AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, I can almost guarantee there will be some accuracy mistakes in here. I totally made up Darcy's father's name and some stuff about his education, so don't be hatin'. Lol. Kind of a transition/explanation bit so sorry for the lack of action. Thanks for reading! I can't think of any other explanations except for the whole I'm-too-lowly-to-kiss-Jane-Austen's-shoe-so-why-do-I-even-need-to-deny-the-impossible-act-of-plagiarism-of-such-an-incredible-author?-bit. Enjoy.


Chapter 5

"I knew your husband as a very small child," she began, taking a breath, "before his father's death. My mother had fled France while she was pregnant with me during the Revolution. Our wealth in Paris was great, and, although not active members of the aristocracy, we were in grave danger of Mme. Guillotine. My father, an Englishman by the name of Stone, stayed behind to conlcude our businesses and to cut off all ties to our former home. By the time my mother reached London in the summer of 1789 where my father had arranged for his business associates to take her in until he arrived, she received notice of his death by a revolutionary mob who ransacked the homes of 65 noblemen and killed them in cold blood. My father was the last to die.

"When my mother realized what had happened, she panicked. She knew very lettle English and none of my father's acquaintances in England, except for one, a man she'd never even met before--John Darcy of Pemberley Hall, Dobshire. My mother found his address in the country and sent a message to him in French of our predicament. Out of his own kindness and pocket, he invited her to Pemberley until I was born or until my mother could find a modest housing agency in which we could reside and begin our new lives in England.

"However, three months later, my mother contracted a fatal disease during my birth. She never truly recovered again. Nevertheless, Mr. Darcy and his wife treated my mother and I as if we were part of his family until her death in '97 when I was just eight years old. That is precisely when I met your husband, Mrs. Darcy. He had been sent away as a young boy to Eton College and returned the year my mother died. He was seventeen years old.

"By this time Darcy's father had agreed to take me as his ward until I was able to enter society on my own. Mr. Darcy's son was almost an identical copy of him; kind, generous, extroverted, but always polite to a degree of exaggeration. He treated me as a younger sister and a friend. Pemberley was the only home I'd ever known and Mr. Darcy and his son, my only family."

1797

'Charlotte, my dear, please relax. My son is a very polite young man. Too polite, almost, I'd say. You have no need to fret over his approval, for he'll let no sign of it, 'like' you or no. It's a fruitless effort.'

I wasn't sure if this was meant to comfort or to tease, but the result was my stomach plummeting even lower than I had thought possible. I looked up at Mr. Darcy's kind face and tried to smile.

'Yes, sir,' I whispered. One of the servants entered at our left and a fit of butterflies ravaged my insides.

'Master Fitzwilliam has returned, sir,' he announced and bowed away as the young Darcy passed through the doorway. He saluted his father as propriety required and then moved forward to embrace him.

'Welcome home, my boy,' Mr. Darcy sighed happily, enveloping the youth in his arms for a moment before pulling away. 'I'd like you to meet the young lady I wrote to you about, William. This is Miss Charlotte Stone.'

I had glued my eyes to the young man the second he entered the room, gaping at his tall stature and stately attitude. He now turned to me and bowed deeply.

'Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss, Miss Stone,' he said his voice deep and clear.

'Th-thank you,' I stammered before decidedly squelching the mad hoard of nerves inside of me. 'Please, if you like, call me Charlotte.'

Fitzwilliam Darcy smiled and nodded. 'A pleasure to meet you, Charlotte.' His father smiled warmly at us before clapping his hands together and calling for tea to be served.

Later that week, young Darcy took me for a tour of the private stables that I'd never seen or explored before, and asked if I knew how to ride. I replied that I did, adding that my intstruction came from his father directly, and we saddled two horses, for I was a tall child for my tender age. Before long we were galloping through the expanse of land belonging to the Darcy estate, and as I watched in wonder at the young man's impeccable seat, I realized I would get along very well with him.

We dismounted on the summit of a tall hill and surveyed the marvelous view. He sighed and sat on a wide cluster of stone that jutted up from the ground, inviting me to do the same.

'I expect it's very good to be home,' I squeaked, still quite intimidated by his Napoleonic presence.

'Oh, very much so,' he replied, removing one of his riding gloves and flexing his fingers. 'When I left for Eton four years ago, I yearned for adventure and the ways of the world. I suppose home is one of those places you realize you miss the most when you're away from it.'

'I don't think I'll ever return home,' I said faintly of the Parisian estate belonging to my family name in Paris. Young Darcy turned to me and hesitated.

'I hope you come to think of Pemberley as your own home one day, Miss Charlotte,' he said gently. 'It is as much your home as it is mine.' He turned back to the picturesque view. 'My father is very fond of you.'

'He's a great man,' I answered, my cheeks pleasantly warm with praise.

'He is,' Darcy echoed distantly.

"My time at Pemberley after young Darcy's arrival grew more and more utopic than I had every known. Mr. Darcy's wife taught me to read and write and play the piano-forte, and Mr. Darcy himself supplied my hungry brain with the work of the philosophies and great politicians like Locke and Voltaire. However, as months turned to years, it was to Fitzwilliam Darcy whom I grew the closest and who took me under his wing as I grew older."

Lady Drake drew her gaze from the adjacent window to glance at Mrs. Darcy's expressionate face. To her dismay, it was shining with tears. "Mrs. Darcy, please, it was not my intention to upset you--"

"All this time," Elizabeth said quietly, her intelligent eyes sparkling with moisture. "All this time, and I never knew. He never once mentioned..." She looked up at the woman and realized for the first time how truly young she was, not four years older than she. The lady's gaze was focused on her tightly clasped gloved fingers. Mrs. Darcy took the woman's hand with more character than the noblest of her sex and managed a benevolent smile. "Perhaps we shall adjourn from our conference for this evening, Lady Drake. I fear this topic is much deeper than I had anticipated and shall not be resolved in one sitting."

Lady Drake searched the incredible woman's face and curtseyed. "I may be found at the Rose and Crown, Mrs. Darcy, when you are at your leisure tomorrow."

"Shall I not prepare a room for you here?" But as soon as Lizzie had spoken the words and seen the shiver pass over the Lady's frame, she realized the impossibility of her offer. "Perhaps not. An escort to your lodging, then."

"Thank you, Mrs. Darcy. I shall be fine on my own. Thank you for your hospitality." And she disappeared without another word. Elizabeth stared at the seat she had occupied seconds before and sank back to her own sofa feeling very much alone for the first and only time in her life.