Page 1 of To Love And To Cherish
Chapter 1: Chance Encounter
May 10, 1805 – London
Fitzwilliam Darcy had scarcely placed his gloved hand on the brass handle of the bookshop door when a sudden commotion erupted just behind him. A cry, half indignation, half pain, pierced the air, followed by a thud and the unmistakable sound of books scattering across the pavement.
He turned sharply and found the source at once. A girl, scarcely more than a child, had fallen to the ground, a small collection of paper-wrapped parcels strewn at her feet. A ragged urchin, no older than eight, was tugging at the strings of her reticule with one hand while fending her off with the other.
She gave him no quarter.
“Unhand me, you little fiend! ¿Cómo te atreves?” she cried, and to Darcy’s astonishment, she raised a book and struck the boy soundly on the side of his head. The child yelped and tried to wrestle free, but she struck him again. The blow was not vicious, but it was certainly effective. The scamp abandoned his prize and bolted into the nearest alley just as the bookseller came roaring out of the shop, shouting after him with all the indignation of a man who had once been an errant boy himself.
Darcy moved swiftly. The girl, her muslin gown streaked with dirt and her bonnet askew, was attempting to sit upright, though her face had gone pale. She cradled her wrist in one hand and inspected a raw scrape blooming angrily across her elbow.
Darcy crouched beside her, ignoring the filth of the cobbled street as he gathered the fallen parcels with gloved hands. “You are injured,” he said. “May I assist you to your feet?”
The girl looked up, her light brown eyes fringed with startlingly dark lashes. She seemed to study him a moment, as if to ascertain whether he might also be a threat. Then, with a determined little nod, she accepted his offered hand and allowed him to help her stand.
“It is only a scratch,” she declared, trying to straighten her bonnet with her free hand. “But it will scar, I am certain of it, and Mamma will be livid. She says no man wants a bride with blemishes.”
Darcy’s brows lifted in surprise. “Surely that is a rather harsh assessment.”
The girl sniffed and bit her lower lip, her eyes glinting with unshed tears, though her chin rose proudly. “You do not know my mother.”
“Indeed, I do not,” Darcy murmured, shifting the parcels beneath one arm. “But I am pleased to know you are not seriously injured.”
She glanced at him again, then at the books he carried. “You needn’t trouble yourself. I can manage.”
“I believe I should be quite remiss if I allowed a young lady to limp off carrying more than her fair weight after being assaulted,” he said with the faintest smile. “Might I escort you home?”
“My uncle’s house is very near,” she replied. “Next to the fabric warehouse on the corner, Gardiner is his name.”
Darcy’s eyes flicked briefly over her gown, sensible and modest in cut, the fabric country-woven but well-stitched. Mud stained her petticoat, but her pride remained intact. “Very well, Miss Gardiner.”
“No, sir, I am Elizabeth Bennet. My uncle is my mother’s brother. I am from Hertfordshire.”
“Darcy,” he replied, bowing slightly. “Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”
They began to walk. The London street offered little in the way of peace: the steady clatter of hooves echoed over uneven cobblestones, hawkers called their wares in loud, sing-song tones, and the tang of horse manure lingered in the warm air.
“I still believe you need not have involved yourself,” Elizabeth said primly. “I am quite capable.”
Darcy allowed a corner of his mouth to lift. “So I observed.”
She flushed, then glanced at her parcels. “You have been most helpful. Those are all second-hand, you know, which means I got far more for my coin than I expected.”
“You seem rather pleased.”
“I am. I boughtThe Iliad,in Pope’s translation, a book on herbal remedies, a volume of Italian verse, and volume two ofThe Mysteries of Udolpho.Have you read it?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she rushed on, “No, I suppose you haven’t. You look like someone at university. You probably only concern yourself with the classics or the works of Montaigne.”
He chuckled. “I have just completed my studies, in fact. I am to leave for the Continent in late August.”
Her eyes widened. “A Grand Tour?”
“Yes. Our tutor is Mr. David Elliot, who is a professor and the father of one of my closest friends. He has taken a sabbatical in order to accompany us, which appeases my father.”
“Because of the war?”
