Preview of My Latest WIP, by Jack Caldwell

Greetings everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

No, I have not fallen off the face of the earth. Between the holidays, having audiobooks made for my backstock (look for PEMBERLEY RANCH soon),  and running Granddaddy Day Care for my baby granddaughter—Princess Sugar Pie—I have been trying to write a non-JA modern suspense thriller. However, the ol’ interfering Muse came up with the plot below.

This is my take on the FMS trope. If you are familiar with my work, it will be VERY different than what is usually expected. Both Elizabeth and Darcy will have their faults and disagreements, but the drama mostly comes from outside forces. It describes how two intelligent adults, now a couple, work together to support their union.

The working title gives the plot away: THE COURTSHIP OF ELIZABETH DARCY.

That is not a typo. Darcy must court Elizabeth after they take their vows despite the challenges and betrayals thrown at them.

Below is Chapter 1. It’s rough, for the beauteous Beta Babes have not had a chance to work their magic on it. Don’t look for a completed manuscript anytime soon. Like I said, life is full right now. Even now, Her Highness is clamoring for my attention.

THE COURTSHIP OF ELIZABETH DARCY

Chapter 1

THE DAWN WAS FOUR HOURS OLD on a cool November Thursday as Elizabeth Bennet walked along the road to Meryton. The lady moved in a more determined style than her usual comportment. This was no idyllic stroll in the Hertfordshire countryside. Elizabeth Bennet was upset, and required a good stretch of the legs to soothe her troubled spirits.

The last eight and forty hours had thrown the entirely of Longbourn into an uproar. More than Mrs. Bennet’s nerves were at a fever pitch for hours on Tuesday. All the ladies of Longbourn were anxious, for it was the day of the Netherfield ball. Jane primped for Mr. Bingley’s sake, Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s, and the remaining Bennet sisters for their customary intentions for exhibition.

The ball was a disaster as far as Elizabeth was concerned. She was disappointed that Mr. Wickham was not in attendance and frustrated that Mr. Darcy was. She suffered the pain of dancing with Mr. Collins and was trapped into giving Mr. Darcy a set. At least she was able to politely inform the proud, unpleasant man what she thought of him. Still, he persisted in his custom of censorious staring. Mrs. Bennet bragged to all who would listen that Jane would be the next mistress of Netherfield and made certain that the Longbourn party would be the last to leave. Mary, Kitty, and Lydia did their parts in reaffirming that the younger Bennet sisters were the silliest girls in Hertfordshire. Even her beloved father disappointed her—he failed the keep Mrs. Bennet in check, while cutting off Mary’s awkward pianoforte performance in the most mortifying manner.

Things grew worse the next day. Mr. Collins’s ridiculous proposal was mortifying, her mother’s complaints of her refusal were embarrassing, and Charlotte Lucas’s observance of the Bennets’ antics was humiliating. Again, her father acted badly, even in her defense—instead of correcting his wife’s infantile behavior, he made a joke of it.

The latest blow came this morning. A note from Miss Bingley awaited Jane at the breakfast table. It declared the entire Netherfield party was departing that day for London, perhaps never to return. Jane was crushed and Elizabeth was furious.

Thus, her need for a good, long walk.

Unfortunately, her exercise had done little to ease her anger. Poor, gentle Jane! No one deserved a happy situation with a loving spouse more than her sister. But now, Mr. Bingley was to go away, and not just on business! Elizabeth knew the cause—it was Mr. Bingley’s horrid sisters and proud friend who were behind this. The proof was in the letter. Georgianna Darcy was the woman Mr. Bingley’s friends intended for him. The haughty Miss Darcy, who was almost certainly a female version of her arrogant brother. Mr. Wickham had said as much.

That recalled the handsome militia member to Elizabeth’s thoughts. What a charming and engaging gentleman! How unfortunate was he in his godfather’s son! Mr. Darcy had gone out of his way to ruin the prospects of a young man for no reason other than jealousy. Mr. Wickham had to subsist in near-poverty on a lieutenant’s meager pay. What a horrid, horrid man was Mr. Darcy!

The fates themselves then intervened, for just up the road was the officer himself! Mr. Wickham, in the red coat of the ——Militia, had just dismounted from his horse. As he took the reins in hand he glanced in her direction.

