Chapter One

Posted on Tuesday, 16 October 2007

September 1807

The cold hard ticking of the carriage clock echoed inside Elizabeth’s brain. Her eyes were fixed towards the brow of the hill ahead of the carriage, and her hand clung to the edge of the small window, desperately hoping internally, yet seemingly in calm circumspection of her scenery. She listened intently as hoof beats seemed to draw nearer, but was only left disappointed by the appearance of a mail coach headed for London.

The tall blond man beside her clasped her other hand and continued to read his book in silence, only letting go of Elizabeth’s hand to turn the pages. His grubby boots and shirt looked out of place against the soft red leather of the Bennet carriage. He coughed occasionally, disrupting the rhythm of the clock, but kept his eyes pinned on the words in front of him, as if willing them to enter his mind and remain there.

"Louis," gasped Elizabeth at the sight of a lone horseman, silhouetted against the dark night sky, gaining on them over the fields. "He is come, the messenger."

The blond man looked up from his book lazily. "So he has, sister." His voice, hopeless and grave, held none of the suppressed anticipation of Elizabeth’s speech.

The rider came up beside the carriage and pressed a sealed note into Elizabeth’s outstretched had. "Your majesties," he said softly, before turning his horse sharply and retracing his path. The suddenness of the meeting seemed to have startled their own horses, who tugged against their reigns, causing the carriage to judder under them. Elizabeth broke open the seal, but paused before opening it and passing it to her brother, her eyes finding their way to her boots.

Louis took the letter and carelessly opened it, glancing at the words with indifference.

"There is no hope for Russia, Napoleon signed a Treaty with them almost two months ago," he said.

"And Austria? Surely our Uncle must do something for out aid?"

"Nothing new."

Elizabeth took the note out of his hand and read it herself, before folding it back up and placing it in her small knitted reticule.

"There is no one in the world who believes in true justice."

"Miss Jane would not agree with you."

"Jane is living the life she was born to."

"There is nothing the matter with you living that same life, Elizabeth. You could find happiness in it. Find a man like Bingley and settle down. Why you continue to pine after France I shill never understand."

Elizabeth was silent, and gazed at the delicate pearl bracelet on her wrist.

"You cannot remember France," remarked Louis solemnly. "Can you not be content?"

"I wish I could," Elizabeth whispered.

It had been 18 years since she came to England, a small child of 3. Mr Bennet’s interest in politics had led him, as a young man, to meet extremists of both varieties when it came to Revolution, and he had, until the Bastille fell, passively supported them. Now his assistance became more active. It was arranged that, while Marie Teresa, the eldest of the children of France, would live in exile in first Vienna, and finally Buckinghamshire, the Dauphin and the younger daughter, Elizabeth, would be given a place in Mr Bennet’s home were they could live anonymously and safely.

Elizabeth could have a new life, free from the plots of royalists, and was removed from court as soon as the first whispers were heard, and the Dauphin could live away from the threat of execution or imprisonment. The girl, of course, being but small at the time, could be raised as one of the family, easily introduced into the society of her new parents without much attention from the neighbourhood; Mrs Bennet’s increasing brood rendering the addition of another immaterial to the family’s reputation.

The Dauphin was another matter. He was old enough to understand what was happening by the time he came to England as a boy of 11. He had been working as a cobbler in prison, and had become accustomed to this simpler way of life. Mr Bennet therefore proposed that he entered his household as a servant. It would seem inconspicuous, yet would keep him in easy reach of those truly loyal.

It was inevitable really that Elizabeth would learn the truth.

Her heart raced as she walked beside Mr Darcy. She barely noticed when Kitty left them to visit Maria Lucas. Before she could comprehend her own actions she was thanking his for his rescue of Lydia’s reputation. She had not planned to say it; indeed she had no wish to reveal the broken promise of secrecy. Yet she found she had to tell him. She found her feelings for this man, this kind, reserved and, dare she say it, gentlemanly man, were fast escaping her control.

"My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."

Elizabeth froze. Her heart stopped. She would not, could not, must not say yes. She could not marry. She knew that; even if Louis and every adviser she had had lost all hope in France’s recovery. Yet to be Mrs Darcy would cause her to possess so many sources of happiness. She had said as much to Lady Catherine.

"Miss Elizabeth?"

"Mr Darcy," she replied slowly, not sure of what word she would say next until she had already said it. "My feelings are not at all what they were last April," she paused. "I find that I greet your offer with gratitude and…pleasure. Yet…" her voice trailed off. She would she could not look at him. She realised her words must have led him to hope of her acceptance and she berated herself for the pain she must now cause him. "Yet I cannot accept you without thinking. I must have time to think. I never thought that…"

"I quite understand, Miss Bennet." His voice, she noted, had lost a degree of composure.

