Chapter 34 Part 2

Posted on: 2011-12-20

Spaghetti for two at the Bennet-Darcy flat felt surprisingly intimate, at least on her end. Maybe it was the carnations. Or maybe it was the way his dark eyes watched her when she spoke, or the way his body relaxed into the chair. Will soaked her in, as if there wasn't a single part of her that didn't matter to him. How had she ever thought his eyes were cold? They were dark, yes, like some moonless night, but they were also so sensual that a prolonged examination left her flushed.

Aware that her speech had started to trail off as her thoughts wandered, she set her fork down, grateful that the setting sun could hide her blush. "Sorry, what were we talking about?"

"I'd asked about your first performance in Dublin."

Her mouth twisted, skeptical. "And you're sure that doesn't bore you?"

"No. I've told you before, I like listening to you talk." To say nothing of the fact that he simply liked sitting here, watching her.

"I know. But I wonder sometimes..." she mused aloud, before halting herself.

There was a self-conscious note in her voice, one he'd never detected before. "What?"

"I wonder why...well, out of everyone you could choose to spend time with, you didn't choose someone like Anne? Assuming there was no Frederick." She rushed the declartion, and then proceeded to picked up a piece of French bread as if to shield her from whatever his next comment would be.

"Me and Anne?" His eyes sparkled with humor. "So we could sit here and have a conversation of silence?"

Surprised by the remark, laughter bubbled out of her. "You don't mean that. And anyway, neither of you are as silent as people think you are."

"True," Darcy agreed, a small smile playing on his mouth. "You want my honest answer?"

"Yes," she squeaked, her mouth full of french bread. He'd been relaxed for most of the dinner. Now, Elizabeth watched him sit up to attention, addressing her question with sincerity. It was an aristocratic's posture, offering him the bearing of a misplaced duke---even here in her dingy flat. Regal Anne had possessed that very same skill. Elizabeth swallowed hard.

"The truth, Elizabeth," Will continued, "is that Anne's a lot like my sister. I care for her very much, but I would never be attracted to her."

"Because she reminds you of Georgie?"

"Because she doesn't challenge me," he corrected. "I like being tested, I always have. I like your wit. I like your principles. I like how strongly you feel things, and how passionately you believe in what you love. You're more cheerful than you have a right to be most of the time. And you're the only woman I've ever met who would prefer living in a six floor walk-up that she paid for on her own, than take something she felt she hadn't earned."

"That frustrates you?"

"Sometimes," Will admitted with a grin. "Most of the time it just..."

Hearing the declaration peter out, she gave him an amused look. "What?"

"Nothing," he smothered a laugh. As there was no way he could finish that sentence and remain a gentleman, he stood. "I'll clear the table. Unless you want more to eat?"

"No, I'm alright. But--"

"Do you need a glass of water for your medication?"

"No, thank you. I'll use the glass I have," she said, hopping up from her seat as he reached for her plate. "I'm not going to take my medication until you leave, anyway. And what were you going to say?"

"Leave?" he halted. Her use of the phrase, slid so casually into the conversation, made him loosen his grip on the plate, leaving it on the table. He placed his hand on her arm instead. "I'm going somewhere?"

"Yes, to Emma's party," she finished, thoroughly sidetracked. "Didn't you want to go?"

"Not without you. Elizabeth," his voice hinted at a warning. "I'm not leaving you here alone tonight."

"It's not all night. And you're also not cloistering yourself because of me," she continued. "Remember? No babysitting."

He'd already taken hold of one arm. Now his left hand lifted to touch the other, turning her to face him properly. "That's not what this is."

"I know. But I'm just asking for a few hours by myself. You should go out. Tell our friends that I say hello. Pretend to be interested in Emma's honeymoon pictures. Have a good time--"

"I won't have a good time if you're not there."

"Sure you will," Elizabeth offered him a smile of encouragement. "In fact, you'll have to have it for both of us. It's a good arrangement. What do you think of it?"

"I think you're hard to argue with right now," he murmured.

"And that's such a bad thing?" Her green eyes teased him gently. "Will, they're our friends, and they want to see you. If the circumstances were anything other than what they are, you'd go. I know how much you care for them..."

Of course he cared for them. Fred and Anne, George and Emma, he cared for all of them. Every member of his makeshift family. And yet it was a shadow of what he felt for Elizabeth. Unsure of how to express that, he slid his hands down her arms.

"Elizabeth," Will's voice dropping to a low baritone. "If I could take these next three weeks on for you and leave you free to walk out the door, I'd do it in a heartbeat. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"But you still want me to go."

"Just for a while," she said softly. "Dinner was wonderful, and I needed it. But I also need to start this on my own. You understand, don't you?"

He did understand. They were both so determinedly independent, and if the situations were reversed he would have requested the same. Which was why he complied by releasing her arms with deliberate care. Of all the tasks she could have allotted him, letting her go was always the hardest one.

As for Emma and George, three weeks of outside adventure and indoor affection had left the newlyweds relaxed, well rested, and entirely content. But even relaxed, well rested, and entirely content, they were still Emma and George Knightley. And as such, the moon would sooner slide from the sky than end their history of 'occasionally spirited debates,' as Emma mildly termed them.

Tonight they were enjoying one of them at the fashionable Koi Restaurant. Emma had also managed to tug Anne and Frederick into their debate. Pragmatic Anne and logical Knightley were on one side of the conversation. Impulsive Frederick and imaginative Emma were on the other.

"Love, she told us she has the flu," Knightley said.

"Yes," said Emma, "but--"

"Does she usually lie to you?"

"No," said Emma calmly, "but I've seen the opera house press release. That paired with Caroline's column--

"Knightley's got you there, Emme," Frederick interrupted. "Caroline's not exactly objective when it comes to Will--"

"Weren't you on my side of this debate?" Fully capable of defending her opinion all by herself, she pulled the newspaper clipping from her purse. "But the flu doesn't explain her leaving the ballet indefinitely. It's more than that, it has to be. I know Elizabeth. She's not telling us something. I could hear it in her voice--"

"I don't buy it," declared Knightley. "Emme, she and Will would have told us."

"Would they?" said Emma.

"I believe so," Anne agreed. "What Caroline's implying is a very serious situation."

"And Will does things by the book. He's not impulsive. And they're not even technically dating," Knightley frowned. "At least I think they aren't."

"Baby, that's my point," Emma said with a decidedly triumphant, 'match-set' smile. "We don't really know much of anything that goes on between them. Will doesn't tell most people much of what he's thinking, and I've had to pull every little detail out of Elizabeth--"

"I think they'd tell us this."

"Not if we're yachting in the Pacific, too far away to tell. Frederick has just returned from the line of duty, Anne's settling into a new house and her pregnancy. Maybe they wanted to keep this to themselves? I saw them talking at Hartfield---"

"Talking," he repeated. "Talking could mean anything."

"Or it could mean he was saying he loved her and this sudden news made him realize he wants to be with her forever?" This joyfully romantic gush was tempered by a decidedly more sensible statement. "It's hard to tell someone you love them without using words."

"Is it?" Knightley challenged, eyes dancing. Emma's cheeks turned rosy enough to indicate he'd disproved this theory more than once.

"I'm not saying Emma's right," Fred cut in, "but I'm not saying she's wrong, either. Something has Lizzie off the roster at the opera house and it has to be big. We all know it would take more than the flu to keep her from dancing. Indefinitely, mind you. Besides, Will's a passionate man." Fred leaned back in his seat as he slid a casual arm around Anne's shoulders. "I don't think we should discount that. Maybe Caroline's wrong. Maybe it's not everything she's implying. But it could be a proposal."

"Even so, would you have proposed to Anne after knowing her for six months?" George questioned.

"Would you have proposed to Emma the first time you confessed your feelings for her?" Fred shot back. "All those months ago?"

Knightley held up the hand sporting a wedding band, proof of his answer. "That's different."

Frederick grinned. "It's always different when it's personal, isn't it?"

"Frederick, I have to agree with George," interjected Anne. "Consider Elizabeth's perspective. Certainly, she can be remarkably extroverted. But there's a large part of her that's very shy and protective of her personal life. Will's worked very hard to get as far as he has with her. I can't imagine her reaction to news that serious."

"She'd be frightened," spoke Emma with sudden sobriety. "Anyone would be in her shoes. And then she'd be excited. But this could derail her career."

"Will wouldn't leave her struggling through this alone," Knightley countered. "He'd want to marry her. No question about it."

"If Caroline's article is correct," Anne said delicately, "he's probably already proposed."

"Another wedding," mused Emma, stars in her eyes. Not stars, Knightley quickly realized. Diamond engagement rings. "I wonder if they'd want to have it at Pemberley? It's been empty for all these years, wouldn't it be great if they were married there? Or would Lizzie want something smaller and more intimate?"

"Not off weddings yet, are you?" questioned Knightley, his serious eyes softening with sudden affection.

"No," Emma gave a shrug and a small smile. "I just want them to be as happy as we are."

Unaware of the impending ambush, Will quietly slipped into the restaurant. Emma had selected Koi for the group's reunion, a low-lit, sophisticated space with obsidian black tables, and walls frescoed with art-deco orchids. Tea lights winked in votive cups. And yet somehow seeing four of his oldest friends huddled together made him feel as if he were edging towards a group of conspirators. This conversation looked...serious.

"Am I interrupting?" said Will.

"Will!" Emma was the first to leap up. She kissed his cheek with all the enthusiasm of a chat host greeting her headlining interview. "We were hoping you'd show up..."

"Were you?" said Will. He glanced past her to Knightley, Frederick and Anne. "You said seven o'clock, right?"

Fred cocked a brow and offered a crooked grin. "That is what we said. Want a drink? It's on us."

It was a table for six: Emma and George near the aisle, Anne and Fred seated opposite them against the wall. Which left him the empty seat at the end of the table. Feeling like a plaintiff on a witness stand, Will cautiously slid into his chair. "Maybe."

"How's Lizzie?" Emma plopped back into her seat next to Knightley. "She called and left me a message that she hasn't been feeling well."

"We wish she could be here tonight," Anne agreed.

"So do I," said Will.

It was an understatement. He was immensely grateful for Frederick's return, chuffed for Anne's pregnancy, thrilled for George and Emma's marriage. And yet the joyous celebratory mood felt hollow without Elizabeth. Red or white wine, vodka, gin. Skimming the column of celebratory drinks, not one of them looked appealing.

"And," Emma prompted. "...you've seen her recently?"

"Yes." He skimmed the wine list, wishing he could summon even half Emma's of focus. "She sends her best."

"Her best," Emma pressed on. "And is there any...news you'd like to share?"

"News?" he repeated.

"Of the life changing variety..." she continued.

"Will," Knightley spoke for his wife. "If you don't feel like talking about it, it's none of our business."

"But if it were our business," Frederick continued. "We'd support you. Both of you. No matter what."

"That is true, Will," Anne agreed quietly. "We want you both to know that we'll be here for you."

"Here for me?" Will repeated.

"Everyone might say it's very sudden, but--" Emma cut in, "sometimes sudden is just the nature of life..."

"Nature of life," he echoed blankly.

Suddenly it hit him. The topic they were all dancing around. Sudden, the nature of life, though that seemed a coy, cruel summary from Emma, the glowing girl who claimed to be such a friend. They were alluding to Elizabeth's illness.

"That's not the phrase I'd use." He snapped the drink menu shut. "And Elizabeth doesn't like it when she's the topic of conversation. Especially when she's not around to hear it."

"It concerns you, too, Will," Anne's dark, knowing eyes held a surprising touch of amusement.

"Yes, and it's all over the newspapers," Emma continued. "No wonder she looked distracted on the plane."

"Which imprint?" he frowned. Elizabeth was going to have a heart attack. That was her living nightmare, to have her health splashed across every rag in Britain. "There are privacy laws--"

"It's in Caroline's gossip column. She implies it more than stating it directly. But Will, you can hardly hide this sort of thing for long. Wait until tomorrow and you'll both be flooded with congratulations--"

"Congratulations?" he frowned. "For an illness?"

"That's really not the word I would use to describe it," said Emma with a puzzled frown of her own. Illness, what a word for it. She thought Will would be thrilled at the prospect. He'd raised Georgiana for most of her life, after all. "Morning sickness passes afterall. I'm sure you'll get excited once the shock wears off. And you know I'd help with all the preparations, planning Elizabeth's baby shower and helping her register for the wedding. I thought you were an old fashioned guy, Will. I just assumed a marriage would follow---"

"Hold on," Will pressed on, his moodily furrowed brow morphing into true confusion. Showers. Baby. Marriage. "You think Elizabeth is pregnant?"

"She's not?" Emma replied, crestfallen.

"Will," Knightley leaned forward, "You mentioned an illness. What's wrong with her?"

"A lupus diagnosis, and a week's stay in the hospital." Will leveled him with a frank look. "What makes any of you think that she's pregnant?"

Sheepish, Emma pulled a folded newspaper insert from her purse. "This."

The Daily Dirt with Caroline Bingley. Quickly, Will skimmed the piece.

