All the Pleasures Prove

By Lou

Part 1|Part 2|

Chapter I

"Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove." - Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)

Miss Elizabeth Bennet had never fully imagined that Pemberley was such a grand estate, yet when she had first laid eyes upon it, its vast size and impressive majesty had quite instantly taken away the breath within her ever-inquisitive breast. The determined young woman had been of a mind to think unkindly of the place. Its Master's ill manners when she had known him in Hertfordshire had left no hint of affections or good thoughts upon her heart, whether he was of means or not, but Elizabeth found at first seeing such a happily situated plot of earth that her spirit could uphold few ill feelings to either splendid manor or single man.

When he spoke to the friends traveling through the North Country with Miss Bennet, Mr. Darcy spoke obligingly. It was for him to prove pleasure and assurances of welcome to the woman of his admiration, and to her friends, and he did so by the demonstration of his easiness, contrary to the character of the man that Elizabeth had stowed away in her brain. When the gentleman inquired of Miss Bennet herself as to whether she approved of his dear Pemberley, her eager and agreeable reply gratified his wounded heart, and for once in some time Mr. Darcy truly did feel some ease.

From almost that day on, the connection of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet was bent on admiration and esteem, although they, each one in turn did not always know it. In one manner or another each did their utmost to prove pleasures to the other for the sake of amends to their earlier ill conduct. They practiced such particulars in courtship, and then in marriage, and they made great endeavors to live by them, for it was not to be said that a union between two people who differed so often in their opinions, was ever easy. Pleasures proven to each other they did accomplish, as truthful friends, and as gentle lovers, until that is, the day that they were blessed as devoted parents, for gradually and inadvertently they put aside their own desires for the sake of the tender needs of their children.

In the very next grand manor in that region of Derbyshire lived the former Miss Georgiana Darcy who had recently been wed to a very agreeable man. The entire neighborhood thought her privileged; and although she had always been a very fortunate young woman with a noble family to her name and the copious sum of thirty thousand pounds in dowry, folks thought her far luckier for having captured the fancy of the humble, yet dashing Mr. Ethan Bristoe-Hart.

He adored her, there was no denying--and it did not matter to Brit Hart that his new wife was of a contrary character than his. Georgiana was often inhibited in spirit, and he was not. She was inclined to be quite serious in nature, and he was not. In truth they resembled another couple dear to their hearts, that of their relations Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, though quite the opposite husband and wife, to be sure.

Together the young couple were not however, as versed in the skills of proving pleasures to one another, as were their relatives, for they had not had as tottery a liaison as the Darcys. They had pleased each other from the very beginning, in mind, person, and manner, and all that remained of such a whirl of fancy for Ethan Bristoe-Hart and Georgiana Darcy was to live happily ever after as a contented and dutiful husband and wife.

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Darcy looked about the grounds of his home for a quiet place to take refuge for a time. For the past few days he had felt vexed and put upon each instance that someone had demanded a moment of his time. It was the appointed occasion of year when farm tenants were obliged to settle their accounts to the estate that sustained them. Mr. Rawlings, Pemberley's steward always tended to most of this business for he was a very trustworthy man, but he made no resolute decisions on the providence of those who were dependent upon the great estate without the consultation of the Master, oftentimes to Darcy's great annoyance.

The Darcy children also commanded their father's time, for it was late summer and their spirits ran high. They knew that the winter months in Derbyshire would be long, and they would be made to remain indoors well into the springtime. Their interruptions came in applications to accompany him if they knew their father was to set foot out on the grounds, and it also seemed to Darcy that they quarreled and sparred with each other quite often, in their pursuits for the desired attentions.

Through all of this Darcy had found that a minute usually became an hour, and an hour became three, and he had accomplished nothing that he had originally intended the whole of each day. His fair mood declined, and it had come to this--a want of seclusion and a peaceful opportunity to ponder his own slighted pleasures.

The fine gravel that lined the promenade crunched under the weight of Darcy's boots as he strode by the orangery, and he glanced through the windows to see if his wife was to be found within. The orangery was one place that Elizabeth did like to go in her own quests for peace, for it was removed from the house itself, and the chance for solitude within its bright and cheerful walls was afforded quite easily. One could hide themselves away, tucked back in the corner on a wooden bench behind the foliage of the tender plants growing within the structure, however Elizabeth was not to be found there.

A little farther lay a formal garden of roses, equally as secluded, hidden by the orangery itself. It was not easily overseen from the house, and it was surrounded on three of its four square sides by formidable Gothic walls. The roses received full light, however there was an alcove shaded by old trees, grown extraordinary in shape and size over time. This is where Elizabeth sat, her hands carefully clasped atop the cloth of her skirts, as she pondered the last remaining petals of a pale and withering bloom.

"I have been found out," she sighed upon Darcy's approach.

Her husband stopped before her, hearing what he perceived to be her displeasure in catching sight of him. "I am sorry," he spoke, as if his honor had been injured, "I will not impose, if that is what you wish."

"Oh husband," Elizabeth exhaled uneasily at her own ill temper, "that is not what I meant. I would happily see you--that is if your intentions are to sit with me and be a heartening companion."

"But?" Darcy arched a guarded brow.

"But," Elizabeth smiled patiently, "if you are here to enlighten me of some insurrection among the household or our children, I shall surely wish you gone."

Darcy nearly cringed at his wife's lack of temperance. "Well," he replied as he sat down next to her, impertinence forming on his lips in an attempt to tease her, "I have not heard of any insurgence as yet--but the day is very young."

Elizabeth's smile dulled to a look of bewilderment, realizing as she did that Darcy had oftentimes had a talent for making her feel poorer in spirit with his blunt candor when she longed to feel better. Even so, at most times she did admire him for his frankness, and she reached out her hand and laid the palm of it on top of his.

"I was feeling very cross," Darcy continued, "so I came out here, in what now is apparently the very like notion as you."

"I am at the end of my sensibilities, Fitzwilliam. Prudence did fret this whole morning because she was made to take a bath, and Christian," she heaved a sigh, "Christian did..."

"I do not want to hear it," Darcy cut his wife short of her tale with an outstretched palm before her astonished eyes. "Perhaps later on, when I am of a more peremptory mind, but not now. Neither of us is of a humor to ponder it at present. Let us find some suitable conversation or simply sit here in silence."

"Suitable conversation?" Elizabeth laughed just a little at his choice of words, for the idea of what was right and properly discussed between the parents of four young and mischievous children did make her wonder.

"Yes," Darcy replied. "Like those things which were said between us when we had very few cares."

"'Tis difficult to remember such a time," Elizabeth was grimly honest and a little suspicious of Darcy's want for ignorance.

"I know--but not impossible, I am sure. There were moments," Darcy leaned back against the rampart wall, "when all that was exchanged between us were whispers of passions. Can you not remember those?"

"I remember the kindness of a man," Elizabeth sighed, her spirits so low at the moment that she had forgotten the mutual connection of love and esteem between them.

"Is that all?" Darcy was forlorn. "Kindness? I had thought that there had always been much more between us."

"There has been," she admitted humbly. "Yes."

Darcy thoughts turned inward. He was shocked by Elizabeth's terse words, yet more so by her unfeeling manner in seemingly referring to their union as a 'has been'.

"What did we talk of then?" his face grimaced as if the strain of recalling such distance memories pained him exceedingly.

A rebellious smile appeared on Elizabeth's face, and she nuzzled up against her husband's tense shoulder. He did not move or return her embrace, for he found himself more annoyed than before.

"Do you remember the debate we once had on fashion?" By the anxious blush, which overtook Darcy's features, Elizabeth knew that he did. "Georgiana had chosen a very beautiful gown for a dinner party, and you disapproved of it."

"I disapproved," he rejoined, "for the cut of it, if I recall, left very little to a girl's respectability and not much to a man's imagination."

Elizabeth cast her eyes sideways at him. "But the cut of it, my dear, was very similar to a gown of mine, and you had no objections at all to seeing me wearing it."

"Ah, yes," Darcy acknowledged with a compensated sigh, "the recollection of that row is swiftly coming back to me. What was good for a wife was not good for a sister. What was the conclusion--my shallow display of principles was not to be born? All this I came to know, whether or not I was the Master of this house."

Darcy relaxed his composure and chuckled, and then laid his arm over Elizabeth's shoulders. He whispered near to her ear, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek, "Oh yes, my love--those were the good days."

Elizabeth's laughter rang off of the walls surrounding the rose garden, with Darcy's in accompaniment and for a few moments at least, both husband and wife had forgotten about their present predicaments. Darcy slid his body down on the bench, so that he and his wife came face to face.

"Now I remember why I cannot recall our conversations," he whispered truthfully, "for you did most of the talking and I was perfectly content to take pleasure from hearing your lovely laugh and to silently marvel at your beauty."

"And I, sir," Elizabeth replied in a breathy elegy, "was ever content to have it so."

Longed for silence overtook the pair, and they took all the pleasure they could derive from an ever so brief gaze into the loving eyes of the other. Darcy kissed Elizabeth, and then his conscience waned, for he had hoped that what Elizabeth had said was true. He had always longed to know precisely of her contentment--with her situation, and with himself as a companion, and there were times in their lives together that he had doubted the facts before him.

"I hope ladies fashions never change," Darcy muttered after a time, and although Elizabeth was amused by his words, she had to wonder why he had chosen that moment to part from their embrace in such a show of melancholy.

"Mama!" an informant's small voice shrilled, nettling the nerves of two diffident lovers. "Mrs. White needs you!" Hannah wailed. "Prudence is crying most severely for wanting you, and Christian and Andrew are playing tower of London and shouting 'off with her head!'"

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy once again. He said nothing of comfort, nor did he prove his part in their union by an offer of assistance as he simply looked down at his hands clasped before him. A disappointed wife left her ambivalent husband for the trouble that ensued within their house.

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That evening Fitzwilliam Darcy settled himself into a comfortable chair in the Stag Parlour of Smythdon Manor. This was Brit Hart's haven, for he had come to Derbyshire in search of a plot of land, perhaps with a herd of deer or two residing within its preserve. If it was fine game he sought, Brit Hart certainly found it in the form of the Red and Fallow Deer and wild sheep and cattle that freely roamed the South Pennine fells.

The room was masculine in every detail, from its dark and sturdy mahogany furnishings to its walls dressed with the prizes of game stalked and snared. It was far different from the rest of the aristocratic house, which in such a short time, Georgiana had outfitted to suit her own feminine tastes.

In this one room however a chap could sit and smoke his meerschaum pipe, partake of a good glass of port, and be left to the business of a man. It was a fine room for a fine gent, and its earthy colors and multihued pennants from contests past mingled well with Brit Hart's jaunty sea-green eyes and his tousled locks of auburn hair.

It was in this room that many an excellent hunt was planned, and many a gentlemanly bargain struck with only a handshake to settle the arrangement. It was in just this room that a man could ponder the differences between himself and the gentler sex.

"I am very glad, Darcy," Brit Hart said as he sat across from his friend and brother-in-law, "that Georgiana and I have the pleasure of having you all in our home. It is only right that we reciprocate your fine hospitality now and then."

"Right," Darcy chuckled, finding humor in the situation. "I would say that it is blasted brave of you, Brit. One does not often receive invitations to dine in good company--with their young brood in tow."

"Brood or no, Darcy--I am pleased to be a part of your family."

A glimmer of pride flashed in Darcy's eyes upon hearing of the satisfaction of his friend. Darcy had to admit that the gentleman had fit very well into their family, and Georgiana appeared as contented as Darcy had ever hoped for.

"And how do you and my sister get on, now that you are married--what, barely a month?" Darcy grinned.

"Amazingly well!" Brit Hart was eager to reply, and easy to smile his pleasure. "I have never been so happy," he blushed, "and I am well pleased that your sister is so attentive a wife. She is not all that shy, you know."

Darcy swirled the claret within his glass and leaned forward to taunt his friend. "I take it by such an exhibition of felicity, that you have not had occasion to have engaged in your first quarrel?"

Now it was Brit Hart's turn to chuckle. "We have not," he replied in good authority, "nor are we likely to engage in one soon, for we are perfectly matched--perfectly."

"Oh come now," Darcy was incredulous, yet still in a fine, amiable humor. "Not even a small disagreement can escape even those so perfectly matched."

His friend shook his head in reply, and Darcy admittedly was in awe. "Elizabeth and I did not have to be married to have a good row--we were very good at it from an early acquaintance."

After a moment of silence Darcy nurtured a sigh, a distant look upon his features, "I do remember what it was like--to be so happy and contented--and so pleased with one another."

"You are not happy at present?" Brit Hart inquired, his lips pursed together with some concern on hearing such a sober confession from his friend.

"No, no," Darcy swiftly interrupted any ill speculation, "it is not that at all. It is only that somewhere along the way..." Darcy's voice trailed off to nothingness as his mind thought back over the course of a decade of marriage.

Brit Hart was loath to interrupt his friend, although one could plainly see the anxiousness inscribed upon his face to know of what his brother spoke. After a moment of soundless stammering to find the words to encourage Darcy to divulge such mystery, he finally whispered, "What is it then?"

Darcy glanced up and he grinned when he met the gentleman's concern. "You know, Brit--all that newly wed passion and romance does not last forever, however much we would wish it. Your life does take a turn, and when you take on children to the mix--there does not seem to be opportunity for those pleasures once enjoyed."

Brit Hart sat back in his chair, somewhat mortified on hearing the truth. "Do not tell me that," he exhaled incredulously. "All that I have ever been as a husband has been a newly wed one. I should say I do not truly want to know what comes next."

Darcy smiled, "Elizabeth and I can barely find the opportunity for a conversation in private these days. Even when we send the children to bed each night there is the constant disruption of one being frightened of the dark or another in dire need of a glass of water. By the time all is settled within the house, it seems a pity not to take advantage of the peace and go to sleep directly. Elizabeth is oftentimes worried because one child is feeling ill, and I am most times aggravated by the unruly behavior of another. No, if my wife and I do speak at all it generally involves one of the things I have just mentioned. Discourse of parents--not lovers--and that is the fact of it."

"I shan't believe it--you are making quite a joke, Darcy."

Darcy laughed plainly, "Then believe as you will Brit, and remain blissfully ignorant--for as long as you can--and I shall see the day come to say I told you so."

Brit Hart extended his hand to his friend, in gentlemanly wager. "That you shall not, Darcy."

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Supper that evening was splendid, the fish fresh and pure, caught that day from a fast running trout stream, and the venison the finest to come from the land that anyone had ever tasted. The dining table had been laid out perfectly and the children had wondered at the placement of three glasses of varying height at the tops of their plates, and more flatware of various shapes than they were accustomed to seeing at their own daily table.

Young Christian had usually done his best to emulate the good manners that his father possessed, but he did not always get it right. He waited as patiently as a hungry boy thought fit until he saw which set of silver his father was to pick up to eat his fish. Darcy however was far too engaged in conversation with his brother-in-law to delve directly into his meal, and Christian's concentration tottered on the edge of doing what was expected by his venerable father, and whimpering to be fed.

Brit Hart's eye caught sight of the lad; the boy's determined face intent on staring at every move Darcy made, as if to will his father into the desired activity, and quickly. The gentleman chuckled at the sight, and obligingly for Christian's sake he waggled a finger in the direction of the correct place setting before him, showing the boy what was proper, yet never disrupting his conversation.

Brit Hart was satisfied with the evening, and with the accomplishment of his wife as Mistress of the house. "A very big hart he was," the gentleman proclaimed when Andrew complimented the meal. "Did you know that is what our red deer are called--the male is not a buck, but a hart?"

"Just like you!" Andrew giggled to encourage his garrulous uncle.

"Just like me," Brit Hart laughed favorably at the fanciful analogy. "It is this time of year that you can hear the roar of the red deer through the hills in the still of the evening. So proud and noble, heads held high, the points of antlers seeming to touch the tops of the trees."

The children were enchanted by their uncle's discourse, for Brit Hart could tell a very good tale, far better than their father could. He in turn enjoyed their youthful attention and enthusiasm and always favored them with his good imagination and fanciful flare.

"Do they really roar?" Hannah asked with wide-eyed curiosity and awe. "Like lions and tigers do?"

Christian and Andrew looked to one another in ominous speculation, and Prudence, seeing the anxious faces of her siblings, scrambled into Elizabeth's lap and drew her little body closer to her mother.

"They do," Brit Hart replied in a quick clip, "when they have won their battles and they call out to their mates, 'come live with me' and the ladies of the party cannot resist such might."

Elizabeth found her brother-in-law's conversation diverting, and she giggled her own enthusiasm for such tales as she snuggled to her young daughter. The children urged their uncle on with eager whispers to continue.

"Good god," Darcy groaned, then chuckled at such whimsy, "leave it to you to romanticize a forest beast. Brit you have quite gone over the top with this sentimental drivel. My sister may swoon over it, but I really must insist that you cease."

Brit Hart never gave much heed to his friend's inclination for reality, and in turn laughed heartily at Darcy. "Oh Darcy--you quite take the amusement out of it!"

"Is that so?" Darcy regaled. "I am all for the amusement of it, Brit--but you do not put them in their beds." This he said and nodded his head in the direction of his children. "It is I who must suffer the consequences when they proclaim that they cannot sleep for hearing the roars of phantom red deer all through the night."

Upon hearing such fatherly reason, Brit Hart shrugged in overthrow and let the matter go. The children were disappointed at not having heard more, but no one was as displeased as Elizabeth was. Her eyes looked up at Darcy as she studied him in his success, and she thought to herself how often it was of late that she disapproved of his staunch reasoning. He had never been exceedingly playful in conversation or deed, to his children or to her, yet there had been times when he had surprised Elizabeth with his merriment, though admittedly those instances could be few and far between.

That night, in the carriage, on the ride back to Pemberley house, Elizabeth recalled her annoyance with Darcy's manners. She was loath to approach the subject with him, for it was not becoming for a wife to censure her husband. Her feelings however oftentimes commanded her nerve. With Prudence sound asleep in Elizabeth's arms, Hannah and Andrew slumbering next to her on the seat, and Christian laying across Darcy's shoulder and gently murmuring, she felt she could speak her peace.

"Was it truly necessary to disrupt Mr. Hart's conversation at supper, Fitzwilliam?"

Darcy was startled from his drowsy gaze out of the carriage glass. He stared at the shadow of his wife's figure in the darkness, and his cheeks became warm with the fervor of reproof. "Do you mean Brit's absurd allusion to those red deer?" he asked.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied abruptly.

"Then, yes--I felt that it was necessary," he replied. "I should not always have to agree with him--though we are brothers. I take it that you do not approve?"

"If I may be so bold to do so--then yes, I do not approve."

Darcy bit down on his upper lip, being somewhat unaccustomed to Elizabeth's blatant censure of him. She had been known to disagree with him on occasion, and that was something that he had thought strengthened their feelings for each other and therefore their marriage. He had always taken some pleasure in knowing that she was not a meek wife, avoiding confrontation at all costs therefore compromising her own character, and for just that reason Elizabeth had become the object of Darcy's desire.

Of late however, Darcy felt that Elizabeth had something in deeper design on her mind, and his own patience was thin already from his dealings concerning money and the give and take of it. "Elizabeth," he sighed, "whatever is on your mind, have liberty to speak it. Do not leave me to wonder why you are angry."

"I am not angry," she replied incredulously. "I simply think that things could be different now and then."

