Beginning, End Section

Chapter Six

Posted on Monday, 17 March 2008

Rule #5: Avoid the cause(s) of the estrangement.

Elizabeth, who had grown tired of her proximity to her husband and was anxious about how her son fared among familial strangers, insisted on going home the following day after an evening of nearly overwhelming tension. Her mother, who had no intention of her single daughter leaving her advantageous place at Netherfield, refused the plea to send a carriage, but Mr. Bingley, despite similar feelings, had been brought up a gentleman and was not so ungenerous.

They were greeted at home with reproaches from their mother, indifference from their younger sisters, and boisterous joy from the youngest member of the household. Elizabeth had barely walked in the door before her son had attached himself to her neck on a flying leap, and she spent several hours with him there before he was induced to let go by the promise of a treat.

Mr. Bennet was more restrained in his enthusiasm for their return, but he was no less grateful. "I don't know what your mother would have done if you had not come back to see to the little tot. You would have thought his care was left solely to her by the way she was carrying on about her nerves." When Elizabeth began to apologize, he shook his head and smiled. "Oh, no, we spent several days in here reading books, with several turns in the garden and beyond. I vow, I haven't enjoyed the fresh air so much in all my life. Your sense was dearly missed."

He asked a few questions about her visit and whether her husband had behaved himself, but for the most part seemed highly uninterested in the answers. His own news seemed to occupy his thoughts more: "I am glad that you have returned in time, though," he said when she had been kind enough to finish. "I would not have had you miss our visitor for the world."

"Visitor?" echoed Elizabeth, absently nodding at the picture Bennet had come to show her and telling him it was a lovely blue horse, when most likely it was a tree.

"Why, yes. A month ago I received a letter, and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case involving some delicacy and requiring early attention. It was from my cousin Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases. He will be arriving tomorrow, and I have yet to inform your mother."

"Oh, how delightful!" Elizabeth said with a small giggle. "I am sure Mama will order extra fish for him. May I read the letter?"

Mr. Bennet dug among the papers on his desk, extracted one, and handed it to his daughter. It read:

Dear Sir,

The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honored father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with any one with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.

My mind however is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavor to demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England.

As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologize for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends -- but of this hereafter.

If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'nnight following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,

WILLIAM COLLINS.

"My goodness, he does seem to show proper respect toward his patroness," she mused. "For all that she is a malevolent, arrogant busybody."

Mr. Bennet agreed that his cousin seemed most conscious of his humility.

"He must be an oddity, though, I think," she continued. "I cannot make him out -- there is something very pompous in his style." She paused and re-read the letter, her brow furrowing. "And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail? We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could. And as to amends . . . I simply don't know. Can he be a sensible man, Papa?"

"No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well."

"But do you think he should come?" she asked. "After all, if he wishes to ingratiate himself with his patroness it cannot do to have truck with such as I."

"Oh, no, my dear," he replied. "I told him nothing of the affair. I am sure he will come. I am impatient to see him."

Despite this professed impatience, Mr. Bennet waited until the following morning to inform his madam wife of her houseguest's imminent arrival. The disclosure went much as expected, with the exception of there being no fish to be got.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. He made the appropriate courtesies and endeavored to behave with charm towards the young ladies of the household. He showed some agitation, however, upon being made aware of the second eldest daughter's current surname.

"I am not . . . I was not aware this young lady was in residence," Mr. Collins said in some distress to his hostess. "I had understood her disin--, er. . . away from home."

"As you see, I am here," Elizabeth said quite seriously, though the glance she shared with her father threatened her composure.

"She has returned to us after a sojourn in London and Berkshire," Mrs. Bennet replied, unsure why the issue had arisen. "Her husband, in fact, is residing at Netherfield."

Mr. Collins' eyes appeared now to be attempting an escape from his head, and he choked slightly as he said, "Mr. Darcy, the nephew of my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is here?"

There was silence in the room, all eyes staring at the newly come visitor -- except his, of course, which were staring in horror at his host.

At last, the latter gentleman observed with calm politeness, "Well, now that we have established the location of all concerned, perhaps we might go in to dinner? We keep country hours here, as you see, Mr. Collins."

Eager to escape the unpleasant awkwardness of the past few minutes, everyone followed his lead. Dinner was no less uncomfortable, and perhaps slightly more, as everyone struggled valiantly to ignore the topic dwelling uppermost on their minds.

At last, though, Lydia, who often displayed more liveliness than sense, spoke into one of the many silences with: "Well, I don't see what it much matters that Lizzy is here with us. It's not as if her husband wanted her, I should think."

"Hush child," her mother said, but the damage was done.

Mr. Collins' face was a mask of shock before he recalled himself and stood, his chest puffing out slightly. "I have long thought it was the place of the wife to be at her husband's side, and to submit to his will," he said. "I have heard from my esteemed patroness the details of your daughter's shameful conduct and am most seriously displeased at your tacit approval of them, betrayed by her continued presence in your home and family. Her wicked and reprehensible influence on her sisters can be seen quite readily in this young lady, who appears to knows so woefully little of propriety and morality.

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh spoke rightfully when she said that it was the duty of all God-fearing citizens to shun those who break with the natural law, and to protect those who are too innocent to understand," he said, his voice rising as if he were speaking from the pulpit. "For we, as a society, must guard ourselves against that which is shameful and corrupting, for by allowing it among us we allow ourselves to be despoiled. She, herself, protected Mr. Darcy's sister from the taint of immorality when at Pemberley, and bitterly regretted she could not take her away from those polluted shades.

"I, myself, feel that, under the circumstances, you ought to have thrown off this unworthy child from your affection, and left her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offence. For who would now connect themselves with such a family?"

Mr. Bennet, who seemed completely unaffected by this speech, wiped his mouth genteelly, looked up at Mr. Collins, and said, "In light of that consideration, cousin, perhaps you feel it unwise to remain under this roof? A clergyman, in my opinion, can never be too careful of his reputation."

Suddenly aware of the growing darkness, his long journey, and the delicious food before him, Mr. Collins seemed to reconsider his position. He sat down carefully, cleared his throat, and said, "Of course, that is very true, Mr. Bennet. But I also feel that often, as clergymen, we are called to minister among the sinners, so to speak." He laughed nervously. "I am sure that Lady Catherine would agree with my philosophy."

Mr. Bennet agreed that she undoubtedly would, and the dinner was relieved of a measure of awkwardness as he thereafter engaged his cousin in questions about his patroness and his situation at Rosings.

By the time dinner was complete, Mr. Bennet had had his fill of his guest, and as they removed to the drawing room, suggested that he might read aloud to the ladies. Perhaps in order to forward his intention of ministering to the sinners, Mr. Collins chose among the books produced for him a volume of Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages on the topic of obedience, she interrupted him with,

"Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and, if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town."

