Section I, Next Section

Prologue

Authors Note: I'd like to give a very special thanks to two people whose encouragement and support have given me the confidence to try again. Thank you to DanielleL who has always encouraged me to keep on writing and never give up. And thank you to Teanna whose endless amounts of enthusiasm got me all excited again. Danielle and Teanna really have been instrumental to the resurrection of my story.

As suggested by the title of my story, this is a tale inspired by Frances Hodgson Burnett's, The Secret Garden. I have taken her story and woven in my own, hopefully giving it an entirely new meaning. I hope that Ms. Burnett would not be displeased with what I have done.

For every season that Mother Nature held, there bloomed a flower for the occasion. In the winter, there was not only the holly, whose bright red berries sat in regal contrast to the crystalline snow, but also the pine-scented firs, whose greenery served multiple purposes during the Christmas season. The thawing months of spring brought joyous life back into the garden, first with the purple and blue crocuses, and then with the bonny and blithe daffodils. The tulips followed soon thereafter, coloring the walkways with their assorted color palette. And once the tree boughs were filled with blossoms of their own, spring was finally complete. But it was really the summer months that saw the garden reaching its pinnacle of beauty. Indeed there was nothing like it to be had anywhere else and friends and neighbors would travel from far and wide just to spend a day in its splendor.

On one particularly fine and sunny, summer day, a stranger to this part of the country found herself enjoying the marvels of the garden. The young lady was one whom the garden had never the occasion to meet before. Upon being immediately impressed by her good-natured spirit, the flowers endeavored to show themselves off to their best advantage. The young lady delighted in their efforts to impress and rewarded them with a gay and pretty sort of laughter. Her laughter was so much like music that the birds heard it and trilled with delight, feeling compelled to join her in her symphony.

Soon thereafter, the young lady happened upon the young master of the house and consequently the garden as well. Blushing attractively under his intense gaze, the young lady apologized charmingly for intruding upon his privacy. But the young master was more than pleased to find such a beauty amongst his handsome roses and begged her to think nothing of it. Graciously offering her the support of his right arm, they took a turn about the garden together. For the few days following, the young lady and young master reveled in each other's company, taking turns to inspect a new corner of the garden on each new day.

It seemed to all those involved that happiness continually prevailed and that nothing would ever shatter the perfection that these days had generously afforded them. But then, the air turned cooler, the winds began to blow in gales, the trees began to shake, and the flowers bowed their nimble and fragile stems. Nothing could stop the young lady from fleeing in fright and sadly the garden never saw her again.

By the time fall came around, all that remained in the garden were the traces of past seasons lying colorfully along the garden floor. The young master of the garden walked dolefully and miserably alone along the garden paths, recalling happier, more cheerful times. A familiar and reminiscent laughter echoed in the fall breeze, causing several more leaves to fall to their demise. The young master's heart wrenched apart at the sound of it. He sat abruptly down onto a cold and hard stone bench and held his curly locks within his tight fists. One last glance at a golden-spirited chrysanthemum was enough mockery and torment to last him a lifetime.

After that, the garden was locked up and the key carelessly thrown away. Never again would anybody have another opportunity to visit the enchanting garden. Never again would the garden serve as a painful reminder of past happiness. And never again would two lovers wend their way through the garden paths or share a swing in the far corner, hidden amongst two, towering elm trees.

The garden itself was left to crumble and fall into disarray while the garden walls remained, serving as a testimony of better times. After enough time had sufficiently passed, people began to forget about the garden's existence and soon, no one talked of its virtues anymore. Even the garden walls began to fade gracefully into its surrounding landscape. Eventually, there was no one left to question the walls' presence.

That is, until the day it met a girl...

Chapter 1

At the train station in Derbyshire, England...

Mary Bingley stood in the middle of the platform, craning her neck in every direction in an attempt to find anyone who looked like they might be looking for her as well. It was very difficult to see much in the dark especially with hordes of people rushing past her, which often resulted in her being pushed around. Mary was unaccustomed to being caught amidst such a loud gathering and she thought her head would split open at any minute from all the pounding noises created by the intermingling of chattering voices and the hissing steam of the train.

A few minutes later, the train pulled out of the Lambton train station and the crowds began to dwindle. Those that had gotten off the train along with Mary had long since been picked up by their friends and family and left. Those that had boarded the train Mary had just gotten off of had departed with the train and their friends and family who had seen them off had also returned to the comforts of their home.

Soon, Mary found herself standing alone, in the dark silence, with only the night fog unfurling around her and the sounds of the whistling train in the distance to keep her company. Feeling the unfamiliar English chill prickling her soft skin and the foreboding sense of being alone, Mary pulled her thin, gray coat closer to her body as if to give herself more warmth as well as a greater sense of security.

Feeling quite abandoned in such a strange and foreign place, Mary was not quite sure what she should do. She looked down at her trunks, piled at her feet, and then sat tentatively on the edge of her largest trunk. Mary began to hum quietly to keep herself company. "Someone will come for me," she resolutely asserted. She only wished that someone would make himself known already as the stillness of the evening was unnerving her.

All of the sudden, Mary heard footsteps approaching her fast from behind. Fearful and yet not willing to turn around and confront the intruder, Mary merely clutched her handbag tighter and closer to her small body while holding her breath. Click, clack, click, clack. The footsteps grew louder as they grew nearer. Then, they stopped directly behind her. Mary could feel her hands quaking as they fumbled to keep their hold on her small handbag.

A large, booming voice queried, "And what's a young lass like you doing, standing all alone on a night like this?"

The voice, though loud and gruff, was not at all unkind. Gathering what was left of her wits about herself, Mary slowly stood up from her seat and turned around to meet the owner of the voice. Quaking in her black boots, with wisps of fallen brown hair covering her pale face, Mary turned to find the face of the stationmaster staring back at her.

Relaxing just a very little and releasing the held in breath, Mary managed to stutter out, "P-p-p-please sir, I am waiting for someone to pick me up. A Mr. Darcy, sir. I've come to stay with him."

"Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire," the stationmaster asked for confirmation, with a hint of disbelief hanging in his simple question.

"Yes, sir. The very one. Do you know him, sir?" Mary asked back in innocence.

The stationmaster took off his worn, blue cap and scratched the top of his forehead with his large, broad hands. He thought to himself, "Fitzwilliam Darcy taking in a little girl?" He shrugged his shoulders in answer to his own question and then turned back to Mary saying in a warmer voice, "Come. You'll be more comfortable and safer sitting in the station. You can wait there for Mr. Darcy. I'm sure he will be here in no time."

The stationmaster could tell that the young girl was still wary and obviously ruffled that her host had apparently left her to the wayside. Seeking to assuage her fears, he thoughtfully pointed out, "The roads are awfully difficult this time of year what with all the rain we've been having and have no doubt held him up. I'm sure your Mr. Darcy will be here in no time. In the meantime, you can keep me company in the waiting room. Come on girl, don't be shy," he urged. "I won't bite. Are those your trunks? Here, take your handbag and I'll manage the trunks."

Once inside the warm and cozy waiting room, Mary began to feel more at ease. With bones aching from days of travel, she sat down on the bench closest to the fire and allowed her overwhelming fatigue and hunger to overtake her senses and promptly fell asleep. The stationmaster watched her carefully from across the room where he stood post. A puzzled expression flitted across his face as he asked himself, "Where did this little girl come from and why of all the people in the world is she coming to stay with Fitzwilliam Darcy, the well-known Derbyshire recluse?"

No one in the neighboring regions of Lambton had seen much of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the past several years. To be sure, Fitzwilliam Darcy had never been a very active man in the town. A quiet sort of man, who preferred anonymity and subtlety to fame and activism, he had involved himself in the lives of his tenants and the townspeople in other indirect ways. However, while Fitzwilliam Darcy had always been known and respected as a man who favored the home life to the public life, he was also known to have at least ventured out once in a while to involve himself in his neighborhood. But whereas he had once been at least indirectly involved in the town and overly attentive of his tenants, his manner had abruptly changed following the death of his young wife several years past to the point where no one really knew if he still existed or not, as nowadays he chose to handle all affairs through his steward and household staff rather than in person.

