Authors: Jan Hahn
“America is different. People are not divided into classes as we are. A man does not have to be a gentleman to be a man of importance in New Orleans.”
“You mistake my meaning, son,” I replied. “I simply wish to know whether Elizabeth’s father is a good man.”
“He is certainly successful. He owns three of the busiest saloons in the city.”
“Saloons! Henry, have you spent the last two years at gaming tables?”
“Of course not!” He rose, drawing away from me somewhat.
He walked about for a moment or two before settling upon the stone bench facing mine. “Mother, I am no longer a child. I am two and twenty years old now. You cannot expect me not to have — well, I am a man, after all.”
I assured Henry that I did not live in a rose-coloured world and understood what he said. Still, I had no desire for my son to waste his life in riotous living.
“Maturity requires wisdom,” I said softly, “a goal your father and I wish for each of our children.”
“I know, and that is why I have returned. I am more than willing now to take up my studies and settle down as Father desires. However, I reserve the right to choose my own way in life. I may return to New Orleans someday. You must accept that.”
His eyes wore that same pleading look he had used all his life when beseeching me to see his side. I knew that now was not the time to argue, and so I looked away.
I returned to the subject of Elizabeth, and he was more than willing to describe her anew. He could not get over her striking eyes and said he was even more surprised to see them duplicated in those of her father.
“He said he knew you, Mother.”
A warning bell began to sound in my heart.
Eyes that were the bluest blue? A blue never seen before?
I steadied my voice to appear at ease as I asked the man’s name, but I was not surprised when Henry replied, “Nate Morgan.”
“I cannot imagine you and Father knowing someone like him. Indeed, I challenged his assertion,” Henry said, “but Morgan was adamant. He described you — well, you as I have seen in your bridal portrait, more than twenty-five years ago.”
When I questioned him as to how my name had come up in conversation, Henry told of how Morgan had immediately sought him out when his daughter told him of meeting a man from England named Darcy. His first enquiries had been to ascertain that Henry was the son of Fitzwilliam Darcy, and then he had asked for the name of his mother.
“When I said your name was Elizabeth, Morgan’s only response was, ‘You have her eyes.’ He said he knew you before you were engaged to Father, but he was surprised to learn you had married.”
Henry looked down at the ground for several moments before raising his eyes to mine. “Mother, I had the impression the man might have been in love with you at one time. Am I correct?”
I rose and gathered up my basket of cuttings, feigning great interest in straightening the stems. “That was a long time ago, Henry. Your father and I chanced to meet Mr. Morgan while travelling. We maintained only a brief acquaintance, and there was never any attachment between the man and myself.”
I chanced a glimpse at my son’s expression and could see a shadow about his eyes. “I stand corrected,” he said at last. “Morgan gave me the impression he knew both you and Father more intimately. He spoke of Father with respect although perhaps somewhat grudgingly. It bespoke envy more than anything else.”
“Perchance because your father has lived a moral, upright life while Mr. Morgan traffics in saloons,” I declared.
“Pray, do not be condescending. Have I not told you I am no longer a child? I can certainly see the difference between Father and Morgan. I know which man is considered the better in anyone’s eyes. Yet, I cannot help but think that, while Father has been content to live his life safely hidden away here at Pemberley, Morgan has followed his dreams. Not only has he struck out on his own and made a fortune, but he longs for more.”
When I made no response, Henry looked away as though he still yearned to be there, across the sea, and not here at his home.
“He offered to sell me his New Orleans establishments because he plans to head west to a place called San Francisco. It sits on a bay that leads out into the Pacific Ocean and promises to be a port of unimaginable riches.”
“Surely he was not serious about your becoming the proprietor of saloons! Henry, you are far too young to even think of such a thing.”
“I know. Do not distress yourself. Naturally, I refused, but I must admit the idea appealed to me.”
When I rolled my eyes, he took my hand and entreated me to sit beside him. “Morgan told me he asked you to come with him when he sailed for America.”
I was astounded! How could the man reveal such a thing to my son? Neither Fitzwilliam nor I had ever told our children of the highwaymen or the kidnapping that had transpired so long ago. I do not know why — it just never seemed appropriate in light of the life we had made together.
“Mum,” Henry said, “do you ever have second thoughts? Have you ever longed, in the deepest part of your soul, for a more exciting life than Father has given you buried away here in Derbyshire?”
“Henry, listen to me. I have never considered myself
buried away
by any means. Your father and I have travelled to Paris, Vienna, Frankfurt, and to Florence several times. If I asked him today, he would take me anywhere I wish to go. I have no desire to leave this place. How can I make you understand? This is the life I chose, and it fills me with a joy that cannot be replaced by travel to faraway lands.”
He smiled and raised my hand to his lips. “Have it your way. I will not trouble you further. Will you admit, however, that you did have a choice? You could have picked Morgan instead of Father?”
I shook my head. “No, my son, there was never any choice.”
I looked up and watched Fitzwilliam lead our daughter around on the new chestnut mare, his curls still falling over his forehead in that same enchanting manner they had all those years before.
“Your father won my heart a long time ago. No other man ever had a chance.”
Epilogue
And now, my children, with these final strokes of my pen, I conclude my story. I have written it down for each of you: Will, Edward, Henry and Beth.
I shall hide it away at the bottom of this deep, old chest that contains memories I hold dear — letters from your father, brief though they may be, your baptismal certificates, the garnet cross my own father gave me when I was a girl, the first red rose I cut from Pemberley’s garden, now faded and pressed, along with various mementos of your childhood and the years of my marriage.
Someday long after I am gone, it is my hope that one or more of you, or your children, or perchance even your grandchildren may happen upon this old trunk stored in the attic at Pemberley. I trust that someone will possess enough curiosity to dig deep enough to find this little book.
It tells of a journey that took place when I was young, a journey that changed my life and that of your father, a journey I began as a girl and ended as a woman.
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