Mr. Darcy and the Lost Slipper, page 1
part #2 of The Happily Ever Collection Series
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
More P&P Variations
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FIVE YEARS LATER...
Mr. Darcy and the Lost Slipper
a Pride and Prejudice variation
The Happily Ever Collection, Book Two
Valerie Lennox
MR. DARCY AND THE LOST SLIPPER
© copyright 2020 by Valerie Lennox
http://vjchambers.com
Punk Rawk Books
More P&P Variations
by Valerie Lennox
Mr. Darcy, the Beast
Mr. Darcy’s Downfall
Mr. Darcy, the Dance, and Desire
Pledged to Mr. Darcy
Mr. Darcy’s Courtesan
Escape with Mr. Darcy
The Dread Mr. Darcy
The Scandalous Mr. Darcy
The Unraveling of Mr. Darcy
Fall in love with Mr. Darcy all over again
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CHAPTER ONE
Miss Jane Bennet was obviously aware of the fact that she had a stepbrother, insofar as it was a fact of her situation in life. She knew of the man—for man he now was, though the only time she had met with the aforementioned person was many years ago, when they were both quite young—and she knew his name. She was confident that she could pick him out in a crowd if necessity called upon her to do so.
But in all other matters, Jane Bennet did not know her stepbrother.
Indeed, he was not a brother to her in any form or manner. He was as like a stranger as one might describe any other person she did not know.
And it was these thoughts that Jane wrapped around herself like the tatters of a well-worn blanket when she found herself face to face with her stepbrother Mr. Charles Bingley, over the fireplace in the Bingley townhouse in London, and her mind strayed to thoughts about him that one should never think of a brother.
That his eyes were quite kind and that his shoulders were well-formed and that his fingers… why his fingers she could not cease to look upon, though she tried to school herself and turn away. He had powerful hands, strong hands, wide and blunt fingers, but there was a dusting of freckles over the backs of his hands and on his knuckles and there was something about those freckles that undid things inside Jane’s chest, that made her feel as though she could not catch her breath.
It was ridiculous, of course. She had never noticed freckles on any other man, and, indeed, Mr. Bingley did not have a vast quantity of freckles, but what he did have seemed to war with his strong shoulders and his thick fingers and create something utterly masculine and yet somehow appealingly soft as well. What it all led to was this: she was so very badly attracted to Mr. Bingley that she did not quite know what to do with herself.
“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Bingley. “I thought everyone had gone to bed hours ago.”
“Yes, I had meant to.” Jane clutched at the mantle, where they were standing. “I was still awake in my room, reading a book that my sister Elizabeth gave me. I don’t read as much as she does, mind, but sometimes she passes books along to me, and some of them are quite intriguing, and this one kept me awake, and then my candle burned down to a nub, and so I went to fetch another one.” She held it up. “Then I stopped here at the fire on my way back to my room…” And Mr. Bingley had melted out of the shadows to stand next to her. She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m talking too much.”
“You were awake,” said Mr. Bingley. “Reading? In bed?”
“No, I hadn’t gotten ready for bed yet.”
“And your maid?”
“Oh, we do not trouble the maids when we are here, Elizabeth and I,” said Jane. “We are quite used to being out of the way as best we can, wherever it is we stay.” She thought of Elizabeth, asleep in the bed they shared. If she woke up and Jane was not there, she would be worried. Jane should take her leave, right at this instant.
Mr. Bingley blinked. “Oh,” he said in a different tone. “But that is…” He looked her over.
She clasped her hands together.
She had been very young when her father Mr. Bennet died. Jane did not remember him. She remembered the years in between, how she and her mother and younger sister Elizabeth had struggled along, living with various relatives, while their mother put everything into finding another husband.
And then, when Jane was eight, it had happened. Her mother had married a man who was rising in the merchant class, making a new fortune in trade, and his fortune had only grown as time had gone on.
Jane had been present at the wedding, but her new stepbrother had not. He had already been away at school.
Once the marriage happened, Jane had hoped that things would be better for her and her family, but their mother sent Jane and Elizabeth away almost immediately, to stay with the same relatives that had sheltered them before. Her mother needed time with her new husband, she said.
This was the way it had gone for the ensuing years. This was why Jane did not know her stepbrother, because whenever she happened to be with her mother, Charles was likely not there due to school or business, and whenever he was there, she was likely off with an aunt or an uncle somewhere.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Bingley. “Certainly, you don’t feel that this is my doing, do you? I have told your mother that she need not fear now that my father is gone. I shan’t abandon her. I mean to make sure she is well cared for.”