“Miss Elizabeth!” he cried, his smile was bright as the sun. “Good morning!”

Elizabeth waved. “Good morning! Are you just returned from London?”

Mr. Wickham lowered his voice as she drew closer. “I have. Are you on your way to Meryton—and quite alone?”

“No, I am just on my morning ramble. My sisters and I were planning to walk there later to ask of you.”

“How very kind! My poor horse has a powerful thirst, so I thought it best to give him a short drink before returning to camp.” Mr. Wickham had stopped near a pond that bordered the road, mostly hidden by reeds. “I must go about to the far side. Will you keep me company while I tend to my mount?”

Such was Elizabeth’s preoccupation over her troubles that she silently agreed to Mr. Wickham’s request without a second thought. The officer found a place where his horse could drink from the pond, while Elizabeth stood several paces away.

“I am sorry I could not attend Mr. Bingley’s ball, but my business in London could not be put off.” Mr. Wickham pulled a face. “I would have enjoyed a set.”

“And I would have been happy to accommodate you.” Elizabeth blushed, for she realized her words could be misconstrued.

“I do not doubt your card was full.”

“Full enough.” Elizabeth actually had danced little after her set with Mr. Darcy. Mr. Collins was persistent in requesting another set, and her refusal of him meant sitting out the remainder of the evening.

“And Mr. Darcy followed his usual practice of claiming a corner, disregarding all about him.” Mr. Wickham laughed. “That is, if he was there at all.”

“Mr. Darcy was in attendance and his behavior was much as you describe, but he did dance.”

“Did he really?” Mr. Wickham looked at Elizabeth so closely she began to grow uneasy. “Has his manners improved? Is Meryton society so elevated that he suffered to give a display of his dancing talents? Miss Bingley must have been thrilled to be the center of attention. But that is the way of Darcy—he wants no notice until he commands it.”

A small frown creased Elizabeth’s forehead. She considered Mr. Darcy haughty and reserved, but he was no braggart. He did not exhibit. “I cannot say; he did not appear so to me. But you know him better.”

“Indeed I do, and I have suffered because of it.”

“Well, Mr. Darcy knows that you do have some friends!”

An unreadable look flowed over Mr. Wickham’s features. “You spoke to Darcy about me? How did that come about?”

“Mr. Darcy requested a set, and I used the opportunity to reprimand him about his treatment of you.”

“Darcy danced with you, and earned a set-down! I wish I had been there to see that!” Mr. Wickham laughed as he tied his horse’s reins to a bush. “You have been a good friend to me.”

“He received ought but what he deserved. I would do the same for any of my friends.”

“No doubt, but I still thank you. If I had but more friends like you!”

“Sir, I think all of Meryton approves of you.”

“Perhaps, but they are not in a position to help me.” Mr. Wickham sighed. “I do not live as I should, as the rector of a comfortable parish. I hardly support myself—those in the King’s service are paid little. A wife is out of the question.”

Elizabeth blushed. “Have you a particular lady in mind?” He could not mean her, could he?

Mr. Wickham smiled. “Come, Miss Elizabeth! Coyness does not become you. I admire your courageous and loyal spirit! You are free of the suffocating conventions of our times.” He grew close. “You deserve a reward, one that will result in great pleasure to us both.”

Elizabeth did not like the look in Mr. Wickham’s eye. “I…need no reward.” It was just then she realized the reeds effectively hid the pair of them from the road. “Your friendship is enough.”

Wickham’s smile became a leer. “But I wish to be more than a friend, Elizabeth.” He was almost in arm’s reach.

“Mr. Wickham, you should not say such things.” She took a step back, but the soldier moved quickly, grasping her left arm. “Mr. Wickham!”

“Come, my dear. I know what you want, and we shall have such fun.” He pulled her away from the road.

“Unhand me!” Elizabeth struggled, but he was too strong. He grasped the back of her neck, holding her steady, and roughly kissed her.

Elizabeth pulled away. “You beast!” she cried as she slapped Wickham’s cheek. He let her go, but only to deliver such a blow to her face she lost her footing. Elizabeth saw stars.

