The Rich Are Always Respectable ~ Section I

By Elizabeth Hooten

Beginning, Section II

Prologue:

Posted on Sunday, 15 January 2006

May 1812

Stephen Deincourt, Lord Westhampton, would never forget the day he arrived in the Darcys' drawing room, just as a young black-haired lady was leaving. She said something polite and slipped away before he could gain more than an impression of large dark eyes in a pale face. He involuntarily glanced over his shoulder.

“What a beautiful young woman,” he remarked. Darcy looked as if he did not know whether to be more amused or alarmed.

“Georgiana?” he said, a little blankly. Lord Westhampton blinked. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“That was little Georgiana?” He struggled to reassimilate this concept into his understanding of his connections. He had never given his youngest relation much thought. She was only sweet little Georgiana. He had scarcely seen her, she was only a child — well, obviously not a child any longer. Suddenly his interest in his cousin spiked, just as Darcy's eyes narrowed very slightly.

“Miss Darcy to you,” he replied coolly, and with not a little suspicion. Westhampton laughed ruefully. Darcy had always been too clever by half.

“Surely you do not suspect me of designs on your sister, Darcy?” So she was out now. No doubt with her looks, pedigree, and fortune, she would not lack for suitors. Perhaps there were already a number regularly calling on Miss Darcy, all of course under her brother's sharp eye.

“Of course not — as such,” Darcy said cautiously. “But, you know, one can never be too careful.”

“I do not know,” Westhampton returned easily. “I have no sisters or daughters, and my only eligible cousin is the lovely Miss Darcy, who I have just been expressly warned off from.”

Darcy did not appear fooled by his easy manner. He replied, “I did not say so. You may speak to Miss Darcy all you wish, if you do so with propriety, but I will not have her upset.” Then he added with unusual intensity, “She is not like other young ladies, with nothing but dances and millinery in their heads, she is sensible and sweet-natured and she deserves better.” He was quite pale.

“I see,” said Westhampton. A frightening creature, to be sure! But a devoted brother's partiality must be taken into account. And, of course, a devoted brother's fierce protectiveness. “You are a most conscientious brother, Darcy.”

“Thank you,” he replied dryly.

His close friendship with the family gave him an easy excuse to call on the Darcys frequently, and develop an acquaintance with young Miss Darcy. She was very like her brother, not quite so handsome, with striking regular features she had yet to fully grow into, a very fair complexion, and formal, gracious manners which not the best of company could make easy. Like her brother she was rational-minded, even-tempered, and quietly obstinate. Proud, reserved, and not only a little shy, she scarcely spoke before others; however, she was highly accomplished, even for a lady of her station; she drew, sang, played the harp and pianoforte, spoke several languages with ease, danced elegantly when she could be persuaded to do so, and once brought out of her shell could speak cleverly and sensibly on most subjects.

She would, he decided, make some man a fine wife; and he would not be wholly adverse to being that man. There were, perhaps, other young ladies as eligible, or nearly so, despite his only modest fortune; certainly there were others more lively and engaging. Yet Georgiana was the only one he remained unwaveringly drawn to. Their connection made matters simple. Georgiana's peculiar modesty ensured that she was at present oblivious to his interest.

Darcy was not fooled, but as he did not explicitly warn him off Miss Darcy, Westhampton felt that nearly constituted encouragement. An offhand invitation to come to Pemberley during the summer months increased his confidence, particularly when Miss Darcy enthusiastically seconded the offer. He was determined to remain in their company, even if it meant enduring the Bingleys. Westhampton had no idea what had possessed Darcy to befriend such people, but his cousin had always been rather strange that way. He gladly accepted the invitation.

September 1812

“. . . I can only ask, dearest, most beloved, Georgiana,” Lord Westhampton concluded, “that you do me the honour of accepting my offer.” His hands were clammy and doubtless it was vastly unromantic to feel severe discomfort in his knees as he knelt before her.

Georgiana looked at him gravely. “I should be able to say something very clever and interesting — Stephen,” she replied unsteadily, clasping his hand. His thoughts were too scattered to comprehend this, and, lost somewhere between despair and hope, he could only say plaintively,

“Georgiana?”

She smiled, with a sudden rare brilliance. “Yes, Stephen; I would be honoured to be your wife.”

He laughed, flooded by joy, and looked down at her long, slender fingers, for the first time intertwined with his. “You will never regret this, I promise,” he said, grinning like a boy before kissing her hand exuberantly. Georgiana lowered her eyes, blushing a very little.

“You needn't kneel,” she said softly, and he instantly interpreted the invitation for what it was and seated himself beside her.

“I have missed you, my love, more than I can say.”

She entirely reciprocated the sentiment, and after several minutes, or hours, of lovers' talk, Westhampton returned to his original subject with characteristic tenacity.

“I cannot comprehend the need for you to be at Netherfield all this time. What have you to do with Bingley's wedding?”

She laughed. “I wish to be in Hertfordshire, with my brother, and he wishes me with him. Mr Bingley was kind enough to invite me to the wedding, and Fitzwilliam is best man. You know that Mr Bingley is Fitzwilliam's particular friend, it would be very rude to refuse.”

“If I understand Darcy's cryptic comments aright, you would be in good company.”

She lifted up her eyes, surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“The family of Bingley's intended?”

“Oh.” She coloured. “They are certainly — singular,” she managed to say diplomatically. “Miss Bennet is perfectly amiable, and Miss Elizabeth is charming. Even Mr Bennet is pleasant, once one gets to know him.”

“Which,” he replied sardonically, “leaves only the mother and three younger daughters.”

“I have not met the youngest daughter, she is married,” Georgiana said, lowering her eyes once more.

“To the son of your family's steward!” he replied contemptuously. “Even Bingley could do far better than that.”

Georgiana cleared her throat. “Before we — proceed with this engagement, my lord,” she said steadily, “there is — something that I — I ought to speak with you about.” She inhaled deeply. “The summer before last, I — I did something very foolish, and were it not for Fitzwilliam, I — I do not know — I would be so beyond, so lost to my present happiness that I — I cannot conceive of it.”

He smiled reassuringly. “Come, Georgiana, tell me; I am sure it cannot have been all that bad.”

“Oh yes, yes it was!” she cried. “Stephen, I —”

The door opened, and Darcy, looking very unlike himself, entered. His eyes caught sight of their clasped hands and he smiled tiredly, raising an eyebrow slightly. “I beg your pardon, I must speak with you, Westhampton, on a matter of some urgency. Georgiana, you may join us if you like.” He frowned as he took in her pallor. “You look upset, my dear. Is something wrong?” His eyes instantly went to Westhampton, and hardened.

“No, no, I have never been happier,” she said sincerely. He relaxed, and brother and sister smiled at one another in perfect understanding.

“Then perhaps there is another matter of business you would care to speak to me on, Westhampton?”

“I — yes, of course,” he said hurriedly. “Miss Darcy, you do not mind — ”

She smiled serenely. “Of course not.”

The two men proceeded to Darcy's study, where Westhampton prepared himself to ask the blessing of a man two years his junior. Even as he formulated a stiff request for Miss Darcy's hand, he instantly dismissed it. The next, a comfortable, even casual offer, was even more swiftly discarded.

“Darcy,” he said helplessly, “I — I — ”

“You may ask me for Georgiana's hand in a few minutes,” Darcy said tersely.

“But I — ”

The other man's eyes turned icy. “I hope you do not mean to say you have not an intention of doing so?”

“No, of course, I love Georgi — ”

“Miss Darcy.”

The sharp, almost unsteady reply jarred Westhampton out of his own nervousness. Darcy was of a particularly imperturbable temperament, to an even greater degree than his sister. Westhampton felt an unpleasant stirring along his spine. “Good Lord, Darcy, what is it?” He examined his friend carefully. There was something vaguely disharmonious about him, not at all in keeping with his normal appearance. “You look dreadful,” he said critically. “It cannot be G— Miss Darcy, I have been with her this past hour at least.”

Darcy smiled faintly. “Yes, I know. It is Lady Rosemary. Did you hear about the Duke of Albini's — courtship, for lack of a better word?”

Westhampton grimaced. “Yes, along with the rest of London. Poor Rosemary. I cannot imagine he took her rejection well.” Lady Rosemary Alfreton was their only other relation, a sensible, refined young woman of about nine-and-twenty, and a favourite with both cousins. There was no doubt in his mind that she would have refused the duke, whose depraved character was a matter of public knowledge, regardless of circumstance.

“No,” said Darcy somberly; “not well at all.”

No fool himself, Westhampton caught his tone easily enough. “What has he done? She is in full command of her fortune, he could not possibly have influenced her in that manner. We are her only relations, she need not sacrifice herself for our sakes — ”

“It seems,” said Darcy quietly, “that he — compromised her honour.”

“What?” Westhampton cried. “Impossible, how could — ”

“I do not know,” interrupted Darcy, “she was too overwrought to speak coherently.”

“She went to you?”

“Of course,” he replied impatiently, “who else did she have? You know how delicate her sense of honour is, how she shrinks from scandal. Even if he did nothing else, this would be enough. I did not dare leave her alone.”

“He means to force her to marry him.” Westhampton tapped his fingers. “She has no-one in the world to protect her, but us. And even so — with his influence, he could very well claim — well, whatever he liked. She traveled so much last year, he might very well say they eloped or something equally ridiculous. She is known for her eccentricity.” He sighed. “What a disaster.”

“Yes,” Darcy said succinctly.

“Something must be done,” Westhampton continued agitatedly. “If only she could be married, but I can't imagine who would take her, after this. No, it must remain within the family.” The realization struck him in an instant. “You, or I, must . . .”

“Yes.”

“But I — you saw us, Darcy, surely you cannot expect — I have heard of no recent attachment on your part. No attachment at all, in fact, you live as plainly as ever. It is a great step, to be sure, but she is a fine woman, you could do far worse.” He looked at his cousin earnestly. “I have just promised myself to your sister, Darcy.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know. I supposed as much when I spoke with Rosemary.” His expression was contemplative, wistful, almost grieved. A horrible suspicion flashed into Westhampton's mind.

“Darcy, you are not — you are not engaged, surely? I had not heard, but you have spent a great deal of time in the country, and I know you were in Ireland for some time in June. Perhaps something quiet — ”

“No,” said Darcy softly, “there is no understanding.” He sighed. “You are quite right, Westhampton. We shall speak to Rosemary in the morning. Now, I believe you have a question to ask me, regarding my Georgiana.”

Chapter One

“Fitzwilliam, you must not be rash — ”

“My dear cousin, please be rational,” Westhampton interrupted, exasperated with his relations' tactful maneuvering. “We cannot be anything but rash.”

Lady Rosemary smiled faintly. “I am very grateful to you both, but this matter is my concern.”

“Rosemary,” Georgiana said gently, “if this becomes public knowledge, it will not only be your concern. It reflects on all of us.”

Rosemary lowered her eyes, playing listlessly with the fringe on her shawl. “I cannot ask such a sacrifice of you, cousin.”

“I did not hear you ask anything,” Darcy replied easily. “Rosemary, it is a good match for both of us. I am almost surprised I never thought of it before.” He did not mention what everyone present knew; Rosemary's fiancé had died ten years before and since then, she had refused to entertain even the idea of another attachment.

“You gain nothing,” she said, raising her cool blue eyes to meet his own. “You do not need the connection, not with Stephen and Georgiana's engagement; you could have someone far wealthier if you wished it, but you do not need fortune in any case; and you do not love me.”

“Do you think, my dear, that I would do this for someone I did not love?” Darcy inquired softly. “No, Mary, I am not in love with you; but love is not enough for a good marriage in any case. Perhaps it is even better to base a marriage on solider principles.”

Rosemary looked down, her slender, almost transparent hands settling on her lap. “Be that as it may, you gain nothing, and I — I receive everything. I could not enter into such an unequal union.”

“It is not unequal. You are in rank and fortune my equal, or almost so; your connections are nearly identical to my own; and if I may say so without sounding unduly melodramatic, I believe you would bring something of substance to my life.”

She threw him a skeptical look. “I cannot believe it. What do you suppose I could give you?”

“Companionship,” he said, simply. “When Georgiana and Stephen marry, I will be left to myself; and if there is one thing above all others I do not wish, it is that. I am happy for them, but selfishly dissatisfied for me. Rosemary — ” he leaned forward intently, “I do not wish to be alone. I want a family, Mary, a wife I may hold in the highest esteem and respect, children. No, I am not in love with you, and I would hazard to say that you are not in love with me; but, Mary, has love brought either of us any lasting happiness? Not I, to be sure. I hope, I believe, that a more steadfast attachment — for we have always been fond of each other, have we not? — will grant us both some degree of contentment.”

The other three stared at him, Georgiana's expression faintly guilty. “I — I had not thought of that,” Rosemary said. “Fitzwilliam, you are certain? You will not regret it? I do not think I could live with myself if I knew I had made you unhappy.”

“I shall not, I promise,” he said, briefly clasping her hand.

Rosemary laughed, suddenly. “This shall be a story to tell our children. I do not think I have ever received a more unromantic proposal of marriage.”

“I have a rare gift.”

To avoid any and all complications, Lord Westhampton procured a special license, before the Duke had so much as guessed whither Lady Rosemary had gone. The only possible touch of scandal to the affair was its unseemly haste; they were married within three days of the engagement. It was a small, private affair, attended only by the six surviving members of the Darcy-Deincourt clan (including the bride and groom), the clergyman officiating, and the Fitzwilliams, who overcame their (entirely reciprocated) antipathy towards the Deincourts in order to lend their support to Darcy. “You are a fine man,” the Earl told his nephew, clasping his shoulder. Darcy only smiled.

“Dearly beloved,” the bishop began, with a proud look for his favourite godchildren, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . .”

Rosemary inhaled deeply, glancing over at her cousin's — fiancé's — tall, upright form. His blue eyes were fixed on the bishop, without any shadow of regret or melancholy, or ill intent. The great weight she had carried on her shoulder's since the Duke's attack lightened, a little. He was too good for her, but she would try, she could be a good wife to him. With a guilty flush, she returned her attention to the words of the marriage ceremony, although she knew them so well she could have recited them by heart.

“First, it was ordained for the procreation of children . . .” Children. She had always loved children, and almost more than James' death, she had regretted that loss. And Fitzwilliam, too, he had been wonderful with Georgiana, and later on, his own godchildren and cousins. The realization struck her without warning; it was a gift, this marriage, a second chance for her, and perhaps for him.

“Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin . . .” To avoid fornication. Never again, she thought; no man would dare lay a hand on Fitzwilliam Darcy's wife. The burden lightened still more, and her sharply-drawn breath startled the bishop, who threw her a reproving look. Rosemary tried to feel penitent and lowered her eyes, but the relief spreading through her was too much for words.

“Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.” Fitzwilliam's voice echoed in her ears. Companionship . . . I do not wish to be alone. I want a family, Mary. She blinked rapidly, holding tears back, and thought, So do I. She had always been a little solitary, but the company of no-one but a series of companions who endured her eccentricities for the generous wage she paid them, that was not company at all. He would understand — he was so much that way himself —

He was speaking, in his clear, unwavering voice, “I, Fitzwilliam, take thee, Rosemary, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Rosemary smiled brilliantly, and repeated the words: “I, Rosemary, take thee, Fitzwilliam, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

He replied, slipping Lady Anne's ring on her hand, “With these ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

At the end of the ceremony, her ring warm against her finger, she signed her name, Rosemary Darcy.

Chapter Two

Posted on Wednesday, 18 January 2006

“Shall you return to Pemberley, Darcy?” Bingley inquired, once compliments were paid and greetings exchanged. Rosemary tried not to smile. He was a very young man, Mr Bingley, agreeable, artless, enthusiastic, and eager to please. Too eager, perhaps. He lacked her husband's effortless elegance, and although handsome he was not striking; in addition he seemed almost ungainly, just rather rough about the edges. His build was not light, although at five foot nine he was barely Georgiana's height. He was impossible not to like, but she remained in some doubt as to what of substance there was in him.

“Not unless you are retracting your invitation,” Darcy replied.

“Excellent!” Bingley beamed. “Of course, you must come as well, Lady Rosemary — if your health permits,” he added, uncertainly.

“Thank you, sir, I will be honoured,” she replied demurely. The proverbial bull in the china shop, Bingley exuberantly talked away, undeterred by his companions' long silences, until he remembered some appointment or another, at which point he was gone with hardly a by-your-leave. Rosemary took a deep breath.

“Your friend is very . . . enthusiastic,” she said carefully. Darcy laughed.

“Oh, yes, that is the word,” he replied. “He is much more so since his engagement, however. He makes us feel about twenty years older.”

“Us?” Westhampton repeated, the Bingley-incited disdain on his face slowly replaced by his customary good humour. Darcy coloured slightly.

“Miss Elizabeth and I. We are friends, of sorts.” He shook his head. “When do you wish to go into Hertfordshire, Rosemary?”

She glanced at Georgiana. “As soon as is agreeable to you both.”

“Darcy,” Westhampton interjected, “do you mean to tell Bingley . . .?”

Darcy shook his head. “No. I do not think any outside the family circle need know. Except — ” he hesitated. “I have some friends, I think they — there is — they deserve an explanation, I think.”

“More friends, Darcy?” Westhampton shook his head. “I never thought you to be so friendly.”

“One can hardly go eight-and-twenty years in the world without amassing a few,” Darcy said. “After all, one chooses one's friends — unlike family.” He smiled at his cousin. “They are a rather young couple — about five-and-thirty, I would think — and relations of the Bennets.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Stephen!” Georgiana said sharply. Rosemary and Darcy favoured him with identical disapproving looks.

“Have I fallen into a nest of Evangelists?” Westhampton shook his head. “These relations, where can we find them?”

“Gracechurch-street,” said Darcy, as easily as if he had spent his entire life befriending tradesmen. “Perhaps you might wish to stay here, Westhampton? Only Rosemary and I really ought to go, although Georgiana — if you wish it — ”

“No,” said Georgiana, with a shy smile for her fiancé, “Mrs Annesley may come down and chaperone us, you take Rosemary to see the Gardiners. Please give them my best wishes, Fitzwilliam.”

“Of course, my dear.”

Rosemary looked about in wonder as they drove through the town. Once they left the fashionable streets where she had spent most of her life, conditions swiftly deteriorated. She had never seen so many starving, dirty, utterly wretched people. She could not keep from asking her husband, “Fitzwilliam, why is it like this? It is not at home, I have seen how your tenants live; surely it need not be this way?”

“No,” he said grimly, “it need not; but it is, and one man — ten men, for that matter — cannot do a great deal for them.”

She shivered. “I do not like town. When may we go to Pemberley?”

“As soon as Bingley is married, although we shall probably stop in town for an evening on the way.”

It was crowded, noisy, and dirty. Rosemary could not imagine how Darcy had ever met such people — whatever they might be, she simply had no idea what her fastidious husband had been doing here to begin with. He paid two of the boys to take care of the horses, and knocked on the door. Rosemary was unaccountably nervous, she knew from what he had said earlier that he thought very highly of these people, from almost the first moment of their acquaintance, he said, he had been struck by their good sense and pleasant, well-bred manners. Yet how did one speak to such people? She knew servants and tenants; and social acquaintances, and family, and others she might associate with as an equal. This, however, was utterly beyond her experience, and for almost the first time in their lives, she resolved to follow Fitzwilliam's lead.

Darcy gave his card to the servant, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of two children, who peered around the corner then shrieked, “Mr Darcy! Mr Darcy!” and launched themselves at him. She was even more surprised to see Darcy laugh and lift them up in his arms. The little girl kissed his cheek enthusiastically and the little boy seemed scarcely able to keep himself from jumping up and down, chattering madly about his latest adventure. Rosemary, who had spent little time with children in the last half-decade, was taken aback, but when the little girl smiled winningly at her, she could not keep from smiling in return.

“These, my dear, are Miss Amelia and Master Edward Gardiner,” Darcy said, still laughing a little. “Now you two, you must stay still long enough to meet my wife.”

They both stared. “You said you were not married, Mr Darcy,” Amelia said accusingly.

“And so I was not — then. We were just married two days ago,” Darcy explained, ruffling her hair. “This is my wife, Lady Rosemary Darcy.”

Both children stared at her gravely, then Edward said politely, “My sister and I are pleased to meet you, Lady Rosemary.”

“Thank you,” said Rosemary, and on impulse leaned down to kiss his cheek. He giggled.

Amelia slipped down and curtseyed, then declared, “Rosemary is for remembrance.”

Rosemary laughed. “Yes, so it is.”

“You are very pretty, as pretty as Mr Darcy and my cousin Jane.”

She glanced sideways at her cousin, who had coloured deeply, and could not help laughing even more. At that moment, a tall, dark-haired woman entered, the children returned to her, and she addressed Darcy with a smile.

“Mr Darcy, it is a pleasure,” she said sincerely.

“Thank you, Mrs Gardiner,” Darcy replied. “May I introduce you to my wife, Lady Rosemary Darcy?”

“Your wife?” Mrs Gardiner positively started, before turning to Rosemary. The two ladies curtseyed. “Mr Darcy, Lady Rosemary, you must come in. Edward, stop pulling Mr Darcy's hair. My husband is in, I am sure he will be delighted to meet you, your ladyship.”

The Gardiners, when they heard the entire story, were all compassion and sympathy. Mrs Gardiner fetched tea, and briefly clasped Rosemary's cold hands. “There, you both must take care of yourselves. What a tragedy, I am more sorry than I can say.” With a more serious look, she added belatedly, “I hope you will both be very happy.”

“I am certain we shall,” Rosemary said, a little awkwardly. Mrs Gardiner's manner was distinctly motherly, for all that she was hardly older than either of the Darcys, and she fussed over them both as if they were children. Mr Gardiner gave them an understanding smile.

“You need not fear any reprisals from us,” he said, speaking very quietly to Darcy. “I will confess to being disappointed, there is no point in denying that, but there was little enough choice in the matter. You are a fine man, sir.”

“So I am told,” Darcy replied, with a faint smile. “Thank you, Mr Gardiner.”

“You are quite welcome. I am honoured to call you a friend, and I hope this unfortunate matter will not prevent our meeting again.”

“Certainly not.”

Rosemary smiled in relief. She had not understood how her deliberate, careful husband could have formed such a close friendship within a few weeks of acquaintance, not until she met them and was welcomed almost into the family. They were — kind. That was exactly the word. Spurred on by her gratitude, particularly to Mrs Gardiner (who instead of looking horrified when she began crying, as Rosemary's own mother would have done, gave her a handkerchief, plied her with more tea, and offered her whatever comfort she could), she said, “I hope, that whenever you are in the area, you will visit us, we would be delighted.”

“Thank you very much,” Mrs Gardiner said, surprised. “Mr Gardiner does have some business in Yorkshire in December — ”

“Then you must come,” Darcy said, straightening, “if only for a few days. It would be an honour, I assure you. And, Mrs Gardiner, surely you would like to see Christmas in Derbyshire again, you have been gone so long.”

The Gardiners laughed heartily. “You are a very wicked young man, tempting me with such delights! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Mrs Gardiner chided. Then, with a pleading look, she turned to her husband. “Edward . . .”

“Well, we shall have to see closer to the season, but if my sisters make no demands on me, I see no reason we could not come. The inn, is, I believe — ”

“Oh!” interjected Rosemary, “surely you would not stay at an inn? Not at Christmas. You must come to Pemberley — Fitzwilliam, I am sure you agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you very much,” Mrs Gardiner said gently. “If it can be arranged, we shall be there.”

“I shall write towards the end of November, when I have a clearer idea of our itinerary,” Mr Gardiner added, and the Darcys stood. The sun was beginning to set.

“My dear girl — ” Mrs Gardiner took Rosemary's hands as they prepared to leave — “take care of yourself, and your husband. He is a rare man, as I think you have discovered.”

“Yes, he is.” She held back tears once more, this time more successfully — “Mrs Gardiner, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, there is no reason you should treat me as you have — I know it is not what you and Mr Gardiner would have wished — ”

“Never mind Mr Gardiner and I,” she said with a lovely smile, as the two men shook hands. “You have suffered enough, my dear, you need not do so on anyone else's account.”

Rosemary smiled tremulously. “Thank you, Mrs Gardiner. I hope we will see you at Pemberley this winter.”

“As do I. Edward, you shall not engage Mr Darcy on politics, we must let them go.”

Everyone laughed, and Rosemary could not keep herself from saying, once her husband had tucked a blanket about her and headed off to their house, “I see, now, why you wanted them to know. Thank you for taking me, I like them very much indeed. It was so comforting, I hope we shall see a great deal of them in the future.”

“You are quite welcome,” he returned warmly, “although my motivations were not quite as unselfish as they ought to have been.”

“So Mr Bingley's Miss Bennet is Mr Gardiner's niece? Is his sister much like him?” she inquired innocently, and watched with interest as Darcy desperately tried to keep from laughing on a public street.

“Ah, no, not particularly,” he finally managed, in a strangled voice. “You shall see, next week, when we go to Hertfordshire for the wedding.”

Rosemary curled against him as he drove on. “I suppose so,” she said sleepily.

Chapter Three

Amiable and pleasing as Mr Bingley was, his sister — despite the very strong physical resemblance she bore him — was just the opposite. Miss Bingley could have given Lord Westhampton lessons in haughtiness, and with less cause. No wonder he so disliked them all. Rosemary cordially expressed thanks for Miss Bingley's hospitality. Miss Bingley cordially expressed thanks for Lady Rosemary's presence at her brother's wedding. It was altogether exhausting and Rosemary claimed a headache she was really beginning to feel.

If it were only Miss Bingley's hypocrisy and her brother's perpetual high spirits, it could be endured easily enough, Rosemary thought, as she allowed her maid to unpin her hair, and luxuriated in the sudden relief. But to add to it all, that odious pair of harpies seemed unable to keep their respective eyes off her husband. Regardless of the circumstances of the marriage, she was his wife and the only person with a right to look at him like that (were she so inclined, which she wasn't). There was undisguised acquisitiveness in Miss Bingley's look (leer she mentally characterized it), while Mrs Hurst restrained herself to a sort of vapidly eager interest.

The husband in question, dear man that he was, completely ignored the sisters and their machinations, paying no attention but what they were owed as his friend's sisters. He had warned her that they were not especially kind and he had no great fondness for them, not to mention the epicurean Mr Hurst. Unpleasant as the Bingley sisters were, at least they did not lack (much) intelligence; Mr Hurst, however, was utterly ridiculous.

“I do not like them, Fitzwilliam,” she confided that evening. Darcy laughed, as he had been unable to do since they had arrived that evening, fettered by the eyes of another man's servants and the ever-present harpies.

“I confess, neither do I. They were not so dreadful when they were younger, but Miss Bingley in particular has grown very — disappointed.”

Rosemary could not keep herself from smiling as she looked at their reflections in the mirror. “Would it be terribly impudent of me, my dear, to ask if her disappointment was quite so acute before our marriage?”

“Very impudent,” he said, the dimple in his cheek belying his words. For a moment they maintained proper gravity, before bursting into laughter together.

Why — it struck Rosemary for the first time as she caught him in the mirror — her husband was really quite, quite handsome. He had nothing of James' sunny, warm charm, James had physically been more like Mr Bingley, not tall but broad-shouldered, golden-haired, easy-mannered and quick-tempered. He had been aggressive when he was angry, she remembered, and a fine boxer. A little harsh and rough-seeming at first. She had thought him like an ancient warrior, a modern Viking or Angle walking about in a coat and cravat. Fitzwilliam was a different sort altogether, with his cold, steely beauty, his sharp brilliant mind; even as a boy, he had fought with words rather than fists, and even now, she had the vague suspicion that his fascination with ideas, histories, theories, had not abated in the least. Whimsically, she wondered what he could have been — a Roman governor? a Greek philosopher? a Christian martyr? She thought of him standing beside her at their wedding, upright and unwavering — and dismissed the sudden intense guilt which swept over her.

“Rosemary?” Darcy said gently.

“Oh!” She twisted her head to look at him affectionately. “I was just lost in my thoughts, I beg your pardon.”

“What were you thinking about?”

She laughed suddenly. “You, actually.”

He started and coloured. She waved her hand. “It was — nothing of consequence. Just some of my silly ideas. You know how capricious I can be.”

“Yes,” he said doubtfully. “Not very capricious at all. Well, good-night. If you need me, I am just in the next room; you shall want to rest, the Bennets should be here in the morning, something to do with rearranging the furniture.”

“The furniture? Is Miss Bennet that particular?”

“Mrs Bennet is that particular.”

“This is Mr Gardiner's sister?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head with a smile, and kissed her husband's cheek. “Good-night, Fitzwilliam.”

“Mr Bennet — ” He was an eccentric gentleman with sharp, cynical dark eyes — why did she feel he was laughing at her, and not kindly? There was no reason to suppose that he was not perfectly amiable.

“Mrs Bennet — ” The Bennet family matriarch (because there was no doubt in anyone's mind that it was a matriarchy) was a short, plump woman, with a shrill voice, whose chief occupation seemed to be embarrassing everyone around her. Her manner to Darcy was little short of offensive, and she seemed undecided as whether or not she should extend that dislike to Rosemary —

“Miss Bennet — ” With an automatic smile she turned to the next, Mr Bingley's fiancé; and was astonished to see a gentle, sensible young woman, quite beautiful, with unassuming, pleasant manners. Rosemary's smile quickly turned sincere as she greeted the girl with as much warmth as she could muster in company.

“Miss Mary and Miss Catherine — ” The one was plain, affected, and pompous, the other highly-strung, pretty, and insipid, and they seemed incapable of speaking to one another without quarrelling. Rosemary, who had always wanted a sister, decided in that moment that she had not realized her own good fortune.

“Oh!” said Mr Bingley, as yet another Bennet slipped into the room, “there you are, Lizzy.” With a concealed sigh, Rosemary turned to the newcomer. “Your ladyship, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Lizzy, Lady Rosemary Darcy.”

Miss Elizabeth was a small, slight girl, pretty enough but not very striking, with reddish-brown hair, brilliant dark eyes, and a natural vivacity Rosemary could not help but envy. She gazed at Rosemary with clear curiosity, and something else the other could not quite identify; she smiled in response to Rosemary's polite greeting, and her own was perfectly cordial; but Rosemary thought that she had seen a flash of hostility in the other woman's eyes, and could not imagine why. It was gone quickly enough, and she assured herself that she must be imagining it. Overexposure to the harpies, no doubt.

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” she said, replying to Miss Elizabeth's congratulations and rather strained best wishes. Perhaps she knew something of their situation from the Gardiners; that would explain the peculiarity of her manner.

There was no doubt that they were a family. Opinionated and obstinate to the last, whether in defense of balls, Fordyce, or the Wickhams' prospects (Rosemary's feathers were rather ruffled at this on her husband's behalf, but she was not half so badly-off as Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet, who exchanged brief anguished expressions before determinedly changing the conversation to a discussion of Jane's trousseau). Aside from Mrs Bennet, however, they were not half so bad as she had been led to believe. What a snob you are, Stephen, she thought with a smile.

“Your necklace is lovely, Lady Rosemary,” Miss Catherine offered tentatively, as they enjoyed a fine dinner at Netherfield. It had taken little effort on Rosemary's part to discern that the girl was utterly petrified of Darcy, so Rosemary smiled as reassuringly as she could.

“Thank you.” She glanced down and added, “my cousin is very kind.”

Miss Elizabeth, who sat nearby, glanced up sharply. Miss Catherine innocently asked, “Your cousin, ma'am?”

Rosemary realized what she had said and blushed. “Mr Darcy and I are cousins, you know. We have not been married a fortnight, but we have been relations these eight-and-twenty years. I am not quick to adapt to new situations, I'm afraid.” Not to mention the fact that her relationship to Darcy did not seem to have changed the slightest in consequence of their marriage.

“Oh,” Miss Catherine said ingenuously, “I had no idea. You are not alike.”

“No, there is only a little resemblance about the eyes — he favours his mother's people, the Fitzwilliams. I am like the Deincourts.”

Rosemary kept an eye on Miss Elizabeth, who had by now become quite an enigma despite her openness of manner, as Miss Catherine said shyly, “You are both very handsome, you look very nice together.”

This time there was no doubting the expression on Miss Elizabeth's face. Rosemary smiled at Miss Catherine, politely said, “Thank you”; and wondered. Why on earth did a woman, a young woman she scarcely knew and had hardly spoken a sentence to, how had this girl come to harbour such a dislike for her? It was puzzling and not a little unsettling.

Chapter Four

“I, Charles, take thee, Jane, to my wedded wife . . .”

Rosemary sniffled. She scarcely knew the radiant woman smiling sweetly up at Mr Bingley, but they were charming, handsome, and very much in love. The shy sweet smiles on their faces could not but remind her of her own past, when she and James had become engaged. She had been deliriously happy for those months, very like Miss Bennet, now Mrs Bingley. Rosemary blinked rapidly — she had not cried over James for years — and smiled at her husband. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were best man and bridesmaid to the newly-married couple, and had performed their services efficiently and amicably.

After a few days Rosemary felt no more sense of belonging than she had at first, despite Mrs Bingley's kindness. Even Darcy and Georgiana seemed more at ease, and she could not think of why she felt so terribly awkward here. They certainly were not the sort she typically associated with, and yet it was more than that, there'd been no great difficulty with the Gardiners.

Now, Darcy and Bingley were shaking hands, Miss Bennet — Mrs Bingley — and Miss Elizabeth (Miss Bennet!) were embracing each other, both crying. Mrs Bennet was trying very hard to cry, Mr Bennet was trying not to cry, the younger girls were a little bored — all in all, it was a very normal wedding.

The Bingleys were going to Yorkshire, Mr Bingley's native country, for their honeymoon. Mrs Bingley and Miss Bennet cried some more after the breakfast. “You will write to me, Lizzy?” Mrs Bingley asked anxiously.

“So is Baildon west of Sheffield?” Bingley said to Darcy, who — Rosemary could not keep from smiling in amusement — was suffering a case of nerves to rival Mrs Bennet's. She did not think he would appreciate being informed of his resemblance to a mother hen just then, even if only she could see it. Bingley had expressed a certain eagerness to return to Yorkshire at some point in the future, and Darcy knew of an estate that might fit his needs.

“Yes, of course,” Miss Bennet said, kissing her sister again. “Shall you have time for writing, now that you are a married woman?”

This was apparently some sort of joke between the two of them, for both laughed and kissed each other again.

“No, no, it's east — for heavens' sake, Bingley, just ask directions — ”

“What a lovely bride,” Mrs Long said simperingly to Mrs Bennet, who beamed. Overflowing with the milk of human kindness, she was delighted with the world and everyone in it, and complimented everyone from Mrs Goulding to Mr Darcy (the latter of whom looked utterly astonished but graciously extended best wishes for the couple and congratulations on the fine breakfast).

“I hope you will take good care of my friend, Mrs Bingley,” Darcy said, his look rather anxious beneath the polite detachment. Miss Bennet smiled warmly then bit her lip. The two men shook hands one last time, and Mr Bingley turned to his wife and helped her into the carriage. Amid much tears and laughter, the Bingleys set off. As soon as they could with propriety do so, the three Darcys followed suit and left for London.

Rosemary was not fond of society and longed for the day when they could leave London. She had little enough to be glad of. The Duke was in town and when separated from her husband, she could not keep herself from jumping at small sounds and looking over her shoulder. Morever after frequent visits to Gracechurch-street she grew more and more dissatisfied with the great contrast between the opulence of their lives and the misery of those they could do nothing for. After snapping at an astonished Georgiana she forced herself to explain, she was not easy here, she could not pretend she was, and from then on either brother or sister remained in perpetual attendance. She felt rather silly until the day she caught the Duke's eye from across the room. If Darcy had not been there, stepping close to her and placing one hand on her back, she might very well have fainted on the spot.

She had not conceived as a consequence of the Duke's attack, and the overwhelming relief she felt was a sharp reminder of how great her husband's charity was. She could not help but confront him, for until she knew she had not, the idea had not entered her mind that she might have.

“You did not, Rosemary,” he said; “that is all that need concern us.”

“But, Fitzwilliam,” she cried, “what if I had? What if I had borne his son?”

Darcy set down his book and sighed. “Mary, I did consider the matter. I had no intentions of keeping it a secret from any of the family. Any child you conceived might as well have been a daughter, and then I would have treated her as my own; if a son, I would have done what I could for him. Pemberley is not entailed. I probably would have left the estates to our child, should such a person come to exist, and persuade — the other —to seek his inclinations, naturally with my support. In every other respect he would have been as my own.”

Rosemary stared. “You thought this through very throroughly, didn't you?”

“Of course,” he said calmly, “it was a great step to make, for that and — other reasons.”

“Other reasons?” He coloured and looked down. Rosemary frowned. “Why, what oth —” Mary, has love brought either of us any lasting happiness? His voice echoed in her ears and she understood. How funny — in a terrible, dreadful way. It was so inconceivable. Cousin Fitzwilliam — Mr Darcy — oh, whoever he was, that he should suffer the pangs of romantic love? Impossible, surely. And yet not. It explained everything, his quieter, graver demeanour, his detachment and occasional sadness— “I am sorry, so sorry,” she said.

He dropped his eyes. “It is nothing, really.”

She frowned at him. “But — if your heart was attached, how could you? Fitzwilliam, that was wrong — ”

His head jerked up, eyes flashing. “You do not understand,” he said sharply, and she flinched. His voice gentled. “I'm sorry, but I — I do not care to speak of it. Needless to say there was no understanding, no — anything. Nothing at all. It was not us, just I.”

“Oh.” What had he said? Not I, to be sure. And he was afraid of being lonely. Sympathy welled up and she clasped his hand; he looked away. “Do I know her?”

“Yes.” He inhaled deeply. “Rosemary, I would really rather not speak of it — if you don't mind. It's better not — to think about it. You know.”

“Yes.” She touched his hand one more time and withdrew, only glancing back once, to see him staring pensively out the window, chin resting on his interlocked fingers.

They attended the third wedding in as many months. Rosemary kept a close eye on her husband, who behind his veneer of elegant composure looked positively desolate.

“I, Georgiana, take thee, Stephen, to my wedded husband — ”

She could not help herself and began crying silently. If anyone deserved happiness it was Georgiana, and Lord Westhampton simply adored her. They would be happy, she was certain of it. Georgiana was beautiful, for quite possibly the first time in her life she was not outshone by her brother, and she had grown into the strongly-marked features she shared with him, they were no longer that little bit unbalanced. Dark eyes shining, she kissed her husband enthusiastically. Darcy looked faintly ill.

“Congratulations,” Rosemary said cheerfully, “I hope you are both very happy.” She looked at her cousin and, lowering her voice, added, “She had better be if you wish to keep your head. You are a good man, but she is something special. Take care of her, will you?”

Westhampton laughed softly. “Of course. Thank you for the warning — sister. Is that on your own behalf's or Darcy's?”

“Both,” she said, smiling back. “He is — ” Whatever wifely instincts she possessed kicked in at that moment, and she shook her head and said no more. It had struck her that her primary loyalty must be to him, and if their intimacy made his feelings easier for her to perceive, that was no reason to inform others. He would be horrified if he thought himself that transparent. And Georgiana could not bear it if she thought for an instant that she had made her beloved brother unhappy. Of course, he was not unhappy, as such, but there was certainly something —

“Oh, Fitzwilliam!” Georgiana cried, and held her brother tightly, pressing her face into his neck in imitation of her childhood habit. “I love you so much, I don't know how I shall bear it without you — ” She swallowed and gave up the fight, sobbing softly into his shoulder.

“Oh, hush,” he chided her gently, “you shall be happy, and I am not fifteen miles away.” He did not sound half-convinced himself, and Rosemary could see that not all the tears shed were Georgiana's. “If you ever want me, Georgiana, you know, you have only to ask, and you are — always welcome — ” His voice caught and he rested his cheek against her dark hair, eyes tightly closed.

“I know,” Georgiana said, still clinging to him. “Fitzwilliam, take care of yourself.”

“I will, I promise. Don't forget who — ” He drew a deep breath, and detached himself, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her forehead. “Remember who you are, dearest.”

“I will.” She sniffled, and took her husband's arm. “Goodbye. Oh!” She ran forward, embracing her brother again and raining kisses on his cheek. Darcy laughed unsteadily, wrapped his arms about her tightly.

“You really must go, my love, the horses — ”

“I love you, you know that?” she said earnestly, and he nodded, letting her go, and not daring to speak anymore — except to pleasantly deliver the expected threats to his new brother. After the newlywed couple departed, Rosemary took her husband's arm and said lightly,

“There is something very bittersweet about weddings, don't you think?”

Chapter Five

Posted on Monday, 23 January 2006

Rosemary had not been to Pemberley for years, not since her grandmother's nephew, George Darcy, was alive. He had been a fine man, very handsome, and she had enjoyed her visits as she had been close to all her Deincourt relatives. She had not been of an age or disposition to pay much mind to the grounds or the house, but now she leaned forward eagerly as they went over the last incline and looked down. Pemberley spread out before them, lit up by the last remnants of sunlight, the woods sprawling out through the valley. It was not at all what she had expected, and seemed subtly different from her memories. There had been follies about, very picturesque and dramatic, that she had played on and about; but they were gone. Also it seemed the woods and stream were rather more prominent than she recalled.

Rosemary glanced at her husband, and smiled. She knew that he loved Pemberley, with characteristic single-mindedness — there were no halves with him. He spoke of it with the same passion that another man might speak of the object of his desire, a beautiful mistress or beloved wife. He stared down, his lips slightly parted and his eyes smiling brilliantly although his expression remained severe. Rosemary turned back to the sight before her, as the carriage rattled on. It was almost too lovely, too — she had no word, too much. It did not seem quite earthly. She had preferred it with the little idiosyncrasies, the follies and statues and all those little touches that had spoken of variance and imperfection. This Pemberley was so perfectly blended between nature and artifice, she could find no flaw, and so beautiful she could almost not bear it. She felt a pale, tired imitation of herself, utterly incapable of managing the overwhelming presence and beauty that was Pemberley. And yet — beautiful and sublime — she was almost transported at the same time, into a sort of peculiar joy and pleasure.

It was all very strange. Rosemary cast her strange mood off, and looked at her husband. He was happier than she had ever seen him. “Welcome home,” he said easily, helping her out of the carriage. Rosemary looked up at the house and swallowed. It was a fine, soaring building, not as grand and splendid as she had expected — as Darcy could afford to make it — and again she felt that blend of awe and anxiety.

“It is lovely, beyond words,” she said sincerely, looking around. There was no great pomp, the servants went about their duties quietly and efficiently, but she could not miss the contentment pervading the place, nor the pleasure lighting up Mrs Reynolds' face when she set eyes on her master. “She has yet to realize I am no longer four,” Darcy had said ruefully, and that was apparent immediately by the distinctly maternal manner she took with him, fussing over the weather, his clothing, whether or not he had eaten properly — Rosemary could hardly keep from laughing at it, they were so utterly delightful together.

Later that evening, Rosemary said idly, “What happened to the follies?”

Darcy glanced up from his book. He looked very peaceful, no longer as volatile as he had been in London. She missed that, a little. It had reminded her of James. He had been a gentleman as well, of far more recent affluence, of course. His estate had shown the signs of that, the buildings had been modern, there had been eccentric additions and variations;—he had cut down a small stand of trees on a whim. One never knew what would happen next with him. She had always been a steadying influence on him, but Darcy needed no steadying. One need only look at Pemberley to see that. She felt rather melancholy as her husband replied, “I tore them down.”

“Whatever for? Did not your father like them?”

“Yes,” he said, laughing a little, “but I do not feel obliged to agree with my father on every matter. I thought they were rather pretentious, actually.”

“Fitzwilliam!”

“Father did not build them, it was some ancestor five or six generations back,” Darcy said hurriedly. “I would not speak of my father in such a manner, I am certain he would not mind my changing things a little. They were very out of place at Pemberley, fashion without purpose.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Rosemary did not dare say she felt as out of place in the wild, perfect beauty of Pemberley as one of those dear, whimsical follies, fashionable and purposeless. She shivered. What would James think? She had not thought of him so often for five years at least.

