Read Online The Plight of the Darcy Brothers by Marsha Altman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marsha Altman
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from her accent, and spoke little to them.
Darcy went to the room he wanted to visit: a bedroom with a small bed, a desk, and a chest of drawers. He immediately sat down at the desk, opened its drawers, and began sifting through the contents.
“This is where you stayed?” Elizabeth said. With the lavish way Darcy lived at Pemberley, she could not imagine him living in such a cramped apartment. Clearly the d'Arcy family had come up in the world by moving to England and marrying into families there like the Fitzwilliams.
“Yes. At the time, Thomas—the Colonel—and I believe her is name is Arlette—were newly married, and he had been released from the army because of a nobly won wound. Because her family was here and he liked the country, he decided to settle down; the house was let by whatever local person hadcontrol of it. I was here only a short while. I believe my father would stay here sometimes on business. See, here are some papers of his.” He pulled a sheet out and lit the candle next to it. “Some letter about shipping prices to the senior Mr. Wickham.”
Left to her own devices, Elizabeth began opening the drawers. They were mainly filled with clothing, laundered but unused for some time. A layer of dust was in the room, but nothing too bad. The third drawer, however, was entirely different. “Darcy!”
He looked up from his papers and joined her. “Look at that.”
It was a vast collection of various personal artifacts, hastily stuffed into the drawer. She picked up one of the many small portraits. “Is this you? As a child?”
“It seems so. Not a very good likeness, though.”
“Yes, the nose is off. Or you've changed, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” He scooped another one out. “I believe this is… Mrs. Isabella Wickham.”
“Did you know her?”
“No, but I've seen her in portrait. She died when I was too small to remember her.” He put it aside. “And Mr. Wickham. Our Mr. Wickham.” For it did look like George, but as a little boy. “Yes, definitely him.” He put it away with distaste.
“This one?” she said, holding up yet another, slightly larger one of a bejeweled woman.
“My mother.” He took that one out of the drawer and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat.
There were other things in the drawer, too, including a lot of jewelry. “Would you like it?” Darcy said to his wife.
“Oh, I have so much already,” Elizabeth said. “And I feel as though we are looting the place.”
“Hardly. These are my father's possessions, or a relative's.They don't belong to Colonel Audley, certainly.” He plucked one up that interested him, a gold bracelet with an inscription. “'To my darling Anne.'”
“For your mother.”
“Yes. Either he never had a chance to give it to her, or he took it around with him after she died and left it here for whatever reason.” This, he took out of the drawer and also put in his waistcoat. “If you see anything you like… I doubt we will be back here. We should take at least some if it.” He returned to the desk and opened up the drawer on the left, which was full of files and papers. He pulled one out at random. “Oh God.”
“What?”
“'My dearest'—I think this is a love letter my mother wrote to my father.” He stashed it away as if it was on fire and would burn him. Elizabeth laughed at the spectacle. “What? Would you like to read letters your father might have written while courting Mrs. Bennet?”
“No! What an awful idea!”
“Exactly.”
He returned to his scouring and she to the drawer. The items in it were all very lovely, but she could not imagine taking them, at least not the ones not clearly marked as belonging to his parents or relatives. She picked up the portrait of the young Darcy again and flipped it over. Upon closer inspection, she noticed a name scribbled hastily on the wooden back—and it was not Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She slipped it into the pocket of her coat without a word.
“Here it is,” her
Darcy went to the room he wanted to visit: a bedroom with a small bed, a desk, and a chest of drawers. He immediately sat down at the desk, opened its drawers, and began sifting through the contents.
“This is where you stayed?” Elizabeth said. With the lavish way Darcy lived at Pemberley, she could not imagine him living in such a cramped apartment. Clearly the d'Arcy family had come up in the world by moving to England and marrying into families there like the Fitzwilliams.
“Yes. At the time, Thomas—the Colonel—and I believe her is name is Arlette—were newly married, and he had been released from the army because of a nobly won wound. Because her family was here and he liked the country, he decided to settle down; the house was let by whatever local person hadcontrol of it. I was here only a short while. I believe my father would stay here sometimes on business. See, here are some papers of his.” He pulled a sheet out and lit the candle next to it. “Some letter about shipping prices to the senior Mr. Wickham.”
Left to her own devices, Elizabeth began opening the drawers. They were mainly filled with clothing, laundered but unused for some time. A layer of dust was in the room, but nothing too bad. The third drawer, however, was entirely different. “Darcy!”
He looked up from his papers and joined her. “Look at that.”
It was a vast collection of various personal artifacts, hastily stuffed into the drawer. She picked up one of the many small portraits. “Is this you? As a child?”
“It seems so. Not a very good likeness, though.”
“Yes, the nose is off. Or you've changed, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” He scooped another one out. “I believe this is… Mrs. Isabella Wickham.”
“Did you know her?”
“No, but I've seen her in portrait. She died when I was too small to remember her.” He put it aside. “And Mr. Wickham. Our Mr. Wickham.” For it did look like George, but as a little boy. “Yes, definitely him.” He put it away with distaste.
“This one?” she said, holding up yet another, slightly larger one of a bejeweled woman.
“My mother.” He took that one out of the drawer and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat.
There were other things in the drawer, too, including a lot of jewelry. “Would you like it?” Darcy said to his wife.
“Oh, I have so much already,” Elizabeth said. “And I feel as though we are looting the place.”
“Hardly. These are my father's possessions, or a relative's.They don't belong to Colonel Audley, certainly.” He plucked one up that interested him, a gold bracelet with an inscription. “'To my darling Anne.'”
“For your mother.”
“Yes. Either he never had a chance to give it to her, or he took it around with him after she died and left it here for whatever reason.” This, he took out of the drawer and also put in his waistcoat. “If you see anything you like… I doubt we will be back here. We should take at least some if it.” He returned to the desk and opened up the drawer on the left, which was full of files and papers. He pulled one out at random. “Oh God.”
“What?”
“'My dearest'—I think this is a love letter my mother wrote to my father.” He stashed it away as if it was on fire and would burn him. Elizabeth laughed at the spectacle. “What? Would you like to read letters your father might have written while courting Mrs. Bennet?”
“No! What an awful idea!”
“Exactly.”
He returned to his scouring and she to the drawer. The items in it were all very lovely, but she could not imagine taking them, at least not the ones not clearly marked as belonging to his parents or relatives. She picked up the portrait of the young Darcy again and flipped it over. Upon closer inspection, she noticed a name scribbled hastily on the wooden back—and it was not Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She slipped it into the pocket of her coat without a word.
“Here it is,” her
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