She was bid by her eldest sisters to hold her tongue, but, again, the damage was done. Mr. Collins, much offended, made a remark on the disinterest young ladies have in books that might benefit them in moral instruction. Unwilling this time, however, to go further, he laid the book aside and offered himself as an antagonist to Mr. Bennet in backgammon. That gentleman, supposing that it were perhaps better to enjoy his new entertainment in private, agreed.

The following afternoon, the suggested trip into Meryton was again proposed. Every sister except Mary agreed to go with Lydia, and Elizabeth felt the trip might be a good one for her son, who had been in the house again for too long and was mischievously giving the maids trouble.

Mr. Collins was to attend them, as Mr. Bennet so conscientiously suggested. The latter gentleman's true purpose, of course, was to be rid of his unwanted guest and have to himself again his library -- where Mr. Collins had been talking with little cessation of his house at Hunsford while pretending to read -- and felt no remorse at saddling his daughters with the plague instead. Mr. Collins, being much more fitted as a walker than a reader, and being also completely unaware of his unwanted status, readily assented.

Thus the miles between Longbourn and Meryton were filled by pompous musings on moral rectitude on his side and civil assents on that of his cousins. At last, however, the village was reached and the attention of the young ladies was no longer his. Their eyes darted from window shop to uniformed officer, excitedly chatting about this and that.

Being more polite than their younger sisters, Jane and Elizabeth, her hand held tightly by Bennet, had been trapped by Mr. Collins, who was determined to have some audience, at least. But they were all called to attention by Lydia as she made an exclamation of surprise.

A gentleman Lydia did not recognize was walking on the opposite side of the road, accompanied by the very Mr. Denny whom she had mentioned the night before. The youngest two sisters, determined to find out who this mysterious gentleman was, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, reached the same spot.

As the gentleman had turned, however, Elizabeth froze in place, causing Bennet and Jane to stop as well. "What is it?" the latter asked, concerned.

"It's Mr. Wickham," Elizabeth breathed, and then turned quickly to the nearest shop window, pretending extreme interest in the bonnets on display. Bennet strained at his mother's hand, pointing at a passing dray, but she pulled him closer to herself, shielding him with her skirts. Jane stood beside her, looking uncertainly between her sister and the twosome the small trio had just met.

It was at this moment that Darcy and Bingley happened to pass through the village. They were on their way to Longbourn, Bingley to inquire after Jane and Darcy to remain closely by his friend, but the appearance of the sought-after Miss Bennet standing beside a shop on their very path was fortuitous. Bingley immediately dismounted and approached the two young ladies, Darcy trailing reluctantly behind.

Bingley began the civilities, most primarily targeted toward Jane, and Darcy, left to himself, was free to avoid the eyes of the other principal in the small party. But his wandering gaze had no sooner left the group than it fell upon the other party not ten feet away, which consisted of the youngest Bennet sisters; two strangers, one in the habit of a clergyman and the other the garb of the militia; and a gentleman all too familiar to him.

Their gazes met, locked. One paled, the other flushed. Darcy's head whipped towards Elizabeth, his mouth opened as if to say something, then closed just as abruptly. With a visible struggle, he turned, remounted his horse, and returned the way he had come.

Bingley, in the middle of wiggling his fingers in front of Bennet's gleeful face, stared in surprise at his retreating friend. He straightened, his cheeks flushing uncomfortably, and made their excuses.

"You needn't apologize for your friend, Mr. Bingley," Elizabeth said gently.

"No, I must," he replied determinedly. "I don't pretend to understand why he left so --"

"Mrs. Darcy, Miss Bennet."

The three turned as one to see that the other party had now joined them. Wickham, his lips turned up in a sly smile, had tipped his hat to the two ladies.

"Mr. Denny, how do you do?" Elizabeth replied equitably, acknowledging the militiaman who had spoken first. She turned her head slightly to look Wickham full in the face, then, without a word, spun on her heel and walked away, drawing her son after her.

"The cut direct..." someone murmured behind her, but she continued without a pause. As she passed the inn, she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying behind her, and a few moments later Jane caught her up, breathing heavily from running.

She didn't say a word, and the two reached Longbourn in due course. Upon entering Elizabeth ignored her mother, who came into the foyer questioning them about the absence of the others, and went up to her room with her son. Jane found her there sitting on her bed, holding a teary Bennet to her chest, shaking.

"I am such a fool; I should never have gone," Elizabeth said when Jane had closed the door. "And I certainly should not have brought my son! What if he had seen him, Jane?"

Jane didn't question who, but merely eased the frightened child from his mother's arms and took him outside the door, where she handed him to a passing maid with the direction to take him to the library, wherein Mr. Bennet could undoubtedly be found. She then returned to the bed, sat beside Elizabeth, and, taking one of her hands into her own, patted it consolingly.

"And Wickham! That he should come here, of all the places in England!"

Jane sighed. "I am sure it is just a coincidence, Lizzy."

"I am heartily sick of coincidence! It was only coincidence that my husband should come to Hertfordshire at this time. It was only coincidence that you should fall ill at Netherfield. It was only coincidence that the rector of the parsonage on the most hateful woman's land should come here, to -- coincidentally -- his cousin's house. And now it is only coincidence that Wickham should come to Meryton!"

"He has come to join the regiment here," Jane said.

"Now all we're missing are Lady Catherine and Georgiana for a pleasant reunion," Elizabeth muttered. "But I suppose we could always substitute Mr. Collins for the former and perhaps Mary might make a good Georgiana. Better than Lydia or Kitty, I suppose."

"Lizzy, I don't understand what you're saying."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and shook her head. "I don't know Jane. I'm just so confused right now. Perhaps this might be a good time for me to leave."

"Oh, no!" cried Jane, tears appearing in her large, blue eyes. "You mustn't go now. We've just been reunited!"

"I think I must," Elizabeth replied, no less moved by the idea. "It might not be forever, you know. We may be able to come back to England some time in the future."

Jane looked as doubtful at that as Elizabeth felt. But despite her sister's pleas to remain, Elizabeth knew it was the right course of action. She did finally agree to wait until speaking to their father to place a date to set sail, but she stood firm on the issue: she had to leave Hertfordshire, and the sooner the better.

At Netherfield, Darcy was undergoing a similar crisis. After returning from the ride, he stewed about in his rooms for some time before joining Bingley in the library. The latter was nearly as surprised to see his friend appear as Darcy was to find someone -- and Bingley especially -- in his hitherto-unbreached sanctum, but the intrusion was not considered unwelcome on either part.

"He's come to join the regiment here," Bingley said without preamble, guessing accurately the cause of his friend's agitated state.

"Why here? Did he know she was here? Is this why she came back?"

Bingley shook his head. "I am supposing you do not require a response to those questions, as I cannot answer, in good faith, any of them. But I will tell you that she was as upset as you seem to be at his appearance. She gave him the cut direct."

