Posted on 2009-08-20

Miss Elizabeth Bennet, second daughter of the Bennets of Longbourn, spent a great deal of time in the wood.

Not an inordinate amount of time, of course. She did not sleep there (unless the warm sun inspired her to close her eyes briefly), nor did she often eat there (unless she happened to espy a few wild strawberries), but she did spend many a wonderful hour traversing the countless paths and trails among the trees, shrubs, and clearings. When she was not spending quality time in the library with her father, when she was not lazily strolling the gardens with her sister Jane, when she was not sleeping or dressing or arranging flowers or all the other myriad things that fill a young lady's days, and when the weather was nice, of course, or even at the least remotely adequate, she could more often than not be found hiking over this hill, or trotting merrily through that dale, or stopping to rest on a log beside a stream.

And she was not always in the wood, either, though that was her favored place. The countryside around Longbourn, in that little corner of Hertfordshire where the verdant hills are crowned with golden halos of wheat or puffy white clouds of sheep and the trees are flush with rustling green leaves, was a treasure trove of places to explore. It was an ever-changing scene, as Elizabeth would say to her youngest sisters, who would groan if ever she asked if they would care to join her. Much like the people who inhabited it, she would say, the country was filled always with new aspects to uncover, new ways in which nature had shaped its landscape since even the day before.

She loved the trees and flowers and other plants, loved the feel of the wind in her hair and the sun on her cheeks. She loved the whisper of leaves and the babble of water gurgling through a hidden brook. She loved the animals that shied away from her appearance and delighted laughter until she had sat long enough and quietly enough for them to become accustomed to her presence. But she could rarely sit for long, as her personality was of a lively and playful disposition, so she did not make friends with any of them, as the princesses in faerie stories seemed wont.

What she did have in common with those princesses who roamed the woodlands, however, was how seldom she was seen scampering about the forest with a maid. The countryside was a safe one, and the wood barren of any strangers or itinerants or other more vicious wild beasts. With so little danger, she was not likely to come across anything that should harm her -- so although her father occasionally recommended she at least take a sister with her, he more often simply shook his head and chuckled, reminding himself that she had gained much of her independent nature from him, after all.

On the morning on which our story begins, Elizabeth was, as usual, quite alone. We set our scene in a light-dappled corner of the wood west of Longbourn, some miles distant from that estate and closer to the somewhat grander acreages of Netherfield, where a new renter had recently taken residence. Here, among the tall trees and stretching branches, we find the young lady, her fine eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, splashing merrily along a shallow little stream. She paid little attention to her dress, soaked more than a few inches above the hem, or to her shoes, now quite ruined by the water. They were old, anyway, her usual hiking clothes, and a palling comparison of material interest to the joy of her morning's freedom.

She had escaped the house before breakfast was served and the house was yet quiet. She had passed the library, where her father was already ensconced, and gave him a peck on the cheek before taking her bonnet and spencer from their pegs and warm leather gloves from their shelf in the still room and tripping lightly out the side door. The first breath of fresh air was exhilarating, its briskness brushing away the last cobwebs of sleep. She paused, there outside the door, taking it in, smiling up at the clear blue sky, her gaze closed to the light. Then, her eyes opening and focusing on the trees at the edge of the lawn, she ran off, her laughter echoing in the stillness of the morning.

She had run for some time, walking when she grew tired, and wandering aimlessly while keeping her bearings so she could find her way back again. Not that she would have minded getting lost, providing she could find her way to more familiar territory at some time during the day. She had every hope this morning that she could stay out long enough to avoid breakfasting with the whole of her family -- in particular, her mother.

The night before had been an assembly night, usually the highlight for the local Meryton society. This month's event was even greater than usual for the appearance of five new visitors to their midst -- three gentlemen and two ladies, with two of the gentlemen being both single and available. Such a prospect had stirred up the emotions and worst behavior of the general public, particularly those with daughters to fire off. Her mother had been one of the worst, Elizabeth recalled with a laugh, fashioning a stray twig into a switch and flicking it idly at tree and bush alike as she walked. Mrs. Bennet had all but thrown her daughters at the two eligible gentlemen, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, in the hopes that one of the five might catch their fancy.

And it had worked, in a way. Mr. Bingley had danced every dance of the night, including two sets with Jane. Such an agreeable gentleman -- kind, polite, and willing to be pleased. And his admiration of her sister had certainly earned Elizabeth's approbation. His friend, on the other hand...

It was with that thought still dwelling uppermost that Elizabeth had found the stream, a delightfully shallow affair with a tiny waterfall at one end and the other end out of sight, somewhere beyond where it wend its way between rocks into the thick undergrowth. Seized by impulse, Elizabeth had tossed her stick aside and, jumping into the water with both feet and splashing about a bit, began to dance in the stream, waving her arms in delight as she laughed away her thoughts of cold, passionless, arrogant Mr. Darcy. There was truly no reason for her actions, merely the whim of a moment, of freedom of motion matching freedom of thought

As she continued dancing, however, she became aware of a strange feeling of being watched. At last, the feeling grew so strong that she stopped, looking around in confusion and more than a touch of fear.

But there was no one there. Not a sign of a person among the trees, a pair of eyes looking at her from the wood close about her. Doubting her senses, however, as that strange feeling of being observed did not abate, she called out: "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Nothing but the wood responded -- the rustle of the wind through the leaves, the faint call of a bird far off in the brush, the sound of water rushing over the rocks. She called again: "Hello? I know you're there. Answer me!"

And then, the answer came. A croak. Just one croak.

With a startled laugh, Elizabeth looked down, backing up a step as she caught sight of the frog sitting on a rock before her, its large brown eyes fixed directly on her. It croaked again.

Elizabeth laughed again, this time in genuine mirth. "Well, hello," she said, leaning down with twinkling eyes and addressing the large, brown amphibian. It stared back calmly. "You're a rather friendly creature, aren't you?"

It croaked again, this time the sound seeming almost pleased, its lips curving wide, and Elizabeth laughed in delight. "Well, Mr. Frog, it's very nice to meet you. I'm Elizabeth Bennet. I would ask you to dance, but I'm afraid I'm already dancing with myself. Perhaps the next?"

