Chapter Twenty -- The End of Procrastination

Posted on: 2008-09-19

The paper was faded, and Darcy smiled to see that the location and date were neatly written in the right hand corner. Amelia's slanting hand was perfect. It showed no signs of the illness that wracked her body. He could still see her hands shaking in his mind, but the letter showed none of that.

He wondered then when she had written it, or how long it had taken her to painstakingly write. Even if it hadn't obviously been her hand, he would have dismissed the idea she dictated the letter to anyone. Amelia hoarded her privacy and thoughts as much as he did.

Dear Fitzwilliam,

My dear husband, I wonder how long it has been between this letter being delivered and your opening it. I hope it has not been so long that the ink has faded. I do not want my effort to be in vain, and neither do I wish for you to be alone forever.

Perhaps you are opening this on your wedding night, but I hope your curiosity has been aroused much earlier than that. I know nothing I can say will ever change your mind if you are already sure of yourself. You once told me of your disgust of those that are ever changeable, listening to everyone but themselves. I know you think you straddle the line of too changeable and immovable, but you fall a little short.

If there is time, Fitzwilliam, do not make your wife miserable. You have, at the time of writing, a home and an heir. Your duty is fulfilled in this respect. If you should marry again, marry for yourself and no other.

I can see your expression, as if you really were standing before me. I do not mean to imply that you made me miserable. Of course there were miserable moments for both of us, but I have not been a wretched wife.

We are similar creatures of duty and family, but our union has fulfilled that, Fitzwilliam. I have such a deep and great affection for you.

Darcy could see here there had been some time before she took up her pen once more. Perhaps it denoted a time of illness or that some thought was required.

I love you, Fitzwilliam. It is not a blinding love, and it did not strike me as I looked across a ballroom, but it is there none the less. And I think, nay I know, you love me too. It crept on much more slowly for you maybe, but I know from my experience, whomever and for whatever reason you choose to marry again, that you will love her.

Except I cannot in good conscience support you in growing a love that is not already there; there is of course an understanding that love does not underpin marriages in our sphere, but this does not stop hope. A first marriage is for growing love, a second is for the support of an existence. I will leave it to you to understand me, as I understand you.

I even understood you when I married you. It is a gamble that might not pay off twice.

I thought perhaps such a handsome husband, with such a dry outlook on life, would do me well. I did not think that I would come to feel affection for everything about you. That I would notice the smallest of expressions when you saw me reading once again the advertisements for Gowlands lotion. I expect you did not notice how much that was to tease such an expression out of you.

Darcy could not help but feel a sense of rising annoyance. He faithfully read those advertisements! He faithfully listened and she had been laughing at him!

Then he could not help but laugh himself.

My thoughts will mean little to you, not because you mean to belittle me, but as I have said before, you come down too strongly on the side of immovable mind. I can only ask that you think of our son....

The rest of the letter contains Amelia's thoughts about their son. This was the fault of the letter. A child barely three years of age had little personality that was recognisable with the adult. Although Darcy thought of his son at that age and his son now and had to admit perhaps there was more correlation than he had thought.

Nevertheless, he felt a sense of sorrow and pain that this child Amelia was writing about was not their son. She had never known their son. But she had his best interests at heart and Darcy knew what she meant in this section of her letter. She wanted him to put himself and their son first. Not duty or society or anything else.

He had not shed a tear at Amelia's funeral. Nor at any other time in those dark months. He had felt desolate and bleak but, apart from an increase in consumption of the finest alcohol Scotland and the Continent could offer, there had been no outward leaking of that emotion. But now Darcy found himself folding the letter roughly and finding himself forced to shield his eyes.

"Are you sure you do not wish to come to the emporium with us, Mama?" Emily looked concerned. Emily had been keeping her under close observation since their hurried exodus from Hyde Park. Elizabeth was torn between being amused and exasperated. She had not run mad!

"But if your mother does not accompany us, I can spoil you more than I could if she was there," added Mrs Gardiner with a smile.

Her aunt was also amusing and exasperating. Her Aunt and Emily were the reason that Elizabeth felt that visiting Thomas would be like taking sanctuary.

"Shall I buy you some new ribbons?" said Henrietta.

Elizabeth cupped Henrietta's chin. "You do not think I am a little old for such fripperies?"

"Giselle... " Giselle was another newly debuted member of the ton that Elizabeth was almost sick of hearing about. At least her niece, Clara, had sense. Giselle seemed to only think of ribbons and lace. Henrietta did not need help turning her thoughts in that direction... "said that tricking oneself out was the only way to get a husband and ... "

"Look at that pretty church spire, I have never noticed it before." Interjected Mrs Gardiner. "But here we are at Thomas' lodgings. Shall we call for you, Lizzy?"

"No, I am well able to find my way home, " said Elizabeth dryly, barely allowing the carriage to stop before she had reached to open the door. She was not fooled by her aunt's sudden interest in church architecture. It seemed that she was going to have to have a conversation she did not want to have with her daughters before too long.

Mrs Gardiner was a sensible woman, though perhaps one that had grown rather more fond of romance than Elizabeth remembered; if she had said anything to her daughters, it would have been a generalisation. Something to prepare their minds for the idea that their mother might remarry; only Emily might then make the connection to Mr Darcy. Mrs Gardiner left the specific conversations to direct to her niece!

Elizabeth raised her hand to the departing carriage and could not help returning Mrs Gardiner's wide smile, before she turned to the stairs that led to her son's lodgings.

No, if Elizabeth thought about it, her Aunt had always been a practical romantic. Elizabeth had admired it in her younger years; after all things such as money, station and situation were practical matters that ensured or destroyed one's happiness. But love, respect, affection, passion, romance -- they also had an impact.

Elizabeth now felt rather differently about her aunt's notions. It seemed more and more that her Aunt would, when they were in private, drop notions such as Phaetons and fours being just the thing for Pemberley into conversations.

That had been a particularly pointed hint and had required some response.

A response that had been a momentary challenge: "Leaving aside more pertinent issues, Aunt," Elizabeth had hoped her response did not require the addition of ‘such as there has been no understanding, no proposal, and perhaps no hope of one.' The response did however need a conclusion: "It would not be seemly."

"If it happened tomorrow perhaps, but that is unlikely. These things require some preparation, surely you remember."

Elizabeth did remember, and her marriage had been a simple affair. It would have been simpler if not for her mother. She'd resented having to pander to her mother, but now she was glad she had done so. Elizabeth could visualise her own contentment and pride at seeing Henrietta or Emily married to a man they loved and respected. She knew how hurt she would be if either of her daughters cut her from their wedding preparations.

"Aunt, you speak too prematurely."

"I notice you do not say I speak wrongly," said Mrs Gardiner pointedly. "I told Mr Gardiner, before we had that awful letter from Jane, that I thought Mr Darcy had a preference for you. Was I wrong then?"

"No." It was the simple truth. Elizabeth felt no embroidery might help ease this conversation to an end.

"I was not quite so certain about your partiality. You had spoken so strongly against him. I have had more experience now, but even then I knew young ladies who abused those they secretly admired."

Elizabeth had gaped at her Aunt. That her Aunt could think like Mr Collins! Sputtering, she told her aunt so.

"This is why I was uncertain. My Lizzy could never be so stupid."

Elizabeth was relieved. "I have been stupid where Mr Darcy is concerned."

"I am sure you have," responded her aunt warmly, "but knowing Mr Darcy's character, I think you would have been well matched. I think you are well matched in a lot of ways."

"We were then perhaps."

"I think now also."

"Perhaps," conceded Elizabeth, "But, Aunt, I cannot have you putting the cart before the horses, so to speak."

Mrs Gardiner had nodded and, to show her understanding, had turned the subject.

Her aunt was a woman of character, anything she had said to Emily or Henrietta must have been before their conversation. Or she had merely wanted to plant the seed in their minds, not realising that both Emily and Henrietta were completely capable of turning a small seed into a rambling forest in moments.

The elderly retainer at last shuffled behind the door and opened it, allowing Elizabeth admittance.

The front room was as disordered as her first and so far only visit. But instead of holding her nephew, it held the younger Mr Darcy.

"Mr Darcy," said Elizabeth with a smile.

"Mrs Davis," replied the young man. "Davis is, I believe, taking a bath. I could fetch him for you."

That would embarrass her son, thought Elizabeth; for she could not suppose that the younger Darcy would do it with finesse. It would be too good of an opportunity to pass up. Elizabeth knew boys.

"There is no need. I did not give him any warning. But we might have some conversation while I wait."

Elizabeth noticed that Darcy stiffened at that. No, Darcy's son was not oblivious. Slowly, as if pieces were falling into place, Elizabeth saw maybe what her son was so worried about. What he had been trying to warn her about.

She had expected a confrontation ever since Darcy had made his declaration of intent. But this was a quarter from which she had never considered it might come. Her children being upset she could visualise. She and Darcy having yet another fiery clash was almost a certainty even if it had failed to materialise so far. But she had never thought what the younger man in front of her might think.

He could have never known his mother. Elizabeth would be no replacement surely. Nor would he be affected to any great degree. He was at university, no longer living under his father's roof. The reaction of the Squire's children to their father remarrying had been one that did not even rate a mention. In fact, the lack of reaction had been the talking point in the village.

If she had been a younger woman, than perhaps the younger Darcy may have felt threatened at being replaced in the heart and mind of his father by younger half siblings. Elizabeth knew stepmothers who intrigued desperately in order to have their children considered the favourites.

Nowhere in these vague thoughts bouncing around in her head, where she refused to focus on them as they became real that way, had she thought of nothing but pure irrational emotion driving the younger Darcy's reactions. She could say it was because she had been so caught up in her own feelings, and the reactions of those closer to home, but her heart had gone out to this awkward child on multiple occasions, why had she not thought of him?

Now she braced herself for a reaction. Would he be impolite? If he was his father's son and Elizabeth rather thought he was, he could be more than impolite.

"Was there a subject you wished to discuss in particular?"

It was not impolite but it was leading. Did everyone think that she had an understanding with Darcy?

Had none of them thought that perhaps she had no desire to remarry? That she was happy with a renewed friendship? That the past should remain the past?

