The Break-Up

Chapter 1

It was ten o'clock in the evening when Elizabeth heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. She had not been expecting anyone at this hour and put down her book and wine glass in alarm.

“Who is there?” she called out.

“It's me, Paul.” The door opened and he walked in, handsome in gray slacks and a crisp blue shirt, tie loosened and jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder. Elizabeth flew out of her chair with a bright smile and threw her arms around him.

“I didn't think you would be here! I know you had a meeting and I thought you would be too tired to come over, but I'm so happy you did! You must be exhausted, let me get you a drink and something to eat…” Her voice trailed off when she noticed that Paul was not returning her embrace. She looked up at him and there were fatigue lines around his eyes and his mouth was set in a grim line.

“My meeting actually ended several hours ago.” He said, disengaging himself from her. “I've been driving around for a while and thinking. I think we should talk.”

Elizabeth sighed and sat down, immediately worried. “This sounds really serious, Paul. Tell me what's wrong.”

He was still standing in the middle of the room, his jacket still slung over his shoulder, a frown distorting his features. His eyes were moving to the walls, the floor, anywhere but to Elizabeth.

“Paul, please, you're really beginning to scare me. Please, just sit down, let me get you a drink.”

“No, I don't want a drink, Elizabeth.” There was a pause, which seemed to Elizabeth to last forever.

When Paul finally looked at her, Elizabeth almost flinched from the intensity of his gaze.

“Elizabeth…” he said finally in a strangled voice. “What's happening with us?”

Elizabeth shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean? I don't understand. Us?”

“Yes, us. Our relationship. Do you ever think about the future? Where do you see us in a year… in five years… or do you see us in the future at all?” His voice sounded almost frantic and he looked at her searchingly with blazing eyes.

Elizabeth had always been afraid of this conversation. It had inevitably come up in most of her relationships and it was always the same. She could usually deflect it with some well timed humor and mild seduction until the guy forgot his disappointment at her emotional distance, but when she looked at Paul, she knew that he needed and deserved much more. She closed her eyes for a moment and then looked down at her hands.

She said quietly: “I don't think about the future. I thought that we agreed - we were just going to have a good time and not pressure each other…”

Paul also hung his head and his voice choked. “I know. I know that's what we said. And I've tried to play by your rules, Elizabeth, I've really tried, but I can't live like this anymore. I want more of you. I want to be with you and have you look at me like I'm the only man in the world.”

Elizabeth walked over to him and gently put her hand on his cheek. “But Paul, you know that you are the only man in my life. I would never be unfaithful to you.”

“You are willfully misunderstanding, Elizabeth, and you know it. I want to be the only man in your life now and forever. I want to be able to hold you and tell you that I love you without being afraid that you will pull away. I want to plan for you and for our future children. I want so much that my heart is full… I want you to love me.” The last words were barely a whisper, but Elizabeth recoiled from them as if from a slap. The depth of his feelings filled her with profound sadness because she knew - in a blinding flash she realized that she had always known - that she could never return them, could never love him the way he deserved to be loved. She dropped her hand from his cheek and stepped back, putting some distance between their bodies.

“I'm sorry, Paul. I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. But you knew going into this that I wasn't looking for a long term relationship. There was full disclosure and I never promised anything.” She knew that she sounded cold and defensive and that this was the opposite of what she should be saying, but she could not stop herself. When Paul finally looked up at her, the pain and resentment in his eyes lashed at her like a whip. I am doing it again, she thought. I am deliberately hurting another person so that I don't have to feel, don't have to take responsibility. And he doesn't deserve it. At that moment, she hated herself more than she ever had before.

Letting herself just feel, she stepped forward again and threw her arms around him, enfolding him in a shaking embrace. “I'm so sorry, Paul.” She whispered brokenly over and over again. “I'm so sorry, I don't know why I'm like this. I don't think I'm capable of loving anyone. I don't think these walls are ever going to come down. You deserve someone so much better than I am. You deserve someone so much better than I could ever be.”

For a minute, Paul held her close, inhaling her scent and pressing himself into her as if memorizing her body. “I thought I could make you love me.” he whispered against her hair. Then, he let her go.

He looked at her with finality. “Goodbye, Elizabeth.” he said in a voice that was now controlled and devoid of emotion.

Elizabeth was registering everything in as if in slow motion. She wanted to cry out and stop him, to tell him that she could try again, that she could try to love him, but she was paralyzed by the knowledge that no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn't be any good.

The floor vibrated with his footsteps. The key she had given him made a metallic clang on the countertop. The door slammed shut and the room sank into a heavy silence.

Elizabeth's motor skills returned and she ran to the window, pressing her face to the glass, watching Paul walk to his car, start it and drive into the darkness. He never looked back.

Chapter 2

Elizabeth was still staring out of the window at the empty, and now quiet, street, when the telephone rang. She picked it up mechanically, seeing her best friend, Charlotte's, phone number on the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Lizzy? Are you okay? Your voice sounds awful!”

“It's over between me and Paul, Char.”

“Oh?” Charlotte sounded mildly sarcastic. “Another victim on the Elizabeth Bennet pyre? How did the poor guy take it?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath - Charlotte's comments hit home and hit hard. She said sharply: “It isn't what you think - he walked out on me.”

There was a momentary silence on the other end. “Well, if you are hoping for some pity, forget about it. He is a great guy and you should have let him go a long time ago.”

“Thanks, what a friend you are.”

Charlotte relented a little. “I'm sorry, Lizzy,” she said in a softer tone, “I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just that you do this every time! You make some poor schmuck fall in love with you and then you close yourself off so that he has no chance. Then, instead of letting him go his own way, you give him just enough to make him stay around, always hoping for more. Then, when you get bored, you cut him loose.”

Elizabeth listened in stunned silence to her friend's impassioned outburst. “You make me seem so cold-hearted and calculating.” she said quietly.

“Lizzy, I know you don't mean to hurt anyone. I'm sorry, I probably should not have said anything. I was just frustrated because Paul is… he is one of the good guys out there, and I think you really wounded him.”

“No, don't apologize.” Elizabeth suddenly felt very tired. “Listen, why don't we get a cup of coffee tomorrow night after work and we can talk about it, okay?”

“All right, but you're sure you aren't mad at me?”

“Positive. Let's just talk tomorrow.”

The room was silent once again. Elizabeth sat on her window seat, looking out into the darkness. She wanted to be mad at Charlotte and she wanted to feel sorry for herself, but in truth, she could not. After all, Charlotte knew her better than anyone else, except maybe her sister Jane, and Charlotte was completely right.

Elizabeth took a mental stock of her relationships since him - there had been actors and artists, lawyers and stock brokers; there had been summer flings, whirlwind romances and some that developed naturally out of friendships; none had lasted longer than three or four months and none had left an enduring impression on her heart. Paul had been different - Charlotte was right about that also - he was nice.

Before, Elizabeth never felt bad about not loving someone back. She tended to date men who were “safe,” who she knew were probably too selfish or too self-absorbed to develop a deep lasting attachment and thus would not be devastated when she wanted out. The relationships would be fun, companionable - someone to go to jazz clubs and drive up the coast with, to exchange ideas with and argue about politics and books. There would be no emotional commitment and when they parted, they almost always parted amicably and Elizabeth still retained an email correspondence with a few.

Paul came into her life accidentally - literally, because he rear-ended her in the Los Angeles rush hour traffic. She had bolted out of the car, ready to scream bloody murder, but the words melted on her lips when she saw a very apologetic pair of large brown eyes which were attached to a full mouth and a tall muscular frame. The stranger admitted his fault completely, offered to pay for everything (although there was no damage to her car) and immediately asked her to dinner to “make up” for being such an “oblivious klutz.” He was so soft spoken and adorable and with such a sunny smile, that she could not but agree. During dinner, they talked about music, traveling and the beach, and she felt like they had known each other forever. They saw each other frequently, never giving a name to their connection. Elizabeth made sure to tell him, as she always told every guy she went out with, that she had a very busy career, many friends and a large extended family, and just wanted to have someone who would occasionally take her away from the cares of the everyday world. Paul had seemed to understand and did not put pressure on her - they saw each other whenever she wanted it and Paul did not initiate any uncomfortable confessions of feelings. He simply took care of her, always gentle and kind, sweet and funny, and in gratitude, she had also come to care for him in her own way. Their lovemaking, too, was leisurely, slow and satisfying, and in the comfort of Paul's embrace, Elizabeth made herself forget what the other kind could be like. As weeks turned into months, Elizabeth sometimes vaguely thought that, though she felt no overwhelming passion for him, Paul would at some point want more, but she was so happy and comfortable, that she pushed these disturbing thoughts aside. Until tonight, when Paul had indeed wanted more, and she knew, truly knew, that she, though she cared deeply for him, she just did not feel enough to give him the kind of love that he deserved. Elizabeth shuddered again, remembering the tortured look in his eyes. As someone who prided herself on her perception and ability to understand people, she should have seen all the signs and recognized the situation a long time ago. It was cruel to have kept him hoping that someday she would be ready to love him.

Elizabeth realized that all this time, with Paul as well as with the others, she had unconsciously been guarding her emotions, afraid of opening herself to someone and getting her heart broken. It seemed so silly and juvenile, but how did one get rid of an insecurity that stemmed so deeply? She had recognized it for what it was, but too late - her failure had injured a very good person, and she felt the bitterness of her own behavior. She had to face the fact that she had hurt someone - not deliberately, but it was her selfishness that kept her from recognizing and doing what needed to be done. She did not know whether she would be able to forgive herself.

Chapter 3

As always at low points in her life, she thought about him (“he” was always italicized in her mind). Even after seven years, she could not think about him without pain, though she had learned to conceal it. It lay waiting, just below the surface and manifested itself at her most vulnerable moments in a torrent of undiminished anger and sadness. Finally, giving way to the events of the night, Elizabeth cried.

June, eight years ago

“You do look nice tonight, Lizzy!” her sister Lydia conceded after surveying her new summer dress critically. “Too bad you are shorter than I am, I could have borrowed this for my next party.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Lydia would always be Lydia - even in the midst of a compliment, she had to spoil it by thinking only of herself. “Thanks,” she replied, with a touch of sarcasm that was, unfortunately, completely lost on her sister.

“She is right, Lizzy, that dress is very becoming,” said Jane, walking placidly into her bedroom. “Here, let me put a white tea rose in your hair, I just clipped some from the garden. By the way, what's the occasion for this dress-up?”

Elizabeth answered with a smile. “I'm going to Michael's party tonight, remember? It's his birthday and he's having a ton of people over at his house - I couldn't very well resist buying a new dress.” In truth, she knew she looked well - the dress was simple but feminine and pretty - it hugged her waist and hips and hung in soft folds around her legs, accentuating her summer tan. She had gathered her mass of brown curls in a loose knot and, with Jane's addition of white tea roses, she felt like she was floating on air. It was the first party since she had finished her junior year in college and nothing was going to prevent her from feeling like a million dollars.

Jane patted her arm affectionately. “Just be careful, Lizzy. Call me if you need anything! I'll be out with John tonight…”

Elizabeth made a face - she hated John, he was more perfect than anyone ought to be - and he was always condescending, which was even worse. She gave Jane a quick peck on the cheek. “No worries, big sis, I'll be okay. Char is picking me up and driving me back, so I won't disturb your perfect date with your perfect boyfriend. Just make sure not to spill any wine on his perfect clothes…” She ducked as Jane tried to hit her with a pillow. “Ow, you're going to ruin my hair!”

“Well, you would have deserved it!” Jane said menacingly. Elizabeth looked up in alarm - she really would not have hurt Jane's feelings for the world - but Jane was smiling.

At the sound of the car horn outside, Elizabeth grabbed her purse, blew a quick kiss to Jane and flew out the door.

Michael was one of Elizabeth's friends from high school and tonight, at his parents' house (who were accommodatingly out of town), he gathered all of their school friends for his birthday party, in addition to his college friends and what seemed like about a hundred of his cousins and neighbors. There were long tables piled with food and drinks in his backyard and fairy lights decorating the trees. The air held the slight chill of a Southern California summer night and the music coming from the stereo was almost overpowered by the sound of a throng of good friends who had returned to their old haunts for the summer and were getting to know each other all over again. Someone thrust a glass of champagne into Elizabeth's hand, she immediately lost Charlotte in the crowd, and there followed the general delightful disarray of a summer party. By the time everyone sat down at the tables for dinner, Elizabeth ended up next to Mark and Jason, the twins she had known since kindergarten. Charlotte ran up to her breathlessly.

“Oh, Lizzy! I need to grab my purse, I'm going to sit over at the other table.”

“But why? I was saving a seat for you!”

Charlotte gave her a meaningful look and indicated the table where she was to sit. Elizabeth glanced over to see a strange guy casting longing looks at Charlotte. She groaned. “Ugh, you're going to ditch me for Mr. Doe Eyes over there?”

“Now, now, you're just jealous. You're sitting here with the Wonder Twins and I get to gaze at those puppy dog browns. If I'm lucky, he's got dimples! I'll see you later.”

“Well,” said Elizabeth with fake resignation, “I guess I'm stuck with you two tonight.” The three dissolved into laughter and heaped their plates with food.

During the next hour, Elizabeth had had a few drinks and had made the acquaintance of everyone at her table - Mark and Jason's off-beat, and often dorky, jokes broke the ice and quickly relaxed everyone. She was sitting across from the door and when she happened to look up from her plate, she noticed a strange guy walking out into the backyard. In contrast to all the other party guests, he looked like he had just arrived and was none too happy. He was wearing a crisp dark blue polo shirt and impeccably ironed khakis and surveyed the scene of the party with a slight frown. Seeing that the only unoccupied chair was next to Elizabeth, he reluctantly made his way over to her table, mumbled a hasty “Pardon me” and sat down. Slightly bemused at this - what she considered to be - boorish behavior, Elizabeth stared at him pointedly until he raised his eyes and looked straight back at her.

His eyes - that was what she noticed about him first. They were the deep dark blue of the ocean on a clear summer day with specks of slate around the pupils; gentle, but with an innate hardness that spoke of a strong character, and framed with long dark eyelashes. Startled out of her intended rebuke to him for being so antisocial, Elizabeth instead found herself making an introduction.

“Hey, I'm Elizabeth,” she said, much more politely than she had intended, “and this is Mark and Jason.” The twins looked at her wonderingly - knowing her so well, they had been expecting the rebuke also.

He nodded and extended his hand to the guys, and then briefly grasped hers, sending a warm tingle up her arm. “I'm Fitzwilliam.”

At first, Fitzwilliam said little and mostly stared at his plate. However, the twins' antics, at first drawing disapproving glares from him, gradually began to work their magic and soon, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips and he was joining in the conversation, as if almost in spite of himself. Elizabeth discovered that he had an unexpected sharp sense of humor, and when he really smiled, which was very rarely, his whole face would light up.

As the dinner was winding down, and half of the guests had left, Michael walked up to their table, clapping Fitzwilliam on the back. He was very tipsy and a little unsteady - he was having a really good birthday.

“Will, you're here! I'm so glad you made it!” Fitzwilliam seemed to flinch a little at the nickname. Before he had a chance to respond, Michael's girlfriend, Abby, who was standing close by, clapped her hands to get everybody's attention. Michael straightened, still keeping a hand on Fitzwilliam's back.

“Everyone! Listen up!” The crowd quieted and looked at her expectantly. “In honor of Mike's birthday, I'm going to do something I've always wanted to do… er… I mean something that HE's always wanted to do” -- there was laughing and a chorus of “yeah, right” - “and learn how to waltz, and you are all going to do it with us!” There were surprised murmurs from the guests. Abby continued, indicating a smart looking couple sitting at one of the tables. “I've brought some professionals to help us along, so everyone should pick a partner and stand up, and let's have some fun!”

Michael bend down to Fitzwilliam again. “And I know you, Will, and you aren't getting out of this.”

“Michael,” Fitzwilliam said as sternly as he could, “you know that I hate dancing. If you guys are going to make idiots out of yourselves, let me just watch from the sidelines.”

This did not faze Michael one bit. “I'm sorry, Will, but it's my 25th birthday and I have the last say in what goes on here. You are going to dance.”

Elizabeth was watching this exchange with fascination. Clearly, Fitzwilliam was reluctant to really upset Michael on his birthday and Michael was taking full advantage of that fact. She was just mentally betting on who would win, when Michael focused his attention on her. “Lizzy!” he said, “You will take pity on poor Will here, won't you?” Fitzwilliam shot her a look that was full of both pleading and mortification at the same time.

She tried to diffuse the situation. “Sure, Mike, I'll take care of him. Why don't you just go back to Abby and leave everything to me.” Michael seemed to accept it and, thanking her, walked back to his table, gathering more people in his wake, who were all surprisingly eager to try and learn the dance. After the initial astonishment (and a few drinks for courage), everyone had began to think some dancing would be a great idea, even if it was ballroom. Elizabeth turned to Fitzwilliam.

“Look, you can go and hide out in the house until this is over. In a few minutes, Mike won't remember he said anything.” She was a little stung at the mortification on his face when Michael suggested that they should dance together, but after all, she did not have to beg for partners.

Fitzwilliam drew himself up in his chair. “Hide out?” he said indignantly. “I don't hide out. I simply don't think that waltzing at midnight is the most appropriate thing to be doing at a party like this.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She was frankly getting extremely annoyed with his attitude. “Yes, because everything in life has to be appropriate. Lucky for you then that I came to your rescue and you don't have to participate in this savage activity.”

Her words brought color to his face. He swallowed a sharp retort and breathed in deeply. “You are right,” he said, “I'm behaving like a child. It's Michael's birthday, after all.” He held out his hand to her. “Shall we?”

Elizabeth was still smarting. “No, please, don't do this out of a sense of duty. I don't need an escort or a chaperone!”

His eyes rested on hers for several long moments, as if he was evaluating her anew. “No, I want to,” he said quietly, and Elizabeth shivered at the unexpected intimacy in his tone. “Forgive me if I gave you a different impression. I would be truly honored.”

Elizabeth still wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she found that she could not - she actually wanted to find out what it felt like to dance with him. With an impertinent shake of her shoulders, she grasped his extended hand. As Fitzwilliam guided her to an open area where many couples were already gathering, Elizabeth found that her cheeks were warm and she was experiencing the strangest sensation in her stomach which could only be called butterflies.

Trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling, Elizabeth cleared her throat and asked nervously, “So, I take it you don't much like the nickname `Will'?”

He looked down and frowned slightly. “Detest it. `William,' I can handle - everybody calls me that anyway. Anything else just grates.”

“Well, in all fairness, `Fitzwilliam' is not exactly a common name.”

He drew himself up. “It is my mother's family name,” he said with pride.

“No, no, it's a nice name!” she hastened to reply, “I dislike it myself when people give me awful nicknames. For example, some people insist on calling me `Eliza' - it's hateful! There's no better way of pissing me off than calling me `Eliza.'”

“I'll have to remember that, next time I want to make you mad, Eliza,” said Fitzwilliam, chuckling slightly.

Elizabeth realized that he was making fun of her! “I wouldn't do that, if I were you,” she retorted darkly.

“Touché!” Now, he was really laughing, and it was so infectious, that she found herself involuntarily breaking into a smile.

Everyone was then called to attention by the couple who evidently knew how to dance. Dressed all in black, with their long limbs and perfect posture, they drew many envious and admiring stares. Apparently, both were professional ballroom dancers and actually participated in, and had won, several seasonal competitions within the United States and on the international stage. They began by showing the proper positions and explaining the first basic steps. Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam were standing quite far and Elizabeth could not see or hear clearly. Still straining to look over people's heads, she felt Fitzwilliam's warm hand on her waist and it set her pulse racing. She looked up and swallowed - he was much closer than she had anticipated. She could smell a faint trace of cologne over a fresh clean scent of soap and a muskiness that must have been his own. No wonder, she thought, that the waltz had scandalized polite society at the time it had come out. Such closeness was dangerous.

“Here,” he said, drawing her hand up and placing it on his shoulder, “hold on to me like this, and put your other hand here. Square your shoulders a little. The step is very simple, you just have to follow my lead.”

Elizabeth could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I didn't know that you knew how to dance,” she said, to mask her tension. He, on the other hand, seemed like he was very comfortable and knew exactly what he was doing.

“Um… my parents made me take ballroom dancing for years,” he admitted, blushing a little. Elizabeth found his embarrassment unexpectedly endearing. Holding her far away from him, he showed her the step, and it did indeed seem easy. The first strains of an old waltz floated through the summer night, and as Elizabeth prepared to start, she found herself being pulled close against his broad chest. Her breath hitched in her throat and her heart beat so loudly that she thought that he must certainly be able to hear and feel it.

“I… I can't see what I'm doing with my feet like this…” she stammered.

Fitzwilliam gently drew her face upwards so that her eyes could meet his. “All you need to do is look at me,” he said softly. “I'll take care of the rest.”

Chapter 4

November, the same year

Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam had been dating for six months and neither noticed how quickly time had flown. The summer was spent in carefree ramblings around Los Angeles during the hours they were not working - bike riding on the beach, listening to music under the stars at the Hollywood Bowl, wandering around bookshops and watching old movies at Fitzwilliam's apartment in Westwood. In September, she had started her senior year at UCLA and Fitzwilliam began his final year at the USC business school, as well as continuing working at the Los Angeles office of Darcy Corp.

When Elizabeth had found out who he was, it had certainly been a big shock - he was the son and heir of George Darcy, CEO and majority shareholder of Darcy Corp., a hugely successful international company, started by Fitzwilliam's great-great-grandfather, Thomas Darcy. In addition to running Darcy Corp., George Darcy also headed of one of the largest philanthropic organizations in Los Angeles, supervising donations, grants and scholarships to institutions around the country. Elizabeth had studied Darcy Corp. in her business administration classes, but she never dreamt that she would meet Mr. Darcy himself, much less be dating his son. This was quite a lot to handle for a simple girl who grew up skipping rope in a quiet neighborhood in West Los Angeles. And yet, when they were together, their other identities fell away and they became simply Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, holding hands and making each other ridiculously and purely happy.

She had never felt such a connection with anyone before - it was as if they were truly part of one whole being and only felt complete when they were together. Elizabeth was usually reserved with her affections and did not allow people into her inner circle easily, but with Fitzwilliam, there could be no such barriers - it was not that she did not want them to be there, they simply were not. It was as if she could not pretend with him, as if he knew the secrets of her innermost soul just by looking into her eyes. She did not think about their relationship, did not plan for the future - she just knew that life without him was not possible any longer and that if he ever left, he would be taking a piece of herself with him. But that was a thought too terrible to even contemplate.

Mrs. Bennet had insisted that Elizabeth bring Fitzwilliam over for dinner at least once, and Elizabeth had obliged, holding her breath every time her mother or any of her sisters, except for Jane, spoke. Fitzwilliam did his best, but it was clearly a new, and a not altogether pleasant, experience for him - to be in a room with six women who were all chattering loudly and without restraint about any subject under the sun. Before the dinner, Elizabeth had pleaded with Jane to steer her mother away from any subject of parentage, but Mrs. Bennet was not to be deterred and made Fitzwilliam change color several times by asking him which European countries he vacationed in over the summer and what kind of car his father drove. It did not help matters that Mr. Bennet just looked on the scene with his customary bemused gaze, taking no initiative in the conversation and making no effort to curb his wife's inappropriate questions. Afterwards, Fitzwilliam did not say anything to Elizabeth, but she knew that she could not subject him to that kind of ordeal again. They did, however, see Jane numerous times, and Fitzwilliam seemed to develop a rapport with her that pleased Elizabeth greatly.

Every Sunday, Fitzwilliam drove over to his father's house for an obligatory family dinner, and in November, he nervously invited Elizabeth to accompany him there. She had never met any members of his family and it had been a nagging concern in the back of her mind, so despite his obvious anxiety, she was gratified at the invitation.

The night of the dinner, Elizabeth dressed carefully, knowing that this evening was going to be a test - she would finally meet Fitzwilliam's father. She had heard so much about Mr. Darcy, from Fitzwilliam and otherwise, that he seemed more like a legend than a man. She knew that Fitzwilliam looked up to his father completely and had an unconditional belief in his opinions; Elizabeth thought this ridiculous, having lived far too long with her parents to ever have that attitude. However, no matter what she thought, she knew that she would be judged and she wondered if she was up to the challenge.

The long drive to Pasadena, where the Darcys' house was, did not help her to calm down, but rather, further agitated her already enflamed nerves. Looking at the directions, she turned down a wide alley with tall leafy trees and houses hidden behind high gates and foliage, but had to stop at a security booth which blocked further passage. The imposing guard, who looked like he could easily get a job with the Secret Service, asked her who she was, and upon receiving her information, he briefly spoke through a walkie-talkie and then let her in, having cast a disapproving glance at her Honda Accord. The houses on this side of the street could not properly be called houses anymore - each was a mansion in its own right, with enough property to ensure total luxury and privacy. There were no people walking about, no kids playing in the street, just eerie silence broken only by a few brave birds that dared disturb the quiet of these dignified abodes. Finding the right number, Elizabeth turned into a driveway, the gate of which had been left open, but shocked her by closing immediately after she pulled in. It seemed as if she had been driving for hours before she finally reached the house. It was probably the largest private residence she had ever seen - built in the Georgian style, it sprawled impressively over the property so that it took her a few minutes to locate the front door. Somehow, this was the first time that it had really hit her that Fitzwilliam's family was different.

I will not be intimidated, she thought, rallying her courage. A big house means nothing - it is the people that count. And I am here for Fitzwilliam. Despite everything, however, she could not feel anything but nervous.

A tuxedo-clad butler admitted her into the massive foyer, and Fitzwilliam immediately walked out to meet her at the door. He kissed her cheek formally and looked slightly pale. He took her around the white Carrera marble table topped with a vase of orchids and on towards another large room, where several members of his family were assembled.

Fitzwilliam guided her over to Mr. Darcy, who was sitting on a dark brown leather sofa. Elizabeth tried not to gape too much - Mr. Darcy's face was familiar to her from a hundred magazine covers and newspaper articles - he was a figure that was almost larger than life in the business world and he was Fitzwilliam's father. She did not know which scared her more.

“Father,” said Fitzwilliam, “please let me introduce you to Elizabeth. Elizabeth, this is my father.”

Mr. Darcy rose and extended his hand to her, which she shook mechanically. He did not resemble Fitzwilliam very much - his complexion was tanned, whereas Fitzwilliam's was light, and his hair was straight and the color of ripe wheat to Fitzwilliam's darker curls. Their eyes, however, were exactly the same - the same deep fathomless blue with slate around the irises, shining with the same inner light.

“I am pleased to finally meet you, Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy, inclining his head.

“Likewise, sir,” she replied with a nervous smile. Fitzwilliam let out an almost soundless sigh of relief, and this small gesture infuriated her, shocking her out of her lethargy. Why should Fitzwilliam have been afraid of her meeting his father? Did he not think her good enough? Squaring her shoulders, Elizabeth became determined to get through this ordeal with her dignity intact.

Mr. Darcy spoke again. “So, Fitzwilliam tells me that you are studying economics and art? Those are subjects which are not often combined.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks coloring - was Mr. Darcy implying that she had picked the wrong majors? As she looked into his eyes, however, so like Fitzwilliam's, she did not perceive even a hint of mocking - in fact, his tone had been friendly and interested - so she told herself to try to relax and not jump to any hasty conclusions.

“It is true,” she replied, “that many of my class mates study only one or the other, but I believe that the two compliment each other - after all, both are a study of history and human behavior, just from different perspectives.”

