Beginning, Section IV, Section V

Chapter XXI

Posted on May 18, 2009

Jane's eyes stared out at Pemberley's driveway, her gaze dead, as though she saw nothing of the carriage making its slow rumbling progress towards the great house, at a pace fit for a funeral procession. Next to her, my three little sisters stood, waiting with dutiful disinterest. Georgiana wriggled in anticipation, while her brother examined the carriage's crawl with a concentrated frown. My mother, fearful of the cold, had opted to remain indoors to greet Mr Darcy, now he was returned home.

His walking stick emerged first, and a servant stepped forward, eager to assist his master. Fitzwilliam Darcy moved towards them, his mien serious. He spoke with my husband, but in too low a tone to be heard. "Nothing, nothing!" My husband smiled up at the rest of his assorted family, standing on the steps of the house, awaiting him as per Darcy tradition. The sight of us all seemed to please him immensely.

Georgiana, unable to contain herself, ran towards him. "What have you brought me?" she demanded.

"How lovely too see you too, Georgiana." He smiled down indulgently at his spoilt pet of a daughter, his words as close to chastisement as they ever came. Leaning heavily on his stick, he walked up the steps. "Hello, my dear," he bent to kiss my cheek, "Jane, girls, how wonderful to see you all again. Ah, Reynolds I trust Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam have kept everything ticking over." He remarked amicably to the housekeeper, who relayed that young Mr Darcy had done an admirable job in his father's absence. "Good, good." he mumbled, walking into the house, the rest of us following.

"Might you be so kind as to have some refreshments sent, Mrs Reynolds." I asked calmly as we walked through the door.

"Already ordered, madam." she replied, sounding amazed that I doubted her proficiency as housekeeper.

Last to arrive in the drawing room, I found Mama already accosting my husband, holding on to his arm and speaking hurriedly, Jane staring uncomfortably down at her hands, my son-in-law rolling his eyes and the girls talking amongst themselves. "We have a great deal of news to acquaint you with; so much has happened since you have been gone. Only think, but six weeks, and we are all thrown into quite a spin. I must tell you…"

"Mama, let Mr Darcy be seated, he has been travelling all this day." Grudgingly, she agreed it was so, loosening her tightly frantic grip on his arm.

As he shakily lowered himself into his chair, I noticed for the first time that he did not look himself. A little pale, grey almost under his eyes, and certainly thinner than before his departure; his new clothes did nothing to conceal it. He had been ill. In the time we had been married, almost two years, he had been stricken with afflictions more than once, colds, influenza, chills and the like, perhaps on four occasions. He would emerge after a week or two looking rested and invigorated. His time with his friends had done no such favours for him.

None of the others appeared to notice. His son, at least, was unsurprised by his father's appearance; I knew that he would not appear so relatively un-phased otherwise. Past experience told me if he were concerned, Fitzwilliam Darcy would have no qualms in interrupting the reunion and questioning his father in the study.

It was this, I realised, that had been the reason for the lack of correspondence from him the previous month, and the worry that the younger Darcy had exhibited. His father had made him privy, while I had been the recipient of suspiciously sketched accounts of hunting trips instead. "Excuse me, I must see about the tea." I stood up and hurried from the room, troubled and fully aware that the scowl firmly imprinted on my brow would be questioned.

Once again, I found myself exasperated by my exclusion. Why had nobody told me he was ill? Evidently, his son knew. So why had nobody thought to make me privy to the matter? Clearly his illness had not been insignificant; his appearance was too altered for that. I wondered if it was simply that in a house full of bachelor men, he had not received the care and attention he would have at Pemberley. I dismissed that idea as ridiculous; the Earl of Harrington's estate was no doubt well managed. No, they had opted to keep me in the dark for other reasons. Once again, I was reminded of my outsider status in the family; they would never speak to me of important matters.

That evening, with us all retired for bed, I found myself knocking on the door to my husband's chamber. Having been there before, only on the occasions he was ill, I found myself understandably nervous. When bidden entrance, I remained standing awkwardly in the doorway. He was already abed, reading; he looked up as surprised to see me, as I was to find myself there. He motioned me further in to the room, indicating the chair I would sit in to read to him, but I stayed put. Biting my lip, I paused for a second before beginning, "You have not been well."

"It is nothing, just a mere trifle of a cold." His hand waved around vaguely, as if he were shooing the matter away. "I am quite well now, Elizabeth."

"It does not seem so to me, sir." I persisted, though I knew he would have the subject dismissed.

"You need not concern yourself." He was equally obstinate. "The journey has tired me a little; I am not so young as I once was. Once I am rested, I shall be quite well again. You are troubling yourself over nothing." I hated the dismissive attitude. On just one occasion could he not be honest with me? It would be easier if I did not have to constantly guess at my whole family's thoughts.

"Why did you not tell me?" I demanded, choosing to stop dancing around the real issue. He was not so ill that I needed to be overly concerned for him. The fact was, I was tired of being shut out and treated like a child. That his son knew, where I did not, rankled me terribly. Was I not deserving of any confidence? I was not a mere child of fifteen anymore.

"I did not want you troubling your head over it. Honestly, it was trivial, but on the other side of the country, you could not know that." he pandered.

"As if the handful of half-heartedly concocted lies you wrote did not worry me. I was imagining all sorts of things." He looked doubtful at my statement, knowing full well that it too was a half-truth; I was not prone to wild flights of fancy. I sighed, "I…" I stopped for a second, "Sometimes, I wish you would confide in me, instead of shutting me out, leaving me to wonder at what is happening all around. Surely that is not so much to ask?"

He looked a little taken aback, "I shall bear it in mind. I find myself most exhausted, Elizabeth. I shall bid you goodnight now." He set aside his book as I grudgingly bid him good evening, knowing full well he had absorbed nothing, and I was being dismissed for ease's sake, rather than anything else.

The following morning he did appear to be well rested and healthier; that at least was something to be relieved for, but it was hardly a great consolation.

It was custom that the girls, Jane and perhaps Mama, would arrive after breakfast, when they would go straight to the schoolroom, unless they should happen to have a message to deliver on their way up. The next morning, Jane and Mama never arrived, and Kitty and Lydia appeared in the breakfast room to inform us as such; Lydia indiscreetly adding that she had heard Jane up crying half the night.

My husband glanced quickly towards me, at this news. In return, I looked evenly back at him, before returning my attention to my tea. Georgiana asked if she could be taken to see Jane later in the day, while Kitty and Lydia had their music lesson. Darcy rose from his seat and begged he be excused, for he had something to attend to. I watched him hurry from the room, and then distractedly added more sugar to my drink.

Suspicions had niggled at me for a while that he had some part in Mr Bingley's curious departure and Jane's subsequent distress. Why, I found a little harder to comprehend. He obviously did not disapprove of Bingley, for otherwise they would never have passed so much time in one another's company. Having never kept up a particularly close friendship with any of the other young men in the neighbourhood, his warm companionship with Bingley had surprised me a little at first. Darcy was not a young man prone to forging friendships on whims, yet despite Bingley's station, their acquaintance had been made easily. Bingley looked up to, and was guided by Darcy. What Darcy, himself, gained, I had yet to decipher. Since Bingley had returned to Oxford, Darcy had appeared to be more than a little at a loss for how to pass his hours.

Nor had Darcy ever voiced, to my knowledge, any disapproval of Jane and Bingley's acquaintance – not that he had ever encouraged it either. He never had anything but praise for either of them. There was nothing objectionable in the match. It had been Darcy, too, who had convinced his father to further the acquaintance with the whole Bingley family. I had been surprised that they would, either of them, consider it, given the Bingleys' connections to trade, but they had appeared to do so with almost no prejudice.

I could not understand why he might have meddled in the affair, when initially he and his father had no objection to Bingley; my husband having even declared a match between them would be "perfect." Lacking any sort of motivation of that kind, my suspicion that Darcy had been instrumental in dividing Jane and Bingley was unfathomable.

Yet it was the comings and goings and uncharacteristic behaviour of Bingley immediately before his departure that loaned credence to my fears. Always open and cheerful, about three days before he disappeared, and a week before he was due to depart for Oxford again, he had seemed most out of sorts. It had been noticeable the instant that he reappeared after Jane, Mama and I had withdrawn from dinner. He appeared distracted and thoughtful, absently taking a seat away from Jane, and refusing the tea she served, opting for coffee, from me, instead. There he sat for a full half hour, sipping at the drink in silent contemplation, which appeared almost surly on him. When I had proposed charades, he announced that he must be gone directly, and almost ran away instantly. Nothing could persuade him against his departure, yet he was usually so pliable.

The following day, Darcy received a note shortly after breakfast excusing Bingley from hunting that morning, news that he would be good enough to inform us of. "The arrangements of his return to University must keep him greatly occupied." Jane had explained it away, with seeming unconcern. "Or whatever it was that demanded his immediate attention last evening still keeps him away."

It appeared that for her fortitude and faith, she was rewarded the following day with Bingley's return to the hunting field and the dining table. He took his usual place at Jane's side and chattered away almost unceasingly with her throughout the courses. Once or twice, I noticed him, brow quirked, watching her, as though she were a great conundrum. However, there was nothing especially astonishing in his demeanour.

That he had very nearly returned to his customary manners had put my own mind at ease. I wondered if nerves could account for his slight distraction. It did not appear to me unlikely that he might wish to speak with Jane about his departure, or that he may desire some form of promise from her. Was that not enough to make almost any man nervous and preoccupied? To me it seemed the most plausible explanation. Mama, too, could not keep from speaking of Mr Bingley's behaviour and her newfound hopes when we had withdrawn after the meal.

She would later repent though, for voicing her thoughts and altering her opinions of Bingley's worthiness for her most beautiful child, for Bingley would never reappear that evening, or for the remainder of his summer break. He simply vanished from Pemberley and our social sphere, taking Jane's spirits along with him.

"He was not even well mannered enough to take his leave and thanks us." Mama had ranted to Sophie one morning on a call. "I said he was undeserving of Jane, and how right I was. We were all so deceived by him, and oh my poor Jane. I can only hope that her looks do not fade bearing under such a great disappointment. My poor, dear girl!" Sophie had sympathetically nodded her head, as confused as the rest of us by his abnormally ill-mannered disappearance.

Bingley's behaviour, I felt, might have been the work of Darcy. That it had begun after the pair had been together, my only evidence. It was not enough. Why would Darcy, who had never appeared to have any objection to Bingley and Jane have separated them? It simply did not add up. Bingley had seemed too earnest in his admiration of Jane to behave so poorly without provocation. There had to be something behind his curious behaviour. Surely he had not deceived us all?

I wished for an opportunity to speak with Darcy on both the matter of Bingley and his father's latest illness, but the chance was made impossible. Darcy, of late was frequently evasive of all our company. At first, I attributed this to his running of the estate in my husband's absence, a task he was but vaguely acquainted with still. Two days after my husband's return, however, I had still only met him at meal times. Whether he knew I had a desire to question him on these issues or not, he neatly sidestepped my every attempt. At breakfast a few days later, he made a convenient excuse to absent himself even further, by means of a letter arriving in the post. "Cousin Harriette is to be married." he remarked to his father.

"Oh, to whom?" My husband looked up from the accounts he had been perusing, laying them aside, interested by this latest piece of family gossip.

"Sir Christopher Claughton of Bessington Hall in Shropshire." his son elaborated

"I cannot say I have ever heard of him. When did they meet?" Here was the great difference between the Darcy family and me. In wishing to hear of the latest member of their family, they had no desire to hear of his character. No, estate, connections and fortune were the news they wished to hear. It should not have surprised me. I had met the husband of the eldest Fitzwilliam daughter; Papa would never have allowed us to marry a man such as Lord Dartmore.

"Last season, but they have become reacquainted in Bath recently."

"Oh yes, I remember hearing of him now. He was the young man who…"

"Yes, that is him." His son interrupted quickly. "They are to be wed at the beginning of November. I thought I might attend the wedding; it is to be in Town."

"Oh, I suppose you must." His father agreed, with not half the eagerness he had first possessed for this newly made match. I wondered what it was the son had kept him from speaking of regarding Sir Christopher Claughton.

By the following morning, young Darcy had already made his departure, a curious choice - given that the wedding was not set until another two months away - one that surprised us all. Town no doubt held more amusements for the younger Darcy. How he had succeeded in convincing his father of it with the Grimston matter still unsettled, I could not understand. He would not return again until nearly Christmas.

My husband approached me for the details regarding Jane's melancholy within very few days. It was impossible to disregard her demeanour and subdued manner, which despite being naturally less open than mine, now possessed none of its usual serene contentment. He was intelligent enough, without my mother's wails of Bingley's misuse, to know that Bingley was the cause of all this. Reticent though I was to reveal any of Jane's intimate sentiments, I gave him to understand the events that had led up to Bingley's negligent departure with less fevered dramatics than Mama.

There was little which could be done to ease Jane's disappointment, by him or anybody else. Once more, he raised the scheme of a trip to a bathing resort, or some other similarly diverting expedition. Jane would find some benefit from a change of scenery, something new to occupy her mind; but while I might be concerned for my sister's well being, my husband's had to be considered too.

The last journey he had undertaken had been a strenuous one, though the distance had been of no great proportion. I did not care to see him undertake such an effort again so soon, and he would not hear of us going alone. "Why do you not trust me?" shamefully popped out my mouth at his forbiddance before I had time to think. We reached a compromise. I wrote to my Aunt Gardiner and begged her to allow Jane an opportunity to visit in the New Year. Nothing, surely, could be more diverting than Town would be to her.

My husband, I observed, was not so wholly content with this plan, yet he did not prohibit it. "I suppose she shall not form an unsuitable attachment so quickly if she truly is heartbroken by Bingley."

I said nothing in reply, for I agreed that she would not be up to any further form of romance, suitable or unsuitable, for a while. No, I would not make a petty argument over his arrogant words this time. Had I wished to be more awkward, there was certainly more I should have said, but it was not the time for a pointlessly heated exchange of words.

With only one exceptional occurrence, our lives passed quietly for the next few months, following the patterns of parties and calls of old. The gatherings though, had lost their appeal with the deprivation of Bingley and Darcy from the circle, for there was less and less of any real interest to observe now. The romantic entanglements of others were not half as interesting to me as those of my own family. The other women seemed to find no end of enjoyment in speculation upon new attachments and their outcomes.

Miss Grimston was visibly subdued, with Darcy's absence from Derbyshire; she had no real interest in pleasing anybody as much as him. Her calls to me continued, and while they were less frequent than before, she never failed to inquire after news of Darcy. There was no doubt in my mind, that while she was troubled by his desertion, she refused to seem excessively discouraged by it.

Instead, she focused all her sympathises on Jane, pretending that Darcy's treatment was incomparable to Bingley's treacherous abandonment of my sister. "Poor, dear Jane," she would simper to me, if Jane should not be present. "How cruel of Bingley to abuse her so, to up and leave for goodness knows how many months, without so much as a farewell."

"Aye, how right you are Miss Grimston. Mr Darcy, he seems to think nothing of it, for if he did, he would have hunted him all the way to Oxford and made him marry her." Mama rattled away cheerfully, finding such empathy from Miss Grimston.

