A Fine Stout Love and Other Stories Read online

  A Fine Stout Love

  and other stories

  Renée Beyea

  Pride & Prejudice Petite Tales

  Volume 1

  Copyright © 2015 by Renée Beyea

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Published by Oakham Press

  an imprint of Renée Beyea

  www.reneebeyea.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are inspired by Jane Austen or are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover photos from Novel Expression and Shutterstock

  Cover Design by Roseanna White Designs

  Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  A Fine Stout Love and Other Stories/ Renée Beyea. — 1st ed.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944224-00-4 Paperback

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944224-01-1 Kindle

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944224-02-8 EPUB

  Version: 151222K

  In Loving Memory

  Karisa L. Bennett

  sister of my heart,

  true friend and

  incurable romantic

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  CONCEPTION

  WORDS IN THE WIND

  EPILOGUE

  EXTRACTS from Darcy’s Journal

  A FINE STOUT LOVE or The Efficacy of Poetry

  ELIZABETH’S ACCOUNT

  DARCY’S VERSION

  NEITHER SLUMBER NOR SLEEP

  PRELUDE

  FUGUE

  FINALE

  GOLD, ALL GOLD

  EDEN UNASHAMED

  PART I

  PART II

  PART III

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  COMING WINTER 2016

  PREFACE

  A word about organization…

  The stories in this collection are organized for suggested reading pleasure. However, they are not sequential and may be read in any order. The afterword includes a sentence synopsis of each as well as insight into their inspiration. Fine-print notations near the title headings orient each story within the chronology of Pride & Prejudice. From these points of departure, Darcy and Elizabeth take fanciful (and sometimes fantastical) alternate paths to their happy ending.

  These Regency shorts presuppose fluency with the characters and plot of Pride & Prejudice. For any readers unacquainted with the original, I strongly recommend first reading Jane Austen’s classic novel (free e-book and in print at local libraries) or, at the very least, viewing one of several movie adaptations. Doing so will greatly enhance understanding and enjoyment of this collection.

  A word about short stories…

  In Vienna, not far from the Stephansdom with its spectacular chevron roof, resides an apartment once denominated Figarohaus. I wandered through the rooms and imagined life for Mozart’s family, but these many years later, what I recall best was my initial exposure to a chamber concert. A few talented musicians produced the most delightful music. I was enchanted.

  If a novel is composed for a symphony orchestra, then short stories must be arranged for a chamber ensemble—neither so long nor so complex, but no less beautiful or moving. And with that, dear reader, I invite you to liberate your imagination and lose yourself in the whimsy and intimacy of a little chamber music—or as it is sometimes described, a conversation among friends.

  Renée Beyea

  Del Rio, Texas

  {commemorating Pride & Prejudice}

  CONCEPTION

  She whirled past so quick it seemed

  A flash of light, a whispered dream—

  A rush of skirts, of skipping feet,

  Of dark, bright eyes and laughter sweet.

  Yet from my hand she twirled away,

  And how I laughed to see her play!

  What joy, what goodness she would bring;

  I could not wait to hear her sing.

  Pursued until her cheeks grew pink,

  I captured her in ageless ink,

  And from the page she smiled at me

  With one brow arched so charmingly.

  Then came in twos and threes and tens,

  The relatives, militia, friends,

  To sing her song all were agreed.

  Just one more person did I need—

  I felt his eyes where day meets night,

  By shadows hid at edge of sight.

  Oh, how I coaxed, cajoled and teased,

  But he was firm, would not be pleased—

  At least until he heard her voice;

  Her sparkling wit gainsaid his choice.

  Then out he came, his posture straight,

  With noble brow and regal gait.

  So tall, so handsome and so proud,

  He strode to her and stately bowed.

  She curtseyed but his hand refused.

  I watched, enraptured and amused.

  Too late he found I’d bound his will

  And held him fast beneath my quill.

  He frowned, he glared; I saw my chance,

  Arranged my lines to lead their dance.

  And dancing still, they’re fixed in time,

  Their lives reformed, their hearts entwined.

  Thus might have sprung from fertile thought

  The story that Jane Austen wrought.

  {Saturday before the Netherfield ball}

  WORDS IN THE WIND

  “Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.”

  Pride & Prejudice, Volume I, Chapter 12

  “Lizzy,” the hushed voice urged, “Lizzy, please wake.”

  Rousing herself was like climbing a steep hill. Elizabeth rolled toward her bed companion. “What is it?”

  “Someone is in our room.” Jane’s voice trembled.

  “You have only been dreaming again.” Elizabeth found her sister’s shaking hand where she gripped the cover’s edge. “Go back to sleep.”

  “No, I am certain this time. Over there,” Jane’s fingers were barely discernible pointing toward the door, “I saw a cloaked figure and heard the swish of fabric.”

