Snowbound at Hartfield Read online

  by

  Maria Grace

  Published by: White Soup Press

  Snowbound at Hartfield

  Copyright © January 2017 Maria Grace

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof,

  in any format whatsoever.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information address

  [email protected]

  ISBN-10: 0-9980937-2-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9980937-2-7

  (White Soup Press)

  Author’s Website: http://RandomBitsofFascination.com

  Email address: [email protected]

  “Grace has quickly become one of my favorite authors of Austen-inspired fiction. Her love of Austen’s characters and the Regency era shine through in all of her novels.” Diary of an Eccentric

  Snowbound at Hartfield

  Colonel Fitzwilliam should have been happy facing retirement. No more Napoleon, no more tromping the Continent, and his distant cousin had unexpectedly left him an estate. What was more, two of his favorite people, Darcy and Elizabeth, were travelling with him to visit his new home.

  But the colonel wasn’t happy, not when he was forced to watch Darcy exchanging enamored glances with his wife. No, he wanted to pitch his cousin out the window. It didn’t help when Darcy kept lecturing him on the joys of wedded life— as if women like Elizabeth Darcy grew on every tree.

  Then the snow started.

  Now they were stranded at the home of George and Emma Knightley, another intolerable, blissfully wedded couple who wanted nothing more than to see his bachelor days come to an end. Thank heavens they never thought of matching him with the proud spinster who had also been caught in the storm. That would have been utterly intolerable.

  Or would it?

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  DEDICATION

  For my husband and sons.

  You have always believed in me.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Thank you!

  Other books by Maria Grace:

  Free ebooks

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam pulled the scarf a little tighter around his neck. If the winds grew any stronger, they might topple the coach.

  What madness had seized the weather? Snow was unusual enough, but a storm such as this? Who would have expected it? Certainly not his cousin Darcy. Careful and meticulous as he was, he would never have set out if he had any inkling a blizzard were a possibility, especially in the company of his wife and father-in-law.

  The Darcy carriage was as snug and warm as such a vehicle might be in such anomalous weather. For that he could be glad. They were not in imminent danger of freezing to death. Still, the winds howled just as the wind on the French plains before—

  No! He clenched his gloved hands into fists. Returning there, even in memory alone, did him no favors. Elizabeth—Liza as she permitted him to call her now, mostly to annoy Darcy—Liza reminded him to remember the past only as it gave him pleasure. She was right. He must do precisely that.

  He drew a deep breath, then another, forcing his clenched hands to open. Warm fires, fine port, good company. His heart slowed just a bit.

  She was watching him from the corner of her eye. She knew. She always knew.

  Perhaps they would talk about it later. But first, they needed shelter.

  The first inn they had stopped at had no room available at any price. Now, Darcy was inquiring at a decidedly seedy-looking establishment, the Ram’s Horn. Seedy was better than no shelter at all, though it meant there would be little sleep to be had for any of them. Still, he would count it good fortune if Darcy’s blunt could smooth the way to a room and a warm fire for the night.

  The coach door creaked open. A blast of wind and snow burst in ahead of Darcy who jumped in and slammed the door behind him.

  “Were you able to procure rooms?” Fitzwilliam pulled his coat tighter around his chest, shoulder throbbing with the fresh burst of freezing air.

  “No. Not even the baronet who arrived just after we did could command lodgings.”

  Liza gasped and glanced at her father who hunched for warmth and rubbed his hands together.

  Darcy lifted his hand with a mildly dramatic flair.

  How Liza had changed him.

  “That is not to say we do not have accommodations though. The hand of Providence has provided in a most unexpected way. Just inside the inn, I encountered an old school friend of mine, George Knightley, who lives but a mile from here. He has invited us—and the baronet and his daughter—to stay with him.”

  “What a spot of good luck.” Bennet nodded vigorously, perhaps to cover his shivering.

  It seemed far too easy that Darcy’s old school chum just happened to be there, only too ready to extend an offer of hospitality. Nothing in life ever proved so convenient. Fate would surely exact some sort of price for this succor.

  Still, refusing would be foolish.

  Darcy finished telling them about his acquaintance with Knightley just as the coach pulled up to Hartfield’s front steps, the baronet’s coach just behind. No doubt, Darcy’s characteristic brevity managed to leave out the most interesting parts.

  By his description, Knightley seemed decidedly odd. Why did a married man, with an estate as respectable as Donwell Abbey, live at his father-in-law’s neighboring establishment? It was just not done.

  Darcy’s friends were usually so conventional.

  Then again, Bennet proved decidedly odd himself. Darcy had learned to tolerate him with greater equanimity over the—what was it now, fifteen months?—of his marriage to Liza.

  Perhaps Darcy was becoming less particular about his connections.

  He handed Liza out of the carriage and steadied Bennet as he followed.

