Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Book 2, Chapter Two

Posted on Thursday, 2 February 2006,

The Darcys, father and daughter, returned to Pemberley several weeks later. Darcy, though he would not admit it, could not help feeling disturbed at the picture the Gardiners had painted of their niece. Four years --- a great deal could happen in four years. He smiled gently at Anne, who eagerly pressed her face against the window as they climbed the incline that hid their home from them. Her eyes flashed with pleasure as the beauty of it appeared beneath them, highlighted by the last rays of the setting sun, and she smiled in a moment of perfect contentment.

His life had been utterly changed, transformed beyond recognition, long before Rosemary's death; there was no doubting that Anne was his daughter, naturally, but often he could only observe her in wonder, uncertain as to how she had come to be, lost in that peculiar rapt adoration he had only felt twice before in his life. Sometimes, he thought he could feel the echo of their names reverberating through his blood: Georgiana. Elizabeth. Anne. It was almost beyond words, like lightning out of a clear sky. He knew that others' experience of parenthood had been wildly different; even those who loved their children, Bingley, Georgiana, Henry, seemed to do so --- moderately, as he had expected he himself would. Yet nothing in his life ever turned out quite like he expected.

As they walked in, he allowed Mary to divest him of his greatcoat, and Anne of her coverings. Halfway through her part of the procedure, Anne stopped and shrieked, "Nana!" and flung herself at her aunt, her coat still dangling from one arm. Georgiana smiled and held out her arms to her niece.

"Give your aunt a moment," Darcy chided, as Anne showed no signs of stopping her chatter, and she giggled and came to a halt halfway through her latest sentence. Georgiana shifted her to the other arm and looked at him gravely, her eyes as wide and dark as those of the little girl crouched beneath his covers, hiding from monsters under her bed. His instincts alerted him to her distress, and he was quickly at her side, his long strides easily making nothing of the distance.

"Georgiana?" he said quietly, gesturing for the housekeeper and other servants to go with a sharp jerk of his head. "What is it?"

She drew in a deep, steady breath, and summoned forth a serene smile. "We should put Anne and Stephen to bed first, then we can talk."

He was not certain why, at that moment, he was overwhelmed by admiration for the beautiful young lady who was his sister; he was almost more proud of her than he could say --- her presence of mind, her composure, the capable, quietly indomitable, lady she had become. Not that he would say. For her part, Georgiana's childhood belief in her brother's seemingly flawless consistency of word and deed, her immense gratitude coupled with great affection, remained almost unabated with the passage of time. She did not speak of it either; but they understand each other well enough, and had only grown closer and more like since the day she was first exposed to the fallacies and cruelties of the world, so ably represented in the form of George Wickham.

"Aunt Nana, papa," Anne said sleepily, "stay with me ---"

"We won't go until you are safe and asleep," Georgiana assured her.

"I am right here," Darcy added. Anne smiled blissfully as they spoke in low voices; in the room across the hall, Stephen slept peacefully. Both, unable to rid themselves of a deep-seated expectation of loss, vacillated between the children's rooms, simply watching as they slept.

"She is so like you, Fitzwilliam," Georgiana said, smiling at her brother tremulously. Her hand trembled slightly, and without thinking, he reached out and stilled the irregular motion by clasping his own around it. This time she caught a shallow, quavering breath, and in the dark he heard a suspicious sniffle.

"Georgiana?"

She gasped suddenly, and turned, clinging tightly to him with her head against his shoulder, the slightly cold tip of her nose against his neck startling him into jumping a little. "I'm sorry ---"

"No, dearest, I was only surprised; now tell me what is wrong." He winced slightly at his tone, which could not be called anything but autocratic; but as if she were a child again, Georgiana replied with instant and unwavering obedience.

"We quarreled."

He was not entirely certain what to say to this. He and Rosemary had not really ever quarreled, as such; even when they disagreed, they discussed the matter civilly, or stayed out of each other's way until their emotions had simmered down again. Of course, an attachment such as Westhampton and Georgiana's must be rather different in nature, even after nearly four years of marriage.

"Is that unusual?" He had always respected his sister's privacy in personal matters; but he was beginning to feel privacy rather overrated in certain circumstances.

"No --- yes --- I don't know." She caught a sob in her throat. "Fitzwilliam, I --- we --- were going to have --- I conceived again."

"Yes, I know." Georgiana had spoken, in passing, of her regret at her inability to so much as conceive another child; Stephen was all the more precious because of that particular trial. Yet it had never seemed to give her what could properly be called grief; her rocky relationship with her grandmother-in-law, and the difficult transition from Miss Darcy, free to do whatever she liked, answering only to him, to the constrained Lady Westhampton, occupied far more of her time and attention.

"I thought you did. Her ladyship finds it terrible irksome of you to be so observant in such things." She laughed lightly. "Of course, anything that irks her is praiseworthy in my eyes."

"Georgiana . . ."

"I lost the baby, Fitzwilliam. And he didn't care!"

Darcy flinched. He adored his sister, naturally, but it felt terribly awkward to be privy to another couple's personal concerns. He had interfered once and once only, and sworn off it after that; human relationships were not rational, not like chess or even the riddles he took a slightly surreptitious pleasure in. Those could be won, with strategy and reason and logic; not so human beings. He wondered if Georgiana had made the same mistake; or perhaps it had been Westhampton.

"Are you certain he did not?" he inquired gently.

"Perhaps he did; but he only said it would be all right --- and then that he had urgent business in town." She sighed, the painful grip of her fingers on his shoulders relaxing a bit. "And you know how she is."

He knew it was a bad sign when she started referring to people only by pronouns. "Yes, dear," he agreed cautiously.

"I couldn't bear it, we quarreled and he went away and she insisted upon dictating everything down to when I slept; she insisted that I walk more rhythmically."

His eyes widened. "Is she that bad?" he asked sympathetically. Georgiana knew better than to take offence at the implied disbelief, and only nodded, pressing her face more tightly against his neck, her fingernails digging into his shoulders once more. He sighed.

"She says I cannot keep running away from my responsibilities." Georgiana stepped back and grimaced.

"You aren't running away," he protested immediately. "We're neighbours and I'm your brother. What else am I here for?"

The slightly sharp look which had entered her eyes as she spoke of her grandmother-in-law vanished. With a soft smile, she reached out and pressed her hand against his cheek, shaking her head. "Fitzwilliam, you oughtn't say things like that."

Darcy looked at her blankly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Papa!" Anne sat up in bed, sobbing brokenly, and both siblings raced to her side.

"Anne, Anne," Georgiana said soothingly; Anne quieted a very little.

"Papa, please --- please --- papa!" she cried incoherently, and he picked her up, rocking her back and forth.

"Stay," she said insistently, "stay --- papa --- "

"I am right here," he said, interrupting her fearful rambling, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

She rubbed her eyes with her fists and looked up at her father and aunt plaintively. "Papa stay?"

"Yes, papa is staying," Darcy said, pressing a kiss on her forehead. She put her arms around his neck and climbed into his lap, then turned around.

"Aunt Nana stay?"

"As long as I can," Georgiana promised. "And I shall always come back."

Anne sniffled. "Mamma not stay."

"Mamma was sick," Darcy said quietly, "but she would have stayed if she could."

"You sick? Aunt Nana sick?"

Georgiana took a step closer, and pushed the child's dark hair out of her eyes. "No, darling," she said softly, "papa and Aunt Nana are not sick, and we are not going anywhere, do you understand?"

Anne smiled, then laid her head on her father's shoulder, letting her eyelids drop. "Tired," she confessed. "Bad sleep."

"Very bad," Darcy agreed, settling her back in her bed with a final kiss. After several minutes, her breathing calmed and slowed. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"You don't mind if I stay longer this time?" Georgiana asked abruptly. "Lord Westhampton said he would not be back until after Christmas, and I would like to spend it with my family."

"Of course not," he said, silencing the uneasiness that welled in his breast. Something niggled at his consciousness, and both siblings fidgeted for an awkward moment as they tried to pinpoint the latest internal disturbance.

"Stephen!" gasped Georgiana.

"It's been over two hours." In a burst of parental paranoia, they raced across the hall to find young Stephen Deincourt sleeping in perfect contentment, and could not keep from smiling at one another ruefully.

"They think I am very foolish," Georgiana said distantly.

