The Transformation of Georgiana Darcy Page 2

  Looking down at the invitation that had arrived just before Mama’s accident, he now pondered the possibilities. It had been years since he had seen any of his relations at Pemberley. Father had never been close to the Pemberley Darcy’s but they had always included them in their social calendar, despite the distance. After his death, Mama had declined all engagements, preferring to spend her days in seclusion. Then, with the death of Anne Darcy, all social events of size at Pemberley had naturally stopped. However, with this new invitation, it would appear that Pemberley was reviving the old traditions. This was exactly the opportunity he wanted, and to be invited! He would be free from awkwardly forcing a possible unwanted connection. Pacing the room, he barely felt the cold stone floor beneath his feet as he wore a path back and forth. Just how much did this branch of the Darcy family know about their heritage? Heritage! Who was he fooling? It was more of a curse than anything. Were any of them afflicted as he? Thinking back, he remembered his cousin Fitz, a serious boy of fifteen the last time he saw him. He had been in awe of his elder cousin and followed him about like an orphaned pup. Dark haired, Fitzwilliam Darcy would not bear any of the effects that he and his cousin Ewan shared. Wasn’t there another child? A baby? Unfortunately, his memory failed to provide any specifics. He would simply have to go and see for himself. Taking a seat at what had once been his father’s desk, Gareth dipped a pen and wrote his acceptance to the Pemberley harvest celebration. After placing it to post, he went to pack his best in preparation for the journey.

  About an hour later…

  Ewan Devlin rudely swung open the door to Polwys Tor as if he were the lord of the manor returning from a successful hunt. Finding the hall empty to his calls, he strode through the house. His mud crusted boots left marks upon the polished stone floors as he marched his way into his cousin’s study. All this could be his, he thought as he made himself at home with a stiff drink from the small cache of whiskey located in an ancient cabinet between two towering bookshelves. When it was indeed his, much of this mess would be cleared out and modernized. There was far too much junk littering the place. All he needed to do was find a bride, and fast. However, it would not do for him to choose poorly. She must be of good family and vast fortune. Ewan had expensive tastes and very little of his inheritance remained after a few years of London living. It really was good of old Aunt Maris to consider him equal to her son in her will. The old lady must have been truly desperate for heirs. Well, he’d see to that once he found the next mistress of Polwys Tor. Dropping into a deep leather chair, he noticed an open letter on Gareth’s desk, it was an invitation addressed to the household. Well, that most certainly included him. What better place to find a rich bride than at an estate party. He had just enough funds to purchase some new clothes and make the journey. Laughing to himself, he decided not to tell Gareth of his intention to join the celebration. A surprise it would be when he showed up, another invited guest. A guest with a purpose. Quickly, he snatched up a sheet of embossed letterhead and wrote his gracious acceptance before leaving just as crudely as he had arrived. There was much to be done and little time.

  *****

  Slight movements somewhere near the draperies of the library had gone unnoticed by both of the Devlin men. Only a pair of blue eyes pierced the shadows. As of yet, Maris had not chosen to make her existence known to either of the potential heirs. She had not expected to expire for some years yet, but in a way it was opportune. Perhaps her fall down the ravine had been an act of providence? Having grown weary of waiting for her son or nephew to marry, her death would move things forward. What she needed was new blood and new life, even if she had to experience it as a spectre. That was one wish that she and her husband had desired, but had been unable to see fulfilled. With the stipulation of the will, Maris would soon have another to take her place. A surge of power rushed through her fading form at the thought, causing her eyes to glow brightly in the dim light. Soon… very soon…

  ~Two~

  Wales, 1292

  Standing on the rolling deck of the HMS Evangeline as it steered into the wide mouth of the Cardiff harbor, Will D’Arcy was relieved to finally be home. The shores of Wales had never been so welcoming before. This time, he was home for good, but to what reception? After four years away, what would he find when he returned to Polwys Tor? Many of his acquaintance had been considered dead after such a long time. One had returned to find his wife remarried to another and his assets gone. God willing, this would not be his fate. As it was, Will seriously doubted that God ever listened to his pleas for guidance and absolution. Absolution was what he craved, but so far he had not had the nerve to approach any priest for the rite. His memories of the past two years were burned forever in his memory, and had left their marks upon his body.

  Grasping the ships’ rail for balance, he closed his eyes and thought once more back to that day he led his men to their deaths. If he had only known to what inhuman evil they were to meet their fate, he would have gladly given his own life in exchange for theirs. Much of the details were hazy, but with great clarity he recalled the morning in which he had found their slaughtered remains. Killed in their sleep, they had not even the opportunity to defend themselves. He had been the lone survivor. He… and the woman... or so he chose to believe. Of the woman with the strange eyes there had been no trace. Only her memory lingered on, unable to be erased despite the amount of strong drink he imbibed. The piercing blue eyes stared back at him every time he saw his own reflection. It was to be his scar to bear.