  Fitzwilliam stepped into the wind and skidded on a patch of ice, barely catching himself on the carriage door.

  Blast and botheration! This was not fit weather for man nor beast.

  ***

  Sir Walter Elliot climbed into the coach, leaving the door open until the driver closed it. There had been little enough warm air within as it was. It would have been nice for him to try to preserve it. But the act of closing the door himself might have been enough to compromise his dignity. He could not have that, could he?

  Elizabeth Elliot pulled her hood over her head and huddled into it. The fur within was cold, too. Yes, it would warm soon, but her teeth chattered in the meantime, and Father would likely scold her for the noise.

  Thoughtless, self-absorbed ...

  No, those thoughts were ungracious and unsuitable, and Lady Russell would probably scold her for it. She scolded over so many matters, so what was one more added to the list? Elizabeth bit her lip and pulled the edges of her hood around her face.

  Another unkind thought.

  Surely it was this horrid storm that had compromised her composure. Usually she was better than this.

  She had to be. There was little choice. Father was so very particular about all things that touched his pride—vanity, really. It was not worth the consequences if she vexed him.

  Father bru
shed the snow off his shoulders and stomped his feet. The carriage lurched into motion.

  “There was no room at the inn?”

  “There was not.” He smoothed his coat over his lap. “But being a baronet has its privileges. I have made arrangements.”

  “What kind of arrangements?” She cringed. Father’s arrangements usually did not consider their budget and cost them in privation later—not that he would ever admit to it, but they did. And it would inevitably fall to her to make some way to provide for his comfort despite whatever he had done.

  She had become quite good at it.

  “The inn was dreadful, totally unsuitable.” He waved his gloved hand dismissively. “But there I met the leading gentleman of this little community. He recognized the honor of hosting a family of our rank and invited us to stay at his estate.”

  “Do you know this man?” She covered her face with her hand.

  There had been many so-called gentlemen that had proved themselves otherwise. Pray there would be a lock on her door tonight. Even if there was, it might be best that her maid sleep with her as well.

  “I do not. But he introduced me to his friend Darcy, whom he also invited to stay, and though that family does not have a title, they are connected to Matlock, and that is recommendation enough for me.” Father settled back in that attitude that declared the conversation over.

  Of course connections would be enough for him.

  Stop now. That thought was headed nowhere productive—or polite.

  She sucked in a long slow breath, and another. The searing cold air made her head ache, but it slowed her thoughts enough to rein them in.

  The Darcy reputation was well known, and it was impeccable. Even his surprise marriage to a country gentleman’s daughter had not tarnished it. What was more, his wife was very well received herself. A credit to the Darcy name, she had been called. Perhaps the friend of such a family would be more gentlemanly than not.

  The coach rolled to a stop.

  She would find out soon enough.

  ***

  Fitzwilliam stomped snow from his boots as he ascended the front stairs. Knightley himself opened the door for them. “Pray come in.”

  Warmth and light the color of a roaring fire poured through the door. No matter how peculiar the man might be, the invitation was too inviting to ignore.

  Mother would approve of the vestibule—tasteful, neat, and a bit old fashioned. She always maintained that traditional décor spoke of taste and respect when it was clean and well preserved. The house seemed all those things.

  But most of all it was warm. Delightfully, soothingly warm.

  Fitzwilliam unwrapped his scarf.

  A startled-looking butler met them and took their coats.

  A woman, who must have been the housekeeper, trundled up to Knightley.

  “Prepare rooms for our guests and their servants. Send the grooms for their horses.” Knightley ducked around the housekeeper. “Emma! Emma!”

  Darcy cringed.

  No surprise. One did not bellow for his wife as one did a servant.

  Bennet sniggered under his breath.

  There was a reason the younger Bennet girls were not known for their fine manners. But best not dwell upon that now.

  Liza smiled softly, slipped her arm in Darcy’s, and pressed her shoulder to his. His tension eased. She was a master at restoring his composure.

  Lucky man.

  Thankfully, Darcy seemed to appreciate that fact and treated his wife very well. Anything less would have made him intolerable.

  A young woman, blonde and pretty-ish, and looking not much older than Georgiana, hurried down the grand stairs. “I was so worried with you out there in the weather!”

  Knightley caught her hands in his. “Now you are sounding like your dear papa. As you see, I am quite well and have brought guests seeking shelter from the storm. May I present Sir Walter and Miss Elliot of Kellynch Hall?”

  No wonder they looked so familiar!

  And offended.

  Clearly Sir Walter did not appreciate being presented to the mistress of the house when he clearly outranked her. The question was, did Knightley do it intentionally or were his manners that sloppy?

  Interesting.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Mrs. Knightley curtsied with girlish energy, far better suited to a miss than a missus.

  “I am most pleased to renew our acquaintance, sir.” Fitzwilliam stepped forward and bowed.

