By Trial and Error

By Michele V.

Jump to new as of October 22, 1999
Jump to new as of October 30, 1999

Author's Note: This is almost my first time posting here, and my first story on this board, though I've been shamelessly lurking since its inception! This story is a sequel to Favors Returned, which has now been archived here (Thank you Ann!). It was started around four months ago and is still nowhere near complete, but since I've written up to the time when John Barrow is reunited with Bingley and Darcy, I thought some folks might enjoy reading at least up to that point. Beyond the reunion I can't promise anything, though this prologue does offer some hints of things to come. Aside from being notoriously slow, my plot is still constantly shifting! Thanks to my sister Carole H for being the 'idea lady', to Tenby for being such a wonderful sounding board, and to Kathlyn for 'resurrecting' John and Arabella, and keeping them so well occupied.

Prologue

Posted on Sunday, 21 March 1999

The gentleman prepared for a journey. All final arrangements had been made, and the last of his accouterment was very nearly complete. After dismissing his valet in preemptory fashion, he turned to face the mirror before him. Admiring his reflection, he noted with no small amount of pride that at the age of forty-five he was still fit, and wore his clothing remarkably well. Stepping closer to the mirror, he attended to more minute ministrations, smoothing away an invisible crease, and brushing aside imagined specks of lint. Going through the physical motions with a curious feeling of detatchment, he was aware that his actions were small and vain. But such frivolous habits did not accurately define him. His mind was sober enough. Sober, indeed! And no one who truly knew him, knew the person he had become, could ever call him a trivial man.

After a brief, almost imperceptible pause, he reached for an immaculate square of cloth that lay draped across his dressing table. In methodical fashion he took it up, placed it carefully round the neck of his fine linen shirt and, with slender, delicate fingers, saw to the tying of a perfect cravat knot. This part of his morning ritual required the assistance of no one, indeed he would have been unaccountably angry if interrupted. There was but one other person he'd ever trusted to complete the task properly, and she was gone. His dearest friend. The love of his life.

In a fortnight's time she would be dead three and twenty years, and for the same length of time he'd fixed the blame firmly on himself. It was all due to his own cowardice. His own selfish stupidity. He had not been man enough to marry her in the first place and, after making his vows to another, not selfless enough to set her free. An honorable life, even one founded in poverty, was all she'd ever wanted. By using her own affectionate heart as his weapon, he'd deprived her of even that small wish.

But he'd been repaid in good measure for these actions. To this day he harvested the fruits of his foolish youth, in direct proportion to what bounty had been sown. And his storehouses were full. Within the past year they'd been filled to overflowing, all thanks to the conduct of his second son. It could only be hoped that this journey into Derbyshire might help to undo some of the damage, if only for his daughter's sake.

Dearest Moriah... A smile came to his lips as he thought of his youngest child, the one bright spot in his life. She combined his better side with her mother's iron will, and by her sheer strength of character could goad him into a better frame of mind. He gladly played lieutenant to her general, and no order went unanswered. His love for her knew no bounds.

And then there are my sons... His smile faded as he thought of Charles and Edward. Such waste! Dissipation and avarice. Disappointment embodied, both of them. And there was nothing left to be done about it.

Gradually the man's countenance underwent yet another transformation, this time subtle, unreadable, as his mind turned in one inevitable direction, And then there is one other...

"Hold still! I need to tie this last..."

By holding her close he was making this difficult, even more so as he leaned over to silence her with a kiss. The young woman, completely disarmed and distracted from her purpose, found herself lost in the moment before finally, reluctantly, breaking away.

"How can you expect me to tie this properly if you will not let me attend to it?"

An alternative proposition, whispered near her temple, made her flush with embarrassment, "Really sir! The carriage is awaiting us this quarter hour!" Another whispered proposal, more creative than the first, rendered her helpless with laughter. Seizing her source of delight and vexation firmly round his middle, several moments passed, with her face pressed against his waistcoat, as she struggled to regain some semblance of composure. This would be difficult, considering the lingering attentions she received. Lips caressed her auburn curls, and his hands were slowly traveling. Her mirth-filled laughter suddenly gave way, as other feelings once again came to the fore.

Finally, with a gasp, she shook her head and pushed her husband away. Looking up she saw, fixed firmly in place, that certain smile upon his face, the one bespeaking innocence and artlessness. She met that look with an unyielding one of her own, till his blameless facade passed to something resembling contrition. And in this manner John Thomas Barrow allowed Arabella, his bride of eight incomparable weeks, to resume her nearly forgotten task, one formerly entrusted to himself alone, the completion of the perfect cravat knot.

This interlude, brief and sweet, served as a respite for them both, an excuse to dwell on something other than what they prepared for. A long journey lay ahead and, though neither one gave voice to the thought, they both faced it with something approaching dread. But to varying degrees. Arabella was soon to make her first real entrance into society, yet she was far more concerned for her husband, for while she simply faced the unknown, John's task was much more daunting. Somehow he must attempt to mend severed cords of friendship frayed by years of separation, and Arabella could somehow sense that in her husband's mind the fault, and the task, was his alone. And so, after tying his cravat and smoothing his coat, she gave his hand one last reassuring squeeze before they quit the security of their bedchamber, their suite, their hallway, their home. The carriage outside waited to take them into Derbyshire.

Chapter 1

Posted on Wednesday, 24 March 1999

His apprehension loomed larger than Pemberley.

An opening in the trees afforded the first glimpse of their destination, and if anything it seemed even more grand than John's youthful memories of it. With a subtle winter palate of browns, grays, icy blues, and wheat tones serving as backdrop, Pemberley now seemed to occupy an even larger share of the clearing on the rising ground to the left of them. A swiftly running stream kept it close company. The rapid course of that runlet was readily discernible though still distant, its restive, shimmering surface reflecting the wintry glare of a frigid sun.

