Beginning, Previous Section , Section V

Chapter Seven

Posted on Thursday, 16 March 2006

The world would, and did, intrude; reluctantly, they separated, Elizabeth seeking out Mrs Gardiner, and Darcy returning to Stephen's room. Her aunt was an early riser, and had already settled into a lonely yellow parlour, which she and Elizabeth both preferred. Quite apart from the colour --- her favourite --- it had a fine view of the wood, and above the mantelpiece was a painting which had drawn her from the first. It was a portrait of a young woman, presumably one of the generations of Darcy women, about a century old. She was a bare slip of a girl, perhaps fifteen years old, with reddish-gold curls and clear blue eyes; but it was something about her face that compelled Elizabeth to return, time and time again, searching for she knew not what. Although there was only a little resemblance to her descendants, the vibrant smile, punctuated by a dimple in her right cheek, was the very image of Darcy's, and Elizabeth could not help but wonder what she had been like, whether she was a proud Miss Darcy or a slightly overwhelmed Mrs Darcy. Or, she thought, Lady So-and-so, who knew perfectly well who she was, and what she was doing here.

"Lizzy!" Elizabeth kissed her aunt and joined her, simply indulging in idle chatter for the few moments it would be allowed.

"Where are Margaret and Amelia?" she asked, and Mrs Gardiner laughed.

"They are being entertained by Lord Westhampton; did you know his family arrived in the night? He seems nearly out of his mind with worry, the poor man."

Elizabeth hesitated. "Yes. Yes, I did."

Mrs Gardiner's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

She was deeply grateful that there had been enough presence of mind between them, that they had settled what was to be told, to whom, before parting. "I am engaged to Mr Darcy," she blurted out. Mrs Gardiner coughed.

"Oh? That's wonderful, my dear." She politely refrained from remarking on how long it had taken them to reach this point. Elizabeth told her, then, of how it had come about, and of the situation now facing them.

"That poor boy," Mrs Gardiner repeated, several times. "And poor Fitzwilliam --- how does he manage it?"

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. "Last night, I truly thought he might collapse at any moment. No-one else seems to understand how unwell he is, and I really wonder if they would care, even if they did." She laughed a little. "Except you, my dear aunt --- he said that he didn't think he could have endured it, without your friendship, and my uncle's."

Mrs Gardiner smiled. "It has been our pleasure. I daresay he is improved, now, with the knowledge of having won your affections? Surely that cannot but help?"

Elizabeth hesitated. "He seems much improved, yes."

Mrs Gardiner gave her a piercing look. "You do not think --- "

"Oh, aunt, if you could have seen him! No, I cannot think --- I cannot help but worry. He will push himself beyond endurance, if no-one stops him --- and none of them seem to see the need, they only . . ." She bit down on her lip, frowning. "I cannot understand them."

"You cannot help but look at the situation from a different perspective," Mrs Gardiner said gently. "You are not one of them --- yet. None of these people know anything else, in particular poor Lady Westhampton. You see more clearly, because you love him, without expecting anything in return. I am very proud of you, my dear Lizzy. You are a remarkable young woman."

"Not so young anymore," Elizabeth said ruefully, but smiled and clasped her aunt's hand in thanks.

"You are no older than Fitzwilliam was when he met you. When you are approaching forty, as I am, then you may speak of a past youth. Take care of yourself, Lizzy, and of your young man."

"I shall," Elizabeth promised, and kissed Mrs Gardiner's cheek. As she stood up, the portrait caught her eye once more, as the girl smiled warmly at all the world. "Do you know who that is, aunt?"

"No," said Mrs Gardiner, glancing over her shoulder. "She seems a very happy young lady, doesn't she?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Yes."

About an hour after breakfast, Elizabeth determined to endure Lady Elliot's company in exchange for the pleasure of Jane's, but as she approached the parlour her sister favoured, a plaintive sniffling distracted her. She turned --- no-one was there. One door was slightly ajar, however, and she opened it, discovering a plain room, and one small girl trying not to cry. She sat curled in the corner of a chair, her hair loose and tangled, looking pale and tired and unhappy.

"Anne --- Miss Darcy, good morning," Elizabeth said gently, and Anne jerked her head up, instantly leapt to her feet and rubbed at one eye.

"Oh, good morning, Miss Bennet." At Elizabeth's look, she said defensively, "I have dust in my eye." Then, horrified, she added, "That was a falsehood, wasn't it? Oh dear. Papa will be angry with me, angrier than he is already --- "

"Angrier? Miss Darcy, your father is not at all angry with you. I just spoke to him not very long ago, and he was --- perfectly happy."

Anne brightened, then wilted again, looking as downcast as a elfin five-year-old could. "But . . . but he didn't read to me, last night."

"He was very busy," Elizabeth said. Anne looked at her reproachfully.

"He never forgets. Ever! He is never too busy for me, he said so. But he wasn't in the library, or the study, or at breakfast, or anything!" She sniffled. Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before seating herself by the girl, and inviting her to do the same. Anne huddled in the corner of her chair, gazing at Elizabeth suspiciously.

"Miss Darcy," said Elizabeth, "do you know that the Westhamptons are here?"

Anne nodded. "I heard someone bringing something to my aunt, and my uncle playing the violoncello. He plays very nicely."

Elizabeth took a breath. "They are here because your cousin is -- " she remembered Darcy's phrase -- "unwell. Your father has been with him almost all of last night, and most of this morning too. I am sure he means to explain, when Stephen is a little better -- "

"Why do you call him ‘Stephen,' and me, ‘Miss Darcy'?"

Elizabeth did not quite think she ought to explain that it was impossible to think of that pale little boy as "Lord Stephen Deincourt," while Anne was every inch a Miss Darcy of Pemberley. "I supposed that's what I am accustomed to hearing," she said vaguely. It only occurred to her at that moment that Anne might feel something like sibling rivalry in response to being abandoned for her cousin's sake.

"Oh. Well, if he was with Stephen, that's different," Anne said, regaining her customary cheer. "Do you think he'll be sick very long? I should like to talk to him, once he's better."

"You will have to ask your father," Elizabeth prevaricated.

"Is it his head or his body that is unwell? Because I remember after grandmamma died and Stephen stayed with us for months and months and he was so odd, jumping and frightened of every littlest thing -- of course I was a little scared too, but I was fine once I got back at Pemberley and papa was here and everything was normal -- and I asked why, and papa said he was a little unwell, but because he didn't have a fever or cough or anything, I said that he didn't seem sick really, and papa said his head was a little sick. He's a little bit odd, not very much -- not like grandmamma -- but I am sorry that he's not feeling well because he's the nicest person in the world after papa, and maybe Mrs Bingley because she is very nice too, but of course Stephen's my cousin so I ought to like him better, and I think I do, but you are also very nice, as nice as Aunt Georgiana."

"Both his head and his body are unwell," Elizabeth said, "and thank you for the compliment."

"Oh, it wasn't a compliment, I really meant it," said Anne artlessly. "Is Aunt Margaret in mamma's parlour? Papa said she likes it there -- Aunt Margaret, I mean, not mamma, mamma is dead, of course."

Elizabeth stiffened. "Was that your mother's?"

"Yes, well, it was re -- re -- re-somethinged, for her. She used to get dreadful headaches so they had the curtains closed, but it made the room dark, so they painted it yellow, that was her favourite colour." Elizabeth almost started; it was a mere coincidence, naturally, but that she and Lady Rosemary should share something so elemental as a preference for yellow was somehow disturbing. "Papa stayed away because mamma liked to be alone," Anne rambled on, "and papa too, except with people he really loves like me and Aunt Margaret and you and -- "

"And I?" Elizabeth knew perfectly well that he loved her; but he had told his daughter? Impossible, surely -- she had asked, and he had very definitely said that he had only told two people, besides Elizabeth herself --

"Well, why else would he spend so much time with you?" Elizabeth choked, and Anne looked horrified, blushing fiercely. "Oh dear, that was offends-if, wasn't it? I didn't mean it that way, really, it's just he never spends much time with people he doesn't like, and he spends so much with you that he must like you a great deal -- I am always saying things like that, I just say what I think but it comes out wrong and offends people, you wouldn't believe what I said to Lady Metcalfe when we were visiting my aunt Lady Catherine." She straightened. "Papa says I got it from him. Of course, I got pratally everything from him, Aunt Cecily says I'm a chip off . . . a chip off . . . well, a chip off something that has to do with papa, that I'm just like him, except of course I talk more, but she says he talked more too when he was my age and they couldn't ever get him to stop asking questions but he never talked in front of strangers because he was so shy and didn't really like people and just wanted to read or something, except when it was family -- " She stopped, taking a deep breath. Elizabeth took advantage of the respite to say,

"Miss Darcy, surely you have something to be doing this morning?"

