THE IMPROVEMENT OF HER MIND



Chapter One



Portman Square, London 1820


The iron gates of Montague House had been flung wide open, rising poised and glistening black through the dense fog of rain. Drops of water shone on whimsical metal swags, garlands and aureoles; each intricate design rendered with fine craftsmanship and sprinkled liberally with artistic caprice.

Like an exotic birdcage ensconced amidst the precise lines of surrounding Georgian facades, the exuberant stile floreale of the Montague portals dared to defy tradition; eliciting a puzzled smile, an occasional bewildered glance from unsuspecting strollers happening on Portman Square. On closer inspection, however, the chance observer might find himself singularly astonished at the solidity belying the puddled iron workings; for despite their lightness and fancy Lady Montague's gates, once closed...were virtually impenetrable.


Across the square, moodily ensconced behind a screen of formal grillwork, stood Darcy House; a dark and silent sentinel appearing to frown with aristocratic disdain at neighboring town homes. An air of severe austerity emanated from its meticulously balanced stone masonry, its rigid rows of topiary trees; the whole seeming to bow before the conventions of taste and form. It was, however, the merest of bows; an imperceptible acknowledgment tossed with imperious hauteur.

As sheets of rain beat an insistent tattoo against the windows of the Darcy library their reflection cast flickering shadows on a bronze statue of “The Fencers” perched atop the mantelpiece. Charles Bingley sat elegantly disposed in an armchair, glass of burgundy in hand. Leisurely stretching his legs before the fire, he noted with great satisfaction the gleam of his Hessians mirrored within the marble surround.

Yes, his valet's insistence on champagne for polishing was well worth the effort, and expense. Flicking an imaginary speck from his indigo superfine he briefly debated the merit of changing from Stiller to Weston. The esteemed William Darcy, after all, favored Weston's fluid style and cut. Stiller, on the other hand, was known to be a veritable genius with padding.

Damn, pondering the choice of one's tailor did little to allay a man's anxiety. What the deuce was keeping Darcy?

As if on cue the library doors were thrown open and William Darcy strode in, fencing foil in hand. His movements, swift and purposeful, seemed to expand the room with leashed energy.

A year had passed since Darcy's sudden departure for the continent. As the months trickled by a yawning void had been created by the abrupt leave taking of Charles' friend and mentor. The emptiness was one which the younger man had taken great pains to mask and fill with inconsequential acquaintances and tedious happenings, until it evolved into a veritable nursery parody of his life. Charles Bingley depended on Darcy's friendship as a man relied on drink and sustenance. Without it, navigating the changing currents of his moods became an arduous task, leaving him with a deep sense of insufficiency.

He scanned his friend for alterations wrought during months of peregrinations abroad. Save for sun-darkened skin, and the unfashionable length of his midnight black curls, none were blatantly apparent. As for deeper changes, past experience reminded Charles that patience and time would uncover any fresh nuances to the other man's character.

An aesthete at heart, he was struck by his friend's long, lean and elegant form. Glancing over Darcy's attire, he sighed with a twinge of envy; despite sweat stained shirtsleeves contrasting sharply against impeccably cut breeches, Darcy exuded an air of severe refinement without detracting from his chiseled athleticism. No…Charles mused…he would remain with Stiller for the time being.

“Welcome back to London, Darcy! The rumors are true then, Master Jouet does indeed grace your establishment with his esteemed presence. My felicitations, it appears you have joined the exalted ranks of Carnathren's Corinthian circle. This only serves to further the other rumor rippling through the ton…”

Darcy, having carelessly tossed his blade on a velvet settee, leaned against the marble mantle, and fixed on Charles with an intensity hinting at wry amusement. “Is this how one welcomes an old friend? Pray enlighten me, what rumor?”

Charles continued unperturbed, “The one concerning your doubling the family fortune this year past.”

The gaze intensified, “You're mistaking fabrication for fact, my friend. That particular rumor happens to be false.”

He moved toward a carved tantalus, poured himself a finger of brandy, and raising the cut crystal in Charles' direction toasted his friend from afar. “The truth of the matter is… I tripled it.”

He paused, took a healthy swallow of the amber liquid, and continued, “Pardon my attire, but I was told your visit holds some urgency.”

Charles smiled sheepishly. “Dash it, man, you've been away for nearly a year, and I have need of your counsel. Therefore, here I am.”

“You have my undivided attention.”

Charles raked a nervous hand through his hair disheveling a nest of gold and russet curls. A handsome man, he was possessed of an exuberant nature livened further by an engaging manner brimming over with charm. Some found it irredeemably irritating, the majority however, considered the young man exceedingly appealing.

Concealed beneath his light air of insouciance lay a unique if youthful brand of strength and intelligence, its fragile limits having been sorely tested during Darcy's absence. He tugged nervously at his neck cloth, disturbing the meticulous design of knots and ties insisted upon by his valet.

Darcy regarded his friend through a curtain of thick lashes, while all his senses honed in on Charles' discomfort. It had not always been thus he realized, observing the other man intently. Previously, he'd not always seen what was arrayed before him - hidden details and minutiae had escaped him; or rather, he had chosen to be stubbornly blind to their presence. Since his return it was as if new life-blood was coursing through him, in turn clarifying his vision. He attributed the change to a year of continental travel and intricate financial dealings, but perhaps other unseen forces were at play. If so, their nature eluded him. As he continued along his close perusal a novel thought entered his mind, how many signals had he flagrantly missed over the years?

Charles cleared his throat. “Damn, this is no easy matter. Doctor Hingston is convinced my interminable insomnia, restlessness and faulty concentration are the result of a most specific affliction.” Absent-mindedly flicking at the leather tassel of his boot, he continued in a flat tone. “I've suffered in silence for months, finally Louisa prevailed upon me to consult the good doctor and…”

“And?” Darcy prodded in a soft baritone.

“And he concluded, without a doubt, that it was my heart.”

Darcy's brow furrowed in grave concern at the unexpected intelligence. “I am deeply saddened by your news, but are you not a trifle young to have a failing heart?”

Charles Bingley hung his head, his look one of haggard petulance. “'Tis not what you surmise, not an actual infirmity, rather more of a languishment…unrequited love.”

Charles watched as his host's lips quirked into a slow smile. The smile grew, unfolding with lazy sensuality, unexpectedly lighting up his entire countenance. William Darcy was not a man easily disposed to gaiety; the effect of a simple smile, when it did occur, was one of surprising brilliancy. Upon spying his friend's reaction Charles Bingley broke out in a wide grin and the tension in the room receded by several degrees.

With a vestige of mirth lingering on his lips, Darcy responded, “So it's settled then, you must marry the girl or forever become an invalid. Who is she, by the way?”

“Miss Jane Bennet.”

As rapidly as the smile had been excavated, it was buried once again. “Do you seek my approval for the match, Charles?” The words were spoken quietly, his tone laced with coolness and reserve.

“No…perhaps…I don't know…Devil take it! You're the closest I have to true male kin, and I value your mentorship. May I remind you that you had expressed strong misgivings about a potential match a year ago? Suffice it to say that others have joined in the fray; Louisa and Caroline have been horribly disobliging about the entire situation, atrocious in fact. It seems they have no particular objection to Jane, but rather her family, or tribe as Caroline is fond of repeating, and there is the small matter of the shooting.”

“Oh?” Darcy answered, leaning with careless elegance against a desk edge of mahogany.

“I shot Thomas Bennet,” Charles announced matter of factly.

Darcy threw him a speculating look. “That's mighty poor sport of you. May I ask what possessed you to shoot the man?”

“Good God! You don't think I intended to shoot him! It was a hunting accident. I grazed his shoulder, barely pinked him, a superficial flesh wound really. The resulting furore! That wife of his! A most disagreeable woman! My deepest apologies apparently failed to meet her exacting requirements and….” His voice trailed off forlornly.

“Allow me to venture a guess. Given all the factors you've delineated, you've been uneasy about facing the injured man and asking for his daughter's hand. As for the young lady in question, she is conflicted over the situation.”

“Spare me a homily, Darcy.”

Darcy rose in a fluid motion, crossed the expanse of inlaid parquetry and stood by the window pensively observing the square. “I have no intention of lecturing you. In fact you have my deepest sympathy; certainly any man in your situation deserves to feel a trifle apprehensive.”

Relieved at his friend's surprisingly facile grasp of the situation, Charles slumped in his chair and exhaled a drawn out sigh. “Really?”

“Perhaps even wonder if rejection were more than a distant possibility.”

“Right.”

Darcy's tone softened, losing its earlier sang-froid. “Particularly from the lady in question.”

“Yes!”

Darcy turned toward his friend and threw him a penetrating glance. “Tell me, Charles, what woman has ever refused you?”

Charles Bingley's cheeks heightened in colour. The allusion was not lost on him. Darcy had been privy to a large number of his youthful dalliances, adventures and escapades. Their very mention forged a narrow bridge across the palpable divide a year's absence had created.

“What of the incident involving widow Blakey?” Charles muttered under his breath, not wholly convinced of his unblemished record.

“An exception to the rule; she was possessed of decidedly uncustomary inclinations if you recall.”

“Pour me another drink will you? By Jove, I have missed your exceptional
cellar, ”Charles replied with a bravado he had not experienced in months. Satisfied with the turn of conversation, his host graciously obliged.

Both men ensconced themselves comfortably in front of the fire. Warmed by the mellowness of fine liquor each settled with inner relief into the familiar comfort of their old camaraderie. Charles began speaking at length of Miss Jane Bennet, his growing feelings, and equally mushrooming trepidation at offering marriage under the present circumstances.

Darcy listened with impervious attention, nodding occasionally, asking a pointed question here and there, but mostly letting Charles' words wash over him like fine drops of mist, slowly absorbing their intended meaning and hidden nuances.

Bittersweet thoughts collided in his mind at once accusing and censuring. How he had pressured the younger man, in earlier days, to reconsider the match! Distinct memories of insinuations and vigilant manipulations rose before him. He had played at being a master puppeteer of two fragile beings without notion for the consequences of his presumptive behaviour. Time for repairs.

“She is all radiant goodness, you know,” Charles mused, after some time spent in agreeable silence. “ Somehow, I see myself as the lucky custodian of her purity, her spirit. She is not one of those superficially felicitous creatures created by a company of mothers, aunts, and patronesses, fashioned in the image of what is advantageous, correct and expected. Rather, I see her as an unblemished page in the story of my life. One I will have the privilege of imprinting, so that together we may create something unique, and beautiful. Am I blubbering heedlessly?”

Darcy stared fixedly at the fire burning behind the grate, unable to meet the younger man's eyes. Finding himself momentarily overcome with bewilderment at Charles' words, he contemplated their meaning in brooding silence. Minutes trickled by, punctuated by the hushed cadence of a mantle clock.

Finally, tearing his gaze away from the dance of red and ochre flames, he replied. “One aspect of travel, my man, is that it forces one to receive new ideas; through comparison and judgment it increases one's understanding and imagination. Travel compels a man to think. Over the last months I have come to the conclusion that I have gravely erred in my judgement of your Miss Bennet. What I once mistook for cool and insipid disinterest, I now recognize as quiet poise and grace. You speak of purity, but I sense strength. She is a fine woman, Charles, and will undoubtedly make a finer wife. For some time now, I have believed that the two of you would suit, exceedingly well, I might add. Carpe Diem! How often is happiness destroyed by over-worry and preparation?”

“I…thank you,” Charles replied, overcome by a tangle of emotions. In a decade of friendship he had heard Darcy apologize on one previous occasion; the situation itself he no longer remembered, but recalled the unexpected surprise at his older friend's response. That same sense of astonishment struck him anew. He was overwhelmed with gratitude and tinged by a curious sensation of lightening.

Reverting to old form, as young men are wont to do in such situations, he rose with renewed energy and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Will it be White's, Boodles', or Brooks', tonight?”

“I'm afraid I shall have to decline.”

Not easily sidelined, now that his life held the promise of being in fine order again, Charles persisted. “In that case, I invite you to share a box at the Opera, in a fortnight!”

“The Opera, it is,” Darcy acquiesced with a faint nod of his head. “Oh, and Charles…as concerns the mother…”

Charles paused, his hand on the door handle. “Yes?”

“Every family is saddled with a problematic relation, an aunt for example, or a …”

“Sister?” Charles replied with a dawning grin of understanding.

“Precisely.” Darcy paused, and quirked a sardonic brow in his direction. “A final word of advice - Beckingham runs a fine establishment - take some lessons, my man, or there will be no invitation for grouse hunting at Pemberley this year. I'm afraid I do place a modicum of value on my life.”

“Capital suggestion, you old wretch! I shall leave you to your musings and bid you good day!” He turned at the last minute and threw a parting salvo. “And a most excellent sermon, Darcy! Perhaps you missed your calling?” Having executed a smart bow, he turned on his heel and ducked beyond the carved doors, the sound of his chuckling echoing through the hallway.



The library became enveloped in blessed silence, a lucid stillness through which filtered the muted tones of daily London life. Hypocrite. The single, ugly word repeated itself over and over in his mind, like the insistent clanging of a cathedral bell. How could he discourse upon fear of refusal, never having overcome his own?

He walked toward the fireplace, and fixing intently upon its burning wood searched deep within himself for a truer understanding of his motives a year past. Until Elizabeth Bennet's insinuation into his life the examination of his inner workings had been an infrequent occurrence, one he had solemnly endured. Now, rarely a day went by without his thoughts straying into previously recessed and shadowy corners, attempting to shed light, reaching for novel ideas, and often leaving him yearning for something more.

He had left England shortly after Wickham's wedding - the rescue wedding - as he oft referred to it in his own mind. What self-sacrificing impulse had lured him to leave? He was not an impulsive man by nature. Previous decisions had been based on rational comparative analysis guided by unwavering logic and sense.

During his myriad travels he had waged an ever-present internal battle of grand proportions, one whose intricate machinations had led him to conclude - nothing. Or was he merely playing his inimitable self - while ostensibly pretending to conceal himself. William pretending not to be William.

Following the shock of Elizabeth's refusal of his marriage proposal at Hunsford and the short lived sweetness of meeting her at Pemberley, he had convinced himself that he needed time…Time to regroup his forces and to prevent being eaten away by his own bitter disappointment.

Observing her amidst the glory of Pemberley had wiped away layers of anger, incredulity, and rekindled a simmering passion, mixed with curious devotion. And then what path had he chosen? Rather than reprising his court he had flown the country in a sorry attempt to banish her from his existence, thinking that life without her would be more tolerable than the possibility of yet another refusal at her hands.

Sinking heavily into a wingchair he contemplated the as yet fresh memories of his meanderings abroad. Throughout his travels he had invariably attracted the women, prestige and friends that followed a man of his standing and fortune. Each and every one had failed to ease the pain, the plangent melancholic ache that had become his malady.

The colourful gaiety of Paris, the lushness of Tuscany and splendours of Rome; all had failed to diffuse the dense and dreamy brilliance of her. She had grown on him slowly - memories of her words, her eyes, her walk - adding a little here and there like a silky cocoon, layer by gossamer layer, until one day walking amidst the perfumed gardens of the Alhambra he had been overcome by the pretence of it all. He could no longer suppress nor deny his feelings.

From that day forward he had built within himself a sanctuary where Elizabeth reigned - amidst private thoughts and longings. One he would escape to during his wanderings, bring ideas of import, revisit conversations, situations, sights he'd seen, books he'd read. She became real, enshrined in his mind with vivid clarity. She became his muse, nearly divine. But beneath it all an insistent question hovered…were his feelings for her a blessing or sheer folly? The answer, like all facets of Elizabeth, remained maddeningly just beyond his grasp.

His painful reverie was interrupted by Winston's clipped tone, “Shall I remove your foil from the settee, sir?”

He nodded his head in silence. With a disapproving frown, Winston lifted the offensive blade from its resting place among tasselled velvet cushions, inwardly wondering at his master's unaccustomed carelessness. The poor man had become Frenchified abroad by the appearance of it all. Unexpectedly, a cacophony of voices, mixed with carriage wheels and the pounding of equine hooves, poured in from across the square.

“What's with the hellish fracas outside, Winston?”