"They don't understand," Darcy replied, briefly brushing his finger along his nephew's round cheek. Stephen was so like Georgiana at that age, it was positively uncanny. For a moment the siblings looked at one another, remembering those long, cold, grey days after their father's last illness struck, when they had clung to one another, all that was left of the family that had been. It had not, perhaps, been a very good family, but it had been theirs, and until Lady Anne and Mr Darcy joined the twelve lost brothers and sisters, they themselves could not understand, what it was to be left alone, with only one another to anchor themselves.

Georgiana sighed. "Thank you, Fitzwilliam. Not just for this --- everything. You know."

He did not pretend to misunderstand; they were far beyond that. "You are welcome, my dear."

Chapter Three

Posted on Monday, 6 February 2006

Anne and Stephen painstakingly built a tower of blocks, which Darcy thought a remarkable facsimile of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. With an effort of concentration, he looked away from his daughter and nephew, and back to the exceedingly dull (and illiterate) letter he was reading. Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, softly singing to her own accompaniment. She looked more peaceful than he had seen her for a great many months, and he sighed, returning to the letter.

Once his business was completed, he watched the wildly careening tower and the two children carefully. Georgiana had come over to stand behind him, and smiled serenely. "They seem very fond of each other, don't they?" she asked.

Darcy winced as the tower fell with a crash. Anne stared, then with a stormy, resolute expression, began building it up again. "Yes," he replied. It was a moment before the faintly speculative tone in his sister's voice caught up with him, and he straightened. "Georgiana," he said warningly.

"Oh, I wasn't really thinking that," she said. He had only to raise an eyebrow before she blushed and laughed. "I can see the temptation! I always thought Lady Catherine was nonsensical before."

Perhaps if she'd been the one planned for, she still would. He tactfully kept this thought to himself. "They are three years old, dear," Darcy said sternly. "Any man who lays a finger on my Anne before she's eighteen is --- "

Georgiana laughed gaily. "Fitzwilliam, you shall be the most terrifying father imaginable --- at least to the hapless young men who will flock after this Miss Darcy."

Darcy's shrug said more eloquently than words that such pusillanimous men were not worthy of his own time, let alone Anne's. "That is a long while away," he said mildly, determined not to think of such horrors until there was no other choice.

"It will come more quickly than you think," Georgiana threatened, and walked over to the window.

This was her room --- she had loved it even as a child, as her father before her, and even once she left home, Darcy could not convince himself that it could ever belong to anyone but her. Rosemary had never liked it --- the bright sunlight hurt her eyes, she said --- and so it was saved for Georgiana. He had walked into it a few times when she was not present, and it only seemed dull and dark and empty without her, despite the fact that it had the finest view of probably any room in the house.

"I wish I could stay forever," she said, leaning her forehead against the window. "I shall not impose much longer, however."

"You know, you are always welcome. Pemberley is your home," he objected instantly, and she smiled.

"Yes, I know. I do not like to think of Lady Westhampton all alone, though --- you know, Fitzwilliam, everything is clearer here. It's almost like we're in another world, isn't it?"

"Yes." He hesitated, then decided that mere advice did not precisely constitute interference --- at least not with his own sister --- and went on, "Georgiana, I agree, you should go back to Aincourt. And I think, when Westhampton returns, that you ought to --- talk."

Georgiana turned away and stared at him. Anne carefully placed another block on their steadily building tower; this one was rather straighter than the last. Stephen mischievously reached out to knock it down; she slapped his hand away with a fierce scowl.

"Talk," Georgiana repeated blankly. "What do you mean? Of course we talk."

"Not about the child you lost --- nor about your difficulties with my aunt --- nor your concerns for Stephen --- nor anything of consequence, I daresay. Georgiana, even Rosemary and I talked more than you two --- you who love each other! I hope you still do?"

"Yes, yes," she said hastily, looking down. He walked over and wiped the tears off her cheeks.

"Did he even know about the baby, Georgiana?" he asked softly. Her dark eyes darted up and met his.

"I --- I thought he did," she stammered.

"Did you tell him?"

"No, of course not." She frowned. "He ought to have known. You would have known!"

Darcy felt the beginnings of a headache, and briefly pressed the tips of his fingers against his right temple. "You did not marry me, Georgiana. Perhaps you should sit down."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think I need to impart some brotherly words of wisdom before you return to Aincourt. Sit." Georgiana obeyed instantly. Possibly another reason the dowager dislikes me, he thought wryly.

"Westhampton is not me, Georgiana, and you cannot expect him to be. It is completely unfair to both him and yourself."

As the tower wobbled, Stephen began taking the top blocks off, pointing at one part of it. Anne, who had opened her mouth to scream, stopped and looked at it pensively before assisting him.

"Westhampton is not an especially . . . sensitive person, Georgiana. You knew what he was like before you married him."

"Yes, sir." He gave her a sharp look, but her expression was perfectly serious.

"Perhaps our closeness has made this more difficult. Neither you nor I are especially communicative people, because we expect to be understood without taking much trouble to see that it comes about. For whatever reasons, you and I have often been able to understand each other without very many words. You cannot expect that from Westhampton. In some ways he is greatly my superior --- he will never embarrass you in a ballroom, for instance --- "

"Neither did you," Georgiana protested. Darcy smiled.

"You were only out a few months before you became engaged to Westhampton. With adequate time I am certain I would have achieved it. As I was saying, there are some ways, such as his social abilities, in which Westhampton is my superior." He paused, then added, "And yours." Georgiana's brows knit together. "You shall have to explain yourself to him --- preferably in small words --- or he simply will not understand. Men are in some ways very unlike women, but even women cannot know for certain if they are not told, especially if there have been misunderstandings between you before, as I suspect there have been."

There were several minutes while she considered this. "Even you?"

He smiled. "Even I. I have made this same error, more times than I can say." His expression turned very grave, almost somber, and his eyes settled on the small curving bridge that led into the woods. Georgiana's breath caught --- she could not have said why --- and she pressed her fingers against her brother's.

"I think, I think you are right."

A smile lit up for his face for a bare moment. "Am I not always?" She slapped his wrist lightly, and they laughed together before turning to their children.

Three weeks after Georgiana departed, leaving Pemberley very large and quiet and empty, a servant announced, "Lord Westhampton, sir."

Darcy sighed and set his pen down. "Bring him in, please."

Chapter Four

"Darcy," Lord Westhampton said curtly. Darcy inclined his head in response and gestured for him to sit down.

"Is there something I can do for you?" he inquired with a faint tilt of his eyebrow.

"I should hope so," the other man replied harshly. "Where is my wife?"

Darcy shrugged. After a very long and rather melancholy day, he was in no mood to coddle his wayward brother-in-law.

"Could you possibly be more explicit?"

Darcy sighed and pushed letter, pen, and inkpot away in a sudden violent motion. "She left nearly three weeks ago, Westhampton. At least according to the letter I received last Wednesday, she arrived there safely over two weeks ago. Doubtless if you had gone directly home rather than coming here first, you would have found her."

"She didn't write me," Westhampton remarked. It was odd, Darcy reflected; the petulant expression would have better fit a child of seven rather than a man of seven-and-thirty.

"Georgiana and I have corresponded regularly since she went to school. Perhaps if you had written her, she would have replied. Or -- " he lifted a shoulder -- "perhaps not."

"My grandmother said she stayed here for four months. I hope you are not encouraging her in her negligence."

"You correspond with your grandmother and not your wife?" Darcy, in regard for his nerves, ignored the second half of Westhampton's statement. The other man's lips thinned.

"That is not relevant to the point, Darcy, the point is -- "

"The point, Westhampton, is that my sister's life is so miserable that she would rather be here, with me, than at Aincourt, with you and yours. Now, while I perfectly understand her preference for Pemberley, the other raises some interesting questions, doesn't it? My sister is hardly flighty. Fond as she is of us both -- the plural refers to my daughter and myself, incidentally -- she would not neglect her responsibilities, if indeed she has, without considerable incentive."

Westhampton's eyes narrowed. "I fail to see what this has to do with my grandmother."

Darcy sincerely hoped age would not so degrade his own mind. "My dear aunt has, quite deliberately, undermined and challenged Georgiana's position at every turn."

"Those are women's issues. They must resolve it between themselves. It does not concern me."

Darcy felt his patience nearing its demise. "Very well, then. It does not concern you. Georgiana will continue to spend months on end at Pemberley, with me, your grandmother will rule Aincourt as she always has, and you can return to London and enjoy your life there. You do understand that this is not a prospect either my sister or I find particularly distressing. Indeed, it is so convenient I am inclined to encourage her."

