A Council of Darcys - Prologue
A Pride and Prejudice Retelling
I can’t seem to let go of this idea, so I’ve decided to turn it into a larger project! If you’ve already read the prologue, I’ve expanded and revised it, feel free to take another look.
This does mean I’ll be moving a bit slower on A House of Daughters, though I’m still actively working on it. Somehow, I always end up juggling multiple ideas at once!
Also, a quick reminder: Letter to Georgiana is available for preorder on Amazon and will be released on June 5th. Be sure to check it out, and if you’re curious, there’s a sneak peek of the first chapter available here.
Prologue
The oak table in Darcy’s mind was polished and familiar, lit by the steady glow of a single lamp. Seven chairs arranged as they always had: one at the head, three to the right, three to the left. Six were occupied. The seventh—positioned to the right of the Master’s chair—remained conspicuously empty. Its green velvet cushion lay undisturbed: a constant reminder of who had been exiled.
At the head of the table, the Master straightened his perfectly tailored coat—a blend of midnight blue and charcoal, threaded subtly with silver—and called the emergency session to order. His voice carried the weight of Pemberley itself.
“Gentlemen, we have failed.”
To his immediate left, the Brother leaned forward, his plain blue jacket wrinkled from a sleepless night. “Georgiana is safe. That is what matters most.”
“Safe, yes,” interjected the Earl's Grandson from the far right, his magenta silk waistcoat catching the light as he adjusted his immaculate cravat. “But at what cost to her reputation? To ours? That she entertained such a notion at all reflects poorly on our guardianship.” His voice carried the sharp consonants and imperious tone that would have made Lady Catherine proud.
The Gentleman Farmer, seated opposite in a comfortable brown working coat—dirt still visible beneath his fingernails—shook his head. “Reputation be damned. She could have been ruined entirely. Wickham—”
“Would never have gone through with it,” the Christian said quietly, his black coat a stark contrast to the others’ finery. “Not without substantial gain assured. He is calculating, not reckless. His sin is greed, not passion.”
The Scholar looked up from his contemplation, his grey professorial robes lending him an air of wisdom and weariness. “Mrs. Younge was our error. I should have investigated her references more thoroughly. A woman of her... flexible morals should never have been entrusted with Georgiana's care.”
“We all agreed to the appointment,” the Master said heavily. “The fault lies with us all.”
The Brother clenched his fists. “I should have gone with her to Ramsgate. I should have insisted—”
“We had estate business,” the Gentleman Farmer said, cutting him off. “The harvest could not wait. We made a practical decision.”
“The available information was woefully inadequate,” the Scholar muttered. “Had I known of Mrs. Younge’s prior connection to Wickham—”
“How could we have known?” the Christian asked gently. “She concealed her past transgressions skillfully. We trusted—perhaps too readily—but trust itself is no sin.”
The Gentleman Farmer leaned back in his chair. “What troubles me most is how easily Georgiana was deceived. She is not typically given to romantic fancies.”
“She is sixteen,” The Brother said simply. “And she has been sheltered from men like Wickham. We have protected her too well, perhaps.”
The Earl’s Grandson sniffed disdainfully. “Protection is necessary, given her fortune. Every fortune-hunter in England would pursue her, given the opportunity.”
“But this protection has left her vulnerable in other ways,” the Scholar observed. “She lacks the experience to recognize manipulation. Her education in such matters has been… lacking.”
The Master steepled his fingers. “Wickham knew exactly how to approach her. He understood her loneliness—her desire for affection.”
“Her need for a mother's guidance,” the Brother added quietly.
The room fell silent at this observation. The empty chair seemed to loom larger.
The Christian cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is time we considered… that Georgiana requires guidance we cannot provide.”
“What do you mean?” the Brother asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.
“She needs a woman’s influence,” the Scholar said carefully. “Someone to guide her in society, to help her navigate the complexities of courtship and marriage when the time comes.”
The Earl’s Grandson straightened. “Surely you do not suggest we marry for convenience? The Darcy name deserves better than a mercenary union.”
The Gentleman Farmer chuckled grimly. “And what have we been doing all these years? Refusing every introduction, dismissing every eligible lady? We have been anything but mercenary in our approach to marriage.”
“Because we…” the Master paused, his eyes flickering toward the empty chair. “Because we have been incomplete in our considerations.”
The Earl’s Grandson followed his gaze. “We exiled him for good reason.”
