A Series Of Unfortunate Intelligences

Standing contentedly at the edge of the ballroom, Charles Bingley observed the couples moving about—Jane, as beautiful as ever, floated down the line with one of the local gentlemen and then… Darcy? With Miss Elizabeth? Dancing? Bingley had been well aware of his friend's likely attraction to the lady; an intimacy of such long standing as theirs had taught him much about the older man's moods. He was surprised, however, to see Darcy so taken as to forget himself in such a fashion—for Darcy did not lie when he claimed that he detested dancing. Bingley watched the couple for a while, a smile playing about his lips. “Darcy,” he thought, “We may become brothers after all.”

“Oh, my,” whispered his sister Caroline, as she came in to stand behind him. “This bodes not well.”

“Whatever do you mean? Darce has finally found a woman to suit him. I think it an excellent thing, indeed.”

Laying a hand on his arm and raising her eyebrows, Caroline gestured to her brother to follow her outside.

“Charles, have you no idea who the chit is? She is a fortune hunter!”

“Caroline! You go too far this time. I will not hear such a thing said about Miss Elizabeth—or Miss Bennett.”

Caroline took a deep breath and composed herself. She knew that maintaining her brother's good will was essential to convincing him of the accuracy of her representation.

“Charles, you know I would never say anything against dearest Jane. She is angelic, I have no doubt. But have you not observed? Miss Elizabeth is a particular favorite of Mr. Wickham. They are constantly in company, and she defends him most diligently—and yet, Darcy has not the slightest idea. She is surely playing one of them false. You must see this.”

Bingley frowned. He recalled perfectly the events of the summer past, of how they had shaken Darcy. Truly, it seemed a little implausible—one man sending a woman to be courted by another for revenge?—but if the seduction of young girls was not off limits… Yes, Wickham would stoop that low, if anybody would. But Miss Elizabeth?

“It could be entirely innocent, Caroline. Perhaps she ought to be warned.”

“You say that because you haven't the benefit of close acquaintance that can be gained by another woman, brother dear. I do. They are most particular; her sisters tease her about him excessively, and she defends him outrageously. She blames Darcy for all his misfortunes.”

He hesitated, searching for some other way to construe Caroline's information. He had little doubt that his sister was not the most objective judge, but there was truth in her looks and her words, and in a situation such as this, was it not perhaps better to be safe than sorry? But it was Elizabeth—Jane's sister. Jane. His inclinations warred with each other. He could ignore this, stay here, marry Jane, be happy, and all Wickham's scheming may yet come to naught. But surely he owed a greater duty than that to Darcy, who had always been so particular in caring for Bingley's interests. Such a long and close friendship surely claimed a greater act of loyalty than staying put and hoping for the best.

“Charles, I tried to warn her. She told me that she already knew every particular, and vigorously abused Darcy as the genesis of his misfortunes. And yet, with him she is all smiles, all charm. He is well on the way to being quite in love with her, and she is happily deceiving him. I beg of you, do something. What reason would she have to conceal her dislike and encourage him so if she was not duplicitous? Do something.”

Bingley had never seen Elizabeth in company with Wickham, save the once, in Meryton. He had seen her constantly with Darcy, laughing, teasing, arguing in a fashion that most certainly did not appeal to him, but which marked them as peculiarly matched in temperament, and which led him to believe that the warm feelings he knew Darcy to be developing must be reciprocated. He wanted with all his heart to believe Caroline mistaken, but she was right: if Elizabeth was closely acquainted with Wickham and still accepting court from Darcy…

He reassured Caroline and stepped back into the ballroom. He did not intend to seek out Jane; he needed to clear his head and think what was to be done. He did not wish to believe that her sister could be capable of such cold calculation—but dared he take the risk? He needed to be alone, but found himself by her side. If there was some coolness or confusion to his greeting, she did not seem to notice as he led her into the dance, and they proceeded for some time in silence. Jane was the first to speak.

“Mr. Bingley?”

“Ahh- yes, Miss Bennett?”

“I feel the need to enquire—I hope it would not be an imposition, sir, but I am concerned for my sister. What do you know of the character of Mr. Wickham?”

Time stopped as Bingley watched his world come crashing down around him. All his hopes that Caroline had been mistaken, that Caroline was scheming again, that he could pretend all was well and stay here and be happy—all of them vanished. Caroline had spoken the truth, even her sister knew of her partiality, and knew enough to be concerned. Poor Darcy! He hardly knew what he said, how he managed to stammer something to convince her that the man was not to be trusted. He hardly knew how he excused himself from her and fled to the library, to solitude.

The rest of the evening passed in a daze. He sat through dinner, listening in disgust as Mrs. Bennett plotted a marriage between her poisonous vixen of a daughter and the clergyman, Mr. Collins. How many men could the harpy dangle on the line at once? He was determined: Darcy should not be wounded by her. He had already suffered enough at Wickham's hands. Hopefully, in spite of appearances his heart had been but lightly touched; hopefully, he would forget, in time. He must never know her true nature, that would be unspeakably cruel. He must never know that Wickham had once again attempted to exact revenge, or how well that plan had succeeded. To London, then, they must return, and the sooner, the better.

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London, a few months later.

“Charles?” Caroline poked her head through the door of his study. “Charles, I've another letter from Jane.”

Bingley looked up from his desk, schooling his features not to betray his eagerness. In truth, he longed for news of her. No, that was not quite right—he longed for her, and news was merely a poor substitute.

“Is her sister married yet?”

“No.”

“Then don't tell me any more, Caroline. Do what you want, but do not tell me any more. I can't bear it.”

He sighed. It was better this way.

Kent, a few months later:

My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgment, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behavior was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology for not calling before. Not a word was said of wishing to see me again, and she was in every respect so altered a creature that when she went away, I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer…

Elizabeth put Jane's letter back with the others. She shook her head. Poor, dear, trusting Jane. She would cling to her overly optimistic outlook until harsh reality dashed cold water in her face. She probably attributed the greatest portion of the blame still to a misunderstanding. Jane was a great believer in misunderstandings, such as the one that must have certainly existed between poor Mr. Wickham and that man. That rude, arrogant, insufferable man.

For all the time that he and his cousin had been in residence at Rosings, Elizabeth had had barely a moment's peace. Within the parsonage, she was constantly plagued by her odious cousin. When she attempted to escape out of doors Mr. Darcy, who was no doubt intent upon ensuring that her lowly presence did not pollute his aunt's groves any more than strictly necessary, invariably met her.

She had finally reached her limit this evening, and invented a sudden headache with which to excuse herself from the gathering at Rosings. She comforted herself that it wasn't a complete falsehood—her headache was quite real, for all it had cleverly disguised itself as a guest of Lady Catherine DeBourgh.

With another sigh, Elizabeth turned back to Jane's letter, but she had not read the next word before she was roused by the sound of the door-bell. Her spirits were dashed even further when, to her utter amazement, she saw her headache himself walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility, Jane's disappointment and his likely role in it at the forefront of her mind. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:

“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate further, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:

“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgement of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said:

“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”

“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour, and opened his mouth as if to speak, though he closed it again and listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued:

“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principle, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

She paused again, and this time he did succeed in vocalizing before she could continue: “I would have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, had I indeed done so. Indeed, I would consider it a greater kindness towards him than I have exercised towards myself. Sadly, madam, I must confess that the caprice and instability at work here rest entirely with him.”

“But it is not merely this affair,” Elizabeth cried, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? Under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,” said Darcy, in an increasingly less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?”

“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”

“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”

“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me. This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said: “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued: “You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on: “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

And with those words, he turned and hastily left the room. Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. As she made her way upstairs to her room, she did not pause to notice that she had not heard his footsteps continuing across the gravel of the lane—not until she passed by her window and beheld the solitary figure below. He gave a courtly bow before turning towards the main house.

Elizabeth could never explain why this gesture weighed so heavily on her heart. The lack of a coherent reason, however, did not stop the flow of her tears.

Elizabeth awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a desperate need to avoid the other denizens of the parsonage. She quietly slipped out the back door and was proceeding to her favourite walk, when the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching stopped her. She looked about her for a means of escape, but short of diving into the bushes, none presented itself, and so she gathered up her composure and prepared to attempt to pass by him unaffected. This attempt was cut short, however, when upon drawing nearer to her he bowed and said “I have been walking this lane for some time in the hope of meeting you. Would you do me the honour of granting me some private conversation?”

Elizabeth stammered, caught between a desire to escape and curiosity as to exactly what more he thought might be said between them. Sensing her hesitation, he pressed his point: “Be not alarmed, madam, by the apprehension of my desiring to repeat any of those sentiments which were last night so disgusting to you. I have no desire to pain you or myself by dwelling on such wishes as are, apparently, best forgotten. But there are other things which I feel must be discussed between us. I beg you to pardon the freedom with which I thus demand your attention, but I appeal to the just and generous nature of your character. Please hear me out.”

This plea and Elizabeth's curiosity finally won her over, and with a small nod she took the arm which he extended to her and permitted him to lead her towards the grove in which their previous unwelcome encounters had taken place. He laid his greatcoat over a rock and gallantly gestured for her to sit while he remained standing. In an effort to assuage her discomfort, Elizabeth crossed her ankles and stared down at the ground, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Mr. Darcy paced back and forth for a little time before coming to kneel in front of her, seeking contact with her eyes. “I beg your pardon. I had thought to write this all in a letter, but then realized that the risk to your reputation should it be discovered was too great. Now that I am here, I know not quite how to begin. I owe you an apology, I know, and also an explanation. You accused me of two offenses last night: my behaviour towards your sister and Mr. Bingley, and my behaviour towards Mr. Wickham. I am honestly not sure which is more likely to bring you pain; the latter is a far heavier offense, but the former concerns your sister…”

Elizabeth was sorely tempted to tell him to get to the point, and stop tormenting her pounding head with his equivocations, but she did not feel strong enough for a repeat of the previous evening's quarrel. She instead composed her features and, with every effort at patience, suggested that he begin with the topic which was easier for him to discuss.

“Very well,” he replied. “You accused me of having, regardless of the sentiments of either, detached Mr. Bingley from your sister. This is easy enough to refute, though I must beg your pardon for any injury I might do your feelings in the process. I had not been long in Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. I had often seen him in love before, however, and had little apprehension of his feeling any serious attachment. Likewise, nothing that I had ever observed in your sister's manner spoke of any particular regard, and so, when Bingley decided that we ought all return to London, I agreed. If there was an understanding between them, then he has acted poorly and should be made to rectify that.”

“No,” Elizabeth mumbled. “Jane swears there was no positive understanding. She was the only one who ever doubted her affections were returned. Poor Jane.”

“If she truly did love him, I am sorry for my friend's behaviour. He ought not have formed expectations he had no intention of fulfilling. Had I realized her feelings were touched, I would have warned him away—and thus been actually guilty of what you have accused me of.”

“And if he had loved her?”

“I cannot then say what I would have done. Certainly, convinced as I was of her indifference, I very well might have considered it my duty to warn him away. I have no wish to see any of my friends in a marriage so unequal.”