"Mama, such an action was hardly necessary." I attempted to rein in her feelings.

"Hardly necessary? Hardly necessary? Lizzy how can you say such a thing? Can you be so callous as to ignore your sister's misery? Bingley has made her look a fool, deserting her as he did, toying with her emotions so publicly! He ought to be made to marry her."

There were many responses I could have made to this. Mama and I had greatly differing opinions on the matter of forced engagements. We would never agree, nor should I desire to air my views in front of Miss Grimston.

"No, Mrs Bennet." Miss Grimston spoke, "Jane does not look a fool. There was nothing in the dear girl's demeanour to warrant ridicule on her part. She was much reserved in his presence; I was forever having to encourage her on. No man should ever treat me so despicably as he has Jane. In truth, I confess I am surprised to see dear Jane so downcast now. No, it is Bingley who is the fool. He courted her publicly then ran off, and Jane, you know, she was the best marriage prospect he could ever hope to meet."

"Yes, yes she was." Mama drew herself up. "Never was there a girl more suited to marriage than Jane, she is so well natured. It is all my doing, you know."

"Mama firmly believes it is the wife's place, Miss Grimston," I turned to my guest with a smile, "to always be in accord with her husband."

"Too true, Mrs Darcy, too true. No man will ever marry a stubborn, spoilt woman, used to always having her own way."

Miss Grimston was not the only young lady to reduce her calls to Pemberley; Caroline Bingley stayed away entirely for some weeks. I was sorry that she would not call and eventually, deducing embarrassment kept her from us, hurried forth with Jane to call at the Bingleys' home. Jane, too, had taken some persuading before she would visit her friend again. She feared Miss Bingley, no doubt the person most privy to her brother's thoughts, would know better than anybody just what a fool she had been to give her heart to Mr Bingley. I could not blame her for wishing to spare herself one further mortification, yet I could not agree with her beliefs.

Caroline was subdued, where she was normally eager to please. Appearing as though she feared us, or our reprimands, which extended no further than my reproaching her for not calling in so very long, she was quieter than I had ever seen her before. Indeed, I hardly knew what to say to her either, and Jane was silently wrapped up in her own memories. No doubt she was replaying her past meetings with Bingley in this room, blow by blow, imagining up her own ridiculous reactions and downplaying his evident admiration until it was nothing more than the cordial manners of a newly made acquaintance. She might be burning with shame by the time we departed.

Caroline, too, was burning with shame at this meeting. I could not decide whether it was best to prolong this initial call, or to have done in as few minutes as politeness would allow. I concluded the former would have more success in reopening the acquaintance, but there seemed an embargo on every topic of conversation. I hastily made an invitation for her to dine with us the following week, and she inquired as to how we would take our tea.

The visit ended almost as awkwardly as it had begun. I chastised myself for inviting her to dine so soon, and resolved to have Sophie to ease the discomfort. Caroline returned the call within very few days. It was a pity that Jane was not present; she had again chosen to stay at Primrose Lodge. But with my sister gone, Caroline seemed more open, and voluntarily mentioned her brother. "I do not hear from him often while he is gone. I suppose he finds too much to amuse himself with, and his writing is simply appalling. But he asked me to tell you that he regretted not paying his respects before he departed so swiftly. Honestly, I do not know why he is always in such a hurry to be here and then there."

Caroline was no doubt disappointed by her brother's failure with Jane. The match would have done wonders for her in making any match, but especially the one her heart was set upon. She had some notion that when there has been one intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would have succeed, if Miss Grimston were out of the way.

Visits to the Webster family, on my tenant rounds, were reserved frequently until last. First, because I was fond of their daughter Clemency, who was just my own age, but who suffered from a lameness in her leg preventing her from much beyond sitting by the fire making wool, which I helped her with while we talked. I also chose to visit them last because I would walk afterwards. Clemency felt the cold terribly; even during the months of winter, it made me weary to sit too close, and I wished to clear my head afterwards. The footmen, knowing my habits, were instructed not to wait, as I could walk back to Pemberley alone.

It was on just one of these walks, when I had decided to walk in the opposite direction to Pemberley, that I made a new acquaintance. Her little pony and trap had driven through a pot hole at the side of the road where I was walking, quite soaking me. She had apologised profusely and insisted I go home with her, for she lived not far away. "I live not far away, at Pemberley." I told her.

She looked uncomfortable, "No, no, it would be best for you to come with me." She had declared decisively, before pulling me up to sit beside her. "Let me introduce myself, I am Mrs Harris, of Marley Grange."

"Mrs Harris," I repeated her name slowly. I wondered if she might be the same Mrs Harris whose name I had been forbidden from mentioning. "I am Mrs Darcy."

"Yes, I deduced as much, my dear," she replied dryly.

Mrs Harris. She had been mentioned to me just once, by Mrs Reynolds. When she had revealed this astonishing fact to me, she had cautioned me to never speak of "Miss Eveline" to my husband. With my marriage already tumultuous enough, I had ceded to her demands, and then almost forgotten of the existence of his sister, except for the occasional moment.

By nature, I was curious, but I was more determined to have an accepting or at least peaceful relationship with my families than to cause more arguments, so I had done as suggested.

I knew my husband's view on the purpose of marriage. I had heard but little of his first wife, but enough to know it had been a match of connections and not character. Daily I had witnessed my husband's attempts to see his son married, as soon as possible, to Miss Grimston, leading his son down the same route of mismatched misery. And finally, I had been subject to his own slurs on my poor connections, though he did at least attempt to rein them in. He had not, however, had me established elsewhere. I had often thought he could have quietly established me elsewhere, and nobody need ever have known we were wed. However, I had not been cast aside as his own sister had; I could only begin to imagine who he was and what their marriage was like.

Along with these ponderings of his estranged sister's circumstances, there was another matter; the result of this sometimes led me to consider raising the matter of his sister. When Mrs Reynolds and I had spoken of her, the housekeeper and my husband had agreed with Lady Anne's demand to sever the bond with Mrs Harris. Sometimes I wondered if he, too, was merely attempting to keep peace within a marriage. But to cast of his sister so... surely he too felt the marriage to be deplorable.

Realising I had been silent for some time, I spoke up, "How far away do you live?"

"About five miles, the journey is almost nothing." Pemberley was, I knew, far closer. I looked at the woman sitting to my left. Her countenance was familiar, more open and friendly though. And her nose, it was the same nose as my son-in-law's. She had to be the same woman.

"You have his nose." I said, almost without thinking.

"Whose nose, dear?" she turned to me sharply.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy's." I explained to her, matter-of-factly.

"I am afraid I would not know if that were so or not." she said with frankness, as though she were simply denying and acquaintance with the Darcy family, yet with a look that was almost regretful. My brief impression of her was one of a happy woman, but I supposed, given the circumstances behind her marriage, and the break with her family, she could not be entirely content. She must regret it sometimes. It was apparent though, she did not wish to acknowledge any relationship, or at least proudly deny any connection to the family who had chosen not to support her.

I chose to challenge her injured pride. "I know you are my husband's sister."

"How could you know such a thing?" She took her eyes away from the road before us, her hands tightened on the horse's reins though. There was a glint of hope in her eyes as she waited to hear if her brother finally forgave her wilfulness enough to speak her name. I was sorry to inform her all my knowledge of her came from one brief conversation with Mrs Reynolds, a woman she did not even know. I watched, repentantly, as her eyes dulled briefly, before she appeared to shrug off all emotion entirely. She looked forward at the road. "And knowing George's opinions, would you not rather walk back to Pemberley?"

"I am content to remain here, unless you should prefer I leave." I told her, sensing her uneasiness. I wished more than anything that she would allow me to stay and speak with her. My husband and his son had remained silent on many matters, and I suspected Mrs Harris may have some of the pieces of the puzzle, to help me understand my husband's motivations a little better.

"I should rather not be guilty of your catching a fever and perishing." She referred to my soaked attire. "George need not know of our meeting." She told me firmly. Evidently she was not prepared to be the first one to apologise. Darcy Pride. The answer rose freely in my mind. Just like her brother, she wouldn't admit she was wrong.

"Of course."

"Now, I doubt there is much you should do to upset him," I smirked a little, amused at the many assumptions made of the marriage between Mr Darcy and myself. "But he would be angry with me to hear I had been near Pemberley and yourself."

My husband would certainly be angry at my subterfuge; yet Mrs Harris was the first Darcy who I thought might tell me something. Perhaps she would have the answers to his dogged pursuit of a good marriage for his son. After all, there must be more behind his determination than his ridiculous marriage to me. I knew that it was not quite the disaster he had first made it appear. A second marriage, when the first had been such an exemplary connection, could not be frowned on too much. Of course, my husband may be scorned for his apparent foolishness, and I for my social climbing ambition, whether that were the truth or not. The material fact remained, that my family and I would sink into obscurity again, and the whole union would have left no tragic consequences.

No, the root of my husband's deep rooted determination, I suspected, came from the truth behind both Mrs Harris' marriage and his own first one. All the Darcys so far had been perversely tight lipped about it, from only Fitzwilliam Darcy, had I an inkling that Lady Anne and his father had disliked one another. Perhaps it had been something on the part of my husband's parents; something that Mrs Harris might be at liberty to tell me, if only to me alone.

I simply longed to know; my husband's inability to be open had bothered me for a long time. Silence had been nothing but a hindrance to our acquaintance. We lived together, in the same house, but I knew nothing of the thoughts and feelings of any of them. My husband, I had often realised, was much more conscious of my thoughts and feelings, though I could not exactly claim openness myself. I could sympthise, I suppose, that he would not really wish to confide in a wife forced upon him, and so much younger than himself, but I could still resent his failure to make the effort; keeping me at a distance, while he felt he had the right to cross question me, my thoughts and my emotions. I hated his failure to treat our marriage as one between equals.

A little frankness and truth could make our marriage easier, surely?

"So, how did you come to hear of me? Mrs Reynolds, I have heard, is not a woman given to gossip – especially gossip of the Darcy family. No, Lady Anne's choice would have to be a faultless one."

"Your portrait, I saw it when Mrs Reynolds took me on a tour of the house."

"Still hanging in the gallery?" she looked forward as she spoke this time.

"No, the east sitting room."

"Of course, nobody ever goes in there." She made a smiling grimace as she spoke. "I could not expect any less than accord from Anne and George on that front."

"Why?" I turned to her again, in surprise; I had thought they never got along.

She made no reply, only smiled, apparently she was no more willing to speak of it than my husband or his son. "I suppose," I spoke up again after a brief silence, "he would have put it back, were he unhappy with the decision to move it."

"Precisely, my dear." She nodded slowly. I studied her face closely, she did not seem particularly disturbed by what could only be a devastating conversation. "Oh, you must not mind me. I made my peace with George's decision to cast me off a long time ago now." she continued. Except I did not believe this could be the truth.

Marley Grange turned out to be a farmhouse, independent of all the estates in the area, and perhaps grander than most farmhouses were; a pleasant Jacobean building. Certainly, the Harris' were prosperous, even if they were nothing more than farmers. Still, it had not been prosperous enough for a Darcy daughter. For a Bennet daughter, at least before my marriage, it should not have been untenable, not, though, the type of match my mother would have aspired for us to make. The difference in situation was startlingly obvious. I could not begin to imagine how Mr and Mrs Harris had ever managed to become acquainted.

Mrs Harris ushered me through the farm yard, stopping only to give affection to a wandering Old Spot sow, and led me into a kitchen, calling out, "Maisie, fetch your dressing gown please." A young girl, much my age, appeared after a few minutes. My own wet gown was handed to a maid to scrub the stains out and then hang in front of the fire, "Maisie dear, would you make some tea for us?" She turned to the girl, before bustling me into a sitting room and placing me as close to a fire as possible.

She proceeded to fret over my comfort for the next few minutes, until Maisie reappeared with the tea, and served me, then Mrs Harris. "My youngest daughter, Margaret," she explained, "Maisie, this is Mrs Darcy." she told her daughter, who's eyes widened with the news of such an illustrious guest under the roof of Marley Grange. Maisie whispered a good day before her mother reminded her to practice her music. Apparently she did not wish for Maisie to be overly exposed to a Darcy. I suspected her daughter did not know of my relation to her mother.

"Do you have any other children?" I asked her, for the sake of conversation.

"Yes, three of each. Hester and Lillian are married now, Andrew, my oldest boy, is out with his father, Joseph is at university, and my Nate is at school."

"I have four sisters." I offered, "but no brother, I always wished for a brother."

"And George's children, how do you find them?" she asked conversationally.

"How do you think I should find my stepchildren, Mrs Harris?" I took a sip of my tea.

"I take you point." she smiled at me, "They have proven themselves to be indecently stubborn, no doubt."

"Georgiana is more manageable than she was; she and my sisters have been the most excellent influence on one another. But I am not her favourite person still."

"I imagine with Fitzwilliam, the matter is more complex." My head tilted to the side, hoping she might give me some insight. "He is a grown man, it is inevitable that it would be more awkward for the pair of you." She was incredibly empathetic. "When Andrew and I were first married," she continued on thoughtfully, "his mother was still alive. Goodness, but she resented me! I am sure I shall be just the same when Andrew brings his wife home, and I doubt I shall be any better when the other two are wed. I had stolen her son off her, and more than that, the business connection with the Darcys of Pemberley had been severed, all for me. I imagine the perspective of my brother's children is similar."

"In Fitzwilliam's case particularly." I laughed dryly. "He finds the connection hard to understand even now, that his father would connect himself to somebody with so little to offer them." I remembered the conversation I had overheard between my husband and his son on the day I had arrived. Really, the son's warmth towards me had increased but little over almost two years.

"There are, of course, tales I cannot tell you." Mrs Harris looked across at me, her lips pierced, left eyebrow raised. I nodded my head, more than a little disappointed. "Nobody ever speaks to you of me, because of the shameful connection I made in marrying. I was cast off, and George has never intended for there to be any reconciliation between the two of us. I had always hoped that Anne was the main perpetrator of my excommunication from the family, Anne and Aunt Darcy were quite a fearsome partnership, you know, and George could do little beyond cow to the pair of them. I thought it was an attempt to keep the peace. But Anne has been dead a decade and more now, and he has made no attempt to acknowledge me. I was ordered to stay away from Pemberley and his family, and I have done as he desired. Besides, I refuse to slink back as though I am to apologise for my happiness."

"Will you tell me about it?" I asked her. Still convinced the marriage of my husband's sister was the root of all the confusion, pride and self driven injury within the Darcy family.

Mrs Harris had been sent to school upon the death of her mother, when she was but fourteen. It had been on the whim of Lady Anne, who had married Mrs Harris' brother not many months before this occurrence. Two years later, she was brought back to Pemberley, ostensibly to be under the tutelage of her widowed aunt, Lady Helena, and Lady Anne, but beyond the reprimands of the two ladies for her lack of well bred behaviour, they remained distant from Mrs Harris. She was wont to spend far more time with her brother, when he was not consumed with attempting to run the estate, or in the nursery with little George Darcy, who was ignored by both his parents. During this time, Eveline began to believe that it was her brother who had requested she return home.

