Silk and Ivory, Part One:


Elizabeth's hands fluttered nervously to her coif as the carriage approached Pemberley. The great house was indeed as impressive, or more so, by moonlight as by the light of day. Candles shone bright from every window, giving the house a cheery air that belied the simple life of its two sibling inhabitants. Most likely it was not so expensively lit most nights, thought Elizabeth, but put forth so for the benefit of their guests. She could hardly believe that she and the Gardiners had been so kindly invited to dinner at the grandest estate in the county-- but then remembered how little of her most recent meeting with Mr. Darcy could be considered believable. His easy manner...his great kindness to her relations, from Cheapside though the were: all spoke to an aspect of his character of which she had no knowledge. Colonel Fitzwilliam's smiling comment that his cousin was “lively enough in other places” had puzzled Elizabeth at the time, but at present managed to confound her. An inconsistent remark was a matter of one kind; an inconsistent personality was of another.

Her nervousness, she surmised, was no doubt due to a newfound desire to please Mr. Darcy, a thought Elizabeth found quite unnerving but for which she could offer up no other cause. Where before the state of her frock and the words that passed between her lips meant little to her with regard to his person, his new demeanor seemed to demand somewhat more of her. She found herself lately most discomfited by own her desire to better herself for his sake-- had not her reproof at Hunsford been intended to reform HIS character? Like the swaying tides she felt herself pushed forward by the force of his alteration, and worried most acutely of the crash to shore she felt sure to come.

To her very great surprise the man himself and his own sister stood upon the doorstep to greet the arriving party. Georgiana hugged a silky shawl about her shoulders as she stepped forward to kiss Elizabeth lightly upon her cheek. The younger girl's eyes instantly flitted to her brother for approval and found a most peculiar expression upon his countenance. His eyes met Miss Bennet's-- locked for only a moment, Georgiana could not but notice the intense exchange that seemed to form between them. Perhaps there was more to Miss Bennet than her brother had let on. Georgiana's suspicions immediately roused at what might be the understanding between this young lady and her brother. His praise for her had been genuine, but no hint had he let on of romantic regard despite her teasing questions. There was more, Georgiana decided, eyes carefully assessing Elizabeth. Ah, to have a sister at last!

Suppressing her own shiver against the cold night air, Elizabeth urged them all to hurry indoors for Georgiana's sake. With a low bow in Elizabeth's direction, Mr. Darcy obliged and took his sister's arm to lead them all to the house.

A cacophony of an entirely different sort met the party in the front hall, where Elizabeth was pleased to see Mr. Bingley in good spirits, and more pleased to answer his attentive inquiries after Jane. Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were less pleasant towards the party, but Elizabeth reminded herself that it could hardly be considered a crime to be less pleasant than Mr. Bingley, as his nature was so irrevocably jovial.

“It is, I daresay once again, Miss Bennet, such a very great and unexpected pleasure to see you here in Derbyshire.”

“Indeed it is, Sir,” responded Elizabeth politely.

“Capital!” Bingley's grin faded a shade as he managed: “May I ask again after your eldest sister?”

“I assure you, Sir, that she is quite well. I expect a letter from her tomorrow or the next.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” murmured Bingley somewhat distractedly. Caroline moved to take her brother's arm, and Darcy Georgiana's, as they all proceeded towards the dining hall.

Dinner proceeded uneventfully but most amiably, with Bingley carrying the brunt of the conversation upon his own shoulders. Elizabeth and her aunt maintained as well as they could answers to his many inquiries on many different subjects, but Georgiana's shyness, Bingley's sisters' indifference, and a most peculiar abstraction on the face of Mr. Darcy as he observed the repartee disallowed most other contributions to the exchange. A final lull settled over the table after the last dessert was served, prompting Georgiana to most meekly suggest that all retire to the drawing room, a suggestion heartily met by all.

Once they were ensconced comfortably in the drawing room silence settled over the party once more, uncomfortably this time. Georgiana could not be persuaded to favor the company with an air on the pianoforte, and if Georgiana would not, neither would Elizabeth. Miss Bingley, in turn, could not be prevailed upon if Miss Bennet would not.

“We truly ought to be going,” said Mrs. Gardiner apologetically. All stood, but in the short silence that followed a roar of rain could be heard pouring mercilessly against the house. Miss Bingley crossed quickly to the window and, pulling the drapery aside, could not keep a disappointed sigh from escaping her thin lips. Rain, indeed, fell in sheets.

“Oh dear!” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “And us in an open coach!”

She turned helplessly to her husband, who was momentarily at a loss. Scenarios turned over in Elizabeth's head-- she knew not what would become of the evening. To her shock, Mr. Darcy stepped forward.

“Please stay the night,” he said openly. “It is no trouble at all, and the roads will no doubt be dry by morning.”

“Oh--” began Elizabeth.

“We daren't,” said her aunt. “We could not put you to the trouble.”

“No indeed,” added Mr. Gardiner. “We shall call to Lampton for another coach.”

“It is no trouble,” repeated Darcy. “Guest rooms are kept most ready here, Sir. As you can imagine, this house saw its share of guests before my father's death.”

“The king stayed here once!” interjected Georgiana, voice squeaking with delight. “On his way to Scotland. I was only a babe, and was kept above stairs, but oh how I would have loved to have seen his majesty and Queen Charlotte! Papa told me that the king took quite a fancy to Mama.”

As the party was stunned into silence by the longest string of words any had known Georgiana to utter, Darcy's next muttering was all too clear: “He told me how he kept mother locked above stairs with him that night.” Finishing, Darcy realized that his words had carried and blushed scarlet, then turned his back.

Georgiana's own flush crept quickly up her face, but she rescued herself.

“You must stay!” she said quickly, rushing across the room and pulling one of the bellpulls. “I've rung Reynolds. There! And you shall have the room that was Queen Charlotte's, Miss Bennet!”

At this Elizabeth at last allowed a bubble of laughter to spring forth. “The chamber of a Queen!” she cried. “How could I refuse?”


* * * * *


Darcy himself escorted Elizabeth to her chamber, indeed one of the finest in the house. Georgiana most graciously led the Gardiners further down the hall as Darcy acquainted Elizabeth with the available amenities.

“I must remember to compliment Georgiana as a hostess,” Elizabeth remarked, mind wandering from the offered charms of the sidebasin.

“I am certain she would be most pleased to receive your assurances,” replied Darcy, turning to leave. Elizabeth strove to keep his company a moment longer in a sudden, desperate bid to unlock the secret of his regard.

“Mr. Darcy!” she called, startling even herself as he spun to face her. Eagerness to serve her shone in his eyes, causing her to blush and look away. “Er...” she searched for some reason, any, to keep him near. She managed at last: “Wherever did that lovely fan come from?” gesturing towards a fine ivory fan that lay on the dressing table.

Darcy's face became inscrutable.

“Odd that you should ask,” he replied. “That belonged to Queen Charlotte. She forgot it here-- it had fallen beneath the table, and she never asked after it.”

He strode to the table and picked up the fan, held it like a foreign object, clicked it open and closed. And then, impulsively, thrust it into Elizabeth's hands.

“Keep it,” he said quickly.

“Sir--” Elizabeth immediately objected. “It belongs here.”

“Would you have me put it in a glass case in the parlor? No; it belongs in the hand of a lovely woman. Take it.”

He looked almost as though he were in pain as he watched Elizabeth slowly open the fan and flutter it before her face. It truly was a lovely object, carved of ivory and stretched with exotic painted silk of the lightest rose hue. She met his eyes, face half-hidden by the lovely fan, and arched one eyebrow coquettishly, mimicking a brash French courtesan to humorous effect.

At her joke a wide grin spread over Darcy's face, a boyish grin so unlike the hints of smiles she had heretofore seen on his face. He looked so innocent, so utterly happy, that Elizabeth was startled out of her mockery and dropped the fan to her side. Captivated, Darcy grinned a moment longer before remembering himself and appearing most uncomfortable. Elizabeth again looked away, eyed the floor, the wallpaper, anywhere but the imposing figure before her. Through downcast lashes she saw his foot move-- he took a step toward her, she felt him grow nearer and anticipated his embrace. As she realized what was sure to happen she knew she desired it; to be held by him was suddenly her heart's most fond desire. Strong arms to encircle her, to whisk away the mystery that shrouded his affections and replace it with the plain, simple truth of his love for her. Emptiness gripped her, then, when he halted himself and with a muttered, “Forgive me,” turned and was gone.

With tears in her eyes, Elizabeth replaced the fan on the dressing table and sat heavily to ready herself for bed.


* * * * *


In brandy he found no answers. In the finest dark port from his father's locked cabinet no explanation could be found. In the blur of drink and melancholy that gripped him, Darcy could see no solution to the most cruel and painful loneliness that rended his heart-- save her. There was no solution at hand but the one that slept above stairs in the second-best bedroom: Elizabeth Bennet.

