Friday with Friends ~ Summer Hanford

I am very pleased to welcome Summer to my blog. We have an established social media friendship and one of these days I might make my way to one of the many JAFF and/or RAGT events she has attended and meet her in person. It's on my bucket list. Without further ado, I give you Summer Hanford and the adventures of one Miss Anne de Bourgh.

THE ADVENTURES OF MISS ANNE DE BOURGH OF ROSINGS

A PRIDE & PREJUDICE VARIATION PREQUEL TO MR. DARCY’S BOOKSHOP

v. II

Blurb

Please Note: This is a short novella of only 20,000 words.

Miss Anne de Bourgh might be a girl, but that doesn’t stop her from hunting, shooting, riding, and fencing as well as her cousins, and when her cousin Richard is about to make a life-ruining mistake, Anne hatches a plot to put things right. But in order to do so, she’ll need to team up with her personal nemesis. 

That’s right, this time Anne must collude not against, but with, her least favorite cousin . . . Henry, heir to the Earl of Matlock.

The Adventures of Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings v. II is a short novella prequel to Mr. Darcy’s Bookshop and takes place about a year after The Adventures of Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings v. I. Enjoy!

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

 Late Summer, 1798, Matlock Estate in Derbyshire

Anne sat beside Mrs. Jenkinson in Sir Lewis’s spacious carriage and tried not to swing her feet. Apparently, young ladies of fifteen did not swing their feet. At least, not according to Mrs. Jenkinson, who had advised Anne that she was the beginning, middle, and end of any argument pertaining to manners. 

In her mind, Anne recited fencing poses, struggling to remain still, but energy reverberated through her. They’d been in her father’s carriage for hours. Days, really. The journey from Kent to Matlock wasn’t a short one, although her father seemed happy with their time.

Finally, they rolled to a halt outside Uncle Matlock’s big, old, gargoyle adorned manor house. Anne reached for the carriage door, eager to be free.

Mrs. Jenkinson’s voice halted her with, “Ladies wait for a footman to open the door and assist them down.”

“Ladies must be exceedingly lazy,” Anne countered and flung open the carriage door to the sight of a startled footman.

Recovering quickly, he extended a hand.

With a grumpy look for Mrs. Jenkinson and an amused-looking Sir Lewis, Anne permitted the footman to help her down. The moment her hessians touched the gravel drive, she encountered a new trial…the deep desire to run in absolutely any direction, simply to be moving.

Instead, she waited while Mrs. Jenkinson and her father disembarked, then walked decorously up the grand steps with them and into the equally ostentatious entrance hall.

“Uncle, Cousin, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Cousin Henry greeted with a bow as servants came forward to assist with their outerwear, little that they had in the late summer heat. “Father asked me to apologize as he is concluding some business. He will greet you all in the jade drawing room prior to supper, in two hours’ time. I am to tell you, as well, that your usual rooms have been made ready, and the sitting room attached to Anne’s chambers set aside for your private use.”

“Thank you, Henry. That suits us well.” Sir Lewis gestured up the staircase, his gaze shifting to take in Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson. “Ladies, shall we?”

“If I may borrow Anne, Richard asked to see her. He is working as well, in the library.”

Anne stepped forward eagerly. She had little use for her cousin Henry, but she looked forward to seeing Richard.

“Very well,” Mrs. Jenkinson said. “But do not tarry over long, Miss de Bourgh. You will need to change for dinner.” Her critical gaze swept over Anne’s travel gown, then dropped down to take in her boots.

“I will only exchange a quick greeting with my cousins,” Anne assured her companion, in no way meaning her words. In truth, Anne meant to do precisely as she pleased, be it ready for dinner or, hopefully, anything more entertaining.

Mrs. Jenkinson’s look of resignation clearly expressing what she thought of Anne’s reassurance, she nodded. She and Sir Lewis started up the stairs to their rooms.

Anne grabbed Henry’s arm and tugged him down the corridor, out of earshot, before demanding, “Why didn’t Richard come greet us?”

“That’s what I need to speak with you about.” Shaking free of her grip, Henry grabbed her arm in turn and yanked her into a dark little parlor.

Anne looked about, suspicious. Henry could be hiding any sort of prank in the near darkness. “Say what you have to say, then.”

“It’s Richard. He needs our help.”

Anne frowned, even more suspicious. What better way to lead her into a trap, possibly to a spot beneath a bucket of ink or some such, than to say that Richard needed her? “I thought you said he’s working in the library.”

“He is. He has been for weeks. It’s awful and we must help him.”

Anne raised her gaze in silent supplication. “You are making even less sense than usual, Henry.”

Henry paced away in the dark room, pushing both hands through his hair. “It started this summer. This thing with Richard and Missy Steepleton, the parson’s daughter.”

“Sissy Missy?” Anne was familiar with the scrawny blonde girl, perhaps a year older than her, who used to try to play with them but who was always too afraid to do anything fun. Missy wouldn’t hold frogs. Missy wouldn’t climb trees. Missy squealed if mud touched her hem. “Richard has a…a thing with Missy?” The idea was absurd. Missy Steepleton was worthless as a companion. 

But Henry paused his pacing, nodding with grave seriousness. “He fancies he’s in love with her.”

Anne wrinkled her nose. “Ug. How horrible.”

Henry eyed her curiously. “Love in general or with Missy Steepleton in specific?”

“Both.” Anne could think of few things worse than being afflicted with love, but being afflicted with love for someone who grew queasy at the sight of a fish being gutted or a pheasant being plucked was one of them. “How did this happen?”

Henry shrugged. “The usual way. Lately Missy, you know…” He trailed off, making an hourglass sort of gesture. “She—” 

“So help me, if you say ‘blossomed,’ I will punch you in the face.”

Henry smirked. “You’re just afraid because it’s bound to happen to you.”

At fifteen, Anne was acutely aware that it was happening to her, but no amount of blossoming would keep her from riding, fishing, hunting, and fencing. She imagined becoming a young lady hadn’t changed Missy much, either. She probably still fainted at the sight of blood, even rabbit blood, and enjoyed needlepoint, or some such. Anne had never troubled to find out Missy’s passions. 

Because it was none of her business what Missy enjoyed, or of Henry’s. “As useless as Missy is, it’s not truly our concern. It is not as if we can dictate who Richard fancies.” 

“I don’t care who Richard fancies,” Henry said in an offensively exasperated voice, for it was not Anne’s fault that her cousin could not properly convey information. “I care about the bargain Richard struck with Father.”

“What bargain?”

“Remember how, last year, you and Richard and Darcy dumped ink on me?”

Anne grinned. “I do.”

Henry cast her a sour look. “Well, remember how Father said he would buy Richard a commission because he’s obviously not suited for the priesthood?”

Anne’s smugness grew, for she’d been quite pleased with that. Richard had always wanted to serve in the regulars, but hadn’t, until then, been able to convince his father to agree with the notion. Healthy as Henry was, Richard was the spare, and the earl seemed inclined to keep him safe in case he was needed. “I remember that, too.”