The column's trademark was its cocktail of lowbrow celebrity and highbrow society, and the two were given equal weight in the weekend copy. The intro contained a few lines about a torrid onset romance between movies stars. Next came some finger wagging over a London rockstar's excessive habits, followed by a cringe worthy passage about young Tye Bertram that read: (with that grin and those hands, young, rakish Sir Tye could make more than his violin sing).

Wasn't Tye Bertram on the young side for twenty-eight year old Caroline? Although he suspected any age was the right age when inheritance came into play. The very thought made him sincerely wish Georgiana musical conservatory was some sort of sheltered convent school. As for the final paragraph...

Lastly dear gossip guys and gals, I leave you with this puzzle: which budding ballerina tried to snag herself one of the biggest fish in the landed gentry pond, only to find herself in too deep? A very naughty ballerina is getting pulled from the stage. Rumor has it that she's expecting a baby! It's certainly one way to hold a powerful man's attention when nothing else will (three guesses who the Heir in Question is, gossip readers?!). Look for this ballerina's unexplained and indefinite departure at the British Opera House. Meanwhile, her wealthy and powerful lover will be debating how to cope when a certain disapproving Lady X discovers the news!

"I thought she was implying--" said Emma.

"That Elizabeth's the ballerina, I'm the heir. Disapproving Lady X is my aunt, Lady Catherine."

"And on the front page of the arts section there's a press release from the opera house," Emma continued. "Lizzie's on leave. We knew for her to leave the ballet, even for a short time, it had to be something serious..."

"It is serious," Will sighed, tossing the clipping onto the table. Caroline's snide implication should have left him furious--it certainly didn't make him happy. There was no doubting that it would anger Elizabeth. But with the weight of Elizabeth's health on his shoulders, Caroline's childish games barely left a dent. Elizabeth's career could be much more easily derailed by her own body than by any false notions some back page gossip columnist implied. "Emma, her illness is so serious it could have killed her more than once..."

Emma blanched. "Lupus?"

"Yeah," he exhaled.

"Will, is there anything we can do for her?" Anne questioned, her delicate eyes flooded with worry. The look that was mirrored by her husband's boldfaced concern. "We would have visited her in the hospital, if we'd known."

"I know," acknowledged Will. "But this isn't like the stage, Anne. She doesn't like to have everyone's attention, not when it comes to this."

"Welcome to Koi," a waitress's bland declaration was enough to drag him from his thoughts, "what can I get you?"

As for Anne, she observed Will's distraction with a frown of concern. And as much as Will liked all four of them, he allowed himself a degree of brotherly honesty with George and Fred that they wouldn't get when she or Anne were present. More aware of this truth about him than he was, it was Anne who spoke up next.

"I'm going to head to the loo while you order," Anne said at last. "I think there's an eyelash in my eye. Emma, would you mind coming to help remove it?"

Anne slipped her hand from Fred's, and was about to push from the table in a graceful movement when she felt her husband's hand on her shoulder. Wentworth's knowing eyes brightened as he leaned in to whisper, "You could have joined MI5, you know that?"

A hint of a smile was all the answer Fred received---silent and discrete, befitting of the agent she could have been. Yet again, his wife amazed him. The captain's attention shifted to Will, wishing his friend could have the luxury to enjoy the feeling of new love unencumbered by fear. As strong as Fred thought himself, he'd be a wreck if something happened to Anne. An absolute wreck.

"Will," Frederick interrupted his thoughts.

Tearing his gaze from the scene at the bar, "Yeah?"

"Tell us about Elizabeth," said Knightley. "Who's her primary physician?"

"Hurst."

"Hurst's a smart man," Knightley assured him. "Not exactly friendly, but he knows what he's doing."

"I hope so. These pills she's taking..." Will frowned. They'd looked strong enough to knock out a heavyweight, and dire enough to come with a nuclear hazard warning. "I hated leaving her..."

"She asked you to?"

"Demanded it," Will grumbled, glancing at the drink before him. Thoughts of Elizabeth had been distracting him since he'd left her. Had he ordered this? Or had Fred or George requested a restorative bit of---this looked like Scotch---for him? Whatever the case, he took a swig of his drink, letting it warm his throat in silent frustration. "You think I should call her? Or I could just head back now?"

"No," said Fred. "It's too soon. She asked you to leave."

"Fred's right," Knightley agreed. "Calling her now will only make her angry. If she needs you, she'll ring you."

"Yeah, but..." He raked his hair back, disgruntled.

"She probably won't feel good enough for that phone call anyway," the doctor advised.

Will strummed his fingers on the table, a steady, worried rhythm. "I should head back there."

"Will," Wentworth warned, while Knightley guided their friend back to his seat. "She needs a little time to herself."

"Give her awhile longer, Will," Knightley advised. "Just long enough to know you respect her privacy. That way, when you knock on her door again she'll welcome you back."

"I won't need to knock," said Will, rubbing tension from his neck. Or trying to, anyway. The tension lingered. "I have a key."

Fred's eyebrows shot up. "Since when?"

"Since she got sick," Will said. "I offered to live there."

"You're living with her?" Wentworth and Knightley spoke in tandem. Fred followed up with the question, "What about your place?"

"She doesn't want to live at my place. She wants---" Will's mouth thinned as he watched the votive on the table flicker and sputter. "She wants to be well again. And that's what I want for her. More than anything."

"We know," said George quietly, resting a hand on Will's arm. "So you're staying with her until she's healthy again?"

"I don't know," he allowed himself an honest exhale. "The next two to three months, at least."

"Two to three months?" Fred whistled, before exchanging a quick look with Knightley. "Will..."

"Yeah?"

"I get staying there when she can't manage daily chores. She's sick. She needs someone keeping an eye on her," Fred continued. "But once she starts to feel better..."

Will lifted his glass to his lips, studying his two oldest friends. Worry registered in both. And a hearty amount of skepticism. What could have been a salutary gesture seemed more like defiance as he downed the last swill of scotch lingering in the glass.

"What about it?" Will questioned.

"You love her," said Frederick, "sharing quarters with her won't be easy."

"Yes," Will acknowledged as he slid the glass back onto the table, "but I can handle it."

"You say that now. Because she's fragile." Knightley agreed, leaning forward. "Try it after a month--or however long it takes before she looks and acts like the Elizabeth you're used to. Try living under the same roof as someone you love and can't touch, and tell me how patient you feel in the middle of the night."

"Speaking from experience?"

"You bet I am," said Knightley. He still remembered before Emma had moved to London permanently, when she used to jet in for a weekend photo shoot and spend the night at his Notting Hill townhouse. As much as he loved the company, there were times when he thought if he had to watch her prance around in one more nightgown, he'd go mad. "No matter how much self control you think you have, Will, Fred's right. This won't be easy."

"We just want you to go into it with your eyes open," Frederick agreed.

"I appreciate the concern," Will assured his friends. "But I haven't even kissed her since Pemberley. I can handle this. Trust me."

Meanwhile, Emma and Anne had run out of excuses to delay their return and were making their approach.

"Will, Anne and I were discussing ways we could help," Emma declared as she slid back into her seat. "We were thinking we could bring over meals at least a couple of times a week so you don't have to do all of the cooking?"

The irony of this statement from the girl who couldn't cook didn't escape her. Menus she knew, though, and she held up one now. "Do you think she would want something from the dessert menu tonight? That way she could feel like she took part in our get together? They have a great chocolate cake, and I'd love to get her something. Do you think she'd want company tomorrow? I could stop in for tea?"

Across town, Elizabeth would have declared that dessert would go uneaten, and the tea would have to wait. Not just tonight, but tomorrow. And the day after that. Once Will had left, she was relegated to face two pills and a tall glass of water. Dizziness and fatigue had lingered after her hospital release, that was to be expected. As was the knowledge that in the first few days of her drug regiment, she would feel worse, not better.

There was a laundry list of side effects with this drug cocktail, and as no two bodies were the same, some patients could tick off some side effects and not others. She'd been through this process more than once in her life, knew how her body would respond to it. It always hit her hardest at the start of the regiment, a swift, thorough decimation of her body's immune system, and her own internal equilibrium. In her memory, it was a powerful drug, with violent side effects. And she had one still, quiet hour to prepare herself, silent and steady as she changed from her dress back into comfortable sweats. She was grateful for the silence, and the stillness. Grateful for the calm before the storm struck.

And strike, it did. An hour after swallowing her medication, she fled to the bathroom. And stayed there. So much for dinner; she'd enjoyed it while it lasted. Her one consolation was that after all this time gripping the toilet, there was nothing left in her stomach to rid herself of. And with Will gallivanting around with their friends, she could have this moment in private.

Elizabeth's stomach roiled. She lay on the bathroom floor now, feeling too wretched to move. Sweat beaded on a hot brow, but the floor was cool, a lime-glazed tile that had probably been the height of fashion back in 1954. To modern eyes, the color offended more than it cheered, and in her current state the effect was downright psychedelic. The tile pattern blurred, lines tilting into waves as nausea rocked her again.

If her stomach was in a storm-ridden sea, her head was in a construction zone. Pain, as pointed as an iron tip, drilled into her temple. Every burst of light from the window above caused a wince.

"Breathe. Breathe." she begged herself. Even after changing her clothing, the cross around her neck stayed. She touched it now, a gift from her late grandmother when she was too young to understand its meaning. The cool metal and clean lines spoke to her of mystery and death. Suffering and resurrection. Miracles.

That was what she needed when she felt like this.

Pain itself couldn't kill her, but it could make her cry. It did now, evoking silent, frustrated tears that streaked down her blotchy cheeks. It seemed her system could only endure so much of the sensation before it crested and faded out. Just as a wave peaked before the drop, the pain slowly, slowly, loosened its grip.

Loosened from her torment, her clammy hands pressed to her forehead as her compact bathroom came into focus once more. The moon, too, was on the ascent. She could see a glimmer of it flashing in the mirror.

A full moon in darkness, and a smooth road to the front door Wasn't that the old saying her father always chanted? For a man of letters, he could be as superstitious as an old wise woman. Her father, silent, craggy, eyes as gray as his hair, and his coat that smelled of sea salt.

"There's my bonny girl," her father would murmur by her bedside when she felt ill, "stubborn as the day is long but sweet as a honeypot. You're not going to let this lick you, are you, lassie? We Bennets are strong, none of us are quitters."

She shut her eyes, allowing herself a slow, deep inhale. No, she wouldn't quit. It could batter her until she cried, but she would get up from this floor. Eventually.

Eyes fluttered open, fixing on a peg hanging on the door. Or rather, what was on the peg, the same spot where her nightgown had hung earlier in the day. He'd started unpacking but there were few signs of him here in the bathroom yet. Perhaps it was all of his time bunking with Fred, or perhaps it was something intrinsic to Will, but he was as clean as a well trained midshipman. Not the least bit like living with her brothers. Five siblings and one bathroom, they used to elbow and jostle until signs of their collective presence were scattered across every surface.

Though she'd cleared out space for him, the signs of Will in this bathroom were subtle and few. Seen from the view of the floor, she could only name the bathrobe and a toothbrush as his. And one other object, she realized as she raked back sweaty hair. A razor, which he would use tomorrow morning to graze soap and stubble from his cheeks. She could picture him doing it, too, hunched over her tiny little sink, squinting to get a good angle with an even tinier little mirror.

He deserved better than this. He deserved to be back in his luxury suite, with an unparalleled beauty to romance. Some vibrant woman who was the picture of health. Not a girl who felt as if life were slipping from her, curled on the bathroom floor because she wasn't strong enough to stand.

And there went her phone. She always tried to keep it near during her recovery just in case of emergency, but it had tumbled from her grasp during the violence of the evening. It buzzed for the fifth--or was it the sixth?--time that night. The vibration rattled the floor. She winced and groped for it. That quiet little buzz drilled in her skull like a cymbal clang. It was her mother. Which meant if she didn't pick up by the sixth attempt, Finola would probably be one dial away from fetching the National Guard.

"Mum?" she croaked.

"Eilis, love. It's ten o'clock. This is the seventh time I've called you today. Why haven't you picked up?"

"Mum...I've been busy."

"Busy?! I've been worrying something awful."

"I'm sorry," she said, that headache drilling through her temple again. "I would have answered. I'm not feeling well tonight..."

"They put you back on those drugs, didn't they? I knew it. I just knew it. Eilis, I want you home where I can tend to you myself. Liam could fly in, and--"

"Liam's halfway around the world, Mum. I know you worry after me..."

"Of course I worry. You're my daughter. I love you, Elizabeth."

"I love you, too," she whispered. It wasn't a phrase she took lightly; she'd never uttered it to anyone outside her own family. "But I'm alright here. You know how it is, a few weeks and I just have to wait this out. I'd be doing the same thing in Ireland that I'm doing in London."

"Which is?"

Laying on the bathroom floor, trying to remind myself that my head truly can't splinter into pieces.

"I---I'm," her voice caught as another wave of pain shook her. "Resting."

