One of the
things I love about Jane Austen’s characters is that they stay with you long
after you’ve read the book. They become like old friends and you wonder how
they would get along if they met each other. Of course, it might be challenging
to manage to get them all together for tea, or better yet a house party, but it
certainly would make for a fascinating time.
In Snowbound
at Hartfield, a freak blizzard is just the thing to strand the Darcy
party, including the Darcys, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bennet, and Sir Walter
Elliot’s party at Hartfield with Emma and George Knightley. Though Knightley
has Emma’s assurances that she is finished with matchmaking, can she really
resist the temptation their guests provide?
Maria Grace
About the book: Snowbound at Hartfield
Colonel
Fitzwilliam should have been happy facing retirement. No more Napoleon, no more
tromping the Continent, and his distant cousin had unexpectedly left him an
estate. What was more, two of his favorite people, Darcy and Elizabeth, were
travelling with him to visit his new home.
But
the colonel wasn’t happy, not when he was forced to watch Darcy exchanging
enamored glances with his wife. No, he wanted to pitch his cousin out the
window. It didn’t help when Darcy kept lecturing him on the joys of wedded
life— as if women like Elizabeth Darcy grew on every tree.
Then
the snow started.
Now
they were stranded at the home of George and Emma Knightley, another
intolerable, blissfully wedded couple who wanted nothing more than to see his
bachelor days come to an end. Thank heavens they never thought of matching him
with the proud spinster who had also been caught in the storm. That would have
been utterly intolerable.
Or
would it?
Read an Excerpt from the book: Chapter 3
Howling winds buffeted Elizabeth Elliot’s window,
shattering away the last vestiges of sleep. Pressing her head into the pillow,
she stared up into the bed curtains. Had last night actually happened?
Yes, it had. Colonel Fitzwilliam, second son of
the Earl of Matlock, had sat with her half the night, talking almost as old
friends might talk. Perhaps he was not as handsome as his cousin Darcy, but he
was by far the handsomest man who had paid her any attention since the debacle
with Mr. William Elliot.
Her stomach churned. His attentions toward Anne
were offensive on so many accounts. They were due her on the account of her
being the eldest. But all of that paled in comparison to his taking up with
Mrs. Clay.
What a fool she had been to consider “dear
Penelope” a friend.
Would Colonel Fitzwilliam prove to be such a
friend himself? The Matlocks were known to be a generally discreet family, and
there was virtually no gossip concerning the colonel. That fact spoke well of
him. If only there were some means for more direct intelligence.
Surely Mrs. Darcy would know. There had to be a
way to get her opinion of her cousin in some candid moment.
By no means did he appear to be perfect. Years in
the army had knocked away some of the polish a peer’s son usually displayed.
His opinions were forceful, and a powerful core of stubbornness ran through
him. But he was also a principled man. He understood her and was willing to
offer respect in a way her father never had. There was much about him that
reminded her of Wentworth.
Anne and her husband loved one another. Could she
love the colonel, and he her? Did it matter, though?
Compatibility and friendship were far more
significant concerns. Those were the things that would last.
To discern their potential for those, she had to
spend time with him, something she could not do whilst lying abed. Where was
her abigail?
Could he afford for her to retain her lady’s maid?
Surely, he would not expect her to do without. Did he keep a valet? Perhaps her
maid could find out—yes, that was exactly what she must do.
As she dressed, she instructed her maid on seeking
the necessary information.
“And what if there should be questions about you,
Miss? How do you wish me to respond?” Her abigail tucked a wool shawl around
her shoulders.
How indeed?
Impressions ought to be managed most carefully,
especially with so much on the line. But then again, that was the game William
Elliot had
played with her. She worked her tongue against the bitter taste along the roof of
her mouth. “Offer the truth. I do not wish to have to keep track of what
details might be invented.”
“But it might not be complimentary.”
Fitzwilliam was too shrewd to believe something
too sugar-coated.
“Be as generous as possible, but do as I instruct.”
The maid curtsied and left, probably wondering
what had come over her mistress.
So did she.
Despite the howling winds and driving snow, warmth
suffused her. How long had it been since a man had paid attention to her, even
if it was in a most business-like fashion? She could even face the matrons of
the house with genuine equanimity today.
No wonder Anne had blossomed so under Wentworth’s
attentions. The sense of being wanted, or even possibly wanted, was positively
intoxicating.
She made her way into the morning room. Pray let
him be there!
A cheery fire on one side of the room and candles
on the other lit and warmed the small chamber. The yellow paper hangings and
gold damask curtains glowed in the light. A fragrant assortment of lovely,
freshly-baked things, ham, and potatoes filled the oblong table to nearly
overflowing.
Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightley, and Colonel Fitzwilliam
sat along one side. Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Knightley on the other both engaged in
some kind of decorative sewing. So very domestic.
Elizabeth hated sewing.
“Good morning, Miss Elliot.” Fitzwilliam rose and
bowed from his shoulders. “Do be good enough to sit here with us. We are
reviewing information pertaining to my new estate, and I was just thinking how
valuable a woman’s perspective would be.”
“I would be most honored.” She went to the chair
he held for her.
“Might I serve you some breakfast?
“That would be most kind.”
Odd, Knightley shot his wife a severe glance, but
she touched her chest and shook her head.
Fitzwilliam served her dainty, ladylike portions
of everything, just as he did the previous night. William Elliot had done that,
too, but never asked first. He simply heaped the nearest items on to her plate.
“My solicitor has sent me an inventory of the
house, but I am afraid it is a bit difficult for me to sort out exactly what to
make of it. Might you be able to assist us?” He slid several sheets of paper
toward her.
Hopefully, he did not think himself subtle.
But it was a reasonable test. She scanned the
neatly written pages.
“It is not possible to judge the condition of the
furnishing by this list, of course. It would appear this is a house more than
modest but less than grand. Seven bedrooms and a nursery, and several attic
rooms for servants. Not quite as much linen as perhaps there should be, but
enough to serve immediate needs. The kitchen seems well furnished, though your
benefactor seems to have had a fondness for drinking games.”
Fitzwilliam cocked his head and blinked. “How do
you gather that?”
She pointed to a line on the inventory. “When one
has a collection of puzzle jugs this large, one generally uses them for such
amusements.”
Knightley chuckled. “She has a good point. And she
is right. Markham was known for those games.”
“At least I know there is a ready cure for boredom
should it strike.” Fitzwilliam shrugged. “Have you any thoughts on the
necessary number of house servants to manage such a household?”
“In addition to your own man, a cook, housekeeper
and maid are essential. To begin, I think an additional maid of all work would
be necessary.”
“Mrs. Darcy suggests two such maids more
appropriate.” Fitzwilliam glanced at her, but she did not look up from her
sewing.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Darcy, for disagreeing. With
only a bachelor living in the house, I think a single maid sufficient,
particularly as many of the rooms are kept closed. If Colonel Fitzwilliam is of
a mind to do much entertaining, an additional girl might be hired as necessary.”
Mrs. Darcy lifted her gaze and nodded, eying
Fitzwilliam narrowly.
Father sauntered in, not a hair out of place. “I
had no idea you would break fast so early.”
“Country hours are on the whole earlier than those
kept in town,” Darcy muttered over his coffee cup.
“Fashionable hours can be kept anywhere.” He
seated himself beside Elizabeth. “What was this talk of servants I heard?”
“We were just noting different styles of
housekeeping and how they call for different allocations of servants.” Mrs.
Darcy returned to her stitchery.
Father
flicked his hand. “Disagreeable nuisances if you ask me. Always running off and
leaving the house understaffed. Seems there could be some way to better manage
the rubbish.”
Elizabeth blushed. He constantly insisted on hiring
more servants than they could afford. That drove her to tell him they had run
off when in fact she had to dismissed those for whom they could not find the
blunt to pay for.
If this conversation continued, she would probably
say something that she would regret very soon.
“Pray
excuse me.” She left the morning room.
Several steps down the corridor, she stopped. Away
from Father had been her only destination. Where to go now? She had just been
abominably rude to her hosts.
“Are you well, Miss Elliot?” Mrs. Knightley’s
staccato steps rang out behind her.
“Yes, thank you. Pray forgive me. I—” She bit her
knuckle—what could she say that did not imply criticism of her father?
“Keeping house for one’s father can be challenging
at times, can it not? Especially when he is fastidious in his own ways.” Mrs.
Knightley smiled, eyebrows raised.
“Yes, it can be. Thank you.” Mr. Woodhouse was
probably as demanding as a baronet, after his own peculiar fashion.
“What a pleasant thought. I would like that, thank
you.”
Mrs. Knightley curtsied and returned to the
morning room. Did she realize the great kindness she offered in simply allowing
Elizabeth a little privacy?
It would be to both their credit if she did, so
she would.
She wandered the dim hallway toward the music
room.
At least Colonel Fitzwilliam’s interrogation had
been an indirect one. The men were probably unaware of what had transpired
between them, but the ladies could hardly have missed it.
Had she passed his test, or was she supposed to
wholly agree with Mrs. Darcy? No doubt that woman could manage Pemberley to
Darcy’s impeccable standards, but she must have a household budget sufficient
to the task. Did she know anything about managing with economy and the
challenge of keeping up appearances whilst trying to retrench?
