~Prologue~
Several miles outside of Buxton, Derbyshire....1816
The late evening sun had just begun to set, however, with the season being early spring, darkness would soon make travel problematic. Not that the Earl of Matlock ever cared for the problems of others, only when they interfered with his own desires. And at the moment, his present desire was to return to his estate, some ten miles away. For it was the preservation ofthat very place which had sent him on his errand to Buxton, and now, having resolved the problem of his son’s marriage, felt no desire to remain in what George Fitzwilliam, the Twelfth Earl of Matlock, deemed inferior surroundings. Turning to where his eldest son snored away the effects of too much drink, he snorted in derision. If only the birth order of his sons had been opposite, then none of this nonsense would even be occurring. But as his late dear wife had seen fit to provide him with a wastrel first, he must do what was necessary, even if threats were issued.
“Oh Christina! If only Richard could have been my heir instead of Edward!” the old man lamented aloud, receiving no reply to his cries of irritation.
No, Richard Fitzwilliam, a studious and reserved boy, had grown into an honorable man, and having accepted his place as second son, joined the King’s Army, and was presently the equally respectable rank of Colonel. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Edward Fitzwilliam, heir to an earldom and its vast fortune, but most particularly, the estate known as Redbyrne. Named so for the iron rich soil that colored the streams which crisscrossed the fertile fields, the estate was rivaled only by Pemberley. And that belonged to his sister, Anne’s family, but she too, was long dead, never having lived to see the present disgrace brought on by her only son. Imprudence in marriage could not be tolerated, nor ever accepted. It was this belief that he had instilled in both his boys, yet it had not the effect for which he hoped. Instead, each had taken their time in selecting a bride, remaining unwed until speculation for the reason why had become gossip. For Richard, it was acceptable to believe that his military duties, as well as the lack of fortune were the cause. But for Edward, the thirty-five year old heir, there was but one thing to blame, and that was the man who sired him. Alone, save for his snoring offspring, Lord Matlock could acknowledge hisshortcoming. He had spoilt the boy, even encouraged the sowing of wild oats, believing that once done, Edward would reform and take his rightful place in society. However, years had passed, with no sign that any such transformation was impending. No interest had been shown in regard to any young lady with the proper pedigree to become the next Countess of Matlock. Instead, Edward Fitzwilliam had earned the reputation of rake, gambler and drunkard, much to the utter embarrassment of his father. In the end, Lord Matlock had put his foot down, going so far as to select the bride, and arrange the marriage contracts. Lady Gloriana Westlake was not only wealthy and held connections as high as the royal family, but was also beautiful. If not for the disparity in age, Matlock might have considered marrying the girl himself. Unfortunately, George Fitzwilliam was long past the age where any woman stirred his loins, and lacked the patience to try. No, all he could do was ensure that his lineage did not end due to Edward’s indifference to obligation. And ensure it, he did, for the documents were signed and witnessed. All that remained was the formality of ceremony, set to take place in two months’ time. Perhaps he would yet live to see a grandchild?
Rapping on the ceiling of the coach to signal the driver, Matlock shouted his orders, caring not the condition of the roads or the approaching dusk. There were plans to make, a house to get in order, and a thousand other tasks as required by a wedding. Sighing in frustration, the old man frowned, for the sudden realization that he knew nothing of organizing such affairs had not been considered when the wedding date had been set. How was he to sort it out? Kicking his son sharply, Edward merely grumbled in his sleep but did not wake. Would the sot try to sleep through the entire event? Matlock hoped not, for this would be the event of the season. Everyone who wasanyone, would covet an invitation. It would take a miracle....and unfortunately, that meant reliance upon the one person who could manage to turn any potential disaster into perfection.
“Catherine...dear sister, I believe your expertise is exactly what I need!”
Now smiling, the Earl of Matlock took a moment to close his own eyes, paying no notice to how the carriage slipped and jolted over the uneven roads. Nor, did he wake when the conveyance rounded the sharp turn where the River Derwent ran deep, or when the carriage left the roadway, crashing into the turbulent waters. Only when water, still frigid from its mountain origins, flowed unchecked into the sinking carriage, did the old man wake. His eyes, fluttering open, could barely see in the darkness as his lungs fought for each breath. It was a fight for survival, however futile, but when the lifeless body of his eldest son bumped against him, George Fitzwilliam, the Twelfth Earl of Matlock, knew death had come. Taking one last gasp of air, he uttered a single name and a plea to the man to whom everything now rested.
“Richard....it is yours now...”
~One~
One week later....