Mr. Darcy smiled at her energetic answer and then turned to the man sitting next to him, talking animatedly to a young fair-haired girl. “Let me introduce you to my brother-in-law, Fitzwilliam's uncle, Henry Fitzwilliam. Also, this is my daughter, Georgiana.”

The girl, who seemed no older than fourteen, looked up and nodded briefly, quickly casting her eyes down again. When Fitzwilliam's uncle turned around, however, Elizabeth almost stared - he was that Henry Fitzwilliam, the CEO of Fitzwilliam Enterprises, his company a case-study in her economics classes last year - somehow, she had not thought to associate the name before.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said, feeling a little breathless and ridiculously star-struck. She chided herself internally again, vowing to keep her cool no matter what.

He shook her hand and replied with a booming voice, “The pleasure is all mine! And please, don't call me `sir'! Just `Henry' will do. It's about time Fitzwilliam brought you about, we had all been wondering whether you really existed!” He smiled jovially at his own joke. Elizabeth blushed, but he was so good-humored and nice that she had to smile a little herself. She cast a glance at Fitzwilliam, but he still looked pale and his brows were drawn.

“HENRY!” she heard a loud voice full of reproach from the other end of the room. Looking over, she saw that it came from a petite blonde woman, who looked too slight to command such a forceful tone, but whose piercing blue eyes quickly erased any impression of frailty. “Do not mind him, dear,” she said to Elizabeth, looking at Henry Fitzwilliam threateningly.

Mr. Darcy chuckled. “Elizabeth, this is Eleanor, Henry's wife.” And his better half, his eyes seemed to add.

“It's very nice to meet you,” Elizabeth responded. Eleanor nodded a greeting, her blue eyes looking at Elizabeth kindly, putting her a little more at ease. All in all, this was not as terrible as she had expected. Elizabeth reflected philosophically that the anticipation of the unknown must always be worse than the experience itself.

“Fitzwilliam, introduce Elizabeth to everyone, please,” requested Mr. Darcy.

“Of course, father.” Elizabeth was surprised at the formality with which the two addressed each other. There were no nicknames, no affectionate pats on the arm, no ruffled hair. It was very different than at her own house, where her father always had a special smile for her, even when they had company, and she could always count on Jane for a gentle nudge and squeeze of the hand.

She was led over to where Eleanor and another elderly lady sat together. Whereas Eleanor's blue eyes looked at Elizabeth laughingly, the other lady's were cold and as hard as steel.

“Aunt, this is Elizabeth.” Fitzwilliam said. Then, turning to Elizabeth: “This is my Aunt, Catherine de Bourgh.”

Before Elizabeth could say anything, the lady inhaled indignantly, nostrils flaring. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she corrected, frowning; Elizabeth noticed a pronounced British accent. She looked Elizabeth over from head to toe over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses.

“I am pleased to meet you, your Ladyship,” said Elizabeth carefully, completely unsure as to how one addressed British nobility.

The older woman looked her over once again. “You can address me as Lady Catherine,” she said, as if granting a boon. Elizabeth almost said “thank you,” but held herself in check. Fitzwilliam's hand tightened on her elbow, but his face remained expressionless.

Eleanor took up the reigns of the conversation. “My dear,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “have you met my rascal sons yet?”

Elizabeth smiled. “No, not yet - are they really so bad?”

Eleanor sighed and raised her shoulders dramatically. “What a mother suffers!” She then called out: “Richard, Frederick!” Two boys answered her call - one seemed to be about Fitzwilliam's age and the other, several years younger. They smiled and shook Elizabeth's hand enthusiastically. “My eldest, Edward, is out of the country on business,” explained Eleanor with a touch of pride in her voice that she was clearly trying to disguise.

“Yes,” said the one who had introduced himself as Richard, smirking, “he's scaring away all of Dad's clients in China.”

“Richard!”

“Sorry, Mom,” he smiled mischievously. “She's always sticking up for Edward.” Frederick just shook his head and went back to where his father was still carrying a one-sided conversation with Georgiana.

The butler opened the doors to the dining room, indicating that dinner had been served, and everyone rose sedately and walked into the long dining room, where the table was beautifully set with gleaming crystal and china. Several members of the domestic staff were standing by, waiting to serve the food and refill wine glasses. Again, Elizabeth was sharply reminded of the contrast with her own family - there, she and her sisters would bring steaming plates of food to the table and everyone would rush to claim a seat that was away from Lydia, who always bored her dinner neighbors with conversation about her new boyfriends and clothes. Right now, the memory was a fond one.

Fitzwilliam pulled out her chair, placing her next to him on one side and Richard on the other. Lady Catherine sat at the head of the table on her right and Mr. Darcy claimed the head of the table on her left. Eleanor said grace (at least, this was familiar, Elizabeth thought) and everybody seemed to break up into islands of conversation. Henry Fitzwilliam - she could never bring herself to call him “Henry” - having given up on Georgiana was monopolizing Mr. Darcy and his son, Frederick. Eleanor engaged Lady Catherine. Richard began drawing out Georgiana about her schoolwork and extracurricular activities and she would answer where there was the least danger of her being heard. The wine began to accomplish its purpose and even Fitzwilliam seemed more comfortable.

“Are you enjoying your food?” he asked quietly, taking another sip from his glass. “Do you need more wine?”

Elizabeth felt relief flooding through her - these were the first words she had had from him all night, and he even sounded almost like his usual self. “The food is delicious,” she replied, smiling slightly. “And I think I'm okay with the wine, we wouldn't want to get me drunk in front of your family!”

Fitzwilliam's eyes widened in shock for a moment at the possibility, but then he realized she was joking and relaxed again. “No, that would be a bad idea,” he said wryly.

They were interrupted by Richard. “So, Elizabeth, I heard Uncle George say that you are majoring in art?”

It took her a few seconds to figure out that “Uncle George” was Fitzwilliam's father. Elizabeth wondered if she would ever get used to that! “It's only a part of my major, along with economics, but yes, I am studying art and I love it.”

Georgiana's eyes lit up. She ventured shyly: “Do you draw, Elizabeth?”

“Oh, only a little! I mostly study art history and dabble in oils!” Elizabeth replied smilingly. “But do you draw?”

Fitzwilliam answered for his sister: “She does, and she is wonderful at it! Maybe after dinner, you can show Elizabeth some of your sketches, Georgie?”

Georgiana blushed a deep pink. “I don't think … I'm not sure…” she stammered.

“Oh, please do!” said Elizabeth earnestly. “I would really love to see them. But only if you don't mind. I am not an expert in any medium, by any means, but I do love to see other people's work.”

“She's brilliant at the piano, too,” Richard added proudly, and Georgiana blushed even more at this sincere praise.

“What are you speaking of so stealthily, Fitzwilliam? Richard?” came Lady Catherine's voice, “I must have my share of the conversation!”

Fitzwilliam frowned, but Richard answered politely. “We were only discussing music, Aunt.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lady Catherine, “I am very fond of music, and so was my poor Anne when she was still with us. I do not believe anybody had a greater appreciation for music than she did. I have always said that if either one of us had ever learned, we would have been truly proficient.” Everybody demurred quietly, and Elizabeth suddenly felt a wave of sympathy for this shrill-voiced woman. Fitzwilliam had told her of his cousin's death several years ago, and that Lady Catherine now lived alone in a large house in Kent, filled with servants and memories - all she had left of her husband and daughter. It was not to be wondered at that she wanted to have a part in the young people's conversation. Elizabeth glanced over at Fitzwilliam, who was looking at his aunt with a strange softness in his eyes, and saw that he felt the same.

The rest of the dinner progressed in a similar fashion, with Richard cracking jokes and occasionally earning an exasperated “Richard!” from his mother, Mr. Darcy and his brother-in-law discussing the political and economic situation in Asia - to which Elizabeth thankfully could contribute a little, having written a paper on a similar topic the previous semester - and Eleanor asking friendly questions about Elizabeth's family and hobbies. After dessert, Richard and Fitzwilliam managed to convince Georgiana to show several of her sketches to Elizabeth, who found them to possess a delicate, fragile beauty. She knew this kind of a compliment would be much more personal than Georgiana would have wanted to hear, so she made several exclamations on the graceful lines and lovely colors that brought a shy smile to the girl's lips.

Fitzwilliam walked her to her car after she had said her good-byes to everyone. “I am staying here tonight,” he said holding her hand, “but maybe we can have dinner tomorrow night?”

“Sure,” she promised, kissing his cheek, “we'll talk tomorrow and arrange everything.” And full of impressions and feelings that required a time of quiet reflection to sort out, she drove home on the now almost empty freeways.

Chapter 5

Fitzwilliam walked back to his house and right into a family discussion.

“She is a nice girl…” he heard his aunt Eleanor say. As he entered the room, everybody stopped talking and looked slightly guilty.

“No, please,” he said with mild sarcasm, “continue your discussion of my life.”

“Oh, relax, Fitzwilliam, sit down.” Richard refilled his brandy glass. “There's no need to be so dramatic. You knew we would have to talk about this.”

Although Fitzwilliam wanted to object stubbornly, he knew Richard was right. His family was too much in the public eye and had too many responsibilities for Fitzwilliam to be able to date anybody he pleased. This was the first time he had ever brought a woman home - consequently, it was monumental. There was bound to be a family debate on the subject. He shrugged resignedly, took a deep breath and sat down.

“I was saying, dear,” his aunt continued, “that she seems like a very sweet girl. And she certainly seems to like you a lot, which is nice to see.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Lady Catherine crossly, “but who are her parents? What is her heritage? You cannot simply date any girl off the street!”

Fitzwilliam clenched his jaw. “She is not just any girl off the street, Aunt. Her father is the head of the international sales division at his company and she is studying to be a financial analyst. It isn't as though she sells movie tickets at AMC, for goodness' sakes.”

“But Fitzwilliam,” added his Uncle Henry, sighing, “she is not of our kind, and that is what matters. I have nothing against her - she seems like a very bright young lady, she is well-mannered, polite, even quite pretty… but…” he trailed off, looking at his wife for support.

“She can learn all she needs to know, it isn't that difficult!” Fitzwilliam's blood was pounding in his head and he felt like he was losing control. It seemed as if everybody was against him. “As you said, she is sweet, she is smart, and most importantly, she makes me happy!”

“Fitzwilliam, darling, it isn't about that,” said Eleanor sadly. “She is not used to your lifestyle - she would not understand it. Her father comes home every evening at 6 pm, he probably plays softball with her on the weekends, they go to barbeques and picnics with their neighbors, and her mother organizes parties in their backyard. What will she do when she has to take over the reigns of the Foundation, watch you fly from country to country several times a month, and entertain congressmen and CEOs at the dinner table?” She held up her hand to stop him from speaking. “It is not an easy life, believe me.” Henry and she exchanged an inscrutable look of mutual understanding. “It is a life of sacrifice, but you were born into great privilege, and with that, comes great responsibility, as they saying goes. You need someone who understands that, who is ready for it, who will not resent you because of who you are and what you must do.”

The weight of her words hung in the air. Fitzwilliam's thoughts darted furiously - he had a thousand retorts on his tongue, but in the end, he knew she spoke the truth - his lifestyle was so engrained into him that he took it for granted, but Elizabeth… would she really understand? Would she be able to adapt? Would she lose her innocence and her joie de vivre under the weight of his responsibilities? And, most importantly, did he have the right to ask that of her? He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each of his relatives in turn. What he saw there was love, and concern for him, even from his Aunt Catherine, who had remained oddly quiet since her first outburst.

His father, who had not said anything up until that point, broke the heavy silence. “Son,” he said seriously, “I know the kind of man that you are - you and I are alike - we do not do anything by halves. Although you and Elizabeth have only dated for a short time, I can see that neither one of you takes this relationship lightly. Yours is a more adult commitment than that of other people your age. Therefore, this is the appropriate time for this discussion.”

Fitzwilliam listened with a bowed head. His father continued: “I am glad that you found a woman who makes you happy - she certainly seems worthy of you and, as your aunt said, it is obvious that she loves you very much. However, you are both so very young and not ready yet to face life's real challenges and responsibilities, and I would hate to see her turn bitter and resentful because she is unable to accept the restrictions of our lifestyle. It would not be her fault - hers is a very different life.”

He paused for a moment, choosing his next words. “I will not tell you what to do - I have always taught you to be your own man and make your own decisions. However, you must take the things said today into consideration before engaging any more of her affections. That is my advice to you - think carefully before you do anything that you cannot undo.”

Fitzwilliam looked at his father squarely. “Thank you, father,” he said simply, “but you are right - this is a choice that I have to make myself. You are right that Elizabeth and I have an adult commitment - we love each other. You are also right that in the end, love is just one of the factors, and that I must think and decide responsibly.” He looked around the room again and addressed his family, trying to keep his voice steady: “Thank you all for caring for me. I know you love me and just want me to be happy, but I don't think I could be happy without Elizabeth. I promise to think about everything you said.”

“You should go and rest, Fitzwilliam,” his uncle said with an uncharacteristic gentleness, so different from his usual thunderous tone. “There's been too much talking today.”

Feeling the accuracy of that statement, Fitzwilliam bid his family a goodnight and collapsed on his bed.

***

He woke up the next day in a foul mood and with a raging headache. His father's words echoed relentlessly in his mind, but he knew not how to reconcile his feelings for Elizabeth with the valid points made by his family. Although they did not say it, they were hoping that he would marry a girl from their own circle, perhaps even the daughter of one of his father's business partners, thereby not only gaining a wife but also expanding the Darcy/Fitzwilliam business empire. George Darcy had married Anne Fitzwilliam for exactly that reason - with spectacular results for both the Darcy and the Fitzwilliam fortunes - but the unforeseen happened and they actually fell in love. Fitzwilliam soberly realized how rare of an occurrence that was in such a marriage and how unlikely it was that the experience would be repeated with him. In any case, Fitzwilliam had always know that he could never marry solely for practical purposes - at the very least, there must be affection, respect and admiration, if not ardent love. At least, such were his feelings on the matter before Elizabeth.

It seemed that the past six months changed his life - Elizabeth was everywhere and he could not imagine a future without her. He could not explain how she made him feel - it was as if she was as necessary and as natural to him as the air he breathed. For the first time since his mother died, fourteen years ago, he felt truly content and happy. Giving that up would mean a cold and lonely road ahead, and though it was the most unpleasant prospect Fitzwilliam could imagine, he would do it in a second if he thought that it was best for Elizabeth.

Fitzwilliam remembered his own mother. Although she did come from the right background, even she often struggled with the demanding position of George Darcy's wife. He recalled her crying surreptitiously when his father missed their anniversary once again because of a business crisis that had taken him to Europe, he saw the strain and the bags under her eyes as she stayed up nights sorting through documents and making decisions regarding the Foundation, while at the same time balancing the Darcy family's political connections and other commitments - she was always of delicate health and it was difficult for a little boy to see his mother so tired and fragile. Could he really impose that kind of a lifestyle on his joyful and care-free Elizabeth? And if he could, would she be able to handle it? Elizabeth was very smart and very competent, he was sure, but her upbringing simply did not prepare her for the kind of responsibilities she would be expected to manage. His head hurt from all the thinking, and even more from the frustration stemming from it not producing any coherent results.

***

Fitzwilliam drove to the office to clear his head, immediately got embroiled in a problem with Darcy Corp.'s development office in Tokyo, and by the time he looked at the clock, it was four p.m. and his cell phone was ringing.

“Hello?” he picked up.

A soft voice greeted him from the other end of the line. “Hey, you… are we still on for tonight?”

Hearing her voice dispelled his bad mood immediately. “Of course!” he said, stretching out in his chair. “Where do you want to go? Or maybe you want me to pick something up on my way home from the office?”

“Mmm… take-out sounds good. I don't think I have the energy to get dressed up and go anywhere, my classes were brutal today!”

“Well… you will get dressed and come to my place, though, right?”

Elizabeth giggled. “Of course, silly. Unless you would like to have dinner with my mother, to return the favor.”

Fitzwilliam shuddered silently, remembering the last such dinner. “Sounds tempting, but I think one Bennet at a time is all that I can handle.”

He heard sputtering on the other end. “All right, all right,” he laughed, “you sound like a car that needs a tune-up. I should be home by eight, but feel free to go to my apartment anytime before that.”

“Eight?” Elizabeth said petulantly, “Can't you come back any earlier than that?”

“Unfortunately, not today. Sorry, darlin'. We have a minor crisis on our hands that needs to be dealt with before I leave - but I promise to try to get there as soon as I can.”

“Well, all right,” she assented, “if you are that indispensable… I can wait until eight.” She added gently, “I've missed you, though.”

Fitzwilliam hung up the phone and realized that he was smiling - Elizabeth always made him feel this way. He decided that he would go home, have a nice dinner with her, and then tell her about his reservations, honestly and openly. He was confident that they would be able to discuss the situation like two rational adults and come to an understanding. In fact, he mused, this was probably long overdue - both of them knew instinctively that they wanted to share the future together, but they had been too wrapped up in each other to really talk about any of the implications - this would be a chance to tell Elizabeth how he felt about her, to explain what would await her as his partner in life, and to solidify their commitment to each other. While Fitzwilliam did not think that they should get married, or even engaged, just yet, it was about time he let Elizabeth know what she truly meant to him.

He worked for several more hours, reassured by the plan he had thought up earlier, and then, with relief, finally drove back to his apartment, warmed by the feeling that Elizabeth was waiting there for him.

***

Elizabeth looked at the clock impatiently - it was a quarter past eight and Fitzwilliam was not here. They still had not had an opportunity to discuss last night's dinner at his father's house, and that was a conversation that Elizabeth knew would need to happen. Additionally, she simply missed being with him. It had been a very long day, with difficult classes, demanding professors and the usual congested Los Angeles traffic.

She was also anxious to tell him about Jane - dear Jane, who had called Elizabeth to shyly tell her Charles had asked her out to dinner and that she was - very primly, of course, since this was Jane - excited and happy. Introducing them to each other had been brilliant - there were no two people better suited; Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of the evening several weeks ago when she and Fitzwilliam had come up with that idea.

They had been laying in bed together at Fitzwilliam's apartment, Elizabeth was reading her favorite Jane Austen novel and Fitzwilliam was reading The Economist.

“Fitzwilliam,” said Elizabeth, remembering something suddenly, “do you have a friend we can set my sister up with?”

Fitzwilliam looked up from his magazine with thinly disguised alarm. He coughed and asked carefully: “Which sister?”

Elizabeth smacked him lightly. “You don't need to look so worried, it's Jane. She finally broke up with that John creep. Apparently, he demanded that when they got married (he did not ask if she wanted to marry him, he just assumed, and you know what they say about that), so when they got married, she would have to stop seeing our family, as they were a bad influence on her future position as Mrs. John Cunningham III.”

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. “And this would have been… bad?” he said, as if perplexed, but Elizabeth knew him well enough to notice the sparkle in his eyes.

She sighed. “Yes, yes, I know, my family can be a bit… overwhelming… but they are my family and I love them! Every family has people you'd rather pretend you are not related to - my family just seems to have a little more than average. Regardless, they are part of who I am, so they come with the package. Jane felt the same way and so she gave him the boot. He thought she was joking at first - he said that he could not believe she was passing up the amazing opportunity to be his wife and take care of him for the rest of his days. However, once she made him understand that she cared nothing about his money, he seemed to think himself very ill used and is now recovering in the arms of one of the throng of 18 year old Hollywood starlets.”

“Ugh, what an idiot.” said Fitzwilliam disgustedly.

“I know! Jane is amazing! She is smart, talented, sweet and is the most gorgeous woman on the planet.”

“Well,” interrupted Fitzwilliam mildly, twirling one of Elizabeth's long curls, “the second most gorgeous woman on the planet.”

Elizabeth blushed to the roots of her hair. “You are missing the point,” she said.

“On the contrary, my dear, I think I'm getting the point rather well,” he responded as he pulled her into a kiss.

A short time later: “Fitzwilliam! It's one a.m. and we both have to get up early tomorrow morning!”

“Okay, okay.” He released her and added as an afterthought, “We can try to introduce Jane to Charles. He has what you would call a `sunny' disposition, so he might be able to cheer her up. I warn you, though, he's always falling in and out of love, so I can't answer for him.”

Elizabeth sighed. “That's okay, I'll let her know. She just needs to get out of the house, our mother is driving her insane.”

Fitzwilliam mumbled something under his breath. She warned him laughingly, “I heard that!”

The next available weekend, they set up a dinner date to introduce Jane to Charles. After fifteen minutes, the two were so absorbed in each other that Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam may as well have been alone; they just shrugged it off and ordered more wine.

And now, Charles had taken the first step and asked Jane to have dinner with him, just the two of them, alone. He was a wonderful guy - smart, funny, and in possession of exactly that brand of boyish charm which Jane found irresistible. Of course, he was Fitzwilliam's friend, which, in itself, was recommendation enough. The most important thing was that he seemed to adore Jane and Jane, in her quiet fashion, was well on her way to falling in love with him.

Her cell phone rang, startling Elizabeth out of her reverie.

“You like eggplant parmesan, right?” she heard Fitzwilliam's voice over the din of the restaurant.

“Sure! I'm so hungry I could eat it even without the parmesan. Come home, you!”

“Be there in ten.”

Chapter 6, Part I

They had a quiet, companionable dinner on the balcony of Fitzwilliam's Westwood apartment. It was a clear, fragrant evening - stars shone brightly overhead, the breeze whispered confidentially through the trees and fragments of distant music swirled around their shoulders. It was the kind of evening that took Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam out of time, enveloping them in its mysterious darkness, allowing them to briefly lay aside all that was troubling them and simply be together. They held hands, drank dark and fruity red wine, talking about their day, their plans for the weekend, new movies, anything but what was really on their minds.

After dessert, they cleared their plates and walked back inside. After the intimate darkness of the balcony, the bright lights felt garish and intrusive, underscoring their return to reality. An awkward silence stretched for several minutes - Fitzwilliam looked at his hands, frowning and Elizabeth played with her napkin.

“Elizabeth, this won't do,” he said finally, the words torn from him. “We need to talk about last night.”

“You're right,” she replied, trying to keep her voice level, “we do.” She held her breath for a moment before asking the question which had plagued her since she left his father's house the night before. “What did your family think of me?”

Fitzwilliam got up and began walking around the room distractedly. During the drive home, he had mentally composed everything that he would say to Elizabeth; her taking the reigns of the conversation threw him off-balance somewhat. “They thought you were very nice,” he said, “and they were very pleased to see that you make me happy.”

Elizabeth stared at him in disbelief and her heart beat in fast, angry beats. Very nice? Pleased that she made him happy? What was she, a toy, a temporary amusement, to make him happy?

Fitzwilliam was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the thin set of her lips, and continued talking. “You see, they are just worried about me. My family… well… they have certain expectations of me and those would necessarily extend to my wife, so they just want to make sure that whoever fills that position will be able to fulfill them in a way that befits the Darcy and Fitzwilliam names.” He tried to make his tone reassuring. “I have no doubt that you would learn it all very quickly, but it is very demanding and my life will be very different from what you are used to. However, with hard work and my Aunt's instruction, you would, undoubtedly, rapidly adjust.”

Elizabeth felt like screaming, but forced herself to breathe normally. She was too angry to speak and Fitzwilliam mistook her silence for attention and acceptance of his words.

“I do not want you to worry, I assured them of your many admirable qualities. They just need time to get to know you and I am certain they will not only accept you, but also do anything they can to help you and make you more comfortable.” He looked at her expectantly, awaiting an answer.

Elizabeth's hands clenched and unclenched - she had rarely ever been this furious. “Fitzwilliam… I don't know what to say,” she exclaimed, “I can't believe you are saying these things to me!”

He looked at her blankly. “What do you mean? What things?”

She swallowed. “Fitzwilliam, could it really be that you don't realize how hurtful the things you've said are?”

“Hurtful?!” Fitzwilliam stepped away from her, bewildered and angry. “Elizabeth, I highly doubt that what I've said is hurtful. I definitely did not mean it to be - on the contrary, I was expressing my admiration for you and my hope for our future!”

“Admiration!” she almost choked. “Admiration, yes, that's exactly what I got out of that. You admire me so much that you and your family have grave doubts about my ability to fulfill this most exalted and challenging role of your wife.” She was getting more irritated by the second. “Oh, and `your wife'? When was I suddenly elevated to that status? Are you asking me to marry you, Fitzwilliam? If you are, this surely the strangest proposal I have ever heard!”

“No,” he shook his head, “of course not, we are both so young.” He tried to clarify: “What I mean is that yes, I would like to get married in the future - I thought I had made that abundantly clear by bringing you into my father's house - but I think we should wait a little bit, until we both finish our education, at least.”

“Well!” said Elizabeth, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “Aren't I lucky to have such a guy who just thinks of everything and makes all the decisions for me!”

“Elizabeth,” Fitzwilliam was now extremely irritated, “I was only trying to do what is best for both of us, you know that. Really, there is no need for these hysterics.”

It was precisely the wrong thing to say at that particular moment. Elizabeth thought she could not possibly get angrier, but his words sent her over the edge. No one had ever accused her of being hysterical before, and she was certainly not going to allow him to do it. She gripped the arm of her chair until her knuckles turned white.

“I will have you know,” she said through clenched teeth, “that I have never let anyone dictate the way that I live my life. I have my own brain, and I happen to think that it functions very well. Please don't talk to me like I'm some five year old who needs to be scolded, Fitzwilliam.”

He was exasperated, feeling like she was behaving very much like the aforementioned five year old. This conversation was not going the way Fitzwilliam had planned at all. He thought that he would lay out his argument, tell Elizabeth why his family may be cautious regarding her at first, reassure her of his feelings and his confidence in her, and she would understand and be happy that he feels this way. Fitzwilliam tried once again to steer it back into the direction he had chosen. “Elizabeth, I was not trying to do that. I was just trying to plan out our future - we can't always be this care-free.”

“Oh, that's wonderful. Now, you are accusing me of short-sightedness!”

“I am not, and you know it!” Fitzwilliam began pacing again, frustration evident in every step. “I was simply pointing out that I have responsibilities that I will have to assume shortly, and I would like it if you were by my side; however, that would necessitate you accepting many responsibilities as well, and I was just trying to prepare you for them in a way that your upbringing would not have.”

Elizabeth was livid. “What does my upbringing have to do with this? It is inseparable from who I am. Although I was not raised in a huge house with fancy tutors and politicians at the dinner table, my parents are loving and decent, and they did everything they could to raise me right. I will not listen to anybody insulting them, least of all you!”

Fitzwilliam did not know what to say - it seemed to him that she was twisting his every word, giving it a meaning that was drastically different than what he was actually trying to convey. “Elizabeth, I can't talk to you when you are like this. Maybe we both need to just calm down and then we can discuss this like adults.”

Elizabeth replied in a voice that held the chill of the Arctic. “Maybe when you begin to treat me with the respect that an adult is afforded, we can have an adult discussion. However, if you persist in insulting my family, making decisions for me and planning out my life, I doubt you will get the response you are looking for.”

“I don't understand,” his tone became dangerous, “So you would not want to marry me?”

“Let's see, Fitzwilliam - why would I want to do that? After all, I am just an incompetent young girl, from an inferior family which has clearly not educated me in the ways of the wonderful world of Darcy, and who will not be able to do whatever it is a Darcy wife usually does. In fact, I don't even know why you are seeing me - perhaps I should just stop wasting your time and go home now!”

Fitzwilliam finally lost control. “Perhaps you should, if that's the way you feel about me!”

Tears streaking her face, Elizabeth wordlessly got up and walked to the door, quickly and determinedly.