"Lizzie, you're only twenty-three. You shouldn't have to spend your days resting. It isn't fair. When I think on how this illness robs you of your youth, how it torments you---it breaks my heart. It isn't what I want for you, dearest---you should be around someone who loves you and will care for you. That's what I want for you, Elizabeth. A nice man like....like Dougal McKenna! He'll be coming to the wedding, you know, and it's not too late for me to tell him you're needing a date. Or if you were truly desperate, there's Brogan Connelly. I can't say I love the lad, but he's been asking after you lately..."

"Brogan Connelly?" Elizabeth croaked. "Mum, I wouldn't date Brogan if the fate of the world depended on us."

"You and your brothers never did tell me why Magnus broke Brogan's nose when you were thirteen..."

"It was a long time ago, Mum..."

"Well I still remember Killian and Liam came home looking like they wanted to spit fire. Magnus's mood was as black as a storm cloud. And you were a right mess, bloodied and dirty. Connelly tried to hurt you, Eilis, if he--"

She scrunched her eyes shut, wincing as a sudden wave of nausea and pain coalesced, crashing over her. Apart from her mother's chatter, a mounting pressure in her head was making it hard to discern one thread of noise from another. Like her mother's speech. Or her dodgy neighbor turning up his music on a Saturday night. Or someone's footsteps down the hall. "We'll talk about it later, yeah, mum?"

Capable hands reached for her mobile, switching it off until the display screen grew dim.

"Elizabeth," Will murmured, crouching down next to the girl curled up on the floor. His cool hands touched her cheek, her hair. "Let me help you back to your room..."

"No---Will...." She gritted her teeth, forcing an exhale. Most hideous of all, another wave of nausea hit. She struggled away from him, and lurched to the toilet, stomach rebelling once again. Though there was nothing left in her to lose, save for her dignity.

No panic, no alarm. He shook off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and walked to the sink. After a few minutes of searching around the bathroom, a wash cloth was retrieved and soaked with cool water. The next thing she knew, he was dabbing her forehead with cool water.

Will's eyes, dark with silent compassion, studied the pallor of her lips and the pain etched in her brow. "How long have you been in here?"

Her body too tired to fight anymore, tension drained from her limbs. "Plus or minus...these last two hours?"

She caught the faint musk of his cologne, felt the crisp starch of his dress shirt. She, meanwhile, felt slick with sweat, feeling vile and wretched. If she hadn't been so pale to begin with, her cheeks would have burned with shame. It was a remarkably humbling experience to be held in the embrace of a man who looked like Will while she felt so vile. And besides, if she was less than tolerable on their first New Year's Eve encounter, she would be downright monstrous to him now.

"Please, leave," she begged. "Please....Will. You shouldn't see me like this."

"Why not?" he whispered.

"Because...." she shut her eyes. "I don't even let my family see me like this. Please. I must look--"

"Brave," he corrected. "Elizabeth, let me help you. I want to do this."

"I know you do, but I don't want--I don't---" that was as far as she got before she lurched to the toilet again. What did he need this for? A flatmate who couldn't hold down toast at the moment, a woman who felt too wretched to feel disgust in herself. But not too wretched for shame.

He did leave, though only for a moment. When he returned to her, it was with a cool glass of water.

"Drink," he coached her, holding the glass up to her lips. She took a careful sip. Cool water, as still and calm as water from a miracle well, touched her lips and slid down her throat. As much as she rebelled against his presence, her stomach thanked him for it. "Does that help?"

"A little..." Her throat was hoarse from the evening's trauma. "....you should go to bed."

"It embarrasses you, having me here to see you like this."

"Yes."

"Don't be."

In this cubicle of a bathroom, there was barely an arm's length between the toilet and the bath tub. It was the bathtub that he leaned his back against, drawing her into a quiet embrace. "I raised Georgie, remember? Try handling a three year old on a crowded plane. At that age she'd never met a stomach bug she didn't like."

"It was bad?" she asked, feeling cool fingers run through her hair.

"When we got on the plane, the upholstery was blue. When we got off it, it was green." In an effort to relax her, distract her, sooth her, he questioned, "Who's Brogan Connelly?"

For the first time all evening, Elizabeth's groan had nothing to do with pain. "Brogan's a lad back home."

"What happened?"

"It was so long ago," she sighed, relaxing against him.

"He liked you?"

"No." She exhaled. "Or if he did, he had an odd way of showing it....my brothers and I always walked home together. Liam and Killian...they had gone ahead of us. Liam was trying to sweet talk the lasses, and Killian was trying to fight them off." She took another slow, careful sip of the water. "Brogan and his crew tagged behind us. Magnus is tall now as sky scraper, but he hadn't hit his growth spurt yet. He was wee then...the smallest of my brothers. So when Killian and Liam weren't around..."

"They picked on him," Will deduced quietly.

"Yes...and Brogan was always the worst of them."

They'd been as quiet as choir boys until two of her older r brothers---silent, strapping Killian, and rangy Liam with his fiery temper---wandered out of sight. And then the boys had gone on the attack, catcalling, baiting, shouting insults they knew deaf Magnus would never be able to hear from behind. But she'd heard. Memorized every word, trembled at every insult. She'd stuck by her brother's side, silently fighting to control her own fierce temper until Brogan Connelly shouted out the worst one of all:

Hearing their sister scream, Liam and Killian had raced to her. The only sister, the youngest Bennet had knuckles stained with blood, and eyes welled with tears. She'd crawled on top of Brogan, punching and scratching until her fingers were as bloody red as her vision. It was brooding Killian who pulled her off him. Liam-- with his kind heart and his hot temper---who dragged Brogan Connelly off the ground and shoved him against a tree, ready and eager to do his worst. But it was Magnus Bennet, her other heart, unaware of the insult and thinking himself a righteous avenger for his sister, who landed the punch that broke Brogan's nose.

"My only schoolyard fight," she whispered in the darkness of the bathroom. "Brogan Connelly."

"He deserved worse than you gave him." Though he'd said it in a whisper, there was a viscious strain to his voice that indicated he meant it.

"My brothers thought so, too..." As Elizabeth's tense muscles began to unwind, slowly the pain in her stomach lessened.

"You talk to them about your illness?"

"No, not really..." she exhaled.

"I think they'd want to be there for you," Will said quietly. "Like I do."

"They do care, but...it's not the same, Will. The way you react to me...and the way they do, it's very different."

"I sure hope so," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her clammy forehead, only to be rewarded with quiet laughter. With his free hand, he ran a quiet, comforting hand down her back, slowly massaging the muscles. The effect was nearly immediate. Slowly, her eyes began to droop.

"When people mention my lupus," she continued quietly, struggling to stay awake, "Killian's face gets hard. Very still. He doesn't ask a single question about it...when I was little, I thought that meant he didn't care. Eventually, I realized it was the opposite. He cares very much. He just..."

"He loves you. It's hard for him to hear about it because he worries."

"Yeah," she sighed. "As for Seamus, he's the oldest of us. When the subject comes up, he talks over me more than he talks to me. He still thinks of me as a child. And with Magnus, it's special..." she whispered. "He feels things so deeply...seeing me like this would hurt him. And so I try to shield him from it. He does the same with me, I know he does."

"And Liam?"

"Oh, Liam...he thinks the only reason I should ever have my head in a toilet is after a night out...He thinks it's not fair. But some things aren't...One day you're a normal kid, just like the rest of them, and the next...you're the diseased girl...or..."

"Or the orphan," he said quietly.

"Or the orphan," she repeated in a whisper as his strong hand slid down her back. Unlike her life filled with crowded brothers, there was no one in his life for him to push away. Since he was so much older than his sister, he was always the one patching up the scraped knees and putting out the fires. There was no one to care for him, no one to let himself be vulnerable with.

Despite her fatigue, her eyes opened at that word, revealing eyes of a deep green. He'd been alone for so long, she thought. So intensely alone, in a way that none of them could grasp. She had two loving parents and a gaggle of older brothers. None of them could quite understand it, not even George. Knightley had lost both parents, but he had Jack and Isa growing up to parent him, and Emma as his best friend, and sprawling Hartfield to make him feel like he still had a family, a safety net, an anchor. In the midnight darkness, in the echoing unreality of this cramped bathroom, it felt safe to talk about these things. Safe to share in a way that rational daytime with its suit and ties wouldn't allow.

"You've felt alone," she whispered. "Since your parents died, and for all these years since..."

"Yes," he acknowledged, his voice dropping to a low whisper. He'd stopped thinking that could change years ago, had stopped wondering if he was running towards something, or away from it.

"But it grows familiar....until one day," he let out a slow, quiet breath, "you have more memories living with that feeling than without it."

"Will," she whispered, curling against him. "You don't have to feel alone anymore."

Something in Will's heart constricted. He'd told Fred and George he could handle what was brewing between himself and Elizabeth, by whatever name they called it. He'd been sure of it. He could avoid dangerous situations, no matter what temptation.

But there were no warnings about intimacy sparked by more than heat or skin. This was the most dangerous kind of all. Elizabeth was pale and sick and as weak as he'd ever seen her, but her soft declaration etched on his heart, sliding through his barriers, settling deeper than any simple kiss could dig. A permanent mark.

Chapter 35 Part 1

Posted on: 2012-01-09

"And Titus Bertram IV went here! The Titus Bertram IV," declared young Margaret Dashwood with a wide eyed sigh. Georgiana's roommate was fourteen years old, a bold, bubbly would-be opera singer with tawny skin and dark eyes. From the sound of it, Margaret seemed destined for a career in the spotlight. Her oldest sister was Elin Dashwood, a principal dancer with the British Opera Ballet. Her middle sister was runway model Marianne Dashwood. Most of Margaret's heart belonged to her family. And, from the sound of it, whatever was left over belonged to Titus Bertram IV. Not ten minutes here, Dashwood recited half the young composer's life story.

"He was only nine when he was enrolled," Margaret gushed, "the youngest student they've enrolled in the school's three hundred year history! Of course, Bertram only went here until he was our age and became, like, really really famous, and started playing for the Prime Minister and that sort of thing. But do you think we'll ever see him around here?"

"I'm not sure," Georgiana admitted with a shy smile, watching her new roommate twirl around the dormitory like a girl who'd drifted into Disneyland. Inwardly, she was doing the same. Mostly, anyway. Bardwell Conservatory was her greatest dream. But she'd actually met the dream boy that Margaret was sighing over, and she could attest to the truth of the person himself. She couldn't claim to know him well, but what she did know made her realize he probably didn't think of his time at Bardwell with very much fondness.

"He's a very brilliant composer," Georgiana acknowledged politely. "But apart from that, he's just a normal person isn't he?"

"Normal?" Margaret gaped. "I'd sooner call Mozart or Beethoven normal--"

"Georgiana?"

A knock at the door alerted both girls to Will's presence. Her calm, cool-eyed older brother wouldn't have been fazed if Mozart himself were the guest lecturer striding down the halls. And as far as Georgiana was concerned, it was hard to meet a man more awe-inspiring than her own brother. He'd been the one to allow her to come here in the first place, he'd helped her move in here, he'd taken the whole of his very busy lunch hour to cart boxes and luggage and fill out forms.

"I'd better get going," Will informed her. "Do you feel settled in?"

"Yes. Thank you, Will." A single well-bred, finishing school nod on her part, and she quietly ducked into the hallway with him, keen on a private goodbye.

"I've signed you in with the registrar," said Will. "Emergency contact information, physicians phone number, all of it. If you need anything---"

This was it. He was leaving her here. The thrill of independence fluttered. No longer a train ride away, Bardwell was in center city London. And yet, it was closer than she'd ever been at boarding school. She would probably see more of him. Lunches, weekends. And yet she would be living here, studying here, sleeping here until she turned eighteen. With every step he took towards the door, the gulf between boarding school and this conservatory felt that much wider.

And he worried for her. She could see it in his eyes. His sheltered little sister. She was too young for this. Too fragile.

Or, like a parent dropping their child off at the start of a new school term, he simply wasn't used to the idea of letting her go. This wasn't a normal college, she wouldn't simply be passing notes during maths, or trading schoolyard gossip during lunch. The students who came here were immersed in studying harmony, musical theory and orchestration. This wasn't just a school, it was the path toward a career of global significance.

He was still her guardian, though, as much of a parent as he ever had been. He'd been adamant about his restrictions for her. Performance was one aspect of the coursework, but he wanted her here to learn, not to become Bardwell's newest young prodigy, tickling the ivories for packed houses. If she wanted that life for herself, she would have it at eighteen, when she was old enough to cope with the demands of a performance career. No sooner.

"If you need anything," Will repeated, reaching for her hand. "Anything at all, you can call me. You know my office number and my mobile. Day or night, Georgiana, any time. Ring me and I'll be here to get you."

"I know," Georgiana assured him with a quiet smile. "Will, I'll be okay here. I promise."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." She certainly hoped her nod looked confident. "I'm closer now than I ever was at boarding school. And you were at Eton at my age, weren't you?"

"I had Knightley there with me," he reminded her.

"I'll make friends," Georgiana assured him with a quiet smile. "Margaret seems nice. I think she'll want to hang a poster of Titus Bertram in our dormitory. I suppose I shouldn't mention I've performed with him, should I?"

"Bertram," Will repeated with a frown. "You know if he ever does come back here for a visit, that's not the type of person I want you hanging around with. Ever. I mean that, Georgiana."

