Chapter 1
Rosings, 1808
T he darkened skies hung heavy over Rosings Park as Fitzwilliam Darcy dismounted his horse, the usually composed gentleman now disheveled and mud-streaked, his black mourning attire marked with dirt from the furious ride. The express he’d received that morning from Lady Catherine had been brief but alarming.
Come to Rosings at once. Anne has been attacked.
Darcy pushed past the footmen at the entrance, ignoring the shocked faces of the household staff as he swept through the hallways. His boots thudded urgently on the polished floors. The grief he had borne for the past six months since his father’s passing, now intermingled with a sickening dread. How could something like this have happened? Lady Catherine had given no detail in her letter—only the desperate command to hurry.
Darcy’s heart pounded as he strode into the drawing room without waiting for the footmen to announce him. His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, paced in front of the fireplace, her face tense, her usual proud countenance dimmed by something that looked startlingly like fear.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, voice laced with a mixture of relief and agitation. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
Darcy took a steadying breath, his mind racing with questions. “What has happened?” he demanded. “Where is Anne?”
“She is resting,” Lady Catherine said, the words brittle. “She was set upon by a… a scoundrel.” Her face twisted with anger and disdain, her hands clenched at her sides. “The brute dared to strike her, all because he wanted… But you will see her soon enough.”
Darcy’s heart clenched, and a grim resolve formed within him. “Who did this?” he asked, his voice low.
Lady Catherine’s face darkened. “George Wickham.”
For a moment, Darcy thought he’d misheard her. “Wickham?” His mind flashed to his late father’s godson, the man who had plagued him for years with his lies and manipulations. “How did he—?”
Lady Catherine cut him off, her tone trembling with a bitterness that Darcy had rarely heard from her. “He accosted Anne on one of her morning drives.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Apparently, he has been lurking on the edges of Rosings for weeks, watching, waiting for an opportunity. The coward seized upon her when she was alone, in her phaeton.” Looking away, her voice became quieter but no less bitter. “He forced himself upon her, Fitzwilliam. And then he had the audacity to come here, demanding her hand.”
Darcy’s hands clenched into fists, his mind reeling at the sheer brazenness of it. “Demanding—?” He choked out the words, fury and disbelief battling within him. “He thinks he can simply—”
Lady Catherine’s face hardened, her expression fierce. “He claimed that now he has ‘rights,’ that I must allow him to marry her or he would ruin our name, our family’s honor.”
Darcy closed his eyes, the rage within him swelling as he imagined Wickham’s fury and the depths of his desperation. “But… you told him to leave?” he asked, struggling to piece together the sequence of events.
Lady Catherine’s lips curved in a grim smile. “I had him dealt with in the way such scoundrels deserve. Two of my footmen dragged him from my sight and beat him thoroughly. I was about to arrange to have him impressed into the Navy, but the worm escaped along the way to the nearest port.” Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “But he will not return to Rosings. He knows that if he does, he will face the worst of consequences.”
“And Anne?”
“I was sure Anne would be safe once he left, but—”
“But what, Aunt Catherine?” Darcy pressed, his voice low and menacing.
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire. Lady Catherine finally looked up, her steely composure broke for a moment. “I did not realize, Fitzwilliam… I did not realize the extent of what he had done to her until it was too late. Wickham… compromised her.”
The shock of her words hit Darcy like a physical blow, his body tensing as he absorbed the implications. “Compromised?” he repeated, his voice choked with anger and disbelief.
Lady Catherine nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor. “I did not know at first. She is… changed, Fitzwilliam. Withdrawn, and frightened. I thought that would be the end of it, but then her health began to falter. The doctor has confirmed it.” She hesitated, then took a deep breath, steeling herself. Darcy could see the desperation in her eyes. “She is with child, Fitzwilliam. And that child will bear the stigma of Wickham’s treachery.”
The words struck Darcy like a physical blow. His hands clenched into fists, his mind racing. The very thought of Wickham harming Anne, his own cousin, was enough to make him sick with rage.
“With child,” he repeated, the words hollow as they left his mouth.
“Yes.” Lady Catherine’s voice was filled with a blend of desperation and determination. “Do you understand now why I called you here?” she asked, her tone urgent. “You must marry her. You must preserve the family’s dignity. If you marry her, no one need ever know the truth.”