It croaked again and jumped slightly towards her, higher on the rock. Elizabeth smiled and, looking around, spied another rock close by on which she then perched and gazed in curiosity at her new companion. The frog, a bit larger than other frogs she'd seen in the past, wasn't particularly attractive, its rough skin a rather mottled brown and black and somewhat slimy looking. But its eyes, a curious brown color, remained fixed on her, seemingly attentive to her every word.

"Well, at least you would like to dance with me," she continued with a rueful smile. "So you're one up on another of my recent acquaintances."

It cocked its tiny little head at her, so she elaborated with a sigh. "It's not a pretty tale, you know. Not at all fit for little froggy ears," she said, giving it a chance to opt out. But it stared at her steadily with its beady eyes, emitting only a low croak, so she continued: "Last night, you see, there was an assembly at the ballroom in Meryton, and the new resident at Netherfield, Mr. Bingley, showed up with his sisters, brother in law, and his friend." She spat out the last word, but then, after a moment, laughed at herself. "Listen to me -- obviously I'm a little more bitter about it than I thought. I'll have to work on that."

The frog croaked again, as if urging her to continue, so she did. "Well, Mr. Bingley seems nice. I had a wonderful dance with him. We spoke about the area, his impressions of the neighborhood -- all favorable, of course -- and my sister Jane. But I suppose it's to be expected that she aroused his interest, what with Jane being the most gorgeous creature in the area. Even Mr. Darcy had to acknowledge that. 'You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,'" she quoted, pitching her voice in a creditable imitation of that gentleman's tenor. She chuckled. "Oh, but I haven't told you the best part about Mr. Bingley -- or the best part if you could hear my mother tell it. Five thousand a year. Five thousand!" She laughed heartily, the full, rich sound echoing through the wood. "As if Jane would care anything about that," she said, wiping her streaming eyes.

"It's too bad he doesn't have his friend's fortune, though," she said, turning her eyes with an amused expression to the frog, who continued to stare at her. "Mr. Bingley deserves it far more than his friend, if you ask me. Mr. Darcy may be richer in monetary worth, but he's certainly poorer in politeness. Or tact."

The frog croaked, and Elizabeth snorted in agreement. "Exactly. 'She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me,'" she recited with a giggle that ruined her otherwise fine impression. "'I am in no humor to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.' Lud! What a pompous prig he is. It's a fine thing he singled me out for his abuse. I could hardly believe it. And within my hearing, too. Overbearing, infested boil on the backside of humanity. No offense, of course," she said with a laugh, eying her companion's wart-riddled skin.

"But I had better start back towards Longbourn," she said with a sigh, looking up at the position of the sun peeking though the trees. "If I don't get there soon, Lydia will have already polished off the muffins, and I so very much wanted one this morning."

She stood up to go, then paused, looking down at the frog in fascinated confusion. It hadn't moved at all, except to tip its head up to keep its eyes on her. "It was delightful talking with you, Mr. Frog," she said, giving it a curtsy. "Perhaps we can do it again some time."

And then, cautiously, curiously, she stretched out her hand towards it, pausing as it withdrew slightly. But then it leaned towards her hand, and she patted it on the head, feeling its surprisingly warm, slippery skin under hers. She leaned back, surprised at the contact, and gazed at it for a moment before murmuring, "What a curious little creature you are, to be sure."

And then, turning towards home, she left.

Elizabeth did not come back to that little stream for several days. There were morning calls to make, other paths to take, other tasks to undertake at home that filled her time. But every so often she thought of that quiet place, and of the frog that had sat so strangely patiently as she spoke with it. Of all of her experiences with animals, she had never had one as curious as that. Had it been injured, perhaps, that it hadn't run away from her? Or had it been tamed, that it was unafraid of humans?

Not that it really mattered, of course, and the thoughts soon passed away amid the other concerns and questions of the day. But the memory would continue to resurface -- so often that, at last, nearly a week later, as she followed one of the paths through the wood, her feet were drawn to the shallow stream.

And there, this time on the rock on which she had been sitting when they spoke, was the frog. Its brown eyes turned towards her when she appeared, its little body emitting a loud croak in welcome.

She approached it cautiously, curiously. "Hello," she said gently, trying not to scare it.

It croaked again in response, and she came closer. "You're not injured at all, are you Mr. Frog?"

As if understanding the question, it jumped to the other rock, its lithe body stretching agilely as it leapt. When it landed, it turned again to her and croaked. She laughed at these antics. "Apparently not," she said. "How silly of me."

A froggy grin spread across its face as it agreed with a croak.

"You're quite a strange little creature, you know," she said, sitting down on his abandoned perch. "Sitting there, unafraid of me. You should be, of course. We humans aren't always the nicest of beings; you shouldn't trust us to an inch. Run into the wrong one and you might end up being the main course at a nice French dinner."

It croaked in response and Elizabeth laughed. "But you're right. I wouldn't do that; I like you. Even if you do spend most of the time just staring at me with those big beady eyes of yours. You know," she said, cocking her head, "now that I say that, you do remind me of Mr. Darcy a bit. The way you just sit there and stare, not saying a word.

"Though I highly doubt you're thinking quite the same thing as him," she continued with a laugh. "Frogs probably don't have the same standards of beauty as we do. Unless, of course, you're wondering why I've got this pointed beak-like thing in the middle of my face, or what the possible use of these two things on the side of my head are, when all you need are those little eardrums. And my skin! My goodness, how could I possibly survive with such soft, dry, particularly un-warty skin?"

She laughed. "No, not quite the same thing at all. I'm sure Mr. Darcy agrees with you only that I look strange. His whole expression as he stares at me so severely from across the room seems to say that I should find a nice hole to crawl back into, because I am decidedly no fit creature for drawing rooms and assembly rooms. And he says nothing! To anybody! If he'd be even half -- no, even an eighth as gregarious as his friend, it wouldn't be quite so bad. But instead he just sits there and stares and stares and doesn't say anything, and behaves as if we're all so very much below his notice. Which I suppose we are, if his standards are so high, but, really, it is impolite to act so!"

