Read A Father's Sins: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Online
Authors: J Dawn King
A Father's Sins: A Pride and Prejudice Variation
A
Father’s Sins
A
Pride & Prejudice Variation
J. Dawn
King
“A Father’s Sins: A
Pride & Prejudice Variation”
Copyright © 2014 by Joy
D. King
Front cover portrait in
public domain – “Off” painted by Edmund Blair Leighton – downloaded from
Wikimedia Commons
All rights reserved. No
part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews –
without permission in writing from its publisher Joy D. King.
ISBN-13:
978-1496129185
ISBN-10:
1496129180
This is a work of
fiction. The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are
fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Joy D.
King
Follow J Dawn King on
Twitter: @jdawnking
Like her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/JDawnKing
Or connect by email:
[email protected]
Acknowledgements
My sincerest thanks go
to my family for their loving support. Also, thanks for not fainting from shock
when I told you I was undertaking this project.
A special shout out
goes to my daughter, Jennifer, who read and re-read and re-read my manuscript,
checking for errors and helping me keep my focus. The girl LOVES
punctuation!!!!!
My deepest gratitude also
goes to Jane Austen for her delightful characters, wonderful stories, and the
potential for imagining more and more from Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth
Bennet.
The world of fan
fiction ignited my own imagination until I was driven to write, so I thank each
and every one of those who were brave enough to put pen to paper.
Dedication
This book is
affectionately dedicated to my beloved husband, John – my own Mr. Darcy.
November 11, 1805 – Hatchards Book Shop, Piccadilly
Twenty-one
year old Fitzwilliam Darcy perused the tall shelves, looking for an intriguing
title to add to his growing personal library. The selections appeared endless. Hatchards,
one of the more established booksellers in London, had shelves upon shelves filled
with first editions and copies of modern and ancient-language manuscripts.
Stacks were carefully arranged and displayed on tables to draw the reader’s
attention. Carefully studying the gold-stamped spines on the leather volumes,
he became aware of a melodic voice repeating the words, “they are not to be
found”, “they are not to be found”, with a variation once in a while of “no, they
are not to be found”.
“I wonder what the lady is looking for
,” the young man thought. It was rather an odd section
of the store to find a female and her voice sounded quite youthful. Unable to stifle
his curiosity, he walked to the end of the aisle and peeked around the corner.
He
was correct; she was young, possibly in her thirteenth or fourteenth year.
Slight of stature, with long, wavy, chocolate-brown hair, she was extended up
on her toes with her arms outstretched and her small fingertips trying to reach
the top shelf.
“Miss,
may I be of some assistance?”
She
was so focused on her search, his deep baritone voice startled her and she
nearly toppled over. With her hand to her chest, she dropped her heels back to
the ground and glanced at the handsome gentleman. Tall, with dark, wavy hair
and dark eyes, he was smiling slightly as he stepped closer. She returned his
smile with a delightful twinkle in her hazel eyes. “Unless you can miraculously
extend my height or shorten the shelves, I am unsure how you may be of help,
sir”.
Delighted
with her countenance and her wit, Darcy did something completely outside his
character; he proceeded to converse with a complete stranger. Her clothing
proclaimed her, not of the first circle, but certainly a young, gently-born miss;
even though not of his sphere. He had finished his first season, which his
peers referred to as the “marriage mart” and had become used to ladies of every
age, including those far too young to be “out”, and their mothers preening and
prancing around him trying to attract his attention. This girl did nothing of
the sort. “I am terribly sorry, Miss, that I am unable to do either of those
tasks.” He paused and put his finger to the side of his cheek as if in deep
thought. “However, if you would tell me which volume you are so diligently
searching for, I would be pleased to help you in your search.”
“Thank
you, kind sir.” Removing a small scrap of paper from her reticule, she read off
the journals of four explorers: George Vancouver and his discovery of the North
Pacific Ocean, the voyages of Captain James Cook, and Meriwether Lewis and
William Clark of the American expedition. “Do you know where I might find any
of these books?”
“Yes,
miss, I do know of these writings.” Again, he paused as if in thought.
“Sir,
are you uncertain as to how to tell me their location?” She raised one eyebrow
and smiled again. Looking closer at the man, she found him to have such a
pleasant face. Relaxed and contented.
He
looked down at her and his smile grew. For someone so young, her eyes sparkled
with life and joy. “The first books you asked for, the journals of Vancouver, I
have read myself. They are located…” reaching up, he easily found the three
volumes from the top shelf just an arm length from where he was standing
…“here”. Before he handed them to her, he turned back to the young girl to get
her attention. “Nonetheless, I am saddened to tell you that the journals of
Captain Cook and those of the American adventurers have not yet been published.
I, too, am anticipating their arrival. I do believe that Mr. Lewis and Mr.
Clark have yet to finish their expedition, so it might be a length of time
before we are able to read of their activities.” He bowed slightly, “I am sorry
to disappoint.”
“Please
do not be concerned.” The young lady reached for the three books that were in
his hands. “I so enjoy learning of different parts of the world and have a
longing to travel to all the remote places I read about. My father teases that
I would rather have geography books and old maps than ribbons. He knows me
well.” She still held out her hands, but he refused to place the volumes there.
Instead, he turned and walked up to the shop assistant and set the books on the
counter.