Chapter 6, Part II

Tears streaking her face, Elizabeth walked to the door quickly and determinedly. She paused, her hand on the handle, turning back to look at him one last time.

Fitzwilliam saw the wetness glistening in her eyes and the knowledge that he made Elizabeth cry felt like ice water hitting his face. “No, Elizabeth, don't go, please,” he said in a strangled voice, “I… I would really like it if we could talk about this… if you want to, that is…”

Elizabeth rushed into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder. “Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she sobbed, “I don't want to leave, I don't think I could bear it.”

He held her gently, stroking her hair, the tension ebbing from both of them. “Me neither.”

Several minutes passed, but neither wanted to surrender the tranquility they found in each other's arms. This was the first time that an argument had taken them this far and both were shaken up by the consequences.

Finally, Elizabeth looked up at him, breaking the silence. “I am so sorry, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.

“No, it is I who must apologize to you, Elizabeth!” he protested. “I just got so caught up in what I wanted to say that I never thought my words could cause you pain.”

She looked down. “Words shouldn't be able to do that, should they… they are just words, after all.”

Fitzwilliam cupped her face in his hands. “I am so sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”

She almost cried again then - his voice pulled at her heart, her anger momentarily forgotten - there was something in Fitzwilliam which always brought out her protective instincts. “Fitzwilliam,” she asked for the second time this night, “can it really be that you don't know why what you said was so… why it upset me the way that it did?”

He frowned and looked away. “No, I'm not really sure. I only know what I was trying to tell you, and there was nothing bad in that, I can promise you. Surely, you know that I would never intentionally cause you to suffer.”

“But you… you sounded so patronizing! When you said that I did not have the ability to handle your demanding lifestyle…”

“I had no idea that you would interpret my words like that!” Fitzwilliam was dismayed - had he really said that? It was completely the opposite of what he had intended to convey. And had he sounded patronizing? Pausing to think for a moment, he realized with a start that if someone had said the same thing to him, he may have had a similar, albeit a less vocal, reaction as Elizabeth had. When he had spoken, he had only considered his own ideas, he never thought about the reaction Elizabeth would have to his words or the possible way she could have misunderstood them. “Elizabeth, I have complete faith in you, I was just trying to point out that our lives growing up were very different, and the lifestyle you would lead as my wife is likewise different than what you are used to. You have to admit, at least, that this part is true?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth conceded, “that is true.” She was getting upset again and struggling to control herself. “It just sounded like you were saying that your family's opinion was more important than the love that we share!”

“I would never say anything like that, Elizabeth! My family is extremely important to me, and I will always take their advice under consideration, but I make my own decisions and they understand that.”

“But they do not approve of me, do they? Do you agree with them, that my lifestyle, my upbringing and my family are inferior to yours because your family is much wealthier and much better connected than mine? Fitzwilliam, how much does that matter? People are measured on their own merit, not on who they entertain for dinner - that is one thing that my family did teach me.”

Fitzwilliam was about to indignantly deny that he had ever measured people on anything other than merit, but the retort died on his lips; after all, was that not what he had just done to the Bennets? When he met them, he had been shocked by the behavior of Elizabeth's two younger sisters - wild and uncontrollable, their loud and inane conversation made his head spin. Her mother, also, had embarrassed him with probing questions, while Mr. Bennet simply smiled into his port. In his heart of hearts, Fitzwilliam knew that he attributed this to their status in life. If Mr. Bennet had been a friend of his father's, Fitzwilliam most likely would have excused the behavior; in fact, he could name several of his father's business partners who led less than respectable lives, and yet, the world forgave them because they were captains of industry and had made themselves fame and fortune. Fitzwilliam knew that he secretly thought that his family (which, at that time, seemed like an oasis of peace and tranquility) was superior to Elizabeth's. And certainly, he thought, in education, in financial and social status, his family was superior. Fitzwilliam reflected on the many women from families similar to his that he had known over the years; how much did that family superiority mean, when not one of them had made him feel as alive as Elizabeth did?

He answered her, directly and earnestly. “You are right, what matters is what is inside of each one of us. I cannot pretend that my family will accept you right away, and you must see that this is normal and natural, but you make me happy, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam, you make me so happy too! But, you realize, that my family is a part of who I am, just as much as your family is a part of who you are? It's difficult for me to admit, but I do not always like what my family does, I could wish their behavior was different, and I do not always agree with them, but you cannot have me and not have my family - it's a package deal, just like you and your family. They brought me up to be the person who you fell in love with - I will always love them and be indebted to them for this.”

“I can understand that, Elizabeth.” He sighed. “It's just that you cannot possibly know all the pressures that a woman in my family has to face. I suppose no one really could, unless they did live within this lifestyle.”

Elizabeth smiled and put her hand on top of his. “Look, I know that your life is not exactly what I grew up with, but really, how difficult can it be for me to figure it out?”

Fitzwilliam stood up and began pacing again. “Elizabeth, you don't understand, it's more than that. Coming home late a few nights a week is just the beginning. When I take over my father's company, I will be traveling worldwide, I will have to work very hard to maintain and develop what my father and grandfather and great-grandfather entrusted into my hands. It's a huge responsibility. There will be times when we will need to be separated for a long time; there will be times when I am unable to give you the kind of attention and love that you deserve; I may miss birthday parties and soccer games - but I must do this, this is my life. I did not choose it, I was born to it - but I love it as much as if I built this company myself.”

Elizabeth was taken aback by the gravity and the suppressed passion in his voice. They had rarely discussed his father's business - she had no idea how much it really meant to him.

Fitzwilliam stood still, lost in his thoughts for a moment, looking out of the window but not really seeing. “I want you to go into this with your eyes wide open, I don't want there to be any surprises. You did not grow up with this, you cannot know what it will be like for you. My doubts are not that you cannot learn, but that you will not be happy once you discover what it is you signed up for. Your life would change, you would gain much added responsibility - just running the Foundation is a full time job! The press would be at our doorstep all the time. You don't get to see it now, because I am only working in the Los Angeles office, and I only started. But as I work my way up in the company, the public will want to know what we are doing at every step - our every deed will be subject to scrutiny. My mother,” his voice softened with remembrance, “she was not always happy. I would not like to see your smile dimmed because of the kind of life that I will necessarily impose on you.”

She got up and put her arms around him. “Fitzwilliam,” she said gently, “I will be happy if I only have you. The rest, it will work itself out. And if anything, I do have your Aunt to rely on - she has years of experience, she can help me learn anything that I need to learn.”

A small smile tugged at his lips as he turned to face her. “Oh, so you don't think I'm being patronizing in suggesting that?”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Yes, throw my words back at me. I admit, at first, I thought I would kill you for saying that, but now I see that the idea does make a lot of sense. Clearly, Eleanor is a very capable and formidable lady.”

“Thank you, madam, I finally get some credit for thinking ahead.”

“Yes, yes. I supposed I have to admit that you do have some good ideas, once in a while.” She found herself laughing helplessly as she got tickled.

“Fitzwilliam! Okay, okay, you have quite a few good ideas, and not only once in a while - there, happy?”

He looked into her eyes. “Very.” Somehow, she knew he was not only referring to her laughing admission.

“So,” he asked teasingly, referring to their earlier argument, “you really wouldn't want to marry me?”

“Well, Mr. Darcy,” she replied impertinently, “you will get the answer to that question when you actually ask it!”

Fitzwilliam's eyes darkened. “Say that again.”

“What? The question, answer thing?”

“No, say `Mr. Darcy' again.”

“Mr. Darcy,” she repeated, softly, the arch of her eyebrows belying the submissive way in which she spoke the words.

Later on, when they were laying together in the darkened room, the moon lighting a path on the floor, Fitzwilliam drowsily thought that perhaps, everything would work itself out.

***

Two week after their argument, Fitzwilliam was obligated to go on a business trip to Darcy Corp.'s Tokyo office. The problems he had been experiencing earlier in the week persisted and needed his personal attention. He loathed leaving Elizabeth so soon after they had again come to an understanding, but this was his first large assignment in the Company and he had to prove himself to his father.

During Fitzwilliam's two weeks in Tokyo, Elizabeth missed him enormously, however, she was glad for the time alone - she felt like she had to think about and digest everything that had happened before he went away.

Being by herself gave Elizabeth perspective, and she felt that this was a situation in which some perspective was particularly necessary. She had been so angry at the time of their argument that she could hardly recall his exact words; all she remembered was the hurt she felt - if she had to be honest with herself, she could admit that her pride was not the least of the things which had been hurting at his accusations and insinuations about her family. How could he love her and simultaneously believe that her family was inferior? Just at the point when she had began to become angry at the recollection, the image of Mr. Darcy's calm questions about her major flashed before her eyes. When he had said that art and economics were rarely studied together, Elizabeth had immediately thought that he was criticizing her, putting her down. Why had I thought that? she wondered. Clearly, he had meant nothing of the kind, she saw that very soon afterwards. In the heat of the moment, however, she had been more than happy to ascribe to him the most nefarious of motives, justifying her insecurities. Elizabeth remembered Jane's oft-repeated admonitions that she tended to jump to conclusions too quickly. Elizabeth closed her eyes in mortification, thinking about what would have happened if she had voiced her thoughts to Mr. Darcy that night.

But I had voiced my thoughts to Fitzwilliam. Her eyes flew open. Of course, she had told Fitzwilliam what she was thinking - concealment from him was unnecessary and indeed impossible. A nagging feeling, however, told her that she could have taken a moment to really listen to him and try to understand what he wanted to tell her, instead of just letting out her frustrations and contributing to the escalation of their argument.

Casting her mind back, Elizabeth attempted to recall the substance of his conversation, apart from his patronizing tone or his high-handed manner. He said that life with him would not be what Elizabeth was used to - it would be more demanding and she would have to learn form his Aunt and from other members of his family how to handle herself in unfamiliar situations. When he was saying it, his condescending tone and superior manner of expressing himself had blinded her to the real meaning behind his words. He did say, though, that he thought her capable! At the time, she took it as an insult, but she now saw that it was indeed a compliment - instead of expressing her inadequacy, Fitzwilliam was trying to show her that he believed her to be as able as his mother had been.

In truth, she admitted to herself that she knew little to nothing of his lifestyle. Fitzwilliam's duties at Darcy Corp. had been put on hold while he attended business school and had just now picked up again part time - Elizabeth had no idea what it would be like once he began working in earnest. Also, by not introducing Fitzwilliam to the public officially until it would become absolutely necessary, Mr. Darcy had avoided unwanted media attention for his son, allowing the latter to live out a normal life. In fact, the more Elizabeth thought of Mr. Darcy, the more she understood why Fitzwilliam looked up to him and loved him so. Unlike her own father, Mr. Darcy was hands on - he participated in every detail of his son's education and was in the process of fully training Fitzwilliam for his intended role at the helm of Darcy Corp., the Darcy/Fitzwilliam Family Foundation and as head of the Darcy family. Perhaps their love was not the same kind as the love between her and her own father, but there were strong bonds, deep affection, and most importantly, there was respect.

Elizabeth looked at the clock - 1:54 a.m., almost 6 p.m. in Tokyo. She dialed the number of Fitzwilliam's GSM cell phone.* When he picked up, his voice was clipped and businesslike and he sounded tired. “Fitzwilliam Darcy speaking.”

“Hi…” she said tentatively.

Fitzwilliam relaxed. “Elizabeth! What are you doing awake? It's … it's almost two in the morning your time.”

“I couldn't sleep. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, no. I just finished a meeting and I'm waiting on several associates from this office to go to dinner with. How are you?”

“I'm fine, I miss you.”

“I miss you too, darlin'.”

Elizabeth smiled at the rare endearment - only in unguarded moments did he call her anything other than “Elizabeth” and she always cherished it. It made her admission easier. “Fitzwilliam… I just called to tell you that I'm sorry. You were right about everything that you said. I should not have allowed my own insecurities to get the better of me, I promise to guard my temper in the future and to actually listen to you.”

There was no need for him to ask what she was referring to. He was silent for a moment, which seemed like an eternity to Elizabeth, and when he spoke, it was quietly and seriously. “Elizabeth, I should not have expressed myself in such a way. In fact, there were many things I thought and assumed that night that are beneath me. You don't know how I've been tortured by the fact that I hurt you.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she signed, “I think both of us behaved in a manner not to be proud of. I won't lie, your words did hurt, but when I thought about what you were saying instead of how you were saying it... I understood that you made some very valid points…” she paused and then exclaimed: “We really need to get a handle on this communication thing in the future!”

He chucked deeply, making Elizabeth long for his presence even more. “That we do, Elizabeth, that we do.”

Their conversation was interrupted by several distant voices speaking in Japanese on the other side of the telephone. To Elizabeth's surprise, Fitzwilliam answered them in the same language: “Muo chotto matte kudasai.”**

His voice became businesslike again. “Elizabeth, I'm so sorry, I have to go.” He added, more gently, “Sleep well, I will try to call you tomorrow.”

Swallowing disappointment at the shortness of their conversation, Elizabeth wished him a good night and finally fell asleep.

*GSM cell phone - an international cell phone.
** “Please hold on just a second longer.” (Japanese -

Chapter 7

About a month after his trip to Tokyo, Fitzwilliam drove over to his father's house for a Saturday night dinner, without Elizabeth this time. After their conversation, he and Elizabeth had achieved a tenuous peace. They were still happy together, but it was a more thoughtful kind of happiness; they felt the triumph of overcoming their first real obstacle, hampered by the realization that disaster had been only very nearly averted. Neither Fitzwilliam nor Elizabeth wanted to revive the argument by bringing Elizabeth into contact with Fitzwilliam's family just yet - both felt that a period of adjustment on either side was necessary. Elizabeth despaired that they might never accept her, while Fitzwilliam was silently torn between his love for and confidence in Elizabeth and the persistent voice in the back of his mind that would not stop telling him that perhaps his family was right. Fitzwilliam tried, unsuccessfully, to shut it off, to repeat his logical arguments that Elizabeth would be fine - not only would she exceed in learning how to cope with the responsibility but she loved and would love him enough to accept, and be happy in, the life he must lead. He did not want to weigh Elizabeth down with his thoughts - they were his insecurities and therefore his burden to bear, and he must alone come up with the solution.

Dinner took its usual route, with Richard and Frederick egging each other on and Edward, feeling very adult after his own business trip, admonishing them with a dignified air. Eleanor and Henry smiled surreptitiously at each other, amused at this change in the family dynamic. Lady Catherine, who had stayed on with his aunt and uncle for another month, occasionally interjected her own style of commentary throughout the meal.

As everybody got up after dinner, Mr. Darcy said quietly to Fitzwilliam: “Come and see me in my office, I would like to speak with you on a business matter.” A little mystified, Fitzwilliam followed his father out of the dining room.

Familiar sights and smells assailed Fitzwilliam when he entered his father's study. The room had remained essentially unchanged during the whole of his remembrance. Mahogany bookcases with glass doors lined the walls, home to his father's private collection, every book organized strictly by genre and then by author. Deep olive green walls, hung with diplomas and family pictures, matched the green upholstery on the sofa and armchairs, and a large mahogany desk dominated one corner. The study had always been his father's private domain and Fitzwilliam felt a little younger when he crossed its threshold. He saw here the evidence of passing years - Georgiana's watercolor sketch from her first day in middle school, an autographed picture of the Lakers that Fitzwilliam had taken great pains to procure for his father ten years ago, photographs of skiing trips and graduations, politicians that had come and gone, an engraved Mont Blanc pen, displayed in a small glass case, given to Mr. Darcy by the Darcy Corp. employees, and startlingly, a picture of his mother, young and smiling, tucked away under the glass of the desk.

His father, noticing his wistful mood, allowed him some time and then coughed to get his attention. “I'm having some scotch, Fitzwilliam, would you like a glass?”

Fitzwilliam was slightly startled - his father rarely offered him any alcohol other than wine, and since the time Fitzwilliam had moved out into his own apartment when he started business school, they had not had many evenings like this together. “Sure,” he assented, and was surprised again when his father unlocked a cabinet and took out his best bottle of scotch, the kind reserved only for his uncle and important guests. Neither Fitzwilliam nor any of his cousins had ever tried it before, Mr. Darcy scoffing at the idea with a wave of his hand and a “these young'uns cannot possibly appreciate the true taste yet, can they, Henry?”

Mr. Darcy carefully poured an equal amount into two cut crystal glasses and handed one to Fitzwilliam. “So,” he said casually, sitting down on the sofa, “I do not think I have had a chance to tell you yet, but you handled the business in Tokyo exceptionally well. The transactions were extremely complicated.”

“Thank you,” Fitzwilliam responded, flushing at the rare compliment.

Mr. Darcy looked at him warmly and affectionately. “I knew you could do it, son. I was very proud of you.” He then added, almost nonchalantly: “Of course, I have always been proud of you, no matter whether you succeeded or not.”

Fitzwilliam did not know how to respond - he and his father did not usually share their feelings with each other. Naturally, he knew that his father was proud of him - Mr. Darcy expressed it in a thousand wordless ways - but having it voiced seemed to release a new kind of strength in Fitzwilliam, a new realization of how much he owed this brilliant and complex man who was his father.

They were quiet for a little while, drinking companionably. “Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Darcy began again, “after the end of this year, when you graduate from business school, I would like to start getting you involved in the New York office. The head quarters are there, and I am not getting any younger, I cannot fly about the country like I used to. I would like to settle here with Georgie and, in five years or so, you can take over the operations on the east coast.”

Fitzwilliam looked at his father. For the first time, he noticed the deeply-etched lines around his eyes, the new silver streaks in his hair and the tired bend of his shoulders. When was the last time his father had taken a vacation? Fitzwilliam had been so pre-occupied with his own concerns over the past year, he had not had time to notice. His father had always seemed ageless and indestructible to him, but with a sense of abruptly growing up, Fitzwilliam realized that this could not be so.

“You need to take care of yourself, father,” he said with concern. “Perhaps you and Uncle Henry should take the boat out this weekend or go golfing. I could hold the fort for a few days.”

Mr. Darcy sighed heavily and leaned back on the sofa. “I wish it was that easy, Fitzwilliam. It is a very sensitive time right now. Wall Street is cautious about our new business ventures in Asia, investors need constant reassurance and attention, and in addition, I believe that someone on the Board of Directors is speaking with our competitors and trying to engineer a hostile takeover. This is precisely why I need you to be more involved.”

Fitzwilliam looked at his father in alarm. This was disturbing news, indeed, especially if a trusted member of the Board decided to defect. They spoke business for the best part of the next hour, devising strategies and making plans for the upcoming months. Fitzwilliam had always known that his father loved him and believed in him, but tonight, he finally realized that his father and their company needed him, and the weight of that responsibility made him sit up a little taller.

Changing the subject abruptly, Mr. Darcy asked, “Fitzwilliam, what have you decided about Elizabeth?”

Fitzwilliam looked straight into Mr. Darcy's shrewd blue eyes. “I love her, father. I think we can make it work.”

Mr. Darcy nodded and looked down at his glass. “I thought you might say that.” He took another sip of the amber liquid. “Your mother and I were in love also, once upon a time. Hard to believe that she's been gone for so long.” Mr. Darcy's eyes stared forward unseeingly, as if recapturing a private memory.

There was a long silence. Then, his father did the most astonishing thing - he gently took Fitzwilliam's hands between his own and stroked them, as if Fitzwilliam was still a little boy. “Ah, what the hell,” he said, his eyes misting over, “Love her, son, love her if you can make her happy.”

“Thank you, father,” Fitzwilliam whispered, swallowing a knot in his throat.

They sat there, together, until they heard the grandfather clock in the hallway strike the hour. His father then released Fitzwilliam's hands and clapped him on the shoulder, his previous expression replaced by the usual inscrutable one. “Come on, we had better go. It is getting late and tomorrow is a new day.”

***

When Fitzwilliam had dinner with his family, he usually stayed the night in his old room at his father's house. So it was this night. He picked a book from the library and was just settling into bed for a quiet hour of reading, when he heard a soft knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said, and saw the door open to reveal his sister peeking into his room.

“Georgie, what are you still doing up? It's past midnight. Come inside.”

Georgiana shuffled in hesitantly and, at his invitation, curled up on his bed. She was so small yet, not even fifteen, he thought, and yet, already a young lady, apparent in the proud arch of her neck and the depth of understanding in her eyes. Fitzwilliam ruffled her hair and she wrinkled her nose, becoming a kid again.

“Do you know what happened while you were gone?” she asked, shyly, yet with a hint of suppressed excitement.

He pretended to think and raised an eyebrow at her. “Hmm… you crashed father's Bentley and now you want me to smuggle you out of the country?”

Georgiana giggled. “No, silly, I'm not old enough to drive yet!”

“Oh, right, I forgot. What happened, then?”

“Father took me to one of the Foundation meetings!” She was getting really excited. “He even let me make a decision about the Percy Grant!”

Fitzwilliam smiled but was surprised - since their mother's death, Mr. Darcy usually handled the Foundation matters himself, not even allowing Eleanor to intervene; Eleanor, privately thinking that Mr. Darcy meant it as a tribute to Anne, let him have his own way. He nodded in encouragement and Georgiana continued.

“So father had narrowed it down to two people and they were both to make a presentation. The first one was from the Screen Actors' Guild - Charitable Division, and he said that the grant would be distributed to different schools for the purposes of establishing acting and theater classes. The second was from the `Shoes-That-Fit' organization.* Fitzwilliam, can you imagine, there are children who go to school and have no money to buy shoes or backpacks or pencils or gym-clothes?”

With a pang, Fitzwilliam thought that his sister was coming head to head with the real world much too soon for his liking; surely, she was still too young to be exposed to poverty and misery. He sighed and asked gently: “Whom did you select as the recipient of the grant?”

Georgiana cast her eyes down. “I didn't want to choose, but father said I had to do it. So I decided that we should give the grant to `Shoes-That-Fit.' Clothes, shoes and school supplies seemed more important than acting classes.” She lifted her eyes pleadingly. “I never knew that someone could have so little - we have so much, I've always taken it for granted. Fitzwilliam, did I make the right choice?”

Fitzwilliam smiled sadly - she really was growing up quickly. “I think you did, Georgie; in fact, I am sure of it.”

She relaxed. “Oh good, I'm glad. Father thought so too, but I wanted to ask you also.”

“Georgiana, you should really go to sleep, it's very late,” he said with mock sternness.

“Oh, all right,” she sighed. “Will you be around tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “No, I promised to meet Elizabeth, Jane and Charles at the beach.” He added wryly: “Oh, and Richard invited himself, of course.” Brother and sister both laughed, knowing their cousin so well, and Fitzwilliam ushered Georgiana to her own room to sleep.

* If you would like to know more about this wonderful charity, organized and run entirely by volunteers, with 100% of the donations going directly to the children, please check out www.shoesthatfit.org.

***

The next day dawned bright and clear; the sky was an intense shade of blue, with wispy clouds dancing in the light breeze; palm trees majestically rustled their leaves, as if in greeting, and the air had that warmth and transparency particular only to a mid-winter heat wave in Los Angeles. Everybody seemed to be out on the streets simultaneously - sweaters were cast aside and out came tank tops, sunglasses, flip flops and sun tan lotion. Cafes put little tables out on the sidewalk, which immediately filled with laughing, joyful people, chattering and raising their faces up to the sun.

Fitzwilliam put the top down in his car and drove down the Pacific Coast Highway to a favorite Malibu beach, where he was supposed to meet the others.

It was one of those days - had Fitzwilliam known how to describe his feelings at that particular moment, he would have said that his soul sang. He felt as if could see every blade of grass and every distant wave, he felt the warm wind on his arms and ruffling his hair, he caught himself smiling without any apparent reason; he did not mind the beach traffic, the people looking at him, the loud music in the neighboring car; it felt good, good to be alive.

He saw Elizabeth as soon as he parked his car. The sun picked out gold and bronze highlights in her dark curls, even at this distance he could see the glow of her skin and the sparkle of her eyes. Fitzwilliam found himself experiencing an irrational desire to freeze the moment and hold this picture in his mind. What is wrong with me today? he thought, and, shaking his head, credited his father's strong scotch for these foolish notions.

A minute later, he was almost knocked off his feet by a very sandy Elizabeth.

“Where have you been? I was getting worried already!” she exclaimed.

He waived his hand. “Traffic.” It was the usual, and the accepted, reason for being late in Los Angeles.

“Well, Richard and Charles are surfing already.” Elizabeth pointed to the gleaming waves; there, among other surfers, Richard and Charles were bobbing up and down on the incoming tide. Despite growing up in Southern California, Fitzwilliam did not surf, and he just shook his head and smiled slightly at the occupation - he could not understand the enjoyment in being hurled towards the shore, half submerged in a rush of cold and salty water, just to have to do it all over again. Instead, he made himself comfortable in a beach chair and satisfied himself with reading and, once in a while, surreptitiously glancing at Elizabeth while she and Jane perused their own reading material and gossiped amiably. Occasionally, without ever turning around, Elizabeth would touch his foot lightly with hers, bringing a warm feeling of contentment to settle in his chest; it seemed a time when words were unnecessary to communicate their feelings and their mutual joy at being together.

Fitzwilliam looked up at the surfers and was startled to see many getting out of the water. Among those were Richard and Charles, and Fitzwilliam could have sworn that in running out, they could have set an Olympic record. Finally, the two approached him and the girls, threw their surf boards down on the sand and dropped onto beach towels, gasping for breath from their mad dash. It took a little while to discern what they were trying to say, through the chattering of teeth, but at length it appeared that they thought they had seen several sharks. That was indeed distressing, as everyone was hoping to go for a swim later. With many concerned exclamations, Elizabeth and Jane surveyed the water while Fitzwilliam made sure that Richard and Charles recovered from their shock. Suddenly, sounds of suppressed giggling reached his ears and in a moment, both girls were laughing hysterically and pointing to the water. He looked over and had to chuckle himself as he saw two or three dolphins, frolicking peacefully in the waves, completely oblivious to the havoc they had wreaked among the surfers. Others on the beach had also noticed the real cause of the commotion and the surfers who had run out were now heading back with cheeks which were red, and not only from sunburn.

Charles took it with his customary good nature, placated, no doubt, by Jane's more reserved and better hidden amusement. Fitzwilliam, however, did not feel as if he should restrain himself with Richard, having on many occasions been on the other end of Richard's biting wit, and made sure to propound several dry comments regarding the known viciousness of dolphins and the very great danger of swimming in waters containing that species.

For several more hours, they luxuriated in the warmth of the sun, even braving the tide several times. Someone took out a volleyball and they were immediately recruited onto a team. All in all, it was a typical day out in the sun, after which all were happy and a little sunburned. They ambled lazily to their respective cars, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam promising to meet for a late dinner later on.

Almost as soon as he drove off, his cell phone began ringing insistently. He did not pick it up, letting it ring several times, but at the last moment relented, thinking that it might be an emergency at work. “Hello?”

“Fitzwilliam? It's Uncle Henry.” Henry's voice sounded tired and grave.

Becoming alarmed immediately, Fitzwilliam asked: “Is everything all right?”

There was a momentary silence on the other end, as if Henry Fitzwilliam was gathering his courage. “I don't know how to tell you this. Fitzwilliam… your father had a heart attack. We called the paramedics, but it was too late. I'm sorry, son.”

Chapter 8

Fitzwilliam sat in his father's study, staring unseeingly at the wall ahead of him; he could not have said whether he had been there for five minutes or for several hours. Someone had thoughtfully placed a cup of tea on the table next to him; he wanted to take it, could move his eyes to see the steam rising off of the cup, but his arm would not obey his command, hanging listlessly at his side. Thoughts buzzed in his head like an angry beehive, noisy, incoherent, chaotic; in contrast, everything around him seemed to be happening in slow motion.