With a sigh, she turned and looked around this little part of the wood, breathing in deeply the scent of autumn that hung in the soft air. It was cooler here, under the trees, and she rubbed her hands, fighting the chill of the morning. "We are to have dinner at the Lucases tonight. Just the best families from the area, but it should be a nice opportunity to talk with Charlotte again. She's been so busy lately, helping her mother run the Lodge and caring for her brothers and sisters, that we haven't had a good coze in a while. I miss her good sense. Trying to find that in my own household is rather a tall order. Jane, of course, and my father, but she's been a little moon-shot over Mr. Bingley right now, so nearly all our conversation revolves at some level about him -- not nearly so interesting when I've heard about his gentle voice and kind eyes for the seventeenth time in a row. And my father's been busy with the estate the past few days, and the problems down on the farm. The rest of them, though..." She sighed again. "But they're family, I suppose, and I should be grateful I have them. Even if they are ridiculous sometimes, I know they're good at heart. Which is more than I can say about some people."

She smiled at her companion, who hadn't made a sound during her speech. "And you, Mr. Frog? Do you have any family? A little froggy mother, or a froggy father? Oh, heavens! Perhaps a little froggy wife? Where do you go when you're not sitting here talking with me?" She smiled, and an answering smile seemed to stretch across the frog's thin lips.

And so their relationship, if one could call such a one-sided conversation a "relationship," progressed. Elizabeth did not come every day to the stream, being busy with the normal course of her life and with the relationships in which her conversational partner actually occasionally responded in recognizable words. But she soon found that she enjoyed her time there in the quiet of the wood, talking with the frog about the things she simply couldn't communicate to anyone else.

All her life, she had had people around her with whom she could talk, and to whom she had felt close. Her father, for instance, was the most revered figure in her relatively circumscribed life, and she enjoyed spending time with him. But their time was mostly spent in quiet contemplation of a book, or a chessboard, or laughing over the vagaries of others -- not talking over the confusions of emotions, or the doubts of conscience or identity. When these more personal topics were subtly broached or even vaguely hinted at, the conversation quickly averted or an awkward silence ensued.

Jane was perhaps the next person with whom Elizabeth felt the most intimate. Her sweet nature, her understanding and trust and ability to listen with great compassion made her ideal for close confidences. The two sisters had spent many a night whiling away the darkest hours in whispered conversation. But those same qualities that made her a perfect listener made her too easily hurt, too soft for some of the harsh truths or the sarcastic and cynical quips that came easily to Elizabeth's tongue. She always wished to forgive, to find a reason to understand and excuse. Which, in certain circumstances, was not what Elizabeth wished most to hear. She did not want to hear that perhaps Mr. Darcy was misunderstood, or that Mr. Bingley's sisters were really quite nice, once you got to know them and understand they were simply out of their element. She wished, rather, to vent that Mr. Darcy was a pompous bore and that Miss Bingley should be tarred and feathered and made to run through the town square in a tattered dress eight years old, to take her down to size.

Charlotte Lucas was the next obvious choice. She was sensible, prudent, observant, and also very willing to listen. But just as Jane's gentleness and compassion was a two-edged sword, so too were Charlotte's most redeeming qualities. Sensibility is not always prized when one simply wants to be silly about something. Prudence is great until one wishes to take a chance, make a leap of faith. Keen observations were all well and good until one was the person being observed so closely. And Charlotte's willingness to listen -- well, that unfortunately was accompanied by a strong willingness to deal out advice.

The frog, on the other hand, allowed Elizabeth to rant unchecked about the superior sisters, to mock the slightly drunken and boorish -- though "gentlemanly" -- Mr. Hurst, to laugh about Mr. Bingley's unabashed, almost puppy-like affection for her sister. She could complain about Charlotte's advice about her sister Jane -- or the doubtful construction she had put on Mr. Darcy's strange behavior. She could sigh about her youngest sisters' red-coat exuberance, about Mary's vigorous piano practice that morning, about her mother's loud and all-consuming yearning for rich husbands for her daughters. She could talk about Darcy, whose behavior was completely, impossibly baffling and seemingly ever altering.

He had begun as a proud, arrogant rich man, a stranger to their society and a particularly rude one, at that. But then, inexplicably, he had begun to change. At first, there was the staring, and occasional eavesdropping. Charlotte had noticed and remarked on it at the dinner at the Lodge, and Elizabeth had complained about it later to the frog. But then in the next week, at the few occasions they met, he began to speak with her -- only a comment or question or two at most, perfectly polite and cordial. And not only to her, but to other people, as well. It was as if he had suddenly decided to become more sociable and likable. There was no accounting for it, and so Elizabeth told the frog the morning Jane got the invitation to dine at Netherfield.

"I just don't understand it," Elizabeth said as they sat together in the middle of the stream, both on their by now accustomed rocks. She had escaped after breakfast, as Mrs. Bennet was arranging which gown Jane was to wear, and which bonnet, and which gloves, and everything else Jane should, by rights, have decided upon. Elizabeth had felt doubtful, as she looked up at the sky while she walked out across the lawn, that the weather would hold out for too much longer. Her mother's prediction of rain was of a certainty correct, but Elizabeth thought it might come earlier rather than later, and that Jane would be caught out in it. She had complained of it to the frog, which sat quietly contemplating her with its quiet brown eyes, but then she had talked of the gentlemen who were expected to dine out with the officers -- and this it was that led to their current topic.

"Mr. Darcy has quite unexpectedly become something completely different from my first impression of him," she was saying. "And I put such store on first impressions. They usually reveal so much about the person's character, if one cares to observe closely. But I can't quite seem to put my finger on him. He seems to be something, and then the next day all of what I complained about the day before seems to have changed for the better. It's as if he's determined to prove me wrong about him. I simply don't understand it."

She looked up at the sky and frowned. "I wish I could tell what time it was. Nearing noon, I think. Jane will probably be on her way now, or shortly if my mother took longer than even I would estimate for her exacting standards of feminine perfection on a tight budget. And the gentlemen are probably gone by now, too. Miss Bingley seemed to imply they wouldn't be there at all while Jane was, but I would think this early would be a strange time for them to dine. Perhaps they're not leaving until later. But if it were at all in Miss Bingley's power, I am sure she would do everything to keep Jane out of their sights. I don't think she takes to the idea of Jane as a sister-in-law at all."

At this moment, what had started out as the strange sound of hundreds of tapping fingers suddenly became a full-fledged downpour of rain. Under the canopy of the wood, the rain only filtered through in a strange semi-drizzle, with spots of more heavy downpour and the sporadic larger drops falling out of the collected pools that developed on the wider leaves. Elizabeth, bidding her better-adapted friend a hasty farewell, dashed off towards the shelter of Longbourn. With the protective cover of the wood, she managed to stay relatively dry until the final stretch across the lawn, and arrived home only having got a short drenching. She was hustled to her room, stripped of her wet clothing, and cosseted with a hot bath and warm compress to stave away the chill.