“Well, Richard has it in his head that he’s in love with Missy and wants to marry her.”

Anne gasped. It was one thing to be enamored with a girl, but another altogether to leap into a union with her. “What? He’s too young to marry. Surely Uncle Matlock said no.”

“He did, and not only because Richard is only seventeen. He said a son of his can do better than a parson’s daughter, too.”

Relief washed through Anne. “So there’s no trouble. Richard will enter into service soon, and while he’s off fighting for the King, he’ll forget all about Missy.”

But Henry was shaking his head. “Ever since that night you inked me, Father has regretted his words. He’s tried to talk Richard back into the priesthood.”

“But Richard has always wanted to serve.”

“Will you let me talk?” Henry demanded.

Anne pulled a face at him, but nodded.

“So,” Henry paused, glaring at her to test if she would interrupt. After a moment, he continued, “So Richard made Father a deal. He says he will become a priest if Father will let him marry Missy.”

“Uncle Matlock agreed to that?” The words burst out of Anne, full of incredulousness, and she clamped her hands over her mouth. She cast a quick look over her shoulder at the open parlor doorway, hoping no one was near enough to hear her. In a lower voice, she hissed, “How could he?”

“I guess he would rather have a live son who married beneath him than a dead one,” Henry said quietly. With a sigh of resignation, he dropped down onto a settee that appeared too delicate for his thick limbs.

“Richard will not die if he serves,” Anne said firmly. “He will be an excellent officer. The sort our nation needs. He will do great things and come home a hero, and be able to do much better, indeed, than Missy Steepleton.”

“All I know is that he’s constantly in the library studying and he says he’s off to Cambridge this autumn.”

“It is only Cambridge,” Anne mused, dropping into a chair. “He can forget about her there, too, and still have plenty of time to take a commission.”

Henry shook his head. “Father is having a contract drawn up. His side says that he will agree to an engagement when Richard leaves for Cambridge, and that they may be married as soon as Richard has the signatures of three respected theologians approving him to be ordained. Richard’s part says that in exchange, he will never take a commission. Father is with his lawyers now, working on the details.”

“Now?” Anne surged to her feet. Why hadn’t Henry mentioned the matter was urgent? “I must speak with Richard.”

Anne rushed from the room, knowing the way to the library quite well. She could hear Henry’s heavier tread following but didn’t slow so he could catch up. A part of her still worried this was some sort of trick. After all, Richard had longed to serve since they were small. He wouldn’t give up his life’s dream for a bit of muslin clad fluff.

Would he?

Anne burst into the library to the sight of Richard at a long table, surrounded by books. He stared at her, a pen in hand, poised over notes he’d obviously been writing. With a huff he blew out air to dislodge a swath of too-long brown locks from his eyes. His gaze went to the mantel clock.

Returning his attention to her, he smiled. “Anne. My apologies. I did not realize you had arrived. It is good to see you.”

Noting that he did not put up his pen, she barreled up to the table. “Richard. Whatever are you doing?”

He looked down at the books, open and closed, and the messy pages before him, most scribbled on illegibly. “I’m studying. I’m going to be ordained. Like father wants.” A drop of ink fell from the pen tip to splash down on the page before him. “Drat.”

“Why under the sun would you want to be ordained?” Anne demanded.

Richard raised his gaze from the blot of ink. “So I can be married. Congratulations are in order. I will be engaged soon.” He grinned foolishly.

This was worse than she’d thought. She’d never seen Richard appear so addlebrained. Not even when they’d stolen a bottle of brandy so they could learn to drink properly, like their father’s did. “I suppose congratulations are in order, then. Who is the wonderful miss soon to be your betrothed?”

“Miss Melissa Steepleton.” Richard let out a long sigh, appearing even more lacking in sense than before.

“Missy Steepleton? The girl who cast up her breakfast on your new boots when you tried to show her a trout you’d caught?” Which hadn’t been as large as the trout Anne caught at all, as she recalled.

“The very one. I love her.”

“I see.” She could tell by his horrendously besotted expression that there would be no reasoning with him, but still she ventured, “But what about taking a commission in the regulars? What about serving King and Country and visiting far away lands, and fighting the French?”

Richard plunked the pen down on the blotter, his expression suddenly glum. “Well, I truly did want to do that. You know being an officer embodies everything I care about. Well, that is, everything I used to care about. Now I care about Missy.”

“Yes. Well, I am certain that is important, too.”

Dejectedly, Richard added, “And she likes a man in regimentals. She told me she’d much rather marry a soldier than a priest, especially as her papa is one.”

“So go be a soldier,” Anne urged.

Richard shook his head, his face taking on a firm, set look. “No. If I do that, my father won’t give me permission to marry. Missy and I would have to wait until I’m one and twenty, or maybe even until she is. That’s another five years.”

“What are five years if you are in love?”

Richard cast her an incredulous look. “I cannot imagine you waiting for anything for five years, de Bourgh.”

“Yes, but you are far more reasonable than I am.”

Richard capped the inkwell, then reached for a cloth to clean the pen. “Not in this. Missy and I are in love and we want to be married, and that is the end of it.”

“But your dream of—” 

“I said that is the end of it,” Richard reiterated firmly.

That most certainly was not the end of it, but Anne could see she would do no more good arguing with Richard about it now. “Very well, then. I am happy you have found love.”

“Thank you,” Richard said gravely. 

Henry took that moment to finally enter, though he must have reached the library on Anne’s heels. “There you two are,” he said blithely. “It is time to ready for supper.”

“You aren’t my keeper,” Richard replied, but he set down the cleaned pen and stood.

Anne followed her cousins from the library and up the front staircase. Something definitely had to be done. She would not permit Richard to throw away his dreams. Not on Missy Steepleton or any other girl. And to stop him, she would come up with the perfect plan.

Buy links:

Mr. Darcy’s Bookshop: https://getbook.at/MrDarcysBookshop

Sale: Mr. Darcy’s Bookshop is an amazon.com and amazon.ca Kindle Deal for October – 

On Sale for just $2.49 (https://getbook.at/MrDarcysBookshop)

The Adventures of Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings v.I: https://getbook.at/AdventuresAnnedeBourgh

The Adventures of Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings v.II: https://getbook.at/AnnesAdventuresvII 

Up for pre-sale: The Adventures of Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings v. II - A Pride and Prejudice Prequel to Mr. Darcy's Bookshop (https://getbook.at/AnnesAdventuresvII)

About the Author

Summer Hanford writes swashbuckling Historical Romance, best-selling Pride and Prejudice retellings, and gripping Epic Fantasy. She lives in the Finger Lakes Region of New York with her husband and compulsory, deliberately spoiled, cat. The newest addition to their household, an energetic setter-shepherd mix, has been trying, and failing, for six years to gain acceptance from the cat, but is adored by the humans.

Since the moment she read her first novel, Summer’s passion has always been writing. As a child growing up on a dairy farm, she built castles made of hay and wielded swords made of fence posts. She is also passionate about animals, travel, and organizing her closet. Nothing pleases her more than a row of tops broken down by sleeve length and ordered by color…except working on her latest novel with her cat in her lap, her dog lounging on the rug dreaming of squirrels, and a cup of tea at hand. 