While his generosity, charity and kindness could still be felt throughout the neighboring regions, his actual person was never seen. Since the death of his young wife, Fitzwilliam Darcy had more or less become a recluse, emerging only briefly time-to-time when he had business to attend to in London which his steward could not handle himself or when he traveled abroad. The general sentiment amongst the people of Lambton was that during these latter times, Fitzwilliam Darcy was fleeing the past memories of England. But what exactly these memories were was something only Fitzwilliam Darcy knew himself and what others could only gossip and guess about.

The stationmaster continued his steadfast watch over Mary. Pushing himself back in his chair and raising his arms over his head, he thought to himself, "This is certainly a mystery. Strange, indeed."

Chapter 2

A year earlier, somewhere in India...

"Charles, I think perhaps it is time to consider Mary's return to England. What do you think?" Jane Bingley asked softly as she floated into her husband's study.

Charles Bingley raised his head from his stacks of papers, still deep in thought and muttering half-sentences, while waving his ink pen around in the air with his right hand all at the same time. It was not until Charles actually bothered to look up and saw his wife standing before him like a vision of Venus that he broke away from his current reveries and returned to the present.

For all of their many years of marriage and time spent together, Charles still looked upon his Jane with the same adoring eyes of a young suitor that he had had the first time he became acquainted with her. His first memory of Jane was of her laughing in the corner with her sister and friend at the Meryton Ball in Hertfordshire, England. The women had been laughing over some silly trifle and then Jane had glanced over his direction. Their eyes had locked only for the briefest of brief moments, but from that moment on, Charles had been a man in love. If there had ever been a doubter of love at first sight, Charles and Jane could easily have challenged that notion, as they were the living testament of its existence.

The years had been kind to Jane and she was still a marveled beauty wherever she went. Jane's angelic nature only served to enhance that beauty and when she walked into the room with a bouquet of flowers as she had done just now, it was all that Charles could to do to restrain himself from sweeping her up and losing himself in her.

"What's that, my dear? I'm afraid I was lost in my thoughts just now when you spoke to me," Charles said.

Jane sat down in front of Charles with her flowers and vase, expertly arranging the flowers as she repeated, "I said, don't you think it's about time Mary experienced her real home, England?" Continuing with more force she added, "She's not been there since she was a baby. We've been living in India for so many years now that it's all she knows. I wish for her to know her own mother country. Mary will be twelve this year and I think it's about time."

Charles sat back in his chair and pondered Jane's thought for a moment while tapping away at his chin with his forefinger. Jane gave him leave to ponder the sudden thought and patiently waited for her husband's answer.

"How would you propose we accomplish this task, my dear? You know I am not free to leave my position here in India for quite some time. Would you have me send my daughter away to a country she considers foreign and where she knows absolutely no one all alone? No, I will not allow it, Jane. I cannot."

Jane made a start to protest his words, but Charles interrupted her with another reflection, "You know I live to make you happy, my love. And if it were in my power to do this for you, I would gladly do so immediately."

"But you promised, Charles. Indeed you did," Jane pouted. "I was never especially fond of the thought of leaving England, especially with Mary only being a baby at the time. But you promised me then that when Mary came of age, we would return to England so that she could receive a proper education."

Jane paused for a moment in her speech. She was not accustomed to being at odds with her husband, so alike were they in both personality and humor, but Jane was determined to have her way in this one area of life. Where Mary's welfare was concerned, Jane would stand strong and be firm. She was convinced that she was right and was determined to send Mary back with or without her parents in tow.

"Mary deserves to know her mother country, Charles. England should not be a foreign place to her. It is her homeland, her birthplace, and her national identity. Besides," she added, "I see her running around with the village children and it simply makes me uneasy. It is not right and proper!"

Jane shuddered at the thought of the many escapades in which Mary often found herself embroiled. "Mary must learn how to be a proper lady or else she will never survive in society once we do return to England and heavens knows she is not receiving any sort of encouragement for behavioral improvements in a society such as this!"

Finishing her speech with a bit of a huff, Jane sat back with her own chin stuck out in defiance and waited for whatever negative reproach was sure to follow. Charles looked at his wife a little warily at first, rolling her words around in his head to fully absorb the import of their meanings. After a little while, he broke out into a smile and then a little laugh. Jane relaxed slightly upon witnessing such a reaction.

"Really, Jane," Charles burst out laughing, "You almost sound like Darcy there, denouncing the natives as nothing more than common savages."

Jane frowned faintly at the mention of Fitzwilliam Darcy's name, but then smiled again when she noticed the twinkling in Charles's crystal blue eyes. Charles took no notice of the changes in Jane's countenance and continued, "Mary is a spirited child and will have her way, you know. We cannot very well keep her locked within the confines of this house. It is unfortunate that our English neighbors haven't any children with whom she could play with..."

"Which is more the reason why we should send her to England," Jane argued. "There, she may grow up with people of her kind and learn the proper ways of society. If we wait any longer, by the time we do return to England, it will be too late. Oh, can't you just imagine it, Charles? Everyone will be in shock after they witness her outlandish behaviors, which she finds to be perfectly normal, mind you. And Mary, she will likewise scorn them for their 'rigid' ways, you know."

By this point, Jane was rattling away with her worries and concerns, "It is our parental duty to spare her this embarrassment and help her understand the differences in the situations. Oh, how will she ever find a husband? No one will want such a headstrong girl!" Jane gasped horrifyingly at the sudden thought.

"Really Jane, there are times when you remind me of your mother," Charles sardonically answered.

Realizing he had actually voiced his thoughts rather than keeping them to himself, Charles quickly added in, "Well, really Jane. I see no harm in Mary scampering about with the Indian children of the village. It is good to see her be able to learn about different cultures and pick up another language. She is learning tolerance."

Seeing that he was digging himself into a deeper hole and not gaining favor with his wife who was stubbornly holding onto her point of view, Charles sighed and resigned himself. "But I do understand your concerns and see your line of reasoning. We will keep today's conversation in our minds. Until an agreeable solution can be found however, Mary shall have to remain by our sides. Surely you cannot complain - for is Mary not your pride and joy?"

"Yes she is. And don't you dare suggest otherwise, Charles Bingley," Jane answered lightly, allowing her natural, taciturn ways creep back into her voice.

Jane walked over to her husband and snuggled down into Charles's lap, putting her arms around her husband's neck. "I am not trying to rid myself of my child by sending her away. I truly want what's best for her."

"I know Jane, I know."

"Then you will consider it? Truly? You are not just saying so to get rid of me?"

"I truly will. I promise."

Satisfied with the results of their conversation, Jane stood up and picked up her vase of now perfectly arranged flowers. Letting Charles return to his stacks of papers and unfinished business, she took her leave of him, but not before he sent her away with a tender kiss on the forehead.

That night, as Charles and Jane lay in bed sleeping, Charles awoke with an epiphany and turned to his wife calling out in a whisper, "Jane? Jane?"

"Mmmmm," was Jane's lazy reply.

"Are you asleep?" Charles leaned over to get a better look at Jane and proceeded to poke his wife in the side in order to obtain an answer. Jane sleepily brushed away her husband's advances, but Charles refused to desist.

Giving up, Jane rolled over and huffed, "Well, I'm not now."

"I was thinking," Charles began slowly.

"Charles," Jane groaned. "Must you think now? Don't you do enough thinking during the day? I am tired, it has been a long day, let us sleep," she pleaded.

"Well, I thought you would want to know my thoughts as they concerned your daughter," said Charles in a ruffled tone.

"Oh, very well. Of what were you thinking?" Jane asked, trying to make herself stay awake long enough to hear him out.

"Of the conversation we had earlier this afternoon. Mentioning Darcy in my retort to your comment earlier this morning made me think of Darcy."

"And what about him?" Jane asked as she struggled to sit up in bed. "I am afraid I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, Charles. What could Mr. Darcy possibly have to do with Mary? We have not heard from Mr. Darcy in ages..."

"I know, but that still does not change the fact that Darcy is Mary's godfather. Surely he would not object..."

