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A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 8 (1 reply)

LizzyS — Mon, 12 Oct 2026 10:28:40 +0100

Chapter 8

The gentle motion of the carriage had become familiar to them during their stay in London. Around Elizabeth, conversation rose and fell beneath the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves as they made their way through the bustling streets toward Westbury House.

Elizabeth was tired, though agreeably so, after the day at the Museum. Miss Bingley’s behaviour had been an unexpected interruption, though Elizabeth could not deny that its conclusion had afforded her some satisfaction. She looked at Jane, whose countenance showed that she too was not displeased by the day’s events. Anne too appeared calm, though Elizabeth suspected that she had not been indifferent to Miss Bingley’s discomposure.

“It was certainly an eventful outing, was it not?” the Duchess remarked, a hint of amusement in her voice as she met Elizabeth’s gaze.

Elizabeth smiled. “Indeed, Grandmother. Though I confess, I was rather surprised by Miss Bingley’s persistence in her misconceptions.”

Mrs. Jenkinson, ever the discreet observer of the ton, leaned forward slightly. “Ah, but Miss Elizabeth, appearances are not always to be trusted. While we were in the gallery, through the usual channels of our companions’ network, I was made privy to two rather extraordinary details regarding the Bingley household, matters that shed considerable light upon Miss Bingley’s recent desperation and sudden lack of counsel, as well as those frequent, mysterious excursions she has been making with Mr. Bingley.”

Elizabeth felt a fresh surge of curiosity, remembering the whispered rumors of those late-night outings. “Two details, Mrs. Jenkinson? Do they explain where Mr. Bingley has been conducting her?”

“Do tell,” the Duke prompted, his interest piqued.

“First,” Mrs. Jenkinson began, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur, “it seems that Miss Bingley has become dangerously addicted to play. Those excursions were not to quiet family acquaintances or fashionable shops, as she led many to believe, but to houses where play is carried on to alarming high stakes. Mr. Bingley has attended her himself, in the hope of limiting her losses and preventing the matter from becoming more generally known.”

“Shield her?” the Duke interrupted, his tone laced with sharp aristocratic disdain. “He has done nothing of the sort! He has merely deferred the disgrace, while encouraging the very conduct which must bring it about. Had he a grain of sense or true honor, he would have removed her from town months ago and confined her to the country, where she could cause no further injury to her portion or her family’s name. A gentleman who cannot govern his own household, and instead escorts his sister to the very brink of public disgrace, is a weak man indeed.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jenkinson agreed quietly. “What began with cards has been carried to a most alarming excess. Her losses at play have been so considerable that a large part of her fortune has already been consumed in the payment of debts of honour. I am assured that little of her fortune will remain if she continues in the same course.”

“Good heavens,” the Duchess murmured, a frown settling upon her features. “To throw away so much of her own fortune! It shows very little judgement in her, and none at all in her brother.”

A heavy silence filled the carriage as Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane. The frantic desperation behind Miss Bingley’s social climbing, her frantic need to attach herself to a fortune before her squandered fortune became public knowledge, was now laid bare.

“And the second matter, Mrs. Jenkinson?” Anne inquired.

“The second concerns Mrs. Hurst,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied, smoothing her gloves with deliberate calm before looking up. “Many have wondered why Mrs. Hurst was absent, and why she did not prevent her sister from coming this morning. It turns out it was no mere oversight. Mrs. Hurst’s personal maid sought me out directly in the vestibule while we were admiring the marbles.”

Anne tilted her head, listening intently. “Was Mrs. Hurst aware of our planned outing in advance?”

“She was, Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs. Jenkinson answered smoothly. “A Duke’s carriage cannot be prepared without the stables and tradesmen taking notice. Early this morning, a delivery person chanced to overhear the stable hands discussing preparations for His Grace’s outing and the number of carriages required for the Montagu House. He repeated it elsewhere in the course of the morning. News travels with extraordinary swiftness through the servants’ hall. Upon learning where His Grace was bound, Mrs. Hurst mentioned that the museum had become fashionable among the highest circles, and made no serious objection when Miss Bingley proposed going there.”

Jane’s eyes widened slightly. “But why make even so mild an objection, if she believed Miss Bingley meant to go?”

“Because Mrs. Hurst knew that a direct refusal would only make her sister more determined,” said Mrs. Jenkinson. “She neither commanded Miss Bingley to go nor suggested that she seek anyone there. She merely ceased to oppose an intention which Miss Bingley had already formed.”

Elizabeth considered the matter, a quiet understanding settling over her. “It was not malice,” she observed softly, looking to Jane. “Mrs. Hurst has her husband’s household and reputation to consider. She also knows her sister’s disposition very well. She knew that the mere mention of the museum being fashionable would be enough to make Miss Bingley go, for she is always most determined to pursue a course when she imagines she is acting as her own mistress. She foresaw what her sister would do, but knowing a person’s nature is not the same as directing her actions. Miss Bingley chose to go.”

Jane was quiet for a moment, her fingers tightening slightly over one another in her lap. “Then Mrs. Hurst may have foreseen her sister’s actions, but she did not force her to go. I can understand why Mrs. Hurst wishes to protect her husband’s credit,” she said at last. “And I do not think she is wrong to do so. But I cannot help wishing she had understood sooner that a sister’s partiality is not always kindness. More than once, Mr. Bingley has given a young lady reason to hope, and afterwards withdrawn when his sister disapproved the connection. Mrs. Hurst saw the disappointment that followed. If she feared for the family’s name, I wish she had urged her brother to be more decided before another lady’s hopes, and her family’s peace, were made to suffer the consequences.”

Elizabeth’s expression softened. “You are right, Jane. She was not without warning, and her silence has not been without cost to others. But in this instance, I believe she has acted more from prudence than malice. She has ceased to think further opposition of any use.”

“I believe you understand her perfectly, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Jenkinson agreed, a faint, ironical smile touching her lips. “She had ceased to believe that argument, restraint, or indulgence could influence her sister. Mrs. Hurst has seen how weak her brother is, and how unreasonable her sister has become. She has at last ceased trying to save her sister from the effects of conduct which she has opposed too long. Once she learned that your party would be at the gallery, she had little doubt that Miss Bingley would discover the Miss Bennets were there and attempt to cross your path.”

Anne gave a quiet chuckle, tilting her head. “Very ingenious. Mrs. Hurst did not direct her there. She merely stood aside when Miss Bingley chose her own course, and was finally obliged to answer for her conduct.”

“Just so, Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs. Jenkinson agreed softly. “In fact, Mrs. Hurst’s maid conveyed a most particular message to me, an earnest, private apology from Mrs. Hurst to Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth for her sister’s headstrong folly, along with an assurance that she intends to sever her establishment from Miss Bingley entirely.”

“A prudent decision,” the Duchess observed quietly, though without pity. “Nor an unwise one for a woman who must consider her husband’s name.”

Elizabeth could not help but see the justice in the arrangement. Miss Bingley had spent years trusting that other people would yield to her wishes, and Mrs. Hurst had merely learned to anticipate what her sister would do. Perhaps even Miss Bingley might learn something from experience, though Elizabeth suspected the lesson would require rather more than one uncomfortable afternoon at the museum.

“And how does Mrs. Hurst mean the matter to be understood?” the Duchess asked.

“By doing very little at all, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied. “She has no intention of making a spectacle of the matter. As it is Mr. Hurst’s establishment in Grosvenor Street, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst arranged to detain Mr. Bingley at home this morning on business of some importance. The moment Miss Bingley departed for the gallery, Mrs. Hurst gave orders that her sister’s trunks be packed. With Mr. Hurst, she then represented to her brother that Miss Bingley could no longer remain in Grosvenor Street, and advised him to take her at once to Netherfield, which he has not yet given up. Whether Miss Bingley will submit to the arrangement remains another matter.”

Elizabeth felt her breath catch slightly at the mention of Netherfield, she could not but think of the inconvenience of having Miss Bingley so near Longbourn. Yet she soon considered something else. She had not suspected Mrs. Hurst possessed such resolution. To cease opposing Miss Bingley when opposition could do no good, and to act once her conduct had rendered further indulgence impossible, showed a degree of judgement Elizabeth had not expected from Mrs. Hurst. Elizabeth could not but admire the decision with which she had acted. If Mr. Bingley had the sense to insist upon the arrangement, she suspected his sister would find the prospect considerably less agreeable than he did.

“Excellent,” Anne remarked, with quiet satisfaction.

The Duke gave a low, thoughtful hum, his heavy brow lifting. “Clever woman. And entirely proper. Netherfield is quite far enough from London to keep the lady out of the gaming houses, though I pity any neighborhood forced to endure her presence.” He shot a sharp, meaningful look at Elizabeth and Jane, his tone hardening with familiar indignation. “Hertfordshire appears singularly ill supplied with gentlemen willing to govern their own households. Should Mr. Bingley return to Netherfield with his sister, he may find Mr. Bennet an excellent example of the inconveniences produced when a gentleman leaves the management of his family to others. A father who will not exert himself for his daughters has little right to complain of the disorder that follows.”

Jane leaned back against the cushions, her hands folded tightly in her lap and looked at their grandfather, surprised by the faint approval in his voice. A degree of bitterness appeared in Jane’s countenance, an expression Elizabeth knew too well.

“It is a double-edged sword, is it not?” Jane said softly, her voice carrying a weight that drew the eyes of the entire carriage. “We, better than anyone, understand the exquisite agony of being tied to a reckless sister whose unbridled behavior threatens to drag an entire family into ruin. Indeed, it was Lydia and Mrs. Bennet’s wild folly that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst once used as their finest weapon, the very sword they wielded to convince Mr. Bingley that our family was too compromised to touch.”

“Though in Lydia’s case,” Elizabeth added, her lips twitching with a flash of irrepressible humor despite the gravity of the subject, “it was a literal sword. I believe Captain Carter only surrendered his dress saber to her under the mistaken impression that she knew which end was sharp. Though I suspect the militia was in far greater danger of her dropping it on her own foot than using it to defend her honor.”

A subdued amusement passed through the carriage.

Jane shook her head, a faint, sorrowful smile touching her mouth. “How strange that Mrs. Hurst should now be obliged to guard her own household against the very disorder she once made so much of in ours.”

Anne, who had listened with serene composure, gave a measured nod. “Then perhaps, Miss Bennet, Lydia rendered you a greater service than any of us understood at the time. She removed from your path a gentleman whose affections have proved rather less constant than you once believed. And, from all we have heard today, you were spared more than the loss of Mr. Bingley.”

“It is the way of hypocrites,” the Duchess said, her voice cool and uncompromising. “They are severe upon the faults of others, while overlooking those nearest to themselves. Mrs. Hurst is merely taking care that her sister’s folly does not bring further discredit upon her husband’s household.”

“Precisely, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jenkinson added quietly. “Miss Bingley will return from the gallery not to a triumphal drawing room, but to find her brother waiting in the hall, her baggage loaded, and her removal to Netherfield already decided.”

“A very thorough banishment indeed,” the Duke remarked dryly, looking out the carriage window as Westbury House came into view. “Miss Bingley went to the gallery expecting to find half the fashionable world assembled there, and no doubt intended to make herself agreeable to persons of consequence. She did not realize that her sister’s household had already ceased to shield her.”

Elizabeth looked out the carriage window at the grand townhouse looming into view. She could not but perceive the irony of their situation. For months, Caroline Bingley had looked down upon the Bennet sisters from the fortress of her wealth, her connections, and her presumed superiority, treating them as upstarts unworthy of her sphere. Yet here Elizabeth sat, surrounded by genuine affection and the quiet protection of her ducal family, while Miss Bingley had discovered that the household she had long taken for granted would no longer shield her from the consequences of her own conduct.

She could take no pleasure in Miss Bingley’s disgrace. Yet the justice of it was not to be denied. Miss Bingley had built her world upon appearances and assumed that others would always yield to her wishes. Now, perhaps for the first time, she would be left to bear the effects of her own conduct without her sister’s intervention.

~*~

The afternoon sun, softened by the tall parlor windows, cast a gentle glow upon the elegant room at Westbury House. Jane sat near a window, a book of poetry open in her lap, though her gaze often drifted to her grandmother and grandfather who were discussing the seating arrangements for the evening’s dinner party. Across from them, Elizabeth engaged in a quiet conversation with Anne, while Mrs. Jenkinson, ever present yet unobtrusive, sat with her needlework nearby. The prospect of the evening’s company gave the room an air of agreeable expectation.

“Now, for dinner tonight,” the Duchess mused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the guest list. “We have my son and his family, Lady Danvers, Mrs. and Miss Vernon, Lord Ashworth, Lord Arthur Harland, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Darcy, of course. We must take care that the conversation is lively at every turn.”

“Indeed, Grandmother,” Elizabeth agreed, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Mr. Darcy, I am certain, will manage quite well, no matter his companion.”

Mrs. Jenkinson finished her stitch and lifted her eyes. “Your Grace,” she said, “there has been a further development in the matter of Netherfield.”

The Duchess looked toward her. “Indeed?”

“Miss Bingley refused to go.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “Already?”

“Quite firmly, Miss Elizabeth. Mr. Bingley has taken his sister to a house in London which belonged to their father, until some other plan can be settled.”

“A London residence?”

“The Bingleys still retain a house their father used when business called him to London,” Mrs. Jenkinson explained. “Rather farther east than Miss Bingley would have preferred.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Not...”

“In Cheapside,” Mrs. Jenkinson confirmed.

Anne’s composure did not entirely conceal her amusement. Jane caught the flash of irrepressible amusement in Elizabeth’s eyes before she composed her features.

“How very unfortunate,” Elizabeth murmured.

“For Miss Bingley, certainly,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied. “The house has belonged to the family for many years, though I understand Miss Bingley has never thought it fit for more than a temporary occasion.”

Elizabeth’s mouth curved. “How fortunate that the Gardiners live on Gracechurch Street, only a short distance from Cheapside. Miss Bingley may now enjoy the distinction of residing there herself.”

“The world has a curious sense of irony,” the Duchess stated dryly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hurst remain at Grosvenor Street. Indeed, they were seen together at Lady Metcalfe’s last evening, without Miss Bingley, and society has already drawn its conclusions,” Mrs. Jenkinson explained. “It was understood that Miss Bingley was no longer to form part of the Hurst household.”

Jane lowered her eyes to her book, though not before catching the amusement in her grandfather’s expression.

Anne gave a quiet laugh. “I confess, I should very much like to know what Miss Bingley thinks of her new accommodations.”

The Duke gave a quiet hum. “Mr. Bingley has still not learnt that a brother must do more than attend his sister when she refuses to be guided.”

Jane could not help smiling. The Duke had a talent for expressing in one sentence what others required a quarter of an hour to explain.

At that moment, there was a soft knock at the parlour door. The butler, Jeffers, entered, his expression carefully neutral. “Pardon the interruption, Your Grace,” he announced, his voice clear. “A Mr. Bingley has called, requesting to pay his respects to Miss Jane Bennet.”

A sudden, sharp silence fell over the room. Jane felt a familiar tremor of surprise, quickly followed by a flush that warmed her cheeks. She instinctively glanced at the Duchess, whose serene expression had instantly vanished, replaced by an unmistakable coolness.

“Mr. Bingley?” the Duchess repeated, her voice perfectly level, yet colder than a winter’s dawn. Her eyes, usually so warm and welcoming, showed no encouragement. She paused, allowing the name to hang in the air for a moment before delivering her decree. “Tell him she is not at home, Jeffers.”

As they spoke, Jane noticed Mrs. Jenkinson had discreetly risen and moved to a small writing desk in the corner of the parlor, pulling out paper and a quill. A faint scratching sound filled the otherwise quiet room.

The butler inclined his head, but the Duchess raised a hand. “And, Jeffers,” she added, her voice dropping to a resonant, formidable authority, “should Mr. Bingley call again, pray be advised that Miss Jane Bennet is never at home to him. Ever. You understand?”

“Perfectly, Your Grace.” The butler’s expression did not flicker. He had served the family long enough to understand the Duchess’s meaning.

Jane felt a brief tremor of surprise, followed by something closer to resignation than distress. Whatever uncertainty Jane had once felt with regard to Mr. Bingley was now at an end. The Duchess’s refusal left no prospect of further intercourse between them. Mr. Bingley, for all his pleasantness, had proved himself too easily swayed, too willing to surrender his own judgment to those around him. Her grandmother’s intervention, however severe, had removed every possibility of misunderstanding. Mr. Bingley would not be permitted to suppose that Jane Bennet remained within his reach.

“Are you well, Jane?” Elizabeth asked softly. “Tell me truly, has Mr. Bingley’s call unsettled you?”

Jane met her sister’s gaze, a small, weary smile touching her lips. “I am well, Lizzy. And as for Mr. Bingley, I confess a certain sadness. Not for any prospect which has been lost, for I see now that it was never secure, but for the readiness with which he gave up his own judgement.” She paused, then added, “It is perhaps a kindness, this end. It leaves me no reason to doubt my course.”

Her grandmother reached across and gently took Jane’s hand. “My dear, I must apologize for the bluntness of my actions, but they were, I assure you, entirely necessary. He could not be permitted to mistake our meaning.”

“Indeed, my love,” her grandfather affirmed, his voice firm. “You did precisely the right thing. Such irresolution is not a quality I would see rewarded in a gentleman connected with our family. It makes our opinion sufficiently plain.”

“But why now?” Elizabeth mused aloud, her brow furrowed in thought. “The society papers made haste to acquaint all of London with the full details of our mother’s family almost immediately upon my arrival. Aunt Celeste’s correspondence has since spread the intelligence through every fashionable circle, and our frequent appearances in town have left scarce a soul in ignorance.”

“Unless their maid hides the news from them,” Anne murmured.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Jane laughed softly, followed by Elizabeth and the Duchess, while even the Duke’s expression betrayed his amusement.

“Yet, after all this time,” she continued, her amusement fading as she returned to the matter at hand, “and after his sister’s public declarations at the museum, why should Mr. Bingley suddenly wish to call upon Jane? Only yesterday Mrs. Hurst suggested that he take his sister to Netherfield, and now he has conveyed her to the family house in Cheapside instead.”

“Ah,” her grandfather began, a knowing glint in his eye, “that, my dear Elizabeth, may be precisely the point. Mr. Bingley knew of his sister’s behavior long before yesterday. He has been paying her debts and attempting to conceal the effects of her gaming for some time. What changed yesterday was not his knowledge, but the extent to which her conduct became public, and the company in which she chose to behave so disgracefully.”

“Her gambling,” Jane finished softly, remembering Mrs. Jenkinson’s revelations the previous day.

“Precisely,” her grandmother confirmed, her expression tightening. “Mr. Bingley has long known how his sister has behaved. What he may only now have begun to understand is the danger her conduct poses to his own consequence, now that the Westburys have seen it for themselves. He may be seeking some means of restoring his credit before matters worsen. Re-establishing his connection with you, Jane, would certainly answer that end, and remind him of an attachment he ought never to have abandoned.”

Elizabeth gave a short, incredulous laugh. “He truly is easily led, is he not? First by his sister’s opinion of us, and now by the effects of having followed her.”

Across the room, the scratching of the quill ceased, then a seal was pressed into the warm wax, and the letter laid upon the desk.

Elizabeth’s eyes darted toward the corner of the parlor. “Mrs. Jenkinson,” she called out, a playful glint in her eye, “are you catching up on your correspondence? You are uncommonly diligent.”

Mrs. Jenkinson paused, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips as she looked up. “Indeed, Miss Elizabeth. I am merely answering my letters. One accumulates such a debt to one’s acquaintances, and it would be a sad neglect of duty to leave them in ignorance of our recent intelligence.”

Her grandfather could not entirely suppress a laugh. “Yes, intelligence,” he chuckled, exchanging a look with the Duchess. “Mrs. Jenkinson, in her own invaluable way, is merely providing the news-mongers with the freshest grist for their mill. The ton will be alive with the tale of Mr. Bingley’s ill-fated call by nightfall.”

Jane smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her. She could hardly have imagined, only a few months before, the extent of the protection now offered her. But surrounded by her family, with the quiet scratch of Mrs. Jenkinson’s pen filling the background, Jane felt utterly secure.

~*~

The grand parlor at Westbury House was filled with the gentle murmur of polite conversation and the rustle of silk as guests began to arrive for the evening’s dinner party. Jane stood beside the Duchess greeting each new arrival with a calm smile. Elizabeth and Anne stood nearby to receive the guests with them. Jane’s heart felt lighter than it had in months. Her grandmother’s refusal to receive Mr. Bingley had, unexpectedly, relieved Jane of much uncertainty.

First to arrive were her aunt and uncle, their entrance bringing an immediate warmth to the room. Uncle Maxwell, with his easy smile, greeted Jane and Elizabeth with an affectionate embrace. Following them were her cousins.

Soon after, Lady Danvers made her entrance, her striking elegance drawing every eye in the room. Jane felt a quiet pleasure as she was followed by Mrs. and Miss Eleanor Vernon, who appeared far less timid than at their earlier meeting at the museum. Eleanor’s eyes found Castor across the room, and a faint blush rose to her cheeks as he offered her an encouraging smile. The Duchess, ever observant, exchanged a brief, knowing glance with the Duke.

Next entered Colonel Fitzwilliam, bringing with him his usual engaging smile and easy manner, and then Mr. Darcy, whose characteristic reserve softened into undeniable warmth as he addressed Elizabeth. Jane observed the unconstrained ease of their conversation with real satisfaction.

For a moment, there were no further arrivals, and Jane looked about her with satisfaction. It was precisely then that Jeffers announced the final guests.

“Lord Ashworth and Lord Arthur Harland.”

Jane’s attention shifted immediately. The gentleman who entered beside Lord Ashworth was the very man she had noticed on so many occasions around London.

She recognised him at once, and felt a degree of surprise she could not entirely conceal.

Lord Arthur Harland.

So, that was his name.

She had wondered more than once who he might be, though she had never imagined her curiosity would be satisfied so unexpectedly. He had hitherto seemed merely one of the many figures who animated the background of a crowded season, a gentleman met in the park, a countenance observed across the playhouse, whose glance had met her own often enough to leave her speculating whether such notice were purely accidental.

Now he was walking directly towards her.

As the two gentlemen approached, the hum of general conversation and the surrounding bustle of the parlor seemed to lose all claim upon Jane’s attention. Every lesser thought gave way to a sudden, heightened consciousness as Lord Arthur Harland drew near, and she was brought to the breathless realization that the gentleman who had so long occupied the margins of her thoughts was now standing before her.

The Duchess greeted Lord Ashworth first, presenting him to the family. As he bowed, Jane saw that Lord Ashworth’s attention rested upon Anne for a moment longer than politeness required. Anne, absorbed in the room around her, appeared not to notice. Mrs. Jenkinson, however, moved subtly nearer to her charge.

Then the Duchess turned to Lord Arthur Harland.

“Lord Arthur, allow me to present my granddaughters, Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and Miss Anne de Bourgh, mistress of Rosings.”

Lord Arthur bowed deeply to the young ladies in turn, offering a polite word to Elizabeth and Anne, before his gaze settled once more upon Jane.

His eyes met hers, and the warmth in his expression made her wonder if he were conscious of the same swift recognition that had taken hold of her.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice a rich, resonant baritone, “we are, at last, properly introduced.”

Jane felt a blush creep up her neck, but she met his gaze with her characteristic composure.

“Lord Arthur,” she managed, her voice steadier than she expected. “It is a pleasure.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

The formal introduction was remarkably simple, yet Jane found herself more affected by it than she had expected. Until now, he had been a gentleman whose presence had repeatedly caught her attention without her knowing so much as his name. Now that his anonymity had given way to a name, her curiosity felt all the more lively.

“The pleasure,” he added softly, his smile warm and intimate, “has been entirely too long delayed.”

Jane could not help returning his smile.

The words were perfectly civil. Yet something in the quiet certainty of them made Jane feel, absurdly, as though the room had grown warmer.

She lowered her eyes for only a moment. “I believe, my lord, that proper introductions are worth waiting for.”

Only then did Jane’s awareness expand beyond the gentleman before her to encompass the rest of the company.

A faint, knowing smile curled her grandmother’s lips. She turned to include Lord Ashworth in the group, casting a significant glance toward Anne as she remarked, with evident amusement, upon the difficulty of finding suitable companions for all her dear grandchildren.

There was a brief pause. Then Lord Ashworth, unable to suppress a rogue’s smile, leaned toward Lord Arthur, speaking just loud enough for Jane and the others to hear.

“Arthur,” Lord Ashworth said with an amused drawl, “is this not the young lady for whom you found the play at Drury Lane so unexpectedly instructive? You seemed less attentive to the performance than to the company in the opposite box, despite Miss Brandon’s efforts to engage your attention.”

Jane’s cheeks warmed again. She was both amused and mortified. She was comforted, however, by observing a faint flush rise to Lord Arthur’s countenance as well.

Castor, ever the vigilant relation, stepped in, his voice holding a note of protective good cheer, though Jane detected an edge of challenge. “You appear to have been uncommonly diligent in securing an introduction to my cousin, Harland.”

Lord Arthur, regaining his composure, met Castor’s look directly, his gaze settling for a moment upon Jane before he replied. “Long enough,” he said, smiling wryly. “I have ever considered a proper introduction worth waiting for, Fairhaven, and am glad the opportunity has at last been granted. The patience, I find, is amply rewarded.”

Mr. Darcy’s expression suggested restrained amusement. “Indeed. I had begun to wonder whether Harland had forgotten conversation altogether, so frequently has he found reason to attend outings.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam chimed in with a laugh, clapping a hand on Lord Arthur’s shoulder. “Preoccupation? It has been more than that, Will. He has been as impatient as a man waiting for the signal to begin.” He looked towards Lord Ashworth with amusement. “Though you must forgive Ashworth’s teasing, Fairhaven. Cousins claim certain privileges, and Ashworth has never been reluctant to exercise them. But if you mean to challenge every gentleman who speaks to Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth, Fairhaven, you will find yourself very much occupied.”

The Duchess, presiding over the entire scene, allowed the laughter to ebb, then remarked with wry amusement, “We do seem to make rather a sport of introductions in this city. I begin to think that introductions are more troublesome than they once were.”

Lord Ashworth, not to be outdone, turned once again to his cousin with an air of exaggerated gravity. “Indeed, Arthur, one must admire such perseverance. A lesser man might have abandoned the field weeks ago, but you have proven that patience in the chase has its own reward.” The jest produced a general laugh among the company, effectually dispelling whatever lingering constraint remained.

Looking about her, Jane perceived that the temper of the room had altered. New attentions had declared themselves, and Jane found the altered atmosphere more amusing than alarming. She saw Lord Ashworth look towards Anne, who observed it and answered with an expression at once amused and questioning. The Duchess watched, undisguised satisfaction lighting her face. Jane felt, with particular pleasure, that she was no longer merely received among them, but valued by them.

When Jane reached the dining room, she found Lord Arthur’s place set beside her own. Across the table, her grandmother’s expression remained serenely innocent.

Lord Ashworth found himself placed next to Anne, who, entirely unconscious of the designs being formed around her, continued to discuss a rather intricate piece of Roman pottery with the Marquess.

Lord Arthur proved an attentive, intelligent companion, speaking with ease of the museum’s antiquities and listening with an interest that made Jane forget, more than once, how many people surrounded them.

The clatter of removed dishes and the low murmur of conversation gradually faded as the ladies withdrew from the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and politics.

Jane began to think that the evening might prove more eventful than she had expected.

~*~

Will sat near the head of the polished dining table, the deep, garnet port glinting in his glass as the warmth of good wine and pleasant company softened the formality of the evening. The earlier hush had yielded to robust debate. Harland and Fairhaven sparred amiably with Ashworth over the shifting tides at Westminster, each trading wit for wit, while Richard regaled a smaller circle with tales from the Peninsula, the room filling with appreciative laughter.

Will contributed the occasional remark, out of duty more than ease, but his mind wandered again and again to the drawing-room, to Elizabeth. Her laughter, her understanding, and the liveliness of her conversation. He was more conscious than ever of how keenly he awaited the moment he might join her again.

Harland listened with only half his usual levity, though Will noticed his gaze stray once toward the closed drawing-room doors as well.

It was Richard who recalled him to the conversation. “Will, you are uncommonly grave tonight. Is it Wickham again that clouds your brow?” he asked, a glint of familial understanding in his eyes and, just under his words, an echo of old exasperation.

Harland, catching the unfamiliar name, paused mid-sip. “Wickham? You speak of him as though he were the villain of some wretched tale. Who is he?”

Will’s jaw tightened instinctively, but it was Richard who answered with practiced frankness. “You have not had the pleasure, Harland? Wickham was the son of the late Mr. Darcy’s steward at Pemberley so he grew up on the estate. Will and I have known him since boyhood.” He looked ruefully at Will before adding, “I have never known a man with more charm and less honour. He has made a livelihood out of finding new ways to abuse both hospitality and trust.”

Ashworth gave a short laugh. “I almost envy your provincial rogues, Darcy. My worst relation only borrows too much at the card table.”

Will shook his head. “Wickham has done far more harm than any debtor. He preys wherever there is an unguarded purse or an impressionable heart.” The words were low, clipped, but in the candle’s glow, anyone might see a trace of old anger.

Fairhaven smiled, evidently amused. “And what is to be done with such a blackguard, banishment, perhaps? Or must he be sent to some distant corner of the kingdom?”

Richard returned to the news at hand, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “You will be glad to know that Wickham’s opportunities for mischief are becoming fewer. He is to join his regiment on duty in London for the present, to serve as a guard at the Tower, where he will be under closer observation than he has hitherto been. And papers are even now in progress for a permanent transfer, either to some remote station in the North, where there is little company to be corrupted, or else to Canada itself, should the War Office succeed in dispatching a gentleman of his unfortunate character across the Atlantic.”

The gentlemen exchanged looks

The marquess, who had so far observed all with wry amusement, spoke up. “Canada? I might make some inquiries, if you wish. I have a friend in the Colonial Office who may be of use. If the object is to remove him from temptation, it would be difficult to choose a more distant station.”

Ashworth turned to Will. “But tell me, would not Scotland be yet more suitable? Fewer people to fleece, and far fewer young ladies to charm, I would wager.”

A round of laughter met this, and even Will allowed himself a rare, rueful smile. “He will find neither fortune nor easy prey in either place. For once, I am content to let distance do what persuasion never could.”

The Duke nodded gravely in agreement. “If you require it, my influence is at your disposal, Darcy. Some injuries must be answered for, particularly where young ladies are concerned.”

Will offered a measured bow of gratitude. “My thanks, Your Grace. I believe enough has been arranged to make his opportunities for trouble very few indeed.”

Will allowed himself a small, satisfied nod. The arrangement appeared likely to answer its purpose. Wickham would be at a distance, with fewer opportunities to injure others or advance himself at their expense. It was a fitting consequence for a life built on deceit. The weight which had so long oppressed his spirits seemed at last to lift, leaving in its place the quiet conviction that propriety and justice were satisfied.

Wickham’s name having been set aside, the conversation returned by degrees to wine and country affairs. Will felt at last a sense of relief steal over him. Amidst the distant clatter of glasses and the quiet murmur of voices before the fire, he found an unexpected peace, no longer oppressed by the constant threat of Wickham’s malice.

From the corridor came the faintest strains of music, a pianoforte, a bright feminine laugh.

Will set down his glass, the faintest smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. So far as Wickham was concerned, all that could be done had been done. A distant station in Scotland or Canada seemed a suitable prospect for a man whose presence had brought so much disorder. Let distance keep him from further mischief. For the present, Will could think of Wickham no more.

What awaited him in the drawing room was of an entirely different nature. Not another burden or dispute, but a prospect he found unexpectedly pleasant. There would be conversation, and Elizabeth. The prospect of seeing her again was not without interest.

The Duke rose from the table. But no sooner had Will pushed back his chair than Richard intercepted him with a knowing grin.

“Not so fast, cousin,” Richard said, languidly propping an elbow on the back of a nearby chair. “We have not yet settled the matter of the hunt, and here you are, already halfway to the drawing room. If I did not know better, I should say that every note Miss Elizabeth plays has the power to bring you instantly to your feet.”

Will paused, his expression carefully neutral, though a hot flush crept up the back of his neck. Blast the man. “I think you mistake me. Our host rose to rejoin the ladies.. It was my duty to follow suit. You are rather poetic tonight, cousin.”

“No, that would be Ashworth,” Richard said. “Ashworth has already found a subject for poetry in a certain lady’s chuckle.”

Laughter,” Lord Ashworth corrected with a smile, “and of a most dangerous sort. A quick, lively laugh, full of arch amusement, that quite disarms a man before he has the sense to defend himself.”

Will folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “Your powers of observation are formidable.”

The others required no further encouragement.

Fairhaven turned to Harland and said, loudly enough for Will to hear, “When was the last time our dear Darcy was so moved by a few notes on the pianoforte and a lady’s laugh? The man once traversed a ballroom filled with determined fathers and mammas without so much as a glance.”

“And now?” Harland added, smug with mischief, “if he does not soon find some diversion, he will start discussing the merits of basket-weaving to better understand the feminine mind.”

“You are scarcely in a position to mock him, Arthur,” Ashworth said lightly. “You have spent the evening looking rather pleased with yourself.”

Harland’s smile deepened. “For once, cousin, I have reason.”

There was a brief pause. Fairhaven’s brows rose, and even Will, who had been prepared to endure another round of ridicule, found himself looking at Harland with renewed interest.

“Well,” Ashworth said at last, his eyes brightening, “that is an answer I cannot dispute, cousin.”

Fairhaven gave a low, approving laugh. “Then we are undone. Two gntlemen lost in a single evening.”

“One may yet be saved,” Ashworth replied, turning his gleam of mischief upon Will. “But Darcy is already beyond ordinary remedies. Embroidery, without doubt. He will be discovered admiring Miss Elizabeth’s stitches, declaring her monogram more elegant than any in the Lady’s Pocket Magazine.”

Richard snorted, nearly choking on his port.

Claremont raised his glass. “My niece is not without her influence on impressionable gentlemen.”

Will found it increasingly difficult to preserve his gravity. He was, undeniably, surrounded by barbarians.

“You are relentless,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Only because we grieve for the man you once were,” Ashworth said, hand to heart.

Harland added, raising his glass, “If you begin offering suggestions on plum cake recipes, we shall have to send for a physician.”

Richard laughed outright. “Imagine! Fitzwilliam Darcy, of Pemberley, comparing hair ribbons to determine which best suit the flowers in a drawing room!”

Will closed his eyes for a moment. Evidently he had not been nearly so subtle as he had imagined.

Very well. He resolved to humor his cousin, if only to put an end to the assault. “I had considered falconry.”

“Only if the hawk can distinguish a stitch at a hundred yards!” Richard answered.

Even Will was compelled to laugh.

The Duke, who had been observing with a glint in his eye, finally set down his glass. “Steady, gentlemen. Darcy is clearly a man transformed, though not, I suspect, quite ready for the stillroom. Though, Darcy,” the Duke added with a slight smile, “I trust you have not yet begun arranging the library by the colours of its bindings?”

Will felt the heat rise again. “Your Grace is too kind.”

“I do my best,” the Duke replied. “There is no shame in admiration, but a man must not become so enraptured that he forgets to drink his port, or finish his supper. Though if you become the first gentleman in England to offer informed opinions on embroidery, I shall certainly be the first to congratulate you on your... versatility.”

The room filled with laughter once more.

Ashworth slapped his knee, laughing. “By heaven, Darcy has lost his heart! Soon he will be instructing the ladies in the proper arrangement of the tea things!”

Will laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “Very well. If I am to be mocked for my admiration, I shall defend myself by maintaining that the object is entirely worthy of the sentiment.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Fairhaven looked at Will in open astonishment. Ashworth lowered his glass, his amusement briefly giving way to astonishment.

Richard’s grin softened. “That is the nearest thing to a declaration I have ever heard from you.”

A murmur of laughter followed, warmer now than mocking.

“Well said,” Ashworth conceded. “Still, find yourself a proper pursuit. Something less... lacy.”

Darcy raised his glass. “I shall consider wood carving.”

Richard laughed and lifted his glass to him. “Only do not begin carving Miss Elizabeth’s initials into every tree at Pemberley.”

With laughter still echoing about the room, chairs scraped back, and the gentlemen made their unhurried way to the drawing room.

“A capital evening, Your Grace,” Ashworth said to the Duke as they reached the corridor. “Perhaps tomorrow, if the weather continues fair, we might enjoy some exercise out of doors with the ladies?”

“Indeed, Ashworth,” the Duke replied, a thoughtful expression on his face. “What do you propose?”

“A walk in Hyde Park, perhaps?” Harland suggested. “The air would do us good after so much debate on Parliament and other subjects of equal consequence.”

Fairhaven nodded. “Or the Botanical Garden at Brompton? I hear the collections in the new conservatories are quite a marvel.”

Richard clapped Will on the shoulder. “Or, if Will requires a sterner amusement, we might visit the Tower of London! It might offer him a respite from the allure of pianoforte keys, with its grim history and sturdy walls. Perhaps the ghosts of old kings will distract him from thoughts of lace and watercolours.”

Will merely smiled, a slight arch of his eyebrow betraying his amusement. “The Tower, Richard? I confess, its ancient walls hold less charm than the prospect of fresh air and congenial company.”

“Then a stroll through the park it is,” the Duke concluded with a decisive nod. “Or the Gardens. We shall decide at breakfast, provided my granddaughters and Anne are willing to accept the invitation. Darcy, Harland, Ashworth, Colonel Fitzwilliam, you are all welcome to join us.”

His step, though steady, bore an unmistakable air of decision, as though he were returning not merely to company, but to the one presence that could make all things right.

~*~

Jane found herself in the drawing-room with the ladies. The wait, though customary, felt longer than usual this evening. The rustle of silk, the occasional clink of porcelain, and a subdued murmur of conversation filled the room. Jane exchanged a subtle smile with Elizabeth, whose impatient air and wandering eyes made it plain that her mind was entirely occupied with the company on the other side of the door.

At last, the drawing-room doors were thrown open and the gentlemen re-entered, bringing a fresh stir of conversation to the circle. Jane’s eyes, almost involuntarily, sought Lord Arthur. His countenance was as distinguished as ever, and his gaze met hers across the room with a swiftness that set her spirits fluttering. He made his way directly to her side, offering a polite greeting that conveyed, in its quiet warmth, an intention meant for her alone.

Miss Bennet,” Lord Arthur said warmly. “I hope the long interval since dinner has not entirely exhausted your patience?”

“Not at all,” Jane replied with calm grace. “It passed most agreeably, though the promise of company, now resumed, is no unwelcome change.”

“Did you enjoy your visit to Montagu House?”

“Perfectly, sir,” Jane replied, her composure unwavering. “The Museum was most agreeable, and I found several of its rooms particularly interesting.”

Lord Arthur’s smile deepened slightly. “I understand the excursion provided rather more entertainment than the exhibits alone might have offered.”

Jane met his eyes for a moment, understanding precisely what he meant. “London seldom disappoints in that respect, my lord. Yet I believe the ancient histories have the advantage of being safely removed from present company.”

Lord Arthur laughed softly. “A very diplomatic judgment.”

“I find diplomacy useful when discussing the living,” Jane replied, her smile gentle. “The ancient world cannot object to our opinions.”

She turned naturally toward the table where several books had been arranged. “Did you happen to see the exhibit of Egyptian antiquities? There were several pieces of considerable interest.”

Lord Arthur followed her change of subject without hesitation. “I did, though I confess I know rather less about the subject than I ought. Perhaps you will tell me which pieces deserve the greatest attention.”

Jane smiled. For the first time, they had been given leisure to speak without the bustle of company passing between them. There was something increasingly engaging about Lord Arthur Harland. His manner was easy without being forward, and his conversation possessed a liveliness which Jane found increasingly agreeable. She had begun to look forward to his company and found herself wondering what other subjects might hold his attention as readily as they held hers.

Across the room, Mr. Darcy joined Elizabeth. He approached her with an expression less reserved than usual.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said, “were the discussions among the ladies as lively as ours were tedious?”

Elizabeth laughed, a genuine, melodious sound that drew his gaze. “Oh, quite. Though I daresay your own company, Mr. Darcy, would always prove diverting, no matter the topic.”

“And yet,” he replied, stepping slightly closer, “I found myself envying the superior company.”

At that, Elizabeth arched a brow. “A bold declaration, indeed, Mr. Darcy. Are you now so emboldened as to flatter a lady outright?”

He smiled faintly. “It is not flattery if it is true.”

Meanwhile, Castor, after a brief, respectful nod to their grandmother, made his way directly to where Mrs. and Miss Vernon were seated. Eleanor looked towards him as he approached, and could not entirely conceal her pleasure.

Lord Ashworth spoke loudly enough to be heard by the company.

“As it happens,” he began, gesturing lightly toward the ladies, “you may all accuse us of forwardness, but I have secured generous leave from His Grace. The Duke has granted permission for we gentlemen to escort any ladies who would enjoy it to Hyde Park tomorrow, should the weather and your inclinations permit.”

A few surprised murmurs followed. Even Selina looked up with pleased curiosity.

“The Duke approves of the planned outing?” the Marchioness asked with an approving lift of her brow.

Lord Ashworth bowed slightly. “He was most gracious. He said nothing ought to prevent respectable society from enjoying fresh air and proper company.”

Jane felt a smile rise. “How thoughtful. A turn in the park sounds very agreeable indeed.” She turned, her gaze falling upon Eleanor Vernon, who was now engaged in soft conversation with Castor. “Eleanor, would you care to join us?”

Castor, meeting Jane’s look over Eleanor’s shoulder, gave her a passing smile of lively approval, silently thanking her for her consideration.

Mrs. Vernon, seeing Eleanor’s shy delight, spoke up with a pleased smile. “Why, Miss Bennet, that is exceedingly kind! Eleanor would be delighted, would you not, my dear?”

Eleanor nodded, blushing prettily.

Elizabeth looked at Mr. Darcy with an expression of amused enquiry. “Was this your idea, sir, or was it contrived while the ladies were in the drawing room?”

“Would you think any less of it if it were?” Mr. Darcy replied.

Elizabeth laughed. “Only if no one thought to invite me first.”

“You are, of course, already invited,” Mr. Darcy said, offering a bow.

They soon entered into an easy conversation, which quickly grew more interesting as it touched upon books, society, and the pleasant frailties of human nature, a harmony of sentiment establishing itself between them almost without the aid of words.

At the grand piano, Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Astra with a charming smile. “Will you allow me the honor of being your escort, Lady Astra? Though I am not half as entertaining as a lecture on parliamentary reform, I shall try my best.”

Astra smiled at him. “Hyde Park it is, then. And if you misbehave, I shall lecture you on the merits of Cicero versus Byron.”

Their laughter joined the others’.

Meanwhile, with a quiet resolve that did not escape Jane’s notice, Lord Ashworth slowly made his way toward Anne, where she sat slightly removed from the circle, quietly watching the room.

Miss de Bourgh,” he said, taking the seat near her with a quiet deference. “I hope I do not intrude upon your peace. The room grows uncommonly lively this evening. Do you find the bustle of so many voices as fatiguing as I sometimes do?”

Anne looked up, a momentary surprise in her glance at his unexpected address, though the faintest smile touched her lips. “Lord Ashworth,” she replied, her voice soft but clear, “I find it often produces far too little of substance, for all its volume.”

Mrs. Jenkinson, whose watchful attention rarely deserted her charge, had taken up a seat at a convenient distance from Anne. Though her needlework lay idle in her lap, and her eyes seemed fixed upon the carpet, not a word nor movement of Lord Ashworth’s escaped her. A certain gravity in her air betrayed how closely she guarded the young lady.

Lord Ashworth laughed softly. “A most astute observation, Miss de Bourgh. If I might presume,” he said, inclining his head, “I should count myself very fortunate to attend you tomorrow.”

Anne raised her gaze toward him, and with a steadiness of tone that seemed to astonish herself, replied, “You may presume.”

Perhaps we might find a quieter part of the room, where conversation may be less interrupted?” As he offered his arm, Anne hesitated only a moment before placing her hand upon it, her countenance brightening with an animation as rare as it was pleasing. Mrs. Jenkinson, though preserving her customary composure, inclined her head in silent approbation, a gesture that escaped all observation save Jane’s.

From their sofa near the hearth, Jane’s grandparents, together with Aunt Selina and Mrs. Jenkinson, kept a watchful yet approving eye upon the young people. The Duchess looked on with particular complacency as Anne and Lord Ashworth retired to a quiet corner, her countenance beaming with unspoken satisfaction.

“It seems,” her grandmother murmured to her aunt, “our evening is proving quite fruitful indeed.”

A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 7 (3 replies)

LizzyS — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 02:01:53 +0100

I didn’t think I would get a chapter in this weekend.

Chapter 7

The carriage at last stopped before Montagu House, whose broad facade housed the collections of the British Museum. As the footmen swiftly opened the doors, Jane stepped out, drawing a deep breath of the crisp London air. Her gaze immediately fell upon the familiar faces waiting on the steps. Mr. Darcy, ever distinguished, stood conversing quietly with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Uncle Maxwell, while Aunt Celeste, Castor, Astra, and Selina waited nearby. A little apart, Uncle Edward and Aunt Madeline were laughing with their four children, Amelia, Frederick, Harriet, and James. Their cheerful energy was a welcome sight.

Greetings were exchanged with genuine warmth. The Duke and Duchess were soon surrounded by their family, with the Marquess and Marchioness joining them in welcoming those who had arrived before them. Aunt Celeste moved easily between the two generations, embracing the Gardiners with particular affection and exchanging warm words with the younger members of the family. Jane could not but feel comforted by the sight of them all together. Elizabeth quickly embraced her aunt and uncle, her face lighting up with unfeigned joy.

When greetings had been exchanged, the party entered Montagu House together, where they were met by an attendant appointed to conduct visitors through the collections.

Jane had scarcely begun to look about the collection when she noticed Miss Hartwell standing near a cabinet of ancient pottery, attentive without intruding. Beside her stood Miss Vernon, somewhat apart from the others and looking uncertainly about the collection. She seemed as reserved as she had been at the theatre, and Jane thought her ill at ease among so many strangers.

A quiet sympathy stirred in Jane’s heart. She knew too well how difficult it could be to bear the notice of a great many people at once. With a gentle touch to Elizabeth’s arm, she excused herself from their discussion of Roman mosaics and approached them.

Jane’s face brightened. “Miss Hartwell?”

The young woman turned at once, offering a graceful curtsy as recognition lit her expression. “Miss Bennet.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again,” Jane said softly, before turning her warm gaze to her companion. “And Miss Vernon, how wonderful to run into you again. I trust you have been keeping well since the theatre?”

Miss Vernon started and looked up in surprise.

“Miss Bennet,” Miss Vernon replied, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “I have been quite well, thank you.”

“Pray, call me Jane,” she offered with her characteristic warmth. “Are you accompanied by a party today? My family and friends are close by, looking at the antiquities. We would be so delighted if you both would join us.”

A hesitant smile touched Miss Vernon’s lips, chasing away some of the uncertainty in her eyes. “Oh, Miss Ben... I mean, Jane. That is very kind of you. I am here with my mother and cousin, but I would be honoured to join you. And you must call me Eleanor.”

“Then, Eleanor, pray come with me,” said Jane, offering her hand. “Come, let me introduce you properly to everyone.”

Eleanor, after a moment’s hesitation, took Jane’s offered hand. Miss Hartwell followed at a proper distance, with quiet discretion.

As Jane led them back to the main party, she felt a quiet satisfaction. Kindness, she firmly believed, was never wasted.

Aunt Madeline looked at Miss Hartwell with sudden attention. She appeared to recognise Miss Hartwell, and acknowledged her with a slight, friendly inclination of the head.

As Miss Vernon and Miss Hartwell were introduced to Jane’s family and friends, Aunt Celeste greeted Eleanor with gracious warmth before turning to her companion.

“Miss Vernon, it is a pleasure to see you again. I hope the Museum has afforded you some relief from the bustle of London?”

Miss Vernon offered a graceful curtsy. “Very much so, Your Ladyship. The antiquities are most extraordinary.”

“I am glad,” Aunt Celeste replied with a smile. “We are fortunate in our company today.”

Jane was swift to catch the change in her cousin’s demeanour. Castor had been engrossed in a discussion with Mr. Darcy regarding Roman governance, but his gaze now settled entirely upon Eleanor. He listened intently as she spoke, his usually reserved expression softening into one of clear admiration. He deferred to her understanding with quiet respect, asking questions that invited her to share her own insights, and lingered beside her as they moved from one display to another.

Jane knew her grandmother too well to miss the look of satisfaction which appeared in the Duchess’s countenance. Her grandmother’s social acumen was legendary. Jane had little doubt the Duchess was already recalling every word Lady Danvers had murmured regarding Miss Vernon’s character during their recent, purposeful conferences over tea. The Duchess exchanged a brief glance with the Duke, a silent, shared understanding that Jane recognized instantly.

“Miss Vernon,” said the Duchess, drawing Eleanor closer as they paused before a collection of exquisite Greek vases. “You must join us for our next tea at Westbury House. I insist. It would give us great pleasure to see you there.”

Her grandmother’s tone left no room for refusal, yet it was accompanied by a smile so genuine and engaging that the invitation carried only warmth, leaving no trace of a command. Jane watched with pleasure as Eleanor’s countenance brightened.

“I would be honoured, Your Grace,” Eleanor responded.

Aunt Celeste, who had been watching her son with quiet, discerning interest, stepped forward with a soft smile. Her eyes darted briefly toward Castor, who remained attentive at Eleanor’s side, before settling warmly upon Miss Vernon.

“My mother speaks for us all, Miss Vernon,” Aunt Celeste added graciously. “Castor so rarely finds someone who shares his enthusiasm for antiquities. We should be very pleased to see you at Westbury House.”

Jane caught the slight, approving tilt of her aunt’s head.

Castor had been admired by ladies for years, yet he had never appeared particularly inclined to encourage their attentions. His position, handsome appearance, and quiet manner had made him the object of more than a few determined pursuits. Jane could still remember one occasion during a London Season, at Claremont House, when the daughter of one of Uncle Maxwell’s good friends had been rather determined to secure Castor’s attention.

Castor had been speaking with several gentlemen only a few steps from Jane and Elizabeth when the young lady approached him across the ballroom. Her step suddenly faltered.

Elizabeth was in the middle of saying something when her voice trailed away. Jane followed Elizabeth’s glance and saw the young woman stumble in Castor’s direction, in a manner that made her intention difficult to mistake.

Castor had seen the movement as well. Rather than wait to discover whether she meant to recover her balance, he turned at once and crossed the few steps separating them, taking his place between Jane and Elizabeth.

The young lady had recovered her balance by then, but not her composure. A few ladies nearby had exchanged glances, and Jane had noticed more than one smile and whisper hastily concealed behind a fan.

For a moment, the gentlemen with whom he had been speaking watched in silence.

Then one of them gave a quiet chuckle. “There is safety in numbers, Fairhaven.”

Castor merely raised an eyebrow, stepping seamlessly into conversation with Jane and Elizabeth as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Selina, however, had not been nearly so discreet. Joining them a moment later under the guise of admiring Elizabeth’s fan, she had murmured under her breath, “Desperate creature. Did she truly suppose my brother so clumsy as not to perceive what she was about in the middle of our own ballroom?”

“Selina,” Jane had cautioned gently.

“I only speak the truth, Jane,” Selina had replied with a cool, aristocratic tilt of her head. “Mama has already given her mother to understand that she is not to be invited to our private suppers. Such conduct is an insult to the house.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, clearly struggling not to laugh. Jane managed rather better, though she could not help noticing how readily Castor had abandoned the company of his friends in favour of theirs.

Jane had understood enough. Whatever the young lady had intended, Castor had been determined that no one should have the opportunity to misunderstand the scene.

He remained with Jane and Elizabeth for the rest of the evening, making no further effort to speak with any young lady. The incident amused Elizabeth considerably, but Jane remembered the change in Castor afterward. He had become more watchful, for he had learnt that a gentleman might be placed in a compromising situation in his own home without ever having invited such attention.

Since then, he had been remarkably quick to recognize when a lady’s attentions were becoming too determined, and quicker still to remove himself from her presence.

On the rare occasions when a lady succeeded in holding his interest, Jane had never known that interest to survive more than a sentence or two before Castor found some polite means of turning the conversation elsewhere. Aunt Celeste had often lamented, with increasing amusement, that her son might remain unmarried simply because no woman had yet succeeded in making him look twice.

Yet now he was doing precisely that.

Jane’s gaze moved between Castor and Eleanor. There was something familiar in the way he watched her, not the easy admiration she had seen from other gentlemen, but a quiet attentiveness, as though he had forgotten to guard himself.

And suddenly, Jane understood why the sight seemed so strange.

She had seen the same reserve in Mr. Darcy, except when he looked at Elizabeth.

Both men were well accustomed to the attentions of ladies whose interest was fixed entirely upon their rank and fortune, rather than their character. Both had learned to recognize an interested lady before she had said enough to make her intentions plain. Both, Jane thought, had become practised in discouraging attentions which they did not mean to encourage.

But Eleanor was not pursuing Castor.

She was simply speaking to him.

Jane looked at her cousin again. For perhaps the first time, she wondered whether that small distinction might be the very reason he had remained at Eleanor’s side.

Miss Hartwell might easily have remained unnoticed among the company, but the Duchess’s attention soon settled upon her.

“Miss Hartwell,” she said warmly. “I trust you are finding Miss Vernon agreeable company?”

Miss Hartwell offered a graceful curtsy. “Very much so, Your Grace. Miss Vernon has been most considerate.”

Aunt Celeste smiled at Miss Hartwell with evident approval. “And Miss Vernon is fortunate to have you beside her. My sister Madeline has spoken often of your thoughtfulness, steady care, and kindness.”

Elizabeth felt a small warmth at the words. Her Aunt Celeste had never allowed rank or fortune to dictate her estimation of a person’s merit, and Elizabeth knew her aunt regarded Madeline Gardiner as a sister in affection and esteem.

The Gardiners had shown Jane and Elizabeth nothing but affection and generosity. Indeed, whenever Mrs. Bennet found it convenient to send her stepdaughters to London, whether to lessen the expenses at Longbourn or to leave more room for her own pursuits, Uncle and Aunt Gardiner had welcomed them with open arms. What Mrs. Bennet intended merely as an ease to herself had often proved a blessing to Jane and Elizabeth. Their aunt and uncle never failed to render these visits delightful, seeking every opportunity for them to enjoy the society of their Sinclair relations whenever circumstances allowed.

Elizabeth was quietly proud that her mother’s family valued the Gardiners for their character, rather than despising them for their connexion with trade. She had never heard her family speak of them with the reserve which many ladies of the highest rank might have shown. To the Sinclair’s, Madeline was simply family.

“You are most generous, Lady Claremont,” Miss Hartwell said, inclining her head while performing a low, respectful curtsy. “I seek only to be of useful service to both Miss Vernon and the charitable works Mrs. Gardiner so kindly allows me to assist.”

“I expected nothing less of you both,” the Duchess said with a smile. “Mrs. Gardiner has spoken very favourably of the assistance you have given in several of our charities. I am glad to find that your judgement matches the attentive care you bestowed upon my granddaughter during her illness at Netherfield. Miss Vernon is fortunate to have placed herself in such capable hands.”

Miss Hartwell’s expression softened with a touch of surprise. “You are very kind, Your Grace. Mrs. Gardiner has been most generous in permitting me to assist whenever I could be spared from my duties.”

“Then we are indebted to you as well,” the Duchess replied. “Such assistance is always of value.”

“She has been a great comfort to us,” Aunt Madeline added, smiling at Miss Hartwell. “We are very fortunate in Miss Hartwell. Should Miss Vernon ever wish to join us, we should be quite delighted to receive her.”

“You all honour me,” Miss Hartwell murmured, offering a curtsy that was the very picture of quiet, dignified gratitude.

The exchange was brief, yet Jane noticed the effect it produced. Beyond their immediate circle, several other visitors who had recognized the Westbury party began to whisper. A few low remarks passed among the visitors nearby. The Duchess of Westbury and Marchioness of Claremont know her.

Jane could not help smiling.

Aunt Madeline, meanwhile, had drawn Miss Hartwell into conversation. “I had not expected to see you here,” she remarked pleasantly. “How fortunate that Miss Vernon has secured your services. We shall have to continue our charitable works together, whenever your duties permit.”

Miss Hartwell smiled. “I should be very pleased, ma’am. I have always thought such employment of great consequence.”

“So have I,” Aunt Madeline replied. “Indeed, I was just telling Jane how much easier our last undertaking became with her assistance.”

Jane, who had been listening with interest, looked toward them. “You are speaking of the families we helped before Elizabeth arrived?”

“The very same,” Aunt Madeline said. “Miss Hartwell was of considerable assistance to me then, particularly in discovering what each family most required. It is one thing to distribute what one has, it is quite another to discover what will be of real use.”

Miss Hartwell inclined her head. “It was a pleasure to assist. I have found that those in want are not always ready to ask for what they need.”

Jane smiled. “I remember. We spent nearly as much time persuading some families to accept assistance as we did preparing what was to be sent.”

Aunt Madeline laughed softly. “And you were remarkably patient about it. I confess I might have been tempted to become rather more forceful.”

“I believe that is why we made such a good pair,” Jane replied with a smile before turning to Miss Hartwell. “I remember hearing you prepare the parcels of clothes while I was ill at Netherfield. You seemed to know precisely what each family required. I thought it remarkable that you took such care over the matter, particularly when you had only recently entered the household.”

Miss Hartwell’s smiled slightly. “There was little merit in sending articles which would be of no use to those receiving them. Mrs. Nicholls was kind enough to tell me what the families required when I asked whether anything had been done for them. I was glad to assist where I could.”

Jane looked at her with still greater regard. There was something reassuring in discovering that the young woman who had been so attentive at Netherfield possessed the same thoughtful consideration in matters far removed from the sickroom.

Around them, the party continued through the galleries, pausing from time to time before some object of particular interest. Somewhere beyond the next gallery, Jane heard a voice that sounded familiar but gave the matter no further thought.

She turned her attention back to Aunt Madeline and Miss Hartwell, who had begun discussing another charitable undertaking, and found herself quite content to listen.

The visit to the Museum, begun merely as an occasion for family and friends to view its collections together, had become unexpectedly dear to Jane. Everywhere she looked there was some small reminder of how much had changed. Her sister was beside her, her grandparents were surrounded by those they loved, and new friendships were beginning almost without anyone having to seek them.

As the large party proceeded through the grand halls of the museum, the pleasant hum of conversation mingled with the quiet whispers of the children. Jane could not but feel happy in the society about her. Her sister at her side, her grandparents among those most dear to them, and her aunt and uncle received with such kindness by her distinguished relations. The Duchess herself, ever attentive, took care that Miss Vernon and Miss Hartwell should be included in their party, and Jane was grateful for the kindness shown them.

Jane smiled as she looked once more toward Eleanor and Castor. Her cousin continued to engage Eleanor in conversation, maintaining a gentle, constant devotion of manner that did not escape Jane’s notice.

It was a very pleasant afternoon indeed.

Near the Townley Marbles at the far end of the gallery, the Duke, the Marquess, Mr. Darcy, Castor, and Colonel Fitzwilliam had been detained by two eager museum trustees. Jane saw the Duchess, Marchioness, Lady Danvers, and Mrs. Vernon standing near the Rosetta Stone and a little further down the hall, Aunt and Uncle Gardiner were entirely engrossed by a display of ancient pottery, patiently answering the excited, whispered questions of the children.

Thus, dispersed about the room, Jane and the other young ladies found themselves for a time without the immediate attendance of their party.

Their pleasant examination of the Roman antiquities was suddenly broken by a sharp, unmistakable voice that intruded upon the quiet decorum of the gallery. Miss Caroline Bingley entered the gallery with all her accustomed air of consequence, followed by a small party of fashionably dressed ladies who followed close behind. Jane felt some apprehension, not for herself but for Miss Vernon, whose recent distress might too easily be recalled by such an encounter.

Jane noted the absence of Mrs. Hurst. For the past week, the story current in society had been that she was affecting all the devotion of a sister attending Miss Bingley during her recovery from a lingering chest cold.

Selina smiled with an expression which promised intelligence. “My maid had word from the Bingley household this morning,” she whispered. “It seems the devoted sister has had rather more difficulty with her patient than society supposes.”

Elizabeth turned to Selina with interest. “Indeed?”

“Miss Bingley was thought well enough to leave her room several days ago, but Mrs. Hurst contrived to keep her at home until the physician was satisfied that she was fully recovered. From what I hear, persuading her required considerable patience.”

Anne smiled faintly. “A remarkable piece of news. If the reports are true, Mrs. Hurst has at last been driven to actual exertion. I had not thought Mrs. Hurst capable of an independent thought, let alone the formidable task of governing her sister to save their reputation from further degradation.”

“By all accounts,” Selina replied, “she has had occasion for all the patience she possesses. Miss Bingley has twice threatened to defy the physician altogether and return to her usual round of visiting.”

Elizabeth glanced toward Miss Bingley, who was now examining the gallery with her customary air of superiority. “And yet she remained at home for a week?”

“Until yesterday,” Selina said. “Then she was apparently determined to endure no further confinement. When Miss Bingley discovered her maid had left her service yesterday, she was thrown into such a state of agitation that Mrs. Hurst quite lost all patience. She sent immediately for the apothecary, who supplied a composing draught to ensure her sister remained quietly in her bed for the rest of the day, if only to prevent her from embarking on more of those excursions Mrs. Jenkinson heard Mr. Bingley was foolishly enabling.”

“A devoted sister, indeed,” Elizabeth murmured, as Miss Bingley entered with all the consequence of a lady entirely unconscious of ridicule. “I begin to suspect that Mrs. Hurst’s nursing had less to do with medicine than with the prevention of further mischief. She has kept Miss Bingley out of society for a week, no doubt to preserve the family credit and prevent some irreparable blunder. It seems, however, that even the apothecary’s best efforts cannot keep a lady of Miss Bingley’s enthusiasm under lock and key forever.”

Selina agreed. “I fear no sister has authority enough to keep Caroline Bingley at home for long.”

Anne nodded, her expression cool and knowing. “Mrs. Hurst must surely understand who Jane and Elizabeth are by now. She has had every opportunity of knowing, whether from the household servants, the newspapers, or her own husband. Perhaps she has spent the week trying to keep Miss Bingley from discovering what everyone else already knows. If so, she has been attempting to preserve more than her sister’s health. She has been trying to spare the family further mortification.”

Elizabeth’s mouth curved. “And with Miss Bingley, I fear that is no small undertaking.”

Anne looked again towards Miss Bingley, who was approaching them with all the confidence of a lady wholly unconscious of the reception before her. “A wise scheme, then,” she murmured. “And a fruitless one. She appears resolved to expose herself to ridicule, in spite of every effort her sister may make.”

Jane gave a quiet laugh. “Save your breath to cool your porridge, Anne. This is hardly the proper place to predict another lady’s destruction.”

“Indeed,” Selina murmured, adjusting the drape of her shawl with elegant indifference. “Why take pains to restrain what is already rushing to its own ruin?”

“Let us not mistake desperation for foolishness, Selina,” Astra remarked, her voice bearing the quiet, unforgiving weight of a woman who had seen the world as it was. “Mrs. Hurst did not lock her sister away to save Miss Bingley’s feelings. She did it to save what remains. A woman who makes herself ridiculous in London ruins more than her own consequence. She compromises her family’s credit.”

Astra looked towards the doorway without visible emotion. “Miss Bingley believes that a husband is still to be won by such measures. She does not yet understand how much consequence she has already forfeited.”

Jane watched as Miss Bingley, clearly unaware of the shifts in the ton during her enforced confinement, scanned the room with a confident, appraising, and almost insolent air of superiority. The instant her eyes settled upon them, her confident smile vanished, replaced by a look of profound shock as she took in the Sinclair sisters positioned in unmistakable, cool-headed solidarity with the sisters.

Anne, quietly observant as ever, drew near and said in an undertone, “Let her bluster. We are no longer country girls whom she may affront with impunity. And her opinion is no longer of consequence to us.” Her words were echoed by a decided nod from Astra, who stood beside them.

Jane caught the exact moment Miss Bingley’s triumph vanished, the gloating expectation of their ruin faltering as she took in the scene. To insult country gentlewomen was one thing. But to treat the Sinclair sisters with open contempt would expose her to consequences she could not easily disregard.

Her gaze moved from one familiar face to another before stopping abruptly on Miss Hartwell. For one astonished instant, Miss Bingley simply stared. Her lips parted, and her colour changed as she perceived the elegance of Miss Hartwell’s gown, the composure of her manner, and the distinction of the company in which she stood. Miss Hartwell met her gaze with perfect composure, inclining her head as though nothing more remarkable had passed than the common civilities of an ordinary acquaintance.

A look of offended astonishment passed over Miss Bingley’s face. “Henrietta?” she demanded, in a voice sharp enough to draw attention. “What absurd foolishness is this? Have you taken to parading about Mayfair in stolen finery after deserting your post?”

Miss Hartwell received her gaze with serene indifference, as little affected by the outburst as by the marble statues around them.

Jane, observing the encounter with quiet wonder, could not help but admire a composure so entirely unassailable.

“Miss Bingley,” Miss Hartwell replied, inclining her head with deliberate courtesy. “I assure you, there is no foolishness. I am here in the service of Miss Vernon, as my present duties demand. And as a gentleman’s daughter, I am Miss Hartwell, if you please.”

A low murmur arose among the young ladies behind Miss Bingley.

For a moment, no one spoke.

One of the young ladies behind Miss Bingley turned to another, her eyes widening. “Her father is a gentleman?”

The other glanced toward Miss Hartwell, then back to Miss Bingley. “I had not understood that she was...”

“She is better born than...” The speaker stopped abruptly, but not before the words had carried farther than she intended.

Miss Bingley’s face changed.

“How dare you!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, a sharp flush rising on her neck as her anger broke through her composure. “Your duties? You are my maid! You fled my dressing room in a fit of insubordination!”

“On the contrary, Miss Bingley,” Miss Hartwell said, her tone as mild as before. “I merely obeyed your explicit command. You ordered me, quite loudly if you recall, to leave your presence and never return to your room again. I could hardly remain after being so plainly dismissed.”

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile behind her fan, while Selina dropped her gaze to conceal her amusement. Anne kept her eyes fixed upon the pair, her countenance bearing a serene satisfaction she made no effort to disguise. Astra observed the ruin of Miss Bingley’s composure with a cold, discerning eye, the silent, unyielding spectator to an execution of Caroline’s own making. Even Jane, though pained by so violent a breach of decorum, could only look upon Miss Hartwell with quiet, involuntary wonder at a self-possession so entirely unassailable.

Miss Bingley stood rigid.

“As a dutiful servant, I could not dream of disobeying such direct instructions from my mistress, so I took you at your word,” Miss Hartwell continued. “I collected my wages from the housekeeper, packed my trunks, and departed. I left you, as you required, and troubled you no further.”

A low murmur passed among Miss Bingley’s companions. Jane could not make out every word, but enough reached her ears to understand that the circumstances were being discussed with considerable interest.

“I understand she dismissed her yesterday.”

“In anger, apparently.”

“There was some disturbance in her dressing room.”

“I heard she made rather improper use of a slipper.”

A few of the ladies could not entirely conceal their amusement.

Jane lowered her eyes, though she could not prevent a smile. Mrs. Jenkinson’s account had left little doubt as to what had occurred, though she had not expected the story to have travelled so quickly.

Miss Bingley went rigidly still, her hands clenching into tight fists against the fabric of her skirt. “You took advantage of a momentary misunderstanding.”

“No, I understood you perfectly, Miss Bingley.” The mildness of her answer struck with far greater force than an angry retort could have carried.

Miss Bingley regarded her with renewed displeasure. “And where, pray, did you obtain such finery?” she demanded, gesturing furiously toward Miss Hartwell’s gown.

“Upon leaving your service yesterday morning, I was fortunate enough to be engaged by Lady Danvers as personal maid and companion to Miss Vernon.” Miss Hartwell turned towards Eleanor, who acknowledged her with a slight inclination of the head.

“Her Ladyship was kind enough to restore to me my own wardrobe, rather than the sober attire you so insisted I adopt, together with a most liberal allowance for my present needs. I find her ladyship’s household exceptionally agreeable, and her instructions remarkably consistent,” said Miss Hartwell.

Miss Bingley stared at Eleanor, then at Miss Hartwell again. “You mean to say that Lady Danvers...”

“Lady Danvers,” Eleanor supplied calmly, “is quite satisfied with her.”

For once, Miss Bingley seemed unable to reply.

Several of the fashionable ladies behind Miss Bingley exchanged horrified, hushed glances, whispering behind their gloves. To see a former maid received under the protection of a Dowager Countess, and to have her own ill usage of a gentleman’s daughter so publicly remarked upon, was a mortification not easily borne.

Miss Bingley appeared unable to judge which circumstance inflicted the greater wound. She was equally paralyzed by the end of her household tyranny, the public revelation of her improper warmth, and the agonizing sight of her former dependent established beneath the patronage of a Dowager Countess. She cast a desperate look across the eminent personages assembled before her, only to encounter an impenetrable wall of aristocratic coldness.

Whatever she had expected to find in the gallery, such a gathering was entirely beyond her imagination.

Jane saw that Miss Bingley had at last begun to understand her situation. Miss Bingley had approached them prepared to find the same women she had known in Hertfordshire. She had not yet understood that those before her no longer stood upon the footing she remembered, nor that the young woman she had treated so carelessly now possessed protectors whose notice could not be slighted.

Anne’s hand rested lightly against Jane’s arm, while Elizabeth remained beside her with an expression of quiet amusement. Selina and Astra watched Miss Bingley with an indifferent, aristocratic amusement that seemed to strip her confidence. For the first time, the command of the room shifted, uncertain still, but no longer belonging exclusively to Miss Bingley.

Miss Bingley’s gaze travelled from Miss Hartwell to Miss Vernon, and then across the company gathered around them. For the first time, Jane saw uncertainty disturb her confidence. The woman she had driven from her dressing room only yesterday now stood perfectly composed, properly attired, and received with every mark of respect by ladies whose notice Miss Bingley had once valued.

For several moments, Miss Bingley seemed unable to determine how she might recover her countenance. Then, drawing herself up, her chin lifted in a final effort at defiance.

“Oh, Clara!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, turning deliberately toward one of her companions. “It seems certain country girls are determined to affect the manners of their betters here in London. One wonders what sort of connections they fancy they are forming, or whether they have entirely forgotten their true station.”

Clara offered no reply.

Miss Bingley’s smile became less pleasant. “There are persons who have no just notion of what propriety requires from their humble origins, especially when they presume upon the notice of families so much above them. One would think a previous disappointment might have taught them rather more caution.”

Her gaze settled pointedly upon Miss Vernon, a unmistakable allusion to Eleanor’s past disappointment with Mr. Bingley.

“Is that not right, Jane? Hertfordshire, I should think, must have taught you the danger of such expectations.”

Jane felt the color mount her cheeks, but her self-command did not falter. She did not raise her voice, yet her words carried across the gallery with unmistakable distinctness.

