The Darcy Monologues Read online

  Her laughter sounded back, and then faded away as she left the alcove. I imagined her skipping away, and that smile that had threatened before broke out in full force upon my face.

  * * *

  KaraLynne Mackrory is no newbie to the writing world. She made her debut as an author at the tender age of thirteen when she wrote her first set of bad poetry. As a young adult, she steered clear of bad prose and achieved a degree in social work. Years later, she has published four Austen-inspired novels so full of romantic sensibilities as to give you a swoon and hopefully a few laughs. Her books turned out better than her poetry and are: Falling for Mr. Darcy, Bluebells in the Mourning, the IPPY award-winning Haunting Mr. Darcy, and Yours Forevermore, Darcy.

  The Beast of Pemberley

  Melanie Stanford

  “There is stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

  Miss Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy, Chapter XXXI.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a hideous face will cause a single woman to run the other way.

  This truth I had come to know intimately. In consequence, I stopped going out into society, withdrawing inside my home where no one could startle or grimace, reminding me of my ugliness.

  It was not always thus. As a boy, I was loved and spoiled by my parents. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. After my parents died, leaving me the estate at Pemberley, I hid my grief under a raised chin and haughty glare to anyone in the village who dared show an ounce of pity. I did not want their pity; I had no need. I was a man on my own, rich and handsome, the world mine for the taking.

  But I had not taken the world; it had taken me.

  “It should be a warm day today, Mr. Darcy,” my valet Cogsworth said, holding out a freshly pressed coat for me. “A walk might—”

  “No.” I yanked the coat from his grasp and shrugged it on. No matter how many times I had told him I did not need his help, Cogsworth still insisted on dressing me. I no longer cared how I looked—why bother, with such a face? At least my loose linen shirt and trousers covered the rest of the scars that etched my skin all the way to my ankles.

  I tugged on my worn leather boots and stalked from the bedchamber, my valet on my heels despite his limp, keeping up a steady stream of inspired ideas for my day. Would the man never tire of his relentless pursuit of the past? Life would not turn back to the way it was, before the wizard Wickham entered my life.

  In my study, I slumped into my favorite chair . . . breakfast and a steaming mug of hot cider set before me on a platter. Mrs. Reynolds hovered nearby, her right hand shaking from the pain of her scar.

  “Leave me!” I said to her. She was one of the few remaining servants at Pemberley. Most had fled after Wickham’s dark spell, believing if they ran far enough away from Pemberley—from me—they might escape it. The rest remained, though I was not sure why. Perhaps they thought I could somehow end their constant suffering. It surely was not because of my black moods, my temper always boiling at the surface, covering despair.

  When Wickham cast his spell, I had been on my way to meet him, not wanting the wizard to step one toe inside Pemberley’s gates. I took the brunt of the hex, the magic rolling over me like waves of fire, the pain excruciating. Inside the house, the servants were not spared. The dark magic pierced them in different locations on their bodies, leaving each with a single wound which never healed or ceased to cause agony. Cogsworth limped because his wound was on his left foot. For Mrs. Reynolds, easily the best cook in the land, her scar circled her right hand. Lumiere’s, across his neck. Plumette’s marred her cheek. No one was exempt. Lumiere had left Pemberley not long after, but he returned months later, missing home, the wound still fresh on his skin. That was how we knew that leaving did not erase the scars.

  Though the torture never ceased, we had all become accustomed to it.

  The scent of cinnamon and pastry was tempting, but instead of reaching for breakfast, I picked up my mirror. The silver frame wrought with vines and roses was what I cherished most of my mother’s.

  As a child, I had spent hours staring into the mirror, asking it to show me far off places that my parents spoke of or I had read about in books. After Wickham’s dark curse, I found no satisfaction from seeing lands I would never visit, so I put the mirror away. There was nothing else to see. No family. No friends. No one who cared what happened to me. And I certainly had no desire to watch the local villagers go about their easy and happy lives.