Winston halted, metal blade balanced gingerly in his white gloved hands. “'Tis Lady Montague returned from yet another Grand Tour.” Sensing his master's mild interest in the matter he continued, “Three carriages, twelve horses, a dozen servants, a mountain of luggage and one lady's companion have arrived to great fanfare.”

“You seem intimately acquainted with the details of her household.”

“Thank you sir, we strive to remain informed. Will that be all?”

“Yes, that will be all,” Darcy replied, nodding absently at the butler's receding figure.

He sat alone in the empty library, turning and turning over in his thoughts every detail of his acquaintance with Elizabeth.

Listening to the occasional crackle and hiss of fire logs he burrowed deeper into his wingchair and let his fingers absently roam over a world globe by his side. A distant grandfather clock chimed somewhere afar and the house settled gently for the night.

Suddenly, his fingers stilled the spinning lacquer sphere and something within his befogged mind unfurled, in turn filling him with a simple and lucid clarity.

Charles' painfully honest declaration had flung open the gates to his own sorry plight - that of a rejected suitor. The starkness of his reality, one he had sublimated during his travels, struck him anew with blinding intensity: searing, fiery and raw.

He could no longer plead ignorance to the true role Elizabeth's scathing refusal had played in his departure. Her jarring words had forced him to journey into foreign territories, both abroad and within himself. Fields rarely trodden upon. Unwonted.

The startling aspersions she had cast upon his character had cut him to the quick, thinning his well-worn veneer of pride, cracking his habitual composure, his reserve, and filling him with unease. He had grown malcontent, restless, and had been obliged to face an unpleasant truth; that of being spurned by a woman, stripped of his most essential weapons and exposed in a singularly vulnerable fashion.

Until her appearance in his life such a notion would have bordered on the ludicrous.

Now, however, he found himself powerless in banishing her from his thoughts, and in all truthfulness, from his very heart. For she had taken possession of a deep-rooted element within him, and with the taking he had surrendered something of himself.

If so, how could he live without her? He could not.

The very possibility of such an eventuality was not to be borne. Elizabeth had enmeshed herself within him, so much so, that he no longer knew where his thoughts of her ended and his dreams of her began. Dared he hope that with the passage of time she would reconsider his suit? Or had she surrendered to the charms of another? The mere consideration of losing her to another man, any man, made him shudder.

Embittered by the lingering taste of failures past, uncustomarily frightened by what the future might hold, he reached for his heavy crystal goblet, let out a deep sigh, and taking a long drink of the aged brandy welcomed its promise of liquid oblivion.

Chapter Two.

London, 1820.


The notion struck her that she was traveling backwards in more ways than one. Ensconced in the velvety depths of the well-sprung, well-oiled Montague carriage, Elizabeth looked on as London facades sped by her window. La grande reculade*.

Was it merely ten days ago that she had left the flutter of Paris, its majestic spires rising out of a clear and sunny sky? Time seemed to flow along a differing path during travel; it slowed, halted and altered its tempo, invisibly guided by the hand of unexplored territories. As soon as she had set foot in Dover time had accelerated until she had felt herself hurtling toward the familiar. The sensation was like being pulled toward an uncomfortable truth.

If her year of travels represented a rich tapestry, then its colours and textures seemed to be unravelling as she sat facing a slumbering Lady Margaret Montague**. Scattered images flitted before her; the smile of a flower girl at the Luxembourg Gardens, a carpet of wildflowers covering some hidden valley in the Alps, the weathered face of a cicerone in Napoli; common sights of common occurrences, the warp and weave of her experiences abroad.

Where Lady Montague, a seasoned traveller, had distinctly preferred the enjoyment of endless daytime scenery, Elizabeth was often left to herself to pore over architecture, art and paintings. So much so that in Florence she had developed a most Stendhalian*** “art fatigue”. Overcome by the sheer volume of beautiful sights she had taken to her bed, afflicted with the headache. Thereafter, having learned a lesson in moderation, she slowed her tempo spending hours sketching the minutiae of life playing out before her, or penning her musings, both abstract and absurd, in the pages of her treasured journals.

Ah Italy… a country of exquisite landscapes, filled with boundless generosity and brilliantly witty people; people whose very speech and gestures spoke of art; a country where labourers hummed Rossini and quoted Dante without effort. She stared sightlessly out of the carriage window. How could one not become romanticized by it all?

She glanced toward the slumbering figure of Lady Montague with a mixture of fond attachment, sadness and gratitude. The older woman had lifted her out of a vacuum of tedious loneliness, and effectively gifted her with wings. To this day, she would remember the words that had seduced her toward reaching for the unknown.

“The world holds much that is good and true Elizabeth, but you must pursue it, it will not do to neglect it. One must have a quest in life, my dear, or one withers away into nothingness.”

Pursue it she did, with great pleasure and advantage; away from family and friends, away from the tall, dark man who had left a distinct imprint upon her soul. Good God, how she had flown! Images of the Venetian Carnivale assaulted her mind…slipping out of her domino, into bed, out of bed, back into her domino…masques, balls, operas. Upon setting foot in England she had been forced, mid-flight, to land once again; her wings had been clipped. And as the carriage rocked and tilted toward London her collective of grand and colourful memories seemed to take on the patina of an aged and crumbling illusion.

Upon leaving on her journey she had clung to the certitude that her mind would change, and in change she would surely find reprieve. Travelling had given her a taste of knowledge, permitting her to touch a world previously foreign and unknown. Walking among ruin after ruin, recalling Latin poets, admiring great masters, had connected her to a larger pool of humanity, which in times past had been relegated to the world of books and descriptions alone.

True knowledge, she had decided, meant absorbing, contemplating, discovering - the voyage transcended mere ink strokes on parchment. In her journeys she had sharpened her perspective, allowing clearer shape and form to the future potential of perhaps one day becoming useful; useful beyond the bounds dictated by convention. Vague ideas had begun coalescing in her mind, involving her travel, her sketches, and the possibility of sharing the entirety with others at large.

Perhaps.

As the carriage creaked and clopped over uneven bridge planks the spring rain intensified. A singularly London-like greeting, she smiled wryly to herself. Nestling into the woollen folds of her travelling cape she swayed with the to and fro cadence of the conveyance, its rhythm gentle and soothing like that of a childhood lullaby. Yet, rather than being lulled into peaceful calm she felt a growing unease settle upon her.

Finally, unable to contain herself, she submitted to the habitual turn of her mind that, despite great effort on her part, had dimmed the brilliance of her voyage. Fool! She chided herself silently. What youthful naiveté had led her to believe that a Grand Tour could erase him, with finite entirety, from her memory? Like an uninvited, dark and silent shadow, he had tailed her on her journey, invading her notions, her designs, her very dreamscapes. She'd glimpsed wisps of him in statues, paintings, in the receding figure of an innocent stranger. A brooding brow, the curve of a lip…hands, torsos, sinewy legs …rapt, pensive, quietly searching eyes. The eyes had been the worst, following her everywhere. Da Vinci, Rubens, Rembrandt - cruel masters in their ability to reflect his eyes - reminding her of the sudden failure of her past, the pain of its unwilling change and a relentlessly plaguing sense of disgrace. Happy thoughts indeed.

After the ill-fated marriage proposal she had almost succeeded in banishing him from her mind, in spite of his letter, and against her resentful feelings at the time. Almost, but not quite. Fate was not unkind, she mused clenching her jaw; no, fate was flint-hearted and ruthless. The chance meeting at Pemberley had opened new vistas, brightly hued possibilities, only to have them extinguished anew by the debacle of Lydia's wedding.

Weeks of waiting for his return had flowed into one another. While her family slowly regained its equilibrium she steadily began losing hers. Were some men capable of declaring themselves only once?

Hopeful burgeoning passion had dissipated into sadness, and with time grown into a sense of bitter loss. She had felt herself swallowed up by her small, shallow, and closeted life. While taunting her steadily, like the gossamer wisps of a spider web, were memories of his brilliant transformation at Pemberley, the deep kindness displayed toward her family in his handling of the Wickham affair… the possibility of a good man.

She had felt so near to another proposal, and then, to have it all come to naught. The whole seemed nonsensical, illogical, yet very real. To her chagrin her customarily resilient nature, one that rarely dwelled upon unpleasant matters, had become irrefutably altered by the advent and leave-taking of a single man.

A grey flume of smouldering resentment toward William Darcy, toward his ostensibly wounded pride, his reluctant disinclination, seemed to escape from her very core. She had run to the continent to escape her loss, to lose herself in art, travel, landscapes, thinking her mind would be transformed, and she would unlearn feeling. The art of letting go had proven impossibly beyond her grasp. Each day, each hour, he would find her, and with the first dream that arrived with the onset of sleep she would run and gather him to her heart. Madness. Anger at her plight, her hopelessness, her inconsequential situation, surged and spilled out. Like Vesuvius spewing molten lava. Le rouge et le noir. ****




Beneath a sweep of creamy ostrich feathers, Lady Margaret Montague observed the changing landscapes of Elizabeth's countenance with a partiality which, to this moment, she found astonishing. Having rarely enjoyed the company of women, in Elizabeth, to her utter satisfaction and delight, she had discovered a bright, charming and spirited companion. She reminded herself to call on Madeline Gardiner and thank her for intervening on her behalf. Thomas Bennet, an old friend of Lady Montague's, had been easy to sway, but Fanny had required tactfuland persistent pleading before she would allow Elizabeth to venture abroad.

Lifting her eyes she addressed her young companion. “Did we not have a pleasant journey, Elizabeth? `Tis possible to travel quite amiably without that annoyingly imperious creature - man.”

Elizabeth's lips quirked upwards in the faintest suggestion of a smile. “How very true, my lady. Perhaps God, in creating man, overstretched his ability.”

Lady Montague shot the young woman a penetrating glance. Despite hundreds of leagues travelled, the sharing of cramped and close quarters, she was no further in elucidating the cloud of Elizabeth's inner discontent. A delicious enigma; one she instinctively decided would be solved in London by the end of Season.

Over the years she had determined that beneath every woman who journeyed afar lived a story, rich and complex, whispering of secret joys and hidden sorrows. Her own life and myriad travels certainly gave credence to the theory.

Richly widowed at a young age she had proceeded with single-minded aplomb to establish herself as a pre-eminent salonniere among the ton. An intriguing blend of opposites she was blessed with the peculiar beauty of the jolie-laide; sharp-eyed, sharp tongued, exuding an aura of old-fashioned elegance without becoming outré. Her wit, and its incurable ability to make observations sharper than finishing nails, had fashioned her into a brilliant and feared puppeteer of society's minions. Nonetheless, London society had proven itself somewhat limiting. In turn, her disappointment in its rigid strictures had prompted her to voyage across the Channel, honing her skills along the way to near-perfect pitch.

She sighed to herself, inwardly acknowledging the curious mixture of satisfaction and discontent that had prompted this latest journey. So unsettling to find oneself balanced between youth and old age!

A woman who prided herself on quoting Sophocles while dancing till dawn, she was determined to retain her femininity while expanding her intellect through adventures, antiquities and academia. Only lately, had she admitted to herself the task was rather more arduous than predicted. Undaunted, she steadfastly continued on her quest. Very little in life frightened her. No, her one and only fear was that of aging complacency paving the way toward a mediocre life performance. Lady Montague was not a woman well suited to insignificant interludes; she craved colourful drama, and in its absence, was rather adept at fashioning it.

Slipping on her kidskin gloves, she addressed Elizabeth with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “We did very well I must admit. Truth be told, I shall be exceedingly glad to sleep in my own bed this evening, child. Do you know what I pined for the most while away?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“The library. Harry, bless his dear imperfect soul, had left me a most formidable array of books. When he wasn't collecting women he occupied himself by acquiring mountains of tomes, ancient and rare manuscripts. Oh, how I cannot wait to be settled amidst those old pages again. Ah! Here we are. They have been expecting us. A good house is a great comfort as one ages, my dear.”





A fortnight later...Montague House, London.


The walls of Lady Montague's drawing room were aglow, their sunny warmth reminiscent of lemon trees and olive groves. Potted palms, artfully arranged in footed porcelain vases, lent the salon a faintly exotic air, one gently reflected in the true greens and eggshell blues of surrounding damasks and silks. A ray of light slipped in through the parted curtains momentarily causing Elizabeth to look up from her book and take in her surroundings.

“You've captured a piece of Tuscany, my lady. Funnily, a year ago, I would have never appreciated the complex shadings found in light.”

“Mediterranean citron. I drove the painters to sheer and complete madness. `Tis somewhat reminiscent of the luminosity of Siena, isn't it?” She sipped on her tea with a satisfied grin. “Are we fully recovered my child? A fortnight has passed since our return.”

Elizabeth put down her book and nodded, “As well as one would expect. Though I must admit that I am battling a peculiar feeling; every object appears different, yet the same.”

“Yes, I now recall, following my first Tour, that I experienced a similar sensation. It soon dissipates, my dear. One more week and you will regain your customary rhythm. Now that we have recovered in the fundamentals shall we make some noise?”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Her ladyship was capable of turning the softest social ripple into a veritable tintamarre, given her mood, whim or fancy.

Riffling through a pile of invitations, Lady Montague continued along her musings, “Aurelia Oglethorpe invites us to dinner, but her chef does not so much cook as torture the food. We shall have to beg off. Sir Bertram wishes to pay a call, but it is much too early in the Season to be subjected to his six-foot scowls. Lady Whistledown is throwing a Venetian breakfast; now the only flair about her is to be found in her nostrils. We shall decline. As for Mr. Robertson - a balding non-entity with side whiskers.”

She paused her riffling, “Mercy, how dull and tedious the first desperate slew of contacts becomes. We need the likes of Lord Byron to liven the dreary monotony of the Season!”

“I have heard Lady Lamb, in Napoli, describe him as mad, bad and dangerous to know,” Elizabeth offered, half in jest.

“All the more reason to invite him my dear. Pity he remains abroad.”

Lady Montague waved a gilt bordered card. “Here is a prime example of which I speak. Miss Caroline Bingley extends an invitation for tea. She is an arriviste my dear, with a veritable gift for stepping into the limelight, however, boiled down to essentials - a rather plain mortal with big teeth. No, I shall not oblige, and save myself the trouble of disliking her a great deal.”

The mention of the Bingley name sorely tested Elizabeth's calm and poise but drawing on a pool of inner resolve she prevailed and assumed a cloak of serenity.

All too accustomed to Lady Montague's targeted skewering she steered, nonetheless, in a safer direction, “I have received word from Jane, my lady. She and father will be arriving in ten days' time. They are to reside in Cheapside.”

“Nonsense, my dear child! Send word immediately that we insist upon their presence here at Portman Square. Why, they have been robbed of your company for an entire year, the least I can do is open my home to your family in gratitude. Since I do require your services till the end of the Season, I find myself most relieved to hear that the very best of Hertfordshire will come to London. Now, as for this evening, shall we launch our rentrée with a visit to the Opera? It is to be La Cenerentola by Mr. Rossini. The latest on-dit is that Mr.Weber sends two of his men to sit in a well-exposed box and fall asleep after the second curtain rises. One is even said to snore! How clever and amusing. We shall have to anticipate what Rossini plans for revenge against Weber.”

“Like abroad the audience's performance rivals that on the stage. I expect you will be inspected the entire night for vestiges of continental caprice, my lady.”

“How astute of you, Elizabeth. And I shall be a most eclectic creature this evening. The dress will hail from Florence, petticoats from Marseilles, and my satin slippers from Padua! Tongues will whisper and wag, wondering if I have been improved or metamorphosed…And I shall keep them guessing! Do wear your aubergine silk, the one we purchased in Venice. It would not do for either of us to disappoint!”


Notes:

La Grande Reculade: 'The great going backwards'

Lady Margaret Montague: Patterned on Elizabeth Montagu (1720-1800), who married Edward Montagu of Allerthorp, the fifth son of the Earl of Sandwich. Upon his death, she inherited a vast estate, built Montagu House on Portman Square in London and became the 'Queen of the Bluestockings.' She was a noted philanthropist, holding an annual May dinner for the chimney sweeps of London.

Stendhalian Syndrome: A medical syndrome first desribed by Stendhal, a french novelist, upon his first visit to Florence. Overcome by the sheer beauty and volume of artwork and architecture, he developed a state of confusion and transient loss of reality. To this day, every year, several tourists are treated for Stendhalian syndrome in Florence.