"Things?" Darcy inquired somewhat bitterly, and Christian stirred upon his shoulder. He lowered his voice and soothed the boy back into slumber by a few pats on the back, asking, "By things, do you mean me?"

Elizabeth glared at him intently before letting her ill spirits come out into the open. "Why can you not be easy--why can you not be more like Brit Hart?"

The coach came to a halt in the courtyard of Pemberley house, and the footman approached the door with a torch in hand. The light it gave off illuminated the interior of the carriage; at least enough for Elizabeth to glimpse the taut yet disciplined features of her husband's face looking at her, reckoning a reticent yet astonished riposte.

Chapter II

Brit Hart sat in his study that night, leaning back in repose on a fine leather chair, his polished boots propped up on the footstool before him, and the London Gazette he had received in the post that day deftly held open in his hands. He was quite at ease, reading all the news to be had from society before retiring to his chambers; yet now and then he lowered the paper to consider the connections of that evening. Darcy's comments had somewhat unsettled him, not so much in the fact that Darcy had teased him about his newly wedded bliss or the marriage spat that even common sense told him would one day be inevitable; but that to Brit Hart, his new brother and sister had looked rather woeful together.

Georgiana tapped softly upon the door of the study, and her husband's green eyes peered over the top of the leaflets of paper as he pronounced in his own Cornish-bred lilt the words, "Come in."

Georgiana did just that, and after she smiled sweetly at her beloved mate, she glanced about his precious room, her brows having cause to arch, quite on the sly, at such virile ostentation. Mr. Hart's study, though a matter of opinion, was not at all his wife's idea of good breeding, yet he had let her have her say over his house since their marriage, therefore she could not deny him this one particular whimsy.

The new husband grinned and he patted his hand upon his knee and Georgiana settled herself upon his lap in a private moment of affection. Brit Hart tossed down the newspaper to the floor and with a banded rollick consistent with the state of newly wedded joy they smiled at each other and giggled, their noses pressing together, their lips touching for a lingering lover's kiss.

"I am so very happy," Georgiana sighed, once liberated from such an intimate embrace.

Brit Hart sighed as well, although it was not the sound of a contented man, and the frown that overcame his sculpted features, gave Georgiana cause for concern. "Your brother and sister," he whispered, "have they ever been unhappy?"

"What do you mean, Ethan?"

"Unhappy," he continued with a peculiar grimace. "Unhappy in marriage?"

"I do not know," Georgiana replied, now quite uneasy. "I do not want to know of such things. I have always thought the two of them very much in love--though I do know of one instance, upon the loss of a child, that they were both very low."

"Dear me," Brit Hart was dismayed, "I had not known."

Georgiana nodded her head sadly. "You will not say anything of it to my brother, Ethan--will you?" she inquired in earnest upon the realization of what she had done. "He should surely not understand my meddling. He will think me an idle gossip."

"Is it gossip when you tell such things to your own spouse?" Brit Hart now grinned in wonder of the assumption. "I never thought to keep secrets from one another--you know that. I have told you nearly everything of my family. Besides my dear, who shall hear you? Surely not these proud beasts--for even if they did, they shall never be persuaded to repeat the tale."

Georgiana's glance drifted up to examine the head of the poor, extinct red deer, which hung on the wall above them. She gave a shudder, and then buried her face against her husband's undaunted shoulder.

"Oh Ethan--those creatures frighten me at times! They follow me with their eyes, they do."

Brit Hart snorted a chuckle. "Nonsense, my lovely Georgiana," he paused to kiss her fears away tenderly, "'Tis not possible--and besides, not a thing shall ever harm you, as long as I live and breathe."

Georgiana was satisfied in knowing that what he said was the truth, and she did believe most wholeheartedly that he would always take good care of her. She was curious however as to why her husband took such a great interest in the liaison of her brother and his wife.

"What gives you reason to think that Elizabeth and my brother are unhappy?" she pouted, as if still a young girl, and one who had not gotten her own way.

Ethan Bristoe-Hart shifted his eyes away from his wife's gaze, ashamed of himself at having been caught at gossiping. "Forgive me, my dear. I did not say that they were unhappy--I simply asked if they had ever been. Your brother does claim that things between a husband and a wife change over time. I had the impression that it was their own marriage to which he referred, for he was somewhat melancholy when he said it."

"Perhaps things do change, Ethan." Georgiana sat up taller, resembling more of the woman she now was. "As much as I love my nephews and nieces, they are all very quick in wit and exceedingly precocious, and therefore very trying to one's patience," she proclaimed in good authority. "In that respect they do remind me very much of my brother, though I do adore him without a doubt, but it would not surprise me if Elizabeth did grow weary of being surrounded by such attitudes by five fold."

Brit Hart was amused at such an observation by Georgiana, and he was somewhat astonished at her prejudiced verdict. Although their union was up to now very brief, he had never known his wife to take such a stand on anything, let alone declare, so staunchly and wordily in fact, the troubles of a woman. He was indeed quite smitten by it.

"Perhaps," Georgiana then grinned prettily, hoping to entice her husband's good opinion and attempt to lure his mind from their family relations, "if they were to be left to themselves for a time, I am sure Mr. and Mrs. Darcy would be as utterly content as we are."

"That is the answer!" Brit Hart exclaimed, almost tossing poor Georgiana off of his lap in his enthusiastic revelation.

"The answer?" Georgiana queried, wrapping her arms swiftly around his neck as to not be flung to the ground, "Pray, what was the question, Ethan?"

Brit Hart placed his hands upon his wife's innocent cheeks. "The answer to their woes," he admitted, "your brother and your sister. We shall take their children for a time--just enough time to give them back that which they have most assuredly lost."

Georgiana's eyes widened in distress, though she took great care not to let her husband know her precise thoughts to his plan. She was sure that her brother would never go along with the idea, and even if he did so, Georgiana was certain that Elizabeth would not, so there really was no cause for any sort of alarm.

"The six of us," Brit Hart grinned like a child, himself, "we will not spend a trifling moment, with walks in the woods and stories to be told--just think of how we shall laugh. It shall be the same as being with my family again, like being with my own brothers. We shall all have a grand time together, Georgiana, and you my dear will know the bliss it is to come from a very large family!"

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Darcy lay his drowsy son down in the child's bed, and he pulled the fine coverlet over him until the nursemaid could change the boy into his bed clothing. The father looked down at the figure of his beloved son and Darcy thought to himself how flawless the boy appeared when he was so sweetly sleeping. It was not always the case that Christian was an angel in repose, for when he was awake the boy was apt to be more of a spirited puck as opposed to any cherub that had been put on earth to make Darcy's life carefree and easy.

Darcy reached down, his fingers lightly stirring the wispy locks of the boy's hair. How he did love the child, through elation and woe, laughter and tears, it really made no difference, for in this father's eyes his son could not have been more perfect. Christian was a sliver of Elizabeth and a slice of Darcy, but yet altogether he was a warm and loving person wholly of his own design. Darcy had always believed that his children were created of the virtues that Elizabeth had to give. Now and then he questioned what it was that he had bestowed on them.

It took Darcy some time to amble through his house that night, down to the stillness of his study. His own room did not have the masculine singularity that the study of Smythdon Manor possessed, but the atmosphere of it was all of Darcy's own device. It was pristine and orderly not encumbered by many a useless article, yet it was undeniably the dwelling place of a gentleman. Most times it served much the same purpose to Darcy that Brit Hart's room did to that gentleman, that being a place to ponder the differences between oneself and the gentler sex.

An Italianate mantle clock pinged half past eleven and a low rumbling of distant thunder echoing through the countryside followed close behind. Darcy sat down behind the sturdy desk, drew out the day's ledger and gave the writing implement he had picked up between his fingers a twist. He did not feel much like working this late in the night, but his thwarted feelings kept him from his chambers. Instead, Darcy occupied himself in observance of the tip of the pen, and he engaged his mind in speculation of whether he should mend it or not.

"Fitzwilliam."

Darcy heard his name and gave a start. He let the pen drop from his fingers onto the desktop, and Elizabeth slipped into the study, without consent. Darcy pushed the pen away, feeling somewhat ridiculous at having been caught doing nothing more notable than contemplating the point of it. Surely in the eyes of the world, Brit Hart would not have been found to be so idle a man.

Color was spread across Elizabeth's cheeks as she stood before the desk, and before her husband. The sound of rain pelting steadily against the study windowpanes made her heart beat in anticipation of what she felt she must say.

"I really must apologize--I really must," she insisted, her face pinched with vexation and grief. "What I did say to you earlier was heartless--truly, and I am sorry for it."

"Very well," Darcy sighed, without much feeling to it, though his eyes did reflect some hint of pain. "Your apology is kindly accepted. Good night, then."

"Is that all?" Elizabeth breathed in; knowing that her cruel comment in the carriage was deserving of more censure than she had only now received, and believing as most married folk do that the remedy of a spat could oftentimes be worth the grief of it.

"Yes, my dear, that is all. I do have some business that I was not able to accomplish during the day--it will not wait."

Elizabeth was indignant, for she had never known Darcy to behave in a manner so ambivalent to her. Even before they had known each other well, Darcy had always been curious to know her reasons for anything she had done, right down to her rejection of him at Hunsford. That inquiry had taken fortitude, strength, and downright gall. In Elizabeth's estimation, Darcy's apathy was simply some pretense on his part to vex her.

"Where is the fire in the man?" she demanded of him. Her insult would not let the matter be. "Where is that irrefutable fire that has always been within you, Mr. Darcy?"

"Put out," Darcy jeered, behaving more in the manner of the man himself.

"But why?" Elizabeth desperately longed to know.

"Put out, doused, smothered--call it what you like, madam, but pray do not use my indifference as an occasion to make comparison of me to another of your esteem."

Elizabeth could see him clench his fists as he sat back in the seat, and when the moment of his utmost frustration subsided Darcy opened his palms and used them to grip the arms of the chair. His never-ending struggle to maintain his good decorum and civility under any circumstance astonished her at times.

Elizabeth herself strained to conceal her frustrated emotions. "I realize that I have hurt you, Fitzwilliam--but it was not how you think. There is no person who I esteem more than you."

"I apologize for my misinformed impressions," Darcy spoke cynically.

"I suppose," she said, "that I should know my own mind, for one moment I ask you to be easy and the next I desire your verve. It is only that of late you are not yourself."

"No, I am not," Darcy did agree, "and neither are you."

Uneasy silence overtook them both, for neither truly knew the cause of their unhappiness, and neither knew what to do to remedy it. It appeared that this was a moment of truth in their lives, both wanting solitude, yet both wanting the harmony, the nearness, and the companionship of the other that they had grown so very familiar and so comfortable with.

"I know that I am difficult, Elizabeth," Darcy admitted bleakly. "I have my own ideas on how things should be, and when I become disenchanted with it--what would you truly have me do? Shall I disregard my feelings and say nothing?"

"Do say what you must, sir. Do say what you always have--precisely what you think, and then be done with it." Elizabeth then smiled tenderly, almost pleading with him for things to return to usual. "Be done with this odd temperament my love and come to our bed. Come to our bed and love me as you always have--it does prove much."

Darcy's brows furrowed and he looked to Elizabeth as if in disbelief. "It is always easy, is it not?" his voice faltered. "We goad and we push, and we find all the fault that we can with one another--and then because of our desires, because we have something so desperate to prove to each other, we forgive and all the strife is forgotten."

"Yes," Elizabeth respired, "that is a marriage--that is our marriage."

"It may be a marriage," he agreed," but is it love?"

"Indeed," she insisted. "Our love has never been easy. It was not instant, and did not come without sacrifice--but it is devout. It is worth all the effort that we put into it, and if we have to prove it over and over again by all the passion that we can muster when over tired and put out, then let it be so."

"Well then listen to me wife," Darcy spat out, raising his voice in anger that he could no longer conceal. "I will love you, for I have not been able help myself for these ten years on--but I will not be measured to another!"

"There will never be another!" she insisted. "When you walk into a room, husband, you do still take my breath away as surely as it had been when I first set foot here--when I first saw this place, and when I began to see you in a different light."

Darcy stood up, turning his back to his wife for only an instant to sate his ill spirits. When he turned back round his expressions were different--more familiar and compassionate toward Elizabeth, yet in another moment his eyes wandered behind her and he frowned, and then let out a heavy sigh of remorse.

"Christian," Elizabeth shook her head at the child's ill timed interference, "what are you doing down here?"

The boy had come in search of his parents, for he was sure that the rumbling outside of his bedchamber window was not that of thunder, but of the roars of the phantom red deer running across the hills of Pemberley, as his uncle had said. At present however, Christian was more frightened of the vexation that reddened his father's cheeks and of the sorrow that filled his mother's eyes.

"You still love us?" the boy asked of his father, then innocently looked to his mother for an answer.

Darcy knelt down and motioned for the boy to come to him. Christian did so without hesitation, and Darcy's fingers lightly stirred the locks of the boy's hair as he smiled and said, "We love you--we love all of you, more than you shall ever know. It is only that there are things to be done, Christian--there is much to be done and we are quite worn thin."

"I will not be a bother to you, Papa," the boy spoke plainly. "I promise not to be."

Elizabeth held out her hand, and the boy dutifully placed his small palm in hers. She led him to the door of the study to take him back to his bedchamber, yet before he could leave the room, Christian turned back around and gave his father one last look of uncertainty, believing perhaps that he had gone too far in demanding his father's absolute love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darcy did go to his chambers soon after, to glimpse Elizabeth sitting on the bed before him, her hair loosely covering her shoulders. The delicate gossamer nightgown that she wore adorned the curves of her figure as though she was the likeness of an entrancing woman, so carefully engraved, who bedecked the prow of a great sailing ship. Elizabeth's beauty was invariably the reason for Darcy to forget his woes, and if he could remain in one place for the rest of his days, he was sure it would be here, and he knew it was with her.

It was in this room which they shared together, that things truly were different between them. Here the husband and wife were honest with each other, yet there was no insult between them for they remained loving, and compassionate. It was here that they truly had little to prove to the other, for pleasure dwelled beyond the confines of proof.

Darcy sat down on the bed, his hand reaching out to touch the willful glow of Elizabeth's cheek and his affection-starved lips brushing against the fullness of her own. This one sensation did light the true fire within the man. It was astonishing how one faithful touch could say so very much, and extraordinary how so very much could be consummated, without vain wishes and needless words.

************

Chapter III

The early morning light crept into the Master's bedchamber at Pemberley house, as surely as it did each and every morning. Darcy stirred and rolled over to search for that most comfortable place in his bed, the one that was not such a nuisance on the nether part of his spine. His mind edged into consciousness, yet his body was unwilling to follow suit.

It was abhorrently unfair--he managed to suppose drowsily, that he should have to begin another day in the manner of the last several. Another day of strife and bother brought about by the dealings of business and the lack of courtesy by his holdings and his household; counting the incessant pestering of tenants, servants, children, and even on those few occasions, his wife. It would be another day of angst-ridden feelings, and so soon upon the occasion of the last one was indeed cruelty most foul to an industrious man.

Darcy brought his hands to his face, rubbing the numbness of insentience from his cheeks and wearing down the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes. His wits would not allow him to open them, no matter how hard he tried, until he took his finger and voluntarily pushed back one of his obstinate eyelids to be assured of the presence of daylight.

"Good morning," he heard a pleasing voice coo near to his ear.

Darcy merely moaned something unintelligible in reply and let his eyelid fall back into place. It did not take long for him to drop back into sleep, until he felt the fingertips of two subtle hands upon his shoulders, jostling him awake from such a motionless and deliberate posture.

"Hello there," Elizabeth soughed again, cheerfully trying to stir him. "Has the flame gone out once again, dear husband?"

"Tell me that it is not really morning," Darcy moaned in a coarse, dull voice; eyes still shut. "Tell me that not a soul awaits me anywhere in this house--in fact, pray tell me that we are not even in this house, but on holiday somewhere near Land's End and..." here Darcy paused to grin something devilish, "...that Brit Hart is looking after my children."

Elizabeth propped herself up upon her arm, and she studied the man intently. She smiled at his failing, that he should make such a wicked suggestion, and then she let her amusement fade into that of temptation. "Were it only so," she said sighing at the possibility and at her own weakness for thinking it, and then her disenchanted mind, together with her willing body tumbled lightly across her husband's chest in her own attitude of repose.

Darcy yawned and slid his arms around her, and then with a faint snore he fell back into a passive sleep. Elizabeth did lay very still, her eyes wide open, one ear engaged upon the ticking of the clock on the hearth and one rapt upon the soothing beat of Darcy's heart--tick, glum--tick, glum.

"Would it not be a pleasure to be on holiday," she whispered, sans the manner of a question. Her fingers began to drum nimbly upon Darcy's chest to the rhythm drubbing in her ears. "Would it not be utterly agreeable to lay here all day with you."

"What?"

Elizabeth sat back up, looking down at Darcy's idle figure with the hint of an irritable frown. "No matter, my love--I know it shall not happen."

Darcy's eyes finally opened at hearing her speak, and he beheld the image, hazy as it was, of the woman he loved. Her handsome face came into clearer view a moment later upon his blinking several times and upon her nearness as she made his face her object of nearsighted study.

Darcy's brain, however dim it was at the moment, was willing to recollect his last fitting thoughts before he had drifted to sleep the night before. It really had not been so much thought that he had owned then, as opposed to sheer feelings. They had been feelings of complete and legitimate love for a partner in marriage followed instantly by pangs of passion for one woman alone, even though she had found fault with him hours before, as it may be. Forgiveness was indeed a divine truth, and the only way Darcy knew to classify what he had truly felt when with her was to brand it his own idea of ecstasy.

Darcy wished sincerely that he could hold that feeling untouched with him always. How he wished the delight of what truly was a matchless pairing would never subside at the onset of duty. Outside of the teachings of his faith and the virtuous preaching of the parish vicar, he wondered how did a man and wife keep the flame in their hearts always?

Elizabeth was smiling at him, though it was not a wholehearted smile to say the least, but a smile that was puzzlingly fetching, and in confidence, knowing. Darcy beamed back in much the same manner, and it was a singular, yet not wholly a disagreeable way to begin a day.

The moment did merit the delight of a kiss, and so Darcy leaned forward while catching Elizabeth's face between his hands. Elizabeth's smile grew broader as he kissed her, and two lovers who had grown all too comfortable with each other, giggled, quite as if they were those relations who were newly wed and undeniably blissful.

A knock upon the door disturbed the interlude, and the couple parted from their embrace to look each other face to face, mortified by yet another badly timed imposition.

Elizabeth went to see what it was about. "Mr. Rawlings is awaiting you in the study dear," she delivered to Darcy the regretful news.

"Of course he is," Darcy protested, quite as if he had known from erstwhile experience that the day would begin in such a manner. "Damned way to begin a day, and bother all this business," his countenance once again took on that surly disposition that goaded Elizabeth's spirit into wishing her husband easy, like Georgiana's new husband.

"What business?" she inquired, quitting any thoughts of stirring him, therefore perching on the edge of the bed, in pursuit of her slippers.

"This business of settlement," Darcy replied, sitting up with a groan and running a hand through his unruly hair. "What comes round each and every year, I do truly dread."

"Dread? You should dread that your tenants settle their accounts with you?" Elizabeth grinned, eyeing him shrewdly; "I should think that any man would take pleasure from the offering up of income."