How she had mocked him, desire in her eyes! The rose fan had echoed the blush in her cheeks as her eyes, sparkling with mirth, had met his and made him the happiest of men for the shortest of instants. But she was not his, despite that moment's play. A fleeing Daphne, she had cast that gaze over her shoulder even as she spurned his love. She had refused him most harshly, rejected his suit most cruelly, and now crossed his emotions this way and that like so much embroidery thread upon her needle!

But no, he thought. The fault was his. She was expressing to him, in one way or another, how she felt, and he was once again blinded by his own assumptions. To assume too much regard in her had been his mistake in Kent; to assume too little could prove his undoing now. He scanned his memory for some hint besides that coquettish flutter, but found only his own schoolboy impressions of their encounters. He had noticed the tilt of her head as they spoke, the meeting of their eyes across the dinner table, the clasp of her hand in his as he handed her into a carriage. But there was too little to be sure! And far too much to allow him to forget her. All rational thought he drowned in drink and the curses he flung upon his own wretched head.

He stumbled to the door, determined to put his pain to bed for the night. Mad drunk and all alone, he thought, >i>I am no sight to be seen by anyone. Ha! I doubt even Bingley could refrain from scolding me, should he see me now.

The stairs were some small obstacle, but careful concentration guided him slowly upwards. Head reeling, he clutched the rail at the top of the stairs to steady himself before he turned towards his own chamber. But wait-- her door, directly before him. Perhaps, if he tried, he could hear her soft breathing. At this moment, he thought, nothing could make me happier.

Shaking hands clasped the heavy doorframe, and his ear he pressed to the oak of the chamber door. A loud noise took him by surprise and a dull pain registered somewhere-- he must have knocked his head against the door. No matter, he thought, I barely felt it; why should she hear it?

All too soon, however, soft footsteps approached the door from the other side.

“Hello?” a voice said softly.

Darcy knew there was no chance in heaven of his saying anything intelligent, so he kept his mouth firmly shut and endeavored not to make a sound. His foot, which suddenly slid from beneath him, had other plans. The scuffle and clutch at the door frame were enough to rouse Elizabeth's suspicions.

The door slowly swung open and Elizabeth's glowing face could be seen, roused from sleep, eyes wide and hair a halo about her lovely face. She wore a castoff nightshift of Georgiana's, far too long but certainly slim about the middle, sweet breasts pressed tight against the thin fabric. It was all Darcy could do not to fall at her feet, and not only because he was drunk.

“Good Lord!” she whispered. “Mr. Darcy!”

His own eyes he raised to hers, his face a silent plead for her mercy.

“I could smell the alcohol from the other side of the door,” Elizabeth said, clearly no stranger to such immoderate indulgences. “At first I thought it might be Mr. Hurst, gotten lost.”

At this it was all Darcy could do to scoff rather than be sick. Hurst! That foul man. His own situation suddenly took on the starkest of reality and his head fell against the frame with a sickening thud that was no match for the sickening hatred he harbored toward himself.

“Do be careful!” Elizabeth hissed, popping her head out into the hall to see that no one else was witness to this most surprising turn of events. With a sigh she took hold of Darcy's arm and pulled him inside. “Here, Mr. Darcy, come inside and sit down.”

He followed, how willingly she was unsure. She guided him to a soft armchair near the window and let him fall into it, then tugged the window open and fanned the fresh air towards him with her hand. He appeared to have fallen asleep-- no questions could be asked him tonight, nor could, she suspected, the impropriety of his presence be currently remedied. Certain that he would find his own way as drunken men usually do, Elizabeth sneaked back across the room and under the coverlet of her bed, toes cold and eyes alert.

He did not stir. For nigh on an hour she watched him, his dark curls haloed against the moonlit windowpane. At last her eyes closed, her exhausted features unable to keep their vigil. She let down her guard and tumbled away into dreams.

Icy hands on her back awoke her, she knew not how much later. Shocked from slumber, she sat up in a panick to find none other than Mr. Darcy attempting to burrow his way into bed next to her. She berated herself furiously for having left her watch over him, and indeed for ever having let him inside the room. As he pushed harder at her back, she realized that he was mumbling something which took her a moment to interpret.

“Lovely Lizzy,” he was saying mutteringly, “Let me in.”

“This is hardly proper!” was all she could muster, nevertheless moving aside as he pushed his way further and further beneath the bedclothes. “Oh!” she said as his wandering hand reached her thigh.

At this Elizabeth decided that the only possible way to extricate herself from this most awkward situation would be to extricate herself from the bed itself. Her fitful tugs at the bedcovers that pinned her down, however, yielded little result save muttered protestations from Mr. Darcy that she was rocking the bed. His weight pinned the bedclothes on one side, and on the other they were firmly tucked beneath the heavy mattress.

“Oh dear,” was all Lizzy could manage under the circumstances. Resorting to physical rejection of his person had been far down her list of last resorts, second only to sleeping on the balcony and dousing the man with the contents of the washbasin. To her dismay she found it necessary to place her small hands against his large frame and push firmly lest he squash her beneath him.

If she had an effect at all, it was not readily discernible. His lumbering form heaved closer and closer to her, threatening to push her off the bed entirely and into a suffocating cocoon of the well-tucked blankets. Another approach, perhaps.

“Mr. Darcy, let me through!” she commanded as sternly as she could manage. He must have been dead drunk to commit such improprieties against his guest, she knew, and though she might forgive him a night of excess she could not afford him the luxury of politeness at this moment. By some unknown response he heaved himself to his knees upon the bed, figure swaying uncertainly as he raised his hands to his spinning head. One hand plunged back down to the bedclothes in order to steady his lurching form. He was still fully dressed, silhouette thoroughly imposing against the dim light from the window.

In a desperate bid for freedom Elizabeth attempted to shove herself towards the unoccupied, untucked side of the bed. Her attempt, however, was thwarted by Darcy's sudden motion downwards, his elbows coming to rest just each side of her face and his face hovering directly above hers. His breath was strong, his respiration heavy. Elizabeth froze, hoping he would not notice that she lay beneath him. Unfortunately, he did notice.

Some part of Darcy that seemed almost sane showed itself, his rough hand moving to Elizabeth's untamed curls. He stroked her ever so gently, tenderness belying his drunken stupor. Like a child learning to walk he explored his own capacity, hands roaming slowly from her curls to the soft curve of her cheek. Objections rose to her deeply flushed countenance.

“Mr. Darcy--” she began, only to find her objection muffled by the touch of his lips upon hers, body suspended above her chest and lips ever so gently pressed to hers. He smelt of fine alcohol and cedar wood, of leather and dust. The intoxicating touch of his lips she savored, licking from him the last remnants of his expensive drink. He pushed further, and she did not object. Her arms encircled him, their kiss deepened, her breath came short. He pushed his face into her hair at the base of her neck and whispered his love to her.

Some time later his breathing slowed, his supporting arms weakened, and he fell to the side of her, at last permitting her to rise.

As his weight came away from her Elizabeth gasped for air. Her head swirled with the fact of him, of his weight upon her, of his lips upon hers. His face relaxed in slumber, the warmth he had been seeking found at last. Elizabeth surrendered it to him; she removed herself from the bedsheets and covered gently his sleeping form. From the bed she tiptoed, and over to the armchair which he had previously occupied.

Silently she watched him, this time with a new sense of what that could mean. Those sleeping lips had kissed her, those gentle arms embraced her. Of a sudden she realized how like an angel he slept, and tears came to her eyes. He was like an angel, but dark, earthly. His dark curls caught the light and glowed amber, his lashes cast long shadows down his cheeks. His brow was high, lovely, she conceded at last. And Elizabeth knew that his ploy had succeeded. She had fallen in love with Fitzwilliam Darcy.


* * * * *


He met them at the breakfast table, clean shaven and well groomed. No questions were asked. No one could have been the wiser save perhaps his personal servants. Elizabeth had risen before dawn, dressed in the adjoining room and excused herself from the house with the expressed desire to walk the grounds before breaking her fast, as, she insisted, was her custom. As she quit her room she had closed the door carefully behind her, eyes upon his sleeping figure until the last moment, then had slammed the door home into its jamb with a loud thud. A stirring she heard within, a groan and then a shuffle. With a small smile she turned her back and descended the stairs, ivory fan in hand, to her short tour of the gardens near the great house.

At breakfast few words were exchanged, and none between Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennet. Pleasant conversation flowed easily amid the guests, and before long midmorning signalled their departure. A most heartfelt parting raised the spirits of all with the promise of further such meetings.

Observing the departing coach, hesistant to return to the house, Darcy was surprised to see Elizabeth turn her head in the slightest glance back. Instead of the pleasure he ought to have felt, Darcy experienced a most unpleasant stab of fear. He craved control, the very thing he had lost.

He had awoken that morning in the second-best bedroom, muscles aching, head pounding, and the most horrible blank in his memory which try as he might he could not fill. Scenarios-- innocent, scandalous and far worse-- tormented his throbbing head. She had been there, he knew, but was gone when he awoke. Her countenance at breakfast had been perfectly serene, though he could scarce bring himself to meet her eyes. Lord, how he wished she had screamed at him, demanded that he account for himself! He knew that he would be more than willing to do whatever he must to preserve her reputation-- but had her reputation been harmed? God damn his horrid weakness. Darcy had never been so ashamed of himself in his life. He ordered his horse, avoided Georgiana's gaze, and rode hard away from the house in a self-remanding rage.


