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My Trip to Austen:: A short story (3 replies)

Stanton Fenwick — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 20:02:11 +0100

Blurb: A salute to the comedic genius of Jane Austen’s plot work, shifting the backdrop to a modern book fair.

Prideful.

And prejudiced.

There could be no other interpretation of the committee’s response after I offered to deliver a lecture on Victorian comedy at their science fiction book fair.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are in desperate need of more interesting speakers.

I told them so.

They told me to get out.

Ruffian interns shepherded me to the street.

I received a call.

“Did you hear they approved a symposium on Jules Verne?” asked my agent.

Another blow.

I had been drawn to Texas, confident of the community’s embrace. Thousands would attend the fair, each a potential fan of my work.

I needed to be heard.

The moment the fair opened, I rushed inside.

As the Jules Verne panel was preparing to convene, I climbed onstage and claimed one of the seats.

The host of the panel—a minor publisher’s rep—opened the event by reading a prepared statement by Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.

Partway through her remarks, another panelist arrived. There were no available chairs.

The flustered host asked, “Who are you?”

“Andrew Bingley,” the newcomer replied amiably.

There was applause.

His popularity did not bode well.

Names were requested. Schedules were checked. Guards were called.

I was marched out of the fair, finally receiving the attention I deserved, though poorly timed.

My early efforts to reenter were rebuffed.

(My photo had been distributed to security.)

Thank God for cosplay.

I approached a local seamstress and informed her that I required a costume in a rush. Something bland. I wished to be disguised without attracting attention.

She cut a triangular wedge from a huge block of yellow foam, then carved out a hollow for me to fit inside.

The outfit was absurdly bad. I looked like a slice of cheesecake.

Per our agreement, I gave her my iPad.

Three additional pieces of foam were then affixed to my face, giving me the sort of seamless appearance only a professional can deliver.

The disguise allowed me to waddle discreetly past security.

Roaming the fair, I encountered a familiar face. It was one of the authors from the Jules Verne panel. I cautiously approached.

“Hey,” he greeted me, “I feel bad about what they did to you. They shouldn’t have embarrassed you like that.”

I agreed.

I offered him a free copy of my novel. He examined the back cover, then returned it.

“Interesting,” he observed, “but not interesting enough to tempt me.”

I was about to share some observations of my own when he stopped me cold.

“Is this how you make a living?” he inquired, scanning me up and down. “Restaurant promotions?”

I began to experience doubt.

Perhaps attending the fair dressed as cheesecake had been a professional mistake.

I mumbled a clumsy goodbye and wandered off to a dark corner of the convention hall, where I stood beside an equally morose cosplay cheeseburger.

“Another writer?” the burger inquired.

I admitted that—to my increasing chagrin—I was.

“Don’t let that guy get to you,” he encouraged me. “Panelists only think they’re special because they win a lot of awards and sell a lot of books. But that’s entirely superficial. Craft, not art. The entire industry is rigged, designed to lock the genuine creatives out of opportunities.”

I had never agreed more with a cheeseburger.

“I’m Stanton Fenwick,” I announced, maneuvering my wedge to extend a friendly hand.

“Wickham,” the burger replied, shaking it.

“Did you write a cookbook, too?” he asked.

“No, Victorian comedy.”

After a brief silence, I asked, “Who was that guy I was just talking to?”

Wickham frowned.

“You don’t know him? That’s Darcy Pendleton. Stole one of my book ideas once. Won a Hugo with it.”

Wickham told me his story, and I told him mine.

We soon realized our time was being wasted complaining to one another rather than to the public. The two o’clock writers’ symposium on world-building seemed to offer us the best opportunity to be heard. We proceeded thither.

I would never have attended had I known that Darcy Pendleton—the poseur who slighted me in the lobby—was one of the facilitators, along with Andrew Bingley and the publisher’s representative.

It was a Jules Verne panel reunion.

Fortunately, the rep didn’t recognize me, though Darcy clearly did. He glowered when I entered.

Wickham had dignity. He didn’t enter the room behind me.

The rep from HarperCollins kicked off the event by sharing the many lessons she had learned from Catherine Martin, VP of Classic Literature, on the importance of proper world-building.

The baton was then passed to Bingley.

Andrew Bingley was a happy man. After a series of bestselling novels, he had just completed his tug-at-the-heartstrings autobiography, Confidence Building through Wealth.

Darcy Pendleton followed. It turned out his “claim to fame” was a book about a guy who gets stuck on Mars. It sounded terribly boring.

Only afterward were attendees permitted to speak. As an exercise, we were instructed to “build a world” in the form of a book pitch.

I proposed a Regency comedy about matchmaking.

Their stares said, “Why are you here?”

Fine.

I pitched the fanatics a story called Last Ship from Lydia.

“On the geologically unstable planet Lydia, soon to explode, five people are placed in the unenviable position of deciding who will escape death on the final available spaceships. They each choose themselves, secure in the knowledge that no one will ever know. But a final transmission leaks out.”

The publishing representative’s jaw dropped.

She loved it.

I was terribly depressed.

The rest of the hour was too boring to relate. People talked about their books. Nobody cared.

As I was leaving the symposium, Darcy grabbed me by the wedge and whispered, “That cheeseburger is bad news.”

I wriggled free.

“He told me you stole his book idea,” I challenged.

“No, the truth is very much the opposite. Wickham is notorious for his unethical behavior.”

I cleared my throat.

“Just so you know, I was unsatisfied with the symposium and will be giving you a one-star rating,” I said.

Darcy sighed.

I marched out.

When I found the burger in question, I shared Darcy’s accusations.

Wickham scoffed.

I asked, “What plot idea did Darcy steal from you?”

“A guy goes into space,” he replied.

There was an unexpectedly long pause.

“And?” I prodded.

“Well, see, he runs into technical issues. He spends the book fighting them.”

“How does it end?”

“He fails and dies. He is found, five hundred years later, mummified in his spacesuit.”

Another unexpectedly long pause.

“That’s very dark,” I suggested.

“Thanks!” he replied.

The HarperCollins rep came running up.

“How fortunate it is that I was able to find you,” she observed.

I was wearing a gigantic foam costume in a large open space. How fortunate could it have been?

“I was just on the phone with Catherine Martin, our Vice President of Classic Literature,” the rep said. “You might have heard me mention Catherine before.”

I had.

“I told Catherine about your fun, sciencey book idea. She loved it.”

The rep paused, allowing me to bask in the praise of some random publishing veep.

“Your book is just the sort of timely starter project I need to get my foot in the door,” the rep continued. “Space is hot, so we should act quickly. I want a sample to take to Catherine. How soon can you have that ready?”

I explained that I wasn’t interested in writing Last Ship from Lydia.

Besides, I didn’t have a single fun, sciencey idea in my head.

The rep wouldn’t accept my refusal. After considerable back and forth, I told her I would write a treatment for a fifty thousand dollar advance.

I then gave her my agent’s number so she could negotiate with him.

It was a harmless bluff. Such a ridiculous demand should have been enough to scare her off. But it cost me a friend. She left to give him a call.

Wickham asked what the conversation had been about.

I told him about my gag novel proposal and the rep’s enthusiastic response.

He laughed rewardingly. He called me a brilliant satirist. Wickham was a burger with taste.

Tired on my feet, I made my way out of the fair to remove the foam suit. After grabbing a bite to eat, I refoamed and headed back in to attend the evening gala.

While cosplay wasn’t atypical during the day, it was almost de rigueur at night. Never had I been more at one with the crowd while less among my people.

The HarperCollins rep spotted me. I quick-waddled in the opposite direction.

I found my agent.

“Did a woman from HarperCollins call you?” I hurriedly asked.

“Yes, she told me you wanted a huge advance on your sci-fi concept,” he confirmed.

My agent studied me closely.

“You really don’t want to write the book, huh? I mean, your preposterous demands aside, I probably could have gotten you a few thousand dollars.”

“No, I don’t. And the rep is here at the banquet. I think she wants to harass me about it.”

“She wants to talk to you, Stanton.”

After a pause, he added, “We both do.”

What was that supposed to mean?

I found out when the rep arrived and handed me a legal document and a pen.

It seemed my agent had written a book of his own—a scandalous tell-all, spilling his clients’ shameful secrets.

HarperCollins had signed him to a deal.

Now the rep wanted me to grant him permission to include stories about me.

Legal formality or not, I refused.

(Just as you should refuse to purchase that tawdry collection of slanders, published without my consent.)

As we talked, Darcy Pendleton and Andrew Bingley passed by.

I acted as nonchalantly as one can in cheesecake.

“Oh, Mr. Pendleton! And Mr. Bingley!” the rep called out. “Won’t you join us?”

They did so with visible reluctance, revealing an enthusiasm gap between the meeting’s organizer and the other attendees.

The rep observed how fortunate the encounter was, as she wanted to solicit their opinions of my workshop idea. She hadn’t given up on Last Ship from Lydia.

“Put it out under a pen name,” Bingley advised.

“You can’t be thinking of publishing that book, can you?” Darcy asked. “We all heard the pitch. You’ll ruin the poor man. Can you imagine what gibberish he would produce?”

His comments drew blood. So arrogant. I lashed out.

“Just because sci-fi isn’t my thing doesn’t mean I’m incapable of…”

“What genre do you write?” he interrupted.

“Victorian comedy,” I explained.

The group roared with laughter.

Even my agent, who already knew that I did.

“You’re fired,” I told him.

“I figured,” my ex-agent shrugged.

“Stick to your weird brand, Fenwick,” Darcy advised. “No attempt of yours to write sci-fi will ever sell.”

“I’ll bet Last Ship from Lydia would sell if you wrote the foreword,” my ex-agent prodded, out of habit.

“If I did,” Darcy scoffed, “you might as well call it Last Words from Pendleton.”

“True,” my ex-agent agreed. “Stanton would be terrible for your brand…for anyone’s, really.”

I stormed out.

Physically and spiritually exhausted, I returned to the sanctuary of my motel room.

In the morning, I suited up and raced back to the book fair. I wanted to reach the breakfast buffet before they ran out of scrambled eggs.

The person ahead of me cleaned out the chafing dish.

I registered my displeasure.

A convention center employee was hurriedly dispatched to the kitchen for a refill.

I was thus trapped in line, for what seemed like forever, next to Andrew Bingley, who was a morning person, in the worst way.

(Retreat was unthinkable. I would not relinquish my claim to the eggs.)

To my shock, Andrew offered to write an introduction to the Lydia novel.

“Provided,” he added, “it isn’t total crap.”

(To think, the man had won literary awards. I was hoping for better dialogue.)

My integrity, at that moment, could be purchased for a very low price. I shook Andrew’s hand with an enthusiastic smile and stepped out of line, yielding my scrambled egg rights to him, in perpetuity.

I dashed back to my motel.

A morning spent crafting my best sci-fi, ruthlessly editing, and honing the product to a fine edge left me with an outstanding opening sentence.

I was anxious to share it with Andrew, to prove my worth.

He didn’t respond to my text messages.

Knowing that people appreciate a warm, in-person visit after a text, I returned to the book fair, but Andrew was nowhere to be found.

Instead, I was accosted by Darcy Pendleton.

“Are you busy?” he asked, rhetorically.

“What do you want?” I groused (wondering where I could go to escape him).

“I was informed that my treatment of you could be misconstrued as rude.”

“So you’re here to prove it?”

“No, I’m here to make a peace offering. I want to help you, with the least potential reputational exposure to me. As so few people are aware you exist, my publicist and I agreed the risk of association is tolerably low for someone in my position.”

I marveled at the man's arrogance, conceit, and selfish disdain for my feelings.

“So here’s the deal: if your science fiction writing isn’t hideously embarrassing, I’ll write a foreword for your book under a pseudonym. Though, if I do, I’ll be brutally honest. I’ll pull no punches.”

I have rarely felt such powerful antipathy for someone, but then I don’t get out much.

“I would pull my book from the market before I’d ever let your name appear on its cover,” I announced haughtily.

He blinked. I could hear the shock in his voice.

“You can’t be serious. Against my better judgment, I am offering to lend my prestige to your book. And not only do you refuse it, but you show no gratitude whatsoever? This, from some weirdo with a Victorian comedy fetish?”

I detest a genre snob.

“I never asked for your pity. I plan to write a legendary sci-fi novel. After all, how hard can it be?”

He turned to walk away.

I twisted the dagger.

“Also, Bingley offered to write an introduction for me, so I don’t need you.”

Darcy turned back.

“Andrew won’t be doing any such thing, Stanton. He told me so himself.”

I felt reputational exposure.

“That can’t be! Why would he change his mind?”

“Because I talked him out of it. Life is finally going so well for him. He doesn’t deserve a…you.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“I won a Hugo. Try again.”

“Then what is it?”

“I told you. I’m protecting Andrew.”

“I think the actual reason you drove Bingley away…”

“I wasn’t influenced by what your agent wrote,” he assured me.

“…is that you’re planning to steal my book like you stole Wickham’s. Wait, what did you just say?”

“You should have taken whatever money that publisher’s rep was putting on the table, Stanton. She’s a go-getter. She got your agent ten minutes on the main stage after lunch, to read excerpts from his book. Invaluable publicity. As an author at your level, that’s not the sort of mistake you can repeat.”

After a pause, he added, “At least he’s getting your name out there.”

“For public humiliation,” I replied coldly. “What did that traitor say about me?”

Darcy sighed.

“Stanton, a writer must develop a thick skin. The slings of critics and the arrows of gossip...”

“So now you’re Shakespeare?” I mocked.

“No, I’m a successful author, something you’ll never be.”

“You may be successful, but you couldn’t write a decent Victorian comedy in a million…”

“I’m done,” he replied.

He stormed off.

Technically, he had not withdrawn his offer to write a foreword for my book.

I pulled out my cell phone to make sure the conversation had recorded properly.

It had.

It never hurts to have insurance.

I was in a workshop about writing narrative from an alien’s point of view, hoping to ask a question about Victorian comedy, when my phone vibrated.

A series of text messages from Darcy Pendleton arrived in quick succession.

“Look, I don’t mean to cause further offense,” the chain began, “but I would strongly suggest you stick to your genre. If Victorian comedy is your passion, that’s what you should write. Strive to be as authentic as possible, while remaining marketable, if extremely niche.”

I’m unique, not niche.

He was blind to the distinction.

“And I must repeat my warning about Wickham,” the messages continued. “You are aware of my hit novel? Well, Wickham stole my original idea for it. I planned to have my hero die at the end.”

What was with these modern authors and their depressing endings?

“I was new to the book-fair world when I met Wickham and trusted him with the plot. He released it as a sloppy novella before I could publish. That’s the only reason my protagonist lives. I was forced to make the change.”

I had no idea why he thought I would care.

“Wickham once hurt a young writer I cared for by leaving her a viciously cruel book review, in person, at a book signing. She was so hurt she gave up writing entirely. Mind you, Wickham was correct. Her book was absolute rubbish. But you don’t say that to someone’s face at a public event.”

I struggle to reconcile his Wickham stories with the burger I knew.

“On that note, since I genuinely can’t remember, I’m sorry if at any point I’ve called you, or your book, rubbish. I know how hard it is to hear critique when you’re an absolute nobody. Please understand I bear you no ill will. Best of luck, Darcy Pendleton.”

This was followed by a screenful of social media links.

After waiting a full minute to ensure the barrage was over, I replied, “We should talk. Call me.”

Then I blocked his number.

Returning to my motel, I found a package waiting for me at the front desk: a signed first-edition Darcy Pendleton novel.

I was disgusted, though I considered the resale value when electing to keep it.

I plopped into my motel room’s uncomfortable chair and opened Darcy’s book with relish.

It was horrifying. I kept laughing. I didn’t want to.

He cruelly failed to be unfunny.

I set the book down and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps, as others had suggested, I knew nothing about literature, after all.

It was a somber thought.

Momentary, but somber.

I considered returning to the convention center, but since my costume was giving me rashes in unsettling places, I decided to skip disco night.

The following morning, I once again donned the foam and headed back to the fair.

My former agent ambushed me near the entrance.

He said, “I know you’re in a hurry, Stanton, but what I have to tell you is more important than scrambled eggs. I’ve been made aware of something extremely damaging to your reputation. You may not believe this, but I still want to help. Can you come with me to a short meeting?”

I followed him to a small side room.

Within, at the head of a long conference table, sat an imperious woman, who glared at me.

My agent made introductions.

“Stanton, this is Catherine Martin, Vice President of Classic Literature at HarperCollins.”

“I demand you explain yourself,” she greeted me politely.

Her desire for further self-expression delayed my response.

“First, my quisling comes forward with an intriguing book idea—from you, of all people—attached to an outrageous price tag. Then I ask five important people their opinion of it, only to watch you throw my hard work away.”

She turned her computer around.

On the screen was a book listing.

Specifically, it was a listing for Last Ship from Lydia, by Stanton Fenwick.

I felt like I had stepped into a seminar on parallel universes.

“I didn’t write that,” I protested.

“So you made a book proposal in public, followed by the sudden appearance of the very book, with your name listed as the author, and you have no idea where it came from? That’s the best you can come up with on the spot?”

She scoffed, “I can see why you needed AI to write Last Ship from Lydia.”

Catherine was my new least favorite person.

I pointed at the listing.

“Lady, I may have my authorial deficiencies, but I wear them proudly. AI doesn’t write for me. I would never publish something like that.”

“Then we have something in common,” she observed.

“Now, if you want to consider a book I actually wrote…”

“The Stone Age comedy?” she interrupted.

“Victorian.”

Another scoff.

“What if it had a foreword by Darcy Pendleton?” I tempted her.

“That’s not happening.”

I felt a rising dread.

“Is Darcy…”

“…a HarperCollins author? Yes, he is.”

“So you…”

“…would never allow him to do something so reckless? Correct. There will be no foreword to any novel you self-publish by Darcy Pendleton.”

We closed the scrum with a mutual exchange of indelicacies.

I staggered out.

Back in the hallway, my ex-agent said, “Wickham.”

Right. It had to be.

I wandered off in a daze. It felt like a setback.

In addition to angering an industry giant, Wickham had rendered my name mud in the sci-fi book fair world.

I was no longer viewed as the man I once was, dignified even when dressed as cheesecake.

Now I was considered an AI cheat.

I walked to the end of a long hallway and rode an escalator to the second floor. I wished to be alone.

Above the book fair, a hospital association was hosting a conference. I found myself in a crowd of surgeons, none of whom had chosen to engage in cosplay.

As nothing could be more demeaning than returning to the book fair, I lifted my nose and shuffled past, to the sound of medical snickering.

The crowd’s amusement drew the attention of a security guard. My identity was compromised. He began his approach.

I scurried back the way I had come, but my foam suit was generating too much friction against the escalator walls. I was embarrassingly easy to catch.

Keeping a firm grasp on my arm, the law marched me back toward the convention center’s main exit.

I put on a huge grin as if enjoying the situation immensely.

It was all I could do.

The guard led me straight into the belly of the beast. Half of Texas seemed to be in the lobby. There was much pointing, both of fingers and camera phones.

Suddenly, before us, stood Catherine Martin.

She stared down the security guard.

“I demand you follow me,” she introduced herself.

He was immediately taken with her (as I had been).

“Lady, get out of my way,” he ordered. “Who on earth do you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m someone who provides money—and I mean a lot of it—to the people who pay your salary,” Catherine replied, “for now.”

The woman, to her credit, was an effective communicator. She had his attention.

“I am heading upstairs to speak with the event organizers. They are meeting with representatives of the convention center, as we speak. They need to know their biggest sponsor was just insulted.”

She snapped a photo of the security guard.

“I will be sharing my side of this story,” she informed him. “Whether you wish to relate yours is for you to decide.”

She turned and strode away.

With a grunt, the guard followed. We caught up with her at the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed, the veep laid into me.

“Mr. Fenwick, you are an intolerable nuisance. I don’t know precisely what you’ve done, but you have made my stable of authors very upset. Darcy Pendleton practically blackmailed me this morning! He threatened that if I didn’t use HarperCollins’ weight to get your plagiarized novel pulled from the market immediately, he would boycott the rest of the book fair. The fool!”

“Darcy? Are you sure?”

“I am. We had a long chat. Darcy made me aware that you’re nothing more than a patsy…a simpleton…an easy mark. Wickham started this trouble, and I will have my revenge. I signed that cookbook of his to a development deal. I plan to make his life a torment. I can string him along for years.”

She smiled.

“But it will never be published.”

I considered a career change.

The elevator arrived on the second floor. We followed Catherine to Bluebonnet Meeting Room B.

She threw open the doors, entered, and began speaking over the person at the whiteboard.

There was general shock.

A man detained in cosplay cheesecake might have registered as highly unexpected, but Catherine's story was genuinely stunning. Apparently, someone was still trying to write Victorian comedy.

“So you see, this sad, little man was a victim of fraud,” Catherine sniffed. “If you forcibly remove him, it will cause no end of headaches for HarperCollins. I demand you release him, at once!”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are reluctant to issue apologies.

But I was set free.

I staggered from the room, only to encounter Darcy pacing the hall.

“You?” I gasped. “You’re the reason I didn’t get thrown out?”

Darcy took a bow.

(I found it a bit much. I mean, it was only a book fair.)

“I did something better than that,” he revealed. “I got you a reserved slot on the schedule to deliver your talk on Edwardian Comedy.”

“Victorian,” I corrected him.

“No,” he corrected me. “I read your book. It’s Edwardian.”

“You…read it?”

He chuckled.

“I did. You may not write well. You may not be well. But I couldn’t help but laugh.”

“At my book?”

“Of course! You have a knack for writing the comedic fool. Most authors would struggle to write such a ridiculous protagonist. You make it look effortless.”

I smiled, hoping for more.

“It was…surprisingly good,” he added.

I didn’t agree with the entirety of Darcy’s appraisal, but he was a very successful author. Who was I to question his judgment?

If he said my book was a classic, I had to accept it as fact.

I thanked him, unblocked him, then hurried away to research Edwardian comedy.

(He was correct. My book is Edwardian. I researched who Edward was.)

The organizers assigned me the coveted 6:45 to 7:00 AM slot at the small stage near the concessions area on the fair’s final day.

Many, many people passed by. I think I reached them.

My mission completed, I returned home.

I missed my iPad.

Desperate for money, I self-published Last Ship from Lydia under a pen name. Darcy Pendleton wrote a foreword, also under a pen name. But everybody knew it was him.

It remains my best-selling work.

Too Much of Honour (8 replies)

DavidG — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 14:45:19 +0100

Too Much of Honour

By DavidG

Blurb: A short story in which Colonel Fitzwilliam takes a more pragmatic approach to dealing with the problem of Lydia and Wickham.

Epilogue Abbey, P&P.

Author’s Note: This story may be unsuitable for pre-teen readers due to heavily implied (though not absolutely explicit) reference to mature themes regarding Lydia’s fate.

Comments and feedback welcome. I’m trying out a few ideas which I may use in a different setting.

Too Much of Honour

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped out of his favourite coffee house on Cornhill with a spring in his heels. It was the best place to go to hear what was happening in the City. He liked these jaunts, these carefree days where he got away from the stuffy atmosphere of his parents’ townhouse in Mayfair. He took a moment to savour the bustle of the street, the wheels of the carriages, the cries of the merchants. This was London. This was what he had taken a shot in his leg to protect.

He began to walk in the direction of his club, spying a well-dressed, tall gentleman striding quickly further up the street. He was astonished to realise it was Darcy. Darcy, in this part of London! And without a carriage! Had it been a pig marching beneath that hat, he couldn’t have been more surprised.

‘Darcy!’ he shouted. ‘Darcy, wait!’ But his cousin didn’t seem to hear.

He began to run to catch up, feet pounding on the pavement, cursing his limp as he did so. He grasped Darcy’s shoulder. The man spun around, anger in his features, before softening as he saw who it was.

‘Edmund. What do you do here?’

‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ replied the Colonel. He took a moment to properly survey Darcy. He looked pale and worn. Haunted. The darkness under his eyes spoke of nights without rest.

‘Good God, man, what on earth is the matter? Is it Georgiana?’

‘No, no, Georgiana is fine,’ Darcy mumbled. His quiet voice was so unlike his usual booming tone. ‘If you will excuse me, Edmund, I am detained on a matter of business.’ Darcy moved to walk off.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ The Colonel put a restraining hand on his chest. ‘Georgiana would never forgive me if I left you like this. Come, there is a respectable inn nearby. You can tell me what troubles you.’

He continued, seeing Darcy’s hesitancy. ‘Come and have a drink at least.’

At this he practically frogmarched Darcy into Simpson’s Tavern. As they entered he tossed the innkeeper some coins and told him to send them something to drink. They went into a small private room at the back. Darcy closed the door carefully before slumping into a chair, unusually cowed.

A serving maid entered with some brandy, placing a decanter on a table before the fire. The Colonel poured himself a glass and handed another to Darcy.

‘Drink this,’ he ordered.

Darcy downed it in a single gulp. It was then that he knew something was seriously wrong.

‘There is only one man who has ever driven you to drink like that. It is Wickham, is it not?’ The narrowing of his cousin’s eyes told him all he needed to know. ‘So it is about Georgiana. Really Darcy, I am her guardian too, you know. You might at least have informed me.’

Darcy slammed down his glass. ‘It is not about Georgiana,’ he said fiercely.

‘I will be the judge of that,’ snapped the Colonel. ‘Speak’. His commanding officer voice had slipped out. It rarely failed to elicit a response.

‘Wickham has… has come to London with a young gentlewoman of my acquaintance. They have been quite alone, if you take my meaning.’ The Colonel did. He knew Wickham’s habits too well to have any doubt about it.

‘I mean to persuade him to marry her,’ Darcy continued.

‘Ha! Good luck with that!’ the Colonel replied without thinking. Seeing Darcy flinch he cursed himself, resolving to be more careful with what he said.

‘If this…’ he stopped himself from using the word chit, ‘... if this lady has been with Wickham alone she cannot have proper morals. Let her family deal with her. If Wickham has deserted the militia he has likely fled from his debts, which will catch up with him soon enough. I do not see why it should be your affair.’

Darcy clenched his fists. ‘It was by my pride, my unwillingness to open up my affairs to the world, that this has happened; that Wickham has not been exposed for what he is.’

His younger cousin had always been a proud man. Colonel Fitzwilliam had chastised him for it oft enough. But there was more to this tale, and he would get to the bottom of it.

‘So I have told you many times, yet never before have you acted. Why now?’

Darcy looked pained. His voice fell to almost a whisper. ‘The family… the family is the Bennets.’

The Colonel could only think of one Bennet who was at all well acquainted with Darcy. He could not understand it. That lady was lively to be sure, too lively for his taste, but her conduct had been everything proper.

‘The lady is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who I met in Hunsford?’

‘NO!’ shouted Darcy, springing from his seat. ‘The lady in question is Miss Lydia Bennet, Miss Elizabeth’s youngest sister. I had just come from seeing her uncle in Gracechurch Street when you accosted me.’

‘Ah,’ the Colonel replied. Foolish girl. Her conduct would reflect on her entire family. An elopement was bad enough. An elopement without marriage would be their utter ruin. The Bennets were not rich or well connected enough to weather such a scandal. All the Bennet sisters would be shunned. It was a tragedy. But he still didn’t see why Darcy was entangled in such a sordid business.

‘I was under the impression, Darcy, that you did not approve of the Bennets. You and Miss Elizabeth did little but argue at Rosings.’ He recalled a rather heated conversation he had held himself with that lady. ‘And you separated Bingley from her sister, did you not? A mercenary family, you said, with an ill-bred mother.’

‘Do not remind me of what I said,’ replied Darcy. ‘I neither spoke nor acted like a gentleman. Elizabeth has taught me that, at least.’

Elizabeth! The plot thickened.

‘And since when do you refer to Miss Bennet in such familiar terms?’

Darcy poured himself another brandy and sat down. He stared, unspeaking, at the shifting hues of the fire. Colonel Fitzwilliam said nothing. He merely stood watching for some minutes. Darcy shifted and began to fidget. The Colonel said nothing. As he had learnt in Spain, sometimes silence was the best interrogator.

‘I love her, Edmund,’ Darcy said eventually. The Colonel met his eyes, and saw pain reflected back. ‘I love her, God help me. And now, just when I had started to hope, she has slipped even further from my grasp.’

And then the whole tale came stuttering out. Their meeting in Hertfordshire and reunion in Kent. Darcy’s proposal. Miss Bennet’s refusal. Her anger over his pride, over Bingley and Wickham. Darcy’s answering letter. Their meeting again at Pemberley. His attempt to improve his conduct. Her changed manner towards him.

