The Transformation of Georgiana Darcy Read online

  The Transformation of Georgiana Darcy

  Carrie Mollenkopf

  ~Prologue~

  1290 A.D. Somewhere near Acre in the Middle East….

  William D’Arcy had spent the better part of the last year in service of King and God wearing the red cross of the Crusades. Battle weary, he longed for home and wished that his sense of honor did not keep him from abandoning his duty. His fellow soldiers had seen enough blood and hate to last a lifetime. Why did men have to behave in such a way to each other? Did it really matter if one chose to worship God in their own way? One that differed from another? He had pondered this idea deeply in recent weeks. Supplies had gotten scarce and they had been forced to steal what they could from local farmhouses. Now on the march again, the scorching sun beat down upon their armored bodies. Many a man had dropped from the magnitude of the heat. What he would not give to feel the cool, wet rains of home again. Soon, darkness would provide a temporary respite, but not from the ever present danger of attack by the fierce Muslim armies. Seeking shelter, he led his men to what appeared to be an abandoned church, but it was not like any he had seen before. Crossing himself as he entered the cool interior, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the pitch black. No windows allowed for the sun to light the chamber. Only narrow slits in the stone walls cast the tiniest bit of shadow to keep from stumbling in the darkness. Lighting a lamp, he lifted it high to expose walls painted with grotesque images. Recoiling in horror at the sight of a multi limbed woman with the lower body of a serpent, he wished there had been somewhere else to take refuge, but the sun set swiftly in the desert. Motioning for his men to follow, they camped on the strangely icy stone of the floor. The relief it provided distracted the men from its impossibility, as they soon fell into an exhausted sleep. D’Arcy, did not find sleep as easy, as he felt the piercing blue eyes of the serpent woman watch him in the dark. Settling his back against a far wall, he kept vigilance on the compelling image until he too succumbed to sleep.

  *****

  Hours later, or was it just minutes? William could not be certain as the narrow slit windows of his soldier’s refuge cast little moonlight. Of what he was certain, was that a strange sound had woken him. It was a sound he had not heard since leaving England. A woman’s voice… not just any woman either, he’d encountered all sorts of the female persuasion in this foreign land. It was one who spoke the clear crisp tones of his homeland. Instantly awake, he rose and drew his weapon. Where was this woman who called out to him in his sleep? Blinking against the gloom, he shook his head to clear what must surely be the remnants of a dream. Fatigue had a way of making the most sane man act irrationally. That, combined with a lack of proper food and extreme heat, often made for deadly consequences as men resorted to survival instincts instead of sound reason. After a few more moments of scanning the dark chamber, he returned to where he had previously taken his rest. The snores of his sleeping men lulling him back into a semi-conscious state. No sooner did he allow his weary eyes to close than the voice was heard again. This time louder and more direct.

  “William! William D’Arcy… Help me!” it demanded in a hushed whisper.

  Instantly alert, Will leapt cautiously to his feet, sword drawn again.

  “Who is it that calls for me?” he demanded in his own rasping whisper. Fear trickled a thin line of perspiration down the center of his back, chilling him despite the desert heat. Was he going mad? Hearing an Englishwoman’s voice where there could be none?

  “Over here… hurry…” replied the voice again. This time, Will narrowed his eyes and could now faintly make out a shape against the wall furthest from the entry. It was indeed a woman. She appeared to be wearing some sort of filmy dress that glowed effervescent in the darkness. As he neared, he noticed the thick manacles that bound her hands and feet. How had he and his men not seen her before? Was there another chamber deeper inside from which she had come? Had she escaped from some sort of prison? If so, where was her captor?

  Moving forward, he was mesmerized by her unusual appearance. Long white blonde hair fell in a thick curtain to her knees, masking the outline of her body through the almost sheer garment. But it was not her form that held his gaze so intently, despite not having had female companionship in near two years. It was her eyes… Such a deep piercing ice blue, a color he had only seen before when aboard ship in the depths of winter. The great mountains of ice that floated upon the sea bore the same hue… and the unmasked danger that lurked beneath those bergs also shone in her own fierce countenance as she returned his stare.

