Chapter One
Author's Note: (historical notes are at the end of this post): I pray everyone to forgive me for writing about Darcy pere rather than Darcy fils; I know the old man doesn't hold quite the interest, but there were questions that demanded answer. Chiefly among those, of course, was how the noble Lady Catherine De Bourgh ever came under the ridiculous delusion that FD was to marry her daughter. To relieve everyone's suffering (and bait the hook) at reading a story not about our intrepid hero and his winsome bride, I have prefaced each chapter with a little B story. And now, on to Pemberley, where our tale begins...
Pemberley Manor, 29th December 1813
Elizabeth shifted quietly, doing her best not to disturb the body sprawled out beside her-until she realized she was in fact alone. With a heavy sigh, she threw her head back onto the pillow and slammed her fist into the voluptuous folds of the quilt. He couldn't sleep with her. She couldn't sleep without him. It was a frustrating quandary.
The Gardiner family left Pemberley the day after Christmas, taking Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley with them. The above parties had concluded, entirely on their own, that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy ought to be left alone to acclimate to one another's company.
Three days long they roamed the storied halls, Darcy spinning tales and stealing kisses and becoming so entranced with her company that they retired quite late and missed breakfast entirely. He covered all but the tiniest details, weaving the past into every object, every piece of furniture, every room they entered. It was his way of offering himself to his bride; he was not a man inclined to hold court on his own behalf, but it was easy to show her a chair and recall his father sitting in it; easy to answer her questions about the origins of a vase with a tale of a trip to London as a child.
She still wasn't entirely sure what had happened. They were standing in his study. One moment he was telling her some story about a ten-year-old Colonel Fitzwilliam, a slingshot, and the chandelier-and the next he was gravely ushering her into the hallway.
His regret was sincere, but not sincere enough that he would reconsider his decision. Business had been pushed aside or delegated out for far too long, and there were issues that only the master could handle. Some of the tenents had been promised audience with him on his last trip to Pemberley, when he rushed off in a frenzied haste after Wickham. Love and duty had clashed all year in his mind, and love won the war. Never the less, as he told his wife, they must throw this one battle for duty's sake. Elizabeth smiled with alacrity and told him she could use the time to catch up on correspondence and talk with Mrs. Reynolds about redecorating the lady's suite.
The lady's suite. The mistress's bedchamber. She hadn't planned to know it intimately quite so soon. Up to this point in their marriage, he preferred his bed, in his room, with his wife sharing it. Now all he wanted was his rest, and he wasn't going to get it waking up four times a night to participate in pleasant little diversions.
So for the second night in a row, sleep eluded her grasp. She could doze after working very hard to still her mind, but inevitably she awoke fifteen minutes later more frustrated than she'd been before. The previous night resulted in a grand total of three hours rest, spaced intermittently between staring up at the ceiling and ruminating on the political musings of Locke. She was certain of now being able to hold her own in any men's drawing room, as she had formed her own basis of thought on the merits of a free society and the workings of a democratic state. It was knowledge she would've willingly sacrificed on the altar of sleep.
Despairing of the ability to relax without him at her side, she climbed off the high bed, wrapping up in one of the quilts. The fire was on its way to dying down, but there was still enough of a flame that she managed to get a candle lit.
Most of her predecessor's belongings were already gone from the room, rendering it eerily devoid of personality. The only item left behind was a buffet that ran along the east wall. Elizabeth took several glances inside it when she first arrived and discovered belongings of a personal nature-belongings that she felt Georgiana ought to go through. They hadn't gotten around to it before her sister's somewhat unexpected departure.
She crept over, reaching for the top drawer before realizing that she'd already peeked into its contents and found only trinkets and items of personal significance. The bottom drawer revealed a treasure more interesting to the trespasser. There, neatly stacked, lay journals, all bound in leather and crisply monogrammed in gold leaf. The first two stacks were much more worn and bore the initials A.F.; the other three A.D.
Elizabeth's knowledge on this discovery was twofold. She immediately knew they contained the thoughts of her late mother-in-law; she also knew that it was not her place to read them. These were private ruminations, not meant to be shared; but then, the relevant individual had been dead for ten years and wasn't likely to raise many objections. She ought to close the drawer and leave them to Georgiana's disposal.
She lifted the top one, the one marked A.F., from its place in the drawer. She closed the buffet, crawled back into bed, and peeled away the cover. He had given her permission to sort through his mother's belongings, after all.
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A few doors down from where Elizabeth was rationalizing her bad behavior, Darcy flailed about in his bed, suffering under the heavy weight of his old friend Pride. He scarcely got more sleep without her than with, and what rest he did get was hard fought for rather than pleasantly earned.
But he would not go crawling in there and entreat to be let back into her company. He would not do it. A man shouldn't have to be always sleeping with his wife like a common peasant.
And furthermore, it had been his idea. He could d__n well live with the consequences.
It's just that she was so near. Right down the hall. Sleeping, no doubt peacefully, while he was torturing himself with his own stupidity.
Surely, it wouldn't hurt to check in on her-would it? Just a quick peek to make sure she was comfortable. It wasn't as if she would know, since she was slumbering away.
But what if she was as wide-awake as himself? That would be a bit embarrassing. Then again...Blast it; he had to know.
He jumped out of bed and set off down the hall...
(Thus ends Part 1 of the B story. Now we're moving thirty-one years into the past...you've been warned.)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Tabard House, London, 28th April 1782
One day I wrote her name upon the strand
But came the waves and washed it away
Again I wrote it with a second hand.
But came the tide, and mad-
"Anne! Anne, darling, quick!" Catherine's voiced pierced the oak door, an unwelcome interruption.
