Prologue
Vimeiro, Portugal
23 August 1808
“Isitfromyoursister, Darcy?”
Major Fitzwilliam Darcy glanced up from his letter at his cousin, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. He shook his head. “No, I had a letter from Georgiana not a fortnight past. It is from my Great-Uncle Darcy.”
Fitzwilliam sat down beside him on the low boulder. “The judge? How is he? Still in London, or in the country?”
“He complains of old age, but his mind is as keen as ever,” Darcy replied. “He is at Pemberley. Nothing but dire necessity would keep him in London in the summer, as he cannot abide the stench.” Darcy gazed around the crowded clearing. Men were tending to wounds, repairing their uniforms, cleaning their guns, sharing food and port.
After two battles in quick succession, the stench here was far worse.
Darcy nudged his cousin. “He asks after you.”
“All in one piece,” Fitzwilliam said with a shrug.
“I shall tell him so, next we have a chance to write anything,” Darcy replied. “Have you any news from home?”
Fitzwilliam sniffed and extracted a letter from his jacket pocket. “Mother has written.” He tapped a half-unwrapped package next to him. “She has sent us a box from Fortnum & Mason.”
“Tea and biscuits? The almond ones?”
Fitzwilliam snorted. “Of course. You know Mother loves you best.”
Darcy grinned. “Everyone loves me best.”
“I will not contradict you, for I know it would only distress your fragile sensibilities.” Fitzwilliam kept reading. “Hmm. Fane will be married by the new year.”
“Indeed?” Darcy asked, mildly interested. “Arranged, I presume.”
“Who would choose him? No woman wishes to be wed to a coxcomb. Of course it is arranged.” Fitzwilliam read a bit more of his letter. “Fine fortune, though she does not say whether Fane will get his hands on any of it.” He scoffed. “Mother must hope to lessen his grip on the family coffers.” He read further. “Second daughter of a duke. Plan to wed at St. George.”
Darcy grunted. “Is my aunt writing to invite us?”
His cousin laughed as Darcy knew he would. “Do you think General Bennet would give us leave? After all, the second daughter of a duke must be in need of our witness at her nuptials.”
“I might ask my great-uncle to put in a good word at headquarters if he returns to town this winter.”
“Too late. Fane will be wed by then.”
“Ah, well,” Darcy said with an affected sigh. “Perhaps they will save us a piece of the cake.”
They each returned to their letters.
Darcy’s great-uncle wrote to him twice a month without fail, even though he could respond only sporadically. The man was the second son and had been a judge for fifteen years before unexpectedly inheriting Pemberley. He was a man of wide experience and extraordinary intelligence, and Darcy greatly enjoyed their correspondence. His sister Georgiana’s letters spoke of the schoolroom and childish concerns and reminded him of gentler days and the pleasures of home. His great-uncle challenged him to think more thoroughly, to assess more critically, and to never relinquish a problem until he had devised a reasonable solution. It was not unlike earning a Cambridge education without having ever stepped foot on the grounds.
In this letter, he read about how slave traders were attempting to defy the 1807 act that made the trade illegal, as well as some difficulty between two Pemberley tenants and their farm boundaries. He was just finishing a paragraph about England’s unusually arid summer heat when he heard a resounding shout from just across the small clearing.
“Gun!”
He and Fitzwilliam instinctively dove for the ground as the air was shattered by the crack of a shot.
The letter fluttered to the ground behind him as he and Fitzwilliam raced to where General Bennet lay on the ground, grasping his left leg and releasing a string of orders punctuated by oaths. Blood trickled between his fingers and the man’s face was pale and drawn.
“Chambers, go for the surgeon!” Fitzwilliam commanded.