Author Notes:
This is an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE FIC Written for the Rough Trade Paranormal Romance Challenge, July 2021, this is Pride and Prejudice and Soulmarks! My thanks to Keira Marcos for all she does in support of creative fan fiction.
Character bashing of Fanny Bennet happens. If this bothers you, my advice is to find another P&P AU. The story is COMPLETE on my end and should be totally posted in less than two weeks here on FFn.
There is mention made of, ahem, certain bodily fluids, male and female. These inclusions are necessary for the discussion of the Soulmarks.
Welcome to the Realm of Great Britain.
PROLOGUE
Myrddin Emrys—also known as Merlin the Everliving—had had occasion to pull himself to awareness of the Mortal Realm, but it was rarely satisfying.
The period of time in which he had fought at Arthur's side against the Saxons, of course, had been glorious. But then, his friend had been sore wounded by one he once trusted and Merlin had seen the Once and Future King safely to Avalon, where he yet rested. For one day, the Realm would need him again.
The Northmen had not awakened Arthur, but they had roused Myrddin. And later, when the man called William the Bastard had dared to steal the Realm . . . Myrddin had awakened then, too.
Alas, not every battle could be won.
So he withdrew for a time, to commune with the forces that watched over the Realm. Sometimes, he even rested; the Emrys needed that, if not quite as mortals did.
The last time he had been pushed from his communion with the powers of lore and nature, however, he had almost brought Arthur with him.
The humans had named a prince Arthur, but he had died. Well, of course he had. The unmitigated hubris, naming a king-in-waiting after Myrddin's own Arthur! But there had been more. Another child, a queen—a great queen, otherwise worthy of all praise—had refused to provide the heir the Realm had needed. Kings came from Caledonia, of all places, and there had been intermarriages with the descendants of the Northmen.
And then, the Mortals had rulers who sought . . . Myrddin knew not what. But the energies of the Realm had shivered in pain at one point and he had had enough.
His fury burned, setting London on fire for days. The feminine aspect of the world, Nature, called him to task and beseeched him to do something positive for his Realm, and cease his temper tantrum.
One did not argue with Nature, Merlin had learnt, though he did engage in persuasion. So he considered what to do and created a plan that involved the healthy promulgation of the humans on his isle. Nature approved, as she did all things that led to healthy lives.
It was an act of Magic that required him to develop an incarnate form, and Nature assisted him. There would be difficulties, but eventually, he found a way.
Alas, he could not sink deeply into that other plane with Arthur any longer. He had to safeguard the Realm for his king's return.
Time passed.
1798 — Pemberley, Derbyshire
Fitzwilliam Darcy, a young man of fourteen years, awoke with an amazed smile on his face. In that languid space between slumber and full cognizance, he didn't remember the details of his dream in its entirety, but he could still feel the afterglow of a vague sexual encounter that lingered in his awareness.
And his nightshirt.
Which he discovered when he stretched, still pleased with his dream, only to discover the sticky residue of his first nocturnal emission.
He was indeed quite embarrassed. Before he could roll out of bed and seek to handle the evidence of the event himself, however, his valet came in through the dressing room door and caught him half in, half out of bed.
"Hewetson . . ." Fitzwilliam jerked a pillow in front of himself and endeavored to stand. His bed was quite large though, and he landed awkwardly, groping with one hand for the polished walnut bedpost whilst holding the pillow.
Hewetson, a stalwart man of middle years who had served Baron Montrose's son before the young man gone to sea, didn't even blink at the dishabille of his gentleman. "Yes, sir?" Only when young Master Fitzwilliam's face turned nearly purple at the jawline did he allow himself to smile. "Sir. Allow me to bring you your banyan. We'll send your nightshirt—"
"No! I can't have anyone, er . . ." The young man cleared his throat and Hewetson was a little proud in the way the young master stiffened his spine. "I'll just take care of it, shall I? Whilst you retrieve my banyan. The blue one."
Hewetson nodded. "Of course, sir." He turned to step to the dressing room, where he had hung the knee-length garment on a hook next to the door. It was not silk, as Mr. George Darcy's was; rather it was made of indigo velvet. It had been a gift from the Countess of Matlock.
The dressing room was of a generous size, with chests of drawers for the young master's small clothes and stockings, shirts and breeches, as well as wardrobes that held all the other garments that befit a man of his station. Fitzwilliam Darcy was, after all, the grandson of an earl. For Hewetson, this position was a step up and he was doing his best to maintain it. If he could do so, he might be kept on even as he aged, and the young master became the Master of Pemberley. Pemberley was famously generous to its pensioners, so he'd be in clover when he retired from service.
