Beginning, Section III

Chapter Eight, Part II

Posted on Saturday, 10 June 2006

"Elizabeth?" James said. Elizabeth glanced at her brother.

"Oh, there you are. Have you tired of Lady Caroline's company yet?"

He flushed. "I only danced twice with her."

"Only twice? You will start to raise expectations at this rate." She took another sip of the wine John Brooke had procured for her.

"I am not the one who needs to worry about raising expectations," he said gloomily. "She can do better than a well-connected clergyman with no prospects of ever being anything more."

Elizabeth's eyebrows rose. "Do you regret your choice of profession, then?"

"Never." He smiled suddenly. "Thank you, Elizabeth. Sometimes when steeped too deep in society and its ways, one can get mired down in the trivial. Speaking of which, my uncle wishes to introduce you to Lord Napier. And Jane -- have you seen her?"

"Not since she danced with Lord Barr."

"That was fifteen minutes ago. Well, Ella will find her soon enough. She ought to have been a bloodhound."

As they made their way through the crowded ball-room, Elizabeth caught sight of Georgiana talking with Cedric Jasper, a very young man who seemed to be entertaining her with some nonsense.

"A good enough fellow," was James' laconic response. "Perfectly safe, and Edward has his eye on them in any case." Elizabeth turned her head; indeed, Edward stood apart from the company, as he had most of the evening, his expression brooding and unsmiling. He looked quite capable of severely punishing anyone who looked at his young cousin the wrong way.

They stepped past, only to hear a company of gentlemen laughingly prodding one of their number on.

"Come, man, there is nothing to be afraid of."

"Except a bevy of very large and suspicious relations," one said gloomily, glancing longingly away.

"Don't be a coward," another told him. "Surely she's worth it?"

"Yes, of course! But . . ."

"It's only a dance."

The lovelorn man sighed deeply. "She is a perfect angel, is she not?"

For a moment, Elizabeth feared they were speaking of Jane.

"I suppose, if you like the cold, proud type."

"She isn't proud!--or cold, even. She's just shy. She can't help it."

"You are quite right about her being shy," another volunteered, "more than any young lady I've ever met. I would never have guessed her to be out. Still, anyone who knows her well can see that she is sweet-natured, good-humoured, sensible -- in short, everything a man could wish for in a wife. And she will certainly be a very handsome girl someday. Go to it, Merry."

"Will be?" the lover echoed irately. "Why, she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

"He has it bad," one of his companions opined in a murmur. "Mort" said,

"When you tell me to love her as a sister, I shall no more see imperfection in her face, than I now do in her heart;--but that day will never come if you cannot so much as ask her to dance!" With a shout of laughter and the assistance of their comrades, Mort pushed his fearful sibling towards the young lady in question -- Georgiana, who looked distinctly startled to have a ruffled-looking young man suddenly standing in front of her.

"Lord Westhampton."

"M -- Mi -- Miss Darcy," he stammered, vainly attempting to smooth his untidy fair hair. "M -- may I have the -- the honour of your -- your next dance?"

"Oh, I am terribly sorry," she cried, and Elizabeth was easily able to believe that the girl was in fact Jane's sister. "I promised that one to my cousin, Mr Leigh."

Lord Westhampton looked crestfallen, and shot a glare at the company of young men who had pushed him into her path.

"B -- but," she said haltingly, blushing, "the one after that -- it is not yet taken, and if you would like . . ."

"May I have that one, then, Miss Darcy?--oh, excuse me, Miss Georgiana?"

She smiled. "You may, my lord."

Heartened by this rather sweet interchange, Elizabeth hurried after her brother, and soon found herself facing her relations and two strangers.

"Ah, there you are, Elizabeth," the Earl said genially. "I wondered where you had gotten off to."

"I was dancing, sir," Elizabeth replied.

"As is customary at a ball," interjected Eleanor. Lord Fitzwilliam shot her a quelling glance.

Lord Napier was an agreeable-looking man of about forty-five; Lady Clarissa possessed a rather insipid sort of fair plump prettiness. She also seemed to possess the same sort of mental acuity as Mrs Bennet, although without the latter's peevishness. In fact, in another place and time, Elizabeth might have at least admired the girl's candour. As it was, she felt a peculiar protectiveness towards Darcy, who stood pale and silent at the earl's right hand.

"Miss Elizabeth," Lord Napier said, bowing. "You must be delighted to be reunited with your right family."

Elizabeth bitterly wondered how he had ever managed to convince anyone of anything, if he was given to such inane speeches as this. To her astonishment, it was Eleanor who said, albeit with slightly less sharpness than was her wont,

"She was hardly to know that she was not with them, was she?"

Richard stepped on his sister's foot.

"It must have been terrifying," Lady Clarissa piped in, staring at Elizabeth wide vacant eyes. "Why, I should have just fainted dead away, I am certain."

Elizabeth was certain, too. "We were all startled," she said diplomatically. "Thank you for your concern, however."

She was surprised to hear Henry make the choked sound that denoted repressed laughter. He had remained somehow aloof since that first conversation. She was even more surprised to see Lord Napier make a distinct effort at drawing Darcy out after paying his compliments to the assorted Fitzwilliam family members. It was abruptly clear to what his success owed -- what might be called tact, although the word was too weak for Lord Napier's talent, even genius. Lady Clarissa was guided onto those subjects which she could do the most credit to -- largely talking fashion and "news" with Cecily -- while Eleanor was softened, her well-honed wit shining without any of the acidity which usually accompanied it. Edward, Henry, and the two earls were soon talking leases, mills, and Catholics with the ease of old friends; even Darcy at his most obdurate would not remain silent when the possibility of reform was brought up, so subtly that Elizabeth herself thought she might have missed it had she been watching less carefully.

She could not say why the discussion, intelligent and well-reasoned as it was, rather grated on her, irritating her further and further until she was well tempted to strangle the well-bred and smooth-mannered Lord Napier. Then, she realized; Darcy and James made attempts -- or perhaps they did not realize they were doing it, but in any case they appealed to her opinions and understanding quite frequently. Whenever that occurred, Lord Napier redirected his conversation back to the gentlemen and Eleanor, and several times, in his understated, gentlemanly way, encouraged her to join Lady Clarissa, Jane, Lady Fitzwilliam, and Cecily's more ladylike talk.

Why, Elizabeth thought in annoyance, was his exception made for Eleanor, and not her? She studied her cousin for some time. Eleanor had been mistaken. It had not even entered Elizabeth's mind to be jealous of her over Darcy -- although, if she were perfectly frank with herself, she must admit that she might have been, had it ever occurred to her. She had not suspected Eleanor of any nearer concern until, ironically, the older woman had denied it.

But perhaps that was it. Eleanor was older -- Darcy's age. Between twenty-five and thirty, and closer, she thought, to the latter. Too rich and too handsome to face what Charlotte did at the same time in life. And yet, it was not all. Eleanor was like Darcy -- one did not have to like her, it was entirely possible that most of her acquaintance did not, but she exerted an immense force of personality on all around her. Whether declaring passionate love or equally passionate hatred, none were indifferent to her; when she entered a room, none remained ignorant of it.

And, Elizabeth thought, without undue modesty, rather like she herself -- in different circumstances, with less concern for common civility and, perhaps, more for the things that had always been so beyond Elizabeth's scope that she had not bothered herself with them. She, too, had always known herself to be a character, to be in sense and sensibility that step above the others among her acquaintance. And, if she were honest, did that not explain more about how intensely she had responded to Darcy -- and even to Eleanor? She had resented the infringement they represented. No matter what grudges she harboured against the former, it was impossible to pretend that he was her inferior in sense, intelligence, or will; only in principle had she been able to retain her beloved sense of superiority. She had thought ill of him because she had wished to, because he was too dangerous otherwise. How dare the first man she might ever consider an equal simply dismiss her out of hand? Clearly the deficiency was in him. And although she had thought, hoped she had grown from then -- yes, there was no need in being too harsh with herself. She had grown since then. She had certainly not transformed into someone else, but no one ever did, outside of novels and histories -- she still felt the person she had been a mere year ago to be impossibly distant from the one she was today. Nevertheless Eleanor had been more of the same.

Elizabeth felt, somehow, that she had had a revelation of herself, and was free from a peculiar burden. Pride, she thought, and could have laughed at herself for accusing Darcy of that, of all things. She watched as the others spoke, knowing herself to be both ignorant of the particulars of the situation they spoke of -- some business in Ireland -- and unlikely to be listened to, by any but James and Darcy, even if she was not. Eleanor forced others to pay her mind, to listen when she spoke and consider her when she did not. She is fortunate that she is not a humble country gentleman's second daughter, Elizabeth thought to herself, she would never have managed it. Nevertheless, she had the idea that Lady Eleanor Fitzwilliam, at twenty-one, might not have been so very different from herself.

"Lord Barton!" Elizabeth cried, looking at the -- man. She would not call him "gentleman." After a frozen moment, she looked around for her relations. Henry was with Lady Clarissa, and at his most charming; Richard danced with the Miss Something-or-other, the niece of a general or admiral; the rest of the impromptu gathering seemed to have dispersed.

"Miss Elizabeth," he replied, with a courteous bow. "May I have this honour of this dance?"

Her mind went blank. She was absolutely determined not to pay him the compliment of attention. Lady Fitzwilliam's account was undoubtedly partial and prejudiced -- Lady Anne had been her only daughter, and, Elizabeth suspected, her favourite. Quite possibly, Anne had not been quite as blameless as her mother portrayed her; nevertheless, in the end she had not chosen her lover over her child, and this utter snake had actually resented that child for it. Elizabeth had not forgotten the dig at Darcy.

"I am sorry, my lord," she said, as apologetically as she could manage, "but I am truly very tired, and intended to sit out this dance."

"Ah, I understand perfectly" -- he sat down beside her. Elizabeth joined him, feeling particularly long-suffering. "You are looking lovely this evening," he added, with an avuncular smile. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she knew already.

"Thank you." He did not, she decided, deserve the compliment of rational opposition.

"May I inquire after your cousin?"

His intent look was not lost on her. "Do you have a particular one in mind, sir, or will any of them do?"

He chuckled. "You are a clever girl, Miss Fitzwilliam." She detested the patronizing tone of the compliment. "You look like your mother, but you're a Fitzwilliam well enough. You remind me of your aunt."

