Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 2 Read online

  Darcy and Elizabeth What If?

  Collection 2

  Includes

  #4 Mr Darcy’s Hallowe’en

  #5 Twelve Days of Christmas

  #6 Winter at Netherfield Park

  JENNIFER LANG

  This collection © Jennifer Lang 2015

  Each separate novella © Jennifer Lang 2014

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person or incident is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Mr Darcy’s Hallowe’en

  Twelve Days of Christmas

  Winter at Netherfield Park

  Mr Darcy’s Hallowe’en

  © Jennifer Lang 2014

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person or incident is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  On a misty morning in October, the ghost of Lady Anne Darcy glided down the grand staircase at Pemberley with her white gown billowing around her. Her long, dark hair hung loose about her shoulders, framing her chalk-white face. She passed through the closed door of the drawing-room and glided over to her husband, who occupied an elegant gilded chair. A close observer would have noticed that he floated an inch above the seat of the chair instead of sitting upon it. Like his wife, he was dressed all in white. A white cape billowed around him and, beneath it, his tailcoat and breeches were white. His hair and complexion completed his bleached and transparent appearance.

  ‘Ah! There you are, my dear. Will you not sit down?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I thank you,’ replied Lady Anne, wringing her hands and gliding up and down the room. She passed through the elegant tables and gilded chairs as though they were not there. Her simple whiteness formed a marked contrast to the blues, pinks and golds of the decorations

  ‘You are restless today,’ said her husband.

  ‘I am always restless as Hallowe’en approaches, you know that. It is my one chance in the year to correct the mistake I made when I betrothed our son to his cousin in the cradle. As he has grown to be a man, he has carried that expectation like a burden around his neck. It weighs him down like a ball and chain, and no matter how much he twists and turns he cannot be rid of it. He wants to honour his family and he wants to honour my memory, but I have long since come to the conclusion that Anne is not the right wife for him.’

  She was so agitated that she passed through the outer wall into the bleak, autumnal garden.

  ‘Calm yourself, my dear. You must not blame yourself. It was done in the first bliss of your motherhood, when you and your sister, Lady Catherine, were besotted with your infants. You meant no harm. Now come back inside, do.’

  Lady Anne floated back through the wall. However, she was still far from happy.

  ‘Nevertheless, I have done harm and I mean to put it right,’ she said.

  ‘And just how do you intend to do it?’

  ‘I mean to absolve him from his duty to Anne by furthering a better match for him; one which will do him good . And one which, if he would only forget his pride, his own heart would welcome.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her husband was interested. ‘Has Fitzwilliam met a woman he likes?’

  Lady Anne gave a ghostly smile, and her hair waved around her face as though it were floating in water.

  ‘He has met a woman he could love, if he would let himself,’ she said.

  Her husband floated a little higher above the seat of his chair.

  ‘And what of her?’ he asked. ‘Will she wish to marry him?’

  ‘At the moment, no. His pride has given her a disgust of him. You know our son, my love. He is proud and haughty, with a tendency to arrogance. He is too much like his father.’

  She glided over to her husband and caressed his face with a tender smile which took the sting out of the words – or she would have caressed his face, if her hand had not gone right through him.

  ‘He is too much like his mother, you mean,’ retorted her husband. ‘His pride comes from you, my dear. You are the daughter of an earl and you have never been able to forget it. You never let Fitzwilliam forget it, either.’

  She gave a heavy sigh, and the sound echoed mournfully around the bright room.

  ‘Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is all my fault.’

  ‘My dear, I did not mean —’

  ‘No, I know, yet it is true nonetheless.’ She gave another mournful sigh, then became more animated. ‘But I want to see Fitzwilliam happy and I think I might be able to bring it about.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her husband looked at her curiously. Then he patted the seat next to him – taking care his hand did not go through it – and said, ‘Sit down and tell me all about the lady.’

  Lady Anne stopped her restless motion and floated, in a sitting attitude, beside her husband. Her white gown flowed softly over the chair, which could clearly be seen through it.

  ‘Her name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She is the daughter of a small landowner in Hertfordshire with a negligible dowry, and she thinks our son is the most disagreeable man she has ever met.’

  ‘It does not sound promising!’ said her husband with a laugh.

  The sound was hollow and full of echoes.

  ‘Perhaps not. But in my present state I can see through the surface of things to what lies beneath, and this I know: Elizabeth Bennet is the woman for our son. And I know he is the one man in all the world who can make her happy.’

  ‘You seem very sure about that.’

  ‘Yes, my love, I am. But it will not be easy. I will have to guide their thoughts as best I can, with a little magic here and there.’

  ‘What do you propose to do?’

  ‘I am not sure yet, so I intend to return to Meryton and take whatever opportunities present themselves.’