  Sir Walter looked at him, forehead knotted and brows drawn together.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Miss Elliot peered at him, eyes widening. “Father, you recall, we were introduced by the Dalrymples, at a card party, three, or was it four months ago?”

  “Fitzwilliam? Oh, you are Earl Matlock’s son!”

  Amazing how the man’s countenance brightened at that memory.

  Fitzwilliam bowed. “Yes sir, I am. This is my cousin, Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, and her father, Mr. Bennet.”

  Sir Walter bowed from his shoulders, just enough to be proper. Miss Elliot’s curtsey demonstrated a touch more civility. Just as they had at Bath.

  Their haughtiness had not won them many friends there. In truth, though, it was more the baronet, than his daughter whom people avoided. When she was apart from her father, uncommon as it was, she seemed rather pleasant.

  The tall, dark-haired woman might have once been regarded handsome, but years on the shelf left her worn and weary along the edges. A little like her garments—once fashionable, but now a bit threadbare. Society was not kind to women who did not ‘take’ soon enough.

  Knightley took his wife’s hand as she descended the last few steps.

  Given his expression, he was as fond of his wife as Darcy was of Liza. Perhaps that was the common disposition he and Darcy shared.

  Knightley tucked his wife’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Darcy is an old school chum of mine. Imagine encountering him in Highbury at such a time.”

  “That is very good luck, indeed. You are all very welcome. I should very much like to hear tales of my husband’s school days. He rarely mentions them.” Mrs. Knightley’s eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief, much like Liza’s did.

  Knightley flashed his brows at Darcy.

  What was that?

  Darcy never indulged in any sort of high spiritedness during his school days, did he? The look on Knightley’s face suggested otherwise. That was one conversation Fitzwilliam would definitely follow up on.

  This could be a very interesting house party after all.

  “Oh, Papa!” Mrs. Knightley hurried past them.

  An elderly man, wrapped in a warm banyan, scarf and soft cap, shuffled toward them. “What ... what is this commotion? Such disruptions are not good for the digestion.”

  Mrs. Knightley wrapped her arm in his, supporting him. “Knightley has brought us guests, Papa.”

  “Guests, in a snowstorm? It is a most dangerous thing to be out in such weather. I do not see why anyone with sense would be out on such a day. I still do not understand why Knightley had to go into town.”

  She patted his hand. “That is why he invited them to stay with us. They were caught by the storm whilst traveling.”

  “I see, I see. Traveling is a trial indeed. No one should be out in this weather.” He nodded somberly. He blinked several times, and his eyes widened. “But are there children with them? They bear disease you know—”

  “No, there are no children. Why do we not go to the parlor, and you may become acquainted with them. I will send for tea.” Mrs. Knightley guided him down the corridor, muttering under his breath as he walked.

  That was the reason Knightley lived at Hartfield, not Donwell Abbey—to care for the old man in his dotage. Sounded like exactly the kind of man Darcy would befriend.

  Knightley urged them toward the parlor.

  ***

  Elizabeth Elliot snuck a glance at her father. His forehead was creased, and his lips pressed into a very distin
ct expression that only meant one thing: disgust. Proximity to the old and infirm brought it out. He no longer bothered to hide it.

  He used to, before they took residence in Bath. But there he encountered so many ‘unfortunates’ that the expression took up long-term residence, much as they had.

  Was Mr. Knightley merely ignoring it, or could it really have escaped his attention?

  Best to assume the former. His hospitality was too generous to risk offending him. The question was how to avoid it now that Father had begun along that path? If only she knew him well enough—or at all really—to be able to appeal to his vanity or ego. Perhaps a few compliments to his wife. Considering the looks he gave her, that might be his weakness.

  The girl looked barely old enough to be married. Did she understand her good fortune, to have a husband at all, much less one who looked at her as Knightley did? As Wentworth did Anne?

  Oh, that sounded far too close to jealousy for comfort. Best focus on something else.

  Mrs. Darcy. She did not seem a typical society matron—no, that line of thinking would not end well either. Mr. Darcy gazed at her the way Knightley did at his wife.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  He was a well-looking man. A bit weather-beaten to be sure. If not guided away from it, Father would remark upon that. He did so freely enough in Bath.

  But tours of duty on the continent did that to a man. It was only to be expected.

  She had heard from those who knew Fitzwilliam that he had seen battle against Napoleon. Few, if any, of the officers she knew could claim that. Colonel Fitzwilliam never spoke of it, though. He never spoke of his service at all.

  It made one curious.

  Still, he was the son of an earl, and his manners showed it. Refined and polished, every time they met. Perhaps he might prove agreeable company for the duration of their visit if she was not confined to the company of the two resident matrons.

  There was little worse than to be in the exclusive company of married women when one was unmarried. Always so full of advice about how to catch a husband.