She settled into life at Pemberley easily enough, far more easily than she had expected. It was so orderly, she found her ways easily assimilated into the greater way of things at Pemberley. She liked the colour yellow and promptly found her favourite room decorated in that shade, courtesy of Mrs Reynolds (with Darcy as co-conspirator, naturally). They did so much to accommodate her that she was determined to return the favour, to be an exemplary mistress of Pemberley and wife to Darcy, in every possible respect.

They had been at Pemberley two months, living contentedly and peacefully. Rosemary did not see her husband a great deal — she had had no idea he took such a great personal interest in affairs of the estate, but free of the passionate, possessive sort of love that might have placed a greater claim on his time, she did not mind terribly, fond of him as she was. There was much to do, and discover. Moreover he was so still and quiet that she often failed to notice him when he was present.

It was particularly embarrassing when she happened across a fine painting of a darkly handsome woman with a small boy on her lap. He was a startlingly beautiful child, and the painter had been very talented, catching even the smallest details, the nervous grasp of the boy's small fingers on his mother's dress, the slightly haughty tilt of her chin. “A Madonna?” Rosemary said aloud, and was startled by a sudden laugh. She stifled a shriek and glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she said in relief, “it's only you.”

“Yes,” he said, with a crooked smile, “only I. I beg your pardon, I should not have laughed.”

Rosemary turned back to the painting, caught by the little boy's intense blue eyes as he stared out of the frame. She shivered a little. “It is a lovely painting,” she remarked. “A mother and son, I am certain. Why should it not be a Madonna?”

“Well,” he said, biting down on his lip, “because it is my mother and I.”

“Oh!” She blushed fiercely, and looked more carefully at it. Yes, she had seen that detached, introspective expression on her husband's face often enough; and the woman looked a great deal like him. She had thought, perhaps, that the model for it was a relation of some sort, certainly with those dark good looks one of the Fitzwilliam clan. “Rather presumptuous of me, then.”

“You did not know, it is quite all right.” He looked intently at her. Rosemary sighed, thinking that it was difficult enough to be watched by one Darcy, three was rather excessive. “Are you quite well, my dear?”

She started and glanced up. “Of course,” she said instantly. “Why did you think not?”

“You have been ill every morning this week, and yesterday you fainted in the middle of the day.”

“Oh, I think that I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. Do you remember that dinner at Lady Meredith's? I remember thinking that the partridges were done very ill.”

“There were no partridges, Rosemary,” he said gently.

“Oh, well, whatever it was then, I don't recall.” Her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the painting once more. “Is that the only picture you have of Lady Anne?”

“My uncle has the others.”

Rosemary glanced up at the wall. Another dark, strikingly handsome lady looked down. “Who is this? She looks rather like.”

“My grandmother, Lady Alexandra. Her mother was a Fitzwilliam.”

“Oh, I had thought Lady Alexandra was the fair-haired one in Georgiana's room.”

“That is my great-grandmother, for whom she and my father were named.”

“Oh, I see.” She glanced down at the letter in his hand. “Is there something you wish to speak to me about?”

“Ah, nothing in particular.” He smiled uncertainly and took his leave of her. The next day, as her maid was dressing her, the girl tentatively asked,

“Your ladyship, have you noticed . . .?” She gestured at the stays, which had in the last few weeks grown quite uncomfortable.

“Have I noticed what, Amelia?”

“You are — you have — you are not quite so slender, my lady, as when you first came.”

Rosemary laughed at this. “Too many dinner parties, I'm afraid. I shall have to take greater care.”

The French girl actually stamped her foot and muttered something too rapid for Rosemary to catch.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The English are very silly,” Amélie pronounced, and pulled the stays tighter with a vengeful jerk. Rosemary squeaked.

“Perhaps I should speak to Mrs Reynolds,” said Rosemary.

“Oh, what about?” Darcy cut his meat neatly into small squares. She watched with some interest. Every day at every dinner he cut his food in exactly the same way. He was without a doubt a creature of habit.

“I have been ill again, surely not all the food I've eaten at other people's houses can be bad. It must be our own.”

“Ah — ” said Darcy quickly, “Perhaps it isn't the food and you are ill? You could tell her your, er, symptoms, and she might be able to help. She has a great deal of, er, practical experience with this sort of thing.”

Rosemary sighed. “You are probably right. If it isn't the food, I wouldn't want to offend her.”

“Indeed not.” With a distinctly relieved expression, he applied himself to his food once more.

“I am sorry I am such terrible company, Fitzwilliam. I do not care for being ill.”

He bit his lip down, but she thought she caught the hint of a dimple in his cheek, and she gave him a sharp look. “It must be dreadful,” he said hastily. “I remember when mother — well, Mrs Reynolds can tell you about that.”

“About what?” She looked at him curiously, and he shook his head.

“She would know more about it than I, really. Tell her about everything, she is very sensible.” His face was now very composed, but she knew him well enough to recognize what he had once ruefully called his “Lady Catherine grimace.” It was his usual way when he did not dare show his true feelings. He was acting very strangely these days, almost giddy. Most unlike himself. Perhaps he was not well either?

Chapter Six

February 1813

Rosemary stared at the housekeeper, one hand automatically flying to her stomach. “That is impossible!” she cried.

Mrs Reynolds looked vastly amused. “Apparently not, your ladyship.”

“Surely it's too soon?” She sat down heavily, struggling to comprehend it all.

“You have been married over four months, your ladyship,” Mrs Reynolds said, glancing away. “It is quite normal.”

“But we didn't — ” Rosemary turned scarlet and looked down awkwardly. Were their circumstances different, she might have called the other woman a friend. But she was Lady Rosemary Darcy, the lady of the house, and Mrs Reynolds was the spinster housekeeper. It would be vastly improper to mention what went on behind closed doors, certainly. Rosemary blushed again and again. At nine-and-twenty she was hardly a innocent young girl, she understood what men were like. For all his austerity she had believed Darcy would be the same. So, when she deemed herself ready to approach her husband, she had not the slightest idea that it would take hours of rational persuasion and a great deal of wine to convince him. Such occasions remained very rare and very awkward, as he was no more attracted to her than he was to a Gainsborough painting.

She thought back. If she was about six weeks along, as Mrs Reynolds speculated, it must be — oh, yes. So it had been long enough, just barely. “Oh, I see,” she said, still flushed. “I should tell Mr Darcy.”

“Ah,” said Mrs Reynolds, colouring slightly, “I believe — it is very highly probable, ma'am — he probably knows already.”

Rosemary started. “How would he know? Did Amelia — ”

“Lady Anne conceived seven times between Mr Darcy and Miss Georgiana,” Mrs Reynolds said delicately. “He saw the signs often enough.”

Rosemary remembered his repeated questions, which at the time had only rather irritated her, and blushed yet again. “Oh, I see.” She frowned. “Why did he not tell me?” she wondered aloud, and Mrs Reynolds cleared her throat.

“I believe he thought, your ladyship, that the, er, announcement, was your prerogative.”

Rosemary gave her a sharp look. She had no doubt but that Darcy had confided in his housekeeper — he did not maintain distinctions quite as he ought. “I see,” she said.

The months of Rosemary's pregnancy passed without incident. She felt she looked ridiculous — she had always been a slender, ethereal woman, and remained so but for her protruding belly — and for the first half of the time was more temperamental than she had ever been in her life. Darcy prudently spent most of his time on the estate or locked in the library after she lashed out at him several times too many. (Fond as he was of her, he was not about to let her dictate the manner in which he carved his meat. Nor — though he did not consider himself a vain man — did he let her near him with her scissors when she declared his hair too long.) Then she became unnervingly serene. Darcy ventured out of the library, and the servants regained their customary good cheer, which somehow no longer seemed quite so grating. (Why must everyone here be so cheerful all — the — time? she demanded of no-one in particular on one of her more unpleasant mornings.)

Georgiana, who had conceived a month earlier than Rosemary (to her brother's mixed joy and fear), was a great comfort, writing long and witty letters about the horrors of her own confinement and how much she looked forward to being a mother. Her son was born in September and christened Stephen Darcy George Deincourt. Rosemary privately thought it a rather unwieldy name for such a small creature, but of course he was only ever called “Stephen.” Within a few weeks he was a lovely, charming little boy (and, according to his uncle and the family portraits, the very image of his mother at the same age). It was October, three weeks past when Rosemary had been assured the time would come, when her water broke and she stared blankly at the floor.

The labour, considering the mother's slight build and the baby's size, was not terribly difficult. It was only five hours before Anne Rosemary Darcy entered the world, and the exhausted Rosemary received her daughter in her arms. She was very like other babies, loud and red, with a full array of toes and fingers. Soft, downy black hair covered her head, and Rosemary laughed in weary delight as Anne began suckling on her breast.

Anne had fallen asleep when the midwife remembered Darcy, still pacing outside. Rosemary could just hear her say, “Mr Darcy, you have a daughter” before he dashed into the room and stood quite still, staring wordlessly at her. The midwife gently put Anne in his arms, and he automatically adjusted his stance slightly to hold her head up. The midwife smiled and said, “I see you have done this before, sir.” Darcy ignored her and gazed down in utter fascination at his daughter.

“She looks like you,” Rosemary said sleepily. Another man might have done the expected and protested; not so he. Darcy reverently brushed one finger over the fine black hair and laughed softly.

“Yes, she does.”

Chapter Seven

Rosemary was tired and dispirited for weeks after Anne's birth. She could not explain it, now that the greatest trial of her confinement was past; but she constantly struggled for composure and her old even-temperedness. Anne's crying wore on her nerves more quickly than anything else in that time, and with her exhaustion she slept more than ever before. She could not rest without knowing that Anne was taken care of, but soon all fears were put to rest. The wet-nurse was an almost unbearably efficient woman who could be relied upon to feed Anne with clocklike regularity; for the rest of the time, Anne followed her mother's lead and slept.

It was only about six weeks after Anne's birth that Rosemary began to recover her spirits. Starting out of her exhausted, depressed stupor, she collected herself and went looking for her husband. He was not in the study, so she made her way to the library — and stopped in the doorway. She could not keep from smiling, charmed at the scene in front of her; Darcy sat on one of the sofas, a battered book in one hand, Anne peacefully sleeping in the other arm. Rosemary could not bear to interrupt and so waited until she heard voices. She peeked in and laughed herself, to see father and daughter examining one another with identically grave expressions, Anne smiling and giggling as she tugged at Darcy's hair.

She discovered that Darcy, quite contrary to his usual habits, had abandoned estate affairs for sometimes hours at a time, instead devoting himself to his daughter's amusement. Anne seemed endlessly fascinated by him, running her small hands over his face and then over her own, frowning in bemused concentration. She did not care to be taken from him, even for meals, and would scream vociferously when forced to do so. Rosemary grew closer to her daughter, one of the few people Anne recognized and smiled at, but she could not be surprised that Anne seemed to prefer her father to all others. From his treatment of Georgiana she had known that Darcy would be a dedicated parent, although naturally she had underestimated his capacity for devotion. She could not help feeling a little excluded, although it was her own fault for indulging herself so after Anne's birth.

The duo of tiny Anne and towering Darcy gladly welcomed her into their little circle once she recovered her strength. Anne adored both her parents, who could not keep from reciprocating the sentiment (even as they admired her fine set of lungs). “Were you this loud?” Rosemary inquired, wincing.

“No,” said Darcy, “I was too ill.”

“Oh — ” Rosemary blushed — “I had forgotten.” He was so healthy that she forgot he, too, had not been expected to live. Mr Darcy and Lady Anne had only produced one really healthy child — Georgiana — among the fourteen conceived.

In December, the Bingleys extended an invitation to come to Netherfield. All three, the couple and their son Charles, had been at Pemberley for Anne's christening, as Bingley was god-father, and exclaimed over Anne just as they ought. (“The spitting image of you, Darcy,” remarked Bingley. “She'll be a right terror once she grows old enough, won't she?”) But Darcy could not help but decline, citing Rosemary's poor health. The birth had been easy, comparatively speaking, but she was slow to recover her health; her constitution had never been good.

There were a thousand fragments of moments that Christmas, that stayed in her memory for the rest of her life. Darcy reading to Anne in Latin and Greek. Georgiana rushing in two days before expected to see her brother, both siblings embracing each other tightly and exclaiming over one another's increased beauty and delightful offspring. Darcy `accidentally' paying a Lambton shopkeeper over four times the cost of his purchases with a pleasant if reserved, “Happy Christmas, sir.” Convincing her husband to attend the Cartwrights' ball, and waltzing the evening away in his arms. The enthusiastic welcome of the Fitzwilliam clan when they traveled north to Houghton, listening to Darcy passionately tax his uncle with the conditions in Sheffield and Leeds. Pride, pride in husband and daughter, family, even Pemberley, warmed her that season.

She could hear Darcy reading out loud to Anne as she walked down the hall, a letter and newspaper clipping in her hand. “. . . and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.” The clipping was from the obituaries, an announcement that the Duke of Albini had died three weeks prior. Rosemary smiled, suppressing her delighted vengeful feelings, and walked in the library, raising her eyebrow at the pair.

“Isn't she rather young for Isaiah, Fitzwilliam?”

Anne was staring at her father raptly; as his voice ceased, her face screwed up.

“Nonsense,” said Darcy, and as Anne prepared to scream in protest, he hastily turned a few pages, continuing, “Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee . . .”

Rosemary shook her head and kissed Anne's head and Darcy's cheek before retiring.

Chapter Eight

Posted on Thursday, 26 January 2006,

The next few months passed peacefully. The rash of births, weddings, and courtships meant that the Darcys were no longer able to spend so much of their time at Pemberley. Colonel Fitzwilliam married an admiral's vivacious niece, Miss Crawford. Despite her undoubted charm, Rosemary could not like her. Mrs Fitzwilliam, while quite fond of her husband, seemed equally fond of the other three Fitzwilliam cousins. It apparently did not signify that two were married and the third engaged. Her flirtations might very well have extended to her other brother-in-law if the former Lady Eleanor was not quite so . . . incalculable. Even Mrs Fitzwilliam did not dare rouse her new sister's fury. She restrained her attentions to Lord Allington, Mr Fitzwilliam, and Mr Darcy. Rosemary seethed quietly and could not bring herself to care greatly that she deeply offended the colonel and his wife when she unceremoniously snatched her daughter out of Mrs Fitzwilliam's arms.

She discovered a well-preserved antique book that Darcy had been looking for since before their marriage, and purchased it on the spot, caring nothing for the extortionate sum the shopkeeper demanded. She had thought of simply giving it to him on the spot, but as it was February, she hid it among the comportment manuals inherited from her mother, and shyly presented it to him for his thirtieth birthday. He was delighted beyond words and impulsively laughed and whirled her around. She never saw him so happy until one day about six months later.

Darcy was busily attending to some letters and could not entertain his daughter, who protested energetically. It took all of Rosemary's strength simply to hold her back, as she would instantly crawl over to his desk if left to herself. Finally, Anne capitulated and began sobbing softly into her mother's shoulder. Rosemary and Darcy looked at one another ruefully. Anne sniffed, rubbed her nose, and held out her arms to her father. “Pa-pa,” she said plaintively. Chaos ensued; Darcy's face lit up and he rewarded Anne by taking her into his arms and holding her high above the ground, much to her delight. She laughed and laughed. Rosemary burst into happy tears. Mrs Reynolds came by to see what the matter was and stopped, sniffling, despite her advanced years quite unable to miss Anne's happy chant of “Papa, papa, papa.”

Anne picked up new words quickly. After “papa” came “ma-ma,” “Old” (Mrs Reynolds), “Nana” (Georgiana), and “Ing” (Mr Bingley). Within a few months she had acquired a rudimentary vocabulary, and promptly began stringing it all together. She understood more than she spoke, and as much as she could stayed as close to her father as a small persistent shadow. She incessantly asked him, “But papa, why?” Rosemary would have been perfectly happy to take her away, teach her that her father was not to be disturbed in his study and she must discipline herself; but Darcy would not stand for it. “She is just a child, Mary; there will be time for that later,” he declared, and Rosemary, who once again found herself growing tired at odd moments, easily acceded. For every why there was an answer, which Rosemary at first believed Anne, at not yet two years old, could not possibly understand. But she did and only asked more questions. “This is what comes of reading Euclid to a little girl,” she told Darcy, but he only smiled with an expression positively whimsical and shrugged his shoulders.

Then they went to Kent, for another Fitzwilliam marriage — this time the Earl's nephew Henry Fitzwilliam. He was a promising young barrister, by his own account neither pious enough for the Church nor courageous enough for the military. He bore a striking resemblance to her husband; Mr Fitzwilliam's eyes were warmer and darker, and he stood two or three inches shorter than his younger cousin, but at a distance even the eagle-eyed Lady Catherine could not tell them apart.

Lady Catherine was the only member of the family not pleased at Darcy's marriage. She had always intended him for her sickly daughter Anne, who was now so frail that she could not walk and spent most of her time asleep. She was, however, somewhat mollified by Rosemary's fortune and her connection to his family. She was even more mollified by the rapid production of her first great-niece, named in honour of her beloved sister. With no possibility of grandchildren Lady Catherine's great-nieces and -nephews were her only chance to dictate how to raise children, and the opportunity was not to be passed up.

“Anne is certainly a very talkative child,” she announced critically. “I have not heard so many questions since you were her age, Darcy. It is quite singular for a girl, she may well become too clever.”

“Surely one cannot be too clever, aunt,” he replied. Rosemary bit her lips to hide a smile and looked down. The food was fine and very well-done, but she felt rather faint and could scarcely swallow. Everything was far more blurry than she recalled, and at one point she nearly spilt her wine. She did not dare touch it after that and played with her food while Lady Catherine droned on.

“She is your heir, of course?”

“Yes, ma'am. You know that Pemberley is not entailed.”

Lady Catherine made a noise of approval. “Excellent. With your combined fortunes — ” she favoured Rosemary with an approving look — “I daresay it shall not greatly signify how eccentric she is. Any man will be quite fortunate to have her.”

Darcy smiled. “I flatter myself, my dear aunt, that we are in complete agreement on that point.”

Rosemary had never thought to be so glad to return to Pemberley, even if she could not clearly make out the beauty she had learnt to love. She had no idea what was wrong. She would have thought she had conceived again were it possible. She nearly fell down the staircase one morning; as she swayed, eyes drifting shut, Darcy happened across her and caught her, forcefully taking her to Georgiana's parlour and sitting her down. From who-knew-where he procured smelling salts, the pungent odour bringing her sharply to, and demanded to know how long she had been ill. She did not know — it had come on so slowly — at first she had simply been a little dizzy at times, but that was normal — and she thought it because she had lost her appetite. When, he asked, when was this; and could only stare in horror when she reluctantly confessed that it predated their marriage by several years. It was nothing, simply a poor constitution, she insisted. Darcy without further ado sent for two doctors, one the apothecary from Lambton and the other a respected London physician.

“Mr Darcy, Lady Rosemary . . .” Their prognoses were identical, and it only took the couple a moment to interpret the apothecary's strained, nervous features. Rosemary gasped, the world spun about, and Darcy held her upright, utterly still. Perhaps she borrowed something of his calm then — she never said. But a serenity descended upon her in that moment which even she wondered at occasionally.

The next two months were some of the happiest she had ever lived. She spent more time with Anne, who, naturally affectionate, entertained herself by pressing exuberant kisses over her mother's face. She talked with Darcy — not as she had always done, simply making conversation, but for a purpose, with real depth and intensity. He was her greatest comfort then, for those were what he could speak of, the things that others veered away from or did not dare approach.

One day she looked at him — by now he was little more than a blur to her eyes — and said quietly, “You will be free, soon.”

“Mary, you cannot believe —”

“No, no — but listen to me for a moment. And do not interrupt! I do not wish to be forgotten. No-one does.” She laughed lightly. “You shan't forget, my dear, you never do. But Fitzwilliam — you are an excellent man. I am certain I do not know a better. No, let me finish. You have been a good husband, better than I expected. But this is enough.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Enough martyrdom, Fitzwilliam.” She laid her hand, nearly transparent now, over his. “There is more to life, even your life, than duty and honour and obligation. I know you. You will devote yourself to Anne and withdraw into your little bit of paradise. Duty always comes first with you. But do not forget all those who care for you, Mr Bingley and Georgiana and even Lady Catherine, in your adherence to it.” She stopped, and laughed self-consciously. “I sound terribly hackneyed and dramatic, but I have not your gift for words. Just — somewhere, Fitzwilliam, there is a young lady, who, I think, you love very much. Do not apologize! You made certain I knew before our marriage. There are no half-measures with you. You did not think she cared for you, but what if you were wrong? Do not make the same mistake.”

He clasped his fingers tightly around hers. “It was not a mistake, Mary.”

“If she cared for you, as you did for her, as you still do, I cannot comprehend what she must have suffered. At least I had the comfort of knowing my love would have chosen me, did choose me. Perhaps it was not a mistake, marrying me, but I feel for that young woman. I think that she did love you — at least she did when you returned to Netherfield with a wife. She had no very cordial feelings for me, I'm afraid.”

She could hear his sharply-indrawn breath, and smiled peacefully. “It was very obvious, I'm afraid, in retrospect. I will admit to being hopelessly blind at the time, so caught up in my own concerns that I could not see what was immediately before my face. I could not understand why she so disliked me, until I had so much time with my own thoughts. I had not the smallest idea that she was the one. She was so very unsuitable, you know, it never even entered my thoughts.”

His fingers tightened unconsciously around her cold ones. “Mary, I'm sorry. I tried — ”

“Yes, I know.” She tried to look him directly in the eyes. “Don't run away again, Fitzwilliam. I want you to be happy when I am gone.”

He bent his head. “I shall try.”

“But don't forget me,” she added, with sudden fierce anxiety. “I don't wish to be forgotten, either.” She laughed suddenly. “Remember little Amelia Gardiner? Rosemary for remembrance.”

“I shan't forget you, Rosemary.”

Lady Rosemary Darcy died on a chilly morning in August. Georgiana had stayed with her sister during the last days of her illness, and remained to comfort her brother and niece. Anne could not understand and cried piteously for her mother, comforted only by her father's arms and voice. The Fitzwilliams came along with Mr and Mrs Bingley, the latter's kindness and serenity never more welcomed than at this time.

On Anne's second birthday, Darcy bundled her up and took her to see her mother's grave, handing her a sprig of rosemary and carefully explaining why mamma was no longer with them. Anne listened and placed the sprig on Rosemary's grave. “For 'memrance,” she said tearfully. “Aunt Nana says.”

“Yes,” he said, “yes, it is.” He lifted her up with a sigh and pressed his cheek against her black hair.

“We go in,” said Anne, her voice muffled by his cravat. “It's cold.”

End of Part I

Book Two: Chapter One

Posted on Sunday, 29 January 2006

Rosemary had, it seemed, left no mark on Pemberley. There were a few changes to be sure, but nothing she had done — only what had been done for her. It was six months since her death, and, almost, Darcy could believe that she had never been there at all, no time had elapsed since that day he had walked home to find his cousin sobbing in his parlour, it was all a bizarre, not wholly unpleasant, dream.

“Papa?”

Except this. He smiled as Anne toddled over to him as fast as her short, plump legs would take her, and held up her arms with a peremptory expression. Yet, even though Rosemary had without a doubt borne their daughter, in this as in everything else, she had left no mark of her own. The only characteristics Anne shared with Rosemary were those that he himself did; in neither disposition nor appearance did she appear to have inherited anything from the woman who had been her mother. He lifted her up into his arms.

“Talk,” Anne demanded, and Darcy chuckled. She did not seem to care what he said, as long as he said something — as long as she could hear his voice. He slept when she did, where she did, for at those times that she woke up, alone in the dark, she began screaming for her father, utterly terrified — of what, no-one knew, but he could guess well enough. He knew that most of his relations thought him far too indulgent of her eccentricities, but the idea of simply leaving her to her fear seemed horrible beyond measure. He could dimly remember loathing the dark as a child, but he had never dared tell anyone. Georgiana used to crawl into his bed and shake violently — she, unlike Anne, would never have dared raise her voice — while he held her, until she was sufficiently comforted to fall asleep. It was she who on her frequent visits to Pemberley (“you oughtn't spend so much time alone, Fitzwilliam”) assured him that he was not being unreasonable. As if she herself were still a child, confiding a dark secret, she stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “I do the same with Stephen.”

Since Rosemary's death, he had been more careful than ever to set time aside for Anne. No matter how deep his involvement in the management of the Pemberley estates and the Fitzwilliams' political ambitions, he made certain to spend several hours a day with his daughter. He had become mother and father to Georgiana early on, and in a way this was very much the same thing. Although, if he were strictly honest with himself, it was rather easier. Aincourt and Pemberley were so close together that Georgiana could travel to and from each in a day, if she had cared to make the attempt. She did not; she stayed for weeks on end with her son, a clever, well-behaved boy who found Pemberley in general and his cousin in particular utterly fascinating.

The first time Darcy's schedule grew too hectic to allow him to spend his customary evening time with Anne, he made his first impulsive decision in the last three years and brought her along with him. The quarrelling lawyers clearly thought he was mad, but as long as he kept his end of the conversation going, Anne remained quiet and well-behaved. Soon it became simpler altogether to bring her on his safer errands, and his associates become accustomed to the sight of pretty little Miss Anne shadowing her father's footsteps wherever he went. The tenants were as delighted with her as were the neighbours who insisted on pinching her cheeks and cooing over her, although the former were rather more sensible about it.

All in all, father and daughter had settled into a comfortable routine. He visited Houghton in winter, carefully avoiding Mrs Fitzwilliam, and ignored Lady Catherine's dictates on child-rearing. As little as time as possible was spent in town. The first time was the September after Rosemary's death, for he had realized (to his shame) that he had neither invited the Gardiners to the funeral — nor informed them of its existence, nor even its reasons for existing — and determined to remedy the situation. After making certain that all relations and possible guests were away from town, he took Anne and called on them.

It did not matter that he stood at least six inches over Mr Gardiner, nor that both Gardiners were less than a decade his senior, nor that their youngest child, three-year-old Sarah, had yet to realise he was not actually her uncle. Somehow he always felt about fifteen when he walked into their house, a young awkward relation rather than a friend of the family. Even the presence of his own daughter, not seven months Sarah's junior, did nothing to help; he only felt an inept, incompetent parent before the highly capable Gardiners.

Not that he would have presumed to speak of it; he would have been surprised to know that the Gardiners perfectly understood his reaction to them, and accordingly accepted his unacknowledged deference. Amelia adopted him first, then the rest of the children, and by the time of Sarah's first birthday, all concerned viewed him as Mrs Gardiner's surrogate younger brother. She had never had one to lose; but their shared background, despite the very great social gap, along with the children's easy adoption of “Uncle Darcy,” made it very easy to accept his peculiar role in their family. Even the distance of the last year — Darcy had not left Pemberley in that time, and Mr Gardiner's business had kept them settled in town — could not stop them from receiving him as if he were a lost family member come back to the fold.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Mrs Gardiner scolded. “Ten months with nary a line! And now, you show up on our doorstep, without a by-your-leave or warning or . . . or . . .” She glared fiercely at him, hands on her hips, before sniffling and embracing him. Anne blinked in startled fascination.

“I am very sorry,” Darcy said penitently. “It has been a difficult year.”

“I was so sorry to hear about Rosemary. Come in, sit dow — what have we here?” Her face softened as she knelt down, and Anne returned her smile shyly.

“This is my daughter, Anne,” he said, gently brushing Anne's dark hair out of her eyes. “Anne, this is Mrs Gardiner.”

“Miz Scar-near?” Anne tried, with a prim curtsey. Mrs Gardiner returned it as soberly as she could manage.

“Would it be easier to say `Aunt Margaret,' Anne?”

“Aunt Margret,” Anne said promptly, and beamed. “Easy. Like Aunt Nana.”

“Then that is what you shall call me,” declared Mrs Gardiner, and it was so. She quickly remembered an urgent reminder to the cook, and raced away, but not before insisting, “You must take Anne into the parlour, and I will send for Edward, he is doing nothing that cannot be interrupted — ”

“I would not wish to incon — ” Darcy began, but a sharp look from Mrs Gardiner had him picking his daughter up and following her with an almost meek, “Yes, ma'am.”

He was not in the least surprised that as soon as Mrs Gardiner vanished, Amelia Gardiner ran into the parlour, her face covered in smiles, and flung herself into his arms with a joyful squeal. “Uncle Darcy — Edward, Edward, Uncle Darcy is here, you have to come and see!”

With that the two boys ran in, John holding back a little shyly, but before long all had gathered about him. He could scarcely keep from laughing as Amelia severely told him he had been very bad to not visit for so long.

“I was not in town, you see,” he explained, as the three children congregated about him, one on his lap, another at his side, and the third at his feet. “You are dirty, Miss Amelia. Have you been playing with the stable-boys again?”

She folded her arms and stuck her lower lip out. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Darcy had only to raise an eyebrow before she lowered her eyes guiltily. “Papa says I cannot read any of his books for a week. I meant, I don't want to talk about it more.” Then she lifted her head and smiled winningly. “Did you bring anything for m — us, Uncle Darcy?”

He frowned sternly. “What if I haven't?”

She considered, then graced him with a superior look. “I shall forgive you, this time. But only if you never stay away so long again.”

“You are very kind,” he said gravely. “I shall not, I promise.”

“That's good, because if you promise, then you won't ever do it, and we missed you.”

“Sometimes, people break their promises,” he said softly, and Amelia looked at him pityingly from where she perched on his lap.

“I wasn't talking about people, I was talking about you.” With a reproachful look, she added, “We missed you,” and was fervently echoed by her two brothers.

He could not refrain from briefly brushing her round cheek at this pronouncement, and said quietly, “I missed you too, very much. And, perhaps, I might have something, if you have all been very good.”

Mr and Mrs Gardiner entered the parlour only to find their three middle children sprawled across Mr Darcy, all deeply asleep.

“You are too indulgent, Fitzwilliam,” said Mrs Gardiner. He was not entirely certain when they had progressed to Christian names. He would certainly not have been so forward himself, if she had not poked, prodded, and threatened him into it.

“So I am told,” he said easily. “Georgiana assures me that it is everyone else who does not properly understand, however.”

They laughed, and after the Gardiner children went to bed, their parents sat down, exchanged civilities, admired Anne, and commenced with the inquisition. “Speaking of Lady Westhampton, how is your sister?”

Darcy smiled. “Very well. She spends a great deal of time at Pemberley.”

“It is difficult enough to leave when one is only a dinner guest,” Mr Gardiner said wryly. “For your sister, who belongs, I cannot imagine how she manages it.”

“She doesn't, really. Part of Westhampton's attraction may very well have been the proximity of his estate to mine,” he admitted. “She spends as much time at Pemberley with me as she does with him at Aincourt. Of course, she had far greater freedom as Miss Darcy than she does now; my cousin's family tends to be very . . . correct. I was, no doubt, too indulgent with her, as well.”

“Nonsense. Lady Westhampton is a lovely young lady,” Mrs Gardiner said. “You could not have done better with her.”

“My great-aunt thinks I could have,” he said wryly. “She finds Georgiana too little amenable to persuasion. If so, I did well enough, I suppose.”

“Goodness, I had no idea the dowager was still alive. It must have been very difficult for her.”

“Indeed,” Darcy said sombrely. “That is how Georgiana keeps her patience, by reminding herself of what my aunt has suffered. To see her children die, and then her grand-daughter! No-one should be made to endure that. She is very old, almost ninety, but her mind — and tongue — are as sharp as ever.”

“It must be difficult to live with such an autocratic personality, although your sister is uniquely suited for it,” remarked Mrs Gardiner.

Darcy thought of his cousin Anne, dead three months now. “Yes,” he said gravely. “Very difficult. Georgiana is accustomed to it, however.”

“I did not think she spent very much time with Lady Catherine,” Mr Gardiner said, looking faintly puzzled. Darcy laughed outright.

“I was speaking of myself, sir.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs Gardiner said stoutly. “You are not autocratic, my dear, you are . . . assertive.”

“Thank you, madam, that reassurance is a great comfort, but I have certainly had my moments. Too much authority too early, I suspect.” He shook his head. “Enough introspection for company, however. How is your family, Edward?”

“My brother is still in very poor health. Lydia and her husband, you doubtless already have knowledge of — ” They never spoke Wickham's name if they could avoid it; Darcy flushed slightly and dipped his head. He had not been able to persuade the poor, stupid girl out of marriage with that scoundrel, but he did what he could — discreetly, naturally — to make certain she was not being too greatly mistreated. “Kitty spends most of her time with Jane, much to her benefit, while Mary takes care of their mother and has been a little drawn out of her pursuit of accomplishments.”

“A very little,” interjected Mrs Gardiner. Darcy did not dare smile and waited patiently. There was no point in displaying or hiding his eagerness, not to the Gardiners who were already perfectly aware of it.

“Lizzy has become more withdrawn since Mr Bennet's illness. Most of her time is spent nursing him, although she has visited Baildon several times. But you are there often enough, surely you have seen her yourself?”

“No,” said Darcy softly, “we have not met since Charles and Jenny's christening.” He had gone to considerable effort to ensure that. He still remained uncertain whether it was worse to be disloyal to Elizabeth, marrying another woman rather than pursue the one he loved, or unfaithful to Rosemary, loving a woman other than his wife. He could only comfort himself in the knowledge that he had done his utmost to minimize the amount of pain suffered by all concerned, and he had not been what he abhorred above all else, deceitful or dishonest. Rosemary thought that Elizabeth had loved him — he could not see it, himself; she had certainly not behaved like a woman in love, had shown even less partiality for him than did the reserved and reticent Jane. Even if she had, it had been nearly four years. He did not expect any woman, particularly a woman in Elizabeth's circumstances, to wait four years for a lover so inconstant and erratic as himself, when there was less than no understanding between them. Meeting with her again would only be awkward and painful for them both; and Anne always had to be considered first.

“Really?” Mrs Gardiner inquired. “And you both god-parents to the same children. How remarkable. Well, perhaps you shall meet at Baildon.”

Not if I can help it.

“Lizzy could use a friend,” Mrs Gardiner said gently, and not at all subtly. “Her only really equal friendship was with Charlotte Lucas, but it was never quite the same after she became Mrs Collins.”

“I imagine not.” He remembered his graceless horror when his cousin announced that Miss Mary Crawford had accepted his hand in marriage. Mary Crawford, of all people — an immoral, callous, indiscriminately flirtatious young woman who, to add to these charms, was sister to Henry Crawford. Their friendship had never recovered from that blow, and Mrs Fitzwilliam's behaviour hardly helped matters. “Is there no-one else?”

“None,” said Mr Gardiner, and there was a moment of awkward silence before he cleared his throat. “Come, I have just found the most marvelous book, you must come and tell me what you think.” He shepherded him into the study, and Darcy put the matter out of his mind.

Book 2, Chapter Two

Posted on Thursday, 2 February 2006,

The Darcys, father and daughter, returned to Pemberley several weeks later. Darcy, though he would not admit it, could not help feeling disturbed at the picture the Gardiners had painted of their niece. Four years — a great deal could happen in four years. He smiled gently at Anne, who eagerly pressed her face against the window as they climbed the incline that hid their home from them. Her eyes flashed with pleasure as the beauty of it appeared beneath them, highlighted by the last rays of the setting sun, and she smiled in a moment of perfect contentment.

His life had been utterly changed, transformed beyond recognition, long before Rosemary's death; there was no doubting that Anne was his daughter, naturally, but often he could only observe her in wonder, uncertain as to how she had come to be, lost in that peculiar rapt adoration he had only felt twice before in his life. Sometimes, he thought he could feel the echo of their names reverberating through his blood: Georgiana. Elizabeth. Anne. It was almost beyond words, like lightning out of a clear sky. He knew that others' experience of parenthood had been wildly different; even those who loved their children, Bingley, Georgiana, Henry, seemed to do so — moderately, as he had expected he himself would. Yet nothing in his life ever turned out quite like he expected.

As they walked in, he allowed Mary to divest him of his greatcoat, and Anne of her coverings. Halfway through her part of the procedure, Anne stopped and shrieked, “Nana!” and flung herself at her aunt, her coat still dangling from one arm. Georgiana smiled and held out her arms to her niece.

“Give your aunt a moment,” Darcy chided, as Anne showed no signs of stopping her chatter, and she giggled and came to a halt halfway through her latest sentence. Georgiana shifted her to the other arm and looked at him gravely, her eyes as wide and dark as those of the little girl crouched beneath his covers, hiding from monsters under her bed. His instincts alerted him to her distress, and he was quickly at her side, his long strides easily making nothing of the distance.

“Georgiana?” he said quietly, gesturing for the housekeeper and other servants to go with a sharp jerk of his head. “What is it?”

She drew in a deep, steady breath, and summoned forth a serene smile. “We should put Anne and Stephen to bed first, then we can talk.”

He was not certain why, at that moment, he was overwhelmed by admiration for the beautiful young lady who was his sister; he was almost more proud of her than he could say — her presence of mind, her composure, the capable, quietly indomitable, lady she had become. Not that he would say. For her part, Georgiana's childhood belief in her brother's seemingly flawless consistency of word and deed, her immense gratitude coupled with great affection, remained almost unabated with the passage of time. She did not speak of it either; but they understand each other well enough, and had only grown closer and more like since the day she was first exposed to the fallacies and cruelties of the world, so ably represented in the form of George Wickham.

“Aunt Nana, papa,” Anne said sleepily, “stay with me —”

“We won't go until you are safe and asleep,” Georgiana assured her.

“I am right here,” Darcy added. Anne smiled blissfully as they spoke in low voices; in the room across the hall, Stephen slept peacefully. Both, unable to rid themselves of a deep-seated expectation of loss, vacillated between the children's rooms, simply watching as they slept.

“She is so like you, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana said, smiling at her brother tremulously. Her hand trembled slightly, and without thinking, he reached out and stilled the irregular motion by clasping his own around it. This time she caught a shallow, quavering breath, and in the dark he heard a suspicious sniffle.

“Georgiana?”

She gasped suddenly, and turned, clinging tightly to him with her head against his shoulder, the slightly cold tip of her nose against his neck startling him into jumping a little. “I'm sorry —”

“No, dearest, I was only surprised; now tell me what is wrong.” He winced slightly at his tone, which could not be called anything but autocratic; but as if she were a child again, Georgiana replied with instant and unwavering obedience.

“We quarreled.”

He was not entirely certain what to say to this. He and Rosemary had not really ever quarreled, as such; even when they disagreed, they discussed the matter civilly, or stayed out of each other's way until their emotions had simmered down again. Of course, an attachment such as Westhampton and Georgiana's must be rather different in nature, even after nearly four years of marriage.

“Is that unusual?” He had always respected his sister's privacy in personal matters; but he was beginning to feel privacy rather overrated in certain circumstances.

“No — yes — I don't know.” She caught a sob in her throat. “Fitzwilliam, I — we — were going to have — I conceived again.”

“Yes, I know.” Georgiana had spoken, in passing, of her regret at her inability to so much as conceive another child; Stephen was all the more precious because of that particular trial. Yet it had never seemed to give her what could properly be called grief; her rocky relationship with her grandmother-in-law, and the difficult transition from Miss Darcy, free to do whatever she liked, answering only to him, to the constrained Lady Westhampton, occupied far more of her time and attention.

“I thought you did. Her ladyship finds it terrible irksome of you to be so observant in such things.” She laughed lightly. “Of course, anything that irks her is praiseworthy in my eyes.”

“Georgiana . . .”

“I lost the baby, Fitzwilliam. And he didn't care!”

Darcy flinched. He adored his sister, naturally, but it felt terribly awkward to be privy to another couple's personal concerns. He had interfered once and once only, and sworn off it after that; human relationships were not rational, not like chess or even the riddles he took a slightly surreptitious pleasure in. Those could be won, with strategy and reason and logic; not so human beings. He wondered if Georgiana had made the same mistake; or perhaps it had been Westhampton.

“Are you certain he did not?” he inquired gently.

“Perhaps he did; but he only said it would be all right — and then that he had urgent business in town.” She sighed, the painful grip of her fingers on his shoulders relaxing a bit. “And you know how she is.”

He knew it was a bad sign when she started referring to people only by pronouns. “Yes, dear,” he agreed cautiously.

“I couldn't bear it, we quarreled and he went away and she insisted upon dictating everything down to when I slept; she insisted that I walk more rhythmically.”

His eyes widened. “Is she that bad?” he asked sympathetically. Georgiana knew better than to take offence at the implied disbelief, and only nodded, pressing her face more tightly against his neck, her fingernails digging into his shoulders once more. He sighed.

“She says I cannot keep running away from my responsibilities.” Georgiana stepped back and grimaced.

“You aren't running away,” he protested immediately. “We're neighbours and I'm your brother. What else am I here for?”

The slightly sharp look which had entered her eyes as she spoke of her grandmother-in-law vanished. With a soft smile, she reached out and pressed her hand against his cheek, shaking her head. “Fitzwilliam, you oughtn't say things like that.”

Darcy looked at her blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Papa!” Anne sat up in bed, sobbing brokenly, and both siblings raced to her side.

“Anne, Anne,” Georgiana said soothingly; Anne quieted a very little.

“Papa, please — please — papa!” she cried incoherently, and he picked her up, rocking her back and forth.

“Stay,” she said insistently, “stay — papa — ”

“I am right here,” he said, interrupting her fearful rambling, “I'm not going anywhere, I promise.”

She rubbed her eyes with her fists and looked up at her father and aunt plaintively. “Papa stay?”

“Yes, papa is staying,” Darcy said, pressing a kiss on her forehead. She put her arms around his neck and climbed into his lap, then turned around.

“Aunt Nana stay?”

“As long as I can,” Georgiana promised. “And I shall always come back.”

Anne sniffled. “Mamma not stay.”

“Mamma was sick,” Darcy said quietly, “but she would have stayed if she could.”

“You sick? Aunt Nana sick?”

Georgiana took a step closer, and pushed the child's dark hair out of her eyes. “No, darling,” she said softly, “papa and Aunt Nana are not sick, and we are not going anywhere, do you understand?”

Anne smiled, then laid her head on her father's shoulder, letting her eyelids drop. “Tired,” she confessed. “Bad sleep.”

“Very bad,” Darcy agreed, settling her back in her bed with a final kiss. After several minutes, her breathing calmed and slowed. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

“You don't mind if I stay longer this time?” Georgiana asked abruptly. “Lord Westhampton said he would not be back until after Christmas, and I would like to spend it with my family.”

“Of course not,” he said, silencing the uneasiness that welled in his breast. Something niggled at his consciousness, and both siblings fidgeted for an awkward moment as they tried to pinpoint the latest internal disturbance.

“Stephen!” gasped Georgiana.

“It's been over two hours.” In a burst of parental paranoia, they raced across the hall to find young Stephen Deincourt sleeping in perfect contentment, and could not keep from smiling at one another ruefully.

“They think I am very foolish,” Georgiana said distantly.

“They don't understand,” Darcy replied, briefly brushing his finger along his nephew's round cheek. Stephen was so like Georgiana at that age, it was positively uncanny. For a moment the siblings looked at one another, remembering those long, cold, grey days after their father's last illness struck, when they had clung to one another, all that was left of the family that had been. It had not, perhaps, been a very good family, but it had been theirs, and until Lady Anne and Mr Darcy joined the twelve lost brothers and sisters, they themselves could not understand, what it was to be left alone, with only one another to anchor themselves.

Georgiana sighed. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. Not just for this — everything. You know.”

He did not pretend to misunderstand; they were far beyond that. “You are welcome, my dear.”

Chapter Three

Posted on Monday, 6 February 2006

Anne and Stephen painstakingly built a tower of blocks, which Darcy thought a remarkable facsimile of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. With an effort of concentration, he looked away from his daughter and nephew, and back to the exceedingly dull (and illiterate) letter he was reading. Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, softly singing to her own accompaniment. She looked more peaceful than he had seen her for a great many months, and he sighed, returning to the letter.

Once his business was completed, he watched the wildly careening tower and the two children carefully. Georgiana had come over to stand behind him, and smiled serenely. “They seem very fond of each other, don't they?” she asked.

