Prologue
Hertfordshire, September 1811
The first time he bloodied her, Elizabeth knew it was time to take a husband.
The situation could not remain as it had been, especially during this last six months. She had been too young, when their lives fell to pieces, to handle matters properly. She had trusted too much in her relations, and too little in her own judgment.
It was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils or augment them by anxiety was no part of her disposition. In short, she had done the best she could. Unfortunately, her best was no longer good enough and must be improved by what, in her experience, seldom improved anything—that is to say, a man.
She studied her reflection critically in the mirror. No longer was it the face of a carefree girl, although she was onlytwenty; however, there was something more of steadiness, of reason, and perhaps even of wisdom—at least the sort of wisdom gained by surviving hard experience—in the expression of the young woman staring back at her.
It was a pretty face, she told herself. Her hair was thick, wavy, and difficult to manage on her own, but Elizabeth could dress it herself if she took her time about it. Jane had recently given her an almost-new dress which she could remake to fit her smaller frame. The problem was not in her appearance, but rather, her circumstances. Jane had recently been introduced to the gentleman, a Mr Bingley, who had leased Netherfield—and he had apparently shown a promising interest in her at the previous assembly and was expected to attend the upcoming one; she would be unavailable to spell Elizabeth for the evening, which meant it would be difficult to leave Fox Hollow to attend the next assembly herself.
Nevertheless, as little as she liked asking for help, there were those who would give it. Mrs Hill probably would do it, especially if told the reasons for attending the assembly—although she could barely conceive the conversation. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Hill, but I need to go a-husband-hunting. Could you come to Fox Hollow for an evening?’
It was ridiculous to expect the genteel marriage of which she had once dreamt; nor could she imagine a ‘proper’ gentleman taking her on, what with the burdens accompanying her. What she needed was a husband who was respectable enough to possess as much influence as her own relations, strong enough to help her, and kind enough to wish to. She could respect such a man and build a life with him, no matter his looks or his fortune. As a rule, suitors were thin on the ground in Meryton and its surrounds, but the recent incursion of a militia stationed nearby meant theremightbe a possibilityamongst them. By the same token, there was Mr Morris, Netherfield’s steward, widowed in the last year and reportedly searching for a wife. Yet, he had two other children! It was not ideal. Even so, he was reported to be an affectionate father, which spoke well of him.
She could barely imagine whatherfather would say, could he hear her thoughts. But of course, he could not and never would again, ensconced as he was within Longbourn’s peaceful family cemetery, her sisters Catherine and Lydia tucked in by his side, all victims of a fever that had swept through the village three years past.
She traced the bloody welts on her arm with the tip of one finger.Oh, Neddy, Neddy, she thought, with that old familiar mix of love and despair. She would marryanyone,if only it would helphim.
One
A SNAKE IN THE GRASS
The wind whipped at Darcy’s face in stinging breath, bringing the scent and promise of rain. Although it was barely September, the weather seemed to believe it was mid-winter, and he wished he had worn a heavier coat.
“What am I doing here?” he asked aloud to the grey, overcast sky. His stallion, Gallant, munching on a tasty bit of grass near the forest’s edge where Darcy had halted him, only snorted in reply.
It was as sensible an answer as any. He had told himself he was here to help Bingley adjust to estate ownership, assisting in whatever issues might arise, but the truth was, he had come to assess whether to expedite his plans regarding Bingley and Georgiana.
He had never dreamt his sister would be tempted by a rogue such as George Wickham, but it was time to face the truth. Georgiana was gifted artistically, but when it came to anything beyond riding, playing the pianoforte or scribbling in her drawing book, she was at an utter loss as to how to cope.Worse, she seemed to have no idea she wasnotcoping; she wandered off during conversations, never realising she had not excused herself, no matter how often she was reminded. She either could not pay any attention at all, or paid too much, drawing or playing for hours, forgetting meals. He trusted Georgiana’s new companion to keep a much better eye upon her, but the obstacles facing his sister were growing more complicated with every year that passed.