His father was dead. Not “passed away,” not “gone on,” not “lost” - innocuous phrases uttered by well-meaning people gathered in the front rooms, which nevertheless, made his hair stand on end - his father was dead. It took an effort to breathe and blood pounded in his temples.

Fitzwilliam had existed through the past several days as if in a never-ending nightmare. People came and went, he signed papers that his uncle had placed in front of him, he shook hands and mumbled incoherent responses. Elizabeth held his hand throughout the funeral (so he thought, though he could not recall clearly). She had looked at him with such painful pity in her eyes, had held his hand and fussed over him protectively; but she did not really understand - she could not understand how much all of their lives had been built around his father. The study in which he sat evidenced it - it was filled with his father's work, his books, music, papers - artifacts now, he supposed - Fitzwilliam felt like an intruder there. He smiled humorlessly at the notion that he could possibly sit at that massive desk. The room weighed on him with its olive green walls and rich upholstered furniture, he could barely breathe through the pressure in his chest; he passed a hand over his eyes and felt a cold sweat - he was still waiting to wake up.

The door of the study opened forcefully and his uncle came in. At least, thought Fitzwilliam, he does not look at me with pity. If truth was known, at that moment, Henry could not have looked at anyone with anything other than sheer exhaustion. For three days, while Fitzwilliam had walked around as if in a stupor and Eleanor was occupied with comforting a hysterical Georgiana, Henry had taken upon himself all the duties that Mr. Darcy had left behind. He arranged press conferences, he reviewed pieces that would be sent to newspapers and magazines, he arranged for the funeral, and he had overseen the daily activities of Darcy Corp. Sleep had eluded him, even when he could have snatched a few precious hours of it. Henry felt a great deal of pain for Fitzwilliam - he still remembered how his own father's death had shocked him - but he knew that if Fitzwilliam did not take charge of the situation, and do it immediately, more things would be irretrievably lost than anyone cared to imagine.

He rubbed his eyes and said, a little more sharply than he had intended: “Fitzwilliam, are you ready to leave in the morning?”

Fitzwilliam looked at him blankly.

Henry closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. Pouring himself a brandy and shoving one in Fitzwilliam's hand, he sat down opposite his nephew and began again.

“Everybody has left, son, they're all gone,” he said, more gently this time. “We must leave for New York in the morning - the jet is standing by and Mrs. Reynolds has packed your suitcases.” He gulped his drink down and motioned for Fitzwilliam to do the same. Only when color started returning into Fitzwilliam's face and comprehension to his eyes, did Henry breathe a little easier.

Fitzwilliam frowned. “We are going to New York?”

"Yes, and Europe and Asia if necessary. There is a packet of information in your travel bag and we will be debriefed on the airplane. Fitzwilliam, you must understand the gravity of the situation or we will lose everything. Crawford has made his move - he has been talking with our competitors on the sly and now has gathered several powerful investors to try to force a buyout of your shares. They have called an emergency shareholders meeting in New York next week - they will try to convince the others that you are too young and too inexperienced to run Darcy Corp., that you are undeserving of the majority of shares that came to you from your father, that the market is already hesitant about DAC's new ventures and that in order to keep the company from crashing, they will need to buy you out. We must prevent this from happening at any cost. Any cost. We must not surrender what your ancestors and your father so painstakingly built and nourished.”

During this long speech, Fitzwilliam's eyes had been getting wider and wider. Over the past couple of days, he had been so focused on his own misery that he had forgotten about everything else - about duty, about honor, about responsibility. His heart began to beat faster. He looked up at his uncle with sudden decision, a new fire lighting in his eyes. “You are right, Uncle, I've been selfish. Father would have wanted me to fight for DAC.”

Henry's gaze warmed and he clapped Fitzwilliam on the shoulder. “That's more like it! I thought I was going to have to give you a whooping. Now, listen to me: we have a very, very difficult task ahead of us, one which will require you to be fully engaged in this. We must act quickly and decisively. I have, over the last few days, made contact with several members of the Board of Directors who are still loyal to us; however, we cannot know who else has been compromised - Crawford has been working on this for a long time, we cannot trust anybody. I need you to read over all the paperwork tonight and tomorrow on the plane, we will decide on global strategy.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, deep in thought. “Won't we need to hire a PR firm?”

“I've thought about that, but we have so little time! We would need to find someone within the next few days - someone who is young, personable, and whom we can trust not to be subverted by Crawford and his cronies.”

Both were silent, trying to find a way out of the predicament.

“Wait,” said Henry, “don't you have a close friend who works for PRW? That affable fellow, Bingley - was that his name?”

“Yes, Charles works for PRW,” answered Fitzwilliam hesitantly. PRW was the best Public Relations firm in the country, and since landing a job with them, Charles had moved up the ranks quite quickly, but somehow, Fitzwilliam had never thought of him in that capacity.

“Do you trust him?” Henry's question was bullet-like.

“With my life,” Fitzwilliam responded without hesitation.

“Get him to come with you, then, if he will go. Tell him that we are retaining him. I will call Mitchell at PRW tomorrow to arrange everything.”

“You are on first name basis with PRW's president?” Sometimes, even Fitzwilliam could not but be amazed at the breadth of his family's connections.

Henry nodded casually. “We went to Princeton together back in the day. He's a straight enough guy, but we could not have taken a chance on any agency unless we felt 100% sure we could trust someone absolutely.” He sighed heavily. “These are going to be a difficult few months, Fitzwilliam, I won't try to deceive you. It isn't about the money - as you know, you never have to worry about that, and even if you did, you have me and your aunt - but I cannot abide by the thought that everything your family has worked towards for so many generations would be ruined by a looter who hopes to sell DAC in parts to make a quick profit.”

Fitzwilliam's eyes blazed in response. “I will never allow that to happen.” His words rang out, cutting the air - like a pledge, like a vow.

***

After another hour of discussion with Henry, Fitzwilliam made his way wearily to his own bedroom and collapsed. The nervous strain of the last three days was beginning to show and his muscles cramped painfully. His head was full of the plans he and his uncle had made together; he knew the future of his father's company depended largely on his behavior in the upcoming several months. It was a heavy burden.

Fitzwilliam's reflections were broken off by the sound of muffled crying in the room next to his - his sister's room, as he realized with shock. Guilt flooded over him in sick waves; while he had been closed off to the world, feeling utterly sorry for himself, his little sister was crying, alone. When he walked into her room, she was huddled on her bed in a pair of faded flannel pajamas. It was the pajamas, for some odd reason, that tugged on Fitzwilliam's heartstrings the most - both he and his sister were trying to find comfort in any way they could.

Georgiana did not move when he sat down on her bed; in fact, he was not even sure if she had heard him enter. Carefully trying to move some hair away from her eyes - a touch which startled her - he whispered, “I'm so sorry, Georgie, I'm so sorry. I should have been here for you.”

She clasped his hand and he was happy to see that her crying abated somewhat. Not knowing what to say, Fitzwilliam just continued to hold her hand until she fell into an uneasy sleep. He made a mental note to move Georgiana to Eleanor's care before he left for New York.

There were a hundred arrangements to make before the trip. Mrs. Reynolds was still bustling downstairs, so Fitzwilliam sought her counsel for what he would need to do to close the house for the duration of his trip and to make sure Georgiana had everything she needed at Eleanor and Henry's. Mrs. Reynolds was amazing - Fitzwilliam was astounded at how quickly and efficiently his questions were answered and his concerns allayed. In five minutes, he found himself sitting in front of a huge pastrami sandwich with a steaming cup of strong tea, being patted on the hand and shushed by his housekeeper when he tried to explain all the difficulties inherent in his sudden departure.

“You just worry about yourself, Master William,” she said smilingly (the same way as she had said it when he was five years old and crashed his bike into one of her flower pots), “and let me do the rest.” Fitzwilliam knew what was coming next. “I've been running this house ever since you were still crawling about in diapers, and I think I can take care of it for a little longer still.” Strangely comforted by this, Fitzwilliam went upstairs to call and wake up Bingley, and then fell asleep almost before he even hung up the phone.

***

Elizabeth lay awake, looking at the ceiling. The past few days had been awful - and the worst thing for her was the feeling of utter helplessness. Fitzwilliam had walked around as if in a dream, and whatever Elizabeth said or did, she could not get through to him. She held his hand during the funeral, but she doubted he even realized she was there; he stared forward with strangely vacant, dry eyes, all the more awful because her own tears would not stop. Then, at the wake, she stood next to him, feeling entirely superfluous, while he went through the motions of shaking hands and accepting condolences from friends and acquaintances. At one point, Elizabeth had gone outside to take a cell phone call, and when she came back, Fitzwilliam was no longer in the front rooms. Seeing her questioning gaze, Eleanor approached her and discreetly whispered with an unmistakable hint in her voice that Fitzwilliam was “resting.” Elizabeth tried to ask Mrs. Reynolds, Henry, Richard or anyone else she knew, but received the same response and the same hint. Exasperated, and not wanting to comb through the large house for him, Elizabeth gave up and went home. And now, it was 1:30 a.m.; he had not called and sleep eluded her.

At nine thirty in the morning, the ringing of her cell phone woke her from uneasy dreams.

“Hello?” she said groggily.

She heard a crisp, familiar voice on the other end. “Elizabeth, it's me.”

“Fitzwilliam! I… I was really hoping you would call. Are you okay?”

There was a pause, and then Fitzwilliam answered, sounding faintly annoyed. “I'm fine. Elizabeth, listen, I am leaving for New York in a couple of hours with my uncle and with Charles.”

“New York? Charles?” Elizabeth knew she was stammering but could not help herself - this was too sudden and too surprising.

“It's for DAC business, there's a… sort of a situation that requires our immediate attention. I will most likely be away for quite a while - three weeks, a month possibly. I am very sorry that I could not see you to say good bye in person, but it was unavoidable - the nature of the business is very pressing.”

She said tentatively, “I can drive over right now.” Then, feeling his hesitation, she added softly, “I would really like to see you before you go.”

Fitzwilliam sighed, acquiescing. “I would really like to see you too. But Elizabeth,” he warned, “do not speak with anybody. Drive carefully and if people start asking you questions, just ignore them.”

“Um... sure, okay,” she replied. “I'll see you in about 40 minutes.”

Even though Elizabeth got ready at super speed, it still took her over a half an hour to make her way to the Pasadena house. At the security entrance, she finally realized what Fitzwilliam had meant with his cryptic comment about not talking to people. Six large news-vans were parked on the sides of the street and she saw a camera lens in the window of each one, flashing in the sunlight and pointing her way. It was all very unnerving. At the security booth, a large-chested blonde woman in a tight suit was arguing loudly with the guard.

“What do you mean, I can't even walk through? It's a free country! The public has a right to news!” she screeched.

The guard edged his body to block the entrance to his booth, glaring darkly at the intruder. “Look, lady, I know it's a free country, but this is private property and if you and your 'associates' don't stay on the other side of the fence, I'll be forced to call in reinforcements and you will get a first hand demonstration of what they teach us in the Marine Corps.”

Stamping her foot in frustration, the blonde nevertheless backed away, and the guard turned his attention to Elizabeth. Looking over her once, he nodded and opened the gate. As she drove through, she heard the woman yelling after her car: “Are you going to see Mr. Darcy? What is your relationship with him?”

If possible, things were even more hectic at the house. Cars cluttered the driveway, people were running to and fro, arranging suitcases in several black SUVs, Mrs. Reynolds hastily folded up scarves and gloves and stuffed them into a carry on bag, and then yelled at someone for apparently wrinkling an Armani coat. No one noticed Elizabeth and she, feeling very out of place, walked into the house to find Fitzwilliam. He was situated in one of the family rooms, sitting among a group that comprised Henry Fitzwilliam and his sons Edward and Richard, as well as Charles and several other men whom Elizabeth did not recognize. Their discussion looked to be so animated that Elizabeth almost turned around and went home; however, remembering that she would not see Fitzwilliam for possibly another month, she persevered and waited until a lull in the conversation to make her presence known.

Excusing himself with an embarrassed cough, Fitzwilliam ushered Elizabeth into a side room. “I'm sorry,” he said, “Henry and the others wanted to meet before we take off.” His eyes shone with a determined light and his speech was unnaturally fast. “Did you get hassled by the stalkers outside?”

Elizabeth admitted that she did. Now that she was here, she wished she had not come - she felt silly for interrupting what was obviously a very important conference for her own selfish reasons. Meanwhile, Fitzwilliam had continued speaking, not noticing her distress. “… If they follow you as you are going back home, drive to a police station. Don't answer any questions and don't be angry at anything you read in the papers - it's sensationalist trash…”

“Fitzwilliam,” she interrupted, putting her hand on his arm, “I don't want to take you away from your meeting, I just came to say good-bye and that I love you.”

He looked at her with some of the affection she was used to seeing and brushed his knuckles against her cheek in a brief caress. “I love you too, Elizabeth. I wish it didn't have to be like this, but…”

“I understand.”

He reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand. “I wasn't sure if you still have yours, but here's a key to my place. I want you to go there whenever you want while I'm gone.”

In silent thanks, Elizabeth hugged him close, pressing her cheek into his shirt. “You promise to call me once in a while?”

“Of course! And you can always call me, my cell phone picks up anywhere in the world.”

“Fitzwilliam… you know that I'm always here for you, if you want to talk, right?”

He nodded, turning his face away.

With a sigh, Elizabeth let him go and, pressing a quick kiss on his lips, walked slowly back to her car.

Chapter 9

When the phone rang, Fitzwilliam struggled to wake up and remember where he was. During the month, he had changed so many countries, time zones and hotels that often, it was only the language of the hotel brochure that reminded him of his whereabouts. Spying “Bienvenuto” on the cover, he answered the telephone prepared for an Italian conversation.

“Pronto?”

Elizabeth's hesitant voice came from the receiver. “Er.. could I speak with Mr. Darcy, please?”

“Elizabeth, it's me. I'm sorry, I thought you may have been someone calling about the meeting later on today.”

She laughed uneasily. “No, it's just me.”

An uncomfortable silence hung between them, as it had done so often during their brief conversations over the last month.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “So, how have you been?”

Fitzwilliam felt this to be a silent accusation; he knew he had not called for four or five days, but he had been always working or discussing work with his uncle, and if not that, then trying to grab a few hours of sleep. “Look, I'm sorry I haven't called for so long…”

“No, no, I didn't mean that,” she assured him hastily, “I just wanted to see if your meetings have been going well.”

“Oh. Well, yes, I think so. It's difficult to tell at this point in time, but so far, we have managed to keep the European investors from backing out.”

“That's great! Congratulations!”

“Thanks.”

There was another silence. “Will you have to go to New York before you come back home?”

“Yes, I think, for a week or so.”

Elizabeth sighed. “All right, Fitzwilliam, I should let you go so you can prepare for your meeting. I need to get to bed anyway.”

“Elizabeth…”

“Call me when you are back in the States.”

Elizabeth hung up the phone with a sense of despair. For a month, she had struggled to find a way to reach Fitzwilliam, but since he left for New York and then for Europe, their conversations had gotten progressively shorter and more detached. The magic and the wordless understanding that had up until now infused their relationship seemed to have disappeared with Mr. Darcy's passing. There were times when Fitzwilliam would call and wake her up just to talk for an hour about, inexplicably, books, movies and other miscellaneous subjects, and there were times when she could barely get a monosyllabic answer out of him. Elizabeth did not know what to do, how to make him happy, so she tried to simply answer to the demands of the moment - talk to him when he wanted to talk, let him go when he wanted to be silent. She knew that he was extremely, mind-bogglingly busy; she knew that between meetings, conferences and flights from country to country, he had barely any time to sleep. Yet, this knowledge did nothing to help the stabbing, paralyzing pain she felt every time he spoke to her as if to a stranger. In addition, Elizabeth was certain that Fitzwilliam had not had a chance to grieve for his father. However, when she tried to broach the subject, she received a cold silence and a curt “Let us not discuss this right now” from him. Every conversation was quickly becoming an uphill battle, with Elizabeth struggling to retain a sense of normality. Perhaps, she thought, things will improve when he returns to familiar surroundings and we have a chance to be together once again.

***

Fitzwilliam, looking out of the window of his thirtieth-story office in Los Angeles, was mesmerized by the sight of the setting sun which streaked the sky with glowing colors. The spectacle almost made him forget the piles of papers on his desk, the contracts to be reviewed and the correspondence that needed to be read and answered. With a heavy sigh, he turned back to his desk. During the past two months, with hard work, tireless dedication and many sleepless nights, he, Henry, Richard, Edward and Charles had managed to save DAC. Now, however, it was Fitzwilliam's job to make sure the company, still reeling from the near-takeover, continued to perform up to the market's expectations. He had never imagined how many decisions would have to be made on a daily basis and how much he would come to rely on his carefully-chosen team. The Fitzwilliams had been invaluable; however, they had their own company to run and the most they could do was be available around the clock to help and advise - for which Fitzwilliam was ceaselessly grateful; he would not have, and would not in the future, survive without this constant line of support.

The press still hounded him relentlessly. Since his father's death, he had become their favorite object - the "tragic story of the father's death" and his own fight to keep DAC from being taken over "while still battling grief" had sustained the gossip magazines and tabloids for months with the sob-story potential. When that lost its appeal, his every movement was documented. He had dinner with Charles and the tabloids printed an article questioning his sexuality; he sent a car with tinted windows to pick up Elizabeth and bring her to his house, the photogs purchased longer range lenses to try and capture "the mysterious brunette whose shoulder the younger Darcy has been crying on." The circus disgusted him and he had a new appreciation for the way his father had maneuvered the press during his life to give Fitzwilliam relative anonymity.

Everything reminded him of his father. It was like a sudden shock, to see his father's signature on an old contract, to walk by his father's favorite painting in the hallways, to watch his staff as they carefully surveyed his features, looking for a family resemblance. Most of the time, the telephones were ringing constantly and he was receiving a million emails per minute, so he had no time for pain; in moments like these, however, when the whole office sank into an evening calmness, even the steel beams which supported the DAC sky-scraper screamed that he could not possibly sustain this life, that he was alone. Jaw clenched, he had to grip the side of his desk to maintain his inscrutable expression that contained the raging storm within.

Fitzwilliam had begun to think of his life as divided into two periods - before the death of his father and now. He was the same person and yet, everything in him had changed. The friends and acquaintances from his old life had sympathized, not really understanding, and had gone back to their usual daily routine; the only people who knew what he was going through were his DAC employees, Charles and the Fitzwilliams, who were daily fighting the same fight as he was. Even Elizabeth did not understand… but it was painful to think of that.

Elizabeth. What did he feel for her? Lately, an impenetrable veil seemed to have settled between them; sometimes, he missed her terribly, but when he called, the right words eluded him and they ended up speaking about trivialities, more dissatisfied then if they had not talked at all. Other times, when he spoke to her, her voice evoked memories of the happy and carefree time before his father's death - memories so painful and foolish in their innocence, that he could not bear to be on the telephone with her for more than several minutes. Her life had not changed, while he felt uprooted from everything familiar. There was a barrier of understanding between them and he felt himself drifting further and further away. Fitzwilliam was glad that his around the clock work prevented them from seeing each other very frequently - he could not pretend to be happy and it pained him to see Elizabeth disappointed with his inability to enjoy their time together. In fact, Elizabeth seemed to expect him to pick up and go on behaving the way he did before; she did not understand the emptiness he felt inside, the anger at his father for leaving and the guilt washing over him every time he felt that anger. Other people seemed to understand, especially his family, who well knew what it was like to lose a beloved person. They did not look at him with pity, they did not expect him to be happy and interested, they gave him only the help he wanted, leaving him to his own thoughts and respecting his grief.

Fitzwilliam did not know whether he could ever return to the kind of person he was before his father's death. Regrets, responsibilities and sadness weighed him down at every step. Surely, he thought, Elizabeth could not benefit from being with a person like that. She was so sparkling, so happy - so unlike what he felt himself to be. What kind of life could she have with him? He would sap her strength and vivacity - she did not deserve to bear the consequences of his unhappiness.

A buzz of his intercom startled him out of the dark thoughts; he was thankful for the interruption. "Yes, Helena?"

"Mr. Fitzwilliam here for you, sir."

"Excellent, thank you. Please show him through. Oh, Helena: it's late, why don't you go home? I don't think I'll be needing anything else tonight."

His assistant sighed in relief. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Darcy. Good night!"

Fitzwilliam smiled at the loyalty of his staff. He had his father to be thankful to for that - he bred a culture at DAC that centered on respect and teamwork - his father's legacy was everywhere, even in the way his assistant said "sir." Fitzwilliam was at once protected and imprisoned by it.

The conference with his uncle revealed that he would have to go to New York, for possibly several months. Henry could keep an eye on the Los Angeles office, but without Fitzwilliam's leadership, the office in New York would not survive, so the trip was necessary. The news only brought back the uncertainties he felt about imposing his lifestyle, and now his sorrow, on Elizabeth.

***

Elizabeth paced in her room. She could not handle this situation with Fitzwilliam any longer. She needed to get answers, she needed to see him face to face. They had had so little time together, and whenever she wanted to see him, he seemed hesitant and withdrawn. He usually sent a car for her, but if she called him now, he would just make some excuse to keep her at arms' length again.

During the drive to Pasadena, she was deaf and blind to her surroundings, driving on auto-pilot; her heart was pounding and she was playing out the intended conversation with Fitzwilliam in her mind, trying to find the right words to reach him, to tell him how much she loved him, how much she hurt for him and how much she wanted to make it better. It was only on the exit off of the freeway that she noticed a large white van following her car at a comfortable distance, never coming too close but never veering off of its course. It had begun to get dark and the van's lights came on, blinding her through the rear-view mirror. Elizabeth tried to drive faster, turning corners at random, and now she was sure that the van was following her, driving dangerously close to her back bumper in order not to lose her. Panic tightened her chest and her only thought was now to get to Fitzwilliam's house. Frantically, she turned more corners, going faster and faster - but the pursuers never let up; when she finally saw the familiar bend of Fitzwilliam's street leading to the security booth, relief flooded through her and she stepped on the gas. The corner was sharper than she had expected, or she was going faster than she could control, and the last thing she remembered after she stepped hard on the break pedal was the screeching of tires and the flashing of bright lights.

Elizabeth woke up in a white hospital room. When she tried to lift her head, the stab of pain at her temples made her drop it back down on the pillow with a groan. Someone stirred in the corner and she saw that it was Fitzwilliam - he had been sitting in a chair, sleeping, head leaned uncomfortably against the wall, and he now looked up at her, slightly disoriented. His clothes were wrinkled and he was unshaven, his eyebrows were drawn in a frown.

He rose gingerly and approached the bed, taking her hand. The look that darkened his eyes was so full of guilt and despair that Elizabeth almost shrank back from the touch.

"What happened?" she asked.

"You got into a car accident. There were some ... paparazzi following you," he spat the word out like a curse, "and you have a slight concussion. You will be okay, you were just knocked out. Curtis at the security booth heard the accident and called me and the ambulance. The nurses here gave you something so that you would sleep through the night." Fitzwilliam sat down next to her bed and looked out of the window, where the first rays of the morning light brightened the trees outside. "Your parents should be back soon - I gave them the night off - they can take you home in a couple of hours."

"I'm so sorry, Fitzwilliam, I just wanted to come and see you." she whispered.

He put a gentle hand on her forehead. "Shh... don't talk too much for now. It's okay. The important part is that you are safe."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, realizing the impact of her foolish dash to Fitzwilliam's house. "I just wanted us to spend some time together, I thought we could talk about... things..."

Fitzwilliam frowned and looked away. "Yes, I do think we should talk. But now is not the time nor the place, you are hurt."

"No! I do want us to talk now, this is important! And, as you said, I'm fine, nothing is wrong with me."

"If you wish." He got up and stood next to the window, hands clenched behind his back. "We can't go on like this, Elizabeth. It just isn't working anymore."

Each word felt like a lead drop on her heart. "What do you mean?"

"You can't possibly be happy with me, you have to admit that. You deserve so much better, you deserve someone who is full of life, full of hope and fire, someone who can keep you safe - everything that I am not."

"You will be happy again, Fitzwilliam," she tried to reassure him weakly.

He turned to her, anguished. "You don't understand... you don't understand... you don't understand."

She cried desperately: "Fitzwilliam, we will work this out, I will help you get through this!"

"I don't think anyone can help me." His tone carried unbearable finality. "I want you to be happy, Elizabeth, and you can't be happy with me. I'm sorry."

"Fitzwilliam! You can't just walk out! Think about everything we have together!"

Walking over to her bed, he touched her cheek tenderly with his fingertips. "That's exactly what I'm thinking about," he whispered, "I love you, Elizabeth." And with that, he was gone.

Elizabeth thought that her tears would never stop; she cried, not caring about the pain in her head, only conscious of her heart being torn apart. How could he say he loved her and then leave? How could he think that life without him was the best thing for her, when she could not even imagine a second of such a life? She knew it was hopeless to try and plead with him - his opinion once decided, was decided forever. It felt like a betrayal, like a conscious slap in the face of all of her feelings, all that they had shared together during the long months. Elizabeth knew that his father's death had turned Fitzwilliam's life upside down, but their love was supposed to be worth fighting for, and Fitzwilliam had just given up. Elizabeth felt shattered and broken.

End of Part I

Seven years have passed since their break-up. After he left the hospital room, Fitzwilliam had gone to New York for several months, then realized that he needed to be there permanently and moved to the City with Georgiana, flying back and forth between the offices frequently, but never seeing Elizabeth. Elizabeth stayed in Los Angeles, got a job with one of the top financial consulting firms (which also sent her to Business School) and rose quickly through the ranks. Charles began by working on an assignment for DAC through his PR firm, but after several years was offered a permanent position there. He accepted and also moved to New York to be at DAC headquarters. He asked Jane to go with him and, of course, she agreed. At this point in the story, Fitzwilliam is 33 years old and Elizabeth is 29.

Part II

Chapter 10

Back In The Present

It took Elizabeth only one sleepless night to recount the whole of their relationship. The pain had not disappeared completely, no; it had retreated into dull ache, a heaviness on her heart, a faint throbbing between her temples that she thought would probably never abate. Most of the time, she could forget it was even there, and for that, she was deeply grateful.

Looking back at the past seven years, Elizabeth could honestly say that most of them had been happy ones. Excepting the first few - when she had cried herself to sleep more often than not, tortured with unanswered questions, when the sight of his face in a tabloid magazine could suffuse her own with hot angry color, when she had to clench her fists at people's questions about the two of them - excepting those years, life had been very good to her. Young and naturally disposed to be cheerful, Elizabeth, in spite of herself, began to enjoy life once more. By 29, she had found success at work and was now one of the top young analysts at her firm; her friendships, old and new, gave her pleasure, companionship and intellectual stimulation; her relationships had been frequent and, for the most part, mild and amicable. Some days, however, when she least expected it, a secret, suppressed part of her would come alive and she would imagine, with a sharp pang, what it could have been like if he had not left.

Seven years had taught her many things - she had traveled around the world for her job and had seen the depth of pain and suffering in others; thus, she was more able to understand the darkness that entrapped Fitzwilliam during the nightmarish months that followed the death of his father. In her naiveté then, she had done exactly the opposite of what he needed; she had pushed him further than was his limit of endurance; she did not blame herself for that - she was young, inexperienced and in love. However, Elizabeth now realized that there had been other avenues back then that she had not explored - she had been so sure that she knew how to handle the situation (Ah, the arrogance of 21, she thought), that she did not even consider picking up a book about grief or speaking to a professional in an effort to understand the madness he had been going through. Perhaps if she had done that… but it was pointless to think about what-ifs.

