Chapter One: The Hazards of Hatchards
Fitzwilliam Darcy was currently engaged in the very serious business of wondering if his heart had physically shrivelled up and died, or if the mutton from last night's dinner was simply disagreeing with him.
He stood in the library of his London townhouse, pressing the heel of his palm against his chest and staring unseeingly at a perfectly innocent bust of Marcus Aurelius. It was Friday, the twentieth of December, 1811. By all accounts, he should be festive. He should be planning the journey to Pemberley. He should be ordering holly and looking forward to the New Year.
Instead, he was rubbing his sternum and cataloguing the various ways his life had disintegrated since leaving Hertfordshire.
It had been four weeks. Four weeks since he had fled Netherfield like a coward in the night—although it was daylight, if he meant to be precise—dragging a reluctant Bingley with him. Four weeks since he had last seen Elizabeth Bennet. And yet, the haunting was absolute. He saw her eyes inthe reflection of his shaving mirror. He heard her laugh in the crackle of the fireplace. He sensed her arch disapproval every time he appeared particularly haughty.
"It is indigestion," he told Marcus Aurelius firmly. "It has to be indigestion. A man does not develop palpitations of the heart simply because a woman in the country told him she preferred walking to taking the carriage."
Marcus Aurelius remained stoic, which Darcy found irritating.
The library door creaked open, admitting a slice of light and his sister, Georgiana.
If Darcy was currently serving as the portrait of masculine misery, Georgiana was a study in fragile bravery. It had been barely five months since Ramsgate—since George Wickham had nearly destroyed her life and confidence with a few whispered lies and an elopement plot. She was still subdued, her movements quiet and hesitant, like a bird that had forgotten how to fly.
But today, she was smiling. It was a small, brittle thing, but it was there.
"William?" she asked softly. "Are you rubbing your chest again?"
Darcy dropped his hand as if he had been burned. "No. Merely adjusting my waistcoat. It is tight."
"You have lost a stone in weight since November," she pointed out, stepping further into the room. "If your waistcoat is tight, it is defying nature."
"It shrunk in the wash."
"Mrs Crauford supervises the wash of your linens. She does not shrink things. It is against her religion." Georgiana came tostand beside him, looking up with eyes that were too old for her sixteen years. She saw the brooding. She saw the way he was staring at the wall as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
She sighed. "You have been in here since breakfast. You have read the same page of that newspaper since I came to borrow the globe. That was two hours ago."
"The political situation is complex."
"The paper is upside down."
Darcy looked down. It was. "Ah. Yes. I was testing my faculties. A mental exercise."
Georgiana placed a tentative hand on his arm. She was hurting, he knew. The betrayal at Ramsgate had left her uncertain of her own judgment, fearful of the world. But she was a Darcy, and Darcys did not let their brothers rot in libraries while staring at upside-down newsprint. She had resolved, evidently to save him, hoping that in saving him, she might save a little of herself, too.
"We cannot stay in this house all day," she announced, her voice gaining a fraction more strength. "We have responsibilities."
"I have completed my correspondence."
"Not that. Gifts. We have not purchased a single thing for the family." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Uncle Matlock. Aunt Matlock. Richard. And Robert."
Darcy groaned aloud. "Robert."
"Viscount Keathley requires a gift, William. Unless you want him to spend the entire Christmas dinner making speeches about your stinginess."
"I would pay a thousand pounds to avoid Robert right now," Darcy muttered. His cousin was excellentcompany when one was in high spirits. When one was miserable, Robert was like a very charming, very well-dressed mosquito.
"We are going to Hatchards," Georgiana declared. "Books are safe. Everyone likes books. And the fresh air will do you good. You look..." She squinted at him. "Grey. You look grey, William."
"I am pale. It is aristocratic."
"It is concerning. Please? For me?"
That was the weapon he had no defence against. He looked at his sister and saw the desperate need for distraction in her eyes. She needed to be out, to pretend that life was normal, that she wasn't carrying the weight of a near-disaster.