“Do you mean in affections or fortune?” Elizabeth could not entirely restrain her pique, no matter how good her intentions had been at the beginning of this odd interview.

“Both,” he said frankly. “It is not uncommon amongst our class to marry for an increase of fortune or connections. It is somewhat more rare to marry for love, though I continue to hold that as an ideal which I aspire to. I could not fault Bingley for choosing to do the same, though his social situation is somewhat more precarious than mine. But to marry without either—surely you would not have me condone that, no matter what the benefit may have been to your sister?”

“But she did love him!”

“But I did not know that. You asked a hypothetical question, and I gave an honest answer. Had he loved her, and she loved him, and had all been known, I would have had no objection.”

The weight of Darcy's words became too much for Elizabeth to bear on top of her headache and all the turmoil which had gone before. Her eyes filled with tears, which spilled over and ran down her cheeks before she could blink them back. Numbly, she took the handkerchief that she found being pressed into her hand and dabbed at her face with it.

“Forgive me. It was not my intention to cause you pain,” said Darcy, whose own voice was beginning to betray signs of strain.

“No, no, it was not you… he never loved her. He truly never loved her. What fools we all were.”

Darcy shifted uncomfortably. “I would not say that he never loved her, precisely, only that Bingley is the sort of fellow who must find someone to love wherever he is, and that such affections are of short duration and ought not be taken too seriously. I am… I am truly sorry for your sister's disappointment. I wish there were some way I could find to rectify it. Perhaps—“he cut himself short.

“Perhaps?”

“I beg your pardon. The thought that occurred to me just then was unsuitably humorous for the current situation. I would not have you think that I mean to laugh at your sister's heartbreak.”

Elizabeth dabbed her eyes again and smiled slightly. “Now you simply must tell me, Mr. Darcy, for you know I do dearly love to laugh.”

“I would not wish to offend you.”

“Then I promise not to be offended if I can at all avoid it.”

“Very well. Perhaps we could distract your sister by introducing her to my cousin. He's charming enough.”

Elizabeth laughed. “But he told me himself he must marry a woman of fortune.”

Darcy frowned and hesitated before speaking again. “It would be better, certainly, if he did, but he would not sink into poverty if he did not.”

Much to his surprise, Elizabeth laughed even more merrily. “Sir, are you attempting to tell me that I have escaped his affections not for reasons of fortune but because… he prefers blondes?”

Darcy blushed, and then chuckled a little himself. “I have been appallingly indiscreet, for which I apologize. But, as the damage has already been done, I suppose I can openly admit that, yes, Col. Fitzwilliam does show a disturbing lack of appreciation for the finer things in life.”

As he spoke, Elizabeth lifted her eyes to meet his gaze for the first time since he had begun his explanation, and was astonished by the warmth with which he regarded her. Quickly dropping her face, she murmured “I believe we have drifted somewhat off topic.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “There does remain your other, more weighty accusation, which I must address. But in order to do so, I must lay before you the whole of his connection with my family; I must reveal secrets that are not entirely my own.”

“Sir, you need not reveal anything you are not comfortable with.”

“But I must. You must understand the whole story, what sort of man he truly is. I only ask that you listen, with as little interruption as possible. Parts of this are still quite painful to recall.”

Elizabeth nodded mutely, and he continued: “Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he also had the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which my father could not have.”

Here Mr. Darcy paused, and out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth discerned that his cheeks appeared flushed. “Such a strange morning,” she thought. “Mr. Darcy laughing and blushing within the space of five minutes, when I had previously thought him incapable of either!”

“Here I suspect I shall give you pain,” he continued, “though to what degree you alone can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not—indeed, it must not—prevent me from unfolding his real character; it instead adds even another motive.”

At this point, he turned his head slightly, so that he addressed a nearby tree, though what he said remained quite audible: “My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying law-and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere—but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will, I hope, hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.”

Here he paused, and drew a deep breath before continuing: “I must now mention a circumstance which I would very dearly wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her impudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.”

He turned back to face Elizabeth fully before adding, “This, then, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either. Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions, or to Mr. Bingley, who was with me last summer.” He paused, with some appearance of discomfort. “And now, please, say something.”

Elizabeth was at a loss for words; her feelings were scarcely to be defined. Mr. Darcy's information about Mr. Bingley's desertion of Jane had shaken her deeply; his assertions regarding Mr. Wickham could hardly be believed! And yet, as Elizabeth regarded his anxious countenance, they could hardly be disbelieved either. What man would fabricate such a story about his own sister? And expect her other guardian to corroborate it—and with no evident gain in sight? Come to think of it—

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked quietly.

Mr. Darcy chuckled, a low, bitter sound. “Trust you to ask that question first.”

He paused, drew a breath, and looked off to the horizon before turning back to her. “In all honesty—and I beg you forgive me if there is perhaps more honesty to my reply than you like, but there have been so many misunderstandings and half-truths between us that I am loath to leave anything unspoken now—in all honesty, I'm not entirely sure. Or, rather, there exists no single reason. I care for your welfare, and would not see you taken advantage of while it lies in my power to prevent. I would not like you to think worse of me than I deserve, though I realize that you have some grievances which I cannot, in good conscience, defend myself from. And yet—perhaps I still foolishly hope that seeing the worst of my perceived offenses laid to rest will soften your heart towards me, at least a little. But I promised that I would not speak of that.”

“Even if,” Elizabeth spoke in calm, measured tones that sounded foreign to her ears, “even if I did accept all the explanations you have offered, I could never accept the proposal you made me.”

“I realize that, now. I spoke poorly, and without thinking—or with the entirely wrong thoughts. I offended you when I meant to be impressing you with the strength of my love for you.”

Elizabeth's voice continued to talk on, against the screaming protests of her pounding head: “Sir, offensive as your mode of address was, it was not my primary objection to your suit. I do not love you. I see now that it is impossible that I should, regardless of your perceived faults or merits.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Darcy's face took on the cold mask which she was accustomed to seeing in what she now realized must have been uncomfortable situations. “I thank you, madam, for granting me this generous hearing. Be assured I shall importune you no further.” With that, he turned on his heel and began to walk back towards the road.

“Wait!” she cried, stricken. “Please. Now I must apologize to you, for that was a jest in poor taste, under the circumstances. I meant to say, it is impossible that I should love you as I quite clearly do not know you.”

Mr. Darcy stopped short and spun around to regard Elizabeth with frank amazement. They held each other's gaze for some time: he, weighing her words and willing them to mean what he hoped they meant; she, in some shock at the implied invitation that had issued forth from her traitorous mouth, but equally determined to not back down now that the words had been spoken.

At length, he found at least some reassurance in her eyes, and, taking a few short strides towards her, removed his hat and extended his hand: “Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service.”

Elizabeth made one last effort to back away from her impulsive words: “You do understand that I can make you no promises?”

“I would not ask you to. A chance is enough—it is more than I had hoped for.”

With the barest hesitation, she placed her own hand in his: “Elizabeth Bennett, most pleased to make your acquaintance at long last.”

He bowed low and pressed his lips to her hand, and when he raised his head and smiled, she was struck by the thought that she had never seen a more beautiful sight.

London, one week later:

Caroline Bingley stretched languidly on the settee, fanning herself against the unseasonably warm weather. She would prefer to be in her bedroom with the curtains drawn, but Mr. Darcy had returned from Kent and was currently sequestered in Charles's study. They had seen him but seldom since returning from Netherfield, and Caroline did not wish to let the present opportunity escape her. Thus, she occupied her mind by tracing the pattern of the paper across the walls.

Her vigil was rewarded in due time, as the men entered the drawing room. Mr. Darcy stayed just long enough to secure them as guests at Pemberley after the close of the Season, an invitation which did much to soothe Caroline's pique at his swift departure. Even the glorious prospect of Pemberley, however, could not calm her irritation with Charles, who made no effort to disguise his persistent ennui and press their guest to stay.

“Whatever can Mr. Darcy mean by running of so quickly!” she exclaimed.

“He said he had an unavoidable appointment,” replied Charles.

“Oh, I'm sure he would have stayed if you had asked. Why did you not ask him to dinner?”

“Leave it, Caroline!” Charles had not been quite himself since that unfortunate interlude in Hertfordshire. He had become withdrawn and sullen, spending large portions of the day locked up in his study—but even so, he rarely raised his voice. Caroline paused for a moment to compose herself. He was becoming increasingly difficult to manage.

“Charles, whatever has upset you so?” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and graced him with a look of concern. He turned away from her and slumped down into a chair.

“Darcy asked if we might go back to Netherfield. Netherfield!”

“Oh, Charles.”

“And then… then he gave me a lecture about the Season. Time to stop gadding about breaking hearts, he says. Time to think about settling down. If only he knew.”

“If he knew, he would understand, Charles. If he knew, he'd be as proud of you as I am. But he can't. You know that.”

“Yes. I know.” He rose from his seat abruptly. “I'm afraid you'll have to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Hurst if you intend on being in town for the Season, Caroline. I'm leaving tomorrow for Scarborough.”

Caroline's irritation returned in full force. How on earth was he supposed to find a suitable match if he couldn't be bothered to remain in Town? Still, she reflected, perhaps this was for the best. His current mood was certainly not conducive to courting anyone, and she couldn't be certain that he wouldn't meet with Jane Bennett, whose plans had not been firmly fixed at the point that Caroline had severed the relationship.

“Of course, Charles, I understand. Take all the time you need.”

Yes, this would be for the best.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The other side of London, that same day:

Mrs. Gardiner raised her head from her embroidery to regard her nieces. The past three months had done little to elevate Jane's spirits, though they had taught her to cultivate the outward appearance of contentment. Elizabeth, too, seemed altered since the fall, for reasons Mrs. Gardiner could only begin to guess at. The change was subtle; in many ways, Elizabeth retained her characteristic liveliness, but it was tempered by a quiet, reflective quality that had previously been lacking.

Such thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the maid, bearing a tray with a calling card on it. Strangely, the girl presented the tray not to Mrs. Gardiner, but to Elizabeth, who took the card in her hand, glanced at it, and blushed.

“Aunt, it appears that Mr. Darcy wishes to call on us.”

Elizabeth's blush and Mr. Darcy's presence, then, told of the story behind the changes Mrs. Gardiner had noticed in the girl. What an interesting story it must be, to have effected such a transformation.

“Well, if such a man as Mr. Darcy condescends to be introduced to me, I hardly dare refuse! He may come up.”

Elizabeth's blush deepened under both her sister's and aunt's appraising glances, and her discomfort grew to the point that Mr. Darcy's entrance came as a relief, insofar as it directed attention away from her. He bowed to her and Jane, and requested the honour of an introduction to their aunt, presented her with an invitation to dine the following evening, made his excuses and departed, all before the redness in her cheeks had subsided—though perhaps this had less to do with the brevity of his visit than her own continuing confusion.

Oh, yes, thought Mrs. Gardiner. Very interesting, indeed.