He was rewarded with the sight of his sister's cheeks darkening to a rosy blush.

"Oh, I--I know," she stuttered. "You shouldn't worry, though. I'm just the little girl he had a duet with. He's much too old for me and--and I watched him with Emma at the wedding. Sometimes I wonder if he's still half in love with her, even if she is married to Knightley."

"Georgie, I don't think you should be worrying about who's in love with who at thirteen," he advised her.

"I'll be fourteen soon," she reminded him hopefully. "Remember?"

"Of course I remember. The beginning of September," he confirmed. "Not long after I get back from Ireland with Elizabeth."

"How is she, Will?"

The fragile concern in his little sister's eyes made Will squeeze her fingers, eager to comfort. It was precisely what Elizabeth would do in his stead.

"Getting better every day," he assured her. He certainly hoped that comment was true, though there was no way of knowing it until her drug course concluded and her blood tests came in. Mostly, the last week had involved the torturous exercise of watching her grow paler and weaker by the day. "She's excited for you to be here."

"Really?"

"Very," he grinned, digging into his pocket. A small envelope waved between his fingertips. "She wanted me to give this to you."

A letter. She saw her name written on a powder blue envelope in Elizabeth's unhurried, elegant script. Curious, Georigana slid the letter out.

My Dear Georgiana,

Your Friend,
Elizabeth

PS: give your brother a hug before he leaves, could you? He loves you so dearly, and it's hard for him to give you up even though you will be close by.

Will watched Georgiana fold up the letter, her eyes welling with tears.

"Georgiana?" his sister's name was tender on his lips. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just---I love you," she whispered to her brother, before giving him a tight hug.

He pressed a kiss to her curling head. He hadn't read the contents of that letter, but her reaction shouldn't have surprised him. It seemed Elizabeth Bennet could touch the emotions of both Darcys with ease. "I love you, too."

For Elizabeth, days and nights began to blur. The daily bookmarks in a normal day---breakfast, lunch, dinner---were quickly abandoned. Even the scent of toast browning was enough to make her stomach turn, though she ate what she could. Rice became a daily staple. Chicken broth. Juice when she could stomach it, swallowed in small, tentative sips from lips that had grown chapped. She started avoiding the bathroom mirror--she didn't need a visual of her now-ashen complexion and muted eyes to know that they were there.

To make the experience that much more pleasant, the medication was playing a manic game of tug of war with her sleeping habits. She found hours and hours of daylight slipping through her fingers while the medication dragged her into a deep, opiate-like sleep. And then came nightfall and persistent insomnia, a skull splitting headache, or another violently upset stomach. More hours were spent in the bathroom, clutching the toilet and losing what she'd struggled to hold down in the first place.

And it was never long before golden light flooded the bathroom and Will slipped in to join her, always with a glass of water and a cool, compassionate touch. As the first week stretched into the second, she'd spent more than one evening held in his quiet embrace, watching the moon arc above London's steely gray horizon.

There were also shadowy memories of him, now blurred from exhaustion. Will tucking her into bed, quietly soothing her until she fell asleep. If she spoke back to him during those intervals---exhausted, nonsensical comments on her end, quiet assurances on his---those memories were blurred by the time dawn broke.

Had she been feeling more like herself, she would have been mortified about the fact that most of these interactions were conducted in their pajamas. But not now. Her body was too crippled with pain to care about what she wore. Besides, she highly doubted he found her the least bit attractive in shapeless sleepwear, her skin clammy with sweat, her eyes glazed with pain.

By week two of her medication, the walls of her flat seemed more like a prison and her own body felt like an ill fit garment, one that no amount of wiggling would make comfortable. She felt fitful and overheated. Achy and exhausted. Too tired to move. Too uncomfortable to sleep. Will hadn't returned yet. It was past seven o'clock now and his work day had probably concluded. He was out there somewhere, navigating London's bustling streets while the pale summer sky faded into a tangerine sunset.

Clammy, drenched in sweat, she shoved open the windows in her bedroom, desperate for even the slightest breeze tonight's miserly heat wave felt like granting her. Breaks hissed in the street below. She leaned out, listening to footsteps patter on the sidewalk. This was a smell she never found in the countryside: the scent of smog, summer-baked concrete, and anticipation. It was a Friday night, and half the city had plans. At the crosswalk, for example. She saw a young woman decked in a dress the color of sparkling strawberry champagne. The road itself was lined with dirt splattered cabs and honking cars, but beyond it at the opposite end of the cross walk was a young man in khakis and a polo shirt. Her date. Polo Shirt caught sight of Strawberry Dress Girl and waved to her, a grin on his face.

Elizabeth pushed away from the ledge with a sigh. This wasn't a hospital bed, and she was grateful for it. And yet there was no denying it was another sort of confinement. While the rest of the city could have the sweetness and excitement of a Friday night and all its endless possibilities, she was stuck here, lonely, alone. And the sight of that couple had sparked another sort of restlessness.

She'd agreed to that date with Will just hours before her lupus flare had strengthened to a near-solar spike. And reconfirmed it at the hospital. A proper dinner. No pub food, no late night chip shops, that's what he'd said. He wanted a date, and everything it entailed. And having him this close, seeing him every day, hearing his voice, feeling his touch, it made it easy to realize precisely how much she wanted to offer that to him. She envied that girl on the street in her sparkling, strawberry champagne dress.

Eventually her aimless feet wound their way towards the living room. Georgiana's book still lingered on her coffee table. The Message of Caradore. Reading seemed as good an option as any but the air in here was so heavy from the heat. There was a window by the sofa. Three times she made a go of shoving it open, and it wouldn't budge. Not once.

That task abandoned, Elizabeth settled on the sofa instead, plumping the pillow behind her as she struggled to find a comfortable spot. That seemed a useless cause though, the rest of her was hot and achy and too fitful for stillness.

And yet no other choice remained. She couldn't go wandering the streets in this condition, she'd probably barely make it down the first flight of stairs. And so she reached for the paperback book on the table instead. Her thoughts and struggles in London felt too burdened. She'd be grateful to escape to Caradore for an hour or two, whatever message it held.

As for Will Darcy, he knew Elizabeth was known for her graceful balance, but he never realized precisely how much it was required when carting grocery bags up multiple sets of darkly lit stairs at night. Half the light bulbs in these stairwells were burnt out. He considered himself lucky he'd only lost two oranges and a box of biscuits mid transit.

How had she managed shopping for groceries every week for the past year? Not to mention the fact that the thought of her traversing these dark stairwells alone made him tense. Anyone could be lingering in the darkness around here. The word lift was foreign in this rickety little apartment building. As was the word repair man. It didn't help, of course, that Richard was plying him with questions mid-juggling act.

"Elizabeth does know you own the building you live in, doesn't she?" questioned Richard on the other line of his mobile phone. "I bet you haven't given her a hint of half the other properties you own in the city. And that doesn't even touch Darcy, Inc's corporate holdings."

"Richard," Will shoved open the door to the sixth floor landing. "She's not interested in my real estate portfolio."

"Yeah, well, she probably also knows you'd evict a whole floor of tenants in that luxury building for her if she even hinted at it."

"Something like that," he muttered, shifting his phone so he could hoist the bag up.

"And instead of moving in there for free," Richard continued with a laugh, "she's insisting on paying her own way, and staying right where she is?"

"You think that's funny?" Will demanded, hearing his cousin's laugh echoing on the other end. Having reached the door to their flat, he let the groceries slide from his grasp, digging into his pocket for his keys. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lived in a flat that required a latch key. At work, he utilized a pass card. His luxury suite was disabled with a six digit security code.

"More money than you know what to do with," Richard carried on, "and you choose the one woman who would honestly prefer it if you were broke. Although I guess that's part of the draw for you, isn't it? Every other girl out there would throw herself in front of a train to get to your fortune."

"Elizabeth holds herself to a high standard of ethics," said Will, rattling the key in the lock. She'd warned him the lock could jam.

"Where does that sound familiar?" Richard mused. "Principled and also stubborn as a mule. No wonder you like her."

"It's not a matter of simply liking her, Richard," Will twisted the key, shoved it, and finally gave the door a whack with his elbow. Was it was heartening or disturbing that the whack was what made the door pop open with a quiet swing? "I love her."

For him, she was worth living here. Worth everything. It should have terrified him, the depth of emotion he felt for her, the length to which he would go for her. He would put himself in situations he'd never dreamed of in his younger years, make offers that he'd have called himself a fool for.. Never mind the inconveniences, the difficulties. He was a man of passion and he loved her. And just as he approached every other significant part of his life---his job, his sister, his friends---he couldn't handle it any other way than giving her everything he had, all that he was.

The fear of losing her struck cold fear in his heart, and she wasn't even his. But the love itself? It stirred him in his fatigue, strengthened him in his weakness. He felt strength in loving her. It was refining him. And like any man with his feet on the coals, he wasn't afraid to suffer for it.

Quietly concluding his conversation with Richard, he slid his groceries onto the counter.

She was usually asleep when he came home, and so they'd developed a quiet rhythm during his time here. He usually cooked dinner, ate a solitary meal, reviewed a few case files, and retired for the night. Leftovers were stuck in the fridge.

He twisted the handle to turn on the sink. Water gushed forth. Will shrugged off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready to begin preparations for a simple meal.

And then a soft sigh came from the living room. He glanced up.

She was sound asleep but very much in view, curled up on the couch. Her book, either slipped from her grasp or abandoned, had landed face up on the floor. As he neared her, he glanced at the title. The Message of Carador. Georgiana's book. His little sister had been so eager to share that with Elizabeth, so desperately excited by the thought that a grown woman would even care about the thoughts of a thirteen year old. And here she was hampered by illness and still trying to abide by her promise to read it.

Moved by the realization, Will rocked back on his heels to examine her. She was pale, her dark tangle of hair drawn back in a messy ponytail. Illness and the medication warred in her body. Even now he could see the toll it took on her. She'd curled herself up on the couch as if guarding herself against some dark threat. There was no relaxation in her form. Her body couldn't get more compact, arms and knees drawn close.

Even felled by illness, the sight of her left him awed. There was so much delicacy in that mouth of hers, so much strength. How could he have found her anything less than stunning from the very instant he set eyes upon her?

One slow inhale, and life stirred inside of her. As she was drawn back to life, so was he. The air was punched from his lungs by the sudden sight of her vibrant eyes.

"You're here." She was barely awake enough to say the words, but her mouth still curved to a sleepy smile. "I wasn't sure when you'd get home."

Home, he thought as he picked up the discarded book, settling on the couch beside her. As if he belonged there with her. She was so heavily medicated, probably barely aware of the words spilling from her mouth, but for him to hear that simple phrase from her lips? He'd do a thousand dishes, cook a thousand meals to hear her say it again. Home. He was home.

"I stopped by the grocery store and picked up a few things."

"Oh?" her voice peaked. A sudden, more alert humor drifted into her voice as she added, "Lobster and champagne? Asparagus?"

"Try soup and orange juice," he assured her with a quirk of his mouth. "Hungry?"

"Not particularly," she admitted, rubbing sleepy eyes. She wasn't. Not even a little. He could see the truth of it in the way her eyes darkened apathetically at the thought of a steaming bowl of soup. It was worry, not offense, that prompted his gaze to sharpen.

"How are you feeling tonight?"

"Okay," she shrugged. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about herself, or her health. She'd been here all day long, living with the reminder of it as she coped with pain and heat and medication and boredom. Starved for company she rolled onto her back to view him properly, shifting in what had transformed into a makeshift bed, "How was your day?"

Apart from his time with Georgiana, his day had been a series of problems. An angry boss. A handful of political roadblocks. A hearing that had gone poorly. But the sight of Elizabeth Bennet staring up at him, sleepy and pleased by the sight of nothing more than his arrival, made the answer change abruptly.

"My day was good," he whispered. Any day he came home to her would seem so. Sorely tempted to lean down, press a kiss to that pale neck, and utter something earnest, he picked up her book instead. "You're reading Georgiana's book?"

"Yes," she rubbed sleepy eyes. "It's sweet..."

"I think she'd want you to call it sophisticated..."

"Oh?" Curiosity showed in the arch of her brow. "Bardwell Conservatory's making an impact?"

"Something like that," Darcy's serious mouth hinted at amusement. "That and her birthday this September. Fourteen."

"September?" Now she was wide awake. Pallor and fatigue had nothing on a girl's fourteenth birthday. "Will, that's so soon. Are you going to do something for her?"

"Yes," Will confirmed with a nod. Skepticism lingered in those fairy green eyes of hers and so he announced with an amused smirk that he knew would rile her, "dinner."

"Dinner," she mirrored his tone. "And...?"

"And dessert."

"Hopeless," she made a face. The phone beside her rang, though for the moment she ignored it. "Will, she's a teenage girl."

"Yes," he agreed solemnly.

"And it's her birthday," she continued. "Her fourteenth birthday."

"I noticed."

"Did you?" she pressed.

"Elizabeth, I know you might think that counting past ten is a challenge for me," he teased, holding up both hands as his powerful fingers flashed a ten, "but trust me, I can manage it."

