January 1785

London

The flocks of seabirds flapped around the outlines of the tall buildings. The collection of seagulls was the first sign they had nearly arrived. If it were summer they would have been greeted far earlier by the smell of rotting sewage. Fortunately, the winter cold kept the smell far milder than usual. The waterways were crowded with boats going to and fro and a dozen large ships. The East Indiaman they had lived in for so many months now had a collection of companions.

Boats came along the huge East Indiaman, and enterprising merchants and prostitutes clambered their way up the ropes. Perhaps for discipline it would be best to keep such persons off, but the captain of the ship had been reminded by the busyness of the port that he had transported passengers instead of profitable goods. He made no attempt to stop them.

Darcy decided that since they were at last back at home, dissipation was permissible. So long as the men of his regiment did not try to play with fire, he would not interfere with their pleasures.

The ship inched its way into the vast harbor. They passed mile after mile of quays and jetties. Multistory warehouses and crowded apartment buildings stood tall behind them. An endless profusion of people ran up and down the roads. Hundreds of boats ferried cargo and passengers from large moored ships to the shore.

Piles and piles of barely guarded goods lay everywhere along the quays, and a constant chatter of conversation and shouts could be dimly heard across the water. The day was overcast with a chill wind, and the river sluggishly flowed into the vast ocean.

Two hours before noon their ship reached its berth by the East India Company warehouses, and the anchors were lowered and the ship was tied to its mooring. It took another half hour before the barges to take his crew across the fifty feet of water between the ship and the coast were arranged. Darcy stayed on the ship until all of his men were transferred across.

Tomlinson had agreed to work personally for Darcy instead of simply leaving the service as he had intended to upon his return to England. Darcy sent him with the first group, so he could go to Darcy House and then Matlock House to announce his arrival before wandering off to enjoy his leave.

It was two weeks into January, and even if they had not come early for his return, his brother would probably be in town for the beginning of the season. Georgiana as well. Maybe, he desperately hoped, Lizzy.

Darcy thought about the letter he received from Elizabeth when the packet ship carrying it stopped in Lisbon while his ship was there to replenish supplies. She wrote about how the baronet whose wife she had befriended had begun pestering her and intended her to be his second wife.

That letter had been written two months earlier.

Even if he was an impoverished baronet and middle aged, Sir Clement's wealth was far greater than that of a colonel in his majesty's army with fifteen thousand as an extra inheritance. He was confident from how she wrote that Elizabeth would not marry without affection, and that her distaste for the baronet was irremovable. But Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Collins would put her under a great deal of pressure to marry him.

Darcy was frightened that she would be engaged or married when he saw her.

Even if she wasn't, would she let him court her? He loved her, the her who wrote those letters, but what would she think of him, the real him who had scars and terrible memories?

While on the ship, he had written a collection of letters to hand her when they met again. He'd spent a half hour writing each day. Elizabeth had written repeatedly about how comforting and happy it made her to imagine her conversations with him. He found the same happiness in writing to her. Any time he was angry, or worried, or completely happy, it was made better by imagining Elizabeth reading what he wrote.

But he couldn't write in them directly of his love. They were written to an unmarried female, and he planned to give them to her no matter what was the result of his suit. They still formed a love letter which he hoped would let her see beyond any mere physical facts to the way he cared for her.

The final group of soldiers clambered down the ladders into a barge, and Darcy followed them. The officers sitting around him, with two exceptions, had all been imprisoned together. There was a silent and deep sense of a long connection between them that was ending. Bingley sat next to Darcy, not wearing any uniform, but with an eager smile as his eyes stared at the pier.

It had been a long journey which had killed more than half their number. But at last they were home. When the barge docked everyone jumped out, and shook hands and laughed before running to their families. Bingley said, "We will visit again once I've settled myself in the north. Before your leave is done and you take your regiment to whatever odd corner of the world you are sent to. Tell me what happens with your Lizzy."

"I will."

The survivors of the regiment had been given a long leave of two months. A majority of the men were being discharged. Part of Darcy wished to sell his commission and join them. England was not at war, no true duty kept him. But if he left the army his already comparatively slender income would be less than a thousand a year.

It would be a matter to discuss with her if he could convince Lizzy to marry him.

A drizzle had broken out that prevented Darcy from seeing if Georgiana and his brother had arrived. Many of the other men had friends waiting for them at the dock, and they ran into the arms of loved ones. He saw Bingley with an older man who must be his father.

Once he was on the jetty, Darcy looked over the crowd, searching. A tall girl with yellow hair whose features were caught between childhood and adulthood stood wearing all black. Darcy's eyes almost skipped past her, but then he realized it was his uncle who stood next to her. He also wore black. With a jolt Darcy realized the girl was Georgiana.