She allowed herself to glance at him. His expression was shuttered, and yet in his eye she could not see such torment. She had been so dreadfully unkind to him, always. She could not bring herself to either refuse or accept him, and therefore she knew she was prolonging the agony she had caused him for so long.

"Would you do me the honour of calling on us tomorrow evening with Mr Bingley, sir? I hope I shall have an answer for you there."

How could she promise such a thing? She had not control of her words when with this man.

"Of course, Miss Bennet."

They continued in silence for a while, descending down a small slope to the path between two fields. Neither was sure of the other’s feelings, neither was sure of the other’s intentions. Neither was sure where they headed. They had lost sight of Jane and Bingley long ago, and the many interweaving paths of the Hertfordshire countryside, and Elizabeth’s lack of concern for so trivial a matter, lead them to take a route that was not the quickest.

They came to a stile at the edge of the field, and Darcy held out his hand to help her overcome the obstacle. She took it gratefully, meeting his eye for a moment. Her usually confidence and energy was waning under the strain of new, fresh emotions, and she found herself grateful for his support.

"It would appear Mr Darcy you have managed somewhat of a miracle," she stated softly.

"Miss Bennet?"

"You have rendered me entirely void of conversation."

They returned to Longbourn, exchanging infrequent bursts of superficial conversation. In the distance Elizabeth saw Bingley waiting with his horse by the stables, and Louis holding the reigns of Darcy’s. Had they really been so long? Their backs were turned and the sight of Louis living his content, ordinary life caused Elizabeth to experience a sharp sensation of envy.

She stopped suddenly, and Mr Darcy turned to her, alarmed. Touching her hand to his sleeve she reached up on the tips of her toes and gently touched her lips against Darcy’s cheek. She withdrew, cautiously, and looked away. Darcy remained silent.

"Mr Darcy, I believe one of the stable boys is waiting with your horse down there, and Bingley looks quite impatient to leave, no doubt so that he may return as soon as possible."

Elizabeth left Darcy’s side, walking back towards the house, not daring to look at him.

Chapter Two

Posted on Wednesday, 17 October 2007 Elizabeth rested her head against the door of the stables, her eyes closed, inwardly reflecting. Her mind wrestled between love and her perceived duty. She did not doubt it now. She loved Mr Darcy. Her heart was his, but her mind and soul belonged to France.

The tree behind the stables rustled gently in the breeze, dropping a few of its leaves onto the pile that was already accumulating on the dusty ground. They jostled together happily, meeting and greeting the new arrivals as they skimmed the ground. The peace of their gathering was disrupted by the arrival of a boot, dark and encased in mud and hay.

Elizabeth looked up at the sound of the crunching footsteps, and followed their maker into the barn. She sat on edge of an upturned bucket once inside, and faced her brother, who was watching her intently.

"Well, Elizabeth? What is troubling you?"

"Mr Darcy," she paused. "He has renewed his proposals."

Louis face broke into a slight, amused smile. "And? What was your reply this time? I doubt the man could take another setting down from you. Royal blood doesn’t make gentle people."

"I told him that I would think about his offer, and give him an answer tomorrow night."

"Oh, sister," said Louis rolling his eyes. "You begin to love him do you not?"

He approached her, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him with those eyes he remembered from long ago; the eyes that had smiled at him proudly, the eyes that had held such desperation when he was taken away. Elizabeth had their mother’s eyes; there was no doubting that. Fire and ice was what was contained in those large sparkling eyes.

It was sadness he saw now though, and for the life of him he could not understand it.

"Yes," Elizabeth whispered.

"Then marry him and be happy."

Elizabeth jumped up suddenly and ran to the ladder leading to the barn’s loft. She grabbed at a rung above her head and passionately said, "France, Louis, what if France recovers? I cannot tell him who I am! I have been lying to him and to the world for eighteen years. He of all men could not forgive that."

"Then don’t tell him. Be happy with who you are now. Elizabeth it is the life you have always known, and the old life will never come back."

"You don’t know that," she turned on him. "Napoleon could fall. Robespierre and the Terror did not last, why should he? England has not given up, there is always hope."

"And what if he does? Do you really believe France will want a monarchy?" Louis finally broke out of his solemn demeanour as Elizabeth watched with startled eyes. "Excess and hatred, that is what every monarchy in the world is made of, why do you wish for that?"

