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Chapter Forty-One

Posted on Tuesday, 23 September 2003

It was with no small relief that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy at last, returned to Pemberley. When Elizabeth believed that Jane no longer required her consolation, she willingly took her leave. After all, Jane's own family would do her far more material good than anyone else, and even in the brief time spent at Brindlewood, Elizabeth was able to witness as much for herself.

Their homecoming was met with a lengthy letter from Georgiana, who, simply judging by the greeting alone, gave immediate evidence to her blissful frame of mind. Settling herself in the chair opposite her husband's, Elizabeth broke open the seal and began to read aloud its contents to him.

My dear family,

I have so much to share with you that I hardly know where to begin. First, allow me to express how very happy I am. My husband (how odd it is to refer to him as such, even now) remains most attentive in every respect, and defers to me without exception.

I have been fortunate in meeting many new personages since our arrival in London, and although our rooms are not overlarge, we entertain nearly every night. This task is not so difficult as I had once feared. Many times I am left agreeably to myself while Michael and our guests carry on a lively conversation; all of them overlooking my reserve with a consideration I cannot help but appreciate.

May I thank you again, Fitzwilliam, for allowing me to bring my maid, Sophie, with me? Her presence not only serves as a comforting reminder of Pemberley, but keeps me from longing for the constant company of another female in the household. I fear that the easy affiliation between Michael and his manservant would leave me feeling quite bereft otherwise; especially as the majority of our assemblages have consisted mainly of unattached gentlemen, as well.

"A most considerate brother once again," teased Elizabeth at this; a remark which brought little outward reaction from her listener other than a brief twitch near the corner of his mouth. Accepting his silence as encouragement, she went on.

Mr. Nelson, Michael's employer, has become a frequent visitor. Despite the rather droll stories told me by my husband in regards the brusqueness of his nature, he is all civility while in my company. In fact, he has proven himself not only interesting, but often highly entertaining as he describes various crisis suffered throughout his career.

As a box is reserved in his name at the theatre, he has generously invited us to join him whenever it is convenient. I fear that we have found it "convenient" on several occasions already, and although I should not wish to impose upon his benevolence, Michael insists that he would not make the offer if it were not intended to be accepted. Nonetheless, on the last two instances, Mr. Nelson did not appear at all, causing me to worry that our continual presence might be hindering his own attendance.

Michael laughs at my concerns, however. He assures me that if Mr. Nelson truly wished to attend; nothing, especially his sorry excuse for an associate, would keep him from it. He (Michael) insists that Mr. Nelson is an actual romantic at heart, and that the addition of myself to his social circle is so much welcomed, he has granted us this favour in gratitude.

Now, tell me, what am I to make of this? I cannot take Michael seriously on such a matter, yet he will not admit the truth of any perfectly reasonable arguments refuting otherwise. Perhaps it is merely wishful thinking on my husband's part, and Mr. Nelson is simply too kind to rescind his invitation. In any case, I do not know how we can ever repay him his munificence, and I am afraid, never shall.

Mrs. Hurst stopped on Tuesday. She is looking well, although did not speak overmuch while here. I received the impression (forgive me if I am being ungenerous) that she believes our little home beneath me. She did, however, let slip a curious bit of information; at one time she and her sister harboured hopes of my marrying Mr. Bingley! Do you not think this odd?...

At this, Elizabeth lifted her eyes to his quizzically, wondering if her husband might not have been party to such a scheme as well. But, as his expression remained neutral under her scrutiny, and, no comment was forthcoming, she held her tongue. Georgiana's obvious amazement was censure enough, she decided. If he were guilty, his sister's reproof would have far more effect than her own.

...A gentleman who has always seemed more a brother to me, than a suitor! I cannot think it a wise match on either side, and I must say that I am relieved, for both our sakes, that it did not come about. Now that I find myself less intimidated by Mrs. Hurst (you see, being a married woman has strengthened my character), I am inclined to pity her. She is so unhappy in her marriage, while I can be nothing but content.

She reported that Lady Caroline and she would be touring Europe in September, but would keep me in mind whenever they are obliged to attend a concert. I thanked her aloud, of course, but I am afraid in my heart, I did not.

Mrs. Paquin and Bernadette have come many times to our "villa" as Michael laughingly calls our apartments. Seeing Bernadette (she has grown so, even since last we met, that you would hardly know her) always reminds me of my dear nephews and niece. Pray, do write very soon and tell me how they are getting on. I miss them so.

Being dissatisfied with her daughter's music master, Mrs. Paquin has asked if I might consent to work with her. I wasted little time in accepting the invitation, as right now, we cannot afford even the simplest instrument (nor is there room enough even if we could), and Mrs. Paquin's pretty little pianoforte promises endless opportunities for my own selfish gratification. Beyond this, however, I am certain Bernadette shall prove an apt pupil as she is such a sweet child, and loves to play almost as dearly as I do, myself. Considering Mrs. Paquin's unceasingly kind attentions since my arrival here, I feel it is the very least I can do as repayment.

"Perhaps," Fitzwilliam suddenly interrupted, "a modest instrument of her own might be arranged. I confess, I had not considered Georgiana without her music."

"Nor I. Such a sacrifice hardly seems just or fitting," agreed Elizabeth, adding slyly, "... An early birthday gift, perchance?"

He became thoughtful at this suggestion, prompting his wife to smile to herself as she continued.

In addition to Sophie and Hodges, we have a cook, Mrs. MacKay, who keeps us well fed; along with her husband; an elderly gentleman who most competently stokes the fires at night and supplies us with wood during the day. They are both open, engaging people, yet I do still miss the familiar faces of Mrs. Reynolds and the other staff at Pemberley. Please, convey to them my best wishes and warmest regards.

An astonishing turn of events has occurred which has left me so uneasy, that I hardly know how to respond. Colonel Fitzwilliam called last evening to ask if he might bring a young lady to dinner with him tonight. Imagine my dismay when she turned out to be none other than Miss Kathleen Covington! Please, advise me on how I should react to this; for I must regard the notion of disclosing any detail of her ignoble history to the Colonel as more than abhorrent. Being an honourable man, I fear that he would only despise me for my concern.

But, perhaps I am reading too much into a casual acquaintance. Perhaps it will come to nothing, and all of my worries will prove groundless. Oh, I pray that it shall be so!

Surely, he must be completely ignorant of her schemes involving you, my dear brother and sister; for if he were sensible of her true character, I could not believe him willing to attach himself to one possessing so few scruples.

This time, when she stopped reading, she hardly dared to meet her husband's gaze. In spite of the months passed, the dark events of the past winter still lay waiting to be exorcised between them. True, they had reconciled, forgiven each other, and, on the surface, resumed their marriage as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Yet all the while, she suspected that at some time, someplace, the issue would arise again to plague them.

Now here it was. Colonel Fitzwilliam interested (interested?) in Miss Covington. Who could have foreseen such a consequence? For one thing, he was at least ten years her senior. Not that this fact had ever given a gentleman pause when considering affairs of the heart. After all, Elizabeth, herself, was seven years younger than Fitzwilliam; a perfectly acceptable difference in ages according to present standards.

Perhaps then, it was not the chronological years which caused the whole situation to appear unsuitable, but the obvious contrast in experience ... in worldliness, and, yes, even in station. For Miss Covington, despite virtuous parentage and unblemished lineage, lacked true gentility. Her carefully polished manners and easy style could not disguise a definite vulgarity within her character, and Elizabeth found herself a bit surprised that Colonel Fitzwilliam had not detected this himself.

Aroused from her reverie by the sound of her husband rising from his place, she looked up at last. His expression as she watched him, was guarded, his eyes restless. He moved to the window to lean against the pane, his gaze fixed upon nothing.

"Fitzwilliam," she ventured, "You have not confided in the Colonel?"

"How could I?" he responded at length, his voice sounding stiff. "What was I to say? My wife, with no warning whatsoever, inexplicably accused me of adultery. As a result of this, I very nearly abandoned my marriage utterly; while Miss Covington, of all people, just happened to be the impetus for the whole regrettable mess?"

"Well, no," she admitted, "But do you not think he suspected something being amiss? I mean, he was here ... He is the one who discovered you when you were injured. He and Mr. Bingley returned you to Pemberley. He surely must have noticed our ... dissension..." she finished lamely. Why could she not speak of it, even now, without awkwardness?

"I suppose that he did. He did not attempt to discuss the situation with me in any case." A sigh escaped his lips as he continued, "He respected my privacy ... my judgment. Now, I feel that I have little choice but to return the courtesy."