"I should think that any wife would find the same equally as satisfying," Darcy laughed until he was cuffed with the down casing of a yielding bed pillow. "Honestly," he continued, "If you would have the truth, it is not as uncomplicated as you might think, Elizabeth."

"And why not?"

Darcy pondered the answer before glancing over at her somewhat in cheek. "It is a time when people do not come to see things eye to eye."

Elizabeth crawled back up on the bed to sit close to him, and she pushed out a determined chin before him, willing her husband to enlighten her. Darcy rarely ever discussed the economy of the estate with her, and she had always been curious as to the workings and dealings of it. Until now, responsibilities of her own had prevented her from making an all out inquiry, but she felt perhaps that this was one way in which she and her husband could benefit from cozy camaraderie. Darcy saw no great harm in giving the interpretation a go.

"Those tending the sheep wish to negotiate their earnings each year," he said, "and the cottagers and miners seek the same. I shan't even mention what the gamekeeper and gardener think is an appropriate salary for it would no doubt make your hair stand on end. More and more men pack up their families every year for employment in the mills in Manchester or on the docks of Liverpool. There may come a day when folks here may question whether or not I can keep this place afloat, let alone turn the profit of which we are accustomed."

Elizabeth was astonished at such talk. "We are by no means destitute, Mr. Darcy." Her eyes widened in alarm, "Are we?"

"No, we are not," he replied with a grin of amusement upon seeing her fretful countenance.

"I know for certain from your own admission, that there is more income than that which comes directly from this land."

Darcy's eyes pierced Elizabeth's discerning gaze. "There is, and that is our business--not to be public and not to gossiped about."

"You do nothing unethical or immoral, Fitzwilliam--as do some men."

"Elizabeth, where and how those men choose to make their profits, I have no say. I do know however that more and more of society's gentlemen make their money in trade, and fewer of us thrive as we did from our lands. I should never find it a fit business to profit from the ill-begotten advantage of another in another land--so do not hazard to think it."

"I would not," she replied, most adamantly, "but what of the ill-use of those who live right here?"

"What ill-use?" Darcy marveled at the words, and at the statement itself.

"Fitzwilliam, I have seen how they live--I have been to the cottages. It is not as though they all live here in the splendor of this house."

"Really?" he queried in astonishment of his wife's position, and then was made to call her on it, "They may not be favored as we are, but do they live in squalor? Are they homeless and cold?"

"No, I would not claim that, but you do know that last year was particularly difficult--for it was so cold and wet all through the seasons that sheep died and crops were lost as they were set out and water did flood the mines. Some people find it difficult simply to feed their families well Mr. Darcy, while we eat very well at our table and our most trying concerns in life are what fine imported linen to buy to cut into a new frock for Michaelmas."

"Not my frock," Darcy quipped.

"I am serious, husband," Elizabeth rejoined.

Darcy sat silently, worrying the edge of the fine sheets between his fingertips, now and then letting out a sigh of unease. At length he spoke in a manner deserving of the nature of the subject.

"I know that your feelings are in earnest Elizabeth, and it is true, things this last year were not good by half. These people must see it as much as I must, and we all have found the toll of a bad year to be difficult. But, if I were to meet the demands of everyone, each and every time that they were bid, then what would be left for our own children? There must be some give and take on both sides."

Elizabeth eyed her husband from beneath furrowed brows. She wanted to believe him, but she wished it from hearing the honest truth, not simply by way of awe and fascination for a steadfast husband and provider.

"There will be little concerns for us, Elizabeth, in our times," Darcy continued. "The worry comes in the destiny of our sons, and of their children to come. There must always be a place for a Darcy to live here--for a Darcy to make his living here. Yes, it is true that we are dependent upon these people for our income, but they are reliant upon us as well. It is a partnership--and as the master of this place my patronage is not to be taken for granted."

Elizabeth was mute. She was torn between a woman's love of family and a mistress's loyalty to those who looked to her for kindness and relief, and she could now see how her husband was caught in the middle of his obligations as well. She was not sure that she agreed wholeheartedly with just how Darcy did view things, she had never in their whole association been positive of that truth. She was sure of one thing, however--that life for everyone was not always overflowing with pleasures, and that every person in every society had something they must prove.

Darcy placed a trifling kiss upon her forehead and left her for his dressing chambers. In the time that it took him to roll the tension from his neck, stretch out his arms, and glance out of the window at the morning fog, Mr. Steven's, Darcy's valet was upon him.

"Good morning, sir," the man greeted and held out a tray with a single card on it.

"A caller?" Darcy queried, "This early?"

A nod was all that was necessary for the faithful servant to convey the required response. Darcy perused the name inscribed upon the card and kept an indignant groan in check. He turned over the card to find a note hastily scribbled upon the back of it.

Must speak with you. Will return shortly. Brit.

"He even has the gall to rise before the crows," Darcy mumbled to himself in wonder of the man's verve.

"Miss Darcy," Mr. Steven's dared say as he brushed the nap of Darcy's morning coat, "I mean, Mrs. Hart is quite fortunate in her acceptance of such a man."

"Is that the hum about town, Stevens?" Darcy questioned, although he observed with some discomfort of countenance his clenched lips in the glass after he asked it.

"Hum, sir?"

"Hum," Darcy nodded, and then added a wave of his hand in a flashy gist. "Talk. Is that what people say?"

"Yes, sir. Everyone--townsman, tradesman, servant and the like find Mr. Hart..."

"Easy," Darcy finished the man's sentence for him.

"Indeed, sir."

The Master of Pemberley strained another nod, as if he must agree; yet he was reluctant to do so. It was wrong that he should feel annoyance at the mere mention of the goodness of a friend, and now a brother. Yet despite all of his misgivings, he could not help but feel the stinging insult each and every time someone mentioned Brit Hart in the manner in which Darcy himself now wished to be known, particularly upon the application last night of his own wife.

Brit Hart and Fitzwilliam Darcy had always been unspoken contenders as young men. They had vied for superior position amongst their classmates at school, and they had always battled to see who was the better bowler at cricket. They had spent many hours in rehearsal as casual musicians in the music room at university, only for Darcy to discover sadly that Brit Hart possessed far more talent than he when it came to having a keen ear for a ready note. They had even sought the attentions of the same woman for a time, although the challenge was brief and both were made to give up, upon her favoring another fellow altogether.

Now here was a contest to match no other. Who in the neighborhood was to be the better master, the better husband--and the better man?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, Mr. Rawlings," Darcy spoke clearly upon entering his own study, "what is so important this day that you could not wait to bring me news of it until after I have had my breakfast?"

"Sir," the unstrung man replied, "I apologize for the intrusion so early this day, but I have news that you may not find agreeable. Your proposal of yesterday has not been accepted by the tenant farmers near Potts Shrigley."

"Why not?"

"They are hoping, by application of your benevolent nature, for a more substantial increase."

"Oh, stop beating about the bush. Are they hoping or demanding, Rawlings?"

"You may choose which ever one you like sir, but their answer is the same. They claim to be insulted by the offering, and they say that they will seek occupation elsewhere if you are not willing to oblige them."

Darcy sat down behind his desk, frustrated and indignant. "Oblige? How can they do that, by god? We have had a long-standing relationship with nary a difficulty between us--and where will they go besides?"

"To negotiate with your neighbors, sir."

"My neighbors?" Darcy breathed out incredulously.

"I imagine," the steward toyed with the brim of his hat before answering, "Mr. Ethan Bristoe-Hart, sir."

Darcy bit down on his lip and his nostrils flared out in momentary awe. "Pray," he seethed in a particular whisper, "I have heard my brother-in-law's name revered far too many times in the last few hours to give me any peace of mind at all. Do not speak it again in the course of this conversation."

Upon hearing footsteps Mr. Rawlings glanced toward the doorway, alerting Darcy of an unwelcome intrusion. It was Elizabeth, and although she had been privy to what her husband had only just said in provocation, she did her best to pass it off as a gentlemanly rivalry between relations.

"I came to offer you some breakfast, Mr. Rawlings--or at least some coffee perhaps," she said, her voice trembling as she stepped into the room and moved to query Darcy with a deliberate glance.

Mr. Rawlings stood up from his chair, "I thank you, ma'am, but I must be away to my duties."

"Is there some trouble, sir?" she asked of Darcy. "Is there to be some trouble with Pemberley's tenants?"

"Do not make yourself uneasy, ma'am," Mr. Rawlings answered for the Master. "This is no unusual occurrence between men, and I have dealt with situations such as this before."

"I am uneasy, sir," Elizabeth snapped in retort, far out stepping her place in what was always a gentleman's vocation. "What concerns this place, affects us all!"

"Elizabeth!" Darcy's ragged voice was meant to startle her. "That will be enough."

No sooner had Darcy supplied the upbraiding and Elizabeth came to take offense to it, did a frightful noise pierce the drawn silence. An object flew through the study windowpane, causing glass to fly about the place in every which direction.

Mr. Rawlings was disposed to hit the floor, his hands above his head as if dodging a battlefield cannonade. Darcy reached out and wrenched Elizabeth's body to the ground behind the formidable desk in a swift, vigilant movement, unbeknownst to him as to whether it was an instinct of gallantry or cowardice.

"Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth shrieked.

"Be still," Darcy ordained, shielding her body with his as he dared look above the plateau of the desk.

The room was now quiet, and there on the carpeting amidst a pile of glass was a stone the size of a conker hull. Shouts were heard in the hallway outside of the study, as servants rushed to see what the commotion was. Through the bustle of people standing outside the doorway strode Brit Hart, his hand clutching the scruff of a lad's coat collar, and Georgiana wide-eyed behind them.

"What a way to begin the day, eh?" the gentleman laughed as he looked over the mess, and what was left of the wits of three once sensible people.

Darcy stood up and tugged on his displaced waistcoat, then he lifted Elizabeth from the ground and placed her on her feet. "What the devil is going on?" the poor man managed to croak out the words. "Was someone trying to hurt you?" he looked to the frightened boy.

"Lord no," Brit Hart grinned. "By the looks on your faces one would think you had believed yourselves the victims of some villainous plot."

"Were we not?" Darcy groused; one hand placed over his chest.

"Good heaven's no, Darcy--you were not the prey, only the bystander. The quarry was a raven out on the lawn and Andrew here, the awkward huntsman. Next time lad," Brit Hart stopped to tug back on the boy's collar and look him square in the face, "throw the stones away from your father's windows."

Darcy thought that he could expire dead on, his heart thumped so rapidly that he could barely utter a word for what he had thought had only just happened. All he could do was to stare grimly at his young son and the boy found that he could not repent for his mischief. His stammering nonsense got in the way of an apology upon seeing his father's exasperation and in foreboding of what was to come, he was confident of his ultimate humiliation.

"Sir," Mr. Rawlings bowed his head, bidding his employer a good day as he twisted at the hat in his hands.

"Come again after midday, Rawlings," Darcy exhaled the words. "In fact if you would all care to have your breakfast, Andrew and I shall join you directly."

The servants, knowing full well when they were not needed, went back to their duties and Elizabeth and Georgiana traded reeling glances. Brit Hart was far too eager at the notion of food to give much of a care. Likewise he was well acquainted with the misfortunes in which a boy could get himself into, having been a mischief maker himself--he was far too acquainted with them in fact to fret about the state of affairs between an angry father and a naughty son. He grinned, and with a swagger held his arm out in escort to the ladies.

Although the man was known to be a gentle father, it was not astonishing to anyone within the great house, when Mr. Darcy's son was heard to wail upon the employment of his father's strap, a penalty in reprimand of the boy's misconduct. In fact to those who would be expected to tidy up the remnants of glass on the study floor, much as they did every other shambles to be made by the Master's progeny, the sound of two or three caterwauls from the lad in addition was an obliging sound, indeed.

Chapter IV

A hush fell over the morning room when Darcy did enter it, with his elder son in tow. The father conducted the boy to his chair and Andrew clambered into it the best that he could, without giving a wince for his predicament. Everyone looked to Darcy, tarrying from their meal until the Master of Pemberley did settle himself in his chair, unfurl his napkin, place it on his lap, and nod to the attendant that he was in want of toast and tea.

There was a certain degree of respect shown to Darcy in veneration of his authority as the head of his household, and women and children alike did know enough to observe it. As a gentleman in society did show a lady every civility in proof of his good breeding, a man's kith and kin did return the compliment when under his roof. Everyone, including a shamed son and a rankled wife, was obliged to show his or her deference, everyone excepting of course Ethan Bristoe-Hart.

The two gentlemen seated at the table were equals. They were the same in age and similar in stature, and they were commensurate in good breeding, and in wealth. The only advantage was on Darcy's side, being that he was a native to the North Country, but the noble station of Ethan Bristoe-Hart's family in the South of England made him nearly as consequential in the eyes of the neighborhood, and nearly as proud.

That gentleman sat back in his chair when his host entered the room, and he observed, without a word, a father set down his now amended child. Brit Hart did lift his cup and saucer before him, and when Andrew raised his penitent gaze away from the introspection of the shape of his plate in brief notice of his uncle, the amiable man offered the boy a warm and sagely nod.

This indeed did make Andrew feel somewhat better, though it did nothing for Darcy's temperament. He was still very cross with anything and everything, and there was no better proof of it than when he growled at Christian as the boy did kick at Andrew's boot under the table and hazard to giggle at his brother's recent misfortune.

"Do not try my patience, boy," Darcy bellowed out in dispatch, and once again the room became ghastly still.

Brit Hart was the only soul within the place taking any enjoyment in his meal. He cleared his throat to speak his own mark of wisdom, while cutting his eggs and black pudding diligently into a pile of hash upon his plate.

"Take care, Darcy. These things do happen."

Darcy scowled at his brother-in-law over the rim of his own teacup. "Indeed," he replied after swallowing a sip of the strong blend, "I admit that here they do happen most often."

Brit Hart grinned, whilst chewing a mouthful of hash. "You have better behaved children than you realize," he refuted. "Now my father--there was a man put to the test, with six sons in his household to try him in every way possible. When I finally left my father's house for that of my own, he did make a gift of the strap that he kept in the top drawer of his desk. It was a token of his esteem, he said, for my full-fledged genius at mischief."

Brit Hart's fond recollection did make everyone at the table snigger, excepting of course for Darcy who only managed a queer grimace of doubt. One could never truly know if Mr. Hart told the absolute truth, for most of what he did say, he said in the fashion of tongue-in-cheek.

"It is of no matter now," he expressed a concluding remark on the subject, "for I have far outgrown any propensity for mischief or meddling."

To this suggestion only Georgiana did giggle. She did a fine job to conceal it behind the material of her napkin, though Elizabeth did wonder at the oddity of such an outburst from the likes of her genteel sister.

"Pray, Brit," Darcy changed the subject, rather pointedly, "what is so pressing to have sought me out this morning before the crack of dawn? You barely give a man a chance to come to his senses before he realizes that you have been at it hours earlier--out to defeat him at his own game."

"What game is that, Darcy?" Brit Hart smiled, and Darcy's sober glare told him he was to receive no answer. "'Tis not a pressing matter--but I would discuss it with you post haste, for your benefit."

Darcy was peculiarly contentious upon believing his brother conceited. He snorted out a defensive laugh, "Have you to tell me that you are to solicit the tenants of Potts Shrigley away from my employ?"

"What?" Brit Hart respired, his knife and fork hovering in mid air above his plate in his astonishment, barely a smile to his countenance.

"Mr. Hart," Elizabeth interfered without delay. "Do have more pudding."

This time not a soul did dare breathe as two friends eyed each other mistrustfully. Brit Hart did not move a muscle until Darcy looked away in discomfort. Everyone in the room was now awed, for the Master of Pemberley himself looked as if he had been the one to receive the business end of an implement of reproach.

Brit Hart calmly laid his knife and fork upon his plate. A long, melancholy sigh escaping the man, rare to his lively character--and he remembered the reason that he had come to Pemberley that day.

"Darcy, you look quite done in. It occurs to me that even the best of men does need some distance from his duties now and then and that is the reason that Georgiana and I are here."

Darcy was still unwilling to trust in his friend's goodness. His frustration was apparent as he did turn back to scowl at Brit Hart.

"We would extend an invitation to your children to come and stay at Smythdon for a few days," Brit Hart said. "We find it far too quiet and lonely for us there, and having them for a time would certainly liven the place up."

Darcy strained a chuckle, "That it would."

The father looked to his children, to see their happy faces beaming in hopes of his approval to such a plan. He then eyed his sister, noticing that her enthusiasm did not quite match that displayed by her husband. Darcy could never be quite sure of Georgiana's feelings, for she did not express them as successfully as most people were apt to do. She had learned to mask them quite well, a tribute to her brother and his own character, and Darcy wondered whether that practice would one day be her downfall and his as well.

Lastly, Darcy looked to Elizabeth. After a decade of dwelling in her good company, he could well discern that she was not agreeable to the proposal. Elizabeth's face did not disguise her feelings well and that had always made Darcy uneasy.

"Elizabeth," Darcy spoke in a low, passive tone, "I would have a word with you in the hall."

With a brief utterance of apology, Darcy stood up to leave the room, and Elizabeth did follow him, without argument. Once in the hallway she gazed at him sideways, questioning his purpose to be as mischievous as the self-proclaimed mastery of Mr. Hart.

"Sir?" Elizabeth queried of her taciturn husband; her arms folded before her in a gesture to confirm her need for answers.

"Elizabeth," he said, "I should like them to go."

"You would send away your children? That is most unlike you for you have always been the protecting father. Pray, tell me why?"

"Because I am worn," Darcy sighed.

"You are in a very ill humor--I will give you that," she proclaimed in repartee. Darcy grimaced and nodded silently in agreement. "What is the matter, husband?" Elizabeth became concerned. "You have been this way for days and I have never before witnessed it in you for so lengthy a time. Will you not let me help you?"

"When my children are gone from this house."

"Is that all it is, Mr. Darcy--that you are in need of a holiday from your children? I would think there to be more to your agreeing to this. Does this have to do with Mr. Hart?" Elizabeth made the implication.

Darcy's face reddened and he turned his back to her. "He is cocky," he proclaimed in authority. "I fear that I find my brother-in-law to be smug in his new found affluence, and the gnawing of it sits here," he turned back toward Elizabeth, his finger tapping near the base of his throat, "and I grow vexed at the burn."

Elizabeth did not know what to say to that. Her dark and puzzling eyes stared at her husband, and Darcy, never great having command over his composure when she did look at him so, felt uneasy.

"Perhaps my children will show him that being a father is not always as effortless as he would like to think."

Elizabeth's stare bore into Darcy's soul and her point hit its mark. "It that for you to prove to him, Mr. Darcy?"

In his discomfort, Darcy could not answer Elizabeth in truth. "Why must we quarrel?" he whispered. "When I say an article is black, why must you claim that it is white? Why must reason always overshadow love? I know that I can love you without question, fair Elizabeth. Can you say the same about me?"

"Oh Fitzwilliam, is that truly how your feelings tend?" she sighed out in vain discernment. Elizabeth truly pitied the man for his mistaken notions, and she was now compelled to show him just how wrong he was to think it.

Darcy took in a breath, holding it for hope of a pleasurable answer. "Show me, Elizabeth. Be my love," was what he begged of her, and she smiled and nodded her head to his wishes, without prejudice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth knelt down on the ground to kiss and embrace her children before they embarked into the Harts fine carriage. Darcy watched from above and his brain did admit that their departure would leave a void, not only in his house but in his heart as well.

