The Rules of Estrangement

By Kathy

Prologue

Posted on Friday, 22 February 2008

It is a strange phenomenon defying the laws of physics that a rumor can travel faster than the source of the gossip itself.

Depending upon the secretiveness and the scandalousness of the tittle-tattle, of course, the speed at which it makes its way through a community can vary. The weather, be it rainy, sunny, snowy or worse, can also affect a rumor's rapidity, though by how much is still in question.

Take, as a for instance, the sunny afternoon a small, somewhat shabby carriage rolled through Meryton on its way to Longbourn House. Before it had disappeared around the bend where the road forks left to Longbourn, word had already reached even the smallest dwelling in the village that the Bennet daughter had returned, sans husband.

And by the time the carriage pulled up before the modest manor house, the inhabitants were already aware that the equipage contained not only their long-lost relative, but also a surprise addition to the family tree.

So it was that the dissection of the scandal began, long before it ever occurred to the person in question that her arrival would cause anything more than a few titters behind a few hands.

But it served to occupy the good people of that little corner of Hertfordshire during those rainy days in September, and more than one person could be heard to remark that, with so much good food for discussion, they were most assuredly glad that Elizabeth Darcy -- née Bennet -- had returned.

Chapter One

Rule #1: Find the loving support of family.

"I am glad you have returned," Jane whispered as they sat together in Elizabeth's room at Longbourn while the rest of the household slept.

That is to say, they sat together in the room Elizabeth had occupied since that afternoon, when she arrived. It was no longer her home, no longer her room, no longer her bed: she was simply a visitor, passing through on her way to someplace else. But she hadn't told her family that salient point yet.

Instead, she had allowed them to rejoice over her appearance after being so long parted, had followed them as they showed her to her old room, had listened as they talked to her of all of the events and people she had missed, had not said a word when they spawned grandiose plans of what to do now that she was back.

Surprisingly, in all that time, no one had asked about her husband.

Despite the presence of their son.

That golden-haired, blue-eyed, and exceedingly worn-out little tot was now tucked away in a cot on the other side of the room, sleeping blissfully as his mother tried her best to act as though nothing had changed in all the time she had been gone.

But things had changed. They were all older, for one. And she was wiser, for another. And the closeness that she and Jane had shared what felt like millions of years ago was no longer as close as they now pretended it to be.

"I've been praying for you to return," Jane was now saying. Elizabeth turned her gaze away from her sleeping son and roped her thoughts to the present, despite the jittery feeling that played havoc with her insides. "We have all missed you: Papa perhaps the most of all."

"It didn't seem so this afternoon," Elizabeth replied, recalling his stern face and the tic that jumped in his jaw every time her son came over to his knee to show him something he had made out of the blocks on the floor.

Jane looked away, perhaps feeling the same awkwardness that was stiffening Elizabeth's muscles. "He's just feeling the years of separation, Lizzy," she said softly. That slight broaching of the subject that stood between them like a gulf must have allowed her to take the rest of the leap, for she then continued with: "Why have you not written us since you left Mr. Darcy, except that brief note? We were so worried for you."

Elizabeth averted her own gaze, away from the pleading in Jane's. "I couldn't take the chance that he would find me," she said at last, when the silence had stretched too long. "Not that I imagined he would look, unless it were to hurt me again. He had done such a good job of it the first time, I didn't feel I could take it a second."

"Hurt you!" Jane cried, then lowered her voice when the child in the corner stirred. "He didn't beat you, did he?"

"At least never with a stick any wider than his thumb," Elizabeth said, then suddenly looked ashamed when Jane appeared to believe her. "No. He never struck me, Jane. It was only with words."

Her sister shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand what happened, Lizzy. I never had. How could I, though? You were never here to explain it. All we knew is what he told us, that you had left him in the night, and he knew not where you had gone. His appearance, so wild and angry, hadn't led us to ask him for confidences. And Papa was so devastated by the news that it only occurred to him later to question why you had run away. None of his letters were ever returned, and Pemberley's doors were closed to him, the one time he traveled all that way to confront him."

"He had come here?" Elizabeth asked, startled. "Looking for me?"

"Of course!" Jane cried, though she recalled the sleeping boy in time to control her exclamation. "Why should he not have? You were -- or still are, I should imagine -- his wife!"

"Wife!" Elizabeth repeated with some measure of scorn. "Last time I saw him, he told me I wasn't. He told me it had all been a mistake. That I was no wife to him. He didn't even question the stories, question the truth of what had happened! He took her word against mine. No, I am not his wife."

Jane had no idea what to say, and so wisely said nothing. They sat in silence for some time, until Elizabeth said, "I am sorry, Jane. I don't mean to be so bitter. It's been a long journey."

Jane shook her head and told her sister it was understandable. And urging further, she asked if Elizabeth might not tell her what had happened. "But not if you are unready," Jane said. "I do not wish to pry."

Elizabeth smiled then, though the turn of her lips was shadowed by sadness. "Prying was never a hesitation before," she said. "I remember many years of whispering secrets in the cold darkness as we huddled under the blankets to keep warm. How much we've lost, Jane."

Then, clasping her hands in her lap, she turned serious and said, "But there has been so much that has happened in the meanwhile that it does not surprise me greatly." She paused and then continued: "I have learned so hard a lesson that secrets should not be kept, especially from those we love."

"From Mr. Darcy, do you mean?" Jane prodded gently.

Elizabeth looked over at her and nodded. "Our marriage had been perfect at first," she began. "He had been everything of which I had ever dreamed in a husband. It had seemed to me in those magical days after we met and married that he had been right in telling me he would not think of the difference in our stations. That it did not matter to him.

"But it was only because the difference was not visible, in the relative confines of Derbyshire. His father accepted me willingly. His sister didn't feel the difference, certainly, but she had never had pretensions, had never really felt her station. The servants didn't make it known, either, as I had been well enough trained here that I could handle the household affairs with competence, if not with ease. And the neighbors were such that none were above me socially, other than the Baron Winterbottom and his wife, but they were not so high in the instep that they thought any the less of my background, if they even knew it."

Elizabeth paused here, stood and walked to the window, where she looked out onto the lawn that spread to the edge of the woods, lit by the full moon that rose over the east. "It was not until London that things began to turn south," she said at last, still facing the window. Her breath created a circle of fog on the cold glass, but she did not see it as she gazed into the past.

"What happened in London?" Jane said when the silence continued.

Startled, Elizabeth looked back at her sister, then dropped her hand from the curtain. She sat down on the window seat heavily. "I met all of his friends. Men who made clever and oblique comments about my connections, women who in the ballroom smiled and seemed to accept me, especially in his presence, but proceeded to rip me to shreds with their snide remarks and cold glances in the retiring room or when I was calling.

"It wore on both of us, I believe. I have no doubt he felt it from other angles, as he often came home from his club, or Tattersall's, or wherever else he went, suddenly aloof and awkward around me. And the time he spent at home or by my side grew less and less as the Season passed. We began to snipe at each other and disagreements became more frequent until we could hardly see the other without fighting. The death of his father, too, only three months after our wedding, wore at our bond as he retreated into his pain.

"But we survived, somehow, until several months later -- nearly half a year, really -- when disaster struck," Elizabeth said, and Jane, hearing the distress in her voice, came across the room to sit by her side and take her hands. They were so cold, and Elizabeth was so pale, that Jane feared she were ill, but did not stop the flow of her sister's story, for fear she would not continue it.

"We had been at Pemberley when his aunt, Lady Catherine, descended upon us. I had not met her previous to this -- she hadn't attended the wedding (though few of his family had, so I suppose I cannot fault her there), nor had she attended her brother-in-law's funeral, and she lived a distance away, in Kent. She was angry with him from the start, I could tell, but neither of them said anything to me, though I repeatedly asked Fitzwilliam to tell me what was wrong. I heard them arguing in his study the afternoon she arrived, but I couldn't bring myself to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Only a few days later, Fitzwilliam said he wished to go north to acquire several rare editions for the library, and he disappeared with his steward, leaving me to play hostess to a woman who clearly thought me beneath her. One afternoon she went so far as to disparage me to my face, declaring me unworthy of her nephew. But I bore it, knowing that this was his family, that I should not antagonize them greatly. I could not be the cause of a rift between them.

"Now, what I tell you next perhaps is where I had gone wrong, Jane," Elizabeth said with a self-mocking smile. "One morning, a gentleman appeared on the doorstep, seeking Fitzwilliam. As he was not at home, he was shown in to see me, where Georgiana and I were in the drawing room. He was an old friend of the family, as evidenced by Georgiana's delight in seeing him; the son of the former steward of Pemberley, he explained, and he had business with my husband.

"Mr. Wickham's manners were very pleasing, though I thought some of his flattery a bit brown. He sat for tea with the two of us, as Lady Catherine refused to come down when she had heard the company we were keeping. I never thought to hear the end of it from her when she joined us for supper, after he had left. He had refused my offer of hospitality, saying he was staying in the village. But we saw him again the next day, and the day after that. And all the time Lady Catherine berated me for my reception of him, saying that it was below my station, and she had no doubt he would attempt to borrow on the acquaintance. But I could see through her censure: to her he was merely the son of a steward, and I was no better than I should be, fraternizing with one whom she considered nearly my equal in breeding.

"A week passed, and through this all I had only one note from Fitzwilliam, though I had seen one pass through our butler's hands for Georgiana and two for Lady Catherine. Mine was terse, saying merely that he was still tied up with business and that he would be returning in several days."

Elizabeth sighed. "But among all the things I can fault him for, I cannot fault him for his timing. The afternoon he returned, I was sitting in the garden alone. Lady Catherine had taken Georgiana into the village, doubtless to be away from my pernicious influence, when I was surprised by a visitor: none other than Mr. Wickham.

"It did not take him long to get to what seemed the true purpose of his visit, which was to force his attentions on me in a most unpleasant fashion, avowing that I had been teasing him all the while, that I had responded to his flirtations. I was more than shocked, Jane; I was horrified that I should have been so deceived -- I, who pride myself on my judge of character! I can only plead that I was distracted by my conjugal distress, but part of me still wonders if it weren't that I was reaching out for someone who understood me, that I truly was at fault, if only for my ignorance of the consequences.

"In any case, I had just pushed myself from his arms, and was prepared to slap him for his effrontery, when a voice behind me, a voice I had never before heard so cold and angry, arrested my arm. I turned to see Fitzwilliam standing in the doorway, and immediately flew to his protection, but he stopped me with a word. He held up a letter and remarked how he would have thought it all lies, but that he now saw the proof of his wife's treachery with his own eyes.

"Jane, he did not even allow me a chance to explain!" Elizabeth whispered in anger. "He just told me to go to the house. And when I saw the look in his eye, coward that I was, I did not argue. I could not. He had already convicted me of betrayal.

"I cannot tell you what transpired then between him and Mr. Wickham. I flew to my room and locked the door behind me. Georgiana knocked an hour later, pleading with me to explain why her brother was so upset, and what had happened, but I could not answer her. How could I, when I hardly knew, myself?

"Much later, Fitzwilliam came to me, through the connecting door I had not thought to lock. I thought perhaps he had come to apologize, to tell me it had all been a mistake, to ask me what had happened. Oh, Jane, how wrong I was! He hated me, told me that I was no wife of his, wondered how he could have been so deceived. Later, after he had gone, I realized that it was over. That there was no hope for us."

"And so you left," Jane said, more a statement than a question.

Elizabeth nodded. "So I left. I rode away under cover of darkness on a horse I had saddled myself, to keep the servants from seeing me, with only a bag of my most precious possessions and what little pin money and jewels I had. I would have taken nothing but what I could call my own, but I am nothing if not practical, and knew I would not last long on that. And as I rode away, I saw two lights, Jane, in the house. One was in Fitzwilliam's bedchamber, the other in the suite I knew reserved for his aunt. And I swear that I could see her form in the window, watching me. I knew then that she had been aware of all of it. I know not how much she had orchestrated, but she had known."

"Why did you not come to us?" Jane asked.

"What, and lead him directly to me? I knew he would be angry at my leaving, and that the first place he would think to search for me would be here. And I was right, was I not? No, Jane, I could not come here. I needed somewhere safe. I went to London."

"London!" Jane cried, then blushed as again the child on the cot stirred. "London?" she repeated, more softly this time. "Why, not to Aunt and Uncle Gardiner's! Why did they not tell us?"

Elizabeth smiled sadly. "I swore them both to secrecy. They could not tell you where I was without betraying my confidence, though I have speculated they did it more from guilt for having brought Mr. Darcy and I together in the first place, than from any other reason. With their help I found lodgings in the anonymity of the city, and when it became apparent I was increasing, they helped me to disguise myself as a widow and find lodging in the country. I know the deception weighed heavily on them, but I gave them no option."

"Why have you come back?" Jane said. "Not that I am in any way unhappy with your reappearance, but why after all this time?"

"I thought it was time," Elizabeth replied, "to introduce my son to his family. That he might know he had a grandmother and grandfather, that he had aunts. Who alone knows the next chance he will have to see you?"

Jane's eyes widened. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"To America," her sister replied with a slow smile. "A new start, Jane. A chance to break away from this fear I have that every moment I will turn around and see Fitzwilliam there, ready to steal my son from me. A chance to make a new life with Bennet, in a new place where no one knows our past."

"But America? Where all the Indians live?" Jane asked.

Elizabeth shook her head with a low laugh. "There is no danger, I am sure. And I have enough money saved away to perhaps buy a little shop. I'll descend into the dreaded merchant class, Jane."

Jane still looked doubtful, but asked instead, "You will remain here some time with us?"

"Yes, Jane. I will remain some time."

"I am glad," Jane said, and her tone and expression reinforced the sentiment. After holding hands for a moment more, Jane leaned over and kissed her sister on the cheek, then retired to her own chamber to sleep.

