Chapter One
November 21st, 1811 - early morning hours before the evening of Aunt Phillips' card party
Seven days before the Netherfield Ball
Fitzwilliam George Darcy-Master of Pemberley, Brother and Guardian of Georgiana Darcy, and closest friend of Charles Bingley-could do nothing but lay awake and shuffle inside the long-darkened guest bedroom at Netherfield Hall. A huffy sigh drew breath from his lips, and Fitzwilliam could not even find a care within himself to mutter a half-hearted reprimand. What were his complaints? Being the closest friend of Charles Bingley, let alone the highest ranking one in terms of name and fortune, meant that he had one of the finest rooms in the house-yet it was not enough.
Fitzwilliam, irritated that his mind was not listening to his body's natural rhythms, as it had since he was a mere boy of eight, before his father had sent him away to school in London, abruptly sat up, and drew a cool hand across his brow. Throwing the covers off of his body, he brusquely exited the large four poster bed, a dark frown marring his face, warning his nonexistent companions that he was in no mood to converse or entertain.
As though that would stop Miss Bingley, his mind helpfully supplied, not at all as weary as his body felt. Again, Fitzwilliam did not reprimand himself.
Why should he?
When his mind's eye was fixed on the unthinkable? The unfathomable.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Miss Elizabeth.
Settling himself on the large chaise that rested before the fireplace, Fitzwilliam relaxed slightly. He was aware that he would be doing battle with himself, until the sun rose and set again. Doing nothing but ending the internal fight, by finding himself in the presence of Miss Elizabeth, and enjoy her wit and fine eyes without feeling the smallest measure of guilt. Until they were gone again, back to the carriage, back to Netherfield Hall, then would he allow the guilt and self-consternation to creep back in, aided very cleverly by Miss Bingley.
She was correct, he admitted to himself. Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet had left Netherfield, following Miss Bennet's illness, only three days before, and it was only that evening that Miss Bingley, Charles' sister, had ceased in her heavily exaggerated sighs and murmurings of how wonderful it was to have one's estate to one's self.
Fitzwilliam had metaphorically bitten his tongue, stopping himself from remarking aloud that it was not their estate, it was merely a leased estate, for the Bingleys were barely two generations removed from Trade. It was only for Charles, and, dare he admit it, Miss Elizabeth that he held his tongue.
Fitzwilliam was almost ashamed that he had even wished to rise to the Bennet family's defense, for although Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet were all that were polite and lady-like - the latter lady, portraying nothing but - their family as a whole was nothing short of barely respectable and connected .
Miss Bingley, he concluded, was not entirely in the wrong with her complaints. He would wager every pound he had that it was the matriarch of the Bennet family, Mrs. Bennet, who had sent her eldest daughter aback a horse, shortly before a thunderstorm swept the area. And Miss Bennet, a lovely lady, with a pleasing and genial countenance, struck Fitzwilliam as a daughter who did as she was told. And it was obvious that Mrs. Bennet had designs for her daughter. Mr. Bennet, he had not seen much of, leading him to conclude that Mr. Bennet was a rather indolent father and Master of Longbourn-a fact that was pronounced in the behavior and characters of the two youngest Bennets, during their short visit to Netherfield, during their sister's illness.
Fitzwilliam had to endure Miss Bingley's knowing smirks and smiles, as they both withstood the unchecked behavior of Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty Bennet, while under the supervision of their mother. And there stood Charles, just as amiable as ever, encouraging their hoydenish deportment. When he had allowed their input into the ball, he knew that he should not hear the end of it from Miss Bingley until the ball had passed, and they were safely in London.
It was very obvious, Fitzwilliam concluded, that Charles needed to leave Netherfield, for at least a few weeks, to gain some perspective. He was quite sure that some short time away from the Bennet ladies, in the company of some amiable ladies of well respected and comported families may sway his friend's mind, especially being that Charles' affections and declarations had been given and declared several times already, to various ladies.
The Bennet family was unsuitable. He knew it, Miss Bingley knew it, Mrs. Hurst knew it, and Charles should have known it from the moment he clapped eyes on Mr. Bennet, during their visit, when he had first taken the estate. If not, he should have known the morning after the Meryton Assembly, for Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst spent the entire morning tittering over the largesse that swept the finest families in Meryton or lack thereof. Or their less than subtle insinuations that the Bennets were the best that the small village could do, so they would use Miss Bennet to entertain when they could not visit London.