Westhampton simply stared.

How ridiculous this is. Is he actually trying to unsettle me? Darcy met his brother's gaze unwaveringly, until Westhampton groaned and dropped his forehead onto his hands, his elbows resting on the desk. Darcy prudently moved the inkpot to the left and waited.

Westhampton, his voice muffled, said, "I have been a fool."

"Yes, I know," Darcy replied kindly.

"I knew grandmother was -- unkind -- to Georgiana. It's just -- she's lost so much. All her children -- her grand-daughter -- I've tried to talk to her but she just -- I don't know. Somehow I end up agreeing with her."

"Perhaps you only need proper incentive to keep your priorities firmly in mind."

Westhampton raised his swollen eyes to stare at him again. "What sort of incentives?"

"If you do not convince my aunt of, er, the error of her ways, Georgiana will take up permanent residence here. I would be only to glad to have them, you know. I am very fond of Stephen."

"Urrgh," mumbled Westhampton. "Oh God, Stephen. Does he even know me?"

"He will probably recognize you. The artist you commissioned for your portrait was very talented. By the way, you probably ought to mind your tongue a little more carefully around him. Children are very impressionable."

"Very well." Westhampton pressed his fingers against his eyes. "I'm more sorry than I can say. Georgiana must think I'm an utter cad."

"Not quite," said Darcy neutrally, biting his lip. "You should apologize to her, however. You are not married to me."

"Of course not." Lord Westhampton lifted his head up and sat back. "Darcy . . . that's not really why she left, is it?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "No."

"I just stood there like a fool -- Good God, I had no idea!" Darcy coughed. "I beg your pardon. I didn't know she had even conceived. Frankly, the chances seemed rather against it."

Darcy flinched, scarlet creeping up his cheeks. "She thought you knew."

"How on earth was I supposed to know?" Westhampton stopped. "She truly thought I had known?"

"Yes."

"Then she -- when she told me she had lost it, she must have thought --" He groaned again. "Why did she think I knew?"

Darcy sighed. "I did."

"She told you and not me?"

"No, she didn't have to tell me. I guessed."

"Oh." Westhampton considered this. "Darcy, I'm not you. Surely she does not expect me to be?"

Darcy looked away. "Westhampton, I would bear in mind that her upbringing was very sheltered. All the men in her life have been either Fitzwilliams or -- "

"George Wickham," supplied Westhampton, his expression darkening. Darcy raised his eyebrows.

"She told you about that?"

"Before we were married. She talked more then."

"She was sixteen years old," Darcy said patiently. "She is only twenty now." He added pointedly, "You might have some consideration for her on that score, at least. She was a girl raised by a young man. I was perhaps too lenient -- whatever she wished was done for her in an instant. As Miss Darcy, she had the means and the freedom to do anything she liked. You know what it is, to go from child one day to adult the next, with almost no warning. I should think you could extend at least a little compassion and understanding to her."

"It is easy to forget how young she was -- she is. She is so capable; and she does not look it." He frowned. "It's late. You would not mind my imposition on your hospitality?"

"No, of course not," said Darcy. "Incidentally, it might be easier for you to settle your issues with my sister and your grandmother by yourself."

Westhampton glanced at him quizzically. Darcy sighed and elaborated.

"Stephen is here. I asked Georgiana to let him stay for awhile. He should not be at Aincourt, when there is so much -- ill-will -- about."

"You think of everything, don't you?"

"I try."

"Very well. Georgiana and I will come for Stephen in -- March?"

"March would be very convenient," Darcy agreed. "Thank you. He and Anne are very fond of each other, and it's good for her to have a companion of her own age."

A distinctly thoughtful expression crossed Lord Westhampton's face. "Do you suppose an arr -- "

"No."

Chapter Five

Posted on Thursday, 9 February 2006

Despite his long friendship with Westhampton and his great affection for his sister, Darcy was glad to have Pemberley back to himself, fully restored to its customary serenity. The children, vocal as they were in expressing displeasure or entertainment, lacked the sophistication for true contention. Darcy failed to suppress his pleased feelings as he watched his brother-in-law depart.

At first, he had assumed that there would be other children, until those first awkward encounters which had ultimately produced Anne. As soon as Rosemary conceived, his gratitude at the respite was such that he had known he could never put himself through that experience again. Perhaps it was selfish, but his tormented conscience finally insisted upon being heard, and obeyed. The intense remorse coupled with considerable bewilderment (he could not even decide which woman he was actually being unfaithful to -- Elizabeth for being with Rosemary, or Rosemary for wishing she was Elizabeth) had made that time positively hellish. It was only six weeks before he had been quite certain Rosemary was pregnant, but even now it seemed an interminable length of time.

Naturally, he had been fond of his nephew simply for that reason -- his sister's child could not but be dear to him. Then, as Georgiana spent more and more time at Pemberley, he fond himself increasingly drawn to the dark-haired little boy. Darcy had no intentions of usurping Westhampton's paternal prerogatives, but it seemed his brother-in-law, like most fathers, had little interest in so young a child, and left his education almost wholly up to Georgiana. So, in effect there was nothing to usurp. Georgiana's son tugged at his heart almost as much as Anne did.

The first time Stephen called him "papa," it took an almost painful effort of will to correct him. While his better impulses were still in command, he took his nephew's hand, and marched him over to the miniatures, where a portrait of Westhampton was included. "That man is your papa, Stephen," he said gently.

Stephen considered it. "Not like me," he pronounced. "You like me."

Darcy hoped he was correctly interpreting when he said, "That's because your mamma is my sister. Do you know what a sister is?"

"Anne?"

"No, not exactly. It means that my parents were your mamma's parents."

"Yes," Stephen said, "you is papa, and mamma is Anne's mamma, so Anne is my sister."

"No," said Darcy, then sighed. "I can explain more when you are a little older, but I am not your papa, and your mamma is not Anne's mamma, and Anne is not your sister. I cannot be your papa because your mamma is my sister. That means that you and Anne are cousins."

Stephen frowned, looking at the miniatures. Westhampton, and Georgiana, and Darcy himself, and George Wickham, and Rosemary, and Sir James, and Lady Anne. "Mamma says Kurnitz is cousin. Like that?"

"Just like that," said Darcy, smiling. "Kurnitz's papa was your grandmamma's brother."

"You mamma's brother?" Stephen inquired, his solemn dark eyes brightening.

"Yes, I am."

"Oh. I understand," Stephen said. "Comcated."

"Very complicated," agreed Darcy.

"Wish you was papa," he said mournfully. Darcy's hand tightened on his nephew's shoulder, his throat tightening; he was rescued by a harried Mrs Reynolds, if indeed rescuing it could be called, given the circumstance.

"Oh, Mr Darcy," she wailed, "she's here!"

He spared a moment to wish the people around him would stop using pronouns, and kindly replied, "Mrs Reynolds, I do not understand. Who is here? Why is it so very terrible?"

Mrs Reynolds gasped for breath and he gently sat her down. "It's . . . it's her ladyship, sir," she said, "I came as fast as I could."

"You shouldn't exhaust yourself just for Lady Westhampton," Darcy said with a frown. I should have expected this. How could the season be complete without a visit from every member of the family? "You must take better care of yourself, Mrs Reynolds."

She sighed. "It's not Lady Westhampton, sir. It's Lady Catherine."

The Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh marched into her nephew's study, with a expression so resolute that several centuries' worth of wind and water could not have altered it. A handsome young woman followed in her wake. The young lady appeared to be striving for a meek look; if so, it was a failure. Her dark eyes were stony as she followed Darcy's every movement.

"Cecily," he said in surprise, "I did not know you were here."

Lady Catherine sniffed. "If you were not so lax with your servants --- "

"We can discuss that some other time," Darcy said tersely, briefly rubbing his temple. A headache was brewing, and extended proximity to his aunt would not help matters. "What brings you to Pemberley, aunt?"

"It was a very difficult journey," declared Lady Catherine. "One driver --- quite, quite reckless; why, if he were in my employ --- "

Both cousins sighed.

"--- very nearly overturned another carriage. Why, the occupants could have been killed!" She paused for dramatic effect. A pity, thought Darcy, that such a fine education went to waste.

"As could have the driver," remarked Cecily. Lady Catherine scowled down her aquiline nose at her niece.

"And well might he deserve it. However, I know my duty."