Elizabeth froze, but said lightly, "Lady Catherine would, I fear, not be well pleased to hear it."

He smiled once more. "How is Miss Darcy? I have not had the opportunity of talking with her at any length, but she seems a charming young lady."

Jane? Lord Barton, at his age, could not possibly be interested in Jane -- his lover's daughter. Dear Lord. It cannot be. Surely -- "Jane is always in excellent health, and generally charming," Elizabeth replied, her fingers tightly clenched around the handle of her fan.

"I see." He paused. "I knew her mother, you know."

Elizabeth said through clenched teeth, "Yes, I know."

"Miss Darcy is not as like as I expected. The boy, and that other cousin -- Helen, isn't it? -- the resemblance is far more striking in them."

"Mr Darcy is rather old to be called a boy, do not you think, sir?"

"At my age, Miss Fitzwilliam, every man under forty is young."

"Certainly, Mr Darcy is a young man." Gracefully, she conceded, "You are correct, though; both he and Eleanor are more like my aunt than Jane and Georgiana."

"Ah, the younger Miss Darcy. I had quite forgotten her," he murmured.

Elizabeth thought of Georgiana sobbing in the woods and seethed, quietly.

"Do you know, Miss Darcy quite reminds me of my own mother. A very striking resemblance, particularly the hair -- a true gold is so rare. The Darcys are fair, but not usually like that. Well, like the young man, pale hair in childhood, it grows darker later on. His father's, now, it was just a little lighter, brown nearly by the time he died."

Elizabeth could not help but marvel at the inane conversation she was having with the ball's most villainous attendee. "Do you object to brown hair as a rule, my lord?"

He chuckled. "Oh no, not at all -- only, it is odd Miss Darcy's did not change. I remember her aunt -- Helen was her name. Remarkable woman. Hers turned the most unusual red-gold. No surprise the earl, your uncle, was mad for her. Well, it was a pity. Died young, you know -- the French."

"Did she just run over to visit for the summer, sir?"

"Ah no, even she would not have been so foolish -- well, with Lord Fitzwilliam married to Miss Morton and her thirty thousand pounds, she had to find herself a husband, and fixed on some French cousin of hers -- a marquis. And got guillotined for her trouble -- but I should not speak of such things before you. Miss Darcy, perhaps, inherited the hair from her."

"Jane's hair is not red," Elizabeth pointed out.

With a complacent smile, he admitted, "That is so." Then, persistently, he said, "Now, my sister, hers was more like your cousin's -- well, in fact, so was mine myself. Odd coincidence, isn't it?"

Elizabeth was not oblivious to his insinuation. Obviously he knew of her familiarity with his connection to Lady Anne, and wished her to believe --! She felt herself flushing with anger at the man's insinuations, but was halted by the strains of the next waltz.

"Elizabeth?"

"Mr Darcy?" She looked from him to Lord Barton.

"I believe it is time for the dance you promised me, cousin," he said, then with a look of haughty composure, inclined his head to her companion. "Lord Barton."

"Darcy, forgive me for distracting your cousin from her duties," Lord Barton said, with a light laugh.

Elizabeth and Darcy gladly escaped to the furthest side of the ball-room. "You look rather unwell," he observed. "Shall I get you something?"

"That man is the most contemptible -- vicious -- unprincipled -- worm!" she cried. To her surprise, Darcy only smiled, and then said,

"For once, we seem to be in complete agreement."

Elizabeth snapped her fan open and tried to cool herself off. "Is it only me, or is it dreadfully hot in here?" she inquired.

"It is," he said, and she pitied him the layers of clothing he wore.

"Would you like my fan?"

His lips twitched. "Thank you for the thought, but no."

Elizabeth glanced at the balcony, and impulsively led him on to it. "Fresh air," she explained incoherently, feeling it cool her cheeks. Darcy merely looked at her, then replied,

"It was getting rather warm in there."

She lifted her eyes to his. "You have only yourself to blame, sir; I offered you my fan."

"I do not mind."

He, in fact, looked as if he did not mind anything at all. Elizabeth completely understood, she was so giddy herself. After a moment of perfectly comfortable silence, she lifted her eyes to the stars.

"Perseus is very bright," she observed. "Are you feeling especially heroic this evening, Mr Darcy?"

He paused, gazing at the constellation. "No," he said, "quite the opposite, really. I think I should be glad to resign from heroics, selfless and self-indulgent both, for a long while. Besides, Andromeda is just as vivid, is she not?--and yet I cannot say I feel particularly restrained, either. Not tonight."

"Come, cousin, what would you be without poor to relieve and friends to guide and relations to protect?"

"Thoroughly miserable -- you know me too well. And yet . . ." She could see his eyes move from Perseus to Pegasus. "One does wish for . . ."

"There is a time for every purpose under heaven, Mr Darcy," she said flippantly. Darcy's clear dark eyes were suddenly intent on hers.

"Shall there be a time when you stop calling me ‘Mr Darcy,' then?" He looked as startled as she did that this had escaped his lips.

"Yes, sir," she said, and he sighed.

"I do have a name, Elizabeth," he said pointedly.

"Indeed, I am very unlikely to forget it." She leant against the balustrade, allowing her chin to rest in her gloved hands. "Shall you ever call me Lizzy?"

"No."

"Why on earth not? Is there some objection to it?"

"For one, I cannot imagine you as anything other than Elizabeth; secondly, it does not fit you; and thirdly, it makes me think of my great-grandmother. She died when I was a boy, but everyone called her ‘Lizzy' when she was alive."

Elizabeth grimaced. "I do not wish to remind you of your great-grandmother. Do you have any other names? It might be easier to work my way to ‘Fitzwilliam' if there was an intermediate step, sir."

"I'm afraid it is ‘James.' "

She sighed. "You will simply have to wait, then. I cannot see why you object to your surname in any case, sir, it is a fine name."

"And used by every nodding acquaintance, passing stranger, tenant, servant -- oh, and Richard."

"Has anyone ever called you anything besides ‘Fitzwilliam' and ‘Darcy'?"

"No. You shall simply have to put up with one or the other of my names."

For a moment, they were silent; then, feeling very bold, Elizabeth said, "You might be cooler if you took off your gloves."

He gave her a look expressive of his wonder, but slowly stripped them off. Elizabeth shivered. It was strange that such a simple gesture should be so -- she lacked the words, but she could not stop staring at his bare hands, gleaming pale gold in the moonlight. His head was bent, but she could hear his steady breathing.

"Cecily said you play the pianoforte," she said, taking one of them and turning it over, "I might have guessed." His hands were not as large as she would have guessed from his height, but slender despite the length. "Your hands are perfect for it."

"I -- Elizabeth, I -- " He swallowed. "Thank you."

She tangled her gloved hand in his bare one, not quite able to look at him as his fingers slowly curled around hers.

"We should go in," he said presently.

"I daresay." Neither moved an inch. He was looking at the stars again, and Elizabeth felt herself able to gaze at his face, more striking than ever in the moonlight. With her free hand, she gave into the impulse which had plagued her the entire evening, and reached up to touch his cheek. He turned his head in surprise, the consequence of which was that instead of the bare brush of her fingertips against his cheekbones, her hand was full against his face. Elizabeth summoned all of her courage and met his eyes squarely. For a moment they were both very tense and awkward; and then he surprised her by smiling, a smile as unrestrained as he claimed to feel, his expression suddenly alight with pleasure, and clasped the hand with his, affectionately kissing it.

"Elizabeth? Is that you?" This time, it was Jane who interrupted them. Elizabeth turned three shades of scarlet and whirled around, instinctively reaching behind her to grasp Darcy's wrist. They were so close that she nearly tripped over his feet, and could actually feel him behind her.

"Yes," she said hastily, "I am coming."

She started to hurry towards the door, but Darcy perversely kept his grip on her hand. "Elizabeth," he said softly, "we are going to Pemberley in a few weeks, and I daresay she -- Jane -- will write. Will you be greatly offended if I do the same?"

It was impossible to remain annoyed with him after this. Elizabeth turned her head to look up at him.

"No," she said, after a pause, "I shall not be offended."

He smiled brilliantly, and astonished her still further by bending his head down to graze his lips against her cheek. It was a restrained cousinly kiss -- but a kiss still the same. She could only stare as he stepped a proper distance away, and called out,

"Jane, Elizabeth was only a little overcome by . . . all the excitement, so we went to get some fresh air. Here, I shall leave you two to . . . whatever it is that ladies talk about, at a ball."

Jane blinked at her brother at confusion, then at Elizabeth, who by the intense warmth in her cheeks, knew herself to be blushing fiercely. Darcy bowed to them both and departed. If they had been in an opera, he undoubtedly would have burst into song.

"Lizzy? Are you unwell?"

"Do I look that dreadful?"

"Well . . . you were out here . . . alone . . . with Fitzwilliam," Jane said, looking thoroughly puzzled.

"We are cousins," Elizabeth said, "there is nothing peculiar about it, surely?"

Jane's brow was furrowed. "I thought you did not like him," she said plaintively.

Elizabeth linked their arms together, leading them off of the balcony. "You were wrong, my dearest Jane, through no fault of your own, for I have been terribly sly and secretive -- and I shall tell you more, or write it, later. Suffice it to say, I like him very well."

Jane smiled happily. "Oh, that is wonderful, Lizzy! Why, if -- " she stopped.

"If?" Elizabeth prodded.

Jane blushed and lowered her eyes. "Never mind."

"Cousin Elizabeth," Darcy said, in the faintly drawling tone that had always irritated her before, "I just recalled that we did not actually dance."

Elizabeth looked up at him, eyes sparkling. "You are very certain, sir, that this one is not already taken."

His demeanour altered abruptly, and he smiled boyishly. "No, actually, I talked to Courtland and arranged that it should be. He is a friend of mine, you know."

"No, I did not know." She was not certain whether to be annoyed at his high-handedness or flattered at the trouble he had gone to. She settled on the latter, this time. "Very well, sir, you may have this dance as well."

"Thank you." Elizabeth scarcely had time to feel awkward or apprehensive, before the waltz began, and she was in his arms. Very fortunately, he was naturally graceful and she was a fine dancer, which alleviated the effects of any residual nervousness. At first she was horrified she might do something like trip over his feet, and sternly counted to herself, one-two-three, one-two-three, but quickly enough she had only to move with him and the steps of the dance, and needed not think at all.