A small pang of regret crept into his mind, but Fitzwilliam determinedly dismissed it. It was, most unfortunate, that Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet did not have better fortunes or connections, but that was the end of it. It would not do to dwell. There was nothing Fitzwilliam could do to aid them, no matter how much he enjoyed Miss Elizabeth's company.
Marriage, his traitorous mind supplied, not quite so helpfully. Fitzwilliam straightened in the chaise, almost ramrod straight, as he considered the implications of what was being brought to the table.
Except he could not.
If he was to advise Charles, his best friend second to his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, against uniting in marriage with the eldest Miss Bennet, then he could not even contemplate a union between Miss Elizabeth Bennet and himself. Everything his father had taught him, everything he had strived to live by, would be all for naught if he made an offer for Miss Elizabeth's hand.
This time, he could not stay the pang of regret that he felt within his entire being, as he contemplated what could have been. Miss Elizabeth, her family notwithstanding, was one of the finest ladies he had ever beheld. Miss Bingley's jealousy-and he could not understand it, for she was quick to remind him of his Miss Elizabeth's unsuitability-was not unfounded, as she was aware of his opinion of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
But it was simply that, an opinion of which he could not act upon.
If only Miss Elizabeth had been born into better circumstances-better family, connections, fortune-then he would not have to endure such agonies!
He would have had no need for any other alternative, other than the happiest one, to propose marriage after a suitable amount of time spent in each other's acquaintance. If that were the circumstance, Charles' taking on the lease of the Netherfield estate would have been a brilliant diversion that Fitzwilliam would have been able to back him in, in more ways than one.
The embers were dead, no longer brightly glowing orange; the room was dark. Fitzwilliam scanned the room. The sky was brightening, allowing streaks of pink and orange to permeate his darkened den. He was alone, just as Miss Elizabeth would be, after the ball, after Charles left this wretched, country town and escaped to the distractions of Town . His dream would be just that, and there was an end to it.
After the ball, Fitzwilliam would put himself forward to Charles, to the danger that they both found themselves. Although Miss Bingley insisted and was becoming increasingly alarmed at the idea of a romantic courtship between Charles and Miss Bennet, Fitzwilliam was not convinced-yet he had to convince Charles for both their sakes. If it came down to it, to save Charles and himself, he would use the most deadly weapon in his arsenal-Georgiana.
Charles was one of his nearest and dearest of friends, but he had not shared the particulars of what had happened to Georgiana the previous year in Ramsgate. He could not. As good a friend as Charles was-he was not family.
Not yet, his mind intoned, bringing to the forefront Fitzwilliam's most earnest desire to bring Charles and his dear, sweet sister together in matrimony.
Fitzwilliam physically shook his head, futilely trying to rid himself of the reaction that followed that desire.
Hypocrite.
Fitzwilliam shook his head again. No matter what those in Meryton thought of him-he was proud, he was the nephew of an earl-but he was not a pharisee. Of all the things his father had taught him, he knew that he was better than that epitaph. His status as a Darcy of Pemberley confirmed that very fact. Everything within him confirmed that fact. And everything within him wished to protect his sister with all his considerable might.
Charles was the key. Ever since their first meeting, he in his last year of University, Charles in his first year-he had known that Charles was the soul of discretion, a true gentleman, despite the origins of his birth and fortune. Fitzwilliam remembered that night with the utmost clarity, a night he would never forget.
It had always rankled Fitzwilliam that his father had favored Wickham, to the extent that he did, and he could not understand why his father treated Wickham as though he were another son-paying off his numerous debts, ignoring the reports of improper affiliation with young women-genteel or not. It had been the joke of his peers-how different he and Wickham were. They had been nicknamed the "heir and spare", with Fitzwilliam being dubbed "the spare" due to his own, almost Puritan lifestyle in contrast to Wickham's favored - or so it seemed - lifestyle.
Fitzwilliam had met Charles during a rather atypical evening for Fitzwilliam. In a rare fit of pique of disapprobation, had gone after Wickham, who was away gambling with his fellow heirs and sons of gentlemen and titled lords, for squandering every opportunity and connection Fitzwilliam's father had granted him, by the act of sending him to such a school at his cost. Upon seeing the look on his face, Wickham had merely laughed, and, cruelly, the other heirs and spares had followed.