The Colonel almost wanted to laugh - a country miss, turning down the most eligible bachelor in London! - but the misery on his cousin’s face stopped him. He had never been in love, but he had seen too much of sadness. Too much of grief.

‘Well Darcy, you have certainly got yourself into a pickle. I liked Miss Elizabeth a good deal. If you think she will accept you, I shall do all I can to help you in your suit.’

He raised a hand to stop Darcy from interrupting. A pause before the hammer blow.

‘But Wickham cannot marry her sister.’

‘But –’ began Darcy.

‘No, Darcy, on this I must insist, as Georgiana’s guardian. Think, man! If you were to marry Miss Elizabeth, Wickham would be your brother. Georgiana would ever be reminded of her greatest shame and disgrace. And the power he would hold over you both…’ A suspicion dawned in his mind. He folded his arms.

‘Just how were you planning to persuade Wickham to marry Miss Lydia?’

‘I was to pay him. Enough to cover his debts, and a modest allowance.’

‘How much?’

Darcy wouldn’t meet his eyes. He mumbled a non-committal answer.

‘How much?’ the Colonel pressed.

‘We have agreed on £10,000,’ said Darcy finally.

‘TEN THOUSAND POUNDS!’ the Colonel bellowed. ‘A modest sum indeed! Do you know, cousin, I have always had the greatest respect for your intelligence, but I fear I was mistaken. I now think you may be the greatest fool in Christendom.’

He continued, ignoring Darcy’s protests. ‘I suppose it has not occurred to you that Wickham, who knows you so well, may have discerned your partiality for Miss Elizabeth? That he may have targeted Miss Lydia to spite you, or indeed in hopes of payment? Yes, that could be it. After all, it is what you did with Georgiana.’

The Colonel had still been abroad during that unhappy business. Only he and Darcy were aware of what it had cost to buy Wickham’s silence over Georgiana’s near elopement. He had been furious when he learned of it. He would have called Wickham out and shot him, not paid him off. That feeling came back to him now.

‘Why not try the same trick twice, when he is dealing with such a gullible mark?’

Mr Darcy took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. ‘If that be the case, then I am bound by honour to ensure they marry.’

‘You think too much of honour and not enough of sense,’ retorted the Colonel. He sighed. For all his high and mighty ways, his cousin knew so little of the world. His was a life of order and duty, not lies and secrets. It was time to take him in hand.

‘Come, take me to my club. On the way I will tell you my plan.’

***
The next day the two men returned to the building where Darcy had indicated Wickham and Lydia were staying. Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed it in distaste. It was a medieval structure, all oak beams and plaster. Its tiled roof looked on the verge of caving in. It stood in a dirty back alley on the edge of Covent Garden. The air was foul. Beggars lay idly in the muck. Twice the Colonel had to expose his sword to pickpockets, to whom Darcy was quite oblivious. Men went into the building at intervals. Some glanced around furtively before they entered. It was not a place he would want a relative of his to even see, let alone reside.

They moved inside. The owner, a short, rough looking man with one eye and a muscled neck, was bribed to make himself scarce. As they had agreed, Darcy moved to a room at the back where he had arranged to meet Wickham. The Colonel climbed the rickety stairs, the wooden boards squealing in protest beneath him. On the landing women with sallow skin and yellowing teeth emerged from doorways and called out to him, exposing their stockings. He ignored them.

He barged into the room he knew was Wickham’s, not pausing to knock. He was not there, having left to meet Darcy. Good. A girl with loose dark hair lay on the bed, facing away from him. She was dressed only in her chemise.

‘Back so soon, Wicky,’ she cooed. ‘Come into the bed.’

‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. Lydia turned around and screamed, clutching some blankets around her. He was shocked by her youth. She could only be fifteen or so. Darcy had not mentioned she was as young as that. As young as Georgiana.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, her fear giving way to a defiant pout.

‘I am a… friend of Mr Darcy. He is downstairs, speaking to Mr Wickham. As their discussion concerns you, I think you should listen to what they have to say.’

He was surprised when she moved to obey. Indeed, she seemed almost eager to comply.

‘Is Mr Darcy to give my Wicky the living he promised?’ she asked.

‘The discussion will certainly be to your advantage,’ he replied.

He left to give her privacy to get dressed. This was no unwilling victim. How such a creature could be related to the genteel Miss Elizabeth was beyond his understanding. Any qualms about his plan had been quashed upon seeing her.

She quickly emerged and he led her downstairs, to outside the door of the room where Darcy and Wickham sat. ‘You will stand here and listen in silence,’ he said. ‘These gentlemen will keep you safe.’ He gestured to two burly corporals from his regiment, who emerged from the darkness. They were good lads, who knew to keep their mouths shut. They should. He paid well for their discretion. That they were there more to keep Lydia from running away than to protect her went unsaid.

He pushed open the door and entered the room.

Wickham saw him, and went white.

‘Fitz… what a surprise.’

‘That’s Colonel Fitzwilliam to you, Lieutenant Wickham. Did the militia not teach you how to address a superior officer?’

Wickham stammered, off his guard. Excellent. That was exactly what he wanted.

‘I expect you are wondering what I’m doing here, Wickham?’ At the man’s answering nod, he continued. ‘I have been discussing this matter with Darcy and we have concluded that £10,000 is far too plentiful a sum. £3,000 should be enough.’ He bared his teeth. ‘After all, we have Georgiana to think of.’

Wickham seemed to grow even paler, before he rallied. ‘If you want me to marry the chit, I shall need £10,000. Not a penny less.’

‘Really, Wickham, you disappoint me,’ said the Colonel. ‘Your… betrothed holds you in a great deal of affection. You do not return the sentiment?’

‘Chah!’ replied Wickham. ‘Hardly. I have scarcely met a sillier girl in my life.’

‘That was all I needed to hear.’ He turned to the door. ‘Let her in, lads.’

Lydia rushed into the room, tears streaming down her face. She ran to Wickham. ‘Wicky, I don’t understand. You said–’

‘Oh, do shut up!’ Wickham said, pushing her away.

Lydia went red. She slapped him. Hard across the mouth. Hard enough to leave a mark.

His hand went to his face, before he moved to hit her back. His arms were caught by the corporals. He wriggled fiercely, like a fish on a hook, before he stilled.

‘What is the meaning of this? Unhand me at once!’

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned his cane over in his hand, savouring the weight of the handle. He began to tap it on the floor.

‘You are a scoundrel, Wickham.’ Tap.

‘And a deserter.’ Tap.

‘And, more to the point here, a debtor.’ Tap.

‘Darcy here and I have purchased some of your debts. Already they form quite the sum. And we have sent to your regiment for more. These gentlemen are to take you to the Marshalsea. Enjoy prison, George. I doubt you’ll emerge for some time.’

He nodded to his sergeants, who began to drag Wickham away.

‘Darcy! Darcy! Stop this! I will speak! I will tell all about Georgiana!’

The Colonel replied. ‘You would not be believed. Just another insane prisoner, ranting a sorry tale. And if you do talk, well - when you are inside such a place, there are ways of stilling your tongue.’

Darcy looked at Wickham sadly. ‘I am sorry it has come to this George.’

The Colonel realised that even now Darcy held his childhood friend in some affection. Even now he could not see the true devil that hid behind that charming mask. Both men looked on as Wickham was led out the door. They could still hear his cursing halfway down the street.

After he was gone Lydia ran to the Colonel and began beating on his chest.

‘You beast! You foul beast! Bring my Wicky back at once!’

He let her take out her rage, before eventually grabbing her arms. ‘Sit down, you silly girl. As you heard, Wickham had no intention of marrying you. He was simply using you. To him you were merely a diversion, nothing more.’

‘It is true, Miss Lydia,’ intoned Darcy.

‘But he said we would marry…’

‘If he wished to marry you he would have gone to your father, not brought you to a place such as this.’ At her confused look the Colonel was reminded she was still a girl, naive to the wickedness of the world. He led her back through the doorway and up the stairs.

‘Tell me, Miss Lydia, where do you imagine you are?’ He gestured to the women that were standing around, the ill-dressed men who eyed her lustfully as they went past.

‘A tavern?’ ventured Lydia.

‘No.’ He was almost sorry to disillusion her so completely. Almost. ‘A bawdy house.’ She looked back at him blankly. ‘A place of ill repute,’ he explained, ‘where men pay women to do what you have been doing with Mr Wickham.’

Lydia’s hands went to her mouth. ‘You should not speak of such things!’

‘And you should not do them,’ he retorted. ‘He would have left you here, when he was tired of you. He has done it before. Perhaps he would have sold you to the owner. You would have been defenceless, alone, with no protector. A sorry fate indeed.’ He shook his head, leading her back to Darcy.

‘But what am I to do?’ she asked as she sat down. ‘Mr Wickham said….’ She began to sob, violently, her little shoulders shaking.

Darcy shook his head impatiently. ‘Your thought should be for your sisters, who must partake in your disgrace,’ he said sharply.

She looked up at them both, misery in her eyes.

‘Do not fret, Miss Lydia,’ said the Colonel. ‘We have a plan to save both you and your sisters. I am acquainted with three upstanding officers, convalescing in England. All are prepared to marry you. You will go to your Uncle and Aunt’s house on Gracechurch Street and they will be presented to you, an hour each. At the end you will choose one.’

It was a happier fate than he thought she deserved. Any of the men would make a much better husband than Wickham. Two were Lieutenants, one a Captain. All wished for commissions at higher rank, a matter far cheaper to arrange than ten thousand pounds. That Darcy had promised this and future advancements Lydia did not need to know. Nor, as yet, did she need to be made aware that the commissions would involve a hasty transfer to India, where news of any further scandalous conduct on her part was unlikely to reach ears in England.

The men themselves were only too glad to escape further wounds in Spain. The Captain had pulled a bleeding Colonel Fitzwilliam from the line of battle at Albuera, taking a musket shot himself in the process. When the Colonel woke at night he could still taste the powder, could still hear the screams of dying men.

He shook himself, realising that Miss Lydia was protesting the plan.

‘Why should I marry someone I have not met?’ she asked.

‘It is marriage or ruin,’ the Colonel replied. ‘For you, and all your family.’

He had expected questions as to why they were aiding her, but none were forthcoming. She was, he realised, a shallow and entitled girl. Her head had no doubt been full of officers and balls and parties. He had seen her type before.

‘All the men are most handsome, Miss Lydia.’

Lydia seemed to perk up at that, until her face fell. ‘It will not work,’ she said sadly. ‘I left a letter for Harriet Forster. All will know I planned to elope with Wicky… with Mr Wickham.’

‘We owe much to Colonel Forster’ said Darcy. ‘He wrote to your father, and prevented his wife from telling anyone of the letter. Only your Aunt and Uncle and your family at Longbourn know of what occurred. But that will not hold for long, if you do not marry.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped in. ‘If there are questions, we thought to explain your journey from Brighton as a desperate attempt to meet your lover, to whom you were secretly engaged. You might have persuaded Wickham to aid you in your plight. It would be chalked up as the actions of a romantic and foolish girl; impudent, yes, but not totally scandalous.’

She still seemed hesitant. ‘There will be funds for a fine dress, and a trousseau,’ he added. ‘And the officer would be married in his regimentals.’

At this final carrot she finally seemed to accept her fate.

‘Why, I shall be married before any of my sisters! Well, gentlemen, it seems I am quite in your hands. Show me these officers of yours.’

***
The Colonel was pleased that Miss Lydia had the sense at least to choose his friend Captain - soon to be Major - John Sholto. A tall man of five and twenty, he was possessed of a winning smile and charming manner. A scar running beneath his right eye seemed only to add to his handsomeness, hinting as it did at his bravery. The younger son of a knight who resided in a fashionable new villa in Norwood, he wanted only funds to rise high in his chosen profession.

He and Sholto travelled to Hertfordshire so that the latter could meet Mr Bennet and ask formally for Lydia’s hand. Their journey was an easy one on horseback. As the road from London opened he led Artemis beneath him into a gallop, revelling in the wind in his hair. It was nice to feel such speed, away from a cavalry charge. They soon reached Meryton, a bustling place, and asked for directions to Longbourn. As they approached the house he saw Miss Elizabeth outside the door.

‘Colonel Fitzwilliam!’ she exclaimed. ‘How pleasant to see you. What brings you to Hertfordshire?’

He introduced Sholto. ‘The Captain and I must see your father, on a matter of some delicacy.’

Something in his manner must have given him away, for anxiety immediately entered her eyes.

‘Is it about my sister Lydia? Oh, please tell me she is well!’

‘I believe all will be well, Miss Elizabeth. Do not worry. But we must see your father first.’ At this she led them straight to his study.

‘Some gentlemen to see you, Papa,’ she said gravely before withdrawing.

Mr Bennet was sitting behind his desk. He looked up above his spectacles in surprise as the two officers entered the room. Worry was etched on his face as he rose and the two men introduced themselves.

‘I believe I have read of your conduct in the Gazette, Colonel. Yours too, Captain. It is not often that two heroes of the war grace my study. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

‘I am a man known for my frankness, Mr Bennet, so I will come straight to the point,’ said Captain Sholto. ‘I wish to marry your daughter Lydia.’

Mr Bennet sat back down again in surprise. ‘Marry my Lydia? Impossible!’ After a moment he explained, ‘I am afraid, Captain, that there are circumstances that prevent it. Entirely prevent it.’

They explained that they knew all about Lydia’s conduct with Wickham. Sholto impressed upon Mr Bennet that he wished to marry her anyway.

Mr Bennet began to absent-mindedly polish his spectacles. ‘You strike me as a man of sense, sir,’ he said, ‘and no man of sense would marry Lydia without inducement. You are aware, I presume, that she has but a meagre dowry? I can certainly not offer more.’

The Captain nodded. ‘I wish nothing of you, sir, only your consent. Should you grant it, I shall endeavour to repay your trust in me.’

‘Well, sir, I am hardly in a position to refuse. It is a better end to this business that I could have hoped for. If the price is that you keep your secrets, so be it. You shall see me later to discuss the settlement. I shall leave to you both the daunting task of explaining all this to Mrs Bennet.’ He rose to show them out. ‘Although, if you change your mind after doing so, I shall not blame you.’

‘Come, sir, we have faced a battlefield. I dare say the good Captain here can brave an enthusiastic mother,’ replied the Colonel.

At this Mr Bennet just smiled wryly, and closed the door. A servant led them into the parlour. Elizabeth introduced them to her mother and sisters, glancing worriedly at them both. Only Miss Jane Bennet seemed calm.

Captain Sholto explained why they had come. At this there was an outpouring of exclamation. Mrs Bennet’s voice was by far the loudest.

‘Marry Lydia? But she is to marry Wickham!’

‘Mr Wickham is… indisposed, ma'am,’ explained the Colonel. ‘In debtor’s prison, in fact.’ This elicited a further round of gasps. He continued regardless. ‘I can assure you the Captain here is a far better catch. His gallantry is renowned.’

Sholto flashed Mrs Bennet a smile, before producing a fine jasperware brooch and handing it to her. ‘A small gift for my future mother-in-law. I can see where Lydia gets her beauty.’

Mrs Bennet looked at it. ‘Oh, how lovely!’

Her keen matrimonial instincts were awakened. She proceeded to ask Sholto a series of questions about himself, learning all about his income and connections. The Colonel sat back admiringly. The next time Wellesley captured a French General, he would recommend they be sent to Hertfordshire. He had never seen such a thorough interrogation.

Mrs Bennet had been thoroughly won over by the end of their visit. ‘Mrs Sholto! How well that sounds. Soon to be a Major! The son of a knight! I shall go distracted,’ she cried. ‘Hill, Hill, where are my salts?’

Elizabeth smiled at the men and led them out. ‘I am happy for you and my sister, sir,’ she said to the Captain. ‘I am intrigued, however, as to how this came about, and as to how you are involved, Colonel’. She turned inquiringly to him.

‘On that matter, I am sworn to secrecy, Miss Bennet. However, I am sure your keen mind can fathom it out.’

It began to rain, but her answering smile helped to sustain his spirits through the journey back to London.

***

The men returned the next day with Lydia in tow. A few hours with Sholto had seemed to cure her of Wickham. She clung happily to his arm as they stepped out of the carriage.

‘Well, Mama, what do you think of my beau? Is he not handsome? And look at what he has given me!’ She flashed her engagement ring, a gaudy thing of gold and turquoise. Mrs Bennet and Kitty cooed around it admiringly.

The men were led into the house. Miss Jane Bennet politely offered them tea. The Colonel admired the kindly way she spoke to the maid, the grace with which she poured them each a cup. She was certainly a rare beauty.

He had planned to stay only briefly, enough to ensure Lydia’s return, but he found himself agreeing to help chaperone her and Captain Sholto on a walk. Miss Jane was sent by Mrs Bennet to accompany him. It was a warm day. He enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his face, the sight of things growing in the fields.

As they walked Miss Bennet asked him gentle questions about himself. He found himself enjoying their discussion. Other women would have asked him about his father the Earl, the people he knew, the balls he attended. Miss Bennet asked him about London, about the coffee houses and theatres.

He reconvened with Sholto, falling behind the ladies. He was pleased to see that the Captain was quite reconciled to the match. As he looked ahead he saw Miss Jane and Miss Lydia stop. A pair of labourers were working by the side of the lane, gaping impertinently at them. He closed the ground quickly, feeling a rare anger.

‘About your business, gentlemen,’ he said. He was pleased to see them skitter off.

Jane wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Thank you, sir’ she whispered.

He wished for the smile to return to those eyes. As they crossed a field he decided to engage in a little mild flirtation.

‘You must take my arm, Miss Bennet. The ground is uneven. And I must protect you from these cows.’ He gestured to one in the distance. ‘That fellow there looks most fearsome. Look at his horns.’

He was pleased to elicit a giggle. ‘I can see you are not a country gentleman, sir, if you cannot tell a cow from a bull!’

He laughed out loud. So there was a quiet wit hidden underneath that beauty. And a demureness, too, for she did not take his arm. There was nothing mercenary about her. Bingley was a fool.

As they crested the hill known as Oakham Mount, and looked out at the view, he decided he liked Hertfordshire. He might stay a while, just to help Sholto of course. It had nothing to do with a pair of blue eyes, and hair that sparkled like diamonds in the sun. Nothing at all.

A day passed into a week, and then two. He walked with Jane every day.

She was beautiful, to be sure, but it wasn’t that which drew him to her. It was her soothing manner. She radiated calm. When he was with her, the horrors of the battlefield seemed to recede.

For the first time in his life, the Colonel was contemplating matrimony.

Despite what he had told Elizabeth at Hunsford, he was quite capable of supporting a wife. The fifty thousand pounds he had quoted her was a small ruse he adopted, put up to deter the many women who saw him only as an Earl’s son. In fact he lived quite comfortably on his officer’s pay, and had a further thousand a year, a gift from his favourite grandmother. It was not much, but it was something.

But what could a grizzled and haunted soldier offer a woman like Miss Bennet?

***
As the wedding approached Darcy surprised him with a visit. ‘I am staying at the inn in Meryton,’ he explained. ‘I thought to see this business with Miss Lydia completed.’

‘And this has nothing to do with a certain Miss Elizabeth?’ he teased. ‘She has asked about you several times.’

Darcy smiled, but said nothing. They called at Longbourn. It was one of those rare cloudless days where the sun seemed to make everything younger. A fine day for a walk. Darcy soon secured Miss Elizabeth’s company. They walked together with Jane, with no particular destination in mind.

Before long Elizabeth spoke up. ‘I can go no further, gentlemen, without thanking you both for the part you played in securing my sister from Mr Wickham, and in bringing about her forthcoming marriage. It was most generous of you, sir,’ she said, turning to Darcy.

His cousin frowned. ‘I would not have your gratitude, Miss Elizabeth. Without my arrogance, my mistaken pride, your sister would not have been in danger from Mr Wickham. I had thought I had impressed upon her a wish for discretion in this matter.’

Elizabeth stopped in the road. ‘You must not blame Lydia, sir. She has been unusually tight-lipped. Seeing the Colonel’s involvement, I could not rest until I knew all. I wrote to my Aunt Gardiner, and received her reply yesterday. Jane I told this morning. Please, please let me thank you on behalf of the rest of my family, for they do not know to whom they are indebted.’

Darcy looked down at her beseechingly. ‘If you must thank me, let it be for yourself alone. As much as I respect your family, I believe I thought only of you.’

The Colonel thought to give the couple space. He led Jane away until they were out of earshot. She looked at him enquiringly.

‘I believe my cousin is about to propose to your sister, Miss Bennet.’

‘Oh! How wonderful. Lizzy will be delighted!’

‘Indeed, ‘tis a happy day. Darcy thinks too much of duty, and has not enough joy in his life. Your sister’s lively spirit will do him good.’

At this Jane beamed. ‘I am pleased to hear you say so, sir. I had hoped for such an outcome, but had worried that Mr Darcy’s relations would not look kindly on the match.’

‘Darcy’s sister Georgiana will adore Miss Elizabeth, I assure you. She is the only relative besides myself to whom Darcy pays any mind. Now it is true that the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh will be seriously vexed.’ He had changed his tone to an imperious one, and was pleased to see that his mimicry of Lady Catherine had Jane laughing. ‘But that will not signify. One benefit of being a man of independent means is that we can marry where we wish.’

‘And your parents, sir? How will they feel about Mr Darcy’s marriage to a penniless country miss?’

‘They would undoubtedly prefer a Duchess, Miss Bennet, but I imagine their reaction will be one of indifference. My father thinks of little but horses and grouse. Since my brother married and had children they rarely stir beyond the grounds of Matlock, and care little for what happens outside its walls. No, we need not worry about them.’

‘We, sir?’

Here was the moment. Jane had warmed to him, he was sure. She had become comfortable teasing him, and glanced at his figure when she thought he was not looking. But he was still unsure whether she would wish him for a husband.

He screwed up his courage. He had faced cannon fire. That was easier than this.

‘Darcy is not the only man to have found romance in Hertfordshire, Miss Bennet. We have not known each other long, but in that time I have come to greatly admire your kindness, your grace and your beauty. I know that you recently loved another, but if you would give me the chance, I would do all I could to win your heart.’

Jane smiled. The memory of that smile would always bring joy to his heart.

‘I have come to realise I did not truly love Mr Bingley. Indeed, I have not thought of him at all these past weeks. I was in love with the idea of being in love, I think.’

She paused thoughtfully. ‘When I was a girl, I used to love walking these lanes. I would stop and pick the flowers. That stopped when I came to womanhood. Men began to look at me differently. You saw an example of that recently, a small taste of what I endure. I no longer felt safe, even here near Meryton. But with you I find I can walk with comfort. I did not feel that with Mr Bingley. I did not laugh with him as I do with you. You need not work to win my heart, sir. You have it already.’

This reply brought him more happiness than he could ever remember feeling. He could almost burst with it. ‘If that be the case, Jane, would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?’

‘YES,’ she cried. ‘A thousand times yes!’

He caught her by the waist, and spun her around laughing. They twirled and twirled. And then they stopped twirling, and their mouths met, and they spoke no more.

***
The news that her two eldest daughters were to marry so advantageously did much to revive Mrs Bennet. Upon learning that her darling Lydia was to leave for India, that lady had suffered a fit of nerves so violent it had sent her to bed for days.

‘India! So far away! She shall be eaten by a tiger, I know it! Oh my nerves!’

Surprisingly it was Lydia herself who was most enthusiastic about this plan. She was so taken with the idea of being the first of her sisters to go abroad that she pored over the globe in Bennet’s study, and even read some of his books on the subject. She spent much of her time wondering if she might see elephants and other exotic sights, and discussing the jewels and servants she would have. Captain Sholto joined in indulgently. The reality of being an officer’s wife would be much more mundane. But he saw no reason to disillusion his betrothed. She spoke with such passion that even Mrs Bennet was partly won round.

‘You must be sure to write often, and send us the best silks. But watch out for tigers! Oh my darling Lydia!’

It was some comfort that after the wedding and departure of the newly minted Major and Mrs Sholto, Mrs Bennet could plan a double wedding for her elder daughters. That event came without any interference from Lady Catherine - who they simply failed to inform.

The wedding took place on a glorious day. The Colonel was told afterwards that Elizabeth looked radiant. He didn’t notice. He had eyes only for Jane. Her yellow dress matched the sun outside. It shone with hope.

Whilst Elizabeth and Darcy left for Pemberley, Jane and the Colonel spent their wedding trip at Weymouth. He would always recall the look on Jane’s face when she first saw the sea. They discovered that she loved the beach, though Jane teased that they saw too little of it. He promised they would take a trip there every summer, renewing pleasant memories. Very pleasant memories, indeed.

They settled in a fine townhouse not far from St. Paul’s. Their children, two boys and a girl, would grow up as true Londoners, born in earshot of Bow Bells. The Colonel decided to resign his commission. To the disappointment of his parents he became involved with trading in the City, aided by his new Uncle Gardiner, with whom he and Jane were on excellent terms. Jane did much good for the poor of the capital, helping to found a charity for invalided former soldiers.

In the summers they resided at Pemberley, occupying a small lodge on the edge of the estate, surrounded by wild flowers. With the Darcy’s occupying their London townhouse in the winter, Elizabeth and Jane had the advantage of living within walking distance of each other for much of the year.

Of Mr Bingley they saw little. He and Darcy had a blazing row when he learned of the latter’s interference and Jane’s marriage. He later married a society heiress, satisfying the wish of his sisters. The new Mrs Bingley promptly threw those ladies out of her house. The London gossip was that she soon cuckolded Bingley with a Duke. ‘Poor man,’ wept Jane at the news. The Colonel’s pity went only so far. If Bingley was so indecisive and easily led as not to recognise Jane’s worth, he had no great opinion of the man.

Lydia was a poor correspondent. Major Sholto kept them updated sporadically, his letters sufficient to assure them that their marriage was tolerable to both parties. With Darcy’s assistance he rose to become a Colonel. The couple made only sporadic visits to England, preferring to make their lives in the subcontinent. To this day Pemberley and Longbourn are full of Indian trinkets.

The Colonel’s military connections were sufficient to find Kitty a fine redcoat for a husband. Mary, the last Bennet sister to remain at Longbourn, surprised her family by caring diligently for her parents, growing closer to both as a result. After they died she caused a minor scandal by becoming, at the age of thirty-seven, the second wife of the Meryton vicar, two decades her senior. They lived happily.

It was at Pemberley, two years after Jane and Fitzwilliam’s marriage, that they had news of Mr Wickham for the final time. It came in the form of a letter. The Colonel opened it, and frowned down at the name of his correspondent.

‘What is it, Edmund?’ asked Jane.

‘A letter from my old acquaintance Colonel Williamson’.

As he read he narrated the letter. ‘It seems that Wickham has escaped the Marshalsea by enlisting in the regulars. Williamson writes that he has been telling tales of you and I, Darcy.’

At this both Elizabeth and Jane gasped. A nervous Georgiana was about to make her debut into society. Any scandal could be ruinous to her chances.

The Colonel held up his hand for calm. ‘Williamson writes that he has had Wickham flogged for his insolence. He reports that he has a poor reputation in the regiment, and none believes his lies. He has been placed on duty digging the privies as a punishment.’

Darcy hit his thigh with mirth. ‘Somehow that seems oddly fitting.’

The Colonel did not say that the regiment in question was at the front lines.

The army was always in need of cannon fodder. Somehow he doubted they would be hearing from Wickham again.

He penned a brief reply and tossed the letter into the fire. He would pay it no further mind.

All in all, things had worked out very well indeed.

FINIS

When Mary Takes a Stand (no replies)

Kimberly F. — Sat, 28 Feb 2026 01:09:17 +0000

LizzyS,

Will there be an Epilogue to this story?

Excessively Attentive - 44-48 - FINISHED (10 replies)

JessicaS — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 23:41:52 +0000

Author's note: FINIS! I hope it ends well enough for you-all. <3

Forty-Four

Elizabeth fretted about everything left to accomplish, and felt that perhaps her wedding could come too soon.

Letters, sometimes accompanied by parcels, flew from Longbourn and back. Elizabeth was quite certain the post’s horses would soon refuse to make the turn to Longbourn House proper. Thankfully, they only had to tolerate quite this level of correspondence for less than another fortnight.

Jane and Bingley were due back in a week’s time, Mrs. Bennet was in a predictable flutter, and Lady Catherine would be arriving in the next few hours. Lady Catherine and the Gardiners intended to travel in an entourage to Longbourn, as Anne had spent the previous se’enday with her sister’s aunt and uncle. The Matlocks were quite busy with the social requirements of the season, and Anne had simply wanted to spend time with friends in town. The Gardiners, young, fashionable, and intelligent, as well as quite astute about people in general, obliged readily.