Elizabeth handed Prudence to him, and Darcy nuzzled what was her chubby little neck and kissed it to the sounds of her delighted giggles. When his other children were in their seats, he placed his littlest daughter into the carriage, into the arms of his sister.

"I know that you are good children," he told them while leaning in through the door. Hannah stood up to kiss her father's cheek, her chin quivering at never before having left her dear parents.

"I shall miss you, Papa."

Darcy took her hand and kissed the innocent little palm. "And I shall miss you. And you," he said to Christian with a wink, then looked proudly to Andrew and gently to Prudence to conclude, "and you and you."

He closed the door to the carriage and gave the open windowsill a pat. "I shall trust you with what I hold most dear, Brit Hart."

The gentleman stiffened his back and sat taller in his splendid equipage. "You can count on me, Darcy. There is no reason to fret."

As the carriage pulled away, on its journey of all of those long three miles to Smythdon Manor, Elizabeth stood next to her husband, her arm through his and she heard him mumble lowly. She could not quite make out his words, though she thought that he did say in earnest, "I shall count on you, indeed."

Chapter V

Elizabeth Darcy was humbled by difficult emotions as the carriage carrying her children drove out of sight. When she could no longer see the contour of the splendid equipage, she turned to her husband, supposing a comforting word from him. He too watched the vehicle leave, and then he bowed his head. He gazed down toward the toe of his boot as he gave the fine gravel beneath him a kick, and he let out a dull and lingering sigh.

In eight years neither Darcy nor Elizabeth had ever dwelled at Pemberley without their dear children. In that time they had rarely spent a moment when they were not made to behave as proper parents. For on the rare occasions that they had considered any insurrection of their parental obligations, their precocious youngsters had instinctively made the allurement of freedom quite regrettable. Now at liberty to pursue her own desires for a few days at least, Elizabeth felt bewildered simply for having the opportunity for solitude.

It was a peculiar thing to Elizabeth not to have to tend to a little being and not to have their tiny hands clinging to her skirts, needing this and wanting that from her. She was not sure that she much cared for the experience, and by the manner of Darcy's breathy lament, Elizabeth wondered that having his children gone might feel strange to him as well.

Elizabeth tried her best to put the little ones she loved so dearly from her mind for a time. She was more than affected by the sad state of her husband, for in the annals of their marriage Darcy had never needed her so severely as he had expressed earlier that morning when he had asked of her to let their children go. At least, to Elizabeth, he had never before seemed to imply his desperation for her attentions so willingly--so earnestly. Darcy was dear to Elizabeth, as dear as any person could ever be, for he alone had been her one true love, and she was still in love with him to this day.

Elizabeth now turned her sights on him; regarding the line of his features--his stalwart chin darkened by the eclipse of a late day beard, his benevolent lips drawn to a pinch out of worry, and his aristocratic nose cast downward rather than held aloft in its usual attitude of nobility. Those handsome looks that were so familiar and much loved by Elizabeth now seemed unpolished and cruel. It became clear how worn he was, as he had said all along, and how unlike her good knowledge of the man Darcy's sullen silhouette did convey to her.

He finally looked to the horizon, bored with his tedious examination of the gravel, and his gaze met the penetrating eyes of a devoted wife. "Madam," he said, an arm outstretched to proposition Elizabeth in the direction of which he had intended on going.

In good faith, Elizabeth took hold of Darcy's arm. She walked in silence beside him for some time; happy not to be denied at least the pleasure of the strength and assurance his grasp had always held for her. Darcy was unwilling to utter a word however, although Elizabeth watched him keenly, wishing for some sort of companionable discourse. Each time that she looked to him, and studied the burden that he wore on his brow, she thought the better of pressing him into conversation, and she was wise to let him be.

They walked through the grand courtyard of the house itself, their footsteps echoing off of the towering walls, a very lonely and abandoned sound. They passed through the portico to the expanse of the rear facade, past the formal gardens, and down to the park below. As they strolled, Elizabeth came to feel awkward in the silence, as graceless and as fickle as she had felt so many times in the company of her taciturn consort.

She could not say how many times in their acquaintance that she had wanted to know his thoughts when he had been in such a state--though she was sure that those times had been many. It was at such a moment as this that Darcy made her feel uneasy, and Elizabeth wished that after all of this time, that he would have thought of her as not solely a wife, but as a proper friend besides.

After a time, they came to the banks of the lake and here Darcy paused. The afternoon air was heavy and still, in preamble of a late summer rainstorm. The water of the lake appeared as smooth as artisan's glass, and the reflection of the house was mirrored flawlessly in the water itself. To Elizabeth it looked as though there were two of Pemberley's grand dwellings--two great houses, sworn duties of which a Master and a Mistress would always have to contend.

The sight of such perfection, such magnificence brought memories flooding back to her brain, remembrances of a time when Elizabeth had not been as easy with her situation as she had now come to be. The very sight of the pale stone edifice brought back memories of when she had been a very young and a very uncertain wife, and the very sight of her new home had been a daunting visage indeed.

Without a sound--without nary a breath or a blink of an eye, Darcy stared at the likeness as well. Elizabeth found herself desperate to know of what he concealed deep within his mind, and she could not keep silent a moment longer.

"I must admit," she spoke softly so as not to alarm him, "that there was a time when I was quite overcome by the sight of it."

The sound of Elizabeth's lovely voice gently roused Darcy from his reverie. The soft sound, the sweet melody of it was something he could never slight, and Darcy turned to her, his eyes becoming affixed on the elegant curve of her ruby-colored lips and his attention hung on the prospect of every turn of phrase Elizabeth was to utter next.

Elizabeth's eyes did find the mindfulness of her husband, and her lips did form into a condoling smile. "When I first came here as your wife," she swallowed with the indecision of what she was to reveal, "I remember how very small I felt next to this place."

"Small?" Darcy chortled drolly.

"I recollect," Elizabeth continued, "how lacking I thought of myself, and how tall and splendid I thought you were. How I admired you, Fitzwilliam, and it was plain to me how very much you belonged here for you did prove it by how dignified you did present yourself."

Elizabeth imitated her husband's customary deportment, and her performance did make him grin with embarrassment. "I could never see the need for such pride in a person," she admitted to him, "until I saw you here in this element, and I found it all perfectly natural."

Elizabeth moved closer to Darcy, their bodies so intimate in rapport that either could perceive the beating of two miserable hearts. Elizabeth's face looked up toward his and she affirmed to him all that she had concealed in the years of her marriage.

"It was then that I was persuaded of how much I had to prove if I was to be the sort of wife deserving of the favor of such a man. You awed me completely, Mr. Darcy, by your reason and by your wit, and by the grace in which you did govern such a formidable place. I must tell you that I was frightened for my own success of it--for how could anyone ever compare to the likes of you?"

It was Darcy's turn to feel small. "How little we truly understood each other then," he sighed in recognition of his own dereliction. "I was very proud, indeed, but I believed that my singular success was that I had captured the heart of such a fine woman--and I still believe it to this day. A person less selfish would have inquired as to your comfort then, but I took it for granted that you would find living here as pleasing as did I."

"I did find it pleasurable, my dear," Elizabeth grinned and her eyes widened. "Just, overwhelming besides."

"Would it ruin your fine memories of me Elizabeth, to know that I was uneasy as well?"

Elizabeth smiled once again, more willingly than she had in days. The spirit revealed in her beautiful round eyes was enough of a reply to tempt Darcy to go on.

"There was much that I felt that I had to prove, my love," Darcy acknowledged as anxiously as Elizabeth had done with her own confidences. "Although I had lived here all of my life, this place seemed different when I brought you here. The vastness of this estate was never such a great matter before, but once we were married, the weight of this place sat on my shoulders like the whole world as though I were Atlas himself. More than ever did I need to see it succeed--for your sake, and then for that of two tiny infants, then three, and then four. I needed to know that it would continue, for my line and for my own peace of mind--and I still do."

"What can I say to persuade you, Fitzwilliam?" Elizabeth implored in earnest. "What sort of remedy may I offer for being such a burden?"

"My dearest, Elizabeth," Darcy replied in a modest whisper, "say nothing--you and our children have never been a burden. But you are all a great responsibility--one I gladly and willingly accept as a husband and as a father."

At the moment, Darcy's confidence did falter, for there was more that his heart yearned to reveal. It was true that he felt alone, and sorry for his predicament besides--and he felt the need for the condolence that only a woman could give him.

"I only wish at times that you would look on me," he affirmed with a blush uncommon to his masculine expressions, though what he was to say was clear. "Look on me not as a tall and unaffected man, as you did when we first knew one another."

"You are still very tall, sir," Elizabeth laughed a little. "Though I have come to look on you differently now. More friendly like, and far and away more loving than I would ever have imagined, although you are still very proud."

Darcy smiled, and it did his mind good. "There was merit to those days, Elizabeth. There was something thrilling in being naive and uncertain. I find myself thinking back on that time with fondness. Tempt my soul as you did when blissful hours ran together and all that was worth winning in this whole world was a moment of your love."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brit Hart surveyed the faces of the motley brood before him. Eight dark eyes, lined up by age and rank, studied his features and watched every move that he made. All that the Darcy children were to observe however was the gentleman scratching at his auburn-hued muttonchops in bafflement of what was to be done to amuse them.

It had been often in his youth that Brit Hart's zealous nature had gotten him into trouble, but until this moment, when he was made to be dependable, as a parent ought, had he fully grasped the responsibility. Georgiana remained behind her husband, prepared to back him up, although she was as perplexed with her mate's failing courage, as he was.

"Ethan," she whispered near to his ear. "There are things I must do. The children's rooms have yet to be opened, and instructions must be given for supper. Do you think that you can get by without me for a little while?"

Brit Hart chuckled, and whispered back to her. "Get by? I should say so, my dear," he nodded, although he seemed somewhat skeptical of his own assurances.

Georgiana left her nieces and nephews, who continued to wait for their uncle to make the first move. Any suggestion on his part would do to satisfy the interest of four children under the age of ten, however Brit Hart was unskilled in performing such duties.

"We are having a fine time of it," he declared with an uncommon stammer, once left completely on his own. "Well then, what do you do at home at this time of day?"

"Play," Andrew pressed the gentleman.

"Play," Brit Hart repeated with a puff of his cheeks. "Well then, let us think of what to play--or would you rather do it by yourselves?"

"No, Uncle Brit," Christian replied in his artless humor, "you will do very nicely."

"Do what?"

"Play! We could make believe that we are on the hunt! I should like to see that big red deer in your study. May we--please?"

"Very well," Brit Hart was agreeable to that, and he pointed down the hallway and the Darcy children followed one another in a very tidy line. "Have you been with your father on a hunt before, Christian?"

Christian and Andrew glanced over their shoulders, shocked by the gentleman's impulsive inquiry. "How we wish!" Andrew exclaimed. "Papa says we may not go--not until we are older. Perhaps you could change his mind about it, Uncle?"

"No, no," Brit Hart waved his hands before him. "If that is what your father says, then that is as good as any law. It is not an uncle's place to interfere with what a father decides."

The boys grimaced at their lack of success with their Uncle Hart, but the problems of children are very short lived. When they came upon the study, the children were afraid to go in before their uncle did, and so they stopped just short of the doorway. Brit Hart squeezed himself past them, for children never really seem to know what it is to stay out of the way. Prudence grasped a hold of his trouser leg as he passed by, and she was dragged along with him, past her brothers and sister, until the gentleman reached back, plucking her from his hem, and tucked her beneath his arm for safekeeping.

"Come in," he coaxed, "come in. Is this what you wanted to see?" He pointed to the taxidermic figure ominously poised above a dark marbled hearth, and he grinned broadly at its nobly suspended state.

Andrew, Hannah, and Christian stared up at the emerging trophy; eyes round in awe of its sheer stature. Only Prudence was oblivious to the spectacle of it, for at her tender age, the smaller the thing, the more astonishing it was apt to be. She wriggled her little body within her uncle's grasp, and he did the sensible thing and put her down on the floor.

"That is astounding!" Andrew exclaimed, his youthful mouth agape in fascination of the big, red bust of a thing.

Hannah wrinkled her nose in disgust; "It is dreadful!"

"It is not!"

"It is so! It is stiff as a board!" The wispy hairs at the back of her neck bristled at the very thought of it. "Are those really its eyes, Uncle Brit?"

"Children," Brit Hart intervened, willing to shed some sense on the subject. "It is simply an object to look at--I suppose its beauty is a matter of taste. Andrew may like the looks of it, Hannah, but you do not have to feel the same."

Christian was senseless to the row ensuing between his siblings. He could not remove his gaze from the expired creature, and in his dumbfounded astonishment he whispered beneath his breath, "Where is the rest of it?"

"It is dead, silly," Andrew stated. "You have the rest for supper."

"Blech," Christian grimaced and his throat retched closed. He turned to his uncle, innocence spread across his angelic face. "What really happens when you die?"

"Oh, good heavens," Brit Hart wheezed, wishing to discuss anything but that. The subject of mortality was not one that he wanted to address with his young charges; for that knowledge, along with the enlightenment of what transpired between the birds and the bees was something Darcy, as their father, would no doubt have the delight of elucidating.

"Papa told us that old Sir Walter did die," Hannah did add her own comments to the commotion. "He did live here, you know."

"Yes, I do, Hannah," was the only reply Brit Hart could offer, a finger pressed to his throbbing temple, obviously still shaken by the previous quandary.

"Papa says that his spirit will always live here," she asserted, while taking a quick glance over her shoulder. "Have you seen him lately?"

"No Hannah. I am sure that your father meant what he said in the reverent sense."

"In the what?"

"Your father meant that Sir Walter's spirit would always live here--as long as we remember him, and remember the good things that he did. I am told that he was a very fine man."

"He could not hold a candle to you," Hannah grinned to flatter her uncle, "I am sure!"

Brit Hart smiled and gave her a wink. "We shall see, my dear--no doubt this is a test, and I am beginning to think that your father had it all designed before the thought of it had ever occurred to me. I had forgotten how cunning he is." The Master of the house took a quick glance about him. "Where is your sister--the little one? Prudence!" he called out anxiously, "I say, Prudence!"

"She is over there," Hannah pointed in the direction of the study desk.

Prudence sat on the floor, her chubby little legs poking out from beneath her muslin skirts and sprawled before her. She closely inspected an object held tightly within her hand.

"What have you got there?" Brit Hart mumbled, and when he was close enough to the child to see any detail, he was mortified to find that Prudence had his treasured meerschaum fast within her sticky little fist.

"Here now!" he gasped, "Be a good girl and give that to your uncle!"

Prudence took the pipe and hid it behind her skirts. Her generally innocent and rosy cheeks turned brighter in color and her miniature lips puckered up as she blurted out a simple, yet prevailing, "No!"

Ethan Bristoe-Hart had never in his whole life bore witness to such a thing. He was dumbstruck, for this went against every circumstance that he had ever known to happen between an imperious adult and a chaste and obedient child.

"No?" he repeated in incredulity.

"No!" Prudence reiterated.

"See here lass," Brit Hart held his large palm open before him, "Give it to me--this instant!"

"Papa says that she is headstrong," Hannah retorted, standing behind the gentleman in support of his objective.

"That is putting it mildly," Brit Hart grumbled beneath his breath.

"Once she took his violin bow, and it was quite some before he got it back, and even then it was broken in two."

"Lord," Brit Hart seethed and then he speedily inquired, "How did he manage to get it back?"

Hannah bit down on her lip and shrugged, "He went to the door and bellowed for Mama, I think."

"I would say that was a very sane strategy," Brit Hart concluded, and he stood up and made haste to the doorway. "Mrs. Hart! Mrs. Hart, you are needed at once!"

Within moments Georgiana was at the threshold, winded from her haste in answering the unfamiliar bellow of her newly wed husband. "Dear, dear--what has happened?"

"That little one has my pipe and will not give it back!" he stated his grievance with a virile pout. "She shall certainly snap it in two!"

"Is that all?" Georgiana exhaled. "I had thought that there was a terrible accident, Ethan!"

Brit Hart glared over his shoulder at Prudence. "There surely will be if the little darling does not hand over my pipe!"

"It is only a tobacco pipe, dear," Georgiana replied in her mild manner.

"Only a pipe?" he mocked incredulously. "I got that from an apothecary in Bristol for thirty shillings. That was a fair amount of money when I was younger--in fact, it still is! That is a Turkish meerschaum," he waggled a finger at it, "and is surely irreplaceable."

"How do you know?"

Brit Hart's whole face turned red. Realizing that within ten minutes he had begrudgingly come full circle from where he had not wanted to be in the first place, he bawled out, "Because the fellow that sold it to me has..." he paused in mid-breath to choose a description wisely, "...expired!"

Sweet Georgiana was vexed by such a display, and she could not believe what she was hearing. The man that she had thought so mature and sensible, had within the half hour become a no better than a child himself.

"Let us show the children to their rooms, Ethan," she tried her best to be reasonable, since it was becoming apparent that no one else in the house could hold that occupation for very long. "Prudence, come with me." Georgiana reached out her hand, and the child took it, still clasping Brit Hart's meerschaum in the other.

The poor gentleman was reluctant to leave his study without first securing his property, but he followed along silently as his wife lead the way to the guest chambers. The room was large and spacious, and there were two large beds, one on either side of the room, each stuffed to the ticking with soft goose down.

"I think that this will do nicely," Georgiana sighed. "You may all stay here together, so you will not be lonely."

Christian inquired vigilantly of his host, "Where do you sleep, Uncle?"

Still in a cross humor, Brit Hart's lips twisted into a grimace. "I hardly think that my sleeping arrangements are any of your concern, Christian."

"Well, where shall we go if we are to need you in the middle of the night?"

"Why should you need me if you are asleep?"

Christian shrugged, for he found his uncle to be somewhat thick for a father figure. "I might."

Brit Hart shook his head, as if trying to shake off a bad dream. "You shan't need us, Christian--all will be well as long as you stay in your bed and stay asleep."

"Well," Christian hesitated, "I will do my best."

Prudence let go of her aunt's hand, and she padded off to stand next to her uncle and give his trouser leg a tug. He looked down at her, baffled by the gesture.

"What do you think she wants?"

"She wants you to pitch her on the bed, Uncle," Andrew informed him. "Papa does it all the time, and she loves it."

"Really," Mr. Hart grinned and again held out his palm before him. "Give me the pipe and I shall gladly give you a toss."

"No!" the little girl pouted, one hand behind her and the other mercilessly pulling on Brit Hart's trousers leg. "Up! Up!"

Brit Hart's teeth clenched at his failing and he picked Prudence up, dangling her before him. "Then give the pipe to your Aunt Georgiana," he tried another tactic, as benevolently sounding as he could muster.

Prudence held out the meerschaum--a gift to Georgiana, but before she could take hold of it, the delicate instrument fell to the wooden floor, and shattered into pieces. Prudence's angelic face startled, and her little lip quivered at the shocking sound. It was only a matter of seconds before she began to cry--a despondent wail that sent shivers through Brit Hart's spine.

"Not to worry, Prudence," he held her close to his chest in condolence, although he felt like bawling, himself. "'Tis not of great concern, child."

She pulled away from her grasp of his neck, her round, weepy eyes locked on his face, and his heart was moved by such a precious show of remorse. Children truly could command one's sympathy, and Brit Hart was a soft touch. As quickly as she had begun the waterworks, Prudence dried her tears, and she giggled in childish glee and pointed to the bed.