She thought her mouth and body had been making the decisions for her; what she had failed to connect before now was that unlike thoughts, actions and words could be interpreted by others.

"Your father liked to discuss the state of roads, is this an interest of yours?"

It had the element of surprise. It worked.

"Roads?" He sounded like he had never thought of his father and his preferred trivial conversation topics.

"Yes, and the relative distances over good ones." Elizabeth was going to be careful not to mention they had been discussing roads in relation to marriage.

"My father is, of course, an excellent conversationalist." If this statement had come from Maximilien, Elizabeth would have known that it was being said facetiously. However, Elizabeth had noted before a sense of hero worship from the younger Darcy towards his father. So he really believed in his father.

Except Elizabeth could sense that his rational mind was trying to point out to him that the evidence, as far as provided, was to the contrary. No one had ever taught Darcy to be laughed at, although Elizabeth thought now time had mellowed him in that respect, but it was definite that no one had taught the son to see that the fathercould be teased.

"Indeed, memorable."

"Do you remember all of your conversations with my father?"

Elizabeth could have answered anything she liked; after all no one would no the truth of it besides herself, but she took the time to think. Apart from perhaps some moments (after all could anyone really remember everything) she was startled to realise that perhaps she did remember all their conversations.

At least she remembered the gist of their talks. What did that mean? It could mean what no doubt her Aunt would say it meant. But how could she know Darcy if she could remember every conversation they had?

A small voice reminded her that she would have been happy to commit her life to him, twenty years ago, on the basis of those few conversations. But that was then.

She found her voice, "Yes. I believe I do." She had to be honest.

Darcy junior, looked as if he wanted to reply to that, but the entrance of Thomas prevented him.

Thomas' hair was plastered to his head and Elizabeth could not suppress the maternal urge to move it aside. Thus, Thomas' greeting of "Mama!" was half surprise and half barely disguised embarrassment.

Mr Cavill's letter lay open before Darcy. Business letters were always trying, but this one particularly so. Fitzwilliam had laid the seed of doubt in his mind, and now he was wondering if selling the parcel of land to their neighbour was the right decision.

To do anything with the land would require an outlay of a not inconsiderable sum. Darcy could not allow himself to keep the land sentimentally. If he did not sell he would have to cultivate it. Yet the idea of his birthright was still sitting at the back of his mind. His son's birthright. Could he short change his son in such a way? Would his son miss this parcel of land in the future?

Darcy turned the letter over in some annoyance at himself.

As if reading Amelia's letter had not given him enough food for thought!

Part of him wanted to show Elizabeth the letter and ask her opinion, particularly with regards to Fitzwilliam. The other part of him thought that would be a betrayal of Amelia. Except if he was to do as Amelia asked, he would have to share all of his life with his future wife, whomever she might be, and the fact he wanted to share with Amelia ...

Darcy let his head fall to the desk and groaned.

He did not want to think anymore. He did not want to have to decide whether he should speak to his son or not.

Everything was in Elizabeth's hands. He would not press her. But in all good conscience he could not speak to his son, at least about Elizabeth, unless he was certain. He found it easier to speak when he had a definite reason to do so.

"Sir?"

Of course, the footman would enter the room, right when Darcy was acting uncharacteristically. He did not want to think about the rumours that would be spread around the servant's hall about him. He had his head on the desk.....

"Yes?"

"A lady," his footman coughed politely, "Mrs Davis, is here to see you. I have asked her to wait in the drawing room."

"Thank you," was all Darcy could reply.

He looked at himself in the mirror in the hall before taking the stairs two at a time. He did not even think what sort of gossip that would provoke below stairs. However, he did manage to prevent himself from bursting through the door like an overgrown pup. Straightening his jacket, he opened the door.

"Mrs Davis," he bowed.

"Not Elizabeth?"

"Would that be proper?" said Darcy. He had violated that rule several times already, but he had not heard his name from her lips. He would have remembered that surely?

"At our age and in our situation? We are almost family, after all," said Elizabeth.

"Very well, I will attempt to endeavour to remember it."

Elizabeth smiled at him, "I wished to speak to you." She looked nervous for a moment and then it seemed to drop away from her. "But I must know something first."

Darcy froze. What sin of his had been uncovered that she must know about? What was about to sway her opinion of him?

She walked towards him, and before he could quite realise it, she had, standing herself on the tips of her toes, pressed her lips to his.

Chapter Twenty-One -- The End of Trust

Posted on: 2008-09-26

Thomas adjusted his cravat once more; it was ridiculous to do so, he was only accompanying his cousins in the park. The squire, and others he looked up to, would certainly see it as a preening, peacocking thing to do. Lord Ashbourne would not. But for that man it was practically a duty to look good. Thomas wondered which side Mr Darcy would fall on?

He was growing more and more sure that his mother would have a talk with him very soon. He hoped she would at least. If she was to tell him, and his sisters, that growing attachments should not be kept hidden, she should have the courage not to be hypocritical. Of course any attachment would be of long duration; after all, there was no rush.

His mother's reaction to the near elopement of a young lady when he had been fifteen had astounded him at the time. To listen to a decree on a subject that he had never ever thought of (and he was sure his sisters had not either)! Now, of course, the reaction was completely understandable.

Truthfulness and honour had been bywords of the Davis household and Thomas assumed it was a two way street.

"You are going with Max?" Darcy lounged in the doorway.

"Yes, you?" Thomas was determined to be polite.

"No. Listening to a gaggle of girls chatter away about ribbons? I do not know why Max, or you, put up with it. Unless you wish to throw your life away so soon?"

Thomas smiled, "I am not sure I agree that marriage is such a waste of a life."

Darcy scowled, "I did not mean that. I meant at such a young age you are doubtless to make a poor choice. Particularly since you have no guidance."

"I have my mother, and my own judgement."

"Faulty."

For the sake of civility, Thomas did not press the matter as to whether Darcy meant his judgement or his mother was faulty. "My uncles and my father's friends will stand me in good stead when it comes to advice." Thomas paused, wondering if he should bring the subject up. Darcy had not asked him about the letters, probably rightly assuming that no outraged outburst meant they did not read the letters in the same light. "Your father as well."

There was little reaction. "I should not rely on advice from that quarter."

Thomas found he needed clarification. "You do not think he would offer it?"

"I am sure he would do so."

Thomas shrugged himself into his olive green jacket. He was unsure whether it went with the tight yellow pantaloons but both items were new, and even if he hated to admit it to himself he did want to present himself as a man of some means. He found people, other men mainly, gave him some credit when he looked the part. "You did not ask me what I thought of those letters."

"I thought you might not have read them..."

Thomas wondered if the implication was that he could not read, since he was not as bookish as the other boy and Darcy tended to scorn anyone who did not have identical tastes to his own. Max was the exception to that rule. "I did read them. I should read them again if I were you." Thomas could not escape the impression that Darcy had only read them all through maybe once. He would return to certain passages, but to read the whole canon might be too painful. But perhaps he was ascribing his own feelings when he thought of reading anything of his father's to the other boy.

If it was the case, then Thomas could understand the false impression Darcy might have received from the letters, particularly from those written to his grandmother. He could also understand the misplaced anger. It would be easy to hate this unknown woman who caused his mother pain rather than his father who was more culpable.

"I have."

Thomas looked over at this admission. Darcy was not the type to admit fault, he proved it in his next sentence. "My impressions have not materially changed."

Of course they had not. Thomas sensed difficulties all round. Problems that his mother was oblivious to, and, if Thomas was able to judge a man he barely knew, Mr Darcy did not understand his son as well as he should.

"You look appalling." Thomas blinked, then looked back to the glass. He was about to strongly challenge Darcy's fashion sense when his uncle appeared behind him.

"I do not think I have ever agreed with you more, Little One. What are you wearing, Thomas? I do hope you are not thinking of squiring my daughter anywhere looking like that!"

Thomas realised there was little point in arguing with Lord Ashbourne; the result would be the same. He would be made to change. He might as well speed the process up and just give in. He started stripping off.

"Come, Little One! Let us have some port while Thomas stops giving us headaches!"

Elizabeth's mind was racing. She had told herself that this moment would give her the answer she sought. In a way it had, but it had not clarified anything. To be so intimate with another man, who was not her husband, felt strange. Yet she wished to cling to it, but was this because she missed this feeling? Or because of the man?

The kiss did not answer this question. She could only presume that kissing another man would answer her question and she could not do that. That would go against every fibre of her being; she did not even know why she was doing this!

The idea that she did not know Darcy, that they had no depth of relationship had scared her. She could not remember the outline of every conversation she had with Henry. Nor the outline of every conversation she had had with her children, her sisters, her parents...Emily Albright, Charlotte Lucas...

Her head told her that this was surely because those people had lived in her everyday life. She had had conversations about chickens, dust, shelving and whether there were any potatoes left with them. They were not memorable conversations.

It was ridiculous to compare Darcy to them. Darcy had been part of a strict societal dance whereby men and women were supposed to choose the partner of their fate without really being allowed to see each other in anything but the most formal of situations. Nor being allowed to speak to each other in private, although Darcy and she had defied that convention on several occasions.

She had made a good choice in Henry; he had been less formal in his dealings, and the village was a much more unrestricted place to learn about fellow inhabitants. Yet, she had to think perhaps Charlotte had it right when she said happiness in marriage was purely by chance. She could have been deceived in Henry. She had thought Lord Ashbourne deceived in Kitty.

Not that she doubted her feelings and affections for Darcy, but would they be long lasting? The fact they still existed after all this time made her think positively. But this could be just the first flush of excitement.

Somehow she thought some sort of physical contact would convince her that she was over-thinking things, and that it was a sort of very unpractical romance that had her remembering all their dealings. That and many of them had revolved around moments in her life she could never forget: Jane and Mr Bingley, Lydia's elopement, her being utterly blind in her impressions of people...

Elizabeth drew back, and as her feet landed on the floor, so did all her resolve and level headedness crash to earth.

"Elizabeth..." Darcy seemed equally as perplexed.

Before Elizabeth could try to speak, to explain herself, to defend herself; whatever was necessary. A cough made them break apart.

