Chapter One

Fall 1811

C rane was already in the room Miss Bingley had assigned to Mr. Darcy, unpacking his clothing. Shirts, pants, waistcoats, coats, cravats, socks, shoes and hats all made an orderly progression from Mr. Darcy's trunks to the capacious chest of drawers in the elegant room.

"You look quite tired, sir," Crane said, looking up from his labours. His voice was polite, of course, but concerned.

"I suppose I am, but…" Mr. Darcy did not complete the sentence.

"I understand, sir." Crane returned to his task, knowing better than to pursue the subject.

Crane doubtless did understand, Mr. Darcy reflected. All the servants at Pemberley knew what had happened, as Mr. Darcy had gone straight to Pemberley from Gretna Green, burrowing down at home to wallow in his pain and his shame. Of course, the servants were all under the strictest of orders not to tell tales outside the house. Crane would likely have died under torture before revealing anything about the shocking incident that had turned Miss Georgiana Darcy into Mrs. George Wickham.

At some point, though, it was inevitable that the situation would become common knowledge. Georgiana's absence from Pemberley and Darcy House would be noticed. And, of course, Wickham would very likely make good on his threat to tell the newspapers about the elopement.

And once all was revealed, then Mr. Darcy would have to explain to his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Georgiana's other guardian, how this had come about, how Mr. Darcy's own failures had led to the worst scandal to ever befall the Darcy family. It would also have to be explained to Richard's parents, the Earl and Countess of Matlock, and to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. There would be no forgiveness for Mr. Darcy from any of these family members.

And how could he expect forgiveness from anyone, when he could not forgive himself? In truth, there was nothing – absolutely nothing – anyone else could say to him or do to him that could even approach his own self-recrimination, his self-hatred, his anguish. He could find no peace, no rest. He had paced the endless halls of Pemberley for hours on end, he had sought oblivion at the bottom of any number of bottles; it was all in vain.

Once he had realised that grief and sorrow would be his lifelong companions – and he well knew that he deserved no better cohorts – then he understood that it did not much matter what he did or where he was.

And where was he now? In a small, insignificant little hamlet in Hertfordshire, some twenty-four miles from London, at the request of his friend, Charles Bingley. Early this past summer, Mr. Darcy had promised to join Bingley at Netherfield, Bingley's newly leased estate, to look it over and help Bingley learn something about estate management.

Bingley was Mr. Darcy's closest friend. While Mr. Darcy had any number of acquaintances, true friends like Bingley were as rare as unicorns; he would not renege on a promise made to such a friend.

Mr. Darcy knew he was doing the right thing for his friend, and he certainly always tried to do the right thing whenever possible, but just now this was cold consolation. It had seemed a simple enough task, when he had said "Certainly, Bingley" in response to his friend's request, but now it felt like an enormous burden. He felt like Atlas, lifting the entire world on his shoulders.

But he had promised Bingley to look over the estate and give an opinion, and that is what he would do. More than that, though, Mr. Darcy was beginning to think that perhaps being alone was not good for him. He had occasionally found himself wondering if he would be able to live with this new burden. What harm might he do to himself if he decided that he could not?

It did not promise to be an easy or pleasant visit. Mr. Darcy had been greeted at the door of Netherfield by Bingley and Bingley's youngest sister. He had been able to persuade both of them that he had a dreadful headache and should be left alone in his room to recover in peace. Miss Bingley had fluttered her ginger lashes at him and told him that she had a family recipe guaranteed to cure even the most painful of headaches, and she would have a maid bring it to him directly. Too dispirited to argue with her, he had simply nodded.

Miss Bingley had clung to his arm as he made his way up the stairs, saying something about an assembly to be held that night, but that she did not relish the entertainment. He could not make heads or tails of it and, frankly, did not care to try.

She almost followed him into his room, but managed to recollect herself in time; she curtsied to him as he closed the door, shutting her out. If only he could shut out his own thoughts as easily.

Once inside the room, he sank down onto the bed. He thought about Georgiana, recollecting – yet again! – how he had found her at Gretna Green, and the scene that had ensued. He was not surprised to find his hands shaking as he relived it; this happened anytime he thought of it.