"Down."

The gentleman was by no means a fool, and it did not take a walking stick rapped against his skull to drive home the intelligence, that he had been had. It had only taken the melodramatic pretense of one tiny child, and the ceaseless interrogations of three others--not to mention the artful dodging of their father. There was nothing else to be done, other than to toss Prudence, giggling in her sheer delight, into the soft ticking of the feather bed, and to rifle through his belongings for another, less palatable tobacco pipe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once again Elizabeth beheld the image of her husband, not haggard and worn as before, but peacefully sleeping beside her. Not in so many months had she seen him lying this comfortable in his bed and it brought her own heart joy to know that she could soothe such a savage temper in Darcy, by loving him so unquestionably.

Elizabeth listened to the reverberating echo of thunder rumbling down the Pennine fells. The booming sound of it made her feel strong and whole, as if she were floating near to the firmament itself. She had to admit that an hour in Darcy's good company alone, with no disruption by servant or child, was as close to heaven as her earthly fancies would allow. She had lately overlooked what a splendid companion he truly was, and she was sorry for all the time that she had lost in not behaving as a proper companion herself.

They had gone to their apartments after their walk, to be assured of remaining quite alone. Darcy's plea had made every tender impression on Elizabeth, and when the door to their chambers was closed, she turned to Darcy as he stood in the center of their private parlour. He resembled more of an uncertain youth, than he did an irrefutable man, and when he gazed at her, he seemed to know that Elizabeth had thought it.

"There is a sad soul inside this grown man's clothes," he sighed and tugged at his neck cloth to loosen it. "How many times have I wished to be a liberated sort?"

Elizabeth needed to take his concerns upon her own self for once, and so with great resolve her loving hands reached beneath the shoulders of his dress coat and she removed the burden of it from his back.

"Your troubles are my troubles, sir," she whispered, "and my delight, yours. I shall listen if you want me to, and I shall speak only if you desire it. Perhaps then you may feel free, for every duty that you own lies beyond that door, and there is only compassion to be found in here."

Darcy touched Elizabeth's cheek with the palm of his hand. He felt agreeable enough to sit in his chair, and he tugged on Elizabeth's hand, until she was compelled to sit along with him. He spent time talking, to Elizabeth's gratification--talking of times together when newly married and not long in love. Together they spoke of things that mattered little to anyone else, save for the renewing courtship of two bereft lovers, and then the conversation waned, though at that instance neither soul seemed to care at all.

It was not likely that Darcy and Elizabeth would ever fall out of love, but they were both sure that it took some doing to remain happy in it. It was a thing to be worked at, and neither this man nor wife would henceforth neglect it. Before he had closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, carefree and blissful in Elizabeth's arms, Darcy had expressed his gratitude for her indulgence of his nature.

"I am very glad," he had whispered, "that a woman was put on earth to tender a man's suffering."

"Is that all I was put on earth for?" Elizabeth whispered as she nuzzled to him.

"No," Darcy replied in profound honesty, tugging wistfully on a lock of her flowing hair, "I shall always be thankful for having found such a friend."

The declaration moved Elizabeth's heart deeply. A friend, he had said of her--and knowing that very part of his mind was worth more than Darcy and Pemberley could ever give to her. She was finally sure that she had done something of use for him and now hours later as Darcy slept she watched him breathing easily. To bethink her achievement everlasting Elizabeth traced his silhouette before her candid eyes, with her fingertips, so she would never come to forget how noble it truly was.

There is always a culmination to every good thing and so it was for Elizabeth's triumph. Her happiness was made brief by a knock upon the door, and Elizabeth stole away from her bed to discover the trespasser.

Mrs. Reynolds was on the other side of the door, and she rung her hands together and her eyes appeared to widen upon seeing the Mistress scantily clad in her bedclothes so early in the evening. "Are you ill, ma'am?" she asked of Elizabeth, though the Mistress did ease the good servant's mind with a resolute shake of her head. "Then ma'am, may I inquire as to whether the Master is in your company?"

"He is indeed," Elizabeth replied whimsically.

"I bring him an urgent message, ma'am."

"You may enlighten me as to your message, Mrs. Reynolds."

Mrs. Reynolds thought the better of doing so, though she had no desire to quarrel with her Mistress. "Mr. Rawlings is waiting in the Master's study. He says that it is most urgent that he see Mr. Darcy."

"Oh, Mrs. Reynolds!" Elizabeth gasped in censure, though she lowered her voice so as not to be heard by anyone but the housekeeper. "The poor man now sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks. I do not care what is so important, for my husband does deserve some peace." Elizabeth shook her head adamantly; "I shall not wake him."

"Ma'am," the housekeeper refuted. "Mr. Darcy has always seen his steward--no matter the circumstance or the time of day."

"No," Elizabeth sighed, knowing that she was doing the proper thing as Darcy's wife and most importantly, as his friend, "he will not see anyone. Not this time. Pray, good woman, go and tell Mr. Rawlings that Mr. Darcy is occupied and will speak with him on the morrow--after we have had our breakfast, and not a moment sooner."

Chapter VI

"Very pleasant dreams, dear children," Georgiana cooed as she tucked the covers snugly beneath the wee chin of darling Prudence.

The Mistress of Smythdon Manor beheld such a sight as to delight her heart to no end. Four pairs of guileless eyes peeped from behind the soft blankets of two very sizable beds, eyes that very much resembled those of a flock of wood owls hiding in their artful roosts. Mr. Hart held a silver candlestick in his hand to illuminate the large room, although the flickering light of it barely lit the way for his wife.

Georgiana turned to blow a kiss toward all of the cloaked little faces. "Sleep well and stay warm in your beds," she told them. "Your uncle and I shall be in the very next room, and if you have no other need of us now, we shall see you first thing in the morning."

"First thing?" Mr. Hart was quick to grouse. "That is quite a liberty, my dear. Do you not think so?"

Georgiana shrugged, wishing to make happy all sides concerned. "Not very early then," she concluded with a satisfied smile, and Brit Hart appeared at ease with that at least.

He held open the bedchamber door for his wife, yet before Georgiana left the room, she turned to take one more glance at such an endearing picture. The image of four sleepy children snuggled within down, quite overcame her maternal passions. Fervent feelings coursed through her body, warming her wholly, and Georgiana beamed, now quite certain of what it was to envelope a motherly bond within.

The feeling was foreign to a woman just recently comfortable at being a wife, yet nonetheless the sway of emotions was swiftly becoming a reality. It sparked her senses to a very different kind of love, and she gently cradled the palms of her hands over the place where she was convinced that a new life inhered in secret.

Once out in the hallway Brit Hart hedged the door shut with barely a creak. When it was secure, the flame of the candle that he held within the grasp of his strong hand flickered again as he heaved out a sigh of overwhelming agitation.

"I am for my study," he pronounce in discordance, "perhaps peace and quiet will mend this ill ache in my head, and if that does not do the trick, there is always my meerschaum..."

He crossly grimaced on remembering the light clay fragments of his beloved pipe dotting the polished wood floor of the room where the children now slept. His brows furrowed to the point of angst, and his sideburns seemed to bristle as he clipped the words with an errant flare, "Never mind the latter."

He reached atop the sideboard in the hallway and took another candlestick, lighting it deftly, and then passed it to Georgiana. She grasped at the handle poised within his manly hand, and in the dim candlelight Georgiana stood before him while taking it.

She did not intend to stare at her husband's face so boldly, yet she hoped to discover him in a far better countenance for her own satisfaction of mind. What she saw distressed her, for Brit Hart did not resemble the benevolent and easy husband that she had known, but his lips were ever pinched with censure, and his brows remained furrowed out of his own growing regret.

"This occupation of fatherhood," he sighed out adamantly bothered. "I am no good at it at all."

"That is not true," Georgiana replied in haste.

"It is true," Brit Hart insisted. "I had wanted children of my own, and when we married, Georgiana, the prospect of one day being a father delighted me to no end. Now I am not so sure that it is the thing to do."

Georgiana gasped, and her eyes sought his instantly in a confidential plea. "Please do not say such things, Ethan. It would be different if we were to go about it from the beginning--I know!"

"It was simple to taunt Darcy," Mr. Hart admitted, without truly hearing his wife. "It was even enjoyable. When I did see him struggle as a father, I honestly believed that when given the opportunity that I could do far better--yet now I find that I am sadly lacking in any skill whatsoever as a parent, and Darcy is to be highly commended for possessing more patience than I would ever have given him credit for."

"My brother is to be admired," Georgiana retorted in her sweet and flattering manner. "He was very good to me when I was a girl, and he is an excellent man to his own children. I have never thought him to be otherwise."

Brit Hart's cheeks flushed with shame. "Every man likes to think himself grand, Georgiana," he boasted with awkward sincerity. "I suppose I thought myself far too fine--and why should I ever have given myself such credit, without ever having had the experience?"

Georgiana's complexion imitated that of her husband standing before her, though instead of shame, she felt only disappointment. "But I think you very fine, Mr. Hart," she tried to bolster his spirit.

Brit Hart was grateful for the dutiful encouragement Georgiana had shown him. In truth, it was just shy of two months since she had become a very fine wife to him, and he demonstrated his esteem with an adoring smile and a kind kiss upon her forehead. Yet he shook his head once again a moment later when reality took a hold of his common sense.

"I have lived alone for a very long time, my dear. A house full of people seems a difficult thing to bear at present," he stopped to consider his earlier mischief with a haughty grin, "and I am cross, for it vexes me to think that I shall have to apologize to your brother."

"But the two of you are good friends," Georgiana contested, not comprehending a gentleman's way of looking at things.

"Indeed we are," Brit Hart lifted a brow musingly, "yet throughout such an affable acquaintance we have always been rivals, in one fashion or another. Your brother thinking that I would solicit away his tenants is proof of that."

Georgiana's eyes flashed in revolutionary disapproval. How could she be assured that her husband would not entice Pemberley's tenants away? He had told her recently that Smythdon Manor was in need of permanent tenants for its farmlands, and that the employment of them would be difficult to procure after the estate had stood vacant for so long.

Georgiana had no desire to enter into the politics of either her brother or her husband. She had other things to occupy her time these days and farmland and tenants did not generally enter into a young wife's thoughts.

She proclaimed as diplomatically as she could, "I do not believe in rivalry between family, Ethan."

"Well then, my dear--there shall be none to be found here," her husband assured her. "I can admit to my failing before I fall into it. I shall leave parenthood to Fitzwilliam Darcy and I shall content myself with the raising of sheep or perhaps training a new puppy to become a fine bird dog."

Brit Hart chuckled and shook his head at his own folly, and then turned on his heel, anxious to seek out a sanctuary of privacy. Georgiana watched him leave--her own disillusionment severe.

She had thought when he had come to court her that Mr. Hart would one day make a very fine father for any children they may beget from their love. She still believed that to be true, yet upon the one experience with children in his house, he believed something altogether different, and it seemed to Georgiana that Mr. Hart took no pleasure in the prospect of children.

Georgiana's designs of happiness were vanishing before her, and she could not fathom the reasons for such a tainted attitude in the man to whom she now belonged. For the first time since marrying, Georgiana felt forlorn and aggrieved--and for the second time in her young life, she felt as if she were a woman helplessly cast into a dreadful and disparaging state at the hands of a man whom she thought she loved, and whom she thought loved her.

Georgiana made haste to her bedchamber, and closed the door behind her. Her still petite body leaned back against it, as if to keep the troubles of womanhood from entering her life. She had no idea what she was to do--no one had ever told her what was now to be expected of her. It was not long until Georgiana began to cry. She sobbed for the sake of her baby, and she wept for her own simple life lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fitzwilliam Darcy awoke to find himself filled with a peace, a serenity that he had not known in many a day and night. He blinked his eyes against the dim glow of the firelight in the hearth, though it was fading with the passing hours of the night. When he rolled his body over, he saw that his wife was fast asleep beside him, the bedcovers drawn closely beneath her chin, neatly framing a passive and perfect face.

Darcy found the greatest pleasure in studying the image before him. How comely Elizabeth looked to him. He marveled at how she had been apt to keep her skin so smooth, and pink and pretty, precisely the same in his opinion as the young woman with whom he had fallen so hopelessly in love.

In his deep-rooted bliss, Darcy smiled easily, for by her love and devotion Elizabeth had again made him feel like that novel husband he had once been--happy and free from all care, except for those concerns solely for her happiness. Darcy was altogether indebted to that happenstance which had blessed him with the companionship of such a faithful woman, and along with feeling so giddy about it; he even felt a momentary fondness for the silliness of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet.

Elizabeth's dark eyelashes fluttered lightly against her cheeks in her comfortable repose, and on the bridge of her nose was the palest existence of freckles, an aspect of her person that Darcy loved so very dearly. Elizabeth had always objected that freckles were not fashionable in the least, but Darcy would hear nothing of her complaints for he saw the beloved similarity on each and every one of his children, and it pleased him.

His fingers feathered through the ends of Elizabeth's unruly hair as it lay tossed against the pillow, and he gave a tender tug on the blanket tucked beneath her chin. Elizabeth stirred, and Darcy grinned at his accomplishment. It had been a very long time since he had come by so much pleasure from teasing her, and he thought now to be as good a time as any to take the amusement up again.

His lips brushed against the curve of her cheek as he whispered blissfully to persuade her, "A belt of straw, and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs, and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me, and be my love."

Elizabeth sighed though her eyes remained closed. She was then inclined to reach out for him, lovingly pinching his coarsened chin between her thumb and forefinger.

"A man who speaks of love," she whispered in sincere liking. "A man who quotes Shakespeare so eloquently shall never be denied my attentions--rough beard or not."

Darcy laughed, for it would always be Elizabeth's lot in their marriage to gainsay anything he were to utter. "Christopher Marlowe," he breathily corrected, another murmur in Elizabeth's ear to make her writhe with the pleasure of his rich and adoring voice. "Not Shakespeare, lovely Elizabeth."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christian sat up in his bed. "I am hungry," he announced into the silence of the room.

"Go back to sleep," Andrew moaned at the interruption and reached a hand out from beneath the covers to tug on his brother's nightshirt.

"No, Andrew," Christian implored, "I can smell bread baking, and I am very hungry."

"What is the matter?" Hannah asked from the other bed, annoyed out of sleep. "Mind yourself and go to bed, Christian."

"Can you smell it, Hannah?"

"What?"

"The bread!" Christian prodded, a hand over his midsection as his stomach made a deep, growling sound, something akin to rumbling thunder, or that curious noise made by red deer.

"Go to sleep!" Christian's elder siblings wailed in harmony.

Ignoring such sound advice, Christian threw back the covers and slipped from the bed to the floor below. It was cold, and he shivered, although the lure of the aroma of the early morning bread baking in a stone hearth somewhere below his room kept him from returning to the warmth of the down ticking and a spot next to his brother.

He tiptoed past a window, and although he was somewhat frightened to do so, he brushed back the drapery to see if it was late enough for first light. He was greatly vexed to see that the horizon was still very dark, and when the sky framed within the pane of the window illuminated with a flash of distant lightning, Christian swiftly let go of the drapery cloth and wheeled about to survey the unfamiliar room, eyes widened with fast mounting panic at the prospect of seeing a big hart, or worse, the apparition of old Sir Walter himself.

"Andrew," the boy whimpered loudly, "Andrew! Come with me, please!"

"You would not be hungry," Andrew snarled, "had you eaten your supper."

"I could not," came another whine from Christian.

"Why not?"

"Because we had that meat! I know it was that big, proud deer from Uncle Brit's study--it made my stomach do loops just to think of it!"

"Oh blast," Andrew groaned in frustration, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands, "It was not the very one, silly."

"Yes it was!"

"Both of you hush!" Hannah whispered sternly. "Prudence will wake up, and then we shall all be in terrible trouble!"

"I am not in any trouble--but I am hungry," Christian repeated adamantly, "and I can't sleep in this strange house." He sniffled and twisted his fists over his eyes, "...and I miss my Mama!"

"So do I," Hannah whispered sadly as she sat up to pout, then pulled her rag dog closer to her chest. "And I miss Papa."

Christian frowned, "Me too."

By now Andrew was wide-awake. He sat up in bed as well; his dark, curly hair standing up in all the wrong places, and his fingers fidgeted with the hem of the soft blankets before him. A murky frown overtook the boy's face as he thought of his dear parents. He pined for his mother most desperately although he would never admit it to Christian and Hannah, and even though his father had punished him only that morning, Andrew's love for Darcy was unswerving, and he wanted ever so much to be back by his father's side.

Andrew cast a hard glare at his brother and sister. His nose wrinkled up, the faint boyish freckles across the bridge of it stretching with his skin much resembling his mother, and the dimples within each of his cheeks deepened when he grinned, just like every fine boy to come from the Darcy line in all those generations, and he said; "Now you have done it Christian--you have made me hungry."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Georgiana," Brit Hart whispered into the darkness to stir her. "My love?"

No response was forthcoming, and Ethan Bristoe-Hart was left to stare blankly at the canopy of his bed while running a hand through his disheveled hair, his temperament chagrined to comprehend that he was deserving of no decent reply. Georgiana had not waited for him to come to bed, which was unusual, he thought, to say the least. Nor had she come down to his study to sit with him, as was her practice these past weeks.

He had considered that perhaps she was vexed with him, although he could not imagine why. Perhaps it had something to do with what he had said about his relationship with her brother and about their rivalry, though he had only spoken the truth.

Over the years family ties had meant to Brit Hart only a fond handshake with his father, and a peck on his mother's cheek as he headed for some endeavor to suit his latest fancy. It was clear to him now that marriage had changed his life forever. He was settled and bound to a land and to a wife, and Georgiana would certainly wish for a family. Unfortunately for his poor, rattled mind, Brit Hart had not calculated the consequences involved in having children, until his nephews and nieces had come to stay, and the proof so they say, was in the pudding.

"Georgiana," he spoke again in the stillness of the night. At once he felt lonesome, and in need of the companionship to be found in the arms of a loving wife. "Dearest?"

Georgiana had been awake all along, and upon her husband's application, she sat up next to him, and he leaned over and nimbly lit the candle upon the nightstand. Ethan Bristoe-Hart reached out to touch the loving hand of his wife, but to his utter astonishment Georgiana pulled away.

"What is this now?" he asked in a wretched voice of rejection.

"How can I trust you?" Georgiana replied, more determined, and more like the woman that her sister was. "By agreeing to marry you I have placed my faith in you, Mr. Hart."

"And what trust have I been known to break as your husband?" he questioned with incredulity, "And for that matter, why would you regard me so ill?"

Georgiana worried the lace cuff of her nightgown. "I should have taken better care," she announced in teary-eyed regret. "I should have listened to my brother's objections."

"What?" Brit Hart applied in earnest, his gall mounting as he pointed to his chest, inquiring next, "Are you saying that you are not happy being married to me?"

Before he could ask another question, or discover the root of Georgiana's discontent, a loud clamor rang through the house and Brit Hart launched from his bed with nerve-wracking fright.

"What the devil was that?" he spoke in haste as he fitted himself with a dressing robe in the manner of an anxious bullfighter, waving cape through the air. He pointed at his wife, and in fact, he shook his finger at her as if to chastise an unruly child.