"No, I finished all my lessons ages ago, I like to read just like papa -- Aunt Georgiana says he used to read me Euclid and Isaiah and all sorts of things, and that's why I'm so clever now. But if Stephen is sick Aunt Georgiana must be very upset, she always is -- when he gets sick I mean -- so maybe I should go see her and try to make her feel better?"

Elizabeth smiled, and impulsively pressed her hand against the little girl's round cheek, leaning down to place a kiss against the smooth black hair. "I think, Miss Darcy, that you could make anyone feel better."

Anne beamed. "Please call me Anne, Miss Bennet, because if you're papa's friend you're my friend too. And I shall call you -- oh goodness, what am I to call you? Mrs Bingley and Aunt Margaret call you ‘Lizzy' but that doesn't seem to fit, I don't think, and when I asked papa he didn't think either, so --"

Elizabeth headed off the impending monologue. "My name is Elizabeth."

"Oh, that's much better. But I mayn't call you just ‘Elizabeth' because that would be disrepecful, because you're all grown, so I shall call you ‘Miss Elizabeth.' Don't you think that shall be nicer than plain ‘Miss Bennet'?"

"Yes, I do," Elizabeth said, and stood. Anne bounced up.

"You must come and see my aunt too, Miss Elizabeth." She tugged at Elizabeth's hand; but along the way, they were distracted by a vaguely familiar male voice, only vaguely familiar, and a woman gasping out something between loud wrenching sobs. Elizabeth sighed, and knelt down.

"Anne," she said seriously, "why don't you go to your aunt by yourself? I had better see what this is."

Anne cast a glance at the door. "Mrs Coofitz must be upset, the doors are very thick," she remarked. "Oh! I'm not supposed to call her that, that's Stephen's name for her." Elizabeth found it somehow fitting. "Papa doesn't like her though, so she can't be a good person, but you had better take care of her for cousin Richard's sake, because he and papa used to be great friends." Anne only hesitated for a moment before embracing her, then hurrying down the hallway to Lady Westhampton's room.

Elizabeth could only imagine what newest disaster had come to roost, but she was absolutely certain that it must not touch Darcy. With her face set in grim lines she herself would not have recognized, she knocked firmly on the door.

Mrs Fitzwilliam was sobbing into her brother's arms; Mr Crawford looked as serious and severe as she had ever seen him, and brushed his sister's hair back, murmuring comforting, nonsensical words. Standing a little apart from them, looking very large and awkward and confused, was Roberts, Darcy's omnipresent valet. She thought he was a valet -- whatever he was, he always seemed to be there. Before, she had always found his silent, intense devotion a little unnerving; but now, it was somehow reassuring.

"What on earth has happened?" she demanded. Roberts looked pained, as he replied,

"There's been a terrible accident, ma'am. Colonel Fitzwilliam was in a hurry to return ho -- here, and accidentally startled a rider who was galloping very quickly past, and -- " Roberts gulped -- "the carriage completely turned over, it looks like, and was dragged . . . a bit. The horse and the lady -- the rider was a lady -- were caught in it."

Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face. "The colonel? How is he?"

Roberts dropped his eyes, while Mrs Fitzwilliam pressed her face into her brother's shoulder, apparently havng exhausted her tears for the moment. "I'm sorry, miss, but he isn't -- he didn't -- it's a miracle that the driver survived to tell us what happened, ma'am; no-one else did."

She caught her breath, her mind whirling. It was instinct or intuition or, perhaps, simply logic, that led her to the immediate conclusion. "The lady, the rider whose horse was startled, who was riding so quickly -- do they know who she was?" Roberts, white-faced, looked away. "Roberts?"

A small, trembling voice came from the doorway. "Mi -- Miss Eli -- Miss Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth turned, feeling as if she were pulled from all directions.

"Yes?"

Anne looked pale and frightened as she said, "Miss Elizabeth, Aunt Georgiana isn't in her rooms -- they said, Mrs Reynolds says, she says that Aunt Georgiana went for a ride, to clear her mind -- because she was so upset and worried about Stephen, and she thought she'd done something bad -- but she hasn't come back and -- "

Chapter Eight

Posted on Sunday, 19 March 2006

Elizabeth instantly realized that Roberts was within a hair of telling Anne precisely what had happened. "Excuse me," she said, and took Anne's hand, half-leading, half-pulling her out of the room.

"Miss Elizabeth, what's happening?" Anne wailed. "What's wrong with Aunt Georgiana?"

Elizabeth's head was spinning a little. It was almost impossible -- nothing like the long, drawn-out death of her father -- she had seen her, that very morning. I thought she was a ghost. Elizabeth shivered; yet Georgiana had not been a ghost, she had been distraught and wan, but nothing worse; she certainly had not intended to be killed. And Colonel Fitzwilliam -- Elizabeth had not, frankly, given him much thought, except to consider the woeful lack of perception in his choice of a wife. He was not someone who left a great mark; one enjoyed his presence while it lasted, and forgot him once he was gone. And now, she thought, he is gone.

"Anne," Elizabeth said, "you must be very brave, and very strong."

Anne's lip wobbled a little, then she stood up very straight, lifted her chin, and acquired a stern expression somewhat at odds with her pixyish little face. "Yes, ma'am," she said, then added, "for papa?"

Elizabeth felt her breath catch in her throat, and knelt down. "Yes, for your papa. You see, your aunt -- " Elizabeth swallowed, uncertain how to phrase it -- "your aunt was out riding, and a carriage went towards her too fast. Her horse was surprised, and all of them fell down together."

"Oh, is she hurt?" Anne's blue eyes opened very wide. Elizabeth sighed.

"Yes, Anne. The carriage -- your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was in the carriage. And they are -- they are both -- " Surely there was a gentler way to phrase it? "They were hurt so badly that they died. Do you understand?"

Anne blinked. "Aunt Georgiana -- and Cousin Richard -- they're gone, like mamma?"

Elizabeth shut her eyes briefly, determined not to falter, but feeling a great upwelling of grief. She straightened and said, "Yes, they are."

"Oh no -- papa," Anne cried, and begun tugging at Elizabeth's hand. "Miss Elizabeth, we have to see papa -- and Stephen -- oh, Miss Elizabeth, you will stay and help, won't you?"

"Yes, I shall, as long as I may," Elizabeth promised, and quickened her steps, scooping Anne up in her arms. Darcy was not in his study or in Stephen's room; but a servant said tearfully,

"He is in the library with Lord Westhampton, Miss Bennet," and sniffled. It was clear that the news had already reached here -- Roberts had probably told Darcy first --

She had no thought for anyone but Darcy and Anne when she entered the library; but to see Lord Westhampton's large, tall form shaken by near-silent sobs, his face contorted by grief, was an almost physical pain. Darcy was next to his brother-in-law, at first oblivious to her presence; he was speaking in a low, soothing voice, and seemed perfectly composed. Too composed -- Elizabeth glanced at his hands, which were usually a better sign of his mood than his face; he was slowly and methodically shredding a handkerchief into smaller and smaller pieces. His face was pale, and his eyes rather too bright --

"Papa!" said Anne, and hurled herself at him. The two men took notice of her, and stood up, Westhampton rather slowly and dazedly. Anne wrapped her arms about her father's neck, burrowing against his shoulder; Darcy, with a little sigh, laid his cheek against her hair.

"I have to return to Aincourt," Westhampton said woodenly. "The arrangements -- "

"I can -- " Darcy began.

"No!" Westhampton lowered his voice. "I beg your pardon, Darcy, but I -- I would like to -- to manage it. I wish to do something -- one last thing -- for her."

Darcy looked at him steadily, then inclined his head. "Very well. And what of Stephen?"

A look of such fury entered his eyes at that moment, that Elizabeth took a step backwards. "Keep him out of my sight."

Darcy's eyes flashed, but his voice was calm. "It isn't his fault. Georgiana could never stand to be cooped up -- she was often restless indoors, regardless of what Stephen may or may not have done -- and always a reckless horsewoman."

Westhampton's lips twisted bitterly. "For God's sake, Darcy, she is dead! Have you no delicacy whatsoever? Can you not keep from criticizing your relations for one moment?"

Darcy lifted his chin. "Stephen is alive."

"Do what you like with him. I will keep you apprised of how the arrangements are going." He brushed past Elizabeth, slamming the door shut, and Darcy took a deep breath, turning to her with a blank expression. She felt vaguely intrusive, and nearly inquired if she should leave --

With an unsteady sigh, he reached out one hand, and said, in a tone that anyone else would have taken for dispassionate, "Elizabeth. I . . . I am glad you here."