"Goodness gracious, Charles! You are not suggesting what I think you are suggesting... are you?" Jane was now fully wide-awake and extremely incredulous. Charles was slow in his answer and Jane was eager to hear it.

"Indeed I am, Jane. Indeed I am."

There was a moment of silence as Jane tried to process her husband's words a little more. After several intense moments of willing herself to understand, Jane gave up.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy?!?! Whatever possessed you to think of him?" was Jane's shocked question.

"Well, why not?" Charles asked. "As I said, Darcy is Mary's godfather. I see no harm in asking him for help. Perhaps Darcy could take her in during the summer months and then when fall comes, he could find her a place at a proper boarding school or employ a governess."

Charles could tell that his wife was looking skeptically at him and hastened to add, "At our expense of course! Darcy would not be responsible for anything but helping us find a place for Mary. You know we could trust Darcy with such matters. He is extremely attentive when it comes to matters such as these."

"I don't know, Charles," Jane answered slowly. "I know that Mr. Darcy is a good man deep down and your dearest friend, but so much has happened since..."

"I know my dear. I understand your concerns. But right now, I can think of no other alternative."

Both Jane and Charles sat quietly for a couple of minutes, each stewing in their own thoughts. Finally, it was Charles who spoke first. "It is only a suggestion. Perhaps there are other alternatives yet to be thought of. Why don't we both think more on the subject and a decision can be made later?"

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea."

"Excellent. Good-night dear."

"Good-night, Charles."

Charles kissed her lightly before turning away and settling down amongst his pillows and comforter. In a couple of minutes, Jane could here him snoring away from his side of the large bed. Originally, the night had begun with Charles being unable to sleep, but now it was Jane's turn to toss and turn in her sleep as she let her mind wander.

It was no secret that Mary Elizabeth Bingley, at the age of eleven, looked more like her aunt than her own two parents. Except for her straight hair and blue eyes, which she had inherited from her parents and also kept strangers from questioning her parentage, Mary was a miniature copy of her aunt, especially with her long, dark brown hair and twinkling eyes. What was perhaps more uncanny, in her parent's opinion, was how much they even acted like one another.

Both Mary and her aunt were spirited and carefree, not really caring what others thought of them, and much more content to be pursuing their own personal happiness than prescribing to social norms. Jane worried for her daughter. She was terribly afraid that Mary's willingness to speak exactly what was on her mind would someday cause trouble for herself. By the same token, it was this exact problem which also endeared Mary to her heart. It reminded Jane very much of another favorite and extremely important person in her life. That person was one who also happened to share the same name as Mary's middle name.

Elizabeth Bennet, with all her wit and charm, was without a doubt Jane's favorite sister and closest, dearest friend. Growing up amongst five sisters in the countryside of England, Jane and Elizabeth had been the closest in both age and camaraderie. Their intimacy was the result of equality in knowledge, which both seemed to possess and which their younger sisters apparently lacked. Mr. Bennet, their father, was known to have often derided his three youngest daughters as "very silly things," while commending the two eldest for their good senses.

As very close sisters, Jane's marriage to Charles had been a tad difficult to accept. While Elizabeth loved Charles like a brother and was happy for Jane beyond expressions, they also missed each other's constant companionship and confidence. Originally, the two sisters were fortunate in that Jane did not live far away following her marriage. At that time, Charles's estate, Netherfield, was very close to the Bennet's own estate, Longbourn. And as a result, they had been able to visit daily. But when Charles had accepted a post from the King himself and been required to relocate to India, it was with reluctant hearts that both sisters parted on that cold, summer morning by the seaside.

Jane and Elizabeth had not seen each other since the day Jane and Charles left England for India with little Mary by their sides. Neither had ever imagined that they would go so many years without seeing one another, but so it had been destined. The last time the Bingley's had returned to England for a brief visit, Elizabeth had already taken a position as a governess to a family which lived in the far north and consequently, had not been able to leave and see her sister and brother-in-law. Both Jane and Elizabeth missed each other very much and wrote quite frequently to keep each other abreast of their separate lives.

Jane and Elizabeth were faithful pen pals. They wrote each other about everything - or mostly everything, at least. Jane wrote to Elizabeth, painting pictures of India, the people, the culture, the country, her home, her husband and his work. And Elizabeth loved hearing and learning about this foreign country that existed on the opposite side of the globe. From time to time, though not a natural gossip, Jane would add in funny anecdotes about the members of their social circle in India and draw comparisons to the English society. But mostly, Jane's letters were about her beloved daughter. Elizabeth had not seen Mary since her birth, but she felt like she knew this child inside and out. Elizabeth never tired of hearing about Mary, be they complaints about her latest trouble or the prideful words of a doting mother. Elizabeth laughed heartily at the mischief her niece was sure to run into, worried when Jane wrote that Mary had taken ill, and was just as proud as Jane whenever she learned of Mary's latest achievement. Elizabeth loved this little niece of hers, her twin separated by age Jane often joked, and delighted in reading over and over the descriptions Jane sent her.

Elizabeth's letters to Jane were more often than not equal to Jane's in length. But they were however not equal to Jane's in content. As an unmarried woman living in northern England, Elizabeth could not write about a distant country and culture or a husband and family. Instead, Elizabeth wrote of her position as a governess. She wrote about the three little girls under her care: Emmaline, Geraldine, and Susan. Elizabeth professed them to be "good sort of little girls, only lacking in a little bit of spirit." Her employers, the Moffet's, were "kind and fair." The Moffet estate, Waverly, was "spacious and well-situated, being neither too large or too small, and warm and inviting." Elizabeth always wrote to say that she was happy to be living there and working with the Moffet girls. At the end of her letters, Elizabeth always asked endless questions of Jane and her family.

But the one thing Jane wished most to read about, Elizabeth never wrote about. Elizabeth's letters never mentioned the possibility of a suitor in her future. She never wrote about wanting to have a family of her own, only writing about the family she had adopted as her own. She never wrote about meeting people who lived near Waverly, only writing of their mutual acquaintances instead. Jane wished more than anything in the world to know her sister's deepest emotions. But Elizabeth never shared anything more than what was necessary and not being prone to pry like Mrs. Bennet, Jane never bothered to ask.

Still, Jane often wondered whether or not Elizabeth was still thinking of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and if she did, how much time she spent thinking of him.

Chapter 3

When Jane had left England for India all those years ago, Elizabeth had been the only member of the Bennet clan there to see the Bingley's off on the boat. At the time, in between their puddle of tears, Jane had begged her sister to find herself an agreeable man to marry and make herself a happy person again. Jane had been noticing for a while that her younger sister was often prone to melancholy and she had small suspicion that the root of the reason lied within a member of the opposite sex. But without substantial evidence to prove her theory true, Jane had not felt comfortable prying into the affairs of Elizabeth's heart. Elizabeth had never voluntarily voiced her opinion on the subject and Jane would not be the one to meddle when there was no call to do so.

Instead, Jane tried to encourage her sister to do something about her dejected state, which was obvious. Elizabeth, in her true spirited state, had chosen to ignore the seriousness of her sister's request and instead laughed heartily at Jane. She thoughtfully reminded her sister that there were only a certain number of Mr. Collins's in this world and that we could not all be as so fortunate enough to secure one of them. Only, when Jane had asked Elizabeth to be serious, Elizabeth became so serious that Jane became instantaneously uneasy for her sister. Years later, there were many times when Jane still did not know what to make of Elizabeth's admission. So serious had Elizabeth's following comments been that her anguished voice had branded the words into Jane's own delicate heart. Even if Jane had tried to forget her sister's words, she never would have been able to accomplish such a task.

On that cold and foggy morning, Elizabeth had turned to her sister and pressing Jane's hand tightly within her own, said, "Jane, you and I both know that I have always said that nothing but the deepest love could ever induce me into matrimony."

"Why of course Elizabeth. Every little girl dreams and hopes of growing up to find her perfect man. Remember when you used to steal into my room at night and we would dream about our knight's in shining armor? But sometimes, Lizzy, our ideals are not our perfect men. Charles is hardly the tall, dark, moody figure I used to envision. And yet, he is my perfect soul mate."