At first, Elizabeth had felt just anger, then came pity - now, all that was left was only a deep sadness. Sadness that he had not trusted her enough or respected her enough to let her make her own decisions and take her own chances; sadness that he felt so alienated from everyone that he could not even share his pain with the person closest to him; sadness that despite all of those things, despite her anger and disappointment, she knew deep in her heart that she would never stop loving him.

The shrill ringing of her office telephone brought her back to the present. She answered in the usual crisp tone she reserved for business. “Elizabeth Bennet.”

It was her manager, James Baker. “Lizzy, if you aren't too busy right now, could you come up to my office sometime within the next hour?”

“Sure, James, I'll be up in a minute - is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything is fine, I just have a proposition for you.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Mysterious! I'll be up shortly.”

By the time she faced James across the glass expanse of his desk, she was really curious. “So what's up?”

James shifted in his chair. “Here's the thing. You know the new Chase account? The New York office would like another bright young associate to be one of the juniors handling the account.” Sensing her hesitation, he added with a smile, “Of course, I could offer this to someone else… but I would really like you to go, I think you are the perfect person.”

“How long would I have to stay there?” she asked.

“It isn't fully known yet, but I would estimate two to three months at least. Come on, Lizzy, it's April in New York, it's a beautiful time. You can live in one of our corporate apartments in the City and all your expenses would be paid by the client. I think you would also enjoy it - Chase would like to make several changes in their portfolio which are right up your alley, you would find it interesting as well as challenging.”

“Could I have some time to think about this?”

James shrugged. “Sure, but only until tomorrow. Chase would like to get started at the beginning of next week so whoever goes will need to spend several days getting up to speed first.”

“I'll sleep on it and let you know in the morning,” promised Elizabeth.

***

That night, Elizabeth met Charlotte for dinner in the cozy courtyard of Sofi's, their favorite Greek restaurant. Over eggplant and wine, she told Charlotte of her opportunity.

“I think I'm going to go,” Elizabeth said meditatively. “It's great career-wise, and James is really pushing for me to be the junior associate on this. And Jane is there, I could see her practically all the time.”

Raising her eyebrows, Charlotte looked at her meaningfully over the rim of the wine glass.

“What?”

Charlotte sighed and shook her head. “Lizzy, you have to be honest with yourself about this. You know very well that when you think of New York, your thoughts do not turn immediately to the project or to your career, or even to Jane. I am just trying to make sure you are keeping your priorities straight.”

Elizabeth shrugged and sighed. “Yeah, I know. I do appreciate it, Char.”

“That's what friends are for,” replied Charlotte with exaggerated kindness, barely hiding the teasing sparkle in her eyes. In retaliation, Elizabeth took the last piece of eggplant, which provoked Charlotte to abandon her placid expression and protest indignantly. After their laughter died down, Charlotte brought the conversation back to New York. She knew that this was what Elizabeth really wanted to talk about, but sensed her hesitation to begin the subject.

“So, are you really going to go?” she asked.

Elizabeth sighed and looked down at her plate. “In all honesty, Char, I don't know what I should do. It's… it's a really difficult decision for me.”

“I know.” They were both silent for a moment, contemplating what both of them had been unwilling to mention thus far. Charlotte decided to break the barrier. “You might see him, you know.”

Elizabeth's head rose sharply and her eyes were pained. “I know,” she said quietly, “that's what I have been thinking about. I just don't know if I am ready for that. It's one thing to see his face in the tabloids - I am not naïve enough to believe the crap that they print about him - but it would be completely different to see him in person…” She did not finish the sentence, but Charlotte understood.

“Well, if you want to know what I think,” she said firmly, “I think you should go. It is the only way to put the past behind you. You have been unable to move on with your life these past seven years, and it's about time you faced your demons.”

“Wait a minute,” Elizabeth objected, “I would not say that I have been unable to move on with my life. I've had plenty of relationships.”

“Yeah, right. Like Paul.” Charlotte's voice was tinged with bitterness.

“Hey, Char, we have been friends for a long time - if you have something to say, just say it.”

Charlotte bit her lip and looked away. “I'm sorry, Lizzy. I just do think you treated him very badly. You knew for a quite a long time that you did not love him and yet you allowed him to hope, to believe that if he did everything right, he might one day win your affection. I cannot sanction that. You should have examined your feelings and let him go, instead of dragging it out just so that you didn't have to be alone.”

The words were harsh and Elizabeth was tempted to be defensive. She suppressed that urge - after all, Charlotte was absolutely right, the way she had hurt Paul had been cruel and selfish, though more through carelessness than by deliberate design. The motivation, however, did not make it any less inexcusable.

Seeing Elizabeth's downcast expression, Charlotte finally took pity on her and patted her arm gently. “I'm sorry that I'm being so hard on you,” she said, changing the subject. The rest of the dinner was spent discussing the preparations that would need to be made before Elizabeth's impending departure to New York.

Chapter 11

Charles Bingley was nervous. During the whole of dinner, he had been trying to share the news with Fitzwilliam, but they were constantly interrupted, and Charles had wanted to talk to Fitzwilliam without witnesses. To this end, he had purposely chosen a back table in a dimly lit restaurant which was not known for its attentive service. However, his plans kept getting thwarted. Once the news got out that Fitzwilliam Darcy was dining here, all the waitresses practically swarmed around their table, falling over each other to refill their drinks, change their silverware and clear empty plates, giggling and nudging each other the whole time, like fourteen year old girls at an N-Sync concert. Charles drummed his fingertips against the pristine white tablecloth impatiently.

“Thank you, we will not be needing anything else tonight,” Fitzwilliam told the group of waitresses with a gentle, but definite, dismissal in his voice.

The girls teetered. “Yes, Mr. Darcy. Just call us over if you would like anything, Mr. Darcy.” Charles rolled his eyes.

“Being the most eligible bachelor in New York sure has its perks,” he exclaimed crossly.

Fitzwilliam turned to him and inclined his head gravely, only the slight twitching at the corners of his mouth revealing his amusement. After a slight pause, he said with sudden decision: “Come, Charles, out with it.” Charles looked up, surprised. “You have been on pins and needles this whole evening, you can tell me whatever it is now.”

Charles flushed. “I… I only wanted to let you know… I intend to ask Jane to marry me. As soon as possible, in fact.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “Congratulations. She is a lovely woman.”

“So,” asked Charles tentatively, “I have your blessing?”

“Do you need my blessing?”

“No… but I should like to have it all the same.”

Fitzwilliam looked at his friend warmly. “Charles, I am truly happy for you. I cannot imagine two people better suited for each other than you and Jane.”

The grin spreading over Charles' face was so bright that Fitzwilliam began to be afraid it would cause electrical blackouts in Manhattan. Continuing to beam, to Fitzwilliam's great bemusement, Charles told him at length about all the details of his planned Central Park proposal, showed him the ring, speculated on his future marital felicity and in general, expressed himself with all the eloquence and clarity of a man violently in love.

“I hope,” Fitzwilliam offered, “that you will allow me to host a small celebration in honor of your engagement. Once the lady says `yes,' of course.”

“Absolutely! That would be fantastic!” Charles' smile threatened to get even wider. “I am sure Jane would be delighted. Oh, but you would have to time it during the next three months, I hope that will not be inconvenient.”

“Why that exact period?”

“Oh, I thought I had told you before - Lizzy is coming here for a project for three months, so naturally, Jane would like her to participate in all the pre-wedding festivities.”

Fitzwilliam's expression did not change, his smile did not waiver - only it became frozen, no longer extending to his eyes. Thankfully, Charles was too happy and too wrapped up in his own ideas to notice that anything was amiss. He kept talking, inadvertently giving Fitzwilliam much needed time in which to grapple for internal composure.

***

It was late by the time he returned home and the whole household was already abed. Despite having had a long day, Fitzwilliam knew he would not sleep tonight. Swirling a glass of brandy, he stared unseeingly at the dying embers of the fireplace, scenes of a past life flashing before his eyes.

The feel of her skin against his, the silk of her hair, the smell of her perfume, the sparkle of her eyes, the laughter in her voice - all of it had tortured him for seven long years; he lost count of how many mornings he woke up with her name upon his lips. Her eyes haunted his dreams. Once, while walking back to the office from a dinner meeting, he saw the briefest flash of unbearably familiar dark curls and had to press himself against the cold marble of the nearest building to stop from rushing after the nameless woman, who he knew could not have been his Elizabeth.

Fitzwilliam could barely recall the first few years after his father's death. It had seemed a never-ending nightmare. The darkness enveloped his every moment, dragging him lower into its depth, clouding his reason. His work was his only salvation. The daily struggle for survival, the fight for each new investor, each customer, it had given him the impetus for waking up every morning, when otherwise, he would just have surrendered to the blissful unconsciousness of sleep. At first, Henry had to steer him through almost everything; gradually, however, Fitzwilliam began to participate, making decisions that he had never imagined he had the capacity to make, shaping the future of his father's legacy. A large portrait of Mr. Darcy hung in his office and throughout the years, Fitzwilliam found himself more able to look into his father's eyes, at first, for guidance and support and then for strength, kindness and compassion. Through saving DAC, he had saved himself, and now, seven years later, this was his company, his people.

In Fitzwilliam's life, there was no room for regrets. Besides, to regret was not in his nature - he would rather learn from the past and look forward to the future. And yet, during the past seven years, he had spent most of his free hours with a dull ache of regret for what he did that day in the hospital. At the time, it had seemed like the only choice, the right choice; he thought that he would never be normal again, that he would always feel the weight of guilt and resentment and darkness overwhelming him. Elizabeth did not deserve to be with someone like him - she deserved the happiness that he could not have given her for many years. When Fitzwilliam saw Elizabeth's white face in the hospital bed something basic broke inside of him. He realized that no matter how hard he tried, he could not take care of her, that she could die and it would be his fault. It was not a burden which he could shoulder, and his only thought was to get her away from him and give her some chance at a normal life. The shock and pain in her eyes slashed at him, and it was not until many months afterwards that he could look in the mirror without a crippling sense of guilt and shame for what he had done.

For years, Fitzwilliam did not doubt that he had made the right decision. He knew Elizabeth was deeply unhappy at first, but he thought it was a small price to pay for her safety. He knew that eventually, Elizabeth would live to love again, and love someone more worthy than him, and he considered his own emptiness, hopelessness and despair as a necessary penance for the hurt that she had suffered. Gradually, however, as the darkness that had descended on his soul began to lift, and he saw with astonishment the return of normal human feelings, perhaps much more abated than before, he realized that walking away from Elizabeth was one of the biggest mistakes he had ever made. He thought he would always be unhappy and incapable of love - he saw, with DAC's each success, with Georgiana's warmth and laughter, that he was wrong. He thought that he would bring hurt and misery to anyone connected to him - but his family continued to love him as before, from his father's example, he had learned how to manipulate the press, and through Georgiana's need of a parent, a confidante and a protector, he realized himself capable of giving love as well as of receiving it.

By that time, it had been too many years since he had last seen Elizabeth, and he believed himself to be irredeemable in her eyes. Fitzwilliam decided, nonetheless, that he needed to try and talk to her, if only to explain his grave error of judgment, to describe the nightmare that he had been through, to tell her that throughout it all, his love for her shone like a beacon in the stormy seas. Inventing a reason to visit the Los Angeles office, Fitzwilliam was agonizing about whether to call her first or to just try and find her in person, when Jane's off-hand comment one night at dinner doused his sense of purpose with icy water. He was taking a telephone call, and Jane, believing him to be out of earshot, was telling Charles about Elizabeth's happiness with her long standing stockbroker boyfriend, and that her family was hoping that he was “The One” and for Elizabeth to finally settle down. It felt, for a moment, as if he had been hit in the gut. He tried to tell himself that this was what he had always wanted - Elizabeth was free and happy - he could not have given her that and she finally found peace with someone else. The thought did not lessen the ache, but he straightened his back and veiled the pain that he knew was flashing in his eyes, dragging his attention back to the call and to business. Daily, he expected to hear the news that Elizabeth was lost to him forever, however, no such news came and the waiting became a constant dull agony. Every time he discretely inquired, either Jane or Charles would let slip that Elizabeth was seeing someone, that she was happy. Yes, in his life, there was no room for regrets, and Fitzwilliam's duty to Georgiana, to DAC and to the Foundation soon forced all other personal feelings to retreat to the back of his consciousness, only to manifest themselves at moments like these, when he sat in front of the fire, alone with his own thoughts.

And now, Elizabeth was coming here, and he would most certainly see her. Fitzwilliam did not want to fool himself into thinking that she could still retain any kind of feelings for him. If he could at least gain her friendship, perhaps he could hope for understanding and forgiveness, and then for peace.

Chapter 12

The taxi dropped her off in front of the Darcys' 5th Avenue townhouse. Elizabeth was not quite sure exactly what she had expected, perhaps another mind-bogglingly palatial mansion like the Pasadena house, but what actually greeted her was an impressive, but not overwhelming, five story home with a tasteful cream-colored Georgian facade. Turn of the century white mouldings encased the windows and slender white Ionic columns graced the front entrance. The house was illuminated from the inside, but Elizabeth involuntarily shivered in the cold spring air as she looked across the street at the Park, menacing with its still-bare trees, dark branches reaching towards the evening sky. A sense of unreality pervaded her evening. Two weeks ago, she had been in Los Angeles, wearing colorful dresses to combat an unexpected heat wave and now… she was in New York, dressed in a sleek black dress, attending Jane's engagement party at his house. Laughing at the absurdity of it all, she was sure that at any moment, she would wake up in her LA apartment and find that it had all been a dream. With a sigh, she pulled herself back together, realizing that she had been standing, immobile, in the middle of 5th Avenue.

Her heart pounding, Elizabeth knocked on the door; it opened and she was admitted into the light and warmth of the house. A smart butler took her purse and coat and directed her up a curved staircase to the brilliantly lit room in which most of some one hundred guests had already gathered. The space she found herself in was large and well-proportioned; the high white ceiling with ornate crown mouldings was supported in places by graceful Ionic columns, echoing the design elements of the outside; a delicately-veined gray marble fireplace dominated one side of the room, framed by stylized modern paintings and marble vases containing light pink orchids. Elizabeth was almost afraid to look around, but her eyes scanned the room almost on their own volition. The emotion which filled her at not perceiving anyone familiar was in part relief and in part a spasm of disappointment. With a sigh, she realized that both Charles and Jane were, in all likelihood, trapped somewhere by well-wishers and would not emerge in the nearest future. And, as none of her other family had been able to attend the party, Elizabeth was left to forage for herself.

A turn cast her gaze into the shadows, and for a moment, gone was the fashionable crowd, sipping champagne and sampling canapés from darting waiters, gone was the pianist exhibiting his craft at the grand piano, the bright lights were dimmed, and she could imagine him living his daily life here. Would he bring a book and sit in front of the massive fireplace? Spend all-nighters working in an inevitable office upstairs? Would he stand next to the windows, as was a habit of his, and, looking out into the ever-changing panorama of Central Park, would he dream?

Elizabeth was forced to come back to the present by the necessity of attending to a man who was trying to ask her something. She blinked several times to focus and looked at him questioningly, finally realizing that he was offering her a glass of champagne. A pair of kindly blue eyes, crinkled in a smile, belonging to a well dressed elderly gentleman looked at her with thinly veiled amusement.

“You looked a little lost, young lady. I thought that perhaps some champagne might.. er.. ease the discomfort.”

“Oh, thank you.” Elizabeth stammered, blushing and accepting the proffered glass.

Her companion extended his hand. “I'm Arthur Hastings, by the way.”

“Elizabeth Bennet. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“At my age, dear, the pleasure is all mine,” he chuckled at his own joke, bringing an involuntary smile onto Elizabeth's face. “Did you say `Bennet'? A member of Jane's family, then?”

“Yes, her sister, actually. Are you a friend of Jane's?” Her eyes sparkled. “An admirer, perhaps?”

He inclined his head in a gallant bow. “Quite so. Your sister is as sweet as she is beautiful, she cannot help having admirers. If you will allow me to say so, however, I can see that beauty runs in the family.”

Elizabeth laughed, pleased with his old-fashioned charm. “Thank you.”

“In truth, though,” he continued, “I am an old-timer at DAC and that is how I know both Jane and Charles. And Fitzwilliam Darcy,” he added, looking at Elizabeth intently.

Uncomfortable under his questioning gaze, Elizabeth looked away. The mention of his name discomposed her for a moment, but she did not wish for that to be apparent, so she changed the subject lightly.

“So what do you do at DAC, Mr. Hastings?”

Arthur relinquished his inquiry; whatever his suspicions were, they would have to wait for further confirmation. “I have done a little of everything, I suppose, over my thirty years there,” he answered. “Presently, however, I hold the position of the Director of European Operations.”

Elizabeth nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“Of course, this means much more now than it used to mean thirty years ago.” He chuckled, reminiscing. “Not that it was a basement operation even back then, mind you, but George and I - that's old Mr. Darcy - we fought more than a few valiant fights together. Even Fitzwilliam,” he continued, “although he has been at the helm for merely seven years, has expanded operations from the US, Europe and Asia to Australia and several of the Latin American markets. I don't mind telling you that Fitzwilliam has been quite brilliant, perhaps even more so than his father was. Swooping in like that, amidst the chaos that followed George's death - I am sure you had heard of it at the time, it was a hugely prominent story - re-establishing the market's faith in DAC, winning new clients, and most importantly, winning the respect and love of his employees… I cannot think of another person who could have done that, and survived.”

Elizabeth listened, entranced. Of course, she had realized all of this previously, on an intellectual level - the Wall Street Journal (almost required reading for a Business School student) often featured articles discussing the successes of the young Mr. Darcy, the company's business model was used as a case study in several of her classes - but in those cases, she had been able to remove herself from it and receive the information as if DAC was just another company. Here, however, standing in his house and listening to the words of his father's old friend made it so real and so personal that for the first time, she thought of what it must have been really like for Fitzwilliam after his father's death. Besides the unenviable stress and confusion of running a large corporation with very little experience, Fitzwilliam was also dropped in the middle of a power struggle between his father and disloyal members of the Board of Directors that could have torn DAC apart at the seams. All that, in addition to grieving for his father and taking care of Georgiana. Even hypothetically, Elizabeth could not imagine what he had gone through.

“What would have happened to DAC had Crawford won?” she asked.

Arthur looked at her with surprise, as if wondering how much she actually knew. “Well,” he shrugged, “he and his associates would have liquidated the company, selling the inventory, the intellectual property and the goodwill to the highest bidder. All the employees would have had to look for new jobs. Fitzwilliam would have had to start all over again. You see, Crawford was simply looking for quick profit - he wanted to capitalize on DAC's success immediately, without waiting years and working hard for the payoff.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She swallowed a sip of champagne, barely tasting it.

Suddenly, many isolated events finally clicked into place for Arthur - the beginnings of the name Fitzwilliam unconsciously outlined on his writing pad during meetings, his refusal to discuss anything related to his personal life in Los Angeles, his reticence when it came to relationships, half-uttered phrases… Bingley's occasional pitying looks, when he thought Fitzwilliam would notice it the least. With a new understanding, Arthur put a hand on her arm gently. “Fitzwilliam got through it, Elizabeth. He had a lot of help, but it took an iron will and a hell of a lot of sacrifice to emerge from that dark place.”

Elizabeth looked down, thinking, and the next second was caught in place by a voice she had not heard in seven years.

“Arthur, charming the ladies as usual, I see?” Fitzwilliam approached from behind Elizabeth and thus did not see her face. “Could I tear you away for a minute? I'd like to discuss something with you.”

Counting heartbeats, Elizabeth slowly turned around. Their eyes locked, and she could not discern which one of them was more uncomfortable. The color drained from Fitzwilliam's face and his next words died on his lips; he seemed immobilized, able to only look but not speak. Elizabeth was no less discomposed - trying to keep an outward appearance of calmness, she attempted to say something, but without any success, and felt herself flushing hot and cold under the intensity of his gaze.

Arthur was the first person to speak. Glancing from one to another penetratingly, he asked: “Fitzwilliam, have you met Elizabeth, Jane's sister, yet?”

Fitzwilliam breathed deeply in an effort to collect himself and was able to respond somewhat evenly: “Yes. Yes, we know each other.” Having recovered from the initial shock, he met her look almost steadily. “Hello, Elizabeth,” he said quietly.

His eyes were just as she remembered - a deep blue, they seemed to have an inner light that sent shivers down her arms. There were more angles in his face now - a few lines etched around his mouth, a more stubborn set to his jaw, an almost imperceptible line between his brows - and his eyes looked at the world with a depth and a maturity that had not been there seven years ago. “Hello, Fitzwilliam,” she responded, her reply almost a whisper.

Arthur looked on, knowing with a certainty now that his supposition had been correct. They stood apart, like two slender young trees, their bodies not moving and yet instinctively reaching towards each other. It was as if something in Elizabeth had blossomed with Fitzwilliam's presence, something womanly and beautiful - her lips filled in a soft unconscious smile, a delicate color suffused her cheeks, the tension left her shoulders and her eyes glowed with warmth and life. Involuntarily, Arthur paused to admire this vision and she, aware of being looked at, was overspread with an ever deeper blush.

The spell was broken abruptly. Elizabeth withdrew into herself again and, biting her lip, excused herself with the pretext that she wanted to find Jane and Charles. Fitzwilliam watched the departing figure with an impassive face, and only Arthur, who had known him his entire life, could discern the distress behind the mask. He cleared his throat to gain Fitzwilliam's attention. “You've got the whole night, Fitzwilliam.”

Fitzwilliam sighed heavily and hung his head. “Oh, what's the use? She despises me - she could not even bear being next to me.”

Arthur chucked. “You have a lot to learn about women, my friend.”

Fitzwilliam's despair changed to annoyance and he frowned. “Don't patronize me, Arthur.”

Of course, this failed to intimidate Arthur, serving only to amuse him more. “I did not mean to, but you are making it too easy. Now, stop acting like an eighteen year old boy and go talk to her! If that was hate I saw in her eyes a minute ago, I'm ready to eat my hat.”

“No,” Fitzwilliam said stubbornly, “If she needs space, I would not want to push her.”

Arthur shook his head. “Ah, young love. Well, well. If you would like to hear any more good advice that you will decide to ignore, I will be over by the bar.” Quaking with silent mirth, he departed, accompanied by Fitzwilliam's scathing look.

Elizabeth's mind was in a disarray, her heart was beating a thousand beats per minute. She pushed her way through the crowd, hardly noticing where she was going, trying to make sense of her jumbled feelings.

"Lizzy!!" A beaming Jane grabbed her arm. "Where have you been?"

Elizabeth forced a weak smile. "I just got here a little while ago."

"Oh! Well, talk to me then, because I've been stuck in the corner with three old biddies for an hour and if I hear another word about marriage being a beautiful flower and women pleasing their husbands, someone is going to get thrown out of a window!"

"JANE!"

Jane smiled demurely. "Canapé?"

For the next hour, Jane kept Elizabeth by her side, introducing her to all of her and Charles' friends, telling the story of the proposal for the twentieth time, accepting congratulations from a throng of people, drinking champagne and, like any new bride, being pleased with the world in general. Elizabeth was simply grateful that all the activity around her prevented her from thinking. Caught up in a wedding-related conversation with the girls Jane had asked to be her bridesmaids (she had asked Elizabeth to be the Maid of Honor), she almost forgot where she was. Absentmindedly, she scanned the far corners of the room, and her breath quickened as she caught sight of a tall, familiar figure. He certainly cut a dashing picture in a casual black suit with a crisp, white shirt, open at the collar. At this distance, Elizabeth was not sure whether he could see her and she allowed her eyes to linger over him, trying to discern the changes wrought by time. Now that the awkwardness of their first seeing each other was over, she told herself, they could meet as common and indifferent acquaintances. Elizabeth sighed self-deprecatingly - that did not sound convincing even to herself.

She watched with interest as Fitzwilliam nodded greetings to several acquaintances, generally distancing himself from entering into conversations. A young woman dressed in the height of fashion approached him and with a sense of intimacy, leaned in to whisper something into his ear. Fitzwilliam's expression did not change and he nodded briefly. Still keeping a perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder, the woman tilted her head back with, what Elizabeth imagined to be, a tinkling laugh and batted her eyelashes coyly.

Elizabeth snapped her eyes away, not wanting to see what happened next. She should have known that Fitzwilliam would not be at a party without a date - how could he be alone, being the 'most eligible bachelor of New York City,' as the tabloids never failed to remind her. She felt suffocated by the heat, noise and smells of the room and got up abruptly to try and find a place where she could be alone. Double glass doors attracted her attention and she slipped through them into the night air to find a small balustraded balcony overlooking a dimly lit, serene garden. Contrary to her expectations of a Manhattan garden, it was of good proportions and well-maintained, with simple flowers - roses, columbine and climbing bougainvillea - infusing the air with a delicate fragrance and a small fountain gurgling quietly in the middle. Elizabeth inhaled deeply, hugging herself to ward off the chill.

The balcony doors opened, almost noiselessly. Elizabeth did not turn around, hoping that whoever it was would see that she wanted no company and would go away quickly. She almost jumped when she felt someone - she knew, with a shiver, who it was - placing a jacket around her shoulders. Warm fingers grazed her skin momentarily and she closed her eyes, breathing in the musky scent of his cologne.

Fitzwilliam stood next to her, leaning on the balustrade. "It's too cold to be out here without a jacket," he said, looking down into the garden.

She turned her head away. "You should take it back, Fitzwilliam, you will be cold yourself."

"No, you keep it. I am used to this weather."

"Shouldn't you go back inside to your... guests?" asked Elizabeth, unable to keep a tiny bit of spite from her voice.

"Pardon?" Fitzwilliam frowned. "Oh, if you mean Caroline..." his expression turned disdainful, "she is Charles' sister and so his guest. I am sure you will meet her soon enough."

Elizabeth should not have felt relief. In fact, she should not have felt anything, but with his words, the temperature seemed to warm up by several degrees. The soft wool of his jacket brushed against her bare arms as she searched for something suitable to say; her mind was assailed by memories. It would have been so easy, so familiar to rest against him and press her cheek into his shoulder, to close her eyes and block out the world. She glanced at his hand, inches away from hers on the stone balustrade, the tension evident only by the slightest trembling of his fingers.

Much could have been said during a time like this, but they were content to remain next to each other in silence, enveloped by the scent of the blooming flowers and of the spring, feeling something, something which had lain dormant, finally awaken as if from a long dream.

Chapter 13

“Gentlemen!” Arthur rapped on the conference room desk with his knuckles. “Thank you for coming, and if there is nothing further, we can consider this meeting adjourned. Everyone has a plan of action for the immediate future?” There were general nods and murmurs of assent. “Excellent! Then we shall re-convene in two weeks. Good night.”

Everyone filed out of the room except for Arthur, Charles, Richard and Fitzwilliam.

“Well,” Arthur sat down heavily, “that was productive, but very tiring. However, I think we may congratulate ourselves on another successful year. You may have to go to Australia and to New Zealand for several weeks, Fitzwilliam,” Fitzwilliam nodded absently, “but overall, the wheels have been turning smoothly.”

“Amen to that!” exclaimed Richard, pouring four glasses of brandy and distributing them all around. “Can I take the night off, Arthur? It is Friday… I have plans to meet a certain young lady for drinks and I would be loath to cancel.” He winked at Charles.

