Page 1

Jane Austen

Chapter 1

The golden glow from the flickering candlelight in the room otherwise filled with darkness aroused Elizabeth from her light slumber and caused her to bolt upright in bed. She was no longer alone.

She drew her linen nightgown over her shoulder—too late, she supposed, for the intruder could not have missed catching a healthy glimpse of her breast. All too conscious that the gentleman’s gaze lingered on her partly revealed bosom, she folded her arm over her chest.

Elizabeth suspected, rather than knew, she was in no real danger from the stranger who stood beside her bed, holding a candle in his right hand, allowing a view of his face. There was something pleasant about his countenance, albeit undoubtedly questioning, that gave an indication of his goodness.

Silent teardrops had accompanied Elizabeth to sleep at some point that night, the evidence of which lingered on her cheeks. Lifting a hand to her face, she wiped away any remaining traces.

“Sir?” Elizabeth exclaimed, more startled than frightened by his presence.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he uttered, his voice heavy with contrition. “I was led to believe this room was unoccupied.”

Her eyes now somewhat accustomed to the dimness in the room, Elizabeth discerned just how handsome this man was. What a sight to behold during the late-night hour.

Is not the most beautiful man my eyes have ever beheld standing before me or is this merely a dream?

Try as she might, her attempt to ignore his increasingly aroused state proved futile. Oddly enough, his discomfort fascinated her. Nevertheless, modesty needed to exceed impertinence. Divert her eyes, she must.

“No, sir,” Elizabeth heard herself say. “It is not.”

By way of an apology, the gentleman held up his hand. “Pray, go back to sleep. I shall find someplace else to retire for the night.”

“No, sir. That is to say, I am familiar with the house. I shall seek sleeping accommodations elsewhere.”

“I would not have you wandering these empty halls in search of another place to rest your head merely because I arrived late in the night after the household retired.”

“No,” said Elizabeth, “I insist.” Satisfied her gown was intact, she tossed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed, mere inches from where he stood.

Elizabeth supposed the tall, handsome stranger was the friend whom her brother-in-law had been expecting to see all that day, a Mr. Darcy from Derbyshire. Finally, her brother reasoned he had been mistaken about the precise day of his friend’s arrival.

An amiable young man, Charles Bingley was not the most fastidious person whom she knew. But how he loved her eldest sister, Jane. That alone had been sufficient to assure his place in Elizabeth’s good graces.

Jane and Bingley were perfect for each other. They were so much alike in temperament. Most notably, they made each other happy.

If only Elizabeth might stand a chance to know such happiness. She knew she never would, although she too had married — a young gentleman whose name was Mr. John Tilman.

Her purpose in agreeing to wed Mr. Tilman, a distant cousin and the heir to her father’s estate, had been altruistic, indeed, for she had acted on behalf of her mother and her unwed younger sisters.

That and a deathbed promise to her dear father, Mr. Thomas Bennet, to do everything in her power to see an end to the entail of his beloved home, Longbourn Village, away from his immediate descendants. Truth be told, Elizabeth loved Longbourn as much as, if not more than, her late father had. Her sentiments were the result of Longbourn being the only home she had ever known and the source of all of her earliest as well as her fondest memories. She really could not imagine life on Earth were her connection to Longbourn severed because of her father’s death.

Although her elder sister, Jane, had married Mr. Bingley, a young man who had arrived in Hertfordshire a few months before their nuptials and who had let the neighboring estate, Netherfield Park, Elizabeth had willingly taken on the task of saving her family.

She could not, in good conscience, allow her sister’s new husband to take on the heavy burden of providing for a nervous mother-in-law and four unwed sisters-in-law, not when all her family’s woes were just as conveniently solved by her marrying the heir to her father’s estate. Elizabeth really considered marrying her cousin as more of a duty than a sacrifice, for she would have done anything to secure her beloved Longbourn. Anything, including marrying a man whom she barely knew. Although, Mr. Tilman had not been a complete stranger to her family. By virtue of his being Longbourn’s heir, he had extended an olive branch to his Bennet relations so soon as he became of age.

Besides, Netherfield Park, despite all its grandeur, was not Longbourn Village. Elizabeth believed that she was the only one who must secure her family’s home, the one place on Earth which meant so much to her, for herself.

At least with Mr. Tilman, there existed a good measure of respect on her part. He was a decent, honorable man, whose misgivings over his birthright were evidenced by his compassion toward the Bennet ladies during their greatest hour of need in the aftermath of Mr. Bennet’s death and the offering of his hand to Elizabeth: the eldest unwed daughter.

How unfortunate that she would never have a chance to find out if the respect she felt toward Mr. Tilman might have grown into something more meaningful—something similar to affection, even love. How unfortunate indeed, for mere hours after boarding the carriage for the wedding journey, there was an accident—an utter devastation from which only one of the newlyweds walked away.

Not yet one and twenty and widowed. Still entirely innocent to the ways between a man and a woman. True, she could not say that she had been in love with her late husband, but at least she had been willing to try to reach for marital felicity.

Which is more than she could say for her future husband: Longbourn’s heir. Just as Elizabeth's beloved father had no authority to dictate to whom his estate would pass upon his death, neither did Elizabeth’s late husband, Mr. Tilman. According to the dictates of the entail, the property could only be inherited by the next male heir in line - in this case, Mr. William Collins. In the short time since Elizabeth had made his acquaintance, he had proven himself to be absolutely ridiculous.

A true sycophant in every sense of the word, Mr. Collins was self-important and puffed up with pride. He fancied himself quite fortunate to have been granted the living in Hunsford. The ridiculous manner in which he went on and on about his noble patroness, the Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sickened Elizabeth. Although she had never met the woman, Elizabeth knew with certainty that she did not like the officious noble. At least she would never have to worry about having the pleasure of meeting the grand lady—a comforting notion indeed if the aristocrat proved to be even half as meddlesome and pompous as Mr. Collins’ pontifications had inadvertently painted her character.