Darcy stopped mid-pace and looked at his friend, one brow raised in question.

"Why do you think she hadn't joined the others?"

A frustrated sigh was Bingley's only answer.

Near-silence again reigned in the room. The clock as it ticked off each long second, Darcy's footsteps as he paced across the Axminster carpet, and the pages Bingley flipped as he went back to his reading were the only sounds that broke the stillness.

At last, Darcy settled into the matching wing chair and, with another sigh, said, "I simply don't know what to think anymore. The more I see her, the more I would believe she were innocent, but all evidence screams against it. I have gone so long believing myself the victim in all this, and her the offender, that to imagine I may have been wrong . . . it cannot be thought of."

"I don't understand what you're saying," Bingley said.

"It doesn't matter, I suppose," his friend replied. "I ought to cut my losses and return to Pemberley."

Bingley protested against the idea, insisting he stay at least until after the ball. "For I would have your advice on Miss Bennet."

"Are you intent on courting her, after all?"

"I am," Bingley replied firmly. "Caroline and Louisa have attempted to dissuade me from this attachment, but I consider the drawbacks against her -- her connections, her lack of wealth -- they are as nothing compared with my love for her."

"And she? Does she love you?"

"Have you not seen?"

"I have not," Darcy admitted ruefully. "My thoughts have been elsewhere."

"Then you have no other objections?" Bingley asked.

Darcy shook his head. "If you have rejected the considerations of rank and connections, I do not see how any advice of mine could help you."

"You know her father. How ought I approach him? You've done this oftener than I."

Darcy merely grumbled something unintelligible and retreated again into silence. After some contemplation he revealed his course of thought:

"Do you think he has come for his son, then? I know that, by law, he is mine, but . . .' He seemed to struggle with something inwardly. Finally he said to his friend, who seemed distracted by his own thoughts, "I don't want her to run off with him. She showed some sense, at least, the last time, and left on her own . . ."

"Do you mean she hasn't told you?" Bingley interrupted, as if unaware his friend had continued talking.

This appeared to check Darcy, who had no idea what his wife was to have told him.

"You mean to tell me you didn't see him in the village?"

This mystified Darcy even more, but no query he could place would elicit more information from his friend. And when Bingley left him, plagued by his conscience and weary of fielding questions, Darcy was left to puzzle out what he had meant -- and what it meant for his spousal relationship.

Back in the village, meanwhile, the author of all this disturbance on the part of husband and wife was enjoying himself thoroughly. The scene in the village that day was recounted left and right, and after some thought Wickham was able to give the gossips what they had been looking for -- the truth behind the whole story.

To their eager ears, he told them how old Mr. Darcy, father to the current and godfather to him, had promised him a living. He related his return to Derbyshire to speak with the younger Mr. Darcy after the will was read, and how he was denied the position. Mrs. Darcy, feeling the injustice of such an action, tried to reason with her husband, but he -- who had long been jealous of his father's affection for this young son of the Pemberley steward -- turned on her. They were both thrown out of the house (he would not vouch to his eager listeners that Mr. Darcy did not lay hands on his wife before banishing her for taking his part), Mrs. Darcy to who knew not where, and he to make a living for himself as he could.

Mr. Darcy, a villain! The tide of opinion swept from thinking him a victim to vindicating Mrs. Darcy, who had only tried to see justice done. And to think, that he should come into Hertfordshire!

Mr. Wickham dined well on his story, and the rumors spread. And in the intervening days, as the invitations went out for the ball at Netherfield and preparations were made despite the steady rain, everyone waited eagerly for the coming event:

Elizabeth, because she had agreed upon it being the last evening she would spend here before going off to parts unknown. Darcy, because he would leave the following morning to return to his home in Derbyshire, no matter what he discovered of his wife. And nearly everyone else, to see what would happen when the two of them met one more time.

Chapter Seven

Posted on Thursday, 20 March 2008

Rule #2: Do not see each other!

Fielding was in a quandary. The other day, as he had been in the village on an errand for his master, he had taken the opportunity afforded by the haberdasher's slow assistant to check out the local pub. The ale had been wonderful, the local folk welcoming, but the rumors decidedly not to his taste. He returned to Netherfield with a sick stomach, despite the lightness of his head.

He struggled with his conscience for the better part of two days, but the morning of the ball he awoke with such a feeling of guilt that he knew he had to speak.

Therefore, choosing his moment wisely, he began as he was cleaning the razorblade and his master was wiping the lather residue from his chin.

"They've been speaking of you in the village, sir."

There was silence behind him for a moment, and then, in an awful tone that made Fielding wish he hadn't even started: "What are they saying?"

"There're some rumors that say you beat your wife, sir. There are some that say you and Mr. Wickham are at odds. But the most disturbing of them all say you dishonored your father's wishes."

Again, the silence, followed by: "Tell me all of it."

It was a good thing Fielding spent a good portion of his days maintaining his active physique, for when he finished relating all he had heard in the village, he had to move quickly to dodge the basin that came flying at him.

Not that his master had meant to harm him, he told his avid listeners downstairs later, as he dried out his clothes. But when one is in the grips of some powerful emotion, one doesn't really notice where the things that get knocked off the tables may land.

His master quieted down right quickly -- and even apologized, would you ken -- controlling his expression with admirable will as they had finished dressing. But Fielding could clearly tell, when he was dismissed 'til the afternoon, that the day's excitement wasn't near over.

Mrs. Partridge, the housekeeper, told Fielding he ought to have kept quiet about it, and reiterated that opinion with a little more smugness when the head footman (who was stationed at the front door while Prufrock was in the cellar) came down and mentioned he had seen Mr. Darcy ride off in the direction of Meryton.

But the speculation of what was to happen had to wait, as preparations for the ball were of greater import. All of the servants scattered back to their previous occupations as Cook drove the extraneous inhabitants from her domain.

By the end of the day, however, as carriages began arriving at the front steps of Netherfield, it was Prufrock who, though not privy to the conversation below stairs, nevertheless knew more than all of the servants combined.

Like any good servant, the impassive butler knew the essence of much of the conversation between his present master and Mr. Darcy after the latter returned to Netherfield from his ride.

Wind-swept and visibly angered, the gentleman had dismounted at the door and rushed up the steps, pausing only briefly to enquire as to his host's whereabouts. Prufrock had led him to the billiards room and then, as they asked not to be disturbed, stood watch in front of the door. Thus he only missed the part of the conversation during which he was dissuading a curious Miss Bingley from entering.

He showed no surprise, therefore, when Bingley asked his horse to be readied and a short while later departed for the village. He was also well prepared to inform the stables to have a carriage ready before dawn the following morning and did not bat so much as an eyelash as he produced the spare key to the cabinet wherein the pistols were kept.