Le Rouge et Le Noir: A novel written by Stendhal (pseudonym of Marie-Henri Beyle) in 1830.

Chapter Three

Portman Square, London, later that day...

Burford, Lady Montague's ever-suffering butler, impaled Elizabeth with a mournful look. “You must take great care, Miss Bennet. Lady Hamilton is the leader and will send you on a merry chase; as for Horatio, he will follow along blindly.”

Elizabeth shortened the leather leash on the straining greyhounds, glad to be out in the bracing spring air. “I am but going around the square, Burford.”

“Most irregular,” muttered the butler resignedly under his breath. Years of employ at Montague House had tested his tenacious hold on the strictures of proper deportment; yet, he held on, convinced one day he would be richly repaid for his steadfastness. Motioning for a footman to follow along at a respectable distance he retreated into the town house, his shoulders sloping beneath the weight of his considerable burden.

The fresh air was immensely pleasing to Elizabeth; redolent of last night's rain it seemed to temper the inevitable busy smell of London. How droll, she thought to herself, that at her first sight of Rome she had mistaken its fog-shrouded spires for those of London, until their equipage had neared, the fog lifted, and the similarity disappeared in a splash of color.

She scanned along the soldierly alignment of town homes about the square, their gates largely closed, black iron sword-tips pointing straight into the April air. An imposing façade caught her eye as she neared its row of severely pruned topiaries. These very trees, if left alone, could have grown twenty feet or more. But no, instead they were carefully pruned, their branches whittled down to nothing. Oh, how lucky they were to have a pot to grow in, she mused sarcastically.

A fierce tug propelled her swiftly out of her reverie as Lady Hamilton attempted to bolt after a moving blur of tan and brown. Elizabeth pulled back quickly, but the combined force of both hounds proved beyond her. She felt the leather leash strain and burn through the thin skin of her gloves and was soon wrenched forward with startling speed.

At the same moment, a black-cloaked shape swung out behind the very row of potted topiaries, and strolled out through the wrought-iron gate.

“Dash it Hamilton, you're no lady! And you, Horatio, are a veritable disgr…” she raised her voice angrily as the hounds bounded ahead, pulling her along like a clumsy marionette.

Her words and very breath were jarringly knocked out as she collided with a steely mass of dark wool and rigid muscle. Limbs, leather leads, barking dogs, man and woman, all became entangled in an unruly, chaotic jumble.

A deep voice rose out of the untidy melee. "Pardon me, Miss..."

Momentarily disoriented by the force of the collision, a curious thought flashed through her mind…if voices had color this man's would be velvety brown. Tilting her head at a sharp angle, she was blinded by a flash of sun. Unable to discern the face behind the voice, she decided however, that he smelled delicious: leather, soap and something piquant. The entirety reminded her for a moment of summer time in Provence.

A silent minute stretched out endlessly. Within that space she felt the man's muscles ripple, tense and withdraw sharply, as if flinching and recoiling from danger. Perhaps she imagined it, she thought, squinting into the sun.

A pair of hands grasped her shoulders and she sensed a layer of cool air distancing her from the sudden warmth of wool and man. The deep voice resumed, laced with astonishment and an emotion she could not quite place.

“Miss Bennet?”

A cloud, huge, calm and dignified covered the sun, and she found herself staring into the familiar chestnut depths that had pursued her throughout Europe. His lashes were longer, much longer than she had remembered.

“Mr. D-Darcy?”

“Your humble servant. Please, allow me…”

“No, I…”

“Yes, truly…” His hands brushed hers and seized the leather leads. The hounds, sensing a new owner whose strength was inescapable, stilled their skittish circling and came to a complete halt.

He gazed at her tongue-tied, utterly shocked by the impact of her unexpected presence, yet deeply grateful that chance was toying with them once again.

She met his eyes with hers and felt herself drawn in by a surpassing, grave tenderness, which to her utter consternation sent her falling - over waterfalls.

Her face grows rosy as the dawn, he realized lost in her nearness. Botticelli's Primavera…no…Da Vinci's Madonnas…which one? All of them. Standing under the forgotten scrap of sky, hounds sitting obediently at his feet, he floated in delight at having found her so soon, so near. His joy was violent and intense. The sensation itself being heady, almost erotic, and hard to distinguish from pain. It enveloped him entirely while remaining completely hidden beneath a taut mask of gentlemanly civility.

Not knowing where to look, lost in the intensity of his presence, her eyes fixed on his hands: gloveless, tapered long fingers, sinews and tendons straining. She watched, her breathing rapid and shallow, the way his fingers curled about the length of leather; closing, tightening their hold, filled blue veins outlined against sun- darkened skin. Exceptionally strong hands. The Sistine Chapel. Good Lord, how had she gotten herself into this predicament? He was the last person she had expected to see, so soon, upon her return to England.

His voice drifted toward her, polite, restrained, yet was that a tremble she detected? “What brings you to London, Miss Bennet?”

“I have but recently returned from the continent with Lady Montague,” she replied, attempting valiantly to affect a distant and serene composure.

“Ah…one lady's companion,” he murmured. “How interesting, I find myself returned from the continent as well; our paths, however, failed to cross. Where, may I enquire, did your travels happen to take you?”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to attend to his words while inwardly wishing she could bury herself within the satiny folds of her reticule. “France, the Alps, Italy and back,” she answered. Oh! What a magnificent summation of your journey Elizabeth, she fretted inwardly. Suddenly the importance of leaving a favorable impression upon William Darcy took on gargantuan proportions; unhappily, the revelation itself had a decidedly unsettling effect upon her person.

“An extensive itinerary, by any standard; Lady Montague is a most seasoned traveler. I trust you were well looked after?”

“Yes, indeed.”

A pause ensued, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and feelings, as both parties balanced precariously on a crater's edge of indecision. Doubt and hesitation wove themselves like fine threads into William's heightened emotions. Was she experiencing the same flight of happiness he felt? Or was the blush coloring her cheeks simply one of embarrassment; or worse, vexation at their unconventional reunion?

“Permit me to walk these two wretched creatures back to the house,” he offered. Taking the first step, craving to prolong their encounter, he knew that it must soon arrive at its natural conclusion.

“No, I thank you. I shall manage just fine. They are quite settled. The spring air and all…”

His gaze swept over the curve of her cheek, gliding across the soft line of her chin, and alighted, without conscious intent, on her lips.

“Yes, the spring air… Perhaps I shall have the very great pleasure of calling upon Lady Montague in the near future.” Needing to authenticate the propriety of his visit he added, “She was a dear friend of my mother's,” his voice trailed off. “Well…My humble apologies for the collision. It was quite accidental I assure you.” His lips hinted at a private smile. “Good day, Miss Bennet.”

“Good day, Mr. Darcy.”

His fingers brushed hers again as the leather leads passed from hand to hand. He tipped his hat and strode away with long, purposeful steps, the edge of his black cloak grazing the ground in a mesmerizing to and fro motion. She was left standing frozen in chilly stupor before the open gates of Darcy House, two greyhounds sitting obediently at her feet.



He strode away, aware of her gaze on his receding figure, his spine stiff, inwardly feeling like a proud school- boy again. She was in London! Across the square! He felt gloriously intoxicated with the knowledge of her proximity.

He was not sorry for this latest denouement - meeting her so suddenly - he only wished that somehow he had been prepared rather than taken by brisk surprise. His earlier uncertainty resurfaced and grew, giving rise to a question he had skillfully avoided for some time. Would she allow him to reprise his court?

He turned a corner and suddenly halted mid-stride nearly colliding with a street sweep on the curb. In truth, there never had been a proper courtship between them, a guilty voice whispered. Well, perhaps the time was ripe to begin his suit anew. He'd backed away from the challenge she presented once before. Never again. After all, he thrived on challenges in every other aspect of his life. Yes… he muttered to himself…he would court the lady. Having arrived at his decision he resumed his stride with renewed vigor.

As his steps led him toward Bond Street, the air seemed clean and unsullied, colors took on dazzling hues, and a bold energy appeared to emanate from the teeming life of the city. With a jubilant flick of his wrist he tossed some coins to a pack of trailing street urchins. Macbeth was surely mistaken; life was not a walking shadow. He thought of the sun illuminating her face… Titian, Tintoretto, the Venetian masters and their brilliant use of light. And he decided then and there, that Elizabeth belonged to that singular group of people who shone with a unique incandescence. One whose brilliancy he yearned to both savor and nurture for the remainder of his years.

He turned into Penhaligon's, a shop he rarely frequented. As he glanced about the perfumed and embowered store, he scanned rows of lavender water, English flower perfumes, and posies of fresh blooms. His eyes settled on a cluster of yellow roses, luminous, sun-golden. He observed the shopgirl arranging the stems in an artful display, and motioned to a long satin covered box. His hands reached for a white card, lifting a nearby quill pen, he wrote Elizabeth's name, then his. At the last minute, he pointed to an extravagant bouquet of irises, orchids and chrysanthemums. Lady Montague was fond of lavish arrangements.

“They will be delivered at once?” he enquired impatiently, pointing to the roses. The shopgirl threw him a curious glance, answering that yes, indeed, they would.





Royal Opera House, London


“Una volta c'era un rè…” ( “Once there lived a king” )*

Amidst a sea of pale faces, shining jewels, and the susurrant hum of the beau monde, Caroline Bingley's aigrette quivered like the lightest blanc mange. Swathed in a satin confection the color of bruised peaches, she turned her opera glasses critically on the horse-shoe curve of glitter displayed before her.

“Upon my word, if that is not Eliza Bennet preening in the Montague box!”

Louisa leaned toward her sister and murmured, “Lady Smythe let it be known at her musicale that our Eliza accompanied Lady Montague on her most recent Grand Tour. The country lass must be on the shelf by now, my dear. After all, is there any other raison d'être for touring the continent?”

“How true, Louisa. A young woman who travels tarnishes her feminine respectability. The dangers of visiting foreign climes are well established: one can lose any proper sense one possesses and become filled by lax principles. She does appear quite convenient if you follow my meaning. One only has to glance at the Italian cut of her gown.”

Louisa twittered in a high falsetto, “I have it on good authority that Italian is now considered over French, my dear.”

Having dipped rather deep at Brook's the same evening, Louisa's husband woke from his befogged reverie. “What? What? French, did you say? I thought this damned opera was Italian?”

Louisa patted his hand with a reassurance borne of long years of practice. “Now, now, dearest, I assure you, the libretto is entirely Italian, only the soprano is German, but the tenor, thankfully, quite British.”


“Un soave non so che” (“Oh sweet something”)

Charles Bingley, afflicted with near sightedness since childhood, leaned toward his sister and whispered indignantly in her ear, “Caroline, I insist on reclaiming my opera glasses, you have placed me at a distinct disadvantage this evening.”

With a serpentine twist of her neck, Caroline let spill the full extent of her pique, “Lud, but you are notoriously pricksome, Charles. She's not even present here! Now that your malady seems to have abated, can you not come about and bring an end to this calf-love of yours? It is entirely unbecoming, besides, Louisa and I find ourselves vastly bored with the entire affair.”

“I may be known for the gentleness of my disposition, but I warn you, Caroline, this time you go too far. Louisa, Hurst, I bid you good night. Darcy, I shall meet you at the Montague box come intermission. After all, we must pay our respects to the charming Miss Bennet. I hear she has returned from her journeys abroad lovelier than ever, a bewitching muse, and sophisticated beyond belief.”

William Darcy, partially hidden in shadow, raised his eyebrow at the sibling exchange, stretched his legs before him and returned to his silent contemplation of Elizabeth.


“Zitto, zitto, piano, piano…” (“Quietly, quietly, softly, softly”)

He had observed her since the end of the first Act, when a ripple wove through the audience upon the arrival of the Montague party. As Don Magnifico bellowed a soulful aria on stage he watched from afar; watched her gaze shift, her mouth open as the music soared, and settle in the slightest of private smiles as if lost in her own secret world.

The music seemed to stem directly from poetry this evening, its tones waking a higher life within him, echoing deeply, and filling him with an inexpressible longing. The flowers, he wondered, had they pleased her?

His gaze refocused upon her, the curve of her neck like pale, lightly warmed alabaster. She had cut all her glorious hair. He sighed. What further transformations awaited his discovery? As the aria neared its finale he decided, after a long and thorough perusal of her person, that the short riot of curls somehow suited her, defining her features, enlarging her eyes. The effect was pleasing, very pretty, and entirely captivating.

He contemplated her from far away, noting not only what others saw, but also what she added to the world around her. Something deep within him thinned and shattered. The sensation captured him by complete surprise. Yet something, like petals falling entered him, bringing with it a yearning to capture her essence, the essence of her spirit, to cradle it, caress it till it shone, and bury himself deep within it.

Leaning back in his armchair he steepled his fingers, propped his chin upon them and stared across the theatre. He looked out, mired in deep thoughts, momentarily unseeing, and plotted his way forward.


“Sprezzo quei don che versa…” ( “All is not gold that glitters”)

“We seem to be garnering an inordinate amount of attention this evening, Elizabeth,” Lady Montague commented behind her fan, while nodding here and there to old acquaintances across the gilded and festooned semi circle. “Who is the creature in creaking satin?”

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh, my lady, and if I'm not mistaken that must be Colonel Fitzwilliam by her side,”

“Good God, the gorgon lives! She and my mother were at constant odds. As for the gentleman, you will notice he is no longer sporting regimentals, my dear. He sold his commission this past year. In fact, I do believe he is now the Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam. I am told his older brother died rather suddenly at Jackson's, one blow too many, leaving the younger Fitzwilliam in direct line for the Matlock baronetcy. I presume the two of you are acquainted?”

“Yes, our paths crossed at Rosings,”

“How fortuitous! Quite the dashing young fellow. Before his ascent in the world a young man one would invite for tea and conversation, but not marriage material. Now, however…”

As if aware of Lady Montague's scrutiny the Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam tilted his head at a jaunty angle and flashed Elizabeth a most winning smile - warm, inviting, and unmistakably rakish. She lowered her lashes and curled her lips in a sumptuous upturn.


“Questo e un nodo avvilupato” (“Here's an intricate knot”)

As the heavy green velvet curtain sank in a cloud of dust and debris, a discreet knock sounded on the box wall. Lady Montague motioned with her fan, “Ah, William, do come in and bring all the rest with you. I presume you and Miss Bennet are acquainted since the incident with the dogs. Rotten creatures are they not? “

Suddenly, the Montague box filled with a veritable crush of silks, satins, diamonds, and men.

Caroline Bingley jostled for position, “You may not remember me, my lady, but we were introduced two years ago.”

“Quite a delightful interval, wouldn't you agree Miss Bingley?” Remarked her ladyship pleasantly, and passed on to the darkly elegant man standing by her side. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, “A lesson in the language of flowers would serve you well.”

Darcy's brow creased in sudden surprise. “My lady?”

“I shall expect a call on the morrow. Now, now, William, I won't stand for any hauteur, have we not been acquainted since your leading string days?”

“Indeed.” He could make out Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye, her face partially hidden behind an open fan, smiling rapturously at his cousin. Something within him coiled and tightened. So much for blind arrogance, he lashed himself inwardly. In his fit of passionate resolve he had entirely forgotten a cardinal rule in courting a desirable woman… he was but one of many.

Darcy cleared his throat, and attempted a wry smile. “I shan't miss the opportunity of attending your salon, my lady, and partaking in the…ah…lesson.” He bowed, and drawn by the lighthearted tones of her laughter, moved his black clad form toward Elizabeth's fauteuil.

“And when a lady opens and closes her fan thusly,” Elizabeth demonstrated the skill with a graceful flick of her wrist, “that, my dear sir, signifies `You are being most cruel'.”

The Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam's laugh cut through the clamour of the box as he motioned to the fan. “May I?”

Having retrieved the fan from Elizabeth's hand he pressed it half-open to his lip. “Now, I wonder, what could this possibly suggest?”

Elizabeth's colour rose slightly, she held out her palm, and raised a disapproving eyebrow at his antics, “Allow me to demonstrate the proper manner in which to imply `Do not be so impudent!' Why, good evening Mr. Darcy, I trust you are enjoying the performance thus far?”