“Yes, that’s very kind of you,” said Jane. She didn’t say aloud that it was one thing for Charles to say this, and it was quite another for it to come to pass, because the daughters of the household—Mrs. Louisa Hurst, lately married, and Miss Caroline Bingley—were not the least bit inclined to allow all of the family money to be funneled into use for their stepmother and stepsisters. In order to keep the peace, Jane’s mother tended to cater to their wishes, to do whatever it was she could to placate and please them, even if it was at the expense of her own daughters.
Her sister Elizabeth was bitter about it, but Jane didn’t have the energy to waste on such emotions. She had heard it said that she was sweet tempered and kind, but the truth was that she simply found negativity exhausting. It was easier to be satisfied with what one had rather than to be angry all the time.
“If there is need of another maid in the house, then I want you to secure one,” said Mr. Bingley.
“Don’t trouble yourself with any of that,” said Jane. “I’m sure you must be quite distraught right now, after the recent loss of your dear father.”
Mr. Bingley sighed.
“That is why you are awake, is it not?” She peered at him, and the firelight danced up onto his face. He looked sad but handsome, and she scolded herself again for being drawn to him in such a way. She was never thus. She did not allow herself to become affected by good-looking young men. She had learned the hard way that men tended to be charmed by her pretty face but uninterested once they learned of her lack of financial standing. “You are mourning him.”
“In truth, Miss Bennet…” He let out another sigh. “I don’t know why I feel I can say this aloud right now. Perhaps it is the darkness around us. Nothing seems quite real. And you, your eyes reflecting back the flames, you are…” He looked away, shaking his head. “Forgive me. I should not have said anything like that. I don’t know what’s coming over me.” He cleared his throat. “In truth, Miss Bennet, I feel as though I barely knew the man. After my mother passed away, it was as if he did not know what to do with me. He married your mother to look after my sisters and he sent me off to school, and I have barely seen him since. I am currently awake and not asleep, because I don’t know how to mourn this man, my father. Who was he?”
“I know just how you feel,” said Jane.
“You do?”
“I lost my father when I was quite young,” said Jane. “I don’t remember him, and I never knew him. When it comes time to speak of him, everyone is quite grave, and I feel as though I should feel grief, but I… I don’t know how.”
He reached out and took her hand, his barely freckled and strong fingers closing around hers.
She stifled a gasp.
“You…” He let go of her. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been drinking some of the brandy in the…” He sighed again, but he looked at her.
She looked at him.
They held each other’s gaze, and the fire danced below them, touching them with its heat, and Jane was frightened, because she had never felt this way before, and the feeling was so powerful, it might tempt her to do things, unseemly things. The place where his fingers had touched hers almost burned now, even in the absence of his touch.
She needed to go, to leave him.
“You must forgive me,” he said. “I’m afraid this is all entirely inappropriate.”
“No, nothing is amiss,” she
He smiled. “This is exactly as I have been thinking. You have no idea how good it is to hear your words. How much you are putting me at ease. I wish we had known each other more as we grew.” He furrowed his brow. “Or perhaps I don’t wish that. Perhaps…”
Her breath caught in her throat. The way he was looking at her, it stole her ability to draw in air.
He tore his gaze away. “Forgive me,” he said again.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered. “But I must… I should…” She gestured behind her.
“Yes, it is late,” he said. “We should both go to bed.”
“Yes.”
“In our rooms,” he said. “Alone. Of course, alone. There’s no way that you would have thought—” He coughed. “Did I mention I’d been drinking?”
“Good night, Mr. Bingley.” She forced herself to back away from the fireplace.
“Good night, Miss Bennet.”
She continued to back away.
He held her gaze.
They looked at each other until she collided with a chair near the doorway, and she nearly fell down. Righting herself, embarrassed, confused, she fairly fled from him.
CHAPTER TWO
Miss Elizabeth Bennet flipped through pages and pages of handwritten words, her manuscript, her unfinished novel. She had attempted to write a novel a year ago and gotten about halfway into it before deciding she was hopelessly lost. She had written all manner of twists and turns in her story—which was about a family that lived in an ancient, possibly haunted castle—and the twists and turns had gotten to the point in which nothing made sense anymore.
She felt as though she would have had to start all over with the story to fix it and make it right, but she had dithered about that, thinking and then musing, and then never putting pen to paper. Finally, she realized that she didn’t actually want to write that novel anymore, that she would rather write something else. So, she had begun this book.
It was much less unwieldy. It wasn’t nearly as gothic or as ridiculous. It was a novel of manners and society. It was perhaps modeled a little too closely on her own life in some respects.
However, the problem was that she had reached the midway point, and she was beginning to feel the same as she had before, that she did not know if she wanted to continue the book, that she could not see a way through to the end, and that she had better start all over again.