With the preoccupation of the household he had no opportunity, should he have wished it, to share this knowledge. Nevertheless, it was not long after the ball started later that evening that Prufrock became only one of those outside the principals to be aware of most of the particulars. The news, brought by a lieutenant who had happened to overhear the seconds speaking of it, spread like wildfire across the ballroom:

Darcy had challenged Wickham to a duel.

One person not made aware of the scandalous tittle-tattle was Elizabeth, as a result of the curious way in which those most closely associated with any given rumor are rarely brought abreast of their fame. Thus, oblivious either to the rumors of Wickham's story and the duel, or to the reason for the speculative stares, she laughed and danced and brushed off the peculiar feeling that something was not quite right.

Elizabeth had dressed with care this evening, ignoring the inner voice that whispered she were dressing for him. She vowed to herself that, on this last night she might see her husband, she would do her utmost to avoid conflict. She feared she might give into the temptation to speak with him -- explain what had happened, tell him she forgave him -- and she steeled herself against it. It was for him approach to her, she swore: for his the offence, his must the remedy be. She wasn't waiting with bated breath.

She was with Charlotte (who had heard the rumors and was deciding the most tactful way to bring up the subject), and was telling her of America and her plans to settle in Lower Canada, when the unthinkable happened: Darcy approached them. Charlotte, feeling uncommonly awkward and unsure how to proceed, stepped back, leaving husband and wife, for all intents and purposes, face-to-face.

"Mrs. Darcy, might I request the pleasure of this dance?" Darcy asked after a moment in which the two stared at each other.

Elizabeth, startled firstly by his appearance and secondly by his appeal, stuttered for a moment before, with graceful recovery, she replied she would be most honored.

Darcy offered his arm, and they made their way onto the dance floor, where the sets were forming. The crowd in the ballroom grew, drawn from the card room and the ladies' withdrawing room by the whispers that the two were dancing.

They neither of them spoke at first, until Elizabeth, imagining their silence to stretch through the two dances entirely if she did not help it, made some slight observation about the dance. He replied briefly, and they were again silent until she said:

"It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy -- I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."

He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.

"Very well." she replied. "That will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones, but now we may be silent."

"I did not recall you spoke by rule when dancing, Elizabeth," he said.

Elizabeth was startled by his use of her name, especially in such a tone, but, frowning, merely said, "I used not to, but we are neither of us as we once were."

He said nothing to this, and they fell into a silence again. At last, though, he asked, "Where did you go upon leaving Derbyshire last?"

"To London," she replied with only a brief hesitation, pasting her social smile firmly on her face again. "To my aunt and uncle."

"I thought as much. And did you stay there long?"

"No. After the course of only several months, I moved to Berkshire, to a widowed cousin of my aunt."

He nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful. "And how did you live?" he asked after a moment.

"Though not well off, Mrs. Simmons had some small means, and we supplemented her widow's pay by taking in sewing," she said. "Mr. Darcy, to what do these questions tend?"

"Merely to assuage my conscience that you did not suffer when you left my house," he said. "Though I fear that assurance has not yet come."

"We are no longer your concern," she murmured, unsure from where this unease was driven.

"Elizabeth, we must talk."

A bark of bitter laughter burst from her lips. "I do not think the ballroom a proper place, sir. It breaks all the rules of polite society."

"And what of this estrangement?" he asked.

"It breaks all the rules of that, too."

"Then of what would you have us speak? Books?"

"Oh, no," she replied with a genuine smile. "For you know that, though we have similar tastes, we never read them with the same opinions. I could not speak of books at a ball."

"The weather, then? Though I warn you I could not tell you if it had been fine or blustery these past few days. It has all seemed stormy to me."

"There has been rain," she said. "It has been raining for some time."

"And does there look to be improvement soon?"

She hesitated at this, cocking her head in puzzled confusion, and said, "I could not tell you, Mr. Darcy. I am no gypsy, to see the future."

He didn't say anything in reply, and she continued with: "But I am going somewhere I have high hopes the rain will not follow. I will be leaving Hertfordshire tomorrow."

Darcy started and nearly tripped over his feet, but recovered in time to join the other dancers in the pattern. When he and Elizabeth came together again in the dance he said, "Berkshire is not so far away."

"Oh, not to Berkshire -- to America."

"America!" he repeated in surprise. "Has this been a design of long duration?"

She replied that it had been.

"Then I wish you well," he said, though his voice did not reflect the selflessness of this statement. "But you do not think the rain will follow you there?"

"Even should it, it shall be a different kind of rain," she replied.

"You would not miss the days of warmth and sun here?"

"They have been few and far between, sir. I shall regret them, but perhaps I shall find a different sun there."

Darcy, whose jaw had clenched during this last statement, appeared as though he would respond, but as the music then ended, he instead offered his arm to his partner. Elizabeth could feel the stiffness in him as he led her from the dance floor.

Before they parted, Darcy spoke in a low voice to Elizabeth, asking her for an audience the next morning. She hesitated, but curiosity won out and she responded in the positive.

"And if by some evil chance I do not come to call, I beg your humblest pardon," he said, and then, bowing, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Elizabeth stood for a moment in puzzlement, unsure of the meaning of his parting statement, and was soon approached by Miss Bingley, who with an expression of civil disdain thus accosted her:

"So, Mrs. Darcy, I understand from your sister that it has been some time since you have been last in London."

"It has."

"In which case, I am sure you would be interested to learn some of the most recent on dits. You must have heard something about Lady Bracknell, I assume?"

"Miss Bingley, I have no --"

"Oh, but of course you haven't," Miss Bingley continued, overriding Elizabeth's words. "It is quite difficult to gain news of any real interest in the country where you were cloistered. Or should I say 'sequestered'? No matter -- as I was saying, Lady Bracknell recently was in quite a scandal. It seems she was caught in a bit of a compromising position with Lord Hubert Godfrey -- by her own husband, no less. Well, it wouldn't have done for Lord Bracknell to ignore such a thing, so it seems he and Lord Hubert went out and settled the matter with a duel."

"That is quite fascinating, Miss Bingley --"

"Lord Hubert, being quite the shot, you know, won in a most impressive way. So impressively, in fact, that he was forced to retreat to the continent to avoid the law. And Lady Bracknell, well, she hasn't been seen in society since -- and it isn't mourning that has stopped the invitations coming."

"Miss Bingley, I am not certain I understand --"

"Only this Mrs. Darcy: I understand from your sister that you met George Wickham in the village recently. But it seemed Miss Bennet was unaware of later developments, which have come to my attention. Mr. Wickham has let it be known that you were in league with him in standing against your husband, before you abandoned him. I, of course, as would any person of sense and refinement, hold Mr. Darcy blameless in all this. Taking the word of the son of a steward against that of a gentleman! Absurd!" She narrowed her eyes slightly, and with a sly smile delivered her parting shot: "Society here in the country may be more curious, Mrs. Darcy, but don't ever mistake it for acceptance."