Darcy cringed, feeling about sixteen. "Lady Catherine, I fear you have the advantage of me --- what do you mean by duty?"

"You might offer me refreshment. I had expected better manners of my sister's son."

Clearly she was in one of her moods. Usually he could do no wrong in her eyes. Darcy sighed and sent for refreshment for both women. "Please, Lady Catherine, would you mind explaining this matter to me, before I expire of impatience?"

"Sarcasm does not befit you, Fitzwilliam," declared her ladyship. Cecily raised her eyes to the ceiling, and smiled mischievously. Darcy bit his lip in response. "But since you are so insistent upon hearing it, I shall tell you. You must act!"

"Lady Catherine," said Darcy, slowly and deliberately, "what is happening?"

"Your cousin --- my niece --- the most ungrateful, impertinent --- "

"Fitzwilliam," Cecily said sweetly, "what my aunt means to say, is that she has abducted me, in order to prevent my marriage. I suppose I should not have threatened to elope."

"Abdu --- to elo --- " He stared at her in horror, then sat down, pressing the heel of one hand against his brow.

"You see, I --- I have fallen in love," she said, the trace of hesitation collaborating her assertion more convincingly than the most violent declarations of undying affection could have. Lady Catherine sniffed once more.

"Would you like a handkerchief, aunt?" Darcy snapped.

"Don't be crude, young man."

"Then, since you clearly have no intentions of doing so yourself, perhaps you could allow my cousin to explain -- without commentary."

"Well, I never!"

"Cecilia," Darcy said wearily, "pray continue."

"Thank you, cousin." Cecily clasped her hands. "As I was saying, I have fallen in love. You needn't look so skeptical."

Clearly it was going to be one of those weeks. Darcy struggled for his customary composure. Cecily, easily the most friendly and charismatic of the Fitzwilliam clan, had never shown more than a passing interest in men outside the family. There had been no lack of suitors --- their uncle had dowered her well, if not splendidly --- but she was too fastidious to accept any of the several who had requested her hand. At least, fastidious was what the cousins called it; flighty was the elder generation's word of choice.

"Who is the fortunate gentleman?" he asked politely. Clearly the fellow had failed to meet with Lady Catherine's approval; although that was hardly a daunting task.

"Gentleman!" interjected Lady Catherine disdainfully. "You impudent chit, how dare you disgrace the family in such a fashion? Your union will be a disgrace --- your name will never be spoken by any of us --- "

Darcy's blue eyes flashed. "I must ask, Lady Catherine, that you do not presume to speak for me, at least, until I have made my own judgment. Cecily, does this man have a name?"

"James Hammond," Cecily said softly. "He is the curate of the Hunsford parish."

"A curate?" Darcy repeated dazedly, briefly covering his eyes. "You are --- you intended to elope with a curate? What sort of man is your Mr Hammond, Cecily?"

"He refused, Fitzwilliam," she said eagerly, "he said he would not dishonour me or allow me to dishonour myself in such a fashion."

"Thank heavens one of you had some sense!" Darcy forced his breathing back to normal. "How did you meet?"

They ignored Lady Catherine's ravings (such goings-on under my own roof!) as Cecily began the tale. Well over a year prior, they had met for the first time. The Collinses had left to attend the marriage of one of their cousins (Darcy turned cold, then hot, then cold again, but did not dare ask in Lady Catherine's presence), and in his place Mr Hammond, a young curate, had delivered several weeks' worth of sermons. Lady Catherine had sent Cecily to deliver certain valued pieces of advice, apparently oblivious to what was happening under her nose.

"Very well. And then, I presume something else happened?"

"I caught them in flagrante delicto!" shrieked Lady Catherine.

"Do you even know what that means?" returned Cecily contemptuously.

"I should have expected it," yet another autocratic female voice declared, "of a Fitzwilliam."

Standing in the doorway, posing like a bizarre caricature of Nemesis, stood the dowager Lady Westhampton. Several distinctly irreligious thoughts passed through Darcy's mind. He scarcely heard the servants abjectly apologizing for their failure to restrain the lady, and simply nodded and dismissed them. A sneaking sympathy for Mr Bennet leapt into his mind as he looked around at the three tall, imperious women gazing at him. Good God, he thought in sheer frustration, why am I thinking of them, now?

Chapter Six

After a brief struggle, Darcy's good breeding reasserted itself. "Lady Westhampton," he began, "to what do we owe this pleasure?"

She drew herself up to her full five feet of height (including the towering wig) and pronounced, "You can be at no loss, Mr Darcy, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come."

Lady Catherine looked at the other woman incredulously. "I have never seen such a lamentable display of ill-breeding in all my life!" declared she. "To come to my nephew's home and speak to him in such a manner -- your impudence, madam, is quite beyond the pale!" She was flushed with righteous fury, and Darcy sighed. Lady Catherine had many faults, but disloyalty was not among them.

"My impudence?" exclaimed the elder lady. "You speak to me, Catherine Fitzwilliam, of impudence? You, whose nearest relation ruined my son's life?"

Darcy coughed.

"My cousin did nothing of the sort," returned Lady Catherine indignantly. "Really, your conduct to-day is nothing short of abhorrent, Lady Westhampton. I should think you an imposter -- no true lady would ever behave in such a fashion -- "

"As your precious Helen behaved to my dear boy -- "

"-- if I was not familiar enough with such depraved behaviour, since that dreadful day when my sister married that vile nephew of yours -- "

"Aunt Catherine, you're talking about my father!" Darcy protested.

" -- to know that such a way of carrying on is nothing extraordinary, for your sort," she finished triumphantly, utterly ignoring him.

Cecily, looking slightly alarmed, slipped over to Darcy's side. "Do you suppose we should just give them a pair of foils and leave them to it?"

"No -- this way there's no blood," he replied philosophically, still rather annoyed about the slight to his father. Lady Westhampton briefly paused, rage evidently silencing her for a few blessed seconds, before she returned to the fray.

"How dare you speak of my nephew in such a way?" she cried. "And under his own roof, no less! I told him, when he told us he intended to marry your sister -- I said, ‘mark my words, George Alexander, marry a Fitzwilliam and you shall regret it.' I am no stranger to the particulars of your brother's conception. I know it all -- that your father brought his mistress into his house, that the year abroad was a patched-up business to cover your mother's barrenness and your brother's true parentage --"

"Why, you -- you --" Lady Catherine said furiously, "you presume to insinuate -- my brother is the most respectable, honourable -- and my sister -- "

"Your sister was the daughter of a libertine and a trollop," Lady Westhampton pronounced, clearly enunciating each word. "The shades of Pemberley were forever polluted by her presence."

"I beg your pardon." Darcy stepped forward, face white and eyes blazing. "Lady Westhampton, you can now have nothing farther to say. You have insulted me and mine by every possible method. If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, you will leave this instant."

Lady Westhampton sniffed disdainfully, then re-evaluated her great-nephew's implacable expression and took several steps backward. "Do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede," she threatened.

"Do you doubt that I can have you sent from Pemberley in an instant? That when I give it as my firmest opinion that you should be sent from Aincourt as well, that that is precisely what shall happen? My brother and sister place the firmest reliance on my advice -- I assure you, Lady Westhampton, that if you ever speak of my mother in such a manner again, I shall do all this and anything else that occurs to me between now and then."

"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of your nephew? Unfeeling, selfish young man!"

"Madam," Darcy said icily, "I have nothing further to say -- to you. Roberts! Please escort her ladyship back to her carriage and inform the other servants that she is not to set foot on my property again."

Roberts, a tall, heavily-built man of about Darcy's own age, complied with rather more enthusiasm and less finesse than usual.

"I shall know how to act!" Lady Westhampton shrieked, as Roberts half-pulled, half-dragged her out of the room. Darcy sighed, anger and energy draining out of him together. Nothing would keep the servants from gossiping about this. Thank heavens she's no blood of mine. If she were, I don't know if I could ever hold my head up again.

He spared a brief sympathetic thought for his brother-in-law as Lady Catherine tossed her head and snapped, "Good riddance!"

"What was she here for?" Cecily wondered aloud.

"I hardly care," Darcy said curtly. Lady Catherine gave a sharp nod of agreement. "Now, what were you saying about that curate?"

Lady Catherine opened her mouth, apparently fuelled by endless reserves of energy. He cut her off. "Cecily. Please finish what you were saying, before Lady Westhampton graced us with her presence."

