Dwiggie.com message boards - Derbyshire Writers' Guild For Jane Austen-Based Creative Writinghttp://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/list.php?5Sun, 19 May 2013 13:32:21 +0100 Phorum 5.2.19 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97474,97474#msg-97474 The Pemberley Effect - Part Five (no replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97474,97474#msg-97474
Authors Note DNA: This chapter is pretty much the reason I delight in telling the two stories together. So many delightful re-readings of situations. Now much to job application.



Part Five (Chapter 13)

Their maid was detained helping Mrs Bennet into her nightclothes. Their mother always wanted to talk over the night immediately and the maid was the lucky recipient of her confidences.

Sally was not a bad maid by any means; she just came from a local family whose siblings had all gone into service. Sally saw nothing wrong in telling her family the Bennets’ concerns, and thus it was that the neighbourhood knew almost everything Mrs Bennet chose to confide in Sally.

There was nothing Lizzy could do about that, so she focused on helping her sister with her hair.

“I do hope Emma had a lovely evening,” said Jane.

“She was led out to dance by a viscount; if she did not have a lovely evening, then she is hard to please.”

“I thought that was very kind of Lord Ashbourne. His manners are pleasing, but I found him more reserved than you led me to believe.”

“Reserved?” That was the opposite of what Lizzy would have described him as.

“Yes, I think some of his pleasantries are rather studied. He means to give no offence so he does not, it is not that he is truly – I cannot explain it, but surely you see the difference between the genuineness of Charles and the viscount?”

Lizzy had not thought of it like that, and now that Jane had remarked on it, she revisited his actions and words.

“You think him insincere?”

“No, but he is a very great gentleman. Our concerns can be little to him. I think it reflects well that he does not – well, Mr Darcy has been our guide of rich young men recently, has he not? And he does not have the manner of goodness even though we know he does have much goodness within him. But we shall probably see little of Lord Ashbourne.” Jane turned to assist Lizzy with her hairpins. “Mr Fitzwilliam, however … “

“You think he shall stay in the neighbourhood? He does not strike me as a young man who likes to be in one place for very long.”

“Did you not notice he danced two dances with Kitty?”

Lizzy had not noticed that, she had been so focused on Mr Darcy that she had not seen anything. “I did not remark it.”

“Then you were the only one. His attentions were very marked, and Kitty was distracted during every other dance. Kitty is never distracted during dances, she enjoys them too much.”

“I did not tell you their manner to each other upon their meeting. It was if they were struck dumb by one another,” said Lizzy. “Oh, I expect Mama and Sir William will be planning another wedding. I know that Papa swears by life being nothing more than us making sport for our neighbours and then laughing at them in our turn, but I feel it is never our turn.”

Jane gave Lizzy a hug. “Dearest Lizzy, you will be happy too, I promise.”

“If you will allow me to teach your ten children to embroider, I will be.”

“It is possible that Mr Darcy …“

Lizzy shot Jane a look.

“ – or some other young gentleman you come to admire (after all, I am sure Charles has many friends,) will wish to make you his wife, and you will wish to become his. Do not give up quite so early; you are not even one and twenty.”

Lizzy threw one of Jane’s ribbons at her.

&&&&&&


The next morning, the dance was the sole topic of conversation in the Bennet household and when the Lucas women had exhausted all of their own words on the topic, they came to visit so that both Bennets and Lucases could discuss the dance some more. Then, the next day, they went to Church where, besides the sermon, they could hear everyone else’s opinions on how the evening had gone.

Lord Ashbourne figured a great deal in the conversation and Lizzy and her father had some fun in teasing Mrs Bennet. Mr Bennet because that was his chief source of amusement and Lizzy because she did not want her mother to see Lord Ashbourne as the property of one or other of her girls. She would be disappointed after all.

Lizzy was surprised that Kitty seemed so discomforted about the attention she was being shown regarding her having made a conquest of Mr Fitzwilliam. Was it possible that Kitty really had fallen in love at first sight?

Normally Lydia and Kitty were happy to discuss their flirts; indeed they did not wait to be asked about them. This Kitty was reticent and blushed and looked confused as if she did not understand what was being asked.

“Shall we see your name being read in the Banns, Miss Kitty, you sly thing,” said the eldest Miss Long.

“I do not know what you mean. I wish to pay attention to the sermon.”

Lizzy had never seen her sister pay such dutiful attention towards anything before; their rector had never been a very great sermon giver, any topic in his hands turned brittle and dry.

It did not dissuade the interest of the Miss Longs, who captured Kitty’s’ attention outside of the church by way of blocking her path.

“Mr Fitzwilliam is fearful handsome. He should enlist; a red coat would perfect him. Has he any intention, do you know?”

“Why should I know of Mr Fitzwilliam’s intentions?”

The Miss Longs laughed. “Oh, Kitty!”

On their walk back to Longbourn, Lizzy ventured to suggest that Mr Fitzwilliam was very handsome and attentive.

“Oh, not you too, Lizzy!” was all Kitty would say which puzzled her greatly.

&&&&&&


“I do hope, Mr Darcy, that you are not regretting your return,” Miss Bingley clung to him as they made their way into Longbourn.

“Is there a reason I should do so?”

Miss Bingley laughed. “They will not be happy with just Miss Bennet married. She is a charming beautiful young lady and I am happy to have her as a sister, but her family! You cannot be blind to their faults.”

“I endeavour not to be blind to faults,” was his only response.

“Oh, and Mr Fitzwilliam! I do not know what he is about bringing that object. He dropped it on the way here and I quite think my toe may be broken.”

Darcy could not help but notice that Miss Bingley’s affection for Freddie had faded fast. She had no doubt noticed he was a young puppy and none of her skills could draw him in, so she had no use for him.

Darcy, too, wondered what had possessed his cousin to bring what looked like a wrapped book to Longbourn. He detached himself from Miss Bingley and slowed his cousin’s step.

“I hope that is not from Bingley’s library?”

Freddie started, “What? Oh this? No, no, this is my own book.”

“You brought books in your trunk?” Darcy did not believe him.

“No, I sent for it, from London,” said Freddie, “On Saturday. It is a gift…loan.”

“For whom?”

“Darcy, are you intending to loiter about all evening?” Ash called to them from the entrance hall.

The mystery of the wrapped book was soon solved, as Mr Bennet noticed it and asked directly.

Darcy watched as Freddie handed it to Miss Catherine Bennet, who seemed as surprised as anyone. He saw the bemused expression on her face when the novel was revealed and she looked up, not at Freddie, but directly at Ash.

Ash was not looking at her; instead he was intently studying the stucco, which instantly made Darcy suspicious. Freddie was too young to marry unless he fell into a lasting and deep love, something longer than an acquaintance of a sevennight could engender.

Ash loved his brother too much to see him do something foolish, so what was he about to allow this gift to be given so brazenly?

Darcy could see that the conversation was troubling Miss Catherine and chose to ask Mrs Bennet about her plans for the wedding. He received an approving look from Elizabeth, but she did not come to join him; instead he watched as she went to speak to her sister and Freddie, leaving him to discuss the finer points of lace as best he could.

He was rewarded for his pains by being seated next to Elizabeth at dinner.

“I see that your mother has ordered all of Bingley’s favourite dishes.”

“Is it not said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?” She smiled at him briefly before surveying the courses before her.

“I think she should be secure of Bingley.”

The conversation lapsed until Elizabeth told him she had lately received a letter from Georgiana. “This one through the medium of the post, rather than hand delivered. Your sister is a credit to you.”

“I am very glad she values your friendship, you may provide what I cannot. I am not equipped to converse easily on all subjects that a young lady may wish to.”

“Whereas I, being a young lady and one with many sisters, am eminently qualified.”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

“Your sister could be trouble to no one,” Elizabeth frowned at saying that, clearly thinking of Wickham.

Darcy wanted nothing more than to reach out and tell her that he did not mind her knowing about Georgiana. He had wanted to tell her, wanted her to know, he trusted her with that knowledge. He also wanted to tell her that Wickham imposing himself on sisters was not her fault. But he had no right to talk to her on such matters or reassure her; for all he knew, she blamed him. After all, she must have felt constrained in being able to warn her family and friends about Wickham.

His own behaviour in Meryton had given everyone such a disgust of him that any attempt to reveal Wickham’s true nature would be more difficult than if Darcy had just made an effort to ingratiate himself. But he always thought such artifice beneath him.

He never deigned to learn about other people beyond his first cursory impression of them. He had not noticed before that if a gentleman was rich and belonged to the right society, he was more likely to give them time to display their qualities than if they were poor and coarse. The exception was his own tenants and was that because he knew himself to be in control of their destiny?

Darcy was so wrapped up in these thoughts he hardly noticed the ladies leaving the table.

Mr Bennet passed the port to Freddie. “I should by rights give my new son-in-law the bottle first, but you, sir, have raised many expectations this night.”

Freddie looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. He did not look at all like a young man giving a lady he admired a gift.

As blunt as Darcy had found Mr Bennet’s statement, he had to concede there had been no point hiding such a notion; once they rejoined the ladies, Mrs Bennet seemed unable to talk of anything but Mr Fitzwilliam’s generosity.

It was only a novel and a rather lurid one at that! As if every woman who received a torrid novel was eventually married to the gifter!

Darcy made his way to the coffee and took himself a cup; Ash was doing the same.

“Do you think this quite wise…” he gestured at Freddie, who was being most cordially thanked by their hostess.

“Sugar in your coffee? I do not prefer it but if you do … “

“Talk sense, Ash. Your brother…and his…offering.”

“You sound as if he were a priest.”

“This society has certain expectations which are being raised.” Darcy knew Ash had heard Mr Bennet and was not blind to Mrs Bennet either.

“This society? All society, I think you will find …”

“In town, such flirtations can be seen as what they are – here…and it is not … “

“He is of an age; she is of an age, what is there to object to?”

“The fact your brother does not seem very committed to the object of his affection does not worry you?”

Ash looked at him in some surprise.

“He does not look as though he wished to give her a present. He likes her, that is clear enough, but it is nothing more than a flirtation.”

“She likes him,” was Ash’s simple answer.

“She likes him so well that she looked first at you when she opened the present.”

The spoon clattered as it came to rest on Ash’s saucer and Darcy closed his eyes briefly, trying to think what this might mean and when he had opened them Ash had moved away.

Darcy looked back at Miss Catherine sitting by herself on the sofa near them. She was tolerable enough, but not at all his cousin’s usual flirtation.]]> Shemmelle Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 19 May 2013 12:52:57 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97463,97463#msg-97463 The Brighton Effect - Chapter Thirteen (5 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97463,97463#msg-97463
Authors Note: Whew. Thanks so much to Lydia. Meanwhile life is still crazy, but Pemberly should follow shortly. Also I would have before reading some comments from the last couple of chapters, designated this as a "NO ANGST" story....now I think perhaps I should say "Low Angst", just to be safe!



Chapter Thirteen

“And he danced every dance,” said Mrs Bennet the following morning, addressing herself to the only occupant of the room that had not been at Sir William’s … who was also the least interested. “Never with one young lady more than once though, which is a pity.”

Mr Bennet sighed. “I really wish he had sprained his ankle in the first dance.”

“But to be so charming! So unlike his cousin! I suppose we should have known from his brother’s manners.”

“So he has read Lord Chesterfield’s advice and never gives offence or acts above his party?” said Mr Bennet, smiling at Lizzy, who giggled into her handkerchief. “Well, it is nice to know that rich young men are not all proud and disagreeable.” That Lizzy did not laugh at.

“Mr Darcy behaved better,” said Jane. “He danced with Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, and also one with myself and Lizzy. He even asked Emma to dance but all her dances had been claimed.”

“Well, it is only because his cousin shows him up, I dare say, and he does not have ten thousand a year.” Mrs Bennet grew agitated.

“A penniless heir!” cried Mr Bennet.

“You misunderstand me, Mr Bennet,” said Mrs Bennet.

“Wilfully!”

“Of course, he is heir to a much grander estate; perhaps one should say estates…”

“And the amount to keep them up is probably equal to their income,” said Lizzy, lightly trying, Kitty thought, to change the subject.

“Nonsense, Lizzy!” said Mrs Bennet.

“Either way I do not think one should have any hopes there, Mama.”

“Why should that be?” Mrs Bennet did not like aspersions thrown upon her daughters, even by one of those daughters.

This would have descended into an argument if Lady Lucas had not called with her daughters in order to discuss the party.

As Maria was claimed by Lydia, Emma clung to Kitty’s side as they walked about the garden.

“I thought I might faint when I was lead out to dance by a lord! Mama says not to refine upon it so much, and of course I do not, but he was so very civil. He asked so many questions about the neighbourhood. What did you speak about in your dance?”

Kitty had wanted to keep that to herself. They had talked about books, almost as if they were continuing their conversation as they had walked along the Steyne back to Colonel Forster’s lodgings. There had been no explicit mention of Brighton, but they had not stopped speaking the entire dance.

“Books,” replied Kitty.

Emma made a face. “Books in a ballroom! I expect your taste did not much match! What did you speak of in your dance, Lydia?”

Lydia turned from where she was plucking at some flowers while giggling with Maria. “I danced every dance, which dance do you mean?”

“The one with Lord Ashbourne,” said Maria, “Who else?”

Lydia laughed. “Oh we talked about sport. I fancy he is a very good shot.” Lydia winked at Kitty, who had to turn away. “Why not tease Kitty about Mr Fitzwilliam? He danced with her twice, and they looked so intimate.”

“Oh yes, Kitty. Such a handsome man, and I heard him talking to Papa about Cheveley. It sounds like it would be such a charming home,” said Emma slyly.

Kitty did not understand why they should want to tease her. Mr Fitzwilliam and herself had squabbled during their second dance as he had not quite the right steps or energy, and she had all but ignored him for the first.

“You seem so familiar with him already, as if you already know him,” said Maria.

“Ridiculous,” was all Kitty could say, but the three girls would not stop their insinuations and giggling. She had to retreat into the house and be forced to sit through talk of weddings to escape.

@@@@@@


It seemed that the Lucas girls’ misapprehension was shared by others. Kitty had been greatly admired outside Church the next day, and she had never paid more strict attention to the service.

Kitty had thought that Jane’s triumph would be the talk of the village; she had underestimated the village’s enthusiasm for love. One marriage always begat another was their hope. So, of course, their eyes turned towards the next possible match. Under almost any other circumstances, and before her trip to Brighton, Kitty would have been pleased to be the source of so much attention.

Mrs Bennet was as good a housekeeper as she was a gossip and she had taught her all her daughters well; for if they had no fortune, they must bring something to the marriage beside their face. Mrs Bennet was not so romantic as to think, probably from her own circumstances, that physical attraction could be the only hook to a harmonious marriage. Mary and Jane were the two daughters who most assisted their mother in the running of the household; Jane because she was the eldest and most biddable, and Mary because Mrs Bennet reckoned that she required extra assistance in the marriage market. Though it must be said that Mrs Bennet rarely suffered her daughters’ interventions, particularly with regards to the seating arrangement

Mrs Bennet intended to spend the rest of the day finishing off her plans for her grand dinner, so Kitty offered her services to her mother as a distraction from the torment of everybody asking her about Mr Fitzwilliam …. and earned a grateful look from Mary, which was a rare sight indeed.

So it was a quiet Sunday afternoon that passed as Kitty listened to her mother’s changing mood for the dishes and Hill’s quiet reminders that it was a little too late to be changing dishes entirely. Then her mother moved on to entertainment.

“Of course, if we should want it we can throw back the rug and dance, but we had much better play cards, I think. Kitty, run and see if we have any new card packs. Remember, it always looks very well to have new card packs upon the table.”

It was during her search for card packs that Mrs Bennet fixed the one aspect of the dinner party that Kitty had really been trying to influence.

“Mama!” She looked at the little card places and how her mother intended to arrange her guests.

“Do you think we ought to arrange the table by precedence? There is only Sir William and Lord Ashbourne and it would so upset my table! How is one to manage it with the rest of the ladies and gentlemen? No, it will not do. This arrangement is much better.”

Kitty looked at the placements; she had been placed next to Mr Fitzwilliam, “But, Mama, look: if we just … “

“Why are you moving yourself away from Mr Fitzwilliam, child? My daughter is not a simpleton, I hope? You cannot tell me you have taken him in dislike? Why do all my daughters take their suitors in dislike?”

“Jane did not …“

“It took Mr Bingley long enough; I am not taking any more chances.”

No amount of persuasion could convince Mrs Bennet that Kitty felt nothing for Mr Fitzwilliam.


@@@@@@


The party from Netherfield arrived very early, although Kitty was surprised Mr Bingley was not even earlier. Since he had proposed, they had only not seen Mr Bingley the day before and that was most likely because it was a Sunday.

“Why have Miss Bingley and her sister come so early?” said Lydia, “They would better have come in a later carriage and not bring their glum faces to spoil our fun.”

“Lydia! Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst are – “ Jane’s attempts at remonstrating with Lydia fell on deaf ears, for Lydia moved away.

“Jane, you are not deceived by them either, I hope; if it were just your Mr Bingley, they would not have come early. If Lydia wants to blame anyone, she should blame the single young gentlemen,” said Lizzy into Jane’s ear with a smile. Then Lizzy made a silencing gesture at Kitty before laughing.

Indeed, Miss Bingley had drawn her chair particularly close to Lord Ashbourne’s. Mr Darcy was not forgotten by her either, so Miss Bingley was forced to split her attentions.

Mr Bennet was the most put out by the early arrivals, for he could not hide in his library for as long as he might have wanted. He stood by the fire – removing a position for Mr Darcy to lean and glower– and poked at it occasionally.

“What do you have there, sir?” Mr Bennet said suddenly to Mr Fitzwilliam.

Mr Fitzwilliam smiled. “It is a parcel, Mr Bennet.”

It was indeed a small parcel tied up with brown paper and string.

“Have you bought your own dinner?” continued Mr Bennet. “I can assure you Mrs Bennet keeps a good table, whatever her other faults.”

Mr Fitzwilliam laughed. “No, it is not I assure you. It is a gift – a loan I should say – for your daughter.”

This exchange was only part of the general conversation in the room … except with that phrase, Mr Fitzwilliam and Mr Bennet’s conversation became the focus of the room’s attention.

“I have several, Mr Fitzwilliam.”

“For Miss Catherine.”

Kitty could not have been more confused as she received this token. Usually she could unwrap very well, but her fingers almost failed her. Finally she managed and revealed a novel. It was a handsome volume, not pasteboard at all; it had been redone in leather.

She turned the volume to see the title embossed in gold. It was the very novel she had discussed at Sir William’s dance. It was a book she had most wanted to read. She had heard it spoken of and read about it and had very much wished to read it, but it was not in Sir William’s library or her father’s or the circulating library. Except she had not discussed this book with Mr Fitzwilliam; she had discussed it with Lord Ashbourne.

Kitty did not know which way to look; Lord Ashbourne was not even looking at her, but everyone else was looking at her expectantly.

“Mr Fitzwilliam, this is a very generous loan. I shall endeavour to read swiftly.”

“There is no rush, Miss Catherine,” was his response.

The conversation moved on but Kitty could not recover her composure. Was he teasing her? And which ‘he’ did she mean?

Her thoughts remained disordered, partly because her mother kept giving her encouraging approving looks which were not at all subtle, and partly because Mr Fitzwilliam sat next to her.

They did not speak until Lizzy, who had been changing seats every five minutes, sat with them. Kitty did not know why her sister could not sit still but she wished her very far away.

“You enjoy novels, Mr Fitzwilliam? That is certainly a recommendation.”

“I do indeed. I prefer them to my studies.”

Lizzy interrogated Mr Fitzwilliam for a moment longer before more guests arrived and soon they were summoned to dinner.

Mrs Bennet arranged it so that Kitty ended up being led into dinner by Mr Fitzwilliam.

“I never spoke to you about novels. I would assume your taste quite lacking.”

“I find your taste quite lacking. I would much prefer to be reading a magazine. It looks a dreadful book: do you not wish to sleep, Miss Bennet? And what a title!”

“The Orphan of the Rhine? What is wrong with such a title?”

“Are they always orphans? They always are and very rich and pretty and put upon.”

There was nothing Kitty could say to this because it was entirely true.

Mrs Bennet had found a horrid epergne and placed it upon the table to show that the Bennet household was quite up to the task of entertaining the heir of an earldom, and marrying into the wealth of the Bingley family. This epergne, apart from its hideousness, had the unintended consequence of meaning that Kitty could not see Lord Ashbourne from where she sat. Dinner quite spoiled in her mouth. Her only comfort was continuing her aspersions of Mr Fitzwilliam’s taste in novels and his inarticulate defence of himself.

@@@@@@



“You see,” Mrs Bennet spoke loudly, “he gave it as a loan. A gift would be too much too soon. But you see…” She was addressing Mrs Long and Lady Lucas, but all the other ladies could hear her. Kitty was just glad the gentlemen were sitting awhile over their port.

Kitty was mortified, but her mother would not be silent. Jane came immediately to sit by her, understanding at once Kitty’s feelings. Jane spoke quietly to her about nothing in particular until the gentlemen came in, and then Kitty released her as it was obvious Jane did not wish to be anywhere but by Mr Bingley’s side.

Mrs Bennet’s talk was muted slightly, but Kitty heard her quite distinctly thank Mr Fitzwilliam for his generosity to her dear girl.

The table with coffee and tea was right behind the sofa upon which Kitty sat and she became aware of a conversation.

“Do you think this quite wise…” It was Mr Darcy. Kitty refused to turn around to see whom he was speaking to.

“Sugar in your coffee? I do not prefer it, but if you do – “

“Talk sense, Ash. Your brother…and his…offering.”

“You sound as if he were a priest.”

“This society has certain expectations which are being raised.”

“This society? All society, I think you will find …”

“In town, such flirtations can be seen as what they are – here…and it is not … “

“He is of an age; she is of an age, what is there to object to?”

That did not seem to be the answer Mr Darcy wanted, but he clearly dropped the conversation or they moved away and spoke lower, because Kitty could not hear any more.


@@@@@@



Kitty stared at the novel as it lay beside her bed. She had little interest in it – what was a most anticipated read was now a leaden feeling in her stomach. Mary had taken more interest in the novel, flicking through some of the pages, even pausing once, before laying it back on the table.

Did Lord Ashbourne think Kitty preferred his brother? Did he think she should prefer his brother?

Had she given that impression? She certainly could speak with ease and without reservation with Mr Fitzwilliam. He was handsome, but she felt no attraction to him. It was if he were the brother her parents had longed for.

How had it all become such a muddle?]]> Shemmelle Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 19 May 2013 12:19:28 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97343,97343#msg-97343 Nature of the Beast Interlude (24 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97343,97343#msg-97343
“What do you mean they’re gone?” Lizzy asked again, pacing in Jane’s room. Jane sat on her bed, looking pale. The note was limp in her hand, and Lizzy snatched it from her. Caroline Bingley’s writing was short and to the point, giving no hint of the real reason for their departure. Lizzy could guess, though. No, she knew. Hadn’t Fitz visited her last night, as if to say goodbye? She understood it, at least partly. With accusations of werewolves flying around the country, it was clear Mr. Darcy had to leave.

But did he have to take Mr. Bingley with him? She knew they were good friends, far more than could be guessed from their outward appearance. No, she didn’t blame Mr. Bingley. But Mr. Darcy had used her sister hard. He held himself above the company in Hertfordshire. That much was obvious, even from the very beginning. He had to leave, and he took Mr. Bingley with him. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but why couldn’t he have allowed Mr. Bingley to visit and say goodbye?

She could only think it meant Mr. Darcy had disapproved of her favorite sister, and purposely kept his friend away from her. That was reason enough for Lizzy to hate him all over again. She remembered Mr. Wickham’s tale against him freshly, and was able to put facts to his complaints. She could easily believe that in a fit of rage, Fitz had emerged to deal with what he saw as a threat. She had felt his great fury, knew what he was capable of. Especially if he truly had been the uncontrollable beast both Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley had claimed he was. She had no reason to doubt Mr. Bingley.

No wonder Mr. Wickham took pains to avoid Mr. Darcy. In the days following the defection of Netherfield, she had seen Mr. Wickham around Meryton, looking pale and nervous. He only seemed to relax when he realized that Mr. Darcy had truly fled the area. Meanwhile, Jane put on a brave face and acted as though nothing were wrong.

Only Lizzy saw how badly hurt she was. Mrs. Bennet’s assurances that Mr. Bingley would soon return only hurt her further, especially as Mr. Bingley failed to come. Lizzy had hoped that Mr. Bingley would not be so callous to her sister, so easily led by his friend. Just a single note from him, saying that he intended to return, or even that he was breaking off his attentions would have been better than this cruel waiting, not knowing anything!

Lizzy could have cheerfully abused his character, but didn’t for Jane’s sake. Her sister was hurting, and she was powerless to help her. There was no tisane for heartbreak.
***

Darcy hated carriages. He hated carriages when he could run faster than one, and he hated being enclosed in one. He wolf twitched and snarled inside, restless with impatience. He would be at Pemberley in just a few hours, having left Charles in London and deciding to visit his home and sister for the winter season. The few letters of correspondence he had had from Georgiana did little to assure him of her recovery. The single piece of good news he had received was her reply to the letter he wrote at Netherfield.

He had been more at ease then, for the first time since becoming a werewolf. His letter had been more genuine than any he had sent in a long time, he acknowledged painfully, and her reply had been the most hopeful he had heard since that summer.

They didn’t talk about what happened at Ramsgate, but every line of her letter had whispered, Do you forgive me? There was nothing to forgive, no matter how many times he told her, but she insisted on taking the blame for everything on herself. What he hadn’t been able to ask was if she had forgiven him. He had failed to keep her safe at Ramsgate, and then he had failed even more to keep her safe during his first transformation at Pemberley. He had terrified his sister. Thank God Charles and Richard had been there, or it might have been an even greater disaster. There would have been blood on the floor.

And now he was returning to her. Part of him was in constant panic, wondering what he was doing away from Charles, away even from Elizabeth who could help him control his wolf. It was true Elizabeth’s magic slid off him when his wolf so chose, but he was calmer when she was around, regardless of any magic involved. Viciously he shoved Elizabeth out of his mind. He was still smarting over her last comment, and determined to think no more of her. He acknowledged that he had perhaps grown a little closer to her than had been wise, but that was at an end now. He would never visit Hertfordshire again, and not think of any of the Bennets any longer.

He admitted, reluctantly, that he would be forever grateful for his stay in that area. He had learned to accept his wolf, to regain control of himself there. Elizabeth had been a big part of that. Without her interference, he would have never seen that his wolf was not a monster, not a feral spirit of rage. Without her, he would have never dared to see his sister and resume his place at Pemberley and London. But that chapter of his life was over now. If his wolf had been an infant at the beginning, then he had matured past the terrible twos at Hertfordshire, and was still a young child, but one who no longer threw tantrums. One who was learning to take on the responsibilities of his position.

Hertfordshire had been a sort of nursery, and he was beyond that now. He could no longer lean on a crutch, whether it was distance, a person, a cage and silver ring, or his friend. He had to stand on his own now. He would make his apologies to Georgiana, and hope she could accept him. If not… he shuddered as he felt wholly inadequate to face his sister. What if he still frightened her? Georgiana was sensitive. She felt everything so keenly. He tortured himself with what-ifs until roads outside the carriage turned achingly familiar.

He had seen these roads all his life, and yet he had never seen them like this before, with new eyes and new senses to take in every detail. Everything was sharper, as though he replaced old fuzzy memories with fresh clear ones. Despite his misgivings, he found himself growing excited. He missed his home. He realized he was even looking forward to introducing his wolf to Pemberley, as though his wolf had become a new acquaintance he was bringing home. In a way, he was.

At Darcy’s request, the carriage stopped at a rise of the hill. Darcy got out and stretched his legs. Below him, picturesque, was Pemberley laid out in all her glory. The depth of the grounds all around only hinted at the richness of her lands. He had never known a place more beautiful, or more likely to call to him back home. His wolf was stirred by his excitement, and looked around curiously. His wolf had only vague, painful memories of Pemberley, and did not recognize the vista below. He wanted to know why Darcy was so happy to be here.

“This is home,” he whispered to himself.

Home? the wolf echoed, in the way he had begun to lately. It was highly disconcerting the first time it happened, but it was becoming more common. His wolf was maturing. He could feel the way his wolf took an even greater interest in their surroundings, and felt the moment he laid claim to this land.

Home, he repeated, this time with deep satisfaction. A grin spread across Darcy’s face. Things were going to be fine.

He got back into the carriage, and they continued on. The carriage pulled up to the front door, where he was surprised to see a formal turnout of the servants. He did not usually receive such treatment, but then his leaving had been particularly harsh. He felt as though he had been sick and fevered for a long time, and was now coming back to his senses.

At the head of the stairs was his sister, looking pale and fragile next to Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Annesley. She looked so young, still the child he had had to raise on his own. And then he blinked, and realized she stood nearly as tall as Mrs. Reynolds, and was in fact perhaps an inch taller than Mrs. Annesley. How had his little sister grown up like that? Why would she do that to him?

He could scarcely breathe as he traveled down the line of servants. He had known many all his life, and yet he only had eyes on Georgiana. This was perhaps the most important meeting of his life, in this instant right here. How would his wolf react to her? How would she react to him? He was at the bottom step now. Was she trembling? The smile on her face looked both timid and wavering. He wanted to crush whoever made her look like that, and knew it was himself.

His wolf surged upward, drawn by his own anxiety. Georgiana felt it, her eyes widening and her face going even more pale. His muscles locked into place. He could not allow himself to approach her if his wolf was uncertain. He would not frighten her again. His wolf took in his surroundings calmly, noting the servants. And then his attention fell on Georgiana. He stopped, eyeing her slowly.

This one, he wolf said, and Darcy braced himself for the wolf’s reaction. This one is ours to protect. It was the first complete sentence his wolf had ever spoken, as if to underscore the importance of this moment. A sudden grin split Darcy’s face, and he crossed the distance to his sister in an instant. She didn’t have time to step back from him before he lifted her into the air with a laugh. He hugged her as if she was still a young child. She was stiff in his arms for a moment, and then softened, looking at him in wonder.

He let her down, and she touched his face. He knew she felt both himself and his wolf, and wondered at the change in them. “I’m so glad to see you, little one,” he told her, quite unable to stop grinning.

“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana whispered, then threw her arms around him. “I’ve missed you so much!”

His throat felt suddenly tight, and he had to blink rapidly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Reynolds’ small, approving smile, and warmth flooded him. He was truly home at last. He pulled back from Georgiana. “Can you meet me in my study in half an hour?” he asked her. “I have something to show you.” It was time for some confessions.
***

Charles knew he couldn’t count on a reply right away, but even still that didn’t stop him from checking the post eagerly each day. He was disappointed every time, but that didn’t stop him from hoping. He had put his letter in the entry hall, where it couldn’t possibly be missed. He had no doubt it had been sent the day they left. His angel would have known that he wasn’t leaving her. Perhaps there was a delay in the roads between London and Hertfordshire.

No doubt she had to be discreet about her reply. Perhaps she was waiting for a piece of her father’s business to come to London to take her response. He was cheered immeasurably by that thought. Still, he was a little saddened that he hadn’t heard anything by the time Darcy left London, three days after their arrival. That wasn’t a very great time, though. And he could never be upset with Jane. She cared for him deeply, no matter what Darcy said.

But a week passed with no answer, and then two. He tried hard to put on a brave face, but he was starting to doubt a little more each day. It didn’t help that his sisters were ecstatic about being back in London, and insisted on dragging him to various functions around town. He was even forced to dance! None of his partners had even a part of the grace of Jane, and he felt her lack sharply.

Maybe Jane’s letter had gotten lost. He should write her another one, to be sure he knew he was serious about courting her. He was tempted to ride straight to Hertfordshire and talk to her father at once. It was the impulsive kind of thing that Darcy hated, and he tried to keep himself under control.

Days passed, and the weather worsened, making travel impossible. He thought of Jane every day, until he was sick with love of her. A love that perhaps she did not return? Had she been affronted by his letter? She must think him a cad for not seeing her in person. He cursed himself for not taking just one more day to see her. But it had been imperative to get Darcy out of Hertfordshire as quickly as possible. He wondered how Darcy was doing with Georgiana. Had they reached a peace? He certainly could have used some of Darcy’s steady advice right about now.
***

Charlotte Lucas was married to Mr. Collins. Lizzy attended. She knew Charlotte had wanted her to stand up with her, but was unable to do it. In the end, Charlotte did not ask, and Lizzy didn’t offer. Still, it was impossible to miss the relief on Charlotte's face when she saw Lizzy standing in the church. It made Lizzy feel better for having come, and also guilty for the way she'd treated her friend. Charlotte was going to have a hard enough time with her new husband. The least Lizzy could do was not withdraw her support at this time. She had just a few minutes to talk to the new Mrs. Collins at the wedding breakfast. They promised to correspond regularly. And then it was time for Charlotte to leave.

It felt like everything was falling apart around Lizzy. The marriage brought back Mrs. Bennet’s resentments against Lizzy, and it looked as though she was actually close to disinheriting her daughter. Not only that, but Jane was falling deeper into depression. She spoke when asked a question, ate at meals, filled her time with mending or embroidery, but there was never any effort in it. Mrs. Bennet took every opportunity to abuse Mr. Bingley now, not seeing how it only made Jane crumble further. She pleaded with her father to do something, to no avail. The best she got was a vague promise to send Jane to her aunt and uncle if Mrs. Bennet got too bad. They differed on what too bad meant.
***

Caroline Bingley was utterly smug with herself. She had found Charles’ letter to that chit Jane Bennet, and had burned it. It was one of her finer moments, second only to the day when she finally secured Darcy’s hand. Now if only Charles would stop moping about it! How was she ever to find a match for him, if he didn’t make the effort to look presentable? He was spending more time at his bloody practice than socializing! She kept telling him to ask for an invitation to Pemberley for Christmas, but he refused each time.

If only she could find a way to put him in the way of Georgiana! They would make a good match indeed, and then Darcy would see it was only logical to marry her! Keep everything in the family, of course. She couldn’t wait to be mistress of Pemberley. There were things she wanted to change, starting with the master himself, of course. She smiled to herself, already plotting her dominion.
***

Charles knew, vaguely, that he was in a depression. He also knew it was Jane’s fault, but he refused to blame her for anything. It was better to say that it was because of Jane, but it was entirely his fault. He was the one that had fallen in love with her. He was the one that had lost her forever. So he worked, taking on patients, treating them, and avoiding his sister. He took to sleeping at the clinic. Food was dull to him, speech meaningless. Some of his regulars noticed, and tried to help him. He was beyond help. Only an angel could help him now, and she wasn’t writing to him.

He had received a few notes from Darcy, saying how well Georgiana was getting on, and that Darcy was better than he ever been. Charles was genuinely happy for the siblings, but it was hard to maintain it for long. They didn’t need him. He had helped once, but clearly he was supercilious now. He sent back a single letter, offering his congratulations and little more. Darcy knew winter was his busy time at the clinic, and wouldn’t think anything of it.

He would get over her, eventually, he thought. He hoped. He prayed. How did one survive the touch of an angel, when the angel left him?

He was no longer around Darcy, and so he had little reason to keep track of the moon. However, it was impossible to miss the bright waxing gibbous moon the night the boy knocked on his door. The boy was tall and thin, no more than fourteen years of age. His eyes were bright with a fevered intensity. His sunken, dirty cheeks spoke of recent deprivation, and yet his voice was smooth and educated when he asked, “Pardon me doctor, but do you have any wolfsbane, or know an apothecary where I might obtain a dram?” He held himself was a feral energy that Charles recognized instantly.

He stared at the moon, not looking at the youth. Not again, he pleaded, and then cursed at the silvery orb. Just four days until the full moon. He had so little time. “You’d better come in,” he said heavily. The boy hesitated, but eventually stepped inside. It was difficult to lure him into the cage in the basement. The boy screamed and pounded on the bars when Charles locked him in. There was nothing for it, though. Charles shut the basement door firmly against the noise, and then sat at his desk. He had a letter to write.
***

Darcy walked through the snow, checking on his tenants after the last heavy fall. It crunched and squeaked under his weight, and he cursed again that he could not ride a horse through this mess. He had made great strides in actually being able to be near one without sending it into a panic. It worked best when he was calm, and not hungry. It would still be a long time, if ever, before he was able to ride, though. At least he was able to drive a curricle now, if he was careful.

But a curricle would find the current weather too difficult to pass, and so he was stuck traveling on foot. The tenants were fine, their houses snug and warm against the snow. Now to return to his own snug and warm home. The moon, only two days from full, tugged at him, but both he and his wolf were too eager to get out of the snow to listen to its call.

He followed the longer path by road, avoiding the deep snow that covered the direct route through the fields. Pemberley came into sight, and he sped his pace happily. His breath steamed in the air, but he was not cold. Winter was a great time to be a werewolf. His constitution protected him from illness, and unless he got soaked to the skin, he was never cold. Ahead, he saw Georgiana standing at the side door he used, well bundled against the chill.

What was she doing out? They had taken to wandering the grounds of Pemberley together, but it was too cold and snowy for that! He broke into a run, covering the ground in great leaps. Was something wrong? When he got closer, he saw that she was not worried, and sudden mischief lit his soul. His wolf sniggered as well. Darcy sped toward his sister, at the last moment skidding to a halt in a such a way to kick up snow over her.

She squealed and batted at the snow. “Fitzwilliam!” she protested, but was laughing. He panted from the run, waiting for her to explain why she was out there. She petted his head, brushing snow off his fur. His coat was so well insulated that flakes didn’t even melt when they landed on him. “You got a letter from Mr. Bingley,” she informed him. “It’s marked urgent. I hope everything is alright with him?”

He gave a wolfish shrug, one that involved the whole body rather than just the shoulders. He moved a distance away from her, then shook himself vigorously to leave as much snow as possible outside. Georgiana stepped inside first, under his stern eye, and then he followed. She shut the door behind him, but did not immediately begin removing her outerwear. She must have been waiting for him a while, to have gotten cold. He hoped she hadn’t caught a chill.

“I told Mrs. Reynolds to put it in your study,” she said when he cocked his head at her. “She’s also sending up a warm tea. May I visit in a little while?”

He dipped his muzzle in agreement, and padded down the hallway. She knew to give him enough time to change and dress, but her curiosity over the letter was obvious. They walked side by side until they reached her room. He left wet paw prints, despite his effort to shake off before entering the house.

Servants that saw them smiled kindly at Georgiana, and some even touched his head or back in greeting. They were quite used to seeing Georgiana with her “dog,” named after the brother who had given said dog to her. He did not like to think where he had gotten that idea from. The upper servants all knew the truth, and followed the cover for all the others. After Georgiana had left, a bootboy, in the latter category, stopped and offered him a biscuit. He sniffed politely but declined. It amused him that the biscuit was probably purloined from them tea Mrs. Reynolds had sent to his study.

In his study, he stood in front of the fire and shed his fur for skin. He had taken to concealing a change of clothing in every room of the house he frequented often, and now he availed himself of them. He sat at his desk and sipped hot tea with a happy sigh. Life was so much better than it had been before. With a little magic and a little woodwork, he had rigged every door in Pemberley to open to his wolf form. He was locked out of nowhere in his home. Mrs. Reynolds knew, of course, as her own magic was such that she knew if a splinter was out of place in her domain. She had seen the worst of him, and had not forsaken him then or now.

Best of all, he had a sister that no longer feared him, in either of his forms. She still was not the carefree child she had been before Ramsgate, but nor was she the broken girl from when he left. They had both grown and changed, and their reunion was all the sweeter for it. He looked at the letter from Charles and broke the seal. His contentment did not last beyond the reading of it. It was incredibly short, and yet strange.

Darcy—

I need you in London. I know you have dinner engagements in just a few days, but if at all possible do not wait for them. It is of utmost importance that you get here before then. I cannot stress how vital it is. Please come.

—Charles

There was a soft knock on the door. He almost missed it, but his wolf was quick to point it out to him. His wolf absolutely cherished Georgiana, and didn’t mind playing the role of her dog. “Come in,” he called absently. His sister entered, and took a seat across from his desk.

“Is Mr. Bingley well?” she asked quickly. The man was like another brother to her, cemented by the way he had stood between Darcy’s wolf and herself during his first disastrous change. He wondered if she was partial to his friend, but she had given no indication in that direction. He might have thought she was hiding it from him, but his wolf was quick to assure him that her feelings were completely platonic toward Charles. It appeared that his wolf shared some of his sister’s talent, though thankfully not as strong. Having one sensitive empath in the house was difficult enough.

“I don’t know, what do you make of this?” he asked, passing her the letter.

She read it, frowning. “That doesn’t seem like him,” she said doubtfully. “Do you think he’s in trouble?”

“I think it’s entirely like him,” he responded with a brief smile. “He is rather impulsive. He would invite me over someplace at a drop of a hat, and scrawl a note to send as an urgent message.”

“But?” Georgiana asked, reading his doubt.

“He’s not usually this urgent about it. He usually says something like, ‘old chap, you’ve got to get here. Please say you’ll get here as soon as possible.’ ”

“But not this time. He seems worried about something. He knows it’s almost the full moon, but he wants you in London at that time?” She gasped suddenly, and her alarm made his wolf growl silently. “You don’t think it’s a trap, do you? Someone found him out, and is holding him hostage to expose you?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, if that were the case, Charles would have no problem saying as much in a note. I would know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I think… I’ll be traveling to London,” he said slowly.

“But with a carriage, in this weather, it will take days to get there!”

“I may travel on my own, and have the carriage follow later,” he said, and their eyes met in understanding. Georgiana stood and came around his desk to hug him.

“Be safe, brother,” she said. “Invite Mr. Bingley for Christmas. Only…”

He chuckled. “Not his sisters?”

“Fitzwilliam! You won’t say anything, will you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to, princess.”

“I don’t,” she said firmly. “When will you leave?”

“First light, I think. The sooner I get there, the sooner I see what ails him. Hopefully it is something minor, and I can come back as soon as may be. Will you be alright?”

She nodded, with more confidence than she had shown when he first arrived. His wolf rumbled his approval at her, and her face pinked as she felt both of feelings toward her. It was harder for her to make out the wolf’s emotions, and with his training as a mage he was able to block her when he wished to, but at that moment both halves of him wanted her to know how proud they were of her. Knowing that not just her brother but his wolf also had a great affection and pride in her had helped her immensely.

She left his study, and he went to his rooms to begin packing. He would take nothing with him to London, not even clothes, and hoped Charles would have something for him to wear when he got there. It wasn’t like a wolf could carry a set of clothes in his mouth to London, after all.
***

Lizzy missed Charlotte. Jane was finally in London with the Gardiners, and she found herself quite by herself. It was too cold to spend a lot of time outdoors, and she was going stir crazy being locked inside. Her mother still had not forgiven her, and it was nearly as cold inside the house as it was outside. She missed her friend, missed having someone sensible to talk to. She still could not imagine a life with Mr. Collins, but perhaps Charlotte’s steady influence was good for him.

After a particularly hard day, Lizzy sat down at last to write a letter to her friend.
***

There was a whine and a scratch at the door. Charles stood quickly and opened the door. Darcy, in his wolf form, shouldered his way into the room. Charles stifled a sudden gulp. He had forgotten just how big Darcy was as a wolf. He hadn’t been expecting him so soon, but it was just as well. Tomorrow was the first night of the full moon, and Charles didn’t know what else to do with the teenage werewolf in his basement.

There was something different about Darcy, he thought. Before he had time to figure it out, Darcy gently bit the corner of his sleeve and tugged. Charles stared for a moment, and then said, “Oh! You don’t have clothes with you, do you? I used to have some here, but…” he shrugged, his heart contracting in pain. He had been avoiding his townhouse. His sisters were entirely too sympathetic to his loss, as they tried to introduce him to yet another young lady that couldn’t hold a candle to an angel’s beauty, and he didn’t want more reminders.

Darcy growled softly. He looked up in surprise. Darcy’s eyes stared at him, and Charles had the sudden impression that he knew everything. To his surprise, his face was wet with tears. He brushed them away brusquely. “I’m fine,” he insisted. Darcy stood and leaned hard against him. He staggered against the weight. He had the feeling he had just been hugged by a werewolf. Feeling slightly better, he stepped out to send for a change of clothes for Darcy.

There was nothing to do but sit there and study Darcy. He sat in a corner of the room, making an effort to be out of the way. He was… calmer than he had been, Charles realized. There had always been an air of repressed violence around him before, like the boy downstairs. Now Darcy looked as easy as a dog. Charles felt more than ever that he had done the right thing for the youth. It was either call Darcy, or call Miss Elizabeth, and he couldn’t bring himself to court more pain from that direction…

“This boy came a few days ago, asking for wolfsbane,” Charles spoke, since Darcy couldn’t. “He’s got to be a werewolf. He won’t tell me his name or anything, but I couldn’t let him go. I don’t know what you can do for him, if anything, but it’s got to be better than nothing.”

Darcy’s nose dipped and rose in what looked suspiciously like a nod. How much Darcy had changed! Charles suddenly realized that he must have run all the way from Pemberley! He should have been exhausted. For that matter, he had been able to travel through the heart of London without fear of losing control and hurting someone. The Darcy he had last seen had been better, but not that good. He found himself smiling. It hurt a little from disuse, but felt good.

“How’s Georgiana?”

The corners of Darcy’s mouth lifted in a canine smile, and his tail thumped noisily on the cabinets behind him.

“That’s good,” he said with real feeling. At least someone was happy. Darcy tilted his head to the side, giving Charles pointed look. Damn, it was unnerving how expressive Darcy could be now. He was certainly not the mute wolf he had been before. He looked away.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said miserably. Darcy rose to his feet, but at that moment there was another knock at his door, and he opened it to accept a valise from a messenger. He tipped the man, and turned back to Darcy. The werewolf gained human form and dressed quickly. The borrowed clothes did not fit well on him, but at least he was not stark naked.

“Charles,” Darcy said at once, clasping him on the shoulder. “You don’t look so good. What’s going on?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” he repeated, not able to meet Darcy’s eyes. He wished Darcy would drop his hand, but he didn’t move.

After a moment he said, “I guess Miss Bennet—”

Charles hit him. He hauled back and slugged Darcy in the mouth as hard as possible. Darcy’s head rocked back, and his hand tightened on his shoulder, but otherwise did not react.

“I could have stopped that, you know,” Darcy said quietly.

He shrugged. “Don’t care.”

Darcy sighed. “You’re hurting, Charles. I’m sorry.” He moved away then, opening cupboards until he found a towel to mop up the blood from his mouth. Charles got the impression that not only could Darcy have stopped him, but he wasn’t particularly angry about the blow either. Before the man would have laid him flat on the ground for it. The wolf wouldn’t have allowed such a challenge to stand.

His hand ached, but not as much as his heart. Darcy turned back to him, the bleeding stopped. “Let’s see your werewolf, then,” he said calmly, as though nothing had happened.
***

Lizzy was surprised to get a reply so fast. Her first unfriendly thought was that Charlotte must be truly desperate with only Mr. Collins and Catherine de Bourgh for company. In the next moment she chided herself for her uncharitable reaction. She was just grateful Charlotte had sent a response. She opened the letter and read eagerly. The letter was a bit awkward, not their usual interaction, but it was a start in the right direction.

She got out a pen and paper, and began her own reply. In the end, it was more important to have Charlotte’s friendship than to begrudge her choices.
***

Charles would never forget the first full moon with Alain. He had thought at first Darcy might kill the young werewolf. The very first night, Darcy’s great wolf had descended on the smaller, rangy wolf and all but shredded him. Darcy took him by the throat, clenching until Alain stopped moving. Only then did Darcy back away. Charles was nearly sobbing by then, thinking it had been a huge mistake to introduce the two of them.

And then Alain had risen, looked around, and slunk into the corner. There was no blood on him, no permanent wounds at all. There were other confrontations, both that night and the two nights to come, but each time Darcy only held on until Alain submitted to him. By the end of the full moon, Alain was not in control of himself, but at least his wolf would hesitate before blindly launching himself with rage.

Through it all, Darcy never lost control. Charles was impressed by it, and even more by what he found when he came into the basement the morning after the full moon. Darcy and Alain, sitting in the cage and talking quietly. Darcy had introduced himself formally, and was offering advice to the young man.

Darcy stayed in London for a couple more days, spending most of his time with Alain, and then returned to Pemberley to be with his sister. However, he was back again in a week for more instructions. Alain stayed with Charles, but Darcy set up a fund to account for Alain’s board and care. Far from just teaching him how to be a werewolf, Darcy also gave him school lessons, and as he became less of a danger to the public, a tutor.

There was no doubt that the presence of an older, stronger werewolf was calming to the young lad. More than that, Alain came to respect Darcy, and even Charles. As the travel took its toll on Darcy, and Alain’s wolf began to calm into rationality, Darcy opted to take Alain to Pemberley for a week at a time. He began to teach the lad how to become a wolf outside the full moon.

The first time, Charles declined the invitation. Darcy gave him a piercing look, and let him be. The next time, Darcy protested, and Charles found out that he hadn’t been lying when he said he was strong enough to put up with whatever Charles or fledging werewolves could throw at him. Thereafter, he always came to Pemberley. The Darcys adopted him, the same as they had adopted Alain.

He was not the same person he was before. He would never forget the angel he’d briefly seen. He would never recover from her touch. He still didn’t know why she had left him, but he could not stop pining for her. He didn’t smile like before, didn’t feel as free as he had been. Yet life went on, and somehow he survived it.
***

The winter wore on, and Lizzy exchanged letters regularly with both her sister and Charlotte. Jane seemed happy, taking care of their young cousins on Gracechurch street, and yet her letters were always lacking in something. She spoke of generalities, of the adventures of her wards, but never of her feelings, or the pain she still felt. Charlotte’s letters on the other hand spoke of many things, from her feelings to the day to day dealings of the parishioners on the living. However, she never spoke about her husband, and hardly mentioned Catherine de Bourgh.

The cold winter weather broke, and springtime came back to the world. Lizzy felt refreshed. Everything was growing around her, their green strength singing to her. Her kitten Murray became lively. He could not hear, and yet that did not affect him in any other way. When she wanted him, she only had to gesture with her magic, and he came running toward her. Of course, that meant he never responded to anyone else in the household. He was a favorite of hers alone, but she didn’t mind that.

As the weather grew warmer, and travel became more possible, she received an invitation to visit Charlotte in Hunsford. She was startled by it at first, and then accepted the invitation with alacrity. A change would be good for her, and she was looking forward to seeing her friend in person. If Charlotte was telling the truth in her letters, if she truly was as happy as she sounded, then Lizzy could be happy for her. It still was not the choice she would ever make, but Charlotte was her own person.

So it was decided, in the last week of March she would travel to Hunsford.
***

Darcy laid on his back on the grassy knoll, staring up at the bright blue sky without seeing it. His hands were clasped behind his head. Georgiana laid next to him. He was supposed to be cloud watching with his sister and enjoying the warm sunlight, but his mind was on Richard’s letter from that morning. A cousin of that Collins man, visiting the parson’s wife. It could only be one of the Bennets. The question was, which one?

He only vaguely remembered Charlotte Lucas from his time in Hertfordshire. He thought the two oldest Bennet girls were the ones closest to her, but which one was more likely? Was it the oldest, Miss Bennet? The one that had caused his friend so much pain and misery? He had tried to warn Charles before, but Charles had been insistent that he was wrong. Now he wished he truly had been mistaken. He’d rather see Charles happily married to an inferior girl—in connections only, as Miss Bennet’s manners had always been impeccable—than in his current wretchedness.

There was nothing to be done for it now. Charles had been heartbroken before, but never to this extent. Even his wolf was somewhat worried over him, though they had very different ideas about what to do about it. Darcy was all for giving Charles time, and keeping an eye on him in case he did something stupid. His wolf was more in favor of rounding up the interested parties and throwing them in a pit together until they worked out their differences. Ever direct, his wolf was.

But what if it wasn’t Miss Bennet at Hunsford? What if it was Elizabeth? He hadn’t seen her in roughly four months, and yet the thought of her was still enough to cause his wolf to take notice. He had gotten his news several stages removed. His aunt Catherine de Bourgh had written a letter to Lady Fitzwilliam, complaining about the impertinent girl staying with her parson. Somehow Richard had gotten hold of that letter, and had written to him, both making fun of their aunt’s imperiousness and slyly suggesting that they go rescue the lady in general.

Or rather, Richard would rescue her, while Darcy provided distraction for their aunt. It wasn’t his fault that Aunt Catherine practically ignored Richard in favor of Darcy, but it always worked out to Richard’s advantage. Darcy had never minded, too much, until he thought the girl in need of rescuing might be Elizabeth. Then his wolf growled warningly. Richard knew he was a werewolf, but the last time his cousin had seen him, he had still been sick and young. Should Richard cause a confrontation, then he would see just how much Darcy had grown since that summer…

Not that Richard was likely to cause a confrontation. Richard was always the one urging him to be more outgoing. If he genuinely had an interest in another person, especially a woman, then Richard was quite likely to step aside for him. He hoped. Or his cousin would realize just how many advantages a werewolf had over him. He forced the thought of conflict from his head. After all this time, the one thing that got him stirred up every time was still Elizabeth.

“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana asked. “You seem distracted today.”

His lips curved upward as his wolf turned indulgent. “Nothing to worry about, princess. Just received a letter today.”

“Nothing bad has happened? Is it Mr. Bingley?” she asked anxiously. That was one habit he hadn’t been able to break her of, always assuming the worst.

“No, nothing bad. And not from Charles. From Richard.”

“Cousin Richard? How does he do? Is his injury very bad again? Are they sending him out again?”

His wolf gave a grumbling admonishment that caused her to stop talking. He chuckled. “Nothing bad, I told you. No, it appears that our least favorite aunt has a visitor, and Richard wishes to come to the rescue.”

He couldn’t see her face, but her tone conveyed her wrinkled nose perfectly. “I don’t have to come, do I? Aunt Catherine is too… mean.”

“No, you don’t my dear. Richard only wants me there as a stalking horse for Aunt Catherine.”

“But you want to go,” she said shrewdly. “Who is visiting Aunt Catherine?” Sometimes it was hard to hide things from an empath.

“Not Aunt Catherine exactly, but her parson’s wife. You know he married someone from Hertfordshire, where I was last year. Someone from there is visiting, and of course our aunt must interfere.” Was it Elizabeth? As little as he wanted to admit it, if he had confirmation of her presence he’d probably be off at that moment. The thought of Elizabeth subjected to his aunt made both parts of him bristle.

Georgiana was silent for a moment. He should have realized it meant she was thinking seriously. Instead he was lost in a daydream about Elizabeth. How would it be to see her again? He wanted to see her, not just his wolf. Had she missed him? Thought about him? Would she have that white kitten with her still? Would she be impressed with the progress he had made? Would she be as proud of Alain as he was? Would she realize that he couldn’t have done any of it without her early influence?

“Is she the young woman you keep thinking about?” Georgiana asked suddenly.

He choked. “What are you talking about?” he sputtered. “You’re an empath, not a mind reader!”

She smiled, but refused to be distracted. “Ever since you came back, you’ve been thinking about a young woman you met there. You’ve been missing her, even if you don’t know it. If it really is the same woman, you should go.”

“How do you know she’s a young woman?” He sat up so he could see his sister’s face. She colored slightly, and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“People react differently when they’re thinking about other people, depending on how old or young their subjects, and male or female, and a bunch of things,” she shrugged.

“And?” he prompted dangerously, suspicious of where this topic was heading.

“And, well, you feel differently about young, unmarried women than you do about old married ones, or men of any age. It’s really subtle, but once I recognized it, it became quite obvious. And there’s only been one person you’ve been thinking of from there, because you always feel the same when you’re distracted like that.”

“Georgiana!” he exclaimed, pronouncing her name slowly. “I don’t want to hear any more of this! And stop snooping in my mind.”

“Not your mind,” she sniffed. “Your emotions. And it’s hard not to. You were thinking of her just now.”

He growled under his breath. Georgiana reading his emotions as he thought about Elizabeth, or anyone else for that matter. Now that was scary. He knew he was difficult to read, especially when he made an effort. But if she ever came into contact with another rake, that surge of greed and lust would strike her hard. No wonder Wickham had found it so easy to take advantage of her.

“Now you’re feeling guilty,” she whispered. “I wish you would stop it.”

His wolf agreed with her. He didn’t wish to forget, but he was only willing to recall it as it gave him rage in case the blackguard was ever under his claws again. He had grown even stronger since taking Alain under his wing. Wickham would realize he had a few more tricks under his fur.

“That’s anger. That’s not any better,” Georgiana said, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her knees with a shiver. His wolf took control, abruptly shoving Elizabeth’s image in front of his eyes. Yet it wasn’t just a picture of her, but also her scent, her voice, the feel of her hands and magic, the taste of hope and triumph she had given him. He smiled without realizing it, entirely lost in recollection.

Georgiana tilted her head to the side, wolf-like. “Who is she?” she asked curiously.

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Someone I met. She helped me. I was pretty lost, you know, but she has a kind of magic that helped me find myself.” He was afraid of what else his sister might be picking up from him, and made an effort to screen his emotions. She cocked her head in the other direction, watching him closely.

“I think you really need to go,” she said with young wisdom. “You never thanked her, did you? I can tell. Only, what about Alain?”

“Alain can stay with Charles,” he said. “If I need to, I’ll return to London for the full moon.” He frowned, thinking of his young charge. The boy wasn’t quite ready to change on his own during the full moon, especially if he was going to have to be caged for it. Both their wolves hated it, but there was too much risk in him getting loose in the dense population of London.

“So you will go?” she asked eagerly, clasping her hands in front of her. “It’s almost worth seeing Aunt Catherine to see her! What’s her name? What’s she like? Will I get to meet her?”

“I don’t even know if it’s her at Rosings Park!” he protested with a laugh that he hoped covered the nervous beating of his heart. But it was. The youngest Bennets hadn’t been particular friends of Miss Lucas, and Miss Bennet was hardly someone even his aunt could label impertinent. No, even if Richard’s report was only half exaggerated, it was definitely Elizabeth. Lovely Elizabeth.

“Her name,” he said slowly, “is Miss Elizabeth Bennet. And that is all you’re going to get, young lady!”
They laughed together, as he stood and pulled his sister to her feet.
***]]> Autumn D Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 19 May 2013 08:08:50 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97341,97341#msg-97341 Jane and the Vanishing Valet 15 16 epilogue (8 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97341,97341#msg-97341Chapter 15

Dinner was a meal filled with speculation; Barbara and Catherine joined the company, and it may be said that Catherine was overjoyed that her uncle might yet make a full recovery so that the promised ball might yet occur.

“Even if he will not fund a season for me, at least I might have the experience of dancing with people to whom I am not related,” she said, tossing her head.

“Catherine, I thought you prided yourself on your sensibility?” said Persis.

“I am the very soul of sensibility!” declared Catherine.

“Well, don’t you find a want of sensibility in dwelling on pleasures rather than even the most passing sympathy regarding poor Uncle George?” said Persis, sweetly. Catherine flushed.

“It is not the same thing at all!” she said. “Miss Bates and Mrs Armitage have assured us that he is going to be quite recovered before long. Has that murdering valet been apprehended yet?” she asked with an artistic shudder.

“Not yet, Miss Waynefleet,” said Caleb.

“Your brother Thomas is of the opinion that he may have trod in the footsteps of others,” said Araminta, “in order to get to the village. I am not perfectly sure why he should do so, for if he is claiming to be some lost heir, then he would surely wish to remain to collect his inheritance; and if he is not, then he would have no reason to take papers from the safe. It is all a matter of complete contradiction, and I am not satisfied that this is what happened, and that it is not one of your brothers playing a practical joke that has gone horribly wrong.”

Catherine gave a little scream.

“You are wicked to say so!” she cried.

“No, none of us thought of it, alas,” said Nicholas. “Catherine, do act your age! Anyone would think we were the sort of nasty little prigs who never cut up a lark to hear your studied outrage! But Mrs Armitage has seen Braintree and is certain that none of us were him, Cousin Araminta, so I fear you theory is sadly out!”

Araminta glanced at Jane, who nodded.

“It looks as though Braintree has indeed left the house,” Jane said. Her eyes held Araminta’s for a moment.

“Oh,” said Araminta, realising that Jane did not want that line of enquiry pursued.

“I don’t really understand, if that man is at large, why are you not out there pursuing him, Mr Armitage?” demanded Barbara.

“And could you suggest where I might pursue him, Mrs Waynefleet?” asked Caleb.

“I don’t know; it is your job, surely, to pursue him wherever he is gone!” said Barbara.

“Mr Armitage has no idea of what direction Braintree might have taken, if once he won to the village; and how should he?” said Samuel Waynfleet, with heavy patience. “I believe he spoke of pursuing enquiries regarding the missing jewellery; you should help by describing it, in case Phoebe has forgotten any of the pieces.”

“I doubt Phoebe could describe any jewellery that does not feature as horse furniture,” said Barbara, spitefully.

“A thorough description is always useful,” said Caleb, equably, “I have of course taken steps to send the brief description with which Mr de Saumerez was able to furnish me to appropriate quarters. Any man selling jewellery that he cannot prove a provenance for is like to be suspect in any jewellers shop. He must either risk that, or take a fraction of its value from a fence.”

“A fence? What has a garden feature to do with it?” asked Barbara.

“Your pardon, ma’am; it is the term used for a man who deals in stolen goods, himself obviously a crook, who will pay a small fee to thieves for what they bring, knowing how to arrange to have stones reset, or how to carry such things out of the country, so he may profit from their lack of such knowledge and contacts,” said Caleb.

“I should think that if a gentleman turned fence he would be a dangerous criminal,” said Charles, forgetting to be filled with fashionable ennui.

“Aye, lad; and indeed the first case which Jane and I worked together involved such a man – who was not just involved in fencing, but was a highwayman too, despite being a knight of the realm. He fooled my dear wife’s first husband into working for him, by the expedient of coercion, and caused him to write out documents as if for Lloyds of London, for insurance purpose, of the spurious new pieces put together by mixing the stones from several stolen geegaws. He was known as Sparkler Jack,” he added.

Charles flushed in admiration.

“You are the runner who caught Sparkler Jack? Why, sir, I read all about it, and I am honoured! Just wait until the chaps at school hear that I’ve met you, why they will be green with envy!” he said.

Caleb chuckled.

“It might have ended up with me taking another ball from his too-ready pistol had not Jane shouted to look out, it was Sparkler Jack, when he did not know that she and I had divined his identity – the shock was enough to make him freeze.”

“Did you shoot him?” asked Charles, eagerly.

“No, I threw him down the stairs, carrying with him his jewel-cutting partner who was right behind him, and into the arms of my men,” said Caleb. “He might have died if I’d shot him and I wanted him to hang for the trouble he had caused Jane, widowing and frightening her.”

“I recall being more angry than frightened, most of the time,” said Jane, mildly. “I did not have much time to be truly fearful.”

“But then, Jane-girl, you’re a woman in a million,” said Caleb.

“Quite like a gothic novel,” said Catherine with a little sniff.

“Not at all like a gothic novel,” said Charles, “For the women in them are generally fairly useless creatures, a bit like you, Cat, and not Trojans like Mrs Armitage!”

Jane hid a smile. Apparently the youngest Waynefleet boy was at a susceptible age, and was ready to admire her for not being at all what his sister would consider womanly.

“I’d like to know how either of you know what a gothic novel might be like,” said Samuel Waynefleet with some show of severity. Catherine tossed her head.

“Why, papa, everyone reads them!” she said.

“One of our chaps purloined some from his sisters’ governesses,” said Charles, “And I hope that Cat doesn’t read anything like The Monk for that is quite unsuitable for ladies!”

“Not to mention tedious,” said Phoebe. “Yes, I’ve read it, to see what all the fuss was about; a waste of time. I salute Mrs Armitage, who is a resourceful woman, and, as you say, Charles, not in the least like the vacuous and vapid creations of the Gothic novel, with stupid names like Monimia and a tendency to faint at any time it would cause their idiotic heroes the most inconvenience.”

“I usually only faint when there is time to do so after the worst is over,” agreed Jane. “And only the once, I have to say!”

“Oh, but my dear Jane, you must not forget that you were in an interesting condition at the time too!” said Miss Bates.

This was enough to revolt the younger males of the company enough that they were happy to turn the subject and address themselves to the viands set before them without further encomiums on Jane’s disposition. Jane might have preferred that her Aunt Hetty had not presented the table with such a conversation stopper, but was not, in other ways, displeased to divert the conversation. Having a youthful admirer was disconcerting!

The adults returned to the subject of Braintree and discussed, fruitlessly, where he might have gone, and whether he might have been the offspring of the major’s father, with Barbara firmly declaring that their revered parent would not have behaved in such a way.

“You can’t know that, Babs, so do stop making yourself sound foolish,” said Phoebe. “You were coming out and I was in the schoolroom and I doubt either of us would have noticed. Papa came from an entirely different age; they were dashed loose in the haft in his young days, and if he was once a loose screw, I don’t suppose age cured that.”

Barbara was left spluttering in outrage at that frank, and not very proper speech from her sister, leaving Helene and Daphne the opportunity to filch the plate of meringues from right under her nose and share them dextrously between themselves and with Simmy, and with due consideration, Araminta.

“Do you think this fellow is truly related to the family, Armitage?” asked Samuel Waynefleet.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much question of it,” said Caleb. “The matter of looks, and what was taken, and the manner in which things were done show clearly that he was a member of the family. The degree of relation might not be entirely as you surmise however; and that remains to be seen.”

“Will you be able to find him, though?” asked Waynefleet.

“When the snow goes, all paths will be clear,” said Caleb, cryptically.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Barbara.

“Oh, only that in due course, if he wants to make use of what he took, there are only so many options left open to the fellow,” said Caleb. “Well, de Saumerez, a game of chess before bed?” he suggested. “I’d as soon not linger over the port.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Roger de Saumerez. “You play a reckless, but quite brilliant game.”

“I like winning,” said Caleb, “but at least in a game, I can enjoy the play as much as the overall result.”

“Which is why your reckless play often pays off,” said de Saumerez.

The proposed skating being postponed while the major still lay insensate, Helene suggested a game of lottery tickets to the other youngsters, and though it was plain Charles was tempted to decline, he unbent to amuse the youngsters, as he put it, and was soon as diverted as the rest bidding for fish.

Jane and Miss Bates retired quietly at the same time as the children, and Jane took her pistol with her to keep vigil with the major.


Chapter 16

“Davenport? Davenport, is that you? my head!” cried the major, as Jane entered the room.

“No sir, it is I, Mrs Armitage, Davenport is resting, he has been sitting with you,” said Jane. “I am glad that you have regained your senses, though I fear that if you have retained your memory of the events that led to your wounding, you must feel very bitter.”

“Dear G-d!” cried the major. “Is it indeed so that I recall such?”

“I fear so, sir,” said Jane. “Though we – my husband and I – hope to avert a scandal in one way or another. Indeed, supposing you likely to remain comatose overnight, my presence here is a part of a plot to make your would-be killer reveal himself.”

“You think he meant to kill me?” demanded the major, wincing.

“Every indication suggests it, I’m afraid,” said Jane, regretfully. “I fear there is every chance that he will come to your room tonight to finish you off before you regain consciousness and tell what you know.”

“I recall us having a conversation when we first met, Mrs Armitage, to the effect that I hoped that the last of the bad blood had died with my brother,” said Major Coate, bitterly. “It would appear that my hopes were not fulfilled. Indeed, I confess when I spoke, I had the thread of fear that all was not right when he had been known to have jealous rages in his youth. I had hoped he had grown out of it; though I planned to scotch any plans he might take it into his head to make, to marry Araminta as a way out of my making a will partially in her favour. He appears to have taken the other expedient,” he added dryly. “Mrs Armitage, I feel as weak as a kitten and as sick as a cat. Can you, of your goodness, hold some water for me to sip? And then, if you are equal to this, and your husband expected, I fear I will fall asleep at you.”

“Major Coate, I consider you the strongest of men to have managed so much speech,” said Jane, slipping a capable arm under the sick man’s shoulder to raise him to drink.

“Hmm, stubbornness, not strength,” he managed. “So, how have my sisters dealt with me being laid low?”

Jane laughed.

“Oh, Barbara suffered spasms, which I cannot but suspect were caused by the disappointment to Catherine if she should not have a ball; and Phoebe came close to coming quite apart in fear for you. She is, however, of sterner stuff than that and was instrumental in the initial work that preserved your life.”

“She’s a good girl, is Phoebe,” murmured the major, his eyes closing and his speech slurring as sleep began to claim him. “A good sister,” he managed to add.

Jane smiled demurely.

“And in her idiom, let the arms of Morpheus receive you in healing sleep,” she said.




Caleb and Fowler came in shortly after that, and Jane apprised them in a low voice of her conversation with the major.

“Well, Jane-girl, I don’t deny it makes it easier to know that the poor fellow already knows the score,” said Caleb. “You stay well back now: I’m expecting things to happen about an hour after the last person retires to bed.”

“That would make sense,” said Jane, “to allow everyone to be in their first and deepest sleep. Dear me, in a way I hope he does not make such a move; very unpleasant for the major.”

“More unpleasant for him if cully has bubbled our lay, and don’t take the bait,” said Caleb, lapsing into cant. “Then he can try again at more leisure.”

“I think he’s too arrogant to refuse the bait,” said Jane.

“Ho, yes!” agreed Fowler. “He has the ego of Boney if you ask me.”

“I’d have said personally that it stemmed from feeling as though he had not measured up, so he had to make grand gestures to show off, myself,” said Caleb, mildly.

“Comes to the same thing,” said Fowler.




The wait was as tedious as such always may be; Jane found herself starting at small noises at first, whether caused by others of the company going to bed, servants leaving their masters and mistresses for their own domains after undressing them, creaks on the stairs as the house settled, and the startling noise and unpleasant smell from a small fall of soot in the chimney, doubtless loosened by snow penetrating the pot and melting in the heat of the chimney. Fowler grunted and would have taken up the poker to riddle through the soot had not Caleb laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“The chamber next to this is unoccupied,” he said, softly, “and if our man waits in there, he will hear any noise in this grate through into his.”

Fowler nodded and resumed his waiting position.

Jane felt almost as though she could scream to relieve what was both boredom and sheer unrelieved tension. Doubtless soldiers felt like this as they waited to go into battle, waited for the first shot to be fired or orders given that released them from the waiting that was like being a wound spring in a timepiece.

And then the door opened softly, and a figure slipped inside.

Jane and Caleb had discussed what means might be tried to kill the major; and Caleb had opined that something as crude as shooting or stabbing would be eschewed, in an effort to make the death appear natural, and to therefore lay the blame on Jane and Miss Bates for an inaccurate assessment of the Major’s chances. It was unlikely that there might be poison readily available to put in the major’s water jug, for it was not a season in which to kill wasps, which was generally the most readily available poison that anyone not acquainted with chemistry might know; and Caleb was lugubriously satisfied that it was his suggestion of simple suffocation that was to be used, the dark shadow placing a pillow over the major’s sleeping face.

Caleb unshuttered the dark lantern he had with him.

“Not a good idea, Captain Coate,” he said.

Vernon Coate whirled round, and Jane deftly twitched the pillow away.

“DAMN you!” cried the Captain.

“More than likely,” said Caleb, genially. “You won’t be the first to wish that upon me, and I doubt you’ll be the last. Petty, ain’t it, to kill your father to stop him adopting Araminta so you have to share what is, after all, a sizeable estate?”

“It should all be MINE!” cried Vernon Coate. “How dare he adopt a cripple brat who is never going to amount to anything? Haven’t I given up the chance of a career in the regular army to keep the family name safe?”

“No, I think you used that as a fine excuse,” said Caleb. “I don’t think you had the stones to face battle, but that’s just my opinion.”

The Major’s voice came weakly from the bed.

“He has always felt that he did not care for a career in the regular army, and he has never accepted that to me, it did not matter, so long as he did not choose to do something he could not fulfil or that he would shirk his duty over. I had rather he had a distinguished career in the militia, who have their necessary place, than that he place himself in a position where he might disgrace himself for not being able to deal with the realities of war. It is not given to every man to do so, and I feel no censure in any man who cannot do what I have found no hardship.”

“Well said, sir, and a better attitude than many a military parent; and one I applaud,” said Caleb, “and therefore, I fear, I despise the more the man who could not appreciate his fine and unusual parent.”

Vernon Coate bared his teeth like an animal at bay.

“You cannot prove I was not just inept in laying a pillow to help my father breathe,” he said, “What makes you think I was in league with my valet, Braintree, who is the real villain in this piece?”
Caleb reached over and ripped off the false moustache.

“Because you are Braintree, the real villain in this piece,” he declared. “You quarrelled with your valet and dismissed him on the barest excuse, so that you could set up the identity of a man who never existed. Your habit of fondling that excrescence you fondly call a moustache gave you away, though Jane at first mistook your reaching for a growth which was not there for a man with the sniffles who poked at his runny nose. It was a gesture that she recognised ultimately for what it really was. You have set out to murder your father and lay the blame on a man who has never had any existence in reality. You gave yourself away as well in the fact that Braintree was never in the servants’ hall when the gentlemen were gathered together, not to mention his general ineptitude. You are revealed for what you truly are, a common murderer.”

“My father will not wish another scandal after that wretched girl’s father has plunged the family into opprobrium!” declared Vernon Coate. “You dare not act!”

Caleb shrugged.

“I would prefer not to see you stand in the dock,” he said, “especially since attempted murder is not counted as the same as actual murder, so the inept villain is favoured.”

“How dare you call me inept!” thundered Vernon Coate.

“Because you are, you toy soldier,” said Caleb.

“By G-d, sir, you’ll meet me for that!” cried Coate.

“At your service,” said Caleb. “I thought you’d never get there without a few really deadly insults.”

“Caleb!” cried Jane. Caleb shrugged.

“One way to save Araminta’s family any more shame,” he said. “I, after all, have done my target practice on Frenchmen. I could think of no better way out without it coming to trial, and I must needs take my chances that the family will prefer it thus and would not press a charge of illegal duelling.”

“A moment,” said the weak voice of the major. Weak it might be, but it still had the power to penetrate the conversation and dominate the room.

“Sir?” said Caleb.

“Might I offer my son a choice – for by his face he had just realised that you purpose to kill him?” said the major.

Caleb bowed.

“If you have a better solution, I pray you, sir, outline it. I have no wish to undertake a fight that would be like fishing in a barrel,” he said.

“I think that my son is overcome by a desire to do some real soldiering in India, and would like to join a regiment serving there,” said the Major, and there was steel in the weakened voice. “I think he will pack ready to leave tomorrow with that in mind, and that perhaps you will take my letter of recommendation to the colonel of the 47th Foot.”

“Father!” cried Vernon Coate.

“I would rather not see my only son die,” said Major Coate, “in the army overseas, you will have every chance to distinguish yourself and maybe overcome this pettiness that makes you behave in this foolish and jealous way. Which will it be?”

Vernon Coate scowled, thwarted at every turn.

“I will join the 47th Foot,” he muttered, sullenly.

“Good,” said the major. “I thank you, Captain Armitage, for being prepared to take that onto yourself, and I quite see that you preferred not to trust my son’s word that he would never undertake such an act again. I fear that if you had done so, I must have advised you not to believe his word, for I do not, any longer, have any trust in him. You will escort him to town to undertake the necessary arrangements and purchases?”

“I will, if Lieutenant Thomas Waynefleet will bear me company,” said Caleb, grimly.

“I am sure he will be ready to do so,” said the Major. “Now I pray you all leave me; I am fatigued.”

Caleb almost manhandled Vernon Coate out of the door.

“Don’t even think of doing it,” he said roughly.

Coate stared at him in horror.

“Are you the devil incarnate that you know my thoughts?” he cried.

Caleb laughed.

“If it makes you more comfortable to think so,” he said. “I can read what you are thinking as though you spoke.”

The last bubble of arrogance broke in Vernon Coate at that point, and he sobbed like a child; and Fowler and Caleb took him firmly to his room.


Epilogue

Jane was left to explain the night’s events after Caleb had roused Thomas Waynefleet betimes, and the three men had set off in the Major’s carriage for London.

Roger de Saumerez nodded.

“I was right, then,” he said in some grim satisfaction. “I feared that there was no other explanation. I hope that a spell in India may do Vernon some good, but I fear that it will not.”

“I expect he’ll quarrel with some other officer and end up killed in a duel,” said Nicholas. “I can’t say I’d grieve.”

“You mean he demeaned himself to pose as a servant?” cried Barbara. “How could he?”

“By shaving off his moustache and assuming a wig as a disguise, with livery so that none noticed his face,” said Jane, deciding to take that foolish rhetorical question literally. “He had at stake the whole inheritance of his father’s estate; he took the will in a hurry in case it was a new one, or in case there was a legal codicil with regards to Araminta, and he took the jewellery to make it look like a simple robbery on the part of man who had inveigled himself into the house as a servant. Doubtless he planned to pretend to pay someone for having ‘found’ the jewellery at a later date. It was the death of his father and the removal of any will that were his main purpose; for a man who dies intestate will leave his son as the automatic legatee. It did not matter if the will were not found, even if the Major had not yet altered it. As we know, Mr de Saumerez has the codicil in his possession, as yet unsigned, but Vernon Coate did not know this. And he was prepared to go to any length to prevent Araminta having even part of the estate.”

“Oh, that is horrible!” cried Araminta. “Do you mean that if Uncle George had not wished to undo the evil my father did, by mending the rift in the family, that Cousin Vernon would not have tried to kill him?”

“I wouldn’t bet on Vernon not having found some other reason to take offence and try to kill George, my dear,” said Phoebe, giving Araminta a brusque hug. “If you ask me, he’s as wicked and loose in the hilts as ever your father was. I’d advise you not to marry any of your cousins, it might start it all up again with another generation,” she added.

“I certainly would not want that,” said Araminta. “Thank you, Aunt Phoebe. I would hate to be the cause of something so horrible.”

“You ain’t the cause, just the push that got the ball rolling this time,” said James Waynefleet. “And if it hadn’t been you, like Aunt Phoebe says, it might have been something else.”

“Well, it’s most uncomfortable all round,” said Catherine, “and if Uncle George is still an invalid, when Mr Armitage and Tom return it means we shall sit down thirteen to dinner, which will be most inauspicious!”

“You’re a goose, Catherine,” said Persis. “Not only are you ridiculous to be so superstitious, but you have forgotten Simon, Helene and Daphne, who bring the numbers to sixteen.”

“They scarcely count!” whined Catherine.

Simmy exchanged looks with the girls, and three young voices chanted,

“One – two – three…..”

“Brats,” said Phoebe, cheerfully. “Mrs Armitage, can you assuage Catherine’s fears with regard to a ball?”

“Indeed, yes,” said Jane, “For Major Coate has decreed that the lake should be tested, and if the ice holds, impromptu invitations are to be sent out for this very evening.”

Catherine gave a little shriek.

“Why it is already almost noon, I must get ready!” she cried.

“Well that’s her out of the way,” said Persis. “Come Minty; you and I do not need so much time to prepare, let us take a turn outside to watch the preparations.”

Jane watched Araminta walk out, arm in arm with her cousin, the limp scarcely troubling her in her strengthening boot, and she smiled.

Araminta would do very well now, with real family and with self confidence too.


Thanks all for staying with it, I've a mind to do some short stories to go with this while they're still at this house party, and involving the Major's neighbours. Oh, and I DO have further romance in mind for Aunt Hetty...]]> Sarah Waldock Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 18 May 2013 17:44:34 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97304,97304#msg-97304 A Man of No Consequence - Chapter Ten (33 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97304,97304#msg-97304Thank you for all your lovely comments on last week's chapter. I read them all and enjoyed your discussion, but I didn't have time to reply because I was busy trying to get this finished so I could keep to my schedule. I know I promised the story would be done in ten chapters, but my stories never quite seem to work out as I expect them to. The last chapter will be definitely be chapter twelve.




Chapter Ten



There had been occasions during Elizabeth’s life when she had wished to become invisible, to melt into the ground like the last snows of winter. But she had never wanted it more than in the complete stillness that followed her father’s words. She had hoped for his support, but instead he had chosen the cruellest moment in which to censure her.

Her eyes instinctively darted across the table, only to see Mr. Darcy’s noble features turn to stone. Unwilling to watch his regard for her crumble before her eyes, her gaze sank to the table as she stared at the napkin wrung between her hands. Fortunately, Mr Bingley chose that moment to divert attention by revealing his future plans for Netherfield, which left only those closest listening to her reply.

She reached for her wine and swallowed a mouthful, hoping to wash away the lump that had formed in her throat. Replacing the glass with a shaky hand, she said, “I…I think it was Mr. Sutton who first told me there was a new steward at Netherfield.” Although she directed the reply to her father, she knew Mr. Darcy would be listening with no less interest. “When I went to the house to see about the blocked stream I asked particularly to speak to the steward, and the young footman took me to what looked like the steward’s rooms. That was where I first met Mr. Darcy.”

As she recalled the circumstances of their first meeting, her nerves calmed and she continued with tolerable composure. “As no one took the trouble to inform me that there was, as yet, no steward at Netherfield, I believed the gentleman I had met in that room was the steward. What else should I have thought?” She threw her question across the table as a challenge, but Elizabeth made the error of glancing at Mr. Darcy’s face as she spoke, and her fledgling defiance withered under his steady gaze.

His response, when it came, had a cold edge to it. “I was not informed that you had asked particularly for the steward. Had I realised you were labouring under such a misapprehension, you can be certain I would have enlightened you.”

“How should I have known you were not who I expected when you never said anything to contradict it?”

“To a clear-sighted, intelligent young woman such as yourself, I would think it was obvious.”

Her father offered his own peculiar form of conciliation. “While neither of you has been entirely candid during your conversations, it seems we can lay some of the blame at the feet of an inexperienced footman.”

