Throwback Thursday…on a Wednesday!

To write, or not to write…that is the question.

Happy Tuesday, fellow Janeites!  I hope that you are safe from wild weather, earthquakes and hurricanes in your corner of the world and instead are able to curl up with a good book.

I feel like lately my life has been a blur.  From teaching summer school,  running the high school football program, losing my dear mother-in-law a few weeks ago, to starting school, all 3 boys in sports, running the senior class and trying to be a wife and mom, I don’t have time. Time is so elusive, but is the most valuable possession I need but can’t buy. Luckily, I have my two wonderful writing buddies who keep my working towards my goal by carving out 30 minutes most Sunday nights for our writing sprints. Alice and Nancy deserve a shout out! Because of them, my novella is one chapter closer to completion.

But today…today I am going to give you a throw-back. I know it’s only Wednesday, and not Throw-back Thursday, but how lucky are you! I’m actually going to give you the prologue from one of my completed novels, “A Life Worth Choosing.” This book was so much fun to write, as it combines one of my favorite Christmas movies, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ and my favorite novel, ‘Pride and Prejudice.’

If you have read this before, I hope you enjoy revisiting this fanciful variation. If you are new to ‘A Life Worth Choosing,’ I hope you are ready for the adventure!

~Prologue~

By his tenth year, Fitzwilliam Darcy felt the weight of Atlas thrust upon his shoulders as the future master of Pemberley, knowing he would fulfill his duty in a manner befitting his name. Lessons learned at his father’s knee ensured the continuation of a legacy steeped in honor. However, nothing was more impactful than the lesson he experienced without his father or tutors but in the attendance of an insistent gypsy crone.

Surveying Pemberley’s woods, he and his companion George Wickham came upon a gypsy camp, a trifling fascination, but in years to come, a moment to change the shades of Pemberley. Naturally reticent, the future master of the estate wished to immediately inform his father of the interlopers’ presence. However, his more venturesome companion had other ideas. Wickham had heard tales of the second sight of the gypsies and was not leaving until his curiosity had been satiated.

For two young boys, one seeking adventure and the other seeking an escape home, the quarter hour wondering amongst these people proved unsatisfying until an old woman with a raspy voice pointed a withered finger at Darcy.

“You. Come, boy. Come to me.” Her gnarled hand outstretched, the ordinarily cautious Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley walked toward her. When his playmate followed, the elder held up her palm. “You stay. No good will come from you.”

Stunned, Wickham, the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, spat on the ground. “You old hag! Do not speak to your betters in such a manner!” Turning to his companion, he yelled, “Darcy, let’s be off. They will be expecting us.”

The woman’s attention returned to the young master. “Come, boy. I see something in you I haven’t seen in many years.”

Her eyes bore into his, and he was absorbed into the patterns the light projected in them. “Yes, mistress.”

The appellation caused a smile to spread across her leathered skin. “You are a good boy.” She motioned for him to come toward the fire as she threw in twigs and sand. “You will become a great man. All you see will be yours,” she said, waving her hands around, indicating the forest. “But those you surround yourself with could one day lead to harm.” She looked over his head at Wickham. “One man’s evil will unite those with the purest love. Be wise in the company you choose.”

Wickham had mounted the horse, waiting impatiently. “Darcy, let’s go. I am weary of this place.”

The old woman tsked at the sound and gently took Darcy’s chin in her hand. “Someday, you will have the chance to change your life, to choose your circumstances. Do not abandon your destiny for false hopes. You must always trust in here,” she said, thumping his chest. “The purest love will always recognize your soul. But know when you have lost all hope, I will send you a sign. All will be well.”

His brow wrinkled as he said, “Only God can send signs.”

A brittle chuckle escaped her lips. “Dear boy. Your god is a friend to the gypsies. Now go before your mother fears you have been harmed.” She had patted his head and shooed him on his way before he had rushed back to mount his horse and catch up with the retreating Wickham. Before he was off, he glanced back to the old gypsy, yet she had disappeared. All will be well.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In his twentieth year, before he left on his Grand Tour, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s father began to suffer from heart maladies. The Darcy patriarch had been in his mid-forties but recognized the precariousness of life after having lost his beloved Anne only eight years previous.

