1. Chapter One

Chapter One

" H arry, is that you?" Darcy's voice echoed through Pemberley's halls, carrying a note of surprised delight. "What the devil are you doing back so soon? I did not expect you for two days yet."

Captain Harrison William Darcy stood in the doorway, a broad grin spreading across his sun-bronzed face. He looked every inch the dashing officer in his scarlet coat, his dark hair tousled by the wind. "The very same," he replied, his voice warm with laughter. "Have you forgot what your own brother looks like, Fitz?"

Darcy crossed the hall quickly, his usual reserve melting into a rare, affectionate smile. "It has been too long, brother," he said, pulling Harry into a tight embrace. For a moment, the weight of Pemberley, his responsibilities, his worries—all of it—fell away, and they were two boys again.

His brother slapped him on the shoulder with a bark of laughter. "Too long by half! I declare that I am going to enjoy my time off. No army drills, no orders—just a chance to sit by the fire with my favourite brother and eat Cook's food instead of rations."

Darcy took a step back, peering at his younger brother. It was strange— there was still the same warm light in those boyish eyes that had always been there, but beneath it, another expression there as well: a shadow, a strain that ran counter to the jovial words. "Is everything well?"

Harry's smile dropped momentarily, and then he brightened even more. "Well enough, Fitz," he said, squeezing Darcy's shoulder. "But come, let us not dwell on serious matters. I have some stories to share and am anxious to hear the latest from all of you in my absence. Shall we retire to the study? That journey's given me more than enough reason to drink."

Darcy nodded and ushered him down the hall to his library. The room was snug and cosy, full of the rich smell of leather-bound books and wood smoke. Darcy poured them each a glass of brandy, handing one to Harry before taking a seat by the fire.

Harry settled into the opposite chair, stretching his legs with a contented sigh. "Ah, it is good to be home," he said, sipping his drink. "I must say, Fitz, I have missed this—being here, with you, away from all the noise and chaos."

"And I have missed having you here, brother. Pemberley is far too quiet of late. But tell me, what news do you bring from the front? Back home two months already, and you could not write sooner to tell me I could have seen you in London? The first word I had of your return was three days ago when you wrote that you were coming here."

Harry made an abashed sort of frown. "I knew I would catch it from you for that. Sorry, Fitz. Things have been rather… unsettled. I wanted to come sooner, or at least write to you, but I thought I had better not tell you to come see me in London unless I could be sure I would still be there when you arrived."

Darcy took another sip from his glass. "Well, you look to be in one piece, thank Heaven. I confess, some of your letters have left me quite uneasy. Are things really so bad as all that?"

Harry shifted in his chair, a playful glint returning to his eyes as he leaned forward. "I came here to forget war for a time, Fitz. Tell me, how are things at Pemberley? Has Mrs Reynolds prepared any of her famous treacle tarts? I have been dreaming of them ever since I left France. And what of old Wilkins? Is he still puttering about, or has he finally decided to retire and enjoy his twilight years?"

Darcy chuckled, glad to see his brother's spirits lifting, even if only a little. "Mrs Reynolds is as formidable as ever, and yes, she has indeed made your favourite treacle tarts. I shall see to it that she brings some to you directly. As for Wilkins, he is as stubborn as ever. He insists he has no desire to retire and claims that Pemberley would fall apart without him. I fear we shall have to drag him away from his duties when the time comes."

Harry laughed. "Good old Wilkins. I cannot imagine this place without his griping about the new footmen or bending the stable boys' ears about conduct. And what of the neighbours? Are the Farnsworths still squabbling over that ridiculous border dispute? And the Carters—did they ever get those daughters of theirs married off, or are they still trotting them out like show ponies?

Darcy smiled wryly. "The Farnsworths are indeed still at odds with the Robinsons, though I suspect it is more for sport than any real grievance. As for the Carters, their eldest daughter finally married a minor baronet from Lincolnshire, but the younger ones remain, as you say, ‘on parade.'" He paused, his gaze growing more serious. "And Uncle Matlock and Aunt Catherine are both well enough, though you know as well as I that ‘well' is a relative term where our dear aunt is concerned."

