Chapter 1

Darcy’s Office

Pemberley

15 th December, 1811

The lake spread out below him like an illustration of fairy-land. A white sugar-dusting of snow powdered the banks surrounding the serenely lapping water. Soon it would be iced over, but for now, it was a celestial blue basin, and Fitzwilliam Darcy’s heart thrilled at the sight.

It was a far pleasanter vista than the one from his study window at Darcy House in London, and he took a moment to pity those walking the grimy streets in Town. He had intended to spend the winter in the Metropolis, and to be here, in his home, was a great pleasure, though he regretted the emergency which had called him north only a few days previously.

The clouds – thin and gray today, and weak – parted, turning the landscape below a brilliantly blinding white and washing Darcy in feeble warmth. He glanced down at the paper in his hand and turned it so that the light fell fully onto the sloppily inked words there. He wished with wry affection that Bingley had managed to develop the handwriting of a gentleman as well as the manners of one.

Darcy,

I am sorry that Miss Darcy is so poorly not feeling well. I know that she enjoys is relieved to have you with her.

I am inclined to think that I ought to journey north to Scarborough as well. London is dank and smelly foul and full of smoke. My sisters, of course, have no wish to depart Town, but they can stay at Hurst House if they wish. I will remain at least through the Christmas Season, but beyond that, I am not certain what I will do.

I met your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, at my club a few days ago. He looks bronzed healthy. We spoke at some length. I wonder if perhaps I should have entered the army. I find myself rather at loose ends, especially since I ought not to return to Netherfield.

Well, I will…

The door opened, interrupting Darcy’s reading, and he looked up as his sister walked into the room.

A heavy knitted shawl swathed her shoulders, hanging over a simple blue woolen dress. Her delicate heart-shaped face was rather misshapen, her cheeks and neck swollen out much wider than their wont with an attack of mumps. Were he some two decades younger, Darcy might find her altered appearance quite funny, but as it was, he derived no amusement from the situation, only sorrow and sympathy and concern. The doctor had cheerfully declared it a mild case and asserted his optimism for a full recovery, but in the meantime, Georgiana was in a great deal of discomfort and fatigued as well.

“My dear, ought you to be up?” he asked, stepping forward and taking her hands in his.

“I am certain that,” Georgiana started and winced. “I am sorry. It is difficult to talk, but it is so dull in bed.”

“Let us go into the library, my dear,” Darcy said immediately. “You can rest by the fire, and I will read to you. How does that sound? And please do not speak if it is not comfortable.”

She nodded approvingly at him and even managed a semblance of a smile.

He offered her a supportive arm, not minding the way she leaned wearily on it, and led her tenderly towards the heavy oak door between his study and his library. He reached out to push it open for her, glancing about with proprietary satisfaction. Everything was just as it always was – the neatly organized books stacked on their shelves reaching to the ceiling, the generous fireplace that would warm even all the way to the very corners of the room, the deep-cushioned leather chairs.

It was to one of these chairs that he bore his ailing sister, as close to the fireplace as she could get. He stepped forward and knelt at the fire, reaching for the tinderbox on the hearth as he did. A servant had already laid the logs, and it took but a little coaxing to encourage small cheery orange flames to run along the tinder and the well-seasoned logs. As soon as he was certain that the fire would take, Darcy rose and turned to browse the shelves. He did not much enjoy Shakespeare’s sonnets, but he was thankful that his father had purchased a fine leather-bound copy some decades previously because Georgiana was very partial to that sort of poetry.

He found the slim brown volume, sat down, and began reading it aloud, while Georgiana leaned back, watching and listening with obvious pleasure. The heat of the fire and the comfort of her brother’s presence and the weariness of the illness soon did their work. It had been scarcely twenty minutes since they had entered the room when Georgiana’s head started to droop. Darcy lifted his head to watch her alertly, taking in her deep, even breathing and slightly fluttering eyelids.

He continued to read aloud until he was certain she was asleep, and then stopped, closed the book, and laid it carefully aside on the table nearby.