"You will not caution him?" She studied him warily. "You will not warn him of her motives?"

"How can I know what her motives are at the present time? Perhaps she admires him after all. From all outward appearances she would not be an objectionable match. Her family is well respected. They are people of taste ... rank. He could do far worse in his choice."

"Listen to yourself," she interrupted, suddenly angry; "How can you acquit her?"

"I am doing no such thing, Elizabeth!" His eyes, meeting hers at last, darkened as he defended himself; "I am merely allowing a man to whom I do owe a great deal, to make his own decisions, without unsolicited interference from meddling relations!"

With unforeseen resolve she took a breath. "He shall require time to consider this matter further," she reminded herself; "Do not say something you will undoubtedly regret." Forcing her voice to become lighter, she mused, "But ... what of Mrs. Paquin, I wonder?"

His silence had almost convinced her he had not heard, when he spoke suddenly; "Do you still blame me, Elizabeth?"

Sighing, she closed her eyes; her knees becoming weak, so that she had to hold onto the back of a chair to remain upright. "Blame you for what?" she managed as her breath returned.

"For my stubborn pride ... my spiteful nature. For condemning you when it was only myself who should have suffered." The bitterness in his tone was impossible to ignore.

"Do not, Fitzwilliam," she pled, "Do not do this! It does us little good to revisit this again. It is behind us ... Please leave it be!"

"Is it truly behind us? Then, explain to me why simply hearing of Miss Covington has us at odds."

"It is concern for your cousin which has us at odds," she argued. "How can we disregard his situation knowing of what she is capable?"

"You do realise that my cousin is not exactly an innocent," he returned dryly.

Feeling her cheeks becoming warm, she retorted, "I am hardly saying that he is. Only that he is a gentleman, and therefore, we should..."

"What?" challenged her husband, "Assume that he is blind, or naive, or simply dense? He has lived in the world for over ten years, Elizabeth. Do you not think he has dealt with women of Miss Covington's ilk before? I promise you, he would not welcome my intervention."

Of a sudden, she found herself wishing their quarrel to be ended. Without another word she clasped her hands before her, and stood perfectly still; her eyes never leaving his own. One moment passed, than a second. At last, his expression softened, his arms opened, and, with some relief, she entered the sanctuary they offered.

"Forgive me," she spoke, her voice muffled against his shirtfront, "I am allowing my own foolish resentment to cloud my reason."

"Elizabeth," he promised into her hair, "We are leaving for Ramsgate in a fortnight. When we stop in London, I shall call upon Colonel Fitzwilliam. His manner must surely give evidence to his current sentiments in regards Miss Covington. If I should believe him to be in danger at that time, I will caution him ... There, does that satisfy you?"

Lifting her head so that she could look into his face, she answered meekly; "You make me feel quite ashamed. If you do not desire to confront him, then do not. After all, you know your family far better than I. Pray, forget that I even mentioned it, will you not?"

For the first time, he smiled, his countenance revealing his skepticism. "Madam, since such a feat is highly unlikely," he chided her, "I fear you shall have to bear your shame without my assurance to lessen it."

"In that case," she conceded, toying with his neckcloth "Perhaps you will allow me the opportunity to make amends ... in some small way."

Bending his head to kiss her, he replied, "This is a start, certainly."

Chapter Forty-Two

Posted on Tuesday, 23 September 2003

The following day, another missive arrived; this from Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

My dear Mr. Darcy,

Forgive me if I dispense with the usual pleasantries, but a report containing the most astounding and disturbing details has only just reached me. I must insist upon receiving a satisfactory reply at once.

I have it from an irrefutable source that Mr. and Mrs. Berrick are currently residing in conditions very near to squalor. I should not have to tell you, nephew, that a household suitable for a bachelor can never be so for a young lady of fine breeding. That the daughter of Darcy and Fitzwilliam parentage should be constrained to live in such degradation is an effrontery to her very birthright. Your parents would be appalled, and I am, I assure you, no less so.

I do realise since the occasion of your own marriage that your appreciation for even the most simple refinements of life have been lessened considerably. Yet, I should hope you would desire more for your sister. Her delicate and sensitive nature was not bred to be squandered within the confines of these most base of circumstances. How can you, as both brother and guardian, sanction such an arrangement?

I had expected more of you, yet I pray you may now comprehend the serious consequences this family will be forced to endure due to your own selfish disregard. You must not ignore the risk of dishonour subjected by all of us if you choose to spurn my warning.

In closing, let me assure you, nephew, that if immediate steps are not taken to rectify Mrs. Berrick's situation, I shall be forced to intervene.

Sincerely,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh

When first he read the letter, Fitzwilliam viewed it with a mixture of fury and disgust. By the time his wife discovered him, he had calmed himself to a state of seething contempt.

After glancing through its contents, she remarked, "I had not realised how 'the simple refinements of life are no longer appreciated', my love. Perhaps she is referring to how infrequently her society is requested at Pemberley."

"She is unbelievable in her audacity," he muttered, barely hearing Elizabeth's endeavour to lighten his dark mood.

"You are not taking this to heart, are you?" she questioned calmly. "Why, it is simply Lady Catherine's reminder that she is still with us, and determined to have her say ... A desperate woman who knows she has far less influence than she cares to admit."

But, he was still fuming aloud; "Has she spoken to Georgiana? More importantly, has she seen the place herself? Squalor indeed! It is a perfectly respectable home, and I do not believe Georgiana would wish it any other way!"

"No, of course not," soothed Elizabeth; then, thoughtfully, "I expect the 'irrefutable source' was Lady Caroline Fitzwilliam by way of her sister. I am certain Mrs. Hurst wasted no time in sharing her visit to the Berricks' with her, and then, of course, she with your aunt. No doubt Lady de Bourgh leapt upon the chance to find fault with you ... us, yet again."

"Well, Mrs. Darcy," he announced, rising from his chair with a definite air of resignation, "It appears we shall have to pay a visit to the abode of Mr. and Mrs. Berrick while in London. I had no idea our company should be required among so many relations, but I am beginning to feel like the proverbial benevolent old uncle."

"My darling Mr. Darcy," she admonished as she kissed him lightly, "You are, without a doubt, the most generous and considerate of men. And, although we cannot deny the existence of your nephews and nieces, I would hesitate before calling you truly old."

They were to take two carriages. One, to transport the family, with the addition of the Baroness; the other, Florence, Clara, Preston, and several oversized pieces of luggage. The journey might have been uneventful save for the necessity of keeping the younger Darcys adequately occupied. Melanie, fortunately, was still small enough to sleep much of the time, but her brothers offered no such escape. However, between their mother's games and songs, as well as their father's more worldly diversions, their equanimity did not become too overtaxed.

The London residence had never appeared quite so picturesque. Two noble elms in full leaf graced the front entry, multicoloured flowers lined the walk, and to complete the scene, the wrought-iron gate had been just recently treated to a fresh coat of wash.

No sooner were their wraps taken and the children discharged to the nursery, then several letters lying on a silver tray were presented to Mr. Darcy. It was with some reluctance he accepted them; his expression relaying the sentiment that he would have preferred a moment to simply forget his countless duties. Walking with her arm linked through his into the solarium, Elizabeth smiled sympathetically.

"It never ceases, does it, my love?" she commiserated; "The responsibilities, the welfare of the people who must always depend upon you, the never-ending obligations."

"I do not object to it ... much of the time," he answered, even while his eyes were drawn to the oversized windows which framed the garden; now displaying a lush and glorious spectacle.

"No, you would not..." releasing his arm, she moved to open the French doors, then turned to gaze at him enticingly; "There is nothing that cannot wait a bit longer. Will you not come out with me?"

But, glancing down at the letters still in his hand, he announced, "Wait, Elizabeth, this one is your own."

"Oh?" Feeling somehow reluctant to quit her place in the doorway, she waited. "Can you tell who it is from?"

"From Longbourn ... Your father, I suppose," was his reply.

With a small sigh, she accepted it from him, broke the seal, and unfolded it. After a moment, she pronounced without surprise, "Lydia has returned to Longbourn, and presumably for ever. Wickham, by all appearances, has finally deserted her." Glancing upward, her eyes met his with resigned amusement; then, scanning the page, she continued, "Her presence at Longbourn seems to have hastened Mary's own wedding plans as well. She and Mr. Chase are desirous of a simple, private ceremony as soon as possible. Father insists that we should not return for the event, and in fact, assures me that our absence will not be taken as affront. Of course, Mother is beside herself ... torn between joy at Lydia's sudden reappearance, and irritation by Mary's so-called selfishness. Ah, poor Mama," she shook her head with little compassion; "how she suffers."