The latest news from Brighton indicated that Wickham’s duties were not so strenuous that Colonel Forster could not spare him for a few days. He was expected to arrive a day prior, and stay in the Meryton inn. Mr. and Mrs. Collins travelled with Lady Catherine, but were to stay with the Lucases. Darcy opted to invite primarily family and close friends. Accordingly, a majority of the invitees had been in the locality just a fortnight ago.

According to Lady Matlock’s letter yesterday, Richard would be spared from his duties as well, and arrive with his parents. Comments regarding Mary’s need for tutelage to befit her future station solidified Elizabeth’s suspicions. Her mother Bennet’s ill-considered boasting at the Netherfield ball about "throwing the other girls into the paths of other rich men!" seemed to be at least a little fruitful. Jane and Bingley had graciously offered the use of Netherfield for the family which would overfill Longbourn, including a few other Darcy relations.

Having those details worked out set Elizabeth’s mind at ease. Her mother could attend to the rest herself, and probably more happily so than if Elizabeth’s more sedate and practical wishes were strictly followed. She however still had to attend to her own personal items. Her notes about items and fabrics taken while shopping with Jane assisted immeasurably, and the items from Mrs. Smithson’s modiste arrived in good time. Those items which she need to pack were being sorted and some already sent ahead to her uncle’s London house.

The settlement papers were deemed completed pending a final review when mère arrived in a few hours’ time. The primary settlement came from the de Bourgh family, much as Lady Catherine had described that beautiful but tumultuous morning nearly three months previous, but Mr. Bennet did settle some of Mrs. Bennet’s and his personal assets on Elizabeth. They were, necessarily, items not included in the entail. William’s side of the settlement fulfilled Mrs. Bennet’s hopes for Elizabeth’s pin-money and jewels, and then some.

It – most importantly for Mrs. Bennet – ensured that she and the other Bennet daughters would not be turned out into the hedgerows when Mr. Collins inherited. The Pemberley dowerage cottage, used only by family guests and occasionally rented for large parties over the past many years, would become available for Mrs. Bennet and any unmarried children upon Mr. Bennet’s death. Lady Catherine did not require such reassurances, as she retained lifetime residency to Rosings as long as she lived, so William had insisted that Mrs. Bennet receive that due. As Elizabeth’s inheritance of Brandywine remained separate from the Darcy estates by both Lady Catherine’s will and the marriage settlement terms, it wasn’t, strictly, a necessary offer. Elizabeth could ensure her family remained comfortable regardless.

Lady Catherine sided with William, when the particulars were discussed one last time. "Of course, you could let Fanny and the girls live at Brandywine should the entail come into effect! None of us would think meanly of that at all, my girl. But this is about more than just a home in sad circumstances, isn’t it, Darcy?"

William nodded. "It is. It is ensuring that Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s selflessness in taking on a foundling is repaid in the only way I can do so, beyond ensuring their daughter’s – your –happiness insofar as I can. As they took you in under their roof, so – in not dissimilar circumstances – I, and by extension, the rest of the Fitzwilliams, can take them under our roof."

Elizabeth barely controlled the tears at having the reasoning laid out in such a way, and Mr. Bennet did not look unaffected himself. "I should protest that the honour of raising Elizabeth offsets any need for repayment – but I will not be so proud as to turn down a future home for my wife and children, either."

"Because you are not a simpleton, Bennet," Lady Catherine rejoined. "I told you we would find some way to ensure you were repaid for saving her." She paused to smile at the betrothed. "We are just fortunate that such an easy path for that presented itself."

"I suspect it would be the first time either of these two took the easy path in anything, and likely the last," Bennet teased.

"Papa!" overlapped with a sardonic "A first time for everything, sir."

Lady Catherine chuckled. "Were there any other concerns you had, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I have gone over it a few times, with Papa, with William, and again with Uncle Phillips. He may only be a country lawyer, but he has experience in this field. That was my remaining concern, to be sure it was fully considered."

Lady Catherine asked, "Should I sign it fully, then?"

Elizabeth nodded. Mr. Bennet had already affixed his signature for the Bennet side of the agreement, and William his for the Darcy side. Once Lady Catherine put ink to paper, the contract would be in force the moment the wedding was formalized. Elizabeth’s own will ensured that, even if she should predecease her mother, even without issue of her own, her mother would not be rendered homeless. She had done her best, and her dear friend would not need to fret about turning her friend’s family out of their home with nowhere else to go, either.

All that remained now was a se’nnight of patience, and she would be at William’s London house for their wedding night. In a month’s time, her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner would join them at Pemberley, for the tour of the countryside which had been discussed that day that Elizabeth’s world changed.

In the meantime, Elizabeth divided her time between spending a last few half-hours with each sister. She listened to how Mary continued to improve with Georgina’s encouragement, sometimes joining in for duets at their request. She listened in to Lydia’s and Kitty’s lessons, and assisted Miss McGonagall where she could. She assisted Mrs. Bennet wherever their mutual tolerance for shared tasks overlapped.

Also importantly, she ensured that she and William had diligent enough chaperones. Mr. Bennet had shared his elder brother’s journals with Mary, and when the betrothed were not too unsociable for conversation with her, she would share highlights with them both. One passage, she simply blushed as she handed the journal over to William, and asked how much was accurate. Elizabeth noted that he flushed quite charmingly, before he handed it over to her to read as well. It was of, er, significant immodesty, from a male perspective. "Did Papa read this before he gave it to you?" she asked Mary.

Mary nodded. "He said he wondered if I would be brave enough to ask about it, but that perhaps a brother may be better to answer."

William flushed again, and sighed. "I would say that even the most self-controlled gentleman may find his mind … wanders … at the best of times. And sometimes our anatomy is definitely not under our control. That does not mean that our actions are not, of course." He smiled slightly. "That is, of course, why some fashions are as ridiculous as they are."

"To maintain your discretion?" Mary asked.

"Indeed," William replied, and Elizabeth felt rather than saw him glance at her, so swift was the action. "I do recall your father mentioning the journals, and that he thought you may find it useful, depending on your intentions." It was very clearly an attempt to change the subject, and the girls obliged.

Mary nodded slowly. "I confess, I had long considered the possibility of a similar course for my life. I have never felt called the way that my uncle describes, however, and I do not know if I could handle such hardships for so little reward."

William nodded slightly. "Longbourn may not be as large an estate as Pemberly, but it is still quite different than the life of a missionary."

"And," Mary replied softly, "that of a soldier."

"Aye," William concurred. "I have only my cousin’s stories, and no experience. He said that, once in the field, many of the illusions of society are stripped away, in ways he cannot quite express."

"He has tried, certainly," Mary replied.

"Oh?" Elizabeth knew they had spoken long and close, several times now.

Mary placed her bookmark in the journal, and closed it, holding it close to her chest. She did not answer directly. "I am grateful for the opportunity to read, with my own eyes, some similar hardships. I believe it helps frame what the Colonel tried to express." A long pause fell as the trio walked along.

"He seems ready to find another choice of employment," William finally offered.

"Yes," Mary agreed. "He mentioned that Lizzy’s cousin the Viscount and the Earl both have offered use of a smaller estate, and horses."

"And what think you of horses?" William asked.

Mary glanced at Elizabeth with a slight smile. "I am certainly more fond of them than she is, but we have few, and they are often wanted on the farm proper. I can ride."

"And better than I, true! Fortunately, I believe there are ponies and a chaise at Pemberly that I can use," Elizabeth laughed. "I will not need to come much of a horsewoman."

William smiled. "Even if there were not today, that could be easily resolved."

"Good!" Mary rejoined. "Our aunt would be terribly disappointed, for she has long wished to walk the grounds."

"Convincing her niece to let me marry her is certainly an elaborate method of ensuring the chance to indulge such a wish!" William teased.

"I am such a dutiful niece and daughter," Elizabeth replied as solemnly as she could muster.

The trio’s composure lasted barely a moment, and then it was quite lost. It was a merry party indeed that returned to Longbourn’s steps. Perhaps those who witnessed the stolid Mr. Darcy laughing with his fiancée and her sister were amazed, or perhaps they simply shrugged it off as the minor miracles of courtship.

Forty-Five

The morning dawned. Elizabeth recalled, not quite a month ago, finding Jane watching the sun rise, and part of her was mildly amused at her doing the same. Watching the sun rise this morning, however, came with the awareness that her world was about to change all over again. This time, by her own choices, of course, but it would be another up-ending. She refused to dwell too closely. For all of her other concerns, none centred around William himself.

Jane stirred on the bed, as she had elected to spend the night at Longbourn to ensure she would be available to help Elizabeth prepare. With the house so crowded, and Jane’s old room housing guests, the sisters had shared a room as they had many times over the years.

Jane settled in beside her at the window. They had spoken late and long, the last three days, and there seemed little to say which would not be a repetition. Elizabeth leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder, as the pink greys faded into blue.

"We should start getting you ready," Jane finally said.

Elizabeth half-reluctantly agreed, and rose. "Into the whirlwind, then."

Elizabeth barely recalled her own wedding, caught between anticipation and trepidation. Bits and flashes of the preparations – her hair refusing to be entirely contained – Lydia abruptly turning into a waterworks – Mrs. Bennet’s exultations and Lady Catherine’s dabbing at her eyes. The ceremony itself – she remembered William’s expressive look at her as she joined him at the altar – the matrimony vows – and then signing her name as Elizabeth Darcy.

Time slowed back down after that, perhaps unnaturally slowly, although Elizabeth still barely tracked most of the goings on. The congratulations from cousins, new and old, rang around the wedding breakfast. Their sisters, all six of them, were quite effusive. Jane, very much in the role of Mrs. Bingley, ensured that Elizabeth and William were able to actually take to the coach awaiting them, assisted by the understanding and obliging Charles.

Jane’s face – most beloved of those not in the carriage with her right then – was the last one she saw before leaving Longbourn. Jane’s smile seemed to be both radiantly happy for her, and deeply wistful. The clip-clop of hooves on the road filled the carriage for a moment.

"Well, Mrs. Darcy. How are you feeling?" William asked, with a teasing note.

Elizabeth smiled up at him, and snuggled in closer. "Well enough," she allowed. "And you, Mr. Darcy?"

"Impatient is the most accurate term," William chuckled. "I have been quite irritated by the presence of chaperones the last few days."

"You poor, poor man! Such torments to befall you! How – mmph!" William silenced her teasing rather effectively, and it was some minutes before they spoke again.

"A few hours to London," she reminded him.

"Too long," he sighed, before desisting, reluctance written in every line on his face.

"I shall refrain from tempting you until tonight," Elizabeth promised.

William laughed. "My love, you tempt me just by existing." She blushed, and he smiled at her. "But I shall restrain myself from tempting you into tempting me more."

It was her turn to laugh, and she shook her head at him. "Books?"

"Books," he agreed, and he rummaged under the bench for their trip provisions. He handed her the selection she had made the night previous, and they settled in together to read for a while.

Elizabeth never doubted the competency of William’s staff at the townhouse, but she was mildly amused at how carefully they gave the newlyweds space that first night. They spent two nights in London, then they were on the road to Pemberly. William ensured that Elizabeth had plenty of opportunity to sight-see on the road north, and they did not arrive at Pemberly by the most direct route or the fastest time.

Nearly a week after leaving Longbourn, William announced, "We are nearly to the turn for Pemberly." Yet it was several more minutes before William directed the driver to slow.

Elizabeth paid close attention as the carriage rounded the turn to the house. The carriage paused, even without William’s direction. She thought she might have gasped; she could not be sure. She understood then, why William and Georgiana loved their home so much, beyond the normal affection for one’s familiar surroundings. When she tore her eyes away from the sight, she found William gazing at her with a slight smile.

"I hope, very much, that the house meets with your approval?" he asked, in a tone between jest and apprehension.

"I dare say there are few in the world who would not approve, and I would hope I am not such a simpleton," she rejoined. He chuckled. She glanced back at the house, still as handsome as it had been at first sight. The carriage started moving again, and the jolt made her aware of how very large the house was. Trepidation crept to her awareness again, and she leaned into him. He wrapped his arm around her. "I do hope," she continued, "that I am up to the task of being her mistress."

William snorted, and tightened his embrace. "I remember the first day I came home from Cambridge after several months, with greater awareness of what tasks would face me when I would take over the guardianship of the estate from my father. It was awe-inspiring, to think that I could ever be entrusted so." He breathed into her hair slightly. "And, a few days after his death, frightening, that I could ever be entrusted so." A sigh, and she gripped his hand tightly in comfort. "You will be a fine mistress for Pemberly. She has been without one for many years."

At the door, William assisted her out of the carriage, and introduced her to the head housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds. She was a respectable-looking elderly woman, quite civil and not very fine, with a warm manner. "Welcome home, Mrs. Darcy," the lady said with a smile.

The words wrapped themselves around her heart, and whispered comfort, belonging, life.

Home.

Forty-Six

A fortnight later, Elizabeth stood beside William as the Matlock carriage, carrying Georgiana, her companion, and the Matlocks themselves, followed by a touring carriage. Elizabeth spied her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner admiring the view, much as she had even that first morning.

Once all of the flurry of arrivals and welcomes subsided, Elizabeth found herself settling down on a chair in the room set aside for her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, while her husband absconded with her uncles for fishing. Elizabeth had discovered she enjoyed the sport herself, but knew her Aunt Gardiner – and perhaps Aunt Matlock – would wish to check on her, beyond what letters had already been shared.

"Marriage seems to suit you well," Mrs. Gardiner noted after the servant left the room.

"We are still adjusting, of course," Elizabeth replied. "I only imagine that would be true of any newlyweds. But I am happy, and William seems to be as well."

"And what of other concerns?"

Elizabeth considered her answer. "It is early yet, but I feel that I will not shame the shades of Pemberly."

Mrs. Gardiner, obviously recalling the sharing of that story, chuckled. "You are fortunate Lady Catherine is such a staunch supporter of your decisions."

"You know that my courage always rises in the face of intimidation," Elizabeth laughed. "While I am grateful that Mère is supportive, I dare say I would have weathered her displeasure in any other circumstance, as well. How is she, and Anne, truly?"

"Have you had letters?"

"Of course. But I feel a faint concern, still."

"Lady Catherine seemed melancholy when we saw her last, just before she and Miss de Bourgh left Longbourn for Rosings. Miss de Bourgh has written, and her spirits do not seem to be particularly affected. Of course, I have no knowledge of how she presented prior to her staying with us in London. Her companion, Mrs. Jenkins, seems a genteel enough lady, but I do not know how compatible she is with Lady Catherine. Miss de Bourgh did not hint at any concerns regarding her mother."

"I am given to understand that mère enjoys society, and that visitors are not infrequent at Rosings," Elizabeth replied. "It seems that a companion is less necessary for her than my sister. And Mama? Lydia?"

"Lydia volunteered to help Miss McGonagall with the children, Kitty as well. When Mary can spare time from her piano, studies, and letter-writing, your father is teaching her more about estate management, particularly the household side, than she’s yet learnt. She did well, the few days he was at Rosings with you. Your mother –" Mrs. Gardiner shrugged. "If you assumed she was boasting to all of the county about the wedding they attended, you may be reassured it is, thus far, only about half of the county." Elizabeth burst out in laughter as Mrs. Gardiner added, "After all, she still had not finished boasting about Mrs. Bingley, before she could boast about Mrs. Darcy."

"Indeed, I think she had not!" Elizabeth eyed her aunt. "But Mary? Letter-writing?"

"Ostensibly to Lady Matlock and Miss de Bourgh. If she has other correspondents apart from yourself, or perhaps Mrs. Collins, she would not share. It does not seem likely that she would be writing Jane when Netherfield is a mere five miles away."

"Perhaps not," Elizabeth allowed. "Any other news from London?"

"Especially from Mr. Boswell, the gypsy?" Mrs. Gardiner replied. "None yet. I left directions. We can but hope he chooses to share what he knows."

"Indeed," Elizabeth rose. "Would you like a brief tour? Mrs. Reynolds is more familiar with the history of the house itself, of course, but I can certainly show you the salient points."

"Perhaps when your uncle returns," Mrs. Gardiner replied. "I would not be displeased to see your favourite spots, though."

Elizabeth guided her aunt to her personal study. Mrs. Gardiner took in the room before settling in the chair across from Elizabeth’s desk. "I notice you have the room arranged much like your father’s. How have you taken to the management of the household?"

Elizabeth tilted her head as she considered her answer. She leaned forward to tap the household ledger. "My experience with Longbourn’s books has been beneficial, of course. Naturally, there are differences, beyond Pemberley’s tenants being more numerous. Pemberley has many more sheep than Longbourn, although we are fortunate to have enough flats to have some cereal and row crops. The needs of the tenants reflect that difference." She leaned back. "Mrs. Reynolds has managed the role of mistress since William’s mother passed, and she has been supportive in my learning the differences."

"How did she react, discovering you had been keeping such books for years?"

"Surprised, certainly. It is apparently not as common in the upper circles of the gentry as one may believe." Elizabeth shrugged. "I suppose being able to afford a Steward, and needing to attend to multiple estates and responsibilities, changes that viewpoint."

"I would certainly prefer to be able to tell when my Steward was cheating me!" replied Mrs. Gardiner in surprise.

"I readily agree. But Lady Matlock, for instance, cannot be auditing the books while she is managing the London house during Parliament’s active season."

"Has Georgiana learnt much, then?"

"Not as much as Mary, I believe. Among many other things, that is one area I will endeavour to encourage them both." A knock at the door. "Come in," Elizabeth called.

"Ah, there you are." Lady Matlock stepped into the room, gesturing for the women to stay seated. She glanced around. "I approve of the rearrangements, not that you need such approval. It is certainly your space now." She settled herself in the chair beside Mrs. Gardiner.

"This was Lady Anne’s study before?"

"Yes," Elizabeth replied. She gestured at a door to the side. "The master’s study – William’s study, now – is through that door. I saw no reason to rearrange that aspect of it." She paused, with a quick glance at Mrs. Gardiner. "I am told that my sister Mary has been writing letters to you?"

Lady Matlock smiled. "Indeed, although perhaps not all of the letters have been meant for me, regardless of how they have been addressed."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, and Lady Matlock shook her head. "No, no clandestine communiqués, rather many a comment for me to pass on to Richard."

Elizabeth half-smiled. "Does my cousin seem inclined to listen for such comments?"

Lady Matlock laughed. "I dare say I see him more often when there may be a letter from Miss Bennet to share titbits than I did the entire time that you and Mrs. Bingley were in residence!"

Mrs. Gardiner chuckled. "Is that not the way?"

"So it seems," Lady Matlock agreed. "I, of course, do my proper maternal duty and relay such comments from him to her as are appropriate." She paused. "I rather like Miss Mary. Miss McGonagall has been a fine influence for her already, and I suspect she will have sufficient composure to brave the wilds of London society whenever we need her attendance. I hope that Richard makes the right choice sooner rather than later."

Elizabeth nodded agreement, before shifting the subject. "Anne wrote that she has suggested that Wickham study under our mother’s steward, as had been suggested years ago. The steward is apparently making noises about retiring."

Lady Matlock pursed her lips and glanced between the other two. "I have my reservations about that idea, of course."

"William mentioned that perhaps Anne is trying to bring Wickham into her sphere to determine if he might be suited to another role."

Mrs. Gardiner blinked in surprise, and Lady Matlock suppressed a start. "He certainly seemed genteel and gallant enough when he was in London," Mrs. Gardiner replied cautiously.

"And a Darcy, a gentleman’s son, without the concerns of being a Fitzwilliam," Lady Matlock allowed. "I know that Anne has voiced concerns related to her own weaknesses, that ‘outbreeding’ would be better for the de Bourghs." She looked at Elizabeth. "Is there a reason you shared this possibility?"

Elizabeth sighed. "She is my sister, but I know her only a little. I know my mother even less. I know Wickham as he was before his absolution, but I do not know if or how long any changes may last." She paused, searching for words. "I do not know whether to encourage or discourage her – in either the spoken scheme or the unspoken one." She smiled slightly at her aunts. "I suppose I need advice."

Lady Matlock shook her head. "I have little to none to offer myself immediately. Watchful observation would be best."

"Is there likely to be harm should he take up a stewardship?" Mrs. Gardiner queried.

"All else aside, he has been less than sterling in his personal management of money over the years," Lady Matlock replied.

"William has provided reasons why he may have been less than attentive to such matters, in at least two situations. My understanding is that Wickham has rather more sensibility than sense when under emotional duress." Elizabeth paused, sighing. "Although, under similar circumstances, I suspect I would be hard pressed to be sensible, as well. Losing loved ones is quite difficult."

Lady Matlock looked surprised. "I knew about Wickham’s parents, of course, the elder Mr. Wickham and her." A decided note of distaste at even referencing Wickham’s mother. Elizabeth presumed that her aunt had her reasons. "But they were both quite alive when Wickham first had debts which William discharged."

"I am given to understand that George had an intended, and the family strongly disapproved. The girl did not live another year, to her maturity. Anne knows of this, as well." William, of course, had shared more, but Elizabeth did not want to share Wickham’s heartbreak any more widely than necessary.

"Oh," Mrs. Gardiner replied, a voice full of sympathy. "I can well understand how that might cause disarray, especially after your disappearance several years before."

Elizabeth nodded, and Lady Matlock expressed agreement. "Such was our thought." Elizabeth glanced between the older women.

After a moment, Lady Matlock slowly nodded. "Catherine may be not inclined towards bringing Wickham into her home as steward, but it would be reasonable to see if he might be agreeable." She paused a moment. "Randall has expressed concern about his health, certainly, as it does not seem as robust as it ought. A more stable situation under the excessively attentive eyes of your mother may be beneficial. I may suggest that to her myself in my next letter. We would be willing to buy out his commission if necessary."

"Should I communicate a willingness to assist to Anne, then?" Elizabeth asked.

Lady Matlock agreed. "I will work on your mother, if your husband is willing to work on convincing Wickham."

Elizabeth smiled slightly. "I believe William already planned that action, but I will share your support for the scheme."

With the most pressing schemes of supporting the unmarried in their pursuit of resolving that problem discussed as thoroughly as the women could do at the moment, Elizabeth and her aunts adjourned to the parlour to await her husband’s and uncles’ return to the house. Georgiana had already opened the piano, and Mrs. Annesley sat serenely enjoying her charge’s performance. Georgiana’s fingers stilled with the end of the music, and she was startled by the sudden applause.

"Oh!" she cried. "I had not seen you all enter. My apologies! I was practicing."

"If that is practicing, my dear," Lady Matlock replied, "then I doubly look forward to hearing you perform in earnest!"

Georgiana flushed from the praise before rising. "Has my brother come back to the house yet?"

"Not that I am aware," Elizabeth replied. "But I expect he will soon. They have been out for a few hours now."

Forty-Seven

Madeline Gardiner nee Hollsworth spent the first few days rekindling old friendships in her old town of Lambton, while introducing her husband and her niece, the new Mrs. Darcy, to those friends. Miss Darcy sometimes accompanied her sister. Lambton merchants exerted themselves to garner favour with Mrs. Darcy, in the hopes of attracting her business.

A few days were spent at Brandywine, reviewing the estate in person. Lady Matlock shared stories of her courtship, while the Earl shared stories of his late sister’s. Elizabeth found the estate to be larger than Longbourn, but certainly comfortable. She noted that it was not above thirty miles from Pemberley, an eminently comfortable distance for, say, offering Jane and Charles use of the estate until one could be purchased outright, "should Netherfield lose its charm," as she phrased it. Madeline understood her meaning and concurred.

A week into the Gardiners' stay, a messenger arrived at Pemberley, looking for Mrs. Gardiner. He was shown into the study where she sat with Elizabeth and Lady Matlock, as they discussed tenant issues. Elizabeth and Madeline recognized him as the White Hart's groom, and briefly introduced him to Lady Matlock. He moved straight to his message.

"Ma'am," he said, "We have a guest who has arrived from London looking for you. He indicated that he believed you would wish to see him soon, but he looked tired enough from the road that the Missus insisted he rest."

Madeline glanced sharply at Elizabeth, who drew in a harsh breath. "Please return to the inn, good sir. I will be there shortly." The groom nodded and withdrew. Madeline continued, to Elizabeth, "Mr. Gardiner and I will see to the visitor. You will stay here. "

"I should –" Elizabeth started.

"You shall not," Madeline overrode her, for the first time in many years. "You will have to trust me and your uncle."

"However, I will also go," Lady Matlock added quietly, placing a light hand on Elizabeth's arm. "Trust us. We have no reason to believe he is hostile, but it is too late in this game to take the chance."

Elizabeth wilted slightly. "I … want to know, too."

"And whatever I learn, my love, I will tell you," Madeline promised, drawing her niece into her arms for reassurance, as if she were a child. Right then, she nearly was.

After a moment, where Madeline felt Elizabeth trying to regain her composure, she felt the nodded agreement. "Let me send a letter with you," Elizabeth said, "for the innkeeper. If it indeed be Mr. Boswell, or someone bringing news on his behalf, all of the customary expenses for his stay ought be covered by Pemberley." She moved to her desk to draft the letter.

Madeline agreed and Lady Matlock gave a rueful but approving smile at her niece. "Heart of gold, that one," she said in an undertone to Madeline. "We all are better for her."

"Indeed," Madline concurred.

Elizabeth blotted the page, and waved it a moment to dry the ink before sealing it. She offered it to Madeline, her expression still vulnerable and wary. "I will send for my uncles – do you think Lord Matlock would wish to join you as well?"

Lady Matlock shook her head. "Even if he should wish it, he will listen to me that it is better if we do not make too much spectacle of this. Mrs. Gardiner was telling me about some lovely lace she saw at the milliner's just a few shops down from The White Hart."

Elizabeth smiled, albeit weakly. "As good a reason to go to town as any," she agreed. She led the way out of the study and let one of the staff know that her uncles that her aunts were bound for Lambton for "lace and gossip," and to request they meet the ladies at the carriage, in no more than half an hour.

All three husbands were in attendance by the time the ladies made their own way, Darcy's expression worried and guarded. Lady Matlock apparently understood his expression and moved to reassure him quietly. "Not so much gossip, William, as information," she said in an undertone before more loudly sharing, " Mrs. Gardiner assures me that there is some lovely lace at the milliner's. It is a beautiful afternoon for an outing."

He nodded, taking in Elizabeth's expression. "Enjoy your shopping, then, Aunt Gardiner, Aunt Matlock. We look forward to hearing about your shopping later." Lord Matlock evidently caught the meaning of his wife's own pointed look, for he professed a desire to remain and attend an urgent round of billiards. Thus, Madeline, Mr. Gardiner, and Lady Matlock alone alighted the carriage.

It was only five miles to Lambton as the carriage rides, and Pemberley's carriage rode easily in most weather. Any uncomfortableness was due purely to the anticipation that weighed upon them all. Mr. Gardiner knew what little Madeline knew already, and all three were keen to know all that there could be.

When they arrived, the groom was quick to move to assist the driver. "The Missus said to send you in as soon as may be," he told Mrs. Gardiner.

She nodded, and Lady Matlock led the way. In just a moment, they were led to one of the smaller let rooms, where Mr. Boswell indeed waited. "Mrs. Gardiner!" he exclaimed upon seeing her. "You look well."

She remembered how much she liked the man, for he was warm and genuine. He was near her age, but looked a little older due to a harder life. "Thank you, Mr. Boswell. It is good to see you again. This is Mr. Gardiner, my husband, and Lady Matlock."

Mr. Boswell's eyes went wide, even as he gestured for them all to sit. "I am pleased to meet you both, but especially you, ma'am," he said to Lady Matlock. "I read in the papers that Elizabeth Bennet is your niece."

"Indeed," Lady Matlock agreed. She paused as a servant set tea down on the small table, and was politely dismissed. "And I am given to understand that you may know some of how she came to be with the Bennets."

His head dropped for a moment, as he took what seemed to be a steadying breath, before meeting her eyes straight on. "Aye, ma'am. Mrs. Gardiner asked as much in her letter, which is why I am here. I swear to ye, if we had known she were yours, we would have brought her straight to ye. But she did not know. Did she join you? I wish her to know."

"We will share the information with her," Madeline promised. "She has been through many shocks these last few months, and she is now Mrs. Darcy, as well. But I promise I will relay it all."

"Perhaps you could start at the beginning?" Mr. Gardiner prompted.

"It has been nigh on twenty years, has it not?" Mr. Boswell returned. "I may not recall everything exactly but I shall endeavour." He sipped at the tea he currently cradled, and faltered.

"Seventeen and a half," Lady Matlock replied. "Pray, continue."