At this point, Mrs Bennet’s attention once more swung to their end of the table as she caught the tail-end of her husband’s sentence. “Oh, I agree. Hiring new servants is always such a trial, particularly when you are setting up a new household. I do not know what I would do without Mrs Hill.”

Mr. Bennet made no effort to correct his wife’s misunderstanding, and for that small mercy Elizabeth was grateful. The end of the meal soon followed, and Mrs Bennet reluctantly ushered her daughters out of the dining room, allowing the gentlemen to enjoy their after-dinner drinks free of feminine conversation.

Elizabeth’s relief at being released from Mr. Darcy’s accusing glare was short lived once her mother had settled herself on the settee. “Lizzy, what on earth caused you to tell everyone Mr. Darcy was a steward? Why would you do such a thing?”

Repeating the story of their first meeting for her mother’s benefit, she dwelt upon the state of the dingy office while laying particular stress on her first impressions of his appearance.

“Well, perhaps the boy should have introduced you both in a proper manner, and what your father was doing sending you to Netherfield alone is more than I will attempt to guess. But Lizzy, you ought to know better. A speck of dust on his coat does not turn a gentleman into a steward, and you cannot go around telling people things that are untrue. I’ve never been so embarrassed!”

Freed from the weight of Mr. Darcy’s presence, Elizabeth’s courage rose. “Then my memory must be at fault because I do not recall sharing those first impressions with anyone outside my own family. I can and do blame myself for many things, but I met no one beyond these walls who had not already heard about Mr. Darcy from someone else.” She left the accusation hanging in the air, but Mrs Bennet’s silence was as much an admission of guilt as she would ever get.

Jane laid a comforting hand on her arm. “Although it was wrong to describe him thus without being absolutely certain, I do not think Lizzy can be entirely to blame. I met Mr. Darcy myself in Meryton and I had no apprehension of his status. It is easy now, with the benefit of hindsight, for us to say he is obviously a gentleman, but even some tradesmen have the means to dress in a gentleman-like fashion, just as men of fortune can choose to be less than precise with their appearance. It is not so easy to determine one from the other upon first glance, without a little knowledge of his position or social standing.”

Elizabeth, who had met Mr. Darcy considerably more often than anyone else, could not understand how she had missed the obvious clues. The only excuse she could offer was that she had seen in him no more or less than she expected to see. Indeed, her strong partiality for him had allowed her to look beyond his outward appearance and his hastily tied neck cloth, to the man himself—the man she had fallen in love with.

Mrs Bennet straightened her shawl. “Mr. Bingley did not, of course, reveal his friend’s income, but there is no doubt Mr. Darcy‘s fortune must equal that of his friend. This is what grieves me so. Here are two young men of wealth in our neighbourhood, and Lizzy does nothing but insult them.”

“Mr. Bingley seemed more entertained than insulted by the confusion,” Jane said. “He told me he had never seen such an expression on his friend’s face before.”

Mrs Bennet rolled her eyes. “Young men these days find entertainment in the strangest of places. But I cannot deny that, in every other respect, I am quite delighted with our new neighbour. He is so excessively handsome. Do you not think so, Jane?” Although her eldest daughter made no comment, the heightened colour of her cheeks showed that Mr. Bingley’s charms had not been lost on her.

“Mr. Darcy did not see the humour in it,” Mary observed. “I cannot imagine that he will want to dance with Lizzy at the assembly now”

Her mother’s head shot up. “Mr. Darcy asked you to dance?”

Elizabeth sighed, wishing that Mary’s memory of their conversation had been less precise. “He did, but that was before he learned of my foolishness. I cannot imagine he desires to be the focus of the neighbourhood now.” His avowed love for her could never survive such a blow as he had sustained this evening. Yet, the thought of never seeing Mr. Darcy again—of having no opportunity to apologise or chance to gain his forgiveness—left her bitterly grieving the loss of his regard.

“Well at least Mr. Bingley and his other guests will be there. I knew he would only have to meet Jane to admire her. You did promise to stand up with him when he asked, did you not, Jane?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“I have no expectation of Mr. Darcy forgiving Lizzy,” their mother continued after a brief lull in the conversation, “but that doesn’t mean to say he is a lost cause. He might prefer Lydia once he gets to know her.” The youngest Bennet daughter made an indelicate sound in the back of her throat. “It does not matter what you think of him. If Jane becomes mistress of Netherfield then Mr. Darcy is just the sort of man you could marry, once he has time to forget this unfortunate incident.”

Lydia’s eyes grew wide. “Lord, no! He was so serious and angry looking. I would rather have Mr. Bingley.”

“That you shall not, for I am quite decided he shall marry Jane,” her mother said. “After watching them tonight I am certain he is half in love with her already.”

“Then let Kitty make herself agreeable to Mr. Darcy, for she is two years older and she was sat next to him through dinner.”

“He hardly spoke a word to me all evening. He spent more time talking to Papa than anyone else. Why cannot Lizzy marry him?”

Despite her stated intentions, Mrs Bennet had not the pliability of mind to drive two horses at once. While focussing her energies on encouraging Mr. Bingley’s interest in her eldest daughter, she had no reserves to divert towards the less amiable and talkative enigma that was Mr. Darcy. “You would have just as much chance with Mr. Darcy as anyone. Indeed, more chance than some,” she added, casting a glance in Elizabeth’s direction. “But I cannot think about Mr. Darcy now. He is a fish we will be at greater liberty to catch once we have Mr. Bingley safely in the net.”

They were distracted by the arrival of the tea tray. The maid laid everything out and withdrew at Mrs Bennet’s urging. “Jane, you should sit here and offer Mr. Bingley a cup when he comes in. Sit straight, chin up, and don’t forget to smile. The gentlemen cannot be much longer, and I want you ready.

Jane began arranging the cups. “Where are all the spoons? I only have one.”

Mrs Bennet offered a long-suffering sigh. “Why does it always take so long to train new servants? Ring the bell, Kitty.”

Elizabeth, dreading the sight of Mr. Darcy’s forbidding countenance when he returned to the drawing room, grasped the opportunity to escape. “No, let me fetch them. It will not take a moment.”

Before her mother could object, she slipped from the room into the dimly lit hallway.



~~*~~*~~



When the ladies left, Bingley picked up his glass as he moved closer to their host. “You have given my neighbours a very strange impression of yourself, Darcy. It seems Mrs Nichols was not the only one who believed you were the steward.”

“I never thought him so,” Mr. Bennet said. When Darcy raised a sceptical brow, the older man added, “Well, not once I had made your acquaintance at least.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stretched his legs before him. “Can I interest either of you gentlemen in some very fine port?”

Darcy nudged his glass forward, watching in silence as the servant filled it. Then he drained the contents in one go, determined to erase the worst memories of the evening in as short a time as possible.

Mr. Bennet shook his head. “Come now, Mr. Darcy, Oporto’s finest needs to dwell a moment on your palate to fully appreciate its charms.”

“After this evening’s revelations, I would rather appreciate the oblivion it can provide,” Darcy replied, with a great deal more truth than diplomacy.

Bingley reacted with half-laughing alarm. “Things are not so bad. It was an understandable mistake to make.”

“Understandable? It is one thing to be mistaken for a…a servant. That is bad enough. It is something entirely different for it to be heard and believed by everyone in the parish.” And worse still when the source was the woman he loved.

“That was an unfortunate side effect,” Mr. Bennet said as he refilled Darcy’s glass. “Elizabeth only needed to tell her mother. That alone would be sufficient to ensure its dissemination across the entire county.”

Bingley slapped his hand down on the table. “If you are determined to fault Miss Elizabeth Bennet, then you must also blame me. I should have told Mrs Nicholls who you were before I left for London, but it did not occur to me to do so.”

“Consider it a lesson learned. The upper servants cannot read minds and will appreciate you taking a moment to apprise them of your plans.” He sighed, wondering how different things could have been if Bingley had been more communicative. “In this particular case your housekeeper’s foreknowledge would have countered Miss Bennet‘s imperfect perception of me.”

“I still wonder how such confusion could have arisen in the first place,” Bingley said to Mr. Bennet. “There’s no mistaking the Master of Pemberley when his will is crossed. Indeed, I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places—his own house especially—and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do. Had your daughter met my friend at those times she would have recognised him at once for what he is.”

But Elizabeth had never seen that side of him. He had never considered her presence dull or boring, nor felt as though she was flattering or fawning over him. At no time had he needed to depress her pretensions with a look or a curt word. It had not been the Master of Pemberley riding across fields hoping for a glimpse of her, but Fitzwilliam Darcy; a man who, for the first time in his life, had found someone who offered no undue deference, only pleasant, unaffected company and intelligent conversation.

He had discovered a woman who had aroused all manner of emotions within him, not least his sincere appreciation and love. Despite everything that had been revealed, he could not douse the fire that burned for her, and he still wanted her for his own.

Mr. Bennet smiled at Bingley. “I have met the Mr. Darcy you describe. He visited me this morning, in fact. However, I believe he has not made himself known to my daughter.” Their host cast a considering glance towards Darcy. “I must proffer my sincere apologies for the embarrassment she has caused you. I had thought her too clever to make such a basic error in judgement.”

It seemed to Darcy that Mr. Bennet was content to lay the blame on his daughter’s shoulders. “You are too harsh, Sir. Miss Elizabeth remains one of the most intelligent and capable young ladies of my acquaintance.” As his resentment subsided, Darcy recognised how unjust a part Mr. Bennet had taken in the scene that had played out over dinner. “You could have avoided most of this evening’s unpleasantness, if you had been of a mind.”

He did not seem surprised by the accusation. “Do you think so? What would you have done if I had revealed all upon your arrival in the privacy of my room? I doubt you would be sitting here with me now.”

Darcy considered the question. While he had been angry upon discovering what everyone thought of him, his greatest disappointment had, at first, been reserved for Elizabeth. Would he have remained at Longbourn? Or might the thought of seeing her again at that moment have been more than he could stomach? In that respect, Mr. Bennet’s observation held some truth. He could not have faced dinner with the Bennet family if he had known their assumptions in advance.

Elizabeth’s pale, nervous face floated before him like an insubstantial ghost as he recalled her description of their first meeting. Could all this have grown from one simple misunderstanding? It was true that he had never specifically discussed his house or his fortune. He had been far too interested to learn more about her. He had spoken in general terms of Derbyshire, but a description of the house and estate had never passed his lips. How was she to know what manner of property he owned if he had never bothered to tell her?

She had refused his offer because she thought him a poor man, and not because she had no feelings for him. Seen from that perspective he could not argue with her decision. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had not been raised to wed a steward, and regardless of her own inclinations, she had honoured her parents by refusing a match she believed they would condemn.

As Elizabeth now knew the truth, would that change her answer?

“Darcy?” Bingley’s voice startled him from his thoughts as his friend waved a hand to attract his attention. “Mr. Bennet wishes to know if you will be attending the assembly tomorrow evening or whether you will cry off.”

His first reaction was a strong desire to avoid the curious glances of the neighbourhood, but he knew he could never miss such a valuable opportunity to spend time with Elizabeth.

“Of course,” Mr. Bennet added, “if you do decide to go to the assembly, Elizabeth cannot expect you to stand up with her under the circumstances.”

The thought of her partnering anyone else had a sobering effect, and Darcy pushed his glass away. “She has promised me a dance, and I hope she will honour that agreement.”

“You will find many eager ladies at the assembly tomorrow evening, Mr. Darcy. I do not wish you to feel in any way obligated to Elizabeth.”

He heard the words Mr. Bennet had not spoken, and knew the conversation had now moved beyond dancing. “I am not as capricious as you imagine, Sir, nor so easily deflected from my decisions once made.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, but seemed relieved. “I am sure Elizabeth will be happy to hear it.”

At this point their host rose from his chair to escort them back to the drawing room. As they opened the door, Elizabeth left the parlour. Seeing the gentlemen approaching, she froze. Her father—with a speed that belied his infirmity—ushered Bingley into his book room, where he promised sight of a fascinating Treatise on Human Nature.

The door snapped closed, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth alone.

As their eyes met across the empty hallway, Elizabeth broke the silence, speaking in a low voice so as not to arouse attention. “Mr. Darcy, I must take this opportunity to apologise. I could not let you leave tonight without acknowledging how mortified I feel.”

The tremor in her voice almost broke his heart, and he forced his lips into a reassuring smile. “Which mistake would that be? Assuming I was a steward? Rejecting my proposal? Forcing me to seek your father’s approval?” Darcy could not decide which had eviscerated his pride the most, but it had taken a severe battering over the last couple of days.

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “All of those things, But you must know I never intended to embarrass you.”

He could not be angry with her, not when he loved her so much. Darcy crossed the space in two strides, and raised her chin with the tip of his finger until she met his eyes. “You and I have a great deal to say to one another, but we cannot speak here. Will you meet me tomorrow?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “I would not blame you if you refused to speak to me again.”

“On the contrary, I would like to put matters straight so there are no more misunderstandings between us. To begin, you must allow me to introduce myself properly. Fitzwilliam Darcy, your humble servant.” He offered her a low bow that would not have been out of place at court.

Elizabeth’s eyes had already regained some of their usual light. “I might argue with humble, but that was a definite improvement on your first attempt at Netherfield, when I thought I would have to drag your name out of you.”

He caught up her fingers, holding them tight. “You did not catch me in the best of moods that day we met.”

“Are you always so taciturn when in a bad mood?”

“It has been known,” he said with a shrug. Just then they heard the tenor of Mrs Bennet’s voice in the room beyond, querulously wondering where Lizzy had got to, and Darcy knew this stolen moment would not last much longer. “Meet me in the morning by the old barn,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “I cannot. You know the assembly is tomorrow.”

“Then it will have to be early.”

Mrs Bennet’s voice rose in volume as she repeated her query. “Where is that girl? How long can it take to fetch spoons? And why she offered to go I don’t know. What does she think we have servants for?”

Darcy heard Mr. Bennet’s voice grow louder, and it seemed as though he and Bingley would return soon. He had no time to lose. “I will wait by the barn an hour after dawn. If you do not come I will know your sentiments remain unchanged and will trouble you no further.” He turned away, expecting the library door to open any moment, but he paused as Elizabeth’s fingers wrapped around his arm in a firm hold.

Her eyes locked with his. “I promise I will be there, Mr. Darcy.”

He peeled her hand away, bringing it to his lips. “And I will hold you to that promise, Miss Bennet.”



.]]> Heather F Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 18 May 2013 14:43:33 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97272,97272#msg-97272 Fitzwilliam Darcy: A Man in Want of a Wife, Chapter 42 (8 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97272,97272#msg-97272
MK Baxley


Chapter 42





11 May, 1812
Monday

Darcy stood at the window of his bedchamber, gazing out at the courtyard below with his hands linked behind his back, twisting his signet ring as he thought about his life. The last two weeks since the Duke’s wedding had been full. The Viceroy had returned to India shortly after the wedding, and Beau and Millie were honeymooning in Naples. Upon their return, they, along with Lord and Lady Brockton, would travel to Pemberley for a late summer party he had planned for Georgiana’s seventeenth birthday. It was an event Darcy was very much looking forward to. The fine pianoforte he had ordered as a gift for his sister was to be delivered in July, and one of the two portraits he had commissioned to be painted in honour of her birthday would be hung in the family gallery before the arrival of his guests. He took a deep breath and sighed as he watched the traffic come and go on Grosvenor Street.

Darcy was slowly regaining his health and strength as he began to live again. He managed to keep his days filled with activities, and endless social engagements filled his nights. During the day he was at his club with his friends, laughing and eating and drinking. Then, in the afternoons, he either boxed with Lord Brockton at Gentleman Jackson’s or fenced at Angelo’s Fencing Academy conveniently located next door. Boxing and fencing were the only activities he really enjoyed, and between the two, his strength and vitality had gradually begun to return.

Then in the evenings, he and Georgiana would attend the theatre, a private dinner, or an opera. They were kept quite busy with the social events of the late Season. Rarely was there an evening when some activity was not planned. His only discontent was late at night when he was almost always lonely. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how exhausted he was, he could not keep his thoughts from returning to her.

At night, while he sipped a brandy before bed in the quiet of his chamber, he would stare off into the expanse of his sitting room and think of her words—words that were now painfully inscribed on the very essence of his soul. Then, when he lay down to sleep, he dreamed of her.

Darcy shook his head and sighed as he glanced over to Sam. “I’ve grieved enough, ol’ boy. What’s done is done. All that I can do is move forward and become a better man for it, and that I shall do. God help me, I will! Come, Sam, let us go,” he said as he turned to leave his chamber to begin yet another day.

Smiling, he quickly progressed down the stairs with Sam at his heels and stepped onto the landing. With quick steps he made his way into the foyer to retrieve his hat, coat, cane, and gloves. He was very much looking forward to his morning’s fencing lesson with his recently acquired friend, Lord Brockton. Since their first meeting the night of the Duke’s engagement party and subsequent encounter at the wedding and wedding breakfast the following day, Darcy had discovered that the former colonel was indeed a man of high character. And furthermore, he was well skilled with a sword, just as Colonel Fitzwilliam had said.

After much talk, the Baron had agreed to become Darcy’s sparring partner in both boxing and fencing. They met twice weekly at Angelo’s Fencing Academy. Usually they met on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but this week, they were meeting on Monday. Their appointment was to be at ten o’clock, and then they would meet again at Gentleman Jackson’s establishment for their afternoon boxing appointment, which was almost always on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Just as Darcy was about to leave, a footman approached. “Excuse me, sir. The post has just come.”

“Thank you, Jennings,” he said, taking two letters from the man’s hand.

Turning them over to read the address, Darcy smiled. …Ah, a letter from Bingley. I should have recognized it immediately from the blotted address. The other was from Lady Catherine’s overseer.

Breaking the seal on Bingley’s post first, he scanned the contents. Bingley had returned and wished to see Darcy in the afternoon, requesting that they meet at White’s at four o’clock. Darcy glanced at the clock in the foyer. He had just enough time for his fencing match with Lord Brockton before he needed to return home to bathe in order to arrive at the club at the appointed time.

He was as eager to see Bingley as it appeared Bingley was to see him. But, at the thought of seeing his friend, his chest tightened, reminding him of what he must do.

Once his guilt had been confessed, he knew Charles would resent him, and rightly he should. He very well could lose Bingley’s friendship for being the author of his misery this past winter. Yet Darcy knew the confession must be made, or he would have no peace. He must make right the wrongs he had caused no matter what the personal cost to himself might be.

“I have to tell him,” he said privately. “And yet I fear it. How can I admit to what I have done?” He sighed. “Even so…”

Suddenly his lips curled upward as he looked up from the letter. “I shall wait until we are at Pemberley for the summer. There I will confess my sins and then, if Bingley forgives me, I shall suggest we return to Hertfordshire for a sporting party. Yes! That is what I shall do. Then perhaps I can show Elizabeth that her reproofs have been attended to, and maybe I can obtain her forgiveness and hopefully lessen her ill opinion of me.”

Placing that letter aside, he broke the seal on the second. It was a summation from Mr. Snelling of Rosings’ estate affairs. Reading over the detailed progress report of the spring planting, he nodded, well pleased in what he read. Everything was proceeding according to plan. The tenant farmers were happy, and so was his aunt. Morale had not been this high in years. The report was very pleasing, but the last lines were the most pleasing of all. The Chaneys are doing well and send their salutations, but most of all, little Sarah sends her love. Darcy laughed aloud, drawing the attention of a nearby footman.

Regaining his composure, he quickly turned and left for his study to pen a quick reply to Bingley. Returning, he handed it to the footman and said, “See that this is delivered to the Hurst residence at No. 14 Grosvenor Street. And see to it with haste. Make sure it is placed in the hands of Mr. Bingley himself and no one else. It is of great importance.”

“Yes, sir,” said the footman with a bow. “I shall carry it myself. It is but two doors down and across the street. Not very far at all.”

“Yes. That is correct. And see to it that Sam is led to the kitchen for Mr. Harrison. Now, if I do not hurry, I shall be late for my appointment.”

Darcy grabbed his coat, hat, cane, and gloves and left for the day.

~*~


Drenched with sweat from the vigorous exercise, Darcy and Lord Brockton danced across the smooth floor of Angelo’s Fencing Academy with ease, each in deep concentration. They parried and attacked, lunged and feinted, thrusting with small, skilful, and seemingly effortless, motions. One attacked while the other defended until their actions were reversed, and the other gentleman took the advantage. Sheer strength and power poured from both men as they sparred, trading blow for blow and thrust for thrust. It was clear to see that Lord Brockton had a passion for the fighting art, one that Darcy was beginning to acquire for himself as he fought with his highly skilled partner.

Henry Angelo stood by calling moves and instructing as the blades clashed with the sound of powerful blows.

“Watch his blade, My Lord. Parry forth, Mr. Darcy, lest your opponent seize the advantage. Yes, very good, gentlemen—very good. Touché! Acknowledged, gentlemen! Very good indeed! Now, let us rest,” he said as he called the competition to a close. “You have both outdone yourselves today. With each match, you improve. In all the years I have taught I have only seen a handful of men as skilled with a blade as each of you. Very few have ever united such agility with so much power. Soon you shall be the masters.”

“I thank you, sir,” Darcy said as he struggled to recover his breath while wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand.

Lord Brockton nodded in agreement as he, too, tried to catch his breath.

“Indeed, the honour is mine to have such pupils. I have sympathy for the man who would ever face either of you in a duel. He would find himself at a sad disadvantage. Your attacks are swift and your parade so close that it is nearly impossible for one of you to touch the other. Excellent fighting! Excellent indeed! You are both exceptional with a foil. When shall I see you again?”

“Thursday,” Lord Brockton answered still trying to catch his breath. “Tomorrow I have business with my estate manager. We shall resume our regular schedule of Tuesday and Thursday at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Very good, gentlemen. Until Thursday then,” their master said with a bow. Glancing through the glass wall, he turned and quit the room for the front receiving area where his next appointment was waiting.

Looking at his opponent, Darcy said in between hard breaths, “This was by far the most stringent exercise I have had to date.” He smiled and reached for his partner’s hand. “Very good, Brockton. You are indeed a challenge, and I can say that my health is the better for it. My strength is returning, and I feel physically fit.”

“Indeed, Darcy,” the Baron answered. “Of all the men I have fought over the years, I believe you are the best of them. We could have used you in the army. Shall we meet at Gentleman Jackson’s as usual this afternoon?”

“No, I think not. My good friend Charles Bingley is back in town, and I don’t think I have the strength for another fight, anyway. I am meeting him at four o’clock at White’s. If you have no fixed plans, why not join us for a round of ale? Wex and Fitzwilliam will most likely be there and quite possibly Rand. You’ve missed the last three engagements, and I believe it is your turn to buy. I would especially like you to meet Bingley. He is new to society, and I am trying to introduce him to the upper classes. He has just recently returned from business in the North.”

Lord Brockton laughed. “Indeed! I would be glad to make a new acquaintance. Today I have no other plans. It will be good to see each of you for our afternoon gathering and catch up on the goings on. Therefore, I shall join you. I’d like to check the books to see who is wagering what. Wex’s attention to Lady Margaret has not gone unnoticed. They’re seen quite often in Hyde Park riding on the track or strolling in the gardens. They are the gossip of the ladies’ garden parties and teas. My mother has informed me of all the particulars.”

“Yes, they are keeping close company, and I am well pleased to see it. They leave for Warmouth Hall in a fortnight. I hope to hear they are betrothed by the time they return.”

“And that is what I want to see as well. She seems as fine a woman as any I’ve met, excluding my wife, that is,” he said with a smile.

“I shall see you at four,” Darcy said as they walked to the dressing room to change. Once they were dressed, they both took leave and left for home.

Turning in the direction of Grosvenor Street, Darcy took a deep breath as once again the old familiar hand grabbed his chest and tightened its grip. …how will I ever face Bingley…?

~*~


Arriving at White’s at a quarter to four in the afternoon, Darcy dismounted and handed the reins to the boy attending the horses. Reaching into his vest pocket, he drew out a coin and handed it to the lad with a smile. Darcy felt quite good today. The vigorous exercise and anticipation of being in company with good friends had made him feel better than he had in days.

The boy took the coin and looked up. “A half a crown, sir!” he cried. “Are you quite sure?”

“Yes,” Darcy replied. “Take good care of him, and I’ll have another for you when I leave.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Another, sir? What is his name?”

“Do you know something about horses, lad?”

“Aye, a little. I know that this one is a fine horse—as fine as I’ve ever seen.”

Darcy laughed. “His name is Calibus. He is a Thoroughbred Arabian.”

“Aye, sir, a drinker of the wind—a blood horse. I shall indeed take good care of him. Thank you very much, sir. The other lads say you are the best of patrons, and I now know it to be the truth.”

Darcy laughed again and clapped the boy on the shoulder as he turned to enter his club. “A fine boy with remarkable interests…much as was I when I was a lad,” he said to himself as he moved to the back where he and his friends usually met. When he came to the table reserved for them, a smiling Charles Bingley immediately rose from his seat.

“Darcy!” he said with a bow. “You do not know how glad I am to see you. How have you been?”

Darcy stopped and greeted his friend. “I’ve been as well as can be expected and probably better than I should. How have you been, Bingley? You look fit and well.”

Bingley sighed as they both took a seat. “Oh, I cannot complain,” he said. “Business is better than I expected. Mr. Wiggins is doing an exceptional job managing my professional affairs. The shipyard in Liverpool is doing quite well. Profits abound. On that alone, I should make about four thousand pounds, and, with the income of the cotton mills in Yorkshire and Lancashire, I should gather another two—possibly three—thousand. Therefore, I cannot complain. I have plenty of money and am in good health. The only thing I lack is…” Charles glanced away. Returning, he said, “Well, let us not talk of that.”

Darcy’s heart froze. He stared at his friend in commiseration, for he understood the sentiment quite well.

In a tone which had something of real regret, Bingley looked aside and finally added, “You know, I don’t know when I was ever happier than when I was at Netherfield last autumn. I think it must have been the best time of my life.” He sighed and glanced back to Darcy. “Tell me again why I left?”

“Bingley, I—”

“Darcy! Bingley!” Lord Wexford cried. “What a pleasant surprise! I didn’t realize you were back in Town. When did you arrive?”

Bingley rose to his feet and smiled. “Last night, at about a quarter of nine. I would have sent word round, but the trip was tiring, and all I could think of was a hot bath and a good supper. But here I am. How have you been?” He glanced at the Colonel who soon approached from behind. “Colonel Fitzwilliam! It is good to see you, as well.”

The Colonel cast a quick look at Darcy, but Darcy glanced away not wanting to meet his eyes. The Colonel then smiled and returned his attention to Bingley. “It is always good to see you, Bingley. I trust that your family is well.”

“Yes, I thank you, they are.”

While Bingley and his cousins bantered about, Darcy could not help but notice that after all these months his friend still bore that same melancholy expression from the winter. His shoulders slumped; there were dark circles under his eyes, and when he smiled, his smile did not reach his eyes. Bingley bore a certain sadness about him with which Darcy was now personally acquainted. He glanced at his friend and shook his head as he watched him.

Darcy took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes. Once more that familiar pressure in his chest returned with a vengeance, now crushing him in an almost unbearable pain. He looked up, fixed his eyes upon Bingley again, and considered what he saw.

His friend, in keeping with his cheerful manner, tried not to show the pain residing in his heart, but Darcy saw it, and it grieved him to see it—so much so that had his cousins not appeared, he would have asked for a private moment and confessed all, finally cleansing the guilt and anguish from his tortured conscience. But they had appeared, and so his confession would have to wait for another day. Perhaps it was best that it not happen in Town at all but rather at Pemberley as originally planned, where he had better control of the situation, and it would also give him more time to consider how his confession should be approached. One thing was certain: they must return to Netherfield. He would confess all, particularly that Miss Bennet had been in Town over the winter, and he had concealed it. He would then beg for his friend’s forgiveness. However, before he could consider it further, Randal Pennington and Lord Brockton approached the table.

Darcy rose to his feet. “Rand, Brockton! I’m pleased you could join us.”

Lord Brockton laughed. “Aye, I said I would come, and so I have. Where is the ale?”

“Waiting for you. It is your turn to buy.”

“And so it is. Here man,” he called out to a nearby server and pointed to the table. “Bring round two pitchers of ale and one of mead for my friends. And bring a platter of cold meats and cheese—some bread, too. Hurry man. These men are thirsty!”

Darcy laughed. “My Lord, I want you to meet a good friend of mine—the one I told you about this morning.” Darcy turned to Charles and said, “Lord Brockton, my good friend, Charles Bingley. He’s from the north of England. Bingley, Lord Edward Brockton from Kent—the man I told you about in my missive this morning. He’s lately married to Miss Kathryn Singleton—the Viceroy’s daughter we met last winter.”

Bingley rose to his feet and bowed. “I am pleased to meet you, My Lord, and congratulations on your marriage. I wish you much joy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I think we shall be very happy,” the Baron replied with a bow. “Darcy has told me much of you. I look forward to furthering the acquaintance. Perhaps you will be available for a dinner party my wife and I are giving tonight. Darcy and Miss Darcy are to be there. You may bring your sisters and Mr. Hurst as well. I believe they are acquaintances of my wife.”

“Yes, I would indeed enjoy your company, and I can speak for my sisters and Mr. Hurst. We have no fixed engagements,” Bingley replied. Glancing at Darcy, he continued. “My good friend here has told me of you as well.”

“All good, I hope.”

“Indeed. He says you are very skilled with a blade.”

Lord Brockton laughed again. “Iron sharpens iron. Darcy is equally good. I’ve never sparred with anyone better.”

Resuming their seats, the men joined in agreeable conversation, laughing and talking until the server returned with their food and drink.

To his great displeasure, Lord Wexford learned that he was indeed in the betting books of White’s. However, everyone else enjoyed a fine joke at the Viscount’s expense. The Colonel even teased him.

Pouring a round of drink, they raised their mugs. “Here’s to us all. May we eat, drink, and be merry,” Randal Pennington said with a laugh. “And may our wives give us healthy children: sons strong like mill posts and daughters as beautiful as English roses!”

“Aye,” replied Lord Brockton. “I will drink to that. To healthy sons and daughters! May your firstborn be an heir. And then let us have a round for our horses! May the be first on race day.”

They made merry, eating and drinking, laughing in boisterous banter, while enjoying the company of men. They were about to call for more ale when suddenly a man burst through the door and ran into the centre of the club.

“The prime minister has been shot! Mr. Perceval—he’s been shot and lies mortally wounded on a table in the House of Commons with a bullet to the chest.”

“Shot in the chest! Who shot him?” Lord Wexford cried, throwing down his serviette and rising to his feet along with Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“I do not know!” the man cried. “They say it was an American spy. They have him in custody, but nothing is clear. Confusion abounds! Mr. Perceval was on his way to attend the enquiry into the Orders in Council when a lone man stepped in front of him and shot him in the chest. The surgeon has been called for.”

“If this is true, then it means war with the Americans,” said Lord Brockton in an ominous tone as he, too, rose to his feet. “Those damned Yanks! May the devil take them!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, “And they shall get it! By God’s atonement they will!”

The three gentlemen turned and walked away.

“Where are you going?” Darcy asked.

“To the House of Commons,” answered Colonel Fitzwilliam over his shoulder.

Darcy, Pennington, and Bingley all exchanged a look and then rose to follow the others.



~*~*~*~
]]> MK Baxley Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 18 May 2013 01:56:20 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97157,97157#msg-97157 An Even Path: Chapter 5 (26 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97157,97157#msg-97157



"I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild." ~ from Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen, Volume 1, Chapter 8




Chapter 5






Elizabeth Bennet rolled to one side, peered over the edge of her bed, and searched for the man dozing on her floor. “We have to get up.”

“No...” the man grumbled.

“Yes. I have to work today. And you'll be late for your flight to China.”

“Elizabeth...”

“Hmm?” she said groggily, forcing herself to push her blankets back.

“It can't be sunrise yet...”

“I'm afraid it is.” Regretfully, she crawled from her bed. Mercy, she thought. There was a bitter chill in the air this morning. The cold seemed to greet her like a punch.

“It's not even midnight,” he protested, dragging his hands over his eyes.

“You're in the wrong time zone,” she reminded him gently. “You're back in Greenwich Mean Time now, remember? It's half past seven here.”

Her room was small on the best of days, with barely a yard between the bed and the dresser. Today, the boy on the floor occupied most of her free space. She stepped carefully around him, stumbling to her dresser.

“I wish you had taken the bed last night...”

“And left you with the floor? I'm not such a bastard as that, my lass.” The boy—man, really—opened his gray-green eyes. “Short on sleep yourself, lately?”

“No,” she said placidly, barely glancing in the mirror.

“No?”

“I'm perfectly fine.” She ran a brush through her black hair, then twisted it up in a haphazard bun.

“The picture of health.” Her brother pushed up to his elbows. “You're pale as a moon.”

She gave him a sleepy smile. Wasn't he one to talk? They'd inherited the same milk pale complexion, for all that they'd grown up a stone's throw from the sea.

“Show me a tan Irishman,” she reminded him.

“That's not what I meant...” he scowled.

She reached for the items he'd scattered about the room. A leather jacket. His captain's hat. A wallet with frayed seams. His passport, filled with pages and pages of ink.

“Been having your dizzy spells?” he pressed.

“Liam-”

“Or the odd fever?” Her brother stood, grabbing the armload of items from her hands.

“Liam,” she sighed. Empty of anything shielding her from her brother's critical gaze, she folded her arms instead. “Don't fuss. I feel fine. I'm fit as I ever can be.”

He said nothing. She said nothing.

“Elizabeth,” he grumbled at last. “My neck's as stiff as a log, and I've a fifteen hour flight ahead of me. This isn't the time to get stubborn on me.”

“I'm not trying to be. Just--trust me enough not to worry about me. Please?” She reached for him, resting a soft hand on his arm. “A shower will do you good. The bathroom is the second door on the left. And I'll make you breakfast?”

“You're a kind one..” he cracked a weary smile. “But tea and toast will do me. The bathroom, you said, is--”

“The second door,” she repeated. “On the left.”

The door was shut behind him, offering her the privacy to change.

It was wonderful having him here, even if it was just for half the span of half a day. Though she was a grown woman of twenty-three now, she still had her moments of homesickness. Especially around the holidays.

They were three weeks shy of Christmas. In Ballydeirc, villagers would be decking the pub halls and hanging garlands in the church. Her mother would be baking seedcake. Winter storms would be rolling in from the sea. But who could mind the rain or the cold, when both came with the scent of seasalt and water violets? The rain in London never seemed so fresh or pure.

Cold air brushed her skin as she fumbled to change. Her flannel pajamas were traded for jeans and a sweatshirt. Wool socks were tugged on. As the old saying went, one could take a girl out of the country more easily than they could take the country out of the girl.

Years ago, when she'd first left home to dance, her suitcase had been packed full of cotton shirts and lambswool jumpers and country dresses. She'd felt ten steps behind Dublin's fashion curve. Here, in glowing London, it would be more than a curve to catch up on. It was a chasm.

There was no sense in worrying about it, she supposed. She'd never blend in here, no matter what she did. Her hair would always be as black as a raven's wing. Her eyes would always be Gaeltacht-green. Her face would always be delicate, and distinctly Irish.

Easier to be just as I am, she thought as she turned away from her reflection, reaching for a necklace amongst the scattered mementos. Her ruby cross would be the only jewelry she'd wear today.

The kitchen was empty. Anne was always up and out the door for work before she woke. Emma, no one's idea of an early riser, wouldn't leave for work for hours yet.

Tea and toast, her brother had said. Elizabeth could manage both blindfolded. It seemed a wrong to let him wander out the door with little more than that in his stomach. Soon enough, she was slicing tomatoes and frying up sausage.

“Are those fried tomatoes, I smell?” a voice questioned from the hallway.

“They are. And sausage, too,” she grinned as Liam strode towards her. His pilot's uniform looked a touch worse for the wear after a night on the floor, but the shower had breathed new life into him. With his hair freshly washed, and his cheeks shaved clean, he looked respectable. Mostly.

“I said toast and tea,” he reminded her.

“Last night, you also said,” she pitched her voice lower in an effort to mimic his casually gruff delivery, “Nevermind the fuss with the couch, Eilis. I'll take the floor. And look where that got you?”

The tea kettle sang. She switched off the burner and opened the cupboard, reaching for a cup. “Earl Gray, or green?”

“You're choice, lassie.” He watched her work. “How's the ballet treating you?”

“Fine...”

“Fine?”

“Yes.”

“Fine enough that you've taken up a second job?”

“It's temporary,” she reminded him. “Besides, most of the corps girls have a part time job to make ends meet.”

“Mum says that you'll ruin your hands scrubbing floors as a maid...”

She laughed. “Tell her I say this isn't 1815..”

“Well, I say you're too good to play Cinderella to a bunch of rich toffs.”

She shrugged. She'd had two choices before her: waiting tables in a smoky, ale soaked pub, or passing her days cleaning flats for one of the poshest apartments in Kensington. No choice there, really, as far as she was concerned.

While Elizabeth dished up the food, Liam settled into a chair at the dinner table. She watched him notice the watercolor paintings on the walls. The cheery, ruby red poinsettias. The lacy tablecloth.

“Fine flat here,” he said. “Not the nicest part of town, but-”

“But it still doesn't pay for itself,” she smiled. Elizabeth had the steadiest hands among all five Bennet siblings. She balanced both plate and teacup on her palms, placing before him on the table. Black tea sloshed precariously, but didn't spill. “Careful with that teacup.”

“I'd better be, hadn't I?” He lifted a brow. The cup and saucer were the finest items in the flat, by far. They were a fine china set, accented with pale roses and rimmed with a thin stripe of gold. “Raided a treasure chest, have you?”

She shrugged. Her own tastes ran to far more practical, blue Ulster pottery, but she could admit to the prettiness of English bone china. “It belongs to one of my flatmates. Anne Elliot.”

He cradled the fragile teacup awkwardly. “And Miss Anne is what now, a runaway countess?”

“Baron's daughter, actually,” Elizabeth smiled, plopping in the chair beside him. Beside her, Liam snorted. Titles did very little to impress the Bennet clan. Particularly Liam. In fact, the grander the title, the lower his estimation was likely to be. “Liam, don't be unkind.”

“Great lot of good a title will get anyone...”

“I don't disagree,” she reminded him. “But Anne's not at all precious about her title, though. She works as a translator for the ambassador's office.”

“Well, then. That is a proper job.” He took a deep sip of his tea and set the cup down with a plonk. “And your other flatmate is what? A duchess?”

“No,” she laughed. “It's my old penpal. Emma Woodhouse?”

“Emma? The lass from America? Saw a picture of her once in one of her mailings. A wee girl from the mountains. Loads of pale red-blond hair.”

“Yes, that's her.” She reached for his plate, tearing his toast in half. “She'll be in London for the year, doing an internship for her degree.”

Her brother dug into the sausages. “In what?”

“Art conservation and restoration. Wickedly difficult, from the sound of it.” She tucked her feet beneath her with a shiver. Woolen socks or not, it was bitterly cold this morning and the flat's radiators were sluggish on the best of days. “The paintings you see hanging on the walls? They're all hers.”

“Are they, indeed?”

“Last I checked,” declared a calm Southern drawl behind them. “You must be Liam Bennet.”

“The one and only,” Liam confirmed, enjoying another scoop of sausage and tomatoes before turning to glance behind him. He choked.

Whatever Liam had expected an 'American girl from the mountains' to look like, Emma Woodhouse clearly wasn't it. But then again, with her red-gold hair, violet blue eyes, and a face fit for Helen of Troy, few people in this whole world looked like Emma Woodhouse.

“Morning, Emme,” Elizabeth greeted her. If only her other brothers were here. “You're up early.”

“No choice today. I have a meeting with my adviser.” Emma studied Liam. “Is he okay?”

“Fine,” Liam wheezed. “I'm fine. And you're--you're--”

“Emma,” Emma prompted for him. “Elizabeth's old penpal?”

“The wee mountain lass,” Liam repeated, incredulous. “Right.”

“Well. I'm sorry you can't stay a few days. It'd be nice to know one of Elizabeth's brothers.” Emma smiled benignly for him, before turning her attention to Elizabeth. “Guess who you'll finally get to meet at the end of the week?”

“Your friend, George the Great?” Elizabeth grinned.

“Yes.” Emma beamed. “Finally.”

“How long has it been since you've seen him last?”

“Three endless years, if you can believe it. Three years! I was attending grad school in Atlanta while he was studying in London. Then I moved here for my internship just as he left the country three months ago.” She reached for her satchel and began digging through it. “We've had the worst possible luck as far as timing goes. Anyway, his plane's due to arrive late Friday. Oh, and Lizzy, I wanted to run an idea past you and Anne. What do you think of having a party here at the end of the month? A mix between a New Year's Eve celebration and-”

“A welcome home bash for George?” Elizabeth finished her friend's thought. “I think it's a grand idea. I'll be at the theater for most of New Year's Eve, but I can help you decorate before I go to work?”

“Perfect.” Emma nodded, tugging on her coat and hat as she talked. She was halfway to the door as she called out. “As far as party guests go, Anne knows the names of some of George's old Etonian friends. I'll need her help creating a list. Maybe we three can talk about it over supper?”

“Sure. Anne suggested take-away.”

“Perfect.” Emma reached for the doorknob. “Thai or Italian?”

“There's a new curry restaurant two blocks from here. I'll pick up enough for three on my way back from Nutcracker rehearsals.”

“Excellent. Liam, it's nice to meet you. Elizabeth, I'll see you tonight!”

“Well,” Liam exhaled as the door shut behind her. “You could have warned me.”

“About what?”

“That one of your friends looks like Aphrodite,” he said.

“It was more fun to watch you flounder your way through it. And who would want to look like Aphrodite, anyway? Athena was always having more fun,” Elizabeth reached for his last sausage. “Are you going to eat this?”

“Your motive to cook me breakfast becomes suspect when you eat half of it for me,” he reminded her.

“It's not my fault your jaw was on the floor,” she teased, climbing from her chair. “It's half past eight. You'll be late for your flight.”

“You know,” Liam drawled as he followed her back to the kitchen. “I could try to rearrange my schedule. Stay for a few more days. The floor wasn't that bad...”

“Liar,” she laughed, adjusting the button on his uniform. “You look quite smart in this, you know?”

“I could return for New Year's Eve weekend? Get to know your friends a little better...”

“And welcome George Knightley home?” She reminded him with a pretty smile. “How thoughtful of you.”

“He can't be that great,” Liam groused.

“He is,” she laughed. “From the sound of it, he's tall and handsome and brave and brilliant.”

“I'm all of those things,” he said.

“And he's modest, too,” she grinned at him.

“You have me there,” he grinned back.

“Stay safe, will you?”

“And you. Tell your party full of Eton men that they'd better behave around you. A lad can go a bit mad on New Year's Eve, with a pretty lass on his arm, and a bit of drink in him. You'll watch out for yourself?”

She smiled. “It's just one party. Besides, the lads in London will have a long way to go to best my brave, handsome, charming--immodest--brother.”

“And don't you forget it.”

“I love you, Liam.” She tiptoed, kissing one of his dimpling cheeks, then the other. “Give my best to Killian, and Magnus, and Seamus, when you see them.”

“I love you, too, lass. All the lads back home do. ”

She locked the door behind him. Liam's protective streak was as strong as it ever had been. Either because the idea of a party full of Etonians grated on him, or because he still thought of her as perpetually seventeen years old. Probably a mixture of both. Either way, he had nothing to worry about. She preferred a man with calloused hands, to a finely dressed financier.

And that would be a comforting thought when the inevitable happened, and not one of those financiers gave her a second glace.

No matter. Despite Liam's teasing, Elizabeth was no Cinderella. She certainly wasn't expecting to stumble into a prince at the party. Rolling up her sleeves, she prepared to start on the dishes. She'd have to leave for work soon enough.


**

She'd applied for a dozen part-time jobs throughout the city. A cashier at a French bakery. A table clearer at an North African bistro. A secretary for a securities group. A concierge at the famed Dashell hotel. And on, and on, and on, until she'd scattered more than a dozen applications throughout the city.

The sticking point always seemed availability. Yes, she could work nights, but not every night. Weekends sure, but her schedules were subject to the demands of the stage. Mornings were fine, so long as she didn't have class. Afternoons, but only when rehearsals allowed. And this, she thought as she pulled down her woolen hat, was why a few desperate corps de ballet girls moonlit as crowd-swelling dancers on the nightclub scene.

She'd sooner scrub floors. Literally.

Two honking cars were crowding the crosswalk. Elizabeth had to maneuver between them, and an icy puddle as well, to reach the muddy sidewalk beyond. She should be used to the likes of Kensington. Many ballet patrons lived here, or Regent's Park, or Mayfair.

Still, the Montgomery Victoria was intimidating, by anyone's standards. It looked more like a grand hotel than an apartment building, gold-trimmed deco marquee included. Then there was the pair of burly doormen. The swirling double doors. The lobby of white-silk chairs. The onyx black check in desk. The calla lilies perfuming the air. Where did one even find calla lilies in December?

“Welcome to the Montgomery Victoria. How may I-” the concierge faltered when he saw her mud splattered coat and her wind burnt cheeks. His nose went up, as his eyes raked down her. “...help you?”

“Good morning. I'm Elizabeth Bennet.” She pulled off one glove, flexed her chilly fingers, and extended her hand to offer a handshake. “I've been hired for a chambermaid position?”

She tried not to bristle when this declaration prompted him to smile. All must be right with his little world again if a girl who dressed like she did was destined for service. She could see it in his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Davis did say I should expect a new girl to replace Mrs Parsons. From now on, Miss Bennet, you'll want to enter through the service entrance, not the main doors.” He picked up his pen again and opened his ledger book. “Please take the stairwell to the ground floor. Mr. Davis will instruct you further.”

Mercifully, Mr. Davis was just as she'd recalled from her first interview: a frank, down-to-earth man, who exhibited none of the airs the haughty concierge displayed. She thought this, at least, spoke well of the institute that hired him. Until she remembered they'd relegated him to working from the basement.

He gave her a cart full of supplies, a lengthy list of instructions, and a uniform. Accustomed to dressing a part, she'd changed into it without a word of argument. And maybe it was a size too big, and salmon (or tropical sunset, as the tag read) wasn't exactly her color. But, she thought with a little laugh, she had worn worse in her life. Unlike one of her Nutcracker costumes, this at least didn't involve mouse ears and a rat's tail.

“Nice to see our new hire shows up early,” Mr. Davis smiled at her, examining her over his half-moon glasses. “I have a name tag for you as well. Betsy, is it?”

“Elizabeth,” she corrected with a smile. The plastic name tag he offered her did indeed read 'Betsy'. Perhaps Elizabeth was too many letters to print. She pinned on the tag with a shrug. She was Lizzy to her English friends, Eilis to the Irish. What was one more nickname, lumped in with the rest? “It's grand of you to hire me, Mr Davis.”

“You'll be expected to work Tuesdays and Thursday, as well as one Saturday a month. The building has nine habitable floors, with six suites on each floor. There's a pool and a small gym on floor ten. Mary cleans every flat on floors two, five and seven. Lara cleans the flats on floors one, four and six. Which leaves you the suites on floors-”

“Three, eight, and nine?”

Mr Davis smiled. “Precisely. Your key card allows you access to each of your assigned rooms. Always knock before entering. Announce yourself as the housekeeper. You'll be expected to vacuum thoroughly, and dust, empty the trash bins, and thoroughly scrub both the bathrooms and the kitchens. Over there is your cart, cleaning supplies included. Good luck to you, and I'll see you when you're through with your shift. Oh, and Miss Betsy?”

“Elizabeth,” she corrected gently.

“Most of our residents are quite manageable, so long as you stay silent around them, and keep their flats clean. There is one resident you'll want to be particularly polite to, should you cross paths with him. He's room 906, the last suite on the ninth floor.”

“906,” she repeated sliding the keycard into her apron. “And his name?”

“Darcy. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”



**

Three floors, with six flats on each floor, was a grand total of eighteen suites. Eighteen very large and generously furnished suites, she thought as she rolled her cleaning cart out of suite 905 and over to 906. It was a lot of scrubbing, a whole lot of dust, and quite a bit of bleach. One day here, and Elizabeth was already realizing she'd have to invest in some decent hand cream. Her mother was right about her hands.

She'd had a largely peaceful day, on the whole. Most of the suite owners weren't in residence when she came knocking. Her only company thus far had been a harried mother trailing a rambunctious three year old in suite 301, and a friendly white Persian cat in 805. She'd held the creature, and cuddled it, and taken the liberty to refill Persian Cat's water dish. Poor cat seemed a bit starved for affection, though. It spent the rest of the time trailing her around from room to room. Hopefully Mr Davis would be understanding of the white cat hair stuck to her uniform.

Only 906 remained. The infamous Mr Darcy.

While waxing floors and washing out sinks, she'd drawn a picture in her mind of what to expect from him. Elderly. He would be eighty-five, or ninety. Ninety-two, perhaps? She enjoyed the company of elderly people, even the more acerbic of them. They were often funny and wry, and twice as honest as people half their age.

He would also be well read, she decided. He'd have a library stuffed with books.

He'd live alone. The suite would smell of vanilla scented cigars and silver polish. She doubted he was half as intimidating as Mr. Davis seemed to imply. Perhaps he was just lonely. And he'd be there to greet her when she knocked on the door, opened it up, and announced herself.

“Housekeeping,” she called out, pushing her cart into the suite.

She stopped short a few yards in. The flat didn't smell of silver polish, or cigars. It smelled of lemons, she thought. Freshly cut, as if Mr. Darcy had sliced one in half just that morning.

There were no antiques oak tables, or horsehair couches. The furniture was youthful, and decidedly modern. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating masculine furniture with clean lines and sleek details.

“Housekeeping,” Elizabeth called again, tentatively stepping further into the suite. She'd been cold all day, but here the cool December light somehow felt warmer nine stories up. This was different from the other suites she'd entered. Not just in layout, but in mood. It was a beautiful suite. Airy and calm and wholly uncontrived.

She began with vacuuming and sweeping—first the sitting room, then the small dining area. He had a flat screen television; she was honest enough to admit wondering which channel she'd find it switched to if she turned it on.

She progressed to the kitchen. Quite a few of the items here were voice or motion activated, which amused her. The sinks were motion sensor activated. The lights in the kitchen could be turned on with a clap of her hands. Off with two claps. Trying it made her giggle. That technology could prove unintentionally hilarious in certain circumstances.

Mr. Darcy was either the world's cleanest cook or he mostly dined out. Given the lack of food in the cabinets, she suspected the latter. She found a bag of coffee beans, for example, but no baking flour. Still, let it not be said that Elizabeth Bennet couldn't clean a kitchen like the best of them. She scrubbed the sinks and washed the floor until her fingers were red.

She moved on to polishing tables and dusting down bookshelves. She was right about one thing: he did have a library, and it was filled with books. The source material was varied and erudite. And unexpected.

“Declamationes Majores, by Marcus Fabius Quintilianus,” she whispered one title aloud.

The famed rhetorician. She was resisting the impulse to pull the book off its shelf and flip through its pages. Resisting, but only just barely. On the second floor of her family's stone farmhouse, her father had a library filled with books. Most of them were collectables, passed down from father to son for the last four generations. In her periods of convalescence, she'd read a large chunk of library's contents, including parts of the Institutio Oratoria by Quintilian. But she'd never read this book. She'd never even heard of it.

There was a desk here as well, cleverly positioned to take advantage of the day's first rays. It seemed Mr Darcy was a morning person. She noted the laptop, positioned off center, as if had been recently used, and hastily shut. A pen had been tossed beside a stack of letters. She wouldn't read who they were addressed to, it wasn't her business. But she noted the handwriting. Masculine and efficient.

She forced herself to keep moving. Next was a guest room. Unlocked and untouched. She had little to do in it, beyond dusting and vacuuming. The room beside it was locked. Very locked. She tried the handle twice, pushed with all her might, and still couldn't get it to budge.

Well, there was little she could do to clean a locked room beyond polishing the door handle. She moved on.

There wasn't a single picture in this whole suite. Not on the walls, not on the bookshelves. Of course, there weren't any paintings, either, or a single vase of flowers. The whole flat was decidedly lacking in a feminine touch, which made her conclude he did live alone.

Foolish, Elizabeth...It's none of your business. You're here to clean. He's ninety-two-years-old, isn't he?...and even if he's not as old as a grandfather, he'd never sit down for tea with you. He'd take one look at you, hand you your broom, and sweep you out the door.

Still, her curiosity was getting the better of her. Somehow this felt less like work, and more like trespassing. Only the master bedroom and the bathroom remained. She would finish her work, and leave as quickly as possible.

Bathroom first, she thought as she pushed the door open.

Ironically, this was the room that impressed her the most. Her family's farmhouse was a sturdy fortress of stone. It also boasted just one single, small bathroom. And she'd shared that with six other people.

This was opulent. And huge. White marble countertops and rosewood flooring. Silver faucets. A glass encased shower. A skylight.

“How the other half live,” she muttered, blowing back a lock of dark hair from her eyes.

The kitchen, the living room, the library, all revealed a man with a strong, disciplined nature. The books on his shelf looked well read; the kitchen little-used. Largely, the flat felt less like a home and more like a stopping place between points. In here, though, she saw more of the man himself. She found a single cufflink while scrubbing the floor. Plain silver. For such a wealthy man, it was a stark, practical design. There was a starched white shirt on the floor near the trash bin. Something about it—or the prior evening—must have annoyed him. It was crumpled and abandoned, as if he'd torn it off in frustration, and nearly binned it completely.

To do a proper cleaning of the room required picking up the odds and ends cluttering the marble counter. A bottle of aspirin. Mostly full. A tumbler, with a single drop of amber liquid remaining. She picked it up, sniffed cautiously, and drew back with a grimace. His nightcap had involved a touch of bourbon. She moved his bottle of shaving cream, resisting the impulse to check the scent of the soap. There was a wash cloth beside this. She reached for it, prepared to shake it out.

And pulled back with a gasp. Pain sliced into her hand, fast and sharp. Blood now soaked her palm. He'd left his razor on the towel. Why had he left his razor on the towel?

“Because he used this set to shave, and he wasn't expecting some fool of a maid to move it for him,” she cursed herself, blindly reaching to turn on the faucet. The faucet was here, but without a handle. What kind of sink lacked a faucet handle? Where was the motion sensor? Elizabeth was too panicked to try clapping her hands or snapping her fingers, or muttering 'open sesame' or whatever trick would actually conjure water for her.

Blood was blooming in her palm, fast enough that she soon cradled a small cup of it. She'd get blood on his white marble sink. She'd get sacked from her new job. And she had rehearsals this afternoon. Alistair was going to throttle her once she showed up with a bandaged hand...

“Of all the idiotic things-” she winced. This declarations, plus the host of curses in Irish that followed it, were perhaps why she didn't notice the sound of the front door opening. Or the footsteps down the hall. Or the man himself, until he came right up behind her, and pressed a white washcloth to her bleeding palm.

“Bloody hell,” a low baritone muttered.

She looked up. And instantly grew dizzier. Heaven and earth. He had the most incredible gaze she'd ever seen. Chocolate brown eyes that were hard, demanding, and brimming with hot, youthful vigor. He wasn't elderly at all. He was a man in his prime. And he was gorgeous.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded.

Well, wasn't it obvious? “Cleaning your flat, sir...” she mumbled.

“You're not Mrs Parsons.” From his lips, this sounded like an accusation. She watched him press a washcloth to the center of her palm.

“No.” Dazed by the loss of blood, she still managed to lift her chin, meet him look for look, and announce, “And you're not ninety-two years old.”

He wasn't seeing her, she thought. He was seeing the uniform. And then, all of a sudden, he wasn't. The grip that stopped her bleeding grew harder. His gaze grew clearer. Sharper. For the span of a breath, he seemed to see her. Truly see her. “Who are you?”

It would be in her best interest to answer that question. It really would. She wanted to.

What happened next would annoy her immensely.

As his vision grew sharper, hers grew murkier. Try as she might, she couldn't fight it. She fainted.]]> BernadetteE Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 17 May 2013 23:42:10 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97110,97110#msg-97110 Nature of the Beast ch 13-14 (52 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97110,97110#msg-97110
She recovered from her surprise, and tried to reason with Fitz. It was odd to be working through the medium of Mr. Darcy, but there was nothing for it. You’ve got to be careful, she pleaded. You can’t do anything to bring attention to yourself, please!

Danger, he insisted stubbornly. This time she understood that he meant he could not tolerate herself being in danger. His speech was unsophisticated, still carried on more by unspoken cues. She resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Nothing will happen if you don’t do anything, she said desperately. We will be in more danger if you do act. Right now they only guess you are here. If you show them, then they will know and blame us for hiding you. She held her breath, and prayed that he would understand such a complex idea. Many animals had no concept of future danger, when it was removed so many degrees. Fitz was silent for a long moment. She could feel him thinking it over, struggling to come to terms with it. Truthfully, he was inherently a simple creature. When he was hungry, he ate. Thirsty, he drank. Tired, he slept. When there was danger, he ripped it to tiny shreds and forgot all about it. The fact that physical intervention was not needed in all situations was difficult for him to comprehend.

However, Fitz was not a common animal. Had he been one of Sir William’s dogs, he would have never understood why he had to wait. On the other hand, she could have merely told him to stay, and be confident he would obey. With Fitz she could only plead, and hoped he listened to her. Her magic allowed them to communicate, but she could not command him as she could a dog. She sensed that he didn’t fully understand the situation—the fact that he realized he didn’t understand everything was astonishing all by itself—but he was willing to concede to her greater reasoning. He acknowledged reluctantly that he was far stronger, physically, but still limited in his comprehension.

A fine shudder ran through her as she realized she had successfully backed the werewolf away from a suicidal rage. She didn’t know how they were going to deal with the test of silver and wolfsbane, but at least Fitz wasn’t going to lash out recklessly and reveal himself. Mr. Darcy relaxed slightly as the tension eased in Fitz. They were deeply connected in ways she couldn’t see. They might act and think like separate entities most of the time, but what affected one affected the other. That was something to consider the next time she had to get a difficult point across to Fitz. If she spoke to Mr. Darcy, perhaps he would have insight as how to present it in a way that Fitz would listen to. That was, of course, assuming she had the leisure to speak with Mr. Darcy without raising outside suspicions, and that he himself was willing to listen to her.

She realized she was already planning a next occurrence, as though dealing with the werewolf was going to be a regular activity. How long was Mr. Darcy planning to remain at Netherfield? Would he even welcome her help? Her presence made reasoning with Fitz much easier, but just now, in full view of the militia, her attendance on him was also going to lead to some unpleasant questions.

Nor was it only the militia she had to worry about. She heard Miss Bingley’s voice even before the lady appeared downstairs. She was complaining about being roused so early, and the urgency of appearing before the militia had left her no time to dress fully. She, her sister, and Mr. Hurst were forced to come to the door in their dressing robes and house gowns. Miss Bingley saw her brother and drew herself up, ready to flatten him with her tirade, and then her eyes landed on Mr. Darcy and Lizzy. She stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth all but falling open in shock.

Her eyes darted between Mr. Darcy, flinching at his undressed state, to Lizzy, in her old, somewhat shabby dress. She looked positively green when she saw their joined hands. Her face screwed up as though soap had been splashed in her eyes. Lizzy’s heart sank. With Miss Bingley involved, there was absolutely no way this would not reach everyone in Hertfordshire. She would be completely ruined; there was no saving her reputation.

No matter. She forced her head high against the tide of dread. Her eyes blurred with hot tears, but she would not shed them. Once the rumors got out, there was no possible way she could make an advantageous marriage, or any marriage at all. It was even likely that she would harm her sisters’ chances of marriage as well. Perhaps if she absented herself for a time from Hertfordshire, it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the Gardiners in London would consent to take her. She could help with the children.

Linked as they were, Fitz couldn’t help but to notice her distress, and see where it came from. His attention abruptly shifted from Col Forster to Miss Bingley. Mr. Darcy’s fingers curled around hers. She started in surprise, until she realized that Mr. Darcy had not initiated the move, but Fitz. He also shifted Mr. Darcy’s weight toward her, an obvious statement of preference. Lizzy closed her eyes as Miss Bingley’s expression turned murderously cold—and directed solely at her, not Mr. Darcy. Lizzy could practically see the malicious plans already forming in Miss Bingley’s mind.

Please, no, don’t, she begged Fitz, but the damage had already been done, and he was not inclined to alter his position. She had a sick feeling in the bottom of her stomach. Whatever Miss Bingley was planning, it would not be pleasant. The Gardiners were not far enough away. Perhaps she should flee to the Continent? Or better yet, to the upstart Colonies, where she would never be found again. She could join the Indians who lived like Gypsies. Her magic with animals would be a help to them, surely?

“Now that the household is together, I shall begin testing,” Col Forster announced gleefully. It was awkward to be standing in the entryway while the militia milled about outside, but she understood that Mr. Bingley wouldn’t invite them in. Col Forster produced a large silver cross, nearly a foot tall, and a small stained herb pouch. Fitz did not flinch or become nervous, but Lizzy did both for him. Col Forster approached Mr. Bingley first, as the head of the house.

Viciously, she stretched her senses to the pouch of wolfsbane. She had used her magic many times to increase the potency of an herb, but now she used it to strip the vitality away. She could have never done it with a fresh plant without someone taking notice, but the dried flakes were perfect victims for her. She drained them, seeking to limit the harmful influence they would have on Fitz.

“Hold this,” Col Forster said curtly, giving the silver cross to Mr. Bingley. He held it, and allowed the Col Forster to place a hearty pinch of wolfsbane under his tongue. “Recite the Lord’s Prayer.”

Mr. Bingley did so, looking disgruntled at being subjected to the test, and attempting to speak clearly around the mouthful of wolfsbane.

“Now spit,” Col Forster commanded, holding out a white handkerchief. Mr. Bingley obeyed, and his sister made noises of disgust at the crude sound. His spittle was clean of blood, and he was pronounced purely human. Mr. Bingley wiped his mouth with his hand, but was unable to clear the taste from his tongue. Lizzy’s anxiety rose exponentially. How was she going to protect Fitz from this? Wolfsbane was poisonous even to normal humans; how much more so would it be to the werewolf? She kept reaching for the wolfsbane, trying to wring more poison out of it. She didn’t know if she was being effective or not, but she was helpless to do anything else.

With great satisfaction, Col Forster approached Mr. Darcy next. The men eyed each other with distaste. The militia outside grew tense. They knew exactly who they had come to hunt, and were just waiting for the monster to show. Lizzy reinforced the channel to Fitz desperately. Be calm, she pleaded with him. The wolf took the time to reassure her, and then Mr. Darcy held his hand out confidently for the cross.

She was expecting some sort of reaction when he grabbed the poisoned metal. She was shocked at how great and how little that reaction was. Outwardly, Mr. Darcy remained the same as ever. Only his hand moved, clenching on her fingers with sudden, crushing strength. She welcomed the pain, even welcomed the bruises that would form later, because it meant he was fighting to appear as human as possible. That was the only thing an outside observer could note about him.

But inside… A thick, slimy film suddenly intruded between herself and Fitz. The wolf yelped and then cringed. The silver didn’t just force him back; it trapped him in a near comatose state that was anything but peaceful. It was as though thin wires had twisted around his limbs and muzzle, tying him helplessly and cutting into his flesh in endless torment. He was powerless to fight against it, unable to even communicate clearly.

She reached for him with her magic, but the silver interfered with their connection. He could only suffer, silently. Yet they were still linked. She could feel the burn of the metal against Mr. Darcy’s palm. She could feel the skin reddening with the irritation of the silver, the burning pain of it that traveled all the way up his arm. Only his superior control and long exposure to silver enabled him to hide his reaction.

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. He was doing so well to hide what he was, yet he was going to be betrayed by his body’s automatic response. That was why the silver and wolfsbane test was so effective; it could not be fooled or turned aside. No, she refused to believe that! Heedlessly she threw open the channel between herself and Fitz. She could not help Mr. Darcy, but that was alright; it wasn’t him that was reacting to the silver. Much as she had the night before to Reba, she poured her magic into Fitz.
She strengthened him, fed him energy to combat the damage caused by the silver burning in his hand. Mr. Darcy steadied imperceptibly. He needed it, because in the next moment Col Forster took a pinch of wolfsbane as big as a plug of tobacco and rudely shoved it in his mouth. Lizzy almost cried out at the sudden pain the wolfsbane caused. She felt everything he did, in great detail.

The taste of the wolfsbane was metallic and bitter. It reeked of poison and death to his senses. Where it touched the sensitive flesh of his tongue and gums, it burned exquisitely. Welts rose almost at once, and would have burst but for the extra power she lent him freely. It was a chore to combat both the silver and the wolfsbane, but she fought with vigor. She felt as though she was holding her breath while sprinting; she could not keep the pace up for long, but she would hold it while she could.

The silver was a dull ache compared to the wolfsbane. The plant was a sharp toothache that never faded. It grew, and mixed with his saliva and slid down his throat in minute quantities. She could track its progress by the pain it inflicted down his gullet, and the cramping in his stomach. He breathed cleanly through his nose, and did not waver as Col Forster demanded he recite the Lord’s Prayer.

He spoke, clearly enunciating his words, even though it felt as though acid was eating through his mouth, throat and belly. Finally he came to the end of the prayer, and it was time for him to spit. There was no way it would come out clear, not with the agony he was under. He could not have been more wounded than if live coals had been shoved under his tongue; the physical damage was practically identical.

And yet he leaned forward and spat into the white cloth without hesitation. Fitz did not have enough presence of mind to worry, as torn as he was by the silver and wolfsbane. Col Forster frowned at the gob of wolfsbane and spittle. By some miracle, it was as fresh as Mr. Bingley’s had been. Only Lizzy knew it for the lie it was; should Mr. Darcy press his tongue firmly to any of the surfaces within his mouth, open wounds would ooze blood and puss at once. Yet somehow, they remained unbroken.

Col Forster seized the cross from Mr. Darcy’s hand. Fitz did not so much as lunge up as limp weakly into the fore again. He whined softly in reassurance, but to her senses he had a gaunt and ragged appearance. Col Forster examined Mr. Darcy’s palm critically, but found no tale-tell mark to proclaim the werewolf. Lizzy was exhausted from her efforts to save Fitz, but it was worth it. She swayed dizzily and held to Mr. Darcy’s hand for support; all she could think was that they’d done it. Fitz and Mr. Darcy had passed the test.

She didn’t understand why Col Forster was giving her such a stern look, until she realized it was her turn to take the test. She flexed her fingers against Mr. Darcy’s. He released her, but pressed his hand to the small of her back. Only she noted the faint trembling in his touch. She took the cross in numbed, bloodless fingers, and nearly dropped it. It was heavier than she’d expected, and between her senseless fingers and the exhaustion of pouring her magic into Fitz, it was all she could do to hold it upright.

She braced herself for the pain of the wolfsbane. Col Forster used a considerably smaller amount for her. Instead of the sharp, foul taste she expected, it reminded her of stale, musty earth. Her mouth tingled for a moment, and then began to go numb. Of course, she realized. She wasn’t a werewolf. This was what Mr. Bingley had no doubt experienced as well. The spreading numbness was from the wolfsbane being absorbed into her system. In a panic she said the Lord’s Prayer without prompting, seeking to rid herself of the poison as soon as possible. Her mind began to plan a purging tincture. She would take it as soon as she returned home, and when Mr. Bingley came to visit, she would send a bottle back for everyone at Netherfield.

Especially Mr. Darcy. The channel between them wasn’t as sharp now that there was no longer skin contact, but it was still enough for her to feel the fire in his gut, and the spreading ache in his bones. How much was a lethal dose? Would he be alright? Nausea swept him as his body instinctively tried to rid itself of the intruder. He had to force it back, and she couldn’t help but to admire his rigid control that allowed him to appear as unaffected as ever.

Miss Bingley and the Hursts were tested in short order, though Col Forster’s enthusiasm was considerably diminished. He kept shooting disgruntled looks at Mr. Darcy, as though wishing to accuse him of deliberately failing the test. Should Col Forster think to test him again, neither she nor Fitz had the strength remaining to resist the inevitable results.

“I see I must apologize,” Col Forster said stiffly. “It appears that my information on the subject may have been mistaken. Though I am still at a loss to explain such an unorthodox appearance among your members.” He looked pointedly at Mr. Darcy and Lizzy, still standing too close to one another. Mr. Darcy’s shoulders grew tight as he faced Col Forster. Lizzy felt the silent vibrations of Fitz’s growl of warning. Though the hunt for the werewolf had been futile, it was clear the militia would not leave until some explanation was given. Fitz’s patience was at an end; he would no longer tolerate these intruders.

“The kittens!” Lizzy suddenly blurted. All eyes turned to her. Her thoughts were scattered and wild. The only coherent ideas she followed were to keep Fitz from revealing himself, and to explain why she had mysteriously appeared at Netherfield in her old, worn clothes. She felt her facing heating, but persevered despite the unfriendly attention directed at her. It helped that even Fitz had paused to listen. While he was listening, he was not plotting an attack. “Th-there were kittens born last night,” she explained nervously. “They were out of season and it was a hard labor. I’m sure you’re aware of my magic with animals. I came to see what I could do to help.”

Col Forster, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst gave her equally disbelieving and scornful looks. Mr. Bingley tried to appear unsurprised and supportive, while Mr. Darcy maintained his superior disdain. Mr. Hurst looked as though he wanted breakfast.

“I suppose you can produce such kittens as evidence of your involvement?” Col Forster asked sternly. Mr. Darcy stiffened in outrage, and a black look came over even Mr. Bingley’s face. The colonel’s question had not just been impertinent, but outright rude to obviously doubt her honesty. She feared Fitz would lunge for the man’s throat right there. She put a hand on Mr. Darcy’s arm as his weight shifted.

“Of course,” she smiled tightly. Mr. Bingley shot her a panicked look, which she could not answer without raising suspicion. She led the group to the linen closet where she had procured sheets for Fitz just an hour ago. Had so little time truly passed? It felt like days had gone by since opening the door to the rage that had been Fitz.

She opened the door slowly, apologizing again to the nursing mother within. The grey tabby blinked at the light and hissed at the faces gawking at her. Lizzy did her best to soothe the queen. Mr. Bingley began speaking nervously. “Ah, yes, Tabitha. She’s a great favorite of the household you know, and when I saw her distressed, I sent for Miss Elizabeth’s help, knowing it was a great imposition, but what could be done? She was so kind to come, even in the middle of the night, and as you see, she is quite well now.”

Miss Bingley snorted in derision. Thankfully the Hursts had opted to return to their rooms to dress.

“They’re beautiful,” Lizzy murmured in open admiration. She could already feel the kittens’ minds, still fuzzy and unformed, but radiating warmth and contentment. They were fluffy puffs against their mother’s stomach. Four were grey and spotted like their mother, but one was a pure, unsullied white. She knew at once that one was different.

“This one is deaf,” she said, reaching out a finger to stroke the tiny snowball of fur. “He can’t hear at all.”

“You can tell so soon?” Mr. Bingley asked eagerly, his academic interest overriding the seriousness of the situation. She was about to reply when Miss Bingley interjected sharply, “Drown the rat! What use is a cat that can’t hear?”

Lizzy stiffened in rage. She started to turn to the other woman. She didn’t know what she would have done—perhaps clawed at her like a mother cat herself—but Mr. Darcy reacted faster. She could feel that both Fitz and Mr. Darcy were of one accord as he reached out and plucked the unlucky kitten from the nest. The queen spat and scratched at him, leaving marks on the back of his hand nearly identical to the ones on his face. He deposited the kitten neatly in Lizzy’s hands. She was ready to receive him, having followed Fitz’s intentions. For a creature with no hearing, there was nothing wrong with the kitten’s lungs, and he protested vigorously against the removal from warmth.

She comforted him, and then also had to assure the queen that the big bad werewolf intended no harm to her kittens. His actions spoke volumes about where his opinions lay.

“That is enough,” Mr. Darcy spoke for the first time since the militia arrived. His quiet command, backed by the power of the wolf inside him, was enough to make everyone obey. Col Forster was still unhappy by the holes in the story he was told, but without further evidence was forced from the house. Miss Bingley looked as though she had been slapped, and Lizzy did not dare give the white kitten back to his mother. She feared for the safety of the other kittens, but Fitz assured her that he would not allow Miss Bingley near them.

Still she felt the woman’s malicious glare stabbing her with every second. It was time to leave Netherfield. She was escorted to the door by Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley. The latter only came because Mr. Darcy forced her away from the helpless kittens. Even without speaking a word or raising a finger, he was very commanding. Lizzy was awed to witness what Mr. Darcy and Fitz could accomplish when they worked in concert.

The white kitten was small enough to slip into her sleeve. She mounted Reba, holding her arm carefully to her chest, and nodded goodbye to Netherfield. Mr. Bingley waved amiably. Miss Bingley curled her lip in a weak copy of Fitz’s snarl. And Mr. Darcy? She swore she felt his eyes on her long after Netherfield had passed out of sight.
***

There was nothing for it, Charles realized quickly. They would have to leave Netherfield, soon. Preferably today, though it was impossible with one more night of the full moon remaining. Darcy would have to change here, and then they could travel to London. Or Pemberley. Or anywhere that wasn’t here. Hertfordshire had suddenly turned unfriendly for well-meaning werewolves, and it was too risky to stay. No doubt it was Wickham who had somehow turned the suspicion of the militia onto Darcy. He could scarcely comprehend the evil of that man, after everything he had already done to the Darcy family.
He ordered the trunks to be packed, leaving out only travel clothes for the next day. His sisters would be pleased to be leaving Hertfordshire, no matter the reason. Speaking of his sisters, he needed to speak with Caroline about this day. He loved his sisters dearly, they were family, but he was not blind to their faults, especially Caroline’s. If she got it in her mind, she could make things very difficult for Miss Elizabeth.

He was determined that would not happen to the sister of his angel, and the one person that had given Darcy hope after the disaster of this summer. He was still certain there was something between his friend and Miss Elizabeth, no matter how much Darcy denied it. Given more time, surely they would come to some sort of understanding? Darcy wasn’t the easiest of people to learn to know, even more since Ramsgate, but Miss Elizabeth clearly had no problems with his wolf. That was the most important thing of all, that she would not give him away, and endanger Georgiana and Darcy both. Frankly, in their conversations not including werewolves, she said the pert sort of things that he didn’t quite understand, but were rather like observations Darcy used to make back in school. When he had been happier. They would make a good match of it, if only Darcy would bend a little.

What did he know, though? His own affairs of the heart were sadly tangled as well. Darcy had urged him to wait—well, urged him against any sort of attachment at all, which Charles had modified into waiting—and now he was going to have to leave without seeing his angel! He would write her a letter, and post it before he left Netherfield. He prayed she would understand. He comforted himself with the fact that he would be coming back for her, when the furor had died down some.

He headed upstairs to make preparations to leave. First his sister, and then his angel. Then he’d find Darcy, and demand to know how the hell he had passed that damned test! His tongue was still slightly numb from the wolfsbane. In the hallway, he met Darcy just as his friend was shutting the door of Caroline’s room behind him. Charles’ eyebrows shot up. He knew enough to know no improprieties had taken place, but he still wondered what Darcy was doing there. He wondered if he might need to check on the health of his sister.

Darcy saw him, started guiltily, and then his face hardened. A look came over him that Charles had learned meant the wolf was in control. “I had to do it. I couldn’t let her hurt Elizabeth,” he said darkly, his body tensed for action.

Part of Charles gleefully noted the use of Miss Elizabeth’s Christian name, and rejoiced that he had been right about them. The rest of him struggled to remain calm as he asked, “What did you do?” There was no blood, and there hadn’t been the sounds of a struggle, so hopefully it wasn’t anything unforgivable. The wolf could be damnably direct, though.

Darcy raised his chin in defiance, for all the world like a little boy caught placing spiders on his nanny’s bed. “I laid a geas on her,” he admitted. “And she’ll sleep all of today. Maybe she’ll forget what happened.”

Charles stared at Darcy, open-mouthed. “Magic?” he said weakly. A geas was major magic, well beyond anything he could do. It was no surprise that Darcy in his prime could perform a geas, but since becoming a werewolf, his magic had been spotty at best, and non-existent during the full moon.

“I won’t apologize,” Darcy said stubbornly. “She won’t be able to speak of anything that happened today. I didn’t harm her.”

“The wolf let you cast the geas?” Charles said dumbly. He was confounded, and even more when Darcy blinked in surprise. His expression changed, and became masked.

“Yes,” he answered shortly, and Charles was absolutely sure there was more to the story than he was being told. Still, if a non-harmful geas was placed on Caroline, that she could never speak of this day, that wasn’t such a bad thing. Unorthodox, morally questionable, and yet she couldn’t damage Miss Elizabeth’s standing in the community, nor would she be able to reveal Darcy’s affliction if she ever realized the test was directed at him. Plus, it meant he didn’t have to talk to her about it. That left him more time to write his letter to Miss Bennet.

He nodded. “It’s good that your magic is returning,” he said, and clapped Darcy on the shoulder as he passed them for the study. He was careful to avoid the bandages he had placed over Darcy’s wounds, but he still felt him shudder. If Darcy were to fall ill now… Charles might not have any choice but to summon Miss Elizabeth for real. He brightened a little as he thought that her elder sister might come as well. Perhaps they would stay a few days again, just to make sure Darcy as Fitz wasn’t out of control.
Shaking his head to clear his pleasant reverie, he sat at the desk in the study and pulled out a pen and paper to write his angel.

My Dearest Jane,

I hope you forgive me for the impropriety for calling you such, and writing this letter, but circumstances are such that I must leave Hertfordshire. I am sorry that I could not tell you in person, but an emergency has come up that I must act on at once. I wish to tell you that my regard for you has not diminished in the slightest, but grows daily. Please do not think I have abandoned you; I shall return as soon as I am able, where I hope to resume our acquaintance at once. I regret already that so much time has passed without my declaring my feelings to you. I sorrow already at our parting, and pray every day it might be brief.
If you at all return my sentiments, please forward your reply to my address _________ in London. I am eager every day for a note from you, my sweetest angel.

Ever Yours,

Charles Bingley.

He nodded as he finished the letter. He knew he was taking a risk in writing to her. They were not engaged, nor did they have an understanding. If she did not wish to receive attentions from him, all she would have to do was not reply. He prayed she wouldn’t feel ill-used by him. She had every right to, but he was hoping the letter might reassure her. There was nothing left for it, but to post the letter and wait for a reply.
***

It was still half an hour before sunset. Darcy could feel it like a faint prickling on his skin, an anticipation of the energies to come. When he’d just been a mage, he had felt the sunset and dawn as thresholds. Each dawn was a new beginning; sunset was not so much an ending, as an aging of the ambient magic available to him. And yet he’d hardly paid attention to them, except when a spell required a certain energy only found in the day or night hours.

He still didn’t take note of sunset and sunrise, except for the full moon. On the nights of the full moon, then sunset heralded his forced time as a wolf, and sunrise marked when he was released from obligation. And yet he knew he wasn’t limited to only those times. He had been able to change back after dawn; most likely, he could hold onto his wolf form beyond the threshold of daylight with practice.

He had noticed that it was easier to shift to wolf when it was dark out, and easier to return to human during the day. During the days of the full moon, his wolf slept soundly, unless some outward cause should wake him. He supposed it was only natural that his wolf was nocturnal. Just now he was impatient to be done with it. He knew he was going to change in a short period of time. Even though the change was not so bad as it once had been, the full moon changes still scared him slightly. They were more powerful than usual; he had the sense of losing control, of dying, or being born. He couldn’t resist them. The slightest resistance brought agonizing pain to him. But he couldn’t trigger the change either. It was that powerlessness that bothered him the most.

And yet… he didn’t have to change only at sunset. If he voluntarily shifted beforehand… He was willing to try anything. He sought out Charles quickly, feeling only minutes before the full force of the wolf came down on him. Charles looked distracted, but agreed to stand vigil over him. They went to Darcy’s room, and locked the door. They were avoiding the caged room now, since Miss Elizabeth had informed them that being trapped was as much of a trigger for the wolf as silver. He should have realized it before, but his greatest fear was of losing control of the wolf, of hurting someone unknowing. Containing himself had been the only answer he could think of at the time.

It was Miss Elizabeth that showed him different.

Darcy stripped, trying not to show how his hands were trembling. He still felt weakened and feverish from the wolfsbane. He would never forget how Miss Elizabeth had opened to him in that moment, the way her strength had poured into him. He realized he had been underestimating her ability all along. She was easily as strong in her field as he had been with magic before becoming a werewolf. And well, Miss Elizabeth had given him back that as well.

He had spent so much time fighting his wolf that there had been no room for anything else in him, including his magic. It was well known that those with magic generally lost it when they were infected by a werewolf. He knew now it was because the new wolf had to make room for itself within the person, and generally took up the same space once occupied by magic. He had despaired of ever working with magic again, but he had seen that when he stopped fighting, when he and his wolf were in full accord with each other, he had access to his full abilities once again.

He triggered the change. It swept over him, surprisingly swift. Each time he shifted seemed to get faster. The less he fought it, the more powerful he became. He wasn’t sure he wanted that power, and yet it was not the first time great power had come to him. He had become the master of Pemberley at a mere nineteen years of age. He had succeeded at that, and so he would also succeed with his wolf.

The secret, as Miss Elizabeth had shown him, was to stop fighting, to accept that he existed, and was not evil. When he realized that his wolf was part of him, not a separate entity altogether, it was but a short leap to realize they desired many of the same things. It was as if he had a brother living under his skin, a twin he was very close to. With enough time and practice, he was sure he need never fear anything he might do as a wolf again.