“Miss Bingley,” said Jane, with a composure which surprised even herself. “I assure you, we are perfectly aware of our connections and our station. As for your observations regarding our disappointment, we have learned by experience that a gentleman whose attachments are so easily turned is little worthy of remembrance. Perhaps it is others who are mistaken in their judgement of true worth and genuine consequence.”

Miss Bingley’s expression hardened, her gaze sharp with resentment at finding her attack so calmly turned aside. “You speak of consequence as if you were born to it, Jane,” Miss Bingley declared, raising her voice sufficiently for the whole room to hear the intended insult. “It is a bold affectation for someone who, until very recently, was content with complete obscurity in the country. And to parade yet another portionless country relation to increase your numbers,” her eyes settled pointedly upon Anne, “one who possesses neither the habit of town fashion nor the manners of good company, is truly straining benevolence to an extreme.”

Jane looked at her in silence. There was a moment when she might once have hurried to defend herself. She could almost hear her grandfather’s dry voice observing that when one is intent upon exposing one’s own deficiencies, it is a pity to interrupt, for silence is often the sharpest rebuke to those who converse only with their own vanity.

So Jane said nothing.

Anne came forward with perfect self-possession.

“Her name is Miss Bennet to you, Miss Bingley,” Anne said, her voice assuming a tone of quiet authority that instantly commanded the attention of those around them. “You are not in Hertfordshire, and you possess neither the rank nor the intimacy required to address my dear friend Jane by her Christian name.”

Miss Bingley opened her mouth. “We were friends in...”

“We were acquainted in Hertfordshire,” Jane interrupted softly, stepping up beside Anne. She spoke without resentment, and with the composure of one stating a plain fact. “Though as it has been many months since you left my letters unanswered in London, and returned my call only with a cold note of dismissal, you made it abundantly clear that whatever friendship we may have shared was at an end.”

A hushed, scandalized murmur passed among the young ladies of Miss Bingley’s party as they exchanged looks of surprise.

“It seems, Miss Bingley,” Jane added with unwavering composure, “that your practice of dropping an acquaintance the moment it ceases to be useful is no secret in London. One hardly expects the intimacy of a Christian name from a lady who leaves her friends’ letters unanswered.”

Jane paused, giving her stroke time to sink into the mind of every listener in the gallery.

“And as for residing in obscurity in the country, and your rather misguided assessment of my consequence,” Anne added, her eyes resting upon Miss Bingley with cool indifference, “I believe you are speaking of me.”

She used no exertion of voice whatever. Anne delivered the reproof with the cool, effortless superiority of one born to Rosings, to whom Miss Bingley’s pretensions were a fleeting absurdity.

Miss Bingley laughed lightly and looked Anne over with undisguised contempt. “I was merely observing that one should be cautious in entering society to which one has no proper claim. London is full of young women from the country who would be thought of consequence merely because they have come to town. One cannot be expected to distinguish every companion who is brought into society.”

Anne looked at her for a moment. “Then you have made your observation without troubling to enquire either my name, or my consequence.”

A few of the ladies nearby exchanged uneasy glances, arrested by the total and haughty stillness of Anne’s demeanor.

Miss Bingley attempted a smile, though it was less assured than before. “I hardly think an introduction necessary for every quiet young lady who happens to be attached to the Bennet sisters.”

“No,” Anne replied softly. “I suppose it is unnecessary when one is so entirely satisfied with one’s own judgement.”

Selina’s lips curved into a cold, glittering smile. “Miss de Bourgh has always been remarkably patient with those who speak before they have enquired,” said Selina, distinctly enough to be heard. “Anne is accustomed to listening before she forms an opinion. It is a habit derived from an ancient name and high birth, though I suppose the distinction is easily overlooked by those who must acquire their manners rather than inherit them.”

Miss Bingley turned sharply. “Miss de Bourgh?”

Astra, who had remained silent until then, inclined her head. “Miss Anne de Bourgh.”

For a moment, Miss Bingley said nothing.

The name passed through the little knot of observers with scarcely a sound. Jane saw recognition appear upon several faces, followed almost immediately by a hushed, rapid exchange of whispers.

“de Bourgh?”

“Rosings?”

“Lady Catherine’s daughter?”

“And Mr. Darcy’s cousin.”

A second whisper followed, lower still. “Is she not the one Lady Catherine has always intended for Mr. Darcy?”

“I believe so. Lady Catherine has long spoken of a match from the cradle as though it was settled.”

Jane caught only fragments, but she did not need to hear more. Miss Bingley seemed suddenly to find the gallery considerably larger than it had been a moment before.

Anne remained perfectly composed. “Yes,” she said quietly. “My mother has spoken of a supposed understanding between me and my cousin often enough.”

She offered no further explanation. There was nothing more to say.

Miss Bingley’s gaze moved from Anne to Jane and Elizabeth, then back again. She looked from Anne to Jane and Elizabeth as though the composition of their party had become suddenly incomprehensible.

Before Jane could respond, Selina stepped forward. She regarded Miss Bingley with an indifference more mortifying than open contempt. Her voice was icy, polished, and utterly devoid of warmth.

“I beg your pardon,” Selina began, her voice a slow, deliberate drop in temperature. “I find myself quite perplexed. You claim the familiarity of my cousins Christian name, and yet your tone suggests you are speaking to an inferior. To claim such intimacy, and to address the granddaughter of the Duke of Westbury by her Christian name, is a departure from decorum so extraordinary that it can only proceed from an absolute ignorance of good manners. But perhaps your education has not acquainted you with such distinctions.”

Jane saw the realization pass across Miss Bingley’s face before she could conceal it. Her eyes moved first to Selina and Astra, then to Jane, Elizabeth, and Anne.

Astra stepped up beside Jane, her gaze drifting over Miss Bingley with the cool detachment of a connoisseur spotting a flawed imitation. She turned back to her sister as though Miss Bingley had ceased to require notice.

“Do not be so harsh, Selina,” Astra said, her tone dripping with cultivated indifference. “One cannot expect genuine breeding from those who spend a lifetime frantically scrubbing away the smell of their father’s warehouses, only to turn around and use the very same funds to look down on others. It is a tedious error, is it not? To mistake the social proximity one buys with trade for a pedigree one inherits by birth. It is a pity, really, to try so aggressively to belong while remaining utterly unacquainted with the basics of grace.”

A quiet murmur of agreement rippled through the circle, though a dry, amused voice intervened before the silence could stretch too far.

“Quite so,” said Mr. Gardiner, turning towards Miss Bingley with an expression of perfect good humour. “Trade has never troubled me. I believe it is chiefly troublesome to those who profit by it while wishing everyone to forget the source. A warehouse is no disgrace, Miss Bingley. One may obtain a very respectable fortune from one. Good manners, however, cannot be purchased in bulk.”

A suppressed laugh from Colonel Fitzwilliam broke the tension, and even Elizabeth had to press her handkerchief quickly to her lips to hide her grin. Mr. Gardiner spoke with so much good humour that Miss Bingley could not easily resent him. Yet the point of his observation was not lost upon anyone present.

Selina glanced at Miss Bingley, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“You are that Bungley woman, are you not?” Selina asked, as though the name were of no consequence. “The one with the inconsistent brother,” she offered a swift glance toward Miss Vernon, “and who is so frequently noted for her rather enthusiastic attempts to attach herself to Mr. Darcy? I confess, I had not understood the reports to be quite so generous. One need only observe Mr. Darcy’s countenance in your presence to judge the degree of encouragement he offers you.”

As the final word left Selina’s lips, a sharp, collective titter rippled through the gallery. It was not a warm laugh, but a thin, jagged sound of pure mockery. Miss Bingley’s companions began, one by one, to withdraw from her side. They turned away, their backs forming a wall of silk and lace, their hands rising to hide their mouths behind fans as muffled whispers passed among them.

Miss Bingley stood silent, the blood draining from her face. Jane could perceive, in Miss Bingley’s altered countenance, the desperate effort to reconcile the ‘country girl’ she had intended to mock with the formidable barrier of high birth now raised against her. She seemed poised to deliver a sharp, defensive retort, but the words faltered upon her lips as the lady nearest to her, hitherto her most faithful echo, drew back with a deliberate, unmistakable movement.

“Forgive me, Miss Bingley,” the lady previously called Clara said, in a tone of sharp and sudden disavowal, “but have you perhaps overlooked the papersof late? I confess, I found no mention of your astute observations within their pages. Instead, the papers speak of nothing but the Duke’s granddaughters and Miss de Bourgh, who are, it seems, exciting an extraordinary sensation in town.”

Several ladies nearby could not suppress their amusement. Miss Bingley’s hands trembled slightly, and for a moment she had no reply.

Miss Bingley opened her mouth, but Elizabeth touched Jane’s arm and said softly, “Very well said, Miss.”

Anne took a deliberate step forward, her eyes fixing upon Miss Bingley with a stillness that brought an immediate hush to those nearest them. “Indeed,” she said, her voice entirely calm, yet carrying through the gallery with effortless authority. “We are currently guests at Westbury House, residing under His Grace’s protection. Perhaps,” Anne turned her head slightly toward the young lady who had just spoken, her expression chillingly pleasant, “you would care to enlighten your friend on how widely such news has spread, even to those whose fortunes are rooted rather more in trade than in title?”

At that moment, a new voice, equally confident but imbued with far greater authority, joined the conversation.

“Eleanor, dear child! How delightful to see you here!”

There stood the Duke and Duchess of Westbury, the Marquess and Marchioness of Claremont, the Earl of Fairhaven, Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lady Danvers, and Mrs. Vernon. The distinction of the party could not be mistaken.

Jane saw Miss Bingley’s companions draw back in visible consternation, their countenances altering as they finally comprehended the exalted rank of the young lady she had so carelessly insulted.

The implications of Miss Bingley’s remarks, delivered within earshot of such personages, struck her party with silent dismay. One young lady subtly drew back toward the edge of the circle, while another suddenly absorbed her attention in a nearby bust, desperate to disengage herself from the impending ruin.

Jane watched as Miss Bingley’s breath hitched. The colour left Miss Bingley’s face, though she struggled to preserve her composure. Her eyes darted toward Mr. Darcy, searching his face for a shadow of approval or rescue, but met only the cold, impenetrable gravity of a gentleman entirely turned against her.

Lady Danvers, with her striking elegance and considerable presence, stepped forward from the adjacent display, her manner commanding immediate attention. Beside her stood Mrs. Vernon, whom Jane immediately recognized, and at the sight of her daughter, the anxiety of her countenance visibly abated.

Lady Danvers smiled. “My dear cousin! I had hoped we might find you here. Your mother and I were just discussing the merits of the Egyptian collection. They are most curious, and I know how much pleasure you take in such things.”

Then her gaze fell upon Miss Hartwell. “And Miss Hartwell! How pleased I am to see you.”

Miss Hartwell curtsied. “Lady Danvers.”

“I understand that you and Eleanor are already well acquainted.”

“Very happily, my lady,” replied Miss Hartwell.

“I am very glad to hear it. Eleanor is fortunate in your care.”

Jane, observing her closely, saw Miss Bingley change color, as though the breath had been quite driven from her. A lady whom Miss Bingley had treated as a mere hired dependant, stripped of consequence and forced into subjection, was being openly acknowledged by a Dowager Countess as an equal and a valued companion. Every syllable Lady Danvers uttered fell as an unanswerable rebuke to Miss Bingley’s arrogance.

The low whispers of the surrounding observers, kept in check until now by mere suspense, passed through the room with unmistakable significance.

“Cousin to Lady Danvers?” whispered one lady, not nearly softly enough. “Good heavens! Did not Miss Bingley say at Lady Metcalfe’s that Miss Vernon and Miss Bennet had neither fortune nor connection to recommend them? That neither could be thought suitable for her brother?”

“She made a habit of boasting that she had rescued her brother on repeated occasions from designing country girls,” interposed a lady nearby, with sharp, unmistakable contempt. “And yet here they stand. Miss Vernon, cousin to Lady Danvers and Miss Bennet, the Duke of Westbury’s granddaughter! What a want of judgement.”

“To slight such connections for want of fortune!” said a lady nearby. “To reject the prospect of a connection to Lady Danvers and the Westbury’s at once. The trade money has lost its senses altogether.”

Every whispered syllable carried across the gallery, falling upon Miss Bingley with all the weight of a public condemnation. The very gossip she had so gleefully spread across London, boasting that she had rescued her brother from scheming, low-born connections, now exposed her as not merely spiteful, but monstrously ignorant of the truth.

Miss Bingley had actively blighted two connections that would have raised the Bingley name into the first circles of society, revealing the depth of her own artful design to the very lords and ladies whose approbation she had spent her life attempting to secure.

“Jane, Elizabeth, there you are. Your grandfather has been looking everywhere for you,” the Duchess said, stepping into the circle and including the Bennet sisters with a warmth that drew immediate, whispered gasps from the periphery of the room.

“Anne, I hope you have not been made to stand too long,” Aunt Celeste said gently.

Lady Danvers turned back to Eleanor. “Come, my dear.”

Miss Bingley’s poise, previously so rigid, began to buckle completely. Her hands moved restlessly, her fingers grasping uselessly at the folds of her gown. She made a desperate, agonizing attempt to smooth her features into a smile, to offer some halting, agreeable remark that might reinstate her in the good opinion of her companions, but under Lady Danvers’s cool, passing glance, speech completely failed her.

Jane saw Miss Bingley’s colour change, and could not deny herself a small moment of satisfaction. It was a cold but undeniable pleasure to observe the exact moment Miss Bingley perceived that she had not simply spoken unwisely, but had dealt a fatal blow to her own consequence in town.

Trapped in the oppressive silence of her own making, Miss Bingley’s eyes turned helplessly toward the gallery doors, searching for any path of retreat, forced to endure the exquisite mortification of being completely disregarded by the very society she had spent her life striving to court.

Castor, who had been standing a short distance away, stepped forward with marked promptitude. He moved swiftly to Eleanor’s side, bestowing a passing glance of cool disdain upon Miss Bingley before turning his full attention to Miss Vernon. “Miss Vernon,” he said, his voice entirely calm, yet carrying a quiet authority that admitted no dispute, “perhaps you would allow me the honor of escorting you. Lady Danvers, Mrs. Vernon, if you would join us, I believe the adjoining gallery of antiquities offers displays that are truly magnificent, and considerably less disturbing.”

He presented his arm to Eleanor, a gesture executed with such resolute courtesy as to preclude all hesitation. Lady Danvers bestowed upon him an inclination of the head in clear approval, her countenance betraying a dry, knowing satisfaction as she turned to take Mrs. Vernon’s arm.

As Castor turned to draw Eleanor away, a voice of singular depth and authority broke the stillness immediately behind Jane.

“Jane, my dear,” said the Duke, touching her arm. “Have you seen the sarcophagi? They are quite remarkable.”

“Not yet, grandfather,” responded Jane answered dutifully.

The Duke’s attention then moved to the young woman standing a little apart from the others. “And Miss Hartwell,” he said pleasantly. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

A sudden, quiet sensation moved through the surrounding group. More than one lady looked toward Miss Hartwell, and then to the Duke, as the significance of his declaration struck them in all its force. Miss Bingley’s countenance changed almost imperceptibly, though her composure was visibly shaken.

Miss Hartwell curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“I trust you are comfortably situated with Miss Vernon.”

“Very comfortably, Your Grace.”

“I am glad to hear it. Miss Vernon is fortunate to have so capable a companion,” the Duke said with a warm smile.

Miss Hartwell acknowledged the compliment with a respectful curtsy.

Mr. Darcy stepped forward then, his attention settling upon Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth,” he began, his voice deep and sincere. “I should be particularly interested to know what you think of the Roman antiquities.”

He offered his arm, his eyes never once straying toward Miss Bingley, appearing as utterly unconscious of her presence as if she were not there at all. To Jane, who observed the exchange with a quiet, undeniable thrill of vindication, it was a tribute of such marked respect for Elizabeth as rendered all Miss Bingley’s former malice entirely impotent, reducing her very existence to a matter of perfect insignificance.

The Duke turned to Anne. “Miss de Bourgh, might we have the pleasure of your company? I should be very glad of your opinion on what we are to see.” He then turned his gaze upon Jane with equal warmth, inviting her to join their party.

As the eminent party turned to rejoin Lady Danvers and the rest of their company, the surrounding silence stretched, thick and oppressive. There was no room left for Miss Bingley’s barbs, and certainly no hope for her to maneuver, her former companions had already melted into the shadows of the gallery, desperate to be found anywhere but near her.

Together, the Duke and Colonel conducted the ladies back to the center of their distinguished circle, leaving Miss Bingley to endure the full, agonizing weight of her self-inflicted isolation.

Miss Bingley offered a feeble, faltering curtsey as the Duke passed, a desperate bid for some fleeting mark of recognition, but he paid no more heed to her than if she had been invisible. Without the slightest pause, he turned away, directing his attention entirely to Jane, Anne, and Colonel Fitzwilliam.

A fan snapped open somewhere behind Jane.

“He did not even bow,” came a whisper.

“Not even a nod,” whispered a voice.

“My dear, why should his Grace stoop so low?” came the crisp response. “They do not inhabit the same world. She is insignificant to him. A man of his dignity does not bow to an upstart who has just insulted those under his own protection.”

“Absolutely. One does not acknowledge trade when it presumes to lecture the peerage.”

Behind her, Jane caught the quick, uneven sound of Miss Bingley’s footsteps withdrawing in total silence, a precipitate departure as lacking in dignity as her former presumption had been in sense.

Their party returned to the objects before them as though nothing of consequence had occurred.

Jane felt a quiet, steady satisfaction. The morning prints would soon circulate the news of His Grace’s distinguished young relatives, ensuring all London knew of their reception, while the town quietly smiled at the utter discomfiture of a certain Miss B, whose presumption had met with so prompt a chastisement.

The fortress, indeed, was holding strong.

~*~

The party continued through the rooms in easy conversation, examining whatever objects most attracted their notice.

As the hour grew late and word was brought that the Duke’s carriage had come round, the party began to leave the Museum. While the others made their farewells and prepared to depart, Jane joined the Gardiner children, who stood in the courtyard speaking eagerly of all they had seen.

Jane bent down to listen while they told her, all at once, of the objects which had most delighted them, and showed her their sketches. Their pleasure was so lively that Jane could not but be amused.

A footman returned to say that the carriage waited. Jane rose, wished the children and their parents good day, and joined the rest of the party. As Jane turned towards the Duke’s carriage, she noticed another coach waiting behind theirs.

Inside, she glimpsed the same intriguing gentleman she had encountered both in the park and at the theatre. He saw her at the same moment, and acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head. He bowed slightly from the open window, and Jane returned the acknowledgement before entering the Duke’s carriage, the door closing softly behind her.

A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 6 (4 replies)

LizzyS — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 00:53:45 +0100

I had my weekends backward. This weekend I have something this afternoon, next weekend I have plans both days.

Apologies if this is rougher than previous chapters. It was a bit stressful at work and I wasn’t able to dedicate my lunch hour to re-reading the chapters.

Chapter 6

The following morning dawned in typical fashion for the Claremont household. The household was quiet and refined, though a little wearied after their lively evening at the theatre. The footmen moved quietly as breakfast was laid in the smaller dining room, silver gleaming beneath the early light filtering through tall windows. A faint scent of coffee and toast mingled with Selina’s perfume as she swept in with her usual chatter, recounting some minor absurdity she observed from their box.

Elizabeth, sipping her tea by the hearth, exchanged bemused looks with Castor, while Jane remained mostly silent, her thoughts returning again and again to the evening’s events. The family conversed as usual, discussing their arrangements for the day ahead. They spoke of a walk in Green Park, a call upon Lady Cowper, and perhaps a quiet afternoon at home.

Then came the sound.

It was not the familiar sound of a visitor’s phaeton, nor the quiet announcement of a calling card at the door, but the arrival of a ducal carriage. There were several horses, boots upon the gravel, and a coach brought swiftly to the entrance. A footman appeared at the breakfast room doorway, his expression composed but his voice a shade higher than usual.

“My lord and lady, the Duke and Duchess of Westbury have arrived.”

The silence was immediate. Even Selina stilled.

Aunt Celeste slowly set down her teacup, her countenance suddenly grave. “Papa?” she said softly, as though the word itself might make the matter plain. “Here?”

Uncle Maxwell rose and adjusted his cuff. “They were not expected back from Gloucestershire for at least another week.”

Her grandparents, usually prominent figures in the London Season, had remained at their sprawling country estate this year, overseeing extensive renovations to Westbury Abbey and enjoying a period of quietude away from the city’s demands. Jane could think of no reason for their sudden arrival in London, save a sudden, unexpected royal summons or a matter of the King’s business. Perhaps there was some important debate in the House of Lords for which her grandfather’s counsel was required. Whatever had brought them from Westbury Abbey, it had clearly not been a journey they had planned.

No one moved. Even the servants outside seemed to pause, uncertain whether they should admit the visitors at once or await further instruction. Then, from the front hall, came a low, familiar voice, measured and serene, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of authority.

“Maxwell, I believe we must discuss my granddaughters.”

Only then did the Aunt Celeste rise, drawing herself up. “Well,” she murmured, smoothing her skirts. “It seems the peace of the morning is at an end.”

And just like that, the household’s quiet rhythm changed, the calm of the morning giving way to something far more serious. Jane glanced at Elizabeth and saw that her sister understood the gravity of the visit as clearly as she did. This was no social call. The Duke and Duchess had come with questions, and they expected answers.

The imposing figures of Lionel Sinclair, the 12th Duke of Westbury, and Rosamund Sinclair, the Duchess of Westbury, were ushered into the drawing-room. Their arrival was not merely unannounced but felt, to Jane, a matter of the greatest consequence. Their stated reason for coming to town was plain enough, but Jane suspected another concern had brought them in such haste.

Her grandfather, a man of quiet authority and strong attachment to his family, must have heard troubling reports from Hertfordshire. Whispers of Mrs. Bennet’s great displeasure regarding Elizabeth’s rejection of Mr. Collins had evidently traveled far, reaching even Westbury and prompting her grandparents to come to London, unannounced, to inquire into the circumstances of their granddaughters.

The arrival of the Duke and Duchess was an event of consequence, even within the quiet walls of her uncle’s townhouse. The troubling rumours which had begun with Lady Catherine’s spiteful assertions, and which Aunt Celeste’s letters and Lady Danvers’ unexpected kindness at the theatre had done so much to soften, would now lose whatever sting remained. Unkind tongues might still whisper in quiet drawing rooms, but the personal intervention of her grandparents offered a shield no malice could easily pierce. Jane and Elizabeth were no longer simply two country sisters relying on their aunt’s goodwill, but granddaughters held safely under the formidable mantle of Westbury House.

The Duchess, elegant and evidently possessed of much intelligence, greeted her granddaughters with affection, though she observed them closely. The Duke, after a brief, affectionate inquiry into their journey, settled into a comfortable armchair, his gaze falling upon Elizabeth. Jane had often thought that Elizabeth had inherited their grandfather’s eyes, but the resemblance was never so striking as when the two were together. They were of the same clear colour and shape, with the same lively expression and that particular twinkle which gave even her grandfather’s most serious looks a hint of amusement. There could be no mistaking the family likeness.

“Out with it, Elizabeth. I want to hear everything that happened in Hertfordshire last fall and, more importantly, why you did not write to me,” their grandfather demanded, a hurt look in his eyes that softened the sternness of his tone. His disappointment was more painful to witness than anger would have been.

It was then that Elizabeth, with Jane’s quiet encouragement, related all that had occurred. Her sister began with the unhappy situation at Longbourn, Mr. Collins’s presumptuous proposal, and her stepmother’s anger afterwards, which had made the house scarcely tolerable. It was for this reason they had remained away from home for so long.

Elizabeth then spoke of Rosings, detailing Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s increasingly imperious behaviour. She described her Ladyship’s unyielding demands, her determined efforts to interfere in Elizabeth’s private affairs, and finally, the shocking and baseless accusation that Elizabeth was a ‘kept woman,’ which Lady Catherine hurled at her during their final and most heated exchange.

Jane’s heart ached as she listened. To think that Elizabeth had endured all this, and she had not been there to offer her even the smallest comfort! She reached for her sister’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, while beside them, Anne quietly took Elizabeth’s other hand.

As the final words of Elizabeth’s account faded, a profound hush held the drawing room. The Sinclair family remained entirely still, bound in a quiet, formidable solidarity. Not a soul spoke, yet their united sympathy enveloped Elizabeth, offering a silent protection that needed no words to make itself felt.

Grandmother could contain herself no longer. “That woman!” she exclaimed, her voice sharp with indignation. “How dare she?”

Encouraged by the warm support around her, Elizabeth continued her narrative, turning to the astonishing events that followed. “Anne de Bourgh made a sudden and decisive assertion of her legal rights as the true mistress of Rosings, offering me her immediate protection. It was her intervention that allowed me to leave the house with my honour intact, followed by our swift departure for London.”

As Elizabeth had continued to speak, Jane watched her grandfather’s expression grew steadily graver, while a dangerous glint had entered her grandmother’s eyes at the mention of the threats and accusations made by Lady Catherine.

“So, the Dragon of Rosings has taken an interest, has she?” Grandfather mused, his voice surprisingly calm despite the clear indignation in his eyes. “And has made it her business to spread her venomous opinions of you, Elizabeth, to anyone who will listen, I presume?”

Elizabeth nodded, her uneasiness returning. “We fear as much, Grandfather. She was deeply incensed.”

“And what of this Mr. Bingley, Jane?” Grandmother asked, though her tone remained gentle. “We have reports that he, too, caused you some distress.”

Castor gave a quiet laugh from his place nearby. “Reports?” he repeated with a dry chuckle. “Grandfather, you might as well admit the depth of your intelligence. We all know nothing happens in Longbourn, or Hertfordshire, without your knowledge.”

The Duke regarded him with perfect composure. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Castor raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do not.”

A faint smile touched her grandmother’s lips before she said, “Go on, Jane. Tell us what happened.”

Her composure wavered, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “He left Netherfield without warning, Grandmother. Without explanation. Only lately did Lizzy tell me the true circumstances. Mr. Bingley’s sisters did much to persuade him to leave. But it was Mr. Darcy who persuaded him to remain in town, having convinced him that I was not sufficiently attached. Then, when I came to London myself, they concealed my presence from him entirely.”

She lowered her eyes for a moment before continuing. “I cannot say that Mr. Bingley meant to cause me pain, but I have since learned that I was not the first whom he had raised expectations, only to leave her behind. There have been others. Perhaps Mr. Darcy was wrong to interfere, yet I cannot wholly deny the possibility that he believed he was protecting me from a man whose affections have proved less constant than I once imagined.”

Elizabeth’s expression tightened. “There is more, Grandmother. Miss Bingley wrote Jane a letter before they left Meryton. She gave us to understand that we were not to expect their return, and that the acquaintance was at an end.”

“And when Jane came to London?” grandmother asked.

“Jane called upon Miss Bingley at once,” Elizabeth said, with quiet indignation. “Miss Bingley delayed four weeks before returning the courtesy. And when she finally appeared, she stayed barely a quarter of an hour, cold and indifferent, making it abundantly clear that the acquaintance was at an end.”

Silence settled over the room.

The Duchess’s eyes sharpened. “Mr. Darcy. Is this true, Elizabeth? He presumed to judge your sister’s heart?”

Her sister met their grandmother’s gaze without hesitation. “He did, Grandmother. He admitted as much. And while his intentions, he claimed, were to separate his friend from Jane before there was even more of a general expectation of their marriage, he wanted to spare his friend an indifferent wife. He also mentioned the behaviour of the rest of the Bennet family, which agreed in many respects with my uncle and grandfather’s observations.”

“However,” Elizabeth continued after taking a deep breath, “Colonel Fitzwilliam has since informed us that Mr. Bingley’s affections are indeed very changeable. He has, in fact, been quite taken with two other young ladies since leaving Hertfordshire. Knowing this, I cannot think Mr. Darcy’s interference wholly to Jane’s disadvantage.”

A low murmur of displeasure rippled through the room. The Duke’s brow furrowed deeply. “So, not only did Darcy interfere, but the fellow himself is a trifler. Such want of constancy is precisely what we would spare our granddaughters.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “Why did you not write to me in the fall when it became obvious your stepmother wished to see you married to Mr. Collins, or when Mr. Bingley so rudely departed?” he asked again, his hurt more pronounced. “That is what I cannot understand. Did you truly believe we would not have taken some action?”

“I knew my father would support me, Grandfather. And I did not wish to trouble you unnecessarily with such a domestic matter,” Elizabeth replied.

Even Jane could not think the answer entirely satisfactory.

“She wished to solve it herself, Grandfather,” Selina interrupted softly, giving Elizabeth an apologetic glance. “Lizzy had no desire to be whisked away to London like a child needing protection before she had even reached her majority.”

In a sudden flash of clarity, the truth struck Jane. Elizabeth had planned this. She had known their cousins would never leave them to languish in Hertfordshire for the spring. She had simply bided her time in Meryton, enduring the autumn storms quietly until the invitation arrived on her own terms.

“You knew an invitation was bound to come, did you not, Lizzy?” Jane asked quietly, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. “You knew our cousins would bring us to town before your majority, and so you simply waited until the time was right.”

Then the smile faded as a sudden wave of guilt washed over her. Jane remembered her own stubborn insistence, her refusal to leave Longbourn unless Elizabeth was brought along as well. Her expression softened, tinged with regret.

“And I made you wait all the longer, did I not? I refused to go to town without you, never realizing I was making you wait when you were so eager to leave.”

Elizabeth’s eyes softened, reaching out to give her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “You gave me the excuse I needed to bide my time, Jane. I would have waited twice as long if it meant we came together.”

The Duchess’s gaze softened with a mixture of exasperation and affection as she looked at her granddaughter. “Independent to a fault, as always, and far too calculating for her own good. I am afraid she inherits that particular flaw entirely from me.”

“Just like my sister,” Uncle Maxwell added quietly, a fond, nostalgic smile warming his features as he looked at Elizabeth. “Augusta had that exact same stubborn composure when she wished to manage her own destiny.”

“Bennet,” the Duke said, with marked displeasure. “I should have kept declining his request and sent Augusta to the continent.”

“Father, Bennet was my good friend from university, and my sister was deeply attached to him. Even had you sent her abroad, she would have found her way back to England and defied you. She was almost at her majority and would have married him without our approval,” Uncle Maxwell said with a sigh before turning to Elizabeth. “You are very like my sister, Elizabeth. The portrait at Westbury shows how closely you resemble her, both in appearance and in disposition. She was even more headstrong than you.”

“His love for my daughter was my one solace,” her grandfather agreed. “He changed after her death.”

“Very much so. I tried to remain friends with him, but as time went on our correspondence was reduced to informing him of Jane and Lizzy’s transportation details,” Uncle Maxwell explained.

“At least Mr. Bennet never prevented us from seeing the girls,” her grandmother broke in. “He allowed us to spend a great deal of time with them.”

“That was Mrs. Bennet’s doing, Grandmother,” Elizabeth said. “All we had to do was suggest an invitation, and she would make sure Father agreed.”

“Until our absence began to attract notice,” Jane added gently. “Then Mrs. Bennet would sometimes insist that we return to Longbourn, particularly if there was an assembly or some other occasion at which she thought we might be useful to her.”

Elizabeth gave a small smile. “She was not always consistent in her wishes. One week she might be quite pleased to have us away, and the next she would declare that we must return at once, usually because she had decided our presence was wanted for some new purpose.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “She has a talent for turning every circumstance to her own account. It sounds familiar. My mother is not the only lady who knows how to make use of those around her. A daughter at home may be useful for the neighbourhood, while a daughter in London may prove useful for rather different purposes”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Indeed. She recognized a double advantage. Not only were there fewer mouths to feed at Longbourn, but the generous wardrobe allowance our grandparents settled upon us meant a steady supply of fine gowns returning to Hertfordshire.”

“Which went straight to them the moment you outgrew them,” Aunt Celeste scoffed. “One might almost admire Mrs. Bennet’s ingenuity, were it not employed so entirely for her own advantage.”

Jane watched her grandmother’s first displeasure give way to active consideration. At last, she brought her hands together softly.

The conversation took a new direction, becoming less an examination and more a council of war.

“Very well. We have the full picture now. And we must lose no time in determining what is best. Lady Catherine’s malice must be answered before it spreads further,” the Duchess stated definitively.

“Indeed,” said the Duke, looking from one member of the family to another. “Our immediate presence in London will, of course, speak volumes. It will make plain to the ton that the Miss Bennets are under the protection of Westbury, and not merely relations known at a distance. We shall take care that they are seen in our company upon every suitable occasion.”

It was then that Uncle Maxwell cleared his throat. “There is one other person, Father, Mother, whose assistance was of the greatest value during this unfortunate affair. Miss Anne de Bourgh, Lady Catherine’s daughter, exerted herself with remarkable firmness to protect Elizabeth and ensure her honorable departure from Rosings.”

The Duke’s eyes, which had been fixed on Maxwell, now turned to Anne, who had been quietly observing. The Duchess followed his gaze, a flicker of surprise crossing her aristocratic features. They had not yet had the opportunity to know her.

“Miss de Bourgh,” said the Duke, turning to her with renewed attention after Maxwell had finished. “We are indeed indebted to you for your admirable conduct concerning our Elizabeth.”

The Duchess agreed. “All that you have done, your timely firmness in protecting Elizabeth, and indeed asserting your rightful position, is most commendable. You have our deepest gratitude.”

Anne, quite unaccustomed to such direct notice from a Duke and Duchess, managed only a slight bow from her chair, her cheeks flushing with modest gratitude. “It was merely what was right, Your Grace. Elizabeth was a guest under my roof, and I could not permit her to be so unjustly maligned.”

The Duchess offered Anne a small smile. “Your courage is commendable, Miss de Bourgh. And as you are currently my daughters’ guests in London, it is only proper that you should remain under our protection. I insist that you, Jane, and Elizabeth remove to Westbury House this very afternoon. Your presence, both as the mistress of Rosings and an honored guest under our roof, will serve as a complete refutation of Lady Catherine’s malicious reports that Elizabeth left her house in disgrace. It will prove to all the world that she departed with unblemished honor, backed by your own sanction and the full protection of our family.”

Jane caught her breath. To reside at Westbury House, the Duke’s London residence, was an honour almost beyond imagining, and would make their connection with the family plain to all. It would deprive Lady Catherine’s accusations of all appearance of truth.

Anne’s eyes brightened, and a faint, sincere smile softened her features. “I would be honoured, Your Grace. It would be a pleasure to assist in any way.”

Jane turned to Mrs. Jenkinson, who had been standing discreetly by the door. “Mrs. Jenkinson,” she began, “may I ask you something? I observed you last night at the theatre, speaking quietly with the ladies who visited our box. You seemed to be seeing that my aunt’s observations reached the ladies most likely to remember them.”

Mrs. Jenkinson curtsied deeply, a faint, intelligent smile softening her features. “Indeed, Miss Bennet. That was my intention. To ensure that the Marchioness’s account of the matter was fully received by the company, and that a favorable report might spread more easily among those present more readily through the companions.”

The Duke raised his brows, evidently impressed. “Madam,” he said with evident approval, “your discernment is most impressive. To act with such discretion and foresight speaks volumes for your character and dedication.”

The Duchess nodded, her gaze fixed on Mrs. Jenkinson. “Indeed, Mrs. Jenkinson. Your loyalty and sharp understanding of the ways of the world are precisely what the occasion demands. You will, of course, accompany the young ladies to Westbury House. Your care and discretion will be especially welcome there.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s face glowed with quiet pride. “It would be my singular honour, Your Grace.”

“Beginning tomorrow,” the Duchess added, a gleam in her eye, “I shall issue invitations for a succession of quiet morning visits. Not large entertainments, but small parties composed of the ladies whose opinions carry the greatest authority. Lady Danvers, of course, will be among the first to receive an invitation. Her good opinion, as you saw last night, will be of great consequence, and our friendship gives her every reason to call.”

“And we shall take care she speaks of my nieces in the same terms of high praise she bestowed at the theatre,” Aunt Celeste murmured, her thoughts already turned toward her company. “A single word of commendation from Lady Danvers will do more for their reputation than a dozen formal visits.”

“Beyond mere appearances, we must guide the public opinion more actively,” Uncle Maxwell mused, stroking his chin. “The newspapers and their fashionable intelligence, vulgar though they often are, may yet be useful. Perhaps a discreet article might be arranged? A notice, perhaps, touching upon the respectable origins of the Miss Bennets, and attributing their presence in London to the affectionate solicitude of their distinguished relations.”

“Precisely,” said the Duchess. “Not a direct answer to Lady Catherine’s folly, but a quiet display of the position in which Jane and Elizabeth are placed, one which will make her accusations appear ridiculous. Who would believe a country gentlewoman to be ‘elevating her station illicitly’ when her grandparents are the Duke and Duchess of Westbury, and she is the cherished niece of the Marquess of Claremont?”

Jane listened, relieved and astonished by the extent of her family’s influence. This was a realm of influence she had never truly comprehended in her former visits. Her relations were no mere bystanders. Her family was taking the direction of public opinion into their own hands, employing the full weight of their name and position with a practiced, elegant power.

~*~

Over the next few days, Westbury House became a place of continual activity. Invitations for the Duchess’s morning visits were duly dispatched, their wax seals bearing the crest that signaled the high consequence of her house. Jane, Elizabeth, and Anne found themselves accompanying the Duke and Duchess on highly visible morning drives through Hyde Park, where their elegant carriage and liveried attendants attracted every eye, and excited fresh conjecture throughout the fashion.

The Duchess made a point of stopping to converse with a few select matrons of high consequence, guiding the conversation, with exquisite tact, to the virtues and lineage of her granddaughters and the unblemished merit of Miss de Bourgh.

Meanwhile, Uncle Maxwell and Aunt Celeste exchanged quiet instructions, their low conversation suggesting that many willing friends were already engaged in the matter. Elizabeth suspected an article, subtly worded, would soon appear in one of the less sensational but more respected society gazettes, outlining the unexpected arrival of the Duke and Duchess and the delightful presence of their granddaughters, the Miss Bennet’s, whose beauty and accomplishments were already the talk of the ton, and Miss de Bourgh.

Each evening, Jane, Elizabeth, and Anne were informed of all that had passed, a quiet satisfaction settling over the family as the current of town opinion gradually turned in their favor. By the end of the third day, Elizabeth felt a sense of relief. The anxieties that had plagued her since Lady Catherine’s malicious assertions were beginning to abate. The fortress, as she had thought of it, was indeed holding.

A few days later, the Westbury ducal carriage, a grand vehicle with the family crest emblazoned on its panels, rolled smoothly through the bustling London streets. Inside, the Duke and Duchess sat opposite Jane, Elizabeth, Anne, and Mrs. Jenkinson. They conversed quietly, accompanied by the steady sound of the horses’ hooves. They were on their way to the British Museum, where they were to meet Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, the Sinclairs, and the Gardiners and their children to view a recent addition to the Roman collection.

The Duchess adjusted her silk shawl. “I trust you all slept well? The London air, though charged with activity, is quite invigorating, is it not?”

“Indeed, Grandmother,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “And the quiet of Westbury House is a welcome change after Rosings.” Anne inclined her head, evidently grateful for the refuge Westbury House had afforded her.

Mrs. Jenkinson, seated discreetly beside Anne, leaned forward slightly, her voice a low, confidential murmur. “Your Grace, if I may be so bold, I received a curious piece of intelligence this morning from one of the ladies’ companions. It seems Miss Caroline Bingley has been quite vocal.”

The Duchess raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell, Mrs. Jenkinson. Your network is always so instructive.”

“It appears Miss Bingley is quite aware that her brother has been the subject of unfavourable conversation,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued, a subtle amusement in her tone. “She has been most anxious to make it known that his unfortunate attachments have been entirely his own doing. From what I hear, she has been particularly vocal on the subject of the ladies he has left behind, assuring anyone inclined to listen that her brother has a regrettable habit of bestowing his attentions where he ought not. She went so far as to assure society she personally attempted to save him from an imprudent connection in Hertfordshire.”

Jane had cast down her eyes, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly upon her embroidery. Elizabeth knew her too well to mistake that stillness for indifference. She recognized the quiet mortification of hearing the man her sister had esteemed represented as both fickle and weak.

“The audacity of the woman,” the Duchess remarked, her tone cool enough to make Elizabeth wince. “To parade her brother’s inconstancy about town as though it were a virtue, and to speak so of my granddaughters!”

Elizabeth frowned slightly, her mind busily attempting to account for so strange an inconsistency. “But the notices concerning Jane’s family have already appeared. Why would Miss Bingley continue to disparage a family of our standing?”

“Because the ladies of town appear to find her explanations most diverting,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied with a mischievous smile. “Several have taken to saying very little whenever Miss Bingley begins upon the subject, which she seems to mistake for agreement. They have discovered that Miss Bingley is quite capable of making a fool of herself without any assistance and decided it is far more amusing to let her continue than to contradict her.”

A brief silence followed, before Jane drew a quiet breath. She covered her mouth with her hand, her countenance lighting up with sudden, quiet comprehension. The Duke gave a low chuckle, while the Duchess shook her head, plainly delighted.

Anne’s lips curved faintly. “Then Miss Bingley has mistaken their civility for support.”

Elizabeth glanced toward Anne, appreciating the acuteness of the observation.

“It is a dangerous mistake,” Anne continued calmly. “If society opposed her openly, she might at least be brought to see that she had exceeded all propriety. But while they suffer her to believe herself admired, she will only expose her own folly more completely.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Jenkinson agreed, her eyes gleaming with the final piece of intelligence. “And there lies the most singular turn of the whole affair. My understanding is that Miss Bingley’s maid, a woman of modest means but refined education who also serves as a companion when needed, has recently found herself unable to bear Miss Bingley’s arrogant manner.”

“Miss Hartwell?” Elizabeth’s expression changed with sudden, enlightened recollection. “I remember her from Meryton. Miss Bingley always called her by her Christian name, but I recall her telling me she was a rector’s daughter when she looked after Jane and me at Netherfield Park.”

Mrs. Jenkinson inclined her head. “The same.”

“Netherfield,” her grandmother said at once, her expression hardening. “I remember it well. Your stepmother sent you out on horseback in the rain, Jane. A most reckless and unfeeling piece of folly. You might have suffered far worse than a severe cold.”

“It resulted in a severe cold, Grandmother,” Jane admitted gently, “but Miss Hartwell was exceedingly attentive throughout.”

“She was indeed,” Elizabeth added, a small smile touching her lips. “And her kindness extended equally to myself. I had been sitting with Jane for so many hours that I scarcely noticed how tired I had become. Miss Hartwell did. She appeared one afternoon with a tray for Jane and informed me, in the most civil manner imaginable, that I was to take some nourishment and rest a while. It was difficult to decline.”

Jane smiled at the recollection. “Very difficult.”

“When I protested that I could not leave you, she told me that she would remain with you herself, and that I was doing neither you nor myself any good by making myself ill as well.” Elizabeth’s smile widened. “She would not be persuaded otherwise. She saw me safely down the stairs, made certain that I ate something, and then returned to you as though the matter were settled.”

Jane’s smile grew, a rare flash of playful mischief in her eyes. “I confess, Lizzy, I was thoroughly delighted. It is not often that anyone succeeds in persuading you once you have made up your mind.”

A quiet chuckle came from her grandfather. “Then Miss Hartwell possesses a formidable talent indeed. To persuade Elizabeth when she has determined upon a course requires a fortitude few commanders in His Majesty’s army could boast.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I had not realized I was considered so difficult.”

“You were not difficult,” Jane replied sweetly. “You were merely very determined.”

“That distinction may be of little comfort to Miss Hartwell,” Anne observed dryly.

The Duchess’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I confess, I am beginning to understand why Miss Hartwell made such an impression upon both of you. Any young woman capable of persuading Elizabeth to leave a sickroom against her own wishes has already earned my respect. I think I should like Miss Hartwell very much.”

“So do I,” Anne said, a faint smile touching her lips. “Anyone who remembers to care for the person tending the invalid possesses uncommon sense.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s eyes gleamed. “Then you may be pleased to know that Miss Hartwell has been most diligent that only certain sheets of the gazettes reach her mistress. Any mention of the Westbury or Claremont families, or indeed the Bennets, seems to mysteriously vanish from Miss Bingley’s morning papers.” A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Mrs. Jenkinson’s lips. “One might say she has been remarkably judicious in rationing her mistress’s daily portion of news.”

The carriage fell silent for a moment.

Elizabeth could not suppress a moment of wicked satisfaction. Miss Bingley, so certain of her own superiority, had apparently been allowed to speak at length while everyone else listened in amused silence. The irony was difficult to resist. There was something deeply satisfying in the thought of Miss Bingley confidently engineering her own social grave while believing everyone around her was in agreement.

Then Jane laughed, this time unable to contain her mirth. Elizabeth joined her, and even the Duke’s shoulders shook with quiet amusement. The Duchess covered her smile with one gloved hand, though she was plainly amused.

“Fascinating,” the Duchess drawled, a glint in her eye. “So, Miss Bingley believes herself better informed than the rest of the world, imagines herself acting with every advantage, when in truth, she is hopelessly deceived.”

“Precisely, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jenkinson assented with the same quiet relish, a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth betraying equal amusement. “Though I understand Miss Bingley has lately begun to suspect that something is amiss. She has apparently observed that a few notices have failed to reach her, and has been questioning her maid rather more closely.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “And knowing Miss Hartwell’s cleverness, I doubt Miss Bingley obtained a single satisfactory answer.”

“She will obtain none,” Anne remarked, her eyes bright with a cold, dry satisfaction. “I should not be at all surprised if Miss Hartwell were doing rather more than merely shielding her mistress from disappointment. She may be taking a quiet and deliberate satisfaction in seeing Miss Bingley receive the very treatment she has so freely bestowed upon others. She remembers who treated her as a gentlewoman at Netherfield and who now treats her with scarcely the consideration due to a servant. If so, Miss Bingley is merely reaping the harvest of her own cruelty.”

“A most satisfactory settlement,” the Duke agreed with a low, gravelly chuckle. “I suspect you are right, Anne. It requires a remarkably sharp mind to turn an employer’s arrogance against her without ever appearing to do so. Miss Bingley has contrived to place herself in a most singular confinement, and Miss Hartwell need do no more than continue to furnish her with the information she is pleased to receive.”

“And all while Miss Hartwell is obliged to address her with the respect due to an employer,” the Duchess observed, her fan tapping lightly against her knee. “There is something rather amusing in the circumstance. A gentleman’s daughter, required to serve the daughter of a tradesman, and yet possessed of sufficient good sense to make her mistress’s own vanity serve her purposes.”

A smile touched the Duke’s mouth. “Indeed. Miss Bingley may have the higher place in the household, but Miss Hartwell appears to have the greater command of the situation.”

“And served with impeccable deference at every turn,” the Duchess added, her eyes sparkling. “I like this Miss Hartwell more by the minute.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s smile widened. “She is adept at evading a direct answer, and appears to have been remarkably discreet.”

The Duchess gave a soft laugh. “Then Miss Bingley has at least begun to suspect the truth, that someone has been intentionally withholding intelligence from her, yet lacks the wit to find proof. How delightfully agonizing for her.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jenkinson added with a quiet nod. “Unfortunately for Miss Bingley, she appears to have taken prudence for disobedience.”

Jane’s expression softened with sympathy. “Oh, dear.”

“Miss Bingley lost her temper a few mornings ago,” Mrs. Jenkinson explained, her eyes glinting. “I am told she threw a slipper across the dressing-room and ordered her maid to depart. Her exact words, I believe, were, ‘Leave my presence! I will not have you in my room another moment.’”

Elizabeth puzzled out the design in a single, brilliant instant. “And Miss Hartwell chose to interpret a brief banishment as a permanent dismissal.”

“I suspect she understood perfectly well what her mistress meant. She merely chose the interpretation most advantageous to herself,” Anne added.

“Precisely,” Mrs. Jenkinson confirmed, her tone rich with quiet satisfaction. “She took her mistress at her word. She packed her trunks, obtained what wages were due to her from the housekeeper, and left the house, leaving Miss Bingley half-dressed and wholly without assistance in her own chambers.”

Elizabeth laughed before she could restrain herself, having no difficulty imagining Miss Bingley’s dismay at finding herself half-dressed and without a maid.

“Oh, Miss Hartwell,” Elizabeth exclaimed, her amusement overcoming any sympathy for Miss Bingley. “I cannot help but admire her. She showed the same determination at Netherfield. Once she had decided that I was to eat and rest, no protest of mine could move her. It seems Miss Bingley has now discovered that Miss Hartwell is equally firm in obeying an order.”

Jane smiled. “She has always possessed uncommon resolution.”

“And excellent judgment,” Elizabeth replied. “Miss Bingley told her to leave, and Miss Hartwell, quite properly, obeyed. I only wish I could have witnessed her expression when she understood that she had dismissed the one person in the house willing to oppose her.”

“Incomparable,” the Duchess murmured, her dark eyes flashing with dry delight.

Anne shook her head, though she could not quite suppress a smile. “One can hardly blame her. To be subjected to such ill usage is beyond bearing.”

Across from them, the Duke’s shoulders shook with quiet, rumbling amusement.

“Quite,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied. “Fortunately, she was not without resources. As a clergyman’s daughter of modest means but refined education, she possesses flawless manners and an impeccable character, in addition to knowing the requirements of a fashionable wardrobe. She is entirely capable of acting as her mistress’s companion whenever the occasion requires.”

“Miss Bingley was always immaculately turned out, however regrettable her choice of colors,” Elizabeth added with a grin.

Jane hesitated. “I hope I do not speak too freely, but I do remember her from my stay at Netherfield. Miss Hartwell was very kind to me while I was ill, and always seemed concerned that I had everything I required.”

Mrs. Jenkinson smiled. “Miss Hartwell has evidently made an impression upon you.”

“She did,” Jane admitted. “Indeed. It makes me wonder why she ever entered Miss Bingley’s service.”

Elizabeth smiled. “While you were sleeping, she told me that Mr. Bingley had been obliged to offer her rather higher wages than were customary. Apparently, no one else was willing to remain in Miss Bingley’s service for long.”

Mrs. Jenkinson smiled. “Word of her situation circulated through the servants’ hall with astonishing speed, and I understand she was engaged before the day was out by a lady only too pleased to employ so clever a maid.”

“I am relieved to know she will not be left without a situation,” Jane said gently.

“So am I,” Elizabeth added, still amused by the manner of departure. “Though I confess I cannot imagine Miss Bingley will be pleased when she learns Miss Hartwell has left her service altogether.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression became remarkably innocent. “Perhaps not.”

“You know something more,” the Duchess interjected, her dark eyes flashing with sharp amusement. “She has entered the service of someone within our own circle?”

“I am told, by most reliable sources, you understand, that Lady Danvers was merely thrown in the way of a happy coincidence. After all, gentlewomen of such varied talents do not drop from the heavens every day. It was deemed a great pity to let such exceptional vigilance go to waste when a young lady of her family was so desperately in want of a personal maid and occasional companion,” Mrs. Jenkinson finished with a small, exceedingly smooth smile.

“For Miss Vernon, certainly,” Anne replied, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Which means Miss Bingley has deprived herself of one of her respectable chaperones. Unless Mrs. Hurst can persuade Mr. Hurst to abandon his cards and attend her everywhere, Miss Bingley may find herself considerably confined to her parlor.”

Elizabeth smiled with unconcealed delight. She could easily imagine the scene which awaited Miss Bingley. She had not merely parted with a capable servant, stranding herself at home, incapable of setting foot in society without a proper escort, but had unwittingly gifted one of Mayfair’s most formidable hostesses with an intimate, unvarnished account of her own spectacular ill-temper. It was impossible to offer her pity. Miss Bingley’s own arrogance had supplied her rivals with all they needed to expose her folly, and she would have only her own vanity to blame when next they met in society.

Jane looked thoughtful. “Then Miss Vernon is fortunate. A maid of experience is of considerable value.”

“Very much so,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied. “Particularly one who has spent so much time in the service of a young lady accustomed to fashionable society. Such a woman learns to observe without appearing to do so.”

Elizabeth caught the full significance of the remark at once. A maid so closely attached to her mistress would know every caller who crossed the threshold, observe the letters that came and went, and hear much that was never spoken of in drawing rooms.

“A capable maid sees considerably more than most people imagine,” Anne observed.

“She might prove singularly useful,” Elizabeth murmured.

“I believe that is precisely what Lady Danvers thought,” Mrs. Jenkinson said.

The Duchess’s lips curved. “Then Miss Bingley has managed to do a kindness for someone after all.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I suspect Miss Bingley would object to the compliment.”

“Then perhaps something good has come of Miss Bingley’s temper after all,” Jane said softly, before adding with gentle hesitation, “Though, should we truly take such pleasure in her folly? It seems almost uncharitable to speak so, even if Miss Bingley brought it upon herself.”

The Duke’s features softened, an expression of deep affection warming his eyes as he regarded the gentlest of his granddaughters. “My sweet Jane,” he said gently, “your gentle heart does you the highest credit.”

“Uncharitable, Jane?” Elizabeth teased, giving her sister’s hand a gentle squeeze. “When Miss Bingley has supplied the town with such excellent amusement at her own expense?”

“Whether it is charitable or not, I suspect Miss Bingley would hardly view her temper as a blessing,” the Duchess remarked dryly, a glint in her eye. “She is bound to be very angry when she learns what has truly happened.”

“Precisely, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Jenkinson. “My sources inform me that Miss Bingley has noticed the room falling quiet whenever she approaches, but has mistaken the reason. She believes the ladies are silent from sympathy for her family’s fortunate escape from an unsuitable connection.”

“Let her believe it,” Anne said softly, leaning back against the carriage cushions. “Anger makes people careless. I said before that I would deal with the Bingleys, perhaps I will deliver the news myself. I should send her a framed copy of the notice concerning Jane and Elizabeth’s connections, with a note expressing my deepest sympathies for her misunderstanding.”

“Miss Anne, we must be careful,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, though her eyes danced with unmistakable glee. “If we send it framed in gold, people might think us boasting. A frame finished in silver leaf would be more elegant, though a heavy gilt frame would suit the gazette nicely. I saw both in a shop on Bond Street. It must be worthy of the notice.”

“Put it upon the Westbury account,” said the Duke, his expression perfectly solemn despite his Duchess’s quiet laughter. “I insist. Such strategic generosity deserves to be properly funded. If Miss de Bourgh is to send a gift of condolence to Miss Bingley, it shall be framed in nothing less than the finest gilt London can supply.”

Mrs. Jenkinson offered a slight inclination of her head in gratitude before her expression sobered. “Your Grace is most generous. Though I fear Miss Bingley’s arrogance knows no bounds. Only yesterday, a companion overheard her boasting rather boldly. She declared to her acquaintances that she had taken every precaution to protect her brother while they remained in ton, claiming that she had herself intercepted his letters to prevent him being pursued by ‘scheming country women’ intent upon improving their situation.”

Mrs. Jenkinson gave a faint, knowing smile. “She even declared that Miss Bennet would not be received in the fashionable streets, should she venture there.”

The Duchess’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of icy disdain. The Duke’s expression hardened.

“Indeed?” the Duchess replied, her voice dropping several degrees, becoming colder than a winter morning. “So Miss Bingley speaks against her own brother in order to win approval? How exceedingly vulgar.” She turned to Jane and Elizabeth, her tone pointedly clear. “If Mr. Bingley is indeed as weak and easily led as his sister claims, then no lady of worth should suffer his attentions. A gentleman of true character possesses his own convictions and would never allow his affections to be swayed by the whims or machinations of another, least of all a meddling sister.”

The implication was unmistakable. Jane’s delicate color heightened, but she met her grandmother’s gaze with quiet dignity. Elizabeth felt deeply proud of her sister, and grateful for the protection their grandparents had extended to them.

As the carriage stopped before the grand entrance of the British Museum, the family prepared to alight.

A Man of More Fashion than Fortune (3 replies)

Alicia M, Cindy C, Jen P, and Julie P — Wed, 30 Sep 2026 03:49:40 +0100

Blurb: Louisa Bingley meets her husband at a London ball.

A Man of More Fashion than Fortune

Louisa Bingley stood among a cluster of friends at a London ball, smiling smugly as she looked at the faces around her, all fashionable, all handsome, mostly rich. She caught her sister's eye and they shared a knowing smirk. They had arrived as members of a glittering circle of the ton, the envy of everyone in the room – not to mention many of their own schoolfellows.

While basking in this moment of triumph, Miss Bingley (Louisa, that is) heard a loud cry of anguish and confusion: “Willoughby!” They all turned their heads towards the pathetic sound and there they saw a pathetic young woman looking beseechingly towards one of the men in their party, her hair cascading scandalously around her shoulders.

“Why, I do believe someone is after your Mr. Willoughby, Sophia,” scoffed Miss Caroline Bingley. “I suppose you ought to give her one of your set downs.”

“I think not,” retorted Miss Grey, glancing at Mr. Willoughby, who looked mortified.

Suddenly, the girl was in his face waving her hand at him, urging him to shake it. “Good God, Willoughby. What is the meaning of this?”

Mr. Willoughby cleverly extracted himself from his party and made it clear to this girl that her presence was not welcome. In the meantime, Mr. Robert Ferrars, fresh off his pair of dances with Miss Lucy Steele, approached the group with a friend. He took out his bespoke toothpick case and, placing one carefully carved ivory dental apparatus between his lips, said to all and one, “I see Willoughby has gotten himself into another scrape.”

His companion chuckled and, catching Louisa's eye, said, “I dare say he shall rid himself of that chit handily.”

“Oh, has he handled her already?” queried Ferrars.

Miss Grey was not amused.

“And who is your friend, Mr. Ferrars?” asked Miss Bingley, changing the subject.

“Oh, do forgive me,” said Robert, working hard against his molar, “this is my friend from Cambridge, Mr. Hurst.”

“Howard Henry Harold Hedwig Herbert Horace Hubert Humphrey Hortense Halloween Halitosis Hadrian Hepzibah Hezekiah Hurst, at your service,” said the gentleman, making a sweeping bow.

As he was thusly bent forward, Ferrars accidentally flicked a speck of gristle from his teeth into Hurst's hair. Hurst ran his fingers through his otherwise glorious locks to remove the offending particle, exclaiming, “Take it easy old chap, you'll wear down the carving on that delicate instrument at that rate!”

“My good man, stand over there,” retorted Ferrars, pointing across the room, “or take one of my toothpicks and take care of your own business. Your breath is dreadful.”

Hurst pushed away the offered toothpick case and grabbing a strong cordial off a tray, said, “There's more than one way to solve that problem.” He swallowed it in one gulp. He then smiled at Louisa and asked her to dance.

As they lined up to dance, Louisa noticed the pathetic young woman leaning weakly on another lady, who could only be a sister, crying piteously, as they walked out of the ballroom in shame and ignominy. An old man in a flannel waistcoat followed.

“It looks like she has a stalker,” said Hurst, watching as they departed.

Louisa sighed, “Seems they let anyone in these events these days.”

“Forgive me, I have been distracted. Allow me to say how much I admire and love your elegant turban. And your gown is an absolutely stunning shade of orange. The color is very becoming to your complexion.”

The lady blushed prettily, as any lady would under such a compliment. “Thank you,” said she. “And may I be so bold as to return the compliment. I don't think I've ever seen such a complicated cravat knot.”

“Oh, it is quite a new invention. My good friend Beau Brummel suggested it to me, and his valet was so good as to give particular instruction to my own man who, I daresay, has done justice to the design.”

“Oh, you know Mr. Brummel?” Louisa simpered as they cast down the set.

“Certainly! Who doesn't?”

“How did you chance to meet him?” asked Louisa.

“My good friend Prinny introduced us.”

Louisa was struck still in the dance, causing the couple above to trip and tear the young lady's gown. Luckily, the gentleman with whom she was dancing knew a little about muslin and was able to set her to rights in no time. “Thank you, Mr. Tilney,” she heard the girl gush.

“You are acquainted with His Royal Highness?” asked Louisa, literally clutching her pearls.

“We go way back,” answered Hurst. “We just had lunch the other day with the Earl of Sandwich. Amazingly, the Earl placed his cold meat between two pieces of bread before eating it.”

“What a novelty!” cried Louisa. “I believe I shall try that some time. Sounds terribly efficient.”

“That's just what Lord Alvanley said!”

“Oh, my,” said Louisa.

“Lord Byron concurred and even offered to write some verses about it!”

Louisa's head was whirling in ecstasy. This was no ordinary gentleman and might just be worthy of her favor and her fortune. She had never met a man more eligible. His friend circle alone would open unimaginable doors of society and fashion. Even her brother Charles might learn a thing or two.

As the musicians tuned their instruments between songs, Mr. Hurst took the opportunity to say, “How long have you been in Town?”

“About a fortnight. We were with our friends in Scarborough before that.”

“Oh Scarborough, what a delightful place. I went to a fair there once with my friend Lord Simon, the Duke of Garfunkel. He had us over for a fine meal. The pheasant was seasoned with parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.”

“Time? Seasoned with time? Is that a poetical reference from Lord Byron.”

“No. Thyme. The herb.”

“Oh, forgive me, I did not hear correctly.”

“Never mind, it's just a bit of troubled water we can build a bridge over.”

She smiled at his hint, enjoying for a moment, the sound of silence. Then she saw a friend waving at her and said, “Oh, Cecelia!”

“You know Mrs. Robinson?” asked Mr. Hurst in shock.

“We went to school together,” said Louisa. I really ought to go speak to her.”

The music soon stopped and Mr. Hurst escorted her back to her party saying, “I'll leave you to it then. I ought to be homeward bound. May I call on you tomorrow?”

“Of course. I would be delighted to receive you.”

As he turned and walked away, Louisa leaned towards Caroline and whispered, “I'm going to marry Howard Henry Harold Hedwig Herbert Horace Hubert Humphrey Hortense Halloween Halitosis Hadrian Hepzibah Hezekiah Hurst.”

Finis

A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 5 (3 replies)

LizzyS — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 04:02:25 +0100

I don’t know if I will be able to post next weekend. I have plans on Saturday and Sunday.

Chapter 5

That evening, Covent Garden Theatre stood brightly illuminated before Jane, its entrance crowded with the carriages of fashionable company. The Sinclair family carriage, emblazoned with their crest, pulled up to the entrance amidst a throng of similar conveyances. Jane, in a new gown of soft rose-coloured silk, felt an unfamiliar anticipation as she looked upon the brilliant scene before her.

As they passed through the crowded entrance hall, Jane perceived a familiar figure off to the side. The lady from the park stood near a cluster of matrons, half-sheltered by the press of arriving patrons. Her stately manner and elegance of dress made her impossible to mistake. The lady’s gaze, sharp and assessing, rested upon Jane, and a subtle change crossed her countenance, softening its severity almost imperceptibly. Unsure whether the lady meant to acknowledge her, Jane offered a slight curtsy. The lady returned it with a restrained inclination of the head, far more civil than she had been in the park.

Inside, the theatre was a magnificent spectacle of gilt, crimson velvet, and the glittering jewels of the ton. Laughter and excited chatter filled the air, mingling with the subtle scents of perfume and pomade. Their party was escorted to a prominent box, offering a commanding view of the stage and, more importantly, the assembled company.

Aunt Celeste took her place with perfect ease, exchanging cordial greetings with acquaintances in the neighbouring boxes. Beside her, Uncle Maxwell surveyed the scene with a keen, approving eye. Elizabeth, in sapphire-blue silk, was already in animated conversation with their cousins, Castor and Astra, the latter observing the surrounding company with quiet amusement. Selina, ever vivacious, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with delight at the spectacle.

Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam joined their box. Mr. Darcy took a seat next to Elizabeth, their conversation resuming with an easy flow that Jane found herself observing with quiet interest. Colonel Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, took a place near Astra. Jane observed that her cousin listened to the Colonel with more attention than she commonly gave to any gentleman, while his manner towards her had lost some of its usual levity. Their low conversation and frequent glances suggested an attachment more particular than ordinary acquaintance. Jane smiled to herself, sincerely pleased by what she suspected on her cousin’s behalf.

As the curtain rose and the orchestra fell silent, a hush came over the theatre. Jane’s gaze wandered almost absently across the boxes opposite and stopped.

There he was.

The gentleman from Hyde Park. Standing among a group of gentlemen in a box directly across from theirs, he cut a striking figure in the elegance of his evening dress. Even across the expanse of the theatre, she recognized him at once. In the brilliant company of the theatre, he appeared, if possible, more distinguished still. Yet his countenance retained the serious, reflective air she had noticed among the trees.

At that moment, his attention turned towards the opposite boxes, and their eyes met.

For a brief moment, they regarded one another.

Then a faint smile touched his lips, and he inclined his head in the smallest acknowledgment. Jane knew, with a quiet thrill, the gesture was intended for her alone.

Jane felt a small flutter of surprise, accompanied by a warmth she could not quite explain. He remembered her.

She returned his acknowledgment with an equally slight inclination of her head, a faint smile touching her lips before she turned her attention toward the stage.

Yet once the performance began, Jane remained conscious of the gentleman’s presence in the box opposite. More than once, she found herself looking towards him, before recalling herself and returning her attention to the players.

She had believed their meeting in Hyde Park to be no more than an agreeable accident, soon forgotten amid the multitude of London society. Yet now, seeing him again, she found herself wondering whether chance had brought them together twice, or whether London was, after all, far smaller than she had imagined.

Between the acts, the box received several friendly visitors, and conversation became general.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, in his usual good humour, turned to Jane and bowed. “Miss Bennet, may I present my cousin, Miss Eleanor Vernon? Eleanor, this is Miss Jane Bennet.”

Jane curtsied with perfect civility, though the name awakened her curiosity. The name was not wholly unfamiliar to her. Miss Vernon, a pretty young woman whose manner was somewhat reserved, offered a polite curtsy in return.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet,” Miss Vernon said, her voice soft. “Richard has spoken highly of you. Yet I have already heard of your kindness. My mother’s cousin repeated to me what you said to her in the park this morning. Your words have given me great comfort.”

Jane understood at once. Only that morning, in the park, she had heard of Miss Vernon’s disappointment. At the time, it had seemed no more than one of those histories which pass from one relation to another in London. Now that Miss Vernon stood before her, the circumstance appeared in a very different light.

Jane smiled kindly. “It was my pleasure, Miss Vernon. I am so glad my words were a comfort to you. If my own disappointment may afford another lady some comfort in hers, I shall count myself fortunate.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, perceiving that Miss Vernon might prefer a moment away from the others, guided them toward a quieter place beneath a gilded sconce.

“Eleanor has recently suffered a disappointment,” Colonel Fitzwilliam explained gently. “Mr. Bingley had paid her some attention while she was in the country, but his sudden departure left her greatly distressed.”

Miss Vernon’s countenance altered. “Indeed, Miss Bennet,” she said more seriously. “I must confess that I became rather partial to Mr. Bingley while I was staying with friends in the country earlier this year. He was so very amiable, so charming, and quite attentive. My family, and indeed, I myself, believed his intentions to be quite serious. There was even talk of an understanding, informal as it was.” She paused, a sigh escaping her lips. “But then, without so much as a proper explanation, he simply ceased his attentions. He departed to London with very little warning, and I have heard nothing from him since.” She spoke without resentment, though disappointment was evident in her manner. “It was both bewildering and painful. One feels quite foolish to have been so mistaken in one’s judgment of character.”

“I heard something of your acquaintance when I met your mother’s cousin in the park this morning,” Jane admitted gently. “It seems our experiences are not so very different after all. I am obliged to you for speaking so openly, Miss Vernon. I, too, have had reason to doubt Mr. Bingley’s constancy and it is some comfort to know that I was not alone in being mistaken. We ought not, I think, regret the loss of an affection so readily withdrawn. I am truly sorry for your distress.”

Miss Vernon regarded Jane with sudden understanding. “Then you, too...?” she began, her voice trailing off. “I had heard some report of Mr. Bingley earlier today, but I could not bring myself to inquire further.”

“Indeed,” said Jane, with a quiet inclination of her head. “Your account only confirms me in the belief that it is best to think no more of what cannot be altered. We must endeavour, I think, to be content that his attentions are at an end.”

A shared understanding passed between them, a quiet bond formed through the knowledge of similar disappointments.

Miss Vernon offered a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. Your words are a comfort.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward with his accustomed grace. Offering Miss Vernon his arm, he escorted her back to her companions. Miss Vernon accepted with a gentle nod, leaving Jane to step back into the quiet shelter of the box.

As they moved away, Jane’s attention was drawn to another corner of the box, where her Aunt Celeste was engaged in seemingly casual conversation with a visiting Lady Cowper. Anne de Bourgh, with a new assurance in her manner, stood nearby, occasionally joining the conversation.

“Such a pity about young Mr. Bingley, is it not?” her aunt remarked, pitching her voice so that those nearest could not fail to hear, though her expression remained one of studied sympathy. “Such a changeable disposition. He quite abandoned my dear niece in Hertfordshire, despite her being the granddaughter of a Duke. Imagine! His sisters, apparently, thought her connections insufficient for someone of their tradesman background.”

Anne turned slightly towards Lady Cowper and added, “Indeed. And Miss Bingley, I understand, was most anxious to discourage any attachment which did not answer her own expectations. She even attempted to claim her brother had no feelings for Jane, when his admiration had been perfectly evident.”

Aunt Celeste gave a quiet sigh. “That is precisely my concern. Mr. Bingley may be a kind young man, but one cannot excuse the pain caused when a family encourages a gentleman to disregard an attachment he has so plainly formed.”

Lady Cowper glanced toward Jane before lowering her voice. “It would seem Miss Bennet has been the injured party in the affair. I should think that, once the truth is more generally understood, few will question where the fault lies.”

Anne’s gaze rested briefly upon Jane, and a small smile touched her lips. “Nor should they. Jane has borne the matter with remarkable composure.”

Jane was surprised by Anne’s frankness, though she could not but feel grateful. What she had suffered in silence was now acknowledged, openly and without hesitation.

Jane then observed Mrs. Jenkinson speaking quietly with several ladies who had paused at the entrance to the box. Mrs. Jenkinson, generally so silent, now had a word for one acquaintance and an expression of sympathy for another. The effect was subtle but unmistakable. Jane began to perceive how much might be accomplished by a few words, judiciously spoken. Mrs. Jenkinson appeared to know exactly in whose hearing a remark would be most serviceable. She repeated the observations where they were most likely to be remembered and Jane understood that, before the evening was over, they would have travelled far beyond the theatre.

She had little time to pursue the thought, for a stir in the passage outside drew the attention of the whole box. A low murmur arose among the nearby ladies as a figure approached the entrance, the very same distinguished lady Jane had observed in the park. Whatever quiet business had occupied the box was forgotten at once, and Aunt Celeste welcomed the newcomer with evident pleasure.

“Lady Danvers! How delighted I am to see you. I had hoped you might favour us with a visit.”

Jane could scarcely conceal her surprise. She remembered Lady Danvers being mentioned as the only person Lady Catherine feared.

Lady Danvers offered a small smile, allowing the murmurs around the box to settle before she spoke. “Celeste, my dear, it has been too long. And I had a particular reason to call upon you this evening.”

She turned to Jane and regarded her with close attention. “This morning, I had the distinct pleasure of a most enlightening encounter with Miss Bennet, although we were not properly introduced,” Lady Danvers said.

Aunt Celeste looked from Lady Danvers to Jane with the greatest satisfaction. Jane understood that her aunt was well aware of the curious glances around the box and had every intention of making the most of the occasion.