Harry grinned. "Ah, Lady Catherine. Always a joy. And Lord Matlock? Still pressing you about those parliamentary ambitions?"

Darcy nodded. "As persistent as ever, though I have managed to avoid any firm commitments. For now, at least."

Harry's smile remained, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes—an unease, a tension that Darcy had seen earlier. He leaned forward, his voice softening. "But enough of my affairs, Harry. You have been deflecting long enough. What is really troubling you?"

For a moment, Harry's face froze, his smile becoming almost painfully tight. His eyes flickered with a brief flash of something—fear, perhaps, or reluctance—but it vanished just as quickly. He straightened in his chair, his expression brightening as if a new thought had occurred to him. "You always could read me too well, Fitz. You know, there is something," he began, his tone shifting. "Something rather… important."

Darcy waited, watching his brother closely.

A real smile crossed Harry's face. "I have met someone, Fitz. Someone quite remarkable."

Darcy raised an eyebrow, bemused by the abrupt change in conversation but intrigued nonetheless. "Ah, and here I was thinking you had some grave matter to share. So, you have found another pretty girl to occupy your thoughts, have you?"

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "This is different, I assure you. Her name is Elizabeth Bennet."

Darcy's eyebrow arched higher. "Elizabeth Bennet? Not a very distinguished name, is it?"

"The name may not be distinguished, but the lady herself certainly is."

Darcy sighed, leaning back in his chair. "And where, pray tell, did you meet this distinguished lady?"

Harry's smile widened. "I have been stationed in London for the past two months, you know. And while there, I frequently encountered an old school friend—Charles Bingley."

Darcy squinted, searching his memory. "Bingley? Is that not the son of the woollen miller?"

"Yes, yes, but he is also a gentleman of quality, Fitz. You must not be so quick to judge. Bingley is a good man, and he has been quite taken with a young lady from Hertfordshire who was staying in London with her aunt and uncle—a Miss Jane Bennet."

Darcy's frown deepened. "Another Miss Bennet… a sister, I suppose?"

Harry's grin grew even wider. "Elizabeth Bennet, yes. And before you ask, no, none of this may sound promising to you, but I assure you, she is quite remarkable. In fact, she is the very woman I have asked to marry me."

Darcy nearly choked on his brandy. He straightened in his chair, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You what? Harry, have you lost your senses? How do you mean to live? Does the lady have a sufficient dowry to support you both?"

Harry's expression sobered slightly. "No, she does not have much in the way of a dowry. But I just received my promotion, you recall, and we intend to live modestly. I believe we will be very happy, Fitz. I am certain of it."

Darcy's face remained sceptical, his brow furrowing. "And what makes you so certain of that, Harry? You have always been too quick to fall for a pretty face."

Harry leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Because she is not like the others, Fitz. She is intelligent and strong-willed, with a lively mind and a wit that matches my own. I believe you will like her—once you meet her."

Darcy sighed, setting his glass down on the table. "I suppose I shall have to meet her, then. But do not expect me to approve of this at once. You know our father always wanted better for you."

"I know, brother. But do promise to be on your best behaviour. I believe, once you see her for yourself, you will understand."

Darcy rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Very well, Harry. I shall reserve my judgment until I meet this ‘remarkable' Elizabeth Bennet. I shall endeavour to be polite."

Harry laughed, raising his glass in a toast. "That is all I ask, Fitz. To Elizabeth Bennet and the hope that my dear brother might see what I see."

Darcy clinked his glass with Harry's, though his smile remained wary. "To Elizabeth Bennet," he echoed, his voice carrying a note of resigned amusement. "And to you, Harry. May you always find happiness—if not sense."

They both laughed, and for a moment, it felt as if nothing could shatter this happiness, as if the world was as it should be. But Darcy could not shake the vague sense of unease that had nested in his chest—this deep-down dread that was something not right. Harry was there, right in front of him, but the look in his eyes had changed. He was not the same man he was when he marched off to war.

T he next day proved a promising one for a hunt, with just the right sort of crispness in the air to invigorate the senses. But Darcy and Harry had intended something far more leisurely—a gentle ride through the estate to take in the green-covered hills and perhaps call on a few of Harry's old friends in the area. It felt like forever since they had been this relaxed with each other, and Darcy was determined to take advantage of his brother's sudden appearance. The sun was scaling the peaks, and the tree branches cast dappled shadows that danced around their feet while their horses stamped the ground to be off.

