The Darcy Ring Read online

  The Darcy Ring

  (Charlotte Collins Mysteries - Book 2)

  A Pride and Prejudice Sequel

  A novella by Mark Brownlow

  Lost Opinions e.U.

  The Darcy Ring

  © 2018 Mark Brownlow

  All rights reserved

  Electronic Edition

  ISBN: 978-3-903230-03-3

  Author: Mark Brownlow

  Cover design: James, GoOnWrite.com

  Editing: Sarah Pesce, Lopt & Cropt Editing Services

  Formatting: Polgarus Studio

  Publisher: Lost Opinions e.U.

  Paschinggasse 8/28

  1170 Vienna

  Austria

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, the product of Jane Austen’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. With the exception of passing references to well-known historical personalities or events, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more Austenesque creations, see:

  Web: lostopinions.com

  Twitter: @markbrownlow

  Facebook: facebook.com/lostopinions/

  For Mum and Lara

  Table of Contents

  A Meeting of Friends

  An Occasion Spoiled

  The Treasure Hunt

  An Unexpected Appeal

  Hunsford

  Men (and Women) at Work

  The Captain and the Bear

  The Ladies Return

  A Discovery

  A Tale Is Told

  Finding the Right Words

  The Captain and the Sailor

  New Beginnings

  Epilogue

  Preview of Book Three

  Fiction by Mark Brownlow

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A Meeting of Friends

  If a gentleman wishes to defeat a rival in love, then he may no longer do so in a duel. Instead, he must confront his opponent at the dinner table, ready to meet the cut and thrust of conversation with wits sharp as any sword, and shielded only by his name and income.

  Such matters never troubled Mr Collins, of course, married as he was and certain enough of his wife’s loyalty and fidelity that he gave no thought to either. Besides, on one March afternoon, as broken sunlight breached the massed ranks of cloud, he had more pressing concerns to attend to.

  “Come, come, Mrs Collins, we must not keep Lady Catherine waiting. This is no ordinary dinner. Such guests!” Mr Collins did not run, for he could never be seen to be late. But he did not walk, either. Behind the rector, Charlotte darted from side to side to avoid the watery snares left by the spring rain.

  “We are here,” said Mr Collins helpfully, stopping to mop his brow with a handkerchief at the bottom of the great stone steps that announced the entrance to Rosings Park. “Magnificent.” He seemed almost to be counting the windows, perhaps hopeful that new ones might have appeared since his last visit the previous Thursday. Water dripped from the broad gable above the doors, and Charlotte followed its path back up another two storeys, over the huge sculpted de Bourgh coat of arms, all the way to the pillared bell tower that gave the best view of the Rosings estate.

  Before Charlotte and Mr Collins could complete the final few yards of their journey, the front doors opened to reveal a young lady, her simple white dress embellished with small loops of red silk around the shoulders. She lifted her hem, skipped down the steps, paused to offer Mr Collins a brief curtsy, then extended her arms at his wife.

  “Charlotte,” said the woman. “It is entirely inappropriate, I know, but I could not help myself. I had to greet you.”

  “Eliza.” Charlotte took her friend’s hands in hers and squeezed. “Mrs Darcy. Near two years is too long. There is so much to say.” Neither spoke. Charlotte took in the delicate embroidery on Mrs Darcy’s dress, the thin bracelet studded with diamonds, and the intricacy of the braided hair with its silver band dotted with pearls. She released her friend, stepped back, and looked about her. “But where is Mr Darcy?”

  “Oh, he is behaving impeccably, of course, waiting inside,” said Mrs Darcy. “Shall we go in? It would not do to keep Lady Catherine waiting.”