Jane was not so lucky, as Elizabeth discovered the following morning, when a short note arrived after breakfast. Even if she had had anything new worthy of talking over with her froggy friend, Elizabeth had discounted going out to the stream in the morning because of the thick mud that covered the ground after the heavy rains -- but that consideration was unimportant when it came to walking instead all the way to Netherfield. She set out as soon after the note was received as possible, but having to wait for her sisters to ready themselves and then taking the road to Meryton instead of cutting directly across the fields did lead to a bit longer of a trek. The sun was high in the sky -- undoubtedly closer to noon, if not after, when she finally reached the lawn at Netherfield.

As she picked up her flagging pace, she caught sight of another figure crossing the lawn from the direction of the wood. She recognized him as he drew closer and wondered briefly why such an immaculately attired and fastidious person should be walking in such a dirty place. True, his coat and shirt were a bit wrinkled and his cravat limp and a bit askew, but he still wore the clothes as if sartorially perfect. But she pushed the thought aside as he hailed her. While she would have preferred to turn tail and dash off to the house, she decided it would look not only odd but also as rude as she always accused him of being.

"Miss Bennet!" he said when he drew close enough to speak in a comfortable tone of voice. "I hope your appearance here at Netherfield does not betoken any ill tiding. All is well at Longbourn?"

She crinkled her forehead at his perfectly warm greeting, still uncomfortable with his politeness. A rude Darcy she could handle. A polite Darcy, a concerned Darcy -- she shook her head, then turned it into an answer when she realized she had not answered his question. "No, nothing is wrong at Longbourn. It is Netherfield I am concerned with at present. My sister took ill here last night, and I am worried for her. Did you not know of this? Jane's note seemed to imply ... were we wrong?"

He hastily reassured her. "No, I am sure everything is just as you say. I, er," he shifted his eyes uneasily. "We did not return until late last night, and ... I am sure Bingley was informed..."

Despite her confusion over such an evasive and incomplete answer, she took pity on his discomposure. "Perhaps we might discover the state of things together?" she asked.

He did not smile, but the corners of his brown eyes, which reflected patently their relief, crinkled slightly as he held out his arm. She accepted the offer of physical escort with just the barest of hesitations, and they proceeded into the house together. He took her to the breakfast room, where in keeping with their clear preference for town manners the rest of the inhabitants of Netherfield were still at breakfast. Only Bingley was not at table, instead pacing the floor by the hearth with a concerned expression on his face. He turned as they entered, his face lighting up as he espied Darcy in the doorway.

"Darcy! There you are -- thank goodness! It's already some time after noon, and I worried ... well, you would not believe what that book said would eat ... oh! Miss Bennet!" he cried, catching sight of Elizabeth on Darcy's far side. He bit his lip guiltily, as if regretting his words, but then after a moment of thought shook his head abruptly and continued with a clear, if concerned expression, welcoming her. After discovering her errand, he showed her up to Jane's assigned bedchamber, bidding her at the door to tell Miss Bennet that they were all praying and hoping for her quick recovery from her illness.

Seeing Jane in more distress than she would admit, all other thought fled and Elizabeth quickly threw herself into the role of nurse, bathing her sister's brow and taking care of her other needs and worrying over her like a mother hen. She scolded away Jane's protestations that she was not ill and tended her with all the love of a dear sister. It was only later in the evening, when Jane was sleeping steadily, if somewhat feverishly, that she went down to dine and later to spend time in the drawing room with the rest of the company.

And even later, in the dark of the night, shortly after the half-hour before midnight tolled on the clock in the hall, as she kissed her sister gently on the forehead before leaving the maid to keep watch and crossed that hallway to her own comfortably appointed chambers, she thought of all that she would have told her amphibian friend in the morning, had she thought she could take the time to find her way from Netherfield to their appointed spot. She chuckled at the thought, but then quickly hurried the last few steps to her door as she heard another door somewhere down the hall open. She had no wish to be caught out in her nightclothes and dressing gown.

Footsteps receded down the hallway to the staircase, an outside door opened and closed, and the house was soon again silent. Ten minutes later, the clock chimed midnight and Elizabeth fell asleep dreaming inexplicably of her Mr. Frog, and of Mr. Darcy, and of quiet brown eyes that listened patiently to her concerns.

The days at Netherfield passed quickly enough and in relative solitude. She took a tray in her room for breakfast and spent much of the morning and a good portion of the afternoon with Jane, occasionally stepping outside to get fresh air for an hour at the most while her sister slept. During one of those infrequent outings she saw Mr. Darcy a second time coming from the direction of the wood and wondered at it. But no explanation presented itself -- other than that perhaps he, like she, enjoyed taking walks in the coolness of the trees -- so she pushed it out of her mind.

She had enough to think of, with Jane's care to undertake, Miss Bingley's snide attacks to evade, and Mr. Bingley's concerns to assuage. And, of course, Mr. Darcy's behavior to puzzle out. His politeness continued unabated, to the extent that he would often tactfully deflect Miss Bingley's attacks with subtle wit (causing that lady more than a bit of visible frustration and anger), deflating an otherwise awkward and tense moment. Most baffling, however, were his occasional forays into what might have been, in a less severe gentleman, playfulness or -- is it possible? -- flirtation.

Elizabeth would have liked to talk over this in the silence of the wood, with her amphibian companion, but there was no time for that until later. There was simply something in speaking one's thoughts aloud to someone else, no matter if there were a response or not. It was comforting to hear it articulated, true, but it also was freeing; the illusion that there was someone else cogitating on the same thoughts made it almost easier to find the answers. Or, at least, believe that one was not completely crazy. But some might say that talking to a frog was a symptom.

In any case, the frog's inability to answer her was no impediment to its helpfulness. In some ways, it was nice to not be contradicted, or have to watch one's words, or feel that one was being silly about something. She very much enjoyed their morning chats -- she missed them when she had too many things to do, or the weather wasn't fair; she missed them when she couldn't leave the house until afternoon, and it was not waiting for her as usual on its rock; she missed them when she was at Netherfield and could not go even that short distance in the time she could be away from Jane.

