A Time for Elizabeth: The Strange Travels of Fitzwilliam Darcy

2020·0.26 MB·english

by  Carrie Mollenkopf [Mollenkopf

A Time for Elizabeth
A Pride and Prejudice
Im-Possibility…

Carrie Mollenkopf

Additional titles by Carrie Mollenkopf

A Gentleman Scorned
The Redemption of Caroline Bingley
The Vocation of Mary Bennet
The Soulmate of Kitty Bennet
The Stubborn Pride of Lydia Bennet
Lizzie Bennet’s Choice
Elizabeth of Pemberley
Matchmaking at Pemberley
Darcy’s Heart
Preserving Pemberley
Refusing Mr. Collins
Portraits of Pemberley
The Transformation of Georgiana Darcy
In the Shadows of Pemberley

Mary of Longbourn Series
Mary Bennet and the Longbourn Heiress
Mary Bennet and the Longbourn Tutor
Mary Bennet and the Return of the Soldier
Mary Bennet and the Substitute Vicar
~Prologue~

Pemberley, 1790…
George Darcy dropped his regular modicum of deportment as glee overtook
him with the success of his creation. Of the nearly two dozen objects that he
had tried to send, this was the first to come back, and in less than an hour’s
time. If only he had been able to go along with it… experience the travel,
the feeling to suddenly appear out of nowhere.  Were others able to see it
happen? Was there some sort of forewarning? In the calm, controlled
atmosphere of the observatory, he had not noticed much of disturbance. Oh,
perhaps a slight movement of the air, but nothing greater than the draft of
one rising from a chair. Now, as he stared at the object, a glove this time, he
could hardly contain his excitement. The first had been a simple stone, no
more than two inches in diameter, but marked with a letter D should an
alteration be had during the process. However, despite it vanishing quickly,
it did not return. Neither had the spoon, the pen or the teacup. He had
deliberately tried items of different sizes and compound, but each time the
result was the same. Disappearance, but an inability to return. There must
be something special about the glove. Examining it closely, he turned it
over, stretched the fingers, even turning it wrong side out, but there was
nothing out of the norm. Returning it to its original state, George put the
glove on his own hand… again, there was nothing. What had made this so
special? Able to do what the rest could not? Pulling off the glove, he ran his
fingers through his hair, a habit most frustrating to his darling wife, Anne.
“George, you look quite wild when you do that,” she teased him, before
smoothing his locks back into place.
Normally, Anne Darcy was a regular accomplice to his experiments. Never
before had George Darcy encountered a woman with such a fine mind for
mechanical devices. Her assistance had been critical on more than one
occasion, and the disappointment of missing this success would be great.
But, when one has children, other priorities must take precedence. Young
Fitzwilliam was suffering a cold, and Anne was not one to rely upon
nannies when her child was ill. Pasting his hair back into some semblance
of order, Darcy’s hand froze halfway through is ministrations. The faint
odor of the calf’s hide glove lingered on his fingers.
“That’s it! That must be it!” he shouted to the empty chamber as excitement
made his heart race, but there was no one to share his hypothesis. Taking
the glove up, he removed one of his shoes and stuffed it inside before
setting both inside the circle he had drawn upon the floor around his
machine. Next, he placed the four directional keys in their places below the
numbered dials before setting the date and hour one week ahead and
lowering the lever that set the apparatus in motion. In an instant, both glove
and shoe were gone. Now, he had to wait…Was it necessary for an item to
be organic in nature? If that were true, then the possibility of a human?...
No! Such nonsense was for fairy tales, but if it were?
The seconds ticked by as if an eternity were passing as George Darcy
anticipated the return of the machine, and hopefully…the glove and shoe.
Chuckling to himself, he could not imagine how he would explain its loss to
his valet. Busying himself to pass the time, he dusted various items with a
soft cloth. One of the downfalls to such secrecy was the need to do one’s
own cleaning. Occupied, he did not hear the door to the observatory open at
the same time a rush of icy wind blew through the chamber. There would be
no need to retell his discovery to Anne, for she stood staring in amazement
as the machine rematerialized. By her side, his son squealed with delight at
the sight of what he only knew to be magic.
“Papa! Papa! What is it? Can I do it?”
“Absolutely not! Your father is an idiot,” Anne answered her son, but her
eyes glittered with approval for what she had witnessed.
“It really works… but how? When?”
“Just today… I can hardly believe it myself, and had to test it again to be
sure. First a glove, and then my shoe with the glove… but yes, I believe
true progress has been made.”
Anne Darcy had released her son’s hand and reached out to touch the
device. It felt warm and pulsed slightly under her fingers, but she felt no
fear, only excitement. Reaching down to pick up the shoe, the glove fell
from where her husband had stuffed it. Its removal sent an acrid tendril of
smoke curling upward, wrinkling her nose in its wake.
“What is it?” George asked. Retrieving the glove, he noticed that it was just
as before, but it was the shoe which held his wife’s interest.
“It is scorched… burnt clean through. I take it that it was not in this state
when you began?”
“No… it was not. I wonder what happened to render it so.”
His face had fallen in disappointment, he could not risk sending something
larger, perhaps even a living creature, until it was solved. But it had
worked… it had, and Anne bore witness to it.
“Well my dear, it is getting near dinner time. I suggest we take this one
small victory for what it is… a victory, with more to come. But no more
experiments of this nature without me. You shall not have all the fun.”
George Darcy did as ordered. With great reluctance he locked the door to
the observatory, but he would return. And with Anne’s assistance, they
would be successful.
~One~

