#extra edition

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Front page of an extra edition of the Daily News on May 9, 1937. Lakehurst is not far from the city.

Photo: NY Daily News

[dionysiaproductions]

Today at Pemberley, 17/06/2026:

Today the skies over Pemberley were full of clouds. Sporadic rain has made the extended gravel drive a muddy trek for lorries, but deliveries continue to arrive in preparation for Jane Darcy’s wedding this weekend.

The youngest Darcy son, Ben is home from university for the summer. He’s been forced into helping Jane with her last minute wedding planning as their mother is fully occupied today by a historical society meeting.

Despite Ben’s assistance being grudgingly supplied, they efficiently crossed tasks off Jane’s to-do list. When they reached the item, find something old, Ben jokingly suggested they search the attic. He immediately came to regret his words because Jane thought it was a brilliant idea.

The siblings searched the attic for half an hour before Jane stepped on a loose floorboard.

“What’s this?” She asked, stopping to examine the crevice between the pieces of wood.

Ben, waist deep in a corner full of cribs and baby baths, extracted himself free of the attic mess. “You should carry the floorboard at your wedding. It’s old.”

“Sure,” Jane sarcastically agreed as she worked her fingers under the wood. “I’ll shove it under my skirts. A nice surprise for Samir on our wedding night.”

“Ew. Gross. Stop.”

Jane tugged hard. The wood plank wobbling but staying stuck in place. “Can you help me with this?”

“There’s not going to be anything under there,” Ben said, but joined his sister in tugging on the floorboard anyway.

Jane counted, “One, two, three…”

They heaved together and the floorboard lifted away. Inside there was a trunk.

“Told you,” Jane said.

“Whatever.” Ben was already pulling the trunk up, then swinging the lid open. It was full of centuries old maritime equipment. “Boat shite? Why would anyone hide this?”

Jane seized a stack of letters from the trunk, gentle with the old paper. She read the top one, before saying “It’s explaining some kind of code breaking. Oh look. Each letter has a corresponding decoded translation. The letters are 1730s and the translations are Georgian.” She held an example of each up for her brother to examine. “The sender is always W.F.—William Fitzwilliam. The recipient is Thomas Darcy, a relation, I guess.”

Ben just shook his head. “But why?”

Rather than answer his question, Jane began reading, “Translation for the letter written, 1730, June. Surprised you wrote. Suppose you are a man of your word. Cipher works. Takes forever. I hope trying to read this letter keeps you awake all night. Would have been easier to write under false names and avoid vulgar words like pirate.

“Henri, my captain, his illness makes his temper foul. On a good day. Thinks you, me, and this are comical. Take no offense. He thinks all English men are ridiculous. Write again. W.F.”

Jane stopped reading, “Who decoded all these? And then put them in the floor?”

Ben shrugged, “Everyone in this family is weird.” He snatched a paper from his sister’s grip.

“Be careful.”

Ignoring her, he read, “1731, February. Henri has died.”

Jane made a sad noise.

Ben paused for a moment but carried on, “He gave me his love and the sea. On his deathbed, he gave me his ship. Of course, the crew had to vote. But they affirmed me as captain. The sky is clear. The wind is strong. I hate everything. Promise me you will never die. We sail for North Carolina, if you are near, I will find my way to your embrace. W. F.

“Embrace?” Ben repeated the word, adding a question mark to the end.

“Oh my god,” said Jane. She began rifling through the papers, as carefully as her excitement would let her. Spotting what she searched for, Jane read aloud, “On fire with thoughts of you. I lie awake. My dreams are haunted by ghosts of your lips, your hands, your cock. I wish—”

“Stop reading!” Ben exclaimed, resting his reddening face in his hands. “I really never wanted to hear any of my sisters say the word cock.”

