The Golden Apples of the Sun Read online

  The Golden Apples of the Sun

  Ivy May Stuart

  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.

  The Golden Apples of the Sun

  Copyright © 2018 J.M. Robertson

  All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any portion thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information P.O. Box 95301, Waterkloof, Pretoria, 0145

  Dedication

  For Memory

  “Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a

  little dust under our feet.”

  The Celtic Twilight: Faerie and Folklore.

  W. B. Yeats

  The Song of Wandering Aengus

  W. B. Yeats 1865 - 1939

  I went out to the the hazel wood,

  Because a fire was in my head,

  And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

  And hooked a berry to a thread;

  And when white moths were on the wing,

  And moth-like stars were flickering out,

  I dropped the berry in a stream

  And caught a little silver trout

  When I had laid it on the floor

  I went to blow the fire a-flame,

  But something rustled on the floor,

  And someone called me by my name

  It had become a glimmering girl

  With apple blossom in her hair

  Who called me by my name and ran

  And faded through the brightening air.

  Though I am old with wandering

  Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

  I will find out where she has gone,

  And kiss her lips and take her hands;

  And walk among long dappled grass,

  And pluck till time and times are done,

  The silver apples of the moon,

  The golden apples of the sun.

  Chapter 1

  “The world does not turn without moments of grace.

  Who cares how small.”

  Colum McCann

  Longbourn 1812

  “Ah! What does he know! So much of what he says is vague. I wonder if one can rely on his figures…a great difference between the one hundred and twenty pounds he mentions earlier and the six hundred pounds here,” she said out loud to no one in particular, her voice filled with frustration.

  “Lizzy. Lizzy, where are you? Who are you talking to?” A youthful voice rang out clearly across the field and a bright yellow ribbon could be seen bobbing behind a dividing hedgerow that screened the rest of its owner from view.

  The young lady, sitting cross-legged on the grass on the near side of the hedge, laid down her book with a mighty sigh and answered, “I’m here, Kitty. I was just talking to myself. What is it now?”

  “Mama says that you are to come inside immediately. I am to tell you that if you are lying in the grass reading again, you will be restricted to the garden and the house for a full week this time. She has lost patience with the number of dresses that you have ruined and she also said to tell you that if Martha finds grass stains on one more gown, there will be no morning walks and certainly no visits to the circulating library,” replied the young speaker, ending her speech on a triumphant note.

  “You don’t have to sound so joyful about it,” retorted the young woman, standing and impatiently tugging at her dress. Then, twisting at the waist, she tried examining the back of it, but a minute later had given up the attempt. She shrugged her shoulders then paused, and looking at the book in her hand, bundled it up in her shawl and concealed it carefully under the lowest branches of the hedge.

  “Lizzy!”

  “Yes, I’m coming Kitty,” the young woman called back irritably as she raised slender arms and attempted to re-pin the long curl lying loose against her neck. Grass stains or no, she made a graceful picture, her bare arms aloft in the sunshine as she walked towards the stile at the end of the hedge. Once there, it seemed to take her just a second to climb over and disappear from view.

  The minutes passed. The field lay silent and still. A cloud drifted slowly across the sun, throwing the land into momentary shadow. Then, as the light flooded back, the full-throated song of a chaffinch poured from the hedgerow and a second later, a flash of white on wings as the bird rose into the air.

  On the far side of the field a man stood silently, the dim light filtering down on him through the trees. He shifted on the spot and absent-mindedly ran his hand down the rough bark of the tree next to him, his eyes never moving from a particular point in the dazzling sunlight ahead.

  He had been on a walk through the woods when the hunter in him had detected a small movement and he had frozen in his present position. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the daylight ahead, he had been able to make out the shape of a small, dark-haired young lady, sitting with her head bent in concentration over the book that lay in her lap. With her blue gown pooled gracefully around her, she had made an attractive picture against the brightness of the grass.

  She had been oblivious to his presence and he, having reason to avoid company, might have easily retreated but on an odd impulse, had remained to watch, keeping silently to the shadows. Now the field was deserted and there was nothing more to observe. Still he lingered amongst the trees but it was the book on the ground next to the hedge that held his attention now. He wasn’t sure why but he itched to know its title.

  Tentatively stepping forward into the sunlight, he crossed the grass and approached the hedge under which it lay. As he lifted the bundle from its position, the silken material fell away, freeing a faint scent of lavender and roses and exposing the pale vellum of the cover.

  He turned the book over in his hand and, as he read the title, his eyebrows rose involuntarily.

  ___________________________

  A few hours later, Fitzwilliam Darcy was seated at the dining table across from his good friend, Charles Bingley. The light streaming in the window revealed that both men, from their carefully disordered locks to their tailored coats, tight buckskins and shining boots, were gentlemen of fashion.