"Has Wickham applied for divorce, then?"

Having fallen into thought, his question startled her. Folding the letter, she shrugged off its contents saying, "No, not as yet. What would you expect from such a ... I should suppose in his case ... in both of their cases, out of sight shall truly be out of mind. What a fine muddle they have made of things." Disgusted, she lay the paper on a nearby table, suggesting with false cheer, "Now, my love, might we not embark upon that walk?"

But a cloud had descended over the lovely day, and the walk became less than the delightful diversion she had anticipated. His own silence matched her own; yet she was too far immersed in thoughts of grim content as to spare much attention to any which might be sustained by him.

So Lydia has returned ... Abandoned and humiliated by a worthless husband, and with a very young child in tow. Well, Wickham had certainly lived up to all expectations. "How could I have ever considered him handsome?" she wondered to herself, "How could I have favoured him over my own beloved Mr. Darcy?" The very idea seemed impossible now. The Wickhams hasty marriage had been doomed from the start, for neither party were willing to invest much more than a quickly passing physical attraction ... a very weak foundation at best.

"Ah, Lydia," she mused silently, "what have you learned, I wonder? Shall you be wiser to the Wickhams of the world, or, more likely, allow yourself the same foolish impetuosity when another should appear?" For there was little doubt there would be other men; Juliet's father, for one. Would he pursue Lydia and urge her to exact a divorce from Wickham, or was he already an irrelevant player in this ongoing farce?

A sudden rustling heard from the far side of a stand of shrubbery succeeded in distracting her from her musing. Glancing at her husband who looked surprised as well, she soon recovered, and, speaking in a voice louder than was her habit, declared, "I believe, Mr. Darcy, that I had heard of an increased number of trespassing and acts of thievery occurring in town over recent weeks."

Raising his eyebrows, he answered in a tone set to match her own, "Oh? Perhaps some additional security measures shall have to be implemented ... A set of hounds to patrol the grounds, do you think?"

Before she could respond, a figure stepped from behind the aforementioned shrubs; the discomfiture of his manner giving way to constrained cheer as he was recognised.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam!" Elizabeth cried in astonishment, while at the same time, her husband exclaimed, "Fitzwilliam, what the devil...?"

"Pray, do not set the dogs on me, Darcy," was his embarrassed reply, "My intention is neither to trespass, nor to rob." He bowed as he said this, his complexion losing some of the scarlet hue attained at the sight of them. Straightening, he continued, "Your garden, on such a flawless summer day, possesses an attraction I cannot resist, and I hope with all my heart you shall not hold it against me."

Mr. Darcy said nothing to this, but his wife, after studying him curiously, answered in his stead, "You are certainly welcome here at any time, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you will consent to join us, for we are just now admiring the garden, ourselves."

"Thank you," he bowed again, cautiously glanced toward the place he had vacated, then fell into step beside her. "You have not been long in London?" he asked.

"No," she answered, "and, after such a long and tiring drive, we felt the need for a bit of exercise."

"Understandable," he smiled at her before falling into a silence as deep as her husband's own.

Walking between them, Elizabeth found herself becoming more puzzled with each step. Somehow, the Colonel's explanation did not ring true. Did not his own family's grounds boast of such rare beauty that they were often included in tours by visitors new to London society? But ... perhaps he was merely seeking some sorely needed privacy. This, she could understand. Such a reputation concerning one's own park might indeed, effect ample gratification, but would certainly be cause to desire time to oneself as well. As for her husband ... his present reticence mystified her. His features gave away nothing, and he appeared to be lost in thought as they followed the path which would return them to the house. As they re-entered the solarium, she turned toward the Colonel, "Will you not stay for tea? We have not had the pleasure of visiting with you since Georgiana's ... the Berricks' wedding."

"Thank you," he demurred, "But I fear I am expected elsewhere. Please accept my apologies for the present."

"Of course," accepting his refusal without argument, although her curiosity was heightened because of it, she suggested, "Perhaps dinner tomorrow evening, then?"

Hesitating only a moment, he conceded, "Very well. It shall be an honour."

In his manner she perceived a reluctance unlike him, but since she hardly knew what to make of it, she did not take offence, and was able to bid him goodbye graciously. As the sound of the front doors closing behind him faded, she turned to her husband. He had stationed himself at the window which looked over the garden, and was now contemplating it pensively.

"Fitzwilliam," she asked at length, "What are your thoughts?"

He did not answer at once, and she had nearly accepted the fact that he was desirous of avoiding the discussion of the strange events of the afternoon, when he finally spoke. "I believe that the Colonel is hiding something."

"Oh?" She moved to stand beside him, turning her gaze to the place where he was concentrating; yet nothing of an unusual nature rewarded her efforts. "What evidence has led you to such a conclusion?"

"Elizabeth, did you not think he was behaving oddly?"

"Well, yes," she agreed, "Certainly he was less engaging ... Almost subdued, in fact."

"We surprised him."

"Are you referring to when we were walking? He surprised me as well, I assure you." Studying him, she noticed the slight tightening of his jaw; "Fitzwilliam, what are you saying, exactly?"

"I believe he was not alone when we came upon him."

The announcement did not shock her as it might have. Instead, she felt a twinge of trepidation. "Do you mean that he was with someone? ... a woman?"

"I must assume it was a woman; else why should he be so anxious to conceal their presence?"

"And you suppose ... You believe it to be Miss Covington?"

"I could hardly know that."

"But you suspect."

Meeting her eyes, he frowned, "Does it make such a difference what I think? As a gentlemen I cannot venture the subject to him directly. The very idea goes against all decency, you see."

"But," she demanded, "You do intend to talk to him about her ... Inform him of her schemes. Fitzwilliam, he has the right to know."

"Perhaps, Elizabeth," he said, his voice strangely calm, "He does not wish to know." He had taken her hand in his as he spoke, gently stroking the palm as though to ease her fears.

"You cannot mean to ignore this situation," she insisted, fighting the desire to pull her hand away. Somehow, his touch was having the opposite effect than the one he apparently intended. "Fitzwilliam, you would not allow him to marry her while saying nothing!"

"When, or if that time actually comes, I shall have little to do with it," he answered, releasing her hand and turning away; leaving Elizabeth no outward sign with which to judge his sentiments.

An overwhelming sense of frustration flooded over her. She felt as though she were speaking to a stranger; as though he had reverted back to that aloof, antagonistic man who had so thoroughly annoyed her in the early months of their acquaintance.

Stepping away from him, she murmured, "I see." Then, before she could stop herself, she continued in a voice icy with disdain; "You held no such aversion when convincing Mr. Bingley to remove himself from Hertfordshire, and safely away from my sister."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam is not Bingley," was his tightly controlled retort.

"No, nor is Miss Covington, Jane!" she snapped. "In fact, she is so far beneath Jane in every respect that I must wonder at your blind acceptance of her. I should not suppose you would remain neutral if you truly despised her as she deserves!"

"Elizabeth!"

The rebuke was short yet effective, for without another word, nor a glance at the fury now visible upon his own countenance, she turned and stormed from the room; agitated with the fear that she might have said too much, yet incensed that she dare not say more.

Chapter Forty-Three

Posted on Tuesday, 23 September 2003

The Darcys called upon the Berricks that evening, and although their manner was mutually cool, they did try to conceal their animosity during the meal. A task, it appeared, to be successful, for neither Georgiana nor Mr. Berrick behaved as though anything were amiss.

Anxious to impress their guests, Mr. and Mrs. Berrick presented a full six courses; each prepared with masterful skill by the purposefully discreet Mrs. MacKay. No sooner had the final spoonful of trifle been consumed and the wineglasses duly emptied, then Georgiana invited Elizabeth to take a tour of the apartment.

As the two ladies left their husbands, Georgiana whispered, "Elizabeth, I must show you something." Leading her sister-in-law into the small chamber which served as both library and study, she indicated the solid shape of a nearly miniature pianoforte set against the far wall.

"Look," she announced, her tone reflecting her excitement "This arrived just yesterday. There was no card, so I have no idea to whom I should be grateful." Smiling into Elizabeth's eyes, she asked, "Please tell me it was yourself and Fitzwilliam, or I shall be at a total loss."

"There was no card?" This response was enough to confirm Georgiana's suspicions, although it was followed by a puzzled, "I wonder why?" Moving toward the instrument to study it closer, Elizabeth noted that the workmanship was flawless; every detail one of perfection, but on a slightly smaller scale than was usual. Because of this, it fit neatly in the room without overwhelming the other furnishings.