He watched her face for a moment, recognizing the lines of weariness etched across her eyes, the way her mouth drooped. Though she was constantly tired, she did not sleep well due to the pain, and he was glad she was able to drop off presently. He had plenty of work to do in the study, of course, and elsewhere on the estate, but if he stood up now, he would likely wake her, and she needed her rest. He was trapped here for at least some time, and found himself grateful for the opportunity to set aside immediate concerns in favor of watching over his dear sister and contemplating his life.

He sighed deeply and turned his attention toward the fire. The previous few weeks had been full of unsettling surprises, and he was a man who appreciated consistency and planning.

His mind went back to the 26 th of November, the last time he had seen Miss Elizabeth Bennet, second daughter of a country gentleman with a small estate in Hertfordshire. He had danced with her at Netherfield during a ball held by his friend Bingley.

It was most unusual for him to dance with a woman like Miss Elizabeth; she was not a diamond of the first water, nor was she wealthy, nor were her manners that of the upper classes. It was bewildering to him, along with upsetting, that he was so strongly attracted to her.

When he had left – or fled – for London after the ball, he had anticipated that his attraction to her would fade as quickly as it had sprung up. Instead, nearly four weeks later, he found himself often thinking of and even dreaming about her.

It was outrageous, and frankly, stupid. He had always prided himself on his self-control, on his ability to outthink his heart. He had, in his earlier years, been physically attracted to more than one beautiful woman of the ton, but had also realized, thanks to his father’s warnings, that each lady who caught his eye was either in pursuit of his purse or his connections or both.

Elizabeth Bennet was very different. She did not flutter her eyelashes or show off her décolletage. She did not agree with his every word and adjust her answers to please him.

No, she argued with him, and disagreed with him, and ignored him in favor of the militia officers, and she walked through mud to succor her sick sister when the eldest Miss Bennet fell ill at Netherfield…

She was a remarkable person. Of course she was. But she was also the daughter of a country gentleman, and her mother was the daughter of a solicitor. Her mother was vulgar, and her father lazy, though admittedly clever. As for her younger two sisters, they were boisterous and flirtatious and quite astonishingly ridiculous.

Elizabeth Bennet was not, in any way, a worthy bride, or deserving of becoming the mistress of Pemberley.

There was no doubt about that.

Then why was it so hard for him to forget about her?

He rubbed his forehead in an attempt to push the thoughts away it, only to find himself thinking, with unease, of another concern, his friend Bingley.

Darcy did not regret his actions there. His conscience was clear, in so far as he had saved his friend from a deeply disastrous marriage. Bingley often tumbled head-over-heels into love with various blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties, and just as quickly tumbled out of love. Darcy had scarcely paid attention when Bingley’s interests had been aroused by the placid and refined Jane Bennet, the eldest daughter of Longbourn. She was a nice enough young lady, serene and kind-hearted, and would do his friend no harm as a casual flirtation.

The harm came when her mother Mrs. Bennet – loud, vulgar, and crass – was heard loudly telling all her gossip-hungry friends at the Netherfield ball that she was in daily expectation of Mr. Bingley proposing to her Jane. This was a horrifying prospect, as Miss Bennet, her father’s estate entailed away to a distant cousin, would doubtless leap at the chance to marry a wealthy gentleman like Bingley, in spite of the fact that she had no particular attachment or admiration toward her suitor.

When Bingley’s sisters Caroline and Louisa had stated decisively that something must be done to separate their brother from Miss Bennet, Darcy had agreed wholeheartedly. As much as Bingley might think himself in love, Miss Bennet did not return his affection. She would not necessarily be an unkind wife to his friend, but Darcy did not wish to see Bingley trapped into a loveless marriage and forced to support an insufferable mother-in-law and three empty-headed sisters-in-law.