John marveled at the fact that, whatever the time or season, the original intention of Pemberley's builders was always fulfilled. A person arriving there felt overwhelmed by the scale and scope of both edifice and nature. A person arriving there felt awe. And as that great house grew in size with every turn of the carriage's wheels, Barrow somehow felt himself growing smaller.

Seated next to John was Arabella and, in contrast to her husband, her unease was swiftly giving way to excitement. She had never in her life seen anything like the sight before her, and was almost childlike in her wide-eyed wonderment. Without realizing it, she drew a sharp intake of air, "It's like a palace, John! And the grounds are so... so...." She shook her head, "Alas, I cannot think in such grand terms." There was almost a tone of wistful melancholy to her voice, but as she turned to face her husband her eyes were sparkling, teasing, "And you say you visited here as a boy? You're certain it wasn't the cobbler's cottage down the lane?"

Her levity was contagious, and John found himself relaxing somewhat despite his discomfiture. He glanced at Arabella with an amused expression, "I'm inclined to agree with you. I've most certainly confused the two," Lifting his head once again, he returned his attention to the scene still visible over his wife's shoulder, "In truth, my love, after so many years it seems almost a dream."

For the next quarter hour they rode on in relative silence, lulled into hushed anticipation by another change of scenery. As they descended into a valley, a thick growth of wood had come up around them, bare branches forming a prickly canopy which dappled the sunlight streaming through it. Mesmerized by the calming, hypnotic effect of shifting light and shadow, there was but little time to prepare for what came next, as an abrupt turning in the road afforded them yet another, even more breathtaking aspect. Bright sunlight now intruded as the dense hardwood forest gave way on both sides of the passage, revealing a wide expanse of lawn on the hill now directly in front of them. Clusters of mature oak and chestnut were scattered about in uncontrived yet majestic array, the size and virility of those noble trees providing a masculine counterpoint to the gentle, feminine swell of the land. Channeled swiftly through a rugged, rigorous course, the chattering stream could now be heard, even at this distance, as it tumbled over its rocky bed. The overall effect was that of unaffected beauty exuding strength and power. And in the midst of it all stood Pemberley.

"Oh....." Arabella's hands flew to her face, her voice barely a whisper, "I've never seen anything like it.... " She wondered at the thought of a shopkeeper's daughter gaining admittance to such a place, and for the first time Arabella grew absolutely silent, momentarily intimidated as Pemberley wove it's spell. But then her natural mischief surfaced once again. She lifted the hem of her glove and glanced at her wrist, "Do you suppose they'll have someone posted at the gate to check for signs of genteel bloodlines? I would very much hate to be turned away and leave you to continue on alone."

Barrow's eyes crinkled as he smiled. He took Arabella's gloved hand and enveloped it in both his own, "In all likelihood Bella, I'll be the one sent packing. I only ask that you think of me from time to time during the course of your stay here."

"Well, I think they will need a standing army to separate us, armed as we are with trunks and band boxes," Arabella's lips tipped upward in an elfin grin, "What say you we storm the palace, my love?"

John had never been more glad to be on Arabella's side. With the selfless intention of boosting morale, he leaned over to properly salute his fellow soldier. Military exercises of this sort occupied the remaining quarter hour till they neared the gate.

And Pemberley's spell was broken.

Chapter 2

Posted on Sunday, 28 March 1999

That man must belong to this house.

Intuitively Arabella knew which one was their host, even before Darcy broke away from the small assemblage that had gathered in the elegant anteroom to greet them. Even before that tall, imposing figure made his deliberate, methodical way towards them, with his hand extended in welcome. But he is still just a man after all... Arabella reminded herself, several times over, as she bowed her curtsy of introduction. What followed seemed pleasant enough, with the expected inquiries as to their well being, and the nature of the long journey which brought them here. She could not help but notice though, that there seemed to be something else... Is it merely reserve? Her husband had described their host as having a measure of that quality in his nature. Even so, it seemed more complex than that. There was no underlying hostility, yet she sensed a hesitancy, a holding back. Whatever it was, this Mr. Darcy seemed noticeably guarded in his actions towards her husband. Barrow had told her that this might be so, and had also informed her of the reason for it.

Arabella knew all there was to know of the chance meeting between these two men which had happened months ago. John's only wish at the time had been to perform an anonymous service to an old friend, someone he'd long looked up to with the highest degree of admiration and respect. In his role as 'Mr. John Blevins', private investigator of the very first order, John had been disguised as a pauper reeking of gin and, to make matters worse, had been meddling in Mr. Darcy's sensitive personal affairs without his knowledge, much less his consent. Under those circumstances they'd met quite by accident, and John was certain he'd been recognized. Now, that gentleman's current behavior seemed confirmation. There was a subtle tension in the air. Under her hand Arabella felt the slight tightening of a muscle in her husband's arm. He sensed it as well.

Another man followed close behind Darcy, almost bounding, with a natural exuberance that was pleasant to behold. Where their host was reticent, this gentleman seemed all friendliness and ease. This must be Bingley! Arabella could not help but smile. He was exactly as John had described to her, apparently unchanged from the boy her husband had, at one time, loved almost as a brother. Yet Arabella sensed something here as well. Though obvious in his happiness, it was not untinctured. At the very least, a shadow of something... Is it concern? Perhaps a hint of sadness... creased the brow of a face that kept no secrets.

Arabella loved her husband deeply, but was well aware of the way he was made. She knew that John's portrait was the complete opposite of his friend. He is secretive by nature, and keeps secrets for a living! At times even I despair of ever truly knowing him. But Arabella's instincts seldom erred. She sensed that John should trust these men, and could only hope that her husband would do what was required of him.