  ‘Then go with my blessing.’

  ‘You will not come with me?’ she asked, floating up from the chair and hovering several feet above the ground.

  ‘No, my dear. You know I cannot leave Pemberley.’

  ‘Will not, you mean.’

  ‘Very well then, will not. It is my home and, dead or alive, this is where I belong.’

  ‘Then I will go by myself, for our son’s happiness means everything to me. And I will go at once, for Hallowe’en is approaching. I must succeed by then or fail entirely, at least until another year.’

  She bestowed a ghostly kiss
on her husband’s pale lips and then glided to the panelled door. She floated through it and then flew through the air, as light and insubstantial as mist, to Hertfordshire, and Meryton.

  The autumn leaves crunched and swished beneath Elizabeth Bennet’s feet as she walked briskly into Meryton. The day was fine with a cloudless blue sky and she gave a smile of pleasure because it was the sort of day that made her feel good to be alive. Even the presence of her giddy sister, Lydia, could not dampen her spirits, although Lydia talked of nothing but bonnets and balls.

  At the moment, Lydia was particularly giddy because the militia were stationed in the neighbourhood, which meant that handsome officers in red coats were all around the town. The gold braid on their coats looked particularly dashing and it was not surprising the officers had turned her head. She could not resist calling to them and waving to them as she walked along, so it took twice as long as usual for the two young ladies to reach their aunt Philips’ house. It was set on one of Meryton’s busiest streets and it had a commanding view of the town square.

  As they approached, their aunt threw open the parlour window and called to them.

  ‘There you are! I have been expecting you for half an hour. Make haste! There is something very particular I want to talk to you about.’

  The two young ladies went round to the front door and, once inside, received an affectionate welcome. Mrs Philips was always pleased to see them, for she had no children of her own. She was their mother’s sister and shared with Mrs Bennet a love of frivolity and gossip.

  She led them into the front parlour, where the mantelpiece was full of ornaments made by the Miss Bennets, and where the walls were covered with their water colour paintings. The best of these was a meadow painted by Jane and the worst a lopsided ship which bobbed drunkenly on a pea-green sea, which was Lydia’s contribution to the decorations. In between these two works of art was an improbably purple mountain which loomed over a placid lake, painted with great care by Mary. A painting of the Longbourn garden was Elizabeth’s contribution and a view of the house was Kitty’s.

  The rest of the furnishings were more ordinary. A comfortable sofa was set on each side of the fire and between the two sofas was a low table and a footstool. Pushed back against the wall was a large dresser, on which china was arranged.

  Elizabeth and Lydia had no sooner taken off their pelisses and bonnets than their aunt burst out with her news.

  ‘I have just had Colonel Forster here and he was telling me that some of the young officers are homesick. Mr Staithes and Mr Mount have never been away from home before and they are missing their families. And so I thought it would be a good idea if we invited them to a party. And then suddenly, as if by magic, an even better idea popped into my head: why not make it a Hallowe’en party?’

  Lydia’s eyes grew wide with excitement.

  ‘Oh, yes, aunt, what a lark!’ she said. ‘We have not had a Hallowe’en party for years, not since I was quite a little girl! What fun! Will there be bobbing for apples?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And will we play the game where we look into a mirror to see the man we are going to marry?’ demanded Lydia.

  ‘My dear Lydia, it would not be a Hallowe’en party worth the name without it,’ said her aunt.

  ‘And will we have turnip lanterns?’

  ‘Yes, yes, my dear, we will have all of those things and more besides. When we give a party, we do it in style, as you well know! I won’t have anyone saying my parties are shabby affairs. Why, the mayor himself came to the last one. Now, we must think about who to invite. We will have to ask all of our neighbours and all the officers, of course, and I thought we would invite Mr Bingley and his sisters, too. Mr Bingley is just the sort of young man to enjoy any entertainment offered to him, and he seems very taken with Jane, so this will be a good way of bringing them together. As for his sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst —’

  ‘They will make perfect witches!’ said Lydia.

  Elizabeth looked over her shoulder, startled. Just for a moment she had thought she heard faint laughter! But there was no one there. She shook away the strange, unearthly feeling. It must have been a draft of air forcing its way through a gap in the window frame and making a strange sound.

  ‘You should not say such things,’ she said to Lydia.

  ‘Well, it is true,’ said Lydia. ‘Miss Bingley was awful to Mr Denny at the Lucases’ party. He said it was all very jolly and instead of agreeing, she put her nose in the air and walked off without making a reply.’

  ‘We cannot invite Mr Bingley without his sisters, so we must make the best of them,’ said Mrs Philips. ‘I thought we would invite Mr Bingley’s friend, Mr Darcy, too.’