"I am sorry, sir, but your attention is needed in the kitchens." The Butler looked aggrieved at having to interrupt his master, and Darcy's sharp response made both Elizabeth and the servant flinch. At least, Elizabeth knew she was not the only one who found that reaction uncharacteristic of Darcy.

She could not entirely blame him though for it; Darcy had always been tightly wound when it came to showing his emotions. She had been completely surprised by his proposal at Hunsford, she had seen no evidence of his ‘ardent love'. Looking back on his behaviour later, she thought she could see the signs, but one had to know Darcy very well to see them, or have hindsight in one's favour like she had done.

Being a private man, he would shy away from emotional responses in front of others, particularly his household, and she felt for him because at that moment he must want to speak, or to act. To do something, and he was being prevented. Once again she had put him in an untenable position.

"I apologise, but I do not think this is a matter for the housekeeper. Monsieur is quite enraged." As if designed to punctuate his words something crashed from below them.

Darcy swore under his breath; Elizabeth only heard because they were still standing so close together. His eyes held apology as he left the room.

Elizabeth sank into a chair and wondered what she had done. They had been acting so perfectly with each other. As Kitty had said, neither of them had to resolve anything until the other was ready. They were not twenty. They were a respectable widow and widower. Of course she had to be impetuous, a trait she had thought she had lost in her girlhood, and push the matter before she was ready!

Some time later, when the door to the drawing room opened, Elizabeth let go of a breath she did not even know she was holding. It was not Darcy. For that she was glad, because she had not ordered her thoughts; not even one of them was it its proper place.

However the fact it was the younger Darcy did nothing for her composure. She knew she looked as disordered as she felt. That she had been clearly expecting someone else. Indeed even the fact she was sitting in the drawing room unattended spoke volumes.

Rising awkwardly, Elizabeth offered the young man a seat, he looked equally confused. Her offer made a series of emotions flash across his face and Elizabeth cursed herself. In her confusion, she had just offered him a seat in his own house. The house he would one day be master of; it was utterly absurd.

"We seem to be crossing paths more frequently," she noted.

Mr Darcy the younger had no response. Elizabeth's mind did contortions as it always did when she thought of the son. Perhaps that was why she did not think so often of him; it was difficult to separate him from his father when referring to him. She could not not think of the father when he shared his name.

"I do not mean to imply that this is unpleasant," said Elizabeth when no response came.

"Of course not, ma'am. Did you find the road pleasant?"

He sounded so serious, but it had to be a joke and Elizabeth could not help but laugh. "Indeed, what is less than a mile of road between friends?"

The unchanging expression made Elizabeth pause.

"How do you find the house?"

That comment made her start "I think it a very fine house."

"It is nothing to Pemberley."

"I think very little compares to Pemberley."

"You have seen my father's estate?" Elizabeth was surprised that he had not known that by now at least. Or perhaps he was feigning for some purpose of his own.

"A very long time ago," said Elizabeth. Indeed it felt as if it was a different lifetime, one that had happened to a different person.

"A house party? My father rarely has those any more. Unless it is family."

"No, I was quite an interloping guest. I thought your father was from home. Mrs Reynolds, I am not sure if you would remember her, showed us through the house."

Any response was cut short by Darcy returning. He crossed the room, not noticing that in his absence his son had returned home.

"Elizabeth, I cannot apologise enough ..." He held out his hands to her and in every expression, if not in every word, his feelings radiated from him.

Elizabeth could not help but respond with her own hands, even as she shot a look at the younger man. "Fitzwilliam..."

Darcy smiled, thinking at first she meant him, and perhaps she did, but he turned in the direction of her gaze to see his son.

He did not, as she thought he would, drop her hands. But Elizabeth was not sure if this was simply because he was in a position of some discomfort, to be surprised in what he thought was a private moment.

"Sir, I believe you forget yourself."

Perhaps that should have been Elizabeth's line; after all she was being ‘accosted' by a man who was not her husband, or any other near relation of hers.

"Fitzwilliam?" Darcy seemed puzzled. Elizabeth knew she had been right, Darcy had not seen what was under his nose either.

"Do you need reminding of the fact that Mrs Davis is so recently a widow?"

If that had been the extent of the younger Darcy's stricture Elizabeth could not have faulted him, even Darcy could not have done so; after all it was a valid concern. To romance a woman so recently a widow would raise some eyebrows. Perhaps not as many if she had been younger but raised they would be. Except, of course, that was not the end. "To be so disrespectful to my mother; to forget her in some tawdry dalliance with so inferior a woman?"

Darcy dropped her hands at this and turned in no inconsiderable anger towards his son.

"Fitzwilliam! You forget yourself." Darcy's hands clenched and unclenched before he continued, "I will not have Elizabeth spoken of in that manner. I will not be spoken to in that manner."

"I do not much care for what you wish! I am sure there has been no thought to what anyone else wishes as far as you are concerned. You have been making a fool of yourself! If that had been all, then perhaps I could have remained silent, but you have been making a fool of my mother, and of our name."

"I will try to understand your protection of our name, but what does Amelia have to do with this?"

"If you had to ask that question then you are a much lesser man than I ever thought! My mother had to live in the shadow of your affection for..." he gestured towards Elizabeth. "You had to make her life miserable, and now her memory?"

"I beg your pardon?" Darcy's anger seemed to have been replaced with bewilderment. "Where have you received these ideas from?"

"Not from you. Indeed, I rank so lowly in your concerns, it seems, that perhaps you felt I should be the last to know?"

"Who has been spreading lies?"

Elizabeth could not fault Darcy for focusing on the fact someone had been spreading lies. Elizabeth saw everything abhorrent in those who twisted facts, or outright made things up, for their own purposes. The problems with such things were that although the originator would be malevolent, it would spread through those who were merely slaves to gossip. Those like Mrs Long and Aunt Phillips, who just could not contain the stories, could not think of their likelihood or who they would hurt. So the tale became more twisted.

But the younger Darcy was not stupid; proud and stubborn naturally, but not dim-witted. His pride alone would make it hard for him to believe anything said against those he respected and admired, which made his current actions out of character. Except Elizabeth suddenly saw who could instil such utter confidence in the younger Darcy. Only the real, not imagined, defence of a mother could inspire such anger. But she saw it too late, and her sudden clutch of Darcy's elbow was for naught.

"You call my mother, your wife, a liar? I wish for you to know I will never accept this. Whatever this is. You will have to break with your son. It will be your choice and I know how much you dislike gossip. Indeed appearances are everything, did you not teach me that?"

Darcy seemed to have nothing to say to this, it was not because he had no response, but because he physically seemed unable to put voice to whatever was flowing through his mind.

"Already you have laid yourself open to gossip. Receiving a woman alone? Making no excuses to the servants? To fall so low, it is abominable." That was his parting shot.

If Elizabeth felt torn, then she could only imagine what Darcy himself must be feeling. Elizabeth thought she could smite Amelia for whatever she had written to her son. Except that Amelia seemed to have no resemblance to the Amelia that Darcy had described to her; Darcy's Amelia even if she had hated her husband would not have inflicted such hatred upon her son. Not knowing that her little boy would only have his father in life.

Knowing the thought was particularly hypocritical she could not help but curse Darcy. Did he never speak to his son? She could not imagine him such an unfeeling parent or such an unobservant one. Why did he even have to have a son? If his son did not exist Elizabeth thought they would not be here, in this room, so close together yet still so isolated.

"This is my fault," whispered Darcy.

He gave voice to what she was thinking and in that moment Elizabeth ceased to think of it. She could not bear to see Darcy in this much pain. No man should be in this much pain. The contrast between his expression when he walked into the room to the one now etched on his face was considerable.

"No, it is not." Elizabeth moved to reassure him in words and in actions.

Chapter Twenty Two -- The End of Childish Talk

Posted on: 2008-10-02

Thomas had tuned out Henrietta's conversation. He had become adept at doing so, particularly when she talked about ribbons and such like. At the moment she was talking about ribbons and their apparently magnetic quality when it came to Mr Jefferson.

In previous conversations, he had listened intently to discover who Mr Jefferson was; after all he did not want to be surprised by a suitor. Mr Jefferson was indeed, according to Henrietta, a paragon of virtue. Thomas however would not take Henrietta's word; he could be a tattooed sailor with a mouth belonging in the gutter and have a dream to become a mercenary and a penchant for strong drink and gambling, but if Henrietta liked him, she would only see his virtues. Like his face.

Max had reassured him, telling him that ‘Jeffy' was a shy bookish sort who would never dream of speaking out of a turn to a young lady. Indeed he would never even dream of speaking to a young lady. He was quite frightened of them.

"It is his curse that he is quite an Adonis so young ladies always wish to speak to him!"

Thomas had laughed at that, and resolved to only feel pity for Mr Jefferson and his plight. When Max had introduced him to Jeffy, Thomas' pity had deepened, for Jeffy was far more comfortable amongst his books than in society. Henrietta was in no danger. Indeed, unless a man was a hardened cad, he thought Henrietta quite able to handle herself.

"Of course, I wonder if he will apply to Mr Darcy?"

It was this wondering that caused Thomas to suddenly turn back to his sister. "What would Jeffy apply to Mr Darcy for?"

"I wish you would not use that silly name. If you must be so vulgarly familiar, Tom, Mr Jefferson has a Christian Name. A fine Christian name, Hildebrand."

It was at this point that Thomas though he had perhaps underestimated the extent of Henrietta's calf love.

"Very well, what would Hildy apply to Mr Darcy for?"

His sister gave him a look of not inconsiderable annoyance but answered him anyway. "My hand, of course."

"Your hand? Jeffy doesn't want to marry you!" Thomas was shocked. "He has not said he wishes to marry you, has he? I should draw his cork for speaking to my sister!"

"Tom! Of course Mr Jefferson has not spoken in such a way to me, but I am sure he will in time."

Thomas was relieved that there had been no making up to his sister behind his back. Then he paused. "What do you mean he'd speak to Mr Darcy?"

"Well, by then of course Mr Darcy would be in place of Papa."

Thomas stopped dead in his path. "What are you talking about, Hetty?!"