* * * * *


Up the stairs of the Lampton Inn he climbed, head hung low under the weight of his resolve, but feet light with the anticipation of its outcome. He had come at last to a decision on how he should best act, and to speak to Elizabeth immediately had been his most urgent priority.

Into the parlor he strode, having been informed of her presence. He could scarce meet her eyes as he spoke quickly and firmly, hoping that his eloquence would serve him better today than it had that morning at Hunsford Parsonage.

“Miss Bennet, pray forgive my intrusion,” he began, hardly drawing breath before he plunged onward: “I have come this morning with the most urgent resolve to speak to you on a matter of some importance.”

At this he raised his eyes to hers, and could not have been more shocked to witness the gleam of tears barely contained within her lovely lashes. Her face screwed up in an attempt to hold back a sob, but shortly thereafter failed and her head fell to her hands, body wracked as she began to cry most piteously.

Darcy's heart nearly broke at the sight of his beloved so affected, and knew without a doubt that the cause could only be his abominable behaviour of the previous evening. Hesitant to press himself upon her, he knelt where he stood and offered his kerchief at arm's length.

“Dearest Elizabeth, please do not cry,” he said through her sobs. “I know that I have offended your honour, and wish only to make right by it. Elizabeth Bennet, I ask you again to do me the honour of being my wife.”

Her sobs ceased and her tear-stained countenance she raised to his. He waited in agonizing anticipation as emotions crossed her harrowed face, and was puzzled to see confusion chief among them.

“Pardon?” she said at long last, as though she had not expected his offer.

This was scarce to be bourne. Could he make himself any clearer?

“Marry me!” he cried, frustrated. Her confusion only seemed to increase.

“I've here a letter--” she began, shaking her head as though to push away his request. “It has nothing to do with you.”

His mind reeled. “What do you mean?”

“Lydia,” she said, voice cracking on the name. “Has eloped. With George Wickham. Oh, what is to be done? That stupid, stupid girl. Surely she must know he never meant to marry her!”

The mention of Wickham brought a stab to his heart. A cad of that caliber, toying with Lydia Bennet? The thought was too much to comprehend, silly girl though the youngest Bennet was. How could she possibly believe that she was not throwing herself and her family into the very gravest of ill?

Something must be done. Darcy knew that much. Thoughts of Mrs. Younge and Wickham's London haunts spun in his head, and a new resolve quickened in the forefront of his mind.

“Excuse me,” he said, thinking of little but the arrangement of his immediate journey to Town. “I fear you have long desired my absence. I shall send the servant for your aunt and uncle. Please accept my best wishes for your health, and pray do not worry yourself overmuch.”

To Darcy the words seemed a natural prelude to a harsh journey and fast resolution of the problem at hand. To Elizabeth they were a slap in the face. She stared, uncomprehending, at his retreating figure, tears streaming down her face. For a moment she remembered herself, her own happiness, and all that had been laid waste by Lydia's folly. To herself she whispered with unfathomable sorrow: I shall never see him again.

Part Two

Half an hour later, as their carriage headed homewards toward Longbourne, Elizabeth had well learned to conceal her heartbreak from her solicitous aunt and uncle, well-meaning though they were. How could she possibly express how much had been ruined in her own life already? For all her relations knew, only vague prospects and future alliances could have been touched. But Elizabeth's own future had been torn away from her right before her eyes-- how could she have been so stupid and incomprehending as to fail to respond to Mr. Darcy's renewal? And then, to expound upon the subject, of all possible, that was bound to cause him the most pain? While her family's situation was unfortunate, Elizabeth found herself further convinced that her present heartbreak was a web of her own weaving.

Longbourne they found in disarray. Mr. Bennet was two days gone to London in pursuit of Wickham and Lydia. Fanny Bennet had taken to her bed, above stairs and out of reach save by extension of her shrill voice, which lamentably carried down the staircase to all corners. Kitty and Mary had made themselves scarce and sermonizing, respectively, and it was all Jane could do to maintain in the household some semblance of function. Elizabeth could not help but wonder if her kind, sweet elder sister had yet drawn a connection between Lydia's misbehaviour and Mr. Bingley's chances of ever returning. From Jane's countenance, which bore only relief and gentle weariness as she kissed each of the arriving party in welcome, Elizabeth guessed that her sister's thoughts had been blessedly elsewhere.

Even as she first laid eyes on Jane, Elizabeth knew that she would not be able to relate the events of her night at Pemberley to her sister. She felt a twinge as she realized that this was the first true secret she had ever kept from Jane. Perhaps it was for Jane's own peace of mind that she kept it-- no doubt questions would arise from Jane concerning Mr. Darcy that Elizabeth did not just yet wish to hear-- but something in Elizabeth told her that she wished those furtive moments in the dark to remain hers and hers alone. Not even to Jane did she feel she could express her joy at observing Mr. Darcy's sleeping form, let alone the feel of his lips upon hers. No indeed, for the first time Elizabeth held something in her heart that was only hers.

Following her obligatory visit to her mother, Elizabeth was all too glad to fall into the comfort of her own bed. Fully clothed save the shoes she kicked to the side of the bed, she crawled beneath the coverlet and pulled the soft sheets far above her head, drowning out the exclamations of her mother and the rowdy clack and clang of life in their small home. Her eyes she closed, hands clasped beneath one cheek, and tried to recall every detail of his face. His rambunctious curls were easy enough-- he reminded her of a full-grown cherub ready to take aim at her own heart. His dark eyes were more difficult, so varied in expression, and harder still to remember as they had sparkled when he laughed. That laugh she had committed to memory, brief though it was and quick the aversion of her embarrassed countenance, but she could not shake the recollection of his unbridled joy as he looked into her eyes. Lord, she thought, shall I ever see such a sight again?

And then, his kiss. His arms firmly by her sides, trapping her but not scaring her in the least. Even when he was dead drunk she had trusted him not to harm her. Could she say the same of another man? Surely, she had early on mistaken his reserve for a lack of passion; but in that brief touch of his soft lips, the heady scent of him, all of that had been swept away. Elizabeth recalled his touch along her cheek and neck and traced his path across her skin with her own fingers. Beneath the glowing sheets that blocked her from the daylight and all else, Elizabeth began to cry. She mourned for her love and the loss of him, so quickly born and died. She doubted he remembered their kiss, emblazoned though it was upon her own memory. Perhaps, she thought, it was for the best.



* * * * *



The next morning Elizabeth was awakened by the crunch of gravel on the drive and the slide of a horse's hooves as it pulled fast to a halt before the house. A flurry of footsteps upon the stairs told her that Jane was already dressed and running to receive the express. Elizabeth hauled her own tired body to the window in time to see the rider disappear down the lane and Jane scurry inside, dispatch in hand.

Still dressed in her traveling clothes from the day before, Elizabeth thought nothing of rushing downstairs to meet Jane and read the note. She met her sister in the front hall, where she found that Jane had not even opened the letter, instead staring at it blankly in her hands as though it were covered in blood. Their Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, called from the parlor by the noise, stopped just as Elizabeth had before the motionless Jane. It quickly became clear that Jane was less mortified than confused by the message.

“It is from...Mr. Darcy,” she said, eyes searching for Elizabeth's.

“My goodness!” said Mrs. Gardiner. “How came he to know of our troubles?”

All concerned turned their gazes towards Elizabeth, who, barely awake, fumbled for a reply.

“He...came upon me just as I had received your letter, Jane,” she began. “He sent for you from the inn, Aunt. But he left again very quickly. He seemed quite eager to be rid of all dealings with us.”

“That cannot be,” offered Mr. Gardiner, “if he is sending us all an express.”

“Open it, dear,” said Mrs. Gardiner, laying a comforting hand upon Jane's shoulder. The girl complied, and read aloud.

“He writes: `Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, dear sir and madam: Please excuse my interference in a matter of such a personal nature as the troubles of your youngest daughter, however I came to know of it by utter accident and found that I might be of assistance as Mr. Wickham and I were acquainted in the past. I have located the pair here in London,' here he provides an address, Lizzy,” added Jane before continuing, “ `and have taken it upon myself to speak to Mr. Wickham on your behalf. He has agreed to a settlement under the attached terms, which I hope you will find agreeable. I await your reply, and remain your faithful and humble servant, Fitzwilliam H. Darcy.'”

A stunned sort of silence fell across the hall, broken by Kitty's untimely and half-dressed appearance at the top of the stair demanding to know what on earth all the noise was about.

“Shall we move to the drawing room?” suggested Mr. Gardiner, wisely ignoring his niece.

Swiftly the party moved to the back of the house, hoping to obtain some measure of peace in which to discuss this most odd development.