  “How did you get here?” he demanded without providing assistance to the strange woman. His strong chivalrous upbringing lay in check by the years of wary brought on by constant battle. He did not trust what his own eyes told him.

  “Free me… please… before they return…” the vision pleaded.

  However, the woman was clearly solid in form. No vision wavered before his eyes like a dream to be wicked away by the morning sun.

  “Hurry… there is no time… I promise it will be worth it… my ransom is great.”

  “Who returns? I have an entire regiment of soldiers, none would survive an encounter.” He replied with false courage, knowing the state of his men would not hold against any great number of foe, but they would fight nonetheless if he gave the order. By now he was by her side. Taking the manacles in his own hands he studied the mechanisms carefully. They were unlike any he had ever seen. Appearing to be made of silver, twin serpents encircled both wrists, bodies intertwined, they held their own tails inside fanged mouths. The images were faintly familiar to those worn by the ancient Druids. But how could Druids be here? They were a race long gone. It would be better to take her from this place in the morning and find a safe haven to secure her final release and return to wherever she belonged.

  “Who are you?”

  Ignoring his inquiry, she raised her arms to ease his inspection. “They cannot be opened by ordinary means…. It requires a more substantial weapon.”

  “What sort of weapon? My blade is the finest made, but even it cannot undo this… at least not without harm to your person. We must take you to a metalsmith.”

  “No! It won’t work! Hurry! I can hear them coming!”

  Will had not heard any sound but that of his own men. Deep snores echoed in the otherwise empty room. Perhaps delusions plagued this strange woman as a result of her imprisonment. He had seen such things in soldiers who had been taken and tortured by the enemy. Thinking it best to acquiesce to her strange behavior, he knelt at her side.

  “By what means is necessary to free you from your bonds? I shall secure your release… I vow it.”

  “Blood… it must be the blood of an honorable man… freely given.”

  “Blood? What evil is this?”

  Will instinctively drew his hands away from the manacles as if the silver serpents could strike. The priests had warned of the possibility that the crusaders would encounter sorcery in their quest to secure the holy lands. Until now, he had only seen the greed of kings. Greed that fed off the piety of their armies. But this… this was another matter entirely. However, he was not to let his faith quaver in the face of such barbarity. If the Lord could offer his blood to save man, than he could offer his own to save this innocent woman.

  “If my blood will suffice, then I offer it now.” He said solemnly as he drew his dagger across his palm. Instantly, a deep crimson oozed from the gash in the flesh.

  A new blue fire blazed in the woman’s eyes as she watched the blood drip from his hand onto the stone floor. Licking her lips, she held her bound hands forward to catch the droplets. Watching with glee as the wound became a small
rivulet, she let it flow freely across the silver serpents.

  The pain in his hand was acute, but Will D’Arcy’s attention was riveted on the now moving manacles. What had once been solid metal, now slithered freely from their embrace, coiling themselves like tender vines around the bare forearms of the woman before again becoming solid. Now harmless decoration, she rubbed the area where they once held her fast, but only for a moment. While Will still knelt, mesmerized by the miracle he had seen, she grasped his still dripping hand and sunk her mouth to the wound, sucking fiercely.

  “Soo hungry…” she murmured with pleasure as she fed from his hand. Will D’Arcy, seasoned soldier, man of the greatest courage and honor…. was now unable… or perhaps unwilling… to be freed from her grasp… slipped into unconsciousness. All thoughts of battle, his men and his crusade were lost. Only the pale woman with the strange eyes filled his mind.

  “Who are you….” He managed to gasp once again before succumbing to an intense desire to sleep.

  “Lilith…. you may call me Lilith… and thank you…. I shall repay you somehow…Will D’Arcy….”

  She licked the red of his blood from her lips and dropped his now limp hand. She had no intention of allowing him to die. It had been far too long since one of his caliber had come her way. A man who willingly gave instead of making demands was too rare to destroy. She’d keep him for a while, out of obligation for his deeds until another could take her place, but as for the rest…. Well… one had to eat…

  Stepping over his sleeping form, Lilith left Will to recover from his loss of blood and sunk her teeth into the wrist of the nearest man. Not even stirring from his dreams, she quickly drained his life and moved on to the next. It had been a very long time since she dined so well. A very long time indeed.

