Hearts Unspoken

🕮 About the Book:

When Miss Elizabeth Bennet accepts a position as the paid companion of the mistress of Pemberley, would she have chosen differently had she known what lay ahead? Mr. Darcy, an honorable man, who values devotion and duty above all else cannot help but be drawn to his ailing wife’s companion. What happens when Elizabeth and Darcy’s mutual caring for another leads to mutual desire for each other? When yearning of the heart meets with opportunity, which will prevail—propriety and sacrifice or passion and surrender?

👀 Sneak Peek

Chapter 1

Derbyshire, England – Spring, 1812

“I am a long way from Hertfordshire…”

Miss Elizabeth Bennet sat on the edge of her seat, her gloved hands beside her atop the plush cushion, as the carriage took her from Lambton to Pemberley. The gloves had once belonged to her eldest sister, a small reminder of the life she had lived and the sense of dignity she meant to preserve in the days ahead. This was the start of a new life, no longer that of a gently bred young lady, but rather that of a paid companion to a wealthy young woman scarcely older than herself. Her spirits were all aflutter.

The park stretched farther than Elizabeth could see—the carriage winding through its lowest entrance where a stream cut beneath the road. Tall, magnificent oak trees gave way to slender birches and a pond. A herd of deer grazed nearby. Elizabeth admired every remarkable view.

Never have I encountered a place where nature has been more generous or where natural beauty has been so little counteracted by an awkward taste, she considered.

The stately carriage climbed gradually for half a mile before reaching the top of a significant hill, where the forest ended. Elizabeth leaned forward, pressing her hand against the window. Pemberley House stood across the valley, commanding attention against the backdrop of wooded hills. Sunlight caught the stone, warming its facade. In front of it, a river flowed—substantial, natural in appearance, and without any artificial enhancements. Its banks were neither overly manicured nor artificially adorned. Her eyes traced the simple, elegant lines of the house, noting how it seemed to belong precisely where it sat, neither imposing upon the landscape nor diminished by it. She sat back slowly, nodding once to herself.

“To be mistress of such a place must surely be something,” she could not help but utter aloud as the reality of her situation would not be repressed.

Elizabeth reminded herself she was embarking on a life of service, although one that bore a genteel distinction. To be a paid companion—rather than a governess or lady’s maid—offered its own kind of dignity. She would answer directly to the mistress, not the housekeeper, and that alone gave the position a certain elevation.

What that distinction meant in practice, however, would soon become painfully clear.

In the ensuing months, Elizabeth came to understand how little she had grasped about her new situation. Had she known the true state of Mrs. Darcy’s health, she might have hesitated before accepting the position. The bad days were far exceeding the good days of late, and the manor house was uncommonly still, as if Pemberley itself maintained a vigil over its mistress. For three weeks Mrs. Darcy had remained in bed suffering an ailment that defied all the physician’s remedies.

She should never have lingered outside the partially opened door of Mr. Darcy’s study one particular day. Her mounting concern over his well-being held her firmly in place.

It would not do to be caught lingering in such a state. What would the servants, and most importantly the housekeeper, think? Elizabeth was about to continue on her way, but a faint sound stopped her. Against her better judgment, she eased closer to the door. Holding her breath to still her racing heartbeat, she slowly pushed it open and peeked inside for she was far too curious a creature to do otherwise.

Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in a chair by the window. He held what appeared to be a miniature in his hand. His thumb swept longingly across its surface.

“Rosalie,” he whispered. The single word carried such a mix of tenderness and despair that the impropriety of her bearing witness to it struck Elizabeth most acutely.

She had never seen the master thus—his proud shoulders bent, his composure undone. He usually presented himself with perfect dignity—authoritative, assured and always in command, his manner schooled to betray nothing of the anxiety he surely felt for his wife. But here, believing he was unobserved, the careful mask had fallen away.

As Elizabeth watched, she could not but discern this was not merely the concern of a gentleman for his ailing spouse. What she was witnessing, she likened to a devotion she had not credited him with possessing.

In that moment, Elizabeth understood that beneath Mr. Darcy’s reserved demeanor and formal address lay a heart capable of profound attachment. And she realized too that for all the grandeur of Pemberley, for all the servants who attended his every need, Mr. Darcy was utterly alone in his suffering.

How unsettling she found this realization. She stepped back, her movements measured, and continued on, the image of his solitary figure etched into her memory.

That night, Elizabeth tossed from side to side in her bed. Mr. Darcy’s face appeared whenever she closed her eyes—not just his anguish, which had moved her, but the raw intimacy of it, which she had no right to witness. She pulled the pillow over her head, as if to quell the nagging thought that she had glimpsed something in him that stirred her in ways a proper companion to his wife should never feel.