The following evening:

The clatter of the coach along the busy London streets was almost loud enough, thought Elizabeth, to drown out the nervous pounding of her heart. With great effort, she kept her hands folded calmly in her lap and her face turned towards the window, so that she might have a better chance at evading the too knowing, too curious gazes of her family. She was certain that her silence over the past day had led them—Jane, especially—to draw their own conclusions. She almost wished she was able to view her emotional state with such detached certainty.

What had Mr. Darcy meant by his call and his invitation? Though they had parted resolved on beginning their acquaintance afresh, she had thought it little more than empty civility, as she was quite certain that their paths would be unlikely to cross again, and that his insistence on wiping the record clear between them was due more to his quite natural pride and upright character than any particular regard for her. That this made little sense in light of his proposal mattered not; she was simply not prepared to consider any other motivations for his actions—until he arrived at her aunt's house. Even then, Elizabeth did not particularly wish to consider any alternative meaning for his actions, but Jane and Aunt Gardiner left her with little choice. She had managed to avoid most of their questions by retiring early and keeping to her room most of the day, but she could not avoid them forever. And she hadn't the first idea of what to tell Jane.

She fervently hoped that Mr. Darcy at least had the sense not to invite Mr. Bingley.

The coach rolled up to an elegant house, and its occupants made their way inside, where they were greeted by Mr. Darcy himself. The introductions between himself and Mr. Gardiner were promptly performed, and he moved to greet the ladies. He was entirely gracious in his attentions to Mrs. Gardiner and to Jane, but when he turned to Elizabeth, his demeanor was utterly transformed. His face was suffused with that same smile she had first seen in Kent, and she felt the same flutter in her chest that she had then. Other motivations for his actions pushed themselves to the forefront of her mind, and she blushed profusely. In an attempt to fill the suddenly awkward silence, she inquired as to whether the other guests were already inside.

“There are no other guests,” he replied. “I hope I did not presume too far by thinking that a small family gathering might be best for the comfort of all concerned. I had planned—that is, I had hoped—would you do me the very great honour of permitting me to introduce my sister to you?”

Elizabeth's surprise at such an application was certainly no less than any other member of their party, though she did not hesitate in acceding to it, and permitting herself to be led on Mr. Darcy's arm into the drawing room, where Miss Darcy waited. The introductions were performed all around, and with a mixture of relief and astonishment Elizabeth observed that her new acquaintance was at least as embarrassed as herself; the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that her hostess was exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.

Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though barely sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such different feelings.

To Jane, she was scarcely a less interesting personage than her brother. She had long wished to see the supposed object of Mr. Bingley's affections. Brother and sister, indeed, excited a lively attention from the entire party of their guests. The suspicions which had lately arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed the Gardiners' observation towards each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained much in doubt—though perhaps less so than the lady herself—but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.

Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of her hosts; she wanted to compose her own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.

It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; indeed, under the scrutiny of her relations, she hardly dared to take half of the opportunities that presented themselves—but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so far removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the unprecedented improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months—or even days—ago would have been a disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford parsonage—the difference, the change was so great, so swift, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.

These thoughts occupied Elizabeth until it was time to go in to dinner, at which point she found herself seated near the head of the table, next to Mr. Darcy and across from his sister. Whatever thoughts she might have begun to entertain about the motivations behind his sudden civility were quickly rejected, as his chief interest through most of the meal seemed to be conversation with Mr. Gardiner; he spoke to Elizabeth and Georgiana only as much as necessary to further conversation between the two of them. This he accomplished admirably, and the two ladies were well on their way to a firm friendship. In fact, Elizabeth could have been quite easy about the motives behind his invitation being restricted to a concern for his sister's enjoyment.

But as the party prepared to leave, Mr. Darcy approached her and quietly inquired about her availability for a walk in the park on the following day, and all her worries about his motivations came rushing back, and would not depart again, though she sat up late that night trying to soothe them.

The next afternoon found Mr. Darcy escorting Elizabeth around the park, in full view of Jane and the Gardiner children-- though, presumably, out of earshot. Not that it mattered much, as the man seemed as intent on preserving his silence as he ever had at Netherfield. After about five minutes of unnatural reserve, Elizabeth's patience expired.

“We must have some conversation, Mr. Darcy. A very little will suffice. But it would look odd to be entirely silent for a half an hour together-- especially as the time is spent together at your specific request.”

“My apologies, Miss Bennet. I did not mean to go for so long without speaking, but I was having difficulty arranging what I need to say to you. I would not wish to give you offense, and yet...”

“Mr. Darcy, if anyone is capable of giving me offense and yet living to tell the tale, I dare say it would be you. But I shall try, if it will make you easier, to avoid taking any offense that you may give, under the understanding that even if such offense was foreseen, it was unintended. Will that satisfy you enough to loosen your tongue?”

“Miss Bennet, I remain firm in my conviction that you are a lady without compare.”

At this, Elizabeth blushed bright red and attempted to avert her eyes. But Mr. Darcy reached out a hand towards her-- he drew it back before it could touch her, perhaps recalling their audience, but the gesture was enough to keep her gaze fixed on him.

“Forgive me, I do not mean to disconcert you. And yet, that is part of what I wish to speak to you about. First, though, I meant to ask: how is your sister?”

“Jane? She is well. So well, in fact, that she was able to accompany us to the park this morning, sir. You may recall having seen her sitting just over there-- or did you mean another of my sisters?”

The corner of Mr. Darcy's lips twitched in a suggestion of something that may have turned into a smile had his restraint wavered for a moment. “Indeed, Miss Bennet, I did notice her on our walk here. I even spoke to her, if you may recall. I meant to enquire after her emotional well-being, which you must confess would be considerably less obvious to an outside observer.”

“I believe she is improving, though slowly. Even when she was happy, her feelings were little displayed to anyone but me, and in sorrow, she seeks to keep them from me, as well, as though grief were a contagious disease.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I did speak with Charles upon my return to town. I had wanted to persuade him to re-open Netherfield, but he refused outright. I gave him a bit of a talking-to about his age and responsibilities, his need to settle down into a respectable establishment, and it ended with him declaring his intentions to quit Town altogether, and spend the season visiting some distant relations in Scarborough.”

“I am sorry to hear that, though I cannot help but think that Jane may have had a narrow escape, if this is an example of his true character. But I am not certain why this news is urgent enough to necessitate such a conference.”

“He has refused to re-open Netherfield, Miss Bennett.”

“Yes, sir, so you have said.”

“I have no other acquaintances in the area whom I might visit.”

“Sir?”

“Miss Bennet, though I had hoped to refrain from voicing them again for quite some time yet, my affections and wishes are unchanged from when we last spoke at Rosings. I realize, however, that the same is almost certainly true of yours. It had been my intent to remain near to you, so that I might court you, encourage you to know me a bit better, and in time persuade you to change your mind, if such a thing is possible. My options for doing so are now limited, unless I take up residence in the Inn at Meryton, which I will happily do should you wish it, but I thought it best to consult you first.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth's attempts to find alternative explanations for Mr. Darcy's actions all failed at once, and she found herself suddenly in need of a place to sit. Mr. Darcy perceived this and gently led him over to a nearby bench. “You... but... I... You... I didn't realize your intentions were quite so serious!”

It was now Mr. Darcy's turn to look surprised and confused. “Forgive me, madam, I had not intended to alarm you; I thought you must be well aware of my intentions by now, and I was only respecting your own feelings by remaining silent on the matter.”

Elizabeth blushed an even deeper shade. “I must confess, I should not be so surprised. You have been admirably clear and forthright, at least in the past few days. It has just been easier for me to seek other reasons for your attentions.” Seeing him begin to frown, she hurried on: “I do not mean to impugn your honour, sir, but the idea of a gentleman of your stature being at all interested in a lady of mine is so odd that I cannot help but feel as though you will come to your senses sooner or later, and so I ought not get too caught up in the idea.”

Mr. Darcy smiled warmly at her, content in the thought that she considered herself at at least some risk for disappointment. “I assure you, I am quite in my right mind, and my interests are unlikely to change. I will do anything and everything in my power to convince you of this. But I need some guidance about how to begin. Shall I follow you to Meryton?”

Caught in the glow of his obnoxiously entrancing smile, Elizabeth almost acquiesced. Her better judgment caught up to her just in time. “No... no, I don't think that would be a good idea.” She hurried on so that she didn't have to see any sign of sorrow on his face: “Look at how many expectations Jane has found herself victim to, and Mr. Bingley was only leasing an estate in the neighbourhood, not staying at the inn specifically to see her. If you do change your mind-- or if I find myself unable to change mine-- the gossip would be unbearable.”

“I had suspected that would be your answer, and I am afraid I must agree with your reasoning. It is not my intent to force your hand in any way-- but I thought I ought to ask, nonetheless. The second option is, of course, to ask if you are willing to remain in London with your aunt and uncle. In a large society such as this, my calls to you would be less noticeable, though they still might incite some small curiosity amongst the ton. You would not find yourself trapped into a relationship you may decide you do not wish for, but you would also not have the companionship of your sister, or others among your family who you must miss by now. I do not expect you to remain in town simply for my convenience, but I thought I ought to list the option.”

Elizabeth was impressed with his consideration in having already thought about how any of his plans might affect her, and gave him to understand as much. She agreed that, while she might wish to return to visit her aunt and uncle at some point in the near future, she was currently rather homesick, and her father had already written that he missed her.

“And that,” said Mr. Darcy, “brings us to what I consider to be the most plausible option. Miss Bennett, will you consent to correspond with me? I realize there may be some perceived impropriety involved, and I assure you I would not undertake such a course without both your father's permission and sufficient safeguards for your reputation, but I would not wish to--”

At this point, Elizabeth placed her gloved hand on his lips, effectively silencing him. “Yes.”

She then noticed the position of her hand and hastily removed it, with a chagrined glance towards their chaperons (whose attentions were happily occupied with a flock of ducks). Mr. Darcy followed her gaze, and, seeing that they were currently unobserved, reached out to arrest her hand in its flight and press it with his own. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“May I ride into Meryton to ask permission of your father?”

“You may write my father, sir. I will be happy to deliver the letter.”

“Very well, Miss Bennet. I don't suppose you could lend me a piece of paper?”

Tuesday, 6 May 1800

My dear Miss Bennet,


If you are reading this, then I feel I may safely assume that your father has granted permission for a correspondence between us, for which he has my profound and sincere gratitude. Such gratitude will extend to you if you hasten your pen to inform me of this fact; I fear that if I am kept in suspense for too long, my good resolve may weaken and I may ride into Meryton for a personal conference in spite of my assurances to the contrary.


Having received permission, however, I am unsure of how to proceed. Practically, of course, I had the details worked out (if you will forgive my presumption) before I made the proposal proposition suggestion. I assume your father will have already disclosed the scheme to you, but let me repeat myself but briefly: you will enclose letters to me, and receive letters from me, under the cover of your correspondence with Georgiana, who is also desirous of a further acquaintance with you. Thus, I fulfill my duties as a solicitous brother and devoted lover all at once.


