A/N: I really cannot believe that I am writing this. I honestly do not understand why this show actually makes me want to write seriously, rather than the crude and unfunny 'works' (I hesitate to use the word story, for I do not consider them to be such) that I have posted in the past. However, I have been grasped by that desire which urges us to write, and so, I have given in.

I must make this point: THIS IS A HISTORICAL AU. I know that it is inevitable that some ignorant fool will write an amusing review about this, yet I shall warn you anyways. Of course, a story of this nature warrants much explanation, and so, I must warn you that the author's note for this prologue will quite possibly be longer than the actual story for this update.

The time period is mid 19th century (or the mid 1800's), set in an English village. I HAVE done research for things that I am unsure of. I assure you that I am not randomly making things up to better suit my purpose. The only things that may be out of place are the names of the characters, a fact that I cannot (or, rather, will not) change. I have some respect for canon, after all. I will, however, be taking certain liberties. For example, Emily will probably not be mentioned, for she is black. I mean no disrespect; I simply wish to write the time period as accurately as I can.

Much of my knowledge on this time period is garnered from reading novels set in the period, written in the period. Thomas Hardy and Jane Austen and Charles Dickens are great influences (especially Hardy). That said, I also ask that you let me know if my writing becomes too archaic.

I enjoy reviews, as most others do. I do hope to know what is thought of this little venture of mine.

I hope you enjoy this-I certainly enjoy writing it!

Emily

Disclaimer: I own nothing of what you see.

PROLOGUE:

To dream of her wedding day is an instinct that is automatically found within a woman. She will think of the day with a certain tenderness unique to her sex. She will think of the man and the day and her gown, dreaming of her children and her duties. It is true that for some, the idea of marriage holds little appeal. However, it is generally acknowledged that those are anomalies, and for the most part, a woman will dream and scheme and do whatever it takes to make her dream come true.

Casey MacDonald was no exception to the desire to wed. Certainly, her dreams did not consist of many children, and of a strong husband like many other girls. Still, she expected that she would wed, and she would be happy. Her dreams were not, however, to be realized.

A bride does not think that she will wed in an ill-fitting gown; loose so as to hide the evidence that was forcing her into marriage. A bride expects to be smiling, her pale face marked by a maiden blush, on the day of her wedding. For the sad bride that stood before the village church, no blush crept up her face, no smile graced her lips, and she had no desire to walk the path that would lead to the end of her freedom.

The villagers had wandered over to the church, for such a scandal was bound to arise the attention of others. It is, after all, a well-established fact that people enjoy gossiping about those who have encountered grievous misfortune, and the situation that surrounded the girl and her betrothed was quite a scandal indeed. Upon seeing the banns announced, the people had begun their cruel observation. Whispers echoed around the girl, who subconsciously let her eyes fall to the cobblestone path that led up to the alter. The people had easily guessed the reasons behind the sudden betrothal; after all, the couple certainly was anything but normal, and the circumstances surrounding it could only mean one thing: the girl was, without doubt, with child.

Had anyone been watching from afar, they might have been led to believe that what they viewed was a funeral procession. The family watched the bride with stony eyes, the younger children shuffling their feet, whether from boredom or embarrassment, it could not be said. As for the bride, if not for the gossamer veil that fell over her pale face, one might have thought her a corpse. The groom, a young man of about eighteen, seemed to wish that he were anywhere else. He stared with unwavering somberness at the woman who walked towards him with all the alacrity of a funeral procession.

To say that what was occurring was instigated by some awful force would be a lie. Both bride and groom were, as they well knew, at some fault. After all, it was lust that dictated their actions, and now they were paying for such actions. It is strange, how a single moment of weakness can dictate the direction of one's life. Yet, such was the sad truth, for there was no denying her fate.

She slowly moved up the cobblestone path, raising her head, and meeting the dark eyes of her betrothed, the eyes of the son of the man her mother had married.

The eyes of Derek Venturi.

A/N: Feedback is much adored, as is usual.

Postnote: I have changed, for continuity's sake, McDonald to MacDonald. I don't know which is right; I'll change it upon notice of the right spelling. My reasoning for the change, as of now, is quite simple:
Mc is Irish, Mac is Scottish.
While the Irish are cool, I like the Scots better
Oh, and there's that whole "Irish question" about home rule thing going on, but then again, Scots were pretty much looked down upon as well in this time, so I guess that's not much of an excuse now, is it.