Some Particular Evil

Prologue

PROLOGUE

SEPTEMBER 1796

Y oung Master Fitzwilliam Darcy eagerly anticipated the evening of food and drink, gifts and cheer, music and dancing that the servants and villagers were preparing on Pemberley’s lawns. After a successful growing season and the laborious task of bringing in the grass, the master of Pemberley, Mr George Darcy, felt it was only right to reward his workmen, and their wives and children, with an appreciatory feast. It was always Master Fitzwilliam’s favourite day of the year, and now that he was almost twelve, he knew he would enjoy it even more.

His father’s annual feast in celebration of the final day of harvest was attended by the families of every servant, tenant, and yeoman with any connexion whatsoever to Pemberley. Even his mother’s family had been able to come this year. He was happy to see his aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Matlock, and their son Richard, though they visited often, as they lived in his home county of Derbyshire. His mother’s sister, Lady Catherine, and her husband, Sir Lewis de Bourgh, and their daughter Annie, however, had had to travel several days from Kent, so it was rare to have them here at Pemberley.

Fitzwilliam especially enjoyed the field games his father’s steward set up for the children of Pemberley’s parish. To run a three-legged race with a farmer’s son or bob for apples with the children of the stable hand was a rare treat for a boy of his standing. This year, Old Wickham had seen to it that there would be lawn-bowling, tug o’ war, sack races, and other athletic delights—no doubt urged on by his son, George, who seemed to possess a silver tongue and could talk anyone into anything. Heaven knew he had talked Fitzwilliam into some foolish schemes.

And now, the candles in the expansive open-air barn were being lit. This was what always captured Fitzwilliam’s attention—seeing the transformation of the great timber-framed barn into a grand pavilion. During the afternoon, it was a dining hall filled with spit-fired hogs, honeyed geese, huge beef roasts, and towers of dessert. There were tables full of gifts for the families—newly knitted hats, scarves, and gloves, along with other winter essentials. But at dusk, what felt like a thousand lanterns and candles were lit and hung criss-crossed overhead beneath the ceiling. As the lights came up, musicians began tuning their instruments, tables were cleared away, and the very air changed.

Fitzwilliam loved the whole scene, especially how cheerful everyone was—even his fastidious aunt and uncle de Bourgh. He was sure his cousin Richard was enjoying it, too, though he could not see him in the sea of smiling faces. No doubt Richard was either dancing with their cousin Anne de Bourgh, or the two of them were up to some mischief on the sidelines. Fitzwilliam had not had the growth spurt his mother so sweetly assured him would soon come, so he was not able to see much above the shoulders of those directly in front of him. Instead, he looked up at the man who stood at his side, tall and strong and mirroring his own wide grin. His father loved this time of year as much as Fitzwilliam did. George Darcy truly was the best of men, and Fitzwilliam intended to grow up to be just like him—the best landlord, the best master, the best husband, and the best father.

He only wished his mother could have come down from the house to join them. His mother and baby Georgiana had stayed behind so Nurse could join in the festivities. He was not surprised by this, as it had been very difficult for his dear mama to bring Georgiana into this world, and though it had been almost five months, she was still rather weak. And Fitzwilliam could understand, too, why she would take any opportunity to avoid the company of her brother and sister; they were forever tyrannising her, as if she could be chastised out of her sadness and fatigue. He hoped, at least, that she was resting. He knew there was little that brought his mama so much comfort as cradling the baby in her arms and singing her lullabies.

Perhaps I should run back to the house and check on them , he thought.

Just as he was about to head up the path towards the home he loved so much, young George Wickham appeared on the road coming towards him and cajoled him into instigating a game of tag with the huge group of boys and girls, convincing him that such a game played in the dark was much more diverting.

So he joined them, and an hour later concluded George had been right; he had never had so much fun.