Henrietta sighed, and Thomas was sure he saw her eyes roll. "I know Aunt Gardiner never said as much, but Emily and I are not simpletons. Of course, when she gave us that little hint that we should not suppose our mother to end her days alone, she meant Mr Darcy. Emily said Mama was quite overset by him in the park that day. I mean he is not so very handsome, but he is old, and perhaps Mama finds him so since she too is no longer young."

A sudden fear gripped Thomas. "Who else have you told this theory to?"

"It's not a theory, Tom. You cannot be so blind! You are not sheltered from society as Emily and I are. And we know they have been walking, they have been to the theatre together, they are always putting their heads together about something. I am sure he means to propose. I think it is quite romantic. Tragically lonely all these years; and no one would do for him. Then he sets eyes on the girl he once knew, Clara said that she was surprised that her mother had known him long before she met Uncle Ash ..."

Henrietta continued to ramble, but Thomas did not hear her. Common knowledge! He had not thought it would be common knowledge so soon.

Once he had managed to attach Henrietta back to the gaggle of young people walking, Thomas made his escape. He thought he saw Max's frown at being left behind, but Thomas could not think of anything else but that his mother was being gossiped about in the basest of ways.

Not everyone would assume that the sudden enjoyment his mother and Mr Darcy found in each other's company was entirely virtuous and leading to a proposal.

Mr Albridge and his cronies at Oxford had made it quite clear to Thomas the attractive qualities of widows to some men.

Thomas let himself into their rooms, but before he could work out his plan -- did he speak to his mother or Mr Darcy? -- he heard a crash from upstairs. It sounded like someone was throwing things against a wall.

Barring intruders, there was only one person likely to do that.

"Darcy, what are you playing at?" Thomas hoped he sounded as aghast as he felt. "Those are Rogers' things!"

"I will reimburse Rogers!" said Darcy, but he put down the vase he was holding.

"They might be mementos! Priceless memories!"

"Rogers isn't so sentimental," scoffed Darcy. "He hates his mother and he detests his father." Darcy muttered something more under his breath which Thomas could not distinguish.

Darcy picked up a picture; Thomas recognized it as one of the prized possessions from the trunk. It was, he thought, a picture of Pemberley.

"You should have this," said Darcy.

"Why?"

"Well, it is going to be yours someday, I am sure."

"Excuse me?" Thomas was baffled.

"My father cannot stop extolling your virtues; when you are his son ..."

Thomas bristled. "I will never be his son, and inheritance does not work that way!"

"My father is not titled and Pemberley is not entailed. It is within his power to leave it to whomever he so chooses."

"Which will be you!"

Darcy laughed. "Really? When he is ensconced with his new wife, and she works away at him promoting the cause of her son, whom he already loves like his own?"

"You of all people should know how dangerous it is to belittle a mother to her son!" retorted Thomas.

"I mentioned no names, how curious it is you presume I am speaking of your mother."

The time to be coy and circumspect had passed. "I do not think either of us are stupid, Darcy."

"At least you do not underestimate my intelligence."

"I rather thought you saw this coming a lot earlier that most; what has put you into such a passion?"

"I found them together."

Thomas thought he might be ill. The idea that ...

"Not like that. I should hope my father had some dignity and honour left," said Darcy sharply. " But who can tell? After all, she was alone in the drawing room and it was clear something intimate had passed between them. She treated my -- his -- house like it was her own. I may assume that nothing more than an understanding had occurred. The servants will not be so magnanimous. They will be more base thinking."

"They were alone together?" said Thomas.

"Not for the first time." Thomas was going to challenge Darcy's assertion but the other boy spoke first, "I said servants talk. And they tend not to give the benefit of the doubt."

The idea that his mother was the subject of base gossip angered Thomas. It was ridiculous: she was a grown woman, a widow! More than that, Thomas knew his mother; she would not give up her reputation!

"I am sure it has made its way to the clubs. Every eye was on them at the Opera," said Darcy.

Thomas knew that was true, he had not been able to apply himself to the opera once he had seen them there. He had watched as Darcy had watched others watch their parents.

"You, I am sure, will wish to protect your mother from such baseness. I am sure that now only a marriage will suffice to stop her from being exposed to other attentions." Darcy put the picture of Pemberley down. "Any marriage, however amicable it is between the parties, will always be gossiped about. Particularly when I am excluded from the family circle."

Thomas restrained himself from rolling his eyes at Darcy's dramatics. His mother would never conspire to exclude the son; she could never promote his own interests to the detriment of others! Even if she could be so heartless and cruel, Mr Darcy would not stand for it; Thomas was sure of that. But he could not argue against the picture Darcy was painting about the gossip.

Darcy would never be thinking so selflessly about his mother's reputation. Underneath all his talk, he was really thinking about his own reputation, his own name and his own insecurities.

This did not mean, however, that Thomas could ignore what he was saying.

Darcy looked at him speculatively before stalking forward, "You know I am speaking the truth. Women who start to manage, or are even seen to manage, men for their own gain, are universally laughed at. What sort of life is that? Alone? Friendless...not in her own circle. I expect Mrs Davis is universally admired in your village. Turned to for every occasion. Why would she want to leave that life for a life amongst the ton, a group that apart from her sister will despise her for entrapping one of the most eligible bachelors?"

Thomas could not but help scoff at the idea of Mr Darcy being an eligible bachelor.

"He is hardly in his dotage, and there are many women who would have been happy to marry my father, and even happier to marry their daughters to him. I make no judgments on their characters, but they will judge."

"You would prefer that to his marrying my mother? An eventuality which has not been confirmed?"

"I would prefer nothing. I am just stating the facts."

The facts as quoteth by the venerable Fitzwilliam Darcy Junior, thought Thomas with some sarcasm. But the problem was that his version of events was all too probable.

A cold fury overcame Darcy. How dare his son speak to him in that fashion? He would have never spoken to his father in that way!

He had thought his son awkward and inept socially; he had never thought him full of spite and hate!

Now he could only think of Mrs Wilson and Lady Catherine. Their influence had poisoned his son. He should not have let them anywhere near his son. He would never have done so if Amelia was alive. Well, they would have of course seen the boy, but their influence would have been minimal, and Amelia had a way of dealing with her mother's over-zealousness. Lady Catherine had hated Amelia simply because she spoiled her plans for him and Anne. Darcy had given about four minutes of thought to marrying Anne when Elizabeth had been lost to him. But he had dismissed it. He could not have a wife who was ruled over by her mother, and how foolish it would be to marry Anne, who was surely not strong enough to bear children and live a long life. That last thought had been ironic in the circumstances.

Darcy had thought it was entirely his fault, but as soon as those words had left him, even before Elizabeth had offered her reassurances and her embraces, he had known it not to be true. Fitzwilliam had been warped by some power and Darcy could not have stopped that. It could not be his fault. It could not be.

"I am sure that he will revise his opinions in time, Fitzwilliam."

Darcy turned away from the window to look at Elizabeth. Of course it was now she used his name. "You think? I think he has too much of me in him."

Elizabeth smiled, "I can think of several situations where your opinions have come to mirror those you would have once scoffed at." She came to take his hand by the window, squeezing it to punctuate her words.

"I am not sure I could forgive him." Darcy hated feeling that, but he could not lie. Not to himself and not to her.

"Your good opinion once lost is lost forever?" said Elizabeth, looking at him with a piercing gaze.

"Something like that," said Darcy. If he was honest, it was the fact that he felt so angry with himself that made him feel that way. He was angry that he had not seen this coming. Both his feelings towards Elizabeth, and the quagmire in which his son seemed determined to pitch himself.

"But he is your son."

"He is a man foremost," said Darcy. "And I cannot forgive a man who speaks disrespectfully about the woman I love." Elizabeth dropped his hand and Darcy could see he had upset her. "I am sorry but it is the way I feel. He has disappointed me immensely."

"I think you have disappointed him just as much."

"Only because he wilfully misunderstands me and wilfully comes to incorrect conclusions."

"You do not think you are doing the same thing?"

"No. You did not think he made himself perfectly clear?"

"I have enough experience to know that people in a temper rarely speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Particularly when they are out of charity with people they love."

"You are not furious that he thinks we are behaving improperly?"

"I think he is not the only one thinking in that manner. He is protecting his mother's memory. He feels neglected, Fitzwilliam."

"No one has neglected him. He has had every comfort."

Darcy knew his son had been spoiled. Materially he had every comfort and opportunity. With regards to memories, he had been protected. Darcy had preserved Amelia for him.

"And when had you last spoken to him, properly? You do not think he has a right to be hurt, if he is the last to know?"

"Last to know what, Elizabeth?" Darcy cursed himself when he realised how he had snapped at her. "Elizabeth, I am sorry. I should not speak to you in this manner. I should not be entertaining you here. In that respect, my son is correct. I have compromised you most dishonourably."

"I accept your apology for your tone just now, but as for the rest, you have nothing to apologise for. If I remember rightly, and you will find I never forget, the two times I have visited you here I have surprised you."

A wry smile twisted Darcy's face before Elizabeth continued.

"As for the last to know -- I think, while we have not put voice to anything, that there is some understanding between us. My aunt is already planning a phaeton and four for Pemberley."

Darcy knew she was trying to make him smile, but he felt a twisting inside, the same twisting he felt years ago when Sir William Lucas had been all expectation of a marriage between Jane Bennet and Bingley. The weight of expectation. The weight of raising expectations. But he plastered a smile upon her face and brought Elizabeth's hand to his lips.

"Fitzwilliam, you would not pick me over your son, would you?"

Darcy was not sure how to answer that, at least not in his current frame of mine when he could cheerfully strangle his errant child. He never thought it would be a choice. Elizabeth would never insist she was more important to him than his family. He could not love her if she was that type of woman. It was one of the reasons she had refused him that time at Hunsford. She might have been ashamed of her family, but no one else could speak badly about them. She could not envision a life where she was banned from seeing them, which is what she had more than likely assumed would be a codicil of marrying Darcy.

Of course not a year later she had shut herself off from her family, but Darcy could see the punishment she'd inflicted on herself for that on her face.

He hesitated, and he saw her face fall and she stepped back from him.