He was in one of his quieter moods, and it matched with her own. They did not mention Lord Barton or Lord Napier or Lady Clarissa or even the family. When they did speak, it was of commonplace matters. Conversation seemed entirely inconsequential. Far more important was simply being, in that moment, when her skirts swirled around her legs, and her hand gripped his a little more tightly, and she could see his pale cheeks flush and the black of his eyes swallowing up the blue.

"I like twirling," she said simply, one hand clinging to his shoulder. It was impossible not to laugh, especially when he indulged her by allowing her to spin once more. She felt breathless and delighted and beautiful. She had never felt such -- pleasure with Darcy before, for while she enjoyed their library rendezvous, that was not quite the same thing, and otherwise everything else interfered with any contentment she might have taken in his company. This, this was -- enchantment, almost, for neither the room nor the others nor anything at all seemed real, except them; her feet scarcely seemed to touch the floor, but she was exquisitely sensitive to the slightest twitch in the hand at her waist. At one point, a lock of hair fell into his eyes; without thinking, she lifted her hand and pushed it back, caught by his eyes, which instead of shuttered and reserved were too expressive for comfort.

Out of the blue, she remembered his long-ago letter, and what he said -- the utmost force of passion. That was what it had taken to put aside the claims of family and society, and that was what she thought she saw in him now. Usually, serious displays of emotion made her deeply uncomfortable, particularly if she felt it herself; she could only try to lessen the effect by mocking it or ignoring it. This time, however, she did nothing of the sort. Her breath caught, her chest hurt with the intensity of feeling, she blushed and blushed again, her gaze darted to his lips and back to his eyes. They were very close together, and --

-- in a crowded ball-room! a small voice reminded her.

Elizabeth felt faint, and realized it was from holding her breath. She let it out, and inhaled deeply. When he whirled her in a slow circle, she was grateful for the brief respite, and looking at him, could think of nothing to say, or do, his gaze unwavering. Instead, she smiled, rather tremulously, and pushed his hair out of his eyes once more.

"What ever did you do without me?" she asked lightly.

His voice very quiet and rich, he replied, "I scarcely know."

The dance ended, as all dances must, but he escorted her off the floor, and did not leave immediately. "Cousin Elizabeth," he began, "might I ask a favour of you?"

"If you will grant me one in return," she said, biting on her lip to keep her expression grave. He glanced down then up again.

"What is yours?"

"Please do not call me 'Cousin Elizabeth.' It reminds me of Mr Collins."

He laughed softly. "Very well. And might I have the honour of introducing you to some relations of mine?"

She glanced at him curiously. "More relations?"

"On my father's side," he corrected. "My only family, besides Jane and Georgiana."

Elizabeth's breath caught in her chest. "I would be honoured, Mr Darcy."

Chapter Nine

Posted on Wednesday, 30 August 2006

Elizabeth could hardly sleep, and even then, woke up well before dawn. All that had passed that evening left her mind a whirl. She got up and dressed before going downstairs to the library.

Darcy's relations were a charming elderly couple. After the constant bombardment of connections and wealth, whether a newer title quite equaled an older name, the girlish fantasies of childhood had seemed very far away. Sir James and Lady Darcy brought them all back to her. They were clearly devoted to one another, and were almost exactly what she imagined Mr and Mrs Gardiner would be like in another twenty or thirty years. Lady Darcy, once the men were gone to fetch drinks, arguing all the way, exultingly told her their history. It was quite the most delightful one Elizabeth had ever heard. The judge, then a mere "promising" younger son, had met Miss Cassandra Beverley at a casual social function. They instantly took a liking to one another and fell in love after a very brief courtship; within four months of their first meeting, they were married, and lived, more or less, happily ever after.

It did not make for a very interesting story. Elizabeth blinked away tears and felt, somehow, as if she had regained something very precious, which she had thought utterly lost to her, and impulsively kissed Lady Darcy's wrinkled cheek. The judge and his wife beamed at her and said that she was a fine girl and they liked her very much, even if she was a Fitzwilliam. Darcy coloured but Elizabeth was delighted and told him so once they could not be overheard.

Elizabeth, lost in her thoughts, almost missed the sound of light footsteps creeping past. Startled, she went to the door and looked out. Both gasped in astonishment and dismay.

Elizabeth nearly dropped her candle. "Eleanor?" All in a moment, she perceived the guilty, frozen look on her cousin's face, the sodden cloak six inches deep in mud, several tendrils of dark hair loose and blowsy about her face, all in a moment. Without thinking, Elizabeth cried, "You, of all people! And you accuse Edward of impropriety? At least he is not a hypocrite about it, but openly admits what he has done. How could you presume to speak of my tolerance for disguise and deceit?"

Eleanor flinched. "Elizabeth," she said icily, "you would do better not to pass judgment on matters you know little of."

"You would rather I be a Lady Clarissa, I suppose," Elizabeth replied, "content to think only what I am told to."

Eleanor hesitated. "I must dress, before the servants awake."

"You are not going anywhere," Elizabeth said, with an imperiousness fully equal to Eleanor's own and very unlike anything that had ever passed Miss Elizabeth Bennet's lips, "until you explain yourself." She looked at her cousin through narrow eyes.

"The servants must not know," Eleanor said stubbornly, "they will talk. It is not like Pemberley."

"Give me your word, then, that you will come back. Otherwise, I shall ask Cecily what she knows of your late-night escapades."

"Threats are not necessary," she replied. "I never give my word unless I mean to keep it." With that, she marched out of the room.

Clever, thought Elizabeth -- she had managed to avoid making a promise. She allowed her mind to wander, not expecting her cousin to return -- but she did. Seeming her usual regal self -- if more simply dressed -- she walked into the library with a look of hauteur firmly etched on her features.

"Well, Elizabeth? You demanded a confidence."

Elizabeth turned sharply, jarred out of pleasant reminiscences. "Eleanor? You did not give your word."

Eleanor tossed her head. "It was implied." She sat and looked at her expectantly, as if Elizabeth was the one providing answers.

"The wind is rather bracing for a casual stroll," Elizabeth said. Eleanor coloured.

"It is not how it seems."

"Really?" Lady Anne's necklace was cold against her neck. Elizabeth recalled the sudden kindness that had begun last evening, and gentled her expression slightly.

"I was meeting someone, but only because my father would not approve, we had no other choice."

Elizabeth remembered Georgiana, and hoped fervently that Wickham was safe in Brighton.

"He does not want my fortune," Eleanor said defensively. "He has a large enough one of his own. Although he will be even less respectable than he is already if anyone guesses." Eleanor clenched her hands, staring at the fireplace. "He was not at the ball. They would not invite a curate's son."

"A curate's son?" Elizabeth repeated incredulously. She had been certain Eleanor's consideration for rank was enough greater than her own that she would settle for nothing less than her father's.

"Lord St Ives," Eleanor said bitterly. "Father forgets that our origins are no better, only further-off. The Fitzwilliam pride."

"I know all about the Fitzwilliam pride," said Elizabeth, somewhat comforted that her judgment had not erred as much as that. "I would think that a lord, whatever his origins, would be acceptable."

"You would be wrong," her cousin replied. "Just ask my father about the ruckus that her family raised when he wanted to marry Miss Darcy."

So Lord Barton had not lied about that. Elizabeth shifted. "But Mr Darcy -- "

Her cousin's expression warmed and softened. "My uncle," she said, "did whatever he liked, and he liked Lady Anne. But he could have done better, not that any of us would ever admit it."

"Except you."

"I am not in the habit of evading the truth," Eleanor said proudly.

"I had noticed that on occasion." Elizabeth sighed. "So you sneak out at three o'clock in the morning and go walking with Lord St Ives? That is your courtship?"

"Yes."

"It seems very complicated. And -- " she felt her cheeks turning pink -- "there is nothing . . . dishonourable involved?"

"He has not compromised me, if that is what you mean," Eleanor said coldly. "We talk. That is all."

Elizabeth did not quite believe that, but given her cousin's character -- and the character of the sort of man likely to attract her -- it might only be a slight exaggeration. A kiss on her hand, touch of her cheek, it probably had gone no further. She found herself rather wistfully hoping Eleanor's representation of the affair was accurate. Oddly, she felt more sympathetic to her cousin than she had ever been before. Clearly the arrogant composure pervading her manner -- given the situation she had been found in -- was a manner of concealing whatever it was she felt. She really was astonishingly like Darcy. None of this passed her lips, however.

"He must be very fond of you," she said neutrally, "to condescend to such secrecy and disguise to merely enjoy your presence and conversation."

Eleanor coloured. "I suppose he is." Apparently she thought this degree of openness a penance for her behaviour.

"It is rather a pity that he could not have fallen in love with a lady of his own sphere. It might have spared you both much unhappiness."

"He is of my sphere," Eleanor said hotly, her restraint finally giving way; "he is an earl. I am an earl's daughter. So far we are equal."

"But you only just said that he is not even equal enough to be invited to the same balls," Elizabeth pointed out, "that is why the family will not approve."

"It is a matter of degree," Eleanor said weakly, looking rather confused.

"If the distance between you is as great as you represent it, then you are only equal in a very general sense. Do you mean to spend the next ten years meeting him -- wherever it is that you are? Do you think you will never be found out?"

"It has been two years already," said Eleanor, "and it has not happened yet."

Elizabeth shook her head. "He must be a remarkable man," she said sincerely. "I cannot think of any others who would endure such an affront to his pride."

"He is not proud."

Elizabeth laughed. "Is he human?"

Eleanor's lips curved into a faint, hesitant smile. "I . . . he knows that I am too far above him, that by aspiring to me he is reaching beyond himself. He does not flinch from the truth."

Elizabeth coughed. "Did you say this to him?"

"Oh, yes."

"And he still haunts your doorstep early in the morning?"

Colour flared in the other woman's cheeks, and whatever softness there had been in her expression vanished. Her dark eyes turned very cold as she looked at Elizabeth, and she said, "This may come as a surprise to *you*, Elizabeth, but his affections, like most people's, are not contingent upon their object ignoring the facts of life to please him. Now, if that is all, I must return to my chambers;---do I have your word that you will not speak of this matter?"

Elizabeth's brows drew together; she said, "I will not speak of it to anyone, except Mr Darcy."