Elizabeth was not so lucky. Left with her thoughts, sleep proved elusive, and she kept awake long into the night. She thought about how long she would have before she must leave again, and how to break the news to the rest of the family, especially to her father. She considered the best way to conserve her funds for the journey, and what she would need to bring to America. She recalled the feelings of hurt and betrayal that had pressed upon her so often since she had left him, and wondered what would happen if somehow her husband found her. Only when the sun was peeking through the curtains did she finally close her eyes, exhausted by the sheer volume of worries.

Unfortunately, another pair of eyes opened at just about the same time, and Elizabeth was awoken in an instant by a large weight falling suddenly on her chest.

"'wake, Mama?"

Elizabeth opened her eyes to look into the wide, blue-eyed gaze of her son, who was at that moment bouncing on her. "Yes, Bennet, dear, I'm awake," she said, reluctantly sitting up and setting him on her lap.

"Papa?"

That startled a look from her. "Where?" she asked, picking him up and flying to the window.

"Bwocks."

"Blocks?" Now she was even more confused. Then, suddenly, the pieces clicked: "You're looking for your grandfather, my dearest?" she asked with a smile. "Well, he's probably downstairs, having his breakfast, and not playing with the blocks you were enjoying yesterday. Shall we get dressed and join him?"

Bennet, never in his short life one to argue with being fed, immediately wiggled out of his mother's arms and ran to find his attire for the day. Elizabeth, meanwhile, attended to her own toilette and, when finished, helped her son match his clothes with the correct body parts.

When the two arrived in the breakfast room, they found all the family at table, discussing with some heat a bit of news that had been shared by the apothecary as he had come to check on one of the servants.

Netherfield Park, revealed Mrs. Bennet, who had discovered from Mrs. Hill that Mr. Jones had mentioned it, was let at last.

Chapter Two

Posted on Wednesday, 27 February 2008

Rule #2: Do not see each other.

The Bennet family, in all, did not have an opportunity for several weeks to meet the mysterious (and reputedly handsome) young man who had become their nearest neighbor.

At first, they wondered whether they should ever have an opportunity, as Mr. Bennet maintained to the last that he would not visit the new lodger at Netherfield. At last he had, and that visit was returned in kind, but still the Bennet women had seen nothing of him but a brief glimpse from an upstairs window.

And then, sad to say, Mr. Bingley (for that was his name) disappeared for several days, but reports were soon heard that he had gone to fetch a party from London to attend the upcoming Meryton assembly.

Elizabeth, for one, could not have cared less. She no longer had any interest in the male of the species (other than her young son), and even less of an interest in attending the upcoming assembly. But it was the News of the Day, and no matter how much she tried, she could not ignore the shrieks and squeals from her youngest sisters and occasionally from her mother as they supposed who he might be bringing and whether the party would include any other handsome, wealthy young men.

Speculation did not cease even several hours from the assembly, as no word had been heard regarding the Netherfield party as to the size, the members, or even if they were attending at all -- and this irked the good gossips of Meryton greatly.

It was not until the doors swung open into the assembly rooms that evening and all those present turned as one to see who had entered their midst, that their curiosity was satisfied.

After all the worries of too many ladies, it turned out that there were only five in the Netherfield party, after all, and only two of them female. Most of them were Bingley-relations of some kind: Mr. Bingley, a handsome man with an open, agreeable mien; his sister Caroline, who was stunning in her pale green satin made of the finest cloth and undoubtedly by the finest dressmaker in London; his other sister Louisa, the eldest, who was no less fashionable in blue plowman's gauze; and Louisa's husband, Mr. Hurst, who was fashionable, but clearly a little more interested in his fobs and cravat than the presence of anyone else in the room.

But it was none of these that started the room excitedly buzzing in anticipation of a scene and had Elizabeth, who had under extreme pressure by her mother at last agreed to attend the assembly, nearly fainting.

For the last gentleman to make his way into the room was no other than the tall, handsome, vastly wealthy scion of a Derbyshire family who had, unbeknownst to him, been the only piece of Meryton's new favorite scandal heretofore missing.

"Mr. Darcy!" Elizabeth breathed as she sagged slightly in shock. Charlotte Lucas, who had quickly grasped the likely effect of this development on her friend's knees, took hold of her elbow to keep her from knocking into the punch bowl.

As though he had heard Elizabeth's whisper, but more likely due to the sudden shifting of people from around her, Darcy's eyes turned to that part of the room and immediately locked on her form. His face suffused with heat, and for a moment he seemed as though unsure how to proceed. The room, abruptly falling strangely quiet, pulsed with anticipation.

It lasted several heartbeats, all eyes swiveling between the two, but at last their expectations were deflated as Elizabeth recovered her poise and her balance and Darcy turned to Miss Bingley and entered into conversation. The music resumed and mindless chatter once again filled the room, as the people were forced to wait and see how the encounter would progress.

"I absolutely must leave," Elizabeth said in an undertone to Charlotte and Jane, who joined the two soon after the music had started again. "I do not wish to deal with this."

"I do not think you will have much of a choice," Charlotte said with a small smile. "Here comes your mother. With Mr. Bingley in tow."

Indeed, at that moment Mrs. Bennet arrived at the little grouping and introduced her daughters (and Miss Lucas) to their new neighbor, who was of course pleased to be at the assembly and, naturally, was entranced with the countryside hereabouts and -- most assuredly -- enjoyed dancing. But, Mrs. Bennet, was Mrs. Darcy related in any way to his good friend who happened to be here tonight?

The sudden hesitation in the flow of question and response, the sudden shifting of eyes, and the way Miss Lucas of a sudden excused herself to speak with her mother, who appeared to need her, might have been answer enough for even the dullest observer. Bingley had been on the continent when his friend had married, but upon his return had heard a portion of the story. And though often a carefree and inattentive person, he was not unintelligent. So now, as the certainty solidified in his mind of the woman of whom Darcy had spoken and the woman before him being the same person, he flushed a dull red and began to stammer out an apology.

But his babble was overrun by the voice Darcy, who at that moment appeared behind him. "I do not believe there is any connection whatsoever," he said in a voice so cool it might have chilled the room, by way of freezing Elizabeth's heart.

"Mr. Darcy is correct," Elizabeth replied with as much dignity as she could muster. "There may have been, at one time, a connection, but it was by marriage. And after I lost my husband, well, these things go astray."

"You lost your husband?" Darcy asked with mocking precision. "So, did you return here to your family then?"

Elizabeth smiled tightly. "No. I lived in London for a time. I am only here for a brief visit."

"Well, then, we shall have to make our acquaintance quickly," said Bingley with somewhat forced cheerfulness. "Would you care for a dance, Mrs. Darcy?" When she accepted, partly because his kindness was endearing and partly because it meant she could escape Darcy's presence, Bingley turned toward her sister and solicited her hand for the next. Darcy declined to make the same gesture -- to either sister -- an action that quite naturally caused much of the assembly to whisper excitedly.

When the Bennet party returned to Longbourn after the assembly, which passed without further confrontations between the two Darcys, it seemed that Mr. Bingley and Jane's dance -- and the second dance the two shared later in the evening -- were all Mrs. Bennet could talk of.

Mr. Bennet was yet up, as with a book he was regardless of time. If truth be told he was more than a little curious of the happenings of the evening, and had long hoped that all his wife's expectations for the gentleman from Netherfield would be defeated. Unfortunately for his own expectations of mirth, he found he had a very different story to hear.

"Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet!" Mrs. Bennet said as she and the girls entered the room. "We have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired; nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked, and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful and danced with her twice. Only think of that, my dear: he actually danced with her twice! And she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Lizzy. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her, for I thought for sure it might be an indication he was not all he should be, but he seemed quite struck with Jane as they danced the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Miss Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Maria Lucas, and the Boulanger --"

"If he had had any compassion for me," her husband said impatiently, "he would not have danced half so much! For heaven's sake, say no more of his partners. Oh, that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!"

"Oh, but I am quite delighted with him, my dear," continued Mrs. Bennet. "He is so excessively handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown --"

Here she was interrupted again: Mr. Bennet protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject and began to relate, with much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

But again Mr. Bennet interrupted her before she lied too much. "Mr. Darcy! So he is here, then?"

"Oh, yes, Papa," said Lydia. "And he got into quite a row with Lizzy. All the others were talking about it."

"It was not a row," Elizabeth demurred. "But I see now I should not have gone. Even had he not come, the talk would have been much as it was."

"So we have set the cat among the pigeons, have we, Lizzy?" her father said thoughtfully. "Well, what are we to do but make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?"

"But do you suppose he will force her to come home?" Jane asked.

"I hardly think I am in any danger of that," Elizabeth scoffed. "He has quite disowned me, it seems."

"I suspect it is no loss," Mr. Bennet said, and then suddenly turned serious. "But my grandchild? Has he disowned him?" When Elizabeth didn't provide an answer, he found his own: "So you have not told him. I see. Well, we shall do our best to see he is not apprised by some other avenue of the existence of his son.

"He is sleeping, by the way," he continued, closing his book and setting it down on the table beside him. "Which is what any sane person should do at this time of night."

And with that the Bennet's long-awaited evening, and the conversation, as well, was brought to a close.

A relatively short distance away, however, it had barely begun. The Netherfield party had returned from the assembly some time ago, and three of the five still remained where they had collected in the drawing room. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had retired after cattily dissecting the evening and finding that Darcy, at least, agreed with their assessment of most of the local populace. Mr. Hurst drowsed on the sofa, the nearby fire and the free-flowing punch at the assembly having taking its toll.

Bingley pulled his chair closer to where his friend sat on the other sofa, contemplating a glass of ruby liquid as the firelight sparkled through the crystal.

"I wish you had told me your wife was a Bennet," he began in a voice quiet enough not to wake Mr. Hurst, though the consideration was, as usual, unnecessary. "I felt an utter fool."

"I didn't think it important," came the reply.

"How could you not? They are my neighbors," Bingley said. "You ought to have said something when I asked if you wanted to come to Hertfordshire. I wouldn't have pressed you on it had I realized how awkward it would be, with your wife here."

Darcy's lips tightened, and he set his glass of wine on the table beside him with a smart click. He leaned forward and said to his friend in a low voice, "She wasn't supposed to be here, Bingley," he said. "From all I knew, she disappeared without a trace more than two years ago, not even telling her family she had gone, or where. Why she has come back, I don't know. But not knowing this, I had not thought coming to the area would be a problem for me."

Bingley seemed to muse on that for a while, then asked, "What do you know of your wife's sister? The eldest Miss Bennet."

A shadow of a smile crossed Darcy's face as he asked, "Why, are you interested in her?"

The look on Bingley's face was comical, a cross between dismay he had been so transparent and a desire to ask more without being obvious about it.

"My advice is to steer clear of the whole family," Darcy said, leaning back in his chair and again picking up his glass. "Fortune hunters, the lot of them."

"Not your wife, obviously," Bingley replied, a little nettled. "She wouldn't have left a feathered little nest like Pemberley, otherwise."

A tic jumped in Darcy's jaw, but he merely raised his glass to his lips.

"Besides, I don't see why you should paint the whole family with the same brush. Mrs. Bennet, I grant you, seems a little . . . ambitious, but Miss Bennet is all that is gentle and graceful," Bingley said, his voice softening. "Her beauty is captivating."

"You shared two dances with her, Bingley," his friend said. "Don't make an angel of her yet."

"And you haven't spoken with her at all," Bingley replied. "Don't make her a copy of your wife."

Darcy, and to no less extent Bingley himself, seemed shocked by this response, and after a moment the former shook his head, as if to deny the charge, and muttered, "I would that you not call her my wife." They then fell into a silence Bingley was loath to break, regretting as he was his outburst.

At last, Darcy looked up at his friend and smiled tightly. "Bingley, the honest truth is that the family is not all it should be to interest you. Not only do they not have the manners suitable for our level of society, but their connections are negligible. And that, when it comes to marriage, should be your guide. I learned that lesson the hard way -- at least give me the satisfaction that someone else will benefit from my mistake."

Bingley didn't respond, for he had nothing to say. Between him and Darcy was a very steady friendship, in spite of the great opposition of character, and on the strength of his judgment Bingley had the firmest reliance. He recognized his friend's superior understanding and rarely contradicted it.

Darcy, on his part, felt an obligation to protect his friend, whose easiness, openness, and ductility of temper often mimicked gullibility. With that consideration, he had come to Hertfordshire, his instinct having warned him that this would be yet another situation in which his power over his friend would need to be exercised. From all it seemed now, he had been right.

Chapter Three

Posted on Monday, 3 March 2008

Rule #3: Don't involve mutual friends in the dispute.

The following day was filled with calls, and most of the Bennet family found itself at Lucas Lodge, discussing the events of the previous evening.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, remained at Longbourn to spend time with her son, who was clearly showing signs of too much inside and not enough outside. Fairly soon, though, the gardens were not enough either and the two of them went on a hike through the surrounds.

They walked together along the paths, with Bennet occasionally running ahead to pick up some rock or pull up a flower or poke a stick at a bug. But always he came back to share his treasure with his mother, who, despite quite natural revulsion at some of his finds, showed appropriate awe and approval.

As they were traversing one of the many countryside roads, Elizabeth, still holding the remains of a frog, was surprised to hear hoof beats and turned to see a horseman bearing down on them. She took Bennet by the hand and led him to the side of the road, where they waited patiently for the gentleman to pass. But to her surprise and Bennet's delight, he pulled up his horse.

"Why, Mrs. Darcy!" cried the gentleman. "Imagine finding you here."

"Mr. Bingley!" said Elizabeth with hastily concealed dismay. "Why, I did not expect to see anyone out at this time of the day. Are you on your way somewhere?"

"Oh, no," he replied. "Simply taking a tour of the neighborhood, though I appear to have lost my way, so it is probably a good thing I have encountered you. I always seem to find my way back, but my sisters would undoubtedly worry if I were out 'til dark.