Darcy felt the weight of her words settle heavily on his shoulders. He had mourned the loss of his father only months prior, and the responsibilities of Pemberley, his family’s legacy, were already daunting enough. But to take on a marriage—especially one born out of such horror—was something he had never anticipated.
“I… I don’t know,” he replied, struggling to process it all. “I came here for Anne’s sake, but marriage… marriage was never something I considered.”
Lady Catherine’s face hardened, and she moved closer to him, her gaze fierce. “Then consider it now,” she snapped. “Do you think I want this, Fitzwilliam? My daughter’s name in tatters, her life destroyed?” Her voice dropped, and she added, “If you refuse, she will be alone and ruined. This is the only way.”
“What of Anne?” he asked finally, his voice softer, more resolute. “What does she say to this?”
Before Lady Catherine could respond, he heard a muffled sound coming from down the hall—a voice, soft and tremulous, barely audible.
“Anne…” he whispered. Without waiting for Lady Catherine, he strode quickly down the hall and up the stairs to Anne’s chamber, pushing open the door.
Anne sat by the window, her thin frame draped in a dark shawl, her face pale and withdrawn. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with silent tears. She did not look up as he entered, but her hands twisted anxiously in her lap.
He took a hesitant step toward her, his heart heavy. “Anne?”
She turned at the sound of his voice, her gaze distant, haunted. She seemed barely to register his presence, her eyes filled with a kind of quiet despair.
After he repeated her name once more, she finally looked up, her expression filled with a quiet despair that struck him to the core. He felt a surge of protectiveness rise within him, mingling with a fierce anger at Wickham for having caused her this pain.
“Anne, I… I am so sorry. I came as soon as I heard.”
Anne shook her head, letting out a hollow laugh. “What good does it do?” she murmured, her voice a mere whisper. “My mother sees only the scandal, not the pain.” Her voice trembled, and she looked away, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her misery.
A sharp voice interrupted them as Lady Catherine stepped into the room, her face stern. “This is not the time for self-pity, Anne,” she said coldly. “You should have fought harder.”
Anne dissolved into gut-wrenching sobs. “He had… a knife…” she gasped out.
“Then you should have died. Better dead than stained with sin and dishonor.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched as he watched his aunt’s harsh words pierce Anne, worse than any blade could. Without a second thought, he stepped between them, his gaze hard as he faced Lady Catherine.
“That’s enough, Aunt Catherine,” he said firmly. “She has been through enough. She does not need your reproach.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, but she held her tongue, sensing the authority in Darcy’s tone. He turned back to Anne, his heart breaking for her. “Anne, I cannot change what has happened, but I can… I can offer you protection,” he said softly. “If you will allow me, I will marry you. We will face this together.”
Anne’s eyes filled with fresh tears, her lips trembling as she looked up at him. “You would… marry me?”
He nodded, his resolve hardening. “Yes. I will not allow you to face this alone.”
Lady Catherine quickly stepped forward, nodding in approval. “It is the right decision,” she declared.
“But only on my conditions,” Darcy replied coldly.
“What conditions?” she demanded in return.
“This child will inherit Rosings Park, but it will never be allowed to inherit Pemberley. I will not allow the lineage to be so tainted.”
Lady Catherine gasped. “But think of the talk! What will people say when your firstborn child isn’t your heir?”
“Their talk does not bother me.”
“But, you will care for the child, won’t you?” Anne broke in.
At her gentle plea, Darcy turned back to his cousin. The fear in her eyes caused his face to soften. “Of course, Anne. The child is guiltless. I simply will not allow anyone save my own blood to inherit a Darcy estate. You are a Fitzwilliam and a de Bourgh, neither of which has claim on Pemberley. But in all other instances, yes, I will treat the child as my own.”
“Very well.” Lady Catherine’s ragged agreement behind him brought a look of relief to Anne’s face.
Darcy nodded, though the weight of the situation settled heavily on him. The marriage would secure Rosings, but as the child born from this marriage—Anne’s child—would never inherit Pemberley, his family’s estate would remain without a direct heir. The future he had imagined, of a marriage born out of choice and love, was an impossible dream now.
He cast those thoughts aside, focusing instead on Anne, who was looking at him with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. He would do what was necessary. He reached out, taking her hand gently in his, and gave her a reassuring smile. “We will do this together,” he promised.