"Oh," Eleanor said carelessly, "he already knows."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I wanted the advice of someone I could trust."

"You do not trust Lord St Ives?"

"At the time, I only knew that my feelings were beyond any I had ever felt, and were impairing the use of my reason. Love is not trust, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth stayed very still as her cousin left the room. What had Eleanor said? She had seemed so suddenly angry. 'His affections, like most people's, are not contingent upon their object ignoring the facts of life and altering character to please him.' Elizabeth frowned. What had come before that? 'This may come as a surprise to you' . . . No, it had not been quite like that. 'This may come as a surprise to *you*.'

Elizabeth blinked, the realization hitting her sharply. Eleanor knew. She must; it was the only explanation. And that faint trace of hostility --- of course. Eleanor's unguarded partiality for Darcy, even if it were only fraternal, was undoubted. Everyone had told her how close they were. He was a private man but if he were angry enough, he might have wanted to vent his feelings on a sympathetic ear. 'Or hurt enough.' She banished that thought, suddenly quite angry herself. How dare she? Eleanor knew only Darcy's half of the story, and undoubtedly it was a strongly biased, prejudiced half. And yet she thought she had the right to pass judgment.

How dare he?

She sat still, her thoughts whirling around her head for a full five minutes. Then, a wave of tiredness overcame her; between the late night, and her confrontation with Eleanor, she was exhausted. It was still very early, with only a hint of light at the horizons. Elizabeth slipped upstairs and crawled back into bed.

She slept deeply and, if she had any dreams, she did not remember them. What woke her was the sound of a familiar voice saying insistently, "Lizzy. Lizzy. Elizabeth!"

Elizabeth opened her eyes groggily. Had she slept in that deeply?--no, the light passing through the window was weak, early-morning-sunshine. She sat up, still disoriented, and shrugged into a robe, opening the door. "Jane!" she cried. "Is something wrong?"

Her cousin, although as ever neat as a pin, was dressed in travelling clothes. "Lizzy, I had to say good-bye." She was wringing her hands. "I didn't want to wake you up, but I couldn't leave without saying good-bye, although I will write as soon as I can."

"Leave?" Elizabeth echoed blankly. "Jane, I don't understand. You aren't going for a fortnight -- at least, I was certain -- "

Jane looked even more distressed. "There was a fire late last night, at one of the mills. Fitzwilliam got the express only an hour ago, he said we had to leave as soon as we could. He had meant to go alone, but I . . . Georgiana and I . . . insisted. If there is something wrong at Pemberley, we all ought to go . . . don't you think? That it is the right thing to do? It seems wrong to stay here and leave him there."

Elizabeth leaned against the doorway, briefly shutting her eyes. She felt a shadow of her old antipathy towards him, and could not clearly recall where the odd, unhappy feeling had come from. "Of course," she said steadily. "Of course, you must go to Pemberley, you belong there, with your -- your family."

"You are my family, too," Jane said. "We are cousins, and we were sisters for eighteen years. I hate to leave you, Lizzy."

"You must go," Elizabeth repeated. "We are family, too, but you are a Darcy, you belong at Pemberley."

Jane nodded. "You will write?"

"Of course. I will be there to say good-bye, you must give me a moment." She dressed as quickly as she had ever done, her cold fingers hindering her movements, and hurried downstairs with her cousin. Jane's brother and sister were already there, Georgiana glancing up eagerly when they entered the room.

"Fitzwilliam is trying to persuade me to stay, Jane," she said plaintively. "I ought to go?"

"We are going with you," Jane said stubbornly. Elizabeth hid a smile, but even that quickly died away, when she met Darcy's eyes. They made her think of Eleanor, and then she remembered all that had passed that morning. She felt at once angry, betrayed, and resentful, but the very intensity of the emotions came from the knowledge that she had no right to feel them. In that moment of sharp anguish, she longed for the old Jane she could confide anything in, or for her aunt Gardiner, any part of her old life. Anger at Darcy was hardly a comforting thread to link Elizabeth Bennet and Elizabeth Fitzwilliam together.

Still bewildered and unhappy, she gathered enough composure to bid the sisters farewell, kissing them both on the cheek. As for Darcy, she was upset enough that her manner was distinctly chilly, and she could not help emphasizing the formal address as she said, "Good-bye, Mr Darcy."

He looked very grave and sombre when he replied, "Good-bye, Elizabeth." She wondered if all of his thoughts were taken up with the tragedy at the mill, or if he reverted to his old manner out of anything like the confusion she herself was experiencing.

Elizabeth felt very lonely in the great house as the three siblings turned to go. She could hear the servants beginning to go about their duties, but nobody else was awake at this hour.

"Lizzy -- " Jane turned. "You will take care of Gertrude?"

Elizabeth searched her memory. "Gertrude?"

"My cat, I am sure I told you about her. Well, not mine, but I feed her and she sleeps in my room. She was hurt and we have been nursing her back to health."

"You didn't tell me," Elizabeth said quietly. Who was we, she wondered. All three of them? Probably not; it was difficult to see Darcy in such a role. She felt a tired, quiet misery as she said, "Cecily and I will do what we can for her."

"Oh, thank you." Jane smiled and kissed her good-bye one last time. "Tell me everything that happens, Lizzy, I will write every single week, I promise."

Elizabeth stood alone on the front door, watching as they went away. The harsh Yorkshire wind dried the tears on her cheek, and created more; she turned and slowly went inside. Despite everything, remaining together had allowed her to cling to Jane. She knew they had grown apart, some; there were things they did not speak of -- she had even lied to her, that once, about Eleanor's horrible accusations -- and yet they had been together, as they had always been. Now, now it seemed that nothing would ever be the same again.

She rubbed angrily at her eyes as she went upstairs, not wanting to be any sort of spectacle before the servants. For a moment, she remained still on her own doorstep, then abruptly took up her cloak, and walked as quickly as she could, out of the house, along the path to the rectory. She was tired and lonely and hardly knew what was she about as she pounded on the door -- only that if she did not speak to someone, she thought she would go mad. And in all of this madness, everything that she had lost, she had also gained--

"James?" she said desperately. "Forgive me, I--"

Her brother rubbed his eyes and self-consciously tightened his robe. "Elizabeth, are you unwell? Has something happened?"

She took a deep, steadying breath. "James, I have to talk to you. Might I stay here?"

"Of course," he said, still startled and confused, "my home is yours. Elizabeth, did you walk from the house? Your hands are freezing. Come, you must sit down, and I will take a few minutes to make myself presentable. Esther -- " he addressed himself to the maid hovering devotedly about -- "we will need tea -- for two."

Chapter Ten

Posted on Sunday, 10 September 2006

Elizabeth sat at the table, nursing her tea and her grievances, until she thought she might scream. It was only a few minutes before James entered, returned to his usual impeccable state. "Elizabeth," he said, "what is it?"

"Jane is gone," she blurted out, the first thing that came to mind. "There was a fire at Pemberley, and she decided to go with Mr Darcy. She woke me up to tell me good-bye."

"A fire?" he said, turning pale.

"At a mill, not the house," she hastened to assure him. "But he had to go."

"They were to leave in a fortnight in any case," James said gently.

"I know! It is only . . . I thought there would be time, there would . . . did you know about Gertrude?"

"Who?"

Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. "Jane's cat. Apparently she rescued it and she has been looking after it."

A smile twitched on his lips. "A family trait, I fear. Fitzwilliam nearly drove his parents insane with his pets -- he had a cat, several dogs, a pony, and a cage full of wounded birds. All but the pony and one of the dogs were injured animals he found and brought home. Most of his friends he acquired in fairly similar fashion."

Elizabeth tilted her head to the side. She was at once amused, enchanted, and somewhat alarmed. A family trait. She swallowed and said, "I didn't realise there were so many things that she -- oh, it isn't as if she's keeping things from me."

"No," he said, "not keeping things back -- simply not saying them."

She looked at him gratefully. "That is exactly it! She was always private, but not like this. We spend time together, and we talk, but . . . it isn't the same."

"No, it isn't." James set down his cup of tea. "Please forgive my bluntness, Elizabeth, but perhaps it will be easier coming from someone you do not know well. It is not the same, and it never will be again. Jane feels her responsibilities keenly. She loves you, I imagine, as much as she ever did, but her obligation is now to Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, not to you as it was before. She may even be distancing herself from you on purpose, to allow you the chance to draw closer to your own kin."

Elizabeth frowned. "She should not make decisions for me."

"I doubt it was quite that explicit in her own mind, if it entered it at all. There is a great deal more to her than meets the eye, I think. She seems, in her way, as shy of doing wrong as Georgiana. This must be very difficult for you, Elizabeth, but I cannot pretend to wish we had never found you, although it would undoubtdly have been better, or at least easier, for you."

Elizabeth thought this over. "I do not know whether to admire Jane, or to be angry at her," she said helplessly. "It is -- oh, she was always trying to be a perfect Miss Bennet, and now the perfect Miss Darcy, and she actually accomplishes it. It cannot be right to set aside an entire life so easily, and yet, how can I criticize her for doing what I am trying to, only better?"

"It is the callousness you object to, I daresay," James said. "The Bennets raised you, educated you, loved you. For what they did, you no longer owe them respect, perhaps; but to feel affection one day and forget it the next is rather suspect."

"Jane isn't callous," Elizabeth said, perversely. "She is the most loving person I know."

"Yes -- in her way."

"What do you mean?" Why did she feel so defensive?

James sighed. "Elizabeth, if I asked Cecily and Ella to describe you, I might very well think you were two different people, if I did not know better. The Elizabeth that Cecily knows is not the person that Ella does. We can only relate to others as far as we can see them. Jane loves everyone because she only sees what is lovable in them; she refuses to consider anything else. And she does not see far; the Bennets may be beyond the range of her vision now. "

Elizabeth dropped her eyes. She had thought the same thing herself, of course, many times. She loved Jane dearly, but a life spent in her shadow, so often compared and found wanting to the perfect elder sister, could not but lead to certain observations. She had seen that she was the cleverer, that however honest Jane's blindness might be, it was still blindness; she had realized that Jane's myopia did not come solely from her sweet disposition, but from a refusal to see. It was perhaps for that reason that Elizabeth had never emulated her, had walked a line between disdain and admiration until that horrible day in the Rosings woods.

"She has been good for Georgiana," James said. "You cannot know how she was, this year."

