Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Read online

  DARCY’S HOPE

  AT DONWELL ABBEY

  Ginger Monette

  Darcy’s Hope at Donwell Abbey

  Copyright © 2016 Ginger Monette

  Spero Books

  www.GingerMonette.com

  Cover Design by Paul Cunningham

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without expressed written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  V1.4.17

  Though inspired by the characters and events from Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice and actual events from World War I, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ~ONE~

  October 1917— Boulogne, France

  Captain Fitzwilliam Darcy narrowed his gaze as the steamer carrying Elizabeth faded into the twilight. Gone. Elizabeth Bennet was gone. Her parting words washed over him, Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you. He closed his eyes, his soul aching for her.

  Two months. Just two months and he would have military leave to join her at his beloved Pemberley. God, let me live to make her my wife.

  He sighed and turned to leave.

  “Watch out!”

  He flinched as a corporal swerved a team of horses around him.

  “Pardon me, Captain.” The young officer called out, nodding as he passed.

  Darcy released a heavy breath and gazed around. The French wharf was suddenly alive—wagon harnesses jangling, handcarts rumbling over the cobbles, seagulls crying out overhead, and ambulances puttering down the wharf. Amidst the hubbub, khaki-clad soldiers bustled to and fro, and the ocean breeze carried the smell of briny water, fish, and roasting meat.

  Straightening his British officer’s cap, Darcy glanced from side to side, then stepped in the direction of Boulogne’s bluff. A long ride lay ahead of him tonight. His cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had given him three days to find Elizabeth. He chuckled to himself while stepping back to dodge a lorry trundling by. And a glorious three days it had been. After months of animosity and then fighting his affections for her, they’d finally come to an understanding.

  He crossed the street and headed up the hill to his motorcycle. Thrusting his hand into his trouser pocket, he absently stroked the ribbon of the Croix de Guerre medal that Elizabeth had discarded.

  Finding and wooing Elizabeth at the Belgian chateau-turned-field-hospital where they’d served together hadn’t been the only reason for his return there two days before. He’d also managed to steal away for an hour to survey sites near the stately manor. Sites he’d suspected were tied to the escapes of German prisoners.

  Richard had stationed him at the chateau hospital affectionately known as The Ritz for the better part of the past six months. He’d been there under the guise of assisting its inept commander. But his chief purpose had been to find a mole with the hope of bringing down a whole network of agents aiding prisoner escapes—and he’d nearly succeeded. A few more clues would expose the traitor.

  He’d been right that the area’s windmill, canal, and the woman who laundered for the clearing station hospital had all been components of the conspiracy. And he’d kept his word to his cousin—he hadn’t revealed any details about the undercover intelligence operation to Elizabeth. But now that he’d seen her off, it was back to army business.

  And George Wickham.

  The blackguard’s words rang in Darcy’s mind from their encounter at the hotel’s bar the night before. I’m so sorry to hear of her misfortune…. I couldn’t have orchestrated your demise any better had I planned it myself. ...Never know what can happen at the Front.

  Wickham. Darcy huffed, chafing the ribbed texture of the ribbon between his fingers. What did the miscreant’s words mean? Which of Elizabeth’s misfortunes was he referring to? The death of her mother? The death of her beloved employer? Lydia’s betrayal? And how could any of them have anything to do with Darcy’s demise? The snake was drunk last night when Darcy encountered him. Could Wickham’s taunts hold any clues? Darcy and Richard suspected their nemesis was involved in the collusion but had no evidence to prove it. What were they missing?

  Darcy gritted his teeth, thrusting one foot in front of the other up the bluff towards Boulogne. With a few more pieces of the puzzle, they could bring down the traitor, and he could prove to Richard once and for all that Elizabeth was innocent.

  But until then.... Elizabeth. He winced at her perilous situation. Like an innocent lamb wandering into the slaughter pen, she’d managed to tangle herself in the agents’ ploys while serving as nursemaid to the chateau’s aged owner, Monsieur Dubois. And when the agents figured out she was still alive they would.... He fisted his hand with a grunt. He’d rest a lot easier if Richard had allowed him to warn her, or even better, if he’d been at liberty to keep her with him for a few more days until his security plans were fully in place. God, keep her safe!

  

  Four days later—Pemberley, Derbyshire

  Elizabeth rose to the surface from a deep sleep with slivers of light dancing on her eyelids. She shifted and snuggled into the soft sheets, sinking back into slumber.

  A damp October breeze from the open window skimmed her cheeks, teasing her awake again.

  Monsieur Dubois! She bolted upright and threw back the bedclothes, then froze. Where was she? Her eyes darted around the spacious bedchamber—gold silk curtains, green damask wallpaper, armoire, dressing table, and writing desk. Relaxing her shoulders, she smiled. She wasn’t in Belgium nursing Monsieur Dubois, the owner of the chateau-turned-field-hospital. She was in England at the home of Fitzwilliam Darcy, her beloved. Her third morning at Pemberley, she was still unaccustomed to the change in surroundings.

  She grasped the finely carved post of the bed and smoothed the luxurious linens, then fell back onto the sheets, breathing in their scent—the smell of Pemberley—his scent. He would be home on leave in two months!