He dropped to all fours heavily, and then shook his fur out. He had changed often enough in his room that it was comfortable and familiar to him. Charles looked at him anxiously, but his fears were needless. Now just to wait for sunset. He looked to the timepiece, but his werewolf eyes focused differently from his human ones, and it was difficult to see the fine print. It was strange; he could see every vein on a leaf a dozen paces away, and yet to focus closely on print a yard from him was nearly impossible. Perhaps it was not his eyes that were at fault, but the mind behind them that made the task difficult. What need did a werewolf have to read? Maybe that was something else he could conquer, with a little application.

He looked to Charles, and was frustrated to not be able to share his thoughts with the man. It had been easier when Miss Elizabeth was with them, even if she was a distracting influence on both him and his wolf. He wasn’t sure his wolf could have communicated such a complex idea to her, but at least he would have been able to get some meaning across. Now he was as mute as a defeated housewife, and Charles as deaf as a miser to requests of money.

He paused, wondering where that thought had come from. It had to have been from his wolf. But why did his wolf think Charles was deaf? The man could physically hear, and yet… as he inquired the answer opened to him. Charles was not hearing the right things. He could not hear Darcy as Miss Elizabeth could, nor could he read the basic communications animals had between themselves. That was precisely what his wolf meant, and it was very accurate.

If he wished to speak with Charles, he must find a way to do it in human terms. He padded over to his friend. Charles looked nervous, but held his ground. Darcy sat in front of him, and then offered a paw to shake, as a dog might. Charles blinked in astonishment, and then took his paw carefully. “My God, it is you, Darcy,” Charles breathed, shaking his paw solemnly. Darcy was amused to see Charles’ hand could not fully reach around his paw. His tail thumped on the ground; his wolf did it, not himself, and yet it conveyed assurance to Charles all the same.

Just then the sun went down. Darcy felt it as an invisible wash of energy over him, making his fur crackle with it.



 
Chapter Fourteen

His wolf had been present all along, but suddenly he was much more in the forefront, a glittering awareness that was wilder than his own. He felt crowded in his skin, as he and his wolf struggled for dominance. It went against his every instinct, but the answer was not to fight. He allowed his wolf the majority of control. His wolf looked around the room, reassured that everything was alright, then sneezed and waited. If Darcy had been human, his jaw would have dropped open. His wolf was in control, but he was waiting for direction from Darcy!

Experimentally he asked his wolf to circle the room. His wolf all but rolled his eyes, easily conveying the inanity of the request, but obeyed. Astonished, Darcy wondered how far his wolf would take direction. He asked him to lay down and roll over. His wolf balked with a snort, refusing to diminish his dignity in such a way. Darcy chuckled silently. No, he would not have wanted to do that either. His—their—jaws gaped in a silent grin. This was amazing. He regretted that it was the last night of the full moon, but comforted himself that it did not matter; he could shift at any time now.

He hated that it had taken this long to form this bond, this partnership with his wolf. How much simpler things would have been if he’d realized it earlier. How much less pain he would have caused. He wondered if Miss Elizabeth had been there from the first moment of his change, if she would have tamed his wolf so easily then as well. Might not a lot of grief been spared? Or did he happen upon her at a time when his wolf had finally become settled into his existence, and was amenable to change and compromise?

A sudden restlessness took him. Staying in this room all night was insupportable to both him and his wolf. He paced the room, craving motion. The question was, what did he do with his night? His wolf instantly made a suggestion. Darcy paused, not liking it, and made a counteroffer. His wolf wasn’t as happy about it, but agreed. So decided, they trotted to the door and nudged the handle, looking back at Charles expectantly.

Charles hesitated. “I wish Miss Elizabeth were here, so she could tell me what you wanted,” he said softly. Darcy nudged the handle again, pointedly. He could have probably opened it himself, and definitely could have forced the door from its hinges, but in the interest of leaving as little a mark as possible, he preferred to not do it himself.

Charles shook his head. “I know you want out, that’s not what I meant,” he said. “I meant, she could have told me if you were safe to be out.”

He huffed an impatient sigh. Of course he was safe! Hadn’t Charles been in the room with him, fully transformed, for the last twenty minutes with nothing untoward happening? Unexpectedly Charles chuckled, and then leaned past him to open the door. Darcy blinked in surprise. “The way you rolled your eyes at me,” Charles said with a smile. “That was all you, Darcy.”

He felt strangely touched that his friend had recognized him. He took a moment to butt Charles’ hand with his head—part of him felt awkward acting so dog-like, but his wolf assured him it was the proper way to show appreciation—and left the room.

In the hallway, he continued to the front door. He heard servants ahead of him, and his wolf reacted shockingly. He pressed back within, in such a way that there was suddenly room for Darcy’s magic to emerge. Darcy almost fell over in pure surprise, but recovered quickly enough to cast a distraction spell over himself and Charles, who exited the room behind him. Charles stiffened when he saw the maids, but as they reached Darcy and Charles, the ladies looked away at the same time, and did not notice the man and the werewolf.

Darcy couldn’t help but to grin. His wolf felt rather smug as well. Just one example of how profitable a true partnership with his wolf had become. He could now move freely, without worrying about being discovered. “Oh my God,” Charles breathed. “You worked magic. As a wolf! You worked magic!” His voice ended in a squeak. Darcy snorted at him, and proceeded down the hall.

They passed a few other servants, and Louisa, before they finally reached the front door. None of them noticed the giant wolf in their midst, or Charles’ shocked exclamations. Charles once again opened the door for him, and he trotted out into the night.

A sense of freedom filled him. The darkness was no barrier to him; colors were only enriched, the shadows made more stark, by his increased senses. Everything filled him with a sense of being truly alive. He had been content with his life before, being the master of Pemberley, supporting his sister, seeing to the needs of his tenants and enjoying the society of the ton. He had never been comfortable in large gatherings, and yet there were a handful of people whom he did not mind conversing with.

Little did he know how much he was missing. He had not been looking for anything, and yet his existence before seemed very limited. This summer had devastated him, both for his sister and for himself. He had thought his life was over. He had never dreamed he was just coming to live. Now he felt everything more keenly, took more pleasure in simple acts than he ever had. His paws hit the ground with a satisfying thump. His muscles clenched and lunged with powerful ease, propelling him forward far faster than he’d ever dreamed.

His chest swelled with the desire to howl, but he quelled it mercilessly. The last thing he needed was to bring more rumors of werewolves at Netherfield. His wolf didn’t understand the need for secrecy, but was willing to bow to Darcy’s experience. Together they ran, for the first time not to get somewhere, but for the exultation of being alive. Soon, he promised his wolf. When they returned to Pemberley, then he would not stop himself from howling, yes, even from hunting if it suited him. Pemberley’s extensive grounds would be ideal for him to live as a werewolf. He could easily avoid people now, and not worry about harming anyone.

At least… he slowed to a trot, panting lightly as he faltered. So long as he really wasn’t hurting anyone. He had already hurt his sister enough. Would she be alright with his altered state? She knew of his… he could no longer call it an affliction, he realized. His condition, then. It had been impossible to hide it from her. Not only had she seen him immediately after his attack, but her own abilities had made it impossible to hide from her. Several of the senior servants at Pemberley knew as well, at least the ones that had been part of the household for generations.

Obviously no one had exposed him yet, though he had been a great danger during his first months there. Seeing that he was no longer prey to mindless impulses, could he count on their continued silence? He determined at once that all the staff which knew deserved a raise. He was not bribing them, or trying to buy them, but they deserved a bonus for having to put up with his less than human state.

Recovered from his initial sprint, he sped to a lope he could maintain for hours. This was a night of no limitations. He would not give up control to his wolf, and yet he would not hold back either. He wanted to push himself, to see how far his new body could take him. Charles had done tests with him in the exercise room, but never had they the opportunity to test his wolf form. He wondered, if he had learned to make peace with his wolf, was it possible for others to do the same? Was that why werewolves were found out in the first months of their change, or not at all?

Certainly Wickham had avoided detection. He didn’t know when the man had been first changed, but he could guess. It had been three years ago that Wickham, obviously sick and desperate, showed up on his doorstep, begging for the living that had fallen open. He had refused, and sent the man away. Had he known then what his actions had led to, would he have still acted so callously? Would the man still have sought revenge on him with Georgiana?

Perhaps not, another failing to lay at his door. His wolf was not used to failing, and snarled wordlessly. Yet he could not help what had occurred before his existence. Then again, had Darcy given the living to Wickham, he shuddered to think what a new werewolf would have done to the populace. If he was in any way typical of werewolves—and Charles indicated that he was—then there would have been scores of bodies to bury. Maybe even more werewolves to contend with.

He still didn’t know if he had made the right choice. Had he failed his old childhood friend, or had Wickham been set on his path for as long had he’d known him? His steps slowed to a heavy walk. The problem with having nowhere to go was… there was no impetus to keep moving. He was troubled by his thoughts and memories. Even his wolf was melancholy, not understanding his problems but still wishing to comfort him.

Would Georgiana be alright with him? When she saw that he was no longer suffering, would she be happy for him? Could she recover? In desperation, Charles had forced him from Georgiana’s company, seeing that the siblings were doing nothing but harming each other with their individual hurts. He hadn’t seen her in months now, and he missed her. He felt guilty that he had neglected her. In truth he had neglected all his responsibilities as he fought what he had become. Now that he was done fighting—he had no doubt there would still be struggles with his wolf, who snorted in agreement, but he was confident in their ability to come to compromise without bloodshed—he was ready to resume his duties.

Inevitably, he thought of the woman who had saved him from himself. Elizabeth. Her magic, though undeniably potent, was perhaps the least unique thing about her.

The way her eyes flashed when amused or angry. The scent of her, light and feminine, like wildflowers, belying the strength underneath. Her courage, even before she knew what he was. Her disregard for social customs when it suited her curiosity. He wasn’t sure he admired this last trait of hers, but he had to admit that it certainly fell in the category of unique. It truly was a shame she was so far beneath him, that prevented him from forming any sort of attachment to her. He wondered what Georgiana would think of Elizabeth. What would Elizabeth see in his sister? Would she see another wounded person, as he had been, and unintentionally set out to heal her? His sister could use someone to confide it. He wondered if it was at all possible to arrange for the two of them to meet.

In the next moment he scolded himself. He was leaving Netherfield at first light, and he doubted he would ever return. It was not safe for him here, and it was time to get back to being who he was before. He had changed, and yet lives still depended on him. That would never change. There was no use in fantasizing a meeting between Elizabeth and Georgiana. Nor in picturing her at Pemberley. He wasn’t even sure why his thoughts had suddenly tended toward her.

And then he looked up. His mouth went dry, and his wolf sniggered at him. While he had been lost in thought, his wolf had directed his steps, and unerringly led him to Longbourn. It was what he had wanted in the beginning, and now it looked as though the wolf had gotten his wish after all.

His eyes found the window that was hers. He wished he could say it was only his wolf who knew this, but he knew it as well. He stood in the open, clearly outlined by the moonlight, staring at her window like a pup. He did not intend to linger, but somehow he could not make his feet move. Nor was it wholly his wolf’s doing either. The window coverings twitched, and he caught sight of a pale form before it disappeared.

That tore it. He had been seen, though it was his express intention to go undetected this night. It would be much better at Pemberley, when there would be nothing to draw his wolf. If it wasn’t for her magic, then his wolf would not be nearly so distracted by her presence. Then again, without her magic, his wolf would likely still be a monster. He supposed he had to tolerate his wolf’s pining, at least until tomorrow when they would be off.

He turned forcibly away from Longbourn, and began slowly pacing out of the garden. His wolf fought him, not with force this time, but with a deep yearning that filled his heart with pain. The door to Longbourn’s kitchens opened. He froze.

“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth whispered. Had Charles been with him, he wouldn’t have heard it. He didn’t move, torn between going and staying, mortification and inevitability. Then softer still, “Fitz?” A sweet breath of magic followed her voice, and he was lost. His wolf was powerless to resist her, and he, trapped in his wolf’s body, was equally taken.

He walked back to her, silent. He was grateful for his wolf’s inherent dignity. Has his wolf been anything like Charles, he would have been fawning at her feet already. At last he stood before her. She was dressed in only her housecoat, and shivering with the cold. His wolf asked politely if he would cast a warmth spell. He wasn’t sure how his wolf managed this without words, but he agreed to it anyway. He tried to make the spell subtle enough for her not to notice. If she just thought his wolf was in charge, like usual, then they would both be spared mortification.

She smiled and crouched down in front of him. She reached out a hand to touch his head and scratch his ears. It was a startling intimate gesture, and his wolf took an unwholesome amount of pleasure in it. Her other hand held something to her chest, and he extended his nose toward it cautiously. She tilted her hand to reveal the white kitten, sleeping soundly.

“His name is Maurice,” she said fondly. “Thank you for him. I know it was you more than Mr. Darcy.”

His wolf liked the way she talked to him directly, recognizing him as separate from Darcy. Darcy felt acutely uncomfortable with it, as he was just realizing that his wolf was far more like him than he’d thought. Besides, what did she mean by that? Did she think he was not sympathetic to the plight of a kitten? Who could look at that helpless ball of fur and not be moved? Beside Caroline Bingley, of course.
Elizabeth sighed, petting his head. His tail swung briefly behind him, but his wolf recognized her melancholy before Darcy. He whined softly. Darcy didn’t like the way Elizabeth’s presence called his wolf to the fore, and made him feel things otherwise foreign to him. He got the sense that his wolf was communicating with her, and was piqued to be left out.

She smiled and hugged him suddenly. “I’m alright. It would be nice if Mr. Darcy was more like you, Fitz.”

His wolf gaped his jaws in a grin. That was quite enough! It was bad enough to be talked about as if he wasn’t there, but to have his character thus judged—! He stood abruptly, shaking out his fur. His wolf didn’t want to leave, but he was adamant against staying. Elizabeth remained kneeling in the garden. He refused to look back to see if she went in. He fumed silently as he entered the woods and began running again. Of course she would wish he were more like his wolf. His wolf was easily besotted with her and would deny her nothing.

Who was she to pass judgment on him anyway? Just a country miss, nothing to him, the master of Pemberley, a member of the highest circles. There were dozens of women in town that would—and had—thrown themselves at him. What did he care what a scrap of a woman, hardly more than a girl, said about him? And yet… treacherously he thought that none of the women of his acquaintance could hold half the conversation Elizabeth could. Not to mention the way she unashamedly applied her magic, heedless of whether it was seemly or proper.

No! He was done thinking of her! He ran all the way to Netherfield, desperately trying to outpace his thoughts. Charles must have seen him race across the lawn, because he was opening the door just as Darcy reached it. He glanced at Charles and growled under his breath. Charles paled, his knuckles turning white on the door. Darcy shook himself. It wasn’t Charles he was upset with, but that chit of a woman. He stalked up to the library, temporarily forgetting that he couldn’t slam back a glass of brandy in his current form. Brandy sounded nice. Not the actual liquid, but the numbing bliss it would bring him. Had brought him, before he became a werewolf.

Now alcohol had a depressing tendency to run through his system too quickly to actually get himself drunk. And even if he did become slightly inebriated, his wolf disliked it so much it wasn’t worth it. Charles followed him to the library. The man sat in a chair, his eyes tracing the path he wove through the shelves.

Darcy grumbled to himself, sometimes out loud. Charles did not interrupt him, and gradually became less apprehensive. Darcy missed the use of his voice. He could have picked a fight with Charles, not about Miss Elizabeth, but any sort of subject. Just to vent the frustration in him. Or he could have had hands to play a game of chess, or billiards. Instead he had—he forced himself to stop pacing and looked down at himself—claws, meant for ripping. Teeth designed to tear. A thick fur coat to protect him from both cold and attack.

He wanted to destroy something. Not hurt someone—that was a distinct difference. But he was restless, needlessly upset over Miss Elizabeth’s comment. He was more glad than ever he was not fond of her. Any tenderness of feeling he might have had was now obviously attributed to his wolf. Even that would fade, as they were leaving as soon as he was human again. Eventually he threw himself down in front of the fire, sprawled like a living rug.

Charles eyed him a moment, and then said, “I wish Miss Elizabeth were here. She could tell me what is wrong with you.”

The mention of her name incensed him. He raised his head and growled at Charles. He stopped talking, but looked speculative. Having nothing else to speak of, he admitted, “I wrote a letter to Jane.”

Darcy considered growling again at the improper use of the lady’s name, but was suddenly too tired to care. Charles spoke on, over minor and unimportant subjects. Eventually he was lulled into a sense of complacency by his friend’s voice. Time ticked on, reluctantly. He closed his eyes and dozed lightly. Every sound, from the heartbeat of his friend to the soft mewling of the kittens down the hall, still registered on his senses, but he had no need to act on them. He had never had such a restful full moon. Except for his brief visit to Miss Elizabeth, it had actually been rather boring. If he passed too many full moons like this, his wolf would grow fat and lazy, a kept dog, not a powerful wolf.

He wondered if Miss Elizabeth was upset by his abrupt leaving. Had she waited to see if he would return, or gone straight back inside? Had his warming spell lasted until she went in? At last a tingling in his spine warned him of the approaching dawn. His wolf yawned, and began a slow retreat. He stood, startling Charles. “Is it time?” he asked, and then got up to open the door for Darcy.

“I will rouse the household,” Charles said. “Unless you want to rest first?”

Darcy snorted at that. The sooner he left Hertfordshire and Miss Elizabeth, the better. “Then come to the breakfast room as soon as you’re dressed, and we’ll be off,” Charles told him. Darcy could not tell Charles how much he appreciated his friendship, but he gave the man a steady look and wagged his tail. Charles smiled, and seemed to understand. Perhaps communicating as a wolf was not going to be so difficult after all. Certainly, he would not need Miss Elizabeth to translate for him anymore. He could survive as a wolf without her.

The master of Pemberley turned toward his rooms, his paws silent on the carpet, his mind already on the roads ahead.

End of Part One


A/N I feel like it's a big accomplishment for getting this far. I want to thank everyone for sticking with me so far! On my word document, we've covered 145 pages, but there's still 200 more to go. Still, reaching this point feels like a big hurdle we're finally past! I apologize for any typos or mistakes in the text. I have written an additional few paragraphs from Darcy's perspective concerning the militia and Lizzy's exposure, but they're not finished so I didn't put them in the chapter. I think they probably belong at the end of ch 12 actually... Forgive me for rambling, I'm so tired right now I'm a little punch drunk. Anyway, I just wanted to say... Thanks.]]> Autumn D Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 17 May 2013 08:22:17 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97108,97108#msg-97108 Fitzwilliam Darcy: A Man in Want of a Wife, Chapter 41 (8 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97108,97108#msg-97108
Chapter 41





Pennington Hall
No. 15 Cavendish Square

The Darcy coach pulled through the archway of Cavendish Square and rolled to a stop behind the other carriages in front of Pennington Hall, waiting their turn to enter the house. When the coach reached the step, Darcy exited first, and, as he helped his sister down, Georgiana looked up and smiled. Lamps lit the gardens and candles brightened every window. The sound of an orchestra could be heard coming through the open French doors of the ballroom on the second floor where a balcony, enclosed in a stone lattice wall and filled with potted plants, overlooked the drive below.

“Oh, Brother, it is such a lovely scene,” Georgiana said, looking around in wonder. “Is this how our house will look when I have my come out ball?”

Darcy laughed and offered his arm. “This and more. I shall have fresh flowers all throughout the house and hire the famous masters of Europe to perform for your ball. It will be lovely—as lovely as you will be beautiful on that special day.”

She smiled and looked up at him. “You are the best of brothers. I am indeed fortunate.”

Entering the house, they were greeted by old friends. “Darcy, I am honoured that you and Miss Darcy have come,” said the Viceroy and Lady Crofton, with the Countess adding, “We had feared you were not yet recovered enough to be out, but when Rand and Justin told us of your outing earlier today at White’s, I must say my heart was warmed. And Miss Darcy, it is very good to see you once more, too. Millicent cannot say enough good things about you and your friendship.”

Georgiana curtseyed with a blush and spoke softly. “Thank you, Your Ladyship. Millie is indeed a good friend.”

“Come in and join the others,” said the dowager Duchess with a smile.

“Thank you, Your Grace. It is an honour to be here.” Darcy bowed and moved into the great hall.

Georgiana quickly moved to where Millie and Kate were standing, talking with the Duke’s three sisters. She was promptly introduced, and before long, they were all engaged in agreeable conversation with Georgiana mostly listening.

Darcy nodded with a smile of approval and walked further into the room. Spying Rand and his cousins near the refreshment table, he quickly wended his way through the crowd to join them.

“Darcy!” Randal Pennington cried extending his hand. “I see you made it out tonight and Georgiana is with you.”

“Yes. She seems to have found your sisters. She is quite pleased to be here, as I am.”

“Yes, and I see she has found the Duke’s sisters as well. Such lovely girls they are. But let me introduce you to my brother-in-law,” he gestured with his hand. “Edward Brockton, this is my good friend Fitzwilliam Darcy. Darcy, Lord Brockton.”

Darcy bowed.

Lord Brockton bowed in return and spoke with a warm smile. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Darcy. I have heard much of you from my brother as well as from my friend here.” He turned and smiled at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I understand that you are the cousin of Colonel Fitzwilliam. We went to the Royal Military College at Sandhurst together. I have to tell you he is the best of men when it comes to leadership.”

“So I have heard.” Darcy glanced from his cousin to Lord Brockton and smiled. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, My Lord.”

“Indeed. The honour is mine. We were just talking about our campaigns since we last saw one another. I was telling your cousin about India and the splendour of Calcutta, and he was telling me about Portugal. Will you not join us?”

“I would find it a privilege,” Darcy said. “Lord Brockton, I understand you have resigned your commission.”

“Ah, yes, I did. When I got word of my brother’s death, I came home straightaway. As the only remaining son, I will succeed my father, and he desires that I take over the management of our estate in Gurley, Kent. It is near South Downs, not very far from Beaumont Castle.”

“The one on the hill overlooking the sea with the tall lighthouse near the white cliffs?”

“The very one. We own all the land as far as the eye can see, and our lighthouse has been a beacon for ages.”

“I remember running there as a boy when we would visit the sea. Those are among some of the best memories of my childhood. You are fortunate to be so close in proximity to the Duke.”

“Indeed. It makes the ladies happy, at least.”

Darcy laughed. “I would imagine it so. Miss Millicent and Lady Brockton are quite close.”

“They are at that, but they are also close with Mrs. Pennington. It is wondrous how everything has come together for the sake of unity…and good,” Lord Brockton said.

“Miss Kathryn is a fortunate woman. I wish you joy.”

Lord Wexford approached. “I see you have recovered from this afternoon. Is your jaw very sore?”

Darcy laughed once more. “Not in the least, I assure you. I am ready to do it again.”

“Sore?” the Duke asked, standing by Lord Wexford.

The Viscount laughed. “Yes, from his training with Gentleman Jackson.”

“Gentleman Jackson?” Lord Brockton returned. “I take lessons with him as well. I see him thrice weekly. Fine fellow, he is. I thought I acquitted myself well in previous fights, but I must say what he has taught me has benefited me greatly. The next time I am in a fight, I’ll fare much better, though I shall have to keep it a secret from my wife. Perhaps I shall see you there, Mr. Darcy, and we can box. When is your appointed time?”

“I am to see him Monday next at three o’clock, and then on Wednesday and Friday at the same time.”

“What a coincidence! My times are right before yours. If you wish, we shall box each other. I could use a good sparring partner.”

Darcy smiled. “There is nothing I would like better. Perhaps we can sharpen our skills.”

“Perhaps so.”

Darcy stepped aside, and while Colonel Fitzwilliam and the gentlemen continued in light conversation, he glanced around the room and noticed Lady Margaret in conversation with Lady Crofton and Lady Matlock. Maggie looked especially handsome tonight, dressed in a sapphire gown with white roses and blue silk ribbons arranged in her fair hair. Even the scar on her cheek was barely noticeable. He looked back at his cousin. If Wex noticed her, he gave no acknowledgment. Returning his gaze to Maggie, he noticed that she was now alone.

“Wex, if you will excuse me, I think I will ask Lady Margaret to dance.”

Lord Wexford furrowed his brow. “Has Maggie arrived?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed. She is exceedingly beautiful tonight.” He turned and moved in Lady Margaret’s direction with a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. It had worked when Fitzwilliam had garnered Elizabeth’s attention. Perhaps this was how the game was played.

“Lady Margaret.” Darcy bowed.

Her face lit up. “Fitzwilliam! What a pleasant surprise. You are well, I hope.”

“Yes, quite well. I have promised the first dance to my sister, but if you are not otherwise engaged, would you do me the honour of dancing the second with me?”

She tilted her head and smiled. “I am not engaged, sir.”

“Good. I shall see you then.”

Darcy glanced over his shoulder and caught his cousin’s rather surprised look. He turned back to Maggie and smiled inwardly. Maybe this was having the intended consequence. Leaving Lady Margaret, he made his way to Georgiana and led her to the dance line.

“Are you happy, Georgie?” he asked as the chord was struck. He bowed and she curtseyed, and then they joined hands in the centre.

“I am. Kate and I are to have tea tomorrow at Brockton House. Oh, Brother, she has changed so much, and she is very happy. I hope that I shall find such felicity in marriage. She has told me such wonderful tales of Gurley. They live by the sea. I hope to see it one day.”

“I am sure you will,” he replied as they moved down the line.

Meeting again, she added, “Brother, I cannot think of when I have had a better time. The Duke’s sisters are lovely and so gracious. If this is what it is like to be out in society, then I look forward to it.”

Darcy smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

They continued with the dance in relative silence, engaging only in occasional conversation, until it was over. Leading his sister from the dance floor, he asked, “Are you to dance a second dance?”

“Yes. Richard has offered. I do hope it is a reel. They seem to be so much fun, and I have never danced a reel other than with my dance master,” she said as they moved to where the Colonel was waiting.

Darcy laughed. “A reel is enjoyable, and I am sure your wish will come true before the night is over. Now,” he said, handing her off to his cousin, “I have a set reserved with Lady Margaret. Fitzwilliam, take care of my little sister.”

“Darcy, you wound me! Georgiana could not be in better hands—unless, of course, they are yours. Enjoy Lady Margaret’s smiles. She is extraordinarily pretty tonight.”

As he walked to where Maggie stood, talking with Susan and Lady Crofton, Randal Pennington came to the front of the ballroom.

“Everyone,” he clapped, “please listen. I have a special request. There has been a change for the second dance. The Duke of Beaumont has requested that he and his betrothed dance the waltz. They shall lead, and if any others wish to dance, you may join them.”

A sudden hush fell over the room. Some gasped. Others blinked in surprise. The old Duchess was visibly shocked, her displeasure clearly written on her features, and fans flicked opened as ladies became suddenly hot, flushed with embarrassment.

Darcy glanced between his sister and Colonel Fitzwilliam and shook his head. He then turned to Maggie. “Lady Margaret, if you wish to wait until the next, then we shall be spectators only.”

Maggie glanced at the Viscount standing by the chimneypiece watching them. She turned back to Darcy and said with a smile, “I have no objections to the waltz if you do not. It is an elegant dance. Come, Mr. Darcy, scandal becomes us.”

Looking over to his cousin, he shook his head and smiled as he lifted Maggie’s gloved hand and escorted her to the floor. Lord Wexford, clearly incensed, bit the tip off his cigar and spit it into the fire.

The music began. The Duke and his bride-to-be moved to the centre of the room where he took her in his arms, and they swayed across the floor with elegance and ease, having eyes for no one except each other.

Darcy raised Maggie’s hand, and with smiles, they, too, began to dance. Soon, one by one, the others followed. Only the older members of the party and Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam did not join in. All watched—some in shock and some in guarded pleasure.

Darcy and Lady Margaret glided to the end of the room where Lord Wexford stood, leaning on his shoulder against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and one foot crossed over the other. He bore a look of extreme displeasure. Darcy pulled Maggie into his arms and held her close.

She looked up at him in surprise. “I have never known you to be so bold. It is a side of your character I’ve never seen before. I rather like it.”

“Then be sure to laugh and enjoy your present company, for if Wex is anything like me, his blood should soon begin to boil.” He glanced over to his cousin and then back to his partner. “Sometimes a little spark is needed to start a blaze.”

She laughed. “Indeed!”

“There is something about seeing the woman you care for enjoying the company of another man. I must admit the Duke’s request surprised me, but he is very much in love with his betrothed. And I think there is a little daring in his soul.” Looking over at the old Duchess, he continued. “It is clear to see that his mother does not approve, but he is his own man, and times are changing. Sometimes rigid rules must be broken.”

“Like asking for the hand of a lady of whom you know society will disapprove?”

Darcy stiffened. “Perhaps.”

Lady Margaret said no more, for she knew she had hit the mark. She tilted her head and admired her handsome partner. She was beginning to think that there was more to his character than met the eye.

After the dance concluded, Darcy led his partner to the refreshment table and acquired a cup of punch. Handing it to Lady Margaret, he said. “I think I shall step outside for some fresh air. If Wex should ask to dance the next with you, find an excuse to postpone it. Let him work for the privilege.” Darcy’s eyes twinkled with merriment as he remembered another young lady who had done the very same thing to him many months ago. It had intrigued him enough to make him pursue her with greater interest.

Maggie smiled, laughter dancing in her eyes. “Now you advise me in affairs of the heart? Someone has taught you well.”

Darcy raised a brow and said wryly, “You have no idea.”

With that he bowed and moved for the open doors leading out onto the terrace. Stepping out into the cool darkness, he took a deep breath and leaned against the stone banister, staring up into the heavens. A thousand stars sparkled like diamonds cast upon black velvet, glittering and twinkling, as if they were polished silver leaves shaken by a gentle breeze. As he gazed upon their brilliance, his mind wandered to a pair of fine eyes set in the face of a pretty woman. “I wonder what she is doing tonight. Is she gazing at these very same stars…perhaps even thinking of me?”

“Who?” came a soft voice from behind him.

Darcy turned to see Maggie standing there.

She moved to stand next to him. “Who, may I ask, is the object of these musings?”

“Someone I once knew,” he said with a sigh as he turned back to his pose, staring out into the night.

“The country miss you proposed to?”

His head shot up as he stood erect.

“I assumed it so. It was not so difficult to determine.”

Darcy sighed again and dropped his head. “Do you think I am prideful?”

“No,” she shook her head, “but then I know you quite well. She broke your heart, didn’t she?”

“Yes…I am afraid she did.”

“I am sorry. A broken heart does not mend easily.”

“No,” he said, staring out into the courtyard. “But it was not something undeserved. The fault was entirely mine, I am afraid. She is a remarkable woman—one I am not likely to forget any time soon.” He shook his head and sighed. After some moments of silence, he nodded and then spoke again. “Maggie, she was indeed a remarkable woman—the most spirited woman I have ever met—full of life and energy—everything that I am not. Every time I found myself in her presence, I fell a little deeper under her spell. I could not help myself, so captivated by her I was.” He glanced at Lady Margaret and continued. “In many ways she reminds me of you, yet she is also very different. She took me by surprise. Never have I been so intrigued by a woman, and neither have I so badly underestimated a female, or anyone else, for that matter, as I did her.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam, will you not tell me about it? Sometimes I feel that it helps to talk to another person about painful things. If you are so inclined and do not mind, I would like to hear it.”

“No,” he said with a sigh, “I do not mine. Perhaps it would do me good to speak of it to someone, for it is all I think about. It is driving me mad.”

Taking a deep breath he began. “Nearly from the beginning of our acquaintance,” he said, “I sought her out, almost unwillingly at first—and certainly against my own reasoning and better judgment once I began. I wanted to disregard her, and yet I watched her every move, even so much as to quietly listen to her conversations with others when she thought I wasn’t aware of her. I wanted to be critical of her—to find fault, but instead I was captivated by her fine eyes—green as the finest emeralds of the Far East. The more I tried to stay away, the more I was drawn to her until I could no longer deny what I felt in my heart, and so I proposed, not realizing how much she despised me. Maggie, I am heartily ashamed of my behaviour concerning her. With my proposal, I insulted her in every conceivable manner, so unbecoming of the gentleman I thought myself to be. I cannot think back on what I said without deep mortification. The mode of my declaration was reprehensible.”

“Fitzwilliam, you presume too much.”

“No, I assure you, I do not.” He turned and caught Lady Margaret’s gaze. “The fault is entirely mine. She might be from the lower gentry, her father little more than a country squire, but she is as fine a woman as I have ever met. And I, in my arrogance, felt she was so far beneath me that she would be there waiting like all the others…waiting to serve me and my desires—waiting for me to propose.”

He took another deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “Everything in my life has been arranged for me and handed down on a silver salver simply because of my good fortune of having been born into a family of privilege and wealth. Women have pursued me since I came of age, fawning and vying for my affections. They dressed to please me; expressed views they believed would impress me, and performed to a standard they thought would garner favour in their pursuit of my pleasure, but not her. No. She laughed at me, teased me, and refused to dance with me when I asked her. And I, instead of despising her for her impertinence like most would, desired her all the more for it. Unlike the others, I had to pursue her, and it made her all the more enchanting.

“I was so profoundly challenged by her that it wasn’t long before I realized that she was at lease my equal, if not my superior, in almost every way I could imagine. Her wit, intellectual agility, self-assurance, and sense of personal dignity were everything I could desire in a woman of means, and yet she was not a woman of wealth” He paused and glanced at Lady Margaret. “She was forever etched in my mind and constantly in my thoughts and dreams. She was haunting…unforgettable in every way, and I wanted her more than I had ever wanted anyone in my life.” He released a long breath and shook his head. “Most unwillingly, I fell deeply in love with her, knowing all the while what an alliance with her would cost me in the eyes of society. I even called the people of her neighbourhood savages, and then I fell in love with one of those savages.”

Lady Margaret frowned. “Fitzwilliam, where did you meet this woman of such unusual charm and virtue, and how did you come to feel such a strong attraction for her that you proposed, going against everything you have been bred to think? This is so unlike you.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “it is indeed unlike me. But it is a long story. Let me simply say that I knew her from last year when I spent the autumn in Hertfordshire with my good friend Charles Bingley. We were there to settle upon an estate for him in the neighbourhood where she lived on her father’s country estate. Though small compared to mine, and that of my peers, it is the second largest in the neighbourhood. Then we met again when I unexpectedly saw her during my annual Easter holiday to Rosings Park where I conduct a yearly inspection in the management of the business affairs of my aunt’s estate in Kent. We talked and spent time together in my aunt’s drawing room when she and her cousin, whom she was visiting at the time, came to dinner and tea.

“Once, by chance of meeting her in the woods, she informed me of her favourite walking paths. Naturally I assumed that she had told me this so we could meet clandestinely out of doors without the prying eyes and eager ears of Lady Catherine and Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was also at Rosings. I took this as an open invitation to meet her there each day and begin silently courting her. It only stood to reason that that was her meaning, for what other reason could there have been, other than for us to spend time alone together? Surely, I supposed, she understood the purpose of my attentions. So imagine my utter shock at her refusal—to discover that she never had desired my good opinion, nor did she feel gratitude for my attentions once they were given.”

He dropped his head and spoke softly. “Maggie, I utterly and completely misunderstood her on all accounts. I never considered what she might want, her desires, her feelings, or her love for her family. When the time would come for me to care for them, I, in truth, intended to do only what was required of me out of duty and obligation without ever considering their feelings or even what they might want or think.” Darcy shook his head. “She is everything that is good and lovely: witty and intelligent—kind to all she meets, and I was the fool.” He looked up at Lady Margaret with pleading eyes.

“I had everything to give except what she desired: mutual respect and care for those dear to her. I hardly gave them a second thought except to criticize them for their deficiencies, which, as I think about it, were in truth no greater than my own.”

“That was a failing indeed, and I perfectly understand her feelings. Of all things a woman wants, respect in marriage is among the most important—even more so than love, for without respect, I do not see how there can be real affection.”

“I understand that now. She has taught me that in order to please a woman so worthy of being pleased, I must earn that woman’s respect and love by being a true gentleman. I have tasted the bitterness of my failings. I have a feeling of loss with an overpowering sense of regret that I cannot begin to tell you about it. It is a grief observed.” He groaned and looked down.

Glancing up, he caught Lady Margaret’s soft blue eyes. “The turn of her countenance I shall never forget, as she said that I could not have addressed her in any possible way that would have induced her to accept me. That is what she said to me.”

“Oh…I am truly sorry, Fitzwilliam…I am so very sorry for you.”

He nodded. “Indeed, I keep asking myself why? Why did I not see her contempt for me? Why did I think that simply because of my name, my status, and my wealth I could have her? The thought that any woman would refuse me was incomprehensible! Why—why did I not see what was there in front of me?”

“That is the obstruction with pain,” Lady Margaret said. “You think too much about it. There is no why, Fitzwilliam. It just is. Make peace with your past and move on.”

“I am in the process of doing just that. I learned a great many things about myself that I never knew, and to see how she perceived my character fills me with remorse. I’ve no intention of repeating past mistakes. That is the one thing I have learned from this entire experience.”

“No one wants to be alone, Fitzwilliam, but there are some things worse than being alone. One is to be married to the wrong person. Another is to love someone who does not love you. But regret is a weakness I despise in myself and pity in others.”

He looked up and glanced at her. “Then you must pity me.”

“No, indeed I do not. There is no real weakness in you. In you, it is a balm used for healing. In time you will forget about her and think no more of it. You will be stronger and learn to love again.”

“No, I cannot be so forgiving. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, be repelled. There will never be another like her. Elizabeth is a diamond of the first water. Fitzwilliam reminded me of it often.” He sighed and shook his head in sorrow. “What is so irrevocably painful to me is that she is alive in the world and thinking ill of me. I shall never forget her words that evening: ‘If you had behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’ You have no idea how those words torment me.”

Lady Margaret reached over and covered his gloved hand with hers. “Fitzwilliam, don’t…do not dwell on the past. Remember the goodness of her. Learn the lessons of the mistakes made and move on. But, if by some good fortune, Divine Providence should intervene and you are given a second chance, then let the lessons learnt be applied. Otherwise, live your life one day at a time and make the best of what you are given.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Prayer and Divine Providence! Those are things of childish faith. They are not for me. But, I know that you are right, and in time I will overcome this and be whole again. It’s just the getting there that hurts so badly.”

“Is this a private conversation between two lovers, or can anyone join the party?”

“Wex!” Lady Margaret spun around.

“Forgive me for intruding, Maggie. When I ventured out here, I thought you might be alone.” Lord Wexford turned to his cousin and spoke in coldness. “Darcy, do forgive me. Had I known you were also here, I would not have dreamt of intruding on your privacy.”

“Wex, it is not what you think,” Darcy said.

“Oh? And what is it that I think?”

“That, I cannot tell, but I know it is not how it looks. I was simply admiring the night sky while getting some fresh air. And I supposed Lady Margaret was in need of fresh air as well.” Darcy glanced between Maggie and his cousin. “However, it is past time that I left for indoors. Georgiana will be wondering where I am. I promised to dance the supper dance with her. Excuse me.” Darcy bowed and then left. He had done all that he could. Now the rest was in the hands of fate.

When Darcy was no longer within hearing, the Viscount turned back to Lady Margaret. “What do you mean dancing that scandalous waltz with my cousin? Are you hell-bent on seducing him, too, and taking another lover?”

Fire flew from her eyes, and she reached up to slap him, but he caught her wrist in a firm grip. “Maggie, if you meant to seduce my—”

“I meant nothing that concerns you, James Fitzwilliam. You do not own me. I can do as I please.”

“Yes…I suppose that you can at that. I should not have spoken so. If you and Darcy have formed an attachment and wish to be together, then it is none of my business.”

She laughed in dismay. “Attachment? Is that what affection means to you? No. Fitzwilliam and I are as we ever were. We are friends. You taught me well, James. I may marry again someday, but I will never be a kept woman, and if that is what you think of me, then you may as well leave and never speak to me again.”

She turned to depart, but he grabbed her arm and spun her around. Holding her tight, he looked deeply into her frightened eyes. “The problem is, Maggie, that I do care more for you than taking you for a mistress. I care a great deal more. Why do you think I spend my time at the White House in Soho Square instead of entertaining debutantes?” He paused, searching her eyes. “Have you not wondered why I broke it off between us?” he asked, slowly shaking his head. “No, I don’t suppose you have, so I will tell you. It is because you are dangerous to me, and, with very little effort, I could fall deeply and helplessly in love with you, surrendering to you a great power over me. But could you ever love me in return? After Lord Warmouth’s death, you made it perfectly clear that you wanted nothing to do with men and marriage. I took you at your word.”

“You judged me wrongly. I was badly hurt then…and quite afraid. You’ve seen the scars on my back, and you know what I live with daily,” she said, raising her hand to her cheek. “How could you expect me to want to willingly submit to another man when I do not know if—?”

“If you will be ill-treated again? Maggie, if you know anything of me, you should know that I would never do that. I’ve never raised a hand to a woman—nor will I ever. When I marry, I expect to be the head of my family. I will not suffer the ridicule of being ruled by a female—to be put to open shame by a contemptuous woman, but I would never mistreat my wife—nor would I be unfaithful…another aspect I know you fear. No matter what others with the status of my rank often do, I shall never take a mistress. Someday I will marry, but it will be to a woman I can respect in life and hopefully one who will love me as I intend to love her. We are going to Warmouth Hall for the summer. If a future together means something to you, let us begin anew.”

Gazing into his intense eyes, she tilted her head and gave a small smile. “If you mean what you say, then yes, let us begin anew, but I want you to know that I will never take another man to my bed who is not my husband. Our time together will be strictly platonic.”

“Agreed.”

She smiled and reached up on her toes and gave him a chaste kiss. Turning, he offered her his arm, and they returned to the ballroom, arm in arm.

When Darcy saw them, he smiled in genuine contentment for their apparent happiness, but again an ache filled his heart. The Chaneys, the Duke and Millie, Lord and Lady Brockton, and now Wex and Maggie—everyone had someone...except him.



~*~*~*~
]]> MK Baxley Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 15 May 2013 18:13:56 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97078,97078#msg-97078 The Pemberley Effect - Part Four (20 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97078,97078#msg-97078
Authors Note DNA: Y'all are going to be disapointed I think :)



Part Four (Chapter 12)

The awkwardness between Kitty and Mr Fitzwilliam remained for some moments longer until Lizzy noticed another man crossing the street to join them. He was, perhaps, Mr Darcy’s age and as well tailored, if not more so.

His identity surprised her when Mr Fitzwilliam, who managed to tear his eyes away from Kitty’s, asked Lizzy’s permission to introduce her to his brother, Lord Ashbourne. Mr Darcy had led them to believe the viscount was a much older gentleman, and for some reason Lizzy had supposed him inclined to corpulence.

She hoped that Lady Upton was reasonably plain; otherwise it would be very unfair to Colonel Fitzwilliam to be the only plain Fitzwilliam sibling.

If Lord Ashbourne noted the strange behaviour of his brother and her sister he made no sign of it, asking where they were walking and offering to accompany them. They turned towards Netherfield and Lizzy was sure the viscount would grow tired of dancing attendance on them and in time she and Kitty would be able to circle back to Longbourn.

“Do you often walk into Meryton?” asked Lord Ashbourne.

“Frequently, we country mice have little other entertainment.”

“I understand from my cousin that there is a monthly assembly, do you often attend?”

“I am a young lady with four sisters there is only one answer to that question. Do you speak of Mr Darcy? Has he returned to Netherfield?” Lizzy hoped she sounded indifferent.

She was a little distracted not least because Kitty and Mr Fitzwilliam were walking very close together. They were whispering together, and they had known each other for five minutes! She saw Miss Watson peering at them from her parlour window and Lizzy blushed. Their walk and Kitty’s behaviour would soon be common knowledge.

“Yes, Darcy. He obligingly came to London to fetch me in case I should forget my way.”

The viscount had an easy manner, but Lizzy noticed that he too had half an eye on his brother. She was mortified that he should have perceived it. They were giggling together now like children, but they were not children and Kitty should not forget it. Lizzy thought that her sister had grown up after her experience in Brighton, but she still flirted when she should contain her emotions and not excite talk.

Lord Ashbourne’s eyes may have noted the behaviour in front of them, but his conversation and tone did not change as they walked along. They spoke of nothing of importance and Lizzy did not press him over his cousin.

They reached the outskirts of Meryton and Lizzy made her curtsey. “Well, here we must part ways,” said Lizzy with a smile

Lord Ashbourne looked around in some puzzlement, “This is your destination? No, I cannot have you think so ill of my brother and I as to not allow us to walk you properly to the door, so to speak. I am not entirely without country manners.”

Lizzy cast her mind around for some excuse when Kitty stepped forward, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed and spoke.

“We are walking about only to allow Mr Bingley time to propose to our sister, Jane. We have no destination, except at some point we must find Lydia and return to Longbourn.”

“Kitty!” Lizzy was alarmed that Kitty would speak so immoderately in front of strangers and about details so very private. This was the Kitty who existed before the summer and Lizzy blushed for her.

“Then clearly it is our duty to walk you back into town,” replied Lord Ashbourne.

“It is not at all necessary. My sister misspoke … “ said Lizzy in an attempt to dissuade him, but he would not be dissuaded.

“There is not need for talk of necessity! I have nothing better to do, except acquaint myself with the town, or to acquaint myself with the manner of sport that might be found here.”

Lizzy recovered a little, “Well, I confess… your brother or Mr Bingley, or if you are acquainted with Mr Hurst, they are who you should turn to with your questions of sport.”

“Then you will assist me with the town? I hear that a former mayor – a Sir William Lucas – is giving a dance. Is that correct?”

Lizzy confirmed that it was so.

“And what manner of man is he?”

In this way they spoke until they returned to where they had first met. Lizzy was relieved to hear from some of the young Lucas boys that Lydia had found Maria and returned to Longbourn. But there was no sign of Jane and Bingley.

“No doubt they are either walking the charming country lanes or have returned to Longbourn,” said Lord Ashbourne with a smile.

Lizzy gave a small curtsey, “Indeed, we shall not trouble you any further.” With that remark Lizzy practically dragged Kitty in the direction of Longbourn. Lizzy did not look backwards.

“Kitty! You should not talk of our private concerns.”

“You think Mr Bingley will not propose?”

“That is not the point!”

Lizzy attempted to make her sister understand that her behaviour was wrong, but Kitty could only think of Jane and the romance of a proposal.

Kitty was not to be disappointed, Maria Lucas ran out of the house shouting that Mr Bingley had proposed. She would have continued her story, but Lydia catching up to her told them all the details.

“He proposed not moments after we left them; see I told you it was a good idea, Lizzy. La! You should listen to me more often. He was most violent in his affections and insisted on speaking to Papa immediately. He has left now, to follow his sisters back to Netherfield to acquaint them of the good news. I expect they shall look sour!”

Lydia was correct in her assessment, so Lizzy did not feel able to admonish her, although she knew that she should be a better example of behaviour for her sisters.

But first she must speak to Jane. She found Jane upstairs in their room.
“Oh Lizzy! Can anyone be as happy as I am? 'Tis too much! By far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! Why is not every body as happy?''
“Because you are too good, Jane, and do not say you do not deserve it; you who have borne so much.”
“Oh, Lizzy it was only a persuasion of my being indifferent that made him go away. How right Charlotte was, if only I had given a little sign, I could be long married.”
“If you had given a little sign you would not be my Jane.” The sisters embraced and only a small part of Lizzy was jealous.
They returned downstairs to listen to their mother’s raptures, which soon turned into sorrow when she realised that Jane’s first appearance as an engaged woman must be at a dance given by Sir William Lucas.
Their mother’s annoyance at this fact was only allayed when she realised how much Lady Lucas would be envious of Jane’s good fortune. Indeed all the mothers of the neighbourhood would surely be green-eyed of Mrs Bennet’s genius at attracting suitors. That put her in a much better frame of mind, even if it made Jane quite distraught. Jane had wanted to conceal her engagement so as to not spoil the evening for Miss Emma Lucas, who would be coming out at the dance.
“No one will suspect you, Jane,” said Lizzy in a low voice, “and I do not think you can keep your engagement secret, not even for one day…” Lizzy shot a reproachful look at Kitty, which Kitty chose not to acknowledge.

Their discussion of the wedding and all Mrs Bennet’s concerns about the ability to put decent food on her table for the wedding was interrupted by their Aunt Phillips. She looked full of news and curiosity.

“I had to come the minute I heard the news.”

“Good heavens, it has not made Mertyon already? Mr Bingley has only just proposed!” cried Mrs Bennet.

“Mr Bingley has proposed? Oh, Jane!” Mrs Phillips fell upon her niece.

“Did you not know, Aunt? Then why have you come?” said Lydia who was collapsed in a chair only now beginning to be interested the in the conversation.

“Mr Darcy has returned to Netherfield and brought his cousin.” Mrs Phillips straightened and smiled.

“The viscount?” Mrs Bennet sat further forward in her seat, Jane’s triumph momentarily forgotten.

“Indeed. A handsome young man, much younger than I supposed, after all, he is from the first marriage, I understand. I only saw him from the window, but I am surprised your daughters have not given you a better description.”

Mrs Bennet turned to stare and Lizzy noted that both she and Kitty tried to meet her look with indifference.

“Lord, I did not see him Mama,” said Lydia.

“He was with his brother, Mr Fitzwilliam, who greeted Lizzy so civilly. By the by, what do you know – “ Aunt Phillips was triumphant.

“What do I know?” said Mrs Bennet annoyed at her sister’s way of prolonging her own enjoyment at Mrs Bennet’s expense.

“Off walked this happy little quartet, they must have done a lap of Meryton. He seemed quite taken with Lizzy.” Lizzy was not Aunt Phillip’s favourite, but one could forget that fact based on how she was now looking at her second niece.

“If you mean he was polite enough to discuss with me how I found the countryside and whether he was likely to get any good sport…then, Aunt, I confess,” replied Lizzy archly refusing to give into too much speculation.

Mrs Bennet knew her daughter too well to think that Lizzy would divulge any further information, so she turned the conversation back to her sister and had to be satisfied with Mrs Phillip’s knowledge of the new arrival.

Jane seemed complacent and not at all unhappy that she was no longer the centre of attention, even teasing her sister over whether she had made a fine conquest.

“Not at all. His manners are extremely pleasant. He presents himself far better to his inferiors than his cousin did at first. But there is something wanting in seriousness, I think.”

“You are severe. Perhaps you do not wish a certain gentleman to think you prefer his cousin,” said Jane.

“Not three hours engaged and you have become bold,” was Lizzy’s response. She refused to think about Mr Darcy and what it might mean that he had returned to Netherfield.

&&&&&&


“I think we have the best carriage,” said Ash stretching out his legs. “Is Miss Bingley always so enthusiastic?”

“That is not a word I would have used to describe her,” replied Darcy looking out the window as they approached Lucas Lodge, “but then I am not the heir to an earldom.”

“You always assign the basest of motivations to people, Darcy.”

“You think I am wrong?”

“Frequently. In this case perhaps not. Miss Bingley certainly has enough money of her own that she might marry comfortably to a gentlemen she esteemed, rather than switch her allegiance so readily. Or am I mistaken?”

Darcy shook his head, “I did not encourage her.”

“You encourage no one,” was his cousin’s response.

Freddie stuck his head out the window, “It looked a decent sized house, there should be enough dancing, and luckily Mertyon has enough pretty ladies so that we shall not be confined to the Bingley sisters.”

Ash inclined his head to see past his brother’s, “It is a sizable house. Sir William must be profitable in his business.”

Darcy snorted, “His elevation to the knighthood gave him a disgust of business and he has retired here. His children will have little. The eldest daughter married Mr Collins, who has the unfortunate, although he will never think so, position of being Lady Catherine’s parson.”

Freddie made such a face at this disclosure that Darcy could not help but laugh.

“Country society,” said Darcy as the carriage came to a stop.

“You think the ton does not have such foolish and short sighted men? Come you are not so stupid, or so ignorant,” responded Ash.

Countless times before had Darcy wished he had his cousin’s ease of address and wondered whose blood caused it. None of his Darcy cousins had such charm and address so Darcy presumed it was the Darcy blood that reigned supreme within himself, but upon reflection it could not be the Fitzwilliam blood that held all the charm because Cousin Anne was not at all at ease with others. However, since Freddie, Annabelle, Richard, and Ash all had reasonably equal measures of charm, Darcy was at a loss to explain it since the only blood they shared was Fitzwilliam.

Freddie had certainly come ready to dance and be merry. Ash was more guarded and Darcy could not tell if he was play acting the generous lord, or whether he truly found the society pleasing.

Darcy watched Bingley give all his attention to Miss Bennet, whose smiles were nothing like they had once been. Gone was the reserve and serenity. Her modesty had not allowed her to hope or expect anything of Bingley but now she was assured of his love, she was free to show hers. Darcy envied her.

He found himself drawn into a conversation with his cousins and Sir William Lucas; or rather he stood at the side of the little party and listened as Sir William discussed St James’ Court. Miss Bingley, and many others of his acquaintance, would have shown their contempt, but his cousins did not.

“Miss Lucas, I expect I am too late, but if you have any dances free, would you do me the honour of standing up with me?”

This pretty phasing had Sir William all effusive pleasure, and allowed Lady Lucas to remind the viscount that he was in the country now; they rarely filled up their dance cards beforehand.

Thus Ash was manoeuvred into leading Emma Lucas out to open the dancing. She was pretty, but no doubt as empty headed as Miss Maria Lucas who had not said many words of sense together when she had been at Kent.

Darcy was surprised that Ash had allowed himself to be tricked in such a way, but as he watched his cousin make Miss Bennet his next partner, Darcy thought Ash might have a plan.

Miss Bingley reminded him of their dance, which Darcy had not remembered offering, but it would do him no good to stand around on the fringes of the dancing all night. He should have lead her off the dance floor and offered to get Miss Bingley some refreshment, but his manners were forgot when he saw that Ash was next soliciting Elizabeth for a dance. He could not help but drift towards them.

“Miss Elizabeth, I hope you shall do me the honour of the next?”

“You shall be quite tired if you dance every dance, my lord, but you will be very well liked.”

“I am fond of being liked, so I shall remind myself tomorrow when I do not wish to rise from my bed. Darcy, you will dance with Miss Elizabeth next after this, shall you not?”

“I had – “ Darcy had not thought Ash had even noticed him there. “If Miss Elizabeth does not object.”

“I expect he will stand on your feet and be disagreeable in his choice of conversation, but if you do not dance with him I do not know who will. But I sense you are a woman of great fortitude.”

Elizabeth laughed, and then blushed. “If Mr Darcy has no objection to dancing with me, then I should be honoured.”

“I have no objection indeed, quite the reverse,” said Darcy feeling lightheaded.

The feeling did not abate even when he took her hand in his after Ash relinquished her.

Darcy could not have told you of what they spoke, nor could he be sure he had acquitted himself correctly. But Elizabeth seemed to have no issue with allowing him to bring her some punch and he counted that as an improvement from their last dance.]]> Shemmelle Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 17 May 2013 05:50:30 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97056,97056#msg-97056 All Darcy Could Do (Longer Version) Chapter 13 (8 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,97056,97056#msg-97056

The gentlemen left Longbourn before the viscount’s coach with the Misses Bennet arrived. The sisters would be able to enjoy a private reunion with their family, and the gentlemen would see them the following day at dinner.

Riding to Netherfield at a gallop gave the gentlemen an excuse to avoid conversation. On arrival and dismount, they observed all due civilities before going off to their private quarters, where each ate a solitary evening meal.

While Darcy and Bingley sincerely dreaded the moment they must face each other, they were united in their greater distaste for speaking with Lord Weldon. The morning after Longbourn, Darcy repaired to the Netherfield library which he thought would be safe, since his cousin tended not to rise early and Bingley seldom went there.

As Darcy entered with an armful of books, he immediately saw his friend standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Without preamble, Bingley asked, “When will your cousin leave?”

“Why are you asking me? I did not bring him here.”

“Do you think I did?”

“It seems I saw the two of you arrive together,” Darcy said drily.

“What choice did I have? The viscount insisted upon accompanying me to see Miss Bennet at her Uncle Gardiner’s home. I tried to get rid of him but he went with me each time I visited, although he made no effort to hide how little fondness he has for me—or, for the Gardiners, for that matter.”

Darcy rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored his friend. He put the books he was carrying on a table and seemed absorbed in them. Bingley waited a few minutes before complaining, “As his kinsman, you ought to know how ungentleman-like he was in the way he talked about Miss Bennet’s relatives behind their backs. He repeatedly said all manner of unpleasant things about such people as he called them. I told him he did not have to go — indeed, I would prefer that he not. But he said he had to go, because of you. I will tell you honestly, Darcy, I was disgusted at how your cousin charmed them with his manner while laughing at them later. Your cousin is —” He stopped himself and took a breath.

Darcy said, “Vile? Is that the word you seek?”

“I am sorry. I realize he is your kinsman, but. . .”

“No one is sorrier about that than I am. And, by the by, I have never met the Gardiners. I don’t know why he felt he should to meet them on my behalf.”

Neither man needed to note aloud the word they both knew to be at the core of the nobleman’s contempt. Mr. Gardiner was a successful tradesman, though not as prosperous as Mr. Bingley Senior had become before his death. As if the weight of the world sagged upon him, Bingley sat heavily in a nearby spindly armchair. It wobbled slightly and he looked even more woebegone.

“The Gardiners are fine people, sensible and kind. It was galling to listen to your cousin slur them and not let them know what he was really like. I could say nothing without looking the ill-bred knave, jealous of the handsome lord who deigned to honor their home with his presence. Even Miss Bennet looked pleased with his manners and could find nothing amiss in him when I hinted of it.”

Shaking his head in commiseration, Darcy asked, “Knowing Lord Weldon, he was flirting madly with both the Miss Bennets—I have seen him more than once set sisters against each other. He particularly enjoys that. Though I suspect Miss Elizabeth would have seen through him, I hope Miss Jane Bennet was not seriously affected or thought he meant anything by it. My cousin never means it.”

With a sudden change in attitude, Bingley gave Darcy a long cold look. “Don’t take me for a fool. You cannot throw me off the scent that easily. Bad as your cousin is, I cannot accuse him of going to the amazing lengths you took, renting my country house to steal my—that is, to attract Miss Bennet.”

Staggered by the accusation, Darcy could only stand with his mouth slightly open and his hands suspended above the book he had just dropped.

Bingley continued, “In fact, I must thank your cousin for explaining it to me — I will give him that. As he says, men must compete for women, and I put you on notice here and now. I am willing to compete with you, Darcy. While I understand your admiration for Miss Bennet—I understand it deeply!—I am astonished you would—do what you did. Your cousin says that all is fair in love and war — perhaps I am a soft-headed fool as he called me, but I would never do such a thing to you. I don’t care what Shakespeare says.”

“That line is not from Shakespeare,” Darcy replied. “But never mind —you cannot be accusing me of what I think. You said you don’t like my cousin — you should know he is not to be believed or trusted.”

“I don’t like him—frankly, I think I hate him and I have hated very few—actually, I don’t think I have ever hated anyone. But, yes, I might hate your cousin. Even so, I am mightily in his debt for pointing out what you did to take Miss Bennet from me.” He paused. “Who did say it if not Shakespeare? It sounds like Shakespeare.”

“It was a contemporary of his—John Lylie,” Darcy said impatiently.

“I don’t think I know of him,” Bingley said, pressing his fingers to his mouth.

“Good God, man, would you focus, please? My point is, you should put no faith in my cousin. He is not a man to be believed.”

“I have always thought I could believe you, Darcy, but let me plainly speak what has been burning in my throat every inch we rode from London. I would not say it to your cousin or let him know how disappointed I was in you. It was a dirty trick for you to try to warn me off Miss Bennet. You of all men, Darcy! I suppose Lord Weldon has the right of it in saying love can make us do things we would not otherwise. I am sorry to hurt you, but I believe Miss Jane Bennet does want me.”

“Bingley, surely you do not think…you cannot believe… why would I want Miss Bennet?”

Incredulously, Bingley replied, “What man would not? She is a most beautiful creature. Yet, she seems to like me better, and that surprises me as much as it probably surprised you. You are wealthier and have greater consequence — and you have Pemberley —”

Bingley was starting to run out of steam, his momentary bravado swallowed in his more natural modesty. His chin sank against his chest and his voice became lower. “I know how much you could offer her, but it will be her decision. I will not give her up with a fight, Darcy. As a friend, I must let you know that.”

Darcy, happy to hear he was still considered a friend, said with thoughtless haste, “I do not want her.”

“How dare you!’

“No, I mean… It was never my object to have her for myself. I was trying to save you.”

“From what? From an angel? I would be lucky if she would have me. So would you! Admit what you did, man!”

Darcy waited, this time measuring his words before speaking. His hesitation apparently irritated Bingley, who bitterly filled the silence: “Under all your condescension that seems so gracious, you have the same disdain for me as your cousin. At least, he honestly professes it. You are ashamed to admit you want her, because you see me as an unworthy opponent for her affections. You cannot stand to think that I might beat you at anything.”

“You are being an idiot,” Darcy snapped. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to control the wave of anger that swept over him. Weldon, he thought, clenching his teeth. He opened his eyes to his friend’s hurt and angry face. “Bingley, you are my friend. Without reservation, I offer my friendship as I always have. Please, never doubt me.”

The two men locked eyes, one pleading and the other resisting—but it could not last long. Darcy had come to Bingley’s aid any number of times and even in anger, Bingley could not force himself to admire Darcy less. Although very different in personality, they shared similar values. Bingley had always trusted Darcy, and habits were hard to break.

The coup de grâce to any plan by Lord Weldon to poison the men’s friendship came when Darcy said contritely, “I am heartily sorry for interfering with you and Miss Bennet. I was wrong to do it. If you have reason to believe Miss Bennet cares for you, I cannot be happier for you. Your happiness was all I ever wanted.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course. I would not lose your friendship for anything.”

“Then you will not be disappointed if I ask Miss Bennet to marry me?”

“I suspect based upon my conversation with her father yesterday that she will say yes. Her sister Miss Elizabeth told me the same thing a couple of fortnights ago. I wish I had—well, the only thing I wish to say now is — Godspeed.”

Congenitally unable to hold a stern frown for long, Bingley relaxed happily into a grin. “Darcy, thank you! Who would ever have thought she would choose me over you? Certainly, you are superior in so many ways.”

Darcy nearly snapped at the other again but managed to calmly say, “My friend, you are as fine a man as I have ever known. Miss Bennet and her family would be fortunate to have an association with you. Please believe me, I was not thinking of Miss Bennet when I decided to return to Netherfield.”

“Then what other possible reason could you have?”

Darcy grunted in exasperation. First Mary Bennet, and now his friend who had even more occasion to watch him with Elizabeth, seemed completely unaware of his feelings. He would have congratulated himself on how well he had hidden his intentions from others as well as from her, except that he had won nothing.

“Bingley, may I ask your honest opinion about something — do you believe my cousin is truly interested in Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

“I believe so, and I hope that as his kinsman, you do not object to his interest in someone below his station. It would an amazing match for her but not the first time nobility has plucked a wife for her beauty and intelligence rather than strictly her background. Really, considering your cousin, it is Miss Elizabeth who would be too good for him.”

“So, it seemed that serious to you then? Do you think Miss Elizabeth was the reason he kept returning to the Gardiners with you?”

“They did get on like a house afire.”

Darcy grimaced. At that moment, he probably could not have hidden his feelings if he tried but he saw no reason to disguise them from his friend. Awareness dawned slowly upon Bingley, who asked, “Are you interested in Elizabeth Bennet? But the two of you argued constantly.”

“I enjoyed our repartee and thought she did, too. Obviously, I was wrong.”

Bingley started to reply but studied his friend’s face further, before observing with an uneasy smile, “Who understands women? I may have misread her admiration for him. Maybe she does not like him as much as I thought.”

Shrugging, he added, “Now that I really think on it, I am sure her smiles at him mean nothing. You are a much better man than he. What woman would not choose you if she had the chance?” He realized what he had just said and looked sheepish.

Sometime later, as he was bidding farewell in order to go call upon Miss Bennet, he impulsively asked Darcy to join him — “I am sure Mr. Bennet would not turn you away, and you are invited to dinner.” Darcy demurred, saying, “You and Miss Bennet will not want me in your way as you spend the day together.”

Bingley smiled slyly and replied, “Yes, but you might want to be in the way of your cousin and Miss Elizabeth.”

Although it did not change his mind about joining Bingley at Longbourn, the counsel reminded Darcy why he liked this affable fellow as greatly as he did. If he had been one to make maudlin admissions, Darcy would have blurted he did not deserve Bingley’s friendship. It was embarrassing enough just to think it.


***********************

As Darcy’s man was dressing him for dinner at Longbourn, his cousin entered abruptly without knocking. It startled the valet into pulling too tightly upon the cravat and Darcy momentarily choked. After the now ruined design was unraveled, it took a moment longer for Darcy to regain his breath. Considering his own earlier desire to choke his cousin, he wondered if Lord Weldon had somehow done this on purpose. The valet also looked personally put out since it took time to tie a cravat with distinction, and this had looked to be one of his best.

“What is it?” Darcy asked brusquely as soon as he was alone with his cousin.

“You really must work on your address, old man. You sound positively ill-bred.” Darcy merely stared and his cousin continued. “I just had to tell you about my day with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She rather fancies me, you know. Stop me if this is of no interest to you.”

Darcy eyed his cousin with unrestrained distaste. Lord Weldon smiled and continued, “We went on a picnic. Of course, the little minx wished to traipse along on foot but I insisted we take the coach. She pointed out the sights. Really, nothing to see here, at least nothing that impressed me — but, nonetheless, she made a pretty little tour guide. You should consider hiring her at Pemberley just to give tours — and I am sure you could find something else to do with her, too.”

“Were you chaperoned?” Darcy hissed.

Lord Weldon extended his tongue just above his upper lip in a gesture that brought the words salacious and lecherous to Darcy’s mind. The lord held the pose long enough to force his cousin to growl, “Weldon!”

“Yes, two chaperones, in fact. Miss Mary Bennet and Mrs. Mellon. They kept each other company while Miss Elizabeth and I talked and wondered about a bit. She is an energetic one, quite the walker. I wonder what else she would be energetic at?”

“You are disgusting.”

“And you are so predictable. So is she. But, then what woman is not? We found a small clearing and sat down apart from the others. You should have seen her face when I pulled out a book of poems. Love sonnets. Come live with me and be my love—“

“You did not read that to her! Did her father know you were alone with her?”

“Strictly speaking, we were not alone. But I think even had we been, Mr. Bennet would have been thrilled. Fathers always are to have me distinguish their sweet girls with my admiration — it’s a thrilling prospect for mothers, too. You should have seen, no, you should have heard Mrs. Bennet.”

Despite his best efforts, Darcy felt his face grow warm and he knew he was flushing. He saw his cousin watching him closely.

“Do you want to know what Mrs. Bennet said?”

Darcy shook his head, and his cousin, shaking his finger, said with sudden seriousness, “You should be embarrassed. To think, you would pursue a woman from such a family. Have you no shame?”

“Are you not pursuing Miss Elizabeth Bennet, too?”

Weldon regarded his cousin silently, in much the way one awaits a child who has made an error in arithmetic, to correct himself. “Of course, I am not! I am only trying to make a point with you. That is the only reason I am here in the armpit of a place. I could take the lady in a trice if I wanted her.”

“I think not, cousin. She is a respectable and principled gentlewoman.”

“Oh, you should have seen her today. There is something about the prospect of becoming a countess that makes a woman very obliging — of course, I would never marry a woman from such a family, but she does not know that. Can you imagine the humiliation the Bennets could bring among our set in London? I am not sure which of them would be the greatest disaster.”

Darcy objected, “That is an overstatement. The Bennets are—some of them tend to be exuberant or and others are eccentric—but nothing so marked as to create scandal." He forced himself not to think about recent scenes by each. "Some in the family might need guidance as to deportment, I admit. However, I am not marrying each of them and taking them to London or Pemberley or anyplace else. I would not have to see each of them every day.”

“Miss Elizabeth does not want you. She would not have you. Give up, Darcy.”

“Why are you here in my way? You cannot believe it would be such a blow to our family if I wed her.”

“But it would be, and I will not have it.”

“You cannot tell me who to marry.”

“Perhaps you will be disgusted with her when she throws herself at me tonight during dinner. She will, I am certain, unless she does it even before we sit down. Here’s something else you ought to love — she thinks you mistreated Wickham.” The viscount dissolved into guffaws as hearty as might come from a blacksmith or some other uncultured commoner. Darcy waited until he exhausted himself to ask, “Did you tell her the truth?”

“No, why should I?”

The thought of strangling his cousin again crossed Darcy’s mind. It was a tempting fantasy that the act might somehow be defended as an accident. He put it aside and patiently, “Telling her the truth about Wickham would be the decent thing to do, Wel. And it would cost you nothing. Miss Elizabeth should not go on thinking that Wickham is harmless. If you wish to have her continue to dislike me, then do, but please — do not let her be vulnerable to him. You know what he is like.”

“Ah, Will. I always know you really want something from me when you call me Wel.”

“Then you’ll do it? All it will take is a word from you. You can even tell her that I was cruel to him, but make sure she understands the man’s propensity for deceit and destruction.”

“Yes, destruction of innocence.” Lord Weldon grinned. “Will, you are gritting your teeth so hard you may shatter them.”

Darcy suspected his cousin would not be cavalier about Wickham if he had any idea of how the scoundrel had attempted to dally with Georgiana. But he would not tell his cousin this because although Weldon loved Georgiana, the man had a loose tongue. If he had heard nothing of it from his twin the colonel, Darcy would certainly not trust him either.

The lord was sneering, “I am going to let Miss Bennet keep her romantic illusions regarding Wickham. She sees him as some kind of tragic figure trampled under your heel. When she realizes all I will offer are some pretty poems, she will need somewhere to turn. Let Wickham be her man. When he’s finished, she will think I was kindness itself.”

“Cousin, if you continue on this way, I will call you out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You would not humiliate our family that way. Not you. Never you.”

“I would for her. I am serious, cousin. Do not play your usual games with her. Just stop and walk away now.”

The viscount harrumphed. “Perhaps it is I who should call you out but instead of swords, bare knuckles to knock some sense to you. How hard must I hit you to remind you of your duty?”

“In your present condition, milord, I would have nothing to fear from you, unless you challenge me to see who could eat through more courses quickest. And what do you mean, my duty?”

The viscount frowned. “I’m not—that is, I believe I could best you in any competition.”

“Only if it was one in which the winner had to drink, eat or gamble best. Look in the mirror.”

“Oh, do not be vulgar, cousin. This is what comes of cultivating the wrong sort of people. Your duty is to marry Anne. The whole family has been expecting it. You cannot let yourself be diverted by some silly fascination with a penniless chit.”

“That is why you are here and why you oppose my marrying Elizabeth Bennet—because of our cousin Anne? Also, never refer to Miss Elizabeth with disrespect again. Never!” Without thinking about his action, Darcy found himself standing over his seated cousin, across whose face panic briefly flashed.

Weldon nodded warily. “Perhaps it was unmannerly of me to refer to her so. I will do as you ask, but, the fact remains that you must drop this unhealthy fascination with Elizabeth Bennet. The sooner the better. You are being selfish, old man. You can have no idea of how you have broken Anne’s heart.”

“Really? Have you talked to her recently?”

“I don’t need to. It’s obvious that with her money she could easily attract the wrong man. She needs someone the family can trust, someone to take care of her.”

Darcy had thought the same thing about Anne, but it was a different matter when he was being asked to personally take up the task. “What about your brother?”

“Raffie told me he asked and she turned him down.”

“I think he gave up too easily. He became offended because he had been overly confident that she would say yes — once, ah, she realized I was not an option. A marriage between them could benefit both. It’s the obvious, the best solution.”

The viscount shook his head. “I understand why she said no to him. If I were a woman, I would not want to marry my brother either.” He paused. “I mean, I understand why Anne would not want to marry Raffie. You would be better for her than he.”

Darcy shook his head. “I do not understand you, Weldon. Is this about keeping Rosings? In that case, have your brother marry her but do not importune me.”

“This is not about property. It is about taking care of our cousin. Anne admires you. How can you disappoint her?” When Darcy looked still unmoved, Weldon persisted, scolding him, “Marriage is a serious undertaking, not some personal whim. You must think of your family.”

Darcy considered whether to share what he understood of Anne’s marriage preferences. But, poor Anne would likely be made to suffer if her mother knew she did not wish to marry him, and he was unwilling to trust her secrets with the viscount. "You are pursuing your idea of what is best without considering what I want,” was the only complaint Darcy would allow himself to make.

As he said these words, he felt painful insight into how he made same mistake with Bingley. He saw it all so clearly now. If he had realized earlier he could live with Elizabeth’s family, he might have left Bingley alone. If he had declared himself to Elizabeth when he knew he wanted her, he might now be courting her rather than afraid she had wanted Wickham or was about to want Weldon. He was not sure which would be the worse choice for her. And, he had only himself to blame. He had to fix this.

In his frustration, he bellowed at his cousin, "Out! Get out now!" Quickly regaining control, he coolly added, “Weldon, you are being your usual arrogant and presumptuous self. It is utterly unreasonable to ask such a thing of me, yes, even in the name of duty to family.”

Weldon muttered something about this not being over but got up to leave. Darcy put a less than friendly hand upon his shoulder, “Not even you can believe you could keep me from marrying who I want.”

With a smile that conveyed more menace than most men could do with the worst of grimaces, Weldon replied, “I believe it will be Elizabeth Bennet who does that, and I intend to help her — my dear cousin.”]]> Mari Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 17 May 2013 06:37:18 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96988,96988#msg-96988 The Brighton Effect - Chapter Twelve (22 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96988,96988#msg-96988
Whoops this is a little late but no one noticed, Hurrah! Thanks again to Mary for editing last moment because I forgot entirely that my Lydia was being very un-Austen Lydia-like and being selfless and corralling children into musicals. All mistakes are my own!

Such is my distraction this weekend I almost titled this the Pemberley Effect - you would have all been very confused!

Enjoy!

P.S Its Mother's day in Australia (no idea about elsewhere) so happy mother's day to my mother at least, but to any others celebrating :)


Chapter Twelve

The awkwardness between Kitty and Mr Fitzwilliam remained for some moments longer until Lord Ashbourne chose to cross the street whereupon Mr Fitzwilliam was obliged to introduce Kitty and Lizzy to his brother.

Lord Ashbourne inquired of Lizzy (to Kitty he showed no particular attention) where they were walking and offered to accompany them. Since Lizzy had no definite destination except to allow Mr Bingley time enough to propose it seemed as if they were to continue to walk through Meryton towards Netherfield. His lordship naturally fell in step with Lizzy leaving Kitty to walk with Mr Fitzwilliam.

They outpaced their companions a little, and once Kitty was sure she was out of range of Lizzy’s sharp ears, she allowed her outrage to burst forth.

“Cheveley!”

“My estate.” He sounded most apologetic.

“Do you often accost young women under a false name?”

“No! No I…well you are acquainted with my brother are you not?”

“With both of them, I do not see how that absolves you!”

“They both of them have such address and are so much older…I merely require some practice, and if I used my real name, it should get back to them.”

“Then your brother was not with you – not assisting you in your –“ That had been Kitty’s first thought; that it had been a scheme, a prank, and she had been the easy prey allowing both brothers to laugh at her.

Mr Fitzwilliam laughed. “Good gracious, no. My brother has no trouble introducing himself to young ladies without any schemes. You can be assured I was quite severely lectured. You see I can talk to you now without any silliness. I always can when there aren’t pretty young ladies…it is just with the pretty ones where I fall all to pieces.” He sounded mournful.

“Your brother taught me an excellent method of dealing with impertinent men. Should I employ it now?”

“Why? Oh! …No, obviously, I found you a pretty young lady, but then well…the moment was spoiled.” Mr Fitzwilliam looked behind him.

“Well, I was very glad for his intervention,” said Kitty pertly.

“Most women are,” said Mr Fitzwilliam in a rather forlorn tone, and Kitty couldn’t suppress her laugher, but then she became more serious.

“It was still very ill-done of you.”

“I know. I did not mean…“ Mr Fitzwilliam tugged at his cravat. “I am afraid I did not realise how my actions would be interpreted. As I said, I am not very well practiced and I thought … I have been taught to understand the impropriety and error of my thinking, and I certainly do not mean to terrify young ladies. I thought I was being masterful and charming. I do apologise, most sincerely.”

Kitty’s feelings towards him softened. “You certainly need practice at addressing yourself to young ladies. Luckily, there are many young ladies in Meryton who are happy to have a young man’s attention – even his studied compliments. I may, if you are very nice to me, introduce you to them.”

They began to come to the outskirts of Meryton and Kitty turned to see what Lizzy would say now.

“Well here we must part ways,” said Lizzy with a smile, and Kitty wondered what Lord Ashbourne had been saying, how he had been charming her.

Lord Ashbourne looked around in some puzzlement, “This is your destination? No, I cannot have you think so ill of my brother and I as to not allow us to walk you properly to the door, so to speak. I am not entirely without country manners.”

“We are walking about only to allow Mr Bingley time to propose to our sister, Jane. We have no destination, except at some point we must find Lydia and return to Longbourn,” said Kitty; she couldn’t quite help her smile.

“Kitty!” Lizzy looked alarmed.

“Then clearly it is our duty to walk you back into town,” replied Lord Ashbourne.

Despite Lizzy’s protests both gentlemen did just that, and Kitty walked closely behind her sister and shamelessly eavesdropped, but they were not talking of anything of particular interest: Meryton and its inhabitants. Lord Ashbourne had been invited to Sir William Lucas’ dance and was asking about who he might encounter there. Mr Fitzwilliam seemed content to walk in silence.

They met some of the younger Lucas boys who had been to visit the sweet shops, who informed them that Lydia had returned to Longbourn with Maria. Of Jane and Bingley they had seen nothing.

“No doubt they are either walking the charming country lanes or have returned to Longbourn,” said Lord Ashbourne with a smile.

Lizzy gave a small curtsey, “Indeed, we shall not trouble you any further.” With that remark she practically dragged Kitty in the direction of Longbourn. Kitty was allowed to turn briefly and wave but that was all.

“Kitty! You should not talk of our private concerns.”

“You think Mr Bingley will not propose?”

“That is not the point!” Lizzy continued her rebukes until they reached Longbourn and they were greeted by Maria and Lydia.

“Mr Bingley has proposed!” said Maria sounding more excited than she had when her own sister had become engaged.

Lydia looked put out that Maria had been the first to meet them; she made up for it by regaling them with the details of the case, which were as much as Lizzy and Kitty had surmised.

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst had left not five minutes after the party had set out for Meryton, which was also not surprising.

Mr Bingley had immediately applied to Mr Bennet, who was very happy to give his consent and Mrs Bennet was planning a grander dinner than ever before. Mr Bingley had apparently stayed for a little while and then was reminded that he must return to inform his sisters.

“It is such a pity that your first appearance as an engaged couple must be at a dance given by Sir William Lucas.”

Jane briefly wondered if it could be kept private until afterwards, for it would be unfair to Miss Emma Lucas. If Jane was not the best of women, it might be suspected she wished to draw attention to herself. Mrs Bennet gaped at such a ridiculous notion from her eldest, after all, when she had time to reflect she comforted herself with the notion that Jane would be quite the belle of the ball, and here was her eldest daughter talking of secrecy! Jane’s reaction to her mother’s new way of thinking was to turn quite red.

“No one will suspect you, Jane,” said Lizzy in a low voice, “and I do not think you can keep your engagement secret not even for one day…” Lizzy shot a reproachful look at Kitty which Kitty chose not to acknowledge.

They sat there talking wedding plans until Mrs Phillips burst in on them.

“I had to come the minute I heard the news.”

“Good heavens, it has not made Mertyon already? Mr Bingley has only just proposed!” cried Mrs Bennet.

“Mr Bingley has proposed? Oh Jane!” Mrs Phillips fell upon her niece.

“Did you not know, Aunt? Then why have you come?” said Lydia.

“Mr Darcy has returned to Netherfield and brought his cousin.”

“The viscount?” Mrs Bennet sat further forward in her seat, Jane’s triumph momentarily forgotten.

“Indeed. A handsome young man, much younger than I supposed, after all he is from the first marriage, I understand. I only saw him from the window, but I am surprised your daughters have not given you a better description.”

Mrs Bennet turned to stare at Lizzy, Lydia, and Kitty.

“Lord, I did not see him, Mama,” said Lydia.

“He was with his brother, Mr Fitzwilliam, who greeted Lizzy so civilly. By the by, what do you know –“

“What do I know?” said Mrs Bennet annoyed at her sister’s way of prolonging her own enjoyment at Mrs Bennet’s expense.

“Off walked this happy little quartet; they must have done a lap of Meryton. He seemed quite taken with Lizzy.”

Kitty gripped her hands in her lap and looked to her sister.

“If you mean he was polite enough to discuss with me how I found the countryside and whether he was likely to get any good sport…then, Aunt, I confess,” replied Lizzy archly.

Mrs Bennet sensed that Lizzy would not oblige her further, so she busied herself interrogating her sister. Lydia joined in that pleasant task, but gave Kitty a winking look and Mary sat herself at the pianoforte, judging that her mother would not complain of a headache.

Jane crossed to Lizzy who grasped her hand, “I am sorry that the subject has turned from you, but I guess you are not.”

“I am not. But, Lizzy, have you made a fine conquest?”

“Not at all. His manners are extremely pleasant. He presents himself far better to his inferiors than his cousin did at first. But there is something wanting in seriousness, I think.”

Kitty wanted to contradict her sister, as she knew Lydia could also, but she remained silent. Lord Ashbourne had not acknowledged their prior acquaintance; he would doubtlessly not acknowledge Lydia’s either.

“You are severe. Perhaps you do not wish a certain gentleman to think you prefer his cousin,” said Jane.