Her face broke out into a brilliant smile, and pushing past the other people, she rushed up and threw her arms around him in a tight squeeze. He embraced her back. "Oh, Georgie. Georgie. You're so tall. So tall. It's been so, so many years."

Lord Matlock walked up behind Georgiana, the light rain bouncing off his wide umbrella. There was a black feather stuck in a black ribbon around his hat. He smiled a little at the reunion. As if he had been thrown off the rigging of the ship and hit the water with a shocking speed, Darcy gasped as he took in the meaning of their clothing. "Where…where is Stanley?"

His uncle shook his head sadly.

Georgiana sobbed against Darcy's chest. "He's dead. Dead."

Darcy felt numb as he stumbled into his uncle's cavernous chaise. Stanley couldn't be dead. Just an hour ago he was going to meet his brother and embrace him for the first time in so many years. People only suddenly stopped existing in India.

Familiar experience with death as a military man reasserted itself, and he pushed the grief down. "Matlock, what happened to Stanley? When?"

"Late at night his carriage slipped on a sheet of ice. He destroyed the façade of a brick building."

Darcy let out a harsh breath and winced. He saw in his mind the careening momentum of a carriage, and the helplessness as it was too late to do anything. Then a mangled body.

"He didn't suffer." Matlock spoke soothingly, "Richard was right there. He died instantly. No chance to feel any pain."

Georgiana brushed at her eyes and gripped his hand tightly. He gripped his sister's hand back. Darcy rubbed his other hand over the edges of his scar. It felt like a hollow chute had opened in his stomach and drained everything out. At least he hadn't suffered.

To force himself to not compulsively scratch at his scar, Darcy pulled his hand from Georgiana's and put his arm around her shoulders and then gripped her hand with his free one. She was so much older, but still his dear sister.

The springs of the carriage meant the bumps as they rattled through the streets were quite soft, and it was warm in the carriage. They were quiet since Darcy didn't want to ask for more details about Stanley's death in front of his sister. He also couldn't thank her for the letters and talk about them in front of his uncle, because he didn't want to talk about Lizzy with Lord Matlock until he knew if he could convince her to marry him. But that would be delayed because of Stanley. Months of mourning.

Darcy suddenly realized that Stanley's death meant he owned Pemberley. He would resign his commission. His uncle and Lady Catherine would be far more stridently opposed to his throwing himself away on a penniless girl.

Darcy let go of Georgiana's hand and rubbed around his scar. "Stanley hadn't married someone in the last two months?"

Matlock replied to the real question, "You inherited everything. I know it is a small comfort, but life does go forward. We must act for the family and the estate."

"Poor Stanley. And so close to when I returned. It is a sick joke."

Georgiana squeezed herself against Darcy. "I'd argued with him, and even though he was completely wrong, I keep remembering those were the last things I said to him. I did love him. He was my brother."

They pulled up in front of the handsome brick façade of Matlock's mansion. Darcy stepped out, and his feet felt unsteady, because he was so used to the sway of the ship underneath him that solid ground felt like it was swaying instead. Tall English trees. Oaks, and elms, and beech. All bare of leaves.

Darcy followed Georgiana and Matlock into the house, holding his hand on the scabbard of the sword hanging from his uniform belt. He absently thought he needed to buy a better sword now that he was in England.

They followed the butler through the entrance hall. It was lined with silk wallpaper and tall portraits. Darcy asked the butler, "Did my man Tomlinson leave immediately after informing you, or did he stay for some sort of refreshment?"

The butler replied, "We offered Mr. Tomlinson refreshment and a meal; twenty minutes ago he was playing cards with the second coachman and an off duty footman."

"If he is still present, can you tell him I must speak with him before he heads out into the city?"

"Of course, sir."

He would offer Tomlinson some position, perhaps as a purchasing agent for Pemberley. Not only had he saved his life, but the man had been a brilliant quartermaster. He knew Tomlinson rather wished to quit the army.

Darcy looked about the drawing room. The warm fire burned merrily in the large fireplace, the yellow flames leaping about. The air was stale as all the windows must be kept closed for the winter, but the well-maintained chimneys drew almost all of the smoke out of the house. It was odd to again be in an English drawing room after so many years. The roof was tall and the rugs were thick and brightly colored. A profusion of candleholders had been stuck everywhere about the walls.

When he'd returned to Pemberley after the school term when he'd sprouted higher, all of the rooms suddenly seemed smaller than before. This was the opposite. After years in the dungeon with its seven-foot-high ceiling, and then six more months in the tiny cabin of the East Indiaman, the Matlocks' drawing room seemed far larger than it had been when he left.

Lady Matlock was in the room, and she embraced Darcy. "I forgot how tall you are. You must be so shocked by Stanley's death."

"Yes, madam."

She clucked. "It can't be completely unpleasant news to you though. You now have Pemberley."