He trapped her gaze in his and held it. “Yes, the performance is quite magnificent,” he answered, his tone cool, clipped and presaging an impending storm. “What a lovely fan, Miss Bennet, may I be permitted a closer look?”

A fine tremor shook her hand as she opened the hand-painted fan, its ivory handle flecked in black and gold. She could feel the heat of him as he leaned nearer, his breath intermingling with hers, the single diamond of his cravat momentarily distracting. There hovered about him an aura of suppressed emotion; palpable, fervent and disquieting.

He narrowed his eyes as if inspecting the fan intensely. “Ah, Vesuvius and its environs, remarkable craftsmanship. I preferred the Falls at Tivoli myself, near the ruins of Hadrian's villa. Did you, perchance, visit the Sabine Hills while you were away?”

“Yes,” she replied, drawn in against her will by his nearness, the profound richness of his voice, and a thrumming undercurrent of leashed intensity. “I shall never forget the roar of the waters, so violent, yet mesmerizing at the same time.”

“Neither shall I,” he answered, throwing her a far away look and growing silent.

Distant contemplation of his muse was one matter, he thought to himself, but this woman was no illusion. She was real, very much alive and testing his mettle in a manner that left him feeling discomposed.

The chattering noise within the box grew, cloaking their interlude with an insistent hum.

Should she mention the flowers? She pondered, stricken with unaccustomed panic. No, she dared not. He would think her forward and lacking sensibility. Yet, how dared he send her yellow roses? She clenched her jaw, debating the virtue and the price of being unafraid to challenge him. Some hidden instinct cautioned her to remain silent, yet to her chagrin as he spoke his next words she realized with a sinking feeling the full extent of her misjudgement.

“Yes, you are magnificent, Miss Bennet,” he whispered softly so as only she would hear, then added softer still, “in Venice, did you have your own cicisbeo? Some dashing young pup worshipping the very ground you trod on? For you know, the entire institution began there…”

“No, I did not Mr. Darcy. In fact, sir, I find myself rather disinclined to be dissected, examined and analysed by your formidable intellect.” She tilted her chin with pert defiance.

The action, the very deliberate tilt of her dimpled chin, should have taken him by surprise. However, it did not. Parry and riposte. It had been some time since he'd faced a worthy opponent.

For a fleeting instant he paused, wondering why they were sparring, when he would have been perfectly content to sweep her in his arms and be done with trivial duelling. No other woman had ever succeeded in arousing him to such potent emotions. He resolved to temper his responses, to mellow their impassioned edge. After all, was he not attempting to woo the lady?

“You give my intellect more credence than it deserves,” he answered with considerable restraint.

“Surely, Mr. Darcy, you are not suggesting that travel has dulled my powers of observation?”

He raised a quizzical brow, “Not at all, I was merely endeavouring to…” and became distracted by the shiny curve of her lower lip, the pearly edge of its vermilion border.

“To…?” She replied in a husky undertone. Darcy lost his words, lost his bearings completely and utterly, as a faint colour rose to his cheeks.

Buoyed by her advantage she continued on. “Has travel softened your mind, Mr. Darcy? Or is it possible that you have misplaced your manners? Somewhere between France and Italy, or the Alps perchance?”

His eyes bored into hers and lit up with bright expectancy. “Ah, much as it pains me to do so, I must confess that you are absolutely correct. Travel has decidedly softened my mind in a most advantageous way. I find myself no longer above being pleased by many things, including the finely honed wit of a beautiful woman.”

Elizabeth's own colour rose at his words, and she found herself momentarily robbed of a response. The crowded box seemed to fall away, leaving her strangely exposed and caught in his web.

“A woman,” he continued in a hushed tone while piercing her with an unyielding gaze, “who has returned from her journeys - altered in the most delightful of ways - yet essentially intact. The whole is entirely intriguing.”

She opened her fan, slowly, deliberately. With each studied wave of the painted silk, she attempted to create a distance between herself, his words, and the tumult of feeling they unleashed.

Fixing him with a disapproving look, while inwardly battling a raging heat, she replied, “Since you insist on dissection, Mr. Darcy, you will no doubt have observed that I have been neither Frenchified, Italianized, or Germanized by my journeys. A rather grave disappointment, to be sure.”

Oh, she was most accomplished at repartee, William mused with growing respect, exceedingly so. A year ago he'd never imagined he'd face such a battle. She was proving to be highly stubborn and resolute. He, on the other hand was renowned for his tenacity and prepared to be relentless.

Forgetting his earlier promise he threw her a parting salvo. “I cannot imagine how any aspect of your person would ever truly disappoint, Miss Bennet. On the contrary, it is most refreshing and unusual to find oneself completely unchanged by one's travels. A claim very few, including myself, can aspire to. My compliments on your lovely coiffure; a new English style, I presume?”

Her hand flitted to her curls. How dare he disarm her! Before she could fashion a retort he bowed, the sensual curve of a smile playing upon his lips. “Please forgive my impertinence. It was absolutely uncalled for. Indeed, you are quite right where my manners are concerned, I shall have to send an expedition - to the Alps - and retrieve them. I wish you a most pleasant evening. Good night, Miss Bennet.” And extricating himself from the milling crush he disappeared beyond the velvet-curtained doorway.

Chapter Four

Montague House, Portman Square, later that evening...

Elizabeth sat upon a tufted blue chair rhythmically brushing her hair, the luxuriant hues of lapis lazuli within her bedchamber softened by muted candlelight. She sat with her back determinedly turned away from the window, languorous with lassitude and feeling strangely dispirited.

Her short curls settled here and there. Occasionally the ivory brush would stray lower, caressing thin air, guided by old habits. Her window faced across the square where earlier that evening her eyes had been drawn to a dim light flickering within Darcy House. Was it his drawing room? Or perchance the library? Was it a matter of deep consequence? Imaginably.

A subdued knock sounded on her door followed by a softly muted voice.

“Elizabeth, may I have a few words with you?”

Setting down her brush with a puzzled frown she rose and opened the door. Lady Montague floated in, a cloud of cream lace and cashmere, her hair combed out for the night. Without the distracting presence of jewels, face paint or adornments, she appeared surprisingly young. Elizabeth wondered, yet again, at her true age.

“Sit down, child,” she waved toward her, “Let us dispense with formalities…” and began pacing across the length of sky blue Persian, looking upon Elizabeth with a long scrutinizing gaze. Finally, perching herself upon the bed, she began.

“In truth I could not sleep without having a few words with you. I find myself deeply concerned with the state of your well-being, my dear. We have become good friends you and I, and seeing you suffering thus, particularly after the intermission, at the Opera...Well, it pains me to no end. Forgive my bluntness, but has William Darcy caused you any measure of grief?”

Elizabeth slowly raised her lashes and returned her gaze with a melange of sorrow and chagrin.

“Oh, lassie, I wish I had divined it sooner! Perhaps I could have helped soothe away your distress.”

“The situation is of my own doing, my lady. I fail to see how any intervention on your part might have altered the course of events.”

The older woman's voice lowered, gentled, and took on a dreamy cadence. “Anne Darcy was my dearest friend, child. I have known William since he was a babe. I watched him grow and become the man he is today. He lived the tragedy of having parents who loved one another too much. `Twas the grandest of love matches leaving little room for the product of the union - the children. Oh, he and his sister had the very best of nannies and governesses, but were abandoned for months at a time. A servant's love is meagre replacement for a parent's devotion. You may ask yourself, what does an old childless widow know of such things? Well, Elizabeth, I have loved once; I have tasted its purity and its pain. I do know of which I speak.”

The evening light dimmed; suffusing the room in soft yellow, lighting up Lady Montague's face with a tense, abstract steadfastness.

“William has never known such a love, not as a child, nor in his youth. As for now, I cannot speak for him, yet I do believe that he has cloaked himself in a dark and distant reserve against its very possibility. His parents were great travellers and died abroad, they remain buried in Granada. He makes the pilgrimage every few years, despite the dangers lurking on Spanish soil, seeking I know not what.”

Elizabeth observed the older woman wearily, carefully, for she could not decide what she was truly after. Suddenly the other woman's eyes bored intensely into hers.

“His father and I were acquainted…rather well. To my eyes, William is very much like him in the essentials, but not entirely so. I have yet to elucidate all the differences.”
Lady Montague's lips quirked into a rueful smile. “As a younger man, he lacked his father's social finesse, often appearing taciturn and withdrawn. He tenaciously held on to a fierce opacity that seemed to cloud his vision enabling him to only discern one aspect, one dimension, at a time. Ah well, that was years ago, he is a full-fledged man now, and our paths do not cross as often as I would wish. Yet I urge you to look about, Elizabeth. You have travelled, seen what the world has to offer. There is a man among the rakes, fops, wits, tulips, and scholars who stands out, and it is he; noble, strong, principled and steadfast. Not to mention a devastating figure to behold, and in possession of a great fortune.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush at Lady Montague's shockingly frank assessment, she dared not meet her eyes, staring instead at the swirling pattern of vines and roses at her feet.

Lady Montague sighed, a sigh whispering of the mal du siècle afflicting her generation. She rose and moved toward Elizabeth's form, placing her hand lightly on the younger woman's shoulder.

“There lies within me, something you ought to know, my dear. Most are of the opinion that I hold an exalted position in the world of culture, the intellect, and the ton, that I move in the highest of circles. Those same individuals think I am invulnerable, but I am not. I hold a secret, Elizabeth; I live with a terrible emptiness, a veritable insufficiency of being. It is present on awakening and keeps me up late into the night.”

With a tender motion, she moved a stray curl from Elizabeth's cheek. “I have searched and searched for something or someone, to close up my inadequacy. Four times I travelled the continent only to return empty handed, and though I amassed knowledge, artefacts, books and culture, the gap has remained - a yawning chasm.”

Elizabeth's throat tightened then constricted into a tense knot. A part of her felt grateful upon hearing the shared wisdom, yet another side bristled at the uninvited intrusion into her private world, one she had guarded fiercely during her travels. The constriction strengthened, a heaviness descended upon her breast, each breath becoming a struggle. As if sensing Elizabeth's plight Lady Montague let her own hand fall away,

“I don't presume to know the inner workings of your mind, nor the past events which bind you to him. You may or may not have such a void. In my experience many suffer from the affliction yet are wilfully blind to its presence. Regardless, a man such as William Darcy strikes me as one who could fill the empty realm of one's life.”

Silence descended upon the room as Elizabeth's heart beat in an insistent staccato. Pride, momentary lack of courage, and a touch of indignation coalesced, keeping her mute, still and silent.

Sensing the younger woman's reluctance to delve into private matters, Lady Montague graciously desisted. Her young companion was wading into deep waters, ones whose murky fathoms would test both her courage and convictions. A year ago Lady Montague would have harboured grave concerns at Elizabeth's predicament. Now, however, she was no longer certain which party stood at a disadvantage.

“The trouble with offering advice, child, is that it rarely accomplishes anything at all. Instead, I am extending my friendship, in all its guises, should you require it in the future. 'Tis growing late, and suddenly I find myself excessively weary. Good night, Elizabeth,” Lady Montague offered in a conciliatory tone.

“Good night, my lady, and thank you for your kindness,” Elizabeth answered quietly.

It was not until the door latch had softly clicked into place that Elizabeth's breathing lightened and her heart quieted its rhythm. Drawing her shawl about her she rose and moved toward the heavily curtained window. Her hand reached for the thick cerulean velvet and parted it, revealing a second layer of silk that she pulled aside. For a moment she paused, her fingers playing with the fine sheer muslin beneath, her eyes discerning the outlines of the square backlit by a moonlight sky. Flinging the transparent film of gauzy white, she stared out at his light, pulling her in like a beacon drawing a ship to safe harbour.

But herein lay the conundrum… if she was looking for refuge was he offering sanctuary or something entirely beyond her? Or was everything illusion, a product of her over rich imagination, her secret dreams?

None of us are perfectly formed, she reminded herself, we each have our faults, cracks and crevasses - and perhaps only then can the light truly shine through. If his was the tragedy of parents who loved too much, what was hers? The drama of the child whose parents had loved not at all? Was this one of the many kindred bonds linking him with such compelling force to her?

She shook her head in wonderment at her predicament. He had returned in her life, with a determination, an unrelenting intensity she found astonishing. She could almost palpate his resolve. Yet deep within, his very single-mindedness collided with her old anger, her resentment, and deeply wounded pride.

All became a blur of swirling emotions and ideas, seeking reason, striving for order where little seemed to exist. She was suddenly reminded of Rome, Turner's renderings as he sat sketching by the Fontana Trevi. Formless, hazy, obscure. Laying her palm against the cool window glass, she whispered, “I must not think of thee…”

Instead, her betraying mind meandered back to the stark elegance of his presence at the opera, his unmistakable displeasure at another man's attention, the charged sparring arcing between them, the warm feel of his breath against her skin. And why? - Ah, why? A hitherto quiescent voice replied, “For you have glimpsed the promise of a new world in his eyes.”




The Montague Salon, Portman Square


Lady Montague's salon hummed with the energy and delight of a close coterie of friends who, having relinquished affectation at the door, celebrated a shared passion for the arts, travel and learning with singular sincerity and joy.

Sir Humphrey described his latest visit to Pompeii in one corner of the drawing room while Lady Frances debated the merits of sitting for a Battoni portrait. Mr. Hawthorne read aloud a pamphlet with incomparable eloquence to the notes of a Mozart sonata played with substantial spirit by Lady Cecilia More.

Flitting from party to party, her manner intimate, conspiratorial, and delicately tuned to the currents within the room, was Lady Montague. Ensconced amidst her closest friends the brininess of her wit turned to honeyed charm; her ladyship was at once airy, warm and clever.

She cast a passing glance at William Darcy as he approached a sitting Elizabeth, cup of tea balanced in his hand, and momentarily stopped in her tracks. She was suddenly hurtled back to a time over a year ago when he had been standing in that precise spot, on his own, teacup in hand, not looking about him but rather fixedly staring out of the window, as though not expecting anyone to approach, nor inviting anyone to do so.

Calm, distant, untouchable. The chiselled profile, sooty lashes, dark curls, all were the same, and yet, the whole seemed altered. A clear realization struck her and made her smile inwardly. Jean-Jacques Rousseau…transforming strength into right. Drawing on a hidden well of generosity of spirit she chose not to venture in their direction.

“Are you perchance reminded of a Parisian salon, Miss Bennet?” William offered, settling his tall form in a nearby fauteuil.

She had steeled herself for his attendance at the gathering, convinced the situation called for a neutral veil of civility, but as had been her unhappy faith since her return, she had underestimated the effect of his presence on her person. What was it about the man? What ephemeral, mysterious quality of his, drew the eye of every woman, and compelled each man to sit straighter and take notice?

“Indeed, one is much reminded of Paris, Mr. Darcy. Lady Montague has created a veritably mixed Bas Bleus* society in the middle of London. Everything that is witty and learned seems to pass in this company. What I admire most however, is that no woman is afraid to vocalize the knowledge she may have acquired.”

He rested his chin thoughtfully against his hand and pierced her with a searching look, “And you place great importance on such freedom?”

“Yes, I do,” she answered quietly, meeting his gaze head on. “Here, as in France, feminine and masculine subjects mingle together rather than remaining separate.”

Her lips flirted with a hint of a smile, “Politics, history, and science blend merrily with ribbons, lace, and the latest on-dits.”

He tilted his head, his eyes fastened on hers, not letting go, “And which do you prefer, Miss Bennet? Discussing eternal sense or eternal nonsense?”

She raised a challenging brow in response to his query. “Why both, I imagine. For often times, one cannot discern the difference between either.”

“Touché.” He bowed his head in a humble acquiescence of defeat.

“I presume you've been to Paris, Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes, on several occasions,” he replied absently, grappling with his primitive response to her nearness, the hidden meanings beneath what had and had not been said. What was she about?

Tired of crossing swords with her, wishing to steal her away somewhere private, he felt the reins of his control slipping,

“Do you care to share your impressions, sir?” Elizabeth enquired, all charm and easy grace.

Was this a feint on her part? Unbalanced by the uncertainty of their situation, he answered her query with a hint of old brusqueness. “My impressions? The Luxembourg gardens, strolling over the Seine to the Louvre, visiting the stalls along the galleries of the Palais Royal; all left a most pleasant imprint. And yourself, Miss Bennet? Which sights happened to…seduce your senses?”