It is, of course, that last sentiment which gives rise to my current uncertainty. I believe that enough has passed between us that you are in little doubt of my own sentiments, though I am also acquainted with your own, and would not wish to appear to disregard the latter by a too constant and fervent expression of the former. At the same time, when we last spoke--but a few moments ago for me; you are presumably on the other side of your uncle's study door as I write this, and at the same time at least two days ago for you, who are almost certainly ensconced somewhere in Longbourn as you read this. Or have you taken your letter out to the woods with you? I think I prefer to envision you reading this out of doors; it seems more natural. But I digress. When we last spoke, you still expressed some disbelief and uncertainty about my affections. And I cannot help but recall that I have erred gravely in assuming that you understand my actions before this. Would you believe that that fateful evening at Hunsford, I believed you to be wishing and even expecting my address? I tell you this, not to conjure up memories of a past best forgotten (though, as the current interchange between us is a direct result of that night, I cannot bring myself to regret it entirely, for which I pray you forgive me) but to impress upon you the extent to which I require your guidance in this matter. I have permitted myself some small expression in the salutation of this missive, but is it too little? Or does even that small possessive endearment disconcert you?


I fear I may be over-thinking this. You shall discover soon enough that that is a persistent fault of mine (though not one I should ever be induced to confess in front of Miss Bingley, I assure you). Before I close, let me mention one other thing that I am over-thinking right now. You did not desire my presence in Meryton in case I changed my mind or you proved, and I quote, “unable” to change yours. Do I hope too much that your choice of words was purposeful, and that you have already decided yourself willing? In truth, I cannot imagine your consenting to this arrangement were it not so, but I have already explained why I am done with putting too much faith in my own guesses about your thoughts. So I will cease imagining, and wait instead for your answer. Until then, I remain


Yours, always,


Fitzwilliam Darcy

Monday, 12 May 1800

Esteemed sir,

As you can see, my father has indeed granted his consent for this small subterfuge. Indeed, I believe that the plans you laid out and the reasoning behind them left him even more impressed than I had been. Were I to follow the idea of beginning our acquaintance entirely anew, I would be sorely tempted to give you leave to anticipate my thoughts as much as you wished-- but I would be disingenuous if I did not give credence to your hesitation, for the reasons you have already mentioned. How could you have imagined me to have any inkling of your partiality? Almost the very first words I ever heard out of your mouth were a rather unflattering assessment of my person, and that memory served quite nicely to arrest any girlish flights of fancy that might otherwise have arisen from your subsequent civilities. (Having since spent a full week shut up with the Netherfield party, I can somewhat better imagine the frame of mind that may have led to that unfortunate remark, but I was not at the time at all disposed to extend such charity to you.)

I am being abominably frank, I know. But could you really expect anything less? I would wish honesty between us, above all else. Even if you end up wishing to never speak to me again, let it at least be because of too much honesty instead of too many misunderstandings.

I say this, and then honesty compels me to also admit that your instinct is probably correct in the matter of withholding yourself from the full expression of your sentiments. Yes, you did understand me when I expressed my willingness to change my feelings for you, and I will go even further and suggest that I believe myself able to do so, given time. But I wish to do so naturally and, again, honestly, not because I find myself carried away on the wave of someone else's feelings. Perhaps a more complete explanation of my own will aid you in moderating your expressions?

I am, of course, immensely flattered by your attentions to me, and perhaps all the more because I for so long schooled myself to believe them to be impossible. I mention this at the outset because I believe you already know-- or, at least, have seen enough evidence that you ought to know by now-- what a vain creature I am; flattery can turn my head far too easily, and so I hope you will understand why I endeavour to resist its effects. I am of course aware that on a purely material level, the match is far better than I have any right to aspire to, and while this consideration might seem out of place in what is supposed to be a discussion of sentiment, it cannot be disregarded altogether. You know what sort of world we live in, and that a daughter's best duty to her family is to marry well. I am once again selfishly putting my own desires ahead of my duty, and I will confess that I am not at all satisfied with my behaviour, especially when I have your own example before me. Your own familial commitment shames me, though your generosity of spirit gives me hope. I believe that, were you in my position, you would take the first reasonable proposal offered, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter-- but I cannot envision you expecting or encouraging the same course of action in your sister. The interactions I have observed between you and she, the manner in which you speak of her and she of you, betray a capacity for devotion on your part that I find deeply admirable, and aspire to emulate. Finally, I once observed that we had a very similar turn of mind. Though I spoke in jest at the time-- and an insulting jest at that, for which I apologize-- your letter has convinced me that there was truth to my words. Your habit of over-thinking things is quite familiar to me, and with the exception of the regrettable episode to which you alluded, your ability to follow and anticipate my thought process bespeaks a sympathy between us that is as surprising as it is welcome.

Upon re-reading all this, I see that it may appear to be more logic than sentiment. I told you that over-thinking is a familiar vice to me! Let me try to be more concise, though: my feelings towards you are warmed considerably, certain reasons for which are enumerated above, but I am mistrustful of the speed with which this has occurred, the reasons for which are also enumerated above. And I am much relieved to be conducting this conversation by post rather than in person.

I hope that this has given you at least some of the information you sought. At any rate, I believe I have gone on far too long, and so I must close,

With great admiration and respect,

Elizabeth Bennet

Friday, 16 May 1800

Dearest lady,

I cannot begin to describe the range of emotions which your letter evoked in me. I knew, of course, that you are far too generous to trifle with me, and that you would not have admitted this courtship if I did not have some reason to hope, but the extent to which I feel I may do so now is almost as breathtaking as the extent of the errors I realize I have committed previously. Let me apologize abjectly for my previous insults to your person. As you have already guessed, I was in a foul mood that night, and I barely even glanced at you before speaking. The instant I was able to behold you with more leisure, I felt my error strongly. I was not, however, aware that you had been a witness to it, or else I would have begged pardon long before leaving Hertfordshire last autumn. (I now better understand your persistent unwillingness to dance with me, though, and am only surprised that you relented at long last-- I own that it would be no less than my just dessert had you sworn faithfully never to do so.) How could I imagine that you had any inkling of my partiality? Partly through circumstance, and partly through willful blindness, I saw only information that supported that idea.

I also believe I may have assumed that, regardless of your actual feelings towards me, the material advantages of the match would have induced you to accept my proposal. This is a clear indication that I was not actually thinking at all, because the independence of spirit that you seem to view as a personal failing is, to me, one of your greatest attractions. Entrancing as your physical beauty may be, I do not believe I would love you if you were the sort of woman capable of putting her own feelings aside in such a matter, even for the benefit of her family. It does you great credit that you are aware of the manner in which your actions and inactions may affect them, but greater credit still that you can recognize that familial duty is not always the highest claim. Your ability to blend logic and sentiment, and to recognize the impact each has on the other, is the mark of a rare mind. I imagine that it has caused your father no little consternation that you were not born male-- but I am afraid I may have crossed over into what you would consider flattery some time ago, and while I mean merely honesty, I would not wish you to feel that I am attempting to cajole you in any but the most forthright fashion possible. I have already told you that I aspire to marry for love, and while a great part of this is marrying someone I have deep and sincere feelings for, I wish no less to marry someone who has deep and sincere feelings for me. Much as I desire your acceptance, on reflection I do not believe I would wish it to be too easily won; I would much prefer that it be built to endure. So, indeed, let us have honesty and frankness, with the understanding that flattery and endearments will, on my part, be reigned in; you may always assume there to be far more of those than I actually commit to the page. Thus, I remain merely

Yours, devotedly,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Wednesday, 21 May 1800

Dear sir,

To think that I once thought you devoid of humour! Flattery and endearments reigned in, indeed. “Merely” mine, devotedly. I now understand how you can find my impertinence attractive-- it well matches your own! You will be relieved to know that your last letter came just in time; Jane had very nearly convinced me to “just put the poor man out of his misery and accept him”, before I received your assurances that such would be the last thing you desired at this juncture.

Yes, I have taken Jane into my confidence. I could not avoid it for long, as you well know, though I had tried to put it off when I knew that I would have no answers for the questions she was bound to ask me. The interview with my father, however, forced me to at least approximate such answers, and so I had somewhere to begin when I could avoid Jane's inquiries no longer. I have not told her anything about Mr. Bingley; though she may guess that he would have been a topic of discussion between us, she has not asked, and I would not pain her by supplying the knowledge unbidden. (Whether I would do so if she did ask is a question I have not yet been able to answer for myself; while I am sure she has long convinced herself of his utter indifference, I think that certain knowledge of such would still pain her, and I would not much like to be the instrument by which such a blow was delivered-- but should such squeamishness outweigh the demands of honesty?) In all seriousness, she has been very much your advocate from the very beginning of our acquaintance, and is pleased to have her at times ardent defense of you vindicated. She has not, of course, actually pushed me to accept you, the comment quoted above having been made (mostly) in jest, but she is a bit bewildered as to why I have not done so, having acknowledged that I will most likely do so at some future point. I think she is afraid that I mean to torment you; I hope that you, at least, realize this is not the case. Your letter did give me some assurance that you understood.

I must wonder, sir, what sort of marriage you envision for yourself, if you believe that independence of spirit is a desirable characteristic in your future wife-- or that a slightly more masculine turn of mind may be an advantageous trait. Admittedly, my own experience is not particularly wide, but I cannot imagine the sort of union that would result were such tendencies encouraged. (Yes, my father has quite often and quite vocally wished that I would have been courteous enough to be a boy, though the lessening of his obligation to curb my inappropriate outlook is but one reason among many, and his desires are usually drowned out by my mother's.)

With warm regards,

Elizabeth Bennet

Monday, 26 May 1800

Dearest,

I am glad that you have confided in your sister. It seems to me that you and she have been rather close, and while I understand your inclination towards reticence on this point, I would not have wished to be the cause of a rift between you. You may reassure her on my behalf-- even show her this letter, if necessary-- that I do not feel myself to be tormented, but am greatly appreciative of the care and consideration you are determined to pour into this correspondence.

Your inquiry about the sort of marriage I envision is perceptive, as always. You are quite correct in suspecting that I do not wish for the normal sort of society marriage. Had I been able to bring myself to desire such a thing, I would have entered into the state some five years ago, when circumstance dictated that I take charge of my young sister's upbringing. I did strongly consider such a course of action, but in the end I could no more countenance subjecting my poor sister to the attentions of such women as seemed likely matrimonial candidates than I could endure their company myself. Georgiana does not have your liveliness, but in many other respects you are rather similar. Her skill at music is the socially acceptable face of a positive passion for mathematics, which I have encouraged in her-- when she was very young, because it amused me, and then as we grew older, because it became abhorrent to me that such a gift be wasted because its owner was destined for life as a mere ornament. She has already learned to disguise herself in company; I would not have her forced to hide in her own home.

Having determined that bowing to convention would do little good for those in my care, with whose welfare I was chiefly concerned, I was able to feel no small measure of relief, for I do not believe that my own good would have been served by such a marriage, either. At least, I would find it little improvement over my single state; I cannot imagine doing more than uncomfortably sharing a roof with a woman whose intelligence is limited entirely to music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages-- insipidity does not improve if it is conducted in Italian.