"It is beautiful, and perfect for our trifling wants," went on Georgiana behind her. "Yet, I do not know how I can ever repay you."

"There is no need," insisted Elizabeth, turning to face her, "It is a gift. I am certain Fitzwilliam would be insulted if you even suggested doing so."

With an expression of blissful resignation, Georgiana replied, "Although I do not deserve it, I thank you ... both of you."

"The idea of your being unable to play was unthinkable...I believe the act was intended to aid in assuaging our own sense of injustice, rather than to cause you discomfort while doing so," Elizabeth smiled in return.

"Again, I thank you." Pausing for a moment before speaking hesitantly, she ventured, "Elizabeth ... have you spoken with Colonel Fitzwilliam?"

Recalling the long, unhappy afternoon spent pacing the very garden paths where that gentleman had been discovered, Elizabeth answered reluctantly, "I am leaving the task to my husband."

Georgiana sighed, speaking almost to herself; "I have no wish to intrude on his privacy. In fact, I have even questioned the wisdom of informing you. I find myself in constant conflict on the matter, yet, I cannot bear to see you and my brother aggrieved further."

"Yes, well," lifting her eyes to meet her sister-in-law's, Elizabeth fought to compose those features which were now threatening to betray her; "It seems we are to be so, whether we wish it or not."

"Elizabeth," Georgiana studied her face worriedly, "You have...? You have not quarrelled because of my communication?"

"It is not your fault. Do not assume blame where there is none," was her unintentionally sharp reply.

"Oh! What have I done?" looking horrified, Georgiana stepped back; then, "I should have listened to Michael ... How could I have been so mistaken ... so selfish?"

"You discussed this with Mr. Berrick?" Elizabeth asked before she could stop herself. Of course Georgiana had sought her husband's advice. It should not be a totally unexpected admission. Still, the notion of another person being privy to their past folly was, somehow, intensely mortifying.

"I am so sorry," Georgiana cried, breaking into her thoughts. "I would have said nothing, but he knew there was something troubling me, and plagued me until I confessed it all! Please, say that you forgive me, dear Elizabeth!"

The anguish in her voice subdued Elizabeth's misery long enough for pity to immediately overcome it. "Forgive me, Georgiana. I am being selfish," she said then, taking the younger woman's hands into her own. "I do not blame you for confiding in Mr. Berrick. Indeed, I should wonder if you did not...No, no, do not trouble yourself with our situation, for we have certainly brought this all upon ourselves."

"What will you do?" Georgiana timidly asked following a moment of uncomfortable silence, "I fear Colonel Fitzwilliam's fondness for Miss Covington increases each time I see them. If my brother will not speak to him, then what is to be done?"

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth answered with a hopelessness she did not attempt to conceal. "I hardly know ... Allow the Colonel to make a fool of himself, apparently. And, once she has established herself within the family, I am certain Miss Covington will waste no time in disclosing the Darcys' sins to one and all."

Lying alone in the less familiar four-poster that night, Elizabeth resentfully turned over the events of the day in her mind. Upon their return to the house her husband had remained in the carriage, following her emergence from it, declaring that he "had a minor business matter to attend to," and, that she "should not wait up". Then, before she could open her mouth to reply, the door was abruptly closed; the coach already fast disappearing around the corner.

Now she lay in frustrated wakefulness. The coward. He would not even remain with her to settle the disagreement between them; choosing instead to vanish into the night, where he might sustain his wounded pride. And, where his arrogance would, no doubt, allow him to maintain a proper lordly indignation over her.

Well, she could be just as stubborn ... just as determined as he. When he returned, she would slight him in all ways possible. He would feel, fully, her wrath ... her contempt. What right did he have to discount her opinions? Why should she be forced to tolerate his cold fury?

Turning over to hug her pillow (his pillow?), her carefully nurtured anger suddenly and inexplicably dissolved into tears: tears of self-pity and helplessness, tears of loneliness and desolation; but especially, tears of relentless self-reproach.

She had spoken out of nothing but spite when dredging up the subject of his interference between Jane and Mr. Bingley. After all, he had admitted his misjudgment on the matter long ago. So, why had she felt the need for such an undeserved attack? Frustration? Impatience?

No, she admitted with no little reluctance ... Jealousy. Pure, unchecked jealousy. All of the, supposedly, forgotten fears and insecurities had come flooding back as Fitzwilliam spurned her plea to warn his cousin. Somehow, such refusal seemed an admission that he did not consider Miss Covington the actual instigator of their little melodrama. Else, why would he, now, choose to show her such mercy? Why should he excuse her from her crimes?

Were there some feelings towards the lady he had no wish to acknowledge, even to himself? Could it be possible that as time passed, he had forgiven, or even justified her shocking behaviour?

It could not be ... She, sensible, rational Elizabeth Bennet Darcy would not believe it. Yet, this, along with the idea of Colonel Fitzwilliam seriously considering an alliance with Kathleen Covington was unthinkable...unbearable.

For that normally insightful gentleman, on whose solid friendship she had relied, to marry such a person without some sort of forewarning, caused a cold dread to fill her very being. Once Miss Covington had attained the family name, along with the privilege which accompanied it, would she be satisfied (were women of such unscrupulous character ever so)? Or would she seek further revenge on the Darcys for her previous disgrace from a far more advantageous position? Perhaps she might befriend Lady Catherine, confide to her willing ears their brief but painful history; thus supplying the old woman with added fuel to be used as slander against them.

These tortured thoughts were interrupted by the creak of her husband's step outside of the unlocked door. Stiffening as though any sudden movement might inadvertently send him away, she barely breathed while she waited. At first, she thought he might have changed his mind, for no other sound was heard for several moments. Then, slowly the door swung open, revealing his form outlined in the flickering illumination of a wall sconce.

Closing her eyes against the light, she swallowed. Would he speak? Was he angry still? How could she apologise adequately for her hasty and unkind words? She sensed, rather than heard, him move to the opposite side of the four-poster where he stood without speaking. At length, after what seemed an interminable wait, he sat carefully upon the bed, his very nearness adding to her anxiety. Still, she did not allow herself to respond aloud.

His words, when finally he spoke, were low, "Well, Mrs. Darcy, you may, at last, rest easy. I have told him."

Immediately she sat up, her eyes searching his face. Unfortunately, his eyes and mouth were in shadow, affording her no clue as to his present temper. "You ... have?" she managed, her voice shaking despite a great effort to control it.

Emitting a short, humourless laugh, he replied, "He listened, said little, then showed me out. I suppose, if the roles had been reversed I might react in the same fashion...To charge the woman I admired with the crime of dishonesty, as well as the lowest form of impropriety, would be totally unacceptable. I should not blame him if he never speaks to me again."

"Fitzwilliam...I..."

"You were right, Elizabeth. I had no choice but to tell him," he continued, ignoring her interruption; "...I only hope he can, eventually, forgive me."

"Forgive you for what?" she cried, her heart aching at the resignation in his voice. "You have done him a favour, surely."

"Have I?" With that he stood, stumbling once as he went into his dressing room; his one indication of overindulgence, for on his arrival, no odour of spirits had accompanied him.

Again she found herself waiting for his return, only to find her patience remain unrewarded. After an interminable fifteen minutes, she slipped from the bed to follow him. There was no sign of his presence in the dressing room, but a door set in the opposite wall stood ajar. To this she moved, uncertain as to what, exactly, she might find. The bleakness of his tone had left her feeling uneasy, yet she would not retreat. As she stepped cautiously through the opening, her eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight showing through the windows of the chamber it joined. In its glow a figure was shown to be slumped in a chair, his face buried in his hands.

The room was small by most standards; its chief feature being a set of French doors which opened onto a balcony overlooking the garden. Despite the dimness, she could see that one had been opened, allowing a slight breeze to send its dressings fluttering gently. For furnishings, the apartment contained only a chaise and the aforementioned chair now occupied by her husband. Hurrying there now, she knelt before him, her heart in her throat.

"Fitzwilliam, my love," she beseeched softly, "will you not come to bed?"

For answer, a deep sigh escaped him, causing her chest to tighten further. "Will you not allow me to apologise," she continued after a painful moment; "for saying what I did this afternoon? You must know I did not mean it. You have made the most generous of amends in that quarter and I had no right to..."

"If you mean," he broke in suddenly, "Bingley and your sister; that is not what disturbs me now."

The masking of his features in the half-light did her no favour. With a growing apprehension, she persisted, "Still, I must beg your pardon. It was indefensible ... I have no excuse to offer."