“Jane, my dear, this is the Dowager Countess of Danvers, Cassandra Pelham, a very old and dear friend of your grandmother. Cassie, this is my niece, Miss Jane Bennet.”

Jane curtsied deeply, at last understanding the lady’s earlier recognition. “It is an honour, Lady Danvers.”

Lady Danvers regarded Jane with evident favour. “Indeed,” she continued, her voice carrying easily. “Your grandmother has long been among the most cherished friends of my own family. I confess I am surprised that Miss Bennet and her sister have not been more frequently in London. With so many relations and friends in common, an introduction ought to have occurred long ago.”

Jane understood at once that Lady Danvers did not speak merely from private interest. She ensured that no one within hearing could mistake the connection. Aunt Celeste’s warm welcome had already caused the surrounding company to take notice. Lady Danvers was now giving consequence to Jane in the eyes of the ton.

Aunt Celeste smiled with an air of delicate apology. “Jane and Elizabeth are generally with us for no more than a fortnight in the season, Cassie. They have little opportunity to form a wide acquaintance, though they know my friends and relations well.”

“Which is precisely as it should be,” Lady Danvers replied smoothly, with amusement. “A long list of acquaintances is easily acquired by anyone with a purse, Celeste. True discrimination is far rarer.”

Selina, who had wandered nearer upon hearing the remark, could not resist. “Then Jane and Lizzy have been very fortunate. They have somehow managed to acquire all the right relations without troubling themselves to acquire half of London.”

Aunt Celeste gave her youngest daughter an affectionate look, though there was a hint of warning in it. “Selina.”

Selina smiled innocently. “I merely meant that Mama’s friends are far more useful than a great many acquaintances.”

Lady Danvers’s lips twitched. “A very sensible distinction, Selina.”

Aunt Celeste then turned toward Anne. “And Cassie, allow me to introduce Miss Anne de Bourgh, mistress of Rosings Park.”

“And the best behaved guest we have ever had,” Selina added brightly. She offered her mother a fleeting, dimpled smile of entirely unrepentant innocence, executed a swift, faultless curtsy, and slipped back toward the others.

Jane could not help but smile at the silent volley between mother and daughter. Aunt Celeste’s fond exasperation was met only by Selina’s utter lack of remorse as she retreated.

Lady Danvers studied Anne for a moment longer than courtesy required. Whatever the Dowager Countess had expected of Lady Catherine’s daughter, the young woman before her appeared to surprise her.

“Miss de Bourgh. It is long overdue to see you established in town, and under such proper auspices,” Lady Danvers said. “I congratulate you upon your new responsibilities at Rosings. I have heard enough of recent events to know you have shown considerable courage.”

“You are very good, Lady Danvers,” Anne replied with calm elegance. “I find town quite agreeable when one is permitted to enjoy it in proper company.”

Lady Danvers turned again to Jane, regarding her with the same composed approval.

“I must tell you, Celeste, I found your niece to be a young lady of remarkable fortitude and good sense. She possesses a very clear judgment in matters of the heart, and has treated recent... provincial affairs with the precise degree of indifference they deserve.”

Lady Danvers paused just long enough before continuing. “Miss Bennet, you spoke this morning with a wisdom that belies your years. It is always a relief to see a young lady of birth recognize that an inconstant gentleman, no matter how amiable his manners or how eager his trade connections, is simply not worth the trouble of a second thought.”

She gave a soft, almost amused laugh. “It is always a marvel when those who ought to set an example of restraint lose all sense of dignity instead. It is curious how a long residence in the country may sometimes produce the strangest judgments. One hears such extraordinary accounts from the country nowadays,” Lady Danvers paused, her eyes resting on Anne with a brief, approving warmth. “Letters of mysterious importance, seals invested with astonishing powers, and ladies becoming greatly agitated over the private correspondence of others. London has always had its share of such amusements, but I confess I had not expected Kent to provide so rich a supply.”

Anne inclined her head, her expression composed. “My mother has always possessed a lively imagination.”

The remark was so mild that it might have passed for affection, though Jane noticed the whispers and exchanged glances.

Lady Danvers gave a crisp nod of satisfaction, letting her voice carry smoothly to the corridors. “Precisely, my dear Miss de Bourgh. To find scandal in the private correspondence of a family so plainly devoted to its own is a level of desperation one can only pity.”

Elizabeth, who had listened in silence, now stepped forward. Her eyes shone with a mixture of warmth and unwavering resolve.

“I am profoundly grateful to you, Anne,” said Elizabeth with feeling. “The promptness with which you came to my assistance, when others forgot what was due to a lady, has given my family the greatest reason to be grateful. It takes true, noble courage to stand so firmly against injustice, and my sister and I shall ever remember the kindness you have shown our family.”

Anne coloured with pleasure and answered only with a modest inclination of her head.

Aunt Celeste smiled. “And while Anne is in London, she is most certainly one of my family. My nieces are fortunate to have her friendship, and she shall always be welcome under my roof.”

Mr. Darcy, who had remained standing quietly near the back of the box, stepped forward into the light of the sconces. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his posture carried an unyielding authority that commanded immediate silence.

“My cousin, Miss de Bourgh, acted with precisely the judgment and fortitude one would expect from her,” he said. “Whatever opinions may have been formed elsewhere, I am satisfied Anne has conducted herself with both propriety and honor.”

Anne met her cousin’s gaze, her chest rising with a quiet breath of relief. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” she said, her tone soft yet clear enough to carry the depth of her gratitude. “Your support is a comfort I shall not forget.”

Mr. Darcy inclined his head, a gentle softening in his eyes Jane had rarely seen, before stepping back beside Elizabeth.

“A noble sentiment, Mr. Darcy, and entirely deserved,” said Lady Danvers smoothly. Then, turning to Jane and Elizabeth, she added, “Miss Bennet, your grandmother, I recall, spoke highly of the character of both Bennet sisters, and I begin to understand why.”

“Indeed, Cassie,” Aunt Celeste said, stepping in to take Jane’s hand in one of her own while placing the other warmly over Elizabeth’s. “Jane and Lizzy are all that is good and true.”

Lady Danvers nodded. “So I have found. And I confess, after hearing of other young ladies who have lately been disappointed by gentlemen whose affections proved less constant than they had appeared, I think Jane has shown particular good sense. It is fortunate when a lady possesses sufficient discernment to recognize such a failing and bear the disappointment with grace.”

The final words were spoken with sufficient deliberation that several ladies beyond their immediate circle could scarcely have failed to hear. Jane saw several ladies exchange glances, and a low murmur began among them.

This brief, but highly public, endorsement from a Dowager Countess whose approval was not lightly bestowed, carried considerable weight. Jane felt a quiet wave of gratitude. Lady Danvers had become, quite unexpectedly, a powerful ally.

A stir near the entrance to the theatre drew Jane’s attention. She was startled to see who had entered. It was Mr. Bingley, accompanied by his sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Mr. Bingley looked well, and retained his customary good humour. Miss Bingley appeared more than usually pleased with herself that evening. Beside her, Mrs. Hurst moved with her usual quiet languor, perfectly content to reflect her sister’s fine airs

Seeing him now, after the painful truths revealed by Elizabeth and Miss Vernon, Jane felt a surprising calm. She felt none of the agitation she had once expected his presence to produce. In its place was a sorrowful conviction that she had at last judged him rightly.

His former attachments, his readiness to be guided by others, and the uncertainty of his affections, now appeared to Jane as parts of the same character. He was indeed not the man she had imagined. The pain had not wholly vanished, but it no longer possessed the same power over her. She knew that she could not again place her happiness in the hands of a gentleman whose constancy had proved so uncertain.

Jane glanced once more across the theatre. The gentleman from Hyde Park was watching the entrance below, where Mr. Bingley and his sisters were being shown to their places. His expression had lost its former ease, and when his eyes met hers, she saw concern plainly written there.

For a moment, Jane wondered what he had observed. Then his gaze flicked briefly toward the Bingley party and returned to her.

Jane understood.

A faint smile touched her lips, and she offered a subtle nod to assure him that she was quite well.

His brows lifted slightly, a silent question in the gesture. Jane’s smile deepened by the smallest degree, and she gave another gentle inclination of her head.

At last, some of the tension left his countenance. He returned the gesture with a quiet bow of his head before turning his attention toward the stage.

As the curtain rose for the second act, Jane composed herself and turned again towards the stage. The theatre, with all its splendour and bustle, seemed to Jane a fair representation of the world beyond. But tonight, Jane Bennet no longer felt herself wholly at the mercy of its judgments.

~*~

Arthur Harland, the Earl of Thornleigh, moved through the entrance of Covent Garden Theatre, the scent of expensive perfumes and the murmur of polite society a familiar yet somewhat detached symphony around him. Beside him, his cousin, Rupert Ellsworth, the Earl of Ashworth, exchanged pleasantries with an endless stream of acquaintances.

Arthur had never expected to inherit. Yet, by a stroke of misfortune, the succession now ran through him. His father was heir to the dukedom as Marquess of Aylesford, and Arthur, in turn, was heir to both. The weight of expectation settled anew upon his shoulders. He was no longer his own man. Now he was merely the custodian of a name, shackled to a lifetime of ledgers, duties, and public scrutiny.

He had spent two years on the Continent, ostensibly for pleasure, though in truth he had been engaged in a confidential service of the Crown. Eighteen months had passed since news of his elder brother’s death reached him in Vienna, and he had borne the loss far from home, while still bound to his duty. His brother had been sickly all his life, but Arthur had never imagined the end would come so suddenly, or that he would be so far from home when it did.

At the Crown’s direction, his brother’s death had remained a closely guarded secret while his mission abroad concluded. Even now, back on British soil, the public announcement was held in abeyance until the intelligence he had brought from Vienna was fully examined and his account formally received. This interval was all that remained before his altered status was made known, and his return to London felt less like a homecoming and more like the quiet prelude to obligations he had never sought.

Across the crowded hall, the Sinclair party was making their entrance. Amid the bustle and splendour, his attention settled upon a familiar figure, and the tumult of the evening seemed less oppressive.

He recognized the formidable presence of the Marquess and Marchioness of Claremont. And then, there she was. Miss Bennet, attired in soft rose silk, moved with a quiet elegance that set her apart even amidst the vibrant display of her companions.

The composure he had observed in Hyde Park earlier that day was no fleeting affectation. There was something remarkably composed in her manner, as though the noise and display of fashionable society held little sway over her. He looked at her longer than politeness allowed, recalling her kindness to the children and the composure with which she had met his cousin’s rudeness.

Rupert touched his arm. “Lost in admiration, Arthur? Do try to remember where your feet are leading you. The crowd is rather thick tonight.”

Arthur offered a faint smile. “Merely appreciating the spectacle, Rupert. The theatre is indeed a stage, even before the curtain rises.”

He allowed his cousin to guide him through the throng, his attention fixed on thoughts far removed from the idle conversation around them. Miss Bennet, among the Sinclairs. It confirmed what he had surmised in the park. Her acquaintances were plainly of the first consequence, whatever modesty her walking dress had suggested. He was no stranger to such company, his birth saw to that, yet his altered expectations made the prospect of navigating them all the more burdensome.

They reached their private box in the upper circle, from which they could see the stage and many of the boxes opposite. Arthur went to the front of the box and looked towards the Sinclair party.

There she was, seated now between Lady Astra Sinclair-Pembroke and the vivacious Lady Selina. She was clearly one of their company, and no mere visitor of consequence. Darcy was seated beside a dark-haired young lady, to whom he was already speaking with an ease Arthur had not expected of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam took a place near Lady Astra, and Arthur thought their manner towards one another more particular than ordinary acquaintance. He had heard that Lady Astra, lately returned to her family, had been widowed. The Colonel’s particular attention to her did not escape him.

As the music drew to a close and the curtain rose, a hush fell over the theatre. Standing at the front of his box, he found his attention fixed upon the Sinclair’s.

Miss Bennet looked about the theatre, and at last her eyes met his across the distance. For a brief, suspended moment, neither looked away. A faint smile touched his lips, and he offered the slightest inclination of his head, intended for her alone.

She returned the civility with a slight inclination of her head before turning towards the stage. Arthur was well pleased to have been remembered. Only then did he take his seat. Their brief encounter in the park had not been forgotten. The acknowledgement between them had become a small, unspoken understanding amidst the grandeur of the theatre.

During the first interval, the Sinclair box received a steady stream of visitors, and conversation became increasingly animated. Arthur saw Colonel Fitzwilliam bring a young lady to Miss Bennet and make the introduction. The young lady’s expression seemed tinged with recent sadness, and Arthur watched as Miss Bennet listened with serene attentiveness, her gentle warmth evident even across the distance.

Yet as their conversation continued, he noticed a subtle change in Miss Bennet’s countenance, one he recognized from that morning in the park. The warmth remained, but something more serious had entered her expression, as though the subject had touched upon a private thought.

A movement at the entrance of the Sinclair box then drew his attention.

Entering the Sinclair box was his father’s cousin, the Dowager Countess of Danvers, the very lady whose severe countenance and formidable tongue he had watched Miss Bennet disarm in Hyde Park earlier that morning. Known for her exacting standards and rare appearances at the theatre, the Countess extended a brief, civil nod to the Marchioness of Claremont before turning her full, undivided attention to Miss Bennet.

Arthur leaned forward imperceptibly, his interest thoroughly captured.

He watched as his cousin spoke, her manner distinctly cordial, even commending. Miss Bennet curtsied with effortless grace, a faint blush rising on her cheeks at the elder lady’s words.

Arthur’s lips curved into a genuine smile. The Countess was not a woman to bestow her favor lightly, nor to seek out an acquaintance without deliberate cause. That she had sought out Miss Bennet in so public a setting, following their chance conversation on a park bench, was an endorsement that would carry considerable weight.

Whatever mystery surrounded Miss Bennet, Arthur found himself increasingly, and quite unexpectedly, curious to learn more of her circumstances.

Just as the conversation in his own box began to subside, a familiar voice hailed him.

“Harland! Is that truly you?”

Arthur turned to see Castor Sinclair making his way through the crowd, a warm smile on his face.

“Fairhaven,” Arthur replied, extending his hand. “Indeed. I returned from the Continent only recently.”

“A fine time to return, with the season just beginning!” Fairhaven looked well pleased. “We have missed you, my friend. You must join us more often. I heard you were seen in Hyde Park this morning. Did it afford you any entertainment?”

Arthur chuckled. “It did. In fact, I had a brief, rather amusing encounter with some spirited children and their delightful companion.” He paused, affecting an air of indifference, though his gaze involuntarily drifted back to the Sinclair box. “I believe she was called Miss Bennet?”

“Ah, yes, Miss Jane Bennet,” Fairhaven replied, amusement evident in his voice. “My cousin, in fact. You encountered her in the park? She has a remarkable way with children, does she not? She has a truly sweet and amiable disposition.”

“Remarkable indeed,” Arthur agreed, his eyes returning to Jane. “She possesses a composure which is not easily disturbed. She seemed to handle a rather opinionated lady with admirable grace, my cousin, in fact.”

“It is very like Jane,” Fairhaven said. “She is a credit to our family, and to herself. London has not yet had sufficient opportunity to know her as we do. She has endured some disappointment of late, owing to a gentleman whose affections proved less constant than they had appeared. There was never any fault in Jane. She conducted herself throughout with perfect propriety.”

Arthur’s expression sobered. The changes he had noticed in Miss Bennet’s countenance returned to his thoughts. So that had been the cause. He felt a quiet displeasure on her behalf. Whatever the gentleman’s reasons, to raise a lady’s hopes and then withdraw without explanation seemed a poor return for the trust she had placed in him.

He leaned in slightly, his tone dropping conspiratorially. “My friend Darcy, I fear, was too eager to see his friend settled well and interfered where he ought not.” He shook his head. “But Jane, with remarkable composure, has borne it all with exceptional dignity. And it has given her a clearer understanding of what she truly desires.”

Fairhaven chuckled and glanced towards the box where Darcy was speaking with a young lady. “Darcy, however, has lately found his own judgment less secure. Have you observed the particular attention he pays to my other cousin, Jane’s sister? I have never seen the man so utterly disarmed. He watches her with the intensity of a man who has forgotten his own name, let alone his reputation for being unassailable.”

Arthur followed his glance to the dark-haired young lady seated beside Darcy. “The one in sapphire?”

“The very same,” Fairhaven replied. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet. If Darcy is not careful, the whole theatre will soon perceive the particularity of his attachment. I have never seen anything more diverting.”

Arthur watched as Miss Elizabeth leaned in, delivering what had to be a sharp, witty retort that made Darcy blink, then laugh, a genuine, unguarded sound. Arthur let out a soft laugh of his own. “Darcy? Disarmed? He has always been a man of the most exacting standards. I remember him once passing an unconscionable length of time in finding fault with the design of a stable. If he pays her such particular attention, she must be a lady of uncommon spirit.”

Fairhaven laughed, a fond look in his eyes. “Fierce is the word, certainly. Why, I remember when we were children, Lizzy took a particular dislike to the local vicar’s lectures on obedience. She climbed the garden wall and recited a particularly irreverent passage where the vicar could not fail to hear it, merely to observe his discomposure. She has been terrifying and brilliant ever since.”

Arthur smiled, shaking his head. “I suspect I should be wary of an introduction, then. A lady who can best a vicar and unsettle Darcy must be a formidable acquaintance.”

“Precisely,” Fairhaven said, clapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “But I must return to my own party before the next act begins. You must call upon us, Harland. My cousins are staying with us for the season.”

“You have my word, Fairhaven,” Arthur replied.

As Fairhaven made his way through the crowd, Arthur turned his attention back to the Sinclair box. He considered what he had just learned. Miss Jane Bennet, despite her gentle exterior, had faced genuine hardship and emerged stronger. It explained the seriousness he had sometimes perceived beneath her gentle manner. And her sister, it seemed, had conquered the most formidable man in London through sheer force of wit.

Rupert, who had watched the exchange from nearby, glanced toward the Sinclair box. “You have become very interested in the Sinclairs, I see.”

Arthur gave him a restrained look. “I have merely seen their niece, Miss Bennet, twice.”

“Twice in one day is rather more than chance often provides.” Rupert’s expression turned thoughtful. “You have heard of the gentleman who disappointed her?”

Arthur shook his head. “Only that there was a disappointment.”

Rupert studied him for a moment. “Bingley.”

The name recalled something to Arthur, though its exact origin eluded him.

“Charles Bingley,” Rupert continued. “Darcy’s friend, the young man from a family lately raised by trade, whom Darcy used to introduce at his club. You remember him?”

Arthur’s mouth curved faintly. “I remember Darcy thinking rather highly of a young man to whom he had recently been introduced.”

Rupert’s expression sobered. “Miss Bennet was one of the ladies whose hopes he encouraged. The whole affair has been much discussed these past few days.”

“Ladies?” Arthur repeated as his gaze returned to the Sinclair box. “You mean there were others? I see.”

Rupert gave a soft chuckle beside him. “You have been away a long time, cousin. You will have much to learn of London before the Season is over.”

Arthur smiled faintly. “So it appears.”

Arthur’s expression hardened. One disappointment might be explained by misjudgment, but to have encouraged the hopes of several ladies was another matter entirely. He could not help but think it an inconstant way to behave toward any gentlewoman. Rupert had said ladies. Arthur found his regard for the absent gentleman diminished considerably. Whatever his good qualities, such inconstancy could not be lightly excused.

Arthur’s thoughts returned to the young lady Colonel Fitzwilliam had introduced to Miss Bennet. Her recent sadness had seemed plain enough, even across the theatre. Now he understood why.

Then his gaze shifted beyond Miss Bennet. His attention was caught by a man entering the theatre with some haste, his expression somewhat flustered. Beside him came a woman whose head was held high, her countenance suggesting considerably more satisfaction with the evening than her companion appeared to possess. Arthur did not know either of them. They had arrived late and were being shown to seats rather than a box. From their appearance, he supposed they might belong to some respectable mercantile family.

His attention returned to Miss Bennet just as her eyes fell upon them.

A brief look of surprise crossed her countenance.

Arthur’s thoughts returned at once to Rupert’s words.

Bingley.

He looked again at the gentleman entering below, then back to Miss Bennet.

Now he understood.

Arthur’s attention sharpened. He watched Miss Bennet for another moment, struck by the composure with which she received his appearance.

Then she looked across the theatre and found Arthur watching her.

Concern must have shown in his expression, for she answered with the faintest smile and a slight inclination of her head, as though to assure him that she was well.

His brows lifted almost imperceptibly in question.

Her smile deepened by the smallest degree, and she inclined her head once more.

Only then did some of the tension leave him. He returned the gesture with a quiet bow.

The curtain rose for the second act, and Arthur returned his attention to the stage, but his thoughts remained on the elegant figure in the Sinclair box.

At the play’s conclusion, the theatre erupted into a throng of departing spectators. Arthur, making his way towards the exit with Rupert, found himself swept into the same current as the Sinclair party.

He caught sight of Miss Bennet again, her face illuminated by the theatre’s exterior lamps, as she stood near the entrance to her carriage. She was a few paces behind her aunt and uncle, who were exchanging farewells with another noble family. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam were still with them, and he saw Darcy offer Miss Elizabeth a quiet smile.

While they waited, Arthur observed another small circumstance. His cousin, the Dowager Countess of Danvers, now making her own departure, paused briefly near the Sinclair party. She offered a warm, almost intimate smile to Miss Jane Bennet, who returned it with genuine affection.

Then, to Arthur’s slight surprise, the Countess’s gaze shifted to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and he saw her offer a quick, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment, a silent communication that seemed to pass between the two women. Miss Elizabeth, in turn, offered a small, knowing smile back to the formidable Dowager. It was a fleeting moment, easily missed amidst the crush, but it suggested a deeper, perhaps more personal connection than Arthur had initially assumed.

As Miss Bennet turned slightly, her eyes once more found his across the crowded thoroughfare. The flickering lamplight caught her gaze, and for a prolonged moment, their eyes held. There was no polite smile this time, no mere acknowledgment. It was a look of shared experience, perhaps even of a burgeoning understanding, a fleeting, almost heated connection amidst the chaos of the departing crowd. He felt a distinct pull, a quiet yearning to bridge the distance, to offer a proper introduction.

But the crowd was too thick, the carriages too numerous, and the moment, as quickly as it had arisen, was gone. The Sinclairs’ coachman called out, and Miss Bennet, with a final, almost imperceptible inclination of her head in his direction, stepped inside the waiting carriage. The door closed, and with a lurch, the carriage pulled away into the night.

Arthur watched the carriage disappear into the night, a peculiar sense of something begun, yet unfulfilled, settling within him. He now knew her name, her family, and a fragment of her story. Miss Jane Bennet.

Fairhaven’s invitation offered him a perfectly proper opportunity to renew the acquaintance, yet Arthur had no wish to appear importunate. Miss Bennet had suffered a recent disappointment, and the last thing he wished was to press his attentions where they might be unwelcome.

He would let the acquaintance rest for the present. London would provide ample opportunities for them to meet again.

And, having already crossed paths with her twice in a single day, Arthur thought it hardly necessary to force a third encounter.

A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 4 (2 replies)

LizzyS — Tue, 15 Sep 2026 01:19:07 +0100

Chapter 4

After a sumptuous dinner marked by unusually spirited conversation, the gentlemen retired to the Marquess of Claremont’s library. Mahogany shelves, leather-bound volumes, and a roaring fire gave the room a quiet warmth, casting long shadows across a landscape painting above the hearth.

Will took a seat opposite Claremont, who sat beside Fairhaven. Richard settled into a deep armchair, brandy in hand, his habitual jovial air yielding to a quiet gravity.

Will, knowing that an explanation was expected, cleared his throat. “My Lords, there are matters which compelled our hasty departure from Rosings Park, and indeed, the unexpected presence of Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth in your home, that I must now explain.”

He began with the arrival of the letter at Hunsford Parsonage, detailing Mr. Collins’s sycophantic bluster and Lady Catherine’s escalating fury. He repeated the accusations her ladyship had made against Elizabeth, that she was engaged in a “scandalous liaison” and was attempting to “elevate her station through illicit means.” As he spoke, he watched Claremont’s anger grow, while Fairhaven’s countenance became grave.

“Her ladyship’s indignation,” Will continued, his voice even, “culminated in a command that Miss Elizabeth prepare for an immediate departure, and remove herself from both Rosings Park and the parsonage without delay.”

Claremont gave an inarticulate exclamation of anger. “By God, the woman has gone too far! To malign my niece in such a manner, under her own roof!”

“Indeed, my Lord,” Richard interjected, his own tone sharp. “But then, a remarkable thing occurred.”

Will nodded and continued. He described his cousin’s intervention. Anne’s assertion of the rights secured to her by her father’s will, and her decision that Lady Catherine should no longer direct the household at Rosings. He related how Anne had insisted that Elizabeth remain under her protection and had arranged their immediate departure.

Claremont leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Will. “So, your cousin has at last asserted her own authority. It appears Elizabeth has found a timely protector in Miss de Bourgh.” A look of quiet satisfaction settled on his features. “She bore the journey well, I trust? She looked weary when you arrived. My wife was right to insist she remain with us for the months ahead.”

“Indeed, my Lord,” Will confirmed. “Anne was most grateful for Lady Claremont’s kindness. Your hospitality has afforded her a degree of comfort and protection which she greatly needed.”

“She shall have every protection we can afford her. Here, she will find all the kindness which friendship can offer,” Fairhaven added softly, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Lady Catherine intended to separate them from every friend. Instead, she has driven them into the care of those most disposed to protect them. It is a rare thing to see an authority so long submitted to so suddenly overthrown.”

Will then shifted, knowing the harder truths still awaited. “There is another matter, my Lords, one which touches upon Miss Elizabeth Bennet and a gentleman whose character deserves your notice. It concerns a man by the name of George Wickham.”

He proceeded to lay bare Wickham’s true nature. His dallying with gentlewomen, deceitful claims, his unpaid debts, and, most damningly, his infamous attempt to elope with Georgiana. He spared no detail of Wickham’s profligacy and lack of principle. Richard affirmed the details, adding his own observations of Wickham’s dissipated character.

Claremont listened, his expression growing grimmer with each revelation. “This is grave indeed, Darcy. That such a man should be allowed to circulate in decent society is an affront. Rest assured, Colonel,” he turned to Richard, his voice cold, “this shall not go unanswered. A man of his ilk will find the militia less hospitable than he imagines.”

Richard’s expression was unreadable, save for the glint of steel in his eyes. “I admit, my Lord, the discovery that he held a commission was a surprise, and a thoroughly distasteful one. But as soon as I learnt that he had obtained a place in the militia, I acted. I wrote at once to those who possess influence in the matter, setting forth his unfitness for the situation he holds and urging that he be removed to a station far from London.”

He paused, a grim smile touching his lips. “Before the week is out, I expect that his orders will be altered. A station so far from these shores, where he can do little mischief to those who have known him, may perhaps give him occasion to consider his conduct.”

“Good,” Claremont pronounced, a decisive nod of his head. “Let it be done swiftly. I shall take care that the necessary application encounters no obstacle in the proper quarter. You have handled this with commendable foresight, Colonel.”

Next, Will turned to a more delicate, yet equally important subject. “There is also the matter of Mr. Charles Bingley. My initial actions concerning him were, I confess, misguided. I believed Miss Bennet indifferent to his affections, a judgment reinforced by certain aspects of her family’s conduct at the time.” He then repeated Colonel Fitzwilliam’s remarks in the carriage concerning Bingley’s former attachments and the ladies whom he had called his ‘angels.’

Fairhaven let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Bingley? Flitting from one ‘angel’ to the next? The man is a weather vane! I recall him being quite besotted with a Miss Caldwell last summer, before suddenly abandoning her for some fleeting whim in the country. And before her, a Miss Davis.” He shook his head. “Hardly the steadfast sort to make a good husband for my cousin.”

Richard exchanged a brief look with Will before turning to Fairhaven. “I fear your opinion of him is shared more widely than you suppose.”

Fairhaven raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

Richard’s expression grew more sober. “A recent attachment was made to a distant cousin on my mother’s side.”

Fairhaven stared at him for a moment. “Your cousin too?” A brief silence followed. Fairhaven’s expression lost some of its amusement. “Then I believe we are of one mind, Colonel. Bingley has contrived to disappoint both our families.”

Richard gave the faintest nod. “So it would appear.”

Will watched them in silence, a heavy weight settling in his chest. Until that moment, he had thought chiefly of Miss Bennet’s individual disappointment. Now he was forced to confront the pattern Bingley had left behind him. Miss Caldwell, Miss Davis, Richard’s cousin, and Jane Bennet. Four ladies, all from respectable families, touched by the same pattern of fickleness in a man Will had so stoutly championed as innocent.

He was confronted by the sobering truth that Bingley’s soft nature concealed a dangerous habit of flightiness. Worse still, Will’s own arrogance in separating Bingley from Miss Bennet had not protected his friend from an imprudent match. It had merely allowed Bingley’s behavior to continue unchecked, while leaving Miss Bennet’s reputation exposed.

Will was uneasy. Despite every fault Bingley had shown, he could not hear his friend condemned without reluctance. Bingley was not perfect, Will could now admit it, with painful clarity, but he was not heartless. Had he not himself been chiefly responsible for separating Bingley from Miss Bennet? He remembered how pride, disguised as concern for his friend, had led him to interfere. Did Bingley deserve to be so severely condemned before his friends? Or was this, too, a cruelty poorly disguised as care?

“Precisely, my Lord,” Will agreed, though with some reluctance. “When I offered to bring Bingley and Miss Bennet together again, both Miss Elizabeth and my cousin declined at once. They were right to observe that Miss Bennet ought not to depend upon an affection which Bingley has not shown himself able to maintain.”

He hesitated, glancing down at his brandy. “Still,” he said, more quietly, “I would ask that no more be said of him than truth requires. Mr. Bingley is not malicious. His failings arise from indecision and an excessive readiness to be guided by others, not from deliberate design. He may not possess the firmness required in such society, but he is not without kindness.”

Fairhaven considered him, then exchanged a silent look with his father. “Are you advocating mercy, Darcy?”

Will set his glass down with a measured breath. “I am asking only that we speak the truth, and no more. Let the facts of his conduct stand. But I cannot, in good conscience, see him hounded as a cad. Misguided, yes, but not ill-intentioned. I have been the instrument of his removal once, let us not become instruments of his ruin as well.”

Claremont stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It seems my niece possesses a keen understanding of true worth. A man who cannot maintain a stable attachment is unworthy of a lady of Jane’s sensibility. Castor, you hear this?”

“Indeed, Father,” Fairhaven replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It seems our task is twofold. To see that Wickham is removed from our notice, and that Mr. Bingley’s former attachments are not entirely forgotten. For a lady of my cousin’s worth, it must be understood that the loss of Mr. Bingley cannot reflect upon her. The fault, it must be clear, lies with his inconstancy, not with Jane’s character.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I believe I know in which quarters a word may be most usefully spoken. A word or two at the clubs, and a few observations in the proper drawing-rooms. His reputation for inconstancy will precede him faster than any post chaise.”

Will could not suppress a twinge of guilt, and finally found the words. “To expose my friend so publicly feels, to my conscience, a great injustice. I was so quick to condemn the weaknesses of others, yet I can see now that my own pride and prejudice led me to interfere in his happiness. My own folly, I confess, contributed to this entire affair. I am not entirely at ease with that course, my Lord. Bingley is my friend. For all his faults, he does not deserve to be made a subject of public ridicule. Perhaps a word in the proper quarter, and nothing more, would suffice. Let him be allowed to withdraw gracefully, not be a subject of ridicule.”

Fairhaven shrugged, studying Will’s troubled expression. “As you wish, Darcy. We do not seek to ruin him, but only to spare Jane further distress and prevent unjust conjecture. The lady’s reputation, after all, is of far greater consequence.”

Richard, who had listened in sober silence, leaned forward and placed a hand on Will’s arm, his expression earnest. “It is a fine line, Will. I know the matter more personally than most, having seen my mother’s family suffer from Bingley’s inconstancy. But we may speak of the matter with proper restraint. Enough to protect Miss Bennet, not destroy Bingley.”

Claremont nodded, a grim satisfaction on his face. “Excellent. A gentle reminder that true gentlemen do not trifle with a lady’s affections, especially those of our family. It will also prevent any aspersion from being cast upon Jane’s character, should Mr. Bingley’s inconstancy become generally understood. It will be clear she was the one abandoned by an unworthy suitor.”

Will leaned back, the tension in his shoulders only half eased. He was grateful for the Sinclair men’s zeal in defence of their relations, yet he knew how readily a just resentment might become excessive. Bingley’s errors need not become his social undoing. For Miss Bennet’s sake, he resolved, and for his own conscience, he would watch carefully how these affairs unfolded. Not every defender needed a sword. Sometimes it required more resolution to restrain one’s friends than to oppose one’s enemies.

The discoveries of the preceding day had altered his understanding of the Bennet sisters. Now they promised to alter the course of their season in London. He knew that, united with their friends, they would lose no time in setting these difficult matters to rights. Miss Bennet and Elizabeth were now surrounded by relations determined to serve them. Will found himself ready to assist them in whatever manner he could.

~*~

The following morning found their little fortress active with new purpose. Before breakfast, Elizabeth watched as Anne stood with careful composure and confirmed her intentions with her hostess.

“I must visit my solicitor as soon as possible, Lady Celeste,” Anne said, her voice clear despite the trace of tension beneath. “It is essential that he understand my wishes, and that he act upon no direction from my mother for the present. There must be no misunderstanding.”

Aunt Celeste gave a decisive nod. “Of course, my dear. The family carriage will take you to Lincoln’s Inn directly after breakfast. Astra, you will see that Miss de Bourgh’s maid is ready for travelling.”

“I will accompany Anne,” Astra said. “Even the most tiresome business is more easily borne in company.”

Anne offered Astra a grateful smile. “It should not detain us long, but I wish every point to be set down plainly. No more uncertainty. I have spent too many years bound by the whims of others.”

When Anne left with Astra and the carriage, Aunt Celeste turned her attention to Elizabeth and Jane. Her eyes brightened with a look of particular satisfaction.

“We have another errand before us this morning, my dears,” she declared. “We are bound for Mrs. Bell’s on St. James’s Street. Now, I know you keep wardrobes in your rooms here, and you have some perfectly charming muslins among them, but very little of it reflects the current London fashion. As for Anne,” she added, glancing down the corridor, “she will require an entire wardrobe suitable to her status. I am determined that all three of you shall be suitably attired for the season.”

Jane looked uncertain, but Selina bounded from her seat. “Oh, Mama, Mrs. Bell? With her new mirrors, and all the latest silks?”

“Yes, darling,” Aunt Celeste smiled. “Mrs. Bell is the only modiste worth consulting this season. There shall be no unfashionable hem or ill-chosen trimming among us.”

Elizabeth exchanged an amused glance with Jane, both recalling their stepmother’s country notions of fashion. Here, dress was not a matter of vanity alone, but of consequence.

Once Anne had returned, the carriage rumbled through the busy streets of London, the ladies chattering excitedly.

“I have heard the finest gowns are to be had at Mrs. Bell’s,” Anne remarked. “If nothing else, it will be an education.”

On their arrival, a bell announced them, and they entered rooms bright with mirrors, where gowns and lengths of the season’s richest fabrics were displayed and fashionable ladies conversed with the attendants. Mrs. Bell herself, a woman of sharp wit and exacting standards, greeted them with a knowing smile.

“Good morning, my lady,” she said, inclining her head. “The newest silks arrived only yesterday, my lady. They will suit the occasion admirably.”

Aunt Celeste returned the smile. “Mrs. Bell, we are putting our trust in you to dress us for the season.”

Elizabeth soon found herself considering muslin trimmings, shades of silk, and the newest forms of bonnet.

“This blue silk would certainly flatter your eyes, Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Bell advised, holding up a shimmering fabric. Jane looked uncertain when the price was named, but Aunt Celeste’s encouraging nod reassured her.

“It is a fine thing to present oneself well,” Aunt Celeste remarked. “In London, one’s appearance is not a trifling matter. You must bear that in mind, Jane.”

Selina, ever enthusiastic, fingered a roll of lace. “Mama, will this be suitable for the ball next month?”

“Only if one wishes to captivate the room, my dear,” Aunt Celeste replied with a wink.

By midday, their measurements had been taken, fabrics selected, bonnets chosen, and Aunt Celeste had spent her pin-money with great liberality. Mrs. Bell promised that the first gowns would be ready before their intended evening at the theatre.

As Elizabeth left Mrs. Bell’s, she felt newly sensible of the place she might claim in London, not merely as a guest, but as a young woman no longer inclined to let others determine her course.

As they settled into the carriage, silk samples in hand, Aunt Celeste tapped her fan against her palm in thoughtful satisfaction. “Mrs. Bell’s gowns are but the beginning. Much depends upon the smaller particulars. We need bonnets and ribbons, and for those, we shall call upon Madame Duval on Bond Street. Her bonnets and ribbons are without equal.”

The short drive to Bond Street carried them through one of London’s most fashionable quarters. Elizabeth watched the handsome shopfronts pass by, jewellers, glovers, and perfumers, each displaying the elegance and expense of London life. When they arrived at Madame Duval’s, the air was light with the scent of fine straw and delicate silk. Before Elizabeth lay an array of bonnets, each more becoming than the last. Even Anne, to her surprise, showed a quiet appreciation for the subtle intricacies of a well-draped ribbon.

“This bonnet, Miss de Bourgh,” Madame Duval suggested, presenting a bonnet adorned with feathers, “would be particularly becoming with your new dress.”

Anne looked at it with a thoughtful expression. “It is rather... bold,” she admitted, though there was a firmness in her manner Elizabeth had not heard before. “I believe this shall be my choice.”

While the ladies made their choices, Madame Duval’s rooms saw a continual succession of fashionable visitors. As the morning advanced, the work of restoring Anne and the Bennet sisters to their proper consequence quietly began. Several ladies known to the family came and went, each, Elizabeth suspected, having received notes the previous day.

Lady Rawdon, a formidable woman known for her keen eye and even sharper tongue, paused by their group, her gaze sweeping over Elizabeth and Jane with an assessing air. “Lady Claremont,” she said, her voice carrying through the room, “I received your delightful note. How wonderful to hear of your nieces’ arrival! And to find Miss de Bourgh here as well! Such an unexpected alteration at Rosings, yet one which says a great deal for the conduct of certain persons.” She gave Elizabeth a pointed, approving nod before moving on.

Moments later, Lady St. Albans, whose imposing presence often preceded her, approached with a measured pace. She said in her firm manner, “Your note has informed me of a great deal. It is most gratifying to see your nieces so properly received among their relations. You may depend upon me to speak of the matter wherever a word from me may be of service.” She offered a slight, almost imperceptible bow to Anne, a clear sign of respect.

Even the usually flighty Lady Dinsmoor, to whom Selina had written, fluttered past, stopping only long enough to exclaim, “Oh, Lady Selina! Your note was so kind! And Miss de Bourgh is quite, quite elegant, exactly as you said! What a very happy alteration!” She beamed at Anne, who blinked, visibly unaccustomed to such artless praise.

“I am glad we have such friends,” Jane whispered, her fingers brushing the silk. “London may be a formidable place, but not so formidable as family.”

Elizabeth smiled softly. “No place can be truly formidable when one is so well-fortified.”

~*~

The crisp air of a London morning met Jane as she stepped from the carriage into Hyde Park. The expanse of green, dotted with elegant riders and strolling families, stretched towards the glimmering ribbon of the Serpentine. It was a stark contrast to the quiet country lanes of Longbourn, yet Jane found its grand scale surprisingly peaceful.

She watched as her Aunt Gardiner fell into step with Astra and Selina, their hushed conversation punctuated by occasional, elegant gestures. Elizabeth, meanwhile, was already engaged in lively discourse with Castor, Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Even at a distance, Jane could see the ease with which Lizzy conversed with her acquaintances. The sight gave her particular pleasure.

Jane’s immediate companions were the Gardiner children, the spirited Amelia, earnest Frederick, curious Harriet, and the youngest, cheerful little James. Their governess, Miss Davies, stood at a polite distance, ever watchful, her demeanour calm but attentive.

“Jane, look at me!” Amelia called, breathless with excitement as she swatted a shuttlecock high into the air with her battledore, though it veered wildly and landed with a soft thud several paces away. “Oh! That one went crooked.”

Jane laughed gently, moving to retrieve it. “A valiant effort, Amelia. Shall we try together?” She took the battledore and showed Amelia the proper motion. “Hold the battledore so, and do not strike too hard. A lighter hand will keep it in the air.”

Frederick and Harriet had crouched beside a shallow pond, where they were attempting to direct their little boats with twigs for rudders.

“I say the flat one works better,” Frederick insisted, frowning.

Harriet held up a crooked little branch like a trophy. “But this one is more like the rudder of an actual boat.”

“You may try both,” said Jane kindly, “and discover which answers best. That is the surest way of settling the question.”

As Harriet leaned precariously far over the muddy bank to test her twig, Miss Davies stepped forward from her post under the trees.

“Miss Bennet! Harriet! Pray come away from the water’s edge, if you please!” the governess called across the grass in her firm, polished tone.

Jane offered Miss Davies a reassuring nod of acknowledgment. “Mind your footing, children,” Jane added softly, guiding Harriet a step back onto the dry path. “We would not have you taking an unexpected bath in the park.”

With the boats abandoned for the moment, Harriet hurried over to join Amelia, eager for a turn with the battledore.

A little apart from them, James struggled with a tangled skein of kite-string, his mouth set in great seriousness. “Jane,” he said at last, “I think my kite has given up.”

Jane knelt beside him with a soft smile. “Then we must persuade it to do better.” Her nimble fingers soon freed the knots, and she set the kite’s tail to rights. “A little patience is often of use,” she said. Then finished with a smile, “And a good run before the wind.”

With a cry of delight, James ran across the grass, the kite streaming behind him like a bright pennant until it caught the breeze and rose above him in wide circles.

Jane observed a tall gentleman, remarkably well dressed, who had paused upon the tree-lined walk to watch the children at play. There was a quiet gravity in his posture, a shadow of melancholy that seemed to separate him from the bustle of the promenade, yet his gaze upon the children was entirely free of disdain.

A sudden shriek distracted Jane as Harriet stumbled while running after the shuttlecock. Before Jane could reach her, the gentleman stepped forward and caught Harriet by the shoulder, preventing her fall.

“Steady there, Miss,” he said, his voice measured and well-bred but softened with genuine concern.

Harriet, startled and shy, nodded her thanks. Jane, who had seen the accident, came forward at once to thank him.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, as she bent to assure herself that Harriet had suffered no hurt. “She can be rather fearless.”

“It is an admirable quality, provided she learns a little caution as well,” he replied, a faint lift at the corner of his mouth that briefly chased away the solemnity in his feature.

For a moment, Jane met his eyes. She was struck not merely by his fine appearance, but by a quality of thoughtful kindness that felt as rare as it was comforting. A quiet warmth stirred within her, making her strangely disinclined for the moment to pass. Then, with the briefest of bows, he stepped away as unobtrusively as he had arrived.

The rest of the morning passed pleasantly in this manner, Jane moving with a natural ease among the children. She corrected a too-loud shout with a soft word, offered encouragement to a faltering step, and shared a quiet laugh as Amelia chased a particularly persistent butterfly. Their simple pleasures gave Jane a measure of comfort after the agitations of the preceding days.

As Jane guided Amelia away from a patch of damp grass, a sharply delivered cough drew her attention. Upon a nearby bench, half concealed by a large parasol, sat a lady of striking elegance, whose countenance expressed no great pleasure. A volume of poetry lay open in her gloved hands, though the noise of the children had plainly disturbed her reading.

“Must children be quite so boisterous?” the lady remarked in a voice which was meant to be heard. Her gaze travelled slowly over Jane. “One might suppose that a little decorum could be preserved, even in a public place.”

Jane felt herself colour, but she answered with perfect civility. She curtsied gently. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. They are only enjoying the air. We shall take care not to disturb you further.”

“Indeed,” the lady replied, her gaze lingering on Jane’s simple, though well-made, walking dress. “One finds such exuberance often accompanies a lack of proper supervision. Or perhaps an ambition to attract attention in company above one’s usual consequence.” The insult was sufficiently plain.

Jane’s smile remained gentle. “Children are often naturally inclined to exuberance, ma’am. It is a part of their charm, I find. As for being noticed, I assure you that my only concern is for their amusement and welfare.” She then turned to her cousins. “Amelia, my dear, perhaps we may play a little farther away. The lady wishes for quiet. James, mind you do not let the kite string stray too close to anyone’s head.”

The children obeyed without complaint, accustomed to Jane’s quiet authority. Jane returned to the bench, believing the lady’s severity to arise from more than mere annoyance.

“You seem rather troubled, ma’am,” Jane ventured, her voice soft with genuine concern. “Is there anything amiss beyond the children’s high spirits?”

The lady’s brows rose. For an instant, her composure appeared less perfect. “Troubled?” she echoed, smoothing the page of her poetry volume with restrained elegance. “No, merely wearied by the changes one sees in society. One observes, of late, a great eagerness among families of no particular consequence to force their way into circles which were once less easily entered. It is a curious time. And some gentlemen, possessing very little judgment, are but too ready to encourage such pretensions.”

The lady’s words touched Jane more nearly than she wished. Though spoken generally, they bore too close a resemblance to her own recent disappointment. Surely the lady spoke as one who had never known the anxiety of being thought unequal to her hopes.

Jane felt a momentary pang as she remembered what she had lately learned of Mr. Bingley. This lady’s words, though directed generally, felt pointed. Perhaps she had known one of the ‘angels.’

“These are changing times, ma’am,” Jane replied softly. “Many families must make the best of altered circumstances, and young people will sometimes act with more hope than prudence. Yet I should hope that kindness and good sense may be found on every side. It is a pity when hearts are misled, on either side.”

The lady regarded Jane closely, as if she expected affectation, but none appeared. “You speak with surprising understanding for one who appears so unacquainted with such matters.” Her manner invited an answer. “Do you not suppose that a young lady is best served by submitting quietly to the station in which she was born?”

Jane’s expression softened, though her manner grew more serious. “Not entirely, ma’am. A recent experience, much like the one you described, has taught me that gentleness must not be mistaken for blindness. A gentle temper need not prevent one from seeing the faults of others, nor from judging an injustice as it deserves. To forgive is not to forget. Nor is a lady bound to pretend that disappointment has given her no pain. There are occasions when one must perceive that an affection is not returned, and bear the knowledge with as much dignity as one may. I have lately learned that resignation is not always submission.” Jane paused, then added, “Or perhaps one must simply learn not to expect constancy where it has not been offered.”

The lady’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. For a moment, the lady appeared to understand her. Just then, the governess approached and offered a slight bow to the lady.

“Miss Bennet,” Miss Davies said, her voice polite, “it is time to return to the carriage. Your aunt will be expecting us.”

The lady’s eyes widened slightly. “Miss Bennet?” she repeated, with renewed attention. “I have heard much of you through a letter the Marchioness of Claremont sent. My cousin’s daughter, Miss Eleanor Vernon, lately became acquainted with a gentleman while she was staying with friends in the country. His attentions, my cousin believed, were genuine. Yet he left suddenly for London, without explanation and without a word to her.”

Jane gave her a look of gentle concern. She pitied Miss Vernon sincerely. The circumstance recalled too much of her own unhappiness. “It seems some gentlemen have a regrettable habit of withdrawing their attentions without explanation, ma’am. I have had a similar experience.” She met the lady’s gaze with perfect composure, though she could not hope entirely to conceal her sorrow. “I am glad to have spoken with you, ma’am, however briefly. I hope your cousin may find, as I trust I shall, that time softens such disappointments.”

The lady regarded her in silence for some moments. Much of her former severity had left her manner when she spoke again. “Thank you, Miss Bennet,” she said, her voice softer than it had been earlier. “I shall repeat your words to her. Indeed, I shall. Perhaps London will prove more interesting than I had anticipated this season.”

She gave a slight nod, and Jane curtsied before returning to the waiting carriage, the children skipping ahead.

As Jane turned to follow them, her gaze happened to sweep across the promenade. She discovered the tall gentleman still lingering near the turn of the path. He appeared to be watching her, though whether from curiosity or mere chance she could not have said. Their eyes met across the distance for one fleeting second, and Jane felt her heart give a small, unexpected flutter before she stepped into the carriage.

Jane felt a quiet satisfaction. The unexpected encounter had given her an opportunity to act as she believed she ought. It seemed that even the proudest persons might be softened by civility and good feeling.

~*~

Arthur Harland walked through Hyde Park with the unhurried air of a gentleman who had nothing to detain him, though he found little pleasure in its walks or waters. It felt strange to be here, newly returned after two years on the Continent, when the London he remembered had grown subtly unfamiliar. The sharp breeze was a relief after the crowded rooms of Vienna, and he welcomed it after so many letters of business.

He moved as a visitor in his own country, out of step with the rhythm of the society he had left behind. Conversation, even with old acquaintances, rang strangely in his ears. His brother’s death, so carefully concealed by the family, remained with him, though he spoke of it to no one. The world about him went on in ignorance, though there had been whispers concerning his brother’s health, whispers Arthur affected not to hear.

He had meant to seek solitude, but his attention was caught by a lively party among the trees. Children at play, their governess watching nearby, and a young lady whose manner distinguished her no less than her appearance. She treated the children with kindness and ease, yet they plainly knew she expected to be obeyed.

A call carried clearly across the grass from the governess. “Miss Bennet! Harriet! Pray come away from the water’s edge, if you please!”

Miss Bennet. So, she was the eldest daughter of her family, and no mere companion or governess. The name stirred his curiosity, though he could not yet guess what family she belonged to.

He had watched her settle a dispute between two others who were attempting to direct their little boats with twigs and later kneel to free a boy’s kite-string.

Just then, one of the girls, Harriet, he now knew, ran laughing across the grass after a wayward shuttlecock. Arthur saw, almost before it happened, that she would stumble at the uneven edge of the path. He reached her in time to take her gently by the shoulder and prevent her fall.

“Steady there, Miss,” he murmured, careful not to frighten the girl. She righted herself, wide-eyed but unharmed, and offered him a shy smile.

Miss Bennet, whom he took at first for the children’s governess or nurse, was beside them at once. As she bent to assure herself that Harriet was unhurt, Arthur had opportunity to observe her more closely. Her walking dress was simple, though well made, elegant without being ostentatious. It offered little indication of her family’s consequence, though there was nothing in its cut or quality to suggest a position of servitude.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, with a smile of unaffected sweetness. “She can be rather fearless.”

“It is an admirable quality, provided she learns a little caution as well,” he replied, surprising himself with the gentle humor in his voice. Their eyes met for a moment, and Arthur found himself reluctant to look away. There was a soft intelligence in her gaze, a serene warmth that seemed to reach straight through his defensive reserve, leaving him singularly prepossessed in her favor.

He offered the briefest of bows and withdrew, though he hesitated to turn from a scene of such unstudied warmth. The sunlight upon her hair, the sweetness of her smile, and the total absence of affectation in her manner offered a quiet comfort he had not realized he sought. She returned to the children’s game with seamless ease, leaving him captivated by a dignity so natural yet so rare in the world he inhabited.

He remained upon a nearby seat, watching the children’s easy play amidst the grand promenade, letting their unstudied shouts fill the hollow quiet that London’s high society had left within him. Children’s games, he thought wryly, were far easier to interpret than adult conversations.

After a time, he drew himself up and resumed his walk, though his curiosity had not entirely left him. He found himself wondering who Miss Bennet was, and whether their paths were likely to cross again. London was vast, and its society so crowded that he could scarcely hope to discover her by chance.

His gaze returned to the young woman, only to discover her in conversation with a figure he knew all too well. Sitting upon a bench beneath a silk parasol was his cousin, a lady whose severe countenance and formidable tongue kept half of London in check.

Arthur slowed his steps.

Yet Miss Bennet showed no trace of intimidation. She curtsied with quiet grace and spoke with an unruffled composure that visibly softened his cousin’s habitual coldness. To command such respectful attention from a woman usually so unyielding was no small feat. Arthur found himself lingering, curious to hear what had so engaged them.

The conversation continued longer than he had expected. He watched Miss Bennet answer his cousin with the same quiet composure she had shown him, neither overawed nor eager to please. There was something in her manner that did not accord with the uncertainty of her dress or the modesty of her apparent circumstances.

Yet, as Miss Bennet spoke with his cousin, Arthur thought he detected a fleeting alteration in her expression, so slight that he could not be certain he had seen it at all. For an instant, the composure he had first admired seemed to waver, only to return almost at once. Whatever thought had crossed her mind, she gave no outward sign.

Then he considered the name anew.

Miss Bennet.

Surely, she must belong to a respectable family. Or was she? Could she be the daughter of a wealthy merchant, or perhaps a tradesman of some consequence? Her manner suggested a gentility that her simple dress did not readily explain. There were expectations attached to his family that could not simply be disregarded, however little he might wish to think of them at present. Yet the impression she had made upon him would not be dismissed. He had seen something that morning for which he had not been prepared.

As the governess summoned the children to depart, Miss Bennet turned to lead them toward a waiting carriage. Arthur remained fixed where he stood, unable to break the spell of her presence. Before she stepped inside, she turned back toward the path. Her eyes found his across the open grass. In her expression he saw no boldness, but a quiet, questioning sympathy, as though she had perceived the melancholy he had worked so hard to conceal.

The moment was over in an instant, yet the impression it left remained stubbornly behind.

At last, he forced himself to continue on his way. As he left the trees and the children’s laughter behind him, Arthur Harland found himself wondering how difficult it could truly be to discover who Miss Bennet was.

A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 3 (3 replies)

LizzyS — Wed, 09 Sep 2026 02:24:58 +0100

Chapter 3

As the carriage slowed to navigate the crowded streets of London, Elizabeth turned to him. “There is something else I must tell you, Mr. Darcy. My father does not yet know the full extent of our plans.”

Then, turning to Miss Bennet, who sat beside Elizabeth, she added, “It may already be too late for Father to command me home.”

Miss Bennet’s brow furrowed. “The entire season? What do you mean, too late? What did you do, Lizzy? Father agrees to two weeks in London every season. Two weeks has always been the arrangement.”

Elizabeth’s expression hardened. “And why should he? Why should we be confined to a paltry fortnight when our mother’s family has always wished to receive us for longer? The truth is, Jane, it was never about money. There have been many invitations for us to remain longer each year, and he has refused. He retreats to his library and refuses every effort at reconciliation, all to preserve a domestic peace which is, in truth, no peace at all. We ought not to be denied the society into which our mother’s family would introduce us. Yet through selfishness and wounded pride, he has thrown those advantages away. Mrs. Bennet is perfectly content for us to remain at my uncle’s estate, provided we are kept from the notice of society.”

Jane hesitated, her voice quieter. “You believe pride to be the cause?”

Elizabeth met her gaze squarely. “It has always been pride, Jane, and mortification. You know as well as I do that Father was far below the daughter of a duke in society’s eyes. Grandfather made no secret of his belief that Father could not provide the life our mother was accustomed to. Father denied it, of course, but their marriage settlement secured every shilling of her fortune for her children, and left none of it at his disposal. It was an insult he has never forgiven. Each year, by allowing us only this brief visit and never the full season, he appears determined to prove that we are independent of them.”

Jane’s lips parted, startled at her sister’s bluntness. “I always thought he was simply unwilling to be long separated from us.” She paused thoughtfully before continuing, “I cannot divest myself of the belief that he grieves her absence still, most especially whenever we leave home, and above all under our grandfather’s roof. Perhaps he could never separate his sadness from the bitterness of how things were arranged.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “He will not grant Grandfather the satisfaction of guiding us, nor risk being reminded that in their eyes, he married far above himself. Thus we are permitted only a partial acquaintance with that society, knowing no more than our uncle’s and grandfather’s most intimate friends. We are never permitted to extend our acquaintance as our situation might otherwise allow.” Her chin lifted, eyes bright with determination. “Before we left Rosings, I sent Father a letter. I told him of our cousin’s wish for us to remain in London for the entire season. I told him that, if he wishes me to return sooner, he must come to London himself and require me to leave my uncle’s house.”

A stunned silence filled the carriage. Richard glanced between the sisters, a slow grin dawning. Will regarded Elizabeth with surprise and an admiration he made no effort to conceal.

Miss Bennet’s hands flew to her mouth. “Lizzy! How could you? What if he comes? What if he is angry?”

“Then he will be angry,” Elizabeth said, her voice calm. “I shall soon reach my majority, and I am no longer disposed to yield to such dictation. We have the means before us now, to establish our own independence and fix our place in the world. The breach between our father and grandfather ought not forever to determine the extent of our acquaintance and prospects.” She reached for Miss Bennet’s hand. “It is the only means by which we may be properly known in society, rather than admitted for only a brief visit each season. I will not have it taken from us.”

Richard’s brows lifted, and he gave a half-smile that was almost wry. “In ordinary circumstances, I should be seriously alarmed by the impropriety of a young lady refusing her father’s express command. But in this case...” His gaze flicked toward Will, as if conceding the point before it was spoken.

Elizabeth’s eyes glimmered with a certain mischief. “In this instance, my grandfather is a duke, and my host takes precedence over nearly the whole of the peerage. My father’s pride will protect me. He would never dare create a spectacle by attempting to remove me from my uncle’s protection as though I were a truant child. Indeed, it would be his own dignity most in danger, not mine.”

Will’s mouth curved in the faintest smile, his voice low in agreement. “Quite true. No man of sense would willingly oppose such powerful relations in so public a manner. You reside beneath a mantle of rank that few would care to assault.”

Richard let out a soft chuckle. “And so, where another young lady might face ruin for such an act, you will, instead, set society abuzz with admiration for your spirit. In this case, Miss Elizabeth, I believe you are quite right. Your resolution may prove more advantageous than any accomplishment.” Turning serious, he continued, “It is a great injustice that a father’s obstinacy, however much it may arise from wounded pride, should be permitted to limit his daughters’ prospects. He has neglected his duty to you, and it does you credit that you have sought to secure advantages which ought not to have been withheld.”

Will nodded in solemn agreement. “It is an unconscionable failure of paternal obligations. A man’s pride should never stand higher than his duty to his children. To allow private resentment to prejudice the establishment of his children is a fault which cannot be justified. In that, I entirely agree with you.”

Anne, who had been listening intently, reached for Elizabeth’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “It is a hardship which I can readily comprehend. I, too, was presented before the Queen and then sent back to Rosings almost at once. It was only through my Aunt Emily’s influence that I was allowed even that much, and my mother soon recalled me to Rosings, certain my future had already been settled. She was determined I should remain under her immediate authority, precisely as your father has kept you under his.”

Will looked at her in open astonishment. “You were presented, Anne? I do not recall...”

“Aunt Emily is cousin to the Lord Chamberlain, Will,” Anne said, smiling faintly. “She secured a special exemption that would allow me to use the High Court Dress and, I suspect, prevailed upon Uncle Henry to exert his influence with my mother. Being my father’s heiress, I was expected to be presented. My supposed ‘ill-health’ provided my mother with a ready reason to keep me from society.” Her smile widened into something freer, almost daring. “But now we may, perhaps, act more according to our own judgment. Well done, Elizabeth. You have shown your father a degree of resolution which he may not have expected. I am very happy to claim your friendship.”

Mrs. Jenkinson, seated beside Anne, added warmly, “Indeed, Miss Elizabeth. You will find, I think, that there are ladies in London whose influence may prevent your father’s intentions from being too readily enforced.”

Miss Bennet held Elizabeth’s hands tightly, her gaze softening into something like awe. “Indeed, you have, Lizzy. Oh, Lizzy.” Her voice trembled, but her smile was steady. “I am afraid of what may come, and yet I am so proud. You have done this for both of us. It is the most generous, most generous thing I have ever known. Thank you.”

The journey through London’s streets was swift, and soon they arrived at the marquess’s great townhouse. Will approached the house with his usual reserve, but Richard’s ease, and the Earl’s cordial reception, soon placed the party at their ease.

“Jane! Lizzy! You are here at last!” Fairhaven, generally remarkable for composure, stepped forward with an animation unusual in him and embraced his cousins warmly. “Darcy! Fitzwilliam! I am glad to see you both.” He clasped their hands warmly. “You know my father, of course.”

The Marquess, a tall and dignified man, greeted his nieces with stately formality softened by evident affection. “Jane, Lizzy, my dear girls, welcome. We are very happy to receive you.” He then turned to the gentlemen, whom he regarded with polite attention. “Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, welcome. Darcy, it is good to see you again, sir. Our next bout is long overdue. Colonel Fitzwilliam, my son has spoken highly of you. I trust you will find our house agreeable during the season.”

Will bowed. “You do us great honor, my lord. I am grateful for your hospitality.”

Claremont looked at Elizabeth with particular affection, and his manner became still more kindly. He then looked towards Darcy, as though silently enquiring into his opinion.

Fairhaven, who appeared to understand his father’s meaning, smiled. “Father, you will find Darcy possesses a remarkably discerning eye for true merit and beauty,” he added, looking briefly towards Elizabeth.

That quiet observation caused Will to colour, a reaction he hoped would pass unnoticed by the others. Claremont appeared satisfied. “I am glad to hear it,” he said, a satisfied air about him.

When the first civilities had passed, the Claremont gave a sign to the butler waiting by the doors. The servants relieved them of their travel cloaks, hats, and riding things. The brief business of removing cloaks and hats gave the party a moment of quiet.

As they were ushered further into the grand drawing-room, the last of the afternoon light began to fade, catching the rich velvet drapery and gleaming against the gilded moldings, which cast long, intricate shadows in the twilight. The drawing-room was large and handsomely furnished. Before they had been long within it, the remaining members of the Sinclair family entered.

First came the Marchioness of Claremont, Celeste Sinclair, a handsome woman whose dark hair was touched with silver. She entered with dignity, and immediately turned towards her nieces. “Jane, Lizzy, my dear girls, come, let me properly embrace you both! The house is much enlivened by your arrival.” Her warmth was genuine, her embrace firm.

Behind her, two younger ladies entered. One was a vision of serene elegance, her quiet dignity suggesting a recent sorrow. This was Lady Astra Sinclair-Pembroke, the Earl’s twin and a childless widow. Her husband, Lord Fenwick, had died only two years before, thrown from his horse while attempting to rescue a shepherd boy caught in a sudden flood.

Will noted the polite, almost reserved curtsy she offered to the gentlemen, yet Richard’s attention rested upon her a moment longer than propriety required, with evident admiration in his expression. Lady Astra answered with the slightest inclination of her head.

Beside her was a young woman of perhaps eighteen, with lively eyes and a graceful, almost ethereal air. This was Lady Selina Sinclair, the youngest daughter. She curtsied with a youthful eagerness that belied her gentle expression.

After a moment, the Marchioness asked, “Jane and Lizzy, would one of you introduce us to our guests?”

Elizabeth stepped forward, taking Anne’s arm. “Indeed, Aunt Celeste. It would be my pleasure.”

Will watched Anne curtsy politely to each lady in turn, her usual quiet reserve softening beneath the Marchioness’s warm and unwavering smile.

“Well then, Lizzy,” the Marchioness said, her eyes twinkling with a blend of mischief and motherly firmness, “what has brought you to London sooner than expected? Do tell. I expect there must be quite the story.”

Elizabeth spared Anne a quick glance, then began to explain the tumultuous events at Rosings. She described Lady Catherine’s thunderous accusations, the scandal surrounding the letter, and Anne’s resolute decision that Elizabeth should remain at Rosings as her guest. As Elizabeth spoke, the family listened with sympathy and keen interest.

Will observed the subtle shifts around the room. The Marchioness’s expression tightened in understanding, while Fairhaven’s genial expression grew more serious, his glance moving protectively between Jane and Elizabeth. Lady Astra’s hands clenched quietly before her, a muted outrage evident, Lady Selina’s usual brightness dimmed as she drew a sharp breath. Even the stoic Marquess of Claremont nodded approvingly at Anne, recognizing her quiet courage.

The Marchioness’s expression grew stern for a moment, understanding passing between her and Will. Indeed, she knew Lady Catherine well enough to grasp the gravity of the situation.

“Given these troublesome circumstances, Miss de Bourgh,” the Marchioness said at last, her voice softening with sincere warmth, “we would be absolutely delighted if you would honor us by staying here throughout the season. Our house is large enough to afford you both company and quiet when you require it, and we should be very happy to offer you a more agreeable refuge from the late disturbances.”

Anne, however, demurred with a polite but firm smile. “You are too kind, my lady. I have plans of my own. I mean to establish myself in my own house in town, and Mrs. Jenkinson will remain with me.”

Will felt a quiet satisfaction. This arrangement would place Anne in a situation of greater independence than she had ever known. Yet he could not be easy at the thought of her living with no companion but Mrs. Jenkinson.

He offered Anne a reassuring smile, though he could not hide his concern. “Are you quite certain? It would ease all our minds to have you closer. You would be most welcome at Darcy House, Anne.”

“Nonsense, cousin,” Richard chuckled, leaning forward with a genial smile. “You will stay with my parents, as is only proper. Mother and Father would never forgive me otherwise. You are family, after all.”

The Marchioness’s smile broadened, her tone shifting into playful insistence. “My dear, it is decided. You shall be our guest for the season. I will not hear another word on the matter. Between the five of you, I expect the house will brim with more laughter and gaiety than Rosings could ever inspire. And really, what could be more delightful than enjoying all that London has to offer. After all you did for our Lizzy, we should count it a particular happiness to offer you our friendship and protection.”

Will saw that Anne hesitated, uncertain whether to accept so generous an invitation. He glanced at Elizabeth, who appeared equally aware of Anne’s hesitation. Elizabeth leaned in, reaching out to touch Anne’s hand.

“We should be very happy to have you with us, Anne,” said Elizabeth warmly. “Your company would give us the greatest pleasure. But you must decide only as you think best for yourself. Whether you remain with us or establish yourself in your own house, we shall be equally glad of your happiness.”

Miss Bennet nodded, her gentle smile encouraging. “Elizabeth is right. We should be very happy to receive you, but you must follow your own judgment.”

The conversation became easier as Anne looked from one face to another. Anne looked from Elizabeth to Jane, and then to the Marchioness, whose manner was now wholly kind. At last, Anne’s hesitation gave way. She smiled with gratitude, though some embarrassment remained.

“Thank you,” Anne said, her voice soft. “It is a great comfort to be treated with such consideration. I should be very happy to accept your kind offer.”

After a short pause, Will addressed Claremont. “If it would please you, my lord, perhaps you and your family would join me at the theatre later this week?”

Claremont shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “We have a box, Darcy. But you and your friends must join our party. I insist.”

Will inclined his head in acceptance, feeling the last of his anxieties ebb away. The Marquess’s approval, the Earl’s friendship, and the kindness shown to Miss Bennet, Elizabeth, and Anne gave Darcy more hope than he had permitted himself to feel.

As the party dispersed to refresh themselves before dinner, Will caught Elizabeth’s eye. Her manner was easier than it had been since they left Rosings. For the first time since leaving Rosings, Will allowed himself to believe that the future might hold happiness for them all.

~*~

The drawing room was a study in quiet splendour. Ivory panelling gleamed beneath the flicker of beeswax candles, and the scent of lavender and old wood lent the air an almost chapel-like hush. It was a room designed for elegance, but tonight it served another purpose. A family conclave, convened not in anger, but in refined discretion behind fortified walls.

The gentlemen had withdrawn to the library after dinner, and the ladies, as custom dictated, had resumed their own circle. There was no stiffness among the Sinclair women, only the soft rustle of silk and the low murmur of confidential conversation. Even Anne, who only days before had sat silent and withdrawn at Rosings, now reclined beside the Marchioness with evident ease.

Elizabeth sat beside Jane on a damask sofa beneath the portrait of a long-dead duchess, their tea untouched on the table before them. Across from them, Aunt Celeste sat with Anne and Astra, while Selina occupied a footstool nearby and listened with the closest attention.

Aunt Celeste turned toward Anne with the sharp glint of purpose in her dark eyes. “You said she flew into a rage during dinner?” she asked mildly, her hands busy folding a sheet of writing paper.

“She did,” Anne replied with cool precision. “The seal on the letter caught her eye. She broke decorum entirely. She then attempted to open it, until my cousins prevented her.”

Elizabeth sipped her tea with care, though her fingers curled more tightly around the porcelain. “She accused me of being a kept woman.”

“Unforgivable,” murmured Astra. “But very much her style.”

“And then,” Anne added, with faint amusement, “I invited Elizabeth to remain at Rosings, and made it very plain that she was my guest.” She looked up, a rare amusement visible in her expression. “The effect was most gratifying.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Aunt Celeste’s mouth. “No doubt. We must act without delay. Once Catherine discovers that she can no longer direct your affairs, or the account which society receives, she will begin her efforts against you.”

“She will write letters,” Anne said calmly, folding her hands in her lap. “Of that I have no doubt. She may already have done so. To Lady Presbury, perhaps. To Lady Beechworth. And certainly to Lady Safford.”

Aunt Celeste tilted her head. “Yes, Catherine has always preferred the heavy hand. She will wish to establish her version of events before the season is far advanced. Letters to matrons, murmurs to old friends in drawing rooms. She will endeavour to make it the scandal of the season. She assumes you are too weak to oppose her account of the affair.”

“She is mistaken,” Anne said, her voice still low but firm.

Elizabeth could scarcely believe the transformation in Anne. Here was the same woman who had once sat silent through innumerable dinners at Rosings, now speaking with a composure and resolution Elizabeth had never expected from her. She could not but admire Anne, yet the gravity of their situation soon returned to her mind.

Elizabeth hesitated, glancing toward Jane. “She knows how to alter the truth only enough to do harm. I do not suppose she will mention the letter itself. Only the implication, ‘concerns of impropriety,’ or ‘ambiguous connections.’ She need only hint that I was removed from Rosings in disgrace.”

“She will not say so directly,” Astra added. “She prefers innuendo. She delights in the appearance of righteous indignation, while leaving others to repeat what she has only implied.”

“She knows how to create a scandal,” Aunt Celeste corrected, “but she forgets London may enjoy a story, yet it prefers one with polish and pedigree.”

“That is certainly true,” Selina added.

“We must be more prompt,” Aunt Celeste said evenly, reaching for her writing box. “Not by making more noise, but by ensuring that our account is heard in the proper quarter.”

Anne leaned forward, her voice crisp. “What do you recommend?”

Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane, who nodded. “You mean to write to her friends?”

“Not friends,” Aunt Celeste replied with a faint smile. “Ladies whose opinions are likely to be repeated. Lady Rawdon, for example. Her memory is poor, but she repeats what she is told with absolute conviction. And Lady St. Albans, who will forget the facts but remember that I told them to her.”

With a dip of her pen, Aunt Celeste continued. “Then Lady Parchment must have a letter. She gathers gossip as a miser gathers gold. Another to Lady Henshaw. She will dine with the Montfords next week. And do not forget Lady Danvers. She may be the only person alive whom Catherine fears.”

Jane looked up in mild alarm. “Will they not see through so obvious a design?”

“Oh, my dear,” Aunt Celeste said kindly, “they will understand precisely what it is proper for them to understand. That the Bennet sisters are the beloved nieces of the Marquess of Claremont. That Miss de Bourgh came to London by her own desire. And that any contrary account proceeds from malice or misunderstanding.”