  But I became weary of the nothingness. Lonely. I was no longer a youth with passing fancies but a man who longed for more.

  In consequence, I had started watching through the mirror. “Show me the village square”—I would say, watching it endlessly, never expecting to come across someone like Elizabeth Bennet.

  “Show me Elizabeth.”

  The mirror flashed, and she appeared. Dark hair, curling down her back but pulled from her face, tendrils escaping in the wind. Her eyes were bright, full of intelligence and verve. She smiled, and I found my own lips itching to match her expression, until I remembered she was not smiling at me.

  Stunning. She was immensely beautiful, but not in the classical style like her sister Jane, who strolled beside her. Every few moments I caught sight of Jane’s blonde hair or the shoulder of her cloak. She was long thought the loveliest of the daughters, but she lacked the sparking light which made Elizabeth glow. At least, she glowed to me.

  “You must let me buy this for you, Jane”—Elizabeth was saying. I stared intently at the mirror, wishing I was beside her, in front of her, wishing she was speaking with me.

  “You mustn’t, Lizzy,” Jane replied, though I could not see her face. “I do not need it.”

  “Of course you do. Every woman needs a new hat to celebrate her forthcoming marriage.”

  Jane laughed. “Is that a rule, then?”

  “It should be.” Elizabeth’s gaze was drawn down to the table of wares. “How about a new pin for your cloak? Or this beautiful wooden box? You could hide things from your new husband within.”

  “I would never hide anything from Charles!”

  A secret smile stole over Elizabeth’s face. I could see it; Jane could not. “I suppose you would not. And how much less fun for you.”

  Elizabeth linked arms with her sister as they walked away. I flipped the mirror over, pushing it into my thigh, my scars, ignoring the discomfort.

  The anguish of wanting Elizabeth was worse. Wanting—and knowing I could never have her.

  * * *

  “Elizabeth, your father wishes to speak with you”—her mother was demanding now.

  Elizabeth’s creamy cheeks flushed a rosy pink. Her eyes flashed. “Yes, Mama.” Her mouth tightened with words unspoken. She walked through the Bennet house, a small stone cottage that lay on the outskirts of the village.

  I put my feet on the ottoman and relaxed into my chair, wondering what would come next, what could be vexing this young lady so greatly.

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “Sit down, my child,” a graying man in spectacles answered.

  The mirror followed the motion as she perched on the edge of a chair. Her hands clasped tightly in her lap. I had learned that the scene in the mirror would move with my thoughts. Though I had to voice what I sought, once my desire was in view, the scene would widen or magnify at my unspoken wish. I took much pleasure in admiring the entirety of Elizabeth’s person, the arch of her graceful neck, the roundness of her curves . . .

  “Your mother has insisted I speak with you”—Mr. Bennet was saying.

  Elizabeth’s hands twisted in her lap.

  “You know what this is about.”

  It was not a question, but Elizabeth answered, “I do, Father.”

  “Mrs. Bennet insists that you marry Mr. Collins.”

  My body jerked upright. Marry? No, not my Elizabeth. And not to someone as odious as Mr.
Collins.

  Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I cannot marry him. I will not.”

  Though I could not see Mr. Bennet, I heard him sigh. “Very well then.”

  A clatter echoed from the mirror. “You must! You must marry him, Lizzy.”

  “I will not, Mama.”

  “He inherits Longbourn when your father is gone, and he will throw us all out of the house. You must marry him!” Her mother’s voice sounded like a bird screeching through the forest.

  Elizabeth remained firm. “No.”

  “Think of the money, Lizzy. We need the money that he will bring to the family. Jane’s marriage is one of love. You may not get such an offer yourself. Marry him so that we might be solvent again.”

  There was a pause. I gripped the handle of the mirror.

  “I am sorry, but I cannot. Mr. Collins is an odious toad of a man.” Elizabeth’s voice started to rise with her passion. “He never listens when I speak. He cares nothing for my thoughts or opinions. He thinks me, nay—all women—beneath him. I will never marry such a man!”