Her brother, she explained to me, was obviously discontent in his marriage, if not in his general disposition, and husband and wife preferred to spend as little time in one another's presence as possible. In the spring, Lady Anne and Lady Helena departed for town; Mr Darcy though, opted not to accompany his wife and sister-in-law, and stayed at Pemberley with his sister, who at the time was only sixteen and therefore not out. Yet though Mrs Harris' brother had remained at Pemberley with his little sister, she was left to her own amusement, seeing but little of her brother. On a solitary ride out in the countryside, she had first met Mr Andrew Harris, a rugged young farmer, who had lent her a horse of his when her mount threw a shoe.

Eveline had been the one who, in her loneliness, had pushed to keep the acquaintance alive. Harris had been less certain, but found he could not deny her request for friendship, despite knowing that he ought not be engaging in anything but the basic civilities with Miss Darcy of Pemberley. It was not long before the couple found themselves to be in love, though they neither of them confessed their feelings to one another.

When Lady Anne and Lady Helena returned, they heard of the affair quickly. Angered, they had demanded that Eveline remain inside the house. It was even suggested that she return to school, "anything to keep her away from that fortune hunting scoundrel!" She had been surprised to discover she did not have the support of her brother in the matter.

"Our argument dragged on for months. George called me into his study repeatedly, for long discussions on what it meant to be a Darcy. He walked me up and down the gallery, talking about relatives long dead, they were a long list of titles and achievements, honour and glory. They lacked all the sparkle and life of my Andrew though. I remember being repulsed by George as he proudly pointed to one particular Miss Darcy who had made a decent match only to later see herself promoted to the position of Duchess; she had the favour of Charles II, George had said; it was not impossible for me to understand his meaning. To know that he would want such a thing of me, I was never more appalled in my life.

"He said to me, 'To know that you have brought honour to your family ought to be the greatest pleasure you can ever know.' But I had found myself utterly incapable of sacrificing the happiness I had found with Andrew for their sakes. George would have none of it, determined that my seventeen year-old self could have no notion of what was best for me. He and Lady Anne were, for once, in complete accord over the matter. And George, priggishly convinced of my ignorance of life and its expectation, went so far as to begin the proceedings for arranging a marriage. To Lady Anne, I had dishonoured myself fully, and she would not involve any of her illustrious Fitzwilliam relatives, but she and George both believed that one of my poorer Esmonde cousins, my mother's youngest brother's family, might be convinced.

"Before I could even blink, it was all arranged; he was the son of the younger of my two uncles, a captain in the army, though his career would undoubtedly progress pleasingly, with the Esmonde name to support him. He was quite willing to marry me for my fortune. Whether or not he was aware of my feelings for Andrew, I do not know; George would have done all in his power not to confess to the shameful attachment though." She paused, looking distant for a second.

"You married Mr Harris anyway?" I verbally prodded her to continue her story. "How did that come about?"

She looked up at me with a guilty half smile. "We eloped. I was well raised and educated, I knew perfectly well how irresponsible my actions were, but I was desperate over the prospect of marriage to my cousin, of being sent away and never seeing Andrew again. So we ran away to Gretna Green. George had us followed, of course, determined that I would not foist misery on the family. He was not fast enough though. The deed was done, and he arrived too late for any of it to be undone.

"At the end of it all, I was as glad to be free of him, as he was I, I think. Now, I do not mean to sound as though I have no affection for my brother; indeed I do. Where his heart is concerned, he is a fool. We two saw so differently over the matter. If I was selfish and wilful for desiring my own happiness above my family's, then so be it. To be married to anybody except my Andrew would be misery of the acutest kind; I simply cannot begin to imagine it.

"It is a pity then that your brother never met a woman he could love and respect." I commented unthinkingly.

Mrs Harris raised an eyebrow at me, and I blushed, too late realising my blundered confession. "No. George always intended to marry Lady Anne or some other equally overqualified girl of the ton." She chose not to elaborate any further on this response. Her tone implied finality; I was not to question it further.

"Had he met the right woman, you might have been surprised."

"And how do you know he did not?" she replied vaguely, raising one thousand questions, and not answering any.

"I..." my eyebrows pucked into a puzzled frown and once again I felt irked and frustrated by my ignorance of the man I had married. There was no way I could know because he did not let me know.

"My brother is as good a Darcy as ever there was. He was successfully raised with the perfect amounts of pride and decorum, instilled with a sense of duty, and most importantly of all, he has ambition and is stubbornly willful. Yet to all that, he remains a good man at heart. The connection between he and I may very well be severed, but even at the time, when his anger must have been far greater than it is now, he wished to see me comfortable. He did not vindictively run Andrew off his land and away from Derbyshire, for it was within his power to do so. And misguided though it may have been, he ensured I would be comfortable. Andrew might not have been gifted with my thirty thousand pounds, but George made over some money in my name, we have never used it, of course, but it is there, for the children, should they ever need it." She shrugged lightly, before offering me another cup of tea and ensuring I was warm enough.

In the other room, I heard the back door into the kitchen shutting. "Eve?" a male voice called out in question. Mrs Harris stood up and hurried to see him, with a glowing 'excuse me.' I sipped my tea, while I awaited her return. I could hear two voices talking, but could distinguish nothing of the murmurs blurred by the walls. "Andrew," Mrs Harris explained with a smile when she returned, "he shall not be long; he just needs to wash up a little. I checked your dress, I think half an hour more and it shall be dry again, you can borrow one of Maisie's if you like." She fussed around me a little.

Andrew Harris was a good natured man, with a welcoming smile. He gave every appearance of being utterly unperturbed by my presence in his house. He did not stay for very long, he had come about coffee, and left his oldest son out in the fields whilst he fetched it. He shook my hand and chattered away with cheerful straightforwardness about his farm and his family. His open sincerity, I could tell, had been part of Mrs Harris' attraction to him; her own family was so grounded in formality and lacking in overt affection, it was inevitable she would crave it when she had confessed to feeling so alone in her youth. "May's sounding good." he commented to his wife, he nodded his head towards the room where Margaret was practicing the pianoforte. "Eve taught all our girls to play, see, Mrs Darcy. Hetty had no time for it, Lily's a fair talent though, did her well, she's married to a headmaster at a grammar school in Warwickshire now. Funny place. Well now, I should be off again, I do hope we shall see you again soon, Mrs Darcy."

I did see Mr and Mrs Harris again, though as time wore on, they suggested I stop addressing them so formally. About once a month, Mrs Harris called on her friend, and she would meet me afterwards, taking me back to Marley Grange. I learnt many things while I was there; the subject of neither her nor her brother's marriage was never explicitly discussed again, however. In passing comments, it was touched on, but I learnt no more than I already knew of Lady Anne and my husband's views on life, and the martyrdom the pair endured during their marriage. Sometimes she would talk of her childhood, growing up at Pemberley, often making mention of her parents, whose own arranged marriage had been contentedly distant, her father passing much time in town, her mother preferring to remain at Pemberley.

With great pride, she told me of her children and their accomplishments; Andrew would take over the farm, Joseph wished to become a doctor and Nathaniel hoped to become an attorney. Hester had married a cutlery manufacturer from Birmingham. Margaret was the child she worried over most, uncertain and shy with a propensity to stumble over words when she spoke to any but her family. Andrew, Margaret and Nathaniel were the only three of her children living at home during this period; I would not meet the other three until necessity called them home again.

My visits were kept a secret to everybody. Mrs Harris wished for her brother to remain in ignorance, and I had agreed somewhat unwillingly, knowing he would be angry if the visits ever became common knowledge. For some reason though, my insubordinate visits allowed me to grow closer to my new family and understand their ways. Mrs Harris was by no means open and frank with me on all occasions, but she had a humorous understanding of the odd little quips and fancies of her brother and his children. To her, I could be frank in my exasperation, and she could be reasonable and sympathetic to my irritation. At times I still felt at a loss with them all, but less frequently.

Mrs Harris appeared to welcome my company. I knew she was not as resigned to her fate as family outcast as she asserted, and in me, she saw acceptance from at least one corner of her family. I could not entirely understand her thinking, especially given the secrecy with which our visits were conducted, but I hoped one day it might lead to the breach being heeled between her and my husband.

Chapter XXII

Posted on June 5, 2009

It was dangerously close to Christmas before our family party was complete again. The younger Darcy returned to Pemberley, from his cousin's wedding, with only days to spare. Georgiana was relieved that her brother would be present for the season, and she threw herself into helping me prepare the house and estate with an enthusiastic fervour I had not anticipated of her. All the girls and I travelled about the tenants' cottages delivering bundles of festive cheer for each of them, and aiding Mr Thursfield at the church.

We had other visits to both make and receive which were far less palatable. There had been no news of Mr Bingley's return from Oxford for the Christmas holidays. With each day, I perceived Jane becoming more and more anxious – she still hoped for his return. Every call I made to Miss Bingley, Jane too nervous to accompany me, I was forced to return with no further information of her brother – news which my mother was far too eager to hear, despite her claims to the contrary. "Well why should I care when he is to return? Really? Who is he to me?" she would sniff whenever I cried ignorance of his plans.

Whatever she might proclaim, I knew that there was a cinder of hope for Jane to be married soon enough. Eventually though, that weak fire was to be put out. With only a week until Christmas, Miss Bingley called on us with her aunt, and when openly pressed about her brother's continuing absence, she was forced to confess that they had received word that very morning he had every intention of remaining at Oxford over Christmas.

This news was greeted by general silence in the room, until I felt called upon to say something. "He must be a very devoted student." I commented vaguely, my attention too focused on observing Jane to give Miss Bingley any more attention. Jane was shrinking back weakly into the settee.

Miss Bingley faltered stupidly for a second – her brother would never be mistaken for a devoted scholar – and then I heard her say, "Yes. And when do you expect young Mr Darcy home?"

"I do not know that he has given his father a precise date… In time for Christmas." I shrugged. Jane managed to calmly raise a cup of tea to her lips before taking a sip; her face still an unhealthy shade of white. She hiccoughed a little into her cup. Nobody else noticed.

I wondered at Mr Bingley's failure to return. Oh, I had a fair feeling that he did not intend to return and make any enduring declaration of love to Jane, but still I had rather expected that he would return and pretend utter blindness to Jane's attachment. I could not imagine why he had left in the first place. They had both appeared to be quite as in love with one another all summer, so what reason could Bingley have to scarper? Was I, in my inexperience, confusing their feelings for nothing more than a fleeting first love, or infatuation? Sophie had not seemed to think it the case either.

Still, if it had been merely an overcome infatuation on Mr Bingley's part, then I was nothing, if not grateful, that he had the decency to stay away and not discompose Jane's hard won equilibrium.

When Darcy returned on Christmas Eve, he brought with him a companion – his cousin Fitzwilliam. Their plans were unfixed, though they would stay until at least Georgiana's birthday in late January.

I had heard of Colonel Fitzwilliam on numerous occasions; Georgiana and her brother both appeared extraordinarily fond of him. Yet from my experience of the rest of his family, I still expected a character quite different from the one I was introduced to.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was a gentleman in every sense of the word, by both birth and manners – it was a combination I was beginning to think was not often met with. The Colonel's presence did much to lift the mood of the entire household that Christmas. I was sorry to have not met him before. The other delegates who had visited from his family had not made such a positive impression.

It seemed he was primarily there to bear his eldest cousin company, though he was dragged into numerous games for the younger girls' entertainment, well Georgiana and Lydia anyway. Kitty – though she did not find him especially handsome – was overawed by his red coat, which lent just the right air of adventure as to make his person attractive, and she became determined to prove she was quite grown-up. Realising he had become the object of a girlish infatuation, he treated her with kindness, just as he did the other girls, but offered no encouragement. I was relieved to see that; Kitty would have been hurt had he ignored or mocked her.

The presence of Colonel Fitzwilliam certainly enlivened the Christmas period at Pemberley. He was far less dour than his cousin and uncle, especially when the younger Darcy's demeanour seemed to be more serious than ever. If anybody was likely to scowl through the festive period, it would have to be him.

Christmas Day, the family spent together without one argument erupting between the group, as it so often did. After the holiday though, we saw less of Darcy and the colonel, as during the day, they were frequently outdoors, hunting and riding they found plenty to occupy themselves. When the weather was at its worst, the pair were mostly holed up in the billiards room, an entirely male domain which did not interest Jane or me in the slightest. They did, however, join us often in the evening.

There were numerous social engagements to attend, not the least of which was a dinner at the Grimstons. The moment word circulated that Darcy had returned, Lady Grimston and her granddaughter called to invite us all. Miss Grimston was eager to see the object of her ambitions, who had been absent from her society for too long a period. She was to be once again disappointed by Darcy during the call. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the sitting room door for the entire duration, yet it was all to no avail. He never entered to join the company, as was his typical custom when she called at Pemberley. No doubt this frustrated his father too. I could not help but observe that in the company of the colonel, Miss Grimston became a little more likeable. When speaking with him, she was certainly less determined to impress, he was merely a second son and a soldier. She was, of course, still careful not to dedicate too much attention to the cousin, but out of politeness, she could not ignore him, for he did not leave Darcy's elbow all evening. He was like a particularly loyal guard dog. I briefly wondered if he might admire Miss Grimston as so many others did. He had stated he needed to marry a woman of wealth, and Miss Grimston certainly met those criteria.

He deserted Miss Grimston, who was sat with Jane and Darcy, while he turned pages for me. It was insisted I perform a song or two; it had been he who had performed the same function for Miss Grimston while Darcy sat with Jane and listened to the performance politely. As I fumbled my way through the piece, I sought to ascertain the colonel's thoughts on Miss Grimston. "You no doubt found Miss Grimston's performance refreshing." I commented.

"It was everything it ought to be." he conceded.

"While mine leaves a lot to be desired," I admitted with a rueful chuckle.

"Your performance has a refreshing artlessness about it, even if it lacks precision." he explained gallantly.

"Well, I have not the benefit of a Queen's Square education." My fingers stumbled across the keyboard, and I forgot to play the sharp.

He shrugged his shoulders and almost forgot to turn the page. "My sister, Cordelia, has that benefit, and her performance pales in comparison to Miss Grimston." I looked up in surprise at this, and there was a brief lull in the music. Colonel Fitzwilliam wore a slight frown, which did not correlate with what I had perceived as a compliment.

"It is believed by many that Miss Grimston is a woman unsurpassable in her many talents." I offered uncertainly.

"She is fearsomely accomplished." His scowl deepened; Miss Grimston's excellence appeared to displease him. "In short, Miss Grimston is the mould of the perfect woman." I realised from his tone that this was not a compliment, as I had first suspected, but I kept the tone of our conversation light anyway.

"Do you seek to establish yourself as a rival to your cousin, Colonel?"

"I doubt Miss Grimston would ever consider me a rival for her hand. She would never even consider me, and that is her greatest flaw." he stated with mock severity.

I laughed out loud; Lady Grimston shot me a disgusted look (Diana would never be so bawdy), and Darcy scowled darkly at the pair of us. "Indeed, she would be a great fool not to like you."

"Mrs Darcy, I never said anything about her disliking me." He shrugged and then grinned widely. "Everybody likes me, and every woman likes that handsome red coat of mine." I laughed at his response, and thought of my mother's reaction to meeting the colonel. He was definitely right about the red coat.