"No," he agreed, at last raising his head, "You have not. But, then, neither do I."

Sitting back on her heels in bewilderment, she studied him. "What is this about, Fitzwilliam? I fear I do not understand you."

"You very nearly accused me of something today, Elizabeth," he replied, his voice sombre. "Something that I had believed ... had so wished to believe, to be out of your mind forever."

"Do not..." she implored unhappily; "Do not say it, Fitzwilliam. I was angry...hurt. I wanted only to impress you with the grave significance of our situation."

"You succeeded in that, certainly," he agreed; adding, "Now, however, I am forced to wonder; what must I do to restore your faith in me...assure you that my regard has not, and will never be diminished?"

"There is no need!" she protested, rising suddenly. Her legs, stiffened by their previous, cramped position, buckled beneath her and she nearly fell until he, who had stood as well, caught her against him.

"Apparently," he insisted, "there is. Is it lack of attention? Have I failed as a husband in some manner? Do I berate your ideas? Mock your family? Pray, enlighten me, Elizabeth, for I am at a loss." In an instant, it seemed, his tone had changed from bafflement to impatience.

"No, of course not," she gasped, as his arms had tightened around her until she was held fast within them.

"Then tell me," he demanded, his features made more visible by their very nearness; "Tell me that you believe me to be steadfast."

Wishing that she had remained safely in her bed, she managed, "I do believe you...Fitzwilliam, can we not forget my awful words?"

"Do I love you, Elizabeth?" he persevered, ignoring her plea.

"Dear Lord, I hope so!"

"No!" Bending his head just enough to kiss her swiftly, he refused to accept her compromise; "Say it ... Do you believe that I love you?"

Surrendering at last, she acknowledged, "Yes. I believe ... You must, after all, truly love me."

"You have no doubts whatsoever?"

"No," she shook her head weakly; "I am convinced."

"Then," declared he, following a prolonged kiss intended to erase any lingering uncertainty; "Might we at last abandon this subject once and for all?"

Biting back a laugh, she conceded, "I fear you prove yourself to be most persuasive, Mr. Darcy. Faced with such determination, I find I am quite ... powerless."

"Just as I had intended," he asserted, while, somehow maneuvering her in the direction of the chaise.

Compelled to submit (a circumstance causing that lowly object a usefulness for which it, most probably, was not originally designed) Mrs. Darcy accepted her defeat in as gracious a manner as possible.

Chapter Forty-Four

Posted on Thursday, 25 September 2003

Despite the disconcerting events of the day before, Colonel Fitzwilliam honoured his commitment to attend the Darcys' on the following evening. Elizabeth, observing him, noted little anger or resentment; only a gravity in his manner which had been, heretofore, alien to his nature.

Aware of this, she purposefully kept the conversation trivial; not daring to mention the very person whose spirit hovered over them throughout the meal. Due to her own diligent efforts (she prided herself in assuming as much), that by the time the fish course arrived, he had relaxed considerably; his answers becoming more than merely one or two words.

Later, however, the subject arose of its own accord. The gentlemen, who in deference to no other ladies being present (the Baroness having begged to be pardoned from attending; citing a severe headache as justification), remained with Mrs. Darcy after dinner, instead of excusing themselves to the customary port and cigars.

Without obvious intent, the Colonel stumbled upon the topic; "Darcy," he commented just as snifters of brandy were being served, "A fortnight, or so, ago, I received a rather scathing letter from our dear aunt; in regards Georgiana's ... Mrs. Berrick's quaint, yet as I see it, not inappropriate, domestic situation."

"Ah, yes," returned his cousin dryly, "I, too enjoyed such a communication."

"And, did you reply?"

"Not as yet. I wished to visit my sister first and witness their circumstances for myself." As he answered, Mr. Darcy rose and strode casually to the window, glass in hand.

"Even before I heard from Rosings," Colonel Fitzwilliam declared lightly, "I had attended several quite enjoyable evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Berrick. I can honestly say that I find nothing objectionable in their living arrangements. The rooms are a trifle small, perhaps, but I am certain as Berrick's own situation improves, this shall be altered as well. Why, even Miss Covington finds nothing there to criticise."

At this, Elizabeth felt herself becoming warm. How much had her husband confessed to the Colonel? For, if he had omitted nothing, the whole tale must be taken as nothing but a testament to their own foolishness and lack of mutual trust; a sorry demonstration in any light.

A heavy silence ensued until Colonel Fitzwilliam again spoke. "There seems to be some concern regarding Miss Covington and myself." He cleared his throat, then stood to face Elizabeth apologetically. "Mrs. Darcy, pray forgive my boldness, but I feel there are matters which must be cleared between us. If you wish me to stop at this time, please do not hesitate to speak."

Elizabeth, who had been concentrating upon her hands folded tightly in her lap, looked up in surprise. "No!" she exclaimed, "Pray, continue, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I have always valued your good opinion too well to risk its loss."

A smile appeared briefly before he continued; "Darcy was kind enough to enlighten me as to the events of this past winter ... In particular the unhappy circumstances which led to his accident. I assure you, Mrs. Darcy, I have no desire to upset you by mentioning it in this way."

For her cheeks, pink in any case, now burned a vivid crimson, yet she shook her head in denial. "I am not upset ... I fear you have misjudged me. I am only mortified that you must be privy to our personal afflictions. If I could choose, I would wish the entire episode to be long forgotten."

"But my current choice of companionship has made this hope impossible, has it not?"

In his tone she did not detect a man willing to put an end to such a choice, and she glanced in some confusion to her husband who was studying his now emptied snifter.

"I have taken the liberty of speaking with Miss Covington of the crimes with which you have accused her," the Colonel continued quietly after a moment. "She has not denied them."

"She would not dare," retorted Elizabeth, sudden outrage causing her to rise abruptly.

"No ... she has openly acknowledged her offence, but claims her youth and inexperience to be her undoing."

"And, you are of a mind to pardon her," Elizabeth finished for him, her eyes narrowing. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, you are, of course free to do as you like. But, pray forgive me, if I am not quite so generous ... Excuse me." With this, she turned and left the two gentlemen to gaze after her; one nonplussed, the other, resigned.

"You are not disappointed, I trust." Darcy, whose eyes finally lifted from the glass, contemplated his friend pensively.

Colonel Fitzwilliam met his look with one of dismay, "She did not allow me to finish."

"What did you expect? I am sorry to crush whatever prospects you may have harboured, Fitzwilliam, but, I am afraid Mrs. Darcy will not soon welcome Miss Covington into this, or any house while she is still breathing."

"I was not suggesting such a thing," returned the Colonel irritably; "I had hoped, however, that with time..."

"With time, Britain may fall. Not a likely occurrence, yet more probable then my wife accepting Miss Covington as your ...What is she exactly? a friend? confidant?"

"At present we are merely amiable acquaintances," the Colonel interrupted, "but I hope to improve that situation very soon, if at all possible."

"I see. Fitzwilliam, you do understand that she had, at one time, every ambition of becoming my ... courtesan." While he spoke, he watched his cousin's expression carefully.

"So you say," was his terse answer; "However, she believes her behaviour to be totally misinterpreted in the entire matter."

"Ah..." Darcy nodded, "You are familiar with Mrs. Darcy, Fitzwilliam. Do you believe her to be a jealous, vindictive woman?"

"No, of course not." The question, seemingly irrelevant, caused Colonel Fitzwilliam to assume an air of wary suspicion.

"...Capable of accusing innocent acquaintances of treachery and deceit?"

"Darcy, you are sorely testing my patience," and, indeed, the Colonel did appear to be thoroughly vexed by this time. "If you mean to say that Miss Covington is false, than I must beg your pardon and take my leave!"

"Fitzwilliam, wait," Darcy stayed him with a gesture; "I apologise if I have offended you. We have been friends far too long to part thus."

"And relations even longer," conceded Colonel Fitzwilliam after a tense moment. "All right, Darcy. Let this subject be spoken of no more. While you are in town I shall refrain from mentioning Miss Covington within your wife's hearing. Beyond that, I can promise nothing."

"It must do," agreed the other, encouraged with the hope that Colonel Fitzwilliam, once introduced to such an unseemly prospect as his companion's former duplicity, would no longer take such unfettered delight within her company.

Elizabeth, upon leaving them, stepped outdoors to cool, both, her features, and her deliberations. The idea that Colonel Fitzwilliam had not been deterred from his attraction to Miss Covington, even after enlightening him as to her true character, was nothing less than galling.