When the hens of the ton cackled about young Fitzwilliam Darcy and his ten-thousand pounds per annum, little did they know they only scratched the surface of his worth. With holdings in several countries, the coffers of the Darcy family would have made even Lady Catherine’s greedy heart sing, had she known.

After fencing at the club, and dinner at White’s, Darcy was enjoying a brandy with his father in the study.

“Fitzwilliam, I am a man of great power and wealth, just as you will be. I have secured your happiness, as my forefathers did for me. But in the event of disaster, I have made provisions to guard what I love the most.” He had then outlined his plan, the strategy he had set in place to ensure his children’s happiness and the continued success of Pemberley: the secret Merino account.

The young Darcy shook his head. “But Father, why a secret account?”

The elder Mr. Darcy sat down in the chair and slowly sipped his drink. “One never knows what will occur in this lifetime. You are to inherit the account upon your twenty-eighth birthday, yet I feel even now you should be aware of its existence.”

“I do not believe­­—” Fitzwilliam said.

His father held up his hand. “I was friends with a man at Cambridge. He was heir to a great estate in Edinburgh and would one day become the head of a family with seven daughters, and he the only son. They farmed ten-thousand acres of merino sheep, and he was set to inherit everything when the unthinkable occurred.”

Darcy leaned in anticipation.

“His father died and a man came forward to claim the estate.”

“How?”

“This man claimed to be the first-born son from an unknown wedding from his father’s university days.”

“What?” Darcy rocked back in surprise.

“Yes. And it was true.” George Darcy had stood and walked to the sideboard to set his glass down. “He had married his mother’s lady’s maid in Gretna Green, then realized the ramifications. They annulled the marriage, but he did not know about the child. When the young woman came to tell him, my friend’s grandmother discovered it and established the young maid in America. It was not until after his father’s death that the first son appeared to claim his inheritance.”

“But how?”

“He had the marriage license, and the annulment didn’t occur until a month from the date of the wedding. He was allegedly conceived on their wedding night.” Darcy held his glass up, and his father poured him another, chuckling as he did. “It would have all been pushed under the rug if the man had not appeared as the spitting image of his late father—red hair, freckles, and bright green eyes.” He sighed. “So, you see, my son. One never knows what will come about to foil our plans.”

Darcy swallowed and inhaled deeply. “Is this your way of telling me that George Wickham is my brother?”

“What? Heavens no, Fitzwilliam.” The older Mr. Darcy blustered. “No, George is my godson but definitely not my child. I am hoping he will go into the law. But that is a conversation for another day. Today, I will enlighten you on the Merino account secured in London by our men at Bainbridge & Sons.”

“Merino?”

“Yes. In honor of my friend who, after the resurrection of his half-brother, was thrown out, along with his mother and sisters.”

“Did they have no other money, no family?”

“Yes, but with seven sisters, a mother and himself, the coffers would be too thin for him to live the life he was accustomed. No,” he finished, as Darcy took the last swallow of his brandy, “you will never face the same fate.”

Photo: BBC

“And when did you create this account?”

“The year I left Cambridge. I wanted no dangers to befall to those I loved. And it will not, Fitzwilliam. My planning is a mark of the code of honor passed down through generations of the Darcy men, and now to you. Our lives are not given to weakness or spite but to benevolence and concern. You will continue this tradition as I have, and my father before me. Your sons and future generations will raise the ensign and move forward where we have ended to ensure all will be well.”

What followed was a conversation Fitzwilliam Darcy imagined he would never need. For when would the future master of Pemberley ever lack money or status?

What will happen next? How does this play into Mr. Darcy’s “A Life Worth Choosing?” Thank you for indulging me wanting to share an ‘old favorite’ with you! Have a lovely day!