Colonel Fitzwilliam's company made a most refreshing change from the doldrums of my married life. It was pleasant to have a lively, friendly guest about the house, one who was entirely welcomed by the whole family, and not treated icily by some.

The colonel's relationship with his dour cousin was enlightening. I had never seen Darcy interact with anybody who he clearly considered his equal and friend. His friendship with Bingley had not been one of equals, but more like teacher and student; Bingley seemed at times, like an admiring and worshipful child. The colonel offered a more challenging and complex friendship. They were as close as cousins might be, almost brothers in the affection for each other. With the colonel, the lighter side of Darcy's character did emerged, his intelligence, wit and even a hint of a lively nature became visible. Between the two there was teasing and ribbing, which I doubted Darcy would have permitted any other person. But then I had noticed that the colonel had a propensity of bringing out people's more open and friendly side.

It seemed to rub off slightly on Darcy's attitude and interactions with all the family – he spoke with a smile and laughed more easily – at least with all the family but me, it seemed. Evidently, he would never learn to either trust or appreciate me, but unless his current good humour should continue past his cousin's visit, then it was not a loss to me. In many matters, it appeared that Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam were in accord, but while the colonel treated me with ease and smiles, Darcy's reaction to me seemed nothing but a never ending string of tense frowns.

Before Darcy had rushed away to attend his Cousin Harriette's wedding, I had been conscious of his evasive distance from all of us. Though it appeared now, while his cousin was with us, he had the manners to return to the fold again; he seemed suspicious and cautious of me still, and when it was necessary to speak, we behaved as politely as new acquaintances should. I spent some time pondering it. We had not argued, though I had been displeased with him before he hurried off to town. Still, I shrugged off these concerns, for Darcy's character had always been a difficult one to make out.

For the duration of the colonel's visit, I was grateful for the company and friendship which he offered in the evenings. We all appreciated the liveliness which he brought to our family circle; it set us all at ease. His visit to his family seemed to pass all too quickly and Christmas rapidly slipped by; January too, until it was nearly February.

About a week before Georgiana's thirteenth birthday, we awoke to find a layer of ankle deep snow adorning the grounds. Lydia had dragged the girls over to Pemberley well before breakfast and cheerfully, if fruitlessly, attempted to pelt Georgiana's bedroom window in an effort to lure her outside. Georgiana was accompanied outside by her cousin. Kitty and Mary retreated inside, Mary to the library and Kitty to find me in my study, where I was busily trying to accomplish some household tasks. Her early arrival took me quite by surprise.

Kitty sat at the window, staring longingly out into the crisp, white snow. I could hear the other girls. "Will you not be going outside today, Kit?" I asked her, looking up briefly from the page of accounts.

"My hair is curled just so, I should not want it to get wet." she exclaimed with an envious sigh.

"As you wish," I would not pressure her, for it would only result in a sulk.

"It is really quite indecorous of Liddy and Georgie." she sniffed, "And the poor colonel to be so abused by them."

"I dare say he has seen worse." I laughed, and rising from my seat, moved to join her at the window. They were running riot towards the other end of the lawn. "He appears to be enjoying himself." I commented as he dropped ice down the back of Georgiana's coat.

Kitty huffed in response, torn between desire to join him and terror that her hair would be spoilt, I assumed. I returned to the page of accounts and busied myself completing the troublesome things, while Kitty huffed and sighed from her seat at the window. "Shall you come for a walk with me when I am done?" I asked, knowing that she would be unable to resist the temptation the outdoors offered for much longer.

Kitty bit her lip before replying, her face was comically anxious. "I suppose I could..." she agreed after a few seconds pause.

She waited impatiently for me to finish, and practically dragged me outside before the pen was out of my hand. We ran into the younger Darcy in the hallways. "We are going outside, shall you join us?" I asked him politely.

He scowled. "I think not," he replied before turning and walking off in the opposite direction. I rolled my eyes; I should have known.

As soon as Kitty and I were outside, Lydia, Georgiana and the colonel pelted us with snowballs. Though at first she looked angry, Kitty was quickly resigned to follow their frivolity; her hair was already beyond repair. It was not long though, before a cross Mrs Robinson called the girls inside to dry off again. She cast the colonel and me a disapproving look for encouraging the girls' wildness. "I thought I might take a tour of the park. Shall you join me, Mrs Darcy?" he asked when the girls were gone inside.

"Certainly," I replied, taking his proffered arm. "When are you to return to town?" I asked him.

"Whenever my cousin decides, for I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases." I looked up at him, surprised, having no notion that Darcy intended to depart again so soon, even if the colonel did.

"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than my son-in-law."

"He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. "But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he will be rich."

"And so your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind." We all wondered why he did not marry when it seemed to be a settled thing.

"Whenever my cousin chooses to settle down, I am certain he shall make the most loyal of companions."

"I have seen his loyalty to his father and sister." I paused thoughtfully, then decided to test my suspicions that the colonel was in young Darcy's confidence. It was an itching feeling that Darcy knew something of Bingley's impetuous disappearance from Derbyshire. "His friend, Mr Bingley, you have heard of him, I imagine. I believe Darcy does much for him." I spoke carefully.

"Ah yes, the young pup Darcy has taken under his wing, I do believe he is utterly dependent upon Darcy, and would not dream of making a decision without his consult first."

"Whatever can you mean?" I asked.

The colonel looked a little abashed, and seeming to absorb himself with some fauna replied, "Oh his education, his inheritance, that sort of thing."

"And ladies, I would imagine too."

"When the time comes, I am sure he may advise him on an appropriate wife."

"A little impertinent, do you not think, when he has no success in securing a wife of his own." I tried to sound light hearted. But all the time I wondered if the Bingley and Darcy had discussed Jane in such a manner. I could not doubt that they had. The colonel's words only lent value to my long held belief that Darcy, who had spoken with Bingley before he hurried away, had perhaps discouraged him from Jane. It did not matter I still did not understand why he would do such a thing.

"You are rather disposed to think his interference would be officious?" He still did not look me in the eye, and continued to examine the plant.

"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy may have to decide on the propriety of his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he is to determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy." I answered, unable to keep the sharpness from my tone now. I was certain this was a confirmation of what I already thought I knew, that he had meddled between Jane and Bingley.

"You look a little chilled, Mrs Darcy. Perhaps we should return inside. Breakfast shall be served soon, no doubt." Colonel Fitzwilliam did not respond any further to my opinions.

My conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed a confirmation of my suspicions that Darcy had almost undoubtedly played some role in Bingley's hasty disappearance. I planned to confront Darcy, and too demand to know what he found so deplorable in Jane and Bingley making a match – his friend and a member of his family. I could not imagine what the issue between the pair might have been, or why he seemed to believe he had the right to dictate his friend's actions. Did he not realise that he did not always know what was right or wrong? Did he honestly believe he could make two people, so well suited to one another, so unhappy? For what whim? What incomprehensible reason did he have for interfering between them?

That was all very well and good, but it appeared that the colonel had taken it upon himself to serve guard to his cousin. It became nigh on impossible to find him alone and unoccupied by his cousin over the coming days. They were always out riding, or cloistered in the library until the early hours of the morning; on several occasions, they did not even appear for dinner or supper. It was all most frustrating, and I was not the only one who was annoyed by their evasion. Georgiana felt considerably neglected by her favourite cousin, and Kitty pouted and pouted that he never appeared to tell tales of his brave military exploits anymore.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was well aware, knew something more of Darcy's truest opinions in the matter of his courtship with Miss Diana Grimston. His cousin did appear to be his closest confidant, and no doubt he would confide in him where he would not in Mr Bingley. I rather had the feeling that he had invited his cousin to Pemberley over the Christmas season to offer some form of support in that matter, it was not simply his desire not to be outnumbered by silly young girls.

The Colonel was no doubt sympathetic to his cousin's plight, having already mentioned something to the effect of needing to marry a woman of fortune himself, and not possessing the power of choice. Darcy did not need to marry a woman of fortune per se, but she was required to be of a suitable status.

Whatever the motivation behind Colonel Fitzwilliam's visit, it was most aggravating that I could not seem to find a minute to speak sensibly with Fitzwilliam Darcy. The colonel was always keeping him distracted. As I waited, my anger towards him and his interference became more and more pronounced. And so when I did finally succeed in coming upon him in a moment of solitude early one morning, I was not even able to pretend some pleasantries before demanding, "Why did Mr Bingley stay away from Derbyshire this Christmas?"

He looked up, startled by my abrupt appearance and manner. He allowed for second or two pause before responding calmly, "Mr Bingley did not report the reason for his decision to me."

I let out a single bitter bark of laughter, "Then answer me this. Why did he leave so suddenly last summer?"

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word. At length, he roused himself to speak, and in a constrained manner said, "Mr. Bingley, you have observed, is blessed with a somewhat impetuous nature, I cannot account for his rapid decision." He shrugged my words off.

"Mr Bingley did not choose to consult you before leaving then?"

"If he did, I think it no business of yours. It was a conversation between two friends." His reply was rather heated.

"How lucky he has been as to have your friendship," I replied with emphasis.

He made a noise with his teeth. "I cannot think what you find so officious madam."

"I merely find it puzzling that he would speak with you about his plans to leave, and then not even bid the rest of us goodbye." I responded, citing my mother's argument with a slight cringe.

"I cannot account for all of Bingley's decisions."

"No, but for most of them you can," I shot back. "Tell me this, did he wish to avoid us, when all summer we had enjoyed his friendship?"

"The decision was Bingley's." he said firmly, clearly wishing to lay the matter to rest.

"I find it hard to believe that Mr Bingley would be capable of such ill-manners, he has always known the due other's deserve; it does not seem to me that he should have acted thus without your guidance."

He blanched a little at the sly accusation. "Mrs Darcy, you may choose to believe what you will." And with that, he turned and stalked from the room, looking back only briefly before walking from the door.

He left me standing there; if possible, more angry and unappeased than before. Could he not admit that he had been the chief instrument in Bingley's abrupt departure and his extended removal from Derbyshire and my sister's society? It was still very early in the morning, but I instantly resolved that since Darcy would not confess to his errors, I would speak with Caroline instead, and hope that she might possess some power of persuasion with her older brother.

I wondered what she might have told her brother, or if they kept up much of a correspondence at all. Still, I thought she may prove an ally to me – she was sure to want my sister and her brother to form a match. I knew she would not be blind to the advantage of it as Darcy seemed determined to be. Why though, when he had informed his father he perceived no obstacle before? What had he altered his opinion?

I was desperate to see my heartbroken sister happy again. Caroline, I thought, may be able to shed some light on the puzzling events which were keeping Jane and Bingley apart.

It was Georgiana's birthday the following day, and there was much yet for me to prepare, but I instantly, without even staying for breakfast, set out for Buxton to call on Mrs and Miss Bingley. This time I did not inquire of Jane if she should accompany me, for though I knew she would say no, her presence would only hinder my purpose if she should choose to come. While Jane may contain my outrage, it was equally true that in her company I could not be as frank as I desired on this occasion.

Caroline was as welcoming as ever. Pleased to see me, she quickly told me of the call Cynthia Neville had made the day before, and all that young lady's most recent wedding plans, before I could even begin to ask her of her family's health. It was not long though, before she asked me where Jane was and how she was feeling. She did not seem to feel any sting in Jane's continued avoidance of her house. Jane was as friendly as ever when Caroline called at Pemberley so Caroline never imagined any slur from her friend.

Once Caroline asked after Jane, I raised the question of her brother, and asked that when next Caroline should write to him, she send on greetings from Pemberley and inform Mr Bingley that we had missed his company greatly over the Christmas season. Caroline smiled warmly. I had never provided her with such a message before, and she seemed to understand my meaning precisely. I had no doubt that she would begin composing the correspondence as soon as I had gone. The topic then abruptly shifted to her correspondence with her other sibling. Mrs Hurst of Grosvenor Street had recently written to her with news of all the latest fashions of town.

I stepped out of the Bingleys' house cheerfully, and with my attitude much improved, I decided to visit a few of the local shops, picking up some last minute baubles for Georgiana, a pretty pair of gloves which were a precise match to the dress I had bought her along with some ribbons to trim a bonnet with. The shopkeeper told me of her daughter's wedding, which had taken place just after Christmas, and I sent on the congratulations of the Darcys to the happy couple, before leaving and hurrying up the road to the bookshop to see if any new gothic novels had been acquired.

The carriage was waiting a little further up the street for me; it was a busy morning, and the streets were bustling with locals. Walking past the inn, I turned back in a double-take. "Mr Wickham!" I called out to the retreating back of the gentleman I had just passed.

He turned, surprised at the sound of his name, and took a few steps towards me. As he drew closer, I realised why I had not recognised him at first, he was quite altered. He looked drawn, his face was yellow and pasty, his eyelids drooping and his pupils were the size of pin-points. His handsome mien was a wreck. Even as I took in his appearance, I could not help but smile up at his friendly face. "What are you doing here? Shall you be coming to Pemberley tomorrow? It is Georgiana's birthday, do you remember?"

"I had come to the area with the purpose of visiting my Godfather," he acknowledged.

"How are you're studies coming along?"

"Town is not quite to my liking. I find and I am anxious to return to Derbyshire." he told me in a chatty manner.

I blinked, "Town?" I had thought he had returned to university. "For Christmas?" I asked.

"No, no. I have been visiting with friends up North over the season." It struck me that it had been many months since I had heard my husband mention Mr Wickham's goings-on. There had been a time when they kept up a regular and cheerful correspondence. "I have been studying at the Inner Temple, Mrs Darcy, were you unaware of that?" he sounded utterly incredulous. I was too, upon hearing this latest piece of information.

"I had thought you were to take the Kympton living?" I was puzzled, for I had heard nothing to the contrary.

"Yes, but my dear friend Darcy managed to persuade his father that he had a friend who was a far more suitable candidate." Mr Wickham explained to me with a bitter smile.

I frowned, remembering Mr Wickham's visit last year, when my husband had seemed so despondent, and in the aftermath of his godson's visit, he had lacked for good cheer. It was certain that there was tension between the father and son. But still, why had the son made such demands on his father, and more importantly, why had his stubborn father acquiesced? In the few seconds I pondered this, I became intensely confused by the situation. "Why would your godfather agree to such a demand when he had made you a promise of the living?" The words stumbled uncertainly from my mouth.

"My friend's powers of persuasion are quite an accomplishment, as you know, Mrs Darcy. And where his father is concerned, he is especially talented and experienced. You must not think that I hold my Godfather in any way responsible for my current misfortunes, Mrs Darcy. But I have some hope that he might be persuaded to forgive me for my supposed transgression, and allow me to take up the rights of the living once more." He smiled with apparent good-cheer.

I could not help my scepticism, with this latest knowledge which Mr Wickham had seen fit to provide me, I saw many things in a new light. Mr Thursfield, the curate, was clearly destined for the Kympton living. I doubted it would change, as my husband had expressed his satisfaction with the curate, and we all valued and admired the young man and his work too greatly for him to be simply cast aside, when evidently there had been something further to Mr Thursfield's presence in Derbyshire than I had realised.

