The Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles by Jack Caldwell

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

One of the toughest things about writing a sequel to Pride and Prejudice is what to do with Elizabeth and Darcy. You think the Bingleys are boring? They’ve got nothing on the Darcys—Jane Austen’s the perfect couple!

Since Hunsford, they understand each other better than any couple in all of Austen’s works. Sure, they have their ups and downs, and fall into rare arguments, but since they love and respect each other, they now talk their issues out, and that’s 99% of the battle. Yawn.

It’s why I focused on other couples in THE THREE COLONELS. Compared to the Darcys, they’re easy.

However, I picked up the challenge of writing about the Darcys in ROSINGS PARK. It’s been tough, let me tell you. But I will bear the sufferings for your entertainment.

Here’s a little bit with our favorite couple. For some reason, I think you’ll like it. From Chapter 17 of ROSINGS PARK …

Hunsford—Five Years On

May, 1817: Rosings Park

MR. AND MRS. FITZWILLIAM DARCY were enjoying their first visit to Rosings Park in two years. Their last trip to Kent was to witness the marriage of Colonel Sir Richard Fitzwilliam to Miss Anne de Bourgh. That had been a short visit—Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s ire with her perfidious nephew and his impertinent wife was unappeased. But now things were altered—Anne was mistress, Richard managed the estate, and Lady Catherine was firmly installed in the Dower House. Therefore, the undeserving couple from Derbyshire was free to pollute the shades of Rosings.

On a cool and cloudy late may morning, the Darcys were deep in the groves of the Park. The two conversed about topics important to no one but themselves while walking comfortably nearly hip-to-hip, as happily married people often do. Elizabeth, both arms wrapped about Darcy’s, was laughing over her husband’s droll commentary about Mr. Collins’s latest foible, when she was so suddenly brought to an abrupt halt that she nearly lost her footing.

“Fitzwilliam!” she cried. “What on earth?”

Darcy stared straight ahead, his expression a mixture of distaste and mortification. “Forgive me, my dear,” he managed after a moment. “Let us turn back to the house—”

“But why?” Elizabeth looked about. “The day is not uncomfortable, and I wish more time with you. Are you well?”

“Perfectly. There is a path over here—”

“If you wish.” Elizabeth could not understand Darcy’s actions. There was nothing amiss with their present location. It was a well-worn path along a fence. There was a gate nearby.

“Come, Elizabeth.” Darcy was practically tugging her along.

“Fitzwilliam, stop! What is wrong? You act as though you wish to flee this place.”

“You cannot want to be here!”

Elizabeth was taken back at the pain in her husband’s eyes. Such a statement could only cause her to glance about her again. There was something familiar about that gate …

“Oh!”

“There, you see?” Darcy moaned. “I should have minded my steps better.”

He tried to move her along, but Elizabeth was frozen in place. This was the spot she received his letter—the letter—the missive that had so changed her life.

The whole incident flashed back into her mind. Her disjointed early morning stroll, her thoughts, both angry and regretful. His surprising appearance. The thick letter extending over the gate in his long fingers. His haughty request at war with his weary, painful, defeated expression. His stiff, measured escape. His written words—his terrible, awful, horrifying, wonderful, charitable words.

“This was the place,” Elizabeth whispered, her eyes wide. “How could I forget?”

“I am so sorry, my dear,” Darcy said. “I have ruined our walk. Come away from here.”

“You have ruined nothing, Fitzwilliam,” she returned, refusing to be moved, still staring at the gate. “I can only wonder at my negligence. This spot should be burned into my mind.”

“You wish to remember my dreadfulness?” Darcy cried.

“No!” Elizabeth turned to him, taking both his hands in hers. “Do you not see, my love? This is the place of our beginning!” At his frown, she continued. “Before that day, before your letter, I was a proud, blind fool. You opened my eyes, and I saw myself for the first time. I realized how in love with myself I had been. How stupidly I had acted.”

“I was worse!”

Elizabeth smiled, her fingers stroking his firm, chiseled jaw. It calmed him, as she knew it would. “Our motivations were different, Fitzwilliam. You acted out of self-preservation and love of your family and friends. I had no idea how hunted you were by the matchmaking mothers of the ton. Who could imagine the pain and disappointment Georgiana suffered at the hands of Wickham, or her fear of exposure? With Charles, you acted as a friend, for you could not see emotions Jane refuse to display.”

“I should have,” Darcy broke in. “I should have known her by my own example.”

She laughed. “I will allow that! But your reserve was not the only reason I misunderstood and misjudged you.”

“My thoughtless comment at the assembly was inexcusable.” He grimaced in self-disgust.

“It was rude, my dear, and a bad start, but not inexcusable. You showed your interest in me only a few days later at the Lucas’s party. And the attention you paid me at Netherfield! If I had been in my right mind, I should have forgiven you and fell in love at once. I certainly should have never paid Mr. Wickham any notice at all! But there was nothing noble in my actions. I intended to hurt and belittle you for the petty crime of bruising my vanity. I was an angry little girl.”

She turned her attention to the gate. “At this place, I grew up and became a new creature. At this painful, wonderful place, my heart was opened, for I then saw it was incomplete.” Her dark, sparkling eyes were on Darcy again. “It was at Pemberley I finally admitted what it was missing. You, my dearest love. You.”

There was only one way Darcy could respond to her declaration. He swept his wife into his arms and kissed her senseless. In turn, she wrapped her arms about his neck and returned his passions fully. They only stopped for the need to breathe.

Darcy tilted his head so their foreheads touched. “I must disagree, Elizabeth. You did nothing wrong. I deserved your refusal, your censure. I was the fool. You are the saving of me. You have made me a better man.”

“Impossible.”

He shook his head slowly. “I shall no longer argue with you for the greater share of the blame. Instead, I vow to labor that you never have cause to regret marrying me.”

She grinned. “Impossible.”

Darcy chuckled. “It is you who are impossible! However can I convince you?”

Her voice was a caress. “Kiss me again, Fitzwilliam.”

Sometime later, as they stood in a close embrace, Elizabeth said, “I have a request to make, Fitzwilliam. I need to change your mind about this blessed spot. We shall have a picnic here one day—just the two of us.”

Darcy was unconvinced. “How will that change our memories?”

Elizabeth gave her husband her most playful look. “We will think of something.”

Until next time, this has been the Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles.

It takes a real man to write historical romance, so let me tell you a story…