Despite being in service at Pemberley all this time, she realized how little she knew of the master and mistress beyond the boundaries of her position.

What manner of love must he harbor for his wife that would render so composed a gentleman so vulnerable?

* * *

The following morning, Elizabeth went about her duties most diligently, yet her busy mind remained in a tumult. She had decided to bring fresh flowers to Mrs. Darcy’s apartment—a task she now approached with ever-increasing trepidation, having to bear witness to the mistress’s decline.

On entering the room, she found it dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the bright light that might disturb the mistress’s rest. Dr. Hartley stood by the bedside, his expression grave as he conversed in hushed tones with Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth replaced the wilting blooms with fresh flowers from Mrs. Darcy’s private garden—long the province of Pemberley’s mistress, from Darcy’s grandmother to Rosalie, and now tended by Elizabeth as a courtesy to Rosalie amid her continuing decline.

“I fear there has been little improvement, sir,” the doctor was saying. “The fever persists despite my best efforts.”

Mr. Darcy’s response was too low for Elizabeth to discern, but the stiff set of his shoulders spoke of his distress. As she arranged the flowers, she could not help but observe the still figure beneath the cover. Her fair skin was now alarmingly pale, and her hair spilled across the pillows.

How different she must appear from the vivacious lady who had arrived at Pemberley as a bride just three years prior, Elizabeth could only surmise.

Elizabeth had almost completed her task when Mrs. Darcy stirred, her eyes fluttering open momentarily. “Fitzwilliam?” she murmured.

Mr. Darcy was at her side in an instant. He took her hand in his. “I am here, my dear,” he assured her, his voice tender. “Always here.”

A faint smile graced Mrs. Darcy’s lips before she drifted once more to sleep. Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy’s fingers traced the lines of Rosalie’s hand with such tenderness that she felt both moved and ill at ease. She was touched by the depth of his feeling, yet sensible of the possibility that no one would ever look at her with such admiration. When she at last slipped from the room, she pressed a hand to her breast, disturbed by the bevy of sensations therein.

Later that same day, the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, pleasant yet commanding by nature, approached Elizabeth below stairs with a worried expression. “Miss Bennet, I hate to impose in this manner. Pray take this tray up to the master’s study. He has not eaten since yesterday, and he will not leave Mrs. Darcy’s side save when the doctor insists upon it.”

“Surely Mr. Waters—” Elizabeth began, referring to Mr. Darcy’s valet.

“Is occupied with other matters,” Mrs. Reynolds replied. “The master will take nourishment more readily from someone who will not lecture him on his duty to maintain his strength. And you have such a gentle manner about you.”

Elizabeth could hardly refuse a direct request from the housekeeper, even though this particular assignment fell far below her responsibilities as a paid companion and one who answered to the mistress. In light of the turmoil in the household, this was hardly the time for Elizabeth to opine. Everyone was doing the best they could.

With apprehension, she carried the silver tray up the stairs. The hallway stretched before her, empty and silent save for the soft tick of the clock. She paused at the study door, balancing the tray carefully as she knocked. When no answer came, she knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing. Concern overrode her hesitation, and Elizabeth twisted the knob and eased the door open.

Mr. Darcy stood by the window, his back to her, looking out over the grounds. He had not heard her come inside the room, so lost was he in contemplation. A pressed flower and several letters bundled with string were arranged upon his large mahogany desk.

“Sir?”

Startled from his reverie, he spun around and faced her. “Miss Bennet. I did not hear you.”

“Mrs. Reynolds sent this, sir. She thought you might take some nourishment.”

A mixture of gratitude and weariness shone in his dark eyes. “You may leave it there,” he said, gesturing to a table.

As Elizabeth set down the tray, her eyes fell upon an arresting sketch. The drawing depicted a young woman seated on a stone beside a secluded pond with her skirts gathered neatly at her ankles and an open book resting in her lap. Though the lines wavered and the proportions were not quite true to life, the artist had captured something striking in her countenance, especially her eyes—drawn with such attention to detail.

“My wife drew that,” said Mr. Darcy, noticing where Elizabeth’s eyes had landed. “When she came to Pemberley. She claimed to have little talent for it, but I…” His voice waned. “I have always treasured it.”

“I sense a certain warmth to it, sir,” Elizabeth said.

Mr. Darcy’s expression softened. “Yes. Rosalie has always possessed that ability. She infuses warmth in everything she touches.” Then, seeming to remember himself, he straightened his shoulders. “Thank you for bringing the tray.”