The brilliant Edmund Spenser-nay, any poet, no matter how terrible-was preferable to Catherine's late moods. Her upcoming marriage to Sir Lewis De Bourgh had propelled her from merely overbearing into the territory of tyranny. Anne sighed and put aside the book, sure that she was being pulled away from peace for something as trivial as a question of whether or not Lord So & So should be removed from the seventh draft of the guest list. But there was no point in getting upset. Indeed, she knew from experience that it was more pleasant for Catherine's friends and family if they meekly resigned to their fates.
"What is it now?" she sighed, opening the door. She stepped back quickly as a flurry of lace and pink silk propelled itself through the door.
"Annie, he is here, he is finally come back for you! And you do look a mess, but never mind that, where is your maid?!" Catherine paused to draw air and then bellowed in the direction of the hall "Rachel! Someone have Rachel sent up here post-haste! I will not tolerate sloth of this sort!"
Anne's brow furrowed as she tried to follow the conversation. She trailed behind as Catherine strode to the closet and threw open the doors. "Who is here?"
Her sister offered no answer from within the bowels. Silks, brocades and finely worsted wools in an array of colors flew out from the depths and slid their way across the polished floor.
"Oh, do you not have anything that will do? You look so pretty in the cinnamon wool, if it were only colder! Well, are you going to stand there or are you going to help me figure this out?" Catherine emerged, holding several dresses in her hands to add the streaking pile on the floor.
"Catherine, who is here?" Anne asked the question again, not wanting an answer-because at this point, it was dawning on her that she was pretty sure she didn't want to see the man in the drawing room.
Catherine's look was deceptively innocent as she smiled and handed Anne an ivory brocade skirt. "Lord Milton. Of course."
"Edward? Now?" Her throat went tight at the thought, suspicions confirmed. It crossed her mind when she heard the gossip about the dissolution of his engagement to Lucy Wyclif that he might return. She wondered how she would respond to such a scenario.
And now she knew. She didn't fear his presence in her house, and she didn't tremble at the thought of his flattery. Her eyes traveled down to rest on her fetching silk shoes and the thought took firm root in her mind. She wanted to march downstairs, ask him how life fared for him, pause to accept a kiss on her hand, and then gleefully kick him.
Violence was not in her nature, but she was willing to make an exception.
The maid arrived and Catherine continued with her direction through the hurried toilette, but Anne tuned her out and concentrated on the upcoming scene. There was no doubt about the nature of his visit. Rather than reasoning herself out of anger, Anne allowed her resentment full rein to build and snowball, knowing that she would need the force of emotion behind her resolve. Finally, the last curl of the wig was tucked into place and powdered, at which point her sister herded her quickly down the stairs and shoved her into the drawing room.
Anne let her back rest against door as it closed behind her, and allowed only the barest hint of a curtsy. "Lord Milton. To what do we owe the pleasure of a call?"
Edward Hampton, Lord Milton, drew a large smile at the sight of her and bowed deeply, brushing off the cold reception with a wave of his delicate hand. He was indeed a handsome man, his dark complexion set off by the stark white of his pristine wig and the smooth gold silk of his coat. Green eyes sparkled and flashed beneath a broad brow, and he did his best to temper his delight with a shadow of heartfelt contrition. "Dearest Lady Anne, it has been far too long. You look...so well. A six-petal'd primrose, more than woman."
"Ah, yes, you are in fine form today, and quick to find an apt description." Schooled as he was to showing false emotion and hiding the real, she noted that he couldn't conceal the flush of relief at her acceptance of this flattery. Her voice was colder as she added, "But more than woman, she would get above, and think to move my heart to study her, and not to love. I assume you come for a lesson, then?"
His smile faltered. "I have missed your wit."
"I would think you miss more the sugared dullness of your affectionate petit cherie. You found my tongue rather trying on our last meeting."
"Have I not suffered enough in the absence of you? It is all broken glass and a hundred lesser faces, and I own I found the shadow of you easier to tame, but so dull in comparison to the brilliance of the source. I have erred and have nothing else to do but throw myself upon the rack of your anger and hope you will be merciful in your punishment!"
Anne nearly laughed, and restrained herself only by forcing the breaking grin into a grimace. His melodramatic poetry was genius when seen through the prism of affection, but from a more objective standpoint it was utterly preposterous. The man was handsome, and tender, and could quote Donne admirably, but he was really better suited to Drury Lane than a drawing room. Her spirits became gay at the revelation of his absurdity, and she replied with more liveliness and much less anger. "So you claim to be dissolved of your attachment to Miss Wyclif?"
"Indeed, she could not compare to-"
"Why?" She rudely interrupted.
"Pardon?" He caught himself against the couch, for the first time aware that his task would not be easy.
"Why did Miss Wyclif renege on her agreement to marry you? And I beg you, do not tell me that the roles were reversed, for she is already being gossiped about as fickle."
He had no pretty words or clever turns of phrase. Only blunt honesty was left at his disposal. "She did not. Her father rescinded."
"Because of your frequent mention in certain sections of certain papers about town?"
"I am a man of the world, and it would take a fool or a prude to condemn me for the sports every other gentleman of my mettle participate in!"
"Perhaps some are wiser in the concealment of their folly, but that is neither here nor there." Anne, fully enjoying her newfound position of power, circled around him and sat primly beside the mantelpiece. "Tis a pity. I know you were overcome with ardor for her dull simplicity, but perhaps you would have fared better had you insured that it was a genetic trait."
He sputtered, and drew himself up to her so that she had to crane up to look him in the eye. "That is terribly rude, Lady Anne. I came here with the intention of mending the rift between us."