Elizabeth Darcy placed her infant son over her shoulder and patted his back. It never ceased to amaze her how such a small being managed to be constantly hungry. Not that she minded, but it would be nice if the child slept more than four hours each night. Having refused the services of a wet nurse, young Duncan Fitzwilliam Bennet Darcy slept upon a cot in the corner of his parent’s bedchamber. That, in itself was an additional oddity, for the master and mistress of Pemberley shared a bedchamber, much to the amused whisperings of the servants. But of this, none dared venture an opinion outright, for the alteration in the demeanor of Fitzwilliam Darcy since his marriage was a welcome change. Oh, not that he was ever severe, or prone to anger, no, for he was the best of masters. It was the simple observation that now, not only did he smile, but was even known to laugh with regularity. Indeed, marriage seemed to be a most agreeable state and with the arrival of the first child, all the more wonderful. Unfortunately, despite Pemberley’s grand size and nearly autonomous self-sufficiency, it was impossible to keep all of the world’s miseries from breaching its gate.
Settling the child in his cot, Elizabeth gave instructions to the nursemaid and sought her husband’s company. He had been absent from her that hour, a time usually spent in mutual wonder over the tiny miracles performed by their child. As new parents, they could not seem to get enough of the small human they had created. Going below, she found her son’s father in his now second favorite place, the library, but there was no expression of happy contentment upon his features as he paced the chamber, lost in some thought that was obviously disturbing. Announcing her presence with a tap upon the door,for the place, despite nearly two years of marriage, still seemed a private masculine domain. But, if her husband was to claim but one chamber out of dozens as his own, Elizabeth would not complain. Pemberley, as vast in size as it was beautiful, offered comfortable respite in many chambers of which she was free to choose, as was the collection of books, forming a silent audience from inside the glass cases.
Deep in contemplation, it was some time before Darcy noticed his bride, and forced a smile, bidding her to enter. The reluctance of Elizabeth to intrude in the library was something he did not understand, having many times, insisted that she possessed this room as much as she did his heart. But now, he gestured to a letter, lying open upon the great leather topped desk.
“Unfortunate news has come...most unfortunate...”
“What is it? Papa? Mama?” Elizabeth queried in worry, for neither of her parents were young, nor were they known to take the best of care when it came to health.
To this, Darcy shook his head, smiling sadly, “Your parents are fine...at least as far as we know. No, a letter came today from my cousin Richard.”
“The Colonel? Is he?” Elizabeth began, for a military man was always in the face of danger, and she was rather fond of the soldier.
Seeing the mixed emotions upon her countenance, Darcy again shook his head, “He is well, but I am afraid, that my Uncle Matlock and cousin Edward are not...they are dead.”
“Dead? The Earl? Edward? But how? When?”
The questions tumbled faster than could be answered, for it was indeed, most disturbing, especially given the difficulties between the relations. George Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, had not approved of his nephew’s choice of bride, and upon the recommendation of his sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had severed all ties between the Darcys of Pemberley and the Fitzwilliams of Redbyrne. Had Darcy’s mother, Anne, lived to see her son so happily wed, things might have been different. But Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy was long in her grave, unable to provide any truce. But death had a strange way of balancing the world, for now, as the magnitude of the situation dawned, things might be very different. Surely, those very changes were what had so occupied her husband’s mind, and now, Elizabeth waited for him to elaborate.
“A carriage accident. In addition to my uncle and cousin, the coachman was also lost, only the footman, by some miracle, managed to escape.”
“What sort of accident?” Elizabeth posed, knowing that accidents happened with great frequency, but often resulted in nothing more than a broken wheel and inconvenience. At worst, a horse may need to be shot, but rarely, unless utter carelessness or some manner of natural force, such as an errant deer chancing across the road, fatalities were rare.
This time, Darcy winced, for his cousin had spared no detail, knowing that the master of Pemberley would not settle for anything less.
“High speed and sharp turns, near the River Derwent. They all drowned...a fortnight ago.”
“Oh! How horrible!”
In an instant, Elizabeth Darcy’s vivid imagination pictured the two men trapped, unable to escape as frigid water slowly filled the carriage. It would have been a mercy to have sustained some injury which would render them senseless beforehand. And even though she found it difficult to believe it had not been fate, Elizabeth kept her own counsel. Having never been introduced to either gentleman, she must believe their reasons for disapproval of her family to be based on societal expectations, and nothing more.
Studying his wife’s silence, Darcy nodded in agreement, and proceeded to reveal the additional news carried by the letter. With the deaths of his father and brother, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was now the thirteenth Earl of Matlock.
“It took nearly a week to locate Richard, as his regiment was out on some sort of extended training. Then, it was another week before he managed to arrive at Redbyrne. Unfortunately, by that time....” Darcy paused, eliciting a sigh that sounded more like a plea for patience. “By then, Aunt Catherine had arrived.”
“Oh dear.”