Elizabeth looked askance at her sister. What is Jane trying to say? she wondered.

Jane took note of the doubtful looks Elizabeth was giving her and quickly came to the point. "While I am not suggesting that you should settle for anything less than true love, I also do not want you to be too critical of your male acquaintances lest you never marry. Your notion of an ideal man may not be the right one for you," she suggested practically.

Jane still remembered vividly the way Elizabeth had shaken her head pitifully in response.

"But do you not see, Jane? I have met a man with whom I experienced that feeling of perfect understanding and true love. Unfortunately, we misunderstood one another for so long that by the time I did understand him, it was too late. Knowing him means knowing true love and any other professions of love will and must pale in comparison. And knowing that he exists means knowing that I will never be able to find another to take his place. Just because he has been able to find solace elsewhere does not mean that I shall." Elizabeth's voice was almost harboring on bitter as she spoke the last sentence.

Jane remembered being shocked by Elizabeth's proclamation. Who could this man be of whom Elizabeth spoke so fondly? She had immediately racked her brains to find a man of their acquaintance who matched such a description. When her mind did fall on a possible candidate, Jane had put a hand to her chest in stricken horror. No! It could not be. When had Elizabeth fallen in love with him? Jane had never known her sister to harbor such feelings for her husband's friend. Indeed, Elizabeth's original opinions of Mr. Darcy had been of such the complete opposite, consisting of disgust and distrust. Jane had known that over time, these harsh feelings had given way to softer ones, but how soft they had become, she never knew until this declaration of love had been spoken.

"So you do love Mr. Darcy then?" she asked for clarification. She needed to make sure that they were speaking of the same man.

"Oh, Jane! You know not how much I do. And now, he is lost to me forever..." Elizabeth's cries were practically the last thing Jane had heard when she left England.

Tears of sadness streamed down Jane's face in the darkness as the memories came flooding forward from the hidden recesses of her recollections. How sad Lizzy had been that cold, gray and cloudy morning. Jane had wished that she could have stayed to comfort her sister, but instead she had been forced to board the boat. She had smiled bravely as she waved good-bye to her sister and her home and ventured towards an unknown land with nothing but an adoring husband and a newborn babe by her side. In the years that followed, Jane would always regret that she could not have done more for her sister. Many times she had wished futilely that she had taken greater pains to discover her sister's true feelings earlier so that she could have done something about it rather than leaving it for such an inopportune and late moment.

Jane heaved a great big sigh as she continued to have trouble sleeping. She tossed and turned and then looked annoyingly at Charles who now slept like a baby beside her. Jane thought about giving him a good poke in the back for waking her up and bringing up such worrisome thoughts. Eventually she threw herself back onto the pillow and turned away from him. She returned to her earlier thoughts and gave up on trying to think of ways she could retaliate against Charles.

Even though it had been many years since she and Charles had moved to India, Jane still missed her family and her home with the familiar heartache of one who had just recently left her home. She desperately wanted Mary to be acquainted with them her family and her home too, but Charles had all but pointed out the impossibility of their returning to England right now. Jane wished she could send Mary to Elizabeth. She could trust Elizabeth to take care of her baby. But Jane knew that was also out of the question given Elizabeth's current situation as a governess. Jane shuddered at the thought of turning her precious daughter over to any of her other relations or his for that matter, "Caroline... no!!!" No, Charles was right. If Mary had to live in England without her parents, with Fitzwilliam Darcy she would have to make her home - even if he also happened to be the source of her dearest sister's broken heart, she reasoned. Resigning herself to the inevitable and finally reaching a difficult decision, Jane settled down to let the sleep overcome her. Within a few minutes, Jane too escaped to the land of dreams where her husband was already waiting for her.

The next morning, Jane followed her husband to his study after breakfast and informed him that she had reached a decision concerning Mary's future. She told him that after much careful thought and deliberation she had decided to agree and go along with his proposal from the night before. She then asked him to write a letter to Mr. Darcy as soon as he could find a convenient moment.

Charles's curiosity was piqued by Jane's formal and stiff manner of speech. "Jane, why are you so rigid in your consent?"

Jane opened her mouth to say something and then shut it just as quickly. Jane was not accustomed to keeping secrets from her husband, but this particular one she had already kept for a long time. In the beginning, she had not told him out of a desire to protect and maintain her sister's privacy and then as time wore on, the occasion had simply never arose for her to have to reveal her sister's true feelings for Charles's best friend. There were times, though, when Jane wondered if Charles did not already suspect the truth. Despite his simple and easy-going nature, Charles was after all a fairly perceptive man. Jane also could not help but wonder from time to time as to whether or not Charles had any insight into the feelings of his friend.

Jane searched quickly for a satisfying answer. Before she could say anything though, she was saved by a loud commotion coming from the hallway. Jane looked quizzically at her husband and was greeted by an equally perplexed look. They quickly walked over to the study door and opened it together.

Upon witnessing the cause of the commotion, Jane gave a loud gasp while Charles attempted to desperately stifle his laughter.

Jane was the first to recover and was quick to ask, "Mary Elizabeth Bingley! What has happened to you?"

There, standing before them, was Jane and Charles's pride and joy, Mary Elizabeth Bingley with her hair all untidy and undone and her petticoat at least six inches deep in mud.

Jane was not sure if she was supposed to be laughing or angry. Had it been any other person she probably would have laughed, but as a parent and a disciplinarian she knew she had to put her foot down. She looked at her daughter who was still standing in front of them with downcast eyes. "Well? What have you to say for yourself, Mary?"

Colette the maid, answered for her charge. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Madam. I was getting her breakfast and did not see this here young 'un slip past me and out the back door. By the time I had noticed her absence, she was already out and about trampling in the mud from yesterday's rain."

Charles looked at his daughter who was now twisting her feet around, awaiting her punishment in nervous dread. Her skirt was fully encrusted in mud and the rest of her body and hair was flecked with random specks of mud. He took pity on her and merely waved the two of them away saying, "Colette, take Mary upstairs to be changed. When she is done cleaning up, you may her bring her to my study. Her mother and I will speak with her then."

Mary looked quickly up at her father with trepidation in her eyes. She had never been punished before, was she going to receive one now? She was very confused and searched his face for an answer, but her father's face betrayed no emotion. He merely nodded his head up towards the stairs and said, "Well, go on then. We don't have all morning and I doubt your mother wants you to drip anymore mud than you already have on her white carpet." Colette took her tiny hand and led her away quietly.

Jane and Charles returned to their respective seats in the study and looked at one another wearily. Each one was having similar thoughts. They prayed that Mary would not give into such impulsive acts if she were to stay with Fitzwilliam Darcy at Pemberley. Both were well aware of her tendency towards trouble and his intense command of propriety. If anything, it gave Jane comfort to know that perhaps this would somehow rub off onto her daughter before she grew anymore "wild" and too much set in her own ways until nothing could be done to change and reform her.

In due time, Mary was brought back to the study and while she was meek at first in entering the room, upon witnessing that perhaps her parents were not too angry with her anymore, she immediately flew to her mother's side profusely apologizing at the same time. "Oh Mama. I'm so sorry to be always causing so much trouble. I do not mean to be a naughty girl; really I do not. It's just that when I woke up this morning, I saw the most beautiful blue bird sitting on my windowsill, chirping a most delightful song. When I saw it fly away, I wanted to know where it was flying to and so ran outside to find it. At first, I could not find it anywhere, but then I heard it chirping in the distance. I turned to run in that direction, but the ground was so soft from the rain that I lost my balance and feel headfirst into the mud. I'm dreadfully sorry, Mama. Please don't be mad with me?"

Jane looked first at her daughter and then to her husband in despair. Both pairs of eyes were filled with mirth. Oh, how their daughter held such power over them! Charles gave a slight cough and spared his wife from answering by answering Mary himself. "I hope Mary that when you are in England, you will try and refrain from creating such a display of yourself in front of your godfather. If there is anything your godfather cannot abide it is a lack of decorum and propriety."