"But you yourself said that I was not meek enough, nor lady enough, to be a suitable wife. My mind is too quick, and my tongue too sharp, and my manners too country, and I wonder at all that you expect me to act a lady when you think me better suited to a gentleman's club."
"But I failed to recognize what a man of my intelligence requires in a wife. I cannot separate my heart from you, no matter how ill you treat me."
"Then let us make a deal, as gentlemen." She was pushing her luck, she knew, but she still pressed on, wondering how far she could go in her disregard of manners before he gave up completely.
"How so?"
"I shall ask you one very simple question which you will answer honestly. If you answer yes, I shall give into whatever your demands might be. If you answer no-I shall call the footman to see you out."
A lesser sportsman might have found a way around the ultimatum, but he was never a man to pass a bet or a game. "So then?"
Anne took a deep breath, lit the match, and set fire to her bridges. " Did you regret chucking me over before your own jilting--or are you here because you have already wagered a dowry that has proven a chimera?"
He stood for maybe half a minute while he considered a way to stretch the truth enough to give her the answer she wanted. The pause itself was telling, and as his mind churned, she rose from her seat and called in the footman.
"Good day then, Lord Milton, and fare well."
"Anne-" he reached for her arm, but she drew it behind her back and clasped her hands, turning to the footman.
"Pray see his lordship to his carriage, and call for tea when you are finished. I will take it in the music room."
She walked out without looking back, knowing that she was leaving all the hopes of her youth in the room behind her. There was a certain self-congratulation due her rude conduct, but sadness hit her as soon as she left the room. She had been angry of the way he dismissed her, but more hurt and disappointed than anything. She'd contented herself for a time with fantasies of this very scene-his contrition and their reconciliation-and though she no longer desired that end, there was now a very real sense of there being nothing left to say between them, and no further acquaintance to tend to. She dissolved all that was left between them-and in some strange way, it made the end more real.
Catherine was ensconced in the music room, waiting on Anne but not expecting her arrival for quite some time. She rose as soon as she saw her sister, and her face fell at the tired look on Anne's face.
"You are...done?"
"In more ways than one. He is leaving now." Anne replied, sinking into the couch.
Catherine walked over, stroking Anne's arm. "I am sorry, my dear. I cannot believe he would call again with no intentions of apologizing, and after the ill way he used you! Why on earth was he here?"
"To beg forgiveness and propose marriage." Anne, having spent all her energy on the previous confrontation, had no desire to be circumspect with her sister.
The softly-stroking arm came to a dead standstill before drawing back quickly. "You refused him?"
"I had to. He does not love me-he only came because he needs the dowry he has already spent and one is as good as another for paying the bills."
"He is a Marquess, he is a beau of the court, he is a particular favorite of the king! To be sure he has his faults, but all men do, and you would never have to see him once you produced a son. Love. You were convinced you loved him. You are the only who keeps spouting off about love never alters and then you go and refuse him."
"I was wrong."
"Well, you are going to have to settle for something sooner or later, and it might as well have been a Marquess. I will not have you living in my house as a near governess at the age of thirty-five."
Anne was too exhausted to listen to this tirade, and even though she knew how much it would anger her sister, she had to escape. "Catherine, I do not feel well. I am sorry, but I must go rest."
"Well, if you had listened to my advice you would be happily engaged and feel just fine, but off with you, go rid yourself of the headache." Catherine's aquiline nose turned away, as sure a sign of dismissal as the harsh line her mouth had drawn into.
Anne was slow in her ascent up the staircase, cautious as she stepped into her rooms. The earlier mess was gone, cleared away. She considered calling for a maid, but she hated to be a bother, and so she took out her own pins, unrolled her hair, and shook out as much as she could of the powder.
Her book was not on the side table, and thinking her maid might have included it in her reorganization, she walked over to the desk. Her eyes landed on several sheets of yellow parchment. Isaac, God how I wish I were in Venice with you right now instead of here. A thought struck her, and she flipped through the sheets hurriedly until she found the relevant passage.
I fear my mother is lonely, as all of her letters to me mention how much she misses even the infrequent visits I was able to make while away at school. Do go see her, I beg you. You have always been her favorite niece, just as you are my favorite cousin. And on the subject of favoritism, it would be an escape from Kate the Curst. Is the wedding still marching forward? Every post I await the news that the poor bloke has regained his senses and deserted, and I have yet been disappointed. Such a terrible irony that all those chaps are dying in the Colonies and this poor man is willingly committing suicide-by-marriage. I tell you, Anne, get out before it turns bloody.
Anne shook her head and smiled at his ramblings on the subject, which lasted through another half-page. There was a war between Catherine and Isaac, and you couldn't call it merry. Isaac took his humor from spurring her anger, and she never failed to delight. Often as not Anne ended up in the crossfire, though she was no traitor. She was equally loyal to both sides.
His suggestion was laughed off two days ago, but it didn't look so bad now. She was sick of London, sick of society, and sick of being cooped up in a townhouse with a rampaging sister and a father who spent half the day drinking himself into a stupor at the club and the other half sleeping off the effects. A couple of months in the country might be just the balm she needed.
She laid aside the letter, and drew out her quill.
My dearest Aunt,
My cousin suggested that you might enjoy company for the summer season, and I would dearly love to visit...
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Lambton Township, 4th May 1782
Anne traveled from London to Wentworth by her father's carriage; her aunt retrieved her from the latter location, and they started the short journey back to Muncaster. The ride was pleasant, spent in animated conversation. Nevertheless she was glad for the chance to stretch her legs when they stopped in Lambton for her aunt to perform a quick errand. She walked off in the direction of the green, enjoying the feel of the small village and its relative quiet compared to London.