Pacing between the shrubbery, she almost did not hear the heavy sigh being emitted from a bench not far from where she walked. Turning, she observed the Baroness seated in a manner of great dejection; her eyes cast down, her figure slumped forward.

While debating with herself on whether to speak or not, that lady saved her the trouble when she noticed Mrs. Darcy, as well. Not withdrawing in an effort of ensuring her own privacy, as Elizabeth might have expected, she rose to speak; her voice unsteady, yet clearly audible in the still night air.

"Mrs. Darcy," she announced, "I fear I must soon be leaving you."

Realising that the Baroness was not referring to the immediate present, Elizabeth inquired, "You have received some news?"

"Yes," was her answer, "A letter from Frankfurt arrived this very afternoon."

"From Dr. Brecht?"

With a nod of affirmation, she continued, "My brother reports that the Baron is lately showing signs of extreme repentance, and begs my forgiveness. I feel I have no choice but to return to him straightaway."

Studying her doubtfully, Elizabeth mused aloud, "In spite of this sudden resolution, Baroness, I believe the prospect does not fill you with anticipation. Perhaps, you are not truly convinced of your husband's remorse."

For answer, the Baroness only sighed again, returning to her bench with an air of utter defeat. "You cannot understand, Mrs. Darcy. I must separate myself from your company at once, or..."

"Or, your husband has threatened certain, dire consequences?" Elizabeth supplied, "But, I have already assured you that his blustering will not deter us from the care and protection of our friends."

"I shall no longer hold you to past promises ... He is a dangerous man who should not be regarded lightly."

"His temper I have, myself, had the pleasure of witnessing, but I still believe you would be best to remain with us." In a low voice, she inquired, "If you leave now, where would you go?"

"I ... hardly know. I once had a dear friend in my mother's nurse. Perhaps she would assist me for a time. It does not matter really, so long as you are safe from my husband's wrath."

"Baroness," Elizabeth asked gently, "How long must you run? Very soon travelling shall be out of the question, you know."

With a start, the Baroness laid a protective hand over her stomach, "Is it so obvious, then?"

"Not really," was Elizabeth's assurance, "I had only guessed through your unsettled manner of late, but now you have confirmed my suspicions. Only tell me, is the Baron the father?"

"He is ... but he will not believe me. That is why he became so violent ... this is the reason I had to flee."

"You had blamed his condemnation on the letter from your brother regarding Mr. Berrick," Elizabeth recalled, "Do you mean to say that the news of your ... condition was the true impetus for such an extreme reaction? If this is, indeed, the case, he is worse than I had supposed."

"I fear he is justified in his disbelief ... I have not been, at all times, the most trustworthy of wives." This confession was made in a voice so low as to be barely audible.

"Then, turn you out, by all means, but, under no circumstances should one resort to savage brutality," Elizabeth replied lightly, until, taking pity on the other's forlorn expression, she continued in a tone intended to soothe, "We have, all of us, made mistakes. Surely your own are no worse or better than most."

"Far worse," choked the Baroness, now weeping onto the letter clutched in her hand. "So terrible that I cannot even speak them aloud."

Seating herself beside her thoroughly distraught guest, Elizabeth slid an arm around her in consolation, "You are no longer attracted to your brother-in-law, are you?" she asked quietly after several moments.

Starting, the Baroness looked up in amazement, "How could you know of that?" At once, her tears were forgotten, and she rose impatiently, "No, no. That was nothing. A flirtation only ... foolish, foolish ... I was so very naive. Marcus cared nothing for me. He wished only to cause as much injury as possible to his brother. And, I suppose he succeeded, for now, my husband believes not a word I say."

Beginning to pace before the still-seated Elizabeth, she continued as though she were alone; "Oh, yes, I have made a fine mess of my life; no husband, a child expected. Why, absolutely nothing has changed in six years. The only difference is..."

"Is what, Baroness?" urged Elizabeth; sympathetic, yet curious just the same.

"Is that ... this child I shall not lose," she finished with a new, surprising certainty.

Witnessing a definitive change in the other's mood, Mrs. Darcy encouraged, "What do you intend to do?"

"If you do not object, nor wish to rescind your invitation, I shall remain with you until my brother can attain a suitable situation for me," was her answer; "After that, I shall raise my child as I see fit. I have numerous jewels ... baubles, really, which, when sold, should guarantee our comfort for many years to come. They were, as a matter of fact, gifts from the Baron, but I know he shall not wish them returned. His pride will not allow it."

"And, you are no longer fearful of retribution?"

"I shall do what I should have done long ago ... I must write to him; explain that I cannot live in fear as his wife, and that if he desires a divorce, I will not impede the process." This last was stated less forcefully; yet even so, she raised her chin as if to challenge her absent husband.

"Then," declared Elizabeth, rising and taking the Baroness's hands into her own, "You may continue to depend upon Mr. Darcy and myself for any help and support you may require."

"I thank you," the Baroness smiled weakly in return; then, "Mrs. Darcy, you seem to have the gift of being always able to bolster my spirits, despite my best efforts to the contrary."

"And you," replied her friend warmly, "have the ability of compelling me to recollect that there is a world beyond my own, and that I really should pay it some heed at times."

Chapter Forty-Five

Posted on Thursday, 25 September 2003

As the distance between London and Ramsgate totalled only about sixty miles, much of it on "good roads", the party had no trouble attaining their destination in a single days time.

The weather remained encouraging, although of the three adults in the first carriage (the children were rewarded for good behaviour by being allowed to ride with the servants in the second), none could have attested to whether the sun was shining, or if the day was, in fact, completely overcast.

The Baroness, as the reader must assume, was occupied with the planning of the dreaded letter to her husband. Mr. Darcy, meanwhile, found his thoughts returning again and again to his less-than-satisfying discourse with Colonel Fitzwilliam; and as for Mrs. Darcy, a new worry had manifested itself to tease and plague her.

Since the rather enlightening conversation with the Baroness three days previous, her sleep had been interrupted each night by a dream which left her feeling terrified and helpless.

In it, she was walking in a place both familiar and somehow not, but as she neared her objective (in the dream, she knew what that was, awake, she had no clue) an unnamed fear seemed to envelope her very being. She would find her feet suddenly frozen in place, while her thoughts became overwhelmed with the idea that she had to return to her family immediately ... that she was needed, and that something horrible was happening in her absence.

Awakening in a cold sweat, she could only lie in fear until her heart ceased its palpitations and common sense returned to calm her once more. "It is merely a dream," she repeated to herself. Yet all the while, she would puzzle over what possible portent, if any, should be detected by it. "I must not make more of it than it is worth," she scolded herself, "Dreams are caused by many things: past, present, and even future concerns, but this does not mean they hold any sort of omen." Still, what happiness she might have felt at finally seeing Ramsgate, was overshadowed by the images remaining from her nightly ordeal.

They reached the village just as the sun was setting behind them; its rays highlighting the stone cottages and sea walls of which it was composed. Through it they passed, receiving some little attention from fishermen returning home from their boats; the slightest of nods their way of acknowledgement.

And then, suddenly before them stood Pembridge; its four grey turrets rising with great drama above the main wing. It had originally been built as part of the Abbey of St. Lucius, some of which stood yet, but a quarter mile away.

In 1654 a minor member of royalty had taken a liking to the crumbling abbey and its environs, and having convinced the nearly starving inhabitants to sell, he forthwith purchased the largest of its two buildings plus twenty-odd acres. The sea air must have agreed with him, as he spent a king's ransom restoring the fortress (for that is what it resembled) to whatever former glory it may have once claimed.

Less then one hundred years later, his ungrateful descendants sold it to Sir Thomas Darcy, who saw in it a fine place to escape the heat and havoc of London's summer society. That gentleman, a successful businessman of four and twenty complete with wife and child, spent each July and August thereafter within its cool walls; not understanding the general populace's desire to travel west to Bath or further south to Brighton. At the same time, however, he was able to enjoy the privacy such an unfashionable place allotted him, and where he might avoid the general hypocrisy and egotism of the ton.

Three generations followed and now here they were: the Fitzwilliam Darcys from Derbyshire quite ready to do the same, or so was the prevailing hope.

On the east side of the manor, a sandy beach met with well-kept lawns. The north face watched passively as waves washed over craggy rocks further up the coast. The south overlooked the town in benevolent fashion, while the west peered out on a deep, and, some would say, forbidding wood, amid which lay the ruins of the long-abandoned abbey.

