Before She Knew Him (A Moment’s Delight Short Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

George Darcy, at just over sixty years of age, felt the weight of those years keenly as he sat in his study, the estate ledgers open before him.

His son, Fitzwilliam Darcy, named for his mother’s family, was now his eyes and ears upon the estate.

For the last two years, he had been unable to fulfil that role himself, and while he still conducted some business—most often in conjunction with his son—the greater part of its management had fallen to Fitzwilliam.

Fitzwilliam had recently turned five and twenty, and while a small part of George Darcy wished to urge his son towards marriage, he knew it would be hardly fair.

When he himself had been faced with that decision, he had not begun to consider it in earnest until he was nearly thirty, and even then he had spent several years in search of a lady who suited him.

His illness had prevented his son from going to Town this Season. Perhaps it had not been wholly necessary for Fitzwilliam to remain behind, but he had insisted he was needed, and George Darcy had not the heart to send him away.

His thoughts had wandered far from the ledgers before him.

The large windows behind him stood open to the late morning air, allowing a soft breeze to move through the room.

To his surprise, the sound of voices from the gardens drew his attention, and he rose from his desk and went to the window to better hear what was being said.

“The gardens are absolutely lovely, sir,” a young lady was saying.

She stood at some distance, yet George Darcy had the impression she was young—perhaps newly out, no more than eighteen. That she was out he could determine from her hair, which was put up; beyond that, he could discern little of her appearance.

More astonishing than the presence of this young lady in his gardens was the gentleman beside her.

His son stood there, his head inclined in a manner that, to a casual observer, might have suggested deference. He was in his shirt sleeves and appeared somewhat dusty from his ride, and George Darcy could readily understand how he might be mistaken for a labourer.

From this distance, it seemed he was answering questions regarding the care and tending of the plants.

There was no doubt his son could do so intelligently, for he was well acquainted with nearly everything that took place upon the estate, but George Darcy was astonished that he made no effort to correct her assumption.

“These roses here were planted at the direction of the late mistress, Lady Anne Darcy. She adored roses, and the head gardener delighted in developing new varieties for her enjoyment.”

The young lady paused, and even though George Darcy could not clearly see her expression, there was something in the tilt of her head that suggested genuine interest rather than mere politeness.

“Then they are not merely ornamental,” she said. “They are something of a tribute to her. She must have been much admired.”

She turned slightly as she spoke, her gaze moving over the beds with thoughtful attention.

“They are,” Fitzwilliam replied, after the briefest hesitation. “And she is very much missed by everyone upon the estate.”

She made some small gesture of sympathy, which Fitzwilliam acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. Their conversation continued without George Darcy being able to distinguish the words for a moment. What he could observe, however, was no less surprising.

It was not the subject of the conversation that struck him, but the manner of it.

His son, who could endure discourse with unfailing civility and very little engagement, was—if he did not mistake it—listening.

There was no impatience in his manner, nor any trace of that careful reserve which so often marked his interactions with strangers.

“I think I should like that,” the young lady continued, her voice carrying clearly once more.

“To walk in a place where one might be reminded of someone who was loved and admired—other than a churchyard, of course. My grandmother was particularly fond of lavender, and my elder sister and I plant more each year in her memory. We harvest it and make lotions and other small articles from it, and in so doing we remember her, for she was the one who first taught us how.”

His son did not immediately reply, and George Darcy, who knew him well, recognised the pause for what it was. Fitzwilliam was not at a loss for words; he was attending carefully to hers.

“My mother believed much the same,” he said at last.

Without really knowing why, George Darcy started slightly at hearing this.

“There is something to be said for honouring those who are dear to us. Still, nothing is more valuable than recalling them in the course of our everyday lives.”

Hearing his son express that warmed something in George Darcy’s heart.

He knew he had taught his son well, but, as with all parents, there was some small wonder if all the lessons took.

It was evident in his words that day that this lesson had made an impact, but he also knew that he was not the one who had taught his son that.

“And do you do something of that sort?” she asked, her head tilting in a manner that was at once sympathetic and faintly teasing. “For you cannot persuade me that you stand here without thinking of someone important to you as well.”

The question was such a mixture of kindness and playful impertinence that George Darcy could not be wholly surprised when his son laughed.

There was nothing in her manner to suggest she had any notion of his identity; indeed, he suspected she would have addressed the King himself in very much the same manner.

“I do,” his son admitted, and even at that distance, George Darcy could perceive the weight of the words.

“Good,” she replied, and with the lightest of curtsies moved on to the next plant that had caught her attention, bending slightly to examine the leaves and brushing one lightly between her fingers.

Even when she moved on to examine another plant, plainly expecting him to accompany her, Fitzwilliam made no attempt to set her right.

They continued in this manner for perhaps another quarter of an hour, until she was called away by her relations. She excused herself, and he watched her depart with a reluctance he was not yet prepared to examine.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was unaccustomed to speaking so freely with young ladies. Indeed, he generally avoided them whenever courtesy permitted, yet he had conversed with this particular young woman with surprising ease.

It was evident that she had not passed through a Season. She was too unguarded—and not nearly practised enough in the calculated civility of fashionable society. Her dress suggested that she was a gentlewoman, though one accustomed to country society rather than the circles he encountered in Town.

Not that he ordinarily concerned himself with the quality of a lady’s gown. He was not entirely certain why he had noticed hers.

Whoever she was, she did not appear to belong to his usual sphere. Nevertheless, he had found their exchange remarkably agreeable. Had he been pressed, he might even have admitted that he preferred it to the mindless conversations he endured in Town, amongst ladies and gentlemen alike.

Perhaps it was merely the novelty of speaking with someone who knew neither his name nor his consequence and who had addressed him as though he were simply a man.

The thought lingered as he left the gardens and made his way into the house.

He was met in the hall by Mr Reynolds, the butler and husband of Pemberley’s housekeeper, who informed him that visitors had arrived to view the house and grounds, and that Mrs Reynolds had undertaken to show them about once they returned indoors.

“It seems the young lady was particularly eager to walk out this morning, sir, and Mrs Reynolds thought it best to indulge her before bringing the party inside. The elder lady is the daughter of old Mr Robbins, formerly rector at Lambton.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly.

“Then we ought to invite them to take tea with us—or at least consider it. You may wish to consult my father. My mother would have done so, had she been here.”

Mr Reynolds bowed. “Very good, sir. I shall enquire of the master at once. You had best go upstairs and change; I am certain your valet is ready for you.”