"I knew he would never dare ask me himself," Cecily confessed, lowering her eyes slightly, "so I kissed him. After -- a bit -- he pushed me away and said that we had to be married. I agreed -- I'd been trying to get a proposal out of him for weeks." She looked at his implacable face, and sighed. "Fitzwilliam, I don't expect you to understand -- I wouldn't suppose you've ever felt anything like that -- "

"You would be wrong, then," he replied thoughtlessly, and instantly felt Lady Catherine's piercing eyes settle on him.

"Really?" Cecily inquired curiously. "How did -- when -- you were in love, cousin? Really? How did it happen? Do I know her? Is she -- "

Darcy, a thundering headache pounding away at both temples, hesitated, then took the coward's way out. "I'm a widower, Cecilia," he said tetchily. "Did you think we found Anne underneath mamma's roses?"

She wilted a little, and he promised himself that he would give her a more straightforward hint once the other Lady was disposed of.

"Then you walked in, aunt?" he asked, turning to Lady Catherine. As she drew herself up, clearly fully prepared to deliver a scathing rebuke, he quickly added, "Yes, then. Well, frankly, I fail to see what the difficulty is."

Lady Catherine deflated slightly, unconsciously mimicking her niece's reaction of a few seconds before. "Fitzwilliam," she said in horror, "this -- this person is a curate! Cecily may not have a splendid fortune, but her connections are good enough to win her a fine place in society -- she could marry into an ancient, respectable, honourable family, such as your own, or a newer peer's! And instead -- Mr Collins' curate? Heaven and earth -- of what are you thinking?"

The cousins looked at one another. Then Cecily clasped her hands and stepped towards him. "Fitzwilliam, please."

Darcy felt a distinct foreboding. "I fail to see what I have to do with the matter," said he. "I am not the head of this family, my un -- oh. Cecily -- "

Near tears, she said, "He will not give his consent." Then, fiercely, she cried, "If I am neither by honour nor inclination confined to one of my aunt's imaginary peers, why am I not to make another choice? And if he is that choice, why may I not accept him?"

"Because honour, decorum, prudence -- nay, interest , forbid it. Yes, Cecilia, interest; for do not expect him to be noticed by your family or friends if you willfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised by every one connected with you. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us."

"You have said so before," Darcy interjected coolly, "and I must ask, yet again, that you do not speak for me without leave. May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course," Lady Catherine said approvingly. Cecily simply looked, her dark eyes intense on his face.

"Cecily may stay here, with me -- now that Georgiana is gone, Pemberley tends to be rather too large for me. I would be glad of her company. You, aunt, return to Rosings after you have rested; I will take care of this matter as I see fit." His own voice echoed in his ears: Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.

After a moment of silence, each woman considering from her own unique perspective, Lady Catherine nodded agreement. "I am no longer as young as I was," she conceded. "I trust you to judge as rightly as you always have, nephew."

"Thank you, aunt." She offered her cheek up, and he bent down to kiss it, his conscience eating at him.

Chapter Seven

"You are not actually going to lock me into my chambers until I concede the error of my ways?" Cecily asked skeptically, their aunt's strongly vocalized advice ringing in both cousins' ears. Darcy rubbed his forehead.

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied shortly. "Some of Lady Catherine's delusions are more -- delusional -- than others."

"Eloquent as ever, Fitzwilliam." She smiled warmly at him. "What are we to do?"

"We are going to talk." He paused. "Do you know if the Collinses have returned to Hunsford?"

"They meant to return by yesterday," said Cecily. "I daresay Mr Collins was devastated to have missed my aunt."

"His devotion is certainly unparalleled." Then, striving for subtlety, he asked, "This marriage, did you hear if it was one of Bingley's sisters?"

"Oh, Mr Collins is Mrs Bingley's cousin, isn't he?" She laughed lightly. "I had completely forgotten. I hope for Mr Bingley's sake there isn't much likeness between them. He seemed a nice man, although we never had much to do with one another."

"Yes," he said patiently. "No doubt you frightened him, along with every other eligible man of our acquaintance . . . so it was one of his sisters?"

"Yes. A Miss Mary Bennet. Apparently she married a clerk of her uncle's. Did you know that Mrs Bennet's family is all in trade?"

"Mr Bingley's sisters would scarcely let anyone forget it," he replied levelly, exhaling slowly. A certain tightness in his chest relaxed. You are a fool, Fitzwilliam Darcy, he scolded himself; after everything that has occurred between you, you cannot possibly expect her to cherish any tender sentiments for you -- for that matter, to have ever had tender sentiments in the first place! This newest variation on a very old theme failed, as had everything else, to restore him to his senses. For a brief moment, he was giddy enough to laugh.

"Mr Bingley's sisters? But their father -- even their brother has only just acquired an estate for himself -- I always knew I disliked them."

"Yes, I know," he returned, his headache receding a little. "Rosemary used to call them the harpies. That pretty well summarizes it. Now, Cecily -- " He forced his mind down proper paths, and gestured for her to follow him to the library -- "I need to know whatever you can tell me about this love affair of yours."

He allowed the halting, hesitant, un-Cecily-like words to wash over and through him. James Hammond. What was this man like, who inspired such passion and devotion in his vivacious, beautiful cousin? Darcy dredged up the fleeting image of a nondescript young man, brown-haired and blue-eyed, with quiet, assuming manners, who had treated him with such admiring deference, and yet no trace of Mr Collins' nonsensical obsequiousness, that he was never quite certain what to do or say to him.

"I told him that I didn't care that he was poor, that he had no connections to speak of, that my family would probably cast me off when we married." She looked at him guilelessly.

"Well, my doubts as to whether you're a true Fitzwilliam have been eternally put to rest," he said with a faint smile. "Cecily, did you actually say that?"

She smiled radiantly. "Of course. Fitzwilliam, I wanted him to know how much I love him -- not to ever wonder and doubt -- that no matter how much I love my family, that I'm willing to face scorn and ridicule and being lost to all of you -- for him. I could have any man I like, and I chose him." She added, "Of course, I didn't say it quite like that -- I was more tactful."

"How tactful can you be, when saying such a thing?" he asked curiously.

"Not very," she confessed, with an impish, conspiratorial smile. "He didn't mind. In fact, he looked at me very soulfully and intensely and said that he adored me. Just like that -- ‘Cecilia, I adore you. I want you to know that.' And then he kissed me." She sighed rapturously. (Darcy wondered what it was that made women confide the details of their private lives in him.) "It was the first time -- that he kissed me on his own, I mean. He didn't say so, but I know he doesn't really care that I'll make a dreadful curate's wife. I have a great many very bad habits, you know."

Darcy stared at her for a moment, then looked away. "I think you will make a very good curate's wife," he said after a moment.

"Do you really think so?" she asked earnestly. "I mean to try very hard." Then she stopped, her dark eyes widening. "Oh Fitzwilliam! You're not going to try and persuade me out of it?"

He smiled again, rather tiredly. "My dear Cecily -- no, I never had any intentions of that."

"But you told Aunt Cat -- "

"I did not tell her I intended to persuade you out of it; but if I had not implied it, she would never have left you here and doubtless would have done precisely as she advised me -- locked in a room and lectured you for hours on end."

Cecily wrinkled her nose. "Lady Catherine is a -- "

"Do not say it," he said softly. "Remember that you are a lady, and that she is your aunt. She has given you all that she is to offer; it is not a great deal, to be sure, if one insists upon quantifying affection, but she is sincere and she is only trying to make you happy."

"Sympathy for Lady Catherine? I would never have expected it, from you."

"I have been thinking a great deal about mother, as of late," he replied quietly, resting his chin in his hands and gazing off into the distance. "In some ways, she was very like my aunt. Mother had a sweetness about her that prevented her from giving offence in the manner that Lady Catherine does, but her advice was very much the same -- liberally bestowed, unwelcome, and sincere."

Cecily, looking at him intently, said, "You miss her."

With an uncharacteristically violent motion, he stood up and whirled away, facing a little away from her, his arms crossed. "For heavens' sake, Cecily, she was my mother, of course I miss her!" His temper gone as quickly as it had come, he glanced into his cousin's surprised face, and said, "I am sorry, I should not have -- I am very sorry. I don't know what has come over me lately." He raised one trembling hand to his brow, and let it drop again. "I have wished -- the most ridiculous things, lately. I would like to talk to her."