“That’s homophobic,” Jane said, but switched to a different letter anyway. “1732, March. Stop goading me. Kingfisher is an excellent name for a ship. Even your precious navy has had a Kingfisher or two. Pirates are suspicious creatures. A lucky name that means calm waters and halcyon days begets the approval of the crew. All that is good in life is as much luck as it is skill—a full sail, a pile of gold, a handsome lover. Luck. W.F.”

Ben reached out a hand. “Give me the stack.”

Reluctantly, Jane handed over all the letters.

He read, “1733, August. Thought that was your ship. I am pleased your captain decided not to pursue us. Needless fighting. Although, would have been fun to take you captive.”

Ben stopped reading, flicking forward to another letter.

“1733, November. We are stuck on land while the Kingfisher receives repairs. Half the crew is losing their gold at the brothel. Everyone is tedious.”

Ben again switched to a new letter.

“1734, May. Bribed our way into the governor’s good graces with several bags of sugar. Escaped the hangman again. I never thought I would grow weary of the sea.”

This time when Ben stopped, Jane made an annoyed noise.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

Ben shrugged. “I want to know what happened.” He picked up another letter, reading, “1734, July. The taste of your—” he immediately returned it to the stack.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Give them back to me. I’ll protect your delicate virtue.”

“Rude,” He said, but handed the remaining letters back. “There aren’t many left.”

“1734, November. Overtook a pretty sloop carrying entirely too much wine. Was convinced to keep the boat rather than scuttle it. I think Qmaster just wants more room for his cats. He finally named one Thomas. A sinewy animal, more scar than fur and missing a few toes. I have told Qmaster that Thomas stays on The Kingfisher.”

Jane switched to reading another letter. “1735, April. I weary of the ocean and the sound of long guns firing. I hunger, but I do not know what for. Not home. Not adventure. Not prizes and gold. Henri used to tell me life has currents and winds which cannot be fought only navigated. My current pushes me elsewhere. I am not yet a fine enough sailor to read its direction. Hope the world is being good to you. Intend to be very bad on our next meeting as counterbalance. W.F.”

Moving on, Jane briefly paused from confusion. “The next letter isn’t until 1736.

“Surprise. I am not dead. Hell will have to yearn a little longer. You may have heard, a deal was made for my liberty. I am out of jail with my neck intact so long as I renounce piracy and return to England. The Kingfisher is smashed to splinters. My crew gone, lost, imprisoned. Henri dead long ago. There would be nothing of my soul left in these waters, except you are here. I do not want to be where you are not. W.F.”

Jane thumbed through the remaining papers, before making a distressed, “Uhh.”

Annoyed, Ben said, “Read the next one.”

“There isn’t another translation. Everything else is different letters,” Jane squinted at the handwriting. “There’s a letter from 1736 saying Thomas Darcy died. This other one is from the same time as the translations. But the handwriting’s different.

“My Dearest Future Darcys,” Jane read, “If you, like us, found yourselves worried for the fate of Thomas and William, rest easy. We are reasonably confident that Thomas created a false report of his death. It is our belief that he and William removed to France together.

“Though some among us recommended that we burn these letters. I have returned them to their secrecy beneath the attic boards, just as I imagine Thomas’s mother once did. I hope the day will come when they are no longer in the shadows of this house. I hope that on that day and all the ones which come before it, every child of this house knows the greatest happiness and the greatest love. Yours, with the strongest affection, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”

Ben made a face. “I can’t imagine willingly giving up being a pirate,” he said. “What are the other letters?”

“Another Dear Future Darcys. From 1873,” she skimmed the letter. “Wait! Charlotte Darcy and George Bingley wrote this one.”

“Should I know them?”

“They started the Bingley Foundation,” Jane said. “They wrote, we found this trunk as Elizabeth did before us. We hope it will be found again, after us.” Jane switched to the last paper. “1939. This one’s also from an Elizabeth Darcy. She says, Pemberley is currently refuge to many children who have been evacuated from London. I enjoyed the discovery of this trunk and regret its return. In addition to love and happiness, I wish you peace.”