For more about Summer, visit www.summerhanford.com.

Email: summer@summerhanford.com 

Social Media Links

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Follow Links:

Amazon: https://viewauthor.at/PridePrejudiceSummer 

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Friday with Friends ~ MJ Stratton

  

I am thrilled to have as my guest today, MJ Stratton. I gobbled up her book Thwarted and now have another lovely story to read. How many times can you clap your hands and declare, "Oh, goodie!"

Blurb:

In 1812, Elizabeth Bennet, eager for her first visit to the seaside, accompanies her beloved sister Jane and her new brother, Charles Bingley, to Ramsgate. Their retreat, the Lake House, offers an ideal location for Mrs. Bingley, whose delicate condition requires rest and care by the sea.

When Jane’s condition worsens, Elizabeth steps into the role of mistress of the house, managing the servants, overseeing the menus, and even attending to her brother’s correspondence. One letter, intended for the solicitor who arranged the lease, unexpectedly draws a shocking reply from Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Stunned by Mr Darcy’s accusations and confused by his claim that it is 1810 and that he owns the Lake House, which he has never leased in his lifetime, Elizabeth responds with sharp, cutting words. As their correspondence continues, it becomes clear that neither has lost their senses; instead, they find themselves caught in a connection that transcends time.

 As love blooms, Darcy and Elizabeth resolve to meet, but they soon realise that appearances can be deceiving. Together, they must unravel the mystery of the Lake House and discover who—or what—is conspiring to keep them apart.

Excerpt:

December 1800

Cliff Cottage

Ramsgate

“Come closer, child,” the withered old lady said, beckoning her great-grandson nearer. “I am not long for this world and have much to tell you.”

The man drew closer, seating himself on a chair beside the bed where his great-grandmother lay, propped up by several down pillows. She was his only remaining family, having outlived her son and grandchildren, and had raised him since his parents’ death when he was twelve years old. When his great-grandmother retired, she received a pension and Cliff Cottage, a small but quaint abode by the sea in Ramsgate, near to the Lake House where she had served since she was a young girl.

“I am here,” he said quietly, taking her withered hand in his. 

“How is your wife?” she rasped. Though her eyes seemed focused on him, they had long since dimmed, and she had been blind for the last five years. “How goes her work at the Lake House?” She chuckled softly. “Bless Fitzwilliam for his childish insistence long ago that it be called ‘the’ Lake House. The memory still makes me smile.”

Young master Darcy had never learned to call the seaside home by its proper name. “Martha is well,” he replied with a broad smile. “She felt the quickening only yesterday.”

The old woman sighed contentedly. “Then our line will not end with you,” she said, her tone pleased. To command his complete attention, she squeezed his hand as tightly as she could manage. “It is vital that it does not end. Our family’s purpose—our task—must never fail.”

“I do not know what you mean.” The man was perplexed, briefly wondering if his grandmother had finally lost her wits. But that thought was absurd. Great-Gran Hannah’s memory was as sharp as ever, despite her being nearly five-and-ninety years.

“Your new position at the Lake House will serve you well in the years to come, should your services be required,” she continued, ignoring his confusion. “Just as mine served me. It is quite the tale, and knowing you as I do, I would wager you will believe me addled. But I beg you to suspend your disbelief and listen with an open mind.”

He nodded, and recalling she could not see him, he promised, “I will do as you ask.”

Great-Gran settled back into her pillows. “The Lake House is no ordinary place,” she began. “The origin of its unique properties remains shrouded in mystery, and our family’s original connection to it is now lost to time. Yet, since the early 1500s when the first owner built it, someone from our family has always served the family who lived or visited there, which is no small feat.” 

She paused for a moment to cough, and her companion quickly offered her a drink from the glass on the table beside the bed. Once she quenched her thirst and her throat soothed, she continued. 

“The Lake House is a temporal anomaly, a place where the fabric of time is unusually thin. Many of our ancestors have speculated that the location of the house may be the cause, though nothing—or no one—has ever confirmed it to me. The first of our family to serve as steward of the house discovered this peculiar phenomenon when the years 1540 and 1544 collided. His name was Samuel Simmons, and at first, he believed he was losing his sanity. After some initial confusion as he experienced both years simultaneously, Samuel began to unravel what he was witnessing.

“He discovered that, instead of perceiving events as a sequence, he saw the years layered upon each other, like the pages of a book. This unique perspective allowed him to travel through different times within the house as though they were all occurring at once. In his journals, he described moving through the years as akin to walking through different rooms in the same residence, and he noted that the anomaly was restricted within the boundaries of the Lake House. No one else seemed affected by this strange occurrence, and so he kept the knowledge to himself, fearing that others might brand him a sorcerer and burned at the stake.”

The man shifted uneasily in his chair. Great-Gran seemed as lucid as ever, yet the tale she spun was as fantastical as she had implied it would be. 

“I can sense your doubt, even from here.” Gran chuckled and gestured towards the glass on the table once more. He handed it to her, and she drank deeply. “I was just as skeptical when my father told me the same story. But then, it happened to me.”

He stiffened, and she gently squeezed his hand. “Let me finish, and I shall answer your questions afterwards.”

“Our ancestors spent many years at the Lake House and discovered that they were given abilities for a specific purpose—to guide and protect those within its walls. Not every member of our line possesses this gift. To exist outside the bounds of time is a profound responsibility the house bestows. In exchange, we are to protect those we serve, lending aid when the house tells us it is necessary.”

“When the house tells us?” he repeated. Incredulity coloured his voice, and he shook his head in bewilderment.

“Let me finish,” she repeated patiently. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, expression distant, as if lost in memory. “I was two-and-twenty when I first experienced the phenomena,” she continued. “My father related all I now tell you on his deathbed, and, like you, I was skeptical. At the time, I was just newly promoted to housekeeper. The former housekeeper, old Mrs Tilney, trained me as her replacement. My new position came sooner than I had anticipated when she decided to join her daughter in America.

“The Lake family visited every summer. Mr and Mrs Lake delighted in the seaside, and their children were scarcely less enthusiastic. The eldest child, Amelia, was of an age with me, and before my promotion, Mrs Tilney had assigned me to Miss Lake as her lady’s maid. Despite the difference in our respective stations, we became fast friends, often confiding in one another. Miss Lake despaired of ever finding a suitor in town. She had endured four seasons and was unimpressed with the pompous gentlemen she encountered in London. Her dowry was attractive, and she often felt as though she was being hunted rather than courted. But I digress.”

Great-Gran sighed, a small smile gracing her lips. “It was a sunny afternoon when the first letter appeared on the salver. I can scarcely describe the feeling—it was as if a string was pulling me closer until I found it. The post had been delivered earlier that day, so it was curious to see a letter waiting there for one of the household. Someone with masculine handwriting had addressed it to A. Lake. At first, I assumed it was for the master—he shared initials with his daughter, as you know—but something urged me to place the letter in Miss Lake’s hands. I did so and watched as fury descended upon her. I do not know what the letter contained, but she muttered constantly for days about gentlemen importuning her. She penned a reply and bid me place it on the salver.