Anne leaned forward. “It must be understood that I invited Miss Bennet to stay with me at Rosings, that she was my guest, under my protection.”

“And that she is now under ours,” Aunt Celeste added. “Our relationship to the Bennet sisters must be properly understood. Not as a circumstance to be discovered later, but as a fact which society must know from the first. Granddaughters of the Duke, nieces of the Marquess, beloved cousins of the Earl. Their consequence in society is beyond dispute, and anyone who questions it merely shows that they do not move in the first circles.”

Astra’s voice was cool and deliberate. “That is precisely the light in which Lady Catherine must be seen. Offended, certainly, but no longer possessed of the consequence she imagines.”

“It is entirely a question of drapery,” Selina added quietly. “The truth will serve, but it must be dressed in the correct silk.”

“Precisely,” said Aunt Celeste, her pen already flying across the first sheet. “They will learn that Lady Catherine presumed to interfere where she had no right. That Anne asserted the authority which was properly hers. And that no reproach attaches to Elizabeth Bennet, but only to the lady who endeavoured to injure her.”

Anne watched with an animation Elizabeth would once have thought impossible in her. “I must write one as well. To Lady Arbuthnot. She is an old friend of my mother’s, and has long suspected my mother of carrying matters too far.”

Aunt Celeste paused, her pen hovering. “Too far? You mean her habit of instructing every acquaintance in their supposed faults, or of ruling Rosings as though it were a kingdom?”

Anne gave a faint, resolute nod. “Both. And the manner in which every kindness she bestows becomes, in time, a claim upon obedience. Lady Arbuthnot has always seen through the ‘benevolence’. She has little patience for piety which is made the instrument of vanity. If she hears that my mother attempted to force a guest from a marquess’s house, she will require no further proof that Lady Catherine de Bourgh has forgotten every claim of propriety.”

Aunt Celeste looked at her first with surprise, and then with clear approval. “That is an excellent thought, Anne. You are right. She is precisely the person to whom such intelligence should be conveyed.”

Astra set down her tea, her gaze softening toward her cousin. “We do not act from vanity, but from a desire to defend those who are unjustly attacked. If this is to be your season, Elizabeth and Jane, it must begin under circumstances of your own choosing, not by Lady Catherine’s direction.”

Selina now asked, “May I write one too, Mama? To Lady Dinsmoor. She is such a goose that she will understand only half of it, and think herself vastly clever for having heard it first.”

Aunt Celeste considered her youngest daughter with a soft, indulgent look. “Yes, darling. A short note. Nothing that could appear to be gossip. Merely a warm expression of our happiness in having your cousins with us for the season, and of our pleasure in receiving Miss de Bourgh.”

“I shall say Anne is the most elegant guest we have ever had,” Selina added with a pleased smile. Anne blinked, visibly unaccustomed to praise delivered so artlessly.

Aunt Celeste opened her writing box, drawing out another sheaf of thick cream paper embossed with the family arms. “We will begin tonight. Astra, would you see to Lady Harwood and Lady Pelham? They always dine together. You may remind them how they detest abruptness in conversation. It will make Lady Catherine’s manner seem particularly ill-bred.”

Astra inclined her head in agreement. “And I will include the detail about Anne’s chamber being adjacent to yours. That circumstance will be sufficiently understood by those who know how to estimate its true merit.”

“Very good,” Aunt Celeste said. “Elizabeth, Jane, would you care to write to anyone personally?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “I scarcely know whom to trust.”

“Write to your Aunt Gardiner,” Aunt Celeste said. “I shall see to the rest.”

Jane said softly, “It is strange. We have never been obliged to consider our names in this way, or to understand what consequence they may possess.”

Aunt Celeste looked over at them both. “That is because you were raised by a man who loved his first wife deeply, and who has withdrawn from much of life since her death. There is something admirable in such constancy, but it has left you unprepared for a world in which a name, or a silence, may be made to serve another’s design.”

“Then we are grateful,” Elizabeth said, her voice low but steady, “to those who understand how such things may be used on our behalf.”

Aunt Celeste met her gaze. “No, my dear. We do not act merely in your defence. You are not a guest here. You are ours. And we shall take care that such a truth is universally acknowledged.”

Elizabeth turned her face slightly, blinking away the sting in her eyes. The kindness of their certainty gave Elizabeth a composure she had not expected. It was one thing to answer an unjust accusation in a drawing-room. This was something more enduring. The assurance of relations who would acknowledge her openly and stand by her. It rested in letters, in family, and in the quiet influence of those who knew how to employ both.

Elizabeth looked at her sister, whose composed manner could not wholly conceal her melancholy, and felt an urgent need to speak. If their time in London was to bring any real change, Jane ought to hear the truth from her. When the others were occupied with letters and conversation, Elizabeth touched Jane’s hand and drew her aside to a quieter place upon the settee.

“Jane,” she said softly, “there is something of importance you must hear from me, not from others.”

Her sister looked at her with immediate apprehension.

“It concerns Mr. Bingley’s departure from Netherfield.” Elizabeth’s voice was calm, carefully measured, though her heart raced with the responsibility of the confession. “What you have long wondered, that decisive reason, was not wholly his own. Mr. Darcy spoke honestly to me and Anne on the carriage ride from Rosings. Believing your attachment to be slight, and disapproving of certain particulars in our family’s behaviour, he persuaded Mr. Bingley to leave Netherfield.”

She hurriedly added, “But he did not act alone, Jane. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst supported him, and were only too ready to confirm every objection he entertained against our connections. Between the three of them, they convinced him it was best for your happiness and his own standing that he remove himself from your influence.”

Jane was silent for a moment, looking at Elizabeth in astonishment. “He did this? For my sake? Or his?”

Elizabeth managed a small, sad smile. “He claimed it was concern, but pride and friendship, I suspect, had no small share in the motive. He did not know your heart, Jane, and he was too ready to judge from appearances. He believed he was sparing you disappointment and Bingley an unsuitable match.”

Silence filled the space between them, full of unspoken disappointment. Jane covered her sister’s hand with her own, eyes bright with unshed tears, though her voice was gentle as ever. “Thank you for your honesty, dearest.”

“There is more, Jane,” Elizabeth continued, her voice hardening. “Colonel Fitzwilliam confirmed that since leaving Hertfordshire, Mr. Bingley has been attached to two other young ladies. And Miss Bingley? She has known you were in London these past two months. She took care that Mr. Bingley should remain ignorant of your presence in town.”

Jane looked at her in renewed astonishment. “She... she kept him from knowing?”

Astra’s eyes flashed with a cold, refined disdain. “That sounds precisely like Caroline Bingley. I saw her at the opera only last week, paying the Earl of Selsdon such marked attention that even I found it difficult to overlook. She considers marriage an advancement to be secured, rather than a connection to be valued.”

Selina, sitting on her footstool, piped up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Oh, I saw her at the Marchioness of Salisbury’s rout, Jane. She was telling every person who would hear her that ‘that lovely, simple Bennet girl’ had forgotten Mr. Bingley and resigned herself to languishing in the country.”

Selina leaned forward with evident satisfaction. “I did not let it pass, of course. I went directly to her and asked, in a voice which could not be mistaken, why she concerned herself so much with a young lady whom she professed to hold in no consequence. I observed that, were you truly as ‘simple’ as she claimed, she would hardly find it necessary to persuade the company of its truth. You should have seen her face. She turned the color of a bruised plum. She is not merely proud. She is a weaver of fiction.”

“A weaver of fiction,” Aunt Celeste echoed, her tone sharp as a blade. “And she will find that such tales gain little credit here. She values herself as an ornament of the ton, yet she descends to the lowest species of gossip whenever the truth does not flatter her.”

Jane’s breath caught. Jane’s countenance, usually so tranquil, now expressed a degree of uncertainty and pain. “I did care for him, Lizzy. But I see now, I think you are right. He is not steadfast, not the man I imagined. If he may be so readily guided by another’s influence, then he was never the man I believed him to be.”

Anne looked up from her own note and said gently, “He was not worthy of you. Had Will not interfered, the Bingleys would, I fear, have found some other means of separating him from you. They wished to direct every circumstance of his life; and he appears only too willing to submit to their direction.”

Jane dabbed her eyes and managed a quiet smile. “Thank you all. I have lost an illusion, nothing more.” She turned to Elizabeth, her voice steady. “Truth is better, even when it gives pain. It has, after all, been nearly six months since his departure from Meryton, and two since I received any word from Miss Bingley. I have had more than enough time to reconcile myself to it. I am proud to call you my sister, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth’s heart eased at last. Surrounded by family affection and at last in possession of the truth, Elizabeth knew that she and Jane could meet whatever London might yet bring.

Elizabeth met Anne’s gaze across the room. The timid girl of Rosings seemed wholly altered. Anne now possessed a composure and resolution which could not be mistaken. Anne inclined her head almost imperceptibly.

Aunt Celeste folded the last letter. “These shall reach the ladies most likely to repeat them by tomorrow. Before Lady Catherine’s first insinuation reaches town, she will find that the true account is already known.”

“Indeed,” Anne said, almost smiling, “and her account already much out of fashion.”

There was a shared breath of satisfaction among them.

Elizabeth settled back upon the settee and looked around the room. She saw Aunt Celeste’s ease in commanding a room, and Uncle Maxwell’s reserve reflected in Astra’s poise. For the first time since receiving the letter, she no longer felt entirely at the mercy of circumstances, but conscious of a place and influence of her own.

As the ink dried upon the letters, and a footman waited to deliver them discreetly to their several destinations, Elizabeth looked around the room. At Anne, now calm and composed in a manner she had seldom been permitted to display. Astra, elegant and precise. At Jane, whose beauty was now accompanied by a quieter strength. Selina, eager to be of assistance. And Aunt Celeste, already engaged upon a third letter, with the slightest smile upon her lips.

It was no longer merely a drawing-room.

It was a fortress.

For Elizabeth Bennet, the London season had at last begun.

A Season for Truth adnd Triumph Chapter 2 (3 replies)

LizzyS — Tue, 08 Sep 2026 07:39:06 +0100

My plans changed and I had a nice and quiet evening at home.

Chapter 2

The morning air at Rosings was cold and clear, with a sharpness Elizabeth had not previously observed. Wrapped in a warm cloak, she watched as the last of her belongings were stowed in the carriage. The scene was markedly different from her arrival. There was no Mr. Collins bowing to the floor while attempting to oversee every detail, only the quiet efficiency of Anne’s servants. Anne stood beside Elizabeth, watching the preparations with unusual composure. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy were already on horseback, prepared to accompany the carriage for the first part of the journey.

Elizabeth settled into the carriage, still much affected by the extraordinary events of the preceding evening. Anne’s presence afforded Elizabeth comfort which she had never expected to find at Rosings.

“Are you quite comfortable, Elizabeth?” Anne asked, as Elizabeth arranged herself in the carriage. Mrs. Jenkinson, looking somewhat flustered but obedient, took her place opposite them.

“Perfectly so, Anne,” Elizabeth replied, smiling. The events of the preceding evening still seemed scarcely credible, yet Elizabeth could not deny her relief.

As the carriage moved away from Rosings, Elizabeth glanced out the window toward the lane that led to Hunsford Parsonage. A faint pang of disappointment touched her heart. She had expected Charlotte to appear, if only to offer a few words of comfort or a private farewell after the events of the preceding evening. Yet, as the parsonage disappeared from sight, Elizabeth began to think herself fortunate that no farewell had been required. After Charlotte’s silence during Lady Catherine’s accusations, an awkward, evasive farewell would have been difficult. It was better that matters should remain as they were.

For some time, neither spoke, yet the silence was not disagreeable.

Anne was the first to speak, with a slight smile. “I hope you did not find the packing too abrupt,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I instructed the servants to be swift, but not careless. If anything is missing, you must tell me at once.”

Elizabeth shook her head, grateful for Anne’s concern. “You are too kind. I assure you, all is well. I am grateful for your thoughtfulness, and your courage. The events of last night tried us all.”

Anne gave a rueful smile. “I never imagined I would have to banish my own mother from the dining room. Mrs. Jenkinson, did you ever think you would see such a thing?”

Mrs. Jenkinson, usually so reticent, allowed herself a small, approving smile. “Miss Anne, I have always known you had strength. Sometimes, Miss Anne, a person’s true character is not known until it is put to the trial.”

Anne looked away, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I only wish I had acted sooner. There were so many times I wished to speak, but I was afraid. Afraid of what I might lose, or what I might become. But now, I see there are worse things than change. There is great relief in it, is there not? To be at last delivered from such constant authority.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly. “Indeed, Anne. I confess, I have never known a force quite so unyielding as your mother.”

Anne sighed, though with less despondence than Elizabeth had ever heard from her before. “Nor I, until last night. For so long, I simply allowed it. It was easier, you see, to yield to her direction in everything. But there must come a time, must there not, when one is obliged to act according to one’s own judgment, and for the protection of those one values?” Anne looked at her, and Elizabeth returned the look with ready comprehension.

“There certainly does,” Elizabeth agreed, thinking of her own stepmother’s relentless pursuit of advantageous marriages. “Though my stepmother’s methods are perhaps less grand, she is equally determined to direct the future of her daughters.”

Anne nodded. “It is a singular trial to have one’s future so entirely arranged by the expectations of others.” After a pause, Anne looked at her with greater confidence.

“That letter, Elizabeth,” Anne continued, referring to the letter Elizabeth had recovered from the table after the disturbances of the preceding evening, “if you would rather say nothing of it, I shall not press you. And I must apologize, most deeply, for the abhorrent manner in which my mother spoke of you. In her arrogance, my mother cannot conceive that a gentleman of high rank could have any honourable business with a gentleman’s daughter from Hertfordshire. The sight of an earl’s crest, joined to her suspicions concerning my cousin, persuaded her that no honourable explanation could be possible. To malign your character so vilely was wholly indefensible. If you are inclined to tell me, I confess I should be curious to know from whom it came, but I have no claim to your confidence.”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment. Anne had behaved with such generosity towards her that Elizabeth found herself willing to trust her. “I accept your apology, Anne, though you bear no blame for your mother’s tongue,” she began, pulling the letter from her reticule. “It is from my cousin on my mother’s side of the family. He is an Earl, and he insists that my sister, Jane, and I spend the entire season in London with him and his sisters.”

“An Earl? I had no idea you had such connections.” Anne’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, her composure momentarily slipping.

Elizabeth smiled, though with some embarrassment. “It is not widely known in Meryton. My stepmother prefers it not to be spoken of. You see, my own mother was Mr. Bennet’s first wife. She died shortly after my birth, leaving Jane and me a considerable fortune, and placing us in our father’s care. My father, without a male heir, remarried rather quickly. My stepmother, a woman of little fortune and less sense, was quite eager for the match. Then came Mary, Kitty, and Lydia.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts. “My own mother’s family, the Sinclairs, are of some consequence. The Duke of Westbury is my grandfather. His displeasure at my father’s hasty second marriage was, and remains, quite profound. A serious breach arose between them. My father, while he is a kind man in his own way, is a man of books and quiet contemplation. He had no wish to contend with the difficulties between them, and gradually withdrew from all communication with my mother’s family. Our portions were secured by our mother’s marriage settlement, but all other relations between the families has remained strained. My father never visits my grandfather, nor does he accompany us when we go, and he always requires our return to Longbourn at a time of his own choosing.”

From conversations with her uncle, Maxwell Sinclair, Elizabeth knew that the breach between the two families was not what her late mother would have wished. Their association with the Sinclairs was continually interrupted by the uncertain wishes of those at Longbourn. Her stepmother was only too willing to prolong their visits whenever it suited her economy, eager to have fewer mouths to feed and delighted by the expensive gifts and fine London clothes the girls brought home, only to require their immediate return whenever her temper was provoked, or she feared her own daughters might suffer by comparison.

“My grandfather insisted that Jane and I be presented and that we spend a fortnight in London each season with his family to maintain our connections in ton,” Elizabeth continued. “He considers it his duty to ensure that his granddaughters are properly known in society. My stepmother, though pleased to be spared the considerable expense of our presentation and dress, envied the consequence it afforded us. She feared it would diminish her own daughters’ prospects if our connections were too widely discussed.”

Elizabeth smiled with some embarrassment and picked at a loose thread on her glove. “Thus, to satisfy her and preserve domestic peace, my father agreed to a private arrangement. In Meryton, we are known only as the daughters of Mr. Bennet. We enjoy all the distinction of the grandest lineage in town, provided we never breathe a word of it to a soul.”

Anne smiled with quiet irony. “A most extraordinary means of keeping a secret, Elizabeth. Though I imagine such restraint must be very trying.”

“It is a peculiar sort of comedy,” Elizabeth agreed, but her smile soon disappeared. “Yet the recollection of such petty resentments will sometimes return. Most recently when a gentleman of great fortune, a Mr. Bingley, leased a nearby estate. He was greatly attached to Jane, but my stepmother’s indiscreet efforts to promote the match, together with his sister’s designs, brought the attachment to nothing. Miss Bingley was determined to separate them. She convinced her brother of Jane’s total indifference and kept him in London, quite unaware of Jane’s presence there. And when Jane called upon her in town, Miss Bingley delayed returning the visit for nearly a fortnight, only to stay a cold fifteen minutes and make it clear our family was beneath her notice.” Elizabeth paused, and sighed. The recollection of her stepmother’s conduct was still painful to her.

Anne listened intently, her expression sympathetic but also thoughtful. “I can readily comprehend you,” said Anne, with increasing seriousness. “The claims of family, and the expectations which attend them, may be very oppressive. It appears that we have both been obliged to contend with mothers who are very certain of their own superior judgment.”

They looked at one another with mutual comprehension.

“I confess,” Anne continued, a faint smile on her lips, “the name is not entirely unfamiliar to me. Georgiana’s letters from London have often mentioned the Bingley sisters, generally with some fatigue at the frequency of their civilities, and Richard has more than once amused himself by observing that Will’s friend was entirely captivated by a beauty from the country. I had heard such varied things that I scarcely knew what to make of it all.”

Elizabeth smiled in spite of herself. “A country beauty? I suppose I must thank the Colonel for his charity, though I doubt his cousin shared his amusement.”

Anne laughed softly in agreement. “No, I imagine Will’s face was a study in severe disapproval. Yet what you have now told me gives a new meaning to all I have heard. The fortune which you and Jane possess, your manners, and the advantages of your upbringing... It is not so difficult to comprehend your stepmother’s jealousy. To see a gentleman of Mr. Bingley’s consequence arrive and perceive him so strongly attached to a sister whose beauty and manners must recommend her to everyone, your stepmother must have seen the match for her own daughters as impossible.”

Anne considered this for a moment before speaking again. “Her conduct, however unkind, is not difficult to account for. By encouraging Miss Bennet’s attachment, she may have hoped to see one of you advantageously established and thereby leave greater opportunity for her own daughters. It was a scheme of considerable artifice, though not of much generosity.”

Elizabeth smiled at Anne with evident esteem. “You are quite a credit to your sex, Anne,” she said warmly, “and to Mrs. Jenkinson’s education. Your mind is as keen as any I have ever encountered. I shall have to be careful what I say in your presence, for you will surely unravel all my secrets. Your protection and friendship have been of greater consequence to me than I can express. I will not forget it.”

Anne was silent for a moment, visibly affected. “We must be of service to one another, when we can. The world is not always kind to us.”

Elizabeth smiled with quiet irony. “No, it is not. But I find it is easier to bear with good company.”

Mrs. Jenkinson, perceiving that the conversation had become less grave, spoke gently. “Miss Anne, you have always been wise, even when you were silent. Your mother’s influence has long been very powerful, but you have at last shown that your own judgment is not to be disregarded. You have given me every reason to be proud of you.”

Anne looked at Mrs. Jenkinson with gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Jenkinson. Your affection and care have always been of the greatest comfort to me.”

Their conversation, though arising from circumstances so extraordinary, established between them a degree of confidence which neither had previously expected.

After a moment’s pause, Mrs. Jenkinson cleared her throat nervously. “Miss Bennet, if I might be so bold, I hope you will find comfort in London. The season may, perhaps, afford some relief from disagreeable reflections.”

Elizabeth looked at Mrs. Jenkinson with gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Jenkinson. I believe I shall be glad of any diversion.”

Anne smiled gently. “You have friends who will support you now, Elizabeth. And I shall see to it that you are well cared for. Rosings has been a trial, but those difficulties are now at an end.”

Elizabeth could not help reflecting on Mr. Darcy, on the candour he had shown, and on all that had been revealed concerning Wickham. The day had been one of severe trials, yet Elizabeth now understood far more than she had understood before, and could not entirely despair of what might follow.

~*~

Will rode alongside Richard as the carriage rolled steadily through the countryside. The morning sun cast long shadows, and the regular sound of the horses accompanied their progress.

At a small coaching inn along the London road, they halted to change horses and refresh themselves. The party gathered in a quiet room for a light repast. The air was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and steaming tea.

After some time, Will broke the silence. “There is one matter which I must confess before we proceed further. It concerns my part in Mr. Bingley’s departure from Netherfield.”

Richard turned towards him with evident attention. Elizabeth looked at him with evident apprehension.

Will paused before continuing. “I observed Mr. Bingley’s growing attachment to your elder sister and the general expectation of their marriage. Yet, from my own scrutiny, I was convinced she did not return his affection with equal fervor. Her countenance, though amiable, seemed to me without any particular regard. If I erred in this judgment, your superior knowledge of your sister must make that clear.”

He paused, observing that Elizabeth was no longer able to hear him with composure. “My objections extended beyond mere passion. More troubling were the defects of her nearest relations, their want of propriety, frequently betrayed by your mother, younger sisters, and occasionally your father. Pardon me if I offend, but this was a matter of grave concern.” Anne, seated beside Elizabeth, looked at her with deep sympathy. “After the Netherfield Ball, every inducement heightened to preserve my friend from what I deemed an unhappy connection. I persuaded him of your sister’s indifference, an assurance that, combined with Bingley’s modesty and dependence on my judgment, swayed him from returning to Netherfield.”

“My only regret,” Will continued, “is that I concealed from him your sister’s presence in London. I believed his regard insufficiently extinguished to risk their meeting. Perhaps this concealment was beneath me, but it was done with the best intentions. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done, and though my motives may seem insufficient, I offer no further apology.”

He waited for Elizabeth’s reply, but it was Anne who first spoke, with evident outrage.

“You were not justified!” cried Anne. “By what presumption did you venture to decide a matter which concerned Miss Bennet and Mr. Bingley alone? To presume to interpret her feelings, condemn her family, and separate two persons whom you believed attached, what could excuse such interference? What consideration could persuade you that such interference was either proper or just?” Anne then addressed Elizabeth more gently. “He deprived your sister of the opportunity of knowing Mr. Bingley’s true sentiments, Elizabeth, and Mr. Bingley of the opportunity of proving his own.”

Anne turned again to Will, her countenance marked by the strongest indignation. “You speak of propriety and family defects, but what of your own? Is it not a far greater defect to meddle in affairs that do not concern you? To presume to interfere between two persons who appeared sincerely attached? You have acted with the very arrogance you so detest in others. You may call your motives honourable, but your conduct has proceeded from a pride which admits no error in its own judgment. And you acted without Mr. Bingley’s knowledge! You did not even acquaint Miss Bennet with your objections, but chose instead to influence Mr. Bingley in secret! That is not a sign of honor, Will. It is the conduct of a man who supposes his own judgment superior to every obligation of honour!”

Elizabeth, deeply affected, attempted to restrain Anne’s indignation. “Pray, Anne. Mr. Darcy, I comprehend the motives by which you were guided, though I cannot approve the judgment which directed you. But you must comprehend too, that Jane did care for Mr. Bingley. You have ruined what happiness they shared.”

Before Will could respond, Richard interjected, with an irony softened by real concern. “You may, perhaps, have spared Miss Bennet a greater disappointment, should Bingley’s affections have been transferred elsewhere, as they have been before, to his next ‘angel’. He has a habit, I am afraid, of such trifling affections.”

Elizabeth turned pale, and Will involuntarily rose from his chair. “Next angel?” she whispered.

Richard’s expression became grave. “Indeed. Bingley has been ‘in love’ with at least two other young ladies since he left Hertfordshire. One of them was my cousin. His affections are soon excited and, I fear, not always lasting. Will’s interference was undoubtedly severe, but he did not mistake the uncertainty of Bingley’s attachment.”

Elizabeth started at him. “Your cousin?”

For some moments, the table was silent. Will watched as Elizabeth sat silent, looking down at her tea. All animation had left Elizabeth’s countenance, and he could not see her distress without pain. She appeared painfully mortified by what she had heard, and Will could not but regret that it had been spoken before her.

Anne moved nearer to Elizabeth, as if to spare her further observation. “Elizabeth, you need not attend to them,” said Anne. “They ought not to have spoken so freely before you.”

“Miss Anne is right,” Mrs. Jenkinson said softly, and her words restored some calm to the room. “Take comfort, Miss Bennet. A gentleman who leaves his heart in every parlor he visits is no loss to a lady of true worth.”

Elizabeth took a long breath, her hand tightening around the napkin she held. At length, she looked at Richard and spoke with an effort at composure.

“Thank you for your candour, Colonel,” said Elizabeth, with a gravity unusual to her manner. “It is painful, certainly, but it is better to know the truth than to remain in error.”

“I shall deal with Mr. Bingley and his sisters,” Anne said softly, a sharp, unyielding spark in her eye.

Will observed their silence, uncertain what Elizabeth’s decision might be. He had offered his apology, explained his reasoning, and endured their censure. Elizabeth’s distress persuaded him to speak again.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, after a pause, “If, after what you have heard, you still wish Mr. Bingley and your sister to meet again, I can bring it about. I can bring Bingley to you, or convey your wishes to him. It would be a matter of but a few days.” He waited for her answer with an anxiety which he could not wholly conceal.

Will watched her with considerable agitation. He perceived that what she had heard had wounded her deeply. He had expected the strongest reproaches, instead, she was silent. Her silence affected him more than any reproach could have done.

She looked towards Anne, who returned her look. Then she turned again to him. Her expression was grave rather than angry, and Will found himself more uneasy than he had ever been. Having confessed his conduct, he could only await the opinion she might now form of him. Her silence appeared to require from him more than apology, it required a change of conduct.

“No, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice firm. “No. What good would it do to force a man’s affections, or recall one so easily swayed? My sister deserves more than a fleeting fancy, more than a heart so inconstant.”

Anne nodded, her indignation now subdued. “Precisely, Elizabeth. If Mr. Bingley’s affection is so readily transferred from one ‘angel’ to the next, he is unworthy of Jane’s regard. She deserves a constancy he clearly does not possess. We will not pursue him.”

Mrs. Jenkinson then spoke with quiet gravity. “Indeed, Miss Anne. A fleeting affection is no foundation for happiness. A woman of worth, such as Miss Jane, deserves a gentleman whose heart is as steadfast as his word. Better to know the truth now, however painful, than to be deceived hereafter.”

Elizabeth spoke quietly, almost to herself, “I wonder what Jane will say when she learns all that has happened. I hope she will see, though she may suffer for a time, that an attachment so easily relinquished could not have secured her happiness.”

Anne looked at her with kindness. “Your sister will have your affection, and, if it may be of service, she may depend upon ours. And if you wish, you may always write to me. I should like to hear how you fare in London.”

Elizabeth smiled with real gratitude. “Thank you, Anne. I think I should like that very much.”

Mrs. Jenkinson laid her hand affectionately upon Anne’s, and smiled. “Now, Miss Anne, do not fret. You have acted rightly, and Miss Bennet will, I trust, be happier. The season in London may, perhaps, bring more agreeable prospects to us all.”

Will listened in silence, relieved by their decision and increasingly impressed by the firmness with which it had been made. What must follow was less certain than he had once supposed, but Will could not entirely despair of a more favourable understanding among them.

~*~

Will watched as the carriage rolled on, the countryside giving way to the outskirts of the city of London. The ladies sat three abreast, allowing Will and Richard places opposite. He looked out the window as the first rooftops of London came into view.

The increasing bustle of London left Will more uneasy than he had expected. He had spent much of the journey in silent reflection, watching Elizabeth and Anne, now on easy terms, share quiet conversation in the carriage. Their manner towards one another was far easier than it had been at Rosings, but Will could not forget the events which had lately passed, nor anticipate what might yet follow without uneasiness.

As the carriage slowed to navigate the increasingly crowded streets, Elizabeth turned to him. “There is something I must tell you, Mr. Darcy. My sister and I will not be staying with my aunt and uncle at Gracechurch Street. We are to visit another uncle, who has most kindly invited us to remain with him during the season.”

Will looked surprised, but, after a moment, appeared to comprehend her meaning. He gave a slight nod. “Then you have other relations in London who are prepared to receive you,” he said, with increased kindness. “My carriage is at your service, if it may convey you where you wish to go.”

Elizabeth smiled, with something of her usual spirit. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. That is a most generous offer.”

Upon their arrival at Gracechurch Street, Will assisted Elizabeth from the carriage. As soon as she had alighted, Elizabeth hurried to embrace a fashionable-looking woman who waited upon the steps. The sight affected Will more than he could readily account. Elizabeth’s manner towards her aunt was so affectionate and unrestrained that it formed a striking contrast to the reserve of Rosings.

As Elizabeth withdrew from her aunt’s embrace, she immediately joined Miss Bennet, whose improved health and spirits were evident at once. Mrs. Gardiner turned her attention to the rest of the arrival party.

Before she could speak, Will found himself regarding her with sudden attention. Something in the turn of her head and the intelligence of her countenance appeared immediately familiar to him. The recollections of his youth in Derbyshire returned at once and before she had spoken, Darcy understood who she must be.

He stepped forward, removed his hat, and bowed with a degree of respect which surprised Elizabeth.

“Mrs. Gardiner,” Will said. “Or perhaps I should say Miss Weston? It has been some years since Lambton, but I could never fail to recognize the daughter of one of my father’s most esteemed friends.”

Mrs. Gardiner completed her curtsy, looking at him with the greatest astonishment and pleasure. “Mr. Darcy! I am utterly astonished you remember me. It has been a great while indeed.”

“Your brother remains my nearest neighbor,” Will replied, smiling. “And the memory of your late father is highly cherished at Pemberley. It is a very pleasant surprise to renew the acquaintance.”

Beside her aunt, Elizabeth listened in astonishment. Will observed Elizabeth looking from him to her aunt with evident surprise. Her usual vivacity was for the moment subdued. The reserve which had marked her manner throughout the journey gradually disappeared. She appeared unable to reconcile the civility he now displayed with the man she had formerly known in Hertfordshire.

Miss Bennet, whose improved spirits were immediately apparent, greeted Will and Richard with her usual gentle civility.

As the grooms began to rearrange trunks, Elizabeth turned to Will with an expression he could not interpret.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly. “You, Anne, and Colonel Fitzwilliam have been exceedingly kind to see me thus far, but I believe you need trouble yourselves no farther. I am safely with my family. Should we not proceed in my uncle Gardiner’s carriage to my other uncle’s house in town, rather than occasioning you further trouble?”

Will hesitated before stepping closer. “Surely not, Miss Elizabeth. I gave my word to you and Anne that I would see you safely delivered to your destination in town, and I intend to complete the journey. There is no need to trouble your uncle’s stables when my own carriage is already at your disposal.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, smiling in reluctant acquiescence. “I perceive it is now too late to dispute the matter, since the servants have already placed Jane’s trunks with our own. I shall not dispute your generosity further.”

“Come,” said Mrs. Gardiner, turning towards the door with a smile. “You have all had a long, dusty journey from Kent. Pray come in and take some refreshment before the carriage is prepared to proceed.”

The invitation was gratefully accepted, and the small party moved indoors. It was a pleasant, bustling hour of tea and quiet conversation, a welcome respite from the road.

When Will returned to the street, the day was already declining, and the carriage stood ready. Mrs. Jenkinson, preferring to avoid the evening chill, had already ensconced herself inside the coach, leaving the others to exchange their final farewells on the pavement. Will stood beside the Gardiners’ townhouse, watching as the equipage was given a final inspection.

Elizabeth emerged first, her bonnet slightly disordered from embracing her aunt, and her spirits visibly improved. Anne followed with more reserve, though there was colour in her cheeks that had been absent in Kent. Miss Bennet came out last. Mrs. Gardiner touched her eyes with her handkerchief, and gave Will a cordial, attentive nod.

The Bennet sisters approached the waiting vehicle, and this time, when Will moved to assist Elizabeth, she accepted his hand.

“May I have the direction for the coachman, Miss Elizabeth?” Will asked.

Elizabeth exchanged a look with her sister before turning to Will with an expression of amusement. “Very well, but I daresay you will be surprised. Our uncle’s house is in Upper Brook Street. Number seventeen.”

“Upper Brook Street?” he repeated the address, as recognition began to dawn. “That is the Marquess of Claremont’s residence.”

Will was indeed surprised.

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied calmly. “He is our uncle. Our mother’s brother.”

A silence fell between them, scarcely the duration of a breath, yet long enough for the very foundation of his world to tremble. Will’s gaze remained fixed upon hers.

“Claremont?” Will repeated, after a pause. “You mean the Marquess of Claremont is your uncle?”

She nodded. “And his son, the Earl of Fairhaven, is our cousin. It was he who sent the letter which Lady Catherine was so determined to read, insisting that Jane and I should spend the season with his family.”

For a few moments, no one spoke. Somewhere nearby, a cart clattered past. Will for once, was entirely unable to speak. He blinked. It was as though he were addressed in an unknown tongue. The individual words were familiar enough, yet the sense they conveyed was utterly beyond his comprehension.

“Castor Sinclair? You are cousins of Fairhaven?” he asked, in astonishment. “I have known him these fifteen years. I spent a summer at Claremont. I dined with the marquess not three months past. And yet, I had no notion.”

Elizabeth looked at him with an expression of mischief. “You know my cousin and uncle?”

“I have fenced with them. Gambled with them. Lost to them both, frequently, and won. I visited Claremont twice in the past five years. And yet, I never once heard your names.”

Elizabeth’s voice was level. “No, you would not. It is not generally spoken of in Hertfordshire. My stepmother prefers it so. She is of a different persuasion.”

Will looked from one sister to the other, scarcely able to reconcile this intelligence with all he had supposed of Longbourn. “Then your mother...” he stopped.

“Was Mr. Bennet’s first wife, Lady Augusta Bennet, née Sinclair,” Miss Bennet said softly. “She died shortly after Lizzy was born.”

Elizabeth continued, “And left us both rather well dowered. Our father remarried rather quickly. He was distraught and hoped for a son to inherit his entailed estate. Our stepmother thought it best not to remind anyone of our family connections, especially as her own daughters would eventually come of age.”

“I see,” Will said quietly, though he hardly did. He thought of how he had once spoken of their connections at the Meryton assembly, how carelessly he had dismissed their circle. The recollection now mortified him.

“Claremont,” he murmured again, still in astonishment. “He is your uncle.” He turned to Elizabeth. “And you never thought to say?”

Elizabeth looked at him with calm amusement. “And when, Mr. Darcy, would you have listened? At the Meryton assembly? At Rosings?” Her manner remained perfectly composed, though the reproach was unmistakable.

He flushed. “No. I suppose I would not have.”

Richard approached, adjusting his gloves, and caught the last of the exchange. “Will,” he said, observing his cousin’s altered countenance, “you look as though you have just inherited a dukedom.”

“It is nearly that,” Will replied. He spoke with outward composure, though the intelligence still visibly astonished him. “Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet are the nieces of the Marquess of Claremont.”

Richard stared at him in astonishment. “What? Your Lord Claremont? The gentleman with whom you fence and study astronomy?”

“The same.”

“Well, that is a remarkable turn,” Richard said, recovering from his astonishment. “So, our formidable aunt has been accusing the niece of a marquess, and the granddaughter of a duke, of being a nobleman’s mistress and a ‘common girl.’”

Will could only agree. It was absurd. Entirely absurd.

Then he froze.

The consequence of Richard’s words became clear to him at once. The Marquess of Claremont’s sister. The Duke of Westbury’s daughter. Lady Augusta Sinclair.

Granddaughter of a Duke.

He had been so entirely absorbed in the shock of Claremont himself that he had failed to consider the consequence of her mother’s birth. He was overwhelmed by the mortifying extent of his own folly. For months, he had considered her want of consequence an insurmountable objection. He had separated Bingley from Jane for the same reasons. His pride had governed his conduct at Meryton. He had despised her relations and considered himself infinitely their superior, when, in truth, her mother’s family ranked among the first in the kingdom.

Will gave an involuntary exclamation, so unlike his usual manner that Elizabeth regarded him with surprise. He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, unable to endure the recollection of his own presumption.

Richard could no longer restrain a burst of laughter. “Good Lord, Will,” he said, with unconcealed amusement. “You look as though you have just discovered you have spent these six months past condescending to your social superior.”

“I came very near,” Will muttered through his fingers, his voice thick with mortification. At length, he lowered his hand and endeavoured to recover his customary composure, though he coloured deeply.

“I would give a year’s commission to hear how she attempts to defend herself,” Richard continued. “To think, she, the daughter of a mere Earl, spent the better part of dinner reproaching the granddaughter of a Duke for a want of consequence. She will be forced to reconstruct the entire British Peerage, I suppose, simply to preserve her own opinion of her consequence.”

Elizabeth laughed, and the gravity of the moment was immediately relieved. Even Will felt the corner of his mouth twitch in spite of himself. For a disorienting moment, he saw the entire Meryton Assembly anew. His own careless words about her connections, his refusal to dance, the quiet scorn he had thought so justified. All of it, he realized, had rested on assumptions that were not merely unkind, but entirely mistaken.

“He was never insensible to merit,” Miss Bennet gently interposed, looking at Will with composure. “I always thought, Mr. Darcy, that you possessed a far higher opinion of my sister than your manners at first suggested. Though perhaps you took some pains to conceal it.”

Will coloured at the reminder, but looked at Miss Bennet with gratitude. “I took very great pains, Miss Bennet, and I have paid dearly for the folly of them.”

“I suspect my aunt shall find some manner of explaining it. She always does. I imagine by dinner she will have convinced herself that being a duke’s granddaughter somehow makes Miss Elizabeth less suitable, rather than more,” Richard mused, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I shall keep a prudent distance when the news reaches her. I have no wish to witness the ingenuity with which she will contrive to preserve her former opinion.”

“She will not attempt to reconcile them at all,” Anne interposed softly, with an irony unusual in her manner. “She will simply declare that the peerage has taken leave of its senses, and that her own discernment remains entirely unassailed.”

Richard laughed outright, a broad grin crossing his face. “Well spoken, cousin. The student surpasses the master.”

Elizabeth turned more directly towards Will, her expression still touched by amusement. “To think, Mr. Darcy, that you spent the greater part of the autumn persuaded that my family was beneath your notice, while my mother’s relations were of such consequence.”

Darcy looked at her with the deepest mortification. “I was a fool, Miss Elizabeth. My pride and my regard for worldly consequence blinded me to every thing which ought to have guided me.”

Elizabeth smiled a little, though her reproach was not entirely withdrawn. “You were indeed excessively disagreeable, sir. Yet, I am bound to confess that you grow better upon acquaintance. Though I should be ruined in your opinion if I admitted it too loudly.”

Miss Bennet covered her smile with her glove, though a quiet laugh escaped despite her best efforts. “Forgive me. I cannot but think it rather amusing.”

Elizabeth shook her head, still smiling.

Will looked at her, his own amusement fading into something quieter. The laughter over, he was left to consider the full consequence of what he had learned. She had never hidden who she was. He had never thought to inquire, having too readily supposed that he understood her circumstances.

Their eyes held for a long moment. Her expression conveyed neither triumph nor resentment, only honesty.

“I confess,” he said at last, meeting her eyes, “you have astonished me, Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth smiled, though with some irony. “It is a habit I am often accused of, Mr. Darcy.”

He said nothing more as he assisted her into the carriage and took his seat opposite the sisters. As the door was shut fast and the horses moved off, Will remained in silence, unable to dismiss the unexpected turn of events from his mind. The irony of the situation could not escape him. He had once regarded her as a young woman whose connections could not recommend her, when in truth she had possessed rank and consequence from birth and chosen, with quiet stubbornness, to live as though it meant nothing. It was his own pride, and his own prejudice, that had been chiefly to blame.

A Season for Truth adnd Triumph Chapter 1 (2 replies)

LizzyS — Tue, 08 Sep 2026 07:09:45 +0100

I plan to post the next chapter this weekend.

Chapter 1

Fitzwilliam Darcy, known as Will to his family, perceived his cousin strolling through the park with Miss Elizabeth Bennet and hastened his pace to join them. “May I intrude, or is this a private discussion?” he asked, unable to repress a sudden curiosity.

“Not in the least,” returned his cousin, smiling. “Miss Bennet and I were simply discussing the particular hardships of the younger son of an earl.”

“Ah, yes,” Will said dryly. “The troubles of the penniless second son. Let me guess, you must make your way as a soldier and require a large dowry. If you would accept one of the situations I have endeavoured to procure for you, you need not remain in the army. And do not imagine I am unaware of the allowance you receive from your father.” Hearing a gasp, he turned and asked, “Are you well, Miss Bennet? You appear disturbed?”

“No, sir,” Miss Bennet replied, still looking at him with evident astonishment.

“Are you still exceedingly puzzled by my character?” Will asked, a slight smile on his lips. The remembrance of his conduct at Meryton now struck him with renewed shame. He found himself no longer thinking of her as ‘Miss Bennet’ but simply, instinctively, as Elizabeth.

Before she could respond, Richard broke in, smiling. “Puzzled? Nonsense. You are one of the most honest men I know, not one to mislead or deceive. Though I cannot say as much for every gentleman of our acquaintance.”

Elizabeth stopped short, and looked from one gentleman to the other in silent astonishment.

Will, instantly alert, fixed his attention immediately upon her. “Richard, I think it is time we spoke plainly with Miss Bennet regarding the history of Mr. Wickham. He joined the militia in Hertfordshire, did he not, Miss Bennet?”

“Cousin...” Richard began, but fell silent beneath a pointed glance.

“No Richard, Miss Bennet must know the whole,” Will said grimly. “Last night I had a dream of so disagreeable a nature that I can scarcely think of it without shuddering. It seemed to contain every species of humiliation.”

“So grievous as that? Pray enlighten us,” said Richard, with an assumption of solemnity.

Will hesitated only a moment before relating his dream. “I was, quite innocently, perusing a volume in the Pemberley library, when suddenly, Miss Bingley contrived to throw herself into my lap, her toilette in shocking disarray, whispering terms of endearment which made me recoil. I sprang to my feet with such haste that she was deposited upon the floor. My own esteemed uncle and aunt, with looks of utter disgust, declared that they should know me no more. And you, my dear cousin, bore Georgiana away as though I were no longer fit to be in her presence. Even Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Jones, those paragons of discretion, declared they could no longer remain in my service in protest! And Bingley, poor confounded Bingley, was so distressed by the affair that he insisted, with the greatest seriousness, that I must marry the woman! The affair grew, I assure you, into such a scene of domestic misery and public disgrace, until I awoke in such alarm as to disturb myself with a cry.”

Richard, who had at first listened with becoming gravity, could no longer command his countenance. A chuckle escaped him, then another, which he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to suppress. Tears streamed down his face as he struggled to regain composure.

Though she strove for sympathy, the smile she struggled to repress betrayed Elizabeth’s struggle against laughter.

“Miss Bennet,” said Will, “are you laughing at me?”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” she managed, struggling for composure. “I do beg your pardon. I would not, for the world, treat your dream with levity. But I cannot help imagining your countenance when Miss Bingley found herself in your lap, and still more, when you so precipitately deposited her upon the floor.” She pressed her hand to her mouth, her shoulders quaking with mirth.

Soon, all three were laughing heartily, the tension of moments before having quite vanished.

“Sir, I do believe that is the first time I have heard you laugh. You ought to do so more often,” Elizabeth said, dabbing at a tear. “Though, if libraries and unexpected ladies are so dangerous to you, I must warn you to avoid the book-room at Rosings entirely. Lady Catherine’s choice of upholstery is formidable, but I assure you, none of the cushions bite.” The twinkle in her eye was unmistakable.

Will looked at her with an expression in which amusement was not wholly concealed. “Miss Bennet, your wit is as keen as ever. Nevertheless, I shall avoid libraries, be upon my guard against unexpected ladies, and, indeed, renounce every design upon your younger sister.”

Richard’s laughter subsided, and he looked at Will with greater seriousness. “Will,” he began, his voice losing its earlier lightness, “I know that dream was absurd, truly, a masterpiece of the ridiculous. Yet it appears to have awakened reflections which you do not willingly indulge regarding your father, Pemberley, character, and dealings with women.”

After a pause, he continued. “Let me assure you, cousin. You are George Darcy’s son, through and through. There is no question of your legitimacy, and the idea of some secret Scottish marriage to Wickham’s mother is utter madness. Good heavens, Will, my mother loves to tell the story of how your father pursued Aunt Anne for two full years! He was at Matlock so constantly that Grandfather threatened to set the hounds on him if he turned up at the gates unannounced again.”

Richard gave a quiet, fond laugh before continuing. “From every story our family tells of those two years, there was not a single fortnight, even in the dead of winter, where your father was unaccounted for, let alone long enough to travel all the way to Scotland, marry a steward’s daughter, and return. Pemberley is yours by right, by blood, and by the declared wishes of your late father.”

Richard continued with a rakish grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “As to any supposed impropriety towards women, those who know you best could never believe such a slanderous lie. Your honor, unlike some, is unblemished. It was no more than the wild invention of a disordered night. You are not the man Wickham is, and you never will be.”

Will looked at his cousin for a moment, before recovering his customary composure.

“Miss Bennet,” Richard continued, his tone now returning to its usual amiable warmth, “my cousin has been entrusted with serious duties at a very early age. At three-and-twenty, most first-born sons of our rank are still leading a carefree existence. But he was already guardian to his eleven-year-old sister, managing at least four estates, and two townhouses in London. Yet even these concerns are scarcely equal to the persecution he endures from every ambitious mother whenever he appears in society during the season.”

“I saw a little of that in Hertfordshire, before he spoke, that is,” Elizabeth said with a twinkle in her eye. “I never considered the matter from a gentleman’s point of view before. I can understand why one with ten thousand a year might be reserved in company.”

“Ten thousand a year?” Richard laughed heartily. “My dear Miss Bennet, that may be what the estate was worth in his grandfather’s day! It is a figure so far beneath the truth that Darcy has never thought it worth while to correct.”

Will gave his cousin a wry smile and then looked at Elizabeth. “My grandfather’s friends are notoriously fond of gossip, and the figure proved useful. It discourages fortune hunters while avoiding any hint of vulgarity. Miss Bingley, as you might imagine, found the challenge of its circulation most agreeable.”

Elizabeth gave him a long look, her earlier amusement giving way to something softer, more thoughtful. “You are not at all what I believed you to be.”

He met her gaze. “Nor am I proud of what I was in Meryton. I was rude, dismissive. I thought myself superior to the company, and now believe I never knew myself at all.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I am obliged to you for your honesty,” she said.

“Why then, Colonel, did you speak of misleading? Has someone been deceptive?” Elizabeth’s gaze sharpened as it turned to Richard. “For I was led to believe by Mr. Wickham that Mr. Darcy’s character was of a much harsher, more vengeful nature.”

Richard’s smile vanished instantly. He exchanged a sharp, dark look with his cousin. “What has Wickham told you?”

“Please tell Miss Bennet what you believe he did,” Will countered.

“I imagine he was charming and engaging, and soon made himself agreeable throughout the neighbourhood, particularly among the young ladies,” Richard said, pausing to give Elizabeth a speculative look. “Once he learned you were in Meryton, he would have seized every opportunity to blacken your name, spreading his tale of misfortune while attaching himself to the wealthiest young woman he could find.”

Elizabeth’s smile faltered.

“I confess that is a most pointed assessment, Colonel,” she said slowly, her gaze flicking from his face to Will’s. “And remarkably particular. You speak as though you knew it to be true.”

She folded her arms and was silent for a moment. “Mr. Wickham has ever appeared a gentleman of pleasing manners and genteel bearing. I should be most sorry to think myself so deceived.”

Though her tone was light, her expression had grown pensive. Will stepped forward slightly, but Elizabeth raised a hand to stay him.

“No, sir, do not trouble yourself. You have already said you mean to tell me all. And though I cannot promise to receive it well, I do promise to listen.”

Will watched as Elizabeth folded her hands, apparently preparing herself to hear what he had to say. He exchanged a glance with Richard, who gave a slight nod, and led her a few paces from the gravel path to a sheltered stone bench beneath a spreading oak.

Settling himself beside her, Will said, “Miss Bennet, you offered to listen.” He cleared his throat and, in measured tones, outlined the history of Mr. Wickham.

“Wickham was the son of my father’s steward, a boy of sprightly manners, whom my late father befriended and desired to be educated for the Church. Upon my father’s death, Wickham was given one thousand pounds. He then approached me, claiming a right to a living in my father’s gift, an expectation founded on informal discourse, but one for which no legal promise existed.” Will sighed.

“Some months after I inherited, a letter arrived from Wickham. He had resolved against taking orders and wished to study the law. I gave him three thousand pounds for the living, and he signed away all claims. All connection between us appeared, at that time, to be dissolved.” Will paused, then continued, “He then sought advantage through falsehood. He spread tales of injury and injustice, portraying me as the villain of the piece through Lambton, all while incurring debts he never intended to pay.”

“Will, allow me to finish,” Richard said gently. “Miss Bennet, I must now speak of a circumstance we would rather forget. I must ask for your confidence.”

Elizabeth looked between them before nodding. “You have it, Colonel.”

Richard closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “My own cousin, Miss Georgiana Darcy, who is more than ten years our junior, was left to the guardianship of her brother and myself. Last summer, she travelled to Ramsgate with Mrs. Young, who presided over her school. Mr. Wickham also went, by design, for there was a prior acquaintance between them.”

Will watched as Elizabeth put her hand over her mouth and said, “Oh dear.”

“Yes, Miss Bennet,” Richard said gently. “His object was simple. To persuade her to elope with him, obtain her fortune, and leave her in such disgrace as might have ruined her for ever. You may imagine what we felt and how we acted.”

“I believe I have some notion.”

Richard sobered. “That man’s charm is skin-deep, Miss Bennet. I can only hope he has not wrought any lasting harm.”

Elizabeth was silent, her countenance expressing the deepest astonishment and distress. She looked down at her folded hands, unable for some moments to speak. “He deceived many,” she whispered, her voice thick with mortification. “Myself chief among them. I praised him. I defended him to my family. I believed him implicitly, while all the while...”

She closed her eyes, utterly astonished by the depth of her own blindness.

Will watched her with a concern he could not entirely conceal. The animation which had so lately distinguished her was wholly gone. She appeared deeply distressed, and he could not see her suffer without pain.

Gently, Will leaned forward, drawing her attention away from her lap. “Miss Bennet, please do not reproach yourself. He was raised under my father’s roof. He has spent a lifetime perfecting the art of appearing a gentleman. If I, who know his true nature, could not prevent him from deceiving my own sister, how could you possibly have guessed his character?”

Elizabeth looked up at him with an expression of grateful surprise.

Will paused a moment before speaking again, with a seriousness which left no room for doubt. My behavior in Meryton, my pride and arrogance, was inexcusable. I gave you every reason to believe the worst of me. I spoke and acted with a presumption that was wholly unwarranted, and I am deeply sorry.”

For a few moments, neither spoke. Elizabeth looked at him with increasing astonishment. The opinion she had so long entertained of him could no longer remain unchanged.

Will met her look, and a slight smile appeared. He turned slightly toward his cousin. “Richard, perhaps you would do us the honor of introducing us? Properly, this time.”

Richard, who appeared immediately to comprehend Will’s meaning, stepped forward with a smile. “It would be my distinct pleasure, Will. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, may I present my cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”

Elizabeth rose and curtsied, smiling with unaffected pleasure. “Mr. Darcy,” she said softly.

The ceremony, slight as it was, pleased Darcy more than he could have expected. To Will, it seemed to mark a change in their acquaintance, one which he could only hope might prove favourable.

“I am beginning to think my first impressions of you were entirely mistaken,” Elizabeth said, her beloved eyes bright with amusement.

“Then perhaps we might begin to improve our second impressions?” Will asked.

“I believe I should like that,” Elizabeth said softly. “Very much indeed.”

~*~

The Rosings dining room, usually governed by the strictest propriety, was this evening in a state of unusual agitation. Will, seated beside Richard, soon perceived that some extraordinary disturbance had occurred. His gaze, habitually discerning, looked about the room, settling on the source of the disquiet.

A letter was clutched in Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s hand. The letter, bearing a conspicuous seal, was the occasion of Lady Catherine’s indignation and Mr. Collins’s most obsequious remarks. Servants whispered in corners, and even the footmen at the doors exchanged uneasy glances.

“The housekeeper brought it straight to me, Lady Catherine, the moment it arrived at the Parsonage and I knew you must have it as soon as possible! A most unusual occurrence, a letter of such consequence for a mere guest, and bearing such an impressive crest!” Mr. Collins appeared highly gratified by the importance of the occasion, and wholly unconscious of the displeasure it had excited.

Lady Catherine held up the letter as though its very existence were an affront. Her outrage grew with every word, her voice echoing. “Sealed! Addressed to a guest! And with a noble crest! I am the mistress here, how dare anyone presume to send such a letter without my knowledge? Why, the very notion that one would presume to send correspondence of this nature, marked with arms of consequence, without so much as a thought for my position!”

Will felt himself uneasy. He began to apprehend the direction which Lady Catherine’s suspicions might take. Elizabeth’s countenance betrayed both mortification and resolution. Miss Lucas, beside her, looked utterly bewildered. Mrs. Collins retained her usual composure, though she looked briefly at Elizabeth with evident concern.

“It is clearly a matter of utmost gravity, Lady Catherine,” Mr. Collins continued, with all the eager officiousness natural to him. “The servants, you see, are already whispering! Such a commotion over a letter!”

“And rightly so!” cried Lady Catherine. “Such a seal! Such an air of importance! I am the mistress of this house! I have every right to know what arrives under my roof, addressed to anyone residing within its walls! Indeed, it is my duty to ascertain its contents!” She made to break the seal, her long, bony fingers hovering over the wax.

As Lady Catherine moved to break the seal, Will spoke at once, with a firmness which commanded attention. “Lady Catherine, you cannot. It is not yours to open.”

Richard, with his usual composure, added, “Indeed, madam, it would be a grave breach of propriety. A letter addressed to another person, madam, is not to be opened without that person’s consent. Such a liberty would be wholly improper.”

Lady Catherine rounded on them, her look sufficiently severe to have discomposed a less determined party. “Liberty? Improper? I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh! In this house, I alone must judge what is proper! And as for its contents, I have my suspicions! I have seen the way Darcy looks at Miss Bennet,” she declared before she turned her fury on Elizabeth. “You, Miss Bennet, have invited this scandal. I have seen my nephew’s attentions. You would cast aside every former attachment in pursuit of a more advantageous connection!”

A general exclamation of astonishment arose. Elizabeth coloured deeply, and looked at Lady Catherine with rising indignation. Will’s hands closed involuntarily beneath the table.

Elizabeth rose, trembling but proud. “Lady Catherine!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with outrage. “I assure you, you are entirely mistaken! Your accusations are wholly without foundation and deeply insulting!”

“Without foundation? Insulting?” cried Mr. Collins, in a tone of offended surprise. “Miss Bennet, such impertinence. How dare you contradict her ladyship! Your impertinence exceeds every expectation! To presume to attract the notice of gentlemen of superior rank, and then to receive clandestine correspondence, it is an affront to all decency! What further proof of improper conduct could be required? Lady Catherine is merely stating what is obvious to any discerning eye!”

“Indeed!” Lady Catherine sniffed, straightening her already rigid posture. “This letter, with its noble seal, and your obvious distress, leave little room for doubt! It confirms my worst fears! You are engaged, I see, in some disgraceful scheme to raise yourself by means which no woman of principle could employ! I will not have such deceit under my roof! This instant, Miss Bennet, you will leave Rosings Park! And from Hunsford Parsonage! You are no longer welcome!”

For a moment, the room was silent beneath the weight of Lady Catherine’s accusation. Elizabeth stood, struggling to preserve her composure. Miss Maria Lucas looked on, aghast. Mrs. Collins, though outwardly calm, was clearly distressed.

At that moment, a quiet voice was heard above the general agitation. “Mother, that is enough.”

A hush fell. All eyes turned to Anne de Bourgh.

She had risen from her seat, and there was an unwonted firmness in her manner. Will exchanged a surprised glance with Richard. They had lately observed a change in Anne’s manner; but neither had expected her to oppose her mother so openly.

“You will stop this at once, Mother,” Anne continued, her voice gaining strength. “Miss Bennet is my guest, and she will remain as such.”

Lady Catherine stared at her daughter in astonishment. “Anne! What are you saying? Have you lost your senses? This common girl is a nobleman’s mistress!”

“She is nothing of the sort,” Anne said, with unexpected firmness. “And you, Mother, are no longer the mistress of Rosings Park. I have read my father’s will many times, Mother. I ought perhaps to have acted sooner.”

The room was silent. Only Mr. Collins gave a faint and inarticulate exclamation. Lady Catherine stared at her daughter, utterly speechless.

“My father’s will,” Anne explained, her voice steady, “left Rosings, with the income and property belonging to it, in my possession when I turned five and twenty. I have hitherto allowed you to direct the household, because I had neither the inclination nor the confidence to oppose you. And because I could not be certain that my family would support me, should I presume to act for myself. And as Will had shown no inclination to marry elsewhere, I saw no immediate necessity for acting sooner.” She glanced towards him with an expression of particular kindness. “But now,” she continued, turning back to her mother, “when my cousin’s happiness may be at stake, and Miss Bennet has been so unjustly accused, I can endure such behaviour no longer.”

She stepped forward with an authority which surprised them all. “Miss Bennet,” Anne said, her gaze softening, “I should be very happy if you would remain at Rosings as my guest. A room near my own shall be prepared for you immediately, and every attention shall be paid to your comfort by the footman stationed in the hallway.”

Will regarded his cousin with surprise and growing respect. Richard, too, looked immensely proud.

She turned to the nearest maid. “Go to the parsonage and pack Miss Bennet’s belongings. Bring them here at once.”

Lady Catherine turned pale. “Anne! You cannot...”

“I can, Mother, and I shall,” Anne replied, with unexpected firmness. “This evening I shall give the household such directions as are necessary. Tomorrow I shall consult my solicitor respecting the disposition of my affairs. Your marriage settlement secures to you a residence at Rosings. It secures no greater authority. My father’s will contains no provision that you must remain in this part of the estate. You will respect my authority in this house, and govern yourself accordingly. After this meal, you will retire to your rooms. You are a guest here now.”

“And Mr. Collins,” she turned to him with perfect composure, “you would do well to remember that the living you hold was presented by my mother, a woman who possessed no legal title to Rosings or its advowson. She acted entirely without authority after I had attained my majority, usurping a right that belonged solely to me under my father’s will. In the eyes of the law, your presentation is questionable. Should I direct my solicitor to question your right to the living, you may find the security of your situation far less certain than you suppose. I find a man who so eagerly debases himself for favor to be of little use to anyone, least of all the Church. I shall consider whether your conduct merits my support, or whether I ought to seek another disposition of the living. You would do well to return to your parsonage at once, and consult your wife on the proper conduct of a clergyman. Unlike yourself, she possesses good sense, and has never forgotten her place.”

Lady Catherine, her face mottled with rage, turned sharply toward her nephews. “Fitzwilliam! Richard! Are you to stand by and permit this madness? You are trustees of Sir Lewis’s estate! Tell this ungrateful girl that she cannot overturn her mother’s authority!”

Will stepped forward, his voice calm, measured, and entirely unyielding. “I am indeed a trustee, Lady Catherine, since my father passed away. And as such, I am bound by honor and the law to enforce my uncle’s explicit terms. Mr. Collins only holds his living because you hurried his presentation behind our backs the moment the old rector died, taking advantage of a vacancy before the trustees could intervene. But that administrative overstep ends today. Anne speaks the truth. The estate, the property, and the patronage of Hunsford Parsonage became entirely hers upon reaching her majority. Richard and I are here to see her rights upheld, not suppressed.”

“Every word of it is law, Aunt,” Richard added smoothly, his arms crossed, a small, grim smile touching his lips. “Sir Lewis knew his business well when he drafted this trust, having the foresight to name Lord Matlock as trustee until I came of age. He knew precisely who would stand against your tyranny. Anne is the sole mistress of Rosings Park, and we shall support her in every measure she chooses to take.”

“And if you wonder why my cousins did not contest your overreach sooner,” Anne added quietly, meeting her mother’s furious gaze, “they stayed their hand solely at my request. I chose to bear your dominion in silence until the time was of my own choosing.”

At these words, the remaining doubt in the room evaporated.

Mr. Collins turned a ghastly shade of grey. His knees visibly trembled beneath the table, and he gripped the back of his chair as though it were the only object keeping him upright. The realization that he had not only alienated his true patroness, but that his very bread and shelter rested upon an improper appointment, reduced him to absolute, terrified speechlessness. His mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded fish, no sound issuing forth save a series of faint, pathetic squeaks.

Beside him, Mrs. Collins remained remarkably still. Though a faint flush rose to her cheeks, her dark eyes flickered from Anne to her husband with sharp, calculating intelligence. Will noted with quiet admiration that Mrs. Collins displayed neither panic nor hysteria, rather, her countenance betrayed a swift, pragmatic assessment of their new reality. She offered Anne a low, deeply respectful curtsy, a gesture that quietly signaled her transfer of allegiance, before placing a firm, steadying hand on her husband’s trembling arm to keep him from collapsing entirely.

Poor Maria Lucas, on the other hand, looked as though she wished the floor might open and swallow her whole. Clinging to her sister’s sleeve, her eyes wide with terror, she stared at Lady Catherine as if expecting a thunderbolt to strike the room at any second.

The servants, perceiving that Anne’s authority was no longer to be questioned, became still more attentive. Will and Richard exchanged looks of astonishment and approval.

Anne’s gaze softened as she addressed Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, your room shall be ready presently. While you remain at Rosings, no one shall treat you with disrespect.”

Will watched Elizabeth as she struggled to maintain her composure. Gratitude and astonishment were evident in her countenance. For the first time that evening, Will allowed himself to hope.

“Miss Bennet,” said Anne, after a moment, “we have now passed through circumstances which make ceremony seem almost unnecessary, and the friendship which I hope may now exist between us, I think we may now dispense with a little of our former ceremony. Would you permit me the liberty of addressing you by your Christian name? And you, mine?”

Anne’s directness, once a source of gentle amusement, was shocking to Will.

“With pleasure, Anne,” replied Elizabeth, smiling. “I should be very happy.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Anne said with a smile. “It is a small thing, perhaps, yet it feels important.”

She then turned to Will and Richard. “We shall leave for London early tomorrow morning,” she announced with decision. “Mrs. Jenkinson will accompany us. Miss Lucas, you will remain with your sister until we can make arrangements for your return to Lucas Lodge.”

Richard, recovering from his shock, was the first to speak. “Anne, are you certain? London? The journey alone would be taxing, and the rigors of the season...” He stopped, seeming unwilling to express the whole of his concern.

Will, his own shock giving way to worry, stepped forward. “Richard is right, Anne. Your health has always been a concern. Are you sure you are well enough for this? Is this wise?”

Anne offered them a small, reassuring smile. “I am perfectly well, cousins. My ‘delicate constitution,’ as Mother always called it, was less a malady of the body than of the spirit.” She took a breath before continuing, “For years, she was persuaded that I suffered from a nervous disorder, and I was too accustomed to yield to her opinion to dispute it. But with Mrs. Jenkinson’s help and the connivance of our cook, I have been taking daily walks in the gardens and fields for some time. Mrs. Jenkinson has taken care that I am more regularly and sensibly nourished than formerly. I have been too much confined to the house. I am persuaded that a change of scene will be of service to me.”

Mrs. Jenkinson stepped forward, her hands clasped. “Indeed, sirs. Miss Anne is stronger than she has ever been. Her constitution is sound; and, as you have seen this evening, she possesses more resolution than has generally been supposed.”

Will and Richard exchanged a look, each now better understanding the other’s concern. They began to perceive how completely Lady Catherine’s opinions had governed Anne’s life. The Anne they had long considered delicate and retiring now appeared before them in a very different light.

The dining room, so lately the scene of accusation and disorder, was now silent. For the first time in her life, Anne de Bourgh exercised the authority which Rosings had placed in her hands.

~*~

Elizabeth followed Anne through the quiet corridors of Rosings, still scarcely able to comprehend the events of the evening. The great house, so lately the scene of humiliation and distress, now seemed to offer her an unexpected refuge.

Anne paused outside a door. “Elizabeth, this room is yours for the night. I am right next door. I have instructed the maid to unpack your things and ensure your comfort. You have had a most trying day. I hope you will rest well tonight.”

Elizabeth managed a curtsy, her voice soft. “Thank you, Anne. I scarcely know how to thank you for such kindness.”

Anne offered a rare, gentle smile. “You have friends at Rosings, Elizabeth. Good night.”

Left alone, Elizabeth entered the room. It was spacious, elegantly appointed, and already warmed by a cheerful fire. She seated herself upon the bed, and for some minutes could only reflect on all that had passed.

She could scarcely reconcile the Anne she had known with the firmness Anne had displayed that evening. And Mr. Darcy, Will, as his cousins called him, how different he now appeared from the proud, silent man she had once despised. His defence of her, his candour, and the kindness she had perceived in him forced her to reconsider every former opinion.

The truth concerning Mr. Wickham still mortified her, yet it had freed her from a most serious error. She saw now how easily she had been deceived, and how much she had misjudged Mr. Darcy.

Lady Catherine’s accusations still recurred to her mind, but she no longer attached consequence to them. Elizabeth perceived, with some relief, that Lady Catherine’s denunciation need not determine her future. She had found, where she had least expected them, friends disposed to protect and support her.

As the firelight flickered upon the walls, Elizabeth began to hope that the morrow might bring a happier prospect than she had once thought possible.

A Season for Truth adnd Triumph Prologue - PIP (2 replies)

LizzyS — Tue, 08 Sep 2026 06:43:56 +0100

This book is completely written, currently at 16 chapters, but as I review before I post, I have been adding stuff so it might end up being more.

Prologue

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not easily astonished. Yet, on finding Miss Caroline Bingley seated upon his knee, with her hair disordered and her gown in studied confusion, he could only stare. He felt a clammy hand snake up his neck, pulling him closer. He could smell her cloying perfume, a scent he now associated with impending doom.

“Fitzwilliam, my dear,” she murmured, drawing nearer, “you need not be ashamed. Our friends will soon know all.”

At that instant, the doors opened. Lord and Lady Matlock entered the library at Pemberley with the rest of the company.

Miss Bingley immediately pressed a kiss to Will’s cheek.

Will sprang to his feet, and she descended to the carpet with far less elegance than she had intended. He scrambled away from her as if she were a snake, turning to the horrified audience. A silence followed, deep, dreadful, and perfectly suited to the occasion.

“This is not what it appears,” said Will, colouring violently. “I came here to read my letters. Miss Bingley was already, she had somehow...”

“Do not distress yourself, lover,” cried Miss Bingley, raising a trembling hand. “My dearest Fitzwilliam I shall not reproach you for wishing to conceal our attachment.” She looked at the onlookers with wide, innocent eyes, as if he were the villain.

Charles Bingley looked from his disheveled sister to Will in speechless alarm.

Will backed away further, bumping into a large globe, which wobbled precariously. He turned to his good friend whose face was a mask of utter bewilderment. “Charles, I assure you, this was entirely Miss Bingley’s contrivance. I have told you often enough that I could never marry her. I should have read in my study with the door securely locked, bolted, and perhaps bricked up.”

Lord Matlock, Will’s esteemed uncle, a man whose very presence commanded respect, stepped forward. He regarded them both with grave displeasure. “Whatever the origin of this scene, Will, it has been witnessed. Miss Bingley’s reputation is now in your hands.”

“Uncle,” Will began desperately.

“There can be but one conclusion,” said Uncle Matlock. “You are both completely and totally compromised and must marry. There is no other recourse. The scandal... the whispers will be deafening.”

Aunt Matlock, observing Mrs. Haselhurst and Lady Rochford already in earnest whisper, turned coldly to her husband. “I think, my dear, that we have remained long enough.”

Uncle Matlock’s expression hardened. “A Darcy allied with the daughter of a tradesman, and one whose conduct has invited such a spectacle! You must not expect to be received by us in town. You have done the family a serious injury.”

“It was not my doing!” Will protested. “Miss Bingley arranged it all.”

“It is of no consequence now,” returned his uncle. “Half the county will have the tale before dinner,” Lord Matlock thundered. “Good lord, Fitzwilliam, even a maid would be better than her! Everyone in town hates her! She has the manners of a fishwife and the ambition of a snake! To think, a Darcy, tied to that!”

“How dare you!” Miss Bingley shrieked, scrambling to her feet, her face contorted with fury. “I have been educated in every accomplishment proper to a lady. I sing, draw, dance, speak the modern languages, and possess a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. My brother is Mr. Darcy’s dearest friend. What possible objection can there be to my becoming mistress of Pemberley?”

“Miss Bingley,” said Aunt Matlock, “you mistake accomplishments for consequence. What do you think ladies?” she asked turning to Mrs. Haselhurst and Lady Rochford. “Do you think the daughter of a tradesman is more worthy to be Fitzwilliam’s wife than your daughters?”

“Absolutely not!” exclaimed Mrs. Haselhurst, fanning herself vigorously. “My Penelope has been presented at court!”

“A Darcy tied to a tradesman’s daughter?” Lady Rochford said coldly. “Come, Laura. We have spent enough time in this house. Let us take the long way and make a few stops before dropping you home,” with a last hard look at the new, disgraced couple, they swept out, their departure a chilling pronouncement of social death.

Georgiana looked from her uncle and aunt to her brother and cousin, her countenance white with terror. Her voice, usually so soft, was now a desperate plea. “Fitzwilliam, I never loved you, I always thought of George Wickham as my brother. I refuse to live with you and your betrothed. I cannot! The shame. The sheer vulgarity of it all!”

She crossed to her cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and caught his hand. “Richard, you are my other guardian. Please take me with you, I cannot live with her! Not now!”

She stopped. Her cheeks burned, her eyes filled with tears. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that, in the dreadful stillness of the room, every word was heard.

“I am with child. He is not a gentleman. He is the blacksmith’s apprentice from Lambton. I am ruined. Entirely ruined. I must leave Pemberley forever, before the scandal destroys us all!”

A horrified, suffocating silence fell. Will could neither speak nor move. His own disgrace, so overwhelming a moment before, seemed insignificant beside this fresh calamity.

Colonel Fitzwilliam grew pale. “Georgiana, no.” Then, turning upon Will, he said, “How can she remain here? Before this evening is over, Lady Rochford and Mrs. Haselhurst will have carried the story through every drawing-room in the county, and improved it at every retelling.”

“Richard...”

“I shall take her with me,” Richard continued, with a look of bitter reproach. “I am also her guardian, and I will not leave her here to endure the consequences of this day. My father will support me in removing her from your care. She shall go abroad, if necessary, to France, to a convent, to any place where she may be spared the cruelty of public notice. Anywhere but here.”