"Keep to this room, Georgiana," he spoke with manly authority. "I should insist that we take this up again when I return, for there is no possibility of me sleeping at all this night, knowing that you do not trust me a jot."

Still grumbling, Mr. Hart lit another candlestick, took it, and left the room.

Georgiana was incensed at such an attitude, although her first inclination was to do as her husband had told her. She realized that in knowing Elizabeth as she did, that her sister would have tolerated none of such behavior from her own husband. Georgiana slipped from the bed, found her own wrap and cast it about her shoulders. She would certainly not be told what to do in such a manner, even if Ethan Bristoe-Hart was her husband and Lord of the Manor.

Georgiana left the room and followed Brit Hart down the stairway, through the dark halls to the floor below. She could hear him breathing in front of her in the darkness, a long inhale followed by a short, quick exhale as though his heart raced with the stir of a great chase. Soon Georgiana realized her own ragged breaths of fright and vexation, and she crept closer to the commanding figure of her man to sate her own feelings lacking in any confidence.

She labored well at composing the commotion within her, which she believed would do her, or her baby, no good at all. Georgiana reached out and grasped the sleeve of her husband's robe with her trembling fingertips, and poor Brit Hart jumped and abruptly glanced behind him.

"Good god, woman!" he exclaimed. "You gave me quite a fright!"

"I am sorry," she whispered

"I believe the sound came from the study," he said, his hand upon the latch of the door and the other holding the candlestick steady before him. He opened the door of the study swiftly and called out, "I say, what do you do in here!"

The flickering flame from the candlestick illuminated the room enough to bear witness to three pair of round, terrified eyes. Georgiana yelled out upon seeing the whites of them, and on hearing the frightening cry of their aunt, the Darcy children let out shouts of terror.

"What in blazes are you three doing in here?" Brit Hart inquired angrily.

"Christian was hungry!" Andrew howled out in reply. "But we cannot find the way to the kitchen--sir!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was nearing dawn as Brit Hart found himself in the kitchen of Smythdon Manor. He sat in a hard wooden chair, alongside his nephews and niece, and Georgiana; his head propped against the unforgiving chair back, his eyes trying to concentrate on a chandelier above while the room seemed as though it had begun to spin.

"Do you want some of this bread?" Georgiana asked him, her attitude toward him oddly different.

He tilted his head forward, to see the blurry images of three children and his wife eagerly sopping up warm milk with chunks of bread. "Lord no," he replied, a hand clasping his forehead, "but I would like to go back to my bed."

"There is no need for that, Uncle Brit," Christian answered brightly, having satisfied his hunger. "It will not be long now until Prudence wakes up!"

Chapter VII

Elizabeth Darcy gazed out of her bedchamber window with a gloomy air to her countenance. Her interest was arrested by nothing more than the misty dawn beyond the sanctuary of the heavily painted sill; a windowsill adorned with coat after coat, the testimony of many long years of operation. In her soul she did repine for the closeness of her dear children, and on her cheeks she sported a tinge of regret for having betrayed the trust of her husband.

She knew that Darcy abhorred ignorance, but mostly he found it insufferable in himself. He was careful to always remain a man of sense, a man of good knowledge of what he regarded as matters of his concern. He had placed his confidence, and most of all his heart, in the palms of Elizabeth's hands during their marriage; something in the past he had been careful not to do with any other being. Elizabeth had truly been the only one to know him as vulnerable; particularly last night, and now she had seen to it that essential news had not reached him.

Although she had derived every sublime sentiment from their intimacy, and she had thought Darcy had as well, Elizabeth was positive that he would be vexed with her when he learned she had once again meddled in his affairs. She wondered what word it was that Mr. Rawlings had felt such an urgency to disclose--even if the Master of Pemberley had been otherwise engaged.

Elizabeth did have her regrets, yet she told herself that what she had done had been for Darcy's own good. It had all been done for Darcy's sake, and a little for her own.

"Have I told you of late how ardently I adore you?" Darcy sighed.

He had stolen up from behind Elizabeth, slipping his loving arms about her waist, tickling her ear with the closeness of his words. Elizabeth startled at this intrusion of her private musings with regard to him.

"No my love," she endeavored to smile warmly, overcoming her reservations in a moment of true attachment, "not in some time, and not in those very words."

With a decadent kiss, which he sited squarely on Elizabeth's lips, and an avid glimmer affixed in his eyes, Darcy replied, "Then I shall make it a point to say it more often."

Darcy was truly fascinated by the enchantments of his wife. He had come by all that he had desired to ease his worried mind, in the solace of Elizabeth's tender arms. It never failed to astound him how such simple pleasures could wash away the strain of the more complicated things in life, yet Elizabeth's effortless love did just that.

It has been said by a very wise person that a true and honest marriage is one that outlasts the hour of breakfast. Even two lovers as proficient in forgiveness as the Darcys were bound to suffer a trying time or two in all the mornings of wedlock. Elizabeth evaded Darcy's grasp enough to twist within the circle of his arms and face him.

"How I do love you, dearest," she said, the sentiment emanating truly from deep within her soul, though shame still marked her countenance. Her delicate hands worried his neckcloth, in want of an occupation to relieve her mind from her torture. Her fingers poked at the ends of the cloth to tuck them beneath the folds, and when she was satisfied with the look of it, she lifted her eyes upward to behold a husband's complimentary smile.

Elizabeth returned Darcy's kind gesture and said without pause, "It was divine to be alone with you."

"You talk as if our happiness shall end, my beautiful wife," he laughed softly.

"I fear that it will."

With a shake of his head, Darcy disputed her melancholy, "I have never had occasion to stop loving you."

"Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth sighed, "I must tell you..."

"No," he decreed resolutely, a finger pressed to her lips to quiet her, "tell me after."

The tip of his finger caressed the curve of her lips, and then he slowly swept the back of his hand against the softness of her cheek. Again, his touch made Elizabeth tremble, and her own fingers reached up to clutch his hand within her own.

"After what?" she was able to ask.

"After breakfast."

They took refreshments in their apartments, a tray of airy wiggs and a tart quiddany of plums set out alongside a hot morning brew to take the edge off of Darcy's hunger. He sat down and helped himself to one of the pastries, broke it in two, and spread the fruit generously on top.

Elizabeth poured him his tea after setting a slice of lemon in the bottom of the cup. She humbly handed Darcy the saucer, her eyes cast away, discouraging her lover, for she knew she must soon reveal her conjugal perfidy no matter what the effect.

"I miss our children," Darcy said slyly, believing that to be the cause of Elizabeth's gloomy mien, "and I am sure that you do as well."

"Oh, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth sighed, careful not to frown, "I do long for them to come home."

Darcy's smile broadened. It was their disposition in marriage to give pleasure to one another and to take it, and it was clear to Darcy that it was in his power to bestow a favor in return for the compassion that Elizabeth had shown him.

"I shall send for the carriage directly, and you and I shall go and fetch them home."

Elizabeth smiled her overwhelming relief and approval. Her mood brightened, as did the light from outside the painted windowsill at the emergence of a ray of sun through the murky clouds and mist.

"I am always astonished that you can take your tea in such a way," she felt easy enough to tease her husband. "Does it not upset you so early in the morning?"

Darcy shook his head, and grinned with confidence, "Nothing would trouble me on the occasion of this morning."

Elizabeth's smile instantly faded, and she had quite made up her mind at that moment to tell him of her interference in his business when Mrs. Reynolds tapped on the door and Darcy bade her enter. The faithful housekeeper cast a glance toward her mistress before she spoke, and Elizabeth was compelled to bow her head in particular mortification.

"May I say, sir," Mrs. Reynolds addressed Darcy genuinely, "that you look very well this morning."

Darcy chuckled with pleasure, still engaged with his repast. "I take it, Mrs. Reynolds that I have not in the past few weeks--but do rest assured," he lifted his cup in a parodied toast, "Mrs. Darcy has found the remedy for my recovery."

Mrs. Reynolds blushed at the Master's impertinence, yet continued, as was her duty. "Mr. Rawlings is awaiting you in the hallway, sir. He says it is urgent."

Darcy arched a curious brow, for in truth he had forgotten about his steward, his tenants, and the tedious business of settling Pemberley's accounts. He swallowed what was left of the pastry and flung his napkin to the table, and it was apparent that he spoke to himself when he muttered, "I had thought perhaps that Rawlings would have had some news for me last night."

"He did have news," Elizabeth heaved a resounding sigh, happy to at last have the information set out in the open, yet growing anxious of Darcy's reply.

Darcy spun about to gape at her, as he tried to comprehend Elizabeth's meaning. One could see his good humor turn quite sour, although the slice of lemon in his tea had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

"Mr. Rawlings did come to call last night," Elizabeth reconfirmed. This confession was provocation enough for Darcy to turn swiftly and glare at the housekeeper, incredulous in his thoughts that she had concealed serious information from him.

"It is not what you believe, sir," Elizabeth gave a hasty retort, tugging gently on his shirtsleeve to bring his ill attention back in the deserving direction. "Good Mrs. Reynolds did bring you the news of it, but it was I who kept it from you."

Darcy was astonished at first, and then he was appalled. A terrible grimace settled on his face and he promptly dismissed the housekeeper with a wave of his hand and a promise that he would attend to the caller directly.

His menacing stare chilled Elizabeth to the bone, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to speak a word. "Then I am to understand," Darcy hoarsely choked out in shock, "that it was you who sent Rawlings away?"

"I did," Elizabeth respectfully submitted.

It hurt Elizabeth deeply to see her beloved husband so befuddled. It pained her more to see the strife return to the curve of his lips and the creases of worry deepen at the corners of his eyes and on the arch of his brow.

"I am the spitting image of a fool," Darcy spoke with certainty, and poor Elizabeth cringed at the severity of the words. "Why would you do such a thing, Elizabeth? Why--when I had told you how I felt--when I told you of the significance this news means to the state of Pemberley?"

"There is nothing more dear to me than you--and your health, sir. I did what was necessary."

"We did not do the right thing!" Darcy fumed.

"You did what you felt in your heart," Elizabeth defied him, though her arms were open to an embrace, "and I desired it of you. I longed for every touch, and every loving word from you--and neither of us wanted the interruption."

Darcy paid her no heed as he paced across the room. "I let desire govern me," he angrily replied, chastising merely himself. "Only a lustful youth would do that, and I am far enough removed from that age to forsake my good sense!"

"You let yourself be happy, for one night," Elizabeth rejoined while keeping pace with him. "You acted as any man would, and there is not one among you who would see it differently. The good people of your employ will understand!"

Darcy came to a standstill, and his lips tightened in affront, "I am not just any man, Elizabeth. I am, for now, the Master of this place--and there is no pity for a man in my situation."

Elizabeth was benumbed. She had no other argument to offer, in her defense or in Darcy's, and an apology seemed contemptible. Darcy left her in silence, and all the pleasures proven between two desperate lovers faded away to obligations required by obedience and duty.

Regret made Elizabeth follow Darcy hastily down the corridor, until he stopped his purposeful momentum long enough for his manservant to throw a greatcoat over his shoulders. From the top of the staircase Elizabeth watched her husband step lively down to the lower level, the woolen fabric of the greatcoat made airborne behind him by the authority of his vigorous gate.

Mr. Rawlings awaited his employer at the foot of the stairs. "Sir," he called out, "I tried to bring you news of this last night..."

"Never mind that," Darcy brusquely silenced the man, "last night was an unfortunate mistake. Let us hope that it is not too late for amends."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brit Hart awoke far too early that morning for his own liking, yet that manifestation which seemed to follow him about in the last day or so, was clearly present in his bedchamber. He abruptly sat up in his discomfort to look around the room.

"Prudence," he sighed out, seeing the youngster perched next to his bed, standing on a chair and twirling a lock of her hair, round and round her tiny finger as she surveyed her insentient aunt and uncle. "It is very bad form to watch people as they sleep."

Prudence simply stared at him, her little round eyes and inert pout indicative of her artlessness. Brit Hart reached over to the other side of his bed and upon finding the charming curve of his wife's hips, gave her a nudge.

Georgiana moaned and turned in his direction, then sat up when she realized that the nudge was more than playful in spirit. "What is the matter?" she asked, and then hastily held her hand to her midsection as she began to feel the ill effects of morning sickness, and indulging in a midnight buffet besides.

"We have a mole in our midst," Mr. Hart whispered, keeping an unyielding eye bent on Prudence.

"Dear," Georgiana moaned, "bring her up and hand her to me."

Brit Hart grasped the child beneath the arms and hoisted her into their bed. She scrambled over to her aunt, and wriggled herself beneath the warmth of the covers. Georgiana laid a hand upon the girl to steady her wiggling.

"Lay very still, Prudence," she whispered. "Pray, mind you--very, very still."

Barely being accustomed to sharing a bed with anyone, Brit Hart grimaced with embarrassment. He felt as if it would be an impropriety to remain, so he slid himself out of bed, and scoured the room in the darkness for his dressing robe.

He quietly stoked the fire in the hearth, so that when they did arise, Georgiana and Prudence would not have cause to shiver, and then he made his way, a coverlet in hand, down to his study and tried to find a comfortable enough repose on a creaky and unforgiving leather chair.

Within an hour however, he heard the stirring of domestics making ready for their duties of the day, and he simply could not rest. Brit Hart opened the door to his study, and stepped out into the hallway.

In this day and age it was not customary to pause and gape at one's employer, however most of the good, yet novel servants to Smythdon Manor had never witnessed their celebrated Master standing in the hallway, robed and slippered, unkempt hair tousled to and fro and chin rough and unshaven. It was indeed the stuff of which gossip was made, and Brit Hart bit down on his lower lip realizing his lordly blunder.

"Are you in need of something, sir?" a cockney expression-ed footman asked of him.

"No," he chortled awkwardly. "Do I look as though I do?"

"Begging your pardon, gov'nor," the man replied. "You look a bit lost as it were."

Brit Hart shook his head. "No," he said, "not at all. How can one be lost in their own house?" He grinned in his usual easy manner, and clasped his hands together before him. "Well, I am sure that you all have better things to do. Do not let me keep you, eh?"

With that being said, the servants dutifully disappeared.

When he was far more presentable, Mr. Hart took up his place at his breakfast table, not unlike every other morning he had spent in his own house. His newspaper was ceremoniously brought in to him, and his coffee cup filled as usual. He folded open the paper and read a title or two, then took a sip from his cup, and sighed.

None of the measures common to his routine gave him any comfort that morning, and Brit Hart fretfully drummed his fingers on the table, hoping his bride would join him directly. Nothing that had been crossly said between them had been settled last night, and Brit Hart was loath to recall any of it. He failed to believe it possible that Georgiana had tired of him already. That, he supposed, was to come much later in marriage--if his wounded heart dared suppose it at all.

Georgiana did enter the room after a time, looking ghostly pale, with four children in tow. Mr. Darcy's children took their seats, and quietly folded their hands before them, like the perfect angels that they were.

"Good morning," Mr. Hart said, quite indolently.

Georgiana swallowed and dabbed at her nose with her napkin. "Mr. Hart," she greeted him.

He nodded, not knowing what else to do, and then he said, a little merrier, to all in the room, "We have every good thing here, sausages, cheese, cakes, marmalade--whatever is to your liking."

"None of it, sir," Georgiana replied, though in her most respectful comportment. She struggled to her feet and begged of him, "Would you be so kind as to entertain my brother's children?"

Brit Hart stood up as well, in part out of chivalry, and somewhat out of concern for the alarming appearance of his wife. "Of course," was all of a reply that would suffice, before sweet Georgiana was compelled to bolt from the room.

Chapter VIII

Ethan Bristoe-Hart sat in the morning room of his manor, staring wretchedly at the bountiful spread before him. He had hoped to partake of a leisurely breakfast, although this morning not a morsel had been touched, and Mr. Hart's plan was not to be so. His young wife, upon the instant that he spoke had made haste from the room, leaving the poor man wordless and cross from that point on for the deed.

From this display he determined that Georgiana was more vexed with him than he had discerned. He had never truly considered himself so foolish in the notions of relations between a man and a woman having had some former knowledge of such a bond, yet Brit Hart could draw no sensible conclusions on where he had gone amiss as a husband. He was apt to believe, deep within a conscience now raw, that the whole neighborhood no doubt knew the answers to his troubles and would not tell him of such a mystery simply for the sport of watching a decent man suffer. No doubt Darcy knew the answer, for he had a familiarity of this particular thing, or so he had said.

Although they had not yet been married for a quarter of a year, Brit Hart's soul belonged completely to the fair Georgiana. The man had lost all sense of his own troubled lonesomeness upon falling in love with her, though now a different sort of woe plagued him gravely, and he came to wonder that perhaps Georgiana cared less for him than he had yearned for. How wretched it would be for one wife to have left him so suddenly and then to have another not love him at all. Brit Hart would think his life a dismal failure indeed, if this were true.

Now, four pairs of eyes assembled before him, watching his every move for a sign of strength. Nieces and nephews awaited a word from their uncle that all was well, and Brit Hart was reluctant to give it, though he knew that he must.

Blast that Darcy for having told him that this day would come, he thought vehemently while glimpsing the chaste faces of youth. Ignorance in such matters was preferable, if it meant that a heart would not stumble upon pain. Blast that Darcy, indeed!

Brit Hart stood up from his chair, scratching the whiskered part of his cheek with the tip of a finger, an anxious habit that he had always had since he had been old enough to sprout a man's beard. "Do have your breakfast, children," he benevolently advised the gallery of innocents, being man enough to know that they were in no way to blame. "I will return shortly, and we will have a go at something useful."

The gentleman made for the doorway, coming upon a smartly dressed footman at the threshold of it. Brit Hart paused to address him. "Do you have experience in minding children?" he inquired doubtingly for he was of late under the impression that very few of his acquaintance had.

"I do, sir," the peruked servant replied. "I have six of me own."

To this astonishment, Brit Hart leaned closer to the man, delighted in the confidence. "Marvelous," he whispered and patted the back of the servant's blue coat, "mind them well for a time good fellow, and there will be a half crown more in your pocket book upon the next occasion that you look."

In a moment Mr. Hart stood within the margins of the private apartment that he shared with Georgiana, pausing directly before the door of his wife's dressing chamber. "Mrs. Hart," he spoke in his distinctive clip, his ample hand gripping the knob of the door, eager to turn it.

He swallowed hard in his torment, hoping to hear happy words from his wife's handsome lips--words that would ease his mind. Being unconvinced of that however, he whispered to lend his tongue a more politic air, "Georgiana--pray let me inside and we shall talk this over."

The doorknob turned within his hand, and Brit Hart let go, heaving a sigh and feeling quite relieved that his dear, sweet Georgiana would show him the respect that a good wife did bestow on an esteemed husband. He grinned giddily for the very thought of his success, yet his curious joy gave way when he was conscious that it was not Georgiana at all who answered his plea, but her personal maidservant.

"Where is my wife?" he tried his best to catch a glimpse of the surroundings over the obdurate shoulder of the woman blocking the entry.

"Indisposed to see you, sir," the servant rejoined.

This sort of address made Brit Hart seethe red, for every time that he opened his mouth of late, Georgiana was not keen to listen and now she had sent her biddy to entirely dismiss him. "Then tell her," he forgot himself wholly, lapsing back to his indigenous inflection and the manners learnt from being raised in a house full of men, "to will her wounded little figure into the commons so that we might have this out--here and now!"

