Prologue
Pemberley, Derbyshire
1804
“Withallduerespect,Mr. Darcy, what you propose could create… difficulties.”
Mr. Edward Gardiner scanned the document presented him by the gentleman once more, his quill hovering over one line in particular. He removed his spectacles and looked across the desk at its owner—a man in his early fifties with greying temples and a grave expression. “‘A single power loom can replace as many as a hundred skilled weavers and be operated by a handful of unskilled laborers.’Sir, that is…”
Mr. Darcy sat back in his chair. “It will displease the weaver’s guild. Yes, I know. But there is no help for progress, Gardiner. What I want to know is the financial outlay.”
“Well.” Gardiner shook his head and replaced his spectacles to look over the proposal once more. “Your idea is intriguing. You have already secured the backing of other suppliers?”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Pemberley’s flocks alone produce enough wool to meet approximately a quarter the initial demand, according to my figures, and my brother-in-law, Lord Matlock, can produce twice as much. It will be no trouble securing the wool. So, you see, Gardiner, I can build a woolen mill here on the river, provide a steady income for fifty or sixty families and a secure future for Pemberley, or I can sit back and watch another do it. One who, I might add, may have fewer scruples than I.”
Mr. Gardiner nodded slowly as he touched his quill over each line. “It appears you are right. I see nothing wrong with your estimates, but I would like to take this to a friend in London to have him examine it for anything we might have overlooked.”
Mr. Darcy stood from his desk, signaling the end of the interview. “Of course, Gardiner. You have always advised me well in matters of business, and I expect no different on this occasion.”
Mr. Gardiner folded the leather portfolio and held his breath. “On that matter, sir, I must confess—I am giving up my position.” He met the gentleman’s eyes, then looked down again. “I was married last year, sir.”
“Yes, I recall. One of our local beauties… Miss Fairbanks, was it not? Lovely girl.”
“Indeed.” Gardiner’s face glowed with pleasure. “With my marriage came certain… advantages. I have been operating a small import business on the side for some years, and now I shall be able to expand and purchase my own warehouse.”
Mr. Darcy’s stern features softened. “It could not happen to a more deserving man. I am pleased for you, Gardiner. But I do hope you can refer another financial adviser to me… Ah, Fitzwilliam. Just a moment, Gardiner.”
Mr. Darcy stepped from around his desk and extended a hand toward the door. “Did you send for them?”
Gardiner turned to see a young man of probably twenty, equal in height to the senior Darcy but lacking the father’s commanding presence and ease. Lanky and thin, with a face that looked fresh from the schoolroom, the youth glanced at Gardiner before inclining his head to his father. “Yes, Father. They are in the blue drawing room.”
“Very good.” Darcy looked back to Gardiner, his expression growing somber. “I do not believe I have ever introduced you to my son and heir, Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam, this is Mr. Gardiner from London.”
The young man required no further introduction. He bowed immediately. “Mr. Gardiner.”
“Sir.” Gardiner bowed in reply. “Well, Mr. Darcy. I shall be on my way, then, and I—”
“Sir, if I may impose on you, there is one other matter which, I am afraid, is more pressing even than the business for which I summoned you.” Darcy gave his son a nod, dismissing the young man, and closed the door.
“Oh? Then I hope I can be of service.”
“So do I.” Darcy sighed heavily. “I have a ward—a young lady who has been in my care since she was little more than a babe. She is now a rather precocious thirteen.”
“I did not know that, sir. Perhaps that is the young lady I saw at archery in the gardens when I arrived? She appeared to be besting her companion—I believe it was your younger son?”
Darcy gave a thin smile. “Yes, Elizabeth Smith. She and my son George are… close.”
“I see, sir.” Then, his stomach lurched when he realized what the name “Smith” probably meant. “Oh. Isee. You, ah… you have a problem, then, do you?”
Darcy’s features settled into a scowl. “You would not be the first to assumethat, but I assure you, that is not the difficulty. She is not my natural daughter, though some claim to see a resemblance. And I am exceedingly fond of her—so much so that I have put off doing what must be done for far too long. However, her presence here is becoming more and more… problematic.”
“What are you asking, sir?”
Darcy sighed and gestured for Gardiner to follow him. They walked through the long corridors, passing a dozen of Pemberley’s servants and as many doors on the way. Finally, they stopped before an opened pair of double doors, and Darcy paused. “I doubt they will even notice us.”
Gardiner looked into the room and saw a youth of approximately fifteen or sixteen lounging on a thick Persian rug and laughing as his companion, the young lady, aimed a grape at his mouth with a catapult made of a spoon and a spool of thread. “You missed, Lizzy!” he crowed. “I win the bet, so it’s my turn to pi—” He broke off with a series of coughs.
The girl, Elizabeth, shot to her feet, whooping and twirling around. “I got you that time! Don’t you know to close your mouth instead of bragging, George? Now,Iget to pick what we do this afternoon, and I want to play chess.”