I am, of course, as conscious of my familial duty as you are of yours. I have an obligation to maintain and if possible improve not only the estate but also the credit and respectability of the Darcy name, so that all may be passed on to the next generation intact. I have, as well, an obligation to ensure that the next generation comes into existence. However, the family reputation can bear a great deal, short of actual scandal; small eccentricities will be overlooked, and, indeed, due to the Fitzwilliam connection are almost expected. So, while I realize that neither I nor Georgiana can be permitted to indulge ourselves in complete reclusiveness, I need not worry overmuch about entertaining frequently, or where one must be seen in the course of a Season. I neither require nor desire a wife to act as the perfect hostess and social ornament. Rather, I wish for a true partner, with whom I may be at ease rather than on display, someone who can guide Georgiana into adulthood by setting an example of happy matrimony.

I would wish our life to be spent primarily in Derbyshire; I have endured London these past few years for my sister's sake, but in truth I detest the place. Lambton, the village nearest to Pemberley, is very similar to Meryton; any sort of everyday item should be readily available for purchase, and my sister assures me that the seamstress there is quite accomplished, even if she does lack a French surname. I would, of course, expect a wife to take over supervision of the household, but my housekeeper knows her business, and has required little instruction in the past; one may do as little or as much as she liked. I would also expect that supervision of the estate business would remain mostly my province, but it need not be exclusively so; my sister has assisted with the bookkeeping since she was ten, and my wife would be welcome to make any contributions she may see see fit. Crop rotation, for example, is a decidedly thorny issue on which I would certainly welcome a second opinion. For amusement, I can offer a large park, a large library, and when the possibilities presented by these two are exhausted, I will have had at least twenty more years to think of something else. I would, of course, intend for my wife to be entirely too besotted with me to ever be lonely, but should this plan fail, I would be amenable to inviting someone, such as an elder sister, to live with us, in order that our society might be slightly less confined and unvarying. I would, however, prefer that such an invitation not be issued for the first several months of marriage.

I hope this answer is satisfactory, on many levels, though that is left for you to judge. If you feel that I have failed to provide information, I promise to rectify the oversight as soon as it is brought to my attention. Otherwise, I remain

Yours, faithfully,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Saturday, 31 May 1800

My dear Mr. Darcy,

I must confess that you paint a very compelling picture of matrimonial life, though the egalitarian nature of the relationship you describe is quite without precedent in my experience. I have been taught that happiness in marriage is possible only when the wife is able to esteem her husband as a superior—though in the case of my own parents, this formula does not appear to have worked terribly well, and they have fallen back on the more common marital strategy of mutual avoidance. Or, at least, my father has resorted to such; his withdrawal, I believe, causes an increase in her nervous symptoms, which in turn encourage his withdrawal. This is, perhaps, a warning against the husband being too far above his wife in understanding. I should not speak of most other marriages I have had occasion to observe, save to say that they all fall more or less into the same pattern. Even my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, who are quite the happiest couple I know, share very little of their day to day life with each other, usually meeting only over the dinner table. Given such circumstances, it is rather unsurprising that women wish so earnestly for the companionship of a child. Not that I am opposed to children, but there is something rather sad and empty about pinning all of one's hopes and affections on a small creature that is destined to grow up and leave, probably sooner rather than later.

I wonder, though, whether reality has any chance of comparing to such a picture? We are told that marriage is intended primarily for the good of the children that issue from it; perhaps the separation between man and wife is necessary to ensure that the children are properly cared for. Or perhaps I am attempting to find traces of divine providence in a muddle of human error. I will own that Georgiana has grown into a delightful young lady under your care, however unconventional it may have been. Her explanations of Bach have improved my playing far more dramatically than hours of practice would have been likely to, but more importantly, she is an obviously warm and caring spirit.

Crop rotation, sir? I am not certain that I would be able to contribute any sort of opinion on the subject. Agricultural treatises are not amongst the works I am typically permitted to read, and to my knowledge no person in this neighbourhood has yet experimented with the four-field system, so I can offer neither theoretical nor anecdotal evidence. I am afraid that my intelligence is likely to disappoint you greatly. I have had the benefit of neither tutors nor indulgent brothers to permit me to improve my mind, and though my father has often said that I have something more of quickness about me than most girls, he has also warned me constantly against indulging it to the point that my feminine attributes are overshadowed.

Thank you, finally, for your kindness towards Jane. She was much reassured by the portions of your letter that I showed her-- I took the liberty of sharing both the beginning and the end. I hope you do not object, but she was beginning to appear fretful over the possibility of my eventual departure.

I wonder if it is possible for a woman to esteem her husband as a superior only in certain respects, and let all others remain equal? You most certainly have a wider education and experience than I do, and while I do not consider myself to be morally deficient, I am in no small way awed by your repeated demonstrations of good character. Is it possible that this is enough?

Yours,

Elizabeth Bennett

Thursday, 5 June 1800

Dearest, loveliest, cleverest Elizabeth,

For all your professed ignorance of agriculture, you still appear to understand the issues connected to the current debate over crop rotation-- and yet you fear that your intelligence may disappoint me? Even if you were capable of disappointing me, which I highly doubt, I suspect that it would not be your intelligence that would accomplish the task. Or, for that matter, your femininity. I could think some rather uncharitable thoughts towards your father, if I did not have to acknowledge that the restrictions he placed on you were generally sensible. I cannot in all honesty say that I would have behaved differently, given the exact same circumstances. I can only be grateful that my own situation has permitted me to act more in line with the dictates of my conscience

As for precedent, I will confess that I am no more able to point to good examples in my own life than you are. Literature tells us, mostly, that such a relationship is possible only when a man and a woman are each married to other people—but at least there is some evidence that it is possible. Is it so foolish to wish that I might act the part of both husband and lover? It seems to me that the great problem in the courtly romances is that the husband takes his wife for granted once he has successfully chained her to his side in matrimony; I swear I would never neglect you or take you for granted. When I first proposed, I believe I did have some foolish and misguided desire for you to be mine. I will admit that the desire still persists; we men are, I think, naturally possessive creatures. But more than that, I desire that you simply be you, though I would vastly prefer you do so in close proximity to me. Look up to me if you must, though know that even as you do so, I am looking towards you for my own moral guidance; there are, I suppose, worse ways to live out a life than by each avoiding anything that may disappoint the other. Quarrel with me when I am wrong (or, in very rare circumstances, when you are); tease me, laugh at me-- even if this experiment fails spectacularly, I cannot imagine being anything but content that I will have spent the duration of it with you.

Forever yours,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Monday, 9 June 1800

Dearest sir,

Forgive the brevity of this missive, and the shakiness of my hand; I mean to send it off before I have a chance to doubt myself. You have convinced me. I will embark upon your grand experiment with you. Only be prepared to be a little patient with me. I trust you entirely, but this is entirely uncharted territory, and I am more than a little bit apprehensive.

Yours, in anticipation, (or is that “in anticipation of being yours”?)

Elizabeth Bennet

Mr. Bennet looked up from the papers in front of him to the young man standing on the other side of the desk. He had not moved, though the older gentleman had read everything before him three times over, and as slowly as possible. Nor did he appear to be at all intimidated by silence. With a sigh, Mr. Bennet gave up on making the man nervous by any means, and spoke:
“This is very sudden.”

The younger gentleman didn't even raise an eyebrow. “We have corresponded for nearly two months, and our acquaintance was of some duration even before that, sir.”

Mr. Bennet restrained a laugh. So, the young... young... dash it all, “pup” certainly didn't suit this creature. The young whatever-he-was was going to try to beat him at his own game, was he? “I meant the settlement papers. The exceedingly generous settlement papers.”

Again, not so much as a blink. “I had my solicitor draw them up some time ago.”

Aha! An opening: “And you are just now coming to ask my consent?”

“Your daughter has just now seen fit to accept me.” Parry...

... and riposte: “But you had your solicitor draw up settlement papers.”

“My intentions were hardly hidden from you or your daughter. I felt it best to be prepared.” A counterattack?

Mr. Bennet idly wondered when he had switched to fencing language, having gone a good twenty years without so much as touching a blade. “You were so certain that she would accept you, then?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I have learned that it is unwise to presume to be certain of anything where your daughter is concerned. Let us say rather that I was hopeful, and that time has shown that hope to be justified. Now, are all the papers to your satisfaction?”

The young man was good, there was no denying that. And he still hadn't blinked. Time for the full frontal assault: “As I said, the settlement is exceedingly generous. If you feel you can afford it, then it is not my place to object. However, it is my place to look after the welfare of my daughter, and that extends to more than financial concerns. Why her? You could certainly buy yourself a good, obedient wife from anywhere you please, and while I may see my daughter with a fatherly affection, I'm sure we both know that she's hardly a fashionably impressive ornament.”

Ah, finally, a reaction, though not quite what he had expected. A subtle shift in the man's face-- was that a hint of a smile? “Sir, I will not stoop to discussing your daughter's attributes as though she were a horse I was intent on purchasing. Suffice it to say that I was not in the market for a good, obedient, ornamental wife. The more detailed reasons are between her and myself; I assure you that her own inquisition has been far more exhaustive than yours will be.”

Mr. Bennet could not quite decide whether the weight of his companion's disdain settled more heavily on “obedient” or “ornamental.” He mentally filed that quandary away for further contemplation-- at least the man seemed to not only know, but actually (and amazingly) want what he was getting. “Indeed. Well, since you both seem determined to have each other, I suppose I had best not stand in the way. You will want to marry immediately?”

“Two months should prove sufficient. More if you wish me to be present for a great portion of the engagement. I have much to do to prepare Pemberley for a new mistress. I had hoped, however, that Miss Elizabeth might travel to view the estate before the wedding, under appropriate chaperonage, of course.”

“Of course. Perhaps her aunt and uncle might be persuaded to alter their itinerary for the summer. They had meant to go to the Lakes district, but I understand that my brother-in-law's business already threatens to prevent their traveling so far, and I doubt that my sister-in-law would object to visiting the area where she grew up. I may send Jane, as well, if you do not feel that will strain your hospitality too greatly. I assume you can stand to wait until after the wedding to let Mrs. Bennet loose on your grounds.”

To his credit, the younger man did not even flinch at that last barb. “Indeed, a party of four should be quite within my means to feed and house.”

“Excellent. Now, having ridden all this way, should I assume you might actually wish to speak to the lady you've just agreed to marry, or will you be turning around and returning to London directly?”

“I shall actually spend the evening at the Inn, and return in the morning.”

Mr. Bennet wondered briefly at the sort of friendship that would leave the man before him to conduct a courtship by post, and plan a wedding from an inn, but dismissed such thoughts; youth would have its quirks and follies. “Well, then, you had best stay on until dinner.”

The young man nodded his consent, and turned towards the door. At the last moment, he looked back. “One more thing, Mr. Bennet.”

“Yes?” Mr. Bennet noted that the animation in the younger man's features had increased, ever so slightly, as though asking for the hand of his supposedly beloved in marriage was a mere formality, and whatever was about to issue from his lips was the true purpose of this call.

“As Miss Elizabeth is now engaged, I believe we can safely assume that her marriage prospects are unlikely to be damaged?”

The elder gentleman raised his eyebrows. “So long as you are a man of your word, Mr. Darcy.”