  “My thoughts precisely, cousin Elizabeth,” said Mr Collins, scampering toward the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  Like much of Rosings Park, the dining room was caught halfway between pomp and practicality. The oak table offered enough space for a score of guests to sit in comfort, but the decorative centrepieces sometimes hindered the view—an attribute that Lady Catherine de Bourgh put to good use when certain visitors did not enjoy her unquestioned approval. If the delights of the kitchen were insufficient, guests could always feast on the surrounding paintings. At the top end of the table, the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh stood in portrait, the feathered plunder of the shoot laid out around him like gifts before an altar. Along the walls, pictures of silver fruit bowls and platters demonstrated both the prowess of the artists and their poor understanding of horticulture. A preserved boar’s head looked out over the bottom end of the table, its eyes ably expressing both surprise and annoyance.

  “The wound was so deep, his breeches showed not a spot of white. Yet he continued to fight until the French capitulated.” Mr Dryden waved his glass, the few dark drops of wine within adding a crimson edge to the sparkle from the sun. “He took their final surrender laid out on a pallet, with a tumbler of fine brandy in one hand, bloodied hat in the other. What do you think of that, eh?”

  “I have never held much with war,” said Lady Catherine, from the head of the table. “My late husband was very fond of French brandy and the irregular supply caused us quite some inconvenience, not to say expense.”

  “We must all make sacrifices in times of conflict, Aunt.” Colonel Fitzwilliam twisted his own glass in his hands and watched the wine trace waves around the sides. “How fortunate for us, Mr Dryden, that you were there to witness such deeds of bravery. Tell me, which regiment did you serve in?”

  “Goodness, let there be no misunderstanding, Colonel,” said Mr Dryden. “Me? An army man? No, I merely relate what I have heard in London.” Lines appeared on his expansive forehead. They combined with a narrow jaw, a thin chin, and pockmarked cheeks to put Charlotte in mind of a parsnip, albeit one that owned a very large estate in Hampshire. “The privilege of army service fell to my younger brothers…as it did to yourself.” In the silence that followed, the colonel merely nodded.

  “I often wonder if I would prefer a brave man or a rich one,” said Mrs Darcy, leaning around an ice sculpture of a heron.

  “Why not both?” said Mr Darcy. “Am I not brave?”

  “Since you married me,” said Mrs Darcy, “I must conclude that you are.”

  “Or perhaps I did not have the courage to resist you?” said Mr Darcy.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Charlotte, seated on his right at the ‘lower’ end of the table. “You are familiar with the Rosings still room,” he whispered. “Do you think it might yield something to settle my stomach? If I have to listen to more of Darcy’s fawning over his wife…” He took a long draught of wine.

  Mr Collins—the only guest still eating—scraped at the remains of his syllabub. “Marriage is a gift indeed,” he said. “I have been blessed with Mrs Collins and I flatter myself that she, too, is cognisant of the benefits of wedded bliss.”

  “I am sure she is, Mr Collins,” said Mrs Darcy. “Fully cognisant. But tell me, Mrs Collins…wealth or courage?”

  “I find neither a requirement for happiness in marriage,” said Charlotte. “Though wealth might lead to contentment.”

  “Well said, Mrs Collin
s, well said.” Mr Dryden held his glass while a footman replenished its contents.

  “And what do you say, Miss de Bourgh?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, without looking up. Lady Catherine’s daughter glanced at her questioner, her face a mix of colours that combined to present a unique beauty: pale skin with a tinge of pink on her cheeks, chestnut curls, and azure eyes that matched her gown.

  “You cannot expect Anne to venture an opinion.” Lady Catherine shook a finger, slightly crooked with age. “It is not a choice she will need to make. Land, reputation, and superior connections. That is what I shall insist on.”

  “Courage.” Miss de Bourgh’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I would choose courage.” She looked at the colonel again, her mouth curving toward a smile.

  “Well said, Miss de Bourgh, well said.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes held Miss de Bourgh’s for a moment, then settled on Mr Dryden, who appeared not to notice.

  “Courage?” said Lady Catherine, much as she might have announced the name of a relative who had fallen into debt. She opened her mouth as if to speak further.

  “But who among us,” said Charlotte, quickly, “will find the courage to tell Mr Daminois that we cannot possibly eat any more of his syllabub? It is wonderful, though we are too few. What do you say, Mr Darcy?”