  Part One

  Beginnings Quite Ordinary

  ~One~

  Late summer, 1820 Pemberley

  Georgiana Darcy woke to bright sunlight streaming through the open draperies that graced the large windows of her bedchamber. Squinting against the glare, she sprang from her bed and yanked the offending hangings shut. Not normally a person given to expressions of displeasure, she gave in to frustration and hissed between her teeth. “How many times must I tell Anna to keep them closed?” Even as a child, she had disliked intense sunlight, grateful for the shade of fashionable bonnets and gloves. Now in the shadows once again, she peered at her reflection in the mirror over her dressing table. Always pale as a child, her milky complexion now showed thin blue veins under the almost translucent skin. Thinking that they ironically matched the blue in her eyes she studied herself closely. Her eyes had always been her best feature. The gift of some long ago Viking ancestor, they were an arresting deep teal blue. Now they seemed to glow slightly against the contrast of her cheeks. What had once enhanced her golden blond hair, now created a haunted effect. The reflection wavered slightly as she made a face at herself. The smoky glass really needed replacing, but the piece was a family heirloom and she hesitated to complain. Not that her brother would deny her anything, but she could not bear the teasing that would surely ensue about her vanity. As it was, lately, the overheard comments about her appearance had hit her sharply. Just a few months before her twenty-first birthday, it seemed like she was starting to fade away. Her appetite, which had never been all that hearty, was now practically gone. Last night at dinner she had to practically force the bites past her lips. If it had not been an exceptionally well prepared rare roast of beef, she would probably not have eaten at all. This had not gone unnoticed by her brother and his wife Lizzie, as they had cast worried glances between them when they thought she was looking elsewhere. In reality, she felt fine, only a little tired. However, the fatigue was not from lack of food, or even sleep, she was tired of being alone. At her age, most girls were already spoken for, and the wedding announcements of many of her acquaintance had been received over the past year. Georgiana had her share of suitors, to be sure, but there had always been something critically wrong with each candidate. At first she felt that it was simply being overly picky, but as time went on she realized that the flaw was in herself. She had not felt the slightest twinge of what could even remotely be called love for any of them. After the ugly affair involving George Wickham when she was just fifteen, Georgiana had been wary of fortune hunters and idle flattery. Being an heiress to some thirty thousand pounds did not help the matter. It only served to send a myriad of fortune hunters flocking in her direction. Some had exceptional pedigrees and considerable fortunes of their own, but none had captured her heart. The young men would spend a week or two casually feigning interest in her hobbies or plying her with barely concealed lies about their own talents before moving on to a more receptive audience. At first, she supposed it was her intimidating yet protective brother that scared them off, but now she knew that was not so. She just could not find it in her to pretend an emotion that she simply did not feel. Over the past few years, ever since Fitzwilliam had brought Lizzie home to live at Pemberley, Georgiana had learned what true love really was. Not a day went by when she did not notice the relationship between them. Little gestures, such as the touch of a hand or secretive smile, as well as the laughter, demonstrated the rare love shared by Lizzie and Fitz. Now, with the happy addition of her darling nephew Charlie, it appeared that their lives were perfect. If she could not have the same, then a spinster she’d be. Pinching some color into her cheeks, the realization of that future became all the more truth. Turning away from the fuzzy image in the mirror, Georgiana dressed for the day, choosing a dress of silver gray to match her mood. Perhaps a few hours practicing her pianoforte would bring some cheer.

  ******

  That same day,

  Polwys Tor, Wales, near the English border….