The next few days spun past. Lady Elliot was persuaded, primarily through Jane's means, to return to Somerset for a time. Elizabeth scarcely saw hide nor hair of the Crawfords; she would have thought them gone as well, had she not heard Mrs Fitzwilliam's lonely weeping during her nocturnal wanderings. She was secretly glad Lord Westhampton had determined to manage the arrangements for Georgiana's funeral, which meant there was one less thing for Darcy to do.

From what she had seen the evening the Westhamptons came, she would never have supposed Darcy to remain so composed and competent under such strain. Those first days were nothing short of chaotic; and although she did what she could, the primary burden lay on his shoulders. True, there were moments where his expression grew tired and numb, his eyes a pale lustreless blue, but invariably he straightened his spine, pressed his lips together, shredded a handkerchief, and forged on. They did not see each other often, for with the hours he spent with Stephen, and then making arrangements for Colonel Fitzwilliam, he was locked up in some form or another for most of the day. Only in the early morning, and sometimes the late night, as neither slept very well or very long, did they meet for any length of time.

They did not discuss the tragedy, or anything disagreeable at all, during those meetings, by Elizabeth's dictate. Instead it was simply a time of respite. The only time it was touched upon was when, in Mrs Gardiner's parlour --- she refused to think of it as Lady Rosemary's --- she asked who was the woman in the portrait. Darcy looked down, rubbing the material of his sleeve between his fingers.

"Fitzwilliam?" she asked gently, and Darcy said, quietly,

"That is my great-grandmother. Her name was --- " he swallowed --- "her name was Georgiana. Georgiana Elizabeth Elliot."

Elizabeth hesitated, then decided it was better, after all, not to pretend it didn't exist. "Tell me about her."

Darcy relaxed slightly, smiling a little as he raised his eyes to meet his grandmother's. "It was not a --- a good match for him --- that is, his family did not think so."

Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

"I don't recall how they met," he continued, his voice steadying, "but she was only fifteen and he eighteen, and they apparently fell violently in love almost from the start. She was a baronet's daughter --- not wealthy, no connections --- so, naturally, although her people were delighted with the match, his were outraged. I daresay his father would have disowned him, had the estate not been entailed. They were forced to live apart and only correspond for three years, but my great-great-grandparents were convinced by their steadfastness --- and gave their consent at the end of it."

"There is something about her --- she looks very happy," Elizabeth said, at the end of this recital.

"I understand that she was always a happy sort of person," Darcy said, tilting his head to the side. "My great-grandfather was certainly very fond of her --- you should see the letters he wrote her! They only had the one son --- my grandfather --- for years. He was nearly of age, I think, when my great-uncle was born --- you have never met him, have you?"

"I did not even know you had a great-uncle," Elizabeth said, with some asperity. Then --- "Wait a moment. Did you say that Pemberley is entailed?"

"I said that it was," Darcy corrected. She breathed a sigh of relief.

"What is he like? Your great-uncle, that is?"

Darcy considered. "I have always been fond of him. He is a little idiosyncratic, but at seventy, that is to be expected. He shall be here for . . . in a few days, and so shall my uncle and his family. Cecily you have already met, of course."

Cecilia Hammond had been a permanent fixture since the cousins' deaths; from anyone else, it would have been intrusion. From Cecily, it was concern and affection. She and Elizabeth had become friends and allies almost immediately, and the older woman joined her in taking most domestic burdens off of Darcy's shoulders, and leaving him to manage the estate and the disposal of Colonel Fitzwilliam's earthly remains. It took no great effort on Elizabeth's part to discern that Cecily was "the other" --- he had said, that he had only told two people of his affection for her; one was Jane, and the other undoubtedly Cecily. She was the only person who disliked Mary Fitzwilliam as much as Elizabeth herself (although for propriety's sake both attempted to conceal it), and more importantly, the only person who was able to influence Darcy in any way. Elizabeth was glad --- more than glad --- that Cecily was only a few miles away, for even if all went well, she and Darcy could not be married for six months at the least, and she would not be able to stay at Pemberley with him for all, or very much, of that time.

After several anxious conversations with his wife, which Elizabeth only heard bits and pieces of, Bingley took his friend aside and directly said that he did not wish to intrude, but whatever Darcy wished, he would do it -- stay, or leave, or anything at all within his power. Darcy was within a hair of asking them to leave, for their own peace of mind; Elizabeth persuaded him out of it. When the Bingleys left, she, Elizabeth, would be forced to go with them.

Mr Gardiner had intended to join his wife and children at Pemberley only two weeks hence, before taking them back to London with him; he cut his business short and arrived only eight days after the tragedy. He embraced his wife, his children, his nieces; and after one look at Darcy's strained colourless face, said, "My dear boy" and embraced him as well.

That day was the one that Elizabeth was for the first time introduced to Stephen Deincourt. The little boy sat very upright, pale but composed. He gazed at Elizabeth with clear curiosity, which could not but be a good sign, and she smiled at him in return. He had his uncle's stern good looks, and although his wide eyes were grey rather than blue, in shape and expression they were very much the same.

"Stephen," said Darcy gently, "this is Miss Bennet, who shall be your aunt."

Stephen, clinging to his uncle's hand, bowed politely. "Good morning, Miss Bennet," he said gravely. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Should I call you ‘Aunt Elizabeth,' as Jenny does, since you will be my aunt too?"

"You may," said Elizabeth, "if you would like. I have heard a great deal of you from your uncle."

Stephen smiled shyly. "So have I -- about you, that is. Uncle Fitzwilliam likes you a great deal."

"I hope as much as he likes you," Elizabeth returned. Stephen looked up at his uncle hopefully, and seemed somewhat comforted by what he found there. He chewed his lip.

"Shall you stay with us, Aunt Elizabeth?--before you are married -- shall you have to go away?"

"I hope not," said Elizabeth, "although I may have to go for awhile. I shall certainly stay once we are married."

"My mamma went away, and she didn't come back," said Stephen, "and my papa has gone away, because he doesn't like me anymore, because he's upset about mamma, and my grandmamma died too -- that's what it's called when you go away and can't come back. Uncle Fitzwilliam, is mamma with grandmamma, since they are both dead?"

Darcy looked briefly perplexed. "I rather doubt it," he said, after a pause.

"I hope not, because grandmamma always made mamma unhappy. Is mamma happy now?"

"Yes, she is," Darcy said firmly, "although I'm sure she misses you."

Stephen blinked. "Can you miss someone and still be happy?"

"Yes," Elizabeth and Darcy chorused, then smiled at each other. Elizabeth knelt down, and continued, "You see, my papa died, and I loved him very much, so I am sorry; but I am glad, because he is happier now. And I am happy because I am going to marry your uncle."

"I am not marrying anyone," Stephen informed her. "Except I think I would like to marry Anne, if I must marry."

Darcy cleared his throat. "You may worry about marriage when you are older."

"As old as you, Uncle Fitzwilliam?"

He flinched. "Perhaps not quite that old."

"He is far better than I expected," Elizabeth remarked, as Darcy escorted her to the green parlour. "Despite everything, he seems a very well-mannered, sweet-tempered boy."

"Yes, it's been a good day," Darcy said; "that is why I wanted you to meet each other now, before -- well, it varies."

"Lord Westhampton still blames him?"

"Undoubtedly." His fingers tightened against hers, and Elizabeth gently stroked his hand.

"People always want to blame someone, I believe. It is perfectly natural."

"His own child?" Darcy glanced at her sharply, then looked away. "I am sorry, Elizabeth, I should not speak so to you."

"At the funeral, will they -- "

"If Westhampton says anything to Stephen," Darcy began fiercely, then stopped -- "Still, it is in a way fortunate that Stephen shall not have to go to Aincourt again; I do not think I could bear to send him away, knowing how unwell he is."

Elizabeth did not think he could bear it either.

Chapter Nine

Posted on Saturday, 25 March 2006

Darcy had once mentioned that his father used to call his mother's family "variations on a theme," and Elizabeth found the derogatory remark strangely apropos. With the single exception of the late Colonel Fitzwilliam and his mother, the entire family were both in carriage and countenance astonishing similar, none more so than the triad of Lord Newbury, Mr Fitzwilliam, and Darcy. In fact, most of the family seemed unable to distinguish between the two young men when they were not standing next to one another; she had no such difficulty -- quite aside from the simple fact that he was not Darcy, Mr Fitzwilliam had darker eyes, a broader frame, and was some two inches the shorter.

Oddly, the presence of the extended Fitzwilliam clan did not seem to place any very great strain on Darcy. He was clearly a favourite of sorts with them; despite his comparative youth, all relied heavily on him, and he, bizarrely, seemed to draw some sort of reassurance from it. When he informed them of his engagement, his expression just this side of defiant, it was the old countess, Lord Newbury's mother, who broke the sudden heavy silence.