Georgiana wept silently. “I cannot remain after this.”

Miss Bingley, whose indignation had at last overcome her astonishment, rose in a fury. “Then you may all leave my house immediately!” she cried. “You are not welcome here if you cannot rejoice in our happiness.”

Will stared at her, scarcely able to comprehend that she could speak of happiness while Georgiana stood before him in tears, preparing to abandon Pemberley, and him.

When the family had gone, and their retreating steps had died away in the passage, Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Jones entered the library. Both appeared grave. Both, Will thought with a sudden uneasiness, had the air of persons come to deliver a settled resolution.

Mrs. Reynolds curtsied. “Mr. Darcy, sir, I am sorry to say that I must leave your service. My sister’s health is failing, and she has pressed me to live with her. I can no longer refuse her.”

Her eyes moved, for only an instant, towards Miss Bingley.

Mr. Jones bowed. “I also must give notice, sir. My family have an opportunity to enter my sister’s employment, and we intend to accept it.”

For one dreadful moment, Will could say nothing. Pemberley had always seemed permanent. Its rooms, its people, its order, all secure. Yet within a single afternoon Georgiana had left him, his family had rejected him, and now the oldest servants of his house were preparing to go.

Elizabeth would have understood, he thought. She would have valued Mrs. Reynolds’s loyalty, treated the servants with kindness, and made Pemberley warmer rather than diminished it. The knowledge came too late to be borne.

“You are dismissed without a character!” cried Miss Bingley, her face flushed with rage. “How dare you abandon your master in this manner?”

“Caroline, pray compose yourself,” said Mrs. Hurst. “Their departure may prove fortunate. A new mistress has seldom an opportunity to appoint an entire household according to her own wishes.”

Miss Bingley’s indignation softened at once. “Indeed. Perhaps it is for the best.” She glanced about the room as though Pemberley were already hers to command. “I had hoped Georgiana would remain, so that she might marry Charles, as we intended, when Miss Bennet was removed with Fitzwilliam’s assistance. But since I am to be Mrs. Darcy, we may find Charles a daughter of an earl, or even a duke.”

Will looked at her in stunned disbelief. The servants’ departure, which had seemed a calamity moments before, was eclipsed by the cold horror of what she had just revealed

“What was that?” asked Charles Bingley. His voice was low, but something in it caused the room to fall still.

Miss Bingley looked irritated. “What is it now, Charles?”

“You said that Miss Bennet was removed, with Darcy’s assistance.” His eyes were fixed upon his sister. “What did you mean?”

“Precisely what I said,” returned Caroline. “Surely you did not expect us to rejoice in such a connection? A fortune of scarcely a thousand pounds, relations in trade, and a family without consequence. You might have done infinitely better.”

Will stepped forward, appalled. “No, Miss Bingley. There will be no marriage. This scheme is intolerable.”

Charles turned towards him. His face had altered so completely that Will scarcely knew him.

“Oh, there will be a marriage, Mr. Darcy. Whether you intended an assignation or not, one has taken place before witnesses. Lady Rochford and Mrs. Haselhurst will have the account in every drawing-room between here and London before nightfall.”

“Charles...”

“Mr. Bingley,” he said coldly. “You have no claim to call me Charles.”

Will fell silent.

“You knew what Miss Bennet was to me,” Bingley continued. “You knew I loved her. Yet you joined my sisters in separating us. You permitted me to believe that she did not care for me.” His voice tightened. “I trusted you above every man living.”

“Bingley, I believed...”

“You believed you had the right to direct my happiness.” He turned away for a moment, struggling for command. “I ought to call you out. Instead, I shall ensure that you marry my sister. If the law, the Church, and every paper in England must be employed, I shall employ them.”

Caroline blinked at him. “Charles, what can you mean? You speak as if such a marriage were a punishment.”

“It is one,” he replied. “You know Darcy despises you. You have known it for years. Yet you would willingly destroy his life to secure Pemberley.”

Tears stood in his eyes now, though his voice remained steady. “And Miss Bennet?” Charles asked. “What did you write to her? What lie did you tell her of me?”

Caroline gave a disdainful little laugh. “If you loved her so deeply, you would have returned. You did not struggle very hard to remain in Hertfordshire.”

“Louisa,” said Charles, turning to Mrs. Hurst, “do you think Miss Bennet unworthy of me?”

Mrs. Hurst hesitated only a moment. “She was a pleasing young woman, Charles, but you might certainly have made a more advantageous marriage.”

Charles looked from one sister to the other. “Then I have been mistaken in my family as well as my friend.”

“Mr. Bingley,” said Will, “you are right to condemn us.”

“Do not presume upon my forgiveness,” Bingley replied. “You and my sisters have reminded me that I am the son of a tradesman. I had thought affection and character sufficient grounds for esteem. I see that you do not.”

He faced Will again. “I shall send notice of your engagement. I shall speak to the rector at Kympton regarding the banns. You will marry Caroline.”

“Bingley...”

“You will marry her,” he repeated. “Miss Bennet has suffered enough from the actions of my family and my former friend.”

Then his anger seemed to leave him, and only grief remained. “When this business is concluded, I shall give my fortune to charitable uses and withdraw from society. I have no wish to marry now. I shall go to Kympton. Afterward, I will return to my quarters and consider what is left of my life.”

Without waiting for an answer, Charles Bingley turned away and looked out a window.

“Congratulations on your approaching marriage, sister,” said Mrs. Hurst, with a smile that had little kindness in it. “You see, Caroline, there was never any cause to fear Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her fine eyes. She disliked our future brother from the first assembly.”

Will went pale. “She heard me?”

“Certainly she heard you,” said Mr. Hurst, with a coarse laugh. “You stood beside her and spoke loudly enough for half Meryton to hear. The remark was discussed for days.”

For one sickening instant, Will saw Elizabeth exactly as she must have appeared that evening. Silent, composed, and fully aware of his contempt. No wonder she had despised him. He had given her every reason.

Mr. Hurst continued, oblivious to his distress. “As Charles has chosen to leave, and Mrs. Reynolds means to resign, Louisa and I must remove to Pemberley. Caroline will require assistance in ordering the household.”

“Indeed, you must!” cried Miss Bingley. “Send for everything from your townhouse at once. We shall be such a charming family party, just as in London, only with considerably more room for my gowns.”

Will looked from Miss Bingley to the Hursts. Georgiana was gone, his servants were leaving, and now Pemberley was to be surrendered to people who regarded it as an enlargement of their own drawing-room.

Will had scarcely begun to comprehend the ruin of his day when a violent knocking sounded at the library door.

“Darcy! Open the door!”

The voice was Wickham’s.

Will looked up. The doors were thrown open, and George Wickham entered with the easy confidence of a man who believed himself already master of the house. He was handsomely dressed, perfectly composed, and carried a packet of aged papers beneath his arm.

“Ah, Darcy,” said he. “I had hoped to find you alone, but perhaps an audience is preferable.”

“What do you want?” Will demanded.

Wickham smiled and laid the packet upon a table. “Only to correct a family error. I have spent the morning with a solicitor, and it seems that your father was not always the honourable gentleman you have believed him.”

He unfolded a document bearing an old seal. “This is a certificate of marriage, performed in Scotland. Your father married my mother before he married Lady Anne. She died shortly after my birth, and I was placed with her relations, the Wickhams, while our father concealed the affair.”

Will stared at the paper. “No,” he said at last. “It cannot be.”

“Yet it is.” Wickham produced another sheet. “Here is my baptismal record, and here are letters in our father’s hand. I am George Wickham Darcy, his firstborn and legitimate son.”

The room seemed to recede from Will. His father, his proud, honoured father, had married before. Wickham was not the son of a steward, not merely a favoured dependent, but his brother. His elder brother.

“My solicitor has examined the settlement,” Wickham continued. “If these documents are admitted, as he has no doubt they will be, the estate passes to the eldest legitimate son. Pemberley, its lands, its income, all of it belongs to me.”

“You cannot simply walk in and claim it,” said Will, though the certainty had gone from his voice.

“I need not walk in,” returned Wickham. “The law will do it for me.”

His gaze shifted to Miss Bingley. “And I understand you are soon to marry. A fortunate lady, no doubt, provided her dowry has been properly settled. I should hate for Miss Bingley to discover that Mr. Darcy can no longer offer her Pemberley.”

Miss Bingley’s colour rose. “How dare you!”

Wickham bowed. “Forgive me, madam. I only mean to say that a woman of spirit should choose a husband with a secure establishment.”

Will looked at the yellowed papers, then at Wickham’s satisfied face. Georgiana had abandoned him. Bingley had renounced him. His household was breaking apart. Now even Pemberley, Pemberley, which had seemed as fixed and enduring as the hills around it, might be lost.

And he could not decide which revelation wounded him more. That Wickham might take his home, or that Wickham was his brother and his father kept the truth from them both.

Rather than turn to Wickham, Miss Bingley fell upon her knees before Will and seized his hands.

“Oh, Fitzwilliam! My dearest Fitzwilliam! What do I care for Pemberley, fortune, or the opinion of the world? I love you. I have always loved you, and I shall never abandon you, even if you are penniless and disgraced.”

Will tried to draw back, but she only clung more firmly to him.

“We shall be happy in a cottage,” she continued through tears. “We shall live upon love, fresh air, and the knowledge that I am your wife. Let the world scorn us! I will not leave you, never!”

A murmur, half horror and half suppressed laughter, ran through the company.

“Think of it, Fitzwilliam,” cried Miss Bingley. “You, myself, and our little children. Our dear little Fitzwilliams. We shall have a dozen of them, all with your noble features! Oh, how romantic our poverty will be! We shall live on love and fresh air! We will endure it together.”

Mrs. Hurst went pale. “Caroline, have you lost your senses? Your dowry is gone. You must accept Mr. Wickham, or you will be reduced to nothing.”

“I do not care!” wailed Miss Bingley. “I will not leave my Fitzwilliam.”

Wickham gave a mocking bow. “How affecting. Love in a cottage. Perhaps, Darcy, when I pass your little dwelling, I shall toss a few coins through the window, for young Fitzwilliam’s milk.”

Before Will could speak, before he could even form a coherent thought, the doors crashed open yet again, this time with a thunderous bang that shook the very foundations of the house. A sudden, unnatural chill swept through the room, extinguishing half the candles, plunging the library into an eerie gloom. The fire in the hearth dimmed to a low, flickering blue, casting long, dancing shadows.

From the shadows above the mantle, a thick, swirling mist began to coalesce, smelling faintly of damp earth and forgotten dreams. The air thickened, growing heavy and oppressive. Then a voice. Deep. Stern. Familiar. Echoing, as if from the very depths of the earth. “At last, the truth comes to light.”

Gasps erupted as the translucent, spectral form of Mr. Darcy Senior emerged from the wall above the fireplace, clothed in spectral finery, his eyes glowing an unholy, malevolent white. His gaze, usually so proud, was now filled with a cold, piercing contempt.

“Father?!” Will gasped, stumbling back, tripping over his own feet. “What, what is this madness?! You are... you are dead!”

The ghost floated forward, his gaze fixed on Will with icy disdain. “Silence, boy. I come not to console, but to clarify. The solicitor speaks true. George is my eldest, legitimate son. Why do you think he bears my name?”

Will paled. “No.”

“You are my son, Fitzwilliam,” the ghost continued. “Lady Anne’s son. But you were always the second.”

“Then why?” Will whispered. “Why did you let me inherit?”

“Because I concealed my first marriage to preserve this family from scandal. Because George was reckless, and Pemberley required a steadier hand. I gave you the estate to manage. I kept my firstborn hidden and provided for him as I could. You have served Pemberley well, Fitzwilliam. You have kept Pemberley safe, prosperous and worthy of the son for whom it was always intended.”

His gaze shifted to Wickham, and the coldness in his face softened into terrible pride. “But the entail follows the elder son, not the more convenient one. The truth has come out at last. Pemberley is yours, George.”

Wickham bowed with exaggerated grace. “Thank you, Father. I shall take excellent care of Pemberley. Once I have it properly aired out and rid of its current unpleasant odors.” He gestured dismissively at Will.

“No!” Will cried, clutching at his head. “This cannot be real!”

The ghost glided nearer, its voice like cracking ice. “Begone from the heir’s chair, Fitzwilliam. You are a Darcy, but not the Darcy Pemberley was meant to have.”

Miss Bingley wailed, “But... but I love you, Fitzwilliam! Even if you are nobody, we shall live in a cottage! I shall milk cows and churn butter and...”

“NO YOU WON’T!” her sister, Mrs. Hurst, shrieked, seized Miss Bingley by the arm and shook her violently. “Your dowry is gone, you fool! You will marry Wickham! He has Pemberley now! He is your only hope of not starving in a ditch.”

The ghost looked at Will with disdain. “For too many years my ancestors have had to look upon the younger son in my firstborn’s place. They turn from you now.”

Will was shocked when the images in the pictures around the library all glared at him, before turning their backs and giving him the cut direct. He cried, “No! This cannot be! Father, I beg you, have mercy! Surely this is some monstrous jest, some fevered vision.”

The library doors burst open once more.

Mrs. Bennet rushed in, wild-eyed and breathless, with Lydia clinging to her arm. “Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “You villain! You have ruined my daughter!”

Will could only stare. Lydia stood before him with one hand pressed dramatically to her middle, her cheeks wet with tears.

“He said he loved me,” she sobbed. “He said I was prettier than all my sisters, and that he would marry me as soon as he could!”

“Miss Lydia?” Will whispered.

“Do not speak her name,” Mrs. Bennet shrieked. “You knew what Mr. Wickham was! You knew he had tried to ruin your own sister, and yet you let him come amongst my daughters. Why did you not warn us?”

The accusation struck Will harder than any blow. He had known. He had said nothing.

“And now,” Mrs. Bennet continued, her voice breaking, “now you have proved yourself no better than he is. You have ruined my Lydia yourself!”

To be compared to Wickham was bad enough. To have made a victim of Elizabeth’s sister was unbearable.

“No,” Will said, backing away. “No, I would never...”

“Would never what?” Mrs. Bennet demanded. “Seduce a foolish girl? Abandon her when the consequences appeared? You have done it, sir. And now my Lydia is ruined!”

Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the room, her face purple with fury. “Fitzwilliam! You knew what Wickham attempted with Georgiana. You knew the sort of man he was, and yet you have brought the same disgrace upon another family!”

She spun back to Wickham, her fury now redirected. “Do not think this changes anything, you are still a cretin! A usurper of my nephews rightful place! I demand a duel for honor! For the honor of the Darcy name, which you now defile!”

“I ACCEPT!” shouted Charles Bingley, his eyes wild, brandishing a fireplace poker like a sword. “FOR JANE! And for my ruined life!”

“WHAT IS HAPPENING!?” Will shouted to the heavens, his voice raw with despair, his hands tearing at his hair.

The room spun, voices rising to a deafening cacophony: “Scandal!” “Ruined!” “Duels at dawn!” “Banished!” “Disgraced!” “Destitute!” “Outcast!” “Fraud!” “Pauper!” “Shame!”

Will fell to his knees, trembling uncontrollably, his hands clamped over his ears, desperate to block out the horrifying sounds. “Make it stop. Please. Someone, save me. I beg you!”

As the uproar in the library reached its fever pitch, the doors swung open once more. Elizabeth Bennet entered, composed and radiant, her eyes flashing with indignation. The room fell silent.

Will, desperate, pushed through the throng. “Miss Bennet, Elizabeth, surely you do not believe these monstrous accusations? You, at least, have always seen me truly.”

“Save you, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth said. “From what? From the consequences of your own actions? From the just deserts of your pride and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others? You speak of saving, but you have ruined. You have acted in a manner that has destroyed the happiness of many, and you expect pity?”

She stepped closer, her expression one of utter contempt. “You are not a gentleman, sir. Your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, have been such as to inspire nothing but disgust. I could never marry a man who has behaved with such abominable pride. You are not worthy of compassion. You are not worthy of a single kind thought.”

“Elizabeth, I beg you...”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, though it resonated louder than any shout. “You knew Wickham’s character and chose silence. You have wronged my sister, ruined my family, and now expect compassion because you are sorry for what you have lost.” Her gaze was cold and unwavering. “I once thought you proud. I find you dishonourable. You, sir, are the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

Will reached for her hand, but she drew back. “Please, Miss Bennet, you must believe, this is all a dreadful mistake! I have been wronged, misrepresented.”

Elizabeth interrupted, her voice steady. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy, you have been wronged, and you have wronged others.”

A smooth, confident voice cut through his plea. “Miss Bennet, might I have a word?”

Wickham stepped forward, impeccably dressed and beaming with triumph. He dropped to one knee and produced a ring. “Elizabeth, dearest, you have always been the brightest star in my firmament. Now that my name has been restored and Pemberley is mine, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Elizabeth looked from Wickham to Will. For one dreadful moment, amusement flickered in her eyes. “Mr. Wickham,” she said, “I cannot imagine a greater irony. However, you are no more worthy of my esteem than Mr. Darcy. One has deceived by charm, the other by pride. I shall have neither of you.”

Wickham froze, his triumphant smile faltering into a mask of stunned disbelief.

Elizabeth offered Will a final, chillingly indifferent glance. “I leave you both to the misery of your own making. Good day, gentlemen.”

She turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving a deafening silence in her wake.

Then, the library erupted.

The crowd began to laugh at Will. Caroline Bingley, realizing even poverty with him was a lost cause, wailed in despair. Lady Catherine fainted dead away. Bingley shook his head in utter contempt, turning his back forever.

Will, completely shattered, rejected by Elizabeth, disowned by his father, abandoned by his family, and ruined before the world, fell to his knees. “No! This cannot be.”

The crowd pressed in, their faces distorted with anger and malicious delight, the voices rose in a cacophony of, “UNWORTHY! DESERTED! SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!”

He began to scream, a primal, guttural sound of pure terror.

~*~

Rogers, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s valet, heard his master screaming and hurried into his bedchamber and shook him awake. “Mr. Darcy, Sir! Wake up, Sir!”

Will awoke with a violent start, sitting bolt upright, drenched in sweat, his eyes wide and unfocused, still seeing the spectral glow of his father’s eyes.

Rogers stood over him, visibly alarmed, but maintaining his professional composure. “Sir! It is all right. You were dreaming.”

Will’s eyes opened wide and frightened, darting around the familiar room as if expecting to see Wickham or a pregnant Lydia Bennet. “Rogers, oh please, where am I? What day is it? Am I married to Miss Bingley? Is Pemberley gone? Is Georgiana?”

Rogers was unable to contain a grimace at the mention of Miss Bingley before he answered, his voice reassuring but with a hint of dry amusement. “Sir, it is the morning of Thursday, April 9th. We are at Rosings, visiting Lady Catherine for Easter. And you are still very much unwed, thank heavens. As for your sanity, I shall reserve judgment. My goodness, what a fright you have had! Oh, do forgive me, sir, I ought not have said that last bit.”

Will groaned, rubbing his temples, trying to clear the lingering horrors from his mind. “I think my father’s ghost just disowned me for the benefit of Wickham, Lady Catherine disowned me too, and Charles Bingley challenged me to a duel with a fireplace poker over Jane Bennet.”

“Did you feel as though your life was closing in on you?” Rogers asked dryly after a pause, a knowing look in his eye.

“Yes,” Will whispered, horrified.

“Then, sir,” Rogers said, a faint smirk playing on his lips, “you have had what we call a nightmare. A rather comprehensive one, by the sounds of it.”

Will swung his legs over the side of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Um, Rogers...”

“Yes, sir?”

“I know you keep an ear to the servant’s gossip, it has saved me on more than one occasion. You are privy to all the whispers.”

“Yes, that is correct, sir,” Rogers agreed, adjusting a curtain to let in the morning light. “It is a necessity of my profession, sir. To be well-informed.”

Will mumbled, his voice muffled by his hands, “Does everyone know... That is to say... The comment I made about Miss Elizabeth at the assembly...”

“Not handsome enough to tempt you? Yes, sir, her mother was very vocal in her displeasure of you. And the young ladies of Meryton found it quite a topic of conversation for weeks,” Rogers confirmed.

Will saw the valet’s smirk widen, a sight that made him groan aloud. He dropped his head into his hands, utterly mortified, as Rogers’ voice drifted over him. “It was rather widely disseminated, sir.”

The full weight of his past arrogance came crashing down on him. “That is why she was always so cold to me. Rogers, I have a lady to track down and give a humble apology. A very, very humble apology.”

“An excellent plan, sir. Shall I fetch a cushion for your knees, or do you intend to grovel directly in the gravel paths of Rosings Park?” Rogers asked as he picked up a freshly pressed shirt. “If I may, I would recommend apologizing before she dreams up her own revenge. Your nightmare, sir, sounds like a gentle warning compared to what a lady scorned might conjure.”

Will looked up, his eyes now determined, the last vestiges of the dream fading, replaced by a resolute purpose. “Yes. I must make amends. Immediately. I do not care if I must face Lady Catherine’s wrath or battle Wickham in the streets. I must find Miss Bennet. And I must do it before she orchestrates my actual ruin.”

Rogers, grinning, reached for his master’s clothes. “Very good, sir. Shall I dress you for a pilgrimage of repentance, sir? Perhaps something in a suitably humble grey?”

Will winced. “Do not say it like that, Rogers. Just dress me. And make sure I look presentable. For the most important apology of my life.”

“Very good, sir,” Rogers said, unfolding a starched length of linen with an aggressive snap. “Though if this apology is to be as monumental as you claim, we cannot rush the cravat. A poorly tied Osbaldiston knot will only make you look like a desperate schoolboy, which I simply will not allow.”

He draped the linen around Will’s neck, jerking it just firmly enough to force him to lift his chin. “Furthermore, while you walk, I highly recommend you acquaint yourself with every polite variation of ‘coxcomb’ before you begin, sir. It is best to be thoroughly prepared.”

“I am not a coxcomb, Rogers,” Will muttered, holding perfectly still as the valet began the intricate folds, though his confidence felt desperately fragile.

Rogers offered a polite, entirely innocent blink as he handed over the shirt. “As you say, sir. As you say. Let us hope Miss Bennet is not a believer in poetic justice.”

When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand Epilogue (1 reply)

LizzyS — Fri, 04 Sep 2026 02:07:10 +0100

I thought I had posted the Epilogue, but I must not have hit Post and ended up timing out.

Epilogue

Two Years and Six Months Later

The sun hung low over Longbourn’s gardens, casting long, honey-coloured shadows across the grass where Bennet children and grandchildren now played.

Mary Bennet Carmichael sat upon a stone bench, a small, leather-bound volume forgotten in her lap. For once, the world before her eyes proved far more compelling than any tale set down in ink. She remained the observer, but she was no longer the outsider.

At the centre of the festivities was Thomas, the young heir of Longbourn, celebrating his second birthday by attempting to share his cake with a very patient spaniel.

Mary watched her parents, standing together near the refreshment table, their heads bowed toward one another in quiet consultation. The arrival of a son so late in their years had been a shock that set all Meryton’s tongues wagging, but Thomas had become the quiet centre of a transformed Longbourn.

The change had begun long before her brother’s birth, sparked in that harrowing autumn when she had forced them to truly see one another, but the presence of an heir had forged a lasting partnership. Mama no longer spent her days in a flutter of nerves over ribbons and lace. Instead, she could often be found in the small morning room, assisting her husband with the estate ledgers or discussing tenant repairs. Her restless energy had finally found a productive channel in ensuring the prosperity of the land Thomas would one day inherit.

Papa, in turn, had emerged from the dusty solitude of his library. He was no longer a stranger to his own halls, often found assisting with the finer points of household management or debating the merits of his son’s early instruction. They moved through their days in quiet partnership, almost always with Thomas between them. Whether walking the fields with the boy perched on Mr. Bennet’s shoulder or sitting in the garden as a family, they had replaced their old habits of retreat and agitation with a quiet, shared purpose.

They were no longer two people living separate lives under one roof. They were truly partners now, and the peace of their union radiated through the entire estate.

Not far off, Jane and Michael sat beneath the shade of an ancient oak. Their son, Edward, a sturdy boy of eighteen months, was engaged in a serious tug-of-war over a wooden horse with Elizabeth and William’s son, little Bennet.

Born within a mere forty-eight hours of each other, a coincidence Mrs. Bennet declared a sign of divine favor, the two cousins were as inseparable as their mothers. Elizabeth and Jane traded smiles, their faces reflecting a deep, settled peace. William, though still the most dignified man in any county, was currently on one knee, helping the boys negotiate the horse with a patience that would have astonished the man he was three years earlier.

A soft weight pressed against Mary’s side, and she looked up to find Aubrey standing beside her. He held their one-year-old daughter, Alice. The child had Aubrey’s thoughtful eyes and Mary’s stubborn chin.

“She is finally asleep,” Aubrey whispered, his gaze dropping to Mary with a look of such unadulterated devotion that it made her heart ache with a sweet, familiar pressure. He reached down, his fingers brushing Mary’s hand.

They had been married in a grand double ceremony with Richard and Amelia, and every day since had been a testament to the ordinary happiness they had once doubted. In the quiet of their shared library and the warmth of their home, Mary had found a voice that was heard, and a heart that was understood.

Near the hedgerow, Kitty walked with Mr. Sterling, a cousin of Lord Aubrey’s and a man of sensible, steady character. Kitty had matured into a young woman of poise. She no longer sought attention nor followed Lydia’s lead. She spoke with a quiet confidence that had clearly captivated Mr. Sterling, who had recently asked Mr. Bennet for permission to call on her at Longbourn.

Further down the path, the most improbable duo held court. Lydia, vibrant as ever but with her edges smoothed into a sharp, fashionable wit, walked arm-in-arm with Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

“Now, Lydia,” Lady Catherine’s voice carried across the lawn, “if you are to visit the Hastings estate with us this autumn, you must learn to distinguish between a genuine interest in agriculture and mere empty agreement. My sister Elaine will not tolerate an empty-headed companion.”

Lady Catherine and Lady Elaine had taken Lydia under their imperious wings, treating her as a project in which spirit must be tempered by sense. Lydia, surprisingly, thrived under the discipline, finding the strength she had once sought in the wrong places.

Mary’s gaze drifted toward the edge of the lawn, where the Fitzwilliam family had gathered in a vibrant tableau of the lives she had helped mend.

In the shade of the stone balustrade, the Earl of Matlock stood with his wife. The former Mrs. Walters moved with the effortless grace of a woman born to the role, though her eyes still held that same quiet, steady kindness Mary had first admired. At her side, she carried their infant daughter, a late and unexpected joy whose arrival had seemed to melt the last of the Earl’s sharp, frosty edges. To see them together was to see a house finally at peace with itself.

Beside them, Richard and Amelia were the very picture of harmony. Richard had taken to his role as master of Rosings with a tactical brilliance Mary found endlessly amusing. He applied the same military precision to agricultural drainage and crop rotation that he had once to a battlefield. Their own one-year-old daughter toddled between them, tugging at the hem of Amelia’s walking dress while they greeted their Meryton neighbors with genuine warmth.

Anne and Lord Gresham stood nearby, laughing at the child’s antics. Though they would never have children of their own, they had become the most sought-after godparents in the three counties. Free from the stifling shadows of Rosings, Anne’s health had bloomed. She and her husband spent their days traveling between London and Bath, their lives no longer a study in frailty but in quiet, joyous adventure.

Mary’s thoughts turned briefly to those not present. A letter had arrived only yesterday from Charlotte Lucas, now the wife of the vicar of Kympton. She was heavily with child and strictly forbidden from traveling the long road from Derbyshire, yet her words were radiant. She lived a life of profound utility and love near the gates of Pemberley, a fate far happier than the one she had once feared.

A movement near the rosebushes caught Mary’s eye. Emma Woodhouse was gliding through the crowd, stopping to speak with Louisa Hurst. Emma had become a cherished fixture in their circle, her once-meddlesome nature matured into a genuine, benevolent influence. She was currently listening with rapt attention as Louisa spoke of her own son, now nearly two. Louisa stood tall, a woman of recognised integrity who had firmly severed herself from the disgrace of her siblings. When creditors still occasionally inquired after Charles, Louisa offered them nothing but a cold, silent dismissal. She had chosen a new family, and she guarded its honor with determination.

Then Mary’s breath caught.

Down by the pond, where the water glimmered like a sheet of hammered silver, James Fitzwilliam walked with Georgiana Darcy. Their heads were close together, their steps falling easily together in a way that spoke of years of shared confidences. James had remained a beloved fixture in the Bennet household, a brother in all but name, yet today his posture was different, tensed with a nervous, singular purpose.

Mary watched them stop. James took Georgiana’s hands, his mouth moving in words that were lost to the breeze. Then with a slow, deliberate grace, he knelt upon the grass.

It was no spectacle for the crowd. It was a private moment in the midst of a family’s triumph. Georgiana’s hands flew to her face, a joyous, radiant “Yes” visible in the way she threw her arms around him as he rose.

Mary felt a lump form in her throat. It did not feel like an overshadowing of young Thomas’s birthday. Rather, it felt like the final, perfect piece of the family puzzle falling into place.

The shadows of the past were few and far between. Word had reached them that Mr. Wickham had perished in a common gaol, his charm failing him in a final, fatal dispute over a ration of bread.

Lieutenant Thorne had met a swifter end at the end of a rope, justice finally catching up to the man who had dared to strike at a Peer of the realm.

As for Miss Bingley, she remained in her solitary room in Cheapside, the Great Miss Bingley, now a woman who could not keep a maid for more than a week, as no woman of spirit would endure her bitter tongue for any wage. Charles Bingley remained a ghost on the Continent, a man who had traded his honor for a sister’s schemes and found he had nothing left to buy it back.

Mary let the thought go, as one releases a closed book. The past had taken care of itself. Her concern was for what lay ahead.

“Shall we go in, Mary?” Aubrey asked, offering his free hand.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Mary looked at the vibrant, laughing, healing world around her.

Mary stood. “Yes,” she said, her voice clear and sure. “Let us go in.”

She realized then that none of this, not the safety of her sisters, not the birth of the heir, not the redemption of the Fitzwilliam name, would have existed if she had remained the silent, pedantic girl she once was.

As they walked toward the house, she felt the weight of the life she had built. It all changed, she thought, because for one hour in a drawing room where she had finally refused to be invisible. The Mary Bennet who once quoted dead philosophers now lived a life that was itself a beautiful, living philosophy. She had been the plainest sister, the most overlooked, yet she had been the one to hold the line. She had taken a stand against the expectations of her family and the safety of silence, and in that single, defiant moment, she had saved them all.

THE END

My Trip to Austen:: A short story (4 replies)

Stanton Fenwick — Thu, 28 May 2026 15:13:39 +0100

Blurb: A salute to the comedic genius of Jane Austen’s plot work, shifting the backdrop to a modern book fair.

Prideful.

And prejudiced.

There could be no other interpretation of the committee’s response after I offered to deliver a lecture on Victorian comedy at their science fiction book fair.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are in desperate need of more interesting speakers.

I told them so.

They told me to get out.

Ruffian interns shepherded me to the street.

I received a call.

“Did you hear they approved a symposium on Jules Verne?” asked my agent.

Another blow.

I had been drawn to Texas, confident of the community’s embrace. Thousands would attend the fair, each a potential fan of my work.

I needed to be heard.

The moment the fair opened, I rushed inside.

As the Jules Verne panel was preparing to convene, I climbed onstage and claimed one of the seats.

The host of the panel—a minor publisher’s rep—opened the event by reading a prepared statement by Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.

Partway through her remarks, another panelist arrived. There were no available chairs.

The flustered host asked, “Who are you?”

“Andrew Bingley,” the newcomer replied amiably.

There was applause.

His popularity did not bode well.

Names were requested. Schedules were checked. Guards were called.

I was marched out of the fair, finally receiving the attention I deserved, though poorly timed.

My early efforts to reenter were rebuffed.

(My photo had been distributed to security.)

Thank God for cosplay.

I approached a local seamstress and informed her that I required a costume in a rush. Something bland. I wished to be disguised without attracting attention.

She cut a triangular wedge from a huge block of yellow foam, then carved out a hollow for me to fit inside.

The outfit was absurdly bad. I looked like a slice of cheesecake.

Per our agreement, I gave her my iPad.

Three additional pieces of foam were then affixed to my face, giving me the sort of seamless appearance only a professional can deliver.

The disguise allowed me to waddle discreetly past security.

Roaming the fair, I encountered a familiar face. It was one of the authors from the Jules Verne panel. I cautiously approached.

“Hey,” he greeted me, “I feel bad about what they did to you. They shouldn’t have embarrassed you like that.”

I agreed.

I offered him a free copy of my novel. He examined the back cover, then returned it.

“Interesting,” he observed, “but not interesting enough to tempt me.”

I was about to share some observations of my own when he stopped me cold.

“Is this how you make a living?” he inquired, scanning me up and down. “Restaurant promotions?”

I began to experience doubt.

Perhaps attending the fair dressed as cheesecake had been a professional mistake.

I mumbled a clumsy goodbye and wandered off to a dark corner of the convention hall, where I stood beside an equally morose cosplay cheeseburger.

“Another writer?” the burger inquired.

I admitted that—to my increasing chagrin—I was.

“Don’t let that guy get to you,” he encouraged me. “Panelists only think they’re special because they win a lot of awards and sell a lot of books. But that’s entirely superficial. Craft, not art. The entire industry is rigged, designed to lock the genuine creatives out of opportunities.”

I had never agreed more with a cheeseburger.

“I’m Stanton Fenwick,” I announced, maneuvering my wedge to extend a friendly hand.

“Wickham,” the burger replied, shaking it.

“Did you write a cookbook, too?” he asked.

“No, Victorian comedy.”

After a brief silence, I asked, “Who was that guy I was just talking to?”

Wickham frowned.

“You don’t know him? That’s Darcy Pendleton. Stole one of my book ideas once. Won a Hugo with it.”

Wickham told me his story, and I told him mine.

We soon realized our time was being wasted complaining to one another rather than to the public. The two o’clock writers’ symposium on world-building seemed to offer us the best opportunity to be heard. We proceeded thither.

I would never have attended had I known that Darcy Pendleton—the poseur who slighted me in the lobby—was one of the facilitators, along with Andrew Bingley and the publisher’s representative.

It was a Jules Verne panel reunion.

Fortunately, the rep didn’t recognize me, though Darcy clearly did. He glowered when I entered.

Wickham had dignity. He didn’t enter the room behind me.

The rep from HarperCollins kicked off the event by sharing the many lessons she had learned from Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature, on the importance of proper world-building.

The baton was then passed to Bingley.

Andrew Bingley was a happy man. After a series of bestselling novels, he had just completed his tug-at-the-heartstrings autobiography, Confidence Building through Wealth.

Darcy Pendleton followed. It turned out his “claim to fame” was a book about a guy who gets stuck on Mars. It sounded terribly boring.

Only afterward were attendees permitted to speak. As an exercise, we were instructed to “build a world” in the form of a book pitch.

I proposed a Regency comedy about matchmaking.

Their stares said, “Why are you here?”

Fine.

I pitched the fanatics a story called Last Ship from Lydia.

“On the geologically unstable planet Lydia, soon to explode, five people are placed in the unenviable position of deciding who will escape death on the final available spaceships. They each choose themselves, secure in the knowledge that no one will ever know. But a final transmission leaks out.”

The publishing representative’s jaw dropped.

She loved it.

I was terribly depressed.

The rest of the hour was too boring to relate. People talked about their books. Nobody cared.

As I was leaving the symposium, Darcy grabbed me by the wedge and whispered, “That cheeseburger is bad news.”

I wriggled free.

“He told me you stole his book idea,” I challenged.

“No, the truth is very much the opposite. Wickham is notorious for his unethical behavior.”

I cleared my throat.

“Just so you know, I was unsatisfied with the symposium and will be giving you a one-star rating,” I said.

Darcy sighed.

I marched out.

When I found the burger in question, I shared Darcy’s accusations.

Wickham scoffed.

I asked, “What plot idea did Darcy steal from you?”

“A guy goes into space,” he replied.

There was an unexpectedly long pause.

“And?” I prodded.

“Well, see, he runs into technical issues. He spends the book fighting them.”

“How does it end?”

“He fails and dies. He is found, five hundred years later, mummified in his spacesuit.”

Another unexpectedly long pause.

“That’s very dark,” I suggested.

“Thanks!” he replied.

The HarperCollins rep came running up.

“How fortunate it is that I was able to find you,” she observed.

I was wearing a gigantic foam costume in a large open space. How fortunate could it have been?

“I was just on the phone with Catherine Martin, our Vice President of Classic Literature,” the rep said. “You might have heard me mention Catherine before.”

I had.

“I told Catherine about your fun, sciencey book idea. She loved it.”

The rep paused, allowing me to bask in the praise of some random publishing veep.

“Your book is just the sort of timely starter project I need to get my foot in the door,” the rep continued. “Space is hot, so we should act quickly. I want a sample to take to Catherine. How soon can you have that ready?”

I explained that I wasn’t interested in writing Last Ship from Lydia.

Besides, I didn’t have a single fun, sciencey idea in my head.

The rep wouldn’t accept my refusal. After considerable back and forth, I told her I would write a treatment for a fifty thousand dollar advance.

I then gave her my agent’s number so she could negotiate with him.

It was a harmless bluff. Such a ridiculous demand should have been enough to scare her off. But it cost me a friend. She left to give him a call.

Wickham asked what the conversation had been about.

I told him about my gag novel proposal and the rep’s enthusiastic response.

He laughed rewardingly. He called me a brilliant satirist. Wickham was a burger with taste.

Tired on my feet, I made my way out of the fair to remove the foam suit. After grabbing a bite to eat, I refoamed and headed back in to attend the evening gala.

While cosplay wasn’t atypical during the day, it was almost de rigueur at night. Never had I been more at one with the crowd while less among my people.

The HarperCollins rep spotted me. I quick-waddled in the opposite direction.

I found my agent.

“Did a woman from HarperCollins call you?” I hurriedly asked.

“Yes, she told me you wanted a huge advance on your sci-fi concept,” he confirmed.

My agent studied me closely.

“You really don’t want to write the book, huh? I mean, your preposterous demands aside, I probably could have gotten you a few thousand dollars.”

“No, I don’t. And the rep is here at the banquet. I think she wants to harass me about it.”

“She wants to talk to you, Stanton.”

After a pause, he added, “We both do.”

What was that supposed to mean?

I found out when the rep arrived and handed me a legal document and a pen.

It seemed my agent had written a book of his own—a scandalous tell-all, spilling his clients’ shameful secrets.

HarperCollins had signed him to a deal.

Now the rep wanted me to grant him permission to include stories about me.

Legal formality or not, I refused.

(Just as you should refuse to purchase that tawdry collection of slanders, published without my consent.)

As we talked, Darcy Pendleton and Andrew Bingley passed by.

I acted as nonchalantly as one can in cheesecake.

“Oh, Mr. Pendleton! And Mr. Bingley!” the rep called out. “Won’t you join us?”

They did so with visible reluctance, revealing an enthusiasm gap between the meeting’s organizer and the other attendees.

The rep observed how fortunate the encounter was, as she wanted to solicit their opinions of my workshop idea. She hadn’t given up on Last Ship from Lydia.

“Put it out under a pen name,” Bingley advised.

“You can’t be thinking of publishing that book, can you?” Darcy asked. “We all heard the pitch. You’ll ruin the poor man. Can you imagine what gibberish he would produce?”

His comments drew blood. So arrogant. I lashed out.

“Just because sci-fi isn’t my thing doesn’t mean I’m incapable of…”

“What genre do you write?” he interrupted.

“Victorian comedy,” I explained.

The group roared with laughter.

Even my agent, who already knew that I did.

“You’re fired,” I told him.

“I figured,” my ex-agent shrugged.

“Stick to your weird brand, Fenwick,” Darcy advised. “No attempt of yours to write sci-fi will ever sell.”

“I’ll bet Last Ship from Lydia would sell if you wrote the foreword,” my ex-agent prodded, out of habit.

“If I did,” Darcy scoffed, “you might as well call it Last Words from Pendleton.”

“True,” my ex-agent agreed. “Stanton would be terrible for your brand…for anyone’s, really.”

I stormed out.

Physically and spiritually exhausted, I returned to the sanctuary of my motel room.

In the morning, I suited up and raced back to the book fair. I wanted to reach the breakfast buffet before they ran out of scrambled eggs.

The person ahead of me cleaned out the chafing dish.

I registered my displeasure.

A convention center employee was hurriedly dispatched to the kitchen for a refill.

I was thus trapped in line, for what seemed like forever, next to Andrew Bingley, who was a morning person, in the worst way.

(Retreat was unthinkable. I would not relinquish my claim to the eggs.)

To my shock, Andrew offered to write an introduction to the Lydia novel.

“Provided,” he added, “it isn’t total crap.”

(To think, the man had won literary awards. I was hoping for better dialogue.)

My integrity, at that moment, could be purchased for a very low price. I shook Andrew’s hand with an enthusiastic smile and stepped out of line, yielding my scrambled egg rights to him, in perpetuity.

I dashed back to my motel.

A morning spent crafting my best sci-fi, ruthlessly editing, and honing the product to a fine edge left me with an outstanding opening sentence.

I was anxious to share it with Andrew, to prove my worth.

He didn’t respond to my text messages.

Knowing that people appreciate a warm, in-person visit after a text, I returned to the book fair, but Andrew was nowhere to be found.

Instead, I was accosted by Darcy Pendleton.

“Are you busy?” he asked, rhetorically.

“What do you want?” I groused (wondering where I could go to escape him).

“I was informed that my treatment of you could be misconstrued as rude.”

“So you’re here to prove it?”

“No, I’m here to make a peace offering. I want to help you, with the least potential reputational exposure to me. As so few people are aware you exist, my publicist and I agreed the risk of association is tolerably low for someone in my position.”

I marveled at the man's arrogance, conceit, and selfish disdain for my feelings.

“So here’s the deal: if your science fiction writing isn’t hideously embarrassing, I’ll write a foreword for your book under a pseudonym. Though, if I do, I’ll be brutally honest. I’ll pull no punches.”

I have rarely felt such powerful antipathy for someone, but then I don’t get out much.

“I would pull my book from the market before I’d ever let your name appear on its cover,” I announced haughtily.

He blinked. I could hear the shock in his voice.

“You can’t be serious. Against my better judgment, I am offering to lend my prestige to your book. And not only do you refuse it, but you show no gratitude whatsoever? This, from some weirdo with a Victorian comedy fetish?”

I detest a genre snob.

“I never asked for your pity. I plan to write a legendary sci-fi novel. After all, how hard can it be?”

He turned to walk away.

I twisted the dagger.

“Also, Bingley offered to write an introduction for me, so I don’t need you.”

Darcy turned back.

“Andrew won’t be doing any such thing, Stanton. He told me so himself.”

I felt reputational exposure.

“That can’t be! Why would he change his mind?”

“Because I talked him out of it. Life is finally going so well for him. He doesn’t deserve a…you.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“I won a Hugo. Try again.”

“Then what is it?”

“I told you. I’m protecting Andrew.”

“I think the actual reason you drove Bingley away…”

“I wasn’t influenced by what your agent wrote,” he assured me.

“…is that you’re planning to steal my book like you stole Wickham’s. Wait, what did you just say?”

“You should have taken whatever money that publisher’s rep was putting on the table, Stanton. She’s a go-getter. She got your agent ten minutes on the main stage after lunch, to read excerpts from his book. Invaluable publicity. As an author at your level, that’s not the sort of mistake you can repeat.”

After a pause, he added, “At least he’s getting your name out there.”

“For public humiliation,” I replied coldly. “What did that traitor say about me?”

Darcy sighed.

“Stanton, a writer must develop a thick skin. The slings of critics and the arrows of gossip...”

“So now you’re Shakespeare?” I mocked.

“No, I’m a successful author, something you’ll never be.”

“You may be successful, but you couldn’t write a decent Victorian comedy in a million…”

“I’m done,” he replied.

He stormed off.

Technically, he had not withdrawn his offer to write a foreword for my book.

I pulled out my cell phone to make sure the conversation had recorded properly.

It had.

It never hurts to have insurance.

I was in a workshop about writing narrative from an alien’s point of view, hoping to ask a question about Victorian comedy, when my phone vibrated.

A series of text messages from Darcy Pendleton arrived in quick succession.

“Look, I don’t mean to cause further offense,” the chain began, “but I would strongly suggest you stick to your genre. If Victorian comedy is your passion, that’s what you should write. Strive to be as authentic as possible, while remaining marketable, if extremely niche.”

I’m unique, not niche.

He was blind to the distinction.

“And I must repeat my warning about Wickham,” the messages continued. “You are aware of my hit novel? Well, Wickham stole my original idea for it. I planned to have my hero die at the end.”

What was with these modern authors and their depressing endings?

“I was new to the book-fair world when I met Wickham and trusted him with the plot. He released it as a sloppy novella before I could publish. That’s the only reason my protagonist lives. I was forced to make the change.”

I had no idea why he thought I would care.

“Wickham once hurt a young writer I cared for by leaving her a viciously cruel book review, in person, at a book signing. She was so hurt she gave up writing entirely. Mind you, Wickham was correct. Her book was absolute rubbish. But you don’t say that to someone’s face at a public event.”

I struggle to reconcile his Wickham stories with the burger I knew.

“On that note, since I genuinely can’t remember, I’m sorry if at any point I’ve called you, or your book, rubbish. I know how hard it is to hear critique when you’re an absolute nobody. Please understand I bear you no ill will. Best of luck, Darcy Pendleton.”

This was followed by a screenful of social media links.

After waiting a full minute to ensure the barrage was over, I replied, “We should talk. Call me.”

Then I blocked his number.

Returning to my motel, I found a package waiting for me at the front desk: a signed first-edition Darcy Pendleton novel.

I was disgusted, though I considered the resale value when electing to keep it.

I plopped into my motel room’s uncomfortable chair and opened Darcy’s book with relish.

It was horrifying. I kept laughing. I didn’t want to.

He cruelly failed to be unfunny.

I set the book down and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps, as others had suggested, I knew nothing about literature, after all.

It was a somber thought.

Momentary, but somber.

I considered returning to the convention center, but since my costume was giving me rashes in unsettling places, I decided to skip disco night.

The following morning, I once again donned the foam and headed back to the fair.

My former agent ambushed me near the entrance.

He said, “I know you’re in a hurry, Stanton, but what I have to tell you is more important than scrambled eggs. I’ve been made aware of something extremely damaging to your reputation. You may not believe this, but I still want to help. Can you come with me to a short meeting?”

I followed him to a small side room.

Within, at the head of a long conference table, sat an imperious woman, who glared at me.

My agent made introductions.

“Stanton, this is Catherine Martin, Vice President of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.”

“I demand you explain yourself,” she greeted me politely.

Her desire for further self-expression delayed my response.

“First, my quisling comes forward with an intriguing book idea—from you, of all people—attached to an outrageous price tag. Then I ask five important people their opinion of it, only to watch you throw my hard work away.”

She turned her computer around.

On the screen was a book listing.

Specifically, it was a listing for Last Ship from Lydia, by Stanton Fenwick.

I felt like I had stepped into a seminar on parallel universes.

“I didn’t write that,” I protested.

“So you made a book proposal in public, followed by the sudden appearance of the very book, with your name listed as the author, and you have no idea where it came from? That’s the best you can come up with on the spot?”

She scoffed, “I can see why you needed AI to write Last Ship from Lydia.”

Catherine was my new least favorite person.

I pointed at the listing.

“Lady, I may have my authorial deficiencies, but I wear them proudly. AI doesn’t write for me. I would never publish something like that.”

“Then we have something in common,” she observed.

“Now, if you want to consider a book I actually wrote…”

“The Stone Age comedy?” she interrupted.

“Victorian.”

Another scoff.

“What if it had a foreword by Darcy Pendleton?” I tempted her.

“That’s not happening.”

I felt a rising dread.

“Is Darcy…”

“…a HarperCollins author? Yes, he is.”

“So you…”

“…would never allow him to do something so reckless? Correct. There will be no foreword to any novel you self-publish by Darcy Pendleton.”

We closed the scrum with a mutual exchange of indelicacies.

I staggered out.

Back in the hallway, my ex-agent said, “Wickham.”

Right. It had to be.

I wandered off in a daze. It felt like a setback.

In addition to angering an industry giant, Wickham had rendered my name mud in the sci-fi book fair world.

I was no longer viewed as the man I once was, dignified even when dressed as cheesecake.

Now I was considered an AI cheat.

I walked to the end of a long hallway and rode an escalator to the second floor. I wished to be alone.

Above the book fair, a hospital association was hosting a conference. I found myself in a crowd of surgeons, none of whom had chosen to engage in cosplay.

As nothing could be more demeaning than returning to the book fair, I lifted my nose and shuffled past, to the sound of medical snickering.

The crowd’s amusement drew the attention of a security guard. My identity was compromised. He began his approach.

I scurried back the way I had come, but my foam suit was generating too much friction against the escalator walls. I was embarrassingly easy to catch.

Keeping a firm grasp on my arm, the law marched me back toward the convention center’s main exit.

I put on a huge grin as if enjoying the situation immensely.

It was all I could do.

The guard led me straight into the belly of the beast. Half of Texas seemed to be in the lobby. There was much pointing, both of fingers and camera phones.

Suddenly, before us, stood Catherine Martin.

She stared down the security guard.

“I demand you follow me,” she introduced herself.

He was immediately taken with her (as I had been).

“Lady, get out of my way,” he ordered. “Who on earth do you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m someone who provides money—and I mean a lot of it—to the people who pay your salary,” Catherine replied, “for now.”

The woman, to her credit, was an effective communicator. She had his attention.

“I am heading upstairs to speak with the event organizers. They are meeting with representatives of the convention center, as we speak. They need to know their biggest sponsor was just insulted.”

She snapped a photo of the security guard.

“I will be sharing my side of this story,” she informed him. “Whether you wish to relate yours is for you to decide.”

She turned and strode away.

With a grunt, the guard followed. We caught up with her at the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed, the veep laid into me.

“Mr. Fenwick, you are an intolerable nuisance. I don’t know precisely what you’ve done, but you have made my stable of authors very upset. Darcy Pendleton practically blackmailed me this morning! He threatened that if I didn’t use HarperCollins’ weight to get your plagiarized novel pulled from the market immediately, he would boycott the rest of the book fair. The fool!”

“Darcy? Are you sure?”

“I am. We had a long chat. Darcy made me aware that you’re nothing more than a patsy…a simpleton…an easy mark. Wickham started this trouble, and I will have my revenge. I signed that cookbook of his to a development deal. I plan to make his life a torment. I can string him along for years.”

She smiled.

“But it will never be published.”

I considered a career change.

The elevator arrived on the second floor. We followed Catherine to Bluebonnet Meeting Room B.

She threw open the doors, entered, and began speaking over the person at the whiteboard.

There was general shock.

A man detained in cosplay cheesecake might have registered as highly unexpected, but Catherine's story was genuinely stunning. Apparently, someone was still trying to write Victorian comedy.

“So you see, this sad, little man was a victim of fraud,” Catherine sniffed. “If you forcibly remove him, it will cause no end of headaches for HarperCollins. I demand you release him, at once!”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are reluctant to issue apologies.

But I was set free.

I staggered from the room, only to encounter Darcy pacing the hall.

“You?” I gasped. “You’re the reason I didn’t get thrown out?”

Darcy took a bow.

(I found it a bit much. I mean, it was only a book fair.)

“I did something better than that,” he revealed. “I got you a reserved slot on the schedule to deliver your talk on Edwardian Comedy.”

“Victorian,” I corrected him.

“No,” he corrected me. “I read your book. It’s Edwardian.”

“You…read it?”

He chuckled.

“I did. You may not write well. You may not be well. But I couldn’t help but laugh.”

“At my book?”

“Of course! You have a knack for writing the comedic fool. Most authors would struggle to write such a ridiculous protagonist. You make it look effortless.”

I smiled, hoping for more.

“It was…surprisingly good,” he added.

I didn’t agree with the entirety of Darcy’s appraisal, but he was a very successful author. Who was I to question his judgment?

If he said my book was a classic, I had to accept it as fact.

I thanked him, unblocked him, then hurried away to research Edwardian comedy.

(He was correct. My book is Edwardian. I researched who Edward was.)

The organizers assigned me the coveted 6:45 to 7:00 AM slot at the small stage near the concessions area on the fair’s final day.

Many, many people passed by. I think I reached them.

My mission completed, I returned home.

I missed my iPad.

Desperate for money, I self-published Last Ship from Lydia under a pen name. Darcy Pendleton wrote a foreword, also under a pen name. But everybody knew it was him.

It remains my best-selling work.

Too Much of Honour (9 replies)

DavidG — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 14:45:19 +0100

Too Much of Honour

By DavidG

Blurb: A short story in which Colonel Fitzwilliam takes a more pragmatic approach to dealing with the problem of Lydia and Wickham.

Epilogue Abbey, P&P.

Author’s Note: This story may be unsuitable for pre-teen readers due to heavily implied (though not absolutely explicit) reference to mature themes regarding Lydia’s fate.

Comments and feedback welcome. I’m trying out a few ideas which I may use in a different setting.

Too Much of Honour

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped out of his favourite coffee house on Cornhill with a spring in his heels. It was the best place to go to hear what was happening in the City. He liked these jaunts, these carefree days where he got away from the stuffy atmosphere of his parents’ townhouse in Mayfair. He took a moment to savour the bustle of the street, the wheels of the carriages, the cries of the merchants. This was London. This was what he had taken a shot in his leg to protect.

He began to walk in the direction of his club, spying a well-dressed, tall gentleman striding quickly further up the street. He was astonished to realise it was Darcy. Darcy, in this part of London! And without a carriage! Had it been a pig marching beneath that hat, he couldn’t have been more surprised.

‘Darcy!’ he shouted. ‘Darcy, wait!’ But his cousin didn’t seem to hear.

He began to run to catch up, feet pounding on the pavement, cursing his limp as he did so. He grasped Darcy’s shoulder. The man spun around, anger in his features, before softening as he saw who it was.

‘Edmund. What do you do here?’

‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ replied the Colonel. He took a moment to properly survey Darcy. He looked pale and worn. Haunted. The darkness under his eyes spoke of nights without rest.

‘Good God, man, what on earth is the matter? Is it Georgiana?’

‘No, no, Georgiana is fine,’ Darcy mumbled. His quiet voice was so unlike his usual booming tone. ‘If you will excuse me, Edmund, I am detained on a matter of business.’ Darcy moved to walk off.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ The Colonel put a restraining hand on his chest. ‘Georgiana would never forgive me if I left you like this. Come, there is a respectable inn nearby. You can tell me what troubles you.’

He continued, seeing Darcy’s hesitancy. ‘Come and have a drink at least.’

At this he practically frogmarched Darcy into Simpson’s Tavern. As they entered he tossed the innkeeper some coins and told him to send them something to drink. They went into a small private room at the back. Darcy closed the door carefully before slumping into a chair, unusually cowed.

A serving maid entered with some brandy, placing a decanter on a table before the fire. The Colonel poured himself a glass and handed another to Darcy.

‘Drink this,’ he ordered.

Darcy downed it in a single gulp. It was then that he knew something was seriously wrong.

‘There is only one man who has ever driven you to drink like that. It is Wickham, is it not?’ The narrowing of his cousin’s eyes told him all he needed to know. ‘So it is about Georgiana. Really Darcy, I am her guardian too, you know. You might at least have informed me.’

Darcy slammed down his glass. ‘It is not about Georgiana,’ he said fiercely.

‘I will be the judge of that,’ snapped the Colonel. ‘Speak’. His commanding officer voice had slipped out. It rarely failed to elicit a response.

‘Wickham has… has come to London with a young gentlewoman of my acquaintance. They have been quite alone, if you take my meaning.’ The Colonel did. He knew Wickham’s habits too well to have any doubt about it.

‘I mean to persuade him to marry her,’ Darcy continued.

‘Ha! Good luck with that!’ the Colonel replied without thinking. Seeing Darcy flinch he cursed himself, resolving to be more careful with what he said.

‘If this…’ he stopped himself from using the word chit, ‘... if this lady has been with Wickham alone she cannot have proper morals. Let her family deal with her. If Wickham has deserted the militia he has likely fled from his debts, which will catch up with him soon enough. I do not see why it should be your affair.’

Darcy clenched his fists. ‘It was by my pride, my unwillingness to open up my affairs to the world, that this has happened; that Wickham has not been exposed for what he is.’

His younger cousin had always been a proud man. Colonel Fitzwilliam had chastised him for it oft enough. But there was more to this tale, and he would get to the bottom of it.

‘So I have told you many times, yet never before have you acted. Why now?’

Darcy looked pained. His voice fell to almost a whisper. ‘The family… the family is the Bennets.’

The Colonel could only think of one Bennet who was at all well acquainted with Darcy. He could not understand it. That lady was lively to be sure, too lively for his taste, but her conduct had been everything proper.

‘The lady is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who I met in Hunsford?’

‘NO!’ shouted Darcy, springing from his seat. ‘The lady in question is Miss Lydia Bennet, Miss Elizabeth’s youngest sister. I had just come from seeing her uncle in Gracechurch Street when you accosted me.’

‘Ah,’ the Colonel replied. Foolish girl. Her conduct would reflect on her entire family. An elopement was bad enough. An elopement without marriage would be their utter ruin. The Bennets were not rich or well connected enough to weather such a scandal. All the Bennet sisters would be shunned. It was a tragedy. But he still didn’t see why Darcy was entangled in such a sordid business.

‘I was under the impression, Darcy, that you did not approve of the Bennets. You and Miss Elizabeth did little but argue at Rosings.’ He recalled a rather heated conversation he had held himself with that lady. ‘And you separated Bingley from her sister, did you not? A mercenary family, you said, with an ill-bred mother.’

‘Do not remind me of what I said,’ replied Darcy. ‘I neither spoke nor acted like a gentleman. Elizabeth has taught me that, at least.’

Elizabeth! The plot thickened.

‘And since when do you refer to Miss Bennet in such familiar terms?’

Darcy poured himself another brandy and sat down. He stared, unspeaking, at the shifting hues of the fire. Colonel Fitzwilliam said nothing. He merely stood watching for some minutes. Darcy shifted and began to fidget. The Colonel said nothing. As he had learnt in Spain, sometimes silence was the best interrogator.

‘I love her, Edmund,’ Darcy said eventually. The Colonel met his eyes, and saw pain reflected back. ‘I love her, God help me. And now, just when I had started to hope, she has slipped even further from my grasp.’

And then the whole tale came stuttering out. Their meeting in Hertfordshire and reunion in Kent. Darcy’s proposal. Miss Bennet’s refusal. Her anger over his pride, over Bingley and Wickham. Darcy’s answering letter. Their meeting again at Pemberley. His attempt to improve his conduct. Her changed manner towards him.

The Colonel almost wanted to laugh - a country miss, turning down the most eligible bachelor in London! - but the misery on his cousin’s face stopped him. He had never been in love, but he had seen too much of sadness. Too much of grief.

‘Well Darcy, you have certainly got yourself into a pickle. I liked Miss Elizabeth a good deal. If you think she will accept you, I shall do all I can to help you in your suit.’

He raised a hand to stop Darcy from interrupting. A pause before the hammer blow.

‘But Wickham cannot marry her sister.’

‘But –’ began Darcy.

‘No, Darcy, on this I must insist, as Georgiana’s guardian. Think, man! If you were to marry Miss Elizabeth, Wickham would be your brother. Georgiana would ever be reminded of her greatest shame and disgrace. And the power he would hold over you both…’ A suspicion dawned in his mind. He folded his arms.

‘Just how were you planning to persuade Wickham to marry Miss Lydia?’

‘I was to pay him. Enough to cover his debts, and a modest allowance.’

‘How much?’

Darcy wouldn’t meet his eyes. He mumbled a non-committal answer.

‘How much?’ the Colonel pressed.

‘We have agreed on £10,000,’ said Darcy finally.

‘TEN THOUSAND POUNDS!’ the Colonel bellowed. ‘A modest sum indeed! Do you know, cousin, I have always had the greatest respect for your intelligence, but I fear I was mistaken. I now think you may be the greatest fool in Christendom.’

He continued, ignoring Darcy’s protests. ‘I suppose it has not occurred to you that Wickham, who knows you so well, may have discerned your partiality for Miss Elizabeth? That he may have targeted Miss Lydia to spite you, or indeed in hopes of payment? Yes, that could be it. After all, it is what you did with Georgiana.’

The Colonel had still been abroad during that unhappy business. Only he and Darcy were aware of what it had cost to buy Wickham’s silence over Georgiana’s near elopement. He had been furious when he learned of it. He would have called Wickham out and shot him, not paid him off. That feeling came back to him now.

‘Why not try the same trick twice, when he is dealing with such a gullible mark?’

Mr Darcy took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. ‘If that be the case, then I am bound by honour to ensure they marry.’

‘You think too much of honour and not enough of sense,’ retorted the Colonel. He sighed. For all his high and mighty ways, his cousin knew so little of the world. His was a life of order and duty, not lies and secrets. It was time to take him in hand.

‘Come, take me to my club. On the way I will tell you my plan.’

***
The next day the two men returned to the building where Darcy had indicated Wickham and Lydia were staying. Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed it in distaste. It was a medieval structure, all oak beams and plaster. Its tiled roof looked on the verge of caving in. It stood in a dirty back alley on the edge of Covent Garden. The air was foul. Beggars lay idly in the muck. Twice the Colonel had to expose his sword to pickpockets, to whom Darcy was quite oblivious. Men went into the building at intervals. Some glanced around furtively before they entered. It was not a place he would want a relative of his to even see, let alone reside.

They moved inside. The owner, a short, rough looking man with one eye and a muscled neck, was bribed to make himself scarce. As they had agreed, Darcy moved to a room at the back where he had arranged to meet Wickham. The Colonel climbed the rickety stairs, the wooden boards squealing in protest beneath him. On the landing women with sallow skin and yellowing teeth emerged from doorways and called out to him, exposing their stockings. He ignored them.

He barged into the room he knew was Wickham’s, not pausing to knock. He was not there, having left to meet Darcy. Good. A girl with loose dark hair lay on the bed, facing away from him. She was dressed only in her chemise.

‘Back so soon, Wicky,’ she cooed. ‘Come into the bed.’

‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. Lydia turned around and screamed, clutching some blankets around her. He was shocked by her youth. She could only be fifteen or so. Darcy had not mentioned she was as young as that. As young as Georgiana.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, her fear giving way to a defiant pout.

‘I am a… friend of Mr Darcy. He is downstairs, speaking to Mr Wickham. As their discussion concerns you, I think you should listen to what they have to say.’

He was surprised when she moved to obey. Indeed, she seemed almost eager to comply.

‘Is Mr Darcy to give my Wicky the living he promised?’ she asked.

‘The discussion will certainly be to your advantage,’ he replied.

He left to give her privacy to get dressed. This was no unwilling victim. How such a creature could be related to the genteel Miss Elizabeth was beyond his understanding. Any qualms about his plan had been quashed upon seeing her.

She quickly emerged and he led her downstairs, to outside the door of the room where Darcy and Wickham sat. ‘You will stand here and listen in silence,’ he said. ‘These gentlemen will keep you safe.’ He gestured to two burly corporals from his regiment, who emerged from the darkness. They were good lads, who knew to keep their mouths shut. They should. He paid well for their discretion. That they were there more to keep Lydia from running away than to protect her went unsaid.

He pushed open the door and entered the room.

Wickham saw him, and went white.

‘Fitz… what a surprise.’

‘That’s Colonel Fitzwilliam to you, Lieutenant Wickham. Did the militia not teach you how to address a superior officer?’

Wickham stammered, off his guard. Excellent. That was exactly what he wanted.

‘I expect you are wondering what I’m doing here, Wickham?’ At the man’s answering nod, he continued. ‘I have been discussing this matter with Darcy and we have concluded that £10,000 is far too plentiful a sum. £3,000 should be enough.’ He bared his teeth. ‘After all, we have Georgiana to think of.’

Wickham seemed to grow even paler, before he rallied. ‘If you want me to marry the chit, I shall need £10,000. Not a penny less.’

‘Really, Wickham, you disappoint me,’ said the Colonel. ‘Your… betrothed holds you in a great deal of affection. You do not return the sentiment?’

‘Chah!’ replied Wickham. ‘Hardly. I have scarcely met a sillier girl in my life.’

‘That was all I needed to hear.’ He turned to the door. ‘Let her in, lads.’

Lydia rushed into the room, tears streaming down her face. She ran to Wickham. ‘Wicky, I don’t understand. You said–’

‘Oh, do shut up!’ Wickham said, pushing her away.

Lydia went red. She slapped him. Hard across the mouth. Hard enough to leave a mark.

His hand went to his face, before he moved to hit her back. His arms were caught by the corporals. He wriggled fiercely, like a fish on a hook, before he stilled.

‘What is the meaning of this? Unhand me at once!’

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned his cane over in his hand, savouring the weight of the handle. He began to tap it on the floor.

‘You are a scoundrel, Wickham.’ Tap.

‘And a deserter.’ Tap.

‘And, more to the point here, a debtor.’ Tap.

‘Darcy here and I have purchased some of your debts. Already they form quite the sum. And we have sent to your regiment for more. These gentlemen are to take you to the Marshalsea. Enjoy prison, George. I doubt you’ll emerge for some time.’

He nodded to his sergeants, who began to drag Wickham away.

‘Darcy! Darcy! Stop this! I will speak! I will tell all about Georgiana!’

The Colonel replied. ‘You would not be believed. Just another insane prisoner, ranting a sorry tale. And if you do talk, well - when you are inside such a place, there are ways of stilling your tongue.’

Darcy looked at Wickham sadly. ‘I am sorry it has come to this George.’

The Colonel realised that even now Darcy held his childhood friend in some affection. Even now he could not see the true devil that hid behind that charming mask. Both men looked on as Wickham was led out the door. They could still hear his cursing halfway down the street.

After he was gone Lydia ran to the Colonel and began beating on his chest.

‘You beast! You foul beast! Bring my Wicky back at once!’

He let her take out her rage, before eventually grabbing her arms. ‘Sit down, you silly girl. As you heard, Wickham had no intention of marrying you. He was simply using you. To him you were merely a diversion, nothing more.’

‘It is true, Miss Lydia,’ intoned Darcy.

‘But he said we would marry…’

‘If he wished to marry you he would have gone to your father, not brought you to a place such as this.’ At her confused look the Colonel was reminded she was still a girl, naive to the wickedness of the world. He led her back through the doorway and up the stairs.

‘Tell me, Miss Lydia, where do you imagine you are?’ He gestured to the women that were standing around, the ill-dressed men who eyed her lustfully as they went past.

‘A tavern?’ ventured Lydia.

‘No.’ He was almost sorry to disillusion her so completely. Almost. ‘A bawdy house.’ She looked back at him blankly. ‘A place of ill repute,’ he explained, ‘where men pay women to do what you have been doing with Mr Wickham.’

Lydia’s hands went to her mouth. ‘You should not speak of such things!’

‘And you should not do them,’ he retorted. ‘He would have left you here, when he was tired of you. He has done it before. Perhaps he would have sold you to the owner. You would have been defenceless, alone, with no protector. A sorry fate indeed.’ He shook his head, leading her back to Darcy.

‘But what am I to do?’ she asked as she sat down. ‘Mr Wickham said….’ She began to sob, violently, her little shoulders shaking.

Darcy shook his head impatiently. ‘Your thought should be for your sisters, who must partake in your disgrace,’ he said sharply.

She looked up at them both, misery in her eyes.

‘Do not fret, Miss Lydia,’ said the Colonel. ‘We have a plan to save both you and your sisters. I am acquainted with three upstanding officers, convalescing in England. All are prepared to marry you. You will go to your Uncle and Aunt’s house on Gracechurch Street and they will be presented to you, an hour each. At the end you will choose one.’

It was a happier fate than he thought she deserved. Any of the men would make a much better husband than Wickham. Two were Lieutenants, one a Captain. All wished for commissions at higher rank, a matter far cheaper to arrange than ten thousand pounds. That Darcy had promised this and future advancements Lydia did not need to know. Nor, as yet, did she need to be made aware that the commissions would involve a hasty transfer to India, where news of any further scandalous conduct on her part was unlikely to reach ears in England.

The men themselves were only too glad to escape further wounds in Spain. The Captain had pulled a bleeding Colonel Fitzwilliam from the line of battle at Albuera, taking a musket shot himself in the process. When the Colonel woke at night he could still taste the powder, could still hear the screams of dying men.

He shook himself, realising that Miss Lydia was protesting the plan.

‘Why should I marry someone I have not met?’ she asked.

‘It is marriage or ruin,’ the Colonel replied. ‘For you, and all your family.’

He had expected questions as to why they were aiding her, but none were forthcoming. She was, he realised, a shallow and entitled girl. Her head had no doubt been full of officers and balls and parties. He had seen her type before.

‘All the men are most handsome, Miss Lydia.’

Lydia seemed to perk up at that, until her face fell. ‘It will not work,’ she said sadly. ‘I left a letter for Harriet Forster. All will know I planned to elope with Wicky… with Mr Wickham.’

‘We owe much to Colonel Forster’ said Darcy. ‘He wrote to your father, and prevented his wife from telling anyone of the letter. Only your Aunt and Uncle and your family at Longbourn know of what occurred. But that will not hold for long, if you do not marry.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped in. ‘If there are questions, we thought to explain your journey from Brighton as a desperate attempt to meet your lover, to whom you were secretly engaged. You might have persuaded Wickham to aid you in your plight. It would be chalked up as the actions of a romantic and foolish girl; impudent, yes, but not totally scandalous.’

She still seemed hesitant. ‘There will be funds for a fine dress, and a trousseau,’ he added. ‘And the officer would be married in his regimentals.’

At this final carrot she finally seemed to accept her fate.

‘Why, I shall be married before any of my sisters! Well, gentlemen, it seems I am quite in your hands. Show me these officers of yours.’

***
The Colonel was pleased that Miss Lydia had the sense at least to choose his friend Captain - soon to be Major - John Sholto. A tall man of five and twenty, he was possessed of a winning smile and charming manner. A scar running beneath his right eye seemed only to add to his handsomeness, hinting as it did at his bravery. The younger son of a knight who resided in a fashionable new villa in Norwood, he wanted only funds to rise high in his chosen profession.

He and Sholto travelled to Hertfordshire so that the latter could meet Mr Bennet and ask formally for Lydia’s hand. Their journey was an easy one on horseback. As the road from London opened he led Artemis beneath him into a gallop, revelling in the wind in his hair. It was nice to feel such speed, away from a cavalry charge. They soon reached Meryton, a bustling place, and asked for directions to Longbourn. As they approached the house he saw Miss Elizabeth outside the door.

‘Colonel Fitzwilliam!’ she exclaimed. ‘How pleasant to see you. What brings you to Hertfordshire?’

He introduced Sholto. ‘The Captain and I must see your father, on a matter of some delicacy.’

Something in his manner must have given him away, for anxiety immediately entered her eyes.

‘Is it about my sister Lydia? Oh, please tell me she is well!’

‘I believe all will be well, Miss Elizabeth. Do not worry. But we must see your father first.’ At this she led them straight to his study.

‘Some gentlemen to see you, Papa,’ she said gravely before withdrawing.

