Prologue
Pemberley, Derbyshire
April 1807
The rain drummed against the tall windows of Pemberley’s study with a persistence that matched Fitzwilliam Darcy’s own relentless attention to the ledgers spread before him. Each entry required scrutiny, each decision weighed against the future prosperity of the estate his father had entrusted to his care. At four-and-twenty, Darcy bore responsibilities that would have crushed a lesser man, yet he approached them with the same methodical precision that had served him well at Cambridge.
The fire crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows across the mahogany desk where neat columns of figures chronicled the spring quarter’s expenditures. Tenant repairs, seed purchases, wages for the groundskeepers—all the minutiae of a thriving estate demanded his consideration. Such tasks had once been his father’s domain, guided by years of experience and an intuitive understanding of the land. Now they fell to Darcy alone, a burden made heavier by the persistent ache of loss that settled in his chest whenever he recalled his father’s steady voice offering counsel.
A soft sigh drew his attention to the corner of the room, where Georgiana sat curled in the window seat with a leather-bound volume in her lap. At fourteen, she possessed their mother’s delicate features and their father’s thoughtful disposition, though grief had rendered her quieter still. Thebook lay forgotten as she stared out at the rain-soaked grounds, her fingers tracing patterns on the condensation that clouded the glass.
“The new plantings in the south pasture appear to be thriving,” Darcy offered, setting down his pen. “Mr Griffith believes we shall have an excellent harvest this year.”
Georgiana’s lips curved in a wan smile. “Papa would have been pleased.”
The simple observation hung between them, carrying the weight of a year’s worth of unspoken sorrow. Their father’s absence pervaded every corner of Pemberley, from the empty chair at the head of the dining table to the untouched volumes in his personal library. Darcy had maintained the pretence of normalcy for Georgiana’s sake, but he knew his sister perceived the hollowness beneath his composed exterior.
“Indeed he would.” Darcy returned to his ledgers, though the figures blurred slightly as he blinked away the moisture that gathered at his eyes.
The steady rhythm of their shared silence was disrupted by the distant sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive. Darcy frowned, glancing at the mantel clock. Half past three—an unusual hour for callers, particularly given the inclement weather. He had no appointments scheduled, and their neighbours rarely ventured out in such conditions without a good cause.
Georgiana straightened in her seat, pressing her face to the window. “It appears to be a hired conveyance rather than a private carriage.”
Before Darcy could respond, a firm rap echoed from the entrance hall, followed by the murmur of voices as Wilson, their butler, attended to the unexpected visitor. Moments later,the study door opened to reveal the elderly servant’s composed features.
“Mr Darcy, there is a Mrs Younge requesting an audience. She claims the matter is of some urgency and concerns the family directly.”
The name struck Darcy with immediate recognition—Mrs Younge had served as Georgiana’s governess until they had secured a more suitable replacement two years prior. “Show her in, Wilson.”
Mrs Younge appeared much as Darcy remembered—a woman of middle years whose severe black dress and pinched features suggested either mourning or habitual disapproval. She clutched a worn traveling case in one gloved hand while her other arm cradled a bundle wrapped in a woollen blanket. The bundle stirred slightly, emitting a soft whimper that caused both Darcy and Georgiana to start in surprise.
“Mr Darcy.” Mrs Younge executed a stiff curtsey. “I apologize for arriving without notice, but circumstances have compelled me to act with haste.”
“Please, be seated.” Darcy gestured towards the leather chair opposite his desk, his eyes fixed on the mysterious bundle. “What brings you to Pemberley?”
Mrs Younge settled herself carefully, adjusting her hold on her burden. “I come bearing a responsibility that rightfully belongs to this family, though I suspect you may not welcome the news.”
The bundle stirred again, and a tiny fist emerged from the blanket’s folds. Darcy’s breath caught as understanding dawned—Mrs Younge carried a child, no more than a year old by appearances. The infant’s dark hair and delicate features bore a disturbing resemblance to someone Darcy knew all too well.
“This child,” Mrs Younge continued, her voice taking on a note of resigned duty, “is the son of Mr George Wickham.”
The name fell upon the room like a stone cast into still water, sending ripples of tension through the air. Georgiana gasped, her book sliding forgotten to the floor, while Darcy’s jaw tightened with barely suppressed anger.
“Wickham.” The word emerged as little more than a growl. “What possible concern could Wickham’s offspring be of mine?”
Mrs Younge shifted uncomfortably, her grip tightening on the child. “The boy’s mother, Miss Eloise Phillips, succumbed to fever three days past. She had been under my care since the child’s birth, as Mr Wickham departed for the continent shortly after learning of her condition.”
“Then let Wickham return to claim his responsibilities,” Darcy replied coldly. “I fail to see why this matter requires my involvement.”
“Because, sir, there is no one else.” Mrs Younge’s voice carried a note of desperation. “Miss Phillips was cast out by her family upon discovery of her situation. Mr Wickham has not been seen or heard from in months—some say he fled to escape creditors, others claim he joined a military company bound for India. The little boy has no living relatives willing to acknowledge him.”
Darcy rose from his chair, pacing to the window where rain continued its relentless assault on the glass. The weight of obligation pressed upon his shoulders, though he resented its source. Wickham had been his father’s godson, raised alongside Darcy as a brother, yet their friendship had soured years ago when Wickham’s true character revealed itself. The man possessed neither honour nor responsibility, caring only for his own pleasure and advancement.
“There are institutions,” Darcy said at length. “Foundling hospitals in London that accept such children.”
“Orphanages, you mean.” Georgiana’s voice, though quiet, carried surprising steel. She had risen from the window seat and now stood beside Mrs Younge’s chair, her young face etched with compassion. “Places where children disappear into anonymity, if they survive at all.”
The child in Mrs Younge’s arms began to fuss, his tiny face scrunching with displeasure. Georgiana reached out, her finger brushing against his cheek. The touch seemed to soothe him, and his wide eyes—startlingly blue and achingly familiar—fixed upon her face with innocent trust.
