Felicity did not understand. They were merely prejudiced because Greystone was so much older than she was and had refused to listen when Annabelle told them of her growing attachment to the man. But that did not matter; their hearts were as one, and Annabelle knew that she would never be happy with another.
Only three days before, Annabelle had overheard her parents planning to send her away to Brighton to visit her great-aunt, Lady Comerford, who was in poor health. She liked her great-aunt, but why would her parents send her away during the Season? The only possible reason for such a course was that her parents were trying to separate her from Sir Walter. She had realized her beloved was right; they must run away together and marry at Gretna Green and then, once the knot was tied, once everyone saw how happy they were together, her parents and Felicity would understand that she was right to rush to Scotland with the only man in the world who could ever make her happy.
She sighed. She was aware that her family was probably worried about her since she had crept out of their house in London in the middle of the night, but there was nothing else to be done. Nor was there anything truly shocking about her present course; she was not alone with her fiancé, after all. He had insisted on bringing along a maid, Marianne, who, while rather a taciturn young woman, had been most attentive to her needs during the three nights on the road.
“Are you feeling unwell, my darling?” Sir Walter asked gently, apparently concerned by her sigh.
“No, not at all!” Annabelle answered, forcing herself to speak brightly. She knew that she had an undeserved reputation for being sickly because she had, most unfortunately, succumbed to mumps at the end of last year’s Season. She was very healthy, and she did not want her love to even consider that he was taking on a fragile wife.
“It will not be too much longer,” the man said reassuringly. “We will be to Gretna Green before you know it.”
“I can hardly wait,” the girl sighed ecstatically, then bit her lower lip at the expression on the face of her fiancé.
“Is something wrong?” she asked nervously.
“No, no, my dear, I am merely concerned that this journey is rather too much for you. Marianne, give your mistress a drink of lemonade from that flask.”
“Oh, I am quite all right, Sir Walter, truly.”
The handsome gentleman smiled lovingly even as he shot a commanding glance at Annabelle’s maid.
“Walter, my darling. Please do call me Walter.”
“Walter,” she repeated, blushing profusely. It was still a source of wonder that she was permitted to call this handsome, suave, debonair, charming, sophisticated man by his first name. It was more than she had ever imagined as young Miss Annabelle, the unimpressive younger sister of Felicity.
Marianne, who had been busying herself with the hamper of food and drink, carefully handed Annabelle a cup of cool lemonade.
“Drink it, my darling,” the gentleman ordered.
Annabelle obediently drank some down, successfully suppressing a grimace at the taste. For some reason, the lemonade that Greystone – that Walter – had purchased had a bitter flavor underneath the sweetness. She did not like it, but would not complain, as she knew Walter had worked hard to make all the arrangements for their journey to Scotland.
A few minutes later, she closed her eyes drowsily and smiled. That was one pleasant thing about the lemonade; it usually made her sleepy.
Greystone, who was watching her carefully through hooded lids, waited another ten minutes and gestured at the maid, Marianne, who promptly leaned over the girl and shook her gently. The girl did not move, and Marianne sat back in her seat and said, “She is safely asleep, sir.”
He nodded approvingly and consulted his watch. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and if their journey continued at its current pace, they would arrive at Gretna Green the day after next. And then, at the blacksmith’s shop across the border between England and Scotland, he and Miss Annabelle Bryant would be joined together as man and wife.
He smiled to himself in satisfaction. It had been a lucky chance indeed, which had led to his discovery that the second Miss Bryant was a most desirable parti...
The sound of hoofbeats broke his concentration, and he turned his head in time to observe a chestnut horse thundering past their carriage.
Greystone stared out at the resulting dust cloud longingly. He considered himself an expert on horseflesh, and even though he had only glimpsed rider and steed, he was certain that the beast was a fine one, in sharp contrast to the two job horses laboring to pull the hired carriage which was his current conveyance.
He was so weary of being short of money. Fortunately, that would be at an end soon enough.
There was a cry from his coachman, and the carriage jolted to a quick halt. The Baron frowned and looked out toward the road, but there was nothing to see save dirt and trees. His ears, however, told another story; he could hear his driver expostulating, and another loud voice declaiming in a dramatic voice.
He sighed in exasperation and looked at Marianne. “Watch Miss Annabelle.”
“As you wish, sir,” the girl responded meekly. He smiled lasciviously at her; she was a comely female, far more attractive than his fiancée, and he had no intention of giving up his trysts with her. Indeed, he looked forward to the coming night, when he would spend yet another few hours in the maid’s arms.
But enough of that; for now, he must find out why they were no longer moving forward.
He opened the door and stepped down onto the road, wrinkling his nose at the sight of the dust which would further mar the patina of his boots, which had already acquired scratches these last days. The servant at the boarding house the previous night had no doubt done his best to shine his boots, but one could not expect much from the boots at a hostelry. A moment later, such thoughts were swept away at the sight of another carriage, which was blocking the road which led toward Gretna Green and his salvation. A coach stood waiting on the other side of the blockage, and a beautiful woman, flanked by two servants in livery, was standing at its door, watching with interest.
“What the devil is going on?” Sir Walter demanded of the coachman of the stalled coach. “Get out of my way, you fool!”
The door to the carriage opened and a tall, handsome, well-dressed gentleman stepped down onto the dusty road. Greystone noted, absently, that a lady sat within the carriage, but he was too irritated to note her features.
“My heartfelt apologies,” the man said with a modified bow. “I fear one of the wheels of my carriage is jammed.”
Greystone raised his eyes heavenward and said in exasperation, “That is hardly my concern, sir. You simply must move your carriage so that I can pass! I am in a terrible hurry and...”
His rapid speech gave way to a sudden yell of surprised terror, as a bag was thrown over his head from behind him. He jerked and thrashed, but to no avail. Strong hands grabbed him, and he howled as his hands were dragged in front of him and tied with what felt like rope. A few seconds later, he felt himself being dragged and then heaved into what must be the carriage, though he could not see anything, of course, through the rough burlap covering his face.
What was happening?