“Not three hours engaged and you have become bold,” was Lizzy’s response.

At length there was nothing more to discover about Lord Ashbourne so the talk returned to the wedding. It was to occur at the end of September after the banns had been called. Now all that was to be decided was where they were to honeymoon and for how long. Kitty hoped Jane would have some say in the matter; it did not seem to be the case as Kitty lured Lydia from the room while the rest were distracted in choosing destinations.

“Lydia, Lord Ashbourne did not acknowledge our former acquaintance. I beg that you don’t … “

“I doubt I shall speak to the horrid man. If he had not come along, I would be Mrs George Wickham.”

“Lydia. If he had not come along, you would be very unhappy indeed. There are handsomer and richer men in the world than Mr Wickham, who are not likely to spend all of the money you could spend on gowns on gaming tables.”

Lydia looked as if she might actually take that into consideration. “Perhaps. If Mr Wickham had abducted me, it might even have been quite thrilling.”

Kitty did not follow her sister’s train of thought at all. “I beg your pardon?”

“A handsome viscount, riding to my rescue – he apparently stopped for pistols in case Wickham should have objected.”

“Was not Colonel Forster with him?”

“Oh yes, but who would put a pudgy Colonel into the story?”

That Kitty could not argue with, she was just happy that Lydia would not expose herself the following night. Mr Bennet had, as they had all expected, forgotten his former strictures and all of the Miss Bennets were to go to the dance.

@@@@@@



Emma Lucas was a charming girl between Lydia and Kitty’s ages, and was just as pliant and good natured as her sister, Maria. She also had Charlotte’s common sense. Thus, she was not at all upset that the room spoke almost universally of Jane and Mr Bingley’s engagement. They were all atwitter to see Mr Bingley’s party arrive and the expression upon that gentleman’s face.


They were not to be disappointed. Mr Bingley was all smiles and stepped first towards Jane. She was his only focus. His sisters, however, looked as they ever did, though they exerted themselves by smiling at Jane. Kitty did not think them pleased with the connection, but they clearly realised their brother was not to be swayed and he could hardly turn back now without losing honour.

Lizzy whispered something very similar to her while they stood by the punch bowl. Kitty wondered if Lizzy was hiding from Mr Darcy who had reappeared as quietly as he had disappeared, and was standing silently behind Jane and Mr Bingley. He looked neither unhappy nor happy.

Sir William Lucas descended upon the other two members of Mr Bingley’s party, and drew them into conversation.

Kitty watched, and thought she heard the words ‘St James’ Court’ and knew it to be true when Lizzy cringed beside her. Then he waved Emma over towards them, and introduced her. She wondered if Sir William had connived at the next outcome, which was that Lord Ashbourne asked if Miss Emma had any dances available to him.

He was scolded. This was a country dance and no one organised such things so early! Emma could oblige him with any dance, indeed. So Emma was to be belle of the ball once more, with their handsome new acquaintance leading her out to open the dancing.

Kitty was so engrossed that she did not notice Mr Fitzwilliam cross to her.

“May I have the honour of the first dance?”

She looked at his outstretched hand suspiciously. “Is your dancing better than your flirting?”

“Infinitely. And Ash made me practice the steps before we came.”

Kitty could not prevent her laughter and allowed Mr Fitzwilliam to lead her into the dance.

She observed, as did everybody else, Lord Ashbourne and Emma dance down the set. They were well matched – for what did the younger Lucas girls have to do, as they were not out, but practice and practice all of their social graces?

Several times during their own dance Mr Fitzwilliam scolded Kitty for paying too much attention to their companions and not enough to himself; yet at the end of the dance he petulantly requested another dance at some later point in the evening.

“For you did not even notice the trouble I took over my steps!”

Kitty was asked to dance the second by one of the older Lucas boys, and as she agreed she kept half an eye on Lord Ashbourne tempting Jane to dance with him.

“You cannot dance every dance with your fiancé, Miss Bennet, it would be unseemly.”

Young Rupert Lucas did not mind Kitty’s distraction; he was young enough that his chief enjoyment at a dance was the dance itself.

Her next partner, a young clerk at Uncle Phillips’, expressed some impatience with her. Kitty was normally such an obliging and perfect partner, but tonight she was distracted. Lord Ashbourne had next asked Lizzy to dance. She heard him ask, and then tease Mr Darcy into asking her to stand up with him for the following dance.

Mr Darcy had not stood out on the side as he once had done in Hertfordshire. He had danced with Miss Bingley, but he had done as much at that first Meryton Assembly. Kitty remembered everyone acknowledging that while dismissing him as rude and disobliging.

All she could think of while dancing with Mr Parker was that if Lord Ashbourne was making his way through the Bennet sisters, there would be one more dance before he would approach her.

Indeed, Lord Ashbourne approached Mary next, and Kitty moved closer under the pretence of wishing to see what the next dance was likely to be. A short break had been called due to some of the flooring becoming wet due to an unfortunate collision between a young Lucas and some punch.

After an introduction from Lizzy, Lord Ashbourne civilly requested Mary’s hand for the dance that was just forming.

“No,” said Mary bluntly.

Lord Ashbourne seemed taken aback, and Lizzy looked mortified. Kitty was feeling much the same.

“Thank you,” added Mary, “I take no pleasure in dancing.” She was, no doubt, glad she could now sit out the rest of the dances with no hope of her mother finagling someone to ask her to dance.

Mrs Bennet seeing this altercation swiftly came over, “You see, your lordship, my middle child is very serious. She would prefer to play for us all, but my next daughter – Kitty, come here child!”

Kitty did not much wish to come here, but she joined her mother.

“Kitty is an excellent dancer –“ Mrs Bennet looked in expectation at the viscount.

“Then I should be very happy to accept Miss Mary’s preference and dance with Miss Kitty instead.”

Why had her mother not called her Catherine? Catherine was a fine name; Kitty was childish and silly, and would, no doubt, remind him of that foolish child standing on a dark street in Brighton.


What should have been utter joy was tinged with some misery, as Kitty was never sure whether he would have asked her next if her mother had not interfered. She had not a clear confirmation that he liked her well enough to dance with her.]]> Shemmelle Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 17 May 2013 19:57:12 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96947,96947#msg-96947 Jane and the Vanishing Valet 13 14 (4 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96947,96947#msg-96947Chapter 13

Caleb ascertained that the search of the house yielded no sign of a missing valet, alive or dead, and proceeded to the library.

“I would like the attention of you all, if I may,” he said, quietly.

All eyes turned to him.

“Have you uncovered some grisly remains, Mr Armitage?” asked Persis, cheerfully.

“No, Miss de Saumerez, none of the searchers discovered any sign of the missing valet,” said Caleb.

“Depend upon it, the fellow was waiting and slipped into the study not long after Thomas had left, and fled the house before the snow stopped, and his footprints were covered. Either that or it snowed later in the night too,” said Vernon Coate.

“Oh no, sir, it isn’t deep enough,” said Simmy, “If he had left and it had snowed on top, there would be partly filled footprints, but they would have been there. Unless he had some means to pass over the top of it somehow , like on a sled, but I don’t think the ground slopes away enough to make a sled go, you know.”

“I don’t think there’s a sled that he could use in any case,” said Phoebe. “We had one when we were children, but Vernon didn’t like sharing with his cousins when James and Thomas were small, and he burned it.”

Caleb turned to look at the Captain in some surprise.

Vernon Coate turned red to his ears.

“Children get odd notions,” he muttered.

“It’s being an only child,” said James, “Vernon don’t like sharing anything very much. Never has.”

“I see,” said Caleb. “May I infer that you and Thomas do not get on particularly well with your cousin?”

James shrugged.

“Well, we outgrew our childish dislike of him, to learn to pity him for not having the advantages we have,” he said.

“What do you mean, pity?” demanded Vernon Coate. “My inheritance is greater than yours, you have no advantages over me!”

“Yes I do,” said James, “I have three brothers. And a sister, though at times it’s hard to find advantages in that.”

“What has not liking Vernon much got to do with anything?” asked Thomas. “Are you suggesting Uncle George was struck by mistake because of the family resemblance? I think that’s doing it a bit too brown – and if I struck Vernon it would be face to face.”

“Do you want to do him an ill turn?” asked Caleb.

Thomas shrugged.

“Not particularly. He has grown out of being tediously selfish and childish and manages to act genially enough. Why? I don’t understand.”

“The thought has arisen,” said Caleb, “that perhaps with a wager involved, one of you brothers might have tried to pull the wool over the eyes of your cousin by pretending to be his new valet – which would account for the family resemblance as much as if he were the natural of one of the older generation.”

The four brothers exchanged a look that united them in the disappointment of a chance missed.

“By Jupiter, that would have been famous, if we had only thought of it!” opined Nicholas.

“Armitage, do you really think I would not recognise my own cousins?” demanded Vernon, who had gone pale and was fingering his moustache nervously.

“Well, that would be why it might have been done by way of a wager,” said Caleb. “I suppose it may depend on how often you see them; and how fond they are of getting up plays, such that they understand the importance of acting a role. Where servants are concerned, most people note the livery, not the face; and that made even more likely by the wearing of a wig, like some old fashioned footmen. Braintree might have had hair of any colour under that wig, and moreover, the different style of hair alters the shape of the face, as the ladies can tell you.”

“Indeed yes; and men are such unobservant creatures, generally,” said Jane. “A schoolroom miss, dressed demurely and with her hair in plaits might be ignored by gentlemen callers who, a few weeks later, are queuing to dance with her, when she has her hair up in a flattering style, and without any awareness that they passed her by without noticing such a short while before. Men have less choices in the matter of hairstyle than women, but even so, the wearing of a powdered wig will make a man look older as well as giving his face a different shape to that if it is surrounded by the curls of the Titus, like you, Thomas.”

Thomas Waynefleet grinned.

“No need to sound so disapproving, Mrs Armitage, it’s sheer indolence that I can’t be bothered to keep it as short as the Brutus,” he said. “I take your point, though. Pulling it all backwards into a queue is going to make quite a difference. But it wasn’t me,” he added, running his hands over his cheekbones to draw his own hair backwards.

“No, it isn’t you,” agreed Jane, looking at him carefully. “And even allowing for the ageing effect of a wig, I’m fairly certain it was not Nicholas or Charles either,” she added.

“I wouldn’t want to wear a wig, it might damage my hair!” declared Charles.

“He’s too young to carry it off, in any case,” said Nicholas.

James shrugged and gathered his own short locks to push them backwards.

“Behoves me, I suppose, to prove it wasn’t me,” he said, “Though it puzzles me what we might have to gain in hurting Uncle George.”

“Well on the surface, and with Thomas’ explanation over the matter of the captaincy that was purchased, I can’t see anything either,” said Caleb.

“Excuse me, why did you think my cousins might be masquerading as a valet under my nose?” demanded Vernon Coate.

“Why did I think they might, or why did I come to the conclusion that the valet might be an imposter?” asked Caleb.

“Either! Both!” said the captain, crossly.

“Well, that the valet was not what he seemed, and was no valet, was apparent, from his lack of ability in caring for your clothes,” said Caleb, “and that he had never spent any time in his room was quite apparent too,” he added.

Vernon Coate goggled.

“Well, if he has managed to leave, he would not have left any sign of his possessions,” he said.

“But it’s a strange man who never lights a candle, doesn’t pare his nails, or use the usual offices, or place his wig on the commode, even if he doesn’t re-powder it,” said Caleb. “No signs that he had ever been in there, nor that he had a sufficiency of clothes with him to carry out a masquerade for more than a day or two. He was no real valet. That he was never seen by the other servants in the one time he might have had to relax for an hour or two, that is when the gentlemen of the house were taking their brandy and entertaining themselves for the evening, was highly suggestive that he was needed at this time too.”

“Are you implying that he was a gentleman? Preposterous!” said Vernon Coate.

“I wager I’d have remembered to use his room,” said Nicholas Waynefleet.

“I hope you would have better taste than to carry off such an imposture,” said Vernon Coate. “Armitage, has it occurred to you that there is another type of person who might be expected to be kept busy during that time, who might not know the duties of a footman?” he demanded.

“I don’t claim omniscience,” said Caleb.

“Well, so you should not; almost blasphemous,” grunted the captain. “The footmen are also busy then, carrying out the dishes, bringing brandy, and helping with putting the dishes away when they are washed. What more natural than for him to be posing as a different kind of servant?”

“It’s an interesting theory,” said Caleb. “I have not questioned the servants over whether there has either been a new footman, or one of their number behaving oddly by pretending to be a valet. They, after all, are going to recognise each other more readily because it is not the livery they notice first. I will explore this possibility, but I fancy it is a slim one, or one of those I have been using in the search is likely to have come forward.”

“Is it possible, sir, that the valet might have dressed as a footman temporarily, after wounding our uncle, seeing that the snow would give him away, and then left only after there had been people trampling about outside, when his escape was less obvious?” suggested Thomas. “That’s what I would do; a ruse de guerre as it were.”

Caleb looked upon him with approval.

“Well, lad, if you can think that clearly and well, you won’t need to buy your promotion, for you’ll likely earn it,” said Caleb. “Though it don’t cover why he wasn’t being sociable with the other valets,” he added.

“Sir, if he was an impostor of any kind, he might fear to socialise, in case anyone penetrated his disguise – a bold villain, but not quite bold enough,” said Thomas, eagerly.

“A good point,” said Caleb. “Though he had already alerted the suspicions of my man, at least, for being unable to perform his duties. And the deficiencies that he displayed were such that were not those of a man accustomed to any kind of menial work. I confess myself much puzzled about this man; and indeed we have no guarantee that it was he who struck down Major Coate, though it looks likely, for it is hard to believe in coincidence. And the safe has been emptied of the jewels and papers. I fancy that I must test your idea, Thomas, and turn out the stable servants while there is yet light, and seek for footsteps in the snow leading away from the house, away from the confused jumble of prints now surrounding the various exits.”

He left the library with Jane.

“You aren’t expecting to find any, are you?” said Jane.

“Oh, are you coming to think what I am thinking, Jane-girl?” said Caleb.

“I believe so,” said Jane, outlining her own hypothesis. Caleb nodded.

“It fits the facts and the motivations,” he said. “Proving it might be hard.”

“Perhaps we might let it be known that the major is expected to regain consciousness by the morning, and that he is sleeping comfortably enough to need no-one to sit with him,” said Jane. “Aunt Hetty is generally quite loquacious, and she also adores being helpful. If I ask her to chatter about how much better the dear major is, I am sure she will manage to give just the right information. And then we might wait in his room for out culprit to make his move.”

“Fowler and I will wait in his room, Jane-girl: you’ll have nothing of it,” said Caleb, firmly. “He’s a dangerous cove…. Oh, very well, but leave the rough work to Fowler and me.”

“I would not dream of doing anything else, my masterful husband,” said Jane, demurely.

Caleb could only think of one answer to that, and Jane found herself well kissed.



Chapter 14

The stable staff were none too happy to be turned out to seek for fleeing footsteps; though when Pigeon recognised Caleb he gave him grudging respect as a man who had helped seize a highwayman masquerading as a groom, as well as Pigeon’s erstwhile master; Caleb had sworn affidavit that Pigeon had no part of any illegal actions. It might have gone ill for Pigeon, and the simple minded stable lad, Derkins, had not Caleb given such a deposition, and Pigeon at least appreciated it, even if he disapproved, as he said, with a spit, to his fellows, of gentlemen getting themselves up disguised as grooms and indeed having anything to do with Bow Street.

It took up most of the afternoon, and was, as Pigeon reported to Caleb, a fruitless affair as there were no footprints to be found.

Caleb smiled grimly.

“Oh, finding nothing is a finding too, Pigeon,” he said. “When a horse has a tender hoof and you don’t find a stone in it, you know something else has caused it.”

Pigeon stared.

“Arrrr” he agreed in his country idiom.

Caleb handed over several coins.

“Reckon the men will need a drink for their efforts,” he said.

Pigeon pulled his forelock.

“Reckon they’ll toast your good health and success,” he said.




Caleb, who had searched no less hard, though with no expectation of finding anything, came in to warm his hands by the library fire.

“Any joy?” asked Samuel Waynefleet.

“None whatsoever,” said Caleb, “but as several of us have been down to the village, a clever man might have put his feet where others trod, and in the confused tangle of feet in a village, might easily have slipped away. I can account for every trail of footsteps to the village, but if he were so bold a villain….” he shrugged.

“He is away then, and you have little expectation of catching him?” said de Saumerez.

“As a matter of routine, I will circulate descriptions of the jewellery, and I will ask Jane to produce a sketch of the fellow, as she saw him face to face,” said Caleb, “however, I believe we might get more information soon, for I believe the major’s condition has improved. I understand Miss Bates might tell us more in a short while as my wife’s dresser has relieved her at his bedside.”

“He will definitely recover, then?” said Vernon Coate. “My poor father! We can but hope such a blow has not robbed him of his wits!”

“Oh there was no bleeding into the brain, I assure you, Captain!” said Jane. “I have spoken to Aunt Hetty, and she purposes to join us shortly, and be ready to go into dinner with us. And if the good major makes a rapid recovery, dear Araminta and Persis, er, and Catherine, will not be robbed of their ball, or indeed an ice ball if the lake holds! I understand that there are young men in the neighbourhood who also have sisters, so that the young people present will not be confined to the company of their siblings and cousins too!”
Caleb smiled approval on his bride, who could give every appearance of being as inconsequential and fulsome in her speech as her dear Aunt Hetty; and her words also told him that she had apprised Miss Bates of what was required.

De Saumerez approached Caleb quietly.

“Your pardon, Mr Armitage,” he said in a low tone, “but I cannot believe that even if a bold villain placed his feet in the footsteps of others, that it would not show to a man trained in observation like yourself; and that indeed, for a man who believes that his quarry is gone to earth, you are remarkably blasé.”

Caleb smiled grimly.

“Mr de Saumerez, you might say so, but I could not possibly comment,” he said.

De Saumerez looked at him thoughtfully and nodded.

“You plan to trap him then? It might risk my brother-in-law.”

“Sir, I hope not,” said Caleb. “You will pardon me if I do not discuss any precautions I take.”

“Oh, understood,” said de Saumerz. “It will be a nasty business, scandal for the family.”

“I planned to take steps to preclude there being a problem,” said Caleb. “I have one or two ideas how to bring this about without whisper of scandal in any large degree.”

De Saumerez nodded.

“For my own part I care little, but it would upset my precious flower,” he said, nodding at Phoebe. Caleb wondered briefly how much of this attitude to Phoebe was an act for matrimonial harmony; and in sudden revelation recognised that de Saumerez was quite serious – and equally that Phoebe, for all her air of capability might be indeed quite upset, even if she did not wear her heart upon her sleeve as her sister Barbara did.

Miss Bates tripped into the room at this moment.

“Has my father regained consciousness, Miss Bates?” demanded Vernon Coate.

“Oh, Captain Coate! I would not say he has exactly recovered consciousness, for that would be an exaggeration and far toooptimistic!” said Miss Bates, “but he has shown some signs of being aware, having moved, and grunted, and put up an arm to block the light of the candle; and that is a very good sign indeed, for it shows that his sight is unimpaired, does it not? the light hurts his head, I make no doubt, for the pain from that wicked blow, but he is sensible enough in his understanding to try to block what it is that is hurting, and so preserve himself from pain. Naturally as soon as I understood what he was about, I moved the candle, and he made a noise that can only be described as a grunt of relief!”

“But he has said nothing?” asked Vernon, intently, “he has not yet been able to throw any light on his attacker?”

“Oh no, Captain, not yet,” said Miss Bates. “Indeed he appears to have fallen into a natural sleep rather than being unconscious and I suspect that when he wakes in the morning he will be perfectly sensible and not as inchoate as he presently is, though you must be patient for indeed though he might recall everything leading up to his attack with perfect clarity it is also quite possible that he will recall nothing at all for several days. Blows to the head are such dangerous things, of course, and he may need help before the blessings of Mnemosyne are upon him!”

“The blessings of who?” said Vernon Coate, confused.

“Mnemosyne, the mother of memory and mother of the muses,” said Phoebe, tartly. “Miss Bates referred to helping him regain his memory but used classical terms. Have you forgotten everything you learned at Eton, Vernon?”

“I don’t recall bothering to listen to all those Greek chaps,” said the captain.

“Well, it’s your loss,” said Phoebe, shrugging.

“Do you have much experience with head wounds, Miss Bates?” asked Roger de Saumerez.

“Why, as it happens, I do have some experience, gleaned through my life,” said Miss Bates. “As the daughter of the Manse, I was of course expected to bring succour to anyone in the village who might be sick or wounded, and I recall several occasions on which a blow to the head was the nature of the sickness, not all of whom recovered, for alas, the doctor would not go out to the poorer members of the parish, and some of the folk remedies were rather primitive, and indeed almost smacked of witchcraft if you can believe that, in this day and age, but of course, country folk can be so very backward in many ways, and inclined to quite inappropriate beliefs despite the teachings of the church! And of course, there is the recent example of the poor fellow who Jane nursed on her honeymoon!” she added.

De Saumerez looked at Jane with a raised eyebrow. Jane smiled a deprecating smile.

“The poor man collapsed at my feet just as we came out of the church, calling for sanctuary,” she said. “He had quite lost his memory, and we had to use clews from his clothing and speech to find out who he was, for he did not even know his own name. We were able to prompt him as we found out more, and apart from the immediate few minutes preceding the blow, he was restored to full memory, and able to testify against the rogues who had laid him low.”

“He recalled enough to identify them then?” said Vernon.

“Oh! yes,” said Jane, “for they had been threatening him and he recalled that. Caleb has also seen head wounds on the Peninsula, and he tells me that nobody ever recalls receiving them, but some people may recall more or less of what led up to them. I am certain your father will make a full recovery, and if he can remember anything about why Braintree should be in his study, it may help Caleb to track him down. But it is another day tomorrow!” she added, and then as a seeming afterthought, “Aunt Hetty, will Ella need to sit with him overnight?”

“Oh, my dear Jane, I do not think so!” said Miss Bates, “unless this murdering valet is still at large, of course, for then someone must watch over him. He is able now to lie on his side, and I cannot think he is in any more danger of vomiting, and hence drowning in it. He has cast up his accounts the once, you know – I forgot to tell you – which was how I knew he was coming round. I washed him of course and induced him to swallow a mouthful of water too. He will do very nicely!” she added.

“The murdering valet appears to have left the house, using the footprints of others to conceal his egress,” said Vernon Coate. “You need not fear to leave him, unless your vast experience fails you, and he is like to die suddenly.”

“Oh, it is always possible of course, if there is bleeding in the brain that has been missed,” said Miss Bates, “but now he has stirred, I have to say, I think it highly unlikely!”

“Well then, we must hope that you are right,” said Vernon Coate, “and that he will be able to give a cohesive testimony soon.”

“I say, I don’t want to sound as though I am whining,” said Thomas Waynefleet, “but if I was the last person to see him, when I took that letter to him, suppose the last thing he recalls is me? might he think I struck him?”

“I think it unlikely that he would associate anything as innocuous as discussing a letter with being attacked,” said Caleb. “It is, however, quite useless to speculate what he might, or might not recall until he is able to speak. Shall we go in to dinner?”]]> Sarah Waldock Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 12 May 2013 19:39:42 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96841,96841#msg-96841 A Man of No Consequence - Chapter Nine (62 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96841,96841#msg-96841


Elizabeth studied her pale reflection in the dressing mirror as the girl placed a final comb in her hair. She had always prided herself on her discernment and judgement of character, and it had been humbling indeed to discover that her powers of penetration were no less prone to fault than anyone else. With any other subject, the mistake—held up to the light by her father—would have been embarrassing, but she might have laughed it off soon enough. As her error involved Mr. Darcy, and had strongly influenced her decision to reject his marriage proposal, she found very little to laugh about.

Her father had known of Mr. Darcy’s true situation and had said nothing, but she could not accuse him as the sole architect of her misfortunes. She had broadcast the news that Mr. Darcy was a steward, and as the day passed she had resigned herself to accept whatever consequences might arise. But the decision had brought her no peace. She could not rest until she saw for herself that Mr. Darcy bore her no ill feeling.

She walked down the hallway and paused at the top of the stairs. When Mrs Hill reported a carriage at the end of the driveway, her mother’s voice below summoned her daughters into the drawing room

Alone upstairs, Elizabeth glanced into her parent’s darkened bedroom. Reassured it was empty she crept along the threadbare rug to look through the window, as a smart black chaise pulled up in front of the house and the postilion ran to the horses’ heads. John came forward to put down the steps, allowing two gentlemen to emerge from the dark interior.

Mr. Darcy stood before the front door, the light from the house illuminating him like an actor on a stage. While he appeared little different from their previous meetings, her new-found knowledge had the effect of holding up a lens, focussing her attention upon the small details of fashion, and stately air that marked him as a gentleman of quality. Clues she had ignored or overlooked because she had thought she knew him.

She reached out, running the tip of her finger down the cold glass, as though she could somehow reach across the distance to touch him. Then Mr. Darcy indicated with a imperious flick of his cane that Mr. Bingley should precede him into the house. This was a man used to giving orders, even to his friends.

How could she have been so blind to think him nothing more than a steward?

Elizabeth relinquished her position by the window to return to the top of the stairs. In the hallway below the visitors said little as Mrs Hill relieved them of their hats and coats, but the familiar timbre of his voice floated up to her before the door closed.

Aware that she was expected in the drawing room, Elizabeth ran down the stairs and tiptoed past her father’s library. When she joined her sisters the room fell silent, but conversation resumed when they saw it was only Lizzy. As she withdrew to the corner of the room, Mrs Bennet spared her a withering glance before returning to her battle plans. She intended to keep Mr. Bingley at her side through dinner and was determined that their handsome new neighbour should ask Jane for a dance at the assembly before she would allow him to leave.

“What about Mr. Darcy?” Kitty asked. “Must we dance with him as well?”

Mrs Bennet dismissed her daughter’s question with a wave. “Of course not, for Mr. Bingley will be bringing other guests to the assembly. I can’t imagine he would wish to socialise with his steward every evening, whether they are friends or not.”

Elizabeth’s heart sank. She had been so caught up in her own misery it had never occurred to her to enlighten her mother to the truth of Mr. Darcy’s circumstances, and it was clear that her father had told his wife nothing. Elizabeth tried to attract her attention. “Mama, there is something you must know about Mr. Darcy. He is not…”

Mrs Bennet, speculating with Lydia and Kitty about the colour of Mr. Bingley’s hair, did not hear, and the creak of a floorboard in the hall beyond was their only warning before Mr. Bennet opened the door to admit their guests.



~~*~~*~~



The wheels of the chaise rattled over the uneven road as Bingley slapped a gloved hand on his knee and glowered at his companion. “You still have not given me an adequate explanation for your behaviour this morning.”

Turning to look through the window at the darkening autumn sky, Darcy pursed his lips, refusing to voice the response that came to mind.

“Could you not have waited? I was only a little late.”

The whine in his friend’s voice pushed Darcy beyond the limit of his patience. “You sound astonishingly like your sister, Bingley. If you insist on repeating your complaint, at least strive to do so in a manner more worthy of your sex. I needed to speak to Mr. Bennet, and had no intention of delaying the discussion to suit any convenience of yours. You can either accept my apology or not, but you will hardly make yourself a pleasing guest at Longbourn if you insist on sulking all evening.”

They continued their journey in silence. Although he understood his friend’s anger at being left behind, any lingering resentment would be of short duration, and Darcy was otherwise satisfied with his morning’s work. Despite the discomfort involved in holding such a mortifying interview with a gentleman he was scarcely acquainted with, the result had been the best he could have wished for. All that remained now was to seek another private moment with Elizabeth and hope she would this time return a favourable response.

Given his own feelings, and those he believed Elizabeth to possess, he could accept no other outcome.

His friend shifted in his seat, looking past the postilion to check on their progress. Although Bingley had been into Meryton once or twice since he first arrived at Netherfield, he was unfamiliar with the area and had not yet travelled beyond the town, so everything they now passed was new to him.

Arriving at Longbourn, they were first shown into Mr. Bennet’s study, much to the impatience of his friend. Once he had made the introductions, Darcy stood back, waiting in silence as their host solicited Bingley’s initial impressions of the neighbourhood in which he had chosen to settle. His friend did not disappoint, enthusing over the beauty of the vistas, the easy distance to town and the many years of pleasure he anticipated enjoying the comfort of Netherfield Hall.

Mr. Bennet, who had risen from his chair with the aid of a stout ash cane, smiled and nodded in all the appropriate places. Indeed, he seemed in no hurry to join the rest of the family and Darcy, who desired nothing more than to see Elizabeth, began to wonder whether the older man intended to remain here all evening.

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said at last, “I suppose I should make you known to the rest of the family.” As he limped down the hall Darcy offered an arm in support, but he waved it away. “The leg needs exercise, if it is to become useful again.” He paused in front of a door that looked much like all the others. The only difference was the chatter of feminine voices in the room beyond. Glancing at his guests, their host gave what Darcy hoped was an encouraging smile and turned the handle.

Like a blanket dropped over a birdcage, a sudden silence marked their entrance as the heads of those ladies present all turned, as one, to face them. As Mr. Bennet began to introduce his family, the spell broke and a corresponding rise in volume assailed his ears.

Darcy studied and discounted each set of feminine features. He identified Mrs Bennet, not only from her age but also with the benefit of Elizabeth’s description. The wide smile, unleashed upon Bingley, was vaguely lupine as she welcomed him to the locality. He had considered the possibility that Elizabeth might have exaggerated her mother’s propensities as a matchmaker, but the minutes following her introduction to Bingley had proven her description entirely accurate. Darcy recognised Mrs Bennet’s type, and her calculating glance that seemed to sum up his friend’s worth to the nearest half a crown.

Not wishing to witness the moment when that same appraisal turned towards him, Darcy allowed his attention to wander around the room. Miss Bennet, known to him from their meeting in Meryton, offered a pleasant welcome, her countenance serene and untroubled. Two younger girls then pushed forward, determined not to be denied their share of the introductions. Fortunately their attention skipped over him in favour of his friend, leaving him free to continue his search.

Elizabeth stood next to a solemn, studious female furthest back from the door, her attention focussed upon the carpet. Even unsmiling, her beauty cast that of her plain sister into the shade. He waited until she looked up, and as their gaze locked he felt a hitch in his chest as something stirred deep within him. Even after her rejection, her power over him had not diminished one whit.

Despite her maid’s efforts, Elizabeth’s pale complexion and the dark smudges under her eyes hinted that she had slept no better than he. Her fingers toyed nervously with the fringe of her shawl and he hoped that Mr. Bennet had not been unduly harsh with his daughter when he had spoken to her this morning. Darcy lifted his eyebrows in unspoken question, but Elizabeth only coloured as she averted her gaze. An enquiry from Mr. Bennet forced him to turn away to answer.

While Elizabeth had offered little outward reaction to their presence, the same could not be said for the other young females of the household. As they chattered away, he wondered if it was a symptom of them moving in such a confined and unvarying society that guests should be received with such unrestrained enthusiasm. However, if the younger members bestowed their inane conversation with liberal impartiality, the same could not be said for Mrs Bennet. After less than quarter of an hour in her presence, Darcy could see that her attention towards her visitors was uneven at best.

To Darcy, she had been welcoming and polite but there was none of the gushing flattery he would expect from a confirmed matchmaker. Apart from asking how he liked the neighbourhood she had shown no interest in his thoughts or opinions. The opposite, however, was true of his friend, who received every excess of civility in her power.

This inequality continued as they were seated in the dining room. Mrs Bennet, after apologising for their uneven number at the table, sat Bingley on her left as she directed Miss Bennet to the chair on his other side. Once that task was complete she seemed to lose interest in everyone else, advising Darcy and her remaining daughters to dispose themselves wherever they wished.

Her dismissal confused and irked him—particularly when Bingley seemed to be so much in charity with her—and he could not explain it. Darcy’s fortune alone was enough to see him feted and flattered in the homes to which he was invited. He did not necessarily enjoy such sycophancy, but accepted it as his burden to bear. He might have once or twice desired a little less attention, but never with any expectation that his wish might be granted.

It also left him wondering whether Elizabeth had, in fact, been correct when she said her mother would never accept him as a suitor. Was the woman’s blatant preference for his friend intended to convey her disapproval?

Mr. Bennet had a curious light in his eye as he took his place at the head of the table. “As my wife has given us the choice, I think you should sit here, Mr. Darcy, next to me. Lizzy, I would like you here.” He indicated to his right. Darcy took the chair on Mr. Bennet’s left, where he had an excellent view of Elizabeth and also his friend at the other end of the table. During the meal he confirmed his initial observations of Mr. Bennet as a gentleman of quick mind and sarcastic humour, but to that he could now add an understanding of the other members of the Bennet family.

The two youngest he dismissed as being reflections of their mother, and just as empty-headed. The plain young woman sitting next to Elizabeth listened and said little, although whether out of ignorance or lack of confidence he could not say. Mrs Bennet—a shallow woman of mean intelligence—kept no thought in her head beyond the task of marrying off her daughters, and Darcy had no intention of courting her favour.

He would certainly have been offended by her overt manoeuvrings towards Bingley, had Elizabeth not previously warned him of her nature. Darcy watched her squirm under the embarrassment of some of Mrs Bennet’s more outrageous comments, but they had only increased his determination to protect Elizabeth from any future distress and embarrassment at the hands of her mother.

That brash matriarch was presently looking with maternal fondness upon Miss Bennet, who remained oblivious while in quiet conversation with Bingley. From speaking with Elizabeth, Darcy had guessed her close bond with her eldest sister and was inclined to think well of the young woman. During their brief meeting in Meryton she had seemed a sensible, practical female and—watching her with Bingley—he recognised a familiar spark of interest in his friend’s eye. Considering how Charles fell into and out of love with tedious regularity, he would have to keep an eye on the situation. Given his own desire for a closer connection with the Bennet family—or one of them, at least—it would not do for Bingley to toy with the affections of Elizabeth’s favourite sister.

It was, he thought, a mark of Mrs Bennet’s ignorance that she was content to encourage the interest of his notoriously fickle friend, while rejecting him as an acceptable husband for Elizabeth.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bennet continued to offer his support. Throughout his conversations with Darcy, he attempted to coax Elizabeth towards whatever subject fell under discussion, using an odd mixture of questioning and gentle teasing. As the evening progressed, Darcy found himself drawn to Elizabeth, unable to ignore the nervousness in her voice or the absent way she clutched her napkin. He had expected a certain amount of discomfort on Elizabeth’s part, considering their previous meeting, but this continued anxiety worried him and he was determined to uncover the root of her distress.

He had managed to ignore most of his hostess’s inane chatter, but during a lull in their conversation Mrs Bennet’s voice rang out across the table like a cracked bell. “I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield, Mr. Bingley. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope.”

“Whatever I do is done in a hurry, and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”

One of the younger daughters exclaimed at the thought of Bingley retreating to town, an idea Mrs Bennet hastened to discourage. “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”

“It all depends upon where I find myself. When I am in the country I never wish to leave it. When I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”

“I am pleased to hear it. Particularly as we have our little assembly in Meryton tomorrow evening. Do you dance, Sir?”

“Indeed I do. There is nothing I like more.” Bingley smiled as he added, “I am very much looking forward to it, as is my friend there.”

At this, Mrs Bennet looked down the table towards Darcy. “That will be very pleasant for you, Sir, I am sure. I’ll wager you do not get the opportunity to attend many such affairs.”

He was about to observe that he attended far more than he would like, when Bingley said, “Oh, Darcy is very fond of dancing. In fact, he enjoys it above all things.”

Bingley’s wide grin marked his speech as retribution for Darcy’s earlier desertion. Knowing his friend’s penchant for mischief, Darcy fixed him with a warning glare. “Mr. Bingley has over stated my feelings on the subject.”

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, keeping his voice low. “I am sure you are not entirely averse to dancing, Mr. Darcy, with the right partner.”

Darcy’s gaze swung to Elizabeth in time to catch her stare, and they shared a moment’s connection before she dipped her head, shielding her eyes with her fine lashes. “Indeed, you are quite correct. I hope Miss Elizabeth has not forgotten that she has promised me a dance at the assembly.”

She coloured under the weight of their observation, but raised her eyes to meet his once more. “I could not forget such a promise. If you still wish it, I would be happy to dance with you.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “With a temptation such as that I might consider attending the assembly myself. Despite being unable to dance I could still find some entertainment as an observer.”

At the other end of the table, an effusive Bingley offered his gratitude for an excellent meal, before asking a question Darcy did not quite catch. The response from their hostess was impossible to avoid. “Oh no, I always keep servants that can do their own work, Mr. Bingley. My daughters have nothing to do in the kitchen, unlike some other people I could mention. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and not all families are as fortunate in their circumstances.”

While Darcy could not be interested in the domestic arrangements of the Bennet family, he saw Elizabeth stiffen upon hearing her mother’s words. He thought it only natural that she would feel a certain amount of embarrassment. After a few further minutes, Mrs Bennet’s voice rose again at the other end of the table, this time her strident enquiry to Bingley was tinged with surprise. “A new steward? But what will become of Mr. Darcy?”

“I hope my friend will find something more fitting to occupy his time. Perhaps he will join me in a spot of fishing, but...”—Bingley raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug—“Darcy will, in the end, do whatever he chooses, because he can.”

Mrs Bennet’s eyebrows rose. “Are you saying Mr. Darcy is not your steward?”

Bingley met Darcy’s stare with a mixture of triumph and unholy delight. “Steward? Oh no, ma’am. My friend has merely been offering the benefit of his vast experience.”

Their hostess blinked then looked down the table as though seeing Darcy for the first time. She leaned closer to Bingley, her whisper loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. “So you do not employ him in any capacity?”

“Employ Darcy? Lord, no! I would be more likely to work for Darcy than the other way around.”

Temporarily speechless, Mrs Bennet fanned herself with a handkerchief but if she felt any embarrassment it was of short duration. “I cannot recall when I have been so mislead! Of course, had I met Mr. Darcy before this evening, I would have recognised at once that he could not be a steward.”

Darcy heard a noise to his right—something between a choke and a snort—and glanced at Mr. Bennet, who returned an expression of such innocence that it would not have looked out of place on one of the heavenly host.

As the meaning of Mrs Bennet’s words sunk in, Darcy stiffened. The stupid woman had thought he was the steward! Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man who could afford to employ ten stewards if he so chose. Schooling his features to outward calm, Darcy bristled at the idea that even a woman of Mrs Bennet’s ilk could believe him something less than the gentleman he was. He studied the congealing food on his plate, gripping the stem of his wine glass with such force that the fingernails pressed into his palm, but he allowed no sign of his anger to show.

There was a moment of discomfort, as he suffered the undisguised curiosity of the Bennet family. Then, Mrs Bennet leaned forward in her chair, a martial light in her eye as she began to redress her lack of attention with a series of probing questions. Had he known Mr. Bingley long? How did he find Hertfordshire? What did he think of his friend’s choice of estate? Had he considered looking for something similar for himself?

Darcy’s terse responses were almost automatic, leaving a part of his mind free to consider the situation he found himself in. He was familiar enough with the way their world worked to know that if Mrs Bennet had thought him a steward, then that same opinion would have likely been shared among the neighbourhood.

But how could Elizabeth, or even Mr. Bennet, allow such falsehood to flourish? Darcy took a breath, and then another as he imagined all the people he had spoken to during his stay at Netherfield. How many more believed him to be the Netherfield steward? Who could have caused this malicious rumour to be put about the neighbourhood? As much as he wanted to know, he pressed his lips together, not yet trusting himself to speak with any complacency.

Mr. Bennet sat back in his chair, his voice pitched for only those closest to hear as he answered Darcy’s unspoken question with one of his own. “I wonder what Lizzy was thinking of, spreading such tales.”

Her father’s comment—offered with only mild curiosity—produced the strongest reaction in Elizabeth, and her face turned the most alarming shade of grey, as though all the blood had drained from her. It could not have been Elizabeth. She knew him better than anyone. And yet, across the table she remained pale and silent, offering neither argument nor defence.


.]]> Heather F Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 13 May 2013 07:07:24 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96815,96815#msg-96815 Gold, All Gold (26 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96815,96815#msg-96815
A/N: This is just a vagary, the result of an attempt to break writer’s block for a RL project. I really can’t offer any other explanation. Perhaps it will afford some small entertainment value. Thanks to my betas for giving it a once over. ~ Renée


Gold, All Gold


November 1811, Hertfordshire

With a series of unfeminine grunts, Elizabeth Bennet strained against the tangle of limbs surrounding the hole that held her fast. It was no use. She exhaled, her breath visible in the foggy autumn morning. Her bonnet rested to one side where she had removed it when she grew overheated from her efforts at escape. She peered through the dimness to scan the Netherfield woods. Ashen trunks soared from the mat of rotting leaves, the filmy fretwork of mist clinging to their skeletal branches.

She stripped off her gloves and scooted toward her ensnared foot. If she could untie the laces, she might be able to wriggle out of her walking boot. Her ankle ached, but she ignored the discomfort. Freeing herself was more urgent. How she would return to the house was of secondary import.

The crunch of dead leaves jerked her head toward the sound. Something was coming. Though the local woods were not known to harbor predators, she was in a prone position. There. A shadow seemed to slip from tree to tree. Her heart rate increased.

He emerged into her sight, his greatcoat settling around his legs in a swirl of black. What perversity had driven Mr. Darcy into the grove this early that he of all people should find her? He who thus far in her sojourn at Netherfield amused himself with either staring or making enigmatic remarks. Such as his inexplicable proposal to dance a reel.

“Miss Elizabeth, are you hurt?” He was already crouching beside her, sincere concern in his eyes. At least he was not unfeeling.

She forced a light laugh. “Only stuck, I think.”

“Allow me to assist you.” He leaned over to examine her foot where it was wedged beneath the fallen tree. “You are some distance from the trail. May I enquire as to your object?”

“I wished to see the sun rise above the fog. It is the quickest route to Miller’s Hill, but I slipped on the damp bark when I was climbing over.”

“Most young ladies would have skirted such an impediment.” He spared her a chastening glance.

How like him to reprove her at such a moment. She lifted her chin. “Most young ladies would not be walking before breakfast nor would they stray from the path.” She thought she caught a fleeting smile as he looked down, but that was unlikely.

“May I have your permission to attempt to extract your foot?”

“Of course.”

His large hands wrapped about her lower leg and he began to manipulate it. She stared off into the fog-shrouded trees, the pain compelling her to bite her lip. Perhaps she had sustained greater injury than she realized.

When he released her, she returned her attention to his efforts. He was removing his gloves, seeming to have arrived at the same conclusion as she when he stumbled upon her. He knelt in the moist dirt and bent close to the trunk, his fingers at work on her laces. His coat pooled behind him in a black waterfall. At least she wore long, thick stockings and there was no chance of unwelcome contact with his skin. She did not cherish any desire to know what that might reveal.

He tugged on her leg and she whimpered, but managed not to cry out.

His sharp gaze sought hers. “You are hurt.”

“My ankle. I think it may have twisted.”

He rocked back on his heels and into a squat. “If I roll the tree a little, do you think you could remove your foot?”

The good-sized beech was recently fallen, probably in the storm that caught Jane a few days prior. He was built on a formidable scale, tall and broad of back and shoulder. Still… “Mr. Darcy, even you could not—”

He glowered at her and she ceased mid-statement, irritated but not wishing to insult her erstwhile rescuer.

“On three.” He surveyed the log, selected two sturdy branches for greatest leverage, braced his shoulder against the mottled bark and began to count. His face reddened, the cords of his neck straining against his cravat. With a creak the pressure eased. She yanked free, groaning as she withdrew her throbbing limb.

He was before her the next instant. “May I?”

“Thank you.” She swiped at her face, embarrassed by her tears.

He pushed her skirts aside and removed her shoe to probe the injury with astonishing gentleness. The sprain was tender but not excruciating.

“There are no rents in your stocking and I cannot feel that it is broken. You are very fortunate, Miss Elizabeth.” He tied her boot without haste, rose and extended his hand. “Do you think you can stand?”

She accepted instinctively, her ungloved fingers closing around his naked wrist, even as his did around hers. She sucked in a breath as the anticipated dizziness overwhelmed her, though this time without even a hint of nausea.

She awakened in an amber world, unexpectedly familiar though she could not account for why. A gilded haze stretched as far as the eye could see. There were no trees, only limitless fields of gold, their flaxen stalks rolling in an imperceptible wind, and before her a sea, if sea it could be called, all gold, pure gold, as still and glassy as a mirror. The sun, an enormous glowing orb somehow muted in the gold of that place, hovered over the horizon. She stretched her bare arms before her. They were as bronze and smooth as a sculpture, and she reached with one marveling hand to feel her own skin, surprised that it was warm flesh.

Bronze fingers thicker than her own trailed down her arm to grasp her hand. The sensation would have raised gooseflesh in her waking reality, but she only stared as the shiny track left by his touch faded. How was it possible that she was here with him?

He moved before her and she lifted her eyes to Darcy’s face, the strong angles of cheek and brow and jaw highlighted in the tawny light. His dark hair was gilt-tipped and a sun blazed in his irises. She had always considered him handsome, regardless of his manners, but in this place he was magnificent. He was staring at her in his customary fashion and this time she read admiration in his looks—perhaps even awe.

“You—” His other hand caressed her cheek.

She could not move, could hardly breathe in the dense, balmy air.

“Come.” His hand closed tighter about hers and he led them into the liquid gold.

She did not hesitate, though she felt she ought to have resisted. They were both fully dressed, and though Darcy still wore his greatcoat, she could not say where her pelisse had disappeared nor how she came to be clothed in such an exquisite evening gown, with its sweeping décolletage and caramel embroidery drizzled in a confection of curlicues. The gown was more elegant than any she had worn or owned, indeed more elegant than any fashion plate she had seen. The fabric swirled and flowed about her in an endless variation of spun gold.

The sea rose thick and warm around her calves and knees and thighs. Wading proved difficult but Darcy propelled them implacably forward, as if leading into the heart of the sun which seemed to grow and expand to monumental proportions.

She passed a palm across the concentric rings created by their passage and checked over her shoulder. Wavelets lapped at the shore with a metallic glint, already many yards behind them.

When the liquid closed over her exposed shoulders, she balked and Darcy stopped, the shimmering expanse reaching only to his chest. His coat floated behind him in a wake of deepest bronze. He arched a brow, urging her onward.

“I am afraid that I am out of my depth, sir.”

He smiled—such a smile as she had never seen—and he seemed to sink almost beneath the surface. His hands connected with her submerged body and she gasped. When he stood, she was cradled against him. She did not protest, did not want to protest. He pushed further into the golden deep and she looped her arms around his shoulders, her focus oddly riveted by the gold dripping like honey from her bronze skin and coursing slowly down his coat.

She felt the rise and fall of his chest, lifted her eyes to his noble profile chiseled into resplendence by the motionless sun.

“Oh, Elizabeth.” His voice was full of mystery and gravitas and near, so very near—

With a shock, the golden light succumbed to shadow and the clement air grew cold. She floundered for awareness, caught fleetingly between two worlds, and found herself standing in the veiled, leaden woods.

Mr. Darcy’s hands were shaking her shoulders gently. “Miss Elizabeth.”

She shivered.

“Are you well?” His concern was magnified by his proximity. “You seemed faint. I thought you might—”

She writhed in the grip of conflicting emotions, still dazed and sated from being in his arms. She stared into his inscrutable eyes, searching for recognition and thought she saw the fire just extinguishing in their inky depths. It could not be. He could not be…

Apprehension clawed at her. When seized by a vision she was unconscious of what occurred around her. Her family said it passed in a twinkling, though her countenance usually reflected some sentiment—peace or delight, anger or disdain. No one was privy to what she saw.

He stepped back a full pace. “Are you certain that you are well?”

“Yes, quite,” she placed tentative weight on her sore ankle and winced, “though I may require your arm to hobble back to Netherfield.”

“Of course.” But he did not move to assist her.

He was troubled. She discerned it in how he regarded her, in the alert narrowing of his eyes, curiosity mingled with something she could not identify. Prudence necessitated she resolve it now, while it was still fresh in his memory and where they could not be overheard. “What did you see, Mr. Darcy?”

He started. “See?”

“Yes. When you took my hand to help me up.”

He spread his fingers, turning his hand to examine both sides as if the appendage did not belong to him. “I cannot—”

She sighed. “I will know the best manner in which to explain if you will kindly tell me what you saw.” She could not imagine what emotion he might have read in her face as she reveled in the solace of his embrace. It was exceedingly awkward. She needed his account that she might not reveal more than necessary, only enough to reassure him and secure his silence. And there was that sliver of hope she dare not entertain.

“You— I saw—”

She waited as he struggled through some inner dilemma.

The words tumbled out of him, one hastening upon another. “There was a flash and the woods seemed afire and then the very air was rippling with gold and you were—” His face contorted. “I am blathering like an idiot. This is ludicrous.”

She did not move to touch him, but her heart thudded in incredulity and anticipation. “Go on. I was?”

He looked away for a moment. “It is not worthy of conversation. Let us return.”

“No,” she cried. She could not lose this opportunity. “Please. It was not your imagination. I mean, it was in your imagination, but it was— oh, why can I not be coherent?” She wrung her hands, staring at him and wrestling with indecision. “I could show you what you saw, if you wish it.”

His brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

She took one step, closing the distance between them by a third. “I must touch your face.”

His mouth flattened into a line, but his lengthier stride brought him within reach. “This is utter madness.”

She stretched her fingers upward, anxiety coiling in her stomach. She had never admitted this much, had never done this outside her family. Never. Oh, that it should prove to be him—she had to make certain, one way or the other. Two fingertips connected with his temple.

Immediately she was transported into his arms, this time without dizziness. It was not at all what she expected and her mind whirled with the implications, yet she could not be troubled to puzzle it out, not here. They were in the sea of gold, under the ardor of an amber sun. She removed her hand and watched his head swivel systematically, taking in his exotic domain.

He appraised her nestled in his arms and blinked twice. Light glinted from the tips of his lashes, and the fire was rekindled in his eyes. “What is this place?”

“It is not so easily defined.” She smiled, trying to put him at ease. “It is a product of your mind and dreams, your heart and character.”

“I think I should recall if I dreamed all in gold.”

“Not like that, more emblematic. What does gold connote to you?”

“Wealth, certainly, but I am not one to dwell on my own consequence.” He looked affronted and she almost laughed.

“Gold might imply something you value highly, something precious.” She looked about again. “This realm, do you not feel it? There is a purity, a warmth to it.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up at some unvoiced thought. As the quiet stretched, he grew solemn again. “You are here.” He bent his forehead against hers and heat flooded her. “Like some bronze sculpture breathed to life.”

“So are you.”

He raised his head and she followed his gaze to the immense sun where it hung suspended, its amber light gleaming in a straight swathe down the brass sheet, a lustrous path beckoning them. “Where are we going?”

“Into the sun, it would seem,” she dragged a finger through the tepid brink, “but I know not. You are the one who led us here.”

“I simply strolled into the sea and presumed to carry you without so much as a by your leave?”

“If you let go, I would drown.”

“Then I will never let go.” His voice was resonant with conviction and tenderness.

She pillowed her head on his shoulder, comfortable, content, unconcerned. How long had she yearned and waited for one to whom her gift would not be a burden and despaired that she should ever know the consolation of being loved and held? She could linger in the intimacy of his gilded embrace forever.

Something scratchy against her cheek dissolved her contemplations. She was once again in the cloaked woods and she lifted her head from its cushion against the black wool of his greatcoat.

She pulled away with a blush and he released her. “Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, for imposing myself on you.”

“I believe it to be quite the reverse for it appears I have been entertaining you in my dreams.” His cheeks were ruddy, though whether from the frosty air or from embarrassment she could not distinguish. “It seems my secret has been exposed.”

“As has mine.” Naturally he preferred her ignorance, which meant she must find some means to bear the deprivation. She folded her hands. “You may depend on my discretion as I will depend on yours. Now that you are assured you are not going mad, we may forget the whole.”

“I am assured of no such thing, but I cannot forget. I meant what I said.”

She held her breath.

“I will never let you go, not unless you ask it of me.”

She examined his face, trying to reconcile the luster of those golden moments with the aloof, imposing gentleman she believed had scorned her. How could she be so faulty in her judgments?

In the prolonged quiet, he turned to retrieve their personal articles from the ground. He passed her the bonnet and then her gloves. Buttery soft leather encased her fingers and she brushed at the dirt that marred their mustard yellow nap. He donned his as well and offered his arm.

Never had a moment of vision led her astray and her underlying impression was one of generosity and integrity. There was only one choice, even if he were the imperious Mr. Darcy. She bestowed an unmistakable smile of assent on him and decisively took his elbow. “Where shall you lead us now?”

An answering smile illumined his countenance. “Where is this Miller’s Hill of which you spoke?”

“Not far,” she gestured behind, “at the top of the rise I was attempting. The trail is less abrupt, but more roundabout. I do not think I could manage either route.”

“I would not ask it, but I should still like to view the sun. With you.”

“Perhaps we might happen upon one another again some morning and once my leg is healed.”

Before she could object, his arms came behind her shoulders and knees and she was swept off her feet. “I suggest we go now.”

“You cannot seriously intend to carry me up the entire hill.”

“I will own you are not quite as weightless as you were in the sea, but I am equal to it if you will guide me along the most direct path.”

She laughed, but gave him instruction and he began their steady ascent through the trees. The crisp leaves rustled and twigs occasionally snapped beneath his boots.

“Tell me more about this extraordinary talent you have.”

She looked at him wonderingly. “You think it an advantage?”

“Of course it is. To be able to sketch another’s character without error, who would not want such ability?”

“Do not be misled. I err as often as anyone.” She laughed softly. “’Tis as much burden as it is blessing. When I was haunted by nightmares as a child and Papa was at a loss for what to do, he took me to the rector.”

“Did that help?”

“He called it a gift of discernment and in time I learned to use it wisely.” She shook her head. “The darkness, the brokenness that hides in the human soul—it is more than I can bear. For that reason as well as my intention to avoid what is in essence a forced confidence, I eschew contact with bare skin.”

“And if you do not, as when you took my hand, then what happens?” He glanced at her.

She abruptly looked away from where she had been mapping the shadow of dark whiskers along his jaw. “Every person is unique. Fragmentary images rush into my mind and convey an impression of that person’s character and desires. My father, for example, his sphere is a contemplative one, all browns—leather and coffee and books. And my sister Jane, hers is a flower garden in softest shades of serenity and sweetness. Sometimes I ask her to allow me a peek just for its soothing effect.” She smiled in remembrance, but did not mention how often of late she observed Bingley ambling about in the peaceful rosiness of Jane’s thoughts.

His brow furrowed. “But they are unaware of what you see?”

“They know nothing, experience nothing, not unless I show them.”

Small beads of perspiration began to spread across his upper lip. “And your capacity to share these images, how does that operate?”

“I could count on one hand the times I have done it. My father and sisters find the dizziness and nausea disconcerting.” She angled her head. “Did you?”

“Not at all. There was no discomfort.”

She was surprised by his answer but chose to continue her explanation. “Generally, with two fingers to the temple I can communicate the whole and the person watches over my shoulder, as it were.”

“It is always exact, the precise vision that you initially saw?”

She nodded and he frowned.

They exited the wood and the fog all at once, as if the mist were cotton batting stuck fast in the branches and restrained from evaporating into the blue sky. Darcy’s breathing was labored from his exertion, and the muscles in his arms shifted beneath her back and legs as she swayed against him. A few last surging strides brought them to the summit and he set her down in the crown of greying grass.

The sun was already well above the horizon, its blinding radiance amplified by boundless white. The fog stretched into the distance, hiding the landscape beneath a fluffy down coverlet. It undulated leisurely, breaking here and there around pointed treetops and solitary hills. Though sound was muffled, the air was fresh and calm.

“You have led me to a golden world and now one blindingly silver.” He paused in his unhurried revolution to smile down at her. “What shall I expect next?”

“Is it not glorious?”

“You will love the peaks of Derbyshire.” His eyes never left her face. “Miss Elizabeth, if no one can see your vision unless you share it, why did I catch a glimpse before you showed me?”

“As it has never before happened, I could not say, though I will own that I am interested in what you observed.”

“It was just a glimpse, the briefest moment and what I saw was you. You were stunning, standing on the shore of that golden sea in a—well, I believe it was a wedding gown.”

“I have never before been drawn into another’s vision.” She did not mention that his inspiration conjured her dress.

“Have you not?”

“Oh no, Mr. Darcy,” she pressed his sleeve, “I am not explaining this well at all. Today was the first time, the only time, that I have been a participant. Always I am an observer. I merely watch, as through a window—which is why you are unique. Not only was I present, but you knew me.”

“And the second time, what you showed me,” he squinted into the brilliance, “it was not a repeat of that initial glimpse I received.”

“With you it is different. With you”—she swallowed—“when I touched you, what was past had vanished and the vision resumed in unbroken sequence. We share that memory and the making of it.”

“Elizabeth.” He drew closer and squeezed her upper arm with one hand. “How dearly I should like to step into your dreams.”

It suddenly bore into her why she registered the familiarity of the amber hue, the same glow that illuminated those passing moments as she fell into sleep and as she first woke, that shielded recollection of her dreams in impenetrable light.

She regarded him in astonishment. “I think you have.”

“If these visions require an intimate connection,” he nudged her bonnet back on her head, “what would transpire if I kiss you?”

She knew not. The only movement was a fluttering inside.

He peeled one yellow glove from her hand, meticulous in his deliberateness, and pocketed it in his greatcoat. He raised her bare fingers in his gloved ones and held them slightly away from his brow. “Allow me to share your dreams.”

She watched his head draw near and his other hand found her nape. He pressed her fingers to his face and for a transitory moment she felt his cool cheek beneath her palm, his warm, soft lips upon her own, and then there was an explosion of gold. All gold. They were wrapped in the sun-drenched sea, rocked in the buoyant waters and the ochre sky was descending around them, a million tiny sparks flickering down, fiery flecks floating on molten gold. They caught in his hair, on his brows and lashes, on his cheeks and nose. She brushed a cloud from his shoulder and he laughed with her, its timbre cascading with humor and joy.

He took her in his solid, bronze arms and kissed her until in that glittering, gleaming realm where gold ran to gold, she no longer knew where she ended and he began.

Then everything faded—the gilded world, the hilltop view, the misty woods.

Her eyelids rose reluctantly to the yellow and orange flames curling from the coals and she looked about in confusion. She sat on the sofa in Netherfield’s drawing room, the gloom broken only by the modest blaze and a single candle on a small round table. But for the whisper of the fire, all was silent and still.

The day scrolled before her memory: a sunny morning walk alone, her mother’s mortifying call, hours at Jane’s bedside, a visit to the library, another stroll out of doors, dinner, the evening in company with the Bingleys, Hursts and Darcy, and none of the bizarre occurrences her sleep fabricated. The others must have retired and left her to doze. She felt both oddly betrayed and relieved. Jane would be missing her.

She started to leave, but sank back, overcome again with the strangeness of her dreams, with their intensity—and that she should dream of such intimacies with Mr. Darcy, toward whom, she reminded herself, she did not nurture a single tender feeling. She touched timid fingers to her lips.

Hinges complained and the door swung inward to admit a towering figure. She gaped at him. Darcy placed his candle beside its mate on the small table and strode to her, glancing once over his shoulder. “It is very late. I thought you would have returned to your chambers by now.”

“No, I—”

“My apologies that you were abandoned but I insisted you not be disturbed. I am afraid your ministrations to your sister have been overtaxing.”

She did not know what to say, what was real and what imagined. His very presence unnerved her, sent every sense reeling.

“Come, madam, rouse yourself.” His voice was commanding. “You must not linger here all night.”

She permitted him to pull her to her feet and stepped gingerly on her injured leg. There was no pain; her ankle was as sound as it had ever been.

He led her toward the exit and paused at the table, but did not move to give her a candle. He bowed his head for a long moment. She studied the breadth of his back, the same back that rounded over her boots, lifted a tree, carried her. She could not rid her mind of the images; she would never view him in the same manner again.

He turned with unexpected swiftness and his hands swallowed both of hers. “I must bid you good night here.”

She was startled, but she did not withdraw from his grasp. She noted a narrow line of dirt below the half-moon of his thumbnail.

He upturned one of her hands and, after reaching into his pocket, pressed a single mustard yellow glove into her palm.

She stared at it, uncomprehending. She explicitly remembered handing both gloves to a servant when she returned that afternoon. She examined them; dirt smudged several fingertips. “Where…”

“You must have lost it on your walk.”

Her fingers closed around the supple leather involuntarily. “I do not understand.”

He leaned down, his voice mellifluent in her ear. “Your dreams are as beautiful as you are, Elizabeth, and I should like nothing more than to bring them to fruition.”

He straightened and beheld her with meaningful eloquence. How could he know? It was inconceivable. Every faculty deserted her.

His eyes held her immobile and his fingers met her temple, his stroke a fleeting fire. She knew not how to support herself and reached for him as the world melted into gold, all gold.

THE END
]]> Renee B Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 19 May 2013 00:56:34 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96746,96746#msg-96746 Jane and the Vanishing Valet 11 12 (3 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96746,96746#msg-96746Chapter 11

All eyes turned on Roger de Saumerez.

“My dear, with all your legal training, don’t you think that was rather a rash remark to make to a Bow Street Runner, however much a gentleman he is?” said Phoebe, a trifle sharply.

“Perhaps Mr de Saumerez might like to elaborate on why he thinks it his fault that Major Coate was attacked,” said Caleb.

Roger de Saumerez shrugged.

“It’s simple enough,” he said, “as my wife says, I received a legal training, before inheriting enough of a competence not to need to practice, and to indulge such avocations as horticulture, antiquities and literature. George asked me to look over a codicil he wished to append to his will, with regards to the position of Araminta, whom he hoped to adopt as his daughter, since it seems likely that some of the assets of her father are likely to be seized by the crown. She should still have a comfortable competence, but he wanted her to be totally secure.”

“I understood that the assets were seized and held in trust, her being by way of a ward in chancery,” said Caleb, “the incomes permitted towards her keep, which have been administered by a solicitor Sir Nathanial Conant found for her, but laws of inheritance that complex make my head spin, so I may have misunderstood.”

“Oh, it may very well be so,” said Roger, brightening, “but he wished to adopt her in any case, so that she felt she had flesh and blood as well as her, as you might say, adopted family of you and Mrs Armitage. I took the codicil with me to work upon for him, but when I left his study at around a quarter past eleven, he had the safe door still open, for he was considering which of the family pieces it would be suitable to have reset for Araminta, and which should be left for Vernon’s wife, when he has one, and hence children. Phoebe and Barbara had their pick on attaining their majority,” he added.

“Anyone see the major after Mr de Saumerez?” asked Caleb, wishing idly that his brain would stop playing tricks on him to want to call the poor man Roger de Coverly, like the dance.

“Yes, I dropped in on him on my way to bed,” said Thomas Waynefleet, “and I don’t recall if the safe was open or not. I wasn’t looking, I had found one of his letters in the library that I knew he’d want for his memoirs; he said he’d been checking in the bound copies of the Gazette for the facts as reported to compare to the memories of his correspondent, because there is often some considerable discrepancy.”

“Not hardly surprising, on two counts,” said Caleb, “the first being the rendering of an action into the dry sort of language required for a report and then having that converted into newspaper sort of speech, in which much might be lost in both conversions, like a peck of peas weighed twice; and the second count being that a man’s memory is like any fisherman’s memory, when the fish that got away grows with every telling of the tale. Witness accounts of any event can vary widely, because of what motivates the witness, and what is important to them.”

“What do you mean?” asked Phoebe. She seemed genuinely interested.

“Well, Mrs de Saumerez, suppose you and your husband and daughters were asked about a couple you had seen walking out. I don’t doubt but that Miss de Saumerez would notice if the lady were fashionably dressed, or dowdy, and what trim her clothes had, because even sensible young ladies are aware of such things; and she might remark if the man were young and if he were good looking. I have equally no doubt that your younger daughters would notice anything out of the ordinary or outlandish, and if anything about the couple did not seem true to the appearance they were trying to make, for youngsters are very good at seeing things their elders do not wish them to notice. They would tell you in an instant, for example, if he were wearing a Cumberland Corset,” here the little girls giggled. Caleb went on, “your husband would doubtless be able to identify in English and Latin what flower the gentleman wore in his buttonhole, and if he noticed the lady, it might only to be irritated that any fabric flowers trimming her ensemble might be inaccurate.”

“He’s understood you very well, my dear,” said Phoebe to her husband. Roger smiled.

“Indeed!” he said. “I would like to think that I might also notice if his cuff were frayed or shiny where he rested it on a table to read or write, marking him as a scholar – or a clerk for that matter,” and he displayed his own slightly shiny cuff.

“Quite so,” said Caleb, “most people notice what is within their own experience.”

“And what would I notice?” asked Phoebe. Caleb regarded her thoughtfully.

“I believe, ma’am, you might be the rarest of people, an entirely objective and impartial witness who recalls what they see with perfect clarity and without exaggeration, though you might need help to bring it to mind,” he said. “Jane is such an one. If she gives you the height and weight of a man, you may be certain he will turn out to be very close to her estimate. Many people, especially if subject to attack, will exaggerate the size and number of their assailant or assailants. It’s part of my job to assess how much of what a witness says is exaggeration, how much is evasion – for people will omit to tell all they know for any number of reasons, most perfectly innocent – and how much is just vagueness. Thomas recalls handing the letter to his uncle and, I presume, discussing it in broad, and was more interested in discharging his duty in handing it on than in noticing the state of the furnishings of the room like the safe. Thomas, had your uncle got any jewellery on the desk?”

Thomas frowned.

“No, he had not, and he was busy writing. I cannot think he would leave the safe open before starting to write, it would be unlike him not to methodically put things away first. He’s very meticulous, you see,” he added. “He was short with me, beyond thanking me for my trouble, that is, his explanation was a little curt, for he was writing well, and he hates being interrupted when writing is coming easily to him.”

“I understand you have been at some odds with your uncle regarding purchasing a captaincy?” asked Caleb.

“Well, I had been, but it wouldn’t have been any point chewing old vomit when he was writing anyway,” said Thomas. “It – it was just that I heard him discussing purchasing a captaincy with Sir Henry Wilton, and I’m afraid I jumped to the conclusion that it was for me. My uncle disabused me of the notion and said it was for a deserving man who should be promoted, who deserved a bit of patronage. I confess to having been a little disappointed, and – well, I presume I was overheard, so there’s no point concealing it – I was rather short, and made my disappointment clear.”

“I see; thank you, Thomas,” said Caleb. “Your uncle is something of a philanthropist within the army, as is Sir Henry Wilton, with whom I have had the great pleasure to serve. I suspect he may be waiting for you to gain a little more experience before helping you to gain a captaincy. There’s a big difference between being a lieutenant, who is essentially still at the beck and call of senior officers, and being a captain, who is more responsible for the lives and wellbeing of more men.”

“Vernon is hardly any older than me, and he has had no real experience; he’s only in the militia,” said Thomas, a trifle resentfully.

“What do you mean, ‘only’?” asked Captain Coate, angrily.

“Well, I don’t grudge you the captaincy, but I do grudge a little that I don’t have that rank when I’ve seen action, and you haven’t,” said Thomas. “But I don’t resent it enough to quarrel over, Vernon, and I would never have thought to resent it at all, had I not foolishly allowed my hopes to be raised, and thence brought disappointment upon myself. A man cannot help but feel some disappointment, I think?” he appealed to Caleb.

“Oh, I quite appreciate that, lad,” said Caleb.

“Well, I don’t appreciate it, and I don’t appreciate the imputations to my courage!” Vernon Coate shouted, standing up.

Caleb gently pushed him back down, not difficult from his superior inches.

“Captain Coate, there’s rivalries a-plenty between the regiments, as well as between militia and regular army, and it ain’t in anywise healthy,” he said. “I sometimes wondered if we weren’t making a gift to Boney with all the bickering; and nowise have I ever felt it good for grown men to carry on in such a way like children younger than young Daphne. O’course, being cousins, you and the lieutenant are likely to argue like brothers, but you’ll appreciate my point that as we have a murderous rogue to catch, I’d rather you did it on your own time, and not while I’m working. Thank you!” he added.

Vernon Coate glowered at him.

“Sorry, sir,” said Thomas, instantly.

“Well, at least we are further forward,” said Caleb. “Major Coate was planning to adopt Araminta – if our cove is indeed his natural, or his father’s natural, he might resent that enough to want to be adopted too, and sought to steal the will and alter a codicil , if he knew it existed. The safe contains jewellery, and we cannot neglect that common theft was the major motive. It has been remarked that Braintree had a military bearing; and the likeness to the family remarked by Miss Bates might indeed be coincidental, and he held some grudge against the Major from having served with him – or in a regiment that held a rivalry to that of the Major, and he wanted to avenge some perceived slight or wrong. In which case, the theft from the safe may have been opportunistic. I suspect the major keeps the key on a chain with other keys, fobs and seals,” he added.

“He does, and often I’ve remonstrated with him about it,” said de Saumerez.

Caleb nodded.

“Well, that makes that possibility hold credence,” he said. “I am, of course, working on the premise that it was Braintree who hit him. There may yet be another party who has, for reasons best known to himself, attacked both Major Coate, and Braintree. It is imperative that Braintree should be found, alive or dead. Very well, if nobody can add any more to the movements of the major last night, I shall leave you all, and go and assist the servants in a search for Braintree,” he said, bowing to the ladies and nodding to the gentlemen.


Chapter 12

Fowler approached Caleb quietly as soon as Caleb came out of the library.

“Mr Caleb, I would like you to see that Braintree fellow’s room,” he said. “Now allowing that Captain Coate might want his man to sleep in his dressing room as many do, which means there should be less signs of occupancy in the fellow’s own room, you’d still expect there to be some sign of life, even if it’s only the fellow’s hair powder for his wig, as you wouldn’t expect him to be putting on in the master’s dressing room.”

“Can’t you?” said Caleb. “I can’t say as I have much personal experience with liveried servants; to have a valet with a livery seems a bit excessive anywise.”

Fowler sniffed.

“It’s pretentious if you ask me, Mr Caleb,” he said, “but however close a gentleman may want to keep his servant, the fellow will have his spare duds in the room allotted to him, and any spare wigs, and his hair powder, account of how the gentleman will want the dressing room used for his own accoutrements; stands to reason.”

Caleb nodded.

“Yes, I take your point, Fowler. And there’s every sign that this Braintree has upped sticks and gone?”

“Mr Caleb,” said Fowler, “He’s either the tidiest man alive as well as having upped sticks and gone, or he ain’t never been there at all. Here, come and see!” he led Caleb to a room at the back of the house, near the back stairs. It was a small room with a bed, a wardrobe, and a commode for the usual offices, which had a folding mirror on top of it.

“Looks unoccupied,” said Caleb. “No clothes in the wardrobe? I see no trunk, either.”

“You hit the nail on the head, Mr Caleb,” said Fowler, with gloomy satisfaction. “Not just empty – unoccupied. He ain’t powdered his wig in here at all, because I defy any man to do that and not leave some powder. There ain’t no spilled wax, and if you’ll look at the candle, it’s still a virgin thing out of the mould, not even had the wick lit. The chambermaid swears she hasn’t emptied the utensil at all. It’s not been moved out of the cupboard in the commode. The bed is made like the housekeeper likes them, and there’s not a speck of powder from his neck on the pillow, nor the scent of sweat from a man’s head through being enclosed in a wig. He’s not left any washing for the laundry, and he hasn’t had any of the men carry his trunk. For that matter, none of them recall carrying a trunk up, he came with nothing but a satchel.”

“Well perhaps his livery and a nightshirt was all he owned,” said Caleb. “Not very pleasant for Vernon Coate, though, for he’d be bound to smell after a while. Have you found his satchel?”

“No, sir,” said Fowler, “and I’ve been through his master’s dressing room too. If I hadn’t seen the wretched man with my own eyes, and showed him how to go on, I’d swear he didn’t exist at all.”

“That’s an interesting statement, Fowler,” said Caleb.

Fowler shrugged.

“Well, exist he does; not much of a valet, I grant you, but he’s been in the servants’ hall, keeping his self opinionated self to himself, and none of the rest of us missing that company nowise, and I had to take over ironing half his master’s neck cloths for he was making such a fist of it, anyone would think he’d never touched an iron in his life. What’s more, his idea of brushing a coat was like an old maid dusting a risqué statue, tentative and without paying any attention, and he knew no better than to handle his master’s boots without gloves!” he rolled his eyes in a speaking fashion.

“And no signs of him being stupid enough to powder his wig and so on in his master’s dressing room either?” asked Caleb. “For if he’s such a useless valet and knows so little, mayhap he don’t know enough to realise he has a room for that purpose, and never has occupied it?”

“Mr Caleb, I never thought of that,” said Fowler, chagrined.

“There’s reason to suppose that this so-called valet might be the natural of one of the family, come looking for proof, which would be a reason for him to be so inept if it’s only posing as a valet that he may be,” said Caleb, “so we cannot suppose him to act as you might expect a valet to act, but only as he believes a valet to act. Let us look at the captain’s dressing room.”



Captain Vernon Coate’s dressing room was not as tidy as Caleb would expect from a military man, and he said so.

“And as Braintree seems to have a military bearing, that’s another discrepancy,” he added. “It’s almost as if he’d scrambled to get things put away somehow, as though he didn’t have enough time.”

“Do you suppose he’s been skimping his work to look for something?” asked Fowler.

“What sort of something?” asked Caleb.

“Well if he’s the natural of the major, he might be looking for some document, a secret marriage that legitimises him and disinherits Mr Vernon or something,” said Fowler.

Caleb laughed.

“You read too many gothic novels, Fowler my lad,” he said. “I fancy that one is a bit too fanciful.”

“Well it might be that Braintree reads too many gothic novels too, and came up with the idea in a matter of wishful thinking,” said Fowler.

“Well I suppose we can’t discard that as a theory,” said Caleb. “Bastard son, reads too much of the wrong thing, fantasises about what his real family might be…. at least Braintree don’t have an idiot valet of his own dropping hints that he’s the son of the Duke of York,” he added with a sideways glance at Fowler.

“That was Mr Henry Redmayne’s idea,” said Fowler, hastily. “Well, you can’t deny it had its uses, even if only to make that sour vicar’s wife look like lemons is sweet.”

Caleb laughed.

“Oh it’s been highly amusing,” he said, “and as I know who my father was, I have no need to make things up to make myself seem bigger. But it is something to ponder; I’ve known a few bastards in my time who have been known to make up stories about their real father. Can’t really blame them at that,” he added, “for no man likes to be rootless. And making up a spurious marriage and searching for proof for it ain’t as wild as imagining noble parentage, nowise.”

“No,” said Fowler, “but you’re right, it is a bit fanciful. It’s just that there’s something terribly false about him – sort of elusive, he never has been around as much as you might expect, because a valet usually has the evenings to himself until it’s time to undress his master, at least if he’s got everything sorted out, and it’s customary to meet in the servants’ hall and play cards with the other gentlemen’s gentlemen, and boast about one’s gentleman and tell wild stories and so on, while the gentlemen are occupied with their after dinner brandy, and their own diversions for the evening. And Braintree, he’s been conspicuous by his absence.”

“Well, now!” said Caleb. “That’s interesting, right enough. Makes one wonder what he might be at during that time – or indeed if he even exists during that time.”

“Suggesting he’s a ghost is even more fanciful if you ask me,” said Fowler.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that, so much,” said Caleb, “as to wonder whether that livery was to draw the eye, and the wig to hide someone’s own hair; and whether any of those Waynefleet boys who all have the same profile might not have been cutting some kind of lark to fool their cousin, and have taken some kind of wager to see if they couldn’t pass themselves off as a valet to him. Which puts a whole different complexion on what happened in the study.”

“Strewth, yes!” said Fowler, “It’s one thing having the major felled by a dubious sort of valet, but to be laid low by one of his nevvys, that’s nasty.”

“I doubt his head hurts more or less for who hit it,” said Caleb dryly, “but yes, I take your point. Having murderous kinsmen leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”

“You want to ask Mrs Jane what she thinks,” said Fowler.

“Yes, I will,” said Caleb. “Thanks, Fowler. Carry on with the search, in case I’m fishing up the wrong tree as you might say with that rather wild conjecture.”

“It fits what we know, and what we don’t,” said Fowler.



Caleb called Jane out of the Library to confer; and Jane was glad to come. Though it was more comfortable with Mrs Waynefleet and Catherine in their own rooms, the wilder speculations of Helene and Daphne, and even Persis, all aided and abetted by Simmy, was becoming tedious. Daphne had just suggested that the vanishing valet had built wings like Daedalus and Icarus and had flown out of an attic window in order to leave no footprints on the snow, which theory Simmy was debunking on the grounds that wings would need weeks to build, and the footman had only been there a couple of days.
Jane joined Caleb thankfully in the study, and listened with a thoughtful look to the conjecture woven out of Fowler’s testimony.

“I – I wouldn’t say it was impossible,” she said. “I came upon the man, who was partly in shadow, before it was light, and I fear I was not looking at him so closely save to be irritated that he kept putting his hand to his nose as though it were dripping. He might of course have been raising his hand to try to conceal his face a little, for fear that I should recognise him, of course,” she added.

“That seems like a distinct possibility,” said Caleb, “but being half dark, and with other distractions, I suppose you can’t hazard a guess as to which one of those young men it was?”

“Not really, I’m afraid,” Jane confessed, “apart from the fact that I think I would have noticed if it were a beardless boy like Charles.”

“Yes, I think he would have been easy to spot,” said Caleb.

“I – no, I could not say,” said Jane, “Though as others have commented on his military bearing, it would be more likely to be Thomas, would it not? James has no military bearing, he’s all the farmer when given his head in conversation, in fact if I hear one more word about Dutch rotations, that he has been explaining to the company in the library, by way of dealing with his own nervousness, then I fancy I might retaliate with nauseating detail about the beauties of roller-printed cottons.”

Caleb chuckled.

“I did wonder about young Nicholas, being the one most likely to kick up a lark,” he said, “being the age for it. And being clever enough to fake a military bearing.”

Jane shook her head.

“I really cannot say,” she said, “but is there any harm in asking them and watching their faces?”]]> Sarah Waldock Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 09 May 2013 03:27:13 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96621,96621#msg-96621 Nature of the Beast ch 11-12 (47 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96621,96621#msg-96621
Chapter Eleven

Mr. Bingley cleared his throat. “I was wondering, since things seemed to be going rather well, if you would not mind going somewhere more comfortable?”

Lizzy felt a moment of anxiety. Taking a werewolf for a walk? What kind of insanity was that? Fitz nudged her, and she remembered all the many times she had walked with him before. So long as she forgot Mr. Darcy, she felt confident with Fitz. She did wonder how much Mr. Darcy remembered in the morning though. No, maybe she better not think about it. If she did, she would get nervous, and she rather thought Fitz might become defensive. She nodded cautiously, straightening up.

Mr. Bingley opened the door and peered out with exaggerated care. He moved with such obvious stealth that she wondered how they had gone undiscovered thus far. Fitz made a quiet snort that was unmistakable laughter. He was genuinely fond of the man, she realized, and not just because of Mr. Darcy. But there was an air about him—Fitz considered him a lesser member of the pack, one who needed some management for his own benefit.

Lizzy paused at that. It was exactly the same as Mr. Darcy treated Mr. Bingley, she recalled. Which had come first? Had Mr. Darcy always looked after Mr. Bingley, or had it only emerged after he had become a werewolf? How much of Fitz was affected by Mr. Darcy, and how much of Mr. Darcy was affected by Fitz? Like earlier, when Mr. Darcy had discovered her here. She had been terrified of him. His strength and brutality was unimaginable. She’d felt how fragile her life was when he pinned her to the wall.

They had been angry, both Fitz and Mr. Darcy. The wolf’s strength had bolstered the man’s actions. What would have happened if she hadn’t been there? What if he had gotten angry at Mr. Bingley for some other reason? How much control did one side actually have over the other? How long had he been a werewolf, anyway? That was going to be the first question she asked, for sure.

Mr. Bingley gestured them forward. Lizzy gripped Fitz’s scruff for support, and walked out of the room. She felt a momentary fear of discovery, and then relaxed. If any questioned, many of the servants here thought Fitz was her dog already. Holly could vouch for them. Now that she had Fitz at her side, she no longer felt she was being stalked. She should have realized that was significant, that being near Mr. Darcy had made her feel as safe as when Fitz was at her side.

Mr. Bingley led them to the second story, and to his study. He stirred the coals, and quickly got a fire going. He was about to offer her a seat, when Fit demonstrated his uncanny intelligence. He went to one of the chairs, and shoved it effortlessly nearer the fire. Then he sat by it, and looked to her. She was grateful, as she felt rather cold, but at the same time it made her shiver. How much of his actions were guided by Fitz, and how much by Mr. Darcy? No dog or wolf would have thought to push the chair closer to the source of warmth.

Mr. Bingley thought so as well. He shook his head in wonder, and then gestured for her to take the seat. Fitz positioned himself between them, laying on her feet. She scratched his back absently, just as she had when he kept her feet warm in the library. He stretched out on his side, and managed to take up nearly all the room between the chairs and the fire.

Mr. Bingley sat, and for a moment Lizzy and he watched each other with anticipation. “I guess we both wish to learn from each other,” he spoke first. “You ask what you want, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability. If Mr. Darcy is feeling accommodating, he might answer more fully in the morning. The earliest he’s ever changed back is at dawn. Why don’t you go first?”

Lizzy made a face, thinking that the likelihood of Mr. Darcy being accommodating was very low. “How long has he been a werewolf?” she asked promptly, wondering if her question was too forward.

“Since this summer,” Mr. Bingley answered. “So this is his fifth full moon.”