Nodding in personal satisfaction, he retrieved the young master's banyan and returned to the bedchamber. Master Fitzwilliam was relieving himself behind the privy screen in the corner. No candle was lit, but the white nightshirt was clearly visible, draped as it was over the screen.
"Your banyan, Master Fitzwilliam," he called over the screen, surreptitiously removing the nightshirt.
"Thank you, Hewetson." The young man made some sort of sound under his breath that Hewetson ignored as he held up the banyan. Master Fitzwilliam turned his back to him and held out an arm and that's when Hewetson saw it.
He froze and cleared his throat.
"What is it?" the young master asked a bit impatiently as he turned and grabbed the banyan to hold in front of himself.
Hewetson felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment; he'd lost focus on his job for a moment. But there was a duty as well. "Your arm, sir. Do you see it? Your right arm."
Fitzwilliam frowned and shrugged on his banyan, tying it with haste around his waist before pulling back the close-fit right sleeve. He felt his muscles stiffen as he stared at his arm. "What . . . what is this, Hewetson?" he whispered. It was an image on his skin. Etched over the muscle of his forearm, moving when Fitzwilliam clenched and unclenched his fist. "I've never seen this before, Hewetson. But it's like it's always been there."
Fear and wonder battled in his mind and heart as he turned his arm back and forth, moving closer to the window and jerking back the heavy drapery. The image was of some kind of plant. Like an herb from the kitchen garden, but he'd have to look in the Pemberley library to find out what kind. Unless . . .
"Hewetson? What is this?" He tore his focus from his own arm and looked to his valet.
His valet coughed a little. "May I, sir?"
"Of course." Fitzwilliam managed not to roll his eyes. He had asked, had not he?
Hewetson took his arm and pushed the sleeve back up to the elbow. Fitzwilliam watched his valet's face as he spoke. "Well, sir. I daresay this is a Soulmark. I, well, I haven't seen one in quite some time." He paused. "If you wondered, I believe it is a species of herb called geum urbanum. My sister believed it was helpful to ward off disease."
"A Soulmark?" Fitzwilliam couldn't have cared less about the species of . . . image . . . that had appeared on his person. He wanted to know its origin. Its purpose.
Hewetson blew out a dignified breath and nodded. "Let's get you dressed, Master Fitzwilliam, and I'll tell you what I've heard."
1805 — Cheapside, London
"It's a what?" Elizabeth Bennet stared at her arm. "Is it something that only happens in London, Aunt?"
Her Aunt Gardiner smiled sympathetically and patted her arm. "No, dear, though I daresay it does occur in the country as well as in London. Did you mother tell you what to expect when you began your menses, my dear?" Elizabeth relished the smooth, warm touch of her aunt's hand on her hair. Lizzy was more than a little rumpled, having spent the night feeling quite dreadful and waking up with blood seemingly everywhere.
She huffed. "Mother sat Jane and me down when Jane 'entered her womanhood' and told us what to expect but mostly she went on about how Jane would soon be eligible for being out." With a grimace she huffed again and stared at her forearm. "Jane did not have a flower on her arm, Aunt. It looks like herb bennet, which our housekeeper grows for the stillroom." Ignoring the discomfort she was experiencing, Lizzy eyed her aunt. "She says it's for cramping in the legs. Should I use it for, for this?"
"No, dear. I do have a tea for you and I can find you some items to help you remain . . . composed . . . but you should keep to your room, today."
"But what about this?" Elizabeth lifted her arm with a stiff, abrupt air. "Will it fade when I'm, I'm done? What is it?"
"Oh, my dear girl. Didn't your mother tell you? I thought certainly she would have . . ." Aunt Gardiner rose from the bed, where she'd been sitting to comfort Lizzy, and smoothed the apron over her simple muslin day gown.
Lizzy felt that her aunt looked uncomfortable, which surprised her. Aunt Gardiner was the woman Elizabeth respected most in all the world. From the top of her elegant coiffures to the hem of her day to day gowns, Madeline Gardiner was gracious and composed and sensible; qualities Lizzy admired. "Aunt? What is it?" Nervous, heart starting to pound, Lizzy clutched her arm close to her chest.