"Seventeen years," the man murmured. "Seventeen years, I have done what I could to keep tabs on her, to make sure she was still safe. Pa gave me a task, and I have done my best." He shook himself lightly, and straightened, setting the cup down.

"We were traveling, as we do, from Southborough to Crawley," he began. "Now-a-days, I do not quite recall where we bedded down for the night, but it was nearer Crawley than Southborough. East Grinstead perhaps?"

More than twenty miles? Madeline thought. Good heavens!

"Middle of the night, the watch heard a ruckus, and went to investigate. Pa was with them. They found a little girl, crying for her mama. They asked her where her mama was, and she said she was lost, her pony had run away from George, and she had fallen off the pony some time later." The Gardiners shared a glance with Lady Matlock, but they did not move to interrupt.

"Pa brought her back, because what else could they do in the middle of the night? Of all the watch, he was the only one with littles, so he brought her to our wagon to feed her and get her cleaned up.

"I remember Ma waking me to help. She was a tiny little thing, same as my sister Mary. She could tell us her name was Elizabeth, but she could not remember her parents' names. She had bruises all over, probably from falling off the pony, and a terrible lump on her head. I have seen grown men die from hits to the temple like that; she was right lucky. But she could not remember much, just 'big house' and George taking her for a pony ride, and wanting her mama. But she could not tell us what her mama even looked like."

"How long did she stay with you?" Lady Matlock probed.

"Well, we had someone's child, right? So we had meant to be in Crawley for a faire by Lady's Day with our usual stops along the way for work, but we could not just take her. Most of the clan went ahead, but Pa and us, we stayed there a few days, looking and asking. Parish clergy had no knowledge or mention of a missing child, and she was so badly shaken Ma would not simply leave her. We did give the parish directions to one of our regular stops to get a letter to us if anyone came looking for her. A letter never came, so the next year we checked again, and no one ever did."

Another sip of tea, seemingly more for gathering his thoughts than any thirst. "We took her along with us, to Crawley, but as she healed up over the next while, it became apparent that she had developed a terrible fear of horses. She had a few memories come back, here and there, asking for her sister Anne. She was terribly distraught and kept trying to go find her. But the horses terrified her, and I reckon that if I had my pony bolt and throw me far from home, I might have done the same.

"In between her nightmares and her terrors, she was the sweetest little girl, and she and Mary got along wonderfully. I would have been pleased to keep her as a little sister. Ma thought to keep her, too, but Pa insisted that the fineness of her dress meant she had to be the daughter of someone important. Clan tried, but could not find anyone missing a daughter. We all asked everywhere we went. We even sent a rider to Westerham, but he heard no such news.

"But the fear of horses – well, that cannot be for a gypsy child. Ma cried when Pa said we needed to take her somewhere else, where she might be found by her family, or at least a family that did not live and die by their horses. The clan agreed and Ma accepted it. Pa tasked me with taking her to London and keeping her safe, because by his reckoning, that is where all the fine folk go at least some time of the year. We also had work dealings with a couple of orphanages there, and on occasion we would take in an orphan who seemed to be gypsy.

"We were nearer Reading by then. I took her by post coach. Hated leaving my own horse with the family, but there was no way she would stay calm enough to ride. Even the coach was difficult, I had to cover her eyes to get her inside. She was terrified." He paused again.

"I thought she might feel … betrayed, abandoned by being taken to London. I promised her that we were only trying to help her find her mama and her papa, but that she needed to stay in a place with other children missing their mamas and papas for that to happen.

"I swear that I did not know about the fever, though. The orphanage did not say anything of it, although I learnt later that they knew. Else, I would have taken her back with me to Reading, to catch up with the family from there. I only found out about the fever when I went back a few weeks later to check on her, like I promised her and Pa. That is when I learned that she had left London with Mr. Bennet, and been taken on after he lost his own children to the fever." He paused, glancing at Mrs. Gardiner. "I cannot tell you how grateful I was to know she had been spared and found a family to live with, a proper family. We still asked around whenever we went through there, but we never heard of someone missing a daughter. Plenty o' young ones lost to fever and sickness, but not just lost."

Silence hung over the little gathering for a few moments, while each digested the story. Madeline spoke up first. "Why did you never share that story with me until now? We spoke about her every time you came 'round."

Mr. Boswell grimaced. "Would it have done any good?" he returned. "For all you knew and I knew, her entire family was lost and her life with the Bennets was all she had. I never gave up hope and I am grateful she has found her kin at last. But why complicate things more than needful?" He shrugged helplessly. "I meant to tell her, one day, by letter if need be. I am telling you because you promise to share it with her. I …" he faltered again, before rising to rummage in a bag to the side. He returned with an unsealed letter, handing it to Madeline. "I wrote this for Miss Elizabeth, a few years ago when my own eldest was about the age she was when we found her. Being a father has added a whole different level to my recollections of it all. But I never quite had the courage to give it to her. I did not wish to disturb her if it was needless."

Madeline took the letter, and nodded. "I will, of course, review it before giving it to her," she replied.

"I expect nothing less, ma'am," he agreed. "But that is why I came myself, I … wanted to see her with her kin, at long last. I should like to know my promise to Pa, to her, is finally fulfilled."

Lady Matlock glanced at the Gardiners. "We will return to Pemberley soon, although there was a discussion of a brief shopping detour prior to returning," she replied. "I can well understand wanting to see your promise fulfilled, although her mother and sister are not currently visiting. Would seeing her with myself and her uncle, Lord Matlock, and her husband, Mr. Darcy, suffice for now?"

"It would ease my heart greatly, ma'am," Mr. Boswell replied.

"Then rest now," Mr. Gardiner said, standing in preparation to take leave. "We will call for you to join us in a few half-hours' time."

Forty-Eight

Madeline reviewed the letter on the return, while Mr. Boswell rode his rested horse alongside the carriage. It was indeed dated a few years ago, and contained much of the same information he had spoken, with only a few minor details included. It concluded with an apology for not being able to find her family, and hoping that she would forgive them for having abandoned her to an orphanage, even if it seemed it turned out for the best.

She passed the letter to her husband, and he to Lady Matlock. Lady Matlock's lips tightened as she read it, undoubtedly from renewed distress. Indeed, Madeline suspected she saw a shimmer of tears in Lady Matlock's eyes.

"Her story is almost complete," Lady Matlock murmured, handing the letter back to Madeline.

"No," Madeline corrected. "Her story is not almost complete. This chapter is. Her story continues – as Mrs. Darcy, with hopefully many children to brighten the shades of Pemberly, and all the laughter and joy that Elizabeth brings with her."

Lady Matlock smiled at the correction. "You are, of course, accurate as always, Madeline." She glanced out the window at the rider alongside the carriage. "My sister will be pleased to know that her daughter is safe after all, and that she was cared for and loved every moment possible."

"Is Lady Catherine likely to wish to honour Elizabeth's saviours?" Mr. Gardiner queried.

"Entirely possible," Lady Matlock agreed. "And will that not be quite the sight? Gypsies, being honoured at Rosings!"

The house came into sight, and Mr. Boswell paused, falling behind. He caught up a moment later, asking through the window. "Miss Elizabeth – pardon me, Mrs. Darcy – is the mistress of that?" he asked in awe.

"She is indeed," Lady Matlock replied with a laugh.

"Ma will be thrilled," he replied. "I wish Pa were still here to tell."

The meeting of Mr. Boswell and the Darcys was brief, with Mr. Boswell conveying his entire family's well-wishes on her marriage and reunited family. He took his leave, declaiming any need for hospitality. "My own family beckons, Mrs. Darcy. I will rest at the White Hart – thank you for covering the expense, ma'am. But perhaps when we journey this way, we shall call upon the house?"

"Please do," Mr. Darcy agreed, with Elizabeth echoing him. With that, Mr. Boswell remounted his horse, and turned up the drive for Lambton.

"One chapter closed," Lady Matlock murmured with a glance at Madeline.

"And an entire story to continue," Madeline agreed.

~ The End ~

Excessively Attentive - 40-43 (1 reply)

JessicaS — Sun, 18 Jan 2026 00:14:28 +0000

Author's note: I am trying to not sport with anyone's impatience. :)

Forty

Lydia brought up a scheme to join the militia in Brighton the next morning. "For it will all be so dreary here," she complained. "The parties will be so less interesting."

"We have far too much to do," Mrs. Bennet replied sharply. "Jane is getting married!"

Lydia looked surprised at this source of refusal, and subsided. Not that anyone else could bring up a word sideways over Mrs. Bennet's exultations and plans.

The girls only extracted themselves from Mrs. Bennet's effusions by Jane's well timed "Mr. Bingley would like" comment, and all five of them nearly fled their mother's presence. Even Mary looked harried, and agreed to join her sisters for the walk to Meryton. Mr. Bennet took pity on them, and his pocketbook, and conveyed a much pared down of items which Mrs. Bennet insisted would be necessary to celebrate her Jane's handsome catch.

The banns were to be read this week Sunday, which provided Jane three entire weeks and a few days more to prepare any items not already ordered and to pack. Bingley, according to Jane and barring any misfortunes, intended to arrive at Netherfield sometime late today.

"Then," Kitty teased, "we should not dally long with the officers. We should not keep you from your intended!"

"Oh, aye!" agreed Lydia. "But perhaps we can convince one or two to join us for the walk home."

"Perhaps," Elizabeth allowed. She remembered Wickham's hints about some of his fellow officers.

Kitty and Lydia voiced disappointment upon not seeing any of their preferred officers when entering Meryton. Elizabeth hushed them both, reminding them of the discussion at the inn just the day before. Lydia huffed a little but desisted. Kitty looked properly subdued. However, the Miss Bennets were shortly joined by some of the same officers which Lydia and Kitty despaired so vocally about, and another.

"Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Wickham greeted them both warmly, in his own turn. Elizabeth felt the difference of this warmth to his prior greetings, lo not that many months ago now. Lydia certainly caught the slight change, even if she did not know the meaning of it.

"Do not forget me, Wickham!" she cried, before he could even turn his head to do just so.

He smiled gamely at the youngest Bennet. "My apologies, Miss Lydia, but I could hardly forget you! Propriety, however, does indicate I greet your elder sisters first." He glanced at Mary and Kitty as well. "I hope this day finds you all well?"

"It does indeed," agreed Jane, and Mary murmured an assent.

Lydia gave Wickham a reproachful glare, and attached herself to Denny's arm. Elizabeth gave Wickham a sharp glance, and from the look he gave her, he was agreeing to stay close at hand. "I mostly wished," Wickham continued as if this little byplay were not going on, "to give my sincere congratulations to you, Miss Bennet. I have it on the best of authorities that Mr. Bingley has been granted the favour of a living angel to be his wife."

Jane coloured. "I know nothing about that, Mr. Wickham, but I am engaged to Mr. Bingley."

The other officers looked calculating at Jane and a little more so at Lydia. Elizabeth felt her ire rising, and felt compelled to ward off a predatory intent. "It is indeed fortunate for our Jane. She has found love and fortune, and, as we all know, even the very beautiful must have something to live upon. It is pity that our lot is so very small." A frown flittered across Denny's face.

"Quite," Jane assented. "I am fortunate."

"It is my studied opinion, my dear ladies, that it is Bingley who is the blessed one, but I quite understand your position," Wickham agreed easily.

Horses were heard and the party moved towards the shopfronts to clear the way. "Miss Bennet!" cried Bingley, and the riders -- for William was with Bingley -- directed their steeds to join the party directly.

Elizabeth felt a wave of déjà vu upon seeing William while speaking easily with Wickham. Both men also appeared to be recalling that particular instance. This time, however, William dismounted beside Wickham and Elizabeth. The men shook hands cordially enough, and muted gasps could be heard from the curious nearby. "Miss Elizabeth," William greeted her, before glancing in the direction of Bingley and Jane, already in close conversation. "Miss Mary, Miss Kitty, Miss Lydia, sirs."

"It is obvious what brought Mr. Bingley to town," Elizabeth said laughingly. "Did he allow you to wake at a reasonable time before riding to Longbourn?"

William chuckled. "I normally wake before Bingley, but not this morning. We were in fact on the way to your home." He glanced at his friend, then nodded at the horses. "I suspect Bingley will wish to assist your sister. Let me tend to setting the horses, so that it is easier to join you." Wickham offered to assist.

Lydia had already dragged Denny further from the party, nattering on about bonnets. Denny's attention, however, remained on Wickham and William. When William and Wickham rejoined Elizabeth and her sisters, Mary posed a question to William. "Mr. Darcy, I recall what your cousin noted about his duties and how ofttimes he is not available for his mother's social engagements. How does that compare to what you have seen from our militia officers in Meryton?"

William tilted his head as he considered the question. Wickham answered, "I suspect, Miss Mary, that the differences you allude to at this moment comes to a difference in experience. Darcy's cousin has nigh twenty years in the Army, and I believe he has served on the Continent several times. This militia, however, has seen little action, and those newly joined such as myself, none-at-all."

William nodded at Wickham. "What Wickham says is true. My cousin has suffered enough injuries on the field that he has been retired to service on this side of the channel, pending an heir from his elder brother."

"But he remains in the Army? He mentioned nothing of injuries," she added, looking disconcerted. "They do not trouble him?"

"His insight to battlefield operations assists the home office in making wiser decisions," William replied. "Or, so he has described his current posting to me. He does not make the most patient of patients, and does not relish recounting when he has been put into that position."

"Meanwhile, Miss Mary," Wickham picked up, "Most of us in the militia have not such heavy loads on our shoulders, and thus find ourselves free to escort such lovely ladies as you and your sisters."

Mary blushed faintly at any such praise, and Kitty snorted. Elizabeth noticed William's careful not-study of Mary, and saw a flicker of something in his expression, for just a moment.

Jane and Bingley entered the milliner's, following Lydia and Denny. Kitty opted to join them, while the rest of the party went across to the bookstore. When Mary turned down Wickham's game offer of assistance with book shopping, the other three retreated to the music section, "for Georgiana is always keen for something new," William said.

Once they were out of ear shot from her next-younger sister, William spoke in an undertone. "Promise me, Miss Elizabeth, you will assist Miss Mary in her preparations for my friend's wedding?" She shot him a questioning look, just as Wickham breathed out an "Ah ha!"

"If you insist," Elizabeth agreed as she looked from one to the other, and William and Wickham shared a triumphal smile.

"And then there was one," Wickham muttered under his breath.

Forty-One

The last week of the militia's stay in Meryton drew to a close with several parties, hosted in turn by the Bingleys, the Bennets, and the Lucases. Miss Bingley proved herself quite the capable hostess for her last event before turning over such household requirements to her new sister the next week.

While perhaps the youngest Miss Bennets attempted to throw a pall over the mood of the household in their dejection, the manic energy of Mrs. Bennet more than compensated for the youngest. Indeed, she brooked absolutely no displays of distress, not now, not so close to her crowning achievement of marrying Jane off to a young man of good family and fortune. The young ladies of the neighbourhood certainly drooped, but most came back to hope when reminded that many of Mr. Bingley's still single and eligible gentleman friends had been invited to witness his felicity personally.

The two weeks of comradeship between Wickham and William in full view of the neighbourhood soon put paid to some of the hatred Wickham previously stirred up. Wickham owned to a few 'friends', such as he had among the officers, that he had previously spoken twisted words, and admitted his fault. In doing so, however, the protection William had previously enjoyed from feminine attention as the formidable Mr. Darcy, not even tempted by the Miss Eliza Bennet, evaporated as soon as the last redcoat left the area.

The week of the wedding it became apparent that only Elizabeth's company could purchase William a moment of peace outside of Netherfield or Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet remained so overjoyed by Jane's good fortunes that she barely even noticed Mr. Darcy existed, and he found this a pleasant, albeit unusual, state of affairs. Netherfield hosted several of Bingley's friends at this point. Lady Catherine and Anne were expected to stay at Longbourn, and due in just a day's time.

Fortunately for both William and Elizabeth, their younger sisters were quite happy to entertain themselves. Additionally, between Elizabeth's gentle encouragements and Georgiana's praise, Mary showed sufficiently promising improvement that even Lydia did not scold her for (as much) for her music choices. Whenever Jane's presence was required, Bingley attached himself to William and Elizabeth, and she did likewise. Today, however, the men were obliged to be good neighbours and attend a dinner elsewhere.

Elizabeth watched as Jane sorted the last of her belongings, leaving only two days' worth left, and a few less important trinkets for her room. "At least you will not need to fret if you forget to pack something," Elizabeth observed. "Five miles is easy travel enough for something misplaced."

"Certainly better than Derbyshire," Jane agreed. "You will need to be more thorough than I am."

"What is in Derbyshire, pray tell?" asked Mary. Jane and Elizabeth both started, as they had not heard her approach the room. She slipped in quietly, shutting the door firmly behind her. "I only know of my aunt, Miss Darcy, and Mr. Darcy as of importance from there," she continued.

Elizabeth coloured slightly, and looked askance at Jane. Jane tilted her head in encouragement. Looking back at Mary, she shrugged. "Mr. Darcy."

Mary nodded, not a slip of surprise in her expression or tone. "Are you engaged?"

"A courtship. Our father has agreed, as has my mother. Our mother does not know."

"Congratulations. Why -- because Jane, of course," Mary sighed.

"Quite," Elizabeth agreed readily.

"He has been as good as a brother to Kitty, Lydia, and myself, even in our stay in his townhouse, " Mary offered. "I quite like this version of him."

Jane nodded. "We are given to understand he was quite distressed when he arrived with Bingley in the autumn."

"Georgiana shared a bit of her troubles," Mary said quietly. "I understand his … mood." She glanced between the elder girls. "Is Lydia at risk of something similar?"

Elizabeth bit her lip and Jane winced ever so slightly. "I certainly hope not," Jane sighed. "But -- "

"But ever since the militia came, there has been nothing but love, flirtation, and officers in her head!" cried Elizabeth, however quietly.

"Nor has that been improved by Jane's engagement," Mary replied. "Lydia will not be allowed to go to Brighton, will she?"

"I am certainly unaware of there being an intention of her going," Elizabeth replied, brows furrowing. "She certainly cannot go without family."

Mary seemed concerned. "Did you not know Mrs. Forster had written a letter, offering to let her join her after Jane's wedding?"

"No!" cried both elder girls. "Does our father know?" Elizabeth demanded.

"I would hope so, but I have only heard Lydia speak of it to Kitty. She seemed quite certain she was to go."

"The militia has left; the Forsters with them. How was she planning on traveling?" Elizabeth questioned.

"I believe the discussion was that Captain Denny had offered to escort her."

Jane and Elizabeth shared concerned glances, and Elizabeth rose to the door. "You will go to father?" Jane asked.

"Yes. Can you send a note to Bingley and William?"

"Of course."

Forty-Two

With an express sent to Brighton moments before, Bennet poured a stout drink for each Bingley and Darcy, as they conferred on the next steps. He leaned back with a sigh.

"Elizabeth had mentioned that Wickham had expressed concerns about Denny," he said.

"He did mention he considered some of his fellows to be of … questionable motives," Darcy agreed, "but he did not single Denny out as one to me."

A knock interrupted their conversation, and Bennet called, "Enter."

Miss McGonagall peered through the door, Mrs. Hill and Elizabeth with her.

"You called for me, sir?" the governess queried.

"Yes." He rose, gesturing at all three. "Please come in." Elizabeth closed the door behind her at his direction.

"How would you say you and Miss Lydia are getting along?"

Miss McGonagall glanced at the entire group assembled, and answered with a cautious air. "I have not been disappointed in her efforts, but the novelty of the situation has not yet worn off, I suspect."

"Would you consider yourself in her confidences?" Bennet did not expect that to be the case, of course. Mrs. Forster was much more the personality to gain Lydia’s confidences quickly.

"Not at all, sir. I am entirely too new to her for that. Any remarks or comments she has made have certainly been of a general nature, rather than confidential."

"Had she mentioned any correspondence at all?"

"None." She paused; her expression became more disconcerted. "She and Miss Catherine appear to be close; she may know." She glanced between the others in the room. "Is she safe?"

"She has not left this house, and she is in fact safe," Bennet assured her. "Has she spoken about any particular friends, perhaps among the recently departed militia?"

"Not any particular one, no," Miss McGonagall frowned. "When the militia were shortly to depart, she spoke of her disappointment in Lieutenant Wickham’s attentions towards herself, and alluded to it being due to Miss Elizabeth. She did remark on a Captain Denny as being a fine dancer, and a few others. The captain was mentioned several times, which is the primary reason I recall him. I presumed that it was a fancy which would fade with his departure."

Bennet nodded. "Thank you for being candid, Miss McGonagall. I wished to cover all angles, but I did not expect you would have any further insight."

She nodded slowly. "What may I anticipate on the morrow?"

"I have not yet spoken with her myself. We are attempting to … dissuade her by more politic means. With any luck, it will not be an issue for tomorrow."

Miss McGonagall shewed a questioning look, and Bennet half-smiled. "Best you know as little as possible, ma’am, so as to not show our cards."

***

The reply from the Forsters arrived late the next day, with an additional letter from Wickham to Bennet.

The acknowledgement from Colonel Forster was terse, but complete. It seemed that Denny had not been difficult to get to confess to his plans, with a little help from Wickham, and the end result was that Denny would not be free for quite some time. "To so treacherously plan to use my wife’s name to betray my wife’s friend and your daughter – I could not let such a situation stand."

The letter from Mrs. Forster to Lydia, which Bennet perused prior to admitting its existence, put paid to any notion which Lydia may have had about absconding to Brighton with Captain Denny.

Quote

My dearest Lydia,

Such horrid news I have to share! My dear Colonel discovered that Denny – yes, that Denny – had designs to gain his fortune – by kidnapping you. Such ludicrous ideas he had for his goal! Most of Meryton knows that you and your sisters have little money to offer a husband, yet he thought he could ransom you for a princely sum! Perhaps he ought read fewer novels, although he may have little else to do in the brig, where my dear Colonel, quite incensed he would threaten a friend of mine so, has put him for many weeks.

I never would have suggested he bring you to Brighton to visit after you recounted your mother’s refusal, and certainly not alone and unchaperoned! Not when you suspect your other elder sister will be engaged soon as well! Weddings are such fun, and so important to a family, I would not countenance you being gone. No, my dear friend, I will miss your company, but it is best for you to stay there for the moment.

When it is better timing for a visit, I shall certainly let you know, and direct an invitation to your parents, so that they know all is above board. I am grateful that my dear Colonel discovered Denny’s plot before you could be injured by it! To think we thought so well of him!

I pray to hear that you are tolerably well in your reply. I know you must be disappointed, but you are safe, and that is no little thing! Please let me know how Miss McGonagall is treating you! Is she still showing you interesting things?

All my love,

Harriet

Wickham’s letter elaborated on the Colonel’s:

Quote

…

After the Colonel shared the information you provided to him, I offered my services to assist in resolving the situation. He questioned my motives, but I believe I persuaded him that the Bennets are, by round about ways, good as my family. (I hope I have not offended you, sir, but Miss Elizabeth is part of my extended family, and thus you-all are as well.) He consented.

It did not take long to ease Denny’s guard, and straight into his cups. He was rather self-congratulatory about his intended tricks on Miss Lydia, and once he confessed that, I worked to tricking him into drinking himself into a stupor as I had a few times previously.

I did not relay this to the Colonel, to decrease the risk it might get bandied about, but Denny made a few comments which lead me to believe he intended to do more than just ransom your youngest. She certainly would not have been delivered in pristine condition. Not even in my most caddest of moments have I ever forced such upon a woman. His comments lead me to believe it is possible there is at least one in Meryton so injured by Denny, but I do not know who it may be. He kept enough wits to not be more explicit. He also did not share who assisted in mimicking Mrs. Forester’s hand sufficient to trick your daughter.

I am grateful for whatever interference granted you awareness in time to preserve her from such. I only wish I had known he was of such proclivities in time to protect others. I hope that my easy rapport with he and the other officers did not lull some unsuspecting soul into unguardedness around such a creature.

…

Bennet poured a stronger drink than he normally preferred as he digested the meaning of Wickham’s words. His little girl, so close to not just ruin but worse, from thoughtless naivete. Right now, he could only picture her as the babe-in-arms she once was and feel nauseous. He would put a word to his brother-in-law in Meryton to gather gossip. If there was an injured girl, he was fairly certain the good Colonel would be quite helpful in gaining justice for her.

After letting the drink temper his racing pulse, he resolved to share some of the information with Darcy and Bingley, but perhaps not all of the concerns even with Elizabeth. He reckoned he would be dissuading Darcy from taking responsibility for Denny’s assumption of a ransom payment, as well.

He resolved that, governess or not, he would try to exert himself for the younger girls’ benefit. His laziness and disappointment should not leave her – any of them – at such risk.

***

After the servants left the breakfast room, Bennet produced the letter from Mrs. Forster to Lydia. "As Colonel Forster and Mrs. Forster indicated I should review this prior to it being delivered, I have done so." Mrs. Bennet, thankfully, had kept to her rooms this morning with little hinting on Mrs. Hill’s part.

Lydia glared at him, but took her letter with artificial graciousness. Jane and Lizzy both gave him concerned glances, and he shook his head slightly. Lydia opened it, and scanned the first paragraph. She looked up at him, shock in her expression. "Papa?"

"Do you see why they wished I review it?"

She swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, papa."

"If you wish to talk further about it, later, I will be in my library. Miss McGonagall may be able to assist you, as well."

Lydia nodded, and, biting her lip, slipped the letter under her plate. She did not eat much more, picking at her plate. Elizabeth kept shooting glances at Lydia then to Jane. Once Jane was ready, Elizabeth set her plate aside. "May we be excused, papa?"

"Of course, my dears."

"Come, Lydia," Elizabeth coaxed her, and Jane echoed. Lydia pulled the letter out and left with her eldest sisters. Kitty and Mary watched worriedly.

"Papa?" Mary asked quietly.

"She will be fine in a day or a few. She may be mightily angry in a few days, or she may be despondent. But she will be fine." I hope.

Later, Elizabeth slipped into his library, looking worn.

"She will be fine," Elizabeth reported after a few moments of quiet. "She is resting, and Jane is still with her."

"I presume there was a storm of tears and fury?"

"Rightfully so," Elizabeth agreed. "Particularly after we set the letters side-by-side. The hand was similar, but not the same. Close enough that it must have been modelled off of Mrs. Forester’s own letters. To learn of the deception before any other risk to her person or reputation …" she trailed off, shaking her head. "George did well in protecting one of us, this time."

Bennet raised an eyebrow at the use of Wickham’s given name. She tilted her head. "He is family, Papa. I dare say, in saving my little sister, he has earned that much."

"He expressed regret that he had not realized Denny would sink so low."

"It is shocking to believe that any of our acquaintance would make such falsehoods -- using the name of his superior’s wife, no less. Let alone that he would do so for mere farthings!" Elizabeth rejoined. "I cannot blame him for a failure to foresee that."

"No, and when I reply, I will reiterate that myself. We are fortunate indeed that he volunteered to assist in the matter."

"He has not been, perhaps, the best of men, even by his own accounting. He seems to have been given good principles, and then left to follow them with little guidance." Elizabeth sighed. "Good meanings and wishes, and all of that."

"At least his appearance of goodness was not entirely false," Bennet replied. "With such an expression, he could have inflicted much harm on your family."

"Our family, papa."

Bennet smiled at the correction. "Yes, Lady Catherine did write me to share her consent. I do wonder how my cousin will respond to this when he finds out."

Elizabeth snorted. "He was quite confused, that first afternoon. He was all in favour of me throwing out my entire life to be Lady Catherine’s daughter, until Charlotte and I both scolded him for being so mean of character."

Bennet owned he wished he could be more surprised. "He certainly has a unique perspective of a pastor’s solemn duties."

Forty-Three

June dawned. The tumult of the last three days, from Lydia's ultimately fruitless scheme, to the arrival of mère and Anne, as well as the Gardiners, at Longbourn, had not prompted Elizabeth to forget her agreement to ensure extra care on Mary's toilette and dress.

Mary touched the more elaborate styling with significant self-consciousness, and tugged at the dress -- one of Jane's, for she was more like Jane in stature than she typically allowed. "I know it is her wedding, and I should be well turned out, but this seems … excessive, Lizzy."

"You look lovely, Mary," replied Elizabeth. She lightly swatted her little sister's hand from her hair. "Do not fuss with it, or you will ruin all of Sarah's hard work."

"There is something more," Mary accused her. "What are you scheming?"

"Me?" laughed Elizabeth. "Nothing at all. But I do believe that you caught someone's eye, and his friends wish to ensure it stays caught."

"By me?" Mary looked positively frightened at the concept.