After meeting her husband's former school mates she and John were introduced to their wives who, up until this point had been standing quietly apart, observing the unfolding scene before them. What shock Arabella received when, after turning to face them, she realized she had met these ladies once before, though in a much more humble setting. She wondered if they would own up to it. But any misgivings she might have felt were quite simply thrown away when, upon being introduced to Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Mrs. Charles Bingley, recognition and pleasure lit their faces.

"Mrs. Barrow, were you not staying with Mrs. Tillison in Meryton during her illness last year?"

"Indeed I was Mrs. Darcy. She is... was... my aunt," Arabella ventured to be bold, "I remember you well, madam. Both you and Mrs. Bingley came to call on her while I was there, though you were both known by a different name at the time.

"Yes indeed! And so were you I think."

This statement lead to a discourse, initiated by Elizabeth, on the relative ease and merit of exchanging one name for another by means of matrimony. Which was in turn capped by the observation, made by Arabella, that women in general would do well to choose their names wisely. Elizabeth, seeing a possible kindred spirit, gathered Arabella on one arm and her sister Jane on the other. The three wives wandered off from their husbands, leaving those gentlemen to stare after them in silence and wonder. Soon known to each other by their first names, the ladies continued to converse with the ease and flow of old friends, till dinner was announced.

Carefully planned seating arrangements were thrown down in favor of spontaneous ones. The ladies, in light of their having so much in common to talk about, had grouped themselves at one end of the table. The gentlemen, hoping they would find common ground, and greatly missing their feminine counterparts, reluctantly clustered themselves at the other end. Each of them, in turn, made valiant attempts to communicate.

"Well. It's been a long while, hasn't it?"

"Yes indeed! Imagine... seven years.... soon to be eight!"

"Amazing what a... lengthy period of time that is, really." John firmly believed in the truth of his words and, in general, felt that another seven years had passed since their sitting down. Feeling somewhat ill-used and abandoned, Barrow hazarded a glance at his wife, who seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, despite his predicament. But how could he possibly begrudge her? His wife loved society, and he loved his wife. So, checking a sigh, John resolved to... Buck up, and be done with it!

Bingley, the one most ill at ease with the general feeling of awkwardness, and most desirous of breaking their impasse, thought he'd finally found a safe topic for discussion. He waded once more into conversational waters, "I will have to write that fellow Blevins again to thank him. The man is a wonder! Indeed, he must know everyone's whereabouts, for he was able to accomplish in no time what Darcy and I failed to do in a year. I would recommend his services to anyone," after a short pause, during which he continued to ponder that man's abilities, he observed, "Although I don't think he's much of a businessman. Twice I sought his assistance, and twice there was no charge."

Up until their arrival John, on occasion, continued to entertain the foolish hope of keeping his choice of profession, and other personal matters, unknown to his friends. Now, greatly alarmed by this line of discussion, he could only hope that he might be allowed to reveal himself someplace other than the dining table. Looking over at Bingley, John was relieved to see him in earnest. He had not yet made the connection. However, a glance in Darcy's direction saw that man staring intently back at him, though nothing was said. In fact their host soon changed the subject, and the arrival of their first course gave everyone something upon which to center their attention and energies. After a leisurely progression of myriad, impeccably prepared dishes their meal was adjourned, and a short while thereafter the gentlemen, separating themselves from the ladies, retired to the library. And there, with the generous assistance of time and good liquor, some slight progress was made.

Chapter 3A

Posted on Friday, 2 April 1999

Sitting in various attitudes of complete, even ungainly repose, the three friends engaged in brandy enhanced contemplation. Though they were giving it their best, it would seem that seven years times three, twenty-one years total, might just require more than two full bottles of spirits, and one day's worth of companionship to discuss and digest. They had all, by unspoken agreement, assigned topics of solemn hue to a gradual approach, limiting their discourse to general subjects. The current political scene, news from Town, and the occasional, neutral, Eton remembrance were hashed and re-hashed with a vengeance.

It was fortunate for all that Bingley recalled another area of common ground. Well over an hour ago they had followed his lead, and happily shifted their topic to that most recent, felicitous, change in their lives. Such a subject naturally demanded not only speech, but a great deal of reflection as well; and now these three pagans sat in mute fellowship, each one paying silent homage to his own goddess of choice. As though acknowledging their supplicants, the faintest strains of silvery laughter could be heard drifting down from Mount Olympus. After an appropriate period of veneration, one of the faithful dared venture to break the silence.

"What do you suppose they're talking about?" Bingley had somehow managed to remain balanced on the very edge of his chair, his solemn countenance in stark contrast to a somewhat flushed complexion. He had lifted his glass in fair measure.

"Don't get your hopes up Charles, they're not talking about us. They're not even thinking of us," this from Darcy.

"But I think it's quite possible that they are," was John's reply, "The question is, in what light are they holding us?"

After giving it some thought, Darcy conceded with a smile, "Point well taken. I've heard an unaccountable amount of laughter coming from that general direction. I'm not at all certain that bodes well."

"You don't suppose they're..." Bingley's perch grew even more precarious as he leaned forward to speak.

"Do take care, Bingley! Sit back, I beg you. And in answer to your query, I suspect they're comparing notes and, I would imagine, finding us equally diverting. To make matters worse, the three of us are fairly sloshed, you know. We're going to have to make a reappearance at some point in time, and I'm afraid our condition won't help to swing prevailing opinion in our favor."

"I am not sloshed, John, nowhere near it! Speak for yourself if you can't hold your liquor."

Spoken with amiable conviction by Bingley, but rendered much less convincing when he chose that precise moment to loose his seat, and fall with a crash to the floor. John, seated closest to him, was at his side in an instant, helping him to his feet. With his arm around Bingley' shoulders he gently maneuvered him back into his seat.