Mr Wickham continued with his explanation, "You and I have discussed the jealous nature of Darcy's feelings towards me in the past, Mrs Darcy. You recall it, I am sure." I certainly did recall what Wickham had informed me of their youth together. When I had first come to Derbyshire, Wickham was the first to confess Darcy's misdeeds towards him – how Darcy had concocted lies to encourage his father to reject his affection for his godson. "My old friend is up to his old tricks again." Mr Wickham shrugged.

"What did he say?" I asked with breathless horror.

"I shall not blight the ears of a lady by repeating the malicious and dishonourable accusations he attempted to inflict upon me. But the dishonour was all his own, and I hope that now my godfather has had time to think it over, he might be more considerate of my pleas." Mr Wickham told me with complete sincerity.

I smiled warmly at him. "Perhaps you would accompany me back to Pemberley then sir."

Mr Wickham looked more than pleased by my suggestion, and offering me his arm, we walked up the street to the awaiting carriage, so that he might claim what I believed was rightfully his. He climbed up top after helping me inside, and we began our journey back to Pemberley. I smiled softy out of the window at the passing scenery. Believing that my day had been something more than successful.

Chapter XXIII

Posted on June 22, 2009

I stomped through the sodden grass of Pemberley's grounds, flung myself over a fence and clattered through a puddle of muddy water, the whole time I muttered angrily to myself over my unforgiving husband and his vicious son. "Proud, arrogant, thoughtless, selfish..." The string of appropriate gripes flowed freely from my mouth. It had been many months now since those two wretched Darcys had succeeded in angering me so greatly.

When I had met Mr Wickham, an old family friend, in Buxton, I had thought nothing of inviting him back to Pemberley with me so that he might speak with his Godfather, who I had always thought held him in the greatest degree of affection.

Mr Wickham had, of course, revealed something of the misfortunes which had befallen him at the cruel and jealous hand of my son-in-law. Yet I failed to credit my husband with such unremitting anger. He had never struck me as a vindictively mannered man. I had honestly thought that he would be more welcoming towards Mr Wickham, and willing to forgive him of his accused folly. From everything Mr Wickham had told me over the two years we had been acquainted, I was certain that he was deserving of justice, and I had honestly believed that my husband would be inclined to hear him out and forgive him accordingly.

How wrong I had been. The eyes of ice and storm which greeted Mr Wickham (and myself) in my husband's study were a reunion I had never contemplated. That my husband, at least, should be so unwilling to associate himself with Mr Wickham, even as he attempted to plead his case was beyond my understanding of Mr Darcy's character. Yes, I had imagined anger, and I had tried to briefly coax my husband into reason before bringing Mr Wickham in, but I had thought he would offer his Godson a chance at least.

Instead, he had exploded angrily, his face turning bright red, a vein throbbing at his temple, and for a second or two before Mr Darcy ordered me out the room, his voice was a deadly whisper. I turned back before I left, Mr Wickham was pale with terror. I could not linger in the corridor, eavesdropping, for the footmen would be suspicious of such an action. But I stayed near the study, and it was not long before my husband erupted completely, half his words still incoherent with anger. The rest of the words like "dishonest," "ungrateful" and "grasping," only pieced together half a picture for me. It was a picture I was certain that the malicious lies of Fitzwilliam Darcy had helped to paint.

I felt myself redden in both embarrassment and anger. What had I inadvertently done? Poor Mr Wickham, to be so abused, and without any defence was intolerable. I had never expected my husband to be so unerringly frosty. I thought he held Mr Wickham in affection. Was he so convinced by his meddlesome son that he would never listen?

I had no doubt that Fitzwilliam Darcy had played some underhanded role in poor Mr Wickham's mistreatment. It was not only the evidence that Mr Wickham had presented me with, but also my knowledge of Darcy's interference between Jane and Mr Bingley. Clearly, my son-in-law was a man who liked to have matters arranged exactly to his wishes.

Anxiously hurrying from my chair in the antechamber where I had positioned myself, I hurried back to the study to offer some defence to Mr Wickham, and to make my husband see some sense, whether he had ordered me from the room or not.

"I never... you grasp ... every possibility. Never again! You shall not speak with my family! To think that I have shown you such kindness." my husband ranted and stormed, "Not even your father will own you... There shall be no more generosity on my part...
You have wounded me, George. Just go!" he wheezed in an angry hiss.

The door to the study was flung open, and two alert footmen were ready and waiting to see Mr Wickham escorted from the premises. They marched him past where I stood helplessly in the middle of the hallway. Mr Wickham did not even attempt to look at me. "Elizabeth, come here." my husband commanded, his voice still tinged by steel.

I stepped forward with uncharacteristic trembling obedience, and he ushered me into the study, his son leaving us behind a firmly closed door. I stood in front of a book shelf, and eyed him cautiously as he poured himself a brandy. He knocked the alcohol down, his own hands quivering too. "You shall not see Mr Wickham again, do you understand me?" he asked rhetorically. I knew he expected me to obey him with unquestioning loyalty.

Rebelliously, I wondered what he had done to deserve such incurious compliance from me. I did not like to anger him further, but still, I honestly believed it was time that one Darcy, at least, gave me a straight answer. "Will you tell me why?"

"I shall not justify myself to you, but there will be no further meetings with that man, do you understand me!"

My eyes narrowed. "Mr Wickham is a friend, and you have always held him in high affection to the best of my knowledge. I shall not listen to you abuse him so."

"Elizabeth, he has used you, and made a fool of us both."

I sucked my cheeks in, and looked at my husband glacially for half a minute, in an attempt to regain some control of my emotions. It was as futile as sieving water though. Giving up, I turned and stormed angrily from the room, and with neither another word nor a backwards glance. I heard him bark my name angrily, but I would not speak any further with him.

If there was one thing I had come to know of my husband's character in the short span of our marriage, it was that he was not a man inclined to deal with the irrational moods of a woman. I would have more success if I allowed myself time to rein in my anger, so I stormed from the doors of Pemberley, and whirled across the grounds like an angry north wind almost without acknowledging my intended destination. And the whole time I muttered to myself like an old, married shrew.

By the time I had made it over the boundary fence and out of Pemberley, my mood had only succeeded in souring further. The sky was darkening, and the occasional cold spot of rain was falling. I carried on frantically, determined to reach my intended destination. I longed to speak with Mrs Harris; she could offer me some comfort or insight, surely, into her brother's spiteful rage. At the very least, she would calm me down a little.

Given the hour, I would never have made it there by nightfall, but it was fortunate that I would not have to travel far before the younger Andrew Harris, bringing his father's horse and cart back from Lambton, found me and helped me up beside him. I watched as he carefully judged my mood, and silently reached back into the bed of the cart for a blanket to warm me with. I was not chilled, but I had no coat or bonnet. A grateful smile cracked through my frosty exterior. He said little more to me; but by nature, he was a quiet boy.

Maisie, his sister greeted us at the front step of the house, "May, take Mrs Darcy inside." he instructed her, hurrying on ahead of us, and calling out, "Ma?"

Evie Harris practically flew down the stairs, and with her eyes alighting on first her son and then me, she took in my fearsome expression. "Oh my, Elizabeth, what did he go and do this time?" she clucked. "Maisie, be a good girl and brew some tea; Drew, your father needs some help out with the pigs." Then she led me into the best room, as she had the first afternoon we had met.

I sat quietly for a moment or two and waited for Maisie to bring in the tea and serve, as quiet as a little mouse. When she was done, her mother turned to me, "Well, tell me everything that useless brother of mine has done." she half chuckled.

"Do you know of Mr Wickham?"

"The steward? He is a mildly mannered fellow. I was always quite fond of him." She smiled softly. "And my brother, too, they were as close friends as a gentleman and his servant might be."

"No, no. His son." I prompted her.

"Ah, little George? No, the last I saw of the Wickhams, that mother of his was expectant, huge as you like, and proud as anything." She snorted lightly, then bit down on her lip, as though she was regretful of her words. "Goodness, he must be nearly twenty five years old now, and I still imagine him as a baby." she added.

"Yes," I agreed, "nearly ready to be ordained."

"Ordained?" She looked momentarily surprised, "Well, I always thought George would look out for the boy. He is as much a favourite as his father, I should imagine."

"Mr Darcy has denied him the living after promising it him all his life." I bleated, "He is to study law instead, only Mr Wickham feels he is not suited, and to tell the truth, when I spoke with him earlier today, he did not seem himself at all." I explained, thinking back on Mr Wickham's sallow features and bloodshot eyes.

Mrs Harris said nothing, only raised an eyebrow in surprise. I continued with my story, "Mr Wickham came to beg his Godfather to reconsider, and Mr Darcy shall hear nothing of it. He ordered him from the house and told him never to come back."

"You are angered by this?" Mrs Harris asked, "I think if my brother has denied his favourite a living, then there must be a very good explanation. He has not left him destitute, I notice." It always surprised me that Mrs Harris, despite everything, so often took her brother's part, and trusted his dictates so implicitly. "Is there any more to tell?"

"He told me I was not to meddle any further, and that I must not have anything else to do with Mr Wickham again." I explained carefully.

She gave me an assessing look, "And why would he do that?" she pressed in a careful voice.

"Because I was the one who brought him to Pemberley today. I met him in the street in Buxton while I was calling on Mrs and Miss Bingley."

For several minutes, Mrs Harris was completely silent as she finished her tea; the cup seemed bottomless. It was obvious that she was mulling over my information. I waited patiently to hear what wisdom she would impart to me. "I do not listen to gossip, especially the gossip concerning Pemberley folk, but I imagine there is a very good reason Mr Wickham is not to receive the living. I do not know what the reason is, so I beg you do not ask me."

Here I interrupted. "Mr Darcy will not tell me anything, though I have asked him. But Mr Thursfield is a friend of Fitzwilliam's, and he has been offered the living based on his recommendation."

"You know it all already then?" Mrs Harris laughed at my petulant stubbornness. "I know you would have my brother be more open with you, Elizabeth, and I suspect you are right; but it is his way. It is no reflection of his mistrust of you; he was the same with Anne – Anne, who was more than his social equal. He does not believe that in his position, he should have to justify his decision to anybody. Whether he is right or wrong, you cannot fix him." She was very matter of fact. "And what is more, I know this, that my brother would never have denied his godson in some infamous manner. I am sure he has very a good reason for denying him the living."

I felt my eyebrows knit together, puzzled for a second as I took in her words; and I had to admit to myself that my husband was not a man of spiteful nature. Overbearing and dominant he might have been, but he had always been a generous and kind man. He had done everything he could for me. Still, there was no denying that where his children were concerned, he was easily blinded and persuaded by their word. "I wish he was more inclined to reason." I insisted.

"I think there are many of us who would wish such a thing." she agreed sympathetically. "You think he is wrong, and he believes he is right."

"Because he refuses to listen." I rolled my eyes. "I wish for once he would take my thoughts and opinions seriously, instead of treating me like a pretty and bothersome little pet he has inherited."

Mrs Harris laughed some more at my analogy. "Mark my word, Elizabeth, he would never injure George Wickham as you imagine he has, not in a thousand years."

"What makes you think so?" I asked, but Mrs Harris did not reply. She only smiled knowingly, and changing the subject, she produced a letter from Lillian, and informed me of all her daughter's latest news. Then there was Hester's reports and Nathaniel's news from university. She had much to tell me of her busy and large family, and I listened intently to the happy information which bubbled forth.

Eventually Eveline glanced out the window and exclaimed at the hour. It was time that I was seen back to Pemberley. She had her son take me home, for she could not drive alone at night, and her husband had not been too well this past week, and needed his rest.

My return journey was a lot calmer. Though I could not completely agree with everything that Mrs Harris had told me, I was in a more reasonable frame of mind, and thus would perhaps have more success in dealing with my husband now than before. I chattered easily with Andrew, teasing him about the young girl his mother had once proudly told me he had taken a fancy to. He took my impertinence with good humour and numerous blushes.

As we came closer to Pemberley though, I could see him becoming uneasy, and indeed I could not help but feel some looming dread too. Andrew was the only one of the Harris children who knew of my true relationship to the family. Neither of us could fail to notice the signs of torchlight moving across the grounds. We drove up the driveway in silence – his parents had told him he must take me to the door, given the late hour.

Before we had reached the front steps, my husband had hobbled down them and called out to me angrily, "Elizabeth, where have you been? I have had the men out looking for you, even Fitzwilliam and Richard are out with them."

Two footmen, a maid, and Mrs Reynolds were hot on my husband's heels. The two fellows I noticed exchanged a smirk as they took in my companion; Mrs Reynolds hissed at them to mind themselves. I hopped down from the cart. "Thank you, sir, for seeing my wife returned safely." Mr Darcy acknowledged Andrew briefly. "To whom am I indebted?"

Andrew looked at me briefly, before turning back to my husband, "My name is Harris, sir."

Mrs Reynolds let out a little gasp, nobody else made a sound. "Well then, I thank you, and suggest you be on your way. It is getting late, and the light is not good." All the warmth in my husband's voice had seeped out as he responded to Andrew, who did not cower, but looked on defiantly.

"I shall, sir. Goodnight, Mrs Darcy." he addressed me before spurring the pony on and away from his mother's family.

"See that she's warm, Reynolds, and then bring her to speak with me." he barked out the instructions to his housekeeper as though I was not even present. Mrs Reynolds took hold of my arm and guided me up the steps, her manners rough. She was muttering something under her breath. I could not hear what she said, and neither did I care what she might be thinking. The animosity between the housekeeper and myself was nothing new, and I had long since ceased to worry over it.

Sarah, my maid, had laid out my nightclothes in my dressing room, "Those shall have to do, there's no time to be pressing fresh gowns, Sarah." Mrs Reynolds dictated, turning me around to quickly unbutton the back of my gown. I was left feeling uncomfortable in the ensemble, and could not suppress the unguarded feeling as I entered the study where my husband and his son were both awaiting me.

My husband offered me a seat and poured me a glass of brandy before he began. I was surprised by his action. Despite his pleasantries, the foreboding sensation would not be cast aside. He did not linger over trifling comforts long though, and was quick to begin. "Where did you go this afternoon? I have asked you to tell somebody where you are going before now, Elizabeth; you cannot keep storming off when things do not go the way you wish them to."

I took a deep breath before I responded, "I did not storm off because the conversation was distasteful to me." He looked sceptical, I noted. "But because we were both so disinclined to be rational." I drew myself up as I responded. "And as to where I was, I am sure you have already decided."

"Making a mockery of me once again."

"I was speaking with your sister." I hissed back, "The one you cast aside and were unable to respect because she married a man whom you and your wife thought was inferior to her."

"You will not speak of her in this house, Elizabeth! Do you understand me? My sister is a fool."

"Because she is happy, when you have made yourself miserable not once, but twice, and you are willing to resign your foolish son to the same fate." He opened his mouth to object. "Or perhaps, sir, you feel you do not need to justify your motivation in demanding I never speak with her again."

"Indeed I should not have to." he interrupted. His son continued to stand silently and protectively behind him. "You are my wife, Elizabeth, and it is time you acted as thus." I let out a hollow laugh in response.