She didn't need it to give her advice, or to chide her into better humor. She didn't need anyone to help her laugh things off and see the humor in a situation. She could do that on her own. Not that she would have entirely minded having someone to laugh with her, but there was definitely a part of her that felt it was a nice change to have a conversational partner who would not speak.

So it was a complete surprise when it did.

It was the third day since Jane and Elizabeth had departed Netherfield. The two had left the first morning that it was deemed possible to safely do so, sent on their way by a disappointed Bingley and his relieved sisters; Mr. Hurst was already in the breakfast room, as he felt that especially at such an ungodly hour saying good-bye to two young women was far less important than food, and Mr. Darcy was nowhere to be seen. Elizabeth had found herself a bit disappointed about the latter's absence, but reflected that perhaps he, too, felt that country hours were appalling and was still sleeping -- after only a bit of thought she recollected that she rarely, if ever, saw him about before noon, so the surmise was not unreasonable.

The two sisters arrived back at Longbourn to discover that they would soon have a cousin descending upon them to visit, and Elizabeth from that point had no chance to go out to visit the wood. Which was especially trying when her cousin arrived. That pompous and somewhat smarmy gentleman, speaking constantly of his noble patroness and his situation in life, was a constant source of humor, and Elizabeth would have liked a few minutes to herself to thoroughly laugh out her amusement. But she was forced into attendance by her mother -- and, if truth be told, by her own desire to catch every moment of ridiculousness -- and the following day she could not escape early enough and was roped into a late-morning walk to Meryton, accompanied by the fawning Mr. Collins.

As they entered the village, they had met a gentleman walking with Captain Denny, one of the members of the regiment quartered there. Mr. Wickham, a handsome young gentleman soon to join the regiment, was polite, engaging, and friendly. Elizabeth had warmed to him immediately.

They were standing in the street talking, when two gentlemen rode into sight. Mr. Bingley, spying their little group, and one of its members in particular, changed course and dismounted near them, happily telling Jane that they were just on their way to Longbourn to call on her -- he meant, the Bennets. Mr. Darcy had followed behind, but when he caught sight of Mr. Wickham, his face grew red, his expression stiff, barely responding to the other gentleman's unsteady tip of the hat. At the first opportunity, he urged his friend to be on their way.

Elizabeth, who had witnessed this tense interchange, was both confused and intrigued. Her curiosity was sated that evening at her Aunt Philips' small party, to which the officers were invited. There, after much small talk and a few leading questions, Mr. Wickham shared with her the story of Mr. Darcy's misdealings with him.

Though she outwardly listened with complete commiseration and understanding as the tale was unfolded, her heart was at war. She could not completely reconcile this story with her ever-changing impression of this man accused of betraying his father's wishes, of denying a living, of behaving in such a way purely from jealous spite.

"It doesn't quite seem to fit," she said to the frog the following morning as they sat together in the stream, after she had related the story once again. She had shared the story first with Jane the night before, but hadn't been able to come to a satisfactory conclusion then, either. Jane had averred that perhaps they had both been deceived, but that didn't sit well with Elizabeth. Someone had to be lying.

"I might have believed the villain to be Darcy without a second thought, oh, even a week ago," she continued with a sigh. "But now -- oh, my impression of him is so changed since then. But I could be wrong! And what advantage would Mr. Wickham find in lying to a virtual stranger?" she exclaimed angrily, struggling to reconcile her own arguments.

During all this -- the story, Elizabeth's doubts, her exclamations of annoyance -- the frog had been undergoing some struggles of its own. Its eyes had shifted angrily, its body quivering with some strong emotion. At last, with a sound that seemed to be half-croak, half-growl, it said, "Why don't you ask Mr. Darcy for the truth?"

And that's when Elizabeth did something that any self-respecting young lady would have done upon coming across any frog -- much less a talking one.

She screamed.

Gaping in horror at the little brown body whence the human -- if slightly rough and wholly impossible -- voice seemed to have issued, she scrambled away, falling backwards off the rock and into the water with flailing limbs. The cold drenching shocked her, and she came back to her senses with a laugh.

"I must have windmills in my head. That couldn't possibly have happened," she said, holding a hand to her forehead. She peered suspiciously at the frog. "Could it?"

It had the grace to look ashamed as only a frog can. "I'm afraid it could. And did," it said apologetically.

"Good Lord! I've been talking with a demonic frog," she breathed, crossing herself. Her eyes wide, she began to scramble to her feet, looking around as if in search of a means to escape. With the wood all around, there were quite a few options.

But the frog jumped down from its rock towards her and, before she had a chance to flee, said, "Miss Bennet, please don't be afraid. Contrary to what you may think right now, I am not demonic or evil. You have no reason to fear me."

She snorted. "I'm sure all demons say that, just before they suck the souls out of their victims."

The frog looked so pleasantly baffled by this that she began to laugh again. "I suppose you probably would have done that long before now, had you the intention," she said with a smile, looking down quite a ways at the brown amphibian, whose head was tilted back so it could still watch her. "OK, so if you're not a demonic frog, what are you, then? A man who's been cursed by an evil witch?" Bending down, she scooped it into her hands and brought it up to eye level. "If I kiss you, will you turn into a handsome prince?"

The frog didn't answer at first, then shook its head. "No. Not a prince. "

She narrowed her eyes. "You're not Mr. Collins, are you?"

It laughed, an odd sound that seemed a mix of true laughter and the low croaking it usually emitted. "No. I am not your cousin."

"You do look a lot alike. Not brothers, are you?" she asked with an arch smile.

"No relation, Miss Bennet. And from your description of him, I feel I should take that as an insult."

She laughed. "You're a very handsome frog. He's merely an unhandsome human. Oh! I shouldn't say that, abuse him like that -- especially now that I know you're actually listening."

It didn't reply, so she continued, biting her lip. "I've been awfully unkind to a lot of people over the past few weeks, saying horrible things about them."

"No more than they deserve, I imagine."

"It's still not polite to speak badly of someone to another," she said. "Do you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," it replied softly. "If we say nothing, how else do we discover the truth?"

Elizabeth had no reply to that, so stayed silent for a moment. She then recalled the frog's words from earlier. "Speaking of discovering the truth," she began, "what do you know of Mr. Wickham? Why do you say he's not telling me the truth?"

"I did not say that, precisely," it hedged, jumping out of her hands and returning to its place on the rock.