Wickham’s red face was demonic. “You wench!” he growled. “You think you can tease a man with your saucy ways?” He yanked her to her feet. “Do not do that again. You will enjoy it much better if you comply.”  He half-dragged her into the reeds.

Dizzy and in pain, Elizabeth forced her lips to work. “Help me! Help me!”

~~~

A confused and grim Fitzwilliam Darcy rode recklessly through the Hertfordshire countryside. He had much on his mind. Never had he enjoyed a house visit so much, and never had he wanted it to end so badly.

When Charles Bingley requested his advice about leasing Netherfield, Darcy had anticipated a few weeks in the county, reviewing the finances and engaging in sport. He did not anticipate meeting the most confounding woman!

Miss Elizabeth Bennet was everything he wanted in a lady. She was attractive in the way he liked—not a true beauty who spent hours at her dressing table, but handsome in a wholesome manner. She preferred the out of doors to the drawing room. She was intelligent, well-read, kind, and thoughtful. Her carriage was elegant without being showy. Not shy or coy, her teasing remarks were amusing and enchanting. Witty and outgoing, her voice was a siren’s song, whether singing or laughing. And her eyes—her incomparable eyes!

And yet…

Miss Elizabeth was gentle-born, but her father was a non-entity in society. And her mother—was there a more ridiculous woman? Miss Elizabeth connections were bad, and her younger sisters were a laughing-stock. The two youngest were a scandal in the making.

As for Miss Elizabeth herself, self-assurance was one thing, but she sometimes showed a tendency towards stubbornness. Armed with the arrogance of youth, limited experience, and incomplete education, she tended to make outlandish statements. Was she really expressing opinions not her own? It was difficult to decide when she was bantering and when she was mocking. Worse yet, she had not only befriended George Wickham, but had appointed herself his champion!

Wickham! There was another reason to flee Hertfordshire. It had been a rude shock to find him walking the streets of Meryton. The reprobate was unchanged; already he was spreading his tale of woe.

“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

Yes, he had undoubtedly told Miss Elizabeth he was denied the living, and certainly not admitted he was recompensed for the loss. But was that all the scoundrel said in Meryton? Did any hint of Ramsgate escape his lips? Visions of Georgiana’s shattered countenance would not leave his mind.

Wickham would not—could not—speak of his attempt to convince Georgianna to elope. If he did, it would blast all hope of the steward’s son rising in polite society. It would also release the only hold on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s sword-arm. Darcy knew his cousin ached for the opportunity to slash Wickham to pieces. He shared the colonel’s dark desires, but his pride held him in check.

So, there it was. Elizabeth Bennet was a willful, foolish gentle-woman of no name. It would be a degradation to pay her any further attention. So why was it he could not exorcise her from his mind? Was it just her light and pleasing figure, musical voice, and enchanting eyes—or was it something more?

Darcy slowed his horse. Blast it, he was bewitched! There was nothing for it—he had to distance himself from Elizabeth Bennet. His duty to Georgiana and his family demanded it. Thank goodness Miss Bingley and the Hursts decided to follow Bingley to London. He would go with them.

Bingley—there was another problem. He had yet another angel: the pretty eldest Bennet daughter. Jane Bennet was undoubtably a lovely girl, but her situation was no better than Miss Elizabeth’s. A marriage would do nothing for Bingley’s quest to join the aristocracy.

Darcy chuckled to himself. The quest for acceptance by the ton was not Charles Bingley’s goal, but his sister Caroline’s. Bingley was a man of great feeling and affability, and was not a fool, but he lacked direction and ambition. Bingley might be well satisfied with a modest estate tucked away far from London and a gentle, quiet wife. But Bingley was no man for a marriage of convenience. He could only be happy if his wife held him in affection.

That was the rub. Did Miss Bennet care for his friend? Darcy doubted it. Always he had a duty to protect his friends, and he would not abandon Bingley. As distasteful it would be, Darcy felt he would have to counsel him against any alliance with the Bennets.

Still, Elizabeth Bennet’s exquisite eyes remained foremost in his thoughts.

Just then, Darcy’s horse snorted, his ears raised high. Darcy looked about. Just up the road was a clump of tall reeds, the kind found near bodies of water. What was that sound? Voices arguing. Was that a slap?