“I believe you will find that no harm will come from letting her begin to read whatever she likes.” This was possibly the most forceful statement that Mr. Bennet had ever heard the speaker utter, and in response he could only splutter in indignation.

“Sir, after Elizabeth is married, she is yours to do with as you wish, but if you are suggesting I encourage blatant immorality under my roof--”

“Really, Mr. Bennet. I was aware that feelings ran strongly on the matter, but you are the first person I have ever met who considered four-field crop rotation immoral!”

The older gentleman blinked, and then began to chuckle softly as a smile slowly spread across his face. “You'll do, my boy. You'll do.”

The younger man bowed and closed the door behind him.

Thursday, 12 June 1800

My own beloved Elizabeth,

How strange and yet how familiar to return to my pen and paper, when only a few short hours ago, I had you. Now, it almost seems as though I dreamed your sweet smile and soft skin. Have you truly agreed to marry me? Can it be possible that you will soon be with me, occupying in truth the places you have for so long occupied in my imagination? Will I really see you next to me in our carriage, across the table from me at mealtimes, beside me in our bed? Will I truly be able to stretch out my hand and touch you, instead of the empty air? Such felicity is almost too much to contemplate!

Much as I would wish to be by your side, I think perhaps this continued separation is good. I am not certain for how long I could restrain myself in your presence, and I would not wish you to become overly acquainted with the burden of keeping me in check. What is good for a fiancée in this respect is not at all good for a wife, and I would far prefer that you learn only what you will be practicing on a more permanent basis.

Tomorrow, Georgiana and I depart for Pemberley; I shall have just under a month to catch up on the estate business and see preparations for your arrival well underway, before returning to Hertfordshire (my love, please promise me that you will not inherit your mother's taste for large gatherings, and that this engagement party and our wedding-breakfast will be the last two such events to which I shall be subjected) and escorting you and your party back to the North. Incidentally, I ought to warn you that we are likely to have yet more company during your visit. You will recall that when you were last in London, I mentioned that I had spoken to Bingley? At the time I mentioned this to you, I was mostly concerned with the practical difficulties his refusal to contemplate a return to your neighbourhood posed us, and with the events that followed shortly afterwards, I completely forgot that in the course of our conversation, I had pressed him to accept an invitation to Pemberley. There is no good way to cancel that invitation without resort to awkwardness of one kind or another.

I would still very much wish that your sister be able to accompany you, as much to see the place that may become her home eventually, as to support you. Much as I hate to burden you with the consequences of my own poor planning, I must ask that you discuss this with her and determine whether it is at all possible to arrange things so as to alleviate any discomfort she may feel at the prospect of the inevitable meeting.

There is much yet to be done before we depart, not the least of which is to write those of my connections who must be informed of our engagement. The sooner I accomplish these tasks, the sooner I can return to dreaming of you—and as I now have license to direct my dreams however I choose, I am sure you can understand that I wish to make the most of the privilege, until we meet again.

Yours, delightfully,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Tuesday, 17 June 1800

My darling Fitzwilliam,


I do hope that your esteemed aunt was amongst the connections you wrote to, for the news appears to have already reached her through other channels. I know not whether to blame the London papers or the combination of my cousin and his industrious in-laws, but in either case, some whisper prompted Lady Catharine to transport herself, in full state, to Hertfordshire, in order to first accuse me of circulating blatant falsehoods with the intent of damaging your honour, and then to demand that the engagement, which she continued to protest could not possibly exist, be broken at once. I am afraid that I did little to cool her ire by pointing out that the arguments with which she chose to support her extraordinary application were as frivolous as the application itself was ill-judged. You may, I fear, expect to hear from her soon, if you have not done so already. I apologize most sincerely for any difficulties I may have caused between yourself and your family, and will, of course, take whatever steps you deem necessary to mend the relationship-- but, Fitzwilliam, she was most provoking!

Aside from this unprecedented and mercifully brief visit, we have continued on much as you last saw us. Jane continues to improve in spirits, and assures me that she shall be quite able to meet with Mr. Bingley as common and indifferent acquaintances. Kitty continues to sulk over not having been invited to Brighton, while Lydia has finally won her point and been permitted to depart with Mrs. Forster. Mary continues to be Mary, which is as much as need be said on that subject. Mama is sure to drive me mad with wedding preparations; I am quite ready to join in my father's cries of “No more talk of lace!” But I shall endure until you come to rescue me. Count yourself fortunate that by the time you return, the initial wave of curious neighbours will have come and gone. One almost suspects that your plans were made thus on purpose!

Now, moving on to infinitely more pleasant subjects, would my dear and esteemed sir kindly consent to educate me upon the exact differences in behaviour expected from a fiancée and from a wife? I understand that as a fiancée, I ought not plan your meals or order your servants, but surely this is not what you mean. Are you afraid that I might have to restrain you from accepting invitations on my behalf? I beg you sir, in the interests of the continued improvement my mind, be more clear!

I miss you sorely. Until we meet again, I remain,

Yours completely,

Elizabeth Bennet

Monday, 23 June 1800

My beloved, brazen, impertinent hussy,

At least my aunt was accurate on one score. It is a pity that she does not see the greatest attractions of your character in quite the same light that I do. You were accurate in your prediction that I would soon hear from her; she arrived in a fouler temper than I have ever seen, save only for the one in which she departed. She received even less satisfaction from me than she did from yourself, as you were at least able to direct her grievances elsewhere; I simply had her escorted off the premises until she could learn to keep a civil tongue in her head. You need not worry overmuch on her account; she may rant and storm as much as she pleases, and it shan't make one whit of difference. Well, if she works herself up into a true fury, you may find it difficult to obtain a voucher to Almack's, though I would personally consider that to be more of a favour to myself than she would intend, and I sincerely doubt her ability to achieve even that much. You needn't worry at all on account of myself or the rest of the family; my uncle has already written to express his approbation of the match (influenced, no doubt, by my cousin's glowing praises of you), and I, as you well know, would gladly marry you even if he had not.

Now, as for your other question, I believe that after our walk together you know quite well what I was referring to. Had I explored the delightful curves of your neck but a few moments more, my attentions would have wandered towards an even less acceptable area, and we would have been perilously close to committing acts which spell utter ruination for an unmarried woman. You must know at least something of what I mean, though how much information you have on this score I am unsure, and I am loath to presume too far. At the same time, I can certainly see the benefit of improving your education on this point prior to your undertaking practical experimentation in the area. So write again, dearest, and tell me whether you truly mean me to instruct you; without that confirmation I dare say no more, for fear of shocking you.

Devotedly yours,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Friday, 26 June 1800

Dearest,

Much as you may wish me to think no more on it, I am truly sorry for the rift with your aunt, and fervently hope that we may see it repaired in time. But I will not mention the matter again, until you see fit to bring it up.

Regarding the other matter, yes, I do have some knowledge; my mother has schooled me in the basic mechanics of the marriage bed, but her description seems to bear no relationship to the brief moments we have spent together. I cannot see how one would lead to the other. You will forgive me, I hope, for admitting that my understanding of the matter renders it considerably less desirable than you appear to find it-- but I am told that such things are different for men. I am sure that my affection for you will permit me to obtain satisfaction from your pleasure. And, speaking of pleasure-- I shall see you again in but a fortnight. I wonder if you can imagine how much I look forward to your company?

Yours, forever,

Elizabeth Bennet

Tuesday, 1 July 1800

Beloved,

While I am, I suppose, somewhat grateful to your mother for sparing me the task of describing our various parts, I would beseech you to otherwise put out of your head whatever she may have told you about the marital union. I assure you that our own experience shall indeed be pleasurable for both of us-- this is part and parcel of my vow to never neglect you or take you for granted. I never again wish to hear of you deriving satisfaction from my pleasure alone.

I assure you that the progression from what we have experienced already to what your mother has described to you is quite natural. When next you are alone, experiment with running your hands along your neck, dipping beneath the edge of your gown, teasing the pert nipples of your breasts. After some time, when you begin to feel the desire for it, you may wish to move one hand to explore the cleft at the juncture of your thighs, seeking out the precious pearl that lies therein. Rubbing that spot will produce a nectar sweet to the tongue, but more importantly, great pleasure for yourself. Think of me when you do this, for I surely long for my hands to replace your own! Whatever pleasures you may experience thus, I swear they shall only increase when we are together; I look forward to the day that I may more fully explore the delights that must, for now, remain hidden from me.

This letter will not precede me by much, for which I am immeasurably grateful. I will come bearing gifts for you, which I hope the above exercise will have taught you to appreciate somewhat. Until then, I remain,

Yours, most ardently,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Monday, 7 July 1800

My beloved, brazen, impertinent husband-to-be,

Presumably this letter will be waiting for you upon our arrival at Pemberley. Presumably, Mama will have kept us far too busy during your time in Hertfordshire to permit much conversation, and my aunt and uncle will no doubt provide excellent chaperonage on our journey to the North. Besides which, your last letter was frank to the point that I suspect even I would have difficulty responding to it in person-- I believe I am blushing even as I write this (indoors, though I am afraid to rob you of an idea that you seemed so attached to; ink and paper are difficult to manage in the breeze, and there is too great a risk of unwanted detection outside, though I do sometimes read your letters in the course of a walk—a habit I fear I shall have to give up rather shortly, if they continue in the same vein). While I was not unfamiliar with the exercise you suggested, I have repeated it several times since the receipt of your letter, and find that the thought of your involvement greatly increases the pleasure that can be derived therefrom. I had not imagined that such things might be part of the activities of the marriage bed. Is this the sort of “unusual taste” that my mother warns me exists amongst the ton? If so, I look forward to learning of any other unusual tastes you may possess.

I do so long to see you! I have spent the past two days staring up the lane, imagining that every carriage might be yours. I know it is far too early to expect you, and I'm afraid you must now think me terribly silly. How can I miss you this much? What right have I to feel this deprived at your absence, when I have only recently learned to appreciate your presence? There, I am done with complaints. By the time you read this, you will have already seen me, and it will be that much closer till our wedding day. I will be content. And so I remain,

Yours, with all I am and all I have,

Elizabeth Bennet

Mr. Darcy put down the letter, with a look that those closest to him might have identified as faint puzzlement on his face. He had been afraid that his last epistle had precipitated a maidenly withdrawal on the part of his beloved; he had feared such a thing from the moment their correspondence had taken such a turn, and the reception, or lack thereof, he received on his most recent trip to Hertfordshire seemed to confirm his apprehension. While Elizabeth had smiled very prettily on his arrival, and stood beside him during the required social appearances, he had been unable to snatch even a moment alone with her, and discerned something of a tightness about her eyes, and a slight twitch to her jaw when she thought herself unobserved. She had appeared to relax somewhat on the journey North, but had spent the hours since they arrived closeted with her sister. Had it not been for those few precious moments after he had gained her father's consent, he might have suspected that another woman entirely had been penning the letters he had received. While this remained a possibility (though remote enough to be discounted, for practical considerations) he suspected that her distance was more due to the factors mentioned in the missive in front of him. There was some slight embarrassment, to be sure, but he had forgotten that the relentless socialization to which they had been subjected to would be trying to her, as well. He smiled at the thought that his affections and wishes were, at long last, returned with apparently equal fervour. Now, if only he could manage a few private moments in which to fully express his heartfelt delight-- and refrain from falling into embarrassed silence, himself.