"Are you all right Charles?" Concern tinged Barrow's voice at the expression on Bingley's face; a moment longer and he understood. One glance confirmed that both shared the same distant memory.

"It was Robert Winslow, wasn't it?"

"Yes it was," John nodded slowly, "You came to my defense."

"He pushed me down, and you picked me up again. On the way to our rooms we met Darcy for the first time. My nose was bleeding."

"Copiously." Barrow's smile was sad and knowing. He was well aware of the direction his friend was taking. Bingley was silent for a while longer before asking the inevitable.

"Why did you leave?"

"Bingley." Spoken as warning Darcy, who up till now had been silent, felt he must intervene.

"This is a question I've asked for seven years Darcy! I will have my answer!"

"Give him time Charles!" But Darcy's second warning fell on deaf ears.

"You were my closest friend, yet you left without explanation. A note slipped under my door. A piece of paper that may as well have been blank, for all the comfort it brought!"

With alarm, John saw Bingley wipe his eyes with his sleeve. He would have preferred anything, even outright anger, to this. Seven years ago his decision had seemed sound, even disinterested. Seven years ago he had allowed himself to believe that his absence would not be keenly felt by anyone. Now, sitting across from him was first hand proof of just how wrong he'd been, and how much pain his actions had caused. He would prolong it no longer. This was the time.

"Bingley," John's voice was subdued, "I had to leave. I allowed myself no other choice."

"But you were vindicated! Edward Thorne was..."

"The Honorable Edward was, and still is, an avaricious fool, destined to fertilize some poor plot of ground before his time. No my friend, Edward had very little to do with it, though I will admit my actions were calculated to grieve someone closely connected to him."

The question was written on both their faces.

"Let me explain myself. I owe at least this much to you. To both of you," John paused for a moment, lost in thought. A sound crossed his lips, what might have been a laugh had it not been so bitter, "You know, my Bella... Arabella... is so wise. She has advised me on numerous occasions to season my words with care, since I so often find myself in the position of having to eat them. Well my friends, this is a particularly unsavory dish."

Considering the amount of liquid they'd all consumed John's throat felt unaccountably parched, and he spoke his next words with difficulty, "Several months ago I made a vow never to mention this name again, and up until now I never thought there'd be reason to break it," The moment he'd dreaded most had arrived, "Edward and I share something in common. Lord Thorne is my father."

Shocked silence followed, and lasted for a disconcertingly long period of time during which John struggled to continue, "By leaving Eton I thought I might cause him pain, and spare you both the same should it ever have become public knowledge."

Looking at Barrow with empathetic eyes, Darcy could see his obvious distress. Like John, he too was by nature a private man, and well understood what this revelation must have cost him. His heart went out to the young man who, several moments after the fact, still suffered in silence. Knowing that Barrow now needed some kind of response, some sort of reassurance from his companions, Darcy ventured forth to break the impasse.

Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms, and said with studied nonchalance, "Well Bingley, that explains it. I always told you he had noble bearing."

John quickly looked up to judge Darcy's meaning and, seeing only good will, gave his friend a brief smile of silent thanks. A major hurdle was crossed, and the ice remained partly broken. The next half hour or so was spent in easy, if somewhat disjointed, conversation. Bingley was fueled by another full bumper of brandy.

"You don't know how relieved I am to finally see you. And you look well John. Very well indeed! For a fact, I'd do anything if you would just lend me your man to tie my cravat," Stifling a yawn, Bingley turned towards Darcy to make a point. Since there weren't many occasions when his friend was so obviously in the wrong, not even extreme exhaustion (or significant inebriation) would steal this opportunity, "Well Darcy, it seems your fears were unfounded after all." Turning to John by way of explanation he continued, "Our gloomy friend saw a drunken pauper in London a few months back. He thought it was you."

Chapter 3B

Posted on Friday, 2 April 1999

They would soon need to retire for the evening. A comparison of pocket watches to the sturdy timepiece on the mantle confirmed that it was well into the early hours of the morning. The ladies had indeed been patient with them, as it was now long past time for bed. Bingley, most in need of restoration, made the first move in that direction.

"I'm terribly drunk, John."

"I know it my friend."

"I'd better be off to bed, else you'll both need to carry me up. I'll see you fellows in the morning," Bingley rose shakily to his feet, waving off assistance, "Both of you, I hope," he glanced pointedly at John, "No more slipping off again?"

John smiled affectionately at Charles, and slowly shook his head, "I promise."

"Good. For I'll be deuced if I let another seven years separate us," Bingley made his way to the door and started to open it when he suddenly realized, "Oh dear lord! I suppose I must first go see the ladies and take my leave. I think my Jane will not be pleased." and with that Bingley quit the room.

The door had not yet fully closed behind Bingley when John felt the eyes on the back of his head. He slowly turned to face Darcy, and saw at once that his suspicions were confirmed. There was unfinished business between the two of them, and there'd be no squirming out of it.

With his brow raised in inquiry, Darcy found himself smiling. Even as a small boy, Barrow would sometimes have the habit of pulling a hand through his hair to signal his disquiet. And now, for that very obvious reason, the man before him seemed remarkably like that small boy. Darcy resisted the temptation to temper his approach accordingly.

"But it hasn't been seven years for us, has it John? Closer to six months, I believe. Come. Sit by me."

It was not a request.

With his brow deeply furrowed, John removed himself to a chair immediately adjacent to Darcy. Though generously cushioned, there was little comfort to be found in it. Barrow felt as though he sat before judge and jury combined. His unease was acute, and but little relieved by Darcy's smile.

"It was you in that hallway, wasn't it?"

Barrow nodded warily, "Yes."