Jane returned the papers to the chest. “So…What now?”

Ben shrugged. “Didn’t mum say she wanted something more interesting than 'the syringas are blooming' to post on the website?”

“She did,” Jane agreed. 

She grabbed one side of the trunk, while Ben lifted the other and together they carried it downstairs.

[electronicsquid]

Newsboy selling an extra edition covering the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor

(Russell Lee. 1941)

[lovelyy-moonlight]

Brie Larson for Variety.

[debdarkpetal]

[areiml]

Have you called the kind man from the future that also knows about Shino?

[dionysiaproductions]

Today at Pemberley, Easter Holiday:

It was a lovely, warm Easter in Derbyshire, setting a jovial mood for all who attended services. The Darcys, the de Broughs, and the Collins were each dressed in their new spring finery. They met their county neighbor’s polite admiration with their own well-mannered compliments.

As they walked up the church steps, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy paused to look around the crowd with all-embracing fondness, “Is not everyone beautiful in spring? Just like the flowers and the trees, we are made new by the season.”

Mrs. Darcy was herself much admired, none more so than by Mr. Darcy who was somewhat inattentive to the day’s hymns and sermons.

Once the party was returned to Pemberley, a hearty meal was served to mark the end of Lent’s temperance. Both lamb and ham were on the table, as a compromise could not be brokered with Lady Catherine de Bourgh about which courses should be served.

Everyone went to their beds having eaten rather too much.

Previous days at Pemberley here

[dionysiaproductions]

Extra Edition, Today at Pemberley, February 14th:

Georgiana and her lady’s maid, Beatrice crouched behind a balustrade in the carriage way. They were far enough from the entrance door to evade easy detection, yet had a decent view of anyone approaching the house. They were waiting for the post to arrive.

“This is not the most lady like manner of posture,” Georgiana observed as she adjusted her skirts again.

Beatrice’s dress was a heavy fabric, better suited to the crouching and spying. She was not constantly adjusting. However, she was shivering. “They are going to hear my teeth chattering clean over in the village.”

Georgiana’s concern drowned out any humor she might have found in the witticism. “You can go in, Bea. I will be fine. Or we can take it in turns.”

“You are being silly,” Beatrice used a firm tone that she rarely took with her lady. “This is important and two pairs of eyes are better than one. Otherwise the lads will find the thing muck it all up. You know they will. Mrs. Reynolds has Thomas sorting the mail and he has the delicacy of a stone parapet.”

“You call him by his Christian name?” Georgiana hoped that in her teasing Beatrice would hear her gratitude.

“Do not start on that, I am allowed—” She abruptly stopped her sentence, flailing her arms toward the road. “The post! The post!”

Indeed, the post carriage rolled up to the house, just as Beatrice stood straightening her skirts. 

She approached the driver. “I will take the letters, good sir.”

He eyed her suspiciously. No doubt he noticed that Beatrice had not come directly from the house. However, her neat appearance and general demeanor seemed to convince him she was part of the household staff. He handed over the letters.

Beatrice waited for him to drive away before she ran back to Georgiana. Together they rifled through the thick bundle of letters and Valentines.

Beatrice’s expression grew more incredulous with each Valentine. “How do you get so many?”

“Dowry,” Georgiana reminded her without interest or inflection.

Toward the bottom of the pile, Beatrice spotted a Valentine without the sender listed. It had a whimsical puzzle design of hearts reflected in mirrors and all the words, save Georgiana’s address were written backwards. This had to be from Georgiana's Cecilia.

Beatrice held the Valentine up for her lady’s inspection. “Is this it?”

Georgiana grabbed the paper, holding it close to her in wordless joy.

Beatrice waved her away. “Take it to your room to read. I will see that the rest of these get where they belong.”

Despite the freezing cold it was a morning well spent, Georgiana had her valentine and Beatrice had an excuse to speak to Thomas. 

Read Today at Pemberley here