“Did we?” the Brother asked, voice low. “Yes, he led us to write poetry and harbor a tendre for Georgiana’s governess in our youth, but we are not boys anymore.”
The Christian said, “We nearly followed Wickham down the path of debauchery.”
“The Romantic made us vulnerable,” the Scholar snapped. “Emotional attachments blur judgment. Look what happened to Georgiana when she listened to her heart instead of her head.”
The Brother shook his head. “Georgiana’s error was not in feeling, but in lacking the wisdom to discern true affection from manipulation. That is learned through experience and guidance—guidance we cannot provide.”
The Master stood slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Gentlemen, we must face an uncomfortable truth. Our current… arrangement… has served us well: in managing Pemberley, in raising Georgiana to this point, in maintaining our family’s standing. But it has left us ill-equipped for what comes next.”
“Georgiana will need to enter society properly,” the Brother said. “She will need a sister to guide her—to be her companion and protector.”
“And we,” the Scholar added reluctantly, “will need to learn how to… how to…” He gestured helplessly.
“How to court a woman properly,” the Gentleman Farmer finished bluntly. “How to recognize genuine affection; how to express our own feelings; how to be vulnerable without being weak.”
The Earl’s Grandson looked appalled. “Surely you do not suggest we recall—”
“I suggest,” the Master interrupted firmly, “that we consider whether our current council is sufficient for the challenges ahead. Georgiana’s near-disaster has shown us our limitations. We cannot protect her from the world forever. And when she enters society, she will need advocates who understand all aspects of human nature—including those we have chosen to suppress.”
The empty chair shimmered in the lamplight, its green velvet cushion waiting.
The Christian spoke into the silence. “Perhaps it is time to consider… that Georgiana requires guidance we cannot provide.”
The Brother looked around the table. “We would need to find the right woman. Someone worthy of our trust. Someone who could guide Georgiana. Someone who could…” He glanced at the empty chair. “Someone who could handle all of us.”
The Master nodded slowly. “Then we are agreed. It is time to actively seek a wife. Time to prepare ourselves for the complexities that courtship will require. Time to…” He paused, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Time to consider whether we have need to bring him back from exile.”
The council sat in contemplative silence—six men around a table built for seven—finally acknowledging that their carefully constructed system might not be sufficient for the path ahead.
✦ ✦ ✦
A month had passed since the council resolved to seek a wife, and the oak table bore the weight of their failure more heavily than ever. The six seated members avoided the empty seventh chair, whose silence had come to feel less like judgment and more like loss.
The Master drummed his fingers against the polished wood, his midnight blue coat more wrinkled than usual. “Gentlemen, we must acknowledge what we have refused to see. Our endeavor has been a complete failure.”
The Earl’s Grandson adjusted his pristine magenta waistcoat with irritation. “I would hardly call our efforts a failure. We have been introduced to the finest ladies of the ton. Miss Thornfield is considered one of the season’s beauties. Lady Margaret Wessex comes from impeccable lineage—”
“And possesses the conversational depth of a puddle,” the Scholar interrupted, his grey robes rustling as he leaned forward. “When I mentioned Haydn, she asked if he was a new modiste.”
The Gentleman Farmer snorted from across the table, his brown coat bearing evidence of that morning’s inspection of the London house’s small garden. “At least she did not giggle. Miss Hartwell found everything amusing—the weather, the price of grain, even the recent flooding in Surrey. I began to wonder if she suffered from some nervous ailment.”
“She is young and high-spirited,” the Christian offered gently, though his black coat seemed to absorb his words as well as light. “Perhaps with proper guidance—”
“Proper guidance would require her to possess some foundation upon which to build,” the Scholar said dryly. “Miss Pemberton, I grant you, demonstrated intelligence. She speaks French fluently and plays with considerable skill.”
The Brother shifted in his blue jacket, still bearing creases from long hours at Georgiana’s bedside. “She was cold to her own sisters. Polite, certainly, but there was no affection in her tone—no curiosity about their thoughts or feelings. I cannot imagine her offering Georgiana the warmth or companionship she needs.”
“Which brings us to the crux of our dilemma,” the Master said heavily. “Each lady we have encountered possesses certain admirable qualities. Yet none…” He gestured helplessly.
“None have stirred any genuine interest,” The Gentleman Farmer finished bluntly. “We evaluate them like livestock—lineage, fortune, accomplishments. But where is the connection? The spark?”