"Father, I think..." I was surprised the younger Darcy would have anything to offer to this conversation. Indeed, I did not even know what part he could have in this scene. His father cut him off before I could hear his thoughts.

"Fitzwilliam and Richard have been out looking for you, and you were having tea with my ungrateful, thoughtless, undutiful sister. I am tired of your incivility and your moods. I will not have it."

"And I am tired too, sir. You insist I act as your wife, but you fail to treat me as a husband and an equal ought. You tell me nothing, confide in me nothing, and then you wonder that I will not provide you with the same courtesy. Decisions that ought to be mine, you make in my place without discussing with me."

He sat back in his own seat, stunned by my words. I took a gasp of breath to allow myself to continue. "You honestly believe that I am undeserving of any consideration, to you I am nothing but an inferior, you believe that you did your duty in marrying me, and there is nothing further required of you now." His eyes widened at my accusations, and for a second or two, he did not breathe, he was so taken aback.

"It was more than your family's due. I married you because your mother was a gossip bigger than that small town. She manipulated an unfortunate situation until she had captured you a wealthy husband, and herself some security."

Nobody spoke. All of us were too horrified by his confession. There were too many secrets within this family. I did not look at my husband though; it was his son's reaction that interested me most. He wore a startled look, the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed himself to have attained it. His father simply looked horrified by what he had said. The pause was dreadful.

When the younger Darcy seemed to have recovered himself slightly, he shook his head slowly, seemingly disbelieving what he had heard his father say. He evidently realised the complete impropriety of his continued presence, and he moved towards the door to give his father and me privacy.

I might not have been happy with his presence there in the first place, but the worst I believed was confessed to, and there was more I wished to have said – more which he needed to hear. "Stay there." I commanded, "I am not done. Sir," I turned to my husband, "My mother is at times indelicate, and I do not seek to deny this, but it is time you acknowledged your own role in our marriage. I am tired of your infallibility; your unswerving correctness; the lack of value you place in the thoughts and feelings of others. Both of you, time and time again, I have seen evidence of your pride and your arrogance and your conceit. Yet neither of you would confess to such errors."

Finally, all my anger was directed upon them both. Neither made any effort to interrupt me, but they listened with a solicitude which was uncustomary. I addressed my husband first. "You wish me to server my acquaintance with your sister, but for what do you punish her? She is content and happy in her life, and all that troubles her is your continued estrangement. You do not forgive her because she offers no remorse. Why should she be remorseful? Because she has not your pompous puffed up pride in her family?

"You have harmed her in a manner most unforgivable, yet she continues to defend your actions to me, for all that you and Lady Anne have done."

"My sister made her own decisions to cast off the family." He roused himself enough to argue, "When she married that man, she chose him over us. She does not deserve your friendship, Elizabeth, and you shall cease to offer it."

"Just as I shall cease to offer my friendship to Mr Wickham I suppose. On this subject, what can you have to say? Under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?" I looked at them both as I spoke.

"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said the younger Darcy in a less tranquil tone, and with heightened colour.

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him!"

"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously. His words only encouraged my belief in his vicious jealousy.

My husband joined him in his denial. "Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," I cried with energy. "You have reduced his opportunities and deprived him of his fondest wishes. You have withheld the advantages, which you always promised him, and on the false words of your son. You have not even allowed him to defend those accusations. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule."

"I have provided Mr Wickham with an education, a gentleman's education; his ingratitude has been great in its extremes. I have pandered time and time again to his wishes, I have provided for him in every possible manner, and yet for him, it has never been enough. He has abused me, and I do not wish to hear him spoken of again. Can you not see that he has used you to his advantage, Elizabeth? Can you not see you are a fool?"

I gripped the edge of the desk fiercely. Looking down at my knuckles, I could see the whites of bone; my teeth clenched then unclenched. "And you!" I turned to the younger Darcy now, "I suppose I should not be surprised at such a loyal display friendship towards Mr Wickham - not when I have observed your dealings in separating Jane and Mr Bingley. I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind."

I paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at me with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?" I repeated.

"That I advised my friend to caution, I will not deny, but I never acted to divide them." he replied stiffly. I remained unconvinced.

"What need was there for caution? They were two people who were nothing but content and happy in one another's company. What could be the fault in that?"

"There are many faults in hastily formed connections." he replied simply.

"Even now, when you have observed my sister's misery, how can you believe such a thing to be true? How can you believe still, that you are right and just in your interference in the relationship? You have only succeeded in impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others."

I watched as the son paled completely at my words. His astonishment was obvious; and he looked at me with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. He seemed to visibly deflate under my wrath.

"You have said quite enough, Elizabeth." My husband re-entered the foray. "I suggest you leave us now." He was quite calm. "I shall speak to you in the morning, when you are in a calmer frame of mind."

And I knew that I, and my feelings, had been dismissed by him once more. I left the room with my head held high, and walked with dignity past the footmen stationed outside the door. They would have much to talk of tonight in the servants' quarters. There had likely been no such disagreement at Pemberley in many years. I trailed up the stairs and walked into my chambers. Trembling from weakness, I lay down on my bed, without bothering to dismiss Sarah, who awaited me, and cried for half an hour complete.

I had made no ground with my family tonight. My righteous anger had no doubt aided my failure. I was in a worse situation than before. The tentative treaty between my husband and myself, which maintained our fragile companionship these past two years, was clearly at an end. I knew that I had done damage to nobody but myself in speaking my mind, and I was in straits direr than ever before.

Why had I been so foolish as to lose my temper? I could only begin to imagine what my husband might say in the morning.

Sarah rapped lightly on the door and re-entered without being admitted. She sat down on the bed beside me, and sat quietly with me while I drank a hot posset she had prepared in the kitchen. She left me to my tumultuous thoughts again though when the drink was finished.

I lay awake through the whole night, hearing every movement in the house, and all the while bitterly regretting my mistake. It had been an exercise in futility to call either of the Darcy men out for their unpardonable behaviour. They had, neither of them, enough value for me to take heed of my words, and now I was more alone than I had ever been before. I could only hope that they would forget the situation before long, and I would not be forced to face their pompous animosity and self righteousness for too long.

Chapter XXIV

Posted on July 29. 2009

Georgiana was delighted by the bounty of presents which awaited her the next morning at breakfast. She seemed oblivious to any contention between family members, and chattered away gleefully, thanking people for their gifts. Perhaps I was the only one who noticed that my husband and his son did not address me once throughout the course of the day. If Jane, my mother or the colonel had noticed, I could only imagine what they would be thinking. Nonetheless, I was determined to maintain a cheerful mien. My success, I noticed, was greater that the younger Darcy, who seemed perpetually distracted throughout the day.

The following morning, when I arrived at breakfast, Georgiana mentioned her brother and cousin had departed for town early that morning. I did not know what to make of such news. The younger Darcy had always appeared to be anything but eager to attend the season, and this year, he had not been sent scurrying after the Grimstons like a devoted puppy dog, as Miss Grimston was still in the district.

I glanced briefly at my husband when Georgiana imparted this news; he offered nothing further, but scowled more deeply than before. Clearly he was not pleased by this latest erratic decision his son had made. He was still anxious for the Grimston match to come off, and though Fitzwilliam had been at Pemberley a month, he and Miss Grimston had been in company little more than twice. It would be left to my lot to inform Miss Grimston of young Darcy's desertion. This was knowledge I did not relish. I cringed, thinking of her disappointed features again. She was like a horse, who had been brought to water and denied a drink.

My husband though, I noticed, did not speak with me that day either, despite his threats on the evening of our argument. And so he continued to act. He barely spoke with me beyond preserving the necessary appearances. In the day, it was easy to ignore; we were both busy with estate duties and acquaintances. But in the evenings, it was impossible for me not to notice he took his meals in his study, and did not join my mother, Jane or me in the drawing room. Jane and Mamma presumed he had much business with which to occupy himself. Yet it was patently obvious to them there was something amiss when he failed to accompany us to dinner at the Nevilles' or the Conrads' without offering any excuse. When Sophie was invited to dine with us, he did not even come out to greet her.

I wished I possessed the courage to approach him again, but it was no use. My attempts to underpin the foundations of our marriage had resulted in disaster. I could not regret telling my husband of his faults, but I wished my manner had been kinder. I wished that he was more open to my opinions, and most of all, I wished that he had not pushed me to the point I had reached - however unintentionally done it was.

Of course, I recognised that we were both at fault; both of us too wilfully set in our beliefs of what was our due. The fact was that neither of us had married for reasons we would have wished for. I was a silly young nobody, and he was not a man I could love. At times when I was truly angered by his dictator role, I wondered if I could even respect him.

We had neither of us acknowledged the other could not be moulded into what the other expected or desired; and we had both compromised most unwillingly. For two years, we had lived together in quiet frustration. The tolerance which we had sought to offer one another could not have lasted; but I did not believe that this hostile enmity which we suffered under now could ever be considered as an improvement.

The fact was there was nothing dislikeable in my husband's character. He was kind and generous towards me, and he had a good humour when he chose to display it, but his attitude towards me as his wife was so dominant. I knew it was not specifically me; he had failed to treat his first wife as an equal, when perhaps she might have been more than that. It was simply a huge disappointment to have a husband thrust upon me, who did not offer to respect me as his equal. His secrecy and his autocratic rule had been the cause of my greatest dissatisfaction.

I had longed for a union of mutual respect and understanding.

For him, I could never be the woman he wished for in his wife. My situation in life made him a laughing-stock at every turn. I was too young, too poor, too unconnected, and too inexperienced to be seen as a serious wife.

No matter how hard I had tried, these basic dissatisfied facts were immutable. In truth, Mr Darcy and I were trapped in a fools' marriage.

The dissention between my husband and I was not aided by the unexpected death of his dear friend and steward, of a fever. My husband set about busily arranging matters for him. Mr Wickham's son never returned home to see his father laid to rest. I did not know if this was the result of my husband's failure to invite him, or if Mr George Wickham had not the nerve to make a further attempt at peace between his godfather and himself. I could not think my husband would be so cruel as to fail to issue an invite.

Dealing with his old friend's passing left my husband a great deal to keep him busy. Mr Wickham had no family residing in the area, his wife was long dead and his son absent. Arrangements fell to the master of the estate.

Despite everything, old Mr Wickham and Mr Darcy had been friends to the very last. My husband might have had issue with old Mr Wickham's son, yet it seemed to have no effect on the friendship between the pair. Old Mr Wickham was still evidently an old friend and a trusted servant, the bond between the pair was united to the last. Hence, Mr. Darcy was willing to take up the job of arranging the details which were required of him.

My husband was much engaged over the coming weeks, having lost his valued steward, his workload doubled, if not tripled, as he sought to complete the tasks old Mr Wickham would usually have fulfilled, and seeing to it that the few requirements of his will were met. Old Mr Wickham had but few possessions of his own; I had heard it said that his late wife had been something of a spendthrift.

Even when that was done, he could not seem to replace his old friend and steward easily. Every candidate seemed to present some new difficulty to him, none were satisfactory. Thus he continued to be practically swallowed up by his work, barely even managing to drag himself from his study to spend time with his daughter, a weekly ritual which he rarely failed to see through.

Georgiana and the girls had sunk into misery with the removal of Colonel Fitzwilliam from Pemberley. It resulted in incalculable squabbles and tears between the youngest three. The mood at Pemberley had turned completely sour. It was impossible not to feel some effect in it.

Jane was the only person who should not have been affected by the perilous moods of the household, but she was not there to calm and soothe us all. She had gone to my Aunt and Uncle Gardiners' in town for an extended visit. My aunt and I both dearly hoped that some time away from Pemberley, in the bustle of town, would do much to improve her melancholy. She was not set to return to us until May.

Fitzwilliam Darcy stayed away too. I confess, I expected he would return quickly to help his father with neglected estate matters, and yet he had not. In the past, he had always shown a willingness to involve himself in estate business over his own pleasures. I could not imagine why he had not returned to offer some assistance to his father.

So the sombre mood of Pemberley persisted. I knew the discomfort would only become more intolerable as our social engagements were set to decrease. The majority of families with whom we associated would be planning their return to town for the season within the matter of only a few weeks. Not even Miss Grimston would call then. Sophie, at least, had assured me that she was set to remain for the duration of the winter. Her husband had planned to have his country mistress bear his company – Sophie was not the only woman with a nose pushed out of joint by this particular piece of information.

Cynthia Neville's wedding was to be the last great social gathering of the winter in Derbyshire, and my husband seemed to realise that he could not stay away from the grand production, though I knew that he would prefer it were that a possibility. For appearance's sake he was required to accompany me and offer his warmest congratulations to the happy couple.

Mrs Neville saw her daughter off with a fantastic production, and many were sincere in their congratulations, though others were not so pleasant. Lady Cecilia was heard to spitefully wonder at the ridiculous pomp and circumstance when the awkward girl was only marrying her poor cousin. Mrs Montrose had the brass to ask to compare the occasion to my own wedding, since next to Cynthia, I was the most recently married in the district.

Diana Grimston stood with a sour look on her face throughout the whole of the wedding breakfast, attended to only by Mr John Bertrand, whose predictable compliments she tolerated with thinly veiled grace. It was evident she despised that six months after Miss Neville's engagement, Cynthia had succeeded in becoming Mrs Middleton, while for Diana the prospect of becoming the newest Mrs Darcy was even further from her grasp. "Mrs Darcy," she told me in tone almost subdued, "Grandmamma and I were quite certain that Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy would return to see Miss Neville's wedding. Were we not, Grandmamma?"

"Well, he wrote to Georgiana, saying he was much engaged in town and had no immediate plans to return." I informed her.

"Much engaged in town!" she trilled, "Have you ever heard such a thing, Grandmamma? Engaged in town before the season has begun?" It was evident she was disturbed by this news. "I cannot think of anybody else in town at this time of year."

"You know my sister, Jane, I think."

"Oh forgive me, yes. And how is dear Jane? Do they see much of one another?"

"I believe he has called on her." I told her. I could only begin to imagine what it would have cost Darcy's pride to call on her and make the acquaintance of my Cheapside relatives at Gracechurch Street. Miss Grimston seemed satisfied by my response, relieved to hear there was no evidence of intimacy.

"Well, I shall have to write to your sister and tell her I shall be in town next week. She must come and call on Grandmamma and me." She had no intention of calling on Jane then? Diana turned to her Grandmother, "Miss Bennet, Grandmamma, she must come and call on us, must she not?" It appeared Miss Grimston had regained some of her spirit.

"You are returning early yourself, I observe." I remarked, unable to help myself.

"Yes, well I have some fittings with Madame Lanchester, and I have heard some talk of another modiste, whose skills I might employ." she explained hurriedly.

"Well then," My husband slipped in at my side quite unexpectedly. I should not have been surprised he would wish to overhear my conversation with the Grimston girl. "I shall have to write to my son and tell him you are returning. I am sure he will be pleased to hear it." I was a little disappointed he did not appear to have put any thought into my thoughts on the proposed union between the Darcys and the Grimstons, but not entirely surprised either.

"Might we have the pleasure of your company this year, Mr and Mrs Darcy?" she asked, fully aware my presence would be beneficial to her cause. "My father, I know, always says he is fond of your company, sir." she added sweetly.