Mr Bennet was sitting behind his desk. He looked up above his spectacles in surprise as the two officers entered the room. Worry was etched on his face as he rose and the two men introduced themselves.

‘I believe I have read of your conduct in the Gazette, Colonel. Yours too, Captain. It is not often that two heroes of the war grace my study. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

‘I am a man known for my frankness, Mr Bennet, so I will come straight to the point,’ said Captain Sholto. ‘I wish to marry your daughter Lydia.’

Mr Bennet sat back down again in surprise. ‘Marry my Lydia? Impossible!’ After a moment he explained, ‘I am afraid, Captain, that there are circumstances that prevent it. Entirely prevent it.’

They explained that they knew all about Lydia’s conduct with Wickham. Sholto impressed upon Mr Bennet that he wished to marry her anyway.

Mr Bennet began to absent-mindedly polish his spectacles. ‘You strike me as a man of sense, sir,’ he said, ‘and no man of sense would marry Lydia without inducement. You are aware, I presume, that she has but a meagre dowry? I can certainly not offer more.’

The Captain nodded. ‘I wish nothing of you, sir, only your consent. Should you grant it, I shall endeavour to repay your trust in me.’

‘Well, sir, I am hardly in a position to refuse. It is a better end to this business that I could have hoped for. If the price is that you keep your secrets, so be it. You shall see me later to discuss the settlement. I shall leave to you both the daunting task of explaining all this to Mrs Bennet.’ He rose to show them out. ‘Although, if you change your mind after doing so, I shall not blame you.’

‘Come, sir, we have faced a battlefield. I dare say the good Captain here can brave an enthusiastic mother,’ replied the Colonel.

At this Mr Bennet just smiled wryly, and closed the door. A servant led them into the parlour. Elizabeth introduced them to her mother and sisters, glancing worriedly at them both. Only Miss Jane Bennet seemed calm.

Captain Sholto explained why they had come. At this there was an outpouring of exclamation. Mrs Bennet’s voice was by far the loudest.

‘Marry Lydia? But she is to marry Wickham!’

‘Mr Wickham is… indisposed, ma'am,’ explained the Colonel. ‘In debtor’s prison, in fact.’ This elicited a further round of gasps. He continued regardless. ‘I can assure you the Captain here is a far better catch. His gallantry is renowned.’

Sholto flashed Mrs Bennet a smile, before producing a fine jasperware brooch and handing it to her. ‘A small gift for my future mother-in-law. I can see where Lydia gets her beauty.’

Mrs Bennet looked at it. ‘Oh, how lovely!’

Her keen matrimonial instincts were awakened. She proceeded to ask Sholto a series of questions about himself, learning all about his income and connections. The Colonel sat back admiringly. The next time Wellesley captured a French General, he would recommend they be sent to Hertfordshire. He had never seen such a thorough interrogation.

Mrs Bennet had been thoroughly won over by the end of their visit. ‘Mrs Sholto! How well that sounds. Soon to be a Major! The son of a knight! I shall go distracted,’ she cried. ‘Hill, Hill, where are my salts?’

Elizabeth smiled at the men and led them out. ‘I am happy for you and my sister, sir,’ she said to the Captain. ‘I am intrigued, however, as to how this came about, and as to how you are involved, Colonel’. She turned inquiringly to him.

‘On that matter, I am sworn to secrecy, Miss Bennet. However, I am sure your keen mind can fathom it out.’

It began to rain, but her answering smile helped to sustain his spirits through the journey back to London.

***

The men returned the next day with Lydia in tow. A few hours with Sholto had seemed to cure her of Wickham. She clung happily to his arm as they stepped out of the carriage.

‘Well, Mama, what do you think of my beau? Is he not handsome? And look at what he has given me!’ She flashed her engagement ring, a gaudy thing of gold and turquoise. Mrs Bennet and Kitty cooed around it admiringly.

The men were led into the house. Miss Jane Bennet politely offered them tea. The Colonel admired the kindly way she spoke to the maid, the grace with which she poured them each a cup. She was certainly a rare beauty.

He had planned to stay only briefly, enough to ensure Lydia’s return, but he found himself agreeing to help chaperone her and Captain Sholto on a walk. Miss Jane was sent by Mrs Bennet to accompany him. It was a warm day. He enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his face, the sight of things growing in the fields.

As they walked Miss Bennet asked him gentle questions about himself. He found himself enjoying their discussion. Other women would have asked him about his father the Earl, the people he knew, the balls he attended. Miss Bennet asked him about London, about the coffee houses and theatres.

He reconvened with Sholto, falling behind the ladies. He was pleased to see that the Captain was quite reconciled to the match. As he looked ahead he saw Miss Jane and Miss Lydia stop. A pair of labourers were working by the side of the lane, gaping impertinently at them. He closed the ground quickly, feeling a rare anger.

‘About your business, gentlemen,’ he said. He was pleased to see them skitter off.

Jane wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Thank you, sir’ she whispered.

He wished for the smile to return to those eyes. As they crossed a field he decided to engage in a little mild flirtation.

‘You must take my arm, Miss Bennet. The ground is uneven. And I must protect you from these cows.’ He gestured to one in the distance. ‘That fellow there looks most fearsome. Look at his horns.’

He was pleased to elicit a giggle. ‘I can see you are not a country gentleman, sir, if you cannot tell a cow from a bull!’

He laughed out loud. So there was a quiet wit hidden underneath that beauty. And a demureness, too, for she did not take his arm. There was nothing mercenary about her. Bingley was a fool.

As they crested the hill known as Oakham Mount, and looked out at the view, he decided he liked Hertfordshire. He might stay a while, just to help Sholto of course. It had nothing to do with a pair of blue eyes, and hair that sparkled like diamonds in the sun. Nothing at all.

A day passed into a week, and then two. He walked with Jane every day.

She was beautiful, to be sure, but it wasn’t that which drew him to her. It was her soothing manner. She radiated calm. When he was with her, the horrors of the battlefield seemed to recede.

For the first time in his life, the Colonel was contemplating matrimony.

Despite what he had told Elizabeth at Hunsford, he was quite capable of supporting a wife. The fifty thousand pounds he had quoted her was a small ruse he adopted, put up to deter the many women who saw him only as an Earl’s son. In fact he lived quite comfortably on his officer’s pay, and had a further thousand a year, a gift from his favourite grandmother. It was not much, but it was something.

But what could a grizzled and haunted soldier offer a woman like Miss Bennet?

***
As the wedding approached Darcy surprised him with a visit. ‘I am staying at the inn in Meryton,’ he explained. ‘I thought to see this business with Miss Lydia completed.’

‘And this has nothing to do with a certain Miss Elizabeth?’ he teased. ‘She has asked about you several times.’

Darcy smiled, but said nothing. They called at Longbourn. It was one of those rare cloudless days where the sun seemed to make everything younger. A fine day for a walk. Darcy soon secured Miss Elizabeth’s company. They walked together with Jane, with no particular destination in mind.

Before long Elizabeth spoke up. ‘I can go no further, gentlemen, without thanking you both for the part you played in securing my sister from Mr Wickham, and in bringing about her forthcoming marriage. It was most generous of you, sir,’ she said, turning to Darcy.

His cousin frowned. ‘I would not have your gratitude, Miss Elizabeth. Without my arrogance, my mistaken pride, your sister would not have been in danger from Mr Wickham. I had thought I had impressed upon her a wish for discretion in this matter.’

Elizabeth stopped in the road. ‘You must not blame Lydia, sir. She has been unusually tight-lipped. Seeing the Colonel’s involvement, I could not rest until I knew all. I wrote to my Aunt Gardiner, and received her reply yesterday. Jane I told this morning. Please, please let me thank you on behalf of the rest of my family, for they do not know to whom they are indebted.’

Darcy looked down at her beseechingly. ‘If you must thank me, let it be for yourself alone. As much as I respect your family, I believe I thought only of you.’

The Colonel thought to give the couple space. He led Jane away until they were out of earshot. She looked at him enquiringly.

‘I believe my cousin is about to propose to your sister, Miss Bennet.’

‘Oh! How wonderful. Lizzy will be delighted!’

‘Indeed, ‘tis a happy day. Darcy thinks too much of duty, and has not enough joy in his life. Your sister’s lively spirit will do him good.’

At this Jane beamed. ‘I am pleased to hear you say so, sir. I had hoped for such an outcome, but had worried that Mr Darcy’s relations would not look kindly on the match.’

‘Darcy’s sister Georgiana will adore Miss Elizabeth, I assure you. She is the only relative besides myself to whom Darcy pays any mind. Now it is true that the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh will be seriously vexed.’ He had changed his tone to an imperious one, and was pleased to see that his mimicry of Lady Catherine had Jane laughing. ‘But that will not signify. One benefit of being a man of independent means is that we can marry where we wish.’

‘And your parents, sir? How will they feel about Mr Darcy’s marriage to a penniless country miss?’

‘They would undoubtedly prefer a Duchess, Miss Bennet, but I imagine their reaction will be one of indifference. My father thinks of little but horses and grouse. Since my brother married and had children they rarely stir beyond the grounds of Matlock, and care little for what happens outside its walls. No, we need not worry about them.’

‘We, sir?’

Here was the moment. Jane had warmed to him, he was sure. She had become comfortable teasing him, and glanced at his figure when she thought he was not looking. But he was still unsure whether she would wish him for a husband.

He screwed up his courage. He had faced cannon fire. That was easier than this.

‘Darcy is not the only man to have found romance in Hertfordshire, Miss Bennet. We have not known each other long, but in that time I have come to greatly admire your kindness, your grace and your beauty. I know that you recently loved another, but if you would give me the chance, I would do all I could to win your heart.’

Jane smiled. The memory of that smile would always bring joy to his heart.

‘I have come to realise I did not truly love Mr Bingley. Indeed, I have not thought of him at all these past weeks. I was in love with the idea of being in love, I think.’

She paused thoughtfully. ‘When I was a girl, I used to love walking these lanes. I would stop and pick the flowers. That stopped when I came to womanhood. Men began to look at me differently. You saw an example of that recently, a small taste of what I endure. I no longer felt safe, even here near Meryton. But with you I find I can walk with comfort. I did not feel that with Mr Bingley. I did not laugh with him as I do with you. You need not work to win my heart, sir. You have it already.’

This reply brought him more happiness than he could ever remember feeling. He could almost burst with it. ‘If that be the case, Jane, would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?’

‘YES,’ she cried. ‘A thousand times yes!’

He caught her by the waist, and spun her around laughing. They twirled and twirled. And then they stopped twirling, and their mouths met, and they spoke no more.

***
The news that her two eldest daughters were to marry so advantageously did much to revive Mrs Bennet. Upon learning that her darling Lydia was to leave for India, that lady had suffered a fit of nerves so violent it had sent her to bed for days.

‘India! So far away! She shall be eaten by a tiger, I know it! Oh my nerves!’

Surprisingly it was Lydia herself who was most enthusiastic about this plan. She was so taken with the idea of being the first of her sisters to go abroad that she pored over the globe in Bennet’s study, and even read some of his books on the subject. She spent much of her time wondering if she might see elephants and other exotic sights, and discussing the jewels and servants she would have. Captain Sholto joined in indulgently. The reality of being an officer’s wife would be much more mundane. But he saw no reason to disillusion his betrothed. She spoke with such passion that even Mrs Bennet was partly won round.

‘You must be sure to write often, and send us the best silks. But watch out for tigers! Oh my darling Lydia!’

It was some comfort that after the wedding and departure of the newly minted Major and Mrs Sholto, Mrs Bennet could plan a double wedding for her elder daughters. That event came without any interference from Lady Catherine - who they simply failed to inform.

The wedding took place on a glorious day. The Colonel was told afterwards that Elizabeth looked radiant. He didn’t notice. He had eyes only for Jane. Her yellow dress matched the sun outside. It shone with hope.

Whilst Elizabeth and Darcy left for Pemberley, Jane and the Colonel spent their wedding trip at Weymouth. He would always recall the look on Jane’s face when she first saw the sea. They discovered that she loved the beach, though Jane teased that they saw too little of it. He promised they would take a trip there every summer, renewing pleasant memories. Very pleasant memories, indeed.

They settled in a fine townhouse not far from St. Paul’s. Their children, two boys and a girl, would grow up as true Londoners, born in earshot of Bow Bells. The Colonel decided to resign his commission. To the disappointment of his parents he became involved with trading in the City, aided by his new Uncle Gardiner, with whom he and Jane were on excellent terms. Jane did much good for the poor of the capital, helping to found a charity for invalided former soldiers.

In the summers they resided at Pemberley, occupying a small lodge on the edge of the estate, surrounded by wild flowers. With the Darcy’s occupying their London townhouse in the winter, Elizabeth and Jane had the advantage of living within walking distance of each other for much of the year.

Of Mr Bingley they saw little. He and Darcy had a blazing row when he learned of the latter’s interference and Jane’s marriage. He later married a society heiress, satisfying the wish of his sisters. The new Mrs Bingley promptly threw those ladies out of her house. The London gossip was that she soon cuckolded Bingley with a Duke. ‘Poor man,’ wept Jane at the news. The Colonel’s pity went only so far. If Bingley was so indecisive and easily led as not to recognise Jane’s worth, he had no great opinion of the man.

Lydia was a poor correspondent. Major Sholto kept them updated sporadically, his letters sufficient to assure them that their marriage was tolerable to both parties. With Darcy’s assistance he rose to become a Colonel. The couple made only sporadic visits to England, preferring to make their lives in the subcontinent. To this day Pemberley and Longbourn are full of Indian trinkets.

The Colonel’s military connections were sufficient to find Kitty a fine redcoat for a husband. Mary, the last Bennet sister to remain at Longbourn, surprised her family by caring diligently for her parents, growing closer to both as a result. After they died she caused a minor scandal by becoming, at the age of thirty-seven, the second wife of the Meryton vicar, two decades her senior. They lived happily.

It was at Pemberley, two years after Jane and Fitzwilliam’s marriage, that they had news of Mr Wickham for the final time. It came in the form of a letter. The Colonel opened it, and frowned down at the name of his correspondent.

‘What is it, Edmund?’ asked Jane.

‘A letter from my old acquaintance Colonel Williamson’.

As he read he narrated the letter. ‘It seems that Wickham has escaped the Marshalsea by enlisting in the regulars. Williamson writes that he has been telling tales of you and I, Darcy.’

At this both Elizabeth and Jane gasped. A nervous Georgiana was about to make her debut into society. Any scandal could be ruinous to her chances.

The Colonel held up his hand for calm. ‘Williamson writes that he has had Wickham flogged for his insolence. He reports that he has a poor reputation in the regiment, and none believes his lies. He has been placed on duty digging the privies as a punishment.’

Darcy hit his thigh with mirth. ‘Somehow that seems oddly fitting.’

The Colonel did not say that the regiment in question was at the front lines.

The army was always in need of cannon fodder. Somehow he doubted they would be hearing from Wickham again.

He penned a brief reply and tossed the letter into the fire. He would pay it no further mind.

All in all, things had worked out very well indeed.

FINIS

Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED (14 replies)

JessicaS — Sun, 16 Aug 2026 04:56:03 +0100

Author's note: FINIS! I hope it ends well enough for you-all. <3

Forty-Four

Elizabeth fretted about everything left to accomplish, and felt that perhaps her wedding could come too soon.

Letters, sometimes accompanied by parcels, flew from Longbourn and back. Elizabeth was quite certain the post’s horses would soon refuse to make the turn to Longbourn House proper. Thankfully, they only had to tolerate quite this level of correspondence for less than another fortnight.

Jane and Bingley were due back in a week’s time, Mrs. Bennet was in a predictable flutter, and Lady Catherine would be arriving in the next few hours. Lady Catherine and the Gardiners intended to travel in an entourage to Longbourn, as Anne had spent the previous se’enday with her sister’s aunt and uncle. The Matlocks were quite busy with the social requirements of the season, and Anne had simply wanted to spend time with friends in town. The Gardiners, young, fashionable, and intelligent, as well as quite astute about people in general, obliged readily.

The latest news from Brighton indicated that Wickham’s duties were not so strenuous that Colonel Forster could not spare him for a few days. He was expected to arrive a day prior, and stay in the Meryton inn. Mr. and Mrs. Collins travelled with Lady Catherine, but were to stay with the Lucases. Darcy opted to invite primarily family and close friends. Accordingly, a majority of the invitees had been in the locality just a fortnight ago.

According to Lady Matlock’s letter yesterday, Richard would be spared from his duties as well, and arrive with his parents. Comments regarding Mary’s need for tutelage to befit her future station solidified Elizabeth’s suspicions. Her mother Bennet’s ill-considered boasting at the Netherfield ball about "throwing the other girls into the paths of other rich men!" seemed to be at least a little fruitful. Jane and Bingley had graciously offered the use of Netherfield for the family which would overfill Longbourn, including a few other Darcy relations.

Having those details worked out set Elizabeth’s mind at ease. Her mother could attend to the rest herself, and probably more happily so than if Elizabeth’s more sedate and practical wishes were strictly followed. She however still had to attend to her own personal items. Her notes about items and fabrics taken while shopping with Jane assisted immeasurably, and the items from Mrs. Smithson’s modiste arrived in good time. Those items which she need to pack were being sorted and some already sent ahead to her uncle’s London house.

The settlement papers were deemed completed pending a final review when mère arrived in a few hours’ time. The primary settlement came from the de Bourgh family, much as Lady Catherine had described that beautiful but tumultuous morning nearly three months previous, but Mr. Bennet did settle some of Mrs. Bennet’s and his personal assets on Elizabeth. They were, necessarily, items not included in the entail. William’s side of the settlement fulfilled Mrs. Bennet’s hopes for Elizabeth’s pin-money and jewels, and then some.

It – most importantly for Mrs. Bennet – ensured that she and the other Bennet daughters would not be turned out into the hedgerows when Mr. Collins inherited. The Pemberley dowerage cottage, used only by family guests and occasionally rented for large parties over the past many years, would become available for Mrs. Bennet and any unmarried children upon Mr. Bennet’s death. Lady Catherine did not require such reassurances, as she retained lifetime residency to Rosings as long as she lived, so William had insisted that Mrs. Bennet receive that due. As Elizabeth’s inheritance of Brandywine remained separate from the Darcy estates by both Lady Catherine’s will and the marriage settlement terms, it wasn’t, strictly, a necessary offer. Elizabeth could ensure her family remained comfortable regardless.

Lady Catherine sided with William, when the particulars were discussed one last time. "Of course, you could let Fanny and the girls live at Brandywine should the entail come into effect! None of us would think meanly of that at all, my girl. But this is about more than just a home in sad circumstances, isn’t it, Darcy?"

William nodded. "It is. It is ensuring that Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s selflessness in taking on a foundling is repaid in the only way I can do so, beyond ensuring their daughter’s – your –happiness insofar as I can. As they took you in under their roof, so – in not dissimilar circumstances – I, and by extension, the rest of the Fitzwilliams, can take them under our roof."

Elizabeth barely controlled the tears at having the reasoning laid out in such a way, and Mr. Bennet did not look unaffected himself. "I should protest that the honour of raising Elizabeth offsets any need for repayment – but I will not be so proud as to turn down a future home for my wife and children, either."

"Because you are not a simpleton, Bennet," Lady Catherine rejoined. "I told you we would find some way to ensure you were repaid for saving her." She paused to smile at the betrothed. "We are just fortunate that such an easy path for that presented itself."

"I suspect it would be the first time either of these two took the easy path in anything, and likely the last," Bennet teased.

"Papa!" overlapped with a sardonic "A first time for everything, sir."

Lady Catherine chuckled. "Were there any other concerns you had, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I have gone over it a few times, with Papa, with William, and again with Uncle Phillips. He may only be a country lawyer, but he has experience in this field. That was my remaining concern, to be sure it was fully considered."

Lady Catherine asked, "Should I sign it fully, then?"

Elizabeth nodded. Mr. Bennet had already affixed his signature for the Bennet side of the agreement, and William his for the Darcy side. Once Lady Catherine put ink to paper, the contract would be in force the moment the wedding was formalized. Elizabeth’s own will ensured that, even if she should predecease her mother, even without issue of her own, her mother would not be rendered homeless. She had done her best, and her dear friend would not need to fret about turning her friend’s family out of their home with nowhere else to go, either.

All that remained now was a se’nnight of patience, and she would be at William’s London house for their wedding night. In a month’s time, her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner would join them at Pemberley, for the tour of the countryside which had been discussed that day that Elizabeth’s world changed.

In the meantime, Elizabeth divided her time between spending a last few half-hours with each sister. She listened to how Mary continued to improve with Georgina’s encouragement, sometimes joining in for duets at their request. She listened in to Lydia’s and Kitty’s lessons, and assisted Miss McGonagall where she could. She assisted Mrs. Bennet wherever their mutual tolerance for shared tasks overlapped.

Also importantly, she ensured that she and William had diligent enough chaperones. Mr. Bennet had shared his elder brother’s journals with Mary, and when the betrothed were not too unsociable for conversation with her, she would share highlights with them both. One passage, she simply blushed as she handed the journal over to William, and asked how much was accurate. Elizabeth noted that he flushed quite charmingly, before he handed it over to her to read as well. It was of, er, significant immodesty, from a male perspective. "Did Papa read this before he gave it to you?" she asked Mary.

Mary nodded. "He said he wondered if I would be brave enough to ask about it, but that perhaps a brother may be better to answer."

William flushed again, and sighed. "I would say that even the most self-controlled gentleman may find his mind … wanders … at the best of times. And sometimes our anatomy is definitely not under our control. That does not mean that our actions are not, of course." He smiled slightly. "That is, of course, why some fashions are as ridiculous as they are."

"To maintain your discretion?" Mary asked.

"Indeed," William replied, and Elizabeth felt rather than saw him glance at her, so swift was the action. "I do recall your father mentioning the journals, and that he thought you may find it useful, depending on your intentions." It was very clearly an attempt to change the subject, and the girls obliged.

Mary nodded slowly. "I confess, I had long considered the possibility of a similar course for my life. I have never felt called the way that my uncle describes, however, and I do not know if I could handle such hardships for so little reward."

William nodded slightly. "Longbourn may not be as large an estate as Pemberly, but it is still quite different than the life of a missionary."

"And," Mary replied softly, "that of a soldier."

"Aye," William concurred. "I have only my cousin’s stories, and no experience. He said that, once in the field, many of the illusions of society are stripped away, in ways he cannot quite express."

"He has tried, certainly," Mary replied.

"Oh?" Elizabeth knew they had spoken long and close, several times now.

Mary placed her bookmark in the journal, and closed it, holding it close to her chest. She did not answer directly. "I am grateful for the opportunity to read, with my own eyes, some similar hardships. I believe it helps frame what the Colonel tried to express." A long pause fell as the trio walked along.

"He seems ready to find another choice of employment," William finally offered.

"Yes," Mary agreed. "He mentioned that Lizzy’s cousin the Viscount and the Earl both have offered use of a smaller estate, and horses."

"And what think you of horses?" William asked.

Mary glanced at Elizabeth with a slight smile. "I am certainly more fond of them than she is, but we have few, and they are often wanted on the farm proper. I can ride."

"And better than I, true! Fortunately, I believe there are ponies and a chaise at Pemberly that I can use," Elizabeth laughed. "I will not need to come much of a horsewoman."

William smiled. "Even if there were not today, that could be easily resolved."

"Good!" Mary rejoined. "Our aunt would be terribly disappointed, for she has long wished to walk the grounds."

"Convincing her niece to let me marry her is certainly an elaborate method of ensuring the chance to indulge such a wish!" William teased.

"I am such a dutiful niece and daughter," Elizabeth replied as solemnly as she could muster.

The trio’s composure lasted barely a moment, and then it was quite lost. It was a merry party indeed that returned to Longbourn’s steps. Perhaps those who witnessed the stolid Mr. Darcy laughing with his fiancée and her sister were amazed, or perhaps they simply shrugged it off as the minor miracles of courtship.

Forty-Five

The morning dawned. Elizabeth recalled, not quite a month ago, finding Jane watching the sun rise, and part of her was mildly amused at her doing the same. Watching the sun rise this morning, however, came with the awareness that her world was about to change all over again. This time, by her own choices, of course, but it would be another up-ending. She refused to dwell too closely. For all of her other concerns, none centred around William himself.

Jane stirred on the bed, as she had elected to spend the night at Longbourn to ensure she would be available to help Elizabeth prepare. With the house so crowded, and Jane’s old room housing guests, the sisters had shared a room as they had many times over the years.

Jane settled in beside her at the window. They had spoken late and long, the last three days, and there seemed little to say which would not be a repetition. Elizabeth leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder, as the pink greys faded into blue.

"We should start getting you ready," Jane finally said.

Elizabeth half-reluctantly agreed, and rose. "Into the whirlwind, then."

Elizabeth barely recalled her own wedding, caught between anticipation and trepidation. Bits and flashes of the preparations – her hair refusing to be entirely contained – Lydia abruptly turning into a waterworks – Mrs. Bennet’s exultations and Lady Catherine’s dabbing at her eyes. The ceremony itself – she remembered William’s expressive look at her as she joined him at the altar – the matrimony vows – and then signing her name as Elizabeth Darcy.

Time slowed back down after that, perhaps unnaturally slowly, although Elizabeth still barely tracked most of the goings on. The congratulations from cousins, new and old, rang around the wedding breakfast. Their sisters, all six of them, were quite effusive. Jane, very much in the role of Mrs. Bingley, ensured that Elizabeth and William were able to actually take to the coach awaiting them, assisted by the understanding and obliging Charles.

Jane’s face – most beloved of those not in the carriage with her right then – was the last one she saw before leaving Longbourn. Jane’s smile seemed to be both radiantly happy for her, and deeply wistful. The clip-clop of hooves on the road filled the carriage for a moment.

"Well, Mrs. Darcy. How are you feeling?" William asked, with a teasing note.

Elizabeth smiled up at him, and snuggled in closer. "Well enough," she allowed. "And you, Mr. Darcy?"

"Impatient is the most accurate term," William chuckled. "I have been quite irritated by the presence of chaperones the last few days."

"You poor, poor man! Such torments to befall you! How – mmph!" William silenced her teasing rather effectively, and it was some minutes before they spoke again.

"A few hours to London," she reminded him.

"Too long," he sighed, before desisting, reluctance written in every line on his face.

"I shall refrain from tempting you until tonight," Elizabeth promised.

William laughed. "My love, you tempt me just by existing." She blushed, and he smiled at her. "But I shall restrain myself from tempting you into tempting me more."

It was her turn to laugh, and she shook her head at him. "Books?"

"Books," he agreed, and he rummaged under the bench for their trip provisions. He handed her the selection she had made the night previous, and they settled in together to read for a while.

Elizabeth never doubted the competency of William’s staff at the townhouse, but she was mildly amused at how carefully they gave the newlyweds space that first night. They spent two nights in London, then they were on the road to Pemberly. William ensured that Elizabeth had plenty of opportunity to sight-see on the road north, and they did not arrive at Pemberly by the most direct route or the fastest time.

Nearly a week after leaving Longbourn, William announced, "We are nearly to the turn for Pemberly." Yet it was several more minutes before William directed the driver to slow.

Elizabeth paid close attention as the carriage rounded the turn to the house. The carriage paused, even without William’s direction. She thought she might have gasped; she could not be sure. She understood then, why William and Georgiana loved their home so much, beyond the normal affection for one’s familiar surroundings. When she tore her eyes away from the sight, she found William gazing at her with a slight smile.

"I hope, very much, that the house meets with your approval?" he asked, in a tone between jest and apprehension.

"I dare say there are few in the world who would not approve, and I would hope I am not such a simpleton," she rejoined. He chuckled. She glanced back at the house, still as handsome as it had been at first sight. The carriage started moving again, and the jolt made her aware of how very large the house was. Trepidation crept to her awareness again, and she leaned into him. He wrapped his arm around her. "I do hope," she continued, "that I am up to the task of being her mistress."

William snorted, and tightened his embrace. "I remember the first day I came home from Cambridge after several months, with greater awareness of what tasks would face me when I would take over the guardianship of the estate from my father. It was awe-inspiring, to think that I could ever be entrusted so." He breathed into her hair slightly. "And, a few days after his death, frightening, that I could ever be entrusted so." A sigh, and she gripped his hand tightly in comfort. "You will be a fine mistress for Pemberly. She has been without one for many years."

At the door, William assisted her out of the carriage, and introduced her to the head housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds. She was a respectable-looking elderly woman, quite civil and not very fine, with a warm manner. "Welcome home, Mrs. Darcy," the lady said with a smile.

The words wrapped themselves around her heart, and whispered comfort, belonging, life.

Home.

Forty-Six

A fortnight later, Elizabeth stood beside William as the Matlock carriage, carrying Georgiana, her companion, and the Matlocks themselves, followed by a touring carriage. Elizabeth spied her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner admiring the view, much as she had even that first morning.

Once all of the flurry of arrivals and welcomes subsided, Elizabeth found herself settling down on a chair in the room set aside for her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, while her husband absconded with her uncles for fishing. Elizabeth had discovered she enjoyed the sport herself, but knew her Aunt Gardiner – and perhaps Aunt Matlock – would wish to check on her, beyond what letters had already been shared.

"Marriage seems to suit you well," Mrs. Gardiner noted after the servant left the room.

"We are still adjusting, of course," Elizabeth replied. "I only imagine that would be true of any newlyweds. But I am happy, and William seems to be as well."

"And what of other concerns?"

Elizabeth considered her answer. "It is early yet, but I feel that I will not shame the shades of Pemberly."

Mrs. Gardiner, obviously recalling the sharing of that story, chuckled. "You are fortunate Lady Catherine is such a staunch supporter of your decisions."

"You know that my courage always rises in the face of intimidation," Elizabeth laughed. "While I am grateful that Mère is supportive, I dare say I would have weathered her displeasure in any other circumstance, as well. How is she, and Anne, truly?"

"Have you had letters?"

"Of course. But I feel a faint concern, still."

"Lady Catherine seemed melancholy when we saw her last, just before she and Miss de Bourgh left Longbourn for Rosings. Miss de Bourgh has written, and her spirits do not seem to be particularly affected. Of course, I have no knowledge of how she presented prior to her staying with us in London. Her companion, Mrs. Jenkins, seems a genteel enough lady, but I do not know how compatible she is with Lady Catherine. Miss de Bourgh did not hint at any concerns regarding her mother."

"I am given to understand that mère enjoys society, and that visitors are not infrequent at Rosings," Elizabeth replied. "It seems that a companion is less necessary for her than my sister. And Mama? Lydia?"

"Lydia volunteered to help Miss McGonagall with the children, Kitty as well. When Mary can spare time from her piano, studies, and letter-writing, your father is teaching her more about estate management, particularly the household side, than she’s yet learnt. She did well, the few days he was at Rosings with you. Your mother –" Mrs. Gardiner shrugged. "If you assumed she was boasting to all of the county about the wedding they attended, you may be reassured it is, thus far, only about half of the county." Elizabeth burst out in laughter as Mrs. Gardiner added, "After all, she still had not finished boasting about Mrs. Bingley, before she could boast about Mrs. Darcy."

"Indeed, I think she had not!" Elizabeth eyed her aunt. "But Mary? Letter-writing?"

"Ostensibly to Lady Matlock and Miss de Bourgh. If she has other correspondents apart from yourself, or perhaps Mrs. Collins, she would not share. It does not seem likely that she would be writing Jane when Netherfield is a mere five miles away."

"Perhaps not," Elizabeth allowed. "Any other news from London?"

"Especially from Mr. Boswell, the gypsy?" Mrs. Gardiner replied. "None yet. I left directions. We can but hope he chooses to share what he knows."

"Indeed," Elizabeth rose. "Would you like a brief tour? Mrs. Reynolds is more familiar with the history of the house itself, of course, but I can certainly show you the salient points."

"Perhaps when your uncle returns," Mrs. Gardiner replied. "I would not be displeased to see your favourite spots, though."

Elizabeth guided her aunt to her personal study. Mrs. Gardiner took in the room before settling in the chair across from Elizabeth’s desk. "I notice you have the room arranged much like your father’s. How have you taken to the management of the household?"

Elizabeth tilted her head as she considered her answer. She leaned forward to tap the household ledger. "My experience with Longbourn’s books has been beneficial, of course. Naturally, there are differences, beyond Pemberley’s tenants being more numerous. Pemberley has many more sheep than Longbourn, although we are fortunate to have enough flats to have some cereal and row crops. The needs of the tenants reflect that difference." She leaned back. "Mrs. Reynolds has managed the role of mistress since William’s mother passed, and she has been supportive in my learning the differences."

"How did she react, discovering you had been keeping such books for years?"

"Surprised, certainly. It is apparently not as common in the upper circles of the gentry as one may believe." Elizabeth shrugged. "I suppose being able to afford a Steward, and needing to attend to multiple estates and responsibilities, changes that viewpoint."

"I would certainly prefer to be able to tell when my Steward was cheating me!" replied Mrs. Gardiner in surprise.

"I readily agree. But Lady Matlock, for instance, cannot be auditing the books while she is managing the London house during Parliament’s active season."

"Has Georgiana learnt much, then?"

"Not as much as Mary, I believe. Among many other things, that is one area I will endeavour to encourage them both." A knock at the door. "Come in," Elizabeth called.

"Ah, there you are." Lady Matlock stepped into the room, gesturing for the women to stay seated. She glanced around. "I approve of the rearrangements, not that you need such approval. It is certainly your space now." She settled herself in the chair beside Mrs. Gardiner.

"This was Lady Anne’s study before?"

"Yes," Elizabeth replied. She gestured at a door to the side. "The master’s study – William’s study, now – is through that door. I saw no reason to rearrange that aspect of it." She paused, with a quick glance at Mrs. Gardiner. "I am told that my sister Mary has been writing letters to you?"

Lady Matlock smiled. "Indeed, although perhaps not all of the letters have been meant for me, regardless of how they have been addressed."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, and Lady Matlock shook her head. "No, no clandestine communiqués, rather many a comment for me to pass on to Richard."

Elizabeth half-smiled. "Does my cousin seem inclined to listen for such comments?"

Lady Matlock laughed. "I dare say I see him more often when there may be a letter from Miss Bennet to share titbits than I did the entire time that you and Mrs. Bingley were in residence!"

Mrs. Gardiner chuckled. "Is that not the way?"

"So it seems," Lady Matlock agreed. "I, of course, do my proper maternal duty and relay such comments from him to her as are appropriate." She paused. "I rather like Miss Mary. Miss McGonagall has been a fine influence for her already, and I suspect she will have sufficient composure to brave the wilds of London society whenever we need her attendance. I hope that Richard makes the right choice sooner rather than later."

Elizabeth nodded agreement, before shifting the subject. "Anne wrote that she has suggested that Wickham study under our mother’s steward, as had been suggested years ago. The steward is apparently making noises about retiring."

Lady Matlock pursed her lips and glanced between the other two. "I have my reservations about that idea, of course."

"William mentioned that perhaps Anne is trying to bring Wickham into her sphere to determine if he might be suited to another role."

Mrs. Gardiner blinked in surprise, and Lady Matlock suppressed a start. "He certainly seemed genteel and gallant enough when he was in London," Mrs. Gardiner replied cautiously.

"And a Darcy, a gentleman’s son, without the concerns of being a Fitzwilliam," Lady Matlock allowed. "I know that Anne has voiced concerns related to her own weaknesses, that ‘outbreeding’ would be better for the de Bourghs." She looked at Elizabeth. "Is there a reason you shared this possibility?"

Elizabeth sighed. "She is my sister, but I know her only a little. I know my mother even less. I know Wickham as he was before his absolution, but I do not know if or how long any changes may last." She paused, searching for words. "I do not know whether to encourage or discourage her – in either the spoken scheme or the unspoken one." She smiled slightly at her aunts. "I suppose I need advice."

Lady Matlock shook her head. "I have little to none to offer myself immediately. Watchful observation would be best."

"Is there likely to be harm should he take up a stewardship?" Mrs. Gardiner queried.

"All else aside, he has been less than sterling in his personal management of money over the years," Lady Matlock replied.

"William has provided reasons why he may have been less than attentive to such matters, in at least two situations. My understanding is that Wickham has rather more sensibility than sense when under emotional duress." Elizabeth paused, sighing. "Although, under similar circumstances, I suspect I would be hard pressed to be sensible, as well. Losing loved ones is quite difficult."

Lady Matlock looked surprised. "I knew about Wickham’s parents, of course, the elder Mr. Wickham and her." A decided note of distaste at even referencing Wickham’s mother. Elizabeth presumed that her aunt had her reasons. "But they were both quite alive when Wickham first had debts which William discharged."

"I am given to understand that George had an intended, and the family strongly disapproved. The girl did not live another year, to her maturity. Anne knows of this, as well." William, of course, had shared more, but Elizabeth did not want to share Wickham’s heartbreak any more widely than necessary.

"Oh," Mrs. Gardiner replied, a voice full of sympathy. "I can well understand how that might cause disarray, especially after your disappearance several years before."

Elizabeth nodded, and Lady Matlock expressed agreement. "Such was our thought." Elizabeth glanced between the older women.

After a moment, Lady Matlock slowly nodded. "Catherine may be not inclined towards bringing Wickham into her home as steward, but it would be reasonable to see if he might be agreeable." She paused a moment. "Randall has expressed concern about his health, certainly, as it does not seem as robust as it ought. A more stable situation under the excessively attentive eyes of your mother may be beneficial. I may suggest that to her myself in my next letter. We would be willing to buy out his commission if necessary."

"Should I communicate a willingness to assist to Anne, then?" Elizabeth asked.

Lady Matlock agreed. "I will work on your mother, if your husband is willing to work on convincing Wickham."

Elizabeth smiled slightly. "I believe William already planned that action, but I will share your support for the scheme."

With the most pressing schemes of supporting the unmarried in their pursuit of resolving that problem discussed as thoroughly as the women could do at the moment, Elizabeth and her aunts adjourned to the parlour to await her husband’s and uncles’ return to the house. Georgiana had already opened the piano, and Mrs. Annesley sat serenely enjoying her charge’s performance. Georgiana’s fingers stilled with the end of the music, and she was startled by the sudden applause.

"Oh!" she cried. "I had not seen you all enter. My apologies! I was practicing."

"If that is practicing, my dear," Lady Matlock replied, "then I doubly look forward to hearing you perform in earnest!"

Georgiana flushed from the praise before rising. "Has my brother come back to the house yet?"

"Not that I am aware," Elizabeth replied. "But I expect he will soon. They have been out for a few hours now."

Forty-Seven

Madeline Gardiner nee Hollsworth spent the first few days rekindling old friendships in her old town of Lambton, while introducing her husband and her niece, the new Mrs. Darcy, to those friends. Miss Darcy sometimes accompanied her sister. Lambton merchants exerted themselves to garner favour with Mrs. Darcy, in the hopes of attracting her business.

A few days were spent at Brandywine, reviewing the estate in person. Lady Matlock shared stories of her courtship, while the Earl shared stories of his late sister’s. Elizabeth found the estate to be larger than Longbourn, but certainly comfortable. She noted that it was not above thirty miles from Pemberley, an eminently comfortable distance for, say, offering Jane and Charles use of the estate until one could be purchased outright, "should Netherfield lose its charm," as she phrased it. Madeline understood her meaning and concurred.

A week into the Gardiners' stay, a messenger arrived at Pemberley, looking for Mrs. Gardiner. He was shown into the study where she sat with Elizabeth and Lady Matlock, as they discussed tenant issues. Elizabeth and Madeline recognized him as the White Hart's groom, and briefly introduced him to Lady Matlock. He moved straight to his message.

"Ma'am," he said, "We have a guest who has arrived from London looking for you. He indicated that he believed you would wish to see him soon, but he looked tired enough from the road that the Missus insisted he rest."

Madeline glanced sharply at Elizabeth, who drew in a harsh breath. "Please return to the inn, good sir. I will be there shortly." The groom nodded and withdrew. Madeline continued, to Elizabeth, "Mr. Gardiner and I will see to the visitor. You will stay here. "

"I should –" Elizabeth started.

"You shall not," Madeline overrode her, for the first time in many years. "You will have to trust me and your uncle."

"However, I will also go," Lady Matlock added quietly, placing a light hand on Elizabeth's arm. "Trust us. We have no reason to believe he is hostile, but it is too late in this game to take the chance."

Elizabeth wilted slightly. "I … want to know, too."

"And whatever I learn, my love, I will tell you," Madeline promised, drawing her niece into her arms for reassurance, as if she were a child. Right then, she nearly was.

After a moment, where Madeline felt Elizabeth trying to regain her composure, she felt the nodded agreement. "Let me send a letter with you," Elizabeth said, "for the innkeeper. If it indeed be Mr. Boswell, or someone bringing news on his behalf, all of the customary expenses for his stay ought be covered by Pemberley." She moved to her desk to draft the letter.

Madeline agreed and Lady Matlock gave a rueful but approving smile at her niece. "Heart of gold, that one," she said in an undertone to Madeline. "We all are better for her."

"Indeed," Madline concurred.

Elizabeth blotted the page, and waved it a moment to dry the ink before sealing it. She offered it to Madeline, her expression still vulnerable and wary. "I will send for my uncles – do you think Lord Matlock would wish to join you as well?"

Lady Matlock shook her head. "Even if he should wish it, he will listen to me that it is better if we do not make too much spectacle of this. Mrs. Gardiner was telling me about some lovely lace she saw at the milliner's just a few shops down from The White Hart."

Elizabeth smiled, albeit weakly. "As good a reason to go to town as any," she agreed. She led the way out of the study and let one of the staff know that her uncles that her aunts were bound for Lambton for "lace and gossip," and to request they meet the ladies at the carriage, in no more than half an hour.

All three husbands were in attendance by the time the ladies made their own way, Darcy's expression worried and guarded. Lady Matlock apparently understood his expression and moved to reassure him quietly. "Not so much gossip, William, as information," she said in an undertone before more loudly sharing, " Mrs. Gardiner assures me that there is some lovely lace at the milliner's. It is a beautiful afternoon for an outing."

He nodded, taking in Elizabeth's expression. "Enjoy your shopping, then, Aunt Gardiner, Aunt Matlock. We look forward to hearing about your shopping later." Lord Matlock evidently caught the meaning of his wife's own pointed look, for he professed a desire to remain and attend an urgent round of billiards. Thus, Madeline, Mr. Gardiner, and Lady Matlock alone alighted the carriage.

It was only five miles to Lambton as the carriage rides, and Pemberley's carriage rode easily in most weather. Any uncomfortableness was due purely to the anticipation that weighed upon them all. Mr. Gardiner knew what little Madeline knew already, and all three were keen to know all that there could be.

When they arrived, the groom was quick to move to assist the driver. "The Missus said to send you in as soon as may be," he told Mrs. Gardiner.

She nodded, and Lady Matlock led the way. In just a moment, they were led to one of the smaller let rooms, where Mr. Boswell indeed waited. "Mrs. Gardiner!" he exclaimed upon seeing her. "You look well."

She remembered how much she liked the man, for he was warm and genuine. He was near her age, but looked a little older due to a harder life. "Thank you, Mr. Boswell. It is good to see you again. This is Mr. Gardiner, my husband, and Lady Matlock."

Mr. Boswell's eyes went wide, even as he gestured for them all to sit. "I am pleased to meet you both, but especially you, ma'am," he said to Lady Matlock. "I read in the papers that Elizabeth Bennet is your niece."

"Indeed," Lady Matlock agreed. She paused as a servant set tea down on the small table, and was politely dismissed. "And I am given to understand that you may know some of how she came to be with the Bennets."

His head dropped for a moment, as he took what seemed to be a steadying breath, before meeting her eyes straight on. "Aye, ma'am. Mrs. Gardiner asked as much in her letter, which is why I am here. I swear to ye, if we had known she were yours, we would have brought her straight to ye. But she did not know. Did she join you? I wish her to know."

"We will share the information with her," Madeline promised. "She has been through many shocks these last few months, and she is now Mrs. Darcy, as well. But I promise I will relay it all."

"Perhaps you could start at the beginning?" Mr. Gardiner prompted.

"It has been nigh on twenty years, has it not?" Mr. Boswell returned. "I may not recall everything exactly but I shall endeavour." He sipped at the tea he currently cradled, and faltered.

"Seventeen and a half," Lady Matlock replied. "Pray, continue."

"Seventeen years," the man murmured. "Seventeen years, I have done what I could to keep tabs on her, to make sure she was still safe. Pa gave me a task, and I have done my best." He shook himself lightly, and straightened, setting the cup down.

"We were traveling, as we do, from Southborough to Crawley," he began. "Now-a-days, I do not quite recall where we bedded down for the night, but it was nearer Crawley than Southborough. East Grinstead perhaps?"

More than twenty miles? Madeline thought. Good heavens!

"Middle of the night, the watch heard a ruckus, and went to investigate. Pa was with them. They found a little girl, crying for her mama. They asked her where her mama was, and she said she was lost, her pony had run away from George, and she had fallen off the pony some time later." The Gardiners shared a glance with Lady Matlock, but they did not move to interrupt.

"Pa brought her back, because what else could they do in the middle of the night? Of all the watch, he was the only one with littles, so he brought her to our wagon to feed her and get her cleaned up.

"I remember Ma waking me to help. She was a tiny little thing, same as my sister Mary. She could tell us her name was Elizabeth, but she could not remember her parents' names. She had bruises all over, probably from falling off the pony, and a terrible lump on her head. I have seen grown men die from hits to the temple like that; she was right lucky. But she could not remember much, just 'big house' and George taking her for a pony ride, and wanting her mama. But she could not tell us what her mama even looked like."

"How long did she stay with you?" Lady Matlock probed.

"Well, we had someone's child, right? So we had meant to be in Crawley for a faire by Lady's Day with our usual stops along the way for work, but we could not just take her. Most of the clan went ahead, but Pa and us, we stayed there a few days, looking and asking. Parish clergy had no knowledge or mention of a missing child, and she was so badly shaken Ma would not simply leave her. We did give the parish directions to one of our regular stops to get a letter to us if anyone came looking for her. A letter never came, so the next year we checked again, and no one ever did."

Another sip of tea, seemingly more for gathering his thoughts than any thirst. "We took her along with us, to Crawley, but as she healed up over the next while, it became apparent that she had developed a terrible fear of horses. She had a few memories come back, here and there, asking for her sister Anne. She was terribly distraught and kept trying to go find her. But the horses terrified her, and I reckon that if I had my pony bolt and throw me far from home, I might have done the same.

"In between her nightmares and her terrors, she was the sweetest little girl, and she and Mary got along wonderfully. I would have been pleased to keep her as a little sister. Ma thought to keep her, too, but Pa insisted that the fineness of her dress meant she had to be the daughter of someone important. Clan tried, but could not find anyone missing a daughter. We all asked everywhere we went. We even sent a rider to Westerham, but he heard no such news.

"But the fear of horses – well, that cannot be for a gypsy child. Ma cried when Pa said we needed to take her somewhere else, where she might be found by her family, or at least a family that did not live and die by their horses. The clan agreed and Ma accepted it. Pa tasked me with taking her to London and keeping her safe, because by his reckoning, that is where all the fine folk go at least some time of the year. We also had work dealings with a couple of orphanages there, and on occasion we would take in an orphan who seemed to be gypsy.

"We were nearer Reading by then. I took her by post coach. Hated leaving my own horse with the family, but there was no way she would stay calm enough to ride. Even the coach was difficult, I had to cover her eyes to get her inside. She was terrified." He paused again.

"I thought she might feel … betrayed, abandoned by being taken to London. I promised her that we were only trying to help her find her mama and her papa, but that she needed to stay in a place with other children missing their mamas and papas for that to happen.

"I swear that I did not know about the fever, though. The orphanage did not say anything of it, although I learnt later that they knew. Else, I would have taken her back with me to Reading, to catch up with the family from there. I only found out about the fever when I went back a few weeks later to check on her, like I promised her and Pa. That is when I learned that she had left London with Mr. Bennet, and been taken on after he lost his own children to the fever." He paused, glancing at Mrs. Gardiner. "I cannot tell you how grateful I was to know she had been spared and found a family to live with, a proper family. We still asked around whenever we went through there, but we never heard of someone missing a daughter. Plenty o' young ones lost to fever and sickness, but not just lost."

Silence hung over the little gathering for a few moments, while each digested the story. Madeline spoke up first. "Why did you never share that story with me until now? We spoke about her every time you came 'round."

Mr. Boswell grimaced. "Would it have done any good?" he returned. "For all you knew and I knew, her entire family was lost and her life with the Bennets was all she had. I never gave up hope and I am grateful she has found her kin at last. But why complicate things more than needful?" He shrugged helplessly. "I meant to tell her, one day, by letter if need be. I am telling you because you promise to share it with her. I …" he faltered again, before rising to rummage in a bag to the side. He returned with an unsealed letter, handing it to Madeline. "I wrote this for Miss Elizabeth, a few years ago when my own eldest was about the age she was when we found her. Being a father has added a whole different level to my recollections of it all. But I never quite had the courage to give it to her. I did not wish to disturb her if it was needless."

Madeline took the letter, and nodded. "I will, of course, review it before giving it to her," she replied.

"I expect nothing less, ma'am," he agreed. "But that is why I came myself, I … wanted to see her with her kin, at long last. I should like to know my promise to Pa, to her, is finally fulfilled."

Lady Matlock glanced at the Gardiners. "We will return to Pemberley soon, although there was a discussion of a brief shopping detour prior to returning," she replied. "I can well understand wanting to see your promise fulfilled, although her mother and sister are not currently visiting. Would seeing her with myself and her uncle, Lord Matlock, and her husband, Mr. Darcy, suffice for now?"

"It would ease my heart greatly, ma'am," Mr. Boswell replied.

"Then rest now," Mr. Gardiner said, standing in preparation to take leave. "We will call for you to join us in a few half-hours' time."

Forty-Eight

Madeline reviewed the letter on the return, while Mr. Boswell rode his rested horse alongside the carriage. It was indeed dated a few years ago, and contained much of the same information he had spoken, with only a few minor details included. It concluded with an apology for not being able to find her family, and hoping that she would forgive them for having abandoned her to an orphanage, even if it seemed it turned out for the best.

She passed the letter to her husband, and he to Lady Matlock. Lady Matlock's lips tightened as she read it, undoubtedly from renewed distress. Indeed, Madeline suspected she saw a shimmer of tears in Lady Matlock's eyes.

"Her story is almost complete," Lady Matlock murmured, handing the letter back to Madeline.

"No," Madeline corrected. "Her story is not almost complete. This chapter is. Her story continues – as Mrs. Darcy, with hopefully many children to brighten the shades of Pemberly, and all the laughter and joy that Elizabeth brings with her."

Lady Matlock smiled at the correction. "You are, of course, accurate as always, Madeline." She glanced out the window at the rider alongside the carriage. "My sister will be pleased to know that her daughter is safe after all, and that she was cared for and loved every moment possible."

"Is Lady Catherine likely to wish to honour Elizabeth's saviours?" Mr. Gardiner queried.

"Entirely possible," Lady Matlock agreed. "And will that not be quite the sight? Gypsies, being honoured at Rosings!"

The house came into sight, and Mr. Boswell paused, falling behind. He caught up a moment later, asking through the window. "Miss Elizabeth – pardon me, Mrs. Darcy – is the mistress of that?" he asked in awe.

"She is indeed," Lady Matlock replied with a laugh.

"Ma will be thrilled," he replied. "I wish Pa were still here to tell."

The meeting of Mr. Boswell and the Darcys was brief, with Mr. Boswell conveying his entire family's well-wishes on her marriage and reunited family. He took his leave, declaiming any need for hospitality. "My own family beckons, Mrs. Darcy. I will rest at the White Hart – thank you for covering the expense, ma'am. But perhaps when we journey this way, we shall call upon the house?"

"Please do," Mr. Darcy agreed, with Elizabeth echoing him. With that, Mr. Boswell remounted his horse, and turned up the drive for Lambton.

"One chapter closed," Lady Matlock murmured with a glance at Madeline.

"And an entire story to continue," Madeline agreed.

~ The End ~

Excessively Attentive - 40-43 (1 reply)

JessicaS — Sun, 18 Jan 2026 00:14:28 +0000

Author's note: I am trying to not sport with anyone's impatience. :)

Forty

Lydia brought up a scheme to join the militia in Brighton the next morning. "For it will all be so dreary here," she complained. "The parties will be so less interesting."

"We have far too much to do," Mrs. Bennet replied sharply. "Jane is getting married!"

Lydia looked surprised at this source of refusal, and subsided. Not that anyone else could bring up a word sideways over Mrs. Bennet's exultations and plans.

The girls only extracted themselves from Mrs. Bennet's effusions by Jane's well timed "Mr. Bingley would like" comment, and all five of them nearly fled their mother's presence. Even Mary looked harried, and agreed to join her sisters for the walk to Meryton. Mr. Bennet took pity on them, and his pocketbook, and conveyed a much pared down of items which Mrs. Bennet insisted would be necessary to celebrate her Jane's handsome catch.

The banns were to be read this week Sunday, which provided Jane three entire weeks and a few days more to prepare any items not already ordered and to pack. Bingley, according to Jane and barring any misfortunes, intended to arrive at Netherfield sometime late today.

"Then," Kitty teased, "we should not dally long with the officers. We should not keep you from your intended!"

"Oh, aye!" agreed Lydia. "But perhaps we can convince one or two to join us for the walk home."

"Perhaps," Elizabeth allowed. She remembered Wickham's hints about some of his fellow officers.

Kitty and Lydia voiced disappointment upon not seeing any of their preferred officers when entering Meryton. Elizabeth hushed them both, reminding them of the discussion at the inn just the day before. Lydia huffed a little but desisted. Kitty looked properly subdued. However, the Miss Bennets were shortly joined by some of the same officers which Lydia and Kitty despaired so vocally about, and another.

"Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Wickham greeted them both warmly, in his own turn. Elizabeth felt the difference of this warmth to his prior greetings, lo not that many months ago now. Lydia certainly caught the slight change, even if she did not know the meaning of it.

"Do not forget me, Wickham!" she cried, before he could even turn his head to do just so.

He smiled gamely at the youngest Bennet. "My apologies, Miss Lydia, but I could hardly forget you! Propriety, however, does indicate I greet your elder sisters first." He glanced at Mary and Kitty as well. "I hope this day finds you all well?"

"It does indeed," agreed Jane, and Mary murmured an assent.

Lydia gave Wickham a reproachful glare, and attached herself to Denny's arm. Elizabeth gave Wickham a sharp glance, and from the look he gave her, he was agreeing to stay close at hand. "I mostly wished," Wickham continued as if this little byplay were not going on, "to give my sincere congratulations to you, Miss Bennet. I have it on the best of authorities that Mr. Bingley has been granted the favour of a living angel to be his wife."

Jane coloured. "I know nothing about that, Mr. Wickham, but I am engaged to Mr. Bingley."

The other officers looked calculating at Jane and a little more so at Lydia. Elizabeth felt her ire rising, and felt compelled to ward off a predatory intent. "It is indeed fortunate for our Jane. She has found love and fortune, and, as we all know, even the very beautiful must have something to live upon. It is pity that our lot is so very small." A frown flittered across Denny's face.

"Quite," Jane assented. "I am fortunate."

"It is my studied opinion, my dear ladies, that it is Bingley who is the blessed one, but I quite understand your position," Wickham agreed easily.

Horses were heard and the party moved towards the shopfronts to clear the way. "Miss Bennet!" cried Bingley, and the riders -- for William was with Bingley -- directed their steeds to join the party directly.

Elizabeth felt a wave of déjà vu upon seeing William while speaking easily with Wickham. Both men also appeared to be recalling that particular instance. This time, however, William dismounted beside Wickham and Elizabeth. The men shook hands cordially enough, and muted gasps could be heard from the curious nearby. "Miss Elizabeth," William greeted her, before glancing in the direction of Bingley and Jane, already in close conversation. "Miss Mary, Miss Kitty, Miss Lydia, sirs."

"It is obvious what brought Mr. Bingley to town," Elizabeth said laughingly. "Did he allow you to wake at a reasonable time before riding to Longbourn?"

William chuckled. "I normally wake before Bingley, but not this morning. We were in fact on the way to your home." He glanced at his friend, then nodded at the horses. "I suspect Bingley will wish to assist your sister. Let me tend to setting the horses, so that it is easier to join you." Wickham offered to assist.

Lydia had already dragged Denny further from the party, nattering on about bonnets. Denny's attention, however, remained on Wickham and William. When William and Wickham rejoined Elizabeth and her sisters, Mary posed a question to William. "Mr. Darcy, I recall what your cousin noted about his duties and how ofttimes he is not available for his mother's social engagements. How does that compare to what you have seen from our militia officers in Meryton?"

William tilted his head as he considered the question. Wickham answered, "I suspect, Miss Mary, that the differences you allude to at this moment comes to a difference in experience. Darcy's cousin has nigh twenty years in the Army, and I believe he has served on the Continent several times. This militia, however, has seen little action, and those newly joined such as myself, none-at-all."

William nodded at Wickham. "What Wickham says is true. My cousin has suffered enough injuries on the field that he has been retired to service on this side of the channel, pending an heir from his elder brother."

"But he remains in the Army? He mentioned nothing of injuries," she added, looking disconcerted. "They do not trouble him?"

"His insight to battlefield operations assists the home office in making wiser decisions," William replied. "Or, so he has described his current posting to me. He does not make the most patient of patients, and does not relish recounting when he has been put into that position."

"Meanwhile, Miss Mary," Wickham picked up, "Most of us in the militia have not such heavy loads on our shoulders, and thus find ourselves free to escort such lovely ladies as you and your sisters."

Mary blushed faintly at any such praise, and Kitty snorted. Elizabeth noticed William's careful not-study of Mary, and saw a flicker of something in his expression, for just a moment.

Jane and Bingley entered the milliner's, following Lydia and Denny. Kitty opted to join them, while the rest of the party went across to the bookstore. When Mary turned down Wickham's game offer of assistance with book shopping, the other three retreated to the music section, "for Georgiana is always keen for something new," William said.

Once they were out of ear shot from her next-younger sister, William spoke in an undertone. "Promise me, Miss Elizabeth, you will assist Miss Mary in her preparations for my friend's wedding?" She shot him a questioning look, just as Wickham breathed out an "Ah ha!"

"If you insist," Elizabeth agreed as she looked from one to the other, and William and Wickham shared a triumphal smile.

"And then there was one," Wickham muttered under his breath.

Forty-One

The last week of the militia's stay in Meryton drew to a close with several parties, hosted in turn by the Bingleys, the Bennets, and the Lucases. Miss Bingley proved herself quite the capable hostess for her last event before turning over such household requirements to her new sister the next week.

While perhaps the youngest Miss Bennets attempted to throw a pall over the mood of the household in their dejection, the manic energy of Mrs. Bennet more than compensated for the youngest. Indeed, she brooked absolutely no displays of distress, not now, not so close to her crowning achievement of marrying Jane off to a young man of good family and fortune. The young ladies of the neighbourhood certainly drooped, but most came back to hope when reminded that many of Mr. Bingley's still single and eligible gentleman friends had been invited to witness his felicity personally.

The two weeks of comradeship between Wickham and William in full view of the neighbourhood soon put paid to some of the hatred Wickham previously stirred up. Wickham owned to a few 'friends', such as he had among the officers, that he had previously spoken twisted words, and admitted his fault. In doing so, however, the protection William had previously enjoyed from feminine attention as the formidable Mr. Darcy, not even tempted by the Miss Eliza Bennet, evaporated as soon as the last redcoat left the area.

The week of the wedding it became apparent that only Elizabeth's company could purchase William a moment of peace outside of Netherfield or Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet remained so overjoyed by Jane's good fortunes that she barely even noticed Mr. Darcy existed, and he found this a pleasant, albeit unusual, state of affairs. Netherfield hosted several of Bingley's friends at this point. Lady Catherine and Anne were expected to stay at Longbourn, and due in just a day's time.

Fortunately for both William and Elizabeth, their younger sisters were quite happy to entertain themselves. Additionally, between Elizabeth's gentle encouragements and Georgiana's praise, Mary showed sufficiently promising improvement that even Lydia did not scold her for (as much) for her music choices. Whenever Jane's presence was required, Bingley attached himself to William and Elizabeth, and she did likewise. Today, however, the men were obliged to be good neighbours and attend a dinner elsewhere.

Elizabeth watched as Jane sorted the last of her belongings, leaving only two days' worth left, and a few less important trinkets for her room. "At least you will not need to fret if you forget to pack something," Elizabeth observed. "Five miles is easy travel enough for something misplaced."

"Certainly better than Derbyshire," Jane agreed. "You will need to be more thorough than I am."

"What is in Derbyshire, pray tell?" asked Mary. Jane and Elizabeth both started, as they had not heard her approach the room. She slipped in quietly, shutting the door firmly behind her. "I only know of my aunt, Miss Darcy, and Mr. Darcy as of importance from there," she continued.

Elizabeth coloured slightly, and looked askance at Jane. Jane tilted her head in encouragement. Looking back at Mary, she shrugged. "Mr. Darcy."

Mary nodded, not a slip of surprise in her expression or tone. "Are you engaged?"

"A courtship. Our father has agreed, as has my mother. Our mother does not know."

"Congratulations. Why -- because Jane, of course," Mary sighed.

"Quite," Elizabeth agreed readily.

"He has been as good as a brother to Kitty, Lydia, and myself, even in our stay in his townhouse, " Mary offered. "I quite like this version of him."

Jane nodded. "We are given to understand he was quite distressed when he arrived with Bingley in the autumn."

"Georgiana shared a bit of her troubles," Mary said quietly. "I understand his … mood." She glanced between the elder girls. "Is Lydia at risk of something similar?"

Elizabeth bit her lip and Jane winced ever so slightly. "I certainly hope not," Jane sighed. "But -- "

"But ever since the militia came, there has been nothing but love, flirtation, and officers in her head!" cried Elizabeth, however quietly.

"Nor has that been improved by Jane's engagement," Mary replied. "Lydia will not be allowed to go to Brighton, will she?"

"I am certainly unaware of there being an intention of her going," Elizabeth replied, brows furrowing. "She certainly cannot go without family."

Mary seemed concerned. "Did you not know Mrs. Forster had written a letter, offering to let her join her after Jane's wedding?"

"No!" cried both elder girls. "Does our father know?" Elizabeth demanded.

"I would hope so, but I have only heard Lydia speak of it to Kitty. She seemed quite certain she was to go."

"The militia has left; the Forsters with them. How was she planning on traveling?" Elizabeth questioned.

"I believe the discussion was that Captain Denny had offered to escort her."

Jane and Elizabeth shared concerned glances, and Elizabeth rose to the door. "You will go to father?" Jane asked.

"Yes. Can you send a note to Bingley and William?"

"Of course."

Forty-Two

With an express sent to Brighton moments before, Bennet poured a stout drink for each Bingley and Darcy, as they conferred on the next steps. He leaned back with a sigh.

"Elizabeth had mentioned that Wickham had expressed concerns about Denny," he said.

"He did mention he considered some of his fellows to be of … questionable motives," Darcy agreed, "but he did not single Denny out as one to me."

A knock interrupted their conversation, and Bennet called, "Enter."

Miss McGonagall peered through the door, Mrs. Hill and Elizabeth with her.

"You called for me, sir?" the governess queried.

"Yes." He rose, gesturing at all three. "Please come in." Elizabeth closed the door behind her at his direction.

"How would you say you and Miss Lydia are getting along?"

Miss McGonagall glanced at the entire group assembled, and answered with a cautious air. "I have not been disappointed in her efforts, but the novelty of the situation has not yet worn off, I suspect."

"Would you consider yourself in her confidences?" Bennet did not expect that to be the case, of course. Mrs. Forster was much more the personality to gain Lydia’s confidences quickly.

"Not at all, sir. I am entirely too new to her for that. Any remarks or comments she has made have certainly been of a general nature, rather than confidential."

"Had she mentioned any correspondence at all?"

"None." She paused; her expression became more disconcerted. "She and Miss Catherine appear to be close; she may know." She glanced between the others in the room. "Is she safe?"

"She has not left this house, and she is in fact safe," Bennet assured her. "Has she spoken about any particular friends, perhaps among the recently departed militia?"

"Not any particular one, no," Miss McGonagall frowned. "When the militia were shortly to depart, she spoke of her disappointment in Lieutenant Wickham’s attentions towards herself, and alluded to it being due to Miss Elizabeth. She did remark on a Captain Denny as being a fine dancer, and a few others. The captain was mentioned several times, which is the primary reason I recall him. I presumed that it was a fancy which would fade with his departure."

Bennet nodded. "Thank you for being candid, Miss McGonagall. I wished to cover all angles, but I did not expect you would have any further insight."

She nodded slowly. "What may I anticipate on the morrow?"

"I have not yet spoken with her myself. We are attempting to … dissuade her by more politic means. With any luck, it will not be an issue for tomorrow."

Miss McGonagall shewed a questioning look, and Bennet half-smiled. "Best you know as little as possible, ma’am, so as to not show our cards."

***

The reply from the Forsters arrived late the next day, with an additional letter from Wickham to Bennet.

The acknowledgement from Colonel Forster was terse, but complete. It seemed that Denny had not been difficult to get to confess to his plans, with a little help from Wickham, and the end result was that Denny would not be free for quite some time. "To so treacherously plan to use my wife’s name to betray my wife’s friend and your daughter – I could not let such a situation stand."

The letter from Mrs. Forster to Lydia, which Bennet perused prior to admitting its existence, put paid to any notion which Lydia may have had about absconding to Brighton with Captain Denny.

Quote

My dearest Lydia,

Such horrid news I have to share! My dear Colonel discovered that Denny – yes, that Denny – had designs to gain his fortune – by kidnapping you. Such ludicrous ideas he had for his goal! Most of Meryton knows that you and your sisters have little money to offer a husband, yet he thought he could ransom you for a princely sum! Perhaps he ought read fewer novels, although he may have little else to do in the brig, where my dear Colonel, quite incensed he would threaten a friend of mine so, has put him for many weeks.

I never would have suggested he bring you to Brighton to visit after you recounted your mother’s refusal, and certainly not alone and unchaperoned! Not when you suspect your other elder sister will be engaged soon as well! Weddings are such fun, and so important to a family, I would not countenance you being gone. No, my dear friend, I will miss your company, but it is best for you to stay there for the moment.

When it is better timing for a visit, I shall certainly let you know, and direct an invitation to your parents, so that they know all is above board. I am grateful that my dear Colonel discovered Denny’s plot before you could be injured by it! To think we thought so well of him!

I pray to hear that you are tolerably well in your reply. I know you must be disappointed, but you are safe, and that is no little thing! Please let me know how Miss McGonagall is treating you! Is she still showing you interesting things?

All my love,

Harriet

Wickham’s letter elaborated on the Colonel’s:

Quote

…

After the Colonel shared the information you provided to him, I offered my services to assist in resolving the situation. He questioned my motives, but I believe I persuaded him that the Bennets are, by round about ways, good as my family. (I hope I have not offended you, sir, but Miss Elizabeth is part of my extended family, and thus you-all are as well.) He consented.

It did not take long to ease Denny’s guard, and straight into his cups. He was rather self-congratulatory about his intended tricks on Miss Lydia, and once he confessed that, I worked to tricking him into drinking himself into a stupor as I had a few times previously.

I did not relay this to the Colonel, to decrease the risk it might get bandied about, but Denny made a few comments which lead me to believe he intended to do more than just ransom your youngest. She certainly would not have been delivered in pristine condition. Not even in my most caddest of moments have I ever forced such upon a woman. His comments lead me to believe it is possible there is at least one in Meryton so injured by Denny, but I do not know who it may be. He kept enough wits to not be more explicit. He also did not share who assisted in mimicking Mrs. Forester’s hand sufficient to trick your daughter.

I am grateful for whatever interference granted you awareness in time to preserve her from such. I only wish I had known he was of such proclivities in time to protect others. I hope that my easy rapport with he and the other officers did not lull some unsuspecting soul into unguardedness around such a creature.

…

Bennet poured a stronger drink than he normally preferred as he digested the meaning of Wickham’s words. His little girl, so close to not just ruin but worse, from thoughtless naivete. Right now, he could only picture her as the babe-in-arms she once was and feel nauseous. He would put a word to his brother-in-law in Meryton to gather gossip. If there was an injured girl, he was fairly certain the good Colonel would be quite helpful in gaining justice for her.

After letting the drink temper his racing pulse, he resolved to share some of the information with Darcy and Bingley, but perhaps not all of the concerns even with Elizabeth. He reckoned he would be dissuading Darcy from taking responsibility for Denny’s assumption of a ransom payment, as well.

He resolved that, governess or not, he would try to exert himself for the younger girls’ benefit. His laziness and disappointment should not leave her – any of them – at such risk.

***

After the servants left the breakfast room, Bennet produced the letter from Mrs. Forster to Lydia. "As Colonel Forster and Mrs. Forster indicated I should review this prior to it being delivered, I have done so." Mrs. Bennet, thankfully, had kept to her rooms this morning with little hinting on Mrs. Hill’s part.

Lydia glared at him, but took her letter with artificial graciousness. Jane and Lizzy both gave him concerned glances, and he shook his head slightly. Lydia opened it, and scanned the first paragraph. She looked up at him, shock in her expression. "Papa?"

"Do you see why they wished I review it?"

She swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, papa."

"If you wish to talk further about it, later, I will be in my library. Miss McGonagall may be able to assist you, as well."

Lydia nodded, and, biting her lip, slipped the letter under her plate. She did not eat much more, picking at her plate. Elizabeth kept shooting glances at Lydia then to Jane. Once Jane was ready, Elizabeth set her plate aside. "May we be excused, papa?"

"Of course, my dears."

"Come, Lydia," Elizabeth coaxed her, and Jane echoed. Lydia pulled the letter out and left with her eldest sisters. Kitty and Mary watched worriedly.

"Papa?" Mary asked quietly.

"She will be fine in a day or a few. She may be mightily angry in a few days, or she may be despondent. But she will be fine." I hope.

Later, Elizabeth slipped into his library, looking worn.

"She will be fine," Elizabeth reported after a few moments of quiet. "She is resting, and Jane is still with her."

"I presume there was a storm of tears and fury?"

"Rightfully so," Elizabeth agreed. "Particularly after we set the letters side-by-side. The hand was similar, but not the same. Close enough that it must have been modelled off of Mrs. Forester’s own letters. To learn of the deception before any other risk to her person or reputation …" she trailed off, shaking her head. "George did well in protecting one of us, this time."

Bennet raised an eyebrow at the use of Wickham’s given name. She tilted her head. "He is family, Papa. I dare say, in saving my little sister, he has earned that much."

"He expressed regret that he had not realized Denny would sink so low."

"It is shocking to believe that any of our acquaintance would make such falsehoods -- using the name of his superior’s wife, no less. Let alone that he would do so for mere farthings!" Elizabeth rejoined. "I cannot blame him for a failure to foresee that."

"No, and when I reply, I will reiterate that myself. We are fortunate indeed that he volunteered to assist in the matter."

"He has not been, perhaps, the best of men, even by his own accounting. He seems to have been given good principles, and then left to follow them with little guidance." Elizabeth sighed. "Good meanings and wishes, and all of that."

"At least his appearance of goodness was not entirely false," Bennet replied. "With such an expression, he could have inflicted much harm on your family."