The Earl’s Grandson stiffened. “Marriage among our class has always been a matter of suitable connection. Romantic attachment is a luxury—”
“Is it?” the Brother asked quietly. “Our parents shared genuine affection. Even after mother passed, our father spoke of her with such warmth… as though her presence never truly left him.”
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken longing. Finally, the Christian cleared his throat. “Perhaps we have been… incomplete in our assessments.”
All eyes turned toward the empty green chair.
The Scholar was the first to voice what they all understood. “We judge character, not chemistry. Breeding, not compatibility.”
“We lack the ability to recognize authentic feeling,” the Master admitted reluctantly. “In ourselves or others. Miss Bingley’s attentions are clearly mercenary, but Lady Margaret’s…” He trailed off uncertainly.
“Were they genuine or calculated?” the Brother finished. “We cannot tell the difference.”
The Earl’s Grandson looked scandalized. “Surely you do not suggest—”
“I suggest we have proven ourselves inadequate to the task,” the Master interrupted firmly. “A month of introductions, and we feel no closer to finding Georgiana a sister than when we began.”
The Gentleman Farmer leaned back in his chair. “The problem is, we are conducting interviews for a business partnership, when what we need is a marriage.”
“Exactly,” the Christian said softly. “We have forgotten that matrimony is meant to unite hearts, not just households.”
The Brother stared at the empty chair. “Perhaps… perhaps we may need the perspective we once feared.”
The words hung in the air like incense. The Earl’s Grandson recoiled visibly. “He led us to folly before. That unfortunate attachment to Georgiana’s governess—”
“We were barely twenty,” the Brother countered. “And she was genuinely kind to our sister. Our feelings, though inappropriate to her station, were not without foundation.”
The Scholar adjusted his spectacles thoughtfully. “From an academic perspective, our current approach is clearly flawed. Perhaps we require… additional counsel.”
“The question,” the Master said slowly, “is whether we can trust ourselves to hear him—truly hear him—without losing the balance we have worked so hard to maintain.”
The Christian nodded. “He was cast out for a reason, but even necessary exile must end. Forgiveness is how we begin again.”
The Gentleman Farmer was characteristically practical. “What we are doing is not working. If we continue at this pace, Georgiana will be married before we make up our minds.”
The Earl’s Grandson looked around the table with obvious reluctance. “And if he leads us astray again? If he encourages an unsuitable attachment?”
“Then we exile him again,” the Master said firmly. “But this time, he returns as advisor only. No vote in our final decisions. His role would be to help us recognize genuine feeling—both our own and that of others—nothing more.”
The debate continued for another hour, but the conclusion was inevitable. Their current approach had failed completely, and pride could no longer disguise the fact that they were missing something essential.
Finally, the Master called for the vote. “All in favor of recalling our exiled member in an advisory capacity?”
One by one, the hands rose. The Earl’s Grandson abstained but did not oppose.
The Master turned toward the empty chair, his voice formal yet tinged with uncertainty.
“We acknowledge our need for your counsel. We offer you return from exile. You will advise but not decide. You will only offer guidance. Will you accept these terms?”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then—
A door at the far end of the chamber creaked open.
The figure who stepped through was familiar, yet altered. The Romantic no longer wore his poet’s finery; his coat was a deep, quiet green—unadorned. His gait was measured. His expression, tempered. There was no defiance in his eyes now, only thoughtfulness.
When he reached the empty chair, he paused and placed a hand upon its back.
“I accept,” he said quietly. “And I thank you.”
He took his seat—exactly where he had once belonged.
“I will do my best to guide us—to recognize what is genuine, to seek what is lasting. A wife worthy of our trust. A sister who will bring joy to Georgiana. Not merely a match, but a companion.”
He looked around the table, meeting each gaze without hesitation.
“That is what I offer—not sentiment without sense, but feeling where it belongs.”
A silence followed, not tense but reverent, as the council absorbed the shape of themselves, now whole again.
The Brother leaned forward eagerly. “Then perhaps you can tell us—the ladies we have met this season. Were any of their attentions sincere?”
The Romantic considered carefully.
“None of them were suitable,” he said at last. “Some were drawn to us for what we possess, not who we are. Others were courteous but distant—too closed off to offer the warmth Georgiana needs. And a few…” He gave a faint, regretful smile. “A few simply did not know how to be serious about anything at all.”
He looked down the length of the table. “Grasping, cold, or frivolous—none of them offered the kind of partnership we seek. We must keep looking.”
The council absorbed his words in thoughtful silence.