“As I descended the stairs to carry out her instruction, I noticed an unfamiliar man in the house. His presence would not have been so strange had I encountered him in the public rooms, but he was exiting the master’s suite, acting as though he belonged there. He nodded to me as he walked by, and I trailed after him, shocked by his audacity.”

Great-Gran grinned mischievously. “He had a newspaper tucked under his arm, and the footman who met him at the door addressed him as Mr Darcy. The gentleman dropped the newspaper on the side table in the entrance hall, right next to the salver before he donned his outerwear and left. I went to the table and looked down at the front page, and to my shock, I noted the date was two years in the future. All my father’s words to me before he died came rushing back.

While holding the mistress’s letter, I observed that the painting above the Hepplewhite side table was slightly crooked. I reached out to straighten the seascape, but before I could touch it, the painting unexpectedly shifted on its own and fell forward, landing on the table with a heavy thud. I immediately focused on the wall behind it, where a post box, embedded in the wall and previously hidden, became clearly visible.

“My curiosity piqued, I leaned forward and carefully examined the post box. Crafted from rich mahogany, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of seashells, waves, and starfish—echoes of the nearby coast and the house’s connection to the sea. Oddly, it also had sprigs of lavender carved along its edge. I never did understand why, since there was no lavender anywhere near the Lake House. The painting had concealed the box, even though it was a beautifully made feature of the house, entirely hidden away from prying eyes. As I touched the inside of the box, understanding filled me. It was then I understood that this was no ordinary receptacle. The house itself facilitated these exchanges, and only those who served the house were privy to its secret.

“I placed the letter in the post box, adjusted the painting, and walked away, my mind racing with what I had uncovered. After that, I paid closer attention to the comings and goings in the house. People I had never seen before passed through, and then… my mistress received a reply to her letter just two days later.”

Great-Gran paused once more. “You know, of course, that Amelia Lake married Gregor Darcy. I flatter myself by saying that the Lake House and I, as its faithful steward, facilitated their romance. I now pass this responsibility to you. From what family records can ascertain, only one of us holds the privilege of navigating the Lake House’s temporal intricacies at any given moment. My tenure is nearly at an end, which means you are the next. There is no other.”

“How can you believe such nonsense?” the man asked, struggling to keep the derision out of his voice. Great-Gran did not deserve such censure.

“It is as real as you and I,” she insisted. 

“Why, then, did you wait so long to tell me?” he asked. 

“There was always some reason to delay—the death of my son, your grandfather… and then, your parents… But as I grew older, I began to fear that you were not ready, that you needed more time to live your life without the burden of this knowledge. When I retired to Cliff Cottage, I believed the Lake House had finished with me, that my time was truly over, and perhaps the secret could rest as well. Yet the years passed, and as I watched you grow into your own, I knew I could not leave this world without passing on what I knew. I waited because the post box had not yet called to you, and because there had been no pressing need. But now, I feel the time is near. The Lake House will guide you when the moment comes.” She grew agitated, and as she sat up, her grip on his hand tightened until it hurt. “Promise me you will do this.”

He sought to soothe her. “I promise, Gran,” he said. “You may rest easy.”

She nodded, her grip loosening as she lay back against her pillows. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes closed, and she drifted off to sleep, never waking again.

Buy Link:

Click HERE to grab your own copy of MJ's latest release.

About the Author:

MJ Stratton is a long-time lover of Jane Austen and her works, whose much-beloved aunt introduced her to Pride and Prejudice at the age of sixteen. The subsequent discovery of Austenesque fiction sealed her fate. After beta reading and editing for others for nearly a decade, MJ started publishing her own work in 2022. MJ balances being a wife and mother with writing, gardening, sewing, and many other favorite pastimes. She lives with her husband and four children in the small, rural town where she grew up.

Weekend Writing Warriors #90

 

I thought I had completely missed joining this blog hop, and had a bit of a panic moment. Almost a 'my bad' moment. Life has a funny way of intruding and before you blink twice, the week is almost over. Ah, well, if that is the only thing I can complain about, I have a pretty good life.

Anyway, we shall continue with an excerpt from A Rose By Any Other Name. We left off with:

Father found me injured and bedraggled in the river Derwent and claimed me as his own. That is, until… if… we ever find my true family. He had been riding his estate, of which the Derwent flows through a vast portion. Thank goodness it was a beautiful sunny day, or I might not have survived, because the sun glinted off my amber cross necklace and that is what drew him to the river’s edge, whereupon he discovered me draped across a large log which had gotten snagged on an exposed root of a willow tree.

Continuing with:

He waded into the river, forever ruining his favorite Hessians - to his valet’s eternal disgust - and carried me up the bank. With the help of his son, Eric, he managed to not only wrap me in his jacket but hoist me onto that great beast he calls a horse and - as he said - rode like the hounds of hell were on his heels to bring me to the manor house, called Briwood.

I have no memory of the next few weeks, but I have been told it was very unsettling as I had a raging fever and the doctor feared I might fall victim to a putrid lung from the amount of water I had ingested and inhaled. Thankfully, I pulled through, and though I felt as weak as a proverbial kitten, my strength and health returned, my memory did not.

Despite sending out riders and flyers throughout the region, no one stepped forward to claim me as their own. My clothing was of good quality, indicating that I was either the daughter of a gentleman or a wealthy tradesman, and - here I must blush at revealing such intimate details - Mother thought me to be about fourteen years of age. She based this determination on my body showing signs that I was on the cusp of womanhood. During my recovery I had… well, suffice it to say, she had to call for some linens for me to use discreetly. I later discovered this also sent a wave of relief through my adoptive parents, as the advent of my courses indicated there were no repercussions from a violent attack, of which the doctor feared I may have been a victim.

Shall I whet your whistle further?

Father and Mother, Lord Conrad and Lady Patricia Grantley are the Viscount and Viscountess Hughson, and until I was found in the river, they had only one child, Eric. At the time of my discovery, he was eighteen preparing to enter Cambridge at the start of next term. 

As I could not remember my name, my parents decided to call me Rose because, etched on the back of my necklace, was a single rosebud in its first bloom. They have loved me as their own and I have never hesitated to return that love tenfold. Father was pleasantly surprised to discover I have an avid interest in books and languages. ‘Tis funny how the mind works, I cannot recall my name or family, but I remember lines and verses from different passages of great novels and poems as if I had read them only a few minutes before any discussion. Mother has teased that maybe I was a French spy in training as my French is more than passable for conversation. I am mediocre on the pianoforte and have been told my singing voice is lovely. Father already has plans for me to study with the Master when we make our way to Town.

I know many of the popular dances, even though I am not of an age to attend any balls or assemblies, I can embroider but find it dreadfully dull and take some solace in painting tables, although I detest netting purses. Ugh… I would rather go back into the river than net a purse. However, my greatest love is being outdoors, whether I walk the park around our estate, or ride with Father, I feel at peace when I am outside, marveling at the beauty of creation.