"My dear -- my dearest --" she said brokenly, tightly embracing Darcy, who placed a kiss on her brow. "I am so pleased." She took Elizabeth's hand and looked deeply into her eyes. "I hope you will both be very happy."

The others were less enthusiastic; only Mr Fitzwilliam seemed really pleased, although all but Lady Catherine were perfectly cordial, and even she was civil; she seemed to have softened with the years. Elizabeth saw them infrequently through the week following the funeral; she could not but be put off by their lack of warmth -- and worse, by the suspicion with which their manner betrayed when Darcy was not present. Only her knowledge of Darcy's inexplicable fondness for them allowed her to tolerate the veiled impertinences with courtesy and composure. They were so very like how she had originally thought Darcy to be, cold and proud -- she could not see that they felt anything at all about the tragedy that had brought them here, barring the two Lady Newburys.

Once, as she briskly walked past Ro -- Mrs Gardiner's parlour, she heard the most wretched sound, a man's deep sobs, sounding as if they had been torn out of his throat. Fearing it was Darcy -- that he had hidden such feelings even from her -- she hurried to discover the source of the sound, and found Lord Newbury, the coldest and proudest of the lot, actually bent by the force of his grief. Elizabeth hesitated, feeling, somehow, that any offering of compassion or comfort from her would be instantly and indignantly rejected. She was not one of them; not yet. She quietly retreated, and by chance or fortune, nearly bumped into Darcy as she went looking for Jane.

"What is it?" he asked, steadying her. Elizabeth pushed a loose fair strand of hair out of her face, and said incoherently,

"It's Lord Newbury -- at least, I think it is . . ." The tall, large frame and thick dark hair could have been anyone in the family; only the heavy threading of grey gave him away. Darcy, with a look of near panic, raced in the direction she had come, and Elizabeth sighed, approaching more cautiously.

She was astonished to see Darcy slowly enter the room, and say, in a calm voice, "Uncle? Uncle, are you well?"

The earl looked up with red, swollen eyes. He said, in a harsh, weary voice, "When your mother died, I thought -- I thought I could not bear it. That I should see Anne, my youngest sister, dead -- but this -- this is incalculably worse. To see her daughter buried -- "

Darcy hesitated, then reached out a hand, helping the older man to sit erect. Lord Newbury clung to Darcy's supporting hand, and with a look that quite broke Elizabeth's heart, said -- "Fitzwilliam, marry that girl as soon as you can -- give me a troop of children to spoil -- we need more children -- and happiness, you deserve it as much as anyone -- "

"I shall," said Darcy, and the earl patted his hand.

"My dear son -- " he said brokenly, and both, with embarrassed expressions, looked away. Elizabeth tactfully retreated. When she recalled the scene, she did not know who had received the greater reassurance from that brief interchange; and she realized that the Fitzwilliams had come to give consolation as much as to receive it. They loved Darcy, as a son or brother, and although they would never be easy in the expression of it, she could then understand what they meant to him.

As for herself, she had the Gardiners' warm support, and more surprisingly, that of Darcy's great-uncle, Sir James. He took to her immediately, partly on her account, but more, she suspected, to irritate the Fitzwilliams -- there was, evidently, some sort of long-standing feud there -- and she could not help the fondness she felt towards the clever old man. He delighted in bringing a blush to her cheek, and told any number of stories, many of which she was quite certain were unsuitable for a young lady's ears. Many, however, were of Darcy's youth, and she was able to draw a picture of the young Fitzwilliam, a pale solemn boy delighting in his cat and birds and studies, and of the household dominated by the brittle, unsteady marriage of George Darcy and Anne Fitzwilliam*. Pemberley, Elizabeth thought, had come a long way.

"Fitzwilliam changes things," said Sir James, "wherever he goes -- nothing is the same, simply by his being there. Some are like that -- you, for one. I always loved Pemberley, but it was never the same, after it fell to him. It was a pretty piece of property -- but there is something more these days."

"Yes," said Elizabeth simply, looking out the window. The first crocuses were blooming.

In late February, urgent business summoned the Bingleys home, and Elizabeth accompanied them. The morning before her departure, he astonished her by cupping her face in his hands and pressing his lips against hers, briefly and intensely. Elizabeth did not have even enough time to appreciate what was occurring before the attention ceased.

"Do not allow them to ride roughshod over you," he warned. Elizabeth smiled ruefully.

"You know me too well."

"They mean well, but that does not make it less . . ."

"Irritating?" she offered, burying her head in his shoulder. "I shall miss you."

"I certainly hope so. You will write?" he added, with a sudden anxiety. Elizabeth smiled brilliantly.

"Of course."

"Then -- we will be ready for you, in June."

"I shall have to tell my mother."

"Via letter," he advised. "Shall she like such a son-in-law?"

"Once she sees Pemberley, she shall." Elizabeth laughed a little tearfully, and Darcy caressed her hair.

"You had better go."

"I know." She fought back a sniffle. "Fitzwilliam -- "

"My dearest Elizabeth -- " he stopped, caught his trembling breath, and continued steadily, "We shall be waiting here for you, when you return."

Chapter Ten

Her first letter had arrived by the time Elizabeth reached Baildon. He must have sent it before she even left. Elizabeth hurried to her room to read it in privacy, eagerly breaking the seal. Another letter dropped to the floor, written in an unfamilar hand. Unlike Darcy, the writer was not careful of his paper, and the two sheets were covered in a bold masculine script. She immediately caught it up, wondering why on earth Darcy should have included a letter from another man, and caught the first few lines --

My dearest Lizzy,

I have longed, my love, to address you as such -- and although this separation tears at me, I delight to be able to write this name freely. My darling Lizzy, who can keep pace with the fluctuations of your fancy, the capprizios of your taste, the contradictions of your feelings? You are so odd, and all the time so perfectly natural! -- so peculiar in yourself, and yet so like everybody else! It is very, very gratifying to me to know you so intimately. You can hardly think what a pleasure it is to me to have such thorough pictures of your heart. You seem a different person every time I see you -- even in my thoughts, you alter from day to day -- to-day the wilful girl Lizzy, and tomorrow that gracious, confident woman, "Ana."--Never, never "Eliza" -- such a name, so staid, so commonplace -- utterly unlike you, my darling. You see, Miss Elliot, what a laughably foolish, fond creature I am by way of a lover -- but lovers are never sensible --

My dearest Elizabeth,

You have not yet left me; I can hear you speaking with your aunt. I only wished that you should not have to wait, when we have only just parted; and I thought you might enjoy this correspondence. I have thought a great about Francis and Georgiana as of late -- not only because of my sister, but because, in some way, you remind me of her. You are not alike -- not in face, but something about her manner and carriage reminds me of her. I have found myself in the parlour, looking at her, and thinking of her, and wondering what sort of person she was, really -- more often than I daresay I have ever done in my life. Sir James says that she was always high-spirited, always laughing -- next time, I shall enclose her reply. I am a poor lover, without the gift of pretty words perfectly suited to the occasion; but perhaps Francis and Georgiana's words shall keep the memory of what we share fresh in your heart. Your mind, I hope, does not require them. My grandparents were in their way fond of each other, and my parents certainly did not want for passion; but I like to think that we have more of Francis and Georgiana's attachment . . .

Elizabeth swallowed. That is over, she told herself sternly, and soothed her turbulent feelings by dedicating herself to the other letter. There was a wistful contentment pervading the entire epistle -- nothing of the sharp joy which often overtook him in her presence, at Pemberley -- but also nothing of the anguish and despair she had seen in him. It was not a conventional love letter, in that he spoke as often of others as themselves; yet casual expressions of affection were scattered throughout it, warming and reassuring her.

She sighed, feeling for a moment rather lost and lonely. There was nothing for her here; her brother and sister and their children, fond as she was of them, had no need of her. In fact, they seemed quite aggravatingly comfortable with settling her affairs, independent of her own thoughts, or even her presence. They meant well, to be sure, but she felt as if she were waging a constant war against their sweet determination to arrange her life for her. She was so accustomed to the command over her life, and even others', that had been hers at Pemberley, that adapting to Baildon was a great deal harder than it had been when she first came. Elizabeth immersed herself in the letters once more.

She wrote a reply, as open and affectionate as she could make it, and sent it with Lydia's the next morning. His reply arrived promptly, and she set Georgiana's letter aside, her eyes eagerly flying to Darcy's.

My dear Elizabeth,

My delight at receiving your letter so promptly was such that my relations -- at least, those of my own generation -- have been relentlessly mocking me all morning.