  Elizabeth sighed. Trying to reason with her sister in this state would only upset her further. Instead, she sat up, swung her feet to the floor, and fumbled for the low-burning taper to light her bedside candle. Ominous shadows towered against the walls.

  “See?” She turned back to Jane. “No one.”

  Jane was peering about, the bedclothes held tight beneath her chin, her eyes wide and troubled.

  Elizabeth smiled and shook her head as she crossed to the door. “You only mistook my cloak for an intruder.” She extended the limp folds. “Nothing is lurking within it, save my reticule, I assure you.”

  “I am sorry to disturb you.” Jane exhaled a long breath. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth gazed at her, pricked with guilt that her sweet sister should be haunted by frightening dreams. She returned to the bed, extinguished the candle and slipped under the quilt, grateful to escape the autumn chill.

  “I should be the one asking you to forgive me,” Elizabeth said.

  “Whatever for?”


  “For reading Radcliffe to you before we retired.”

  “But her stories bring you such amusement.”

  “Only you would forfeit your rest for my amusement.”

  “Your laughter makes me happy.”

  “And your peaceful slumber makes me happy.”

  “I will make every effort not to wake you in the future,” Jane said.

  “No, no, you must not think you are to blame.” Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand. “I only meant no more gothic novels at night.”

  A tree limb’s tip rapped like fingers on the glass.

  “Her novels are horrid, you know,” Jane said.

  “As they are intended to be.” Elizabeth laughed lightly. “Please do not be ashamed of your sensibilities. It is only because you are goodness itself and have the tenderest heart.”

  They bade each other pleasant dreams, and Jane began to recite a familiar, comforting psalm under her breath.

  Elizabeth listened until sleep silenced her sister, and then the night sounds stirred her imagination. Branches scraped the window panes like ghoulish claws seeking entry. The wind keened at the casements and hurled itself against the walls. She laughed to herself. Who needed Radcliffe anyway?

  Heavy clouds still obstructed the moon, but at least the interminable rain had ceased and the wind would make for a drier walk come morning.

  *****

  The sun had not yet risen when Elizabeth woke. Good. She did not oversleep. She eased from the mattress, not wanting to wake her sister, and went about her morning preparations with practiced efficiency. She pulled on long woolen stockings, her warmest day dress, and over that a thick pelisse. She made a hasty toilette, patting her face with cold water and pinning her hair by touch alone. Darkness shrouded her reflection, but she dared not light a candle. Not that it mattered, since she was unlikely to meet anyone on her errand.

  At the door, she settled the cloak that troubled Jane in the night about her shoulders, fastened the frog clasps across her bosom, and slid her reticule onto her elbow. Her walking boots she hoisted in one hand. Better to transit the house in the stealth of stocking feet. Neither sisters nor servants would raise an eyebrow at her pre-dawn departure, but she did want to avoid Mr. Collins. He might find it necessary to chaperone her into Meryton.

  She eased the door open and then closed it behind her, willing the hinges not to squeak. She stood in the darkened hall, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Several doors rattled and rasped, and the ceiling grumbled overhead. Longbourn House creaked and moaned like an arthritic grandmother, but it was only the servants moving about and the wind probing for entrance. She crept down the right side of the staircase, hugging the wall and avoiding the steps that groaned.

  On the ground floor, Elizabeth lit a candle and descended yet further. The stillroom door yawned, a black maw waiting to devour her—until her light cast the swags of drying vegetation in relief. Their shadows might have been a cave bristling with stalactites or talons in a dragon’s lair. She giggled. With quick, deft movements, she began to form two posies from the dried flowers racked above her. She reached for a spray of lavender, inhaling its clean, pungent aroma, and a white scrap of paper drifted to the work table. She snatched it and read,

  III. How I should like to plumb the depths of your mind and mine the treasures of your soul.

  How very odd. Who had written it and for whom? And why the numeral three? But she did not have time to puzzle it out and slipped it into her reticule. The posies finished, she bound them in a cloth to shield them from the wind.

  One more stop to make.

  In the kitchen, Cook shook her head as she placed a cup of tea and a hot roll before Elizabeth.

  “I hope you wrapped up good, Miss Lizzy. ‘Tis bitter out this morning.”

  “Thank you, Cook,” she said around a savory mouthful. She swallowed. “I shall be warmed from the inside out.”

  “Go on with you now.” Cook turned back to her baking, but Elizabeth did not miss the smile that creased her face.