"But you implied as much," she said, sitting opposite. "What do you know?"

Its eyes shifted uncomfortably. "I only said that perhaps you ought to ask Mr. Darcy for his side of the story."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you broke your silence to tell me that?"

"I would not wish for you to be imposed upon," it said. She made as if to speak, but it interrupted, saying, "The sun is too high. I must go." And without another word, it hopped off into the brush where Elizabeth could not possibly follow.

But she had no wish to, even had she been able. The past few minutes had completely stymied her. From the discovery that her frog was a magical, talking frog to its suggestion that she could possibly ask a man like Mr. Darcy to explain himself, it was all as if she had somehow found herself in a fantastical dream.

She walked back to Longbourn slowly in a daze, trying to sort everything out in her mind. She was only mildly successful in this endeavor, having finally convinced herself that she had, indeed, talked with and been talked to by a frog by the time she re-entered the house and divested herself of her outer clothing. As she was rubbing her hands by the hearth in the kitchen, dodging maids as they ran past, Elizabeth was informed by their flustered housekeeper Mrs. Hill as she bustled about, setting together items for a tea tray, that the daughters of the house were all wanted in the drawing room. Mr. Bingley and his sisters had come bearing an invitation to an upcoming ball at Netherfield.

The youngest Bennets and Mrs. Bennet herself were thrilled at the prospect, and Jane, blushing quietly under Mr. Bingley's appreciative gaze, seemed no less eager, though more silently so. Elizabeth, on the other hand, looked at the invitation with a small measure of dread and anticipation. This, she knew, would be a good opportunity to speak with Mr. Darcy. A ball could afford, with care, a certain amount of seclusion to talk while still perfectly chaperoned.

She certainly wouldn't be able to speak with him beforehand, even if she could somehow arrange it in an above-board manner. The weather in the days that followed were wet, a succession of rain that blanketed the countryside. She didn't even have an opportunity to escape into the wood, had she thought the frog would be there, despite their last parting.

So, unable to share such an absurd story with her father or Jane, she was left to her own counsel -- and the attentions of Mr. Collins. She was beginning to get the idea that her cousin was interested in making her the next Mrs. Collins, and the idea sickened her. But she decided not to let it worry her -- she could deal with that problem when it came.

But Elizabeth could not escape his request for the first two dances at the Netherfield Ball, so when they arrived at Netherfield on the night of the grand gala, she was quickly claimed by that gentleman. Mr. Collins proved to be as poor a dancer as he was a suitor, and she suffered through the first set, dodging his feet when they came too close for comfort, trying to avoid his leaning, and suppressing her embarrassment when he apologized profusely for his mistakes. And all the while Mr. Darcy was watching her from the edge of the dance floor, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She sent him a look of mock severity, but this only seemed to make him more amused.

She was not surprised, then, that upon finishing the dance, she was approached by Mr. Darcy. He bowed to her politely and requested the next dance. Seizing the opportunity, she accepted.

They did not talk at first, dancing in silence, their movements graceful. At last, she opened with a teasing sally, making a comment about the dance and, when he only replied with a short agreement, she said it was now his turn to speak; he responded, saying that he would say anything she requested, and she laughed.

"That's all very well, Mr. Darcy. And now I suppose we can be silent; perhaps later I might remark that private balls are much more pleasant than public ones, but for now we may be silent."

"Do you talk by a rule, then, while dancing?"

"Sometimes it's best for the sake of both parties. But perhaps we simply have not found the right topic. What of ... what of Mr. Wickham?"

He started, but managed to keep step. "And what of him, Miss Bennet?" he asked the next time they were together.

"I just wondered about your story. He's told me quite a few things about you, all of them quite damaging."

Mr. Darcy's expression became rueful, and he looked around at the other dancers with resigned amusement. "This is not the place, Miss Bennet..."

"Where would be a good place?" she asked earnestly. "Mr. Darcy, I cannot ask you to an assignation in the wood, you know."

He smiled, a somewhat mischievous glint in his eyes, and bowed his head. "I could call on you tomorrow," he said blandly.

Her eyes widened. "Shh!" she said with a laugh. "Oh, lud, we'll have to hope that didn't just start a batch of rumors you would definitely not want certain members of my family to hear."

"Very well," he said, "If that suggestion doesn't suit, would you care to sit out the second dance? We could perhaps find an alcove in which to speak."

She returned his smile now and, as they passed, pressed his hand in agreement. He looked somewhat startled at this, but did not comment, and they continued the dance until at last he drew her away from the set. Not able to find an empty alcove, they proceeded, her arm securely linked through his, onto the terrace, where several other couples braving the balmy November night idly walked.

"We can speak out here with a fair amount of privacy," he said, drawing her by the hand to the balcony rail. She looked out onto the gardens below, breathing in the cool night air.

"I believe," he said after a moment, his voice soft, "that you were asking me about Mr. Wickham."

"I was," she replied. "He told me, the other night at my Aunt Philips', something of your relationship. In short, that you deprived him of a living that was intended for him, and that your motive was revenge, jealousy of your father's favorite. I was advised by ... someone, whom I ... whom I trust, to ask you for the truth."

Mr. Darcy did not respond at first, his gaze steadily trained on something in the dark distance, his hands lightly resting on the railing. At least he nodded. "The first part of his story, I suppose, is at its essence correct; I did deprive him of a living my father had hoped he would occupy. But it was not from anything resembling envy."

He then shared with her the tale of his early relationship with Mr. Wickham; of that gentleman's unsuitability for the church, and, upon Darcy's father's death, the subsequent compensation of three thousand pounds in lieu of the living, which Mr. Wickham had himself requested. He then, in a low voice cautioning her that what she heard could go no further, told her of Mr. Wickham's recent imposition on a young girl, no more than fifteen, and their near elopement, with the help of a deceitful governess, Mrs. Young.

"They would have eloped, had I not heard of it by chance and been there to stop them," he said, his hands clenching white-knuckled around the marble rail. "It was his object to be revenged on me, I've no doubt."

"Revenged?" Elizabeth echoed. Her keen mind played through the possibilities, recalling Mr. Wickham's story and other conversations overheard. "Then it must have been someone close to you. ... Your sister?"

He shot her a sideways glance, his lips curving into a rueful grimace. "Yes. My sister."