Her attention was drawn to the doors of the smithy, where a tall and well dressed man was backing out, and she could just make out his words.
"Newmarket was not...Thank you, Evans...back later today..."
It was at that moment he turned. Her eyes caught his briefly and then flitted away before drawing slowly, appraisingly back toward him. She could not have told which part of him impressed upon her at first, for she took him in so quickly that the whole reached her mind before the fragmentations. Blood pounding in her ears, she was physically struck by his presence. She knew she ought to greet him, but she feared the words would come forth in an awkward, unintelligible manner. She calmed herself, narrowed her eyes, and inquired after him quietly. "Mr. Darcy?"
He was shocked at hearing his own name spoken so shortly after his initial realization that he knew the woman before him, though he couldn't say how or when they had met. She called him Mr. Darcy, which implied an acquaintance already formed, but he could not place her and was sure he wouldn't soon forget a face like hers. "Yes, yes. I apologize, I do...did..."
She smiled sweetly at his hesitation, but cast her eyes to a point on the cobbled street. "Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, sir."
Anne. It was Anne, though grown up a great deal. She was hardly a girl; her figure was full, her cheekbones high, and her grace evident. Her eyes were the same. Widened, intelligent but hesitant. "Lady Anne indeed! I cannot believe-that is to say-you look very well. Are you just now arrived?"
It took her a minute to process the words, and her reply was deliberate and careful, but her mouth still felt dry and the words sounded muddled to her ears. "Indeed, just now. My aunt is on an errand and I thought to get a bit of fresh air. Your mother-how is she?"
"Well, thank you."
Her heart fell at the silence between them. It seemed that nothing in life ever actually changed. Ten years on, she was still as shy as the day she'd last seen him, and from his silence she gathered that his feelings were not much changed from his previous indifference.
At length, he spoke again. "I hear that your sister is shortly to be married."
"To Sir Lewis De Bourgh. We are pleased." That it will soon be over and done with, she finished silently.
"And your...?"
"You must..."
Anne bit her lip, glancing surreptitiously up toward his hands and finding them gloved. "Sorry, please go ahead."
"No, what is it you were saying?"
She let her eyes travel further in that direction, past his waistcoat and his broad jaw until finally she met his eyes. Still the palest blue she'd ever seen. Still full of reserved humor...but now they studied her in a new way. She had a hard time finding her voice. "I was going to inquire after Leander."
She felt rather than saw him smile. "You remember all of that! I am amazed. He is very well indeed, and every bit the horse I thought he would be. You must see him. Perhaps your aunt would call at Pemberley?"
Was that an invitation? She couldn't tell if it was offered out of mere courtesy or an actual desire for her company. Her heart was sure of his sincerity, but her mind cautioned that perhaps he felt some obligation to befriend her. "Perhaps. I should like to."
She saw him stiffen as he glanced behind her, and he quickly reached out and brought her hand to his lips. She couldn't-wouldn't-look up at him. Not with his hot breath seeping through the silk of her glove, with his blue eyes trained on a face she was sure must be crimson at his touch.
"I will see you soon?" It was more of a question than a statement, but he nodded a greeting to the interloper and turned on his heel before she could form an answer. She remembered to exhale as she watched him walk away from her, willing her mind not to take to fancy.
"Were you renewing your acquaintance with Master Darcy?" came a lady's voice behind her.
"Oh! Oh, yes." Anne turned slowly, hoping her skin had returned to a normal color, hoping her voice wasn't as tight as she feared. "He has grown up a great deal."
"As have you, my dear." Camilla Pennington raised an eyebrow in suggestion before linking her arm with her niece's. "When your uncle returns from town, we shall have to invite them to dine at Muncaster."
The words were on the tip of Anne's tongue, and she tried to push them past but they just wouldn't budge. She wanted to ask if they might call on his family, maybe even before her uncle returned, but she feared a knowing response from her aunt. Her breath returned to normal but the glow remained and she was unsteady on her feet as she was handed into the carriage. How could he still effect her in that way? Ten years had passed since they played together during summers-young Master Darcy, Anne's brother William, and Isaac Pennington. She had been on that precipice of age where she was just young enough to play with the boys without suggesting impropriety, and just old enough to feel stirring within her the more adult sensations that would have precluded such behavior the very next summer.
But the next summer, they didn't return. At Christmastime, Anne's mother finally admitted to being ill, and by Easter she was taken from them. There was no longer cause for her father to put his business on hold and haul his family to the savage hills of Derbyshire-Camilla had not been his very dear sister, and under the newfound circumstances, she was a bitter reminder of his loss.
The memory of the summers faded, but the memory of her playmate did not. He had been indifferent to her, taking almost no notice of the slight ten-year-old who tagged along at their sides but worshipped him above the others. He was sixteen when she last saw him. Perhaps, if they'd returned, the regard she held him in would have faded over the years as they both grew to adulthood, but instead he was frozen in time.
George Darcy is the greatest man I have ever met. Over the years, she sometimes occasioned upon that line written in a forgotten journal and laughed at its naïve sincerity. George Darcy, where are you now? Are you grown fully? Are you learning much at Oxford? Is that colt of yours, Leander, tearing up the grass of Pemberley? Are you still as handsome as I remember you, or yet more so?
She shook her hand slightly, wondering that she still felt his breath on her knuckles. Was there a chance he'd seen change in her, or was it mere politeness? Have sense, Anne. You mustn't let these thoughts run away with you. You're not a child any longer, but a lady, and he is a gentleman, and it's not done to sit here and let your imagination run wild on his account.