At the mention of England, Mary was instantaneously attentive. Her eyes brightened considerably at the thought and quickly asked her parents, "England?"

Her mother nodded her head in confirmation. "When shall we visit? Oh how I long to visit England! The last time we visited, I was too little to remember anything. But I am such a big girl now, indeed Mr. Daniels says I am, and I am sure that as a big girl I would be able to remember everything if we were to visit again this time. I have been reading many books about England with Mr. Daniels. England is a very different place from India is it not?"

Jane was pleased to see her daughter so excited at the prospect of visiting England and so eager to learn more about the country, but she frowned at Mary's use of "we" in her questions.

Charles immediately answered, "Indeed Mary, England is very different from India. I am happy to see that my money has not been ill spent on Mr. Daniels and that he has managed to teach even an unruly girl like yourself a little something. That seems to show some sort of progress from the last time Mr. Daniels and I spoke."

Mary giggled at her father's incessant teasing.

"But I'm afraid Mary that you will have to discover the differences for yourself if you were to visit England this time. 'We' cannot return to England with you, so it would be just you."

"Just me?" Mary asked confusedly.

"I am so sorry, my child. I cannot leave my position here and your mother is needed to host social functions. You need not worry though. I will write a letter to your godfather and he will take prodigious care of you and find you a proper place in a nearby school. You will be able to meet many other nice girls the same age as yourself there. Would you not like to have some new playmates? And in time, when your mother and I find that we are able to leave India, we will join you in England! How does that sound to you?" Charles tried to make it sound like some sort of a grand adventure. He knew how much his daughter loved new and exciting things.

"But..."

"We would miss you very much, my love. And we do not really want to send you so far all alone. It is just that your father and I believe that you would benefit greatly from pursuing an education in England rather than here. Besides, surely you would not object to visiting a country which you have heard so much about?"

"No, I would love nothing more. But... but... I would love it more if you were with me."

"And so would we, pumpkin, so would we. Your mother and I promise that we would correspond faithfully by letter. And should anything happen or should you need us, we would drop everything to be by your side at once. Such an occurrence would never happen though. No doubt, you will run off to England, meet new friends, have the time of your life, and in the process soon forget about your poor Mama and Papa pining away to hear from you in India."

"No indeed, Papa! I would not!" said Mary, bursting out into a fit of laughter at her father's silliness.

Charles held out his arms to his daughter and she quickly vacated her mother's lap to run around the oak desk to be embraced. As she snuggled into the nook created by his arms and chest, Charles kissed the top of her head and asked, "So, shall I write to Mr. Darcy then?"

Mary nodded her head in assent.

"Well then," began Charles, "perhaps if you lovely ladies would excuse me, I might be able to write without delay to my friend so that we may receive an answer as soon as possible. Surely you both have other things to attend to in other parts of the house this morning?"

The ladies took the hint and scurried out of the room. Jane went to attend to her household duties, remembering that she still had to speak with Cook about dinner arrangements for a party to be held at Bingley Manor later that week. Meanwhile, Mary skipped happily away from the study. She could not believe her good fortune. Instead of being admonished for running outside without permission and getting mud all over her new clothes, she was told that she was going to visit England soon. In a dream-like state, Mary was returned to Colette to await the arrival of Mr. Daniels.

As soon as wife and daughter had retreated from his room, Charles took up his pen to compose his letter to Mr. Darcy:

My good friend,

How long has it been since I have had the good fortune of hearing from you. I trust that you are doing well. And how is your family? I hope they are all well too. How is Pemberley? It has been too long since I have had the pleasure of seeing you and your grand estate. We are as always, all well in India, though perhaps a little nostalgic for England.

In any case, you are hardly a man to be trifled with, so I will come straight to the point and purpose of this letter. Your goddaughter, Mary, has grown up to be quite a young lady now. She is eleven, almost twelve, and her mother and I feel it is time that she be removed from her home in India and brought up in her own mother country, England. Surely you can understand why we would turn to you for assistance. You, whose advice and words we have always trusted and held in high esteem. We know and have confidence that you would take good care of Mary. We need no further proof of your capabilities than your own dear sister and if you can bring Mary up to be half the woman Georgiana is, Jane and I would be forever grateful....

---

Several weeks later in Pemberley's study room...

...And so it is for this reason that I write you this letter. Do we ask too much of you to undertake such a task? If it is agreeable to you, we will send Mary to Pemberley as soon as it is possible. And from there, perhaps you would assist us in finding a suitable school in which to place her. We trust your judgment completely and cost is, as I am sure you know, of no importance. We only ask that it be a nice, reputable place where Mary will be able to learn and grow amidst the company of other fine, young ladies. Jane and I eagerly await your answer. Take care my friend and thank you.

Yours and etc.,
Charles Bingley

Darcy sat in his dark room carefully studying and considering the letter he had just received that very morning. Disbelief had clouded his eyes earlier in the day when he had first recognized his friend's handwriting on the outer envelope. He had been reticent to acknowledge the origins of the letter, but the occasional blots within the letter confirmed that Bingley had indeed been the author of the letter. After Darcy had received the letter, he asked himself, Why is Bingley writing me?

Within the recent years, Darcy had not been the most faithful of correspondents. After many attempts at reaching Darcy, Bingley had despaired of ever receiving a reply and had desisted in writing his friend. If Darcy had ever been in any sort of disbelief upon receiving a letter from Bingley, he was in even more disbelief after reading the contents of the letter. He could not quite believe what his friend was asking him to do. Did Bingley not realize that he was hardly a man fit to play the role of a godfather when he was already incapable of being a father to his own son these days?

Chapter 4

Darcy leaned far back into his leather chair, relaxing and stretching his long legs out before him. He took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of the old leather. As he did so, he also took note of the bleak darkness outside his tall window. Everything was so dark and so morose. Darcy tried to shrug off the ominous feeling of melancholy, but did so very little success. He was listless and tired.

In one hand, Darcy gently swirled around his goblet of fine, amber-colored brandy. It was an old habit that he found himself prone to fall into while deep in thought. In his other hand, Darcy held the letter. Ever since the letter had been delivered to his hand that morning, he had been unable to let it go. So, he had carried it around with him everywhere he went and kept it near in his coat pocket when his hands had been obligated to be engaged elsewhere. Now Darcy sat in his study, with only the fire to make his light and keep him warm.

With all the day's business finally finished, Darcy allowed his mind to wander and settle on the letter that lay in his hand, Bingley's letter. His earlier questions resurfaced as he thought about things a little more. Why did Bingley write me? Does he know what he's asking? How is Bingley? How is his family? I wonder what it is like for them in India. I suppose I would know had I taken the trouble to write.

A soft knock at the door broke his quiet reverie, "Yes?"

The door slowly cracked open and the light from the hallway outlined the shape of Mrs. Reynolds's body. She squinted in the darkness, trying to locate her employer. She found him seated behind his large, imposing desk. "Pardon me, sir. But I wanted to inform you that the house has been checked and if no other services are required..."

"And Master Colin?" he asked, lifting his head to look at the door.

Mrs. Reynolds paused for a minute before answering with calmness and precision. "He took a fit earlier this evening while you were out dining with the Sloames's, sir."

"And why was I not informed of this earlier?" Darcy asked with interest.

Mrs. Reynolds shifted on her feet for a few seconds, unsure of how she should continue. "Forgive me sir. You have been preoccupied of late sir and I did not wish to unnecessarily worry you. The fit was nothing really. Master Colin recovered quickly and ate his dinner accordingly. He fell asleep soon after."

"Very well then," Darcy paused as if in thought and then continued, "However, for future reference, I should like to always be informed no matter how large or how small Master Colin's fits are."

"As you wish sir," Mrs. Reynolds gave a slight bow in acquiescence. She would always do what she was told to do. It was one of her finest qualities. A loyal servant and one of the best housekeepers in the country, Mrs. Reynolds had been with the Darcy family for years now, ever since Fitzwilliam Darcy had been a young boy. Her strength and conviction never ceased to amaze both the staff and Mr. Darcy. Truthfully speaking, there were times when Darcy did not know what he would do without the trusty Mrs. Reynolds by his side.