"Elizabeth and I are not fond of town." my husband answered quickly. For once we were in accord.

"But Mrs Darcy has never been to town; she has lived in the country all her life." Miss Grimston's eyes widened innocently as she pressed the matter, "And I should be glad of your company, Mrs Darcy. Should I not, Grandmamma?" Lady Grimston made a brief nod of assent to her granddaughter's question.

It was evident my husband was torn. He was no fool, and could recognise the benefit which could be reaped from having me stationed at the townhouse, inviting Miss Grimston to take tea with me. Yet he knew that his presence was required at Pemberley for the present. "Perhaps later in the season." he allowed.

Miss Grimston beamed like a cat who had caught a canary, then reached her arm out to stop Caroline Bingley who was walking past, "Miss Bingley, you are to be in town this season too, I hear. When shall you be going?"

Caroline confessed she was expected in mid March by her sister, Mrs Hurst of Grosvenor Street, and added that she was greatly anxious and excited for the season to commence. Miss Grimston frowned slightly at this news, and with concern said, "Goodness that is late, surely you will have much to prepare beforehand. Ah, but then I suppose you shall not have to worry about an introduction at court, how I envy you that. I was so nervous about making my curtsey." It was clear that Miss Grimston had regained all her usual humour.

Poor Caroline looked horrified by this news, and hurried off to speak with her aunt in hushed tones. "Well, Grandmamma, do you not think we shall be the merriest party this season?" Miss Grimston smiled smugly.

It was a start to the return of cordial relations between my husband and myself. We were eventually eased back into our usual routine, though not a word of apology was spoken by either of us. But he seemed to realise it was futile to skirt around his own family. Our progressive return to civilities did not honestly bring about an improvement in our relationship, as nothing had been resolved. We both of us were apparently grateful to put the open hostility behind us.

My experience of the world had not been vast before my marriage, and consequently, I did not maintain numerous correspondents. As a rule, the only letters which I received came from either my Aunt Gardiner or my friend Charlotte Lucas from Hertfordshire. Occasionally I also heard from my Aunt Philips, but that was an infrequent occurrence.

Yet in the months that spanned the duration of the season that year, I received many letters. Jane, I heard from two or three times a week, Miss Grimston penned me a letter weekly to tell me of all the latest goings on, and lament my absence – she even once thoughtfully sent some sketches of the latest fashions (much more to Sophie's interest than mine). I heard from Caroline Bingley, too, on occasion, and even exchanged a few letters with Cynthia Middleton who wrote to thank me for attending her wedding.

It became much less surprising for me to get mail in the morning post than it once had been. However, for all that, there was one letter which landed in my lap I had never expected to receive.

The footman who delivered the correspondence appeared less suspicious of the surprise missive than I was. A rather thick package composed in a firm, masculine hand, which I was at least familiar with. My husband, sitting at the breakfast table, paid some mind to my astonished countenance, "Who is it from, Elizabeth?" he asked in a conversational tone which belied his intense curiosity.

I shrugged, confounded, "Your son." I answered honestly. Mr Darcy raised an eyebrow at this unique occurrence, but said nothing further. Though I was burning with curiosity, I could not help but feel whatever Fitzwilliam Darcy might have to say was likely to bring about unhappiness or pain, and so set it aside to peruse after my breakfast. I hurried through the meal, saw Georgiana off to her lessons with Mrs Robinson and tore away to my sitting room to read what he had to say. "Dear Mrs Darcy," he began.

You are no doubt surprised to receive this letter. Be assured I do not mean you any offense in sending it. I merely find it impossible to let our discussion during my last evening at Pemberley be allowed to rest without offering some defence of the actions you accused me of. It is not for me to offer a complete defence of everything, especially those accusations you placed solely at my father's door. My hope is, however, you might pay some consideration to what I have to say.

Two very different crimes you have placed at my door. The first, that I conspired to persuade my father to deprive Mr George Wickham of his rightful living at Kympton, I shall address now. This is not the first time you and I have discussed the worth of Mr Wickham – I know that you place great value in his friendship, as does your sister, Jane – and you believe that my treatment of him has been most unjust. I confess to have never bothered to offer another side to the story, and have dismissed your questions believing it beneath me to justify myself and correct your assumptions. For that, I am now regretful. Mr Wickham has deceived us all, and caused havoc within the family which would have been impossible had we only been more open and honest with one another.

Mr Wickham, as you are aware, has always been a great favourite of my father's. He was the son of his dear friend, and the young boy's charming and open demeanour endeared him to my father. You know my father has done much for Mr Wickham over the years, seeing to it he received the education of a gentleman, sending him to both school and university – an advantage he could never have received without my father's goodwill. You know, too, that my father always wished to bequeath George Wickham the living at Kympton – though it was never promised to him, it has been the assumption of us all. I never considered there to be any inequality or injustice in my father's patronage of George Wickham; indeed for some years, George was a dear friend and companion of my own. The relationship between the pair of us soured, not because of my envy, but my disgust in his attitude. Eventually our lives took different paths, and our friendship became divided. I considered Mr Wickham's ingratitude to my father offensive. My father would never hear a word against George though, and for many years I have watched as he took advantage of my father's generosity.

When the Kympton living fell vacant last year, and Mr Wickham returned in order to make arrangements, he expressed some doubts as to taking up the living. I knew instantly that his doubts were twofold. Mr Wickham is not a man suitable to be a clergyman, and though he did not confess this information to my father, both Wickham and I knew this too be true. Mr Wickham informed my father that he hoped to enter into business, if only my father would provide him with the capital to begin one. My father was appalled by this scheme, and would hear nothing of it; his pride revolted against witnessing his money invested into trade. I was relieved to hear this, as I knew that any money would be immediately squandered. Thus denied, George claimed that he would certainly take the living at Kympton. He also expressed, however, some interest in your sister, Jane, lamenting that both Jane and he lacked for any fortune which would make a marriage between them viable. This, he claimed, had been his main goal in entering into business; he could have made them both a comfortable fortune. He is no fool, and was perfectly aware that my father would not see either Jane or him fall into comparative poverty. Hence my concern that had Jane become attached, my father would have provided George with yet more generosity, and Jane would have been made miserable.

My father had admitted intimated that should Jane and Wickham become attached, he would, of course, help them, though it was evident he was for the first time feeling a little put upon by George's demands and indecision. For the experience of my youth, I knew it fruitless to attempt to persuade my father that Wickham would disabuse his generosity, and I sought evidence of Wickham's dishonourable doings. You will remember, of course, that you found me calling on Alice Wainwright, your old maid about this time. You and I had arranged for her marriage when she came with child, despite her refusal to identify the father. I had, however, long suspected that her situation had been brought about by Mr Wickham, who had been visiting about the time she came with child. Mrs Wainwright is neither the first or last girl who Mr Wickham has abused in such a manner, and she was not the only girl I asked to come forward. Out of loyalty to you, she was the only one brave enough to decry Mr Wickham's suitability as a clergyman.

Naturally, my father, when presented with this information, was horrified; as was Mr Wickham senior, who disavowed further knowledge of his ungrateful son. My father would not see George without provision, and still sought to see him comfortable despite all this. I would have done the same for my old friend, despite knowing this money, too, would not be wisely used. My father consequently arranged that George should go to town to study law, a career he thought far more appropriate for George. Mr Wickham expressed his gratitude, and left Pemberley immediately, at my father's request.

We have heard nothing of him since, until his most unexpected appearance with you. I do not know in quite what manner Mr Wickham imposed upon you, but you are not the first to be taken advantage of by him, and given your compassionate nature, I am not surprised that he succeed in persuading you against my father and me. During our meeting, Mr Wickham claimed that the law did not suit him, and he wished a chance to defend himself against the claims I had made against his person last year. He also assured my father that you had long promised him the return of the living. The living has already been granted to Mr Thursfield, and my father was, of course, greatly angered by Mr Wickham's attempts to take advantage of you, and ordered him from the house. The rest of what occurred, you know well.

To your second charge, the matter of Mr Bingley and your sister, a claim we have discussed before, and again I had considered it beneath me to explain my involvement in their relationship to you. You are incorrect in your assumption that I sought to separate them out of wilful malice or displeasure. However, I will confess that I advised Bingley as to how best to proceed, and may have been responsible for more harm than was ever my intention. Be assured that I think there nothing apprehensible in a marriage between the pair; I have great affection for both of them as a dear friend and a family member. To seek a separation would be hypocritical and wrong of me. You must, however, be aware of Mr Bingley's youth and inexperience, and you would not wish to see your sister rush into a hasty marriage with a man not entirely certain of his own mind.

I shall not deny that there is an attachment between the pair, even now, but for them to be married already, when Bingley is unprepared, would be a great folly. Love, after all, does not ensure a happy or prudent marriage. Mr Bingley was prepared to offer for your sister at the end of last summer, and he divulged his plans to me before he broached a discussion with Jane – he wished to ensure my father would grant his blessing. I was a little surprised, but not displeased by the news. His lack of caution did concern me a little, but I had seen proof of their affection for one another. I had rather thought Bingley's intention was to secure a promise from Jane, and that he would wait to actually marry her until he was better situated in life. Indeed, he informed me that he planned to quit his studies and marry your sister without delay. Perhaps you and your sister would have no concern over this news; however, I found it worrisome, and I did seek to offer him my advice.

As you know, Bingley's fortune comes from trade, and it has long been the desire of his family to see themselves elevated as gentlepeople. This is a desire of Bingley's too, and a gentleman's education will be vastly beneficial in helping him to attain that goal; to have given it up at that moment would have been irrational and inconsiderate of the wishes of his family. You are well aware that we, all of us, must bow to family duty and make concessions at times. Bingley's scheme to marry Jane post haste was, I believed, just such an occasion. I sought to calm his erratic decision, not to persuade him to give Jane up entirely.

Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I offered him my opinion that a marriage between them at that time was not advisable. I expressed to him my concern over the speed, advised him that it would be damaging to the hopes of both his sisters, and even himself. He would hear nothing of it though (I do not hold as much sway as you believe I do with him). When I saw that my power of persuasion had failed with him, I then presented him with another argument. I suggested Jane would not be so willing to be married immediately. I did not have to imply that her attachment was lesser for him to remember her reticence early in their acquaintance – his mind leapt to the conclusion her feelings for him were less, and of shorter duration, all alone. I did not seek to correct him, for which I must apologise to both you, and more importantly, to Jane, and thus Bingley concluded, after several days of private contemplation, that he must go away. I agreed that time would serve them well; time would provide him with a chance to complete his studies and know his own mind. This is why Bingley never spoke to your sister before he departed for Oxford, and why he has not returned to Derbyshire since.

I have acted wrongly by your sister in allowing Bingley to be deceived, I did act out of the best of motives, and it was not my intention to harm either of them. I remain certain that Bingley and Jane will resolve matters satisfactorily soon enough, as there could be nothing which would make me happier. I hope you will forgive me for my wrongdoings to Bingley and Jane, and acquit me of any cruelty to Mr George Wickham. I will only add God bless you,

Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Chapter XXV

Posted on January 3, 2010

I had no expectation of what would be contained in my son-in-law's letter. His defence and account, I had certainly not expected, when in the past, no Darcy had ever seemed to feel a need to justify their actions to me.

My first response – unjust and petty – was to deny it all, to deny any weight in his response and to doubt his every word. There was no reason for me to be convinced by him, a man accomplished in deception. So I was prepared to cast Fitzwilliam's defence aside, ignore the tale and continue on as before. I tried vainly to place no credit in what he had revealed to me, and fought against his version on the truth with every bit of strength in my power. The lengthy gap in communication had given him more than enough time to construct and perfect his defence. Wickham had convinced me he was a skilled manipulator; and I refused to see anything believable in all which he had said.

Yet my new knowledge refused to be cast aside that easily. Gradually, so gradually, cracks began to appear in my version of the truth, and Darcy's account seeped through. it was as though my beliefs were merely a dam, holding the truth at bay, and the cracks widened until eventually reality came crashing through, and brought me nearly as much devastation as the Great Flood.

It began like all epiphanies – small. It was enough, however, to act as a catalyst for further revelations.

A simple call on Sophie was where it all began. I had assumed, given her lack of personal involvement in the matter, a call on her would be an opportunity to forget it all for a short while. Yet I could not have been more wrong, as what promised to be an innocent chat brought some most disturbing news.

It all began normally enough. Sophie told me of her recent visit to Buxton. She had gone to inquire if the seamstress there would be able to make up the gown Miss Grimston had sent me the details of – it had all been quite unsuccessful, and Sophie was urging me to consider another trip to Lichfield to see if she might get it done there. "Did you know Mr George Wickham had been in the area in January?" she asked me. "I thought it most odd when I heard, especially when he did not even come to see his father laid to rest."

"He came to Pemberley." I admitted quietly, a nervous lump developing in my throat.

"You never said anything?" She looked at me curiously. "Everybody had been talking about it. Only I thought it could not be true, as he always stays at Pemberley when he is in the area."

"His visit was very brief." I found I did not wish to discuss the matter with Sophie, even though she was usually my favoured confidant.

She looked at me carefully, as though she sensed my mood, but then continued anyway. "Then no doubt the rest of it was true too." she mused. I knew she was hoping to reel me in; I did not respond to her statement though. "Mrs Rogers and Mrs Wilson both said that the landlord at the Queen's has had much to say of Mr Wickham's visit."

Sophie was not usually the type of person to spread idle gossip, so her words sparked a natural interest. She continued, "Apparently he was in such a hurry to leave, he did not even pay his bill before departing."

I scowled. I knew he had been exiled from the district by my husband. "Mr Darcy has paid that off, of course." she explained as though this was the most natural occurrence in the world. Frankly, it surprised me my husband would be so generous given his hostile treatment of Mr Wickham when they had last met. "The landlord is still not happy though."

"Oh?" What more could there be to this story?

"I know nothing of the details." She shrugged. "Mrs Rogers implied there was some trouble with one of the serving girls. Mrs Wilson believes it was something quite different. But what is certain is that the landlord is indignant, and keeps saying his is a respectable establishment. Still, you know how Mrs Rogers and Mrs Wilson are." She sounded half dismissive of the tale still.

Yet underneath her flippant tone, there was an undercurrent of concern. It was evident she believed this was something I needed to hear about. She was not interested in simple gossip, for were that the case, she would be hoping to gain more information from me. I paused, silently thinking about it. Sophie had always been forthcoming in her admiration of Mr Wickham's character and person. She did not viciously spread rumours about the district for no good reason. It was obvious she had some genuine concern over the news which she had come across.

This latest news of Mr Wickham shocked me deeply. Coming from Sophie, whose opinions and words I had always trusted implicitly, despite her exterior frivolity, they carried more weight than what either of the Darcy men might have attempted to tell me.

I had cherished my opinion of Mr Wickham's worth for a long time, based on his easy, open manners and his friendliness. He had been a friend to me when it had appeared as though I had none, and for that, I had bestowed my trust upon him. He had seemed like a pleasant enough gentleman, and based upon my starvation of intimacy, I had proceeded to place more and more value in his person. He had been open with me, where the Darcys had been closed. As a result, I had clung to his kindness, and blown his apparent virtue out of all proportion.