Harry leaned against the stable door, a contented smile on his face. "I must have said it a dozen times already, but it feels good to be home, Fitz," he said softly, his eyes scanning the familiar landscape. "There is something about this place... it calms the soul. I had forgot how much I missed it."

Darcy glanced at his brother, noting the lines of strain around his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to bear an invisible weight. "I am glad you are here. You know Pemberley is not the same without you. And if I had known you were coming early, I would have had a better welcome prepared."

Harry chuckled. "I prefer the surprise, honestly. Gives me a chance to see you without your mask of responsibility." He hesitated, his smile faltering for a brief moment. "But there is something I need to ask of you, Fitz."

Darcy frowned. "What is it?"

Harry took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the distant hills. "I want you to arrange a meeting with the family's solicitor," he said quietly.

Darcy's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "The solicitor? For what purpose?"

Harry was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then, with a small, almost resigned smile, he turned to face Darcy. "I want to draft a settlement to offer Miss Elizabeth Bennet's father," he explained. "I want to ensure that she will be well cared for, should anything happen to me."

Darcy's face darkened with concern. "Why such morbid thoughts, Harry? You are on leave, not marching into battle. And you know how I feel about this impulsive engagement of yours. You have not even introduced me to the lady yet."

Harry shrugged, his smile growing softer, more introspective. "I just want to be prepared, Fitz. Life is unpredictable, and I want to know that Elizabeth will be safe, no matter what."

Darcy sighed, his hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Very well. I will summon the solicitor. But you must promise me that you are not keeping anything from me. What is truly troubling you, Harry?"

Harry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. For a fleeting moment, the mask slipped, and Darcy saw the shadow of something dark—something weighing heavily on his brother's heart. But then, just as quickly, Harry's smile returned, bright and carefree. "Nothing at all, Fitz," he replied with forced cheerfulness. "Come, let us not dwell on sombre thoughts. The day is too fine for that. Shall we ride?"

Darcy watched him for a moment longer, still sensing the unspoken burden his brother carried. But he nodded, deciding to let the matter rest for now. "Yes," he agreed. "Let us ride. I could use some fresh air myself."

They mounted their horses and set off at a gentle trot, the sun warm on their backs and the soft breeze carrying the scent of late summer blooms. For a while, they rode in companionable silence, the rhythmic ringing of hooves on the drive as the only sound. It was a moment of peace, a momentary escape from the concerns that plagued him.

But as they rode towards the stables, there was a shift in the air. The horses, usually calm and steady, seemed skittish, their ears flicking back and forth as if sensing something was amiss. The silence of the morning was shattered by dogs barking in the distance and a shrill whistle. Darcy looked in the direction of the noise and saw a gang of stable boys wrestling with two hounds that had somehow got loose.

"Looks like a successful hunt in the offing," Harry remarked with a grin. "What say you, Fitz? Shall we see if the old fox will put up quite the chase?"

Darcy smiled, though his eyes remained on the hounds. "Not today. What the devil is going on over there? Those boys should know better than to let them run this close to the stables. It is bound to cause trouble." His gaze shifted to the nearby grooms, who were distracted, watching the commotion with growing concern.

One of the younger stable hands was attempting to lead a high-spirited stallion across the yard—a new acquisition from the north, a horse Darcy had been meaning to examine more closely. The stallion was devlish fast, but known for his unpredictable nature, a beast with fire in his veins. Darcy frowned. The boy seemed to be struggling with the animal's bridle, his feet leaving the ground as the animal reared and tried to twist away.

"Easy there!" Darcy called out. "Bring him round—and leash those hounds!"

The stallion's ears twitched, he snorted, and for a moment, he seemed to settle. But then, a sudden snap—like a whip cracking in the air—broke the fragile calm. The sound was sharp and unexpected, shattering the quiet like a gunshot.

It happened in a heartbeat.