Those moments would have to wait, however, as the last of his guests would be arriving at any moment. Folding the letter carefully into his pocket, he tried to bring himself to curse the distraction that led to this particular party having been assembled—but all this accomplished was a recollection of the distraction's source bringing another smile to his face. That warmth of expression was sadly short-lived, as he heard Miss Bingley's best attempt at dulcet tones drifting up the main staircase. With a sigh of resignation, he turned to face the oncoming assault-- his cousin would have been proud.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, how very, very good to see you! I was just telling Charles how positively desolate Town has been without your company these past months. Without this journey to look forward to, I'm afraid I should have quite despaired. But now we are all re-united! How pleasant and cozy we shall be!”

The grimace into which Mr. Darcy contorted his face was so unlike the smile that had previously settled there that there ought to be no mistaking the two. Indeed, there would not be, had Miss Bingley ever actually seen the man smile, but in absence of that intelligence, she very easily persuaded herself that the expression before her was one of warmth and welcome, just as she persuaded himself that his eagerness to direct her towards her chambers was concern that she be able to properly refresh herself after the fatigue of the journey.

With one troublesome guest safely out of the way, Mr. Darcy made his way down the stairs to greet Mr. Bingley. A brief search revealed the gentleman to be pacing about the drive outside the house, with a pensive frown on his face. Knowing full well how trying his journey must have been, Mr. Darcy refrained from questioning this behaviour, choosing, rather, to conduct his guest inside for some quiet refreshment. That the long intimacy between the two men admitted no need for trivial conversation was usually a source of relief for the gentleman now playing host, but on this particular occasion knowledge of the news that must be imparted rendered him rather impatient for his friend to recover his typical equilibrium. At long last, Mr. Darcy found his patience rewarded, as the younger man looked up from his glass and offered an approximation of a smile.

After an exchange of civilities, and an inquiry into Mr. Bingley's time in Scarborough, the longed-for conversational interlude was reached, and Mr. Darcy discovered that he had no idea what to say. News of his engagement was easy enough, and he was more than eager to simply blurt it out, but it must be followed shortly by other intelligences which seemed likely to prove more awkward. So it was with a certain degree of care that he began:

“Charles, there is one thing I do need to tell you.”

The gentleman thus addressed raised his eyebrows slightly, to indicate his attentiveness, though he made no other reply.

“Our party here will be somewhat larger than usual. We will be joined by my fiancée and several of her relations. In fact, they arrived but several hours before you.”

At this, Mr. Bingley did show a certain amount of surprise. “Engaged, Darcy? You never said a word! Congratulations-- but who is the lady? When is the happy day? I hope it is a happy day. You seem happy, at least. Why did you not write with the news?”

Mr. Darcy restrained a laugh at his friend's typical outpouring of whichever words happened to be nearest at hand. “One thing at a time, old man! I did not write because I knew I would be seeing you, and I wanted to ask your particular assistance with the wedding preparations, which I thought best done in person. As for the rest, yes, I am quite happy, and it is no thanks to you at all, for the lady is quite well known to you, and perhaps you can guess her name when I tell you that your refusal to lend me the use of Netherfield this spring made for an exceedingly awkward courtship.”

A flash of discomfort passed over Mr. Bingley's face, or perhaps Mr. Darcy merely imagined it, as it was quickly replaced by studied confusion, and the younger man averred that he could not begin to guess the name of the lady.

“Come, Charles, do not be so tiresome,” his friend insisted. “I have been given to understand that my attentions in the fall were not so marked as I had feared them, but surely at least you could discern my preference for Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

This time, Mr. Darcy did not imagine the pallor that overtook his companion's face, though he easily attributed it to a recollection of his own flirtation in Hertfordshire. Consequently, he did not press the point when Mr. Bingley stammered his repeated congratulations, assurances that every possible assistance would be tendered for the wedding, and excused himself with the claim of sudden fatigue from the journey.

Mr. Bingley pulled the door shut behind him with a sigh of relief that he had managed to keep his countenance reasonably still when his friend announced the name of his intended. Such things were always a challenge for Bingley, whose face tended to display every nuance of his emotional state; he had never mastered the studied detachment that Darcy displayed so readily.

He could hardly believe that, after all he had suffered in the attempt to prevent it, Elizabeth Bennet was engaged to his friend-- and, moreover, she was currently visiting Pemberley. Bingley shook his head, trying to puzzle out how everything could have gone so astray. This was poor repayment for the care Darcy had always taken of him! He should have realized something was amiss when Darcy asked him to return to Netherfield. He should have remained in London instead of fleeing to Scarborough. He should have told Darcy what sort of woman Elizabeth Bennet was before they left Hertfordshire. He should turn around and tell Darcy what sort of woman Elizabeth Bennet was immediately. He should-- wait. Darcy said that the chit was traveling with her relations. He should forget this sorry business of Darcy's and go about making amends to his angel. Darcy would be hard pressed to escape the engagement at this point, and knowledge of the trap into which he had fallen would be even more likely to pain him now than when the original decision to keep him ignorant had been made back in November. Bingley's best close of action was to stay close to him and hope to prevent further damage. Let the little viperess know she was being watched, and perhaps she could be frightened into more dutiful behaviour.

It was with these thoughts that he approached the door to his sister's room. He suspected that Caroline would not approve of his plans with regards to Jane Bennet, though he hoped to win her over to his way of thinking, and eke at least a little bit of happiness out of this miserable affair. Moreover, she needed to be warned of the other guests before she actually encountered them.

She showed no little surprise upon his admission to her chambers. “Charles! You look as though you've seen a ghost!”

He grimaced at her choice of words. “Not quite. But close. Sit down, Caroline. I have some unpleasant news for you.”

With a look of concern and confusion, she did as she was bade, and his news was delivered. She paled, and then coloured, and gave vent to the agitation of her mind by pacing about the room. “But, Charles, is it certain? Is it absolutely certain?”

He assured her that the news had come from none other than Darcy himself, and that the engagement, unfortunate as it may be, was quite firm and binding. “I have failed him greatly, Caroline. I thought I owed him more than I could ever repay-- and I was right. I can't repay him. I can't save him from this.”

Almost instantly, Caroline was at his side, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Charles, you take too much on yourself! Nobody could have foreseen that she would be this persistent, this artful. But, still, there may be something yet to be done, some way to expose her!”

Charles shook his head. “I can no more excuse my failure than I can think how to remedy it. Any attempt to expose her now will only lead to a rift between us-- leaving him all the more alone and friendless when her true colours do show. No, we must swallow our objections, and stay close, so that we may at least be available to comfort him when the time comes.”

His sister frowned slightly, but nodded her acquiescence. Seeing an opening, Charles decided to bring up the matter of his other resolution. “There is a bright side to this, Caroline...”

He spoke with determination, she listened with resignation. In the end, she had little choice but pronounce Jane Bennet a sweet girl, in spite of her unfortunate relations, and one whom she should not object-- had never objected!-- to a nearer intimacy with. Her brother left, feeling authorized by such commendation to think of her as he had already determined to do, and if she herself nursed slightly different feelings within her breast, she knew better than to give them voice.

It was a rather strained and awkward assembly that appeared in the dining room that evening. With the possible exception of the Gardiners, each member of the party spent the meal fervently wishing that most, if not all, of the others might, by some twist of fate, suddenly vanish, not to be seen again-- or at least, not for a very long time. Miss Bingley's wishes were the least likely to be answered in this regard, but the painful gulf between the real and the ideal might account for the relative ease with which she mastered her emotions.

She observed the engaged couple with particular interest, as they exchanged half-eager, half-embarrassed glances across the table. If that was what Mr. Darcy desired, then she was well rid of him. Her attention drifted over Miss Darcy, exerting herself in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, a horribly uninteresting couple whose pretensions to fashion could not disguise the stench of trade which hung about them, and finally settled on her brother, as he attempted to re-ingratiate himself with Miss Bennet. His natural affability aided him greatly in this endeavour; the delight he had expressed in seeing her had appeared quite sincere-- as it no doubt was, taken apart from whatever feelings he might have about her companions.

Had her facial expression not been quite so carefully composed, she might have frowned. To have lost the hope of being Pemberley's mistress was one thing; she had never deluded herself into believing that its master was anything but a troublesome personage attached to a good pedigree. But to be trapped into a connection with that troublesome personage and his equally intolerable wife-to-be, without being able to claim for her own the dual consolations of estate and pedigree, was a bitter pill to contemplate swallowing. Whether she ought to risk opposing her brother in order to avoid it was a quandary which kept her thoughts occupied through the end of the meal, and until the gentlemen had re-joined the ladies in the drawing room.

Caroline Bingley was not without what some might call her faults, but contrary to popular opinion, a lack of familial affection was not actually among these. She was, in her own way, deeply attached to her brother, and quite committed to his happiness. Moreover, she was aware that he currently believed that happiness to be inextricably linked to Jane Bennet. The question before Caroline's mind was whether or not her brother's beliefs were accurate. She was inclined to believe that he would eventually find another woman just as pretty and pliable, and equally able to captivate his interest as Miss Bennet had. But how long would it take? She was not at all insensitive to the low spirits he had endured for the past eight months, and had no wish to see him suffer through another such period.

The other issue, of course, was whether marriage to Miss Bennet would actually secure his happiness in the way that he wished, once the initial bloom of infatuation wore off. Would he find himself bored for the lack of an unobtainable goal? Would the connection to Mr. Darcy's ill-advised marriage wear on Charles as much as she knew it would wear on her? Caroline knew better than to attempt to predict the future, but she suspected that Charles would find himself quite discontent within a few years-- and the effect of that discontentment on a sweet creature like Jane Bennet ought not be underestimated, either. No, something must be done to forestall this disaster. At the very least, she could keep her brother thinking about all the reasons it would be a disaster. At the next break in the conversation, she spoke, sweetly and with an air of great interest and concern:

“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.”

Miss Elizabeth flushed angrily, but answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone, while Miss Darcy appeared overcome with embarrassment, growing even more silent and withdrawn than was usual. Caroline felt a brief pang of conscience at having caused the young girl pain, but it was short lived, as she observed that her brother's attentions to Miss Bennet became considerably less marked for the duration of the evening.

Elizabeth Bennet wandered through the halls of Pemberley in a manner some might call aimless, though it was actually quite purposeful. True, she had no idea where she was, but that was nothing compared to having no idea where her fiancé was-- and she was determined to correct that gap in her knowledge. She had been unable to speak even two private words to him in Hertfordshire, or on the entire journey to the North, and the day of their arrival had necessarily been taken up with attempting to provide support for Jane in the face of the Bingleys' imminent arrival. And today, he was nowhere to be found. She briefly considered the possibility that he might regret having exposed himself so far, so soon, in their written correspondence, but quickly dismissed it; he had revealed far more of himself prior to their engagement-- a situation which she intended to remedy as soon as possible. But first, she had to find him.