Rules of engagement for Weekend Writing Warriors:

Weekend Writing Warriors is a fun blog hop where authors share eight to ten lines from a Work in Progress. If you'd like to check out some of the other author's writing, please click on this link: WeWriWa

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIORS #89

Hello friends, I am starting a new story and I am thrilled you are here for the first of many snippets prior to publication, which I hope will be sometime this Autumn. Without further ado, here is the opening of A Rose by Any Other Name.

Excerpt:

The first memory of my re-birth was of mind-numbing cold. It settled into my bones. Into my very soul, and I could not stop shaking. The second memory was the voice of Father, calling for someone to help him pull me from the water. How I got into the river is still a mystery, as is my name and where I am from.

Let me start from the beginning as I know it.

Father found me injured and bedraggled in the river Derwent and claimed me as his own. That is, until… if… we ever find my true family. He had been riding his estate, of which the Derwent flows through a vast portion. Thank goodness it was a beautiful sunny day, or I might not have survived, because the sun glinted off my amber cross necklace and that is what drew him to the river’s edge, whereupon he discovered me draped across a large log which had gotten snagged on an exposed root of a willow tree.

Rules of engagement for Weekend Writing Warriors:

Weekend Writing Warriors is a fun blog hop where authors share eight to ten lines from a Work in Progress. If you'd like to check out some of the other author's writing, please click on this link: WeWriWa

Orange Banners Abound!

 Today, May 29, 2024, this is the sight that greeted me when I took a look at my latest release, The Wager, on Amazon. I have never had this happen before and I am thrilled, humbled, and gobsmacked. Thank you to all my lovely readers. Without you, this could never happen. You are the best!

Coming June 28

 

What is the one thing avid Jane Austen Fan Fiction readers like the most? The easy answer is - anything written about Jane Austen's beloved characters. But... what would you say if you knew you could get a boatload of JAFF books for free?

That got your interest, didn't it?

The good news is this. On June 28, a plethora - I really like that word - a plethora of JAFF authors will band together for a one-day extravaganza and you, my friend, can be among the lucky participants. On that day, a link will be provided here, as well as on my Facebook page. If you have not already 'liked' my page, at the top of the right-hand column, there is a link to my author page. I would truly like to have you follow me, not only for this wonderful event but for future news about my upcoming releases and writing journey.

Every book being offered will be FREE. Not free as in Kindle Unlimited where you have to have the KU subscription, but free as in zero dollars. You pay nothing. Nada. Bupkiss. It's almost too good to be true and trust me, I will be right there along with you, my virtual shopping cart in hand as I browse the 'bookshelves'.

I cannot wait and I hope you are as excited about this as me!

New Release

 Coming May 19th

Available for pre-order now

Exclusively in Kindle Unlimited - purchase your copy HERE

Tidbit Tuesday

Spring has sprung, the grass is riz... I wonder where my writing is?

For those of you patiently waiting, I am writing again! Winters are very hard on me. I have a skin condition (dishydrotic eczema) that precludes me from writing as I wear moisture gloves nearly 24/7. However, I began taking hyaluronic acid a month ago, which maintains and helps keep moisture in the skin, and the gloves are off - as are the moisture socks I've worn for over twelve years. Hallelujah!

Also, our granddaughter is thriving after her major surgery, so another load off my heart and shoulders. I am so thankful. Now I just have to get my brain back into writing mode and finish The Wager (which is nearly complete, only a few more chapters to go) and then I shall work further on the little piece of fluff I began on a lark - A Rose by Any Other Name.

Today I am sharing from Chapter Four of my Rose story and I hope you like my heroine's sense of humor. She's a tad snarky and a tad opinionated. We know her as Miss Grantley but can you guess her true identity? Let me know in the comments.

1811 London

There are times when I am dressing, or walking by a pier glass, that I sometimes startle at the person I see reflected. Do not think me mad. I know it is me, but I still do not recognize the lady who stares back, if that makes any sense.

I stand at five feet four inches, which is about two inches shorter than Mother. In my previous life, that is what I call my time before Father found me, I wonder if I have siblings and where I fit in the midst of them. I am not beautiful in the classical sense, but flatter myself that I am quite pretty and Mother says I have a lively playful disposition. Father calls me his ‘impertinent Miss’, but always with a gentle smile so I know he does not mean it in a spiteful way.

My figure is light and pleasing, which makes the modiste extremely happy. That, and the bonus Father pays her to finish my order promptly. I have dark blue eyes, giving a hint of a Nordic ancestor, framed by ridiculously long lashes. Mother has never seen the likes. My eyebrows frame my eyes satisfactorily, thank goodness. Penelope Hardcastle has her maid pluck unwanted hairs from between her brows and also to thin them. Danvers once plucked an errant strand and it was unexpectedly painful. I would not wish to have to do that regularly.

My nose is not too large and my mouth… well, other than my hair which is a luxurious mahogany, it is my favorite thing. Lusciously plump is what Wickham whispered in my ear at Lady Creighton’s ball before I tamped my heel down hard on his toes. I believe that is the only time I left a dance partner standing, or limping alone on the ballroom floor. For some unknown reason, that trumped-up son of a steward believes he has carte blanche when it comes to society functions. I am still angry at him. The way he leaned over and whispered in my ear in front of society’s prolific chin-waggers could have led to a disastrous compromise, and I have no intention of having my choice of husband taken from me. I have lost too much already in my life.

My internal musings were cut short by our butler informing me that Mrs. Louisa Hurst and her sister, Miss Bingley have presented their cards and wish to know if I am home to visitors. I hesitated briefly. I met them six months prior at a tea held by Mrs. Carmichael, a close acquaintance of Aunt Lucinda and now the sisters dogged my steps at every function we happen to attend at the same time. Lately, they have upped their pursuit and make a point of attending our townhouse weekly for tea.

Mrs. Hurst is a compliant lady. She does not say much and when she does, it is usually to agree with whatever her younger sister blathers on about. Miss Bingley is an avid social climber and at this moment in time, she believes my marriage portion along with my family name, is a rung in her ladder and she hopes to increase our connection by me falling in love with her brother, Mr. Charles Bingley.

That will not happen. We are a mismatched pair.

Please do not misunderstand me. I am not a society maven. For all I know I might very well be the daughter of a wealthy tradesman as easily as the daughter of a gentleman. My clothing from my previous life, which Mother preserved very carefully, indicates a gentle upbringing. So, it is not like I am thumbing my nose at Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst because I believe I am better than them, it is just that their brother… he is… I sighed. He is an adorable puppy. Amiable, fun-loving, wanting everyone to get along. He is a wonderful dance partner and when I am seated next to him at a ball or dinner party, I am tempted to pat him on the hand and praise him for being a good boy. When I meet the man I wish to marry, I definitely do not want to give him a lolly and tell him to go play with his toys in the next room.