Darcy winced as the tower fell with a crash. Anne stared, then with a stormy, resolute expression, began building it up again. “Yes,” he replied. It was a moment before the faintly speculative tone in his sister's voice caught up with him, and he straightened. “Georgiana,” he said warningly.

“Oh, I wasn't really thinking that,” she said. He had only to raise an eyebrow before she blushed and laughed. “I can see the temptation! I always thought Lady Catherine was nonsensical before.”

Perhaps if she'd been the one planned for, she still would. He tactfully kept this thought to himself. “They are three years old, dear,” Darcy said sternly. “Any man who lays a finger on my Anne before she's eighteen is — ”

Georgiana laughed gaily. “Fitzwilliam, you shall be the most terrifying father imaginable — at least to the hapless young men who will flock after this Miss Darcy.”

Darcy's shrug said more eloquently than words that such pusillanimous men were not worthy of his own time, let alone Anne's. “That is a long while away," he said mildly, determined not to think of such horrors until there was no other choice.

“It will come more quickly than you think,” Georgiana threatened, and walked over to the window.

This was her room — she had loved it even as a child, as her father before her, and even once she left home, Darcy could not convince himself that it could ever belong to anyone but her. Rosemary had never liked it — the bright sunlight hurt her eyes, she said — and so it was saved for Georgiana. He had walked into it a few times when she was not present, and it only seemed dull and dark and empty without her, despite the fact that it had the finest view of probably any room in the house.

“I wish I could stay forever,” she said, leaning her forehead against the window. “I shall not impose much longer, however.”

“You know, you are always welcome. Pemberley is your home,” he objected instantly, and she smiled.

“Yes, I know. I do not like to think of Lady Westhampton all alone, though — you know, Fitzwilliam, everything is clearer here. It's almost like we're in another world, isn't it?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, then decided that mere advice did not precisely constitute interference — at least not with his own sister — and went on, “Georgiana, I agree, you should go back to Aincourt. And I think, when Westhampton returns, that you ought to — talk.”

Georgiana turned away and stared at him. Anne carefully placed another block on their steadily building tower; this one was rather straighter than the last. Stephen mischievously reached out to knock it down; she slapped his hand away with a fierce scowl.

“Talk,” Georgiana repeated blankly. “What do you mean? Of course we talk.”

“Not about the child you lost — nor about your difficulties with my aunt — nor your concerns for Stephen — nor anything of consequence, I daresay. Georgiana, even Rosemary and I talked more than you two — you who love each other! I hope you still do?”

“Yes, yes,” she said hastily, looking down. He walked over and wiped the tears off her cheeks.

“Did he even know about the baby, Georgiana?” he asked softly. Her dark eyes darted up and met his.

“I — I thought he did,” she stammered.

“Did you tell him?”

“No, of course not.” She frowned. “He ought to have known. You would have known!”

Darcy felt the beginnings of a headache, and briefly pressed the tips of his fingers against his right temple. “You did not marry me, Georgiana. Perhaps you should sit down.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think I need to impart some brotherly words of wisdom before you return to Aincourt. Sit.” Georgiana obeyed instantly. Possibly another reason the dowager dislikes me, he thought wryly.

“Westhampton is not me, Georgiana, and you cannot expect him to be. It is completely unfair to both him and yourself.”

As the tower wobbled, Stephen began taking the top blocks off, pointing at one part of it. Anne, who had opened her mouth to scream, stopped and looked at it pensively before assisting him.

“Westhampton is not an especially . . . sensitive person, Georgiana. You knew what he was like before you married him.”

“Yes, sir.” He gave her a sharp look, but her expression was perfectly serious.

“Perhaps our closeness has made this more difficult. Neither you nor I are especially communicative people, because we expect to be understood without taking much trouble to see that it comes about. For whatever reasons, you and I have often been able to understand each other without very many words. You cannot expect that from Westhampton. In some ways he is greatly my superior — he will never embarrass you in a ballroom, for instance — ”

“Neither did you,” Georgiana protested. Darcy smiled.

“You were only out a few months before you became engaged to Westhampton. With adequate time I am certain I would have achieved it. As I was saying, there are some ways, such as his social abilities, in which Westhampton is my superior.” He paused, then added, “And yours.” Georgiana's brows knit together. “You shall have to explain yourself to him — preferably in small words — or he simply will not understand. Men are in some ways very unlike women, but even women cannot know for certain if they are not told, especially if there have been misunderstandings between you before, as I suspect there have been.”

There were several minutes while she considered this. “Even you?”

He smiled. “Even I. I have made this same error, more times than I can say.” His expression turned very grave, almost somber, and his eyes settled on the small curving bridge that led into the woods. Georgiana's breath caught — she could not have said why — and she pressed her fingers against her brother's.

“I think, I think you are right.”

A smile lit up for his face for a bare moment. “Am I not always?” She slapped his wrist lightly, and they laughed together before turning to their children.

Three weeks after Georgiana departed, leaving Pemberley very large and quiet and empty, a servant announced, “Lord Westhampton, sir.”

Darcy sighed and set his pen down. “Bring him in, please.”

Chapter Four

“Darcy,” Lord Westhampton said curtly. Darcy inclined his head in response and gestured for him to sit down.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he inquired with a faint tilt of his eyebrow.

“I should hope so,” the other man replied harshly. “Where is my wife?”

Darcy shrugged. After a very long and rather melancholy day, he was in no mood to coddle his wayward brother-in-law.

“Could you possibly be more explicit?”

Darcy sighed and pushed letter, pen, and inkpot away in a sudden violent motion. “She left nearly three weeks ago, Westhampton. At least according to the letter I received last Wednesday, she arrived there safely over two weeks ago. Doubtless if you had gone directly home rather than coming here first, you would have found her.”

“She didn't write me,” Westhampton remarked. It was odd, Darcy reflected; the petulant expression would have better fit a child of seven rather than a man of seven-and-thirty.

“Georgiana and I have corresponded regularly since she went to school. Perhaps if you had written her, she would have replied. Or -- ” he lifted a shoulder -- “perhaps not.”

“My grandmother said she stayed here for four months. I hope you are not encouraging her in her negligence.”

“You correspond with your grandmother and not your wife?” Darcy, in regard for his nerves, ignored the second half of Westhampton's statement. The other man's lips thinned.

“That is not relevant to the point, Darcy, the point is -- ”

“The point, Westhampton, is that my sister's life is so miserable that she would rather be here, with me, than at Aincourt, with you and yours. Now, while I perfectly understand her preference for Pemberley, the other raises some interesting questions, doesn't it? My sister is hardly flighty. Fond as she is of us both -- the plural refers to my daughter and myself, incidentally -- she would not neglect her responsibilities, if indeed she has, without considerable incentive.”

Westhampton's eyes narrowed. “I fail to see what this has to do with my grandmother.”

Darcy sincerely hoped age would not so degrade his own mind. “My dear aunt has, quite deliberately, undermined and challenged Georgiana's position at every turn.”

“Those are women's issues. They must resolve it between themselves. It does not concern me.”

Darcy felt his patience nearing its demise. “Very well, then. It does not concern you. Georgiana will continue to spend months on end at Pemberley, with me, your grandmother will rule Aincourt as she always has, and you can return to London and enjoy your life there. You do understand that this is not a prospect either my sister or I find particularly distressing. Indeed, it is so convenient I am inclined to encourage her.”

Westhampton simply stared.

How ridiculous this is. Is he actually trying to unsettle me? Darcy met his brother's gaze unwaveringly, until Westhampton groaned and dropped his forehead onto his hands, his elbows resting on the desk. Darcy prudently moved the inkpot to the left and waited.

Westhampton, his voice muffled, said, “I have been a fool.”

“Yes, I know,” Darcy replied kindly.

“I knew grandmother was -- unkind -- to Georgiana. It's just -- she's lost so much. All her children -- her grand-daughter -- I've tried to talk to her but she just -- I don't know. Somehow I end up agreeing with her.”

“Perhaps you only need proper incentive to keep your priorities firmly in mind.”

Westhampton raised his swollen eyes to stare at him again. “What sort of incentives?”

“If you do not convince my aunt of, er, the error of her ways, Georgiana will take up permanent residence here. I would be only to glad to have them, you know. I am very fond of Stephen.”

“Urrgh,” mumbled Westhampton. “Oh God, Stephen. Does he even know me?”

“He will probably recognize you. The artist you commissioned for your portrait was very talented. By the way, you probably ought to mind your tongue a little more carefully around him. Children are very impressionable.”

“Very well.” Westhampton pressed his fingers against his eyes. “I'm more sorry than I can say. Georgiana must think I'm an utter cad.”

“Not quite,” said Darcy neutrally, biting his lip. “You should apologize to her, however. You are not married to me.”

“Of course not.” Lord Westhampton lifted his head up and sat back. “Darcy . . . that's not really why she left, is it?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”

“I just stood there like a fool -- Good God, I had no idea!” Darcy coughed. “I beg your pardon. I didn't know she had even conceived. Frankly, the chances seemed rather against it.”

Darcy flinched, scarlet creeping up his cheeks. “She thought you knew.”

“How on earth was I supposed to know?” Westhampton stopped. “She truly thought I had known?”

“Yes.”

“Then she -- when she told me she had lost it, she must have thought --” He groaned again. “Why did she think I knew?”

Darcy sighed. “I did.”

“She told you and not me?”

“No, she didn't have to tell me. I guessed.”

“Oh.” Westhampton considered this. “Darcy, I'm not you. Surely she does not expect me to be?”

Darcy looked away. “Westhampton, I would bear in mind that her upbringing was very sheltered. All the men in her life have been either Fitzwilliams or -- ”

“George Wickham,” supplied Westhampton, his expression darkening. Darcy raised his eyebrows.

“She told you about that?”

“Before we were married. She talked more then.”

“She was sixteen years old,” Darcy said patiently. “She is only twenty now.” He added pointedly, “You might have some consideration for her on that score, at least. She was a girl raised by a young man. I was perhaps too lenient -- whatever she wished was done for her in an instant. As Miss Darcy, she had the means and the freedom to do anything she liked. You know what it is, to go from child one day to adult the next, with almost no warning. I should think you could extend at least a little compassion and understanding to her.”

“It is easy to forget how young she was -- she is. She is so capable; and she does not look it.” He frowned. “It's late. You would not mind my imposition on your hospitality?”

“No, of course not,” said Darcy. “Incidentally, it might be easier for you to settle your issues with my sister and your grandmother by yourself.”

Westhampton glanced at him quizzically. Darcy sighed and elaborated.

“Stephen is here. I asked Georgiana to let him stay for awhile. He should not be at Aincourt, when there is so much -- ill-will -- about.”

“You think of everything, don't you?”

“I try.”

“Very well. Georgiana and I will come for Stephen in -- March?”

“March would be very convenient,” Darcy agreed. “Thank you. He and Anne are very fond of each other, and it's good for her to have a companion of her own age.”

A distinctly thoughtful expression crossed Lord Westhampton's face. “Do you suppose an arr -- ”

“No.”

Chapter Five

Posted on Thursday, 9 February 2006

Despite his long friendship with Westhampton and his great affection for his sister, Darcy was glad to have Pemberley back to himself, fully restored to its customary serenity. The children, vocal as they were in expressing displeasure or entertainment, lacked the sophistication for true contention. Darcy failed to suppress his pleased feelings as he watched his brother-in-law depart.

At first, he had assumed that there would be other children, until those first awkward encounters which had ultimately produced Anne. As soon as Rosemary conceived, his gratitude at the respite was such that he had known he could never put himself through that experience again. Perhaps it was selfish, but his tormented conscience finally insisted upon being heard, and obeyed. The intense remorse coupled with considerable bewilderment (he could not even decide which woman he was actually being unfaithful to -- Elizabeth for being with Rosemary, or Rosemary for wishing she was Elizabeth) had made that time positively hellish. It was only six weeks before he had been quite certain Rosemary was pregnant, but even now it seemed an interminable length of time.

Naturally, he had been fond of his nephew simply for that reason -- his sister's child could not but be dear to him. Then, as Georgiana spent more and more time at Pemberley, he fond himself increasingly drawn to the dark-haired little boy. Darcy had no intentions of usurping Westhampton's paternal prerogatives, but it seemed his brother-in-law, like most fathers, had little interest in so young a child, and left his education almost wholly up to Georgiana. So, in effect there was nothing to usurp. Georgiana's son tugged at his heart almost as much as Anne did.

The first time Stephen called him “papa,” it took an almost painful effort of will to correct him. While his better impulses were still in command, he took his nephew's hand, and marched him over to the miniatures, where a portrait of Westhampton was included. “That man is your papa, Stephen,” he said gently.

Stephen considered it. “Not like me,” he pronounced. “You like me.”

Darcy hoped he was correctly interpreting when he said, “That's because your mamma is my sister. Do you know what a sister is?”

“Anne?”

“No, not exactly. It means that my parents were your mamma's parents.”

“Yes,” Stephen said, “you is papa, and mamma is Anne's mamma, so Anne is my sister.”

“No,” said Darcy, then sighed. “I can explain more when you are a little older, but I am not your papa, and your mamma is not Anne's mamma, and Anne is not your sister. I cannot be your papa because your mamma is my sister. That means that you and Anne are cousins.”

Stephen frowned, looking at the miniatures. Westhampton, and Georgiana, and Darcy himself, and George Wickham, and Rosemary, and Sir James, and Lady Anne. “Mamma says Kurnitz is cousin. Like that?”

“Just like that,” said Darcy, smiling. “Kurnitz's papa was your grandmamma's brother.”

“You mamma's brother?” Stephen inquired, his solemn dark eyes brightening.

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh. I understand,” Stephen said. “Comcated.”

“Very complicated,” agreed Darcy.

“Wish you was papa,” he said mournfully. Darcy's hand tightened on his nephew's shoulder, his throat tightening; he was rescued by a harried Mrs Reynolds, if indeed rescuing it could be called, given the circumstance.

“Oh, Mr Darcy,” she wailed, “she's here!”

He spared a moment to wish the people around him would stop using pronouns, and kindly replied, “Mrs Reynolds, I do not understand. Who is here? Why is it so very terrible?”

Mrs Reynolds gasped for breath and he gently sat her down. “It's . . . it's her ladyship, sir,” she said, “I came as fast as I could.”

“You shouldn't exhaust yourself just for Lady Westhampton,” Darcy said with a frown. I should have expected this. How could the season be complete without a visit from every member of the family? “You must take better care of yourself, Mrs Reynolds.”

She sighed. “It's not Lady Westhampton, sir. It's Lady Catherine.”

The Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh marched into her nephew's study, with a expression so resolute that several centuries' worth of wind and water could not have altered it. A handsome young woman followed in her wake. The young lady appeared to be striving for a meek look; if so, it was a failure. Her dark eyes were stony as she followed Darcy's every movement.

“Cecily,” he said in surprise, “I did not know you were here.”

Lady Catherine sniffed. “If you were not so lax with your servants — ”

“We can discuss that some other time,” Darcy said tersely, briefly rubbing his temple. A headache was brewing, and extended proximity to his aunt would not help matters. “What brings you to Pemberley, aunt?”

“It was a very difficult journey,” declared Lady Catherine. “One driver — quite, quite reckless; why, if he were in my employ — ”

Both cousins sighed.

“— very nearly overturned another carriage. Why, the occupants could have been killed!” She paused for dramatic effect. A pity, thought Darcy, that such a fine education went to waste.

“As could have the driver,” remarked Cecily. Lady Catherine scowled down her aquiline nose at her niece.

“And well might he deserve it. However, I know my duty.”

Darcy cringed, feeling about sixteen. “Lady Catherine, I fear you have the advantage of me — what do you mean by duty?”

“You might offer me refreshment. I had expected better manners of my sister's son.”

Clearly she was in one of her moods. Usually he could do no wrong in her eyes. Darcy sighed and sent for refreshment for both women. “Please, Lady Catherine, would you mind explaining this matter to me, before I expire of impatience?”

“Sarcasm does not befit you, Fitzwilliam,” declared her ladyship. Cecily raised her eyes to the ceiling, and smiled mischievously. Darcy bit his lip in response. “But since you are so insistent upon hearing it, I shall tell you. You must act!”

“Lady Catherine,” said Darcy, slowly and deliberately, “what is happening?”

“Your cousin — my niece — the most ungrateful, impertinent — ”

“Fitzwilliam,” Cecily said sweetly, “what my aunt means to say, is that she has abducted me, in order to prevent my marriage. I suppose I should not have threatened to elope.”

“Abdu — to elo — ” He stared at her in horror, then sat down, pressing the heel of one hand against his brow.

“You see, I — I have fallen in love,” she said, the trace of hesitation collaborating her assertion more convincingly than the most violent declarations of undying affection could have. Lady Catherine sniffed once more.

“Would you like a handkerchief, aunt?” Darcy snapped.

“Don't be crude, young man.”

“Then, since you clearly have no intentions of doing so yourself, perhaps you could allow my cousin to explain -- without commentary.”

“Well, I never!”

“Cecilia,” Darcy said wearily, “pray continue.”

“Thank you, cousin.” Cecily clasped her hands. “As I was saying, I have fallen in love. You needn't look so skeptical.”

Clearly it was going to be one of those weeks. Darcy struggled for his customary composure. Cecily, easily the most friendly and charismatic of the Fitzwilliam clan, had never shown more than a passing interest in men outside the family. There had been no lack of suitors — their uncle had dowered her well, if not splendidly — but she was too fastidious to accept any of the several who had requested her hand. At least, fastidious was what the cousins called it; flighty was the elder generation's word of choice.

“Who is the fortunate gentleman?” he asked politely. Clearly the fellow had failed to meet with Lady Catherine's approval; although that was hardly a daunting task.

“Gentleman!” interjected Lady Catherine disdainfully. “You impudent chit, how dare you disgrace the family in such a fashion? Your union will be a disgrace — your name will never be spoken by any of us — ”

Darcy's blue eyes flashed. “I must ask, Lady Catherine, that you do not presume to speak for me, at least, until I have made my own judgment. Cecily, does this man have a name?”

“James Hammond,” Cecily said softly. “He is the curate of the Hunsford parish.”

“A curate?” Darcy repeated dazedly, briefly covering his eyes. “You are — you intended to elope with a curate? What sort of man is your Mr Hammond, Cecily?”

“He refused, Fitzwilliam,” she said eagerly, “he said he would not dishonour me or allow me to dishonour myself in such a fashion.”

“Thank heavens one of you had some sense!” Darcy forced his breathing back to normal. “How did you meet?”

They ignored Lady Catherine's ravings (such goings-on under my own roof!) as Cecily began the tale. Well over a year prior, they had met for the first time. The Collinses had left to attend the marriage of one of their cousins (Darcy turned cold, then hot, then cold again, but did not dare ask in Lady Catherine's presence), and in his place Mr Hammond, a young curate, had delivered several weeks' worth of sermons. Lady Catherine had sent Cecily to deliver certain valued pieces of advice, apparently oblivious to what was happening under her nose.

“Very well. And then, I presume something else happened?”

“I caught them in flagrante delicto!” shrieked Lady Catherine.

“Do you even know what that means?” returned Cecily contemptuously.

“I should have expected it,” yet another autocratic female voice declared, “of a Fitzwilliam.”

Standing in the doorway, posing like a bizarre caricature of Nemesis, stood the dowager Lady Westhampton. Several distinctly irreligious thoughts passed through Darcy's mind. He scarcely heard the servants abjectly apologizing for their failure to restrain the lady, and simply nodded and dismissed them. A sneaking sympathy for Mr Bennet leapt into his mind as he looked around at the three tall, imperious women gazing at him. Good God, he thought in sheer frustration, why am I thinking of them, now?

Chapter Six

After a brief struggle, Darcy's good breeding reasserted itself. “Lady Westhampton,” he began, “to what do we owe this pleasure?”

She drew herself up to her full five feet of height (including the towering wig) and pronounced, “You can be at no loss, Mr Darcy, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.”

Lady Catherine looked at the other woman incredulously. “I have never seen such a lamentable display of ill-breeding in all my life!” declared she. “To come to my nephew's home and speak to him in such a manner -- your impudence, madam, is quite beyond the pale!” She was flushed with righteous fury, and Darcy sighed. Lady Catherine had many faults, but disloyalty was not among them.

“My impudence?” exclaimed the elder lady. “You speak to me, Catherine Fitzwilliam, of impudence? You, whose nearest relation ruined my son's life?”

Darcy coughed.

“My cousin did nothing of the sort,” returned Lady Catherine indignantly. “Really, your conduct to-day is nothing short of abhorrent, Lady Westhampton. I should think you an imposter -- no true lady would ever behave in such a fashion -- ”

“As your precious Helen behaved to my dear boy -- ”

“-- if I was not familiar enough with such depraved behaviour, since that dreadful day when my sister married that vile nephew of yours -- ”

“Aunt Catherine, you're talking about my father!” Darcy protested.

“ -- to know that such a way of carrying on is nothing extraordinary, for your sort,” she finished triumphantly, utterly ignoring him.

Cecily, looking slightly alarmed, slipped over to Darcy's side. “Do you suppose we should just give them a pair of foils and leave them to it?”

“No -- this way there's no blood,” he replied philosophically, still rather annoyed about the slight to his father. Lady Westhampton briefly paused, rage evidently silencing her for a few blessed seconds, before she returned to the fray.

“How dare you speak of my nephew in such a way?” she cried. “And under his own roof, no less! I told him, when he told us he intended to marry your sister -- I said, `mark my words, George Alexander, marry a Fitzwilliam and you shall regret it.' I am no stranger to the particulars of your brother's conception. I know it all -- that your father brought his mistress into his house, that the year abroad was a patched-up business to cover your mother's barrenness and your brother's true parentage --”

“Why, you -- you --” Lady Catherine said furiously, “you presume to insinuate -- my brother is the most respectable, honourable -- and my sister -- ”

“Your sister was the daughter of a libertine and a trollop,” Lady Westhampton pronounced, clearly enunciating each word. “The shades of Pemberley were forever polluted by her presence.”

“I beg your pardon.” Darcy stepped forward, face white and eyes blazing. “Lady Westhampton, you can now have nothing farther to say. You have insulted me and mine by every possible method. If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, you will leave this instant.”

Lady Westhampton sniffed disdainfully, then re-evaluated her great-nephew's implacable expression and took several steps backward. “Do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede,” she threatened.

“Do you doubt that I can have you sent from Pemberley in an instant? That when I give it as my firmest opinion that you should be sent from Aincourt as well, that that is precisely what shall happen? My brother and sister place the firmest reliance on my advice -- I assure you, Lady Westhampton, that if you ever speak of my mother in such a manner again, I shall do all this and anything else that occurs to me between now and then.”

“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of your nephew? Unfeeling, selfish young man!”

“Madam,” Darcy said icily, “I have nothing further to say -- to you. Roberts! Please escort her ladyship back to her carriage and inform the other servants that she is not to set foot on my property again.”

Roberts, a tall, heavily-built man of about Darcy's own age, complied with rather more enthusiasm and less finesse than usual.

“I shall know how to act!” Lady Westhampton shrieked, as Roberts half-pulled, half-dragged her out of the room. Darcy sighed, anger and energy draining out of him together. Nothing would keep the servants from gossiping about this. Thank heavens she's no blood of mine. If she were, I don't know if I could ever hold my head up again.

He spared a brief sympathetic thought for his brother-in-law as Lady Catherine tossed her head and snapped, “Good riddance!”

“What was she here for?” Cecily wondered aloud.

“I hardly care,” Darcy said curtly. Lady Catherine gave a sharp nod of agreement. “Now, what were you saying about that curate?”

Lady Catherine opened her mouth, apparently fuelled by endless reserves of energy. He cut her off. “Cecily. Please finish what you were saying, before Lady Westhampton graced us with her presence.”

“I knew he would never dare ask me himself,” Cecily confessed, lowering her eyes slightly, “so I kissed him. After -- a bit -- he pushed me away and said that we had to be married. I agreed -- I'd been trying to get a proposal out of him for weeks.” She looked at his implacable face, and sighed. “Fitzwilliam, I don't expect you to understand -- I wouldn't suppose you've ever felt anything like that -- ”

“You would be wrong, then,” he replied thoughtlessly, and instantly felt Lady Catherine's piercing eyes settle on him.

“Really?” Cecily inquired curiously. “How did -- when -- you were in love, cousin? Really? How did it happen? Do I know her? Is she -- ”

Darcy, a thundering headache pounding away at both temples, hesitated, then took the coward's way out. “I'm a widower, Cecilia,” he said tetchily. “Did you think we found Anne underneath mamma's roses?”

She wilted a little, and he promised himself that he would give her a more straightforward hint once the other Lady was disposed of.

“Then you walked in, aunt?” he asked, turning to Lady Catherine. As she drew herself up, clearly fully prepared to deliver a scathing rebuke, he quickly added, “Yes, then. Well, frankly, I fail to see what the difficulty is.”

Lady Catherine deflated slightly, unconsciously mimicking her niece's reaction of a few seconds before. “Fitzwilliam,” she said in horror, “this -- this person is a curate! Cecily may not have a splendid fortune, but her connections are good enough to win her a fine place in society -- she could marry into an ancient, respectable, honourable family, such as your own, or a newer peer's! And instead -- Mr Collins' curate? Heaven and earth -- of what are you thinking?”

The cousins looked at one another. Then Cecily clasped her hands and stepped towards him. “Fitzwilliam, please.”

Darcy felt a distinct foreboding. “I fail to see what I have to do with the matter,” said he. “I am not the head of this family, my un -- oh. Cecily -- ”

Near tears, she said, “He will not give his consent.” Then, fiercely, she cried, “If I am neither by honour nor inclination confined to one of my aunt's imaginary peers, why am I not to make another choice? And if he is that choice, why may I not accept him?”

“Because honour, decorum, prudence -- nay, interest , forbid it. Yes, Cecilia, interest; for do not expect him to be noticed by your family or friends if you willfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised by every one connected with you. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”

“You have said so before,” Darcy interjected coolly, “and I must ask, yet again, that you do not speak for me without leave. May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course,” Lady Catherine said approvingly. Cecily simply looked, her dark eyes intense on his face.

“Cecily may stay here, with me -- now that Georgiana is gone, Pemberley tends to be rather too large for me. I would be glad of her company. You, aunt, return to Rosings after you have rested; I will take care of this matter as I see fit.” His own voice echoed in his ears: Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.

After a moment of silence, each woman considering from her own unique perspective, Lady Catherine nodded agreement. “I am no longer as young as I was,” she conceded. “I trust you to judge as rightly as you always have, nephew.”

“Thank you, aunt.” She offered her cheek up, and he bent down to kiss it, his conscience eating at him.

Chapter Seven

“You are not actually going to lock me into my chambers until I concede the error of my ways?” Cecily asked skeptically, their aunt's strongly vocalized advice ringing in both cousins' ears. Darcy rubbed his forehead.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he replied shortly. “Some of Lady Catherine's delusions are more -- delusional -- than others.”

“Eloquent as ever, Fitzwilliam.” She smiled warmly at him. “What are we to do?”

“We are going to talk.” He paused. “Do you know if the Collinses have returned to Hunsford?”

“They meant to return by yesterday,” said Cecily. “I daresay Mr Collins was devastated to have missed my aunt.”

“His devotion is certainly unparalleled.” Then, striving for subtlety, he asked, “This marriage, did you hear if it was one of Bingley's sisters?”

“Oh, Mr Collins is Mrs Bingley's cousin, isn't he?” She laughed lightly. “I had completely forgotten. I hope for Mr Bingley's sake there isn't much likeness between them. He seemed a nice man, although we never had much to do with one another.”

“Yes,” he said patiently. “No doubt you frightened him, along with every other eligible man of our acquaintance . . . so it was one of his sisters?”

“Yes. A Miss Mary Bennet. Apparently she married a clerk of her uncle's. Did you know that Mrs Bennet's family is all in trade?”

“Mr Bingley's sisters would scarcely let anyone forget it,” he replied levelly, exhaling slowly. A certain tightness in his chest relaxed. You are a fool, Fitzwilliam Darcy, he scolded himself; after everything that has occurred between you, you cannot possibly expect her to cherish any tender sentiments for you -- for that matter, to have ever had tender sentiments in the first place! This newest variation on a very old theme failed, as had everything else, to restore him to his senses. For a brief moment, he was giddy enough to laugh.

“Mr Bingley's sisters? But their father -- even their brother has only just acquired an estate for himself -- I always knew I disliked them.”

“Yes, I know,” he returned, his headache receding a little. “Rosemary used to call them the harpies. That pretty well summarizes it. Now, Cecily -- ” He forced his mind down proper paths, and gestured for her to follow him to the library -- “I need to know whatever you can tell me about this love affair of yours.”

He allowed the halting, hesitant, un-Cecily-like words to wash over and through him. James Hammond. What was this man like, who inspired such passion and devotion in his vivacious, beautiful cousin? Darcy dredged up the fleeting image of a nondescript young man, brown-haired and blue-eyed, with quiet, assuming manners, who had treated him with such admiring deference, and yet no trace of Mr Collins' nonsensical obsequiousness, that he was never quite certain what to do or say to him.

“I told him that I didn't care that he was poor, that he had no connections to speak of, that my family would probably cast me off when we married.” She looked at him guilelessly.

“Well, my doubts as to whether you're a true Fitzwilliam have been eternally put to rest,” he said with a faint smile. “Cecily, did you actually say that?”

She smiled radiantly. “Of course. Fitzwilliam, I wanted him to know how much I love him -- not to ever wonder and doubt -- that no matter how much I love my family, that I'm willing to face scorn and ridicule and being lost to all of you -- for him. I could have any man I like, and I chose him.” She added, “Of course, I didn't say it quite like that -- I was more tactful.”

“How tactful can you be, when saying such a thing?” he asked curiously.

“Not very,” she confessed, with an impish, conspiratorial smile. “He didn't mind. In fact, he looked at me very soulfully and intensely and said that he adored me. Just like that -- `Cecilia, I adore you. I want you to know that.' And then he kissed me.” She sighed rapturously. (Darcy wondered what it was that made women confide the details of their private lives in him.) “It was the first time -- that he kissed me on his own, I mean. He didn't say so, but I know he doesn't really care that I'll make a dreadful curate's wife. I have a great many very bad habits, you know.”

Darcy stared at her for a moment, then looked away. “I think you will make a very good curate's wife,” he said after a moment.

“Do you really think so?” she asked earnestly. “I mean to try very hard.” Then she stopped, her dark eyes widening. “Oh Fitzwilliam! You're not going to try and persuade me out of it?”

He smiled again, rather tiredly. “My dear Cecily -- no, I never had any intentions of that.”

“But you told Aunt Cat -- ”

“I did not tell her I intended to persuade you out of it; but if I had not implied it, she would never have left you here and doubtless would have done precisely as she advised me -- locked in a room and lectured you for hours on end.”

Cecily wrinkled her nose. “Lady Catherine is a -- ”

“Do not say it,” he said softly. “Remember that you are a lady, and that she is your aunt. She has given you all that she is to offer; it is not a great deal, to be sure, if one insists upon quantifying affection, but she is sincere and she is only trying to make you happy.”

“Sympathy for Lady Catherine? I would never have expected it, from you.”

“I have been thinking a great deal about mother, as of late,” he replied quietly, resting his chin in his hands and gazing off into the distance. “In some ways, she was very like my aunt. Mother had a sweetness about her that prevented her from giving offence in the manner that Lady Catherine does, but her advice was very much the same -- liberally bestowed, unwelcome, and sincere.”

Cecily, looking at him intently, said, “You miss her.”

With an uncharacteristically violent motion, he stood up and whirled away, facing a little away from her, his arms crossed. “For heavens' sake, Cecily, she was my mother, of course I miss her!” His temper gone as quickly as it had come, he glanced into his cousin's surprised face, and said, “I am sorry, I should not have -- I am very sorry. I don't know what has come over me lately.” He raised one trembling hand to his brow, and let it drop again. “I have wished -- the most ridiculous things, lately. I would like to talk to her.”

He would never dream of telling her, or anyone, that not long ago, as he carefully watched the two children under his care, the strangest desire had washed over him, to be five again, able to crawl into his mother's lap and sob into her neck. A peculiar gripping unhappiness seemed to have come over him. Perhaps it was the imminence of losing Stephen; he could not say, all he knew for certain was that bizarre longing for a mother's comfort.

“A unique choice,” Cecily said, taking her usual path and speaking lightly of serious matters. “Most men would choose their father.”

“No doubt he found women as bewildering as I do. I'm afraid he, or any man, would be of limited assistance.”

“Women?” She stared. “Why should you care about women? Don't you dare tell me Anne. She couldn't be more like you if she was a little boy.”

He bit his lip and looked down. “I was not completely honest with you earlier -- when I alluded to love, and Rosemary.”

She brightened instantly. “It wasn't Rosemary, was it?”

“She is not Rosemary, no.”

“I thought it strange,” she said eagerly, “because I knew it wasn't a love match and so I couldn't imagine what made you bring Rosemary into it, although of course you loved her in a way and then you lost her.”

“You always make me feel so blessed, Cecily; I'm not certain how I shall bear it.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Fitzwilliam. Do I know her?”

Darcy hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “No. You would not have met.”

“Someone terribly unsuitable, then?” she inquired, not without sympathy. “She must not have moved in our eminently respectable circles. Part of a dreadfully fast set?”

He could not but laugh at the idea. “No, not at all -- she, her family -- she is a connection of my friends, the Gardiners.”

She turned white. “Oh, no. I'm sure they are very nice people,” she hastened to add, “but -- oh, goodness. Fitzwilliam. Come here.”

He approached her cautiously and stood in bemusement as she stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around him for no apparent reason.

“There,” she said, stepping back and gazing at him serenely. “Don't you feel better now?”

Oddly enough, her unconventional offering rather improved his spirits, little as he usually cared for tactile affection. “Yes, a little. Thank you.”

“You looked like you needed a hug,” she said. “Of course, you usually do -- but you really looked like it that time. Now, tell me, why were you upset with me, really?”

“I envy you, Cecilia,” he said quietly. “Your Mr Hammond loves you a great deal; but even more, he loves you as you are. That is very rare, I think.”

She blinked, then sniffled a little. He handed her a handkerchief. “You shouldn't say things like that, I hate crying,” she mumbled. “He's wonderful, Fitzwilliam. The most perfect man -- ” She sniffled again.

“Not perfect, perhaps, but undoubtedly perfect for you.” He hesitated, then gently clasped her free hand. “Wipe your eyes, dear; we have a wedding to arrange, and not very much time. I must go to town for a few days, and you need to go with the children to Aincourt.”

“Aincourt?” she repeated blankly. “Whatever for?”

He smiled patiently. “Trust me, please. Do you wish to be married or not?”

“I do.” She flung her arms around him again. After a moment of hesitation, he returned the favour and pressed his lips against her forehead affectionately.

James Hammond and Cecilia Fitzwilliam were married at Pemberley on a glorious morning in February. Cecily, brilliantly happy, hugged and kissed all of her cousins, saving her last for Darcy.

"It shouldn't be very long," Darcy said softly to his new cousin. Mr Hammond's disconcerting admiration did not seem to have abated in the slightest, unsurprisingly. He shook Darcy's hand enthusiastically.

"Thank you, sir, more than I can say. God bless you, Mr Darcy." His clear voice was distinctly rough as he slipped an arm around his new wife's waist.

"When shall we come, Fitzwilliam?" inquired Cecily, striving for a staid sort of decorum. Yet again, she failed miserably, and beamed at him, like a child given a spectacular treat.

"A fortnight, I think. The vicarage should be prepared by then."

"You're going to be a vicar, darling," Cecily said excitedly. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Mr Hammond still looked faintly dazed. "This quickly? I never dreamed -- "

"You have connections now, my love," she told him airily, then smiled conspiratorially at her cousin. "Well, one at least."

"Your dowry is in the five percents, Cecily," Darcy said. "It should be more than sufficient for your needs, taken with Hammond's income."

"That's a thousand a-year," she said blissfully. "Just from me. And you said it's a valuable living, so that's at least twelve hundred a-year. We shall be just fine, dearest."

"I thought you only had fifteen thousand pounds," Mr Hammond said, frowning. Cecily caught her cousin's eye for a bare moment before saying,

"Oh no, I have twenty. It's amazing the difference two hundred fifty a-year can make isn't it?"

Darcy blushed at this. "Evade Lady Catherine as best you can."

After they bid farewell, Georgiana and Lord Westhampton, accompanied by their son, followed him inside. Darcy noticed their surreptitiously clasped hands, Westhampton's solicitous care and Georgiana's expressive dark eyes shining as she gazed on her husband, and smiled faintly. After some pleasant conversation, he left them to their own pursuits, and went to watch over Stephen and Anne as they slept.

He brushed his nephew's dark hair wistfully, a lump rising in his throat. He did not begrudge Georgiana and Westhampton their son, naturally; but -- he would certainly miss him. He recoiled at the idea of spending the rest of the year at Pemberley, which had never seemed so large before, and reconsidered Bingley's invitation. It would be good to see them again.

Chapter Eight

Posted on Sunday, 12 February 2006

The Darcys set out from Pemberley the day after Darcy posted his acceptance of Bingley's invitation. Anne, who had missed her cousin a great deal in the weeks after his departure, was almost trembling with excitement.

“I like Charles and Jenny,” she informed her father, “But Bennet is just a baby.”

“You were a baby not so long ago, Anne,” he replied, smiling. She bounced on her seat experimentally.

“Not like Bennet, I wasn't,” she insisted. “He has no hair.”

Darcy was forced to concede that this was so.

“I don't like when Charles pulls my hair, though. He says it's because he wants to see it up close, but I don't believe him, because boys are nasty except Stephen and John and sometimes Richard. He says that he hasn't seen that colour on anybody before, and that it's like mud, all slimy and dark. My hair isn't slimy, is it, papa?”

He reached out and touched it, putting two loose strands behind her ears. Her bright eyes were anxious as she gazed at him, and he laughed. “Vanity, thy name is woman! No, darling; or if it is, mine is too.”

She pulled out the tail end of one of her plaits, and examined it gravely before leaning up to look at his. “It is just the same!" she exclaimed delightedly. "Well, your hair isn't slimy at all, papa.”

“That is a great load off my mind.”

Anne returned to her own. “So that means mine isn't. It's just shiny. Shiny is pretty, isn't it? Like Aunt Georgiana's pianoforte.” Her thoughts were briefly distracted. “Papa, Aunt Georgiana sings the pianoforte very nicely, but she never sings the old one, the dark one.”

“She plays, she does not sing,” Darcy corrected. “You are right, she does not play the old pianoforte now, although she did when she was a girl.”

Predictably, Anne demanded, “Why not?”

“I gave her the new one when she turned sixteen, almost five years ago now, and she prefers it.”

Anne considered this. “Shall you give me a nice pianoforte like that when I turn sixteen?”

“If you want one, yes.”

Satisfied, she turned to peer out the window. “Look, papa, it is so pretty outside! Pemberley is so much prettier than everywhere else, don't you think? Aunt Catherine says that it is too wild, but she thinks I'm wild too, and I'm not wild, am I, papa?”

“No, you are not wild.”

“Well, if Rosings is not wild and Pemberley is, I would rather be wild, wouldn't you?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, smiling.

“You don't like Rosings very much, do you, papa?” Darcy glanced up sharply to see his daughter's clear blue eyes set on him mildly. “It is all right,” she added comfortingly, “I do not like Rosings either. Nothing is the way it should be there.”

Darcy flinched, slightly. “I quite agree,” he said, glancing out of the window. “It is a nice day, isn't it?”

“Why else don't you like Rosings? I think you don't like Rosings much more than I don't like Rosings, although Lady Catherine is so fond of you.”

He hesitated, then — unable to do anything else — replied honestly, “Unpleasant things often seem to happen, when I am there.”

“Oh.” He vainly hoped her insistent questioning would end there, but she frowned and said, “But papa, what happened to you?”

Fortunately, his answer had been strictly literal. “Many things. My baby sister died, and something terrible almost happened to your aunt while I was staying there, and my cousin was unhappy all her life, and a — a great many things.”

“What almost happened to Aunt Nana?” Anne demanded.

“She was almost hurt,” Darcy said carefully.

“Oh, that's awful. I don't like it, because it takes so long to wash off the dirt. Do you think I shall be happy to-day, papa?”

“I think you cannot be happy, unless you try very hard at it,” Darcy said ruefully, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. “But we shall be in Baildon in a few hours, so circumstances are on your side.”

She beamed. “Oh, good. I do want to see Jenny again. And Mr and Mrs Bingley, they are so nice — much more nice than Lady Elliot.” She wrinkled her nose and Darcy suppressed an inclination to do the same.

“Lady Elliot means well, Anne.”

“She is dreadful,” Anne declared.

“Anne . . .”

“Not as dreadful as Caroline. I don't care if her father's a baronet, I don't see why she must always always talk of it. Why, look, papa!”

Darcy glanced out the window. Not far ahead, a curricle lay, turned over, while a man stood to the side, glaring down. Were it not for the white collar, Darcy would have suspected, by his expression, that the young man was rather at odds with the Almighty. He ordered his carriage stopped, and stepped out, Anne hiding behind his trousers at the prospect of meeting a stranger.

“Hancock!” he called, and Anne peered out.

“Mr Hancock!” she cried, coming forward as she the familiar face. “You don't have to worry anymore, we are here.”

A true Darcy, he thought wryly, and swung Anne up in his arms, making little of the distance. “Hancock, what seems to have happened?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” the clergyman confessed frankly. “I was fortunate to get out with a few scratches. I suppose I'll have to write to grandmother — might you take me to the parsonage, Mr Darcy? I hate to be a burden, but it isn't far out of your way, and I can't think —”

“You're visiting your grandmother? Does she live with your family in Yorkshire?” he replied, a plan instantly forming in his mind. Darcy was very fond of Hancock. His people were genteel, though fallen on difficult times, and the senior Mr Hancock had been tutor to the Fitzwilliam children, including Darcy himself. When the Kympton living fell vacant, young Hancock was the obvious choice, and Darcy had never regretted taking the path of least resistance for quite possibly the only time in his life.

“She lives in Yorkshire, but not with my father's people — she's my mother's mother, and her home is in the northwest. Fifty miles if it's an inch,” he added glumly, with a vengeful kick at one piece of what had been his curricle. Darcy smiled.

“Excellent! Kympton is actually considerably out of my way, as I'm heading to Yorkshire myself;—a friend of mine invited me to stay at his estate for a — a while. We can take you as far as Baildon, and arrange for transport from there.”

Hancock blinked. “Your friend won't mind an extra guest?”

“Bingley?” Darcy laughed. “No, of course not. I'll have, er, this taken away, and a new one ordered — ”

“The money — ”

Darcy waved such trivial objections aside. “You may repay me when you have it. Is this scheme convenient for you, sir?”

“Convenient?” Hancock blinked at him. “Well — yes, of course, but — you are certain you don't mind, Mr Darcy?”

“I would not have offered if I did. Come — Roberts? Could you possibly . . .” He gestured at the former curricle as a bemused Hancock climbed in the carriage. He had the utmost faith, fully reciprocated, in Roberts' capabilities; with the exception of a certain long-standing aesthetic disagreement relating to Darcy's clothing (which he was more inclined to blame on the man's previous employer, his god-father or no) — the relationship between master and servant was ideal. Darcy allowed Roberts free rein, in all matters not relating to his apparel, while Roberts achieved whatever Darcy wished, often before he had even gotten around to asking for it.

“Papa doesn't mind,” Anne interjected, beaming at the parson. “He never does.” She peered down at the ground. “It's darker, papa.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My hair, papa, it's darker than the mud.” She stuck her straight little nose in the air, and declared, “It's dirty and smelly and my hair is nothing like that, and can I get back in the carriage because it's icky.”

He laughed and accompanied her into the carriage. Within an half-hour, they were en route to Baildon.

"There you are!" Bingley said enthusiastically. His eyes, were it possible, lit up even more at the sight of Hancock. "You brought company? Excellent!"