Elizabeth stood numbly as Miss Bingley then turned and walked away. In truth, and especially coming so soon after her husband's own enigmatic statement, she was confused about the lady's full intent in speaking with her and the meaning behind the story she had shared.

But as a sliver of doubt then began to chafe her thoughts, she sought her sister. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment every thing else gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.

"I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister's, "What you have heard of Mr. Darcy. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged, and the topics of discussion more narrowed than to involve a third person, in which case you may be sure of my pardon."

"No," replied Jane. "We did talk of generalities -- but Mr. Bingley did not seem comfortable when I mentioned Mr. Darcy. And when I mentioned Mr. Wickham, he changed the topic entirely."

"Did he say anything of a duel?" Elizabeth asked. "Or perhaps Mr. Darcy's plans?"

Jane disavowed any knowledge of either, and seemed most shocked at the idea of a duel, but assured her sister she would introduce the topic again when next she spoke with Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth then inquired about that gentleman, and the discourse thus changed to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no doubt of the outcome.

On their being joined then by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth, feeling herself to be superfluous, withdrew to a seat near the other matrons. The ladies, who had been gazing out over the crowd and gossiping together, grew abruptly silent when she drew close, but after she had taken a chair, started up a new conversation about the suspected French origin of Mrs. Hurst's gown.

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley, and the train of agreeable reflections to which her observations gave birth made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her, in idea, settled in that very house, in all the felicity that a marriage of true affection could bestow. Recognizing that their love and thus their union would be something intrinsically different from her own, she had high hopes that a marriage between them might lead to true happiness for their lifetimes.

Her mother's thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr. Bingley.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavor to check the rapidity of her mother's words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. At one point, she was even sure he would say something, but he seemed to check himself and returned to his meal. When Elizabeth voiced her disapproval again, this time a little more softly, her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.

"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure, with our history, we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear. He is as nothing to us anymore."

Elizabeth felt her face heat, and did not dare look in her husband's direction. She felt all the shame of her position and knew not what to say to stem the flow of her mother's conversation.

But no sooner had the blush begun to fade on Elizabeth's cheeks after, at length, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say, than the rest of her family took up the campaign to embarrass her. During the whole of Mary's impressive two-song performance on the pianoforte, her father's admittedly unnecessarily harsh remonstrance of said sister, Mr. Collins' pompous monologues, and her youngest sisters' continued loose and loud behavior, Elizabeth was forced to sit, wincing at every further mortification, across from her husband and later watch as he prowled the ballroom, his brows drawn and his expression clouded. At last she could take no more and implored her father to send for the carriage.

Therefore it was that the Longbourn party was the first of all the company to depart. There was significant grumbling in one of the carriages as its inhabitants groused on their being torn away from a decidedly enjoyable ball, but Elizabeth, obtaining a seat in the other, was able to merely smile reassuringly at Jane and ignore Mr. Collins as he chatted about his wonderful hosts while Mr. Bennet looked on in amusement. And when they arrived at Longbourn, Elizabeth escaped quickly to avoid the recriminations of her mother and younger sisters.

But she was one of the few to have seen the evening as an utter failure. Even before the carriage wheels had clattered their way past the gatehouse, Mr. Darcy left the party to seek a more contemplative scene, and, with the principals safely away, the discussion eagerly turned upon the events of the evening. Every nuance of expression was dissected, every possible outcome of tomorrow's event forecast, every action by the joint Bennet and Darcy family greedily recounted.

And as the guests began to disperse, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were congratulated again and again on their wonderful hostessing. It was, it appeared, a most successful ball.

Chapter Eight

Posted on Monday, 24 March 2008

Rule #6: Blame everyone else for the situation.

The morning air was heavy and cool, the fog roiling thickly over the field where the duel's participants gathered. Of the six that stood waiting in the pre-dawn gloom, the only one who did not display his nervousness over the coming match was the one who quite possibly had the most to lose.

The apothecary stood anxiously to one side, his bag in hand, hoping he would not have to use it. Captain Denny, holding one box of pistols, loaded several moments before in the presence of the other seconds, glanced over his shoulder every few minutes, as if expecting the authorities to materialize out of the fog and take him unawares. His fellow militiaman, a Lieutenant Hervey, stared steadily at the ground, his shaking hands thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat. Bingley stood beside Darcy, the other box of pistols in his arms. Every so often he whispered something to that gentleman in a frantic voice, but received only a perfunctory nod each time that did little to assuage his unease.

Darcy stood stoically, listening with seeming unconcern to his friend. Every so often, he glanced at his watch, then replaced it in the pocket of his waistcoat. His black greatcoat swirled around him in the light breeze.

He was fashionably dressed, the sober-colored fabrics and even more sober expression the very model for a gentleman about to commence such a serious affair. His hair, ruffled slightly by the gentle wind, was tamed though slightly damp and his cheeks clean-shaven. He was ready, as they say, to either meet his maker or have (after pistols for two) breakfast for one.

The only hint that his role was less about heartlessness than firm-heartedness was in his eyes. The slight bruising about them spoke of the sleepless night he had endured. Though not -- at least not as much since his marriage had fallen apart -- a praying man, he had spent much of the hours 'til dawn on his knees, begging for another chance. The contemplation of the utter mess he had made of his life, heightened perhaps by his visit earlier in the day with a notary, brought about a grief profound such as he had never experienced.

But the grief had given way to anger, and the anger had given away to purpose, and that resolve had driven him to this, waiting in the dismal weather for a man who, it seemed increasingly, might not even appear.

At long last, however, the figure of a man emerged out of the fog, nearly giving Captain Denny an attack. Wickham, in full regimental dress, strolled onto the green and, with an insouciant and somewhat insolent bow, acknowledged his opponent. He removed his tricorne, gloves and coat, handing them to Lieutenant Hervey, and approached the duo standing slightly apart.

"You do not wish to apologize, then?" Wickham asked derisively.

In response, Darcy gestured towards Bingley, who hurriedly opened the lid of the box. "Your choice," he said in a voice that gave nothing away.

Wickham picked up one of the pistols, balanced it in his hand, and nodded. Darcy, after removing his greatcoat, took the other and the two went to stand back-to-back in the middle of the field.

Captain Denny, with a deep breath to steady himself, squared his shoulders and approached. "Gentlemen, before we begin I must ask if we may settle this dispute with an apology. Mr. Darcy, as the challenger--"

"No."

"Well, then, gentlemen, these are the rules agreed upon by the seconds: two shots at twenty paces, on my signal. After the first shot, if neither is disabled, an apology may be made. If no apology is forthcoming, we shall proceed to the second shot. In the seriousness of this occasion, I must remind you that no dumb shooting or firing in the air is acceptable. A misfire is equivalent to a shot. Any wound sufficient to agitate the nerves and so make the hand shake shall make an end to this business.