"Well, now, who is this?" he asked, dismounting and coming to crouch down in front of Bennet, who tried his best to hide behind his mother's skirt.

Elizabeth simply awaited the inevitable. It wasn't long in coming.

When Bennet peeked his head out to see if the gentleman were still there, Mr. Bingley gasped with shock and nearly fell backwards. "Mrs. Darcy, is this your son?" he asked, his eyes round as he looked up at her from where he sat on his heels.

"Yes," she replied quietly. "Mr. Bingley, I would like to introduce my son, Bennet."

Bingley looked back at the little face peeping out at him and took in the blond curls and the blue eyes, the long nose and the high cheekbones, which, though softened by age, were signature Darcy features. He shook his head. "I can't believe how much he looks like him. I mean, he is Darcy's, isn't he?"

Elizabeth felt a bit insulted, but when Bingley colored up and began stuttering an embarrassed apology, she took pity on him and laughed. "If you can truly discount the evidence of your own eyes, I should think you a simpleton, Mr. Bingley," she said. "But yes, he is Mr. Darcy's son."

A furrow formed on Bingley's brow as he looked at the young tot, who had gotten over his shyness enough to offer this new acquaintance the bouquet of drooping wildflowers he had been holding. "I don't remember Darcy saying anything about a child," he began.

"Well, that's because he doesn't know," Elizabeth replied crisply. "And if you don't mind, I had hoped it would stay that way."

At this, Bingley stood, his lips tightening slightly. "With all due respect, Mrs. Darcy," he said, "I don't think I can keep this from him, now I know."

"With all due respect, Mr. Bingley, I think you know nothing of the matter," she said. "This is, and always has been, between Mr. Darcy and myself. I would ask for your confidence, Sir."

The gentleman stood in silent contemplation, looking down at the young boy who now stared up at him with wide eyes, thumb in mouth, unsure of the tension he could feel between the two adults. At last Bingley said hesitantly, "I don't know, Mrs. Darcy. He ought to know."

"But I'd rather it was I who told him," Elizabeth said, not mentioning that her intention of telling her husband was less than that of her husband suddenly popping up and performing a jig for them. "You must allow me this."

Bingley, recognizing in this woman before him a spirit to match his good friend's, sensed the honorable (and easiest) course here was to withdraw, and he did so with a generous apology. Now with the awkwardness, though not gone but rather behind them, he inquired into her destination. When he discovered it was a return to Longbourn, he offered to accompany her.

They walked along the road at an even pace, with Bennet, as before, running ahead and then rejoining them to share his treasures. Bingley asked her about her time in London, to which she responded without much detail, and Elizabeth asked him about his friendship with Darcy, to which he was effusive in his praise.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Bingley," she said at last, when he had, in his usual speech, asked her if she didn't agree. "I'm afraid we have some differing views on the same person. You must admit that you, as Mr. Darcy's friend, would only see him at his best, whereas I, as his wife, saw him most often at his worst."

"I do not mean to imply I believe him without fault, Mrs. Darcy," Bingley said, flushing slightly at this misinterpretation. "I only meant to explain my friendship with him. I can only do that by describing my likes, not my dislikes.

"He can have his sullen days, like everyone, and his temper," he admitted with a smile. "Why, I know no more awful an object than Darcy on particular occasions, and in particular places; at Pemberley especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do."

"That is true enough," Elizabeth said with a sigh. "Now it is my turn to apologize, Mr. Bingley. I suppose, even after all this time, I still have not forgiven him. I do not blame you for thinking well of your friend, as I do of all of mine."

"Thank you," Bingley replied, and they fell into a comfortable silence as they walked. As Longbourn then came into view, he asked if she knew her family were at home.

"I cannot say," she replied. "They were not when I left, but I can imagine my father is still in his library, and I am sure he would not mind a visit."

They discovered the ladies of the house had, indeed, returned, and Bingley spent a delightful half hour with them, thus sparing Mr. Bennet the trouble of being disturbed. When he at last left, though, Elizabeth was peppered with questions and speculation from her sisters and a rebuke from her mother for encouraging the gentleman, despite the advantageous result.

"It's not as if he has any interest in me," confided Elizabeth to her sister Jane, later as they discussed the events of the day in her bedroom at night. "Especially as the wife of his friend and the mother of that gentleman's child." A giggle escaped her and she covered her mouth to hide it. "You ought to have seen his face when he saw Bennet. I thought he was going to burst."

Jane merely smiled, and a bit uncertainly, at that. "But if he tells Mr. Darcy, won't he take Bennet away from you? What will you do when he tells him?"

"Oh, he won't; I have his assurance on that. And I believe,” she said, her voice lightening, “though I don't trust most people as a general rule, your Mr. Bingley is a very honest and honorable man."

"He's not my Mr. Bingley," Jane demurred.

"Do not utter such blasphemy!" Elizabeth said, trying to contain her laughter. "If Mama would hear you, she would have a fit. If Mr. Bingley is not already yours, it is only because you are not doing enough to snare him. You must simply try harder, Jane."

Which was the exact advice Charlotte gave Elizabeth several days later during a call the latter paid at Lucas Lodge. The Bennet ladies had gone a-calling again, this time to Netherfield, and, as before, Elizabeth had no inclination of mixing with that crowd. She had certainly had enough of the two superior sisters the one time she had been forced into their company on a call they had made to Longbourn. And she had certainly had enough of another male presence, even if it were for such a short time. It was certainly long enough to make her continued dislike of him plain.

"In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show more affection than she feels," Charlotte was saying now. "Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."

Despite her words to her sister, Elizabeth disagreed with this. "She does help him on as much as her nature will allow," she said. "If I can perceive her regard for him, he must truly be a simpleton not to discover it too. And here I had had such great hopes for him."

"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."

"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavor to conceal it, he must find it out."

"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her," Charlotte pointed out. "But though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses."

"Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married. But Jane is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at our house, and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character."

"Not as you represent it. Had she merely dined with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have been also spent together -- and four evenings may do a great deal."

"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other leading characteristic -- characteristics I feel necessary for the success of a marriage -- I do not imagine that much has been unfolded."

"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him tomorrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. We need only take your example to find that happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always contrive to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life."

"I do not think my example a fine one to take. It was an extraordinary circumstance."

"It is always an extraordinary circumstance," Charlotte replied. "That is the whole nature of marriage."

Occupied as she was in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth had little time to interact with Darcy, but at every occasion they attended in common -- which admittedly were few in number, as neither wished to have a scene -- Darcy's attention seemed focused almost solely on her.

His dark expression as he regarded her while propped against some mantel or other drew inquisitive eyes from others at the parties, but as he quite rightfully did not act upon any of his thoughts, no one could guess accurately the theme of his reflections.

And some were more wrong than others.

"I can guess the subject of your reverie," said Miss Bingley as she approached him at a soiree at Lucas Lodge one evening as he held up the wall by the fireplace.

"I would imagine not," Darcy replied.

"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!"

"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you," he said. "I am considering the best course of action to take with my wife."

"Your wife!" Miss Bingley cried, and then quieted her voice when the people nearest her turned with expressions of both curiosity and censure: "She's your wife? When you didn't say anything, we supposed she must be some distant relation on your father's side."

"I am afraid not."

"I am all astonishment," Miss Bingley said after a moment, her composure collected and her manner now calculating. "How long has she been your wife? And am I to wish you joy?"

When he didn't respond to her questions, she thought for a moment and then led down a different path: "I understand that she stayed some time in London. But the rumors are that she has returned only to set off not long from now for some distant locale. And she will take her son with her."

Now she had his attention. "Son!" he cried, and then quieted his voice when the people around him turned again. "She has a son? Are you sure of this?"

Miss Bingley smiled. "Oh, yes. Rumors are the boy came with her when she arrived in Hertfordshire, but only the family and the servants have seen him." She paused for effect. "Am I to also wish you joy on your fatherhood?"

Mr. Darcy didn't respond, instead turning his gaze back to where his wife now spoke animatedly with the colonel of the Meryton-based regiment. And as his composure convinced Miss Bingley that all was safe, except, perhaps, a certain young lady, her wit flowed long.

Chapter Four

Posted on Friday, 7 March 2008

Rule #2: Do not see each other.

During the course of breakfast the following morning at Longbourn, a note was delivered. The crisp, slanted feminine writing on the front was apparent ("How fashionable a hand!" exclaimed Mrs. Bennet), and the seal ("I can't tell what that is -- a peacock or a rose?") clearly indicated its origins at Netherfield, and the whole idea of it being from one of those most impressive people brought a sparkle of excitement to the Bennet matron's eye.

The servant who had brought the note was enjoying a nice leisurely cup of tea in the kitchen as he awaited the reply and would have been dismayed to hear Mrs. Bennet avow that haste was necessary. But at that very moment above stairs, she was indeed insisting quite eagerly that Jane open the letter and tell all from whom it came and their purpose for writing.

"It is from Miss Bingley," Jane said, and then read it aloud:

My dear Friend,

If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day's tęte-ŕ-tęte between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever,

Caroline Bingley.

The news that the gentlemen were dining with the officers drew discouragement from several quarters, but Mrs. Bennet had a plan: Jane would go on horseback to dine at Netherfield, which, with rain coming, would ensure she stay the night.

Her scheme was less than enthusiastically received by her eldest, who had no desire to be caught out in rain, with even less enthusiasm by her second eldest, who disliked the lengths to which her mother would go to ensnare a husband for her daughters, with supreme indifference by the next three, and with surprise by her husband, who hadn't realized it was to rain.

"I had no idea your mother could control the weather," he confided in his second eldest as they sat in the library later that morning, as the dark skies and precipitation made being anywhere near the smug Mrs. Bennet nigh on impossible. Young Bennet sat on the floor, paging through an atlas with pictures of monstrous sea creatures that made him squeal in delight.

"I'd rather she couldn't," Elizabeth replied, setting down her own book, a history of the settling of the colonies in America. "I can't help but feel she tries too hard to force marriage upon us, sometimes. And with the track record this family has had so far, I can't quite understand her drive."

"Disappointment, I'd wager," her father replied. "I wouldn't worry about it greatly. Mr. Bingley seems a decent enough sort. A little accommodating and easy, perhaps, but he's a match for it in Jane."

"His closeness with his friend does him no credit."

"Perhaps," Mr. Bennet said. "But as you know, a friendship is a wholly different kettle of fish than a marriage. And Mr. Darcy had won you over in the beginning, if I recall rightly, so there must be some good in him -- at least superficially, if no deeper."

Elizabeth conceded him that point, and the reminder of those days in Derbyshire during her trip with her aunt and uncle caused her thoughts to linger in her memories long after her father had picked up his book again.

He was right -- they had been happy at first. Darcy, bemused by her unconventional beauty and intrigued by her vivacity when they had met in the village, had sought out the acquaintance more than she at first. But she had soon a return of his feelings, and after an acquaintance of little more than a month -- part of it in Lambton and the other when he had followed her to London -- they had known they were meant to be together.

His father had been, if not enthusiastic over the match, approving, at least. He had hoped, perhaps, for someone higher in society, but those wishes went unspoken in the face of his son's joy.

Her father was a little more hesitant, but in the end only wanted the happiness of his favorite daughter. And her insistence that the young Fitzwilliam Darcy could provide that happiness assured him (when supported by several inquiries into the gentleman's background) that he was giving her hand to a most worthy person.

With the blindness of first love, she had seen only his most worthy attributes. And it was true that, with her, he was not proud. But it was indeed his pride that had begun the unraveling, and perhaps no less the pride on her side, as well.

In the end, though, it was the lack of communication and the unwillingness on both their parts to be the first to reach across the gulf dividing them that brought about their separation. And, certainly, now it was too late. It seemed it was too late the moment she had run away. And perhaps before then.

But she wasn't going to hide from him anymore, Elizabeth told herself the following day as she strode across the fields toward Netherfield. Perhaps it was the bright sunshine after a day of rain, or perhaps it was her reluctance to dwell on the way the mud squished up through the seams of her half-boots, but a feeling of optimism and self-confidence swelled through her as she hopped the stiles and crossed the streams along her shortcut.

She was walking to Netherfield to see Jane, despite her mother's most strenuous objections and her father's offer to call the carriage. She needed some time to herself, to work out some of the anxiety she had been feeling recently and the depressive state of mind she had as a result of her contemplation of her marriage the night before, especially as she was quite possibly about to face the subject of these reflections.

Elizabeth wasn't usually so downcast, but the increasingly complicated and volatile position she was in was having its effect. She simply needed to leave, she told herself, and take the next ship sailing for the colonies, and all would be fixed.

But even that thought was not as buoyant as it had been, now that she had come back to see her family. She didn't want to leave her father again, nor Jane. Bennet had really taken to his relatives, and would certainly feel their loss. And she would miss even her younger sisters and her mother, she had to admit.

It really was a quandary. But staying was dangerous, especially now that her husband had found her. She had been more than dismayed to see him standing there across the room at the first assembly in Meryton; and each occasion thereafter, as she met his eyes across the crowded room, she became even more aware of the urgency to leave.

She was still in love with him.

The first moment she had realized it, as she saw him talking with Miss Bingley at the Lucas soiree and felt a wave of jealousy roll through her, the thought had nearly sent her staggering. Every time then she looked at his face, saw the shadows in his eyes, she recognized the voice that whispered to her to ease his pain and the longing in her to once again bask in his love. His lips reminded her of his smile, so long absent; his hands reminded her of his touch, which variously had comforted her and thrilled her; his eyes reminded her of the many glances shared across a crowded room; his hair reminded her of their son, the product of their love.

What was wrong with her, that she didn't have the sense to hate him? He had certainly shown he had not truly loved her, and to be still pining after the man clearly was a sign she was not as intelligent as she had always thought.

At the same time, though, the knowledge that she was prepared to put an ocean between them despite her love made her a little more confident in her strength. She could stand up to him, finally. She was his equal, if not by birth, then by marriage, and most certainly by character. She had nothing to fear from him anymore.