Darcy gave his friend a severe look, and said repressively, "Bingley, Mrs Bingley." He bowed. "Thank you for the invitation. Hancock needed a place to stay on his way to his grand-mother's. I offered your hospitality. I hope you do not mind?"

He could scarcely keep from smiling at Bingley's immediate cheerful response, "Of course not! Any friend of yours is welcome here, you know that."

"Hancock, this is my dear friend, Charles Bingley, and his wife, Jane. Bingley, Mrs Bingley, this is John Hancock, the parson of the Kympton parish. He had some transportation -- difficulties -- and I offered to take him this far myself."

"Mr Hancock," Mrs Bingley was saying in her sweet voice, "It is a pleasure. We are always glad of company."

Hancock only nodded, seeming rather dazzled. Darcy looked expressively at Bingley and receive a smile verging on the smug in return. The years had been kind to both Bingleys, but there was no doubt but that hers was the greater beauty. With her tall, womanly figure, fine, regular features, and unusual colouring, she had always reminded him rather of Georgiana. Mrs Bingley, however, was not a girl; there had always been a quality of constancy and serenity about her, whether as Miss Bennet of Longbourn or Mrs Bingley of Baildon. Even while fearing for Bingley's happiness, he had always admired her; and as they had come to know one another better, the admiration had grown to a sort of brotherly affection.

It was rather singular that so many of that family treated him as if he were one of them.

As Hancock mumbled something, Darcy caught sight of a tall, slim figure, and for a moment, the jumbled images -- glossy chestnut hair, wide dark eyes, clear brown skin -- assembled into an terribly, wonderfully familiar picture. It was wrong -- he knew it, she was too tall, Elizabeth was just a slight little thing, and her hair was not so dark, nor so straight -- but nevertheless his heart thudded in his chest as he turned to face her.

"Miss Catherine."

"Oh! Mr Darcy!" One hand flew to her cheek. He wasn't sure whether to be dismayed or amused. She dropped the hand, and stared at him blankly. He was not certain what she saw that still bewildered her, as she briefly glanced at Anne and then commenced staring. "Why, you aren't frightening at all," she pronounced, and Darcy could not keep from smiling.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said dryly, and kept a firm grip on Anne, who was trying to dart behind his trousers.

She blushed fiercely, her eyes fixed on his right cheek. Darcy wondered if some mud had gotten on it, and was about to rectify the situation, when Mrs Bingley's voice trilled out, "Kitty! Kitty, we have another guest, for a few days."

Miss Catherine flushed and turned to her sister. "Jane, I don't -- oh." She blushed more deeply. Hancock blinked. Bingley raised his eyebrows; Jane and Darcy smiled.

"Hancock," said Darcy, "this is Mrs Bingley's sister, Miss Catherine Bennet. Miss Catherine, my friend, John Hancock, parson of the Kympton parish."

For a moment, there was a brief furrow between her straight dark brows, and Darcy was painfully hit by her very striking physical resemblance to another, despite the great dissimilarity of character. Then she smiled brightly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Hancock."

Hancock looked even more dazed than ever. "Ah -- Miss Catherine," he stammered. "I -- I am very happy -- to see you -- that is, to meet you."

"I hope you will stay with us a time," she said, giving him a meaningful look which could not possibly be misinterpreted. Hancock coloured deeply.

"I -- er -- I do not know -- I think -- that I shall stay -- a, a time, yes. Awhile."

Bingley and Darcy glanced at one another, and decided to leave them to it. Mrs Bingley, with a fond look for both, ushered them out half-absently, her eyes intently fixed on the pair.

Bingley exhaled deeply. "Well! I am so glad you accepted the invitation. About time! Would you care to examine the library or the children first?"

"How are they?" Darcy inquired. "The children, I mean. Bennet was just an infant when I saw him last." He handed a sleepy Anne over to Mrs Burrows, a bustling, agreeable woman, and focussed on his friend.

"Older," Bingley said, with a laugh. "Anne has certainly grown up. You're going to have your hands full with her."

"I already do," Darcy said ruefully. "I daresay I shall have a crisis of nerves to rival your mother-in-law's when she comes out."

"Keep matters simple. Marry her off to someone in the family -- isn't that nephew of yours the same age?"

Darcy briefly lifted his eyes up and prayed for patience.

"Actually, there was a matter --" Bingley hesitated slightly, then hurried on, "I was wondering if you might have some opinions . . .?"

Darcy laughed. "Bingley, I always have opinions."

"Excellent. That's the wonderful thing about you, you never change. It's vastly unfair, you know; you don't look a day older. Ah well, I daresay you have enough trials to make up for it. Come, you must see the children." He slapped his friend on the shoulder, and Darcy smiled; Bingley's good humour was as infectious as ever. He could not help but feel nearly cheerful himself.

Chapter Nine

The Bingley twins screamed with joy as they caught sight of their god-father, who had long ago won their affections by his peculiar manner of speaking directly to them, as if they were adults; morever, he had a pleasant, soothing voice, and was invariably accompanied by gifts and a play-mate. Anne and Jenny, giggling madly, almost immediately asked permission to go look at some of the latter's latest acquisitions, and ran off almost before it was granted. Charles, who found his sister's new doll spectacularly uninteresting, shadowed Darcy's footsteps Anne-style and attempted to contort his amiable features into a severe expression. Failing this, he took to discreetly following his aunt Catherine and the stranger, at a particularly inopportune moment leaping down from the nearby tree with a blood-curdling scream. Shortly thereafter he was confined to his bedchamers; the girls offered sympathy and looked smug.

Bingley's "matter," it transpired, was not the troublesome business affair Darcy had expected, nor even a recalcitrant tenant, but — as far as Darcy was concerned — far, far worse.

"It's Caroline," he confided, with a weary look. Darcy sympathised, all the while wishing himself very far away. Say, Padua. He had briefly attended university in Padua*, and it had been pleasant. Pleasant was not exactly the first word that sprang to mind when contemplating Caroline Elliot née Bingley.

"She just — arrived," Bingley was saying helplessly. "I know she's my sister, and —"

Some things, Darcy decided, were inevitable. Apparently he was a magnet for dissatisfied female relations.

"— not behaved well. Now, admittedly her husband is not the most scintillating company —" a scathing denunciation coming from Bingley — "and perhaps getting on in years, but running to me every time she quarrels with her daughters-in-law, or their husbands, is starting to get tiresome — just a little, you understand."

"Of course," said Darcy, not daring to smile. He must be furious. "What has she done?" he inquired. Bingley flushed.

"She — I do not know for certain, and I know you and Jane do not condone listening to gossip — but it is being said — she has been seen, in the company of a — a fellow known for — dallying with certain — with ladies in Caroline's circumstances."

The disparate pieces slid together. "You mean, handsome married women, wealthy and bored? This charming gentleman, has he a name?"

"Crawford," said Bingley off-handedly, clearly forgetting the lamentable connection; Darcy sighed and mentally calculated the distance to Houghton. "Her letters are full of him. Good God, Darcy," he said plaintively, "she has children."

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention that this was hardly a hindrance to most women's, or indeed men's, pursuit of pleasure; he restrained himself out of regard for whatever fraternal fondness Bingley still possessed. Clearly, I was not properly grateful for Georgiana, he thought wryly. "I very much doubt she is the first mother to have been seduced by that man," he said grimly.

"Oh, do you know him?" Bingley asked, cheering slightly.

"His sister is married to my cousin."

"Oh, dear," said Bingley sympathetically. "I had no idea."

"I try to avoid thinking on it. If Fitzwilliam and his wife are at my uncle's estate, I may be able to do . . . something." He suppressed a shudder at the thought of Mrs Fitzwilliam, but undoubtedly something must be done, if only for the Bingleys' sake. There were duties in friendship as well as privileges; and this was clearly one of them. Otherwise he would have no qualms whatsoever about leaving the erstwhile Lady Elliot to her fate.

"Is Mrs Fitzwilliam much like her brother?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Bingley laughed and Darcy flushed. "I mean, in some ways she is very like him, and in some, not at all." Mary was at least more circumspect, and, despite her ways, seemed sincerely fond of her husband. Morever, she was as ambitious as any Fitzwilliam and in that respect made a perfect wife, daughter, and cousin to them all. She looked well on Richard's arm, always saying and doing the right thing; and so, her apparently irresistible attraction to severe, respectable men was overlooked in favour of the benefits she brought to the family. That she was driven by prudence rather than any sense of honour or principles was, apparently, seen only by the trio of cousins she relentlessly pursued. Darcy rather hoped that Henry and Edward would be at home as well, if only to divert her attention.

"I wouldn't concern myself," Bingley was saying, looking uncharacteristically grave; "I care for her, naturally, but she is long past the point where I could imagine that I had any say over her actions." Darcy flinched. "Frankly, I was at first inclined to let her, er, make her own bed — but — " he sighed — "then I thought of Jenny. Caroline's her aunt, and if she continues on in the way she has, it might reflect on Jenny. The others too, but boys are — different. And what of Jane? What of the children?—Caroline's children, that is."

"They must be considered," Darcy agreed cautiously, although he had no great fondness for the latest Elliot offspring, relations or no. The connection was not one he took pleasure in acknowledging, naturally barring the Wentworths.

"So," Bingley heaved a great sigh, "here we are. Caroline and her children are here, and I daresay one of her husband's people will show up at some point, and it is all very trying. Have you any advice?"

"A pity you cannot turn her over your knee," Darcy said dryly; "I very much doubt she is interested in reforming her ways at present. Mrs Fitzwilliam might be able to convince her brother to redirect his attentions, but Caroline will only find someone else. You might be able to do something for the children, as I do not recall Sir Walter being very much interested in such things; it would be more convenient if she could simply be disposed of."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I meant," Darcy hastened to add, "rendered — sent abroad, or some such thing, where she could do nothing to reflect upon your family."

"Oh."

There was a brief pause, as the two men mulled over possibilities. Darcy prepared to pen an awkward letter to his cousins; Bingley thought of his (usually) sweet-tempered daughter and beloved Jane, and determined that Something Must Be Done. Both cherished distinctly uncharitable thoughts towards Crawford.

"Charles, really I — "

It was only to be expected, really, that the former Miss Caroline Bingley should choose that moment to march into the study. Her hazel eyes went round as she caught sight of Darcy, and she instantly reverted to the woman he had found so contemptible in earlier years.

"Oh! Mr Darcy! What a delightful surprise. Why, Charles — how sly of you, brother, not to tell me that such a dear friend had arrived. I am but recently arrived myself, Mr Darcy."

"So I understand," he replied dryly, vaguely wondering what the attraction was. Presumably Crawford was charismatic enough to be a little fastidious; Lady Elliot was a handsome woman, to be certain, with good enough taste to make the most of nature's gifts, but she could not hold a candle to any of the women in his family. Including his grand-mother. And it hardly compensated for her less appealing personality quirks.

He could not keep himself from wickedly inquiring as to his cousin's health. "I know he is not so young as he once was — about my father's age, I should think, if father were still alive."

Lady Elliot flushed. "Fortunately, he enjoys tolerably good health, Mr Darcy. I shall tell him, when next we meet, that you asked after him, however. I was not aware you were particularly close to that part of your family?"

"It is a distant connection, to be sure," Darcy said dismissively. "I do not think we should have met as such, were it not for my mother's friendship with the former Lady Elliot; she was my god-mother, you know."

Lady Elliot, who did not care to be reminded of her sainted predecessor, frowned and denied any knowledge of the sort. Sir Walter bore his age well, making it easy to "forget," but the gap between her husband and Mr Darcy evidently struck her forcibly at that moment, and her face expressed her thoughts well enough. Darcy was not a particularly vain man — pride, rather than vanity, tended to be his weakness — but he was not so oblivious that he could not divine what her appraising look at him meant.

"You must know my daughters-in-law well, then." The faint grimace accompanying this spoke volumes.

"Oh, yes. I see Mrs Wentworth occasionally."

"She is very well-bred."

"Certainly;—and her husband as well."

Lady Elliot's features tightened, although she retained enough deference for his opinions that she did not dare directly contradict him. "He is very agreeable, when the mood takes him."

This struck Darcy as a more accurate description of Lady Elliot herself than Frederick Wentworth, who whatever his other flaws, did not lack a consistent charm of manner. Ah — he guessed at what might have occurred there, that might explain her hostility towards the man but not his wife. He sighed, and after several minutes of mind-numbingly dull conversation, chiefly consisting of inquiries after mutual acquaintances, took leave of brother and sister. A letter was written and posted; Darcy gladly retreated to his own chambers, accompanied by several books. He spent the rest of the evening lost in a pleasurable intellectual fog.

Chapter Ten

Posted on Thursday, 16 February 2006

Darcy had retained a vague idea that he disliked the Elliot children;--at least as much as he disliked any children. They were a girl and boy of four and two. Both were handsome -- unsurprising, given their indisputably attractive progenitors -- unfortunately, they also seemed to have inherited their parents' less desirable traits. Walter, the younger, was a loud, ungovernable fellow, while Caroline was spoilt, petulant, and haughty, very like her half-sister Elizabeth. Their mother ignored them, their uncle and aunt indulged them, and Darcy fell half-unconsciously into the role of disciplinarian. For some reason -- he himself was not entirely certain of it -- the children responded to him as they did not the other adults, although they made no pretense of liking him.

Charles and Jenny had no fondness for their Elliot relations, and Darcy and Mrs Bingley were chiefly occupied in breaking up quarrels between the cousins. Walter, thankfully, spent most of his time away from the others; but Caroline more than made up for it. Lady Elliot, after several weeks, eventually noticed enough to complain to Darcy.

“Why don't you speak to your brother?” Darcy asked exasperatedly. “They are his children.”

Lady Elliot sniffed. “I am not speaking about Charles and Jane. They are normal children.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon,” he said icily, “I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, Lady Elliot.”

She rolled her eyes, and he could not keep from reflecting that, despite her pretensions, there had always been that bit of vulgarity about her. It was not simply the impertinence -- occasionally even ill-bred impertinence -- of Lady Catherine, but a crassness more akin to -- to -- he tried to think of a comparison, but only Mrs Bennet and her three younger daughters sprang to mind. “Surely you have noticed that Anne is a trifle strange.”

Darcy said nothing, and she mistakenly construed this as encouragement. She had never been a really clever woman.

“She does not play properly, and she does not talk. It was not really Caroline's fault.”

Darcy did not feel it worth his time to explain that Anne not only talked but talked astonishingly well when she considered the company worth it. Nor could he fault his daughter's taste. “Anne is perfectly -- ”

“It is only that we have no money,” she confided. Darcy tried to think of a polite way to say that he could not be less interested. “It is so difficult to make her understand that we cannot afford what a baronet's daughter ought to have; and why Anne has so much more than she does, when she is only a gentleman's daughter.”

Clearly Lady Elliot felt the loss of a few dresses and feathers as greater deprivation than Kellynch. Westhampton had once said that those who were not born to an estate could not understand its loss, and apparently he had been right; Bingley had only looked blank when Darcy admitted to a grudging sympathy for the family's straits. It was Mrs Bingley who immediately comprehended his meaning.

“You might explain that my family has had more money, for longer, than Sir Walter's,” he offered acerbically. “Or that my lifestyle is less extravagant than -- his.”

“I could hardly say that,” Lady Elliot objected. “She is so sensitive.”

“Indeed? I had quite failed to notice.”

She forged on. “I'm sure you didn't need to frighten her.”

“Lady Elliot," he leaned forward, eyes flashing -- "if your daughter strikes mine again, I will do more than frighten her. I suggest that if this causes either of you distress, you convince her of the unsuitability of her actions. Incidentally, Anne is not strange and I do not appreciate your suggestion of it. I have nothing more to say on the matter.” He picked up a letter and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

As expected, Henry Crawford happened to arrange a lengthy visit to a neighbouring estate some three weeks into Lady Elliot's stay. Only a man as impudent as Crawford would attempt to seduce a woman -- even one so willing as Lady Elliot -- under her brother's roof. When he paid a visit to the Bingleys, he fooled no-one, but little could be done, and his charm slowly won the family over. The arrival of the Fitzwilliams, the colonel and his wife, was more than timely.

The brother and sister were, despite their manifold flaws, sincerely fond of one another. Crawford paused in his attendance upon Lady Elliot and Mrs Bingley, his eyes lifting up with a glad cry of “Mary!”

“Henry!”

After kissing one another, introductions to those still unacquainted were made, and Mrs Fitzwilliam gravitated to Darcy's side. Overcome by the instinct to flee, Darcy remembered Bingley's steady friendship, Mrs Bingley's upstanding character, and most of all his sweet god-daughter, and steadied his resolve.

“I understand from my husband that you would like to speak to me, Mr Darcy,” she said softly. One of the most difficult things about Mrs Fitzwilliam was that she was never overt, and had only grown more subtle with time. Nevertheless her intense dark stare made the hairs on his neck prickle. He had very much hoped that it was only because there was something about him terribly objectionable, but a conference with his two similarly-affected cousins had relieved him of that delusion long ago.

“I would like -- to ask -- a favour,” he said haltingly. Mrs Fitzwilliam smiled winningly and waited. He fidgeted -- this smacked of deceit -- of course he was being perfectly straightforward and -- but still -- it was not -- Darcy sighed. It was one of those moments wherein he wished for a more extensive repertoire of expletives.

“A favour? Of me? I am flattered, Mr Darcy,” she said, as charming as ever. The attentions of such a woman were nearly enough to drive a man into marriage -- any marriage, so long as it rendered him inaccessible. Unfortunately, Mrs Fitzwilliam's morals were such that she disregarded such trivialities, as Edward could attest. She had already gained respectability and status through her marriage; it was apparently more personal qualities that attracted her. Darcy bit his lip and briefly wished he were five foot five with warts. Not really, of course, but it was all -- so awkward. Why could she not just find a charming rake like her brother? Of course, people would talk if she was seen with someone like that. Really, there was no escape.

“You probably won't be when I'm finished,” he said bluntly. Mrs Fitzwilliam's eyebrows rose slightly. “Lady Elliot, Bingley's sister, is apparently quite delighted with your brother.”

“Henry has great natural charm,” Mrs Fitzwilliam said mildly, although her eyes were trained on her brother, her expression intense. “Women always fall a little infatuated with him; he can't help it, really.” It was true enough that every woman Crawford spoke to seemed to moon after him. He was an unusual man in that he was simultaneously attractive and replusive; women loved him and most men longed to kick him. Darcy himself felt a certain twitching in his boot even as he began speaking to the man's sister.

“You know, of course, that Sir Walter, Lady Elliot's husband, and my father were cousins?”

Her lips pursed. “No, I did not.” Her dark eyes went to Bingley's sister, and hardened slightly.

“Scandal, naturally, would be very unpleasant for the entire family. We are all a very respectable lot. The former Lady Elliot, my god-mother, would never have dreamed --”

“Yes, I see.” Her expression had turned positively stormy. “Well, surely Henry can direct his attentions elsewhere. There are so many -- ” She glanced up at him meaningfully, and he glanced away, flushing.

“He has no reason to do so. But even if he does, Lady Elliot seems not to realise the, er, obligations incumbent upon her situation. It would be dreadful for -- all of the family, really -- if there was any hint of scandal. You understand, Mrs Fitzwilliam, how one may pursue one's -- ” Darcy raised his eyes and smiled rather unpleasantly -- “entertainments, without indiscretion or impropriety. Lady Elliot appears to be rather less enlightened.”

The only expression that crossed her face was faint surprise, soon gone; she returned his gaze consideringly, then smiled. “You wish for me to -- enlighten her, then?”

“Yes.” He weighed his chances, then continued levelly, “It would be dreadful, cousin, were the family name to be sullied in any way. Public opinion is so fickle. Of course, people are generally fickle -- not only women. Their ideas change so rapidly; character is the only constant. Do people ever really change, do you think? Can they?”

Mrs Fitzwilliam's gaze did not waver, and she laughed lightly. “I am not well-versed in matters of philosophy, sir; but I think not. Still, ideas and -- paradigms -- may shift. You have been married, Mr Darcy; sometimes people truly are happier ignorant. Do you not believe so?”

“I would not wish it for myself;” -- he glanced at the colonel, who was talking animatedly to Lady Elliot and Mrs Bingley -- “but perhaps, for some. I am not certain; I would have to give the matter more thought.”

“I see.” She looked from her brother, to the Bingley siblings, to her husband. “When I have spoken with Lady Elliot, perhaps you shall have come to a conclusion on the matter?”

“Perhaps. My ideas are never set in stone, however.”

Mrs Fitzwilliam glanced up at him through her lowered lashes, and smiled demurely. “Ah. Let us hope your friend's sister is as accomodating in her thinking as you.”

“Indeed.”

“And, cousin -- we have been family these two years. Surely such formality in unnecessary?”

“Very well, Mary.” He bowed, and left without making any reciprocal request. Crawford instantly joined him, his brows furrowed.

“That was a charming tęte-ŕ-tęte I just observed, sir,” he began. Darcy looked at him disdainfully and crossed his right foot behind his left, where it could cause no trouble. What a contemptible little man, he thought, as glad of his height as he had disliked it awhile before. He had not the slightest idea how Crawford could have fooled any woman, let alone the vast numbers rumoured.

“Oh, was it?” he replied, falling into his native languid drawl, as he invariably did when annoyed. “I rather thought you preoccupied with Sir Walter's wife.”

“She is very beautiful, but I'm afraid the present company has me rather inured to such charms.”

“Astonishing,” said Darcy.

“I had not thought you particularly friendly with my sister,” the man prodded. Insufferable creature.

“I am not.” With a scathing look, Darcy said icily, “It was a family matter. I'm afraid I do not have leave to discuss it. Good day.” He bowed and left the room with Bingley. They were well on their way to the study when it occurred to him that he was running away from the intolerable pair, and he laughed.

Bingley, his expression still faintly trapped, glanced over at him in surprise. “What is it?” He looked around them, then over his shoulder.

“I have an entirely new perspective on hunting,” said Darcy.

Chapter Eleven

Peace reigned at Baildon for several weeks. The less desirable guests departed, Lady Elliot and Mrs Fitzwilliam promising to write one another.

They seemed to have struck up a friendship of sorts. Darcy tiredly wondered what on earth he'd created; but at least they were gone, and as long as Lady Elliot learnt discretion in her dalliances, his design had been accomplished. He sighed, feeling rather -- dirty, really. It was only a very conscious effort that kept him from retreating into his customary detachment, distancing himself from all around him.

They enjoyed the last few weeks of the visit. Darcy spoke with Mrs Bingley about matters other than their children. As subtly as he could -- for he was quite certain that she knew -- he enquired after her family. She said that all but her father were in excellent health, and all but her mother in excellent spirits. Little elaboration was needed on that subject. He smiled and asked no more, instead dwelling on the Gardiners' manifold charms.

“When they were here, my cousin called you her uncle. And then the children could not stop talking.” She smiled at him, affectionately.

“Children usually like me,” he replied, rather nervously.

“I understand.” She sewed steadily, her dark head bent over her work, then glanced up. “Bingley has missed your advice a great deal.”

Darcy raised his eyebrows, his expression sardonic. “My advice? I should think he would be glad enough to be free of it.”

“Oh, no.” She tilted her head to the side, considering her stitching. “He is very fond of you, and grateful for all that you have done. We are none of us perfect, Mr Darcy,” she added softly. “Although my sister used to say that some of us are less so than others.”

He laughed. There was no need to ask, which sister? “Speaking of which, Hancock should return here tomorrow. He -- Miss Catherine -- ” Darcy coughed. “Perhaps, when it is convenient, your family should like to come to Pemberley. Your sister, too, of course.”

Mrs Bingley smiled. “Your home is delightful, sir. I believe I may speak for Bingley, when I say that we would be honoured. And Kitty has never seen Pemberley.”

“She shall probably see it often enough in the future,” he said thoughtlessly. Mrs Bingley looked at him expressively, and he blushed.

“I am beyond redemption, I fear.”

“It must be difficult,” she said, searching for thread in her basket, “to have so many dependent upon your judgment. And then to be right so much of the time. I daresay it makes it all the worse when you are not.”

Darcy decided that he had never given Jane Bingley her due -- even when he had given her more than almost anyone else. “Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, it is.”

“My husband thinks the world of you. He has so few close friends, you know.”

“Yes, I know. It is his way -- to gather a great many `friends' who are little more than acquaintances, and -- well, you know. You are married to him.”

She smiled mistily. “Yes, I am. I knew what he was like then, and I know him better now. I am very grateful for the care you take of him. He might have been led very far astray, if you had not been there. Thank you.”

He started. His scrupulous guidance of Bingley was hardly deserving of thanks; simply the obligation he owed his young, impressionable friend. “It was nothing,” he said sincerely. “I am honoured to call him my friend.” With a faint smile, he added, “It is not anyone who will put up with me and my moods, after all.”

“You are very even-tempered, I have always thought.” Then she looked down, and flushed.

“Except when I am not,” he agreed gravely. “Ah, I believe I hear Anne calling. Thank you for your unexampled kindness, Mrs Bingley.” He kissed her hand and left.

By late spring, they were settled at Pemberley again, and their days fell into an easy pattern. He arranged all business affairs by correspondence, and spent as much time with Anne as he could. After such a long holiday, she did not take well to a structured schedule and the dictates of her nurse-governess, but he was immovable and she eventually became acclimated once more to life at Pemberley.

He was at once content and sorrowful. Pemberley was, somehow, a balm for him. He felt cleansed, and threw himself wholeheartedly into the management of the estate, paying only the obligatory social calls to his neighbours. His time was so thoroughly occupied, he ought not to have time for anything else. And yet -- there was, it seemed, a pervading sadness about everything. It was weeks before he even noticed, one day in which he was on business for hours, and separated from Anne until evening. He knew where she was -- knew she was perfectly well -- did not, in fact, greatly fear for her -- no more than usual, in any case -- and yet, without her incessant questions, her ebullient effervescence, her unconditional adoration, he was -- lost. It was an almost physical pain and he could not understand it.

He soon realized, it was not precisely a new sensation. Grief -- yes, that was it -- and yet, he had grown accustomed over time; and his joy in Anne had gone a long way towards dulling it. Still, it was always with him; when he was parted from her, it flooded over him in great dark waves, and he could not understand. Perhaps, it had been so long -- he had been so preoccupied with what was happening, that he had quite forgotten what was. He had been so oblivious to his own thoughts and feelings that when they came back -- or when he became aware of their existence -- they did so with a vengeance, he scarcely knew what to do with them.

Anne was his lifeline. He did not know what he would have done without her; he did not dare think on it. She was in some ways astonishingly like him -- from his experience with his Bingley and Fitzwilliam god-children, and the Gardiners, he gathered that her speech was highly articulate. Moreover she was learning her letters and had become fascinated with words. Only yesterday she had insisted that he translate her nightly fairy-story into French. He had been very much the same at that age. He still remembered his aunt saying perplexedly, “You are such an odd little boy, Fitzwilliam.”

That, naturally, reminded him of Miss Bingley -- Lady Elliot -- and he vindictively hoped something truly unpleasant happened to her. His best hopes on that front lay, peculiarly enough, with Mrs Fitzwilliam; he very much doubted that her protestations of friendship were sincere. Slightly cheered at the thought of Lady Elliot at Mary Fitzwilliam's mercy, he bit his lip and considered. The Kirkby living had finally fallen vacant, and so the Hammonds would be here -- there -- in a few days. Cecily should be all right. The Westhamptons were happy, or so it seemed from Georgiana's latest letter. There were no more rumours about Lady Elliot. All of his far-flung relations seemed to be doing perfectly well. Darcy breathed a rather melancholy sigh of relief. There was only one thing left.

He was not certain whether to be outraged or amused. At first, it was only his determination to remain where he was that allowed him to keep his temper; then, the sheer hilarity of it all struck him, and he laughed. Lady Catherine, no doubt, would not have been remotely pleased at his reaction to her diatribe. He felt no inclination to explain himself or his actions to her. She was neither the head of his family nor his mother, despite her pretensions to both. His reply said as much, in an almost offensively light and cheerful style. His innate perversity satisfied, he spent the next weeks in comparative peace and quiet.

The following months were pleasant, if bittersweet. Anne grew rapidly, and demonstrated that she had inherited a full share of the family willfulness. Darcy, implacable when he knew himself to be right, was the only one who could influence her in the slightest once she had set her mind on something. The others in charge of her usually gave in out of sheer exhaustion. One such time was when the governess insisted that Anne's hair needed cut. Mrs Jones was not one to brook opposition -- a necessary quality for anyone put in charge of Darcy children -- but Anne's vociferous protests brought a bewildered Darcy from his study. Mrs Jones had a pair of scissors in her hands, Anne was protectively holding her dark hair away from her face, and several maids watched on in fascination. Although he usually tried not to interfere in Anne's education, on this occasion he put his foot down. His fatherly soul was horrified at the prospect and he caustically informed Mrs Jones that Anne's hair was not her concern.

“It gets in the inkpot,” Mrs Jones said primly. “She must accept respons -- ”

“She is three years old, Mrs Jones.” People! He compromised, and promised that Anne's hair would be plaited henceforth. Circumstances being what they were, it was Darcy who learnt to brush and plait the little girl's hair. He pursued this accomplishment with the same single-minded attention he had done everything else; but he could not help thinking that certain aspects of fatherhood were rather more peculiar than others.

His penchant for solitude grew rather more pronounced over that time, broken only by the Bingleys' visit. He had never been social, but the energy that had driven him in his twenties seemed to have faded a little. Georgiana, he knew, worried over him, over them both, writing at least weekly, and visiting no less than every six weeks. She was encouraged that he planned to go to Houghton in September, and even more that he actually did so when the time came.

He dreaded it -- not so much his family and their demands on him, which he found rather bizarrely gratifying, but venturing forth from the haven of Pemberley, and worse, Mrs Fitzwilliam was there.

“Mr Darcy, Miss Darcy, what a pleasure to see you here,” she said graciously, her kiss burning his cheek. She was a depraved, immoral, wicked woman -- she disgusted him as few woman ever had -- and yet why should he care? Why should he bother loathing her? That was the best word for his feelings, and yet she was utterly unworthy of such attention. Why did he respond so intensely, in a dislike that was nearly bordering on hatred? Why could he not shrug her off as he had shrugged off so many others?

It was only when he started awake, gasping for air, memories pouring through his mind, as alive and vivid as if they had happened yesterday, that he understood. Mary's vibrancy and wit and charisma were misapplied, to be sure -- behind her pretty face and charming ways, there was no deeper, richer core, no thoughtful intellect or fine character -- but on the surface, they were very alike. He had met her and not cared before Elizabeth; it was afterwards. Somehow, for some reason -- although it eluded him -- loathing Mary was part and parcel of loving Elizabeth.

Even more than Catherine, she brought Elizabeth to mind. Not, perhaps, as she was -- he had not seen her since Charles and Jenny's christening, and then only a brief glimpse -- but as she had been, as he remembered her. The flashing dark eyes, the intelligence that had first drawn him to her, before he found any pleasure in looking at her -- the splatters of mud on her skirt, emblematic, somehow, of the profound affection for a beloved sister. Then -- her quieter, somehow softer, ways at Pemberley; somehow, he had felt, he no longer need fear being cut on her sharp edges -- unreasonable, given their history, but the impression remained with him. What had they spoken of? He hardly recalled. Veiled barbs and cold reserve was so much easier -- he had never dreamt that making conversation with the woman he loved could be such a trial. Of course, the company had not been particularly helpful; even Georgiana, dear Georgiana, hardly spoke two words together. And Miss Bingley!

Introducing her to Sir Walter was, he decided, ample revenge.

Yet they had gotten past it, eventually. He absently rubbed his icy hands together, unable to stop the flood, even were he inclined -- and he was not. He remembered that first awkward conversation after he had returned from town. She had been so mortified by Mr Collins -- understandably -- and, quite overwhelmed by his feelings in that moment (the clergyman notwithstanding), he smiled warmly at her. It was with equal parts astonishment and pleasure that he watched her pour tea with trembling hands.

After that, the pair could not keep from talking. He was always quiet in company, but she drew him out easily enough as they walked through the park with no company but Jane and Bingley. Their mutual dislike was so well-established that no one considered how much thrown together they were.

“I am terribly sorry about Mr Collins.”

“It is quite all right.”

“No, he is really a dreadful man.”

“He is certainly a very enthusiastic person.”

“He is rather more enthusiastic about Lady Catherine than his parishioners,” she said, sharply.

“There is no doubting his gratitude to my aunt,” said Darcy, then sighed. “Bingley!”

“Jane!”

Their charges separated with penitent expressions and Elizabeth shook her head. “I would never have thought it of Jane, she is so saintly.”

“Bingley is not exactly discouraging her,” he remarked, as the man in question briefly pressed his lips against his fiancée's cheek. Darcy opened his mouth, then shut it again with a faint smile. When each slipped an arm around the other's waist, however, both chaperones exclaimed,

“Jane!”

“Bingley!”

And so they talked, speech broken only by rebukes to the engaged couple. At first, Mr Collins supplied most of the conversation, followed by reflections on Mrs Collins' situation, among various other civilities. With conversation came ease, and with ease friendship, but their peculiar relationship, if indeed relationship it could be called, did not ripen any further. Both veered away from the topic of their own feelings, she for her own reasons -- at the time, and even later, he supposed her reticence sprang from her relative indifference. And he -- he was too cautious -- no, frightened -- to risk their delicate accord at so early a juncture. With time -- he had fully intended to pursue her, if he had to hover around the fringes of Bingley family gatherings for the next ten years -- with time, courage would come. Except there had been no time.

He had not thought of it, of her, for so long -- it seemed so long -- why had he not? Once it had overshadowed his every thought. Of course, love changed; and his love, it had been such a part of him, for so long, that it required no thinking about. It simply was. And yet -- Elizabeth. He could think of her now, and, curling beneath the covers, did so. Where was she? How was she? Mrs Gardiner had said that she was chiefly occupied with her father's health -- had Mr Bennet been ill? He did not think so; but often, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps he was an invalid of sorts. She could use a friend, the Gardiners had said, and he had known that they meant more than they said; but for the life of him, he could not, even now, imagine what it was. And Mrs Bingley had said that all but Mrs Bennet were in excellent spirits.

Houghton was so cold. Darcy shivered underneath the covers and fell into an uneasy slumber.

Chapter Twelve

Posted on Saturday, 18 February 2006

“Stephen is so tall,” declared the proud mamma; “and the governess can hardly keep up with him. He is reading, and learning to write --”

Anne and Stephen were overflowing with excitement from the moment they caught sight of one another, and had run madly through the halls for apparently hours. Darcy looked around Aincourt curiously; it was quite different from what he recalled, even during his last visit. Much of the more ornate ornamentation was gone, and many of the rooms were lighter and more cheerful. Only so much could be done -- family legend had it that the original proprietor had been determined that all the world should know of his affluence, and Aincourt had always been more splendid than elegant. Nevertheless it was a fine old place, and Georgiana had done a great deal for it.

She looked well; less like a beautiful marble statue and more like the lovely châtelaine of a large estate. Westhampton appeared prodigiously proud of wife and son, and all but Stephen seemed perfectly contented with their life. Once the children's energy exhausted itself, Anne retreating to the nursery to play with the toys left expressly for her purpose, Stephen attached himself to his uncle, clinging to rather than imitating him. Neither of his parents knew what was the matter; Georgiana acknowledged that he had been rather sulky as of late, and Westhampton said that he tended to be moody.

“He has been a great deal better since you came,” Georgiana confessed. “I worry about him, a little. He says he misses home.”

Darcy thought of his nephew's delight in every nook and cranny of Pemberley, and sighed. “He shall adjust, in time,” he said. “Visits, of course, are always welcome; he is as much Darcy as Deincourt.”

“More so,” Westhampton said ruefully, “going by his looks and behaviour.”

“We are not temperamental,” said Georgiana pointedly, with an arch smile for her husband. “The Darcys have always been the very picture of sweet-tempered respectability; have we not, Fitzwilliam?”

“We have always been respectable, in any case.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of respectability, I have not yet seen your grandmother, Westhampton.”

The other man laughed. “Ah, grandmamma has been in a foul temper the last half-year at least. I never met a more resentful woman, or man, for that matter. I cannot imagine what you must have said to her.”

“My aunt, Lady Catherine, did most of the talking,” said Darcy. “We did exchange a few words, however.”

“Whatever you said, life has been much more pleasant here ever since,” said Georgiana, with a fond look at him.

“I daresay it owes more to you two than me,” he said, smiling.

“I doubt it,” said Georgiana, and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

Darcy woke to a pounding on his door. Somewhat groggily, he opened it, and peered down at an anxious-looking servant. “Mr Darcy, sir,” she gasped, “his lordship sent me -- ”

“What is it, Sally?” he inquired tiredly. She flushing, appearing to have gone briefly mute as she nervously eyed him, and Darcy self-consciously tightened his robe. “Sally?”

She burst into tears. “It's Miss Darcy, sir. She's gone.”

Georgiana was awake and pale, pacing back and forth. There was no sign of Westhampton.

“Where is your husband?” Darcy demanded curtly.

“He's looking for them, with the servants,” she said meekly, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes.

“Them?”

She raised her swollen, tear-filled eyes. “Stephen and Anne and Lady Westhampton.”

Darcy caught his breath, staring at her. Distinctly unsteady, he briefly clung to the doorjamb before straightening himself. “She took them,” he said tonelessly. “Both of them.”

Georgiana nodded. “If I had not woken up and decided to look in on him — everyone says I am too overprotective, but if I had not — it would have been far, far too late. Oh Fitzwilliam!” She bent her head and began sobbing brokenly. “They are so small, and she has no head for details. Stephen doesn't — ” she struggled for breath — “have his coat.” At this she began crying anew. Darcy briefly put her arms around her, allowing her to cling to him, before both separated and stood separate and upright.

“I shall join Westhampton and the others. As soon as there is any — news — I will send someone. Goodbye, dearest.”

As soon as he found his brother-in-law, he tersely asked for news, of which there was none. Although a part of his brain was clamouring for his attention, the larger portion was clear, lucid, and dispassionate. He joined the search for the two children and their erstwhile grandparent, eyes darting back and forth as they searched through the snow falling thickly about them. Any tracks that might have been made were quickly washed away, and it was only luck that sent Darcy underneath a thick grove of trees, an edge of desperation aiding his efforts.

“Papa — ” He could hear the low, gasping whisper, and at first thought it only his imagination. The voice grew more insistent, although not louder. “Papa, papa — ”

It was joined by another, “Uncle Fitzwilliam — please, help, please — ”

Darcy looked up, and to his amazement met the white faces of two shivering children. A hard tightness about his heart relaxed slightly, and he called up, “Stephen, Anne, you must come down. Your mother and I will take care of you now.” His conscience jabbed, And you did so well before, didn't you? He ignored it and waited for the children.

“I — I'm afraid, papa,” said Anne. “I can't! I'll slip and break my neck, grandmamma said so!” Stephen nodded shivering agreement. Darcy only hesitated a fraction of a moment before springing up into the tree, taking both daughter and nephew up into his arms, and climbing back down. He wrapped the two slightly-built children in his own coat, and returned to the others.

They were congregated around a prone figure, and Darcy immediately turned the children away before they caught a glimpse of whatever it was. He himself could make out the blue-tinged cheeks, and knew beyond a doubt that she was dead. As the assembled searchers caught sight of him, general relief was voiced through the crowd, and several approached Stephen and Anne, including Westhampton. Both flinched back, staring with wide, frightened eyes. Darcy sighed, and accepted the offer of a horse, riding back to Aincourt as fast as he was able. He could feel how cold both were, particularly Anne, who had inherited his light build and even nestled closely against him did not seem to grow appreciably warmer.

Georgiana was directing the efforts of the house capably and efficiently. There was a man of about fifty next to her. “This is Mr Davis, from Lambton,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the children. They raised their own, and whispered,

“Aunt Georgiana?”

“Mamma?”

The children were quickly stripped of their sodden clothes, cleaned, and put in bed. The anxious parents turned to Mr Davis, who vaguely reminded Darcy of his `sister' Mrs Gardiner. “You must keep them warm,” he instructed, “and well-fed. They will need all the strength they can get.” Correctly interpreting the siblings' suddenly frozen expressions, he smiled kindly. “They are young, and strong. It could have been a great deal worse.”

The next days were spent at the children's sides. Darcy and Georgiana scarcely left the room, and never together. For several hours, their condition worsened. Neither seemed to recognise anyone, including both parents, but still cringed back from unfamiliar contact. Anne's situation was the most precarious, and she tossed and turned for days in a high fever. Darcy lived in a grey haze, where one day was hardly distinguishable from the next, catching odd hours of sleep that did little good. The only constant was Anne's small, clammy hand resting against his own, the pulse fluttering against his fingers. It was late one evening that her fever turned, her lifeless grip tightening weakly in recognition.

“Papa,” she whispered through parched lips, and Darcy stared blankly for a moment, before crying for the doctor. After several minutes of checking who knew what, Mr Davis smilingly assured him that her recovery was now assured, and went to the other patient. Darcy wearily leaned his forehead against his daughter's hand, oblivious to the tears running down his cheeks.

“Don't cry, papa,” Anne said peremptorily.

After she drifted back to sleep, Darcy carefully released her hand, and turned to his sister. “He's going to be fine,” she said, smiling through her own tears. “They both are.”

“Thank God,” said Darcy fervently, glancing out of the window. The stars, which had seemed to him dim and hardly worth looking at, sparkled radiantly overhead. Georgiana expelled a little breath and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Before you came, you said something about a wedding,” whispered Westhampton, staring at his sleeping son and niece. He only dared enter when they were fast asleep, unwilling to alarm the pair. Darcy sat upright, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, that,” he said wearily. “Would you mind writing Bingley and explaining that I shan't be able to attend?”

“Write Bingley,” Westhampton repeated, blinking a little.

“Yes, please,” Darcy returned distractedly, almost fully occupied with the slow rise and fall of the children's respective chests. Regardless of Mr Davis, he could not rid himself of the fear that either or both might die at any moment, irrevocably lost to both himself and Georgiana. He remained with them until the day that he collapsed onto the floor, terrifying Georgiana, who after days of unfalteringly constant attention, was often at the edge of hysteria. Darcy did not wake for three days.

“Anne?” he said groggily. Firm hands pushed him back down, and he blinked in confusion.

“Fitzwilliam James,” Georgiana said fiercely, “if you ever think of doing such a thing again, I swear — I shall — I shall — oh, I don't know what I shall do! But it will be very unpleasant.”

“Oh?” He struggled to make sense of this, and failed. “I don't recall exactly . . .”

“Do not worry,” came Mr Davis' jovial tones, “you only fainted, Mr Darcy.”

“I . . . fainted?” Darcy shook his head, and with a wary look at his sister — who would have been an excellent model for an avenging Fury as she stood there glaring down at him — sat up once more. “My daughter, my nephew, are they —”

Mr Davis chuckled. “They are recovering nicely, sir. But you should take better care.”

“If only out of concern for my nerves,” Georgiana interjected acerbically. Darcy, rather unnervingly reminded of Mrs Bennet, smiled. “Not to mention Anne. If this is how you normally go on, I am of half a mind to keep you here!”

“Georgiana, really —”

“Lady Westhampton,” Mr Davis said softly, lowering his voice discreetly, “your brother should sleep until he has recovered his strength.” Darcy threw the doctor a grateful look.

“Take care of yourself,” she said fondly, leaning down to press a kiss against his brow. “I shall watch over the children.”

Darcy did not doubt it, and his fingers, which did not appear wholly under his command, weakly curled around hers. “Georgiana — ” he said faintly, before falling asleep once m

ore.

Chapter Thirteen

Posted on Monday, 20 February 2006

The shock of having lost command of his own body to such a degree -- fainting indeed! -- was not one easily forgotten. Darcy, although more for his family's sake than his own, was careful not to drive himself to such a state again, regardless of the temptation. As soon as possible, both Darcys returned to Pemberley. Anne, while never gregarious away from those she knew and liked, had grown positively shy. She flinched from sudden sounds, and often it seemed that only pride kept her from bolting when a stranger entered the room. Darcy worried for her, but little enough could be done. Mrs Reynolds assured him that it would pass in time.