  Where they differed was in the particulars. Darcy was dark haired and Bingley fair. Bingley was less formidable in both feature and build than Darcy, who was taller and broader of shoulder; but it was in demeanour that the two men were really unalike. Charles Bingley was friendliness personified. His eyes shone with good humour and kindness. If he had had a tail, he would have wagged it. Darcy, on the other hand, had the look of a man who knew himself to be important. It was there in his upright posture, the hard line of his mouth and the gravity of the gaze that glinted from under his lowered lids.

  Surprisingly, these two very different men had been close friends since their university days. Theirs was an association founded on Bingley’s sincere admiration of his friend’s intelligence and experience and on Darcy’s unshakeable belief in Bingley’s loyalty and integrity. A shared interest in the gentlemanly sports of riding, hunting and fishing had further cemented their bond. However, neither of them had ever acknowledged the most important factor of their relationship: namely that Bingley’s willingness to take advice harmonised well with Darcy’s masterful nature. It had certainly played a role just recently, when Bingley had - with Darcy’s approval - taken up the lease of Netherfield, a country property just outside of Meryton: a market town lying an easy distance from London.

  The district surrounding Meryton was a quiet backwater and had John Morris (the previous owner of Netherfield Hall) survived the Battle of Roliça, it is doubtful that anything would have occurred to disturb the esta
blished order in that sleepy hollow. But in the year 1808 he had, in the course of carrying out his patriotic duty, been shot and had died of his injuries. That he had been delivering a message from the Duke of Wellington to the Portuguese Command at the time and had been subsequently mentioned in the despatches, added to his stature and the sense of loss felt by all in the immediate district: for during his life, Morris had been a quiet, correct gentleman whom his more elderly neighbours had frequently held up to their sons as the perfect example of young manhood.

  There being no heir, Morris’s grieving mother had moved away to Bath with his sister and put the family property up for rent. The lease had been taken up by Bingley who - having no idea of the esteem in which his predecessor had been held - had met his new neighbours with his usual unconcerned show of friendliness and charm. His status as a wealthy, single gentleman and holder of the largest house in the district would probably have overcome any prejudice there might have been against him; but it soon became clear that he was liked for himself when every last one of his gentlemen visitors (even those without daughters) extended an invitation to him to take part in the seasonal hunting parties that were to be held on their properties.

  It was this pile of invitations that the two men had just been discussing. However, Darcy had only half a mind on the conversation. He had appeared to listen with interest, but had all the while been looking for an opportunity to lead his friend gently towards a discussion that might reveal the identity of the young woman that he had stumbled across while walking that morning. Bingley’s next remark spared him the necessity.

  “Darcy, I hope you won’t feel that I’m deserting you this afternoon. I intend to call on our nearest neighbours, the Bennet family at Longbourn. Theirs is the property just beyond the wood. Of course you are welcome to accompany me,” Bingley said.

  The invitation was an afterthought. Quite obviously Bingley did not expect a positive response, but Darcy was to surprise him.

  “Well,” that gentleman replied, slicing thoughtfully into a particularly tender piece of beef as he spoke, “if you would like the company; I could do with the distraction.”

  Bingley looked a little surprised at this and then said rather hesitantly, “I should be delighted, but I must warn you that the man has four daughters - three of marriageable age. Ten to one, they will all be setting their caps at you and I know how annoying you find that.”

  Darcy took a long sip of ale before responding. “No matter how countrified or ignorant they might turn out to be, Bingley, I am not such a poor creature that I cannot manage to ward off the advances of a few young women for an hour or so. But what made you decide to pay these neighbours a visit today?”

  “While you were out, Sir William Lucas called by again with an invitation to an assembly to be held in Meryton. In passing, I mentioned not having met the owner of Longbourn: the neighbouring estate. He told me – rather hesitantly, I thought - that it was a man by the name of Bennet. Now, if you remember when we first viewed this property, the agent informed me that the land around Netherfield had once belonged to Longbourn. However, it was sold off quite a while before Netherfield Hall was built, and you know that’s more than fifty years ago now. It can’t be that the current owner of Longbourn still harbours regrets over its loss; yet Sir William told me that Bennet would be unlikely to call here and pay his respects.”

  Bingley paused as he searched for the words to frame his central idea and then said, “I find that I am curious about that. Why would the man avoid a new neighbour, particularly one who is a bachelor? At the very least, Bennet must surely be interested in finding husbands for his unmarried daughters.”

  “And so you will warn me against this Mr. Bennet and yet pay him a visit yourself, ignoring the risk posed by four unattached daughters, or the possibility that you might be unwelcome in their father’s home! Sometimes you amaze me Bingley, but then I remember how single-minded you can be on occasion, especially as regards women.” Darcy smiled and shook his head. “I would happily sit back and let you entangle yourself once again, but boredom makes me curious. I too would like to explore this mystery that you have outlined.”