Which was partly her motivation for this trip to Netherfield. Of course she wanted to see her sister. Jane was always one to downplay her illnesses and never complained, so the sheer optimism in her note that morning telling them of a mere sore throat and cold was enough to make Elizabeth wary. But beyond her care for her sister, she did feel a desire to test her newfound confidence in her ability to stand up to her husband. And she certainly couldn't do it from three miles away.

She could do it from three feet away, though, and when she came upon Darcy as he walked the grounds, her eyes sparkled with a martial gleam.

"Elizabeth!" Darcy exclaimed in surprise as he looked up and saw her standing there so unexpectedly.

"Mr. Darcy," she said with cool composure. "How do you do?"

"Well," he replied with some confusion. "What are you doing here?"

She raised her brow at his lack of tact, and he had the grace to blush. "I am come to attend my sister. Would you care to direct me to her?"

He courteously bowed and offered his arm. As they walked toward the house, though, he said softly, so as not to be heard by any of the servants in the garden, "I cannot believe that you would come here on such a paltry excuse."

"I beg your pardon, it is a very fine excuse, and depending upon how I find my sister, perhaps a most necessary one," she said.

"I won't be taken in by you again."

Elizabeth stopped on the spot, and he stopped as well, turning to look at her. "I really have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Darcy," she said, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh, I think you do," he replied. "You want me to take you back in, as if nothing had happened. You wish to tempt me with your arts and allurements, to get in my good graces, make me overlook your indiscretions and their result. Well, I shall have you know that I am not so easily deceived. You have made me a laughingstock, madam, and that is not so quickly forgiven."

"You are completely mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you think I seek anything from you. I left your protection two years ago, and I have no intention of coming back. And if you believe I am in need of your forgiveness for that, you are sorely illusioned."

She paused and smiled grimly. "Now, I am here to see my sister, and not for any reason inclined to speak with you, even should you behave in a more gentlemanlike manner. But I see Mr. Bingley in the doorway there. Perhaps he would be so kind as to escort me to her, without haranguing me the while. Excuse me."

With a final glare, Elizabeth turned away from her husband and once again left him, this time standing dumbfoundedly in the middle of the gardens at Netherfield. He was shaken by this contretemps, and confused as to her words. She appeared to be completely unashamed of her actions in this whole affair, and, if it could be believed, thought him to be the offender.

When everyone knew that he was the one wronged.

Still slightly put out, he related the experience to Bingley as they played billiards before dinner.

"And I don't see what she has to complain about, really," he was saying. "She wasn't the one who was abandoned in the middle of the night, without so much as a note. Or made a complete fool of with Wickham, of all people."

"What is all this with Wickham, by the way?" Bingley asked as he ricocheted another ball off the cushions, completely missing the pockets. "You never did explain to me the whole situation."

Darcy sighed and lined up his shot. "At the time it all happened, I was up north with Wester, looking over some rare editions -- to be honest, I don't even recall anymore what they were. It was mostly an excuse to leave, to have some time to consider my marriage, to come to terms with her standing in society, our seeming inability to see eye-to-eye. I suppose it also helped that my aunt Lady Catherine and her daughter had come to visit. After a few acrimonious meetings there, I left my aunt to keep company with Georgiana and Elizabeth.

"Shortly after I left for Yorkshire, she wrote me that Wickham had arrived at Pemberley, asking to see me, and that my wife was spending an inordinate amount of time with him. Naturally, knowing what he was, I felt some measure of unease, and wrote back, asking her to keep an eye on the situation.

"She wrote me again later, detailing some of his visits, and several things she had heard from the servants. This disturbed me, but not so much as to cut my business short; it wasn't until I received yet another letter from my aunt, which suggested the situation had become even more dire, that I made preparations to return to Derbyshire. Georgiana, in her own letter to me at that time, seemed to confirm what my aunt had written, though I can imagine, in her innocence, she knew not what she wrote."

"But how could you be sure your wife was not innocent in all this, Darcy?" Bingley asked as he chalked his cue. "Could it not have all been a misunderstanding?"

"I wish it could have been, but I witnessed proof," Darcy said tightly, hitting the ball before him with unusual force.

"Ah, just a kiss," Bingley commented, watching as the two balls then careened in opposite directions.

"It wasn't," Darcy said, stalking to the other side of the table. "The shock on her face when she saw me as I came upon them in the garden was proof enough for me of there being more to it than a mere kiss, even had I not the confirmation of Wickham's own words, after I sent her to the house."

"Wait -- you saw them embracing? And he confirmed you had been cuckolded?"

"I would have put a bullet in his smug face then and there, had I a pistol, and I wouldn't have felt the least twinge of conscience," Darcy confided. "As it was, I merely paid him off the next day, when I called upon him at the inn at Lambton while in search of my wife. Not only for his silence in the affair, mind you, but also compensation for the living my father had bequeathed him. There was little doubt now he would not go into the church."

"And you never found your wife."

"No. My first thought, when I found her gone the next morning, was she had gone with Wickham. But even he had scoffed at that notion, and I confirmed she had not been seen in the area. I then came here, but her family had heard nothing of her. Going back to Pemberley, I was able to trace her to London, but the one family I thought might know something disavowed any knowledge. I suppose now that I might have been a bit overzealous in my dealings with them, at least -- but no amount of money or pressure could make them reveal anything, despite my suspicions they knew more. So, after my efforts to locate her failed, I washed my hands of her."

Bingley nodded, unsure what to say, and they resumed play in silence. At last, though, he spoke hesitantly: "I apologize for insisting your wife stay here with her sister. I thought it the right thing to do, but I wasn't thinking of the complications."

"I'm certain we shall manage civilly for the day or so she is here," Darcy said. "I imagine she will spend most of her time with her sister, in any case."

"I invited her down after dinner," Bingley said slowly. "She insisted on a tray in her room, but I thought she might benefit from the company while her sister slept."

"Quite the generous host."

"I daresay I am. I also insisted she stay as long as her sister needed her, which, if Mr. Jones is right, may be nearly a week."

Darcy put down his cue and stared hard at the other man, whose gaze shifted guiltily to the table. "If you are thinking to effect a reconciliation, Bingley, you had much better put the idea out of your mind. I have no intention of allowing that woman a return into my life, but for the short time I am here. I would rather my property go to Georgiana's children than have her or her issue back. And unlike what most men of our acquaintance would undoubtedly do with such an errant wife, I will not beat her and send her off to be sequestered on my estate or my hunting box in Scotland, to show my dominance or to save my pride. But I wish her gone and shall find no rest until she is."

"Then you must wish I had not invited her to stay here," Bingley said.

"By no means; I am not afraid of her," Darcy said with an ironic and half-humorous smile. "But if you try to reunite us, my friend, you may just learn to be afraid of me."

Chapter Five

Posted on Wednesday, 12 March 2008

Rule #4: Ignore the elephant.

When Elizabeth came downstairs after dinner, feeling it would be rather more right than pleasant to accept Bingley's invitation, she found all the party at cards. Having no inclination to join them, she responded to Mr. Bingley's kind inquiries after her sister and then refused their offer to move so she might be seated at table, saying she would instead prefer to read.

"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said Mr. Hurst, looking at her much in the same way as she had responded to the frogs her son had found the other day. "How very singular."

"Mrs. Darcy despises cards," Miss Bingley said. "She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," the object of this discussion said. "I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."

"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure, and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well," Mr. Bingley said.

Elizabeth found herself responding to his warm smile and once again wondered inwardly how such a man could be a friend of her husband. When she realized her gaze had moved to that gentleman, who was staring as though mesmerized at her, her smile faded abruptly and she turned away to pick up one of the books lying on a table nearby.

Bingley immediately offered to fetch her any book she cared from the library, though he warned her they were few. She declined his generous offer and assured him those in the room suited her well enough.

"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"

"It ought to be good," Darcy replied. "It is the work of many generations."

"And this present generation has done much to maintain its increase," Elizabeth said, the phrase she had heard her father-in-law use many times slipping off her tongue before she realized it.

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence until Mr. Hurst took a trick and Miss Bingley was suddenly inspired to change the subject.

"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring? Will she be as tall as I am?" she said now.

"I think she will," Darcy replied. "She is now about my wife's height, or rather taller."

Miss Bingley was not so happy with this response, either, but forged ahead: "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite."

"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are."

Miss Bingley scoffed at the idea of all ladies being accomplished.

"Yes, all of them, I think," her brother exclaimed. "They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished."

"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it not other than by netting a purse, or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished."

"Nor I, I am sure," cried his ready echo.

"You expect a great deal from a woman," observed Elizabeth.

"Yes; I do expect a great deal."

"Certainly," said Miss Bingley, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing and the modern languages, to deserve the word. And besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved."

Elizabeth seemed amused by this pretty speech. "And are you satisfied with only that, Mr. Darcy?" she asked softly.

"No," he said with gravity. "To all this she must yet add modesty and a sense of honor unimpeachable."

"I am no longer surprised at your avowal you know only six accomplished women," said she after a moment. "I rather wonder now at your knowing any."

Miss Bingley, sensing undercurrents she could not understand, re-entered the conversation with: "Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"

"I never saw such a woman; I never saw such capacity, taste, application and elegance -- and modesty with such innumerable qualities -- as you describe, united," Elizabeth replied.

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room to check on her sister.

No sooner had she left the room, then Miss Bingley began abusing her to her companions, saying, "Mrs. Darcy is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the opposite sex by undervaluing their own. And with many men, I dare say it succeeds. But in my opinion it is a paltry device, a very mean art."

"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, unsure why he should defend her but feeling he ought, "there is meanness in all the arts which ladies condescend to employ for captivation. But as Mrs. Darcy no longer need recommend herself to the opposite sex, she perhaps might be acquitted of any ulterior motive."

Miss Bingley, not entirely satisfied with this response, did not continue the subject.

Some minutes later, Elizabeth, appearing not completely unhappy with her news, returned to the room only to inform the company that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley immediately suggested sending for Mr. Jones, while his sisters proclaimed that nothing less than a London physician would do for their friend. This Elizabeth would not hear of, but she consented to have the apothecary sent for in the morning, were her sister not improved.

Mr. Bingley was made quite uncomfortable by the news, and the sisters declared themselves wretched. They solaced their unhappiness with duets, however, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than to give his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and to her sister.

And in the morning he was rewarded for his care by receiving to his note the reply that Miss Bennet appeared, indeed, on the mend. Elizabeth was able to give similar tolerable replies some time later to the inquiries from the elegant ladies who waited on his sisters.

In spite of this, she felt it necessary to send a note to Longbourn, desiring her mother to see Jane and form her own opinion. The note was immediately dispatched and its contents just as readily answered by the visit of Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest daughters.

Mrs. Bennet's appearance went much as expected. She might have been truly miserable had she found Jane in any danger, but, as her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, so as to prolong the visit. She would not listen to her daughter's proposal to be carried home and seconded most strongly the apothecary's similar judgment.

With no spot on her conscience, she was free then to visit with the rest of the company. During the following half hour call, Elizabeth, at every turn, found herself deflecting her mother's curiosity, her acrimony towards her son-in-law, and her comments that revealed her mean understanding of society. At one point, she was forced to cleverly change the subject when her mother began talking about how, at her age, she was certainly too old to be towing young children around. The only thing about which Elizabeth could do nothing was her sisters' appeal of Mr. Bingley to host a ball and their exuberant replies upon hearing his intention to keep his promise. But that was a minor inconvenience.

After her mother and sisters had left, Elizabeth returned, strangely exhausted, to her room, stopping briefly in the library to find a new book. To her surprise, she encountered her husband in the upstairs hall. They neither of them spoke at first, more startled than anything by the other's appearance. Then Darcy said with a bow, "It appears you have become able to control your mother in company at last."

Elizabeth felt herself flushing, and strove to calm the surge of anger that flowed through her. This was an old argument, from when her family had visited Pemberley after they were first married. "And it appears you have lost none of your boorish pride," she replied. "Do I still reflect so poorly on you? You shan't worry; I will not do so for long."

Darcy started at this, but recovered swiftly. "I am glad I had the chance to speak to you privately," he said. "First, of course, I would that you refrain from joining the company tonight. No good can come from you and I being in such close quarters. You ought have refused Bingley's invitation at the very outset."

"Happily for me, I no longer rule my life by your approval of my actions," Elizabeth said. "I am here for my sister, who needs my care and concern."

"This is not an all-bachelor household," Darcy observed. "She would have been well attended."

"Oh, yes, I could have left her to the devices of your friend's sisters," she scoffed in reply. "But you know as well as I that they are not the sickbed type. As soon as their interest waned, distracted by whatever more exalted company they could find, Jane would have been left to fend for herself. And as hers is not the character to demand things of others, she would have wasted away before asking for more than a glass of water.

"And besides, there is nothing to compare with the loving attention that can only be given by a sister," she said. "You may despise me my motive in coming, but at least I know how to care for the ones I love."

When Darcy didn't reply, she pushed past him to open her door. But as her hand reached for the handle, she was arrested by his voice: "You must never have loved me, then."

She looked back at him in surprise. His face was in shadow now, and she couldn't read his expression, but she had recognized the intensity behind his irony-laced tone and knew her answer to be important. "On the contrary," she said with calm precision, weighing her words. "But you see, Mr. Darcy, I know Jane loves me in return."

And without waiting for him to reply, fearing as she did the answer, she entered her room and closed the door firmly behind her.

She did not see him again that night, choosing retreat as the better form of valor. And when they encountered each other again over the breakfast table the next morning, neither spoke a word to the other. Elizabeth excused herself as soon as politely possible.

She was not as confident now as before in her ability to stand fast against him, she admitted to herself. She had revealed the day before some of the bitterness in her heart and the temptation to speak her piece to him seemed now to burn more strongly.

"How he must despise me," Elizabeth said as she helped her sister change into a gown prior to going downstairs after dinner.