. . . Stephen was unwell last night, I honestly thought him almost -- a word was crossed out there -- ill -- he was very unlike himself, pitching tantrums and throwing things -- not at me, but at Cecily. I am not certain why, because she is a great favourite with all the children, including Stephen, and with no sons of her own has a great fondness for him. I can only imagine that her resemblance to my sister in some way upset him. He was completely better this morning, and seemed scarcely to recall his behaviour the evening before; he let Cecily kiss him and his manner was open and cheerful all day, even when I left the house for several hours on urgent business at one of the mills. He asked just now after "Aunt Elizabeth," and wishes to know when you will be returning to us; he did not understand why you could not simply stay here, and propriety is a difficult subject for a boy of his age and disposition; in this matter, it is difficult enough for me to accept . . .

. . . Anne finds it unfair that Stephen may call you "Aunt Elizabeth" while she may not, since you are to be her mother and only Stephen's aunt; I told her that you could call her simply by name, if she wished, but never to repeat the sentiment again. I try to avoid the same mistakes my own parents made, not only with me but Georgiana; I think I shall do better once you are here, Elizabeth. Somehow there seems to be a greater brightness, or perhaps clarity, to the world when you are here, even if I am not with you precisely; I cannot explain it properly, but despite all that occupies my time, and the constant noise and -- company, everything seems exhaustingly dull and grey and blurry.

Dear Mr Darcy,

I am in excellent health, and all my family, thank you. My parents and siblings all send their best wishes . . .

For the entirety of the first page, the dainty girlish handwriting proceeded in like vein. Elizabeth looked curiously at the next sheet, and smiled.

Do you suppose I have now convinced your mother, that I am a respectable young lady and worthy of correspondence with her precious son? I know the look you will get on your face now -- but I know she does it, I have seen her myself -- she always looks at the first page, and no farther -- if your father's correspondence bores her, what must she think of mine? Of course, nothing will convince her that I am not a fortune-hunter of the worst kind -- she would really prefer it, I think, if you had attached yourself to the daughter of an impoverished baron, or even a rich tradesman's daughter -- with them, she could at least have the satisfaction of catching them at it! I am just respectable enough that she is denied that pleasure -- not low enough to properly look down her nose at, and not high enough to be a desirable match. How does she bear it?

I know, I should not speak of Lady Isabella in such a disrespectful fashion, as she would be the first to inform me. She is, after all, the daughter of a peer, and she is not about to let anyone forget it. Do you remember how I looked askance at how you used to speak of her? I understand better now. Even so, I would tolerate anything, if I could only be with you; even here at Kellynch, with all my family -- my brother is the greatest fool who ever lived, and I am filled with dread every time he opens his mouth in your presence, dearest -- and mamma admiring her reflection in the silver -- I truly would have eloped with you that evening, had you asked me. I daresay your revered mother would have taken an even greater dislike to me than she already has. Oh, I know what you will say -- she does not really dislike me, she would be the same no matter who I was, etc, etc -- but she does, not only for my family, but because she simply doesn't like me. I don't mind -- truly, Francis, I only mind for your sake, and your father's, because he always was at least kind to my face, whatever else he may have said out of my presence. Still, I would endure the torments of endless hypocrisy and conversation I cannot ever quite understand, if only I could be at your side!

Somehow, my love, whenever I try to express my feelings for you, without levity or mockery, they sound trite, even trivial. I can only say, Francis, that I love you, so much that I feel I have become a stranger to myself -- nothing seems to matter but you, there is nothing I would not do for you. I wish to give you something wonderful -- something in return for this incredible gift you have given me -- I wish there was some way to silence all the suspicious glances and wicked insinuations, to proclaim, "oh, what do you know of it? I am to marry the best man in the world, and I would not care -- much -- if he had not a cent to his name." I am happy simply knowing that you are there, somewhere, and perhaps thinking of me. You see? You say I have made you silly -- but you, Mr Darcy, are hardly one to accuse me of such a transgression, when I am singing and dancing all the day long (except when I go into a decline at the loss of your greatly esteemed presence, which is the other half of the time), and cannot stop even when my mother sits me down to tell me the horrors I should expect on my wedding-night. I shall never look at papa the same way again!

The first days were the worst; slowly, Elizabeth became accustomed to life at Baildon and everything it entailed. Accustomed, in a way -- she spent more time alone than in her life, in her room poring over her letters and composing new ones. In particular, about six weeks past her departure, not long after the Fitzwilliams had left Pemberley, the tone of Darcy's letters altered dramatically. His expressions of regard for her did not alter, except to grow rather more passionate and intense, but there was a weariness and distress she could not have failed to detect. The mood varied slightly, lightening to a peaceful resignation, or darkening to an anguish that tore at her heart. The first time she caught the pained quality to his words, she was tempted to abandon Baildon and propriety, and go to Pemberley by whatever means possible; but she reconsidered. She was certain he would not wish it; likely he would only worry himself sick and do something eminently male and foolish.

Instead, she wrote, enough letters that her hands and arms grew sore. Her first instinct was to continue her light, chatty, unaffected letters, to veer away from the matter -- thinking directly on it could only distress him further. Nevertheless she decided that avoiding thinking directly on unpleasant matters had not done either of them any good. So she told him stories of the newest steward, whose appearance of goodness was sufficient to rouse her immediate suspicion, she told him of her faithful swain who still called her "Miss Elizabeth," of the escapades that her nephews and nieces got up to, and even of how Lydia fared. She also told him of the conscience-stricken resentment that seemed to boil within her every time Bingley or Jane simply decided something for her, and of the constant frustration that seemed to eat at her; and she asked questions. She asked after Kitty and Cecily and Stephen and Anne, and as subtly as she could encouraged him to tell her about whatever preyed on his mind. His replies were at first vague and unsatisfactory, and she pressed further; she asked him to tell her about what he did -- nothing, she insisted, was too trivial, and she knew his time was not entirely taken up in perfecting his handwriting. Slowly he responded; she heard of the farmers who worked his land, of the quarrel between young Reynolds and the second cook that had escalated to such proportions that it was brought to his notice, of the schools and mills and the poor and all the concerns that occupied his daily life.

She asked about his family; and he talked, first of Sir James, Lord Newbury, his god-children; then of the others, wild Mr Fitzwilliam who had died when Darcy was only a child, Lady Catherine and how he quarreled with her over Cecily's marriage -- and she heard the full tale of that -- of his grandmother, Lady Newbury, then his colourless aunt, and finally, a very little of his mother and father. Elizabeth told of a life growing up with a temperamental, silly mother and witty, irresponsible father, who had as little to do with one another as a man and woman living under the same roof could; Darcy told of a giving, charismatic, careless young man, who had never been denied anything in his life, of the clever, willful, beautiful woman he had married, who had been petted and spoilt by an adoring family. She knew what it was to be the child of a vastly ill-suited marriage, and the dread that such a fate would be hers; she would never have taken such care otherwise. She was not romantic -- nor was he -- but the desire to escape the life of misery and regret that she had witnessed at such close quarters, which had been with her since she was a very young girl, was perfectly sensible. She had not been looking for love, as such -- she wanted mutual respect and affection, and she wanted a gentleman, with a comfortable income. She suspected that Darcy's expectations had not been very different, except, obviously, upon the latter point.

Finally, he spoke of Georgiana, who he had not so much as alluded to since his mood first darkened. When he first mentioned his sister, Elizabeth wept unashamedly at the all-encompassing grief, and wished for nothing more than to be at Pemberley and hold him. Initially, he talked of nothing but her end; of the room that had once been hers, how Anne had awoken crying for "Aunt Nana" -- and with a peculiar combination of anger and sorrow, of the carelessness that had led to her death. Then, more gently, he spoke of the young girl she had been, the sweet little sister he had so adored -- of teaching her to play the pianoforte, as their mother had done with him, of the way she followed him around like a duckling, of how his temperamental pet cat had come to terms with the attentions of a three-year-old. He even told her of how, not long after their father's death, Georgiana awoke with blood on her sheets and a pain radiating from her belly to every part of her body (or so she insisted). The young siblings were both absolutely convinced that she was dying. Elizabeth laughed a little tearfully as the anecdotes unfolded, perfectly able to see the sheltered, motherless pair, a girl with only a bewildered young man to guide her into womanhood, and a Fitzwilliam who was suddenly Mr Darcy with an estate and a dying father and a child-sister all dependent on him.

Although the grief and pain still remained, it seemed to lessen by the time he confided his fears over Georgiana and her marriage and his nephew, how he knew something had gone wrong, but even now, he did not know how else he could have acted. Elizabeth was strongly reminded of Georgiana's own words. By the time he came full-circle around to her death again, the anguish had given way to sorrow. He no longer avoided speaking of his sister, but the topics of his letters shifted back to what they had been; assurances of his affection, information about his life, and questions about her own.