  “I believe there are none brave enough to challenge a French cook.” Mr Darcy held up his hands as if in surrender.

  “Perhaps I might soften the blow by asking for his recipe,” said Charlotte. “Molly makes wonderful desserts at the parsonage, but we might enjoy a little more variety.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Darcy. “You will not prise such a secret from Mr Daminois. I have tried before on behalf of the Pemberley kitchens, but with no success. Though perhaps if I sent Mrs Darcy, his resolve would soon melt.”

  “Good God.” Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed his chair back from the table. “You have been married well over a year, Darcy. Must you still parade your affection so?”

  Mr Collins’s spoon froze among the trails of syllabub.

  The colonel turned his head one way, then the other, apparently bemused at the silence and attention his words had brought him. Then a shadow seemed to lift from his face. “Forgive me, cousin. Words spoken in jealousy at your good fortune. Were I married to one such as Mrs Darcy, I should likely speak as you do. A toast to you both.” His words freed the spoon to once again indulge its holder’s passion for the culinary efforts of Mr Daminois.

  “Come, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” whispered Charlotte as idle chatter returned to the table. “Where is your usual good humour? Did the food disagree with you?”

  “The food was perfectly agreeable,” said the colonel, leaning closer to Charlotte. His eyes flicked toward Mr Dryden. “The company less so.”

  “Will you join me tomorrow, Miss de Bourgh?” said Mrs Darcy. “I intend to visit the parsonage quite unacceptably early and spend the day with Mrs Collins. We will make a fine party and can talk about the gentlemen without them having any knowledge or recourse.”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure, but I leave for London. It is my fourth visit already. Mrs Jenkinson will meet me there and I will take Miss Inglis, of course. Oh…” Miss de Bourgh’s joyous look collapsed into uncertainty. “My apologies, Mrs Darcy. I did not think. Miss Inglis has seen to your needs, too. We will leave you without a lady’s maid.”

  “I survived without one for over twenty years, Miss de Bourgh. I can do so again. Besides, my own lady’s maid left our service four weeks ago and we have not yet found a replacement. So you see, I am quite used to it.”

  “Unless, of course, Mama, you might share Miss Fletcher?” said Miss de Bourgh.

  “Share?” Lady Catherine arched a greying eyebrow.

  “Do not trouble yourselves on my account,” said Mrs Darcy. “I am quite at ease with no maid. How do you find London, Miss de Bourgh?”

  “Quite wonderful. It is all still so very new to me. My health, you see. Before…” Miss de Bourgh glanced at Mr Darcy, then at her mother, then stared at her lap. “It is very different to Hunsford village.”

  “Perhaps you might allow me to introduce you to my various connections in the capital?” said Mr Dryden. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s fingers tightened into fists.

  “Lady Turner will host Anne at her townhouse,” said Lady Catherine. “Besides, Mr Dryden, you and I have matters to discuss. Given the improvements you had done at Harewood Hall, I require your advice on further extensions for Rosings.”

  “Of course, Lady Catherine,” said Mr Dryden, his gaze still resting on Miss de Bourgh.

  “Extensions, Aunt?” said Mr Darcy.

  “If you had dragged your eyes away from your wife for a moment, Darcy, you might have seen the building works outside.” A half smile took the edge off Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words.

  “Rosings must grow, nephew,” said Lady Catherine. “My steward insists on it if we are to remain…what are the words he used? You were with me at the time, Mr Dryden.”

  “Financially sound,” said Mr Dryden between gulps of wine. His glass was almost empty again.

  “I would not see Rosings suffer the fate of those estates less cared for,” said Lady Catherine. She cast a beady eye down the table. “Tell me, Mrs Darcy, how is your family? You have four sisters, I believe. Yet no brother—your mother was most remiss in that regard given your circumstances. To allow Mr Collins here to inherit the estate smacks of laxity and frivolousness. Still, I presume all your sisters are married by now?”

  Mrs Darcy took a deep breath. “Lydia and Jane, yes, but Kitty and Mary remain at their home…at Longbourn.”