Did it really matter though? It was done. Right or
wrong, her answer had been given.
A scullery maid scurried past her to light the
fire in the music room. How thoughtful of Mrs. Knightley to send her.
Elizabeth
drew her shawl more tightly over her shoulders. Another threadbare patch broke open to
reveal the fabric of her gown. Thankfully her abigail was skilled at darning.
The music room’s chill air nipped at her cheeks
and fingertips. She sat at
the piano and laid her fingers on the keys. The maid had lit a pair of candles
beside the pianoforte, giving the room just enough light to feel intimate.
Too intimate for a concerto.
A soft ballad flowed from her fingertips. She closed her
eyes and allowed the music to drown out everything else in her heart and mind.
A throaty bass voice picked up the next measure
and added the lyrics of loss and longing. These were not empty words. He knew
of what he sang, so intense her fingers almost failed her.
The final chorus faded away, and she dabbed her
eyes with her shawl.
“You play very well. Would you play another?”
Fitzwilliam words hardly rose above a whisper.
His warm, fuzzy voice tickled the back of her
neck, sending tingles down her spine. That did little to help her remember
another piece of music.
He chuckled in her ear. No, that did not help
either. He reached around her to the keyboard, not embracing her and yet—
“Do you know this?” He played several measures.
Why did he choose that song?
A love song she dared not admit how much she
liked. The tingles along the back of her neck prevented her from nodding, so
she began to play his suggestion.
He pulled himself straighter and took a half-step
nearer. Near enough to feel his warmth behind her, and sang.
He sang well enough to entertain a drawing room,
but the feeling he placed in the song—
Oh! She fudged several notes.
He was revealing himself to her just as he had
required of her earlier. But the passion in his song was no show for an
audience. It reflected the man himself.
She swallowed hard. Such a man might require more
than polite interchanges over the dining room table.
Might he look at her as Wentworth did Anne?
Could she bear it if he did?
Her cheeks burned, and her heart raced in a tempo
at odds with their song.
She finished the ballad and launched into an aria
she had never dared play for an audience. The poignant strains were far too
intense for proper company. In the privacy of her own practice, she had sung
the words once or twice, but doing so was far too much for today.
He hummed behind her, an occasional word or phrase
breaking out.
He knew the lyrics! Prickles coursed down the back
of her neck.
As the final strains faded, she peeked up at him.
His eyes were closed above a peculiar smile.
“Listingbrook has a pianoforte,” he whispered.
It probably would not be polite to remind him that
she already knew. It had been listed in the inventory he had shown her.
About the author
Though Maria Grace has been writing fiction since she was ten
years old, those early efforts happily reside in a file drawer and are unlikely
to see the light of day again, for which many are grateful. After penning five
file-drawer novels in high school, she took a break from writing to pursue
college and earn her doctorate in Educational Psychology. After 16 years of
university teaching, she returned to her first love, fiction writing.
She has one husband and one grandson, two graduate degrees and
two black belts, three sons, four undergraduate majors, five nieces, is
starting her sixth year blogging on Random Bits of Fascination, has built seven
websites, attended eight English country dance balls, sewn nine Regency era
costumes, and shared her life with ten cats.
She can be contacted at:
10 comments:
I've always wondered what would happen if Elizabeth and Emma met! And poor Colonel Fitzwilliam, I can imagine his annoyance haha!
Fitzwilliam and Miss Elliott, really well written and I must read more, the depth of each person was really present in that except :)
Julie R
Can't wait to read the entire book! Love how the stories are all intertwined.
Love the premise and excerpt. Can't wait to read more.
I love this three-way mash-up sequel to P&P, Emma and Persuasion. Elizabeth Darcy and Emma Knightley are now married ladies with devoted husbands. Colonel Fitzwilliam has inherited an estate and is possibly looking for a wife with whom he could get along reasonably well. Enter the most unlikely prospect - Elizabeth Elliot, daughter of Sir Walter of Kellynch Hall. It's a lovely, if somewhat unexpected story in which Maria Grace works the same sort of magic on Elizabeth Elliot that she did on Lydia Bennet in an earlier work.
Having read the whole story, I can definitely recommend it to those who aren't lucky in the giveaway.
I love stories that has different characters intreact with each other from other books.
interesting premise
This sounds like a good one :)
I am looking forward to seeing how characters from some of my favorite books interact together.
Wow, such a romantic and mesmerising excerpt. I really hope Elizabeth Elliot and Colonel Fitzwilliam have a happy marriage just like Darcy & Elizabeth and Emma & Knightley.
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