Can
you imagine Mrs. Darcy taking a shine to you and requesting that you call her
Lizzy? What
an honor that would be! That’s what happens to my narrator, Sofia-Elisabete,
the sixteen-year-old daughter of Colonel Fitzwilliam (his love-child from
Portugal), who is mentored by Lizzy in all things domestic. Sofia greatly admires
Lizzy, thinking her perfect, and wants to know everything about her and her
children, as do we. If you haven’t met my character Sofia yet, she is a
sparkling young lady with a distinctive voice. Passionate, funny, and brave,
she is, unfortunately, trouble prone. Abandoned by her mother during the
Peninsular War, she grew up in an orphanage, until Colonel Fitzwilliam found
her when she was four, gave her his surname, and brought her up English.
Just
how difficult is it to be married to Fitzwilliam Darcy? I have come to believe that Darcy doesn’t
change completely, despite Elizabeth’s ongoing attempts to influence him for
the better. So even though we see Darcy become more sociable and less prideful
at the end of Pride and Prejudice, I wondered if, nevertheless, he still
can be insufferable at times? I’m sure that he is. My story takes place during
one of the hottest summers on record in England, shortly after the financial
crisis and panic of 1825 when many banks closed. Darcy is not in a good mood,
to be sure.
What
is the tension that Sofia observes in the Darcy marriage? In my story I explore the clash of men’s
and women’s spheres as it may have happened post-Pride and Prejudice.
Lizzy has come into her own as the powerful mistress of Pemberley. But does
Darcy always get the last word in matters of import? Sofia has been invited to
spend the summer in a sun-soaked Pemberley, where everything seems perfect and
the days are easy. Soon, however, she discovers that not all is right at
Pemberley House. She has her own secrets, too, which get tangled up with those
of Lizzy’s.
Intriguing,
mysterious, introspective—this highly immersive dramedy, Something About
Lizzy, will keep you riveted until the end. I hope you enjoy it!
Robin
Elizabeth Kobayashi
Book
Blurb
To be mistress of Pemberley is
certainly something…
Derbyshire,
Summer 1826.
Sofia-Elisabete, the sixteen-year-old daughter of Colonel Fitzwilliam, is
initiated into the idyllic, genteel world of her cousin-in-law, Elizabeth
Darcy, mistress of Pemberley and mother of five. Lizzy, as she prefers to be
called by her intimates, seems happily established in domestic country life
and, naturally, still in love with Mr. Darcy. With beguiling candor, Sofia
narrates how the two ladies quickly become close friends—despite the misgivings
of Sofia’s father.
…but
there are secrets in all families, you know.
Soon,
however, Sofia witnesses the trials of parenthood and signs of simmering
conflict in Lizzy’s traditional marriage to Mr. Darcy. She senses that things
are not quite right. The mystery deepens when others reveal tidbits concerning
a connection between Lizzy and Sofia’s uncle, Lord Scapeton, who has sorely
wronged Sofia herself in the past. As the ladies’ lives and secrets intertwine
that long, hot, sultry summer, Sofia discovers something about Lizzy that
threatens to upend their newly blossoming friendship.
This novella can be read as a standalone
or as part of the series, Sofia-Elisabete Stories.
Excerpt
(In
this scene Darcy is trying to make up with Elizabeth, with a little help from
his relations.)
Darcy
promptly sat down at the French writing-desk to compose a letter to his wife.
He gave it to the colonel, who read it aloud:
“‘Be
not alarmed, dearest Elizabeth, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension
of its containing any repetition of my sentiments which were so upsetting to
you, namely, that while the nursery may be a mother’s proper sphere, the
education of a son afterwards is that of the father’s.’”
The
colonel made a face. “Coz! Have you not yet learned how to write a proper
love-letter to your own wife?”
“I
wish to know what is wrong about it,” Darcy said in an offended tone.
“Only
you could compose something that is so—both agreeable and disagreeable.” The
colonel dipped the pen, and commenced to cross out.
This
upset Darcy. “I object to that deletion! The paragraph in question was one of
my best.”
“It
is one of your worst,” responded the colonel, and proceeded to rewrite it.
I
couldn’t help but be amused by their attempts. Why must a love-letter be so
complicated? Gazing at my husband, I said, “My Mr. Munro writes the best
love-letters; they come from his heart, and are engraved upon mine. And he
always recites a few lines of poetry for me.”
Kitt,
happily blushing, kissed the palm of my hand.
The
colonel turned to Darcy. “A few lines of Byron’s should work—hey, Darcy?”
“Absolutely
not,” was the firm reply.
“Keats
might be a good choice.” This from Kitt.
“Who?”
the other two inquired.
He
explained, “John Keats, a young romantic poet who died five years ago, wrote
poems that are highly expressive and passionate.”
“Oh,
another modern sensualist,” grumbled Darcy.
“Hmm,
but a little sensuality just might dazzle your ‘Mrs. Darcy’ into becoming your
‘Elizabeth’ again,” advised the colonel. “You will not find a suitable love
poem written by a rationalist.”
After
Kitt recited a few lines of Keats, the colonel chose: “Of love, your
kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine.”
The
letter done, and Darcy tolerably satisfied, I said good-night to everyone, for
I was suddenly sleepy. “Tomorrow is a new day, Cousin Darcy,” I reminded him,
stifling a yawn.
He
replied, “Then I shall see you and everyone on the morrow, and hopefully Mrs.
Darcy as well.”
But
he didn’t see her, not until two long days afterwards.
* * *
Darcy
fussed with his appearance. He scrutinized himself in the great hall mirror,
arranging his hair, straightening his fob, adjusting his light brown coat over
his embroidered waistcoat. He seemed entirely anxious. Twice he brusquely asked
the butler where in heaven’s name his children were, for the coaches stood in
readiness at the door.
Lizzy,
you see, had responded archly to his love-letter.
Dear
Mr. Darcy,
You say
you love me for a thousand reasons. Yet, I can think of only seven that you
have mentioned in the past, including my fine eyes and lively mind. Why do I
suspect that someone helped you to write this letter? Was it desperation on
your part, or perhaps a concession, heated as you were by wine? My “eyes
divine,” indeed!
Your
bemused wife,
Mrs.
Darcy
P.S.
Please refrain from frightening my house-maid.
“You
are doubly in the suds now, Darcy,” said the colonel, when he read the letter.
“Confound the fellow Keats! We should never have quoted him.”
Darcy
disagreed. “Her letter has given me the courage to regain her respect. If she
had truly thought that I was absolutely, irrevocably hopeless as a husband and
father, she would have been frank about it.” Then, under his breath, “A road
more rugged we have traveled before.”
To
the Dower House we went. We took two coaches this time—the Darcy boys and their
father in one, the rest of us in the other. The boys’ tutor and the girl’s
governess both sat on the box. Everyone seemed in a festive mood, as though
something exciting were about to happen.
Lizzy
stood waiting outside the Dower House, just beyond its carriage sweep. As she
stepped forward, I gasped a little. She, the married belle, was a bewitching
sight in a golden-yellow gown cut low, the tops of the lace-bordered sleeves
baring her shoulders. Her Leghorn hat, trimmed in blue ribbon, was plumed in a
bright hue to match her gown. A red peacock butterfly fluttered hither and
thither, attracted by the tall feathers, to complete her costume.
The
colonel whistled low. “I was wrong, Darcy. Those lines of Keats’s helped.”
Something
About Lizzy is now available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited
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