Mr. Darcy’s Folly Release!

Release Day for Mr. Darcy’s Folly Is Here!

Well, it’s happened. Mr. Darcy’s Folly is officially out in the world, and I am—predictably—equal parts thrilled and panicked. (Why does hitting “publish” feel like sending your daughter into a Regency-era ballroom and hoping she doesn’t trip over her hem?)

This book has been one of my favorites to write, not because it came easily (it didn’t), but because I got to write some funny scenes. And of course, I love to dig into Darcy and Elizabeth when they’re forced into a situation that strips away all the polite distance and lets the raw, vulnerable, and very human stuff peek through.

Darcy’s sort of done trying to pretend he’s not in love. Elizabeth is trying really hard to figure out why Mr. Darcy is so different in Kent. And the universe (okay, me) just keeps making that harder for them.

The whole story started because I wondered: what if the argument Darcy always had in Kent at Easter was about Lady Catherine’s folly and not (just) his marrying Anne?

EXCERPT FROM MR. DARCY’S FOLLY

Elizabeth Bennet stepped out of the Hunsford parsonage, her father’s volume of Robert Burns’s tucked securely beneath her arm. The morning had dawned with such profound beauty that she could not bear to remain indoors a moment longer.

The hedgerows blazed with life, primroses and cowslips dotting the verges like scattered gold. A pair of linnets darted past, their wings catching the sunlight. After spending a fortnight in the home of a man who still resented her rejection of his hand in marriage although he clearly had married the better woman, Elizabeth savoured the burgeoning of spring and the moments of pure, uncomplicated peace that came with it.

Elizabeth’s steps were light as she crossed the stone bridge and walked up to the top of the hill towards Lady Catherine’s folly. She took note of the bluebells as they nodded in the gentle breeze, their violet-blue blossoms clustered together in dense drifts. Their sweet, honey-like fragrance mingled with the rich, earthy scent of damp soil. It had been cold and wet for her first fortnight in Kent, which only made this sudden warmth more welcome. She could not help but think how perfectly nature had arranged this vista, without any need for man’s interference.

The folly itself stood as testament to that interference—a model of classical pretension that Elizabeth thought rather absurd. On her second walk she had recognized it as a poor copy of the Temple de l’Amour at Versailles, of which she had seen colour plates in one of her father’s books. The ill-fated Marie Antoinette’s folly had, extravagance aside, been a triumph of symmetry and grandeur. Lady Catherine’s, in contrast, was a mockery of the original’s majesty. Yet even with its reduced scale and questionable proportions, the structure loomed large, a limestone testament to ambition unchecked by taste. Folly indeed.

“Lady Catherine laments that I had no governess,” she told the butterflies as they fluttered past, “yet she has done her own no credit.” Still, she had to admit that the folly’s elevation offered an excellent vantage point for reading, and the stone benches within provided different perspectives of the landscape. The back side of the structure, the one nearest the bluebell grove, was nearly hidden in a grove of trees, and while the seats were stone, they were under the slightly domed roof and therefore dry. It was a comfortable enough place to sit for an hour’s occupation. And of course, when she was inside the folly, she was spared the need to look at the outside of it.

As she stepped inside and turned back toward the parsonage, a movement on the road caught her eye. A fine carriage was making its way towards Rosings. Elizabeth’s spirits dampened slightly as she recalled Charlotte’s news. Lady Catherine’s nephews, Mr. Darcy and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, were expected to arrive today.

She could not claim to be surprised. Lady Catherine had spoken of her nephew with such frequency that one might believe he had already been present at every gathering. But after Mr. Collins had expounded at length upon the honour of sharing tea with such august personages who, despite their wealth and connections, still understood their duty to their exalted aunt, Charlotte had eased Elizabeth’s concern. After encouraging her husband to return to his garden, she had picked up her sewing and said, “We are unlikely to see much of Rosings while the gentlemen are here, Elizabeth. We are good enough company when there is none other to be had, but she will wish to keep her nephews engaged in entertaining her and Miss de Bourgh.”

This was a disappointment to Maria, who had been recording every invitation to Rosings and interaction with Lady Catherine in her journal, the better to share with her family when she returned home. To Elizabeth, however, it was a relief. Mr. Darcy had never enjoyed her presence, and she certainly did not desire his. And he reminded her of his friend Mr. Bingley, a man who had shown her eldest sister a great deal of attention in the autumn and raised everyone’s expectations of a marriage proposal. But he had left for London without a word and never returned.

Truthfully, it was not only that which had inspired Elizabeth’s dislike. From nearly the very first moment she had seen him at the assembly in Meryton, his proud gaze sweeping over the room with scarcely concealed disdain, he had demonstrated his arrogance. Even now, she could recall the slight lift of his brow when he had first beheld her, the utter indifference with which he had dismissed her as not handsome enough to tempt him even to dance. How foolish she had been to care, even for an instant, what such a man thought of her.

Yet in the weeks that followed, she had watched him carefully—not because she admired him, but because his manner perplexed her. At Netherfield, when Jane had been ill, she had glimpsed something in him beyond conceit, though at the time she had not much cared. Thinking on it now, he had seemed uncomfortable with Miss Bingley and the Hursts, though whether this was due to the company or his own nature, she could not tell. More than once, she had caught him looking at her with an expression she could not decipher. And then, just as swiftly, his features would harden, and he would turn away.

The reason for his bewildering behaviour had not mattered. He had left Hertfordshire without a word, before she ever discovered what she might have done to earn such derision from him, and then she had put it out of her mind when neither he nor his friend had returned. Her thoughts then were all for Jane.

Alas, he was again nearby, and despite Charlotte’s assurances, she knew they would be in company again, even if briefly. If he had found her presence distasteful in Hertfordshire, what would he think of her now, residing at the parsonage? She imagined his disapproving gaze sweeping over her surroundings, his lips pressed into that firm, humourless line. He would not need to say a word. His distaste would be clear enough.

Elizabeth settled herself upon the bench and opened her book with determined satisfaction. The spring breeze ruffled the pages, and she tilted her face towards the sun. Not even the prospect of Mr. Darcy’s presence across the lane at the great house could diminish the perfect tranquillity of this moment. Let him arrive with all his pride and disapprobation—she had poetry and sunshine for company.

A skylark burst into song overhead, as if in agreement with her thoughts, and Elizabeth smiled. No, not even Mr. Darcy could spoil such a day as this.

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