Hearing of the servant girl in trouble was what added veracity to Darcy's letter. I thought about what he had written. "Mrs Wainwright is neither the first, nor last, girl who Mr Wickham has abused in such a manner" To hear that Mr Wickham might have taken advantage of some other girl from another source lent some value to what was written in the letter. Sophie seemed to believe it might be true, she would have never have mentioned it otherwise. But why? Mr Wickham had always seemed a harmless friend.

I thought of Alice, who had been so ashamed of what she had done, and so adamantly against her child's father. And then there was the other maid, Ellen, who had found herself in a similar situation the following year. The maids at Pemberley had proved themselves to be responsible overall; Alice and Ellen were the only two who had found themselves in such an unfortunate situation, both just weeks after one of Mr Wickham's visits. It certainly was not absolute proof, yet it was impossible not to consider it now.

Not so long ago, I would have disclaimed against such a story and refused to believe it of Mr Wickham. The younger Darcy had frequently implied that Mr Wickham was not to be trusted, and it had never held any weight with me before now. But that letter, no matter how much I tried to push it from my mind and ignore the contents, refused to go unacknowledged. Slowly, very slowly, I was beginning to admit there may be some truth in it.

Sophie, noticing my tumult, remained silent while I tried to make sense of the news. I stayed at Elm Manor that night, too shocked and ashamed to return and face my husband. I longed for a chance to speak with Alice first.

When I left the next morning, in day-old clothes, I directed the driver to the Wainwrights' cottage; Alice, I knew, would cluck sorrowfully over my lack of presentation. The driver could not conceal his curious look as I asked to go to a tenant's house, but did just as he was instructed. Alice looked astonished to see me so early, and looking so dishevelled, but welcomed me warmly and insisted that I take a seat while she waddled about the room preparing tea, little Lizzy toddling about her feet.

She was heavy with another child, but she made it seem far easier than she had with Lizzy. She chattered away with Lizzy and I while she worked, talking about the baby. "Jessie Brian says it's a girl because I'm carrying so high, but I still hope it's a boy. I was speaking with Mrs Chandler, and she says he's a boy, as all my weight's on my heels when I'm walking. I hope for a boy; my William would like a son to help about the farm." And she talked on and on about what various different tenants had told her about the child she was expecting. It was blatantly obvious she anticipated this child's arrival in a way she had not with Lizzy. With this one, there was no additional burden, worry or great secret for her to have to conceal.

She handed me a cup of tea, while Lizzy, her fist filled with spoons, passed each her mother and me one, before sitting herself on the floor to play with the rest of them. I looked at the little girl. She was coming up on eighteen months now, and as I looked at her, I realised now with some annoyance the features whose origins I had been unable to trace were now obviously those of George Wickham. Blinking a few times, I attempted to convince myself it was all just imagined, but there was really no doubting it anymore.

Lizzy's dark hair – hair which I was guilty of once attributing to another man, could easily have been Wickham's too. But the nose was not a Darcy nose, it was a petite little button nose, and her hazel eyes matched Wickaham's in both colour and shape. Now the thought had been planted in my mind, it seemed so obvious and undeniable.

And yet, I remembered how suspicious of Mr Wickham Alice had been when she was my maid. It was patently clear that Alice truly disliked Mr Wickham. Every time I had planned to spend time with Mr Wickham, Alice had seemed cross and suspicious of him. Had it been mere jealousy? We had, after all, been openly in the other's company, while Alice's relationship had been conducted in complete privacy. I knew though, it was not the case; Alice had seemed protective of me when she had kept us company in the grounds; she had not interfered like I imagined a spurned lover might have. She feared that he might attempt to take advantage of me, as he had her; that he might have made me think he loved me as he had her?

Upon realising Alice had fallen silent, I looked up from my intense appraisal of the little one. Alice was watching me very cautiously, there was a hint of fear in her eyes. Obviously she saw what I had finally recognised, but she was not certain of how I might react. Yet I could say nothing, I was too stunned. Stunned and ashamed. The horrific pieces were slowly slotting together in my head.

Now I realised why Mr Wickham had been so determined to amuse and entertain me. I had been vulnerable prey, not as Alice had been, but in a different, almost more dangerous way. I had been a young, sheltered girl, unhappily married to an old man, and practically friendless and alone. I had been a fool! Mr Wickham, young, handsome and charming, had played me well, for though I had never cared to admit it, I had been infatuated with him. I never felt more ashamed by my naivety.

In my desire to be admired and valued, I had fallen into his trap. How he must have ridiculed my innocence! And poor Alice, she had been thrown aside by him, in my favour – or she had observed his cunning and ended it herself. My only consolation, if it could be called that, was to know he would never have married Alice anyway, and I had not been the cause of a broken heart over an entirely worthless man.

Suddenly I realised how I could have made a mockery out of myself, my family and my husband. I had been a means to an end. And a year later, Jane had been the same too, if (and I really believed he might have now) he had tried to gain more money by proposing a marriage between himself and Jane to my husband. It would certainly explain my husband's intemperate mood during and directly after his favourite's visit, and his adamant refusal to speak of him. At least there was some comfort to be had there, he had experienced acute failure. Jane, too, had behaved admirably; she was the only one of us to have done so in this whole affair.

Alice had left me to my thoughts and had the foresight to take Lizzy from the room to allow us some privacy. She returned alone, and sat down waiting for me to speak. "You should have told me, Alice, from the very first, you should have told me what he was." I said sadly.

"It wasn't my place, ma'am." she muttered, with a thick voice. "I am not to tell you what to think." I supposed she was right. But I hoped that had she approached me, I would have given her some credit. "And afterwards..." she continued, "when... when we all found out about my Lizzy, I was so ashamed, and I was frightened that Mr Fitzwilliam would have made me marry him if I confessed."

"He would never have," I found myself leaping quickly to his defence, in absolute certainty.

"I know, ma'am." she agreed with solemn surety, "He's a good man, isn't he?" Her question was rhetorical. "He knew all along, and he did not believe that one mistake should be punished so harshly." She continued on, ready to tell me everything. "I hardly deserved such generosity when I had been so silly. George was so nice to me though, and he said we'd marry, only not yet, because he did not have his living, so we had to keep it secret. It was wicked of me to agree, I know, but it was just... so flattering to think of somebody valuing me like that." she attempted to explain, and I nodded in empathy.

"I was so mortified to have fallen for his pretty lies. What would a man like that want with a maid like me? He turned my vanity, and I betrayed you all because of it. It was so hard to admit what I had done. But Mr Fitzwilliam was right, Mr Wickham ought not be a clergyman, he has no scruples." she stated forcefully. "What an example he should set to his parishioners, and with half a dozen or more natural children scattered about Derbyshire, he would have made a mockery of the Pemberley family."

"That is why you spoke with my husband last year when Mr Wickham was visiting?" I asked her, already knowing from Darcy's letter.

"You know?" She looked a little startled that I knew so much, when minutes before I had seemed to know nothing of it. I winced, knowing I could not explain intimate family disputes to Alice, a former servant. I shrugged and she continued. "Mr Fitzwilliam persuaded me to tell Mr Darcy, he said he would not have his father judge Mr Wickham based only on his word. I hardly thought Mr Darcy would believe me, for I know well he is very fond of Mr Wickham, but I told him everything about how it happened and how it had been going on since his visit in the summer.

"He wasn't happy, but he said I was very brave for coming forward and he appreciated it must have been difficult. He had Mr Wickham brought in, and Mr. Wickham told Mr Darcy I were a liar, and he should not believe anything I said because I'd got myself in such a disgraceful situation. And then Mr Darcy told me I was to go. I was hardly sure if he believed me or not, but he must have, because the next I heard, Mr Wickham was gone away, and poor Ellen was in trouble." She explained the whole story to me.

"And your husband?" I asked, wondering if he knew the truth now too.

"I told him first, he was so good to me, he deserved the truth. He was not even very cross. He told me that there were other girls hereabouts that Mr Wickham had done the same to before me. He could not blame me for it. He's a fool, my William!" she laughed. "There's no other man on the earth would have been half so kind as to take in a ruined girl and her bastard child. I love him for it though." She rubbed her hand across her belly lovingly. "I do hope he's a boy." she said again.

"I can scarce believe it. He always seemed so..."

"Gentlemanly?" she suggested, "That should have been my first clue. A gentleman would never have behaved in such a disreputable manner. His charming manners were a faηade." It was apparent that Alice still berated herself for what had happened. But she had been young and motherless, without a guide to offer advice and support – I could not imagine approaching Mrs Reynolds for such advice. "And I ought to have known better, I knew it was wrong... but he was so..."

"I know, Alice, I know." He had almost succeeded in taking advantage of me too. Were it not for Alice's near constant attendance during his visit the first year, who knows what he would have asked of me. Money perhaps? I knew now that wealth was his ultimate goal, and he would go to any lengths to achieve it. Mr Wickham made it a practice to attempt to seduce isolated young girls. I suspected now that during his last meeting with my husband, Wickham had suggested some impropriety between he and I in a desperate last bid perhaps.

And I simply could not forget his attempt to extort money through marrying Jane. He was the most unbelievable chancer. How had I not seen his cunning? I had always prided myself on my ability to judge the characters of others. This though, this absolute proof that Wickham was nothing of the man I had thought him to be, served me to not only rethink his character, but that of every other person of my acquaintance. Had I misjudged them all?

Certainly I had mistaken Darcy. He had attempted time and time again to correct my assumptions about Wickham's character; to offer me some warning and protection. Yet it was he who I believed was manipulative and deceptive. I had attributed his behaviour to the jealousy of Mr Wickham. I had considered Darcy to be less than half the man Mr Wickham was. It was so obvious now that I could not have been more wrong.

Mr Wickham had not an honourable bone in his body. Darcy, at least, had some; he had shown loyalty to Jane and myself, attempting to protect us from Mr Wickham's schemes and desires. To Alice, he had been kind and generous, despite, or perhaps because of, his suspicions, he had sought a way to see her safe, happy and respectable – it was more than many employers would have done. I berated myself soundly for even beginning to imagine his involvement had been for another reason. He tried to be an honourable man, seeking to protect us all from Wickham's machinations. It might have been simpler had he been more explicit, but that was neither the Darcy way, nor would I have been persuaded by him. Wickham had integrated himself too quickly for me to allow Darcy any credit; an action I now realised was worth some pause.

And when my husband had placed so much worth in Mr Wickham's character, it was impossible not to think well of him. My husband and I may not have had the best relationship - he had his faults, I had mine - but he was not a man of weak discernment. He, too, had implicitly trusted and indulged Wickham. There had seemed nothing deserving of distrust in Mr Wickham's whole character.

Again, it came back to the same problem. Had my husband seen fit to confide anything in me, then at least half of our altercation need never have occurred. Honestly, I believed I was not without the right of knowing what had occurred directly after the Kympton living fell vacant, especially when my sister had been concerned in the whole affair! Did Jane not have the right to know either that Mr Wickham wished to marry her and gain it – at least she might have been set on her guard, however unnecessary such a warning was in the end.

Perhaps it was a private affair; perhaps my husband was shamed by it all. To discover that his favourite had taken advantage of his every generosity would have been a blow indeed. It was surely embarrassing to find that what was given in good faith had been used for ill. I could understand that truly, we had all been deceived by Mr Wickham, for he had hoodwinked us all. But his mortification was no reason to once again exclude me from such vital knowledge. It was yet another example of how I was isolated and distrusted by my family. I was tired of feeling so burdensome to them all. I was tired of making unacknowledged efforts, again and again, only to find it earned me no respect, support or trust.

At least his son had finally seen fit to enlighten me as to that matter. It improved my opinion of him. Yet still I could not find it in my heart to completely re-think my opinion of him.

I might recognise how unjust my accusations against him with regards to Wickham were, now that I knew the truth about Alice's baby, but there were other matters I still could not find it in my heart to forgive him for. He had still (good intentions or not) done damage to Jane – perhaps to Bingley too. On that count, I could not think well of him. His attempts to manage the lives of other people were simply unnecessary. If he did not have control over his own choice of marriage partner, what right did he have to pass judgement on the marriages of others? His father would not trust him to select a wife alone. What could he know of successful marriages?

No, for that interference, I still could not forgive him.

Still, while I could not forgive him, I was grateful – not for his interference, but that he trusted me enough to tell me the truth. Was that not what I had craved for two years? For some frankness and openness from my family? Instead, I had been treated as a leper, treated with suspicion, neglected and ignored for the most part.

I had entered unwillingly into a marriage to an elderly widower, as unwillingly as he had agreed to marry me, but I had made my best attempt to be integrated and accepted by the Darcys. Instead, I had met with resistance, distrust and arrogance at every turn. I had been made to feel small and valueless; and what appeared to be constant disapproval of me, had been impossible to ignore. Over time, I had become desperate for them to respect and value me, and I had failed to gain that from them. There had been... nothing.

Darcy's letter though seemed to me the first visible proof of acceptance within the family - some sign that I had been accepted within the family circle and made privy to information that had previously been preciously guarded by my husband and his son. The younger Darcy though, he wanted me to know. It might simply have been to have himself acquitted of guilt, yet I realised it was not just that. He would never provide intimate details to family business if he did not believe I had earned the right; the Darcys always held their private business close.

It warmed me to know that he at least believed I deserved to hear the truth. Finally I was worthy of confidence. Yes, I did not agree with everything he had said, but it was the Darcy way. I was beginning to wonder if their stubbornness would be my defeat. Would I ever persuade my husband his sister's banishment was ridiculous? Or his son's life did not need to be dictated? I had seen no proof they would ever be otherwise persuaded, but this was a start. Darcy's letter proved I was not being dismissed outright any longer; he at least had paid some attention to what I had said that night.

His father was, of course, an entirely different matter. We might have returned to civilities (most likely only for the sake of appearances) but we had never discussed our argument. I could not decide if he had simply dismissed the matter entirely, because he did not care, or if he simply refused to admit to any fault. It was no way for a marriage to progress. Our resentment of the thoughts and opinions of the other would only increase if we continued to pretend nothing had occurred between us. Still, at least he had not hurried away to town.

I realised our tentative peace was unhealthy, and needed to be overcome for the sake of family harmony, but stubbornly, I did not wish to be the first to apologise. I wanted to believe I was not at fault in this affair; yet I could not deny my role in it all for long.

The truce between us had lasted almost the duration of our marriage. Our agreement to place no blame on our unfortunate marriage had been extended until we discussed nothing and set our differences to one side. It had not been beneficial, and I realised that now. Both of us were culpable for the disaster our marriage had become; we were in worse straights than when we first began as a young girl and man many years older. Only he and I were responsible for allowing it to slip away so far. We had obstinately refused to behave as the other wished we would, but rarely had we said a word of it to the other.

Now though, it was time that he and I stopped evading our marriage – our partnership – and at least make some attempt to discuss our differences. Surely it could not hurt to even begin to make a start? To be sure, he had made no effort thus far, but this was not just his responsibility; after all, we had both kept our own secrets throughout this marriage. But sitting in Alice's parlour, I made my resolve to try and speak with my husband as soon as may be. I could only hope he would not dismiss me.