Darcy sighed. "I suppose there is nothing more then. I will put out the fire here when I am done. Thank you Mrs. Reynolds, I bid you good-night."

He tipped his hand off to her and she returned the gesture. "Very well sir. I bid you a good-night sir."

As Darcy watched Mrs. Reynolds close the door again and listened to her retreating footsteps, he took a swig of his brandy. The liquid burned in his throat and he took another drink. Secretly, Darcy was a bit mollified at himself for not having bothered to check his son earlier and on his own accord following his return from his dinner engagement. Darcy sighed heavily to himself and wove his fingers through the unruly and dark curls that covered the top of his head. He wondered, not for the first time in his life, where he had gone wrong. For some reason, Darcy could not bring himself to see his son, always sick in his bed. Seeing his son, lying there helplessly amongst the plethora of pillows and comforters, was too much of a painful reminder of his son's mother. As a result, Darcy rarely ventured in there during the daytime or when his son was awake.

Instead, Darcy preferred to steal into his son's room at night when no one else was around or awake and Colin was lying peacefully asleep. There, Darcy would sit beside his son and gaze at him tenderly. Often times, Darcy would whisper stories, which his own father had once told him. Other times, Darcy would merely sit there marveling at this life in front of him, a life that he had helped to bring into this world.

Although Darcy did not spend much time with Colin when he was awake, it could not be said that he was a cold or unfeeling father. Indeed, he was a very thoughtful father and generous too. He insisted that his son had the best of everything - medical attention, food, clothes, books and toys - nothing was too good for his son. And always made sure that his son was never wanting for anything. Never had there been a more spoilt child. It was unfortunate then that the one thing Colin really craved his father could never deliver and that was an open display of affection. But for Darcy, sharing his emotions had never been easy and it did not help matters that in addition to feeling a love for his son he also felt a deep sense of guilt.

In short, Darcy blamed himself for his son's weak constitution and his wife's death as well. The doctor was always suggesting that the fresh air and exercise might be beneficial to Colin's health. Colin however was forever complaining of weakness, spasms in his back, fatigue, light-headedness, and chills whenever he was persuaded to leave his bed. A hypochondriac with a stubbornness that had been inherited from his own father, Colin was left to his own will and therefore remained in the warmth and comforts of his bedchambers. Darcy had not the strength of heart to command his son to follow the doctor's orders.

Many years ago, he had persuaded his wife that the outdoors and exercise might be good for her, but where had that left her? His wife, already weak with a frail constitution, had immediately caught pneumonia one chilly spring evening after being cajoled into enjoying a walk around the extensive grounds of Pemberley. No doctor could cure her for her body was far too weak to battle the illness on its own. She died soon thereafter, leaving behind a son who had apparently inherited his mother's sickly constitution and a man who could hardly believe his unlucky fate.

Darcy thought of another young lady in his past who had delighted in outdoor excursions. Round and around she had walked the gardens, smelling every rose and touching every branch of a tree. In the morning, she had watched the sun rise over the eastern horizon. In the afternoon, she had picnicked by the pond and taken long, leisurely rows from one end to the other. In the evening, she had listened to the crickets sing and watched the night sky fall and the stars rise up above.

Darcy's usually stern and serious countenance betrayed a small smile beginning to form at the corner of his mouth as he indulged himself in past remembrances. But just as quickly as she slipped into his thoughts, he quickly pushed her out as well. "Drat! I have got to stop thinking about her. She is lost to me forever and has been for many years now."

Darcy flew up from his chair, downed the rest of his drink, and wiped his damp mouth on the sleeve of his coat jacket. Shaking his head to clear his senses, he then strode over to the fireplace and stamped out the last embers of the flame from his dying fire. As he made his way down the long and winding hallways of Pemberley to his son's room, his mind continued to tease and torture him, tormenting him with questions like, "Then why can you not stop thinking about her?" and "Do you not want to see her again?" Darcy shook his head as if attempting to shake away any remaining thoughts of her or the past.

He stopped right outside his son's door. Darcy could hear his son's shallow breathing. He raised one hand and laid it against the wooden door, tracing and caressing the patterns lightly with the palm of his hand. Every night, it was the same. He would stand outside wracked with indecision. And every night he gave in. He wanted to see his son; he needed to see his son, even if it meant seeing him in the moonlight. After a few deep breaths, Darcy's hand dropped to the cold metal of the doorknob, turning it slowly and silently, opening the door. Skillfully maneuvering himself around the dark room, Darcy made his way to his son's bedside and sat himself down in a bedside chair. He positioned himself in such a way that he was given a full command of his son's sleeping figure.

Colin looked like an angel, reposed against his white, fluffy pillows with the moonlight illuminating all his facial features. Dark brown curls, not unlike his father's, and damp from perspiration crowned his forehead. Eyelids with long, brown eyelashes hid the piercing, hazel eyes of his grandmother. His freckled cheeks were flushed a rosy pink and his tiny mouth was slightly parted, breathing in and breathing out. A thin, pale hand was raised, tucked and nestled just below the chin. His chest, underneath all the blanket folds raised up and down with each intake and each exhale of a breath. Darcy wished he could capture this moment forever. Silent beauty.

"Oh, my poor son," he softly lamented. "How much you suffer. What would you be like if your mother were still alive? Would you be better? She loved you so much. Never before had I ever seen her in a more excited and animated state than the day you arrived in this world, howling at the top of your lungs. She was exhausted but she was effusive. Not even her over-bearing mother could dampen her spirits on that day. But what have I done to you? I seem to have pulled you into my own depths of depression, haven't I? I have failed your mother. I have failed you. I am so sorry. I am so sorry, Anne."

Darcy leaned over and cradled his shaking head in his hands. What was the point of life if you could not face it? What was the point of life if you were always hiding from it? What was the point of life if you had no one to share it with? His son had already grown up to be just like him and Darcy was determined to save Colin from a similar fate. Pulling Bingley's letter out from its home in his coat pocket, Darcy fingered it fondly.

"Perhaps a playmate might do you some good. Bring some life back into you. Would you like that, son? She is my goddaughter. I suppose that would make you her god-brother, no?" Darcy chucked at his own little joke. "Her name is Mary and she is just about the same age as you. What do you think?"

Darcy silently considered his son's pallid face, pondering his own question. The answer had eluded him all day long but now, looking at Colin's sleeping figure, Darcy knew his answer. "Yes, I think I shall write directly to Bingley first thing in the morning and tell him that his daughter is most welcome at Pemberley."

And with that decision finally made, Darcy got up from his chair and walked over to stand by his son. Leaning over, he brushed aside the wisps of brown hair that covered his son's face and pecked him tenderly on the forehead. Colin turned over in his sleep and smacked his lips. Darcy froze in his spot and held his breath. After Colin had settled down again, Darcy quickly and noiselessly exited the room before Colin could wake up and see him there. Once outside in the hallway, Darcy stopped to consider his decision for a moment while putting the letter back into his coat pocket and then retired to his own bedchambers.

Several weeks later in India...

Jane walked excitedly into her husband's dressing chambers where she found Charles fussing with his uncooperative cravat. "Charles, oh Charles! The post just came this morning and oh, you must read this immediately." In her hand, she waved a piece of rectangular-shaped paper.

"What is it?"

"I think it's a letter from Mr. Darcy! Do take a look and see if it is. Oh here, let me do that," she said as she reached out to fix his cravat for him. "You read the letter instead."

Jane held out her hand and Charles took the letter with eagerness, noting that it had indeed been sealed with the Darcy seal and penned in Darcy's bold, purposeful handwriting. He read it over Jane's shoulders, mouthing the words to himself as he took in each one. Meanwhile, Jane bit her lower lip and worked industriously on his frustrating cravat.

"Ah, there we are now," said Jane as she finished up tying Charles's cravat and stepped back, patting it gently into place. "Now, what does the letter say?"

Charles could scare contain his giddy, boyish delight. "Sit down my dear, I shall read it to you."