"I met her at Pemberley." Georgiana was still timid and withdrawn, that was her nature, but Elizabeth had seen how far she had come in just a few weeks, no longer flinching at sudden loud noises, nor clinging to her brother as if he were her mother. Nor did she look at gentlemen who called, like they were monsters that might gobble her up at any moment. Oh, she needed Jane, as Elizabeth never had; she could understand that.

"Then you understand how great a change it is?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes. Oh, it's impossible to resent her, I pity her too much."

"She doesn't need pity, though," said James. "She gets that from the rest of us. Jane is enough like that she can safely imitate her, but enough different to draw her out."

"Yes, I can see that." Elizabeth sighed. "I mean to be honest with you. That was only the last straw. They were all to go to Pemberley in a fortnight anyway, I was never meant to be with them. I don't be -- I belong here, with you and my uncle, I have to make my home here, not lean on the Darcys."

"Very wise of you."

Elizabeth looked at him sharply, but he quickly shook his head.

"I meant it. If the rest of the family could learn that, we might be better off. Oh, I think the world of Fitzwilliam, and I adore little Georgiana, but -- well, he is the youngest. He should never have had to taken on all of our problems, he has quite enough of his own."

"He likes it." Elizabeth met his startled eyes boldly. "I cannot claim to know him as well as you all, but we have been acquainted nearly a year, and I am fairly sure that Mr Darcy is happiest when he is taking care of someone, or something."

"You know him well, then," replied James, "yet he was made that way, by us."

"He was already rescuing animals, wasn't he?" she said with a smile. "He would not wish anyone's pity, I don't think."

"There is a difference between pity and compassion, Elizabeth, and everyone deserves the latter on some account or another." James laughed. "Forgive me; I am so accustomed to sermonising, I forget it isn't always necessary."

"I don't mind." She smiled, wondered if she dared attach herself to him, as she had Cecily. She took a breath, and let it out. "What I was going to say, there was . . . something else. I quarrelled with Eleanor this morning -- again."

"Again?" James looked surprised. "I had noticed that your manner towards her was rather cold, but -- "

"Mine?" Elizabeth protested. "She is much colder than I have ever been!"

"She's always like that," James said dismissively.

That is no excuse, Elizabeth thought, but remembered what Jane had said; Eleanor had treated her no differently than she did everyone, while Elizabeth's reciprocal chilliness stood out a mile. "I suppose," she said, "but she is the one who -- she made perfectly unfounded accusations."

"Accusations?" His eyebrows shot up.

"Yes." The anger she had thought gone rose up again. "It was -- six days ago, I think. I'm not sure. She simply walked in and demanded to know why I disliked her."

James turned hurriedly away, poured himself more tea. His face was perfectly composed when he returned. "I beg your pardon, I . . . I can hardly think without my tea in the mornings." He swallowed a large mouthful and winced. "You were saying that Ella wanted to know why you dislike her?"

"Well, of course I said I did not dislike her."

"Of course?" James blinked at her. "But it certainly sounds as if you do."

"That's now. Then . . ." Elizabeth frowned. "Well, I did not like her, but I wouldn't have called it dislike, at least not to her face. And then she accused me of being deceitful."

"She did?"

"Yes! She said, ‘Your tolerance for deceit and disguise is not something I share.' I think that is what she said. Then she said it again more politely."

James bit down on his lip. "You just said that you would not have called it dislike to her face?"

"Of course not."

"That is probably what she meant, then. Simply that she would rather you be honest and tactless, as she is, than hide your true feelings and pretend those which you do not possess, simply to be civil. Nevertheless she should have tried to be more tactful."

Elizabeth relaxed. She had not dared tell anyone but Jane; she had assumed anyone else would take Eleanor's side, as one of their own.

*James, though -- he might know her better and longer, but I am his sister, and she only his cousin. It's different.*

"Then, just before she left, she said --" Elizabeth bit her lip. "Well . . . I . . ."

"You need not say, if it upsets you," he said gently. This, oddly, gave her the impetus she needed. She sat up straight and lifted her chin. "She said that it might help to know that she had only sisterly feelings for Mr Darcy, and walked out."

James blinked. "Oh?"

"Yes! And then, this morning, she was actually -- " she frowned. "I said I wouldn't tell. But she was . . ."

"Meeting Lord St Ives?" he supplied. "We all know. That is, four of us do. She told Fitzwilliam first, and said he could tell me, and then Henry caught her once, and we thought Edward ought to know, as her elder brother."

"If so many know, what is the point in keeping it a secret?"

"My uncle," James replied. "He is determined we shall all marry well, particularly his own children. Edward must marry a blooming girl with all the proper bloodlines. Eleanor is very particular but he is hoping that she makes a splendid connection for the family, and Richard, of course, needs to marry money. Georgiana will be lovely, and with her fortune and name, she is supposed to get a good title, at the least. I daresay he expects nothing less than sixty thousand pounds for Fitzwilliam. He might very well disinherit Eleanor if he knew. A curate's son, no matter what his rank now, is simply not acceptable."

"But my uncle loves her!"

James nodded soberly. "She is hoping he loves her better than he would dislike the marriage. And they have all been raised too high to think of getting along without money."

"Lord St Ives cannot be poor," Elizabeth said.

"He has barely four thousand a-year. He had an older brother, and he lost a fortune through gambling and wild speculation."

Elizabeth winced. "Another reason the family would not think well of him?"

"Yes. It was down to two thousand, I think, when he inherited. He's a good man. I think he would make her a good husband. But I am not the head of this family."

"What about Grandmother?"

James shrugged. "She's close to Uncle Fitzwilliam. She'd take his point of view, probably."

"And if Mr Darcy talked to him? He listens to him."

He looked at her incredulously. "Fitzwilliam? He keeps her secret out of loyalty to her -- but he'd be the last person to approve of the match."

She stiffened. "For the same reasons as the Earl?"

"Yes, and he doesn't think any man worthy of her."

"Even himself?"

James blinked. "Fitzwilliam -- and Ella? I doubt he ever thought of it, any more than he could have thought of Cecily."

Elizabeth tried to imagine Darcy and Cecily as a couple and could only laugh. James looked at her quizzically.

"Mr Darcy and Cecily," she said, shaking her head. James looked down, a smile twitching his lips. "It has already been two years. How long does she intend to wait?"

"The older she gets, the better her chances of approval are, she knows that." He shrugged.

Elizabeth brought her mind back to her actual difficulty. "The problem with all of this is . . . how dared she speak to me of deceit and disguise? When she is sneaking around with Lord St Ives at all hours of the night?"

James winced. "She dislikes that aspect of it," he said, "but I confess her moral ground rather shaky on that point."

"And then, somehow I offended her -- I scarcely know how -- and she said . . ." Elizabeth hesitated. Did James know? Even if he doesn't, F--Darcy told Eleanor; I can tell *my* brother, since I no longer have a sister, and I have no doubts of his secrecy. "She intimated," she corrected, "that she knew of . . . something which had happened . . . between Mr Darcy and myself, last spring."

James sat up straighter. Elizabeth knew that expression; discretion struggling with curiosity. "Oh?" he said, clearly aiming for neutrality, but not quite reaching it. She couldn't help but smile.

"You don't seem surprised."

"Well, I confess I am not. Obviously you knew each other, and -- well, the fact that you still call him ‘Mr Darcy' when the rest of us are ‘James' and ‘Richard' and ‘Georgiana' and even ‘Eleanor,' is rather . . . telling. By now, I imagine even Cecily has guessed that there is something there."

"We . . . quarrelled," she said. She had meant to tell him, but somehow could not; there was too large a share of resentment in her feelings to wholly trust her motives. Perhaps, later -- "We both behaved very badly. And I knew, then, that he . . . liked me."

James nodded, his bright eyes fixed on her face. Elizabeth took comfort from his friendly, nice face.

"He wrote me a letter, explaining -- a number of things. I had been blind, vain, prejudiced, and insensible."

"In a word," he said, smiling, "young."

"Yes -- no -- well, that does not make what I did right. That was only a few months ago. It feels -- " It was another world, another life. The Elizabeth Bennet who had been so sure of herself, so sure of her intelligence and wit and perception, so sure that she was that cut above the rest of the world, sometimes it seemed as if there was nothing left of that person in Elizabeth Fitzwilliam. And yet, at other times, it seemed to come bubbling up, when she saw Eleanor evading the Duke of Albini, Lady Alethea pursuing the Earl like a well-feathered huntress, more refined and complex versions of all those things that had been amusing her since she was a child.

"It feels different. I can hardly believe that was me," she said honestly. "I am not like that. Even then, I wasn't like that. He . . . I don't know. I was never indifferent."

"My dear Elizabeth, I have yet to meet the person who is indifferent to Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"That's it! I don't know if it was, is, just his force of personality, or admiring him because he was . . . he is . . . admirable, and enjoying his company, or being family and fond of him on that account, or . . . I don't know what to think. And now I don't know what he thinks either. And then, at the ball last night, I was so certain that I did know, and today I'm only more confused." She ran her fingers through her hair, which she belatedly realised was loose around her shoulders. "Oh, I must look a fright."

James gently clasped her hand. "Not at all," he said.

Chapter Eleven

Posted on Thursday, 16 November 2006

"Elizabeth, where have you been?" Edward exclaimed. "Cecily has been frantic."

"She was with me," James said. "We needed to talk."

It was a positively Darcyish tone. She didn't think she had ever heard it from her mild-mannered brother.

"Oh, I see. Well, if you would stay here, with Elizabeth -- "

"I am the rector, I will live in the rectory." Elizabeth glanced warily from her brother to her cousin. Of all her relations, she felt she knew Edward the least well. He was always distantly kind to her, but he seemed almost a stranger. Perhaps it was because he never seemed to quite fit in with the others. Cecily had talked of bad acquaintances in his youth; whoever they were, they seemed to have divided him irrevocably from his own family. James and Darcy especially treated him with veiled suspicion and, often, dismay, like a hen who finds among her chicks a turkey.

"You must please yourself."

James' lips compressed. "But perhaps you could give me lessons, Edward; you are so much better at it than I."

At this, Elizabeth could not restrain herself. "James," she said. The colour that had flooded her brother's cheeks faded away, and he took a step backwards.

"We should not air our family quarrels before Elizabeth," Edward replied.