“After all, sir,” she said consolingly, “she is no worse than you were after your dear mamma died.”

Considering that his state of mind had been so disturbed upon that event that he'd been shipped off to Lady Catherine for four years, this was not a great comfort. Darcy nevertheless understood the spirit of the offering and thanked his housekeeper.

In time, Anne did indeed recover. She regained her old vitality, and if she was a little more firmly attached to her father, it was no cause for complaint. Stephen, however, was quite a different story, and Darcy easily read between the lines of his sister's letters. Stephen had never learnt to regard Aincourt as home, and the recent tragedy hardly helped matters. It was no surprise that he did not feel safe there -- regrettable, but inevitable. Darcy offered to have him at Pemberley until he was somewhat recovered. Stephen's precarious health, in his opinion, took higher priority over the question of loyalty to Aincourt, and he said as much to his sister, who fervently agreed. He was astonished that she, herself, stayed only a few days.

“I do not wish to live my husband alone,” she explained simply. Darcy nodded. He had known from almost the first that their attachment was a passionate one, particularly given Georgiana's intense temperament, and he was glad of their happiness; but he pitied his nephew. Stephen's nervous, inexpressive disposition rather precluded inclusion within the self-contained family. He could not help that he was so alien to both parents -- nor could Georgiana and Westhampton, although Darcy did not approve. It was no surprise that Stephen preferred Pemberley, then.

Nevertheless, even there he was in far worse state than Anne had ever been. He had not her pride;--at anything unexpected, he fled to his uncle. Darcy supposed -- although he elected not to speak of it, and so could not know for certain -- that he had not been quick enough to shield Stephen from the macabre sight of his grandmother's corpse. He suffered more nightmares than Anne ever had, but less insistent and wilful than his cousin, simply endured for days before Darcy found out.

Slowly, however, the little boy regained something of his old equanimity. Not so resilient as Anne, nevertheless he was very young, and his demeanour within weeks altered from frightened to generally contented, and on occasion even petulant. Darcy was pleased to see Stephen behaving like a four-year-old -- although he brooked no disobedience from daughter or nephew -- and enjoyed his company, as ever dreading the day when he would be returned to his parents.

For Stephen's sake primarily Darcy exerted himself to be somewhat sociable, at least within his circle of acquaintance. He frequently called on his cousin Mrs Hammond, who had changed not at all in consequence of her marriage, except to acquire a certain serenity. She, like Darcy himself, was fond of children, and particularly knew the ways of little boys; Stephen was soon as attached to her as his uncle and cousin had ever been, and often seemed content to simply watch her, his dark grey eyes wide and fascinated.

Closer to home was Kempton, which parish Pemberley House belonged to. Darcy saw the Hancocks at least weekly on Sundays, and usually more as he and Hancock were long-time friends. His wife, although much more sensible than Darcy would ever have expected, was more of a trial; Stephen seemed to find her something of an oddity, and her resemblance to her sister kept Elizabeth at the front of Darcy's mind. He tried to forget her, and failed as he had always done. He knew perfectly well that she had believed his attachment mere infatuation, perhaps even imaginary. He himself wished it were so. And yet not -- he was a better person, for having loved her. The manner in which he had loved her, still did, was quite different from how he loved Georgiana and Anne and Stephen. If, somehow, time or distance could have eroded his feelings, he might very well have been able to pursue another woman, to seek beyond mere contentment; but it seemed that he could not be inconstant even when he wished it.

Darcy sighed. At once, he wished to be left alone -- to never hear of her, to even think of her, again. For better or worse, that part of his life was ever. And yet -- always there was an "and yet." He was thirsty for every detail of her he could discover. Mrs Hancock mentioned, in passing, that her father was “worse.”

“It will be a blessing when it ends,” she said philosophically. “Not that I wish to see Longbourn in the hands of the Collinses, but papa has suffered for so long, and Lizzy with him. She deserves better.”

Darcy heartily agreed.

In May, he was forced to go to town. It was a brief enough errand that he brought the children with him. Stephen, who had never seen it before, was astounded, constantly turning his head this way and that. Although Darcy corresponded regularly with the Gardiners, it had been many months since he had seen them, and he looked forward to it.

They were so perfectly themselves that he laughed, really laughed, for the first time in what seemed a year at least. He was rather saddened, however, by how much older the children were. Twelve-year-old Amelia no longer ran into his arms as she always had before, while Margaret flushed when he smiled at her. Sarah, but five years old, had no such compunctions; but he started when he realized that she had only just been conceived when he met her cousin at Pemberley. Had it been so long? Of course -- yes, it had -- Anne was four and Sarah six months her senior. April. She had been born a full year after that dreadful day at the Hunsford parsonage. Rather odd, that. Six years, thought Darcy, and sighed.

The little boys -- still young enough to deserve the title -- were delighted to see him, and quite interested in Stephen, who was in awe of their superior years and expertise. At first, he nearly leapt into Darcy's arms when they rushed into the room, but Mr Gardiner's easy ways and Mrs Gardiner's kindness soon set him at his ease.

“That poor lad, what has ever happened?” Mrs Gardiner exclaimed as soon as the children were out of the room. Darcy gladly accepted the offered cup of tea, and explained. They stared.

“Everything does happen to you, doesn't it?” Mr Gardiner said. “Are you quite certain he saw . . .”

“Not certain, of course,” Darcy said, shrugging. “But I think so, yes. He is still young. I hope he will not remember.”

“That is quite possible. But still . . .” Mr Gardiner shook his head. “I pity him.”

“He has never been very happy,” said Darcy, sighing. “Oh, my brother and sister are perfectly dutiful parents, even affectionate, but a child wants something more. And he is so unlike them, they don't know what do with him. Georgiana particularly worries over him. He cares nothing for Aincourt.”

“At four?” Mrs Gardiner laughed. “That is no surprise, my dear.”

“He does care about Pemberley. He never wants to leave, when he is there; and only wants to return, when he is not. I wish --” Darcy laughed sharply. “I wish he were mine. I can do little more than advise as it is.”

“You seem to be doing more,” said Mrs Gardiner softly.

“I ought not. Westhampton would be well within his rights to be infuriated at my interference. When he -- Stephen -- was very small, he wanted to call me `papa.' I very nearly allowed it. I should have liked -- but he is Georgiana's son, not mine.”

“Fitzwilliam -- ” Mrs Gardiner reached out, and laid one hand over his. “No doubt you have heard it before; or perhaps, not enough. But you are a fine man.” She smiled suddenly. “I wish you were my brother; although no doubt I would poke my nose into every corner of your life if you were.”

“You do that already, dear,” Mr Gardiner remarked, and Darcy laughed.

“Thank you, Margaret. I am -- honoured.” His lashes dropped against his cheeks, briefly, as he struggled to regain his composure. “Your family's friendship has meant a great deal.”

“It has been a pleasure,” said Mrs Gardiner, with a sweet smile.

He was at the parsonage, talking over certain finer points of doctrine with Hancock, when Anne dashed into the room. “Papa, Mrs Hancock is -- she is not -- I think she's sick,” she said. Hancock turned white and he instantly went to find his wife. Darcy hesitated a moment, then, both children at his heels, followed him. Mrs Hancock sat in a chair by the fire, a letter flung on the table, sobbing into her hands. Hancock was kneeling before her.

“Catherine,” he said pleadingly, “Catherine, please -- what is it?”

She only sobbed harder, and Hancock glanced at Darcy, then gestured at the letter before attempting to comfort his wife. Distinctly uncomfortable, Darcy picked up the letter, which was composed of a single sheet of paper, covered by a fine, feminine hand -- albeit a rather careless one. He glanced at the bottom, and dropped it as if burnt. Your loving sister, Elizabeth Bennet it said, and with a painful clarity Darcy guessed at what the letter might contain. He could not read it, but Mrs Hancock gasped out,

“It's papa -- Lizzy writes -- she says that -- he's dead.” She recommenced sobbing, and Darcy quietly took his leave of them both.

Darcy stared down at several crumpled sheets of paper, scribbled over, and sighed. What was to be done? He bit his lip, and commenced writing the most particularly prosaic and dull of his attempts --

I hope that Mrs Bingley and her sisters are well, despite the recent tragedy, and that Mrs Collins has managed to restrain her husband thus far. You will have your mother-in-law at Baildon? For your sake, I hope she brings Miss Elizabeth with her. She would no doubt be glad of the company. Please give Mrs Bingley and the children my best wishes --

The letter was posted, and Darcy returned to the other pressing issue at hand. During the entirety of his epistolary struggles, Stephen had perched on one of the chairs, simply watching with wide solemn eyes. Darcy would not presume to speak of it, but the ramifications of his nephew's strong attachment to him had kept him awake more hours than not. Were it not for Anne, he doubted if Stephen would ever willing leave his side, and while flattering, it was also worrying. He betrayed no such behaviour with even Georgiana, let alone Westhampton. Not even Anne -- while she spent a great deal of time with him -- more than any other daughters of his acquaintance -- she was always doing something. Not simply sitting there, a small melancholy statue.

“Stephen,” Darcy said gently, “it is June today, and your mother's birthday is in a fortnight.”

The child bit his lip. “I have to go back to Aincourt?” he said timidly. Darcy hesitated, then nodded.

“You cannot be at Pemberley always, you know. Aincourt is your home.”

“No, it isn't!” Stephen said passionately. “No, no! I miss mamma, but I can't -- I don't -- ” he flushed and looked down, whispering plaintively, “Please don't send me away.”

Good Lord. The experience of five god-children, four surrogate nephews and nieces, one sister, and one daughter, were all of them insufficient to prepare him for this. Darcy rubbed his forehead tiredly. “I'm not -- I won't -- ” he sighed, and started again. “Stephen, do you understand that you belong with your mother and father?”

Stephen hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir.” He added wistfully, “I miss mamma. But it's better to be at Pemberley with you and Anne.”

Darcy hesitated a moment. “Stephen,” he said carefully, “Aincourt is only a place.”

His nephew blinked owlishly at this. “I -- I don't understand,” he said, biting his lip.

“Even if very bad things happen in a particular place, it doesn't mean anything about the place. It is just a house, wood, stones, mortar, land. People are what make it more. I do not love Pemberley because it is beautiful, although it is, but because I know my father, and his father, and all my grandfathers back through hundreds and hundreds of years, have walked here; it is ours, the Darcys, and I belong because I am of their blood, a Darcy of Pemberley. You see?”

Stephen's small brow furrowed, then he said stubbornly, “I'm a Darcy too. Mamma -- ”

“You are a Deincourt,” Darcy said firmly. “More Deincourt than Darcy, because you're not just Deincourt from your father, but your mother's grandmother -- my grandmother -- was one also. Do you see?”

“I should like to see mamma again,” Stephen conceded. “But I love Pemberley 'cause of you and Anne, mostly.”

“Yes, I know. But you must love your mother, and father, too.” Darcy crouched down, and pushed some of Stephen's wayward dark hair out of his eyes, cupping his cheek gently. “Stephen, some people -- like your cousins Anne and Cecily -- are happy a great deal of the time, wherever they are -- it's something they carry with them. It's a special gift.”

“I am not happy mostly,” Stephen confessed, fixing his eyes on the floor.

Overwhelmed by compassion and pity for this lonely, melancholy child, Darcy nodded. “I know.” He tilted his nephew's chin up slightly, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You see, there are other people who aren't like that. People like your mother, and like me, and like you. We cannot be happy unless we try very hard at it. Do you understand?”

Stephen chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Anne makes me happy.”

“Anne is like that. You cannot help but be happy when you're with her -- isn't it so?”

“Yes, exactly.” Stephen smiled brightly, then said sternly, “Just so.” Darcy chuckled.

“It's easier to be happy when you're with happy people, sometimes. So, when you go home to Aincourt, what you might want to do, is to spend time with your father. He is usually a happy person too, you see.”

“I don't know papa,” Stephen said simply.

“You ought to. He's your father,” Darcy said immediately, and only realized, flinching, at the hypocrisy of such a statement after it had left his mouth. Stephen nodded soberly, and sighed deeply.

“I should like to get mamma something very nice for her birthday, Uncle Fitzwilliam.”

“I shall take you and Anne -- ” Darcy glanced sharply at the curtains, which had just twitched slightly -- “to Lambton, and you both can find something for her.”

Stephen impulsively flung his arms around his neck, as cheerful as he had been morose just a moment before. “I want it to be the best present in the world, because mamma is the best mother in all the world,” he explained. There was a muffled sound from behind the curtain, and Darcy sighed. I shall really have to speak to her about eavesdropping.

Chapter Fourteen

Posted on Thursday, 23 February 2006

In the middle of June, they returned to Pemberley. As he looked back, he could see Lord and Lady Westhampton, waving happily at them, Georgiana wearing Lady Anne's sapphires, which Darcy had had re-set for her. Stephen stood a little apart, gazing forlornly. After a moment, Westhampton hesitantly moved towards his son, placing on a hand on his son's shoulder. Stephen jerked in surprise, but accepted the touch, and Darcy was somewhat comforted, despite the feelings that overwhelmed him as he left his nephew behind.

There were three letters waiting for him there, all from Bingley. Darcy kissed Anne good-night and went to his study to open them. The first was simply idle chatter. The second was much the same, but interspersed within the nonsense were some requests for advice, ranging from the trivial to the interesting. After reading the third, he turned three different shades of grey and reached out to grip the table, the room spinning before he fumbled to a chair and sat down.

Bingley being Bingley, he was quite rationally afraid that the information he sought would not even be included in the incoherent missive. But it was -- Jane is very worried about Lizzy -- she was in the house the longest -- they are in London with the Gardiners -- should be here on the third of July -- doctor says that town is detrimental to their health -- please, I am completely at sea --

Darcy, who for longer than he cared to think about had feltstretched and thin and simply too tired to bother with very much, felt something uncoil inside him. His thoughts raced, and he paced rapidly across the rug as he struggled to make sense of him. He looked at the clock -- ten o'clock. It was too late, Anne -- yes, they would leave in the morning. He stayed awake all through the night, taking care of all business he could manage.

“Mr Darcy?” said Mrs Reynolds, squinting at him.

“Good morning,” he said, in a tone that brooked no opposition. She blinked at this, and cautiously replied,

“Good, er, morning, sir. You should not be up.”

“I had some business that needed taking care of.”

“But sir, couldn't you wait until dawn?” She stifled a mighty yawn.

“No, I have to leave in the morning.”

“But Mr Darcy, you just -- ”

“Yes, I know. Bingley needs my assistance however -- an urgent family matter -- Anne and I shall leave tomorrow.”

Mrs Reynolds looked at her master's face, animated with -- not happiness, nothing remotely like it, but -- purpose -- certainly more than she had seen in years -- and sighed. “Yes, sir. Shall I tell Mr Higgins he is to manage the -- ”

“No, please tell him to forward everything to me.”

Anne was rather confused by the entire event, and after much questioning, Darcy relented. “You know that Mrs Bingley's papa died?”

“Yes,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“And his house belongs to Aunt Catherine's clergyman now?”

“Yes, papa. You said something about tails but that I can have Pemberley because you don't have one.”

Darcy said, “Yes, dear. Well, a few weeks after Mr and Mrs Collins and their children came to stay at Longbourn -- Mrs Bingley's papa's house -- the house burnt down.”

Anne sat up, fixing her light blue eyes on him. “Burnt down!” Then she bit her lip. “Is Mrs Bingley's family all right?”

Darcy stared out the window blankly. “Her mother is perfectly well, although somewhat . . . distressed. One of Mrs Bingley's sisters went back into her room, and breathed in a great deal of smoke before she was saved, and is coughing quite a lot, but they think she shall be well. But Mr and Mrs Bingley have so much to do now that he needs my help for business. His steward is not trustworthy.”

“What's trustworthy, papa?”

“Someone you can trust,” he said. “Like Mr Higgins.”

“But you don't let Mr Higgins do things, papa, you do them all yourself,” she said ingenuously. Darcy laughed shortly.

“I am not like Mr Bingley, Anne.”

“No,” she agreed, “you have brown hair, and his is yellow, like mamma's and grandpapa's.”

He had not the slightest idea what he would find when he arrived at Baildon. His heart was pounding, and several times the world, as he perceived it, seemed to shift slightly to the left or right, then jerk back into place. Anne was unnerved enough at the prospect of strangers that she clung to his hand tightly, not realizing that she was anchoring him as much as he was her.

“Papa, shall I have to talk?”

“No, not if you do not like,” he said softly, only a very small part of his mind on the conversation. The instant he set foot inside the door, Bingley was there at his side, looking pleased beyond measure to see him.

“Darcy,” he said, in a sort of half-gasp, “you're here.”

Darcy bit his lip. It was no time for smiling. “Yes, I am. What would you like me to do?”

Bingley scrubbed one hand across his brow, and Darcy noted, a little sadly, that there were a few strands of white in Bingley's fair hair.

“Oh! Mr Darcy!” Mrs Bingley exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. She was very much the same as ever, except for the tired expression about her eyes. “We are so glad to see you, sir. And Anne.”

Anne smiled widely at Mrs Bingley. “Hello, Mrs Bingley!” she said brightly. “I hope your mamma and sisters and cousins and aunt and uncle and -- ”

“Anne,” said Darcy sternly.

“-- everyone else are well.”

Mrs Bingley seemed caught between a tired sigh and melancholy smile. “Thank you, Anne. The Gardiners are here, they came last night.”

Thank heavens, thought Darcy.

“Thank heavens,” said Bingley.

“Oh, good,” chirped Anne. “Is Sarah here, Mrs Bingley? May I go play, papa, please?”

“If you like. I will be with Mr Bingley, in his study, if you need me.” She scampered off, as an anxious servant darted into the hallway. “Mr Bingley, Lady Elliot says -- ”

No, please --

“I will mind Caroline, dear,” Mrs Bingley said, but her husband shook his head.

“No, Jane, you know that she will not -- that is -- ” he glanced at Darcy, and shook his head. “I had better go.”

“Then I will take Mr Darcy to the library, I know where the papers you've been talking about are, and he can look them over.” Bingley nodded distractedly and left. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr Darcy -- you haven't sat down or rested or anything.” She pressed one hand against her forehead. “We are all at such odds and ends. Which would you like first?”

He hazarded a guess at her meaning and said, “If I could look over the matter of Smith's mill, I think we could have it resolved very quickly.”

The study was not unoccupied. Rifling through Bingley's papers was his mother-in-law, and at the sight of a letter, still folded although charred about the edges and straight through in some places, his heart clenched. His had been burnt -- it surely had been burnt -- what earthly reason would she have to keep it? -- it was someone else's, a proper lover's -- what was it doing here, anyway? But just as the prying Mrs Bennet reached out for it, Darcy acted without reflection, without even conscious thought.

“This is your sister's, I believe,” he said to Mrs Bingley, startled to find the slightly yellowed letter firmly within his own grasp. “It should probably be returned to her.”

“Well, really!” expostulated Mrs Bennet.

“Mamma,” said Mrs Bingley softly, then turned to him. “I will take it to Lizzy.” Darcy handed it to her, certain that she could feel his hand trembling against hers. She gave him a thoughtful look, then her eyes widened and she flushed. “Perhaps you should come with me, sir,” she said. “Lizzy is just in the library.”

“But I -- ” he looked down at the letter. She kept it. She had walked into a smoke-filled room to retrieve it -- he knew, although no one had said so, that this was what she had returned for. In that moment, everything he had known, and believed, seemed to shift a little. He had seen, and yet he had not -- now we see through a glass, darkly --

Clearly visible from where he stood was her name, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, written in his own close hand. Darcy straightened a little and lifted his chin.

“Thank you, Mrs Bingley,” he said graciously, sparing only a slight dismissive glance for the furious Mrs Bennet, who had marched away and was blathering about what a hateful man he was and how she had always disliked him, with a judicious comment for her poor dear Wickham thrown in. I never thought I should be grateful for Lady Catherine. She is a model of propriety and good-breeding next to that woman. Darcy smiled at Mrs Bingley. “I should like to see her again.”

Chapter Fifteen

Elizabeth was asleep.

Darcy gave a little sigh that was composed of equal parts disappointment and relief. At least this way he could look at her without being observed -- well, Mrs Bingley could see him, but she must understand his feelings well enough if she knew of the letter. Six years -- he had not thought that six years would work any change on her, even six years spent waiting on a dying father.

I'm a fool, he thought, and pressed his lips together, striving for composure as he took the step that would enable him to clearly see her. It was Elizabeth, sprawled across the sofa, her fingertips dangling over the side. He felt a little like a voyeur as drank in the sight of her, while she lay all unawares. It would be worse, however, if she woke to find him staring at her like -- like -- like a very foolish person.

Elizabeth Bennet was one of those late-blooming women, whose youthful prettiness at twenty or one-and-twenty inevitably gives way to a fuller beauty at seven- or -eight-and-twenty. If he were completely impartial, he might acknowledge that she still was not Mrs Bingley's equal, but Darcy claimed no such neutrality, and still considered her the loveliest woman he had ever set eyes on, not even barring Georgiana. And all this with her eyes still closed!

The sensation of sliding into starry-eyed infatuation ought to be familiar by now, but it was as overwhelming as ever. I have no claim on her affections -- she owes me nothing at all -- he told himself, but somehow it was more halfhearted than usual. He turned slightly -- and saw only the letter sitting on a small table. Mrs Bingley was nowhere to be seen. Darcy felt a bewildered, happy smile curling his lips before he quite realized it was happening, and reached out one hand to touch it tentatively. She had returned for his letter. Why? As a reminder of her mortal frailty? To keep her antipathy fresh?

No. She was not hostile at Pemberley, and she had already kept it by then. She would not risk her life for so mean a cause.

Curiously, he opened the letter -- it was all right, surely, as he had written it and knew perfectly well what it contained? -- and stared. The first paragraph was almost completely indecipherable. Only two words, freedom and justice, could even be hinted at. Much of what followed was the same. He had supposed it would be burnt, that Elizabeth would burnt it, from what he had said -- and worse, how he had said it! -- here. And it had been burnt, but but not at all as he had expected. But nothing ever was, was it? He smiled at the irony of one clear line -- I must have been in error. The effect of smoke and fire grew considerably less on the following pages, for whatever reason. Only near the end did the circumstances of its retrieval seem to have had any effect -- one line of the last paragraph had been completely and neatly burnt through, as if it had been excised out by some divine hand, and so read,

For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions . . . that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

His signature, however, had been altered beyond any recognition but that of the author, and, perhaps, the recipient. Mrs Bennet would never have guessed at her daughter's mysterious admirer -- for that was undoubtedly the suspicion she had entertained. My chivalry was unnecessary after all, he thought with a smile, and carefully replaced the letter. He had a great deal to think about.

Early that morning, he woke to a pounding on the door. Darcy, who had lain awake most of the night, pondering, analyzing, and re-evaluating even the most ambiguous of remarks, opened the door in a decidedly ill temper.

“What is it now?” he demanded. The maid cast a lingering eye over him, before quailing at his expression. Servants these days, he thought, and primly closed his robe, feeling a distinct sense that this had all happened before. “Anne -- my daughter, she is well?”

“Oh yes, sir, it's only that an express just arrived for you, from Pem -- ”

He muttered to himself and shut the door, dressing quickly before finding Bingley with a sealed letter in his hand. “I do hope nothing is wrong,” the latter said, abominably cheerful.

“So do I.” He broke the seal and read it, his brow furrowing.

“Well?”

Darcy simply stared, then went back and re-read it. “It's from Mrs Reynolds. She says that -- that a strange woman has arrived at Pemberley and refuses to leave until she has spoken with me, and they aren't certain what to do with her.”

Bingley stared, then smiled a little roguishly. “You, Darcy?”

“No, most certainly not I,” he returned sharply. “I have not even looked at a woman since -- ” he shut his lips firmly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I quite forgot about Lady Rosemary.”

Darcy started. “Oh -- yes.” Bingley gave a strange look.

“Well, are we to have the pleasure of your company much longer?”

Darcy vacillated a moment. He could go to Pemberley, resolve the matter of The Woman, and return -- but something might happen -- not that something wouldn't happen even if he was there, but what if --

“Yes, actually,” he said, clenching his hand as if to relive the sensation of rough paper against smooth skin. “I think I shall stay. Surely a full staff of servants can manage one wayward female for a few weeks?”

Darcy knew that he had made the right decision when he woke once more, at a slightly less ungodly hour. After dressing and avoiding the erstwhile Polly, he went to Bingley's study to continue work on the matter of the mill, and was quickly so caught up in thought that all else faded. Bingley entered at perhaps eight o'clock, looking strained and nervous. He repeated himself three times before Darcy noticed him.

“Oh, Bingley. Hello.” He smiled absently, then came back to earth with a jolt, recalling all that had passed -- or not passed -- the day before.

“Darcy, didn't you hear?”

“Hear what?”

Bingley shook his head with a weak laugh. “You never change.”

Darcy blinked a little, then, finally, noticed the furor. Mrs Bennet's shrill voice was unmistakable, and Lady Elliot's insistent tones could also be heard. A low sobbing he recognized, after a moment of consideration, as Mrs Bingley. Dear God, no. “Bingley, what is it? What has happened? Is it . . .”

“Lizzy has taken a turn for the worse,” he said heavily. “The doctor doesn't know what to do -- he says he hasn't enough experience with these things. And it would take time to find another, and convince him to come here on such short notice, and -- ”

Although his heart was pounding in his ears, and the room again tilting a little, Darcy pulled on his inner reserves and divorced himself from everything but what could be useful. “A physician, from London, that is what he thinks is best? Someone with experience? Very well -- it is done. I will send an express to my own this very moment.”

And it was done, as easily as that, while a slightly bemused Bingley looked on. “I -- I had better return to Jane. She is very upset.”

“Yes, I daresay she is.” Darcy could almost feel his ability to keep himself separate strained to its utmost. “Incidentally, what is the difficulty with Miss Bennet?”

“Apparently she was weakened by her state after the fire and caught some lung ailment -- I am not certain, to be perfectly honest. Anatomy was never my forte. But as long as she is well again, that is all that matters.”

“Yes, yes, you are quite right.”

He only presumed to approach the general vicinity of her room once. He could hear dry, seemingly endless, coughs, and Jane's low, soothing voice. But neither could he force himself to leave until he knew she would be well, no matter what was transpiring at Pemberley. He nearly drove himself mad with inaction until Mrs Bingley kindly advised that he occupy himself with business matters until he could be of greater assistance.

A/N: I thought of leaving it there, but that would be too evil, not that that has ever deterred me before. So . . .

In the next fortnight, Bingley continually made peace between the clashing personalities of his various houseguests, Mrs Bingley attended upon her sister, and Darcy ran the estate. He was horrified at what Bingley had allowed to occur; the steward was embezzling money intended to go to the poor, while at least three tradesmen were cheating him. Darcy sighed. He's going to turn my hair white.

It was then, as Elizabeth began to improve, that Darcy considered the effect that his presence might have upon her. He had guessed -- correctly, as it turned out -- that Mrs Bingley had kept it secret from her ailing sister, and agreed with her. Whether Elizabeth felt more of pain or pleasure in seeing him, it could not be with composure, and would certainly not be conducive to her health. He sighed deeply, reading another hysterical letter from Mrs Reynolds. It would be better to stay away until Elizabeth was completely recovered, however long that took.

So, after frankly discussing certain matters with Mrs Bingley -- and taking her advice, particularly as it accorded completely with his own analysis of the situation -- he retrieved Anne and returned to Pemberley to deal with The Woman.

“Oh, Mr Darcy,” said Mrs Reynolds tearfully, “I am so glad to see you.”

He felt a jab of conscience and impulsively leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I am so very sorry, there were some urgent matters of business. Bingley's steward had embezzled over two thousand pounds.”

“Terrible,” she said absently, and led him to the yellow parlour. Although the servants kept it fresh, Rosemary was the only one who had ever spent much time there, as he and Georgiana both preferred the blue. It spoke volumes of the servants' estimation of the `lady' that she had been relegated to a room so nearly forgotten.

Although the weeks at Pemberley had clearly improved her health, and certainly her apparel, somewhat, there was something distinctly bedraggled about her. She was tall, and once she must have been plump, but now had grown so thin that it seemed as if her skin had been stretched across a too-large frame. There were bruises across one cheek and down both arms, and Darcy flinched. Although her face was young, her blue eyes were tired and her light brown curls liberally sprinkled with grey at the temples.

“Might you possibly tell us your true name now, Miss Lydia?” Mrs Reynolds asked acerbically, although her eyes were softer than what might be usual. The true reason for her vacillation was clear.

“Lyd -- ” Darcy exclaimed, and looked more closely at her. Good God, it was -- he nearly recoiled in horror. She was the same age as Georgiana, down to the very week, and yet it was clear that life could not have treated the two women more differently -- greying hair at two-and-twenty! He drew one hand over his eyes briefly. For nearly three years he had kept a close watch on Wickham, but in the last had slowly relaxed it, as Wickham's laziness rather seemed to preclude such behaviour.

“Mrs Wickham,” he said, “to what do I owe the honour of this visit?”

Mrs Wickham threw a resentful look at Mrs Reynolds, who tactfully departed. “I could not stay another minute,” she declared. “I knew you disliked him, even though you were at the wedding, and so you would help me.”

“Excuse me,” he said politely, “I'm afraid I don't quite follow you . . .”

“Wickham will probably be quite angry to find me gone, and with George and Betsey and John too. And since you dislike him so, you'll probably agree to anything that upsets him.” She looked at him directly. Darcy was not sure whether he was more astonished at the dramatic change in her, or the utter lack of it.

“Mrs Wickham, I do not know what you have seen of the world -- ” Although, he could guess well enough, and fully intended to castigate himself once he got a better opportunity -- “but I'm afraid your understanding of my character is rather lacking. Unlike your husband, I do not go out of my way to afford him pain.” He could not but feel compassion for her state, however, and sighed. “You say you have brought your children?”

“Yes, one of the servants did something with them,” she said carelessly. “I thought you might be more likely to assist if I brought them with me, since Wickham rather likes Betsey. She and George cannot be separated, and I thought I may as well bring John as not.”

Darcy could only stare, not certain whether she was repulsive or simply pitiable. “What do you wish of me, Mrs Wickham?” he inquired.

“Oh, I don't know. But I daresay you're clever and I don't think you're likely to hurt any of us, you're not that sort, are you?” At his astonished expression, she added kindly, “A few of you aren't, you know.”

This afterthought had him turn his head away until he had regained his composure. “Thank you, Mrs Wickham,” he said dryly. “I would write to your father -- ”

“Oh, would you?”

“-- but as he is dead, that is quite impossible.”

“Oh, the Collinses must have taken Longbourn then. Where is mamma? With Aunt Phillips and Mary, I suppose.”

“At Baildon, with the Bingleys and your sister Elizabeth.”

“Oh, Jane and Lizzy! They were always so uppity -- they don't care twopence about me, I'm certain of it.”

Darcy decided on pity. “Regardless, you certainly may not remain here, with me, and none el -- Anne, return to your bedroom.”

“But papa!”

“Do as I say.”

With a startled look -- for he only used such a tone very rarely -- Anne obeyed.

“Oh, is that your daughter? I'd heard you were married. She is very pretty, prettier than any of us ever were. You shan't have any trouble finding a husband for her, even if she weren't rich. It would be a great load off my mind if Betsey looked like that, but I suppose she's handsome enough.”

“Longbourn burnt down,” he said desperately, and she glanced at him vacantly.

“Oh? Mamma must be happy, now the Collinses will have to spend all papa's money on rebuilding it.”

Darcy sighed, and sent for a servant. “Please prepare some rooms for Mrs Wickham and her children; they will be staying with us awhile. And for the Westhamptons -- they will be coming, as well.” He had no intentions of being alone in the house with Mrs Wickham and her brood, for quite possibly months on end until Elizabeth mended; if only for propriety's sake, they would come.

“Yes, sir.”

Part 3, Prologue

Posted on Sunday, 26 February 2006

When did it begin?

When Bingley confessed, he would never have dared approach Jane again, had Darcy not encouraged (prodded) him? Jane wonderingly said, “I didn't even think he liked me.”

Or the day Elizabeth spoke of gratitude and indebtedness, and he turned pale and looked away? It took him three times before he managed a grave acceptance of her thanks and dismissal of the debt.

The hours they spent chaperoning, free from the suspicions of the neighbourhood? Conversation had been awkward, to be sure, until — strangely — the Collinses arrived. Mr Collins' suffering at the loss of proximity to the Fitzwilliam bloodline, so ably represented in the august form of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was incalculably great, as was the delight which set him aflutter the instant he caught sight of the tall, upright figure so characteristic of that family.

Mr Collins began blathering at Darcy, whose expression within a few minutes altered from reserve, to contempt, then annoyance, and finally only boredom. Lady Catherine was officious and overbearing, to be sure, but at least she was not vulgar — nothing at all to the combined forces of Mrs Bennet and Mr Collins. Even Elizabeth's joy for Jane could not fully counteract the waves of humiliation as she returned to the parlour after twenty minutes with her father, to find Mr Collins still talking away. It was almost painful — she could see the slight, proud, arch of his brows, the barely veiled disdain, and she knew him well enough to see what it meant; and then he glanced up, at her, and it melted away as his lips curved in a smile of sudden sharp sweetness, which she returned in full measure. He returned to Mr Collins, listening rather more tolerantly; she poured tea with slightly trembling hands — no-one noticed the interchange, nor paid either the smallest amount of attention.

After that, she could not keep from talking, when they were alone; and, thanks to Bingley and Jane, they were thrown together often. He was always quiet in company, but she drew him out easily enough as they walked through the park with no company but Jane and Bingley.

“I am terribly sorry about Mr Collins.”

“It is quite all right.”

“No, he is really a dreadful man.”

“He is certainly a very enthusiastic person.”

“He is rather more enthusiastic about Lady Catherine than his parishioners,” she said, sharply, then caught herself and prepared to retract the manner if not the sentiment; but he laughed, for the first time in her memory, then stopped, looking startled, and she determined to continue as she had begun.

“There is no doubting his gratitude to my aunt,” said Darcy, then sighed. “Bingley!”

“Jane!”

Their charges separated with penitent expressions and Elizabeth shook her head. “I would never have thought it of Jane, she is so saintly.”

“Bingley is not exactly discouraging her,” he remarked, as the man in question briefly pressed his lips against his fiancée's cheek. Darcy opened his mouth, then shut it again with a faint smile. When each slipped an arm around the other's waist, however, both chaperones exclaimed,

“Jane!”

“Bingley!”

And so they talked, speech broken only by rebukes to the engaged couple. At first, Mr Collins supplied most of the conversation, followed by reflections on Mrs Collins' situation, among various other civilities. At first she was not certain whether Darcy's quiet, oblique replies constituted disapproval of her own frankness, but quickly understood otherwise. His reserve did not permit him to speak as freely as she did; everything with him, apparel, humour, conversation, was understated. As she thought of their past conversations, she realized that he had always been circumspect in this manner, never quite saying exactly what he meant but fully expecting to be understood. Only in his letter had he been truly forthright.

With conversation came ease, and with ease friendship, but their peculiar relationship, if indeed relationship it could be called, did not ripen any further. Both veered away from the topic of their own feelings, Elizabeth not daring to lay any claim to his affections, after everything that had happened, and certainly not daring to express, or even suggest, her own. After all, what if he no longer cared? How humiliating it would be, for them both. Darcy's native reticence was explanation enough for him, if he even felt anything more than friendship and perhaps a slight partiality. It was afterwards that she remembered Charlotte's words from the year before, disregarded at the time — there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.

Yet that was not when it began. Even then, she might have had happiness, if she had dared reach out and grasp it. It was later.

They, Bingley, Darcy, and the Bennets, had gone to London for Jane's trousseau and some business regarding the settlements; the Gardiners were to return with them. She was enjoying the time well enough, although admittedly preoccupied. It was five days into their visit that a servant in the Darcy livery arrived to give Bingley a note. She was curious, far more than anyone else, as he opened it. The expression on his face was one of the most peculiar she had ever seen. First, it went blank, then his jaw dropped open, and his eyes widened. After a moment he shook his head, brows furrowing, and re-read the short message, as if he could not believe his eyes. She felt a little cold.

“I hope nothing is wrong?” Jane asked gently, and Bingley came to with a start.

“No, nothing — at least — ” he gave the note a dubious look. “It's just — Darcy is married.”

Catherine and Mrs Bennet gasped as one. “He eloped?” Mrs Bennet cried, with a distinctly malicious gleam in her eyes. Bingley scowled. This was astonishing enough to silence most of those present.

“No, of course not.” He frowned. “He was married in town, with a bishop and special license, and, and — all of that.”

Of course. Elizabeth's mind spun a bit — she could scarcely conceive of it. The faint chill now encompassed her entire body, as she struggled to look indifferent. That evening, she lay awake, as she had so many times over the last year. He had not been engaged, she was certain. After all, he had proposed to her, not so very long ago. No, it was not that. Nor was he at all impulsive or whimsical. She struggled to consider the matter rationally, but came to no conclusion. There was no answer for it.

Elizabeth had never thought it would be such a relief to cry, not quiet picturesque tears, but broken, anguished sobs that tore out of her as she clung to her aunt, allowing herself to be held and comforted and pitied for the first time since she was very small. For the week since Bingley's announcement, she had been frozen in place, unable to be properly happy but certainly incapable of giving into her feelings, for she would not allow her selfish grief to intrude on Jane's joy now. Mrs Gardiner, however, understood, and her sympathy was enough to send her over the edge, crying into the larger woman's shoulder for what seemed like hours.

“Lizzy, my dear Lizzy,” Mrs Gardiner said gently. “I am so sorry.”

“I have no right to be disappointed,” Elizabeth confessed. Ever since Pemberley, she had longed to confide in her aunt, but given the unsettled state of her own feelings, had not dared.

“Was there no understanding at all between you?” Mrs Gardiner asked. Elizabeth shook her head.

“No, not at all. At least — I cannot say everything, but in April, he — I know he loved me in April. I did not like him then; we quarreled. At Pemberley, I was so surprised — there was no reason for him to be — kind. I had never been kind to him. Yet he never said anything. He doesn't, you know.”

Mrs Gardiner's expression was most unlike herself, indecisive, uncertain. Then she gently pushed a light curl off her niece's cheek and said, “Lizzy, I must tell you something. Mr Gardiner and Mr Darcy became — friends, over that dreadful business with Lydia. Your uncle asked his advice on a matter of business, and invited him by to discuss it. I was not certain he would, but he did. And their -- our -- friendship has progressed from there, and I expect it will continue to do so. The children are very fond of him.” She inhaled deeply. “He came here, after his — marriage.”

Elizabeth stopped, looked up. “With her?”

“Yes, with her.”

She hesitated, then indulged her morbid curiosity. “What is she like?” Somehow, she had envisioned a pale, sickly creature like Miss de Bourgh, or a handsome, spiteful one like Miss Bingley. At once she wanted him to be with someone who would make him miserable -- how dare he be happy, without her, when she was not? -- and yet she wished him every happiness the world could afford. She could understand, it was not him — she had no resentful feelings for him, for after her cruel refusal in April, what right did she have? If he was not previously engaged, however — and it seemed impossible that he could have been — she knew perfectly well who to blame. There was no picture, or name, to attach to the unknown woman she could only call `her,' but she was quite certain the whole affair had come about because of her.

“Pleasant,” Mrs Gardiner replied bluntly, after a pause. “She was a very pleasant sort of young woman. Handsome, agreeable, sensible. It would have been easier if I could dislike her.”

“The perfect wife, I suppose.” She remembered how lightly and easily she had dismissed Mary King, how she had declared that if she had actually been in love, she would have detested the other girl and wished all manner of evil on her. It was all a little silly, how even her most flippant remarks came back to haunt her.

“The perfect wife for a good many men, yes. I do not think for him.”

Clearly she was attempting to soothe her. Elizabeth laughed a little shrilly. “Does he love her very much, then?”

Mrs Gardiner considered. “No. Not in the manner that you mean.” She looked a little distant. “He loves her, I suppose — as a child might love a bird he had saved from the very jaws of a trap, perhaps.” Elizabeth glanced at her in bewilderment, then repeated,

“Saved? What do you mean?”

Mrs Gardiner sighed. “Lizzy, I do not have leave to speak of the matter, and doubtless it must seem utterly inexplicable to you. All I can say, now, is that a man like Mr Darcy, a man of honour and integrity and loyalty, could not have done anything but what he did.”

She thought of Lydia and Georgiana, of the debts he had discharged, Mrs Reynolds' commendation and the good he did among the poor. And even Bingley, for if he had been right about Jane, Darcy would have saved his friend from a life of misery and regret. An understanding of this strange, austere man she loved flashed into her mind — she felt as if, for all her affection and admiration, she had been fumbling about blindly, as if he were three or four different people — and then all the disparate parts assembled themselves together into a single coherent picture, and she could see with perfect clarity.

“He saved her,” she said, looking down at her clenched fingers; “he was protecting her, wasn't he? He did not want to love her, he wanted to save her.”

Mrs Gardiner wiped the tears off her cheeks. “My dear Lizzy,” she said, “you have learnt, I hope, that there are differences in temper and disposition. Surely you know that there are differences in affection as well? You do not love Jane as you love Lydia, or your father, or Edward, or Mr Darcy. No, he does not love her as a man loves a woman — not as he loves you — but he cares for her, in his way.”

“They shall be in Hertfordshire, for the wedding,” Elizabeth said, catching her breath. “I suppose I shall see her then.”

“Yes.” Mrs Gardiner touched her cheek. “I am so sorry, Lizzy. But perhaps all will turn out well, someday.”

Elizabeth gave her a frankly incredulous look. “Perhaps.” If she had encouraged him, she wondered, would he have proposed long ago? If she had shown even a fraction of the affection she felt? Could this all have been avoided? And she wondered, although she would not force Mrs Gardiner's confidence, what had the other woman done? It must have been very bad. And what was she to Mr Darcy, that he felt an obligation to her?

Chapter One

1818

The weeks turned into months, summer into autumn, and, slowly, Elizabeth recovered. The doctor was an excellent one, although his abrasive manner did little to endear him to his patient, or indeed, anyone but Jane. Even worse was the condition of her throat; after weeks of coughing, it was so raw that she could scarcely speak in anything above a whisper. Jane, as saintly as ever, spent more time than she could spare at Elizabeth's bedside, leaving the placation of Mrs Bennet and, when present, Lady Elliot, to her husband. The children were delighted to have Aunt Lizzy with them, even two-year-old Bennet who could barely say “Nant Lizbet,” although Jane shooed them away the instant she perceived any sign of weariness in her sister.

One morning in October, not long after the early snow had first fallen, Elizabeth -- inwardly railing against her enforced imprisonment -- found Jane reading her correspondence, and wrapping her shawl around herself, cheerfully greeted her.

“Oh, good morning,” Jane said, smiling. “How are you feeling, Lizzy?”

She had grown more tired of that particular phrase than she would ever say. “Very well, thank you. Are you very busy?” No one else, except possibly (but not probably) Bingley, could read Jane's expressions as well as she, and the small crease between her brows spoke of considerable vexation on her sister's part.

“No, no, I am only a little -- undecided.” She bit her lip, frowning at the letter in her hand -- a single sheet of paper, covered with a close, neat hand.

“May I help you decide, then? You know, Jane, that I have never have any difficulty with that.” Jane smiled a little uncertainly.

Elizabeth looked through the books covering the shelves. Bingley's collection was far more extensive than she recalled, although certainly still diminutive. Neither he nor his wife were particularly scholarly, so there was little to reason to acquire books except for the sake of posterity -- or appearances, were they more akin to his sister.

“I -- I do not know, Lizzy. You see, it -- at least partially -- in a way -- concerns you.” Jane chewed on her lip, and Elizabeth raised her brow.

“It concerns me? Well, then, you should certainly speak of it to me.” She settled down and looked at her sister expectantly.

“It is from Mr Darcy, about Lydia,” Jane said hurriedly. Elizabeth's eyes widened, and she plucked at the fringe of her shawl a little.