Pemberley 1808…
Fitzwilliam Darcy wished he could just leave things as they were. It seemed
an invasion of privacy to sort through his father’s belongings, but as it had
been nearly three months since his passing, it was time. As much as it
pained him to do so, it was equally inexcusable to allow dust and neglect to
consume what was left behind. Especially the library. Pemberley’s library
was legendary, not only for its collection of books, but also the historical
artifacts and scientific instruments. A tragedy of immense magnitude if all
were to rot away due to an indulgence in grief. Far better to preserve the
legacy of his father, for George Darcy had been the most respectable man, a
generous landlord and loving father. But, if there was to be a flaw, and of
course, no one was perfect, it had to be acknowledged that he had been
rather eccentric. As a man of considerable fortune, it was not necessary for
his father to seek employment beyond the care of the estate. However, this
was not enough for George Darcy. He possessed a curious mind for many
things, but his greatest interest was the new science of physics. As a child,
the memories were filled with demonstrations of one strange object after
another. Now, as he idly gazed at the glassed cases filled with pieces of his
father, a sad smile broke his features with recollection.
“Look here Fitzwilliam… see how it works? This lever pushes against that
one with just the right force and Voila! It makes the hands move. Of course,
everything needs some sort of fuel, this one uses air alone.”
It had been some sort of newfangled timepiece, eventually replaced as
technology advanced. But his father had loved them all, even daring to
create some of his own. His mother had indulged the interest, even lending
a hand when not occupied with her children. It was these memories that
were worthy of preservation, for they were all that mattered, the rest was
simply rubbish.
Sighing heavily, Darcy took a critical look about the chamber. It was of a
considerable size, nearly rivaling that of the ballroom in floorspace, but
stretched two stories in height. A catwalk, reached by a pair of brass and
mahogany ladders allowed readers to seek titles stored above. This wall of
books and cases wrapped three sides of the library, leaving the other to
allow light. With floor to ceiling windows, as well as a set of French doors
leading to a balcony, the library was architecturally perfect. Situated so only
morning light entered, saving the contents from damage, gas lamps had
been fitted along the opposite wall for evening reading. It was truly
magnificent, often inspiring gasps of awe when visitors entered.
Unfortunately, in his grief, he had locked the doors, not allowing even the
basest of cleaning. A layer of dust now covered every surface. Chiding
himself for the abuse, Darcy resolved to put the chamber back to its former
glory, but not before sorting through what could be private. Beginning with
the leather topped desk, he opened one drawer after another, only to find
nothing out of the ordinary. Pens with dull points, sheets of paper, ink and
wax lay neatly inside next to a silver ring with four keys. This last item,
Darcy studied with curiosity. They were not of the regular household sort,
the ends that should turn the locking mechanism were of unusual shapes,
with no two the same. He could not imagine what sort of lock they would
open. Turning them over in his hands, each was inscribed with a small
compass and an arrow for each of the four winds. Clearly a set, but as there
was nothing else in the desk of note, their purpose would have to go
unknown for the moment.
“Strange, it must belong to one of father’s contraptions,” he muttered,
placing the ring into his pocket. Perhaps after a good decluttering, he would
find whatever they opened. Forgetting the keys, Darcy spent the rest of the
day sifting through a mountain of papers. Maps, and schematics to various
mechanical devices were haphazardly mixed with timetables for ferryboats
and old calendars. If a stranger were to see the mess, they would
immediately believe that George Darcy had gone completely mad. Not
willing to simply toss out the assortment, Darcy placed the collection inside
a large glass case used to display pinned butterflies. Absent of insects and
velveteen backing, it was a temporary solution until he could determine
what was worthy of retaining. Now the chamber was fit to admit a small
army of servants to dust and polish the library to its former glory. Sighing
with the pride of accomplishment, Darcy reclined in the leather chair that
matched the desk and closed his eyes. So immediate was the relaxation, he
now realized why his father had often been found asleep in that very place.
The temptation was great to remain, but there were other duties to attend,
and not all of them favorable. Of the most distasteful, was dealing with the
irritating personage of George Wickham. Darcy’s countenance formed an
automatic grimace every time he was forced to encounter that man. Had he
not done enough for the son of his father’s steward? It was a blessing that
neither his father or that of Wickham was alive to see how he had failed to
make use of the myriad of opportunities offered to one of his station. Not
once did Wickham appear the least grateful for his education or promise of
a respectable living. Swearing softly under his breath, Darcy rose from the
comfort of what would now be his place to deal with Wickham one last
time. For it would be the last, no more of Pemberley’s precious funds would
go to the settlement of Wickham’s gambling debts. After today, Darcy did
not want to ever lay eyes upon him again.
~Two~

One week later….
“Sir, what shall I do with these?”
Darcy looked up from his book to see his valet holding a number of objects,
one of which was the silver ring of keys from his father’s desk. Since
childhood, he had always stuffed his pockets with an array of items,
believing them useful for a later time. This habit, often exasperated the
person responsible for maintaining his wardrobe, as more than one resulted
in damage to costly fabrics.
“Oh, give those to me Pennington, I had completely forgotten to empty my
pockets again, my apologies.”
“Of course, sir,” the valet replied with a shake of his head.
Once again in his hands, Darcy turned over the set of keys again, this time
posing a question to the aging servant. Nigel Pennington had been in
service at Pemberley for as long as Darcy could remember. Beginning as a
footman before working his way up to the rank of valet. It was possible that
he had some knowledge of what the keys opened.
“Pennington? Have you ever seen my father with these keys? I discovered
them in his desk, but haven’t the faintest idea as to their purpose.”
Adjusting his spectacles, the elder man frowned as he examined the silver
castings closer. He had seen them, but always in the possession of the
former master when exiting his workroom.
“You do know what they are for!”
“No sir, not exactly, but I do remember your father having upon his person
in the observatory. Perhaps they belong to one of the telescopes?”
“That sounds logical, I have not been up there in years. Should probably
have that place sorted out as well. By now the mice have probably taken
over.”