"Surely your words to him have not had any effect on his opinion," Jane replied rationally. "And you have the both of you professed disinterest -- why should his opinion matter now?"

Elizabeth looked startled by that, and stammered out, "It doesn't."

Jane smiled at her sister over her shoulder. "It is probably just this nearness, the uncertainty," she said. "Perhaps it might be best for you to air your concerns, and he as well. Perhaps it was all just some misunderstanding."

"Of course it was all a misunderstanding," Elizabeth said, resuming her old humor with a small smile as she finished up the buttons and went to the dressing table to look for hairpins. "That wasn't the problem at all -- it was that he didn't trust me, that he misunderstood and believed the lies without question."

When Jane didn't say anything, Elizabeth looked up at the mirror and perceived her sister's inward struggle. "Don't bite your lip like that," she said with a laugh. "You'll never get them overall rosy if you work only on the bottom."

"Oh, don't start with that, Lizzy."

Elizabeth returned to her sister, pinned up the locks of hair that had fallen, then framed her sister's face with her hands. "First off, Jane, I know you -- I know what you are thinking right now. But you cannot make us all out to be good. There is but such a quantity of merit to go among the lot of us, and I am inclined to think that you, who try so hard to make everyone appear noble, have got the best of it.

"Secondly, I'm perfectly happy with the way things are now. I have my son, about whom I'm terribly worried at the moment, not having been away from him more than an afternoon before now. I have my family, with whom I was able to spend some time after so long a separation. And I have a new life waiting for me in America." She shook her head with a smile. "I don't need a husband now.

"But you, on the other hand, most assuredly do," she said, her smile broadening wickedly. "And I know one who's perfectly ripe for the plucking."

"Oh, Lizzy," came the weary, laughing answer, and the two exited the room and went downstairs to join the company.

Chapter Six
Rule #5: Avoid the cause(s) of the estrangement.

Elizabeth, who had grown tired of her proximity to her husband and was anxious about how her son fared among familial strangers, insisted on going home the following day after an evening of nearly overwhelming tension. Her mother, who had no intention of her single daughter leaving her advantageous place at Netherfield, refused the plea to send a carriage, but Mr. Bingley, despite similar feelings, had been brought up a gentleman and was not so ungenerous.

They were greeted at home with reproaches from their mother, indifference from their younger sisters, and boisterous joy from the youngest member of the household. Elizabeth had barely walked in the door before her son had attached himself to her neck on a flying leap, and she spent several hours with him there before he was induced to let go by the promise of a treat.

Mr. Bennet was more restrained in his enthusiasm for their return, but he was no less grateful. "I don't know what your mother would have done if you had not come back to see to the little tot. You would have thought his care was left solely to her by the way she was carrying on about her nerves." When Elizabeth began to apologize, he shook his head and smiled. "Oh, no, we spent several days in here reading books, with several turns in the garden and beyond. I vow, I haven't enjoyed the fresh air so much in all my life. Your sense was dearly missed."

He asked a few questions about her visit and whether her husband had behaved himself, but for the most part seemed highly uninterested in the answers. His own news seemed to occupy his thoughts more: "I am glad that you have returned in time, though," he said when she had been kind enough to finish. "I would not have had you miss our visitor for the world."

"Visitor?" echoed Elizabeth, absently nodding at the picture Bennet had come to show her and telling him it was a lovely blue horse, when most likely it was a tree.

"Why, yes. A month ago I received a letter, and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case involving some delicacy and requiring early attention. It was from my cousin Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases. He will be arriving tomorrow, and I have yet to inform your mother."

"Oh, how delightful!" Elizabeth said with a small giggle. "I am sure Mama will order extra fish for him. May I read the letter?"

Mr. Bennet dug among the papers on his desk, extracted one, and handed it to his daughter. It read:

Dear Sir,

The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honored father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with any one with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.

My mind however is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavor to demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England.

As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologize for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends -- but of this hereafter.

If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'nnight following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,

WILLIAM COLLINS.

"My goodness, he does seem to show proper respect toward his patroness," she mused. "For all that she is a malevolent, arrogant busybody."

Mr. Bennet agreed that his cousin seemed most conscious of his humility.

"He must be an oddity, though, I think," she continued. "I cannot make him out -- there is something very pompous in his style." She paused and re-read the letter, her brow furrowing. "And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail? We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could. And as to amends . . . I simply don't know. Can he be a sensible man, Papa?"

"No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well."

"But do you think he should come?" she asked. "After all, if he wishes to ingratiate himself with his patroness it cannot do to have truck with such as I."

"Oh, no, my dear," he replied. "I told him nothing of the affair. I am sure he will come. I am impatient to see him."

Despite this professed impatience, Mr. Bennet waited until the following morning to inform his madam wife of her houseguest's imminent arrival. The disclosure went much as expected, with the exception of there being no fish to be got.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. He made the appropriate courtesies and endeavored to behave with charm towards the young ladies of the household. He showed some agitation, however, upon being made aware of the second eldest daughter's current surname.

"I am not . . . I was not aware this young lady was in residence," Mr. Collins said in some distress to his hostess. "I had understood her disin--, er. . . away from home."

"As you see, I am here," Elizabeth said quite seriously, though the glance she shared with her father threatened her composure.

"She has returned to us after a sojourn in London and Berkshire," Mrs. Bennet replied, unsure why the issue had arisen. "Her husband, in fact, is residing at Netherfield."

Mr. Collins' eyes appeared now to be attempting an escape from his head, and he choked slightly as he said, "Mr. Darcy, the nephew of my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is here?"

There was silence in the room, all eyes staring at the newly come visitor -- except his, of course, which were staring in horror at his host.

At last, the latter gentleman observed with calm politeness, "Well, now that we have established the location of all concerned, perhaps we might go in to dinner? We keep country hours here, as you see, Mr. Collins."

Eager to escape the unpleasant awkwardness of the past few minutes, everyone followed his lead. Dinner was no less uncomfortable, and perhaps slightly more, as everyone struggled valiantly to ignore the topic dwelling uppermost on their minds.

At last, though, Lydia, who often displayed more liveliness than sense, spoke into one of the many silences with: "Well, I don't see what it much matters that Lizzy is here with us. It's not as if her husband wanted her, I should think."

"Hush child," her mother said, but the damage was done.

Mr. Collins' face was a mask of shock before he recalled himself and stood, his chest puffing out slightly. "I have long thought it was the place of the wife to be at her husband's side, and to submit to his will," he said. "I have heard from my esteemed patroness the details of your daughter's shameful conduct and am most seriously displeased at your tacit approval of them, betrayed by her continued presence in your home and family. Her wicked and reprehensible influence on her sisters can be seen quite readily in this young lady, who appears to knows so woefully little of propriety and morality.

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh spoke rightfully when she said that it was the duty of all God-fearing citizens to shun those who break with the natural law, and to protect those who are too innocent to understand," he said, his voice rising as if he were speaking from the pulpit. "For we, as a society, must guard ourselves against that which is shameful and corrupting, for by allowing it among us we allow ourselves to be despoiled. She, herself, protected Mr. Darcy's sister from the taint of immorality when at Pemberley, and bitterly regretted she could not take her away from those polluted shades.

"I, myself, feel that, under the circumstances, you ought to have thrown off this unworthy child from your affection, and left her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offence. For who would now connect themselves with such a family?"

Mr. Bennet, who seemed completely unaffected by this speech, wiped his mouth genteelly, looked up at Mr. Collins, and said, "In light of that consideration, cousin, perhaps you feel it unwise to remain under this roof? A clergyman, in my opinion, can never be too careful of his reputation."

Suddenly aware of the growing darkness, his long journey, and the delicious food before him, Mr. Collins seemed to reconsider his position. He sat down carefully, cleared his throat, and said, "Of course, that is very true, Mr. Bennet. But I also feel that often, as clergymen, we are called to minister among the sinners, so to speak." He laughed nervously. "I am sure that Lady Catherine would agree with my philosophy."

Mr. Bennet agreed that she undoubtedly would, and the dinner was relieved of a measure of awkwardness as he thereafter engaged his cousin in questions about his patroness and his situation at Rosings.

By the time dinner was complete, Mr. Bennet had had his fill of his guest, and as they removed to the drawing room, suggested that he might read aloud to the ladies. Perhaps in order to forward his intention of ministering to the sinners, Mr. Collins chose among the books produced for him a volume of Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages on the topic of obedience, she interrupted him with,

"Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and, if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town."

She was bid by her eldest sisters to hold her tongue, but, again, the damage was done. Mr. Collins, much offended, made a remark on the disinterest young ladies have in books that might benefit them in moral instruction. Unwilling this time, however, to go further, he laid the book aside and offered himself as an antagonist to Mr. Bennet in backgammon. That gentleman, supposing that it were perhaps better to enjoy his new entertainment in private, agreed.

The following afternoon, the suggested trip into Meryton was again proposed. Every sister except Mary agreed to go with Lydia, and Elizabeth felt the trip might be a good one for her son, who had been in the house again for too long and was mischievously giving the maids trouble.

Mr. Collins was to attend them, as Mr. Bennet so conscientiously suggested. The latter gentleman's true purpose, of course, was to be rid of his unwanted guest and have to himself again his library -- where Mr. Collins had been talking with little cessation of his house at Hunsford while pretending to read -- and felt no remorse at saddling his daughters with the plague instead. Mr. Collins, being much more fitted as a walker than a reader, and being also completely unaware of his unwanted status, readily assented.

Thus the miles between Longbourn and Meryton were filled by pompous musings on moral rectitude on his side and civil assents on that of his cousins. At last, however, the village was reached and the attention of the young ladies was no longer his. Their eyes darted from window shop to uniformed officer, excitedly chatting about this and that.

Being more polite than their younger sisters, Jane and Elizabeth, her hand held tightly by Bennet, had been trapped by Mr. Collins, who was determined to have some audience, at least. But they were all called to attention by Lydia as she made an exclamation of surprise.

A gentleman Lydia did not recognize was walking on the opposite side of the road, accompanied by the very Mr. Denny whom she had mentioned the night before. The youngest two sisters, determined to find out who this mysterious gentleman was, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, reached the same spot.

As the gentleman had turned, however, Elizabeth froze in place, causing Bennet and Jane to stop as well. "What is it?" the latter asked, concerned.

"It's Mr. Wickham," Elizabeth breathed, and then turned quickly to the nearest shop window, pretending extreme interest in the bonnets on display. Bennet strained at his mother's hand, pointing at a passing dray, but she pulled him closer to herself, shielding him with her skirts. Jane stood beside her, looking uncertainly between her sister and the twosome the small trio had just met.

It was at this moment that Darcy and Bingley happened to pass through the village. They were on their way to Longbourn, Bingley to inquire after Jane and Darcy to remain closely by his friend, but the appearance of the sought-after Miss Bennet standing beside a shop on their very path was fortuitous. Bingley immediately dismounted and approached the two young ladies, Darcy trailing reluctantly behind.

Bingley began the civilities, most primarily targeted toward Jane, and Darcy, left to himself, was free to avoid the eyes of the other principal in the small party. But his wandering gaze had no sooner left the group than it fell upon the other party not ten feet away, which consisted of the youngest Bennet sisters; two strangers, one in the habit of a clergyman and the other the garb of the militia; and a gentleman all too familiar to him.

Their gazes met, locked. One paled, the other flushed. Darcy's head whipped towards Elizabeth, his mouth opened as if to say something, then closed just as abruptly. With a visible struggle, he turned, remounted his horse, and returned the way he had come.

Bingley, in the middle of wiggling his fingers in front of Bennet's gleeful face, stared in surprise at his retreating friend. He straightened, his cheeks flushing uncomfortably, and made their excuses.

"You needn't apologize for your friend, Mr. Bingley," Elizabeth said gently.

"No, I must," he replied determinedly. "I don't pretend to understand why he left so --"

"Mrs. Darcy, Miss Bennet."

The three turned as one to see that the other party had now joined them. Wickham, his lips turned up in a sly smile, had tipped his hat to the two ladies.

"Mr. Denny, how do you do?" Elizabeth replied equitably, acknowledging the militiaman who had spoken first. She turned her head slightly to look Wickham full in the face, then, without a word, spun on her heel and walked away, drawing her son after her.

"The cut direct..." someone murmured behind her, but she continued without a pause. As she passed the inn, she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying behind her, and a few moments later Jane caught her up, breathing heavily from running.

She didn't say a word, and the two reached Longbourn in due course. Upon entering Elizabeth ignored her mother, who came into the foyer questioning them about the absence of the others, and went up to her room with her son. Jane found her there sitting on her bed, holding a teary Bennet to her chest, shaking.

"I am such a fool; I should never have gone," Elizabeth said when Jane had closed the door. "And I certainly should not have brought my son! What if he had seen him, Jane?"

Jane didn't question who, but merely eased the frightened child from his mother's arms and took him outside the door, where she handed him to a passing maid with the direction to take him to the library, wherein Mr. Bennet could undoubtedly be found. She then returned to the bed, sat beside Elizabeth, and, taking one of her hands into her own, patted it consolingly.

"And Wickham! That he should come here, of all the places in England!"

Jane sighed. "I am sure it is just a coincidence, Lizzy."

"I am heartily sick of coincidence! It was only coincidence that my husband should come to Hertfordshire at this time. It was only coincidence that you should fall ill at Netherfield. It was only coincidence that the rector of the parsonage on the most hateful woman's land should come here, to -- coincidentally -- his cousin's house. And now it is only coincidence that Wickham should come to Meryton!"

"He has come to join the regiment here," Jane said.

"Now all we're missing are Lady Catherine and Georgiana for a pleasant reunion," Elizabeth muttered. "But I suppose we could always substitute Mr. Collins for the former and perhaps Mary might make a good Georgiana. Better than Lydia or Kitty, I suppose."