As they stopped before the entrance, a shout was heard from the direction of the other carriage; after which, James was seen running with fine abandon away from Florence's warnings of "Be careful, Master Jamie! Stay back from the water!" But to this in particular he sprinted, his short legs covering the distance between house and beach in little time.

Immediately, in the case that the boy might not choose to stop at the waters edge, his father quit their own coach to follow. Any concern proved groundless, however, as James had halted suddenly, his eyes taking in the horizon; where nothing but the blue-green surf could be seen until it became an obscure line at the point where it met the sky.

Descending from the carriage, Elizabeth smiled as she observed their figures on the shoreline. Fitzwilliam had lifted James into his arms, and the two remained in that manner; both watching the waves decrease as they neared and finally lapped onto the sand gently.

Ethan, sound asleep in Clara's arms, and Melanie, the same in Florence's, were oblivious of the journey being at an end, and so were not affected by their brother's delighted discovery.

As the Baroness professed to overwhelming fatigue, she excused herself, leaving Elizabeth to join her husband and son on the beach.

"I wish," said she as she drew near them, "That I might be an artist, for I would paint the two of you as you are at this moment."

Fitzwilliam turned to smile at her which was James's cue to wriggle from his arms and begin inspecting the tiny shells lining the shore.

"You would have to be an artist of immense deftness," he replied, "Keeping him in one place for long would require rare skill, as well as a substantial amount of patience."

"Yes." Sliding her arm through his, she gazed across the water pensively; "I had forgotten how beautiful it is. Strange ... I have never lived near the sea, yet when I am near it, I feel as though I am come home."

"A common impression, I believe," he agreed. "Already your countenance has brightened, and we have only just arrived."

As he spoke he studied her face, his expression tender. This led, not unexpectedly, to a slow, quite wonderful kiss; followed by several more, until Jamie's voice below them interrupted this pleasurable activity.

"Papa, where are the ships?" he begged, tugging at his father's coat.

"Ships?" Elizabeth repeated, while her husband bent to accept a proffered shell from their son.

"Perhaps, we shall see a ship tomorrow," he answered the disappointed boy; then, "Would you like a room where you might be the very first to see the masts?"

Immediately his face lit in hopeful anticipation, "May I please, Papa?"

"In fact, I know of the perfect one. But, we must go in and find it now, before someone else chooses it."

Something very near to panic overtook the little boy's features, and he tugged on each of their arms urgently, hastening them back to the house.

If the exterior of Pembridge still resembled a fourteenth century abbey, the interior displayed a far more modern décor. Fitzwilliam's own parents had taken it upon themselves to refurbish the residence following their marriage; thus no expense had been spared in the undertaking. Now, polished woods framed doors and windows, marble gleamed from walls and desk tops, and fine Grecian art graced the hallways and rooms.

James and his father did discover the "perfect" situation (which happened to be one of the turret rooms) from where to keep watch for any approaching craft;.

Elizabeth, at first, was reluctant to have him so far from the nursery, located several doors away. But he was so very enchanted with the unencumbered view, and Fitzwilliam spoke so sentimentally of its advantages, that she soon assented.

"He is so young yet," she whispered, her tone unconvinced, as they watched their son happily flitted between windows to gaze out at the now nearly black sea; "He should not be alone during the night."

"If it upsets you," suggested Fitzwilliam, appearing less concerned than she, "Assign one of the servant girls to sleep here with him. I am certain one could be recruited for the task, and Florence would, most likely, welcome the assistance."

"Yes, I suppose..." sighing, she shook her head; "He has grown so already. I had thought it might not be quite so soon."

"What, exactly?"

"His independence. Although he is the eldest, he is still my child, and I cannot help but wish him to return to..." she sighed again, but smiled as her husband reminded her, his voice teasing.

"No matter how old and independent your children become, Mrs. Darcy, you shall always have someone who relies upon you greatly."

"Ah, yes," she raised her eyebrows, "I suppose you mean my parents. How kind of you to recall them to me."

"Madam," he reproached her, "If we were but alone..." For, a chambermaid entered just then, her arms laden with linens, preparing to make up one of the two beds pushed against the interior wall.

"You would do nothing unseemly, surely Mr. Darcy." Speaking softly, she challenged him with a wicked look.

"Perhaps," he offered, "you might care to see the master bedchamber?"

Turning from her husband, Elizabeth spoke loud enough to catch the servant's attention. "Matilda, is it?"

"Yes, Mrs. Darcy," was the answer, "Tilly Green, ma'am."

"Well, Tilly, will you remain with Master James until Florence arrives? I believe she is seeing to my other children at the moment."

"Yes, ma'am," replied she obediently, as she straightened from smoothing the counterpane, "Shall I fetch anything more for him for the evening? Will you be wanting a fire for him?"

"No, never mind. The air is quite warm tonight, do you not think? I would, however, like someone to sleep here with him, so long as he is in this room. If you are not available yourself, perhaps you might recommend another."

Although she looked surprised by the request, she replied readily, "No, ma'am, I mean, yes ma'am, I can stay. It is no trouble."

"Thank you," Elizabeth smiled, "You need not concern yourself with daytime matters, but if you would assist him with his dressing and grooming, I should appreciate it very much."

"Certainly, ma'am. I ... I am good with children everyone says. Perhaps I could entertain him some, as well."

"Perhaps you might," she agreed; then, "Jamie, this is Tilly. She shall stay with you tonight."

James glanced over his shoulder, grinned at the maid, then turned back to the panorama of the starlit heavens before him.

"I shall see to him, ma'am," promised the girl earnestly, "He shall be comfortable."

"I like it very much," Elizabeth met her husband's gaze after touring their bedchamber thoughtfully.

This room, as well, was placed in a turret; but its view, besides that of the sea, also allowed a glimpse of the town below, where lights twinkled through numerous windows. The apartment was furnished in colours and materials lighter than those used in the rest of the house, as soft blues and yellows dominated the upholstery and hangings. The wood tones were either washed pure white or stained a smooth butter-yellow, while the curved windows were draped with swaths of white damask tied back so that no prospect was wholly concealed from the occupants.

"This was your parent's room?"

"My mother's primarily," he replied, "Father's was in the North Wing. I believe he preferred the vista from that direction."

"Oh." Stopping to gaze at a painting of yellow roses hung between two windows, she added, "Perhaps tomorrow you might show me."

"If you like ... Elizabeth," as he spoke, his voice softened, "Come here to me."

Turning to face him, she found herself unable to erase the smile which played about her lips. She would have to be a simpleton not to know what he wanted, still it was tempting to feign ignorance.

"Yes?" she replied innocently, not moving from where she stood.

"Elizabeth," he repeated, "I want you."

This declaration, along with the intensity now so evident in his eyes, put an abrupt end to her teasing. With a quick intake of breath, she moved into his arms, her own sliding around his shoulders without conscious thought.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy?" she whispered, his face mere inches from her own, "What is it you want of me?"

Rather than answering such a question, he showed her.

There was no need to inquire further.

Chapter Forty-Six

Posted on Thursday, 25 September 2003

The fortnight following proved to be one of nearly complete satisfaction to all those persons now inhabiting Pembridge. Much of the reason behind this phenomenon could be blamed on the mornings now purposely being set aside for business or other obligatory correspondence, so that the afternoons might be happily devoted to less mundane matters.

Such activities, so long as the weather remained fair, generally involved games and unceremonious teas on the beach; as well as walking parties down to the village or even into the woods, which, it so happened, were not so ominous as first presumed.

Informal lawn-chairs were set up near to the water beneath a white-and-green-striped canopy, allowing the adults access to the cooling breezes blowing off the sea.

This proximity also permitted convenience as to the supervision of the children, who delighted in playing in the sand or wading into the most shallow of waves.

Sometimes, James was always happy to report, ships could be seen in the distance. This would lead to a discussion between father and son on what goods should be in the hold, the captain's visage and character and the general aspect of the ship itself; how many men must it employ, where it might be bound, and when it would return.

Always, James would watch it until it was out of sight, as though his faithfulness were what kept it on its chosen course.

Many of the meals were partaken on the tree-shaded stone terrace where a long table and chairs had been arranged; and where even the children (the two eldest, at least) were oftentimes permitted to attend.

Melanie, now four months, was able to sit up by herself for short periods, but still required the constant attention of Florence; who doted on her charge with all the affection she could spare from James and Ethan.

Three days after their arrival, the Baroness confessed to Elizabeth that she had, at last, written the letter to the Baron.

"And," Elizabeth asked, "When might you expect an answer?"

"Three weeks only, I hope," was her answer, "I fear the waiting shall seem endless, even if it is not."