Her eyes opened wide, effectually drawing him in, so much so, that he found himself leaning toward her nearly dislodging the delicate china cup by his side.

Having sensed his impatience, glorying in the feel of the interplay between them she changed tacts. “La Salle des Saisons at the Louvre left an indelible impression as did the cathedrals, and churches, but I must admit, the most pleasing sight was the daily life where we were lodged on the Rue du Bac. Observing colourfully dressed townspeople selling wares, eggs, apples, nosegays…the puppet shows, dancing dogs…the brightness of it all, its cheerfulness and whimsy!”

She was all warmth, spiced with an effervescence he found intoxicating. Her very words whether barbed, sweet or neutral, sounded fresh, riveting. There hovered about her a natural and rippling responsiveness, an attentiveness that made him feel very much…alive.

“You delight in observing the uncommon lives of common people, Miss Bennet,” he responded quietly.

“I delight in observing many things, Mr. Darcy. The light for example, have you noticed how it changes as one travels south from France to Italy? Why, it begins rather jaundiced, then turns a honey colour, takes on a saffron hue, and ends up a bright primrose yellow.”

His colour rose at her words; the lady would not desist.

Elizabeth pretended not to notice his discomfort. “How terribly gauche on my part, I had quite forgotten to thank you for the roses the other night at the Opera! They were lovely and somewhat unexpected, I might add.”

He cleared his throat. For all her warmth, her aim was merciless. “A small token…,” he began.

She smiled indulgently. “Of…?”

“That is, an expression of my…”

“Yes…?” she replied and paused.

She was patently aware of his discomfiture, noting the tightening of his jaw, the tense furrowing of his brows. A dark side of her revelled in its presence. Lowering her voice, she continued in a husky tone. “Perhaps an expression of love lost…or even… jealousy?”

His entire person recoiled at her words. Registering his response she persevered, but a hint of a smile flitted upon her lips softening the sharpness of her reply. “The field of botany is fraught with perils, even the language of colours itself is open for debate. Therefore, I absolve you of any misstep in sending me yellow flowers, Mr. Darcy. However, I cannot ignore the fact that you chose a rose referred to as Cuisse de Nymphe…”

Darcy's eyes darkened questioningly, and suddenly cleared as dawning realization settled upon him. A slight smile hovered about his lips as he replied. “I find myself at your mercy once again, Miss Bennet. Please accept my pardons. I could not refrain from choosing that very shade of yellow…for it reminded me of you. As for the name of the rose, why, I believe that it has recently been altered from “The Thigh of The Nymph” to “Maiden's Blush”. A decided improvement, would you not agree?”

“That, my dear sir, is dependant on one's point of view.” Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with a hint of mirth. A layer of anger seemed to peal away somewhere deep within. Oh, he was very good, she thought with grudging admiration and as if to mirror her inner musings she settled upon him a devastating smile.

Feeling the loss of some inner compass, William Darcy faltered, unsure of his next step. To his profound relief, Lady Vesey swooped down upon them. “Mr. Darcy, you must oblige us in reading Mr.de Lamartine's latest poem…Le Lac. I hear it garnered heaps of praise in Paris this winter, causing a most delicious stir!”

Darcy perused the slim volume thrust unceremoniously into his hands. Casting an apologetic glance in Elizabeth's direction, while inwardly thanking the gods for his short reprieve, he cleared his throat and began,

“Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour…”

At the sound of the opening stanza conversations hushed as listeners pulled their chairs a few inches nearer, drawn in by the rich timber and full resonance of his voice.

His French was entirely fluent, that of a native Parisian. She had heard it rumoured that his family was connected to one Chevalier D'Arcy. Perhaps there was truth in the rumour? She turned her head sharply away, desperately pretending to gaze out the window, overwhelmed, unable to bear the instinctive lure of him, his words, and the lustrous smokiness of his voice.

The audience stilled; eyes and ears captivated by William's richly modulated tones. Burford happened to enter the room and halted, silver tray in hand, transfixed by the attentive tableau vivant before him.

“Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire
Que les parfums légers de ton aire embaume,
Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit ou l'on respire,

Tout dise : “ Ils ont aimé…”

His last words flowed into a suspended silence and were followed by the scattered sounds of hands clapping.

Lady Vesey leaned conspiratorially toward Elizabeth, “We were raised to believe that reading French damages the memory and destroys one's powers of logic and understanding. Imagine!”

A lively debate ensued, analysing the merits of Mr. de Lamartine against the likes of Wordsworth and Lord Byron, and spilling over into a heated discussion on the intellectual esprit of the French versus the English philosophers. Montesquieu and Diderot were pitted mercilessly against Bacon and Locke, while William's eyes remained fastened on the volume of Les Meditations Poetiques resting open before him. Passing his fingers lightly over its fine parchment he raised his eyes toward Elizabeth catching her unawares.

Their gazes met, held, and locked.

The rare brilliant smile of his appeared, lighting his countenance, drawing her into a gilded, sensual force field, and like a bolt from the blue she felt as if a little bit of heaven had fallen upon the earth. The feeling was exquisite and entirely complete.

He leaned closer, and fleetingly touched her hand; the barest of touches, light, caressing and astonishingly comforting. “At times such as this, Miss Bennet, my greatest wish is to depart to a country where words cease to exist.”

Her breath hitched, “Is there such a place, Mr. Darcy?” She found herself unexpectedly dazed by the similarity in the turn of their minds.

His voice low, partly obscured by the spirited debate raging about them, he answered, “I believe so, but I have yet to journey there.”

They sat in blessed silence, sharing the close communion of two individuals who suddenly, improbably, find themselves on the same page.

Burford's form appeared from nowhere, casting a long shadow between them, “Miss Bennet, as instructed, I am advising you of Mrs. Gardiner's arrival.”

Elizabeth looked at him uncomprehendingly. Her cheeks bore a faint flush but her eyes were filled with clouds. Stratus. Cirrus. Nimbus.

The servant cleared his throat. “Mrs. Madeline Gardiner, your aunt - has arrived, Miss.”

“Why yes, of course, thank you Burford. Mr. Darcy, please excuse me, and…I thank you.”

As the butler's form disappeared beyond the drawing room doorway, Darcy rose and wishing to prolong their interlude, escorted her toward the vestibule. They walked side by side without touching, nodding to passing acquaintances here and there, their steps echoing in dual staccato against the black and white patterned marble.

In an instant he would be forced to relinquish the closeness of her presence once again. Without further thought, flinging rational and logical preparation out the window, he blurted out.

“I have found myself entangled in a private, silent conversation with you since Pemberley,” he confessed, his voice low, hushed, and achingly intimate.

And I too, with you, she yearned to respond, to cry out in that breathing space between a call and its answer. But instead she found herself reacting with an age-old instinct, and turning away she gave him the briefest nod; a silent acknowledgment, nothing more. She ran into the outstretched arms of Madeline Gardiner who stood beaming in welcoming warmth at the base of the grand stairs. By the time she had extricated herself from the refuge of Madeline's comforting presence, he had disappeared.


One by one guests trickled out of Montague House, some in pursuit of sportier diversions, others to rest and prepare for a night of soirées and balls. The spring air was crisp and fresh, laced with early warmth and sunshine as Lady Montague escorted Madeline Gardiner to the gates fronting her extensive garden. Sighing deeply, fatigued yet contented, she turned toward her friend.

“There, Madeline, I've done my part in liberating intelligent conversation from the watering holes and gaming hells around us.”

“Yes, you most definitely have, my dear, and with your customary panache I might add. A delightful afternoon was had by all, well, almost all.”

Lady Montague halted her steps and absently plucked a wilted rose from a carved planter. “You did not fail to notice then?”

“How could one not?” she replied pensively. Suddenly, she tapped lightly on her friend's arm, “Margaret, look there, on the green…”

A few feet before them stood a tall gentleman, surrounded by a gaggle of children and a harried appearing governess.

“Why if it isn't William, rescuing a ball for the Bracken children…the Brackens insist on dragging the children along for the Season. Rather cruel in my opinion, the gardens and central green provide little freedom following the openness of the countryside…” Her words trailed off into silence as both women observed William's form bending toward a young boy, offering him the retrieved ball and gently ruffling his hair.
“Margaret, did you glimpse the expression on his face? The look in his eyes as he bent toward the little lad?”

The other woman furrowed her brow momentarily puzzled, then nodded her head, smiling enigmatically to herself, “Yes, the look in his eyes… and therein lies the difference!”

Chapter Five


White's Club, No.37-38 St. James Street, London. Later that evening...

In the deeply hushed hallway, with its wine-red walls and worn carpets bearing the distinct imprint of century old footsteps, William Darcy strode in trailing with him a gust of bracing spring air. Flinging his cape, hat, and silver-tipped cane at a taciturn footman, he turned right, as was his custom, toward the carved double doors of the billiard room.

Charles Bingley leaned lightly against his cue stick, nibbling absently on his lower lip, lost in the perusal of multi coloured balls arranged upon the green baize. Distracted by the lengthy shadow spreading across the billiard table he flicked a quick glance at the new arrival.

“Darcy.”

“Bingley, what are you about, marooned in this hell hole? Why are you not at Netherfield?”

Charles Bingley grimaced at his friend's rebuke. He had been pondering the same all evening, but hearing his thoughts crystallized in a reproachful manner only served to further rankle his humour. Perhaps Darcy's alterations abroad had impacted little on his capacity for politesse.

“Miss Jane Bennet is expected in London in a few days, I thought it best to bide my time. Furthermore, Tattersall's is holding a sale tomorrow and I have my eye on a prime piece of horseflesh.”

Darcy leaned his frame against a darkly panelled wall and scrutinized his friend from across the room. “Horseflesh? Is it Graydon's black you're after? I'll procure it on your behalf, you can offer me thanks later.”

“No, not the black, I've had my eye on a pair of chestnut French Trotters from Normandy…”

“Consider it done. As to the other matter, you hardly strike me as one who values a good horse over the pursuit of a good woman? Whatsoever happened to Carpe Diem? Seizing the moment, the day?”

Bending down to balance his cue stick against his outstretched hand, Charles threw him a look of irritated annoyance, “Pursuit? We are not referring to a fencing opponent, but rather a gently bred woman. The woman I love. Must you always approach these matters like a battle of the blades? En guarde! Here cometh William Darcy!”

Tilting his head to assess the impact of his words, Charles continued in a milder tone, “One does not do battle around Miss Jane Bennet, rather, one must approach the situation in the manner of a…”

William's lip turned up in a cynical smirk. “A dance perhaps?”

“Why - yes - dammit! A dance!”

“Any savage can dance, Bingley. Nevertheless, if you insist, I suggest you forego the quadrille, the minuet, and consider a waltz,” William replied sardonically.

Charles hit his intended target scattering the multi-hued balls with a thundering clash, pocketing the red one. With a triumphant smile he straightened and met William's eyes . “I would recommend the same to you, my humble friend, before that formidable blade of yours turns to rust! Save yourself a reply, here comes The Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

Richard Fitzwilliam wove in unsteadily, tripped over a heavy fringe of Persian rug and landed with a thud into a nearby fauteuil.

“Gentlemen, delighted to renew our acquaintance!”

“And damned well you ought to be, Fitzwilliam!” muttered Darcy under his breath, chafing inwardly at Charles' remarks. “Dipping rather deep this evening?”

”Just a trifle disguised, `tis all,” the other man slurred, loosening the folds of his dishevelled neckloth. “I was gammoned by that abominable chap, Worsley. Ah, Darcy…perchance you could extend me…?”

Darcy folded his arms across his chest, let out a long breath, and replied, “No. No more. I met with my solicitors this week and you have overrun your loan. Wasting your fortune before arriving into it? Do you fail to grasp the meaning of restraint?”

Richard Fitzwilliam waved him away with a careless flick of the wrist. “Hell and damnation! We are certainly high in the instep this evening? `Acquired yourself a new Bird of Paradise laddie? Or have we staked out the field and laid claim to the lively Miss Bennet?”

Darcy remained still, his muscles, tendons, and sinews tensed in suppressed emotion, betrayed only by a slight throbbing of a vein at his temple.

Well acquainted with his old friend's stance, Charles Bingley sprung up and positioned himself between both men, his earlier vexation abandoned in the face of a potentially explosive situation. In a calm and steadying voice he addressed Darcy, “he's completely and utterly foxed.”

As if to punctuate his words, Fitzwilliam snored loudly and fell into an inebriated stupor.

“That particular fact has not failed to escape my attention,” Darcy replied, his tone laced with sarcasm.

“Good then,” Charles continued in a conciliatory manner, “let us escort him out of here, shall we? Before any further damage comes to his person. Prior to your return he was thrown out of a window at Boodles' by Eversham.”

“Oh?”

Both men walked toward Fitzwilliam's sprawled, desultory form. “Look at him. Thankfully he cannot recollect the details and the other man possesses a sense of humour. Eversham advised the club manager to place the broken window and Fitzwilliam on his bill and let the matter subside. Else, you and I would have found ourselves standing in as seconds.”

“To my knowledge duelling is considered illegal, Bingley,” Darcy replied caustically.

“Right, and Hurst has never touched a drop of whiskey in his life,” Charles countered in a lowered voice.

William's entire stance relaxed. “How long has he been carrying on in this manner?” He enquired brusquely, attempting to mask an undertone of concern for his cousin.

“Since his departure from the army half a year ago.”

“These military chaps, afflicted with aimlessness, lacking purpose; wandering devils, the entire lot of them.”

“He lost his life work, his older brother, and has had a baronetcy thrust upon him all in the space of a few months. I believe some kindness is in order, Darcy, a very little will suffice,” Charles responded softly.

William found himself momentarily taken aback by the younger man's perceptiveness and uncustomary censure. He would have to acclimatize himself to the newly apparent alterations in his friend's manner. “You are absolutely correct, Bingley, a thoughtless observation on my part. I have a mind to drag him to Portman Square and dry him out. I presume no one has dared intervene to date? Here, give me a hand.”

Anchored between the two men, the inebriated ex-colonel departed White's, hat somewhat askew, silver tipped cane dangling limply from his hand. Once outside, the cool night air seemed to revive him, “Damn that Worsley…That crafty, lecherous, old windbag of a vulture… A snivelling mongrel…May he choke on his own gangrene…”

Charles hissed at him indignantly. “Where are your good manners, Fitzwilliam? Have you never had a governess?”

The Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam's voice rang loud and clear across St. James Street, “A governess - you say? Never had one! But now that you suggest it…. I'd rather fancy a nice, plump, luscious governess…French or English, either would do.”





The National Library, London. A few days later...


The rank, dusty and faintly beckoning smell of books assaulted her senses as she and Lady Montague traversed the marble walk of the Round Reading Room. It's atmosphere hushed and dark, filled with obscure corners, the cavernous room seemed to draw her in, pulling and tugging in varied directions. Mirroring thoughts of him…she mused wryly.

“I shall peruse the Latin stacks…” Lady Montague muttered to no one in particular, already lost in the heady anticipation of serendipitous searching. Left to wander on her own Elizabeth meandered toward the French Literature racks, soon finding herself in a concealed corner.

Volumes stood sentry in ordered rows staring down at her with classical austerity. She drifted slowly about, lifting a book here and there, testing its heft, and assessing the patina of leather and gilding, some old, some new. What was she searching for?

His voice drifted into her thoughts, reciting French verse. The poem had touched on the passage of time, and love lost; an intensely romantic work of poetic composition. One she would have satirized a year ago, but now?

Well… the perfectly perpendicular lines of her existence had taken a bizarre turn and become transformed into a veritable tangle. How to unravel it all?

He had called on her twice and she had conveniently been not at home, busying herself with empty nothings, roaming London, purposefully avoiding his presence.

There was little doubt in her mind that she held some power over him, and he over her. Was it love or simply a doomed attraction? His attempt at an overture, days ago, had unsettled her to the point of grave disquietude, so much so that her flight from his presence had transformed itself into an act of self-preservation. Yet what possible threat did he pose to her person?

A distant cough interrupted her reverie, followed by the sound of hushed and muffled voices drifting from darkened corners; pages turning, covers rubbing against one another as books were replaced. A ruby leather binding caught her eye. She tilted her head, and raising herself on tiptoes stretched her arm toward the beckoning volume.