“Oh Lizzy,” cried Jane. “Is it very improper? His writing I mean?”

“It is, Jane, but I can scarce think of a way to thank him for his generous impropriety.” Elizabeth's mind was reeling. This was the last form of communication she had expected to receive from Mr. Darcy. A demand for the return of his fan (and pride,) perhaps, but not this utterly shocking generosity of heart and hand.

“Of course. You are right,” said Jane thoughtfully.

“I think,” said Mr. Gardiner after some moment of thought. “That I had best away to London. It will be as fast as an express, and I feel that I should act as a go-between for Mr. Darcy and your father. Perhaps we can send a note just ahead to inform him of my arrival and Mr. Darcy's offer.”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I shall stay with Jane and Fanny.”

“What of Lizzy?” asked Jane, ever concerned.

“I think it best that Lizzy go to London,” responded their aunt. All turned to her in surprise. “Lizzy knows Mr. Darcy better than any of us, and is her father's favorite daughter besides. I think her presence is much needed in this hasty circle of angry men.”

“I think you are right, Madeline,” said her husband. “I'll have your trunk put back in the carriage, Lizzy. Might we be off within the hour?”

Elizabeth nodded. “I shan't even need to change,” she said, looking down at her badly crumpled traveling gown.

For once, in all the course of this chaotic tragedy, the Bennet family laughed.

Part Three



Darcy's foot tapped anxiously upon the hardwood floor of his study, fingers twitching against one another in a tense tattoo. The sun was setting on the day, and he began to wonder if the Bennets would accept his offer. Indeed, perhaps his interference had been entirely officious and even offensive. The rattatat of his nervous leg sounded loud against the silence of his London house, currently occupied only by him and a small contigent of servants used mainly for keeping it in order while he and Georgiana were at Pemberley.

It was with a start, then, that he turned at the gentle knock upon the library door.

“Yes?” he called out. A servant quietly opened the door and announced the arrival of a Mr. Gardiner and companion. It must be Mr. Bennet. Thank God. “Of course, of course,” he said quickly, standing and straightening his waistcoat. “Show them in.”

A moment later Darcy was greeted by the sight of not only Mr. Gardiner but his fairest niece as well. Elizabeth looked as though she had not slept for a week, although he knew that could not be true, and her gown was truly a sight to be seen. Her hair had been pulled back into a semblance of order but had not been brushed. The flush that spread over her face at the sight of Darcy, however, was the only feature that held his attention. Her lovely, delicate skin blushed rose at the moment their eyes met, and she immediately looked away as though she wished she had not come. Good Lord, thought Darcy, thinking for the first time of the state in which he had last left her, tearful and hanging upon an empty proposal of marriage. He cursed himself for his insensitivity and vowed to pay her every possible attention.

“Mr. Gardiner,” he said, stepping forward graciously and extending his hand. “I am sorry to meet you again under such unfortunate circumstances.”

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy,” replied his visitor. “I must admit myself surprised to be discussing this with you at all.”

“I shall be sure to relate the particulars of my acquaintance with George Wickham to you, Sir, right away. It was that which allowed me to locate him so quickly.”

“Mighty grateful we are for it, Sir,” said Mr. Gardiner.

Darcy turned his attention to Elizabeth.

“Forgive me, Miss Bennet,” he said, “for having neglected you.”

“No forgiveness is required, Mr. Darcy,” she said with a curtsey, eyes still downcast.

“I'm afraid my letter encouraged haste that has not allowed you to recover from your long journey,” Darcy continued. “You are aware of the particulars I am about to relate to your uncle. Would you perhaps care for some supper or to freshen up?”

She looked embarrassed, but grateful. His solicitousness was unexpected but not unwelcome, though she was mortified to know she looked as haggard as she felt.

“That would be very agreeable, Sir,” she replied. “You are most thoughtful.”

As the housekeeper led Miss Bennet upstairs to Georgiana's toilette where she might wash her hands and brush out her hair, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Gardiner sat down in the library to discuss the matter at hand.



* * * * *



Elizabeth gratefully splashed water over her face and reveled in the small quantities of the provided perfumes that she allowed herself to use. Her hair she brushed out carefully with a fine boar's hair brush, and then pinned her rowdy curls back in a passably fashionable style. With a sigh she leant against the vanity and gazed into the mirror. Her eyes bore dark circles of weariness and distress beneath them, and her lips and cheeks she found inordinately pale, so she pinched and poked them into a pinker hue, then laughed at herself for such folly at such a time as this. I must be mad for Mr. Darcy, she thought to herself, to be acting like such a little fool for him. It was true, though, that she cared very much what he thought of her. With another long sigh she put her head in her hands and allowed a tear or two to escape her tired eyes.

The door opened quietly to her right, and she raised her face to the intruder.

It was Darcy himself, in his shirtsleeves, collar tugged open to reveal his fine throat. As her head tilted up to him he took in the sight of her shining cheeks, wet with tears. In an instant he was beside her, kneeling at her feet. Ignoring all that was proper, he took both her small hands in his and leant his head onto her lap.

“Do not cry,” he said softly. “All will be well. All will be well.”

At this she found herself incongruously bursting into tears, the stress of the situation and his very nearness culminating in a fountain of unexpressed emotion that poured forth with startling force.

Alarmed, he stood and pulled her to her feet, her hands still clasped in his. He released them, then, and drew her firmly into his embrace.

“Hush,” he murmured into her curls, chin resting on the top of her head. She lay her face into the crook of his arm and cried into the soft cotton of his shirt. His hand came to her neck and softly massaged where it met her back, pushing tension away and easing her wracking sobs.

“I'm...so sorry,” she said between hiccoughs as she calmed, realizing at once how very close they were standing. Indeed, he supported nearly her entire weight with the clasp of his arms behind her back. He was like an oak, tall and sturdy, and always there just when she needed him. Speaking of which...

“Whatever are you doing here?” she managed at last, stepping back for fear of being seen in such a compromising embrace. The air between them seemed cold and it was all she could do not to succumb to the urge to step back towards his warmth.

“Forgive me,” he said, taking a step back as well. “I am come merely to fetch you. Your uncle Gardiner has gone with your father to Checkenham Street in pursuit of Mr. Wickham, and Lydia, if all goes well, will be brought back here and placed in your care until the wedding.”

“Wedding!” she exclaimed. “He--”

“They shall be married. There is no other way.”

“Of course not,” she said apologetically. “I only mean...it is better than I had hoped for.”

“In some ways,” he said.

She knew, then, that he spoke of the connexion between him and herself. Naturally he would never cause himself the pain of marrying into the family of which Wickham had made himself a part. She quickly dried her eyes and raised her chin defiantly.

“I cannot thank you enough,” she said firmly.

Tenderness towards her, though, had never left his countenance. It seemed to be with some measure of regret that he bowed in response and tore his eyes from her.

Though she maintained a mien of strength, Elizabeth's heart crumbled. Grief ravaged her as she followed him to the parlor to await Lydia, his fine figure never turning once to reclaim his gaze upon her. One last look, she silently begged.

It was not to be. When she had seated herself comfortably in the parlor he retreated, eyes on the ground as he bowed a goodbye and silently retreated. The door closed with a soft click that signified to Elizabeth the turning of a lock upon the possibility of their love. She turned her face to the window, savored the warmth of the sun on her upturned countenance, and closed her eyes tight, determined not to shed another tear on his account.

Part Four


As Darcy closed the door on Elizabeth's seated figure he breathed a sigh of utmost despair. Her recoil from his embrace only a few moments earlier he recalled with devastating precision. Indeed, nothing in her behaviour towards him since that fateful night had indicated to him any desire to revive a connexion between them. Her reaction to his woeful tumble into drink had been serene at best and cold at worst. And yet, he knew not what she concealed! She had rescued him from enormous shame, it was true, no matter the extent of his transgression, but had he wished to be rescued? And how in heaven's name was he to learn what transpired that night at Pemberley? Perhaps it was for the best that he remembered nothing and she admitted the same.

But his heart would not be silent upon the subject. He had invested himself thus far, and indeed further than he could ever have imagined, and found himself determined to carry his suit to its conclusion. With a pang he admitted to himself that the thought of a life without Elizabeth Bennet pushed him involuntarily towards a most unmanly show of tears.

Instead he planned. With determination and care, all would be well. She would be his.



* * * * *



Elizabeth was roused from her melancholy reverie by a gentle knock upon the library door. She had attempted to occupy her wandering mind with books and monographs, but to no avail. An unfortunate array of scattered volumes lay around her like a destroyed city, and she instantly regretted not having been more discreet in her indecision of material. Chiding herself, she straightened her gown and faced the door, trying her very best to push thoughts of Mr. Darcy and herself to the back of her mind. More important matters were at hand.

A butler opened the door to the most welcome sight of her father. He looked overweary and utterly spent, grief and regret plain upon his aging face. This, however, merely endeared him to her in an instant. She rushed forward to him, and sensing him unequal to an embrace, grasped his hand.

“Papa!” she cried. “Sit down and rest!”