"Whoa, there!" Darcy shouted. The stallion squealed and tried to plunge away. The stable boy was struggling, his grip faltering as the stallion twisted, writhing in the air and striking out at his handler. Darcy cursed under his breath and spurred his own mount forward. The boy wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. He could see it—the stallion's agitation building, the bridle already slipping, half off one ear.

"I'll take him!" Darcy called as he closed the distance, urging his horse into a quicker trot. But even as he neared, the stallion plunged. He reared violently, yanking the reins from the boy's hands.

Darcy's heart lurched, his mind already calculating the danger. He reached out, stretching toward the bridle, but it slipped completely from the stallion's head, leaving the animal wild and free. The hounds were now barking in a frenzy, dragging their handlers towards the loose horse, and Darcy's own mount was trying to turn and escape. Darcy cursed again, leaning from his saddle, his fingers just grazing the stallion's crest before the bridle fell to the ground, useless.

The stallion twisted away from him, his eyes wide with a sort of animalistic mania. Darcy's breath caught as he saw the beast lunge directly toward Harry, who was mounted on one of Darcy's prized mares. The stallion, frenzied by his sudden freedom, charged at the mare, and Harry barely had time to react.

"Harry! Watch out!" Darcy shouted, his voice raw with panic as the stallion barreled forward.

Harry, caught off guard, turned in the saddle, his bright eyes wide with surprise. There was a split second where their gazes met—a fleeting moment where Darcy saw the realisation dawning in his brother's eyes, the flash of fear that was so out of place on Harry's usually confident face. The horse thundered closer, its hooves pounding the earth, throwing up clods of dirt in its wake.

It was too late. The stallion lunged at the mare, and she reared back in terror. Instinctively, Harry tried to pull the mare horse aside, out of the stallion's reach, but the movement was too sudden, too sharp. The mare, startled by the chaos and the scent of fear, reared up again, unbalanced by Harry's unexpected shift in weight. She tried to lash out at the stallion's unwelcome advances, but the ground was slick, and Harry was clawing for balance.

Darcy's heart pounded as he watched his brother struggle to regain control. "Harry, jump clear!" He spurred his horse forward, but what would he do even if he reached them?

The ground beneath them seemed to tilt, time slowing to a crawl. Harry's horse, unable to regain her footing, stumbled backwards. Harry fought to stay in the saddle, his hands gripping the reins tightly, but the force of the movement sent him flying. He was thrown from the horse, his body twisting in mid-air. Darcy reached out, as if he could somehow catch his brother, but he was too far away.

Time seemed to slow as Darcy watched helplessly, his outstretched hand still clutching the reins of a bridle that no longer mattered. He should have acted sooner—should have had the hounds sent away sooner, should have calmed the horse, should have tugged the bridle back over the horse's head.

But he had not.

Harry hit the ground with a sickening thud, his head striking a large stone hidden beneath the loose gravel. Darcy's breath caught in his throat. For a moment, everything was silent. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something, anything, to break the stillness.

Then, chaos erupted. The stable hands rushed forward, shouting orders and trying to calm the remaining horses, who were now rearing and whinnying in panic.

Darcy's heart felt like it was going to explode, every breath a struggle as he urged his horse forward, leaping from the saddle before it had even fully stopped. He reached Harry in seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Harry's head was tilted at an odd angle, his breaths shallow.

"Harry!" Darcy's voice was raw with fear as he dropped to his knees beside his brother. Harry lay motionless, his face pale, a dark bruise already forming on his temple where his head had struck the stone. Blood trickled from a cut just above his brow, mingling with the dirt. His chest moved shallowly, each breath a laboured effort.

"Harry! Hold on, Harry… look at me." Darcy grabbed his brother's hand—it was limp. He should have seen the danger sooner. He should have noticed the skittishness of the horses, the distraction of the grooms, the stallion's unpredictable temperament. He should have called out sooner, done something, anything, to prevent this!

Harry wasn't moving. Wasn't opening his eyes. A cold dread settled in his stomach, his hands shaking as he gently cradled Harry's head. "Stay with me, Harry," he murmured, his voice trembling. "We will get you help. Just stay with me!"