  At the front door, Elizabeth stepped into one boot and then the other. A crinkling sound made her wrench her toes back. She overturned her boot and shook it, but nothing fell out. She reached in gingerly and withdrew another small piece of paper. This one said,

  II. You are beauty and elegance, wit and mirth, goodness and compassion united.

  Elizabeth resisted rolling her eyes and stuffed the paper into her reticule with the first. Someone was playing games with her. Lydia would be the most likely to think it a fine joke, but she would never have spared the effort. Perhaps she had put Kitty up to it. They might have copied the sentences from the novel over which they had been tittering. With the rain confining them to the house and their spirits high in eagerness for Netherfield’s ball, it was no wonder if they forged their own entertainment.

  She tied her boots, straightened, and secured her bonnet before pulling up the hood of her cloak. She donned one tight glove and was wrestling with the other, except the third finger would not cooperate. She pulled and pushed, and in exasperation turned it nearly inside out, only to find a tightly rolled cylinder of paper gleaming from where her finger ought to have been. This was really too much, but she unrolled it all the same.

  IV. In you, there is nothing wanting.

  Elizabeth smirked. That could not be true of anyone—except possibly Jane. She supposed Kitty and Lydia meant to tease her about her partiality for Wickham, but what if another had stumbled on the papers among her things? That might have necessitated a difficult explanation. Her sisters were taking it a bit far. Yet again, she would have to speak with them about the impropriety of their behavior, not that it would have much effect.

  Finally, she was out the door and traversing the gravel drive. The wind grabbed her cloak and blew it behind her. She wrestled it back into compliance and clutched both sides tight. Cook was correct. Not only was the day bitter, it was blustery. She examined the low, grey sky. The clouds looked pregnant, but the ground was fairly dry. An umbrella would be useless in the wind. Surely she could make it to Meryton and back before the rain resumed. Her errand there would only take a few minutes. She need not linger.

  Thus decided, she hurried down the drive and turned onto the road, treading the firmer edge and staying out of the muddy ruts. The wind whistled in the branches and rattled the drying leaves. She had the uneasy sensation of being watched. Twice she turned to see if she were being followed, but without the sun to illumine the distance, the empty road only disappeared into the gloom.

  When a cart coming from town approached, Elizabeth stepped aside to wait near the entrance to Whitley Farm and avoid a splattering from the wheels. She exchanged a friendly wave with the driver and moved to resume her course, but a bizarre sight arrested her. A paper strip flapped where it was suspended high in the hedge. She set the posies aside and stood on tiptoe to retrieve it. Indeed, it was just the size of the others she had found, except this one was caught in a spider’s web. That eliminated her sisters as suspects. Though the moisture had caused the ink to run somewhat, she was able to read,

  V. I would love you as you are worthy of being loved, with all the faithfulness and generosity, nobility and sacrifice of which man is capable.

  This was a noble sentiment indeed and, joined with the three which had preceded it, incited her heart to a momentary flutter. Who could the author be? The only man of her acquaintance whom she could envision making such a declaration was Wickham. Perhaps he had connived with her sisters to secret the other papers at Longbourn. But a spider’s web did not seem a prudent hiding place at all. If she had not stopped for the cart at that precise location, she would have missed it.

  Elizabeth perused the paper again before tucking it in her reticule and reclaiming her packet of posies. She could not approve the method, of course, but she was flattered. The words were a trifle studied and lacked his easy charm, yet what woman would not wish to be loved in such a way?

  Thoughts whirling, sh
e gazed past Whitley’s barn. Movement in the periphery of her vision drew her attention to the barn door as it opened and a figure emerged. He was not ten yards distant, and even in the low light, she recognized him at once. He must have been attempting to conceal himself after securing the paper to the web. For a moment, Elizabeth thought to pass by before he saw her, but then their eyes met and she waved.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wickham,” she called.

  “Why, Miss Bennet!” He hastened toward her and exchanged a bow for her curtsey. “How unexpected to see you about so early on this fine morning.”

  “Fine is doubtful,” she said, glancing at the leaden skies with a smile, “but surely you cannot mean my presence is wholly unexpected.” How else would he have known where to hide the paper, if her sisters had not informed him of her route?

  He looked bemused and glanced back at the barn. “Unexpected does not necessarily imply unwelcome.”

  “I should hope not.” The teasing lilt in her voice recalled his attention, and she blushed under his gaze.

  His eyes drifted again. He cleared his throat. “If you are on your way to Meryton, may I offer escort?”

  “Thank you,” she said but did not accept his arm. She could hardly broach a topic suspended between them as delicately as that gossamer web, yet she must make some acknowledgement.

  “Miss Bennet,” he prompted with some impatience, “let us away.”

  Once they commenced strolling side by side, she said, “I have stumbled on quite the mystery this morning.”

  “Have you?” His look of alarm was swiftly surmounted by a smile. “I should like to know more.”

  “First, I was hoping you might hint as to the location of numeral one as well as to how many I am to expect.”