Early sneak peek of “Threatened By Turns”

One of my favorite kinds of Jane Austen variations is when we have a story that follows all or part of the plot of the original story, except that there is something going on in the background that changes everything. From stories in which Elizabeth and Darcy are secretly married before they meet at the Meryton Assembly—giving Darcy’s initial insult all new meaning!—or stories in which Elizabeth is secretly wealthy or well-connected, these kinds of stories always intrigue me.

In my current WIP, “Threatened By Turns,” Elizabeth is pleased that Darcy insulted her at the Meryton Assembly. If he had shown any interest in her, she might have been forced to do far worse than spy on him and try to find blackmail material that could be used against him.

From Netherfield to Rosings, Elizabeth is an unwilling player in another man’s game with no escape in sight. Does she dare put her trust in the very man she is sent to ruin?

***

Chapter One – Netherfield Park

Heart pounding, Elizabeth tried the doorknob to Mr. Darcy’s room at Netherfield, praying it would be locked.

It was not.

Her palm was slick with sweat, and it took several tries before she was able to turn the knob all the way. The door did not even creak as she pushed it open.

A locked door would not have stopped her, would not have saved her. She knew how to pick locks, after all. It had taken months to learn, especially as she had no inducement to practice, but she could only pretend ineptitude for so long. In the end, she had learned.

Elizabeth froze in the doorway. This was the moment in which she could most easily get caught. How could she explain standing in Mr. Darcy’s room if anyone were to come upon her? And with the door open behind her, anyone who walked down the passage could not help but see her.

And yet she could not move. Her feet would not obey her weak command to turn and close the door, to lead her across the room to begin her search.

If she opened that desk she could see in the corner, if she looked in the drawers, if she opened that trunk—there would be no going back. She would be a burglar. Her family would be disgraced if she were found out.

But if she did not, if Edmund’s secret were revealed, her family would face even greater disgrace and ruin. There was no real choice.

And so she forced her reluctant feet to move, shutting the door and crossing the room to face the desk.

Unlike the door, the desk was locked, but it provided little challenge to Elizabeth’s skills. It had been locked against snooping servants, not against a determined and experienced attack.

The desk was neatly organized with Mr. Darcy’s papers. There were stacks of them tied with ribbons in different colors — a color-coded system, or mere happenstance? There was also a ready supply of all the usual writing tools: pens, paper, wax for seals, a letter opener, and more. A tidy, methodical man. But was he a man with secrets?

She took careful note of how the ribbon on the first package of letters was tied. A man who kept things in such perfect order might notice if the bow was tied differently or if the letters were rearranged, so she laid out the letters in a row while she perused them.

There were several bills, one from a tailor in London and another from a draper in Lambton. That was interesting, as Aunt Gardiner was also from Lambton. Could it be the same village? The address said Derbyshire, so it must be. A third was from a candler in Ramsgate, requesting remittance for candles ordered by a Mrs. Younge on Mr. Darcy’s account. A relative? Mistress? The latter had possibilities, but she would need far more evidence to determine the woman’s relationship to Mr. Darcy. Even if she was his mistress, it was likely not enough. It was hardly scandalous for a gentleman to keep a mistress. And there were no answers to the letters. Either they had not yet been written, or he had mailed them directly, which left her with no evidence as to whether he paid his bills or who the Mrs. Younge woman was.

After she had placed the letters back as she had found them, she opened the next ribbon. There were only two letters in this pile: one from a Mrs. Reynolds and the other from a Mr. Markham. A quick perusal made it clear that Mrs. Reynolds was either his housekeeper or a relative who was overseeing his house while he was gone, as the letter writer was deferential and spoke of household concerns. Mr. Markham, she guessed, was his steward, as he spoke of the estate, a boundary question about a certain field, and discussion of which fields should lie fallow the following year. Nothing useful, at least for her purposes.

The third pile was thick, and she had high hopes that it contained more personal letters. But time had been passing, and her risk increased the longer she was here. The most difficult moment would be when she opened the door. If anyone were walking down the passage, she would be caught.

As if her thoughts had drawn it upon her, she heard a noise from outside the door. Heart pounding, she stared down at the desk. Should she close it? Was there time to hide? She closed the desk but did not lock it.

But in the next moment, the footsteps passed the door and kept going. Only some of her tension was relieved, though. It may have been a servant going on his way this time, but the next time it could be Mr. Darcy returning to his room, or his valet arriving to prepare his bedclothes.

She flushed at that thought. Insulting and pompous as the man was, his form was handsome enough.

Footsteps sounded again in the passage, but this time they were louder—and they stopped at the door.

Elizabeth barely had time to duck behind the fireplace screen before the door opened firmly.

Behind the screen, she could see a pair of shoes just inside the door. They were not moving. Why were they not moving?

“Sanders?” Mr. Darcy took a step into the room. “Is that you?”

Elizabeth held her breath. He must have heard the movement when she dove for her hiding place. He didn’t move, and she began to feel lightheaded and released the air as slowly as she dared, willing him to leave.

And, at last, he did. He walked around to the side of the bed, picked something up—a book, perhaps, based on the sound. A few more steps and the door closed.

Despite a desperate urge to breathe deeply, Elizabeth waited. The footsteps had not continued down the passage. Did he know she was here? Was he waiting for her to reveal herself?

But then somebody hailed him from farther down the passageway and he responded in deep rumbling tones. Finally, she could hear his heavy trod as he joined whomever had called to him.

That had been too close. She did not dare stay. Whether he had suspected someone in his room or whether he had been standing lost in thought, she did not wish him to return to catch her. She took time only to open the desk, re-tie and arrange the stacks of letters exactly as they had been—giving a prayer of thanks that he had not opened the desk—and then closed and locked it again. A quick look around the room showed no other signs of disturbance, so she moved to the door and cracked it open. Nobody in the passage. Good.

She slipped out, closing the door silently behind her. Only once she was well past Mr. Darcy’s door and on her way to Jane’s could she take in all the air her lungs had been aching for, and sudden tears welled in her eyes.

It would not do to go to Jane like this, so she stepped into her own room first and stood at the window, looking out over the autumnal gardens and trying to think of anything other than what she had done—and what she would have to do again, and soon.

He would not be satisfied with hearing that Mr. Darcy had neat stacks of bills or news from those who ran his estate. He wanted mud. No, worse than mud. He wanted blood.

***

I hope you were intrigued by this little preview of “Threatened By Turns!” I’ve been enjoying following the basic chronology of Pride and Prejudice but exploring little twists along the way.

– Sarah