  “And are they to be married soon?” said Lady Catherine.

  “That is for them to decide, Lady Catherine. Besides, I can offer little insight on such matters, my sisters being so far from my own home…at Pemberley.”

  “Tell your mother she must insist on their marrying forthwith,” said Lady Catherine. “A wedding ring is the making of a lady.”

  “Your ring, Mrs Darcy,” said Charlotte. “It is not as my mother described in her letter.”

  “This?” Mrs Darcy held up a finger bearing a thin band of gold. “But this is my wedding ring. Lady Lucas no doubt meant my wedding gift from Mr Darcy.”

  “Ah,” said Lady Catherine. “That ring.”

  “I only wore it briefly,” said Mrs Darcy. “It is far too precious. Indeed, I never take it from its box unless there is a ball to attend.”

  “Mr Darcy, you make a mockery of us all with your generosity. It is exceeded only by that of your aunt.” Mr Collins bobbed like an apple in water as he attempted to dip his head at both recipients of his compliments.

  “Then you do not have the ring with you?” said Miss de Bourgh. “There being no ball planned for your visit.”

  “On the contrary,” said Mrs Darcy. “I brought it with me for the London part of our trip. We attended an assembly there at the invitation of Mrs Honywood.”

  “Might you wear it next week at Westerham, then, for our dinner with Lady Filmer?” said Miss de Bourgh.

  Mrs Darcy shook her head. “I did not intend doing so.”

  “Such a shame,” said Miss de Bourgh. “I should so like to see it. Is it very pretty?”

  “Perhaps, my dear…” said Mr Darcy. “On this one occasion?”

  “Very well, just this once,” said Mrs Darcy. “But only for a short while, then it must return to its box where it will stay. Might we ask Miss Inglis to fetch it?”

  ~ ~ ~

  “French?” said Mr Dryden.

  “Spanish,” said Mr Darcy. “They say it belonged to the Marquis of Mancera, then fell into the hands of Dutch pirates.”

  Mr Dryden stifled a laugh. “A fanciful tale, surely?”

  “Not at all. My great-grandfather acquired it last century, during the war against the Dutch,” said Mr Darcy. “Or do you know different, Aunt?”

  Lady Catherine’s eyes seemed blank and distant, as if lost in thought or some memory
. “Your mother called it the Darcy ring,” she said, voice softer than usual. “She said it was intended for a great lady.”

  All heads turned to look at Mrs Darcy. “And it has found one,” said her husband.

  “I will talk to the still room maid,” whispered Charlotte to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “She can prepare an infusion for both of us.”

  Gemstones glittered as Mrs Darcy twisted outstretched fingers. An oval setting encased a large cut diamond flanked by trefoils, each holding a ruby and two emeralds. Traces of black enamel encircled the gold of the ring itself. It held the attention of the table, like an opera singer at the climax of an aria.

  “How fortunate you are, Mrs Darcy,” said Miss de Bourgh. “A lady may be sure of a gentleman’s love when he presents her with such a treasure.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam looked up sharply. “Then you do place wealth before courage, Miss de Bourgh?”

  “No, not at all, Colonel.” The colour in Miss de Bourgh’s cheeks deepened. “I merely meant to say…it is just so beautiful. I should wear it every day.”

  “I believe a wife must be sure of her husband’s regard before accepting such a gift,” said Mrs Darcy. “Otherwise she might feel bound to him by debt alone.”

  “It is an unusual combination of jewels,” said Mr Dryden. “But then the Spanish lack the refinement of the English.” He shrugged. “Still, a pretty bauble in its own way.”

  At Mr Dryden’s words, Mrs Darcy dropped her hand to the table. “Miss Inglis, if you will…” She removed the ring and placed it in the cupped palm of the maid, who did not move, seemingly frozen by the touch of gold. “You may take it back to my chamber now.”

  Miss Inglis shook her head as if to wake herself. “Of course, Mrs Darcy.” She retrieved a small box from her apron. “At once.”

  “Is there any more syllabub?” said Mr Collins, peering down the table.