Harry's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and filled with pain. "Fitz…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hand reached out, grasping weakly at Darcy's coat. "Do not…" Something rattled in his throat. "Eliza…"

But even as the words left his lips, his eyes began to lose focus again, his grip loosening. "Harry, no!" Darcy choked out, his voice breaking. "Harry, please, stay with me!"

His heart pounded with fear, every beat a desperate plea for Harry to hold on, for this nightmare to end. But even as the words left his lips, Harry's eyes began to lose focus, his grip on Darcy's coat loosening.

"Harry, no!" Darcy choked out, his voice rising with panic. He shook his brother gently, his hands moving to check his pulse, pressing against Harry's wrist as if willing the blood to keep flowing. His hands were shaking, his mind spinning as he leaned down, listening for any sign of breath, any faint rise in Harry's chest. There was a moment—a fleeting, unbearable moment—where he thought he felt something, a weak pulse, a shallow breath.

But nothing. Harry's chest remained still, the life slipping from him before Darcy's eyes.

"Harry, please, stay with me!" Darcy's voice cracked, breaking into a sob as he frantically checked again, his fingers searching for the pulse he knew wasn't there. He pressed his ear against his brother's chest, hoping—praying—for the faintest sound of a heartbeat. But the silence that greeted him was suffocating. His hands trembled violently as he tore open the buttons of Harry's coat, refusing to accept what was happening.

"No, no…" Darcy's words came out in a broken whisper as he lifted his brother slightly, shaking him as if the movement might jolt him back to life. "Breathe, Harry! Harry, no—" His hands shook as he fumbled to check his brother's pulse, pressing trembling fingers against Harry's neck.

"Help! Someone—!" Darcy's voice cracked, raw with desperation. The head coachman, who had been tending to the horses, sprinted toward them, his boots pounding across the yard as he reached Harry's side.

"Master Darcy! Move aside!" The coachman's voice cut through Darcy's panic as he rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside them. Darcy did not move at first—could not move, his hands still gripping his brother's lifeless body as if letting go would make it final. But the coachman's hands were firm as he gently pulled Darcy away, his face lined with urgency and terror.

Darcy scrambled back, his breath coming in gasps as he watched the coachman feel for a pulse at Harry's neck, checking his breathing with quick, practised motions. For a brief moment, Darcy clung to the hope that the coachman would find something he had missed—that Harry wasn't truly gone.

"Is he—?" Darcy's voice faltered, thick with desperation.

But the coachman's face turned ashen as he leaned back, his shoulders sagging with the awful truth. He looked up at Darcy, his eyes filled with sorrow, and shook his head. "He's gone, sir."

"No!" Darcy's denial tore from him, harsh and visceral. "No, he isn't! Check again—he cannot—" His voice broke into ragged sobs as he reached for Harry once more, his hands trembling as he clutched his brother's limp body. "He cannot be gone… he cannot!"

But Harry's stillness was unmistakable; the life that had once burned so brightly in him was now extinguished. A raw, guttural cry tore from Darcy's throat, the sound of a man who had just lost his world. He clutched his brother tighter, his voice echoing across the courtyard in a desperate wail.

It was as if the earth itself shifted beneath him, the solid ground vanishing into an abyss of grief. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, his chest heaving as the dark reality of what had happened hit him with the force of a tidal wave, knocking the breath from his lungs. His hands still gripped Harry's coat, the fabric damp with blood and dirt, as if holding on might somehow anchor him to this moment, might somehow undo the nightmare.

But no matter how tightly he held his brother, no matter how desperately he wanted to believe it wasn't real, Harry was gone—his bright, vibrant brother—snuffed out in an instant. There was no bringing him back.

The sudden shock of grief crushed him, a relentless, unbearable force that pinned him to the ground. The guilt wrapped around his heart like a vise, squeezing tighter with each passing second. "I should have stopped it—I should have done something!" Darcy's voice broke, his words barely coherent through the sobs that wracked his body. "It is my fault… all my fault…" His hands trembled as he held Harry close, his tears falling freely, unchecked. He should have been quicker, more vigilant, should have noticed the danger before it was too late. He should have saved his brother from this senseless, cruel accident.

But he had not, and now… now Harry was gone forever.

And it was all his fault.