As they neared the time of Elizabeth's return to Pemberley, the constant reassurances of how much they missed one another, and longed to be together once more, almost disappeared entirely, to be replaced by nearly incoherent expressions of anticipation and excitement at their imminent reunion. Even Mrs Bennet's arrival and shrill, petulant ditherings could not quench Elizabeth's high spirits. In the middle of June, the entire party arrived at Pemberley, Elizabeth feeling like a young girl, almost bouncing in her seat as she looked around the place that had already become her home. Mrs Bennet was actually rendered silent, which was an unforseen benefit, and both Mrs Reynoldses and the butler greeted her warmly, Mr Fairweather with unexpected cheer.

"Aunt Elizabeth! Aunt Elizabeth!" The clear boyish voice had Elizabeth turning, smiling as a flushed Stephen slid on the polished floors, followed more sedately by Anne, who added her voice to the furor,

"Elizabeth, you're here, and you're going to stay, and I'm so glad!"

16 June 1819

In the company of every member of their respective families, from the newly-widowed Lydia to the Fitzwilliams and Wentworths, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy were married. Elizabeth had attended many weddings and could have recited the entire ceremony by heart; yet she felt the old words sinking into her bones as her brother-in-law read the service.

Her hand was placed in Darcy's, and he said unhesitatingly, his eyes bright and clear of all but her, "I, Fitzwilliam, take thee, Elizabeth, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

She curled her fingers around his, unable to keep from smiling, and only just able to restrain the joyous laughter which threatened to burst out, and replied, "I, Elizabeth, take thee, Fitzwilliam, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

She allowed her eyes to close briefly as he slid the ring on her finger. It had been re-set for her, but it was the same that had been worn by all the Darcy brides, Lady Anne, Lady Rosemary, Lady Alexandra, Lady Isabella -- and Georgiana, that laughing girl whose portrait now hung in the mistress' bedchamber.

Darcy's voice was lower and richer as he said, "With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

Mr Hancock declared, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. Forasmuch as Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you; and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen."

Mrs Bennet, Mrs Gardiner, and old Lady Newbury wept profusely; in private, Lydia and Jane offered wildly differing advice on how to comport herself that evening, both which were wholly disregarded by Elizabeth; Sir James startled Elizabeth by kissing her soundly; the Fitzwilliams, not to be outdone, greeted her as one of their own; and Anne made everyone, even Lord Westhampton, laugh by her demand for a brother.

That evening, Elizabeth lay happily awake, long after even Darcy had fallen asleep. She luxuriated in the sensation of lying against her sleeping husband, their legs tangled together, his body warm beside her, his breathing steady and peaceful against her hair. Curious eyes had been watching her all day, and she cherished this opportunity to observe him freely, this strange, unpredictable, perverse man, who she already loved far more than she had when she woke that morning. She pushed his untidy dark hair out of his eyes, and admired his features as much as she could in the dimness, allowing one hand to brush against the high slash of his cheekbones, and then, caressing a shoulder through the silk of his robe. Her leg curled possessively against his, and Darcy's eyes fluttered open. She enjoyed watching the expressions cross his face; from bewildered disorientation, to sleepy pleasure, and then, as he became fully aware of her presence, startled alertness.

"Elizabeth?" he asked vaguely. "Are you awake?"

She laughed as she disentangled herself, delighted with the entire world that morning. "Yes, of course. How could I possibly sleep?"

"Possibly the same way I did," he replied, and Elizabeth stored for future use the knowledge that he was much less reserved when just awakened. He began to sit up and she pushed him back down. "Elizabeth?"

"I can admire you better this way," she said, and after a pause, Darcy replied,

"How can you see anything at all?"

"I can see that you are blushing, dearest," she said, resting one hand against his suddenly warm cheek. Darcy laughed ruefully. "Although not with my eyes. Which puts me in mind . . ." She slipped out of bed, and pushed the curtains open to let the moonlight in. "There. Now we can see properly."

"Your way sounded rather more interesting," Darcy remarked, and Elizabeth stopped, looking over her shoulder at his long body sprawled across the bed, and felt her own cheeks burning. She could not keep her lips from curving into a smile, as she approached him and said,

"Such a devoted father as you are, Fitzwilliam, would not shirk at fulfilling your daughter's only wish?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Elizabeth slipped back into bed. "And I believe your grandmother said something about children, as well. Our chances will undoubtedly improve with . . . practice."

"Oh." The change in his voice spoke volumes, but he continued hesitantly, "Elizabeth, we are not too . . . your aunt said something about . . ."

She laughed, her eyes alight. "We are perfectly well, my love."

Epilogue, Part I

Posted on Saturday, 15 July 2006

1839

Lord Westhampton quietly entered the study. It looked very much as it ever had. Pemberley remained almost unchanged, and were it not for the changes in himself, he could believe that time had stood perfectly still. In his mind, his life began with the day that he woke from such deep melancholia that only excruciating pain could pierce it, to the soothing pale yellow walls of his room at Pemberley, his body safely cradled in his uncle's unwearying arms, and a pretty lady he had never seen before smiling at him. He went to sleep immediately, but the moment impressed itself deeply upon his six-year-old mind.

He looked around. His father was dead, and he was sorry. They had been, in their way, fond of each other. Never had he cared for Aincourt and his father as he had Pemberley and the Darcys, but he had grown to recognise that it was his inheritance and he was bound to it. He had been raised to be Lord Westhampton, and when his father died, he could not say he felt himself unready. He was nearly twenty-six years old. He had watched his uncle Darcy -- the best master of an estate, and guardian of other people's happiness, that had ever lived -- since he was a very small child, and he knew how everything ought to be. Already, three months past the previous Lord Westhampton's death, Aincourt was nearly brought into accordance with the Pemberley ways, and everyone was the better and the happier for it.

Secretly, however, -- although he would never confess it -- he was also glad. Pemberley was -- there were no words. Home was the closest, but even that was not enough. He remembered his childhood longing for Pemberley, how even when he was ten and eleven and twelve, he would run outside and simply bury his toes in the dirt, luxuriating in the contentment that surrounded him there. It was, as his uncle had told him so long ago, not really the place though, but what it signified -- knowing generations of ancestors had walked on this very soil, feeling closer to his mother than he ever had during her life, and above all, the warmth and companionship of his family -- Mr Darcy, Stephen's uncle, and his wife Mrs Darcy, who for years was only ever Aunt Elizabeth to him, and his four cousins -- little Georgiana, then Alexander, Edward, and last of all, Anne, his dearest Anne. Nothing could recompense the loss of Pemberley, for he knew that she loved it as much as he did, and he had to make Aincourt his home, at least in some respect or other, but only upon his father's death did he feel he had something worthy to offer her.

He knew she had waited for him. She had refused eleven proposals of marriage by her twenty-fifth year; at first he had been fearful, when the seventeen-year-old Anne first came out, a beauty and a great heiress through her mother, but they had always been able to speak without words, and he was soon soothed by her unconditional affection and undoubted preference for him. He, in turn, let her know that he wanted this time for her -- and she wanted it for herself -- and he did not want to take her away from Pemberley -- and she did not want to leave -- and he feared separating her from her father -- and most of all, Anne dreaded losing Mr Darcy.

Now, however, it was time. Stephen could just make them out, on the sofa; Mr Darcy stretched out with his head in Mrs Darcy's lap, reading to her in a soft voice. The sight and hearing of neither was as good as it once had been, and he had to clear his throat to draw their attention.

"I was looking for my uncle," he began, with a rather wistful smile. He hoped that he would be as happy as they were, twenty or thirty years from now, but somehow he rather doubted it. Theirs was a rare and beautiful happiness, but it was not something achievable by ordinary mortals. "But please do not go, Aunt Elizabeth, I would like you to be here too."

Mrs Darcy sat back down, her wide eyes a little startled. He had not called them ‘Aunt Elizabeth' and ‘Uncle Fitzwilliam' since he was a child. Stephen hesitated, looking from one to the other, declining an invitation to sit. He loved them, so much, as if they were his own. They were a lovely couple; no longer young, but handsome in the stately fashion of those who age gracefully. They contrasted in looks as much as in disposition; she, small and slight, with fair hair and dark eyes, he exactly the opposite, tall and dark but blue-eyed. When they walked into a room, all stopped to look --- they were that sort of people.

"I --- " Stephen drew a shaking breath. How could he? He addressed himself to his uncle, whose even-temperedness and presence of mind he had always envied, and also taken comfort in. "Mr Darcy, sir, I would like to ask your consent, to marry my cousin Anne."

Mr and Mrs Darcy digested this. Neither looked very surprised, to Stephen's great relief. He knew rumours and expectations had always followed them, the same age and so suitable a match, but there had never been so much as a whisper from his aunt and uncle.