"Our family, papa."

Bennet smiled at the correction. "Yes, Lady Catherine did write me to share her consent. I do wonder how my cousin will respond to this when he finds out."

Elizabeth snorted. "He was quite confused, that first afternoon. He was all in favour of me throwing out my entire life to be Lady Catherine’s daughter, until Charlotte and I both scolded him for being so mean of character."

Bennet owned he wished he could be more surprised. "He certainly has a unique perspective of a pastor’s solemn duties."

Forty-Three

June dawned. The tumult of the last three days, from Lydia's ultimately fruitless scheme, to the arrival of mère and Anne, as well as the Gardiners, at Longbourn, had not prompted Elizabeth to forget her agreement to ensure extra care on Mary's toilette and dress.

Mary touched the more elaborate styling with significant self-consciousness, and tugged at the dress -- one of Jane's, for she was more like Jane in stature than she typically allowed. "I know it is her wedding, and I should be well turned out, but this seems … excessive, Lizzy."

"You look lovely, Mary," replied Elizabeth. She lightly swatted her little sister's hand from her hair. "Do not fuss with it, or you will ruin all of Sarah's hard work."

"There is something more," Mary accused her. "What are you scheming?"

"Me?" laughed Elizabeth. "Nothing at all. But I do believe that you caught someone's eye, and his friends wish to ensure it stays caught."

"By me?" Mary looked positively frightened at the concept.

Elizabeth gave Mary a long look, and pulled her into an embrace. "By your wits and questioning mind, I believe. There is no harm in being as pretty as you can be just as encouragement."

Mary pulled away after returning the hug. "Is he a friend of Mr. Darcy’s?"

"I believe so. William is being quite tight lipped about it."

"Or just using them for other purposes," Mary teased.

"Oh, you!" Elizabeth blushed. "Once."

"An hour?"

"Insufferable!" Elizabeth cried. "You know full well Mama has not given anyone much time to themselves."

Mary laughed, the tension slipping away. "Quite. And we have a sister to marry off now." She gave Elizabeth a side long glance. "You are quite well turned out, too."

"I am standing up with Jane," Elizabeth replied, attempting to not colour.

"Of course," Mary smirked at her. "Time to enter the fray again, I believe, sister."

"Indeed," Elizabeth agreed.

***

Elizabeth took careful note of scenes, tiny moments to keep as paintings in her mind. The enraptured expression of her brother-to-be as his bride walked down the aisle. Jane simply glowed with joy, while their father looked as proud as could be. Miss Bingley appeared pleased for her brother, as did the Hursts.

The subdued but expressive look from William which made her feel undone. A glance at Anne, sitting with mère as part of Jane's family, showed her other elder sister enjoying the show at her expense. Lydia's mood was palpable from here, despite her attempts to mask it, for Jane’s sake.

The agog look of Richard towards Mary, which aligned with her suspicions. Richard's admiration of Jane at Rosings had not gone unnoticed -- and Mary, right now, looked every inch the little sister of Jane without being her replica. Mary's conversations with him in London were extensive, and she had occasionally asked questions explicitly about him since. Elizabeth felt few qualms at such a match for her sister.

In a breath of eternity, Mrs. Bennet's greatest ambition became fulfilled. Jane Bingley signed her name and the wedding party dispersed to Longbourn to celebrate. Elizabeth felt a loss, a tugging at her heart, when Jane left not only before her, but without her. The emotion warred with her deep joy for Jane. No such battles had taken place when Charlotte assumed the mantle of Mrs. Collins, even when she counted her friend was mostly lost to her by such a choice.

Her emotions continued to flutter about, as the party's removal increased her own anticipation.

"Shall we walk back to the house?" William asked, offering his arm.

She could not recall her exact words, but knew she assented. They walked slowly, and with Longbourn in sight, William turned her towards the hermitage.

For a moment, the only sounds were the rustling of the branches in the breeze, their footsteps, and their breathing. William pulled her towards one of the more secluded paths before speaking. "I believe we had a discussion to continue."

His tone was much as it had been at the pianoforte at Matlock House. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They continued walking, however slowly, until he halted her. "I must confess -- I have thought of a thousand little pretty speeches for right now, and I cannot recall a single one of them. All I can think of is your comment about us and how desperately I want that to be reality."

A ghost of a laugh, borne of amusement and nerves. "Ask, then, William. Ask me."

"Will you marry me, Elizabeth?"

"Ye -- mmph."

Several pleasant moments later, Elizabeth pressed a finger to his lips. "I believe it is certainly time to return to Longbourn and chaperones."

William chuckled, before agreeing with a sigh. "As wise as you are beautiful, my love."

They walked to her home quietly, with only a few comments about their intentions for the remainder of the day. They joined the festivities, her arm still entwined with William's. Jane spotted her, for the newlyweds had not yet adjourned to Netherfield, and cried for them to join her and Bingley. "I hope you enjoyed your walk," Jane teased Elizabeth quietly.

"We did," William replied with a faint smile. "And now I leave your sister in your capable hands for a moment." He clapped Bingley's shoulder with a congratulations, before heading to Mr. Bennet's side. Based on the sharp look that Mr. Bennet gave her, Elizabeth was certain that her father had been expecting this approach. She hoped that meant the progression from courting to engagement would not be unwelcome to her father. The two disappeared from the room.

Jane gave her a matching sharp look as their father left with William, to which Elizabeth just smiled. Lightly played strains on the pianoforte drew her attention to see Mary with Richard sitting beside her. Lydia's laughter, the first since the militia left just over a week ago, echoed as Anne smiled, and she spied Kitty and Georgiana in close conference.

Right here, right now, Elizabeth felt more at peace than she had in weeks. She would miss Jane's constant presence, but she would gain William's. Her family would be safe and hale.

A light touch on her arm drew her attention. "Go to your father, he wants you in the library," William whispered. In a moment, Elizabeth was seating herself across from her father.

"Mr. Darcy appears to have changed his mind about you being handsome enough to tempt him," Mr. Bennet observed after a moment of quiet.

Elizabeth blushed, and nodded. "I suppose so, sir."

"I know your opinion of him has improved, Lizzy, but I need your assurances. I cannot bear the thought that you might not have a true partner in your marriage."

"Even when I thought I hated him, he treated me as an equal. Apart from that overheard comment, he has been perfectly respectful. When I cared for Jane at Netherfield, he solicited my opinion several times, although there was certainly no requirement that he do so. We have lively discussions, even if we do not agree. I could go on," Elizabeth offered.

Mr. Bennet nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point. "That fits with my observations," he agreed. His attention focused back on her as he leaned back in his chair. "You will have more than sufficient pin money certainly. Will you be happy?"

Elizabeth hesitated, searching for the words to reassure her father. "When I agreed to the courtship, it was only not an engagement because I did not wish to overshadow Jane's happiness. William sat with me at the pianoforte at Matlock House, and he made a comment that our aunt was unhappy with us. I realized that I found comfort in he and I being 'us.' "

Mr. Bennet smiled slightly at that, his eyes looking suspiciously bright. "I find comfort in the idea that someone worthy will treasure you. I believe he may be the only man I could have allowed to take you from me." He rose from his seat and offered a hand to Elizabeth. "Come. We should announce this. Your mothers will be pleased, as will Jane."

"Now?"

"Jane has had her moment, and perhaps this will permit her and Bingley to escape quietly." Mr. Bennet shrugged. "Darcy suggested it, in fact."

Elizabeth tried valiantly to not blush, knowing full well why William suggested it. She found no issues with the plan, however.

By the time they returned, a few neighbours and many of Bingley's friends had already taken their leave. Mrs. Bennet and Lady Catherine monopolized the remaining conversation, effectively detaining the newlyweds. William was carefully attempting to distract the elder ladies to give his friend a respite. Into this, Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth stepped into the room. Mr. Bennet loudly cleared his throat, and beckoned Darcy over. The conversation in the parlour stilled.

"It is my great pleasure to announce, on a day already filled with joy, the engagement of Elizabeth Bennet de Bourgh to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Finally!" Lady Catherine cried. Jane and Bingley immediately were at their side, congratulating them, and taking leave. Neighbours followed, departing before the presumed outbursts from Mrs. Bennet. All had experienced her nerves at some point or another.

Mrs. Bennet, however, was so shocked she did not even twitch for a full minute.

By the time Mrs. Bennet began to recover, only family, excepting the Bingleys, remained. "Is it true?" she finally asked.

"Yes, Mama."

Mrs. Bennet blinked and nodded, before looking at Lady Catherine with disconcertion. "And … and … will you be married from Rosings?"

"Nay," Lady Catherine answered even as Elizabeth started to do so. "I believe it is best if she is married from here, where most of her friends will be. If, of course, you are willing to plan and host another such event so soon?"

"For so great a family? I do not --" Mrs. Bennet started.

"My dear Mrs. Bennet," Lady Catherine interrupted, "my brother the Earl, myself, and all of our Elizabeth's relations will be happy to simply enjoy her wedding. We only dared dream of such an occurrence, not three months ago." She paused. "I will, of course, cover the expense."

"Much appreciated, of course," Mr. Bennet replied, seeing his wife still mostly dumbstruck. "But only some of the expense. She is our daughter, as well."

A little playful back and forth ensued between Mr. Bennet and Lady Catherine about which family should supply the greatest support for their daughter's wedding. Despite the peace of barely an hour ago, Elizabeth abruptly felt overwhelmed, and excused herself. William followed, quiet concern in his expression.

She collected the bonnet and gloves she had set aside when they returned from the wedding. "Elizabeth?"

"Half an hour ought be enough," she said.

William blinked, before nodding slowly. "Would you prefer to walk out alone? It would not be quite the same as being sent to fetch you by your cousin, but I can wait until your father asks for your presence."

Elizabeth half-smiled, remembering the quiet little pond at Rosings. "No, not the same." She tugged the gloves on and fastened the bonnet. "I just need time to think."

When she finally met his gaze, she took in the depth of the uncertainty in those eyes. "You are not …" he did not finish the question, for she had pressed a gloved finger to his lips.

"I am not." She tilted her head to the side. "I simply need time to think. And you, my dearest William, make that quite difficult."

He nodded, before pulling her finger away and kissing her exposed wrist. She shivered. "Half an hour," he agreed.

A moment later, after he ascertained her intended direction, she felt him watch her from the front steps of her childhood home.

Here, in Hertfordshire, it had not been deemed necessary to assign anyone to walk with her, provided she kept to known paths. Indeed, until this moment, she had not actually walked out on her own since her return, for she had been accompanied by at least one sister, William, or Bingley at all times.

The solitude she had been bereft since that day at Rosings wrapped itself around her like a shawl borrowed from an old friend. One could not be properly alone inside a home, even in a library full of books, for human thought swirled around in such places. Inside, in all directions, human touch and thought were on display. Here, however, the rustling of the leaves and the call of birds and insects coloured the air. The road, worn from carriage wheels and horse hooves, shewd the only significant imprint of humans just now. No doubt, in a few moments, a carriage or rider would turn around a corner and into her sight or hearing, or perhaps William would come up from Longbourn to fetch her.

She did not reflect on any serious thoughts, no pressing concerns, no mysteries of life. She simply was for an entire, glorious, half hour.

At length, she found herself near the small rise where she had stood the morning her mother had come home aflutter with news about the new tenant at Netherfield. Such high hopes Mrs. Bennet had professed! And lo! her dearest Jane was now Mrs. Bingley, fulfilling both Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth’s hopes for her future.

And she … she was no longer Lizzy Bennet.

The realization was abrupt, and for a moment, it nearly snatched her breath away.

Oh, she had rationally come to terms with being the lost de Bourgh daughter. She had accepted that her frequent yearnings for elsewhere were, in fact, the faintest memories of another life, and the need to find her family. She recognized her easy trust of Wickham had been that same faint memory, and her reaction to William’s dismissal at the assembly likely found its roots there, as well.

The realization, as she looked out over that familiar landscape, that shook her so was that home was no longer Longbourn. Even when her heart wished to wander and look for her first home, Longbourn had been her home. The distress that overcame her in the parlour while her parents bandied about which household held more responsibility for her wedding found its source. Neither was her home.

She was not quite sure where "home" was, now, although she suspected her heart’s allegiances had declared it to be wherever William was. This sensation was more than just the comfort of ‘us’, and she wondered if this is what fuelled Jane’s declarations about "hang the plans" in London.

She caught sight of William, in his pursuit of her, and called to him. He paused and raised his hand to acknowledge, and she gestured for him to join her.

A few moments later, and he was by her side. She watched as he took in the view. "I see why you chose this spot for today," he said after a moment.

"Oh?" she asked.

"Distant enough to soothe the restlessness, near enough to still be comfortable, and," he added as he smiled at her, "a lovely view does not hurt."

"It has been a momentous day," she replied.

"I certainly am not going to disagree with that description. A friend I love as much as I could a brother has gained a happiness he has long wished for, and the most handsome, most brilliant, most talented woman I have ever met has consented to be my wife."

"I am not," she protested.

William smiled, before glancing back out over the view. "You are to me." She flushed, and he continued, "I will, of course, allow that Bingley may think the same of Jane, and suitors that come to call on our other sisters, including Anne and Georgiana, have the same courtesy. It would be dreadful to think otherwise."

How quickly the man, one who had expressed such visible distaste for her family, adopted all of the Bennets. "Such fine condescension!" she teased. "Next you will tell me that you will be excessively attentive to all of those suitors!"

William barked a laugh and then affected a grave mien. "But of course, my dear. They will need to understand the worthiness of their chosen lady." He paused ever so briefly. "After all, I do hope to need to put the fear of father into a lad, in a score of years or so, when he comes to beg for my daughter’s hand."

A brief image of a curly haired little girl, peering over William’s shoulder at her, flashed across Elizabeth’s imagination. Her heart clenched. "Only a daughter?" she asked, trying to sound still playful. She failed.

"As many sons and daughters as we can reasonably hope to have," William replied. Elizabeth decided then and there that Jane was eminently correct about "post the banns and hang the plans," and that her wedding day could not come soon enough.

Excessively Attentive 37-39 (3 replies)

JessicaS — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 04:59:47 +0000

Author note: I have some news. I typed "The End" on my master file this morning. Now it's a matter of posting here and final polish. It's actually all written. - Jessica

Thirty-Seven

“Well?” demanded Jane, not seconds after Anne shut the door to Elizabeth's room that evening.

“Well?” Elizabeth queried with as much wide-eyed innocence as she could conjure. She knew, of course, what was being asked.

Anne rolled her eyes, poking her sister in the side as she sat down. “You and William, of course. Do not think it was not obvious that some kind of agreement was made earlier today.”

“Quite,” Jane agreed, sitting down on Elizabeth's other side. “I may be eager to wed Bingley, but you and William act like newlyweds at the bruncheon!”

Elizabeth blushed. “Courtship, and courtship only,” Elizabeth admitted. She gave Anne a sidelong look. “For which you can only blame our mother. William and I had already agreed we would come to a conclusion after Jane's wedding,” she nodded at her sister, “but that was deemed insufficient by our female elders.”

“Finally!” Anne exclaimed. “You will do wonders for William.”

“You complement each other quite well,” Jane agreed. “Now I can wed Bingley without a fret of concern about your future happiness. It shall only be second to my own.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I do not have your goodness, Jane. I cannot have your happiness, but I do seem to have escaped a need to wait for another Mr. Collins.”

Jane laughed, and Anne looked askance. “I did think I understood that, but … Mr. Collins? Did he really?”

Elizabeth nodded vigorously. “Oh, indeed, and,” she winced, “not even the threat of my mother, sisters, and myself being left to the hedgerows should my father predecease him could persuade me to accept him.” She gave Anne a long glance. “I know my hesitancy won some respect from our family, but no amount of loyalty could force me to join my life to him.”

Anne nodded slowly. “Having been in his company several times, I cannot fault you there. He seems a relatively decent person, but he is … uncomfortable company for Mrs. Collins. I can only imagine how much more so he would have been for you.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “It was a prudent match for Charlotte. It would have been a prudent match for me. But I … could not.”

“And for my cousin's sake,” Anne replied hotly, “I am glad you did not! For my sake.” She shuddered. “Had you come to us, and he presented you as his wife … I do not know what would have become of our mother.”

Jane looked pensive, and Elizabeth asked her why. Jane pursed her lips as she thought. “Secure in Bingley's affections as I was at that moment, I do not think I would have accepted Mr. Collins either, had he offered for me. A month later, I was despondent enough to have accepted him simply to never hear 'Oh, sister! Oh, Mr. Bingley!' from our mother again. A month before?” Jane shrugged. “I may have decided that Mr. Collins was acceptable enough, for our mother and my dearest sisters' sake, and that my wish to marry for love was immature.”

“I am glad,” Elizabeth replied softly, “that timing fell in our favour, there. For you are happy, Jane, and I would not want to see you any other way. I would have indeed attempted to dissuade you, much like I did Charlotte. I would not wish you to sacrifice your happiness for the rest of us.”

Jane suddenly shook herself and smiled. “Fortunate, then, we fools in love, that we need not forsake one happiness for another.”

“Quite,” Elizabeth agreed.

Jane kissed her sister on the cheek and made to leave. She paused. “Are we to keep this from mother?”

“Until your wedding is completed,” Elizabeth affirmed. “Although I believe there will be some sort of official notice, the banns will not be read until after you are Mrs. Bingley.”

“Very well,” Jane replied. “I shall let Bingley know our timeline for our wedding trip, then. I will not miss your wedding, either, Lizzy!”

“How can you be sure of how long you will have?” Anne asked, although Elizabeth suspected she was teasing.

“I dare say William will ensure a proper engagement before Bingley and I leave for our trip,” Jane replied.

Elizabeth, remembering William's suggestions of the steps just outside, blushed but did not give her sisters that satisfaction. Who knew what might change betwixt now and then?

* * *

Darcy felt relieved that Georgiana's enthusiasm for gaining six sisters all in one fell swoop was just as much as she had hinted it might be, when nudging him to ask Elizabeth. She was disappointed that they were not yet engaged.

“Six weeks? You must wait six weeks?” she asked.

“Perhaps a bit more,” Darcy shrugged. “She will want Jane to stand with her, and I intend to ask Bingley stand with me, as well.”

Georgiana made to pout, but sighed instead at her companion's pointed but quiet cough. “Yes, Mrs. Annesley.” She focused back on Darcy. “You do have every intention of ensuring she becomes my sister at the earliest possible time?”

Darcy firmly squashed his wayward imagination again. “Yes, my dear sister. At the earliest appropriate time, in the appropriate manner, following all of the proper proprieties and sundry.”

Georgiana laughed, and even a shadow of a smile flickered across Mrs. Annesley's expression. “The gossip pages will be so disappointed, I am sure,” she replied.

Mrs. Annesley smiled. “I have little doubt the gossip pages will concoct their own amusements with no assistance from reality.”

Darcy chuckled. “Quite, Mrs. Annesley. The writers exercise their wild flights of fantasy as often as they report on public activities.”

Thirty-Eight

The initial questions of arrival asked and answered, and a mild refreshment offered and consumed, Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas made themselves comfortable in Mrs. Gardiner's parlour. Congratulations in person were extended to Jane and accepted cheerfully. All in all, they made a happy gathering.

Plans for the afternoon and next few days were discussed, then -- “You will be returning to Longbourn as well, Lizzy?” Charlotte asked, perplexed. “Mr. Collins and I presumed you would return to Rosings with Lady Catherine.”

“Mère understands my reasoning, and supports it,” Elizabeth replied. “She and Anne still intend to return to Rosings, and still expect to escort you as well. They anticipate attending Jane's wedding in Hertfordshire.”

“What a merry party we will be going home!” Maria cheered.

“Yes,” Jane replied, far more sedately. “Mr. Bingley anticipates opening Netherfield just a day or two after we return to Longbourn. Mr. Darcy expects to join Bingley at the same time.”

Charlotte gave Elizabeth a significant look at that news. “Does he indeed?” she replied, her tone deceptively mild.

“He is standing up with Bingley,” Elizabeth replied. “It can be of little wonder that he joins his friend at such a time.”

“And what of Miss Bingley and the Hursts?”

“Miss Bingley has indicated she will travel to Netherfield with the Hursts a few days later.” Jane shrugged, seemingly at complete ease.

“And you can think of no other cause for Mr. Darcy to join Mr. Bingley before Mr. Bingley's own family?”

“Bingley has owned he considers Mr. Darcy as good as a brother,” Jane said, although Elizabeth suspected she caught a teasing note in the comment.

Mrs. Gardiner smiled slightly, her tone quite teasing. “How fortunate for your Mr. Bingley, then, that Elizabeth has agreed to consider Mr. Darcy's suit.”

Exclamations overlapped from the Lucas sisters, and Elizabeth bid they lower their voices. “Yes, I have agreed to a courtship with Mr. Darcy. I only presume my aunt shared that information with you to prevent any … misunderstandings.” Elizabeth shot a slightly irritated look at her aunt, who simply smiled back.

“Only a courtship?” Charlotte nearly pouted in disappointment.

“We agreed we do not wish to overshadow Jane's wedding,” Elizabeth shrugged. “We all know what my mother Bennet would do should I also return properly engaged.”

Charlotte and Maria both winced slightly. “Quite,” Charlotte agreed after a moment. “But that sounds much like you intend to accept.”

Elizabeth shrugged again. “I would not have agreed if I did not.”

Mrs. Gardiner turned the subject to the schedule for the next few days, and then rose to tend to the children. Elizabeth opted to leave for a walk, and Charlotte joined her, as did the groom.

Charlotte glanced back at the groom, sedately following behind several paces. “Are there still concerns?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Fewer than there were, but concerns remain.”

“Does that play into your relocation?”

“Not at the moment. It was deemed safe enough,” Elizabeth replied.

“I will not be able to attend both your wedding and Jane's, if they are separate.”

“Mère may be able to assist in transport, if that is the concern,” Elizabeth replied.

“Travel so far, twice, may be too much for me and … well,” Charlotte started to clarify, but ended with a vague gesture at her middle.

Elizabeth gave her friend a sharp look. “Are you sure?”

Charlotte nodded. “It is early yet. I have not even told Mr. Collins or Maria.”

“And early is as risky as very late,” Elizabeth frowned. “I hope all goes well, and of course do not risk yourself needlessly.” She smiled. “I know you approve, and that is more than sufficient.”

Charlotte laughed. “Approve is a mild word for it, but yes.” She sobered. “I expected to talk to you at Rosings, but I may not see you again for some time.”

“We did not expect to see each other for some time once I left Hunsford,” Elizabeth replied.

Charlotte gave her a rueful smile. “I own, I had raised my hopes that you would, at least temporarily, take up residence at Rosings.” She shook her head, and laughed slightly. “But the change of plans pleases me greatly, for your sake.”

Elizabeth eyed her friend. There seemed a sense of regret in Charlotte's air. “Charlotte, please be honest. Are you happy?”

Charlotte glanced away, frowning. “I find myself melancholy, but that may be the,” she gestured at her middle again rather than setting a word to her condition. “I recall my mother doing likewise at this stage. Otherwise, I am … as content as I could be, in my situation. I am certainly better off than some of our friends in Hertfordshire.” She looked back at Elizabeth, with a slight smile. “Any hope I had of romance ended long before Mr. Collins became a prospect. I have all that I ever dared truly hope for. This,” the gesture again, “is the last piece, assuming all goes well, although I certainly would welcome more than one.”

Elizabeth nodded, but not being sure what comfort -- if any -- she could give her friend, she remained silent, and they walked companionably. After a few moments, they turned back to the Gardiners' road, and ended back at the doorstep.

“Strange, is it not, how much has changed since you stood here on the way to my home?” Charlotte asked, looking up at the façade.

Elizabeth looked as well, her mind going back to the thoughts of three fortnights ago: Jane's health and happiness, her own discomfort at being in Mr. Collins' presence, her curiosity regarding Lady Catherine. William barely impinged on her thoughts, except as a vague source of discomfort in entering Kent. “So many stories have been told, these past few weeks,” Elizabeth agreed. “So many still yet unknown.”

“You will have to write them all down, some day,” Charlotte opined as they gained the door and the groom disappeared to his duties. “You have the flare that the rest of us lack.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth temporized. “Once I know more of the stories myself, perhaps.”

* * *

Richard found Darcy in his library, tending to correspondence. The door had barely shut when he spoke. “My mother tells me that you formalized your courtship with our Elizabeth.”

Darcy, who looked up as soon as he heard Richard's voice, laid his pen down. “I have, although I persuaded both of my aunts that there need not be any public disclosure of that change.”

Richard smirked, settling himself into a chair across from Darcy. “You know there will be quite the outcry when you announce the wedding.”

“Undoubtedly,” Darcy agreed. “But, while the only opinion I truly care about on this topic is Elizabeth's, I doubt you came to share your disapproval.”

“Not a shred of disapproval here,” Richard concurred. “I came to be pleased with you.”

“And, perhaps, escape your mother's commentary about your lack of progress in the same field?”

Richard snorted. “She reminded me that I am yet another year older, and 'even Darcy is finding someone to settle down with'.” He mimicked his mother's voice, accurately enough that Darcy looked quite amused.

“She is, of course, correct,” Darcy observed, smirking at him.

“'Tis your fault for finding the Bennets first,” Richard huffed at him.

Darcy leaned back, suddenly intent. “Jane seems a bit … sweet, for your tastes, Richard.”

“And Elizabeth, before becoming a de Bourgh, rather too poor for my habits of expense,” he sighed.

“Ah. Which diminishes the potential interest of the younger girls.”

“Miss Mary asked intelligent questions, and Miss Catherine seemed quite empathetic.”

Darcy nodded slowly. “What of Anne?”

“I do not know,” Richard replied. “It is not that she is not pretty of her own accord, in her own way, but she … lacks something I do not know how to describe.”

“Elizabeth, for all her innate sweetness, is unafraid to challenge all and sundry,” Darcy said.

“That may be it.” Richard gestured in the general direction of the street. “Too many lasses interested in agreeing the sky is purple, or perhaps green, if only it means I take a fancy to them. My career allows me plenty of opportunity to see how such a mentality can wreck havoc on a battalion. I cannot imagine that such refusal to make the most miniscule of objections can improve the health and financial prospects of an estate, even if only a borrowed one.”

“Alexander still offering you the use of one of the smaller estates?”

“Provided I find a lass to tolerate,” Richard affirmed. “For now, he is content to let me manage the horses in exchange for a percentage.”

“You do have an eye for them.” Darcy leaned forward. “Perhaps, with your brother's support, fortune is less of an issue than you believe. I think you require a different metric to consider.”

“And what might that be?” Richard retorted.

“Can she learn what is necessary to breed and raise horses of a quality fit for nobility? Can she enjoy your favourite pastime -- riding -- easily enough, or learn to? Or will she be content to accept you have a deep love for them, and not hinder those pursuits?” Darcy leaned back. “A gentleman's daughter -- not brought up too high -- would not need quite as many expenses as you have a habit for, but may also have the understanding of all the concerns of husbandry.”

Richard rested his head on his hand. “What you mean, of course, is to find a lass with her head on straight, knowledge enough to be economical, fond of horses -- or at least knowledgeable of livestock, and a desire to better our circumstances.”

“Not in so many words, but yes.”

“That is not Anne.”

Darcy shrugged. “It may not be Anne. But you mentioned two prospects who may fit, and I dare say if you look for someone willing to challenge you, you may find others.”

Richard nodded slowly. “It may be worth looking at the field from a different vantage point.”

* * *

Wickham took the mail at roll call in a bit of surprise. Apart from the unanticipated summons from Lord Matlock, Wickham had not had a letter at this posting yet. He tucked them away, to pursue later, although the two letters weighed on his thoughts most of the day.

Miss Lydia even teased him, when he and the rest of the officers joined the Bennets for dinner. “So distracted you are today, Wickham!”

“Forgive me, Miss Lydia. I have had much to think about these past few weeks,” he replied with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “I shall attempt to concentrate more assiduously.”

He did try, and Miss Lydia did not broach his distractedness again. Therefore, he appeared to do so tolerably well.

Mr. Bennet, however, was not fooled. During the separation of the sexes, Mr. Bennet asked him in an undertone if there were any concerns which should be shared.

“No, sir. I simply received two letters, earlier, and have not had the opportunity to peruse them.”

Bennet glanced around the room, before nodding. “I can understand hesitancy. Please do let me know if there are any concerns to share.”

“Of course, sir.”

The carriages returning the officers to the barracks had left over an hour previous, and most of his fellows had retired for the evening. Wickham continued to dawdle, until the remainders offered to deal him into their current round. “I thank you, but no. I have other business to attend,” he excused himself. He had promised William, after all.

His room looked no different than it had when the express from Lord Matlock arrived, upending his already topsy-turvy world. He took the letters out, and stared at them for a moment longer, before deciding to open the one with a more masculine hand. He expected it was William's, although another page slipped out from the middle, in a more feminine hand.

Quote

Brother,

Georgiana professed a wish to communicate with you, and I felt it appropriate to enable her desires in this regard.

The staff at the London house have been informed that communications from you to her are approved, although they are not yet aware of the relationship. I have informed them that you are considered family, and will be treated as such.

Wickham took several minutes to digest this, before turning back to the letter. William noted that he had likely already heard the news of Bingley and Miss Bennet, and communicated his own current understanding with Miss Elizabeth, such as it was. It was brief, and to the point, but their communications had been strained or worse for so long, Wickham could not expect more. He had not even expected this much. To be given permission to write Georgiana was an unexpected windfall.

He opened her letter next, and read her excitement at William agreeing.

Quote

Mostly, brother, I wished to be able to tell you that you are not entirely alone in the world, as you used to believe. William has not shared all of the details of your estrangement's start; I will leave it to you to decide if you wish to share them with me. I know he is concerned about your influence on me but I am more concerned on our influence on you.

Not knowing all, or even most, of the details means I cannot provide advice on how to, if it is even possible to, make amends for past deeds. Knowing the truth of your intent behind our previous interactions has placed them in a proper light. While, perhaps, manners were not as proper as they were meant to be, an explanation to William of whatever disagreement lies between you may help? Or perhaps, if you believe that will not bring some measure of understanding, simply asking what you need to do to set things correct?

The letter shifted again, and ended on a trivial note, with an affectionate adieu.

Wickham sighed. He knew, of course, one of the causes of the estrangement, even before the misunderstanding about Georgiana. Certainly, given his previous failings, Darcy had been entirely correct to be concerned about Georgiana's safety.

A waterfall of blonde hair, cascading in his hands … rain drops pattering on the small dual headstone …

Emma.

He shook the memories away, and focused his attention on the other letter. Miss de Bourgh?

Wickham shrugged and opened the letter. Anne confided her confusion about Elizabeth -- joy, but also disconcertion at so much change so fast. She noted she could not truly confide that emotion to anyone else in the family, for they all were focused on softening the changes for Elizabeth. From here, she segued into what Wickham initially felt was gossip -- Lady Catherine's long-time steward was starting to feel his age, and mentioning the idea of retiring. What, Wickham wondered, did that have to do with him?

Her next paragraph explained thusly:

Quote

… I have reminded Mother that you were in training to take on the Stewardship, either Rosings or at Pemberley. She has expressed reservations, given what we know of your gambling habits from the debts William has discharged over the years.

I have countered that I believe it is a habit borne of a form of nihilism, especially in light of recent divulgences.

She does not know all of your circumstances for such a malaise; William only shared that information in close confidence to Richard and myself.

Did you love her? William says that he believed you did, for you talked about her often, speaking of a desire to ask for her hand. But I suppose you anticipated your vows, and when her family realized it, her family refused to allow any contact. They wanted only Pemberley money. He told us he only agreed because he was going to bring you personally to her after the babe was born, so you could follow through. He made them quite cross when he told you of their death. I am so very sorry; child birth can be so risky.

From what William says, she at least knew you did not abandon her by choice.

You truly have just had poorly dealt hand after poorly dealt hand, have you not?

Take a few months to settle down from the recent upheavals, and consider the possibility of at least training with Mother’s Steward. It is not a dishonourable profession for a second son.

Yours, etc,

Anne

Wickham set the letter down, undone in multiple directions. His Emma had not cut him off, and William had intended to bring them together despite her family’s displeasure. His grief came over him afresh, the loss of his beloved, his betrothed, and the loss of his unexpected but wanted firstborn.

The grief storm raged for a while before Wickham was spent. He did sleep, but it was not a sleep of refreshment.

Thirty-Nine

A week with good friends seemed to set Mrs. Collins into a better mood, and Elizabeth endeavoured over that same week to further a closer relationship between her dear friend and her oldest sister. She hoped it was enough to ease Charlotte's concerns about her condition.

“Until we meet again in Hertfordshire,” Anne said, embracing Elizabeth a last time before entering the carriage.

“I will miss you, sister,” Elizabeth replied.

“And I you,” said Anne. She ducked into the carriage to sit beside their mother.

Lady Catherine smiled slightly from the carriage, and Elizabeth fancied she saw a shimmer of tears. She forwent comment, believing that her first thought for a joke about misplacing either Anne or Charlotte would be rather misplaced itself. She turned to Charlotte, and the friends hugged fiercely. “If you must avoid travel, Jane will not hold it against you any more than I would,” Elizabeth whispered.

Charlotte nodded. “You will write to me, Lizzy?”

“Always, Charlotte,” agreed Elizabeth as they stood back. The groom assisted Charlotte into the carriage.

A last round of farewells, and then Lady Catherine directed the coachman to start off. Elizabeth felt a pang of separation she had not entirely anticipated, not only for Charlotte. She could not linger over it long, however, as their last week in London remained busy with the details of socializing with friends old and new, along with preparations for Jane's wedding. Some items, Elizabeth also looked at, with an eye towards ordering by mail if possible.

It was the second week of May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Gracechurch Street. For Jane and Elizabeth, the morning had already been busy as farewells occurred first at ------ House, with both Darcys in attendance as well as the Fitzwilliams. Thence, the carriage brought Jane and Elizabeth to Gracechurch Street, where another round of affectionate farewells took place.

By the time they reached the town where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them at the inn, the older girls were far from refreshed, while Maria still chattered intermittently about kittens. Still, upon seeing their younger sisters waiting for them, Jane and Elizabeth shared a smile, and sought out their father's coachman to arrange moving their luggage to the Bennet carriage.

The younger girls came down to meet the elder and Maria, and they adjourned to the dining room which had been secured. News about the militia being sent to Brighton and Lydia's despair of such was shared, and then Lydia broached other news. Elizabeth dismissed the waiter, and Jane shook her head at Lydia's antics.

Wickham, by Lydia's report, had lost interest in Mary King, and the girl had been removed to Liverpool to live with her uncle. Lydia cried triumph over the other girl, but Elizabeth and Jane shared a glance. “How has Mr. Wickham fared these last weeks?” Jane asked.

“Oh, aye,” Kitty replied, “fair well enough. Lydia insists he flirts with her constantly, but I have seen none of it.”

“Lies!” cried Lydia.

“Perspective, perhaps,” Elizabeth corrected. “He is quite a few years older than you, Lydia. He may be unaware of how you perceive his actions.”

“But,” Kitty continued as if Lydia had not interrupted her, “I believe he has been melancholy since his abrupt visit to London. Denny and the others have mentioned he no longer joins them for cards, at the very least.”

“I hope he rallies his spirits soon,” Jane answered mildly, although the half not-glance at Elizabeth showed her concern.

Lydia, however, caught the look, and cried, “Perhaps Lizzy gained a beau and Wickham is pining for her!”

Elizabeth dismissed such nonsense promptly. “Mr. Wickham was called to London by Lord Matlock, my maternal uncle, to discuss various business concerns.” A truth, without elaborating on the type of concerns. “I only encountered Mr. Wickham but two days before he returned to Hertfordshire at the same time as our father.”

“Truly,” Jane added, “such conjectures are problematic, Lydia. Dreadful rumours have been caused by far less such comments.”

“Oh!” Lydia huffed. “Maria and Kitty will side with me on this. It is simply silliness.”

Maria shook her head briskly. “Do not draw me into that quarrel, Lydia. I know what happened to Charlotte, long before Mr. Collins married her. She fancied someone, a long time ago, when I was little. I remember he was very nice. But a rumour started up that he was responsible for one of the tavern maid's … situation. He left for the Navy, I think. And she later admitted she had lied to protect someone else.” Maria shrugged sadly. “But a while later, word came from his family that he had died while at sea. And Charlotte married Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth wondered if she had known that story and forgotten it, or if perhaps it occurred before she was an age to have been aware. Mrs. Bennet certainly never mentioned it. Lydia made a moue of disgust, before grudgingly agreeing to be a little bit less silly for the sake of simply being silly. No one wanted to be stuck with a Mr. Collins.

“It does lessen the fun, however,” Kitty sighed. “We did have many good jokes to share with you.”

“Perhaps in the carriage,” Elizabeth replied.

“And as long as there are far fewer in the future,” agreed Jane.

“Barely engaged, and already nagging me like an old lady,” Lydia laughed.

“But I am engaged, and I do not wish to lose my fiancé over a frivolous rumour,” Jane replied.

“True!” Kitty agreed.

“And you shall not turn out an old maid after all!” Lydia exclaimed, diverted to a new topic already. “I know my Mother and my aunt Phillips had begun to despair you might!”

“Ah, yes,” Elizabeth sighed dramatically, with a slight smile. “The hedgerows. I nearly thought I would take up residence there myself, after Charlotte's engagement.”

The other girls laughed, and the conversation settled into lesser news. Before long, the entire party was cozy in Mr. Bennet's carriage, with every spare space stuffed with a bandbox or small bag. The stories and jokes soon flowed, and Elizabeth attempted to suppress her wince. She noted how often certain names came up -- Wickham, Denny. Her own situation appeared to have not yet made the rounds of gossip -- at least, not from Lydia's recounts. No mention of militia officers arriving at Longbourn to ask after her health, or any such various instances.

They were welcomed by a large party, for the Lucases arrived to collect Maria, ask after Charlotte, and warmly congratulate Miss Bennet. Mrs. Bennet's pleasure with her eldest, however, eclipsed all else. Mr. Bennet's pleasure for his eldest, while palpable, was far more contained. Elizabeth watched it all, feeling reassured she and William had been correct to delay their own agreement.

After the Lucases left, Lydia attempted to convince her sisters they should walk to Meryton. Elizabeth steadfastly opposed such a scheme, and Jane supported her. “After all,” Jane said sweetly, “I shall not have much longer to spend with you here. I should like to visit with my sisters for a while, before I must turn my attention to the matter of preparing for my wedding. But perhaps tomorrow? I do have a list of items to look for at the milliner's.”

Mrs. Bennet overheard the comment, and chastised Jane. “You were in London! You did not need to leave anything for Meryton.”

Jane shrugged slightly. “I had my reasons, Mama. Mr. Bingley particularly requested a few items be selected from the milliner's here, as this is where we met.”

It did not go unnoticed how easily the words “Mr. Bingley” soothed over any of Mrs. Bennet's concerns or complaints. Elizabeth wondered if, over the next few weeks, Jane would occasionally run dangerously close to overusing that method of reprieve.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 32 and Epilogue (3 replies)

Anne V — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 05:20:35 +0000

Chapter 32

3rd March 1812

Mrs Elizabeth Darcy looked up from her book to watch the rain outside. Out the window she could see Lake Windermere. She was lying on the couch in the library, whilst her husband was busy composing a letter to his sister. Elizabeth had long ago finished her letter to Jane, so she had decided to try to read ‘The Tempest’ again, as the story seemed to match the inclement weather outside.

Her eyes were drawn to the handsome figure of her husband. She thought back to all that had happened in the last three months.

Her mother had scolded her on her return to the home, crying that her reputation would be ruined, returning wet and alone with Mr Darcy. After ensuring the Mr Darcy was tended to and dried, she had turned to Elizabeth and did not stop to draw breath in berating her second born. She stopped only when Mr Darcy and Mr Bennet returned into the drawing room to announce the engagement. And in that moment, Jane was forgotten and Elizabeth was her favourite daughter.

Elizabeth had worried about Mr Darcy’s reaction to her mother's ‘enthusiasm’ at the match, but in truth he was just too happy and didn't hear anything that Mrs Bennet said.

That evening there was a gathering planned at Longbourn to celebrate Jane’s engagement – it turned into a double celebration.

It was all well and good that the celebration was done then, as the next day it was confirmed that Mr Collins had died, and Mr Bennet was busy organising the funeral arrangements. He travelled to Surrey the next day to organise his cousin’s burial in Mr Collin’s home town. Mr Darcy offered to take him as far as London, as he needed to return to town to advise his family in person of his engagement, and then travel onto Kent to advise his aunt. He also offered to take any correspondence from Mr Bennet to Lady Catherine regarding settling Mr Collin’s affairs at Hunsford and the on-forwarding of Mr Collins personal possessions to Longbourn.

During the travel between Hertfordshire and London, which took a full day due to the detours they had to take caused by the storm, Mr Bennet came to appreciate Mr Darcy’s intelligence and dry sense of humour. In return, Mr Darcy could see the likeness between Elizabeth and her father. They spent the night in Mr Darcy’s townhouse, and it was the first time that Mr Bennet got a real appreciation of the wealth of Mr Darcy.

The next day they separated, Mr Bennet travelled to Surrey, whilst Mr Darcy went to Rosings. After paying his aunt the mandatory respect and condolences to her loss of a pastor, with the subsequent inconvenience of having to find a new one, he managed to go to the parsonage and provide the instructions for packing up Mr Collins’ belongings. On return, he managed a quiet minute alone with his cousin to warm her off what would come, and where Anne provided her heartfelt congratulations. As he expected, in advising Lady Catherine of his upcoming nuptials, she at first did not believe it, followed by half an hour of argument before Mr Darcy had enough and left, severing all connection between them. He returned to Hertfordshire after first seeing his Uncle, the Earl, and getting his support for the union.

As to Mr Wickham, Elizabeth only saw him at one dinner party after her engagement was announced. They did speak, he expressed his surprise, and Elizabeth replied that he was not the only one to tell half a story. They parted cordially with no desire to ever talk with the other again. But it mattered little.

With the rain continuing, the field the militia was located on was cold and muddy. An outbreak of both gastroenteritis and trench foot saw the camp doctor recommend their removal to somewhere else. Within two weeks, the regiment had moved to the outskirts of Bristol, which had not been affected by the storm. The only officers left were Sanderson, Chamberlain and Carter, who stayed for Miss Goulding’s wedding. Lydia complained bitterly about the departure of the militia, and begged that the whole family would follow. These pleas were completely ignored by all, especially Mrs Bennet, who would not be distracted from the weddings of her two eldest daughters, and even went so far as to be annoyed by her youngest child.

Mr Bennet returned after two weeks. As Mr Collins‘ nearest living male relative, he had been responsible for organising all the funeral arrangements and executing his will.

Part of the original disagreement between Mr Bennet senior and Mr Collins senior was the fact that Mr Collins senior was not given access to the late Mrs Collins’ dowry on her death – he could only access the interest. Mr Collins junior could only use it for his education expenses up until he turned five and twenty. The provisions in the dowry meant that on his death, the money reverted back to the Bennet family. Mr Bennet promptly took the three and a half thousand pounds and put it aside for dowries for his daughters.

This was then coupled with the confirmation that there were no more eligible male heirs in line to inherit (the last one having died at sea a few years earlier), meant that the entail was dissolved and Jane was made heir. Caroline was absolutely delighted and became noticeably friendlier to Jane.

With Mr Bennet’s return meant that a date could be set for the wedding and preparations could begin. Considering the Bingley’s had already promised to visit a relative in Scarborough for Christmas, and the Darcy’s were promised to visit Matlock for Christmas, a date of mid February was set. Prior to that, the girls were invited to spend three weeks in January in London preparing their trousseau and being introduced to society.

Elizabeth had been very pleased to meet Georgiana and had found her to be exactly as Mr Darcy described her- sweet but excessively shy. Elizabeth had engaged her in talk of music, which helped her to come out of her shell. When Georgiana had said that her brother admired Elizabeth’s playing greatly, Elizabeth told her that her brother was exaggerating her talents. After some tea, the two women went to the music room to play for the other, whilst Mr Darcy had business affairs to attend to.

He came to find the two women laughing with each other. Elizabeth whispered in Georgiana’s ear. “I shall test your brother and I defy him to say that my playing is good.” She then attempted to play a complicated piece with mock solemnity. Her playing was terrible with frequent discordant notes. Georgiana was giggling away and Elizabeth was throwing challenging looks to Mr Darcy, an eyebrow upraised.

At the end she rose. “I challenge you, sir, to say that gave you pleasure.”

“On the contrary, nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing the two women I love most laughing and enjoying themselves.”

Elizabeth recalled how nervous she was in being introduced to Mr Darcy’s aunt and uncle, the Earl and Countess of Matlock. But by the end of the visit she felt that she had impressed them both and felt relaxed around them. They in turn, could see why their nephew fell in love with Elizabeth and were pleased to confirm she wasn't a fortune hunter.

In addition, Mr Darcy’s prediction of his aunt’s admiration for Jane Bennet was correct. The Countess liked them both so much that she invited them to stay with her for the final week of their London stay.

In the whirlwind three weeks in London they had shopped for their trousseau and wedding dress, attended two plays, one opera and one concert. They had been to five dinners and three balls and had stayed long enough to be admired by London and left soon enough to be considered mysterious. It had been a resounding success.

Happy was the day when Mrs Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. The wedding was lauded as the grandest wedding anyone had ever seen in Meryton in their lifetime. Mr and Mrs Darcy left early to start making their way to Pemberley.

After two days of travel they reached Pemberley, where they stayed two weeks. They had agreed to honeymoon at the lakes, but thought it best to delay until the snows had melted. So Elizabeth had spent the time getting to know the house, staff and tenants, and very much enjoyed wandering the property with her handsome husband.

They had arrived at their cottage on the shores of Lake Windermere the day before. All they had managed to do was take a walk. The steady rain prevented any exploration of the area, but that suited Elizabeth fine. She stretched and decided it time to pay her husband some attention. “Mr Darcy, I think you have studied for enough three and four syllable words for your sister,” she joked as she rose and came to put her arms around her husband's neck.

He put his quill down, then turned and grabbed Elizabeth, pulling her onto his lap. “I have just finished it.” He then kissed Elizabeth soundly, occupying them for some time.

It was Elizabeth who pulled away first. “Hmm, I do wonder at why you fell in love with me.”

He traced his fingers over her lips, then cupped her face, pulling her in for another kiss. “Because I knew how delightfully happy we would be together, and how very well you fit right here on my lap.”

Elizabeth giggled and pulled away after brushing her lips against his. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place.”

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words which laid the foundation. It was too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew it had began.”

“Was it before I came to Netherfield? Before the storm?”

“Yes, I already admired you by the time you came. It was after that tree fell that I made up my mind to act on my feelings.”

“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners – my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?"

“For the liveliness of our mind, I did.”

“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone. I roused, and interested you , because I was so unlike them. Had you not been really amiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously courted you. There – I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I being to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew of no actual good of me – but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love.”

“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was at Netherfield?”

“Dearest Jane! Who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible.”

“What about your tending to me when I was trapped under the tree? Or helping the Harrigans?” Elizabeth was about to protest, but he put a finger against her lips to quiet her. “I saw your loyalty, bravery and kindness. Despite your impertinence, there is an intelligent mind and a kind heart. How could I not love you once I knew that?”

“But I wonder how long it would have taken for you to propose had I not asked about your engagement to your cousin?”

“I was not in the mood for waiting any longer. Knowing of your dislike made me hesitant to rush into any proposal. I knew from my knowledge of your character that you would not rush into a decision and that you would need to be certain in your own mind before accepting a proposal. I had always intended to propose on that day, but in seeing your relief that I was not engaged gave me courage I had not felt before.”

“Then you should be grateful to Mr Wickham for telling me that rumour. I’m certain that he would be delighted that he had contributed so much to our present happiness.” They both chuckled at this.

“I don't think he contributed much. I think the storm had more to do with it.”

“That is true. If not for the storm, Jane would not have gotten wet and become sick and I would not have gone to Netherfield.”

“Rain is normal, so she may still have gotten wet and become sick,” countered Mr Darcy.

“But if not for the storm, when we were walking outside, you would not have been hit by that tree, and you would not have found out that I did not like you.”

“I would like to think I would have realised eventually.”

“When did you decide that you wanted to marry me? When did the leap between admiration to knowing you were in love occur?”

“After learning you did not like me,“ grinned Mr Darcy, toying with a curl of Elizabeth’s fringe.

“You could not stand it that I did not give you immediate approbation?”

“No, it was more afterwards as I was forced to rest in bed and there was nothing else for me to do other than think. I realised my attraction was more than that, that it had turned into love, and that I couldn't stomach the thought of a life without you in it. That you had all the qualities that mattered in a wife. From that moment, I resolved to win you over, no matter what. But realising your original dislike, I knew it would take some time for that to evolve from dislike to love.”

“So if the storm had died down and you were not injured, how long before you would have realised that? Or would you have left town resolved to forget me?”

Mr Darcy ‘s look turned serious. “I would hope it wouldn't have been much longer.“

“But I would have left within two days of that walk outside. Jane had recovered by that stage. I do shudder to think that I could have left Netherfield without having seen your true self. Otherwise I might very well have believed what Mr Wickham told me. With his story reinforcing my already low opinion of you, I would have been even more set against you. I can't see how we could have come together.”

“Charles would have been engaged to Jane. I’m certain I would have convinced you before long. Maybe we might not be married now, but I'm certain we would still have been married before the end of spring. When did you know that you loved me?”

“When I thought that there was no chance that I could have you- when Mr Wickham told me you were engaged. I felt my stomach drop and I knew in that moment there could be no other for me.”

At this, Mr Darcy kissed his wife again. After a time, Elizabeth pulled away, biting her lip. “So, that time we fell asleep in the Netherfield library... you were already in love with me?”

“Yes, I knew you would take yourself there at some stage. And as you couldn't visit me in my room, I resolved to stay in the library where I knew I would see you.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Did you dream of anything whilst there?”

“I dreamt of you,“ said Mr Darcy teaching his fine down her face. “Did you dream?”

Elizabeth blushed slightly. “I dreamt of you as well.”

So they spent the remainder of that day discussing and recreating their dreams from the Netherfield library and taking them to the logical conclusion.

So, in nine months time to the day, when their first son was born, he was named Ferdinand Bennet Darcy, in honour of the Tempest that brought them together.

Epilogue

As Mr Collins died, Charlotte Lucas never married him. Instead, when Elizabeth invited her family to Pemberley for the summer, she invited Charlotte to join them. At Pemberley, Charlotte met a widower from a neighbouring property. He was a man in his mid- forties, with two young children. His wife had died three years earlier and he sought a wife however, middle-aged, balding men of modest property with two young children did not inspire romantic notions in seventeen year old girls. However, for Charlotte, he was a perfect match with the added bonus that she liked his young boy and girl. Miss Lucas became Mrs Wheeton by the end of autumn. Elizabeth was delighted to have her friends less than ten miles away, and their respective children were close.

Another bonus of having her family at Pemberley for the summer was that Lydia’s single- minded focus on officers was redirected to being horse mad. She spent most of her time riding and she developed such a strong bond with her horse, that Mr and Mrs Darcy gifted the horse to Lydia as a sixteenth birthday present. By the time she was considered old enough to be invited to London at eighteen, she had become an accomplished horsewoman, and attracted the notice of a Major Johnson, whom she married.

They never saw Mr Wickham again, but they did read of his demise some years later. Colonel Fitzwilliam was able to find more information from his army contacts. Mr Wickham had died from an accident. Though Mr Wickham had been found dallying with a sheriff’s daughter the day prior to his ‘accident’, the sheriff deemed that irrelevant to the speedy investigation of his death.

Ten years after the last girl had left Longbourn, Mr Bennet decided to redo the inheritance of Longbourn. He was keen that whomever inherited it would take it as their home. Jane and Elizabeth were both living on their own estates in Derbyshire and neither would uproot their family to return to Longbourn. Kitty had married a successful lawyer in London, who had considered that marrying Mrs Darcy's sister to be a wise business decision. They were very happy in London and clearly would only visit the estate over summer. Lydia’s husband was a major and was himself due to inherit an estate from his bachelor uncle. Mr Bennet decided that Mary should inherit, as she had married a pastor from the neighbouring parish and came home every week to check on her parents.

Mrs Bennet died happy, knowing her daughters were all very well settled and her home would be inherited by her daughters.

A Christmas present for you all. I hope you have enjoyed this story.

NA-tcracker (end) (1 reply)

NN S — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 22:35:12 +0000

CODA: Christmas Morning

The vicarage was a hive of activity on Christmas morning. Mr. Morland had already gone to church to prepare for services with the eldest boys, leaving Mrs. Morland to get the rest of the children ready. With so many bodies to get washed and fed and dressed and brushed, and as the maid had the morning free in honor of the savior's birth, no one noticed if any one child was not already buzzing about.

Catherine threw herself out of bed in a panic. Henry! Eleanor! The Winter Court! Has she seen the sunrise? Would she be allowed to return?

She stumbled into her slippers and scrambled down the stairs. She was desperate to find Henry, to see if he was still large and human-looking or if he was returned to the form of a toy. Mrs. Morland caught sight of her and told her to go upstairs and dress for church; everyone else was nearly ready and some parishioners were surely at the church by now. Catherine protested that she needed to see her nutcracker immediately.

Mrs. Morland had no patience that morning for demanding children who had shirked all responsibilities to sleep in and were going to make everyone else late. She ordered Catherine to go upstairs and get ready in no uncertain terms, and any disobedience would only delay the return of Catherine’s new toy.

With no recourse to a higher authority, Catherine stomped upstairs to don her new dress and braid her hair. She sulked her way across the churchyard and paid no attention to her father's sermon of goodwill and joy. She wanted to race home as soon as the congregation filed out but she was cruelly detained by her mother and forced to smile and endure compliments from her neighbors.

When Mrs. Drossel-Allen approached, Catherine grabbed her hands and started to drag her to the vicarage. Mrs. Drossel-Allen dug in her fashionable heels and insisted that Catherine wait. Only Mr. Drossel-Allen had the correct tools to fix the toy's broken arm, so they would need to wait for him. Catherine’s impatience earned the attention of her mother who sent her back into the church to tidy the hymnals.

By the time she finally entered the vicarage once more, her parents were chatting amicably with the Drossel-Allens and the cricket bat and nutcracker were laid out on the table between them.

“Ah, Catherine, there you are,” said her father. “Come and thank Mr. Drossel-Allen for fixing your doll.”

Catherine rushed forward in full gratitude with her face wreathed in a wide smile but when her eyes fell on the nutcracker all good cheer left her.

“That's not Henry,” she stated.

The adults shared a brief look of confusion before one of them said, “She has named him,” and they all nodded in agreement.

“That's not him,” she said again.

The adults tried to convince her that she was wrong but she was filled with certainty that this nutcracker was not hers. The lapel of his coat was wrong, his boots were too short, and his eyes were utterly without twinkle. She felt herself tearing up, she had lost him. She had lost Henry and, with him, she had lost Eleanor and the Palace of the Winter Court with all its pageantry and splendor.

“My poor child,” said Mrs. Drossel-Allen with true sympathy. “Come sit by me and tell me all about your dear Henry. Tell me, and I will see what can be done about it.”

The other adults let her manage Catherine. The girl sat next to her and quietly told everything: the battle between the toys and the mice; the death of the mouse king; Henry's introduction; the welcome they received at the castle; how beautiful Henry's sister was; all the performers who appeared for the celebration; the promise from seeing the sunrise.

“And did you see the sunrise?” Mrs. Drossel-Allen asked after hanging onto every word.

“I do not know,” Catherine lamented. “I was so sleepy, and I needed to get home but only Henry could take me, and then I woke up in my own bed, oh!”

She would have continued on, getting more and more worked up, but Mrs. Drossel-Allen lightly covered Catherine’s hands with her own.

“Fear not, my dear Catherine, for I am sure you will see him again. If he was gentleman enough to bring you safely home after such a marvelous adventure, he cannot abandon you forever. He is probably only waiting until you are older and able to stay out all night and well into the morning.”

Catherine tried to imagine how old she would need to be for that. It would take years!

“Are you sure, Mrs. Drossel-Allen?” she asked. She desperately wanted to see Henry again, no matter how long it took.

“I am,” said the old neighbor with a firm nod. “Until then, there is nothing for you to do but to be good to your parents and have adventures of your own so that you and the nutcracker will have stories to share. Perhaps Mr. Drossel-Allen and I will take you places with us when we are older.”

“Oh, would you!” cried Catherine. She hugged her neighbor fiercely and felt at peace. She would see Henry again, and Eleanor, and everyone at the Palace. Some day.

And for the present, she would have a merry Christmas.

//THE END//

And that's it for me this year. have a happy whatever you celebrate

-NN

NA- tcracker (2) (no replies)

NN S — Mon, 08 Dec 2025 19:09:43 +0000

ACT II: Christmas Night

The nutcracker stood up from where he had fallen, dusted himself off, and bowed woodenly. “Miss Morland,” he said when he arose, “I am in your debt.”

Catherine bobbed a curtsey as her mother had taught her. “Nonsense, good sir. Anyone would have done the same. And it was you who rescued me first,” she added with another bob.

The nutcracker continued to dust himself off and with each swipe he seemed to grow taller, less crafted, and more human until he was as nearly tall as Catherine.

“Oh!” she exclaimed needlessly. “How big you have grown!”

“Have I?” he asked skeptically. “You are still taller than me.” He then swiped at his sleeves twice more and was then the same height as Catherine.

“Please stop growing, Mr. Nutcracker. If you keep on, you will soon be too big for the house and will have to move to the stables.” She couldn't even imagine how to explain this to her parents.

“Mr. Nutcracker,” he repeated with a look of distaste. “You must call me Henry, I insist.”

“Did Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen make you out of magic, Henry?” she was unable to prevent herself from asking. She had long suspected the couple of having some touch of witchcraft about them but had never dared to pose the question to anyone who might answer knowledgeably.

“My mother and my father made me,” he replied. “The Drossel-Allens merely rescued me from an unfortunate situation, but I should very much like to return home now.”

This response inspired more questions than Catherine could ask before tripping over her own tongue. She wanted to know how Henry had ended up with the Drossel-Allens, what was his unfortunate situation, who were his parents, what had he been before becoming a nutcracker, and where was his home. Henry sought to satisfy the spirit of her inquiry even though neither could repeat exactly what Catherine had said:

“My home is a palace in the center of an enchanted pine forest. My sister Eleanor stays there to look after it while I am away. It has been a long time since I have seen either my home or my sister.”

“It sounds very wonderful,” said Catherine, hoping for more details.

“It is the most wonderful place in the world!” Henry agreed. “Would you like to see it? Would you like to meet my sister? If we leave now, Miss Morland, I promise I can have you home again before your family misses you.”

The offer was so enticing that there was no way for her to refuse. “In that case, Henry, sir, you must call me Catherine,” she said with another curtsey.

He bowed in response and held out his uninjured arm for her to take. She took it and felt for a moment incorporeal. As they walked -- Catherine was still wearing only one slipper -- they crossed vast distances without a single obstacle, arriving at the edge of a forest in 20 paces. One more step brought them to a frost-coated castle. Henry called up in greeting and the guards who recognized him quickly threw open the doors in welcome.

There was much rejoicing now that the lost prince had finally returned. Catherine was jostled from all sides as people sought to see and touch their missing master. Henry held tight to her, however, and they were not separated until they reached the throne room where the courtiers lined up respectfully on the left and right, leaving the couple unmolested.

At the far end of the throne room was a dais upon which were two chairs and a table between them. In one of the chairs sat the most beautiful girl that Catherine had ever seen. Surely this was Henry's sister as he was the most handsome boy she had ever seen and some things -- like beauty -- ran in the family.

Henry's sister stood up. Catherine half expected her to race down the carpet and hug her brother in joy at their reunion, but a blast of trumpets sounded and Henry regally escorted Catherine to the front of the hall, courtiers bowing as they passed.

When they reached the dais, Henry bowed formally, as befitting the court, and introduced Catherine to his sister, Eleanor, Princess of the Winter Court.

Catherine gave her best curtsey yet. When she rose, Henry told Eleanor that Catherine was a mighty warrior and had defeated the mouse king while armed with naught but a shoe. The assembled crowd as a whole exclaimed over this feat of strength and Eleanor looked at her with wonder.

“It has been long -- too long -- since my brother was home. His return is cause enough for celebration. But to hear that he has brought a champion with him… we must have music and feasting!”

She clapped her hands and music filled the air from an unknown source. With a flurry of servants, the thrones were replaced with a sofa large enough to accommodate the three of them, so quickly that Catherine could barely believe her eyes. Eleanor led Catherine to her seat and one servant handed her a mug of chocolate while another servant settled a blanket across her lap. The floor immediately before the dais was cleared to make room for a troupe of colorful acrobats.

The acrobats were followed by jugglers, who were succeeded by fire eaters, who gave way to dancers and puppeteers. Throughout the amusements, Eleanor and Henry kept leaning into Catherine to share their laughter and observations. Servants presented a constant stream of small plates holding previously unknown treats and a rotating set of cups filled with all manner of teas and drinking chocolates and spiced ciders.

The sights and sounds and tastes, the splendor and magnificence, the warmth and friendliness, it all overwhelmed Catherine’s senses until they could hold no more. Against all the wishes of her heart, her eyes grew heavy and her head began to droop and loll to the side.

Before she could fall fully asleep, a man approached the dais, causing Henry and Eleanor to shift beside her. The cavalier bowed low with a grand sweep of his arm and a hush fell upon the assembly. As he straightened, Catherine could see that his clothes were rather plain compared to the gold and embroidery that embellished most of the clothing worn by everyone in attendance; even the servants had a flash of silver gilding on their buttons. However, what he lacked in wearable wealth he made up for in inherent dignity. He greeted Henry and Eleanor by name and politely referred to Catherine as “Champion,” then bowed once more and asked Eleanor to dance.

There was a murmur at that, as if the request itself was a scandal waiting to come true, but Eleanor merely smiled the most beautiful smile that Catherine had ever seen and took his offered hand.

The musicians, wherever they were, were highly skilled and indefatigable, but now they played slowly and serenely as Eleanor danced with this stranger. They made a charming couple and Catherine was not the only one who sighed as she looked on.

When the music ended with a flourish and Eleanor spun in one last swirl of her skirts, the cavalier escorted Eleanor back to her seat on the dais. In one more act of chivalry he bowed over her hand and kissed it. Eleanor melted into her place on the sofa while the man returned to the anonymity of the crowd.

“Who was that?” Catherine whispered to Eleanor when a gaggle of trained geese began to perform tricks.

“A young man in an unfortunate situation,” the princess sighed dreamily.

The phrase reminded Catherine of something she had heard before. “Henry, you must tell me of how you ended up as a nutcracker with the Drossel-Allens!”

“Must I?” The question caught him off guard. “Yes, I can see why you would be curious but Eleanor has distracted me. We must blame her if I have failed to tell you the story.”

Eleanor tsked at Catherine’s other side. “Your promises are your own responsibility, Henry,” she admonished. “And besides, no one told me that you owed Catherine a story. I cannot be held at fault.”

“May you tell me the story now?” Catherine pleaded. She had to agree that Eleanor’s logic was unassailable.

Henry considered it but Eleanor spoke before he could reply:

“Do not burden our guest with family drama. It is far less entertaining than whatever else we might offer. Surely Catherine would much rather see the sunrise from the Palace of the Winter Court?”

“Sunrise?” Catherine repeated with a furrowed brow. Henry has also promised to have her home before her family missed her which would be at sunrise if not before.

“Sunrise, when seen from the Winter Court, carries with it the certainty stronger than a mere promise that you will return to the castle,” Henry told her. “It is a highly desired favor to witness the sun rise with my sister. Would you like to see it?”

“But my family…” Catherine protested weakly.

“I will take you back before they miss you,” Henry assured her while Eleanor discreetly ordered the servants to open the Eastern shutters.

The shutters were opened and folded away. Entertainers and courtiers shifted their places so that Catherine could sit in her cozy space between the prince and princess and look upon the enchanted pine forest. The night sky was beginning to pale, fading from black to deep blue to lighter still until the tops of the trees were clearly outlined against the coming of a new day.

“Watch for the sun. You must catch the exact moment that it rises above the forest for the magic to work,” Eleanor told her quietly and calmly. The music became more sedate than ever before.

Catherine watched and waited as the distant sky grew lighter. She blinked once, twice against the increasing brightness, and then her eyes held themselves shut for a moment too long and she felt herself slip into weightlessness. With a jerk, she forced her eyes open.

The sun was up, it was morning, and she was in her own bed.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 31 (2 replies)

Anne V — Sun, 04 Jan 2026 10:58:49 +0000

Chapter 31 – November Rain

The next morning, Mr Darcy hurried to the meeting spot. The skies were dark and threatened to start raining at any moment. Mr Darcy sent a quick prayer begging for the weather to hold. He had hoped to propose this morning, but the sight of Mr Wickham made him realise he had to tell her about his history with Wickham, but more importantly, he could not propose with her in the dark regarding Georgiana’s near disgrace. In disclosing all that, he was not certain that he would be able to propose. How does one go from ‘My sister nearly eloped and by the way, will you marry me?’

As he approached the meeting spot, he smiled when he saw his Elizabeth already sitting on the stump, waiting for him. But that smile dropped as he saw her face, which had a pensive look rather than her usual smile.

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth. Have you been waiting long?”

Elizabeth tried a strained smile. “I woke early and could not return to sleep, so I gave up and started my walk earlier today. I’ve only just arrived.“ The discarded apple core suggested that was a falsehood.

He dismounted his horse and he offered his left arm to her, which she hesitated just a moment before taking. Strangely the moment of hesitation hurt. They walked in awkward silence, both wondering how to start, even though both had practiced what they were to say. However, with the other’s presence, and the knowledge of opening wounds, made them both reluctant to begin.

“My Aunt Phillips had a card party last night. She had also invited members of the militia there – your old acquaintance Mr Wickham was there.” She felt Mr Darcy stiffen at the mention of Wickham’s name. “I knew that you were previously acquainted with him when you met us yesterday. Most of the time you are impassive when you meet new people. I have never seen you angry before.”

“Mr Wickham is not a man to be trusted,” was all Mr Darcy offered. He now had the opening he had sought. “Mr Wickham was the son of a very respectable gentleman, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust, naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on George Wickham, who was his God-son, his kindness was liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards Cambridge. This was a most important assistance as his own father was always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to provide him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of his society, whose manners were always engaging; he had the highest opinion of him and he hoped the church would be his profession and intended to provide it for him. As for myself, it has been many, many years since I began to think of him in a different manner. The vicious propensities – the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from my father, he could not guard from a man of nearly the same age with himself and who had the opportunity to see him in unguarded moments which my father could not see. My father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr Wickham was to the last so steady that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow. And if he chose to take orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it was vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year of these events, Mr Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not benefit. He had some intention, he said, of studying the law, and that the interest on one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew Mr Wickham ought not be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance from the church, were it possible that he could ever be in such a situation to receive it, and accepted three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was merely a pretense, and being now free from restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question- of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my father's intentions. I hope you don't blame me for refusing to comply?”

Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “Absolutely not! I am amazed at his audacity, to think that he could ask after originally declining any interest and receiving compensation.” She paused, not sure how he would take what she needed to confess. “I must admit, in seeing both your reactions to each other, my curiosity got the better of me. I expressed opinions no longer my own – with my overwhelming desire to find out the truth, I led him to believe, without specifically stating it, that we were not friends. I gave him the general opinion of the neighbourhood, which you know not to be that good, implying I shared it. I figured if I expressed sympathy towards him, he would be more willing to speak openly. I hope you are not angry with me?” she asked shyly.

He gave a small smile. “Considering the way I acted towards you and the neighbourhood, I cannot blame you. It warms my heart to know your opinion of me has changed.”

“Mr Wickham’s story was very similar, with notable omissions. The parts he omitted in his telling of the story certainly change your opinion of where the fault lies. He did mention that you had said he had forfeited the claim, and he made it sound that the reason was only due to jealousy. I can only marvel at how he can think he can have any claim! How is he completely unable to take responsibly? I saw his face- he truly thinks he has been wronged.“

“I’m not surprised. He has always considered himself entitled to it. Make no mistake- he is a master manipulator. He manipulated my father. He knows how to please- he knows how to look and what to say to get what he wants.”

They were both silent as Elizabeth considered Mr Darcy’s words. “Though I can understand you disliking him for that, I don't think that explains the outright hatred I saw on your face yesterday.”

“You are right – there is more I must tell you. But before I proceed, I must have you promise you will keep the following revelation secret,” said Mr Darcy earnestly.

Elizabeth’s nodded. Whatever comes next must surely be awful if it required secrecy, she thought.

They had reached the top of Oakham Mount. Mr Darcy indicated for them to sit on a fallen log. “After this, every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. My sister, who is ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of myself and my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London, and last summer she went with the lady who pursued over it to Ramsgate. And thither also went Mr Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to be a prior acquaintance between himself and Mrs Young, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived. By her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse. I was at least relieved that I owed the knowledge of the elopement to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother who she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs Young was of course removed from her charge. Mr Wickham’s chief objective was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds, but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.”

Elizabeth could hardly believe the depravity of the man who had all the appearance of goodness. She marvelled at how he could lie so easily and look to be the innocent party. “I now understand your anger at seeing Mr Wickham again for the first time after that incident.” She thought of how Mr Wickham had described Georgiana, painting the poor innocent girl as a villain. “How is your sister? She must have been heartbroken.”

“She naturally is a kind and trusting person, but afflicted with shyness. To have this happen had shaken her faith and she has retreated heavily into herself. Her confidence, which wasn't high to begin with, has been destroyed entirely. Her new companion, who we did careful reference checks on, is working to build her confidence up again. She is improving-I can tell from her letters, but there is still a long way to go.”

Elizabeth shook her head in sympathy. Another thought struck her. “I take it Mr Wickham’s main motivation is money?”

“His own pleasure is his driver, which is fueled by money.”

“When we first met him, he was distinctly taken by Jane and tried his best to subtly gain her attention. He desisted when he learnt of her engagement. I've often seen men taken by Jane’s beauty, so I thought nothing of it at the time. But last night he made enquiries into the death of my cousin. When we met, he had already heard of the rumours of Jane becoming the heir to Longbourne. So his interest in her was then stemmed purely from greed and the attempt to secure himself a fortune. And then his attention to me last night, he probably figured that if Jane was heir to an estate, I probably had some level of dowry.”

“What’s this about your cousin passing?” asked Mr Darcy in some confusion.

Elizabeth updated him on what she knew on her cousin’s probable death. “But please speak no more of it. It hasn't been confirmed that it is my cousin, and for all I know, he is happy at Hunsford parsonage. And even if he has died, there may still be a living male heir to inherit Longbourne.”

Mr Darcy shook his head in amazement, then laughed. “Caroline was rather degrading of Jane’s lack of wealth. It is ironic that Jane is now worth more than her. But she will be happy and will gloat all over London about her brother securing an heiress.” He looked towards Elizabeth, who was still pensive and stand-offish. He could tell something was still bothering her. Then a little detail she had said earlier struck him. “Did you say that your cousin was the parson at Hunsford parsonage?”

“Yes. Mr Wickham informed me that your aunt was his patroness.”

“Yes, she wrote to me a while ago saying that she had a new parson. So he is...was your cousin?”