  Bingley returned this disrespectful observation with his usual mild smile, privately wondering at Darcy’s sudden determination to undertake a duty that would ordinarily have him electing to stay at home with a book. But Darcy had not finished his cross-questioning and continued speaking in much the same droll tone:

  “Satisfy my interest on one matter at least, Bingley: Am I supposed to believe that this visit is only driven by curiosity? It is not possible that you are once again hanging out for a wife?”

  “I’m not as opposed to settling down as you seem to be, Darcy.”

  Darcy smiled faintly. “That’s because you don’t have my disadvantages. There is no mystery as to who my wife will be and I am certainly not champing at the bit to tie myself down to someone who has been an invalid for the better part of fifteen years.

  “So matters have been formalised between you and your cousin then? Or is it still just an understanding?”

  Darcy scowled. “As my Aunt Catherine is so fond of reminding me, we have been meant for each other since infancy. According to her it was my mother’s dearest wish that Anne and I should marry. I must admit that a few years ago I thoroughly resented the situation, but recently I have become more resigned. And as it stands now, I have very little choice in the matter.”

  “To be forced to make an offer without affection in this day and age does seem a little harsh.”

  Darcy sighed. “You don’t realise your good fortune, Bingley. This, unfortunately, is the lot of families who have always had money, influence and property. People envy us for our status and possessions, but in truth the more a family has, the more it has to do to retain it. In my family, arranged marriages have been the primary way that we have held onto and increased our wealth. In this case the Fitzwilliams - my mother’s family - would lose the considerable inheritance that my cousin Anne has from her father if she marries outside of the family. If she doesn’t marry at all, her inheritance reverts to a distant de Bourgh relative on her death. My uncle and Anne’s mother, my Aunt Catherine, would like to avoid that and because Anne and I are close in age, they have always looked to me to marry her.”

  Bingley looked appropriately sympathetic as his friend continued.

  “To be honest, I have been putting it off: hoping that my cousin Richard might step forward. You know that he is a second son and has a relatively small inheritance. Marriage to Anne would be ideal for him. However, as long as the war continues he is reluctant to sell out of the army and just recently Anne’s health weakened even further, giving us all a scare. My uncle has since made it clear that I have delayed beyond what is reasonable. Apparently there have been discussions. They all feel that I now owe it to the family to finalise things. I still haven’t committed myself, but I think that it can’t be put off beyond next year.”

  Chapter 2

  “In dreams begin responsibilities.”

  W.B. Yeats

  At four o’clock (a time that both men judged to be eminently suitable for paying an afternoon call) Darcy and Bingley turned in at the two stone pillars that marked the entrance to the estate of Longbourn. Their ancient appearance and the name ‘Longbourn’, with its archaic Germanic roots, suggested to Darcy that the origins of this particular property lay far back in British history: a surmise that was further supported by the position of the estate, being close by a hamlet of the same name.

  Their passage through the hamlet had been marked by curious faces appearing at almost every cottage window. In one instance, an old woman had even wandered out onto her front steps to examine them more closely, but strangely there had been no response when they politely lifted their hats to her as they passed. It was obvious that these were insular people and that visitors to their village were few and far between. Their attitude was a familiar one to Darcy, whose own tenants were inclined to be somewhat
standoffish.

  However, once inside the gates of the estate, Darcy found himself quite charmed by a tranquil vista of large trees, standing majestically in the midst of sunlit lawns. Closer to hand, informal plantings of both wild and cultivated flowers formed a soft border to the winding gravel path on which the two men rode and as they rounded the last bend, they stopped involuntarily to admire the picture before them.

  Longbourn, a rambling manor house, was as old as Darcy had expected it might be. It was made of roughly hewn stone and with its assortment of quaint chimneys and mullioned windows; it seemed to rise organically from behind a series of more formally planned beds, in which a profusion of flowers, shrubs and trees grew.

  “I must confess that this uncontrived style comes as a sweet relief to the eye. One gets so tired of the strict symmetry and predictability of the usual Italian and Greek designs,” said Bingley, looking at Darcy for agreement.

  “Yes, in this case, time and a lack of planning have had a haphazard but quite delightful outcome,” agreed his friend, urging his horse forward.

  Closer to the house, the gravel driveway curved around a circular flower bed. The two men dismounted in front of the small portico that sheltered the front door. It was here that Darcy became aware of the sound of female voices coming from an open window above. He strained to hear if one might possibly belong to ‘Lizzy’, the young lady he had glimpsed earlier that morning, but just then a man came out from what appeared to be stables to the rear of the house. He was wiping his hands on his apron as he approached.

  “Is your master receiving visitors?” enquired Bingley.

  “Well, he be at home. As to the rest, you’ll have to be asking Mrs Hill,” the man said, jerking his head towards the front door. He took a set of reins in either hand and led their horses away without any further comment.