"Oh? I am a member of this family, am I not?"

"Well, yes, but -- "

"If you do not wish to quarrel, say as much; do not make Elizabeth your excuse," James told him. "We had better go find Cecily before she gets too upset. Please excuse us, Edward." He turned on his heel, Elizabeth struggling to keep up with his longer legs. After a moment he noticed and slowed, a rueful smile creeping over his face. "It's rather early to be opening hostilities."

"I have been here for nearly three months," Elizabeth reminded him.

"Not you. Edward and I. Fitzwilliam usually -- he manages that side of things."

"Quarrelling?" She could not keep herself from smiling. "He quarrels for you?"

"Quarrelling with Edward is second nature to all of us, I fear," he said with a grimace. "Fitzwilliam is only rather better at it than the rest of us -- and Edward occasionally listens to him. I find it somewhat superfluous to do so myself when he is here. Ah well, at our age there is no excuse for needing him for a buffer, though it has improved."

She could only imagine what it must have been like five, or ten, years before.

"I hardly know what to think of him." Elizabeth fiddled with her skirt. "He is so much older -- it does seem he ought to take more responsibility. Yet there is something almost chivalrous about him, at least towards us -- towards me."

"Oh," James laughed, "we are all agreed that Edward is a medieval relic. In other times, my uncle could stuff him into a suit of armour and send him off to crusade to his heart's content. Then again, he would probably die in some glorious battle, and if anyone is less suited than Edward for the role of earl's heir, it's Richard. A pity Eleanor isn't a man."

Elizabeth coughed.

"She is such a managing sort of person," he said. "I really think she could rule the nation with as much ease as she does the estate."

"I rather thought my uncle was master of Houghton," Elizabeth said.

"He has so many concerns, he finds it the simplest thing in the world to let her mange it in his name. She does so just as creditably as he could."

"Like Mr Darcy."

He glanced curiously at her. "Yes, though he has some advantages she does not."

"Really? What sort of advantages?"

"Well, for one, an education that went beyond purses and screens."

Elizabeth laughed outright at the picture. "I have heard Mr Darcy's strictures on conventional accomplishments."

"I doubt there are any among his acquaintance who have not. He never minces words about his opinions."

"I have observed that myself," she said, and he smiled, before sobering.

"Elizabeth, I must ask you -- "

"Elizabeth!" Cecily ran down the staircase in her usual heedless manner, a sort of upright tumbling that always left Elizabeth in awe that her cousin had yet to break her neck.

"Good morning," Elizabeth said calmly.

"Where were you? I looked and looked and I couldn't see you anywhere. And I was afraid you had gone with Jane because, well, you might have."

Her gloomy expression was so ill fitting on her good natured face that Elizabeth burst out laughing again, briefly squeezing her cousin's hands. "I would not leave without warning," she said. "I was simply at the rectory."

"Oh! Then it's your fault." Cecily fixed her eyes on James. "You should have made her write a note, then there should have been no worry."

"No, he wasn't even expecting me." Elizabeth briefly threw an apologetic glance at her brother. "It is one of those terrible situations in which nobody is to blame, so therefore one must blame everyone. Come, you promised to tell me everything that happened at the ball, and I have heard scarcely a word of it from you."

"You will have to postpone your discussion," Eleanor said, appearing around the corner. Elizabeth refused to start-- she was almost starting to become accustomed to Eleanor's silent tread. "The Stanhopes are coming."

"Oh Lord, not again," Cecily said. "We saw them at the ball and Alethea flirted outrageously with my uncle, isn't that good enough for them?"

"Apparently not."

James frowned. "At this hour? What are they thinking?"

Eleanor's mouth twisted. "That there is no time to be lost, I daresay. I suppose they have heard that Fitzwilliam and Georgiana -- and Jane -- are gone."

"At least it isn't Lord Barton," Elizabeth said with a sigh, startling herself as much as her family. Cecily burst out laughing.

"When I think it can't get worse you force me to be grateful that it isn't. It's very wrong of you. Oh well, we can face them together. Stay by me, Elizabeth? The Duke frightens me quite out of my wits. Not that I have many to begin with, but still-- "

Elizabeth laughed. "Of course I shall." She looked around. "Is Henry going to come down?"

"He isn't getting out of it this time. Sommers! Please tell my brother I have need of him."

"Yes, miss."

"You must manage Amelia," Cecily told James. "She is so fond of you. And it would be such a good match -- "

"Her family would not allow it," James said serenely, "and I cannot think of anyone I do not prefer."

"Clara then. With my luck they will come this evening."

"Perhaps you might redirect your efforts. I am perfectly happy to remain unmarried."

"I shall find a husband for you, then, Elizabeth." Cecily laughed again, but this time there was a slightly nervous edge. "Though it would be better if we were in town. That is the place for finding husbands."

"And yet you are single," Eleanor said. "As are we all."

"Men do not want silly girls of small fortune." Cecily's fingers were cold against Elizabeth's arm.

"Cynicism does not suit you, Cecily," Eleanor replied, her tone gentling. "You are far from deficient -- "

They all sighed in unison when the footman entered and announced the three Stanhopes. Lady Alethea looked around, then seated herself with a resigned flounce. Amelia simpered at James. The duke was everything attentive to an indifferent Eleanor.

Elizabeth and Cecily looked at one another and bit back smiles. They could scarcely conceal their laughter when Edward and Henry entered, clearly expecting to only find their family, and confronted with the detestable Stanhopes.

"Would you care to take a turn around the room?" Elizabeth said hastily. They walked to the window and looked out. The grounds were beautifully well kept, the villages in the earl's possession seemed perfectly content.

She sighed. Why must Eleanor have so many good qualities one moment, and enrage her the next? If she was truly responsible for this --

"I am feeling a pressing desire for a hair ribbon," she told Cecily. "Shall we beg an urgent errand in Wellesham?"

"Miss Fitzwilliam!" The two girls, chattering together outside their favourite shop, turned with identically startled expressions.

Cecily greeted him first. "Lord Courtland, what a pleasure."

He quickly dismounted. "I hope your family is well?"

"There was a fire at one of my cousin Darcy's mills. He, and Jane, and Georgiana, are gone," Cecily told him.

Lord Courtland's gaze snapped to Elizabeth. "I am very sorry. It must be difficult to lose your cousin's companionship."

There was evident compassion in his voice. She instantly warmed to him. Besides, he was a friend of Darcy's. "It is for the best, I daresay," she said in a tolerably disengaged tone. "I hope you were not looking for Darcy?"

"Oh, it would be no great difficulty even if I were. What is thirty miles? Not half a day's journey. As it happens, however, I had hoped to call on the entire family."

Her smile turned quizzical. "And yet you are here, sir."

He coloured faintly. "I understood that I had been preceded by some, er, acquaintances."

Cecily and Elizabeth looked at one another, trying desperately not to laugh in the street. "I see," Cecily murmured.

"I see that we are not the only ones to play truant."

"We should have stayed," Cecily said gravely.

"It was very wrong of us."

He grinned. "Then may I have the honour of escorting you back to your post?"

Elizabeth sighed. "If we must, we must. It would be our pleasure, sir."

"But only if you promise to stay and entertain us, because I know I shall say something terribly impertinent and foolish," Cecily interjected. "It is one thing to be cleverly impertinent, but there is no forgiving foolish impertinence."

"You have my word of honour, Miss Fitzwilliam."

The three of them made easy and cheerful conversation as they walked back, Elizabeth's spirits lighter than -- barring a few moments at the ball -- she could remember them being for months. Then she gasped.

"Why, what is it?"

"I just remembered. Gertrude! I forgot Gertrude!"

Cecily laughed. "That fat, spoilt creature? Then perhaps she will prove herself useful for once in her existence and catch a mouse or two."

"I promised Jane," Elizabeth said ruefully, "and you see, I have already forgotten. You see how foolish I can be? We are each convinced of our own inferiority," she told Lord Courtland. "Are you certain you dare our company? It might be catching."

"Folly by contagion? I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, I am not afraid of either of you. I am friends with Darcy, after all, and that tends to force strong mindedness on one."

She laughed. "I can imagine it would."

If he had fallen in love with Jane, she thought, he would not have been so easily persuaded. She bit her lip and refused to countenance the wish that had treacherously leapt into her mind.

Chapter Twelve

Posted on Thursday, 11 October 2007

‘God, I hate them.'

‘Edward.' Even Eleanor, though, seemed less disapproving than usual, and Edward only laughed, infinitely more cheerful in his father's absence.

‘Tell me you are madly in love with the very elderly Duke and I shall repent every uncharitable thought I might have harboured towards them. Otherwise . . . '

Eleanor pursed her lips and said primly, ‘There is no need to blame the Almighty for the Stanhopes' inanities. And the Duke is not so very old.'

The colonel grinned at her. ‘Not with a mere forty years of wickedness and depravity behind him. Surely, though, that is a small price to pay for being a duchess --- a duchess from an old and respectable family, no less? Your dowry would earn his eternal devotion, I daresay.'

‘An eternity lasting approximately three weeks,' muttered James.

Elizabeth watched the Duke's carriage rattle out of sight, then gave an audible sigh of relief. ‘Is he really wicked and depraved?' she asked. ‘I thought him more . . .'

‘Dull beyond comprehension?' Henry supplied. ‘Yes, that too.'

She couldn't keep her lips from twitching. ‘Is this his nefarious plot, then?---to bore us to death?'

‘Naturally. He is a cunning man, Albany.' Henry glanced at Eleanor. ‘Are you certain you do not wish to be a duchess, Ella? You would be a very, er, striking couple.'

‘I should like to be one very much,' she said serenely, ‘but not his for all the wealth and consequence in the world.'

Cecily, who had been unnaturally silent for well over an hour, turned from the window to blink at Eleanor. ‘But what about Lord St Ives?'

Everyone stared at her.

‘Oh!' She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I was not to mention that, was I? I am so sorry, Henry.'

‘Henry!' Edward spun to face him. ‘Have you no sense of discretion whatsoever?'

‘I am not indiscreet!' protested Cecily. Edward ignored her.

‘You gave your word that you would never speak of this matter; what if my father had been present? What if he had discovered the engagement?'

Eleanor did not seem unduly disturbed by this prospect. Elizabeth met her icily composed gaze for a brief instant, then walked to Cecily's side as Edward lectured his cousin. ‘He does not blame you,' she whispered.

