By the author of the #1 bestselling Jane Austen sequel, Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

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FORMAT: Trade Paper
ISBN 13: 978-1-4022-0563-7

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Mr. and Mrs. Darcy have an exceedingly passionate marriage in this continuing saga of one of the most exciting, intriguing couples in the Jane Austen Literature.

As the Darcy’s raise their babies, enjoy their conjugal felicity and manage the great estate of Pemberley, the beloved characters from Jane Austen's original are joined by Linda Berdoll's imaginative new creations for a compelling, sexy and epic story guaranteed to keep you turning the pages and gasping with delight.

What people are saying about Mr. Darcy Takes A Wife, the bestselling Pride and Prejudice sequel.

"A breezy, satisfying romance." -Chicago Tribune

"While there have been other Pride and Prejudice sequels, this one, with its rich character development, has been the most enjoyable." -Library Journal

"Wild, bawdy and utterly enjoyable sequel." -Booklist

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Kirkus
Review Date: MARCH 15, 2006

There are Jane Austen fans, and there are Jane Austen spin-off fans. Sometimes they merge, but probably not while reading Berdoll's bawdy second novel about the Darcys (Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife, 2004).

In 1815, Elizabeth Darcy, ne Bennet, gives birth to twins just as Mr. Darcy returns to Pemberley Hall from the battlefield of Waterloo, where he'd gone to rescue his sister Georgiana, who was nursing her beloved cousin Fitzwilliam. Now, deeply wounding Darcy's sense of propriety, Georgiana confesses that a hasty marriage must be arranged; a weak and befuddled Fitzwilliam obliges only to discover that she has fibbed about her deflowerment, let alone her pregnancy. Elizabeth's sisters Jane and Lydia have their share of problems as well. Jane's husband Bingley has strayed, briefly but long enough to father a child. Meanwhile, England's post-war political and economic woes have endangered his finances. As for Lydia, her wicked husband Wickham is assumed dead on the battlefield. So when she finds herself inconveniently with child, Lydia finds a new husband, the relatively decent Major Kneebone, only to have Wickham reappear. Then there is Darcy's impossible Aunt Catherine, whose desire to unite the family fortune causes mischief minor and major, bordering on tragic. As for Elizabeth and Darcy, their big drama concerns the frequency and picturesque locales of their connubial relations. Derdoll spares no effort in describing period details, but the tone has little to do with Austen's restrained understated social commentary. The continual couplings echo 18th-century sexual ribaldry (and 21st-century romance novels) while the plot reads like a Dickens or Thackeray knock off, particularly in the downward spiral of wicked Wickham, whose capacity to bear and desert bastards must set some kind of literary record.

Not without charm, but too bloated and overheated to be enjoyed as light-hearted fun.

Library Journal - April 1
Berdoll, Linda. Darcy & Elizabeth: Nights and Days at Pemberley. Sourcebooks Landmark: Sourcebooks. May 2006. c.436p. ISBN 1-4022-0563-5 [ISBN 978-1-4022-0563-7]. pap. $16.95. F

Berdoll's sequel to Jane Austen's seminal Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife, took up where Austen's book left off, addressing world events-e.g., Waterloo, political unrest, the Corn Laws-and the physical passion and daily intimacies between husband and wife. Darcy and Elizabeth continues the saga, following the Bennet sisters through the trials and tribulations of parenthood and the deaths of certain family members. Purists will take exception to Berdoll's language, which, while it captures Austen's ironic flavor, is sprinkled with anachronisms; her characters, however, are dead on. Austen fans will delight in learning more about Darcy and Elizabeth's relationship and will find themselves intrigued by all of Austen's original characters and enchanted by the new ones. Cynthia Johnson, Cary Memorial Lib., Lexington, MA






Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
—John Donne

To all the world the month of June in the year of our Lord, 1815 would come to be known as the season of Waterloo.
To the members of the Darcy household, it would be called that, but not remembered as such. Far too many other
events of greater personal importance to them had transpired to remember it so simply. 

Although France was the conquered, England paid a harsh price for its victory. The county of Derbyshire was not immune to that heavy toll. So vast were the repercussions, they were felt even within the usually impenetrable walls of
Pemberley. Lives were lost, marriages brought about, and babies born all in the space of a few months.