"Lizzy, I don't understand what you're saying."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and shook her head. "I don't know Jane. I'm just so confused right now. Perhaps this might be a good time for me to leave."

"Oh, no!" cried Jane, tears appearing in her large, blue eyes. "You mustn't go now. We've just been reunited!"

"I think I must," Elizabeth replied, no less moved by the idea. "It might not be forever, you know. We may be able to come back to England some time in the future."

Jane looked as doubtful at that as Elizabeth felt. But despite her sister's pleas to remain, Elizabeth knew it was the right course of action. She did finally agree to wait until speaking to their father to place a date to set sail, but she stood firm on the issue: she had to leave Hertfordshire, and the sooner the better.

At Netherfield, Darcy was undergoing a similar crisis. After returning from the ride, he stewed about in his rooms for some time before joining Bingley in the library. The latter was nearly as surprised to see his friend appear as Darcy was to find someone -- and Bingley especially -- in his hitherto-unbreached sanctum, but the intrusion was not considered unwelcome on either part.

"He's come to join the regiment here," Bingley said without preamble, guessing accurately the cause of his friend's agitated state.

"Why here? Did he know she was here? Is this why she came back?"

Bingley shook his head. "I am supposing you do not require a response to those questions, as I cannot answer, in good faith, any of them. But I will tell you that she was as upset as you seem to be at his appearance. She gave him the cut direct."

Darcy stopped mid-pace and looked at his friend, one brow raised in question.

"Why do you think she hadn't joined the others?"

A frustrated sigh was Bingley's only answer.

Near-silence again reigned in the room. The clock as it ticked off each long second, Darcy's footsteps as he paced across the Axminster carpet, and the pages Bingley flipped as he went back to his reading were the only sounds that broke the stillness.

At last, Darcy settled into the matching wing chair and, with another sigh, said, "I simply don't know what to think anymore. The more I see her, the more I would believe she were innocent, but all evidence screams against it. I have gone so long believing myself the victim in all this, and her the offender, that to imagine I may have been wrong . . . it cannot be thought of."

"I don't understand what you're saying," Bingley said.

"It doesn't matter, I suppose," his friend replied. "I ought to cut my losses and return to Pemberley."

Bingley protested against the idea, insisting he stay at least until after the ball. "For I would have your advice on Miss Bennet."

"Are you intent on courting her, after all?"

"I am," Bingley replied firmly. "Caroline and Louisa have attempted to dissuade me from this attachment, but I consider the drawbacks against her -- her connections, her lack of wealth -- they are as nothing compared with my love for her."

"And she? Does she love you?"

"Have you not seen?"

"I have not," Darcy admitted ruefully. "My thoughts have been elsewhere."

"Then you have no other objections?" Bingley asked.

Darcy shook his head. "If you have rejected the considerations of rank and connections, I do not see how any advice of mine could help you."

"You know her father. How ought I approach him? You've done this oftener than I."

Darcy merely grumbled something unintelligible and retreated again into silence. After some contemplation he revealed his course of thought:

"Do you think he has come for his son, then? I know that, by law, he is mine, but . . .' He seemed to struggle with something inwardly. Finally he said to his friend, who seemed distracted by his own thoughts, "I don't want her to run off with him. She showed some sense, at least, the last time, and left on her own . . ."

"Do you mean she hasn't told you?" Bingley interrupted, as if unaware his friend had continued talking.

This appeared to check Darcy, who had no idea what his wife was to have told him.

"You mean to tell me you didn't see him in the village?"

This mystified Darcy even more, but no query he could place would elicit more information from his friend. And when Bingley left him, plagued by his conscience and weary of fielding questions, Darcy was left to puzzle out what he had meant -- and what it meant for his spousal relationship.

Back in the village, meanwhile, the author of all this disturbance on the part of husband and wife was enjoying himself thoroughly. The scene in the village that day was recounted left and right, and after some thought Wickham was able to give the gossips what they had been looking for -- the truth behind the whole story.

To their eager ears, he told them how old Mr. Darcy, father to the current and godfather to him, had promised him a living. He related his return to Derbyshire to speak with the younger Mr. Darcy after the will was read, and how he was denied the position. Mrs. Darcy, feeling the injustice of such an action, tried to reason with her husband, but he -- who had long been jealous of his father's affection for this young son of the Pemberley steward -- turned on her. They were both thrown out of the house (he would not vouch to his eager listeners that Mr. Darcy did not lay hands on his wife before banishing her for taking his part), Mrs. Darcy to who knew not where, and he to make a living for himself as he could.

Mr. Darcy, a villain! The tide of opinion swept from thinking him a victim to vindicating Mrs. Darcy, who had only tried to see justice done. And to think, that he should come into Hertfordshire!

Mr. Wickham dined well on his story, and the rumors spread. And in the intervening days, as the invitations went out for the ball at Netherfield and preparations were made despite the steady rain, everyone waited eagerly for the coming event:

Elizabeth, because she had agreed upon it being the last evening she would spend here before going off to parts unknown. Darcy, because he would leave the following morning to return to his home in Derbyshire, no matter what he discovered of his wife. And nearly everyone else, to see what would happen when the two of them met one more time.

Chapter Seven
Rule #2: Do not see each other!

Fielding was in a quandary. The other day, as he had been in the village on an errand for his master, he had taken the opportunity afforded by the haberdasher's slow assistant to check out the local pub. The ale had been wonderful, the local folk welcoming, but the rumors decidedly not to his taste. He returned to Netherfield with a sick stomach, despite the lightness of his head.

He struggled with his conscience for the better part of two days, but the morning of the ball he awoke with such a feeling of guilt that he knew he had to speak.

Therefore, choosing his moment wisely, he began as he was cleaning the razorblade and his master was wiping the lather residue from his chin.

"They've been speaking of you in the village, sir."

There was silence behind him for a moment, and then, in an awful tone that made Fielding wish he hadn't even started: "What are they saying?"

"There're some rumors that say you beat your wife, sir. There are some that say you and Mr. Wickham are at odds. But the most disturbing of them all say you dishonored your father's wishes."

Again, the silence, followed by: "Tell me all of it."

It was a good thing Fielding spent a good portion of his days maintaining his active physique, for when he finished relating all he had heard in the village, he had to move quickly to dodge the basin that came flying at him.

Not that his master had meant to harm him, he told his avid listeners downstairs later, as he dried out his clothes. But when one is in the grips of some powerful emotion, one doesn't really notice where the things that get knocked off the tables may land.

His master quieted down right quickly -- and even apologized, would you ken -- controlling his expression with admirable will as they had finished dressing. But Fielding could clearly tell, when he was dismissed 'til the afternoon, that the day's excitement wasn't near over.

Mrs. Partridge, the housekeeper, told Fielding he ought to have kept quiet about it, and reiterated that opinion with a little more smugness when the head footman (who was stationed at the front door while Prufrock was in the cellar) came down and mentioned he had seen Mr. Darcy ride off in the direction of Meryton.

But the speculation of what was to happen had to wait, as preparations for the ball were of greater import. All of the servants scattered back to their previous occupations as Cook drove the extraneous inhabitants from her domain.

By the end of the day, however, as carriages began arriving at the front steps of Netherfield, it was Prufrock who, though not privy to the conversation below stairs, nevertheless knew more than all of the servants combined.

Like any good servant, the impassive butler knew the essence of much of the conversation between his present master and Mr. Darcy after the latter returned to Netherfield from his ride.

Wind-swept and visibly angered, the gentleman had dismounted at the door and rushed up the steps, pausing only briefly to enquire as to his host's whereabouts. Prufrock had led him to the billiards room and then, as they asked not to be disturbed, stood watch in front of the door. Thus he only missed the part of the conversation during which he was dissuading a curious Miss Bingley from entering.

He showed no surprise, therefore, when Bingley asked his horse to be readied and a short while later departed for the village. He was also well prepared to inform the stables to have a carriage ready before dawn the following morning and did not bat so much as an eyelash as he produced the spare key to the cabinet wherein the pistols were kept.

With the preoccupation of the household he had no opportunity, should he have wished it, to share this knowledge. Nevertheless, it was not long after the ball started later that evening that Prufrock became only one of those outside the principals to be aware of most of the particulars. The news, brought by a lieutenant who had happened to overhear the seconds speaking of it, spread like wildfire across the ballroom:

Darcy had challenged Wickham to a duel.

One person not made aware of the scandalous tittle-tattle was Elizabeth, as a result of the curious way in which those most closely associated with any given rumor are rarely brought abreast of their fame. Thus, oblivious either to the rumors of Wickham's story and the duel, or to the reason for the speculative stares, she laughed and danced and brushed off the peculiar feeling that something was not quite right.

Elizabeth had dressed with care this evening, ignoring the inner voice that whispered she were dressing for him. She vowed to herself that, on this last night she might see her husband, she would do her utmost to avoid conflict. She feared she might give into the temptation to speak with him -- explain what had happened, tell him she forgave him -- and she steeled herself against it. It was for him approach to her, she swore: for his the offence, his must the remedy be. She wasn't waiting with bated breath.

She was with Charlotte (who had heard the rumors and was deciding the most tactful way to bring up the subject), and was telling her of America and her plans to settle in Lower Canada, when the unthinkable happened: Darcy approached them. Charlotte, feeling uncommonly awkward and unsure how to proceed, stepped back, leaving husband and wife, for all intents and purposes, face-to-face.

"Mrs. Darcy, might I request the pleasure of this dance?" Darcy asked after a moment in which the two stared at each other.

Elizabeth, startled firstly by his appearance and secondly by his appeal, stuttered for a moment before, with graceful recovery, she replied she would be most honored.

Darcy offered his arm, and they made their way onto the dance floor, where the sets were forming. The crowd in the ballroom grew, drawn from the card room and the ladies' withdrawing room by the whispers that the two were dancing.

They neither of them spoke at first, until Elizabeth, imagining their silence to stretch through the two dances entirely if she did not help it, made some slight observation about the dance. He replied briefly, and they were again silent until she said:

"It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy -- I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."

He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.

"Very well." she replied. "That will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones, but now we may be silent."

"I did not recall you spoke by rule when dancing, Elizabeth," he said.

Elizabeth was startled by his use of her name, especially in such a tone, but, frowning, merely said, "I used not to, but we are neither of us as we once were."

He said nothing to this, and they fell into a silence again. At last, though, he asked, "Where did you go upon leaving Derbyshire last?"

"To London," she replied with only a brief hesitation, pasting her social smile firmly on her face again. "To my aunt and uncle."

"I thought as much. And did you stay there long?"

"No. After the course of only several months, I moved to Berkshire, to a widowed cousin of my aunt."

He nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful. "And how did you live?" he asked after a moment.

"Though not well off, Mrs. Simmons had some small means, and we supplemented her widow's pay by taking in sewing," she said. "Mr. Darcy, to what do these questions tend?"

"Merely to assuage my conscience that you did not suffer when you left my house," he said. "Though I fear that assurance has not yet come."

"We are no longer your concern," she murmured, unsure from where this unease was driven.

"Elizabeth, we must talk."

A bark of bitter laughter burst from her lips. "I do not think the ballroom a proper place, sir. It breaks all the rules of polite society."

"And what of this estrangement?" he asked.

"It breaks all the rules of that, too."

"Then of what would you have us speak? Books?"

"Oh, no," she replied with a genuine smile. "For you know that, though we have similar tastes, we never read them with the same opinions. I could not speak of books at a ball."

"The weather, then? Though I warn you I could not tell you if it had been fine or blustery these past few days. It has all seemed stormy to me."

"There has been rain," she said. "It has been raining for some time."

"And does there look to be improvement soon?"

She hesitated at this, cocking her head in puzzled confusion, and said, "I could not tell you, Mr. Darcy. I am no gypsy, to see the future."

He didn't say anything in reply, and she continued with: "But I am going somewhere I have high hopes the rain will not follow. I will be leaving Hertfordshire tomorrow."

Darcy started and nearly tripped over his feet, but recovered in time to join the other dancers in the pattern. When he and Elizabeth came together again in the dance he said, "Berkshire is not so far away."

"Oh, not to Berkshire -- to America."

"America!" he repeated in surprise. "Has this been a design of long duration?"

She replied that it had been.

"Then I wish you well," he said, though his voice did not reflect the selflessness of this statement. "But you do not think the rain will follow you there?"

"Even should it, it shall be a different kind of rain," she replied.

"You would not miss the days of warmth and sun here?"

"They have been few and far between, sir. I shall regret them, but perhaps I shall find a different sun there."

Darcy, whose jaw had clenched during this last statement, appeared as though he would respond, but as the music then ended, he instead offered his arm to his partner. Elizabeth could feel the stiffness in him as he led her from the dance floor.

Before they parted, Darcy spoke in a low voice to Elizabeth, asking her for an audience the next morning. She hesitated, but curiosity won out and she responded in the positive.

"And if by some evil chance I do not come to call, I beg your humblest pardon," he said, and then, bowing, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Elizabeth stood for a moment in puzzlement, unsure of the meaning of his parting statement, and was soon approached by Miss Bingley, who with an expression of civil disdain thus accosted her:

"So, Mrs. Darcy, I understand from your sister that it has been some time since you have been last in London."

"It has."

"In which case, I am sure you would be interested to learn some of the most recent on dits. You must have heard something about Lady Bracknell, I assume?"

"Miss Bingley, I have no --"

"Oh, but of course you haven't," Miss Bingley continued, overriding Elizabeth's words. "It is quite difficult to gain news of any real interest in the country where you were cloistered. Or should I say 'sequestered'? No matter - as I was saying, Lady Bracknell recently was in quite a scandal. It seems she was caught in a bit of a compromising position with Lord Hubert Godfrey -- by her own husband, no less. Well, it wouldn't have done for Lord Bracknell to ignore such a thing, so it seems he and Lord Hubert went out and settled the matter with a duel."