He would never dream of telling her, or anyone, that not long ago, as he carefully watched the two children under his care, the strangest desire had washed over him, to be five again, able to crawl into his mother's lap and sob into her neck. A peculiar gripping unhappiness seemed to have come over him. Perhaps it was the imminence of losing Stephen; he could not say, all he knew for certain was that bizarre longing for a mother's comfort.

"A unique choice," Cecily said, taking her usual path and speaking lightly of serious matters. "Most men would choose their father."

"No doubt he found women as bewildering as I do. I'm afraid he, or any man, would be of limited assistance."

"Women?" She stared. "Why should you care about women? Don't you dare tell me Anne. She couldn't be more like you if she was a little boy."

He bit his lip and looked down. "I was not completely honest with you earlier -- when I alluded to love, and Rosemary."

She brightened instantly. "It wasn't Rosemary, was it?"

"She is not Rosemary, no."

"I thought it strange," she said eagerly, "because I knew it wasn't a love match and so I couldn't imagine what made you bring Rosemary into it, although of course you loved her in a way and then you lost her."

"You always make me feel so blessed, Cecily; I'm not certain how I shall bear it."

"Don't be sarcastic, Fitzwilliam. Do I know her?"

Darcy hesitated, then slowly shook his head. "No. You would not have met."

"Someone terribly unsuitable, then?" she inquired, not without sympathy. "She must not have moved in our eminently respectable circles. Part of a dreadfully fast set?"

He could not but laugh at the idea. "No, not at all -- she, her family -- she is a connection of my friends, the Gardiners."

She turned white. "Oh, no. I'm sure they are very nice people," she hastened to add, "but -- oh, goodness. Fitzwilliam. Come here."

He approached her cautiously and stood in bemusement as she stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around him for no apparent reason.

"There," she said, stepping back and gazing at him serenely. "Don't you feel better now?"

Oddly enough, her unconventional offering rather improved his spirits, little as he usually cared for tactile affection. "Yes, a little. Thank you."

"You looked like you needed a hug," she said. "Of course, you usually do -- but you really looked like it that time. Now, tell me, why were you upset with me, really?"

"I envy you, Cecilia," he said quietly. "Your Mr Hammond loves you a great deal; but even more, he loves you as you are. That is very rare, I think."

She blinked, then sniffled a little. He handed her a handkerchief. "You shouldn't say things like that, I hate crying," she mumbled. "He's wonderful, Fitzwilliam. The most perfect man -- " She sniffled again.

"Not perfect, perhaps, but undoubtedly perfect for you." He hesitated, then gently clasped her free hand. "Wipe your eyes, dear; we have a wedding to arrange, and not very much time. I must go to town for a few days, and you need to go with the children to Aincourt."

"Aincourt?" she repeated blankly. "Whatever for?"

He smiled patiently. "Trust me, please. Do you wish to be married or not?"

"I do." She flung her arms around him again. After a moment of hesitation, he returned the favour and pressed his lips against her forehead affectionately.

James Hammond and Cecilia Fitzwilliam were married at Pemberley on a glorious morning in February. Cecily, brilliantly happy, hugged and kissed all of her cousins, saving her last for Darcy.

"It shouldn't be very long," Darcy said softly to his new cousin. Mr Hammond's disconcerting admiration did not seem to have abated in the slightest, unsurprisingly. He shook Darcy's hand enthusiastically.

"Thank you, sir, more than I can say. God bless you, Mr Darcy." His clear voice was distinctly rough as he slipped an arm around his new wife's waist.

"When shall we come, Fitzwilliam?" inquired Cecily, striving for a staid sort of decorum. Yet again, she failed miserably, and beamed at him, like a child given a spectacular treat.

"A fortnight, I think. The vicarage should be prepared by then."

"You're going to be a vicar, darling," Cecily said excitedly. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Mr Hammond still looked faintly dazed. "This quickly? I never dreamed -- "

"You have connections now, my love," she told him airily, then smiled conspiratorially at her cousin. "Well, one at least."

"Your dowry is in the five percents, Cecily," Darcy said. "It should be more than sufficient for your needs, taken with Hammond's income."

"That's a thousand a-year," she said blissfully. "Just from me. And you said it's a valuable living, so that's at least twelve hundred a-year. We shall be just fine, dearest."

"I thought you only had fifteen thousand pounds," Mr Hammond said, frowning. Cecily caught her cousin's eye for a bare moment before saying,

"Oh no, I have twenty. It's amazing the difference two hundred fifty a-year can make isn't it?"

Darcy blushed at this. "Evade Lady Catherine as best you can."

After they bid farewell, Georgiana and Lord Westhampton, accompanied by their son, followed him inside. Darcy noticed their surreptitiously clasped hands, Westhampton's solicitous care and Georgiana's expressive dark eyes shining as she gazed on her husband, and smiled faintly. After some pleasant conversation, he left them to their own pursuits, and went to watch over Stephen and Anne as they slept.

He brushed his nephew's dark hair wistfully, a lump rising in his throat. He did not begrudge Georgiana and Westhampton their son, naturally; but -- he would certainly miss him. He recoiled at the idea of spending the rest of the year at Pemberley, which had never seemed so large before, and reconsidered Bingley's invitation. It would be good to see them again.

Chapter Eight

Posted on Sunday, 12 February 2006

The Darcys set out from Pemberley the day after Darcy posted his acceptance of Bingley's invitation. Anne, who had missed her cousin a great deal in the weeks after his departure, was almost trembling with excitement.

"I like Charles and Jenny," she informed her father, "But Bennet is just a baby."

"You were a baby not so long ago, Anne," he replied, smiling. She bounced on her seat experimentally.

"Not like Bennet, I wasn't," she insisted. "He has no hair."

Darcy was forced to concede that this was so.

"I don't like when Charles pulls my hair, though. He says it's because he wants to see it up close, but I don't believe him, because boys are nasty except Stephen and John and sometimes Richard. He says that he hasn't seen that colour on anybody before, and that it's like mud, all slimy and dark. My hair isn't slimy, is it, papa?"

He reached out and touched it, putting two loose strands behind her ears. Her bright eyes were anxious as she gazed at him, and he laughed. "Vanity, thy name is woman! No, darling; or if it is, mine is too."

She pulled out the tail end of one of her plaits, and examined it gravely before leaning up to look at his. "It is just the same!" she exclaimed delightedly. "Well, your hair isn't slimy at all, papa."

"That is a great load off my mind."

Anne returned to her own. "So that means mine isn't. It's just shiny. Shiny is pretty, isn't it? Like Aunt Georgiana's pianoforte." Her thoughts were briefly distracted. "Papa, Aunt Georgiana sings the pianoforte very nicely, but she never sings the old one, the dark one."

"She plays, she does not sing," Darcy corrected. "You are right, she does not play the old pianoforte now, although she did when she was a girl."

Predictably, Anne demanded, "Why not?"

"I gave her the new one when she turned sixteen, almost five years ago now, and she prefers it."

Anne considered this. "Shall you give me a nice pianoforte like that when I turn sixteen?"

"If you want one, yes."

Satisfied, she turned to peer out the window. "Look, papa, it is so pretty outside! Pemberley is so much prettier than everywhere else, don't you think? Aunt Catherine says that it is too wild, but she thinks I'm wild too, and I'm not wild, am I, papa?"

"No, you are not wild."

"Well, if Rosings is not wild and Pemberley is, I would rather be wild, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, yes," he said, smiling.

"You don't like Rosings very much, do you, papa?" Darcy glanced up sharply to see his daughter's clear blue eyes set on him mildly. "It is all right," she added comfortingly, "I do not like Rosings either. Nothing is the way it should be there."

Darcy flinched, slightly. "I quite agree," he said, glancing out of the window. "It is a nice day, isn't it?"

"Why else don't you like Rosings? I think you don't like Rosings much more than I don't like Rosings, although Lady Catherine is so fond of you."

He hesitated, then --- unable to do anything else --- replied honestly, "Unpleasant things often seem to happen, when I am there."

"Oh." He vainly hoped her insistent questioning would end there, but she frowned and said, "But papa, what happened to you?"

Fortunately, his answer had been strictly literal. "Many things. My baby sister died, and something terrible almost happened to your aunt while I was staying there, and my cousin was unhappy all her life, and a --- a great many things."

"What almost happened to Aunt Nana?" Anne demanded.

"She was almost hurt," Darcy said carefully.