"Elizabeth, it is not a question I can answer." At least it was not one he could answer honestly.

"My children are the most important thing in my life." Elizabeth had conviction. "Of course I do not think they are perfect and I will not regard everything they say as the truth. If they speak disrespectfully of others I love, then I will not let them believe that is what I want for them. What I want for them is for them to be the best people that they can possibly be. But I would never abandon them."

"Elizabeth..."

But it was too late; Elizabeth had slipped out of his grasp and out of the room.

Darcy slammed his hand into the wall beside the window, watching as Elizabeth walked down the stairs into the street. She turned her head, looking directly up to him, before she turned to walk down the street.

Part of him raged at him for letting Elizabeth go, the other part of him raged at him for his inexcusable behaviour as a parent. His mind was so full of ‘should haves'. Not only did he have those still circling his mind from his behaviour twenty years ago, they joined the regrets he had over Amelia; he did not need any more, yet they kept arriving.

He had encouraged his son's feelings towards his mother, thinking perhaps some perceived closeness would make up for her not being there. He had exposed him to influences he knew were bad. He had not been an open and available parent. Darcy told himself that was because neither personality allowed it, but he wondered how much of Fitzwilliam's behaviour was his own reflected back to him. If Darcy had given him the impression he did not wish to be the type of parent to have a child's constant questions, then would his son have moulded himself in that way to spare his parent? And then sought answers to his own questions elsewhere? In that way, perhaps his son and Thomas Davis were two sides of the same coin.

The decanter was calling to him from the other side of the room, and Darcy poured himself a generous glass. He deserved it. He had alienated the two most important people in the world to him.

Elizabeth he could speak rationally to as an adult. They would discover a way through his obstacle to their reunion. Of that Darcy was sure. Their love had survived much more than this. Of course it meant that marriage, a home, the rest of his dream for his new life might be delayed. But he had expected that. Henry was still occupying the greater space in Elizabeth's heart and head. She was still torn and not yet come to terms with the fact that there could be enough space in there for two men in their different ways. She seemed to be able to love her children unconditionally, growing her heart for them, something Darcy seemed to have never learnt, to his detriment. She would grow it for him.

As for Fitzwilliam, Darcy still felt a surge of anger. It should be solely directed at himself, but it was not. Part of that anger was fuelled by the fact he was sure that he could not have any rational conversation with his son. Perhaps someone else should speak to him. For Darcy did not know what to say.

Chapter Twenty Three -- The End of Poetry.

Posted on: 2008-10-10

The silver platter was empty and Elizabeth felt a keen sense of disappointment. She had hoped after such an eventful day that she would have returned home to, as Mary would term it, ‘sisterly balm'. She had not heard from Jane since she had written of the shock she had felt in Hyde Park. Elizabeth knew it was highly probable that if she committed another missive to paper it would cross Jane's reply to her first letter en route.

The schoolroom at the top of the house was most likely where Mrs Gardiner and the girls were. Elizabeth knew Henrietta spent the morning walking, but by now she should have returned to the house. Mrs Gardiner had taken it upon herself to make sure neither Emily nor Henrietta fell behind in expanding their knowledge of the world. Elizabeth had worried this was too much of an imposition, although her aunt had taken to it with glee. However Darcy had, when she had confided in him, told her how fruitful new wisdom was; after all, Mrs Gardiner had talents that Elizabeth lacked and vice versa. Mrs Gardiner had long been obliged to assist Mr Gardiner in his business dealings, an obligation that she now fulfilled for her son where necessary, and thus was far more au fait with numbers than Elizabeth had ever been. But her aunt was not the only one of her family offering her assistance with her daughters' education. Kitty had offered the services of the masters already retained to teach Clara and Bella; it made particular sense for more students in the case of the dancing master. Elizabeth had really hesitated at this offer because it really was an imposition. Elizabeth could have afforded her own dancing master out of her jointure but it seemed an extravagance and Elizabeth was not sure she wanted to encourage solely those arts that were designed to make a young lady think only of men and marriage.... although Elizabeth thought she was fighting a losing battle on that front with Henrietta.

But she could not ignore her daughter's education in this aspect either, so Elizabeth had agreed with her aunt, her sister and Mr Darcy; thus her daughters had Mrs Gardiner and her numbers and atlases, and the dancing master. A governess had been discussed by her and Henry, but Henry had felt that governesses were often no better educated than the mother of the household, if she would only apply herself to the task. Elizabeth had agreed, thinking on the whole the approach taken by her father, along with a great deal more parental encouragement and advisement, would be beneficial.

Elizabeth did find her daughters in the school room; Emily left her work and ran over. "Mama, these letters have come for you."

Emily handed over three letters addressed to her, one from Jane, one from Mary and the last from her father.

"I was feeling very unloved," remarked Elizabeth, "But now I see how wrong I was." She wanted nothing more than to rip Jane's letter open and devour it. But she was too aware of her Aunt's keen eye and that her daughters would wish to share in the contents. This was one letter that would require careful editing before it was fit for family recitation.

"Are you not going to open them?" asked Henrietta.

"Blessings should be savoured," answered Elizabeth. She stayed to hear the girls' progress in their lessons before she went to put off her outerwear. She had barely closed the door to her chamber when she almost ripped the paper in her haste.

Dearest Lizzy,

How tantalizing I found Kitty's letter till I opened yours! I was being scrupulously fair, opening the first letter on the pile, yet her letter was all hints and teases. Despite this preparation, I was still shocked to hear that Mr Darcy still has feelings for you. Not that anyone admiring you should be so very shocking, at least not to me. But after such a period of time and separation? Indeed, I have not heard much of Mr Darcy, though he must be an intimate of Kitty's circle. I find her very well able to keep her tongue when needs must.

Reservations, I will come to those later, aside, My Lizzy! to be offered a chance to wonder no longer! I find it amazing that of our sisters, it is you and I that have paths not taken and suffered disappointments. Maybe if I were in your position those old feelings would too rise to the surface. I do not include Lydia in my thoughts, though she must suffer daily. Thoughts of extreme shame and disappointment must plague her. But Mary and Kitty..."

As for your entreaties, Lizzy, I cannot answer you. You and Mr Darcy may be content together, for the rest of your lives. Or it may end in disaster; end like our parents in loneliness, or, worse, like Mrs Mason who took herself off to Italy rather than live with her husband. I cannot know. I know you are both good people but as to your understanding of each other -- that only you can answer. You never understood my decision to reject Mr Bingley, but I could no longer rely on my understanding of him and my trust in myself was shattered. Perhaps we would have been happy. But I am happy now and Reginald has never given me a moment's discomfort with regards to his feelings for me.

But I feel I must caution you, Lizzy. My reservations are thus: Unlike the Lizzy of not yet one and twenty, there is not only your heart to consider. Mr Darcy has a son. You have Tom and Hetty and Emily. I understand if you not wish to consult them directly but their feelings must be taken into account. Do not let your children subsume your desires and needs but remember that they should be placed above all else. I know this sounds contradictory and perhaps this is so, but I cannot be sorry for it.

As a widow, you enjoy considerable freedom in your thoughts and your property. This may not be the case in a marriage. I do not think you would be so foolish as to marry a tyrant who would campaign to have you turned out of the house, unlike a wretched creature of this neighbourhood. Your understanding of each other must be perfect. While your reputation as a widow may be untouchable by the types of scandal that would be attached to an unmarried lady, any talk will affect others. I would not even think you required such a warning, not with our sad history, but I can sense your overwhelming emotions and I would not have you allow yourself to commit to something that you would not do in your right mind, if I could help the avoidance of it by a word or two to you.

"You have not explained your sudden interest in your son's reading habits," said Ash, deciding to take his seat in the armchair by the fire. The fact the servants still lit a fire in his son's hearth made Darcy smile.

"Have you ever had the feeling that you did not know someone as well as you should?"

"Frequently. Is this about Elizabeth or the Little One?"

"Fitzwilliam."

"Ah." It was an enigmatic answer.

"Why ‘Ah', Ash?"

"Has he made his objections known?"

Darcy turned to fully face his cousin. "You knew?"

"I always know," Ash sounded so serious, but then he shrugged. "I think perhaps you have been warned from many a quarter. It is only your fault if you had eyes for nothing else but ..."

Darcy waved a hand at Ash to show he understood. Ash was right. Ash had attempted to warn him, Kitty had attempted to warn him, Max had attempted to warn him, Thomas Davis had attempted to warn him if certain veiled comments during crop discussions were anything to go by, and just then Elizabeth had tried to open his eyes.

Darcy cleared his throat, "I think it best if..."

"No."

"You do not even know what I am about to say!" protested Darcy.

"I do and the answer is no."

"Very well, what are you saying 'no' to?"

"I am not going to speak to your son on the grounds that he is more likely to listen to me than you. I shall also not attempt to soothe him into understanding that your love for Elizabeth knows no bounds and that if you, his illustrious and perfect father, are not allowed to sacrifice yourself on the altar of matrimony you will go quite mad and start giving away all your money to undeserving people."

"I would have not put it so dramatically," muttered Darcy. "And that is not what I wished for you to speak to him about."

"Really?" Ash sounded surprised. Darcy found his cousin was always so surprised when he was found to be in error.

"I wish for someone to speak to him about Amelia! He will not believe it from me."

"Perhaps that is something I may talk to him about. May, Darcy, May. I have no desire to drive a further wedge between the two of you."

"Are you claiming to be so untactful?"

"No, I am claiming that the truth is never tactful. Now surely you have some Dutch courage?"

Darcy was about to follow his cousin when he noticed, where he was sure his son's trunk had once stood, a folded letter wedged between the dresser and the wall. Darcy could curse that trunk.

When Mrs Wilson had been on her deathbed Darcy had dutifully taken his son to pay his last respects to his grandmother. He remembered now the conversation they had before they had entered the bedchamber. Warning Fitzwilliam of the difficulty of seeing someone in such pain, and how important it was not to let them see how affected you were. Fitzwilliam had been meticulous in that regard except for the small flinch that Darcy thought only he saw when Mrs Wilson hand, with the paper thin skin, had grasped his son's. She had rasped that she had left him something special in her will.

