Good morrow, fair readers! How are you this fine February morning? All is white outside my windows, and it didn’t even reach 20 today – quite the rarity in the land of iced tea and y’all.
February is the book birthday of Mistaken Premise – and my anniversary on the blog. (Thank you, Ms Regina!) In honour, I will share an excerpt from the book; the most personal (to me) scene in Mistaken Premise.
When I was writing Second Son, my eldest son typed a sentence – The moose said, “I hate you, Liz.” – when I was away from the keyboard. After a unanimous vote by the kiddie winks, I was told I could not delete the sentence from the story, but I could move it to a different location. Hence, the Boardman family tradition of each of the children adding their own “moose” to Mom’s stories was born. The scene below is a conglomerate of four separate “moose”-es and is much based upon my granddaughter, who was playing beside me as I typed.
I hope you enjoy it!
Thursday, April 9, 1812
Hyde Park
It was one of those spring days which made the cold, grey dullness of winter worth it. The sky was cobalt and gold, with nary a cloud; yesterday’s rain had washed the smoke and filth from the air, leaving only a fresh crispness in its wake. The grass’ verdant shoots contrasted the bark of trees budding in leaf or bursting in flower.
Hyde Park at its best.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was amongst those enjoying the day. Exhausted with endless letters and matters of business, and thoroughly wearied with the dark reds, blues, and browns of his study, he left the work unfinished on his desk. Book in hand, he walked five minutes to the park.
Others enjoyed the advantageous weather. Despite the early hour, several fashionable couples strolled arm-in-arm. Gentlemen conferred over business or politics as they meandered along the path, and groups of young ladies fed the birds on the Serpentine. Children picnicked with their nannies or ran across the open grass whilst their governesses watched.
Darcy found a bench in the dappled shade of a blooming bird cherry tree. Removed from the path, it was an excellent spot to read, with views of a tree-dotted grassy expanse and a glimpse of the Serpentine in the distance. His book was no clever work of literature or dry, but informative, book of natural or traditional philosophy, nor was it an educational tome of history, agriculture, or politics. It was only a novel; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best–chosen language. Darcy readily lost himself in the capacity and the labour of a novelist, and of praising the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.
Engrossed in the story, in the island of tranquil green amidst London’s grey bustle, Darcy was unaware a new friend had joined him until a face peeped from under his volume. Nonplussed, Darcy sat, immobile, as the tiny human clambered into his lap, settling herself as if she had done it a hundred times before. With a lisped, “Whas sis?”, she sucked on her finger, waiting for him to commence the story.
Darcy met the wide brown gaze of the child, who beamed at him from around her finger. At least he assumed it was a girl. The child was no more than three and wore the gown typical for that age; however, few nursemaids adorned a boy’s gown with ruffles of lace, nor tied pink ribbons in the golden curls of their charge. He mirrored her toothy grin. “Hello there, little one. Who might you be?”
From around her finger, she said, “Puppy.”
Doubting even the most hound-mad parent would name their child thus, Darcy imagined it was either a nickname or a muffled form of Peggy, Penny, or similar. He turned in a circle, searching for the party to which his friend belonged. Several children gambolled and played on the grassy stretch before him, and more children squealed at their games behind him and beyond the copse of trees to his right. Though no one seemed to be searching for a misplaced miss.
His companion had taken it upon herself to read the volume in his stead with a series of nonsense sentences as she flipped pages at random. Darcy removed her from his lap, setting her on the bench so he could judge aught of her origins. She wrinkled her nose as she again displayed her matching set of sixteen teeth. From his experience with his tenants’ children, she must be between two and three; she was steady on her feet and capable of a few short, discernible sentences, as when she told him, “I play ball ousside” (which must be a favourite pastime, because of its repetition). The fabric’s quality and the workmanship of all those ruffles told Darcy that she was a child of the gentry, or perhaps the progeny of a prosperous merchant.