"Without requiring an explanation for your presence there, let me just tell you a little story," Darcy's smile grew wide, almost conspiratory, as he inched his chair closer, "Late last summer I had occasion to meet, several times, with an esteemed old friend of mine by the name of Wickham. You do remember George Wickham, do you not? My father's steward's son?"

Another cautious nod from John.

"Well, I don't suppose you would have any reason to know this, but I am now connected to him. He's married to my wife's youngest sister."

This was met with silence.

Despite his growing irritation with John's unflagging reticence Darcy, stifling a desire to shake his companion soundly, continued on with his tale, "Now as you probably remember, my brother-in-law is, in terms of externals, generally thought to possess a pleasing countenance. And my initial visit with him served to confirm not only the presence of his more scheming, vicious tendencies, but also the veracity of that opinion. So I was understandably surprised on meeting with him the very next day to find that, overnight, his features had undergone a most remarkable rearrangement, with certain components occupying a much larger proportion of his facade than they were formerly in the habit of doing. Even more amazing was the fact that he seemed determined to give me the credit for it, cursing me soundly for setting my 'damned foreign lackey' on him. I had no earthly idea to what he tended. But during the course of our conversation it became clear to me that he'd been prevented from wiggling out of... a particular arrangement we'd been making. Having no 'foreign lackey' of my own, accursed or otherwise, I've often had occasion to wonder, and most importantly, to thank, whoever it was that provided such a useful article."

John's relief was evident, though a combination of amusement and embarrassment made a muddle of his features, "His name is Bruno."

For the first time in their acquaintance, Barrow saw straight on to Darcy's molars; that man's head was thrown fully back as he roared with laughter. Finally, after quite some time had passed in this fashion, Darcy quieted himself, wiped his eyes and extended his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blevins."

Chapter 4

Posted on Saturday, 17 April 1999

Soon thereafter, all followed Bingley to bed, but the evening was not yet over. In the privacy of three separate bedchambers, the events of the day played out one last time.

"I like him."

Responding to Darcy's inquiry, Elizabeth drew close to her husband before elaborating further, "I like him very well indeed. There is something about him... perhaps his eyes... that marks him as being a man of character. Yes," after giving it further thought, she nodded her head decisively, "Definitely the eyes. They go such a long way in forming first impressions, you know. Have you ever noticed this Fitzwilliam? Have you ever taken the time to give serious consideration to a person's eyes?" This question was asked as she turned two large, dark, finely-lashed, expressive specimens to meet her husband's own.

"I've had occasion..." After Darcy's heart restarted itself, he suddenly found himself feeling unaccountably jealous, and wondered what impression his own eyes might have made with a rather opinionated young lady, a certain Miss Bennet, in the early days of their acquaintance. As though reading his mind, his wife continued on in this vein. "It would have saved us both a world of trouble if I could only have noticed yours early on."

"Oh? And what prevented you?" As though anticipating her answer, Darcy's lips curved ever so slightly upward, in the earliest beginning of a wry smile.

"Well sir, your nose was set at such a peculiar angle at the time, that my view of them was effectively blocked. It was quite some time before I was allowed to notice your eyes," This sentiment was softened somewhat by the application of a kiss, "I'm so glad that you did, eventually, place your features more conveniently," Her palm cupped his cheek, "They are lovely. Your eyes I mean." This last sentiment was almost whispered, as a beatific smile overspread her face. "Now," As she propped herself up on one arm, "About your friend Mr. Barrow. He's a singular person, is he not? Tell me more of him."

Realizing, with a sigh, that he must satisfy himself with what few, meager attentions he had already received this evening, Darcy accommodated his wife and spent their last waking hour discussing his friend.

"I like her!"

Charles Bingley was no stranger to the spoken word. He was generally known to be on good terms with them, and in return they would flow unimpeded, with sincere and expressive alacrity, from his lips. But at this moment, a foggy mind and a thick tongue seemed to conspire against him. With his hands propped behind his head in a valiant effort to keep the room from spinning, he felt just how great an accomplishment it was to be able to utter those few short words in answer to his wife's query. Thought exhausted and ossified, Bingley determined to elaborate further, to force his way through the fog as a favor to his wife, for Jane had made a new acquaintance and was anxious for her husband's opinion.

But while happy indeed with his lingering ability to communicate, he was made happier still by what he had to relate. Even on short acquaintance, he'd come to the conclusion that Mrs. Barrow was exactly the right sort of lady for his friend. It had taken but a few moments notice to make it plain just how well Arabella's personality complimented her husband's, giving Charles the keen satisfaction of seeing yet another of his more somber friends in an equal marriage.

This thought gave Bingley pause, as he considered the newly uncovered reason for much of John's melancholy. What an evening it had been! His own drunken outburst (And he would have plenty of time tomorrow in which to ponder that!) had led to John's confession, and the discovery of just how heavy a load his friend had chosen to bear, alone, for most of his life; a burden that Bingley's admittedly sheltered background would never allow him to fully comprehend. But, and at this he smiled, there had also been several times this evening, especially as they conversed on the subject of marriage, when Bingley had been able to detect something in John Barrow that he'd only rarely seen before. And it made him glad to see it.

Charles managed to fashion his thoughts into words, "She's good for him! I'd be willing to wager she's the reason he's almost cheerful. In all the years of our acquaintance, I never saw him so happy as now."

Jane was quietly pleased that the best, most perceptive man in the world thought so highly of her new friend. The evening had gone very well indeed, and she looked forward to the remainder of their time at Pemberley with keen anticipation.

Within two minutes time they both grew perfectly silent, peacefully engaged in the sound sleep of unclouded minds.

"I like your friends John."

Arabella answered her husband's unspoken question, "I like them both very well indeed. Though they are quite different from one another," Her fingers lightly brushed John's cheek, "Mr. Darcy is like you in some ways."

