Echoes of Pemberley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ECHOES OF PEMBERLEY

Copyright © 2011 by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641

ISBN: 978-1-936009-19-0

Graphic design by Ellen Pickels

Cover photos by Ciobanu Alexandru Cristian © 2006 and Björn Höglund © 2010

For my mother — my hero

Acknowledgments

I would like to express a very special thank you to my husband, Douglas. By believing in me, you made me believe in myself.

To Amber, thank you for reading and re-reading, and for your continued advice and input.

I wish also to express my sincere gratitude to all the family and friends who have encouraged and loved me along the way.

To Jane Austen, thank you for giving this world the greatest romance novel ever written.

And finally, this first time author would especially like to thank my editor Mary Anne Hinz, Ellen Pickels for seeing my vision, and Michele Reed at Meryton Press for making what was only a dream a reality.

Chapter 1

Derbyshire, England

Sean Kelly pulled on to the narrow, two-lane road and drove along the wooded fringes of the estate to Ashridge. He could see the village sitting in a cove with a rocky cliff to one side and a green, quilted pasture to the other. Ashridge was a postcard village, much like those of County Down in Northern Ireland where Sean lived.

He looked for a place to park under flapping banners that welcomed people to
Ashridge’s Annual Cider and Perry Festival. On the crowded street, local vendors sold everything from crafts to jarred honey to visiting townies eager to pay the inflated prices. The little parish had obviously once had its heyday but now was no more than a wide spot in the road, appreciated mostly by the faithful residents who chose the quiet, simpler life it had to offer.

Nestled in what the locals fittingly called the silent valley, the ancient hamlet was first established as Kympton and seemed to possess a restrained whisper of another time. On the highroad, a waterwheel, which looked as if it hadn’t turned since the Great War, loomed motionless. Nearby, the village train station sat empty and closed up, no longer bustling with passengers off to London. Kympton Way, the main street that ran through the center of town, was lined with old, stone storefronts that had traded their goods for generations. The romance of eras past was at every turn, haunting the soul and enchanting the heart.

Tractors occupied most of the parking spots, but near the end of Kympton Way, Sean finally found a space and pulled his relic of a Land Rover in between two muddy JCBs. This would be his home for the next six weeks, and it was probably for the best. What else could he and his father say that hadn’t already been said? He hadn’t meant to disappoint the man. Hopefully his mother was right; maybe some time apart
would
put things right between them again. Exhaling a reluctant but accepting sigh, Sean grabbed his guitar from the back seat and shut the door.

As he looked up and down the main street, the familiar reek of plowed fields and manure flooded his nostrils, a comforting whiff of home to a lad raised on a horse farm. Behind the earthy smells were the sharper scents of cider and perry, intensifying his thirst and persuading him into the throng of people in search of drink, his guitar slung over his back.

A few blocks up, Sean stopped in front of the Green Man Inn and Pub, Ashridge’s only hotel. The lunch specials were written on a small chalkboard, held in place by a foliate rendition of the inn’s mythical namesake, but it was the sound of a well-played fiddle rather than the promise of a meat pie that persuaded Sean inside. Music always was a good icebreaker, and he hoped to meet a few of the locals. Although he was only in England for the summer, he might as well make the best of his temporary exile from Ireland, be damned his father’s bloody Irish pride.

As Sean stepped up to the bar, the bartender, a stout man wearing old-fashioned half-moon spectacles on the tip of his nose, took notice of his guitar and frowned at Sean. He pointed to a sign that read,
No singin’ for yer cider
. “Sorry, mate,” he said.

“A half-pint, please.” Sean tossed a pound on the bar.

“Oh, come on, Bobby,” the young fiddle player called out across the pub. He looked to be in his early twenties, a few years older than Sean. “Let my good mate, er . . . what’s your name, mate?”

The question caused a spatter of laughter from the audience, and Sean had to yell over the rumble to answer. “It’s Sean!”

“Jolly good name, Sean! How ’bout it, Bobby? Let my good mate Sean sing us a tune.”

The crowd cheered in support of the fiddle player’s request as Bobby sat a pint of cider on the bar. “I asked for a half,” Sean said and pushed the glass back.

“A quid buys a full pint,” Bobby countered, pushing the glass back once more. “Sing a fair chantey for the crowd and the next one will be on the Green Man.”

“Thanks.” Sean smiled and lifted his glass to Bobby. “Cheers.”