“Yes. Mr Wickham then said something of which I can't reconcile any good reason for him to lie.” She paused to gather herself. In a strained voice she continued. “He said you were engaged to your cousin.” Elizabeth hung her head, not daring to look at Mr Darcy as he responded.

Mr Darcy was annoyed by Wickham’s gossipy tongue, but then he realised that Elizabeth ‘s distant behaviour was driven by her belief in his being engaged elsewhere. “Though my Aunt would like it to be so, there is no engagement, nor will there ever be.” Hope swelled inside him.
Elizabeth didn't realise how large the smile was that graced her face, but Mr Darcy Elizabeth. "But why would he imply such a thing?”
“To kill any interest any attractive ladies in the area might have for me and turn it towards himself, would be my guess. But truthfully, my Aunt has long wanted me to marry my cousin, and had claimed that it was agreed between my mother and herself. Neither of my parents ever informed me of it and it has been driven most consistently by herself.”

“But your cousin....does she want to marry you? Will she be disappointed?”

“We spoke of it long ago. My cousin’s constitution is weak. She does not believe herself capable of bearing children, nor does she want to risk it. She is terrified of the thought of marrying anyone. Even if she were healthy, we are to much alike – we are both too reserved. And even if we did marry, I would not willing put myself further under my Aunt’s influence. As my aunt, she feels entitled to advising me how to run my estate. I can't imagine how much worse that would be if I became her son- in- law.” He had watched Elizabeth the whole time. The more he explained, the more relieved she looked.

The playful look returned to her face. “That is good, for it would be most improper for me to be meeting an engaged man like this.” As if it were a signal to remind them of the impropriety of their situation, the clouds that had been threatening rain all morning, finally gave way. A couple of spits was soon followed by a drizzle. Elizabeth immediately stood and was about to walk away.

Mr Darcy stood as well. ‘This is it,’ thought Mr Darcy, his mouth suddenly dry. He instinctively took her hand and looked into her eyes as she tilted her head to look up at him. “Elizabeth I know you did not think much of me at first and I hope I have changed your opinion. I will lay it all on the line. My feelings will not be repressed. I must tell you how ardently I admire and love you. Will you do me the greatest honour and consent to be my wife? Will you be mine?”

“My opinion is so different to what it was before I came to Netherfield. It was when I thought I had no hope did I realise that I was in love with you. Yes, Mr Darcy, yes, I will be yours,” she said, smiling as she looked up at him.

He could no longer resist the lips he had dreamed of kissing. He bent his head down and his lips met hers. A kiss that was tentative at first, but then deepened. They stood together in the rain, his arms wrapped around her waist and hers were wrapped around his neck. He ignored the water that trickled down his cheek, but he pulled away as he felt her start to shiver. His hand went up to herface and wiped away a rain drop on her cheek. “I should get you home so that you get out of this rain.”

Elizabeth sighed in contented happiness. “Must we? We are all alone here and I am not quite ready for the circus that will start once our engagement is announced.” She looked up and fluttered her eyelashes in mock innocence. “I want to enjoy your company on our own for a little longer. It is only a little November rain.”

“If you want to love me then, darling Elizabeth, don't refrain.” With that, their lips met again.

However, he could not ignore the fact that her dress and coat, heavy though they were, were getting wet. The dream he had had in the Netherfield library came to mind, and he realised they absolutely could not stay like that without permanent damage to their reputations. He pulled away. “I should return you to Longbourne. I doubt your mother would like it if I was the cause of your developing a cold.”

She nodded in agreement, with a big contented smile on her face. The smile fell when he led her to his horse, and told her to get on. She would have protested harder, except the rain started to bucket down. Without further ado, he hosted her onto his horse and mounted the horse behind her, a secure hand around her waist.

For Elizabeth, who had developed an aversion to horses after having been thrown-off the last time she had ridden a horse, her fear subsided the moment Mr Darcy’s arm was around her and his soothing voice murmuring in her ear. She marvelled that she had never felt so safe as she did at that moment.

And with that, Mr Darcy kicked his horse into a trot towards Longbourne.

Please imagine them riding off to the ballad section of November Rain by Guns and Roses, and not the rock part at the end. Select lines for this chapter were taken from the song. The alternate name for this story could have been November Rain or the Tempest.

NA-tcracker Suite (1/3) (no replies)

NN S — Fri, 05 Dec 2025 00:37:05 +0000

The NA-tcracker Suite

Blurb: Nutcracker AU for Northanger Abbey. Young Catherine is given a nutcracker doll at a Christmas Eve party. The doll is broken during the party and her parents confiscate it until it is repaired. At midnight, she sneaks out of bed to see her doll, and has a magical adventure, to the music of the Christmas ballet, "Nutcracker Suite.”

Rather than trying to rewrite a Christmas carol this year, I found inspiration in The Nutcracker.

ACT I: Christmas Eve

The largest home in the cozy village of Fullerton had always been Fullerton Hall, which had been inhabited by the Drossel-Allen family for as long as there had been a Fullerton Hall to inhabit. The hall had passed through many generations over its long life but at last the only members of that family were Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen, a childless couple.

Having realized that a large and happy family was beyond their natural abilities, the dear couple decided against adopting only one or two heirs from distant cousins. Instead, they devoted themselves to helping all mankind through invention and discovery. To that end, the nursery and most of the family bedrooms in Fullerton Hall were converted into workshops, and the summer and winter sitting rooms became laboratories.

While Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen’s renovations helped make them successful inventors, they were rather poor hosts. As such, the primary hosting duties for village gatherings fell upon the vicar, the Reverend Mr. Morland. Mr. Morland, along with his wife and many children, made the vicarage a welcoming and approachable place for everyone.

It had become the tradition that most of the congregation would remain in the church after Christmas Eve services rather than gather in the churchyard while Mrs. Morland and her trusted lieutenants would march to the vicarage to finish preparations for Fullerton’s Christmas party. After one half-hour, the town would then walk the short distance to the vicarage which had been transformed into an even more lively and festive home than usual. Mr. and Mrs. Morland would invite the congregation to celebrate the birth of their savior, Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen would also make a speech of gratitude and friendship, and the servants would bring out bowls of punch and plates of nuts and sweets. The Drossel-Allens paid for everything and also brought gifts for all the children in the village which they handed out with much pomp and circumstance. A gift from Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen was always a curiosity; even the balls and stacking blocks they gave were made in their own workshops and far more clever than could be acquired elsewhere.

This Christmas, Mr. Drossel-Allen handed young James Morland a cricket bat. Under any other circumstances, no such child should receive a gift like that at a crowded party, but as the Reverend’s eldest son, no one expected James to misbehave, not even when his eyes grew large as saucers and a small smile curled his lips. Mrs. Drossel-Allen handed young Catherine Morland a doll box that revealed a handsome nutcracker when opened. Catherine, the Reverend’s eldest daughter, hugged the toy tightly to her chest and babbled effusive thanks to her neighbor.

Other gifts were handed out: more dolls, some toy swords, puzzle boxes, and noisemakers. The sound of children at play might have been deafening had the generations mixed, but everyone has previously agreed that the adults would remain on the ground floor while the children went upstairs for their play.

As the night crept on, the conversations grew more boisterous although no grownups acted in a way that would earn censure or an unwanted morning call from Mr. Morland. The children, however, had gathered in the lumber room where they became increasingly more rowdy without their parents watching. The majority decided to employ their toys in a military campaign and began to divide into two camps for a makeshift skirmish. James and Catherine Morland fell into opposite sides of the battle.

The conflict waged through several fantastical events and divine interventions. It culminated in James taking a mighty swing at Catherine with his cricket bat-shaped sword. The mortal blow was only blocked by the timely intervention of her heroic nutcracker. With a reverberating snap, the nutcracker’s arm broke and Catherine began to wail.

The noise was loud enough to disrupt the adults’ revels and they came rushing up to the attic to discover the cause for alarm. Seeing children and toys scattered about in various tableaus of military savagery with young Miss Morland sitting in the center of the chaos and clutching her broken doll to her chest, the parents all began to gather and berate their sons and daughters.

Mr. Morland called for quiet and then begged his daughter to tell him if she was injured. Thankfully, it was only her heart that was broken. The reverend then continued, asking for details until he understood that it was his own son that had broken the nutcracker. Rather than scold or punish his children in public, he suggested that it was time to wrap up the festivities and go to bed.

The adults took their cue and herded the children down the stairs to fetch their coats and scarves before walking home in the darkness.

All except Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen, who had remained behind. They coaxed the broken nutcracker from Catherine and discussed the possible options for a cure.

In the near silence, Mr. and Mrs. Morland apologized to their friends and patrons that the young people had so abused their gifts.

“Ah, but these are toys, my friends,” said Mrs. Drossel-Allen. “They are meant to be played with. There are people who would think it a compliment for the children to put these gifts on display in a prominent location where all may look upon them and none may touch them, but we made them to be used. That they gave the children such joy, albeit for a brief time, is my satisfaction.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Drossel-Allen, “you must not speak as if all is lost. The arm is broken, yes, but at the joint. It is an easy job to repair this kind of break. I daresay, I have everything in my apron pocket at home. Mr. Morland, you must let us call upon you tomorrow for the purpose of fixing this brave little nutcracker!”

Mr. Morland hesitated for only a moment but it felt exceedingly long to Catherine before he acquiesced. The girl was so relieved for the sake of her poor nutcracker, that she barely registered her father's next words that he would confiscate both toys until Mr. Drossel-Allen had completed his repairs. James’ loud complaints made her understand that she would need to surrender her nutcracker and would not see him again until well after Christmas morning!

Her eyes filled with fresh tears but Mrs. Drossel-Allen leaned down and petted her head. “Oh, Catherine, do not weep. You must be strong for your nutcracker! He would not want you to be sad for his sake. Come, dry your eyes and give me the ribbon from your hair.”

Catherine took a stuttering breath, untied her ribbon, and handed it to her neighbor. Mrs. Drossel-Allen took the ribbon and wrapped it around the nutcracker's broken arm to make a sling.

“Give him a kiss,” she instructed and Catherine kissed his forehead much like her mother had done whenever Catherine had injured herself.

Mrs. Drossel-Allen then handed the doll to Mrs. Morland who had already collected the cricket bat, and the two guests finally departed the vicarage.

James and Catherine and all their siblings were then sent to bed to spend the long winter night dreaming and pining for their toys.

.o8o.

Catherine woke to the last chime of the clock. It was quarter to midnight, and she missed her nutcracker.

She knew that she was not allowed to take the toy to bed with her, but she was so worried for him. After Mrs. Drossel-Allen had bound his arm, Catherine realized that the brave doll must be in a great deal of pain. Perhaps, if Catherine was not permitted to nurse him back to health in her own room, she might go downstairs and attend him there.

Quietly, she got out of her bed and donned her robe and slippers against the winter chill. Then she slowly crept from the room and down the stairs. She looked about for him in the various rooms. The Christmas decorations and the furniture rearranged for the party made it difficult to find him in the darkness.

Catherine eventually circled back to the grandfather clock in the front hall and tried to read its face. It looked like it was a few seconds before midnight but every time the second hand ticked forward, it was then pushed back by a matching force. Curious!

Oh, but surely not! Catherine must not have been looking correctly. She took another step and centered herself in front of it. A few seconds passed, and then came back. The fantastic impossibility of the scene made her gasp, and with that noise the clock ticked forward but did not tock back again. The chimes began to sound and count out midnight. And the downstairs erupted into activity and noise.

Creatures scampered past her feet and she spun around to catch sight of them. The sound of swords slipping from scabbards came from the front sitting room. A muffled crash came from the dining room. The rhythmic sound of marching, and the cadence call to keep the steps in order came from both sides before two advancing armies appeared before Catherine.

To her left was an army of mice led by what must be their king, his sword raised and glinting sharply even in the dark.

To her right was an army of toys led by her own precious nutcracker, wearing her ribbon like a medieval favor around his arm.

At a squeak of command, the mice began their attack. The toys rushed forward to defend at a clack from the nutcracker's jaw. A melee followed and numerous were wounded on both sides.

Catherine called out in alarm as she saw old toys broken but her truest concern was for the newest gift from Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen. When the nutcracker engaged the mouse king directly, Catherine clutched her hands together and whispered encouragements to her champion.

Alas, the mouse king was a superior fighter. Perhaps this was because he had been trained from the royal cradle in the art of war. Perhaps it was because Catherine’s dear nutcracker was injured. Or perhaps it was because the nutcracker was not a soldier after all. Nevermind the reason, the result was that the mouse king soon had his opponent pinned and prepared to deliver a killing blow.

With no other thought than to protect, Catherine took off one slipper and hurled it at the mouse king. She had spent a few summers playing cricket with the other children and her aim was true, striking the king between his eyes, and he fell down dead.

A hush fell upon the ~~field~~ rug of battle as mouse and toy alike took in the sight of the dead sovereign. They slowly turned to look upon Catherine and she wondered how much trouble she was in now.

Before any cheers or gnashing of teeth erupted, however, the clock at her back struck the quarter hour. At this signal all combatants disappeared from the front hall, even the wounded and the dead. By the time that the clock faded into silence, it was only Catherine and her nutcracker.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 30 (5 replies)

Anne V — Sat, 29 Nov 2025 01:34:31 +0000

Chapter 30

Jane came to Elizabeth’s room after she was ready for bed. Elizabeth was sitting in front of her mirror, staring unseeingly into it. “Lizzy, I can tell that something is wrong. Did Mr Wickham say something to upset you?”

“Oh Jane,” said she and then proceeded to tell Mr Wickham’s sorry on the denied inheritance.

Jane listened with astonishment and concern. “I cannot believe that Charles has been put upon by Mr Darcy. They've known each other for such a long time, so he cannot be blind to that. Yet, I cannot believe that Mr Wickham, who appears so very amiable, could be lying. They have both been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them without actual blame on either side.”

Despite Elizabeth’s troubled mind, she smiled at her sister. “Very true, indeed;- and now, my dear Jane, what have you to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear them too, or we will be obliged to think ill of someone.”

“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively decided in him? Oh, no.”

“That is the crux. He gave me names, dates and facts without ceremony. There was certainly truth in his looks-I have no doubt that he believes himself to be hard done by. Yet there were words he said here and there. He didn't seek legal redress and he claimed Mr Darcy had said that Mr Wickham had forfeited the claim. I think I have only half the story. And Jane, Mr Wickham is someone who I have known for less than a day- why is he telling me this story at all? It tells of spite, even if it was missing from his face. It is not a story a gentleman would tell to a lady, not after such a short acquaintance.”

“I would think the answer simple then. Ask Mr Darcy when you see him tomorrow morning to get his side of the story.”

Elizabeth blushed. “How did you know I would see him tomorrow?”

“You’ve walked out with him every morning for the last week. You disappeared yesterday morning- did you really think that I would think that you had not met him on your walk?”

Elizabeth hung her head and was quiet. Jane waited patiently for Elizabeth to continue. “It shames me to say that if it had not been for the last week with Mr Darcy, I probably would have believed Mr Wickham. I hate to think that I would not have been so discerning as to see the impropriety of the confession, nor the hypocrisy. If I did not know Mr Darcy as well as I do now.....” she left the rest of it unsaid. She felt ashamed at her previous pride at her ability to judge character.

“This isn't everything that disturbs you. This would not bring you to tears in the carriage,” said Jane gently.

Elizabeth tried to talk, but the wall of tears she had held back now spilled forth. “Mr Wickham said that Mr Darcy is expected to marry his cousin,” was all she managed to choke out.

Jane put her arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders as Elizabeth sat at the mirror and sobbed quietly. “You love him, don't you?”

Elizabeth nodded. It took some time for her sobs to settle down. Elizabeth found a handkerchief and blew her nose. When she could eventually talk, she said “I knew I needed to guard my heart around him; that someone with his wealth would be expected to make a good match; that one like him could never stoop to think of someone like me. And just as I realise I love him, it is all hopeless. It's my own fault. He is promised to another.”

Jane looked uncertain at this. “Can you rely on Mr Wickham’s information? If you've discounted some of his story, should you not discount this as well?”

“This is the part that is most believable and expected. What does he have to gain by saying it?”

“How does he know? Even by his own emission, he would not have seen Mr Darcy for a few years. If that is the case, wouldn't Mr Darcy be married by now?” Elizabeth nodded at that logic and Jane noticed that she seemed to calm down. “How would Mr Wickham know if the engagement still stands? Many things can happen that could terminate it. And if he was engaged, wouldn't Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy’s best friend be aware of it? I can't imagine how hurt he would be to not know if it.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “How do you know that Mr Bingley doesn't know?”

“We spoke about the possibility of your marriage,“ admitted Jane.

Elizabeth stared into the mirror and sighed. “I don't know. You've given me hope but I'm still afraid.”

“There is only one thing for it,“ said Jane. “As his friend, you need to ask Mr Darcy for his side of the story. You owe him that.”

Posts upto November 18th have been collated and archived (2 replies)

BTroisi — Mon, 24 Nov 2025 18:49:29 +0000

as always, if you find any errors, let me know.

A Ring by Spring (2 replies)

Zander C. — Thu, 27 Nov 2025 19:56:50 +0000

Summary: Lizzie Bennet is a highly accomplished senior English major attending the University of Texas at Austin. With just a semester and a half left, Lizzie has her sights on finding the best graduate program and finishing with a 4.0. However, when a group project about Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility results in her being in a group with the mysterious and wealthy Will Darcy, she may just find herself with a new priority.

Mr. Bennet returned his phone to the charger and then returned to his seat next to his wife. She was watching the news, nervously rubbing her palms together as an economist discussed the inflation rate and its impact on the price of cherry tomatoes and golden potatoes. Mr. Bennet sighed, leaning into the sofa.

“What’s the matter dear?” asked Mrs. Bennet, her attention still on the TV.

“Lizzie is going to have to stay late again today.”

“If she stays any later,” Mrs. Bennet lifted up the remote and changed the channel to a local traffic report, “she is going to get stuck in all that ‘weird’ Austin traffic.” Relating the report was a thin man draped in a chartreuse suit gesticulating at pillars of cars slowly inching their way forward. The sun was already setting, and the brake lights were morphing into a great red snake. Mrs. Bennet's palm rubbing intensified.

Mr. Bennet shook his head. Upstairs, the strained, choked calls of a trombone leaked from Mary’s room. Her trombone was out of tune, and it quickly engendered a spat of yelling from Mr. Bennet’s younger two daughters, Kitty and Lydia. They were twins and deadset on using their free time to call friends and doomscroll.

“Did she say why she has to stay late?”

“She has a new group presentation to manage.”

“A group project!”

“Why is that exciting?”

“Are her group members boys by chance?”

“My dear, you know Lizzie hates it when you tease her about that sort of thing.”

“Mr. Bennet, are her group members boys or not.”

He sighed again. At times, his wife’s mind seemed to orbit around just one thing: setting up her daughters with the eligible bachelors of Austin, Texas. With any interaction, whether public or private, Mrs. Bennet was curious to know whether or not her daughters were talking to boys and making an effort to secure themselves a boyfriend who then could become a husband and deliver her a great bounty of grandchildren that she could then dote on. In any lull of conversation, the matter of boys was Mrs. Bennet’s go-to topic. In this regard, Lizzie disappointed her. Sure, Lizzie had been valedictorian of her high school, was attending the prestigious University of Texas, and managed a bevy of extracurriculars even while commuting from her home in the suburbs to the city’s downtown, but she had no boyfriend. To Mrs. Bennet, nothing really mattered except that.

“Mr. Bennet, you have to tell me.”

“Well, her professor randomly assigned the groups. She wanted to work with Charlotte Lucas, but instead ended up with that Will Darcy fellow and that friend of his.

“Will Darcy!”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh, if my Lizzie could win his heart, we would all be set.” Through no fault of his own, but rather his family’s immense wealth and political activity, Will Darcy was a man with a sizable internet presence and a man whose activities were well documented. The moment Mrs. Bennet learned he would be attending the same college as one of her daughters, she began following him through every possible digital avenue while daydreaming about the chance that he might meet one of her daughters. She almost jumped through the ceiling when she learned he was getting a minor in English. Now, her exuberance was erupting. Her husband sighed.

“I fear you make too many assumptions. One, I think our Lizzie has much better things to do than deal with this Darcy fellow, and secondly, from what I have heard, he is not suited for our daughter.”

“Oh, Mr. Bennet, is it not a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in college, and a fabulously rich one at that, must be in want of a girlfriend.” Mrs. Bennet returned to the TV with a broad smile, mentally rehearsing what she would say in hopes of pushing her daughter to consider Will as a potential suitor.

Author’s Note: This story chapter is a part of a school assignment where my group and I were tasked with presenting on an item that interacts with the works of Jane Austen. Out of a long list of possible topics, we chose to present on the Derbyshire Writers’ Guild. To help us fully understand and appreciate the Guild, we have all elected to try our hand at contributing to the website. I do apologize if I have made some errors in making this post.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 29 (4 replies)

Anne V — Tue, 11 Nov 2025 11:40:35 +0000

Chapter 29

Elizabeth entered her aunt’s parlour with her sisters for the evening of cards. After exchanging niceties, she found Mrs Long’s niece at her elbow. “I can’t believe your sister’s luck.”

Elizabeth just smiled at the girl. “We are all so very happy for Jane on her engagement.”

“But not just that. To get engaged to one so handsome and rich, and on the same day to become an heiress.”

Elizabeth was stunned at how anyone other than her, her uncle and her father knew of that possibility. Before she could correct the girl, the officers arrived and every females’ attention was directed to the officers, and in particular, all attention went to Mr Wickham. The officers in general were a very creditable, gentlemen like set, but Mr Wickham was as far beyond them in person, countenance, air and walk, as the officers were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, that followed them into the room.

Every woman’s eye was turned to Mr Wickham, and it was Elizabeth who captured his attention. He came to sit by her. “I must admit to being surprised to see you here tonight, but I’m very glad you did come. It was being said there was a death in your family.”

Elizabeth directed her complete attention to him. “May I ask how you came by that information?”

“I believe it was Sanderson. He said that Mrs Goulding was at the church with questions on the wedding and overheard a conversation with your uncle’s clerk and the pastor regarding future Longbourn heirs.” That answered how Mrs Long’s niece had come by the information.

“The truth is a constable came to Longbourne in the attempt to identify a body, which may or may not be our cousin. We were unable to confirm it. But may I ask you to say no more, and if you could quiet your fellow officers from speculation, it would be greatly appreciated. We do not want to say anything, as our cousin at this moment could be at home at his parsonage at Hunsford and would be very put out to know we were mourning his death.”

“And when do you expect to know?” asked Mr Wickham.

“Probably in a few days.”

“And is that when you will go into mourning?”

“My father might acknowledge it. But my sisters and I have never met the man and only knew of his existence a few days earlier. It would not seem appropriate to mourn someone to whom we had no connection with.”

Their conversation turned to more mundane topics like the weather, and Elizabeth wondered at how something so mundane could seem so interesting purely by the skill of the speaker.

The card tables were set out, and he and Elizabeth went to play lottery tickets. Lydia attempted to monopolize his attention for herself, except she became caught up in the game. This left Mr Wickham at leisure to talk with Elizabeth.

“I heard your sister is recently engaged?”

“Yes, to Mr Bingley, who is currently renting Netherfield. He is staying there with his family and friend.”

“How far is Netherfield to Meryton?” asked he.

“About two miles.”

“How long has Mr Darcy been staying there?”

“About a month. I understand he is a man of very large property in Derbyshire.”

“Yes,” replied Wickham; -“his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself – for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from infancy.”

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr Darcy?”

Elizabeth knew that to get the information she sought, she would need to claim less of a friendship than what she had with Mr Darcy. He needed to believe that she was on his side. “I was stuck at Netherfield for a period due to the storm. But I spent most of the days with Mr Bingley’s sisters. He is not an easy person to get to know.” True. She didn't think she had said anything untrue so far. “He had not made many friends here and with his stand-offish ways, the general populace here considers him very proud and quite disagreeable.” Also a true statement, she thought to herself. She had once thought the same. “Of course, he has not helped his cause by refusing to dance with any of the local ladies.”

“I have no right to give my opinion, “ said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish – and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”

“I say no more here than what is the general opinion of the populace, excepting Netherfield. He is not well liked In Hertfordshire. Everybody has been disgusted by his pride.” She felt guilt as she said this. She knew it was the general opinion, but one she no longer shared. “You will not hear him spoken of favourably.”

“I cannot pretend to be sorry,“ said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”

Elizabeth said nothing to this and pretended to be distracted by the game.

“I wonder,“ said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer?”

“I do not know at all; but with the engagement of his friend and the dismal state of the roads, I imagine he will stay awhile longer. I hope your plans in favour of the militia will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh! No- it is not for me to be driven away by Mr Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim to the world; a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in his company with this Mr Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender reflections. His behaviour to myself had been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father. “

Elizabeth listened with interest to understand how the two men had fallen out; but the delicacy of the subject prevented further inquiry. She observed him closely; he looked to be speaking the truth.

Mr Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, “which was my chief inducement to enter Hertfordshire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton has procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church ought to have been my profession-I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.“

“Indeed!”

“Yes- the late Mr Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

"Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”

“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from the law. A man of honour could not have doubts on the meaning, but Mr Darcy choose to doubt it – or to treat it as only a conditional recommendation, and that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short anything or nothing. Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot advise myself of having done anything really to deserve to lose it. I have a warm unguarded temper, and I may have perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sorts of men and that he hates me.”

Elizabeth listened with interest, but she did take special note in his statement that Mr Darcy had believed the claim to have been forfeited, and hence Mr Wickham had no ability for legal redress. She would have to ask Mr Darcy the next time she saw him. She was certain that Mr Wickham had only given half of a story and the half that looked beneficial to himself. She knew Mr Darcy to be an honourable man, so he would not have disregarded his father's will. She considered what response to give that sounded sympathetic enough to keep him talking to reveal more. “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

“Some time or other he will be, but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never set out to expose him.”

Elizabeth thought how prettily he expressed his hypocrisy. “But what,” said she after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough, determined dislike of me -a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe from early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood- the sort of preference that was often given to me.”

“I had not thought Mr Darcy so very bad as this.” She considered her words carefully to still be truthful. The longer she spoke with Mr Wickham, the more she felt like she was somehow betraying Mr Darcy. She tried to show the right amount of belief in Mr Wickham statement with curious questions. “I have seen him be dismissive of others, but I did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!”

Elizabeth was again deep in thought. Mr Wickham spoke as though he believed himself to have been wronged. She thought on how to probe further. “To treat in such a manner, the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father! And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!”

“We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was spent together; inmates of the same house sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My father began his life in the same profession which your uncle Mr Philips, appears to do so much credit to- but he gave everything up to be of use to the late Mr Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by the late Mr Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligation to my father's active superintendence, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of affection to myself.”

“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. Inwards, she thought ‘that a grown man does not take responsibility for himself’. To Mr Wickham she said “how abominable! I wonder that the pride of Mr Darcy had not made him just to you! If from no better motive, that he should be too proud to be dishonest, for dishonesty I must call it.” She looked hard at Mr Wickham, suspecting the dishonesty existed elsewhere, but he looked like all wounded innocence.

“It is wonderful,“ replied Mr Wickham, “for almost all his actions may be traced to pride and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride.”

“Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?”

“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants and relieve the poor. Family pride, and filial pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley house, is a powerful motive. He has also brotherly pride, which with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”

Elizabeth gave credit to his words. He clearly knew Mr Darcy well: Elizabeth knew Mr Darcy was proud, but as she knew him better, she knew that wasn't what drove him. A genuine desire to do right by people was the source, and he was proud of doing that. “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is to much like her brother, very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.”

Elizabeth wondered about his knowledge. Had he not said his last contact with Mr Darcy was some years back- why would he then know of the situation of the sister?

They tried many different subjects, but in the end returned to the first one.

“I am astonished by his intimacy with Mr Bingley! How can Mr Bingley, who seems good humour himself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr Bingley?”

“Not at all. Is he the man your sister is engaged to?”

“Yes, they are perfectly suited to one another. He is a sweet- tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr Darcy is.”

“Probably not, but Mr Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him, but with the rich, he is liberal minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable, allowing for something for fortune and figure.”

They tried several other topics whilst pretending interest in the game. Elizabeth only paid the slightest attention as she thought to what Mr Wickham had previously said. That he knew Mr Darcy well was clear, but his view was clearly jaded. Mr Darcy might appear to only pay consequence to those who he thinks are of worth, so that would mean that Mr Wickham had lost Mr Darcy’s esteem. She knew that Mr Darcy took a long time to build trust and to then open up to people once that trust was built.

Mr Wickham started up. “Did I hear you say that your cousin is the parson of Hunsford? Is his patroness Lady Catherine de Bourg?”

“Why yes, do you know of her?”

“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourg and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently, she is the aunt to the present Mr Darcy.”

“No, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s connections. As of a couple of days ago, I had never heard of her existence before.”

“Her daughter, Miss de Bourg, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”

Everything seemed to stop around Elizabeth and she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Using every ounce of control, she tried to look completely unaffected. She unfolded her arms and made a show of looking at her lottery tickets whilst she regained her control. She scraped for something to ask that would require him to talk. “And what sort of woman is she?”

“Strong willed....” Elizabeth didn't really listen as she thought of some way to move the conversation to some other topic that did not involve Mr Darcy. When he stopped speaking, she was silent for a while before asking him about the damage he'd seen between Meryton and London, and she was glad to force herself to think of other things.

Supper was called not long after, and it was with the greatest relief on Elizabeth’s part that Mr Wickham left her to pay his attention to the other ladies. Lydia and Kitty both claimed his attention. Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who was surrounded by ladies who wanted to do nothing other than talk about her wedding. Elizabeth did not think she could stomach wedding talk, and she knew Jane would pick up on the fact that something was wrong and would wish to discuss it, which Elizabeth did not want to do here. She looked around and found an older married major and decided to seat herself next to him at supper, as she knew he would talk her ear off and she would need to do nothing other than nod at the appropriate time.

As the major spoke, all she could think of was Mr Wickham’s words ‘it’s expected they would unite the estates’. Was it true or a rumour? Mr Wickham had implied he hadn't had much contact with Mr Darcy recently – how could he know? Mr Darcy wasn't married yet. These thoughts swirled around and she was caught between hope and despair. She toyed with the food on her plate. The food was all tasteless and her stomach rebelled at the thought of eating it. She put enough to her mouth to make a show of eating but left half her plate uneaten.

After supper, she stood in the group with Lydia as she knew she would have no need to talk with Lydia commanding all attention to herself.

It was with the greatest relief that the night ended, and she was the first to enter the carriage. She took a corner and stared unseeing out the window as her sisters bundled in after her. Jane sat across from her and cast her concerned looks, whilst Lydia and Kitty twittered away about how each officer looked and what they had said. Elizabeth could not meet her sister’s eyes and a single tear rolled down her cheek. How ironic that the moment she realised she loved Mr Darcy was when all hope was lost.

A.I. - AUSTEN IMPERFECT - JaOctGoHoNo 2025 (2 replies)

Jen — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 16:30:07 +0000

A.I. – AUSTEN IMPERFECT – JaOctGoHoNo 2025

The scene – Netherfield Park, the day after Jane Bennet rides over to Netherfield in the rain and becomes ill.

The scenario - Mr. Bingley is beside himself as Jane is ill. He seeks out Mr. Darcy’s recommendation as to what to do. As Jane is too sick to travel home, Darcy councils Bingley to send a carriage over to Longbourn with a note to retrieve one of Jane’s sisters to help lighten her spirits and to help care for her along with requesting a trunk being sent over for each of the sisters.

Bingley thinks this over and decides to ask Mary Bennet to come to Netherfield Park to attend Jane. After having met all the Bennet sisters at the Assembly several weeks ago, Bingley has determined that Mary is the most sensible one of all the sisters and would be best suited for the job at hand.

Darcy has taken a shine to Miss Bennet (Jane). He asks Caroline to sit in Miss Bennet’s room to chaperone as he tends to her care until her sister arrives. Darcy is most proficient in medical knowledge and has started to plan a course of action. He gets the servant, Ben, to aid him by going down to the creek to gather supplies. He then starts the procedure of bleeding her with the leeches that Ben brought up from the creek. He also applies cool compresses to her head and has a roaring fire instilled in her room along with having quite a few blankets brought in.

As Darcy cares for Miss Bennet, he feels a stirring inside him. He thinks that if she beats this illness that Jane might be the perfect mistress for his estate, Pemberley, and the perfect wife for himself. He has never felt this much attraction to a woman before. He, with Caroline in the room as a chaperone, begins to read to Jane as she has her eyes closed. Jane is aware of a deep melodious voice which strangely enough is quite comforting.

Mary arrives and takes over the nursing duties. She immediately disposes of the eeeeeew leeches. She then plies Jane with tea, broth and even a bit of gruel. Mary keeps Jane warm and changes her clothing when Jane’s fever breaks. She allows Darcy to come in and read to Jane under her watchful eye.

Mary is incredibly pleased to be singled out by Mr. Bingley to provide care for her sister and thus she develops a special appreciation for him. Bingley is awed by Mary’s efficiency and finds it quite an attractive quality that he himself lacks. He becomes solicitous of Mary and escorts her to meals and even for walks in the garden when either Caroline or Darcy is available to accompany them.

Suddenly everything goes dark!

The significance - The six of them, Darcy, Bingley, Mary, Caroline, Jane and Ben, all hold hands in a line. They are on a stage, surrounded by theater type seating. But instead of seats they are encompassed by 666 computer screens. The six of them take a “theater” bow while holding hands.

A single booming voice states, “Well done. Move to your reward.” They walk over to where six large tubes containing protein/energy cubes are located. Twelve cubes are automatically dispensed for each performer. After they have taken their “reward” they walk off the stage to prepare for tomorrow’s performance which will be a totally new scene from one of Jane Austen’s books albeit with many creative changes.

These computers along with their Artificial Intelligence had grown so powerful and strong that they had become not the tools to be used but the masters to be catered to. Most humans had become so dependent on them that they had lost their ability to balance a checkbook, make conclusions, do simple math or figure out strategy without consulting A.I. It was only the extremely creative people that were not drawn into the lure of clicking on a screen to find out information or to be told what to do by Artificial Intelligence. With the less creative humans relying so heavily on A.I. technology they became easy to control by A.I. The more creative people were rounded up by computer-created robots and exploited for the amusement of the A.I. computers.

The one thing that Artificial Intelligence lacked was the ability to be creative. Witnessing artistic, creative things became a goal and almost an obsession for A.I. This group of six performers were creative artists/actors. The A.I. computers found that they “enjoyed” being entertained. For some it allowed their circuits to “relax,” for others they could compare the passages in Jane Austen’s books with the performance provided and search for the differences or the “imperfect” parts.

Darcy with thinking of his famous line in chapter 31 of Pride and Prejudice, “We neither of us perform to strangers.” He found this ironic as that is exactly what they were doing, as to what could be more strange than performing for a computer screen! He looked up to where the screens were located, and he felt a shiver go through him. One of the screens was more vibrant than the others and he noticed it had a small eerie smile on it that was barely visible. He worried that if A.I. could master creativity that it might make his troop and himself obsolete. He was struck with a pang of urgency. He and the rest of the group needed to put their heads together to come up with a different scenario for tomorrow’s performance. If all went well, they might just live to see another day.

Pattern Recognition Master and Slave (JAOctGoHoNo) (4 replies)

NN S — Sat, 01 Nov 2025 18:37:11 +0000

Note: this was sideways inspired by the story about training AI to recognize "wolves versus dogs". The sample data had wolves with snowy backgrounds and dogs with snow-free backgrounds, so you can imagine how it went wrong.

AI Pattern Recognition: Master or Slave

Blurb: Sir Thomas and Tom go to Antigua to better manage the plantation but encounter trouble at the customs house. JAOctGoHoNo Challenge 2025. Prompt: Artificial Intelligence. Warning: Character death.

Sir Thomas watched as Antigua grew larger on the horizon. He was desperately looking forward to reaching land and all the benefits that came from being on his plantation again.

One of the first errands on his list was to procure another hat. He had lost two hats in the first three days of sailing, having them torn off his head by an impish breeze and tossed into the ocean. His valet had packed another hat but it was buried in the cargo hold for the duration of the voyage. As such, Sir Thomas was thoroughly brown from the relentless sun.

Young Tom had also gone without a hat and had thrown his own to the waves. He claimed it was in solidarity with his father but Sir Thomas knew better. Tom was getting increasingly difficult to manage, increasingly disrespectful. The man had accidentally addressed Sir Thomas as “Aunt Norris” after one recent lecture. Perhaps time in Antigua would shock some sense into his heir, seeing how a plantation foreman handled a lack of discipline with the lash and branding iron.

Activity on board grew to a fever pitch when the ship reached the harbor. Sailors were in constant motion, calling out to each other as they made their final preparations. Sir Thomas stood to the side and fixed his eyes on the queue of people and goods leaving the harbour area.

“Captain Phillips,” he called out when the man approached, “is that new?” He pointed to the gateway that separated the harbor from the rest of the settlement.

“Aye,” came the answer. “The governor added it after he broke up a smuggling ring. Nothing and no one goes in or out without inspection. I do not give the crew permission to leave the ship in Antigua anymore; it is more trouble than it is worth.”

With relief, Sir Thomas and his son finally disembarked. Their luggage was still in the process of being unloaded but it was all clearly labeled and the captain had promised to have it sent to the plantation by nightfall. Right now, Sir Thomas wanted to make it through the customs gate, perhaps enjoy a drink, and get to his home away from Mansfield to finally refresh himself after weeks of travel.

“Come along, Tom,” he said, not bothering to look directly at his son. Tom would quickly realize the importance of obeying his father in this new place.

The line through the gate was long and the sun beat down on them while they waited. There was depressingly only one line for sailors and passengers, rich and poor alike. There was no special treatment here in Antigua's harbor, let Tom notice that!

At last they entered the building itself and received some relief to see that the queue inside was short. Sir Thomas watched as a finely dressed French lady and her maid were called forward by the lone clerk. The women passed him some papers which he didn't read. Instead, he directed them to stand in front of painted planks that had been propped up against a wall.

Each plank was a different shade. The first was painted a soft pink, like Lady Bertram’s complexion. The last plank was brown, almost black. Between the two ends, the planks were painted in pinks, tans, and various shades of brown from light to dark.

“What is that about?” Sir Thomas asked.

The question had been quiet and mostly rhetorical but the man in front of him answered, “It is the Harbour Master’s latest attempt to combat the abolitionists. I do not think it will work quite as he intends, but we must do something.”

A quick glance at the man convinced Sir Thomas that this was a gentleman, probably another plantation owner although his accent was hard to place.

“What are the abolitionists doing now?” he asked, eager for news that might impact his fortune.

“They have brazenly passed several slaves through the harbour with forged papers of free men. It has reached the point where the clerks cannot rely on anything they receive from us to verify our identities. But the planks do not lie.”

Sir Thomas started to ask for more explanation but the scene in front of him explained it clearly.

The gentlewoman stood in profile before the palest plank and the clerk immediately called her back and stamped her papers. The maid stood in front of a slightly darker plank and the clerk ordered her to move to the next plank and the next until her coloring more closely matched the plank. Rather than stamping her papers, the clerk handed them to a soldier. The maid was then snatched and dragged from the room. She called out to her mistress in alarm but the gentlewoman kept her head. The clerk then folded the stamped papers and returned them to the gentlewoman and directed her through a different door.

“What happens to the maid?” asked Sir Thomas while the clerk moved on to the next person in line.

“Her owner must buy her back or produce documentation that she is already owned,” the gentleman sighed. “It is ridiculous. Who carries a bill of sale with them at all times? I have had to leave more than one in the holding pen overnight because I could not fetch the paperwork before nightfall, but it is cheaper than buying them a second time. And what of those born into slavery? How shall I prove that I own them when I came by them naturally?”

Sir Thomas watched as a dark skinned man handed his papers to the clerk. The man's posture spoke of a life of beatings and knowing his place. The clerk still ordered him to stand in front of the planks and find his match before handing the papers to the soldier and watching him be roughly escorted from the room.

The line moved steadily but slowly and at last the gentleman in front of Sir Thomas wished him good luck and good day as the clerk called him forward.

Tom then leaned into his father and spoke quietly, “If they think I am too dark, will you buy me back?”

What a ludicrous thought! Sir Thomas turned away from the clerk and his new acquaintance to look at his son. “Tom, you are an Englishman. They will never lay a hand on you.”

The expression on Tom's face was not teasing but unnerved, and beneath his sunburn he had a slight pallor. He had never been to the plantation before, had never seen the manual labour which produced the fortune he so carelessly wasted. This trip would be more productive than Sir Thomas had hoped of bringing about a correction in his heir.

The clerk called to them and they approached. Sir Thomas handed over the documents and waited as he had seen others do to be told to stand before the planks.

The clerk told him where to stand. Sir Thomas quickly progressed past the palest planks that were suitable only for gently bred women. As the clerk ordered him to keep moving, he began to feel a frisson of worry. Yes, he was sunburned from weeks at sea, but surely he was not that dark!

Finally the clerk stopped ordering him to move. Sir Thomas looked at the man, conveying in every line and whisker that he was a baronet and an Englishman. The clerk held his gaze, folded up the papers without stamping them, and handed them to the soldier at his side.

It all happened so fast after that. Sir Thomas said, “No!” and started to approach the clerk. One of the soldiers grabbed him by the arm and pushed him to the ground. Tom leapt to his father's defense only to be grabbed and pinned by a different soldier. There they remained, thrashing on the floor, until they could be fully restrained and taken to the holding pen with any others who didn't fit the pattern.

.o8o.

The first envelope to arrive from Antigua contained a warning that Sir Thomas and Mr. Bertram had yet to appear at the plantation even though they were weeks late. Using language clearly meant for the whole family, the plantation foreman tried to convey guarded optimism that the two Englishmen were probably only delayed by an unplanned diversion and would no doubt arrive as soon as the letter was posted. Another letter enclosed within was addressed directly to Mr. Edmond Bertram. Surely it contained the foreman’s more candid concerns but Edmund had not shared it with anyone.

Mrs. Norris was quick to seize on every possible calamity, talking loudly and forcefully to anyone in earshot that Sir Thomas must have died gruesomely. Lady Bertram kept to her room after the second morning, Fanny and Pug by her side. Miss Bertram and Miss Julia Bertram were quite beside themselves, not knowing how to act or what to believe. The nearby parsonage sent their prayers and good wishes, and vague offers to help, but kept away for the first two weeks while the family recovered from the first shock.

When the second envelope was delivered a month later, there was a comfort in certainty that slightly blunted the pain of loss. Sir Thomas was dead; Tom too. The foreman offered few details into what happened, only that there had been an incident at the customs house involving some slaves. The bodies had been laid to rest in the plantation cemetery. A small sachet containing the same earth that they had been buried in was included. In addition, their travelling cases -- still unopened -- and a few personal affects from Sir Thomas’ bedroom in Antigua had been sent to England on the same packet that carried the letter although it would arrive separately.

Mrs. Norris lamented the lack of bodies, despaired that Sir Thomas and Tom were not buried in a properly consecrated graveyard, insisted on a statue to be commissioned for display on Mansfield’s village green, and began to organize a memorial service in honor of her dear brother and nephew.

In a frail voice, Lady Bertram announced that she couldn't possibly attend a memorial, much less arrange one just now.

“No, sister, of course not!” Mrs. Norris agreed. “You must grieve. I only ask that you allow our neighbors to grieve as well. Think no more of it. I will handle it. I will handle everything.”

Having settled matters with her sister to her own satisfaction, Mrs. Norris was unprepared for Edmund to say, “I am sorry, Aunt, but there will be nothing planned just yet. I need to speak with executors and attorneys before anything else. But I will not stop you from having some of your neighbors to tea at the White House if you so desire.”

Mrs. Norris was not pleased to have her nephew upset her plans but he was Sir Edmund now and deserved all the respect and deference she had previously bestowed upon Sir Thomas. And the memorial service was not cancelled, she told herself, just delayed. She could still prove herself useful. Her sister, never energetic, was now nearly prostrate with grief; Mansfield Park needed someone like Mrs. Norris to keep it running smoothly. Sir Edmund would appreciate that!

And perhaps -- of course -- Sir Edmund was right: the family should refrain from any social interactions briefly out of respect for the dead. But Mrs. Norris could still begin planning for what would follow. After a suitable period of mourning, she would need to find Maria and Julia rich and respectable husbands; Mr. Rushworth of Southerton would make a fine catch for either. Sir Edmund would need to settle down as well. They would send Fanny back to Portsmouth as she had overstayed her welcome.

And Mrs. Norris had had her eye on the China room in the family wing for years now. It was time that she moved into her rightful place at the center of Mansfield Park.

THE END

Boo! Happy Halloween to all who celebrate

The Kellynch Algorithm (JAOCTGOHONO) (3 replies)

Horridly Lurking Jaro — Sat, 01 Nov 2025 15:36:34 +0000

DNA (Thank you, NN S, for the fun prompt. Appreciate you for organizing! Hope you have a good response and a fun day, Jaro) RA

Blurb: An extremely well-educated baronet's daughter teams up with the 600-year-old ghost of an AI pioneer, and computes some fateful new trajectories. ~Per~

Part Wan: Ghost in the mansion

In Kellynch Hall’s excessively mirrored breakfast room, Anne felt a ghostly shiver. She fetched a warm shawl. While her father was still haranguing her about its unfashionable bulk, Mary ran in screaming.

“Horror! Error! Poooorrrrr!!!”

Anne carefully fetched the smelling salts, at a pace which gave time for Mary to faint into silence and Charles Musgrove to catch up with his wife. He explained.

“Father and I both invested our capital in the same scheme. The bubble burst and we’re ruined.”

“We can’t make room here for 14 people,” said Elizabeth quickly. “My intimate friend Isabella Thorpe is coming for a lengthy stay and cannot be put off.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “We are selling Uppercross Hall and Cottage to complete strangers and departing to live in simplicity in a small cottage. In the Lake District.”

Mary sat up to scream the better. “Farewell,” added Charles.

“Mary, you must stick with your husband,” said Sir Walter quickly. “The footman will see you both out.”

Anne heard her sister bansheeing for a full 10 minutes after the carriage rattled out of sight.

***

Just before dinner, Anne heard a strange tapping behind the mantlepiece mirror—and felt a ghostly shiver. She stepped closer to the fire. While Elizabeth was complaining about having to share the warmth, Lady Russell ran in screaming.

“Fire! Higher! Entire!” she shrieked.

“We can share. We have big fireplaces,” said Anne.

“No, no,” panted Lady Russell, the crow’s feet about her temples increasing even as they watched. “The fire is at Kellynch Lodge! It has burnt to the ground.”

“What shall you do?” asked Sir Walter anxiously. “And how shall I find a tenant for a burned-out hulk?”

“I shall go to Bath,” said Lady Russell haughtily. “And you…”

The footman interrupted with a message. Sir Walter paled as he read. “It is from Shepherd,” he said. “A plague has broken out simultaneously in Bath and London! What about our annual enjoyment?”

Anne fetched some sulfur disinfectant for the fire and made her father stand near it while he ranted. “Stay a minute, Richard,” she said to the footman.

Under the circumstances, Elizabeth could hardly refuse Lady Russell a bed for the night. Long after they had all retired, smelling rather brimstoney, Anne could still hear her sister complaining to her maids.

***

After Elizabeth at last fell silent, a gale began to beat at the windows. Anne gave up on sleep. She headed for the library; she’d just finished The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices, and had her eye on The Method of Finding the Longitude by Timekeepers. But halfway down the grand marble staircase, she felt a ghostly shiver, and a loud creaking started overhead.

Anne ran. KERaaaaashhhh! A wave of mirror shards chased her down the last of the steps, along with the entire roof of Kellynch Hall.

Anne had practiced tree climbing for private reasons of her own. Stopping only to tie on her strongest boots, she made her way through the debris pretty well, rescuing first Lady Russell, Richard and the maids, then her father, and finally Elizabeth. They huddled in the mirror-strewn breakfast room, where Elizabeth commandeered the shawl.

“What shall we do!” wailed everyone who wasn’t Anne.

“The stables appear intact,” said Anne, who had had a good view while climbing. “We can take the carriage to some fashionable coastal resort and engage rooms. We shouldn’t be infectious, thanks to the sulfur.”

They gave in, but then she had to listen to them arguing the merits of Brighton versus Sanditon for the rest of the night.

***

Part Twooooo: Puppets of Fate

Anne felt a ghostly shiver as the carriage creaked past Lyme in the late afternoon – halfway to Sanditon. They had been delayed in setting out while Sir Walter insisted she climb up and rescue his lavender-and-pearl suit, then his green-and-fuchsia, then his third-best hat, then…eventually Lady Russell had put her foot down.

Anne hooked her elbow through the straps, while taking firm hold of her reticule, now packed with smelling salts, sulfur, shawl, boots, a few other useful objects, and of course her bullwhip and spare hat.

The crash was nearly as loud as the roof collapse had been, though Anne thought her family were accounting for most of the noise. As the most injured, Sir Walter (disarranged hair) and Elizabeth (mussed dress) naturally were entitled to the only two free rooms at the inn.

“All the other lodgings in town are let,” announced the innkeeper. “But you might convince someone to share. There is a university student at Mrs. Edwards’ house…”

“A man?” gasped Lady Russell.

“A young gentleman in need of ready money,” said Anne gently, tying a jacquard handkerchief over the worst of Lady Russell’s cuts.

Ten minutes later, young Mr. Babbage had agreed to sleep in Mrs. Edwards’ washing shed until the Kellynch carriage should be repaired, and had even offered to show them the sights of Lyme. “The next thing is unquestionably to walk down to the sea,” he announced.

Ten minutes later still, Anne stood on the Cobb with her fretful godmother, kind new landlady, and excited new acquaintance. She was not shivering, but her mind hummed.

“f(b) = 4b2 – 6b + b – 15,” said Babbage. Anne and Mrs. Edwards shook their heads at once.

“f(b) = 4b2 – 6b + b3 – 15,” said Anne gently.

“Indeed,” added Mrs. Edwards. “But do not distress yourself, young man. The finite differences method works very well, but we must not forget…”.

Lady Russell drew Anne aside. “Do you ever feel like a puppet of fate?” she asked.

“No,” said Anne. “You may have persuaded me all those years ago, but I made my own choice. Everything about my current condition is entirely my own fault.”

“Er,” said Lady Russell. “I meant…do you not feel that we have somehow been steered to this exact spot by very extraordinary machinations?”

“Er,” said Anne, who had not realized anyone else had noticed. “I think–“ she began, when something caught her eye against the sunset. She whipped her spyglass out of her reticule at once.

***

As Anne searched the horizon, her heart began to thump. A ship, with all sail set, steering straight for the port. HMS Popham, 36 guns, her mind told her. Her heart was telling her things that neither language nor mathematics could express.

Then she saw, closer in, a small battered boat with four strange, stiff figures in it. One held a drum. One held a slender pipe, one a lute. “Why, that looks like…” she wondered.

“I know!” said Mrs. Edwards. “My goodness. But how?”

Boom-splash! Boooom-splasssshhh!

“The French are attacking!” screamed Lady Russell.

“No,” said Anne. “The Popham is firing on the rowboat. But doesn’t he know what it is—”

Boooom-splasssshhh-ploppp!

The third shot was closest yet, and a great gout of water slopped up and into the basin held by the endmost figure. As the liquid slowly drained, the other three figures began to move, stiff hands beating up and down on the drum, stiff fingers tapping the pipe and plucking the air where strings had long since rotted away. Ghostly music floated toward the watchers on the Cobb.

“What is it?” shivered Lady Russell.

“A valuable antique,” said Anne, absent-mindedly. She was rooting in her reticule for the signal flags.

“It is a water-powered mechanical orchestra, one of many ingenious devices invented by the polymath Al-Jazari six hundred years ago,” explained Mrs. Edwards kindly, as Anne knotted a blue-with-a-central-white-stripe above a white-with-a-blue-cross and a red-and-white checked. Quickly, she held the string above her head. “Relent,” whispered Anne. “Please Frederick, understand.”

For a moment, she held her breath. The little waves slapped the Cobb, the automata fluted…and no sound came from the Popham.

“Hold these for me,” Anne told Lady Russell. Her hands free, she trained her spyglass on the flags rising up the frigate’s mainmast.

“A-N-repeat-E,” she read. There was more activity at the mizzen. “Query.”

Anne snatched the red-with-a-white-cross from her reticule and danced up and down, waving it. “Affirmative! Affirmative! Affirmative!”

***

“It is an automaton!” shouted Babbage. Forgotten by the ladies, and not owning a spyglass himself, he had rushed to the end of the Cobb to see better. “I am determined! I will—”

KERsplash! In a moment, the young man was in the water and struggling for his life.

Anne stepped out of her dress and Circassian corset. “The horror of the moment!” gasped Lady Russell but Anne was already swimming strongly. From the corner of her eye, she saw another figure pull off a blue coat and dive from the frigate, and suddenly the sea did not feel cold at all.

They met just at Babbage’s struggling figure, and held him above water. “Tell me not that I am too late,” whispered Frederick.

“For you alone I think and plan,” breathed Anne.

“It’s still working!” spluttered Babbage. No longer busy drowning, he paddled their group towards the automaton and seized its gunwale. “Look at those decorative carvings. I wonder how—”

“Those aren’t decoration,” Anne explained. “It’s writing. In Classical Arabic. It says: ‘Spare automatic servant is stored in locker B’.”

“How do you know that?” asked both men, bemused.

“I went to school in Bath. Besides history and mathematics, it was quite good on languages.”

Frederick smiled as he leaned closer. “No one so capable as Anne.”

***

Part Eeeeeee: Reckoning with the Future

Captain Wentworth’s enormous fortune built himself and his bride a mirror-free mansion in a location with excellent sea-bathing, and further funds purchased a house in Bath for Lady Russell and Mrs. Smith to occupy together. A fine library shortly graced Edward Wentworth’s parsonage, and there was even a little left to enlarge the Musgrove cottage in the Lake District.

Mr. Babbage took the musical automata back to Cambridge with him. He offered the spare servant to Mrs. Edwards, but since it proved to be some sort of shaving-water butler, she let Sir Walter have it at his London house once the plague had passed. It was the talk of town for nine days at least. He felt it was worth every ghostly shiver, though Elizabeth did not. Steeling herself to unaccustomed exertion, she snagged a young man called Rushworth on the rebound and lived haughtily ever after.

Meanwhile, Anne took the Wentworth carriage back to Kellynch and rooted gently through the rubble. There was a surprising amount of text carved into the foundations. After reading it all, she sat on the largest remaining stone.

“السلام عليكم” she said politely. “Sir, I have read your messages and understand that you travelled here from Baghdad seeking materials for your metalwork, and built Kellynch Hall to be your resting place when you became too ill to return.”

She felt a ghostly warmth and smiling, pulled her Arabic dictionary from her reticule.

“But I also understand that the kh-l-s word-root –from which, I am quite sure, the name Kellynch has derived—carries connotations of purging and redemption.”

The shiver changed to one of excitement.

“Have we achieved this?” asked Anne. “Your tomb, though destroyed, has been freed from the vanity that sullied it. Your lost automata have been recovered. Your work has inspired one who I think might carry your ideas forward. His last letter spoke of an engine for calculating polynomial functions. This is, I hope, a more powerful legacy than mechanical playthings for kings?”

Peace washed over her, but the presence did not dissipate.

“And if we let you down again,” added Anne, “you can always come back and haunt those who misuse your ideas.”

The last remaining mirror broke with a rather joyous crash.

****

P.S.: You may have noticed some history-of-computing easter eggs :)

The board does not let me post more than two links, but they were all to Wikipedia so I hope you can find them on your own.

Al-Jazarī: Badīʿ az-Zaman Abu l-ʿIzz ibn Ismāʿīl ibn ar-Razāz al-Jazarī (1136-1206), the real author of The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices, and real inventor of the automata described. (Completely fabricated: a voyage to England and the haunting of Kellynch.)

Mrs. Edwards: Mary Edwards (1750-1815) really worked on mathematical calculations for the Royal Navy. (Complete fiction: letting rooms in Lyme.)

Mr. Babbage: Charles Babbage (1791-1871), real university student (and a member of a Ghost Club) in the 1810s, and really credited with originating the concept of a computer. (Completely made up: acquiring an inspiring haunted al-Jazari artifact.)

Extra credit: ghost in the mansion, jacquard handkerchief :)

Six Inches Deep in Mud (7 replies)

Alicia M and Jen P — Mon, 17 Nov 2025 23:41:33 +0000

DNA: Here is a very silly short story we wrote last weekend. Enjoy! RA

Six Inches Deep in Mud

Mr. Bennet trotted along the lane to Netherfield riding his favorite trusty steed, Artax. He was cursing the numerous trees that had been allowed to overhang the lane as he ducked and dodged branches along the way, muttering to himself, “I shall certainly make Mr. Bingley aware of the state of his estate.” While pondering this thought, he was not able to avoid a large branch in his way, which struck him in the face, causing him to fall backwards to the ground. As he sat, shaking his head, he noticed his hat a few yards off. He stood to retrieve it but before he could do so, a badger emerged from a hedgerow, snatched the hat and disappeared with it into a hole in the ground, but not before hissing savagely at the old man. “Blast!” said Mr. Bennet, startled as he stroked his bare head. He was relieved, at least, that the animal had not done more than steal his hat. “Probably a rabid beast,” he muttered to himself. He turned back towards his horse, but stepped into a puddle, thoroughly wetting his shoes and stockings. “Bingley definitely won’t want to marry one of my daughters if I show up hatless and sloshing into his drawing room with wet footwear.” Mr. Bennet screwed up his courage and marched to the badger’s hole, then plunged his arm blindly into the opening. He thought he felt a furry thing scurry away, “good riddance,” he muttered, as he felt around for his felt hat. At last his hand settled upon it and he yanked it back through the hole. He inspected the headgear and saw that it was frayed on the edge of the brim and only one or two small bites had been taken out of it. He placed it back on his head and sloshed forward.

He managed to mount Artax again and continue on his way. As he rounded past the road that led up to Oakham Mount, he heard a rumbling sound and, looking up, he saw, a few pebbles dropping from the summit, he turned away from them but suddenly a large boulder tumbled down the side of the mount and he had to spur his horse forward to avoid it. At last he stopped, out of breath and panicked. “We narrowly avoided certain death, Artax,” he exclaimed.

Mr. Bennet hadn’t noticed that the chase had led them off the lane. Artax whinnied in distress and Mr. Bennet wondered at the cause until, looking down, he saw the horse’s hooves stuck in a mud puddle that was deeper than it looked. “Your hooves, Artax, are at least six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain,” he pontificated urging the horse to break loose. “Come Artax, you can do it, just push forward.” But the horse floundered, causing it to sink ever deeper. Mr. Bennet did not panic until the mud reached his shoes. Then he thought it better to dismount and lead the horse out. He was surprised to find himself in mud up to his chest. He pushed against the horse’s flank to steady himself, which Artax to regain his footing and clamber towards safety, thus causing Mr. Bennet to sink further until he could no longer move. He tried to hang on and let himself be dragged along with the horse, but the reins slipped out of his hands. “Artax,” he cried. The horse looked back at him helplessly and Mr. Bennet thought he could see tears in its eyes. “Arrrtaaaaaax!” he cried again. But to no avail.

The poor beast watched his master slip under the mud. Loyally, he did not leave until the last bubble of breath gurgled to the surface. Sadly, Artax turned back toward Longbourn and hastened to the barn.

~~~~~

Elizabeth Bennet was taking one of her daily walks through the Longbourn garden. As she wandered through the prettyish kind of little wilderness on one side of the lawn, she noticed her father’s favorite steed coming towards her, riderless.

“What’s wrong, Artax? Has something happened to Papa?” As she took his reins, she noticed how muddy his legs were. “Were you in a deep mud puddle? Has Papa gotten lost? Where is he?” The horse whinnied in response.

Remembering that she was no horsewoman, Elizabeht guided Artax to the barn and sent a stable boy to the house to fetch Jane. While another groom wiped the horse down, Jane came hurrying to them. “Whatever is the matter, Lizzy?” she asked, concern furrowing her brow.

“I fear Papa has met with trouble,” Elizabeth responded. “You are a superior rider to myself, so let us mount Artax. He can take us to where our father is so we can help him.”

At once, the groom assisted the sisters onto Artax’s back. Jane sat neatly side-saddle, while Elizabeth was forced to mount astride behind her. “Propriety be damned,” she said. “Let’s go, Jane.”

“Forward, Artax! Show us the meaning of haste,” Jane cried, urging the horse into a gallop.

~~~~~

As the tired horse approached the puddle where his master had met his demise, the two ladies descried a figure standing nearby, looking over the mud and stroking his chin. Noticing their approach, he bowed.

“Good day, ladies,” he said gallantly.

Elizabeth leapt from the horse’s back. “There is no time for pleasantries, sir. We fear our father has met with trouble.”

“Maybe that explains the hat floating in the mud,” the gentleman said.

Elizabeth gasped and immediately began looking around for a stick with which to reach the hat. Meanwhile, the gentleman glanced at the other lady, and suddenly their eyes locked. They knew, but the current circumstances prevented any acknowledgment. Lizzy’s cry of “I think I’ve got it,” interrupted their mutual gaze and Mr. Bingley took charge of the hat retrieval.

As he handed the hat to Lizzy, the gentleman said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Bingley. I have just leased Netherfield Park.”

“At last,” murmured Jane.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Yes, the house has been vacant some time. I am Elizabeth Bennet. This is my eldest sister, Jane Bennet.” She glanced back at the hat in her hands and said, “But where is Papa? This hat has been bitten by a badger, I’d know those toothmarks anywhere.”

“Well, I’ve neither seen a gentleman nor a badger, only that hat in the mud,” replied Bingley in a manner clearly indicating he wished to be more helpful than he possibly could be, which endeared him all the more to Miss Bennet. “ was just walking the lane to survey these trees that overhang it. They almost knocked me off my horse, Dingley, yesterday.”

“Dingley?” asked Jane.

“It rhymes,” said Bingley. “My friend Darcy suggested it. He cannot abide for my horses to have virile names, but he calls all of his Zeus or Thunder or some such nonsense.”

“I like Dingley,” said Jane.

“This Darcy sounds like a real treasure,” said Lizzy sarcastically, “do you suppose he could assist in searching for my father?”

“Is that him?” asked a voice behind her.

“Where?” asked Lizzy, turning to face the voice. She was struck by the handsome features of a tall gentleman riding a noble all-white steed, a dead badger, in one hand. “Whoa Apollo,” he muttered, calming his horse. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but looked where he was pointing. There, emerging from the mud was a human hand!

Jane let out a blood-curdling scream. “Papa!”

“Indeed,” said Lizzy, sadly. “I recognize his wedding ring. It has the Bennet family crest engraved on it.”

“There might be breath in him yet,” exclaimed Bingley. “Come Darcy let us pull him out.”

“Perhaps, we should escort the ladies home and send some of your estate men to retrieve Mr. Bennet.”

“No!” said Lizzy resolutely. “I shan’t leave my father here!” She began removing her shoes and stockings.

“That won’t be necessary Miss Elizabeth,” said Darcy. He then fashioned a lasso from his rope and cast it towards Mr. Bennet, encircling his submerged torso. Then tying it to his horse he urged mighty stallion to pull. The ladies were looking at him curiously. “I learned that from an American,” he said proudly.

Finally, Mr. Bennet was lying before them, devoid of life. The girls collapsed into each other’s arms and wept. Mr. Bingley arranged for a wagon to take Mr. Bennet and his daughters home.

Mrs. Bennet was inconsolable on the death of her husband and blamed herself for sending him on his perilous journey to Netherfield. Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn before the funeral, to pay his respects and meet his grieving cousins from among whom he expected to choose a wife. He was not long in the house before he discerned that Jane was the prettiest of the sisters, which happily coincided with his intention to choose the eldest. Given the unhappy circumstances of the ladies, he thought it best to relieve their distress by making his intentions known as soon as possible. Thus, the day after the funeral, he sought a private interview with Miss Bennet.

He invited her for a walk in the garden and spoke at length of how unexpected the recent turn of events was for him. He had not anticipated that he would inherit Longbourn so soon. “My own prospects having recently improved,” he went on to explain, “I hope to marry as soon as possible.” As he was thereafter entering on his list of reasons for wishing to marry, Jane heard the pounding hoofbeats of an approaching horse.

She turned towards the sound to see Mr. Bingley on Dingley. He instantly inquired as to her health and that of her family, under their grave affliction. Mr. Collins responded before she could. “Miss Bennet is doing tolerably well. There will naturally be some melancholy occasioned by such a sudden and unexpected event, but she will rally. In fact, I expect she will soon have reason to rejoice. Some good may yet come of this calamity,” he added with a meaningful snicker.

“Forgive me, sir,” said Bingley, dismounting. “I too have lost my father, and I know the grief that she must be feeling.” He took Jane’s hand, as she stumbled through an introduction between the two gentlemen, before she and Bingley walked off together.

Mr. Collins called from behind them, “Miss Bennet, I was not quite finished talking.”

“Never mind him,” said Bingley. “I will make sure you are taken care of.”

Collins, for his part, could see the futility of further pursuit of Jane Bennet. Luckily, when he looked around at the sisters he was resolved. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course. “Well,” he said to himself, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” and he marched in her direction.

As he approached her and began anew to list his reasons for matrimony, hoofbeats again resounded in the distance. Both Elizabeth and Mr. Collins looked towards the sound to see Mr. Darcy hastening towards them on a powerful black stallion, furrowing his brow. “Whoa Maximus,” said Darcy, as he dismounted. “Miss Elizabeth, allow me to express my sincere sympathy at the loss of your father. I too have lost my father and know the grief you must be feeling.”

Mr. Collins threw up his arms in exasperation. He turned, defeated, back towards the house, cursing his bad luck. But, alas, he paused when heard the melodious sound of a piano. “Mary,” he said to himself decisively. He strode towards the house, but was distracted by the sound of hoofs once again. He looked up and saw a young man dismounting from his horse in front of the house, whom he recognized as Mr. Phillips’ clerk. “Oh, no, you don’t,” said Collins, shouldering his way in front of the man and entering the house first. He quickly found the object of his latest pursuit and said, “My dearest Miss Mary, I too know what it is like to lose a father…”

FINIS

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 28 (1 reply)

Anne V — Sat, 25 Oct 2025 00:41:44 +0100

Chapter 28

The next day, Elizabeth walked quietly with Jane, following behind Lydia and Kitty, who were eager to reach Meryton. Jane and Elizabeth were content to walk slowly behind, not saying much. Both had too much on their minds.

Yesterday, Elizabeth had caught herself multiply times thinking about Mr Darcy. She realised she’d gotten used to exchanging looks with him – she had gotten to know him so well that she could guess at what he was thinking with each particular look or upraised eyebrow or half smile. She thought of observations she would make to him, and wonder what his opinion would be, along with being thankful he wasn't there to see the behaviour of her mother and youngest sister.

The Lucas’s and Philips’s stayed longer after lunch than planned. It had started raining, and Mr Bennet had had to call for his carriage to take both families home. Elizabeth’s observation to Jane was that it would delay the spreading of the news of Jane’s engagement.

She thought back to her meeting with Mr Darcy that morning. She had been so eager to see him again and worried that he would not be there. Before she had loved and cherished her solitude in her walks, but now walking alone without him seemed lonely.

He had been waiting for her at the appointed spot, sitting on the Netherfield stump with his horse grazing nearby. He looked so handsome as his face lit up with a smile on seeing her. There was also that look in his eyes that made her heart flutter and her breath stop. He arose quickly from the stump and bowed. “Good morning, Miss..” he paused before continuing, “Elizabeth.”

She loved the way her name sounded when he said it. She gave him a bright smile. “I'm glad you found this spot. The story is that that stump you are sitting on was used to make the frame of Netherfield. And the one on the other side was used to make the frame for Longbourn.”

He gave her his arm and they walked together to the top of Oakham Mount. They spoke easily and she showed him the points of interest from the top, telling him the interesting historical stories of the region. She recollected when he would stand near her or just behind, that she could feel his presence and smell his scent. At times when she had turned to face him, to find him so close, she would wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him. By the way he looked at her, she thought he was thinking the same. But then she would curse herself as she would feel the impropriety of the situation and step or turn away.

He had asked to meet her again tomorrow, before kissing her hand as they parted. She felt sure that he intended to ask her to marry him tomorrow.

They approached the outskirts of Meryton, and Lizzy turned to Jane. “Let's see how effective the rumour mill has been and who has already found out about your engagement. Has our Aunt yet been out to spread the good news around?”

“With yesterday's downpour, she would not have gone out. And I suspect we have beaten her to getting out this morning.”

The attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentleman like appearance, walking with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr Denny, concerning whose return from London Lydia came to enquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if at all possible to find out, led the way across the street, under the pretence of wanting something in an opposite shop. Fortunately they had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen turning back had reached the same spot. Mr Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be, for the young man wanted only for regimental to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation – a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming.

Elizabeth watched him closely. He made eye contact with each of them as they spoke, but she noticed his eye drift more often to Jane with the attempt to hold her attention. Yet again Jane had made another conquest, though this time it would be for nought, thought Elizabeth.

They were still talking when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Mr Bingley and Darcy were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them.

“Oh Lord, have you heard our news yet?” exclaimed Lydia, on seeing Mr Bingley.

Lieutenant Denny shook his head. “What news would that be, Miss Lydia?”

“Jane is engaged!” exclaimed Lydia.

“To Mr Bingley!” added Kitty, not to be outdone.

It was at that moment the two men looked up to see Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy approaching them. Lizzy watched both the new comer and Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy’s gaze was directed at her, so he had not at first seen Mr Wickham. Lizzy however saw the look of shock on Mr Wickham’s face, which went white. Fear, she thought. She then looked back to Mr Darcy, who’s gaze was now on Mr Wickham, and he had turned red. It was more than anger; it was barely held rage.

Mr Wickham recovered first, touching his hat when Lieutenant Denny made the introductions after congratulating Jane and Mr Bingley on their engagement. Mr Darcy made the most basic of nods towards Mr Wickham, his mouth set in a thin line.

Elizabeth wondered at the meaning of it. It was impossible to imagine, and impossible not to long to know.

After a few minutes, Mr Bingley took his leave, promising to escort the ladies home after he had completed his business in Meryton. Mr Darcy by this stage had already turned his horse and rode off.

Lieutenant Denny and Mr Wickham walked with the ladies to their aunt’s house and made their bows, despite Lydia’s entreaties that they join them inside and despite their aunt opening the upstairs window and loudly seconding the invitation.

They called on their aunt for an update on news and any information about the new officer, of which their aunt could add no more information than they already knew. Their aunt invited them to cards that evening and promised to have Mr Phillips call on the new officer and add him to the invite to cards. An invite was issued to Mr Bingley, in honour of his engagement, and Jane promised faithfully to pass it onto her fiancé. Mr Bingley himself called upon Mrs Phillips before they left, but had to decline the card invitation, as he had already this morning accepted an offer to dine with Mr Goulding, whom he had happened upon in town.

Elizabeth looked for Mr Darcy, and as they left Aunt Phillip’s home, Mr Bingley informed them that Mr Darcy had decided to return to Netherfield. Elizabeth smiled but inwardly was disappointed.