"Isaac told me that Catherine's Sir Lewis is a fine man, a bit young, but well respected. Do tell me, darling, why has he not married before now?"
Anne glanced up at the woman seated across from her, knowing something was said but not what it was. "Pardon?"
"Sir Lewis De Bourgh. I hear he is a bit young to be married."
"He is the same age as Catherine." Shy, timid Lewis, bowled over by the force of nature that was Catherine, entirely willing to surrender himself to her care. "And she has touched his heart very dearly. He absolutely worships her."
Anne's mouth turned up at the corners, flirting with a grin, but she managed to suppress it. Camilla flicked her wrist, nodding. "I see then, Anne. Poor dear. Has sickness kept him from becoming acquainted with anyone else? Perhaps he's an invalid?"
Anne smiled at the frank sarcasm, but didn't respond. The ride back to Muncaster, although only six miles, was the longest leg of the trip. Camilla offered up her opinion on everything from Isaac's description of Vienna to why the color blue clashed with Anne's complexion. Subjects that were previously entertaining became a tedious interruption to a mind that could be better occupied mulling over George Darcy. Anne nodded disinterestedly, staring out the carriage window at the passing scenery.
Finally, the carriage shuddered to a stop in front of the ivy-covered façade of Edmund Pennington's ancestral home. Anne stepped down behind her aunt, and looked longingly toward the lane that ran down to the edge of the paddocks.
"Well, I would say we're a bit early for tea. I think I shall retire to the drawing room until then", trilled Camilla. Anne waited for the other shoe to drop. "I believe your singing voice has improved considerably since I last had the pleasure."
"I will be sure to thank my cousin for the compliment." She paused. She looked desperately at the steps of the house. "I would be honored to sing for you, but...however, you see, I am still a bit exhausted from the journey yesterday."
Camilla smiled and nodded. Anne continued in a much more resolved tone. "I was thinking to take a turn down by the river in hopes that the cool air will refresh me in time for tea."
"A splendid idea, so long as you are punctual in your return. A lady should never perform when not at her best." Camilla sent for the maid as soon as they were in the door, her mind already halfway through the tea menu.
Anne excused herself as quietly as possible and didn't break into a jog before she was up the stairs and well out of her aunt's sight. She rushed the servant through her clothing change, trading her silks and panniers for a burgundy linen riding habit. While the maid went to retrieve a hat, she stooped down and buttoned the skirt into walking position, grabbed her small writing case, and waited impatiently at the door. The hat was barely pinned into place before she quit the room.
Anne enjoyed walking half as much as she enjoyed riding, which was still a great deal. She followed the path as it twisted down behind the stables and into 'the grove'. To be truthful, a good percentage of Muncaster consisted of groves, but Anne's maternal grandmother had christened this particular one and forced the Baron to situate a garden table and chairs in its midst. No one ever dared to argue with Alainora Percy, and though the lady herself was passed away, her sanctuary was still intact.
Muncaster was twenty miles, by road, from Sheffield. A journey of another eight, in the northeastern direction, carried a person to the door of Anne's childhood home. Even though twenty miles (from Sheffield and thus the county Yorkshire) was not a very far distance, she felt Derbyshire to be a place apart, a world away. There was a brisk dryness to the air that made her feel lightheaded and alive. Scotch pines and birch trees ran along the valley and banks of the creek, tangling in with moss and delicate wildflowers. Higher up, on the flat moors, the land was a sea of lavender and crimson heather, unbroken but for the rust-colored stones that rose in monolithic patterns.
There, on the moors, and particularly one referred to as Barbrook, the southwestern-most corner of Muncaster met the northern panhandle of Pemberley. One far seeing Darcy ancestor had purchased a large part of the east slope of the peaks, then thought to be useless land. Pemberley eventually benefited greatly when mining became common in the district. For this reason, the highlands of the estate stretched much farther north, and though Willersley Hall lay between them in the valley, there was a 300-yard stretch of common land.
Anne had been there only once. The boys met up there, played up there, hunted and ran horse races and tumbled. She once followed William and Isaac and arrived feeling quite proud of herself and her skills for having managed her pony up the rocky hillside. Her brother almost shot the pony out from underneath her, thinking it was a deer, and was stopped in the nick of time by Isaac's frustrated cry of "Good Lord, William, get your blasted sister off the slope!" William responded with several well-chosen words that would have insured him a beating if he'd been within hearing distance of adults.
In that moment, George Darcy became a god among boys. Seeing that Anne was about to be tore into for her annoying impertinence, he rode up like the knight in shining armor she knew he was and vowed to escort his friend's errant little sister back to safety. He hadn't spoken to her on their way to the house, and did seem a little perturbed at being so put out, but Anne was nevertheless convinced of his role as her savior.
Her face re-flushed at the thought of him. She once dreamed often of the way his fingers might feel against her palms, his lips against the broad of her hand, his eyes searching her expression, but she'd never actually thought it possible. And yet...she raised her gloved hand and pressed it against her cheek, thinking that she could still feel the scars where he'd touched her and then snorted derisively at her own foolishness. Worldly, biting Anne. Haughty, rebellious Anne. Anne who let things get so out of hand with an unworthy man that she almost sullied herself past the point of repair. Anne who, like Othello, gave her heart not wisely but too well-- blushing like a naïve country maid at the attentions of a well-heeled gentleman.
George didn't think of her as anything other than William's sister. Of course he had been gentlemanly and cordial. They were adults now, and to act any differently would have been an insult not only to her but also to his friends. His gallantry was almost overstepping the requirements, and perhaps he'd been mocking her. That explanation certainly made more sense than the idea that Mr. Darcy was interested in her!