At times, I do not believe he wishes to become leg-shackled to me either. For one, he has not once called me an ‘angel’. It is his favorite attribute to any lady he fancies himself in love with. Clarissa Hornblower comes to mind. I truly hope she marries soon and retires that name to her marriage lines and the family Bible, poor girl. Mr. Bingley was mad about her for at least three weeks before he discovered another golden-tressed angel, Tiffany, or was it, Theodora? They have all blended into a mish-mash of fair beauties over the few months in which I have made the acquaintance of Miss Bingley. Regardless, I welcome his friendship as it is unassuming and I know my honor is never in jeopardy with him. I think he would rather swallow his tongue than compromise a young lady. Unlike that toad, Wickham.

Goodness, I truly am angry with that… that man. I refuse to call him a gentleman. Firstly, he does not behave as one and secondly, he was not born into the station nor has he the funds to purchase an estate. I believe he thought my marriage portion of thirty thousand pounds, along with being the sole heir of Father’s estate and holdings, would pave his way into the card rooms of Boodles or Whites. The only place I see him residing, given his penchant for gambling and carousing, is debtor’s prison. I have no idea where he has gotten the funds to wine and dine society’s elite, but however much he had in his pocket at the beginning of the year, it has been lightened quite substantially. I overheard some gentlemen talking about the high-stakes card game he lost back in March and still shake my head at the thought of a thousand pounds flowing through his fingers over the course of a few hours. This would explain his unwelcome attempt to woo me on the dance floor. I shudder to think what would have happened if he had stumbled across me in an alcove, or when I stepped outside to cool my cheeks on the terrace.

Mother is correct. I must be aware of my surroundings at all times, much like now. Our butler awaits me patiently as I hesitate over whether I am home or not to the Bingley sisters. As it is threatening to rain, curtailing my walk through Hyde Park, I tell Pritchard I am home to the ladies and ring for tea.

Tidbit Tuesday ~ Did we just hear Wickham choke?

Today's excerpt is from my Work In Progress - The Wager.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

The officers of the ___shire Militia, also in attendance, presented themselves in a favorable light with polite manners and gentlemanlike behavior. Not much time had passed before Mr. Wickham, a handsome, congenial man to whom almost every female eye was turned, asked for introductions to the ladies of Longbourn and immediately fell into an agreeable conversation with them. Elizabeth was not surprised by this request, nor when the gentleman’s attention became more focused on her eldest sister. Jane’s beauty was a beacon of light that called many to make her acquaintance, but few withstood the pointed questions the sisters had learned to ask in order to determine if a gentleman was worth their attention.

The first thing Elizabeth determined was that flattery, coupled with a winsome smile, was Mr. Wickham’s secret weapon. She surmised even the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the speaker's skill.

How many young girls have fallen for your charm? she wondered. An elevated brow directed toward her eldest sister, who returned her silent query with a slight, elegant shrug of her shoulder, told Elizabeth that Jane was also leery of the officer.

Barely any time had passed before Elizabeth tired of his prattle and decided to begin what she and Jane jokingly called The Inquisition. Over the next quarter hour, they discovered his father had been a steward of a vast estate in Derbyshire, and the master of that same estate was also his godfather. What surprised them most was learning Mr. Wickham’s godfather had ensured his godson received a gentleman’s education, sending him to the best private schools, including Cambridge alongside his own son. More questioning revealed the dapper officer had, for a brief time, entertained the thought of being a barrister.

“I found the law was not to my liking,” Wickham said in a firm voice. “I am an active person and could not bear the thought of being tied to a desk for all hours of the day.”

“Forgive me for being indelicate, but given the great education you received, what enticed you to join the militia at this stage of your life?” Elizabeth asked when he paused for breath.

“It was the prospect of constant and good society which was my chief inducement,’’ he began. “I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jane said in her calm, serene manner. “On behalf of the citizens of Meryton, we hope you will enjoy our society, small and unvaried as it may seem.”

Elizabeth inherently knew her sister referred to Mr. Bingley’s sister’s lamentations of lack of good company in Hertfordshire. 

“Society, I own, is necessary to me. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church ought to have been my profession. I was brought up for the church, and should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the son of my deceased godfather.’’

“Indeed!’’

“Yes, the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

Both Elizabeth’s and Jane’s eyes widened at his mentioning the name of Darcy, but Mr. Wickham did not notice as his attention became riveted on some guests who entered the room. His face paled and Elizabeth turned to see who had generated such a response to find herself looking directly at Mr. Darcy, whose own face was flushed an angry red.

Wickham turned to face the sisters. His eyes flicked every which way, as though looking for an escape, his upper lip dotted with a thin sheen of perspiration.

“Pray, excuse me. I must find my friend Denny and make plans for tomorrow’s drill exercise.”

Elizabeth shot out her hand and latched onto Mr. Wickham’s left arm, forestalling his exit.

“May I assume your godfather’s son is none other than Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?”

“Yes.”

Wickham attempted to slither from her grip but she held firm.

“Well then, how fortuitous that we are here with you now, in front of all these guests.”

“How so?” Wickham asked, shuffling as though to hide behind her because Darcy was bearing down on them with the speed of a violent summer storm.

“We must decry your terrible treatment and have Mr. Darcy fulfill his father’s dearest wish.” Elizabeth tightened her hold. “If nothing else, he must give you the pecuniary value of the living. It is only right and just.”

“That is not necessary, Miss Elizabeth. I have learned to forgive and forget.”

By this time, Darcy had reached them. He towered over Wickham, his fists clenching and unclenching. He was – Elizabeth thought with a small frisson of awareness – quite magnificent.

“I invite you to join me outside, Wickham.”

“I am here with my compatriots, Darcy. I have no need to leave the party at this juncture.”

Elizabeth dared to engage the glowering bear.

“We are so glad you arrived when you did, Mr. Darcy,” she began.

“You are?” he asked without once removing his gaze from Wickham.

“Most assuredly, for Mr. Wickham shared with us how he was unjustly kept from receiving a living your father, his godfather, had promised to him.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He was very clear in most details when telling us his version of events.”

Upon hearing the inflections in Elizabeth’s voice, Darcy cut her a quick glance. She was able to wink with either eye and as one side of her face was concealed from Mr. Wickham, she used the left eye to do that very service. Mayhap it was her imagination, but she thought Mr. Darcy’s shoulders physically relaxed. By this time, the viscount and Bingley had joined them.

“Did you inform these fine ladies that in lieu of the living, you asked for and received three thousand pounds, on top of the one thousand pounds settled on you by my father at the time of his death?” Darcy asked, his voice as hard as peaks of Derbyshire.

“You arrived before I had a chance to share that part of history.”

“To be fair,” Elizabeth interjected, the imp of mischief settled firmly on her shoulders. “Mr. Wickham did inform us he had been brought up for the church and having received a Cambridge education I am certain he must have used those funds toward receiving holy orders.”

“I truly must leave. I see my fellow officers waving me over.”

Elizabeth released her hold and Wickham tugged down his new red tunic before giving all of them a polite half-bow. He turned to leave but halted midstride when Mr. Darcy spoke again.

