Never again shall the Darcy line forsake their God and their religion,Peter vowed.
Chapter 2: 1729-1746
1729 — Barrington Place, London
Faith Barrington paced nervously around her chamber, clothed in her wedding gown made of smooth silk and trimmed at the hem with seed pearls so tiny they shimmered like frost in candlelight. Her maid had spent thebetter part of an hour smoothing the fabric and arranging the lace sleeves, but Faith had barely noticed. She kept walking—five paces forward, five paces back—her slippered feet whispering across the Turkish rug like a prayer not meant to be heard.
Outside the window, bells rang.
Eight.
No longer early morning, then. And she would not be a maid by evening.
The gown was elegant, modest, and carefully chosen—not by her, of course, but by her mother and the Countess of Matlock, who had debated sleeve length and neckline as though the outcome of the marriage depended upon it. Her hair had been pinned in place by no fewer than three women, and the tiara—borrowed from the Fitzwilliam family vault—rested atop her head like a crown she had not asked to wear.
She had met her bridegroom only four times. Twice in drawing rooms. Once at the opera. Once at a garden party where he had kissed her hand, praised her gown, and wandered off in pursuit of a duke’s daughter who had arrived in canary-yellow silk.
He was good-looking, though. And he had a laugh that made people turn to look at him. That had to count for something.
Did it not?
Faith clasped her hands in front of her and stared at the clock above the hearth.
Five minutes until they called her down.
She took a deep breath and turned toward the small silver crucifix hidden inside her wardrobe, tucked behind a bolt of muslin. The housemaids knew it was there, of course, but they knew better than to say a word.
So did she.
Her father had made it clear: she was not to speak of the faith. Not to claim it, not to hint at it, not to pass a bead or touch a missal in the presence of her new family.
“The Fitzwilliams are Protestants,” he had said, “but they are not puritans. You will keep your head, if you keep your mouth.”
That was meant to be comforting.
Her father had secured the match himself. The Fitzwilliams were noble, landed, and ambitious. Gibbs Fitzwilliam was the eldest son of the fourth Earl of Matlock. She was the goddaughter of the Duke of Norfolk—one of the very few Catholic peers still holding power in England. It was not a match for love.
It was a bargain.
And she, the currency.
Faith closed her eyes, whispered a silentAve Maria, and placed her hand over her abdomen. If she were to have children—whenshe had them—they would know the truth. Perhaps not in words, not openly, but in the quiet gestures passed down like relics. A cross of ash on the forehead. A whispered Latin prayer. They would learn in secret, just as she had from her own mother.
She opened her eyes. Her reflection stared back from the tall mirror near the fireplace.
Eighteen years old. Ivory silk. Pearls at her wrist. Her lips painted the softest rose, her cheeks pinched for color, her hair a golden-brown halo around her head.
And not a soul in the world who knew her.
The door opened.
“Miss Barrington,” the housekeeper said gently, “they are ready for you.”
She walked down the grand staircase as though floating in a dream.
The chapel had been cleared of all Catholic ornamentation generations ago. No icons. No saints. No candles. Just whitewashed stone and royal license and the hum of polite anticipation.
Gibbs Fitzwilliam stood waiting for her.