“Mr Darcy is writing to you, Jane?”

“No, no, to Bingley, but -- well, it is really to me -- I mean, not addressed, but -- oh!” She stamped her foot, and Elizabeth fought back the instinctive smile.

“Jane, what has Lydia done?”

“Oh, she took three of her children and left Mr Wickham, when you first took ill. I feel responsible, you see, because I was the one who urged Mr Darcy to go back to Pemberley, and if he had not, I am sure she would have eventually returned.”

Elizabeth put one hand against her head, struggling to make sense of this all. “Jane -- Mr Darcy was here? When I was ill?”

“Oh, not for very long,” she said distractedly, “just long enough to send for Dr Thompson. He wrote Bingley about Lydia when he first found her, and we agreed to let her stay with him, for your sake -- ”

“Lydia is at Pemberley?” Elizabeth tried to imagine this, failed, and shook her head. “Dr Thompson -- Mr Darcy sent for him? Jane, I don't understand, at all.”

Jane glanced up as if really seeing her for the first time. “Oh! I should not have said. You should not be distressed -- that's why I encouraged him to go, and why he thought he ought to -- ” She bit her lip. “I was not at all certain what to do, because the letter -- mamma almost read it and Mr Darcy snatched it up before, I think, even he realized what it was -- but what I do not understand, Lizzy, is why -- if it is that letter -- why did you -- oh, I am trying not to be impertinent, but he has been so kind to us, and to me in particular -- when Mr Taylor was stealing from us -- that was the lawyer, not the steward -- even Bingley started asking me if I'd 'misplaced' the money, and Mr Darcy was the only one who refused to believe a word of it all on his own -- and I had always liked him so much anyway, so -- oh, he has been so good, and he is such a nice man, and so lonely, but you are my sister, of course, so I shall do whatever you want.” She looked at her expectantly.

“Jane,” said Elizabeth firmly, her mind whirling with this influx of information, “what are you speaking of? What does Mr Darcy have to do with me?”

Jane looked faintly reproachful. “Well, of course you know, Lizzy,” she said infuriatingly.

Elizabeth gathered the shreds of her patience and said, “No, Jane, I do not.”

“Well, he loves you,” she said matter-of-factly, “that is why he came as soon as he got the letter, and sent for his own doctor and paid for him and everything -- and I don't think he would let Lydia stay at his house -- he is very particular about his privacy -- if she were anyone else's sister, because he doesn't like her very much. And perhaps even that terrible business with Caroline -- of course his cousin is married to Mr Crawford's sister -- ”

“Mr Crawf -- ?” Elizabeth echoed confusedly. “Dear Jane, will you please slow down? What do you mean, he loves me?” She thought of the silent years spent at home, her father's wit growing more acidic with each that passed, until she almost resented him as much as she loved him -- of the third and fourth proposals she had refused, of how the memories had, impossibly -- or at the very least improbably -- become fresher and clearer with time, until she wanted nothing more than escape. She would not demand Pemberley -- all she wanted was to be free of Longbourn. And yet Baildon, even with its beauties and Jane and Bingley's kindness, was becoming another cage, she could almost feel the walls closing in around her. You are so slight and frail, Lizzy, Jane said, and so --

Jane blinked. “Well, Lizzy, he proposed to you. Of course he loves you,” she said.

Elizabeth shut her eyes. “He proposed to me six and a half years ago, Jane. And considering everything that has happened between then and now -- between then and that fall, for that matter -- ”

“Well, I don't think he's the sort to change his mind. I think he would have asked you again, if it hadn't been for that dreadful business with his cousin. And I know that by the time she was dead and he'd mourned her properly, he thought it too late -- he said that much -- not to Bingley, of course, but he and I -- Mr Darcy and I, I mean -- talked a great deal over that business with Mr Taylor -- and of course, you were so busy with papa, and he had a little girl to take care of.”

“He said -- ” Elizabeth, her head whirling, gathered her shawl more closely about her. “Jane -- ” she look plaintively at her sister, feeling more like seven than seven-and-twenty, “My dearest Jane, I just -- he said that he -- he told you?”

“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said, overflowing with compassion, “I am so sorry -- I shall make him stay away, I promise -- ”

“No!” Elizabeth grasped her sister's hand tightly. “No, Jane, please -- please do not do that.”

Jane looked at her consideringly. “Lizzy, will you tell me why you returned for that letter?”

Elizabeth sighed and looked away. “Jane, I cannot explain it. I -- ” She looked at her sister, as beautiful, as angelic, as ever, with her adoring husband and properly-behaved children. Dearest Jane. In five years, had anything worse than the misappropriation of funds happened here? Did she dare cast a pall on that happiness by trying to put her own grief into words for her, when she had not done so even for herself? No, she thought, I do not dare. Oh Jane. “You know that he cares?” she asked insistently.

“Oh yes. He was terribly distraught -- when you were taken so suddenly ill, that is -- worse than I had seen him before, even at Lady Rosemary's funeral.”

Elizabeth's lips thinned slightly. “Oh?” she said, trying not to appear too eager.

“I don't think he's been very happy,” Jane confided happily, more than pleased to speak of her friend now that she supposed there was some hope, however thin. “Of course there's his little girl -- he simply dotes on her -- and she on him -- she's the spitting image of him and they are just that darling together. I know that the Gardiners are very fond of him, too, but it isn't the same, of course. And of course there's the other child -- his nephew, he has practically raised him too, and I daresay could not be any fonder of him than he is, but it's still rather sad that he -- the little boy, I mean -- has been left to his own so much. And I know Mr Darcy was estranged from nearly the whole family when he supported one of his cousins when she married a poor curate -- or was it that he arranged the marriage himself? I don't recall exactly, but I know he was involved, and everyone was very angry at him -- angrier than they were at the curate himself, actually. Oh, and he gave him a living. He is very generous.”

“Yes, I know,” said Elizabeth quietly. “You are quite certain, Jane, that he still loves me?”

“Oh yes. We all, the Gardiners -- Margaret and Amelia even -- and I, know about that -- your feelings are the only ones that have ever been in question, Lizzy. Of course he hasn't the slightest idea how you feel.”

“How could he?” Elizabeth asked, a little dully. What a pair of fools we are. “He hasn't seen me in five years, nor talked to me in six.” And it isn't as if I ever gave him slightest indication of -- fondness. Six years. What a terribly long time that is.

“You have been very sly with us all,” Jane agreed serenely. “I really thought you disliked him, even with what Bingley said about Pemberley, until I saw Mr Darcy with his letter, and I suppose he did too.” She smiled absently, as she looked over her own letter again. Elizabeth fidgeted. “If he'd had any hope, I daresay he would never have married her. Even Mr Darcy has limits. But -- ” she smiled happily -- “everything shall be perfectly well now.”

“My dearest Jane, you are beyond compare. What ever did you do to deserve such a fate, relegated to the company of we mere mortals?” Elizabeth sighed and looked away. “What does your letter say, Jane?”

Jane coughed. “Oh, he asked after your health, and said that, er, he would only be too glad to personally deliver Lydia and the children here at our earliest convenience.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, and could not restrain herself from a mischievous sideways glance at her sister.

“He did say it -- those were almost his exact words,” Jane assured her earnestly.

Elizabeth laughed outright at this, only too able to imagine his quiet, dry voice. “I am certain they were.”

By dint of much persistence, Elizabeth was able to convince her brother and sister that walking would be beneficial to her health.

“But what if it snows, like it did last week?” Bingley asked.

Elizabeth, secretly hoping it would, replied patiently, “I am perfectly well, even Dr Thompson said so. Nothing will happen even if the unspeakable should occur and a few wayward flakes fall on my nose.”

Bingley smiled; but Jane said, anxiously, “But Lizzy, you are so delicate --”

“I was delicate, but I am well now, Jane,” Elizabeth said in exasperation; then feeling the weight of ingratitude, she softened her voice. “Please, I have not taken a walk for so long -- and your park is so lovely. I promise, I will take care.”

Grudgingly, Jane conceded, and Elizabeth fled out of doors. Baildon was half-again Longbourn's size, but between the Elliot children and Mrs Bennet -- who had grown far more vociferous since the death of her husband -- it seemed so small and confining that she thought she should go mad were she kept inside for another minute. The predicted snowflakes began to fall, and Elizabeth ran down the path that led into the woods, before Jane could hurry out and usher her back in.

Elizabeth was enchanted by the small wood, snow whirling about, catching on her eyelashes and in her hair. Nobody was around to see — so she laughed out loud, twirling around and around. It would not do for a respectable maiden aunt of seven-and-twenty to be seen in such childlike abandon; but she was safe here. The otherworldly sense of — yes, enchantment, that was just the right word — persisted. She was perhaps not in her own world, it did not belong to her — rather the reverse, and who knew who else might belong here?

When she caught sight of a small slender figure, warmly and finely dressed in fur-lined blue, it seemed only part and parcel of the entire bewitchment. The snow crunched underneath Elizabeth's boots, and the child turned to gaze at her soberly. She was, in a distant, ethereal, even cold, fashion, quite, quite lovely — a winter fairy or spirit created out of the enchantment of the day, someone she felt almost that she knew. There was certainly something very familiar about her. Elizabeth laughed at her own fancy and gaily greeted the child, “Good morning.”

The little girl blinked, and replied gravely, “Is it? I have not yet decided. My papa says that you will always be dissatisfied if you are not prepared to be pleased, though, and that you cannot be happy unless you try very hard at it, so I think you are right and it is a good day. I do love the snow. Last year I was ill all through the winter and never saw any of it. It was dreadful. But papa says I should be grateful I can see the snow this winter and never mind the last one, because I very nearly died and then I would never have seen any snow again.”

“Your father is very wise,” Elizabeth replied cheerfully. “Do by any chance know where we are?”

“Oh, yes. Mr Bingley is my god-father but there is so much noise and, and — it is too much. You understand?”

Elizabeth thought of the constant derisive witticisms of Lady Elliot, formerly Miss Bingley; of her mother's incessant complaints; of how she missed her father even after all these months, of how, without the alliance of like minds that had characterized that relationship, even Jane's sweetness and Bingley's amiability wore on her, impatience eating at her. Even despite her growing discontent and disillusionment at home, she had been able to be happy, it was in her nature to be so, regardless of disappointment. But now —

“Yes,” she said softly, by instinct reaching out to caress the girl's rosy cheek, “yes, I understand.”

The child smiled radiantly, and the sense of familiarity only increased. “That is what papa does!” she cried happily. “And then he says he loves me or kisses me. Papas are very nice, don't you think?”

“Yes, very nice,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “I fear I am rather lost. Could you help me find my way back?”

“Oh, yes.” Graciously, the little girl offered her a small, warm hand, and pulled her along, seeming almost to dance amid the whirling snow. Elizabeth thought, dazedly, that here was the author of the enchantment, there was something about her — she had almost recognized her, she had thought she ought to, ought to know her, and yet it was not — she did not know.

After several minutes, she felt slightly uneasy, not recognizing any of the paths the child led her so confidently through. “Are you certain . . .” she began.

Black plaits flew as she tossed her head, blue eyes sparking icy indignation. Elizabeth knew that look, the proud arch of the brows, the fine striking features, even the slant of the eyes as they flashed in disdain. She remembered watching as her cousin bowed and scraped, waves of humiliation blunting her joy for a beloved sister — and then meeting those same eyes, with the same expression, from across the room, and the sharp unreasonable anguish of the moment broken by a sudden brilliant smile.

“Of course I am certain,” the little girl replied haughtily, marching forward with utter confidence.

Yes, she ought to have known her, known by her own feelings of half-reluctant fascination — known at least that no-one else's child could share such manners, gracious and imperious in equal measure. The connection made, the little girl tugged at her heart even more, as her own nieces and nephews could not, even as she pulled her forward, towards the house just made visible through the trees.

Then the tight grip slackened, there was a whirl of deep blue out of the corner of her eye — whether a child's dress or man's coat, she could not tell — and warm laughter rang out from this most unlikely source.

“Papa!” the cry of delight came.

Elizabeth gathered her courage and turned, with a smile, to face the pair. She had expected, she had thought, that the enchantment would break then, that she would be pulled back to earth with a sharply unpleasant jolt; but it was not like that at all. The little girl, clinging to her father's side, long limbs dangling down haphazardly, still seemed the half-fairy creature who had dropped into this world, lightning out of a clear sky — and he was himself and yet he belonged as well, almost as well as he belonged at Pemberley.

It was like Pemberley, all over again, only that bit less awkward. She blushed and exclaimed, “Mr Darcy!” His colour was nearly as high when he returned the greeting. Otherwise he appeared very much as he ever had.

“Miss Bennet, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said earnestly, his eyes intent on her. The small Miss Darcy tightened her grip about her father's neck, contentedly pressing her cheek against his coat. Elizabeth wondered if it was very silly to envy the liberties a small girl might take with her father. “You are Miss Bennet still?” he added, his expression gaining something of trepidation.

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

“I — ” he glanced down at his daughter, and smiled involuntarily. “I see that you have met my Anne.”

“I have.” Elizabeth turned her gaze on the child, and addressed her once more. “Thank you, Miss Darcy, for your kindness in helping me. I was quite lost, you see,” she explained to the bemused Mr Darcy, “and your daughter was good enough to help me find my way.”

“You're welcome,” Anne replied sleepily. “You are much nicer than Lady Elliot, Miss Bennet, she always fusses just because her brother is my god-father.”

Elizabeth could not keep her brows from quirking a little at this. She thought she could think of a few more reasons that Lady Elliot might fuss over Miss Darcy, particularly if Sir Walter was in as poor health as Jane said. It seemed that Mr Darcy could as well by the sudden deepening of his colour. “Anne,” he said halfheartedly, “you should not speak about Mr Bingley's sister in such a fashion.”

“Why not, papa? She is unkind, I have heard the servants — ”

“And you most certainly should not repeat servants' gossip,” he interrupted, suddenly very stern. Anne pouted and vindictively pressed her cold nose into her father's neck. Elizabeth could not conceal her smile at this, and, rather awkwardly, he smiled back. “It is very cold, we should probably return to the house,” he said, and added hesitantly, “May I escort you in, Miss Bennet?”

She knew the quality of her expression changed perhaps too much at this, she ought not to be so happy at mere politesse. But it was an indescribably lovely day; and Christmas was approaching quickly; and she felt happiness, glimmering and vast, so close, she could almost touch it. Her smile deepened.

“I would be honoured, Mr Darcy.”

Chapter Two

Posted on Wednesday, 1 March 2006

“I -- I hope you have been well, Miss Bennet -- that is, better -- than you were, before,” Darcy floundered.

Elizabeth smiled. Clearly, his conversational skills had not improved. She had never dreamed such maladroitness could be endearing. “I am quite well, now, thank you.”

“I -- your sister -- ”

“Jane is very protective,” Elizabeth supplied. “I am really very well.”

He smiled brightly, with a brief glance and a flush. “You -- I am glad to hear it. Er, I do not know if Mrs Bingley told you, about your, your other sister ...?”

“Lydia?”

“Yes.” He looked down, his colour even higher. “I -- I brought her, and your nephews and niece, with me.”

Elizabeth bit back the reply that instantly sprang to her lips, and instead said, “Yes, Jane mentioned that you intended to. I must apologize, sir, for her terrible impertinence in coming to Pemberley the way she did.”

“It is quite all right,” he assured her.

“No,” said Elizabeth, looking him in the eye, “it is not all right.” At his astonished expression, she hastily added, “I beg your pardon, sir, for my frankness, but it is really -- it is beyond the pale, that she should importune you, after what you have already done for her. I must apologize, since she will certainly never do so herself, nor understand the necessity.”

Darcy did not seem to quite know how to take this. “Miss Bennet -- ” He sighed, shifted Anne's sleeping form, and said carefully, “Miss Bennet, I hope you understand that I do not wish for your gratitude. However, if it will relieve your mind at all, I will accept your apology, with the understanding that it is solely on Mrs Wickham's account.”

She could not keep from laughing, softly, at his response. Nothing is ever simple with you, is it? “Very well, then.” She sighed. “You have seen her and I have not, sir. Is she very much changed?”

“I -- ” a fleeting frown crossed his face -- “in essentials, I believe not. But -- Miss Bennet -- I believe you should be warned -- ” he turned slightly towards her, absently caressing Anne's hair, “Miss Bennet, in externals, your sister is very much changed. Her life has not been an easy one, nor a happy one, and she deserves pity if not respect.” There was no rebuke in his tone, nor did she believe any was intended, but nevertheless she felt it.

“Is it that bad?” she asked softly, and Darcy looked at her with a troubled expression.

“Yes. And there are children -- she only brought the eldest with her, but there are others. These three are better, now that they have been properly clothed and looked after. For the first month complete, all that was required on my part was to feed them three times a day, and they were content.”

Lydia, oh, you poor, stupid girl. Why did you do this to yourself? But you are not the only one concerned in it. These poor children, and dear Jane, who will never convince herself that anyone could be so bad as this, and Mr Darcy, who will never convince himself that he is not responsible for it.

“Those poor children. Surely something can be done?” At his grave look, she turned her head away, and said, “But what of the other three months, sir?”

Darcy smiled reluctantly. “Children will be children, Miss Bennet.” Awkwardly changing the subject, he said, “How do you like Baildon? It is not Netherfield's size, but more pleasing, I think.”

“Yes, it is very lovely,” she said, raising her eyebrows to make certain he knew she was not fooled. “The woods are pleasant to walk in, although I never had the opportunity before today.”

“But you have been here since June!”

Elizabeth's lips thinned. “Yes.”

“I beg your pardon -- but I thought -- you used to enjoy walking so much,” he said confusedly. “At Rosings -- ” colour rose in his cheeks, his eyes widened a little, and he stopped talking.

“I still do,” she said hastily, disliking the pain and uncertainty frozen on his face. “I could not -- Jane is so -- ” she stopped, uncertain of whether such frankness would be welcomed, but only saw him watching her with a look of polite interest. “As I said, Jane is very protective.”

“Oh,” he said, and smiled a little. “I'm sorry.” She arched a brow, not able to believe him, and he explained, “I too have a sister.”

Elizabeth could not imagine that sweet, frightened Miss Darcy could ever treat him as Jane did her; but six years was a long time, and even longer for a girl of that age. Miss Darcy was older now than Elizabeth had been when --

“When I was a little unwell last year, she was so fierce, she quite frightened me into submission,” he said, smiling rather shyly. Elizabeth tried to picture this and failed.

“Fierce? Miss Darcy?” She almost added, submission? You?

“Lady Westhampton now,” Darcy said ruefully. “She married not long after your sister and Bingley. Ah, here we are.” He gently woke Anne up, setting her down, and helped Elizabeth up the steps, earning a smile from both. Shrill voices could be heard even from here, one easily recognizable as Lydia's. Elizabeth inhaled deeply.

“I should, er, probably not intrude,” Darcy said, but even as he stepped away, Elizabeth reached out one hand and said,

“Don't!”

The look of mixed surprise and pleasure on his face forced her to explain herself. “Please -- ” she took a deep breath -- “I do not wish to face them alone.” He, thankfully, required nothing further.

“Anne, go play with Sarah, she is in the nursery.” Anne ran off, and Darcy after a pause offered his arm, which Elizabeth gladly took. She had not even thought of her youngest sister in years -- had not considered Lydia nor her children -- and the terrible guilt she felt for this, as well as for her old failure in regard to Wickham, was almost paralyzing. Darcy's arm was warm and real beneath her fingers, and she forced a smile on her face as she entered.

“Lizzy!” Lydia leapt to her feet. “Well, I am glad to see you. You are looking very well. I thought you should be all old and washed-out, but you are almost pretty.” Old and washed-out described Lydia far better than Elizabeth. It took all she had simply to keep her countenance, when she looked at Lydia, tired, worn, and bruised, and yet still the same selfish, unfeeling girl she had always been.

“Thank you, Lydia,” she said dryly. “Where are your children?”

“Oh -- ” Lydia flapped a hand -- “running mad somewhere, I'm sure.”

“In the nursery, Mrs Wickham, with the other children,” Darcy interjected austerely, and Elizabeth, knowing that every eye would be on them, reluctantly dropped her hand and moved to her sister's side. Lydia was a little different; there was a self-consciousness to her brashness that she had lacked before -- as if her intent was to make life as unpleasant as possible for everyone around her. And yet she treated Elizabeth with more warmth than she had ever shown before, and towards Darcy there was something like deference. Bingley and Jane, however, received a thoughtlessness bordering on contempt, and Elizabeth winced more than once for their sakes.

She thought it could not possibly be more excruciatingly painful; then, Lady Elliot descended, and after one derisive look at Lydia, addressed herself solely to her brother and sister and Mr Darcy. Surprisingly, the latter exerted himself to defuse the situation somewhat, treating both unwelcome ladies with forbearance, joining Jane in the effort to include disparate parties in the conversation. By the time Lady Elliot departed and Lydia gave a large, theatrical yawn, Jane looked tired and worn, and Darcy still worse.

He is so different -- and the thought took her by surprise. There was a cold reserve to his speech still, particularly when he spoke to Mrs Bennet or Lady Elliot, yet the veiled barbs and faintly satirical eye were gone. Most noticeable was his manner towards Lydia -- unvaryingly gentle, as if she were a fragile doll -- and which she, astonishingly, responded to. There was a rather pathetic gratitude, and even awe, in her behaviour towards him, in the way that she would turn, wide-eyed, to him and appeal to his opinion -- “do not you think so, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth could not help but wonder.

Yet even while she liked him better for his more compassionate ways, she missed the flash of sudden sharp brilliance that had always startled her before. Perhaps it could cut -- but it had been him, and -- by the end, at least -- she had loved all of him, just as he was. Their union -- for, according to Jane, he would have asked her, and she certainly would have accepted -- would not have been easy, they were such difficult, obstinate, headstrong people, but it would have been -- she searched for a word. Beautiful -- and strange -- and -- oh -- sweet and gentle and overwhelming and intense altogether. Oh -- why?

She looked at him, sitting a little away from all the others, quiet and quiescent, the candelight reflecting on his cheek and hair, making him appear somehow otherworldly. She felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch him -- imagined, with a smile, what chaos would ensue if she did -- and, fixing her eyes on him, felt such life running through her veins, as she had thought drained out of her long ago. If, six years ago, she had but reached out her hand -- and now?

Elizabeth laughed to see Jane creeping into her room, as if they were girls again. “Jane, will not Bingley miss you?”

“No,” said Jane, smiling, “he sleeps very soundly.” She looked at Elizabeth earnestly. “You were very quiet this evening, Elizabeth. You are well?”

“I really thought I talked as much as ever,” Elizabeth said, and Jane smiled, shaking her head. “Oh, dear. Do you think anyone noticed?”

“Bingley did, and probably Mr Darcy also.” Jane hesitated. “I did want to speak to you about him. Mr Darcy I mean, not Bingley.”

“Yes, of course.” Elizabeth wondered if she was about to be asked if her intentions were honourable. Jane twisted her fingers together.

“I know I am not very clever, Lizzy, and can be rather fussy on occasion, but I am very concerned for you. Do anything rather than marry without affection. Mr Darcy is -- oh, he is a fine man, and I do not think you shall meet his like again -- but if you cannot care for him (and I do not -- will not -- blame you if that is the case), then . . .” She frowned, then looked up again. “My dearest Lizzy,” she said affectionately, and reached out to clasp Elizabeth's hand. “We -- all of us -- only wish you to be happy. You were so unlike yourself this evening that I did not know what to think. On your walk, did anything happen? -- oh, I do not mean to be impertinent, truly, I am only so worried for you both.”

Elizabeth smiled, stroking her sister's hand, then raised her head to meet Jane's anxious, loving eyes. “Oh, Jane -- that you need not worry about -- a lack of affection. That is -- ” she laughed a little shakily -- “not the -- difficulty.”

Jane's dark brows drew together. “I do not understand, Lizzy. Do you -- ” she hesitated -- “do you care about him?”

She felt all of her feelings, hidden for the years, those that had made her weep with shame, and those that she had treasured, as if she could put them in a box with jewelry and an old letter, rising up within her, and looked at Jane. Then, with a queer blend of resignation and elation, she tightened her hold on Jane's strong, narrow fingers, and closed her eyes. “Yes, Jane, I do -- a great deal,” she said steadily.

“Oh, I am so glad!” Jane took a deep breath. “Then, Lizzy, why do you not -- that is -- ” she faltered. Elizabeth smiled and lifted her head.

“I -- I'm afraid, Jane.” There. She had said it. “Jane, it has been so long since I dared do anything for myself -- and I have no right, no claim on his affections -- and what if . . .”

“What if . . .” Jane echoed, a little confused.

“If I show my -- affection -- oh, I do not know -- Jane, what do I do?” She searched her sister's eyes. “He loved me seven years ago, and he loved me five years ago, and two years ago -- but what if he doesn't anymore? What if -- what if there's someone else? Even that woman he married, he is so -- steadfast, what if she is the one he truly loves? How can I expose myself to him, after all this time? Jane, I do not dare -- I can scarcely keep myself from shaking -- oh, I know it does not seem so, to him particularly, but if I do it, if I make my feelings known -- what if -- it is terribly silly, I know, I really ought to laugh over it, but I confess, I cannot find much amusement in it -- but this way, there is still hope -- do you understand?”

“Not entirely,” Jane confessed, with a shy smile, and both laughed. “Elizabeth, would you mind very much if I -- if I offered you my opinion?”

Startled, Elizabeth replied, “Of course not.”

Jane took a deep breath. “If you do not express your feelings in some manner to him, neither of you will ever be able to do more than hope. And hope is a marvelous thing, Lizzy; but it is very cold comfort sometimes, when the reality is so close. I know, Lizzy -- our situations are not the same -- but all those months that he was gone -- he truly believed me to be indifferent, because I did not dare risk myself. It is a terrible thing, to live with a broken heart, but still worse is to know it could have been different.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, a tear sliding down her cheek, “yes, yes, it is.”

“I think -- of course this is only my opinion, and I would not presume to tell you what to do -- ” Elizabeth, through her tears, bit back a smile at this -- “but somehow, you must tell him how you feel, or he will never know.” Conspiratorially, she lowered her voice and added, “Men are very obtuse sometimes.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, they are. Then, wisest of sisters -- ” she smiled to make certain Jane realized the gravity beneath her words -- “that is your advice?”

“You have only to reach out to him,” Jane said gently. “Do you love him, Lizzy?”

“Yes, yes, I do.” Her grip on Jane's fingers was mildly painful, but Mrs Bingley was not about to mention it.

“Then -- ” she smiled, and kissed Elizabeth's cheek. “You must only be brave for a little while. He is a great man, Lizzy, and I do not speak of his consequence. I am so very happy for you.”

An old verse fluttered across her mind. "And the truth shall make you free."

Elizabeth returned her sister's embrace, and once Jane left, blew out the candle. I need only dare.

Chapter Three

Posted on Saturday, 4 March 2006

Elizabeth entered the library, seeking some peace and quiet after a thoroughly hectic morning, only to find a small, slender figure standing in the centre of it, her hands over her eyes. With the air of a displaced fairy, she proclaimed,

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

Elizabeth could not keep herself from laughing at this pronouncement and the child whirled to face her in astonishment, dropping her hands.

She cheerfully greeted her, “Good morning, Miss Darcy.”

“Oh! I didn't know anyone was there,” she said, the fairy-quality fading. Despite her rare beauty, she was simply a child -- his child. “I have been trying to remember my verse and I keep forgetting.”

Elizabeth smiled in amusement as Anne shut her eyes again. “Surely you could try and remember with your eyes open?”

“Oh, no,” the girl said earnestly, “because there is a Bible in here, and I know I would just have to go and look, and then I would feel dreadful and I'd forget again. I promised my aunt, you see, that I would remember before I came back for Christmas, and I must not disappoint her. Papa says I must always keep my promises, and so I should never make a promise I do not think I can keep.”

“Your papa sounds very wise,” Elizabeth agreed gravely, kneeling down to look at the child directly.

“But I thought I could remember it, I did! And I did remember it, you heard me!”

“So I did. And it is a proper compliment to your aunt, that you went to all this effort to remember your verse. I am an aunt myself, you see.”

Anne clasped her hands. “Do any of your nieces memorize verses for you?”

“Not one of them.” Elizabeth laughed. “Still, you should probably be with the other children. What if you had gotten lost?”

“Oh, I never get lost. And I should have told my papa where I was, but I didn't think he would let me go, and I don't like Caroline.”

“That was very naughty of you. Your papa is doubtless worried sick about you.”

“Oh no!” She covered her mouth with her free hand. “He will not get sick? My mama got sick when I was a baby and died, I do not want anything to happen to papa. You see, he is the best man in the world and I love him more than anything, I could not bear it if something bad happened to him.”

Elizabeth smiled reassuringly. “It is only a turn of phrase, it means that he would be upset because he didn't know where you gone or what had happened to you.”

“Oh, well, I shall tell him next time,” said the little girl, tossing her head. Elizabeth smiled once more. “Do you belong to the house? I have not seen you before, but we don't come here very often, they usually come to us, because Mr Bingley is my god-father.”

“Mrs Bingley is my sister,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I am come to stay with her for a time.” She thought of her father, dead these four months, and blinked rapidly, pressing her fingers against her black skirts.

“I am sorry you are sad,” the child said unexpectedly, and Elizabeth stared down in astonishment. The little girl's icy blue eyes were of a shade particularly unsuited to warmth, and yet there was no doubting it; without warning, Elizabeth was thrust back seven years, to the inn at Lambton, and another pair of blue eyes were gazing at her with the utmost compassion.

She caught her breath. “Thank you,” Elizabeth said softly. “I am not so sad anymore, now that I have my sister.”

“I wish I had a brother or sister,” Anne replied, looking up at her wistfully. “Lady Elliot is dreadful to Mr Bingley, but papa and Aunt Georgiana still write to each other all the time.”

“Perhaps you shall, someday,” Elizabeth offered half-heartedly.

“Not unless papa marries again,” the small Darcy before her said, and Elizabeth flinched slightly. “I do not think he shall. I heard my aunt say he would not, because he only married mamma because she needed a husband to protect her from something, I don't know what, and he was lonely and they liked each other, and there was no-one else like that and he could not be with the one he really wanted. So he shan't marry. But I have some cousins who are very nice, and Aunt Georgiana misses Pemberley a great deal so she visits quite a lot, and because she does not want to leave papa all alone, although he's not alone because he has me. And Stephen, he's Aunt Georgiana's son, he is more like a brother than a cousin really, because he is more like papa than my uncle Westhampton and likes him better too, and he spends so much time at Pemberley because he is unhappy at Aincourt and he loves papa so very much, and me too, of course.” She took a deep breath. “Are you an angel, Miss Bennet?”

A laugh bubbled up in Elizabeth's throat. “Certainly not, why do you ask?”

Anne shrugged, glancing longingly at the family Bible. “Mr Bingley says Mrs Bingley is one, and if she is an angel, and you are her sister, shouldn't you be an angel too?”

“He only means,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “that she is like an angel.”

“Well, she looks like one,” Anne said matter-of-factly. “Like papa.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think papa is like an angel too. Don't you think?”

“I -- ”

She was saved by Darcy himself, who entered at that moment, and cast a stern look at his daughter. “Anne,” he began, then caught sight of Elizabeth, his face lighting up. “Miss Bennet! I -- I did not know you were here. In here, I mean -- of course I knew you were here, at Baildon.”

Anne giggled. “You are very silly, papa. But I memorized my verse for Aunt Georgiana, Miss Bennet heard me. Didn't you, Miss Bennet?”

“I did,” Elizabeth agreed, smiling first at Anne and then at Darcy. “Good morning, Mr Darcy.”

“Oh, good morning,” he said, rather wryly. “I hope your sister is . . . better?”

Lydia had woken early from a nightmare, her screams alerting all nearby to her distress. How Darcy had discovered it was anyone's guess, as his chambers were quite on the opposite side of the house. “Yes, I believe so,” she said tiredly. “As much as she can be, I suppose.”

“Is Mrs Wickham really your sister, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth and Darcy both turned to Anne, looking at her small upturned face, wide, fearless blue eyes, and Elizabeth felt a vague unsettled guilt. Two children -- one wild, resentful, and rather stupid, the other prim, happy, and clever -- they could not be more different, although they were near to the same age. Surely she ought to resent little Anne Darcy, for having everything -- every happiness, worldly or otherwise, that a girl could desire, for having everything that her poor niece lacked? Yet she did not. She could not even convince herself to care for Betsey, for her own namesake, Lydia Elizabeth, beyond the call of duty and family, not anything to what she felt for this delightful little girl who would never know what it was to fear her own father -- who thought him like an angel --

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice choked a little. “Yes, she is.”

“And Mrs Bingley's?”

“Yes.”

Anne frowned, clearly puzzling over this revelation. Thankfully, Darcy intervened once more. “Anne, you should not be here, you were told to stay with the others in the nursery.”

“But papa, Caroline is there, and she is dreadful!”

“I daresay you and Jenny can manage her, Anne,” Darcy replied dryly; “if anything serious occurs, send a servant.”

Anne wrinkled her nose, but obediently dropped a curtsey with an impudent, “Yes, sir,” before whirling away.

“Are you well, Miss Bennet? You looked distressed a moment ago.” He looked at her intently, and Elizabeth raised her chin.

“How can one not be distressed?” She softened her voice slightly. “It is only a matter of time, sir, before Lydia shall have to return. Mr Wickham may do whatever he likes to her, and to those children. Whatever we do, it is -- oh, it will only make it that much worse, when he reclaims them.”

“When?” Darcy raised his eyebrows. “Forgive my bluntness, but from what your sister has told me, Mr Wickham is more than half out of his mind. Even if he realizes their absence, he is hardly likely to care. He gains nothing from their presence, that he cannot just as easily find elsewhere. If he does sober enough to come here, your brother and I shall simply have to explain that it is in his best interests to let her alone. But I do not think he shall. He is, I understand, in very ill health.” The faint smile accompanying this spoke volumes.

Elizabeth stared, her mind spinning. “But -- then, what is to be done? They cannot stay here interminably -- even Lydia would not ask such a thing of Jane and Bingley, would she?”

“I hardly know,” Darcy said uneasily. “The matter is still unresolved. Has not Mrs Bingley spoken to you of it?”

Elizabeth's lips tightened. “No, she has not. There is a great deal, it seems, that Mrs Bingley does not speak to me about.” Then she recalled her situation, and penitently added, “I should not have said that. I'm sorry.”

Darcy hesitated, and said, apparently apropos of nothing, “I do not visit Baildon as often as I ought, fond as I am of the Bingleys and their children. Somehow, after living so long at Pemberley, it seems rather confining.” At her startled look, he added, “I am used to being alone. Being with so many people in so small a space . . .” He shrugged, looked around a little, and sat down, gazing at her expectantly. “What would you like to know?”

Elizabeth felt more obtuse than any man as she stood there, staring at him. “I -- beg your pardon?”

“Well, Mrs Wickham is your sister as well. Mrs Bingley must be very preoccupied, surely she would have told you all otherwise.”

She could scarcely conceal her skeptical expression, and Darcy dropped his eyes. “In any case, you should know, and I am under no obligation to keep any of it a secret. Bingley is arranging for your mother to live in Meryton, near Mrs Phillips and Mrs Witherspoon. I, erm, have offered Mrs Wickham and her children a home.”

“Not at Pemberley!” Her voice rose shrilly on the last, and Darcy very obviously bit back a smile. “I beg your pardon, but -- surely, you would not have her at your home -- any longer.”

“No, I think not. There is, however, some property in Ireland, which should be perfectly convenient for, er, all concerned.”

“Ireland,” she repeated. “Ireland!”

“We thought it better that she not be, er, too near. Even if Wickham looks for her, he is unlikely to consider -- well, I daresay it is the best option.”

“It cannot be inexpensive, to send her, and maintain her -- and the children -- ”

“Oh, it is nothing of consequence really,” he assured her. She rather suspected that Darcy's definition of nothing of consequence was decidedly unique.

“Thank you, then.”

With a distant look, he said, “You are welcome.” Elizabeth sighed. She had never met anyone worse at accepting gratitude. Although, perhaps it was only from her. He loves me, she informed herself sternly. And who knows what insanity is passing through his mind each time he gets that dreadful cold, pinched look?

“And I?” she inquired helpfully, trying to think of a way to redirect the conversation to more fertile grounds. He looked at her blankly. “In what manner am I to be disposed of?”

“You will stay here, of course.” Hastily, he added, “At least, that is Mrs Bingley's wish. And Bingley's, naturally.”

Elizabeth inhaled deeply, then lifted her head to look him directly in the eye and said, “And is it yours, Mr Darcy?”

He flushed, but after swallowing once, he replied steadily, “Yes, it is -- at least, so long as I also am here.”

“How long do you intend that to be?” Her blood was singing in her ears.

“I must return to Pemberley for Christmas, I have already invited Georgiana and her family.”

“Six weeks, then?” She felt her cheeks burning.

“Yes, but . . . I have also invited the Bingleys. You, naturally, are also included in that invitation, and I would be . . . more than delighted, if you were able to accompany them.”

At seven-and-twenty, with four marriage proposals to her name, Elizabeth Bennet had never been properly courted. Her flirtatious relations with Colonel Fitzwilliam, Wickham, and John Lucas hardly qualified, as none of those men intended marriage; the three other suitors did, but were in themselves perfectly inadequate; Darcy remained in a category by himself, but the peculiar vicissitudes of their relationship could hardly be termed a courtship.

I think I shall enjoy this, she thought, wondering if she would need a fan every time they occupied the same room. Elizabeth gave him a look that Jane would certainly not approve of, and said demurely, “I would be honoured, Mr Darcy . . . is Pemberley as lovely in the winter as in the summer?”

Darcy hesitated only a moment. “Far lovelier, Miss Bennet.”

A/N: The second half of this chapter has some material which the more delicate readers may find slightly disturbing -- probably equivalent to PG-13 for "thematic elements".

Chapter Four

Posted on Tuesday, 7 March 2006

They met almost entirely on accident. Elizabeth, perhaps, elected to walk on those paths she thought him more likely to frequent; but certainly it went no further than that. Nevertheless, with very little trouble, she happened across him leaning against the side of a tree, looking very handsome indeed as he gazed off thoughtfully. No wayward branch interrupted her enjoyment of the view, and after several moments, she announced herself with a bright smile.

“Good morning, Mr Darcy.”

“Miss Bennet!” He started, a familiar expression overcoming his severe features as he turned towards her. It was a contentment just this side of joy, and Elizabeth could not help laughing at his transparency. “What an unexpected pleasure.” Then, a little slyly, he added, “Almost unexpected, that is.”

“Fate has been uncommonly kind to us today, hasn't it?” she said, trying for a look of innocence. He bit his lip. “You may smile, sir, I shan't slap you.”

He complied, and said wryly, “I somehow doubted you would. You never have before, even when my behaviour warranted it.” A shadow crossed his face at this, and Elizabeth sighed.

“If we were to strike one another every time our behaviour warranted it,” she said, “you and I would have probably killed each other by now.”

Darcy smiled unrestrainedly this time. “You are very kind.”

“Not very,” Elizabeth said, accepting the offered escort. “Thank you, sir. Truly, though, I have to constantly guard against unkindness. I am nothing like Jane.”

“No,” he said, with a warm look, “no, you are not.” Elizabeth blushed at the implication, something she had never expected of any man, even him. “I am very fond of Mrs Bingley, naturally -- how one not be? -- but she is . . . perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she is not like you, Miss Bennet.”

Her head whirled a little, and she decided to think about the matter at greater length later; but instead of leaving it there, he tried to explain himself:

“There is much to be said for kindness -- for,” he hesitated, “selfless consideration for the feelings of others -- ” Elizabeth's eyes widened, both at the transposition of her own words and the clarity with which he remembered them -- “but however praiseworthy, it can only go so far. Goodness is more than a tendency to think the best of everyone and a desire to make them all happy, I think -- meaning no affront against your sister and my friend, but there is no struggle there. They will never be less than amiable and kind to those within their sphere; and they will never consider those without it.” His head was lowered, his hands fiddling absently, and rather anxiously, with a handkerchief.

“Their perspective is a little narrow,” Elizabeth conceded. “Is that what you mean?”

He made a sudden sharp movement with one hand. “Yes -- perhaps -- I do not know. Only -- Miss Bennet, there is something, something more appealing, about one who -- who can, and does, remain true to his -- or her -- knowledge of what is right, when it is not easy, not what he would wish; the goodness of one who fully comprehends what he is doing when he does it -- that is more powerful, somehow, to my way of thinking, than a more thoughtless goodness, that of someone who knows nothing else.”

“That,” said she, “sounds more like you, sir, than me.”

His eyes widened. “Oh no. I am not at all -- well perhaps a little -- I try for that, but I do not always succeed.”

“Oh?”

“If I did,” said Darcy, “you would probably have one more niece or nephew than you do right now. However, I was not speaking of myself.”

Elizabeth frowned. “I am hardly perfect, sir.”

“No,” he said, with a slow smile, “no, you are not, thank heavens. I do not think I should care to spend a great deal of time with a woman not my equal. I am reminded of my own imperfections often enough as it is, simply by the company of Bingley and your sister.”

She laughed outright at this. “Somehow, you always manage to surprise me, Mr Darcy. I never know what is going to come out of your mouth next.”

A look she very much recognised passed over his face, as if he longed to vocalise some stray thought passing through his mind, but did not dare. After a moment, he said, restrainedly, “I cannot possibly be as much of an enigma to you, as you are to me.”

“I?” She stared a little, then laughed and took his arm (out of regard for his handkerchief, which did not seem long for this world if his movements grew much more intense). “I defy any of our shared acquaintance to acknowledge that, sir.”

“Oh!” Darcy shook his head. “You may not brandish the opinions of our acquaintance at me, for they have known you much longer than they have me, and still do not bother to look past what you choose to show them.” With an intent look, he added, “You still do not perform to strangers, do you, Miss Bennet?”

“No,” she said, far more softly than was her wont, “no, I do not.” Then, with a smile: “Have you always been so perceptive, sir, or I am only just noticing?” Even as she spoke, however, she recalled the earnest young man he had been, dancing with her at the Netherfield Ball, and heard his voice, saying gravely, "I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either." The present Darcy, however, actually laughed, a startled rich sound that she did not think she had ever heard before, but which was certainly not unpleasant. His face alight with humour, he said,

“Perceptive? I? Now I know you are mocking me, Miss Bennet, and to my face no less. But I may answer your challenge, if you allow me to summon Mrs Reynolds. You quite bewildered her -- and occasionally she will still ask about that strange young woman who stammered and blushed all through her visit at Pemberley, but would not confess to more than a slight acquaintance with me; however I daresay she knows my thoughts as often as not before they have entered my head.”

“It was a slight acquaintance,” Elizabeth defended herself, but smiling at the last -- “that is, I said that I only knew you `a little' -- and I was quite right. I scarcely knew you at all, and nearly everything I did know turned out to be false.”

Darcy opened his mouth and shut it again. “A necessary caveat, I think,” he remarked quietly, and turned as snow began to fall in rapidly thickening flakes. “May I escort you to the house?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I did not know that I intended to return just now.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Bingley will probably force me to drink hot milk and sit in front of the fire if I am out too long,” he said, and added rather vexedly, “I cannot believe Georgiana actually told him, even only a part.”

Elizabeth stared. “Is there something I ought to know, Mr Darcy? Are you subject to fainting spells?”

His start and burning cheeks answered her well enough, and she vacillated between concern and laughing delight at the mental image this conjured. “I hope it was not anything serious?”

“No, not -- my daughter and nephew were both caught in a blizzard, and very ill by the time I found them.” His expression was particularly forbidding, until he added, a little sheepishly, “I was only a little tired, but Georgiana has become unreasonably over-protective.”

Elizabeth wondered just how unreasonable it was. Once, finding the Bingleys in the parlour, she had overheard Mr Darcy's name, and her attention caught, had stopped in the hall to listen. All she had caught was "he drives himself too hard, and will not admit to --" but it had been enough to cause her a moment of alarm, before realizing that, her feelings notwithstanding, she did not have the privilege of responsibility for him. But now, she thought, and gave him a stern look.