"That is quite fascinating, Miss Bingley --"

"Lord Hubert, being quite the shot, you know, won in a most impressive way. So impressively, in fact, that he was forced to retreat to the continent to avoid the law. And Lady Bracknell, well, she hasn't been seen in society since -- and it isn't mourning that has stopped the invitations coming."

"Miss Bingley, I am not certain I understand --"

"Only this Mrs. Darcy: I understand from your sister that you met George Wickham in the village recently. But it seemed Miss Bennet was unaware of later developments, which have come to my attention. Mr. Wickham has let it be known that you were in league with him in standing against your husband, before you abandoned him. I, of course, as would any person of sense and refinement, hold Mr. Darcy blameless in all this. Taking the word of the son of a steward against that of a gentleman! Absurd!" She narrowed her eyes slightly, and with a sly smile delivered her parting shot: "Society here in the country may be more curious, Mrs. Darcy, but don't ever mistake it for acceptance."

Elizabeth stood numbly as Miss Bingley then turned and walked away. In truth, and especially coming so soon after her husband's own enigmatic statement, she was confused about the lady's full intent in speaking with her and the meaning behind the story she had shared.

But as a sliver of doubt then began to chafe her thoughts, she sought her sister. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment every thing else gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.

"I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister's, "What you have heard of Mr. Darcy. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged, and the topics of discussion more narrowed than to involve a third person, in which case you may be sure of my pardon."

"No," replied Jane. "We did talk of generalities -- but Mr. Bingley did not seem comfortable when I mentioned Mr. Darcy. And when I mentioned Mr. Wickham, he changed the topic entirely."

"Did he say anything of a duel?" Elizabeth asked. "Or perhaps Mr. Darcy's plans?"

Jane disavowed any knowledge of either, and seemed most shocked at the idea of a duel, but assured her sister she would introduce the topic again when next she spoke with Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth then inquired about that gentleman, and the discourse thus changed to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no doubt of the outcome.

On their being joined then by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth, feeling herself to be superfluous, withdrew to a seat near the other matrons. The ladies, who had been gazing out over the crowd and gossiping together, grew abruptly silent when she drew close, but after she had taken a chair, started up a new conversation about the suspected French origin of Mrs. Hurst's gown.

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley, and the train of agreeable reflections to which her observations gave birth made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her, in idea, settled in that very house, in all the felicity that a marriage of true affection could bestow. Recognizing that their love and thus their union would be something intrinsically different from her own, she had high hopes that a marriage between them might lead to true happiness for their lifetimes.

Her mother's thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr. Bingley.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavor to check the rapidity of her mother's words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. At one point, she was even sure he would say something, but he seemed to check himself and returned to his meal. When Elizabeth voiced her disapproval again, this time a little more softly, her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.

"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure, with our history, we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear. He is as nothing to us anymore."

Elizabeth felt her face heat, and did not dare look in her husband's direction. She felt all the shame of her position and knew not what to say to stem the flow of her mother's conversation.

But no sooner had the blush begun to fade on Elizabeth's cheeks after, at length, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say, than the rest of her family took up the campaign to embarrass her. During the whole of Mary's impressive two-song performance on the pianoforte, her father's admittedly unnecessarily harsh remonstrance of said sister, Mr. Collins' pompous monologues, and her youngest sisters' continued loose and loud behavior, Elizabeth was forced to sit, wincing at every further mortification, across from her husband and later watch as he prowled the ballroom, his brows drawn and his expression clouded. At last she could take no more and implored her father to send for the carriage.

Therefore it was that the Longbourn party was the first of all the company to depart. There was significant grumbling in one of the carriages as its inhabitants groused on their being torn away from a decidedly enjoyable ball, but Elizabeth, obtaining a seat in the other, was able to merely smile reassuringly at Jane and ignore Mr. Collins as he chatted about his wonderful hosts while Mr. Bennet looked on in amusement. And when they arrived at Longbourn, Elizabeth escaped quickly to avoid the recriminations of her mother and younger sisters.

But she was one of the few to have seen the evening as an utter failure. Even before the carriage wheels had clattered their way past the gatehouse, Mr. Darcy left the party to seek a more contemplative scene, and, with the principals safely away, the discussion eagerly turned upon the events of the evening. Every nuance of expression was dissected, every possible outcome of tomorrow's event forecast, every action by the joint Bennet and Darcy family greedily recounted.

And as the guests began to disperse, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were congratulated again and again on their wonderful hostessing. It was, it appeared, a most successful ball.

Chapter Eight
Rule #6: Blame everyone else for the situation.

The morning air was heavy and cool, the fog roiling thickly over the field where the duel's participants gathered. Of the six that stood waiting in the pre-dawn gloom, the only one who did not display his nervousness over the coming match was the one who quite possibly had the most to lose.

The apothecary stood anxiously to one side, his bag in hand, hoping he would not have to use it. Captain Denny, holding one box of pistols, loaded several moments before in the presence of the other seconds, glanced over his shoulder every few minutes, as if expecting the authorities to materialize out of the fog and take him unawares. His fellow militiaman, a Lieutenant Hervey, stared steadily at the ground, his shaking hands thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat. Bingley stood beside Darcy, the other box of pistols in his arms. Every so often he whispered something to that gentleman in a frantic voice, but received only a perfunctory nod each time that did little to assuage his unease.

Darcy stood stoically, listening with seeming unconcern to his friend. Every so often, he glanced at his watch, then replaced it in the pocket of his waistcoat. His black greatcoat swirled around him in the light breeze.

He was fashionably dressed, the sober-colored fabrics and even more sober expression the very model for a gentleman about to commence such a serious affair. His hair, ruffled slightly by the gentle wind, was tamed though slightly damp and his cheeks clean-shaven. He was ready, as they say, to either meet his maker or have (after pistols for two) breakfast for one.

The only hint that his role was less about heartlessness than firm-heartedness was in his eyes. The slight bruising about them spoke of the sleepless night he had endured. Though not -- at least not as much since his marriage had fallen apart -- a praying man, he had spent much of the hours 'til dawn on his knees, begging for another chance. The contemplation of the utter mess he had made of his life, heightened perhaps by his visit earlier in the day with a notary, brought about a grief profound such as he had never experienced.

But the grief had given way to anger, and the anger had given away to purpose, and that resolve had driven him to this, waiting in the dismal weather for a man who, it seemed increasingly, might not even appear.

At long last, however, the figure of a man emerged out of the fog, nearly giving Captain Denny an attack. Wickham, in full regimental dress, strolled onto the green and, with an insouciant and somewhat insolent bow, acknowledged his opponent. He removed his tricorne, gloves and coat, handing them to Lieutenant Hervey, and approached the duo standing slightly apart.

"You do not wish to apologize, then?" Wickham asked derisively.

In response, Darcy gestured towards Bingley, who hurriedly opened the lid of the box. "Your choice," he said in a voice that gave nothing away.

Wickham picked up one of the pistols, balanced it in his hand, and nodded. Darcy, after removing his greatcoat, took the other and the two went to stand back-to-back in the middle of the field.

Captain Denny, with a deep breath to steady himself, squared his shoulders and approached. "Gentlemen, before we begin I must ask if we may settle this dispute with an apology. Mr. Darcy, as the challenger--"

"No."

"Well, then, gentlemen, these are the rules agreed upon by the seconds: two shots at twenty paces, on my signal. After the first shot, if neither is disabled, an apology may be made. If no apology is forthcoming, we shall proceed to the second shot. In the seriousness of this occasion, I must remind you that no dumb shooting or firing in the air is acceptable. A misfire is equivalent to a shot. Any wound sufficient to agitate the nerves and so make the hand shake shall make an end to this business.

"Now, gentleman, I shall count off the paces. You shall then face each other and I shall give a 'ready, fire.' Are the rules clear?"

Both of the duelists agreed, and the steps were counted. At ten, they faced each other, waiting for the signal. Darcy stared steadily at his opponent, who began to betray his nervousness in the beads of perspiration gathering on his brow.

At "ready," they raised their arms, and with sharp reports, almost synchronous, and a flash of fire from each pistol, it was over.

Darcy remained standing, but his adversary knelt on the ground, clutching his right shoulder. "You hit me!" Wickham swore.

Without replying to the murderous epithets of his opponent, Darcy turned and handed his pistol to Bingley, who took it with an expression of shock.

Captain Denny, ashen but determined to fulfill his role, asked the apothecary if the duel could continue. At that gentleman's decided opposition, the captain declared an end to the matter. Darcy, putting on his greatcoat, made to leave.

"You'll never know if the little brat is yours or not, will you?"

At the question, one of many but the only to hit a nerve, Darcy turned to Wickham, who was sitting now on the ground as the apothecary tried to staunch the flow of blood from the wound.

"On the contrary, if Elizabeth tells me he is mine, I will believe her," he replied. He hesitated, but then approached his adversary. "Why, Wickham?"

Not pretending to misunderstand the question, the man on the ground replied, without care for his audience, "Because you have everything, and I, nothing."

"And why did you destroy her as well, when she did nothing to you?"

"She chose to leave. I certainly did nothing to cause that," he sneered. "If you must blame someone, it was you, Darcy. You and your bloody pride. Couldn't stand the thought I might have poached on your preserves, could you? Not that the little prude was amenable--" He sucked in his breath as the apothecary prodded the wound slightly, cutting off his words.

Darcy had flinched when Wickham spoke of pride, but now he shook his head sadly: "You have no honor, do you?"

"A lot of good honor would do me, with no money. But then you wouldn't know how it is to be poor."

"And neither would you." Ignoring the oaths that crackled the air, he continued: "I will pay your debts here and arrange for a transfer to a regiment elsewhere. But I will do no further for you -- I wash my hands of your affairs."

And with that he turned and strode away from the field of honor to the coach waiting on the path, with Mr. Bingley hurrying to keep up. When they arrived back at Netherfield, neither said a word to the servants who welcomed their return, nor to the Hursts or Miss Bingley, who were avid with curiosity.

But despite this quite honorable silence by them and, in theory, by all concerned with the affair, by the time breakfast was served at the Bennet household, news of the engagement's result had circulated the neighborhood.

Elizabeth sat back in shock as she was served her eggs and the notice that her husband had just shot a man.

"I can't believe it," she breathed.

The rest of the family, who had already passed on to the other topic of Colonel Forster's reaction to the misbehavior of one of his regiment, turned as one to look at her in surprise.

"And my husband? Was he hurt, as well?"

Mrs. Bennet looked a little peeved. "I told you, child! At the duel itself, he left under his own power, but Mr. Jones called later at Netherfield, which in all probability would mean Mr. Darcy did not escape unscathed."

"But this means Lizzy is in the clear, does it not, Mama?" Kitty asked. "He won, did he not?"

That most informed lady finished her toast and said, "As duels go, Mr. Darcy would certainly be considered to have won, but it is really not anything to do with Lizzy. After all, the insult was given by Mr. Darcy, who, when Mr. Wickham refused to meet in private, declared him quite publicly a liar regarding the way he had been treated after Mr. Darcy's father died -- nothing at all to do with Lizzy's alleged misconduct with Mr. Wickham."

"Alleged!" Elizabeth choked, glancing at her father in silent plea. Mr. Bennet merely shrugged.

His wife, meanwhile, continued without pause: "But then I didn't tell you about what had happened after the duel, for I suppose that is the most pertinent part of this story."

To this, of course, everyone at the table exclaimed and begged for more information (excepting, of course, Mr. Collins, who, judging by his expression, found all of this disagreeable in the extreme, and Mr. Bennet, who knew from experience that the information would come whether he wished it or not). Mrs. Bennet sat smugly, enjoying the attention as she sipped at her coffee.

At last, however, she sated their curiosity and related all she had heard of the conversation between the duel's principals, which admittedly wasn't correct but was close enough to the truth to make a point.

Elizabeth appeared so disturbed by this revelation that for the rest of the meal she stared at her plate abstractedly, not appearing to taste any of the food she partook. When her plate was empty, she excused herself and retired to her room, where Jane found her later.

"Lizzy?"

From behind the lid of the trunk sitting on the bed, Elizabeth straightened to find her sister standing in the doorway, her expression concerned.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to convince myself to pack," Elizabeth replied with a grimace. "I had planned for us to leave for London this afternoon and to set sail on the first ship that leaves port for America."

Jane came into the room, closing the door behind her, and sat down on the small chair before the dressing table. When Bennet came over to her, she lifted him up to her lap and leaned her cheek on his soft curls. "So none of this changes your decision?" she asked quietly.

"That's the problem, Jane; it has," Elizabeth replied with a heartfelt sigh, her fingers resting lightly on the last gown she had folded, some ten minutes before. She stood for a moment in thought, and then came around the bed and sat facing her sister. "I never told you this, Jane, but after I first left Fitzwilliam, Aunt Gardiner had advised me what leaving him would mean. She wanted so much for me not to go through with it, to perhaps wait a bit and then talk with him, to reconcile. Even after they had helped me find a home in Berkshire, she bade me frequently, in her letters, to consider the effect my leaving had on everyone: on my son, on myself, on my family, even on my husband.

"I have been such a fool, Jane, and much longer than I ought, too. I realize now that I have been so buffle-headed in all of this, so sure I was in the right. But I am beginning to think I have wronged him as much as he wronged me. Yes, he should have given me a chance, but maybe I should have given him one, too.

Elizabeth hesitated, then admitted, "I do not know if he can forgive me that offense. And if he couldn't, Jane, could I live with that? He could take our son from me as easily as I had done -- and then what would I do? He asked that I give him an audience this morning, but I do not know if it should change my resolve, even should he wish me to stay. There is too much of the past between us.”

Jane was silent for a moment, bouncing Bennet on her knee. At last, she said, "When I was talking with Mr. Bingley last night, he told me, in some confidence, that his friend had been distracted and introspective the past few days. Now I wonder if he weren't talking about the duel, but at the time, especially with the way he asked about you immediately afterward, it had seemed as though he were speaking of Mr. Darcy's feelings about your marriage. He did say he was tiring of having to fend off questions about Bennet." The child looked up at hearing his name spoken, and she smiled down at him. "I cannot believe he would not forgive you, Lizzy."