“Lizzy,” replied her father with the slightest of smiles. He was followed by her uncle Gardiner, who skirted the two and took a seat himself.

“What word, Papa?” Elizabeth asked urgently.

Her father took a seat, achingly lowering himself into a finely brocaded reading chair. “Imagine, Lizzy,” he said, “our meeting like this, at Mr. Darcy's house, no less! I had thought to welcome you home to Longbourne a week or two hence.”

Lizzy merely shook her head and pressed on for news. “Please, Papa...have you found Lydia?”

The pained look that overwhelmed Mr. Bennet's countenance prompted his brother to answer her query.

“They have gone,” said Mr. Gardiner. “We have an idea of where, but not why.”

“The bastard wants more money,” growled Mr. Bennet. “I've told you, brother.”

“More money?” cried Lizzy. “Surely, Father, he knows we have so little--”

“Unfortunately, my dear,” sighed her father. “He has already been offered more than I can afford.”

“But--” she began, then clamped her mouth tightly shut. Mr. Darcy would never commit the faux pas of overestimating the Bennets' worth. He did know, however, how much he himself had set by at any given moment. Her mind reeled as she recalled all their interactions, his assurance that all would be solved. He had been so certain...

How could he? How could he have taken so much upon himself? Surely not on her behalf! It was a way to curtail Wickham's mischief, to be sure, but at such a price and with no reprimand to the hateful cur! Her face screwed up in anger. Wickham deserved so much worse than Darcy had given him. And yet at this moment just who was the infinitely better man knocked her firmly over the head and made her instantly regret her coldness towards he who sought her favor. She determined, nay, swore to remedy her most horrible behaviour towards him. How to start? How to come once again into his company? She knew not when they might meet again after she left his house that very evening.

Her uncle was speaking.

“...demmed hard to track them down. Darcy put him on the defensive, no fault of his own of course. Dashed if I know how two old men will find young runaways.”

“That's just it!” broke in Elizabeth. “I'm sure I can find her if I can get into these inns. They might not take you, but they're surely anemable to taking in young runaways, as you say.”

“I have not the faintest idea what you propose, Lizzy,” mused her father. “You wish to run away?”

“Not I, father. Myself and Mr. Darcy. No one here knows me, and by the time Wickham spots Mr. Darcy, it will be too late.”

“You're mad, Lizzy,” he said firmly.

“I do not think so,” she said evenly, hoping a moment would ease his mind. It was, indeed, quite a farfetched scheme, but Elizabeth was determined. “Come, father! You know how vital this is.”

“Mr. Darcy has done too much already,” said her uncle. “We cannot send him galavanting all over London for a second time.”

“Please, Uncle, let me ask him. I know I must have come here for a reason, and have no desire to sit and wait for Lydia to return on her own accord.”

“Headstrong girl,” said her father, shaking his head as he realized he was soon to lose to Elizabeth's iron will once again. “Very well, you may ask him. But be certain to tell him it was all your idea, all right, Lizzy?”

In a flash Elizabeth was out the door to the library and into the hall. Without waiting for a servant to guide her, she flung open doors to empty rooms along the hall, hoping to see Mr. Darcy on the other side of one.

At last she came across him, eyes down to the billiards table as he lined a shot. In an instant he straightened and bowed stiffly to her. She was breathless, cheeks flushed and hair thrown once again to chance. She came up short in the doorway and dropped a quick curtsey.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said to his most eager countenance. “I have a very great favor to ask of you.”

Part Five


As the coach rumbled through the streets of London, Elizabeth could not help but turn a hopeful eye to her companion. Darcy sat, stock still, eyes towards the window. He had been most eager to assist her, expressing his desire to follow this quest through to its conclusion, but had refused to speak to her father or uncle on the subject. Off they had gone, then, near dead of night, alone save the coachman.

Darcy wore a suit of plainest fibre, yet Elizabeth did not fail to notice how little it did to disguise his noble bearing. Even in the plainest of dress he seemed aristocratic, his fine build and handsome face the very picture of an ideal Englishman. Blushing, she turned away, but in doing so attracted his attention.

“This is quite the scheme, Miss Bennet,” he noted. “Are you certain you are equal to such deception?”

“No amount of deception could exceed that which has already been perpetrated,” she replied. “Are you of the opinion, Sir, that a lie to remedy a more grievous lie can remain within the bounds of honor?”

“Indeed not,” he responded quickly. “I prefer to answer deceit with the stronger brew, truth. But in such a case as this, I fear I make exception. Towards Mr. Wickham I find myself no longer capable of such generosity.” He added quietly: “Would that I could run him through and have done with it.”

To his surprise Elizabeth returned, “Were I a man, I should do the same. My father, though, is too old to fight him.”

“You cannot be serious,” Darcy said, surprise in his eyes as he met her brave gaze.

“I am.”

“You continue to surprise me, Miss Bennet.”

“And you me,” she began. She stopped herself then, and found she could no longer avoid the subject upon which she had so long desired to speak to him. Her countenance altered. “Mr. Darcy, pray, allow me to thank you for the great service have done, and continue to do, my poor family. I know not how you take so much upon yourself, but will refrain from questioning you on that subject. You must have reasons of your own--”

Darcy grasped her hand, his countenance suddenly intense in the half-light of the carriage. His voice was low.

“Miss Bennet-- Elizabeth,” he growled. “It is you who have me at a disadvantage. Under any circumstance I would be glad to do you service. It seems to me God's will indeed that I have been allowed to do so much. Do not thank me on that account. For you I would do far more.”

She did not hear much more than the first sentence. Blankly she repeated: “I have you at a disadvantage?”

“You know more than I of our history together. Have you no idea how it has been, to have awakened in your bed and know not how I came there? Please, Elizabeth, tell me if I have harmed you.”

A deep flush crept over Elizabeth's face, visible even in the darkness. Darcy's grip upon her hand tightened, urging her to speak. At last she recovered and was able to respond.

“I am not certain that what happened that night should enter into our interactions, Sir.”

“Maddening woman!” he cried, half in shame. “Will you not tell me what I have done to you? Since that night you are an enigma to me. I wish only to right what I have done, but without knowing what it is I find I know not what to do. Please, Elizabeth, allow me to make amends.”

“Your imagination is too rapid, Sir,” she cried. “Nothing of consequence occurred!”

Her breast heaved in upset as she struggled to regain control of her faculties. His grip upon her hand seemed a tenuous grasp to all she had once known. Indeed she felt that should she tell him, all her careful recovery would be lost. What would be lost? she cried in her mind. I love him! Tell him!

Darcy's voice cut through her distress.

“My lady, if nothing occurred, I find myself at a loss to explain your odd behaviour.”

“How dare you comment on my behaviour!” she cried, knowing at once that this was not at all the direction she had wished to take, but found her tongue rambling on entirely without her permission. Old anger at his disdainful actions in Hertfordshire and Kent rose to the surface, emotions she had thought long buried. “My sister is run away, my family ruined! Even if we recover her, surely you must realize that Mr. Bingley shall never return to Jane, that you shall never return to--”

She shut her mouth with a snap and turned away, knowing without a doubt that she had spoken five words too many.

Darcy seethed. He knew her mind, at that moment. God damned be their cursed pride! She thought him lost to her! She thought he was too proud to love her after a trifle such as this. But he was determined to have her know the extent of his ardour. Without a word he pulled her to him, ignoring her shocked gasp as her body collided with his. His hands he pushed into her hair, her face he pulled close to his, their anxious breath mingling in the short distance between their mouths.

“Impertinent woman,” he growled. His thumbs moved along the base of her neck and up behind her ears. His hands surrounded her face, her wide eyes staring into his. Her body trembled with the very surprise of their contact-- her breasts pressed hard against his chest as he held her tight, her entire body pulled across the carriage to rest only inches from his.

“Do you know,” he said, voice low in her trembling ears, “that no matter what occurred between us that night, I do not regret it?”

She looked as though she might cry.

“Do not misunderstand me, love,” he continued. “My only regret is that I woke in your bed without our being married first. Without remembering that I made you mine. Without recalling the sight of you, hair unpinned, naked in your nightshift.”

Her expression softened. She tried, then, to push her lips into his, but his strong hands held her fast, their faces a mere hairsbreadth apart.

“Nothing,” he said. “Do you understand me, nothing will stop me from marrying you, Elizabeth Bennet.”

The fingers of one hand wandered to her mouth, one thumb caressing the fine half-moon of her upper lip. She obeyed, remained still as a statue as he continued his confession.

“My words have failed me far too many times,” he said. “And I fear my wordless attempt was clouded by drink. Tell me, Elizabeth: that night, did I hold you, as I do now?”

She nodded.

“Did I lie atop you?”

She nodded again, blinking back emotion as his dark eyes continued to penetrate hers with their pregnant gaze. At this he blanched, his expression a mix of regret and unrestrained lust. He pressed his body further into hers as she moved her head in assent.

“And this?”