  Elizabeth fled the room. Mrs. Bennet’s voice followed her, shrieking of duty and money and how they would all end up in the hedgerows.

  Thoughts whirling, I set the mirror down, Mrs. Bennet’s voice dying away.

  While it was obvious the Bennets were not rich, I had not known they were in such financial difficulty that they feared losing their home.

  Thank heaven she had not agreed to marry Collins. He was everything she said and worse. Though he was a prominent member of the village, he would never make Elizabeth happy.

  But I could try. And I could make their family solvent.

  Elizabeth had no other suitors.

  My hands began to shake. I could do it. I could be the one. I loved her. I would value her. Was not that enough?

  If the family needed money, Elizabeth would need to make a good match, and with the village sorely lacking in financially independent gentlemen . . .

  I rubbed at my face; the friction caused my scars to burn. I looked at my hands, the angry red lines snaking into my sleeves. She would not have me. A woman’s prejudice against such an unsightly beast would never consider me.

  Unless . . .

  * * *

  Cogsworth had delivered my letters. I had informed the servants. Pemberley was spotless from top to bottom. Even the grounds had been trimmed and the recent fallen snow brushed from the paths.

  I toyed with the mirror, my confidence in my plan waning. Elizabeth would not want this. How could she? She did not know me. The letter I sent to her parents would be enough to convince them, of that I was sure. But no matter how hard I tried to make my case in my letter to her . . . despite my eloquence, I feared she would not come. Yet, I knew her parents could force her, which would bring her wrath.

  I loved her, and I would make her love Pemberley.

  “Show me Elizabeth.”

  The mirror flashed and she was there. Crying.

  Regret filled my heart, the kind that could not be ignored.

  “Please, Papa,” she said between sobs. “You know what the townsfolk say about Mr. Darcy. About Pemberley. Don’t make me do this.” An arm was around her shoulders, and as the mirror drew back, Jane came into view. My letter was crumpled on her lap.

  “Please, Elizabeth.” Her father’s voice cracked. “Mr. Collins was angry at your refusal. He assumed some of my debts, and now they are being called in. I have no way to pay them. He will turn us out for certain.”

  Her watery eyes rose to meet her sister’s. “Jane?”

  “Mr. Darcy spoke well,” she replied, and hope surged within me. “There was nothing improper in his proposal. Indeed, his letter shows a tenderness of feeling. It is a great compliment to you, not to mention the relief it would bring for Mama and Papa.” Bless her! “But I know you, Lizzy. You will be sacrificing your happiness for that of your family.”

  “How can I do this?”

  “I cannot force you.”

  “Unlike my parents,” she said bitterly.

  “We are not—” Her father started, but Elizabeth would not allow him to finish.

  “Don’t, Papa.” She rose from the chair. “I will marry him because I must. Let us not pretend I have a choice in the matter.”

  My heart both lifted and fell at the same time. She did not want to come. Of course, she would not want to come.

  But she was coming.

  * * *

  I stood at the altar, stiff and upright. Tense. Anxious. Nervous. Excitement overpowering the throbbing from my scars. The clergyman in front of me avoided my face. I had a mask on, but still he would not look at me. The elaborately knotted cravat that Cogsworth insisted upon for my wedding day felt tight, and I tugged at it.

  The chapel on Pemberley’s estate had been unused since my mother died but had been aired and thoroughly cleaned. Cogsworth had helped me into my wedding coat, and I fitted the mask over my face myself, the stiff black leather covering everything but my eyes and mouth. I only glanced in the mirror to make sure it was straight, but that was enough for the flash of anger and self-loathing to tumble through me. Handsome no longer. But better the mask than the scars.

  The doors opened, and a sharp wind blew in, piercing the stillness. I turned . . . and there she was.

  Enchanting.

  Alone—because I made it so. And brave. I did not want anyone else gawking at the man in the mask with scars snaking from his coat sleeves.