  ‘Mr Darcy!’ said Elizabeth. She had been about to sit down but she now halted and turned towards her aunt. ‘He will not come. He is even more superior than Miss Bingley. He looked down his nose at us when he first met us at the Meryton assembly and he will be even more dismissive of a Hallowe’en party. I dread to think of the scornful look which will cross his face if he receives an invitation.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we must ask him. If he does not choose to come, that is his affair, but I will not have it said that I did not make him welcome. Now, as to the food, I think I can manage the flummery and the punch but I will need help with the barmbrack and some of the other foods. I know your mama will put her kitchen at my disposal, Lydia. Lady Lucas will help, too. Now, what else shall we have to eat?’ asked Mrs Philips thoughtfully.

  ‘Toffee apples,’ said Lydia. ‘Potatoes in their jackets, treacle toffee and apple cider.’

  ‘We are going to be busy, that much is certain,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Good. That is just the way I like it,’ said Mrs Philips. ‘Now, I will need you and your sisters to write the invitations, Lizzy. Hallowe’en is less than two weeks away and we must give everyone time to prepare. They will want to look over their dresses and do any necessary mending and patching, and no doubt those families with their own carriages will want to set their servants polishing the carriage lanterns and washing the coachwork.’

  ‘We will do it at once!’ said Lydia.

  She went into her aunt’s sitting room and sat down at the writing desk. It was a pretty little piece of rosewood furniture and it was laid out with everything necessary for correspondence. Lydia pulled a sheet of paper towards her, then she picked up a quill and dipped it in the ink. Elizabeth was just about to tell her that she had too much ink, when Lydia lowered the quill to the paper and made a huge blot on the first sheet.

  ‘Here, let me,’ said Elizabeth.

  Lydia was only too pleased to relinquish her seat, for the idea of writing the invitations appealed to her more than the actual work.

  Elizabeth sat down, smoothing the delicate skirt of her muslin gown beneath her. She picked up the quill, which Lydia had thrown down. She knocked some of the ink off against the side of the ink well and then drew a fresh sheet of paper towards her. In a beautiful flowing script she began to write the invitations.

  Lydia watched Elizabeth to begin with but she soon became bored. She wandered around the room, picking up one thing after another and then putting them down again with a sigh. But suddenly she let out an exclamation.

  Elizabeth looked round and saw that Lydia had found a book lying on one of the console tables. Lydia was not usually interested in books, but this one had caught her attention.

  ‘How strange! This book just fell open at a poem called Hallowe’en. It’s by someone called Robert Burns.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a very famous poet,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We have the same book at home in the library.’

  This was news to Lydia, who never ventured into the library.

  She picked up the book and started to read.

  ‘But what does it mean?’ she said after a minute. ‘I cannot understand a word of it!’

  ‘Robert Burns is Scottish,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Some of the words are dialect.’

  ‘Oh, d
ialect!’ said Lydia.

  She flung the book down in impatience and went to stand behind Elizabeth, looking over her shoulder and making unhelpful comments every few minutes.

  Elizabeth was saved from this interference by a knock at the door. Mrs Philips answered it. Colonel Forster, resplendent in his scarlet uniform, entered the house with two of the young officers. He was a tall man and he had to bend slightly to get through the door. Once inside he was able to stand straight.

  The officers greeted the ladies. There was some talk about the weather and other such matters, but then Colonel Forster’s eyes fell on the book.

  ‘Ah! Robbie Burns and his Hallowe’en poem!’ he said.

  He walked over to it and picked up the book, looking at it with interest.

  ‘It doesn’t make a bit of sense,’ said Lydia impatiently.

  ‘Now, then, Miss Lydia, it makes perfect sense to anyone familiar with Scotland and her tongue,’ said Colonel Forster.

  He began to read in sonorous tones, translating whenever he saw the ladies were not understanding.

  ‘You have a very fine reading voice, Colonel,’ said Mrs Philips appreciatively. ‘It is good to hear it. We are not often so well entertained.’

  But Lydia was more interested in the poem itself, for once the difficult bits had been explained to her she found it very amusing. Indeed, at one point she burst out laughing.

  ‘He thought he saw the person he was going to marry over his shoulder but it turned out to be a pig! La!’ She almost doubled over with laughter. ‘That gives me an idea for a trick we can play at the party. Do say we can have a pig and set it loose when Mary wants to see her future husband, aunt!’

  ‘Well, now, that’s a merry idea, but your sister might not like it!’ said Colonel Forster with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘That doesn’t signify. Mary doesn’t like anything,’ said Lydia.

  Colonel Forster, seeing there was nothing to be done about Lydia’s wild ideas, looked around the room and sensibly took an interest in Elizabeth and her aunt.