Having weathered these many woes within the bosom of her very own family, Elizabeth Darcy felt exquisitely compensated by the two babes nestled in her arms.  Indeed, that her husband had survived war, quarantine, brigands, and pestilence and returned to her whole was all she desired.What wiles he employed and whose auspices he availed himself of as he trekked through the battlefields and drawing rooms of France to accomplish his mission of rescuing his sister was of no importance to her.

Of even less concern was that the emissary he chose to send word to her of his progress was a woman with whom he
had once shared uncommon intimacy. Indeed, when at last he had returned to his wife’s waiting arms, all question of his connexion with that beautiful woman was forgot. At least at first, but not for long.

Of even less importance was whether George Wickham was actually dead and buried or was gallivanting about the Continent.

Whilst Wickham’s fate remained unknown, there were other vexations. What with Mrs. Darcy labouring to withstand a
growing curiosity (approaching to eclipse the Alps in dimension) as to just what went on between her husband and his
fetching French emissary, and Mr.Darcy labouring with equal vigour to withstand a desire for his nursing wife aroused to a similar degree, a dance of uncommon peculiarity commenced.

It extended well into the next year.

Chapter 2:  Mr. Darcy’s Dilemma

In the year ’15, Fitzwilliam Darcy was five years more than thirty.Yet, save for a smattering of grey begging to invade his side-whiskers, neither his figure nor bearing had been influenced unfavourably by time or its toll.

The horrific ordeal he had undergone to retrieve his sister from the gaping maw of war had altered neither his stately
carriage nor the composed hauteur of his countenance.  He was still a tall, handsome-featured man of good leg. However,his impressive aspect had recently begun to be worried by a single fault.

To the detriment of his countenance, the imposing manner he had struggled with such resolve to vanquish in order to win Elizabeth Bennet’s hand had resurfaced with a vengeance. Indeed, never was a chin more imperious, the turn of a
countenance more proud. It was as if he once again stood, with all arrogance and disdain, at that country dance in Meryton absolutely refusing to dance. Granted, this supercilious turn was little noticed by those outside his immediate circle. He had always been reticent, but while he had once used a shield of arrogance to defend his social discomfort, this was an unease of a different sort.

On a fine day in autumn, decorum forced Mr. Darcy to engage in polite discourse with a gathering of neighbours. As was his habit, he stood transfixed as a fastidiously tailored statue with both hands in graceful repose behind an extraordinarily straight back. As Master of Pemberley Hall and a generous portion of Derbyshire County, that he was untitled grandson of an earl and not truly a member of the aristocracy was rendered entirely irrelevant to those who kept account of such matters. And, as a man who understood his position compleatly, his attitude rarely altered upon these public occasions. In a stance similar to one that might have been taken by a sovereign in audience with mere vassals, he presented himself by resting his weight on one foot, the other slightly foremost. Although in this posture his highly polished boots were seen to great advantage, it was not an air—it was a statement of eminence.

The statement of societal eminence was overt, but with this stance came an additional announcement—one quite explicit. (The level of design employed in this presentation, however, can only be conjectured.) For from those tall boot-tops up-welled a pair of legs bearing the unmistakable muscularity particular to one who devoted a good many hours to riding his horse. Moreover, his fashionable moleskin breeches bore an unambiguous bulge which did not originate (unlike those of many fashionable young bloods) from a carefully wadded shirt-tail. Given all that and the casual grace with which he moved, bearing testament to the hours he also spent with the foil, there could be absolutely no supposition that concurrent to holding the offices of wealth and leisure was he any part of a fop.

The only visible evidence of the horrors he had encountered upon his bold excursion the summer past were those silver threads infiltrating his side-whiskers. Behind the backs of hands, those few cynics who were unimpressed by such fortitude speculated upon whether Mr. Darcy had been fool-hardy or simply barking mad. It was of little importance to him that his actions were believed to be in any way heroic or himself thought valiant in undertaking them. Indeed, he would have cared little had he heard the twittering, but as it was, Mr. Darcy’s ears heard little of the lowing of his company. They were recovering yet from a near-miss by a blunderbuss. As a man whose fortune was exceeded only by his pride, it had long been his study to avoid any weaknesses which might expose him to ridicule. Hence, this loss of hearing was a closely guarded confidence.