Aunt Gardiner turned to face her, a gentle smile in her blue eyes. "No, dear. I just haven't seen a Soulmark in years."
"A Soulmark?" Ellzabeth blinked, trying to recall if she had heard of such a thing in Meryton. "Does this happen to all young ladies when they, when they reach their womanhood? Did it happen to you?" She tried to sound mature and adult about this, she truly did, but Lizzy could still feel her skin heat abominably as she asked.
Her aunt shook her head, though that air of discomfort seemed to linger like the last smoke from a candle about her. "No, Lizzy. Let me see." She paused, linked her hands together, and moved to sit on the straight-back chair that was next to Elizabeth's bed in the Gardiner's townhouse. "I met your Uncle Gardiner, as you know, here in Town." Lizzy nodded. "My family is in trade, but we have always maintained good relationships in the Ton, though not as exalted as some." Aunt Gardiner smiled wryly at some private thought that Lizzy didn't ask about. "One of my friends was able to have an actual season, granted to her by her grandmother, who was a dowager baroness, and I was invited to join her so she'd have company at the mantua makers and so on."
Elizabeth shifted under her bedclothes. "And . . .? Aunt, the suspense is quite dreadful."
"And . . . I hadn't realized I'd not seen her without her gloves on prior to spending that time with her preparing for her debut. But we were at the modiste, and Lavinia removed her gloves and I saw that she appeared to have an inked drawing on her inner wrist."
Elizabeth rubbed at her arm. "Like mine?"
"Not the same; hers looked to be the antlers of a stag, looking as if they'd been drawn in light brown ink. She told me, much later, that the mark had appeared upon her first menses. It was called a Soulmark, and such things were whispered to have come from Merlin himself."
With a gasp, Lizzy regarded her aunt. "Truly, Aunt? I had heard the stable boys at Longbourn mention his appearance during Cromwell's years, but I thought that was just a tale for boys!"
"Indeed it is not. The legends say that Merlin introduced Soulmarks for the peers of our island, and for those who are most suited to be their partners in life. Your father had you study the kings and queens of England, did not he?"
"Of course! But what—?"
Aunt Gardiner held up a hand. "After Queen Elizabeth, then . . ."
Elizabeth sighed and began to recite. "James VI of Scotland became James I of England. Followed by James II. His daughter Mary reigned jointly with her husband William of Orange. James II's next daughter, Anne, ascended to the throne in 1702. She married Henry Howard, of Suffolk." Elizabeth paused and her aunt nodded.
"And that's where the Soulmarks were introduced, Lizzy."
"What are they?" Elizabeth demanded, throwing up her hands.
"Patience, my girl. The Soulmarks are from Merlin, to assure that healthy children are born to the leading families."
"And Queen Anne was the first queen that had one? And what does that have to do with me?"
Aunt Gardiner moved to take one of Lizzy's hands in both of hers. "My dear girl, the guiding spirit of the Realm has evidently decided you are the perfect match for someone . . . quite grand."
Elizabeth's jaw dropped. "That's . . . medieval."
"No, it's before 'medieval', Lizzy. It's Arthurian."
Indignation thrummed through her whole body. "So I'm marked. And somewhere is a man who is also marked? Like this? But, but why?"
"Your father was, as well, you know."
Elizabeth snorted before she could stop herself. Her aunt admonished her silently, but Elizabeth pressed on. "He was meant to marry well? I love you and my uncle, Aunt, you know this, but truly?"
"Edward assured me his sister was marked, my dear."
"Well, I am not inclined to find the man with herb bennet on his arm, Aunt. I want to marry for love."
Her aunt rose gracefully to her feet before pressing a kiss to Lizzy's head. "I did, and I assure you it's wonderful. Follow your heart, Lizzy."
"I intend to!"
With thorough resolution, she covered her arm assiduously for the rest of her stay in London and planned on how to hide the Soulmark from her sisters, Jane and Mary. Sleeves, gloves, shawls, surely she could manage to do that!
"Matchmaking by Merlin? I don't quite believe it," she muttered.
She took a tray in her room that evening, but glared out the window over Cheapside in London. Was he out there? The man that also bore the herb on his arm? "Well. I'm not coming back to London. At least not until I'm happily wed as are my uncle and aunt!"
Note on herb bennet: "Herbalists use the roots and leaves and the roots were used to flavour ale, while the Romans used it as a substitute for quinine. Herb bennet can be allowed to grow in wilder areas of the garden." - RHS do dot UK