She nodded, coming to stand closer to him. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "I found them in time. Wickham I was able to pay off. And that blasted witch Mrs. Young..." His hand clenched convulsively.

Elizabeth had nothing to say and remained silent, thinking through everything he told her.

"Miss Bennet--"

"I won't tell anyone," she said quickly. But thinking for a moment, she bit her lip and asked, "That is, may I tell..."

"Your elder sister?" She shook her head. "Your father?"

"No ... that is, I would like to tell my father some things, to warn him, but I was truly asking if I might tell the ... friend I mentioned earlier. The one who had advised me to come to you with Wickham's story. I think it would appreciate... I mean, well, it's rather complicated..."

"I trust your judgment," he said with a smile.

"Miss Bennet," he continued after a moment, turning to her more fully. He leaned one elbow on the rail and placed his hand over hers. She turned her gaze to him, startled. "Miss Bennet, now is not the appropriate time, but I was hoping I might call on you tomorrow. I have something specific I would ask you."

At first, she didn't know what to say, taken aback by the request. She was relieved of the onus of making a reply, however, for at that moment, the dance ended and several couples wandered out of the overheated ballroom onto the terrace. She looked over her shoulder at them, and Darcy removed his hand, moving away to an appropriate distance.

One of the pairs now on the terrace included Jane and Mr. Bingley, and they approached the now silent couple at the railing. "Darcy! Lovely night for a ball, isn't it? I told you it would be. Perfect weather."

"Don't balls generally take place in ballrooms, Mr. Bingley?" Elizabeth asked with a smile. "I should think the weather fairly constant indoors."

"True, but a night any colder than this would have prevented our coming out at all," Darcy said with a smile. "I very much enjoyed the opportunity, Miss Elizabeth."

"As did I, Mr. Darcy," she replied. "And I look forward to other opportunities to repeat the experience." And giving him an arch look, she turned and begged Mr. Bingley to allow her to steal her sister away. Being the consummate gentleman, he did, no matter his thoughts on the subject.

The rest of the ball passed with only the smallest discomfort. Her family did their best to embarrass themselves: her cousin introduced himself to Mr. Darcy without a by-your-leave and spoke to him about his aunt; Mary, never the most adept at the arts despite her earnest application, played and sang two airs after dinner before being supplanted at the pianoforte; Lydia and Kitty made nuisances of themselves, dancing and flirting with a little too much gaiety with the officers; and her mother spoke loudly and without conscious limitation to everyone and anyone in her vicinity about Jane's capture of Mr. Bingley and the advantages of such a match.

"But what was absolutely astounding, and I can't quite understand it, was Mr. Darcy always seemed to be in the right place to check them," Elizabeth was telling the frog the next morning. "He was quite polite to my cousin, despite, I'm sure, a great desire to give him cut direct. I certainly would have understood him doing such a thing, even if I were mortified; I had to deal with the pompous man this morning when he proposed, and at least we've been introduced! But Mr. Darcy simply gave him a gentle set-down, nothing embarrassing or overtly humbling. Though I do believe Mr. Collins could have used it, as he didn't seem to get the hint at all. Maybe a nice kick in the head would have worked.

"Well, and then Mary. Oh! I was so appalled when Mary began the second tune with so little encouragement. And I am sure my father would have only embarrassed her with some comment -- I could see it in his eyes -- if Mr. Darcy hadn't engaged him in conversation just then. And then, when Mary was finished, he asked Annie Long if she would care to replace her at the instrument, just as if he hadn't just heard the most awful rendition of a Mozart aria in history. Or that he didn't know he was about to hear the second most, by requesting a song from Annie."

She laughed. "And then, my mother at dinner. I vow, she did everything possible to turn the conversation back on Mr. Bingley's five thousand a year, and Mr. Darcy kept overruling her with talk of London and the price of wool, and whether the weather would bode well for the wheat. I would have kissed him then and there if the table hadn't been between us. Which was undoubtedly a very, very good thing."

The frog shot her a glance out of the corner of its eye before hopping off its rock into the water, where it splashed a bit to wet its skin again.

"Not much he could do about Kitty and Lydia, I suppose," she continued musingly. "I'm just very grateful that Mr. Wickham wasn't there. After what Mr. Darcy said, I wouldn't trust him within fifty feet of them, the ... the snake in the grass!"

The frog, startled, hopped out of the cool water and into her lap, its eyes wide as it looked around in panic. "I meant Wickham!" Elizabeth said with a laugh. The frog merely gave her a look of profound annoyance and hopped back into the water. Her laughter finally dying down, she added, her voice softened, "I did wish to thank you again for advising me to talk to Mr. Darcy about Wickham's lie. I wouldn't have known--"

"It was nothing," the frog replied.

"But I quite possibly would have unjustly accused Mr. Darcy if it hadn't been for your observation," Elizabeth said, shaking her head. "If not to his face, at least in private thought. I'm well aware of my stubborn streak, and of my perhaps over-assured belief in my strong judgment."

"You were already starting to doubt Wickham's story on your own," it said. "Given enough time and thought, I've no doubt you would have been able to resolve any remaining questions."

"Perhaps, but I still would have had suspicions. The old adage that where there's smoke, there's fire," she said with a sigh. She smiled, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees and chin on fists. "So I do thank you, and you cannot stop me from feeling grateful. I'd like to do something for you if I can. Perhaps find you a place to spend the winter? It gets rather cold around here. I'm not sure where you're from, or how long you'll be staying."

"Thank you, but I would have no need," it replied graciously. After a brief pause, it added, "If your offer is sincere, however, there is something..."

Elizabeth laughed. "Name it."

"A kiss."

"A kiss?" she echoed. "So you are a prince in disguise!"

It sighed. "Not a prince, Miss Bennet. Far from it, I'm afraid."

"Ah, well, if you were only a lowly butcher's boy, I'd be no less grateful," Elizabeth said with a gentle smile. "And we are friends, are we not? Good friends, I hope. If a kiss is all you require, I will give it. And this will release you from whatever spell you are under?"

Its little froggy brow wrinkled. "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. I would hope..." He paused, then asked, "Miss Bennet, what do you think of Mr. Darcy?"

She seemed startled by the non sequitur, and her face pinkened charmingly. "Mr. Darcy?" she echoed with admirable detachment. "I can't imagine why you would ask."