“Help me! Help me!”

Darcy instantly spurred his horse towards the lady’s cry. A short way up the trail from the road he spied two people tussling: a soldier in a red coat and a woman.

“You, there! Unhand that lady!”

The surprised soldier looked up. It was George Wickham!

At once, Darcy recalled Georgiana’s devastation upon learning Wickham desired only her fortune. All his frustration at his inability to comfort his sister, guilt for not warning her against his former friend, and anger at Wickham’s cruelty returned. Darcy practically leapt from his horse’s saddle, aching to punish Wickham with his fists.

“This is none of your concern, Darcy,” said Wickham, struggling to keep one hand over the lady’s mouth.

“This is a new low, even for you,” growled Darcy, taking a step forward. “You will release her now!”

The lady moved violently, freed her lips, and shouted, “Help me, please!”

It was Elizabeth Bennet!

Darcy only thought he was angry before. Now, a killing rage rose in his breast. “You dog!” He began to move with ferocious intent towards the pair.

With a muttered curse, Wickham gave Miss Elizabeth a powerful shove, causing the lady to fall face first into the pond with a splash. Darcy did not hesitate, dashing to the water’s edge. The pond was shallow and Miss Elizabeth was already turning towards the bank.

“Take my hand, Miss Elizabeth!”

She hung back for a moment, a look of surprise and mortification on her wet and muddy face. She then accepted his aid and was at his side. Darcy unthinkingly drew her wet body into an embrace. A crashing sound through the reeds caused him to look to his left and watch Wickham fleeing on horseback towards Meryton.

He returned his attention to the shivering woman in his arms. “All will be well, Miss Elizabeth; you are safe. He is gone and I am here. Nothing shall happen to you.”

She looked up, wet, shocked, and frightened, her wide eyes slightly unfocused. Her soaked bonnet barely held her hair in place. Never had she seemed so young. “M-Mr. Darcy, you saved me. I-I can never t-thank you enough.”

Even muddy and disheveled, she was magnificent! Her body fit so well against his, and her full lips called to him. How could he stop from kissing her?

At the last moment, reason was triumphant.  Darcy saw her shivering was from more than her scare. She was soaked to the skin and her breath danced in the frigid air. She was freezing! Darcy released her and tugged off his overcoat.

“Miss Bennet, pray put this on. It will keep you warm.”

“What?” Miss Elizabeth seemed to come back to herself. “Mr. Darcy, I cannot accept—”

“Nonsense!” he snapped. “You will wear this coat. I will not have you fall ill due to nonsensical propriety.”

Still, the lady resisted before reluctantly yielding to his demand. Once covered, she crossed her arms, staring daggers at him. Darcy had to bite his lip to keep from laughing—the large coat and soggy bonnet swallowed up her small form. She appeared as threatening as a kitten wrapped in a blanket.

“You find this amusing, sir?” Her tone was dangerous.

Instead of answering, Darcy took her by her arm and led her to his horse. She saw his intention and tried to pull away. “No, sir, I will not ride your horse.”

“You have no choice, madam.” He grasped her by her waist and, disregarding her complaints, lifted her onto the saddle. He then swung up behind her. He was astride the horse while Miss Elizabeth sat sideways before him. His arms encircled her, holding the reins.

“Mr. Darcy, let me down!”

Darcy held his temper. “Miss Elizabeth, you must return home as quickly as may be or you will fall ill. This is the only way that will serve. Pray trust me.”

She was silent for a moment. Darcy could not see her face, hidden as it was by her bonnet. “I will.” Her voice was low and listless. “I-I should have.”

“Fear not, I will not let you fall. I taught my sister to ride thusly and she was as safe as if she was seated before her pianoforte. Are you ready?”

“You said Mr. Wickham had trouble keeping friends. I should have listened.”

Darcy felt her pain. “He is a practiced deceiver. Even my good father could not see him for what he was.” He tried to lighten the mood. “I, on the other hand, have trouble making friends, but I keep them and protect them for life.”

To his dismay, Miss Elizabeth began weeping. Devil take it—somehow, he had hurt her! Silently cursing his stupidity, he urged his horse into a trot back the road and Longbourn.

So…what do you think will happen next? Let’s just say the challenges and betrayals have just begun. Remember, I don’t write angst–I write tragedy.

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…