It’s that time of year — autumn. Why the end of summer always feels like the promise of a new beginning for me is anybody’s guess. I love the season the most, especially when I have a new release.
When I shared an early cover mock-up on my YouTube channel, I asked my community what kind of story they thought it promised. Here is the result:
I would say there are strong elements of both top choices in this story.
But what of the title? For the longest time, the working title was Mrs. Darcy’s Favorite Wish. I was well into the middle of the story when Unspoken took root. Indeed, I even shared a first look sampler of the work-in-progress with that title. It was only at the end that I decided upon Hearts Unspoken.
What’s a new story without a tagline, tight? Here’s what I came up with: Hearts Unspoken: Mr. Darcy & Elizabeth — the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning
And here is an excerpt from Chapter 1. Happy reading!
Derbyshire, England – Spring, 1812
“I am a long way from Hertfordshire…”
Miss Elizabeth Bennet sat on the edge of her seat, her gloved hands beside her atop the plush cushion, as the carriage took her from Lambton to Pemberley. The gloves had once belonged to her eldest sister, a small reminder of the life she had lived and the sense of dignity she meant to preserve in the days ahead. This was the start of a new life, no longer that of a gently bred young lady, but rather that of a paid companion to a wealthy young woman scarcely older than herself. Her spirits were all aflutter.
The park stretched farther than Elizabeth could see—the carriage winding through its lowest entrance where a stream cut beneath the road. Tall, magnificent oak trees gave way to slender birches and a pond. A herd of deer grazed nearby. Elizabeth admired every remarkable view.
Never have I encountered a place where nature has been more generous or where natural beauty has been so little counteracted by an awkward taste, she considered.
The stately carriage climbed gradually for half a mile before reaching the top of a significant hill, where the forest ended. Elizabeth leaned forward, pressing her hand against the window. Pemberley House stood across the valley, commanding attention against the backdrop of wooded hills. Sunlight caught the stone, warming its facade. In front of it, a river flowed—substantial, natural in appearance, and without any artificial enhancements. Its banks were neither overly manicured nor artificially adorned. Her eyes traced the simple, elegant lines of the house, noting how it seemed to belong precisely where it sat, neither imposing upon the landscape nor diminished by it. She sat back slowly, nodding once to herself.
“To be mistress of such a place must surely be something,” she could not help but utter aloud as the reality of her situation would not be repressed.
Elizabeth reminded herself she was embarking on a life of service, although one that bore a genteel distinction. To be a paid companion—rather than a governess or lady’s maid—offered its own kind of dignity. She would answer directly to the mistress, not the housekeeper, and that alone gave the position a certain elevation.
What that distinction meant in practice, however, would soon become painfully clear.
In the ensuing months, Elizabeth came to understand how little she had grasped about her new situation. Had she known the true state of Mrs. Darcy’s health, she might have hesitated before accepting the position. The bad days were far exceeding the good days of late, and the manor house was uncommonly still, as if Pemberley itself maintained a vigil over its mistress. For three weeks Mrs. Darcy had remained in bed suffering an ailment that defied all the physician’s remedies.
She should never have lingered outside the partially opened door of Mr. Darcy’s study one particular day. Her mounting concern over his well-being held her firmly in place.
It would not do to be caught lingering in such a state. What would the servants, and most importantly the housekeeper, think? Elizabeth was about to continue on her way, but a faint sound stopped her. Against her better judgment, she eased closer to the door. Holding her breath to still her racing heartbeat, she slowly pushed it open and peeked inside for she was far too curious a creature to do otherwise.
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in a chair by the window. He held what appeared to be a miniature in his hand. His thumb swept longingly across its surface.
“Rosalie,” he whispered. The single word carried such a mix of tenderness and despair that the impropriety of her bearing witness to it struck Elizabeth most acutely.
She had never seen the master thus—his proud shoulders bent, his composure undone. He usually presented himself with perfect dignity—authoritative, assured and always in command, his features schooled to betray nothing of the anxiety he surely felt for his wife. But here, believing he was unobserved, the careful mask had fallen away.
As Elizabeth watched, she could not but discern this was not merely the concern of a gentleman for his ailing spouse. What she was witnessing, she likened to a devotion she had not credited him with possessing.
In that moment, Elizabeth understood that beneath Mr. Darcy’s reserved demeanor and formal address lay a heart capable of profound attachment. And she realized too that for all the grandeur of Pemberley, for all the servants who attended his every need, Mr. Darcy was utterly alone in his suffering.
How unsettling she found this realization. She stepped back, her movements measured, and continued on, the image of his solitary figure etched into her memory.
That night, Elizabeth tossed from side to side in her bed. Mr. Darcy’s face appeared whenever she closed her eyes—not just his anguish, which had moved her, but the raw intimacy of it, which she had no right to witness. She pulled the pillow over her head, as if to quell the nagging thought that she had glimpsed something in him that stirred her in ways a proper companion to his wife should never feel.
Despite being in service at Pemberley all this time, she realized how little she knew of the master and mistress beyond the boundaries of her position.
What manner of love must he harbor for his wife that would render so composed a gentleman so vulnerable?
Would you like to read more? My recently released book bundle, Rational Exuberance, includes an extended preview.
Rational Exuberance is available exclusively on Amazon and can be read for free with Kindle Unlimited.
Coming Soon!
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