But he persisted, and she answered, her eyes sparking with mischief, "He is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me." The frog merely gave her an expressive look, and she laughed. "Oh, very well. I like him. He's vastly different than what I thought him at first, and all a man truly should be. If there were a man I could love, it would be him, I think."

The frog seemed slightly disappointed by this answer, and asked, his tone hesitant, "But you don't? Love him, I mean."

Elizabeth hardly knew where to look. Her cheeks grew uncomfortably warm and her throat tight as she struggled for an answer. "Oh, I don't know! No, how could I? That is, no -- he would hardly ask someone like me to marry him. I couldn't possibly--"

"But he was going to meet with you today. To ask you something particular."

"How did you know that?" she asked, her eyes narrowing, her suspicions kindled.

"Do you trust me, Elizabeth?"

"How did you know--"

"Do you trust me?"

"Mr. Frog--"

"Do you trust me?" he repeated, his voice insistent. He hopped into her lap, his eyes pleading for an answer.

"Of course I trust you!"

"Then kiss me."

With an exclamation of annoyance, Elizabeth picked up the frog and put her lips to its cold, wet, and slimy ones, pressing hard just to make it stop talking. But suddenly, with no more hint of a magical change than a whisper of a soft wind through the trees, the lips pressed against hers were not cold, or wet, or slimy, but warm and soft and eagerly moving against hers. Her eyes flew open in astonishment to find herself staring into a warm, brown, intent, and very human pair of eyes.

"Mr. Darcy!" she exclaimed in surprise. She looked lower, where her hands were splayed against his chest. "Oh! Mr. Darcy!" Her cheeks flaming, she turned away, her hand at first going to her mouth in horror, then remaining to stifle the laughter that had risen bubbling to her lips.

From behind her came the sound of cursing and muttering and the rustle of leaves. "For pity's sake," he said, adding another, more colorful oath. "If magic is so magical, you would think they'd have found a way to transmogrify my clothing along with the rest of me. I left my clothes here by the stream somewhere..." A few more oaths muttered under his breath, and he continued ruefully, "I apologize, Miss Bennet, I -- No! Don't turn around yet."

Elizabeth went back to staring at the trees opposite, her shoulders shaking in repressed laughter.

"There," Darcy said a few minutes later. "I'm decently clad again."

She turned to find him attempting to tie an adequate knot in his starch-less cravat, and a giggle escaped her at the sight of his wrinkled -- though appropriately attired -- appearance. He glared at her, and her hilarity spilled out into great, heaving gales of laughter, tears spilling now from her eyes. After a moment he joined in, though the blush did not recede from his cheeks.

"Miss Bennet," he said when they had returned to some degree of composure, "I do apologize. I had no idea I would be--"

"Please," she said, holding up a hand to stop him as she giggled again. "Don't."

He sat down on the rock opposite her, and Elizabeth marveled at how different a person he appeared here than in ballrooms or at dinner tables. Perhaps it was his wrinkled clothing, or the way his unbrushed hair stuck out at weird angles, or the realization that here sat her trusted friend and confidant of the past few months. His eyes were the same -- warm, brown, with the hint of something passionate and wild flecked in their depths.

"Did you know it was me?"

She shook her head. "Not until you mentioned your appointment with me -- and then, I could only narrow it down to you or your valet." When he laughed, she added, "I thought perhaps you might have come out here every morning for him to dress you."

"Miss Bennet, I love you," he said, his laughter echoing through the trees.

She caught her breath, and the entire wood seemed to still. "How did you become a frog?" she asked, her voice somewhat strained.

"Mrs. Young, of course," he said with a sigh. "When I said last night that she was a witch, I truly meant she was, indeed, a witch. Oh, she was a horrible choice for Georgiana's governess, I realize now. She had had perfect references, though, and at that time I never dreamed of a situation like the one that happened. Needless to say, with her and Wickham's plans thwarted and the prospect of no job and no reference looming, I fear she took it out on me."

"And made you into a frog."

"Only from midnight to noon, for some odd reason. The afternoons were fine, and though I had to leave a few balls early for fear of changing into a frog quite suddenly in the middle of a dance floor, it wasn't really too much of an issue. But my ... erm, problem would have been hard to keep secret for long in London, and then Bingley offered a possible solution, so I came here to Hertfordshire. And I'm very glad I accepted his offer," he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Elizabeth's ear, his hand caressing her cheek as he did. "Else I wouldn't have met you."

She looked down, embarrassed, and he suddenly clasped her hands in his, his voice low and earnest as he said, "Elizabeth, you know now that I admire and love you. Ever since you came across me here in the woods I have looked on you as a friend, someone who would chastise me for my faults and recognize my strengths, and as the ideal woman. I have been a selfish being all my life, and if not for your reproofs so I still should have been. I was waiting only for a sign that you felt as I did, and would look with favor on my proposal, and now I have received it. I would be the happiest man on earth if you would now consent to share your life with me as my wife."

"A sign?" Elizabeth asked, dodging the question. "What sign?"

A smile curved his lips as he titled her face up to meet her eyes. "Do you truly not know?" When she shook her head, he chuckled under his breath. "It's the kiss of course," he said. "True love's kiss. It wouldn't have worked, otherwise."

And leaning across, he took her lips again in a soul-searing kiss that put an end to any of Elizabeth's doubts. Her heart was fit to burst by his words, this proof that he did love her and wanted her to become his wife. She kissed him back, her lips eager, and he moaned, his hand spearing through her hair as he angled his mouth over hers.

At last they separated, and he asked, his voice husky, "So you will marry me?"

She smiled. "I should hope so, after that demonstration."

Darcy's answering smile revealed his happiness at her saucy response, and he leaned in again to take another kiss. But she, thinking suddenly of something, put a finger to his lips, arresting him. "What did you mean before, when you said Mr. Bingley offered you a possible solution? Why you came to Hertfordshire with him, I think you said."

"Oh, just that his sister Caroline is a witch," he replied, his mind clearly elsewhere as he kissed the length of her finger, moving on to her wrist. "She agreed to try to find a counter-spell that might work. Probably, knowing her, in exchange for -- oh." He paused in his progress up the inside of her arm, his eyes catching Elizabeth's in dawning horror. "Uh, she might be a bit disappointed by our engagement."

Elizabeth laughed and kissed him. "That's all right. I liked you as a frog, anyway."