Darcy glanced at Georgiana, who frowned at her aunt, but otherwise seemed unaffected by her callousness.

Matlock snapped at his wife, "Don't say such things. We are still grieving."

She was a small woman who had always been rather status obsessed, and a little cold in her personal dealings. She had greying hair, but still kept a fine well-cared-for figure. Her hands flapped in dismissal of her husband's words. "We are family here. You all thought it, even if you won't say it. You are torn up by Stanley's death, but we must face the future. Stanley kept up the family consequence neatly, but he didn't marry. Fitzwilliam, you must pay attention to your responsibilities. I expect you to marry soon. Pemberley needs an heir."

"I hope to marry as soon as the mourning for Stanley ends." Darcy rubbed at his scar. It was uncomfortable to realize that behind the grief, he was glad he could quit the army without losing any income.

"Excellent. I'll help you find a good match." She pulled his hand away from the scar and looked critically at his face. "Well, that is an ugly one. A bit of romance with it, but not enough. The very best debutantes will prefer someone with a neater face. But you'll do all right. Pemberley is pretty enough to mask over a little ugliness. Perhaps with a great deal of makeup—"

"I do not plan to make a brilliant match."

"I expect you to." She sat down and Georgiana and the gentlemen followed. "Before you could marry as you wished, but now you must consider the family and how your connections affect everyone else. This is why we cannot wait to talk this over until you've had time to grieve for Stanley."

"Stanley's death does not change what I hope for from life. I will not seek a brilliant match, and if I marry a poor girl with few connections, you will give her every respect."

Lady Matlock shook her head. "You have not thought about how being master of Pemberley changes your position. But it is of no importance, you cannot have any attachment at present, so it will not be a matter of difficulty to avoid an unsuitable one."

Darcy rubbed his scar. He could not claim right now an attachment to a girl who he had not seen since she was fourteen. Lord and Lady Matlock ideally would never know about Lizzy's letters. Besides, whatever his feelings, his suit might fail.

Georgiana nervously clasped and unclasped the top of her reticule during this conversation. "Fitzwilliam, can we talk apart?"

Lord Matlock dropped his head into his hands and exclaimed, "Not again."

Darcy stood, but Matlock waved him to sit back down. "She is going to tell you a nonsense story about how you need to help that poor friend of hers. She is exactly the sort of woman you need to avoid."

Darcy's heart suddenly sped. The shock of Stanley's death had prevented Darcy's inquiries about where Elizabeth was, but he felt sure that the poor friend must be Elizabeth.

Georgiana looked pleadingly at Darcy. "Lizzy is in trouble. You must help her, you must. I know you will. Stanley wouldn't do anything, and then…and then he…"

Trouble. Darcy's heart seized. "What is the matter? Tell me, tell me."

"They want to make her marry some awful baronet, and they are—"

Lord Matlock interrupted her. "Enough of this nonsense. Don't bother Fitzwilliam with the fantastical lies your friend is telling you. Stanley explained fully to Richard what your friend was about before he died. She just wants to marry the richest man possible, and you are throwing your brothers at her. She is using you."

At the back of Darcy's being was another explosion of rage. His uncle was insulting Elizabeth. The anger was far stronger than normal, and all of Darcy's muscles tensed. He wanted to grab at his sword and attack Matlock. He glared at his uncle. But part of him was still terrified for Elizabeth.

Georgiana opened her bombazine handbag and pulled the letter from it and pushed it into Darcy's hand. "Lizzy wrote this to you. It is the last thing I've received from her."

Matlock exclaimed, "She wrote Fitzwilliam a letter? Stanley was right — don't read that, don't indulge your sister so. You should burn it. I have every confidence this Lizzy is a delusional fortune hunter."

Darcy unfolded the letter and read the salutation and first words: Dear Fitzwilliam, I am scared.

His uncle grabbed at the pages, and Darcy glared at him so hotly that he flinched back. Darcy felt simultaneously cold and hot. The rage had filled him to his hair and made the numb patch on his cheek burn with phantom pains.

Darcy turned away from his uncle, and he looked at the letter and for a moment his eyes swam. But he needed to see what she said, and he calmed enough to peruse Lizzy's words:

Dear Fitzwilliam,

I am scared.

Mama and Mr. Collins have locked me up and sworn not to release me unless I marry Sir Clement. I am trapped in my tiny room, with just a view of the outdoors and no chance to walk or talk to anyone or anything. They took all my books. It smells. I haven't had a bath for a week, and my body is sore from sitting too much. Everyone but your sister thinks I should marry Sir Clement. Even Uncle Gardiner wrote that I have no choice.

I won't. I despise that man and hope he dies.

I actually hope he dies.