  A bird trilled outside, beckoning her to the window. Elizabeth padded across the carpet, then parted the curtains and breathed in the cool, fresh Derbyshire air. Rays of sunlight streamed through clusters of dark clouds, and the majestic fountain in Pemberley’s lake rocketed water into the air. Peaceful. Beautiful. No booms or thuds of shelling in the distance. No ambulances delivering broken men to be splinted and stitched. No dear little Frenchman to look after.

  And no Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  Elizabeth sighed. But he would be home on leave before Christmas. Her gaze drifted to the woods on the far side of the lake, resplendent in the brilliant reds and yellows of autumn. She imagined herself walking beside Fitzwilliam, snuggling in the frosty December air. Would he kiss her again? Giddy exuberance rose in her as she dropped the curtain and moved towards the dressing table.

  Until he arrived, she would make the best of her time here. And from all Fitzwilliam had said about his sister, it would be a delight to be in Georgiana’s company when the girl returned from her nurse’s assistant training in London. Perhaps Elizabeth would volunteer with her at the local hospital. Elizabeth was already a certified nurse’s assistant, Voluntary Aid Detachment nurses or VADs as they were known. She’d served at a hospital in Boulogne before taking a position as nursemaid for the ageing Monsieur Dubois near the Front. Her time at The Ritz had been wonderful medical training.

  She seated herself at the dressing table and chu
ckled at her determination to spurn marriage and become an independent woman and doctor. Although she still dreamed of becoming a midwife, she no longer felt the need to shun marriage. In fact, she now welcomed it—with Fitzwilliam. But for now she would sleep, explore the books in Pemberley’s massive library, and go for long rambles. Perhaps the solitude would dispel the tensions of the past few weeks.

  She shook her head at her reflection in the mirror before her. A tumultuous past few weeks, indeed. It began some three weeks before when Fitzwilliam’s reassignment took him away from The Ritz. Cooped up with her bedridden patient who was declining day by day, loneliness became Elizabeth’s closest companion. And then the...interrogation. Was that what it was? Belgian officials had come to question her about some hairpins Lieutenant Wickham had given her in Boulogne. For some reason the officials suspected the pins were a threat to national security. She smiled. It was funny now, but at the time, it was terrifying.

  Even more terrifying was the early morning air raid last week that had jolted her from bed. Bone rattling explosions and aeroplanes humming overhead struck her with a terror she’d never experienced. And it was that same morning dear Monsieur Dubois breathed his last. How lonely she felt when The Ritz staff hastily evacuated to a convent and she was left at the chateau alone!

  She picked up her brush and tugged it through her unruly dark hair. Perhaps it was foolish of her to have stayed behind to clean up the wards for the incoming Canadians. But if she hadn’t stayed, she would never have fallen down the side of the bluff and Fitzwilliam would never have rescued her. But Fitzwilliam had come! And the next three days with him were the most glorious of her life. He’d even invited her to stay at Pemberley!

  But Lydia…. Her brush stilled. How could her sister have been so reckless to steal away on an army transport ship—and then marry a German officer? Elizabeth winced in humiliation and regret at the actions of her younger sister. Yet Fitzwilliam had been so gentle and kind in breaking the news to her. She smiled, shaking her head. It was certainly strange to be falling in love in a war zone.

  She resumed her brushing. With Lydia’s treacherous behaviour, perhaps it was a good thing Mama and Papa were no longer living, and her two younger sisters Mary and Kitty were far away in America with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. At least her beloved sister Jane was happily situated with Charles Bingley. Should she tell her elder sister that Lydia had married the enemy? Elizabeth narrowed her gaze, staring beyond herself in the mirror. Maybe it was better Jane continued to believe Lydia was deceased.

  With a sigh, Elizabeth rose and pushed her arms into her dressing gown as a knock sounded at her door.

  Mrs. Reynolds peeked inside. “Good morning, Miss Bennet. Are you awake?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve brought your breakfast, a letter, and the Daily Express.”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth’s pulse kicked up a notch in anticipation of a letter from Fitzwilliam. Plumping the pillows, she climbed back onto the mattress.

  The good-natured housekeeper crossed the room and presented the steaming tray. “May I get you anything else? As Mr. Darcy’s special guest, we want you to be comfortable here.”

  Heat rose in Elizabeth’s cheeks at the woman’s insinuation and the twinkle in her eye. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

  “You just ring if you need anything, dear.”

  “Thank you, I shall.”

  As soon as the door clicked behind the housekeeper, Elizabeth snatched up the letter. Her heart dipped. It wasn’t from Fitzwilliam. It was from Jane’s vindictive sister-in-law Caroline Bingley. Why would she be writing?

  She slid the missive from the envelope, then took a bite of eggs and began reading.

  7th October 1917

  Boulogne, France

  Dear Eliza,

  After seeing you with Captain Darcy in Boulogne, I felt it my duty to warn you of some damning allegations against you.