Cecily bit her lip. ‘I would not have said it, if my uncle were here. I would not have!'

‘I understand,' Elizabeth assured her.

Henry stiffened, his cheeks flooding with colour and his blazing. ‘You --- you speak to me of discretion, of hypocrisy? How dare you --- of all people? How dare you claim authority over what I may or may not confide in my own sister?'

Elizabeth glanced at James; he smiled expressively, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, so she nodded her understanding and returned to Cecily. Her cousin was white, her arm cold beneath Elizabeth's, and she wracked her mind for any excuse to get her out of that room. ‘Gertrude!'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I almost forgot Gertrude, and I told Jane that I would make certain she is well. Come along, Cecily.' Before the taller girl could protest, she half-led, half-dragged her out of the room.

Cecily took several deep breaths, then said, ‘She is probably in Jane's room, but I do not really think she needs any help from us . . .'

‘I promised,' said Elizabeth. ‘Are they always like that?'

Cecily lifted her miserable face. ‘I am not sure. I hardly see Edward at all, he is always off doing something or other, and Henry often has business in London. He is a solicitor, you know.'

‘Yes, I think someone mentioned it.' Elizabeth released her arm. ‘Cecily . . . you do know that this must remain a secret?'

‘Gertrude?' Cecily blinked.

‘No.' She made certain no servants were near, and lowered her voice. ‘Eleanor's engagement. If the Earl knew . . . well, there could be very severe consequences, and they might both be made very unhappy.'

‘Yes, Henry said that,' Cecily agreed. ‘I thought it was safe, in there, without my uncle!'

‘I had discovered it already, but you could not know that. And if I were --- different than I am, I might have confided it all in my uncle.'

Cecily gasped. ‘I did not think of that! Eleanor did not seem to mind.'

‘Oh, Eleanor.' Impatience quickened her steps. ‘What does she ever mind?'

Cecily opened her mouth, then shut it again. ‘I hope she does not marry the Duke,' she said instead. ‘Lord St Ives loves her.'

Elizabeth frowned. As far as she had considered the matter at all, she'd rather thought the affection mainly on Eleanor's side; she could not imagine any man harbouring a great dramatic passion for her. ‘Eleanor, I suppose, is quite violently in love with him.'

‘No, not really. That is . . . I would not put it quite like that, Eleanor is --- well, Eleanor.' She gave an incredulous laugh. ‘I cannot imagine her violently in love with anyone! Can you?'

Once in Jane's room, they quickly found themselves pursuing a yowling cat. It attacked Cecily whenever she tried to touch it, but finally consented to receiving Elizabeth's careful attentions, and she escaped with only a few scratches.

‘Well,' Elizabeth said finally, ‘she seems healthy enough.' The room was very bare, excepting the dead rat in the corner, as if Jane had never been there. Elizabeth sat on the bed with a sigh. Jane was always like this, able to make anything a home, and just as capable of removing all signs of her presence. She could not help falling into a fit of melancholy as she glanced around.

‘One of the servants must have left the drawer open,' Cecily remarked, and walked over to shut it. Her hand stopped in midair.

‘Is something wrong?'

Cecily lifted a single sheet of paper out of the drawer. It was covered in a messy sprawling hand, the seal broken. ‘It's a letter,' she said eagerly, ‘a letter to Jane, from someone named . . . Kitty?'

‘Kitty?' Elizabeth sprang up, holding out her hand without a thought of how imperious the gesture might seem, and hungrily read the careless words, not even thinking of the breach of privacy:

Dear Jane,

Thank you so much for the money you sent, I bought a very smart bonnet and though Lydia has already tried to steal it I haven't let her! I suppose you must be very rich and great now that you are Mr Darcy's sister. You, Miss Darcy of Pemberley! I can hardly think of it. You must have a fine fortune, twenty thousand pounds at least. I would envy you, except you have him for a brother. It must be terrifying, but perhaps the gowns and jewels are worth it!

We are all at the Gardiners' now and it is great fun, far better than boring old Longbourn. I cannot see why Mama and Mary insist upon missing it, especially when my uncle is around for he has been so kind, they even took us to the opera and the music was simply divine. Even Mary enjoyed it I think, though mostly she complained about something immoral, I do not remember exactly. And some of my uncle's friends have been at his house a great deal more since we came, and they are all very attentive to me, even more than to Lydia!

You must have a great many rich lovers, Jane, since you're rich and beautiful now. I suppose Mr Darcy wouldn't settle for anything less than a Lord! Imagine, you married to a Lord, I could almost die laughing. Mr Bingley is nothing now, I suppose, no matter how kind he was, but he is Mr Darcy's friend so I suppose he might have some chance

Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry but I am wanted with the children. I will write again very soon and direct it to Pemberley! Thank you again for my present.

Kitty

The family reunited in the parlour, several hours later. James and Richard talked good-humouredly, Elizabeth and Eleanor sewed and kept Edward and Henry from each other's throats, while Cecily sat at the window and repeatedly asked about the next ball. Lord Fitzwilliam hummed a little as he went through his correspondence, then started.

‘What is it, Father?' Edward asked immediately. ‘Nothing too unfortunate, I hope.'

The Earl gave the letter in his hand a look of intense distaste. ‘Perhaps you could define unfortunate,' he said. ‘Henry, yours is the analytical mind; perhaps you would care to read this? I fear my constitution is unequal to it.'

‘Certainly, sir, if you wish.' His gaze dropped upon the letter, and then he grinned. ‘I comprehend your dilemma, sir; this is likely to be very subtle and complex.'

‘For heavens' sakes,' Edward said impatiently, ‘just read it.'

Even this could not dim Henry's good humour. He began, ‘ "My dear brother --- " '

Richard and Cecily burst out laughing.

‘I beg your pardon, I am trying to read.' Henry's smile broadened still further and he coughed, then spoke in the most pompous voice imaginable --- ‘ "My dear brother, I am, of course, excessively pleased to hear of my nieces' recovery, though I cannot help but think there something very untoward about the circumstances of it. I always thought there was something peculiar about Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I told Anne and my nephews so several times.

‘ "I write, however, not only to express my delight on your behalf as well as that of my dear departed sister, but because I have reason to know that my nieces' education has been sorely lacking. From Elizabeth's own lips I heard that they were educated at home, without a governess, and she at least possessed only the most trifling accomplishments and was very much ignorant as to good Society and its ways. They are too old, now, to be sent to school, but they may still be taught to deport themselves in a manner suitable to ladies of birth and breeding. I wrote my nephew Darcy on the subject and though I have not yet heard from him, I feel certain of his unqualified agreement. A Miss Darcy who does not play! It is unheard-of.

‘ "As for Elizabeth, with proper education I feel certain that she would be a credit to our family, she requires only proper guidance.' " Elizabeth's eyebrows flew up. ‘My apologies, cousin,' Henry told her. ‘ "To that end, I wholeheartedly advise that she be sent to Rosings, where I might supervise her education as, I am certain, my brother and sister would have wished me to --- '

Suddenly Houghton seemed a haven of peace and good cheer. Elizabeth threw a pleading look at her uncle.

‘Nonsense,' he said succinctly.

‘She goes on about that for some time,' said Henry, ‘and --- ah --- this news should provide you with everlasting delight, sir. "I have long regretted my inability to take my proper role in the family, but, of course, I could not possibly leave Anne while her health remained in such a fragile state.' "

‘Oh no!' wailed Cecily. ‘She isn't --- tell me that she isn't going to . . .' The prospect seemed too horrible for words to express. Her brother favoured her with his brightest smile yet.

‘ "Happily, she seems much improved, so we shall join you in London by May, if Anne is still well. Yours etc." '

Richard and Edward groaned in unison, Cecily put her head in arms, and Elizabeth and Eleanor grimaced. Lord Fitzwilliam scowled ferociously at the ceiling.

‘As a clergyman,' said James, ‘I suppose I should not wish any illness upon my cousin.'

‘It would be quite inappropriate,' Henry agreed, without the slightest trace of disapproval. ‘Positively vicious, in fact.'

James sighed. ‘I thought so.'

It was, apparently, a day for letters; while the others waxed eloquent over their aunt, Lord Fitzwilliam silently handed another to Elizabeth. She stared at him.

‘I --- ' Then she caught sight of her name, Elizabeth Fitzwilliam, written in Darcy's close, painstakingly neat, hand. Her breath caught.

‘From Jane, I presume,' the Earl said calmly.

She had no desire to open the letter in public, even if it was from Jane alone. Instead she tucked it away and returned her attention to the others, who had progressed to comforting Cecily.

‘Don't worry,' said Edward, ruffling her hair, ‘we'll protect you from her.'

Cecily slapped his hand away. ‘If you don't I shall . . . I shall tell Lady Cornelia that you are madly in love with her.'

‘No! Anything but that!' He clapped his hand to his forward. ‘I shall convince Aunt Catherine to lecture me and not you. Will that spare me your dastardly revenge?'

‘Perhaps, if I am in a forgiving mood,' she said loftily, and everyone, Lord Fitzwilliam and his mother, Edward and Richard and James, Cecily and Henry, Elizabeth and Eleanor, burst out laughing.

Chapter Thirteen

Posted on Friday, 25 January 2008

Elizabeth tried to attend to the rest of the conversation, but she could think of little but her letter. It was from Jane, the Earl had said, but the address ---

Darcy had asked to write --- and yet he had not --- but then, after her cold parting, what was he to think? He must think her the most sadly inconstant creature in the world! Yet she longed to hear from Jane, as well. There would be no explanation of her deception, if the word could be used of her secrecy, but surely there would be something.

Once safely ensconced in her bedroom, Elizabeth broke the seal, her eyes immediately flying to the opening lines.

Dear Lizzy---

If the salutation were not enough, the handwriting was plainly Jane's. Elizabeth tried to repress a rush of sharp disappointment, but could not keep herself from dropping the letter as she struggled to regain her composure. Poor Jane deserved better than this --- and she did want to hear from her --- to hear about Pemberley, and Georgiana, and --- was she loved as she deserved? Had the household welcomed her? She must be acting as mistress of the house now, when they had never managed even Longbourn.

Elizabeth had persuaded herself into a considerable degree of curiosity when she reached for the letter again, glancing down at the page and envelope. Then she caught her breath.