Darcy was in a quandary: should he stay where he was, awaiting the child’s people to find her? Or should he look for her family, risking walking in the opposite direction of those searching for her? Resolving to enquire of those groups nearest him whilst remaining in sight of the bench, he secreted his volume into his pocket and lifted the child when she held her hands up to him. She nestled into his hold, trustingly putting her arm around his neck. She beamed at the world from her safe but lofty perch. “Wow!”
Darcy chuckled, her joy proving contagious. “Aye, little one, wow!”
With a bounce in his step, he moved towards the nearest cluster of nannies and governesses, observing their charges at play. Upon discovering that none of those playing on the grass before his bench had misplaced a little one, he circled to the left, nodding as a cluster of young ladies passed by on the walking path. At the end of this group, a voice cried, “Mr Darcy!”
Darcy stilled, as did his heart – for that loveliest of all voices had indelibly imprinted itself upon his soul.
Lady Portencross – displaying all the nature-loving radiance of Miss Elizabeth of Longbourn – approached him, adorned in a handsome tartan-trimmed walking costume.
Heeding an impulse which she chose not to examine, Lizzy stopped to speak to Mr Darcy; the curl on his forehead was more appropriate somehow as he clumsily bowed to her curtsey on account of the child in his arms. The young countess adored children. “Good morrow, sir; your companion is a darling! Is this your niece, Lady Elliot’s daughter?”
He made a silly face at his giggling armload. “Nay, my niece, Marianne, is but seven months old. This little person surprised me a quarter-hour past, desiring I share my book with her.” He motioned to the bench under the flowering tree. “I am unaware of her identity, but I am on a quest to find the quarters to which she belongs.”
The little girl giggled and, pointing to herself, said, “Puppy!”
Lady Portencross’ delight danced in the breeze, soothing a piece of Darcy’s soul he had not known was disturbed.
Lady Dashwood, better acquainted with small children, asked if the child had told him aught of her family. The girl reached out her arms for the matronly companion, who welcomed her with the assured and comforting embrace of an experienced grandmother. Soon, the girl wiggled down, insisting on walking betwixt Darcy and Lady Portencross, holding a hand of each; their little party set out again to search for her family. As they circled around the little copse to the right of the bench, a lad of near ten summers crashed through the trees, his motions frantic, his head turning to and fro.
Upon seeing a boy falling to his knees before them, the girl squealed, “Tim-mee!”, pulling free and throwing herself into the lad’s embrace.
At that moment, a fashionably dressed lady came from around the bushes and cried out in relief at the two embracing children. Picking up her skirts, she ran to them, engulfing the girl with kisses. “There you are, Poppet! My precious Poppet is safe!”
When the embrace broke, the girl pointed back to Darcy and Ladies Portencross and Dashwood. “Puppy friens!”
The lady beamed at those who had guarded her child during her adventure, “I am glad you made friends, Poppet.”
Lizzy unconsciously threaded her hand onto Mr Darcy’s elbow in trepidation over the lady’s reaction when she learned the rescuers’ identities.
The mother addressed the well-dressed trio, “I cannot thank you enough for finding my Janie! I am Mrs Williams-Kingman, of Golden-square, and this lad is my next youngest child, Timothy. I left Janie under the care of the maid whilst my husband and I strolled along the Serpentine, reminiscent of our season of courtship. When we returned, Janie was missing, and I was in a state. I am so glad she found someone safe, sir and mesdames.”
The boy, hefting his sister into his arms, came abreast of his mother. “It is my fault. I found a kitten in the tree and asked Nurse to help me catch it. When we finished, Janie was gone.”
His mother put her arm around his shoulder and kissed the top of his head. Darcy addressed the boy, “It is well that you admit your failing; it is an excellent trait of which I needed reminding earlier this year.”
Lizzy coloured for her part in Mr Darcy’s words, even as she squeezed his arm in wordless acknowledgement of his efforts after the reprimand at her coming out ball.
***********
To learn more about Lizzy and Darcy in London and on their road to love, check out Mistaken Premise on Kindle Unlimited today.
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