Elizabeth gave Mary a long look, and pulled her into an embrace. "By your wits and questioning mind, I believe. There is no harm in being as pretty as you can be just as encouragement."

Mary pulled away after returning the hug. "Is he a friend of Mr. Darcy’s?"

"I believe so. William is being quite tight lipped about it."

"Or just using them for other purposes," Mary teased.

"Oh, you!" Elizabeth blushed. "Once."

"An hour?"

"Insufferable!" Elizabeth cried. "You know full well Mama has not given anyone much time to themselves."

Mary laughed, the tension slipping away. "Quite. And we have a sister to marry off now." She gave Elizabeth a side long glance. "You are quite well turned out, too."

"I am standing up with Jane," Elizabeth replied, attempting to not colour.

"Of course," Mary smirked at her. "Time to enter the fray again, I believe, sister."

"Indeed," Elizabeth agreed.

***

Elizabeth took careful note of scenes, tiny moments to keep as paintings in her mind. The enraptured expression of her brother-to-be as his bride walked down the aisle. Jane simply glowed with joy, while their father looked as proud as could be. Miss Bingley appeared pleased for her brother, as did the Hursts.

The subdued but expressive look from William which made her feel undone. A glance at Anne, sitting with mère as part of Jane's family, showed her other elder sister enjoying the show at her expense. Lydia's mood was palpable from here, despite her attempts to mask it, for Jane’s sake.

The agog look of Richard towards Mary, which aligned with her suspicions. Richard's admiration of Jane at Rosings had not gone unnoticed -- and Mary, right now, looked every inch the little sister of Jane without being her replica. Mary's conversations with him in London were extensive, and she had occasionally asked questions explicitly about him since. Elizabeth felt few qualms at such a match for her sister.

In a breath of eternity, Mrs. Bennet's greatest ambition became fulfilled. Jane Bingley signed her name and the wedding party dispersed to Longbourn to celebrate. Elizabeth felt a loss, a tugging at her heart, when Jane left not only before her, but without her. The emotion warred with her deep joy for Jane. No such battles had taken place when Charlotte assumed the mantle of Mrs. Collins, even when she counted her friend was mostly lost to her by such a choice.

Her emotions continued to flutter about, as the party's removal increased her own anticipation.

"Shall we walk back to the house?" William asked, offering his arm.

She could not recall her exact words, but knew she assented. They walked slowly, and with Longbourn in sight, William turned her towards the hermitage.

For a moment, the only sounds were the rustling of the branches in the breeze, their footsteps, and their breathing. William pulled her towards one of the more secluded paths before speaking. "I believe we had a discussion to continue."

His tone was much as it had been at the pianoforte at Matlock House. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They continued walking, however slowly, until he halted her. "I must confess -- I have thought of a thousand little pretty speeches for right now, and I cannot recall a single one of them. All I can think of is your comment about us and how desperately I want that to be reality."

A ghost of a laugh, borne of amusement and nerves. "Ask, then, William. Ask me."

"Will you marry me, Elizabeth?"

"Ye -- mmph."

Several pleasant moments later, Elizabeth pressed a finger to his lips. "I believe it is certainly time to return to Longbourn and chaperones."

William chuckled, before agreeing with a sigh. "As wise as you are beautiful, my love."

They walked to her home quietly, with only a few comments about their intentions for the remainder of the day. They joined the festivities, her arm still entwined with William's. Jane spotted her, for the newlyweds had not yet adjourned to Netherfield, and cried for them to join her and Bingley. "I hope you enjoyed your walk," Jane teased Elizabeth quietly.

"We did," William replied with a faint smile. "And now I leave your sister in your capable hands for a moment." He clapped Bingley's shoulder with a congratulations, before heading to Mr. Bennet's side. Based on the sharp look that Mr. Bennet gave her, Elizabeth was certain that her father had been expecting this approach. She hoped that meant the progression from courting to engagement would not be unwelcome to her father. The two disappeared from the room.

Jane gave her a matching sharp look as their father left with William, to which Elizabeth just smiled. Lightly played strains on the pianoforte drew her attention to see Mary with Richard sitting beside her. Lydia's laughter, the first since the militia left just over a week ago, echoed as Anne smiled, and she spied Kitty and Georgiana in close conference.

Right here, right now, Elizabeth felt more at peace than she had in weeks. She would miss Jane's constant presence, but she would gain William's. Her family would be safe and hale.

A light touch on her arm drew her attention. "Go to your father, he wants you in the library," William whispered. In a moment, Elizabeth was seating herself across from her father.

"Mr. Darcy appears to have changed his mind about you being handsome enough to tempt him," Mr. Bennet observed after a moment of quiet.

Elizabeth blushed, and nodded. "I suppose so, sir."

"I know your opinion of him has improved, Lizzy, but I need your assurances. I cannot bear the thought that you might not have a true partner in your marriage."

"Even when I thought I hated him, he treated me as an equal. Apart from that overheard comment, he has been perfectly respectful. When I cared for Jane at Netherfield, he solicited my opinion several times, although there was certainly no requirement that he do so. We have lively discussions, even if we do not agree. I could go on," Elizabeth offered.

Mr. Bennet nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point. "That fits with my observations," he agreed. His attention focused back on her as he leaned back in his chair. "You will have more than sufficient pin money certainly. Will you be happy?"

Elizabeth hesitated, searching for the words to reassure her father. "When I agreed to the courtship, it was only not an engagement because I did not wish to overshadow Jane's happiness. William sat with me at the pianoforte at Matlock House, and he made a comment that our aunt was unhappy with us. I realized that I found comfort in he and I being 'us.' "

Mr. Bennet smiled slightly at that, his eyes looking suspiciously bright. "I find comfort in the idea that someone worthy will treasure you. I believe he may be the only man I could have allowed to take you from me." He rose from his seat and offered a hand to Elizabeth. "Come. We should announce this. Your mothers will be pleased, as will Jane."

"Now?"

"Jane has had her moment, and perhaps this will permit her and Bingley to escape quietly." Mr. Bennet shrugged. "Darcy suggested it, in fact."

Elizabeth tried valiantly to not blush, knowing full well why William suggested it. She found no issues with the plan, however.

By the time they returned, a few neighbours and many of Bingley's friends had already taken their leave. Mrs. Bennet and Lady Catherine monopolized the remaining conversation, effectively detaining the newlyweds. William was carefully attempting to distract the elder ladies to give his friend a respite. Into this, Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth stepped into the room. Mr. Bennet loudly cleared his throat, and beckoned Darcy over. The conversation in the parlour stilled.

"It is my great pleasure to announce, on a day already filled with joy, the engagement of Elizabeth Bennet de Bourgh to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Finally!" Lady Catherine cried. Jane and Bingley immediately were at their side, congratulating them, and taking leave. Neighbours followed, departing before the presumed outbursts from Mrs. Bennet. All had experienced her nerves at some point or another.

Mrs. Bennet, however, was so shocked she did not even twitch for a full minute.

By the time Mrs. Bennet began to recover, only family, excepting the Bingleys, remained. "Is it true?" she finally asked.

"Yes, Mama."

Mrs. Bennet blinked and nodded, before looking at Lady Catherine with disconcertion. "And … and … will you be married from Rosings?"

"Nay," Lady Catherine answered even as Elizabeth started to do so. "I believe it is best if she is married from here, where most of her friends will be. If, of course, you are willing to plan and host another such event so soon?"

"For so great a family? I do not --" Mrs. Bennet started.

"My dear Mrs. Bennet," Lady Catherine interrupted, "my brother the Earl, myself, and all of our Elizabeth's relations will be happy to simply enjoy her wedding. We only dared dream of such an occurrence, not three months ago." She paused. "I will, of course, cover the expense."

"Much appreciated, of course," Mr. Bennet replied, seeing his wife still mostly dumbstruck. "But only some of the expense. She is our daughter, as well."

A little playful back and forth ensued between Mr. Bennet and Lady Catherine about which family should supply the greatest support for their daughter's wedding. Despite the peace of barely an hour ago, Elizabeth abruptly felt overwhelmed, and excused herself. William followed, quiet concern in his expression.

She collected the bonnet and gloves she had set aside when they returned from the wedding. "Elizabeth?"

"Half an hour ought be enough," she said.

William blinked, before nodding slowly. "Would you prefer to walk out alone? It would not be quite the same as being sent to fetch you by your cousin, but I can wait until your father asks for your presence."

Elizabeth half-smiled, remembering the quiet little pond at Rosings. "No, not the same." She tugged the gloves on and fastened the bonnet. "I just need time to think."

When she finally met his gaze, she took in the depth of the uncertainty in those eyes. "You are not …" he did not finish the question, for she had pressed a gloved finger to his lips.

"I am not." She tilted her head to the side. "I simply need time to think. And you, my dearest William, make that quite difficult."

He nodded, before pulling her finger away and kissing her exposed wrist. She shivered. "Half an hour," he agreed.

A moment later, after he ascertained her intended direction, she felt him watch her from the front steps of her childhood home.

Here, in Hertfordshire, it had not been deemed necessary to assign anyone to walk with her, provided she kept to known paths. Indeed, until this moment, she had not actually walked out on her own since her return, for she had been accompanied by at least one sister, William, or Bingley at all times.

The solitude she had been bereft since that day at Rosings wrapped itself around her like a shawl borrowed from an old friend. One could not be properly alone inside a home, even in a library full of books, for human thought swirled around in such places. Inside, in all directions, human touch and thought were on display. Here, however, the rustling of the leaves and the call of birds and insects coloured the air. The road, worn from carriage wheels and horse hooves, shewd the only significant imprint of humans just now. No doubt, in a few moments, a carriage or rider would turn around a corner and into her sight or hearing, or perhaps William would come up from Longbourn to fetch her.

She did not reflect on any serious thoughts, no pressing concerns, no mysteries of life. She simply was for an entire, glorious, half hour.

At length, she found herself near the small rise where she had stood the morning her mother had come home aflutter with news about the new tenant at Netherfield. Such high hopes Mrs. Bennet had professed! And lo! her dearest Jane was now Mrs. Bingley, fulfilling both Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth’s hopes for her future.

And she … she was no longer Lizzy Bennet.

The realization was abrupt, and for a moment, it nearly snatched her breath away.

Oh, she had rationally come to terms with being the lost de Bourgh daughter. She had accepted that her frequent yearnings for elsewhere were, in fact, the faintest memories of another life, and the need to find her family. She recognized her easy trust of Wickham had been that same faint memory, and her reaction to William’s dismissal at the assembly likely found its roots there, as well.

The realization, as she looked out over that familiar landscape, that shook her so was that home was no longer Longbourn. Even when her heart wished to wander and look for her first home, Longbourn had been her home. The distress that overcame her in the parlour while her parents bandied about which household held more responsibility for her wedding found its source. Neither was her home.

She was not quite sure where "home" was, now, although she suspected her heart’s allegiances had declared it to be wherever William was. This sensation was more than just the comfort of ‘us’, and she wondered if this is what fuelled Jane’s declarations about "hang the plans" in London.

She caught sight of William, in his pursuit of her, and called to him. He paused and raised his hand to acknowledge, and she gestured for him to join her.

A few moments later, and he was by her side. She watched as he took in the view. "I see why you chose this spot for today," he said after a moment.

"Oh?" she asked.

"Distant enough to soothe the restlessness, near enough to still be comfortable, and," he added as he smiled at her, "a lovely view does not hurt."

"It has been a momentous day," she replied.

"I certainly am not going to disagree with that description. A friend I love as much as I could a brother has gained a happiness he has long wished for, and the most handsome, most brilliant, most talented woman I have ever met has consented to be my wife."

"I am not," she protested.

William smiled, before glancing back out over the view. "You are to me." She flushed, and he continued, "I will, of course, allow that Bingley may think the same of Jane, and suitors that come to call on our other sisters, including Anne and Georgiana, have the same courtesy. It would be dreadful to think otherwise."

How quickly the man, one who had expressed such visible distaste for her family, adopted all of the Bennets. "Such fine condescension!" she teased. "Next you will tell me that you will be excessively attentive to all of those suitors!"

William barked a laugh and then affected a grave mien. "But of course, my dear. They will need to understand the worthiness of their chosen lady." He paused ever so briefly. "After all, I do hope to need to put the fear of father into a lad, in a score of years or so, when he comes to beg for my daughter’s hand."

A brief image of a curly haired little girl, peering over William’s shoulder at her, flashed across Elizabeth’s imagination. Her heart clenched. "Only a daughter?" she asked, trying to sound still playful. She failed.

"As many sons and daughters as we can reasonably hope to have," William replied. Elizabeth decided then and there that Jane was eminently correct about "post the banns and hang the plans," and that her wedding day could not come soon enough.

Can anyone recommend a good Jane Austen forum? (1 reply)

alibom32378 — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 20:41:57 +0000

I mean, one which has a current, lively discussion, preferably with hundreds of followers, treating Jane Austen as a serious writer. Since Austen Underground went underground, I can't find one. Dwiggie is good, but it has about four regular readers. There are numerous sites catering for such deep questions as "Who is JA's hunkiest hero?" or "What do you think of the latest Netflix adaptation?", but I need more than that. Any ideas?

Excessively Attentive 37-39 (3 replies)

JessicaS — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 04:59:47 +0000

Author note: I have some news. I typed "The End" on my master file this morning. Now it's a matter of posting here and final polish. It's actually all written. - Jessica

Thirty-Seven

“Well?” demanded Jane, not seconds after Anne shut the door to Elizabeth's room that evening.

“Well?” Elizabeth queried with as much wide-eyed innocence as she could conjure. She knew, of course, what was being asked.

Anne rolled her eyes, poking her sister in the side as she sat down. “You and William, of course. Do not think it was not obvious that some kind of agreement was made earlier today.”

“Quite,” Jane agreed, sitting down on Elizabeth's other side. “I may be eager to wed Bingley, but you and William act like newlyweds at the bruncheon!”

Elizabeth blushed. “Courtship, and courtship only,” Elizabeth admitted. She gave Anne a sidelong look. “For which you can only blame our mother. William and I had already agreed we would come to a conclusion after Jane's wedding,” she nodded at her sister, “but that was deemed insufficient by our female elders.”

“Finally!” Anne exclaimed. “You will do wonders for William.”

“You complement each other quite well,” Jane agreed. “Now I can wed Bingley without a fret of concern about your future happiness. It shall only be second to my own.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I do not have your goodness, Jane. I cannot have your happiness, but I do seem to have escaped a need to wait for another Mr. Collins.”

Jane laughed, and Anne looked askance. “I did think I understood that, but … Mr. Collins? Did he really?”

Elizabeth nodded vigorously. “Oh, indeed, and,” she winced, “not even the threat of my mother, sisters, and myself being left to the hedgerows should my father predecease him could persuade me to accept him.” She gave Anne a long glance. “I know my hesitancy won some respect from our family, but no amount of loyalty could force me to join my life to him.”

Anne nodded slowly. “Having been in his company several times, I cannot fault you there. He seems a relatively decent person, but he is … uncomfortable company for Mrs. Collins. I can only imagine how much more so he would have been for you.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “It was a prudent match for Charlotte. It would have been a prudent match for me. But I … could not.”

“And for my cousin's sake,” Anne replied hotly, “I am glad you did not! For my sake.” She shuddered. “Had you come to us, and he presented you as his wife … I do not know what would have become of our mother.”

Jane looked pensive, and Elizabeth asked her why. Jane pursed her lips as she thought. “Secure in Bingley's affections as I was at that moment, I do not think I would have accepted Mr. Collins either, had he offered for me. A month later, I was despondent enough to have accepted him simply to never hear 'Oh, sister! Oh, Mr. Bingley!' from our mother again. A month before?” Jane shrugged. “I may have decided that Mr. Collins was acceptable enough, for our mother and my dearest sisters' sake, and that my wish to marry for love was immature.”

“I am glad,” Elizabeth replied softly, “that timing fell in our favour, there. For you are happy, Jane, and I would not want to see you any other way. I would have indeed attempted to dissuade you, much like I did Charlotte. I would not wish you to sacrifice your happiness for the rest of us.”

Jane suddenly shook herself and smiled. “Fortunate, then, we fools in love, that we need not forsake one happiness for another.”

“Quite,” Elizabeth agreed.

Jane kissed her sister on the cheek and made to leave. She paused. “Are we to keep this from mother?”

“Until your wedding is completed,” Elizabeth affirmed. “Although I believe there will be some sort of official notice, the banns will not be read until after you are Mrs. Bingley.”

“Very well,” Jane replied. “I shall let Bingley know our timeline for our wedding trip, then. I will not miss your wedding, either, Lizzy!”

“How can you be sure of how long you will have?” Anne asked, although Elizabeth suspected she was teasing.

“I dare say William will ensure a proper engagement before Bingley and I leave for our trip,” Jane replied.

Elizabeth, remembering William's suggestions of the steps just outside, blushed but did not give her sisters that satisfaction. Who knew what might change betwixt now and then?

* * *

Darcy felt relieved that Georgiana's enthusiasm for gaining six sisters all in one fell swoop was just as much as she had hinted it might be, when nudging him to ask Elizabeth. She was disappointed that they were not yet engaged.

“Six weeks? You must wait six weeks?” she asked.

“Perhaps a bit more,” Darcy shrugged. “She will want Jane to stand with her, and I intend to ask Bingley stand with me, as well.”

Georgiana made to pout, but sighed instead at her companion's pointed but quiet cough. “Yes, Mrs. Annesley.” She focused back on Darcy. “You do have every intention of ensuring she becomes my sister at the earliest possible time?”

Darcy firmly squashed his wayward imagination again. “Yes, my dear sister. At the earliest appropriate time, in the appropriate manner, following all of the proper proprieties and sundry.”

Georgiana laughed, and even a shadow of a smile flickered across Mrs. Annesley's expression. “The gossip pages will be so disappointed, I am sure,” she replied.

Mrs. Annesley smiled. “I have little doubt the gossip pages will concoct their own amusements with no assistance from reality.”

Darcy chuckled. “Quite, Mrs. Annesley. The writers exercise their wild flights of fantasy as often as they report on public activities.”

Thirty-Eight

The initial questions of arrival asked and answered, and a mild refreshment offered and consumed, Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas made themselves comfortable in Mrs. Gardiner's parlour. Congratulations in person were extended to Jane and accepted cheerfully. All in all, they made a happy gathering.

Plans for the afternoon and next few days were discussed, then -- “You will be returning to Longbourn as well, Lizzy?” Charlotte asked, perplexed. “Mr. Collins and I presumed you would return to Rosings with Lady Catherine.”

“Mère understands my reasoning, and supports it,” Elizabeth replied. “She and Anne still intend to return to Rosings, and still expect to escort you as well. They anticipate attending Jane's wedding in Hertfordshire.”

“What a merry party we will be going home!” Maria cheered.

“Yes,” Jane replied, far more sedately. “Mr. Bingley anticipates opening Netherfield just a day or two after we return to Longbourn. Mr. Darcy expects to join Bingley at the same time.”

Charlotte gave Elizabeth a significant look at that news. “Does he indeed?” she replied, her tone deceptively mild.

“He is standing up with Bingley,” Elizabeth replied. “It can be of little wonder that he joins his friend at such a time.”

“And what of Miss Bingley and the Hursts?”

“Miss Bingley has indicated she will travel to Netherfield with the Hursts a few days later.” Jane shrugged, seemingly at complete ease.

“And you can think of no other cause for Mr. Darcy to join Mr. Bingley before Mr. Bingley's own family?”

“Bingley has owned he considers Mr. Darcy as good as a brother,” Jane said, although Elizabeth suspected she caught a teasing note in the comment.

Mrs. Gardiner smiled slightly, her tone quite teasing. “How fortunate for your Mr. Bingley, then, that Elizabeth has agreed to consider Mr. Darcy's suit.”

Exclamations overlapped from the Lucas sisters, and Elizabeth bid they lower their voices. “Yes, I have agreed to a courtship with Mr. Darcy. I only presume my aunt shared that information with you to prevent any … misunderstandings.” Elizabeth shot a slightly irritated look at her aunt, who simply smiled back.

“Only a courtship?” Charlotte nearly pouted in disappointment.

“We agreed we do not wish to overshadow Jane's wedding,” Elizabeth shrugged. “We all know what my mother Bennet would do should I also return properly engaged.”

Charlotte and Maria both winced slightly. “Quite,” Charlotte agreed after a moment. “But that sounds much like you intend to accept.”

Elizabeth shrugged again. “I would not have agreed if I did not.”

Mrs. Gardiner turned the subject to the schedule for the next few days, and then rose to tend to the children. Elizabeth opted to leave for a walk, and Charlotte joined her, as did the groom.

Charlotte glanced back at the groom, sedately following behind several paces. “Are there still concerns?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Fewer than there were, but concerns remain.”

“Does that play into your relocation?”

“Not at the moment. It was deemed safe enough,” Elizabeth replied.

“I will not be able to attend both your wedding and Jane's, if they are separate.”

“Mère may be able to assist in transport, if that is the concern,” Elizabeth replied.

“Travel so far, twice, may be too much for me and … well,” Charlotte started to clarify, but ended with a vague gesture at her middle.

Elizabeth gave her friend a sharp look. “Are you sure?”

Charlotte nodded. “It is early yet. I have not even told Mr. Collins or Maria.”

“And early is as risky as very late,” Elizabeth frowned. “I hope all goes well, and of course do not risk yourself needlessly.” She smiled. “I know you approve, and that is more than sufficient.”

Charlotte laughed. “Approve is a mild word for it, but yes.” She sobered. “I expected to talk to you at Rosings, but I may not see you again for some time.”

“We did not expect to see each other for some time once I left Hunsford,” Elizabeth replied.

Charlotte gave her a rueful smile. “I own, I had raised my hopes that you would, at least temporarily, take up residence at Rosings.” She shook her head, and laughed slightly. “But the change of plans pleases me greatly, for your sake.”

Elizabeth eyed her friend. There seemed a sense of regret in Charlotte's air. “Charlotte, please be honest. Are you happy?”

Charlotte glanced away, frowning. “I find myself melancholy, but that may be the,” she gestured at her middle again rather than setting a word to her condition. “I recall my mother doing likewise at this stage. Otherwise, I am … as content as I could be, in my situation. I am certainly better off than some of our friends in Hertfordshire.” She looked back at Elizabeth, with a slight smile. “Any hope I had of romance ended long before Mr. Collins became a prospect. I have all that I ever dared truly hope for. This,” the gesture again, “is the last piece, assuming all goes well, although I certainly would welcome more than one.”

Elizabeth nodded, but not being sure what comfort -- if any -- she could give her friend, she remained silent, and they walked companionably. After a few moments, they turned back to the Gardiners' road, and ended back at the doorstep.

“Strange, is it not, how much has changed since you stood here on the way to my home?” Charlotte asked, looking up at the façade.

Elizabeth looked as well, her mind going back to the thoughts of three fortnights ago: Jane's health and happiness, her own discomfort at being in Mr. Collins' presence, her curiosity regarding Lady Catherine. William barely impinged on her thoughts, except as a vague source of discomfort in entering Kent. “So many stories have been told, these past few weeks,” Elizabeth agreed. “So many still yet unknown.”

“You will have to write them all down, some day,” Charlotte opined as they gained the door and the groom disappeared to his duties. “You have the flare that the rest of us lack.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth temporized. “Once I know more of the stories myself, perhaps.”

* * *

Richard found Darcy in his library, tending to correspondence. The door had barely shut when he spoke. “My mother tells me that you formalized your courtship with our Elizabeth.”

Darcy, who looked up as soon as he heard Richard's voice, laid his pen down. “I have, although I persuaded both of my aunts that there need not be any public disclosure of that change.”

Richard smirked, settling himself into a chair across from Darcy. “You know there will be quite the outcry when you announce the wedding.”

“Undoubtedly,” Darcy agreed. “But, while the only opinion I truly care about on this topic is Elizabeth's, I doubt you came to share your disapproval.”

“Not a shred of disapproval here,” Richard concurred. “I came to be pleased with you.”

“And, perhaps, escape your mother's commentary about your lack of progress in the same field?”

Richard snorted. “She reminded me that I am yet another year older, and 'even Darcy is finding someone to settle down with'.” He mimicked his mother's voice, accurately enough that Darcy looked quite amused.

“She is, of course, correct,” Darcy observed, smirking at him.

“'Tis your fault for finding the Bennets first,” Richard huffed at him.

Darcy leaned back, suddenly intent. “Jane seems a bit … sweet, for your tastes, Richard.”

“And Elizabeth, before becoming a de Bourgh, rather too poor for my habits of expense,” he sighed.

“Ah. Which diminishes the potential interest of the younger girls.”

“Miss Mary asked intelligent questions, and Miss Catherine seemed quite empathetic.”

Darcy nodded slowly. “What of Anne?”

“I do not know,” Richard replied. “It is not that she is not pretty of her own accord, in her own way, but she … lacks something I do not know how to describe.”

“Elizabeth, for all her innate sweetness, is unafraid to challenge all and sundry,” Darcy said.

“That may be it.” Richard gestured in the general direction of the street. “Too many lasses interested in agreeing the sky is purple, or perhaps green, if only it means I take a fancy to them. My career allows me plenty of opportunity to see how such a mentality can wreck havoc on a battalion. I cannot imagine that such refusal to make the most miniscule of objections can improve the health and financial prospects of an estate, even if only a borrowed one.”

“Alexander still offering you the use of one of the smaller estates?”

“Provided I find a lass to tolerate,” Richard affirmed. “For now, he is content to let me manage the horses in exchange for a percentage.”

“You do have an eye for them.” Darcy leaned forward. “Perhaps, with your brother's support, fortune is less of an issue than you believe. I think you require a different metric to consider.”

“And what might that be?” Richard retorted.

“Can she learn what is necessary to breed and raise horses of a quality fit for nobility? Can she enjoy your favourite pastime -- riding -- easily enough, or learn to? Or will she be content to accept you have a deep love for them, and not hinder those pursuits?” Darcy leaned back. “A gentleman's daughter -- not brought up too high -- would not need quite as many expenses as you have a habit for, but may also have the understanding of all the concerns of husbandry.”

Richard rested his head on his hand. “What you mean, of course, is to find a lass with her head on straight, knowledge enough to be economical, fond of horses -- or at least knowledgeable of livestock, and a desire to better our circumstances.”

“Not in so many words, but yes.”

“That is not Anne.”

Darcy shrugged. “It may not be Anne. But you mentioned two prospects who may fit, and I dare say if you look for someone willing to challenge you, you may find others.”

Richard nodded slowly. “It may be worth looking at the field from a different vantage point.”

* * *

Wickham took the mail at roll call in a bit of surprise. Apart from the unanticipated summons from Lord Matlock, Wickham had not had a letter at this posting yet. He tucked them away, to pursue later, although the two letters weighed on his thoughts most of the day.

Miss Lydia even teased him, when he and the rest of the officers joined the Bennets for dinner. “So distracted you are today, Wickham!”

“Forgive me, Miss Lydia. I have had much to think about these past few weeks,” he replied with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “I shall attempt to concentrate more assiduously.”

He did try, and Miss Lydia did not broach his distractedness again. Therefore, he appeared to do so tolerably well.

Mr. Bennet, however, was not fooled. During the separation of the sexes, Mr. Bennet asked him in an undertone if there were any concerns which should be shared.

“No, sir. I simply received two letters, earlier, and have not had the opportunity to peruse them.”

Bennet glanced around the room, before nodding. “I can understand hesitancy. Please do let me know if there are any concerns to share.”

“Of course, sir.”

The carriages returning the officers to the barracks had left over an hour previous, and most of his fellows had retired for the evening. Wickham continued to dawdle, until the remainders offered to deal him into their current round. “I thank you, but no. I have other business to attend,” he excused himself. He had promised William, after all.

His room looked no different than it had when the express from Lord Matlock arrived, upending his already topsy-turvy world. He took the letters out, and stared at them for a moment longer, before deciding to open the one with a more masculine hand. He expected it was William's, although another page slipped out from the middle, in a more feminine hand.

Quote

Brother,

Georgiana professed a wish to communicate with you, and I felt it appropriate to enable her desires in this regard.

The staff at the London house have been informed that communications from you to her are approved, although they are not yet aware of the relationship. I have informed them that you are considered family, and will be treated as such.

Wickham took several minutes to digest this, before turning back to the letter. William noted that he had likely already heard the news of Bingley and Miss Bennet, and communicated his own current understanding with Miss Elizabeth, such as it was. It was brief, and to the point, but their communications had been strained or worse for so long, Wickham could not expect more. He had not even expected this much. To be given permission to write Georgiana was an unexpected windfall.

He opened her letter next, and read her excitement at William agreeing.