He closed the distance between them, claimed her lips with his. Soft and hot, he pressed her to him. Her nod was muffled by the passion of his kiss as he strove to possess her, to convince her, to persuade her at last of his devotion to her, mind and body. She pushed back, their lips joining in a fervent exploration, so long denied. His hands pulled her closer still, her body trapped beneath his, his hands lacing furiously through her hair and pulling it loose about her face.

“And more?” he gasped, coming up for air.

She shook her head, and found herself freed of his embrace. Once again she felt so cold, so empty as he drew away.

His eyes never left hers as she slowly sat up again, regaining her balance on the carriage seat.

“Not yet, then,” he said thoughtfully.

For what seemed the like the first time in her life, Elizabeth was speechless. She had been utterly captivated. Her heart, she knew, was no longer her own. He owned it, every piece.

“Elizabeth Bennet,” he said softly. “Please.”

His hand found her cheek once more, and she closed her eyes as one finger traced the curve of her face, unknowing that he had just replicated his final action of that fateful night.

“Be...my...wife.”

She collapsed against him.

“Of course!” she cried. “Of course.”

Part Six

The carriage creaked to a jarring halt, forcing Darcy and Elizabeth to relinquish their hold upon one another. They still had a most urgent errand to carry out on this gloomy city night. Only his comforting hand remained in hers as he opened the carriage door and enquired of the driver their location. They had indeed reached the seedy district towards which they had been bound, and had come to a stop before a promising, inexpensive and morally questionable inn. Clasping Elizabeth's hand, Darcy guided her out of the carriage and issued a few last instructions as to the details of their mission of deception. Steeling herself, Elizabeth increased her grip on her companion's hand tightly as he led her through a rowdy crowd of disreputable Londoners and into the shabby establishment.

As they ducked into the doorway, Elizabeth could not help but stand tall, scanning the room for any sign of Lydia or Wickham. She half-awaited, half-dreaded sight of either. Unfortunately, she was not to know how she would react as neither was to be found. Debauchery of all types was being carried out all about them in forms Elizabeth could never have imagined, and she could not help but notice Darcy's grip about her waist, keeping her near to him and, she sensed, trying to block her view with his own imposing form. They made their way to the bar, where Elizabeth found it necessary to sidestep more than one inebriated patron who had made the floor his resting place. Darcy, however, stepping confidently over and placed a solid fist on the bar, immediately attracting the attention of a short, ruddy bartender.

“'Elp ye, Sir?” asked the man, eyeing Darcy suspiciously. Indeed, her companion's aristocratic figure separated him from the rest of the patrons just as severely as did his sober state.

“Yes, my man,” answered Darcy with panache. Elizabeth blinked as she realized that he had lowered his fine English a notch or two, effectively disguising the strong Cambridge cadence with which he usually spoke. “I am on the path of a friend of mine, military fellow, who recommended this particular inn to me. Has he been here yet? He's a handsome chap, redcoat naturally, in with a curly-haired little chit about so tall.”

At this Darcy indicated Lydia's height with his hand, then pulled Elizabeth to him with a strong arm around her shoulder. The barkeep eyed them both, and Elizabeth made a brave attempt to appear unsurprised by Darcy's gesture.

“Haven't seen him,” said the bartender at last.

“You sure?” asked Darcy. “If he might be back I'd be sure to stay for sup and a few drinks. This one's his girl's sister.”

They were eyed once again, but no further information was offered. With a wide grin Darcy began to turn away.

“Oh well. Foolish fellow anyhow not to tell me which of his haunts he'd be at. And besides,” Darcy continued, suddenly placing a firm hand on Elizabeth's bottom, sparkle in his eye. “This place isn't good enough for my little petunia.”

The blush that crept up Elizabeth's cheeks was the subject of a good natured laugh from the bartender and a few eavesdropping neighbors. Darcy grasped her once again by the hand and they made their exit.

“What do you mean, fondling me in public?” hissed Elizabeth the moment they were outside.

Darcy mocked contrition for a moment, but the sparkle had not left his eyes. “Sorry, Miss.”

“Goodness,” swore Elizabeth. “And would you have done the same if we had not come to our...agreement, Mr. Darcy?”

His face grew serious, and the world disappeared around them when he put his hand to her cheek and ran a finger along her jaw. She knew nothing else as he put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Now that we have an agreement, Elizabeth, it is all I can do not to find us a room and lift your skirts the moment I get you inside it.”




* * * * *




The same routine they followed at two more inns; at each Mr. Darcy was satisfied that nothing was being hidden from them. At last, in the fourth as the hour grew truly late, a variation from their habitual charade was made.

“Oh, yes Sir,” offered the helpful bartender. “I've seen that fellow. `E and `is lady are below stairs dining.”

“Capital!” cried Darcy. “Hear that, darling?”

Elizabeth nodded, making little effort to disguise her heartily felt enthusiasm.

“Like me to show ye to `em?”

“Ah,” mused Darcy, head on hand, with a conspiratorial glance towards Elizabeth. “Tell you what, give us a room near theirs and we'll meet them for a drink before we get to bed, if you know what I mean.”

The bartender obeyed with a wink that Elizabeth found most vulgar. She could not believe that such behaviour was tolerated here, though she admitted to herself that impenetrable indeed had been her naivete to have not considered it. But, she thought, I never would have imagined Lydia to be in a place like this. How very, very far she has fallen. Elizabeth knew that she, again, could never relate to Jane the squalor of this place. Yet again, a secret had been formed between herself and Mr. Darcy.

Before she knew it, Darcy was leading her above stairs, a serving boy with an enormous jug of ale following close behind them. She had no time to consider his intentions as he unlocked the door to their new room, no time to consider which of his statements was part of their necessary ruse....and which he might intend to carry out.

Part Seven

Darcy's imposing figure caused Elizabeth to draw involuntary breath as he keyed shut the lock and spun to face her. She had seated herself tentatively upon the dirty bedstead that seemed the only piece of serviceable furniture in the room, and thought to herself that it no doubt performed its services many times daily. With a shudder she witnessed the darkness that clouded Darcy's eyes, that stare so heated with lust. It was with a start that she realized how often she had seen that stare before, and mistaken it for deep dislike. My Goodness, Elizabeth thought, Small wonder that Caroline Bingley turned green with jealousy!

And rightly so. Darcy's lithe body was focused intensely upon her person, his every muscle strained, half in desperate restraint, half, it seemed, in an urgency to meet her body with his. The set of his jaw was tight as he took his first steps from the door, confident strides that resounded in Elizabeth's ears and brought him to her in two quick steps. All of her sensibilites begged her to stop him, to dissuade him from the actions she saw played out within his eyes.

“Should we not watch for...them?” asked Lizzy nervously, at the last second stifling mention of Wickham's name in such a moment as this. Darcy appeared unfazed, one hand reaching out to stroke the outside of her upper arm, finger gentle upon her roused flesh.

“We are,” he replied, seemingly speaking without thought. The motion of his touch upon the sensitive skin of her arm sent chills down Elizabeth's spine, and she found that had she wanted to she likely could not have torn her gaze from his. The gentle susurration of his finger against her flesh turned deeper as he grasped her shoulder in his hand, thumb running widening circles across the edge of her collar bone. Her eyes closed in unexpressed ecstasy.

Her vague wonderings about the location of his other hand were answered by a soft touch at the small of her back that quickly turned firm. She was pulled roughly to him, their bodies pressed at every point against one another. She revelled in the warmth of his form through cloth that could not disguise the very living form of Mr. Darcy. Such an aura of passion surrounded him that she felt her knees go weak. He pulled her closer as she started to sink against him, her body seeking his just as his sought hers. A sudden realization, though, a most prominent hardness against her hipbone caused her eyes to fly open in surprise. With a slight gasp she looked into his eyes.

His, however, did not meet hers. She found herself most abandoned as Darcy softly released her as quickly as he had taken her up. His back he turned most ungenerously, shoulders heaving in indescribable struggle. It was with shock that she realized that he was ashamed of himself. In all the course of their odd encounters, it was of this most natural of passions that he was ashamed. Elizabeth knew enough of the world to have gathered an idea of what it was that had surprised her-- and indeed, that was all the harm that had been done: surprise.

Words came with difficulty to her. Darcy stood, back to her, one hand pressed hard to his chin.

“Pray,” she began.

“What must you think of me?” he veritably growled.

He spun to face her, once again in vicious control of his faculties. Elizabeth was subdued from her lengthy discourse into a startled silence at the vehemence of his self-hatred.

“I have compromised you beyond belief,” he continued, anger more present than attrition in his pained voice. “There is no excuse for my abominable behaviour. I should release you from your promise, were our marriage not the only remedy for my deplorable actions.”

It seemed that their whirlwind romance had suddenly caught up with him, that Fitzwilliam had, disastrously, realized who he was. Elizabeth found a contribution necessary.

“We are indeed, Sir,” she said evenly, “in a most questionable position.”

The shadow that darkened his face bespoke his suffering at her agreement.

“And I am most disappointed in you, Mr. Darcy.”