When
the owner saw the man standing at the counter, he quickly pushed the assistant
to the side and inquired of Mr. Darcy how he might help him. “Please wrap these
up for the young miss.” Without thought as to the propriety of the situation,
he proceeded with the transaction as he would with his 9-year-old sister, Georgiana.
“Sir!”
interjected the girl, quickly glancing toward the door to see if her uncle’s
maid, who accompanied her to the store, noticed the exchange. “I am prepared to
settle my own account.” Turning to the proprietor, she directed, “Before they
are wrapped, if I may, I would be most pleased to record my name and today’s
date on the inside, as I want all to know that they belong to me.” Her
brilliant smile moved the man to action. While the man obtained quill and ink, Darcy
remained at her side. Carefully and methodically, she wrote in a lovely swirl,
“Elizabeth Anne Bennet – November 11 in the year 1805.”
As
the owner, after waiting for the ink to dry, wrapped and tied the books, the
two young people stood in silence, he thinking, “
her name is Elizabeth
Bennet
”, and she thinking, “
he is Mr. Darcy
.”
One year to the day later - November 11, 1806
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
Thomas
Bennet stood and shook with rage. “Pack your things and go!” His face purple
with heightened emotions, he pointed his index finger to his once beloved
daughter, Elizabeth, and shouted, “I have never been as disappointed in another
human soul in my entire life as I am with you, Elizabeth Anne!” He turned to
leave his young son’s room. Glancing back from the doorway, his pain and grief
poured out of him as he shouted once more at her, “You have stolen my future,
my dreams, and my family from me and I NEVER want to see your face again!”
The
grief Elizabeth felt as she watched her father storm away was almost more than
she could endure. Head bowed, tears ran down her cheeks, dropping into a puddle
on her lap. Turning to her dear little brother, his lifeless body still on the
bed, she gathered him to her 15-year-old breast to snuggle one last time. She
had done all she knew to do for the fever, the pain, and the pustules infecting
her brother and three younger sisters. With no apothecary to lend them aid, the
nursing had fallen to her. Elizabeth’s older sister, Jane, had not the emotional
fortitude to tend her siblings. Her mother had taken to her bed with a case of
nerves at the first sign of the outbreak. The smallpox had devastated the small
village of Longbourn and the surrounding area. While in London visiting their
Uncle and Aunt Gardiner, the two oldest Bennet siblings had been inoculated
with the vaccine, developed over 10 years before by Dr. Edward Jenner, but the
single pox scar left on Elizabeth’s right temple persuaded Mrs. Bennet to not
allow her youngest three daughters, Mary, Kitty and Lydia, and her only son and
heir, Thomas James Bennet to receive the needed medicine. Mrs. Bennet would do
anything to not have her most precious offspring marred by such scarring. Satirical
cartoons depicting people turning into animals after receiving the vaccine fed
her fears. How senseless that had been! Her husband, always longing for peace,
to the exclusion of all rational thought, went along with the constantly
expressed opinions of his wife. Her father’s blame for something that Elizabeth
was unable to control added to the agony in her heart for her beloved little
brother. To lose little Thomas, her dear sisters, and many of her friends and acquaintances
in such a short period was a devastating blow. Then, to have her father unfairly
place the blame on her young shoulders was a weight she did not think she was
able to bear.
Descending
the stairs to the hallway, Elizabeth noticed her sister, Jane, hovering in the
doorway of the front parlor. Tears streamed down Jane’s face as she wordlessly
transmitted the pain and anguish for all they were losing that day. The orders
from their father had been clear. Not a word to Elizabeth. No acknowledgement
that she existed. Elizabeth gathered her small valise containing her meager
possessions and turned to the door.
Hill,
the Bennet’s longtime butler, took the valise from Elizabeth’s small hands. He
handed her a sealed letter and then reached into his pockets to retrieve a few
shillings that always jingled there. Pressing them into Elizabeth’s hands, he
sighed deeply, “I only wish it were more, Miss.” His beloved Elizabeth glanced
up and gave him a tearful smile. “It should see you to your uncle’s house in
Cheapside.” He continued, “May God be with you.”
Reaching
back, Elizabeth removed the garnet necklace that had been a gift from her father.
She dropped it into Hill’s hands. With a final sob, Elizabeth Anne Bennet
walked away from her home, not looking back.
November 11, 1806 – later that same day
Pemberley Chapel, Derbyshire
The
young man stood in front of the family crypt in the chapel, his head hanging in
silent grief; his ten-year-old sister crying silently beside him. It had been
unexpected, their father’s death. The pain of their loss was sharpened by the
whispers from their neighbors in the chapel, from the servants that wandered
through the hallways and rooms of their home, and from the distant Darcy family
that came at the first news of distress. “Who will be the new master of
Pemberley?”
Running
his long fingers over the name engraved on the tomb next to the newly opened
vault, he read aloud, “Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy”. Before the week was out, the
name “George Adam Darcy” would be carved next to his neighbor. Truly, they were
now closer in death than Fitzwilliam Darcy had ever seen them in life.
“Come,
dear Georgie, let us return.” His little sister remained unmoved. He bent and
lifted her, holding her close, carrying her to the carriage that waited outside
the chapel. He did not see the craftsmen waiting to finish their job. Nor did
he see the other mourners gathered in clumps, their own eyes trained on Mr.
Darcy’s second son. But, he heard the whispers. “Who will be the new master of
Pemberley?”