"But you always think the best of people," Elizabeth said. "I am not so sanguine. But I shall meet with him."

A scratching was heard on the door, and a maid entered when bid and, curtsying, relayed the message that Elizabeth was wanted in the parlor.

Elizabeth was startled. "Mr. Darcy has come already? But he is much earlier than I expected. I'm not ready for this, Jane."

"Oh, no," said the maid hurriedly. "Begging pardon, ma'am, but the visitor is a lady. A Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

This piece of news startled Elizabeth even more. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh!" she echoed. "Heavens, what could have brought her here?" And then it hit her: "Mr. Collins."

With a firm jaw, Elizabeth left her packing on the bed and descended the stairs, followed by Jane and Bennet. When she entered the parlor, she was validated in her suspicion by the presence of a smug Mr. Collins, who stood behind the chair where their visitor had ensconced herself regally.

"Lady Catherine," Elizabeth acknowledged rigidly. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

The already thin line of the older woman's lips tightened. "Mrs. Darcy. I see your address has not improved in the months you were away," She hesitated and then continued: "There seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your family's lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favor me with your company."

Elizabeth, though reluctant to walk with Lady Catherine, nevertheless recognized the desire to keep the conversation that would no doubt follow as private as possible and accepted the invitation.

After running to her room for her wrap, bonnet and muff, Elizabeth attended her guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened several doors, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the copse.

At last they stopped and Lady Catherine began: "You can be at no loss, Mrs. Darcy, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I have come."

Though she had her suspicions, Elizabeth merely raised her brows and said, "Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honor of seeing you here."

"Mrs. Darcy," her ladyship said in an angry tone, "you ought to know, by this time in our acquaintance, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. I was recently put in possession of a disturbing piece of intelligence by Mr. Collins, who was so duteous as to inform me of your return unto the family fold and your reprehensible conduct with my nephew, who is also here."

"There is nothing reprehensible in the meeting of a husband and wife."

"Your actions say otherwise. A woman who has abandoned her husband and behaved with such reckless indiscretion can have no business in polite society. I shall not have my nephew -- nay, our entire family name -- made an object of ridicule."

"As your name is not, in fact, Darcy, I wonder that you should trouble yourself over its reputation. I should rather be the one worried about its impact on my son. But as you see, I do not find it so disturbing."

"Your son! You should have more concern of his dubious origins. But I see through your ploy," she continued, overriding Elizabeth's objection. "You wish to ensnare my nephew once more in your clutches, to return once more to the ease of life you once had. I tell you, I shall not see the shades of Pemberley so polluted!"

"Lady Catherine," Elizabeth began, controlling her anger. "I have never understood your objection to the match your nephew has made. And why, after it was secure, you took so much effort to destroy it."

"You ruined everything, Mrs. Darcy. Your husband was engaged to my daughter, and he threw her over for what? A young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family!"

"If Mr. Darcy was truly engaged to your daughter, I wonder that he would have been so dishonorable as to renege on such a promise."

Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, then replied, "The engagement between them was of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they had been intended for each other. It was the favorite wish of his mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we had planned the union: and, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, you came between them."

"But what was that to me, even should I have known it previously? I should certainly not have been kept from marrying your nephew by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss De Bourgh. If Mr. Darcy were neither by honor nor inclination confined to his cousin, why was not he to make another choice? And if I were that choice, why should I not have accepted him?"

"Because honor, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbade it. Yes, Mrs. Darcy, interest; did you not notice that his family and friends, when you willfully acted against the inclinations of all, censured, slighted and despised you? Your alliance was a disgrace."

Memories of her time in London ran swiftly though Elizabeth's mind, but she shook her head and said doggedly, "But why, after we had wed -- why, after there was no path outside of my death for Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter, did you go so far as to destroy our marriage?"

"I? Destroy your marriage?" Lady Catherine scoffed. "I did no more than any concerned bystander would do. And as his aunt, almost the nearest relation he has in the world, I had an obligation to tell him of the infidelities of his wife."

"There were no infidelities," Elizabeth said firmly. "All you told him were lies."

"And what of it? He ought to have seen the low company you kept, how completely unfit you were as his wife and the mistress of Pemberley. I applauded his decision to cast you off as the baggage you are, to separate himself and his innocent sister from your taint. I only wish I could have done more."

"What more could you have done?"

Elizabeth and Lady Catherine turned in surprise. Several feet down the path stood Darcy, his face a mask of anger. He wore a greatcoat, but no gloves or a hat, and he leaned heavily on a stout Malacca cane.

"Nephew," Lady Catherine began, but he cut her off with a curt gesture.

"I ought to have recognized much earlier how ill founded was your vitriol against my wife," he said sharply. "Instead, fool that I was, I believed you over my wife, without question. Because of your rancor and my misplaced trust and misbegotten pride, we together ruined an innocent life and a relationship, though perhaps," he added with an uncomfortable glance at his wife, "I had already begun the ruination of the latter. I have never even -- before now -- had a chance to lay eyes on my son."

"Your son!" Lady Catherine exclaimed. "You believe this perfidious strumpet's word that the child is yours?"

Darcy met Elizabeth's gaze, his own intent. "Without question. Now, Aunt, I wish to have a word with my wife. I thank you for your visit, but your concern is ill-timed and ill-founded. I wish you a pleasant journey home to Kent."

Lady Catherine stood as though rooted to the spot, her face a study in impotent rage. At last, however, she gathered herself and said, "I am gravely disappointed in you, Nephew. Be assured you shall have no further notice from me, nor from any of your family."

"That is a heavy misfortune," he replied in a low voice. "But the master of Pemberley, in so being the brother of Georgiana Darcy, the father of the Darcy heir, and the husband of Elizabeth Darcy, has such extraordinary sources of happiness attached to his situation that he will, on the whole, I am sure, have no cause to repine."

He bid her good day once more, and Lady Catherine, drawing herself up to her full height, said, "I take no leave of you, Nephew, nor of you, Mrs. Darcy. I send no compliments to your mother; you deserve no such attention. I am seriously displeased."

And, thus routed, she stalked off across the lawn to where her carriage stood ready.

Chapter Nine
Rule #7: Always wait for the other person to admit they were wrong.

Left alone, Elizabeth and Darcy stood awkwardly, he leaning on his cane and she rubbing her arm absently and biting her lip. Now that the time had come to talk, neither was willing to begin.

At last, Elizabeth, realizing there was an easy conversational opening, asked, "Did you injure your leg?"

He grimaced. "It's just a scratch. I wouldn't have even brought this silly thing if Bingley hadn't insisted upon it," he said.

"But it does hurt you?"

"It does, I admit."

"Thank you."

"For what?" he asked in surprise.

"For defending me -- in the duel."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, "that you were informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Wickham's seconds so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame them," Elizabeth replied with a small smile. "You have been away from the country for too long if you believe that anything that happens here can be kept a secret for long. Gossip is even food for the masses in London, as well, or have you forgotten so quickly?"

"I have forgotten nothing," he said in a voice so intense that she blushed and looked around for a diversion.

"How thoughtless I am! Would you care to sit?" She went over to where two benches sat amidst the dying flora, and taking one, gestured for him to take the other. Instead he seated himself beside her, and she instinctively shifted to allow more space between them.

He sighed. "I am sorry -- deeply sorry for this rift now between us. The fault is mine; I take full responsibility for the way in which I have behaved. After making poor decisions early on in our marriage, in not helping to shepherd you through society and then blaming you for your inexperience, I compounded my failings by turning not to you but to the counsel of others. We were young and inexperienced, it is true, but it is no excuse for how I behaved. My pride came before my duty to love, honor, and protect you, and in so doing I failed you.

"I do not know if what we had can be salvaged," he said when she did not respond at once. "But I know that, if you could forgive me my failings, I would that we try."

"You are not the only one guilty of pride, so if I must forgive your failings, you must find it in you to forgive mine, as well," Elizabeth replied after several minutes of thought. When he made to object, she shook her head and continued: "In not waiting, in not explaining, I was prideful. I was hurt by your lack of trust, but I also did not trust you enough to think you might need time to recover from the shock of the accusations.

"Tell me: believing I had deceived you, why did you never petition for divorce?" she asked. "It would have been well within your rights, some would say."

He looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "I cannot say for sure. My aunt pushed for it, surely, despite the stain it would place on our family name. And a part of me wished as well to fully sever our connection. But when I would reflect on this, I knew I could not do it. I suppose I always hoped that I had been mistaken.

"Georgiana always believed in you," he said. "I dismissed her objections as a result of her innocence, but perhaps it was because of her faith in you that I could not bear the thought of losing you completely."

Elizabeth knew not what to say to this, and so they lapsed into silence.

"Tell me, are these reflections the result of your overhearing your aunt and I, or were they sprung from another source?" Elizabeth asked after listening to the breeze rustle softly through the fading trees. "I cannot imagine our words only a few moments ago could inspire such deep reflections."

He smiled sadly. "No, I have been considering this some time. Seeing your behavior and your determination to be unashamed, I began to wonder if there were not a reason beyond what I saw. That perhaps there were more to the story than I had yet heard. It was not even Wickham's appearance and the rumors he spread that spurred me to consider that I might have wronged you greatly, though it was certainly a catalyst. I believe I began doubting my convictions even before I learned of your son."

The last word he spoke fell heavily into the sudden, pregnant silence, until Elizabeth cleared her throat and said, "I am sorry for not telling you about Bennet."

Darcy's jaw clenched, and he didn't say anything for a moment. "Is that his name?" he asked at last.

"Yes," she replied, releasing her pent-up breath and hurriedly adding: "You won't take him away from me, surely?"

He looked at her then, his expression astounded. "Is that what you think of me? That I would want him and not you? That I would take him away from his own mother? " He paused for a moment, grimacing slightly. "Is that why you hid from me all this time? In a purely academic fashion I can understand your concern, but I find it disturbing you trusted me so little."

She flushed. "I did, and I am sorry for it. I think, to some extent, we were both guilty of great mistrust."

After some thought he nodded. "For some time, fool that I was, I thought that Bennet might be Wickham's son, if not someone else's." When she gasped, he grimaced. "It was badly done of me, but I could think nothing else, as you would not talk to me of him, nor let me see him. I tried on several occasions to speak of him with you, but each time I was sidetracked by a new argument between us. When I tried calling on you last week, you had been out for a walk. And last night at the ball, I spent nigh on half the night trying to devise a way to discover more, but you left before I could talk to you again. Even Bingley -- Bingley, who generally is more open than a fountain -- would not reveal anything, saying only I must talk to you.

"I wish now that I could go back, before we had our troubles, and begin anew," he said. "It has pained me greatly, the thought that I have missed so much of my son's life." He paused, then whispered with something akin to awe: "My son. I still cannot quite believe it."

"Bennet is a wonderful child," Elizabeth said with a soft smile. "Very open and energetic, though with strangers he can be shy. He has many of your features; I could never look at him without thinking of you, even when I wished not to. He is inside the house with Jane. I could introduce you." She made as if to stand, but he put a gentle hand on her arm to stop her.

"Elizabeth, I have seen him already, a few moments ago when I was looking for you. Before we return to him, I would discuss something with you first." When she returned to her seat beside him, he took a steadying breath and said, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were two years ago when we parted, tell me so at once. I would love nothing more dearly then to have you and our son return with me to Pemberley, to live as husband and wife, to live as family."

He paled when, after waiting some time for a response, she continued to gaze quietly at her tightly clasped hands. "If you do not wish to return with me, though it pains me greatly, I will accept your decision. God help me, I will let you go. I have only recently come to realize that I love you -- that I still love you most dearly, and perhaps more because of all that we have been through. But if it is your will, one word from you shall silence me on the subject.

"I do ask, however, that you stay near -- perhaps here with your family or with the Gardiners. I would wish to have some of the care and raising of my son -- and, I admit, to see you not infrequently."

Elizabeth, looking up at him, felt suddenly greatly ashamed at unintentionally being the cause of the pain and anguish she saw clearly in his eyes. With tears flowing unheeded down her cheeks, she immediately, though not very fluently, gave her husband to understand that her feelings had undergone, in the period to which he had alluded if not in the past few hours and days, so material a change as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. She had realized not long ago, she told him, that she always loved him, had never stopped loving him, even when she did not like him; she had only feared that she had lost his regard by her actions. If he truly wished her back, they would no doubt still have their troubles, but she was willing to try to work through them, if he were working with her.

The happiness this reply produced was such as Darcy had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do.

They still had much to talk about, to learn to forgive and forget the past and to build a foundation for their future, but true joy does not often stop for these considerations. They would have to wait for another time.

It was only several minutes later that the two, aglow in their rediscovered love, though also both nearly blue from the cold of the November morning, returned to the house, where they were reunited with a young child who, though at first shy with this new acquaintance, nevertheless soon responded to the warmth and devotion shared among them.

But those few moments in the garden, short as they seemed, were long enough for a passing milkmaid to be suddenly and unanticipatedly considered the most knowledgeable (if not the most scandalized) gossip in the area, being in possession of the most highly regarded piece of news yet. The titillating rumor spread from buttery to butlery to bookroom to boudoir, and, coming as it did upon the heels of the outrageous doings of the morning, the immediate decampment to the North by a certain young officer, and the glimpse of the fashionable (though fuming) lady in the elegant carriage that had rolled so precipitously through and back through the village, followed by a particular clergyman in another, it served to occupy the minds and hearts of the good people of that part of Hertfordshire for quite some time.

And even after that news had been replaced by the delightfully anticipated announcement several days later of the engagement of a certain Bennet with the current occupant of Netherfield, more than one person could be heard to remark that, having provided so much good food for discussion, they were most assuredly glad the Darcys -- Bennet and all -- had returned.

The End.

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