Of course, that something had been Amelia's letters to her. Mrs Wilson had filed them away on receipt and had always intended to pass them to her grandson. Darcy had never read them; they had passed directly from grandmother to grandson. There had been a slim window of time when he could have read them before they disappeared into Fitzwilliam's possession and into this trunk. But Darcy had missed it trying to discover whether he wanted to read them or whether he did not wish to.

If he had read them and known the contents, it would have known what it was that so poisoned his son? Once in his son's possession, if that son did not offer them to him, Darcy had no desire to demand them, Amelia's memory the way Mrs Wilson would have wished it preserved was between mother and son, Darcy would have felt like an intruder coming between that.

The letter he held in his hand, however, was not even from Amelia. It was in Mrs Wilson's hand. It was not addressed to Amelia, so Darcy could only presume it had become mixed up in the letters she had left to her grandson. With servants rushing about the house trying to fulfil bequests, such an error could easily be made.

Normally he would not trespass on the thoughts of others but he could not help but wonder whether Fitzwilliam had read it.

It was short and to the point. Darcy thought first he could exactly date the letter, written in the overwhelming grief felt for the loss of her daughter, but the date was some years later, which made Darcy suddenly less forgiving.

In hindsight, both his and Amelia's desire for Fitzwilliam not to be an only child had been a forlorn hope. It had also been disastrous for Amelia with regards to both her health which had never been strong after Fitzwilliam and her state of mind. But in this hindsight, the only blame Darcy had ever apportioned was to himself. Amelia's own wishes had hurt her, but he could not blame her and he certainly had never looked at his son as his mother's killer.

If Fitzwilliam had read this letter, which Darcy now hoped with all his might Mrs Wilson had never intended her grandson to read then Darcy did not blame him one bit for his behaviour. Particularly if read as an impressionable child; after all, Fitzwilliam had only been fourteen when his grandmother had passed and left him her effects. No, Darcy did not blame him, not one bit.

Chapter Twenty-Four -- The End of Avoidance

Posted on: 2008-10-17

Thomas peered around the doorway; seeing Mrs Gardiner, he stepped back. He wanted to speak to his mother alone, did not relish the idea of having to make up some excuse to speak to her alone. Mrs Gardiner was too perceptive. Not to mention if his sisters were in the vicinity then Henrietta would surely know what he wished to speak to their mother about.

After some skulking he finally located his mother in her chambers. He'd of course knocked first before entering, it was only polite. And safe.

His mother was sitting by her desk, responding to correspondence.

"Mama, I wish to speak to you."

His mother did not look very surprised, almost as if she was expecting it. "Thomas, it is almost time for dinner, could we not postpone this conversation?"

‘We could of course," said Thomas, willing to defer to her wishes, but he made it clear in his expression that he was unhappy with the idea.

"Have you by some chance recently spoken to young Mr Darcy?"

"I have. But without him I would have wished to speak to you. Mama, you must know how universally, at least within the respectable thinking of our acquaintance, expected a marriage is between you and Mr Darcy." Thomas paused and added quite extraneously "Senior." He thought he saw his mother's lips twitch at that, so he ploughed onwards. "But it is not of that I wish to speak to you. It is the thoughts of the less respectable minds that I wish to speak of."

There, Thomas had laid his cards on the table.

"Universal knowledge?" His mother seemed to reject this notion. But Thomas felt she could hardly be surprised, they had not been so oblivious surely. He told his mother as much.

"I believe I have been expressing more than I ought," she replied ruefully. "I would not have you, or the girls, think that I have no feelings for you in this regard. I did not know how advanced everything was until it was, so I had determined to speak to you all together when there was something to speak of. Indeed there may still be nothing to say."

"Nothing?" To go to the opera quite alone, to walk together so particularly, to visit -- although that was not yet public knowledge, Thomas thought -- how could this be nothing?

‘I realised that neither of us had thought beyond ourselves. I had not thought of you, or the girls."

"Why should you? I mean, yes, of course it would be welcomed but it is your happiness of which you speak. I think none of us would expect you to choose a man who could not like us, or could not treat us well. But we do not expect to be the sole determinant. At least, I do not." Thomas had to be honest. He did not know what Emily thought. Henrietta he was fairly certain of.

"Precisely. You may know Mr Darcy a little, but the girls do not know him."

"Henrietta is already overjoyed that I shall not be receiving what she expects will be the numerous men clamouring for her hand."

His mother laughed. "See, I said she did not know him! If she thinks it preferable that suitors go to Darcy before you."

Thomas tried not to be put out. "I am quite capable of terrifying suitors."

"I expected when they are those of your own daughters you will be," said his mother with equanimity, "But you cannot expect your sisters..."

"To take me seriously? No, I guess I should not."

Thomas wondered what the polite way of asking his mother whether she would take him seriously was. But he found he did not have to as his mother looked at the clock sitting upon the mantelpiece. "I suppose we do have a short while until dinner. You wished to speak to me about your concerns?"

The conversation paused for a moment or two as Thomas thought of the best way to phrase those concerns.

Thomas left the Gardiners unsure if he had managed it. At least he had voiced them. Not as forcefully as perhaps Darcy had done though. Thomas tried to suppress his anger at Darcy for speaking to his mother in the way he had apparently had done. His mother was too good to use Darcy's precise words as she had attempted to explain the scene at the Darcy's townhouse, but Thomas could guess them. He knew Darcy too well.

Mrs Gardiner had of course insisted he stay for dinner and Thomas was happy to find it a jolly little family meal, like the ones he remembered from home; the only thing missing was his father.

Laughter and silliness. His mother, who had been wearing an air of seriousness, perhaps even dejection, from even before she had seen Thomas in her chamber, had found new animation and spirit.

Thomas decided against the hackney, and spent the walk back to his rooms wondering how Mr Darcy would fit in with the party he had just been engaged in? Would Mr Darcy tease? Or would their little family dinners become more formal?

For all that his aunt and uncle Ashbourne ran an atypical household for the aristocracy, their family dinners had a sense of formality about them. Thomas could only suppose it was difficult to be intimate in a room, or a house, designed for cold outward presentation. So much space was not conducive to cosiness or homeliness.

At least, however the amount of people created the noise and hubbub at the Ashbournes, Thomas did not relish the idea of dinner a la famille in the Darcy household. The house had a coldness about it, and the two inhabitants had been so used to sharing meals over a large table. Another explanation for Darcy's behaviour perhaps.

Max was loitering outside their rooms with a cigarillo in his fingers.

"I would not go in there if I were you," said Max, coming to lean on the railings, blowing smoke into the night sky.

Thomas would have hoped that there was no more destruction of property going on inside; if anything there could be nothing less, but Thomas found he was disappointed in the fact he had underestimated the child in Darcy.

"My father," added Max, as if this solved everything ... which in many cases it did, but in this case while it absolved Darcy of blame, it just left Thomas confused.

"You are hiding?"

"Of course. Wherever there is need of a ‘Talk' from the Viscount," Max capitalised the words even in his speech, "I make myself scarce. Particularly if I am the required other participant! It never ends well. Darcy, however, was not quite quick enough tonight."

Thomas found himself disappointed in quite another Darcy. That Mr Darcy senior would pawn off his duty to his cousin! The very least Darcy deserved was his father.

So Thomas ignored Max's warning and made his way into their lodgings.

He could hear the voices the moment he had stepped over the threshold.

"I do not believe that in pointing out gross breaches of decorum I have done anything that requires a lecture. Are you, of all people, going to tell me that of course with age comes perfection?"

"Leaving aside that so pointed barb, I will only say I find fault in your manner of presentation."

"Of course." Darcy's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Superficiality is your watch word."

Thomas found it difficult to believe Darcy, who Thomas had often thought was very much in awe and thrall of those older than he, particularly his male relations, would speak like that to Lord Ashbourne of all people.

"I find with the trouble of only adding a veneer to oneself that a great many more doors are open, despite what lies beneath."

"Mrs Davis certainly has acquired one."

"Indeed."

Lord Ashbourne's one word response made Thomas pause from his intention to burst into the room to defend his mother.

Darcy sounded almost eager, "You do not mean to tell me you agree with me as to her unsuitability?"

"I mean that Mrs Davis' depths are not displayed. I make no comment positively or negatively."

"She has no fortune, she has no respectability, she..." Darcy broke off.

"You mean, I presume, to ask why is she more important? Otherwise you forget to whom you speak."

"Oh. But you married Lady Ashbourne."

"For all her faults?" drawled Lord Ashbourne, in what sounded like amusement.

"For all yours," retorted Darcy and Lord Ashbourne laughed.

"Annoyance becomes you."

"I am more than annoyed. I am not a petulant child to be reasoned with."

"Really?" But Thomas could see his uncle shaking his head as if to get him back on the pertinent point. "Of course. You think your mother's memory is belittled, you think your father weak, but you will do everything to deny that. You think he wishes that young Thomas Davis was his son and if he was stronger you would not exist."

Thomas could hear the eyebrow raise that accompanied Lord Ashbourne's little speech. "You cannot do anything about any of that. You can accept that your father has behaved inappropriately, that Davis will be a permanent bane of your existence and that your mother is merely a veneer to you. Or you cannot."

Thomas thought that was harsh; it appeared so did Darcy.

"My mother is not a veneer."

"She is to you. Letters to other people, other people's perspectives, apart from what she wrote directly to you perhaps, it is all reflections. And even that letter to you is a woman presenting herself in her best light."

Thomas was determined to listen to this conversation to its, as he rather supposed, bitter end. But he was standing next to the precariously laden stand by the door. It was used by all three of the boys to sling coats, umbrellas and any other number of things. It fell over almost once a week, and Thomas found that in shifting his weight trying to hear better he brushed against it. The stand shed half its load, including Max's opera glasses -- well, Aunt Kitty's -- which fell clattering to the floor.

There was nothing for it but to reveal himself. It had the effect of ceasing all conversation within the room and Darcy even quit it, but not before thanking Lord Ashbourne for his ‘enlightening conversation'.