For some reason the date stuck in her head. What else had happened this summer, in connection to Mr. Darcy? The memory wouldn’t come, and she gave up trying to find it. “How did he become one?” she asked instead.

Fitz rolled to his chest and growled warningly at Mr. Bingley. That he understood their words was unmistakable. It was absolutely unnerving. She was used to her animal friends being very loyal, but rather stupid and not given to conversation beyond the moment. She had the feeling she could read out loud to Fitz, and Mr. Darcy would intelligently discuss it with her in the morning. Not that Mr. Darcy would actually stoop to have a conversation with her. She was glad Fitz was a good deal friendlier than his human counterpart.

Mr. Bingley stared at Fitz in shock. “I’m afraid that’s a rather personal tale, Miss Elizabeth, one that involves others. You may ask Mr. Darcy should you wish, but it is not my story to divulge.”

Fitz appeared mollified, and sank back to his side again.

“Do you mind if I take some notes?” Mr. Bingley asked. When Lizzy shook her head, he got up and retrieved a notebook and pen from the desk. “May I ask, how does your magic work?” he began. She answered hesitantly, having never described it to another person before. They traded questions back and forth. Lizzy learned much about werewolves in general, and Fitz in specific. Mr. Bingley held her in a kind of awe, using her to gage the werewolf’s reactions.

He revealed that he had met Mr. Darcy at school, that they had been decent friends, and parted ways amiably as their studies separated them. When Mr. Darcy had suddenly come begging for his help years later, it had been something of a shock. He had studied werewolves before, though none he had known personally. Even though he grieved and worried for his friend, Mr. Darcy had provided him with a unique opportunity to know him before and after the infection, and document the changes that occurred.

Mr. Darcy allowed it, so long as his identity was kept secret. Mr. Bingley readily agreed, to the point that he hadn’t even revealed his studies yet. He regarded Lizzy as yet another tool and opening to learn more. He did apologize for his enthusiasm, and begged her to say if she tired of his questions. After her initial uncertainty of not knowing him well, she found she did not mind answering him. Fitz was ever keen to her reactions, and quick to leap to her defense if she in the least felt the question improper.

Mr. Bingley scrawled pages of notes messily, getting ink over his fingers. After a few basic questions about Fitz and how her magic perceived him, both in the fur and within Mr. Darcy, most of his questions were asked about other animals and plants. She got the idea that he was collecting information about her talent, that he might best learn how to put it to use.

Hours passed without them noticing. Both were yawning, but neither wished to stop. Fitz dozed lightly on her feet, snoring gently. She would have teased him about it, but she worried what Mr. Darcy would say when he regained his tongue. Abruptly, as Lizzy was explaining how she gleaned information from plants, Fitz sat bolt upright and whined. Mr. Bingley started and looked at the time.

“It’s almost dawn,” he wondered, then yawned. “Strange to think we’ve been here all night.” He rose stiffly and went to the door. He opened it, and Fitz left the room. Mr. Bingley looked back to Lizzy. She shook her head. “He’ll be alright,” she assured him.

“So strange,” Mr. Bingley murmured. “Well, I can offer you the same room you stayed in last time, but I admit, I’m at a loss to explain why you’re here.”

“I came with a letter from Papa?” she suggested, feeling how flimsy her excuse was.

He shrugged. “Maybe Darcy’ll have an idea. He’s good with that sort of thing.”

She said nothing. She wasn’t as convinced as Mr. Bingley that everything would be forgiven with Mr. Darcy. “You’re welcome to do whatever you wish,” he said with another yawn, and then left her alone. For a moment she was at a loss. She felt so tired, she nearly fell asleep in the chair right there. The thought of what would happen if she were found there was enough to propel her out of the chair. She was half-asleep as she left the study. She was grateful to meet no one on the way to the room she had shared with Jane before.

She didn’t want to linger at Netherfield. She feared to meet Mr. Darcy without the comforting presence of Fitz. More, she wanted to be able to rest at Longbourn, in her own room where she belonged. The room had obviously not been occupied since the last time she had been there. The bed looked inviting, but instead she sat in the small, uncomfortable chair beside the bed. She didn’t want to risk falling into a deep sleep. She curled up as best she could on the chair, and allowed herself to catnap for perhaps half an hour.

She was woken by the sound of Miss Bingley screaming down the hallway. Having grown up with four sisters and an over-excitable mother, the noise wouldn’t have disturbed her if she hadn’t already been starting to stir. She jumped guiltily at the shrill sound, thinking for a moment she had been discovered. But no, after listening for a time, it became clear that one of the maids had taken an unexpected holiday, much to Miss Bingley’s ire.

She suppressed a grin, and went to the pitcher on the table. It still had some water in it, stale but serviceable. She splashed water on her face and hands. It was cold enough to wake herself up. Thus invigorated, she left the room and sought the way to the stables. It was inevitable that she should be seen, but she attempted to stand to the side and lower her head discreetly when a servant passed by. She did not see any members of the household, for which she was most grateful.

She had very nearly made her escape complete, and feeling the relief of it, when she rounded a corner and came upon the person she most wished to avoid. She drew up short, staring in dismay. Mr. Darcy was fully dressed, unlike their last encounter, but there was still an air of restrained wildness about him. Fitz was sleeping very deeply within him, she sensed, but the wolf had not wholly removed from his muscles.

He stood still and silent, yet with a fluidity that would have been more at home in a winter wood than the halls of Netherfield. His skin was pale, his face drawn as though suffering illness again. His eyes were as dark and sunken as hers felt. They studied each other for a moment, neither speaking. She became aware of her old dress and wrap, and that she could not have wholly removed the dirt from her face with her brief refreshing. Wryly, she thought if she had been hardly tolerable that night at the dance, then now she must be rather painful to the senses.

Certainly his gaze traveled slowly from feature to feature, as though cataloging each flaw carefully. The scrutiny was unnerving, but it gave her the strength to hold her chin up and brush past him. The wolf’s spirit might have been resting, but the predatory instinct was something he could never escape. She did not bow her head and creep past as a field mouse; such would only provoke him, especially as he was already inclined not to feel kindly toward her.

Instead, though the hallway was broad enough to pass without touching, she walked close to him, moving with measured, bold strides. She bumped him with her shoulder hard enough to make him step back, out of her way, and did not look back at him as she left. He did not follow her. She did not relax until she was in the stables, and readying Reba. Then she let out her breath in a rush, and her hands began trembling.

She had so desperately wished to meet Mr. Darcy’s wolf. Finding out she already knew him had left her both relieved and infuriated. It gave her greater insight into her dealings with him, but it also made things more complicated. He was a conflicted man. The human side of him wished nothing to do with her; she was beneath him in every way. But Fitz was a different matter. And no matter how he might adjust to living as beast and man, he would never be fully human again. That was something he had to live with, something she instinctively knew he still struggled with.

Tempting him, provoking him, was a dangerous pastime, yet if she did not, he could very easily fall upon her as his rightful prey. She had to make him see that she was not weak or frightened, though compared to him she was both. That was one of the reasons she was so eager to return to Longbourn. She did not think she could bear to stay long in a house with a volatile werewolf.

She mounted Reba, and sent the little black mare towards home. She sighed in relief as she left the shadow of Netherfield. She felt eyes on her back, but refused to glance around. She briefly thought of her fearful stalker, but dismissed her concerns. Currently, she was on the territory of a very powerful werewolf indeed. She doubted any would dare to cross him while still in sight of the house. Still, a chill swept over her when Netherfield was out of sight, and she let Reba pick up into a light canter as they sped home.

She felt the pack at Longbourn before she saw them. She rounded the road to Longbourn to see more than a dozen of Sir William Lucas’s foxhounds milling in the garden and stables. Reba balked with a snort, instantly alarmed at the dogs. They saw her and started to run toward them, beginning their bays. She shushed them with her magic, and then asked them to make a path for her. They did—dogs were much more accommodating than werewolves, she sniggered at the comparison—and she persuaded Reba to walk into the stables.

Once the mare was taken care of, she thought to sneak into Longbourn and retire to her own room. That was not to be the case. No sooner had she opened the back door than Mrs. Hill, their housekeeper, let out a scream and enveloped her in a hug. She had no time to extract herself before Mrs. Hill had her arm and was dragging her into the parlor. Mrs. Hill was sobbing incoherently, and the noise caused the rest of the household to come running.

Lizzy found herself attacked on all sides by her sisters, who each seemed intent on squeezing her to death. Jane and Mary spoke over each other, and Lydia and Kitty cried so much as to rend everything unintelligible. Then they were bowled aside by Mrs. Bennet, who seized Lizzy and sobbed into her shoulder, so great were her hysterics. Sir William was there was well, looking pale but relieved, and even Mr. Bennet reached around his wife to grip her arm in reassurance. There were tears in his eyes, and that shocked her more than anything.

“Oh my darling girl!” Mrs. Bennet was crying—screaming was more accurate—into Lizzy’s ear. “My dear girl, brought back to us safe!”

She patted her mother awkwardly, looking to her father and Sir William for an explanation. Mr. Bennet finally took it upon himself to calm his wife. He managed to pry her off Lizzy, but her mother kept such a tight grip upon her wrist that she had no choice but to follow. She was made to sit at Mrs. Bennet’s side, where she was made much of by all present.

“What is going on?” she asked when the volume calmed to a reasonable level.

Sir William answered. “A girl was found dead just off the road to Meryton,” he said grimly. Her stomach lurched in horror. “A werewolf did it.”

The air left her lungs. She fell back against the couch, her vision going grey. There was a dull rushing in her ears. She shook her head, desperately trying to fight off the swoon. All she could think was that it hadn’t been Fitz—he had never left her sight all night. And hard on those heels came another realization: there was another werewolf in Hertfordshire. She thought instantly of the missing pale wolf, and the invisible stalker that had been plaguing her for weeks.

“How do you know?” she asked faintly. “How are you sure that it was a werewolf?” All she could think was that she had to get back to Netherfield, to warn Mr. Darcy.

“No, don’t—” Mr. Bennet began, but Sir William cut him off.

“There is evidence that the young woman was attacked by both a man and a wolf,” he answered curtly. Kitty and Lydia screamed. Her stomach heaved, and she tasted bile in the back of her throat. Part of her wanted to say, not possible, not possible, but she knew only too well that it was. She pictured Fitz clearly in her mind, seeing him for once not as the friendly wolf he was, but as the powerful and dangerous creature that was the truth of him. Had he not been friendly, had he truly been a being of rage and uncontrolled fury, she shuddered to think of all the damage he could do. She might not like Mr. Darcy, but she was grateful he was a man of principles, and that Mr. Bingley was equally a worthy soul. She shuddered to realize what an unscrupulous person could do with the strength of a werewolf. What someone had already done.

“I have to ask you, where were you last night?” Sir William asked.

The room fell suddenly silent. Every eye turned to her. Desperately she looked to her father, who knew she wanted the weather clear for a reason, and Jane. She couldn’t reveal she was at Netherfield all night, unchaperoned with the man her sister loved, and another man who carried a devastating secret. “I was—I was out,” she said desperately, her mind racing futilely. If only she wasn’t so tired, so worn out from weeks of not sleeping well and jumping at every shadow!

“In the woods?” Sir William demanded.

“I went to Oakham Mount!” she blurted. She was confused. Was she being accused of being the werewolf? But Sir William had said the girl had been attacked by a man… she blanched at the thought of what that meant.

“And you saw or heard nothing?”

She shook her head, then remembered, “The animals were nervous.” At the time she’d thought it was because of her father’s weather casting. The plants had picked up the disturbance too, after all. But what if the animals had been more nervous, because of the monster in their midst? She remembered that Mr. Darcy had not changed until after her arrival at Netherfield. But he was very new to being a werewolf. What if the other had more experience, and changed sooner? She was lucky to have made it to Netherfield alive!

“Do you think you could come with my hounds to the scene of the attack, and tell them to track the vile beast?” Sir William asked.

“Certainly not!” Mr. Bennet roared.

“She wouldn’t have to see the body,” Sir William said weakly, but at that point Mrs. Bennet verbally flew at him, berating him so fiercely that he quickly retreated. Just before he left, she stopped him. “Sir William,” she called. He paused. “Who was it? Who was the girl who was killed?”

He shrugged. “Some maid from Netherfield, I think. What was her name? Dolly? Molly?”

Holly. Lizzy thought of the polite, happy maid, the same age as Lydia. She had been nice. The terror and horror of the situation suddenly rose up inside her, and came out as a long, drawn out scream. Her family swarmed her, and she remembered nothing.
***

Lizzy woke with the sickeningly bitter taste of laudanum in her mouth. She rolled over and grabbed the chamber pot to retch in. She got water from the pitcher and rinsed out her mouth. Her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped the pitcher. What time was it? She looked out the window, to see that it was full evening. She had to get to Netherfield, and warn them! Given that her family had drugged her with laudanum to finally calm her—she vaguely remembered screaming and fighting with them—they wouldn’t allow her out. Her head was still weirdly muzzy from the medicine, but she was determined to escape.

She opened her window and looked out. It had been a very long time since she had climbed down the trellis outside her window, but the vines growing on that side of the house had only become stronger with her presence. She was sure they would still hold her weight. She changed quickly into her sturdiest, warmth dress, and climbed down from her window. Reba complained about being asked to go out two nights in a row, but she quieted the mare with a stroke of her magic, and led her out of the stable.

Only once they were out of sight of Longbourn did Lizzy mount up, and rode like the devil toward Netherfield. Knowing there was another werewolf on the loose, and that he could very well be coming after her, she pushed Reba to her limits. She opened a link to the mare, and her magic flowed into her, speeding her feet more. When Lizzy reached Netherfield, she was so exhausted she could barely see. She sat a moment on Reba’s back, blinking stupidly. Reba dripped sweat and her breath rocked Lizzy on her back.

One of the stables boys approached cautiously. She smiled gratefully at him, gathered her strength, and slid off Reba. Her legs threatened to give out under her, but she caught herself on Reba’s mane, and steadied. She knocked on Netherfield’s doors. She had come to the main entrance rather than the back. She didn’t have a plausible excuse to be here, just before sundown, but she didn’t care.

The butler opened the door.

“Please, I need to see Mr. Bingley!” she blurted desperately. His eyes widened in surprise for an instant, but he masked it quickly.

“Yes,” he said in a polished, somewhat disapproving tone, “The master left word that were you to come, I should show you to the library.” He stepped aside, and led her through the house. She already knew the way to the library, but she followed at a demure pace, trying to get her breath back. She kept wondering where Mr. Darcy was. Had he become Fitz already? Were they in that caged room? Why go to the library?

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” the butler announced, opening the door to the library. She stepped through at once. The door was shut behind her. The room was uncommonly dim, only a fire in the grate and a couple candles on a desk illuminating it. The curtains were drawn, blocking the rapidly darkening sky.

She blinked, adjusting to the shadows. Mr. Darcy had been leaning against the fireplace when she entered, but when her name was announced he spun to face her. He was fully dressed still, much as he had been that morning. His expression was only what she could call tortured. Deep lines were drawn on his face, and his eyes were dark and wild. He crossed to her in two strides and grabbed her arm in a tight grip. She swayed on her feet as his presence, hot and untempered, swept over her. Her exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, and though she tried to stand on her own, it was likely only his hand was keeping her upright.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said her name like a low oath. “Thank God you’re alright.” His eyes caught the firelight from certain angles. Instead of reflecting ruddy-orange as she might expect, they were bright green.

“There’s another werewolf!” she squeaked, leaning too heavily on his hand. He didn’t seem to notice.
“We know,” Mr. Bingley said, and for the first time she realized he was in the room with them. He stood from behind a desk, moving forward cautiously. Mr. Darcy did not look at him, never tearing his eyes from her, but she saw his face tighten. She felt, rather than saw, his body coiling. She waved Mr. Bingley back urgently. He might look more like himself than he had last night, before the change, but clearly he was just as strongly affected.

“You know?” she repeated dumbly. She stared at Mr. Darcy’s hard face, feeling the fury come off him in waves. “You know who it is.” It wasn’t a question. Their lack of surprise at her announcement had already confirmed it. Looking at Mr. Darcy, she realized something else. “You’re hunting him.”

This time Fitz answered her. She felt him supersede Mr. Darcy, and it was he who pulled back lips to snarl with blunt human teeth. The rage from both of them was overwhelming, and utterly terrifying. She didn’t need her magic to sense Mr. Darcy’s anger, and was grateful her magic never worked with people. Feeling Fitz’s fury was bad enough. It made her want to cower in the corner, and it wasn’t even directed at her! Volcanoes did not contain so much seething power as was locked inside the two of them at that moment.

Mr. Darcy shuddered and released her arm. She staggered and barely managed to keep her balance. He withdrew, closing his eyes and shaking. She felt Fitz being forced back. The struggle inside him was like nothing she had ever seen, vicious and brutal. She could not sense what Mr. Darcy did, but she could almost see Fitz pacing inside him. The wolf bit and tore at something beyond her senses, and winced as he was attacked in return. She had long ago realized that Mr. Darcy was a conflicted man, struggling against his wolf, but never had she guessed how bad it was.

They were tearing each other apart. She stepped forward without thinking. Mr. Bingley raised a hand to caution her, but did not dare approach himself. For some reason Lizzy could get close to Fitz and Mr. Darcy where Mr. Bingley could not. “Mr. Darcy,” she whispered, “I might be able to help, but you have to let me.” She could still remember how easily Fitz had thrown off her magic; she could do nothing without their consent.

He made a choking noise, shaking visibly, and then nodded. She extended her magic toward him slowly, not wishing to cause more harm. It was no good. Fitz was in a berserker rage, and not listening to anything. Worse, she could feel the change drawing nearer. Should he change in this state, it could be a disaster for them all.

She leaned forward and grabbed his shoulder, seeking contact with him. Instantly she felt Fitz, hotter and closer. He paused in his attack on Mr. Darcy’s spirit. She was unable to calm him, but she did feel him rein in his fury. It wasn’t truly Mr. Darcy that he wished to tear apart. She gulped as she realized she could almost feel flesh rending under her nails, parting between her teeth. His desire for it was so great it swamped her. He realized it and withdrew again with a silent apology.

Mr. Darcy let out a breath of relief and relaxed slightly. “Thank you,” he breathed. In the next instant pain shot through Fitz, and Mr. Darcy and Lizzy cried out with it. She jerked her hand back from them, severing the connection. “Charles,” he choked out.

Lizzy backed away as Mr. Bingley came forward. Mr. Darcy made another pained sound and bent over. Mr. Bingley put Mr. Darcy’s arm around his shoulders and began helping him toward the back of the library. Lizzy went to the door, thinking she shouldn’t be here for the transformation, but as her hand reached for the handle Mr. Darcy suddenly stopped and turned toward her.

“No!” he shouted. She gasped and stared at him. His face rippled as the wolf fought to break free. It was simultaneously the most terrifying and fascinating thing she had ever seen.

“Please stay, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Bingley panted.

Her hand fell away, the door untouched. Only then was Mr. Bingley able to coax Mr. Darcy away from her. The shelves in Netherfield’s library were mostly empty, but there were enough of them to form two reading coves in the back. It was towards one of these that Mr. Bingley directed Mr. Darcy. They disappeared, and she heard them panting and struggling to bare Mr. Darcy for the change. Why had he waited so long? It was clear he had been holding off the shift even before she had arrived. From what she understood, the more he fought it, the more painful it became for him. It certainly wasn’t pleasant for Fitz, she could feel that much, and imagined it was no better for Mr. Darcy.

At last the library fell silent except for the sound of Mr. Bingley’s panting. Then he suddenly grunted. One of the sadly empty shelves wobbled precariously as it was shoved, and then Fitz stood in the middle of the library, his claws digging into the carpet. She gulped and backed away fearfully. Always before Fitz had taken care to appear harmless and non-threatening, fully knowing that his size alone made him a frightening prospect. He had no such caution tonight.

His head was up, glaring right at her. His tail was arched over his back, and he moved with powerful deliberation. Her back hit the wall and he sprang at her. She had no time to shriek before he was on her. He rose on his hind legs, his front paws landing heavily on her shoulders. She was crushed to the wall by his weight, the breath knocked out of her. He completely engulfed her. Mr. Bingley emerged, disheveled, from the alcove and panicked to see her pinned.

He started forward, though what he could do to the massive werewolf barehanded was a mystery. Fitz’s head whipped toward him and he growled menacingly. She reached up and grabbed his fur. She could not hope to restrain him, but perhaps she could distract him. His paws were leaving bruises on her shoulders, but other than that she was not being harmed. He had never hurt her, she realized. Never intentionally. She had to believe that counted for something.

He looked back at her, his eyes catching the firelight balefully. He placed his nose at the base of her throat and inhaled deeply. She felt the cool air sweep over her exposed skin, and then the warmth as he exhaled. She shivered, trying to hide her reaction. Fitz pressed his head to hers, cheek to jowl, and then repeated his action on the other side.

He was marking her with his scent, she realized, and didn’t know whether to be furious or frightened. Certainly she would have never allowed a normal animal to mark her like this. But Fitz was neither normal, nor in a frame of mind to listen to her. His task done, he dropped to the floor. She let out a breath of relief that nothing more had happened. Fitz licked her hand once, as if in apology.

Then he went to the door, nudged the handle, and looked imperiously at them.

“He wants out,” she translated unnecessarily. Neither of them moved to open the door.

“Is it safe?” Mr. Bingley wondered, frowning at Fitz. The wolf growled, let out a soft bark that made dust fall from the ceiling, and scratched at the door. His claws left rake marks broader than Lizzy’s outspread fingers.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” she answered quietly. Mr. Bingley approached the door. Fitz stepped to the side to allow him access. Mr. Bingley opened the door, but Fitz did not immediately bound through. He bumped the man with his shoulder gently, which meant Mr. Bingley staggered back two steps instead of being thrown across the room. It was a friendly gesture, one that meant the same as scent-marking Lizzy: they were under his protection.

Lizzy and Mr. Bingley followed Fitz to the front door, which Mr. Bingley hastened to open before Fitz could leave more claw marks. The cold night air streamed in. Lizzy shivered, not with cold. She thought of the other werewolf out there, doubtless already claiming the darkness. Had he marked a victim, the same way Fitz had marked herself and Mr. Bingley? Was he even now killing another girl like Lydia or Kitty? Did he realize that a rival had entered the scene?

Fitz stood in the threshold, taking deep breaths of fresh air. She felt his joy at being free. He reveled in the night; it was not a barrier to his senses but an open invitation. He turned his head to look at Mr. Bingley and Lizzy. He licked Lizzy’s hand again, and set off in the night. She wanted to tell him to wait. She wanted to beg him not to go, to stay with them and be safe. But he had been challenged. A girl had been taken from his own household. Even if Mr. Bingley was the technical master of Netherfield, the fact was that Fitz had laid a claim to everyone within its walls. For one to be taken by another werewolf was the worst grievance, and he would not let that stand. She understood that for once Mr. Darcy agreed with Fitz. Fitz saw the challenge, but Mr. Darcy understood the true horror of a creature murdering people in Hertfordshire. They would stop it, or die trying. It was the last she was afraid of.

Fitz loped out of sight, remaining silent as he began his hunt. His dark fur blended into the shadows, and he was gone.
 



Chapter Twelve

Mr. Bingley shut the door, looking as troubled as she felt. “Shall we retire to the library?” he suggested. “It has a window overlooking the lawn, where we might see him return.”

She nodded, and once again they traveled to the library. Mr. Bingley clucked over the shallow scratches on the door. He ran his hand over them, and they disappeared.

“It must be very handy to have magic like that,” Lizzy commented nervously.

Mr. Bingley looked up. “I don’t know, I think I would have rather had magic like yours. To be able to talk with plants or animals… I think I would have become a circus performer, or a famous botanist.”

She forced a wan laugh. “But when your werewolf friend comes to call, you could not repair the damage he does to your door.”

“But I would be able to talk with him, perhaps,” he pointed out. “And I didn’t actually repair the door. He did little more than scratch the varnish. I did what any basic handyman could do, namely warm the varnish, making it more pliable, and then rearrange it so the lighter wood does not show. Darcy could have done it better than I. He was always much stronger in magic than me, until he was infected.”
A heavy silence fell, as they both thought about the werewolves running the night.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Bingley,” she said suddenly. She gripped the arms of her chair and hoped she was not being facetious, or suffering womanly emotions. She waited for Mr. Bingley to brush aside her concerns with meaningless reassurance.

Instead he said casually, “I believe I mentioned briefly to you that Darcy is the fourth werewolf I have studied? I did not talk about the others because they were not happy cases. The life of a werewolf is short and brutal. Anyone can be infected if they are attacked sufficiently, and there is no cure. A werewolf is always a nasty creature, without even the natural control and instincts of a true animal. Should a person be found as a werewolf, a public demonstration is made of them. Their property and capital are seized, their family cast out and denounced. They are then beheaded in front of a crowd. It is not a pleasant fate.

“The first time I saw a werewolf was when I was in school. The police had arrested a villain that happened to be a werewolf. During the full moon, well you can guess what happened. Only one of his cellmate, a fellow robber, survived the attack. He was given to the university to study, with the understanding that he would be put down when his use was through.

“The students were encouraged to try experiments on him. You can imagine wolfsbane and silver was applied liberally. I believe we were quite cruel to him. I didn’t participate, but I watched and recorded his reactions. He changed in a specially prepared cell. A few of the boys passed out, and some of them vomited upon watching the change. The first time a werewolf changes… is very painful. What Darcy had suffered, I cannot imagine.

“Seeing the poor man, criminal and condemned or not, go through that left me with little taste for continuing the study. After the three nights of the full moon, he was put to the death. I overheard more than one student regretting that they could not keep him longer, but I was glad his torment was over.”
Lizzy shuddered, imagining Fitz in such a horrible state. No matter how much she might detest Mr. Darcy, and he looked down at her, he didn’t deserve to be treated as an animal for experimentation. She listened in mute horror as Mr. Bingley kept talking.

“The next one was after university,” he said. “I had graduated some months before, and was working to build my own practice. I was contacted by another former student, and asked if I wished to participate in a research group dedicated to my field. I was delighted to have been invited, and joined readily. I had never been surrounded by such a bright, daring group of minds. I dare say I was the dullest of the lot, but they tolerated me well enough. The advances of medicine and magic they were making… it was an honor to be included with them.

“Perhaps inevitably, they kept a werewolf in secret. The first time I learned of it, I had been with them six weeks, and I was invited to a special sub-division, because of my unique experience, they said. I later found out they meant because of the werewolf from school. When I saw the wolf, I was at first dismayed. But they did not treat it the same as the poor wretch from school. They were more focused on how to contain the wolf, repel it, make it harmless.

“I told myself they were not as cruel as the boys at school had been. The entire thing left a foul taste in my mouth, but I saw that the wolf was not needlessly prodded and exposed to harmful substances, as was the first. The others in the group were disappointed in me that I did not share their passion for subduing the beast. Little of it was spoken of, but I was invited back for the second full moon. Imagine my shock and horror when I found out the wolf they were treating was female.”

Lizzy let out a cry, clapping a hand over her mouth. Her stomach twisted, thinking of poor dead Holly and her own sisters. She would not wish any of them to be a werewolf, let alone to have been trapped for medical experiments. Even the finest luxury appointments were still a cage. She had felt that clearly for with Fitz, how much it hurt him to be restrained. And that was only so that he would not harm another. To be caged and used for another’s gain, how much worse would that be?

Mr. Bingley nodded, not looking at her. His face looked sick as well. “I could not stay. I could not allow this to go on. I informed the police on them. I learned that much of what they were doing was sub-legal, and charges were laid all around. Because I had not been trusted enough to be involved with the worst offenses, and I had put a stop to it, I was let go without being charged. I went my own way, distancing myself from the group as much as possible.

“In time, I found work under the tutelage of another doctor. I learned more from him than from the university, but the most important thing I learned from him was the treat the person, not the disease. When he passed suddenly, his family closed his practice. I established my own little building, and soon had a passable following of my own. I was happy for a time. A couple years passed.

“And then one day a young man walked into my office. He begged for my help, but was reluctant to tell me his symptoms. I had often had people embarrassed to admit their afflictions, and set to reassuring him. Instead of being calmed, he became more agitated, until he broke down and admitted that he had been attacked by a werewolf. He had come to me, because though I had rumored connections to that dark ring of illegal medical practice, I had since built my reputation as a generous and caring physician.

“Here, I thought I had a chance to help him. In my arrogance, I thought I was different from those who had come before me. While the last two werewolves had been horrific and doomed, here was this young man, a worker with a family, no less, who had come to me of his own accord. Surely I could help him. He need only be contained on the full moon, and otherwise live his life. Having seen personally how other wolves reacted, surely I could help him control his urges?

“I had a special cage built for him in the cellar of my practice. He changed there. I shall not describe the fury of his wolf, but it was great. He was wan, but otherwise normal in the morning. I released him from the cage, and broke my fast with him. It was important that I treated him no different from another person. Apart for three days a month, he was human like any other. I wonder if my kindness to him was not worse than the cruelties inflicted on the others.

“He lived through a second full moon with me. He worried he was losing control of himself even while not a wolf. His temper was very short, and he was prone to sudden bursts of violence. He was afraid he would hurt his family. His wife suspected him of cheating, but he couldn’t tell her the truth.

“The next star day after his second transformation, he killed himself. He cut his wrists with a silver knife, and hung himself. Whether he bled out or strangled, he was dead just the same. He left a note saying that he didn’t want to be a monster any longer. I vowed I would never have anything to do with werewolves again.”

He fell silent a moment, staring out the window. Lizzy was trembling from his awful tale. Was there never a happy ending for a werewolf? Was Fitz doomed to die? Why would Mr. Bingley tell her this now? It did nothing to alleviate her fears, and only greatly increased them! “Mr. Darcy?” she whispered, not wanting the story, but needing to hear it.

Mr. Bingley sighed. “Yes, Darcy. Years passed, and I even prospered. I put all darkness behind me, and was content. I was doing good. The hardest lesson for a doctor to learn was that not everyone could be saved. But everyone could be helped, even if it was nothing more than holding their hand as incredible pain sent them to their deaths.

“I had known Darcy in school, and though we had initially fallen out of contact, we reestablished our friendship through a chance meeting. His cousin was injured by magic in the war, and eventually ended up on my doorstep. I was surprised the son of an earl, even the second son, should come to me, but my reputation was such that he was willing to try anything when other doctors could not help him. There was little I could do, but I hoped I brought him some measure of relief. His surname was also the same as Darcy’s Christian name, and I commented on the similarity. We realized that we knew the same person, and a meeting was arranged to reacquaint us to each other.

“We quickly became close friends. I thought he seemed more troubled and grave than before, when we were in school. I think I reminded him of happier times. Whatever the reason, he was soon my closest friend. That was four years ago now, and we have never lost contact since. Then this summer… I cannot tell you how it happened, just that Darcy wrote me an urgent letter requesting my presence at Pemberley, his home.

“I went, and what I found… You have to understand Darcy to know how I felt. He was very much above me when we were in school together. My father was in trade, and I was studying a field not altogether acceptable for a gentleman. The other boys did not tolerate me as an interloper. Then Darcy took me under his wing. His family was easily as rich and old as anyone else’s, and indeed, surpassed many families in both regards. If he accepted me, they could not but do likewise.

“I had always known him to be sober, but quick minded and generous. He had tragedy in his life that made him perhaps too grim at times, but he always kept his word, and saw to his responsibilities with utmost exactness. So then think what I felt when I saw the very best of men struck with the very worst of diseases, and his household shattered because of it.

“I had promised myself I would never do this again, but how could I not when it was Darcy? It was not an option for me to not aid him. I do not think he knew what he was asking for himself when he wrote to me. In the early days, he was often insensible, worse even than the young man from many years ago. But he knew he was hurting the people around him, and wanted it to stop.

“I was provided with a unique opportunity here. Not only had Darcy come to me of his own accord, but he was someone I had known well before he was infected. Fear not, I did not think to use him for my own gain. I thought rather that I would know the changes in him, and be able to act accordingly. I became his touchstone, almost his conscious. I reminded him that he once had been human, but I did not treat him as I had before. I was still his friend, but he was no longer what he was.

“And so I began again. It was Darcy who discovered that silver forced the wolf into a sort of coma, and prevented it from wholly controlling him. However, he could not wear silver during the full moon, for it enraged his beast, and caused terrible infection where it touched him. Darcy has always been a man of strict control and discipline. It was what let him excel so much as a spell mage. But the wolf took that all away from him. He was quite devastated, but also determined his disease would not define him.

“He has lived longer than any werewolf I have heard of,” he said with conviction. “I know my stories are not happy, but I told you to assure you that he is the strongest man I know, both as a wolf and human. His intelligence and control are unparalleled. Since coming here, his wolf is no longer the brute it was. I could have never trusted him outside the cage before. That your presence has something to do with it I do not doubt. Maybe it would have happened anyway, but you have sped the process. I have never met the werewolf he hunts, but I do not believe it can be stronger than him. The other wolves I have met could not begin to come to his power and size. That alone gives me hope. And I believe that you give him hope.”

She started in surprise. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Bingley. I think you mistake Mr. Darcy’s regard for me.” She just had to think of his haughty actions—outside of the full moon, when Fitz clearly had an undue influence on him—to confirm it.

But Mr. Bingley shook his head. “I am sure I do not. In taming his wolf, you have given him back his humanity. That is something I could never have done.”

It was time for Lizzy to shake her head. “You overestimate me. Fitz was the one who has done it all along. I could not touch him if he did not will it.”

“Perhaps we will disagree on this,” he said amicably, and changed the subject. She tried to attend to the conversation, but neither of them put much effort into it, and soon they fell silent.

Fitz did not return until half an hour before sunrise. Mr. Bingley saw him first, and his startled exclamation rouse Lizzy, who had fallen into a doze by then. She sat up, blinking her eyes stupidly. A great, terrible rage suddenly overcame her, and she sank into the chair in fear. “Fitz,” she whispered, and in the next instant she flew out of her chair. She raced down the hallways of Netherfield, Mr. Bingley on her heels.

They made the entrance hall in seconds, and Mr. Bingley flung open the door. Fitz bounded into the house from a dozen paces away. He landed and growled viciously. Lizzy did not dare touch him. His fury washed over her in waves. He was covered in blood, and his fur bristled dangerously. Thankfully the dewy grass had washed his paws clean, and so he did not leave bloody paw prints on the floor.

Neither Mr. Bingley or Lizzy spoke, wary of this monster in their midst. Fitz seemed bigger than ever as he growled and paced. She saw that he had several deep lacerations on his back and chest, and his muzzle was also scored. She timidly reached her magic out to him. His head whipped toward her, and she shrank under his glare.

He moved to stand before her. She stood her ground, trembling, not knowing what he would do. He had to sense her fear; it had to be telling him to hunt. She didn’t know what had happened to him, save that he seemed to have been in a very great battle. She wanted to comfort him, at least tend his wounds, but she didn’t dare move lest he take umbrage. At last he sighed, and the great fury eased somewhat.
He leaned forward and lightly touched her hand with his nose. He left a red smear there, and pulled away quickly. His tongue swiped over his nose to contain the leak.

Fitz turned away from them, and began climbing the stairs. Mr. Bingley and Lizzy followed helplessly, unable to do anything else. As they walked, Lizzy whispered to Mr. Bingley to collect a jug of water. She opened a linen closet, silently apologizing to the cat that had just given birth there. It was out of season for kittens, but it happened at times. She took clean towels, on the chance that Fitz was now calm enough to allow himself to be touched.

The door to the library had been left ajar in their flight, and now Fitz entered. He was limping heavily, and his head drooped in weariness. When Mr. Bingley entered with a stout picture of water and a bowl, he locked the door behind him. Fitz looked from one of them to the other, and seemed uncertain what to do.
Lizzy could stand his pain no longer. She knelt to the ground, taking the bowl from Mr. Bingley. Fitz approached her slowly, like a moth to flame, until he stood before her. Their heads were on the level. Mr. Bingley poured water into the bowl. Fitz leaned down and began lapping slowly. Lizzy took a towel, cautiously dipped it in the water, and began sponging the abrasions on his face. He winced once, but made no other complaint.

When she had cleaned his head as best she could, she delicately put her hand on his muzzle, and called on her magic. She frowned in surprise. “I cannot heal you,” she whispered. Mr. Bingley cleared his throat, standing a cautious distance back in case Fitz should object to his presence.

“Darcy heals quickly from almost any injury now,” he said. “Save when he is injured by silver, or by himself. If those wounds were indeed caused by another werewolf, it might be the same.”

Fitz rumbled with what seemed like agreement. She stared at him sadly. “Then I cannot help you,” she murmured. He only looked at her, his eyes seeming very soulful. She gestured for Mr. Bingley to lay a sheet on the floor. He did so, moving slowly to not surprise Fitz. She could have told him that Fitz was calmer now. Still angry, but not at them. Being with the ones he trusted had relaxed him.

He laid stiffly on the towel, careful of his injuries. She cleaned the cuts as best she could. Several were very messy. If she had not spent her life healing other injuries to animals, she might have been sick from the quantity of blood, and the deepness of the slashes. It looked as though he had fought a tiger, not another werewolf.

She held back tears as she worked, but as his muscles gradually lost tension, she couldn’t contain them. She bowed her head, wondering what Mr. Bingley thought of her, crying over Fitz when Mr. Darcy couldn’t stand her. She felt a great loneliness in Fitz, a need to be comforted. That he had chosen them, herself and Mr. Bingley, to provide it meant more than she could say. She remembered Mr. Bingley’s tales of the other werewolves, and even what Fitz had been like in the very beginning. He was not the same. He was stronger, more intelligent, more caring than any of them.

He was not a savage beast. Fitz was not human, but he also craved the same company that Mr. Darcy did, herself perhaps being the only oddity. After all, it wasn’t Miss Bingley kneeling here cleaning his wounds. Was that significant? Or was it only her magic that had allowed her into the house? She didn’t want to think about it. Gently she touched the whole patches of his fur, feeling the way he appreciated her contact.

She looked up at Mr. Bingley. He looked gravely concerned for his friend. “It’s alright,” she told him quietly. “He doesn’t mind you being here.”

“May I…?” he asked hesitantly. She didn’t have to consult with Fitz to know the answer. She nodded. Mr. Bingley knelt a little ways from her, and then reached out his hand for his friend. He hesitated before placing his hand on the wolf’s head. Fitz did not object, and Mr. Bingley let out a shaky breath.

“Do you know, in all the time I have tried to help him, I have not touched him once?” he said once, his voice full of wonder. Mr. Bingley felt he had pressed his luck enough, and withdrew. He smiled at her in such a way that made her feel uncomfortable. He seemed to regard her as having single-handedly saved Mr. Darcy, but that was not true! She had only befriended Fitz; truly it was Fitz who had decided to save himself.

Abruptly Fitz stood. He walked over to Mr. Bingley, opened his mouth, and engulfed the man’s knee in his jaws. He gave a definite tug, then released Mr. Bingley and grabbed the towels that had not yet been used. He headed toward the back of the library. Mr. Bingley had gone quite pale when the werewolf had seized his leg, and now looked apprehensive of following him. He glanced at the time piece, and realized the cause of the curt summons: dawn had arrived.

Mr. Bingley entered the hidden alcove with Fitz. Lizzy remained where she was, listening nervously to the sounds of changes coming from the back of the library. She heard Fitz whine briefly, and then a very human hiss of pain. Mr. Bingley gave a low oath, and then there was only the indiscernible whisper of voices for a time.

Lizzy began to get very anxious. She could feel that Fitz had gone quite to sleep the moment the change hit him. She didn’t know how Mr. Darcy would react to her being here. He had been too unpredictable of late. Furthermore, would the injuries to Fitz follow Mr. Darcy? That was cause for concern. They had been bad on a large wolf. What would they be like on a smaller human frame? She understood it was impossible to stitch up Fitz, as his change had been eminent, and there was no trustworthy veterinarian to attend the wolf. But what about Mr. Darcy? Would a physician see him? Were stitches possible, given that he still had one more night of the full moon to endure?

She stood and went to the door. She didn’t wish to leave, but sensed it might be prudent to be near an exit, just in case. At very long last, Mr. Darcy emerged from the alcove, Mr. Bingley close behind. She looked at him, and noticed the long, shallow scratches that went right across the bridge of his nose and down one cheek. She winced. How bad were his other cuts then? Some of them had been very deep. No doubt Mr. Bingley had had to play physician to him, and bind the many wounds. It comforted her to think that Mr. Bingley was a physician, even if his field of study was magical ailments, not mechanical injuries.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes darted between the door and Lizzy. She stepped away from it, and he relaxed mutely. He wasn’t fully dressed, having only a shirt and trousers, but his neck cloth was loosely tied, as though he’d made an effort to be presentable. She didn’t know what to say to him. He was so much easier to deal with as Fitz.

Mr. Bingley stood next to Mr. Darcy. “What happened?” he asked.

Mr. Darcy sighed, looked away from Lizzy. He went to a chair and sat gingerly, obviously favoring his wounds. “I found him,” he said quietly. He looked at her again.

Lizzy’s breath caught in her throat. Mr. Bingley leaned forward eagerly. “You did?”

Mr. Darcy nodded. “He was near Longbourn.”

“My family—”

“Jane—”

Both Mr. Bingley and Lizzy spoke at the same time. Mr. Darcy shook his head. “Everyone is sleeping safe with the walls,” he assured them, though his eyes lingered on Lizzy as if to ask why she too wasn’t at Longbourn where she belonged. She refused to be intimidated by him. No matter how superior he thought himself, he would have still been locked in a cage without her.

“Don’t stop there, what happened?” Mr. Bingley demanded.

Mr. Darcy glanced at him. “I found him. We fought. I was stronger, he was faster.” He spoke in clipped tones. His lips drew back from his teeth in an involuntary snarl. With the scratches on his nose, it made him look unexpectedly savage. Lizzy suppressed a shudder. Her mind was still at Longbourn. What had the other werewolf been doing at her home? That he was hunting her was an easy leap to make, but she didn’t know why. What might he have done if Mr. Darcy—Fitz—hadn’t been there to stop him?

“In the end I drove him off. He won’t be back.” Mr. Darcy sat back with an air of satisfaction about him. Mr. Bingley looked frustrated with his friend’s short, unimaginative narration. He began to press further, but Lizzy blurted, “I need to get home.”

Mr. Bingley was instantly all concern. “Of course, Miss Elizabeth. You want to check on your family, the same as I would. May we call on you later?”

She nodded, though sneaking a look at Mr. Darcy, she wasn’t sure Mr. Bingley would have company when he visited. Mr. Darcy’s expression was disgruntled, as though he was irked that she did not trust his word that her family was safe. She trusted him, or trusted Fitz at least, but nothing was better reassurance than seeing with her own eyes. More, now that she had snuck out, her family needed to know she was safe as well. If any had checked on her to find her missing, she could guess the panic caused.

Mr. Darcy did not frighten her, but he did make her uncomfortable. She was ironically eager to escape his presence, and yet reluctant to part with Fitz. There was still one more clear night of the full moon, she remembered, if Mr. Bennet did not throw a fit and cause a storm to brew up because of her absences. And yet… she couldn’t do it. Hadn’t she put her family through enough, disappearing two nights in a row? If she went out again, people might suspect she was the werewolf!

She had already taken enough risks with her reputation as well. If word got out that she had been visiting two bachelors and staying the night with them, she would be utterly ruined. It had been some kind of miracle that she had not run into anyone besides Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy. Miss Bingley certainly would not hesitate to condemn her as a fallen woman. She could only wonder and dread what the servants would spread about her. Enough had seen her the first night to shred any good standing she had in Hertfordshire. She remembered uneasily that she had been drugged into sleeping all day. She could already be ruined from the gossips, and she wouldn’t know it. Yes, it was certainly time to go home, and repair what damage she could.

Mr. Bingley was eagerly waiting to escort her to the door. She stood and made her way out of the library. At the last moment, Mr. Darcy rose with effort and followed them. Perhaps due to the earliness of the hour—just past dawn—they met no one else going downstairs. She realized she had comment aloud on it when Mr. Bingley colored and confessed, “I’m afraid I lay a bit of a sleep spell on the house during the full moon nights. I can’t do it nearly so strong as Darcy could, but I dare say mine is serviceable enough.”

She nodded, and her spirits lifted as she wondered if the spell might have helped her avoid ruination on the first night of the full moon. They reached the front door, and Mr. Bingley opened it for her. He glanced out automatically, and frowned. Instead of stepping aside for Lizzy to pass, he strode out, demanding loudly, “What is the meaning of this?”

Lizzy exchanged an astonished glance with Mr. Darcy. They both acted together, reaching for the door. She was nearer, but he was quicker. They arrived at the same time, dangerously close to occupying the same space. Had he been one of her sisters, she would have elbowed him to give her more room. Instead she tried simultaneously to stand her ground and recoil from actually touching him.

The sight of a dozen members of the militia approaching Netherfield’s front door stopped her cold. She understood why Mr. Bingley had spoken; she wished she had not been so impetuous to see for herself. Colonel Forster’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of Lizzy, and then narrowed dangerously when he saw Mr. Darcy. It was never a good sign when the militia showed up at one’s doorstep, especially when some of the soldiers showed signs of hasty dressing.

She had hoped Mr. Bingley’s spell would have kept her presence at Netherfield quiet, but that was clearly impossible now. In a nervous, hard voice, Col Forster announced, “Rouse the household, Mr. Bingley. We are performing our duty. I have it on good evidence that at least one among your number is a werewolf, and guilty of the attacks. Everyone must be tested by silver and wolfsbane.”

The entire side of Lizzy’s body closest to Mr. Darcy sudden itched like mad. Her eyes twitched in their sockets, and it was only with great will did she avoid looking at him. Had Col Forster been watching her, he would have known instantly that Lizzy knew everything. But his gaze was fixed on Mr. Darcy. He knew. He didn’t come looking for a werewolf—he came to convict one.

“Preposterous,” Mr. Bingley muttered, but he had gone unfortunately pale.

Lizzy’s head swam and her stomach sank. She felt suddenly protective of Fitz. In a way, she had met him—the calm, rational side of him—even before Mr. Darcy. Neither Mr. Bingley nor Mr. Darcy would have known how genteel Fitz could be without her. For him to be taken away, when he was just discovering the advantages of his transformation, was unconscionable. How dare they do this to him! Who could have told? The other werewolf? Mr. Darcy and Fitz had been very certain of their victory this morning, but who else knew of Mr. Darcy’s condition?

Of all of them, Mr. Darcy remained the calmest. He did not flinch, or look away, or show any signs of discomfort. She was acutely aware of the picture he presented, waistcoat and jacket missing, hair disheveled, scratches across his face. Everything about him, even the coiled ease with which he stood, screamed what he was. She felt Fitz rouse from his slumber and take a solid stance within Mr. Darcy. They would face this together.]]> Autumn D Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 08 May 2013 22:57:50 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96589,96589#msg-96589 Fitzwilliam Darcy: A Man in Want of a Wife, Chapter 40 (9 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96589,96589#msg-96589A Man in Want of a Wife is now complete but not fully betaed yet. I will be posting a chapter a week, giving it time to complete the beta process. Once it is betaed, it will be submitted to a professional editorial staff for a final edit to hopefully correct any errors me and my betas might have missed. I wish to thank in advance everyone who has come along on this journey and especially those of you who have taken the time to comment. :D


Chapter 40





No. 15 Cavendish Square
Pennington House

Entering the gate of Cavendish Square, Darcy dismounted and handed the reins off to the waiting footman. Taking the steps at a rapid pace, he approached the door and lifted the knocker, giving it three sharp raps. Soon, the door opened, and he was greeted by a footman. Darcy handed the man his card. “I am here to see Mr. Randal Pennington.”

The servant looked up from the card in his hand and smiled. “Come in, Mr. Darcy. I shall tell Mr. Pennington you are here.”

A few moments more and he was greeted by his friend. “Darcy! We had quite despaired of ever seeing you again, old man,” he said, clapping him on the back. “Come in at once! Beau is here and so are Wex and Fitzwilliam. We were just about to call on you at Darcy House. I called yesterday and was told you were still too ill to receive visitors, but that today you might be available, and so you are. It is indeed good to see you out and about.”

“It is good to be out, Rand,” Darcy said with a smile as they began to walk down the corridor. “What say you to going to White’s and having a pitcher of ale with a tray of meat and cheese? I’m buying.”

“Well, if that be the case, then you shall have no objection from me,” he answered.

Making their way around the corner, they entered the drawing room. The Duke of Beaumont rose from his seat and made his way to greet them. “I see you have decided to re-join the living, Darcy. It is good to see you have made a recovery. Millicent and I were quite worried about you. Millie sends her love.”

Darcy bowed. “Your Grace, it is indeed a pleasure to see you. Tell Miss Millicent that I am well and that Georgiana and I will be in attendance tonight as well as in the morning. I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world,” Darcy said in genuine sincerity.

“I am exceedingly pleased to hear that, and I know Millie will be happy as well. She is extremely attached to Miss Darcy. They often have outings on Oxford and Bond Streets. What they find to shop for is beyond me, but if it keeps the ladies happy, then I am all for it. Kate and Lord Brocton are also returned. They were married about a fortnight ago by special license. It was the only way the Viceroy would receive them again. Therefore, all is now right in the world.”

Darcy laughed. “I am happy to hear it. I look forward to meeting this elusive Colonel. He must be quite a man to have stolen the Viceroy’s daughter right out from under his nose. It is not something I would have dared to try.”

“Indeed! Nor would I. But you will like him. He is an honourable man. His only fault is that he is smitten with my future sister.”

Darcy sighed. He was well acquainted with that feeling. “Then I shall indeed look forward to meeting him. Miss Kathryn and Miss Millicent have certainly made an impression on us all—especially on my sister. I am pleased to see Georgiana once again enjoying company. Though she will be the youngest in attendance tonight, I have decided to allow her to dance. I am to have one set, and then I would like one of you to dance the other with her.”

“Only two? Darcy,” Randal Pennington interjected, “it is a private ball. Let her dance all she wishes. No one will care that she is not yet officially out. I, for one, want to claim a dance.”

“As do I,” replied Lord Wexford. “And I am sure Richard would as well.” He glanced at his brother, who nodded as he rose to his feet.

“Georgiana can always count on me for a partner,” the Colonel said, approaching from the divan where he had been sitting. “I think it is a good thing to let her become at ease in society before she is presented at court. Her come out ball will not be half so intimidating if she has had a little experience.”

“There it is settled. We shall all dance with Miss Darcy,” Randal said with a smile, glancing at Darcy.

Darcy started to object but then remembering his resolution to be more agreeable, he thought the better of it. “I suppose it will not hurt,” he said at last. “She will be among friends.”

“A fine concession that is, Darcy. Of course she is among friends!” the Colonel cried. “I shall have the dance after yours.”

“And you must all dance with my sisters. Fortunately, they are now all betrothed, or I would suggest one of them to either of you,” the Duke said, flashing a grin as he glanced between the two Fitzwilliam brothers. “They are exceedingly beautiful, but Mother has managed to do the job properly, and I am left to myself, except when my younger sister comes of age.”

“Indeed, you do have uncommonly pretty sisters, and it is certainly a disappointment to have missed an opportunity. But we must all endure it as best we can,” Lord Wexford said with a laugh. “I shall be doomed to my own mother’s machinations.”

“Well, Darcy, I see you are fit,” the Colonel said, changing the subject.

Darcy laughed. “Not fit, but I think a visit to No. 13 Bond Street would do wonders in restoring my strength. It has been a long time since I saw Gentleman Jackson. Care to join me? We could all benefit from the exercise, but first, let’s go to White’s. I’ve not been in many months, and I would like a pint of ale. I am buying, after all.”

Lord Wexford laughed in return. “There is nothing I like better than Mr. McGillicutty’s brew, the best Irish draft this side of Ireland. But as for the exercise, I think I shall leave it to you. Boxing is not exactly my sport.”

The gentlemen donned their coats and hats, and within minutes they were on their way to St. James’s Street. Upon entering their club, they found a table in the back room. Two pitchers of drink were ordered, one of ale and another of bragget, the Duke’s preferred drink of mead and ale sweetened with honey, as well as a tray of bread, cold meats, celery, salads, and cheese.

When the tray had been brought and the drinks set down, Darcy poured each man a full pint. After they had drunk their first, he thought about something that had been on his mind ever since that day in the park. In light of his conversation with Lady Margaret, he was curious to learn if there was any particular regard on the part of his cousin.

“Wex,” Darcy spoke at last, “I understand that about a fortnight ago you spent the evening with Lady Margaret.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And why would you be seeing her?” Randal enquired. “I thought you had broken your secret liaison off some time ago.”

“Maggie has and always will be a good friend. We share a close bond. Whatever was between us before is in the past. I called on her to enlist her help.”

“Help?” Darcy frowned, breaking his bread for meat and cheese.

“Yes. I had hoped she would help me escape the grasp of Miss Sally Gimbal.” He shuddered. “I can scarcely tolerate her, and yet Mother wants me to marry her.” the Viscount pronounced as he raised his pint to his lips.

“Marry her?” Randal laughed. “You hardly know her.”

“Ah, but she has a fortune of fifty thousand pounds,” the Colonel declared. “And that is as good a reason as any to marry.”

“But you wouldn’t do that yourself, surely—either of you,” the Duke stated with feeling, glancing between the Fitzwilliam brothers. “Not without knowing something of her character or if you find her agreeable. I met the Miss Gimbals once at a soirée my mother gave, and from my impression, I don’t think either of you are in the least suited for either of them. You do have to own that they are very plain. My own mother tried to arrange a match for me with the elder Miss Gimbal. I would have none of it.”

“Very plain? Umm…that is one way of putting it. Mother has matched me with the very one you found so disagreeable,” the Viscount said, reaching for some cheese and celery. Glancing at his brother, he continued. “Admit it, Brother. She is as bracket-faced as a donkey. My horse looks better. You would not wish to marry such a woman—or her younger sister, whom, I might say, Mother has reserved for you.”

“Very true. I would not wish to marry either of the Miss Gimbals, but then I am not the one being pressured to marry and produce the heir. Mother gives me more grace than she does you.”

“And just what exactly did you expect Maggie to do about it?” Darcy asked, bringing the discussion back to its original subject while eyeing his cousin carefully as he took a bite of his bread filled with cheese and a slice of ham.

“We’re friends. I thought she could at least agree to pretend we were courting or something of the sort. I wanted her to feign an agreement—one that could be conveniently broken in the future, but she would have none of it. What do you think she said to me?”

Darcy laughed. “I can only imagine that it wasn’t pleasant. Maggie has a tongue as sharp as any razor when she wishes to use it.”

“I’ll tell you what she said,” the Colonel interjected with a laugh. “She told Wex that if that was all their friendship meant to him, he could leave the way he came in and not let the door hit him on the way out. And then what do you think she did next?”

“I can’t imagine,” Darcy said.

“She was so angry that she picked up a small glass figurine and threw it at me, barely missing my head,” the Viscount answered. “That is what she did. I must say I had no idea Maggie had it in her, although I find her extremely beautiful when she is exceedingly angry—especially with fiery tears in her eyes. Did you know they were blue? It is a side of Maggie I had never seen before. But we have since made up. I right honourably apologized, and she dutifully forgave me. Maggie cannot stay vexed with me for very long. In that regard, she is amiable. I am to travel with her and her mother this summer to Warmouth Hall in Yorkshire. I’m advising her on estate management—very singular for a woman, but I suppose she must learn from someone, and who better to teach her than me?”

They all laughed.

“Who is Lady Margaret?” the Duke asked.

“You’ll meet her tonight. She is a friend of Susan’s and, I might add, of Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Wex. For a while, they were inseparable.”

“I shall look forward to meeting her, then. She sounds like a formidable woman.”

“That she is,” Lord Wexford said, a wistful tone in his voice. “That she is.”

“You ought to offer for her, Wex,” Darcy said in seriousness. “Lady Margaret is a perfect match for you, and she is as handsome a woman as you’ll ever find. Nor do I think you could find a better wife. Maggie is a woman beyond her years in wisdom.”

“Propose? I certainly shall not! She is a bluestocking. Why, it would be insupportable to be married to her.”

“No man of means wants a silly wife, Wex,” the Colonel said. “I’d rather have a bluestocking than many of what I have seen at this Season’s balls and assemblies. If I thought Maggie would consider me, I might be willing to travel to Yorkshire myself and assist her in estate management. But I would say she prefers you to anyone else.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She is a widow, has not shown any inclination to marry, and so far as I can tell, has not taken any lovers other than that one short liaison with you soon after Lord Warmouth died. There must be a reason for it. Perhaps the reason is you.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I certainly do. If she did not have a high regard for you, she simply would have tossed you out on your ear and been done with it, but from the heated exchange you just described, I’d say there is more there than meets the eye.” The Colonel reached and poured another pint of ale from the new pitcher just placed on table.

“I’ve never thought about it...that she could hold affection for me. I thought her done with men and averse to marriage.”

“That was then and this is now. Remember these two points: things change and women do not say what they mean. Maybe you should rethink it. You are three and thirty. It is time for you to make a change as well, Wex, and become more family minded,” Darcy remarked without giving it a second thought.

Of all of them, Wex was the most suitable for Maggie, and if it were within his power, he would do what he could to forward the match. However, the subject was soon dropped in favour of another on the minds of all in the wake of events of recent days.

“I have been summoned to the War Office,” the Colonel said. “Things are heating up at sea with the Americans. Lord Liverpool and his party wish to repeal the Orders in Council, but Mr. Perceval does not. And Mr. Madison is threatening to declare war if we do not. The Yanks are demanding freedom of the seas under International Law.”

“For one so small in the world, I’d say the former colonies are rather bold. This time we will whip them properly should they do something so stupid as to start another war,” the Duke said. “If the French hadn’t intervened, they would have been whipped into submission the first time. The French, however, are in no position to render assistance this time.”

“They have the balls of a brass monkey,” Rand interjected. “What do they mean threatening war? Do they not know we have the most powerful navy on earth and that our army will outnumber them? Without the French, what do they have to fight with? Sticks and stones? Pitchforks and shovels?”

“It isn’t that, Rand. If I know our stiff-necked brothers, they will try to induce the Canadians to rebel and join them. That is what we fear. If they are successful there, they just might best us again. That is why, if it comes to war, I am to be deployed to Canada immediately to secure the forces there. I do not look forward to war with the Yanks. They have a good bit more than just primitive weapons. They are now seasoned in battle, and they do have a navy, such as it is. Furthermore, they hide in the bushes, waiting until they can almost look us in the eye. And when we come face to face with them, they open up and fire their muskets. The bloody Yanks have no honour in battle. They do not play by our rules, and that is why they are a formidable foe—and a very dangerous one at that. They will fire their cannons until the barrels melt down, and then they will fire once more.”

“Are they truly that much of a challenge? Do they have the leadership to execute another all-out war?” Randal Pennington asked.

“Yes.” The Colonel nodded matter-of-factly. “Our intelligence sources have informed us of a rising general in the Tennessee Militia who is not to be underestimated. General Andrew Jackson is as tough as hickory wood and every bit as cunning as the Swamp Fox of the South Carolina Militia during the American Rebellion. Francis Marion has forever changed the way war is waged, and we have yet to adapt. The loss of life will be great.

“I studied their warfare and our defeat in the colonies in great detail whilst I was in residence at Sandhurst. The damned Yanks with their coonskin hats and fiddles—they are boorish and unrefined. Polite society and good manners mean nothing to them. They are a most common folk—as crude as they are sly.” He paused and glanced away. Turning back to the table he said, “Yes…we are indeed brothers…one the bastard son, wilful and rebellious; the other, the legitimate one, honourable but intransigent. One is stubborn and stiff-necked, whilst the other holds to his quiet dignity and tradition. We are as much at odds as two brothers ever could be. Just like Isaac and Ishmael.”

“Well, let us hope that cooler heads prevail and Mr. Perceval will see reason and drop this aggressive restraint of trade against our former colonies,” the Duke replied with a long sigh. “Let them trade with France if they wish it. We certainly do. We’ve never stopped. The blockade runners are doing remarkably well. And very little is done to stop them.”

“Amen to that,” said the Colonel. “I have no wish to go to Canada. They don’t have summer there until August—a most unpleasant climate, if you ask me.”

They continued to talk for a half hour more until the Duke pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat. “I had best be getting back to Grosvenor Square. My mother will be beside herself with worry. Care to accompany me, Darcy? Millie would like to see you.”

“No. I have an appointment for a boxing lesson. I’m afraid my illness has left me less than fit. I am much in need of exercise.”

“Suit yourself, then. I thank you for the afternoon and especially for the bragget. It isn’t often that I have an opportunity to have it.”

Rising to leave, the Duke turned to Randal Pennington and engaged him in conversation concerning the forthcoming evening as the gentlemen moved towards the door, laughing and talking. They had no more than exited the establishment when Darcy froze in mid-step. His heart leapt into his throat, and his breath stilled as he caught sight of the Miss Bennets coming out of the chocolate shop a few doors down and boarding a carriage with an older woman. They were laughing and smiling, obviously in good cheer. He swallowed hard. Tears stung his eyes. A rush of emotion stole his breath, leaving him with the feeling as if a fist had hit him in his stomach. He took a deep breath and turned aside. Badly shaken, he almost stumbled.

Colonel Fitzwilliam grabbed his arm to steady him. “Darcy,” he said softly, “you have to get hold of yourself. Let it go. She didn’t see us—I am sure of it—or she would have acknowledged us.”

“I highly doubt it,” Darcy said in bitterness, his eyes filled with pain. “You she might have acknowledged, but according to her, I am not even a gentleman. She would prefer that I pass on the street as a casual and indifferent acquaintance—someone she barely knew—without so much as uttering a word.”

Lord Wexford glanced between his cousin and the ladies’ coach as it pulled out into the traffic. “So that is Darcy’s bane,” he said in a quiet voice. “Well, at least she is very handsome, whichever one she was. Both are uncommonly beautiful.”

The Colonel gave his brother a sharp look. “That was hardly necessary, Wex.” He then turned to Darcy. “Let us make our way to Gentleman Jackson’s. You expressed a desire for exercise. I think it a wise decision. Exercise will be very beneficial in more ways than one.”

“Yes, let us be on our way,” Darcy replied, a tinge of anger expressed in his tone.

Randal Pennington and his future brother-in-law were so involved in their conversation that they had not even noticed the exchange between Darcy and his two cousins, and Darcy was thankful; for at least in that he maintained a semblance of silent dignity.

~*~


Darcy and his cousins bid the Duke and Randal Pennington farewell and turned their horses in the direction of Gentleman Jackson’s establishment. Darcy was still shaking as they travelled the short distance to No. 13 Bond Street. His cousins talked and bantered jovially, but he was silent. He had not realized that seeing her would have such an effect on him; nor did he realize the pain was still so raw. To see her standing there on the street hurt more than he could ever have imagined. It cut him to the quick. He clenched his jaw. If it were the last thing he did, he would conquer this.

Upon entering Gentleman Jackson’s establishment, they were greeted by the man himself. “Mr. Darcy,” he said. “Are you ready to train? It has been slow with so many returning to their estates, making you very fortunate as I happen to have a time open this afternoon. It has been some time since I last saw you, and from the looks of you,” Mr. Jackson stood back, examining Darcy from head to toe, “you could use some conditioning. You’ve let yourself go, man.”

“Yes. That is why I have come. I’ve been unwell of late, and now I wish to exercise so that I might restore my health and vigour.”

“Very good!” He glanced at the Viscount and continued. “And you, Your Lordship, could use some training, too. The only one of you who looks physically fit is Colonel Fitzwilliam, but then I guess it stands to reason since I see him once a sennight. You have excellent style and a very firm right hook, Colonel,” Jackson said, raising his hand to his left jaw.

The Colonel laughed. “That I do. I’ve not lost a fight since coming to know you…but then I don’t think I did before either. The difference now is that my partner looks worse than I when we are finished.”

“And that is how it should be. Your Lordship,” Gentleman Jackson said, turning to the Viscount, “do you wish to train as well today? I can work you in. I have no other appointments after Mr. Darcy.”

“Ah, no. I will watch my cousin and pick him up off the floor when you are through with him.”

They all laughed.

“Very funny, Wex. I shall challenge you, and then we shall see who is picking up whom.”

“Very good.” Jackson laughed as he turned with a smile. “Mr. Darcy, if you will follow me, I have a room ready. Suit up and I will be with you directly.”

Once in the dressing quarters, Darcy removed his coat and waistcoat and carefully laid them on the divan, silently berating himself.

…Damn it! Are you going to act like the fool every time you happen to see or think of her? You have to be in control of your feelings and let it go. She is never going to be yours. She hates you…and perhaps rightly so. Maggie thinks so.

He released a ragged breath and shook his head as he slipped the second glove on. I will conquer this…I must!

Entering the boxing room, he found Gentleman Jackson waiting along with his cousins situated to watch.

“Now, if you remember from our last lesson, you must position your feet so and lean in. Your strength is in your fists, but your body must act as one singular force. Remember, two things are paramount: nimble footwork and the principle that a hit is not effective unless the distance is judged correctly. Adopt the proper posture of a slightly bent body, head and shoulders forward with your knees slightly bent and fists well up. Remember, use your fists when fighting. Fighting with the entire body is ineffective against the power of a well-trained fist. Yes, that is right. Keep proper form and attack me.”

Darcy lunged forward, but the gentleman easily fended him off with his fists alone.

“You have indeed become weak. Show me what you did last summer. Keep your distance and put those fists up. Now strike me.”

Darcy’s focus suddenly took a turn for the business at hand as he snapped and leaned in and attacked like he had never struck anyone before. His feet moved lithely across the floor. Levelling his blows with precision and skill, Darcy soon had his master on the defensive. All of Darcy’s frustrations and rage were released into his fists. They found their target and pummelled it over and over again, sending his master back almost against the wall.

Finally, Gentleman Jackson deflected Darcy’s wrathful blows and spun around, calling an acknowledgment to the victor. “Very good, sir. I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten everything you had learnt, but I see that you have not. If you continue to improve at this pace, I shall have to sponsor you at Pugilistic. I dare say you could whip the best of them. I’ve only lost one match in the entirety of my career, but I think with a little practice, you could quite possibly be the second.”

He threw back his head and laughed, and then levelled a punch that knocked Darcy to the floor. Standing over Darcy, Jackson grinned. “Rule number two: never underestimate your opponent, and never let your guard down, for when you do, he will seize the moment. In a street fight, it could prove deadly.”

Darcy breathed heavily and laughed as he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his forearm. “Acknowledged! And this is why you hold the British championship in fighting. I shall never let my guard down in anything again. That is one lesson I have learned; one I intend to master.” …particularly when it comes to women!

“Would you like to have another go at it, sir? You have ten minutes left of your class time.”

“No. I think not, or I might not have any teeth when my time is over. I shall see you on Monday. I want to resume our half hour lessons for three days a week. I have much to learn, and I want to regain my strength to its former level of last summer.”

“Very good, sir. I shall see you at our regular time.”

Riding back to Grosvenor Square, the Colonel turned to Darcy. “That was perhaps the best fighting I have ever seen you do. Remind me never to cross you again.”

“Aye, and me as well,” said the Viscount. “I would surely hate to see you when you are truly angry. God help the man who crosses you.”

Darcy turned to his companions. “I am careful not to allow my anger to overcome my reason. Rarely have I been angry enough to inflict any true harm.” …Only once has that happened, and then I was restrained; though after the falsehood Wickham has imposed upon Elizabeth, I will kill him with my bare hands if I ever again see him close to my sister or anyone else whom I love. Next time Georgiana’s pleas will not save him.

“No, you are the gentlest man I know,” Lord Wexford said. “Not like us. I think that must be the advantage of having a brother or two. We were constantly at it, and as Mother always feared, with the intent to do bodily harm. Only poor Henry escaped, but then I suppose that is because he is twelve years my junior. It wouldn’t do to go around beating on one so young. Father would not have tolerated it.”

They all laughed again.

After leaving his cousins at Matlock House, Darcy slowly made his way back to his own townhouse with thoughts of Elizabeth still on his mind. She hadn’t even noticed him, and as he thought about it, it was probably for the best, though she looked lovely standing there on the street, wearing the gown he thought flattered her best: pale yellow with a green pelisse. It hung in graceful folds gathering around her feet as she moved. He could still hear her gay laughter ringing out. He breathed deeply and shook his head. Coming through the gate of Darcy House, he sighed. It would not do for his sister to see him in such a fit of melancholy. He would school his emotions and present a cheerful mien. Above all, Georgiana must not worry.

Taking the steps two at a time, he entered the house in search of his sister. They had just enough time for a small meal, and then she would play for him. Like King Saul of Biblical times, harp music soothed his soul and calmed his anxieties. After that, they would freshen up, dress, and be off for Cavendish Square. Tonight he would observe his eldest cousin and see if he could discern any peculiar regard for Lady Margaret. It grieved him that Wex had been so close to her shortly after Lord Warmouth’s death only to have that closeness come to an end. It was a short affair, of great intensity while it lasted. They had parted amicably and remained good friends, but Darcy was certain she was the only woman who could match Lord Wexford’s keen mind and sharp intellect, as well as his fierce temper when it came to perceived injustices. And perhaps that was what his cousin feared: commitment to a woman who was his equal. Darcy sighed. Lady Margaret would be the best wife his cousin could ever hope for, and yet, would Wex realize it before it was too late?



~*~*~*~
]]> MK Baxley Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 11 May 2013 00:03:33 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96582,96582#msg-96582 All Darcy Could Do (Longer Version)--Chapter 12 (5 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96582,96582#msg-96582

Despite Mary’s fondness for philosophical reflection, she was not the most perceptive reader of people. It did not immediately occur to her that Darcy’s interest in Elizabeth’s remarks might have anything to do with his sudden change of mind about marrying the Bennet of his choice.

When he asked Mary’s help to leave Longbourn unseen, she was only too eager to comply. Absorbed in her own feelings of shame at throwing herself at him, she felt the more quickly he was gone, the better. No questions occurred to her about why he wished to steal away without saying farewell to her father. She assured him he could depend upon her.

But she did not anticipate the arrival of the visitors. If the drawing room door was closed where they were being entertained, perhaps she and Darcy could go through the front of house. On the other hand, the servants’ entrance leading out through the side on the ground floor might be better because there would probably be no one there at this time of day. Definitely, they should avoid the kitchen because the butler or his spies might see them and tell her father.

It was all so much to think about. Paralyzed with indecision and her face screwed up tightly in contemplation, she almost missed seeing her father leading the visitors to the library. If only she had realized a minute earlier her father was taking them there, she could have gotten to Darcy to hide him in the alcove where she was now standing. It would have been a perfect way for them to escape. But by the time she saw where her father was going, he was already walking past her with his guests.

***********************

It seemed to Darcy that the third Bennet sister was taking forever to return. He longed to be on his horse, riding hard and mindlessly away from Longbourn. In the confined space of the library, he could not outrun his thoughts.

If falling in love with Elizabeth Bennet had thrown him somewhat off of his hinges, finding out that she might be nursing a tendre for George Wickham — of all men! — threw him into a maelstrom. He feared this was the unhappy answer to the mystery of why she had never liked him. Wickham had gotten there first and was poisoning her against him all along. Darcy had to admit his silence and, yes, haughtiness, probably made her more willing to believe the worst of him.

He shook his head defiantly. “Why should I blame myself if she has succumbed to Wickham’s flatteries and slanders?” he muttered aloud. “She should have been able to see what he was. This is not like choosing my cousin instead. Wickham is — is …” And, there he hesitated.

He knew Wickham to be a lying and cheating scoundrel. Interested only in his own pleasure, the man ruined several daughters of servants and tenants. Would he dare interfere with a gentleman’s daughter? Despite his pretensions, truly acting as a gentleman meant nothing to him. Darcy cursed himself that he had thoughtlessly left Elizabeth — and every other woman in the neighborhood — to the decidedly untender mercies of such a man. He should have spoken to make Wickham’s character known. As Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, he would have been heard and respected.

But the shameful truth was, he had not wished to take the trouble. The people in this insignificant country neighborhood meant nothing to him. Knowing Elizabeth might be in danger made him consider how other families would feel if their daughters were misled. Wickham had gained entry into the homes of gentry as an officer of the militia and was generally respected by the populace. He could make Meryton and its environs his playfields, and Darcy felt responsible for that horror.

A woman ought to show good judgment but that did not absolve Wickham and his ilk for preying upon foolish and ignorant hearts. No doubt shopkeepers’ daughters found him as dashing as did gentlewomen. Only women like the cook’s daughter who so easily offered herself for sale to Darcy would be safe from Wickham because such women would demand something from him. If his past was any indication, there would likely be too many others willing to give themselves thinking they were in love.

A feeling of being betrayed by Elizabeth rose in Darcy. He knew it was not fair, but he latched onto the idea and fanned his resentment. If he could hold on to disgust at her lack of discernment -- how could she choose Wickham? -- he could walk away.

Except that he could not. His resentment, despite his best efforts, withered. Darcy’s father and sister had been charmed. His vague warning to Elizabeth at the Netherfield ball was too little. Rather than blame her if she fell to Wickham, he should blame himself for having been too proud to try to win her then — and too proud to say what he should have to protect her.

Trying to see a bright side to never having Elizabeth in his life, he noted he would never be burdened by those encumbrances she called a family. Surprisingly, that sentiment brought a wave of shame to him.

It forced him to look inward more closely. Surprise grew into shock as he realized that, like falling in love with Elizabeth before he knew it was happening, he had started feeling more charitable toward the Bennets. Bearing her family would have been easier than he once thought, now that he knew them better.

Certainly, they had their faults but still …. However angry Mr. Bennet made him with the unfounded and wrong-headed accusations that Darcy was a rake, he admired the father for wanting to protect his daughters. He smiled at the spirit the two youngest girls showed fighting off their attacker. As gentlewomen, they should never have placed themselves in such a situation, but they were naïve rather than immoral.

Mrs. Bennet was a foolish woman who could probably be exceedingly annoying in close quarters. But he acquitted her, too, on the basis of desperation that perhaps only a mother with five dowry-poor daughters could fully understand. He could even forgive the third sister for an act that might have forced him into marriage. She had been moved by nothing more evil than misplaced and alarmingly single-minded enthusiasm, and luckily, no harm had been done.

With chagrin, he reflected that had he been more accepting of Elizabeth’s family earlier, he might have let himself see how powerfully he wanted Elizabeth. Everything might have been different.

All he could do now was warn her about Wickham. He could hear the voice of his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam inside his head, protesting, “Why do you believe it your responsibility to protect her? She does not want you. Even if her family is tolerable, they are still far below you. You are fortunate to be free. Walk away! Leave it to Mr. Bennet to take care of his family.”

But Darcy feared Mr. Bennet might prove as ineffective in this as he had been in anticipating and protecting his younger daughters from their folly. It would be better to speak directly to Elizabeth. He would go to London before she arrived home. In case Mr. Bennet was planning to write to her, he would leave quickly as possible.

Later he would try to change Mr. Bennet’s mind about him with the truth about what had really happened in the alley. But, with London so close to the militia’s outpost, the soldiers could easily travel to town and, even now, Wickham might be clandestinely seeing Elizabeth. Darcy did not think she would behave improperly, but he did not want to risk her being ignorant one instant longer than he could prevent it.

He hoped to startle her into listening with the truth. He would say, “I cannot wait until you might like me. You need understand this now because you are in danger. Mr. Wickham is not a man who can be trusted. Send me away after you listen if you wish but I implore you, do not allow yourself to fall under his sway.”

Once she understood Darcy had come to Hertfordshire to make her fall in love with him, she might call his warning just a new ruse. “You make yourself the hero by making poor Wickham the victim,” he dreaded to hear her say. “You set yourself up as my savior and I am to be grateful? Is that how it works?”

But she would have to believe him when he offered truth without omission, and nothing less than that would do. As evidence that he had not impoverished his former childhood friend, Darcy planned to arm himself with the agreement Wickham signed giving up his claim to a living in return for a substantial sum of money. He would give her the paper so that she could see Wickham’s signature for herself. But, more, he would tell Elizabeth about Georgiana. His sister’s other guardian Colonel Fitzwilliam might raise objections about trusting someone outside their family, but Elizabeth needed to know the know Wickham’s potential for betrayal.

It would be distasteful to draw Bingley back into the morass, but Darcy would do this, too, because he must. Clever woman that she was, Elizabeth would see that his story about observing Jane was an excuse to be near her, and she would demand that he speak immediately with his friend. Darcy would surrender on that point as long as Elizabeth would agree to listen to him about Wickham.

He would tell his friend that her sister seemed certain Miss Bennet cared for him, and he would again warn Bingley to be careful. Bingley might already have lost interest since he fell in and out love with great regularity. In any event, he would have to protect himself. If he persisted in pursuing Miss Bennet, then so be it.

Certainly, it would not be first time that two parties entered a marriage with one having greater feelings than the other. Feeling more sympathetic to the Bennets now he knew them more closely, Darcy thought they might not be such a trial to Bingley after all. He declared to himself this was not a rationalization. Nor was he sacrificing Bingley in order to save Elizabeth—no, that was not at all what he was doing.


***********************


Having come to the point of being willing to take desperate means, Darcy learned almost immediately that he would not be able to. His hope to be able to save Elizabeth blew away in the breeze created when Mr. Bennet opened the door of his library, and led in Bingley and the other Fitzwilliam cousin, Viscount Weldon.

Darcy saw them before they saw him as he stood behind the door, and he was amazed that they were both guests of Mr. Bennet. He thought it must have been a coincidence that they would arrive at the same time. Certainly, they could not be traveling together.

Early on when Darcy took Bingley under his wing, the viscount was harsh and absolute in his disapproval of the close association. “Cousin, considering your remarkable fastidiousness in most matters, I cannot understand you. His family’s money still reeks of the factory and warehouse, and he has no particular wit or talent. Yes, modern times being what they are, we associate with such people in society. But you treat him like a friend. He is a nobody from nowhere, cousin, who is attempting to use you to gain acceptance. Surely, with your resources, you could find someone — many! — better to follow you about like a lapdog?”

Darcy responded with a cold stare. The viscount, unlike the colonel, was not in the least intimidated by his wealthy gentry kin, since after all, he would be wealthier than Darcy someday when he came into his full inheritance and title. Lord Weldon persisted, “You must consider your duty to your family, old man. And the memory of your parents. Yours is a fine heritage and, although you have no title, you are nephew of an earl and will be cousin to one. You are of the first consequence and should never forget your place.”

“And you should never forget yours. Never again dare speak to me in such a manner.” The two men locked eyes. They were like mirror images across from each other as they sat in the breakfast room of Loftgate, the main and ancestral home of the Fitzwilliams.

It was one of those vagaries familiar to all families that the lord, who was tall, dark and very handsome, resembled Darcy far more closely than he did his fraternal twin. While the colonel looked like their mother, the viscount and Darcy had the Fitzwilliam look. They went on glaring at each other until a servant entered with a platter of steaming sausages and startled both men into looking away at the same time.

Relations had been strained after that and two men avoided each other by mutual consent. The last Darcy had seen his cousin had been five months ago, at Christmas. Seeing him enter Mr. Bennet’s library, he noticed the viscount was putting on weight.

Weldon had always enjoyed the indulgences pursued by Prinny’s crowd a little too much, in Darcy’s opinion. The viscount’s father, like Darcy’s, emphasized the value of holding oneself in good regulation, but the son gave only lip service to such ideas. Darcy was surprised his cousin would even temporarily desert his spot among the prince’s courtiers to step his well-shod foot into this unfashionable country neighborhood. There could be nothing here to amuse or attract his jaded tastes.

As curiously as Darcy was appraising Mr. Bennet’s guests, they were looking back puzzled at him. While Mr. Bennet and Bingley did not say anything and even attempted after a moment not to stare, Lord Weldon pointed at Darcy’s head and quizzically raised an eyebrow, silently demanding an explanation. Stricken, Darcy thought, It must be my hair. He inwardly cursed the library’s lack of a mirror.

“I fell asleep while I was waiting. Please excuse my appearance.”

“If you look that way after dozing off in a chair, I shudder to think what you must look like when you arise from a bed,” Weldon replied. He paused before continuing, his eyes still upon Darcy although he addressed Mr. Bennet. “Sir, how many daughters did you say have?”

Although Darcy was fairly sure his face revealed nothing to the others in the room, he was outraged. He also knew his cousin saw and exalted in victory.

Fortunately, Mr. Bennet did not seem to understand the indecent insinuation. Or, perhaps he would not have imagined it possible even had he understood the hint, knowing the only daughter at home had been Mary. He replied with cold civility to Darcy, “My apologies for keeping you waiting so long. I was not expecting your cousin and Mr. Bingley. The distraction made me momentarily forget you were here.”

As distressed as Darcy had been by his argument with Mr. Bennet, the gentleman upset him far more as he looked with genuine approval upon the viscount. “Lord Weldon was most kind in bringing my daughters from London in his carriage. He was delighted to learn that you were here rather than at Netherfield, Mr. Darcy.”

If Mr. Bennet thought the two cousins were now going to embrace or, to involve themselves in some physical display, he saw instead they eschewed even a smile and glared at each other coldly.

Breaking the silence, he addressed the earlier question about the number of his daughters. “I have three younger girls as well as the two you already met, Lord Weldon.”

“I can only hope they grow up to be a fraction as lovely as Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. And, Miss Elizabeth has a fabulously enjoyable wit. I probably do not need to tell you that, sir.”

Darcy blurted, “How did you meet the Miss Bennets?” As he watched his cousin’s eyebrow again go up, he knew had given away too much.

“Interesting story, cousin! I went looking for my brother who I understood had gone out with some of the officers under his command. You know how I usually frequent White’s, and sometimes Brooks’, but there I was that evening at Boodle’s — of all places. Something that would happen once in every blue moon if that, and how fortunate a coincidence it was. There my brother was, telling me all about your time with him in Kent and then how you had traveled alone to Hertfordshire to rent Netherfield. Imagine my surprise that the master of Pemberley would need to rent a manor in another county.”