"I am a French princess Louis," Elizabeth replied softly. "My mother was Marie Antoinette of Austria, daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor and my father was the King of France, and a Bourbon. How can I marry an English commoner? Even if I told him and he accepted the fact then how could I return to France with him as my husband? We would lose all hope."

"Marrying him goes against your better judgement, does it Elizabeth? You love him against your will? And you accused Darcy of pride."

Elizabeth stared at him, the anger bubbling like lava in her eyes.

"That is not what I mean, as you very well know. Marrying him will make me Mrs Darcy, and Mrs Darcy cannot be sister to the King of France. Besides, our lives are dangerous whatever you may say. If we are ever discovered, if we fall into French hands…" he voice trailed off. "I do not want Darcy harmed."

"Elizabeth, why did the monarchy loose power?" He waited. "Because the people wanted to rule themselves. As I see it, marrying Darcy could do no harm to you in the eyes of the French people; if we ever were to regain power."

Her gaze softened and her body relaxed slightly. She looked into his eyes, questioning his meaning.

"The commoner monarchy," said Louis.

Elizabeth waited silently, sitting on the staircase at Longbourn. She rested against the banister, its coldness seeping through her hair. Odd bursts of laughter, Bingley’s mostly, came from the dining room to her right where the men were at their brandy. This occurrence had the fortunate consequence of drowning out the idle chatter ensuing in the drawing room to her left. She had made her excuses, telling her mother she had a headache. Her mother, having no hopes of her making a conquest with any of the gentlemen present, permitted her to retire. Now she waited for Darcy. He had accompanied Bingley as she asked. She only hoped her answer to his proposal would prove the right one.

The door to her right cracked open and Elizabeth jumped. She hurried down the stairs and hid herself just out of view to the left of the staircase. Whoever was holding the door seemed to be pausing before opening the door. It seemed to Elizabeth that whoever it was, he were clearly hoping that if he stayed there long enough, breakfast would be served and he would not have to leave the room. Finally the door sprung open and Bingley eagerly made for the door on the left. The other gentlemen poured out of the room, and followed Bingley’s example. Darcy finally emerged, silent and grave, following the others. Elizabeth emerged aver so slightly from her hiding place and tried to catch his attention. The planks of the wood floor seemed to hold more interest for him however.

"Darcy!" she whispered, barely audible. He did not turn.

The gentleman before him had now entered the drawing room, and Elizabeth decided she would lose the opportunity if she did not use the idea her quick mind and forged.

She reached out and crept forward, as silently yet as fast as she could. She put her hand around his wrist and tugged him slightly in her direction. He seemed startled at her touch and look down at her face. She tugged again. This time he yielded to her touch, and followed her as she led him through the house. She led him down a darker corridor at the back of the house, its stone floor causing their footsteps to ring in their ears. She carefully opened a door at the side of the passage and went inside. He followed obediently. The room was some form of kitchen of larder. There were bunches of herbs drying, suspended from the roof over a large rustic oak table. The room was quiet and cold, the large ancient stone fireplace having not been lit.

Elizabeth could feel his gaze upon her. She knew how desperate he must be feeling, did he hope or despair though?

Her hand toyed with some herbs left on the table. "Mr Darcy."

"Yes, Miss Bennet." His voice rasped in his throat.

She looked directly at him, into those eyes she had come to see such belonging in.

"Mr Darcy, I find that my feeling are quite altered to when you last had occasion to hear of my opinions. I find that I am now," she could feel her heart beat against her ribs. She knew her words could change everything. "I find that I am now honoured and delighted by your request, and happily accept it."

The happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion, as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to de.

Elizabeth lay in her bed, pulling the covers tight under her chin and gazing at the ceiling above her. She could not help but let a smile cross her lips. She was engaged to Mr Darcy, and he loved her. Perhaps Louis was right, and however much she hated the idea of losing her heritage forever, it was gone. Unrecoverable. So she would marry him, and be lost to history.

She could not help her smile fading as the though of what might one day be crossed her mind. She could remember Count Mercy, their mother’s Austrian ambassador and advisor, cautioning her mother about the danger the children would be in all their lives, when she was but three. It was her earliest memory, and it was always present in her mind. Louis thought she imagined it, and refused to recall it himself. Fancy, he had told her was its source. Elizabeth’s romantic dream of what her past was.

A short, sharp snap penetrated Elizabeth’s consciousness. She heard it again, and turned her attention towards the window, where the sound had originated. Peeling back her covers she slipped a shawl around her shoulder and made her way the window. Opening the window and peering out she saw Louis standing bellow, a letter clutched in one hand and a small stone in the other, poised to through at her window.

"Come down," he whispered. "There is news."