He had dismissed her, yet Elizabeth was reluctant to leave him to his solitude. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”

He shook his head, then paused. “Actually, Miss Bennet, if you would be so kind as to inquire whether there has been any change in Mrs. Darcy’s condition?”

“Of course, sir.”

As Elizabeth prepared to leave, Mr. Darcy spoke again, his voice so low she almost missed it. “She used to read to me here in the evenings,” he said, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Poetry, mostly. She has a particular fondness for Shelley.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I shall return shortly with news, sir.”

As she made her way to the mistress’s apartment, Elizabeth reflected that in all her time at Pemberley, she had never before heard Mr. Darcy speak of his wife with such loving sentiment. The servants’ gossip painted him as a distant husband, married for advantage rather than affection.

How mistaken they all had been, she surmised.

Dr. Hartley was just emerging from Mrs. Darcy’s room when Elizabeth arrived. His expression, though severe, bore hope.

“The fever has broken at last,” he informed her. “She is very weak, but I believe the worst has passed for now.”

Elizabeth’s heart was lifted. “May I tell Mr. Darcy?”

“If you would, Miss Bennet. It will ease his mind considerably.”

She hurried back to the study, forgetting in her eagerness to knock before entering. The door swung open to reveal Mr. Darcy seated at his desk, his head bowed over a leather-bound journal. He looked up, startled by her abrupt entrance, and in his haste to close the book, several loose pages fluttered to the floor.

“Forgive me, sir,” Elizabeth said, mortified by her breach of etiquette. She kneeled to retrieve the fallen papers.

“Leave them,” Mr. Darcy commanded, but too late, for Elizabeth had already gathered the sheets. They were letters, she realized, written in a feminine hand. She caught only a glimpse of brief, personal lines before she handed them back—just enough to guess they were not formal missives, but perhaps affectionate notes, tokens of daily life or small joys best shared with a loved one.

“The doctor says Mrs. Darcy’s fever has broken,” Elizabeth said, averting her eyes as she handed him the pages. “He believes she is no longer in danger.”

Relief washed over Mr. Darcy’s countenance. For a moment, the lines of worry eased from his face, making him appear younger. “Thank heavens,” he whispered.

Elizabeth turned to leave.

“Miss Bennet.”

She faced him once more. “Sir?”

“Thank you,” he said. After a pause, he continued, “My wife writes to me even when we are beneath the same roof. A habit she refuses to relinquish.” His tentative smile hinted at his melancholy. “These past weeks, I have read her old letters each night. It has been such a comfort.”

Struck by his confession, she said. “It speaks of a deep affection, sir.”

“Indeed.” He looked down at the letters in his hands. “When one finds true companionship, Miss Bennet, its absence becomes unbearable.”

In that moment, Elizabeth saw a man terrified of losing his heart’s companion. A man adrift in the currents of fear and hope, clinging to paper memories no doubt praying they would not be all that remained.

“I understand, sir,” she said, yet in truth, how could she? Elizabeth had never known such devotion, such consuming attachment to another soul.

“Do you?” His look was penetrating now. “I sometimes wonder if any but those who have experienced it can comprehend the nature of such a bond.”

Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. “Perhaps not fully, sir. But one may observe it in others and thus discern much of the heart’s capacities.”

“You are unusually perceptive for one so young.”

“Now surely you cannot suppose me that young, sir.”

Mr. Darcy regarded her with newfound interest. “You remind me somewhat of Rosalie when first we met. Your liveliness of spirit… the liveliness of your mind.” He paused. “I hope you do not consider this an imposition, but will you inform Mrs. Reynolds that I shall take dinner in my wife’s apartment this evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Elizabeth proceeded to leave, an impulse seized her. “Mr. Darcy, if I might be so bold—Mrs. Darcy has always been kind to me. If there is anything more that I might do to assist in her recovery, for either of you, pray do not hesitate to tell me.”

No sooner had she spoken than she feared herself perhaps too familiar—overstepping the boundaries between master and employee.

For a long moment, Mr. Darcy did not respond, further bolstering her fear. Would she never learn the temperance her new station in life dictated? She had spoken too eagerly, with confidence no longer afforded her. The habits of her former life clung to her, unyielding, and yet she had no right to such ease in his presence.

At length he said, “There is her favorite volume of poetry. The binding is blue, with her initials stamped in gold. It sits on the shelf in her sitting room. She often asks for it to be read to her.”

“I appreciate your informing me of that, sir,” Elizabeth said, quitting the room—grateful that her ‘liveliness of spirit’ had not served her poorly in Mr. Darcy’s eyes. For as much as she relied on the mistress’s good opinion, she was growing to rely on Mr. Darcy’s as well.