Chapter 1
Darcy’s Office
Pemberley
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 26th 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, 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.