Quote

Mostly, brother, I wished to be able to tell you that you are not entirely alone in the world, as you used to believe. William has not shared all of the details of your estrangement's start; I will leave it to you to decide if you wish to share them with me. I know he is concerned about your influence on me but I am more concerned on our influence on you.

Not knowing all, or even most, of the details means I cannot provide advice on how to, if it is even possible to, make amends for past deeds. Knowing the truth of your intent behind our previous interactions has placed them in a proper light. While, perhaps, manners were not as proper as they were meant to be, an explanation to William of whatever disagreement lies between you may help? Or perhaps, if you believe that will not bring some measure of understanding, simply asking what you need to do to set things correct?

The letter shifted again, and ended on a trivial note, with an affectionate adieu.

Wickham sighed. He knew, of course, one of the causes of the estrangement, even before the misunderstanding about Georgiana. Certainly, given his previous failings, Darcy had been entirely correct to be concerned about Georgiana's safety.

A waterfall of blonde hair, cascading in his hands … rain drops pattering on the small dual headstone …

Emma.

He shook the memories away, and focused his attention on the other letter. Miss de Bourgh?

Wickham shrugged and opened the letter. Anne confided her confusion about Elizabeth -- joy, but also disconcertion at so much change so fast. She noted she could not truly confide that emotion to anyone else in the family, for they all were focused on softening the changes for Elizabeth. From here, she segued into what Wickham initially felt was gossip -- Lady Catherine's long-time steward was starting to feel his age, and mentioning the idea of retiring. What, Wickham wondered, did that have to do with him?

Her next paragraph explained thusly:

Quote

… I have reminded Mother that you were in training to take on the Stewardship, either Rosings or at Pemberley. She has expressed reservations, given what we know of your gambling habits from the debts William has discharged over the years.

I have countered that I believe it is a habit borne of a form of nihilism, especially in light of recent divulgences.

She does not know all of your circumstances for such a malaise; William only shared that information in close confidence to Richard and myself.

Did you love her? William says that he believed you did, for you talked about her often, speaking of a desire to ask for her hand. But I suppose you anticipated your vows, and when her family realized it, her family refused to allow any contact. They wanted only Pemberley money. He told us he only agreed because he was going to bring you personally to her after the babe was born, so you could follow through. He made them quite cross when he told you of their death. I am so very sorry; child birth can be so risky.

From what William says, she at least knew you did not abandon her by choice.

You truly have just had poorly dealt hand after poorly dealt hand, have you not?

Take a few months to settle down from the recent upheavals, and consider the possibility of at least training with Mother’s Steward. It is not a dishonourable profession for a second son.

Yours, etc,

Anne

Wickham set the letter down, undone in multiple directions. His Emma had not cut him off, and William had intended to bring them together despite her family’s displeasure. His grief came over him afresh, the loss of his beloved, his betrothed, and the loss of his unexpected but wanted firstborn.

The grief storm raged for a while before Wickham was spent. He did sleep, but it was not a sleep of refreshment.

Thirty-Nine

A week with good friends seemed to set Mrs. Collins into a better mood, and Elizabeth endeavoured over that same week to further a closer relationship between her dear friend and her oldest sister. She hoped it was enough to ease Charlotte's concerns about her condition.

“Until we meet again in Hertfordshire,” Anne said, embracing Elizabeth a last time before entering the carriage.

“I will miss you, sister,” Elizabeth replied.

“And I you,” said Anne. She ducked into the carriage to sit beside their mother.

Lady Catherine smiled slightly from the carriage, and Elizabeth fancied she saw a shimmer of tears. She forwent comment, believing that her first thought for a joke about misplacing either Anne or Charlotte would be rather misplaced itself. She turned to Charlotte, and the friends hugged fiercely. “If you must avoid travel, Jane will not hold it against you any more than I would,” Elizabeth whispered.

Charlotte nodded. “You will write to me, Lizzy?”

“Always, Charlotte,” agreed Elizabeth as they stood back. The groom assisted Charlotte into the carriage.

A last round of farewells, and then Lady Catherine directed the coachman to start off. Elizabeth felt a pang of separation she had not entirely anticipated, not only for Charlotte. She could not linger over it long, however, as their last week in London remained busy with the details of socializing with friends old and new, along with preparations for Jane's wedding. Some items, Elizabeth also looked at, with an eye towards ordering by mail if possible.

It was the second week of May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Gracechurch Street. For Jane and Elizabeth, the morning had already been busy as farewells occurred first at ------ House, with both Darcys in attendance as well as the Fitzwilliams. Thence, the carriage brought Jane and Elizabeth to Gracechurch Street, where another round of affectionate farewells took place.

By the time they reached the town where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them at the inn, the older girls were far from refreshed, while Maria still chattered intermittently about kittens. Still, upon seeing their younger sisters waiting for them, Jane and Elizabeth shared a smile, and sought out their father's coachman to arrange moving their luggage to the Bennet carriage.

The younger girls came down to meet the elder and Maria, and they adjourned to the dining room which had been secured. News about the militia being sent to Brighton and Lydia's despair of such was shared, and then Lydia broached other news. Elizabeth dismissed the waiter, and Jane shook her head at Lydia's antics.

Wickham, by Lydia's report, had lost interest in Mary King, and the girl had been removed to Liverpool to live with her uncle. Lydia cried triumph over the other girl, but Elizabeth and Jane shared a glance. “How has Mr. Wickham fared these last weeks?” Jane asked.

“Oh, aye,” Kitty replied, “fair well enough. Lydia insists he flirts with her constantly, but I have seen none of it.”

“Lies!” cried Lydia.

“Perspective, perhaps,” Elizabeth corrected. “He is quite a few years older than you, Lydia. He may be unaware of how you perceive his actions.”

“But,” Kitty continued as if Lydia had not interrupted her, “I believe he has been melancholy since his abrupt visit to London. Denny and the others have mentioned he no longer joins them for cards, at the very least.”

“I hope he rallies his spirits soon,” Jane answered mildly, although the half not-glance at Elizabeth showed her concern.

Lydia, however, caught the look, and cried, “Perhaps Lizzy gained a beau and Wickham is pining for her!”

Elizabeth dismissed such nonsense promptly. “Mr. Wickham was called to London by Lord Matlock, my maternal uncle, to discuss various business concerns.” A truth, without elaborating on the type of concerns. “I only encountered Mr. Wickham but two days before he returned to Hertfordshire at the same time as our father.”

“Truly,” Jane added, “such conjectures are problematic, Lydia. Dreadful rumours have been caused by far less such comments.”

“Oh!” Lydia huffed. “Maria and Kitty will side with me on this. It is simply silliness.”

Maria shook her head briskly. “Do not draw me into that quarrel, Lydia. I know what happened to Charlotte, long before Mr. Collins married her. She fancied someone, a long time ago, when I was little. I remember he was very nice. But a rumour started up that he was responsible for one of the tavern maid's … situation. He left for the Navy, I think. And she later admitted she had lied to protect someone else.” Maria shrugged sadly. “But a while later, word came from his family that he had died while at sea. And Charlotte married Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth wondered if she had known that story and forgotten it, or if perhaps it occurred before she was an age to have been aware. Mrs. Bennet certainly never mentioned it. Lydia made a moue of disgust, before grudgingly agreeing to be a little bit less silly for the sake of simply being silly. No one wanted to be stuck with a Mr. Collins.

“It does lessen the fun, however,” Kitty sighed. “We did have many good jokes to share with you.”

“Perhaps in the carriage,” Elizabeth replied.

“And as long as there are far fewer in the future,” agreed Jane.

“Barely engaged, and already nagging me like an old lady,” Lydia laughed.

“But I am engaged, and I do not wish to lose my fiancé over a frivolous rumour,” Jane replied.

“True!” Kitty agreed.

“And you shall not turn out an old maid after all!” Lydia exclaimed, diverted to a new topic already. “I know my Mother and my aunt Phillips had begun to despair you might!”

“Ah, yes,” Elizabeth sighed dramatically, with a slight smile. “The hedgerows. I nearly thought I would take up residence there myself, after Charlotte's engagement.”

The other girls laughed, and the conversation settled into lesser news. Before long, the entire party was cozy in Mr. Bennet's carriage, with every spare space stuffed with a bandbox or small bag. The stories and jokes soon flowed, and Elizabeth attempted to suppress her wince. She noted how often certain names came up -- Wickham, Denny. Her own situation appeared to have not yet made the rounds of gossip -- at least, not from Lydia's recounts. No mention of militia officers arriving at Longbourn to ask after her health, or any such various instances.

They were welcomed by a large party, for the Lucases arrived to collect Maria, ask after Charlotte, and warmly congratulate Miss Bennet. Mrs. Bennet's pleasure with her eldest, however, eclipsed all else. Mr. Bennet's pleasure for his eldest, while palpable, was far more contained. Elizabeth watched it all, feeling reassured she and William had been correct to delay their own agreement.

After the Lucases left, Lydia attempted to convince her sisters they should walk to Meryton. Elizabeth steadfastly opposed such a scheme, and Jane supported her. “After all,” Jane said sweetly, “I shall not have much longer to spend with you here. I should like to visit with my sisters for a while, before I must turn my attention to the matter of preparing for my wedding. But perhaps tomorrow? I do have a list of items to look for at the milliner's.”

Mrs. Bennet overheard the comment, and chastised Jane. “You were in London! You did not need to leave anything for Meryton.”

Jane shrugged slightly. “I had my reasons, Mama. Mr. Bingley particularly requested a few items be selected from the milliner's here, as this is where we met.”

It did not go unnoticed how easily the words “Mr. Bingley” soothed over any of Mrs. Bennet's concerns or complaints. Elizabeth wondered if, over the next few weeks, Jane would occasionally run dangerously close to overusing that method of reprieve.

Are there two (or even three) sketches of Addisonian hyper-pigmentation? (3 replies)

alibom32378 — Sat, 28 Mar 2026 16:12:20 +0000

Has anybody noticed that the Cassandra (CEA) sketch and the Stanier Clarke (JSC) sketch BOTH show evidence of Addisonian hyper-pigmentation? High-resolution images of these sketches are disappointingly difficult to find online, but do your best. Bring them up side-by-side on your screen and use heaps of magnification. Experiment with noise reduction, if your viewer has it; it helps a lot. I will mainly use the JSC sketch as a reference point, because most medical opinion agrees that it shows hyper-pigmentation consistent with Primary Adrenal Insufficiency (Addison's Disease).

Begin by looking at the right-upper eyelid in the JSC sketch. It is mostly black, but at the outer end it changes abruptly to pure white, extending in a crescent down the right cheek. In CEA the same transition is (arguably) just about visible. I accept that this is arguable, because in CEA the angle is not very friendly and the sample size is very small; but it is definitely possible to trace a consistency.

In JSC there is an area of darker pigmentation immediately above the left eyebrow. In the CEA sketch we see a shaded area in the same place; at a casual glance, one would take it for a shadow cast by the curly fringe, except that it doesn't resemble it much in outline, and we don't see a similar shadow anywhere else.

In JSC there is a prominent black spot immediately under the lower lip (probably blue-black in real life). In CEA, there is a hint of a dark patch in the same place. JSC also appears to show a less-severe but larger patch of pigmentation on the left upper lip, in the region of the left nostril; this pattern, too, is repeated by CEA.

Most telling of all, in JSC much of the left side of the face is severely hyper-pigmented, with irregular borders, below and forward of the left ear. In CEA the discoloration is less pronounced, and not advancing so far forward, but it has similarly well-defined borders which are too sharp, clear, and irregular to be mistaken for natural shadow. After noise suppression, this appears to be contiguous with the discoloration above the left eyebrow and, in a lighter form, extends down the left side of the neck - just as it does in the JSC sketch.

Overall, the pattern of hyper-pigmentation is more severe in the JSC sketch, which was almost certainly done by Stanier Clarke on 13 November 1815, when Jane visited Carlton House. This was around the time she began to feel positively unwell, and probably some years after the CEA sketch. Had Cassandra finished hers, it is possible those early signs of PAI would have been more clearly delineated; Jane evidently insisted that JSC represent them honestly. In both cases, however, the artist has made clever use of light, shadow, and composition to minimise the visual impact of the disfigurement. In the CEA sketch, particularly, the casual observer does not recognise the hyper-pigmentation for what it is, and mistakes it for the ordinary effects of light and shade. But the longer and more closely one examines it, the less plausible such a rationalisation seems.

Footnote: Astonishingly, the Godmersham sketch of a tall, skinny lady sitting writing at a desk, who may be Jane Austen, shows facial markings fully consistent with the above. Unfortunately the only image I can find online is hopelessly low-resolution and over-contrasty, so I'm not making an issue of it here. But post-processing definitely reveals a black right eyelid which appears to abut a white crescent running down the right cheek. There is indisputably a darker patch above the left eyebrow. An area of excessive contrast and shadowing makes it impossible to verify the black chin spot separately; but this dark area, as a whole, corresponds more or less exactly with an area of variegated hyper-pigmentation visible in the other two sketches, especially in noise-reduced CEA. These are too many coincidences to be ignored. Interestingly, there is a black spot on the upper right side of the nose, which does not appear in JSC. Perhaps it offended his sense of symmetry, or perhaps this sketch was done even later. Entre parenthèses, I wonder if any of this explains why Jane is facing AWAY from the artist in the bonnet sketch? Had she not yet come to terms with her condition?

Was James Stanier Clarke trying to seduce Jane Austen? (1 reply)

alibom32378 — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 20:35:07 +0000

On 15 November 1815 Jane Austen writes to James Stanier Clarke to clarify the protocol governing the dedication of Emma to HRH (Letter 125[D]). Clarke responds next day with the required information (Letter 125[A], 16 Nov), and ends with a very interesting postscript:

"P.S.
I am going for about three weeks to Mr Henry Streatfeilds [sic], Chiddingstone Sevenoaks - but hope on my return to have the honour of seeing you again."

There is no necessity to meet again. In modern terms, Clarke is asking Jane for a date. He puts it in a postscript, because that way it seems more like a spontaneous, last-minute thought, without any agenda. But Jane is evidently unimpressed; she could have written to him at Sevenoaks, but she doesn't answer his letter for three weeks, during which time she maintains a normal correspondence with everyone else in her world. When she does reply (Letter 132[D], 11 Dec) she ignores the suggestion of a personal meeting, and discusses literary matters with humour and irony. Evidently, Clarke amuses her as Mr Collins amused Mr Bennet.

Ten days later, Clarke writes again (Letter 132[A], 21 Dec). He continues to groom Jane, covering her with fulsome, sticky compliments, mingled with mawkish attempts to enlist her sympathy for his own troubles; but hitherto she has not responded as he would wish. Mindful that she doesn't seem interested in another meeting, he suggests they begin a regular (doubtless "literary") correspondence. But perhaps he needs to make his meaning plainer! He decides to go for broke. His final paragraph is worth quoting in full:

"Pray, dear Madam, remember, that besides My Cell at Carlton House, I have another which Dr Barne procured for me at No 37, Golden Square - where I often hide myself. There is a small Library there much at your Service - and if you can make the Cell render you any service as a sort of Half-way House, when you come to Town - I shall be most happy. There is a Maid Servant of mine always there."

This is an astonishingly improper proposal, and Jane is surely gobsmacked. Think about it. He is inviting her to come to town and shack up with him at a discreet private address; and, we suspect, as often and for as long as she likes. As bait, he offers the freedom of his personal library. A maid on the premises is no chaperone - is she going to make up a third, every moment of the day? What are the odds that sooner or later, such a visit wouldn't mysteriously coincide with the maid being given a day off? And without being too Freudian about it, he could have picked his words better; "cell", "procured for me", "hide myself", "half-way house" - this is not the kind of language to reassure a lady of moral integrity.

Jane Austen is being propositioned, and she knows it. "Come to town? ON the town, I should think he means!" She drops the correspondence like a hot potato. Thankfully, Clarke can take a hint. It is three months before he writes again, and then only at the command of HRH (Letter 138[A], 27 Mar). The letter is short and only politely effusive. Neverthess, he must try his luck one more time: "Pray dear Madam soon write again and again." (The "pathetic puppy" gambit!)

Jane responds courteously but firmly (Letter 138[D], 1 Apr). It is obvious by now, even to JS Clarke, that the lady is NOT interested.

Is this being unkind to the man? He does seem to have been genuinely smitten. But he is a clergyman, for heaven's sake. To suggest that Jane accommodate herself in his private lodgings - discreetly, he implies - was simply immoral. She must have been disgusted.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 32 and Epilogue (3 replies)

Anne V — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 05:20:35 +0000

Chapter 32

3rd March 1812

Mrs Elizabeth Darcy looked up from her book to watch the rain outside. Out the window she could see Lake Windermere. She was lying on the couch in the library, whilst her husband was busy composing a letter to his sister. Elizabeth had long ago finished her letter to Jane, so she had decided to try to read ‘The Tempest’ again, as the story seemed to match the inclement weather outside.

Her eyes were drawn to the handsome figure of her husband. She thought back to all that had happened in the last three months.

Her mother had scolded her on her return to the home, crying that her reputation would be ruined, returning wet and alone with Mr Darcy. After ensuring the Mr Darcy was tended to and dried, she had turned to Elizabeth and did not stop to draw breath in berating her second born. She stopped only when Mr Darcy and Mr Bennet returned into the drawing room to announce the engagement. And in that moment, Jane was forgotten and Elizabeth was her favourite daughter.

Elizabeth had worried about Mr Darcy’s reaction to her mother's ‘enthusiasm’ at the match, but in truth he was just too happy and didn't hear anything that Mrs Bennet said.

That evening there was a gathering planned at Longbourn to celebrate Jane’s engagement – it turned into a double celebration.

It was all well and good that the celebration was done then, as the next day it was confirmed that Mr Collins had died, and Mr Bennet was busy organising the funeral arrangements. He travelled to Surrey the next day to organise his cousin’s burial in Mr Collin’s home town. Mr Darcy offered to take him as far as London, as he needed to return to town to advise his family in person of his engagement, and then travel onto Kent to advise his aunt. He also offered to take any correspondence from Mr Bennet to Lady Catherine regarding settling Mr Collin’s affairs at Hunsford and the on-forwarding of Mr Collins personal possessions to Longbourn.

During the travel between Hertfordshire and London, which took a full day due to the detours they had to take caused by the storm, Mr Bennet came to appreciate Mr Darcy’s intelligence and dry sense of humour. In return, Mr Darcy could see the likeness between Elizabeth and her father. They spent the night in Mr Darcy’s townhouse, and it was the first time that Mr Bennet got a real appreciation of the wealth of Mr Darcy.

The next day they separated, Mr Bennet travelled to Surrey, whilst Mr Darcy went to Rosings. After paying his aunt the mandatory respect and condolences to her loss of a pastor, with the subsequent inconvenience of having to find a new one, he managed to go to the parsonage and provide the instructions for packing up Mr Collins’ belongings. On return, he managed a quiet minute alone with his cousin to warm her off what would come, and where Anne provided her heartfelt congratulations. As he expected, in advising Lady Catherine of his upcoming nuptials, she at first did not believe it, followed by half an hour of argument before Mr Darcy had enough and left, severing all connection between them. He returned to Hertfordshire after first seeing his Uncle, the Earl, and getting his support for the union.

As to Mr Wickham, Elizabeth only saw him at one dinner party after her engagement was announced. They did speak, he expressed his surprise, and Elizabeth replied that he was not the only one to tell half a story. They parted cordially with no desire to ever talk with the other again. But it mattered little.

With the rain continuing, the field the militia was located on was cold and muddy. An outbreak of both gastroenteritis and trench foot saw the camp doctor recommend their removal to somewhere else. Within two weeks, the regiment had moved to the outskirts of Bristol, which had not been affected by the storm. The only officers left were Sanderson, Chamberlain and Carter, who stayed for Miss Goulding’s wedding. Lydia complained bitterly about the departure of the militia, and begged that the whole family would follow. These pleas were completely ignored by all, especially Mrs Bennet, who would not be distracted from the weddings of her two eldest daughters, and even went so far as to be annoyed by her youngest child.

Mr Bennet returned after two weeks. As Mr Collins‘ nearest living male relative, he had been responsible for organising all the funeral arrangements and executing his will.

Part of the original disagreement between Mr Bennet senior and Mr Collins senior was the fact that Mr Collins senior was not given access to the late Mrs Collins’ dowry on her death – he could only access the interest. Mr Collins junior could only use it for his education expenses up until he turned five and twenty. The provisions in the dowry meant that on his death, the money reverted back to the Bennet family. Mr Bennet promptly took the three and a half thousand pounds and put it aside for dowries for his daughters.

This was then coupled with the confirmation that there were no more eligible male heirs in line to inherit (the last one having died at sea a few years earlier), meant that the entail was dissolved and Jane was made heir. Caroline was absolutely delighted and became noticeably friendlier to Jane.

With Mr Bennet’s return meant that a date could be set for the wedding and preparations could begin. Considering the Bingley’s had already promised to visit a relative in Scarborough for Christmas, and the Darcy’s were promised to visit Matlock for Christmas, a date of mid February was set. Prior to that, the girls were invited to spend three weeks in January in London preparing their trousseau and being introduced to society.

Elizabeth had been very pleased to meet Georgiana and had found her to be exactly as Mr Darcy described her- sweet but excessively shy. Elizabeth had engaged her in talk of music, which helped her to come out of her shell. When Georgiana had said that her brother admired Elizabeth’s playing greatly, Elizabeth told her that her brother was exaggerating her talents. After some tea, the two women went to the music room to play for the other, whilst Mr Darcy had business affairs to attend to.

He came to find the two women laughing with each other. Elizabeth whispered in Georgiana’s ear. “I shall test your brother and I defy him to say that my playing is good.” She then attempted to play a complicated piece with mock solemnity. Her playing was terrible with frequent discordant notes. Georgiana was giggling away and Elizabeth was throwing challenging looks to Mr Darcy, an eyebrow upraised.

At the end she rose. “I challenge you, sir, to say that gave you pleasure.”

“On the contrary, nothing gives me greater pleasure than seeing the two women I love most laughing and enjoying themselves.”

Elizabeth recalled how nervous she was in being introduced to Mr Darcy’s aunt and uncle, the Earl and Countess of Matlock. But by the end of the visit she felt that she had impressed them both and felt relaxed around them. They in turn, could see why their nephew fell in love with Elizabeth and were pleased to confirm she wasn't a fortune hunter.

In addition, Mr Darcy’s prediction of his aunt’s admiration for Jane Bennet was correct. The Countess liked them both so much that she invited them to stay with her for the final week of their London stay.

In the whirlwind three weeks in London they had shopped for their trousseau and wedding dress, attended two plays, one opera and one concert. They had been to five dinners and three balls and had stayed long enough to be admired by London and left soon enough to be considered mysterious. It had been a resounding success.

Happy was the day when Mrs Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. The wedding was lauded as the grandest wedding anyone had ever seen in Meryton in their lifetime. Mr and Mrs Darcy left early to start making their way to Pemberley.

After two days of travel they reached Pemberley, where they stayed two weeks. They had agreed to honeymoon at the lakes, but thought it best to delay until the snows had melted. So Elizabeth had spent the time getting to know the house, staff and tenants, and very much enjoyed wandering the property with her handsome husband.

They had arrived at their cottage on the shores of Lake Windermere the day before. All they had managed to do was take a walk. The steady rain prevented any exploration of the area, but that suited Elizabeth fine. She stretched and decided it time to pay her husband some attention. “Mr Darcy, I think you have studied for enough three and four syllable words for your sister,” she joked as she rose and came to put her arms around her husband's neck.

He put his quill down, then turned and grabbed Elizabeth, pulling her onto his lap. “I have just finished it.” He then kissed Elizabeth soundly, occupying them for some time.

It was Elizabeth who pulled away first. “Hmm, I do wonder at why you fell in love with me.”

He traced his fingers over her lips, then cupped her face, pulling her in for another kiss. “Because I knew how delightfully happy we would be together, and how very well you fit right here on my lap.”

Elizabeth giggled and pulled away after brushing her lips against his. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place.”

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words which laid the foundation. It was too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew it had began.”

“Was it before I came to Netherfield? Before the storm?”

“Yes, I already admired you by the time you came. It was after that tree fell that I made up my mind to act on my feelings.”

“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners – my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?"

“For the liveliness of our mind, I did.”

“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone. I roused, and interested you , because I was so unlike them. Had you not been really amiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously courted you. There – I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I being to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew of no actual good of me – but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love.”

“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was at Netherfield?”

“Dearest Jane! Who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible.”

“What about your tending to me when I was trapped under the tree? Or helping the Harrigans?” Elizabeth was about to protest, but he put a finger against her lips to quiet her. “I saw your loyalty, bravery and kindness. Despite your impertinence, there is an intelligent mind and a kind heart. How could I not love you once I knew that?”

“But I wonder how long it would have taken for you to propose had I not asked about your engagement to your cousin?”

“I was not in the mood for waiting any longer. Knowing of your dislike made me hesitant to rush into any proposal. I knew from my knowledge of your character that you would not rush into a decision and that you would need to be certain in your own mind before accepting a proposal. I had always intended to propose on that day, but in seeing your relief that I was not engaged gave me courage I had not felt before.”

“Then you should be grateful to Mr Wickham for telling me that rumour. I’m certain that he would be delighted that he had contributed so much to our present happiness.” They both chuckled at this.

“I don't think he contributed much. I think the storm had more to do with it.”

“That is true. If not for the storm, Jane would not have gotten wet and become sick and I would not have gone to Netherfield.”

“Rain is normal, so she may still have gotten wet and become sick,” countered Mr Darcy.

“But if not for the storm, when we were walking outside, you would not have been hit by that tree, and you would not have found out that I did not like you.”

“I would like to think I would have realised eventually.”

“When did you decide that you wanted to marry me? When did the leap between admiration to knowing you were in love occur?”

“After learning you did not like me,“ grinned Mr Darcy, toying with a curl of Elizabeth’s fringe.

“You could not stand it that I did not give you immediate approbation?”

“No, it was more afterwards as I was forced to rest in bed and there was nothing else for me to do other than think. I realised my attraction was more than that, that it had turned into love, and that I couldn't stomach the thought of a life without you in it. That you had all the qualities that mattered in a wife. From that moment, I resolved to win you over, no matter what. But realising your original dislike, I knew it would take some time for that to evolve from dislike to love.”

“So if the storm had died down and you were not injured, how long before you would have realised that? Or would you have left town resolved to forget me?”

Mr Darcy ‘s look turned serious. “I would hope it wouldn't have been much longer.“

“But I would have left within two days of that walk outside. Jane had recovered by that stage. I do shudder to think that I could have left Netherfield without having seen your true self. Otherwise I might very well have believed what Mr Wickham told me. With his story reinforcing my already low opinion of you, I would have been even more set against you. I can't see how we could have come together.”

“Charles would have been engaged to Jane. I’m certain I would have convinced you before long. Maybe we might not be married now, but I'm certain we would still have been married before the end of spring. When did you know that you loved me?”

“When I thought that there was no chance that I could have you- when Mr Wickham told me you were engaged. I felt my stomach drop and I knew in that moment there could be no other for me.”

At this, Mr Darcy kissed his wife again. After a time, Elizabeth pulled away, biting her lip. “So, that time we fell asleep in the Netherfield library... you were already in love with me?”

“Yes, I knew you would take yourself there at some stage. And as you couldn't visit me in my room, I resolved to stay in the library where I knew I would see you.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Did you dream of anything whilst there?”

“I dreamt of you,“ said Mr Darcy teaching his fine down her face. “Did you dream?”

Elizabeth blushed slightly. “I dreamt of you as well.”

So they spent the remainder of that day discussing and recreating their dreams from the Netherfield library and taking them to the logical conclusion.

So, in nine months time to the day, when their first son was born, he was named Ferdinand Bennet Darcy, in honour of the Tempest that brought them together.

Epilogue

As Mr Collins died, Charlotte Lucas never married him. Instead, when Elizabeth invited her family to Pemberley for the summer, she invited Charlotte to join them. At Pemberley, Charlotte met a widower from a neighbouring property. He was a man in his mid- forties, with two young children. His wife had died three years earlier and he sought a wife however, middle-aged, balding men of modest property with two young children did not inspire romantic notions in seventeen year old girls. However, for Charlotte, he was a perfect match with the added bonus that she liked his young boy and girl. Miss Lucas became Mrs Wheeton by the end of autumn. Elizabeth was delighted to have her friends less than ten miles away, and their respective children were close.