  Several months ago Dr. Ernest Cowart was hospitalised here, and because he had known my father, I visited him. Naturally we spoke of his time at The Ritz, and when he realised that you and I were acquainted, he asked my opinion of your character. He then proceeded to recount numerous incidents and behaviours that cast suspicion on your allegiance to the Crown. I surmised he had already brought (or intended to bring) the evidence before the authorities. Whether or not he did before he was killed, I do not know.

  His suspicions were all relayed in confidence, of course, but as you know, a good reputation is priceless in these perilous times. You can rest assured that I would never betray you as my own brother has chosen to marry your sister, and Charles could suffer ruin should this information be brought to light.

  Captain Darcy, however, is another matter. He has no permanent connection with your family, unless you insist on maintaining one. If you truly care for him, I suggest you carefully consider the precarious position you are putting him in, and ask yourself if you might best demonstrate your regard by severing all ties with him. After all, he is not only an important landowner with much to lose, but also the guardian of his beloved and innocent sister. It would be a shame should he lose his standing due to his association with you.

  I trust you will do what is right and not unnecessarily jeopardise the captain’s future.

  With kind regards,

  ~Caroline

  Elizabeth tossed the letter aside, then smacked the bed with a huff. Caroline Bingley was the most conniving, spiteful, catty...cat she’d ever known. Elizabeth had no involvement in any sort of treasonous activity. Caroline must be making it up. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d twisted the knife in someone she didn’t like—and she certainly had no fondness for Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth took a bite of bacon. And then another. Could there be any truth to Caroline’s assertion? What could the gloating, but now-deceased Dr. Cowart have possibly observed that would cast Elizabeth in a suspicious light? She had suspected that his loyalties were divided!

  She dabbed her mouth, then snapped open the newspaper, scanned three articles, and froze.

  ~TWO~

  Later that afternoon—A convent near Ypres, Belgium

  Darcy grunted and thumbed through the stack of papers on the altar table that now served as his desk. Relocating the clearing station hospital from The Ritz to a convent had created a mound of paperwork.

  A knock sounded on his office door. Darcy looked up. “Come in.”

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam just arrived, sir.”

  “Thank you, Corporal.” Darcy reached for a manila envelope on the desk, then pushed to his feet just as his strapping cousin crossed the threshold in his uneven gait.

  “Ah! I see you made it back from your...soirée with Miss Bennet.” His cousin two years his senior tossed his peaked cap onto the desk, then flopped into the chair. “Damn rain.” He raked his fingers through his sandy-coloured hair and reached into his breast pocket. “I’d hoped to be back for your report two days ago. What do you have for me? I trust you found Miss Bennet?” He thumped a cigarette from the package and raised his gaze to Darcy.

  “I did.”

  “So...?” His cousin slanted him a cheeky smile.

  “I sent her to Pemberley.”

  “Ha!” His cousin laughed, slapping his thigh. “You are besotted with the girl!”

  Darcy leaned against the desk. “I’m concerned for her safety, Richard. Concerned enough that I’ve made arrangements for additional security at Pemberley. She’s oblivious to the conspiracy, and after you see the photographs I took near The Ritz, I think you’ll agree she’ll be in the crosshairs of the agents. Frankly I’m surprised they haven’t hunted her down already.”

  “Show me the pictures! You’re sure Miss Bennet isn’t one of the agents?” Richard lit the Gold Flake.

  “Judge for yourself.” Darcy straightened and pulled a stack of photographs from the manila envelope. “Although last week’s air raid at The Ritz left the chateau intact, it destroyed several of our outdoor tente
d facilities—two prisoner marquees and a bell tent.”

  “Miss Bennet’s bell tent, if I recall.”

  “That’s correct.” Darcy leaned over and slid a picture onto the desk. “This is what’s left of it.” He pointed to a mound of rumpled canvas swimming in muddy water. “When I inspected the remains, evidence suggested that an explosion from inside the tent caused the damage, not the night’s air raid.”

  “And although the tent was empty, you think the blast was intended for Miss Bennet?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m not convinced.” Richard sat back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Have you considered that she may have sabotaged her own quarters—to hide something, perhaps?”

  “It’s possible, but doubtful. I think you’ll agree when you see the rest of these.” Darcy slid another picture in front of his cousin and planted a finger on the interior of a stone structure. “This is the broken windmill across the meadow from The Ritz. It appears the agents used it as a staging point during escapes. I found cases of Bully Beef, boots, and blankets that I presume are the ones missing from The Ritz. And these are German cigarettes littering the floor.” He traced the objects in turn. “Elizabeth once mentioned she noticed that the windmill’s remaining two blades were shifted on occasion. Turns out they were the very occasions when the prisoner escapes took place. I suspect the agents used the blades as a signalling device, manually shifting them to indicate an impending operation. Anyone within two miles would have been able to see it—if they were looking.”

  “Clever plan. I suppose you believe if Elizabeth were an agent, she wouldn’t have revealed another agent’s tactics. What else do you have?”

  “It occurred to me that the windmill lies only a few hundred yards from Meneer Bongaerts’ chateau. When I paid a visit, it was obvious he’d cleaned out. It’s possible he suspected we were only a step behind the conspiracy and high-tailed it after this last escape.”