"Don't be cute," she said. She sat up, grabbing hold of the hands in question with her own pale fingers.

"You know, Elizabeth--" he examined their intertwined fingers. "If we're throwing that word around..."

"You might as well offer her coffee and the London Times. Georgiana will want something special while she's still young enough to think that birthdays are special," she carried on lightly. And now he was gently pulling her onto his lap, "Give her dinner and dessert at any restaurant in London, and---and you might as well offer coffee and a nightcap. Like you would your Aunty Catherine. If you need help planning something, Will, you know I'm more than happy to--"

"Elizabeth?"

"Hmm?" Elizabeth thumbed his lapel. Goodness, how had she ended up on his lap like this?

"Dinner and dessert will be at Pemberley," Will's voice dipped to a meaningful baritone. She felt him smoothe out an errant, wild lock of her hair. "And I was hoping you'd join us."

The surprise in her eyes quickly softened to genuine sentiment. "Really?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "It would mean a lot to me."

"Me too," she admitted. "Will your aunt be there?"

"No. Although," he continued, "I'd enjoy hearing you call her Aunty Catherine to her face while offering that coffee and a nightcap."

"Irish cream, of course," she quipped, a giggle escaping her for the first time all day. The hours alone had dragged on, lonely and uncomfortable but now that he was back? It felt like sunrise at supper. She was tired and aching, but she was also wide awake. She studied him, easy in his arms. "Pemberley, Will. You knew all along that's what you wanted to do."

"Yes."

"And why did you wind me up like that?"

"Because I like the blush it brings to your cheeks," Will declared with a rakish grin. Heartstopping. Even she could admit it, and it instantly made her wish she looked less like her pajama clad self and more like that girl she'd seen in that sparkling pink dress.

And the phone was ringing. Had it been ringing all this time? Will, too, had finally noticed this. He reached for the phone.

"Darcy," Will spoke his greeting. It was always how he answered a phone, his work phone, his mobile, his luxury suite. And neither of them thought a thing about it until he realized it was Finola Bennet's voice on the other line.

"Who is this?" her mother huffed. "This is Elizabeth Bennet's phone number, as surely as the day is long. I know it is. Where's my daughter?!"

"Oh no--" Elizabeth sprung to life, grabbing the phone from him.

"Eilis?"

"Yes, Mum," Elizabeth nodded. Or winced, depending on the viewpoint. Will had answered the phone. Of course he had, because he lived there. Only her family didn't know that, and even with their separate bedrooms, one word about living together with some man they'd never met and it would be Will Darcy on the chopping block when he finally did arrive. "I'm here. Everything's fine."

"Who in heaven's name just answered your phone, Eilis? That low English voice, like some lord of a manor home! Surely you shouldn't be having strangers visit you in your condition?"

"He's not a stranger, Mum," Elizabeth shifted against him. "He's a friend. I've known him for months."

"Have you, now?" her mother's voice peaked. "Is he having supper with you?"

"He's eating here, yes." That round about half truth technically wasn't a lie. It also didn't include the fact that he wouldn't be leaving once the meal concluded. "Will Darcy is his name, and he's..."

His calm, comforting hand slid down her back, massaging her tired muscles. After that night in the bathroom, and all the nights that followed, they'd grown so comfortable with each other, so quickly. Her green eyes studied the man in question. He lifted a brow as if to say, go on. Finish the sentence. He's what?

She certainly couldn't admit he was her flatmate. Too problematic. It would cause a host of follow up questions and probably end with Liam and Seamus showing up on the doorstep to her flat with cricket bats in hand. And, well, Killian's wedding was in a matter of weeks. She was going to have to tell them this eventually. Or, as her brother Liam had warned, leave Mum and Da gobsmacked when she showed up unannounced with the Prince of England by her side.

And of course, the prince part was an exaggeration. One glance at his designer suit and priceless cufflinks was followed by the amendment: sort of.

"He's who I'd like to bring to the wedding." Elizabeth continued into the phone. "I was thinking he could stay at the farmhouse with us for a few days? I'd meant to tell you earlier, Mum, I swear to you. He's helped me loads these last few months. Especially since I've been sick, and---and I'd like you to meet him...."

Silence stretched on the other end of line. And then, like some teapot simmering before the grand eruption--

"A man! You're bringing a man to the wedding?" Finola crowed. "Tighe, your daughter's bringing a lad with her when she comes to visit!"

"Mum," Elizabeth winced at the volume, glancing at Will. Steady in his purpose, he didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. Instead, dark eyes trained on her with a good deal of interest.

"Eilis. Listen to me, darling," Finola carried on, "Why haven't you told me a word about this? On I went, babbling about Dougal McKenna and Brogan Connelly when you've done just fine finding a nice boy to bring home with you! And to the wedding, Eilis! With all the family gathered round. He's of a nice sort, isn't he?"

"Yes," she said softly. "He's a good man."

"And surely, he can stay at the farmhouse. He could even sleep in Liam's room. But no, Declan and Eithne will be staying there. And of course, you know that I told wee Mary and Rois that they could spend a few odd nights at Granny and Grandda's, so the children will be staying over. It will grant Seamus and Niahm some alone time, and you know they won't get any of that once the new baby's born. And we'll be hosting your Aunt Moira and Uncle Ronan, as well, and Liam and Magnus and Killian will be here. But we'll find a spot for your lad, even if it is the couch. Surely he's not used to fancy hotels or some such, is he?"

"Um..."

"Tell me, Eilis, is he handsome?"

How much of this conversation was he actually hearing? All of it, at least that was what she gathered from the look on his face. And now the heat on her skin was pooling in her cheeks as she shifted on his lap. "I'd say so."

"Darcy. Will Darcy. Well, that's an English name if I ever heard of one, but never mind that. It's fine, dearie, so long as he's a good lad, and cares for you. That's what matters. We'll take him in and welcome. Tell me, is he fond of black pudding?"

"Whatever you're after making is fine, Mum," she confirmed, thumbing the tie tack on his tie. "He's well brought up. I'm sure he'll be grateful for it."

A few more innocuous remarks and she concluded her conversation, returning the phone to its cradle.

"Well brought up," he repeated the remark with a hint of amusement, before carefully sliding her from his lap and depositing her on the couch. Clearly not the only one aware of the heat tonight, she watched him shrug off his suit jacket.

"Yes. I think your father was a gentleman and your mother was a lady," she confirmed, dragging her attention from his body back up to his face. "You take after them."

"I'm glad you think so," he declared, standing from the sofa. "I'll show you their portrait at Pemberley."

He spoke of his parents so rarely, even the passing mention of them made her sit up. "Which one of them gave you your eyes? Was it your father?"

"Yes." There was a large window behind it, and she watched him brace this with both hands.

"There's a heat in them sometimes, like a fever," she admitted quietly. Certainly half the women in London must have been affected by them, just as thoroughly as she was. "Did your father possess that same skill?"

"I don't know. You would have had to ask my mother," Will answered calmly. If his father had possessed such a look, it was saved for his wife alone. As for the window she'd struggled and failed to open that afternoon, it was opened with a single push.

Worried that the mention of his father had struck a painful nerve, she bit her lower lip. "Where are you going?"

"To take a shower." One step away from the window and he was tugging his tie loose, sliding it from his starched collar. He needed to be more careful with her, tempering the need to have her close with the reality of what it did to him. Elizabeth's conversation was lively, but her body was fragile and weak. And listening to her explain his place in her life, massaging her back while she shifted against him...it made a host of thoughts and impulses drift through his mind. Not one of which he could permit himself to act on in the midst of this hot summer night.

"Shower?"

He watched her frown, could practically see her worried eyes searching for some hint of offense she had given him. As if she had done something wrong. Amazing, he thought. Even with that sharp tongue and four grown brothers, his country girl could be as innocent as that rosy blush on her cheeks. And while it was one trait he loved about her, it also forced him to suffer in silence.

"Yeah." Will tossed his keys on the table. "It was hot on the tube ride over."

And that was all the explanation he could offer her. He was, after all, a gentleman.

For all the unpredictability in illness, there was a steady, silent routine to recovery. The ritual began with post-dinner medication. The corticosteriod came first, and then as she playfully termed it---the horse pill. Her nose would scrunch, rebellious instincts barely curbed as she swallowed the first pill, and then the second.

As the medication took effect, rebellion drained from her, supplanted with quiet resignation and fatigue. And the prospect of starting the regiment again the following day. If she could make it through the night unscathed.

It was a large 'if.' As the medication seeped into her blood stream, it toyed her. Tonight, for example. In bed by eight, she still woke at midnight, covered in sweat, and shaking like some post-rehab heroine addict.

A low groan of complaint, and she sat up. Tremors. Another unpleasant side effect. Her hands twisted sticky hair off her neck. She'd never get back to sleep now.

Crawling from bed, she allowed herself a quick glance at the clock. The time flashed, an angry, insistant red. Midnight. It was Monday morning. The start of week three in her drug course.

Only a few more days of this, she told herself. You can do it. Act three of the ballet. That's the hardest part. But you can't let it beat you before you take your finishing bows. Otherwise what's it all for?

If the sky held even a ghost of a moon tonight, it was hidden by a blanket of clouds. A rainstorm had rolled into London after sunset. She could hear it playing a quiet pattern on the windowpane. She hoped it would help some of this heat wave abate. The horrors of a dreary Monday were bad enough.

Certain that Will was sound asleep, just as he should be, her bare feet carried her to the door and then quietly down the hall. Her mouth was dry, her skin was sticky, and her hands were shaking. Toxicity was a byproduct of drug, and hadn't the nurse recommended a liter of water per day? She needed water. Desperately.

One silent trip to the kitchen, and she had her glass of water. It was only when she drifted into the living room intent on reclaiming her book that she wasn't the only one awake. There was Will, sitting on the couch, surrounded by paperwork. Half a dozen files were scattered on the coffee table, and he seemed to be skimming through two hefty law tomes simultaneously. Keenly focused on the task at hand, a laptop glowed on his lap, illuminating dark, tired eyes.

"Can't sleep?"

A single glance comment, and his focus was shattered. She watched him from afar. No doubt an effect of the rain, her remarkable emerald eyes suddenly looked more gray then green. Her dark hair was mussed, drawn into a messy ponytail in a moment of overheated frustration. And she was trembling, like some violent chill had taken hold while the rest of her was sweltering. Even viewing her from a distance, his mouth tightened with concern. "Elizabeth, you're shaking."

"Yes." Embarrassment lingered in her shrug. "It's nothing you can fix. It's just the medicine."

The medicine. That was the answer to a variety of complaints: the nausea and the vomiting, the headaches and the fatigue. He'd never been so frustrated with a single word in all his life. Medicine was supposed to help people; it was supposed to sooth and to heal. This wasn't medicine at all; it was poison. Every day it weakened her. Every night it put her at risk. Her immune system decimated, this medicine could kill her nearly as easily as it could save her life. And no amount of bartering on his end could stop it.

Misunderstanding the reason for the suddenly thunderous look in his eyes, Elizabeth drew her arms close. "I'm interrupting your work. I know you're busy, but I---I just wanted to get my book. After that I'll go---"

"Sit down." His laptop was snapped shut in an instant. "You'll want to rest in here. I'll leave."

"I won't be resting."

"Elizabeth--"

"I won't." She settled down on the couch beside him, drawing her knees up. "Even with the rainfall outside, it's too hot. My head aches. I'm jittery. I won't be able to sleep, not for awhile. Besides, every good cramming session needs a study buddy."

"Study buddy?"

"All these papers," she took a small, quiet sip of her water. "You look like a student cramming before the final exam."

"Last minute prep." Will exhaled, flipping a file shut and dropping it at the top of a towering stack. "A hearing scheduled for three weeks from now was moved up to the end of the week."

Elizabeth allowed herself a casual glance at one folder. "May I?"

"If you want. It's a sure cure for insomnia..." Grimacing at the word choice, he continued, "I'm sorry, I---"

"Shouldn't walk around eggshells with the sick girl?" she informed him with a teasing smile. "I'm not offended. Sleeping is a bit hard when you're shaking." Rather than pick up one paper with trembling fingers, she skimmed it with her eyes. "You're involved in prosecuting the Fiello case?"

"Yes."

"I've read about this in the papers...Fiello's the arms trader that sold weaponry to terrorists, mafia families, guerrilla combatants."

"As well as providing military grade weaponry to half a dozen countries," Will admitted with a frown. The case was a quagmire. He'd be lucky if they ever made it to trial.

"Right. I had no idea you were involved." Awed by the prospect of what his daily job entailed, her eyes sharpened on him. "You're worried about the case, though?"

"Armand Fiello is a powerful man. Despite the evience against him, his reach extends much further than Great Britain, and he has friends in high places. It's a hard case to prosecute." Will acknowledged, rubbing tension from his neck. "Yeah. I guess you could say I'm worried."

He had such a strong sense of justice in the community, and this responsibility weighed on him. She could see tension in his mouth, in his eyes, in his back. And yet it was more than mere compassion that made her reach for his hand.

