CHAPTER ONE
AN UNEASY ASSEMBLY
Pemberley,1806
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat beside his father’s sickbed. The fire was too warm, and the air heavy in the stuffy room that had become a prison of illness and impending grief.
“Father, I’m here.” He leaned forward, his heart clenching at the gray pallor of the once-robust face.
The labored breathing rasped as his father’s mouth formed words. “Promise… me…”
“Yes, Father… What should I promise?” Fitzwilliam clasped the cold hand between his warm ones, as if his youth might transfer vitality back to the failing body before him.
William Darcy’s hand, once strong enough to control the most spirited horse, trembled as it gripped his son’s wrist. His eyes, clouded with fever, suddenly cleared with alarming lucidity.
“Never… trust a… a… Bennet.”
Fitzwilliam’s brow furrowed. “Who are the Bennets?”
But William Darcy’s eyes had already begun to glaze, his grip loosening as his breathing became irregular. “Promise… never trust…”
“I promise, but who are they? What did they do? Father!”
The only answer was the death rattle that would haunt Fitzwilliam’s dreams to this day.
Which Bennets? And why?
Hertfordshire, 1811
“Come now, Darcy. You cannot hide at Netherfield all evening when half the neighborhood is eager to make your acquaintance.”
Darcy glanced out the window of the manor house his friend Charles Bingley had leased to acquaint himself with the arts of estate management. Beyond the manicured gardens, Hertfordshire spread in gentle hills and modest farmland—pleasant, but hardly remarkable.
“I rather doubt estate management includes appearance at a country assembly.” He adjusted his cravat, though it required no adjustment.
Bingley’s reflection appeared beside him in the window glass. “Caroline has already selected her gown, and Louisa declares herself quite eager for the entertainment. You must come, of course. It would be the height of rudeness to decline, and I am determined to make a good impression on our neighbors.”
“I assure you, their good impression will diminish rapidly upon actual acquaintance.” Darcy turned from the window, taking in his friend’s earnest expression with exasperation and reluctant affection.
“Nonsense! You do yourself a disservice.” Bingley clapped him on the shoulder. “Besides, there will be dancing. Even you cannot object to a country dance.”
“I assure you, I can and do object to dancing with strangers of no particular breeding or accomplishment.”
Bingley’s expression fell. “If you remain here alone, Caroline will undoubtedly develop a headache and insist on staying to keep youcompany. Then Louisa will refuse to leave Caroline, and Hurst will not stir without Louisa…”
The young man possessed an unfortunate talent for moral blackmail while painting an amusing picture. Darcy had observed this particular skill employed against Caroline’s shopping expeditions and Hurst’s drinking habits with equal success.
“Very well,” Darcy relented with the air of a man accepting his own execution. “But I shall not promise to be pleased about it.”
Bingley beamed. “Excellent! The carriage will be ready at half past six.”
An hour later, Darcy found himself jostling in a carriage over rutted country lanes with a beaming Bingley, his two sisters, and Mr. Hurst, who looked like he’d discovered a wet fish in his handkerchief.
“I hear the Meryton assemblies attract the best families in the neighborhood,” Caroline Bingley observed, adjusting her feathered turban with studied carelessness. “Though I suppose ‘best’ is a relative term in such a backwater.”
“Now, Caroline,” Bingley chided. “We must not judge before we have even arrived.”
“I am merely preparing Mr. Darcy for what he is likely to encounter,” she replied, offering Darcy a smile that was clearly meant to establish their mutual superiority and common sympathy.