"Now, gentleman, I shall count off the paces. You shall then face each other and I shall give a 'ready, fire.' Are the rules clear?"

Both of the duelists agreed, and the steps were counted. At ten, they faced each other, waiting for the signal. Darcy stared steadily at his opponent, who began to betray his nervousness in the beads of perspiration gathering on his brow.

At "ready," they raised their arms, and with sharp reports, almost synchronous, and a flash of fire from each pistol, it was over.

Darcy remained standing, but his adversary knelt on the ground, clutching his right shoulder. "You hit me!" Wickham swore.

Without replying to the murderous epithets of his opponent, Darcy turned and handed his pistol to Bingley, who took it with an expression of shock.

Captain Denny, ashen but determined to fulfill his role, asked the apothecary if the duel could continue. At that gentleman's decided opposition, the captain declared an end to the matter. Darcy, putting on his greatcoat, made to leave.

"You'll never know if the little brat is yours or not, will you?"

At the question, one of many but the only to hit a nerve, Darcy turned to Wickham, who was sitting now on the ground as the apothecary tried to staunch the flow of blood from the wound.

"On the contrary, if Elizabeth tells me he is mine, I will believe her," he replied. He hesitated, but then approached his adversary. "Why, Wickham?"

Not pretending to misunderstand the question, the man on the ground replied, without care for his audience, "Because you have everything, and I, nothing."

"And why did you destroy her as well, when she did nothing to you?"

"She chose to leave. I certainly did nothing to cause that," he sneered. "If you must blame someone, it was you, Darcy. You and your bloody pride. Couldn't stand the thought I might have poached on your preserves, could you? Not that the little prude was amenable--" He sucked in his breath as the apothecary prodded the wound slightly, cutting off his words.

Darcy had flinched when Wickham spoke of pride, but now he shook his head sadly: "You have no honor, do you?"

"A lot of good honor would do me, with no money. But then you wouldn't know how it is to be poor."

"And neither would you." Ignoring the oaths that crackled the air, he continued: "I will pay your debts here and arrange for a transfer to a regiment elsewhere. But I will do no further for you -- I wash my hands of your affairs."

And with that he turned and strode away from the field of honor to the coach waiting on the path, with Mr. Bingley hurrying to keep up. When they arrived back at Netherfield, neither said a word to the servants who welcomed their return, nor to the Hursts or Miss Bingley, who were avid with curiosity.

But despite this quite honorable silence by them and, in theory, by all concerned with the affair, by the time breakfast was served at the Bennet household, news of the engagement's result had circulated the neighborhood.

Elizabeth sat back in shock as she was served her eggs and the notice that her husband had just shot a man.

"I can't believe it," she breathed.

The rest of the family, who had already passed on to the other topic of Colonel Forster's reaction to the misbehavior of one of his regiment, turned as one to look at her in surprise.

"And my husband? Was he hurt, as well?"

Mrs. Bennet looked a little peeved. "I told you, child! At the duel itself, he left under his own power, but Mr. Jones called later at Netherfield, which in all probability would mean Mr. Darcy did not escape unscathed."

"But this means Lizzy is in the clear, does it not, Mama?" Kitty asked. "He won, did he not?"

That most informed lady finished her toast and said, "As duels go, Mr. Darcy would certainly be considered to have won, but it is really not anything to do with Lizzy. After all, the insult was given by Mr. Darcy, who, when Mr. Wickham refused to meet in private, declared him quite publicly a liar regarding the way he had been treated after Mr. Darcy's father died -- nothing at all to do with Lizzy's alleged misconduct with Mr. Wickham."

"Alleged!" Elizabeth choked, glancing at her father in silent plea. Mr. Bennet merely shrugged.

His wife, meanwhile, continued without pause: "But then I didn't tell you about what had happened after the duel, for I suppose that is the most pertinent part of this story."

To this, of course, everyone at the table exclaimed and begged for more information (excepting, of course, Mr. Collins, who, judging by his expression, found all of this disagreeable in the extreme, and Mr. Bennet, who knew from experience that the information would come whether he wished it or not). Mrs. Bennet sat smugly, enjoying the attention as she sipped at her coffee.

At last, however, she sated their curiosity and related all she had heard of the conversation between the duel's principals, which admittedly wasn't correct but was close enough to the truth to make a point.

Elizabeth appeared so disturbed by this revelation that for the rest of the meal she stared at her plate abstractedly, not appearing to taste any of the food she partook. When her plate was empty, she excused herself and retired to her room, where Jane found her later.

"Lizzy?"

From behind the lid of the trunk sitting on the bed, Elizabeth straightened to find her sister standing in the doorway, her expression concerned.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to convince myself to pack," Elizabeth replied with a grimace. "I had planned for us to leave for London this afternoon and to set sail on the first ship that leaves port for America."

Jane came into the room, closing the door behind her, and sat down on the small chair before the dressing table. When Bennet came over to her, she lifted him up to her lap and leaned her cheek on his soft curls. "So none of this changes your decision?" she asked quietly.

"That's the problem, Jane; it has," Elizabeth replied with a heartfelt sigh, her fingers resting lightly on the last gown she had folded, some ten minutes before. She stood for a moment in thought, and then came around the bed and sat facing her sister. "I never told you this, Jane, but after I first left Fitzwilliam, Aunt Gardiner had advised me what leaving him would mean. She wanted so much for me not to go through with it, to perhaps wait a bit and then talk with him, to reconcile. Even after they had helped me find a home in Berkshire, she bade me frequently, in her letters, to consider the effect my leaving had on everyone: on my son, on myself, on my family, even on my husband.

"I have been such a fool, Jane, and much longer than I ought, too. I realize now that I have been so buffle-headed in all of this, so sure I was in the right. But I am beginning to think I have wronged him as much as he wronged me. Yes, he should have given me a chance, but maybe I should have given him one, too.

Elizabeth hesitated, then admitted, "I do not know if he can forgive me that offense. And if he couldn't, Jane, could I live with that? He could take our son from me as easily as I had done -- and then what would I do? He asked that I give him an audience this morning, but I do not know if it should change my resolve, even should he wish me to stay. There is too much of the past between us."

Jane was silent for a moment, bouncing Bennet on her knee. At last, she said, "When I was talking with Mr. Bingley last night, he told me, in some confidence, that his friend had been distracted and introspective the past few days. Now I wonder if he weren't talking about the duel, but at the time, especially with the way he asked about you immediately afterward, it had seemed as though he were speaking of Mr. Darcy's feelings about your marriage. He did say he was tiring of having to fend off questions about Bennet." The child looked up at hearing his name spoken, and she smiled down at him. "I cannot believe he would not forgive you, Lizzy."

"But you always think the best of people," Elizabeth said. "I am not so sanguine. But I shall meet with him."

A scratching was heard on the door, and a maid entered when bid and, curtsying, relayed the message that Elizabeth was wanted in the parlor.