"We may assume, dear, that you already have spoken to her?" Mrs Darcy inquired. Stephen felt his legs trembling and quickly sat down, nodding. Mr Darcy cleared his throat.

"I do not doubt the sincerity of your affection, Stephen, and I am fully cognisant of your ability to adequately provide for my daughter." Or vice-versa, thought Stephen. He was not sure which fortune was larger, but between them they would be frighteningly wealthy. "Society will call it a fine match." Mr Darcy paused. "I must ask you, however, if you are quite certain."

Stephen blinked.

"Anne is --- I love her dearly, but she is not always easy to live with," Mr Darcy continued. Stephen smiled ruefully. This he knew very well. "You have loved her since before you could talk. I only wish to be certain that you, and she, are not confusing a very strong fraternal attachment with something else."

Stephen felt Mrs Darcy's steady gaze on him, and suppressed a shiver. The Darcys were strict parents, but he had always known unconditional acceptance at Pemberley. This experience was a different, and rather unpleasant, one.

"Anne is very beautiful young woman," Mrs Darcy added, "and it would not be unnatural to feel some attraction there, with your feelings for her as your cousin, that might give the impression of--- "

"Oh no," he interrupted, "it is not that!" Both raised their eyebrows, and he blushed and apologised. "I am sorry. It is only --- " he felt himself at a loss for words, and gestured sharply with his hand --- "sir, I am inarticulate, but believe me when I say that my feelings are not --- uncle, I only know that I want to be with her always, and I cannot bear the idea of her marrying someone else. And . . . I am happy when I am with her." Stephen dropped his eyes, for his uncle knew only too well what he meant. There had been times when his usual tranquillity of spirits had shifted into something quite different, a wild impetuousness very unlike his general behaviour. He seemed to possess no sense of propriety, dignity, decorum, then, and only the combined influence of Mr and Mrs Darcy, and later Miss Darcy, Anne, had ever managed to restrain him when he was in such a state. When under the influence of such uninhibited violence of feeling, the irrational, undiscerning elation that made the Bingleys seem gloomy by comparison, he had fallen into what the family kindly called "scrapes." Without the Darcy and Deincourt names to protect him, he knew he probably would have been shunned from polite society after some of them. And, afterwards, his feelings would change again, drop into such despair as left him hopeless and miserable until he was more himself. Although it had become rarer and less dramatic with age, he knew perfectly well that it would never pass entirely. What they all knew, although none would speak of it, was that he needed to be taken care of. No one knew, not even Stephen himself, when one of his moods would come on him. He did not know how he would have survived had it not been for the Darcys. Mr Darcy and Anne's steadiness had gone far in tempering Stephen's idiosyncrasies; what had helped still more was the combined understanding of his uncle and aunt. Mrs Darcy perfectly understood the strange heightened volatility that came on him, Mr Darcy the equally unpredictable dark melancholy, and their compassion and empathy, he sometimes thought, had kept him just this side of madness during his worse times.

"I see." Mr Darcy inhaled deeply. "Stephen . . . I have always looked upon you as my own child, even when I had no right to."

"Sir, I --- "

"I would be honoured to be able to call you ‘my son,' and I have no objections to the match. I do, however, wish to speak with Anne, alone, after which I will give my consent to your marriage to her."

Stephen's severe expression broke into a wide beaming smile, and he leapt to his feet. "Thank you, sir. I do love her --- I promise, I will make her happy --- you shall not regret it."

Mr Darcy smiled a little wistfully, and shook his nephew's hand. Stephen impulsively embraced Mrs Darcy, and ran away to find Anne, almost like the boy he had been.

Anne's long legs brought her to the library more quickly than she would have liked. She was too tall for fashion; usually, however, she did not care, proud of all she inherited from her beloved father. He was facing away from her, gazing out of a window; Mrs Darcy caught sight of her first, and immediately rose, holding out her hands to her stepdaughter.

"Do not worry, my love, he only wishes to be certain that this is really what you wish."

Anne could feel how cold her hands were, and was incapable of more than a nod. Mrs Darcy kissed her cheek and passed out of the room.

"Anne, please sit down." Mr Darcy sounded very stern, and she instantly obeyed, clasping her hands in her lap. She knew why he had chosen the library; it had always been their sanctuary from the rest of the world, sometimes even the rest of the family -- naturally tranquil in disposition, both father and daughter occasionally needed a respite from the volatile tempers of the rest of the family. Anne felt the warmth of sunlight and old books and familiarity, and in a moment, her anxiety was gone.

He turned away from the window, and sat at his chair, just across from her.

"Father?" she asked softly, and he lifted his eyes to look at her.

"Anne." She knew how difficult such a moment was; neither were comfortable with great displays of emotion, and she took the first step -- reached out to grasp his hand. "I have given Stephen my consent," he said quietly. "I know you would not have given your own, had you not been certain."

Anne nodded, swallowing. "Thank you, Father."

"I . . ." His fingers tightened against hers, and he briefly closed his eyes. Anne blinked rapidly. "As for my blessing, I require only an assurance of your mutual affection to give that."

She met his gaze. "Father, I -- " Her heart twisted in her chest. She was miserable at the idea that she, his favourite, was causing him pain. All of her thoughts and doubts and fears whirled through her mind in that moment, and she wanted nothing more than to be a little girl again. She covered her face with her free hand as she felt tears rising to her eyes. "Papa," she whispered, "I'm afraid. I don't know what to do."

"What are you afraid of, Anne?" he asked, reaching over to tilt her chin up. She could only shake her head. "Are you quite certain you can love Stephen as you ought?"

She stared at him with furrowed brows. "I love him," she said.

"I know you do," he replied gently, "but you have always loved him. He is your cousin, and you have been raised almost as brother and sister. You may have other feelings which add to that, the sort that have more to do with his face and figure than his character or understanding."

"Sir?"

Mr Darcy sighed. "Many things are called love which are nothing of the sort."

"Like Mr and Mrs Bingley?" she asked confusedly.

"No -- no, they love each other,-- "

"But not like you and Mother."

"They love each other in their way," he amended. "You must understand, that Elizabeth and I . . . it was eight years after we met that we were married. What we have, it is -- "

"Special," Anne finished. "I -- I do not expect that, Father. I know how rare it is -- I have been in the world. At first, I was surprised that so many seemed not to care for each other at all -- but I would not be so foolish as to insist on having exactly what you two do. Well, I am not like Mother, but I am not a man either -- it could not be the same. I -- you know I am not romantic, Father."

"Neither was I," said he, and briefly dropped his eyes. "Anne, I married your mother out of duty, and compassion, and no greater esteem than that of an affectionate cousin. You know that. I do not know if I have ever told you, though, that I was happy with her. No, not as I am with Elizabeth; but the existence of this happiness does not preclude finding joy in the other. Rosemary and I were very fond of each other; we had known each other all our lives, and were content living together; and we had you. That was enough for us."

Anne stared at him. They did not speak of her mother often -- Mrs Darcy did not like it, and she could not remember her in any case -- and she had never heard her father mention his first wife with any great warmth.

"I would wish something more for you, my dearest Anne," he continued; "but that is not always possible. If you believe that will be sufficient for you . . ."

Anne rubbed at her eyes. "Father, I . . . I cannot say that . . . Oh, I do not feel for Stephen what Mother does for you. But I don't expect that. I never did. And I -- Papa, I -- I want to be with him, always. I miss him when we are not together, and I worry so much about him, especially now that my uncle is dead. He needs me." She had never been able to put that feeling into words -- how important it was to her, to know herself needed. Only in later years had she realised that, during that time when it was just the two of them, her father had been clinging to her just as tenaciously as she had been to him. Perhaps she had grown too accustomed to it, but she knew she could not become a dependent of no use except to look well on a man's arm. And she knew how powerful her tempering influence could be on him.

Anne took a deep, shuddering breath. "Father, that is not what -- what I am afraid about." She stood up abruptly, and began pacing, unconsciously mimicking her father's habit. "Father, I was only six years old, but I remember."

"You remember what, Anne?"

"Aunt Georgiana."

Comprehension and pain flashed across his face, and he too, rose, rubbing one hand against his temple. "I see," he said softly. Anne knew that he did, but could not keep the words from rushing out.

"She -- you've told me about her, Father. She was very fond of my uncle when she married him, she loved him but she was not in love -- she did not feel for him what he did for her, not until later. And part of the reason she was so ready to accept him was because she knew it was her best chance of being close to Pemberley, and my uncle was safe because he was family. And . . . and I remember what happened. She fell violently in love with him -- " Mr Darcy winced -- "and she was so unhappy. And when I think of what happened to Stephen -- and -- Papa, that is why I am frightened. I can learn to love him easily enough, but I don't want to be end like poor Aunt Georgiana."