He had hoped the select seminary he had provided would train her to manage a life she was ill-suited by nature to handle. Unfortunately, while she had mastered Stamitz and sketching, he still could not fathom her successfully navigating a Season, theton, or the intricacies of society. He had tried governesses of every nature—firm, strict, lenient, and motherly. None seemed to have had much influence; she cared about music and the masters, endlessly striving for improvements in those realms, but the social niceties seemed a language she could not quite acquire. Nevertheless, he had convinced himself she was yet a mere child, that she would mature, that she would learn in time.
“The Wickham affair disprovedthatcomforting fantasy,” he told Gallant, the only creature he had for a confidant in this country backwater. “Yes, I was deceived in the corrupted character of her companion, Mrs Younge, but I also deceived myself. Dear Georgiana, awkward and graceless, wishes for a husband and a family like any other young lady. Yet, in her behaviour there seems a profound unawareness, in essentials, of the social arts that are part and parcel of romantic pursuits. Furthermore, she is altogether too persuadable. For now, she is still young and I can protect her, but what of the future? In a couple of years, she will want to come out. The men most likely to overlook her lack of charm and address are leastlikely to truly care for her, and I fear the next amiable scoundrel might succeed where Wickham failed.”
Gallant offered nothing whatsoever in the way of comfort. With a sigh, Darcy urged the beast forward again.
Arranging a marriage for his sister with someone acceptable, perhaps with an extended betrothal period, was obviously the wisest course. Bingley had been his first choice as a candidate-bridegroom; Darcy had been certain of his ability to convince the young man of the wisdom of accepting the offer. But Bingley was still young, and inclined towards brief, impetuous bouts of romantic attachment. One such flight of fancy seemed in progress now—he had been making calf-eyes at some local miss with a ridiculous family. It seemed unwise to bring up a betrothal with Georgiana, who was in every way the exact opposite of his current infatuation. There appeared nothing to be done except keep an eye on the situation, ensuring the Bennet girl did not entrap his friend; however, she behaved in every way respectably, and if he was any judge of character, Bingley had nothing to fear from that quarter.
Darcy could feel nothing except restlessness, and the weight of problems without quick resolutions. A long ride upon his favourite mount had done nothing to ease them.
Lost in these ruminations, he did not see the adder until his horse was almost atop it; neither, apparently, did Gallant. The horse reared, and Darcy, unprepared, flew backwards, sailing through the air and directly into the undergrowth at the forest edge.
His first thought, once he came to himself, was to worry for Gallant. Dazed and bewildered, he began scrambling to get his feet beneath him, struggling to free himself from his entanglement in a weedy hedge.
“Stop!” cried a feminine voice from somewhere nearby. “Please, sir, do not move!”
He was just stupefied enough to obey.
Suddenly above him appeared a woman, her cloak of forest green almost blending with her surroundings, its hood shrouding her face in shadows; with one gloved hand, she carefully moved aside the clump of weeds inches from his face. “You have landed within a patch of gorse and stinging nettles, sir,” she said, her voice soft and even. “Thankfully, I see you are able to move, and your clothing has hopefully protected you from the worst of it, but believe me when I say that you do not wish for more of this to touch your bare skin.”
In that instant he became aware of a burning sensation upon his jaw where the weeds had grazed his face; plainly, she was correct. He had been lucky, in more ways than one. The thick hedge had provided a sort of mattress to his landing, and whatever bruises or punctures he had sustained, he was essentially intact. But the thorns clawed at his head and clothing and nettles were stinging his wrists between his gloves and sleeves; he was also beginning to feel twinges of pain from his flight, and thus heard himself snapping back, “Yes, yes, I can see that for myself. Out of the way, if you please. I must see to my horse.”
She did not respond to his rudeness. Nor did she let go of the nettles, which would have undoubtedly given him a deserved slap in the face, but offered her other hand to him. Surrendering to the chagrin now flooding him, he took it, meaning only to use her hand to steady himself until he could regain his footing. However, she pulled hard; she was amazingly strong for such a slender female, and he quickly found himself stumbling upright—she might have been knocked over had she not gracefully danced out of harm’s way. Thedimpled jaw within her hood’s folds lifted a bit, as if she smiled. Had she meant to do that?
“Are you well?”