"Sir!" the maidservant admonished him. "It cannot be done! It may only be a matter of hours before the lady is able to take on such distress--then again," she sighed, "it may be months."

"Months?" Brit Hart was incredulous as was evident by the exceptional storm swirling theoretically within his sea-green eyes. "I shall be deuced that it would take months! She is my wife," he called out, rising above the woman to make his meaning clear to her and anyone else who may be peering from behind.

Georgiana's maidservant was appalled by such manners imparting from a gentleman and master of such a fine place, yet she knew it was not proper to make note of it. She remained unruffled, yet resolved as she told her lady's master, "Give the missus some time, sir."

In the very next moment, Brit Hart came to stare blankly at the back of a mahogany door, locked again from the inside. "Well strike me down woman," he groused and tugged on his waistcoat defensively.

The poor, misguided man turned about, looked round his bedchamber, and ran the back of his hand across his nose and lips, which had all of a sudden gone numb for having been kept so tightly drawn in displeasure. "Right," he muttered out, having nothing more profound to exclaim.

As he did tread from the room he stumbled over a fine Persian tied rug, the fringe of which had caught on the heels of the mucking boots that he wore. "You are very well right!" he regained his footing then turned back to give the offending rug a final childish stomp.

"I have my duties--well enough," he then proclaimed with a swagger of self-importance, "I have flocks to tend to, and I have an estate to administer--and let us not forget that I have children to mind!"

Behind the mahogany door of the dressing chamber Georgiana's maidservant tended to her charge. She knelt down next to the rumpled rise that were the hips and skirts of the mistress, and brushed back the wisps of hair come loose about Georgiana's pallid face.

"You will be no worse for it, ma'am," the kind woman said. "It is natural to feel this way, as disagreeable as it may seem."

Georgiana gasped, "I feel so dreadful--and my husband surely despises me! I should have said--perhaps I should have said--what ails me."

"There now, he cannot scorn you, like all men, he cannot understand, my lady," the servant made clear her skeptical view on the conception of behavior betwixt and between husbands and wives. "The master cannot blame you, for the joy that he will feel. Think of it--he will have himself an heir."

Georgiana sobbed, shaking her head, endeavoring to catch her breath before she made herself sick once again. "He does not want it," she bawled, "he told me so." Her attempts at ease were to no avail and she clutched at the chamber pot before her, though she retched up nothing for trying.

"No, no," the woman stroked her mistress's back to soothe her. "It cannot be so. A man does not know what he feels, before he knows the truth."

Georgiana had not the strength to lift her body higher, and she slid her weary head onto the skirted lap of her consoling maid. "Were it so that I had a mother to turn to, to hear my woes," the tears of exhaustion and misery rolled from Georgiana's eyes. "Were it that I had a father to comfort me. Even Mrs. Annesley could tell me what to do, were she here to condole with."

The maidservant sighed for the troubles of her mistress, "Oh my lady, take heart. These things happen to every young wife and mother. Let me tell the master if you like. It would be better than leaving him to his ignorance and you to such melancholy."

"No!" Georgiana struggled for a breath. "No."

"Then what may I do, dear Mrs. Hart?"

"Send me away, Mary," Georgiana moaned, "Elizabeth, my dear sister will know. I want to go back--to Pemberley."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Darcy felt dreadful. Not since she had first been acquainted to the man who was now her husband had she been so injured by hasty words that he had uttered. His anger with her at the moment was justified, it was true and she knew it for having interfered, and yet in all of the years of their marriage, Darcy had still not learned to hear the kindness of his own heart and ignore his mind's treatise. Firstly, he was rash if news disappointed him, and his fine and peerage breeding allowed him an excuse to say exactly those things he thought, good, or bad, or very often hurtful.

There were times when Elizabeth was convinced that her love, in her husband's estimation, was hollow. She had longed to be a wife; the sort of wife who was a confidant, not just a ready tumble, or a woman built of good stock to provide him with an heir. So many times she had felt as though she was his friend, and then so often did she feel that perhaps he was never in need of such a person at all.

She knew that he could not forgive for being crossed, if anything, by his own admission, for he could not see beyond his own comfort that which was good for others. Pemberley, and his idea of it always came first, for its very continuation was all the pleasures that Mr. Darcy needed be proved.

Elizabeth Darcy was indeed a wife, a very good woman first and foremost to one man alone, no matter how he treated her. She was also a mistress to many a dependant, and if Darcy were to campaign against those people who relied on his good opinion and generosity, Elizabeth would always be there to make the peace. If Darcy could not, would not settle things with the good people who worked the lands of Pemberley, there would be very little for Elizabeth to do, other than to demonstrate that one with the name of Darcy at least was fashioned of good will.

"Mrs. Reynolds," Elizabeth spoke up. "Tell Mrs. Beal to pack the gammons and puddings for the tenants of Potts Shrigley, the fresh cream and barrels of ale, and all the small curios for their children. I believe I shall go calling this morning."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Come along now," Brit Hart coaxed the Darcy children to keep pace with his long strides through the muddy yard. Prudence, however, he was compelled to carry in his arms for they probably would have lost her completely in the mire.

His mind was bent on a mission--a mission to meet the drover at the farmstead who was bringing a curly horned ram and ten fine ewes of the breed Leicester Longwool to Smythdon this very day. Brit Hart had until now been no gentleman farmer, but he had made his inquiries, and if the Leicester Longwools had been the favorite choice of even a parvenu the likes of General Washington of the Colony of Virginia, or rather of America, then they were indeed good enough for the prosperity of the interests of the Harts of Derbyshire.

Hannah ran along side her uncle to inquire, and then fell back to a brisk walk on doing so, "Is something the matter with Aunt Georgiana?"

"No," Brit Hart clipped the defensive lie, his true feelings on the subject hidden from the view of children's tender attitudes as he continued his jaunt. "No."

"She looked very poorly to me," Andrew joined the conversation from behind. "All white and ghostly-like."

"Perhaps Sir Walter gave her a fright!" Christian shivered.

"La!" Andrew boxed Christian on the forehead with the palm of his hand. "Go on! What nonsense do you dream up?"

"I do not think she is ill," Brit Hart dispelled while slowing his stride, though he at last wondered at the chance of it. He stopped abruptly and waited for the children to catch up to him. "I had not thought your Aunt Georgiana very frail, though perhaps I do not know for sure," he surmised before them. "Was she ill very often when she lived at Pemberley?"

"Not a day," Christian proclaimed, and Brit Hart shrugged his shoulders for having wondered at all.

Mr. Hart turned and again strode toward the object now occupying his mind. There was something in all of this mess of which he knew he could make work, and if it could not be his marriage, then it would have to be farming.

"Papa will not be very happy if Aunt Georgiana is not well cared for," Christian felt it his duty to declare.

"Christian," Brit Hart stopped, turned round and looked menacingly down on the boy, quite on the verge of batting the child himself. "I have been made to suffer the reprimand of a maidservant and the curtain-lecture of a wife within the span of a day. I have not had much sleep, nor have I had much to eat, and I have not the comfort of even a good smoke to appease me. Have some pity on me, lad," he mourned, "I beg of you!"

The children stood awed before him, having had some good knowledge from their father in just how far a man could be pushed. Hannah pouted, "You have been very cross Uncle--not at all like the jolly fellow that we love. Is it our fault?"

Brit Hart glanced at the muddy ground, ashamed of his conduct over the last day. His face alit with a curious smile, one not false or curt. "I wanted our time together to be good--to be merry," he said as his eyes peered sheepishly from beneath the auburn-hued locks of his hair. "There are instances when things weigh heavy on a man. I suppose this is one--though that is a very feeble excuse for being unkind. Do forgive me. I have not the patience that your father has."

The children all giggled at the odd manner in which their uncle used the words father and patience in the same sentence. Hannah smiled, happy to see her beloved uncle cheerful again. She gave him a kiss on the cheek after motioning for him to come down to meet her, and Prudence clasped her arms about his neck and laughed in his ear. Christian was apt to give him a hug, and Andrew gave him a manly pat on the back to buck up his spirits.

This indeed was Brit Hart's idea of family, the family that he had not had since boyhood, and his heart softened for the demonstration. For all of the bother children were apt to give a man, they gave their love and devotion to him with much the same ease. Brit Hart was beginning to have a notion of what Darcy had meant. That for all the freedom a man did surrender to have a family of his own, he learned categorically not to pine for it.

"Well now," Brit Hart stood up and grinned, "we have those sheep to inspect."

The troop marched down the path, coming within sight of the farmyard. The drover from Leicester had arrived and the sheep were safely in refuge in a circular fenced paddock. Brit Hart looked them over, a spectator held fascinated by the instructions of the more experienced drover. Prudence clung to him as he waded about in the muck of the farmyard, though Hannah and her brothers remained behind the fence, reaching through the planks to pet the dark head of a woolly ewe.

Brit Hart was learning many things, and he kept one eye on the children, assuring himself that they were safe, and more importantly than that, that they remained quite out of trouble. "Keep away from the gate, Christian!" he bellowed out good-naturedly.

"Why are they in the pen, Uncle?" Andrew asked. "The sheep at Pemberley roam free on the hillsides."

"They will ramble about soon enough," Brit Hart answered, still giddy with the quality of his purchase. "They have not the good fortune of knowing where their home is as yet. They will soon enough, when they are fed and know of their keeper's generosity. To let them out now would be foolish, for they would be halfway back to Leicester before we could herd them up."

"Ah," the drover said, "you have been minding your lessons in shepherding, sir."

"Indeed I have," Brit Hart chuckled. "I am anxious to see how fine a stock comes from a cross of these Longwools and a Wiltshire Horn."

"Sir," the drover said, a quick gesture toward the far side of the paddock.

In his eagerness, Brit Hart paid him no heed. "Or perhaps even a cross with a Derbyshire Gritstone," he nodded enthusiastically, "now that might produce quite a handful of wool."

"Sir," the drover pointed behind Mr. Hart, "Your children sir!"

Brit Hart turned about quickly and gasped. Christian hung upon the planks of a swinging gate, and a line of Leicester Longwools bleated favorably for the freedom as they filed past the paddock opening.

The color drained from Mr. Hart's face in his fury. "So help me, Christian--what the devil have you done?" he bellowed forth at a run, with tiny Prudence holding on to his neck for dear life.

Brit Hart floundered far to quickly through a patch of slippery mud, and his legs flew out from beneath him, and he landed upon his backside in the mire. Prudence was unharmed; coming to rest upon the poor man's stomach, although she wailed at such a shock, and the visiting drover plucked her from the gentleman's middle allowing Mr. Hart to breathe and wallow his way out of the mud.

He made progress toward the gate, followed by the drover and Prudence, as the last of the fattened sheep trotted merrily out. The drover set Prudence down on the ground as he helplessly watched the happy sheep kicking up their black heels and making haste in a southerly direction, somewhere for the neighborhood of Leicester.

"Good god," Brit Hart breathed out in disbelieving contempt. He grimaced at Christian, who still clung by his britches to the swinging gate. "Have I to wallop you boy, before you mind what you are told?"

The child quaked at the thought, for Christian certainly did not care to be punished by his own father, let alone the threat of such humiliation being served up by the uncle whom he adored. Andrew pulled him down from the gate and gave him a little reprimanding shove. Christian fell backward in the mud, wishing he could blackout his face with it and make himself blend with the landscape.

"I am sorry, Uncle! Truly!"

"Go back to the house--every one of you!" Brit Hart spat out. "Hannah--you will watch your sister, and your brothers. Be positive that not another disaster does happen to you along the way!"

Hannah fretted at the wild sight of him. "Are you not coming, Uncle?" she dared ask.

"I cannot," he grumbled out loudly. "I shall be all day chasing these sheep. All the blasted, blasted..." he kicked at the fence, "...day!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mrs. Darcy!" a yeoman's wife uttered upon seeing Pemberley's mistress on her doorstep.

"Good day, Mrs. Mayhew," Elizabeth Darcy replied. "I have been meaning to come by. I am sorry to come unannounced and I hope that it is not a bad time?"

"Oh no, quite the contrary ma'am."

Elizabeth entered the humble house, and shyly curious children poked their heads from behind tables and chairs to catch a glimpse of the grand lady who lived in the large house at the foot of the fells. She smiled at them, and they giggled for being shown such condescension.

More often they had seen the mister, who was handsome, tall and dark, and stoic. His clothes were finely made and free of dust, and his gloves and boots always looked new. He came to talk with their father, and the sound of his voice resonated throughout the humble house, his speech being precise and perfect, and directly to his point. He was so much taller than the rest of the men in or around the village that this alone put fear in the hearts of impressionable youngsters. Rarely if ever did they come out upon seeing him enter their house, for if their father kowtowed to him as he did, they surely would never be presentable company.

The lady was different, although her clothes were just as fine and clean. She was pretty, yet she smiled a lot, and her voice was kind. She did not come to talk of business as the gentleman did, but she came to pass an hour with their mother, and oftentimes accepted the invitation to have some tea and biscuits. Even the children were allowed to partake of biscuits with her, as she insisted, and then she would show them what she had brought. It was always something good to eat, something that their family did not generally have, and they were very grateful for such generosity of spirit.

They knew that the gifts had come from both the master and the mistress, in appreciation for the job well done by their father. Their parents often talked of the good Mr. Darcy, and his kind wife, although just from appearances the children were compelled to believe that the bounty came solely from the missus.

Once they had seen two boys accompany the gentleman, two boys smartly dressed and their hair trimmed and neatly combed. The older boy had manners much like his father, while the younger boy was apt to wear a grin upon his face, even when the tall gentleman looked down on him with lips pressed together to imply that a grin was not proper etiquette. Still the boy looked happy for being the issue of such a daunting man, and the yeoman's children thought that perhaps living in the big house did have its privileges, especially upon having such an agreeable mama.

Elizabeth found it difficult to begin a conversation. She knew that Darcy had no doubt been calling at the house before her, and although she had not known what to expect, she thought it only right that Mrs. Mayhew might have some reservations about accepting her call. For all Elizabeth knew, Mrs. Mayhew was to look to Georgiana Hart for favor now.

"How good it is to see you Mrs. Darcy," the woman hurried to remove her dirtied apron. "We have only just seen your husband."

"Oh," Elizabeth soughed lowly, unable to say more.

"He came to speak to Mr. Mayhew."

Elizabeth's brows furrowed, assuring herself of Darcy's grievous offense. At any moment Mrs. Mayhew would tell her that her husband and the Master of Pemberley had not come to an agreeable fee, and that it would not be necessary for the Master's wife to make any further visits.

"I never realized the sort of man that Mr. Darcy is," the woman bowed her head to glance ill at ease at her dusty shoes.

Elizabeth felt her heart sink, for even though she knew of Darcy's principles, she had still held on to some hope that he could somehow be reasonable to all parties concerned. She looked at her hands within her lap, and instead of removing her gloves in evidence that she would stay for tea, she worried her fingers nervously together, and whispered, "I understand."

"I am sure you do," the woman replied, "you must--for having the good fortune to marry such a gentleman. He is as kind and as agreeable as any man--high or low."

Elizabeth hastily lifted her eyes forward to view the woman upon hearing her last words. She was perplexed, that Mrs. Mayhew should use the word 'agreeable' at all.

"He is what--did you say?"

"Oh so agreeable ma'am," Mrs. Mayhew confirmed.

"How so?" Elizabeth choked out.

"Why in his generosity, of course. He came with his steward this morning, and we thought surely that after Mr. Mayhew and the others had made such demands last night and when Mr. Rawlings did not appear that Mr. Darcy had flatly refused to settle at such a price."

"But," Elizabeth swallowed back her growing astonishment, "you thought him--agreeable?"

"Oh, Mrs. Darcy, he was more than agreeable and did give his tenants everything of which they asked. Not a complaint uttered or bargain struck from him--other than his word to pay more than we have ever known." Mrs. Mayhew giggled in jubilation. "Surely you knew of his plan, ma'am for a man such as he must take you into his confidence. Your Mr. Darcy is a man to be admired--by his tenants and, as expected, by his own wife indeed!"

Chapter IX(Conclusion)

It would be a long ride home for Mr. Darcy, as it was late in the day by the time that he had settled his affairs with all parties concerned in the hamlet of Potts Shrigley. Mr. Rawlings was pleased with the outcome of things; in as much as he would now hold some popularity with the tenants of Pemberley for being a negotiating sort of man, even though he assumed his own profits would dwindle somewhat as a result. Even so, he had never known the Master of Pemberley to be so easy. He had never known the gentleman to behave so readily reasonable in fact when it came to a matter of business--and it was an uplifting alteration in the man, to be sure.

"Would you care to have me ride along with you, sir?" he asked of Mr. Darcy as both men guided their mounts westward toward the gates of the gentleman's great estate.

"No," Darcy replied with a relegating sigh. "Go home to your own family, Rawlings. Your efforts have been much appreciated. Come round for your compensation two days hence. That should give me sufficient time to finish the books and draw out your earnings."

"You are very kind, sir. I am much obliged," Mr. Rawlings dipped his chin before he rode away.

Darcy traversed on, although after a time he brought his horse to a halt along the well-traveled way. He longed for a chance to have a thought in peace, an opportunity to mull over exactly what it was that he had done.

The good horse was patient with its master, although in want of the comfort of its stable and a flake of satisfying hay, it remained still and calm. Darcy was indeed relieved that this day the groom had outfitted the gray dappled gelding, for the ride was far more agreeable. The black stallion that Darcy made a habit of riding was indeed a spirited animal, yet if it be known, Darcy did not much care to pacify anything more this day than he had already.

The Master of Pemberley looked to the distance, able to glimpse the pinnacles of the Cage, an edifice greeting anyone entering Pemberley's finely groomed park. The structure seemed as old as time itself, a worn stone keep, a device of a Norman triumph in a land inherent to Saxons. If one looked far enough back, they would see that Darcy was bred of both, in heritage and in consequence. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man of traditions in a time that could not help but be removed from the past.

Darcy lived in an age different from that of those far forgotten relations, singular even from that in which his own father had dwelled. Certainly alterations were an effect of the times, a consequence of novel ideas styling a land still reaping the benefits that the ages had proven. Yet some of this had come about directly by Darcy's own doing, from Fitzwilliam Darcy's own choosing of a friend--a trusted companion whom he loved dearly enough to call his wife.

Be true to your work, your word, and your friend, it had been said, and Darcy had hoped that by some palpable design, he had managed to respect that wisdom.

He wondered at Elizabeth's take on it. Had she seen herself as simply a mate these years of their union, or did she know how a husband's feelings on the subject did tend. Darcy questioned whether Elizabeth did love Pemberley as much as he did. The place would be the legacy of her own children, even if at first she had found the mere sight of it daunting, but Pemberley had been graced by the hands of those far forgotten fellows who were building their dreams. By this, Darcy was sure that Pemberley would always be here, tucked back against the vastness of the foggy Pennine Fells.

"Why can you not be easy?"

Elizabeth's words echoed through his brain as he whispered them aloud. He then remembered his own hasty utterance, with much regret.

"Last night was an unfortunate mistake."

This was not true--not in his marriage, for there were no mistaking Darcy's feelings. Elizabeth's demonstration of love was never unfortunate, nor unwanted--and it had been Darcy who had made a terrible mistake by his insensitive calculations.