At this she paused, long and slow, until she could no longer bear the pain that ravaged his handsome features. She intended to chastise him, yes, but not for the crime of which he assumed he was guilty. She continued: “I am most disappointed that you underestimate me, taking me to be in less than complete control of my own faculties and actions.

“Please remember, Sir, what you know of me, and keep in your mind that just as I felt no obligation to accept your proposal at Kent, I also feel no obligation to make love to you now. The decision is mine alone, and as I once offered to your enquiring Aunt, I shall act in a manner best pertaining to my own happiness.”

At this it was her turn to step forward, crossing the distance between them in an instant and grasping his hand, clenched so tightly by his side. She raised it, then, to her mouth, finding the soft skin of his palm. Lovingly she caressed it with her lips, delighting in the scent and touch of him. Her kisses moved to his wrist, raised from his own lips a gasp at the sensations she provoked.

His body was still tense, stock still, almost disbelieving of her attentions. She broke her attention from his hand and raised herself to her toes, stretching to kiss the delicate lobe of his ear. At this he melted, his strained muscles forgiving and his strong form revelling, at last with pure desire, in the feel of her. He embraced her then, their bodies meeting in joy, their lips finding one another in ecstatic realisation of a love so long denied. He had accepted her fully, and she him, without disguise or deception.

His hands were firm upon her as their kiss deepened, exploration so desired by souls that had waited so long. Insatiable, they caressed all places. His hands ran into her hair and pulled her to him, Hers she ran beneath his coat and over the soft cover of his shirt, so thin over his hot flesh. With a groan he moved down her back to her bottom, hands clasping beneath each cheek and his body straining with the urge to possess her. He lifted her, almost effortlessly, his arms curling up beneath her and her feet coming up around him, skirt straining as it separated what so desperately wanted to join. He deposited her on the bed, climbed atop her, his kisses worshipping at her gasping breast. One hand pressed against her knee and began its slow ascent up her thigh, searching. Petticoats and smallclothes he pushed aside with vigour, and she spread her legs for him. His face, implacable as he kissed her hard and deep, nevertheless revealed his urgent desire by the groan that emerged him. Elizabeth arched into him, aching for him.

A step upon the stair caused both to halt, to listen, frozen, for anxious moments. And then Elizabeth was horrified to receive the familiar whine of her youngest sister's voice outside the door, and the murmur of Wickham's terse reply as he fumbled at the door across the way.

Immediately Darcy pulled away, blushing crimson. Elizabeth could not ignore the ache in her loins that nearly hurt, her desire and his both still manifest. Eyes wide, she sat up and made a fumbled attempt to straighten her hair. The look on Darcy's face was of abject horror, and the old shame was beginning to reappear. All of a sudden, absurdity struck Elizabeth as being squarely at the forefront of their current situation.

She smiled. The sudden merriment that lit her face baffled Darcy greatly. At his puzzled expression she could not help but giggle. A reluctant smile reached his pinkened features. At that she laughed aloud, so joyful was she at such a small delight to have caused him.

With that he embraced her as she calmed her laughing, straightened her gown, and with one last look at one another, turned to face the most difficult part of their thusfar unpredictable mission.

Part Eight



“Darcy!” cried Wickham, making some sort of futile attempt to shove a protesting Lydia behind his back. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Darcy, tall and imposing, took his own protective stance in front of Elizabeth. She was content to linger in the doorway, uncertain of her ability to face her sister at this moment, let alone the horrid man who had deceived them all. Wickham's eyes sought hers, but she refused to meet his gaze.

“It will not serve you to play games, George,” said Darcy. “I believe it would be in your best interest to join me for a discussion.”

He indicated the door behind them, in which Elizabeth was standing. She moved aside and allowed Wickham to pass through, a lazy grin upon his face. She knew not what he was expecting, but felt sure that Mr. Darcy was unprepared to give him anything he'd be so happy with as the previous offer. Lydia began to follow, but Darcy halted her.

“Perhaps you could keep your sister company,” ordered Darcy, the tone of his statement eliminating any possibility of its being negotiable. Elizabeth knew not what he intended, but shut Lydia's protesting mouth on his behalf.

“Come, Lydia,” she said, pulling her sister back into her and Wickham's room. The last thing she saw was Darcy striding into the room after the unremorseful Wickham, and noted that he took up a firm stand in front of the mussed bed, no doubt hoping to keep the cad's eyes off of it and speculation and on him. The door snapped closed with a firm click.

“What are you doing here, Lizzy?” asked Lydia excitedly. “And with Mr. Darcy! He called on us two days ago, Lord knows why! You know he hates poor Wickham.”

It was more than Elizabeth could bear. No sense could be talked into this girl, and she felt at once the heavy weight of her mismanaged youth. Neither their father nor their mother was entirely to blame, but Elizabeth knew in her heart that their opposing forces could only have confused their daughters. Or, perhaps, Lydia took too much after her mother. Would that she had chosen so good a man as her own father for a husband!

“Lydia,” began Elizabeth. She found she knew not what to say. “The house is all in uproar. Have you no idea what you have cost this family?”

“Lord, Lizzy! How can you be so dull!” Lydia fell back on a well-used armchair. “They're all up in arms because I'll marry first of us all. How dreadfully old-fashioned!”

“The way things are done--” Lizzy began again, unsuccessfully. She had never been able to converse with Lydia, though she doubted that to be her own fault. A short silence settled between them. Lydia seemed to have dropped her curiousity about why Elizabeth and Darcy were there, and so be it. She had made herself a pawn in this, and to continue to play so would only make the resolution more simple. Whatever Darcy--

All too soon the door to the chamber was flung open, and Wickham backed in-- on the tip of a sword. His chin was raised above the point of a blade, delicately held against his throat. The smirk he had left with had been erased from his features. And Mr. Darcy, eyes bright with anger and face steady with resolve, stood at the other end of the blade.

“I trust we are come to an understanding?” asked Darcy pointedly.

“Yes, sir,” said Wickham with as much dignity as he could muster, which was not much.

Darcy returned the sword to his side, and Wickham's hand went instinctively to his threatened neck. Darcy's gaze went to Lydia's trembling form, cowering in horror at what she had just witnessed.

“My apologies, Mrs. Wickham,” he offered to her, more kindly than Elizabeth might have given him credit for. “Your husband and I merely had an old score to settle. I hope you and your sister have had a pleasant visit.”

With that he gestured subtlely to Elizabeth, who, stunned, followed him in retreat from the seedy room. She could not help but feel for poor Lydia, with such a sight to be seen. But her own impressions of the incident had left her decidedly impressed.

“I find myself shocked, Mr. Darcy,” she said, breathless.

“You rescind your prior threats against Wickham's person? Indeed, perhaps I should not have been so adamant with him--”

“No!” cried Elizabeth in protest. “Quite the opposite. He deserved all he got, and likely more. I was, however, most amused at the effect on your understatements had by the addition of a sword to your person. Understatement, then, can be most persuasive.”

“If only I could have convinced you thusly,” he said drolly. “But I find women unwelcoming of a blade to the neck.”

Elizabeth laughed, surprised at his good humour.

“Dare I ask the conditions of his surrender, Sir?”

Darcy eyed her carefully. “You may think me immodest.”

“Nonsense!”

“Very well,” he said. “He and Lydia are already married. A license with last week's date upon it is to be procured from Graetna Green using the monies previously offered to Wickham. And he shall beg your father to assist him in relieving his debts.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.

“I polished the blade last night,” Darcy admitted sheepishly. "It was very shiny."

She laughed again, and was pleased to see a smile spring to his features. How could all end so well? And with a rented room directly before them, door yawning ever so temptingly.

The countenances of both turned to the door, same thoughts in mind. A moment passed as each contemplated the open door.

“We had better return home,” they said simultaneously. Elizabeth burst into merry laughter, and hooked her arm contentedly through his.

“Perhaps,” she said enticingly, “a real license might be procured with uncommon haste?”

“Indeed, my love,” he replied, unengaged hand caressing her curls. “I shall attend to your
every need."

Part Nine


Elizabeth found herself whisked out of Mr. Darcy's arms and back to Longbourne before she could say Jack Robinson. It was natural, of course, that she and her father should return home straight away, as she was exhausted from so much traveling, and he overtired and with only a rented room. Darcy, she could see, was sorry to let her go. But they had planned, in whispered conference, that he should journey to Longbourne within a fortnight, there to make a proper request for her hand. And so, without even the comfort of a final kiss goodbye, Elizabeth fell into the jerking lull of her uncle's carriage, quick to fall asleep before even a chance to discuss her wishes with her father.

Upon the morn Elizabeth was surprised enough to find herself in her own sunny bedroom at home, sisters loud upon the stair and the smell of breakfast permeating the house. With a yawn she wakened herself and dragged her poor form out of her bed, regarded her countenance sleepily in the mirror. Oddly, nothing felt different to her today than any other day. She did not feel like a girl who had nearly allowed herself to be ravished in London the night before, nor like a woman particularly in love. Then she realised that the question contained the answer-- naturally, she thought, if all I can think about is that I might be thinking about him, then I must be thinking of him already! With a shake of her head she pulled out her hairbrush and began the rhythmic strokes to her curls that started her every day.