Fitzwilliam had rushed out of the room, embarrassment heating his cheeks, flushing them a dull red that did not go unnoticed from the room's occupants.-He remembered his entire body flushing in anger and embarrassment as he heard their mocking laughter!-. Wickham had followed him from the room, although his gaze was not fixed on Fitzwilliam, rather on the game of cards that he had left.
Mockingly, he gave a short bow to Fitzwilliam and, emboldened by the jeers and shrieks from his companions, began to address Fitzwilliam in a manner that if a total stranger had witnessed their exchange, one would think that it was the heir addressing the young, wayward spare who was endangering his heritage and besmirching his family name by his conduct thus far.
Fitzwilliam remembered growing more and more angry, as he endured Wickham's mocking. He had promised himself, henceforth, right as he had rushed out of the room, that he would never again degrade himself by commenting upon Wickham's comportment, ever again, for soon he would not have to see him-this he knew, for he knew that it was only a matter of time before Wickham would leave, having had to repeat a year of his schooling to begin with, and secondly due to his increasing attention to cards and loose women, not to his duties and expectations that Fitzwilliam's father had placed upon him-when Charles Bingley came into view.
The young gentlemen, a young boy really-he had reminded Fitzwilliam of himself, as he had hardly looked wet behind the ears-had left the room, in which the Earl of _'s son opened up his private space for their gambling den, and had gently closed the door, disrupting the view from the assembled throng, who were now not paying any attention to their cards-but rather to Wickham's ungentlemanly conduct.
Wickham had been shocked, stopping his diatribe, and that was enough for Fitzwilliam to determine that Charles was not part of his usual throng of "admirers"-those who would take Fitzwilliam's father's money from the son of a steward, while smirking and making jibes towards Fitzwilliam, as though it were his own fault-for one of his admirers would never endanger their entertainment.
Before Wickham could react, before Fitzwilliam could react, Charles had strode forward in a surprising show of strength, that did not equate to the nervous look on his face, and asked Fitzwilliam, in low tones, if he would be able to help him study the next evening, for an exam that was coming up.
Fitzwilliam smiled in remembrance. Charles, as he had soon learned, was almost always amiable and knew what to say in every instance to bring flattery or nullify any embarrassment the participant may have encountered in any particular social setting. That night, however, Charles had been rather nervous, it being his first time away from home, and had become swept up in a rather unsavory, ungentlemanly group of friends. Thankfully, he had not become jaded to the point of ignoring, and aiding in ungentlemanly conduct, and had come to his defense.
His defense. A man he had no previous knowledge of, and about whom he had most likely heard a number of unflattering stories and comments. Fitzwilliam did not know, for Charles had never spoken of any rumors or stories to Fitzwilliam-not when their friendship had just begun, nor now. And that had been the basis of their friendship, in the beginning.
Fitzwilliam knew now that he had not done himself any favors by allowing Wickham to reign free, over the Darcy name and largesse. He should have done something more to stop it. But he had believed himself above such reports and had been uncaring of what others thought of him. In some ways, that was still true. He was a Darcy of Pemberley, and he would continue to act as he had while at Pemberley, while also not shaming his father with wild behavior. Wickham had done enough of that for the both of them. However, it had not endeared him to any of the others-especially regarding his taciturn nature. So while he had acquaintances, he could not say that he had any friends. Not any real friends.
Not until Charles.
Charles, who accepted him as he was, with a joke here and there, aimed to make him laugh - or think, as some of Charles' commentary had been rather incriminatory lately - not for Charles to laugh at him, became his best friend.
Charles, who had no doubt been asked for his own input into what had happened after he closed the door, its instigators no doubt wishing for him to create some story to corroborate Wickham's, and had said nothing.
It was childish, Fitzwilliam knew, to hold on to such a thing after all these years, to allow it to form a basis of friendship, but he found that he did not care. Not when it had brought him a dear friend, whom he knew he could trust.
And that would be enough for Georgiana, God willing. Her youthful innocence had been destroyed by the actions of Wickham, and Fitzwilliam knew that she would never be able to recover such a thing, having faced a similar betrayal from Wickham all those years ago, when they had gone away to university together. He had believed that they were friends, almost brothers, that they should go through university life together as they had gone through life together, previously at Pemberley, but it was not to be.