"Will," she said quietly, "whatever happens, you said yourself that there are a dozen other elements at work. You can only control your share of it. You never give anything less than a hundred percent to anything. I'm proud of you no matter what the outcome."

I'm proud of you. He'd never realized what a powerful phrase that was until Elizabeth Bennet was the one whispering it to him in the darkness. Feeling his throat knot, he nearly told her so himself, though she spoke first.

"You're making a difference every day," she said softly, relaxing against the sofa pillow behind her. "I love ballet and I've always thought of it as my calling...I'd be devastated if I couldn't dance. I'm not ready to give it up. But..."

"But what?"

"It won't last forever. I know that. Even if my health does improve, I'll be facing the same questions ten, fifteen, twenty years from now..." she shrugged, a small, subtle gesture that looked graceful even in the darkness, "I wonder sometimes what else I would do."

"Any ideas?"

"I'll always want to be involved in the theatre. Even if I couldn't be on stage I'd like to coach other dancers, and to choreograph. And some day, what I'd really like to do is---well," she halted, backtracking, "...it's just a daydream. The cost alone would be absurd..."

"But if money were no object," he urged her, sliding his thumb across her palm.

She bit her lip, suddenly nervous about sharing a secret she'd never divulged to anyone. "I'd want to found a program teaching children ballet. Not just any kids, though. Children with handicaps, and chronic illnesses. The structure and aim of the program would be different from a typical ballet course, of course. The way you teach would have to be altered, and it would require a lot of one on one sessions."

And he wasn't laughing at this idea, or deriding it as ridiculous. Not that she truly thought he would, but it was such a private dream that it felt like a risk saying it aloud. Instead, he was listening with as much solemn attentiveness as if they were co-prosecutors consulting on an opening argument. Heartened by it, she continued,

"And I'd love to teach deaf children. Movement and dance is so much more than what you hear with your ears. It's like a heartbeat. You don't have to hear your heart beating to know that it is. You can feel it inside, with or without the sound. That's what dance is to me. It's how you feel---how your heart feels. I want everyone to have a chance to experience that if they want it."

Her own heart was thudding at the admission. And somehow, it seemed they couldn't sit long in this couch before settling into a quiet embrace. Silently, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I think that's brilliant."

"You do?"

"Definitely. And whenever you're ready to commit to it, I'll back you on it."

"Will!" she laughed, twisting around in his arms.

"You think I'm joking?"

"I think," she said, tired eyes softening with sudden fondness, "that it's very late, and that's a very grand, expensive offer."

Not half so grand as the one he wanted to make, he realized, studying her in the shadowy light. Even if she was wan and swallowed up by an oversized tee shirt that looked big enough for ten of her, that playful sparkle in her eyes was enough to make every muscle in his body coil with unfulfilled desire.

"How long have you been thinking about this," he questioned instead.

"Ages, really," she admitted, relaxing against him again. "When I was little and some song played on the radio, I'd dance around the house to show Magnus how it sounded. Soft and gentle. Quick and silly. I was just a little girl, five or six. But I've been thinking about it ever since, I guess. Helping him see music."

"He's been deaf since birth?"

"Yes. It's a congenital defect, a flaw with his auditory nerve," she said quietly. "He was nearly one before they diagnosed him. Have you every been around a deaf person?"

He wished he could say yes. In many ways, his Etonian childhood was even more sheltered than her country upbringing. It hadn't offered much in the way of variety. "No."

"Well, when you meet him you should know that he's a very good lip reader, though hours and hours of that sometimes tires him out. But he's incredibly bright," she defended, "He usually prefers sign, but he won't hold it against you if you can't manage it. As a child he learned to speak aloud through therapy. And some people can find him a little difficult to understand---especially words with 'r' in it, or words that end in--"

"Elizabeth?"

"Hmm?"

"Teach me."

"Teach you?"

"Sign," Will continued. "I know it takes time and I won't know everything right away, but he's your brother and you're fluent in it..."

And it was important. Much like learning about her lupus, this was something that helped make her who she was. And he wanted to be part of that.

Touched by his request, she shifted in his embrace. "You're sure?"

"I'd be honored," he admitted quietly. "It's a big part of your life. I want to understand it."

Her soft smile was answer enough to that statement.

"Okay. We'll start small." Elizabeth lifted her hand to his, pressing his middle, forefinger and ring finger together, with the pinky and thumb spread slightly apart. She mimicked the motion with her own hand. "Hello."

"Hello," he repeated. The breadth of the task was already sinking in. He'd have to go word for word, and he could already think of more words than he could list. This would be a slow process. "How long did it take you to learn this?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't remember ever learning it. Magnus and I are only a year apart. I grew up speaking it. Everyone in my family can sign. Don't worry, though. They'll be amazed that you even try it. Next word?"

"Ready when you are."

She pulled away from him, just enough to draw both hands to her chest and then shift them into two fists, as if on the cusp of giving a thumbs up."This means how are you?"

He replicated the gesture. "And what would your answer be?"

"The truth?" Despite her fatigue, her eyes twinkled, "I'm---" she spread her fingers apart in an arcing motion, as if curving around the top of a ball, "tired." Next, her right hand shifted into a point which she drew up to her eyebrow, and dragged away from her face. "Hot." Lastly, her nose wrinkled comically as her hand swept downward over her right eye, "And sleepy..."

"Sleepy," he mirrored the hand motion with a frown. She was pale to begin with, and at last he noticed a clammy sweat beading on her brow. "How do you sign the phrase, I'm keeping you awake?"

"Do you really want to know? Or are you just saying that to--" Before she could squeak out another word, he'd hoisted strong arms around her and scooped her up in his arms. "Oh. I take it this is your sign for let's continue this in the morning?"

"Something like that," he declared, shifting her slight weight in his arms, "I could spend all night talking to you, but you're still sick. You should be sleeping."

She snorted. "Kind of you to inform me of that."

"You told me you're tired."

"Yes, but--"

"And hot..." he continued, carrying her down the hallway.

"Yes, a little," she acknowledge, "but--"

"So my case rests."

"Will, I am not a magistrate," she sighed as he pushed open the door to her bedroom.

"I noticed." Certainly he'd never carried a magistrate to bed. He was full of honorable impulses tonight, but still that thought prompted a careful release, as rapid as he could manage it. In the dark bedroom, he would leave her to the the safe embrace of her cool pillow and rumpled sheets. "I meant what I said. You need your rest. And I should---"

"Of course," she agreed quietly before he could finish the phrase that truly needed no explanation. "Will..."

"Yeah?"

"Our conversation tonight," she spoke quietly, biting her lower lip, "or any of these nights, really...I've enjoyed them. A lot."

"Me too." Lingering in the safe distance of the door frame, he allowed himself one last lingering look at her. "Goodnight, Elizabeth."

"Goodnight, Will."

As he shut the door behind him, he wondered how long it would be before he could hear what he truly wanted from her, in English or sign or any other language.

Gentleman or not, the truth of what warred in Will's heart was more complicated than a simple title. He was no saint. For every bit of iron willed restraint and cool control he exhibited on the surface, there was an equal portion of primal heat in him when it came to her. And it wouldn't take much for that to spark into a blaze.

He'd been warned of the perils that came with living with a woman that--in Knightley's words, "he loved, but couldn't touch"--but he hadn't anticipated how that would manifest. If not in his waking life, then certainly in his dreams.

Will sat at the piano, fingers sliding over pale keys to produce a rain of musical notes. The walls surrounding him were a soft cream, darkened by nightfall. The drapes were a dark, Merlot red. This was one of the private studios in Pemberley, an area of rest and relaxation. It had a rug, soft beneath the feet, and plush furniture that could ease its master on a cold night. A fireplace at one end held bright, leaping flames.

"Elizabeth," he moaned, feeling the heat of her mouth on his neck once more. "Elizabeth...Elizabeth--"

"Will?" A hand, concerned and more than a little emphatic, was shaking his arm. The mattress creaked as Elizabeth settled tentatively on the side of his bed. "....Will?....Will, wake up..."

Will sat up in one single, startled motion. It was so fast, in fact, that it caused her to draw back.

"Will?" she questioned. It was barely daybreak and his name fell soft from her lips. "Are you alright?"

Late summer light flooded his bedroom, and the sight of Elizabeth perched on his bed was enough to cause a split second of very real confusion as the dream world mixed with the real world. And yet this was no Pemberley. There were no fireplaces. This was no goddess in a red gown, with coy, desirous eyes intent on tormenting him. It was just normal Elizabeth, sporting an oversized tee shirt and shorts. As for the look in her eyes, he saw a mixture sweetness and confusion, innocent concern and a little annoyance.

Relief flooded him. Fantasy or not, he greatly preferred this real Elizabeth to the dream one. Still, desire and embarrassment remained coiled within him.

"I'm fine." His assurance was severe. "What are you doing here?"

Anyone else would read that granite hardness in his eyes as annoyance. Certainly he didn't look pleased at her presence. And yet she knew him well enough now to know it was probably shock, mixed with whatever emotion he simply didn't feel like sharing with her. Nevertheless, it evoked a frown.

"Will, you called my name out. Three times. That's why I came. I thought---" he watched her bite into the same lower lip he'd just been fantasizing about, and instantly felt his own cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I thought you were having a nightmare..."

"I'm sorry," he exhaled. As his shock faded, it was supplanted by a worry so strong it tinged on horror. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Elizabeth shrugged. "You didn't even touch me."

He nodded, clearly immensely relieved. Thank goodness he had some measure of control in his dreams. Bruising and clotting was problematic with her medication, even the slightest of injuries could be dangerous. He'd never forgive himself if he hurt her. Never.

"I called your name," he repeated breathlessly, raking his fingers through a bedhead of dark hair. He seemed suddenly incapable of looking her directly in the eyes. "Did I say anything else?"

"No," she frowned. "Why?"

"Nothing."

"But...you said my name," she reminded him.

"I suppose," Will confirmed briskly.

She bit her lip, worried for him. "It was a bad dream?"

Will frowned. The Dream Elizabeth had been touching him, tasting him, teasing him in many of the ways that his waking body begged for. Except for that kiss. And even as his body responded with desire for her, somehow it had coalesced with nightmarish torment.

"I wouldn't call it good," he grumbled. "I prefer the real you to the--"

"Dream girl?" she finished with a smile of easy affection, though her choice of phrase hit much closer to the mark than she realized. "Will, it was just a dream. Right?"

She was perched on his bed, the kind, affectionate, complicated girl he just happened to be wholeheartedly in love with. She was also pale from her own nightly torment---so much worse than anything his mind could produce for himself. Her eyes were shadowed, her lips were dry. They were making slow and steady progress, but that had rightly slowed to a crawl while she suffered through her medication. Complicated seemed precisely the word for her, but she was opening up to him in her own way. He wouldn't press her for anything more. He couldn't.

Thus, he couldn't even think to kiss her good morning any more thoroughly than he could have in that dream.

"Right," he exhaled, pushing from his bed. "Just a dream."

She watched him shoulder his workout bag. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to change and go for a run."

"Will, it's so early," she warned him, glancing at the clock. "Barely sunrise. Wouldn't you rather wait?"

"No."

It was a boiling hot morning in August, Elizabeth Bennet was right there on his bed, and as for Will Darcy, for this one morning he needed to get as far away from her as he could.

Chapter 35 Part 2

Posted on: 2012-01-24

The heatwave cloaking London stretched onward. By Friday Will had pushed every window in Elizabeth's flat wide open, and still heat greeted him first thing on the following morning. It clung like a second skin he couldn't slough off.

He'd never found any use in lingering abed. His days started early and ran late for a reason. When he was awake, he was up. This had never proved truer, though, than these last few mornings. The Irish eyed beauty drifting into his dreams always gave way to an empty bed. And a restless mind.

A run always followed this, with the prerequisite that he kept at it until his lungs burned. Next came a shower in her poky bathroom, a shave, a quick change into work clothes, and one coffee cup swallowed right before he raced to catch the Tube to work.

This morning, he was mid-sprint. Between four and four-thirty an eerie silence haunted the borough. Too late for even the most devoted of nightwalkers, too early for even the hardiest of newspaper sellers, it was the one time when he could run outside and hear nothing but his own feet on the sidewalk.

It was also when his analytical mind felt the freedom to shift gears.

Elizabeth's drug course would conclude today. Her exam was coming up Monday. All he could do was hope that life flooded back into her as quickly as he'd watched it drain out. Her cheeks had grown so wan, her energy so lax. It was difficult to look at her and conclude these last few weeks were a triumph over anything. What if the blood work came back worse than before, what if---

No, he insisted as he took the sharp turn from Arch Street to McLean. Elizabeth would be fine. He had to believe that. Even she kept on insisting on it. Just fine.

But that didn't mean he relished the idea of leaving her here in London, even for a few days.

It had started with a call from Paris. His cousin Andromeda had flown into the City of Lights nearly a week ago. She was there to work, purchasing jewels for De Bourgh's next collection. She'd already confided to him that she'd found a cotillion of diamonds. And emeralds drowning in color, darker than the freshest bud blooming in Rosing's famous gardens. But that didn't mean she didn't keep her ears open at the purchasing counter.