“You noticed what we dismissed,” the Scholar said quietly.
The Romantic inclined his head. “Because I watch for different things. Where you weigh virtue, logic, and responsibility—I listen for feeling. Not to oppose you, but to complete the picture.”
He looked around the table. “Perhaps together, this time, we will see clearly.”
The Master nodded slowly. “Then we are agreed. We shall—”
A knock echoed—and suddenly the oak walls shimmered, as if the council chamber were dissolving back into the study.
“The external world calls for our attention,” the Scholar muttered, folding his hands.
They found themselves once again seated in shadowy stillness, observing the study through Darcy’s eyes.
Lady Matlock swept into the room with her customary authority, every pleat of her travelling dress untouched by the road. Her gaze scanned the study, then fell upon Darcy—exhausted.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said crisply. “I have come from visiting Georgiana.”
The Brother tensed, his fingers curling around the arm of his chair.
“How did you find her?” Darcy asked aloud.
“Exactly as I expected: pale, listless, and thoroughly miserable.”
The words landed like stones.
Lady Matlock sat opposite him, uninvited. “The question is: what do you intend to do about it?”
“I am doing everything possible for her recovery,” Darcy replied. “A new companion. Careful supervision—”
“Supervision,” she cut in, and the word rang through the council like a dropped blade.
The Christian bowed his head slightly.
“You mean surveillance,” she continued. “Fitzwilliam, you are smothering that child.”
The Brother rose halfway from his chair, defensive. “He is protecting her.”
“After what happened with Wickham—” Darcy began aloud.
“—was three months ago,” Lady Matlock said, her voice unyielding but not unkind. “She needs space to heal, not constant reminders of her mistakes.”
The Scholar removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
“You hover over her like a storm cloud,” she pressed on. “Every careful glance, every concerned question reinforces her shame. How can she learn to trust her own judgment, when you demonstrate hourly that you do not?”
A pause. In the chamber, even the Master was silent.
Then the Romantic leaned forward. “Perhaps healing requires the freedom to make small choices,” he said softly, “to prove to herself that she can choose wisely.”
“What would you have me do?” Darcy said aloud. “Leave her unguarded?”
“I would have you remember that she is not you,” said Lady Matlock sharply. “She is not the master of Pemberley, Fitzwilliam—she is a sixteen-year-old girl who made a mistake, and learned from it.”
The Brother dropped back into his chair, jaw clenched.
The Christian spoke at last. “She is right. Love must sometimes stand aside to let growth take root.”
Lady Matlock’s tone shifted, practical once more. “Leave London. Let her breathe. I will see to her care. Your presence does more harm than good.”
“Leave London?” Darcy said. “But the season—”
“Has been a failure,” she said dryly. “You have met every eligible lady and walked away from each one. Either your standards are impossible, or you do not know what it is you are seeking.”
The Gentleman Farmer gave a short grunt. “We know what we are not seeking, at least.”
“Where would you have me go?”
“Anywhere but here. Visit friends. Inspect your properties. You will find something.” She stood. “Let Georgiana reclaim herself. And while you are away, you might begin to ask what you truly want in a wife.”
She left as quickly as she had arrived.
In the quiet that followed, the council chamber coalesced again, the oak table solid beneath their hands.
“Her words held truth,” said the Christian.
“Uncomfortably so,” the Brother muttered.
“We have guided her every step,” said the Scholar. “Perhaps too much.”
The Romantic nodded. “If we cannot trust her with freedom, we have not truly taught her anything.”
The Master made the decision with characteristic decisiveness. “Then it is decided. We will accept Bingley’s invitation. Georgiana needs distance—and perhaps we do, too.”
The Gentleman Farmer brightened. “Hertfordshire has excellent farming country. It would be useful to observe Bingley’s estate management.”
The Earl’s Grandson sniffed but did not object. “Country society will be rustic, but perhaps less… calculating than London drawing rooms.”
That evening, Darcy wrote a letter to Bingley, accepting his invitation to Netherfield Park.
I'm considering changing The Earl’s Grandson to The Aristocrat, and shortening The Gentleman Farmer to simply The Gentleman. I’d love to hear your thoughts, let me know in the comments!
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I like the specifics that come from the current titles. The Earl's Grandson is exactly what defines him. He is not a peer himself, but was brought up as the grandson of an Earl I rather like Gentlean farmer too, but I think Gentleman works as well.
Thank you for expanding this story!!!