  Will had not been immediately aware of the effects of his experience. Waking slowly in a dull haze, he had shaken off what he had believed to be a dream. A dream induced by fatigue and lack of food. It was only when he attempted to rouse his men that he discovered them not to be also in the realms of sleep, but dead. They were all dead. Ghostly white, they bore no marks of what had befallen them save small puncture wounds upon their hands. Morning had cast its rays into the formerly dark stone structure, illuminating the room in all corners. He had sworn that the night before, the walls had been covered with a gruesome mural, but with the clarity of day, they were bare. Plain sandstone blocks bore no evidence of any artwork, disturbing or otherwise. All that was evident were the bodies of his men. Frantically searching for the offending killer, he found no serpents as were known to be in the region, nor any other predator. For their demise, he could not account, only hold the blame. He had been their commander, it was his responsibility for their safety and he had failed. His own hand bore the same strange markings, around a now healed narrow line on his palm. What had befallen them? His own memory was plagued by vague images of him coming to the rescue of a woman, but everything after that was gone. The only clear thing was her voice. He could hear it now as if she stood before him. “I shall be with you always” rang in his ears.

  It was not until he had managed to rejoin his fellow countrymen in Acre that he was made aware of the physical changes. The journey, on foot and alone, had taken the better part of a fortnight. Strangely, he had not suffered from hunger as before. On the contrary, he felt oddly reinvigorated despite all that had happened and by the time he reached the English encampment was ready to rejoin the fighting, having convinced himself that his men had no doubt died from some mysterious ailment of which he had been, by the grace of God, spared. Lies, all lies that he repeated to himself until it sounded like truth. How else was he to explain what had happened? Who would believe him? He’d be considered mad from the effects of too much battle and locked away, or worse, guilty of incompetence. Unfortunately, he was to soon discover the source of his unusual survival. When he had reported to the captain, a man with which he had some previous acquaintance, he was met with no recognition.

  “Sir… it is William D’Arcy… Captain of the Polwys regiment. Don’t you remember me? We met on various social occasions in Cardiff? I believe that I danced with your sister Elspeth more than you thought proper, and you threatened to call me out?” he had jokingly provided to prov
e his identity.

  Captain Allworth only eyed him suspiciously before shrugging and acknowledging the acquaintance. This was not the man he remembered, perhaps he had been mistaken, but one of his appearance was not likely to be forgotten. Young Elspeth had her share of suitors, more than he could handle. Perhaps time and war had dimmed his memory, and the man before him sounded sincere and gave accurate descriptions of his country home. Besides, he needed all the assistance he could get, the war was going badly. If this fellow Welshman wanted to fight on his side, he was welcome.

  Will was aware that battle could take a toll upon a person’s health. Often, soldiers appeared far older than their years, especially those with significant combat experience. But he had not been prepared for his own appearance. With his identity confirmed, he was allowed a room to bathe and fresh clothing. It had been some weeks since he had last that luxury and it was not unwelcome. The chamber in Acre had been outfitted with a deep tub, an assortment of soaps, as well as a fine looking glass. It was here that he discovered what tax his experience had taken upon his person.

  Staring at his reflection, the face in the mirror was that of a stranger. Gone was the thick mahogany mane of hair, once a source of vanity. Now, although matted by perspiration and layers of dirt, his hair was completely white. Not the flaxen blonde of a Norwegian or Icelander, but pure snowy white. However, this was not the most arresting change. It was the eyes of some feral beast that gazed back. What had once been a greenish brown version of hazel, were now transformed to something more commonplace to that of a wolf. The palest of blues, with darker rings at the edges of the irises, his reflected eyes bore a hole somewhere deep inside his soul. How could this be? For a moment, he could hear the strange woman’s promise again “I will be with you…” as he imagined her staring at him through his own eyes in the mirror. Shaking his head to clear what had to be his mind playing tricks, a thin shiver crawled up his spine. What ungodly power had done this… and what had he done to deserve it? If only he could remember more of that terrible night, but it was no use. Despite his efforts, all that remained was a jumble of blurred images. His men were dead, he was alive.

  Now, as he was about to set foot on Welsh soil once again, he wondered how he would be received at home thus changed. Thinking back to his childhood, Will recalled when there had been a baby born with a similar appearance. Albino, the doctors had called the pale child. Spawn of Satan, whispered many others. Eventually the family had moved away to spare their son the taunts of ignorant people. But, he was no child to be ridiculed. He was William D’Arcy of Polwys Tor, returning from the Crusades and he’d not run from anything or anyone.

  ~Three~

  Pemberley, 1820 mid-October

  Lizzie Darcy looked over the guest list for the harvest celebration. There were over thirty confirmed people due to arrive over the next few weeks. Most would be staying at Pemberley itself. While the house could easily accommodate more, it had been necessary to hire more staff for the occasion. She had wanted it to be perfect. As the first social event of its size, her hostess skills would be put to the test. Mentally, she ticked off the endless number of items to prepare before the great day. Feeling the gentle squeeze of her husband’s hand on her shoulder, she looked up into his handsome face.