After some time, she turned a corner and discovered the gallery. Of course, she recognized it from the brief tour of the house she had received on the previous day, but she had not had much time to closely observe the room, and so she suspended her search to briefly peruse the paintings contained therein. There were, of course, many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of the only faces whose features would be known to her. At last, it arrested her-- and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over face as she remembered to have sometimes seen, when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest contemplation, and turned back to it before she quited the gallery. “You are a difficult man to find, Mr. Darcy, but I shall triumph in the end.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Elizabeth turned towards the voice, a smile overtaking her face. “Fitzwilliam! I have been searching everywhere for you!”

“So I gathered,” came the dry response, as he crossed the room towards her. “And now you have found me. But what,” as his hands encircled her waist, “do you intend to do with me now?”

“What indeed,” she murmured, leaning into him and savouring his closeness for a moment before pulling away. “I wanted to tell you that I changed my mind.”

He withdrew his hands from her, and his typically cold expression settled upon his features so rapidly that Elizabeth could not contain her mirth. Reaching out to arrest his hands mid-flight, she smiled up at him warmly: “I meant that, upon reflection, I find myself quite able to respond to your last letter in person.”

Mr. Darcy was unable to respond to this for several minutes, as Elizabeth, having returned his hands to their proper place, rose up on her toes and put his mouth to a far more agreeable use. At length, they broke apart again, though neither was willing to entirely relinquish their hold on the other. “Would the response you deliver in person be at all different from the one you sent by post?”

“Perhaps,” she said, “but before we discuss that, sir, you must fulfill your pledge. You said you would come bearing gifts, and I have yet to see any such thing!” The mock-pout into which she distorted her features was quite comic, and he could not help laughing.

“I would not advise ever doing that before company, my dear. It does not suit your face.”

“So my mother informed me when I was not yet five years old. But at least I made you laugh. And that still doesn't alter the pertinent point!”

The tips of Mr. Darcy's ears took on a decidedly rosy hue, and he mumbled something incomprehensible. Elizabeth stood her ground, staring at him with expectantly raised eyebrows. He coughed slightly and said, “Perhaps we ought to adjourn to my study?”

She nodded her assent, and paid close attention to the corridors they passed through on their journey. “I shall need a ball of string to find my way around this house!” she exclaimed.

“Not necessarily. You could just keep me with you at all times.”

She considered this for a few moments in silence. “No, I don't think I should like that. Much as I enjoy your company, one does want a certain amount of privacy, and room to breathe.”

He halted abruptly, and she looked up at him, anxious over the thought of having offended him, but he smiled: “I would not have you any other way, my dear.” So saying, he turned and swung open a door, which she had neglected to notice at all. “After you.”

Upon entering the room, Elizabeth was for some time too taken up in noticing the details of the furnishings and, especially, the bookcases, which she imagined must be windows into the mind of their owner, to repeat the request which had prompted such an interesting reaction in Mr. Darcy. This preoccupation could not last forever, though, and in due course the tips of his ears regained their crimson hue: “I had hoped you might forget that.”

She smiled. “I might have, had you not been so obvious in your efforts to avoid the subject. Now I'm curious. You are behaving most unlike yourself.”

“It's just... I wrote those words, and purchased the gift, in a fit of utterly misdirected passion, and now I'm not certain whether you will be offended by it, and I haven't had the time or opportunity to procure something more innocuous.”

“Now I simply must insist that you keep your word, sir! Anything with the power to disconcert the great Mr. Darcy must be a sight to see, indeed!”

He grimaced. “Elizabeth, you don't know what you're asking. You may regret it. You may despise me. You may--”

She crossed her arms and fixed him with her sternest look. “I may well lose patience. For all the times you've been concerned over offending me, you have yet to manage it once.”

“I beg to differ; I managed it quite constantly at the beginning of our acquaintance.”

“You were not concerned over offending me then, were you?” she smirked.

He threw up his hands. “I knew I would never win an argument with you.”

She laid her head on his chest in a pretense of meekness. “Which causes one to wonder what on earth possessed you to court me-- but that is your problem, not mine.”

He smiled down at her, and pressed his lips to her forehead before moving towards his desk, where he opened a drawer and withdrew a rather innocent looking box, which he then passed to her with a somewhat pained expression. Raising her eyebrows, she lifted the lid to find nothing more than a book and, inexplicably, a smooth, tapered piece of what appeared to be ivory. She looked back at her fiancé in puzzlement. “Fitzwilliam, I really don't see what--”

“Open the book, my dear.” He now had the air of a man awaiting the drop of the guillotine, having abandoned all hope of a last-minute rescue.

She did as instructed, and immediately felt her own face turning quite red. “Oh. That is certainly... instructive. And...?” She held up the curious bit of ivory.

He coughed and said something she couldn't quite make out, and she pressed him to speak louder and more clearly. After several repeated applications, he could eventually be understood to mumble, “For stretching.”

“Stretching?” Now she was even more confused.

“I... ah... I had been given to understand that it can be painful, for women, the first several times, and... I should have written a letter to enclose; that would have been easier. Or not included that at all. I see now that it was a horrible insult to you.”

At, or perhaps in spite of, this explanation, all became clear to Elizabeth, and her face lit up with a broad grin. “And you thought that advanced preparation might spare me discomfort? You darling, darling man.” She walked behind the desk and dropped unceremoniously into his lap, the better to cover his face in kisses. After some time, she paused to consider the object in her hand, troubled by an incongruity between it and the picture she had beheld in the book. “Fitzwilliam, forgive me, but the book portrays something significantly... larger.”

Whatever answer she had expected, the laughter that issued from her companion was certainly not it.

The next ten days passed in relative peace and contentment for the residents at Pemberley. While Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth were never again quite so alone as they had been that day in his study, they did manage to find ample time for touring the house and grounds, and exchanging a few of the innocent affections that are to be expected between affianced lovers. And while Mr. Darcy's gift was never again mentioned between them, he sometimes beheld a sort of speculative gleam in his fiancée's eye, which seemed to denote an appreciation of either the gift, or perhaps his person, or—dared he hope?—both.

There was plenty of time discover the exact source of that look, however; for the moment, he was content that it existed at all—and this was not the only reason Mr. Darcy (for so he was accustomed to thinking of himself, though he suspected that, in time, he might not mind becoming “Fitzwilliam” on a more regular basis) had to be content. Whatever gloom had possessed Charles appeared to have dissipated, and his renewed courtship of the eldest Miss Bennet appeared to be moving quickly towards a mutually satisfactory conclusion. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had proven themselves to be every bit as pleasant a pair of companions as the time they had spent together in London had promised, though they had spent a fair amount of time away from Pemberley, making calls on Mrs. Gardiner's acquaintances in the area. Even Miss Bingley had, with the exception of the odd barb directed at Elizabeth, been a remarkably cheerful addition to the company, dedicating herself mostly to entertaining Georgiana. She had accomplished a fair bit in the way of drawing the shy girl out of her shell. As he surveyed the party assembled in the drawing room, the master of Pemberley could have very nearly felt sorry that they were to disperse in but three days.

He did feel quite sorry when Elizabeth rose and, with a slight yawn, signaled the end of that evening's gathering. Mr. Darcy remained behind a little after the last of the group had left, savouring the silence. After some time, he rose and made his way towards his study; it was his habit to review the paperwork for the next morning's estate business before retiring. This plan, however, did not last beyond the study door; no sooner had he crossed the threshold thereof than he was arrested by a vision of Elizabeth—his Elizabeth—seated behind his desk, small wisps of hair caressing her neck as she bent over the papers spread before her. A sudden dryness in his mouth prevented him from speaking, though the squeak of the door did the work of announcing his presence. She looked up from her task and smiled.

“I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you.”

He swallowed, willing himself to regain his voice: “Elizabeth. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, of course.”

“But... I thought you had gone to bed.”

Was he imagining things, or was she smirking at him? “Not yet. Clearly. I thought that I could take care of some of the estate business, so that you could have more leisure time tomorrow, and we could spend at least some of that time together. Unless, of course, you object.”

Of course, he could not object, and gave her to understand so as clearly as a man violently in love could be supposed to do. Some time later, they found themselves settled on an armchair, which, Mr. Darcy reflected, ought to be replaced with a sofa of some sort in the very near future. “I still do not understand to what I owe this pleasant surprise, my dear.”

Elizabeth sighed, and shifted a bit so that her head rested more comfortably on his shoulder. “Is it terribly silly of me to say that I have missed you?”

He pondered this for a moment. “I cannot honestly call it silly, as I have felt much the same. Not that we haven't been frequently in company, but it's not the same as being alone and able to hold you and speak to you as I please.”

“I have been trying to find a polite way to steal some time with you for the past week.”

“Had you not seemed so occupied with your sister's situation, I may have stolen you away without regard to politeness on several occasions.”

She sighed again, though this time it sounded significantly less content. “I have no idea what to do about that situation, Fitzwilliam. I am happy that she is happy right now, but what if he loses interest again? It took her so very long to regain her spirits after November. It pains me to speak ill of your friend, but how can we be sure he is to be trusted?”

Mr. Darcy—no, he was Fitzwilliam, here, with his arms full of his perfect Elizabeth—Fitzwilliam was sorely tempted to gather her close to him and kiss the worried crease from between her eyes, but to do so would be to deny the justice of her concerns. He contented himself with a brief caress of the hair at the nape of her neck, relishing the warmth of skin beneath his fingertips, before answering. “I wish I could offer you some sort of reassurance, but all I can swear is that I have never known him to be malicious. I will talk to him, and try to impress upon him the import of his actions. I will--”

Elizabeth pressed her fingers to his lips. “Forgive me. Concerned as I may be about the happiness of a most beloved sister, I certainly did not attempt to spare you fretting over estate business because I wanted you to worry over family issues instead. Those two will work things out between themselves or not, and no interference from you or I will be likely to make any difference.”

He grasped her wrist, preventing her hand's removal. “In that case...” he drew her finger into his mouth, noting with pleasure the way her colour deepened and her eyes dilated as he scraped his teeth softly over the fleshy pad. How could he resist repeating such an experiment with the other four digits in his possession? And how could he fail to notice when her breathing deepened, and the effect it had on the neckline of her gown? His hand reached out, almost of its own accord, to cup her breast, and his lips went to the base of her throat, as if to capture the short gasp that arose from there. He thought, vaguely, that he was standing on the threshold of some perilous realm, that he ought to retreat before it was too late, but then she twisted in his arms, and he felt her fingers at the fastening of his breeches, and then beneath his smallclothes, and then it was all he could do to keep from thinking or feeling anything at all. He desperately wanted to stop her, to tell her that he would never ask her to degrade herself like that, but before he could form the words, she had drawn him into her mouth and he had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from reaching for her. And before he could manage to remind himself that this was Elizabeth, and no matter how often he might have thought about such things they simply were not done, not like this, he felt the familiar throb of release overtake him and then in spite of all his intentions his hands were tangled in her hair and all he could think of was how small and fragile she appeared.

Hate himself though he surely would come morning, he had never seen anything more beautiful.

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