"Whenever anyone thanks one for ‘enlightening' them, they invariably mean they disagree, perhaps violently, with everything you have just said, or... " Lord Ashbourne brought himself further forward in his seat, "they really wish to strike you for unpleasant truths."

"Which do you think it is in this case?' asked Thomas.

"Do you not have an opinion?"

Thomas could deny that he had heard the conversation, but he knew that look in his uncle's eye. He thought perhaps Lord Ashbourne had known the moment Thomas was at the door, which would cast an interesting light on what he had just said to Darcy. Or maybe it was just a rather easy guess on his uncle's part. Either way, Thomas would only be denying what they both knew was the truth.

"I think it is difficult to tell."

"Fence sitting becomes uncomfortable after a while."

Thomas flushed. "I do not think not presuming to judge another man's opinion indicative of the fact I have no opinion of my own. I have them."

"And you keep them. Wise."

Thomas saw neither hide nor hair of Darcy after his uncle had made his departure. Although through the window Thomas had witnessed Lord Ashbourne attempting to terrify his older son. It was only an attempt because Max had merely laughed and offered his sire the rest of his cigarillo.

Thomas needed fresh air the next morning and perhaps it was only because he was now sensitive to the fact, but it seemed that from the moment his foot had placed itself outside of his rooms that he met nothing but covert glances and heard nothing but whispers.

Of course, he had told his mother such things were being spoken of universally but that had been an exaggeration. Thomas had not really believed it to be true. He had meant universally amongst those likely to be most affected by any relationship between his mother and Mr Darcy and most affected by not being considered. He had not supposed that either his mother or Mr Darcy, such as they were in their present state, could be so interesting to society in general.

Thomas had meant to warn before they had become interesting. But it seemed now his eyes and ears had been opened that perhaps he was too late.

Of course nothing spoken around him, not even in hushed tones, unless the speaker was lost to all propriety, could be anything against his mother's honour. But the fact she was spoken of at all meant there was that space Thomas knew was being filled elsewhere. In the clubs perhaps his mother's name was surely sullied.

Worse, it seemed everyone knew that there had been an acquaintance many years ago. That was the one thing calculated to practically guarantee that Darcy would cause problems.

If Thomas was true to himself, it was the one thing that held back his support. He was not a romantic; he knew some of why there had been no reconciliation then. Just because he saw no disrespect intended to his own father lurking in the corners where none existed did not mean he was entirely happy.

To remove the rumours either an outward and permanent declaration was needed, or a complete break. Both had their consequences and he sensed from their conversation his mother was unwilling to do either. She rejected one option because her heart told her to and the other because her head told her to.

The walk back to their lodgings was unpleasant, too many thoughts rattling around in his head. His distraction was the reason that he did not see the trunk on the floor and almost fell over it.

"Going somewhere?" said Thomas.

Darcy looked up from the floor and gave him a withering look.

Closer inspection proved that the trunk was The Trunk, its contents spread all over the floor.

Darcy was sitting too close to the fire, thought Thomas as he lowered himself into a nearby armchair. The reason for sitting close to the fire became apparent when Darcy folded up the letter in his hand and tossed it into the fire.

Thomas sat up. "What are you doing?"

He got no response. So Thomas caught the next letter that went flying at the fire. "These are your mother's letters, why are you burning them?"

Darcy looked up, "It has become patently obvious that they mean nothing."

"Not to you, surely?" Thomas could not imagine wanting to part with anything that held so much of a beloved parent in it.

Darcy shrugged. "According to your uncle, they should mean nothing."

"I do not think that is what Lord Ashbourne meant."

"So you were listening." Darcy didn't sound accusatory.

"Of course."

"Of course" mimicked Darcy. "Did no one tell you it was impolite to eavesdrop?"

"Constantly. I never listened."

That did raise a smile out of Darcy. "Well, our betters are not always correct." That was said as if to challenge Thomas to object.

"I will never disagree with that statement."

"Thomas Davis not bowing down to the assessment of his elders? You have spent the better part of the last month at least attempting to ingratiate yourself with my father." Darcy just sounded resigned.

"No. I have spent my time attempting to learn about estate managing."

"With the added benefit of grooming yourself in the best light. Why cannot you be more like Davis, Fitzwilliam?" Darcy had never sounded more sardonic. Thomas had to strain to hear the next part of Darcy's speech, "Not that my copying you would have done me any good."

"Do you really need to present yourself in the best light to your father?" Thomas could understand wanting to; that was a given, he wanted to show his father that he was the best man he could be. But it was never a necessity.

"I think with that statement you show you do not understand either my father, or the society we live in."

Darcy seemed to have given up on burning his letters, instead placing them into piles. He flicked through them, randomly it seemed to Thomas, and lines furrowed into his brow.

"Perhaps." It was true. Thomas felt he did not know Mr Darcy senior at all, and he was constantly out of his depth in relation to everything else. "Why do you not tell me?"

"So that you can talk me out of my opinions?"

"Yes," said Thomas.

"At least you are honest."

Thomas shifted in his seat, "I try to be." And that statement was true. Thomas had been taught well by his father. He knew what it meant to be a gentleman and those traits were not defined by income.

"I might be convinced to acquiesce to your request if you answer me but one question."

Thomas thought rolling his eyes at Darcy's studying too much for complicated words when he could have just said ‘agree' probably would stop the conversation dead in its tracks so he managed to keep his expression schooled in what he hoped was relatively benign interest. "What question?"

"Your father..." Darcy paused and Thomas had a feeling he was not going to like the question. His father, like Darcy's mother, was a sensitive topic since apparently they both were ‘second choice' although Thomas did not expect Darcy to recognise that fact. Darcy was too wrapped up in his own world view to imagine someone else might be struggling with similar problems. "...I imagine he played with you and your sisters. My uncle once pretended he was a bear. I assume it was only the once, " Darcy paused again, allowing Thomas the time to pore over the idea of Lord Ashbourne as a bear. " Well, I never asked Max if it was a game that he and Oliver played with their father. It was the holidays and Alexander and Isabella were very young." It sounded as though Darcy was trying to excuse his uncle's strange behaviour.

"I do not think my father ever impersonated an animal," replied Thomas slowly. "We used to play games, card games and such like, and he would always lose horribly. I remember thinking he had suddenly improved so dramatically when I was about fifteen because suddenly he could remember the difference between an ace and a jack." Thomas leant back in the armchair. "He used to take me riding over the estate. Lecture me in his study. I do not know, no different from any other father." But of course Thomas could not compare. He had no other father; he could only have the experience of the one.

"I cannot imagine you ever did anything to require a lecture," said Darcy, "or that anyone would tell your Father when you were in a scrape."

Thomas smiled, "Oh, I'd tell him myself. Of course I would be suitably punished and chastened but he would always pull me out of a scrape." Thomas' heart clenched at that feeling when his father had died that he was suddenly on his own. He would have to be the person pulling people out of scrapes. That feeling subsided, only marginally, when he had fallen into the clutches of Max. Max would always pull him out of difficulties with no lecture, and if that failed, his uncle was there to take up the reins.

Darcy turned his face away at Thomas' comment and Thomas did not understand, until he remembered when Max had become ill and Max had thrown off that line that Darcy had not wanted tales taken back to his father as an excuse for Darcy's absence at Lord Ashbourne's arrival. Darcy had had no problem, well no real problem, reporting their problems to Lord Ashbourne. It was expected that Lord Ashbourne would come to his rescue. Thomas had expected it even then, maybe because of his father; Max and Darcy had expected it because of past experience, Thomas assumed. But Darcy had not wanted his father to know. Thomas assumed it was because there was no point inviting a scolding. But perhaps, looking back on it, Darcy had just not though his father would pull him out of a scrape, for all his posturing about ‘his father this' and ‘his father that'. He hadn't wanted his fear confirmed.

Thomas thought he'd had an epiphany.

Chapter Twenty Five -- The End of Twenty Years

Posted on: 2008-10-24

Darcy twisted his signet ring as he waited to be admitted to see the lady of the house. He wasn't nervous to see her; he was just agitated.

It wasn't a complete surprise to be admitted to her bedchamber. The butler had murmured something about her ladyship attending a soiree that evening.

Kitty threw him a look over her shoulder and seemed to sense this wasn't a social call. She dismissed her maid and put down the earrings she seemed to be choosing between. "Darcy, what has happened?"

Darcy pulled the letter out of his coat and handed it to her.

Kitty looked perplexed as she unfolded the letter. The expression on her face turned from puzzlement to shock and then to anger. "That witch! How could she write such a thing?"

Darcy leant against the bedpost. "I cannot conceive of ever writing such a thing down, so I cannot help you."

"How did you get this?" Kitty looked up at him.

"It was in Fitzwilliam's possession."

Kitty's jaw dropped for a moment before she recovered herself. "She cannot have meant him to read it. I did not like Mrs Wilson but she did adore her grandson." She looked back to the letter. "At least she did once he could walk, talk and think. When he was a real little person she could shape into her mould."

"Indeed. That was written when he was still in leading strings."

Kitty folded the letter roughly. "Then it was written when she was still grieving."

"I thought so too but the date is too late," said Darcy, prompting Kitty to reopen the letter.

"I do not think there is a time limit on grief, Darcy."

"Nevertheless, I think it explains a great deal about my son."

"What does Lizzy say?"

Darcy smiled at the idea that Kitty was so sure that Darcy would have spoken to Elizabeth. At least one member of their family was unconditionally accepting.

‘I have not spoken to her. She did not know Mrs Wilson and does not know my son as well as you."

"Lizzy is a great student of human nature."

"I have no doubts that her insights would be beneficial, but at the moment I feel she would wish me to resolve this problem without her."

Kitty raised her eyebrows at him. "A disagreement?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to indulge me and tell me what about?"

"No."

Kitty smiled at him. "Lizzy will tell me."

"I am sure she will."

"I wished for you to read the letter because I hoped that you could explain."

"Explain why a woman would write that a defenceless baby should be blamed for the death of her daughter? I cannot understand that. No, perhaps I can. In grief one thinks very strange things, I am sure. Also it is understandable that someone should be to blame for a tragedy. I think I have to believe that Mrs Wilson wrote that in grief and did not wish for her grandson ever to read it."

