Cursed - The Legend is True E-book

I am tortured. Tormented. Cursed.

Only one woman can rescue me from the inevitable madness that waits to overtake me, but I know not who she is or how to find her. My cousin is my stalwart companion in this endeavor, but I do not deceive myself by thinking he is only here to assist me. He will not hesitate to take me down should it be required.

I had always thought fairytales were great adventures. Now I know they are only an adventure for the knight looking to slay the dragon. To the dragon, the experience is quite the opposite.

Richard Fitzwilliam
Spring, 1806

I have always loved being at Pemberley. Not only is it one of the most beautiful and prosperous estates in England, but I know nowhere more peaceful. I have been spending summers here for as long as I can remember. My own brothers are much older or younger than myself, and when we were children, it was too great a distance to make us playmates.
Thus I became close with my cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Do not let the name fool you. Though he speaks French well enough, he is English to the core, almost annoyingly so. Pemberley is the seat of his family and his birthright. It is only he and Georgiana, a sister twelve years his junior. They get along perfectly well, but there is not the closeness that exists between siblings of an age with one another.
That is why he has me. His parents saddled him with a pretentious name and an enormous inheritance. It is my job to see he does not become insufferable. And in all fairness, the name was really my grandfather’s doing. Bernard Fitzwilliam was enormously proud of his family—chiefly their title and wealth. When his eldest daughter Lady Anne wished to marry Andrew Darcy, a lowly landowner with no title and buckets of money, he insisted her legacy be clear to anyone with even a passing interest. Family lore has it that it was in the marriage articles that Lady Anne’s first son be named Fitzwilliam, though having never seen the papers for myself, I could not confirm the veracity of that statement.
However, it does sound like something my grandfather would have done.
That is another thing I love about Pemberley. The lore and the legends. For every bridge there is a tale of elves or faeries, the waterfalls cover hidden caves once used by disgraced nobles, and the gardens are rife with stories of great loves, both won and lost, lilies or rose bushes planted in commemoration.
I will admit the love stories are my favorite. When I was a child, I enjoyed the stories of pirates who hid their treasure on Pemberley land, but when I was old enough to realize how very far we were from the sea, I moved on to truer tales.
It seems that every generation of Darcys had at least one great love amongst them. In 1675, Oliver Darcy famously married the lowly daughter of the local vicar. She had a small dowry and her only connection was a nearly impoverished uncle passing for a gentleman. One would think such a disparate match would be precipitated by great beauty on the lady’s side, but one would be wrong.
Judith Darcy was no great beauty. In truth, she hardly passed for pretty. But she was kind and loving and true. Oliver was famously in love with her and refused to marry anyone else. His parents were the understanding sort—quite shocking when one thinks about it—and supported his choice though everyone advised against the union.
Judith and Oliver were almost obscenely happy. They had eleven children over the course of their forty-year marriage—though thankfully the children stopped coming after their twenty-second anniversary. All the babes survived—another quite shocking fact—and even though she was not the prettiest woman in Derbyshire, Oliver looked at her as if she had hung the moon itself, and all the stars besides.
I have always liked that story. Perhaps because I am a bit like Judith myself. Rather plain, not much money, but an excellent companion nonetheless—at least I like to think of myself as such. I am well connected, but I do not know if it is enough to offset my empty purse.
My cousin Darcy is quite the opposite. He hates company, dislikes talking, and is constantly offending others. But he is handsome and rich, and I will admit he is tall and broad shouldered as well, something the ladies seem to appreciate. I can practically hear their hearts pounding when he walks past them, his eyes avoiding theirs and his nose just a little too high in the air.
This is where I am of use. I have never met a woman I could not talk to, and most men like me as well. I suppose this means I am amiable. Darcy says I am annoying, but I prefer my word.