My good friend,

I was indeed most surprised to receive your letter, though hardly displeased. I heartily agree with you that it has been far too long since our last correspondence and I am therefore grateful for your extension and renewal of our friendship. Your letter finds my household unchanged. The house is still standing and were you to come visit tomorrow, you would find it much as it was the last time you visited. I am glad to hear though that Mrs. Bingley and Miss Bingley are in good health and fair spirits.

In regards to Miss Mary, I am honored that you would consider me suitable enough to undertake your daughter's education and readily accept the challenge. As you know, my own son is about Mary's age. Due to his unhealthy constitution, Colin has not yet had the beginnings of a formal education either, save for the vast amount of books he reads while lying about in his bed. Perhaps Mary would prove to be an agreeable playmate for Colin.

Send Mary to me as soon as you and Mrs. Bingley are willing to part with her. She shall indulge herself in the wild outdoors of Derbyshire all summer long, hopefully enticing Colin to join her in her rambles. When the weather turns cooler and fall settles in, I will see to it that they have their own personal tutor to help them along in their studies. If this plan meets with your approval, I will expect a letter informing me of Mary's arrival date and the young lady herself soon following. You and Mrs. Bingley will of course be most welcome to visit your daughter whenever you feel you are able to leave India.

The doors of Pemberley are always open to you and your family.

Sincerely,
Fitzwilliam Darcy

"A private tutor!" gasped Jane, reaching up to hold the base of her throat with her right hand. "That is most generous indeed!"

"Indeed it is," agreed Charles. "But leave it to Darcy to be filled with surprises." Charles scratched the top of his head in perturbation. "You know, I had forgotten that Colin was Mary's own age."

"His son is hardly ever mentioned," Jane answered. "It's no wonder that you overlooked him."

Charles sat down on the divan by his wife. "That is true. I wonder how Darcy is getting along with Colin now that Anne has passed on." Jane did not answer. "Poor Darce," he finished.

"It has been many years..."

Charles nodded his head. "It must be ten years at least."

"That is a long time. I wonder..." Jane's voice trailed off. She looked away, unable to finish her question.

"If he loves his son?"

Jane did not look up when she heard her husband's voice. Charles knew her too well. She felt ashamed of her thoughts, of doubting her husband's friend. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the twinge of bitterness that infused her memory of this man whom she knew so little about. True, he was his husband's best friend. However, he was also the same man who had broken her sister's heart and for that she could not look upon him too kindly nor forgive him.

Seeing that Jane was not going to answer his question, Charles answered for her. "Yes, I am sure that he does. In fact, I know that he does. He may not talk about Colin much and he may not write about him in his letters like you write about Mary, but I also know that no Darcy would ever not love his own flesh and blood."

A question formed on the tip of Jane's tongue and it burned there, begging to be asked. "Charles, did Mr. Darcy love his wife?"

Charles was startled by his wife's question. Jane did not usually ask such questions and he was at a temporary loss as to how to answer it. Her question was not one to be taken lightly and Charles took a while to consider it. Darcy was a complex man and he wanted to represent him in a justifiable light. It was the least Charles could do for his friend. To be honest, Charles was not always sure of Darcy's true feelings either. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a man who always confided in others; he was a man who liked to keep things to himself. He was private. Only when Darcy was pried would he sometimes loosen the tongue and speak. Fortunately, Charles knew his friend well enough to answer Jane's question with a sufficient amount of certainty.

Finally after several minutes of quiet contemplation, Charles found a way to answer his wife's question and answered, "He may not have loved Anne as I do you and she may not have loved him as you love me, but Darcy did love her in his own way just as she returned the love in her own way. Their marriage was always... of an awkward nature, to say the least. It was one of common understanding more than one founded on love. Nevertheless, I know that Darcy did grieve his wife's death. He took it fairly hard and he no doubt still misses her sorely, even if it has been ten years passed. Apparently, Colin has never been well since his mother's death either. That is unfortunate for Darcy. Colin is Darcy's only child and I know he loves him. He may not show it, but I know that Darcy would never deny his son anything, just as he never did Anne."

"I did not mean to imply..." Jane began shyly.

"It's all right, my dear. I know you did not mean to suggest that it would have been otherwise." Charles shrugged. "Darcy is a difficult person to understand, but once you get to know him, he is a man worth knowing. He feels as deeply as he cares."

Jane listened to her husband in silence. Is this why Elizabeth fell in love with this enigma of a man?

Charles, feeling as though he and Jane had discussed Darcy's plight long enough, decided to change the topic immediately. "Why don't we go and share this joyous letter with Mary, hm? You will no doubt want to start her packing anyhow. Darcy invites her to come as soon as she is ready and there is no time to be wasted. Our little lamb will soon be leaving us, Jane. What shall we do then?"

"Well..." Jane gave him a suggestively sly smile and raised her eyebrows as she left her husband's dressing chambers. "There are several things I can think of that would suitably occupy our time once Mary leaves."

Charles raised his eyebrows in return. "Several things, indeed!" Then, he ran after his wife in eager pursuit.

Chapter 5

Back in the train station of Derbyshire­

The stationmaster trained his eyes on a flickering candle, standing on the corner his table. For some odd reason, it captivated his attention and only when it began to dim did he awaken from his zombie-like state and returned to the present. He glanced back over to the other end of the room where Mary still lay curled up in a chair and sighed. What do I do if no one comes to claim her? he wondered.

The stationmaster took out his watch and looked at the time. His shift had ended over half an hour ago. He was supposed to have already locked up the station now that the last train had passed through for the night. He was supposed to be getting ready for bed right now. The stationmaster groaned. His wife would chide him in the morning for being out so late again. The stationmaster tried not to think about that and instead, focused on Mary. At the moment, she was his main dilemma. What do I do with the girl? he asked himself. He could not very well leave her there alone. He rubbed his eyes.

The stationmaster was just beginning to despair of anyone ever coming to claim the sleeping child, when in came a matronly woman. She was obviously in a flustered state with the way she bustled about and was muttering to herself under her breath. For a few seconds there, the stationmaster almost wondered if he had crossed paths with a madwoman. But he soon realized that she was not out of her wits, she was merely anxious and she had come for the child.

For some reason or another, the latter realization struck a chord with the stationmaster. It was not that the he had doubted the child's words when she said she was going to live with her godfather at Pemberley. On the contrary, he had believed her and it was the very thought that perturbed him. He was surprised that anyone would ever willingly send their child to "Gloomy Pemberley," as the locals had dubbed it in the recent years. And now that someone really had come for the child, his heart ached for her. He could not imagine anyone wanting to live in such a remote and repressed area of the country. The stationmaster shrugged his shoulders though. It was not his place to pass judgment. Instead, he turned his attention to the nervous woman who was now standing in front of him.

"Oh, dear me. What would the Master say if he knew how the poor child had been left all alone at this hour to wait in a train station," the troubled woman mumbled to herself as she ringed her hands nervously.

"Ah, hello, my good sir! I beg your pardon, but is there a child—" the stationmaster pointed to the other end of the waiting room anticipating the rest of her question. Now that the stationmaster had gotten a better look at the woman, he recognized her to be the housekeeper of Pemberley.

"Oh, thank heavens she is safe and sound! Thank you ever so much, kind sir. I hope I have not caused you much of an inconvenience! I know it is late and I tried to get here as fast as I could. But the roads, you know—they are terrible this time of the year and we got stuck in mud ever so many times," she lamented while shaking her head. "I thought we would never make it here, but here we are and the poor little lamb has been waiting all this time and plumb tuckered out for sure." Mrs. Reynolds was not normally so verbose, but her agitated state made her quite chatty.

After tipping the stationmaster for his troubles and apologizing once more, Mrs. Reynolds turned around and began to walk in Mary's direction. Upon closer examination of her new charge, she gave a gasp. "Oh my!"

The stationmaster looked curiously up from his desk upon hearing Mrs. Reynolds's exclamation. When she did not seem to have any other comments forthcoming, he shrugged his shoulders and returned to his books.

Mrs. Reynolds continued walking towards the girl thinking to herself, This little girl—why she looks just like that young lady—the one that visited Pemberley many, many summers ago. The one Mr. Darcy seemed interested in. The one we all thought for sure would be the next—The one that went away and never came back.