In the days that followed, Darcy arranged to take Anne to London, where they would be married and she could be cared for by skilled doctors and a midwife. She needed more than the familiar walls of Rosings; she needed proper medical attention, and Darcy was determined that she would have it. Lady Catherine had been outraged at first, but Darcy’s will held strong.
They traveled in silence. The curtains of the carriage framed Anne’s pale face as they left Rosings behind. Darcy’s heart ached with the weight of his decision, yet he felt a fierce determination to see it through. This child, whatever its parentage, would bear the name of Darcy, and he would do everything in his power to protect both Anne and her unborn child.
In London, Darcy made arrangements with the best physicians, ensuring that Anne would be comfortable and attended to. He visited her regularly, offering words of encouragement, but he could see the toll that Wickham’s cruelty had taken on her. She was a shadow of the cousin he had known, her spirit diminished and her once-gentle demeanor marked by a resigned sadness.
One day, as he sat by her bedside, she looked at him with a faint smile. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” she murmured. “For everything.”
Darcy felt a pang of sorrow as he looked down at her, but he offered her a gentle smile. “You are family, Anne.”
∞∞∞
Two months later…
The halls of the Darcy townhouse were silent but for the sounds of gasping sobs and anguished cries filtering through the door to Anne’s bed chamber. Fitzwilliam Darcy paced the corridor outside the birthing room, his heart twisting with every scream that tore through the walls. Two days. For two days, he had listened, powerless, as Anne fought and struggled within.
His hands clenched at his sides, helplessness washing over him as another scream reached his ears. He had tried to stay calm, had tried to prepare himself for this day, but nothing could have braced him for the unrelenting agony of her suffering. The doctor had assured him it was normal, that first labors often took time, but it was becoming unbearable to wait any longer.
In the quiet moments, when he could drown out the screams and remember the happier sounds of her voice, his mind drifted back to their last few months together. He saw Anne as she had been then, pale but smiling as she sat in her favorite chair by the window, her hands tenderly resting on the swell of her belly. She had radiated a gentle peace that had eased his own troubled mind.
“You know, Fitzwilliam,” she had said one evening, looking at him with an almost childlike joy, “I think… I think I am happy.” Her hand had smoothed over her stomach as she sang, her voice a quiet lullaby for the unborn child who already seemed to know her love.
Anne had spoken of her hopes and dreams, of the kind of mother she would be, promising to be gentler, kinder than her own had been, to let her child feel cherished, not stifled.
“If I am to be a mother,” she had said softly, “I want to be a good one. I want to be like…” she paused, her voice catching. “Like yours was; so kind, so compassionate. The complete opposite of my own.”
He felt the ache of those memories in the present, his heart heavy with the contrast of her dreams and the harsh reality she was enduring.
At last, he heard the door creak open, and Dr. Williams emerged, his face grave, worn with a fatigue and worry that Darcy had not seen before.
“Mr. Darcy,” he began, his voice low, “I’m afraid there is little we can do. Mrs. Darcy is failing. Her frame… it’s too narrow to allow the child to pass. And she is bleeding heavily. She… she will not survive this.” He swallowed, and in that moment, Darcy felt his heart begin to break. “If you wish to say your goodbyes, you must come in now.”
Darcy was dumbstruck. Never in all of the many plans he had formed had he considered this outcome. Numb with despair, Darcy followed the doctor into the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood, and there, on the bed, lay Anne. Her face was pale, her hair plastered to her forehead, but she managed a faint, weak smile as she saw him.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, her voice drowned out by her own labored breathing. “Please… I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” he replied, his voice choked with emotion as he knelt beside her, taking her trembling hand in his.
“Save my baby,” she whispered, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. “Please, Fitzwilliam… I know I am dying, but don’t… don’t let my baby die with me. Let… let my life have meant something.”
Darcy felt a lump rise in his throat, his heart breaking. He glanced at the doctor. “Is such a thing even possible?”
The doctor hesitated. “There is… there is one who might help,” he admitted reluctantly. “A young student surgeon, a Dr. James Barry. He has some… radical ideas, and he has considered the notion of cutting the womb to save a child. There are records of something similar occurring in ancient times— no one knows if they are real, however. Such a procedure… it will be fatal to the mother, which is why it simply isn’t done.”
Darcy clenched Anne’s hand tightly, his voice thick with grief as he looked down at her. “Anne, I… I can’t. I can’t let them do that to you.”