“I shall give your regards to my cousin when I write him tonight,” Darcy said, his tone almost conversational. “Richard is most anxious to make your reacquaintance. You should know he was exceedingly upset that we had just missed you by a few days this past summer.”

Elizabeth thought Mr. Wickham was about to faint, and found it very interesting that the gentleman bypassed all his fellow officers and fled the house completely without saying farewell to anyone.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

Snippet Sunday ~ Twin Tentacles of Doom

 

Sometimes when writing, I surprise myself. In writing this next scene, little did I know I was about to gift the Bingley sisters with a new moniker to proclaim as their own. This snippet is from my Work In Progress, The Wager.

EXCERPT

“I understand you have family here in Meryton, Miss Hamilton.”

“I do,” Jane replied. “My mother’s sister is married to Mr. Phillips.”

“How lovely, and is Mr. Phillips busy with his little shop?” Miss Bingley asked before raising her fingers to hide a smile.

“My uncle is an attorney. He is the one who negotiated the lease your brother signed to rent Netherfield Park.”

Miss Bingley pursed her lips at being reminded they did not own the estate where she rested her head at night but rented it from another. Regardless of this annoyance, she continued with her line of questioning, solidifying Elizabeth’s belief she had a nefarious purpose for the unexpected invitation to tea.

“Does this same uncle have his own estate?”

“His eldest brother inherited the family estate in Surrey.”

“Our dear Uncle Phillips is a second son,” Elizabeth interjected, not wanting Jane to reveal their beloved uncle’s father was a baron. “He chose to follow the law instead of taking orders, which brought him to our corner of Hertfordshire.”

“A choice Aunt Martha is very glad of,” Mary added before she took a small bite of her cake.

“Your other uncle,” Caroline continued as though neither Elizabeth nor Mary had spoken. “He is in trade, yes?”

Jane nodded in the affirmative.

“Our uncle is very successful. He and his wife live in London.”

“In Cheapside, I heard.”

“Near Cheapside, on Gracechurch Street.”

“I imagine he lives there in order to keep a watchful eye on his property,” Miss Bingley tittered and slid a sly glance toward Mrs. Hurst.

Elizabeth’s anger began to simmer. What was supposed to be a pleasant tea had turned into an inquisition where the perpetrator believed she had all the answers and only wished to humiliate her guests.

“Speaking of property, remind me again Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth began with false sweetness. “In which county we can find your father’s estate?”

She would have gone further, but Jane laid a warning hand on her forearm.

“Enough, Lizzy,” she said in a soft undertone.

An odd sound came from Mary and both turned their attention toward her.

“Jane,” she said in a small voice. “I do not feel well.”

Mary then doubled over and struck her head hard enough on the floor to render her unconscious. Both Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst emitted tiny screams.

“Miss Bingley, is there any fish in these cakes?” Jane demanded as she hurried to Mary’s side, gently lifting her sister’s head to rest on her lap.

“How would I know?”

“Please find out if there was.”

Miss Bingley continued to gape and cast panicked glances toward her eldest sister. Mrs. Hurst seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation and hurried to the bell pull. Only when a footman stepped into the room did Miss Bingley snap out of her stupor.

“You there,” she demanded and pointed at the footmen. “Have Mrs. Nickers attend us and send a maid to ask the cook what was in the cakes she sent up for our tea.”

The footman cast a quick glance at Mary lying on Jane's lap before hurrying from the room. Elizabeth heard Mrs. Hurst murmur to her sister, “Her name is Mrs. Nicholls.”

“Oh, who cares. She is just a housekeeper.”

At that moment, the butler entered the room. Most likely to investigate why some of the ladies had screamed.

“What may I do to help, Ma’am,” he queried, addressing Jane, not Miss Bingley.

“Send Jeremy for Mr. Jones, he is the fastest rider of all the footmen. Tell him Miss Bennet is having one of her reactions and we need him post haste.” The butler turned to do her bidding, stopping when Jane called out again. “Cardston, after that, please find Mrs. Nicholls and tell her I need water for drinking as well as to wipe Mary’s face, it will help cool and relax her.”

Cardston withdrew to do her bidding, completely ignoring the gaping mouth of his temporary mistress.

“Who do you think you are, to order about our servants as if they are your own?” Miss Bingley demanded. “It is not as though your sister is dying.”

Jane’s eyes flashed with anger upon hearing such a callous comment. Elizabeth was not at all surprised by her sister’s reaction. She and Jane could and did withstand the barbs and insults of ignorant people, but woe betide the person who attacked her family. Fortunately, for Miss Bingley, Mary stirred and her eyes fluttered.

“Relax, dearest,” Jane soothed as she gently stroked her sister’s cheek. “You hit your head on the floor and were rendered unconscious.”

“Jane…” Whatever it was that Mary wished to say would never be known because she promptly rolled to her side and vomited onto the carpet.

The outraged gasps of Miss Bingley would sustain Elizabeth for days, but only after her sister recovered. Any further outbursts were stymied by the arrival of Mrs. Nicholls, who bustled into the room with a couple of maids, bringing water and clean rags.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nicholls,” Jane said, overriding any comment Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst may have made. “Prepare the green guest room for Mary and have Cardston direct Mr. Jones there when he arrives.”

“Right away, La−, Miss Hamilton.”

“Who are you to give orders to my servants?”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to answer your questions, Miss Bingley.” Jane caressed Mary’s brow with tender affection. “My sister’s recovery is my only priority.”

Although she wished to lend comment, Elizabeth stayed quiet. This was Jane’s fight, not hers. Two hours later, an exhausted Mary lay sleeping in one of the guest rooms after a thorough examination by Mr. Jones. Fortunately, she had only taken a bite of one small cake.

“Will she be able to come home tomorrow, Mr. Jones?” Jane asked, her attention riveted to the still form of her sister lying in the bed. Elizabeth sat by the side of the bed, holding Mary’s hand in hers.

“Miss Hamilton, your sister has suffered one of her Idiosyncrasy’s. It is as I told you when she had her last spasmodic symptom, her body reacts in a different manner to some foods. The last time it was lobster. Do we know what she ingested today?”

“Miss Bingley learned some of the cakes had crab in them,” Elizabeth offered in reply.

“Ahh…this is good to know. It seems Miss Bennet must avoid ingesting any type of fish.” Mr. Jones paused, as if in deep thought. “Has she ever reacted to lake trout?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Jane said. “We have trout regularly during the summer months. My Uncle Gardiner is an avid angler and loves to fish our stream, allowing us to enjoy the spoils of his labor.”

“Fascinating. It seems Miss Bennet only reacts to oceanic species of shellfish,” Mr. Jones murmured. “I will write one of my friends in Town and see if he has any further insight into these types of maladies.”

“So, Mary can come home tomorrow?” Jane asked.

“As far as her reaction to food, she is fine. However, she struck her head quite hard, which is the reason she became violently ill. She must rest quietly, and it is imperative she is awakened every four hours.”