"Really?" John smiled at the notion that he might somehow have grown taller, and vastly more handsome.

Arabella took a moment to arrange her thoughts, and decide how best to express them, "Your friend did not have very much to say, at least not on this first acquaintance. Yet, if you observe Mr. Darcy closely, you'll see that he speaks to you in myriad other ways. He's an interesting puzzle I think. An eloquent man, but quietly so," she paused for a while as she considered further, "Although I would rather suspect he speaks his mind well enough when the occasion calls for it!" Arabella stopped to smile at John's raised brow, and wondered what he thought of her indirect assessment of his own character. After another brief pause she continued, "I am also firmly convinced that you could trust that man with your very life."

Shifting her body as well as her thoughts, Arabella moved closer to her husband, and on to her next appraisement, "For all his difference of character, I think the same could be said of your friend Mr. Bingley," The mere thought of that pleasant man made her smile once again, "Though tonight I think he placed you in some danger. Such an awkward time to broach the subject of Mr. Blevins! How I felt for you," Arabella's eyes reflected the empathy she so strongly felt. Reaching down, she took John's hand in her own, unconsciously comparing his long, smooth fingers with her own small, callused ones, "But he is a dear, sweet man. All trust and innocence! Have you informed them of your profession?"

Barrow flushed slightly, partly from remembrance of the fact that Bingley still did not know the truth, but also from unexpected pleasure. Arabella had noticed his misery after all, and had not abandoned him to her new acquaintances as he had feared. Will she ever cease to surprise me? He now thought of his childish petulance with some embarrassment, then, remembering that Arabella's question still hung in the air he framed his answer, "Darcy knows. In fact, he had it all figured out long before I confided in him. By that time, Bingley had already retired for the evening," John met his wife's eyes and guessed her thoughts, "I will tell Charles in the morning, and hope for his forbearance."

Their brief, and favorable, discussion of the days events had now ended, or so Arabella thought. She settled in, as was her custom, with her back to her husband's chest. His arms enveloped her and, in no time at all her eyes, heavy from the days activities, fluttered closed. Fortunately, she was not yet sleep.

"Darcy wants me to return here in November, for a hunting party, of all things."

Arabella's eyes flew open again, ready to lend assistance to her other senses in determining what her husband was about. After a moment she made the observation, "You sound as though that is not to your liking."

"Why would I want to go hunting? It's too much like... work, the only difference being the fact that my prey is generally more deserving!" With a soft rustling of the covers, Arabella turned around once again to face her husband, who had by now quickly added, "Although I do have some very fond memories of the sport."

Arabella, after turning and gathering John into her arms, drew up close to him. Her fingers traced his back as she observed him quietly. Such careful scrutiny would sometimes serve to loosen his tongue; a tender entrapment perhaps, but one used judiciously, with restraint and discretion. And on this occasion she succeeded.

"While Charles and I were still at Eton, Darcy would have us here from time to time. He taught us both to shoot, and would take us out to practice our skills in the field. I was very competitive as a boy, and determined to best them both. Eventually I did. On my last visit here... very near eight years ago... I brought down more pheasant than either of them." That remembrance was accompanied by a smile of deep satisfaction, then quickly replaced by something more sober, "But all that's changed now. I really don't have the taste for that sort of thing anymore."

After making this declaration, John looked down at his wife and was alarmed by the fact that Arabella's almond shaped eyes had yet to leave his face and, to make matters worse, her brow was now arched. The game was up. John sighed and drew a hand through his hair, his own white flag of surrender.

"I'm out of practice Bella, and will certainly make a fool of myself."

Chapter 5A

Posted on Friday, 22 October 1999, at 6 : 24 a.m.

His fortunes were destined to take another turn for the worst. Yesterday there was that broken wheel to contend with, not just a simple spoke, but the entire wheel shattered, and axle badly damaged, by an untimely rut in the road. Hudgins could not be blamed for it. They had come upon it at a turning, the path veering off quite suddenly as it wound it's way through these infernal northern hills. That misfortune set them back an entire day, as a wainwright was found, and arrangements made for repair. And now, so close to his destination, further progress had been reduced to a crawl due to an unpleasant change in the weather. Though unpleasant was not the word for it at all. Bedeviled would do nicely. Damnable more to the point.

He wrapped his muffler even more closely, crushing his flawlessly knotted cravat in the process. Tucking a second blanket securely about his legs, he resigned himself to the fact that he would most certainly arrive at Tipton's august country estate more firmly creased than unused bed linen. A poor show indeed! Had the dire nature of his thoughts not taken prominence, he might have laughed aloud at the notion of being turned away by the foppish old fool, for the sin of excessive rumpling. But there was nothing to be done about it. Warming stones, once blistering hot, had long ago grown feeble against the frigid clime. Harsh winds whipped, and the torrents sent streaming towards the carriage gave a visible indication of just what his driver was up against. Since this journey could be delayed no longer, mental note was made to give Hudgins ample compensation for his efforts.

After the passage of another hour and a half, those efforts found success. A final turn revealed the small lodge which marked the entrance to a narrow, twisting lane. This lane lead directly to Tildwell House, their final destination. By alternate means of threats and encouragement Hudgins spurred his charges onward. In seeming agreement that a speedy conclusion was in the best interests of all involved, the well-matched team of chestnut geldings soon brought their mission to its end.

"Ha! What a bloody mess you are Thorne. Look at yourself. You've enough lines on you for a fair game of draughts."

"I see you've not changed, Tipton. Still the biggest fool in England." Despite the words, obvious affection lit his face.

"And your object of envy at the moment," Sir Lawrence Tipton smoothed down the front of his waistcoat, a flamboyantly swirling brocade in bold shades of burgundy, silver, rose and black, "What do you think, eh? New tailor. If your conduct is to my liking, I'll tell you where to find him."