“And mine,” Bingley said tightly.

The viscount chuckled and continued, “By the by, my brother seemed rather miffed, Darcy, that you did not want his company in this lovely neighborhood. I think you may have hurt his feelings, although I tried to tell him you likely needed some time alone, after being so much in his company in Kent. My brother does not understand how he can wear on someone’s nerves, even yours, though you would never say it. But the dear chap needs to know.”

Darcy was freshly enraged. Weldon trying to start a fight between him and the colonel was their childhood all over again. But it would not do to have an argument in front of outsiders.

The viscount continued, “As it happened, your good friend Bangley was also in Boodles’s and overheard our conversation. Do you see what I mean by a fortunate coincidence? He insisted upon all the details about your coming to Hertfordshire, the minute he heard about Netherfield, did you not, Mr. Bangley?”

“It’s Bingley, milord.” Bingley looked angrily at Darcy, who, in turn, could only roll his eyes and think he was not his cousin’s keeper.

The viscount said affably, “Pardon, old man! I keep making that mistake, don’t I? Well, as it turned out, my brother could also report that a certain Miss Jane Bennet was in London. Mr. Bingley was rather —” the viscount paused again, and this time smiled affably at Mr. Bennet — “I think the best word is eager, if you do not mind my revealing such privileged information to the father of the woman about whose whereabouts you were most curious.”

“I do not mind Mr. Bennet knowing my interest in his daughter,” Bingley said.

“Well, a father should know such things,” the viscount said.

“I was wondering earlier when you said you called upon my daughters at the Gardiners’, how you knew the exact address?”

Bingley looked downwards in sudden embarrassment while the viscount smirked and answered eagerly, “From his very own family. Would you believe his sisters had been in contact Miss Bennet and had even visited? Sometimes we do not know what is going on with those closest to us, do we? Personally, I like to keep my family very close. For example, when I understood that my cousin knew both your daughters, Mr. Bennet, I wanted to meet them, too. Once I did, I was charmed. And, seeing Mr. Bungley’s interest, I felt it would be a necessary kindness to have him accompany me to bring your daughters safely home to you — and Mr. Bungley could also see his friend Darcy again. I must tell you, I could not resist a chance to be present for that.”

Mr. Bennet looked puzzled as his eyes went from Bingley to Darcy and back again. Darcy suspected that despite his best efforts, concern was showing upon his face, and he had not known his friend Bingley was capable of looking so hostile.

He was now also worried about his cousin’s intentions. As one of Prinny’s Carlton House insiders, Lord Weldon sometimes showed disgusting propensities. While he did not usually sully maidens, his interest in the Bennet sisters was disturbing.

Darcy wished to enlighten Mr. Bennet, who seemed to Darcy far too impressed with the aristocrat. Surely as a protective father, he would be upset by a glimpse into the viscount’s true nature.

Hoping to prod his cousin into saying something that would reveal his callousness, Darcy chided, “You rode inside the carriage with the Bennet ladies? Really, Weldon, I understand in your haste, you wished to do a good deed. But I insist that you be more careful here and consider the reputations of these ladies. Meryton is not London and things are sometimes seen differently, scrutinized more. Given your standing, Mr. Bennet may be too polite to protest — ”

“I can speak for myself, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet snapped. “As I mentioned earlier, I am fully capable of taking care of my family.”

The room became so quiet that one might have sworn it was possible to hear the flap of flies’ wings.

Seeming to enjoy the moment, the viscount smiled slowly and waited longer than necessary before speaking. “Your scruples are honorable ones as always, cousin. Mr. Bennet, my cousin Darcy is the moralist in our family to whom everyone looks for counsel to know the right thing to do.”

He slightly bowed his head to Darcy as he continued, “Cousin, you will be happy to know that your friend and I did not ride inside the carriage with the ladies. That is why they have not yet arrived. The coach is a few miles behind us, and we gentlemen rode on ahead to let Mr. Bennet know. Also, I asked my dear old nurse Mrs. Mellon to chaperone the gentlewomen, and I put two footmen on the coach. For even such a short trip as London to Meryton, one cannot be too careful, Mr. Bennet. Both the reputations and the safety of the ladies were paramount to me, as of course, shall always be.” The gracious speech sounded everything that a nobleman at his best should be.

“And, I thank you, Lord Weldon,” Mr. Bennet said. “Your thoughtfulness does you credit.”

“Mr. Bennet, I must insist again that you call me Wel. I insist upon it from my friends, and certainly, I must consider the father of Misses Jane and Elizabeth Bennet, my friend.”

Darcy, noticing that Bingley grimaced, suspected that his cousin had not extended a similar privilege to the tradesman’s son.

Weldon continued, and Darcy was sure his cousin was looking at him from the corner of his eye. “I must say, sir, your Miss Elizabeth is a special treasure.”

Mr. Bennet pursed his lips and hesitated. “You honor me,” he said finally. “It perhaps goes without saying, please call me Bennet.”

Darcy gripped his hands together tightly behind his back as he struggled with an urge to strangle his cousin. But it would hardly do commit murder in front of witnesses.

Mr. Bennet’s butler appeared at that moment and took Darcy to a dressing room with a mirror where he could put his appearance in order. As he combed his hair, he also recognized that the possibility of using Bingley as a bargaining chip with Elizabeth was now null and void; he could only wonder whether he had lost Bingley’s friendship forever.

Returning to the library, Darcy found they had been invited to dinner at Longbourn the following evening. Mr. Bennet also welcomed Bingley the very next morning to call upon Jane Bennet.

Darcy did not even dare ask whether he might call upon Elizabeth. When his cousin said, “Sir, I hope I may call upon your second daughter,” and Mr. Bennet nodded, Darcy looked at him in alarm.

In the most unfair blow of all, both Bingley and Mr. Bennet regarded Darcy with hostility neither attempted to mask. He inwardly cursed his other cousin the colonel for unleashing his brother upon him. Why did he expose all of his affairs — but even as he formed the question, Darcy thought the colonel had probably meant no harm in sharing secrets with his brother, to whose faults he was blinded by love. Darcy thought no one in the world liked being in control more than Viscount Weldon, and he had no intention of surrendering the right to control his own life to this pompously interfering and blindly arrogant man.

He would certainly not give up Elizabeth.]]> Mari Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 11 May 2013 15:47:34 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96525,96525#msg-96525 The Brighton Effect - Chapter Eleven (32 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96525,96525#msg-96525Chapter Eleven

No communication came from Netherfield the next day and Mrs Bennet was in agony. After such a prosperous start it could not again come to nothing!

Jane tried to soothe her mother by talking of herself and Mr Bingley meeting as common and indifferent acquaintance.

“Common and indifferent! He could not take his eyes off of you! And he came so early in the morning. No, it is that friend of his, I wager it. He is keeping your Mr Bingley from you!”

No amount of contradiction could make Jane convince Mrs Bennet that Mr Bingley was not hers in any way.

The second day fared much the same as the first and Kitty was glad she had her books despite Lydia deliberately calling her Mary the entire day. However, in the afternoon they had a letter from Netherfield.

Hill had waited until Mrs Bennet had left the sitting room to go and inspect some lace with Lydia with the design of making up a new gown for her favourite daughter.

“Miss Bennet? A letter has come for you from Netherfield.”

Even Mary stopped to eye Jane over the pianoforte.

“Thank you, Hill.”

Jane opened the letter and scanned it. “Oh, it is from Miss Bingley.”

Lizzy rolled her eyes “And?”

“She apologises for not coming to see us, but she has injured her foot. She injured it stepping from the carriage and begs you and I to come keep her company tomorrow morning.”

Lizzy’s face twisted at the idea of spending the morning with Miss Bingley and her sister. “Are the gentlemen not sufficient company?”

“She says they are to shoot all day, Mr Hurst is most insistent, although it seems Mr Darcy has left for London.”

Kitty was beginning to be suspicious of her sister and those suspicions seemed worthy when Lizzy’s face fell at the news Mr Darcy had left for London. How had Lizzy changed her mind so completely about Mr Darcy after one short week in Lambton? Kitty wished she had paid less attention to officers and more to her sisters so that she would have been able to judge whether this reversal of sentiment was purely to do with Derbyshire or had been coming along since Kent.

“Mama will never forgive you if you do not go,” said Kitty as her sisters were discussing the merits of accepting Miss Bingley’s invitation.

“Mama does not need to know,“ said Lizzy showing how distracted she was to think such a thing would be possible to keep from their mother.

“Lizzy, if Miss Bingley is truly injured she will want for some company. We should not be so churlish as to refuse to give it to her.”

“If Miss Bingley were a better person, she should not have cut your acquaintance in London,” replied Lizzy who then regretted her sharp tongue.

It was then settled that Jane would write immediately to Miss Bingley accepting the invitation.

Only afterwards did Kitty think that she should have offered to go in Lizzy’s place. Mr Fitzwilliam was at Netherfield and they had had no news of him except that he was blond. Her sisters would not think to ask him the right questions.

It took Mrs Bennet several hours to decide upon the best dress for Jane, and to agree that the invitation had not included Mrs Bennet herself. Then, when she remembered how poorly her second daughter rode, she wailed that they could not go upon horseback.

“It does not look like rain, Mama,” said Lydia helpfully, “so it does not much matter how they go.”

Mrs Bennet had to agree to this forecast and allowed them the carriage.

@@@@@@


Mrs Bennet was forced to wait until dinner to hear about her daughters’ visit to Netherfield. Lizzy and Jane had made a long visit and then returned home via Meryton.

“Well, girls?”

“Miss Bingley was all kindness,” said Jane, taking a sip of her soup.

“What is Miss Bingley to us? What of the gentlemen, Jane, did you see the gentlemen?”

“Mother!” said Lizzy.

“Yes, Mrs Bennet, you once hoped that Miss Bingley would be to Jane as her sisters are to her, you can hardly call her nothing now,” said Mr Bennet with a smile.

Mrs Bennet silenced her husband with a look. “What of this Mr Fitzwilliam?”

Jane laid down her soup spoon in surrender. “Mr Fitzwilliam is a very pleasant man. He is blond and has a pleasing countenance. He is Lizzy’s age. They have discovered their birthdays are only a week apart.”

“So he is not of age? That is disappointing. But well, if he is inclined to be agreeable and is not at all like his cousin Mr Darcy, then I will welcome him to Longbourn any day of the week. We have not had such young men since the militia went away.”

“You forget that Lizzy’s birthday is next month…you should not dismiss this Mr Fitzwilliam so easily.”

Now it was time for Mr Bennet’s eldest two daughters to stare him down.

“He is a third son, and if your estate is entailed away, you can be sure some Earl of Matlock did quite the same disservice to his family.”

“It is not a disservice,” said Mr Bennet. “It is to keep estates viable and intact. Now, now, Mrs Bennet, I grant you in our case it is a sad case, but my grandfather was not to know I would not have any sons!”

“Miss Bingley informed us that a small estate, similar to Longbourn, has been bequeathed to him through his mother’s side. So he is quite provided for.”

Mrs Bennet smiled upon her eldest. “Well, then I am very glad for Mr Fitzwilliam, very glad for him indeed.”

Kitty noticed then her mother eyed herself, Mary and Lydia in turn, but she did not speak further on the subject of Mr Fitzwilliam.

“And Mr Bingley, did you meet him?”

“I expect he spent the whole time staring at Jane,” said Lydia with a laugh.

Jane’s answering blush was all the response that was needed.

“When shall you lure them all to Longbourn?” asked Mr Bennet.

Mrs Bennet made a clucking sound. “I had quite set a date with the cook when I recalled Mrs Goulding is having a card party.”

“You could issue a rival invitation! What better way to test Mr Bingley’s affection – hey, Jane?”

“Papa, we have already accepted Mrs Goulding’s invitation.”

“Yes, and it is a great pity that I did not accept for Lydia also, or the younger girls. Now they shall not meet Mr Fitzwilliam until goodness knows when. We cannot even meet at Church for they will not come all the way to Longbourn for the service.”

Lydia and Mary did not feel much sadness at this pronouncement, but Kitty, who had a keen interest in comparing the young man to his brother, felt all the anguish her mother might hope.

“You forget, Mama, that Sir William is holding a dance for Emma, we shall surely meet them there,” said Lizzy earning her mother’s good graces and then displeasure when Mrs Bennet realised this was another evening she could not invite Mr Bingley and his party to Longbourn.

@@@@@@


When Mrs Goulding had planned her card party, she could not have foreseen that her little party would become the talk of the neighbourhood, nor could have she imagined that those she had not issued invitations to would feel themselves very ill used.

It had merely been an informal party of friends, but when Mr Bingley had returned to the neighbourhood Mrs Goulding took her chance. Adding to her party caused much consternation amongst her servants and overset all her plans with regards to arrangements of the furniture and such like, but it was worth it to be the first party of the neighbourhood to entertain the returning Netherfield party.

They were found on the whole to be quite the same as before they quit the county. Miss Bingley, whose ankle was quite recovered, and her sister were determined to think themselves above their company. Mr Hurst only required some port, a sofa, and somebody to talk sport with. They were easily dismissed from the minds of the neighbourhood, who did not, it could be said, even miss Mr Darcy’s absence.

Mr Bingley was found to be just as charming and easy going as ever, and just as in love with Jane Bennet as ever. They played every game together and, when they were not partnering each other in cards, sat closely beside the fireplace talking to no one but each other.

Frederick Fitzwilliam was the real prize and was found to be a young energetic man. He was declared handsome and well-mannered. He did not seem to find the company beneath him, and was happy to talk of things other than sport. He did not confine himself to speaking to one or two persons; instead he made himself acquainted with all, and he did not sneer at the stakes.

All of this Kitty discovered through various means and she managed to piece together a picture that was no doubt as accurate as any. It would have been better to have seen it all for herself, but Kitty felt secure in the knowledge that Mr Fitzwilliam did his brothers credit.

Kitty was content with this, but her mother was not content; in her mind Mr Bingley should have proposed to Jane in front of Mrs Goulding’s hearth. Kitty escaped outdoors with a book.

She swung herself idly, becoming bored with her latest book which was about wealth. She had hoped it would be about how she could acquire wealth, but it seemed more about the nation.

Her sisters, all bar Mary, who was still at her pianoforte, had also escaped into the garden. Lydia was playing quoits and Jane and Lizzy were walking about together.

At length they walked close to her and, by virtue of Kitty pretending to be very engrossed in the production of labour, they forgot to lower their voices.

“Jane, you cannot still think he does not still admire you?”

“Oh no, I am sensible of his attentions, but, Lizzy, I was sensible of them before.”

“I thought Charlotte a fool when she said one should show more than one feels, but there may be some truth in what she says, particularly for you, Jane.”

“Particularly for me?”

“You are so very patient and kind to all, I imagine that to a gentleman who is equally as tender-hearted as you, it would be very hard to presume that you thought of him above all others.”

Jane did not answer for a moment or two “I grant you there may be some truth, but I cannot act – I cannot be Lydia.”

“No, no one is unaware of who Lydia esteems.”

“Lizzy, do you think the Colonel spoke to Mr Darcy about Mr Wickham? Once or twice I suspected – “

Now it was Lizzy’s turn to pause, “I had noticed, but I cannot think that the Colonel would – or at least I think he would conceal our names even if he wishes Mr Darcy to be aware of his former friend’s behaviour.”

“Then what else explains his odd behaviour, his coming here and going away so quickly?”

“It is not like you to be suspicious, Jane.”

“It is not like you to be so secretive. Your letters from Lambton were so scant with detail. Was it very awkward to meet Mr Darcy again?”

“Oh no, he was everything that was kind and generous. I could not have been so generous in his place. To find actually visiting his estate, with no warning, the young lady who so vehemently refused him under such a misapprehension of his character? No, I could not have been so generous.”

Kitty’s reaction to overhearing this, was thankfully muffled by Hill’s calling Jane inside to tend to Mrs Bennet.

Mr Darcy had proposed to Lizzy? When? It must have been in Kent, where she was then made aware of Mr Wickham’s true character. Then to meet him on his estate, which she was visiting as a tourist?

Now that was certainly the plot of a romance novel.

@@@@@@



Mrs Bennet's hopes were raised further still when Miss Bingley and her sister, accompanied by Mr Bingley, came to call.

“Although, I think it a great pity that he should have brought his sisters; there will be no possibility of them speaking alone.”

“That is why they have come, no doubt,” said Lizzy but as only Kitty was sitting near her, she did not think the rest of the room heard her sister.

The visit was promising; while Miss Bingley and her sister found it necessary to talk a great deal about their London friends, Mr Bingley still had eyes only for Jane.

Kitty noticed that Miss Bingley was just as determined to paint Mr Darcy as being surrounded by eligible young ladies as her brother. She wondered if Miss Bingley was jealous of Lizzy and knew of the proposal. Just what had happened at Pemberley? Certainly not as painful a reunion as Jane and Mr Bingley had to endure under the regard of heir mother.

“Mama, perhaps we could take a walk? It is such a fine day,” Kitty found herself suggesting.

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst disclaimed any desire for themselves, but enthusiastically supported the Bennet sisters’ removal.

“I should like a walk,” said Mr Bingley. “If you do not mind, Caroline, Louisa, you may take the carriage back when you have finished talking with Mrs Bennet. I am happy to walk back to Netherfield.”

“We can walk you half way to Meryton!” said Lydia.

“Indeed, Miss Lydia! That is a grand notion!”

Mary stayed at Longbourn, but the other sisters walked slowly behind Jane and Mr Bingley.

“This is no good,” said Lydia in a not very soft voice. “We should walk in front of them for we will walk much faster and they shall fall behind.”

“Lydia!” hissed Lizzy.

“Lord, Lizzy, do you not want Mr Bingley to have an opportunity to propose?”

Lizzy frowned at her youngest sister, but then made a decision, and the three of them linked arms to overtake Jane and Mr Bingley and practically march into town.

“Well then, if he has not taken the opportunity, he never will do so,” said Lizzy with a sigh as Lydia ran off to find some ribbons or someone to gossip with.

“I expect he will; I expect that was his design this morning but his sisters spoiled his plans.”

“Hateful women.”

“Why do you dislike them so?” asked Kitty as they continued upon the high street.

“They have forgotten how to associate with us poor commoners,” was Lizzy’s response.

They stopped to look in a shop window, when Kitty heard her sister being hailed, and turning she was confronted by Mr Cheveley. His spots had certainly cleared up and his jacket fit a little better, but it was certainly Mr Cheveley.

“Miss Elizabeth, it is fortunate that we meet again and this must be one of your – “ Mr Cheveley stopped and stared at Kitty. Kitty found herself incapable of doing anything but the same. What was Mr Cheveley doing in Meryton and how had he become acquainted with Lizzy?

Lizzy sensed Mr Cheveley was not going to speak further and took up the slack, “Yes, Mr Fitzwilliam, this is my sister. Kitty, may I introduce Mr Fitzwilliam?”

“Mr Fitzwilliam?” said Kitty faintly.

“Yes, Mr Darcy’s cousin?” Lizzy’s tone rather suggested she thought her sister had lost her faculties.

Kitty looked around for any support, for Mr C- Fitzwilliam seemed loathed to provide it; he was instead staring across the road and Kitty followed his gaze. He was looking at his brother, Lord Ashbourne.

If Kitty had any doubt of Mr Fitzwilliam’s identity, the look of unholy glee on Lord Ashbourne’s face put it to rest. That was certainly the face of a sibling who had just triumphed in discomforting a brother.

@@@@@@



Authors Note DNA: From the response to the Pemberley Effect this week, clearly I need to go back to plot twist/cliff-hanger school immediately. Your author feels very lowered that no one was taken in :)

Or maybe I should pretend that its the work of a good author to lay such good and obvious clues.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) At least you got one new bit of information...the return of a character :)
 
]]> Shemmelle Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 13 May 2013 06:13:21 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96520,96520#msg-96520 Jane and the Vanishing Valet 910 (5 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96520,96520#msg-96520all should become clear now, Jake.... one person already has it so I was afraid I was making it too easy, I breathe easier if I can still keep some confusion

Chapter 9

The morning dawned with that peculiar light on the ceiling that always heralds snow; and Simmy crashed into the bedroom assigned to Jane and Caleb without ceremony.

“Ma, Pa, can I go out and play?” he demanded.

“You may go out if you wrap up warmly,” said Jane, deciding not to make an issue of grammar under the excitement of snow that meant for the first time in Simmy’s life pleasure not pain. She added, “don’t go on the lake until it has been tested, and if you must slide, make sure you don’t build slides where the servants will want to go.”

“I don’t suppose any of them is likely to go out, ma,” said Simmy, “all the offices being within, and being good Bramah closets, and the laundry opening off the kitchen too. They won’t go out nowise. And nobody has yet, for I’ve looked out above every door, and I want to make the first footprints!”

Caleb laughed.

“If you get wet, come straight in to Miss Adcock and change,” he adjured.

“Yes Pa, I will; I know how much snow can hurt,” said Simmy, seriously. The aches of his twisted little body must have been cruel in the previous cold winters, thought Jane, and had not Caleb offered him shelter before taking the decision to adopt him, the boy would have likely died long since.

Simmy went clattering downstairs, and Caleb looked at Jane.

“I can think of a good way to warm up on a cold morning, Mrs Armitage,” he said.

“How fortuitous it is that we are awake early to take advantage of your excellent suggestions, Mr Armitage,” replied Jane, demurely.

“Fortuitous, nothing,” said Caleb, “but if Simmy must wake us early, we may as well take advantage of it.”

The Armitages still managed to rise quite early, but later than they might otherwise have done. Simmy appeared to have wakened the younger de Saumerez sisters by, as he later explained, the expedient of throwing snowballs at their window, and all three children tramped in, glowing with cold, and happy, for breakfast, declaring that though they had been the first human footprints in the snow, save around the stable block where the grooms lived above the horses, there were all manner of bird and animal prints and that Helene was a show-off who knew them all.

The major did not appear for breakfast, which was apparently out of character, as both his brothers in law and his two older nephews glanced at his empty seat with a frown. His son, Vernon Coate gave a voice to this disquiet. He looked this morning as if he had dressed almost by guess.

“Where can father be? It’s a morning for people to disappear, my blasted valet never came to help me dress, and now father is not here for breakfast. Where can he be?”

“Well he ain’t dyspeptic from eating all those stuffed capons, because George has a digestion like a horse,” said Phoebe, “though it puzzles me why that should be the turn of phrase as horses actually have quite delicate digestions. The digestion of a hog would be more apposite, hogs can and will eat anything.”

“He might have gone for a walk in the snow,” ventured Roger de Saumerez, “Hearty sort of fellow, George, and it stopped snowing at around midnight, for I marked it when I looked out. He’s an early riser, might have gone for a tramp in the snow, sort of thing he would do.”

“I think we’d have seen him, papa, or found his footsteps,” said Daphne, helping herself to the buttered eggs that had arrived without the need to ask this morning.

“I wonder if we should go and see if he is all right,” said Vernon Coate. “Armitage, old man, will you come with me? he is surely too young for a stroke, but…”

Caleb got up.

“I will come,” he said. “It is not unknown for an apparently healthy man to be struck with a stroke or apoplectic fit when still apparently in his prime, and rising into a morning that is suddenly much colder than it has been of late might be enough to cause such. Perchance your valet came upon him, if he were taken ill on getting up and stumbled from the room, and is doing what he may, unable to make anyone else hear him to relieve him; that would explain his absence.”

“Indeed it might, I had not considered that!” said the captain.

“I have to say, my valet considers Braintree a queer cove though,” said Caleb, “Fowler said he seemed to have an arrogance that belied his rather meagre abilities; he had to show the fellow how to remove stains from your coat, and how to iron neckcloths properly. Fowler’s of the opinion that the fellow is an ex soldier who is cutting a sham as a valet as he’s about as much use, if you’ll pardon his idiom, as a wax firedog.”

“It would not preclude him knowing something of physicking his fellow soldiers though, if that is indeed what has happened,” said Vernon Coate, “and I confess I did like his military bearing. We should ask my father’s valet, of course, first,” he added, “for surely he will know what time my father rose.”

Caleb followed the captain to Major Coate’s room, where they found old Davenport looking through his master’s suits.

“Davenport! Can you tell me what time my father rose this morning?” demanded Vernon Coate. The old man raised his rheumy eyes.

“I don’t rightly know, Mr Vernon; beings as how his bed don’t appear to have been slept in when I came in to rouse him,” he said. “I have been waiting for him to come up to change, as he always does if he falls asleep reading in the library or his study. It is not like him to take so long,” he added, in a worried tone.

“Inclined to fall asleep reading? We have better go to the library then, if he has had a stroke there the sooner we get to him the better,” said Caleb. “For I cannot see what business your valet might have in the library or the study, Coate, so I fancy his absence without leave has another reason and will probably turn out to have a shapely figure and a willing disposition.”

“Really, Armitage!” cried Coate, sounding shocked. Caleb laughed.

“It won’t be the first time a servant proves himself to be incontinent and I doubt it will be the last, if that is indeed the case,” he said, moving quickly down the stairs and into the library.

A quick look around sufficed to show that the major was not therein, awake, asleep or unwell.

“His study is this way,” said Vernon Coate. “Why, the door is not properly shut! That is odd, my father would surely shut it if he were within, and he always locks it when he leaves, for his safe is within.”

“If it’s a Bramah patent safe nobody could crack it anywise,” said Caleb, “it ain’t just conveniences that clever fellow Bramah makes.”

“It is not, alas!” said Vernon Coate, “Though my father has spoken of getting one. He keeps the family jewellery in there as well as funds, and papers, and he was speaking of having some of the jewellery reset for Araminta,” the captain pushed the door open as he spoke and gave a cry. “Father” he cried as he sprang forward. “He has hit his head!” Caleb was but a step behind him, and gently shifted the younger man aside.

“MY province here, Coate, as an officer of Bow Street,” he said. “Your father did not come by that headwound naturally by falling, and there’s blood on that poker, that suggests it as a handy weapon.”

“And the safe is open!” cried Coate. “Dear G-d, I see it all! Braintree but wanted to get into the house and has hit my poor father on the head when disturbed rifling the safe! We must get the constables out after him!”

“Not much point,” said Caleb. “He ain’t left the house.”

Coate stared.

“How can you know that?” he demanded.

“The snow stopped around midnight, an hour or so after most of us turned in, for de Saumerez noticed it. And my son remarked that there were no footprints in the snow going out of the house this morning. He’s either hiding somewhere in this great pile or he’s dead too… strewth!” he exclaimed. “The major’s still alive!” as a crepitant gasp issued from the inert body.

“Caleb?” Jane’s voice and light step sounded at the door. “I had a feeling you might need me? ah!” she added, coming to kneel by Major Coate. Araminta was on her heels and gave a little cry.

“Oh no! must death follow me?” she gasped.

“Your uncle is not dead,” said Jane, calmly, “and I pray you, dear Minty, to run for Miss Bates and Mrs de Saumerez, who are the practical people we might rely on, and apprise them of this matter, and then have Mr de Saumerez, who strikes me as much less vague than he tries to appear, send some footmen to lift the major and carry him to his room. It is a similar blow to one I have attended before, and though he may have lost all his memory when he regains consciousness, it will doubtless be only a matter of time before he regains it. Dear me, did I hear you say that we had a murderous valet lurking somewhere in the house, my dear?”

“It’s either that or someone else who is murderous who has struck them both down,” said Caleb. “I need Fowler; he can go through that fellow Braintree’s room and find out everything about him.”

“Dear me, surely that is beyond the abilities of any man?” said Vernon Coate.

“Not beyond the inestimable Fowler,” said Caleb. “Give him a man’s wardrobe and he can tell you every detail of his lifestyle. Well, at least if Jane has every expectation that your father will live, that is one piece of good news!”

“Yes, indeed!” said Vernon Coate. “I was certain life was quite extinct when I saw him lying there!”

“The major is a robust man, and not, I think, about to die from a head wound administered clumsily by a shorter man,” said Jane, “for it lacks the force of a blow from a taller man, not that this is much help, since you, Caleb, are the only man in the house taller than him, and Pigeon must surely sleep in the stable block with the other ostlers as being the only other man of like height.”

“Yes, I see the angle of the blow too, Jane-girl,” said Caleb. “and if you ask me, this poker that’s all smeared with blood is the wrong shape for that wound too.”

“I concur,” said Jane. “I was inclined to think it might be the pommel of a cavalry sabre; and there are plenty hung on the wall, though none look to have been disturbed. I can see a patina of dust from here; I presume the maids are not allowed to touch them. It could equally be the knob of a gentleman’s cane,” she added, “such as all gentlemen carry. It is certainly a knob-shaped wound, not a blow from a poker – which might indeed have killed the poor man. And as the fire is on the other side of the desk from the major, as is the safe, I have to think that the attack may have taken place before the safe was rifled. However, my care is for our unfortunate host; and here is dear Miss Bates, and the excellent Phoebe de Saumerez to lend me aid in the same,” she added as the two ladies came in.


Chapter 10

The footmen carried their master to his bedroom, where old Davenport cried out, and wrung his hands together.

“Davenport, boil water and bring it to me, and clean rags to wash and dress your master’s head wound,” said Jane, crisply, “and send my maid, Ella, to me, as she is an excellent sick nurse too. Your master has lain on the cold floor all night too, so see to heating three or four hot bricks and wrapping them well, so that we might regain his body heat as soon as we are able. You may undress him when I have tended his wound.”

“Yes, madam,” said Davenport, automatically. Having someone to give orders was what he needed to be able to cope with this most unthinkable of matters. “Oh madam, was it a housebreaker? It has to have been someone from without, surely, not in a fight with Mr Vernon or Mr Thomas? No, it cannot be Mr Vernon, for he was looking for him not so long since.”

“Has your master then quarrelled with either of those of his relatives?” asked Jane.

“Oh, the major does not quarrel, madam!” said Davenport, reproachfully, “but Mr Vernon was much put out that he planned to adopt Miss Araminta, and Mr Thomas Waynefleet was put out that my master would not put in a word for him and buy his promotion, though he is an easy going young gentleman, not like Mr Nicholas, who is more impetuous, and really the only one of that family who really quarrels with the major is Mrs Barbara, his sister, because she wanted him to fund bringing out Miss Catherine. And a woman would not be able to push a man hard enough that he fell and hurt his head so badly, for I cannot see him getting such a wound by accident, for nothing you can say will make me believe that the major would ever take a false step, or stumble, being a moderate man, and never drunk, madam!”

“What nonsense you do talk, Davenport,” said Phoebe de Saumerez, “I am sure there is a simple explanation that something fell and struck my brother, for the only person likely to throw anything at him with sufficient force to hurt is me; and I have not done so, and nor would I aim seriously to hit in any case,” she went on, “Now do as Mrs Armitage has bid you, Davenport and stop speaking such nonsense.”

“The blow was caused from below, by someone shorter than the major, and it is thought to be from the knob of a cane,” said Jane. “As I understand it, Captain Coate’s valet has disappeared and he holds the hypothesis that this Braintree did the deed, whilst disturbed at theft.”

“Hmmph” said Phoebe, “well at least we have a gentleman Runner here to get to the bottom of it; and may I say if he takes charge as well as you have taken charge of my brother’s sickroom, Mrs Armitage, it will proceed with an efficiency I for one do not normally associate with Bow Street. But I cannot see why a valet should rifle through George’s safe; it contains nothing but deeds and documents and some of the family jewellery which is too singular to readily sell. He keeps his money in a strong box under his bed,” she added.

“Oh, Mrs de Saumerez, I remarked that the valet Braintree had something of a look of the family, when I saw him in profile!” said Miss Bates, “can it be that he is the natural son of one of your relatives and sought for some kind of documentary proof of this, to try to get what he saw as his birthright?”

“Good G-d!” said Phoebe. “I can’t say I looked that closely at the fellow, but I don’t doubt but that it might appear more obvious to an outsider to the family. Not that I can see m’brother having played about, but I suppose you never know. Or even m’father, I suppose, as I recall the fellow was no older than Vernon, so it would have been when Barbara and I were in the schoolroom; I doubt we’d have known,” she added frankly.

“Well, that gives a bit more reason for what seemed like an unlikely crime,” said Jane, as she dressed the wound. “This blow is nasty but so long as he is watched and he is not allowed to drown on his own vomit, he should make a full recovery. Phoebe, would you help me to lay him onto his side, so it is easier to catch any vomit?”

“Certainly,” said Phoebe. “You are very competent, Mrs Armitage,” she added with approval. “I am glad you are here; I can physic horses well enough, but I confess that head wounds are beyond my knowledge, and when it is one’s own much loved brother, it is harder to be objective. Thank you!”

“Oh indeed, Mrs de Saumerez, it is always easier to be objective about strangers than about one’s own loved ones!” said Miss Bates. “Dear Jane, you must join dear Caleb, and help to catch this dreadful man, now you have dressed the wound, Ella and I are quite capable of nursing the dear major, if you will perhaps bring my your pistol, in case that horrid villain is still in the house as Caleb seemed to think.”

“Aunt Hetty, you don’t know how to use a pistol!” said Jane, startled.

“No, Jane dear; but he doesn’t know that, does he?” said Miss Bates, practically. “Caleb says that a, er, barking iron, in the hands of a woman is fearsome, so it ought to help; and Ella has practiced firing your gun, has she not?”

“She has,” said Jane, recalling Ella’s habit of shutting her eyes and firing wildly. It was as well to be behind Ella when she was practising. Perhaps Aunt Hetty was right at that, any sensible man would be chary of tackling a woman with a pistol – in case it went off accidentally!.

“Well then, I will be quite able to guard the major,” said Miss Bates, firmly.



Caleb gathered the household in the library after Jane had had a chance to speak to him quickly.

“I expect that there is some confusion about what has happened,” he said. “And I’d like to tell you what is known so far. Major George Coate was struck with some rounded object like the pommel of a sword, the butt of a pistol or the knob of a cane, and has sustained serious injury. “

“He’s not dead then? I thought he had been killed,” said Nicholas.

“No, he ain’t about to stick his spoon in the wall yet,” said Caleb. “The safe was open. This appears to be a robbery, and as Captain Coate’s valet, Braintree, has disappeared too, it suggests that he may have been the one to have done it. There’s some suggestion that he may have been after papers not money,” he added.

Vernon Coate sat up straighter.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because a likeness has been noted between Braintree and your family, Captain,” said Caleb, “and the idea that he’s a base-born son of your father or grandfather.”

The captain stared, open mouthed.

“Good G-d!” he said. “I – well, that was not something I would have considered! I – I did not notice a resemblance, I have to say!”

“It was noted in profile,” said Caleb. “However, that’s neither here nor there. We have to assume that this man Braintree is a dangerous man.”

“He’ll be miles away by now,” said James Waynefleet.

“No, he has not left the house,” said Caleb.

“How can you know that? oh pray, surely he has run far away, you frighten me!” cried Barbara.

“I would draw your attention to the curious matter of the footprints in the snow overnight,” said Caleb.

“But pa, there were no footprints in the snow when I went out this morning,” said Simmy.

“And that is the curious matter,” said Caleb, waiting for the gasps to die away. “I knew that Braintree had not left the house after the attempt on the Major’s life because I already knew that there were no footsteps in the snow. And the corollary to that is that he is still in the house. However, there’s no guarantee that he’s alive, or at least, not in fighting fettle. I do not rule out that there was a struggle in the study and that the major may have wounded him first. There was blood on the poker. Either someone smeared the major’s blood on it to make it seem like the weapon used; or the blood belongs to Braintree and the major hit him first. There are those injuries which may seem insignificant at first but become worse as time moves forward; I have seen a man hit a jarring blow on the back of the neck who carried on with his duties for several hours and then suddenly died. A man hit on the nose might be able to hit back, but continue to bleed so much that he faints from bloodloss. The servants will be searching the house from attic to cellar, and I would ask you ladies and gentlemen to remain cosy in here by the fire and not to wander about too much – in case they make a horrid discovery.”

“I think I’m going to faint,” said Catherine, starting to rise.

“Stay sat down and let your head hang down, you silly creature,” said Persis.

“Have you no sensibility?” cried Barbara.

“Well I hope not, Aunt Barbara; sensibility makes women awfully silly,” said Persis.

“Perhaps Mrs Waynefleet you might like to see Miss Waynefleet to her room and have a hot brick brought for her feet, and a cup of tea might be brought for her,” said Jane. “There is nothing you might do; your brother is in the good hands of my Aunt Hetty and has every chance of recovering fully, even if he never fully regains memory of the incident that has laid him low. I cannot think that either of you have any information which might help my husband in his investigations.”

“What could any of us know?” asked James Waynefleet.

“Why, it is entirely possible that one of you might have heard something in the night that seemed an innocuous noise, but which takes on greater significance in the light of this occurrence,” said Caleb. “I need to know who last spoke to the major, whether he declared his intention of going to the study – things like that.”

“He often goes to his study, sir; as we all know, so he would not speak of it specifically,” said Thomas Waynefleet. “He is writing his memoirs, you know!”

“I did not, but it explains the habit of retiring for a while,” said Caleb. “Can anyone add anything else?”

“I can,” said Roger de Saumerez, “and I fancy it was my fault he was attacked and left for dead.”]]> Sarah Waldock Derbyshire Writers' GuildTue, 07 May 2013 20:27:11 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96496,96496#msg-96496 The Pemberley Effect - Part Three (21 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96496,96496#msg-96496
Authors Note: No, you are not seeing things. I have posted this one first you haven't missed a chapter!

The reasons for this are numerous...such as my normal comma inserter is absent and I asked poor Mari and Mary to have a look and I know Strunk and White had to be consulted and there was some facepalming (Thanks guys, I love you, all errors are mine!)...no...actually that is not the reason the reason is I'm evil; someone who will rename nameless suggested doing it this way; I'm still recovering from being ill and, posting this first cheers me considerably.

And thanks for all your really kind comments. You know I wrote Introducing Puck when I was 15/16 (which is 14 years ago!!!!) thus I really sometimes wish it didn't exist (like most things we do in our teen years), so I'm super glad people still enjoy it!

Enjoy! Brighton Effect to follow tomorrow-ish!



Part Three (Chapter Eleven)

As their carriage rattled towards Netherfield, their presence commanded rather summarily by a recently arrived and injured Miss Bingley, Lizzy felt much as she expected Marie Antoinette did on that cart.

Jane expressed no sympathy. “And you say Lydia and Kitty are the fanciful ones!”

“A morning with Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst!”

“We shall be better informed about the latest fashions,” replied Jane placidly. At least Jane continued to be unconvinced in the sincerity of the Bingley sisters’ friendship. “Are you sure you are not angry that Mr Darcy has returned to town?”

Miss Bingley had been most explicit in her letter of invitation about Mr Darcy’s absence and the fact the other gentlemen should not be seen, for they were to shoot. Lizzy was sure she had only been invited to ensure that Mrs Bennet did not attempt to send Jane on horseback again.

“Not at all! I have no feelings about his movements! I do think it odd that he should come and go so quickly.”

Jane just smiled and Lizzy wondered when her sister had found herself capable of mocking. It was not fair that Jane had all the ability to hide her feelings behind a serene countenance, and at least she knew what her feelings were. Lizzy was still not sure how she felt about the master of Pemberley. She was disappointed at his leaving but she was not sure of her reasons. Did she miss his company or was it because she worried that his leaving meant he was, after all, the man she’d thought he was all those months ago? Was Mr Darcy really the sort of man who despised company he considered beneath him and made little effort to improve his acquaintance with said company having already made a judgement upon them?

Miss Bingley was laid up upon a sofa and had a bandaged ankle stretched out in front of her.

“Do forgive me for not rising to greet you, my dear Jane, Miss Eliza. It was most distressing to twist my ankle after such a long carriage ride!”

Lizzy and Jane forgave her most freely and greeted both Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst before sitting down to exchange commonplaces.

“Did you enjoy town, Miss Bennet?” said Mrs Hurst. “I am so sorry that we should always have been missing each other.”

Jane smiled, “I had much to occupy myself, Mrs Hurst; do not think about it any further.”

“And, of course, Miss Eliza, we saw you in Derbyshire and heard all about your travels. Are you much distressed now to be back at Longbourn?” Miss Bingley did not wait to hear Lizzy’s answer and added, “but of course you are not! Now that Netherfield is occupied once again. We have had half the neighbourhood calling.”

“The Netherfield estate is an important one for our little part of the world,” replied Lizzy evenly.

“Though the gentlemen only think of their sport,” said Mrs Hurst.

It fell to Lizzy to ask how Mr Bingley fared, as Jane would not mention his name.

“My brother continues well. We are very sorry to see Mr Darcy go, but we suspect he will return with a very great friend.”

“Mr Darcy did mention that he was expecting his cousin, Lord Ashbourne. Did Mr Fitzwilliam accompany him to town?” If Lord Ashbourne was a great friend of Miss Bingley that did not speak in his favour, although Lizzy was determined not to prejudge. She had been so faulty in her first impressions over the last year!

“No, Mr Fitzwilliam remains for the shooting.”

“And I hope he is a pleasant house guest,” said Jane.

“Indeed. A very pleasant man.”

That seemed to be all that could be said about Mr Fitzwilliam unless either Jane or Lizzy began to question the Bingley sisters. Neither Lizzy nor Jane would give the satisfaction of seeming to be pert inquisitive young ladies out on the hunt for information about single young gentlemen.

In the end Miss Bingley, herself, had to answer what had not been asked.

“He is the son of the second Lady Matlock, and as such will inherit a very pretty estate. I think it’s commensurate in size to your own estate, although being part of Lady Matlock’s dowry it has had all the benefits of being run by such a family…”

Lizzy bit her tongue firmly. The implication that Longbourn suffered from mismanagement was not subtle.

“Lady Matlock is all kindness. She directed Miss Grantley – a dear friend of us both – to the best masters in town. Her son is a credit to her.”

Miss Bingley talked on in this way of the Matlocks and their friends. Lady Upton, who Lizzy gathered was Mr Fitzwilliam’s sister, was newly married seemed a paragon and featured heavily in Miss Bingley’s lecture. Indeed, the whole Fitzwilliam family seemed designed to perfection if one believed every word of Miss Bingley’s.

Mr Darcy, it seemed was a little forgotten, after all what was his wealth, his manners, his income and his family? This amused Lizzy.

Lizzy and Jane could have no share of this conversation; they were merely there to be awed. By this time, Lizzy thought, Miss Bingley should have been aware that all attempts to awe and intimidate only made her courage rise.

The image Miss Bingley painted was entirely spoilt when a young gentleman entered the room rather gracelessly. His coat was stained and his cravat quite ruined. He had clearly come straight from the shooting.

“Oh, you are in here.” He looked displeased to have found himself in the middle of a tea party.

Miss Bingley beamed, “Mr Fitzwilliam!”

“Miss Bingley,” Mr Fitzwilliam made a perfunctory bow to her and then to Mrs Hurst.

“Miss Bennet, Miss Eliza Bennet, may I introduce to you Mr Frederick Fitzwilliam? Mr Fitzwilliam these are our neighbours the Bennets.”

Mr Fitzwilliam made his bows to them far more generously.

“I say! Are you the young lady who recently visited Pemberley?”

Lizzy had to own that it was so, and Mr Fitzwilliam sat by her and seemed interested in her opinions of the place.

He was not quite the picture of the flower of nobility that Miss Bingley had attempted to conjure up, but he was extremely pleasant although rather young. He had clearly been given all the benefits of life and none of the hardships.

She found it easy to talk to him and was glad for it, because Mr Bingley and Mr Hurst followed after him. Mr Hurst stretched out and went to sleep, but Mr Bingley could not be moved from Jane’s side. Without Mr Fitzwilliam’s company, Lizzy would have had to be silent or worse still talk to Miss Bingley and her sister.

In very short time they found out they shared almost the same birthday – that made Mr Fitzwilliam almost of age along with herself – and that Mr Fitzwilliam did not hold his cousin in wonder.

Lizzy would be sure to mention some of Mr Fitzwilliam’s tales of his childhood to Mr Darcy. It would do him good to be discomposed.

&&&&&&


The house felt empty. It had never done so before. Darcy chose not to examine the fact it was only since his return from Kent that it felt like a mausoleum. Not even Georgiana’s presence could enliven it, although she was still safe at Pemberley with Mrs Annesley.

Why had he gone to Netherfield? There was no reason, except to ensure that Miss Bennet did truly esteem Bingley, and he had not even done that!

He was sure Elizabeth’s view was correct and one look at Jane Bennet proved that she was a serene girl, who was unlikely to show her true feelings to the world. But one glance was not enough to say she was certainly in love with Bingley and that he had fulfilled his duty to Bingley’s best interest! Certainly it did not explain his hurried removal.

Darcy feared he was becoming like Bingley, inconstant and easily swayed, always going hither and thither bending to the will of others and capable of sudden caprice.

Worse still, Freddie had refused to join him in returning to London. Darcy would have to return, he could not in good conscience and good manners leave Bingley to host his cousin without Darcy’s presence. There was not such a degree of acquaintance between Freddie and Bingley that it would be acceptable.

Then there was Ash. Darcy did not understand why the viscount had made plans to join them.

Richard had assured him that it had been settled between them that Richard would write to Mr Bennet.

Mr Bennet would hardly expect Lord Ashbourne to call to discuss Miss Lydia’s aborted elopement.

It was one of his cousin’s whims and would probably come to naught. Indeed, Darcy had hoped to catch his cousin and persuade him to go Newmarket or attend one of the many house parties to which he had no doubt been invited. It was possible even that Darcy could accompany him.

There Darcy might meet a young lady of eminent respectability, who would adorn Pemberley, whose family would never cause him a moment’s embarrassment or give him a disgust of them.

There was Darcy’s problem. He loved Elizabeth and yet her family! At Pemberley it had been so easy to think of her there, and to forget the troubling aspects of her family. Just as he forgot Lady Catherine, so too could Mrs Bennet, Mr Collins, and her silly sisters be consigned to oblivion.

He paced and came no closer to a conclusion. Should he stay away from her so he should not be in danger? Should he return for an inoculation?

Did any of these thoughts matter when she did not like him, let alone esteem and love him?

Bingley would propose to Jane Bennet and then there would be no severing the connection, unless Darcy distanced himself from Bingley, which Darcy had no desire to do. He enjoyed Bingley’s company; with Bingley he could act as mentor and friend. Unlike his cousins, Bingley did not poke fun at him. No, he had known from the minute that Elizabeth had mentioned, over dinner at Pemberley, that her sister had been in town all those months, that Bingley and Miss Bennet’s union was inevitable.

He was surprised Bingley had not ferreted out Darcy and his sisters’ interference. Darcy knew he would have to confess to that, but he would do so after Bingley had proposed and was in a better frame of mind.

“Darcy, why are you pacing in your own hallway?” His cousin looked baffled and was still in his greatcoat.

“Ash?” Darcy stared at him.

The viscount held a card between his gloved fingers and had a perplexed look upon this face, “You invited me? Have you perhaps been out in the sun?”

&&&&&&


Lizzy found she had little amusement in the card party thrown by Mrs Goulding. It was clear that worthy woman was revelling in the fact she should be the first to host Mr Bingley to a formal party, that her rooms should be where the neighbourhood could watch Mr Bingley and Jane and gossip freely about their reconciliation.

She saw that the Bingley sisters were watching all that went on with judgement in their eyes. Lizzy did not know why she cared. It was doubtful that they could convince their brother that Jane did not love him. It was doubtful that Mr Bingley would care about her family and their circumstances. He was an affable man who believed the best in people.

So why did it pain her, that her friends and acquaintances were exposing themselves and to such people? The Bingley sisters were not models of propriety, with their sharpness and ill-judged remarks.

She did not want to think that her enjoyment of the evening was spoiled by the fact that Jane looked as if her fondest wish was about to come true and Lizzy had no prospects.

“Miss Elizabeth, is it not customary to smile at such events?”

Lizzy looked up to see Mr Fitzwilliam and a glass of lemonade. She accepted it gratefully and did not mind when he sat beside her.

“Do you not enjoy cards? I understand from my cousin, Georgiana, that is, not Darcy, that you take pleasure in a great many things. If that is so then I cannot fault you for disliking cards.”

“I do enjoy cards, sir, but I have little inclination to play this evening. I feel rather dull and should disappoint my partner. Have you received a letter from Miss Darcy recently?”

“This morning, but she only wrote because I fear she was waiting for a letter from a much better correspondent.” He looked pointedly at her.

“If you mean me, then I wrote to her on Saturday.”

Lizzy had been pleased to have received the letter from Miss Darcy. They had spoken of writing to one another, but Lizzy had not been sure whether that was just politeness. Miss Darcy had written of commonplaces and Lizzy could sense her shyness and reserve, but Lizzy had been determined not to let her own awkwardness show in her reply.

Miss Darcy surely needed practice and support. It did not seem that she had many female friends of her own age. Miss Bingley’s condescension did not count.

Mr Fitzwilliam and herself spoke of Miss Darcy for a while and then of the party in general, before he asked to be introduced about. He might be Mr Darcy’s cousin, but Meryton society soon decided Mr Fitzwilliam was a very different sort of man to his cousin and found him to be much more in Mr Bingley’s style of manners and thus much more to their liking.

Lizzy might have been distracted, but she could not fail to note that Jane and Mr Bingley were never more than three paces away from each other; a fact she mercilessly teased her sister about when they were retired to bed.

But Jane, it seemed, was not as convinced as Lizzy – or indeed the whole household – that there would soon be a proposal.

“Jane, you cannot still think he does not admire you?” They were walking around the garden the next morning while the others played about them.

“Oh no, I am sensible of his attentions, but, Lizzy, I was sensible of them before.”

“I thought Charlotte a fool when she said one should show more than one feels, but there may be some truth in what she says, particularly for you, Jane.”

“Particularly for me?”

“You are so very patient and kind to all; I imagine that to a gentleman who is equally as tender-hearted as you, it would be very hard to presume that you thought of him above all others.”

Jane did not answer for a moment or two, “I grant you there may be some truth, but I cannot act – I cannot be Lydia.”

“No, no one is unaware of who Lydia esteems.”

“Lizzy, do you think the Colonel spoke to Mr Darcy about Mr Wickham? Once or twice I suspected – “

Now it was Lizzy’s turn to pause, “I had noticed, but I cannot think that the Colonel would – or at least I think he would conceal our names even if he wishes Mr Darcy to be aware of his former friend’s behaviour.”

She had thought longer on the subject than before and now believed it would be impossible for the Colonel to act so ungenerously, particularly in light of Miss Darcy’s aborted elopement.

“Then what else explains his odd behaviour, his coming here and going away so quickly?”

“It is not like you to be suspicious, Jane.” Lizzy spoke lightly for she did not want to allow Jane to continue her line of questioning. She knew Jane was suspicious of her feelings, and wanted to know whether now Lizzy would speak of them.

“It is not like you to be so secretive. Your letters from Lambton were so scant with detail. Was it very awkward to meet Mr Darcy again?”

Yes, Jane had now decided that the moment was right to delve into her sister’s emotions. Lizzy had wanted to be open with Jane in everything, but not when she was so confused and not when the situation with Mr Bingley was unresolved. Although, Lizzy knew that very soon she would not have that excuse.

“Oh no, he was everything that was kind and generous. I could not have been so generous in his place. To find actually visiting his estate, with no warning, the young lady who so vehemently refused him under such a misapprehension of his character? No, I could not have been so generous.”

Jane took Lizzy’s hands in her own and would have spoken more except for Hill interrupting them.

&&&&&&


It seemed that Jane’s happiness would be thwarted once again because when Mr Bingley next visited he did not visit alone. They had certainly expected to see him. No one who had seen them together the previous evening would have been surprised by his presence at Longbourn.

This perhaps explained why Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst were so diligent in their calling; it was one last attempt to prevent the inevitable.

While Lizzy could not fault the outcome, she cringed when Kitty suggested a walk and then when Lydia in her carrying voice announced that they should walk faster, so as to out pace Jane and Bingley.

The Bingley sisters had decided not to join them perhaps realising the futile nature of their plan or not realising that the Bennet sisters would abandon Jane and their brother.

Lizzy, in the end, decided that no one should see their defective chaperoning and they almost ran towards Meryton, talking about Jane and Bingley, and the unpleasantness of his sisters.

If Bingley did not take his opportunity, he was a fool, thought Lizzy, as they slowed their steps down Meryton’s high street. Lydia had taken the first opportunity to enjoy herself in one or all of the shops, but Kitty seemed satisfied to merely look in the shop windows.

“Miss Elizabeth!”

Lizzy turned her head to see Mr Fitzwilliam crossing the street to join them.

“Miss Elizabeth, it is fortunate that we meet again and this must be one of your – “ Mr Fitzwilliam stopped short and seemed struck by Kitty. She was the same; suddenly still in Mr Fitzwilliam’s presence.

Lizzy tried to see Mr Fitzwilliam through her sister's eyes. He was a handsome man, he was certainly eligible, and he had a winning smile. Kitty was certainly unable to drag her eyes away from his and Lizzy blushed for her blatancy. The only consolation was that Mr Fitzwilliam seemed just as transfixed. Kitty was certainly a pretty girl, but surely Mr Fitzwilliam had seen prettier.

“Yes, Mr Fitzwilliam, this is my sister. Kitty, may I introduce Mr Fitzwilliam?” Lizzy hoped speaking would bring them both back to their senses and remind them they were standing in a public street.

“Mr Fitzwilliam?” said Kitty faintly.

“Yes, Mr Darcy’s cousin?”

Kitty, it seemed, would not be brought to mind her surroundings, and Lizzy wondered if she had been this disordered in Brighton by all the officers, many of whom surely would have been as handsome as Mr Fitzwilliam.


&&&&&&

 ]]> Shemmelle Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 08 May 2013 14:03:56 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96461,96461#msg-96461 An Even Path: 4 (14 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96461,96461#msg-96461


"Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles"

Emma Chapter 1, Part 1, by Jane Austen



An Even Path



Chapter 4


Tonight, as Emma slipped down Hartfield's quiet halls, it felt easier to move in the darkness. Easier to stay hidden. To move behind the crowd instead of through it.

George Knightley was fond of direct paths. The shortest distance between two points was, after all, a straight line. It was her own mind that skipped from point to point, faster than a spark skipping through a fireplace. She knew the joy of being surprised by her own discoveries, distracted by her own imagination.

They could compromise though, together. As a pair, they'd traversed the tangled woodland that skirted the mountain town. Wandered through garden paths, with only the moon to guide them.

She didn't need light to traverse her own home.Hartfield was the loveliest of Highbury's many Colonial homes, and she knew every inch of it. Its drawing rooms were filled with antique cherry and Carolina ash. Its walls showed the finest portraiture in the state, including many of her own ancestors. Revolutionaries. Merchants. Abolitionists.

She loved her home. She loved the slender chimneys and high, elegant archways, the subtle motifs and understated accents. General Washington himself could find little fault in their serene, sophisticated taste.

She was backtracking through the house, edging closer to the ballroom. At the far end of the otherwise darkened hall, light spilled out. Music and the sweet scent of wedding cake lingered in the air.

Three figures stepped into the hall. Two women with wiry hair and a third in a peach ensemble. Two ducklings and a crowing chicken. It was Mrs Cole and her friends. Emma realized this with a wince. She backed up, turned, ducked into a darkened corridor. There was nothing to tempt them to come back here. Surely they wouldn't turn the corridor and flip on the light. Surely they'd keep walking. Surely—she pressed closer to the wall.

“--can't say what's gotten into the child,” shrieked Mrs Cole. “The nerve!”

“Now Eulalia, you mustn't be so hard on the girl.”

“Virginia's right. You heard what young George said. The boy made a very good point. The nearest thing Emma's ever known to a mother is leaving the house today.”

"Indeed."

"Small wonder she'd feel sensitive."

“Finishing school,” grumped Eulalia. “That's what she needs. In my day, a family simply boarded motherless children."

"Harlan Woodhouse would never allow it."

"Harlan needs to keep a sharper eye on both his children. The younger girl's growing too impertinent, and the older one's growing too loose. As for the Knightley boys, it's just as well that both boys are being ushered off to England. Did you see the way the older boy looked at young Isault over dinner?”

“Oh, it's nothing. He'll forget her soon enough once he reaches England.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Well, it would be a fine match,” said one of the women. “James is a handsome boy, and from very good stock.”

"It's the younger son that's worth more, I'll tell you. That George boy is sharper than a knife. But it's the Woodhouse girl that could truly make a name for herself if they train her right. With Harlan's fortune and her mother's face, one day she could marry a Governor's boy. Or a senator! Imagine a Highbury girl marrying a senator!"

"Maybe you're right, Eulalia. Maybe it is best the Knightley boys are moving away..."

Emma's small hands clenched. Why, Mrs Cole and her friends were discussing all four of them as if--as if they were stock bought and sold for the town's gain. And Mrs Cole had the nerve to lecture her on manners? She'd step into the hall and declare precisely that..

A sound stopped her. A small sigh. She turned.

If she'd gone back another step, she'd have bumped right into them. Her own sister and James Knightley were hiding in the dark. Or escaping from the inquisitive light. They were kissing. And kissing, and kissing.

Isault drew back first, studying James with a secret little smile. If Emma hadn't witnessed this herself, she'd hardly believe it. That the shy creature she'd always known Isa to be could look so confident and self-composed? That assertive, cocky Jamie could look so wonder-struck?

“James.” Isault whispered. “We should go back.”

“Isa-” James Knightley was struggling to find his voice. “I-”

“She's right,” Emma spoke up gravely. The greeting sounded intrusive, even to her own ears, but they deserved a warning. “There are people nearby. Just around the corner.”

“Shortstop.” James blinked. “Uh--what people?”

“I just came from seeing Papa, for one.”

His mouth tightened. “Your father's close by?”

“Yes---no. I mean, Papa's in his workroom. But he asked about Isa. And Mrs Cole and Mrs Parson are just around the corner.”

“We should go back,” Isault repeated.

“Isa-” he frowned. “We don't have much time left.”

“I know.” Regret lingered in her sister's sweet voice. “But the guests need my attention as well. And Taylor--she deserves a proper goodbye. You'll come with me?

“Of course.” He nodded. “And Emma-”

“I'm fine,” Emma cut in quickly.

“Wandering around in the dark?”

“I live here,” she reminded him.

“But the house is full of strangers tonight,” he reminded her.

She shrugged. Was anyone in this town truly a stranger? “I'm meeting George.”

“Ah.” The small word from Isault, paired with a smile to James, seemed to communicate something that went beyond Emma's grasp. “Well, then, James. I'd say she's very safe.”

“Where's are you two off to play, Shortstop?” James continued. “Inside, I hope?”

Of course they'd be inside. It was raining, wasn't it? And George would bristle to hear James call it 'playing'. They were twelve and fourteen, not eight and ten. But she supposed there was no accounting for the inquiries of older siblings sometimes. “We're meeting in the library.”

Isault nodded ahead of them. “If you head north, James and I will take the eastern corridor and meet Mrs Cole half way.”

“Are you sure?”

“We'll be fine,” Isa confirmed. "You'll come back before the party's through?"

"And bring George with you," added James.

Emma studied the pair. Isault's fingers were tucked quite securely in James' hand. James free arm lingered around Isault's waist. They were still James and Isa, she reminded herself. Still the same familiar people she'd known all her life. Shy Isault. Funny Jamie. And yet they seemed different suddenly. And somehow, inexplicably, a good deal older.

"Yes," she quietly. "I will."


**


Her slippers, pale gold with a rosette on each toe, were half a size too small. They pinched. She hadn't mentioned this to anyone yet. The shoes had fit her, not three months back. But nothing seemed the same anymore. Not even her shoe size.

She'd danced in these slippers half the night, and gone the length of the house and back again. She reached her.destination with an exhale of relief.

George Knightley was on time, of course. He always was. He'd settled in their usual spot, at the edge of the grate by the fireplace. He must have heard the door open. She saw him look up.

All the reasons he should never leave the borders of Highbury County flashed through her mind. All the things only he could give her. Baseball lessons, for one. He, like his brother, was an ardent devotee of America's favorite past time. One day—he'd promised it—he'd teach her how to bat properly. And maybe she didn't care about the difference between a fastball and a curveball, but she still wanted him to be the one to teach it to her. Only him. He was, after all, the fastest pitcher on any mound this side of the Highbury Mountains.

What good would a country boy have for glittering London, anyway? Yes, he was intellectual, and proud of it. He loved everything from Thucydides to theorems. But his heart was in Highbury's misty mountains. In the shade of its fir trees, in its cool babbling brooks. He loved the peace of the countryside. And the countryside loved him in return.

He was an absolute magician with animals. Tonight for example, Shadow, the household cat had settled by his feet. She'd long ago accepted the cat had more allegiance to him than it did to her. He could charm almost any creature. A goose from its flock. A cat from its litter. He'd doctored a pup with a broken tail once. He'd nursed a baby bird lost from its nest. And he was horse mad. Wasn't this the boy who'd broke an arm last year and still begged his father for permission to ride?

He would be miserable in a city, she was sure of it. London! With its skyscrapers and its traffic jams, and the noise and the smog. He'd feel positively imprisoned. Wouldn't he? Unless she didn't know him as well as she thought she did.

"Shut the door, could you?" George requested calmly. Lost in her thoughts, the comment made her start. The fire was weak as it was, and the draft from the hall was causing it to sputter. She stepped inside, letting the mahogany door swoop shut.

“How's your dad?” he asked.

“Lonely,” Emma admitted quietly. She walked towards him, arms drawn close. “The food was a good idea.”

The food, or the company. They amounted to roughly the same thing tonight, anyway.

“I'm sorry, by the way,” she continued.

“For what?”

“For the way I acted at the party.” She settled across from him on the floor, letting her golden skirt fan out around her. She would have loved this dress a year ago. Now it seemed a bit young. She hadn't had the heart to confess that thought to Taylor. “For making you clean up my mess with Mrs Cole.”

He laughed. “You never make me do anything, Emme.”

"No." She managed a weak grin back. “I don't.”

Comfortable with their shared silence, she stretched her fingers towards the grate. Goosebumps danced down her arms. I'd rather stay here, in this golden light, than leave it for the loveliest party in Highbury.

“Something happened on my way to meet you,” she admitted quietly.

“What?”

She watched him, his steady eyes brightening with keen interest. She'd wanted to give him the full report on Mrs Cole. She'd been just bursting to do it. To see if it rattled him, as it had her. To hear if it made him laugh. Very few things rattled him, and a lot of things made him laugh. She loved hearing him laugh.

It was a lower sound than it used to be, though. He was the same George Knightley, with the same brown hair and the same hazel eyes, but he was growing. Between last summer and now, he'd grown so tall. His hands were bigger, and his legs stretched further. She could recognize this as a temporary stage, the stopgap between two points. If he was anything like his older brother, he would outgrow these bony angles very soon. Muscle would be added to bone. Those shoulders would square and his voice would deepen even further.

They were only two years apart. That had never felt like much before. How would she feel if he began to look even more grown up? Especially if she still looked like such a little girl?

“Emma?”

“Hmm?” Her cheeks felt warm, and from more than the fireplace. She couldn't repeat Mrs Cole's words. For reasons even she didn't understand, she just couldn't. What if it didn't help to hear him laugh? What if it just hurt? The oddest things caused an ache, lately.

“I saw James and Isault kissing in the hallway,” she spoke instead.

This didn't seem to surprise him. In fact, he barely blinked. The cat stood, stretched, and rubbed against his hand. “You interrupted them?”

“No, but I—" she frowned, "you knew?”

“Of course I knew. He's my brother.”

“And she's my sister!”

Shadow purred against his hand. As usual, the creature seemed enslaved by him. He wasn't looking at the cat though. He was looking at her. “And?”

“And,” she continued stubbornly. “I don't want him hurting her.”

“He never would.”

“My sister's very sensitive, George.”

“I know that.”

“And James isn't known for his steady nature,” she reminded him.

“In this, he will be. I'm sure, Emma. I know my own brother.”

“My Papa won't like it.”

“Your father doesn't like a lot of things,” George reminded her.

She inhaled sharply, searching for a rebuttal and finding none. Shadow stood, fluffed her tail, and pounced away from them both. The further this conversation progressed, the louder their voices seemed to raise. “What if James forgets her?”

“He won't,” he said sternly.

“He'll be living half a world away.”

“So will I!” he shot back.

“I know that!”

Her vision, and the sight of those warm hazel eyes of his, was starting to blur. Were these tears on her cheeks? And what good was a lifelong friend, if not for a shoulder to cry on? The bigger he grew, the more he seemed to edge away from casual displays of affection. But he wasn't too old to hug. Never that.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered against his chest. “I don't want us to fight. I'm so sorry.”

“Me too,” he bumped foreheads with her.

"What if they can't go back? What if they can't be friends again?"

“They're not us, Emme. No matter what happens—they're not us. You're my best friend. Isault and James won't change that.”

“You'll make other friends in England,” she sniffled. “Smarter friends. Better friends."

"New ones. Different. Not smarter."

"They'll be more sophisticated than me. And smarter-”

“You said that already.”

“And they'll be English.”

“And what's that got to do with the speed of molasses in January?” he drawled.

Her sniffle turned into a hiccuping laugh. “You'll get to go all sorts of places I can't go, and see all sorts of things.”

“Maybe,” he agreed steadily. “But you know what won't change?”

“What?”

“You'll still know me,” he reminded her, his fingers reached for hers, pressing their hands palm to palm. “Right down to my fingertips.”

She giggled. “If only they'd stop growing so long.”

“You're the one that needs to catch up.”

“I always do,” she squeezed his fingers. “For a little while, we were the same height.”

“For about a week. I was only twelve,” he retorted.

“That's two short years ago. Who knows what can happen in two more years time?” She snuggled closer, a cool breeze teasing at her neck. “You'll write to me?”

“Yes,” he said evenly. “You'll write back?”

“You know I will,” she answered quickly. At this stage in the winter, so very close to spring, there wasn't much kindling on hand to keep fire alight. It would sputter out soon if they didn't stoke it. And they wouldn't. They'd sit here until it dwindled to ash.

“Your father's professorship in England,” she whispered, “it will last how long?”

“Ten years,” he said curtly.

That cool, crisp statement from him made her glance up at him. George Knightley was, by his very nature, the most practiced of diplomats. He should have been born the older of the Knightley brothers. Nothing ruffled him. He was endlessly calm and entirely even tempered. Not prone to wild bursts of mood, or brooding sentiment.

But in that one short statement, she heard the hint of countless others. Ten years was a lifetime. Ten years was an exile.

He'd learn to like England. That was just how he was. But he'd miss the place he'd always called home. He'd miss fishing in the river every spring. Walking through fields of uncut sweet grass. He'd miss the harvest festival. The first frost. He'd miss heat lightning storms and bird watching at dawn.

Selfish Emma. Thinking only of your own feelings this whole time, she chided herself. You're not the only one who will miss something.

“You'll be back every summer,” she reminded him gently. “And I'll send you things. Mementos of Highbury.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. The first bluebird feather I find, George. It's yours.”

They fell silent again, content with their childlike embrace, and the warmth of the dying fire. Emma watched shadow and light dance across the floor. The walls. Her hands.

“Remember when we used to make shadow puppets?”

He shrugged. One year they'd loved that game. The next, they'd abandoned it. She couldn't say when or why, any more than he could. Childhood seemed to be slipping away, like light through her fingers.

“You were always better at making shadow puppets than I was,” she reminded him, pushing out from his embrace to offer a wry smile. “Mine looked more like lumpy, talking rocks.”

“Your hands are too small,” he grinned. “But you did better voices.”

She looked down at her admittedly small hands. “Everything's changing, you know.”

“So are you, Emme. You just don't see it yet.”

She supposed in the back of her mind, she worried about that, too. That he wouldn't be the only one different by time his summertime visit rolled around. She wanted to grow up as much as he did. She just didn't want them to grow apart.

“We should go back,” she whispered. “Taylor and Wesson will want to say goodbye to you.”

It was, she realized with a start, a close variation of what her sister had told James. Although in an admittedly different context. James had gone with Isa, knowing that it would mean an end to privacy, and the beginning of a longer parting.

George, too, would head back to the ballroom with her. But not without giving her something first. She watched him dig into the pocket of his jacket.

“I have a gift for you.”

She gasped. This was his prized possession. A small pennywhistle made of smooth, hammered silver. He'd learned to play from his grandfather, a mountain man with Appalachian blood. This flute was his heritage. He'd guarded it all his life. It was always on him, either near to his hand or near to his heart. The tunes he could play on this were as old as the low hills that surrounded them. How many times had she heard him play something on a lazy summer day, sitting beneath the ash trees? Or at the edge of the river, with the water rushing beneath.

“You can't,” she whispered. “George, you can't give me this.”

“I'm not,” his smile was wry. “I'm lending it to you.”

“But--”

“You'll keep it safe?”

“Yes,” she vowed.

"So take it."

This was his prize possession. He'd sooner hand over his heart. Her fingers felt slick as he handed it to her. It was small and cool, and terribly light. “I'll keep it safe. I promise. But George--”

“Yeah?”

“You'll have so many things to play, and nothing to play it on.”

“I'll keep it stored up, and play it for you when I back. That's soon enough, right?”

She studied him. The fire had sputtered out now. The room was cool. Her heart, though, that was warmer than ever.

“Yes,” she agreed at last. “It's soon enough.”]]> BernadetteE Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 13 May 2013 21:25:15 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96390,96390#msg-96390 A Man of No Consequence - Chapter Eight (45 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96390,96390#msg-96390Thank you for all the comments on last week's chapter. Sorry I didn't get chance to respond sooner, but I did post a reply to a question about Darcy's visiting card, which you might find interesting. (particularly as the card is mentioned again this week) You can read it here.



~~*~~*~~




Chapter Eight


Thomas Bennet studied the elegantly attired gentleman standing awkwardly in the middle of his library, already crammed with more books than there was shelf space to hold them. Mr. Darcy’s tall frame dominated the modest size room, as he twisted his gloves between his hands. He gestured to an overstuffed leather armchair; the worn patches on its arms hinting at countless years’ service in the Bennet family. “Are you sure you would not prefer to sit down? The chair is far more comfortable than it looks, and it would save me the inconvenience of a stiff neck later.”

Mr. Darcy begged his pardon and perched on the edge of the offered chair, appearing more uncomfortable than he had been while standing.

“May I offer you something to drink? I have a passable madeira that should not offend your palate.”

“No, thank you.”

Mr. Bennet sat back, lacing his fingers across his stomach. “Then may I ask to what I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

The younger man tugged at his cuff and cleared his throat. “I would like to speak to you about your daughter.”

“As I have been blessed with five of them I am afraid you will have to be more specific.”

His visitor returned an impatient glare. “I refer, of course, to your second daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Mr. Bennet smiled inwardly. He had forgotten how the pangs of newly-minted affection could inhibit a young man’s sense of humour. “Yes, of course you do. I hope you are not here to demand I hire a spare maid to follow Lizzy around. I can tell you now she will not stand for being molly-coddled.”

“That was not the reason for my visit.” He sat back in the chair, frowned as he sunk into its comfortable depths and leaned forward to compensate.

Although Mr. Bennet did not know Mr. Darcy well, he sensed an agitation in the young man’s demeanour that had not been present during their last meeting. He wondered if it was in any way connected to his daughter’s uncharacteristic behaviour the previous evening, when she had displayed an apathy and want of cheerfulness at odds with her usual self. It seemed that this matchmaking business was more fatiguing than he had anticipated.

Mr. Darcy decided suddenly to come to the point. “You will, I hope, excuse my blunt speaking. I am desirous to know what objections you have to my marrying your daughter.”

Mr. Bennet blinked, the question taking him somewhat unawares. “Are you requesting my permission to address Elizabeth? I understood the prevailing fashion leans towards the father being the last to know.”

“No, only whether you will give your consent.”

He gave the matter a few moments thought. “Given what you have previously told me about your situation and from everything I have learned for myself, I could have no objection at all. Indeed, I should be delighted for you to marry Elizabeth. While your position and wealth marks you above anything I could have expected in a son-in-law, the most important thing to my mind is that my daughter holds a great respect for you, and I believe you would make her happy. That is the best any father can hope for.”

“And what of your wife?”

“Regrettably, my wife is already spoken for.” Mr. Bennet waited for Mr. Darcy to laugh, but the young man was not of a mood to humour his host. “I can vouch for my wife’s response without the trouble of applying to her. I doubt we would encounter any reluctance on her part.”

Rather than exhibiting the expected pleasure or gratitude, the young man continued to frown. “If that is the case, perhaps you could communicate your position to your daughter, for she believes otherwise.”

It seemed they had now reached the crux of the problem. “Then you have already spoken to Elizabeth?”

Mr. Darcy admitted that he had. “I would, of course, have accepted her refusal without question had it not been offered with the greatest of reluctance. She has convinced herself that you would not accept the match. Naturally, I wished to confirm this for myself.”

This, at least, explained Elizabeth’s lack of spirits at dinner the night before, and why she had excused herself, complaining of a headache, without touching her dessert. “I cannot understand why she would assume so when I have never refused her anything.” Having witnessed his daughter’s partiality for Mr. Darcy first-hand, and seeing her blushes when his name had been mentioned, he was at a loss to understand her behaviour. Unless she still thought Mr. Darcy was a steward? No, that could not be the reason. She said she had discovered the truth, and had been disappointed at the news of his leaving. He could not think what other reason she might have, but then the workings of the female mind—even one as sensible as Lizzy’s—had long eluded him.

The young man before him sat in silence, seemingly with no more idea than he why Elizabeth would have such a scatter-brained notion. At this point Mr. Bennet’s opinion of Mr. Darcy rose considerably as he imagined how uncomfortable it must have been for the young Master of Pemberley to appear at Longbourn this morning with doubts hanging over his reception. “Perhaps you should leave the matter with me, Mr. Darcy. I will speak to Elizabeth and see if I cannot clear up this confusion.”

“I would be very grateful if you could, Sir.”

As he considered how he might best achieve a resolution, an idea came to him. “I believe you have not yet met Mrs Bennet.”

“No, Sir, I have not yet been granted that pleasure.”

Mr. Bennet stared at the man, looking for signs of sarcasm, but he found none. “Would you be able to join us for dinner tonight? Perhaps you could also bring Mr. Bingley with you, if he is willing.”

“I am sure he will be more than happy to accompany me.”

“Good. I often find it useful to provide my wife with a distraction at the dinner table, and your friend should serve our purpose admirably.”

Once he had seen his visitor out, Mr. Bennet summoned Elizabeth to the library. The large hand on the mantle clock had travelled a quarter of its customary path before the maid returned, wringing her hands.

Miss Elizabeth was indisposed and begged leave to be excused.

Dismissing the girl with an impatient wave of his hand, Thomas Bennet cursed under his breath. Even his favourite child had a little of her mother in her, and could be a silly, flighty creature when she chose. He eased himself down the hall upon his crutches, halting outside the door to the parlour. Mrs Bennet’s voice cut through the wood like a rusty saw as she castigated one of their younger offspring. He slipped into the room just as his wife lost the remaining shreds of her temper. “Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves.”

Kitty, sorting through some trimmings with Lydia, rolled her eyes. Mary did no more than glance up at him before she buried her head back in her book. Mr. Bennet smiled. “I hope, my dear, that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have invited Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy to join us.”

Mrs Bennet dropped her embroidery hoop into her lap, Kitty’s cough forgotten. “Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley, but you never told me that you called upon him.”

“That is easily explained; I did not make any such call. Indeed, how could I when our neighbour has been in town until yesterday? As it happens you will be indebted to Mr. Darcy for providing the necessary introductions when he brings Mr. Bingley here as his guest.”

“I wish you had told me sooner. There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill this moment.”

Not wishing to be embroiled in his wife’s effusions, he made a quick exit, closing the door behind him. He sighed as Mrs Bennet’s expressions of delight penetrated the oak, warring with her concern that the joint she had ordered would not stretch to satisfy the appetites of two young gentlemen.

Standing in the hallway, Mr. Bennet was contemplating the top of the staircase with some trepidation when John came looking for him. “I hope you were not thinking of attempting the stairs by yourself, Sir?”

He lifted his brows and looked over the rim of his spectacles. “And if I was?”

“Well, I’m sure you’d want me to be honest with Mr. Jones when he comes a’calling, asking me whether you’ve kept to his orders.”

“You are meant to be on my side,” Mr. Bennet reminded him as he accepted the support of his man’s arm up the stairs.

John apologised, but they had been together —master and servant—too long for him to be fooled. This was borne out a few seconds later when he added, “I just thought you’d be keen to see that leg healed. It wouldn’t be half as easy walking Miss Elizabeth down that long aisle at St. Lawrence’s with them crutches.”

“And what makes you think I will need to perform such a task any time soon?”

The retainer shrugged, sniffed and looked down at his scuffed boots. “Maybe it were the way that young gentleman from Netherfield turned to gaze at the house as he left. He reminded me of that old pointer bitch you used to have. You know…the one that would look up at you, all mournful like, when she wanted a bone; as if she hadn’t been fed in a fortnight and was well-nigh starved. Did he strike you as a gentleman who would take no for an answer?”

Thomas Bennet sighed. “No, John. He most certainly did not.”



~~*~~*~~




When Elizabeth heard another knock at her chamber door, she was in half a mind to feign sleep and ignore it. While she hadn’t expected her father to be satisfied with her reply, she had hoped his general apathy for household matters might allow her a longer respite before the girl returned to try again.

However, it was not the maid who entered at her call, but Mr. Bennet, leaning upon his crutches. “You see before you the hill, presenting itself before Mahomet, Lizzy. I hope you are not insensible of the compliment.”

Elizabeth sprang from the window seat and helped her father to sit. “Dear Sir! Had I known your reason was so pressing, I would have come to you earlier.”

She felt her father’s grey eyes upon her as he disposed himself in the walnut chair, and she knew what he saw. After her meeting with Mr. Darcy the previous day she had lost interest in everything: dinner had turned to ash in her mouth, the wine was like pump water, and the concerns of her family failed to divert her thoughts. This morning she had dressed with no care to her appearance, having no one to impress and feeling too spiritless to care. Having glanced only briefly in the mirror, she knew the dullness of her eyes and skin spoke of the long night following Mr. Darcy’s proposal, when sleep had all but evaded her.

“Lizzy,” said her father, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Are you out of your senses, to refuse Mr. Darcy? I thought you liked the man?''

Shocked by his question, it took a moment for her to form a reply. If her father already knew that much, she could do no more harm by revealing the rest. “I did. I do like him.”

“Then why can you not marry him? It is a popular pastime amongst the young, I believe.”

In no mood to be the source of her father’s entertainment, Elizabeth said, “You jest, but this is not a light-hearted matter. You know I cannot wed Mr. Darcy.”

“I am afraid I know nothing of the sort. Pray, enlighten me with your reasoning.”

“His position…his income; Mama would never allow me to be the wife of a steward.”

Her father frowned, and then shook his head. “How is it possible you still imagine him to be Mr. Bingley’s steward? You told me you had realised your error.”

Elizabeth heard the censure in his tone and raised her chin. “I knew I was mistaken in thinking he would remain at Netherfield, but he said he was returning to his own position in the north.”

The smile that now grew on her father’s face was familiar to her, as was the twinkle in his eyes. “Have you any further objections, other than your belief of our disapproval? Do you think him unworthy?”

“No, not to me, but I hope I know better than to welcome an unequal connection, when Mama strives so hard to see us married into an advantageous situation. You know she would never allow one of us to throw ourselves away, particularly now, when she has such high hopes of Jane attracting the attentions of a wealthy man like Mr. Bingley.”

“A most self-effacing sacrifice on your part, my dear, but there was never any need to deny yourself. Mr. Darcy is not a steward. He has never been a steward—not in this county nor any other.”

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and then said, “I do not understand. Why, then, was he helping Mr. Bingley and what are the responsibilities he spoke of in Derbyshire?”

They were interrupted by Kitty, bursting into Lizzy’s room. She stopped dead when she saw its occupants. “Lord, Papa! What are you doing here?”

“More to the point,” said Mr. Bennet in his sternest tone, “what are you doing barging in here without so much as a knock?”

“I was only going to borrow…” Kitty paled as her eyes darted to her sister. “I would have brought it straight back!” She stared at them both and then sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, while you are here you can at least make yourself useful. Go down to my library and bring me the small brown book that sits on the corner of my desk.”

Thankful to avoid a greater scold, Kitty did as she was bid, and Mr. Bennet soon had the volume in his hand. Elizabeth tried to read the title on the spine, but the letters were too small. When they were once again alone, her father leaned forward in the chair. “Do you wish to learn something of your Mr. Darcy? I promise you will find it most enlightening.”

Curiosity fought with caution within Elizabeth’s breast, and curiosity won out. She leaned forward as her father opened the book and removed the short scrap of black ribbon he had used as a marker.

“Have you ever heard your Aunt Gardiner mention a town in Derbyshire where she spent some time in her earlier years? No? The place is called Lambton, and I discovered in this publication a fascinating addendum to the description of the town. I should like to read it to you, if you will permit me.”

Without waiting for her answer, he cleared his throat and adjusted his reading glasses.

“Five miles from the town is Pemberley, the residence of Fitzwilliam Darcy Esq. who is possessed of the manor of Lambton. The mansion, which is pleasantly situated on the northern bank of the Derwent, was built about seventy years ago by the late Hugh Darcy, grandfather of the current owner, on the site of a very ancient one belonging to the family. The present house is a handsome stone building, with a portico projecting from the North front. It contains several good apartments fitted up in a neat and elegant manner. The rooms contain some good family portraits but none of particular celebrity.”

Only then did Mr. Bennet pause, observing the effect this news would have on his daughter. In that, at least, she had to disappoint him. “How do you know this family is connected to the Mr. Darcy staying at Netherfield?”

