Prologue
Last night, I dreamt of Pemberley again.
The park was very large, containing a great variety of ground. I entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent, up and up, and further up still.
I saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. After rapidly ascending for half a mile, I found myself at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and my eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated upon the cliff’s apex, into which the road, with some abruptness, wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, fronted by a ridge of high woody hills; in the rear, a wing had been constructed upon a precipice of some natural importance, jutting out over the valley below.
I have since seen many great estates in England and Europe, but never a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste, as Pemberley. But even as I watched, delighted, the wood encircling its winding roads changed from idyllic flora and fauna to haggard, witchy crones, clawing at me—grasping and pointing, darkening as an unearthly night sky cloaked the sun.
Startled, I gasped and ran for the great house; in the manner of dreams, however, I slogged through bogs, unable to gain purchase, incapable of moving forward. I was caught, trapped, held firmly in place by branched talons. Suddenly and without warning, in the way of the most fearsome dreams, I found myself at the centre of Pemberley’s massive ballroom. The spires of a thousand candles glittered from its crystal chandeliers; the music of fifty instruments played a waltz to which no one danced. And then the choking smoke began to fill my lungs as Pemberley began to burn. I could not even scream; there was no air, my voice strangling upon the bitter, beautiful flames.