"You were right. Bertram's here," Andie informed him. "Do you remember my assistant Bianca, the one with the enormous crush on you? Though I suppose it'd be hard to forget, what with that whip cream incident..."

"Precisely," Andie agreed.

Bertram was there to recruit, no doubt. Why wait around for the ailing ballerina when he could hire a new one fresh off the Paris stage?

Will was also canny enough to realize the importance of a face to face negotiation. A phone call wouldn't convince the lord of Mansfield Park of anything. Being strong-armed in person might.

The air in his lungs was starting to burn as he pushed up the final block that twisted back to Elizabeth's apartment building. He and Elizabeth had spoken of him contacting Bertram weeks ago, but would Elizabeth resent the interference? He had so much he could give her, and at the end of the day it seemed she consistently asked for so little. He wanted to do more than this, he wanted to---

Will slowed. There, sitting on the stoop of the apartment building with a ponderous furrow in his brow, was Frederick Wentworth. He'd been watching Will pound the concrete from afar while the sun barely hugged the horizon.

Fred's wife was gently empathic and empathetic. Intuitive. She would be subtle in her inquiries, gentle in her probing. She could coax the most soul searching answers out of the simplest questions. Hopefully she would do so later with Elizabeth. Fred chose a different approach with Darcy. Fred was straightforward in his wisdom, earthy and instinctive. And the way he saw it, it didn't take twenty questions to puzzle out what was chasing at Will's heels. Not today.

"Training for a marathon, Darce?" observed Fred with a casual squint, a water bottle ready in his hand. Fred pushed off the stoop. "Your heart rate's up. Come on. Walk it off with me."

"What are you---" Will released a breathless exhale, "what are doing here?"

"That's a good question." Frederick began his slow amble, shoving his hands in his pockets. "My bed's awfully comfortable, Will. It usually takes an Admiral yelling in my ear to make me leave my wife there alone. But do you know what's even more convincing than an Admiral?"

Will tugged off his sweat drenched tee shirt. "What?"

"A pretty Irish girl ringing me up, worried because she thinks you're not sleeping very well."

"She---" Will stuttered. "Elizabeth called you?"

"Yesterday afternoon. She said she was worried. You work late, you're up early. And every morning before dawn you're out the door, running like you're training for a marathon."

"She called you." Will's dumbfounded declaration was such a shock he had to say it twice. "Elizabeth called you."

"She did," Wentworth kicked at an errant rock. "She just thought you might need someone to talk to. Someone that wasn't her. That's quite a girl you've got, Will."

"I've noticed," Will murmured.

"I asked her how she was," Wentworth continued as they crossed from one street to the next. "She laughed and said she felt like she'd been scraped off somebody's shoe, but apart from that she was doing just fine. Anne's going to pop in for a visit in a few days. As soon as Lizzie feels up for it."

"How is Anne?"

"Anne's good," the phrase softened Wentworth's tone in a way that nothing else could. "She's making me happier than I ever thought I had a right to be."

Will took a long, silent swig of his water bottle. Every time he thought his courtship of Elizabeth required even the slightest bit of patience, he only needed to mull over Anne's eight years absence from Wentworth's life for a reality check. Eight years absence. At this point, living together, eating together, greeting each other every morning and parting to sleep in separate rooms each night, eight days without Elizabeth sounded like an agony.

"Wentworth," Will spoke at last. "There were a few times---no, more than a few---when I thought that when it came to Anne and Emma, you and George had lost your minds."

In typical Darcy format, there was no apology in that statement. Not that Fred needed one. His handsome face broke into an amused grin. "Go on."

"Eight years. You never got over Anne. Ever. The thought that for the rest of your life, you'd never love someone as much as you loved that one woman...it was hard to understand. And then there was Knightley and Emma. And the day he realized he loved her, honestly knew it---that was it." His water bottle drained, he binned it in a nearby trash can. "No more dating around. Nothing. That was who he loved, and no one else could compare to her."

"Mental, huh?"

"That's one word for it," Will confirmed. They'd circled the block and ended right where they'd started, on the front stoop of her apartment building. "But you know what the craziest part is?"

"What?"

"The realization that when it comes to Elizabeth," his voice tightened, "there isn't a damn thing I wouldn't do for her. Not one thing I would deny her."

"That's a big statement."

"Yes," Will agreed. "I don't have a lifetime of experience with her to back me up on it, Fred, but the truth is, I don't need it. All I need is her. That's the thought that keeps me up at night."

"One of them, anyway," Fred observed with an astute grin.

Will smirked, pulling the front door open. "Go back home to your wife, Fred."

"Gladly. And Will?"

"Yeah?"

"Congratulations."

"For what?" Will called out as Frederick backed away from him, heading back down the street.

"For being as crazy as the rest of us."

A repetitive sound was treading on the floor. Leather soles hitting vinyl, as a man paced back and forth with all the pleasure of a tiger cornered in a cage. Will's shoes, his strides, his silent tension. Elizabeth's eyes were shut. Perhaps that made the sound all the more noticeable as she reclined on an examination table, quietly counting through an exercise she'd endured a hundred times. The nurse's needle pricked into her warm flesh, digging deep before it began drawing blood.

No matter where she was, be it Dublin, or London, the sounds and the scents of a hospital were always the same. A chirping monitors. Shoes squelching on freshly bleached vinyl floors. And air that pushed her right to the edge of a chill.

One trend was new, though. She hadn't shown up at this hospital alone. Will Darcy was here again, right by her side on exam day.

"Three vials, all done," the nurse announced at last. The last of her blood work capped, she spread a band aid on the bee sting sized mark. "Feeling dizzy?"

"No." Elizabeth opened her eyes. "How long until the results are in?"

"It will take a few days for the lab to process it," the nurse informed her, sliding the trio of tubes into a plastic sample bag. "The doctor will be in to see you shortly."

As the curtain slid behind her, Elizabeth's attention shifted to Will. He paced at one end of the exam area. Dressed in a crisp suit, yet again he'd ducked out of the office on his lunch break. Feeling the warmth of her gaze on his back, he turned on his heel to face her.

"Will..." she said softly. "My blood sample's done..." Seeing his mouth tightened to a frown, she struggled for the right words. "...you shouldn't...you don't have to..."

What she wanted to say was that he needn't pace from afar, stalking the small exam room with that storm cloud in his eyes. At midnight, those eyes of his could be so tender and gentle, so quietly concerned or so easily amused. But the moment they stepped into a hospital, tension and concern hardened him. So easy with a scowl. A mere breath away from a challenge.

"Is this where you insist I don't have to wait around?" he guessed with a frown, his brow creasing in furrow.

"No, indeed. Even a fisherman's daughter knows her manners."

Will's frown deepened. "That's not what I meant."

"Yes, and it's not what I meant either." Elizabeth's mouth curved to a gentle tease. She sat up, she reached out a hand to beckon him closer. "I was trying to say thank you. Sit with me, will you?"

That took no inducement at all. Three long strides and his fingers were grasping hers. It was remarkable, she thought, for all the strength in his moody scowl, his touch was still so careful and tender. But wasn't that one of the things that intrigued her most about this man? He was such a mixture of contrasts. Those dark, serious eyes could give way to heat. That mouth could curve with such quick witted humor. And the brooding power of his body held such tenderness.

"It's just an exam today, you know. The doctor won't be locking me up here for keeps," she whispered. "I promise."

"At least not without a fight."

"Pistols at dawn?" Elizabeth's mouth quirked. "We'll be out of here soon enough. I wasn't going to ask you to leave, Will, I promise. But you should eat some lunch."

"I'll eat something after I drop you back at the flat." He looked down as she squeezed his fingers. Her hands were so small and slight, they could disappear entirely when he cupped them in his own. He knew the strength she had, and the power. He admired her for it, for her determination, for her strength. And yet the fragility of her current state was hard enough to witness in the safe confines of their flat. It was all the more obvious when she stepped into the real world. They'd made her change into an examination gown. Even that seemed to swallow her up. "I thought I was the one doing the worrying here."

"You've had nearly a month of it," she reminded him, her rosebud mouth shifting to a pout. "Isn't it my turn?"

"No."

"Stubborn," she sighed.

"Yes," he agreed. "You didn't need to ask Wentworth to check up on me."

"But you liked talking to him."

"Yes. But--"

"Then you're welcome," she smiled as if the implied reproach was a compliment. "You work late hours, you're up with me for half the night, you barely sleep and when you do sleep you must be having the most awful nightmares. Or if they're not nightmares, they're---"

"Not nightmares," he assured her.

"Well, it's still nothing you feel like sharing with me. You can have your secrets, Will. I certainly kept mine long enough, and you never blamed me for it." In a rare gesture of unguarded affection, Elizabeth let her fingers graze his cheek. "I just thought talking to Wentworth about it might help..."

His eyes locked on hers.

"Elizabeth, if there's something I won't discuss with you, trust isn't what holds me back," Will's declaration was low and entirely serious. "I trust you. More now than ever. I need you to believe that."

"I do."

Somehow the whisper felt like a promise. And suddenly for all the needles and pacing, the chirping monitors and the sound of nurses bustling to and fro beyond the curtain, the moment felt remarkably intimate. Especially as her fingers slid down the sharp contours of his cheek in a gesture that was somehow more exploratory than usual. She watched his eyes darken, and felt her own breath catch.

And the heavy curtain slid back.

"Hey, Lizzie. Sorry I'm a little late, I--" Further declarations on Knightley's end faded as he caught sight of the pair on his examination table. The flush of embarrassment on Elizabeth's end was only equaled by the flash of annoyance in Will's. Maybe it was Emma's influence, but the doctor made no effort to squash his grin. "You two need a minute?"

"Not if it means getting out of here," Will answered.

"Will," Elizabeth frowned. "Be nice."

"Easy on the man, Lizzie," Knightley examined his old friend with a grin, perching on a nearby stool. "After all these years of friendship, it takes more than a few terse words to rattle me."

"I don't know how you deal with his moods."

Certainly not as quickly or effectively as the woman posing the question, Knightley decided as he flipped open her chart.

"Will, you're looking..." Knightley continued, pulling out his pen, "roughly the way I expected after a month. Did you tag along for a prescription for sleeping pills?"

"Funny." Will pushed off the exam table. "How many strings did you have to pull to examine her?"

"A few. Real nice guy, that Dr. Hurst. He's enjoying a free round of golf right now."

"I owe you for it."

"You know that you don't. But if you did, Emma is the one you'd have to payout to," Knightley informed with a tired grin. "She hates when I pull a double shift. But the night's nearly over."

"Knightley, it's nearly lunchtime," Elizabeth reminded him with a frown.

"Is it?" Knightley questioned mildly, guiding her onto her back with a deftly gentle touch. "Any joint pain, Lizzie?"

"No. Not for about two weeks now," she assured him.

"Good. That's good." Elizabeth felt his fingers slid over her elbows and kneecaps, then placed a gentle pressure around her ankles, searching for swelling and inflammation.

Physicians usually conjured such anxiety and mistrust in her. Not Knightley. She wasn't a list of symptoms numbered on a chart to him, she was sure of it. Though the affection she felt for him was entirely brotherly, it was no wonder Emma had fallen in love with him. The compassion in his intelligent eyes was matched by the warmth of his touch. Gently confident, she decided. Quietly commanding. He could ease tension from the most frightened limbs.

"Anything?" she questioned, biting her lip with worry.

"Your joints feel fine," he assured her. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around her arm with quick efficiency. The exercise was quick and silent. A quick squeeze of the cuff, and he'd freed her from it. "And your blood pressure's good. Sit up."

Knightley placing his stethoscope in his ears, sliding the scope onto her back. "Breathe in. And out. A little deeper. Nice and deep."

"Sounds good?"

"Top marks," he confirmed.

"What tests are they running?" she asked as he pulled the stethoscope budes from his ears.

"The blood work will involve a CBC test, and an ESR."

"Clotting and inflammation," Elizabeth deduced.

"Right. Also, we'll check protein levels, creatinine, and how well your body is filtering certain waste products. But your lungs sound good, Elizabeth. And your blood pressure is well within the normal limits."

"Is that everything?" she asked, watching him scribble a paragraph of detailed notes into her chart. Please, God, let that be everything. As sincere as her assurances to Will had been that they wouldn't be to lock her up here for good, the possibility of readmission still lingered like a storm cloud.

"That's everything. The blood work is the biggest indicator for what's going on inside of you, but we won't have that back for a few days. I'll put a rush on the results and call you when I know something. I promise."

"So she's free to go?" Will spoke up at last.

"We all are," Knightley announced, flipping the chart shut with a quietly relieved smile. "You were the last patient on Hurst's rotation roster. I'd say it's time to get out of here."

"Knightley, I swear I could kiss you." Elizabeth leaned in to press a playful kiss to the doctor's cheek. A split second later, she tugged at Will's arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek as well. "Both of you."

"Elizabeth--" Will barely had time to enjoy the sensation before she pushed him away and reached for her tee shirt.

"Come on," Knightley guided him toward the exit. "She needs to change from that hospital gown. And Elizabeth?"

"Yes?"