"Oh, that's awful. I don't like it, because it takes so long to wash off the dirt. Do you think I shall be happy to-day, papa?"

"I think you cannot be happy, unless you try very hard at it," Darcy said ruefully, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. "But we shall be in Baildon in a few hours, so circumstances are on your side."

She beamed. "Oh, good. I do want to see Jenny again. And Mr and Mrs Bingley, they are so nice --- much more nice than Lady Elliot." She wrinkled her nose and Darcy suppressed an inclination to do the same.

"Lady Elliot means well, Anne."

"She is dreadful," Anne declared.

"Anne . . ."

"Not as dreadful as Caroline. I don't care if her father's a baronet, I don't see why she must always always talk of it. Why, look, papa!"

Darcy glanced out the window. Not far ahead, a curricle lay, turned over, while a man stood to the side, glaring down. Were it not for the white collar, Darcy would have suspected, by his expression, that the young man was rather at odds with the Almighty. He ordered his carriage stopped, and stepped out, Anne hiding behind his trousers at the prospect of meeting a stranger.

"Hancock!" he called, and Anne peered out.

"Mr Hancock!" she cried, coming forward as she the familiar face. "You don't have to worry anymore, we are here."

A true Darcy, he thought wryly, and swung Anne up in his arms, making little of the distance. "Hancock, what seems to have happened?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," the clergyman confessed frankly. "I was fortunate to get out with a few scratches. I suppose I'll have to write to grandmother --- might you take me to the parsonage, Mr Darcy? I hate to be a burden, but it isn't far out of your way, and I can't think ---"

"You're visiting your grandmother? Does she live with your family in Yorkshire?" he replied, a plan instantly forming in his mind. Darcy was very fond of Hancock. His people were genteel, though fallen on difficult times, and the senior Mr Hancock had been tutor to the Fitzwilliam children, including Darcy himself. When the Kympton living fell vacant, young Hancock was the obvious choice, and Darcy had never regretted taking the path of least resistance for quite possibly the only time in his life.

"She lives in Yorkshire, but not with my father's people --- she's my mother's mother, and her home is in the northwest. Fifty miles if it's an inch," he added glumly, with a vengeful kick at one piece of what had been his curricle. Darcy smiled.

"Excellent! Kympton is actually considerably out of my way, as I'm heading to Yorkshire myself;---a friend of mine invited me to stay at his estate for a --- a while. We can take you as far as Baildon, and arrange for transport from there."

Hancock blinked. "Your friend won't mind an extra guest?"

"Bingley?" Darcy laughed. "No, of course not. I'll have, er, this taken away, and a new one ordered --- "

"The money --- "

Darcy waved such trivial objections aside. "You may repay me when you have it. Is this scheme convenient for you, sir?"

"Convenient?" Hancock blinked at him. "Well --- yes, of course, but --- you are certain you don't mind, Mr Darcy?"

"I would not have offered if I did. Come --- Roberts? Could you possibly . . ." He gestured at the former curricle as a bemused Hancock climbed in the carriage. He had the utmost faith, fully reciprocated, in Roberts' capabilities; with the exception of a certain long-standing aesthetic disagreement relating to Darcy's clothing (which he was more inclined to blame on the man's previous employer, his god-father or no) --- the relationship between master and servant was ideal. Darcy allowed Roberts free rein, in all matters not relating to his apparel, while Roberts achieved whatever Darcy wished, often before he had even gotten around to asking for it.

"Papa doesn't mind," Anne interjected, beaming at the parson. "He never does." She peered down at the ground. "It's darker, papa."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My hair, papa, it's darker than the mud." She stuck her straight little nose in the air, and declared, "It's dirty and smelly and my hair is nothing like that, and can I get back in the carriage because it's icky."

He laughed and accompanied her into the carriage. Within an half-hour, they were en route to Baildon.

"There you are!" Bingley said enthusiastically. His eyes, were it possible, lit up even more at the sight of Hancock. "You brought company? Excellent!"

Darcy gave his friend a severe look, and said repressively, "Bingley, Mrs Bingley." He bowed. "Thank you for the invitation. Hancock needed a place to stay on his way to his grand-mother's. I offered your hospitality. I hope you do not mind?"

He could scarcely keep from smiling at Bingley's immediate cheerful response, "Of course not! Any friend of yours is welcome here, you know that."

"Hancock, this is my dear friend, Charles Bingley, and his wife, Jane. Bingley, Mrs Bingley, this is John Hancock, the parson of the Kympton parish. He had some transportation -- difficulties -- and I offered to take him this far myself."

"Mr Hancock," Mrs Bingley was saying in her sweet voice, "It is a pleasure. We are always glad of company."

Hancock only nodded, seeming rather dazzled. Darcy looked expressively at Bingley and receive a smile verging on the smug in return. The years had been kind to both Bingleys, but there was no doubt but that hers was the greater beauty. With her tall, womanly figure, fine, regular features, and unusual colouring, she had always reminded him rather of Georgiana. Mrs Bingley, however, was not a girl; there had always been a quality of constancy and serenity about her, whether as Miss Bennet of Longbourn or Mrs Bingley of Baildon. Even while fearing for Bingley's happiness, he had always admired her; and as they had come to know one another better, the admiration had grown to a sort of brotherly affection.

It was rather singular that so many of that family treated him as if he were one of them.

As Hancock mumbled something, Darcy caught sight of a tall, slim figure, and for a moment, the jumbled images -- glossy chestnut hair, wide dark eyes, clear brown skin -- assembled into an terribly, wonderfully familiar picture. It was wrong -- he knew it, she was too tall, Elizabeth was just a slight little thing, and her hair was not so dark, nor so straight -- but nevertheless his heart thudded in his chest as he turned to face her.

"Miss Catherine."

"Oh! Mr Darcy!" One hand flew to her cheek. He wasn't sure whether to be dismayed or amused. She dropped the hand, and stared at him blankly. He was not certain what she saw that still bewildered her, as she briefly glanced at Anne and then commenced staring. "Why, you aren't frightening at all," she pronounced, and Darcy could not keep from smiling.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said dryly, and kept a firm grip on Anne, who was trying to dart behind his trousers.

She blushed fiercely, her eyes fixed on his right cheek. Darcy wondered if some mud had gotten on it, and was about to rectify the situation, when Mrs Bingley's voice trilled out, "Kitty! Kitty, we have another guest, for a few days."

Miss Catherine flushed and turned to her sister. "Jane, I don't -- oh." She blushed more deeply. Hancock blinked. Bingley raised his eyebrows; Jane and Darcy smiled.

"Hancock," said Darcy, "this is Mrs Bingley's sister, Miss Catherine Bennet. Miss Catherine, my friend, John Hancock, parson of the Kympton parish."

For a moment, there was a brief furrow between her straight dark brows, and Darcy was painfully hit by her very striking physical resemblance to another, despite the great dissimilarity of character. Then she smiled brightly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Hancock."

Hancock looked even more dazed than ever. "Ah -- Miss Catherine," he stammered. "I -- I am very happy -- to see you -- that is, to meet you."

"I hope you will stay with us a time," she said, giving him a meaningful look which could not possibly be misinterpreted. Hancock coloured deeply.

"I -- er -- I do not know -- I think -- that I shall stay -- a, a time, yes. Awhile."

Bingley and Darcy glanced at one another, and decided to leave them to it. Mrs Bingley, with a fond look for both, ushered them out half-absently, her eyes intently fixed on the pair.

Bingley exhaled deeply. "Well! I am so glad you accepted the invitation. About time! Would you care to examine the library or the children first?"

"How are they?" Darcy inquired. "The children, I mean. Bennet was just an infant when I saw him last." He handed a sleepy Anne over to Mrs Burrows, a bustling, agreeable woman, and focussed on his friend.

"Older," Bingley said, with a laugh. "Anne has certainly grown up. You're going to have your hands full with her."

"I already do," Darcy said ruefully. "I daresay I shall have a crisis of nerves to rival your mother-in-law's when she comes out."

"Keep matters simple. Marry her off to someone in the family -- isn't that nephew of yours the same age?"

Darcy briefly lifted his eyes up and prayed for patience.

"Actually, there was a matter --" Bingley hesitated slightly, then hurried on, "I was wondering if you might have some opinions . . .?"

Darcy laughed. "Bingley, I always have opinions."