She mused over it some more and very quickly put two and two together. Why, of course! Mr. Darcy did say that Mr. Bingley had married a Miss Bennet. I am sure they were sisters. Oh dear, goodness gracious me. I wonder how Mr. Darcy will take it when he finds out that their daughter looks exactly like Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Mrs. Reynolds went to Mary's side and after a few gentle prods, managed to wake her up. "Hello there, my dear. I am Mrs. Reynolds, Mr. Darcy's housekeeper, and you must be Miss Bingley."

Mary opened up her eyes reluctantly and rubbed them with fatigue. Still feeling the wooziness of her slumber, she looked warily at Mrs. Reynolds. The housekeeper was not to be deterred from her purpose though. "Come child. I'm so sorry I was so late, but here I am now and it's time to go. The carriage is outside and we must not keep it waiting. The horses do not like being out in this rain and neither do I. Goodness, one never knows what will happen on a stormy night."

Mary grudgingly stood up from her sleeping position and stretched her arms upward. Mrs. Reynolds then watched in horror as the little girl scratched her mussed up hair and then yawned openly before her in public. Dear me, she thought.

Meanwhile, the footman had retrieved Mary's trunks and secured them to the carriage. Once he had completed the task, he signaled to Mrs. Reynolds that all was well and ready. Acknowledging the sign, Mrs. Reynolds once again tried to hurry Mary along. "Come my dear, we have a bit of a trip back to Pemberley. You can sleep some more in the carriage."

Mary followed the woman outside and climbed into the carriage. Mrs. Reynolds followed suit. The footman closed the door firmly behind them and then they began their trip to Pemberley. Thankfully, the rain had stopped by this time. The distance from Lambton to Pemberley was not so very great, but the poor road conditions necessarily lengthened the trip. At first, Mrs. Reynolds thought Mary would continue her nap. But after a while, she seemed to grow more and more alert of her surroundings and being an inquisitive child, began asking after the dark masses that stared back at her from the carriage window.

"Ah, those are the wild and rolling hills of Derbyshire, my child. They are very beautiful and you will get to know them better in the daylight. I am sure you will take delight in running rampant through them. I hear that you are a favorite with the outdoors."

Mary nodded her head eagerly in agreement. "Will I be allowed to run about at Pemberley? What is Pemberley like? My Papa says Pemberley is a very grand place, but my Mama has never seen it. Does my Papa tell the truth? Papa says he and Mr. Darcy are great friends. Shall I like Mr. Darcy do you think? Shall Mr. Darcy approve of me? My Mama says that I should not run around for fear Mr. Darcy should disapprove of my 'wild ways' as she calls it and that I should try to always be a proper young lady. But it is so trying to be a proper young lady sometimes. Especially when the outdoors are calling to me. I cannot help it if I am always tripping over and falling in the dirt." Mary felt at ease talking to and asking this woman all these questions. Mary was adept at making friends wherever she went, much like her father, and she found Mrs. Reynolds to be very much to her liking.

Lucky for Mary, Mrs. Reynolds was becoming increasingly amused by the young girl too. It was good to see such a bright and lively soul. Mrs. Reynolds was an excellent judge of character and she could tell that Mary was a good sort of girl. She had inherited her father's good humor and her mother's sweetness. But her vivacity—Mrs. Reynolds was beginning to think that it was something inherited from neither parent, but from her aunt.

"I know your father quite well, my dear. He is an amiable fellow indeed and one of my favorite houseguests at Pemberley. I have missed his frequent visits. Your father used to be a constant visitor to Pemberley before he married your mother. He and Mr. Darcy were great friends. After his marriage he could not visit as often as he did before. I have never met Mrs. Bingley, but—"

Mrs. Reynolds almost found herself revealing that she had once, long ago, met Mrs. Bingley's sister. Thankfully, she had kept her wits about her and remembered who she was talking to. She chided herself for losing herself to her own thoughts. Mrs. Reynolds blamed Mary's peculiar resemblance to Miss Bennet for the slip and soon recovered. "But I suppose that is because after their marriage, they spent most of their time at Netherfield, your father's former estate in Hertfordshire. They never had an opportunity to visit Pemberley again before they left for India. Such a shame, I should have liked to have met your mother and said good-bye to your father."

Mary never noticed that Mrs. Reynolds had made a hesitation mid-sentence. She was too enraptured by Mrs. Reynolds's story-telling to pay much attention to the smaller details. Phew! Saved, thought Mrs. Reynolds.

"Pemberley is indeed a great estate," Mrs. Reynolds continued. "Your mother is also right. Pemberley House is an old house, so you will have to take care to be careful and respectful of your surroundings. But you seem to be a good sort of girl, I know you will keep that in mind."

Mary again nodded her head in understanding and Mrs. Reynolds went on, "Mr. Darcy is a kind man and a generous master, although he might seem otherwise upon first inspection. Remember that and do not be afraid."

Mary nodded at the instructions, but Mrs. Reynolds wanted to be sure that Mary would be prepared in what to expect. She knew her master and she knew what kind of a first impression he could make, especially on young and innocent ladies. Mrs. Reynolds did not want Mary to be scared of the genuinely amiable man. Though she had only been in Mary's company but for half an hour, already she was quite taken with the Miss Bingley. She had a feeling that Mary was just what Pemberley needed.

"You may not see much of him, even when he is at home," Mrs. Reynolds warned. "Mr. Darcy is a busy man, but know that he is always thinking of you and your welfare. No detail escapes his notice. And he takes prodigious care of all his family and friends. At present, Mr. Darcy is in London. He was called away unexpectedly on business yesterday. I am afraid he will not be back for several weeks and will not be at Pemberley to welcome you when we arrive. Mr. Darcy makes his apologies known to you."

Mary's eyebrows furrowed when she heard the news. She had heard so much about Mr. Darcy from her own father that she had been looking forward to finally meeting the great man. She was disappointed that she would have to wait several weeks before making his acquaintance.

"Mr. Darcy has however made every effort to ensure your comfort in your new home. He has instructed the entire staff to see to your every need, so if you find anything lacking, please do not be afraid to inform me." Mary only bobbed her head slightly up and down.

Finding it curious that the talkative girl had not made any return comments, Mrs. Reynolds looked over to see that the girl was growing sleepy again and was dozing off. Mrs. Reynolds sighed as she looked at the little girl. It would be interesting to see what Mary's presence would do for the Pemberley household.

Mrs. Reynolds was glad when they finally reached the doors of Pemberley. The trip to and from the train station had been much longer than she had anticipated. She knew everyone was probably worried and indeed, even though it was the middle of the night, Mrs. Reynolds saw that fires blazed brightly all along the pathway to the house. As soon as the carriage stopped, the door to the grand entrance was thrown open. Inside, the entire household staff had gathered to meet the new arrival and await instructions from Mrs. Reynolds. But rather than subject the poor, tired girl to any more acts of decorum, like an introduction of the staff, Mrs. Reynolds had one of the men carry the sleeping child into the house, up the stairs, and to her new room. Without even stirring her for a second, Mary was put straight to bed. Mary was so tired that as soon as her body touched the mattress, she rolled over and hid her head in the pillows.

As for Mr. Darcy, he had in fact not been called away to London on business. Rather, he had gone on his own volition. He found as the time drew nearer to Mary's arrival date that he was not yet ready to receive her. Fitzwilliam Darcy had always been uncomfortable around new acquaintances and he was even less comfortable around children. That Mary was the niece of a certain young lady, who was known to frequently disturb his thoughts, made it especially difficult for him to bring himself to meet her. Seeing Mary would make him necessarily think of the Bingley's. Thinking of the Bingley's would necessarily make him think of the Bennet's. And there was only one Bennet that Mr. Darcy ever cared to think about. For this reason, at the very last minute, Mr. Darcy had taken himself to London to hide and compose himself until he was ready to return and meet his young guest.

Unfortunately for Mr. Darcy, he had no idea how much of a painful reminder Mary would prove to be of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Continued In Next Section