Elizabeth was startled. "Mr. Darcy has come already? But he is much earlier than I expected. I'm not ready for this, Jane."

"Oh, no," said the maid hurriedly. "Begging pardon, ma'am, but the visitor is a lady. A Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

This piece of news startled Elizabeth even more. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh!" she echoed. "Heavens, what could have brought her here?" And then it hit her: "Mr. Collins."

With a firm jaw, Elizabeth left her packing on the bed and descended the stairs, followed by Jane and Bennet. When she entered the parlor, she was validated in her suspicion by the presence of a smug Mr. Collins, who stood behind the chair where their visitor had ensconced herself regally.

"Lady Catherine," Elizabeth acknowledged rigidly. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

The already thin line of the older woman's lips tightened. "Mrs. Darcy. I see your address has not improved in the months you were away," She hesitated and then continued: "There seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your family's lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favor me with your company."

Elizabeth, though reluctant to walk with Lady Catherine, nevertheless recognized the desire to keep the conversation that would no doubt follow as private as possible and accepted the invitation.

After running to her room for her wrap, bonnet and muff, Elizabeth attended her guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened several doors, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the copse.

At last they stopped and Lady Catherine began: "You can be at no loss, Mrs. Darcy, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I have come."

Though she had her suspicions, Elizabeth merely raised her brows and said, "Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honor of seeing you here."

"Mrs. Darcy," her ladyship said in an angry tone, "you ought to know, by this time in our acquaintance, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. I was recently put in possession of a disturbing piece of intelligence by Mr. Collins, who was so duteous as to inform me of your return unto the family fold and your reprehensible conduct with my nephew, who is also here."

"There is nothing reprehensible in the meeting of a husband and wife."

"Your actions say otherwise. A woman who has abandoned her husband and behaved with such reckless indiscretion can have no business in polite society. I shall not have my nephew -- nay, our entire family name -- made an object of ridicule."

"As your name is not, in fact, Darcy, I wonder that you should trouble yourself over its reputation. I should rather be the one worried about its impact on my son. But as you see, I do not find it so disturbing."

"Your son! You should have more concern of his dubious origins. But I see through your ploy," she continued, overriding Elizabeth's objection. "You wish to ensnare my nephew once more in your clutches, to return once more to the ease of life you once had. I tell you, I shall not see the shades of Pemberley so polluted!"

"Lady Catherine," Elizabeth began, controlling her anger. "I have never understood your objection to the match your nephew has made. And why, after it was secure, you took so much effort to destroy it."

"You ruined everything, Mrs. Darcy. Your husband was engaged to my daughter, and he threw her over for what? A young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family!"

"If Mr. Darcy was truly engaged to your daughter, I wonder that he would have been so dishonorable as to renege on such a promise."

Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, then replied, "The engagement between them was of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they had been intended for each other. It was the favorite wish of his mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we had planned the union: and, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, you came between them."

"But what was that to me, even should I have known it previously? I should certainly not have been kept from marrying your nephew by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss De Bourgh. If Mr. Darcy were neither by honor nor inclination confined to his cousin, why was not he to make another choice? And if I were that choice, why should I not have accepted him?"

"Because honor, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbade it. Yes, Mrs. Darcy, interest; did you not notice that his family and friends, when you willfully acted against the inclinations of all, censured, slighted and despised you? Your alliance was a disgrace."

Memories of her time in London ran swiftly though Elizabeth's mind, but she shook her head and said doggedly, "But why, after we had wed -- why, after there was no path outside of my death for Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter, did you go so far as to destroy our marriage?"

"I? Destroy your marriage?" Lady Catherine scoffed. "I did no more than any concerned bystander would do. And as his aunt, almost the nearest relation he has in the world, I had an obligation to tell him of the infidelities of his wife."

"There were no infidelities," Elizabeth said firmly. "All you told him were lies."

"And what of it? He ought to have seen the low company you kept, how completely unfit you were as his wife and the mistress of Pemberley. I applauded his decision to cast you off as the baggage you are, to separate himself and his innocent sister from your taint. I only wish I could have done more."

"What more could you have done?"

Elizabeth and Lady Catherine turned in surprise. Several feet down the path stood Darcy, his face a mask of anger. He wore a greatcoat, but no gloves or a hat, and he leaned heavily on a stout Malacca cane.

"Nephew," Lady Catherine began, but he cut her off with a curt gesture.

"I ought to have recognized much earlier how ill founded was your vitriol against my wife," he said sharply. "Instead, fool that I was, I believed you over my wife, without question. Because of your rancor and my misplaced trust and misbegotten pride, we together ruined an innocent life and a relationship, though perhaps," he added with an uncomfortable glance at his wife, "I had already begun the ruination of the latter. I have never even -- before now -- had a chance to lay eyes on my son."

"Your son!" Lady Catherine exclaimed. "You believe this perfidious strumpet's word that the child is yours?"

Darcy met Elizabeth's gaze, his own intent. "Without question. Now, Aunt, I wish to have a word with my wife. I thank you for your visit, but your concern is ill-timed and ill-founded. I wish you a pleasant journey home to Kent."

Lady Catherine stood as though rooted to the spot, her face a study in impotent rage. At last, however, she gathered herself and said, "I am gravely disappointed in you, Nephew. Be assured you shall have no further notice from me, nor from any of your family."

"That is a heavy misfortune," he replied in a low voice. "But the master of Pemberley, in so being the brother of Georgiana Darcy, the father of the Darcy heir, and the husband of Elizabeth Darcy, has such extraordinary sources of happiness attached to his situation that he will, on the whole, I am sure, have no cause to repine."

He bid her good day once more, and Lady Catherine, drawing herself up to her full height, said, "I take no leave of you, Nephew, nor of you, Mrs. Darcy. I send no compliments to your mother; you deserve no such attention. I am seriously displeased."

And, thus routed, she stalked off across the lawn to where her carriage stood ready.

Chapter Nine

Rule #7: Always wait for the other person to admit they were wrong.

Left alone, Elizabeth and Darcy stood awkwardly, he leaning on his cane and she rubbing her arm absently and biting her lip. Now that the time had come to talk, neither was willing to begin.

At last, Elizabeth, realizing there was an easy conversational opening, asked, "Did you injure your leg?"

He grimaced. "It's just a scratch. I wouldn't have even brought this silly thing if Bingley hadn't insisted upon it," he said.

"But it does hurt you?"

"It does, I admit."

"Thank you."

"For what?" he asked in surprise.

"For defending me -- in the duel."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, "that you were informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Wickham's seconds so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame them," Elizabeth replied with a small smile. "You have been away from the country for too long if you believe that anything that happens here can be kept a secret for long. Gossip is even food for the masses in London, as well, or have you forgotten so quickly?"

"I have forgotten nothing," he said in a voice so intense that she blushed and looked around for a diversion.