What a notion it would have been to those far forgotten fathers, when all the pleasures between two people proved that a man could think of a wife as a friend, and that a marriage contract could give such pleasant refuge to both a husband and a wife. That a man and a woman could be lovers, and friends, was indeed a thing to marvel, and something Darcy was now sure should not be taken for granted, neither by that husband nor that wife.

Darcy dug his boot heels into the sides of his mount, and the proud animal lurched forward in a hurry, just as Darcy had commanded. There were things that Darcy felt he must say, and he could not wait another moment to do so. With newly found exhilaration and a rather cheery outlook on things, the wind whipped against the breast of Darcy's coat and past his cheeks, as the horse climbed the hill toward the gates of Pemberley.

Once in the courtyard, Darcy slid off to the ground and hastily passed the reins to an awaiting groom. He rushed up the stairs to the platform of the house itself, his boots resounding with each step he took in the hush of the square. He bounded into his house, tossing his gloves and hat to an attending footman, and with more hope than he had possessed in some time, he made his way through the house to find his lovely Elizabeth.

"Papa!" the voices of children screeched through the hallway, and four familiar and wanted faces anxiously ran to greet him.

Darcy hoisted Prudence into the air and tickled her with kisses on the back of her neck. Hannah and Christian held onto him from each side and he brought Prudence safely to her feet on the floor and embraced his other children, ever so delighted to see them. Only Andrew waited before his father without gleefully waylaying the man at first, until Darcy gave him that loving and proud smile and nodded his pleasure, and the boy flung himself into the arms of the father that he adored.

"How happy I am to see you!" Darcy was genuinely overjoyed.

Christian's smile did radiate from beneath his rosy cheeks. "We are very happy to see you, Papa," he sighed, "and Mama, and particularly the cook."

Darcy nodded agreeably, for it was indeed good to be missed. "Did your Mama come and fetch you from Smythdon?"

"Not exactly," Hannah had to reply. "We were brought back."

Darcy's brows furrowed deeply with wonder. "By Mr. Hart?"

"By Aunt Georgiana," confirmed Andrew.

As their father knelt before them, the delight on the faces of Darcy's children diminished. At first a sternness associated with fatherhood crossed Darcy's countenance, evident by the somber reflected in the prudent eyes of his children, and then Darcy's cross demeanor quite left him, and he asked in all sincerity in a readiness to sympathize, "Dear me--but why?"

"We were not so very bad," Hannah had to speculate, "although Christian did let out every Longwool whatever they were, and Mr. Hart was very cross about it."

Christian took the defensive. "I was not the one to break his smoking pipe, though!"

"You broke his meerschaum?" Darcy gasped.

"If that is the one that Uncle Brit got from the decreased apothecary," Hannah wriggled in her place, "then I suppose so."

A curious groan escaped Darcy's lips upon hearing such an odd rejoinder, and he glanced again at the four faces--the faces of children awaiting a lecture they were sure would come forthwith. Darcy still grimaced in pity for his unfortunate brother-in-law.

"You made good work of your time away, then?" he had to jest, though he felt the fault all his. "Why should it be any different there than here? You are who you are, and though you are mischievous, you are Darcys--and I love you all no matter what."

Four more relieved children there had never been; yet as the youngsters began to feel themselves far too fortunate, Darcy cut short their revelry.

"There is one thing," he spoke in seriousness, "that must be said, and it will be done by you all from here on in. There is a time when children must learn responsibility--and we shall say that this is the time for you all. Hannah, you are to look after Christian, and Christian, you are to look after Prudence."

Hannah and Christian did frown together at such a heavy responsibility. They felt barely able to cope with looking after themselves, let alone more mischief as one went down the infamous Darcy line.

"And you son," Darcy looked to his eldest, "will watch out for the lot of them."

"Papa," Andrew complained.

"No," Darcy shook his head once, "such a duty need not always be observed, but when your mother and I are engaged, it shall be your responsibility--without the need to impose on us for every little thing that should happen to go wrong."

"But what if it is serious, Papa?" Hannah gasped.

"Do you know what is serious?" Darcy did ask.

Andrew pursed his lips in thought. "If Prudence should get ill, or take a fall?"

"That is fundamental," replied Darcy, "for any of you."

"If something were to be on fire," Christian tried not to smirk.

Darcy frowned, "That is indeed, most serious."

"If Christian were to throw Polly Beagle into a tree!" Hannah squealed, willing to add her impressions of what might befall a much loved rag dog.

"That," Darcy established faithfully, "is not so serious. Do you understand?"

"How shall we know if you and Mama are engaged?" Andrew posed the operative question.

Darcy grinned, "You will know, or I shall tell you, straight away." He stood up, believing that he had made his point clear, and he waggled a finger toward the grand staircase. "Go and unpack your things and then you may play in the nursery until supper. Go on," he said, and his children were obediently gone.

Darcy heard voices coming from the drawing room, and without knocking he entered the room. Elizabeth had been kneeling beside Georgiana, though when Darcy did, she backed up onto her feet and gave him a tight and formal curtsey.

"Mr. Darcy," she bent her head in a manner as though they were barely acquainted, and Darcy flinched at the formality, taking it as a sign of Elizabeth's vexation with him.

"My dear," he responded evenly, and then grinned to tease, "and dear sister. I see that you have brought back my children, no doubt not a moment too soon for the preservation of my poor brother-in-law's nerves."

Georgiana sniffled into a lace handkerchief at Darcy's assumption.

"And where is Mr. Hart?" Darcy continued unknowingly, "Still chasing Longwool whatever-they-call-them and looking for a new meerschaum to purchase from a very small apothecary?"

"Small apothecary?" Elizabeth grimaced upon hearing such nonsense.

Darcy nodded with a trifling chuckle, "Indeed--Hannah said something about the apothecary being decreased."

Georgiana dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief as her voice sputtered out, "deceased, brother--the apothecary is departed!"

Although Darcy tried not to laugh, he did a poor job in concealing it, and Georgiana began to cry. "Sister," Darcy sat down in a chair across from her, concerned that his joke should cause such an effect, "Forgive me. I do not mean to laugh at the deprivation of your fine husband's belongings."

"That is not why I am tormented!" Georgiana managed to breath in.

"Then what?" Darcy implored, then upon receiving no answer looked to his own wife.

Elizabeth shook her head, placing a tender palm on her sister's shoulder, "I do not know. She will not say--other than she wishes to remain at Pemberley than go back to her husband's house."

"We had a terrible row," Georgiana finally admitted with a shuddering sob. "He does not want children!"

Darcy sat back in his chair, a little more comfortable in posture as he indifferently swung one leg over the other. "Of course he does not. Georgiana," he tried to speak plainly and firmly, as a father might, "it was not kind of me to pass off my children onto Brit Hart--he is simply not prepared for such an advanced state of fatherhood--whatever it is that he thinks. I will apologize to him, and to you, post haste."

"That will not change his mind."

Darcy groaned at his lack of success. "How do you know of his precise feelings--did he tell you of it--in so many words?"

"Not really," Georgiana took in a deep breath.

"Georgiana," Darcy began to lose his good humor. He did finally realize that his sister was no longer a child, and he was certainly not to interfere in the state of another man's marriage, "honestly--has Brit Hart been unkind to you?"

He waited until Georgiana shook her head to the contrary.

"He does treat you as you wish to be treated, does he not?"

Georgiana had no grounds to blame him, and so she nodded her head.

"Then I do not see what is so terrible that you should wish to move back to Pemberley?"

"He said that he was grateful not be a father and that he did not think that he possessed such a talent--and then I believe he flattered you with a compliment, brother."

"Indeed he should, sister," Darcy stifled a grin, and Elizabeth shot him a mindful look. "It is often that men say things that they do not mean--necessarily." Darcy caught Elizabeth's eye and he frowned in hopes of showing her his own shame. "Go back and make up with your husband. When the time comes and you present him with a child, he will change his mind--I know."

Georgiana was unconvinced, and she grasped Elizabeth's hand upon her shoulder, squeezing it within her own. Georgiana began to weep once again and Elizabeth came around before her and again knelt down. She whispered something to her sister that eluded Darcy's ears and then Georgiana nodded, and Elizabeth sat back in the posture of a woman's revelation.

"Of course you are," Elizabeth said with assurance, goading Darcy's curiosity.

"Are what?" Darcy pleaded for a sensible answer.

Elizabeth arched a brow at the witlessness of most men. "With child," she whispered and such news bowled Darcy over, for never having considered it in the first place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darcy leaned against the adamantine stone of Pemberley's gatepost, his arms folded cross his chest as he espied a figure walking up the drive. It was not a leisurely stroll in which the individual before him undertook, but this was a man with a purpose.

"Darcy," Brit Hart acknowledged his brother in rather a perturbed manner, as he drew in a sharp breath from the exercise of his jaunt.

"Hart," Darcy replied, ever so easily. "Do you come all this way--on foot?"

"I do," Brit Hart said in cross rejoinder. "I thought that a walk might serve to cool my temper--and besides my wife has brought out the deuced carriage."

Darcy pondered such a shortcoming of his sex. "Yes," he admitted in a shrewdly conceived humor, "why is it that a husband must suffer the inconvenience of a row. It is so that on such occasions I am usually the one to have to leave my own house. It really is not right--is it?"

Brit Hart had not the patience for Darcy's levity. "Is my wife inside?" he nodded toward the grand house.

"She is indeed," Darcy, confirmed. "Though I told her that she could not stay."

Brit Hart was floored upon hearing such a response. "You told her what?" he asked incredulously.

"I told her to go home to you," Darcy reiterated his ploy.

"You are not to take her side on this--whatever it is that her side may be, for I have not the foggiest clue?" Brit Hart huffed in the manner of a spurned and ingenuous man.

"One moment," he continued to rant, "we are insanely happy, and then in the next she is sitting in my bed telling me that she should have listened to her brother before having the bad sense to marry me! When I try to ask her to explain the very notion, she has her servant tell me to shove off like I was some fleeting tumble in any old seaport, and I end up spending the rest of the day rounding up sheep that your son let loose only moments after I swear I told him not to. I then go home to a deserted house, tired, mud stained, and hungry to find that everyone in the neighborhood has come over here with their baggage beneath their arm!"

"Are you finished?" Darcy questioned.

Brit Hart rubbed a hand across his dewy face. "I am," he replied, out of breath and out of sorts. "Quite."

"Brit," Darcy began, "I am sincerely sorry--that is, I am sorry for what I have done to you."

"How so?"

"I should never have thought it wise for you to play father to my children. That is not the way that you and Georgiana should have come by parenthood, or by a first argument. That is between the both of you, and I have no business being in the middle."

"You said that it would happen, Darcy--the quarrel that is. Are you not to say 'I told you so'?"

Darcy shook his head adamantly, "No."

"Well," Brit Hart could see some light to this day, "that is a query. Having your children in my house did make me think, Darcy--and at first I was not sure that I was cut of the stuff it takes to be a father."

"And now?" Darcy's mind hung on the very question.

"And now, the more I think of it, it would not seem such a bad prospect. I can see how a man would have pride in his children, vexation or no. They do love unconditionally, as you said, and I find that I was very fond of having them around--as long as they come one at a time, that is."

Darcy chuckled, "take my word for it that they often come in twos."

It was odd, but Brit Hart did laugh at that. "No Darcy, I do not think I shall take your word for anything for a while--and I think that would please us both."

"It would," Darcy agreed. "I am sorry about the meerschaum--the children told me."

"Forget it."

"I was actually quite grieved to hear about the apothecary as well," Darcy said uncomfortably, and Brit Hart cocked his head to the side, in modest agreement.

Both men stood at the gate in momentary discomfort, having nothing more to say, and then Darcy looked up from his awkward inspection of his boots and uttered, "You shall make a fine father, Brit."

"I hope," Brit Hart sighed.

"You shall--and when you see your child for the very first time, you will wonder why it was that you ever had any doubts at all."

Brit Hart glanced at his friend to notice the peculiar way in which Darcy did grin at him, and within his head, the gentleman began to have a clue. It was not always a husband's lot to be that dim, though husbands did rest easier for having been told of all truths by their wives. However, Brit Hart dismissed it with a shake of his head, and made for the house.

"Georgiana," his voice broke the silence at the threshold of the drawing room.

Georgiana turned toward the sound of a familiar and beloved timbre. "Ethan," she replied in a whisper, still worrying the handkerchief between her fingers.

"Tell me that I am not so terrible a husband to you," Mr. Hart beseeched.

"Tell me why do you not want to have a child, Ethan?"

Brit Hart heard the thing that he wished he had never said. "Oh my love," he sighed, "those were very hasty words. A man does sometimes say those things that he should never have uttered--those things he never really meant at all."

Georgiana smiled a little and replied, "That is what my brother had said."

"Your brother is at times a very wise man, though I shall try to never let him know it," Brit Hart rolled his eyes round. "He would be insufferable about it, at best."

"Oh, Ethan."

Brit Hart grinned, yet his amusement took a turn back to all seriousness. "Those things I did say, I do sincerely regret. What is more is that it was simply not true, and I know it. Can you forgive me?"

It was barely a difficulty for Georgiana to nod her head in enlightenment, and she swiftly found herself in the arms of her husband, a peace restored to her values, and a hope that they would never argue again. Yet she realized that she had not told him one particular thing, and she reserved her happiness until Mr. Ethan Bristoe-Hart was to hear the truth of things.

"We are to have a child, Ethan," she spoke shyly.

"Yes," he smiled and kissed her forehead, happy simply to be in her favor once again, "one day soon, of course we shall."

Georgiana's eyes lifted toward her husband's face and she wondered that he still did not understand. "It was not a question, Mr. Hart," she whispered.

It is a queer thing when a man finally grasps the notion of what will become of him as a father, and Ethan Bristoe-Hart was no exception to it. His brain temporarily goes numb, and then a flood of feelings rushes through it, as if someone has opened the sluice gate of all the worlds' sensibilities. The acknowledgement first appears as a tentative and crooked grin, and then speech forms upon his lips in the one short phrase that he is able to utter somewhat intelligently.

"That was very easy."

"Yes," Georgiana had to giggle at the sight of him, "You will be a father by midsummer."

"I never thought," The odd grin on Brit Hart's face became a full-fledged smile of joy, and he kissed his dear wife tenderly, as his hands cradled what he knew was the face of an angel. "I never thought that I would...I simply had never thought it!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By Darcy's calculations there was only one more thing to solve that day, and perhaps that would be the highest hurdle of all. The fine gravel that lined the promenade crunched under the weight of Darcy's boots as he strode by the orangery, and he glanced through the windows to see if his wife was to be found within. Indeed she was.

"May I join you, or do I intrude on your privacy?" Darcy asked of Elizabeth.

Elizabeth nodded her consent and Darcy sat down beside her on a finely carved wooden bench. He folded his hands before him and did not attempt to conceal his sigh.

"Do you ever get the feeling as though we have lived this scene before?" Elizabeth inquired. "What does one call that?"

Darcy pinched his lips together, feeling awkward at not having an answer. "I do not think that there is a word for it, precisely," he replied. "Why not make one up yourself?"

Elizabeth did smile at that. "I shall ponder it, and let you know what I come up with."

Darcy leaned back against the bench and began to speak, as Elizabeth had quite made up her mind to speak to Darcy, no doubt on the very same subject. An awkward pause overtook them both.

"You first," Elizabeth gave way in favor of Darcy's intended discourse.

Darcy thought a moment, and then he asked of her, "Do you still feel small next to this place?"

Elizabeth exhaled a small laugh of discomfort. "I do not know. Why do you ask?"

"You mean everything, Elizabeth," Darcy wasted no time in expressing what he felt. "You are everything to this place, and you are everything to me, and how you could feel small beside that, I can not say."

It did Elizabeth's heart good to hear it, yet she was inclined not to believe it so readily. She was not willing to give her heart so freely, for the whim of Mr. Darcy to break.

"This place is not so grand," Darcy continued, "for it is here that I learned to hear my heart, though I would never have done so, had you not come to make me listen to it."

"I hear from some in Potts Shrigley this day that you are a very agreeable man, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy pinched a frown, "And you are inclined not to believe it?"

"I do believe it," Elizabeth answered, "yet why did you settle so readily?"

For the first time, Darcy looked Elizabeth straight on. "As proof to you--that you should think me easy--that I should be the sort of husband that you have always wanted."

"You are that sort of husband."

"Well then," Darcy was unconvinced, "that I should be that sort of friend. I do hope that I can be both. You are both to me, you know."

Elizabeth choked back her emotions, "No, I did not know."

Somehow Darcy felt anxious. He reached out a tentative palm to place against her cheek, and then pulled his hand back in abhorrence of himself. "You are both, oh, how you are Elizabeth. We have never had trouble being lovers," he scowled at his faults, "Why I never told you what a friend you are, I cannot say. I had always thought that you knew, for I believed that all the pleasures did prove it."

"I believe they did, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth concurred.

"Then friends we shall remain?"

"Friends we remain," Elizabeth agreed. "It is a pleasure to be your friend, Mr. Darcy, and a joy to be your wife."

Elizabeth leaned toward Darcy and he toward her, and as their bodies came together in an embrace as constant friends and as steadfast lovers there was a hush to fall across their minds and a peace that such pleasures always did prove. To this feeling, one did hang a label describing it as love, and love it truly was.

"Papa!" the excitable voice of a child broke the bond.

This time Darcy's enthusiasm to cut short the intrusion did not wane, and he scrambled to his feet and met the child at the doorway of the orangery. "Christian!"

The boy studied the brusqueness spread across his father's face, and he glanced at the modest bashfulness on the cheeks of his mother. A realization came to him, quite out of nowhere.

"Oh," he whispered, as if divinely enlightened, "is this one of those times?"

"Yes," Darcy endeavored to conjure up that fatherly endurance.

Christian shrugged and before he ran back toward the house to tell his brother and sisters that the momentous occasion had occurred, he said most matter-of-factly, "Then never mind."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a joyous Christmas that year, and Mr. Hart's parents did make the long journey from Cornwall to Derbyshire for a visit. So overjoyed were they upon the news that they were to be grandparents that Mr. Hart's mother did cast her petite arms about her daughter-in-law and kiss her son repeatedly for having made her happiness complete. Mr. Hart's father did not extend his son a hearty handshake as usual, but embraced him the likes of which he had not done since Ethan Bristoe-Hart had been a small boy.

Mr. Hart did not quite know what to make of it, although suffice it to say that it made him feel quite proud. He now looked on the prospect of fatherhood in a different light, and as time passed he found it quite difficult to wait for the occasion.

Midsummer did bring the day that Brit Hart was to become a father. Darcy thought the poor fellow to be worse than anyone for having to pass the time in patience and prudence, and it was not all that simple for Darcy either. This time, instead of having the agony of counting the carpet squares to while away the hours, Darcy had the silent heads of red deer to examine while promising himself never to have the notion to allow one to grace the tasteful walls of his own study at Pemberley.

He was very relieved when his brother-in-law was called away to set eyes upon his first born son, and when Darcy himself was allowed to see his sister and to take a look at his nephew, there in the thick of it was Brit Hart. The gentle man gazed at the face of an infant, his own, within the circle of his sturdy and protective arms. The child was a miracle beyond a father's power of description and Mr. Hart did only have to grin at Mr. Darcy to prove it.

Mr. Darcy did smile and scratch at his neatly trimmed sideburn to ponder such a proud sight, and feeling himself ever so victorious, he did proclaim honorably to his dear friend, "I told you so."

Finis

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