  “I am sure it will be perfect. Mama would have wanted this tradition to continue,” assured Fitzwilliam Darcy with a rare smile reserved only for his lovely bride.

  Taking up the sheet containing the names of those having accepted the invitations, he drew his brows together for a moment.

  “Is something wrong? I naturally had to invite Lydia and George, but they thankfully declined.”

  “No… I am just a bit surprised. I have not seen some of these people in years. Wherever did you find their addresses?”

  Reaching into the small drawer in the center of her secretary, Lizzie withdrew a small leather-bound book. “I found your mother’s social diary a few months ago when we first discussed reviving the harvest celebration. I suppose I should have said something before now. I do hope that there is no one who will cause embarrassment.”

  Darcy only smiled again and refrained from wincing at the thought of spending the next few weeks in the company of his mother-in-law. Mrs. Bennet would probably be the only source of embarrassment in the entire company of guests. “Oh no, it is fine, I defer to your fine judgement in these matters as always, my dear. I look forward to renewing old acquaintances,” he replied and after placing a kiss on her forehead, left her to complete her tasks.

  Going out of doors, Fitzwilliam Darcy took a deep breath of the cool autumn air. He passed his gaze over the variegated colors that had come suddenly to Pemberley. He was truly a fortunate man. Not only did he possess one of the finest estates in all of England, he now had the love of his life to share it with. This complete happiness had been a long time coming. For many years, it had seemed that only sorrow would befall the Darcy family. The only task that remained was to find a suitable match for Georgiana. This quest had not been easy, and now he was worried about his sister. For the past few months, she had seemed to fade away. Growing thinner and paler than normal, he worried about her health. Despite her assurances of well-being, he would insist upon a visit to the family physician once the celebration was over. He did not want to take any risk should there be something concerning. His perusal of their soon to be arriving guests had only furthered this worry. It had been a bit disconcerting to see that his Welsh cousins had accepted their invitation. He had not even given Gareth and Ewan Devlin a thought in years. Strange looking boys, they had passed a summer at Pemberley when he had been in his teens. Gareth had been rather studious, always following him about with endless questions. It had been rather fun to have someone so interested in everything he did and he looked forward to renewing the friendship. Ewan was another matter entirely. A cruel child, he had been punished for killing a local farmer’s chickens just for spite. They had found him covered in blood and feathers, grinning from ear to ear as if it were some sort of proud achievement. Soon after the incident, they had gone home, much to the relief of all. Hopefully, time had matured the actions of a child. With the arrival of his in-laws and the Bingley’s on the morrow, he did not need any other distractions. Between the acid tongue of Caroline Bingley and Mama Bennet, there would be enough drama to try the patience of a saint. Fortunately, he had a fine supply of brandy to numb his senses if needed.

  *****

  Longbourn, the same day

  “Oh Mary! I simply cannot wait until we arrive at Pemberley. It feels like forever since we have gone anywhere besides Meryton. I imagine that there will be an abundance of fine gentlemen invited as well. It is too bad that Lydia won’t be going. It really is terrible of the army to keep Wickham so busy,” prattled Kitty Bennet as she crammed clothes into an already overflowing trunk.

  “Really Kitty! One would think that your sole purpose in going was to throw yourself at the first bachelor that smiles in your direction. I do hope you don’t do anything to disgrace us. I will much prefer to spend time renewing our acquaintance with Georgiana. She and I share so many interests… especially music,” retorted Mary Bennet as she carefully folded each of her own possessions to make the journey with as few wrinkles as possible.

  “Ha! You simply want to be allowed to play her beautiful pianoforte! While you and Georgiana spend your days isolated, I shall meet as many people as possible. Although, I will admit, she is a very charming person. It is impossible not to like her. Come and help me get this thing closed.”

  Kitty had sat herself upon the offending trunk in an attempt to secure the bindings, but her slight form was not enough to do the job. With Mary’s added weight, they managed to close the bursting case. Both Bennet girls had yet to marry, or find anyone at all in the years since their sisters had wed. It was not for a lack of trying, it was a lack of eligible men. Ever since Lydia’s patched up scandal, and the movement of the regiment, single men were few and far between. On the ra
re occasion that they were forced to entertain their cousin, the reverend Collins and his wife Charlotte, he had not failed to note the fact of their unwed status.

  “My dear cousins…” He would drone in his flat nasal tone, “I am acquainted with a fair number of curates in need of life companions, if I may offer my services.”

  Kitty and Mary had both politely declined what he believed was a generous offer. Neither were that desperate to end their maiden days by being permanently attached to some sniffling, poverty stricken curate. Especially so, if they came recommended by Mr. Collins.