Mr Darcy sat once more, and took both her hands in his own. She idly noticed that his, too, were cold. "Anne, listen to me. Your aunt's death was an accident. She was upset, she rode heedlessly, and against quite remarkable odds collided with a carriage going faster than it ought. You will not end like her. You don't even like horses."

"Father, that isn't the point."

"Yes, it is." The intensity in his voice and eyes took her aback, and he continued forcefully, "Anne, you are not Georgiana. You look like her, yes, and you are marrying into the same position she did, but that is all. Stephen is nothing like his father, and you, you are very little like her. The only fear I have is that you will not be able to persuade yourself into loving Stephen as he does you. But she was only sixteen years old when they were engaged -- seventeen when Stephen was born. She was a child, really. She had been sheltered and protected and raised by a young man who had not the slightest idea what he was doing."

"I am not a child," Anne said ruefully. "I will be twenty-six years old in October, Father. I am practically an old maid."

"Nonsense," said Mr Darcy. She laughed.

"You are quite right, sir. I am not Aunt Georgiana and Stephen is not Lord Westhampton, is he? At least, he is, but not that Lord Westhampton."

He smiled. "No, he is not."

They were briefly silent, then Anne stood. "I have decided that I shall be happy," she declared. "Father?"

With only a hint of what he felt, Mr Darcy said, "I have never known you to fail at anything you put your mind to. You both shall have my blessing, Anne."

"Thank you, Father." She looked around herself longingly, then straightened her spine and lifted her chin. "Fifteen miles is not far, is it?"

He kissed her cheek, briefly caressing it in his old familiar gesture, then released her hand. "Not far at all."

Anne was a creature of habit. Every morning, she woke at precisely five-thirty, and walked over to the mirror to face herself. The Anne of her reflection, a tall young woman clad only in a plain white chemise, her hair loose and tangled about her shoulders, was a far cry from the elegant, confident creature the world knew as Miss Darcy of Pemberley. Sometimes there was fear in the clear eyes that stared back at her, or anger, or joy -- tears occasionally stained her cheeks -- and very often, she looked at herself with a critical glance, aware of every imperfection in form and character, and her heart would race, a sweat break out on her forehead, and she would quail at the prospect of leaving the safety of her room. And then, her stays would go on, and her stockings, and her petticoats, and last of all her gown, and with each article of clothing came greater self-assurance -- and by the time her hair was combed, plaited, and coiled on the back of her head, she was Miss Darcy and ready to face the world. But somehow the most important part was when she saw herself stripped bare of all but the essentials, and allowed herself that moment of uncertainty.

Today, it lasted a little longer. She was still standing in front of her mirror, at five-and-twenty a pale, frightened girl with a pounding heart and unsettled stomach. The servants were not up yet, and she was left to her own thoughts.

Her father followed precisely the same routine. She had never known, until only last week. Anne's lips curved into a wistful smile. She did not want to leave her father. If only they could stay here, at Pemberley! Aincourt was far grander, of course, although a touch of the Darcy elegance would do no harm to the place. It had not changed since Aunt Georgiana died when Anne was a child. Well, Stephen was already doing what he could, and she would help him in that, as well.

There was a quiet step behind her, and her reflection was joined by that of a slight, elegant lady of about fifty. Anne's generous figure, five feet, ten inches of height, black hair, and blue eyes, could not have presented a more striking contrast to her stepmother, and as ever she smiled to see the woman who had brought her up so small.

"Good morning, Mother," she said.

"Good morning, my dear." Mrs Darcy smiled at her. "I thought you would like companionship this morning."

"Oh, I do," Anne said fervently and turned, "Mother, is it wrong to be afraid?"

"Wrong?" Mrs Darcy took the cold hands, held plaintively out, and led her to the bed she had slept in for the last quarter-century. "My dear Anne, you may feel whatever you like. Your life will never be the same after today, it is quite natural to be afraid."

"Were you afraid -- when you married Father?"

Mrs Darcy laughed outright. "Oh, no -- my only fear was that something would happen to stop the ceremony. But we had waited seven years, so much had kept us apart -- I wanted nothing more than to be married to him."

Anne felt inexplicably ashamed, and dropped her eyes. Feeling herself very young, she looked down at the other woman's bent fair head, and said impulsively, "Mother, do you approve?"

Mrs Darcy looked up, and smiled. "Anne, my love, this choice is yours -- but I think you will be happy. It is not the choice I would have made; nor when I was your age, would I have condoned it in anyone else. It took me a very long time to make allowance for differences of temper and disposition. I do not think you could be happy taken out of the family, and I have seen how you are when Stephen is gone. Your father and I often thought this would be best for you."

Anne lifted a hand to her nose. "I promised myself I would not cry," she said shakily. "I do not want a red nose."

Mrs Darcy laughed. "That is the price you pay for your lovely complexion, my dear."

Anne dashed the few stray tears off her cheeks, and stood up. "Thank you for coming," she said, leaning down to brush her lips against her stepmother's cheek. "I am hardly frightened at all now. It . . . it feels right."

"Your better feelings are always your best judge, if you understand them properly," Mrs Darcy gently, then smiled. "That is enough moralising for to-day, though. There is someone else who wishes to see you before you turn into Lady Westhampton. Wait here, I will be only a moment."

Anne turned away from the mirror as she waited, smiling a little to herself. With minutes the door opened, and a blur of white nightdress and red-gold curls flung itself at her. Anne just braced herself in time.

"Georgiana!" she cried, swinging the girl into the air. She loved all of her siblings, but everyone agreed there was something particularly enchanting about the youngest Miss Darcy, a peculiar je nais se quoi that rendered her eminently lovable.

Georgiana clapped her hands. "I am so glad I was allowed to come, Anne, for Clarissa did say I should not, that nobody wants children at a wedding, and Papa would never say for certain, but then the Edwards came and took me away. I did not say ‘I told you so,' " she added virtuously, "although I wanted to very much."

"I am very proud of you," she replied seriously.

"I thought you would be." Georgiana peered around, then smiled sweetly. "You look very lovely, Anne. Everyone says a bride should be beautiful on her wedding day. I think you're the prettiest lady I have ever seen. Clarissa was saying her cousin was so very handsome, but I told her nobody could hold a candle to my sister, and she had to admit that you were rumoured to be a great beauty."

Anne looked down at herself ruefully. "I am not very lovely like this, dearest."

"Oh, yes, you are. It's people who look nice without silk and ribbons and powder who are special. I hope I shall be as pretty as you are when I grow up. Shall I, Mama?"

"You shall," Mrs Darcy said fondly. Georgiana was more like her than any of the children, but added to her own piquant prettiness her husband's more classical beauty. She hardly knew whether she more dreaded or anticipated Georgiana's coming-out. (Her husband suffered no such confusion.)

"I am glad you are marrying Stephen," Georgiana continued, "now he shall really be my brother, and you shall always be near us."

"I am rather pleased about it myself," Anne said gravely.

"And you are always so cross when he is gone, this way you can always be together and then you shan't need to be cross again. And I'll have nieces and nephews before Clarissa does. You aren't too old to have children?"

Anne coughed and Mrs Darcy said, "May I remind you, young lady, that I was older than your sister when I married your father?"

"Well yes," Georgiana said, "but that's different."

Georgiana watched with transfixed eyes as Anne began to dress. Mr Darcy had spared no expence for the wedding of his firstborn, and least of all for her wedding-clothes. Georgiana had never seen anything like it in her life. Her cousin Jenny's had been pretty, but nothing like this. She watched with rising excitement as Anne's stockings went on, her stays pulled tight (Georgiana winced), and then what looked like five or six rustling petticoats, and finally the dress itself. Heavy layers of silver-white silk fell from a pointed waistline to the floor, while the embroidered bodice left a display of shoulders and bosom that Mr Darcy would most assuredly not approve of.

"Anne," Georgiana said rapturously, as the lace veil was finally placed over her sister's black head, "you look like a princess."

Anne laughed. "Thank you, darling, I rather feel like one."

Before Mrs Darcy ushered her out of the room, Georgiana impulsively ran to her sister's side and held out her hands to her.

"Why, Georgiana," Anne cried, clasping her sister's warm fingers, "what is it?"

Georgiana sniffled. "I will miss you, Anne."

Anne tightened her grip. "I am only going fifteen miles away, Georgiana, I shall see you nearly as much as I ever did."

"But it won't be the same." Georgiana freed one hand and brushed several tears away. "I want you to be happy, though. You will be happy with Stephen?"

"Of course!"

"Then I am very happy for you." Georgiana stood on tiptoe and kissed her cheek, fleeing before she broke down entirely.