Mama is my guardian and she will do whatever Mr. Collins says, and I overheard them, that night when it happened. Sir Clement will give Mr. Collins a thousand pounds if I marry him, so Mr. Collins will lock me up until I do. I've been sold like a slave, and all that is left is for me to finally accept my slavery because, as Jane tells me every single night: He is a good man, and how he has purchased me proves he really loves me so very much. I should be happy that I've inspired such a strong passion.

I wish I were a man so I could shoot him.

Sir Clement imposed himself on me the night of the first assembly in December. I'd gone out for some air, and then because Charlotte told him to, he came up behind me and kissed me and…and then everyone saw that he did it, and he said I'd agreed to marry him, and I didn't say no immediately because I was scared and Charlotte dragged me to my carriage, and that was the last I've seen of anyone, because they locked me up that night.

How could Charlotte do this to me? She wishes she could marry Sir Clement herself. I understand she is so stupid as to think he would make a good husband. But she knew I hated him and then arranged for me to be forced to marry him just because she thought she knew what was best for me. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. I hate her and Mama and even Jane more than I hate Sir Clement.

I am determined not to marry him, but I do not know if I can do this.

Uncle Gardiner said there is no way for me to be removed from Mama's guardianship, so I am trapped here until I come of age. Even if I escaped, the law would hunt me down and drag me back.

Another one and a half years. It is not truly so very long. Five hundred more days. I have calculated the exact number, but I do not wish to think about it.

I want to walk.

I want a bath.

I want to talk to a friend. I wish I still had friends. But I do have you and Georgie.

I know I ought not complain, and I use you for inspiration.

You were imprisoned in a place that was surely far worse. I have all the food I need and a comfortable bed. They left me with a good view of the outdoors.

Oh, Lord. Day by day it feels as though the walls are closing in on me. I keep nearly speaking to Jane so I can use my voice.

I take comfort in your sister's promise that I shall escape, and in her demand that I do not give in, but I am frightened.

What if I eventually become so tight and desperate that I do what they ask? I know I should not. I despise Sir Clement, and I think that, beneath his lust, he hates me. I think he would hurt me if I married him.

But I don't trust myself. What if after a month, or six months, or a year, the fact I could not escape has eaten at me so far that I give up? I am scared.

What I shall do is read Georgiana's letter every day, and I will remember you, and how you survived in conditions that were so much worse. I read that Tippoo Saib gave great rewards to Englishmen who deserted and professed his creed. But you would never have been tempted to betray your country. In this far lesser matter, I promise I will follow your inspiration.

So see, I'm not so scared now.

Your affectionate and hopeful,

E Bennet

Darcy felt closed off with his emotions a distant thing. He would scream in rage later. He needed to first rescue Lizzy. They wished a rich man for her husband — with his brother's death he was richer by far than Sir Clement. He could afford a bigger bribe for Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet.

All his anxieties about whether Lizzy would spurn him disappeared. She may not love him immediately, and she might dislike his scars, but surely after writing him so faithfully, Elizabeth would trust in him enough to prefer him to remaining trapped in that room. She would see it was the way out. And then he would have her as his wife. He would make her happy.

Darcy placed the letter on top of the sofa and let out a deep breath. His way forward was clear.

Lady Matlock said mildly, "So what does Georgie's friend write, when she writes to unmarried gentlemen. Not a respectable girl."

Darcy glared at his aunt. He then rang the bell for a servant. "Get me a horse. I'm off to Hertfordshire."

Before the butler left Darcy said, "Wait! My man, Mr. Tomlinson. Bring him here immediately and find another horse for him."

Georgiana jumped up and threw her arms around Darcy. "Oh, I knew you would help Lizzy. Bring her to live with us. It shall be perfect, except…poor Stanley."

"Surely not." Lord Matlock sneered at Darcy. "You cannot seriously be considering riding off suddenly on the word of a poor country girl. What spell does this penniless miss have over you two?"

Tomlinson entered the room, his head characteristically cocked forward. He looked awkward and a little astonished at the grandeur of the drawing room. "Tomlinson, I know you looked forward to enjoying the city, but I need you to come with me to Hertfordshire."

He gave the crooked nod necessitated by his injury and saluted snappily. "Yes, sir."

"Bring a pistol with you."

Tomlinson did not blink. "Of course, sir."

Lord Matlock slammed his fist against the sofa repeatedly. "As the head of your family I demand you cease whatever foolishness you have decided and see reason. Any girl of her age who would write a letter to a gentleman has loose morals and—"

"DO NOT EVER." Darcy clenched his teeth as the echo of his roar rang off the walls. Georgiana's eyes were wide, and Uncle Matlock was pale. "Never, never, never insult Elizabeth in my presence."

The butler opened the door again. Darcy strode up to him. "Have you found horses for me and Tomlinson? They need not be particularly good, only an animal suitable for a several hours ride. A stable mount, I've barely ridden for more than four years."

At the man's nod, Darcy strode out the door and down stairs.