You never know where a life of purpose may lead...
Master storyteller Sharon Lathan explores a fascinating and unique aspects of the Regency period, when the British Empire offered the young noblemen of the day promising adventures all over the world.
While Fitzwilliam Darcy is enjoying an idyllic childhood at Pemberley, his vibrant and beloved uncle, Dr. George Darcy, becomes one of the most renowned young physicians of the day. Determined to do something more with his life than cater to a spoiled aristocracy. George accepts a post with the British East India Company and travels in search of a life of meaning and purpose.
When George Darcy returns to Pemberley after many years abroad, the drama and heartbreak of his travels offer a fascinating glimpse into a gentleman's journey of self-discovery and romance.
Praise for Sharon Lathan's Darcy Saga:
"Exquisitely told with a brilliant flourish of language and so rich in detail."—Rundpinne.com
"Romantic...engaging...It's easy to see why Lathan's Darcy Saga is so successful. This is one sequel you won't want to miss."—Austenprose
"Lathan proves she is indeed a master at writing both Regency romance and Austen continuations."—Read All Over Reviews
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About the Author
Sharon Lathan is the author of the bestselling Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy: Two Shall Become One, and Loving Mr. Darcy: Journeys Beyond Pemberley. In addition to her writing, she works as a Registered Nurse in a Neonatal ICU. She resides with her family in Hanford, California.
Read an Excerpt
A Most Beloved Uncle
Elizabeth Darcy opened the well-oiled door slowly, hesitating outside as her eyes scanned the room not stepped foot in for over a month. Tears welled as her gaze lingered over the odd but familiar objects, sadness mounting as she noted how many of the once-shiny instruments and immaculate tabletops were now covered with a thin layer of dust.
"No need to lurk without, dearest. Please come in."
"I thought you might wish for more time alone," she replied as she swung the door wider and crossed the threshold. "I am overcome with a renewed rush of grief so can only imagine the state of your emotions."
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat on a worn leather wingback chair. On the floor in front of his knees was a massive old trunk. It was scraped, patched in places with glued pieces of cloth and leather, dented on the right side, rusted along the edges of the metal bracings, and missing the strap to lift the lid. Yet despite the evidence of hard use and age, the trunk was structurally intact. Darcy's hands were spread on the top beside a brass plate etched with the words George Darcy, Physician.
"This trunk was a gift to him from my parents and grandfather," Darcy whispered.
Lizzy knew this, of course, George having told them the story of when it was gifted to him. She also knew that her husband simply needed to talk and was not seeking a conversation. She sat on the ottoman that had been shoved aside when the trunk was dragged over, folded her hands into her lap, and waited.
"I haven't been in here since..." He swallowed and blinked several times before continuing. "I felt it was time, but now I am not so sure." He ran his fingers over the plate bearing the name of his beloved uncle, fighting the tears not because he was embarrassed to shed them in front of his wife—goodness knows he had done so often enough over the long years of their marriage, especially recently—but because he wanted to control himself so he could attend to the task at hand. Inhaling raggedly, he resumed, "She said that George no longer kept his medical supplies in his trunk, which makes sense, as he had the cupboards here in his hospital and the smaller traveling cases. Apparently he kept his personal memoirs in here instead. I had no idea he wrote in a journal."
Darcy looked up at his wife, a hint of a smile on his face. "I am not sure why I am surprised. It is something we Darcys do. Me, my father, and grandfather. My mother did as well, although not diligently. Alexander does, and a smattering of other Darcys from the past. The glass cases in the library are proof of the habit. Yet somehow I doubt any of our dry narratives of estate management, antics of our children, or London social events will compare with his adventures. She told me it was George's wish for me to read them and then display them with the others in the library."
He reached into his waistcoat pocket, removed a key, and unlocked the lid, which pushed open with the faintest of squeaks. Lizzy scooted closer and leaned in just as Darcy did, both gazing into the trunk with jaws dropping.
The trunk was filled with bound books in dozens of varying sizes and types of covers. Not an inch of space wasted, the books neatly stacked into piles with dimension the qualifier rather than chronology. A journal dating 1803 sat on top of one from 1782 and beside one from 1838. There were easily seventy separate books, a few thick, spanning the bulk of one man's life.
"No wonder the damn thing was so heavy. I nearly dislocated my arms dragging it the four feet to this chair. Reading all of these will take a year!"
"Then I suggest we get started. Any ideas?"
"She said that the first was on the top. This one here, I am guessing." Darcy picked up one that was fraying at the binding and opened it gingerly. "1779."
"Has she read them all?"
"I believe so, or most of them at least. She is his wife, after all, and they shared everything. I am not sure about his children, but if not, they will want to. And for certain these will require, and deserve, a case specifically made to house them."
He turned to the first page, silent for a minute as they studied the childish but familiar cursive of a man they loved deeply and would achingly miss forever. The raw pain of their loss made the first words scrawled by a then twelve-year-old George Darcy especially poignant.
Father insisted I start keeping a journal. He said it will help ease my grief if I air out my feelings. I have stared at this stupid book for a month now. I think the blasted thing is mocking me. Then he asked me if I had written in it yet and you know how it is when Father looks at you in that certain way of his that makes you feel guilty even if you haven't done anything wrong, although usually I have, so it is even worse. That look. So I said no and he just nodded, and for a second I thought that would be the end of it, but then he said, "Write in the book, George." So here I am. Writing to you as if you were alive and I were talking to you, which I do all the time anyway. Does that make me crazy? Maybe. I don't care though. So I'll do what Father bids, since the consequences of another lashing don't make my rear end all that happy. Here goes...