She reminded herself that she had retired here to escape the attentions of gentlemen and the expectation that she was looking for a husband. Throwing herself at a childhood...friend?...was not part of the plan. George Darcy must remain where he belonged-in the dusty back chambers of the past, expertly carved out of the same stone that formed the very high pedestal she'd placed him on.
She rose, chiding herself for daydreaming rather than filling her journal. It was time to get back to the house before Camilla noticed her absence, but tomorrow would be free. Perhaps a trip to Barbrook was in order.
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Frisia stamped nervously as the groom tightened the girth, throwing her head. Anne stood a bit back, admiring the love of her life. Lithe, of medium height, proud and high tempered but willing and keen. Her color was ordinary sorrel, but she was so well proportioned and athletic that it appeared richer. The mare was five years old, spoiled rotten, and trained by the illustrious groom of Sir Charles Bunbury, president of the National Jockey Club. Anne picked her out at birth, hand fed her, and sent her away for training at the tender age of two. Frisia, however, was not particularly attached to her patroness, who rarely got the chance for riding in town. It wasn't kosher for a young noblewoman to gallop all over Hyde Park on a bred racehorse. This was not a lady's mount, and if Anne had been slightly less overprotective and allowed her to be raced, she might very well have outrun most of her class.
Anne grinned as she contemplated the saddle. Her father would never allow her to ride astride at Wentworth, but this was one impropriety the ever-vigilant Camilla encouraged. She'd been an avid equestrienne before an unrelated back injury ended her riding days, and informed a reluctant Anne that "the servants are paid to keep quiet, and as long as you keep to the western slopes, nobody will have any cause for concern. You cannot jump in a sidesaddle, so the point is lost."
Anne wasn't a fond jumper, but she loved speed and one couldn't quite run in a lady's saddle either, so she was eager to have a go. The groom finished adjusting the leathers and led the mare towards her waiting rider. He offered Anne a lift, but she refused, took the reins, and pulled herself up with a hand on the withers. With a fond stroke and firm kick, she rolled back towards the meadow and trotted off. She made a few controlled circles, posting on the diagonal. You couldn't do that sidesaddle either. Anne, amazed by the freedom and allowed preciseness, got a little carried away.
Her tests were cut short when she noticed the groom watching her from the paddock, bent over in laughter. She tossed the rein on Frisia's neck, relaxed, and departed at a slow cantor. Once they were past the fence, they picked up speed, running toward the hills at a sprinter's pace. Anne ducked her head to avoid losing her hat, but she let everything else fly off behind her. The preceding year hadn't been easy; indeed, she often felt caged and cornered, deluded by misplaced hopes. Catherine lorded her impending marriage over Anne like a conquering general, sometimes even vocally chiding her for being rejected, jilted and tossed aside. In some ways, she was eternally thankful that she didn't find herself bound to the man. Better to find out before that she wasn't his idea of a perfectly simpering oppressed wife than after. Still, the implication stung. "Your brilliance is novel, my dear Anne, and you are charming and tender and volatile, but you are not a wife. A man wants a woman to worship his own quickness of mind, while you believe it is your duty to improve it! Were you only a man, we should have remained the best of friends, but I am afraid my young fiancée is rather disturbed by you, and I must make a very few allowances in her favor. But perhaps, after we are married...there are many fine women of your temperament that choose to become companions to a man rather than shackle themselves to a household. You would be well-suited."
And that was it. He stated his case with impunity, knowing full well that for Anne to disclose the conversation would put her in the unhealthy position of needing to explain why they were alone and in a position to discuss it. He would hardly be cut off from society for stealing a few kisses and subjecting her to his trite poetry.
But here, out here where Frisia could be given free rein and Anne could forget about being a lady in favor of being flesh and blood, she was content. She was not chained to the acrobatic intrigues of court society or her own expectations. This was flight. Power. Movements and moments of suspension.
Each thrust forward removed another care from her soul, and the scenery rushed passed as she drove into the wind. She was finally forced to slow when the rolling hills gave way to the sharp slope leading toward the peaks. There were rocks here, obscured by the dense cover foliage, and she wouldn't risk lameness for the sake of speed. Left to Frisia's better judgment, they picked their way up cautiously.
Anne gasped as the whole of the moor came into view. It stretched out a mile in either direction. It was not rocky, save for on the south side. where a carved vault sat surrounded by a circle of small stones. From the back of the vault, a weathered cross pierced the sky and shadowed the line of trees some thirty yards farther on. Little boys were drawn to the mausoleum and the camouflage it offered. From behind it, with a musket rifle steadied on its flat surface, a boy could hit a deer at a half mile distance. It caught Anne's fancy for a different reason. A long forgotten grave was perfect harbor for her melancholy spirit.
She rode directly to it, swinging down off Frisia and unhooking the reins. Grass rather than heath grew within the circle of the grave, and her horse was more than glad to tame it. While she grazed, her rider walked slowly to the stone, laying the flat of her palm against the stone cross. It was weathered, beaten, and the words were just legible enough that Anne could determine them as Latin, but the inscription wasn't readable. She climbed up on the crypt, arranged her skirts, and leaned tentatively back against the spire. Feeling her weight against it, and realizing that it would indeed support her, she nestled in and turned her face up toward the sky.
Anne was sure she had never seen any place more peaceful, more remote and full of magic. It would have taken someone with a constitution far more pragmatic than hers to not feel carried away by the shades of the moorlands and the history in the breeze.