He had seen her enter the room from his vantage point near the central desk, had observed her slow meanderings, the seductive sway of her hips, and lost her as she disappeared in a swish of curry coloured skirts, engulfed by the stacks.

Following silently along her footsteps he experienced an odd constriction in his throat, only to have his heart thunder insistently as she came into view. Their interminable game of ebb and flow had to cease before he was driven to distraction.

Her resistance to his courting was entrenched beyond a doubt. Perhaps Charles had been right, a change in tactics was in order. He ached to discover the source of her unwillingness, to unearth it, and fling it away. Far away. Filled with new resolve, he quickened his step.

A vaguely familiar form entered her field of vision as a man's arm, encased in dark green wool, arched above hers and plucked the intended book from its resting place.

“I trust this is the tome you are seeking?” His voice drifted toward her in a lambent whisper.

“Mr. Darcy…” she whispered back, her lips remaining parted as if she meant to continue her words. Yet to her chagrin, she found speech would not come. Instead, she felt herself trembling like a leaf of grass.

He could sense her response to his nearness, the delicate thrumming of air currents between them, and lashed himself inwardly for failing to notice in previous encounters the vulnerable mixture of fragility and strength that was Elizabeth. Blithering fool, he chastised himself.

“A most unexpected coincidence. Is Lady Montague happily submerged somewhere amidst the Latin tracts?” His voice was gentle, soft and caressing.

She found hers in turn, and despite her inner disquietude the corners of her mouth lifted into a smile.

“You're no stranger to her habits I see.”

“We date back a long ways…”

“Leading strings if I recall correctly?”

Abruptly, he raised his eyes and trapped hers in a gaze both intense and velvety in its scrutiny.

“You've been keeping well?”

“Yes, very well, thank you.” The nearness of him amidst the darkly hushed atmosphere seemed to be closing in on her until the rest of the world slowly faded away in the periphery, becoming almost incidental. Inconsequential.

He leaned closer still extending the book toward her, an offering of sorts. “Are you an avid reader, Miss Bennet?”

“Presumably others would describe me as such. I have always believed in the enlargement reading bestows upon one's mind…” her voice trailed off. “And I must confess to finding great pleasure in reading.”

“How true, reading is a most solitary pleasure. Oftentimes, I have asked myself if it is indeed vice or virtue? For does reading substantially improve one's character? Sweeten one's disposition?”

She found she could not move, rooted in the intensely private space he'd created out of a seemingly chance encounter.

“Your observation holds much merit,” she answered after reflecting upon his words. “Some of the most voracious readers I have encountered have been rather rigid in their thinking. For the study of great works does not necessarily,” William's eyes followed the movement of her lips as they shaped each word, “bestow a remarkable sensitivity towards others.”

His fingers began pensively stroking the gilded leather cover, the fine sculpting of his hands distracting, engrossing.

“Why, it may even spoil one's appetite for real life,” she added after a suspended pause.

He stepped nearer, leaning slightly against the iron shelving. “Has your appetite for real life been spoiled by reading…or perhaps by your journeys abroad?”

“No, not at all, you mistake my meaning, Mr. Darcy,” she answered, fully aware of the dangerous turn his questions were taking.

“Your meaning being?” His whisper was barely audible.

“I mean to imply that some souls believe everything in the world exists to end up in a book or a work of art, of architecture…and these very souls live to partake in the art rather than life itself.”

“And you, Miss Bennet, which world do you wish to partake in?” He enquired, his dark brows narrowing in deep concentration.

She gave him a searching look, inwardly marvelling at his persistence, and weighing each word replied, “at times, my greatest wish is to lose myself in the travel journals I have penned abroad, reliving what have now become distant memories. But only… at times.”

“I see. Words are no deeds, but we revel in them nonetheless.”

His hand alighted on hers; warm, enveloping, thrumming with an energy, which defied description.

“Have you ever considered submitting those same journals for publication so that others, less fortunate, could explore the continent through your eyes? Allowing those souls to partake in your artistry?”

Her breath hitched at his effortless unveiling of a long held private wish. “Perhaps, some day I shall,” she answered, glancing at the book he held in his other hand; the one that wasn't trapping hers in its steady hold.

Searching for a graceful exit she ventured into another territory. “Have you considered Mr. Darcy, that these books around us may very well represent the entirety of human experience, a world filled with silent thoughts, longings, dreams and secrets? Perhaps to everything unfolding in the outside world, there truly does exist a printed counterpart?”

He did not relinquish his grasp. Not just yet. “Tell me Miss Bennet, somewhere among these pages does the story exist of a man - a man who committed a grave error, and rather than pursuing the woman he loved, fled to distant shores with the false hope of banishing her from his memory, only to find himself loving the very memory of her beyond words, and upon his return yearning to be with her, her only, and no other?”

She could sense her earlier resolve slowly melting within and pooling gracelessly at her feet. The strength to stoop, to gather the fragmented remains about her, to walk away, suddenly failed her.

He turned her palm over in his and lightly traced the lines of her hand. His fingers seemed to etch a white-hot trail upon her skin, leaving her helpless and paralysed. The feeling, to her utter consternation, was not entirely unpleasant. Deciding then and there to match his earlier confession, she inhaled deeply and replied in a hushed undertone.

“No doubt, somewhere among these pages there also exists the tale of a woman, who sensing herself forgotten, rejected, and of no apparent consequence, sought the solace of travel in an attempt to forget the root of her discontent.” His fingers stilled their path along her palm and seemed to await her words.

Fuelled by the remaining embers of her old resentment, she forged on. “But found instead, that the very man whose hold she had escaped had insinuated himself in a most mysterious way, leaving a lasting impression…present in statues, paintings…”

William's fingers encircled her wrist, his thumb finding her pulse and resting there. Leaning into her, he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, “Not Brueghel's works I hope.”

She managed, despite her lingering bitterness, to find a smile. “No, not Brueghel.”

“Then please enlighten me, Elizabeth, what is compelling this woman to run?”

He leaned his cheek near hers, almost touching, his skin scented of soap, of him.
She withdrew, unable to bear the excruciating nearness of him, his intimate use of her name. More than anything she was unready, and unwilling, to answer his pointed question. Let him wait, as she had awaited his return a year ago only to be pitched cruelly into despair.

“Why, the answer lies presumably in one of these books,” she replied with a sardonic lift of her eyebrows, as her heartbeat, to her utter consternation, escaped its normal cadence and galloped in a wild cavalcade.

His hand released her wrist only to alight on her chin, which he tipped to better meet her eyes. “Ah, but I must beg to disagree, Elizabeth. The answer, I believe, lies within you, right…” he brushed his fingers lightly against her cheek, “here.”

Oh! The lordly arrogance of him! What to say? Her mind careened back and forth. You frighten me Mr. Darcy, with the intensity of your presence, your suppressed ardour?

No. In truth, she frightened herself.

The risk of believing all the romantic possibilities he embodied seemed devastatingly steep. She had only recently sampled a taste of freedom, its heady essence, and its potential to sculpt her own destiny. Why, some women could carve out an existence through their writing without the insistent presence of a man in their lives. Would she be willing to relinquish a measure of such a freedom in order to taste the promise he offered? Coward. Every sentimental notion she'd mocked and secretly envied, seemed to coalesce into a heady blur, looming above her like a threatening thundercloud.

He hovered near, his face a close shadow; dark, enigmatic, waiting. Yet, as strong as the pleasure of his presence appeared, it was tinted by a counterpoint of vexation and anxiety; for there were potent reasons to be drawn to a man like William Darcy, and vital elements to fear.

Perhaps the substance of her hesitancy lay in his strength, its very presence having the ability to engulf her, overpower her, and at its worst, leave her a mere shadow of her former self. She could sense his expectancy, his dark, saturnine resolve, and slowly as he edged away a hint of wounded resentment.

His hand left her cheek and wrapped itself around hers, fingers intertwining. His hold was strong, sure and unwavering. Minutes trickled by until one by one, he let her fingers slip though his.

As the sensual glissade of skin on skin neared its finale, he spoke in a hoarse whisper. “If we were not meant to be together, you and I, then pray tell me, why does your hand fit so well in mine?”

She did not answer.

Turning about, he walked away and disappeared around a corner leaving her once again to herself. She felt simultaneously hot and cold, her nerve endings singing with the echo of his touch, his voice, and his compelling words, the whole leaving her poised on the brink of some sensual discovery, one she could all but caress with her fingertips.

As he neared his reading desk the distinct sound of a book dropping on the marble floor broke through the hushed stillness of the cavernous room. The echo of fallen leather and paper seemed to resound from where he had left her, among the French Literature. He interpreted it as a good omen.



After a time, he rose from his paper-strewn desk, ostensibly to stretch his stiffened limbs, but in truth he found himself unable to continue his close perusal of aged botanical manuscripts. Pulled by a restless disquietude, his steps led him to the foot-worn marble stairs that arched grandly into the bowels of the building.

He walked slowly, mired deep in thought, unaware of his surroundings, only to come face to face with Lady Montague as she wended her way back to the Reading Room, a sheaf of dusty parchment tucked under her arm.

“Ah, William, what a lovely surprise, might I impose on your time for a moment?”

He came to a jarring halt, towering a few steps above her. “Certainly, my lady, may I suggest the private alcoves upstairs?”

She fixed on him with a speculating smile. “No, my dear boy.”

He raised his brow in faint surprise. “No?”

Groaning inwardly he prepared himself for yet another contretemps. He'd hoped to gather his thoughts before being peppered mercilessly by her ladyship, unfortunately, as was her wont, she would end up having the upper hand.

“Here will suit just fine. The stairwell after all, is quite…” she peered up and down the length of curving marble for effect, “deserted, is it not?”

Steadying herself lightly against the wrought iron balustrade, she continued. “As you are well aware, I have grown most fond of Elizabeth Bennet over the past year. She has brought me much comfort and joy during our journey abroad. Nonetheless, having observed her closely here in London, I find myself terribly chagrined at seeing her thus conflicted over your situation.”

“Our situation?” He murmured quietly.

“Since you appear intent on repeating my words,” her ladyship snapped back testily, "I shall cut to the chase. It is eminently evident to all but the dullest of lack-wits that you are utterly besotted by her, and rightly so, I might add. Now, don't glower at me in that manner of yours, William. She is truly the loveliest of women with a sparkling je ne sais quoi about her. However, if I were in your shoes young man, I would tread delicately, mind my imperious manners and open my starched notions to new possibilities, particularly where women of intellect are concerned…”

He skewered her with a look both dark and intense. “Little does she realize how much I suffer.”

Lady Montague shook her head in mock exasperation. “Fiddlesticks! Elizabeth knows full well how you both suffer. Beneath those fine eyes resides an even finer mind. She is merely caught in the age-old struggle of finding that elusive balance between the principles of sense and sensibility. If you have been substantially altered over the past year, as I suspect you have, then such an observation should come as no surprise! In fact, I wager you can win her heart if you wish it enough.”

He clenched the banister, seeking respite in the cool touch of metal against the roiling heat within him. “Your ladyship and I both know that I abhor gambling, and much prefer to deal in certainties.”

“Love is a gamble, William. You've trod a long way since your leading string days, take care not to retrace old footsteps.”

Silence fell momentarily between them as he struggled to make sense of her words. “Pray tell me then, my lady,” he capitulated with a long sigh, rifling his hand though his hair, “what is a man to do in the meantime?”

“Do nothing. Allow her to bide her time. Loosen the reins, just a little.”

“Are you suggesting I am to endure this interminable wait like some placidly docile creature for Lord knows how long? Please enlighten me as to whyfor?”

Lady Montague's countenance softened at his exasperated tone. “Because, she is no ordinary woman - she is Elizabeth - and worth every ounce of your restrained ardour, your denied passion. Whereas any ordinary woman can handle the `little man in the brown suit', it requires time and reflection for even a remarkable woman to embark on managing the likes of you. For you, my dearest William, are most definitely not the little man in brown!”

She raked him up and down with steadfast purpose. With each sweep of her eyes over his person, he felt divested of his coverings until, in the end, he was left feeling entirely naked.

Satisfied with the effect of her perusal, Lady Montague gathered her skirt and proceeded up the stairwell. “ I must be on my way, dear boy. I suggest you procure yourself an invitation to the Claymore Ball. While I said 'do nothing', only a fool would proceed without a strategy... Good day!” With a regal nod of her head she swept past him, toward the Reading Room, and disappeared from view. He stood, for he knew not how long, rooted to the marble stairs.

Chapter Six

Longbourn, Hertfordshire.

Mrs. Fanny Bennet ambled back and forth before the one window of her home that offered a conveniently unobstructed view of the gardens. Her calico skirts grazed the floors in a rhythmic swish, punctuated by an occasional sigh emanating deep within her expansive bosom. She was feeling highly disadvantaged at having to view the evolving proceedings between Mr. Bingley and her daughter Jane from afar, and without the added benefit of sound.

“Fanny, my dear, are you intent on wearing out the rug with your pacing?” Thomas Bennet enquired dryly without lifting his eyes from the book occupying his attention.

“Why, I was admiring Mr. Bingley's matched pair, what fine temperaments they possess! Just like their master. I must admit, Thomas, he is by far my favourite of Jane's suitors.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow at her response. “He's her only suitor, if one insists on calling his phlegmatic wooing a courtship.”

She waved him away and continued her pacing by the parlour window. “Well, no matter…the situation appears to be progressing along nicely, she's on the garden swing looking entirely angelic, and he appears so very attentive. What an exemplary daughter, my Jane. Unlike your Lizzie. I shudder to think of how all this travel has corrupted her person.”

“And now the deluge…” Thomas muttered to himself.

“How we erred in letting her travel abroad! Why, it is a truth well acknowledged that journeying to the continent poses a fundamental threat to English domesticity. Women who stray from home learn follies, they contract vices,” Fanny lowered her voice for effect, “and may lose all idea of religion. I've even heard it rumoured that Hell lurks abroad!”

“Hell, you say? And here I held the distinct notion that it lurked on English soil. My dear, I find myself most pleasingly astounded by your words, have you been perusing Mary's copy of Fordyce's Sermons?”

Fanny threw her husband a vexatious look and continued, “You and I both know that Mary is no longer so inclined in her readings; there is the new problem of her aptitude for mathematics though. Oh Thomas, what sins did I commit to deserve such grief over my daughters? `Tis more than one woman can bear in a lifetime. As for Lizzie, we should never have permitted her to leave alongside that…that widow, who in my humble opinion is but every other inch a lady!”

Thomas Bennet closed his book with a firm snap. “Madam, you do wrong to chastise Lady Montague, she has been all generosity and kindness to our daughter.”

Fanny harrumphed loudly and patted her lace cap into place. “Generosity! Pah! A woman of her standing, inviting London's chimney sweeps for tea every May is an example of misplaced generosity! Had I only listened to my own judgment Elizabeth would be obediently ensconced here at Longbourn.”

She fixed on him with a suspicious gaze. “If I didn't know any better, I would think you held a tendre for Lady Montague…”

Thomas Bennet raised a sardonic eyebrow in response. “Ah, you do possess some knowledge of French, after all.”

Fanny clenched her jaw, and remained resolutely mute. A few minutes trickled by, while Thomas sat and mused upon his wife's occasional flashes of silence, which resulted in a conversation that bordered almost, but not quite, on the delightful.

Suddenly Fanny stopped her pacing and gasped in a combination of utter shock and disbelief. “Oh my! The swing has tipped and Jane has fallen to the ground…so has Mr. Bingley…I do hope no one is injured!…Oh!…OH!… Well, I never!… Hill! Hill! My hartshorn!”

Thomas rose from his chair and joined his distraught wife at the window. Patting her absently on the back, he scrutinized the scene playing out in his garden.

“Now, now…it appears Mr.Bingley has matters well in hand. Perhaps a little more vigorously than I would consider proper, but then again he has sat on the fence for so long that I was beginning to fear the iron had entered his heart, or his head. I am much relieved to discover that I may have misjudged the man.”

Thomas Bennet craned his neck and readjusted his spectacles. As he registered the titillating scene unfolding before his eyes, he deftly turned Fanny away from the window and settled her upon a chaise, all the while murmuring to himself, “ `Pon Rep! I'd best make my presence known before the situation ripens any further!”