Her father snorted and shook his head. “I am beginning to wonder what you young people find to talk about when you meet quite by chance in the neighbourhood.” As Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, he held up a finger to silence her. “It seems my conversation with that gentleman was more to the point than yours. Mr. Darcy told me something about his estate called Pemberley—his estate, mind you, not his family’s— and I heard enough to know that it casts Netherfield quite into the shade. Your Mr. Darcy is most certainly a gentleman, my dear, and as such I would have no qualms in giving my consent to your marrying him. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything he condescended to ask.”

Elizabeth felt an uncomfortable weight settle in her stomach. This could not be the same man. Surely he would have mentioned something of his wealth if he had anything to offer. Her father must have misunderstood.

“And if you are thinking me already in my dotage, Lizzy, maybe this will help to convince you. Mr. Darcy sent it in this morning when he called.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, picking out a familiar shape and holding it out for her.

She took the visiting card, running her fingers over the square black letters printed across the middle that read: FITZWILLIAM DARCY. She glanced at her father. “You knew Mr. Darcy was a gentleman?”

“I knew nothing more of him than you had told me…at least until he came to call.”

“Three days ago?” Recalling everything that had happened since she had introduced Mr. Darcy to her father, it was as though someone had put a spark to a tinder box. She jumped up, stabbing an accusing finger at him. “You knew this and did not think to tell me?”

“Had I known your understanding remained flawed I would have enlightened you, but when you said you had learned he was not Mr. Bingley’s steward how was I to know you remained ignorant of his status and fortune?”

Elizabeth shook her head, too annoyed with herself and her father to speak.

Mr. Bennet looked down at the book in his hand with an air of feigned disinterest. “You know, a long journey for the sake of viewing a house hardly seems worthwhile when the property has no portraits of particular celebrity. Family likenesses are never so interesting when you do not know the subject. Ah…but wait! I see the appeal of the house improves.” He moved the page closer, to bring the small print back into focus.

“The Library, thirty six feet by twenty four and twenty two feet high, is finished with mahogany book cases, Doric entablature and Mosaic ceiling, while the contents form an impressive collection of classic and polite literature. In addition, there is a very fine painting of The Meeting of Hector and Andromache at the Scaean Gates by Cignaroti.”

Her father’s shoulders sagged. “Well, that makes my own poor book room seem rather dull, does it not? Perhaps I should expend a few guineas from your dowry to purchase a similar piece of art to fill my empty wall. A collection of volumes such as the one described must be the work of many generations. I confess a curiosity as to its contents. Maybe, if we are very good, we can prevail upon the owner to allow us to peruse some of his polite literature, eh Lizzy?”

Elizabeth crossed the room to look out of her bedroom window, torn between hope and an uncomfortable sense that she had made a grievous mistake from which it would be impossible to recover. That she should have refused such a man of standing and fortune must have been incomprehensible to him. Indeed, as the memories of his proposal returned with full force, she recalled the shock on his face, and little wonder he should feel so. He must have thought she was mad.

Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts. “If Mr. Darcy’s house does not appeal to your tastes, my dear, then perhaps I can entice you with an account of his gardens?” Returning his attention to the book, Mr. Bennet completed the description with an almost unseemly relish.

“The park is very extensive, measuring ten miles in circumference, and is beautifully diversified with hill and dale, as well as various plantations, which range in fine sweeping masses over the inequalities of the ground. The prospects from the adjacent parts are exceedingly fine and one view looking back from the south possesses extraordinary grandeur. The river winds gracefully through the park; in front of the house it has been swollen into a greater width, but without any artificial appearance. The approach to the mansion is made over an elegant stone bridge of three arches erected by Paine.”

He sat back in the chair, closing the book as he did so. “If I may be allowed to say, it appears you will be mistress of a very fine estate, my dear.”

Never had her father’s wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her. She failed to hold back a sigh. “Perhaps I might have, had I not turned him away. Such a man, once refused, is unlikely to apply again.”

“You underestimate his tenacity, my dear. Mr. Darcy was knocking on my door at an indecent hour this morning, demanding to be told the reasons for withholding my permission. I think I can safely say that his interest in you has not been materially lessened by your rejection.”

“When he discovers the reason for my decision I doubt he would be so eager. How can I tell him that I thought him a mere steward?”

“That, my dear, you will have to decide for yourself, and soon.”

“Why?”

Mr. Bennet smiled. “Because I have invited him to dinner.”



.]]> Heather F Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 12 May 2013 09:31:20 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96352,96352#msg-96352 Jane and the Vanishing Valet 78 (7 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96352,96352#msg-96352Chapter 7

The charades proceeded with the usual varied assortment of offerings, where it was generally held that James and Thomas scraped the bottom of the barrel with their offering, which did not even rhyme.
“My first is a snake, my second, a rag, my third, you and me, and whole is a vegetable” said James.
“Goodness!” said Helene, scornfully, “if it weren’t so plainly asparagus, I’d say it was an old chestnut!”
“Well you do better, then, brat,” said Thomas, his easy-going voice robbing the epithet of any sting.
“We planned to,” said Daphne. “Here, Simon, you read it!”
Simmy grinned.
“My first is an hundred, as written in Rome,
My second holds a hand by its bone,
My third is a weight but without gravity,
And my whole celebrated in winter, you see,” he recited with aplomb.
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Catherine, “You stupid children, each part has to be a single syllable or a single letter, an hundred isn’t at all. You shouldn’t be allowed to play if you can’t do it properly.”
“You’re an ass, Catherine,” said Persis. “They mean the letter ‘C’ which denotes an hundred in Roman numerals. Actually I have it all.”
“So do I,” said Nicholas, “and so do Mr and Mrs Armitage for they are laughing at how simple it is!”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to throw in higher mathematics and Newtonian theory though,” said Caleb. “Simmy, had you got so far with Henry?”
“No, sir: it was Helene knew that,” said Simmy.
“I don’t understand at all,” said Catherine.
Her mother giggled.
“Oh, what do you expect from girls permitted to be bluestockings; they will make the men feel inadequate and will make themselves unmarriageable.”
“I’d marry both of them like a shot,” said Simmy, firmly.
“Not both at once, lad; even for a lawyer, that’s going a bit too far,” said Caleb. Simmy laughed.
“You’d better explain it, Pa,” he said.
“C; wrist: mass: Christmas,” said Caleb. “Newton’s theory of gravitational force tells us that a mass only becomes a weight when the force of gravity pulls it down towards the earth. Or any other heavenly body. Mr Henry Cavendish worked out that a mass weighing a pound on earth would weigh about two and two thirds ounces.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” said Catherine. “A pound weighs a pound!”
“Not if …. never mind,” said Persis, “Don’t worry, Catherine, I doubt anyone on the ballroom floor at your come-out will even be conversant with Newton and Cavendish, let alone want to talk about them.”
“I say, Persis, I wish I’d known you were knowledgeable about mathematics, we could have really foxed everyone, instead of being so pedestrian,” said Nicholas.
Persis laughed.
“Well the honours go to the children, I should think,” she said. “It’s not entirely a suitable venue to show off the excellence of one’s tutor however, so let us temper the encomium with mild disapprobation too.”
“What is your pedestrian one, then?” asked Thomas. Nicholas recited,
“I could not set this on the page without my first, you see;
My second may be found in France, where you might find she,
My third may mean to open, but framed in poesy,
Which leaves a fourth to make the whole, who waits in Odyssey.”
“That is moderately straightforward,” said Thomas, “even I can guess Penelope from that.”
“Why?” demanded Catherine. “Odyssey, isn’t that something by Shakespeare? Is this Penelope in Shakespeare?”
Her brothers all gave her pitying looks.
“Oh really, Catherine!” cried Charles, “you can’t be such a widgeon as to think that Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey are by Shakespeare! They are the most famous classics of all! and Penelope was Odysseus’ wife and waited patiently for him to return.. It’s not bad, Nick, Pen, elle, ope and a final e for the pronunciation, I like it!”
Jane could see that Nicholas almost made an ironic comment, and changed his mind.
“Thanks, Charles,” he said.
Charles and the major had also eschewed rhymes for their effort, but it was at least a little more original than Thomas and James had managed.
“My first is eaten at Christmas, and my second might be found on the plants we use to decorate at Christmas, and my whole might be served pickled with my first,” declared the major when it appeared that Charles had suddenly turned too bashful to read it out.
“Haha, trust Charles to think of his digestion,” said Persis.
“Gooseberry,” said Araminta.
“Which is what a bluestocking is likely to be,” said Charles, stung by how quickly Araminta had guessed.
Araminta laughed.
“Charles, thanks to Jane, and no thanks to my father, I have the opportunity to meet people and be a gooseberry, and I have the option to dance if I am asked because of the aid I have received, instead of hobbling on a stick. I find the chance to choose to put off those men who are threatened by my enforced inactivity making me well-read a marvellous thing, rather than putting them off merely by being halt.”
Charles blushed scarlet.
“I beg your pardon, Cousin Araminta, I had forgotten that you were c-crippled,” he said, “I did not mean to draw attention to it.”
“Cousin Charles, that was handsomely said,” said Araminta, holding out her hand. “I thank you for the compliment that you had forgotten!”
Charles shyly shook hands with her. Why, thought Jane, looking at the young people, he is taking on this business of being a dandy because he is unsure of himself and wants something of his own that is not in competition with older brothers!
“Some of us haven’t given our charades yet,” said Catherine, with a giggle.
“Well, pray, lay your words of wit upon our eager ears, dear coz,” said Persis. Catherine gave her an uncertain look, sure that there was some barb therein, but unable to see where it might be.
“Well, I shall,” she said.
“My first is everyone who wants to be
At my whole as often can be,
My second a Scotsman, the whole can then send
Anyone listening to wish to attend.”
“Almack’s, slightly strained on the all, though,” said Persis, quickly. Catherine glared at her. Persis added, “what about Mrs Armitage and Araminta?”
“Jane wouldn’t let me have too many flights of fancy,” laughed Araminta, “so I’ve come up with one that is for Miss Bates, as a tribute to Mr Redmayne, which gives nothing away.”
“Oh my dear Araminta!” cried Miss Bates, quite overcome.
Araminta smiled at her.
“My first might be, and it might be another,
Either will do for the part’s either’s brother,
My second a young goat, that grazes on meads
Where my whole shyly hides amidst grasses or reeds.”
“Very clever, Minty,” said Caleb, clapping, and as Miss Bates looked puzzled he bent down to whisper in her ear.
“Oh!” cried Miss Bates, “how very clever, dear Minty!”
“But you must not tell unless nobody can guess, Aunt Hetty,” said Caleb.
“Indeed, not! Oh how charming to think of that, I pray you, Araminta, will you set it out in your pretty hand so that I might keep it?”
“I will do better than that, dear Miss Bates, I will illustrate it for you,” said Araminta.
“I believe,” said Roger de Saumerez, “that the answer is ‘orchid’. You know – knew, I believe I should say – Mr Redmayne, Araminta? I have corresponded with him.”
Araminta flushed.
“Yes indeed; he was abrasive, but a kindly old man to those he held dear,” she said. “And I am glad that Mr Featherstone and Euphelia are going to continue his work with orchids.”
Mr de Saumerez brightened and turned to his wife.
“They are? Then, my dear, if you do not object too much, I might take myself to Yorkshire in the spring to speak with Mr Featherstone, whom I know slightly through my correspondence with Mr Redmayne.”
“Don’t forget to pack extra underlinen and wear two of everything, it’s cold in Yorkshire,” adjured Phoebe.
“Yes, my flower,” said de Saumerez, meekly. This was almost too much for Simmy, who had to have a diplomatic fit of coughing.
“How came you to know Mr Redmayne, my dear?” asked the Major, of Araminta.
“Oh, it was when I was staying with Jane in her uncle’s house, we met the Misses Redmayne and were invited to a house party,” said Araminta, “it was very upsetting when he… died,” she remembered in time that though the case had been written up by Caleb for Bow Street’s records, the murder of the old man had been kept quiet since his murderer had died while resisting arrest.
The voice of Captain Coate came from the doorway.
“Joseph Redmayne? I heard from one of the officers who was stationed up in York that he was murdered – some prowler, I suppose. Sordid business,” he added. “How came he into the conversation, father?”
“Orchids,” Jane answered for the major, “and yes, it was a sordid business, and I pray you will not remind Araminta by speaking of it. I hope you have concluded your business satisfactorily?” she added.
“Eh? Oh, yes, indeed!” he twitched at his moustache which was looking rather limp, presumably it suffered from the damp air.
“To be candid,” said Araminta, “had I not liked Mr Redmayne, it would have been quite interesting and enjoyable watching the investigation into his death in progress, and the methods of Bow Street, but I would add my voice to Jane’s to request that I not be asked details.”
“Bow Street, eh? Dear me! Quite so, quite so, you won’t want to dwell on such horrors, of course!” said the captain, patting Araminta on the head. “Is it almost dinner time? Dear me, I must go and dress and see if my man has got my evening clothes laid out properly.”
Evidently he had forgotten – or had never taken it in – that Caleb was with Bow Street, thought Jane, amused. Probably the fact of Caleb being in the regular army, and a regiment that had won prestige at that, had been uppermost in the mind of a mere Militiaman.


Chapter 8

The Major gazed in some disapproval on his son when the party went in to dinner.
“Vernon, my lad, I know it’s your business, but I don’t think much of that man of yours; your coat hasn’t been properly brushed and it looks almost as though you shrugged it on by yourself. I hope you didn’t engage him just because he came recommended as able to put a good shine on boots – if he can, as I’ve yet to see.”
Captain Vernon Coate flushed.
“I might have been hasty, father,” he said. “I will give him a fair chance though, he had to find his way about the house and so on.”
“Well, if you give him too long a chance you may find that Higgins has walked into other employment and you won’t have the opportunity to beg his pardon and ask him to resume his duties with you,” barked the Major. Vernon Coate went a dull red.
“I cannot see why I should beg the pardon of a servant, sir,” he said, “he should have given more satisfactory service, and take it as a warning to do better, if indeed Braintree proves unsatisfactory and I take Higgins back.”
“I would have thought that a gentleman would admit to a fault, and that it is to a servant only demonstrates the gentility of his spirit,” said the major curtly.
“But then, I am not at fault,” said Vernon Coate, sharply, “I might have been too beguiled by the glowing recommendation with which Braintree was provided, but that does not make it a fault to have dismissed Higgins! He made a pig’s ear of stropping my razor!” his face suffused with blood. Araminta gasped and sought Jane’s hand with her own under the table. Jane squeezed her hand reassuringly.
The family likeness to William Coate, Araminta’s father, had been suddenly more apparent.
Veron Coate laughed a harsh laugh, forcing himself back to good humour.
“Why, father, what a thing to quarrel about, a mere servant!” he said, smiling around the table.
“I wasn’t quarrelling, but let it go,” said the major.
“Well, father, what is the order for the evening?” asked Vernon Coate.
“I thought we might amuse ourselves by acting out some scenes from Shakespeare,” said the major, “If the young people feel that would be suitable entertainment?”
“Oh yes!” said Catherine, “so long as we might read the parts; it is too much to expect us to learn parts in so short a time. Will we do Midsummer Night’s Dream? That boy Simon could be Puck!”
“And I suppose you’d be Titania and have Helene and me as fairies running errands for you?” said Daphne, scornfully. “Well if you think Simon is going to sit in a cowslip and suck bees, I should think you could think again!”
“Do WHAT?” demanded Simmy.
“Oh mydear Simmy, Daphne has incorrectly remembered the play,” said Miss Bates. “For that is a misquote from The Tempest, and it is Ariel who says ‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I, in a cowslip’s bell I lie’; there is nothing like that in Midsummer Night’s Dream. One of the fairies speaks of bedecking cowslips with silver earrings and Puck goes to find a flower the nectar of which will make someone fall in love.”
“Sounds a curst rum touch to me,” said Simmy.
“I’m inclined to agree!” said Caleb. “I never knew Shakespeare went in for drugging women for seduction, sounds like a libertine, this Puck character.”
“Oh no, dear Caleb, you quite mistake!” cried Miss Bates. “It is her husband Oberon who wishes Puck to get the flower, to make her fall briefly in love with someone unsuitable to teach her a lesson for lavishing her attention on a boy who is a changeling – for they are the king and queen of fairyland – and he is jealous, and also wishes to have the boy himself as a page.”
Caleb spluttered.
“Aunt Hetty, I cannot think that such matter is suitable for young girls!” he declared. “Adultery, drugging, and the suggestion of the forbidden love, really, I have to agree with Sim – Simon’s assessment! Making it happen in fairyland is obviously a way the fellow might get away with some deucedly queer notions!” he was trying to recall that Simmy was too old really for a child’s name.
“It is a prett fantasy!” declared Catherine.
“It is a comedy,” said Jane, pacifically, “and the situations contrived for comedic effect, and I confess that hearing that part of the play described out of context, dear Caleb, it does sound quite inapposite! However, I think it is not the sort of play that the younger children nor Nicholas nor Charles would enjoy.”
“Jupiter, no!” said Nicholas, with feeling. “I’d rather do Macbeth personally.”
“That’s a better one,” agreed Simmy.
Catherine gave a little scream.
“Oh no! too bloodthirsty!” she declared.
“Perhaps acting scenes – and the choice of a scene – might be something we might consider over several days rather than as something to be sorted out in one evening,” suggested Jane. “Choosing something to act is bound to be contentious, perhaps we ladies might choose something between us?” she looked at Barbara and Phoebe.
“I think Midsummer Night’s Dream is pretty,” said Barbara, “I could not understand the objections of Mr Armitage at all!”
Phoebe laughed.
“I could, and I had not considered it at all, but it does sound as though both Oberon and Puck are dashed loose screws for such a scheme, looked at on its own!” she said.
“Phoebe! Your expressions! So unladylike!” cried Barbara.
“Our parents weren’t so mealy-mouthed, it is only that we have looser stays, we seem to have tighter mouths,” said Phoebe. “Shakespeare was writing in an even more robust age and some of his comedies are not suitable for young ladies, at least, not if you understand them, and as my dear Roger is quite a scholar, I have come to understand them better than perhaps is comfortable. I would suggest a more modern play, or else stick to one of Shakespeare’s histories, like Henry V, where Catherine might enjoy herself as Princess Katherine having an English lesson, that is only risqué if you read it that way, and the boys to do a scene with Henry and his advisors, perhaps the infamous tennis ball scene, for I think Simon would enjoy being the French Herald.”
“That sounds capital!” declared Vernon Coate. “But if we are not to do that immediately, what will we do? Mrs Armitage, you have suggested deferring my father’s idea, what will you suggest in its stead?”
“Why, perhaps that the young people might choose a passage to read that suits their own tastes, and read that out for the enjoyment of all,” said Jane, “for as well as several volumes of Shakespeare’s plays, your father’s excellent library also contains other plays, and many volumes of poetry. Nobody here is confined to the works of Helen Maria Williams,” she added. Araminta giggled.
“There is something I am missing, here,” said the major.
“Oh Uncle George, I did tell you about the Redmayne sisters, my friends,” said Araminta, “Euphelia, Cora, Zillia, Aciloe and Alzira, whose mother had only ever read the works of Mrs Williams and named her daughters for the heroines thereof.”
“Dear me!” said the major. “Singularly, er, singular.”
“Tactful,” said Caleb. “If you’ve no objection to my wife’s suggestion, sir, I think it would answer while the adults in the party work out suitable scenes that will not offend the youngest or the oldest too much – a piece of manoeuvring that makes me almost prefer to be back at Corunna – and those who wish might have the time to copy out their parts or learn them as they prefer, perhaps as a closing entertainment to the house party?”
“Capital,” said the major. “By Jove, I had not considered the finer feelings of either the children, or of their choices upon the older ones. I am glad you and Mrs Armitage are able to pour oil on troubled waters. Let all disperse then to the library for an hour to aid digestion in quiet contemplation, and choose what they might wish to read. Nothing too long, any of you!” he added hastily.
It was perhaps perversity that made Catherine choose Titania’s speech; Persis managed the longest poem chosen, with Percy Bysshe Shelley’s recently published Hymn to Intellectual Beauty whose title made Simmy look on her with horror, but as she read, he sat up and listened.
“You read that beautifully, Miss de Saumerez,” he said, “That gave me gooseflesh, ‘each from his voiceless grave’, I like that, and it’s what Pa and Ma do, give voices to the voiceless in their graves.”
“I don’t think that’s quite what the poem is about,” said Persis, “I think it’s about finding things that are beautiful that have not been sung about or something, and finding beauty in things unconsidered by others.”
“But isn’t justice beautiful?” asked Simmy.
Jane was so proud of him! That was such a profound thing to say!
“I wager you have something bloodthirsty though,” said Catherine.
“Well I don’t say it’s peaceful,” said Simmy, and proceeded to give Henry V’s speech before Agincourt, having managed to learn it sufficiently to only need brief glances at the book so that he might add gestures.
“Didn’t you say you were for the bar, young Simon?” asked James. “I’d pay to have you put any case of mine. You have the theatricality right natural, not like my idiot sister who thinks a breathy voice means thrilling and exciting, instead of sounding as though she is in the last stages of consumption.”
There was a brief interlude of heated words at this point which was stopped by Mr Waynefleet.
“ENOUGH!” he roared. “James, you are old enough to know that a gentleman never tells a lady unpalatable truths; apologise to your sister!”
“Yes, sir; sorry Catherine,” said James. “I’ll try to remember not to liken your dramatic reading to a sheep wheezing in future; it is unkind.”
Jane strongly suspected that he left unsaid the thought that it was unkind to the sheep.
“I say, it’s snowing in earnest!” cried Nicholas, who had glanced idly through the curtains. The younger people ran to the window with cries of delight.
“Well, that has broken up the entertainment,” said the major. “I think light refreshments and an early night, hmmm? The children will want to build a snowman, and slides and the like; and if the lake bears we might consider skating tomorrow evening as an alternative to a ball, with braziers around for light and to warm ourselves.”
“Capital, father!” cried Vernon.]]> Sarah Waldock Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 04 May 2013 23:50:35 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96309,96309#msg-96309 The Right to Interfere in His Happiness (23 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96309,96309#msg-96309
Official blurb: Captain Wentworth tells Lady Russell what he really thinks.

The Right to Interfere in His Happiness


by Jim Doherty




Lady Russell, hearing the sound of a door being loudly slammed, looked up the path, at Kellynch Hall’s front entrance, to see a young man stomping angrily away. Recognizing him, and perceiving the reason for his anger, she suddenly realized that her direction toward Kellynch Hall, and his away from it, meant that they would meet, and found herself profoundly uncomfortable at the prospect.

When they were a few feet from each other, the young man stopped, looked up, and recognizing Lady Russell, gave her a look that could have vaporized the polar ice cap, made a stiff, formal bow, and said, curtly, “Mum.”

“Mr. Wentworth,” Lady Russell replied.

“‘Captain,’” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My title is ‘Captain,’ Mum. Not ‘Mister.’ I hold the rank of Master and Commander in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, and am thus entitled to be addressed as ‘Captain.’ It is, I grant you, only a courtesy title, not unlike the second son of a duke being entitled to be called ‘Lord Somebody-or-Other’ despite not being the heir to the dukedom. But, unlike that Duke’s second son, who did nothing to attain his title except to be born, and who will never, in any event, succeed to the family title, I have earned the courtesy that allows me to be addressed as ‘Captain,’ despite having yet to be made post. And from you particularly, who make such a point of being attentive to rank and titles, it is a courtesy I insist upon. You have deprived me of enough this day without also depriving me of the just reward I have gained through honourable toil.”

“I . . . I have not the pleasure of understanding you, Captain.”

“Have you not? Do you deny that it was you who persuaded Anne to end our betrothal, despite the fact that we love each other deeply?”

“I do not deny attempting to convince Anne that it was a most inappropriate match. But I cannot believe either of you to be much in love with each other that you will not easily get over it.”

“Such insight, Mum! Able to see into others’ hearts with such ease, and so certain of what you see that you think nothing of interfering in their lives. This despite having no parental authority over either party, and despite the one who does have such authority having already given his approval.”

“His approval could hardly be described as whole-hearted. True he didn’t actually disapprove the match, but he so deprecated it that he denied Anne her dowry, a dowry that should be hers by right, if she went ahead with the marriage.”

“And what is that to me? I am able to support my own wife. I want Anne, not her money. If nothing else, my lack of interest in her dowry should convince you of the sincerity of my feelings.”

“You could never hope to support her in the manner to which she’s become accustomed.”

“Not at first, perhaps. But I have been given command of a sloop. My pay alone from that would be 200 pounds a year. She would have my power of attorney while I was at sea, giving her exclusive access to those funds. With her father and sister spending so profligately, while treating Anne as little better than a servant, and Anne herself being the only member of her household attempting to economize, I have small doubt that, in a strictly pecuniary sense, she would be doing better than she is now. And that’s to say nothing of the possibility of prize money.”

“But how can you ask her to enter into a marriage with an officer in the King’s Service while a war is on? She could be left a widow before she is 20. Or worse, a widow with a child. Who would she be able to turn to, with no dowry, should the worst happen?”

“And what is your suggestion then, Madam? I have been in the Navy since I was 13. Should I turn my back on my duty now, when I finally have enough experience and skill in my profession to actually be of use to my country in its time of need, all because I have fallen in love? Naval careers and marriage are not so incompatible as you seem to believe, Lady Russell.”

“Captain Wentworth, you must understand, Anne’s mother was my dearest friend. Anne herself is my goddaughter. For the last five years, I have felt obliged to act in my friend’s stead. When Anne asked what my opinion was of the match, I could not but give her an honest answer.”

“An honest answer, Mum? An honest answer, you call it? Very well, let us agree, for the sake of argument, that you were justified by your long-standing relationship with Anne, and with her mother before her, to intervene in what you believed to be an imprudent decision, regardless of the unhappiness it might cause her. Why you should feel obliged to exercise such a right, a right to which your claim is, at best, tenuous, when the only genuine parent she has left, the only person who unquestionably does have that right, did not? Well, that is another question entirely. But let that bide.”

Lowering his voice to a surly, and frightening growl, he continued, “What was it, Lady Russell, that led you to think you had any right to interfere in my happiness? What gave you the authority to opine on what was best for me?”

“Again, Captain, I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”

“Anne kept saying she was breaking it off because she was persuaded that it was the best thing for me. That, despite breaking our engagement, she still loved me. That she was doing it because she loved me. I was so overcome with hurt and anger I did not really attend. But it all becomes clear now. You put that idea into her head, didn’t you? When all your talk about the risks and disadvantages of a marriage with a Naval officer in a time of war failed to convince her, you used her own love for me against her. And against me. Didn’t you? You convinced her that not marrying would be best for me. I don’t know what you said. Perhaps that, in worrying about her at home, I would be inattentive to my duties at sea, putting myself and my crew at risk.”

She had, in fact, used almost that exact phrase. A stab of guilt pierced her conscience, and it evidently showed in her face.

“Ah,” said Wentworth, “a hit. A very palpable hit. Well, Anne may give you leave to decide her future, Mum. But you shall have no say in mine.”

With that, he turned on his heel and headed back to Kellynch Hall, Lady Russell following closely behind.

As they approached the great house, they saw that Anne was seated on a bench near one of the gardens. She was clearly upset, but attempting to compose herself by reading, or attempting to read, a book.

“Anne,” Wentworth called out.

She looked up.

“Anne, dearest, I wouldn’t blame you for turning me away after all the angry things I said. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Indeed, Frederick, I know I must have pained you. Please forgive me for being the cause of your anger.”

“We could spend the next five or ten minutes arguing over which of us is more at fault, dearest, but there are better uses for our time. Let us simply agree to put it behind us. You said you wished to break it off because you believed it was the best thing for me. That you wished to end our engagement because you truly loved me. Was that the truth?”

“Of course.”

“I love you, too. And I always shall. And I say it makes no sense to put our feelings aside rather than use them as the foundation on which to build our future.”

“But, Frederick . . . ”

“Anne, I do not mean to suggest that we continue to be engaged if it makes you uncomfortable. I understand the duty you feel you owe to your godmother. But if you can’t agree to a betrothal at this time, can you consent to a courtship?”

“A courtship? But you are going to sea.”

“I am. But if we were courting, we would be able to write to each other without violating propriety. We would be able to make tentative plans for our future happiness. Could you agree, at least, to that? Could you agree not to become engaged to anyone else while I pay court to you from across the sea?”

“Are you saying you now agree with Lady Russell?” asked Anne nodding toward her friend.

“On the contrary, I regard her as almost more my enemy than Bonaparte himself.”

“Captain Wentworth,” started a thoroughly affronted Lady Russell.

“Enough, Madam. You have had your say. Let me have mine.”

Turning back to Anne, he said, “I don’t agree with what she says. At least not with everything. But, in justice, I must admit that she raises valid points. There is a risk in marrying a Naval officer when a war is on. And you would be facing a downturn, at least at first, in your income. I don’t believe her advice is right. But, as I cannot predict the future, neither can I say, with certainty, that her advice will inevitably prove to be wrong. We must wait and see how events transpire to determine the whether or not her advice was flawed. I can, however, say that, angry though I am, I believe she has your best interests at heart. So let us meet her half way. Let us see what events prove.”

“For how long, Frederick?”

“Let us say for two years. If my cruise on the Asp is successful, I may gain prize money and promotion to post rank. And you will be of age, and able to make your own decisions. If, in two years, I were to return, with a sufficiency of prize money to insure our financial security, and advancement to post captain, would you then make me the happiest of men? Would you, in short, renew the engagement?”

“Would I!” was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.

And with that decisive answer, Lady Russell, after all her work, and all her carefully practiced arguments, knew that she had gained nothing but a delay. Which meant she had gained nothing.

Frederick Wentworth, on the other hand, looking into the soft, lovely eyes of the woman he adored, knew he had gained everything.]]> Jim D. Derbyshire Writers' GuildThu, 02 May 2013 13:37:19 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96283,96283#msg-96283 Nature of the Beast ch 9-10 (31 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96283,96283#msg-96283
Stunned silence met Mr. Collins’ declaration. Mrs. Bennet trembled like a teapot ready to burst. Lizzy stared at her friend, feeling the bottom drop out of her stomach. Charlotte blushed and looked away, leaving no doubt of the truth of Mr. Collin’s statement. Mr. Bingley was the first to rise and give congratulations. At that a rather disheartened murmur of praise rose from the others. Lizzy could not take a moment more. She pushed past the couple, escaping into the garden.

The air was cold, but at least it was not raining. She paced furiously. How could Charlotte marry that man? Hadn’t they both made fun of him equally? And all those times Charlotte had deflected his attention to herself? She had never dreamed that her friend had had ulterior designs on him! It felt like a betrayal of their friendship. Why would she marry a man she had to cast a mute spell on to get any rest? She couldn’t love him; that was impossible. She had never thought Charlotte to be so… mercenary.

“Lizzy, wait!” Charlotte called behind her.

Lizzy snarled to herself and walked faster. She heard Charlotte mutter something, and suddenly she tripped over an invisible block. Furiously she rounded on her former friend. Vines sprang up rampant and tangled Charlotte’s limbs. She stopped, and sighed. “Please, Lizzy, it doesn’t have to be like this,” she said.

“No?” Lizzy asked pointedly. “You went behind my back!”

Charlotte’s chin rose in defiance. “You didn’t want him, so why shouldn’t I have him?” Then she shook her head, and slumped. “Please, I wanted to talk to you first, but there wasn’t time.”

“How could you do this? You don’t even like the man!”

Charlotte looked down. “He’s not too bad, really, if you just let him go on.”

Lizzy stared at her aghast. “But how can you stand it? You realize you’ll be living under the thumb of his patroness?”

Charlotte paled a little, but put on a brave face. “I’m sure she’s not so bad. Mr. Collins does have a tendency to exaggerate.”

“What about love?” Lizzy asked shrewdly. It was her trump card, and she expected it to hit Charlotte deeply. Instead the other girl relaxed further.

“I’m not like you, Lizzy,” she said calmly. “I’m a year older than Jane, do you realize that? And I’m not pretty like her, or smart like you. I’m not going to get another offer like this, or any offer at all. No one here even looks at me like that, and it’s not like I can travel to London for the season. I never wanted to marry for love. I just wanted to marry at all, to have a house and children of my own. Mr. Collins is as good as any for that.”

Lizzy stood gaping at her. “I don’t understand,” she said stupidly. She always thought Charlotte wanted the same things she did in life. How could she have been so wrong about the girl she’d known all her life?

“No, I didn’t expect you to,” Charlotte said sadly. “Lizzy, I’d like you to be my maid of honor, but I understand if you can’t.”

“I… I’m sorry…” Lizzy shook her head slowly, unable to collect her thoughts. The vines holding Charlotte loosened and dropped away. The girls stood in the garden for a long moment. Charlotte studied Lizzy, while Lizzy looked anywhere but at her. Finally Charlotte parted, leaving Lizzy in the garden alone. It would be the last time she would see Charlotte Lucas, for the next time they met, Charlotte would have exchanged her surname for another.
***

The cold invigorated Darcy. He would never admit it, but the crisp weather made him feel young and excited again. He remembered epic snowball fights at Pemberley, coming in afterwards with nose and ears half frozen, and being eager to get out there again. He remembered building snow forts with his cousin, of making sure his tiny sister was tightly bundled tightly against the chill, and setting her up on a snow throne. Even realizing that Wickham shared many of those memories did not dampen them.

It wasn’t snowing yet in Hertfordshire, but there was a bite of cold in the air that made him think of the snow. A dozen pleasant memories rose up in him at the sight of his breath frosting the air. Things he had long forgotten, or set aside in the responsibilities of adulthood, came back to him in crystal focus.

And it was all that damned wolf’s fault. The cold made the wolf feel… frisky, and it was hard to keep a grin off his face because of it. Every time he went outside he wanted to go bounding over the land, for the sheer joy of it. He found that the cold did not affect him as much as it had. It was like he had the benefit of his thick fur coat even when he was human.

It was disconcerting to have his wolf abduct his memories and emotions like this, but it was not unpleasant. In truth, for the first time since that summer, he was almost content with his transformation. Only one thing could make him happier, and that was to be able to face Georgiana and apologize to her for all the hurt he had caused her.

He felt scared and guilty every time he thought of her, and knew he wasn’t ready to face her yet. He had run away, he acknowledged. Instead of staying and face the grey look on her face, he had fled as far as he could. He used the guise of leaving for her own safety, but it was a lie. He wrote a letter to her for the first time in months, and waited for its reply with his heart in his throat.

He found himself pacing the halls of Netherfield restlessly. The house often seemed too close and hot for him, and he sought refuge outside. He could not ride, but he walked the property with great vigor. He found his gaze drifting toward Longbourn often, and chastised himself for it. His wolf missed Elizabeth. He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss her as well, at least a little. She was the only person he had met since coming here that could read intelligently, and then discuss the book afterwards. How strangely she had gotten under his skin! He rather thought his time in Hertfordshire was coming to a close.

He had instructed Charles in the running of the estate. Whether Charles chose to keep Netherfield or look into other properties was up to him now. Darcy had been away too long from Pemberley, and his sister. If she was willing, it was time for them to meet again. They could repair the rift between them, and start over. That was something he would forever be grateful to Elizabeth for.

He was utterly convinced that it was her which caused his wolf to so change. Maybe it would have happened eventually on its own, but there was no doubt she had greatly hastened the process, even unknowingly. Indeed, during the time she had spent at Netherfield, he had learned as much about his wolf as about her. The more time he spent in his lupine form, the easier it became to communicate with his wolf, and to arrange a peace between them.

The wolf was rather discontent now, as he was no longer let out to play so often. Secretly, Darcy missed the time he had spent as a wolf. There was something freeing about it, something that appealed to him. How nice it was to shrug off responsibilities for a while, to simply exist. There was more to it than that.

Darcy couldn’t bring it up to Charles, but he was certain that the trick to being able to control his wolf was not to shunt it aside, but to acknowledge it as part of him. It was a strength. It was a weakness. It would be with him for the rest of his life, and if his wolf continued to be so well behaved, there was no reason why his life shouldn’t go on for a very long time. Since being infected at Ramsgate, he had been certain his life would end with a silver bullet, sooner rather than later. He was not so sure of that anymore.

His wolf had a joy of life that was infectious, but more than that, his enthusiasm reawakened Darcy’s own lust to live. He had forgotten what a simple pleasure walking was, or eating, or just sitting warm and full while a storm raged outside. In a way, the wolf had turned him into an infant again, and he was rediscovering things he had long taken for granted. After all, his wolf was not yet a year old; in human terms, he would still be learning to crawl. Perhaps it was forgivable that everything new was exciting for his wolf.

Secretly, every third day or so, he locked himself in his room after dinner and spent an hour or two as a wolf. He did not allow himself to go out or be seen, but he practiced moving and using his senses. His wolf was more than eager to share his knowledge. Darcy fumbled, but eventually began realizing that he could equally share information with his wolf. As their connection deepened, the change became easier and swifter. It no longer hurt as such, and the headaches and hypersensitive senses from shifting back was practically non-existent. He had never dreamed he would have such a powerful body at his command.

He realized he could channel his wolf, perhaps change just the slightest bit, to greatly increase his strength and speed. The equipment in the exercise room wore out at such a rate that Darcy had to stop using it, for fear Charles would notice. And he was still growing, he realized. Every day he felt stronger, more alive. His wolf was becoming part of him, and he a part of it. Perhaps part of that was the waxing moon, and that the wolf grew stronger as the moon approached its zenith.

One night, Darcy and Charles sat in Charles’ study after the ladies had retired. They sat in comfortable chairs in front of the fire, nursing glasses of brandy. Charles had already drained his cup once, and was sipping from his second slowly. Darcy’s first was still nearly full. He found his tolerance of liquor had declined sharply. His wolf did not like any substance that altered his perception, and in any case it did not taste the same to him. The wolf did not care for the taste, but Darcy found that a small sip was enough to experience the full flavor.

He held his cup on his knee, more for show than because he would actually drink it. Charles sprawled boneless in his chair, utterly relaxed. “I think I love Miss Bennet, Fitzwilliam,” he said suddenly. Darcy gave him a sharp look.

“I want to ask her to marry me.”

Darcy put his cup aside, finding his desire for it had waned. “Do you think you’re being hasty?” he began cautiously. This would not be a pleasant conversation, and he was not looking forward to it.

Charles rolled his head toward him without lifting it. He seemed to give the question due consideration, and then answered, “No, I do not think so.”

“You have scarcely met her, Charles,” he pointed out. “It has not yet been six weeks since we were here.”
“I know, but I feel I have known her all my life. She is prefect for me.”

“With all due respect, she is not.”

Charles raised his head, becoming more alert. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked carefully. “Do you know something of her I do not? Has she some indiscretion in her past? Is she promised to another?”

“She is not, to my knowledge,” Darcy allowed.

“Then I do not see how she is not perfect in every way.”

“Charles, I ask you to think with your mind, not your heart. Have I ever led you wrong in this matter?”

“Not as yet,” was the dubious reply.

“Then listen to me. Miss Bennet is a very pleasant creature, but she has no connections to speak of. One uncle in trade, another a lawyer? She cannot advance your status in society. You can only bring her up, but from your position, you need someone with the skills to navigate through social commitments. She cannot know such, living in this tiny county,” he began as gently as possible.

Charles sat up, his brows starting to furrow. Darcy held up a forestalling hand.

“I know you will say that you do not desire such, but think of your sister. As much as I may not approve of her methods, she is trying to improve her situation. Miss Bennet is polite and kind, but cannot you see how she would be shredded by many ladies of our acquaintance in London? Would you expose her to such? She has no dowry to speak of, nor has her family any money beyond a bare sufferance.

“And to speak of her family. Surely you see how coarse and vulgar her mother is, to openly vilify her one daughter, and endlessly praise another whenever a suitor were present? Her younger sisters would be ruined within five minutes of entering a party in London. Would you have their mud tracked over your name? Their father is shameful in his neglect of both his estate and his family, making no move to check either his wife or his daughters. There is more, I fear.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, his mouth slightly agape.

“Charles, I regret to inform you that she does not love you. I have observed her greatly when she is with you, and she does not show any particular inclination your way. I fear if she has made you feel different, is it only because she seeks your name and your fortune. I know you wish it was different, but that is what I have seen.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

“Have you finished?” Charles asked at last.

“I have,” Darcy replied, and braced himself for Charles’ outburst. He would be upset at first, and then doubtful, and finally realize that he spoke only the truth. It had been so in the past, and would be again, until Charles found a worthy mate.

“Then with all due respect you’re wrong,” he said calmly.

Darcy blinked in surprise. Charles went on.

“Were I not sure you would trounce me in an instant, I would call you out this very moment. I trust you in a great many things, my friend. You have saved me from fortune hunters in the past, but in this instance you are so very wrong. Not in all things. It is true she has no dowry, and her family may be not what we’re used to, but you cannot choose our families.

“Now I say to you: I have no need of dowry money. I know you might have hoped for better for me, but I have not desired to advance so very far in society. If I have a house to call my own, a wife to love and children at my knee, I shall be very content indeed. As for Jane being unable to survive society, I grant that she is not experienced, but she is smart and well-mannered. She would learn quickly.

“Moreover, the thing you are most wrong about is that she does love me. She has not said such, but I can tell, when I am near her. She does not openly express herself as you would like, but I am certain it is so. I will not be deterred from this, and I ask you to be my friend despite it. For your sake I may wait a bit, but I am set in my course.”

Darcy sat back, utterly astonished. “You called her Jane,” he said through numb lips. He was used to Charles being overly emotional, but this rational creature that faced him now was very different. Was it possible that Charles was truly in love this time, not just infatuated? Was that love great enough to overcome Miss Bennet’s many disadvantages?

“Did I?” Charles shrugged. “We have not made an understanding yet, but I do not think it will be very long. Besides, I am surprised you would talk to me as such. What of Miss Elizabeth?”

Darcy was getting more shocked and confused by the moment. “What of her?” he demanded, with more heat than he intended. His wolf roused at the mention of her, and eyed the other man as if wondering whether it was necessary to come to her defense.

Charles smiled knowingly, but continued in his same logical tone of voice. “I know you think me a besotted fool when I am with my lovely Jane, but I have noticed that Miss Elizabeth is the only one of the family that you have spent any time speaking with. One might almost suppose that you have a preference for her.”

Darcy sputtered. “It is not so,” he said gruffly, thoroughly discomforted by now. “The wolf—it wants to be with her. Near her!”

“Is that so,” Charles started to grin, then stopped himself. “I shall not interfere with your indiscretion, if you do not with mine,” he said instead.

Darcy gaped openly at him. Who was this man that his young friend had grown into? While he had been struggling with his wolf, Charles had matured without noticing, enough to stand up to him. He could make no intelligent reply, and finally left the study. He retreated to his room, and paced the carpet wearily. What had happened this night? His perceptions were turned upside down. Was it true that Miss Bennet did actually love Charles? Would they be a good match? And what of Miss Elizabeth? He admitted that she was the only sensible one of the family—Miss Bennet was nice, but too meek for his interests—but that did not mean he preferred her!

Oh God, had he been leading her on unknowingly? If Charles had noticed, then who else might have? Was his name bandied about with Elizabeth’s, as if their match already made? It was intolerable! And it didn’t help that his wolf was openly sniggering at him. He stopped and queried the beast. The overwhelming impression that came to him was of puppies. The wolf showed Darcy the image of Charles, Miss Bennet, and several small children romping in the grass. Darcy was unsure if his wolf meant Charles and Miss Bennet would have puppies—children!—or if they were like puppies, both with their perpetually sunny dispositions. Perhaps both. In his current state, he did not dare ask what his wolf thought of Elizabeth.

He resumed pacing. He felt utterly restless. The moon was barely past half, but he felt as though it was already full. He wanted to go for a run. Then again, why shouldn’t he? Everyone was asleep already, and he would stay away from Longbourn, he promised himself. So decided, he strode out of Netherfield. He chose a place just inside the trees, then disrobed and hid his clothes in an area that would hopefully stay dry.

The change took him quickly. His limbs flooded with power. His longed to throw back his head and howl his triumph to the sky, but restrained himself, barely. It occurred to him that he had never heard his howl before. He had been too insensible at first, and then when he began to gain control, it was too dangerous to howl. If Charles heard, he certainly would realize he was out here. Charles might not realize how much the wolf had grown, how he was both more dangerous—intelligence was a deadly weapon, and knowledge was power—and less. His wolf was no longer driven to mindlessly hunger for flesh.

So he stayed silent, but stretched his long legs in a blinding run. The wind was sharp and keen in his fur. He sprinted faster than a horse could run, and did not tire for many long minutes. He ran, not caring the direction, so long as it was not toward Longbourn. He found himself near Meryton, when he suddenly crossed a stink that made his wolf balk. He stopped and tested the air. Yes, there it was, a half-recognized scent that made his hackles bristle.

Wickham was in town. More, Wickham had been running through the woods as a wolf, spreading his scent over many trails. A thick bubbling growl rose in his throat, as he realized he could also scent Elizabeth. She had not been with Wickham, but it was clear these were her woods, her trails, and Wickham was following them. He spent the next several hours trailing Wickham’s foul stench, covering it with his own. He had beaten the other wolf when he had been but a clumsy fledgling. He was so much greater now. It would be his pleasure to rip out the monster’s throat.

When tales of werewolves were told late at night, around a campfire, it was creatures like Wickham they spoke about, the bloodthirsty, vicious ones. The stories of werewolves who found a truce with their wolves, like Darcy, were never spoken. He might not have felt such despair if he had realized he was not destined to become like Wickham. He obliterated Wickham’s trails until the lightening sky warned him of oncoming dawn. He trotted back to Netherfield, still seething inside.

He would have to do something about Wickham, but he didn’t know how to go about it in a way that wouldn’t expose himself and Georgiana. Maybe Charles could help him. He had guided the younger man for so long, it was only right to see him stepping out of his shadow at last, and coming into his own. Yes, Charles would be a good consultant in this matter.
***

Lizzy was having bad dreams. She might have called them nightmares, but they were too formless for that. She hesitated to give them more power than they ought by naming them, but she found it difficult to sleep at night. The dreams were always the same. She was looking for something, maybe someone. And something else chased her. She could feel its hot breath on the back of her neck. She felt its malice and hunger directed at her, and she was powerless to escape it. Several times she woke from a deep sleep crying out, and feared to sleep again the rest of the night.

She did not have them all the time, but they were frequent enough that she dreaded the night time. She did not look out her window anymore. She did not long to go out into the garden at night. She scarcely dared to venture out of sight of the house during the day. No one noticed the changes in her, which was perhaps the most distressing of all. She had never felt so superfluous in her own family.

She was still in disgrace over refusing Mr. Collins, even more so now because Charlotte would be mistress of Longbourn when Mr. Bennet passed away. Her younger sisters were too caught up in their own pursuits to take notice of her, and her elder sister was happily distracted with her own courtship. Lizzy didn’t know what was taking Mr. Bingley so long to declare himself. She was about ready to lock the two of them in a broom closet if he did not make up his mind soon.

And of course Charlotte was lost to her as a confidant. So that meant Lizzy was suffering alone, with no one to turn to. She only felt safe when she was in a large crowd of people. Even then, the noise sometimes shocked her, as she suffered fatigue from lack of sleep. She attended various card parties and dinners around Hertfordshire. She was too weary to deal with her younger sisters’ boisterous antics and as a result their behavior was worse than usual.

The Netherfield party was in evidence at many of the same engagements. She hardly had to encourage Jane to greet them, because Mr. Bingley was always very prompt to collect her. Their names were well connected, not in the least by Mrs. Bennet. Lizzy was glad to see that Mr. Darcy appeared to be in better health than his first weeks in Hertfordshire, but he remained just as aloof and cold during gatherings. They did not dance again, and Lizzy gave up trying to have a decent conversation with him, as he always seemed to flee the second she looked in his direction. At least his wolf was in fine spirits, even if annoyed that Mr. Darcy was always removing himself from Lizzy’s presence.

She became curious about the elusive creature that hid inside Mr. Darcy. Thinking about the werewolf was one of the few things that managed to drive the lurking dread out of her mind. She had never met someone who could become an animal before. It had been the fondest wish of her childhood to run as a deer, jump like a rabbit, burrow like a mouse, fly like a pigeon, and any number of things. She had been so sorely disappointed when she learned that shapeshifting was impossible. She had fantasized many hours that she could join her animal friends. They had indulged her, watching over her much as much as they would their own offspring.

She had gradually left her wish behind, but now that he had access to someone who actually became a wolf—didn’t just become a wolf in body but had the mind and spirit of a wolf as well—her curiosity ran rampant. That wasn’t the sort of conversation one could bring up in a dance hall though, even if Mr. Darcy was speaking with her. She considered writing him a letter, but could find no way an unmarried man and unmarried woman might exchange letters without causing a scandal. She was continually thwarted in her goal to know more about the werewolf, but she did not let that diminish her enthusiasm. All she knew was that when Mr. Darcy was near, or when she was thinking about his wolf, then the nameless fear faded, and gave her a measure of peace.

As much as Mr. Darcy avoided her, so another gentleman was only too happy to seek her out. Mr. Wickham was very careful to avoid Mr. Darcy, so much so that they never appeared in the same location. They might almost have been the same person, for one could not be present but for the other to be absent. However, in all other matters, they could not be more different from each other.

Mr. Darcy was prone to dark brooding, silent and proud even in the middle of a crowd. On the other hand, Mr. Wickham was bright and golden, his manners as pleasing in a group of people as they were when he singled out one person to converse with. He was not like Mr. Bingley, who was continually pleased by everything he met, but rather Mr. Wickham had an advanced discernment of people, in which he was adept at greeting the people who pleased him, while not encouraging the ones who did not.

He often sought Lizzy for conversation and dance. She found his company to be pleasant and flattering, but her mind was easily overwrought by his strong presence. She had never been a nervous creature before, but she found herself jumping at small noises, and frightened to be alone. She very greatly worried that she was becoming much like her mother, and strove to repress her sudden inclinations.

That Mr. Wickham knew Mr. Darcy was a werewolf, Lizzy did not doubt. It was never explicitly said, but when they were together, Mr. Wickham often intimated that Mr. Darcy was darker than even his behavior indicated. She made no move to either vilify or redeem Mr. Darcy. On the one hand, she could believe that the man was capable of at least some of the deeds of which Mr. Wickham accused. On the other hand, Mr. Wickham did not know Mr. Darcy’s wolf in the slightest, and she would not hold the wolf responsible for the man’s actions. She could quite clearly feel that the two were separate. The wolf was open to her magic. The man was utterly closed to it.

She got the impression that Mr. Wickham often left her presence frustrated with her. His manners would not allow him to show it as such, but sometimes there was a hint of brittleness to his expression as he excused himself. Nor did she allow herself to think Mr. Wickham was courting her. Though he was decent company for a time, he had not the qualities she would wish in a husband. She was not in love with him, nor was he with her. She observed him flirting equally with other ladies at the assemblies, including her own youngest sisters.

Eventually he appeared to gradually attach himself to one Mary King, she of the ten thousand pounds. Lizzy watched it happening, and congratulated herself on not having grown overly fond of Mr. Wickham. Instead, more and more, she came to wish to meet Mr. Darcy’s wolf. She wished to actually see him, in the fur instead of locked behind flesh that wanted nothing to do with her. If Mr. Darcy was in control when he stood as a man, then reason led to the wolf controlling his time on four legs.

However, there was only one time at which she could actually guarantee seeing his true wolf form: the three nights of the full moon. She realized she knew next to nothing of the wolf’s cycles, but she began to hope that the full moon might provide her the opportunity she so longed for. Mr. Darcy could avoid her all he wished, but she was certain his wolf would not do the same. Once the wolf was ascendant, he would be little different from the friends she already had in the Hertfordshire woods.

To that end, she soon concocted a plan to come upon Mr. Darcy at the full moon. Had she been more rested and in a better frame of mind, she would have realized the plan for the folly it was. She would be taking great risks, both with her reputation and with the discovery of the werewolf, but her enthusiasm pushed past such concerns with ease. She even went so far as to ask Mr. Bennet for clear weather on the nights of the full moon.
***

Mr. Bennet watched his favorite daughter’s retreating back as she left his study. He remembered clearly the first time she had asked him for clear weather at night. She had been just four years old, and already headstrong enough to drive her mother crazy. His little Lizzy had come into her magic early. The rest of the girls had fairly exploded into their magic, Jane’s tantrums causing the bath water to run out the tub, Mary constantly tossing the house, Kitty’s blankets wrapping mummy-like about her, and of course Lydia making burns every time she cried.

But Lizzy had been a lot quieter. He supposed it was the ivy that was the first sign. Vines crawled up the side of the house, but around Lizzy’s window they became especially thick, so that they had to be pruned back often. They hadn’t realized it at the time, but their daughter used to throw the worst fits when the gardener was trimming the vines.

Next came the cats. They were always found in her crib. Mrs. Bennet fretted so much that they would smother Lizzy that the cats were banished, but most nights they still found a way in. Lizzy’s first steps had been taken by clinging to the back of an old sheepdog. She had scarcely begun to crawl before she was tottering on two legs, clutching tenaciously to the dog’s thick fur. Once she discovered the door to the garden, they could not keep Lizzy inside for any length of time.

One day the family held a picnic. Jane played with small air sprites Mr. Bennet called up. Mary was but a year old, not yet throwing things, and Kitty was not yet conceived. Mr. Bennet looked up from his oldest daughter to look at Lizzy. She sat in the grass with her back to all of them, talking to what he thought were imaginary friends. Then he saw motion in the grass next to her. Rather than alarm Mrs. Bennet, he stood quietly and moved to Lizzy.



Chapter Ten

A rabbit sat before her, with a family of a dozen mice surrounding it. Lizzy spoke, and it was very clear that the animals were following her lead. They all had names, and she giggled as she made a tunnel with her hands and watched the mice climb through them. They took turns as Lizzy said they must, a concept that the young girls were coming to learn about as the family grew.

“What are you doing, Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet asked.

“Playing,” she said placidly, holding up one of the mice. “See? They like it. And the cats don’t hurt them when I tell them not to.”

“You tell the cats not to hurt the mice?” That explained why Mrs. Hill had been complaining lately.

Lizzy nodded seriously. “They can eat other mice, but these are my friends.”

“And the bunny?”

“He’s my friend too. He says the grass is sweeter when we have a picnic, and he likes it.”

“You speak to animals often?”

Lizzy nodded, unconcerned. Light appeared in Mr. Bennet’s head, and he asked, “And you speak with the plants too?”

She made a face. “Not as much. They just like growing and dirt and water. They’re not as fun.”

“Indeed not,” Mr. Bennet agreed solemnly, but grinned with delight. He had been worried by Lizzy’s apparent solitude and lack of magic compared to Jane, but now it was obvious her gift had bloomed without them noticing.

It had been almost a year later that Lizzy came to him in his study and asked, “Can you make it not rain tonight?”

They had been having a gentle spring shower for the last two days, and he was surprised by the request. “Why is that, Lizzy?” he asked, already knowing he would do it for her.

“Because Rosy is going to have babies, and I want to see them,” was the indomitable answer.

“And who is Rosy?” he asked in bemusement. Lizzy had so many animal friends it was quite impossible to keep track of all of them.

“She’s a fox, and she’s having babies tonight. She told me so, and said I could come. But if it’s raining the babies will get wet, and they’ll be sick.” It was a mark that she did not even think of her own health, though it was already established Jane would become deathly ill if sent into the rain.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mr. Bennet promised, and his small daughter left.

Now, he thought ruefully, his daughter was not so small anymore. Where had the time gone? When had she grown into the beautiful young woman before him? Where was the little girl that had played with mice and rabbits in the garden? Wistfully, he thought it wouldn’t be long before she was no longer asking him to clear the weather in order to see the animals in the forest, but to see a beau. He just hoped the time wasn’t here now.

He sighed heavily, and then shook his head. He rifled the maps on his desk, pulling out a large one of Hertfordshire, and then one of the surrounding counties as well. He rested his hands on the maps, even as he unfocused his eyes and spread his senses into the wind. Air was everywhere, saw everything. Water moved in steady patterns, both under the earth and above it, a constant flow.

He studied the interaction between earth, water and air, learning much from how they swirled one another. It would not rain over the next few days, that much he was sure. Lizzy had given him four days to arrange the weather, which was better than when she used to demand it in hours as a child. The older she got, the more time she had learned to give him. It also became less frequent that she would ask him. Eventually, maybe soon, she wouldn’t be his Lizzy, but someone else’s wife. There would be no more asking then, so he was pleased she had thought to ask him at least one time more.

Guaranteeing no rain was easy, but what about a wind to shift the clouds? And another to warm the air a bit, so his Lizzy wouldn’t get chilled. She would fuss and scold if he altered the weather too much, always fearing for his strength or the weather as a whole, but he would do as much as she allowed him. He could reach halfway through the Continent to pull weather patterns to him, though he would be upsetting many other weather witches and storm mages if he was reckless. Some were quite strong enough to pull back the weather, and he had no desire to start a conflict that could not end happily.

Instead he tried to stay as close and local as possible, to make sure if he directed certain patterns here and there, no area would get too much rain, cold, heat, or dry because of it. There were so many factors that played in, anything from the lay of the land to the people who lived upon it. It was as if a great game of chess, or perhaps three games at once, played on top of each other with pieces jumping from board to board in a complex dance. He loved that subtlety, the delicate work of it. He could lose himself in the weather, watching it for hours.

In this case, though, he had a mission. His Lizzy would have a clear full moon!
***

There were clouds on the morning of the first full moon, but evening time they were breaking up and blowing away. Animals shifted restlessly, and plants voiced vague complaints at the weather altered. Lizzy hoped she hadn’t pushed her father too far this time. He loved the weather, but he was not a young man anymore. Was she being reckless to put her plan into action? Doubtless she was, but she was so determined to meet the wolf at last! She did not consider that she might be putting herself in danger, or that Mr. Darcy would be angry. She was too eager to obtain her goal, perhaps even obsessed with it.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, and the sky turned a deep red, Lizzy rose and announced that she wished to make peace with Charlotte. Mrs. Bennet sniffed and did not comment. No one wished to come with her, as late as it was. Jane spared a moment to worry about her traveling alone.

Lizzy’s own fears rose, and she hid her trembling hands. “I’ll have Reba,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel. “And if all goes well, Charlotte will doubtless let me stay the night with her. She probably would, even if we argue again.” She crossed her fingers, praying no one would catch her lie.

“Be safe, Lizzy,” Jane wished, and returned to embroidering her handkerchief. A teasing comment about putting the wrong name on the handkerchief rose to Lizzy’s lips, as surely Jane would not be a Bennet much longer, though she might still keep the B, but she refrained from making it. Instead she went to the stables and put a saddle and bridle on Reba. The black mare was much younger than Bart, not as steady, but much faster.

This night she wanted the mare’s speed, to get her out of the darkness as quickly as possible. It was the only way she had convinced herself to go out, alone, at night, and even now her mouth was dry with fear. She took a bundle she had hidden days earlier and changed quickly into her oldest dress. She redid her hair and splashed a little dirt on her face, seeking to disguise herself. She would ride to Netherfield with an urgent letter to Mr. Bingley. If she could pass as a servant long enough to reach him, then she would beg to see Mr. Darcy’s transformation. Mr. Bingley absolutely knew; there could be no harm in applying to him.

Such thoughts bolstered her as she mounted Reba and rode off. She took the road to Lucas Lodge if any were listening to her, but as soon as she was out of sight she took a short cut through the woods and was quickly on the path to Netherfield. The sun was sinking as she urged Reba to speed. She wished to meet with Mr. Darcy before he changed, but not give him enough time to refuse her.

Reba flew for all her worth, snorting at the oncoming darkness. Lizzy reached Netherfield and approached the servant’s door confidently. She hugged a worn wrap to her tightly to disguise her form, and kept an oversized bonnet low over her face. The letter she had written, supposedly from her father, was clutched tightly in her fist. She dared not let go of it, for she had not been able to think of a single thing to put down besides an offer to play chess in his study.

The door opened. Lizzy boldly stepped into the house without an invitation, her fear of being exposed outside pushing her as much as her goal. The maid who’d opened the door squeaked in surprise. Lizzy was grateful it was not Holly or one of the other maids she’d gotten to know in her stay at Netherfield.

“Letter for Mr. Bingley!” she said gruffly, walking fast across the kitchen into the house proper. “Urgent!” she added as she heard voices call after her. She had an idea about the house’s layout from her stay, but only the vaguest notion where Mr. Bingley might be at this time of night. She started to turn to the parlor, but stopped. The last thing she wanted to do was run into Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst. Maybe his study? She knew Mr. Bingley was not a great reader as Mr. Darcy was, but at least it was a place to start. She had a notion that it was close to the library, and directed her steps accordingly. Before she’d reached the stairs, the butler and two manservants caught up to her.

They blocked her path securely. She tried her letter excuse again, but the men would not let her through. They began herding her backwards, no matter how she tried to dodge around them. They took her under the arms to lift her out, and she began struggling in earnest. The four of them were making quite a fuss. Other servants came running to help, and Lizzy was badly outnumbered.

She thought she was quite lost, when a door opened on the first floor and Mr. Bingley came out. “What the hell is happening?” he demanded, looking deeply troubled.

“Mr. Bingley!” she shouted in her natural voice. He recognized her at once.

“Miss Elizabeth? What’s going on?” he paled. “Oh my God, has something happened to Jane—Miss Bennet?”

Aha! Lizzy thought, he must be close to an offer if he calls her that! Mr. Bingley lunged at the servants holding her, pulling them off.

“Let her go!” he cried. “I know her, unhand her!”

She was released, and stood before Mr. Bingley, panting and disheveled. He grabbed her arms in panic. “Your sister, your family, are they alright?” he asked in panic.

“They’re fine,” she assured him automatically. Now that she with Mr. Bingley, all thoughts discarded her. That so many people stood around, clearly disapproving and obviously listening in, words quite deserted her. What could she say that would not reveal her purpose to all?

Mr. Bingley was clearly confused. “Then why…?” he began, and blinked as he took in her unorthodox appearance.

“I wanted to—to,” she blurted out, and froze. “To see—I thought to discuss a matter with yourself and Mr. Darcy.”
Comprehension and horror dawned on Mr. Bingley’s face at Mr. Darcy’s name. He looked around, noticed the crowd, and snapped, “That is enough. Be away with you!”

The servants began dispersing reluctantly. Mr. Bingley gripped her arm tightly, and he looked quite furious. “I understand your concerns, Miss Elizabeth, but I assure you we have the situation well under control. I must ask you to leave now, I’m sure you understand why.”

He began to pull her towards the front doors. Realizing he was going to put her out in the darkness again, she clawed at his hand. “No!” she shouted, forgetting her purpose here. She just knew if she left now, something terrible would happen to her. The sleepless nights and constant fear made her wild. She tore away from Mr. Bingley and sank against the wall, panting and looking everywhere from the sudden threat she felt.

“My God, you really are afraid of something out there, aren’t you?” Mr. Bingley asked. He crouched down in front of her but did not touch her. “You understand that he is locked away inside, that he cannot harm anyone?”

She couldn’t explain that it wasn’t Mr. Darcy she was afraid of. Her heart hammered in her throat, and she felt tears threaten her eyes. She usually wasn’t this mindlessly afraid! “P-please, m-may I see him?” she stammered, unable to look at Mr. Bingley. He sighed, muttered to himself, then stood and offered her a hand. “I suppose you have a right to know, for keeping our secret, but Darcy won’t like it. A quick glance is all I can give you, do you understand?”

She nodded, and let him pull her to her feet. They went back to the room he had come out of. He stopped her. “Let me go first. What you see might not be pleasant, do you understand?”

Before she could reply, the door was suddenly jerked open. Mr. Darcy stood there, half undressed in just breeches and shirt open almost to his waist, barefoot.

“Who are you talking to—” he began, and his eyes fell on Lizzy. An incandescent rage suddenly lit his features.

“WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE?” he roared, and turned viciously on Mr. Bingley. He grabbed the smaller man and yanked him inside the room. Lizzy followed automatically. Mr. Darcy slammed Mr. Bingley into the wall, eliciting a grunt of pain from Mr. Bingley.

“HOW DARE YOU BRING HER INTO THIS!” Mr. Darcy shouted, slamming Mr. Bingley again. Mr. Bingley looked to be in serious danger of being murdered by his friend.

“Stop it!” she shouted, instinctively throwing magic at Mr. Darcy. He shrugged it off. Not just the man, but the wolf shed her magic like water off a duck’s back. But it was enough to make him pause. And turn toward her.

She took a step back and he was instantly in front of her, moving so fast he was just there, seemed to have hardly moved at all. He took her shoulders in his hands and pushed her against the wall as well. He was gentler than he had been with Mr. Bingley, but it still made her gasp.

“Damn you for coming,” he whispered, glaring at her. He trapped her, the heat of his body washing over her. She was acutely aware of his state of undress, of the quivering tension in every line of muscle. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as he stared at her. His eyes were wild and uncontrolled. He was dangerous. She had never realized that before. She had been too caught up in the wonder of the wolf, and failed to realize that he was also a man, and one who was very angry with her.

She didn’t know what might have happened, but suddenly he cried out and arched back from her. He fell, and Mr. Bingley stood behind him, bleeding from the nose and looking apologetic. “Flee,” he told her in a choked voice, holding a dull silver butter knife. She grew dizzy as she realized the edge of the knife was red. Then with a growl Mr. Darcy was upon him. The werewolf moved impossibly fast. Mr. Bingley never had a chance to defend himself. He didn’t even try, just went down under the furious werewolf.

“Please, Fitzwilliam!” Mr. Bingley cried, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his head back. The gesture of surrender made Mr. Darcy hesitate. He stood again. The back of his shirt was ripped and seeping blood faintly. He staggered to a huge iron cage that dominated half the room and dived into it. He pulled the door shut behind him with a hideous clang, and a surge of pain from the wolf that made Lizzy cry out.

Mr. Bingley rolled to his feet and lunged for the cage. He clicked a lock on the cage and backed away from it. He came to stand beside Lizzy. Both of them were breathing hard, staring at Mr. Darcy. The werewolf crouched in the middle of the cage, back to them and arms wrapped around himself. He rocked back and forth, growling and whimpering in agony. Lizzy could feel it with her magic. The wolf could shrug off her commands with no effort when he chose, but she could still feel him.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Bingley asked.

She nodded, and then answered hoarsely, “He didn’t hurt me.”

“No, and you’re lucky,” he wiped at the blood on his nose, and then winced as his muscles pulled. “I think you should leave now.”

“Please, I’d like to see him change,” she felt selfish saying it, knowing how much Mr. Darcy was suffering.

“Then for God’s sake at least turn away!” Mr. Bingley snapped. “He’s fighting it because you’re here. Nothing goes with him when he changes, do you understand that?”

Lizzy flushed brilliantly as she realized Mr. Darcy would lose what was left of his clothes as he shifted. She turned her back immediately. She would have left the room, but just then he gave a groan, and she heard him collapse to the floor. Cloth ripped. His growls deepened and became resonate. Then silence. She heard a soft snort. Mr. Bingley said quietly, “You may face him now.”

She turned slowly, wondering what creature would face her inside the cage. She was expecting something huge and fearful, perhaps some nightmare from the netherworld. She was suddenly apprehensive about meeting the wolf, knowing that he was far stronger than she had ever guessed. She wasn’t expecting what she saw. She stared dumbly at him. He stared back, silently watching her.

“Oh, Fitz,” she whispered, and her legs gave out. She fell. With a roar Mr. Darcy lunged at the bars, as if they weren’t there, only to be brought short with a deafening crash. Then there was only blackness.
***

Lizzy woke to the reek of vinegar in her nose and the sound of thunder in her ears. She twitched violently away from the stench, swatting at the air in front of her face and hitting someone’s hand. “Thank God you’re alright!” Mr. Bingley swore fervently.

She coughed, her eyes watering. “Get that away from me,” she choked, “And hush!”

The thunder lowered in volume, but did not go away. She tried to sit up, but became dizzy and laid back. She was on the floor in the same room as before, her feet propped up on cushions while Mr. Bingley hovered over her with a stopper of vinegar. He set the sharp smelling liquid aside and knelt by her side.

“Don’t try to move,” he instructed. “You hit your head pretty hard. Good thing there’s carpet in here, though it’ll never be the same again.”

She didn’t reply. She blinked at him, and then at the ceiling. She tried to look everywhere but in one direction. There was a soft whine, and finally she had no choice but to turn her head toward it. She had hoped she had just imagined it, but no. There stood Fitz, her dog friend, in the cage. Mr. Darcy’s wolf. The werewolf. He just looked at her. No tail wagging, no happy grin, no growls or whines. It was as though he recognized the solemnity of the moment.

She felt a tremendous sadness overtake her. It was as though a friend had died. In a way he had, because she’d learned that the dog that had been her friend was neither. She could not look over their interactions without regret. She had allowed a werewolf in her house. All the times he was with her when Jane was ill at Netherfield. It had been Mr. Darcy all along. What could he have been thinking, to allow himself such liberties? The man knew how dangerous his wolf form was. How could he not have been more careful to keep contained?

Even as she thought that, she knew the answer, and sighed. She reached a hand toward Mr. Darcy. He stretched a paw through the bars, but could not reach her. She felt his pain at being locked away. It wasn’t just a wild animal’s anxiety at being caged, but actual, physical ache at not being free. The werewolf literally could not exist as a caged animal. She supposed it could have been worse. He could have been a monster in truth, vicious and out of control. She had trusted Fitz when she thought he was just a dog. She was just hurt that she had been so thoroughly deceived.

She stirred and tried to sit again. Mr. Bingley helped her, and Mr. Darcy growled again, baring huge fangs. “He’s not hurting me,” she told Mr. Darcy, and he subsided reluctantly.

“Are you alright?” Mr. Bingley asked, hovering just out of arms’ reach to appease Mr. Darcy. “You seemed… surprised. You’ve seen him before.”

“I was. I have,” she answered, tearing her eyes from Mr. Darcy to look at Mr. Bingley. A flare of anger took her. “You’ve been lying to me,” she accused.

Mr. Bingley blinked. “I have?”

“Both of you have! If not by words, then by holding back information!” She struggled to her feet, refusing Mr. Bingley’s help. She swayed woozily for a moment, then steadied herself. “You could have told me who he was!”

“Who—who he was? I don’t understand. You knew he was a werewolf. You’ve seen him in wolf form before.”

“I didn’t know it was him!” she shouted. “I thought he was a dog! I thought he belonged to you or Mr. Hurst! The entire time Jane was here, he was with me nearly every second!” She recalled with mortification that she had changed her clothes in front of Fitz. He had looked out the window, and now she knew why. She felt betrayed and sullied.

“He was?” Mr. Bingley turned suddenly and looked at Mr. Darcy. The werewolf looked away, and a good portion of Lizzy’s anger transferred to him. It seems there had been a lot more deceiving in this house than she’d guessed. She marched up to the cage. He leaned against the bars, trying to get nearer.

“How dare you!” she snarled at him. If the cage hadn’t been in the way, she’d have slapped him, wolf or not. Now that she was looking, she saw the unmistakable lines of wolf under his thick coat. He still appeared dog-like, but clearly he was wolf, not dog. She should have known. There had always been something about him that was a little different, a portion that her magic couldn’t touch. She realized now it was the part of him that was human.

“Wait, Miss Elizabeth, what do you mean you didn’t know who he was? You called him Fitz!” Mr. Bingley asked in confusion.

She turned back to him, her face still hot. “I’ve always done that. Stray animals, I call them Fitz until I can think of a name for them. But he seemed to respond to it. What does that have to do with anything?”

“His name is Fitzwilliam Darcy! Oh my God, you really didn’t know? How did you find out? You knew when you came here tonight.”

“I found out…” she paused, then sighed. “At the picnic. I gave him a salve for his burns, from the silver?”
Mr. Bingley nodded impatiently, and she went on. “And when we were in the forest, a deer told me.”

“Do you go into the forest often?” he seemed to have a knack for picking out the insignificant part of her story. Fitz huffed a sigh as though in agreement. She looked down at the wolf and realized she’d slipped back into thinking of him as Fitz. No matter how much she would like the blame Mr. Darcy for what happened, she had to acknowledge that the man was not currently present, and the wolf could not be held to the same standards.

“Could you let him out?” she asked plaintively.

“Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mr. Bingley began.

“Why not?”

“He’s… um, dangerous,” he trailed off as he realized that the utterly calm wolf sitting in the cage did not act in the least dangerous. He frowned at the werewolf. “Damn me, that’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen! He’s never that calm!”

“I can assure you, he means no harm, and he is as much in control as is possible for him.”

“Control? Do you mean Darcy directs the wolf?”

She hesitated. “Not as such. Say rather, Fitz is paying attention to us, because he knows Mr. Darcy will have an interest in it later.” She flushed as she realized she had addressed the werewolf partly by his Christian name. “I’m sorry, I just can’t think of him as Mr. Darcy. It’s because I can feel him with my magic. I know they share the same body, but the wolf isn’t Mr. Darcy. They’re completely separate.”

Mr. Bingley nodded. “It fits him. He is like Darcy in some matters, but not completely. Fitz. And are you sure he will not run amok?”

She nodded. “Yes. Being in there like that, you don’t know how it feels to him. It’s like this great pressure in your chest, and you can’t breathe. It hurts.”

Mr. Bingley eyed her speculatively. “You can communicate with him?”

Fitz let out a yawn that ended in a whine, and she sighed. “I’m sure we both have a lot of questions, but if you could let him out first…?”

“Oh, right,” Mr. Bingley pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cage. Instantly Fitz bounded to the cage door. He shouldered it aside, deliberately bumping Mr. Bingley hard enough to make him stagger. He flashed his fangs silently, then planted himself in front of Lizzy firmly, glaring balefully at the other man. She was about to chastise the wolf when he relaxed, shook his fur, and then padded to her side. He sat down and leaned gently against her hip. She braced herself in the way that had grown familiar, but hesitated to touch him.

He looked up at her, clearly begging for attention. Tentatively she stroked his head, and then dug her fingers into his fur when he leaned harder and groaned. He didn’t feel like Mr. Darcy. He felt like Fitz, the same as he always had. She knew they were the same, but it was hard to join them when they reacted to her so differently.

“Wow,” Mr. Bingley whispered. “That is amazing. You know he has been my patient since becoming a werewolf, and he has never been so… docile before.”

He reached a hand for Fitz. The wolf curled his lips and growled warningly. Mr. Bingley wisely dropped his hand.

“He, er, thinks you might have hurt me before,” Lizzy explained apologetically. “And he associates you with pain.”

Mr. Bingley nodded sadly. “Yes, I suppose that’s not entirely surprising. I’ve tried to help him, but so few things are known about werewolves. In general they are just rabid beasts, killed within the first month or two of being infected. Those that live past that disappear. We assume they are killed and no one reports a body, but no one knows. Darcy isn’t the first werewolf I’ve worked with, you know. The others have all died, or killed themselves. In the beginning, I thought he would go that route too. You didn’t see what he was like in the beginning. He really was a monster.” He rolled back his sleeve to reveal a recent scar on his arm, still fresh and red.

Lizzy winced. Fitz looked up at her, trusting. He had the same eyes as Mr. Darcy, dark blue with flecks of light green. How had she not seen that before? It had to have been willful ignorance.

“When we came to Hertfordshire, he started changing. We had no idea he could shift without the full moon, or in daylight. That he could control it at all, or that the wolf could be reasoned with.” Mr. Bingley squatted on his haunches, head level with Fitz. “I’m sorry for all we put you through, old man,” he said softly. Fitz glanced at him briefly, then away. The wolf relaxed slightly.

“He knows you didn’t mean to hurt him, but it’s going to take time,” she translated.

“You’re amazing,” Mr. Bingley breathed fervently. She thought he was talking to Fitz, and then realized he was looking at her. Fitz growled softly. She flushed and leaned down to hug him. It was just her magic. She couldn’t control it. It was a part of her, like her hair and eyes. She knew she was blessed with an incredible gift, but it seemed strange when people praised her for it. It was almost like praising the water for being wet, or a rock for being hard.

Fitz wagged his tail slowly, and she felt his warm reassurance. Just as she had learned to feel the wolf inside the man, so she now found Mr. Darcy inside Fitz. It was a blank spot, an area she couldn’t reach or feel. It made her shiver, to think that her wolf friend had a whole person hidden inside him. How could she have never suspected before?]]> Autumn D Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 06 May 2013 04:37:50 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96212,96212#msg-96212 From This Day Forward - The Darcys of Pemberley: Chapter 3 (9 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96212,96212#msg-96212
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU - all you lovely people who have been kind enough to read the earlier chapters, and be so supportive about them!

You can’t imagine how reassuring it feels, after 5 years of trying to squeeze in the odd hour to research and write this, to know that other people like it, just a little bit - not just myself :)

If anyone is interested, now there’s a website: www.joanastarnes.co.uk, and you can also find me on facebook at www.facebook.com/joana.a.starnes

Once again many thanks for your support and very kind words! It’s a long time since I was regularly a part of DWG, life has a funny way of taking over and keeping people away from the things and/or places they enjoy, but your kind welcome was very generous, and is warmly appreciated!

And now, without further ado, there’s the next instalment.

RA

Chapter 3

As the carriage carefully rounded the bend towards the entrance to Netherfield, Elizabeth gave a small sigh of contentment, and reached to hold her husband’s hand, as memories flooded, of every kind. The infamous ball of course, and her visit there, on foot, when Jane was taken ill, along with more recent, happier recollections. Strolling with Fitzwilliam in the snow-covered garden shortly before Christmas, towards the end of their engagement. Playing for him, after a small family dinner – playing for the assembled company of course, yet distinctly feeling, as he had drawn a chair to sit beside her, that she had played for him, and him alone. The other ball – the happy ball – that Mr. Bingley had given, to celebrate his own and his best friend’s betrothal, and Miss Bingley’s unconvincingly professed delight as she had hosted it.

The final happy recollection was uncharitable perhaps, yet she felt no contrition. In having to welcome Jane to Netherfield and relinquish the role of mistress in her favour, all of Miss Bingley’s petty machinations in order to prevent this very outcome had found their just desert!

The carriage drew to a halt at the foot of the stairs, and a cheerful Mr. Bingley advanced to greet them.

“You are here at last! Welcome to Netherfield, Darcy – Mrs. Darcy!” he offered with a wide smile, the formality employed in addressing her, unusual in recent months at least, nothing but a means of acknowledging her happiness, and his friend’s. “Come in, come in! You must be chilled to the bone.”

Elizabeth had barely made her way through the vast doors when she saw Jane all but running towards her across the great hall.

“Lizzy!”

In mere moments they embraced, in a clasp quite as tight as the bond of their affection, damp cheeks pressed together as disjointed greetings and endearments were spoken by both at once. When they finally parted, brief glances went to their husbands, only to see them deeply moved by the exchange.

“I say, Darcy, as you are unlikely to abandon Pemberley, it falls on me to buy a house in the vicinity and make haste about it, otherwise your wife and mine shall never forgive us for drawing them apart,” Bingley remarked, and subsequently muttered to himself, so quietly that his friend could barely hear him, “and I could think of a few other reasons alongside.”

As they advanced towards the drawing room, Darcy smiled and privately wondered if the other reasons were merely Mrs. Bennet and her sister Phillips, or whether the short distance to town – and therefore to Miss Bingley – was also an inducement for a hasty removal north.

“Oh, are you in earnest, my love?” the new Mrs. Bingley asked, only to blush profusely at the appellation, best reserved for when they were alone.

Elizabeth giggled and tightened the hold of her arm around her sister’s, as she whispered only for her ears, “I shall not keep endearments away from the drawing room and the dinner table either, so prepare yourself to be shocked.”

“Oh, Lizzy!” came the admonition of old and they both laughed.

“Are you seriously considering a removal north?” Elizabeth pressed on with her sister’s question.

Bingley looked tentatively at his bride.

“It had crossed my mind, I have to own. We have to settle somewhere, and Netherfield is after all only on a lease. I did not know if you would wish it, though.”

“Oh, I would be delighted to live within easy distance of Pemberley – although my mother would not be best pleased. By-the-bye, Lizzy, Mr. Darcy, I hope you do not mind, but Mamma had so insisted we all dine at Longbourn tonight. Will that be convenient?”

“But of course,” Darcy was the first to reply, earning a fleeting look of gratitude from his wife for his prompt and easy compliance.

“Fortunately, we do not have to rush, you have made it here in good time. Come, take a seat and I shall order some refreshment. Unless of course you wish to rest or change?”

The second offer was hastily declined but refreshment gratefully accepted, and after partaking of a light but welcome repast, the gentlemen excused themselves and withdrew to Bingley’s study, in tacit understanding that, adored as they both were by their wives, a short interlude of privacy and sisterly conversation would please the ladies more than anything.

“Let us go to my sitting room,” Jane suggested, as soon as they were left to themselves. “Or do you wish to see the house?”

“I know the house, although I have never known it so happy. Oh, Jane! How I missed you!”

Arms tightly linked, they left the drawing room for the cosy privacy of Jane’s newly appointed sitting room above-stairs, where they settled close together in the window seat, to share in their new-found felicity, as they had for so many years shared everything else.

Jane was verily glowing, Elizabeth saw with great pleasure, and marital bliss appeared to have added to the serene beauty of her countenance the very spark of mirth and unrestrained delight that it was missing. She could only assume that her own happiness was just as readily apparent, yet Elizabeth lost little time in putting it to words.

They had the best part of an hour to themselves, but they would have been able to sit and chat for a great deal longer. Without too much regret, however, they parted to dress at the appointed time, knowing they still had a fortnight together to look forward to, and plenty of opportunity to speak of everything under the sun.