"A few reminders. Your energy will come back, but I don't think I need to explain that you won't be feeling completely like yourself for awhile yet. Hurst said two to three months off the stage, and I agree with him. And in the short term, you've barely been off that cytotoxin for a handful of days. Your body needs a few days to build up its defenses. Simple food while your stomach strengthens, lots of naps. I want you to be careful."

"I'll be good, I promise." Elizabeth smiled.

As they lingered in the hallway, Will glanced at his old friend. "How worried should I still be?"

"If her blood tests come back with good results, you're through the worst of it, Will," Knightley assured him. "I meant what I said to her, though. We won't know for sure until we have the results. Slow and steady. Her body and her immune system needs time to strengthen. That drug we put her on made her more prone to bleeding, and it's still filtering out of her. She'll look stronger by the day, but she'll bruise easily. You'll want to handle her with a soft touch, at least till September."

"Thank you, Knightley," Will said. "You know I mean that."

"Any time." Knightley flipped shut his medical chart. "I wanted to help."

The curtain slid open to reveal Elizabeth Bennet, sporting shorts, a tee shirt, and the best accessory of all: a very pleased grin on her face. "I believe a certain doctor said we're all free to go. Ready?"

"Amazing how the word 'free' gets you're energy level up, isn't it?" Knightley remarked with a grin.

"Incredible," Will agreed. It was a word he thought could describe Elizabeth in most aspects of life. Instead of speaking it aloud, he dug for his keys. She was right. They'd had enough of hospitals. It was past time to go.

"Mum, I know you want me there earlier," Elizabeth spoke into the phone. It was Wednesday now, three days since her examination, and slowly energy was seeping back into her. One had to walk before they could run, though. It was an old adage, and certainly true for recovery. Curled up on the couch, she watched Anne Wentworth from afar, bustling with the kettle in the kitchen. "But flying out this Friday, it's just not practical---"

"Your brother's chartering a flight for Aer Lingus, London to Galway," Finola spoke on the other end. "What could be more practical than having Liam fetch you? We'd like an extra few days here with you, you know."

"And if the doctor doesn't think I should be traveling so early?"

"Then I'll ring him myself and tell him you're my only daughter, the very last child I gave birth to, and I surely know how to care for you better than any man in a lab coat."

"What about Will? He has loads to do at work, Mum. He's going to the wedding as it is. What if he can't take the extra time off to come early?"

"Did you ask him then?"

"Well...no, but--"

"Then what are you blabbering on for? Ask the man himself and then tell me your answer, if it all comes down to him."

"What sort of tea would you prefer?" Anne questioned as Elizabeth hung up the phone. She watched Anne turn off the flame beneath the bubbling kettle in a single efficient flick, then slide open a drawer filled with tea tins.

"Hmm?"

"Tea," Anne repeated gently. "Which kind?"

"Oh," Elizabeth rubbed her tired eyes, "you're welcome to get some for yourself, but you didn't have to make me---"

"Green tea," Anne pressed on with polite insistence, "or peppermint?"

"Peppermint," Elizabeth finally capitulated, her mouth quirking with amusement.

As usual, Anne's movements were remarkably serene, always graceful, never hurried. An easy confidante, she was an easy presence even when Elizabeth was ill.

It was hard to summon enough verve to quibble over much of anything with Anne. Especially since the new Mrs. Wentworth also currently held the title 'Cutest Pregnant Woman Ever.' A handful of weeks apart made even the slight changes more obvious.

That affectionate Angel moniker Fred had crowned her with years ago certainly never seemed more accurate than it did now. Glowing, wasn't that the common phrase for it? Joy over her present circumstances heightened Anne's already significant beauty, settling around her like a halo. It wasn't just her own happiness, it was Frederick's joy, and the joy of their unborn child. Like light through a cut diamond, it didn't just reflect, it doubled and then scattered freely.

And Anne's legs and arms seemed still as dainty as ever, but beneath the folds of that light summer top Elizabeth could see a hint of a very small swell in her abdomen.

"Anne, you're starting to show." Elizabeth's declaration was full of praise as her friend settled opposite her on the couch. A steaming cup of tea was settled on the coffee table with a softly musical clink.

"Just a little," Anne confirmed with a small smile. "Frederick and I had an appointment with the obstetrician today."

A shadow of concern darkened Elizabeth's eyes. "Everything's progressing well?"

"Yes. Perfectly. I would tell you if something was wrong. I promise."

Relief came in a single exhale.

"A strange thing happens when you're ill..." Elizabeth strummed short nails against her mug. "Worse case scenarios hang over your head, and mostly you don't want to think about them. So you start worrying about everyone else."

"Your test results returned?"

"Yes," Elizabeth acknowledged. "And good enough to grant me a reprieve. I have to return for bloodwork in September, and again in December, but if I take care of myself in the next few months, I should be able to avoid another flare up. Still...anxiety has a way of hanging on."

Anne's deep, meditative eyes trained on her friend, lingering without assumption. There was comfort in the silence that surrounded Anne, a peaceful freedom that allowed Elizabeth the liberty to admit shyly,

"It's silly, I guess. I worry about Will. I could rattle off a hundred questions for Will every night. He works so hard...and he hasn't been sleeping well."

"Why do you think that is?"

Elizabeth's frown held more than a touch of self-reproach. "He stays here because he knows it's my home but--compared to what he's used to...it's not the most comfortable place for him to sleep. Half the time when I was up in the middle of the night, so was he. And when he does sleep, his dreams seem...fitful and restless. These last few days he's woken up early and gone straight out for a run. When he comes back in, he's drenched in sweat. Like he's been wrestling a demon."

"And you feel responsible."

"I don't know," Elizabeth hedged, squirming. "He doesn't complain about it, but---yes, I do feel responsible. He's staying here for me. Because I wouldn't agree to stay at his place."

"Why not?"

"My clothing is here. My bed is here. I thought I'd be more comfortable."

Anne took a small sip of her tea. "And are you?"

"At first I was. It would have been hard groping my way to the bathroom in a strange place. But with this heat wave...it's five degrees shy of the Sahara."

"So why not spend some time at Will's place?" suggested Anne. "It's a beautiful suite Lizzie, and it's air conditioned and it's---"

"Priceless," Elizabeth pointed out.

"Is it the cost that bothers you, or is it the fact that you feel like you don't deserve it?" She set her cup down. "Yes, Will is a very wealthy man. He doesn't hide that fact, but he also doesn't choose to make that his defining quality. Not any more than you wish to be defined by one single aspect of your life."

"Like my lupus?

"If you wish," Anne agreed. "I just hope you realize you don't have anything to be ashamed of."

"Ashamed," Elizabeth frowned.

"Of your illness," Anne continued. "It's just...Lizzie, you never discuss it."

Elizabeth set her own cup down. She didn't expect Anne to understand, not completely. What it was like to have the shadow of an illness stalk you, one you couldn't shake off. What it felt like to be labeled. What it felt like to realize it could threaten your career, your dreams, your very life. But no, she didn't discuss it. Not even with those she was closest to. And why was that?

"Maybe it is a type of shame," Elizabeth admitted quietly. "It's fear, I guess. A worry that people will see it as a fault. Or see only that. I...I make excuses for it. Will is helping me with that, though. He helps me feel...like I don't have to apologize for it. And when he looks at me, I feel like he really sees me. No matter what."

"I'm glad. He cares for you," Anne set her cup down carefully. "It would hurt him if you denied him the opportunity to do so."

"You mean financially, as well as emotionally."

"I believe so," Anne agreed. "I know you want to help him, Lizzie. Maybe, when you're ready, try to think of ways that you could show that you're as accepting of his life as he is of yours. It doesn't have to be a huge gesture. You could try small things. Frederick and I do them all the time."

"How?"

Anne shrugged. There were too many to list. They were scattered throughout the day, small but generous gestures made in the impulse of a moment.

"Oh, just little things," Anne spoke at last. "We know each other so well, but we still like to surprise each other. This morning I woke up to find him cooking me breakfast. Or I'll draw a bath for him when he's had a rough day training on base."

Elizabeth's pale cheeks colored to a blush. Surely drawing Will's bath went beyond the purview of mere flatmate. "Anne, I'm not quite sure that's quite the idea I'm looking for..."

"Lizzie," Anne laughed, "That's not what I meant. What I'm trying to say is, when he stays up with you, when he cares for you, it's because he wants to. It's a way for him to show how he feels. He doesn't expect anything in return, least of all a bath."

"I'd like to do something, though," Elizabeth admitted with a twist of her mouth. "These last few weeks, he's being giving and giving. I just want to give something in return."

"You do give him something. Every day." Anne's exotic eyes brightened as she emphasized her point. "He trusts you in ways he's never trusted anyone else, even Frederick or George. I see it when he looks at you. I hear it when he speaks to you. Lizzie, he's gone through so much for such a young man, not just losing his parents but raising his sister, keeping her safe. It's weighed on him for a very long time, and for the first time I think he's remembering what it's like to honestly feel emotions for someone without walls or barriers. That's why he doesn't hesitate to give as much as he does, Lizzie. For the first time in his adult life he feels inspired to. And yes, he worries for you, and that's hard. But there's a freedom in allowing yourself to feel again."

In that regard, Anne was speaking from experience. In her eight years without Frederick, she'd buried her own heart beneath an ocean of duty and expectation and obligation, and had never once allowed herself to truly feel what she wanted, what she needed. And then Frederick swept back into her life and it was rebirth, not just of her own heart but her own desires. And when he was off on a mission, it was certainly difficult but she would rather feel that worry a thousand times than endure life without him.

"I think you're the best thing that's happened to him in a very long time," Anne admitted quietly, "and I don't think he would hesitate for a moment to tell you that himself."

"Anne, did you know him well as a teenager. Before...before his parents died?"

Anne curled up, cross-legged on the couch. "Yes. As much as anyone could claim to, other than Knightley. I first met him when I was thirteen, before I'd even met Frederick. Will was fourteen."

"A year before the accident," Elizabeth said quietly. "He was kind to you?"

"Yes. In his own way," Anne recollected quietly. "I went to Queens College. Will and George were attending Eton, and...well, we moved in the same circles. I danced with both of them at a school mixer once."

Elizabeth's jaw dropped. "You're joking."

"No," Anne's laughter was surprisingly girlish. "Don't look so worried. I was utterly terrified. Boys were a foreign species at that age. Elisabetta had to drag me to the dance. She had to drag me to most things back then. I wanted to stay in my room at the dormitory reading. I think I looked like a deer heading for a collision and Will took pity on me. It was kind of him to ask me to dance."

"I'm sure he had a line of girls wanting his attention."

"Yes. He could be quite hard to read, though," Anne mused. "Knightley was the one that most of the girls were always falling head over heels for. He had an open temperament and a kind smile, and he set people at ease. And Emma was still a child then. I'm sure he had no idea she would grow into---"

"Into Emma Woodhouse," Elizabeth laughed. "What about Will?"

"Oh, Will had his followers. And, well, he was quite a beautiful boy. Even adults would stop and stare. To be honest, though, I think he was disinclined to trust people, even before he lost his parents. He came from a very powerful family, and he was their only son, and the heir. Afterward, well....it didn't take long before he'd garnered a reputation among the girls at Queens."

"Stonewall, huh?"

"Something like that," Anne conceded with a quiet sip of her tea.

He'd made no effort to soften their perception. At fifteen Anne had gained a different view of him. Frederick swooped into her life, and suddenly she became an inductee into their tightly knit friendship. Knightley and Darcy became her protectors, and her brothers.

"Knightley dated. And Fred found you," Elizabeth questioned at last. "But Will...did he date?"

"Not during his time at Eton. There were rumors of some American girl visiting him quite a bit his final year--of course now I know they meant Andromeda Yang-De Bourgh."

"But he and Andie never dated."

"Not that I know of."

Elizabeth's mouth twitched to an uncertain frown. The thought produced an uncomfortable stab of jealousy. Andromeda was Lady Catherine's step daughter. Technically there wasn't a drop of shared blood between her and Will. It wasn't impossible that they'd had a past together. "What about University?"

"Lizzie, it was so long ago," Anne soothed. "At any rate, I think the best answer is probably some very good advice Emma gave me a few months ago."

"Which is?"

"If you're that curious, why don't you ask him yourself?" Anne set her cup down and began gathering her things.

"You're leaving?" Elizabeth deduced with a disappointed frown.

"Yes. And please don't get up, I can see myself out." Anne shouldered her purse. "I know you're through with you're drug regimen, but you're still supposed to be resting. I'm just so relieved it's over, Lizzie. We've all been so worried. And we've missed you. Meeting up for dinner as a group isn't the same without your bright, smiling eyes. Are you and Will going to celebrate?"

"What, like dinner?" Elizabeth laughed. "Anne, it will take a few days yet before I'll feel strong enough to do much. And I think this heat wave is going to last a little while longer."

"You should still celebrate," Anne reminded her, gently encouraging. "Weeks and weeks of suffering, Lizzie. You've earned it. You both have."

As the door shut behind her, Elizabeth settled back into her pillow. Anne had planted an idea. There was just one thing she'd need to accomplish it: help.