Anne’s eyes filled with a quiet resolve. “Fitzwilliam… I am going to die,” she said, her voice calm despite the tears that filled her eyes. “Please. Don’t let my death be in vain. Let it… let it be for this child.”
Darcy felt his own resolve waver, his heart breaking as he looked into her pleading eyes. Finally, he nodded, his voice trembling as he whispered, “Very well. I… I will do as you ask.”
A faint smile crossed her lips, and she squeezed his hand with the last of her strength. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice fading. “And please… find him— or her— a mother. Someone who will love him… the way I could have loved him.”
“I promise,” he choked out, the words almost inaudible as he felt her hand grow weaker in his grasp. “I will find him someone who will love him as if he were their own.”
The doctor gestured for Darcy to leave, but he shook his head, refusing to let go of Anne’s hand. He stayed at her side as her wave after wave rolled across her stomach, draining her life with each contraction.
After an hour, a small, bare-faced young man arrived and immediately went to work. “We will give her laudanum,” Barry explained in the youthful tone of that seemed more suited to a lad not yet matured. “It will dull the pain, though it cannot erase it.”
Darcy nodded, his gaze fixed on Anne’s face as they prepared the laudanum and administered it. Her eyes grew heavy, her breathing slow and shallow as the drug took effect. She looked at Darcy, a faint smile on her lips, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers, murmuring the lullaby she had sung so often to her unborn child.
“Sleep, my little one… rest in love’s embrace…” he whispered, his voice breaking as he repeated the words of the lullaby she often sang to her growing womb. He felt her hand grow weaker in his, and his heart shattered with every passing moment.
He kept his eyes on her, his voice soft as he sang to her, willing her to feel his presence, his love, until the end.
The child was delivered at last, its small form blue and still as it entered the world. Darcy dared not look, his focus remaining on Anne, his voice a soft caress against her ear.
“He’s not breathing!” came the strained voice of the doctor.
Darcy’s gaze shot up, his heart pounding as he saw the child, impossibly small, held in the doctor’s bloody hands. The baby’s skin was a dusky blue, and it lay still, lifeless.
“He’s too small…” the young doctor whispered.
“Well, he was a full month early,” Dr. Williams murmured, worry lining his face. He looked to the midwife, his voice steady but urgent. “Here, please, take him and see if…”
The midwife took the baby, her hands deft but gentle as she turned the child over, her fingers rubbing his back in firm strokes. “Come now, little one,” she whispered. “Come now, feel the warmth of this world. Breathe.”
Darcy felt himself leaning forward, his own breaths shallow as he watched, unable to tear his gaze away. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, the silence growing more unbearable. The midwife adjusted the baby’s head, cradling him closer as she gave a small, resolute nod.
“Let me…” she said softly, lifting him slightly. She delivered a sharp, quick tap to the child’s back, then rubbed his chest with a firm but tender hand.
And then, there was a sound—a faint, whimpering gasp. Darcy’s breath caught as the baby shuddered, his tiny mouth opening as he finally drew in his first, tentative breath. A feeble, fragile cry filled the air, the sound weak but unmistakably alive.
“There we are,” the midwife murmured, relief flooding her voice as she wrapped the child in a soft blanket. She looked up, offering the baby to the doctor, her expression both reverent and exhausted. “He’s breathing now.”
“It’s a boy, Mr. Darcy. You have a son,” Dr. Williams belatedly informed him.
“At the faint sound of the cry, Anne stirred, her eyelids fluttering as she turned her head towards them. “Please…” she slurred, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “Let me… let me see him.”
The midwife brought the swaddled bundle to her, lowering him into her arms. Anne gazed down at her son, her face filled with wonder and love despite the shadows of pain that lingered in her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek as she looked up at Darcy.
“Remember… remember your promise, Fitzwilliam,” she murmured, her words faint but resolute. “Find him… a mother.”
Darcy’s own voice was choked as he nodded, clutching her hand as he replied, “I promise, Anne. I swear it to you.”
With a final, weary smile, she closed her eyes; her grip loosening as she drifted away, the last traces of life slipping from her frail body. Her cheek rested on the head of her baby as the room fell into a hushed reverence.
Darcy stayed by her side, his heart breaking as he watched her last breaths, and the tiny, fragile creature she had left behind became his only anchor in a world that had suddenly grown far colder.