Having securely spirited her away to safer waters, he patted her lace cap and proclaimed reassuringly, “Cheer up Fanny, by the look of things you'll have a wedding in the family, and very soon I might add. Now where the devil is Hill? Hill! Mrs. Bennet is in dire need of her hartshorn!”




Claymore House, No. 10 Grosvenor Square, London. A few days later...


Muted strains of music, the delicate clinking of china and crystal, and muffled tones of conversation and laughter drifted through the French doors of the Claymore ballroom.

Elizabeth stood on the terrace, swathed in a cream gown of organza and silk, a study in simplicity. Shielded by an overhanging balcony from the quietly persistent rain she sipped pensively on her champagne. Her third champagne.

The ball had proven to be a horrible crush. After extricating herself from the overly familiar advances of an old roué, Lord Tansley, she'd longed for a breath of spring air. Crystal flute balanced delicately in hand, she leaned against the cool stonework behind her and breathed deeply.

He had arrived late, escorting the Bingley sisters. She had glimpsed his starkly elegant form dancing with Caroline Bingley, and then lost him in the crowd. Closing her eyes, she hoped to erase the affecting image of his arms enveloping another woman.

Their paths had not crossed for days. She suspected he was deliberately creating a space between himself and her person, yet even the distant nearness of him made her heart alternate from a steady tempo to a thrumming staccato. You are a rational creature, she told herself, why then does he set your soul on fire?

Had she not erected iron gates about herself? Only to have him slip through them, dark, sinewy, exigent.

His words, uttered a few days ago at the library, echoed over and over. “Yearning to be with you, and no other.”

Yes, that was it, she attempted to reassure herself, he was claiming her for his own with a calm urgency she found overpoweringly elemental; an insistence that seemed to divest her of the ability to choose her own path; unrestrained, unfettered, yet, the entirety was growing highly irresistible.

Was William Darcy crafting a deliberate seduction? Somehow, on this rainy evening, such a notion did not give rise to displeasure, rather, she felt giddily transported.

“I have sorely missed the pleasure of your company.” A deep voice spoke out of the shadows.

She heard the unmistakable soft click of doors closing and opened her eyes to find him leaning casually against the brick façade. Attired in midnight black and opalescent white, he exuded an intriguing aura of refinement and power. Oh, he was more than agreeable, her mind whispered with silky persistence.

“It's raining,” he observed, his voice husky and low.

She raised the glass to her lips, took a sip of champagne and replied, “I see more distinctly in the rain, Mr. Darcy.”

“How curious, so do I.” He cast an appraising glance over her figure. The look he threw her was frank, fiery and achingly potent. “May I persuade you to call me William?” He ventured with a half smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Persuasion…” she mouthed the vowels slowly, “a beautiful word is it not?”

He crossed his arms before him and tilted his hips forward, his stance at once distancing yet magnetic; a study in contrasts. “As beautiful as the person uttering it this very moment.”

Perhaps it was the champagne induced haze, for despite his provocative words she did not falter, rather, she responded with a charming smile flitting across her lips.

“You flatter me…William.”

“Ah, progress,” he replied with a measured degree of surprise. She was playing with him again, that much he sensed. The very knowledge fed his growing desire and sharpened his determination.

“You would be well advised not to allow such a paltry victory to cloud your thinking,” she warned, her voice light and tinged with irony. Who, after all, was floating among champagne clouds?

Grasping on to the last vestiges of her proper self, she mustered a sober tone and stated matter of factly, “Miss Bingley is a most accomplished dancer.”

His eyes glinted with amusement. “One must not disappoint Caroline's penchant for admiration, the results can be unpleasant in most women… In Caroline's case, they run the risk of terror and mayhem. I assure you it was but one dance, a token of my friendship with Charles.”

“You are a most obliging friend, and a keen observer of female nature.”

“I consider myself a neophyte, with much to learn where female natures are concerned,” he murmured, inwardly bemused by the turns of her mood.

She raised her glass in a mock toast, and took another sip of champagne. “No doubt the same dubious distinction applies to your friend, Mr. Bingley.”

It must be the champagne, William pondered with growing trepidation. Why else would she turn from warm to cold, in the space of a minute? Then again, perhaps not. He recalled overhearing two aging aristocrats, in a Parisian club, debating the merits of a woman's mysteries and imperfections. At the time he had failed to understand the subtly provocative nature of the subject matter in question. This evening's encounter was proving most instructive. Perchance his real education was only truly beginning.

She raised an eyebrow at his deeply confounded demeanour and forged on. “My sister arrives tomorrow, and will be residing at Montague House.”

“Yes, I know. Charles acquainted me with the news before his departure to Hertfordshire. I trust, all in all, that he shall be successful in his suit.”

She sipped absently on her champagne, staring off into the distance. “You are not averse to the union then? A considerable change of opinion.”

“Opinion exists to be altered, Elizabeth. My good opinion of your sister has risen over the past year. Charles would benefit greatly from her charm, her good character, and her quiet strength. I have encouraged the match since my return, the remainder is in their hands.”

Despite the champagne fog settling upon her she was taken aback by the simple kindness of his words, for they spoke of a fluidity of thought and gentleness of soul she found deeply affecting.

“Your new found generosity towards my sister leaves me filled with gratitude. I, however, will reserve my judgment concerning the suitability of their union until past events and the present situation are further clarified. Since we are sharing impressions, I must admit that my opinion of the Honourable Mr. Fitzwilliam has fallen dramatically in the last few days. I have heard the most dreadful tales floating about. One of those purports he is residing with you at the moment, having been evicted from his own lodgings.”

“Perhaps, Elizabeth, I could prevail upon you to consider the situation in a more benign manner. The poor man is in need of some guidance. Since his departure from the army he has faltered, drinking and carousing in the hope of erasing any lingering memory of his brother, the war and avoiding the future.” He paused for a moment and gazed at her with dark intensity. “All men make faults*.”

He looked away, seemingly distracted by the pattern of raindrops splashing on the stone balustrade, yet inwardly tempering a rising swell of emotion. Finally, he put into words the thoughts that had plagued him for weeks. “Some misdeeds happen to be graver than others. He deserves a second chance.”

As do I, Elizabeth, as do I, he yearned to shout across the rooftops. Reigning in his impulse, he clenched his jaw and momentarily closed his eyes, hoping the brief respite would calm the seething fervency within him.

“Another rescue, William?” She queried lightly, patently aware of the swirling eddies of strain hovering about them.

“Possibly,” he answered, staring out at the hazy forms of pruned trees, orderly gardens and twinkling lights of stately residences surrounding them. All of a sudden, precisely ordered harmony beckoned with a disquieting allure. No, he reminded himself, he had never been partial to artificiality, elegant affectation.

Elizabeth's fortuitous reappearance in his life had filled him with a simple and lucid clarity. A clarity, which, he now realized, begged for acceptance of fresh new ideas, a willingness to view situations from various angles, a widening of his previously narrow and opaque vision. All at once, the verity beneath Lady Montague's words crystallized in his mind.

A weighty silence fell upon them. She breached it first, plucking a thought seemingly out of nowhere and depositing it before him, like a tentative offering at his feet.

“If I close my eyes, I can almost feel Venice around me. I did not care for the city at all at first, if you must know. I found it distant, proud, and distracting. Until one evening, returning from a ball in a gondola, our entourage heard a serenade across the canal and all conversation ceased. After a time, our gondolier caught the air, and began singing; soon others joined him, echoing in the distance. Their voices were haunting, plaintive and mournful; the effect was ravishing, almost magical. That very night, when I retired to rest, my heart was filled with sound and to this day, if I think very hard, the melody seems to resonate in my ears.”

He remained silent, observing her intently, drinking in her words. His eyes alighted on the camber of her bare shoulders, the shady hollow at her throat, each in turn illuminated under the starlit sky.

Moonlight becomes her, he mused, partially hidden in the shadows beneath the balcony.

He felt the reins of his control, his patience, slowly slipping away.

How much more of this was he capable of enduring? If there was an art to waiting and hoping, he was well on his way to becoming a master. Endure he must. Anchoring himself with the last shreds of temperance he possessed, Darcy arrived at a decision.

If she wished to speak through metaphors, as she had skilfully succeeded in doing since his return, he would indulge her - a very little - for the time being.

“I was not taken by Venice at first either, Elizabeth, but slowly I began collecting impressions; the muted watery pink and green of the palace facades, the fresh air of the sirocco, the complete lack of clatter and rattle of carriage wheels. Little by little the city grew on me, until one day at the market near the Rialto I tasted the most wonderful figs. They were newly ripened, picked from the trees early that very morning and they burst within me in an explosion of crimson glory, and then I knew…”

She hung raptly on to his every word. “Knew…?”

He moved from his resting place, and stood before her, tall, sinewy and blatantly heated. “I knew then, that the essence of Venice, was akin to being in love.” The back of his hand grazed the bare flesh of her shoulder. “Bella Elizabetta…” he murmured.

She clutched her champagne flute in both hands, the clear liquid flowing back and forth within the cut crystal.

Her eyes widened at his words, the bold turn of his actions. He was so near, again, yet the sensation felt entirely foreign. A frisson shook her and she earnestly hoped it would escape his notice.

With refined finesse he extricated the champagne flute from her grasp and set it upon a ledge by her side. Drawing nearer, he braced his hands against the stone façade effectively locking her in his embrasure. He could sense her posture stiffening, resisting.

“Stay,” he murmured hoarsely, his tone proprietary, on the verge of becoming lordly.

“Please,” he added, catching himself. “I merely do not wish to have you flee…yet again.”

She tilted her head, looking into his eyes, seeking surety. What she beheld, instead, was a kaleidoscope of dusk and dawn; the promise of a mysterious adventure in the skilled yet gentle hands of a powerful man. The whole beckoned provocatively.

His voice became husky. “Since my return, we have conversed through travel, art, books, even friends and family, through every manner possible save for one.”

“Indeed?” She answered, fully cognisant of his intended meaning, but choosing somewhat desperately to play the ingénue.

“Yes, indeed.” He spoke with a quiet, steely conviction.

Reaching beyond her, he dipped his finger into the champagne and slowly traced the outline of her lips, until they glistened under the moonlit sky.

“Your lips are the colour of mulberry…” he whispered and drew nearer still. She could feel the imprint of his muscles on her thighs, her torso, the cool champagne on her lips a bold counterpoint to his burning heat.

His voice settled into a hushed whisper. “In Persia, one can find a dozen names for the mulberry… each one meant to capture the divine beauty of the divine fruit. Until now, I knew not why...until now.”

“P-Persia? You've travelled the Far East?” She whispered in turn, feeling her back arching, and bending like a young branch against the wind.

“No, Elizabeth, but I would dearly love to transport you there, some day… metaphorically speaking.” He mouthed against her skin, his lips flitting across her temple, her cheek, the nameless place beneath her ear.

“And here I was under the impression you were a man of few words…”

“I am,” he answered thickly.

With consuming tenderness, his lips alighted on hers, warm and assured. The primitive conquering instinct within him tempered, but merely so.

She tasted of champagne and wild ginger, the kind that grew along the lake at Pemberley, he thought fleetingly, breathing her in, drinking in the splendour of the moment.

Ah, she'd been kissed before - but not like this - never like this.

It was a wonderful kiss; tender, deliberate, and undeniably whispering of his intentions, of old regrets and young promises, all spoken in silence, the whole reaching out to her in soothing warmth. She felt herself being enticed, enchanted and slowly, all about her metamorphosed into a new world… fresh, transcendent and glinting golden.

“Oh…” she murmured coming up for breath, unsure whether she ought to be elated or running for dear life. “Is this an apology…?”

“Did I apologize?” He answered huskily and settled upon her a slow, lazy smile.

“No… but since I am feeling somewhat charitable this evening, I shall pretend that you granted it nonetheless…”

“And did you, perchance, accept my meagre offering?” He whispered, his eyes darkening.

“Of course, I wouldn't want it to be said that I was being disobliging…” She closed her eyes, as he kissed the curve of her neck.

“Or ungracious…” She whispered as his lips alighted on the crest of her shoulder, and skimmed down her bare arm. “Let alone…unamiable.” He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips, slowly, one by one.

“Are you intent on wooing me, Mr. Darcy?” She queried, feeling somewhat light-headed.

“Oh, yes,” he answered, looking up at her beneath his lashes. “However, were we not on first name terms? Perhaps, I have not been persuasive enough…?” He straightened before her, drawing nearer still, and grazed her bare arms with his hands, caressing lightly.

“No, not quite… enough,” she responded, “ in fact…hardly…enough.”

“Very well,” he said. “You win. I shall have to improve upon my efforts…”

She stilled him with a light pressure on his chest.

“Ah, not so hasty, dear sir, for I find myself not at all easily disposed to agree with you.”

He froze. A look of such sheer astonishment crossed his features, that Elizabeth found herself suddenly, inexplicably, bursting out in laughter.

The sound, rich and pure, resonated about them, amplified by the rain and surrounding night.

Her eyes dancing with mirth, she let her fingers roam across the wide expanse of his torso and rest with finality over his heart. She whispered, “ I believe the victory is very much mutual.”

Swept away on a tidal surge of sweet triumph, he could feel his entire being fill with a thrumming energy. He leaned closer. His lips slanted over hers again, captured her entirely and deepening the kiss, enticed her to open… tangling, exploring, plunging further and further.

He kissed her as if there was no ending, no hereafter. Transporting each in turn, then together, to a land of shady lemon tress, scented with jasmine and mimosa, and surrounded by light, still and brilliant… all at the same time.

The waltz strummed on somewhere in the background, and without breaking his embrace, he encircled her waist, merging her unto him. Her softness seemed to meld with his rigid strength, until he no longer knew where he ceased and she began.

Slowly, they embarked on a languid and rhythmic undulation under the shelter of the balcony, the curtain of spring rain creating a private enclave. Legato… Amoroso… Dolce… The sweeping melody of strings soon ebbed away, but their dance continued into the night.

Chapter Seven

Montague House, Portman Square, London. The very next day...

The conservatory was warm and filled with early morning light. Sun-kissed tiles covered its floors in colourful mosaics, while a rich loamy scent emanated from the myriad citrus trees, ferns, and orchids growing in wild exuberance within the perfumed bower.

Seated on a wrought iron garden bench amidst the leafy greenery Jane gazed at her sister with concern and more than a hint of curiosity. They had been deep in conversation all morning, catching up on the multitude of news, events, and happenings that had unfolded since their last written correspondence.

“Do you not find him, dark, brooding even somewhat taciturn, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth sat poised on the ledge of an ornamental fountain absently trailing her fingers in its verdant waters. “A year ago, I did believe him possessed of a judgemental reserve, a refusal to compromise, but my opinions have been altered with time, and now I find myself having somewhat erred in my first impressions. I have glimpsed another man; one who is kind, generous, patient and altogether… highly agreeable.”

Jane scrutinized her more closely taking in the subtle changes a year abroad had effected on her sibling. There hovered about her a new softness, as if the sharp angles of her fiercely independent spirit had become muted, and polished. Along with this she seemed to emanate a glow, a brilliancy that had been lacking prior to her leave-taking. If William Darcy had played any role in the transformation, then perhaps she ought to consider him in a more pleasing light.

“As for the darkness,” Elizabeth continued, her voice taking on a filmy cast, “he is filled with darkness… midnight… but you know, Jane, the coal is midnight black before it suddenly lights and burns fiery red.”

As if shaking herself out of a distant reverie, Elizabeth turned to her sister catching a look of speechless stupor upon her face. “Now tell me again about Charles swooping upon our household prior to your departure for London.”

Happy to oblige, and relieved to veer back into familiar waters, Jane recounted her tale as her sister listened intently, basking in her sibling's obvious pleasure at the sudden turn of events.

“Oh, Lizzy! He was incredibly dusty and dishevelled, but so very earnest in his proposal! Then again, so was I! Having fallen off the swing…and all.” Jane's colour rose upon remembering the unfortunate incident. “The wedding is set for the end of the summer, and Mamma is beside herself with joy!”

“Are you beset with joy, Jane?”

“Why ever not you goose!” Jane continued her tale in a breathy voice, “He must have travelled without rest or sleep the poor dear, for he repeatedly murmured the strangest of things… something about a carp.”