The perfection of the scene, and the peace of Anne's soul, was finally interrupted by a welcome but unsettling intruder. George Darcy, as unsettled by her reappearance in his life as she was by his, went riding to clear his thoughts. He hadn't planned on winding up at Barbrook, but his mind was very much on Muncaster, and everyone who's ever experienced the synergy between an excellent rider and a capital horse knows that where a rider's mind goes, there goes his steed. George really didn't have a clue where his horse was taking him, but he trusted Leander with his life and gave him a loose rein to wander at will.
The thoughts of both were returned to the present by Frisia's nicker upon seeing another of her species. Anne opened her eyes at the sound and laughed, but continued to stare at the sky.
Hidden as she was by the cross at her back, George saw only a tacked but solitary horse staring as they ambled closer. The rider of the mystery mount was nowhere to be seen.
On an answering whinny from Leander, Anne realized that there was someone else in the vicinity and jumped off the vault as if burned. She spun to find a very perplexed George Darcy staring at her.
"George!", she cried, disconcerted by his appearance and the subsequent tightening in her chest. Her insecurity in his presence followed shortly, and she blushed crimson as she choked out, "I mean, Mr. Darcy, uh...how do you do, sir?"
His mouth turned up at the corners, his eyes flashing. He dismounted, removed his hat, and bowed to her in one seamlessly fluid motion. "Lady Anne. I am surprised to find you here at Pemberley."
She glanced past him to the line of trees, then behind her at the fence and the slope. Quick to fear the worst, she was horrified by his intimation. "Mr. Darcy, sir, I apologize, I did not realize...that is to say, I had no intention of trespassing. Of course, I knew I was, but...I shall leave at once, sir."
"Not at all!" he said hastily, berating himself for sounding like a jerk. "I was only surprised, but you are very welcome here."
She blushed at the kind tone. "Thank you."
"Of course, you must be careful not to throw yourself into the path of any poachers." He smiled again and was relieved to hear laughter.
"I was only just thinking of that day, Mr. Darcy, and how you rescued me from the wrath of my brother."
They both fell silent, and Anne, who was still holding her reins, nervously ran her hands back and forth between the leather. It pained her not to have him speaking, and she finally drew her courage and nodded toward his mount. "Leander?"
"Oh yes!" He stepped back, willing her to move toward them for a closer inspection. She wavered, but complied, stepping up to his nose and running her hand across the band of the bridle.
"He is exceptional. Are you racing?"
Finally, a comfortable topic, and one which George was skilled in talking about. "He took second at Newmarket in March, but he is more or less retired to stud. His daughter, Thisbe, will run at Epsom in August."
"Who is the dam?" She asked, genuinely interested but like George grasping for safe subject.
"Luna, out of Eclipse."
"Incredible!"
"What is it?"
Anne turned, grinning broadly, to her own mare. "Frisia is also a granddaughter of Eclipse. Out of Nemorosa!"
"Not so terribly shocking, I am afraid." He laughed. "I sold the mare to William."
Another scope of silence. Anne, not knowing what else to say, refastened the reins to the bit. "I should be getting back."
He wanted to keep her there, but he didn't dare ask her to stay. "Would you like company?"
She nodded and he walked over to help her mount. She was not about to refuse help from him as she did the groom. With his left hand beneath her foot, and his right palm resting supportively on her hip, Anne thought she could be quite happy suspended there in midair. It was over far too quickly, and she craned her neck to watch him glide effortlessly into his own saddle.
He rode with the grace and confidence of someone born on horseback. She was quite a good rider herself, excellent for a lady of her society, but her skills paled dramatically in comparison to his natural ease. She didn't speak as they walked, preferring to covertly observe him from beneath her lashes.
He was just as impressed with the skills of his companion. He thought, briefly, about commenting on her impropriety; he was stopped by the realization of how much pleasure he derived from it. Had she been less a horsewoman, it would have bothered him, but he loved watching how she guided her horse with her knees, how she raised up on her toes when the terrain forced them to jump or climb. Her hands nervously fidgeted when she was on the ground, talking to someone, and it pleased him to see that once she took hold of the reins, they lay perfectly still.
She was in many ways still the delicate girl he remembered. George had memories of her nature from a time of innocence, and knew enough of the present to have an endless supply of questions that could be used in conversation. He relied on this store of knowledge when, at the bottom of the slope, he turned to her. "Your cousin tells me you shall be the next Mrs. Robinson."
Anne smiled, not at the question but at the knowledge that he paid at least enough attention to her description to remember this fact. "Isaac is too dear to me. I write only for my own amusement."
"Come now, that cannot be the only reason."
Anne would later wonder what possessed her to respond as she did, and would chalk it up to nerves and a lack of forethought. Her tone was acerbic as she rushed forth, "Perhaps I write because Catherine does it so poorly and it vexes her to hear me reputed a talent."
"That is a cruel thing!" he exclaimed. While chiding, his voice was also laced with a teasing undertone which Anne might have noticed-had she not been so desirous of his approval.
"I am sorry. Truly." Her lowered eyes turned to meet his, pleading for mercy. "I am such a nervous person, I often open my mouth and out things come without any control."
"A forgivable fault, I am certain, since you obviously do not possess a whiff of malice."
"Mr. Darcy! I thank you sir, but please do not credit me too much where it is undeserving. I have done many things I was not proud of."
"I have heard nothing of the sort." George spoke sincerely, but he was discomfited by his direct address to her as soon as he said it.
She wondered why he was being so kind to her-she really hadn't done anything to deserve it-and also how he could speak with such certainty about her character. She was flattered by the compliment, but sure that Mr. Darcy knew nothing of correcting faults, since he had none of his own to experiment with. "You speak with conviction about my disposition."