Charles smirked and Arthur shook his head with mock disapproval. “Your rendezvous are going to get you in trouble one day, Richard. However, you may take the night off. I will need you Monday morning bright and early for that conference call, though.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Why do I feel like Cinderella here sometimes?” Richard looked around the room, raising his arms dramatically.

“If you'd like to clean the fireplaces, that can be easily arranged,” warned Arthur sternly.

Richard saluted him with a grin. “Be here at 6 am sharp on Monday morning, sir!”

“That's what I like to hear,” Arthur grumbled.

All were startled by the sound of Fitzwilliam's pen falling to the ground. From his surprised look, it was obvious that he had not been attending to the conversation. Arthur walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You need a break, Fitzwilliam, you have been working yourself entirely too hard,” he said gently. Charles and Richard both echoed the sentiment.

Fitzwilliam got up and walked over to the window. “Nonsense, Arthur. It isn't that…” he stopped suddenly, realizing that he had said more than he had intended, and turned away in silence.

The other three exchanged meaningful looks behind his back. Richard and Charles had a fairly good idea of what it actually was, and Arthur was beginning to arrive at his own private understanding.

Richard cleared his throat and changed the topic, trying to put his cousin more at ease. “So, Charles, do you have any plans for tonight?”

Charles sighed. “Yes, Jane is taking me to see a performance of `Twelfth Night' at a theater off-Broadway.”

Fitzwilliam turned around and raised a mocking eyebrow. “Shakespeare, Charles? Surely not?” Richard and Arthur chuckled, knowing that Charles would much rather spend an evening at a movie or a concert than watch a play.

“Yeah, yeah, guys, make it out that I'm some uncultured clod. Point in fact, I'm kind of looking forward to it. It's a new theater troupe, a young branch of the Royal Shakespeare Company, and they've gotten rave reviews on all of the performances so far.”

Fitzwilliam inclined his head with a slight smile. “Forgive me, Charles, I see that I was wrong about you. I've actually heard quite a bit about them. I wanted to go, but the tickets have been sold out for the rest of the season.”

Charles perked up at this information. “Hey - why don't you come with us tonight? My uncle got us the tickets, he knows someone on the Board of Directors of this theater, but he had to go to London for business two days ago, so he and his wife can't make it.” Seeing that Fitzwilliam was about to decline, he added hastily: “Don't worry, we aren't bringing Caroline. It'll be just me, Jane and Lizzy.”

Fitzwilliam felt the awkwardness of the situation. He could not turn down the invitation now, Charles' feelings would be hurt, but he did not want to impose himself on Elizabeth if she did not wish to see him. “But,” he attempted, “there is too much work to be done here…”

Arthur cut him off. “Rubbish, Fitzwilliam. Go out and enjoy yourself - life is too short to hesitate. I think I can handle any unforeseen emergencies for tonight, and Richard will be on call the whole weekend.” Arthur shot a look at Richard to silence any potential protests, but Richard was nodding good-naturedly.

Fitzwilliam looked around the room and into Charles' clear friendly eyes. “I'd love to go, Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled in relief. “Great, come with me to my car and I will give you the ticket and directions.”

Bidding everyone a good night, they walked down to Charles' car. After picking up the ticket and the information, Fitzwilliam pressed his friend's arm. “Tell her I'm coming,” he said quietly, looking away. Charles nodded in understanding.

***

Dresses, blouses, skirts and various other items of female attire lay strewn about Elizabeth's bedroom, landing in haphazard patterns where she had discarded them. Disheveled, she stood in the middle of this suitcase explosion, mad at herself, the world in general, men in particular, and one man specifically. She stomped on an innocent sweater vindictively. If Fitzwilliam Darcy thought that he could just waltz back into her life, he would soon find out who wrong he was! If he thought that one little Romeo and Juliet balcony scene would make her insides turn to mush from just being in his presence, he had another thing coming! A week had passed since the party, and nothing - no telephone calls, no accidental meetings in the Park, no mysterious visitors to her workplace. In short, nothing to indicate that he had been just as affected by their proximity as she. And now, he practically invited himself to the play, meaning goodness knows what.

“Gah!” Elizabeth exclaimed in sheer frustration. Okay, Lizzy, calm down. She lowered herself onto her bed and closed her eyes to try and regain some semblance of composure. The real problem, she reflected, was not the lack of appropriate apparel but her conflicting emotions. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth had to admit that she was unsure of what she was feeling and unsure of what she wanted. When she first got to Jane and Charles' party, the awkwardness of being at his house, of seeing him after all these years almost made her turn around and run, but when it was just the two of them out on the balcony, the dry shell of the past cracked and fell away, and Elizabeth felt closer to him than she had ever felt before. And then, with the sudden entrance of loudly giggling teenagers, the mood shifted and she began to understand the ridiculousness of entertaining feelings for a man who was responsible for the walls she had built around her heart. All her instincts screamed that she should run and run quickly, that she could never trust him, that he would somehow push her away again and she would get hurt even more this time… Yet, how could she ignore the internal knowledge, the deep and assured certainty that she still loved him? And what will I do if he doesn't feel the same?

***

Manhattan never really descended into proper darkness, not even at night. There was too much light, too much life in this city, too many cars, too many people walking about their business, eating, talking, talking… Fitzwilliam had lived in Manhattan for seven years, but he still could not get fully used to the bustle, the noise and the constantly moving crowds, and the indomitable energy exuded by the very pavement itself. He liked to stand next to the window of his DAC office, concealed behind a wall of glass, high above the ebb and flow of people, and watch the activities below; people intrigued him - his life functioned according to such a precise and set order that he could not conceive being able to take time off in the middle of the day to leisurely walk in Central Park or read a book at a café. Thus, when Christopher dropped him off next to the theater and in the midst of the human sea that he had only rarely navigated, he felt slightly disoriented and it took him several minutes to find his bearings. Thankfully, Bingley and Jane saw him immediately and pulled him from the middle of the sidewalk to their position against the wall of the theater building. And then, he saw Elizabeth approaching. In her light coat, dark curls spilling over her shoulders, she stood out against the night. Looking over the crowd, she seemed to alight with a faint luminescence when their eyes met. Unbidden, the words of a poem he had read long ago came back to him. All the faces unforgettable in dusk will blend to yours, And the footsteps like a thousand overtures will blend to yours, he whispered, mesmerized.* Fitzwilliam swallowed past the tightness in his throat. While Jane and Charles chatted with each other, oblivious, he felt as if his destiny was walking towards him with soft steps.

Elizabeth hugged Jane warmly and kissed Charles' cheek. When his turn came to greet her, she looked down demurely and held out her hand, and her touch felt as light as a spring breeze, rendering Fitzwilliam acutely conscious of the familiar softness of her palm and the slight blush of her cheek when he held her hand a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Once again, he cursed his inability to speak around her. It was never so seven years ago when they had understood each other even without words, so why, now that words were essential, could he never think of the right thing to say? He let go of her hand reluctantly and led the way inside the crowded theater.

The theater was small and dimly lit, dark wine colored velvet covering the walls around the half-moon shaped stage. Candles flickered everywhere, reminding the audience that they have left Manhattan for the ancient kingdom of Illyria. Elizabeth walked through to take the first of their four reserved seats and Fitzwilliam maneuvered himself so as to be able to sit next to her.

“They did a wonderful job with the decorations,” he offered, for the sake of opening some sort of a conversation. Decorations? What am I saying?

Elizabeth looked up at him, surprised at first, and then with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “I didn't know DAC was moving into interior design,” she said with a lifted eyebrow.

“Yes,” he replied seriously, “It is my new passion. I have spent the past several weeks personally redesigning our offices with colors to suit everybody's personalities. It's quite important for the work environment, you know, to have the right coloring.”

Her eyes widened. “In fact,” he added, unable to keep amusement out of his voice, “if Caroline worked for DAC, I would feel quite secure in my recommendation of orange for her workspace.” He knew he was talking the most abject nonsense, but the genuine smile on Elizabeth's face as she realized he was teasing her made it all worth it.

“And Charles would get a yellow office?” she ventured, playing along.

“Better and better. Perhaps I should hire you for this decorating scheme. What color would you make my office?”

Elizabeth stopped laughing. She looked at him searchingly, and Fitzwilliam felt as if she could read everything that was in his soul. “Midnight blue and steel gray,” she whispered in answer as the lights went down and the curtain opened.

Fitzwilliam was so startled by her reply that he heard not a word of the performance for a long time. Why had she turned serious, and why had she picked those two colors? Her answer seemed to hold more meaning than just the silly game they had been playing. With anyone else, Fitzwilliam might have dismissed it, but with Elizabeth, he was determined to understand. The look she gave him - he thought at first that it was a look of understanding, but coupled with her response, he now concluded that it was exactly the opposite. She had picked dark colors to represent him. One did not need to be a psychologist to understand the significance - she believed him to be inscrutable, difficult. That's absurd, he thought, frowning, I always communicate clearly and precisely. Just because I do not believe in wasting words, that does not render my meaning incomprehensible. Images from past conversations flooded him. With Elizabeth, with Richard, with Charles… with Georgiana. Using silence as a tool to size up one's opponent in the business world. The last startling talk with his father, who was never known to show his emotions until that day. He realized that his whole life, he had gone ahead with his own plans, never bothering to explain them to anyone because they seemed so clear and obvious in his mind. The older Mr. Darcy had done the same, and Fitzwilliam had necessarily learned to read his father over the years. It was not always pleasant, though, he recalled with a shiver, to be on the receiving end of Mr. Darcy's impenetrable stare. Is that what he had subjected the people in his life to as well? How could he not have noticed it before? He hoped, guiltily, that Georgiana had never felt that shiver of apprehension when looking into his eyes, so like his father's. Fitzwilliam's mind was working furiously when he felt a light touch on his sleeve. He turned to see Elizabeth looking at him with concern.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, leaning closer. The candlelight reflected in the dark amber recesses of her expressive eyes and he could just distinguish her light perfume. Forcing his hand to lie still, not to cup her cheek or brush away a stray curl, Fitzwilliam nodded. At his silent response, the unease in Elizabeth's eyes retreated behind a mask of forced indifference and she turned back to the stage. The oblivious Duke Orsino was just at that moment pompously telling his “male” servant: “I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul,” not having recognized that in fact, the servant was actually Viola, who was in love with him. Fitzwilliam thought, with a tinge of bitterness, that he had been as oblivious to other people's feelings as the Duke. Once again, he had managed to push Elizabeth away, concealing his own emotions - and for what purpose? So he could go home, alone, stare out of the window and forget he ever felt anything at all?

Impulsively, he inclined his head towards Elizabeth and whispered an apology. She seemed startled by his sudden change of heart. “It's not important,” she replied quietly.

“No,” Fitzwilliam persisted, “I was just thinking of some things. If I may, I could explain later.”

She shrugged. “You don't have to.”

“I want to.”

Her eyes flashed with a strange emotion; he could not tell whether it was doubt or relief.

*City Dusk, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

***

Fitzwilliam usually loved Shakespeare, but tonight, he felt himself to be as restless as a child. His new-found awareness both freed and constrained him, as he sought to recall and find new meaning in past conversations and events, sobered by how much he had missed out on in the lives of his loved ones. And then he was stunned into immobility by the remembrance of Elizabeth's pain-filled eyes against the stark white linens of the hospital bed. I will make this right, he pledged to himself. I have to. He looked over at Elizabeth. The copper strands in her hair shimmered and her long eyelashes cast a shadow over the smoothness of her cheeks. She laughs less at twenty nine than she had at twenty one, he thought. What would she think of his resolve? Perhaps, all she would want was to be left alone, and he would not blame her. Because Jane and Charles had told him of her smiling and joking and dating other people, Fitzwilliam had believed she was all right, but what did he really know of her feelings? Unanswered questions crowded in his mind, only strengthening his resolve to find out more, to help heal what he had so foolishly broken seven years ago.

Chapter 14

Christopher's roomy black Lincoln picked the four of them up after the performance.

“Shall we get some dinner?” Fitzwilliam surprised himself by asking. He did not want to go home, to lose Elizabeth's company; he knew there were many things that needed to be said.

Jane and Charles looked at him with regret. “I'm sorry, Fitzwilliam,” Jane said, “we have to go home. We've scheduled appointments with several wedding-related vendors early tomorrow morning and we really need to be organized in order to get everything done. Another time, perhaps?”

“Of course.” Trying not to let his disappointment show, Fitzwilliam stared out of the tinted window at the world outside. He sighed in resignation. “Elizabeth, where can we drop you off?”

She seemed startled by the question “Oh… thank you very much… I think Jane & Charles' place is closer, though, so we can go there first.”

Fitzwilliam absentmindedly gave instructions to Chris, but his mind was whirling. He knew her so well, he knew that tone of voice. Could it be for him? He was so weary of assuming, seeing where it had gotten him before, and slowly, so as not to alert Jane and Charles, he turned and looked into her eyes… and was met with so much unexpected warmth and encouragement that he flushed with silent gratitude. He had taken one small step forward back in the theater; after all he had put her through, he had not expected Elizabeth to respond. Fitzwilliam thought once again about what an amazing woman she was and swore to himself that he would not waste this chance.

Jane looked faintly worried at leaving Elizabeth alone with Fitzwilliam, but Elizabeth ushered her and Charles out of the car. They were left alone and the air crackled with expectation.

Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “Where can we take you?” It came out very awkward and formal - the last thing he wanted was to let her go, but he knew not how to ask her to stay without sounding presumptuous.

Elizabeth looked down at her hands - this was not what she had expected him to say or had wanted to hear. She quietly gave the address of her corporate apartment and the car purred to life.

Sensing her disappointment, Fitzwilliam could stand it no longer; he ran a hand through his hair, cursing his inability to form coherent sentences while in her presence. He took a deep breath. “Elizabeth.”

Her eyebrows shot up questioningly.

“I'd like for us to talk. Can we go somewhere?” Seeing her slight hesitation, he continued. “Please. I… I would really like… what I mean is, I would appreciate… if you are not too busy… I could perhaps buy you dinner someplace…” He sighed in frustration. Running a corporate empire is much easier than this!

With a slight smile, she finally rescued him. “We could just go to my place, if you don't mind something home-made. I don't really feel like crowds.”

He stared. “You would cook for me?”

“Afraid I'd slip some arsenic into the pasta?”

Fitzwilliam bristled at the suggestion, but then he saw her eyes sparkling and knew she was teasing him. He relaxed in his seat. “To tell you the truth, I would feel awkward making you cook. We could pick something up on the way, or…” he hesitated, “we could just go to the townhouse. Georgiana is sleeping over at a friend's house tonight and Mrs. Reynolds always leaves something in the refrigerator for me, so we definitely would not go hungry.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth considered that option for a moment, her heart beating erratically within her chest. “Sure,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “if it isn't too much of an inconvenience.”

“No, not at all,” he replied, “it would make me very happy.” Fitzwilliam communicated the change of plans to Chris through the intercom, and they spent the rest of the journey in a tense, excited silence. Even after all that they had been through, after the familiarity and the separation and the longing and the anger, their nerve endings still tingled when they found themselves sharing the small space of the car. The radio poured plaintive strings of music into the air and the night rushed by on either side in a blaze of colored lights. The black Lincoln navigated the narrow streets silently, and both Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam knew that the past seven years held no meaning except for this moment, this night.

***

Fitzwilliam fumbled with the key, but once inside, his nervousness and apprehension began to slowly melt away. This was his house, his life. He was no longer a boy, crippled by grief and duty, the years had taught him how to take control; he knew from experience that second chances were rare and precious and he did not mean to waste this one. Turning around, he gently lifted Elizabeth's coat from her shoulders, her skin soft and warm beneath his fingers. She looked down, coloring slightly.

“Come,” he said, leading her upstairs and hoping to put her more at ease, “let me show you the rest of the house.”

“Oh, but I was here for Jane and Charles' party,” she reminded him.

“You only saw the public rooms. We barely use that part, only when we have a party - everything is too pristine and there is too much marble. Georgiana and I are always afraid to break the antique vases.” He smiled, remembering Georgiana's aversion for some of the more hideous family heirlooms.

Elizabeth grinned. “Somehow, I never pictured either one of you as troublemakers.”

“No, Richard was the real menace.” Fitzwilliam chuckled. “As a kid, he used to race from floor to floor and jump out from behind the tapestries. I would accompany him on his exploits, just to make sure he didn't do anything really bad, and naturally would end up getting in trouble right alongside of him.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth imagined two boys, one light and one dark, one mischievous and one serious, plotting adventures together. It was a side of Fitzwilliam that she had not seen before. “And does he still get you in trouble?”

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “He's grown up a bit since those times. We both have.” The lightness of his tone belied the significance of the statement, but it was not lost on Elizabeth.

He flipped a switch and the floor they had just ascended to became bathed in a soft white light. Superficially, it was not so very different from the space below - there was a sense of openness and light, of modernity meeting tradition, of austerity and tranquility. The subtle differences, however, created an entirely different atmosphere. The walls were a light shade of cream, not the glaring white of the formal living room; the dark hardwood floor was covered with soft worn Chinese silk rugs; instead of large abstract canvases, old-fashioned tapestries and oil paintings in gilded frames hung the walls, and Elizabeth could almost hear the sound of laughter and childish footsteps racing through these halls. Fitzwilliam spent some time showing her the nooks and crevices where he and Richard hid their boyish treasures, the sitting room that displayed the family photographs and portraits spanning several generations, and finally, the library with its carved stone fireplace, rows upon rows of leather-bound books, deep cranberry sofas and tall windows overlooking the garden.

He was more open and relaxed than Elizabeth had ever seen him, his eyes shining brightly as he told her stories of his childhood and teenage years. When Elizabeth had met his family previously, they had seemed formal, cold and distant, and she thought that he shared the same qualities, but she now saw that, notwithstanding their behavior with strangers, they were tightly bound by love, joint experiences and warm regard and respect for one another, they simply did not showcase it to outsiders. Elizabeth subtly drew him out by asking questions and more questions, feeling surreal as he answered - never before had he shared this much with her; she realized how little their one year relationship had allowed them to really learn about each other. Fitzwilliam surprised her by asking questions as well, about her family, her work, her passions and interests; moreover, he really listened, probably for the fist time during the entirety of their acquaintance, and Elizabeth forgot the Fitzwilliam Darcy, millionaire CEO of Darcy Corp., philanthropist and “most eligible bachelor” that had stared at her from tabloids and magazine covers and only remembered the boy she had loved a long time ago.

They came to a set of large double doors at the end of the hallway - the only room besides Georgiana's bedroom that she had not seen. Not thinking, she asked what it was.

Fitzwilliam hesitated. “It's the master bedroom. We can see it if you would like.”

“Oh.” She blushed. “No, no, it's okay. It's private.”

He shot her a strange look. “From most people, yes.” And before she could protest, he swung the doors open and walked inside, leaving her no choice but to follow. It was a large, semi-circular room with high ceilings and a wide window hung with light translucent drapes overlooking the garden. The walls were an unobtrusive shade of dark grayish blue and mahogany sleigh bed dominated the center of the room.

“Has this always been your room?” Elizabeth asked, for the sake of saying something.

He swallowed. “This was my father's chamber. I took it after…” his voice caught, “after he died.”

Elizabeth felt like a fool. “I'm really sorry.”

“Why? I wouldn't have shown you the room if I had not wanted to.”

She stepped closer to him, looking up into the anguished darkness of his eyes. “No, I mean about your father. I'm sorry you lost him and I'm sorry that you had to go through it all by yourself, Fitzwilliam.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I understand now, or at least I understand more of what that means.”

With wonder, he lifted his hand to gently cup her cheek. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he whispered. “It is I who should be apologizing. I pushed you away when all you tried to do was help me. I was silent and distant when I should have spoken. I judged you and your family because they were different from mine and I trampled on your love and trust. I thought you could not understand, when in reality, I was the blind one all along.”

Elizabeth was stunned by his confession. The feelings and emotions of that day seven years ago flooded back with frightening clarity. She pressed herself closer to the wall to put some space between them. “I was devastated for years after you left, Fitzwilliam,” she said in a hollow voice. “One day, you were a huge part of my life and then, you were gone. And do you know what the worst part was? Not understanding why.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I am so sorry, Elizabeth. You have to know that none of that was your fault. I was mad, mad with grief and loss and responsibilities; I thought that I would feel that way forever and I believed that I did not have another option. I wanted to protect you, from me and from my lifestyle. I wanted to make sure you got a better deal in life than being saddled with me.”

“What if I didn't want to be protected?” she cried. “Who gave you the right to make these decisions for me? Or did you not think me capable of doing that either?”

Fitzwilliam flinched as if struck. “I deserve that,” he said quietly. “You don't know how that day has tortured me, Elizabeth. I was wrong, utterly wrong to think that way, and believe me, I have been punished these past seven years. My only consolation has been that you had moved on with your life and found contentment elsewhere. As difficult as it was for me to imagine you with another man, I the only thing I have ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

She laughed bitterly. “Moved on? How could I have moved on when my every thought has been of you? When I saw your face in my dreams and every time the phone rang, I hoped I would hear your voice on the other end of the line? Oh, Fitzwilliam, you've learned so much over the years, but you never really understood me if you thought I would forget you this quickly.”

For a second, nothing happened. And then, in one swift movement, he closed the space between them and crushed Elizabeth in a hard embrace, as if needing to touch her and make sure that what happened was real. He clung to her with a heartbreaking tenacity, unwilling to move, unwilling to let her go.

"I never stopped loving you," he murmured into her hair. "I tried to tell myself that I had screwed up too much, that you could never think of me again with anything but hate and resentment, but there has not been a day that I have not thought of you and wished that you were in my life. I've been such a fool, Elizabeth, could you ever forgive me?"

"I don't know," she whispered into his shoulder. He only held her tighter, cradling her in his arms, making her feel warm and loved and protected for the first time in seven years. Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to surrender to this feeling, to believe in their future, but it was all too much, too sudden for her to trust her own emotions.

Reluctantly, she disengaged herself and turned away. "I've spent the last seven years thinking about this moment, Fitzwilliam. I know why you did what you did, I understand why you thought you had no other choice. My heart bled for your grief. But I'm not going to pretend that understanding made things easier, that I didn't struggle with the idea that you thought me nothing more than a child who was unable to protect herself and thus needed to be sheltered from the realities of the world. I know that I could not really understand what you went through, but you did not even give me the chance to try."

He covered his eyes with his hand, unable to face the depth of her pain. "I know, and I am sorry. Believe me, it is not how I think now. Don't walk away from me, Elizabeth, please. I can't imagine a life without you."

She shook her head and looked at him, with past sadness echoing in her eyes. "I don't think I could walk away, even if I tried. We are a hopeless pair, Fitzwilliam."

With renewed hope, he brought her hand to his lips. "I can't promise that I'll never do anything wrong again, Elizabeth. All I can try to do is not to repeat the mistakes of the past."

"That's a good start," she said quietly, lips curving in a small smile. "We can both try to do that."

Half the night was spent in talking. Elizabeth curled up in one of the great big chairs in the library, the fire in the fireplace casting a warm golden glow on her skin, and Fitzwilliam sat on the floor next to her, holding her hand and talking and listening. True to form, Mrs. Reynolds had indeed left sandwiches and fruit in the upstairs kitchen before she had gone to bed, and they made hot cocoa and for once, Fitzwilliam did not care about getting crumbs on the carpets. They did not talk about his father yet - it was not time to delve into that pain - instead, they slowly got to know each other all over again, lowering the barriers that had encased their hearts for so long. This was not the end of their journey, it was only the beginning.

Fitzwilliam sat next to her until her even breathing told him she was asleep. Gently, he picked her up and carried her to his bed, moving the hair out of her eyes and wrapping the quilt around her warm body. With Elizabeth there, the large room no longer felt foreign, the ghosts of the past retreating before her presence.

It was almost unbearable to walk away from her, but all of his senses told him that it was the right thing to do. Delirious with happiness and hope, he walked the long hallway to one of the guest rooms which had been converted into his office. Usually, at this time on a Saturday morning, Fitzwilliam would have been preparing to go into the office for at least half of the day, but he refused to even entertain the idea of leaving Elizabeth to wake up alone. Propping open his laptop, he sent out a barrage of emails, moving around conference calls and dispatching detailed instructions to his various teams with shocking speed and ease.

As a slow peach azure lightness crept over Central Park, Fitzwilliam sat at his desk, lost in his dreams, watching the new day dawn and feeling energy rushing through his body in heady waves.

Chapter 15

Elizabeth awoke wrapped in a warm quilt in a strange bed, the ringing of her cell phone incongruous in this serene environment. The last thing she remembered was dozing off in front of the fireplace in the library, Fitzwilliam stroking her hand softly. Looking around, she realized that she was in his bedroom, in his bed; the fact that she had obviously slept there alone went a long way to assuage the sense of awkwardness. She picked up her phone, if only to silence it.

"Lizzy!" Jane sounded very relieved to hear her voice. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay. Should I not be?"

Jane hesitated. "Oh, I'm so glad. It's just that -- I tried your apartment -- and no one picked up."

Elizabeth sighed and rolled her eyes. Like every older sister, Jane could not help mothering her sometimes. Well, she would have to find out sooner or later anyway. "I'm at Fitzwilliam's, Jane. I stayed last night."

"Oh. Er..."

"Jane, I'm okay, I promise. We were just talking, don't worry."

"Well," Jane bristled, "I'm your older sister, Lizzy, 'worry' is kind of what I do. Is he... um... is he there now?"

"Jane! Of course not!" Elizabeth exclaimed indignantly.

"Ah. Good." Her proper sister was clearly uncomfortable with the idea. "All right, then. Call me if you want me to pick you up."

"Thanks, sis, I will."

Elizabeth leaned back against the soft pillows, which smelled faintly like him. It was extremely distracting, but she was glad that he had not stayed. For all the ground covered last night, for his sincere apology, for all the maturity and change she saw the years wrought in him, the wounds were too raw and this -- whatever was happening with them -- was too new for them to plunge into physical intimacy. She asked herself if she was ready to start all over again with Fitzwilliam, and found that the answer had been there all along, she had just needed the affirmations of the night before to allow herself to embark on this journey. Through the pain and loneliness of the past seven years, Elizabeth had learned that love alone -- without understanding, without respect, without trust -- was a harsh mistress; would love be enough of a starting point now for them to build the other things? She truly did not know, but the flutter of excitement in her stomach that she sternly suppressed told her that she was only a little afraid to find out.

A soft knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. After her invitation to enter, the door slowly opened and Fitzwilliam walked in holding a tray and looking at her with a tentativeness that made her smile.

"Hey, good morning," he said softly. "I heard your phone ring and thought you might be awake." He offered her a plate self-consciously. "Are you hungry?"

Elizabeth took the proffered food. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth -- the eggs looked runny and the toast was burnt -- but he got an A for effort. Cautiously, she put a little piece in her mouth and could not help making a face. "First time you've ever made scrambled eggs?"

Abashedly, Fitzwilliam nodded, looking at his shoes; his embarrassment was oddly endearing. Elizabeth chuckled, put away the plate and patted the space on the bed next to her. "It was a good try, though. However did Mrs. Reynolds let you into her kitchen?"

"It's her day off today," he replied, sitting down carefully. "I still can't believe that you are here." He gave a wondering laugh. "I feel like you might vanish at any moment."

Elizabeth touched her disheveled hair and rumpled clothes, smiling wryly. "In this state? I think you are stuck with me for a little while longer."

He wanted to point out that he would not mind being "stuck" with her forever, but he held back. Fitzwilliam absentmindedly smoothed the bedclothes to cover his nervousness and asked: "Do you have any plans for the day? That is -- if you don't -- and I understand it if you are busy -- I would really like it if we could maybe spend some time together."