Thus, when Bingley departed to London to meet with his man of business, the very day after the Netherfield ball, Darcy and Bingley’s sisters had agreed to hastily pack up the household and follow him. It still caused Darcy a pang to remember his friend’s expression as they confronted him, though Bingley had been forced to admit that with Miss Bennet’s unimpaired calm and her kindness towards all the world, it was entirely reasonable that Bingley had mistaken her courtesy for admiration. It gave Darcy no pleasure to cause his friend pain, but better the transient dejection of thwarted love than the lifelong misery of a marriage without affection. He had hailed with grim approval Bingley’s plan to remain in London rather than returning to Netherfield and expose himself further to temptation.

Darcy had planned to stay in Town as a stalwart support to his moping friend, so it was a pity that he had received a letter less than a sennight after his own arrival in London, summoning him urgently to Pemberley with news of Georgiana’s illness. His duty to his sister was more important than that to Bingley, and so he had departed at once to his own manor. His unease over his friend had been assuaged by distance and time until the arrival of Bingley’s letter.

It was unlike his perpetually cheerful companion to sound so melancholy. A certain amount of sorrow was expected, of course, but it grieved Darcy nonetheless to observe it. Still, Bingley had been in love many times before – his passions for Miss Bennet would pass on and die away, just as Darcy’s own fascination with Miss Elizabeth would, no doubt, vanish like the morning mists beneath the sun.

It was inevitable.

/

Pemberley Chapel

Christmas Day, 1811

The small stone chapel was warm with the heat of the bodies filling it, though Darcy sat alone in his box. Every other old stained oak box was crammed full of people, servants from up at the house and the stable, along with tenants and their families. Normally Georgiana would be beside him, but it would be inadvisable for her to come out into the cold, ill as she was. Thus he sat alone in the box, huddled in his coat, his feet propped on the hot brick beneath the pew.

Up at the pulpit, which was decorated with greenery for Christmas, the rector once again shared the age-old good news.

Almighty God, who hast given us thy only-begotten Son to take our nature upon him, and as at this time to be born of a pure Virgin: Grant that we being regenerate, and made thy children by adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by thy Holy Spirit; through the same our Lord Jesus Christ, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the same Spirit, ever one God, world without end.Amen.

The old man closed the book and turned bright, joyous eyes on his congregation as he started his Sunday message. Despite his best intentions to listen, Darcy found his eyes and mind wandering. His gaze landed on the stained glass nearby, blue and red and yellow and brown, glowing with the light of the sun. Mary knelt in adoration of her newborn son, who was lying loosely wrapped in white upon hay in the brown manger. Around her clustered Joseph, leaning on his staff, shepherds, angels, and sheep, nosing in for a look at the divine infant.

It was a busy, happy scene, and Darcy felt entirely removed from it. He sat alone in his pew and felt alone in his heart. He wished Bingley were here to share the Christmas season and imbue the house with his particular cheer; Pemberley felt large and echoing and empty with only himself and the equally quiet-natured Georgiana. She was even quieter than usual now, weary and lethargic as the mumps took their toll. Darcy’s heart clenched with concern as he thought of her, and he offered up a quick prayer that she might soon fully recover. The doctor’s optimism did not completely alleviate his own worries, and day by day he watched over his little sister carefully for signs of improvement. She had not been a sickly, delicate child, but still Darcy feared that, as she grew older, she might begin to take after their mother. Lady Anne had rarely been well during Darcy’s lifetime, and he dreaded should her daughter start to display the same symptoms of uncertain health.

He wished he knew how to cheer his little sister. She was bearing her affliction gracefully, but it still wore on her spirits, and he could see it. They could both use a little cheer, honestly. Involuntarily, his mind went to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She cheered any room she walked into, merely by her own vibrant presence…

Darcy shook his head, recalling his erratic thoughts. He rarely allowed himself to get so distracted at church; he prided himself on his attention to the reverend’s sermon. But she still intruded into his mind at the most inopportune moments, her laugh and her smile and the way she always had a response to everything and the way she lit up a room every time she entered it.

It mattered not. Miss Elizabeth was at her home in Hertfordshire, as she ought to be. No matter how beguiling she might be, she would never be an acceptable wife for a Darcy.