"She left him other letters, I think perhaps it got mixed up in those."

"Ah yes, Amelia's letters. Did you ever read them, Darcy?"

"No." Darcy regretted that more than anything.

"You trust Mrs Wilson edited them correctly?"

"I did not think there would be anything to edit," said Darcy.

"Foolish."

It was, on reflection, incredibly foolish. He had known Mrs Wilson, after all. But he had also known Amelia. He had not thought that she would write to her mother about everything. He had not thought they had that sort of mother and daughter bond.

She had had other friends to whom to write about marital woes. He would have preferred she revealed their private lives to no one but he supposed he could not begrudge her needing advice. Just who she had begged that advice from.

"I did not think Amelia would write about our lives."

"What else would she write about?" said Kitty with false innocence.

"I meant our private concerns."

Kitty shrugged. "She wished for her mother to take her side."

Darcy knew Kitty's thoughts on Amelia and that her judgements would not be gracious towards that lady.

"Mrs Wilson cannot have meant for any of those letters to go to Fitzwilliam."

Kitty laughed, "Your understanding of women has always been limited, has it not? Of course she wished for those letters to go to the Little One! Her daughter was the wronged woman. If anything, she blamed you for everything that happened to Amelia."

"She could not have meant to hurt my son."

"Casualty of war," said Kitty dismissively. Kitty stood to hand the letter back to him.

"I will never understand it."

Kitty snorted. "You would have made a very bad General."

Darcy couldn't help but give a little smile at that but it didn't help his current situation, "It is not the only thing it seems I would be, or am, very bad at."

"Well if you attacked the problem with the same finesse as you usually do then in this situation I would say it might actually work."

"Finesse?" Darcy was only slightly offended. He knew he often spoke and leapt before thinking.

"Talk to him, Darcy. Do not just ask others to do so on your behalf."

"But I have nothing to say." Darcy winced at how that sounded, and was glad it was Kitty he was speaking to and not Elizabeth. She already had too much evidence of his abysmal skills with his son, she did not need any more.

If he hoped that Kitty would tell him what he should say, and Darcy was not even sure that was what he wanted from his cousin, he was sadly disappointed. She merely rolled her eyes and told him to write a letter.

"I think there have been too many letters, do you not?"

"Perhaps, but I do know it is one skill you excel at."

Darcy cursed himself, but he felt his blood rising into his cheeks. He should have learnt better from being embroiled in a large family -- not directly his own, but his extended one at least -- for the past twenty years, that nothing was private. He understood that Elizabeth would speak to her sisters, but he still felt like he did on realising that Amelia had spoken so openly to her mother. He found, however, he did not feel annoyance towards Elizabeth; her chosen confidants were trustworthy. Her sisters would not use the information to wound or embarrass (or at least not publicly).

Darcy wished his cousin a good night and left her to the rest of her toilette. Closing the door behind him, he heard a clearing of a throat further down the corridor. He turned to see Ash in full evening dress, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Are you not supposed to climb down the trellis?"

"At my age? It was considered unwise."

"I would challenge you to pistols at dawn, but I find I need my rest..." retorted Ash.

"Best-dressed at noon?" responded Darcy.

It was a relief to descend once more into normalcy, or at least whatever plane it was his cousin existed upon.

"If you insist on choosing a contest in which you can only lose..."

"Did you speak to Fitzwilliam?"

"Yes. I cannot tell how well it went. Thomas Davis could probably give you a better idea."

"You spoke to him in front of Elizabeth's son?" Darcy was surprised. Witnesses did not sound like Ash's modus operandi.

"If lurking in the hallway is in front of, then yes."

Darcy frowned at the underhanded way that seemed uncharacteristic of someone raised by Elizabeth.

"What would you say to him, if Fitzwilliam was your son and you were his father?"

"I am not sure I would have to," was Ash's unhelpful reply.

Thomas waited for Darcy to say something else. Some opening so that Thomas could explain that no father was like another father, that perhaps Mr Darcy senior was distant, but this did not mean he would not fly to his son's rescue. Or perhaps Darcy did not want to be rescued, it did seem rather to fly in the face of Darcy's determined nature. Determined to be an arse, but determined nonetheless. When no opening was forthcoming, Thomas tried to think of ways to phrase it in a tactful manner, but before he could think of one, Darcy suddenly spoke.

"Where is my grandmother's letter?"

Thomas thought this question was more rhetorical than anything else, but Thomas couldn't help but respond, "Which one? There must be at least a hundred there."

Another of the reasons that Thomas had not read every single one of Darcy's letters. It would have taken him at least a week!

"No, these are my mother's letters. My grandmother merely left them to me. I meant the one written by my grandmother."

"I never saw one from your grandmother."

"I don't believe you even read them."

"I said I did." Thomas retorted.

"I know you said you attempt to be honest, but even you are not incapable of lying."

Thomas wanted to respond that he was above such arts, but he wasn't incapable of lying. He knew that. There was a distinct difference between attempting to be honourable and being honourable all the time. One was achievable, the other merely an illusion. Instead he drew the conversation back to the letter. "Why is your grandmother's letter so important?"

"Because it explains everything."

"Enlightening." Thomas knew he sounded a little like Lord Ashbourne, but he could not help it. Why must everyone squirrel their thoughts and meanings away when being open could only lead to rewards and answers? "Perhaps you burnt it."

"I would not have burnt that one," replied Darcy.

"You would burn your mother's letters but not your grandmother's?" Thomas did not understand that. Or perhaps he did if it was the only letter of his grandmother's that he had.

"I would not expect you to understand."

"I would not expect you to make sense!" retorted Thomas.

"And people say you are not brothers. All this witty banter." Max always knew how to make an entrance, thought Thomas, and was then horrified to realise that Darcy thought the same.

"You always know how to make an entrance."

"Thank you, Darcy. I could claim it as my own trait, but I think it is an inherited one. Why does it smell like burnt paper in here?"

Thomas was surprised that Darcy did not disclaim immediately the idea that they were, or could be, brothers. Perhaps he took it for a joke, and knew railing against it would only bring even more scrutiny from his cousin.

Max then took in the scene before him. "Are you burning your letters?"

"He is contemplating it," answered Thomas for him. "and he was just about to explain why."

"No, I wasn't. I was about to explain all your faults in minute detail." What would have had a great amount of feeling behind it if said several months ago now just felt flat to Thomas. As if Darcy had merely given up.

"Is it an open roasting? Can I list your faults, oh little one?" asked Max.

Thomas tried to shake his head at Max that such a joke would not be taken well, but Darcy smiled.

"You might as well before my father attempts it and chooses his new -- or should I say old -- love."

"I reiterate the fact that I have placed before you multiple times: I do not think there is a choice." Thomas realised the construction that could be placed upon that statement and hurried to add to it, "by that, I mean that there is no choice. No one is making him choose."

"I am," said Darcy.

Thomas expected Max to raise his eyebrow at Darcy's statement, but Max did not appear phased and it seemed to Thomas that this was more to do with Max's understanding of the other boy rather than his mimicking his father's famous blank face.

"And your aim is?" Max asked the question but Thomas wanted to know the answer equally.

"Of little import; I think he already made his choice."

"Over twenty years ago," said Thomas involuntarily. Except that thought brought to mind his mother younger and Mr Darcy younger whispering sweet nothings at each other. His father had often said that Henrietta resembled their mother, or was fair bidding to, when she was younger, when he had first seen her and loved her. Henrietta had always complained loudly at this story and Thomas had never blamed her. The problem was now that when he imagined his mother younger he imagined Henrietta, and if anyone was to look like Mr Darcy when he was younger, it would be his son. The mental image of Henrietta and Darcy whispering sweet nothings to each other was almost as repulsive as the actual article.

"Precisely," replied Darcy, looking curiously at Thomas. Thomas expected this was because his face probably reflected his current repulsion at the mental images invading his mind. "Now if you will excuse me."

When Darcy had left the room, Thomas looked over at Max, who seemed to be contemplating the letters strewn over the floor. Darcy would say that he had left them in perfect order, but like many things in Darcy's life this would be a false vision.

"I do not think joking about any relationship soon to be existing between Darcy and myself is a good idea," said Thomas suddenly.

"You do not expect that your mother and ..."

Thomas interrupted his cousin, "No, I believe quite certainly that my mother and Mr Darcy will be married. "

"Good, I did not wish to have to enlighten another unenlightened soul," said Max flippantly.

"I do not think there have been many of them, certainly not Darcy." Thomas had not thought his cousin was blind; he had thought that they thought along the same lines when it came to the younger Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Max shrugged, "Well it was certainly bucking a family trend." At Thomas' blank look, Max continued "Darcys are not known for their realisation. They tend to wade in and find themselves in a quagmire for lack of thought. It seems strange that it should be so since they are all so reserved. But my uncle, the Colonel, said he should not let a Darcy become an officer. They could never stand back and survey the landscape."

"I think Mr Darcy is a great observer of the world," defended Thomas.

"Watching the world and understanding it are two very different things," replied Max. "Otherwise I think Mr Darcy," and Thomas knew he was only using the honorific prefix to differentiate, although now that Thomas thought of it he had not seen Max interact with his father's cousin a great deal, "would have seen this all a great deal earlier."

"He seemed to recognise his feelings for my mother quite quickly." The too quickly merely hung in the air.

"As you said, that had been a thought in the back of his mind for well over twenty years. Considering this current problem has been there almost as long, you would have thought he would have seen it by now."

Thomas thought of some of the details he knew of his mother and her previous relationship with Mr Darcy. It seemed Mr Darcy was the type that needed to be told things directly. Otherwise he just assumed what he was doing was just and right. His previous worry about the idea of his family suddenly becoming reserved flooded back.

Of course there were more of them than there were Darcys, but were Darcys capable of learning? Would Mr Darcy ever lose his dignity for those he loved, like Lord Ashbourne had crawling round the floor with no doubt children clinging to him, or when his father had listened to Thomas telling the village that his father was unable to understand even the simplest game?

Would a family life be able to rub off those sharp corners? Even if Mr Darcy, and Darcy for Thomas included him in his thoughts, wanted those difficulties of character rectified, was it too late?