Elizabeth stopped his moving hand with her own and held it still. "I would also really like that," she replied quietly.

He smiled and cradled her hand gently. "Do you want me to take you home so you could get a change of clothes first?"

Elizabeth nodded, looking down at their joined hands. She understood the feeling of unreality he related earlier, she felt it too. After all the time they had spent apart, after all the thinking and worrying, it felt so free and good to be just able to hold his hand whenever she wanted.

Trading comfortable small talk, they walked downstairs to the garage and Fitzwilliam helped her into a pale silver BMW. It was as nondescript as a large 7-series BMW could be and Elizabeth looked up at him with faint surprise.

"You expected something else?" he asked.

"No -- but I suppose I just had this idea that all big executives drive Bentleys or Maseratis or something. It's strange to imagine you driving a normal car."

He smirked. "I did have an Aston for a while, but the press practically hounded me. You don't see many of those, even in Manhattan, so they follow each one, hoping to find someone famous inside. I quickly traded it in for this, and as Chris periodically switches the license plates, they can't distinguish it from the other thousands of silver BMWs driving around the city."

Elizabeth stared. "You can do that, switch license plates?"

"If you know the right people." The car purred to life. Black leather held Elizabeth snugly as they sped through the city to her corporate apartment.

“What do you want to do today?” she asked, still shocked by the normalcy of their interactions.

“Oh. I haven't really thought about it - we could fly to the Vineyard?”

Elizabeth erupted in laughter. “Fly to the Vineyard? As in Martha's Vineyard? Oh, Fitzwilliam, if you were just a regular guy, you would have taken me to lunch and a movie!”

“Do you want to go to lunch and a movie? We could do that,” he said seriously. “I just thought the Vineyard was nicer.”

She had to laugh again. “No, no. Can't we just drive out of the city for a day? I kind of miss open spaces.”

“Your wish is my command, madam,” he said, relaxing back in his seat and touching her cheek lightly. The dimples in his smile made Elizabeth's heart beat a little faster. In what seemed like five minutes, she showered and changed and the BMW, like a long silver bullet, was once again speeding noiselessly past the traffic-laden streets.

Fitzwilliam drove with an easy elegance, moving the gear shift at just the right moment, changing lanes with a fluid motion. Driving was definitely his element - he connected with the car and with the road. There was something incredibly sensual in the assurance with which he controlled the powerful vehicle, and for a while, Elizabeth merely watched him lose himself in the exercise, breathing in with every acceleration that pressed her deeper into her seat.

“Am I going too fast for you?” Fitzwilliam inquired when they got to an open stretch of the highway outside of the city. Elizabeth had been so involved in watching him drive that it took her several seconds to register the question.

“No, not at all,” she replied, a little flushed. To cover up her confusion, she asked where they were going.

Fitzwilliam explained that he owned a small cottage in the Hamptons. “Not in the fashionable area, though,” he added with slight distaste. “I bought it for Georgiana, so she could paint in peace; it's really just the sea and the farms.” His voice turned wistful with memories. “We used to escape for the weekend together when things were not too hectic with DAC. She sketched these amazing seascapes and called them `practice.' I think I have a whole cabinet full of them -- I never let her throw anything away.”

“She sketched beautifully when I met her.” Elizabeth remembered a shy, fourteen year old with big eyes and haunting paintings. “What is she doing now?”

Fitzwilliam straightened his shoulders proudly. “She will graduate from Columbia next year and this summer, she was accepted for an internship at the Metropolitan, researching new artists and bringing new works into the Museum. She's also been invaluable with the Foundation, I dread the day she will want to focus solely on art.”

He sounded so like a proud parent, that not for the first time, Elizabeth was struck with the enormity of the task that had been before him after the death of his father. He shouldered it, just like he shouldered everything else, she thought -- he could easily have packed Georgiana away to the Fitzwilliams -- but he stayed and took responsibility. “It must have been very hard raising her by yourself,” she said.

He looked down briefly. “Frankly, I think she took care of me more often than I took care of her. I never realized before how much strength could live in such a little person.” The intensity of his sideways glance at her underscored his second meaning.

Elizabeth was forming a reply when his Blackberry buzzed insistently. His hand instinctively went to the little blue device, but he chucked it into the backseat after only a cursory glance.

“Oh, Fitzwilliam! Should you be working today?” Elizabeth exclaimed guiltily. When a man had a multi-billion company to manage, one did not just run off with him to the Hamptons for a day, she reflected with some remorse.

The lines around his eyes crinkled in a slight smile. “I could be working, but whether I should be is another question entirely. Besides, I could not just leave you to wake up by yourself. Imagine the shock of my staff at finding you in my bed - Mrs. Reynolds would be scandalized!”

“But--” Shock? Scandalized? Elizabeth had never thought Fitzwilliam would be anything like Richard, but surely... There was no time to process what that meant, he was speaking again.

“Experimentally, I've left Richard in charge -- which means that if the building is still standing by the time we get back, we may consider ourselves lucky.” Seeing her anxious look, he added, smiling fully this time. “Don't look so worried, Arthur is watching over him -- and I would trust him with more than just the company -- so the building is perfectly safe, even from Richard. Let's just enjoy the day, I will have to get back to work soon enough. If it's a real emergency, Arthur knows how to find me.”

The drive to the Hamptons was surprisingly short and by the time they were making their way through the small towns, the afternoon sun and fresh air poured through the open windows and sun roof, bathing them in the fragrance and light of a perfect spring day. Etta James sang “At Last” on the radio and both Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam felt happier than they had in years. There was a curious sense of freedom, driving through the open spaces of the country, the bright blue expanse of the ocean sparkling mysteriously on one side and green fields and dunes gliding by on the other. They drove past the fashionable houses where the stars gathered for summer parties, past the gaudy mansions and the Cape Cod style writers' cottages, finally slowing down when they reached a community that was still only sparsely populated, every house separated by a wide stretch of vegetation and sand.

Having lived her entire life in Los Angeles, Elizabeth was moved by the rugged, almost wild beauty of the landscape. In contrast to the neatly trimmed and sculpted hedges of the “fashionable” part, the long, untamed grasses grew in scattered clumps between the pockets of fine-grained sand, framed by hills and wave-cut sea cliffs. Instead of lapping the shore gently, the surf hissed and crashed, sending salty white droplets into the air, sparkling like diamonds in the sun. Even the gentle breeze that had earlier caressed the trees now swept through the greenery in rolling waves and ruffled their hair with mischief and abandon, sending shivers up Elizabeth's arms. Fitzwilliam assured her that it was much calmer in the summer months, but she had an idea from the faraway look in his eyes that he rather enjoyed the freedom and promise of the windy spring.

The house they finally drove up to was a four-story Victorian, sitting with quiet self-assurance among the lush grass, just steps away from the beach. Built of red brick, turned brown with age and storms, its gleaming white windows offered unobstructed views of both the blue-green ocean in front and the whispering hills behind.

Elizabeth got out of the car and on impulse, threw off her shoes and ran through the soft wet grass towards the beach. “Fitzwilliam, come, it's beautiful,” she yelled out, and he followed at a more sedate pace. They walked for an hour, getting the bottoms of their jeans wet in the incoming tide, talking about nothing in particular. The years of silence lost the power to wield their oppression, at least for a little while, and both felt with silent joy that this was not a repeat of their past relationship, but a building of a future one.

By the time they got back to the house, Elizabeth was shivering and her jeans were soaked. She lamented not having had the foresight to bring a heavier jacket and a change of clothes. Afraid for her health, Fitzwilliam practically forced her into a hot shower and rummaged in the stock of clothes at the cottage for something suitable for her to wear while her jeans were being washed. Elizabeth insisted that he not intrude on Georgiana's privacy by lending out her clothes, so Fitzwilliam went to find something of his that would not completely engulf her. Half the night spent awake, exercise in the fresh air and a hot shower took their toll on Elizabeth, and when he returned with a pair of sweatpants from his college years, she was fast asleep on the sofa.

If anyone could have seen Fitzwilliam as he carefully covered the sleeping form with a blanket, they would not have believed that such tenderness was possible from such a man. Probably Georgiana and Arthur would not have been astonished, but to no one else had Fitzwilliam's implacable exterior ever suggested the gentleness inside.

For a long time, he watched Elizabeth sleeping, her face unlined with worry and pain and he thought that even now, even after his confession the night before, her eyes still held hints of veiled wariness when she looked at him. What had she said last night? Her impassioned voice echoed in his head. I was devastated for years… What if I didn't want to be protected?…you never really understood me if you thought I would forget you so quickly… If he had but known earlier! He could not bear the thought that his actions had caused Elizabeth years of suffering - he thought that the suffering had been all his own. Foolishly, selfishly, he had assumed that he was making all the right decisions, deluding himself that he was in complete control of the situation. In the business world, there was no room for second guessing himself and he had gotten necessarily accustomed to act, many times without waiting for anyone else's advice; it had been crucial for survival. Judging by the past seven years, the same strategy clearly worked poorly in personal life. Fitzwilliam's parents had not truly been partners in their marriage - his father's philosophy prevented it - but perhaps they would have been closer, happier, if each had relinquished a little bit of their pride and control to each other. As much as he loved and respected his parents, theirs was not the kind of marriage Fitzwilliam had wished for himself, but if Elizabeth had not shown him his errors, he would have been heading down the same path.

The sun was slowly setting when Elizabeth finally stirred. Her jeans were laid out on the sofa, along with one of Fitzwilliam's thick sweaters, and the sounds and smells of cooking were coming from outside. Barefoot, she padded to the wood deck overlooking the ocean and to her immense surprise found him fiddling with the barbeque.

“Are you sure you ought to be near any cooking appliances?” she asked jokingly.

He looked mildly offended. “Well, I can barbeque.” And then ruined the indignant façade by chuckling at her state of dress. Even with the sleeves rolled up, the sweater hung from her frame like a potato sack. Elizabeth knew she must look ridiculous, but her own light jacket would not have protected her from the evening winds. Seeing her withering glare, Fitzwilliam stifled his laughter. “You look truly lovely,” he said with a smirk, unable to fully hide his amusement, “Just like Cindy Crawford on the runway.” Elizabeth threw the nearest spoon at him.

The white fish, a frozen supply of which was kept in the cottage's freezer, tasted delicious, its tenderness juxtaposed by the smoky flavor of the grill and the crisp, blackened edges. Elizabeth even managed to find and cook some couscous, and a bottle of cool white wine complimented the impromptu meal. Afterwards, when it was completely dark, Fitzwilliam lit a fire in the outside pit and piled blankets on his and Elizabeth's seat on a wide wooden bench facing the rumbling ocean. Silence stretched between them and Elizabeth wondered what was going through his head. The tranquility of their earlier meal was gone and his face reflected an internal struggle.

With a sigh, Fitzwilliam put his empty glass aside. “Let me tell you a story,” he said into the darkness, and the fire crackled secretively, sending red sparks into the night. “Once upon a time, there lived a gnome. Not a very attractive creature, I'm afraid, boorish and reclusive, he lived with his gnome family, thinking that the world could not possibly measure up to his ordered existence. And then he met a princess. She was lively and beautiful and intelligent and kind, and for some very strange reason, she did not quite mind spending time with the misled hero of our story."

Elizabeth tried to say something, but he stopped her with a gesture.

“And then one day, the gnome's world turned upside down, and the princess did not fit into the chaotic puzzle that was his life now. He pushed her outside of the door, but…” his voice caught, “he thought that he was locking himself in and setting her free. He thought he was setting he free! It never occurred to him that in the process of locking himself in, he was also locking her out. He never asked her what she thought, what she wanted, he just… closed the door and left her alone on the other side.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she put a hand on his lips to silence him. “Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, “you were not yourself then. I've seen now what grief does to people, I understand. I should have not pushed so hard, I should have thought more of what you were going through. Instead, I focused on my own insecurities and my annoyance at not getting to spend time with you, when your whole world was falling apart.”

He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. “But Elizabeth, how could you have known if I did not tell you? No, you cannot think that any of it was your fault. You were hurting for seven years because of what I did, it's unforgivable.”

Elizabeth felt like her heart would break at the sadness in his voice. She moved towards him protectively, wrapping her arms around his neck. “It isn't unforgivable. It was a mistake, one for which we both paid dearly. To pay for it indefinitely would only increase its magnitude.”

He was silent for a long time, holding on to her like to a lifeline. Finally, he shook his head. “You are one wise woman, Miss Bennet," he said, his voice uneven.

Elizabeth made herself comfortable in his embrace. “And you are one lucky man, Mr. Darcy.”

He chuckled into her hair. “I couldn't agree more.”

Some time later, she murmured sleepily: “Fitzwilliam, do we have to go back tonight?”

He pulled her in closer. “No, we can stay here.”

“But--”

“Sleep, Elizabeth, sleep.”

“Okay.”

Chapter 16

“Good morning, sweetheart. Did I wake you up?”

Elizabeth put the towel down, suddenly filled with quiet happiness at the sound of his voice. “No, no, I was just getting ready to go to work.”

“I'm on my way to the office myself.”

“Going to be a long day?” She cringed inwardly at the thought of all the work he had missed while gallivanting with her in the Hamptons.

Fitzwilliam sighed. “It might be, yes.” After a short pause, a smile crept into his voice. “I'm a tough guy, though, I can handle it.”

“Fitzwilliam… I -- I wanted to thank you for this weekend. It was truly amazing. I'm just sorry that you have to work more because of it.”

“It was amazing for me too, Elizabeth. I would not have given it up for anything in the world, and you have nothing to be sorry about. I only wanted to be by your side.”

The warmth in his voice made her skin tingle. “I'm glad,” she said softly.

“Good. Does this mean that I can take you to a late dinner tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely.”

***

Arthur looked up at Fitzwilliam from the product assessment report he had been reading. Their Monday morning strategy meetings were normally filled with brisk talk of company business, the two of them preferring to take care of necessities before the throng of employees arrived at the DAC offices and the regular noises of a busy company began their distraction. Most of the times, the two chatted over coffee, but this morning, Fitzwilliam was unusually distant and quiet. In fact, he was furiously flipping through papers with such speed as if trying to prove to himself how many he could read in the one hour allotted for their meeting. Arthur noticed that special attention was given to the reports of the Paris deal, handled by Richard while Fitzwilliam took that unheard of day off on Saturday. As it so often happens, it was precisely the day when swift decision-making was necessary at DAC. It was more responsibility than Richard usually handled, but he had acquitted himself admirably, even provoking praise from notoriously difficult to please clients. Arthur had long known that Richard was willing and ready to undertake a more serious role at DAC. However, Fitzwilliam had not seemed to notice and Arthur was unwilling to interfere between the cousins. He waited until an opportunity presented itself to allow Richard to take a lead role, and when that opportunity arrived, Richard had more than fulfilled all of Arthur's expectations. Beneath Richard's joviality and devil-may-care façade lay a steely resolve and sharp business acumen; intelligent, honest and dedicated, he was the perfect liaison between the DAC and the Fitzwilliam empires - particularly useful now, when at least 30% of DAC's business was routed through Fitzwilliam channels. However, watching Fitzwilliam attack the paperwork regarding that deal, Arthur realized that there was a problem, and he was left with a fairly good idea of what the problem actually was.

He coughed discretely. Fitzwilliam looked up, his eyebrows drawn together.

"So," Arthur said, "Fitzwilliam, it's been quite a while since you and I have grabbed a drink together, eh?"

Fitzwilliam relaxed slightly. "Yes, over a month, I believe. It's been a busy time."

"How about we have dinner tonight? Unless you have other plans, that is..."

"But Arthur," Fitzwilliam hesitated, "there is so much work to be done here, I really should not."

"Well, you have to eat, don't you? We will go for an hour only." Arthur infused his tone with subtle notes of persuasion. "We can discuss business over dinner," he added, quite honestly. He fully intended to discuss just that, only not in the way Fitzwilliam would imagine.

Fitzwilliam relented and they made plans to meet at the restaurant.

That evening, Arthur found himself choosing a dimly lit booth in a corner of the restaurant, the location providing quiet and relative privacy. He sighed and shook his head. "Oh, Ruth," he thought of his dear wife who had died ten years ago, "If you could only see what tricks I am forced to resort to, you would laugh at me and kiss my cheek at the same time." Blinking away unbidden moisture in his eyes, he ordered Fitzwilliam's favorite wine and sat down to wait.

Fitzwilliam arrived exactly on time, as always. “So what is this all about?” he asked good humouredly, gingerly sipping the wine.

Arthur looked up at him innocently. “I don't know quite what you mean. Can't I wish to have dinner with my CEO once in a while?”

“Right. My favorite restaurant, my favorite Cabernet, dark private corner…”

“Fitzwilliam,” Arthur shook a finger at him, “has anyone ever told you that you have an uncommonly suspicious nature, my boy? It simply isn't healthy. Drink, I've ordered the rock shrimp.”

Fitzwilliam suppressed a smile. He knew Arthur well enough to understand that he would not be bullied into a hasty admission, so he allowed Arthur to dictate the tone of the conversation. Besides, he loved rock shrimp and he was hungry.

They engaged in small talk over the delicious appetizer, hot from the pan and sprinkled lightly with spices. Roasted duck with a honey and plum glaze followed, complimented perfectly by the velvety richness of the Cabernet. Arthur watched Fitzwilliam carefully, waiting for the inevitable moment when the wine and the good food would begin spreading warmth though their bodies and tension would leave their shoulders. When that moment came, he spoke, almost too casually.

"So Richard handled the Paris deal fairly well, don't you think? I found the reports to be quite impressive."

Fitzwilliam frowned. "He did well," he admitted shortly. "I should have been here, though."

Arthur swirled the wine in his glass, holding it up to the candle. "Mm... It would have been good to have had you with us that day." He looked up at Fitzwilliam sharply. "But not wholly necessary." The words hung in the air heavily between them.

Fitzwilliam forced himself to remain calm. "Please explain your meaning, Arthur."

"Calm down, Fitzwilliam, this isn't a coup d'etat. All I'm saying is that Richard did a great job. He made all the right decisions, probably the exact decisions that you would have made had you been here. I'm going to be very blunt with you because I love you like a son. You are only a single person. If you continue working yourself the way you have been for the past seven years, you won't be running DAC much longer, and DAC needs you." Arthur let out his breath and leaned back into the leather of the booth.

"My father ran DAC his whole life," Fitzwilliam replied stubbornly. "DAC is my responsibility, and I won't shove it off onto anyone else, not now, not ever."

"And that sentiment does you credit. DAC will always remain a Darcy company, but if you run it like your father did, alone, you will miss out on a whole lot of life and die young. Would you not rather have had your father share responsibility with someone and still be here? Don't answer, it is an unfair question. My point is, happiness in life does not arrive on the heels of corporate success. You are so young yet and life is so beautiful, and you will never know that unless you learn to let go of the reigns once in a while. If you punish yourself for every extra moment you spend with the people you love, your life will become a nightmare and you will find yourself hurting everyone around you." Arthur saw that this hit the bulls-eye. It was painful to watch Fitzwilliam flinch away from his words, but they needed to be said.

"You are lucky," he continued gently, "in that you have a network of people who love you and whom you can trust absolutely. Me, Richard, Charles. Your family." He left one name unsaid - it was too early to test that particular theory. "We are here to share in all of your joys and all of your responsibilities. Let us help you live a fulfilling life. We love DAC and we love you, so let us be a real team. You know perfectly well what each of us is capable of, and together, we can make this company even greater than it already is." He waited for the explosion, but it never came. Instead, Fitzwilliam stared at the table, a line forming between his brows, processing everything that had been said. It had been a very long time since anybody had been this blunt with him, and through the unfamiliarity of the situation, he saw the truth in Arthur's statement.

"I was so afraid of not being good enough," he whispered.

Tears glistened in Arthur's eyes as he dared to carefully cover Fitzwilliam's hand with his own for a brief minute. "Your father was always proud of you. I was always proud of you," he said softly. "You did what only one person in a million could have done, but now, it is time for you to go after your own dreams. DAC was one of them, but I know there are others. You don't have to speak to me about them, I just know."

They were silent for several minutes. Then, for the first time that day, a faint smile broke out on Fitzwilliam's face. "I owe Richard an apology, don't I?"

Arthur clapped him on the back. "No, that'll swell his ego to unmanageable proportions, and you know he already doesn't have a poor opinion of himself! But you could tell him that he did a good job. I know it would mean a lot to him."

Fitzwilliam nodded his assent. Then, with a mischievous spark in his eyes, he asked: "So does this mean that I don't have to go to Australia?"

Arthur shook his head with mock sternness, but his eyes crinkled in a smile. "No, you still have to go, young man. You may be the CEO, but I am Chief of Operations and I still tell you what to do in that department."

"I know, I know." Both were now laughing.

***

On the way home, his thoughts gravitated towards his father. Time had not dulled the pain of his passing, but it had given Fitzwilliam perspective. He knew that his father had loved him very much, but he also had always known that, whatever happened, business came first. This is what he had been taught, and this idea was what he was left to follow after his father's death in pride and conceit, so sure that this was the only way, the right way. It had never occurred to him to question his priorities until now, until Elizabeth. Arthur's words echoed in his mind. If you punish yourself for every extra moment you spend with the people you love, your life will become a nightmare and you will find yourself hurting everyone around you. How true that had been for his life, and he had not even realized it! As much as he loved his father, he now understood his failings as a father and husband, and he did not wish to repeat them.

***

The townhouse was dark and quiet when Fitzwilliam got home, all the members of the household either asleep or at their private pursuits. He tip-toed to his bedroom but hesitated when he noticed a sliver of light under Georgiana's door. He knocked softly.

“Hey, Georgie, can I come in?”

Georgiana looked up from her art book. “Sure, make yourself comfortable. Have you been at the office all this time, Fitzwilliam? It's nearly midnight.”

Gratified by her concern, he assured her that he had taken breaks and the time at the office had been a necessity. “What are you still doing up?” he asked, adopting the older brother tone. “Don't you have classes tomorrow?”

“No, I only have a meeting with Dr. Annesley about my final project. I was done with it ages ago, though. Want to see?” She led him over to a large canvas in the corner covered with a rough linen cloth. The painting behind the cloth rendered Fitzwilliam temporarily speechless. The reaching, twisting lines were as delicate and as sure as an ancient Chinese painting and the colors made him catch his breath - shimmering yellows, smoky greens and indigoes bled through each other and danced intertwined. He knew that the canvas was stationary and yet, the painting seemed to move, to change with each angle and catch of the light, to sing and breathe a life of its own. Years of studying art and traveling to all ends of the world had exposed Fitzwilliam to endless artistic variations, but even without that, he would have known that this was one of a kind. This was real and true talent.

“Georgiana,” he whispered reverently, turning to her and taking her hand. Georgiana was not looking at him, though, but at her painting; her softly-shining eyes and the proud arch of her neck told Fitzwilliam that she did not need to hear his approbation - she knew what she had created.

“I've been wanting to paint this ever since father died,” she said simply. “Probably even before that, I just didn't know it. I tried over and over, but I could never really get it and it's haunted me all these years. Do you know what it feels like to finally make something that's exactly, precisely right? It feels pure, liberating, like I could leap the tallest buildings and swim the widest oceans.” She laughed gaily and squeezed his hand. “Think I'll get an A?”

Fitzwilliam hugged her impulsively. “I think that I love you very much, little sister,” he said. “Maybe the Met should be buying your paintings instead of hiring you as a lousy intern,” he teased her.

“Well,” she teased back, “I need some kind of a backup plan once your wife takes over the Foundation and I'm left with nothing to do!”

Fitzwilliam held her back at arms' length. Her reply startled him because he had never even considered that Georgiana's interest in the Foundation was anything but temporary. Yet another instance of me wearing blinders, he supposed wryly. “Georgiana,” he asked seriously, “do you actually like doing all this Foundation stuff?”

Georgiana looked back at him with evident surprise. “Of course, didn't you realize? I love it and I wish you'd let me do more. I mean, I know that I'm only twenty one and I still have loads to learn, but I've watched you and Aunt Eleanor all these years, and I think I am ready to do at least part of what Mom used to do.”

Arthur's words earlier that night overlapped with a memory of a fourteen year old Georgiana telling him animatedly about making a grant decision, and suddenly, Fitzwilliam knew that she was indeed ready and that he would be wrong to stand in her way. “As long as your grades don't fall below a 3.8 and you don't neglect your internship, I don't see why we can't integrate you more this summer,” he said carefully.

“Done deal!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Wait,” she frowned, “what about when you get married? Won't you want your wife to head the Foundation?”

Fitzwilliam sat her down on the bed. “Georgie, first of all, let us not jump the gun on my matrimony. And secondly, if you are truly serious about heading the Foundation, and I emphasize that you have to be very serious about it, it is a DARCY Foundation. There could never be a more appropriate person than you. If my future wife will want to help, I hope you would be able to find a place for her. However,” he warned, “you will have to start from the bottom and learn the ropes before you can effectively manage people and money, so it will be a long and arduous road ahead.”

“I'm ready, Fitzwilliam.”

“And you will still paint?” he asked.

“I will always paint.”

Chapter 17

He was sitting in a bar, he knew that much. And drinking. Hazy thoughts swirled inside the recesses of his mind, cradled gently in a soft, alcohol-induced darkness. The bartender also swirled in front of his eyes. Wait, Paul thought, blinking, bartenders don't swirl - must be the alcohol again. He knew he'd had more than was good for him, but for once, he did not care; in fact, he reveled in the release of control, of the tight tension inside of him ever since Elizabeth left. Paul was not a fool, and in a way, it made things much more difficult. If he could have only pretended that there was hope, that she could love him, he could have done something, could have acted instead of sitting around in a bar in this stupid manner and getting drunk. Which did feel good, though, he had to admit. He slid another shot of vodka towards himself and tipped it into his mouth. His eyelids felt heavy. How long had he been sitting there? Two hours? Three? It did not seem to matter. Paul thought that Elizabeth would have laughed at him had she been there; she delighted in the ridiculous. The thought was tinged with more than a little bit of bitterness.

“I don't think you should have any more, do you?” came a startlingly clear and sober feminine voice.

Paul almost knocked his shot glass off the table in surprise as he swiveled his chair towards the intruder. “What the hell? Who are you?”

A pair of cool gray eyes gazed at him dispassionately. “I'm Char… Lizzy's friend.” He grimaced a little at the name. “We've met several times.” She looked him over and said again, though more gently this time: “I really don't think you should have any more to drink.”

Perhaps because he really was too drunk to make decisions, perhaps because of the note of softness in Charlotte's voice, and perhaps because it was actually a good idea, Paul nodded and gestured to the bartender for the bill. “Fine, I was leaving anyways,” he muttered, throwing some cash on the table, having barely glanced at the total. The room spun around as he got up and he stumbled over the barstool. The brief flicker of pity in the gray eyes provoked him to straighten himself up, though he promptly dropped his car keys on the floor and had to grope for them in the darkness of the bar. “Damn,” he swore.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?” she asked.

“No,” Paul snapped, “I'm perfectly okay.”

“Yeah, right. So okay that you can't even stand straight. Why don't you let me call you a taxi or drive you home? My friends could pick me up afterwards.” She gestured to the group of girls watching them from a corner table.

“Listen, don't you have anything better to do than stand here yelling at me? Why do you care anyways?” He knew he was making an ass of himself but didn't give a damn.

Charlotte signed. How to explain the strange sense of responsibility she felt for Elizabeth's actions? Though Charlotte was happy for her friend, who was finally dealing with the demons of her past in New York, she wished Elizabeth had at least given a thought to the man whose heart she had broken. Why did she care, indeed? It was a question that Charlotte shied away from answering. To hide her hesitation, she grabbed the car keys from his hand. “Just come along.” She signed to her friends that she would be back shortly and half led, half dragged Paul out of the bar. He shrugged morosely and followed.