Herein, providence did bestow some fortune. This, because for the whole of his life Mr. Darcy had been understood to
regard idle conversation with undue wariness.  When forced to converse, he often did so in monosyllables. It was nothing to him to inhabit a conversation in which he spoke not a word for ten minutes together. It was said that he would but utter a word when he could not safely escape with a nod. A nod, offered with a soupçon of cunning, said volumes—particularly when one heard little of the conversation.Whether he would have had a comment had he been privy to just what was said, one can only hazard a guess. In all likelihood, however, he would not.

For Waterloo and its aftermath still hung heavily in the thoughts of the entire population of the land. In the months thereafter, little else occupied general discourse save when any member of the Darcy clan was within earshot. Indeed, although absolute facts were spare, gossip was rampant surrounding Mr. Darcy’s pursuit particularly, and his family’s activities in general, during those months. It was not that their neighbours despised rumour-mongering any less than most folk, it was simply a matter of possession. What else is one to do with gossip but pass it on? Indeed, what tale is so compleat without it takes a bend or two?

All of this prattle was not unbeknownst to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. That was the true impetus for them to endure society’s demands to see and be seen in the difficult months that followed Darcy’s return. They knew it was mandatory not to surrender to the urge to close ranks. The death of Elizabeth’s father granted them at least a year’s reprieve, but they dared not take it. That would have been a capitulation. In their absence in society every rumour that abounded would have been repeated and exaggerated.  The trip from scuttlebutt to outright scandal was but a short leap.With every fibre of their beings Mr. and Mrs. Darcy abhorred this pretence of normalcy, but defence of the Darcy name demanded it. With all that, upon the occasion of such a gathering as the one they hosted that day, it was not in any way regarded as a party.

Regardless of the occasion, it was Darcy’s habit to claim a place upon his lawn overlooking a particularly pretty prospect. It was only one of the many in his rather estimable estate, but it served a specific duty. Darcy was only able to tolerate the toadying by looking beyond the genuflection of kith and kin and taking in the view. (It was an oft held defence, for Mr. Darcy excited a degree of deference in the county of Derbyshire comparable to that of royalty.) The few neighbours, who competed for audience before him exhibiting an adequate level of sycophancy believed compulsory toward a man of his station, were primarily men-folk. Mrs. Darcy kept the ladies at bay with the proffering of ices and exhibiting the considerable charms of their younglings beneath the vine-covered loggia that adorned Pemberley’s east wing.  Therefore, amidst the masculine enclave came the predictable masculine talk—crops, politics, and the weather. Although there was an abundance of discord to explore upon all these topics, it was Sunday afternoon, and this assemblage dared not offend the Sabbath with less than geniality. And Darcy, with inherent
magnanimity, endeavoured to bid consideration to all, but favour to none. He bowed with such grace and nodded with such sufficiently aloof benevolence—precisely as he would had he heard every word—not a soul suspected anything amiss.

Yet another sense beyond the auditory Darcy protected by claiming that view with proprietary vigour. He protected his sight as well. For thus engaged, he kept his gaze from alighting upon his beloved wife. At one time, when forced to suffer society it had been his habit for his eyes to seek her out as if she were some beacon in the night. The very sight of her soothed not only his manners, but his soul. Of late, that device had been little employed. He was quite unaware that this failure allowed his guests to note that his temper was far less amenable since his return from whatever covert mission had taken him to the Low Countries. And that fanned further speculation about the particulars. Although it would have been a great disappointment to the scandalmongers, his appearance of being somewhat out of spirits was nothing as dramatic as having “been to the wars.”

It was quite true; in company he was often out of temper since his return. However life-altering the throes of war had been, those memories alone did not ignite his pique.A large part of it sprung from a far less noble origin—the one ruled not by his heart, but a place a bit south and, for men at least, an often more influential region—his aching loins.

Hence, as the gentlemen of Derbyshire bobbed and weaved in deference to him as only free-born Englishmen could, little did they suppose that beneath that wall of hauteur, their dignified host struggled to kennel a most undignified hunger.

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