The letter itself was from Jane --- but the envelope was covered in a quite different hand, though one nearly as familiar to her. Elizabeth seized it up.

Dear Eliz

My d

Elizabeth,

I trust that you are well, and my other relations. Your My Jane misses you greatly, though she is otherwise in excellent health and spirits, which I expect will give you comfort, and she seems to be settling in very comfortably.

In any other circumstance, I would be loath to address you in such an indelicate manner, for fear of offending you; however, as I seem to have done so already, there is little more to be lost in that regard, and so I can only simply beg your pardon for what I shall say. That is --- did I somehow offend you between the ball and my departure? Or rather, have I offended you again? I perfectly comprehend that you must have been displeased to lose Jane so much earlier than expected, but that does not quite seem to account for such a dramatic change in your demeanour. Whatever I have done, I cannot promise that I will not do it again, but without knowing my offence, I am hardly in a position to address it. If I did nothing but take your sister from you, I can only apologise for that, on her behalf and my own.

Houghton, I feel assured, must be infinitely preferable to Rosings, and I hope that you are beginning to feel it your home as much as my uncle's and cousins', and that you are co as happy as can be reasonably expected.

I remain your affectionate cousin,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Elizabeth burst out laughing, falling back on her bed and holding the note against her forehead. Not since their meeting at Pemberley had she seen Darcy speak with such inarticulate anxiety. He sounded positively plaintive, like a child being punished for an unknown transgression. She must have quite terrified the poor man, and all because she was cross at Eleanor and Jane! She sprang up, determined to make herself perfectly clear.

I must apologise for that --- it is not his fault that we are all so headstrong, after all!

Somebody knocked at the door. Elizabeth froze, then snatched up the letters and stashed them in a drawer.

‘Are you awake?'

It was Eleanor.

Stunned, Elizabeth opened the door. ‘Why, Eleanor --- is there something I may do for you?' she enquired, with as much civility as she could muster.

‘May I come in?'

‘I --- yes, of course.' Elizabeth held the door open, then shut it behind her. ‘Would you care to sit down?'

‘No, thank you.'

Eleanor walked to the middle of the room and turned to face her; with a long plait over one shoulder and a worn robe pulled tight around her, she looked disconcertingly young and ingenuous.

‘I hope you will forgive my intrusion, but it has recently come to my attention that . . .' She hesitated, dropping her eyes, then straightened, lifting her chin and meeting Elizabeth's gaze squarely. ‘I have realised that I owe you an apology.'

‘An apology,' Elizabeth repeated, and eyed her cousin. She did look flushed. ‘Eleanor, I am afraid you must have made a mistake. I am Elizabeth, not Cecily.'

Eleanor looked indignant. ‘Cecily? What have I ever done to her, that she merits an apology from me? I have only ever treated her with the consideration she deserves as my relation and my junior.'

‘I beg your pardon,' said Elizabeth. ‘I only thought you might be feverish.'

‘I am quite well, thank you.' Eleanor squared her shoulders. ‘However, I have not, in all respects, extended that consideration to you, and for that, I offer my apologies to you.'

‘I . . .' Elizabeth snapped her mouth shut. ‘Thank you.'

Eleanor relaxed infinitesimally, just enough that her hard face softened into a look more akin to Darcy or James than Lady Catherine. ‘Not, of course,' she added, ‘that I consider myself solely in the wrong, but I did not my duty by you, and for that, I am sorry.'

Elizabeth glanced away, trying to incorporate it all together. Only Eleanor could apologise in such a fashion, with such haughty penitence. She felt a flicker of something that was almost fondness --- not because she liked her cousin, but because Eleanor, despite everything, was hers, and her ways, if not endearing, were from familiarity at least amusing.

She tried to remember when she had first disliked Eleanor. Not when she accused her of jealousy --- no, before that, before the necklace, before --- Elizabeth stiffened in memory. Before everything, when the Fitzwilliams joined them at the Gardiners. She heard ‘Lady Eleanor Fitzwilliam,' she saw an arrogant, forbidding expression on the half-familiar face of a woman who would never walk into a room without catching every eye. From that moment, she had disliked her.

Elizabeth briefly shut her eyes, feeling exhausted. She would have liked to believe that, in those first weeks, she had observed in Eleanor some particular coldness or contempt towards herself, yet she knew she had not. Probably, her cousin had been equally prejudiced against her, yet until that morning in the library, she never varied from the distant civility which always marked her manner.

‘Ella,' said Elizabeth, ‘I do forgive you for your --- breach of duty, and I hope you will extend the same to me.'

Eleanor started. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘My own behaviour towards you has been . . . as you observed, less than perfectly admirable.' Elizabeth lifted her chin. ‘For my part in this estrangement, I apologise, and I hope you will not hold the past against me.'

For a moment, they gazed at one another. Then Eleanor smiled, and said, ‘I think not.' She gathered herself up. ‘Elizabeth, the Lord St Ives intends to call tomorrow, and I wish to introduce him to all of my relations.'

Elizabeth recognised the peace-offering for what it was. ‘I would be honoured, cousin.'

‘Lord St Ives is coming? Really? And we are all going to meet him?' Cecily's blue eyes rounded.

Elizabeth nodded. ‘Eleanor told me that he intended to call, and she wants to introduce him to m -- us.'

‘Good heavens. What if I say something silly? What if I embarrass the whole family?'

‘I am sure you will not, Cecily. Any man so fickle is unworthy of being accepted, in any case.'

Cecily exhaled. ‘Yes, I suppose so.' Then she frowned. ‘This is all very strange. I would never have expected it of Eleanor --- but then, she has been very strange lately. She had the most terrible row with Lord Fitzwilliam yesterday. Do you think that is why he went to York?'

‘No, he had busi --- she quarrelled with her father?' Elizabeth sat upright. ‘What over?'

‘I only heard him say that she was eight-and-twenty, but he sounded quite cross about it. I suppose it must have something to do with her refusing everybody who wants to marry her, and eventually people will stop asking. Well, except Lord St Ives, of course, but my uncle would not know about that.'

‘No, of course not.' Elizabeth stared out the window. Cecily could be right, of course, but with Eleanor's completely unforeseen apology, she could not help seeing it differently. Had the Earl, Eleanor's own father, spoken to her on Elizabeth's account?

‘She had a letter, too,' Cecily said helpfully. ‘I saw her walking around with it last night. She looked very unhappy about something.'

‘From Lord St Ives, I suppose, or --- ' Elizabeth paused, thinking. ‘Or perhaps from Mr Darcy, if he sent it out with Jane's.'

Cecily wrinkled her brow. ‘Fitzwilliam's letters do not usually make people unhappy,' she said, and Elizabeth turned away to hide her smile.

If only you knew.

Lord St Ives was not unlikable, Elizabeth decided, feeling very charitable. In fact, he seemed very nice --- very pleasant --- very fond of Eleanor, though properly attentive to all the ladies. To the men he was polite and rather deferential. He reminded her rather of a well-behaved dog, and she could not think of anyone less suited to fierce, wilful Eleanor.

From that lady's behaviour, Elizabeth would never have guessed her attached to the insipid earl. She showed him little more than her typical cool civility, and as he waxed eloquent on the transcendental beauty of his newly-purchased estate, Elizabeth thought she caught a flicker of sardonic amusement in her dark eyes.

She tried to imagine a younger Eleanor carried away by Lord St Ives' pleasant manners and passion for dead leaves, and failed. Evidently, however, that had happened --- at Elizabeth's or Cecily's age, she had been enchanted by this man, mind-numbingly dull though he might be --- and now . . .

Well, she certainly seemed in no hurry to marry him, devoted though he seemed. Elizabeth could hardly blame her.

‘I hope to see you again, very soon,' Lord St Ives said, with a significant glance at Eleanor. She fixed her eyes on the door and murmured something with the rest of the family.

The instant he took his leave, Eleanor's rigid stance relaxed, and she looked defiantly at the others, who seemed unable to speak. Elizabeth desperately tried to think of something at once noncommittal and inoffensive.

It was Cecily, of course, who artlessly cried, ‘What a perfectly charming gentleman, Ella. I do hope I will be able to call him cousin soon, I like him very much indeed.'

‘I have rarely met a more pleasant man,' Elizabeth added, and shot a pointed look at James. He coughed.

‘Er, quite so. Very well-bred, very . . . elegant. My uncle will come around in no time, I am sure of it.'

‘Thank you,' said Eleanor stiffly. ‘Now, I must beg your forgiveness, but I have some letters to write.'

She left, and another awkward silence fell. Then Henry collapsed on a chair and began laughing. ‘Dear Lord,' he said. ‘Well, this is a sorry pickle.'

Edward scowled. ‘I would have given her a dog,' he said sourly, ‘if I had known that she wanted one.'

‘I am not certain that she does,' Elizabeth said quietly, and the men looked at her. Cecily blinked in bewilderment.

‘Yes,' said James, ‘yes, I think you are right. Well, this will be a scandal, if news of it gets out. I hope he takes it in good grace.'

‘After years of waiting?' Edward shook his head. ‘No man would.'

Elizabeth glanced from one to the other. ‘If he loves her, he would not wish to bring her pain. I know that --- ' She thought of Darcy's voice, cold and composed, accept my best wishes for your health and happiness, and God bless you in the elegant slanting lines of his script. ‘I know that he would wish her happy, even if that happiness did not include him, if he truly loved her.'

Henry and Edward exchanged glances; then the former said harshly, ‘This is not a novel, Elizabeth. There is something of selfishness in all attachments.'

‘Something, yes,' she exclaimed, ‘but inflicting pain out of nothing superior to malice? No person, man or woman, who truly loved could do it, even with just cause for anger and resentment.'

Before any of the others could reply, James rose and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘This is Eleanor's affair,' he said. ‘We can only hope for the best, for her sake and our own.'

‘I do not understand,' Cecily said plaintively. ‘What are you talking of? I cannot make any sense of it.'

Henry's expression gentled. ‘You need not worry yourself, Cecily. I daresay it will all blow over, and soon everything will be --- almost --- as it was.'

She brightened. ‘Oh! Well, I shan't, then. Elizabeth, would you like to walk to the village? The rain has passed.'

‘I should love to,' Elizabeth replied, and gladly escaped the house, only once glancing back to see someone at Eleanor's window, gazing out from behind the glass.