"Yes," agreed Elizabeth with a rueful smile, "It always does appear to be so."

The Baroness hesitated before speaking again; then, "Mrs. Darcy, are you ever disturbed by trespassers here?"

"I could not say as this is my first visit," was her surprised answer, "and my husband has not mentioned such a problem. Pray, why do you ask?"

"I...thought I heard several voices down on the beach last evening...It was, perhaps, midnight, so I had to assume it was no one from the household. Did you hear nothing, then?"

"Probably some passing villagers ... I am certain they meant no harm," replied Elizabeth, hoping her complexion was not exposing her.

The Baroness nodded, allowing that this made sense; "I would not have spoken of it, but only to set you upon your guard ... Mrs. Darcy, are you unwell?"

For that lady, having turned away to conceal the deep red of her cheeks, appeared to be less than her usual calm self. Still, she answered quickly, "No, no, I am well, thank you. I shall speak to Mr. Darcy of your suspicions, but please do not let it concern you, Baroness. I promise you, Pembridge is quite safe from interlopers."

Later, she confronted her husband; "Fitzwilliam, as much as I thoroughly enjoyed last evening, I fear we dare not repeat the occasion."

For it had been they on the beach at midnight. Long after the household had been asleep (or so they supposed), and she, herself had very nearly drifted off, he unexpectedly awakened her. With a kiss against her neck and a soft, "Elizabeth, come, I want to show you something," he led her outdoors, both clad only in their dressing gowns; his hand encircling hers as though they were two children out on an adventure.

Over the lawn, shone a moon as bright as any she had ever witnessed. In the vast luminescence of its beam, shadows of trees and shrubs lay in grotesquely elongated renditions.

As they reached the strip of sand near the water, their own shadows stretched oddly behind them, causing them to resemble some behemoth from a storybook.

"Beautiful," she breathed, her eyes fixed on the unusual display of lunar magnificence before her; "It is so..."

"Yes," he agreed into her ear; "And, since I am grossly wanting in the descriptions of such matters, I knew you would wish to see this for yourself."

"Thank you," she turned her head to smile at him in gratitude; "My love, do you recall the shooting stars in London?"

"Mmmm, of course." As he answered, he slid his arms around her from behind, much as he had done on the aforementioned occasion.

"And, how I suffered the miscarriage soon after?"

He hesitated; then gently, "Yes?"

"I have never told you this," she confessed, "but afterwards ... and following the realisation that I had been expecting, I grew to believe the two events to be, somehow, related. I appreciate how very foolish it must seem to you, yet that evening at the Bingleys' produced the oddest effect upon me." Sighing at the recollection, she added, "I know I shall never forget it."

"I do remember a certain sense of ... unearthliness," he admitted, "I attributed it to the wine and the company, however."

"How very practical of you, Mr. Darcy," she admonished him, "And so, it was the 'wine and company' which kept your arms around me long after they had all returned indoors?"

"Perhaps, the single person whose company I desired was with me still," he murmured while placing a line of kisses along her throat.

"I felt us to be the last two people left on the earth," she went on dreamily, tilting her head to allow him further access; "As though those shooting stars had transported us to another place and time."

"Do you not feel it now?" he asked, the touch of his lips sending tingles down her spine.

"I feel..." she whispered, "Mr. Darcy, I feel that if you do not cease, I shall respond in a manner I am likely to regret in the morning."

"Are you?"

For answer, she turned to face him, meeting his lips with her own, and with that, reverted in her mind to the newly wedded Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. To a time before they had been blessed with three children, before family and friends had come to rely on them more and more, before misunderstandings, and real or imagined injuries had arisen to take their toll.

Yet, here they were. Amazingly, he loved her still; wanted her still, while she could think of nothing else but him. Could life offer any more perfection than this?

Her blissful reverie was suddenly interrupted by a low call in the night. He heard it as well, for he lifted his head to glare into the darkness beyond the moons glow.

"Yes?" he responded sharply, "What is it?"

"So sorry, Mr. Darcy," replied the startled voice of the watchman; "I did not know you was out here! Pray, forgive my intrusion! I thought I heard..."

But whatever he heard was lost on a slight gust of the sea breeze, and, quickly, he left them alone once more. Elizabeth supposed that now, as they had been discovered, they would surely return to the house. Her husband, however, resisted her tug on his arm, and, in fact, pulled her back into his embrace.

"My love, we cannot possibly remain," she insisted, pushing against him ineffectually.

"Why not? I am not ready to retire, and I daresay you are not, either," he replied, his voice calm, while his fingers sliding beneath her dressing gown enticed her to relent.

"But..." she faltered, her common sense being rapidly overcome by a longing she knew well, "Will he not see us? Hear us?"

"He shall not return," was his promise, "Elizabeth, I would do nothing to cause you remorse. I wish only to love you."

As this last was spoken against her lips, she had little recourse but to succumb.

The sand beneath her was not rough as she had supposed, but cool and finely grained. Eventually, the moon did rise further, and in that rising, dim the landscape somewhat, allowing them a modicum of privacy. Their robes, although unfastened, covered them as well, so that any eyes curious enough to spy, would actually see only two dark forms (or perhaps only one) on the shore.

When she awoke, much time had passed, for the moon was gone, and in its place the beginnings of a new day. Various hues of pink stained the sky where it met the sea, while the stars faded above. She discovered that she was lying with her head resting upon the chest of her husband who was still sleeping serenely, one arm behind his head.

With the realisation of where they were, and what time it must be, she sat up in alarm. Drawing her robe closed, she moved to stand, but her foot slipped, causing her to fall against him with no little force. Immediately, his eyes opened, then met her own in bleary puzzlement.

"Elizabeth?" As he too, recalled their whereabouts, he smiled crookedly. "Reality rears its head once again, I see."

"We must return to the house before we are observed," she insisted, rising successfully at last.

"My dear wife," he replied, "We have, no doubt, already been observed." But he rose as well, brushing the sand from their persons with more thoroughness than was absolutely necessary.

From the time of their re-entry into the house, until the moment that the Baroness spoke to her, Elizabeth clung to the belief that their tryst had gone unnoticed (excepting the unfortunate watchman).

Thus, this one, casual allusion on the Baroness's part succeeded in dashing such a hope, causing her, throughout the rest of that day, to blush intermittently and with no apparent reason. When Mrs. Darcy saw her husband in the afternoon, she informed him of the threat of exposure, however, he appeared to be far less effected than she.

"So she overheard voices, yet she was unable to identify them?" he clarified, "Then, I would say our secret is quite safe, my love."

"Fitzwilliam," she argued, "Surely, you must see that we cannot repeat the experience."

"Why ever not, if we so choose? It is our house, our property. If I wish to seduce my wife in the blasted foyer, who will deny me that right?"

"Good Lord," she exclaimed, "What nonsense you speak! We must still live under some rules of modesty, do you not think?"

"Well, obviously," he relented, "we would not do so in the foyer. But, if we are, inarguably, alone, why should one not take advantage of the situation?"

"Outdoors, we cannot know we are alone. There is far too much risk involved. I will not be embarrassed by our own base desires."

"Base?" He studied her incredulously, "Madam, such censure is surely uncalled for."

"Fitzwilliam!" she cried, "How can you view this in a manner so ... cavalier?"

"What would you have me do, Elizabeth? It seems your power over my senses is, how shall I put it ... irresistible? Should I turn away from such charms at the very moment when I feel I must taste them all?"

"Please," she interrupted him, colouring all over again, "I only expect you to recollect where we are and use some little discretion. How can I face anyone in the household if I believe them to have witnessed our...passion?"

"If they are so fortunate as to do so, why is it our problem? We are married, and have been for some time. Let it be a lesson to them that a successful marriage is built on more than simply wealth and advantageous alliances...Elizabeth," he continued in a tone intended to mollify, "I must resist the impulse to kiss you countless times during each day; do not compel me to do so at night as well."

As their eyes met, she took a breath; then with a sigh, surrendered, "I would not have you suffer. May we, at the very least, omit the out-of-doors as our den of inequity? This is all I ask."

"Should the occasion arise again, I will attempt to restrain myself," he agreed with a slight, formal bow; "However, if the moon might greet us with such an exhibition as last evening, all promises shall and must be disregarded."

"And, if I did not know better, I would accuse the moon of conspiring with you, for you have turned out to be most devious, Fitzwilliam Darcy," she replied, both frustrated and amused at the same time.

"Devious only to a purpose," was his final concession as he placed a kiss on the very lips which had been determined to discourage his, but a few moments earlier.

Continued In Next Section

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