  Her gown was white lace adorned with flowers. The bodice was tight, enhancing the swell of her breasts, a golden cross resting on her neck. The skirt fanned out, lightly brushing the floor as she walked. Her hair was arranged with baby’s breath and coiled into a floral crown. She carried a bouquet of borage and dahlias in her hands. For courage and dignity?

  Her slippered feet barely made a sound as she made her way down the short aisle—leaving silence in its wake. The only guests in the pews were my servants. She would not look at me.

  I could not take my eyes off her. The parson spoke, but I heard nothing. She stared blankly ahead when she recited the words betrothing herself to me. I wondered how she could say the words she so evidently could not mean. Even when she was forced to face me as the marriage ribbon was tied around our hands, she would not meet my eyes. Her hand was warm in mine, soft against my scars. Yet, she did not flinch at the sight, and I adored her even more for that.

  The ceremony ended. My servants rose with a smattering of applause. Elizabeth yanked her hand from mine, the ribbon stinging against my wrist, and she fled the chapel.

  “Attend her,” I murmured to Mrs. Reynolds.

  The servants left, and I was alone.

  Married.

  * * *

  There would be no wedding night, not that I had been expecting such things. I knew it would take time for her to come to me. I would not force anything more of her today.

  “This way, madam,” Mrs. Reynolds said to Elizabeth.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Of course. Mr. Darcy would not want you to starve.”

  Staying in the shadows, I followed Elizabeth and Mrs. Reynolds. Torches lit the corridor, but there were plenty of shadows for me to disappear into.

  “We are so happy to have you here, madam,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

  Elizabeth’s shoulders were up near her ears, but at the words, she relaxed. A little. “Please, call me Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Or Lizzy . . .” She stopped. I pressed against the wall, peering from beneath my hooded cloak. “No . . . I cannot . . .”

  Mrs. Reynolds turned to her. “Madam?” She reached out, her hand shaking. “Mrs. Darcy?”

  “I am sorry, I meant . . . I cannot imagine . . . This cannot be my life now.”

  Mrs. Reynolds patted her on the shoulder—awkwardly—as if she had not touched another soul in a long time. “It will get better. You’ll see.”

  Elizabeth made a very unladylike sound. I smiled.r />
  They continued down the hall. I waited a moment and then followed.

  “How long have you been in the household?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Since I was but a girl. The late Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were the very best. And Mr. Darcy is just like them. He is the best landlord and the best master that ever lived. Some people call him . . . well, I think it only because he must keep himself shuttered up here at Pemberley now—”

  “Things change,” Elizabeth said bitterly. It was like an icicle to the heart.

  “Do not judge him too harshly, madam. He’s been touched by . . . overwhelming sadness . . . and too many changes.”

  I stiffened at her words.

  “How did his parents die?” Elizabeth asked, trailing one hand along the wall as she walked.

  “An illness took the elder Mr. Darcy first. Mrs. Darcy was a great sorceress, and she spent months searching for a cure among the magical arts, but eventually she fell ill as well. There was no hope for either of them.”

  Elizabeth whipped her head to look at Mrs. Reynolds. “She was a sorceress?”

  “Yes. Many students came to Pemberley to learn from her. One . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Mrs. Reynolds waved her hand. “Never mind. I am surprised you did not know.”

  “There are rumors of course,” Elizabeth said, her voice lowering. I moved closer. “Many of them so fanciful, I dare not . . . Does my new master have power? Is that why he hides himself? But then, why would he seek me for a wife?”

  Mrs. Reynolds shook her head quickly.

  “Does he want me for . . . some spell? Is that why I’m here? A virgin bride. I have read books, you know. Is he evil?”

  “Oh, tosh, he’s not evil. Hunger has you speaking nonsense. Let’s get you to the family dining room.”

  They disappeared down the staircase, Elizabeth continuing to pepper Mrs. Reynolds with questions about me, but I stayed above.