Prologue

PROLOGUE

May 1817, off the coast of Devon

T he sea rose and fell, rose and fell, the waves towering and crashing as the wind shrieked and roared in the dark night. Several miles out from land, on the shallow submerged plains below the raging surface, sand and gravel stirred as sea creatures scattered and took shelter. The sand shifted and moved, spinning in underwater cyclones, uncovering rocks and driftwood but also broken glass and other artefacts of a human presence.

A sail, its ragged remains gradually revealed by the shifting sands, was barely tethered to the cannon ball that had weighted it to the bottom some years before. The unforgiving power of the storm tugged violently at the canvas, unearthing it and pulling it to shreds. The wrapped sail was almost empty, its contents devoured by fish and other forms of marine life. Brass buttons, scraps of blue wool, bits of the larger bones survived; the mortal remains of a very good man. Another wave surged violently over. A small misshapen object was wrenched from a disintegrating coat pocket and rose to the surface, where it proceeded to its destination.

By the following day, the storm had blown itself out. The sun was shining in Devonshire, but the sea was still restless. The tide had withdrawn to its farthest ebb, and villagers picked their way across the shingle, looking for treasures left behind when the water retreated.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, breathing in the brisk, salty air appreciatively, strolled beside his sister and her husband, viewing the villagers with interest. "Does a storm always wash so much ashore?" he asked his brother-in-law.

The man chuckled. "Not so much as in Cornwall, where ships may be dashed to pieces against the rocks. There are no reefs or rock outcroppings near the little cove here. There are caves in the cliffs though, and it was very busy with smugglers over the last few years. They would occasionally drop things or lose a cargo. Now that the war is over, not so many interesting items wash in. Mere flotsam and jetsam, not expensive French brandy. Most of the villagers are here to gather driftwood for fires."

As the water slowly crept forwards, Darcy noticed a small, warped piece of driftwood about the size of a man's fist bobbing near him. A gnarl from a storm-tossed tree, perhaps. It dipped and tumbled to and fro in the water until the waves made a small retreat and it disappeared. Mere minutes later, there it was again. It seemed to follow Darcy along the shore, playing a game of tag, repeatedly darting away from him then popping up almost under his feet.

"Fitzwilliam, it seems to be following you," teased his sister.

Darcy bent over and picked it up. The small piece of wood was badly warped and twisted from the water, but strangely, there was a tiny bit of blue paint clinging to it. It had been something once, deliberately crafted by someone. Darcy stopped to examine it more closely, while his companions kept walking. He spotted a seam along the side and, with his finger, followed it unevenly around the object. It had been a box or receptacle of some kind.

Darcy reached for his pocket-knife and ever so gently prised it open, moving the knife slowly and carefully around the circumference of the box. The wood, swollen tight with sea water, did not give up its secrets easily. At last, the two pieces separated.

The box had once been well-made and tightly constructed; there was very little water inside. It contained a small object wrapped tightly in layer after layer of oilcloth, which was barely damp. More curious than ever, Darcy slipped the box into his capacious coat pocket and turned his knife to the oilcloth. He cut the pieces away, each one following the box to the depths of his pocket.

The back of the object was revealed first. It was a pendant of some kind, plain metal with no inscription, with a small loop at the top. He turned it over to further examine it and gasped, his long-dormant heart stuttering painfully to life. It was a miniature painting, of the type called a lover's eye; in this case a particularly fine one.

He knew that eye. It and its twin had haunted his dreams for years; in truth they still did. There could be no others like them. What he held was a faithfully rendered copy of an eye of Elizabeth Bennet, with whom he had fallen in love years before. He had left the area, never to return, but the beauty and warmth of her eyes had taken up permanent residence in his memory. He had thought of her often in the ensuing years. All his efforts to forget her had failed, and at length he had accepted that some part of her would always be with him.

The seawater slowly moved up the shingle, the gulls cried and wheeled overhead, the sun shone, and villagers began to leave with their arms full of wood. Darcy did not notice, his eyes riveted on the tiny painting nestling in the palm of his hand. He was no longer in Devonshire, standing by the sea on a summer's day; he was transported almost six years backwards in time, to a bare autumn garden in Hertfordshire, walking in pale November sunlight. He could hear again the gravel walk crunching under his boots, feel again Miss Caroline Bingley hanging heavily on his arm, pressing herself too closely against him, suffer again her insinuating voice—her snide attempt at drollery.

"Oh yes! Do let the portraits of your aunt and uncle Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle, the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"

"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression," he had answered, controlling his annoyance. "But their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."

It had been awkward when, mere seconds later, they had encountered Elizabeth and Mrs Hurst, who quickly dropped Elizabeth's arm and took his with alacrity. The rudeness of Bingley's sisters had embarrassed him, and he had attempted to smooth it over, but Elizabeth had laughed and gaily excused herself, running off in the opposite direction, leaving him speechless as she so often did. And now here it was, her eye, captured completely, right down to the shimmering mix of colours, the expression, the warmth and sparkle.

He raised his head to gaze out at the sea. This miniature had been out there, clearly under water for some time. Had she perished under the waves? No . No, that could not be. If she had died, surely he would have known it, would have felt something . His brain knew better, but his heart insisted upon it. Darcy remembered the day he had learnt she was married, how it had broken something inside him, even though he had been anticipating his own wedding at the time.

He looked down at the miniature in his hand. No, she would have given this to someone, not kept it herself. She must be alive. He closed his hand tightly around the miniature and stared back out at the sea. But where is she?

"Fitzwilliam! Your boots!"

He startled and looked up to see Georgiana hurrying towards him. The incoming tide was already rushing over his ankles.

His sister beckoned, and after one last look at the sea, he followed her back up the shingle towards their carriage.