Dinner at Longbourn was the convivial, though rather boisterous affair that was to be expected, and it gave Elizabeth great pleasure to see her family again. It was an odd experience to arrive as a guest to her own childhood home, and stranger still to know that she was not to spend the night within its walls. The evening itself, however, was even more enjoyable than she would have imagined. To everyone’s advantage, her mother had decided – or had been persuaded – to limit the company to the strict family circle and not include their aunt Phillips or any of the neighbours. More fortunately still, Mrs. Bennet’s respect and near-adulation for at least one of her new sons-in-law had in nowise diminished, and thus prevented her from making direct enquiries into her second daughter’s townhouse, with all its delights and luxuries. As to her father, Elizabeth could not remember the last time she had seen him so unreservedly happy.

It was very dark though not particularly late when they left Longbourn, and as she sat with her husband and with Mr. and Mrs. Bingley in the carriage that was conveying them to Netherfield, Elizabeth smiled to herself at the thought that, although married for over a month, her present situation was felt yet again as a delightful novelty. Not so much in town – or in that part of town she had only recently come to know, as Mrs. Darcy. But here, just outside Longbourn, or driving past the fields she had long roamed as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she could scarce believe that there she was, travelling with Jane away from their home, to spend the night at Netherfield instead.

The large house welcomed them with a warm fire in the drawing room and there they sat for a while with their drinks. In the same happy daze, Elizabeth cast a glance at the familiar surroundings, diverted by recollections belonging in a different time. This is where she was sitting with her book, when Miss Bingley came to ask if she cared to take a turn about the room with her. And from that very chair, Mr. Darcy – Fitzwilliam – had solemnly pronounced that, where there was real superiority of mind, pride would always be under good regulation.

She all but giggled – again – as she wondered whether he remembered. She looked up to find him standing by the fireplace in earnest and good-humoured conversation with Mr. Bingley, and decided she would not remind him, not even when they were alone.

“What amuses you, Lizzy?” Jane asked softly, and she merely shook her head.

All was joy and kindness round her, and this vast house was now Jane’s home, her own domain. Miss Bingley will not stride in with a commanding stance, nor will there be supercilious remarks or thinly-veiled insults over the breakfast table. Extraordinary!

“Come now! Will you not share your thoughts, my dear sister?”

“No, I will not, for you will upbraid me for them and call me uncharitable. Though I will say that I like Netherfield far better than I used to.”

“So do I,” Jane smiled sweetly. “Oh, so do I!”

“My dear?” Bingley spoke up, as he turned away from the fireplace. “Darcy has just asked if we cared to visit them in the summer. You would like to, would you not?”

“Of course! What a delightful thought, Mr. Darcy! I shall be looking forward to it.”

“We are to go to Scarborough in July,” Bingley went on to explain to his friend. “My uncle is quite eager to make Jane’s acquaintance. But we can stop at Pemberley on our return. I assume you would be there by then.”

“Oh, aye. By late June, I should imagine. July at the latest. Unless Elizabeth wishes it otherwise,” Darcy amended with a small rueful smile, sending a silent apology her way for still requiring a moment to remember there was another’s will to be considered, after having bowed to no-one’s but his own for six years complete.

“No, not at all!” she reassured him. “Pemberley quite surpasses all the delights town has to offer – but then I am a country-girl at heart.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner have promised us a visit in August, and our Longbourn relations might join us as well, if Mr. Bennet can be persuaded,” Darcy added, and saw Bingley peering earnestly at him.

‘Presumably for signs of panic’, he thought with an inward smile, and decided that his friend should find none.

“The more the merrier,” Bingley replied evenly, but Darcy did not miss his arched brow and turned to share his private amusement with the fire.

“I say, Darcy, care for a game of billiards?” Bingley asked, but his friend was in no humour to have his sanity questioned just yet.

“Not at the moment, if you do not mind. I will play you a hand of whist or two, though, if the ladies can be persuaded to join us.”

They could and they were, so they sat together for more than a hand or two, followed eventually by a very light supper, and Elizabeth could not remember a happier time at Netherfield – not even at her own and Jane’s engagement ball.

‘How novel,’ she thought with a smile, ‘and indeed what a relief, to be sitting in the drawing room at Netherfield and not be vexed. Or mortified. Or both. How fortunate, and how very singular, for deeply attached sisters to have married equally close friends.’

As the small party sat nibbling off their supper trays and chatting well into the small hours, it was a great joy indeed to see that the deep affection and easy camaraderie which had bound two and two together for many years – or months – was now extending to unite them all in delightful companionship. Little forgotten stories were shared, of trees climbed and bonnets rescued, of pony-cart rides and treasures hidden in the attics, of dances long past and absent friends, and plans were made for happy days to come, until tiredness lay its claims, and they finally retired.

And then Darcy had a revelation of his own.

As he emerged from the dressing room into the dimly-lit bedchamber, breath caught in his chest at the sight. It was the room he had always occupied, on each of his visits to Netherfield; the same four walls that have witnessed his ill-judged struggles, his longing and his subsequent despair. Yet there she was now, ensconced in the great bed amongst the pillows, her lips curled in that little smile he found so utterly bewitching.

“Fitzwilliam? Is anything the matter?”

“No, nothing at all,” he remembered to answer.

“Will you not come to bed?”

She could not know, she could not possibly imagine how many times he had pictured her thus, in his mind’s eye, in endless hours of yearning. She was there now, and his heart filled anew with love for her, and boundless gratitude, more so here, where it had all begun, than anywhere else.

“You are so very beautiful,” he whispered.

“And so are you.”

Her smile warmed his heart and love shone in her eyes. He came to hold her then – just that, hold her – as, rather than counting his blessings, he gave thanks anew for the greatest of them all. And then their kisses burned, and the love they shared filled their night with tenderness and passion.

*


“Would you like to walk to Longbourn before breakfast?” Darcy asked as they nestled against each other in the large warm bed, both reluctant to emerge just yet into the room, despite the brightness of the early morning sun.

She smiled – no longer in surprise – at how well he knew her.

“I believe I would. Will you join me?”

“Aye – on your walk, I shall. As for Longbourn, your father will like me better, I should think, if I escort you there, and then go for a ride!”

“My father likes you well enough, you know – of that, his disinclination to make further sport should be sufficient proof.”

“You wrong your father, Elizabeth. He was hardly obvious with it, even when he was inclined to make sport of me.”

“Hardly obvious to the slow-witted, my love, and that you never were.”

“Not even when I fancied myself the object of your affections, long before I had any cause?”

She laughed at that, and propped herself up on one elbow, to trace her hand along the side of his face.

“Well…,” she conceded, “perhaps you were then, but only then.”

His response took her completely by surprise, and she all but shrieked with laughter as he began to tickle her, mercilessly and expertly.

“Fitzwilliam! Desist at once! We must have roused the entire household!”

“We?!? Well, it was high time everybody rose, in any case!” he laughingly declared, but as it happened, he came to disown his own pronouncement, for it was a fair while until he cast the bedcovers aside and removed to the dressing room to summon his man.

*


They walked to Longbourn, hand in hand for the best part, the intimacy somewhat disrupted by the fact that he had to occasionally lead his horse – being one from Bingley’s stables, there was little wonder it was not accustomed to Darcy well enough to follow without demur.

They decided against a brief detour to Oakham Mount – the time of day and Elizabeth’s own impatience did not quite allow it. They did linger, however, for a leisurely parting kiss, under the hollies that grew freely on the northern side of her father’s garden.

She looked up and smiled at the passing recollection that it was on this very spot that they had stopped, one fine morning some weeks before Christmas, when her betrothed and Jane’s had come at a shockingly early hour to call. The family was dressed, as it happened, but only because it was the morning of ‘pudding-stirring’ – and before they knew it, the unsuspecting gentlemen found themselves invited to join in.

“You might as well,” Mrs. Bennet had declared with vigour, “since you shall both be family ere long!”

Bingley had taken to the scheme with his habitual good cheer, but dear Fitzwilliam had looked distinctly like a fish out of water, hard as he had fought to disguise it.

For the benefit of the visitors, Hill was asked to bring the accoutrements to the breakfast parlour, rather than the family following her to the pantry, as they always had. Then each in turn, starting with Mr. Bennet and followed eventually by everybody in the household, stirred the Christmas pudding, for health, prosperity and good luck.

Elizabeth had entertained some concerns for Mr. Darcy’s coat, his cuffs, and his discomfort, yet everything proceeded in good order – that is, until Mrs. Bennet found cause to intervene.

“Oh, nay, nay, nay, Mr. Darcy! That will never do! The other way, Sir, pray! The – other – way! Not that we need fear for his prosperity,” she promptly added in hurried whispers intended for her husband, but loud enough to be heard by everybody else. “Old tales aside, so ample a fortune cannot be overset by a mere Christmas pudding! Still, to my way of thinking, ‘tis best not to tempt fate!”

She had turned beet-red at her mother’s words; not for the fist time, and undoubtedly not the last. It was only after breakfast, when they finally walked out – ostensibly to gather yew, rosemary, bay and holly to decorate the house – that she could gradually recover from her mortification. Once able to speak privately, she had begun to apologise for the most recent of her mother’s ill-judged comments – only to find herself silenced with a kiss. And then had nestled into his embrace, and heard him whisper softly in her ear, ‘You taste of cinnamon and spice’…


“Elizabeth? You are miles away, my love.”

“I was. Forgive me.”

“Shall I send Joseph to await your orders?”

“No need; nay, let him rest. Papa will have Higgins drive me back. I could of course suggest a secret assignation and meet you at midday on the same spot, for old times’ sake,” she added with a smile, “but I daresay I can no longer slip unobserved from Longbourn.”

He laughed and mounted.

“Take all the time you need. Give my regards to you family, and do remind your father that Pemberley’s library awaits, to compensate in small measure for my whisking you away.”

Elizabeth waited until he disappeared around a bend in the road with one last wave, then crossed the snow-covered lawn towards the house. She walked, not to the door, but to the window to her father’s study, as she had done countless times in the past, and peered in. There he was, as always, in his high-backed chair, a book in hand and others at his elbow, and Elizabeth drew a deep breath.

‘Dear Papa!’

How she had missed this! And how much she will miss him, when miles will stretch between them. There was nothing to be done about it, nor would she change anything, even if she could, she thought with a smile and gave a light tap on the window, making her father jump.

One of the casements was soon opened, and his dear face appeared, to be greeted with a kiss.

“Lizzy, dear child! What are you doing here, at this hour in the morning? Come round, I shall go open the front door for you. ‘Tis fifteen years too late to jump in through the window.”

Elizabeth laughed. It had been in her habit, all those years ago, to visit her papa in his study by the very route he mentioned, much to Mrs. Bennet’s admonitions for her unladylike behaviour, and to the despair of housemaids, who had to clean the mud off window-sills.

The front door opened quietly and Elizabeth walked into her father’s embrace, the comforting scent of childhood still clinging to his powdering gown.

“Yes, well! Come, now. Come in and warm yourself. But… is your young man not with you?”

“He said you will like him better for merely escorting me hither,” Elizabeth related with a laugh, and Mr. Bennet chuckled.

“A man of good sense, your Mr. Darcy. I do believe he might become my favourite son-in-law, as soon as I can begin to forgive him his estate in Derbyshire. Come, sit by the fire and tell me again what a fine man he is, while I ring for chocolate,” he added, keen interest obvious in his demeanour, beneath the banter.

“Pray, do not ring, I can wait until breakfast.”

“So – you are suggesting we hide in my study for as long as we can! Jolly good, I am all for it! Tell me then, what delights has town got to offer at this time of year?”

“I am very happy, Papa! And he truly is the best husband I could ever wish for!”

She nestled close to him on the comfortable and rather worn sofa, and told him of her husband, the townhouse, of walks in the park and of new relations.

“Well-well! Better company than Mr. Collins’s Lady Catherine, by all accounts! Your Mr. Darcy certainly does not boast of his connections! The Marquess of Lothersdale’s son and heir, no less! Just wait until your mother hears of this!”

“Papa!” Elizabeth half-admonished with a laugh.

As if on cue, the habitual commotion of each and every one of Longbourn’s mornings could be heard above-stairs, and in due course Mrs. Bennet burst into the quiet room.

“Mr. Bennet, are we not to– ? Lizzy! Good gracious! Hill! Why was I not told? Has poor Mr. Darcy been waiting in the parlour all this time? Hill!”

“Pray, Mamma, rest easy. I came by myself.”

“By yourself! My dear child! In all this snow! Hill! Let us have a hot drink for Miss Lizzy– ! For Mrs. Darcy, that is! My dear girl! Mrs. Darcy!”

‘Oooooh! How well that sounds!’, Elizabeth privately supplied and, with a fond smile, she came to embrace her mother.

“Is Mr. Darcy well? I trust he did not catch a cold when you returned to Netherfield last night. His coat was not quite the thing for the sort of weather we have been having lately. Not warm enough by far. I said so last night to your father, did I not, Mr. Bennet?”

“Mr. Darcy is quite well, Mamma, thank you. He sends his regards. We walked to Longbourn together, and he went for a ride.”

“Well! Well! A pity! I would have liked to have him at our table! I daresay he needs his exercise, though, after your time in town. Come, Lizzy, do join us for breakfast. I told your father we should sit down to it earlier this morning, and call on you at Netherfield, but seeing you are here, there is no rush, no rush at all. Come, dear child, tell me everything! He treats you well, I trust, your dear husband. You look very well indeed. Your complexion is brighter than ever – you are verily glowing! Oooooh, Lizzy! Are you– ? Nay, ‘tis too soon to tell. Well! Come now, have some breakfast, it will do you good in any case. Come, and tell me all about it!”

“We shall join you presently, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said with a smile that Elizabeth had seen countless times before, eventually gaining them their last few moments of shared tranquillity.

“You will come to see us in the summer Papa, will you not?” she urged, and Mr. Bennet leaned to kiss her brow.

“Your Mr. Darcy will never forgive me, but I daresay we shall. Now, do make sure he has got some suitable young men lined up, ready to be thrown in Kitty and Mary’s path, will you, Lizzy – there’s a good girl!”

*


A fortnight passed in a whirl of dinner engagements at Netherfield, Longbourn, Lucas Lodge, Haye Park and Longbourn again, in pleasant ambles through the snow-covered countryside and a few precious evenings of delightful companionship in the Bingleys’ drawing room.

Before she knew it, the trunks were packed, adieus made and finally, with one last wave to their dear sister and brother as the carriage turned into the lane towards Meryton, Elizabeth settled back under the great rugs at her husband’s side, for the long journey that was to convey her to her new home.

For quite some time, she kept staring out of the window, bidding silent adieus to familiar places.

The groves. The pastures. The river. The bridge.

The first cluster of trim little cottages – and later others, huddled together along the main road into the prosperous and very busy market town.

The old tithes barn. The church. More houses.

The Assembly Rooms, across the road, at the Red Lion, with all the recollections they entailed.

The milliner’s that Kitty was still so very fond of, despite the loss of Lydia’s company.

Harrison’s, in the middle of the main street, where everything could be bought, from tea and spices to ribbons and rosettes for ball shoes, and a little further, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips’s house.

The bakery, just round the corner, and the butcher’s, twelve doors down.

The common, and then the orchards, on the left hand side; they had drawn her footsteps in her rambles many a spring, with their soft pink blooms.

Some miles down the road, the Rising Sun, the coaching inn where her father sent for the post, and on the right, the narrow, rutted back-lane to Longbourn.

A long time will very likely pass until she saw all these again…

She turned with a smile towards her husband whose gaze, full of tenderness and understanding, was already awaiting hers. Elizabeth reached for his gloved hand, safe in the knowledge that, regardless of how far she was to travel from everything familiar, she was leaving with the man she loved, and with a happy heart.]]> Joana S Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 19 May 2013 07:07:00 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96205,96205#msg-96205 An Even Path: Chapter 3 (11 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96205,96205#msg-96205Author's Note: Again, I know these are repeats. I'm not figuring anyone will comment on them. I plan on posting again on Wednesday. Thanks for reading! :)


Chapter 3/DNA



Anne lingered in the doorway. Summoned or not, even an Elliot daughter didn't barge into Lady Elliot's study. She made her presence known and politely sought out her entrance.

“Mother?” Anne spoke, hands clasped. “You asked to see me?”

“Yes,” said her mother, not glancing up. Lady Elliot was seated behind her desk, scribing a letter in her even, elegant hand. Time and technology marched on, but missives from the Baron's estate remained hand-written affairs. “Please do have a seat next to your sister, Anne.”

Elisabetta was here. Whatever the announcement, it applied to more than Anne's mare. A quick glance to Betta gleaned nothing more than an apathetic shrug and a nod towards their mother.

Anne smoothed out her green riding jacket. She couldn't regret the ride, or the rain, but she could regret the mud. The chair's upholstery was white, patterned with pale peaches and leaves. Kellynch brown wasn't an accent Lady Elliot would care for.

“Mother, I'd rather stand.”

“Adrianna,” frowned mother. "Sit."

“I've been riding-” Anne frowned. “Truly, I shouldn't-”

“Sit,” repeated her mother. “I won't have my own daughter hovering like a maid.”

Elisabetta snickered. Anne frowned. She could take a stand with her sisters, with her horse, but when faced with her stern mother her resolve folded faster than the letter Lady Elliot was so intent on writing.

She sat.

There were no companionable silences in Kellynch Hall. There was mute disapproval. Silent expectation.

Betta studied her nails. Anne studied the room. Most of the items here dated two centuries back. The bronze urn beneath the window. Her mother's polished bureau with its cabriole legs.

A marble plant stand and the rarely-watered fern that sat atop it served to shield a small, green and gold tapestry from view. Move the plant half a foot and one would see green hills and a royal entourage, a castle wall and tall minarets. The tapestry was an antique. A gift from Anne's grandmother. The image was Castile la Manche. Lady Elliot's home.

She'd never understood why they'd hidden the tapestry. Lady Elliot seemed proud of her heritage, her family, her prestige in her native Spain. And her father seemed proud of Lady Elliot's beauty.

It was disconcerting for Anne to realize if her mother's beauty was a well accepted fact, it was a truth about Anne herself as well. With every passing year, Anne seemed closer and closer to the image of her mother. They shared the same thick chestnut curls. The same olive-bronze complexion. The same heart-shaped jaw and intensely dark eyes.

Anne was used to being overlooked. She preferred it. Elisabetta was the beauty of the Elliot daughters. More than that, she was suited for the role. Elisabetta always knew what to say, what to do, how to act. Especially around a boy. Anne could silently admire one in the hallway, but she hardly knew what to do if he admired her right back.

As for Lady Elliot, her daughters had finally earned her attention. Bad news for Anne, perhaps, as her first announcement was, “Anne, dear, did you have an argument with a mud puddle?"

Lady Elliot's gaze usually felt as sharp as a well cut blade. Never more so than this morning. Slowly, silently, any verve she'd had with Marguerite was being cut out of her. “I'm sorry, Mother. I did mention...”

“Riding,” frowned Lady Elliot. “Yes, I heard you.”

“This hobby has to stop, Anne,” Elisabetta sighed. “I can't be seen with a sister that comes home looking like a farmhand.”

“Betta, sarcasm flatters you not at all." Leticia frowned. “And Anne, riding in this weather is a foolhardy venture. Beyond that, it is the surest way to catch pneumonia. If you develop so much as a sneeze, you'll find no sympathy from me. You'll have no one to blame but yourself.”

Anne managed a nod. “Yes.”

“Furthermore, illness would preclude you from attending the Darcy funeral. As I wish you to extend our respects to young Fitzwilliam Darcy in a manner that befits our name, I believe we would both be disappointed if you failed to attend.”

“I want to go, too,” pouted Elisabetta. “Why should Anne be the only one who-”

“Elisabetta Elliot, interruption is a graceless art,” Lady Elliot snapped. “If you would wait half a breath, you could save yourself a lecture and me the burden of lecturing you. Twice. Yes?”

Elisabetta reddened, shrinking back in her chair. “Si, Madre.”

Something was digging into their mother this morning. This was like watching Nubio with a burr stuck in his skin. He would swat and swat until he managed to free it.

“Mother,” said Anne, “perhaps we should leave you to your letters.”

“Unnecessary, Anne. I assure you, I've had my fill of letters today.” Lady Elliot's small mouth thinned. Anne was so accustomed to seeing her mother as the source of all strength: steely, resolved, unshakable. Suddenly she saw lines that puckered around her mother's lips. Tension that darkened her eyes.

After a long silence, Anne whispered, “Madre, I know the death of Mr. and Mrs Darcy is upsetting...”

"Certainly it is, though that's not what distracts me."

Anne blinked. It was odd, Anne thought, feeling like the only Elliot with a heart. She watched Lady Elliot open a small drawer in her desk.

“Marguerite is only twelve," her mother said. "Much too young for this discussion. Your sister puts on a good show, of course, because she's desperate to keep up with you both. She wants you to confide in her. Yes, even you, Anne. Didn't you realize?”

“I-” Anne blinked. “No, Madre. I didn't.”

“Oh, yes.” Lady Elliot balanced a slender missive between her hands as she studied her daughters. “Your little sister looks up to you both. But a child requires shielding from certain realities. I would appreciate if both of you kept this conversation to yourselves.”

Anne nodded. Even Elisabetta managed a bewildered 'yes'.

“Good.” Lady Elliot said. “Is the name Wade Elliot familiar to either of you? Has he ever written you? Ever contacted you in any way?”

Elisabetta's piercing blue gaze looked that much more bewildered. Anne shook her head with puzzled frown.

“Good.” Lady Elliot exhaled. “One never knows, with strangers.” The letter she'd gripped was now placed in open view on the desk.

It was addressed to Lord Elliot. The return address, in bold typeface, was Graham and Graham, LLP.

“Graham and Graham?” read aloud Elisabetta. “Don't they make crackers?”

“Betta, it's father's solicitor,” said Anne. “Madre, may I?”

Lady Elliot's nod looked forced.

“I don't wish to confide in you both. Don't misunderstand me; you're intelligent children and a credit to the Elliot name. But at fifteen and sixteen, a barrister's notice should be the least of your concerns.”

Anne opened the letter and read.

Cecil P. Graham, Esq
Graham and Graham, LLP
15 Hillston Road
London

Much Honored Walter Elliot, Baron of Kellynch

It is the obligation of this firm to inform you that your request for action as a claimant on behalf of Kellynch Hall, the Elliot Barony, and yourself, the sixth Baron of Kellynch, has been rejected by the court. Arguments of either undue influence or dependent relative revocation were dismissed. The fortune of the late Dowager Marchioness of Dalrymple, sound in both body and mind at the time of her death, remains in trust for one Wade Elliot, to be transferred in toto to the recipient upon reaching his majority.

In all things this firm remains your obedient,

Cecil P. Graham, Esquire
Graham and Graham LLP


“You remember the death of your great aunt, Lady Dalrymple,” prompted their mother.

“Yes,” said Anne. “She died a year ago.”

“Almost to the week.” agreed Elisabetta. “Last year, the first week of the New Year.”

“She used to come here every Christmas,” finished Anne.

“And she had those little dogs,” Elisabetta continued, memory alighting her eyes. “Frisco and Freesia, remember? She'd carry Freesia in her purse. Frisco used to sniff around my feet and bite at my ankles.”

“Yes, he bit Marguerite once,” their mother confirmed with a grimace. “The things I wanted to do to that dog. What I wanted to say to that wretched old lady. Elisabetta, you are very much like me. You have my temper. If I am hard on you, it is because I understand you. I held my tongue with the Dowager Marchese. For all these years, I said nothing. And still she hurts us in the end.”

The statement, and the regret it held, was sinking into Anne's bones. In life, Lady Dalrymple had been a childless widow with only a great-nephew, Walter, to dote on.

She'd also been a cruel woman. Vindictive and petty. Never more so than in death, it seemed. She couldn't take away Walter Elliot's estate, the title he'd gained from his father, the Hall he lived in. Those were Walter's by birthright. But she could take away the fortune she'd once bequeathed to it.

“Why should we care if we get her money?” demanded Elisabetta with a toss of her black hair. “She's gone now. I don't understand what some barrister's letter has to do with any of us.”

“Everything,” admitted her mother quietly. “While she lived, Lady Dalrymple gave your father a yearly annuity. Those funds are used to run the estate. To tend the lawns, to trim the hedges, to pay the staff. What remained of her financial estate was due to go to your father upon her death.”

Elisabetta's cheeks flushed a deep, rosy red. “And now?”

“Betta,” said Anne quietly, “Lady Dalrymple found another Elliot.”

“Wade Elliot," said Lady Elliot.

"Who?" snorted Elisabetta.

"He's the only son of your father's fifth cousin, thrice removed. You've more common blood with the gardener than you have with this Elliot boy, but the will stands. Your father retains the title of baron, of course. And the estate itself. But the funds to run it, the stipend he received while she was alive--”

“Gone?” Panic lifted Elisabetta's voice to a squeak. “Just gone?”

"We've known for months,” Lady Elliot continued. “But arbitration is a slow and tedious process. Now that we've received confirmation that the will cannot be contested...”

“The money goes to Wade!” gasped Elisabetta. “An Elliot would never name their son Wade. I don't know who he thinks he is, but-”

“Lady Dalrymple may give the money to whomever she pleases,” said Anne quietly.

“Don't defend her!” snapped Elisabetta. “It's the fortune that funds Kellynch! And it's transferred to some nobody. Some-some--oh, I'm getting dizzy. I'm getting dizzy! Are we poor?”

“No,” said Leticia sharply. “Betta, calm down. I have a healthy inheritance of my own. I owe my parents for that. It's certainly enough maintain Kellynch Hall in the style to which we're accustomed for quite a few years. Five years, possibly ten, depending on the strength our investments. Your father and I have always agreed that we'll provide nothing but the best for our children. But one day—not soon, but one day—you both must understand the reality of your futures.”

“Which is?” cried Elisabetta.

Lady Elliot's fingers clenched. Her attention wavered briefly to the tapestery, then, with a grimace, back to her daughters. “To marry well.”




**



A band of rowdy Irishmen had invaded her room. And they were placing bets.

“A bob says you don't last half an hour, lads,” warned Seamus as he cracked the dvd box open.

“I'll be fine as the day is long,” defended Liam, kicking back in a chair he'd propped beside Elizabeth. “What do you say, Eilis. A wee cuppa, a chance for the weight off my legs, and--”

“No.” She signed with a wan smile. She hadn't talked since that first painful effort. There was no reason for the effort with the lads for company. “You won't like it. Though it's grand of you all to try.”

“We're grand lads,” Liam gave her a playful grin. “I hope “Cinderella” is a fine choice for you, lassie. It was the best of the lot in the playroom.”

The title credits flashed across the screen. It was silent Magnus who reached out and touched her hand. Gently. Magnus used his hands the most; he had the deftest touch with them. For the first time in weeks, she felt a rush of warmth. Of protection. Of home.

Seamus might have given them half an hour, but Elizabeth only needed minutes. She was sound asleep before Cinderella reached her first song.

When she woke again, voices were drifting into her dreams.

“Maybe we could go back and find him again...” spoke a woman. “Do you think he's still here?”

“Moira, don't fixate,” replied a man.

“I have never seen such a lonely child, Ronan. I'm telling you-”

“You think I liked letting them go?”

“Did you read the paper?” Moira pressed in a whisper. “Did you? Listen, Ronan. Just listen to what the article says. Both the driver and the front side passenger were declared deceased at the scene. Names of the victims have been withheld whilst authorities notify next of kin. They're not coming back. There's no one to come for him. That was what he meant.”

There was a long pause. Elizabeth couldn't help but be grateful for it. Moira's words were painful to the ear. And the heart.

“We offered our aid last night and the boy said no. I'm sure he has heaps of family ready to fetch him home.”

She heard Uncle Ronan's doubt. His waver. His hesitation. He didn't believe what he said any more than Moira did. How many times had a doctor, a nurse, a hospital aids, murmured:

This will only sting a little.

And..

Tomorrow, perhaps, the doctor will let you in the play room.

The worst one of all was:

You'll feel stronger tomorrow. I promise.

But why would Uncle Ronan pretend? Uncle Ronan never pretended. He wouldn't drink eggnog if he'd prefer a warm whiskey and water. He wouldn't dance if he'd rather sit (although Aunt Moira could nearly always charm him into dancing). He wouldn't say something to Aunt Moira, the love of his life, if he hadn't truly believed it.

Or desperately wanted to believe it. Perhaps that was the difference.

Slowly, forcefully, she opened her eyes. Aunt Moira and Uncle Ronan were perched at the foot of her bed, quietly talking as they waited out her nap. Magnus remained in a chair by her bedside. He was reading a newspaper. Unbeknownst to him, the headline “New Year's Eve Accident” bobbed back at her.

She couldn't remember much of her morning, or asking him to stay, but for once the memory gap caused no anxiety. Of course she'd asked him to stay. This was Magnus.

If Moira and Ronan failed to catch her slight movements, Magnus did not. He lowered his newspaper and followed her hands with his eyes.

'“Morning?” she asked.

“Afternoon. Just past one o'clock."

“Where are the lads?

“With Mum and Dad, in the cafeteria.”

“And how's the food?

“Bad.” He met her question with a calm smile. “But it tastes better when you're feeling good enough to ask.”

She smiled back. “How long have Aunt and Uncle been here.”

“Half an hour.” Mirth quickly faded from his eyes. ”They had a hard time of it, driving to London.”

She frowned. “Hard, how?”

“Mum said not to tell you,” he admitted. “It's their story, Eilis. Aunt Moira's and Uncle Ronan's. If you wish to hear the answer, you should ask it. When you're ready.”

The truth of those words sunk in. If she wasn't ready to speak a question aloud, perhaps she wasn't ready for the response. Not yet.

For now, she knew enough. She knew that somehow the Gardiners had found a boy last night who'd suffered very deeply. Who knew, as Moira put it, that there was no one to come for him.

It was a reminder, she thought with a stab of guilt, that she wasn't the only one suffering today.

“Miss Eilis, just how long have you been bright eyed and wide awake?” Ronan's booming question interrupted the pair. Though Magnus couldn't hear the question, Elizabeth's green eyed gaze shifting was warning enough that they'd been found out.

Her brother, ever unobtrusive, tossed down his paper with a wink to his sister. He was getting so tall, she realized. It took him hardly more than a heartbeat to amble out the door.

Which meant Lizzy would have to be strong enough for speech all on her own. Lacking daily exposure, neither Moira or Ronan had gained much fluency with sign.

“Happy New Year, Luvie,” said Uncle Ronan. “Brought you a present, we did. Just a little something Moira thought you'd fancy.

As they moved to sit closer to her, Elizabeth fumbled, grasping between monitor cords and IVs to find the button that would lift her bed up. Something about this—maybe the sight of their active niece reduced to an engineered bed—made Moira's eyes water.

“Here, Luvie, let me.” Ronan fumbled with the controller, boosting her. “We sure are happy to see you.”

She smiled and said nothing. Moira placed her gift in her hands.

The box was a dark, midnight blue velvet. For that alone, she loved it. It reminded her of a Christmas sky. It was the first beautiful thing she'd touched in weeks. Only a box. But she loved it.

“Lizzy?” Moira prompted gently.

Carefully, she cracked the box open.

Inside, resting on a soft satin pillow, were a pair of dainty red rubies. Small, but still enough to overwhelm a little girl's ears. They were grown-up earrings. A gift for the adult she would one day be.

Beneath the earrings was a ruby cross. Sweet and understated. A symbol, just as that boy had been, that she wasn't the only one to suffer.

“You like it?” Aunt Moira asked.

Her fingers wrapped protectively around the jewelry, as if clutching a secret close. At last, she found the strength to rasp her answer. “I love it.”




*~*

Dear Penpal,


Thanks for sending me a book from your dad's library. I've never heard of banshees. My sister and I read it aloud at bedtime. I loved the part where--”

The last half line was erased in a scrub of pencil rubber. Twelve-year-old Emma tapped her pencil on the edge of her mahogany desk. She'd like the book. She hadn't loved it.

Still, she didn't want to offend her far-off friend. What was it Isault was always telling her? Better a sweet concession than a sour truth. Emma didn't always believe that axiom. More that politeness was political. And the politic option would be a polite non-answer.

I thought it was so, so-

A draft teased at her skirt hem. Emma shivered, drawing up her knees. Her dress was made of shimmering gold silk, with an equally golden bow. A lovely dress, though this wasn't the loveliest day for a wedding. Even if it was Valentine's Day. Rain streaked the windows.

Down in the courtyard below, a flock of bridesmaids in pink silk were flitting toward Hartfield's conservatory. A pair of ringbearers (an eight year old “cupid,” a seven year old “eros,” and nine year old “amour”, with feather pillows to boot) were giggling behind them.

Emma loved weddings. She loved the silk dresses and the ceremonial flowers. The festivities, the music, and the fairy lights. She would rejoice in her friend's joy, and summon the sweetness expected of her at the ceremony.

It was her own misfortune, Emma thought, that this day was also paired with the loss of her best friend. She couldn't even seclude herself here and enjoy her own misery.

Her fingers reached for the locket that hung around her neck—a nervous habit she'd held all her life. This was her mother's locket. She toyed with the heart charm whenever she was thoughtful, nervous, anxious. Her attention drifted to the window once more.

It was hard to be sour with the postcard perfect view before her. Hartfield held the loveliest view in town, on the highest hill amongst Highbury's colonial cottages and flagstone paths. The town itself seemed built for a duel purpose. Beauty and romance.

It had earned its reputation as one of the best vacation spots in the South for a reason. It was the loveliest town on the Blue Ridge trail. Even in the tourism lull between the Christmas Festival and the summer wedding rush, the town was nothing less than beautiful.

It wasn't the town that dissatisfied her. Not exactly. It was the house that neighbored hers, literally a stone's throw away. Donwell Abbey.

The Knightleys were one of the oldest families in Highbury, and one of the finest. They were erudite and dignified, gracious and kind.

It was their absence she grieved. Or more particularly, their son's. George was her best friend. Her co-adventurer. He'd taught her how to ride, how to swim, how to skate. He shared all her secrets, and her birthday as well (August 7th, two years apart). The thought of him moving? It was beyond words. Yes, the house was being vacated but not abandoned. They would come back every summer, and on holidays. But it wasn't the same.

I thought the book was just beyond words! she wrote at last, dully. There. That suited her mood perfectly.

She scrubbed tears from her eyes.

I'm mailing you two things. First, a pinched poppy sprig, freshly pressed. They bloom through March here, if the frost doesn't pinch them first, and it's been as warm as a hothouse all winter (despite the buckets of rain). My mother loved botanical illustrations, and my Papa loved my mother in return, so guess what our home is surrounded by? Gardens. We have annuals and perennials, herbs and fruits.

I nearly sent a history book about English privateers in King George's war, but I thought you must see plenty of both the sea and the English living in Ireland. Both are quite exotic here. You've read the Book of Matthew, and the city on the hilltop seen by all? Highbury is a town surrounded by mountains. We call it God's Country because none but Him could find it.

The book I'm sending you instead is about ancient Egypt. If you prefer Norse history, or Japanese, or Mexican, just let me know. I have a big collection about many different cultures. I look forward to hearing about Ireland.

Your friend,
Emma

Someone tugged at her braid. “What sphinx riddle are you puzzling over today, Emma?”

Emma glanced up. Smiling down at her was tutor, bride, and mother-in-absentia, Taylor Pillai. She wore an orange silk robe. Her dark hair was pinned up in rollers and her lips were rouged with lipstick.

“Ready for the ceremony, Emma?”

Emma folded her letter with a quiet smile. “Oh, yes.”

“You look pensive.”

“I feel it.”

"Me too, to be honest," Taylor admitted. "Do I look as nervous as I feel?"

Emma reached for her tutor's hands, turning one palm over to admire Taylor's mehendi flourishes. They'd had the ceremony here the night before. It had included laughter, and food, and music, and quite a few tears. Happy tears, Emma decided, feeling them overwhelm again.

“Taylor,” Emma announced with a tremulous smile. “You look ready.”



**

Were this the height of summer, they'd serve breakfast on the terrace, with Florida orange juice and strawberries fresh from the field. Today, in mid February, the dining room would have to suffice.

“You're excited for the wedding, Emma?” Isault asked.

“Sure,” Emma said with a quiet smile, snatching a pastry from the sideboard. “Papa, you'll remember to be on time, won't you?”

"Hmm?" Harlan Woodhouse was scribbling schematics in the newspaper margin. A lock of his loose sunbeam red curls had fallen over his brow. She didn't know why they ordered the Highbury Gazette for him every morning. His mind hardly drifted from schematics long enough to read it. “What would I be late for?”

“For Taylor's wedding this evening,” Isault prompted gently. “Seven o'clock. I've had your tuxedo pressed, and Miss Bates polished your shoes.”

“We can't be late, Papa,” Emma reminded him. Distracted by George Knightley's departure or not, she would find her father in his work room and drag him to the reception herself if need be.

“I'm never late for a wedding,” he answered hazily, chewing on his pen as he studied his drawing. “Not by much...”

“Think of it this way, Papa. Today, a poor, dejected widower says to the world that he can live again. Joy finds a home. Love---” A firm hand grabbed Emma by the bow of her golden dress, hoisting her up by inches. “Jamie Knightley, put me down!”

“I thought you wanted a speaking platform,” James said drolly, dropping her to the ground again. “Nice speechifying. And how'd you know it was me?”

She turned on her short, patten leather heel to see his toothy grin. “Few take the liberty,” she sniffed.

Fifteen-year-old James grinned back. “Shortstop, you're gonna slay every good ol' boy in town with that line in a few years.”

“Your tie is crooked.”

“So's your bow,” he shot back with a wink.

What was it about James Knightley that could turn her into a prickly porcupine? Was it the fact that James pestered her like a big brother when George trusted her like a friend? Was it because James had all of George's charm but none of his gallantry? Was it because every time he stood before her, she was struck by the thought that she'd prefer talking to his younger brother?

Which prompted the question, “Where's George?”

“Helping my dad pack. Don't worry, he'll be here tonight.” James Knightley's merry hazel gaze drifted past her and over to her sister. “Morning, Isault.”

Was that a blush on her sister's cheek? Isault chose not to look at their visitor, reaching for a silver pot of hot chocolate instead. “Good morning, James.”

“Mr. Knightley,” Harlan spoke up. Perhaps her father wasn't so easily distracted, after all. His paper was tossed aside. He'd leaned his lithe frame back into his chair and fixed their interloper with his keen gaze. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

In this conversational dance, Emma had most certainly missed a step. Her father did not sound pleased. At all. Emma glanced back up at Jamie. He suddenly looked nervous enough to dance a jig.

“I, uh-” James choked, “you see..the thing is—my family's set on flying out. Tomorrow, as it were...”

“I'm well aware.” Harlan Woodhouse's focus didn't waver. Neither did his frown. “Your father's fellowship was well earned.”

“Right. Yeah. Definitely. Anyway,” James rushed. “I was thinking, maybe Isa and I could go for a walk?”

“It's raining,” said Harlan. “You'll have to be content seeing my daughter this evening.”

“Right,” James rubbed his neck. “but before that. There's this great spot a few miles north on Strawberry Hill and--”

The name provoked a flinch. "No," said Harlan tightly.

“Papa, James is very responsible,” Isault spoke up softly. “Please?”

"Absolutely not.”

“I'll bring her back by lunch,” James promised.

“When absolutely not means anything but no, then I shall reconsider.”

“But Papa-” Emma spoke up. If anyone had the gift of turning Harlan's occassional ironclad 'no' into a golden 'yes,' it was his youngest child.

“Emma,” Harlan frowned. “I said no. The subject is closed.”

The subject might be closed, but his newspaper was flipped open once more. Not to read the bylines. To review the notes he'd left off with. An engine idea, or an equation half solved. Isault and James Knightley needed no further review. He'd solved that riddle in a glance.


**


It rained through the wedding. A cold, gray drizzle that trampled the pansies and turned the walkways slick. Nearly all of Highbury turned out. Everyone knew the Woodhouse family. Those who didn't love them, loved Taylor instead. Or at least loved to gossip about the Sheriff she was marrying. If a few attendees clucked their tongue about Wesson's age (a very youthful forty-seven) or Taylor's youth (a very mature twenty-nine), they had the grace to keep the clucking to themselves until the reception.

And cluck they did. All grouped together, Emma thought they sounded like a herd of chickens. Between dances, she waltzed over to the band and pleasantly requested they play louder.

As the daughter of the biggest name in town, she was expected to make the conversational rounds. Isault was too shy for the task, and Harlan was too distracted (he'd skipped half of the dinner and retreated to his work room). Normally she found conversation a joyful task. She loved to talk, she loved people, and she loved people talking most of all. She didn't usually think they sounded like chickens.

But Knightley had a way of making everything all topsy-turvy. Especially since, as a son of the second biggest name in the room, he too was expected to mingle. Often this translated into landing on opposite sides of the room. Now, for example. George Knightley was attempting the art of getting a word in edgewise with Miss Bates. He handled the task valiantly. As for Emma, a few polite 'how-do-you-do's' to Highbury's matriarchs, and she found herself waylaid.

“If ever there was a definition for the word beauty” declared Mrs. Eulalia Cole, “it must be your face, little Emma.”

“No Ma'am,” Emma smiled at the domineering matriarch, “it's a picture of the town that raised me.”

“She is a doll,” agreed Mrs Banks.

“More lifelike I hope?” Emma spoke up and took a small sip of her soda. She shifted on her heel, trying to look past Mrs Banks and catch Knightley's eye. The space he'd filled seconds before was now empty.

"Those dark blue eyes!"

“And her hair! Blond, with a shimmer of red...” said another.

“She's the best of both her parents,” agreed Mrs Cole. “Even more so than Isault, and that's a plain fact. Your mother Emma, the late Mrs Woodhouse, was as pretty a creature as I ever beheld.”

"I think my sister is beautiful." Emma's smile tightened. “But yes, my mother was lovely.”

“And as for your Papa-”

“Curious young man.” said Mrs Banks.

“Most curious,” echoed Mrs Parsons. "Very handsome, of course."

“But he's too young to raise a pair of children by himself,” Mrs Cole announced. “He was barely eighteen when he married your mother. And she was a teenage wildcat!”

“Harlan Woodhouse is too intellectual for children. What child could make heads or tails of half the things he says!”

“He's too distracted by his own inventions to run a household.”

Even at twelve, Emma outpaced half the town in social skill. Polite chatter. Political debate. She knew the art of diversion and redirection when a conversation veered off track. What she didn't own was the gift of remaining docile in the face of criticism. Especially concerning her father.

“Judge him as you will,” Emma bristled, “but my father is a kind, creative, intelligent man. He's loved me and protected me all my life.”

“And he's donated more money to Highbury's preservation than the rest of the town combined,” George Knightley announced beside her. A warm hand touched her elbow. “That's a feat no one in this town can equal. Not even you, Mrs Cole.”

Mrs Eulalia Cole sputtered. Mrs Banks gaped. A minute longer, and Emma was convinced that they would start squawking at her.

Which is why he probably chosen that moment to pull her away.

“She's a vicious old goose,” grumbled Emma.

"Yes."

"Did you hear what she said?!"

“Really, Knightley. A minute later, and I swear I would have-”

“I know.” He grinned down at her, that crooked, heart-stopping grin that turned all her thoughts to mush. Which was probably why she didn't notice the plate he pressed into her hands.

"What's this?"

"For your dad," he explained. She was forever going on about the fact that her father was too absentminded to make it through a whole meal. Leave it to Knightley to remember. “Meet me in the library in half an hour, will you?”

“Half an hour?” She blinked. “Why half an hour?”

He nodded towards the group of socialites. "Time enough for me to do some damage control."

"Oh." She stared down at the piece of cake she hadn't realized she was holding, then up at him. “Did I just say what I think I said to Mrs Cole?”

“Yes.”

“Did she look mad?”

“Oh yeah,” Knightley grinned. He squeezed her shoulder. “Don't worry about it. A week will go by and they'll find something else to gossip about.”

Yes, she thought, but you won't have to live here for that week. I can't do this without you. This wouldn't work at all.

“My Papa...he really doesn't like cake...”

"It was the best I could manage." Knightley laughed. “The library. Half an hour. You'll be there?”

She nodded. Of course she would. Wherever he was, that was the best place to be. And everyone always said she was clever.



**




At the far end of the Hartfield's western hallway, secluded by a solid oak door and a double barrel lock, was a Curiosity Room.

Emma had called it this when she was barely tall enough to reach the door's handle, or slide her key into its brass lock. Only three people could access this room. Herself, Isault, and her father.

Her father didn't care what they called it. He cared more for the creations the room held than for the name of the room that bore it. His daughters knew this, and loved him for it, just as they loved every wind up toy he'd ever made them. Emma herself had enjoyed the benefits of her father's unorthodox profession. As a child she'd had every kind of novelty she could dream up, and more besides. Whirligigs and dancing soldiers. Clocks that wound themselves. A music box that played Mozart.

She knew her father's reputation. Highbury thought him distant, distracted, muddled.

He was eccentric; certainly she could attest to that. To her father, electronics were an anathema. He'd never touched a computer. Cars prevented a morning's hike in the mountains. He didn't drive. Gramophones were more interesting than telephones. Central heat was for those with feeble blood. Indeed, the only technology he truly liked in the last century was the improvement of the water closet.

Of course he made concessions. They had central heat, and electricity. And something beyond a gramophone to play music (though courtesy of her father, they had that too). But she liked that her father had philosophies, ideas he stood for, even if she didn't always agree with them. Few people in Highbury stood for things.

Isault and Emma loved him for what he was, and forgave him for what he wasn't. Wasn't that enough? How many children had wind-up butterflies and hand made unicycles? Beyond that, he gave them a library filled from floor to ceiling, a tutor, and the freedom to roam large.

Mrs Cole would never understand him. But Emma's father was the premier cog and wheel craftsman in America. Not just wind up toys or self sustaining clocks, but antique steam engines and more besides. And all his inventions were created without a wire in sight.

As Emma pulled the door to his work room shut, a gold plated humming bird whizzed above her.

“Papa?” she called out. This room, nearly the span of another hall, was a labyrinth to navigate. Long tables were piled with complex works-in-progress. Finished creations roamed about. She stepped over a copper, wind-up cat. “Papa?”

At the far corner of the room, working beneath the soft glow of a halogen lamp, was her father. He had a small, pencil thin screwdriver in one hand and the heart of a brass clock in the other.

Harlan did look too young for his children, Emma thought as she slid the cake piece onto his work table. He could be her older brother, not her father. He still possessed a full head of sun-red curls, and a lean, boyish frame. He still stayed up too late, and worked too long. But he protected his daughters. He loved them. With everything he had, he loved them.

“You miss Momma tonight, don't you?” Emma spoke quietly.

Harlan Woodhouse's hand stilled. He brushed back a lock that obscured his gaze, looked up, and met her inquisitive gaze.

Amelia Woodhouse was always the fastest way to gain his attention.

“Especially tonight,” he confirmed quietly.

“Is that why you left early?”

“That...” he was squinting at gears. “And an effort to avoid Mrs Cole.”

Emma winced. “I may have insulted her. And Mrs Parson, and Mrs Banks...”

"Did you?" He gave a tired smile. “That's my girl.”

“She deserved it,” Emma frowned. “She insulted you first!”

"Hmm.." He set the clock heart down. “You have your mother's loyalty.”

Emma leaned against the work table. “I do?”

“Yes. And her strength. She was a romantic, just like you are. And-” he drew out the thought, his fingers raking through his curls, “she liked talking to people, and hearing about their lives. Just like you do.”

“I remind you of her, then?”

“In certain ways. Anyone can see you have her beauty, Emma. And her courage. But you have my curiosity. And my--admittedly maddening--need to be right.” This provoked a grin on both sides, though his quickly faded. “You're far too mature for your age, intellectually. I was the same. You look like a child, of course, but talking to you...it's easy to forget you're only twelve.”

“Does that mean I can have a later bed time?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” Harlan laughed, kissing her forehead. She wasn't blind to the flash of fatherly pride in his eyes. “Why aren't you still at the reception? Isn't Isa looking after you?”

“Oh--” she faltered, “yes. Of course she is.”

The truth was, she'd lost track of Isault shortly after the toasts were conducted. And James Knightley too, to tell the truth. If that flicker in her father's eyes was suspicion, he mercifully let the moment pass.

“I should get back to the party,” she said. “Are you hungry? I brought you cake.”

“Never cared for the stuff, to be honest.” He picked up his screwdriver again. “But for you, I'll eat it.”

“Good.” She nodded. “And Papa?”

“Hmm?”

She tiptoed, kissing his cheek. “Promise me you won't stay up too late, okay?”

Her father grinned. “You either, Emme.”]]> BernadetteE Derbyshire Writers' GuildTue, 30 Apr 2013 23:25:06 +0100 http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96200,96200#msg-96200 An Even Path: Chapters 1 and 2 (8 replies)http://www.dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,96200,96200#msg-96200Author's forward: I know when I said, 'posting again Sunday', chapters 1-3 probably isn't what you anticipated. But there were a few errors that needed corrected, as well as 'retro-fitting' the names as a reader named Rose put it. Also, Anne-Marie asked how often I hope to post. I'm aiming for a weekly Sunday posting schedule, though for this week I hope to have another post up by Wednesday (if that doesn't interfer with the DWG's posting guidelines on how often authors can post?)

Either way, I know these are repeats, so no comments are necessary if people don't want to leave them. Thanks for reading!


DNA

Chapter One



"They walked on, without knowing in what direction." ~ Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, volumn 3, chapter 16




Chapter 1



December 31st




Chronic illness was a pendulum. It swung from point to point. Good days. Bad days. Mornings blurred by tears. Nights that threatened to slice her to pieces.

She could do this. She could. Even at ten she believed that, and yet...

And yet hospitalization was different. More frightening. And so far from home. There were no hospitals in the village of Ballydeirc, just a Doc who doctored everything from men to mutton. The need for a hospital, and the arduous drive to get there, represented a crisis point.

They went to Cork first. To her 'special' doctors. She was hospitalized there. Doctors subjected her to CAT scans, x-rays, blood tests. Nurses administered corticosteroids intravenously. Her kidney was inflamed, her lungs heavy with fluid. Lupus nephritis and pleural effusion.

Her breathing grew labored; they fed her oxygen. Her fever spiked. A biopsy was scheduled.

"One incision,” soothed the doctor. “Just a small incision and--”

“And I won't have it!” wailed her mother.

“The procedure takes no more than fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes.”

“That's my baby,” snapped her mother. “My youngest baby. It's barbaric!”

"It's quite safe," said the doctor.

She wasn't supposed to be hearing this conversation. They thought she was asleep. And she was—sort of. This fever had wrestled her down days ago. Now it was knocking her in and out. Up and down. Her head felt like a balloon bobbing between the earth and the sky.

Her father was talking. It was a low, furious declaration. Her doctor countered,

“It's a biopsy of inches, Mr Bennet. Two small inches. And, I'm afraid at this stage of her illness, it's non negotiable.”

Her parents fought it. In the echo of the argument she heard the sound of prior parental chastisements, multiplied by a thousand...This wasn't safe...it wasn't safe...


”It wasn't safe!" said her father. "Liam Bennet, not only did you risk yourself in that regalia, you let your sister—your only sister—climb up to the centerboard to flip the boat!

“I did not!” Liam scowled. “I never would. It was my fault she came along. I grant you that, Da, but I wouldn't have wanted the lass in a spot of trouble."

"It's true, Da. I climbed onto the board before he could grab me. It didn't take much strength to push down and--”

"When you have children of your own, the pair of you," said her mother, "you'll both know what it's like to have your heart split in two watching them risk their lives over something so ridiculous."

“I was nearer and it would have turtled completely,” protested Elizabeth, her small features alight. She was a pale creature, with soft dark hair that was somehow always prone to tangling. As she pushed whisps off her face, she revealed the key to her argument's success. The passion in her green eyes. “Liam cursed me out a storm, to be sure, Da. Don't carry on at him. He wanted me safe. So I let him rehook the sail to the boom, check the lines himself and--”

"Generous of you," groused Liam.

“You'll both be grounded from here to kingdom come before I ever let the pair of you take to the ocean again,” said their father.

"The sight of you two in that water," shuddered her mother. "That glittering sea as the wind kicked up."

She was supposed to look contrite. She knew that. But heaven help her, what a rush it had been. The sound of the waves and the kick of the wind. It was a glorious day. A glorious one. She would remember it forever. Forever and always.


Only Liam wasn't here. There were no sail boats, no races, no summertime excitement. It was winter. As cold as a the sea bottom and twice as desolate.

The Cork doctors won the day. And, a week later, when their “two small inches” turned septic, the bottom fell out.

They drained the infection from her back. Her edema worsened to pneumonia. She was hallucinating by then, trapped in fever dreams that turned hospital walls to snowy mountains. White owls flocked around her.

If she'd been lucid enough to realize it, she would known that the owls were doctors muttering words like “specialist,” “pediatric,” “nephritis,” and London. Her very first flight in a helicopter (her first flight anywhere) came shortly after. To an exalted hospital with one of the finest pediatric specialists in Great Britain.

Somehow she knew she was in London. She knew her parents were there, hovering close. It was never dark here, never quiet. Never home.

Slowly the mountains melted down. The white owls were men again. For the first time in weeks she could breathe, could feel an inch of air between the lead in her lungs. And her parents were talking.

“I thought they'd be here by now,” murmured her father. “It's half past six, right around supper. Ronan said they'd be here.”

“It's too much. For my sister and her husband to pay for us to stay in Cheapside while we're here? It's too much.”

“Love-”

“We'll never pay it back!”

“If we had the money, would you spend it on your daughter?”

“That and more besides, as you well know.”

“Then it's enough. It's just enough.”

“Shhh, Lizzy's waking.”

The light was bright, she realized. Too bright for home. The room was painted pale blue and stencilled with yellow stars. Monitors beeped by her side. She'd dreamed about this, she realized hazily. Somewhere between yesterday and last week, she'd dreamed about stars.

Or maybe it was just a moment away from her dreams. Maybe she'd seen the stars when she woke up...This was giving her a headache...

“There's our lovely lass,” spoke her father. “Gave us a fright, you did.”

“Properly terrified,” agreed her mother tearfully. “And the lads along with us.”

Somewhere between "terrified" and "us", she started to drift off again. When she woke once more, she realized that the world hadn't moved again. She was still here. Still seeing fear and fatigue in her parents, and in her brothers too. They were here, and wasn't that grand? Redheaded Seamus Bennet, the oldest of the lot, warm, steady and strong. Stoic Killian. Blithe Liam. Steady, silent Magnus. They were the kindest, smartest, strongest boys in the world. Invincible. It hurt to see them wounded by the sight of her.

Even if they tried valiantly to hide it.

“Clever time to go on holiday,” fourteen year old Liam teased gently. “Knew you didn't want to sit that maths exam. Next time I'll come up with an easier way for you to do it.”

“Liam,” frowned their mother, even as Elizabeth managed a cracked-lipped smile.

“London's not the city for you, Kitten,” added Seamus.

“It's too crowded,” said Killian. “No water in sight. Odd place to start a new year.”

“You can't hear the sea when you open the window,” finished Magnus in sign. "But you'll like the lights."

Dizzy, she smiled at his wavering face. Only a year her elder, the youngest Bennet brother seemed strong enough to move the world. He was her Irish twin. The smartest of them all. And deaf as a stone.

She wanted them near her. Especially Magnus. He was silent and strong, and would make no demands of her.

But she was tired. So tired. Her bones burned. The more people here, the less air seemed to be in the room. How long had they been here? Minutes? Hours? Illness muddled her sense of time. Minutes awake with a pounding headache could feel like hours. Hours asleep could seem like days.

New Year, she realized. That meant it was either the 31st or the 1st.

Christmas had come and gone. Their tree, she thought miserably. Their beautiful fir with the angel ornament atop it. It would by dry now, best fit for kindling. The holiday had come and gone. There would be no smell of sweet sap. No visits from cousin Jane, or Aunt Eithne and Uncle Rhys. She wasn't well at all. Certainly not well enough to leave. She would start a new year here. Tears stung her eyes.

Her throat. They'd done something to it. Stuck something down it. It felt scratchy and sore and when she tried to speak she croaked like a frog. Her head was pounding. Pressure prickled behind her eyes.

“When--” she rasped the word, swallowed, tried again. “Home. When...”

“Love,” said her mother. Finola nearly reached for her hand but thought better of it and touched her hair instead. “We'd best take things day by day.”

"Boys," said her father. "It's time for you to go. We'll see you at the hotel."

Why hadn't her mother touched her hand? Because her skin was pealing. She saw it now. And remembered. A man in a white coat and a conversation about immunoglobin treatment, benefits and side effects. It would help her nephritis in the short term, but her face would puff up and her skin would peal.

She was stuck here. Trapped. Tied to IVs and to monitors. Trapped, most indelibly of all, by her own rebellious body. She could barely talk, barely think, barely move. Her dreams were better than her waking hours.

At that moment, she took the only freedom left to her. She cried.



*~*



The police inspector's pencil wasn't yellow.

Fifteen year old Fitzwilliam Darcy noticed this with the same mute, mind-freezing horror one saw a house burn to the ground. All he could do was stare at it. The pencil wasn't yellow. It was orange. Why wasn't it yellow?

He wasn't sure why this mattered, but somehow, tonight, it seemed the point that inched him to a breakdown.

He'd never talked to a police officer before. He'd never been in an emergency room. His father, Alexander Ashford Darcy, the famed gatekeeper of Darcy & Company, was the benefactor of a dozen hospitals south of Derbyshire. But not this one. Not London's Carrack-Carrigo Hospital.

All Darcy men attended Eton. But his father had little affection for London, despite the fact that much of it was a glory to his name. Or perhaps because of it.

His northern-born mother preferred Sheffield.

These were bullet point facts, and yet somehow, since the accident, Will couldn't move beyond them. His mother loved Sheffield. Her name was Anastasia. His father was Alexander Ashford Darcy. Alex in the boardroom and Ashford at home. His mother murmured "Ashford" in that soft way that used to make Will blush just to hear it. They were a world unto each other. They loved him. They loved his sister. Without them, the framework of his life collapsed.

“My sister,” Will choked as the doctor's tweezers dug into his back. “I need to be with her.”

“Mr. Darcy--” said the doctor.

He shook his head. The ravine. He was seeing it again...

“That's not my name,” he said dizzily. “It's my father's.”

“Fitzwilliam, then. I understand that you're frightened-”

The tremble of his hands hid his flinch. He couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't stop.

“You don't," he whispered. "You can't...”

“Your sister is quite safe in our pediatric ward. In the meantime, your shoulder and back need immediate treatment. Once this is tended to, then you can see your sister. We'll keep you safe, Fitzwilliam. I promise.”

“And I have a few more questions,” the inspector gently spoke up. It was a female, tall and thin, with a long nose and glasses she pushed up whenever she scribbled notes. Which was most of the time. “Fitzwilliam, the party your parents attended tonight..”

“The Clifford-Dabneys.” The fifteen year old inhaled in an unsteady, choking breath. “We go there every New Year's Eve.”

“And was Mr Darcy the driver, or was it Mrs Darcy?”

“It was my father.”

Behind him, glass shards were spitting into a stainless steel bowl. It was a soft sound. Cool, quiet clinks. Again and again and again. The shudder that coursed through him had nothing to do with the pain of extraction.

He was hearing it again. A shower of hail that struck in cold, quick blows. The patter of icy rain as it soaked into the muddy ground. If he closed his eyes, he'd be there again. Right there. Face down in the reeds and the mud while he waited for the world to end.

“And Mr Darcy,” the inspector continued, “he was in good spirits this evening?”

“What?” Will rasped.

“Your father, he chose to leave before the party ended?”

Will forced a nod.

“Why?”

Because Will's one-year-old sister was growing fussy, and they had plans for the next day. Because Father was going to tell him if the lake was solid enough to skate on. Because his mother was going to make leek sausages and tomatoes. Because they'd planned to build a fire in the study and play board games before supper. Because he'd never known loss. Because he'd never known emptiness...

A nurse gasped. Not because of the tears blurring his vision, Will realized numbly. Because of the blood sliding down his arm in a thin rivulets. Spillover from the gashes on his shoulder.

“Doctor Colshek, the boy's hand. Here, let me help.” The nurse rushed forward. “How's his back looking, Doctor? Getting all that glass out?”

The doctor behind him grumbled something that might have been reassuring. Or maybe not. From the moment Will clawed ashore with his sister to now, every question felt fuzzy and indistinct.

“So it was the ice,” said the inspector, scribbling with her orange pencil. “The bridge had iced over and when the car hydroplaned, it-'

The tweezers dug deep. They'd given him local anesthesia for his shoulder and back. He felt as if it had numbed his mind as well, but when applied pressure touched a nerve, Will couldn't help but gasp and cry out in revolt.

“Don't--”

A large chunk of bloodied glass plopped into the tray.

“That was the last one,” the doctor declared. “You must prepare yourself, Fitzwilliam. Between this and the whiplash, you will feel terribly sore tomorrow.”

Now a nurse was handing off silken thread and surgical scissors. He couldn't feel the stitches. He wasn't there at all. Darkness spun and circled around him. Will pressed his palms to his eyes, breathing deep. He was back in the car, watching the water level rise. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't scream, couldn't fight...

“Fitzwilliam?” A warm hand touched his. His mother, of course. It had to be.

Opening his eyes felt like a second death. Not his mother. The nurse. A middle-aged woman who reminded him vaguely of his year-nine Latin teacher. He'd never liked year-nine Latin.

“Fitzwilliam?” repeated the nurse. “Did you hear the doctor? You bear no signs of concussion, but you and your sister will need to stay for observation. The doctor will arrange for a bed next to her crib in the pediatric unit. Do you have another guardian to call? Also, it's quite cold outside, what with the rain, and and the ice...” Will knew he must have blanched, as the nurse faltered before finishing, “but we've found you a shirt. Carrack-Carrigo Hospital. You can wear it when you're discharged tomorrow. We'll get you sleep wear as well for tonight. Do you need me to fetch the man who brought you here? Is he a family member?”

Will said nothing. Somehow this was interpreted as yes. Soon the curtains to his ER cubicle fluttered. There stood one half of his rescue team. Half the couple who'd found him on the bank.

“All done?” the man asked quietly. He was a big man, but not as big as he'd seemed hours earlier, looming in the darkness. “I won't ask if you're okay. No need to.”

Will said nothing. When the curtains had moved, he'd wanted it to be his parents. He knew it couldn't be, but...God, he'd wanted it.

“I'm grateful we were driving across that bridge tonight,” continued the visitor. “Even more grateful that we saw you and your sister.”

Will pushed off the exam table. Sore tomorrow, the doctor said? He could already feel it in his legs, in his lower back, in his feet. In his hands and neck. His socks were still wet. His bones ached. Unsteady hands reached for what the nurse had left him. His own buttoned-down shirt, his Sunday best, was gone. The hospital had destroyed what was left, ruined slices splattered with blood. The shirt offered was stamped with the hospital name. A white cotton tee with blue lettering. He tugged it on with a humorless grimace. For the first time in generations, a Darcy was shirtless. Fabric scrapped across freshly sewn stitches.

“That inspector will want you to go home with a guardian. You have family to call?”

Again, Will said nothing. He'd been fifteen at the start of this day. Now at the end of it, he felt older than Abraham. His bones screamed as he bent to tighten the laces of his wet shoes.

“My wife and I will be in town for some time,” the man continued quietly. “We'll be staying in London, near this very hospital. We're not in a bad way for money, and we'd happy to give you and your sister a place to stay while you wait for---”

“For no one,” said Will, hooking on his wristwatch with cold concentration. The crystal dial was cracked, the hands stilled. He didn't care. He had to do it. He had to move. “There's no one.”





Chapter 2




"Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail." ~Persuasion, by Jane Austen. Volumn 1, Chapter 4




In Brief: New Years Eve Accident Claims Two Lives

Hyport Bridge, Sayersville: A single motorcar broke through the Hyport Bridge barrier and submerged into the river, Friday, 31 December, 19:00. Friday's ice storm is believed to be the cause of the accident. Two survivors, both minors, were transported to Carrack-Carrigo Hospital, condition unknown.

Frederick Wentworth winced. Last night had been no night for a drive. Between the hail hammering at the windows and the rain soaking the streets, he'd grown cold just walking from Clissold Park to Clapton Square. A dunk into river water would have been the death of him.

Only two had survived. Two minors. As for the rest...

The vehicle, completely submerged, was eventually recovered by local police. Both the driver and the front side passenger were declared deceased at the scene. Names of the victims have been withheld whilst authorities notify next of kin.

Lord, if there was one thing he hated reading about, it was families ripped apart.

“Fred.” A steely voice whispered across the kitchen. “Frederick!”

His gaze drifted above the headlines. His sister was glowering at him in her night robe. Or, more to the point, in their mother's abandoned pink robe. An odd fit for his sister. Sophia hated flowers. She hated pink. She hated pink flowers or flowery pinks.

But the lack of heat (they'd mailed a check. Dated for ten days hence), and the temperature dipping meant desperate measures.

Which neatly matched the look on his sister's face, now that he thought of it. Desperation.

“Where's Mum?”

“Asleep.” He turned the page. Their mother had never been anyone's idea of a morning bird. Her shift at the factory had never allowed it.

“And Dad?”

Fred's glowering silence was his answer. That and the bin full of beer cans below the sink. Their father was the only place he'd ever be on New Year's Day. Sleeping off his hangover.

“And what are you doing?” Sophia questioned as he tossed down his paper and reached for his coffee mug.

He took a small sip. What kettle brewed coffee lacked in punch, it made up for by virtue of being the only thing in the house that was warmer than his hands.

“Pretending this tastes good.” His calm answer came with a smile, all the broader because his sister was so tightly wound. “What are you doing, Soph?”

“I was just--” she folded her arms, diverted. “Weren't you headed to that party on Well Street last night?”

“Yes.”

“And you took Connie Hallet,” Sophia continued.

“Sure,” said Frederick.

“And how did it go?”

"Fine."

"And?"

“And," he eased back in his chair, "we went to Rio's house. We ate some food. We danced. I took her home.”

“And?”

“And,” Frederick rubbed his neck, “I thanked Connie for coming with me and told her I'd see her at school on Wednesday.”

“Frederick,” Sophia frowned. “Connie has a massive crush on you. She begged me to set you two up.”

“Sophie. Me and blind dates,” He winced. “I don't think they go together.”

“Connie's a nice person, Fred.”

“Sure, she is,” he agreed before draining the last of his coffee in a swill.

“And?”

“You know where the waterline reaches for Connie Hallet?”

Sophia was a clever girl, resourceful and sharp, but even her blue eyes blanked that reference. “The...what?”

“The waterline,” Frederick lifted his empty mug to demonstrate. “The more cargo on a ship, the lower a boat dips. When the waterline grazes the fill mark on a hull, it means the ship has reached the maximum weight. It can't manage any more and still maintain buoyancy.”

Her eyes said 'where do you learn this stuff?' Her lips said, “And what does this have to do with anything?”

“That line stops for Connie at pop music and the fashion,” he finished. “I don't blame her for it, but I need a ship that goes deeper than that.”

“Frederick—” Sophia sighed. She shared his blond hair, and the penchant for mussing it when she was agitated. “You're a great kid. You're charming. You're friendly. You have a lot of friends. You're great at parties. You're a catch, plain and simple.”

"Why does this list of nice things sound like it's about to become an insult?"

“You have so much going for you, you're way too young to limit yourself. You're seventeen. You won't find perfection. It's not like the next person you date is going to be the person you end up marrying. Why not just focus on having a good time?”

He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Like you did last night with Peter Owsley?”

“I just wish you'd--” Sophia's cheeks reddened. “How did you know about him?”

"I'm not stupid," he countered. "And he's nearly forty."

“Will you tell Mum and Dad?”

“Will you?” he demanded.

“Frederick, I'm twenty years old.”

“And he's nearly forty,” Frederick repeated as he stood, balancing cereal bowl and coffee mug.

“I'm not a teenager like you are. I'm allowed to go places with people.”

“I know,” Frederick said, dropping both items in the sink. A quick twist of the faucet handle and a dash of soap and he began scrubbing.

“I know he's not in love with me,” Sophia continued.

Frederick scowled. “Don't tell me that.”

“Peter and I have a right to enjoy our time together.”

“I don't like him.”

“I know, but-”

“And if I have to look at him with you, I want to know that he cares about hurting you.” He shut off the water again and reached for a towel. “Because if he doesn't, he'll answer to me.”

“Frederick,” Sophia remarked him wryly. “He's a grown man. He's not a kid you can rough up in the playground. Anyway, he won't hurt me. We want the same things. He doesn't care that we're poor, and I don't care that he's--he's--”

“You need a word or two?” Frederick smiled pleasantly. “I think I know a few.”

“Funny.” A knock on the door halted further reply. Cheap plaster and cheaper insulation meant a single pound was enough. Not for the knocker, though. The knocks kept up, brief hurried taps that were sure to--

“Wake the whole building, why doesn't he?” Sophia huffed. “One more knock, and I swear I'll--”

Fred tossed the dish towel aside. “I'll get it.”

“If it's Peter, no you won't. I'll get it.”

“Peter's known for waking early?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Then I'll get it.”

“But Frederick-” frowned Sophia.

“I'll get it,” he repeated.

“You think I need you to protect me? I'm three years older than you.”

“And three times louder. You want to wake Mum or Dad? Stop being bull-headed Soph, and let me get the bloody door.”

He was right. He knew that she knew he was right. Their father, Harry Wentworth, lovingly stated that Sophia's lungs could call the sailors from the middle of the sea. He would go. She would stay.

Another pound on the door. “I hear you, I hear you,” the teen grumbled. The 13th floor of the tower block wasn't known for early risers. He pulled the chain back just far enough to nudge the door open. Pressing one hand to the door, another to the post, he viewed their guest through little more than a sliver.

There was Handy, shifting from foot to foot. Small and slight and sturdy, Handy Melton also had the distinction of being the best roofer per pound in the Northeast. And if he was here, he was looking for his father.

“Hey there, Hand,” Fred greeted the man. "What do you want?"

“Heya, kid,” Handy shoved his fingers into paint splattered overalls. “Your dad's not in today, is he?”

“In,” confirmed Frederick as he slid the chain from the latch and pulled the door back. “But not up.”

“That's a shame, that's a shame. It's a real shame.” Handy was nervous, bouncing back and forth in the hallway. “Miska has a job. A real good job. Roofing work, so the money's good. Needs a few extra contractors, so I told him I knew a guy who-”

“Knew a guy,” Frederick finished.

“Right, so I went looking for Harry. But if he ain't in...”

"Roofing?" Frederick frowned. “Heard the weather forcast for today?”

“Rain.” Handy winced. “Bloody poor sky, as it is every New Year. If it keeps pourin' like it has done, I'll make like Moses and plan for an ark...”

“Noah,” corrected Frederick, distracted. “What are we talking, Hand? Some broken lead? A patch job?”

“Not even. Like I said, easy money. 'Cept for the rain, of course,” said Handy. “A gutter clean, that's all. Some posh lord who don't want his flower garden flooded. But we can't take no drunk workers, Freddie. Your dad's a quick hand, save for when he hits the bottle. Miska don't need no fool on a wet roof. If Harry's got a headache, I know a mate in Tottenham who-”

He needed today to study. He needed the day for reviewing his calculus notes. He needed today for a game of football, or a nap, or a stroll.

He needed today for a paycheck. Handy was right. Roofing work was ready cash.

“Handy,” Frederick said. He gestured him inside. “Give me five minutes.”

Handy's eyes narrowed. “Five minutes to do what?”

“To get ready to work.”



**


Electricity, Frederick could cope without. Heat could be more a matter of finding the right kindling than cash. His tastes were decidedly simple. He didn't care what he wore. He knew poverty. He didn't always like it, but he knew how to live with it.

But he would never know how to live in a place like Kellynch Hall. The home itself seemed more fortress than mansion, twin towers included. He thought it reeked of ego, and antiquated power.

He'd take the council house a dozen times over this. He didn't enjoy poverty, but at least he understood it. A handshake in a place like that meant a meeting in peace; a fist meant a fight.

Not here. The servants hunched dutifully as they carried out their chores. They willingly divided corridors, as if the ones doing the serving weren't equal to walk in the presence of the ones they served. They fretted over every error, every spill, every stain.

A maid, a small, dark haired abigail in full gray frock and apron, served as their escort. She guided them through the delivery courtyard, into the cook's kitchen, up a narrow staircase, down darkened corridors, and into a storage attic. At the far end, at the top of a series of steps, was an oaken door that led to the roof.

Before they opened it, she had warnings to offer.

“Kellynch Hall is one of the oldest estates in the county, and one of the only ones with a full and active wait staff. His lordship's family is quite used to having people about. But if you see Lord or Lady Elliot, you mustn't speak to them, or interfere in any way with their daily activities. His Lordship doesn't like when the staff intrudes. Do you understand?”

She wasn't through. If speaking to the Lord and Lady held a penalty, a glance at the daughters meant swift, sudden banishment.

“Lastly, his lordship is quite protective of his daughters. You mustn't look at them, speak to them, or in any way acknowledge their presence. Any attempt to do so, and you will be immediately escorted from the premises.”

“Right o, Miss',” confirmed one of the roofers. Miska tipped his hat. Handy nodded. Chauncy smiled at the maid, a thin faced grin that seemed an odd fit for his mouth full of teeth. When she'd flitted away, Chauncy elbowed Frederick. “Nice little thing, ain't she? Seems to like you well enough. See how she smiled at you?”

He hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy pondering the fact that a hundred years ago, his family could have lived here. And not as a 'lordship.'

Navigating the slippery, sliding down the balustrade of the east wing roof, there was little to ponder but that. Protective families, he got. He understood that. He didn't care for some older guy lurking around his own sister.

But what he didn't like, what he would never like, was the assertion that he was anything less than equal to every member of this household, from the lord surveying the manor to the man digging weeds from the frost covered lawn.

It was a very big lawn. And digging through the copper box-glutters on Kellynch's glorified roof, he also pondered the fact that it was a very, very long way down. The roof's slope was slight, and the box-gutters were hidden behind a low Grecian railing. The rail would serve as a craftsman's last hope before a hard drop down to the topiary garden.

The gutter waters were soaking his gloves. The rain was drenching his hair. He was cold to the bone and clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from clicking. His parents would be furious with him for taking the day to work in the rain. His father would roast him for being impulsive. For agreeing to the job without asking him. For doing it in Harry's stead. But they'd needed the money. Even Harry Wentworth, as proud as he was, would acknowledge that.

Fred breathed out, a slow puff that crystallized in the air. It felt odd to have this much green space around him. Not unpleasant. But odd.

The hills beyond, those were nice. For a titled estate, trees here seemed few and far to come by. If he followed those hills, he could see straight to the horizon line. He could grudgingly admit that the sunset here would be beautiful.

Frederick frowned, eyes narrowing on one wavering speck on the horizon. There was someone out there. Far off, at the cusp of the hill. A figure. And it was going at a steady clip.

It was a horse. It had to be. A man on a horse. Some fool willing to brave the rain for a quick ride. Too fast. He knew more about horse powered engines than horses, but he knew speed when he saw it.

Not a man, he decided. Too slight. A woman. Or a girl. His eyes were sharp. Not sharp enough to see anything much, but sharp enough to tell that the figure was slender. Slight.

He was also astute enough to realize no one would have leave to ride horseback on the exalted Elliot land unless that person was an Elliot herself.

Not the mother. A Lady who'd chosen this house, this life, this title, wouldn't risk it by riding so recklessly. One of the daughters. Foolish to do it in the rain. If the horse slipped on a turn, if he bucked her...

He watched her go, his own body primed, his jaw tight, until she rode out of sight. The jolt of concern he felt, real and hard and sharp, had him digging in the gutter again. The Elliot estate might put him on edge, but antipathy wasn't part of Fred's nature. He cared because it was his nature to care. He didn't want to see someone hurt, Elliot or otherwise. Maybe if he was trapped here, he'd ride in the rain, too.

The sieve in the joint was clogged. He dug in, pulled the sieve out, shook it clean. That would prevent further overspill, though they'd have to wait for the world to dry up a bit before they saw the effects of his labor.

“Wentworth,” shouted Miska. “You done?”

“Yeah.” Frederick called back. It was nearly too cold to move. Nearly too cold to stand. Nearly, but not quite. He stretched and reached for his bucket. “I'm done.”



**




Anne Elliot—nee The Honorable Adrianna Nieves Hanan Elliot, second daughter of the Baron of Kellynch—had wept for much of her ride. She'd ridden Nubero harder and faster than even his namesake accorded. She'd clenched her hands around her reins and ridden until she was dizzy from the chill. Until her breath came in great gulps. Until the property line stopped.

When she trudged back from the stable to the house, her cheeks felt burnt from the cold. Beneath her green velvet riding helmet, her dark brown curls were damp and tangled. Her boots were slick against the marble floor of the receiving room. Her riding clothes, a forest green wool to match her hat, were splattered with mud.

“Anne? Anne!” called Marguerite after her sister. “Dios, you're a mess.”

“Am I?” Anne questioned woodenly. She unhooked the pearl buttons of one leather riding glove, tugged it off in a single slide, then worked on the second. “How many I help you, Marguerite?”

“Well...you told me you'd go to London with me this weekend. I wanted to go today.”

“No,” Anne spoke quietly, “not today.”

“But I need a new skirt.”

“I'm sorry, Marguerite, but I can't go. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“But you promised.”

“Marguerite, I said no,” she answered sharply.

Marguerite blinked. Her youngest sister knew she could spring on Anne like this because, wound tight or not, Anne was not Elisabetta. Anne wouldn't lose her temper. Anne would never be cold.

Which meant that sharp, clipped reply was worth a dozen of Betta's tantrums.

“Honestly, it's New Year. What put you in such a bad mood,” huffed Marguerite.

“Miss Anne, if you'll allow me,” remarked their doorman, stepping forward. “I shall attend to your gloves, and your riding helmet.”

“Thank you, Lewis, but I'm quite fine.”

“But Miss-”

“I know I look a mess,” she continued, “I'd rather not track mud throughout the house. If anyone asks, I'm retiring to my room to clean up.”

“With respect, Miss Anne,” he continued. “Your mother has requested your presence in her study. She was most insistent.”

"Ha!" Marguerite crowed. That was just as well. All the easier to turn on her heel and leave.

Most insistent, Anne thought as she jogged up the marble steps. Her mother being 'most insistent' was a sure sign that she was on the cusp of reprimanding Anne for something. Riding in the rain, no doubt. Lord and Lady Elliot seemed equal in what affection they deigned to offer, but her oldest and youngest sisters were on the receiving end of most 'insistent' conversations. Elisabetta was beautiful and demanding. Marguerite was childish and needy.

Anne was only Anne. Quiet, steady, studious. Except for her horse. Her horse was her indulgence. Her liberty. Her horse was the only issue on which anyone sought to correct her.

And Marguerite was right. She was leaving mud tracks. Lady Elliot would be most insistent about rectifying that as well.

A silver mirror caught her eye when she reached the second floor. Kellynch Hall was filled with them. If her father hadn't been born a baron, he would have been made for the stage. He was a beautiful man, tall and slender, with sharply carved features and wavy black hair. He loved mirrors.

Anne was so accustomed to them she largely forgot their shining presence save for when they proved useful. Now, for instance.

There was a boy in the hallway. By the grace of the mirror she could see his reflection before she stepped forward, turned the corner and smacked directly into him.

Caution had her back up a step. Curiosity stopped a full retreat. A teenage boy in their house. In their private hall. And as rain soaked as she was. Worse than her, even.

It was one of the workmen hired for the gutters. It had to be. Suddenly, the warning of their presence flooded back to her. He shouldn't be here. Not in this part of the house. She knew that, and yet she couldn't help keeping quiet. Keeping to the shadows. Watching him.

He was older than her. Closer to Elisabetta's age. He moved like a boy, but he had a man's height. His face was hidden; his back faced her. But it was a strong, fine back. Easily admired. He was tan. His arms were sturdy and strong. He had straw and honey hair, like a Nordic warrior in training.

Silent grief still clogged her throat, but it was quite another passion that warmed her blood. She hadn't thought anything or anyone could distract from the day's misery, even for an instant. Should she feel ashamed that the sight of him could?

When he moved, she slid back another silent step. Voices echoed.

“I should go. Miska is waiting," His voice caused a shock. It was deep, pleasant, and as crisply intelligent as any Etonian she'd ever met.

“Miska.” The other voice was Chloe, one of the maids. Anne could visualize her now. Round, dark haired and altogether pretty. “Interesting name.”

“It's Hungarian,” said the teen.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Than how do you know?” questioned Chloe.

“I--ask a lot of questions. Look, I should go. You told me yourself I'm not supposed to be hanging around here.”

“That's true enough. But I can't have you leave Kellynch Hall looking like a drowned rat,” teased the maid. “Of all the roofers, you fared the worst. Which means the other workmen either gave you the worst gutter, or-”

“I was the least prepared of the lot.”

“Either way, if you'll follow me, I'll take you to the linen room. We can get you a new shirt in no time.”

Anne waited until the count of ten. Slow, deliberate counts. She should take the last three stair steps, turn the corner and greet them before they passed. She knew she should. Father would be furious if he knew Chloe had let a stranger walk the halls. And it was his right to be furious. It was his house. Elisabetta would confront them headlong. Anne had never been her strong, tempestuous sister but she should have acknowledged their presence and informed her mother.

And yet she couldn't. In letting them pass she was keeping his secret. And she didn't know why. What was wrong with her today? How could she burn when she was soaked through with cold, and weep when she was hot with emotion? She was never like this. Never. She was silent and steady and calm. Dependable Anne. Except, she supposed, when a friend lost both his parents.

She bounded up the last three steps. Lady Elliot awaited.]]> BernadetteE Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 03 May 2013 19:56:07 +0100