“Lizzy, you are not listening to me,” came the voice of her sister Jane, as through a fog.
It was morning, and they had not yet gone down to breakfast, because their mother had made it plain that their presence was not welcomed amongst their stepsisters. They were meant to go and take what was left from the kitchens after the servants had cleared the dining room.
“I am listening, of course,” said Elizabeth, setting her stack of papers down on her desk.
“It is legal,” said Jane. “For stepsiblings to marry. There is a great deal of concern about marrying your father’s wife or even the sister of your father’s wife, but there is nothing barring stepsiblings from marrying.”
Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “Oh, Jane, I don’t think so. I can’t have her marry her stepbrother. Why, she hates him, and he hates her for that matter. He tormented her when she was a girl, drowning the frog she had decided to keep as a pet.”
“Can one really drown a frog?” said Jane. “I thought frogs lived in water.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Elizabeth waved this away. “It’s fiction.”
“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, Lizzy. I’m not talking about your book.”
“You see, what I have been contemplating is an idea that perhaps she doesn’t get married at all.”
“Who?”
“Rosamund,” said Elizabeth.
“Lizzy, can we leave off your novel for just a few moments while I speak to you about something important?”
“What if Rosamund didn’t marry anyone at all?” said Elizabeth. “What if she became close friends with a rich and eccentric widow who bestowed all of her fortune upon Rosamund, who then lived out her life entirely on her own?”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous. Hasn’t this rich widow any children?”
“No, none.”
“And what of the widow’s late husband? Hadn’t he any children?”
“No.”
“Or brothers?”
“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I suppose not.”
“This seems very unlikely, Lizzy.” Jane sighed. “And you are not attending me. You are obsessed with your book, and I am trying to talk to you of something else entirely.”
Elizabeth blinked. “I do agree, it’s perhaps a bit too tidy. Rosamund should somehow earn her way in the world, but… how? I shan’t make her a governess.”
“Our stepbrother,” said Jane. “Mr. Charles Bingley. Have you ever noticed that there are freckles on the backs of his fingers?”
Elizabeth looked up sharply. “Oh, Lord, Jane, what are you saying? Has our stepbrother asked for your hand? Because I don’t know if that would be… that is, it’s legal, but people might talk, mightn’t they? When have you even spoken to him? And if he’s anything like his sisters—”
“Oh, no, of course he hasn’t asked.” Jane wrung out her hands. “No, I am wretched. I have been thinking. I have been daydreaming… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have formed an attachment toward him, entirely against my will.”
“What? How?”
“Well, last night, I went down to get another candle, and he was there, and we talked, and he took my hand in his, and…” Jane let out a sigh that Elizabeth could very well almost deem lovesick.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Alone with him? At night? He touched your hand? This… Jane! He has to marry you. If it came out, well… Lord.”
“No, he was only sad over his father and a bit drunk. It’s nothing, really.” Jane rubbed her temples. “It’s only that I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“You are not permitted any more nighttime trysts with that man.” Elizabeth leveled her finger at her sister’s face.
“It wasn’t a tryst. It wasn’t planned.”
“Very well,” said Elizabeth. “If he wants to court you, he can…”
“What? Call on me? We live under the same roof, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “Jane, Jane, Jane. We mustn’t stay here too long. We must go. The funeral is over. Our stepfather is laid to rest. Propriety can’t dictate that we should need to remain for much longer.”
“We must go into mourning, must we not?”
“Does that mean we must mourn here?” said Elizabeth. “We will go and call our Aunt Gardiner tomorrow—”
“No, no,” said Jane. “We have been with her lately for nearly seven months. She could likely use a break from us and the burden of our extra mouths to feed.”
“I shall write to Aunt Philips, then,” said Elizabeth. “Time in the country would do us good, Jane. It would be lovely.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” said Jane.
“Because you are planning more trysts.” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes accusingly. “Honestly, Jane, it’s not like you at all to be this way.”
“I know,” wailed Jane. “Oh, never mind it. Tell me about your accursed novel again.”
“Why is it accursed?” Elizabeth drew herself up, offended.
Jane sighed.
“Well,” said Elizabeth. “Do you think that perhaps she might save the widow’s life? Perhaps from drowning?”
* * *
Elizabeth and Jane were coming back upstairs from the kitchens, after having eaten whatever meager leftovers there had been from breakfast, when there was a call from the sitting room.
“You there, Miss Eliza!” called the shrill voice of Miss Caroline Bingley.
Elizabeth stopped short in the doorway. There, inside the sitting room, sat both Miss Bingley and her sister Louisa, Louisa’s husband Mr. Hurst, their mother, Mr. Bingley, and Mr. Bingley’s wretched friend Mr. Darcy.