  Gareth Darcy Devlin was also tired, more than he had been in years. For him, that was truly saying something as he reflected upon recent events. To look at him, one would think he was somewhere between thirty-five and forty. That age when a single man of some fortune must seriously start thinking about finding a wife. However, in reality, Gareth was hardly that, his unusual coloring made it difficult for most people to guess his true age, a fortunate thing indeed, considering his circumstances. In reality, he would be celebrating his seventy-seventh year this coming June. For reasons he did not understand, and were never discussed, members of his family did not age as one would expect. Living into extreme old age, he could not remember a single person actually passing of the various complaints that assail one who is up in years. Everyone had succumbed to some sort of accident resulting in their demise. It was something he had accepted, and ceased to ponder over the years. But, the topic of marriage was one he could not escape. In the past, the thought of bringing a bride into the moldering heap of stones he called home was not an idea he had ever considered. But now, the need for a spouse had suddenly become pressing.

  Once a proud and intimidating medieval fortress, Polwys had seriously fallen into ruin. It was not for lack of funds, but more of a lack of care on its owner’s part. Barely half of the original structure was fit to provide living quarters. Bats and mice had invaded the western wing as many a Welsh storm had collapsed the roof. In the foolishness of youth, he had left the responsibilities of the home and family upon his widowed mother and had spent his recent university years more idle than in study, taking far longer than the norm to finish his requirements. He really should hire an army of workers to make repairs, but the motivation always seemed to escape him… until now.

  In a freak twist of fate, Polwys Tor had lost its mistress. Maris Devlin had been out on her usual morning walk, accompanied as always by one of the six bloodhounds that wandered freely about the place. None of the servants thought anything was amiss until it was near tea time. Maris’ daily habits were like a clockwork routine: Rise at dawn, take a light breakfast and go out of doors. Her daily walks varied, but generally lasted for a least a few hours as she rambled the countryside. Afterwards, she secluded herself
in the large two-story library until tea, with standing orders to not be disturbed. It was finding her absent when a maid brought refreshment that sent up the alarm. After a considerable search, her broken body was found some miles away at the bottom of a steep ravine. The baying of the bloodhound who stood sentinel over her remains announcing the passing to searchers.

  When Gareth had returned for the funeral, it had been quite a shock to find his childhood home in such a state. Guilt drove a sharp stake deep inside as he wandered the halls, assessing the neglect. He had been away far too long… and selfishly so. Silently grateful that his father had not lived to see his lack of responsibility, Gareth vowed to set things to rights. But, it would not be easy. Small villages and towns like Polwys were often unkind to those who stood out as strange or unusual, even if native born to long standing families. Mother must have known his reluctance or she surely would not have made such a contingency to her will. As the property was not entailed in any way, Maris Devlin had been free to dispose of it as she wished. And what she had wished for most was the house to be bustling with children… his… or his cousins. Either would do… so long as the house became alive with the sounds of laughter once again. If he did not marry before his cousin Ewan, all would be lost. It was not the house that mattered so much, it was the legacy. Polwys Tor had long been known for being the home of the Darcy family relics. Despite the change in surname, due to a female heir, this was the Darcy home seat. Filled to the brim with historical items going clear back to when the first D’Arcy had come to England in the company of William the Conqueror, it was now quite cluttered. It was not any item of warfare or art that held great value, it was the lineage. One long dead ancestor had taken it upon themselves to record in detail, every Darcy birth, marriage and death, with each new child bearing Darcy as its second name. Each entry was accompanied by diary entries of significant events over the years, some comical, others solemn. It was invaluable. Many of the fragile vellum sheets were now in poor repair, ink fading over the generations. Keeping the Darcy legacy was not an idle task to be cast upon anyone, but it required the combined efforts of just the right persons. In the past, it had been a task entrusted to the mistress of Polwys Tor, being transferred to the younger generation upon the marriage of the heir. He had hoped for many more years to avoid the responsibility, something about the room in which the documents were kept gave him a most uncomfortable feeling. It was as if someone was watching him the entire time. Unfortunately, with the sudden passing of his mother, it had become imperative that a replacement be found… and quickly. If his cousin were to inherit, all of that history would surely wind up in the town rubbish heap. Ewan was always one for the latest improvements, even at the cost of one’s heritage. History and family tradition meant nothing to him. Fortunately, Ewan had even fewer prospects than he. His cousin, bearing the same unusual coloring, often frightened women away with his caustic wit and rough physical demands. Perhaps all Gareth needed was some respectable family assistance…although rather distant… it was a chance he had to take.