“If you were that exhausted, sir,” she said acerbically, “your sister was quite right to worry.”

“Well, yes,” he conceded, “but that was then -- an entire year ago -- not now.”

Elizabeth frowned, mulling the matter over. His reaction was startlingly like her own, in response to Jane's fussiness, and she was not enough of a hypocrite to press him any further. Nevertheless -- her situation had been almost entirely beyond her control. She certainly had not driven herself to exhaustion! Elizabeth carried on the conversation lightly as they returned to the house, but most of her mind was occupied in stealing sideways glances at him to see how he looked. In most respects he was the same, almost exactly the same, as she remembered him. He was perhaps a little thinner, his expression a little more receptive -- most of the changes were in manner. He was far more anxious to please than she ever recalled, even at Pemberley, but also more thoughtful, and nervous enough to teach her mother a few lessons in that regard. She kept a firm grip on his arm to keep him from destroying gloves, handkerchiefs, or other assorted objects that seemed to find their way into his grasp.

“Lizzy?”

Elizabeth broke off in the middle of a sentence to stare at her sister. “Lydia, what are you doing out here?”

“You are not the only one who gets tired of being imprisoned in that house,” she said off-handedly. “And I have not been ill.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I was only concerned, Lydia.”

“It is a pity you were not concerned earlier,” snapped Lydia.

“Mrs Wickham,” Darcy said harshly, suddenly every inch the master of Pemberley, “you should not deceive yourself into believing you know everything, or even very much -- of what your family has endured in the last few years. You owe your sister more than you will ever know.”

Elizabeth was not entirely certain what this last meant, but stared as Lydia blushed, lowering her eyes. “I beg your pardon, Mr Darcy. I did not mean -- ”

“You should not be apologizing to me, Mrs Wickham,” he said sternly. Lydia chewed her lip.

“Lizzy, I'm sorry. I should not have spoken so -- to you. I'm sure you did as much as you could, in your situation. Mr Darcy, the others, where are they? ”

“Susan and Frances should arrive this evening, Mrs Wickham,” he replied. “Your mother is leaving in a few hours -- Bingley has purchased the lease on a house in Meryton for her, just across from the Witherspoons' home, so if you wish to spend much more time with her, I would suggest returning to the parlour.”

Lydia nodded meekly, leaving her sister uncertain whether to be horrified or pleased at her compliance. Then she stopped and blinked, apparently only now taking in the strangeness of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy taking a walk in the snow, quite alone. Something almost like suspicion entered her dull blue eyes. “You must have met on accident,” she said slowly.

“Yes,” Darcy said instantly, “yes, we did.”

This time, thought Elizabeth.

She woke up at a particularly ungodly hour to the sound of light tapping on her door.

“Lydia?” she asked sleepily. “What is it?”

Her sister did not seem to have fallen asleep at all, her hair still neatly braided over one shoulder. “Lizzy,” she said, very seriously, “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said blankly, “come in and sit down, then.” Although midnight talks with her sister were not a wholly unprecedented experience, never had it been with Lydia, even when they were both young.

She looked positively girlish in the candlelight, but her unsteady step gave her away, as did the worried expression on her face. “Lizzy, I had to talk to someone, and Jane -- oh, she wouldn't understand, would she? What does she know of it?”

Elizabeth rubbed her eyes, and sat on the bed. “Lydia, I don't -- ”

“She never asked, or did anything, and even now whenever I try to talk about it she says I ought to pity him -- something about it not being his fault. And if it isn't his fault, whose is it?”

“Lydia -- ”

“And of course I wasn't sure if I could talk to you, your being an old maid and all -- even if you won't wear a cap -- but what Mr Darcy said made me think -- he always does, and it's so unpleasant -- but I am, I think -- I think things might have been very bad, worse than they were, I mean, without him, so I always try to do what he wants.” Elizabeth felt a moment of gratitude that it had not been a less scrupulous man who had “saved” Lydia. “Mr Darcy says I'm to go to Ireland, and that I shan't have to see Wickham again. Is that true, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth looked at Lydia's weak, vulnerable face, and felt tears pricking at her eyes. “Yes, Lydia, it is.”

Lydia sighed. “Oh, I am so glad. I don't know what I might have done, you see, if I had to. He did things to me -- oh, Lizzy, I shouldn't say, but, but you won't tell?”

Confusedly, Elizabeth said, “Of course not.”

“I liked it at first,” Lydia confided. Elizabeth suddenly realized what she was about to hear and flushed deeply in the candlelight, grateful that this would not be her first exposure to the subject. “It was so -- well, you wouldn't be able to understand. I don't think you've ever even been in love, have you?”

“I -- ”

“Anyway, it was so pleasant at first, I suppose I thought it would always be like that, but apparently men can't be satisfied with just one woman, at least, that's what Wickham always said. And he liked some rather odd things, but I didn't mind, at first. And I think I must have conceived before we were married, Betsey was born so early, but anyway, when we found out I was going to have a baby, he didn't really care, but I saw less of him, and I heard . . . things -- apparently he visited brothels, and there was a lieutenant's wife -- well, I didn't think anything of it at the time, but of course, later, I guessed, but that was fine, because he became very rough later on and -- ”

The conversation proceeded in like vein for at least five more minutes, Elizabeth listening in mute horror. When Lydia had finally exhausted her supply of reminiscences, she said, “Lydia, I -- I'm so sorry -- ”

“Oh, it's not your fault,” Lydia said breezily. “But I really didn't think I could manage it another day. I kept imagining doing some dreadful things to him -- not that kind of thing -- hitting him with the vase or something -- or maybe shooting him with his own gun. That would have been rather funny, wouldn't it? Except I'm sure bad things happen to you if you kill your husband, don't they?”

Elizabeth felt something of Anne Darcy's astonishment that she, Jane, and Lydia should all be sisters. “Yes,” she said, not trusting herself much further.

“Anyway, that night, that was the first time I thought of Mr Darcy. Of course I knew that he couldn't be that bad after all if Wickham disliked him, and at the wedding -- well, if he knew what Wickham was like -- that's probably why he tried to keep me from marrying him.” The flow of words halted, Lydia looking pale and despondent suddenly. “I, I wish I had listened to him, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth thought of any number of remarks in response to this, but instead held her sister's hand and said, “I'm sure you do.”

“Anyway, I thought of him -- and he always seemed -- so respectable -- even if he wanted things, because Wickham said all men did, that they wouldn't do anything without being -- paid, in some form or another, and of course I had no money and the children -- anyway, I thought they couldn't possibly be half so bad as living with Wickham, so I went to his house. I had to walk a bit, of course, but Jane had sent some money that Wickham hadn't spent yet, so I used that, and of course he wasn't there, and his servants were the proudest, most disagreeable people -- ” She took a deep breath. “But, Lizzy, I don't understand, and I thought you might explain it, because you're so clever, and you seem to talk to Mr Darcy quite a lot, even though you don't seem well -- I don't think it's very warm at all.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “What do you not understand, Lydia?” she asked patiently. Lydia wrung her hands.

“Mr Darcy was, he was . . . kind,” she said, trying out the last word as if it were in a foreign tongue. “And I don't understand why. He hates Wickham and he said that he wasn't helping me to upset him and I don't think he likes me much -- but he didn't ask for anything, and when I offered -- ”

Elizabeth stared, horrified. “You didn't -- Liddy, you did not -- surely you did not -- proposition Mr Darcy!”

“Well, not exactly. I am a lady, Lizzy,” Lydia said indignantly. Elizabeth could scarcely hide her incredulity at this, and was forced to look away. “I supposed he would want something, though, and he didn't -- I meant that I offered -- well, I implied that I would be willing to -- oh, never mind. You're an old maid, you can't understand.”

Elizabeth could only imagine how subtle one of Lydia's implications would be -- rather akin to having an anvil thrown at one's head. “What did he say?” she asked, trembling at the thought.

“He was really very gracious about it. He just said, `Thank you for the compliment, Mrs Wickham, but I am not in the habit of ravishing my houseguests' ” -- Lydia's gift for mimicry almost made Elizabeth smile at this -- “and asked me not to mention it again. He seemed very surprised, really.”

Elizabeth wondered how she would ever look him in the face again. “What do you wish me to explain?” she asked, clinging to the shreds of her composure. 'Jane,' she thought, 'I have never properly appreciated you before.'

“Well, I simply don't understand why he should help without getting anything in return. And then I thought -- he was the one who did everything for my wedding, and he didn't ask for anything then either. But Wickham said that all men -- ”

“Lydia,” Elizabeth said firmly, “you should forget anything Wickham ever told you, particularly about what men are like or what they want, because he was -- is -- a selfish, depraved man who assumes everyone is as bad as he is.”

Lydia tilted her head to the side, considering this, and Elizabeth almost laughed, for it was exactly the same gesture Darcy used when thoughtful. “Oh,” she said, after a moment. “I did know that they weren't all quite like Wickham -- some men are not really -- they don't like to hurt things. There was a merchant in Newcastle, he always missed whenever he hunted, not because he was a poor shot -- he missed on purpose -- but because he couldn't stand to kill anything, even spiders and things. His wife told me that he liked to fish but always let them go. That's why I decided to go to him, you know -- Mr Darcy, not the merchant -- because I didn't think he was the other sort, like Wickham. I never heard him raise his voice or anything, even when mamma practically insulted him to his face, so . . .” She shrugged.

“Mr Darcy helped you, Lydia, because he -- because he felt that he ought to.” Lydia simply looked blank at that, and Elizabeth struggled to simplify the matter still further. “Mr Darcy is a little like Jane. Do you know how, when something bad happens, she always seems to think it's partly her fault, that she should have done something about it before it happened?”

“Oh yes. She's very silly that way,” said Lydia thoughtlessly, and Elizabeth felt her head begin to ache from clenching her teeth together so long.

“Silly or not, that is the answer to your question. He feels responsible for what happens to the people around him, and he tries to help.”

“Oh.” Lydia chewed her lip. “Well, it is silly, but it's . . . rather nice too, isn't it?”

Elizabeth took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, Lydia, it is.”

“I think he likes you, Lizzy.” Elizabeth blinked, thrown a little off by the incomprehensible turn of subject.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think Mr Darcy likes you. Just -- the way he looks at you -- it's not the way Wickham looked at me, before we went off to London, but a little bit the same -- interested, I suppose. He is really a nice person even if he is a man, and of course if you mean to be married it will have to be some man or another, and it would be very unpleasant if he fell in love with you and you still disliked him.”

Elizabeth looked at her sister's vacant expression, and got to her feet, her patience nearing its end. “Lydia,” she said firmly, “I think we have talked long enough.”

“You should think about it,” Lydia said off-handedly, flipping her braid over her shoulder. The sudden movement was so like what she had done as a child that Elizabeth felt a brief surge of tenderness and pressed her lips against her sister's forehead.

“If it gives you any comfort, dear sister, I am madly in love with Mr Darcy, and I know that he loves me, and if anything comes of it I shall write you directly.”

Lydia's face was suddenly wreathed in smiles, and she hugged Elizabeth tightly. “That would be lovely, Lizzy. I should like to see you happy. You see how happy Jane is, after all, and she is only married to Mr Bingley.”

“Good night, Lydia,” said Elizabeth.

Chapter Five

Posted on Friday, 10 March 2006

“Goodbye, Jane, Lizzy, Mr Bingley!”

“Goodbye, Lydia!”

“Farewell, Mrs Wickham. I hope your trip is pleasant.”

“Goodbye, Mr Darcy. I will try and be good, I promise.” Darcy flushed deeply as Lydia impulsively flung her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “I think you are the nicest man I have ever met,” she whispered. “Marry Lizzy soon, won't you?”

“Thank you,” said Darcy.

“Bye-bye Aunt Lydia,” chorused the Bingley children.

Anne and Betsey examined each other. “Goodbye, Miss Wickham,” Anne said, imitating her father's cold civility.

“Goodbye,” said Betsey, and stuck her tongue out.

“Betsey!” Jane exclaimed. Anne sniffed and retreated behind her father's leg. The five children, two nursemaids, and Lydia herself were piled into the carriage, and with one last “Goodbye!” set off.

Darcy and Elizabeth were far less circumspect once Lydia was gone, although still discreet out of regard for propriety. When possible, they met outside, taking long walks around Baildon. For the first time, Elizabeth lamented the comparatively small size of the park -- although larger than Longbourn, it was much smaller than even Netherfield, let alone Pemberley or Rosings. The grounds were so neat and trim that it was impossible to unfortunately lose their way. Even worse, as autumn was left firmly behind, there were fewer and fewer opportunities to walk outside, and they were forced to happen across one another within the house.

Nevertheless, Elizabeth decided, there was something to be said for the library. Neither Bingley nor Jane nor Lady Elliot nor any of their children were in the habit of frequenting that room, while Darcy spent hours at a time there -- even when she was not present. There was a sort of intimacy fostered by their shared delight in its contents. She remembered the first time she found him there, seated near a window, sitting perfectly, inflexibly, upright. His eyes were fixed on the book he was reading, the only sound the loud, contented purring of Mrs Burrows' mouser, which was curled on Darcy's lap. There had been something so domestic about the scene that she could almost imagine they were married already --

“Hello, Mr Darcy,” she said, and he started, jerking his eyes up to meet hers with a delighted expression.

“Miss Bennet! What a -- ” he disengaged the cat and scrambled gracefully to his feet -- “pleasure.”

There were, it seemed, a hundred little things she could not but help find endearing. That day, it was his fondness for cats, and it took very little effort on her part to draw out the childhood tale of his first feline, the recalcitrant Alfred. His eyes danced as he spoke, enchanting her anew, and he seemed at least as delighted with her. She rather thought that he would be content to simply enjoy her company, listening to her voice and gazing at her face. However, much as she enjoyed reciprocating the attention, such complacence was not for her. She did not dream of contentment but joy.

Anne -- for she had to be considered, even were she not so attached to her father -- accompanied them about half the time, and Elizabeth found her to be willful, haughty, clever, and delightful beyond belief. In many ways, Anne was more like the Darcy she remembered than was Darcy himself. It seemed, sometimes, that all but the bare essentials had been burnt away. She was pleased to see him growing a little more like his old self, more like his daughter, who often watched her with a curious expression, as if not entirely certain what she was about. Despite Anne's friendship with Jenny, she seemed happiest when in her father's company, and often fell asleep at Darcy's side or in his arms.

She realized, then, that the matter was not so simple as she had at first thought. He loved her, and she him; that much was plain. However, his heart was not the only one she had to win over, nor was his the only opinion she need consider. She did not care to think of Anne's mother, and it was not a difficult feat -- Anne and Rosemary were nothing alike, in manner or countenance -- but if he did propose -- again -- she would have to think of her predecessor. She knew nothing of her ladyship's ways, what example she had set -- although she was certain the other woman had been a model of decorum and propriety.

After fretting herself awake one night, she grew impatient and when speaking with Darcy the following day, turned the conversation in that direction. “What was she like?” Elizabeth asked. “I scarcely exchanged five words with her, but she seemed very . . .” she forced a complimentary word out -- “well-bred.”

Darcy looked startled, as if she were speaking of a stranger. “Rosemary?” He shrugged. “She was kind, and sweet-natured, and quiet -- a little like Mrs Bingley, but --” he hesitated -- “not quite so . . . modest. And --” he smiled, with a trace of affection in his look -- very like how he appeared when he spoke of his cousin or his grandmother -- “she was very different before Anne was born. She actually tried to cut my hair off.”

Elizabeth stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“Her moods were very strange that year, but the rest of the time I knew her she was usually serene and even-tempered.” He turned his head to look at her, his expression intent. “Why do you ask?”

“I was only wondering if Miss Darcy was much like her mother.”

“Not at all,” Darcy said cheerfully. Then, cautiously, he added, “Anne and I both favour the Fitzwilliams, but she has a -- a vivacity -- that is very unlike both her parents. I -- I am not very lively, myself.” Then, speaking so softly that she could scarcely hear him -- she was quite certain he did not mean to be heard, and perhaps did not even realize he was speaking aloud -- he added, “She is more like you, in that way.”

His look was distinctly strange -- somehow distressed, although she could not imagine -- she stared, her brows drawn together, wishing not for the first time that she could hear his thoughts.

The entire party at Baildon -- the Bingleys and their children, Lady Elliot and her children (who could not be civilly excluded from the invitation), Mrs Gardiner and the girls, Darcy, Anne, and Elizabeth -- fortunately divided into two carriages, all traveled the thirty miles to Pemberley in late November. Elizabeth was eager to see it again, and felt like a child as she peered out, feeling distinctly silly next to the elegant Lady Elliot. Jane had insisted upon bundling her so thoroughly that she was shaped rather like a teapot, but as soon as they reached the last peak, and looked down at the valley, she forgot everything but Pemberley.

It was more beautiful than she remembered -- perhaps it was the effect of winter rather than summer, the snow covering everything in a layer of pristine white -- but somehow the image she had carried in her mind was pale compared to the reality. Amidst the cold purity of the grounds, the house seemed warm and welcoming, and the entire party hurried out of the carriage, Darcy following last and offering his arm to Elizabeth and his hand to Anne.

As the servants helped them undress, Elizabeth turned and caught the sight of a tall, stately woman walking towards them. She was vaguely familiar; but it was only when she stood at Darcy's side and graciously joined him in welcoming them all to Pemberley, that the close resemblance between the siblings gave her identity away.

“It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennet,” Lady Westhampton said kindly, the expression in her dark eyes not so much suspicious as contemplative, and a little anxious.

The prospect of staying at Pemberley as a guest was a daunting one, but she quickly adapted. Avoiding Lady Elliot was not nearly as difficult, as Pemberley was well over twice Baildon's size; even without leaving the house, it took no great effort on her part. The unfortunate effect of this was that she saw less of Jane than she would have preferred, since Lady Elliot had taken a firm liking to Mrs Bingley after the wedding -- a liking which, surprisingly enough, persisted to this day, and which had affected Jane's perspective of her sister-in-law rather more than it ought, in Elizabeth's opinion. The two women, both up to their ears in all matters domestic, spent their time together swapping advice and opinions, and their friendship -- if friendship it could be called -- did not seem to have had an ill effect on either. Elizabeth, however, trusting Jane's discretion but not her composure, avoided their little gatherings, as she was certain Lady Elliot's icy civility would degenerate into something worse if she ever guessed at the truth.

To make up for that difficulty, however, there were Mrs Gardiner and the girls. Elizabeth had never had much to do with her cousins, as she was not someone with a great natural fondness for children, but she now found Margaret and Amelia to be a delight. That they referred to Darcy as their `uncle' and Mrs Gardiner by his Christian name befuddled her for a moment, before the five of them laughingly explained how the situation had developed. Amelia, the most like Elizabeth, had -- for that reason or others -- always been Darcy's favourite among the children, and although she would no longer suffer herself to be whirled into the air, she could not restrain herself from clapping her hands at the simple trinkets bestowed on herself and her sisters.

Quiet little Margaret was nearly fifteen, and dreading her coming-out like nothing else. She also seemed to be struggling with a tendre for Darcy, which could not help but remind Elizabeth of poor Tom. She was not sure when or how it had happened, but the young stableman was utterly devoted to her, and seemed perfectly content to worship from a distance. It was rather unsettling, really, particularly given his clear antipathy towards the Collinses. She was glad that everyone else, including Darcy, seemed oblivious to Margaret's feelings.

The Westhamptons left only two days after her arrival -- they had been at Pemberley for far too long, as Darcy prudently sent for his sister as soon as Lydia took up residence. Lady Westhampton, although reserved, seemed as sensible and good-humoured as Elizabeth recalled; her husband was a charming, easy-mannered man, and Elizabeth quite liked them both. Their son she neither saw nor heard of; apparently due to his painful shyness, he preferred solitude. She caught the end of a conversation, and knew Darcy to be worried over his nephew's unshakable solemnity --

“Georgiana, even I was not like this.”

“What am I to do?” Lady Westhampton inquired. “You know very well that there is nothing to be done. We can only wait for him to outgrow it. I cannot understand why you seem determined to --”

“He's getting worse,” said Darcy, “not better. I am certain, something is wrong, he will not speak even to me -- ”

Elizabeth could not bear to eavesdrop on such an intimate conversation, and cleared her throat. Brother and sister whirled around to stare at her, Georgiana looking distressed and Darcy relieved.

“Miss Bennet,” they chorused, and she smiled.

“Mr Darcy, Lady Westhampton. Please excuse the intrusion -- I had no idea anyone was in here -- ” she threw a longing glance at the books against the wall, making both siblings laugh despite their earlier intensity.

The three Westhamptons left early in the morning, and so she never saw little Stephen Deincourt; but the snatch of the conversation she had overheard told her the reason for Darcy's occasional preoccupation, and the worried line that formed between his brows when left silent too long. Nevertheless “the courtship” proceeded properly, and more easily than it had at Baildon. She was quite certain from some of the looks he gave her, and from the wash of heat that so frequently overwhelmed her -- sometimes at the most inappropriate moments -- that only her state of mourning kept him from renewing his proposals.

However, were matters not convoluted enough, they received company after only a mostly blissful fortnight at Pemberley. Elizabeth was just escaping the obligatory hour or two with Lady Elliot and Jane, when she ran almost directly into a party of three, two gentlemen and a lady. Despite the passage of years, the elder of the two men was immediately recognizable. He blinked.

“Miss Bennet?”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said politely. His companions were clearly brother and sister; they were both dark and slightly-built -- in fact they were very like all in all -- but in something of a reversal of the usual way of things, he was by far the less handsome, the features so suited to her earthy, irregular beauty, somehow unbalanced and even plain on his face. The servant accompanying them looked distinctly overwrought at this interruption to his usual procedure, and she said kindly, “I believe Mr Darcy is in his study.” The lady's neatly-arched dark brows rose, and she gazed at Elizabeth with clear curiosity before following the servant. Elizabeth continued on her own way.

Mr Darcy, it transpired, was not in his study but the ever-useful library, and as Elizabeth slipped in, she smiled at his faintly startled expression, and after exchanging greetings, said, “Mr Darcy, did you know that Colonel Fitzwilliam is here?”

Astonishingly, an expression of dread came over his face. “Oh? Did his wife accompany him?”

Elizabeth blinked. “I believe so.”

The horrified look grew even more pronounced. “Ah. I -- oh, hello, Fitzwilliam.”

The colonel and his companions entered the room, trailed by the harried-looking servant. With a very faint smile, Darcy said, “Diggory, you may go.”

Grateful, the servant obeyed, while the two cousins shook hands, Darcy retreating, by instinct, it seemed, to his old unsociable habits. He pointedly ignored the other pair.

“Miss Bennet, I do not believe you have been introduced? This is my wife, Mary, and her brother, Mr Crawford.”

She pleasantly greeted them, wondering at Darcy's antipathy. Mary Fitzwilliam was in colouring not dissimilar from herself, and there was a liveliness in her manners that was also eerily familiar; but something about her dark eyes -- a hardness absent from her brother's -- Elizabeth could not help but find repellent.

“I must leave immediately, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam was saying.

“So soon?” Darcy inquired, looking only a little disappointed. He took a step closer to Elizabeth as Mrs Fitzwilliam smiled at him, toying with his pen.

“Would you mind excusing my cousin and me?” Fitzwilliam asked of the others. “There is some business I must speak of him on.”

“Of course,” the Crawfords said, and Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before joining them, although she had no desire to be left alone with the siblings, whose very air denoted them the sort of people she least liked to associate with, not excluding Lady Elliot.

The colonel had business elsewhere -- apparently some sort of military duty -- and was, apparently, inviting his wife and her brother to Pemberley until he could fetch them back again. Elizabeth found herself dreading the following weeks, with good reason. It was clear that Mrs Fitzwilliam and Mr Crawford were not unduly burdened by scruples, and she certainly did not find her wedded state to be much of a hindrance in her pursuit of -- of all people! -- her husband's cousin. To make matters worse, Elizabeth frequently found herself being watched by the brother, and sympathized strongly with Darcy's plight. The only positive aspect to it all was that she and Darcy, with the solidarity of the hunted, had grown closer together; although, she did not realize how close, until late one evening, about a week before Christmas.

It was like something out of a novel that she would not have admitted to reading. She was not sleeping well, her thoughts whirling round and round, and the sound of a carriage arriving -- in the middle of the night, no less! -- did nothing to help. Eventually, she swung her legs around, pulled on a robe, and departed for the library, intending to see if Darcy's extensive collection extended to conduct manuals. To her astonishment, a woman ran by her, tears streaming down her face -- it was, without a doubt, Lady Westhampton. Those features could not be mistaken -- but she was so altered from when Elizabeth had seen her two weeks earlier that she could scarcely comprehend it. Dreading what she would find, Elizabeth pushed open the library door, and found --

Nothing. Or so it seemed at first. It was only as her eyes adjusted to the dim light that she recognized Darcy's tall figure.

“Mr Darcy?” she asked tentatively, not remotely afraid for herself, but uncertain about him. He remained motionless, but responded,

“Miss Bennet.” Although his voice was level, it was harsher and more dispassionate than she remembered, except perhaps at the very earliest stages of their acquaintance -- but no, not even then, had it been like this. Elizabeth approached, throwing propriety and caution to the winds, until she could clearly make him out. He stood very still and upright, like a statue, apparently oblivious to his state of partial undress -- indeed, to hers as well. One arm was lying on top of the mantle, and he looked -- she searched for a word, and the one she found terrified her. He looked, his strong masculine frame notwithstanding, frail.

From the door, another voice, gravelly with sleep, said, “Mr Darcy? He shall be well -- in body -- but Lady Westhampton thought -- ”

For the first time, Darcy moved, approaching the stranger. She could see him, a blur of white, reaching his arms out, and cradling a slender dark form in them, turning to approach his chair.

Anne! Elizabeth's breath caught, even as the stranger retreated, but Darcy looked up. “Miss Bennet, are you still here?”

“Yes, Mr Darcy,” she said tremulously. “Is she well, sir?”

He lifted his head up, and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the night was beginning to fade. She could now see him well enough, see his face, which looked, not older, as she had expected from his manner, but younger -- pale and frightened, almost like a child -- and she looked down, and stared. The long slender limbs, untidy black hair, the lashes long and dark against an ashen cheek -- they were all familiar to her, she knew them almost as well as her own face. Except it was not her own, it was Darcy's -- and yet not quite his, but close enough that she knew who it must be.

“My nephew,” Darcy explained tersely, stroking the dark hair away from the boy's strained features. The pain and fear and longing written on Darcy's face told more than he knew, and Elizabeth struggled to keep herself from reaching out to the pair. Jane had once said that bearing children changed one forever -- one was never the same person afterwards -- one's identity was forever wrapped up in mother -- and somehow Elizabeth had never understood, until now. It was bizarre, because Darcy was certainly not Stephen's mother in the respect that Jane meant -- but she knew, as she watched the startlingly incongruous picture -- tall, austere Fitzwilliam Darcy, gently rocking the little boy in his arms, Stephen's cheek pillowed on his shoulder. There was both wonder and tenderness coupled with the heart-wrenching horror and guilt in his face, and Elizabeth's breathing stilled for a moment. He felt as much towards this child as any father could -- as any mother could --

The moon passed in front of a cloud, and light spilled through the window, onto the two dark heads; and she saw what she had never noticed before, white growing in Darcy's dark hair. An intense, irrational fear took hold of her then, and she could not stop herself from kneeling beside him, briefly laying her head against his leg, trying to offer whatever comfort and strength she could.

“What happened?”

“He hurt himself,” Darcy said brokenly. She felt as if it were the Lambton Inn all over again, except there was no letter, and it was he, not her, who sat there, at the brink of some awful precipice, looking like he might fall down, or shatter into a thousand pieces, if he were pushed the slightest bit further. He was not weeping, as she had -- at least -- his head was bent -- she looked up into his eyes, and he was, soundlessly, his whole body trembling. Elizabeth, scarcely knowing what she did -- knowing only that she must do something -- gently stroked the small colourless face, and asked softly:

“It must have been a dreadful accident?”

Darcy laughed humourlessly. “No, no. See -- ” He reached out, and turned one of the little boy's pale wrists about. She gasped, raising horrified eyes to meet his own. “He is not well,” said Darcy; “he never has been.”

His body was shivering even more violently, and Elizabeth, acting on instinct, helped hold Stephen still. “Let me help,” she said; “you cannot do this, you are not str -- steady enough.”

There was a pause, in which a dozen lurid fears passed through her mind. Then he allowed his eyes to close, and rocked a little. “Please help --” he said, “please -- Elizabeth -- ”

Chapter Six

Posted on Monday, 13 March 2006

Two hours later, Elizabeth's throat ached from constantly speaking in a low, soothing murmur, and she was beginning to nod off. She left to refresh herself, and upon returning to Stephen's room, smiled as she saw uncle and nephew sprawled across the bed, both breathing deeply, their faces relaxed and free of pain. Elizabeth sighed, scarcely believing the tangled web she had woven herself into, and departed, briefly leaning her aching head against the door.

A tall, grey figure, black hair spilling down its shoulders, could be seen walking down the hallway, and Elizabeth started, her tired mind instantly supposing a ghost had joined their party. Sense instantly returned, however, and she quickly made out Lady Westhampton's familiar features. Elizabeth straightened, and the younger woman, her dark eyes shadowed, gazed at her in weary confusion.

“Lady Westhampton,” Elizabeth said gently, “your son will be well, and Mr Darcy is with him.”

Lady Westhampton's shoulders sagged. “You are certain?” she asked, in a bare whisper.

“The doctor said so; and Mr Darcy and Stephen are both asleep, in this room. They are both -- weary.”

Lady Westhampton's brow creased and she looked away, one hand pressing against her back. “What am I to do?” she asked plaintively. Elizabeth could not conceal her startled expression at the sudden confidence, but the other did not seem to perceive it. “I love him -- I do!”

She sounded more as if she were trying to convince herself, or someone else, than Elizabeth, so she simply waited. “I should not have -- what should I have done? I don't know. At first -- oh, that wretched, wretched woman! Fitzwilliam says he saw -- do you think he did?”

“I hardly know,” said Elizabeth, wondering if she were the only sane people left in this house.

“I suppose it's impossible to know,” Lady Westhampton agreed. “Is it because I allowed him to stay here too long? He loved it so much -- from the first -- just like Fitzwilliam. Oh! they are too alike -- it was easier, to let Fitzwilliam take care -- he always does -- and by the time everything was set in order again, it was too late, I suppose. Stephen always preferred Fitzwilliam to everyone else, even Anne -- but he was only a little boy. I do not understand, why could he not adjust? We all do -- but even if he missed it all, there was none of this until she took them.” Vindictively, she added, “Oh, I hope she is suffering for what she did to him. He was perfectly fine before she died!” Then she seemed to wilt a little, her expression growing confused and lost once more. “Except -- perhaps -- I do not know.”

Elizabeth could make very little sense of all this. “Lady Westhampton, it is nearly dawn, and you must be very tired. You need to keep your strength up, your son will need you, and so will your brother.”

“My brother?” Lady Westhampton's brow furrowed, and she laughed humourlessly. “Fitzwilliam? I fear you misunderstand, Miss Bennet -- my brother, he is -- he doesn't need anyone, we need him.”

Elizabeth's eyes flashed, and she replied sharply, “I fear you misunderstand, Lady Westhampton,” before bearing in mind the younger woman's circumstance. She deliberately turned away, recovering herself, then gentled her voice and manner. “Mr Darcy is a remarkable man, but he is also a mortal one, and he is subject to the same fears and temptations and frailties as the rest of us. You have already said that your son and your brother are too alike -- do you not understand what that means?” She searched the other woman's eyes, and added, “Mr Darcy is so very exhausted, your ladyship -- I am afraid for him.”

Lady Westhampton looked horrified. “Fitzwilliam?” Her voice instantly went shrill, and Elizabeth could perceive, with some relief, that beneath the reliance and admiration and gratitude, there existed a deep, sincere, steady affection for her brother. “Miss Bennet, you do not mean -- Fitzwilliam is -- he would not hurt himself in that way, surely!”

Elizabeth touched her shoulder. “You are quite right, he would not hurt himself in that way. You were the one who warned my brother about his fainting spell?”

Lady Westhampton turned white. “Yes -- that -- he pushed himself too far.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said patiently.

“You do not think he shall do so again?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I think he already has -- that he has been doing so for longer than I care to think about.”

Lady Westhampton tilted her head to the side, considering. “Oh dear,” she said confusedly, then seemed to regain her sense of themselves and their surroundings. She looked at Elizabeth in some perplexity. “Miss Bennet -- forgive me, but -- what are you doing here?”

“Mr Darcy invited my family,” she replied.

“No, no -- here, right now. You know what the doctor said -- and what happened -- and you must have been with my brother when -- why, it must have been quite three o'clock in the morning.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “It was an accident. I could not sleep, and went to the library to find something to read.”

“Oh.” She actually looked disappointed, then cheered slightly. “But -- he told you -- and you were in Stephen's room -- with them, quite alone?”

“Yes.” She could not help but stare, as Lady Westhampton seemed somewhat relieved at this. Smiling tiredly, the marchioness said,

“I hope you will forgive the impertinence of this, Miss Bennet, but . . . has my brother, has he made you an offer of marriage?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say “No” or even “Not exactly.” She thought, of how little comprehension Georgiana -- anyone at all -- seemed to have of Mr Darcy's state, of how no one saw the need to care for him in any way; and of how propriety would keep them apart -- at this time, when he needed her so much -- when he had asked, with a weary desperation that still frightened her. She hesitated.

“Miss Bennet?” Lady Westhampton inquired softly. Elizabeth took a deep breath, nervously twisting a lock of hair around one finger, and replied, truthfully but not honestly,

“Yes, he has.”

Elizabeth accompanied a bewildered Lady Westhampton to her room, and left with strict instructions that she sleep for what remained of the “night.” She was startled at how easily, even eagerly, the other woman responded to a direct order; but Elizabeth recalled the girl she had once been, tremulous Miss Darcy, and thought that now, she could see more than a hint of that girl in dignified Lady Westhampton.

It was difficult enough to follow her own advice; Elizabeth tossed and turned, planning and considering and simply worrying, the moment when Darcy had looked up at her and said her name imprinted on her mind. Any doubts she had ever harboured, even if only for a bare fraction of a moment, were disregarded; she knew him, better than any -- except, perhaps, the Gardiners -- and she knew that he needed her, at least now. Once this was over, doubtless he would be his old self again; but, she could not help but ask herself, would it ever be over? Georgiana seemed to think this was nothing more than a temporary aberration -- or at least she wanted to think so -- but Darcy's weary comment belied that. Stephen had never been well; quite probably he never would be. She wondered what he was like -- she had seen him, had nearly wept for him -- for a child with every worldly happiness, whose mind could be so overburdened -- yet she knew nothing of him, beyond his intense attachment to Pemberley and Darcy. Did he even separate the two? Did Darcy?

After a few fitful hours of sleep -- at least, it felt like hours -- she arose, dressed, and wandered about with apparent aimlessness. It was not very long before Darcy, apart from his pallor looking very like his usual self, appeared, just around the corner. Elizabeth gathered her courage.

“Mr Darcy,” she said forthrightly, “there is something I must speak to you about.”

He gave her a look of mingled anticipation and dread, and after a moment of hesitation, escorted her into the library, where they would be afforded privacy. Elizabeth played a little with her skirt, trying to think of the proper way to frame the question. “I happened across your sister very early this morning -- she saw me coming out of your -- Stephen's room.”

Darcy sighed, but did not seem unduly disturbed. “I daresay I can come up with some sort of explanation, Miss Bennet.”

So it is “Miss Bennet” again? We shall have to see about that. “That should not be necessary,” she said bravely; “I already have; or rather, Lady Westhampton did, but I -- encouraged her, in . . . coming to the conclusion that she did.”

His eyebrows rose. “I do not quite understand . . .”

Elizabeth raised her chin, and clasped her hands behind her back, feeling absurdly like a young girl being called to account for some misbehaviour. “She asked if -- well, she meant, I am quite certain, to ask if we were -- engaged.”

Darcy stared. “You said that -- you and I are . . .?”

“Yes, although I -- what she actually said, was -- she asked if you had made me a proposal of marriage.” Darcy winced, but Elizabeth laughed outright at his stunned look. “Do not fear, if the idea is that unpleasant to you, I shall not hold you to it, once -- all this -- is past.”

“But for now, you shall take care of me, whether I wish it or not?”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave her a look expressive of his wonder, and briefly glanced down, his pale cheeks flushed. “Unpleasant,” he repeated, then, inhaling deeply, took one step closer, and reached out one hand to her. It was steady this morning, and on the surface he seemed much recovered from the night before. She knew better. Elizabeth allowed her fingers to curl against his in mute encouragement, luxuriating in the sensation of touching his flesh, without any inhibiting gloves in the way, her hand, encased in the coolness of his, no longer so burningly hot, but simply exuding an agreeable warmth.

When he spoke, it was in a quiet, caressing tone she had never heard from him before, or indeed from any man, but which could not have left the most disinterested woman unaffected, let alone one so positively disposed towards him as herself.

“As far as I am concerned, nothing could be less unpleasant. My dear Elizabeth,” he said, his blue eyes intent on her face, “you know -- you must know -- ” He looked away, breathing quickly, and Elizabeth tightened her grasp on his hands. “You must know, Elizabeth, how greatly I esteem you.” At her astonished look, he hastened to say, “I am inarticulate -- as usual -- but please, allow me to express my -- ” he stopped, slowed, caught his breath, and began anew: “Elizabeth, my love, in four months, it will be seven years since I last asked you to marry me, and I hope you realize that my affections and wishes are unchanged. One word from you will silence me on this subject forever, but . . . ” He swallowed.

“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed, blushing fiercely, and far too embarrassed to look him in the eye. It was only then that she realized she had just received a proposal of marriage, hopefully the last. She longed to see how he looked, but could only reply, awkwardly, “Please, sir, I would rather not -- that is -- I -- you are -- Mr Darcy, this would be a very poor time to be silent.”

She glanced up in time to his apprehensive, tired expression transform into one of heartfelt delight, and despite everything -- the predatory Crawford siblings, Georgiana and Lydia, poor Stephen, his own distress constantly bubbling somewhere no longer very far from the surface, her fears and anxieties that someday she would speak to him of -- nothing could keep her from returning it tenfold as he said what he had never dared to before, what he had concealed even from himself, and what he had never supposed she would ever endure -- how incalculably precious she was to him, how beautiful he found her, how desolate he had been without her, how much he loved her -- how, even when married to another woman, a woman he was fond of, who society called a good match for him, he had been unable to stop thinking of her, dreaming of her, wishing only to be with her --

She finally relaxed her grip on his hand, instead opting to lay her cheek against his shoulder, lifting her arms to hold on to him. For Elizabeth, and she was quite certain for Darcy also, it was a moment of exquisite bliss, as she felt one hand against her back, the other tenderly stroking her hair, his heart racing beneath her.

Chapter Seven

Posted on Thursday, 16 March 2006

The world would, and did, intrude; reluctantly, they separated, Elizabeth seeking out Mrs Gardiner, and Darcy returning to Stephen's room. Her aunt was an early riser, and had already settled into a lonely yellow parlour, which she and Elizabeth both preferred. Quite apart from the colour — her favourite — it had a fine view of the wood, and above the mantelpiece was a painting which had drawn her from the first. It was a portrait of a young woman, presumably one of the generations of Darcy women, about a century old. She was a bare slip of a girl, perhaps fifteen years old, with reddish-gold curls and clear blue eyes; but it was something about her face that compelled Elizabeth to return, time and time again, searching for she knew not what. Although there was only a little resemblance to her descendants, the vibrant smile, punctuated by a dimple in her right cheek, was the very image of Darcy's, and Elizabeth could not help but wonder what she had been like, whether she was a proud Miss Darcy or a slightly overwhelmed Mrs Darcy. Or, she thought, Lady So-and-so, who knew perfectly well who she was, and what she was doing here.

“Lizzy!” Elizabeth kissed her aunt and joined her, simply indulging in idle chatter for the few moments it would be allowed.

“Where are Margaret and Amelia?” she asked, and Mrs Gardiner laughed.

“They are being entertained by Lord Westhampton; did you know his family arrived in the night? He seems nearly out of his mind with worry, the poor man.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Mrs Gardiner's eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

She was deeply grateful that there had been enough presence of mind between them, that they had settled what was to be told, to whom, before parting. “I am engaged to Mr Darcy,” she blurted out. Mrs Gardiner coughed.

“Oh? That's wonderful, my dear.” She politely refrained from remarking on how long it had taken them to reach this point. Elizabeth told her, then, of how it had come about, and of the situation now facing them.

“That poor boy,” Mrs Gardiner repeated, several times. “And poor Fitzwilliam — how does he manage it?”

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. “Last night, I truly thought he might collapse at any moment. No-one else seems to understand how unwell he is, and I really wonder if they would care, even if they did.” She laughed a little. “Except you, my dear aunt — he said that he didn't think he could have endured it, without your friendship, and my uncle's.”

Mrs Gardiner smiled. “It has been our pleasure. I daresay he is improved, now, with the knowledge of having won your affections? Surely that cannot but help?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “He seems much improved, yes.”

Mrs Gardiner gave her a piercing look. “You do not think — ”

“Oh, aunt, if you could have seen him! No, I cannot think — I cannot help but worry. He will push himself beyond endurance, if no-one stops him — and none of them seem to see the need, they only . . .” She bit down on her lip, frowning. “I cannot understand them.”

“You cannot help but look at the situation from a different perspective,” Mrs Gardiner said gently. “You are not one of them — yet. None of these people know anything else, in particular poor Lady Westhampton. You see more clearly, because you love him, without expecting anything in return. I am very proud of you, my dear Lizzy. You are a remarkable young woman.”

“Not so young anymore,” Elizabeth said ruefully, but smiled and clasped her aunt's hand in thanks.

“You are no older than Fitzwilliam was when he met you. When you are approaching forty, as I am, then you may speak of a past youth. Take care of yourself, Lizzy, and of your young man.”

“I shall,” Elizabeth promised, and kissed Mrs Gardiner's cheek. As she stood up, the portrait caught her eye once more, as the girl smiled warmly at all the world. “Do you know who that is, aunt?”

“No,” said Mrs Gardiner, glancing over her shoulder. “She seems a very happy young lady, doesn't she?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes.”

About an hour after breakfast, Elizabeth determined to endure Lady Elliot's company in exchange for the pleasure of Jane's, but as she approached the parlour her sister favoured, a plaintive sniffling distracted her. She turned — no-one was there. One door was slightly ajar, however, and she opened it, discovering a plain room, and one small girl trying not to cry. She sat curled in the corner of a chair, her hair loose and tangled, looking pale and tired and unhappy.

“Anne — Miss Darcy, good morning,” Elizabeth said gently, and Anne jerked her head up, instantly leapt to her feet and rubbed at one eye.

“Oh, good morning, Miss Bennet.” At Elizabeth's look, she said defensively, “I have dust in my eye.” Then, horrified, she added, “That was a falsehood, wasn't it? Oh dear. Papa will be angry with me, angrier than he is already — ”

“Angrier? Miss Darcy, your father is not at all angry with you. I just spoke to him not very long ago, and he was — perfectly happy.”

Anne brightened, then wilted again, looking as downcast as a elfin five-year-old could. “But . . . but he didn't read to me, last night.”

“He was very busy,” Elizabeth said. Anne looked at her reproachfully.

“He never forgets. Ever! He is never too busy for me, he said so. But he wasn't in the library, or the study, or at breakfast, or anything!” She sniffled. Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before seating herself by the girl, and inviting her to do the same. Anne huddled in the corner of her chair, gazing at Elizabeth suspiciously.

“Miss Darcy,” said Elizabeth, “do you know that the Westhamptons are here?”

Anne nodded. “I heard someone bringing something to my aunt, and my uncle playing the violoncello. He plays very nicely.”

Elizabeth took a breath. “They are here because your cousin is -- ” she remembered Darcy's phrase -- “unwell. Your father has been with him almost all of last night, and most of this morning too. I am sure he means to explain, when Stephen is a little better -- ”

“Why do you call him `Stephen,' and me, `Miss Darcy'?”