Another bonus of having her family at Pemberley for the summer was that Lydia’s single- minded focus on officers was redirected to being horse mad. She spent most of her time riding and she developed such a strong bond with her horse, that Mr and Mrs Darcy gifted the horse to Lydia as a sixteenth birthday present. By the time she was considered old enough to be invited to London at eighteen, she had become an accomplished horsewoman, and attracted the notice of a Major Johnson, whom she married.

They never saw Mr Wickham again, but they did read of his demise some years later. Colonel Fitzwilliam was able to find more information from his army contacts. Mr Wickham had died from an accident. Though Mr Wickham had been found dallying with a sheriff’s daughter the day prior to his ‘accident’, the sheriff deemed that irrelevant to the speedy investigation of his death.

Ten years after the last girl had left Longbourn, Mr Bennet decided to redo the inheritance of Longbourn. He was keen that whomever inherited it would take it as their home. Jane and Elizabeth were both living on their own estates in Derbyshire and neither would uproot their family to return to Longbourn. Kitty had married a successful lawyer in London, who had considered that marrying Mrs Darcy's sister to be a wise business decision. They were very happy in London and clearly would only visit the estate over summer. Lydia’s husband was a major and was himself due to inherit an estate from his bachelor uncle. Mr Bennet decided that Mary should inherit, as she had married a pastor from the neighbouring parish and came home every week to check on her parents.

Mrs Bennet died happy, knowing her daughters were all very well settled and her home would be inherited by her daughters.

A Christmas present for you all. I hope you have enjoyed this story.

Richard Musgrove (1 reply)

alibom32378 — Tue, 06 Jan 2026 19:44:33 +0000

If you are familiar with Jane Austen's letters, you will know that she had a bit of a thing about the name Richard. Of one acquaintance with that name, she notes that his marriage is postponed, presumably until he has found himself a better christian name. Another time, she suggests that she would accept any John or Thomas rather than a particular Richard. All three are contemporary south-of-England euphemisms for 'penis' (Richard=Dick=dick=).

Jane Austen conceived one of her minor male characters as (literally) a dick. The passage, which occurs early on in Persuasion - p76, Penguin Classics edition - is the most calculatedly, deliberately spiteful and vindictive she ever wrote. She does not use the word 'dick' explicitly, of course, but one has to supply it mentally in order to make sense of the passage.

His name is Richard. He has died even before the story begins. He had been "a very troublesome, hopeless son", and his parents had had "the good fortune to lose him before his twentieth year". He was "stupid and unmanageable", and "very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved". He was "nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead".

After eviscerating his character and vilifying his memory, the author concludes that he was, in plain words, a dick; a total dick; and nothing but a dick.

Losing a son before his twentieth birthday is good fortune? Christ. Jane's cousin Eliza de Feuillide's son was severely handicapped, but dearly loved till the day he died; Richard Musgrove was, at least, a functioning adult. The hatchet job is unbelievably savage, and very unusual for Jane Austen. Nothing in the plot of Persuasion necessitates so vicious an assault She might equally well have made Richard Musgrove a likeable, well-meaning simpleton who tried hard without ever succeeding. Was she using the cover of fiction to vilify a detested real person? It would be interesting to know the circumstances behind this, but I don't suppose we ever shall.

NA-tcracker (end) (1 reply)

NN S — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 22:35:12 +0000

CODA: Christmas Morning

The vicarage was a hive of activity on Christmas morning. Mr. Morland had already gone to church to prepare for services with the eldest boys, leaving Mrs. Morland to get the rest of the children ready. With so many bodies to get washed and fed and dressed and brushed, and as the maid had the morning free in honor of the savior's birth, no one noticed if any one child was not already buzzing about.

Catherine threw herself out of bed in a panic. Henry! Eleanor! The Winter Court! Has she seen the sunrise? Would she be allowed to return?

She stumbled into her slippers and scrambled down the stairs. She was desperate to find Henry, to see if he was still large and human-looking or if he was returned to the form of a toy. Mrs. Morland caught sight of her and told her to go upstairs and dress for church; everyone else was nearly ready and some parishioners were surely at the church by now. Catherine protested that she needed to see her nutcracker immediately.

Mrs. Morland had no patience that morning for demanding children who had shirked all responsibilities to sleep in and were going to make everyone else late. She ordered Catherine to go upstairs and get ready in no uncertain terms, and any disobedience would only delay the return of Catherine’s new toy.

With no recourse to a higher authority, Catherine stomped upstairs to don her new dress and braid her hair. She sulked her way across the churchyard and paid no attention to her father's sermon of goodwill and joy. She wanted to race home as soon as the congregation filed out but she was cruelly detained by her mother and forced to smile and endure compliments from her neighbors.

When Mrs. Drossel-Allen approached, Catherine grabbed her hands and started to drag her to the vicarage. Mrs. Drossel-Allen dug in her fashionable heels and insisted that Catherine wait. Only Mr. Drossel-Allen had the correct tools to fix the toy's broken arm, so they would need to wait for him. Catherine’s impatience earned the attention of her mother who sent her back into the church to tidy the hymnals.

By the time she finally entered the vicarage once more, her parents were chatting amicably with the Drossel-Allens and the cricket bat and nutcracker were laid out on the table between them.

“Ah, Catherine, there you are,” said her father. “Come and thank Mr. Drossel-Allen for fixing your doll.”

Catherine rushed forward in full gratitude with her face wreathed in a wide smile but when her eyes fell on the nutcracker all good cheer left her.

“That's not Henry,” she stated.

The adults shared a brief look of confusion before one of them said, “She has named him,” and they all nodded in agreement.

“That's not him,” she said again.

The adults tried to convince her that she was wrong but she was filled with certainty that this nutcracker was not hers. The lapel of his coat was wrong, his boots were too short, and his eyes were utterly without twinkle. She felt herself tearing up, she had lost him. She had lost Henry and, with him, she had lost Eleanor and the Palace of the Winter Court with all its pageantry and splendor.

“My poor child,” said Mrs. Drossel-Allen with true sympathy. “Come sit by me and tell me all about your dear Henry. Tell me, and I will see what can be done about it.”

The other adults let her manage Catherine. The girl sat next to her and quietly told everything: the battle between the toys and the mice; the death of the mouse king; Henry's introduction; the welcome they received at the castle; how beautiful Henry's sister was; all the performers who appeared for the celebration; the promise from seeing the sunrise.

“And did you see the sunrise?” Mrs. Drossel-Allen asked after hanging onto every word.

“I do not know,” Catherine lamented. “I was so sleepy, and I needed to get home but only Henry could take me, and then I woke up in my own bed, oh!”

She would have continued on, getting more and more worked up, but Mrs. Drossel-Allen lightly covered Catherine’s hands with her own.

“Fear not, my dear Catherine, for I am sure you will see him again. If he was gentleman enough to bring you safely home after such a marvelous adventure, he cannot abandon you forever. He is probably only waiting until you are older and able to stay out all night and well into the morning.”

Catherine tried to imagine how old she would need to be for that. It would take years!

“Are you sure, Mrs. Drossel-Allen?” she asked. She desperately wanted to see Henry again, no matter how long it took.

“I am,” said the old neighbor with a firm nod. “Until then, there is nothing for you to do but to be good to your parents and have adventures of your own so that you and the nutcracker will have stories to share. Perhaps Mr. Drossel-Allen and I will take you places with us when we are older.”

“Oh, would you!” cried Catherine. She hugged her neighbor fiercely and felt at peace. She would see Henry again, and Eleanor, and everyone at the Palace. Some day.

And for the present, she would have a merry Christmas.

//THE END//

And that's it for me this year. have a happy whatever you celebrate

-NN

The Mansfield Park Silhouette (no replies)

alibom32378 — Wed, 10 Dec 2025 13:13:18 +0000

Is the MP silhouette an image of Jane Austen? I've found scattered arguments for and against. There are many data to evaluate but, like a good jigsaw puzzle, it's not initially obvious how they fit together. I'd like to suggest a way they might form a coherent picture. I'd appreciate your comments and any relevant links you might be aware of.

Arguments in favour: 1. The Missing Piece

We possess verifiable silhouettes for Jane's sister Cassandra, and for her parents, George and Cassandra Austen, as well as portraits of the brothers. Jane is the only one for whom we have no formal likeness. Does this not seem odd? These likenesses were the equivalent of our family photo album; unless you were well off (and the Austens weren't), a silhouette was the only likeness of a loved one you could ever hope to have. It's conceivable no silhouette of Jane was ever made; but perhaps one WAS made, and went missing, for a reason I will discuss presently. This does not contribute to proof of identity, as such, but it is a material circumstance which is worth keeping in mind, because it establishes a logical space which the MP silhouette would fill.

Arguments in favour: 2. The Scene Of The Crime

The silhouette was found inside a second-edition copy of Mansfield Park (1816), and it can be dated to the period 1810-1820. This justifies a tentative identification; as R W Chapman asked, what other Jane would have her silhouette in such a place? Why would somebody label a silhouette as "Jane", and put it inside a novel written by Jane Austen, knowing it to be some other person? Not conclusive, of course, but definitely a brick in the wall.

Arguments in favour: 3. The Family Resemblance

The facial features are consistent with a recombination of the silhouettes of Mr, Mrs, and Miss Austen, and such as we would expect to see in a sibling of the Austen family. There is the "classical" Austen nose, with a slight Leigh kink towards the tip; below the nose, the somewhat receding line of the Austen mouth features, terminating in a Leigh chin. An AI analysis would be useful here, particularly in comparison with the silhouette found among sundry papers (if I understand correctly) when Godmersham was auctioned in 1983. This second silhouette, possibly a self-portrait c.1815, faces the opposite direction, and the features are not quite perfectly identical, but they are sufficiently alike to be the same person done by a different hand.

Arguments in favour: 4. The Lovable Jane

The superscription "L'Aimable Jane" is definitely a worry. It would appear to have been written by someone who knew Jane, loved her, and either was French, or liked to affect French manners. No prizes for guessing who THAT would be. Jane and Eliza de Feullide loved each other; as Eliza lay dying of breast cancer, Jane's presence was all the comfort she needed; she died while Jane held her hand; indeed, quite possibly, while Jane held her in her arms. It is possible Jane had sometime gifted the silhouette to Eliza, and she had endorsed it "L'Aimable Jane". This would be quite in character. An AI analysis of handwritings would be useful here; unfortunately, though her letters survive, no image of Eliza's handwriting is in the public domain (as far as I know). The book was printed after Eliza's death, so she could not have put the silhouette into it herself; this must have been done by another - husband Henry, or perhaps even Jane herself? She would have treasured such a "memento mei". It may even be significant, that the book was Mansfield Park; like Fanny Price, Eliza was lifted out of obscurity and into a life of privilege. Subsequently, the silhouette was overlooked as the book passed into other hands. It is curious that the two silhouettes date to around the same period - was the second done to replace the one given to Eliza? Or did the existence of two make it possible to give one away?

Arguments against: 1. The Tits Are Too Big

One (female) commentator has suggested that the breasts in the MP silhouette are too generous to belong to one as tall and slender as Jane was reported to be. This is problematic on so many grounds, it is difficult to know where to begin.

(a) There is no law which says tall, skinny women cannot have breasts.

(b) In any case, the breasts in the silhouette are not so big as all that; they are just being pushed unnaturally high by the stays. On bath nights, they must have appeared much less formidable.

(c) With human nature in mind, I assume a silhouette artist might sometimes exaggerate a lady's bust to make her more attractive. In portraiture, length of arm and leg was often exaggerated for this purpose; Emma's sketch of Harriet is criticised for it.

(d) In any case, the "tall and slender" descriptions apply chiefly to young Jane. The silhouette probably dates to her thirties, by which time she may have put on a few pounds.

Arguments against: 2. It Could Have Been A Fanboy/Fangirl Fantasy

It's been suggested an unknown lady's silhouette could have been co-opted as part of a Janeite fantasy-obsession. One must concede that anything is possible but, currently, there are no data to support or imply this hypothesis.

There is no conclusive argument on either side of the question, but the balance of probability points to an identification with Jane Austen. Further advances in AI and DNA analysis will doubtless add more fuel to the debate. We haven't heard the last of this yet!

Rational Woman (no replies)

alibom32378 — Wed, 10 Dec 2025 12:33:42 +0000

Most Janeites know that Jane Austen's favourite authors included Burney, Edgeworth, Johnson, Richardson. There is one author whose influence, I contend, has been generally understimated, acknowledged only by a few of the more perceptive commentators, and directed the course of Jane Austen's creative thinking all of her life. I refer to Mary Wollstonecraft. Jane Austen was familiar with 'A Vindication Of The Rights Of Woman' and, even if she never read more than the introduction, one sentence there influenced her creative thinking more than any other single sentence in English Literature:

"My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them as rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone."

Could anything more typically sum up Jane Austen's creative approach? This sentence alone may have provoked her to revolt against the pathetic, helpless heroine of the Gothic novel. But as a matter of more immediate interest, I'd like to point out that the word "rational" is actually scattered about a dozen times throughout P&P. I've made a list (but unfortunately I did not think to record chapter references):

01 - Caroline Bingley, hoping to impress Mr Darcy, suggests that conversation is a more rational pastime than a ball.

02 - At Sir William Lucas's house, Wickham says Darcy is rational when he wants to be.

03 - Lizzie judges that Wickham has given a rational account.

04 - LIZZIE PLEADS WITH MR COLLINS TO RECOGNISE THAT SHE IS A RATIONAL CREATURE.

05 - In her letters, Charlotte Lucas presents a rationally-softened portrait of life at Rosings.

06 - Mr Bennet says Kitty must behave rationally for 10 minutes every day or he will not let her out.

07 - Jane hopes Lydia and Wickham will live in a rational style.

08 - Lizzie thinks Lydia not capable of rational happiness.

09 - Lizzie concedes it is not rational to hope that Mr Darcy may still love her.

10 - Jane and Lizzie persuade Mr Bennet with rational arguments.

11 - Lizzie judges that Mr Bingley's hope of future happiness is rational.

12 - Lizzie sarcastically describes Lady de B's visit to Longbourn as a rational plan.

I apologise again for not having precise editional or chapter references; but, I do not write for such dull elves who cannot trace these things for themselves...

NA- tcracker (2) (no replies)

NN S — Mon, 08 Dec 2025 19:09:43 +0000

ACT II: Christmas Night

The nutcracker stood up from where he had fallen, dusted himself off, and bowed woodenly. “Miss Morland,” he said when he arose, “I am in your debt.”

Catherine bobbed a curtsey as her mother had taught her. “Nonsense, good sir. Anyone would have done the same. And it was you who rescued me first,” she added with another bob.

The nutcracker continued to dust himself off and with each swipe he seemed to grow taller, less crafted, and more human until he was as nearly tall as Catherine.

“Oh!” she exclaimed needlessly. “How big you have grown!”

“Have I?” he asked skeptically. “You are still taller than me.” He then swiped at his sleeves twice more and was then the same height as Catherine.

“Please stop growing, Mr. Nutcracker. If you keep on, you will soon be too big for the house and will have to move to the stables.” She couldn't even imagine how to explain this to her parents.

“Mr. Nutcracker,” he repeated with a look of distaste. “You must call me Henry, I insist.”

“Did Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen make you out of magic, Henry?” she was unable to prevent herself from asking. She had long suspected the couple of having some touch of witchcraft about them but had never dared to pose the question to anyone who might answer knowledgeably.

“My mother and my father made me,” he replied. “The Drossel-Allens merely rescued me from an unfortunate situation, but I should very much like to return home now.”

This response inspired more questions than Catherine could ask before tripping over her own tongue. She wanted to know how Henry had ended up with the Drossel-Allens, what was his unfortunate situation, who were his parents, what had he been before becoming a nutcracker, and where was his home. Henry sought to satisfy the spirit of her inquiry even though neither could repeat exactly what Catherine had said:

“My home is a palace in the center of an enchanted pine forest. My sister Eleanor stays there to look after it while I am away. It has been a long time since I have seen either my home or my sister.”

“It sounds very wonderful,” said Catherine, hoping for more details.

“It is the most wonderful place in the world!” Henry agreed. “Would you like to see it? Would you like to meet my sister? If we leave now, Miss Morland, I promise I can have you home again before your family misses you.”

The offer was so enticing that there was no way for her to refuse. “In that case, Henry, sir, you must call me Catherine,” she said with another curtsey.

He bowed in response and held out his uninjured arm for her to take. She took it and felt for a moment incorporeal. As they walked -- Catherine was still wearing only one slipper -- they crossed vast distances without a single obstacle, arriving at the edge of a forest in 20 paces. One more step brought them to a frost-coated castle. Henry called up in greeting and the guards who recognized him quickly threw open the doors in welcome.

There was much rejoicing now that the lost prince had finally returned. Catherine was jostled from all sides as people sought to see and touch their missing master. Henry held tight to her, however, and they were not separated until they reached the throne room where the courtiers lined up respectfully on the left and right, leaving the couple unmolested.

At the far end of the throne room was a dais upon which were two chairs and a table between them. In one of the chairs sat the most beautiful girl that Catherine had ever seen. Surely this was Henry's sister as he was the most handsome boy she had ever seen and some things -- like beauty -- ran in the family.

Henry's sister stood up. Catherine half expected her to race down the carpet and hug her brother in joy at their reunion, but a blast of trumpets sounded and Henry regally escorted Catherine to the front of the hall, courtiers bowing as they passed.

When they reached the dais, Henry bowed formally, as befitting the court, and introduced Catherine to his sister, Eleanor, Princess of the Winter Court.

Catherine gave her best curtsey yet. When she rose, Henry told Eleanor that Catherine was a mighty warrior and had defeated the mouse king while armed with naught but a shoe. The assembled crowd as a whole exclaimed over this feat of strength and Eleanor looked at her with wonder.

“It has been long -- too long -- since my brother was home. His return is cause enough for celebration. But to hear that he has brought a champion with him… we must have music and feasting!”

She clapped her hands and music filled the air from an unknown source. With a flurry of servants, the thrones were replaced with a sofa large enough to accommodate the three of them, so quickly that Catherine could barely believe her eyes. Eleanor led Catherine to her seat and one servant handed her a mug of chocolate while another servant settled a blanket across her lap. The floor immediately before the dais was cleared to make room for a troupe of colorful acrobats.

The acrobats were followed by jugglers, who were succeeded by fire eaters, who gave way to dancers and puppeteers. Throughout the amusements, Eleanor and Henry kept leaning into Catherine to share their laughter and observations. Servants presented a constant stream of small plates holding previously unknown treats and a rotating set of cups filled with all manner of teas and drinking chocolates and spiced ciders.

The sights and sounds and tastes, the splendor and magnificence, the warmth and friendliness, it all overwhelmed Catherine’s senses until they could hold no more. Against all the wishes of her heart, her eyes grew heavy and her head began to droop and loll to the side.

Before she could fall fully asleep, a man approached the dais, causing Henry and Eleanor to shift beside her. The cavalier bowed low with a grand sweep of his arm and a hush fell upon the assembly. As he straightened, Catherine could see that his clothes were rather plain compared to the gold and embroidery that embellished most of the clothing worn by everyone in attendance; even the servants had a flash of silver gilding on their buttons. However, what he lacked in wearable wealth he made up for in inherent dignity. He greeted Henry and Eleanor by name and politely referred to Catherine as “Champion,” then bowed once more and asked Eleanor to dance.

There was a murmur at that, as if the request itself was a scandal waiting to come true, but Eleanor merely smiled the most beautiful smile that Catherine had ever seen and took his offered hand.

The musicians, wherever they were, were highly skilled and indefatigable, but now they played slowly and serenely as Eleanor danced with this stranger. They made a charming couple and Catherine was not the only one who sighed as she looked on.

When the music ended with a flourish and Eleanor spun in one last swirl of her skirts, the cavalier escorted Eleanor back to her seat on the dais. In one more act of chivalry he bowed over her hand and kissed it. Eleanor melted into her place on the sofa while the man returned to the anonymity of the crowd.

“Who was that?” Catherine whispered to Eleanor when a gaggle of trained geese began to perform tricks.

“A young man in an unfortunate situation,” the princess sighed dreamily.

The phrase reminded Catherine of something she had heard before. “Henry, you must tell me of how you ended up as a nutcracker with the Drossel-Allens!”

“Must I?” The question caught him off guard. “Yes, I can see why you would be curious but Eleanor has distracted me. We must blame her if I have failed to tell you the story.”

Eleanor tsked at Catherine’s other side. “Your promises are your own responsibility, Henry,” she admonished. “And besides, no one told me that you owed Catherine a story. I cannot be held at fault.”

“May you tell me the story now?” Catherine pleaded. She had to agree that Eleanor’s logic was unassailable.

Henry considered it but Eleanor spoke before he could reply:

“Do not burden our guest with family drama. It is far less entertaining than whatever else we might offer. Surely Catherine would much rather see the sunrise from the Palace of the Winter Court?”

“Sunrise?” Catherine repeated with a furrowed brow. Henry has also promised to have her home before her family missed her which would be at sunrise if not before.

“Sunrise, when seen from the Winter Court, carries with it the certainty stronger than a mere promise that you will return to the castle,” Henry told her. “It is a highly desired favor to witness the sun rise with my sister. Would you like to see it?”

“But my family…” Catherine protested weakly.

“I will take you back before they miss you,” Henry assured her while Eleanor discreetly ordered the servants to open the Eastern shutters.

The shutters were opened and folded away. Entertainers and courtiers shifted their places so that Catherine could sit in her cozy space between the prince and princess and look upon the enchanted pine forest. The night sky was beginning to pale, fading from black to deep blue to lighter still until the tops of the trees were clearly outlined against the coming of a new day.

“Watch for the sun. You must catch the exact moment that it rises above the forest for the magic to work,” Eleanor told her quietly and calmly. The music became more sedate than ever before.

Catherine watched and waited as the distant sky grew lighter. She blinked once, twice against the increasing brightness, and then her eyes held themselves shut for a moment too long and she felt herself slip into weightlessness. With a jerk, she forced her eyes open.

The sun was up, it was morning, and she was in her own bed.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 31 (2 replies)

Anne V — Sun, 04 Jan 2026 10:58:49 +0000

Chapter 31 – November Rain

The next morning, Mr Darcy hurried to the meeting spot. The skies were dark and threatened to start raining at any moment. Mr Darcy sent a quick prayer begging for the weather to hold. He had hoped to propose this morning, but the sight of Mr Wickham made him realise he had to tell her about his history with Wickham, but more importantly, he could not propose with her in the dark regarding Georgiana’s near disgrace. In disclosing all that, he was not certain that he would be able to propose. How does one go from ‘My sister nearly eloped and by the way, will you marry me?’

As he approached the meeting spot, he smiled when he saw his Elizabeth already sitting on the stump, waiting for him. But that smile dropped as he saw her face, which had a pensive look rather than her usual smile.

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth. Have you been waiting long?”

Elizabeth tried a strained smile. “I woke early and could not return to sleep, so I gave up and started my walk earlier today. I’ve only just arrived.“ The discarded apple core suggested that was a falsehood.

He dismounted his horse and he offered his left arm to her, which she hesitated just a moment before taking. Strangely the moment of hesitation hurt. They walked in awkward silence, both wondering how to start, even though both had practiced what they were to say. However, with the other’s presence, and the knowledge of opening wounds, made them both reluctant to begin.

“My Aunt Phillips had a card party last night. She had also invited members of the militia there – your old acquaintance Mr Wickham was there.” She felt Mr Darcy stiffen at the mention of Wickham’s name. “I knew that you were previously acquainted with him when you met us yesterday. Most of the time you are impassive when you meet new people. I have never seen you angry before.”

“Mr Wickham is not a man to be trusted,” was all Mr Darcy offered. He now had the opening he had sought. “Mr Wickham was the son of a very respectable gentleman, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust, naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on George Wickham, who was his God-son, his kindness was liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards Cambridge. This was a most important assistance as his own father was always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to provide him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of his society, whose manners were always engaging; he had the highest opinion of him and he hoped the church would be his profession and intended to provide it for him. As for myself, it has been many, many years since I began to think of him in a different manner. The vicious propensities – the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from my father, he could not guard from a man of nearly the same age with himself and who had the opportunity to see him in unguarded moments which my father could not see. My father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr Wickham was to the last so steady that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow. And if he chose to take orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it was vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year of these events, Mr Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not benefit. He had some intention, he said, of studying the law, and that the interest on one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew Mr Wickham ought not be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance from the church, were it possible that he could ever be in such a situation to receive it, and accepted three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was merely a pretense, and being now free from restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question- of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my father's intentions. I hope you don't blame me for refusing to comply?”

Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “Absolutely not! I am amazed at his audacity, to think that he could ask after originally declining any interest and receiving compensation.” She paused, not sure how he would take what she needed to confess. “I must admit, in seeing both your reactions to each other, my curiosity got the better of me. I expressed opinions no longer my own – with my overwhelming desire to find out the truth, I led him to believe, without specifically stating it, that we were not friends. I gave him the general opinion of the neighbourhood, which you know not to be that good, implying I shared it. I figured if I expressed sympathy towards him, he would be more willing to speak openly. I hope you are not angry with me?” she asked shyly.

He gave a small smile. “Considering the way I acted towards you and the neighbourhood, I cannot blame you. It warms my heart to know your opinion of me has changed.”

“Mr Wickham’s story was very similar, with notable omissions. The parts he omitted in his telling of the story certainly change your opinion of where the fault lies. He did mention that you had said he had forfeited the claim, and he made it sound that the reason was only due to jealousy. I can only marvel at how he can think he can have any claim! How is he completely unable to take responsibly? I saw his face- he truly thinks he has been wronged.“

“I’m not surprised. He has always considered himself entitled to it. Make no mistake- he is a master manipulator. He manipulated my father. He knows how to please- he knows how to look and what to say to get what he wants.”

They were both silent as Elizabeth considered Mr Darcy’s words. “Though I can understand you disliking him for that, I don't think that explains the outright hatred I saw on your face yesterday.”

“You are right – there is more I must tell you. But before I proceed, I must have you promise you will keep the following revelation secret,” said Mr Darcy earnestly.

Elizabeth’s nodded. Whatever comes next must surely be awful if it required secrecy, she thought.

They had reached the top of Oakham Mount. Mr Darcy indicated for them to sit on a fallen log. “After this, every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. My sister, who is ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of myself and my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London, and last summer she went with the lady who pursued over it to Ramsgate. And thither also went Mr Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to be a prior acquaintance between himself and Mrs Young, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived. By her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse. I was at least relieved that I owed the knowledge of the elopement to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother who she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs Young was of course removed from her charge. Mr Wickham’s chief objective was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds, but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.”

Elizabeth could hardly believe the depravity of the man who had all the appearance of goodness. She marvelled at how he could lie so easily and look to be the innocent party. “I now understand your anger at seeing Mr Wickham again for the first time after that incident.” She thought of how Mr Wickham had described Georgiana, painting the poor innocent girl as a villain. “How is your sister? She must have been heartbroken.”

“She naturally is a kind and trusting person, but afflicted with shyness. To have this happen had shaken her faith and she has retreated heavily into herself. Her confidence, which wasn't high to begin with, has been destroyed entirely. Her new companion, who we did careful reference checks on, is working to build her confidence up again. She is improving-I can tell from her letters, but there is still a long way to go.”

Elizabeth shook her head in sympathy. Another thought struck her. “I take it Mr Wickham’s main motivation is money?”

“His own pleasure is his driver, which is fueled by money.”

“When we first met him, he was distinctly taken by Jane and tried his best to subtly gain her attention. He desisted when he learnt of her engagement. I've often seen men taken by Jane’s beauty, so I thought nothing of it at the time. But last night he made enquiries into the death of my cousin. When we met, he had already heard of the rumours of Jane becoming the heir to Longbourne. So his interest in her was then stemmed purely from greed and the attempt to secure himself a fortune. And then his attention to me last night, he probably figured that if Jane was heir to an estate, I probably had some level of dowry.”

“What’s this about your cousin passing?” asked Mr Darcy in some confusion.

Elizabeth updated him on what she knew on her cousin’s probable death. “But please speak no more of it. It hasn't been confirmed that it is my cousin, and for all I know, he is happy at Hunsford parsonage. And even if he has died, there may still be a living male heir to inherit Longbourne.”

Mr Darcy shook his head in amazement, then laughed. “Caroline was rather degrading of Jane’s lack of wealth. It is ironic that Jane is now worth more than her. But she will be happy and will gloat all over London about her brother securing an heiress.” He looked towards Elizabeth, who was still pensive and stand-offish. He could tell something was still bothering her. Then a little detail she had said earlier struck him. “Did you say that your cousin was the parson at Hunsford parsonage?”

“Yes. Mr Wickham informed me that your aunt was his patroness.”

