Prologue
By his tenth year, Fitzwilliam Darcy felt the weight of Atlas thrust upon his shoulders as the future master of Pemberley, knowing he would fulfill his duty in a manner befitting his name. Lessons learned at his father’s knee ensured the continuation of a legacy steeped in honor. However, nothing was more impactful than the lesson he experienced without his father or tutors but in the attendance of an insistent gypsy crone.
Surveying Pemberley’s woods, he and his companion George Wickham came upon a gypsy camp, a trifling fascination, but in years to come, a moment to change the shades of Pemberley. Naturally reticent, the future master of the estate wished to immediately inform his father of the interlopers’ presence. Nevertheless, his more venturesome companion had other ideas. Wickham had heard tales of the second sight of the gypsies and was not leaving until his curiosity had been satiated.
For two young boys, one seeking adventure and the other seeking an escape home, the quarter hour wanderingamongst these people proved unsatisfying until an old woman with a raspy voice pointed a withered finger at Darcy.
“You. Come, boy. Come to me.” Her gnarled hand outstretched, the ordinarily cautious Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley walked toward her. When his playmate followed, the elder held up her palm. “You stay. No good will come from you.”
Stunned, Wickham, the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, spat on the ground. “You old hag! Do not speak to your betters in such a manner!” Turning to his companion, he yelled, “Darcy, let’s be off. They will be expecting us.”
The woman’s attention returned to the young master. “Come, boy. I see something in you I haven’t seen in many years.”
Her eyes bore into his, and he was absorbed into the patterns the light projected in them. “Yes, mistress.”
The appellation caused a smile to spread across her leathered skin. “You are a good boy.” She motioned for him to come toward the fire as she threw in twigs and sand. “You will become a great man. All you see will be yours,” she said, waving her hands around, indicating the forest. “But those you surround yourself with could one day lead to harm.” She looked over his head at Wickham. “One man’s evil will unitethose with the purest love. Be wise in the company you choose.”
Wickham had mounted the horse, waiting impatiently. “Darcy, let’s go. I am weary of this place.”
The old woman tsked at the sound and gently took Darcy’s chin in her hand. “Someday, you will have the chance to change your life, to choose your circumstances. Do not abandon your destiny for false hopes. You must always trust in here,” she said, thumping his chest. “The purest love will always recognize your soul. But know when you have lost all hope, I will send you a sign. All will be well.”
His brow wrinkled as he said, “Only God can send signs.”
A brittle chuckle escaped her lips. “Dear boy. Your god is a friend to the gypsies. Now go before your mother fears you have been harmed.” She had patted his head and shooed him on his way before he had rushed back to mount his horse and catch up with the retreating Wickham. Before he was off, he glanced back to the old gypsy, yet she had disappeared.All will be well.
In his twentieth year, before he left on his Grand Tour, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s father began to suffer from heart maladies. The Darcy patriarch had been in his mid-forties but recognized the precariousness of life after having lost his beloved Anne only eight years previous.
When the hens of thetoncackled about young Fitzwilliam Darcy and his ten-thousand pounds per anum, little did they know they only scratched the surface of his worth. With holdings in several countries, the coffers of the Darcy family would have made even Lady Catherine’s greedy heart sing, had she known.
After fencing at the club, and dinner at White’s, Darcy was enjoying a brandy with his father in the study.
“Fitzwilliam, I am a man of great power and wealth, just as you will be. I have secured your happiness, as my forefathers did for me. But in the event of disaster, I have made provisions to guard what I love the most.” He had then outlined his plan, the strategy he had set in place to ensure his children’s happiness and the continued success of Pemberley: the secret Merino account.
The young Darcy shook his head. “But Father, why a secret account?”
The elder Mr. Darcy sat down in the chair and slowly sipped his drink. “One never knows what will occur in thislifetime. You are to inherit the account upon your twenty-eighth birthday, yet I feel even now you should be aware of its existence.”
“I do not believe—” Fitzwilliam said.
His father held up his hand. “I was friends with a man at Cambridge. He was heir to a great estate in Edinburgh and would one day become the head of a family with seven daughters, and he the only son. They farmed ten-thousand acres of merino sheep, and he was set to inherit everything when the unthinkable occurred.”
Darcy leaned in anticipation.
“His father died, and a man came forward to claim the estate.”
“How?”
“This man claimed to be the first-born son from an unknown wedding from his father’s university days.”
“What?” Darcy rocked back in surprise.
“Yes. And it was true.” George Darcy had stood and walked to the sideboard to set his glass down. “He had married his mother’s lady’s maid in Gretna Green, then realized the ramifications. They annulled the marriage, but he did not know about the child. When the young woman came to tell him, my friend’s grandmother discovered it and established the young maid in America. It was not until afterhis father’s death that the first son appeared to claim his inheritance.”
“But how?”
“He had the marriage license, and the annulment didn’t occur until a month from the date of the wedding. He was allegedly conceived on their wedding night.” Darcy held his glass up, and his father poured him another, chuckling as he did. “It would have all been pushed under the rug if the man had not appeared as the spitting image of his late father—red hair, freckles, and bright green eyes.” He sighed. “So, you see, my son. One never knows what will come about to foil our plans.”
Darcy swallowed and inhaled deeply. “Is this your way of telling me that George Wickham is my brother?”