"Yes, by all means tell me exactly where to find this snyder, so I can go out of my way to avoid him. I have this sudden urge to sit on you Tipton, easily explained by the fact that you so greatly resemble a seat cushion... Thank you Grenville," The somber old butler carefully retrieved the last of Lord Thorne's wet articles, and bowed his exit. Additional verbal darts in store, Thorne continued, "I wish I'd known more of your fondness for wearing upholstery, Tipper. My Moriah turns out cushions by the dozen. Fire screens as well, should your taste take an even more inflammatory turn. She'd set you up splendidly. Now..." A slow smile tugged at the corners of his eyes, and gradually softened the angular planes of his face, " ...stop all your preening you old buck, and give a dying man something warm to drink."

The response was laughter, unoffended and genuine. Sir Lawrence took pleasure in entertaining this guest more than any other, and did not mind in the least that the laughter was at his own expense. And there was no doubt in his mind that this friend was in dire need of diversion.

"I don't know why I put up with such abuse. In my own home no less. And," his brow arched upward in feigned amazement, "you expect me to provide for your perpetuation as well? Grenville!"

"Sir?" The dour faced servant quietly reappeared.

"Bring tea and some refreshments. And a negus for our thirsty friend."

"Between Charles and Edward, I'd wager it's Edward again."

Though Lord Thorne's reason for coming had not been clearly outlined in the letter which preceded him, Sir Lawrence knew his friend. Their history together spanned well over three decades, back to simple childhood days at Eton. And he had spent far too many evenings in drunken commiseration with him, over one or the other of his many woes, not to know when something was afoot. It was obvious now that something disturbed him greatly. Simple, logical deduction led him to suppose that the source of Thorne's current trouble must be one of his two wayward sons. If for no other reason than his meanness and stupidity, and the consistency with which he displayed these attributes, it had to be Edward.

Lord Thorne's silence served as confirmation.

"Something particularly serious, I would imagine?"

Every trace of his earlier levity was gone. Brushing a hand through thick black hair, Lord Thorne said nothing for several moments altogether, as he quietly considered just how much he felt in common with the oak log which flared and sparked in the grate. Finally looking up to meet his friends countenance, he phrased his answer in tones which made plain the absolute truthfulness of his words.

"Deadly serious."

Chapter 5B

Posted on Friday, 22 October 1999, at 6 : 29 a.m.

The day dawned almost clear, with the occasional cloud showing every indication of early dissipation. Meanwhile, impervious to the effects of nature, the well oiled human machinery which comprised Pemberley's staff was busily anticipating, and attending to, every possible need of resident and guest. Still no one stirred from their bedchamber. But considering the fact that the master and mistress, after seeing their guests to bed, had not retired to their suite till quarter of four in the morning, an unusually late start was easily comprehended. The lingering atmospheric effects of an unusually fierce and sudden storm provided additional blankets of lethargy. Yet the vast majority of Pemberley's residents would never be found sleeping.

"No, no Janet, that will not do. To the left," Though busy as usual, Mrs. Reynolds found time to stop what she was doing, and see to the precise placement of a belated addition from the hothouse. Mr. Yates' pride and joy was showing blooms in earnest for the first time this morning, and now a small arrangement of his delicate white roses graced the sideboard. Their heady fragrance soon filled the room.

"These are absolutely lovely! The master will be very pleased to see them," With the thought in mind of securing additional blooms for a second arrangement, Mrs. Reynolds set off to find Mr. Yates, only to meet almost head on with the first of the late risers.

"Good morning! Pray excuse my haste, Mrs. Reynolds. I did not mean to plow you down."

The dignified, matronly old housekeeper could not help but smile at the thought of such a sprite-like creature bowling her over, "Good day to you ma'am. I hope you slept well?"

"Far too well, I'm afraid," her words were partly muffled by an unsuccessfully stifled yawn for, despite the lateness of the hour, Arabella Barrow was not yet fully awake.

But this was far from the norm. Industrious by nature, and molded by years of working in her father's shop, Arabella's sensibilities would rarely permit her to sleep beyond six. And there was seldom a time that saw her later than seven to breakfast. But on this morning she had lolled in bed until eight, finally forced out by a ravenous appetite, an appetite that had grown to alarming proportions in the last two weeks, and was becoming increasingly difficult to sate. Even more troublesome were the unusual cravings she'd recently acquired, for odd combinations of food. She lifted the lids of several chafing pans to see what possibilities awaited her.

"Will there be anything else, ma'am?"

Barely concealing a mischievous smile, Arabella answered in the negative, "No, thank you Mrs. Reynolds. I'll do very well I think."

Not wanting to subject that serious seeming woman to what was about to transpire, Arabella waited until Mrs. Reynolds was out the door before heaping her plate. And since John was not there to wonder, and laugh, at her choice of fare this morning, she quickly slathered her kippers with strawberry preserves, and settled down to enjoy her first course. The secretive smile she wore resembled the cat let loose in the creamery, for Arabella was almost certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was with child. Blushing becomingly, she recalled with fair accuracy when it might have come about. It was the time they learned their first joint lesson in diplomacy.

Not yet one full week into their marriage, Arabella thought to surprise her husband. The gown she'd worn to bed that evening was of exquisite, cream colored satin, and sewn in the latest mode. After John fingered the fabric appreciatively, and supposed aloud that Madame Gulaine had made it for her, Arabella corrected him. Self satisfied with her cleverness and economic turn of mind, she admitted to John that she'd made it herself. To say that Arabella was surprised by the outcome of this revelation was understatement. John had not been pleased. And giving way to his initial impulse, he'd spoken in anger.

"I did not marry a seamstress."

