Page 1 of A Promise Made

Prologue

“Promise me, Son,” the young man’s father said. His voice was hoarse and strained with emotion. The young man gripped his father’s hand, attempting to communicate that he had heard. His voice seemed trapped somewhere beneath a lump in his throat—a lump that he could not swallow, however hard he tried.

“You must promise—” his father pleaded. “I did not help. I meant to, but I ran out of time. So…it is up to you. You must do something to help.”

Finally, the young man got two words out around the obstruction: “I promise.”

“I do not know what you can do. I meant to research, to ask Robbins. To find out. But…I ran out of time.”

The older man sagged back into the pillows piled up on his sickbed. He seemed to have aged ten years in as many months, and the young man’s eyes filled again, but he blinked back his tears.

Clearing his throat, the young man felt as if he could finally talk. “I will ask Robbins. Do not worry, Father. I will do what is right. I will save the family. Somehow. You can rest easy on that score.”

The young man watched his father’s eyes well up—and that suddenly made it impossible to hold back his own tears. Both men wept silently: tears spilled over, but the men did not cry out, nor were there audible sobs and moans. For a few minutes, they did not even speak.

But finally, both men stopped weeping. The older man struggled to sit up, and his son helped him, propping him up more securely with pillows. He handed his father a glass of water to sip, and he drank some water from his own glass, as well. Then he returned his hand to his father’s, and he was happy to feel a surge of strength in his father’s grip.

“Remember…” the older man said, breaking the silence. “Remember, you are a Darcy. And Darcys do what is right. We take responsibility when we err, and even if we do not ourselves make a mistake, if we accidentally and without intention or malice hurt someone, we still do what we can to repair any damage.”

“Yes, Father.”

“We have fabulous wealth, Son. You need not fear robbing Pemberley of funds. You need not fear hurting the tenants or Georgiana when you use money to help those we inadvertently ruined. We have plenty to help the Bennets and still do right by our own people.”

Fabulous wealth? Fitzwilliam Darcy knew the family was wealthy. He was brought up with the knowledge of it all: the land granted to his ancestors, the d’Arcys, by William the Conqueror; the huge estate in Derbyshire, the enormous town house, the minor estates in Scotland, southern England, and northern Ireland; ten thousand pounds per year of spendable revenue; the Funds—the investments, including government and commercial bonds.

Frowning, Darcy reflected that he would not call ten thousand a year fabulous wealth when William Fitzwilliam, an earl who was richer than most dukes, reportedly had between sixty and a hundred thousand pounds per year.

Darcy shook his head, wondering why he cared about a single ill-chosen word his father had uttered—the important thing was to assure his father that he need not worry, he need not feel guilty. As young as he was, as entirely too young as he felt, Darcy knew that he could and would help the family that his family had so grievously harmed, and he uttered more promises to his father with absolute confidence.

“Remember,” his father said, his voice weakening again. “Remember the papers…the findings…all in the top drawer.”

“I remember, Father. I will handle it just as you wish; you have trained me well, and I have excellent solicitors to work with. You need not trouble yourself, Papa.”

Darcy felt such great love and such great loss as he continued to hold his father’s hand.

A month later, on the fifth of June in the year 1806, the love held steady even as the loss swelled up to almost consume him. George Darcy was gone, and Fitzwilliam Darcy had inherited. He was Master of Pemberley, Darcy House, Muirside, Brambleford, and Clonmeen. He was the owner of a portfolio of investments that explained why his father had described the family's wealth as fabulous. He was responsible for more than three hundred servants, more than two thousand people amongst his tenants, and his eleven-year-old sister.

He was one and twenty years old.

Part One

October 1806

Longbourn, Hertfordshire, England

Chapter One

Fitzwilliam Darcy met with Mr Bennet the day after his arrival at Netherfield Park. He laid his dispatch box on the desk and used the key to unlock it; then he drew out a sheaf of carefully organised papers.

Mr Bennet raised one eyebrow. “Moroccan leather?” he asked.

Darcy was not certain how to interpret the older man’s tone. It seemed to him that Mr Bennet was dealing in irony—but where was the irony in a man having a dispatch box wrapped with fine leather?

He merely nodded.

“Well, what can I do for you?” Mr Bennet asked.

“I have several important proposals for your acceptance or dismissal. But I have to relate some grim history that intersects with even grimmer history before you can understand the proposals. This need to delve into the past in order to discuss the future is why I wrote ahead of time that I would need a meeting of substantial length.”