"How thoughtless I am! Would you care to sit?" She went over to where two benches sat amidst the dying flora, and taking one, gestured for him to take the other. Instead he seated himself beside her, and she instinctively shifted to allow more space between them.

He sighed. "I am sorry -- deeply sorry for this rift now between us. The fault is mine; I take full responsibility for the way in which I have behaved. After making poor decisions early on in our marriage, in not helping to shepherd you through society and then blaming you for your inexperience, I compounded my failings by turning not to you but to the counsel of others. We were young and inexperienced, it is true, but it is no excuse for how I behaved. My pride came before my duty to love, honor, and protect you, and in so doing I failed you.

"I do not know if what we had can be salvaged," he said when she did not respond at once. "But I know that, if you could forgive me my failings, I would that we try."

"You are not the only one guilty of pride, so if I must forgive your failings, you must find it in you to forgive mine, as well," Elizabeth replied after several minutes of thought. When he made to object, she shook her head and continued: "In not waiting, in not explaining, I was prideful. I was hurt by your lack of trust, but I also did not trust you enough to think you might need time to recover from the shock of the accusations.

"Tell me: believing I had deceived you, why did you never petition for divorce?" she asked. "It would have been well within your rights, some would say."

He looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "I cannot say for sure. My aunt pushed for it, surely, despite the stain it would place on our family name. And a part of me wished as well to fully sever our connection. But when I would reflect on this, I knew I could not do it. I suppose I always hoped that I had been mistaken.

"Georgiana always believed in you," he said. "I dismissed her objections as a result of her innocence, but perhaps it was because of her faith in you that I could not bear the thought of losing you completely."

Elizabeth knew not what to say to this, and so they lapsed into silence.

"Tell me, are these reflections the result of your overhearing your aunt and I, or were they sprung from another source?" Elizabeth asked after listening to the breeze rustle softly through the fading trees. "I cannot imagine our words only a few moments ago could inspire such deep reflections."

He smiled sadly. "No, I have been considering this some time. Seeing your behavior and your determination to be unashamed, I began to wonder if there were not a reason beyond what I saw. That perhaps there were more to the story than I had yet heard. It was not even Wickham's appearance and the rumors he spread that spurred me to consider that I might have wronged you greatly, though it was certainly a catalyst. I believe I began doubting my convictions even before I learned of your son."

The last word he spoke fell heavily into the sudden, pregnant silence, until Elizabeth cleared her throat and said, "I am sorry for not telling you about Bennet."

Darcy's jaw clenched, and he didn't say anything for a moment. "Is that his name?" he asked at last.

"Yes," she replied, releasing her pent-up breath and hurriedly adding: "You won't take him away from me, surely?"

He looked at her then, his expression astounded. "Is that what you think of me? That I would want him and not you? That I would take him away from his own mother? " He paused for a moment, grimacing slightly. "Is that why you hid from me all this time? In a purely academic fashion I can understand your concern, but I find it disturbing you trusted me so little."

She flushed. "I did, and I am sorry for it. I think, to some extent, we were both guilty of great mistrust."

After some thought he nodded. "For some time, fool that I was, I thought that Bennet might be Wickham's son, if not someone else's." When she gasped, he grimaced. "It was badly done of me, but I could think nothing else, as you would not talk to me of him, nor let me see him. I tried on several occasions to speak of him with you, but each time I was sidetracked by a new argument between us. When I tried calling on you last week, you had been out for a walk. And last night at the ball, I spent nigh on half the night trying to devise a way to discover more, but you left before I could talk to you again. Even Bingley -- Bingley, who generally is more open than a fountain -- would not reveal anything, saying only I must talk to you.

"I wish now that I could go back, before we had our troubles, and begin anew," he said. "It has pained me greatly, the thought that I have missed so much of my son's life." He paused, then whispered with something akin to awe: "My son. I still cannot quite believe it."

"Bennet is a wonderful child," Elizabeth said with a soft smile. "Very open and energetic, though with strangers he can be shy. He has many of your features; I could never look at him without thinking of you, even when I wished not to. He is inside the house with Jane. I could introduce you." She made as if to stand, but he put a gentle hand on her arm to stop her.

"Elizabeth, I have seen him already, a few moments ago when I was looking for you. Before we return to him, I would discuss something with you first." When she returned to her seat beside him, he took a steadying breath and said, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were two years ago when we parted, tell me so at once. I would love nothing more dearly then to have you and our son return with me to Pemberley, to live as husband and wife, to live as family."

He paled when, after waiting some time for a response, she continued to gaze quietly at her tightly clasped hands. "If you do not wish to return with me, though it pains me greatly, I will accept your decision. God help me, I will let you go. I have only recently come to realize that I love you -- that I still love you most dearly, and perhaps more because of all that we have been through. But if it is your will, one word from you shall silence me on the subject.

"I do ask, however, that you stay near -- perhaps here with your family or with the Gardiners. I would wish to have some of the care and raising of my son -- and, I admit, to see you not infrequently."

Elizabeth, looking up at him, felt suddenly greatly ashamed at unintentionally being the cause of the pain and anguish she saw clearly in his eyes. With tears flowing unheeded down her cheeks, she immediately, though not very fluently, gave her husband to understand that her feelings had undergone, in the period to which he had alluded if not in the past few hours and days, so material a change as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. She had realized not long ago, she told him, that she always loved him, had never stopped loving him, even when she did not like him; she had only feared that she had lost his regard by her actions. If he truly wished her back, they would no doubt still have their troubles, but she was willing to try to work through them, if he were working with her.

The happiness this reply produced was such as Darcy had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do.

They still had much to talk about, to learn to forgive and forget the past and to build a foundation for their future, but true joy does not often stop for these considerations. They would have to wait for another time.

It was only several minutes later that the two, aglow in their rediscovered love, though also both nearly blue from the cold of the November morning, returned to the house, where they were reunited with a young child who, though at first shy with this new acquaintance, nevertheless soon responded to the warmth and devotion shared among them.

But those few moments in the garden, short as they seemed, were long enough for a passing milkmaid to be suddenly and unanticipatedly considered the most knowledgeable (if not the most scandalized) gossip in the area, being in possession of the most highly regarded piece of news yet. The titillating rumor spread from buttery to butlery to bookroom to boudoir, and, coming as it did upon the heels of the outrageous doings of the morning, the immediate decampment to the North by a certain young officer, and the glimpse of the fashionable (though fuming) lady in the elegant carriage that had rolled so precipitously through and back through the village, followed by a particular clergyman in another, it served to occupy the minds and hearts of the good people of that part of Hertfordshire for quite some time.

And even after that news had been replaced by the delightfully anticipated announcement several days later of the engagement of a certain Bennet with the current occupant of Netherfield, more than one person could be heard to remark that, having provided so much good food for discussion, they were most assuredly glad the Darcys -- Bennet and all -- had returned.

The End