Prologue
Early Summer 1811
Mr. Darcy arrived at his sister’s lodgings in Ramsgate after several days of travel. He was very much looking forward to spending a week at the seaside with Georgiana.
Calling out, “Georgiana! Surprise!” he walked into the entryway. He was met there by one of the servants he had hired for her.
“Oh! Mr. Darcy! We were not expecting you, sir!”
“No, I had intended to surprise my sister. Where is she? Out shopping, I would guess,” he chuckled.
“No, she is not – that is to say – “ The woman was stuttering and looking at her feet.
Mr. Darcy frowned. Something was clearly wrong.
“What is it? Tell me at once! Is she ill?”
“Ill? No, not at all. No, when I last saw her –“
“When you last saw her? What can you possibly mean?”
She was silent, still not looking at him.
Finally, he roared at her. “Where is my sister??”
The woman finally looked him full in the face. “She is gone, Mr. Darcy. She eloped with Mr. Wickham, and they are headed to Gretna Green.”
His face turned ashen, and he stared at the woman for a long moment. Then he said, “Wickham? Could you possibly mean George Wickham?”
“I believe that is his given name, yes.”
George Wickham! The very name set Mr. Darcy’s teeth on edge. Childhood friend, companion of many youthful adventures, but in manhood a slothful, lying, conniving, seducer of young women – with Georgiana?!
Impossible!
He turned and ran from the house as if a devil was after him. The servant, relieved not to have been chastised, stared after him.
Chapter One
Fall 1811
Crane was already in the room Miss Bingley had assigned to Mr. Darcy, unpacking his clothing. Shirts, pants, waistcoats, coats, cravats, socks, shoes and hats all made an orderly progression from Mr. Darcy’s trunks to the capacious chest of drawers in the elegant room.
“You look quite tired, sir,” Crane said, looking up from his labours. His voice was polite, of course, but concerned.
“I suppose I am, but…” Mr. Darcy did not complete the sentence.
“I understand, sir.” Crane returned to his task, knowing better than to pursue the subject.
Crane doubtless did understand, Mr. Darcy reflected. All the servants at Pemberley knew what had happened, as Mr. Darcy had gone straight to Pemberley from Gretna Green, burrowing down at home to wallow in his pain and his shame. Of course, the servants were all under the strictest of orders not to tell tales outside the house. Crane would likely have died under torture before revealing anything about the shocking incident that had turned Miss Georgiana Darcy into Mrs. George Wickham.
At some point, though, it was inevitable that the situation would become common knowledge. Georgiana’s absence fromPemberley and Darcy House would be noticed. And, of course, Wickham would very likely make good on his threat to tell the newspapers about the elopement.
And once all was revealed, then Mr. Darcy would have to explain to his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Georgiana’s other guardian, how this had come about, how Mr. Darcy’s own failures had led to the worst scandal to ever befall the Darcy family. It would also have to be explained to Richard’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Matlock, and to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. There would be no forgiveness for Mr. Darcy from any of these family members.
And how could he expect forgiveness from anyone, when he could not forgive himself? In truth, there was nothing – absolutely nothing – anyone else could say to him or do to him that could even approach his own self-recrimination, his self-hatred, his anguish. He could find no peace, no rest. He had paced the endless halls of Pemberley for hours on end, he had sought oblivion at the bottom of any number of bottles; it was all in vain.
Once he had realised that grief and sorrow would be his lifelong companions – and he well knew that he deserved no better cohorts – then he understood that it did not much matter what he did or where he was.