“A carp? Are you certain? Isn't that some sort of fish? Perhaps fatigue addled his wits. Oh well, I am certain he shall return to fine form in no time. Tell me of father's reaction to his proposal.”

Jane's colour deepened. “He stated, in that dry manner of his, that he was most heartened by Charles' decision to vacate his perch on the fence, and hoped he would not take such an inordinate length of time to secure his succession,”

Elizabeth convulsed into a fit of laughter just as Thomas Bennet entered the conservatory.

“Ah, I find Jane smiling and Elizabeth laughing, all must be well in the family again!”

He approached Elizabeth and deposited a fond kiss on her forehead. “Let me have a closer look at you, Lizzy. The short curls suit you. Your mother, no doubt, will have a conniption. She is utterly convinced that you have returned filled with all manner of vice and folly. I believe contaminated is the word she insists on flinging about. I can see plainly that Fanny, once again, has misplaced her wits. We shall leave her to indulge in self-pity won't we? Have you been keeping well?”

“Yes, father,” she answered with a warm smile.

“Good, good. Now shall we partake of tea? Before Charles and his family descend upon us? You must tell me of the last leg of your journey, Lizzy. Your letters made me a veritable fireside voyager and I long to hear your last impressions. In the meantime Jane may compose herself into a semblance of calm.”

Tucking Elizabeth's arm beneath his he walked by her side towards the drawing room. Partway there he halted, and stated with quiet conviction, “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy. You've travelled enough, child. `Tis time you came home.”

Home, she thought to herself. Yes, she had arrived home in more ways than one.

Thomas Bennet awaited her reply, receiving none he patted her arm affectionately.

“What? No witty retort? Has your caustic humour been softened by exotic capriccios?”

Before she could fashion a suitable response, Burford approached wearing a disapproving frown, and gingerly holding a package in his gloved hands.

A parcel cleverly concealed beneath an intriguing nosegay burst with red roses, sweet alyssum, forget-me-nots, honeysuckle and peach blossoms.

“A delivery for Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he announced, placing undue emphasis on the unmarried status of her name.

“Thank you Burford. Father, I shan't be long, I promise. Please, do go on without me.”

She stood beneath a tall potted palm, aglow with anticipation, for she knew beyond a doubt that the gift was from him. The previous evening had forged a new dimension in their acquaintance, an inner space she found strangely pacifying. Paradoxically, in tasting the heat of their shared caresses, her earlier unease had been quelled, appeased, and dulcified. A last fragment of the puzzle had seemingly fallen into place.

She inhaled the fragrant blossoms within the nosegay, and smiled. Ah, he had been most meticulous in his research. Devoted love… true love… beautiful love… I am your captive…forever love. As her fingers unravelled the beribboned parcel the folds of soft parchment fell open, one by one, to reveal a ruby leather binding. A book. Raised gold lettering boldly announced its title.

`Observations and Reflections on a Journey Through Europe, by Elizabeth Bennet'

Her fingers trembling, she opened the substantial volume only to find it filled with blank pages. She smiled to herself, shaking her head at his gesture. She was but beginning to unravel him, to understand him, and already sensed that he promised an existence beyond the limits of genteel ennui. Her fingers absorbed the texture of white paper, the suppleness of its leather binding; both spoke of the highest quality. She leafed toward the opening page and found a dedication.

Dearest Elizabeth,

Will you grant me the very great honour of joining you alongside life's journey?

With ardent love and devotion,

Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Oh. There it was. Black and white. She studied the strong, elegant script, and soon the letters blurred, becoming a charcoal smudge on white parchment.
In the dry, arid desert of convention he was offering her a measure of choice, perhaps even freedom.

He had grasped her need for safety but also her longing for the uncertainty of new discovery. Her experiences abroad had charmed her imagination, Elizabeth realized, but it was he, and he only, who held her captive. Yet, she was no cageling, rather, his evolving courtship had reopened old vistas, ones she had buried beneath layers of anger and resentment.

Past memories, sights, and conversations all collided with future hopes, secret dreams and longings; sparking, catching fire. A flaming apotheosis. Without a second thought for propriety or decorum she strode out of the hallway through the double entry doors, past the filigreed gates of Montague House, and onto the square.

Burford half ran, half walked behind her. “Miss Bennet, Miss Bennet! Wait! You must not! I shall escort you! Miss Bennet!”

Not until reaching the knocker of Darcy House did she catch her breath and take a moment to compose herself. “Do I pass muster, Burford?”

The faithful servant, breaking with long standing tradition, grinned. Tentatively reaching out toward her he tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and wordlessly nodded his head.

She bestowed a charming smile upon him, one he stowed away in his memory to revisit during solitary times. “Let us proceed, shall we?” Elizabeth announced, and lifted the heavily carved knocker.





He leaned against the door-jamb of the drawing room, his white shirtsleeves gaping open at the neck, having earlier completed a satisfying scrimmage against Charles Bingley. The younger man was proving to be fleet of foot and had a surprisingly good arm. Who would have surmised that swordplay would prove to be Charles' forte?

Handing his blade to a hovering Winston, Darcy stepped into the room and began observing Elizabeth without a sound. A deeply appreciative look grew on his face as he studied her with intense fascination.

She stood in his drawing room, a young woman in grey blue, appearing lost in the contemplation of a painting. He noticed, with a surge of relief, the crimson covered book clutched to her breast. Had she read the inscription? Dare he hope for an answer so soon?

She stood still and solemn, appearing utterly absorbed in the work before her. The moment he had longed for loomed so near, so very close, that for an impossible instant he yearned for time to slow its tempo. Perhaps she shared the same sentiment, and this in turn had cloaked her in pristine calm.

He was struck, once again, by what she seemed to offer to the world about her; entirely subtle, making no appeal, nor loudly claiming her place, yet drawing him in with deep magnetism. Despite her youth she seemed to resist the confinement of artificial manners, encompassing a natural, fine and free nature; a nature whose siren-call he was long past resisting.

Whereas on previous occasions he'd witnessed a quicksilver vibrancy of movement and colour about her, at this very moment she was the picture of stillness and quietude. Serenity. Morning light poured in through the window, reflecting on the wall behind her and casting a milky whiteness upon her skin. A sonata of blue, pearl grey and white. Her lips parted ever so slightly she seemed poised on the brink of expectation, yet nothing about her was passive or submissive.

The moment of silent contemplation brought with it a new understanding of the woman he was learning to love. Among the richly opulent and distracting clutter of his life Elizabeth spoke the promise of a true and strong simplicity on one hand, and the potential to carve out an unusual destiny on the other. An adventuress willing to barter the ordinary for the uncommon. Light and dark all at once. At times such as this, he thought, when least expected, life did mimic art. But only so far.

Sensing a presence in the room she glanced over her shoulder, and gazed at him, accepting his being there with unquestioning ease and grace. Rather, she seemed to be reaching to him, taking possession of him in an emotional resonance that jarred him to the very marrow.

“A remarkable painting, William, filled with subtle colour and light,” she began quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, clutching on to her poise, her blanketing calm, despite the intense assault of his potent physicality. Dark. Virile. Magnificent.

He crossed the room, and stood by her side. “I've grown rather fond of the work since acquiring it in Delft some time ago. At first it was mistaken for an early Rembrandt, then attributed to a little known Dutch painter.”

“The woman appears elusive, almost out of reach, yet the canvas begs to be touched,” She ran her fingers lightly over the gilt frame in a light caress.

A hauntingly familiar sentiment, he thought to himself. Patience.

“Elizabeth,” he said quietly.

By the timbre of his voice she surmised the inevitable conversation was about to unfold. Would he go down on his knees like a faithful supplicant? Fleetingly, she imagined trading places with the girl in the painting, standing by the light of the window reading a letter. The impulse, however, soon faded away.

“I wish to thank you for the lovely book and flowers,” she stated earnestly, smiling quietly into his eyes.

“They pleased you?” he enquired, fixing intently upon her smile.

“Yes, very much.” She bit her lower lip and sighed, long and deep.

The soughing breath of air seemed to shake him, like a wind shaking ancient oaks on a mountain-top.

“Elizabeth, are you sighing yes, or sighing no?”

“Ah, Elizabeth…” he repeated, when she didn't answer. “I do not pretend to fully understand the nature of passion, love and devotion, but I believe in it all just the same. I was driven to leave after Pemberley, to better understand what I had left behind, only to discover I had erred in my judgment. The sole source of my mistake was within myself. I was faced with a choice: to accept the inevitable and walk away or to return and repair my folly. I have returned, I live with the hope that you shall find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He came nearer and held her hand in his, drawing delicate circles on her skin. “For some time now I have lived with the knowledge, no, the certainty, that with you I feel something entirely beyond my deepest expectations; a buoyancy utterly alien to my nature, life giving and preserving at the same time. You live in my waking thoughts and come slow and sweet in my dreams. I find it impossible to let you go.”

He tipped her chin with his other hand, and gently stroked along the line of her jaw, her neck. “From this day onward, beloved, I shall stand by your side, silently holding out my arms, waiting for you to come to me.”

Entwining her slender fingers through his, she raised his hand and rested it on her cheek. “Tell me William… Whose hand, after all the leagues we've travelled, would fit so well into mine?”

“Whose, indeed?”

“I must warn you, I do hold a vast collection of views on the subject of marriage.”

“I expected as much.” He smiled into her eyes.

“I may grow restless with domestic residence and wish to journey again.”

His smile widened, became brilliant, and spilled into another sphere. “And we shall do our utmost to keep restlessness at bay, my love. Should you wish to wander abroad I would promise not to curtail your liberty, however, I do insist on accompanying you.”

“Then, I may not have my way in all things?”

“Almost all.” He paused momentarily, “As for the rest, I am not averse to negotiation.”

“Or… persuasion?” She ventured with a seductive lilt to her voice.

“Indeed.” The simple word, low and thrumming, resonated somewhere deep within her.

No, she decided, he would not be falling on his knees professing his undying love, and neither did she wish him to.

Her eyes sparkling, she continued, “And the children, of course, will come along on our travels?”

“Ah, how could one forget the children,” he murmured hoarsely into her hair.

Relinquishing her grasp and encircling her waist with both hands, William pulled her into an intimate embrace; solid, secure, and final. They remained entwined in a private cocoon, immune to the passage of time, delighting in each other's presence.

Neither heard the soft click of the drawing room doors followed by the conspiratorial sound of receding footsteps, nor the ripple of hushed murmurings reverberating throughout the house.

Her cheek nuzzled against the crook of his neck, she tilted her head gazing up at his profile. “The title of the book is a trifle long, think you not?”

“Oh?” He murmured.

“Perhaps, A Journey, by Elizabeth Darcy…” She began, but was unable to finish her words as his lips alighted on hers.

“Yes, much better,” he replied after a time.

“My sentiments exactly.”

She sighed again, contented, replete, then tilting her chin at a pert angle announced with determination, “I will have you know, William Darcy, that I am sighing yes.”

He looked at her searchingly and asked her the question, which had quietly but insistently hovered inside him since she had crossed his threshold.

“Might I inquire what precipitated your change of mind?”

She fixed on him with a long scrutinizing gaze. “Oh, I remember the very moment when my feelings began to transform themselves. I was in Italy, at the Villa Medici in an impossibly charming walled garden. I had just entered it when I spotted a tall grey figure disappearing into a dusky forest of evergreens and oaks beyond the locked gates. For a suspended moment I thought it was you, William, and I was filled with inexplicable longing, a heavy plunging sensation, and if you had asked me at that very moment to circle the world with you I would have said, without hesitation, yes.”

“Perchance did this occur in early November following a light morning rain? The walled garden with the twisted miniature trunks that looked like dwarfs? The entire place was filled with mist as I recall, and appeared haunted?”

“Why, yes…”

“It was I, Elizabeth, the man in grey. I had walked beyond the gates, for they were open, to explore the forest.” He stroked her hair and pulled her closer. “We almost crossed paths. Almost.”

“Oh.” She could find little else to say, and both stood silently for a long moment musing upon the strange twists and turns that fate had meted out in her deliberate way.

“Yet, dearest Elizabeth, my curiosity remains unsatisfied, what actually led to the happy conclusion which brings us standing here today?”

“Persistent man.”

William chuckled softly, and deposited a soft kiss on the crown of her head. “Come now, madam, take pity upon your suitor.”

“Very well. After my return to London, following each of our encounters, the feelings grew stronger, at times overwhelming my entire being, yet maddeningly they remained a convoluted tangle until…”

“Until…”

“Until the night of the ball when I realized that you had finally learned to be laughed at. Prior to that moment on the terrace you had accepted my merciless teasing with cool, logical reasoning, but that particular evening when I laughed at you, you kissed me!”

“And all this time I mistakenly held on to the belief that I had swayed you with my proficiency in an entirely different arena.”

Elizabeth tilted her head toward him and blushed. “ Well, that too, just a little.”

“I see,” he responded in a solemn tone, then to her surprise burst out in laughter, rich, resonant and deep. She threw him a bewildered look, her lips quirking uncertainly, and finally joined him in shared merriment. Their peals of laughter could be heard reverberating throughout the house.

“An auspicious beginning, Elizabeth,” he stated with quiet conviction once their gaiety subsided.

“Bright with promise, my love,” she answered

This time, despite his attempt at self-control at well-forged restraint, William became entirely consumed by the intoxicating essence of her. Capturing her mouth in a sweeping tidal wave of a kiss he forgot the year of the Lord, forgot his middle name, and in the end, was left feeling like a little boy falling out of the sky.

“The falls at Tivoli,” Elizabeth murmured hoarsely after what seemed an eternity of William wildly tasting her lips.

He replied with a dazzling smile. “Oh yes, darling, I know. I know.”






Thomas Bennet leaned against the wrought iron spires surrounding Darcy House, and squinted up at its austerely elegant façade. The spring sun shone fierce and bright, momentarily blinding him with its luminosity. Folding his arms across his chest he glowered at Lady Montague.

“An art lesson? You will have me believe that William Darcy is instructing my daughter on the finer points of chiaroscuro unchaperoned, as we speak?”

Lady Montague laid a quieting hand on his arm, “William is an expert on Caravaggio and his Dutch followers; Rembrandt, and the lesser-known artist, Vermeer. While in Italy, Elizabeth developed a true fascination with the contrasting use of light and dark…”

Thomas Bennet smiled indulgently at his long time friend, “And you, Margaret, are the worst yarn spinner this side of the Channel. Caravaggio and Rembrandt, I can understand, but you give yourself away with Vermeer, my dear. Never heard of the man and likely never will. Fine, I shall capitulate; one more turn about the square then we will cross past these damnably imposing gates and demand an explanation.”

“Ah, Thomas, the trouble with us English is that we drink too much tea.” She guided him gently away from the metal portals and began strolling along the perimeter of the square. “Why, all that sepia coloured liquid dilutes our powers of imagination, positively marring our ability to partake in the art of happiness. ”

“Art you say,” he muttered under his breath, gingerly rubbing his left shoulder. “At least this one is proficient in weaponry.”

Smiling to herself she scolded him in a quiet voice, “Proficient in more areas than one, my dear friend. And is your Lizzy not meritorious of something more? For an extended length of time now, I have held the opinion that a woman in possession of a fine mind is deserving of an equally fine husband.”

Thomas Bennet's scowl lightened, hovered on the edge of indecision and following a prolonged pause transformed into a wistful smile.

“Be not alarmed Margaret, for some time now I have suspected he was an excellent man if one looked sufficiently long and deep. As for Lizzy, her travels have certainly altered her in a most advantageous way. The gulf, in the end, was not impassable.”

Lady Montague patted him fondly on the arm. “There is hope for you yet, my dear Thomas,” she announced with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Are you making sport of me, Margaret?”

“A rhetorical question, my good friend. Come let us continue our turn about the square. Now, do regale me again with the tale of Bingley's proposal… ”

Leading him determinedly toward the green she cast a last look over her shoulder at Darcy House.

The Georgian façade stood noble and tall, basking in the spring sunshine, as if illuminated by some inner radiance.

Surely a trick of the light, she thought fleetingly then paused mid-flight, struck by an inspired notion. How foolish of her! 'Twas not the sun at all, but rather, the lustre imparted by a young pair of lovers ensconced somewhere within and enlightened by the felicity uniting them.



The End

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