He had never said such a thing to Charles, for he did not wish to pressure his friend, nor his own sister, but it was a hope that he found would grow more and more with the attentions of Miss Bennet and her family. Of Miss Elizabeth's.
Fitzwilliam's lip curled in derision, but he found the emotion could not match what he felt. Something was wrong, inside. With him.
Wickham.
He had only seen Wickham with the Bennet ladies the other day, and it had been weighing on his mind ever since. He had not thought that he was capable of such anger, not since he had seen Wickham with his dear sister, then he had when he had witnessed Wickham walking alongside Miss Elizabeth and the other Bennet girls.
Rationally, he knew whose fault the introduction was-most likely Miss Lydia Bennet or Miss Kitty Bennet. From what he had seen at the Meryton Assembly, and then again at Lucas Lodge, the two youngest Bennets-wholly too young to be out in society, even if they had been as well mannered and as polite as Georgiana-thought nothing of anything but balls, gowns, and soldiers. He had heard Miss Bingley derisively comment upon that very fact within his hearing-and Charles'-several times, during Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet's stay at Netherfield.
It was their fault, and here he was, paying the price for it. He could not sleep, nor could he stop thinking of Wickham, of Miss Elizabeth.
He knew in his heart that if he had a choice, free of any encumbering specifics to fortune, connection, or Name, that he should choose Miss Elizabeth in a heartbeat. And she should choose him, for they complimented each other in almost every way, and felt that he could-dare he say it-be at peace with her at his side.
But her sisters!
Her mother!
Her father!
It would not be borne.
However…..
Fitzwilliam glanced away from the window, now hearing the bustling of the servants, as they began their duties before their master and his guests were supposed to have arisen. His valet would be in his room soon, intent on readying his master for his early morning ride, as Fitzwilliam always took an early morning ride to clear his head before taking in a small fast before breakfast. Charles, Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and Mr. Hurst preferred to keep Town hours, and Fitzwilliam found that it was simply easier to accede to their own wishes, rather than selfishly insist they adjust to his own preferred hours, while a guest in their home.
A rare smile touched his lips as he remembered Charles' first visit to Pemberley, and how he had gone to Charles' room to wake him for a ride and some breakfast and had a rather dazed Charles' following him about the estate. He had given Charles advice, that he should adjust to earlier hours once he purchased his own estate, but that idea had clearly not been implemented.
No matter. There were more important things.
Miss Elizabeth.
Miss Elizabeth had been in the company of George Wickham. He remembered the way he had bristled and then forced himself to ride off before he would do or say something that he would regret when he had watched Miss Elizabeth engage and introduce Charles to Wickham, as though he were a respect sort of gentleman. Charles knew otherwise, but not enough. Not anything significant.
Miss Elizabeth did not know. Could not know. How could she? Wickham was everything that was polite and gentlemanly. Miss Elizabeth was his mirror, although he enjoyed the very eloquent way she politely, but firmly disagreed and challenged others, including himself.
She did not know of what Wickham was capable.
And it should be up to him to inform her of his treachery, his mind reasoned suddenly. Just as he was about to assail that train of thought-he stopped.
His heart interrupted his thoughts and whispered. What could he truly do for her?
He could not marry Miss Elizabeth, that he knew.
He could not court her.
He knew that before she should get her hopes up, he should leave Netherfield, and take Charles with him-before Miss Bennet and her mother began to expect a proposal from Charles.
But he could put her on her guard with Wickham. Show her that he was not all that he purported to be.
He was no gentleman, not like Fitzwilliam was.
He could offer her nothing but empty promises and cloying flirtations-Fitzwilliam would offer her opportunity with his warning.
Fitzwilliam heard his valet now, outside the door.
It was best, he decided, as he moved to the front of his basin of water and mirror, awaiting his valet for his morning shave.
He could not offer her marriage, but he could offer her and her family respectability and decorum, and that would be enough.
Splashing water upon his face, Fitzwilliam studied himself dourly in the mirror. It would be best to work out his warning in a way that did not incriminate himself or his sister, so he would wait until the morrow to seek out Miss Elizabeth in the woods, and explain his fears and hopes for her family.
And then the sinking feeling that had kept him up should disappear, and all would be well.