The crowd hooted and banged their tables as he crossed the room to the slightly raised stage. There was a jukebox in the corner, but the festival and too many rounds of cider had them lively and in want of traditional music such as old sea chanteys and pub songs. Sitting in clusters around small tables, Sean saw only the faces of strangers but felt at ease. He had been singing in pubs since . . . well, since he
could
sing. When he was a little boy, his dad would stand him and one or two of his brothers on a bar stool in one of the pubs back home and have them sing for his ale. The memory caused a slight tightening in Sean’s chest, but he swallowed it away and introduced himself to the fiddle player. “Name’s Sean Kelly.”

“An Irishman!” The fiddle player looked scandalized for the sake of the crowd.

“Aye.” Sean grinned and played along. “But me mother’s English!”

“That’s all right, mate. My name’s Rick Meriwether.” He pulled the bow across his fiddle with a screeching mock. “And me mother’s Irish!” The audience laughed heartily at their banter. Like him, Sean thought, Rick Meriwether probably grew up in the country around small village pubs and amongst the country folk who patronized them. Pulling his guitar strap over his shoulder, he nodded to Rick, and the two settled into a quick easy harmony, singing the songs they had learned as boys. Charmed by the familiar tunes, the rowdy village audience joined in, clapping and singing along to words they knew by heart.

Several songs later, the low-ceilinged room had begun to grow warm as Sean and Rick bowed to applause and set their instruments aside. They had earned their drink and, after the singing, were suddenly in need of it. In one smooth gulp, Sean swallowed the last of his cider and set his empty glass in front of the bartender. “My wages if you please, Bobby,” he said to the bartender with a smile.

“You’ve a way with the crowd.” Bobby poured two fresh ciders from the tap. “Are you going to be in Ashridge for long?”

“Yeah, six weeks.” Sean slid onto a bar stool. “I’ve a summer job at Pemberley Estate.”

“Working for the Darcys, eh?” Rick asked, nodding a thank you to Bobby for the drinks.

“Aye.” Sean took a long pull on his mug. “Know them?”

“
Know
them?” Rick repeated. “Everyone in Ashridge knows the Darcys. Bennet Darcy bloody well owns just about everything you see looking left to right.”

“Oh.” Sean took a more cautious sip now. “A Scrooge of a landlord, is he?”

Shaking his head, Rick chuckled. “Hardly. The rents are barely more than they were when his grandfather took over the place after World War II.”

“Took over the place?” Sean questioned. “I thought Pemberley was the seat for the Darcy family.”

“It was . . . is . . . you know how these old manors go from hand to hand. Chap named Howell married a Darcy and ran Pemberley for awhile. Ran it right into the ground according to my grandfather, but that was before my day. Granddad says Ashridge was fortunate the Darcys got hold of the estate again. Ben Darcy’s a good man.”

“Really?” Sean’s eyebrows lifted disbelievingly. He had met Bennet Darcy just that morning and found him to be somewhat unfriendly, to say the least.

“Met him, have you?” Rick read Sean’s expression.

Sean nodded and set his half-empty mug down on the bar. Being new in town, he didn’t need the cider to go to his head.

“A bit reserved, was he?” Rick continued with an obvious understanding.

“Rather.”

“Don’t worry, mate.” Rick clapped a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “He’s a good chap, just the silent type. Some say it’s the reason Ashridge lies in what’s known as the silent valley. The Darcys of Pemberley own most of it and they have always been a quiet lot. Very . . . private-like.” Rick looked past Sean and pointed to the door with his chin. “There’s one of them now.”

Sean turned and stared at the teenage girl who stepped into the pub. She was beautiful, but her beauty was cool and removed like an exquisite sculpture at the National Gallery. You could look but weren’t allowed touch. It was like there were brass posts and red velvet ropes around her. She was right in front of them, yet completely separate. The low murmur of conversation fell to a hush when she closed the door behind her. Wearing a pair of crisply pressed khaki trousers and an argyle cardigan, she wasn’t one of them and knew it, casting a guarded glance over their faces but never meeting anyone’s eye.

“Two Cokes please, Bobby,” she said, and sat down at an empty table near the door.

“Coming up, Miss Catie,” Bobby said and then whispered into Sean’s ear, “Close your mouth, lad. She’s out of your league.”

“Catie Darcy?” Sean asked incredulously, blushing faintly at Bobby’s observation. Not only was Catie Darcy beautiful, she wasn’t at all what he had expected. “But . . . I thought she was just a kid.”

“Not any longer.” Rick shook his head. “She’s near seventeen now, grown into quite a prize with those looks and a fortune to match.”