Charlotte walked outside, following Paul's mumbled directions, to the spot where he had parked his car; wind nipped at her bare arms and she wondered what in the world she was doing out here. When she had first spoken to Paul inside the bar, it had been one of those spontaneous outbursts which she thought at the time was cheeky and clever, but now, under the glaring lights of the street lamps, seemed just absurd. She barely knew him, he obviously resented her interference, but like a ship which had committed itself to a course, she would not now turn back. She could call him a taxi - judging by his state, he probably would not remember it in the morning anyway… No, her practical side said, coming up with a hundred considerations for why she should not entrust a barely functioning man into the arms, so to speak, of a shady cab driver. Charlotte sighed. She hated her practical side, but it usually proved impossible to ignore. She walked on in silence.

Paul had hoped that a brisk walk in the cold would clear his head, but instead, it just made all the alcohol rush through his blood faster. Whereas things had swirled before, now he could barely see straight, and walking straight was a distant dream. His head hurt like hell from the bright streetlamps, and only the memory of the brief flash of pity in the gray eyes of the slim figure at his side kept him from falling over. He barely remembered getting into the passenger's seat of his Jaguar, and he could not at all remember being helped up the stairs by a small, yet surprisingly firm, hand.

***

Paul awoke the next morning alone, body throbbing, guilt and disgust nauseating him as he pieced together the events of the night before. It was frightening what self-pity could do to a person, he thought, through the pounding in his head. If a woman did not love you, you accepted it and moved on. What you didn't do is go to a bar, get blindingly drunk and insult her best friend. Shuddering, Paul remembered yelling at her - yelling at her! It was in every way a disaster that he could not allow himself to ever repeat.

His glance fell on the car keys, neatly deposited on the bedside table, and they reminded him of what he had to do. He propped his laptop open, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the late morning sun and hoping against all hope that she was listed in the online telephone book. Paul thanked his lucky stars that he even knew her last name - her father had kept a chain of small boutique hotels, Lucas Lodges - otherwise, he would have been forced to call Elizabeth for information and he did not think he could have faced that just yet. Fingers shaking, from nervousness as much as from the hangover, he dialed the number.

“Hello?” answered a clear, measured voice.

Paul hesitated, and to his further consternation, flushed deeply. “Char… this is Paul.”

There was a brief, surprised silence. “Paul? How did you… I mean, how are you feeling?” she asked, regaining her self-possession quickly.

“Like a complete and utter idiot,” Paul said harshly, his anger at himself resounding loudly. She did not protest, as he half thought she would. “Look, I am inexpressibly sorry, there isn't any excuse for my behavior last night. I made a complete ass of myself and I am very ashamed of it.”

“I accept your apology,” Charlotte replied evenly, after a moment. Paul did not know what he had expected - a reproach, a confirmation, perhaps even a measure of sarcastic wit - anything but this exasperating composure. He thought, parenthetically, that Elizabeth would never have let him live this one down had she been here. It surprised him that he could think of Elizabeth so freely, so nearly painlessly.

When it was clear that she would not say more, Paul continued. “I wanted to thank you, also, for - well, for what you did last night. I-- I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there.”

“Truly, there is no need to thank me,” she said formally, and Paul thought he could detect a hint of coldness in her voice.

“No, please, I wanted to.” His voice stumbled. “May I see you, take you out to dinner, perhaps?”

This time, there was no mistaking the definite chill. “As I said, that is utterly unnecessary.”

Paul could have hit himself for his clumsiness, and at the same time, he could not have explained why he was so determined to repay her kindness. He sighed. “Char, please...”

“Oh, all right," she relented, "I am going to the Getty Center this evening for a charity event, a private exhibition of their new acquisitions. If you like, I can get you an extra ticket; at least, it will be for a good cause.”

“Done.”

***

The museum was cool and shadowy when they got there, people gathering quietly in the courtyard, holding small, fragrant cups of red wine. The stars blinked in and out overhead, points of light in the dark blanket of the sky, and the air was cold up here, in the mountains. Charlotte shrugged deeper into her shawl, but declined Paul's offer of his jacket with a decisive movement of her hand which he could not protest. Her simple cocktail dress would have been almost severe if it were not for the softly dipping neckline, and the color - a deep rich midnight blue that made her pale hair glow in the moonlight. She was not beautiful, no, Paul thought involuntarily, but her eyes had flashed brightly when he had asked about the charity - a shelter for abused women and children where she did her pro bono work - and two spots of color burned hotly in each cheek. Paul realized that he had never really noticed her before because she had been all too easily eclipsed by Elizabeth's energy and vivacity; she was light, pale, where Elizabeth was brilliant, she walked while Elizabeth ran, only smiled where Elizabeth would have laughed. It had been too long since Paul had been with a woman, but he knew that this fact did not, could not account for the quickening of his pulse as he watched her small hands clench and unclench in her lap, fingering a bracelet made of small diamonds that sparkled like droplets of water on her wrist.

Paul recoiled from such thoughts. They barely knew each other, save for the brief half hour of quiet conversation in the car, she had rescued him from one of the most stupid and embarrassing things he had ever done, and she was Elizabeth's best friend and he had loved Elizabeth. He caught himself on the use of the past tense. Had loved? It was too much for one evening and his head still hurt. He concentrated on the speaker, afraid to look at the woman sitting by his side.

***

After the presentation, they had an hour to wander through the darkened hallways of the museum, pools of light throwing each canvas into sharper relief. Charlotte was obviously familiar with the paintings, passing by some as if saying hello to old friends, studying the new acquisitions attentively. Paul stood behind her as she did this, his gaze lingering on the curve of her cheek, the bones high, delicate and fragile, the ashen hair throwing faint shadows at the base of her neck, resting on the slender, almost girlish shoulders. His mouth went suddenly dry and blood pounded in his head.

“Don't you think this painting is very beautiful?” she asked softly, without turning around.

“Yes, beautiful,” Paul whispered, thrown off balance for a moment by a nameless emotion. By the time he had regained control, she had already moved on to a different work. Wordlessly, he followed, watching her walk from room to room with a quiet grace - sometimes somber, eyebrows coming together in thought, sometimes amused, and sometimes sad. There was a painful loveliness in the intensity with which she regarded each painting - as a self-contained universe, a story - making it live and breathe in front of his eyes, taking him to the canals of Venice, the sun-drenched English countryside, or into the mysterious candle-lit rooms of Rembrandt. She gave an almost imperceptible gasp at a Van Gough and Paul stayed with the painting even after she had moved on, until the mad vivid colors and broken lines stirred his senses as they had evidently stirred hers. He had been to many of the most famous museums in the world, but none had touched him in this way, and he followed her to yet another room, all the time conscious of the impropriety of thinking of her in this way but powerless to stop it.

During the time at the museum, Charlotte had spoken to him very little, the easy camaraderie of their car ride together gone, weighed down by the unease of both. After looking at the paintings, they had joined several groups of people in the garden and Charlotte distanced herself from Paul, preferring to speak with old friends and reaffirm acquaintances. He let her be, walking from group to group, surprised at how much he was enjoying the conversations and the people, until a light touch on his arm signaled that she was ready to go home. In the car, Paul tried to make small talk, but she answered absentmindedly, looking out of the window and so obviously lost in her own thoughts that he finally relinquished the attempts. Once in a while, his eyes would inadvertently slip to her side, taking in the way the dull silk of her dress draped her thigh; a turn of his head when making a lane change revealed the creamy swell of her breast, making him clench his teeth and grip the steering wheel tightly. When he shifted gears, he could almost feel the heat of her body, maddeningly close. It was a wild feeling, bewildering, inexplicable, unlike anything he had ever felt before.

He pulled into an empty parking spot in front of her building and turned off the engine, feeling ridiculously like a teenager in the silence. Charlotte cleared her throat.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” she said, “it was really for a very good cause.”

Paul knew it would be a bad idea to remind her why he had really come. He looked at her, nodded, raising his arm slightly in a salute; but something in her face, in the gravity of her address, overwhelmed him and he impulsively brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. Her lips parted and she inhaled, eyes like pools of moonlight in the darkness. Then she turned, hands shaking slightly, and walked out of the car.

Chapter 18

Paul was tempted to go after her, almost did, in fact, but something in her manner held him in place. He watched as she walked calmly and steadily, never looking back, and let herself into the building with a key. Paul rested his head on the cool leather of the steering wheel; he felt as if his world was turning upside down. For so long, he thought he was in love with Elizabeth - was sure he was in love with her, wanted to marry her - and in a single night, that conviction was overturned by one girl. A girl who had not even spoken to him all that much, come to think of it. He could not say what he found so out of the ordinary about her, but she had awoken something in him that was new and exciting and a lot more unpredictable than Paul was used to.

***

Charlotte never knew that walking, simply walking, could be so difficult. Breathing in and out evenly, she counted her steps, counted the turns of the key in the lock, counted the stairs up to her apartment, until she was safe behind the heavy locked door and there was no chance of running back to him.

What had she been thinking, inviting him to the benefit? For that matter, whatever had possessed her to speak to him at the bar? Stupid, stupid girl. He was in love with Elizabeth.

The whole evening, Paul had disturbed her composure with his mere presence - the slight smell of a spicy cologne, the stark white of his shirt against the tanned skin, the easy way he spoke to her in the car, as if they had known each other for a long time. Charlotte envied him that easiness, which she, herself, did not possess. Trying to put some distance between them, she had taken refuge in old acquaintances and familiar, academic conversation, purposefully excluding him from the circle, only to find him nonchalantly chatting up the crustiest of professors. Charlotte could no longer deny her own attraction and hated herself for the futility of it. Even if, for that brief moment in the car, Paul had looked at her as a woman, not simply as Elizabeth's friend. She counted to 30 before she looked out of the window. Paul's car was gone and, suppressing the treacherous stab of disappointment, Charlotte went to bed.

Two days later, she found that an envelope had been left for her at the front desk of her building, containing two tickets to a private Van Gough exhibition in an upscale gallery in Beverly Hills. The shock of this unexpected gift left her staring at the tickets, mouth open inelegantly, prompting the security guard to ask if she was all right. There was no note enclosed with the tickets, nor a telephone number, but Charlotte did not have to ask who they were from. She went to the exhibition, half in agony, half in hope lest he should be there, but he was not.

A week later, she found a small nosegay of violets next to her door when she came home from work, delicate flowers protected by a tissue wrapping and stems enclosed in a plastic water capsule. A week later, a single lily in a tall glass jar, white and pristine and proud. Charlotte did not know what to think - no, she did know - but was afraid of thinking it because the implications pleased and disturbed her more than she was willing to admit. She had never been beautiful and she had never been romantic, and therefore had learned to be wary of men trying to use her for their own purposes. From what she knew of Paul, he was not that kind of man, but wasn't he in love with Elizabeth, and it was all too confusing to think about.

A week after the lily, he called her and almost without preamble, asked her to have dinner with him.

“I don't think it would be a good idea,” she answered, with the conviction she did not feel and fighting against herself.

There was a pause and she could hear him breathe. “Char,” he said with a peculiar softness - no one had ever said her name quite like that - “It's just dinner. I would like to get to know you better.”

What am I doing? she thought as she assented.

Chapter 19

“Elizabeth…” murmured Fitzwilliam, stretched out on the couch, head on Elizabeth's lap.

“Yes, darling?” Elizabeth asked in a faraway voice. She was holding a book with one hand, reading, and the other hand was absentmindedly stroking his hair.

“I have to go to Australia next week.” Reluctance was evident in his voice.

Elizabeth's hand stopped. “What? For how long?”

“At least two weeks. I'm sorry, I can't put it off any longer.”

“But can't you send someone else?” The words escaped from Elizabeth's lips before she had a chance to think about them, and his frown immediately made her feel guilty for her petulance. She sighed heavily and thought that separations like these would probably be very common if she were to share a life with him. “No, forget I said that… if you have to go, you have to go.”

“I know it's difficult, Elizabeth,” he said, sitting up stiffly, “but this is more than just a job - this is who I am. This company is an integral part of me. I don't like it any more than you do that I have to leave you, but I would not ask you to give up your job to come with me.”

“I understand, Fitzwilliam, I am not a child. I was simply expressing regret at having to be separated from you for such a long time. Please excuse the sentiment!”

Fitzwilliam ran a hand through his hair distractedly. Even after all these years, it still amazed him how quickly their arguments could escalate; he was loath to repeat that pattern. He looked at Elizabeth. “This-- this isn't exactly how I imagined this conversation. I guess I am a little too sensitive about my work - it's meant so much to me over the years... And for the record, I know you aren't a child, that was not what I meant at all.” He chucked her gently under the chin. “I hope you know I will miss you like crazy.”

Elizabeth had turned away at first, but his last words made her turn back and look into the dark blue of his eyes. “I'm going to miss you as well,” she said quietly. “I guess I'm still sensitive about my place in your life.”

He did not answer right away, but got up and stood looking out of the window onto the busy street below. “I would like to tell you, Elizabeth, that you will always be first, no matter what,” he said slowly, “but I don't think that would be the truth. All I can say is that I will try my best and my hardest - I want to. But there will be moments in my life where my duties may take me away from you. I hope that those moments will be rare, I sincerely do, but life is a balance and I'm still learning how to walk that tightrope.” He turned around. “Everyone's life is like that. For example, if Jane asked you to come over to her place right now to talk about something important, would you leave me and go?”

Elizabeth thought about it for a minute and began to see what he meant. She rose and walked into his embrace, pressing herself against his warm solidity. “You have an annoying habit of being right, Mr. Darcy,” she said into his shoulder. “But it's still going to be hard without you.”

Fitzwilliam stroked her hair, thinking about how much he would give not to have to let her go. He had put off the trip until the last possible moment and had searched valiantly for a replacement, but in the end, the potential clients only wanted to negotiate with him and he had no choice. As it was, he was supposed to have gone for a month, but was sending Richard for the last two weeks instead. “Oh! I completely forgot!” he exclaimed suddenly, and then proceeded to drag a very confused Elizabeth into her bedroom. “Look--” he pointed to her laptop.

On the screen of the laptop, there was a window showing a picture of what looked to be Fitzwilliam's bedroom in his townhouse. Elizabeth furrowed her eyebrows and looked at him questioningly.

“I installed an internet camera and Skype on both of our laptops,” he explained with a self-satisfied grin. “That way, we can do video conferencing and see each other while we talk.

He looked so like a little boy who put together his first construction set, that Elizabeth just had to laugh. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I'm very touched you thought of all this.”

Fitzwilliam's hand caressed her waist. “If I have to be away from you, I may as well make the separation as endurable as possible. For both of us.”

To dispel the serious mood, Elizabeth slapped his hand playfully and asked: “So you put this together all by yourself, did you?”

He drew himself up with mock indignation. “Miss Bennet, are you doubting my skills and abilities in the technical sphere?”

This elicited giggles from Elizabeth. “Never, Mr. Darcy!”

“Well, I am very glad to hear it.” He paused and then continued with a slight smile: “Though truth be told, I did have to call Richard several times. He is surprisingly good at these things.”

At this, they both dissolved into laughter.

Chapter 20

It seemed that only a short few days later, Elizabeth was saying goodbye to Fitzwilliam at the airport. Not wanting to upset him, she held her tears, but they still came as she drove from the airport back to her apartment. Were separations always going to be this way, or would it get better, she wondered, knowing only that life without Fitzwilliam had, once again, become a possibility too scary to contemplate.

For the first time in her life, she felt lonely - Jane, whom she had always been able to confide in, was knee-deep in wedding preparations and did not have the time or the energy to deal with anything else. Besides, Jane was so happy and glowing that Elizabeth would have felt guilty burdening her with doubts and fears. Charlotte - Elizabeth still shuddered a little at the thought - was probably out with Paul, as she always was these days. Elizabeth did not know what it was about that pairing that made her so self-conscious and uncomfortable; perhaps it was pride, after all - Charlotte and Paul seemed to understand each other much better than Elizabeth and Paul ever had. Despite her happiness with Fitzwilliam, she had to admit that it rankled for a man who she thought was in love with her to have transferred his affections so completely to her best friend. Charlotte had woken up a passion in Paul that Elizabeth had not even stirred - they were happy together, and most importantly, they were complete together. Elizabeth chastised herself for those thoughts and resolved to try to understand her friends more and to be happier for them. Another admirable side-effect of being with Fitzwilliam, she thought with sudden amusement - he was always thinking, analyzing his emotions, trying to understand. Unknowingly, he made her slow down, think before she spoke, weigh her feelings and emotions before she acted. Elizabeth was conscious of a growing up in both of them during the past two months, a quiet inner peace that neither had ever had before.

The sharp ringing of her cell phone against the silence interrupted her musings. She picked it up.

“Miss Bennet?” The voice was polished and polite.

“Yes, this is she.”

“I am not sure whether you remember me, I am Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Fitzwilliam's aunt.”

It took all of Elizabeth's poise not to babble in surprise. Fitzwilliam's aunt? She only remembered her as a lady with cool blue eyes that were kind and at the same time distant.

“Yes, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I remember you well,” she replied, with as much calmness and conviction as she could.

Eleanor paused and chose her words carefully. “I apologize for intruding upon your time in this manner, but I wonder-- I would like it very much if you could have dinner with me, at your convenience, of course.”

Elizabeth's mind whirled with unanswered questions, but she suppressed them beneath a polite veneer. It was Fitzwilliam's aunt, after all, and she could at least hear what the woman had to say. Anger from seven years ago, anger that she thought had been buried, came bubbling up to the surface.

“I would be …” she did not say delighted, that would have been too much of a lie, “I would be glad to accept your invitation, thank you. I have no set plans for any night this week.”

Evidently, this reply pleased Eleanor, as she gave an almost audible sigh of relief. “I am happy to hear that, Miss Bennet. Is tomorrow night acceptable? I can have George pick you up at seven, if you would like.”

Elizabeth assented and hung up. In truth, she was confused and intrigued. From what Elizabeth knew of Eleanor through the press, she was a perfect society wife - presiding over charities in Chanel suits, organizing benefits and always standing behind her husband at public events. However, their brief meetings seven years ago had allowed Elizabeth to glimpse a powerful personality behind the perfectly coiffed exterior. She knew she should have been irate over Fitzwilliam's aunt trying to meddle once again, but she was curious to meet one-on-one the matriarch who had held the Fitzwilliams together since Anne's death.

The car sent for Elizabeth the next evening was a luxurious old Bentley with a silent, uniformed chauffeur holding the door open for her. It was intimidating - it was meant to be intimidating, Elizabeth was sure of it - but her confidence rose with the challenge. Surprisingly, she found that she was not as nervous as she thought she would be; she straightened her shoulders a little and began to relax.

The restaurant chosen by Eleanor was not exactly what Elizabeth had been expecting - it was neither large nor opulent, and contained more business people dining together and talking with concentration rather than the ladies-who-lunch set. The host showed her to the table without asking who she was, and she saw him smile encouragingly at Eleanor, suggesting an easy friendship. This was more and more intriguing and quite contrary to Elizabeth's perceptions about Eleanor's motives. She sat down and eyed the other woman warily, mentally preparing for battle.

“Good evening, Miss Bennet. Thank you for joining me tonight.” Although Eleanor's words were quiet, the full force of her personality shone out of the sharp blue eyes.

Elizabeth inclined her head. “Thank you for the invitation. And please call me Elizabeth.”

“You may call me Eleanor, then. Let us order first,” she suggested, motioning to the waiter. He stood patiently by while they perused the menu and made their choices.

Elizabeth, deciding that offence was the best defense, took the first strike. “So, are you the one the Family sent to deal with me?” she asked.

Eleanor looked up at her with a faint crease between her eyebrows. “Elizabeth, regardless what you may think of us, we do not order each other around. Don't talk like you are in a melodrama - we do not `deal' with people as if we were in the mafia. I invited you here because I was curious to see the woman my nephew is in love with.”

Elizabeth felt only slightly ashamed of her hasty words. Eleanor's tone indicated that, had she discovered something she did not approve of, she was indeed prepared to deal with Elizabeth. Perhaps not in the same way the mafia dealt with people, but in her own formidable way nonetheless. She sat back in her chair. “I am sorry, Eleanor, but this felt more like an imperial summons rather than an informal get-to-know-you dinner. Especially as it coincided with Fitzwilliam being out of town. I was naturally put on the defensive.”

Clearly, the older woman had not expected such frankness. Eleanor regarded her more closely. “Perhaps you have not entirely misjudged me,” she allowed herself to admit. “I wanted to see how you have changed over the years. Our last meeting… left so little time for conversation.” She bowed her head in recognition of the passing of Fitzwilliam's father, but did not elaborate more.

After a pause during which both women were thinking hard, Elizabeth brought out the next thing she had decided earlier she wanted Fitzwilliam's family to know. “I hope,” she said, punctuating every word quietly, “I hope that you still do not believe that I am not good enough for him.”

Eleanor smiled unexpectedly, breaking the somber, hostile mood. “Elizabeth, when you have children, you will understand. No is ever good enough for them. And Fitzwilliam has always been a special child.”

“Eleanor, he is not a child anymore!”

Eleanor looked at Elizabeth sternly. “Just because children grow up, does not mean that we still do not wish to protect them with everything we have. We love Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth, we don't want to see him hurt.”

“Then we have something in common,” Elizabeth replied, “because I love him also, and believe me, I would never willingly hurt him. But we are adults, Eleanor, things happen.” She thought about her own pain, about the complicated web of emotions Eleanor never knew about, and blinked back the tears. “You cannot protect him from himself and neither should you.”

The waiter brought their food, but neither woman touched it, searching each other's face for a sign, any sign, that they were on the same side. Elizabeth spoke again: “I understand if you are wary of me - I was not born to the same circumstances, this life will be new to me.”

Eleanor interrupted her with a small wave of her hand. “This life… you are no longer twenty, my dear, and this is not rocket science. As for the rest of the world,” her eyes glittered dangerously, “they know our family well enough to know their own limits.” Eleanor sighed wistfully. “I won't lie to you, it isn't the easiest of choices. It's difficult watching your husband go, knowing that sometimes, his responsibilities to his job outweigh his desire to be with you… But that's the way life is - if you love someone, you make sacrifices, they make sacrifices. Ultimately, they are doing it in large part for us and for our children.” Eleanor's unconscious, or perhaps conscious use of the inclusive “us” was not lost on Elizabeth and her heart softened.

“You just want to know that I will care for him,” she stated, with sudden understanding, leaning towards the older woman.

“Yes. For I know he will care for you.” Eleanor looked suddenly very much older. “So many have `loved' him for the wrong reasons,” she murmured.

Elizabeth just nodded; she recognized that this was very different than the family's interference seven years ago. It was not for her, she understood, to reveal to this woman all the nuances and the painful history of the past - that was Fitzwilliam's battle and his responsibility. She was only there to answer a mother's concern - or an aunt's who had tried to be a mother, with Anne's ghost standing behind her shoulder. Elizabeth gently said the words Eleanor needed to hear.

Eleanor looked aside, lost in her own thoughts, the memories of years past crowding in her mind. “Perhaps we have been a little unfair to you, Elizabeth,” she finally said, not really expecting an answer.

It was not really an apology, nor was it meant as one, but Elizabeth recognized it as acceptance. “Tell me,” she asked, as she picked up her knife and fork, “what was Fitzwilliam like as a child?”

***

Fitzwilliam looked about the room, feeling nervous for the first time since those first few nightmarish years when he took over his father's role at DAC. Most of the people gathered in the room were known to him, many were old friends - these were the members of DAC's Board of Directors, whom he had convinced to fly out to Australia from their homes in different parts of the world for a meeting which could change both his and DAC's future. Arthur and Richard were listening remotely, but not participating - this was not their fight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, willing his voice to be steady, “thank you for joining me for our annual meeting. Before we begin our usual review of DAC over the last year, I would like to make a short presentation and put forth a matter for your consideration and vote. As you know, DAC has always prided itself on exploring new and diverse markets. Thanks to my grandfather, we were at the forefront of Israel's tech boom and helped expand much of the technology that originated therein. A generation later, many of you participated, along with my father, in the investment in India, which helped us develop new products and India develop a successful technology sector. When I came along, we made a decision that there was a vacuum in Asia that was waiting to be filled and for the past five years, Europe and Australia have been on our horizons. Unfortunately, we cannot simply rest on our laurels. We are spread too thin and are rapidly loosing foothold in areas where DAC was accustomed to dominance.” There were surprised murmurs from the directors and people were taking notes furiously. Fitzwilliam grasped the podium and nodded to the boy in the back. The hum of the projector filled the room as the lights dimmed and he began his presentation.

“And so you see,” he finished, “if we establish closer relations with local sister companies, as I have tentatively began to do in the all-important Asian market, DAC can retain a presence without having to actively man the stations, so to speak, all of the time. We will be more in touch with the actual needs of the local markets, developing along with the natural cultural and economic pathways rather than artificially imposed ones.”

He waited with baited breath. Unlike in movies, no one broke out in spontaneous applause, but heads were nodding in agreement and this was enough.

Someone asked, “Have you thought about how you will distribute the responsibilities? This will necessitate a shift in the whole command structure of DAC!”

“Not necessarily,” he answered. “We've tried this before when my father lived in California and telecommuted to the East Coast for years. DAC is too large to remain a one-captain ship. I propose to instate Richard Fitzwilliam in charge of the European division, run out of New York. As you know, 30% of DAC's business comes from Europe, run through channels with Fitzwilliam Enterprises. Mr. Fitzwilliam is the perfect person to become the liaison to that region. I, on the other hand, can go to California, since I was the person who spearheaded the Asian effort. I have also recently re-connected with our past associates there and have began to run a beta version of the structure which I have presented to you today. Between Mr. Fitzwilliam, myself, and Mr. Hastings, who has managed our U.S. business for a number of years, we can retain a centralized structure of command while directing our efforts into the proper channels.”

There were more questions and Fitzwilliam answered them all. Then, he passed copies of his report to everyone and bade the board members to come to a decision at an appointed day several weeks later. He desperately wanted the Board to accept his suggestion. He, Richard and Arthur had sat up nights to create and develop this proposal, and it was truly the direction he believed was best for DAC. Fitzwilliam had not wanted Elizabeth to know, in case the Board refused it and he would be left to think of some other way to fulfill his obligations to his company and still be with Elizabeth in the city he knew she loved above any other in the world. It was unthinkable to ask her to move to New York for him. Of course, if she had wanted to… Arthur would always be willing to go to California or he could find someone else to fill that role, but he was almost sure that when he got back home and he and Elizabeth would talk about it, she would long to be back in Los Angeles. Fitzwilliam did not want her to have to make that choice. His priorities sang loud and clear in his heart and mind.

***

Four months later...

He held her close, moving gently to the rhythm of the music. Though there were two hundred and fifty other people there, the two of them were in their own world. For once, attention was focused on someone else, and Jane and Charles looked radiant with happiness and love. Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, was simply content to breathe in the scent of her hair and feel her warmth molded to his, to sense the trust in her embrace. They were staying three nights at the townhouse for the wedding festivities and then taking a plane back to Los Angeles, back to Pemberley, back to what was now and had always been his home; what would in the future be their home. He was not afraid to think these thoughts anymore, neither one of them was afraid. They had stitched the fabric of the future from their mistakes and redemption - a rich tapestry to which they could add their successes and failures, their tears of sadness and tears of joy, their respect and trust and love for one another - all the elements of a full life that they would lead together.

Finis

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