* * * * *



Meryton, as a whole, had no talent for the keeping of confidences. As quickly as word of Lydia's ruination had spread a fortnight before, had rumours of a different sort. Elizabeth had not been home one week when Mrs. Phillips came bustling up the drive, the gossip fresh upon her waggling tongue.

“My dear girls!” she cried as she burst upon the unsuspecting Bennetts, casting first a reproachful glance at Elizabeth, in whose mind much pleasanter thoughts had shortly been roaming. “Where is your mother?”

“She is not yet come down,” replied Jane gracefully. “Perhaps--”

“Show me to her, and not a moment to lose!”

Jane rose quietly and led the way upstairs. As she returned, having left an overflowing Mrs. Phillips in the confidence of Mrs. Bennett, Jane was startled by the quiet ascent up the stairs of her own sister Elizabeth.

“Lizzy,” hissed Jane. “What ever are you doing?”

“You would do well to join me, I think, Jane,” replied her sister. “I am sure that Mrs. Phillips can be up to no good.”

“But--”

But Elizabeth had taken firm hold of Jane's hand, halting the protestation in her throat and pulling her upwards from whence she had come.

It was not difficult to eavedrop on the two shrill ladies behind the thin bedroom door. Jane's eyes widened in shock as Mrs. Phillips enlightened Mrs. Bennet, and unwittingly, her two eldest daughters.

“...and they say there was not a tradesman in town whose daughter was not meddled with. More things were broken than heads and reputations during the time he resided here.”

“Oh, sister, it is shocking!”

“That is not all. You must brace yourself, dear, for the shock of what I am about to say may send you reeling. He was seen, my dear, with his hands in familiar positions upon your daughter, in public,whilst they were in London.”

Mrs. Bennett was apparently stunned into silence, but Mrs. Phillips pressed on.

“Not only that, but he was seen emerging from a rented room with her...leaving behind a bed not only mussed but soiled.” Mrs. Phillips spoke these last words gravely.

The silence that hung in the air only increased the effect of Mrs. Bennett's eventual reply.

“Grace alive!” she cried at last, voice torn. And then with rage: “ELIZABETH!”

When Jane's eyes found Elizabeth's it was clear enough that there was some truth in Mrs. Phillips words. Horrified, Jane looked about to faint away. From behind the door Mrs. Bennett's lament had already begun.

“We are all ruined...”




******




Elizabeth slumped back against the wall, mind reeling. How had these horrible rumours, nay, half-truths, reached Meryton? Hearing oneself spoken ill of is never easy, and it was with a heavy heart indeed that she realised that her behaviour had been quite so very bad. Possible defenses came to her mind, but only depressed her ego further. The sheets had not been soiled, she knew, but with that realisation came also the fact that defending oneself against so small a distinction only admitted guilt to the rest of the report. Only the shocked look on Jane's dear face could bring Elizabeth out of her self-pitying cognation.

“Come, Jane,” she whispered, pulling Jane quickly out of the hall and into the nearest bedchamber, narrowly avoiding Mrs. Hill dashing upstairs, as commanded, with smelling salts.

“Jane,” she began. “You must know before you say a word, firstly, that the tale is not entirely true, and secondly, that Mr. Darcy and I are engaged to be married.”

Jane's countenance was surprisingly inscrutable. “Lizzy, how could you...”

“I know not why I allowed such liberties!” Lizzy cried, for the first time feeling a twinge of guilt. “Part was play-acting in search of Lydia - - part, I'm afraid, was a passionate connexion between us that, once acknowedged, could no longer be denied.”

“But it is denied, Lizzy, by every respectable lady,” Jane hissed. Elizabeth was wholly shocked at her sister's censure.

“I don't suppose,” Lizzy ventured, “that you should like to know what really happened.”

“You have admitted guilt enough for me to be ashamed of you, Lizzy.” Tears streamed down Jane's cheeks. “And I do not care to hear more.”

As Elizabeth closed the door behind her, leaving Jane quietly crying, she realised that Jane had not said one word to the news of her engagement to Mr. Darcy.

And, as a thing that lived only in the minds and hearts of two people, that engagement began to seem what Jane had made it: a thing that did not exist.

Part Ten


It can be supposed, however, that the unfavourable reports concerning the behaviour of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy did not reach that gentleman's ears before he rode up the drive at Longbourn some days later. From the expression upon his thencetofore stoic mien, the commotion that met his arrival was, indeed, wholly unexpected.

To that gentleman's surprise, as well, was the anticipatory measure taken by Mr. Bennet in demanding an audience with Mr. Darcy straightaway upon his arrival. It was with some measure of regret that Darcy retreated with him, having been afforded only the merest glance at Elizabeth through the front window. His thoughts, however, were instantly turned from the object of his affection to the charges laid quickly and simply at his door by the lady's father.

“Mr. Darcy,” began Mr. Bennet. “I had hoped, all these years, to avoid being excited to such indignation on behalf of my daughters' honour. It now seems, however, that such scoundrels as Lieutenant Wickham and yourself are only too easily found upon one's doorstep!”

Darcy's countenance drained of its colour.

“With money as you appear to have lying to spare to buy back the reputations of each of my daughters in turn, I feel I may as well let Kitty and Mary run off with the Royal Navy and wait for you to claim them as your own at your leisure.”

His guest's face flushed brightly, a pinkening tide that began at the collar and moved swiftly upwards. The true anger that fueled Mr. Bennet's unthinkably offensive soliloquy, however, was not lost upon the object of it.

A moment of silence hung between the two men, thick with unspoken implications. Darcy seemed determined to regain his composure before he spoke, and Mr. Bennet allowed him the luxury. After all, both knew that a careful response was in the younger man's best interest.

Darcy's colouration faded quickly enough, and blinking quickly he opened his mouth to speak.

“Sir, I know not to what you refer. I apologize if my interference in the matter of Mrs. Wickham's marriage was officious, but do not comprehend your intentions in insulting me thusly.”

Mr. Bennet took this opportunity to stand from his chair. He cleared his throat and raised his tired eyes to Darcy's.

“You cannot intend to deny what has happened between yourself and my second daughter. Her reputation is in ruins; she has avoided, indeed feared walking to Meryton these two weeks for her apprehension of being ridiculed or worse. Your name has been spread throughout Hertfordshire as a scoundrel and a knave. I cannot say that I would wish Lizzy to attach herself to you even if it could be arranged, your uncommon generosity to Lydia notwithstanding!”

Darcy's burning gaze found the floor, a flood of emotions rising within him as his hopes were dashed to the rocks. Only one sentence could he utter before spinning on his heel and exiting the room.

“It will be a kindness for me to say before I find him, Mr. Bennet, that I hope to high heaven that God protect the undeserving George Wickham.”

Mr. Bennet could not be sure, however, of the words the retreating gentleman tossed over his shoulder: “... and your youngest a widow!”




******




Darcy rode hard out the drive of Longbourn house. He knew not where he went, only what he had to do. Upon consideration he did not blame Mr. Bennet for his words, only pity him his confidence in the veracity of town gossips. His only thought was of Elizabeth, of what she must have endured. Why had she not written him? How could she have suffered so in silence? He knew only too well the options available to young ladies compromised. Surely Elizabeth could be spared the convent. He would take her away with him, propriety be damned. They could go to Scotland. He could hear her voice, calling his name in the wind that rushed past his ears.

Reeling, he pulled his horse around and was astonished to see his beloved, running full tilt. towards him across the heath. He leapt from his horse and ran to meet her, pulled her shaking form into his arms.

“Mr. Darcy!” she cried between gasps for air. “It is...too awful! What are we...to do?”

“My darling,” he cried into her hair as he held her close. “Why, why did you not write?”

“I was forbidden it,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Mama burned my first two letters and then took away all the paper. She said...she said it would only confirm it all.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. “Our engagement was not yet public.”

His hands curled into fists even as he continued to hold her. “Curse my abominable pride!”

She lifted her face to his. “Do not heap blame upon yourself, my love. In hindsight it was unwise, but I encouraged you to wait. My father...”

“What is done is done,” he interrupted, resolve seeming to solidify as he released her and took both her hands in his. Her small hands trembled in his, and it was all he could do not to kiss away her tears. The house, however, was still in sight. Looking past her he could see ever more clearly the steps that had to be taken.

“There is aught that must be repaired, Elizabeth,” he said at last. “I must go.”
Despair shone once again in her eyes. These weeks without him had been the harshest of torture, and now to release him again after only moments of respite seemed an impossibility.

“Please!” she cried. “Please, let me come with you.”

“You know you cannot,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “What I must do will not be easy, even for me. I would not wish it on you. You must stop behind, my love.”

Tears flowed freely as she released his hands and allowed him to move back to his waiting horse. His heart was reamed to leave her so, but pressing matters at hand drove him to take his crop and ride away without looking back.

---