Momentary shock faded, and Arabella found her voice, "No John Thomas, you did not!" The use of both of her husband's Christian names was, under the circumstances, not a good sign. And true to form Arabella, whose temper could easily match Barrow's own, made it plain to John just who he had married and, in general, clarified quite a number of things to him on this occasion.

But while she might have won that battle, her husband won the war. His powers of persuasion were not insignificant. After putting his mind in order and offering his sincere apologies, he explained to Arabella that there were certain things that a woman, when living the life of a lady, simply did not do; that his only desire, and a wish well within his means, was to protect her from any effect of difficult manual toil. By tenderly kissing her callused hands during the whole of this explanation, he did much to win her over, and Arabella quickly apologized for her own harsh words.

It was then that John observed just how foolish they'd been to let a nightgown come between them.

Remembering precisely what followed her eager demonstration of concurrence, Arabella flushed scarlet and turned her thoughts back to her meal. Leave it to say that she and her husband did reach accord that night. The strength and timing of it, and her punctuality in all things, led her to the natural conclusion she now entertained. She had yet to inform John of her suspicion, preferring instead to wait till a doctor confirmed it for her. Making mental note, Arabella determined to clear away all doubts as soon as they returned to town in a fortnight. With a smug sigh, she lifted knife and fork to return to guilty pleasures.

Then, quite suddenly, the peculiar scent of strawberry kippers quarreled with the heady, sweet fragrance of freshly cut white roses. And Arabella blanched. With admirable grace and swiftness, and no time left to spare, a nimble, sprite-like creature beat hasty retreat to her bedchamber.

Chapter 6

Posted on Saturday, 30 October 1999, at 7 : 59 a.m.

"Bella... Bella... ," he whispered softly, his voice deeply shaded by fear. John continued to hold Arabella steady, long after her small frame ceased its violent heaving, "A doctor. I will send for a doctor."

"No John! Please. I feel so much better now," a variety of excuses... the wish not to disturb the Darcy household, her lack of confidence in local doctors, even the unnecessary expense of it... all tumbled out in a rush.

John turned Arabella to face him, brought a chair close and sat her down. After pouring a glass of water, which she gladly used for ablution, he dampened a cloth and wiped away all traces of her sudden illness. Finishing this task he came and knelt before her. Brushing aside a stray lock of her hair, he looked searchingly into her eyes, "You are overfull with reasoning on this subject, Mrs. Barrow. I begin to fear you are not telling me all."

Arabella observed her husband's face as it underwent a transformation. What had been written there, concern, fear, even panic, all seemed to intensify somehow, and a supposition appeared to be forming in his mind. Arabella knew then that her secret could not outlive this morning, much less a fortnight. With that she rose and took her husband's hand to guide him.

"Come with me, dearest. I do have something to tell you."

She led him to a small divan, positioned invitingly within an enveloping square of warmth and light that streamed through from a nearby window. After motioning for him to sit, she positioned herself quite comfortably on his lap and twined her arms round his neck. There, raising her lips to his ear, she shared her prediction, ripe with promise, of what change the future held in store for them.

The fear he'd felt earlier paled in comparison to what he experienced now.

"I will be a good father Arabella," John said this as much to convince himself as to reassure his wife, "In truth, aside from Sir John, I've not had very much upon which to base a model. But I promise..."

She stilled his words with a kiss. Then, after smoothing the lines of concern which still creased his brow, she sought to reassure her husband. She spoke what she knew in her heart to be true, "I married the very best of men."

"You were a better man in your youth, Thorne. Liquor was like mother's milk to you then." Tipton placed the bottle outside of his friend's reach, "Grenville!"

"An army of servants, and I'll warrant his is the only name you know! Leave the poor wretch alone, Tipton! I'll clean it up myself, for heavens sake!"

And so he did. Sweeping the table clear of the broken remains of his informal meal, sending porcelain and silver flying in the process, Lord Thomas Randolph Thorne removed the delicately embroidered cloth which covered it, and proceeded to wipe the floor clean of his recent illness. Holding the foul bundle in his hands he rose shakily to his feet, uncertain what to do next. Espying a footman standing nearby, he called him over, "Ho there!" His voice then lowered to confidential tones as he transferred his burden to more capable hands, "I can't seem to find a proper place for this." Fumbling with his purse, Lord Thorne pulled out whatever coinage might serve to sweeten the task, "There's a good man."

Tipton, seated with arms akimbo, observed the proceedings with concern. At any other time he would have found the humor in it, but this descent into misery was most inopportune, "Remember your son, Thorne. Remember why you came."

"Remember my son. Sons. Lord help me forget!" His voice was thick with drink, "I suppose it would be a sin to wish I'd never had such a thing."

Lord Thorne struggled to gain his seat again, dropping his head into his hands once he had done so. Feelings of self pity amplified by vast quantities of liquor, he continued on in the same vein, "Most times I feel more like a loaning establishment than a father. And a very poorly run banking house I might add, for I've come to expect very little return on my investments," Finally lifting his head, he met his friend's glance, "Count your blessings you're still a free man Lawrence, for when everything comes out in the wash, all they want from you is money. What were once dolls and ponies are now geldings and cyprians, but little else has changed. They only want what your money can buy. All of them.... all except Moriah."

Silence ruled for several moments, finally broken by the haunting train of his thoughts, "And I sometimes wish... "

"He's done well enough without you, Thomas. Leave it alone!" Finally disgusted with his friend's behavior, Sir Lawrence stood abruptly. Placing his hands on the arms of Lord Thorne's chair he leaned forward till mere inches separated his face from his friend's, "I've had quite enough of you Thorne. The odds are very good that Edward will make close acquaintance with a hangman soon. You will then have something new to add to your litany of misery. So, unless you want the very real disgrace of having a son hung for treason, I suggest that you sober up. Quickly."

© 1999 Copyright held by the author.

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