"Excellent. That's the wonderful thing about you, you never change. It's vastly unfair, you know; you don't look a day older. Ah well, I daresay you have enough trials to make up for it. Come, you must see the children." He slapped his friend on the shoulder, and Darcy smiled; Bingley's good humour was as infectious as ever. He could not help but feel nearly cheerful himself.

Chapter Nine

The Bingley twins screamed with joy as they caught sight of their god-father, who had long ago won their affections by his peculiar manner of speaking directly to them, as if they were adults; morever, he had a pleasant, soothing voice, and was invariably accompanied by gifts and a play-mate. Anne and Jenny, giggling madly, almost immediately asked permission to go look at some of the latter's latest acquisitions, and ran off almost before it was granted. Charles, who found his sister's new doll spectacularly uninteresting, shadowed Darcy's footsteps Anne-style and attempted to contort his amiable features into a severe expression. Failing this, he took to discreetly following his aunt Catherine and the stranger, at a particularly inopportune moment leaping down from the nearby tree with a blood-curdling scream. Shortly thereafter he was confined to his bedchamers; the girls offered sympathy and looked smug.

Bingley's "matter," it transpired, was not the troublesome business affair Darcy had expected, nor even a recalcitrant tenant, but --- as far as Darcy was concerned --- far, far worse.

"It's Caroline," he confided, with a weary look. Darcy sympathised, all the while wishing himself very far away. Say, Padua. He had briefly attended university in Padua*, and it had been pleasant. Pleasant was not exactly the first word that sprang to mind when contemplating Caroline Elliot née Bingley.

"She just --- arrived," Bingley was saying helplessly. "I know she's my sister, and ---"

Some things, Darcy decided, were inevitable. Apparently he was a magnet for dissatisfied female relations.

"--- not behaved well. Now, admittedly her husband is not the most scintillating company ---" a scathing denunciation coming from Bingley --- "and perhaps getting on in years, but running to me every time she quarrels with her daughters-in-law, or their husbands, is starting to get tiresome --- just a little, you understand."

"Of course," said Darcy, not daring to smile. He must be furious. "What has she done?" he inquired. Bingley flushed.

"She --- I do not know for certain, and I know you and Jane do not condone listening to gossip --- but it is being said --- she has been seen, in the company of a --- a fellow known for --- dallying with certain --- with ladies in Caroline's circumstances."

The disparate pieces slid together. "You mean, handsome married women, wealthy and bored? This charming gentleman, has he a name?"

"Crawford," said Bingley off-handedly, clearly forgetting the lamentable connection; Darcy sighed and mentally calculated the distance to Houghton. "Her letters are full of him. Good God, Darcy," he said plaintively, "she has children."

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention that this was hardly a hindrance to most women's, or indeed men's, pursuit of pleasure; he restrained himself out of regard for whatever fraternal fondness Bingley still possessed. Clearly, I was not properly grateful for Georgiana, he thought wryly. "I very much doubt she is the first mother to have been seduced by that man," he said grimly.

"Oh, do you know him?" Bingley asked, cheering slightly.

"His sister is married to my cousin."

"Oh, dear," said Bingley sympathetically. "I had no idea."

"I try to avoid thinking on it. If Fitzwilliam and his wife are at my uncle's estate, I may be able to do . . . something." He suppressed a shudder at the thought of Mrs Fitzwilliam, but undoubtedly something must be done, if only for the Bingleys' sake. There were duties in friendship as well as privileges; and this was clearly one of them. Otherwise he would have no qualms whatsoever about leaving the erstwhile Lady Elliot to her fate.

"Is Mrs Fitzwilliam much like her brother?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Bingley laughed and Darcy flushed. "I mean, in some ways she is very like him, and in some, not at all." Mary was at least more circumspect, and, despite her ways, seemed sincerely fond of her husband. Morever, she was as ambitious as any Fitzwilliam and in that respect made a perfect wife, daughter, and cousin to them all. She looked well on Richard's arm, always saying and doing the right thing; and so, her apparently irresistible attraction to severe, respectable men was overlooked in favour of the benefits she brought to the family. That she was driven by prudence rather than any sense of honour or principles was, apparently, seen only by the trio of cousins she relentlessly pursued. Darcy rather hoped that Henry and Edward would be at home as well, if only to divert her attention.

"I wouldn't concern myself," Bingley was saying, looking uncharacteristically grave; "I care for her, naturally, but she is long past the point where I could imagine that I had any say over her actions." Darcy flinched. "Frankly, I was at first inclined to let her, er, make her own bed --- but --- " he sighed --- "then I thought of Jenny. Caroline's her aunt, and if she continues on in the way she has, it might reflect on Jenny. The others too, but boys are --- different. And what of Jane? What of the children?---Caroline's children, that is."

"They must be considered," Darcy agreed cautiously, although he had no great fondness for the latest Elliot offspring, relations or no. The connection was not one he took pleasure in acknowledging, naturally barring the Wentworths.

"So," Bingley heaved a great sigh, "here we are. Caroline and her children are here, and I daresay one of her husband's people will show up at some point, and it is all very trying. Have you any advice?"

"A pity you cannot turn her over your knee," Darcy said dryly; "I very much doubt she is interested in reforming her ways at present. Mrs Fitzwilliam might be able to convince her brother to redirect his attentions, but Caroline will only find someone else. You might be able to do something for the children, as I do not recall Sir Walter being very much interested in such things; it would be more convenient if she could simply be disposed of."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I meant," Darcy hastened to add, "rendered --- sent abroad, or some such thing, where she could do nothing to reflect upon your family."

"Oh."

There was a brief pause, as the two men mulled over possibilities. Darcy prepared to pen an awkward letter to his cousins; Bingley thought of his (usually) sweet-tempered daughter and beloved Jane, and determined that Something Must Be Done. Both cherished distinctly uncharitable thoughts towards Crawford.

"Charles, really I --- "

It was only to be expected, really, that the former Miss Caroline Bingley should choose that moment to march into the study. Her hazel eyes went round as she caught sight of Darcy, and she instantly reverted to the woman he had found so contemptible in earlier years.

"Oh! Mr Darcy! What a delightful surprise. Why, Charles --- how sly of you, brother, not to tell me that such a dear friend had arrived. I am but recently arrived myself, Mr Darcy."

"So I understand," he replied dryly, vaguely wondering what the attraction was. Presumably Crawford was charismatic enough to be a little fastidious; Lady Elliot was a handsome woman, to be certain, with good enough taste to make the most of nature's gifts, but she could not hold a candle to any of the women in his family. Including his grand-mother. And it hardly compensated for her less appealing personality quirks.

He could not keep himself from wickedly inquiring as to his cousin's health. "I know he is not so young as he once was --- about my father's age, I should think, if father were still alive."

Lady Elliot flushed. "Fortunately, he enjoys tolerably good health, Mr Darcy. I shall tell him, when next we meet, that you asked after him, however. I was not aware you were particularly close to that part of your family?"

"It is a distant connection, to be sure," Darcy said dismissively. "I do not think we should have met as such, were it not for my mother's friendship with the former Lady Elliot; she was my god-mother, you know."

Lady Elliot, who did not care to be reminded of her sainted predecessor, frowned and denied any knowledge of the sort. Sir Walter bore his age well, making it easy to "forget," but the gap between her husband and Mr Darcy evidently struck her forcibly at that moment, and her face expressed her thoughts well enough. Darcy was not a particularly vain man --- pride, rather than vanity, tended to be his weakness --- but he was not so oblivious that he could not divine what her appraising look at him meant.

"You must know my daughters-in-law well, then." The faint grimace accompanying this spoke volumes.

"Oh, yes. I see Mrs Wentworth occasionally."

"She is very well-bred."

"Certainly;---and her husband as well."

Lady Elliot's features tightened, although she retained enough deference for his opinions that she did not dare directly contradict him. "He is very agreeable, when the mood takes him."

This struck Darcy as a more accurate description of Lady Elliot herself than Frederick Wentworth, who whatever his other flaws, did not lack a consistent charm of manner. Ah --- he guessed at what might have occurred there, that might explain her hostility towards the man but not his wife. He sighed, and after several minutes of mind-numbingly dull conversation, chiefly consisting of inquiries after mutual acquaintances, took leave of brother and sister. A letter was written and posted; Darcy gladly retreated to his own chambers, accompanied by several books. He spent the rest of the evening lost in a pleasurable intellectual fog.

*inspiration for this, as I am sure you are all aware, came from Susan's "Disguise of Every Sort."

Continued in Next Section