Elizabeth did not quite think she ought to explain that it was impossible to think of that pale little boy as “Lord Stephen Deincourt,” while Anne was every inch a Miss Darcy of Pemberley. “I supposed that's what I am accustomed to hearing,” she said vaguely. It only occurred to her at that moment that Anne might feel something like sibling rivalry in response to being abandoned for her cousin's sake.

“Oh. Well, if he was with Stephen, that's different,” Anne said, regaining her customary cheer. “Do you think he'll be sick very long? I should like to talk to him, once he's better.”

“You will have to ask your father,” Elizabeth prevaricated.

“Is it his head or his body that is unwell? Because I remember after grandmamma died and Stephen stayed with us for months and months and he was so odd, jumping and frightened of every littlest thing -- of course I was a little scared too, but I was fine once I got back at Pemberley and papa was here and everything was normal -- and I asked why, and papa said he was a little unwell, but because he didn't have a fever or cough or anything, I said that he didn't seem sick really, and papa said his head was a little sick. He's a little bit odd, not very much -- not like grandmamma -- but I am sorry that he's not feeling well because he's the nicest person in the world after papa, and maybe Mrs Bingley because she is very nice too, but of course Stephen's my cousin so I ought to like him better, and I think I do, but you are also very nice, as nice as Aunt Georgiana.”

“Both his head and his body are unwell,” Elizabeth said, “and thank you for the compliment.”

“Oh, it wasn't a compliment, I really meant it,” said Anne artlessly. “Is Aunt Margaret in mamma's parlour? Papa said she likes it there -- Aunt Margaret, I mean, not mamma, mamma is dead, of course.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “Was that your mother's?”

“Yes, well, it was re -- re -- re-somethinged, for her. She used to get dreadful headaches so they had the curtains closed, but it made the room dark, so they painted it yellow, that was her favourite colour.” Elizabeth almost started; it was a mere coincidence, naturally, but that she and Lady Rosemary should share something so elemental as a preference for yellow was somehow disturbing. “Papa stayed away because mamma liked to be alone,” Anne rambled on, “and papa too, except with people he really loves like me and Aunt Margaret and you and -- ”

“And I?” Elizabeth knew perfectly well that he loved her; but he had told his daughter? Impossible, surely -- she had asked, and he had very definitely said that he had only told two people, besides Elizabeth herself --

“Well, why else would he spend so much time with you?” Elizabeth choked, and Anne looked horrified, blushing fiercely. “Oh dear, that was offends-if, wasn't it? I didn't mean it that way, really, it's just he never spends much time with people he doesn't like, and he spends so much with you that he must like you a great deal -- I am always saying things like that, I just say what I think but it comes out wrong and offends people, you wouldn't believe what I said to Lady Metcalfe when we were visiting my aunt Lady Catherine.” She straightened. “Papa says I got it from him. Of course, I got pratally everything from him, Aunt Cecily says I'm a chip off . . . a chip off . . . well, a chip off something that has to do with papa, that I'm just like him, except of course I talk more, but she says he talked more too when he was my age and they couldn't ever get him to stop asking questions but he never talked in front of strangers because he was so shy and didn't really like people and just wanted to read or something, except when it was family -- ” She stopped, taking a deep breath. Elizabeth took advantage of the respite to say,

“Miss Darcy, surely you have something to be doing this morning?”

“No, I finished all my lessons ages ago, I like to read just like papa -- Aunt Georgiana says he used to read me Euclid and Isaiah and all sorts of things, and that's why I'm so clever now. But if Stephen is sick Aunt Georgiana must be very upset, she always is -- when he gets sick I mean -- so maybe I should go see her and try to make her feel better?”

Elizabeth smiled, and impulsively pressed her hand against the little girl's round cheek, leaning down to place a kiss against the smooth black hair. “I think, Miss Darcy, that you could make anyone feel better.”

Anne beamed. “Please call me Anne, Miss Bennet, because if you're papa's friend you're my friend too. And I shall call you -- oh goodness, what am I to call you? Mrs Bingley and Aunt Margaret call you `Lizzy' but that doesn't seem to fit, I don't think, and when I asked papa he didn't think either, so --”

Elizabeth headed off the impending monologue. “My name is Elizabeth.”

“Oh, that's much better. But I mayn't call you just `Elizabeth' because that would be disrepecful, because you're all grown, so I shall call you `Miss Elizabeth.' Don't you think that shall be nicer than plain `Miss Bennet'?”

“Yes, I do,” Elizabeth said, and stood. Anne bounced up.

“You must come and see my aunt too, Miss Elizabeth.” She tugged at Elizabeth's hand; but along the way, they were distracted by a vaguely familiar male voice, only vaguely familiar, and a woman gasping out something between loud wrenching sobs. Elizabeth sighed, and knelt down.

“Anne,” she said seriously, “why don't you go to your aunt by yourself? I had better see what this is.”

Anne cast a glance at the door. “Mrs Coofitz must be upset, the doors are very thick,” she remarked. “Oh! I'm not supposed to call her that, that's Stephen's name for her.” Elizabeth found it somehow fitting. “Papa doesn't like her though, so she can't be a good person, but you had better take care of her for cousin Richard's sake, because he and papa used to be great friends.” Anne only hesitated for a moment before embracing her, then hurrying down the hallway to Lady Westhampton's room.

Elizabeth could only imagine what newest disaster had come to roost, but she was absolutely certain that it must not touch Darcy. With her face set in grim lines she herself would not have recognized, she knocked firmly on the door.

Mrs Fitzwilliam was sobbing into her brother's arms; Mr Crawford looked as serious and severe as she had ever seen him, and brushed his sister's hair back, murmuring comforting, nonsensical words. Standing a little apart from them, looking very large and awkward and confused, was Roberts, Darcy's omnipresent valet. She thought he was a valet -- whatever he was, he always seemed to be there. Before, she had always found his silent, intense devotion a little unnerving; but now, it was somehow reassuring.

“What on earth has happened?” she demanded. Roberts looked pained, as he replied,

“There's been a terrible accident, ma'am. Colonel Fitzwilliam was in a hurry to return ho -- here, and accidentally startled a rider who was galloping very quickly past, and -- ” Roberts gulped -- “the carriage completely turned over, it looks like, and was dragged . . . a bit. The horse and the lady -- the rider was a lady -- were caught in it.”

Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face. “The colonel? How is he?”

Roberts dropped his eyes, while Mrs Fitzwilliam pressed her face into her brother's shoulder, apparently havng exhausted her tears for the moment. “I'm sorry, miss, but he isn't -- he didn't -- it's a miracle that the driver survived to tell us what happened, ma'am; no-one else did.”

She caught her breath, her mind whirling. It was instinct or intuition or, perhaps, simply logic, that led her to the immediate conclusion. “The lady, the rider whose horse was startled, who was riding so quickly -- do they know who she was?” Roberts, white-faced, looked away. “Roberts?”

A small, trembling voice came from the doorway. “Mi -- Miss Eli -- Miss Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth turned, feeling as if she were pulled from all directions.

“Yes?”

Anne looked pale and frightened as she said, “Miss Elizabeth, Aunt Georgiana isn't in her rooms -- they said, Mrs Reynolds says, she says that Aunt Georgiana went for a ride, to clear her mind -- because she was so upset and worried about Stephen, and she thought she'd done something bad -- but she hasn't come back and -- ”

Chapter Eight

Posted on Sunday, 19 March 2006

Elizabeth instantly realized that Roberts was within a hair of telling Anne precisely what had happened. “Excuse me,” she said, and took Anne's hand, half-leading, half-pulling her out of the room.

“Miss Elizabeth, what's happening?” Anne wailed. “What's wrong with Aunt Georgiana?”

Elizabeth's head was spinning a little. It was almost impossible -- nothing like the long, drawn-out death of her father -- she had seen her, that very morning. I thought she was a ghost. Elizabeth shivered; yet Georgiana had not been a ghost, she had been distraught and wan, but nothing worse; she certainly had not intended to be killed. And Colonel Fitzwilliam -- Elizabeth had not, frankly, given him much thought, except to consider the woeful lack of perception in his choice of a wife. He was not someone who left a great mark; one enjoyed his presence while it lasted, and forgot him once he was gone. And now, she thought, he is gone.

“Anne,” Elizabeth said, “you must be very brave, and very strong.”

Anne's lip wobbled a little, then she stood up very straight, lifted her chin, and acquired a stern expression somewhat at odds with her pixyish little face. “Yes, ma'am,” she said, then added, “for papa?”

Elizabeth felt her breath catch in her throat, and knelt down. “Yes, for your papa. You see, your aunt -- ” Elizabeth swallowed, uncertain how to phrase it -- “your aunt was out riding, and a carriage went towards her too fast. Her horse was surprised, and all of them fell down together.”

“Oh, is she hurt?” Anne's blue eyes opened very wide. Elizabeth sighed.

“Yes, Anne. The carriage -- your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was in the carriage. And they are -- they are both -- ” Surely there was a gentler way to phrase it? “They were hurt so badly that they died. Do you understand?”

Anne blinked. “Aunt Georgiana -- and Cousin Richard -- they're gone, like mamma?”

Elizabeth shut her eyes briefly, determined not to falter, but feeling a great upwelling of grief. She straightened and said, “Yes, they are.”

“Oh no -- papa,” Anne cried, and begun tugging at Elizabeth's hand. “Miss Elizabeth, we have to see papa -- and Stephen -- oh, Miss Elizabeth, you will stay and help, won't you?”

“Yes, I shall, as long as I may,” Elizabeth promised, and quickened her steps, scooping Anne up in her arms. Darcy was not in his study or in Stephen's room; but a servant said tearfully,

“He is in the library with Lord Westhampton, Miss Bennet,” and sniffled. It was clear that the news had already reached here -- Roberts had probably told Darcy first --

She had no thought for anyone but Darcy and Anne when she entered the library; but to see Lord Westhampton's large, tall form shaken by near-silent sobs, his face contorted by grief, was an almost physical pain. Darcy was next to his brother-in-law, at first oblivious to her presence; he was speaking in a low, soothing voice, and seemed perfectly composed. Too composed -- Elizabeth glanced at his hands, which were usually a better sign of his mood than his face; he was slowly and methodically shredding a handkerchief into smaller and smaller pieces. His face was pale, and his eyes rather too bright --

“Papa!” said Anne, and hurled herself at him. The two men took notice of her, and stood up, Westhampton rather slowly and dazedly. Anne wrapped her arms about her father's neck, burrowing against his shoulder; Darcy, with a little sigh, laid his cheek against her hair.

“I have to return to Aincourt,” Westhampton said woodenly. “The arrangements -- ”

“I can -- ” Darcy began.

“No!” Westhampton lowered his voice. “I beg your pardon, Darcy, but I -- I would like to -- to manage it. I wish to do something -- one last thing -- for her.”

Darcy looked at him steadily, then inclined his head. “Very well. And what of Stephen?”

A look of such fury entered his eyes at that moment, that Elizabeth took a step backwards. “Keep him out of my sight.”

Darcy's eyes flashed, but his voice was calm. “It isn't his fault. Georgiana could never stand to be cooped up -- she was often restless indoors, regardless of what Stephen may or may not have done -- and always a reckless horsewoman.”

Westhampton's lips twisted bitterly. “For God's sake, Darcy, she is dead! Have you no delicacy whatsoever? Can you not keep from criticizing your relations for one moment?”

Darcy lifted his chin. “Stephen is alive.”

“Do what you like with him. I will keep you apprised of how the arrangements are going.” He brushed past Elizabeth, slamming the door shut, and Darcy took a deep breath, turning to her with a blank expression. She felt vaguely intrusive, and nearly inquired if she should leave --

With an unsteady sigh, he reached out one hand, and said, in a tone that anyone else would have taken for dispassionate, “Elizabeth. I . . . I am glad you here.”

The next few days spun past. Lady Elliot was persuaded, primarily through Jane's means, to return to Somerset for a time. Elizabeth scarcely saw hide nor hair of the Crawfords; she would have thought them gone as well, had she not heard Mrs Fitzwilliam's lonely weeping during her nocturnal wanderings. She was secretly glad Lord Westhampton had determined to manage the arrangements for Georgiana's funeral, which meant there was one less thing for Darcy to do.

From what she had seen the evening the Westhamptons came, she would never have supposed Darcy to remain so composed and competent under such strain. Those first days were nothing short of chaotic; and although she did what she could, the primary burden lay on his shoulders. True, there were moments where his expression grew tired and numb, his eyes a pale lustreless blue, but invariably he straightened his spine, pressed his lips together, shredded a handkerchief, and forged on. They did not see each other often, for with the hours he spent with Stephen, and then making arrangements for Colonel Fitzwilliam, he was locked up in some form or another for most of the day. Only in the early morning, and sometimes the late night, as neither slept very well or very long, did they meet for any length of time.

They did not discuss the tragedy, or anything disagreeable at all, during those meetings, by Elizabeth's dictate. Instead it was simply a time of respite. The only time it was touched upon was when, in Mrs Gardiner's parlour — she refused to think of it as Lady Rosemary's — she asked who was the woman in the portrait. Darcy looked down, rubbing the material of his sleeve between his fingers.

“Fitzwilliam?” she asked gently, and Darcy said, quietly,

“That is my great-grandmother. Her name was — ” he swallowed — “her name was Georgiana. Georgiana Elizabeth Elliot.”

Elizabeth hesitated, then decided it was better, after all, not to pretend it didn't exist. “Tell me about her.”

Darcy relaxed slightly, smiling a little as he raised his eyes to meet his grandmother's. “It was not a — a good match for him — that is, his family did not think so.”

Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“I don't recall how they met,” he continued, his voice steadying, “but she was only fifteen and he eighteen, and they apparently fell violently in love almost from the start. She was a baronet's daughter — not wealthy, no connections — so, naturally, although her people were delighted with the match, his were outraged. I daresay his father would have disowned him, had the estate not been entailed. They were forced to live apart and only correspond for three years, but my great-great-grandparents were convinced by their steadfastness — and gave their consent at the end of it.”

“There is something about her — she looks very happy,” Elizabeth said, at the end of this recital.

“I understand that she was always a happy sort of person,” Darcy said, tilting his head to the side. “My great-grandfather was certainly very fond of her — you should see the letters he wrote her! They only had the one son — my grandfather — for years. He was nearly of age, I think, when my great-uncle was born — you have never met him, have you?”

“I did not even know you had a great-uncle,” Elizabeth said, with some asperity. Then — “Wait a moment. Did you say that Pemberley is entailed?”

“I said that it was,” Darcy corrected. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“What is he like? Your great-uncle, that is?”

Darcy considered. “I have always been fond of him. He is a little idiosyncratic, but at seventy, that is to be expected. He shall be here for . . . in a few days, and so shall my uncle and his family. Cecily you have already met, of course.”

Cecilia Hammond had been a permanent fixture since the cousins' deaths; from anyone else, it would have been intrusion. From Cecily, it was concern and affection. She and Elizabeth had become friends and allies almost immediately, and the older woman joined her in taking most domestic burdens off of Darcy's shoulders, and leaving him to manage the estate and the disposal of Colonel Fitzwilliam's earthly remains. It took no great effort on Elizabeth's part to discern that Cecily was “the other” — he had said, that he had only told two people of his affection for her; one was Jane, and the other undoubtedly Cecily. She was the only person who disliked Mary Fitzwilliam as much as Elizabeth herself (although for propriety's sake both attempted to conceal it), and more importantly, the only person who was able to influence Darcy in any way. Elizabeth was glad — more than glad — that Cecily was only a few miles away, for even if all went well, she and Darcy could not be married for six months at the least, and she would not be able to stay at Pemberley with him for all, or very much, of that time.

After several anxious conversations with his wife, which Elizabeth only heard bits and pieces of, Bingley took his friend aside and directly said that he did not wish to intrude, but whatever Darcy wished, he would do it -- stay, or leave, or anything at all within his power. Darcy was within a hair of asking them to leave, for their own peace of mind; Elizabeth persuaded him out of it. When the Bingleys left, she, Elizabeth, would be forced to go with them.

Mr Gardiner had intended to join his wife and children at Pemberley only two weeks hence, before taking them back to London with him; he cut his business short and arrived only eight days after the tragedy. He embraced his wife, his children, his nieces; and after one look at Darcy's strained colourless face, said, “My dear boy” and embraced him as well.

That day was the one that Elizabeth was for the first time introduced to Stephen Deincourt. The little boy sat very upright, pale but composed. He gazed at Elizabeth with clear curiosity, which could not but be a good sign, and she smiled at him in return. He had his uncle's stern good looks, and although his wide eyes were grey rather than blue, in shape and expression they were very much the same.

“Stephen,” said Darcy gently, “this is Miss Bennet, who shall be your aunt.”

Stephen, clinging to his uncle's hand, bowed politely. “Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said gravely. “It's a pleasure to meet you. Should I call you `Aunt Elizabeth,' as Jenny does, since you will be my aunt too?”

“You may,” said Elizabeth, “if you would like. I have heard a great deal of you from your uncle.”

Stephen smiled shyly. “So have I -- about you, that is. Uncle Fitzwilliam likes you a great deal.”

“I hope as much as he likes you,” Elizabeth returned. Stephen looked up at his uncle hopefully, and seemed somewhat comforted by what he found there. He chewed his lip.

“Shall you stay with us, Aunt Elizabeth?--before you are married -- shall you have to go away?”

“I hope not,” said Elizabeth, “although I may have to go for awhile. I shall certainly stay once we are married.”

“My mamma went away, and she didn't come back,” said Stephen, “and my papa has gone away, because he doesn't like me anymore, because he's upset about mamma, and my grandmamma died too -- that's what it's called when you go away and can't come back. Uncle Fitzwilliam, is mamma with grandmamma, since they are both dead?”

Darcy looked briefly perplexed. “I rather doubt it,” he said, after a pause.

“I hope not, because grandmamma always made mamma unhappy. Is mamma happy now?”

“Yes, she is,” Darcy said firmly, “although I'm sure she misses you.”

Stephen blinked. “Can you miss someone and still be happy?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth and Darcy chorused, then smiled at each other. Elizabeth knelt down, and continued, “You see, my papa died, and I loved him very much, so I am sorry; but I am glad, because he is happier now. And I am happy because I am going to marry your uncle.”

“I am not marrying anyone,” Stephen informed her. “Except I think I would like to marry Anne, if I must marry.”

Darcy cleared his throat. “You may worry about marriage when you are older.”

“As old as you, Uncle Fitzwilliam?”

He flinched. “Perhaps not quite that old.”

“He is far better than I expected,” Elizabeth remarked, as Darcy escorted her to the green parlour. “Despite everything, he seems a very well-mannered, sweet-tempered boy.”

“Yes, it's been a good day,” Darcy said; “that is why I wanted you to meet each other now, before -- well, it varies.”

“Lord Westhampton still blames him?”

“Undoubtedly.” His fingers tightened against hers, and Elizabeth gently stroked his hand.

“People always want to blame someone, I believe. It is perfectly natural.”

“His own child?” Darcy glanced at her sharply, then looked away. “I am sorry, Elizabeth, I should not speak so to you.”

“At the funeral, will they -- ”

“If Westhampton says anything to Stephen,” Darcy began fiercely, then stopped -- “Still, it is in a way fortunate that Stephen shall not have to go to Aincourt again; I do not think I could bear to send him away, knowing how unwell he is.”

Elizabeth did not think he could bear it either.

Chapter Nine

Posted on Saturday, 25 March 2006

Darcy had once mentioned that his father used to call his mother's family “variations on a theme,” and Elizabeth found the derogatory remark strangely apropos. With the single exception of the late Colonel Fitzwilliam and his mother, the entire family were both in carriage and countenance astonishing similar, none more so than the triad of Lord Newbury, Mr Fitzwilliam, and Darcy. In fact, most of the family seemed unable to distinguish between the two young men when they were not standing next to one another; she had no such difficulty -- quite aside from the simple fact that he was not Darcy, Mr Fitzwilliam had darker eyes, a broader frame, and was some two inches the shorter.

Oddly, the presence of the extended Fitzwilliam clan did not seem to place any very great strain on Darcy. He was clearly a favourite of sorts with them; despite his comparative youth, all relied heavily on him, and he, bizarrely, seemed to draw some sort of reassurance from it. When he informed them of his engagement, his expression just this side of defiant, it was the old countess, Lord Newbury's mother, who broke the sudden heavy silence.

“My dear -- my dearest --” she said brokenly, tightly embracing Darcy, who placed a kiss on her brow. “I am so pleased.” She took Elizabeth's hand and looked deeply into her eyes. “I hope you will both be very happy.”

The others were less enthusiastic; only Mr Fitzwilliam seemed really pleased, although all but Lady Catherine were perfectly cordial, and even she was civil; she seemed to have softened with the years. Elizabeth saw them infrequently through the week following the funeral; she could not but be put off by their lack of warmth -- and worse, by the suspicion with which their manner betrayed when Darcy was not present. Only her knowledge of Darcy's inexplicable fondness for them allowed her to tolerate the veiled impertinences with courtesy and composure. They were so very like how she had originally thought Darcy to be, cold and proud -- she could not see that they felt anything at all about the tragedy that had brought them here, barring the two Lady Newburys.

Once, as she briskly walked past Ro -- Mrs Gardiner's parlour, she heard the most wretched sound, a man's deep sobs, sounding as if they had been torn out of his throat. Fearing it was Darcy -- that he had hidden such feelings even from her -- she hurried to discover the source of the sound, and found Lord Newbury, the coldest and proudest of the lot, actually bent by the force of his grief. Elizabeth hesitated, feeling, somehow, that any offering of compassion or comfort from her would be instantly and indignantly rejected. She was not one of them; not yet. She quietly retreated, and by chance or fortune, nearly bumped into Darcy as she went looking for Jane.

“What is it?” he asked, steadying her. Elizabeth pushed a loose fair strand of hair out of her face, and said incoherently,

“It's Lord Newbury -- at least, I think it is . . .” The tall, large frame and thick dark hair could have been anyone in the family; only the heavy threading of grey gave him away. Darcy, with a look of near panic, raced in the direction she had come, and Elizabeth sighed, approaching more cautiously.

She was astonished to see Darcy slowly enter the room, and say, in a calm voice, “Uncle? Uncle, are you well?”

The earl looked up with red, swollen eyes. He said, in a harsh, weary voice, “When your mother died, I thought -- I thought I could not bear it. That I should see Anne, my youngest sister, dead -- but this -- this is incalculably worse. To see her daughter buried -- ”

Darcy hesitated, then reached out a hand, helping the older man to sit erect. Lord Newbury clung to Darcy's supporting hand, and with a look that quite broke Elizabeth's heart, said -- “Fitzwilliam, marry that girl as soon as you can -- give me a troop of children to spoil -- we need more children -- and happiness, you deserve it as much as anyone -- ”

“I shall,” said Darcy, and the earl patted his hand.

“My dear son -- ” he said brokenly, and both, with embarrassed expressions, looked away. Elizabeth tactfully retreated. When she recalled the scene, she did not know who had received the greater reassurance from that brief interchange; and she realized that the Fitzwilliams had come to give consolation as much as to receive it. They loved Darcy, as a son or brother, and although they would never be easy in the expression of it, she could then understand what they meant to him.

As for herself, she had the Gardiners' warm support, and more surprisingly, that of Darcy's great-uncle, Sir James. He took to her immediately, partly on her account, but more, she suspected, to irritate the Fitzwilliams -- there was, evidently, some sort of long-standing feud there -- and she could not help the fondness she felt towards the clever old man. He delighted in bringing a blush to her cheek, and told any number of stories, many of which she was quite certain were unsuitable for a young lady's ears. Many, however, were of Darcy's youth, and she was able to draw a picture of the young Fitzwilliam, a pale solemn boy delighting in his cat and birds and studies, and of the household dominated by the brittle, unsteady marriage of George Darcy and Anne Fitzwilliam*. Pemberley, Elizabeth thought, had come a long way.

“Fitzwilliam changes things,” said Sir James, “wherever he goes -- nothing is the same, simply by his being there. Some are like that -- you, for one. I always loved Pemberley, but it was never the same, after it fell to him. It was a pretty piece of property -- but there is something more these days.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth simply, looking out the window. The first crocuses were blooming.

In late February, urgent business summoned the Bingleys home, and Elizabeth accompanied them. The morning before her departure, he astonished her by cupping her face in his hands and pressing his lips against hers, briefly and intensely. Elizabeth did not have even enough time to appreciate what was occurring before the attention ceased.

“Do not allow them to ride roughshod over you,” he warned. Elizabeth smiled ruefully.

“You know me too well.”

“They mean well, but that does not make it less . . .”

“Irritating?” she offered, burying her head in his shoulder. “I shall miss you.”

“I certainly hope so. You will write?” he added, with a sudden anxiety. Elizabeth smiled brilliantly.

“Of course.”

“Then -- we will be ready for you, in June.”

“I shall have to tell my mother.”

“Via letter,” he advised. “Shall she like such a son-in-law?”

“Once she sees Pemberley, she shall.” Elizabeth laughed a little tearfully, and Darcy caressed her hair.

“You had better go.”

“I know.” She fought back a sniffle. “Fitzwilliam -- ”

“My dearest Elizabeth -- ” he stopped, caught his trembling breath, and continued steadily, “We shall be waiting here for you, when you return.”

Chapter Ten

Her first letter had arrived by the time Elizabeth reached Baildon. He must have sent it before she even left. Elizabeth hurried to her room to read it in privacy, eagerly breaking the seal. Another letter dropped to the floor, written in an unfamilar hand. Unlike Darcy, the writer was not careful of his paper, and the two sheets were covered in a bold masculine script. She immediately caught it up, wondering why on earth Darcy should have included a letter from another man, and caught the first few lines --

My dearest Lizzy,

I have longed, my love, to address you as such -- and although this separation tears at me, I delight to be able to write this name freely. My darling Lizzy, who can keep pace with the fluctuations of your fancy, the capprizios of your taste, the contradictions of your feelings? You are so odd, and all the time so perfectly natural! -- so peculiar in yourself, and yet so like everybody else! It is very, very gratifying to me to know you so intimately. You can hardly think what a pleasure it is to me to have such thorough pictures of your heart. You seem a different person every time I see you -- even in my thoughts, you alter from day to day -- to-day the wilful girl Lizzy, and tomorrow that gracious, confident woman, “Ana.”--Never, never “Eliza” -- such a name, so staid, so commonplace -- utterly unlike you, my darling. You see, Miss Elliot, what a laughably foolish, fond creature I am by way of a lover -- but lovers are never sensible --

Elizabeth found her eyes brimming with tears, and the flamboyant signature, Francis Darcy, was blurry. She still remained uncertain as to why that long-ago Mrs Darcy, pretty Georgiana Elizabeth, so touched her heart; but she was far more affected by the knowledge that Darcy had perceived it, with so little information from her. She put Francis' letter aside, and turned to the other. Darcy's neat, economical handwriting, and coherent, forthright manner, were as great a contrast to his great-grandfather's as could be imagined, but she smiled at the similarity in address nonetheless:

My dearest Elizabeth,

You have not yet left me; I can hear you speaking with your aunt. I only wished that you should not have to wait, when we have only just parted; and I thought you might enjoy this correspondence. I have thought a great about Francis and Georgiana as of late -- not only because of my sister, but because, in some way, you remind me of her. You are not alike -- not in face, but something about her manner and carriage reminds me of her. I have found myself in the parlour, looking at her, and thinking of her, and wondering what sort of person she was, really -- more often than I daresay I have ever done in my life. Sir James says that she was always high-spirited, always laughing -- next time, I shall enclose her reply. I am a poor lover, without the gift of pretty words perfectly suited to the occasion; but perhaps Francis and Georgiana's words shall keep the memory of what we share fresh in your heart. Your mind, I hope, does not require them. My grandparents were in their way fond of each other, and my parents certainly did not want for passion; but I like to think that we have more of Francis and Georgiana's attachment . . .

The letter was not as long as the other, and the tone, by and large, could not be more different. Yet the care taken with the words, the consciousness of how they might be received, the restrained feeling behind them, and most of all, the peculiar bittersweet quality, reminded her very much of the first one, which had so upset her life. She took it out of the drawer in which she still treasured it, and looked at them side by side. The older letter, yellow and charred, was a stark contrast to the crisp white sheets, although the handwriting had hardly altered at all; a slightly greater precision was the only noticable difference. It was somehow surreal, to look at them together; the people who had written and received the two letters were so very different now. She had hated him -- she, who had never hated anyone in her life -- and he -- she shied away from thoughts of what his feelings had been upon writing that letter, and worse, what they had been afterwards. He had alluded but once to that time, and refused point-blank to speak of it again.

Elizabeth swallowed. That is over, she told herself sternly, and soothed her turbulent feelings by dedicating herself to the other letter. There was a wistful contentment pervading the entire epistle -- nothing of the sharp joy which often overtook him in her presence, at Pemberley -- but also nothing of the anguish and despair she had seen in him. It was not a conventional love letter, in that he spoke as often of others as themselves; yet casual expressions of affection were scattered throughout it, warming and reassuring her.

She sighed, feeling for a moment rather lost and lonely. There was nothing for her here; her brother and sister and their children, fond as she was of them, had no need of her. In fact, they seemed quite aggravatingly comfortable with settling her affairs, independent of her own thoughts, or even her presence. They meant well, to be sure, but she felt as if she were waging a constant war against their sweet determination to arrange her life for her. She was so accustomed to the command over her life, and even others', that had been hers at Pemberley, that adapting to Baildon was a great deal harder than it had been when she first came. Elizabeth immersed herself in the letters once more.

She wrote a reply, as open and affectionate as she could make it, and sent it with Lydia's the next morning. His reply arrived promptly, and she set Georgiana's letter aside, her eyes eagerly flying to Darcy's.

My dear Elizabeth,

My delight at receiving your letter so promptly was such that my relations -- at least, those of my own generation -- have been relentlessly mocking me all morning.

Elizabeth laughed outright. She had tried, futilely, to quarrel with Jane the evening before, over a matter that in the light of morning seemed quite inconsequential -- simply one of a thousand tiny, trivial things -- and woken in a foul humour. The arrival of Darcy's letter had been more than fortuitous; she thought she should go mad with only the Bingleys' repressive kindness for company, and felt such a rush of guilt at her ingratitude that her thoughts seemed only to circle endlessly.

. . . Stephen was unwell last night, I honestly thought him almost -- a word was crossed out there -- ill -- he was very unlike himself, pitching tantrums and throwing things -- not at me, but at Cecily. I am not certain why, because she is a great favourite with all the children, including Stephen, and with no sons of her own has a great fondness for him. I can only imagine that her resemblance to my sister in some way upset him. He was completely better this morning, and seemed scarcely to recall his behaviour the evening before; he let Cecily kiss him and his manner was open and cheerful all day, even when I left the house for several hours on urgent business at one of the mills. He asked just now after “Aunt Elizabeth,” and wishes to know when you will be returning to us; he did not understand why you could not simply stay here, and propriety is a difficult subject for a boy of his age and disposition; in this matter, it is difficult enough for me to accept . . .

. . . Anne finds it unfair that Stephen may call you “Aunt Elizabeth” while she may not, since you are to be her mother and only Stephen's aunt; I told her that you could call her simply by name, if she wished, but never to repeat the sentiment again. I try to avoid the same mistakes my own parents made, not only with me but Georgiana; I think I shall do better once you are here, Elizabeth. Somehow there seems to be a greater brightness, or perhaps clarity, to the world when you are here, even if I am not with you precisely; I cannot explain it properly, but despite all that occupies my time, and the constant noise and -- company, everything seems exhaustingly dull and grey and blurry.

Elizabeth fervently seconded this. It was a blustery day; the wind rattled against the house, rain fiercely attacked the windows, and she lay curled on her bed, wrapped in a shawl, and longing for his company. The letters, delightful as they were, remained a poor substitute. She felt rather ridiculously forlorn, a silly girl like Lydia -- she glanced at the few lines that comprised her sister's latest letter, and reconsidered. Perhaps not quite like Lydia, but . . . oh, what did it matter? At least there is someone to miss, she comforted herself, and after lingering over several choice lines, picked up the faded enclosure -- and laughed. That effervescent young girl, with her laughing eyes and bold smile, had addressed her besotted fiancé with a restrained,

Dear Mr Darcy,

I am in excellent health, and all my family, thank you. My parents and siblings all send their best wishes . . .

For the entirety of the first page, the dainty girlish handwriting proceeded in like vein. Elizabeth looked curiously at the next sheet, and smiled.

Do you suppose I have now convinced your mother, that I am a respectable young lady and worthy of correspondence with her precious son? I know the look you will get on your face now -- but I know she does it, I have seen her myself -- she always looks at the first page, and no farther -- if your father's correspondence bores her, what must she think of mine? Of course, nothing will convince her that I am not a fortune-hunter of the worst kind -- she would really prefer it, I think, if you had attached yourself to the daughter of an impoverished baron, or even a rich tradesman's daughter -- with them, she could at least have the satisfaction of catching them at it! I am just respectable enough that she is denied that pleasure -- not low enough to properly look down her nose at, and not high enough to be a desirable match. How does she bear it?

I know, I should not speak of Lady Isabella in such a disrespectful fashion, as she would be the first to inform me. She is, after all, the daughter of a peer, and she is not about to let anyone forget it. Do you remember how I looked askance at how you used to speak of her? I understand better now. Even so, I would tolerate anything, if I could only be with you; even here at Kellynch, with all my family -- my brother is the greatest fool who ever lived, and I am filled with dread every time he opens his mouth in your presence, dearest -- and mamma admiring her reflection in the silver -- I truly would have eloped with you that evening, had you asked me. I daresay your revered mother would have taken an even greater dislike to me than she already has. Oh, I know what you will say -- she does not really dislike me, she would be the same no matter who I was, etc, etc -- but she does, not only for my family, but because she simply doesn't like me. I don't mind -- truly, Francis, I only mind for your sake, and your father's, because he always was at least kind to my face, whatever else he may have said out of my presence. Still, I would endure the torments of endless hypocrisy and conversation I cannot ever quite understand, if only I could be at your side!

Somehow, my love, whenever I try to express my feelings for you, without levity or mockery, they sound trite, even trivial. I can only say, Francis, that I love you, so much that I feel I have become a stranger to myself -- nothing seems to matter but you, there is nothing I would not do for you. I wish to give you something wonderful -- something in return for this incredible gift you have given me -- I wish there was some way to silence all the suspicious glances and wicked insinuations, to proclaim, “oh, what do you know of it? I am to marry the best man in the world, and I would not care -- much -- if he had not a cent to his name.” I am happy simply knowing that you are there, somewhere, and perhaps thinking of me. You see? You say I have made you silly -- but you, Mr Darcy, are hardly one to accuse me of such a transgression, when I am singing and dancing all the day long (except when I go into a decline at the loss of your greatly esteemed presence, which is the other half of the time), and cannot stop even when my mother sits me down to tell me the horrors I should expect on my wedding-night. I shall never look at papa the same way again!

The first days were the worst; slowly, Elizabeth became accustomed to life at Baildon and everything it entailed. Accustomed, in a way -- she spent more time alone than in her life, in her room poring over her letters and composing new ones. In particular, about six weeks past her departure, not long after the Fitzwilliams had left Pemberley, the tone of Darcy's letters altered dramatically. His expressions of regard for her did not alter, except to grow rather more passionate and intense, but there was a weariness and distress she could not have failed to detect. The mood varied slightly, lightening to a peaceful resignation, or darkening to an anguish that tore at her heart. The first time she caught the pained quality to his words, she was tempted to abandon Baildon and propriety, and go to Pemberley by whatever means possible; but she reconsidered. She was certain he would not wish it; likely he would only worry himself sick and do something eminently male and foolish.

Instead, she wrote, enough letters that her hands and arms grew sore. Her first instinct was to continue her light, chatty, unaffected letters, to veer away from the matter -- thinking directly on it could only distress him further. Nevertheless she decided that avoiding thinking directly on unpleasant matters had not done either of them any good. So she told him stories of the newest steward, whose appearance of goodness was sufficient to rouse her immediate suspicion, she told him of her faithful swain who still called her “Miss Elizabeth,” of the escapades that her nephews and nieces got up to, and even of how Lydia fared. She also told him of the conscience-stricken resentment that seemed to boil within her every time Bingley or Jane simply decided something for her, and of the constant frustration that seemed to eat at her; and she asked questions. She asked after Kitty and Cecily and Stephen and Anne, and as subtly as she could encouraged him to tell her about whatever preyed on his mind. His replies were at first vague and unsatisfactory, and she pressed further; she asked him to tell her about what he did -- nothing, she insisted, was too trivial, and she knew his time was not entirely taken up in perfecting his handwriting. Slowly he responded; she heard of the farmers who worked his land, of the quarrel between young Reynolds and the second cook that had escalated to such proportions that it was brought to his notice, of the schools and mills and the poor and all the concerns that occupied his daily life.

She asked about his family; and he talked, first of Sir James, Lord Newbury, his god-children; then of the others, wild Mr Fitzwilliam who had died when Darcy was only a child, Lady Catherine and how he quarreled with her over Cecily's marriage -- and she heard the full tale of that -- of his grandmother, Lady Newbury, then his colourless aunt, and finally, a very little of his mother and father. Elizabeth told of a life growing up with a temperamental, silly mother and witty, irresponsible father, who had as little to do with one another as a man and woman living under the same roof could; Darcy told of a giving, charismatic, careless young man, who had never been denied anything in his life, of the clever, willful, beautiful woman he had married, who had been petted and spoilt by an adoring family. She knew what it was to be the child of a vastly ill-suited marriage, and the dread that such a fate would be hers; she would never have taken such care otherwise. She was not romantic -- nor was he -- but the desire to escape the life of misery and regret that she had witnessed at such close quarters, which had been with her since she was a very young girl, was perfectly sensible. She had not been looking for love, as such -- she wanted mutual respect and affection, and she wanted a gentleman, with a comfortable income. She suspected that Darcy's expectations had not been very different, except, obviously, upon the latter point.

Finally, he spoke of Georgiana, who he had not so much as alluded to since his mood first darkened. When he first mentioned his sister, Elizabeth wept unashamedly at the all-encompassing grief, and wished for nothing more than to be at Pemberley and hold him. Initially, he talked of nothing but her end; of the room that had once been hers, how Anne had awoken crying for “Aunt Nana” -- and with a peculiar combination of anger and sorrow, of the carelessness that had led to her death. Then, more gently, he spoke of the young girl she had been, the sweet little sister he had so adored -- of teaching her to play the pianoforte, as their mother had done with him, of the way she followed him around like a duckling, of how his temperamental pet cat had come to terms with the attentions of a three-year-old. He even told her of how, not long after their father's death, Georgiana awoke with blood on her sheets and a pain radiating from her belly to every part of her body (or so she insisted). The young siblings were both absolutely convinced that she was dying. Elizabeth laughed a little tearfully as the anecdotes unfolded, perfectly able to see the sheltered, motherless pair, a girl with only a bewildered young man to guide her into womanhood, and a Fitzwilliam who was suddenly Mr Darcy with an estate and a dying father and a child-sister all dependent on him.

Although the grief and pain still remained, it seemed to lessen by the time he confided his fears over Georgiana and her marriage and his nephew, how he knew something had gone wrong, but even now, he did not know how else he could have acted. Elizabeth was strongly reminded of Georgiana's own words. By the time he came full-circle around to her death again, the anguish had given way to sorrow. He no longer avoided speaking of his sister, but the topics of his letters shifted back to what they had been; assurances of his affection, information about his life, and questions about her own.

As they neared the time of Elizabeth's return to Pemberley, the constant reassurances of how much they missed one another, and longed to be together once more, almost disappeared entirely, to be replaced by nearly incoherent expressions of anticipation and excitement at their imminent reunion. Even Mrs Bennet's arrival and shrill, petulant ditherings could not quench Elizabeth's high spirits. In the middle of June, the entire party arrived at Pemberley, Elizabeth feeling like a young girl, almost bouncing in her seat as she looked around the place that had already become her home. Mrs Bennet was actually rendered silent, which was an unforseen benefit, and both Mrs Reynoldses and the butler greeted her warmly, Mr Fairweather with unexpected cheer.

“Aunt Elizabeth! Aunt Elizabeth!” The clear boyish voice had Elizabeth turning, smiling as a flushed Stephen slid on the polished floors, followed more sedately by Anne, who added her voice to the furor,

“Elizabeth, you're here, and you're going to stay, and I'm so glad!”

16 June 1819

In the company of every member of their respective families, from the newly-widowed Lydia to the Fitzwilliams and Wentworths, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy were married. Elizabeth had attended many weddings and could have recited the entire ceremony by heart; yet she felt the old words sinking into her bones as her brother-in-law read the service.

Her hand was placed in Darcy's, and he said unhesitatingly, his eyes bright and clear of all but her, “I, Fitzwilliam, take thee, Elizabeth, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

She curled her fingers around his, unable to keep from smiling, and only just able to restrain the joyous laughter which threatened to burst out, and replied, “I, Elizabeth, take thee, Fitzwilliam, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

She allowed her eyes to close briefly as he slid the ring on her finger. It had been re-set for her, but it was the same that had been worn by all the Darcy brides, Lady Anne, Lady Rosemary, Lady Alexandra, Lady Isabella -- and Georgiana, that laughing girl whose portrait now hung in the mistress' bedchamber.

Darcy's voice was lower and richer as he said, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Mr Hancock declared, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. Forasmuch as Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you; and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”

Mrs Bennet, Mrs Gardiner, and old Lady Newbury wept profusely; in private, Lydia and Jane offered wildly differing advice on how to comport herself that evening, both which were wholly disregarded by Elizabeth; Sir James startled Elizabeth by kissing her soundly; the Fitzwilliams, not to be outdone, greeted her as one of their own; and Anne made everyone, even Lord Westhampton, laugh by her demand for a brother.

That evening, Elizabeth lay happily awake, long after even Darcy had fallen asleep. She luxuriated in the sensation of lying against her sleeping husband, their legs tangled together, his body warm beside her, his breathing steady and peaceful against her hair. Curious eyes had been watching her all day, and she cherished this opportunity to observe him freely, this strange, unpredictable, perverse man, who she already loved far more than she had when she woke that morning. She pushed his untidy dark hair out of his eyes, and admired his features as much as she could in the dimness, allowing one hand to brush against the high slash of his cheekbones, and then, caressing a shoulder through the silk of his robe. Her leg curled possessively against his, and Darcy's eyes fluttered open. She enjoyed watching the expressions cross his face; from bewildered disorientation, to sleepy pleasure, and then, as he became fully aware of her presence, startled alertness.

“Elizabeth?” he asked vaguely. “Are you awake?”

She laughed as she disentangled herself, delighted with the entire world that morning. “Yes, of course. How could I possibly sleep?”

“Possibly the same way I did,” he replied, and Elizabeth stored for future use the knowledge that he was much less reserved when just awakened. He began to sit up and she pushed him back down. “Elizabeth?”

“I can admire you better this way,” she said, and after a pause, Darcy replied,

“How can you see anything at all?”

“I can see that you are blushing, dearest,” she said, resting one hand against his suddenly warm cheek. Darcy laughed ruefully. “Although not with my eyes. Which puts me in mind . . .” She slipped out of bed, and pushed the curtains open to let the moonlight in. “There. Now we can see properly.”

“Your way sounded rather more interesting,” Darcy remarked, and Elizabeth stopped, looking over her shoulder at his long body sprawled across the bed, and felt her own cheeks burning. She could not keep her lips from curving into a smile, as she approached him and said,

“Such a devoted father as you are, Fitzwilliam, would not shirk at fulfilling your daughter's only wish?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Elizabeth slipped back into bed. “And I believe your grandmother said something about children, as well. Our chances will undoubtedly improve with . . . practice.”

“Oh.” The change in his voice spoke volumes, but he continued hesitantly, “Elizabeth, we are not too . . . your aunt said something about . . .”

She laughed, her eyes alight. “We are perfectly well, my love.”

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