“I shall stay with her, Jane,” Elizabeth offered.

“Are you certain?”

“After your little dust-up with Miss Bingley, I believe a strategic retreat is called for you to regroup your serenity.”

Once Mary rested quietly, the remaining sisters returned to the drawing room. Jane to say her goodbyes to Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, and Elizabeth to see her safely off and confer with their hostess about what Mr. Jones had requested regarding food and drink for Mary. The doors to the drawing room remained partially open and the strident tones of Miss Bingley clearly carried into the hall.

“What did Miss Hamilton mean? Ordering our servants around like this was her own home. I declare those Bennet sisters are the main reason I wish to quit this horrible place.”

Quick footsteps could be heard and a low murmur from Mrs. Hurst.

“I do not care, Louisa. They are below us, practically dirt farmers with two impoverished step-daughters and their estate entailed away. We must get Charles away from Miss Hamilton. She will drag him down into the mud with her and ruin my chances of making a successful marriage.”

Elizabeth not only felt Jane stiffen but saw her draw back her shoulders.

“Do nothing you will regret later, Jane,” she cautioned. “Words may pierce our pride and sting our memories but they cannot change who we are and the life we will lead once Trenton comes home.”

“While our lives will alter when our brother returns in a few short weeks, I am tired of the snide remarks and underhanded comments that perpetually spring forth from Mr. Bingley’s sisters.” Jane turned cerulean blue eyes toward her sister and smiled wide enough to crinkle their corners. “I believe it is time for those two ladies to be schooled in proper etiquette.”

“As you know, there is no love lost between Miss Bingley and me, and in most circumstances, I would wholeheartedly agree, but – think on this – if you reveal our rank, are you prepared for that woman and her sister to grovel and toady for your attention.”

“Now that I am aware of their true sentiments, I have no desire to acknowledge them in any form.” She paused and her expression turned thoughtful. “Unless I continue to accept Mr. Bingley’s attentions.”

“Is his affection worth the twin tentacles of doom waiting for us in the next room?”

“I confess I am uncertain.” Jane took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I suppose we shall find out over the next few weeks.”

Snippet Sunday ~ I hope you choose the liquid punch

During this banter, Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary continued to the main drawingroom, quickly finding Charlotte, and joining her to catch up on all the latest news from Meryton. They had barely taken their seats when Mr. Bingley and Viscount Ashton joined them.

Jane had been uniformly silent about her two beaux. The viscount usually made an appearance at Longbourn in the morning, often joining them for breakfast. Mr. Bingley attended whenever anyone from Netherfield came for tea. It was during these visits Mr. Darcy also came tither and politely sat with Elizabeth, much to Miss Bingley’s chagrin.

Her musings were interrupted by a gasp from Jane, who laughed softly and tapped the viscount sharply on his forearm with her fan. The embers of Elizabeth’s sense of humor were stoked as she watched Mr. Bingley come to a slow realization his hunting field hosted another predator. Mr. Darcy showed no reaction, solidifying Elizabeth’s belief he was fully aware his cousin had been beating a path to Longbourn’s door.

She wondered why he did not join the viscount. Surely, if Viscount Ashton could lay claim to a familial connection – the reason he gave for his first surprising arrival just as they sat down to breakfast – then so could Mr. Darcy. He was as much a part of her father’s family as the viscount. His great-aunt, Lady Minerva Fitzwilliam-Hamilton, was her and Jane’s grandmother.

Awareness shivered across the back of her neck and she slowly turned to find the gaze of Mr. Darcy resting on their group. It would be foolhardy to imagine his attention was focused solely on her, even though he intimated as much at the assembly. Perhaps he was bored and she and Jane, along with the viscount, were the only people of rank he felt he could associate with.

Her brow furrowed.

That line of reasoning did not hold water as the taciturn gentleman was a good friend to Mr. Bingley. Granted, Mr. Bingley was very wealthy, but still… his roots were deep in trade. Her inner conflict was put into abeyance when Mr. Darcy joined them.

“Good evening, Miss Hamilton, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Good evening, Mr. Darcy,” she and Jane said in perfect unison.

Mr. Darcy turned to Mary.

“Pardon me, Miss Bennet. I did not see you. My cousin blocked you from my view.” He gave her a polite half-bow. “Good evening to you, Miss Bennet.”

Mary smiled in her own shy way and returned the greeting before saying, “I am going to ask Charlotte if she minds me playing some music in the background before we dine.”

“That would be lovely,” Elizabeth enthused. “I do hope you play the piece you have been working on this week.”

Mary ducked her head at her sister’s praise.

“I am not prepared to play that piece in public. Mayhap on our next gathering.”

“You enjoy playing the pianoforte, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Darcy asked.

“I do.”

“My sister, Georgiana, also loves to play that instrument. Have you had any instruction from one of the masters?”

“Papa invited Senor Giovanni to Longbourn last Autumn. He came for a few weeks to assess my ability and then I stayed with our aunt and uncle in town to further my instruction from him.”

Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows rose upon hearing the name of Mary’s music master.

“Senor Giovanni? My sister has longed to be tutored by him. You must have a rare talent, Miss Bennet. He is very particular in his choice of students.”

“I am aware and very humbled. He inspires me to work hard.”

“And, her diligence has benefited us,” Elizabeth added. “Our family is treated to a concerto nearly every day.”

“I must make an effort to attend one of these impromptu musicales,” Mr. Darcy teased, never removing his gaze from Elizabeth.

She blinked and lowered her eyes to study the pattern of Lady Lucas’s rug. Confused by his sometimes cold then sometimes warm manners, she decided to take each day as it presented itself and look no further. Today saw a congenial Darcy at her side. Tomorrow he may revert to the gentleman who had no time, nor patience for the citizens of Meryton.

It was exasperating, these attempts to discern his moods. She was beginning to believe it easier when she thoroughly disliked him. Black and white. No gray areas to blur the lines, especially when he smiled, as he was at this very moment.

Vexing man!

Then…, with the smallest of touches, his hand brushed hers. Her startled gaze flew to his face, surprised to notice his full attention seemed to be focused completely on Jane and Mr. Bingley. Had she imagined the feather-like graze of his fingers? She, too, turned her attention to their small group when the back of her hand was brushed again. Immediately, she looked down and caught him ‘red-handed,’ so to speak.

With a subtle flick of her wrist, she took her fan and tapped him smartly on the fingers, while clearing her throat at the same time so no one would hear the soft ‘whack’ of her fan.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said, not missing a beat. “Would you care for a glass of punch?”

She leveled a stern look, reminiscent of her first governess in his direction. He had the grace to gift her a small smile, confirming he was very aware of his flirtatious behavior.

“A glass of punch would be welcome. Thank you.”

“Allow me to escort you to the refreshment table. Then you may choose which punch you prefer.” As they walked away, her hand lightly resting on his forearm, he said in a low voice only she could hear. “I hope you choose the liquid punch and not a solid left hook to my jaw.”

She could not help herself; she laughed out loud. What was she to do with this most frustrating man?