"Justifiably. You must know how proud William recounts you to all his acquaintances." This was the truth-he trusted her brother implicitly on the matter. He was also desperate to change the subject. "But he hardly has time to praise you anymore between glowing accounts of Charles!"
It worked. There were few topics more irresistible to Anne than her nephew. "Oh, Charles! Have you met him, Mr. Darcy?"
"On several occasions."
"Just two months ago I spent a fortnight with them. Rosemary is quite...confined...as I am sure you know...and I had him nearly all to myself. He is so darling! Every time I played piano, he would assume this very manly posture and sing, although he did not know the lyrics." Her face animated at the memories, her cheeks glowing, and she laughed before going on. "And we went on a picnic, oh, it was too humorous. We stopped to play at the brook on our walk, and quite without my knowledge he filled the basket with frogs, and when I opened it they had trailed mud all over the bread and nibbled the cheese! Charles was of course delighted with the mess and my shock."
"And you were angry?"
"Oh no, not at all. His curiosity amazes me." She said, throwing a surreptitious smile at George.
"I've often envied William", George replied without forethought before falling silent, sure that he was coming over like the dullest backcountry farmer.
The intimacy that such a remark created was discomfiting to both of them. They struggled to find something to say, but could think of nothing that would not reveal too much of their own opinions. They rode much of the rest of the way in awkward silence punctuated by the clipping of the horse's hooves.
"I hope you shall remain with us at least until the Grey's ball." George said upon reaching the household grounds.
"I shall." She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes.
"Give your aunt and uncle my regards", he stated, and without further ado he turned his horse and headed back from whence he came, leaving a very perplexed Anne staring after him in the wake.
Her mind roiled as she returned the horse to the stables and headed toward the house. She pleaded off company with the excuse of a headache and escaped to her room where she was left in peace to deconstruct the afternoon.
After much deliberation, she convinced herself that were it anyone but George Darcy, his actions would have indicated interest. However, since it was Mr. Darcy, she could not be trusted to analyze his behavior, and therefore only time would tell. She went down to dinner vowing to think on it no more, and would not have conceded that in constantly reminding herself not to think about him, her entire focus remained upon him for the rest of the night.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Pemberley Manor, 29th December 1813
There was light in the narrow space where the door hovered over the wood flooring, so she was either awake or had fallen asleep without snuffing out the candle. He debated with himself for a few moments before submitting to his need to see her.
She was reading, but due to the nature of her literature and the meddling it implied, her ears were open to the slightest change in atmosphere. She heard the knob turn and she started, shoving the open book haphazardly under the pillow as the door opened.
Her sheepish gaze rose to meet his contrite one. He stood framed in the doorway in his nightgown, devoid of slippers or a robe, his eyes begging for forgiveness.
"Elizabeth", he muttered miserably, "I cannot sleep."
She drew her legs up to her chest from her position under the blankets, cruelly enjoying the way he shuddered at the cold against his bare legs. "Well, sir, it appears we suffer from the same affliction."
She cuddled further under the blankets and turned her head, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
"E-liz-a-beth..." He drew her name out, saying it in exactly the same tone and inflection he would have applied to a more unpalatable apology.
"Not good enough", she mumbled, hiding her smile against the pillow and stretching out so that she took up the whole bed.
"Sorry?" He couldn't quite hear her.
"For what?"
Those words were crystal clear. He paused, trying to think up a way to phrase his begging without sounding like Bingley. "For...for not taking...your feelings..." Blast it, this was ridiculous! He would rather shed blood than suffer this humiliation.
She couldn't keep a snort of laughter from escaping. There he stood, his white legs breaking out in goosebumps from the frozen air, his mouth curling up in the expression of a sulking adolescent. She flung herself back over and the blankets down, revealing a thin silk nightdress. Her eyebrow rose as she watched him restrain his impulses. The battle lasted several moments before she took pity. "Oh, for God's sake, Fitzwilliam, are you coming to bed with me or not?"
The words weren't out of her mouth before he'd crossed the room, grabbing her wrists as he slid beneath the blankets. She laughed and struggled against his hold. "Teasing little wench."
He released her and rolled over, claiming her mouth with his own. As his hands reached under the pillow to fling it out of the way, he fingers brushed the edge of her book, dropping it behind the headboard with a resounding thud. Neither paused to notice since they were more agreeably engaged.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Historical Notes: The readers will notice in this account discussions of families and connections. I did attempt to research all this to make sure it was at least somewhat accurate-and then I came across a Le Meschin marrying a De Bourgh in the 13th century, found out both families died out sometime after, and realized that if Jane Austen can cheat, so can I. Thus, I just broke out the family tree, pulled some information at random, and put the families within England's borders willy nilly. The Le Meschins were the Earls of Chester in 1300, but by Jane Austen's time the title had reverted back to the Prince of Wales; I don't care. It suits my purpose. Muncaster is the home of the Pennington family, but it is in fact in the lake region (Cumberland) as opposed to Derbyshire. The Percys, the Greys, and the Hamptons are not at all accurately described. There was indeed a Hurst family in Derbyshire at this time, as recorded in the Wolley Manuscripts; I'm sure they bore no resemblance to my creations. Jane Austen put the Bingleys in Yorkshire, and it so happens that the 5th Earl Fitzwilliam, William Fitzwilliam (creative, eh?) was entrenched at Wentworth Woodhouse (Jeez, Jane, just take all the names from the same place...) 8 miles north of Sheffield in Yorkshire and thus about 25 miles from Barbrook Moor, where I have placed Pemberley. I hope you will forgive me for not abiding the convention of using the Matlock Earldom-reality, in this case, was better. I have restrained myself, you know: you will find no mention here of Matlock's family-they were surnamed Ferrers :)