“Yes, she wrote to me a while ago saying that she had a new parson. So he is...was your cousin?”

“Yes. Mr Wickham then said something of which I can't reconcile any good reason for him to lie.” She paused to gather herself. In a strained voice she continued. “He said you were engaged to your cousin.” Elizabeth hung her head, not daring to look at Mr Darcy as he responded.

Mr Darcy was annoyed by Wickham’s gossipy tongue, but then he realised that Elizabeth ‘s distant behaviour was driven by her belief in his being engaged elsewhere. “Though my Aunt would like it to be so, there is no engagement, nor will there ever be.” Hope swelled inside him.
Elizabeth didn't realise how large the smile was that graced her face, but Mr Darcy Elizabeth. "But why would he imply such a thing?”
“To kill any interest any attractive ladies in the area might have for me and turn it towards himself, would be my guess. But truthfully, my Aunt has long wanted me to marry my cousin, and had claimed that it was agreed between my mother and herself. Neither of my parents ever informed me of it and it has been driven most consistently by herself.”

“But your cousin....does she want to marry you? Will she be disappointed?”

“We spoke of it long ago. My cousin’s constitution is weak. She does not believe herself capable of bearing children, nor does she want to risk it. She is terrified of the thought of marrying anyone. Even if she were healthy, we are to much alike – we are both too reserved. And even if we did marry, I would not willing put myself further under my Aunt’s influence. As my aunt, she feels entitled to advising me how to run my estate. I can't imagine how much worse that would be if I became her son- in- law.” He had watched Elizabeth the whole time. The more he explained, the more relieved she looked.

The playful look returned to her face. “That is good, for it would be most improper for me to be meeting an engaged man like this.” As if it were a signal to remind them of the impropriety of their situation, the clouds that had been threatening rain all morning, finally gave way. A couple of spits was soon followed by a drizzle. Elizabeth immediately stood and was about to walk away.

Mr Darcy stood as well. ‘This is it,’ thought Mr Darcy, his mouth suddenly dry. He instinctively took her hand and looked into her eyes as she tilted her head to look up at him. “Elizabeth I know you did not think much of me at first and I hope I have changed your opinion. I will lay it all on the line. My feelings will not be repressed. I must tell you how ardently I admire and love you. Will you do me the greatest honour and consent to be my wife? Will you be mine?”

“My opinion is so different to what it was before I came to Netherfield. It was when I thought I had no hope did I realise that I was in love with you. Yes, Mr Darcy, yes, I will be yours,” she said, smiling as she looked up at him.

He could no longer resist the lips he had dreamed of kissing. He bent his head down and his lips met hers. A kiss that was tentative at first, but then deepened. They stood together in the rain, his arms wrapped around her waist and hers were wrapped around his neck. He ignored the water that trickled down his cheek, but he pulled away as he felt her start to shiver. His hand went up to herface and wiped away a rain drop on her cheek. “I should get you home so that you get out of this rain.”

Elizabeth sighed in contented happiness. “Must we? We are all alone here and I am not quite ready for the circus that will start once our engagement is announced.” She looked up and fluttered her eyelashes in mock innocence. “I want to enjoy your company on our own for a little longer. It is only a little November rain.”

“If you want to love me then, darling Elizabeth, don't refrain.” With that, their lips met again.

However, he could not ignore the fact that her dress and coat, heavy though they were, were getting wet. The dream he had had in the Netherfield library came to mind, and he realised they absolutely could not stay like that without permanent damage to their reputations. He pulled away. “I should return you to Longbourne. I doubt your mother would like it if I was the cause of your developing a cold.”

She nodded in agreement, with a big contented smile on her face. The smile fell when he led her to his horse, and told her to get on. She would have protested harder, except the rain started to bucket down. Without further ado, he hosted her onto his horse and mounted the horse behind her, a secure hand around her waist.

For Elizabeth, who had developed an aversion to horses after having been thrown-off the last time she had ridden a horse, her fear subsided the moment Mr Darcy’s arm was around her and his soothing voice murmuring in her ear. She marvelled that she had never felt so safe as she did at that moment.

And with that, Mr Darcy kicked his horse into a trot towards Longbourne.

Please imagine them riding off to the ballad section of November Rain by Guns and Roses, and not the rock part at the end. Select lines for this chapter were taken from the song. The alternate name for this story could have been November Rain or the Tempest.

NA-tcracker Suite (1/3) (no replies)

NN S — Fri, 05 Dec 2025 00:37:05 +0000

The NA-tcracker Suite

Blurb: Nutcracker AU for Northanger Abbey. Young Catherine is given a nutcracker doll at a Christmas Eve party. The doll is broken during the party and her parents confiscate it until it is repaired. At midnight, she sneaks out of bed to see her doll, and has a magical adventure, to the music of the Christmas ballet, "Nutcracker Suite.”

Rather than trying to rewrite a Christmas carol this year, I found inspiration in The Nutcracker.

ACT I: Christmas Eve

The largest home in the cozy village of Fullerton had always been Fullerton Hall, which had been inhabited by the Drossel-Allen family for as long as there had been a Fullerton Hall to inhabit. The hall had passed through many generations over its long life but at last the only members of that family were Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen, a childless couple.

Having realized that a large and happy family was beyond their natural abilities, the dear couple decided against adopting only one or two heirs from distant cousins. Instead, they devoted themselves to helping all mankind through invention and discovery. To that end, the nursery and most of the family bedrooms in Fullerton Hall were converted into workshops, and the summer and winter sitting rooms became laboratories.

While Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen’s renovations helped make them successful inventors, they were rather poor hosts. As such, the primary hosting duties for village gatherings fell upon the vicar, the Reverend Mr. Morland. Mr. Morland, along with his wife and many children, made the vicarage a welcoming and approachable place for everyone.

It had become the tradition that most of the congregation would remain in the church after Christmas Eve services rather than gather in the churchyard while Mrs. Morland and her trusted lieutenants would march to the vicarage to finish preparations for Fullerton’s Christmas party. After one half-hour, the town would then walk the short distance to the vicarage which had been transformed into an even more lively and festive home than usual. Mr. and Mrs. Morland would invite the congregation to celebrate the birth of their savior, Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen would also make a speech of gratitude and friendship, and the servants would bring out bowls of punch and plates of nuts and sweets. The Drossel-Allens paid for everything and also brought gifts for all the children in the village which they handed out with much pomp and circumstance. A gift from Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen was always a curiosity; even the balls and stacking blocks they gave were made in their own workshops and far more clever than could be acquired elsewhere.

This Christmas, Mr. Drossel-Allen handed young James Morland a cricket bat. Under any other circumstances, no such child should receive a gift like that at a crowded party, but as the Reverend’s eldest son, no one expected James to misbehave, not even when his eyes grew large as saucers and a small smile curled his lips. Mrs. Drossel-Allen handed young Catherine Morland a doll box that revealed a handsome nutcracker when opened. Catherine, the Reverend’s eldest daughter, hugged the toy tightly to her chest and babbled effusive thanks to her neighbor.

Other gifts were handed out: more dolls, some toy swords, puzzle boxes, and noisemakers. The sound of children at play might have been deafening had the generations mixed, but everyone has previously agreed that the adults would remain on the ground floor while the children went upstairs for their play.

As the night crept on, the conversations grew more boisterous although no grownups acted in a way that would earn censure or an unwanted morning call from Mr. Morland. The children, however, had gathered in the lumber room where they became increasingly more rowdy without their parents watching. The majority decided to employ their toys in a military campaign and began to divide into two camps for a makeshift skirmish. James and Catherine Morland fell into opposite sides of the battle.

The conflict waged through several fantastical events and divine interventions. It culminated in James taking a mighty swing at Catherine with his cricket bat-shaped sword. The mortal blow was only blocked by the timely intervention of her heroic nutcracker. With a reverberating snap, the nutcracker’s arm broke and Catherine began to wail.

The noise was loud enough to disrupt the adults’ revels and they came rushing up to the attic to discover the cause for alarm. Seeing children and toys scattered about in various tableaus of military savagery with young Miss Morland sitting in the center of the chaos and clutching her broken doll to her chest, the parents all began to gather and berate their sons and daughters.

Mr. Morland called for quiet and then begged his daughter to tell him if she was injured. Thankfully, it was only her heart that was broken. The reverend then continued, asking for details until he understood that it was his own son that had broken the nutcracker. Rather than scold or punish his children in public, he suggested that it was time to wrap up the festivities and go to bed.

The adults took their cue and herded the children down the stairs to fetch their coats and scarves before walking home in the darkness.

All except Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen, who had remained behind. They coaxed the broken nutcracker from Catherine and discussed the possible options for a cure.

In the near silence, Mr. and Mrs. Morland apologized to their friends and patrons that the young people had so abused their gifts.

“Ah, but these are toys, my friends,” said Mrs. Drossel-Allen. “They are meant to be played with. There are people who would think it a compliment for the children to put these gifts on display in a prominent location where all may look upon them and none may touch them, but we made them to be used. That they gave the children such joy, albeit for a brief time, is my satisfaction.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Drossel-Allen, “you must not speak as if all is lost. The arm is broken, yes, but at the joint. It is an easy job to repair this kind of break. I daresay, I have everything in my apron pocket at home. Mr. Morland, you must let us call upon you tomorrow for the purpose of fixing this brave little nutcracker!”

Mr. Morland hesitated for only a moment but it felt exceedingly long to Catherine before he acquiesced. The girl was so relieved for the sake of her poor nutcracker, that she barely registered her father's next words that he would confiscate both toys until Mr. Drossel-Allen had completed his repairs. James’ loud complaints made her understand that she would need to surrender her nutcracker and would not see him again until well after Christmas morning!

Her eyes filled with fresh tears but Mrs. Drossel-Allen leaned down and petted her head. “Oh, Catherine, do not weep. You must be strong for your nutcracker! He would not want you to be sad for his sake. Come, dry your eyes and give me the ribbon from your hair.”

Catherine took a stuttering breath, untied her ribbon, and handed it to her neighbor. Mrs. Drossel-Allen took the ribbon and wrapped it around the nutcracker's broken arm to make a sling.

“Give him a kiss,” she instructed and Catherine kissed his forehead much like her mother had done whenever Catherine had injured herself.

Mrs. Drossel-Allen then handed the doll to Mrs. Morland who had already collected the cricket bat, and the two guests finally departed the vicarage.

James and Catherine and all their siblings were then sent to bed to spend the long winter night dreaming and pining for their toys.

.o8o.

Catherine woke to the last chime of the clock. It was quarter to midnight, and she missed her nutcracker.

She knew that she was not allowed to take the toy to bed with her, but she was so worried for him. After Mrs. Drossel-Allen had bound his arm, Catherine realized that the brave doll must be in a great deal of pain. Perhaps, if Catherine was not permitted to nurse him back to health in her own room, she might go downstairs and attend him there.

Quietly, she got out of her bed and donned her robe and slippers against the winter chill. Then she slowly crept from the room and down the stairs. She looked about for him in the various rooms. The Christmas decorations and the furniture rearranged for the party made it difficult to find him in the darkness.

Catherine eventually circled back to the grandfather clock in the front hall and tried to read its face. It looked like it was a few seconds before midnight but every time the second hand ticked forward, it was then pushed back by a matching force. Curious!

Oh, but surely not! Catherine must not have been looking correctly. She took another step and centered herself in front of it. A few seconds passed, and then came back. The fantastic impossibility of the scene made her gasp, and with that noise the clock ticked forward but did not tock back again. The chimes began to sound and count out midnight. And the downstairs erupted into activity and noise.

Creatures scampered past her feet and she spun around to catch sight of them. The sound of swords slipping from scabbards came from the front sitting room. A muffled crash came from the dining room. The rhythmic sound of marching, and the cadence call to keep the steps in order came from both sides before two advancing armies appeared before Catherine.

To her left was an army of mice led by what must be their king, his sword raised and glinting sharply even in the dark.

To her right was an army of toys led by her own precious nutcracker, wearing her ribbon like a medieval favor around his arm.

At a squeak of command, the mice began their attack. The toys rushed forward to defend at a clack from the nutcracker's jaw. A melee followed and numerous were wounded on both sides.

Catherine called out in alarm as she saw old toys broken but her truest concern was for the newest gift from Mr. and Mrs. Drossel-Allen. When the nutcracker engaged the mouse king directly, Catherine clutched her hands together and whispered encouragements to her champion.

Alas, the mouse king was a superior fighter. Perhaps this was because he had been trained from the royal cradle in the art of war. Perhaps it was because Catherine’s dear nutcracker was injured. Or perhaps it was because the nutcracker was not a soldier after all. Nevermind the reason, the result was that the mouse king soon had his opponent pinned and prepared to deliver a killing blow.

With no other thought than to protect, Catherine took off one slipper and hurled it at the mouse king. She had spent a few summers playing cricket with the other children and her aim was true, striking the king between his eyes, and he fell down dead.

A hush fell upon the ~~field~~ rug of battle as mouse and toy alike took in the sight of the dead sovereign. They slowly turned to look upon Catherine and she wondered how much trouble she was in now.

Before any cheers or gnashing of teeth erupted, however, the clock at her back struck the quarter hour. At this signal all combatants disappeared from the front hall, even the wounded and the dead. By the time that the clock faded into silence, it was only Catherine and her nutcracker.

Was Charlotte Lucas Gay? (3 replies)

alibom32378 — Sat, 13 Dec 2025 12:02:06 +0000

I posted this message, originally, on another website which is now defunct. Comments were few. I post it again here in the hope of fresh commentary.

Did Jane Austen conceive of Charlotte Lucas as a lesbian? The next time you dip into P&P, carefully examine every conversation, every transaction, every authorial comment involving Charlotte, and ask yourself: could this woman be in love with Elizabeth Bennet? What is her subtext when she tells Lizzie, you mean as much to me as my own father and sister? Why is she so anxious to keep up the friendship after Lizzie, deeply disappointed in her, seems inclined to let it drop? What does it imply, that she has "no high opinion of men or of matrimony"?

I hope no-one will dismiss this as some fashionable, new-age interpretation of Dear Auntie Jane's text; there is nothing 'new-age' about lesbianism, or bisexuality, which category includes myself; Jane Austen understood the facts of life very well indeed.

Why would Jane Austen imagine Miss Lucas as a lesbian? The first, short answer would be: because she could! Her sense of humour was mischievous and broad-minded. This is an author, remember, who could give us at least three - possibly as many as five - major female characters bonking outside of marriage (the Bertram sisters; Lydia Bennet; Lady Vernon; Isabella Thorp). She could crack a joke about Lydia Bennet going on the game, put a smutty joke about "rears and vices" into Mary Crawford's mouth, and make off-colour wordplay with the names 'Richard', 'John', and 'Thomas' in her letters. She spent a significant chunk of her life in bed with other women. She understood.

The second answer might be: because it softens the implications of Charlotte's marriage to Mr Collins. He is repellent, but comfortably-off, well-connected, and future master of Longbourn. Moreover, he is not romantic, and seems unlikely to make excessive amorous demands (so Charlotte might reason). An aversion to heterosexual intercourse would probably be interpreted by him (she would hope) as a becoming, virtuous distaste for carnality. Thus he might be encouraged to moderate his demands even further. For a 27-year-old lesbian contemplating a lifelong spinsterhood in genteel poverty, such a "lie back and think of England" marriage might not seem like such a bad option; and I hope naive, idealistic Lizzie would (eventually) overcome her prejudice and forgive her for taking it.

Something JA (bless her) did not understand about sex... (4 replies)

alibom32378 — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 12:28:45 +0000

Mr Knightley fell in love with Emma when she was 13 years old. He was 30 at the time. In most jurisdictions today, that is pedophilia; but we overlook that, because it was no such thing in Jane Austen's time, when the legal age for female marriage was 12. This was only pragmatic; a girl might become pregnant at that age; there had to be a path to respectability, and avoidance of the taint of illegitimacy.

What Jane almost certainly didn't know, but we do today, is that Emma would not reach her sexual peak until her early 30's, when Mr Knightley would be fiftyish, and quite possibly suffering early-stage age-related impotence. He would certainly be 30 years past his sexual prime.

Could Emma have been tempted to dally, then, with some young stud? Would Mr Knightley have consented to look the other way, knowing it was only a dalliance, and that he was secure in Emma's love?

The Cassandra Sketch (no replies)

alibom32378 — Sun, 30 Nov 2025 06:59:48 +0000

The Cassandra sketch is famously the only frontal image of Jane Austen we have. A number of commentators have said this Jane is seriously annoyed. She resents being made to sit still while her sister draws her likeness. Defensive, cross, she folds her arms and stares sulkily into the distance.

Apple sauce. It is too far out of character, for both women. Would Cassandra force her sister to sit still, like a naughty child, and then deliberately sketch "Angry Jane"? Would that be the kind of sketch the Austens would love to hang on the wall and look at every day? If Jane were not in the mood, would she not have explained that to her sister, and ask to put it off till another time? Or, if Cassandra were really so assertive, wouldn't she insist that Jane adopt a more elegant pose and look at her properly? None of it makes any sense.

Let us take another, more careful look at the sketch, and see what we can deduce from the detail.

The first clue to a proper interpretation, ironically, is the chair. You can just see the back of it around Jane's right side. It does not look like a sitting-room or occasional chair; it is more likely a kitchen or dining-table chair. The setting, then, is probably a mealtime (as far as we know, Jane never used the dining table for writing; it was not sufficiently private; also, she had a writing-desk). The meal has just ended, or perhaps is between courses. Jane is relaxed, sitting back in her chair. She has folded her arms, as one does at such moments. From across the table Cassandra is sketching her; evidently, Jane does not object. The conversation is flowing, and she is giving her attention to someone on her right. She is amused. Look at that face (second clue) - are you sure that is a frown? Is it not rather an incipient smile, such as every face wears at a convivial dinner party? This was surely typical Janey, gorgeous Janey, and Cassandra could not resist to capture it. It is unfortunate that nobody approved of the likeness (evidently, a "driver's licence" image!). Nevertheless, there must be a reasonable resemblance, or Cassandra would not have gone as far with it as she did.

Jane Austen was said to be very 'conversible'; her chat was witty, lively, and interesting. But she took equal pleasure to listen and observe - as she is doing in this sketch.

Lady Susan - is it worth reading? (5 replies)

sunnniecornwall — Wed, 03 Dec 2025 23:11:18 +0000

Questions regarding Lady Susan come up constantly on social media. 'Is it worth reading?' 'Why isn't it the same as Jane's other novels?' 'The heroine is very different kind of person as Jane's other heroines' etc. etc. What we have to remember is that Jane never put this novel forward for publication when she became successful. She wrote this as a teenager and had not yet quite found her feet as an author so she copied a style she herself admired, i.e. writing a story in letter form. That doesn't mean it isn't any good. It's actually quite astonishing to realise that a young girl could have such insight into adult behaviour and relationships. The character of Lady Susan can only be described nowadays as “a self centred bitch”! whose behaviour is quite shocking and certainly controversial. In contemporary Western times we are not likely to be comfortable with the mother/daughter relationship portrayed here.
Lady Susan Comes Alive was written by Gillian Hiscott during Covid shutdown because she felt that a contemporary reader's first impression of Lady Susan as written by Jane might not highlight just how deep and clever it is and that expanding the storyline would give it more clarity. The intense scrutiny of society needed from a teenage girl to produce this is much to be admired.
Relevant professional English actors were also contacted to help produce a recording for an audiobook – one reading the main story and each character reading their “letters”. So although there is a complete book which can be purchased from Amazon it is also split into 3 parts mainly for the purpose of reading alongside the audio book which can be accessed
on Amazon by searching under Gillian Hiscott or via website gillianhiscott.weebly.com

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 30 (5 replies)

Anne V — Sat, 29 Nov 2025 01:34:31 +0000

Chapter 30

Jane came to Elizabeth’s room after she was ready for bed. Elizabeth was sitting in front of her mirror, staring unseeingly into it. “Lizzy, I can tell that something is wrong. Did Mr Wickham say something to upset you?”

“Oh Jane,” said she and then proceeded to tell Mr Wickham’s sorry on the denied inheritance.

Jane listened with astonishment and concern. “I cannot believe that Charles has been put upon by Mr Darcy. They've known each other for such a long time, so he cannot be blind to that. Yet, I cannot believe that Mr Wickham, who appears so very amiable, could be lying. They have both been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them without actual blame on either side.”

Despite Elizabeth’s troubled mind, she smiled at her sister. “Very true, indeed;- and now, my dear Jane, what have you to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear them too, or we will be obliged to think ill of someone.”

“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively decided in him? Oh, no.”

“That is the crux. He gave me names, dates and facts without ceremony. There was certainly truth in his looks-I have no doubt that he believes himself to be hard done by. Yet there were words he said here and there. He didn't seek legal redress and he claimed Mr Darcy had said that Mr Wickham had forfeited the claim. I think I have only half the story. And Jane, Mr Wickham is someone who I have known for less than a day- why is he telling me this story at all? It tells of spite, even if it was missing from his face. It is not a story a gentleman would tell to a lady, not after such a short acquaintance.”

“I would think the answer simple then. Ask Mr Darcy when you see him tomorrow morning to get his side of the story.”

Elizabeth blushed. “How did you know I would see him tomorrow?”

“You’ve walked out with him every morning for the last week. You disappeared yesterday morning- did you really think that I would think that you had not met him on your walk?”

Elizabeth hung her head and was quiet. Jane waited patiently for Elizabeth to continue. “It shames me to say that if it had not been for the last week with Mr Darcy, I probably would have believed Mr Wickham. I hate to think that I would not have been so discerning as to see the impropriety of the confession, nor the hypocrisy. If I did not know Mr Darcy as well as I do now.....” she left the rest of it unsaid. She felt ashamed at her previous pride at her ability to judge character.

“This isn't everything that disturbs you. This would not bring you to tears in the carriage,” said Jane gently.

Elizabeth tried to talk, but the wall of tears she had held back now spilled forth. “Mr Wickham said that Mr Darcy is expected to marry his cousin,” was all she managed to choke out.

Jane put her arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders as Elizabeth sat at the mirror and sobbed quietly. “You love him, don't you?”

Elizabeth nodded. It took some time for her sobs to settle down. Elizabeth found a handkerchief and blew her nose. When she could eventually talk, she said “I knew I needed to guard my heart around him; that someone with his wealth would be expected to make a good match; that one like him could never stoop to think of someone like me. And just as I realise I love him, it is all hopeless. It's my own fault. He is promised to another.”

Jane looked uncertain at this. “Can you rely on Mr Wickham’s information? If you've discounted some of his story, should you not discount this as well?”

“This is the part that is most believable and expected. What does he have to gain by saying it?”

“How does he know? Even by his own emission, he would not have seen Mr Darcy for a few years. If that is the case, wouldn't Mr Darcy be married by now?” Elizabeth nodded at that logic and Jane noticed that she seemed to calm down. “How would Mr Wickham know if the engagement still stands? Many things can happen that could terminate it. And if he was engaged, wouldn't Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy’s best friend be aware of it? I can't imagine how hurt he would be to not know if it.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “How do you know that Mr Bingley doesn't know?”

“We spoke about the possibility of your marriage,“ admitted Jane.

Elizabeth stared into the mirror and sighed. “I don't know. You've given me hope but I'm still afraid.”

“There is only one thing for it,“ said Jane. “As his friend, you need to ask Mr Darcy for his side of the story. You owe him that.”

I've collated and archived these posts but (2 replies)

BTroisi — Tue, 02 Dec 2025 20:08:44 +0000

I can find your collected story by using the search function but Where is the index to see and access those stories??
(The ANI equivalent to the Epilogue Abbey index?)
(I didn't set up this website so I'm not familiar with it's far nooks and crannies)

thanks

Posts upto November 18th have been collated and archived (2 replies)

BTroisi — Mon, 24 Nov 2025 18:49:29 +0000

as always, if you find any errors, let me know.

Do NOT underestimate Eliza de Feullide! (no replies)

alibom32378 — Wed, 19 Nov 2025 14:37:06 +0000

There is a consensus among Jane Austen commentators that Eliza de Feullide was a mental lightweight, an airhead; "vain and frivolous" and "giddy" are adjectives I have seen. What a sad failure of critical judgement that is! A woman who - risking the guillotine - bluffed her way out of Revolutionary France, with a lame-duck English husband in tow! An assignment worthy of James Bond himself. She had something more than luck going for her. If she could make Jane Austen love her too, she must have had even more going for her.

Jane Austen didn't like people easily. She definitely had NO time for airheads or moral degenerates. She set the bar of friendship high. To qualify, you had to be "rational" (one of her favourite words) - grounded, sensible, clear-thinking. You also had to be intelligent, well-informed, and interesting; and of course, a highly-developed sense of moral values was essential.

That Jane Austen loved her so well is all the evidence we need that Eliza possessed these qualities in abundance. She did indeed love the social whirl; not because she was dizzy, but because it was FUN. She was an incorrigible flirt; not because she was flighty, but because it was FUN. To confuse flighty behaviour with character is a common mistake.

In their love of flirting and good company, Jane and Eliza were so much alike. They probably shared many a giggly secret together, after the ball. But within the Austen family there is never so much as a whisper that Eliza was immoral. Jane, particularly, prided herself on her ability to "sniff" an adulterer; had she suspected Eliza, her brother's wife, she would not have countenanced friendship for a second.

There was nothing giddy or superficial about Eliza. She had known terror and tragedy. To what extent her personality was driven by post-traumatic stress disorder, or a wanderer's need to fit in, or both, is an interesting question. We do not know what dreadful sufferings she may have revealed to Jane, in private conversation. We do not know what final words she spoke to Jane, whose hand was the only hand she wanted to hold as she lay dying. We do know that she was an independent-minded, "liberated" woman, and the loving mother of a handicapped child; a female dynamo who loved life, but gambled her life to save her husband a jail term. Her story is the stuff of novels. What a crazy diamond of a woman she was! And Jane Austen loved her.

A Ring by Spring (2 replies)

Zander C. — Thu, 27 Nov 2025 19:56:50 +0000

Summary: Lizzie Bennet is a highly accomplished senior English major attending the University of Texas at Austin. With just a semester and a half left, Lizzie has her sights on finding the best graduate program and finishing with a 4.0. However, when a group project about Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility results in her being in a group with the mysterious and wealthy Will Darcy, she may just find herself with a new priority.

Mr. Bennet returned his phone to the charger and then returned to his seat next to his wife. She was watching the news, nervously rubbing her palms together as an economist discussed the inflation rate and its impact on the price of cherry tomatoes and golden potatoes. Mr. Bennet sighed, leaning into the sofa.

“What’s the matter dear?” asked Mrs. Bennet, her attention still on the TV.

“Lizzie is going to have to stay late again today.”

“If she stays any later,” Mrs. Bennet lifted up the remote and changed the channel to a local traffic report, “she is going to get stuck in all that ‘weird’ Austin traffic.” Relating the report was a thin man draped in a chartreuse suit gesticulating at pillars of cars slowly inching their way forward. The sun was already setting, and the brake lights were morphing into a great red snake. Mrs. Bennet's palm rubbing intensified.

Mr. Bennet shook his head. Upstairs, the strained, choked calls of a trombone leaked from Mary’s room. Her trombone was out of tune, and it quickly engendered a spat of yelling from Mr. Bennet’s younger two daughters, Kitty and Lydia. They were twins and deadset on using their free time to call friends and doomscroll.

“Did she say why she has to stay late?”

“She has a new group presentation to manage.”

“A group project!”

“Why is that exciting?”

“Are her group members boys by chance?”

“My dear, you know Lizzie hates it when you tease her about that sort of thing.”

“Mr. Bennet, are her group members boys or not.”

He sighed again. At times, his wife’s mind seemed to orbit around just one thing: setting up her daughters with the eligible bachelors of Austin, Texas. With any interaction, whether public or private, Mrs. Bennet was curious to know whether or not her daughters were talking to boys and making an effort to secure themselves a boyfriend who then could become a husband and deliver her a great bounty of grandchildren that she could then dote on. In any lull of conversation, the matter of boys was Mrs. Bennet’s go-to topic. In this regard, Lizzie disappointed her. Sure, Lizzie had been valedictorian of her high school, was attending the prestigious University of Texas, and managed a bevy of extracurriculars even while commuting from her home in the suburbs to the city’s downtown, but she had no boyfriend. To Mrs. Bennet, nothing really mattered except that.

“Mr. Bennet, you have to tell me.”

“Well, her professor randomly assigned the groups. She wanted to work with Charlotte Lucas, but instead ended up with that Will Darcy fellow and that friend of his.

“Will Darcy!”

“Yes dear.”

“Oh, if my Lizzie could win his heart, we would all be set.” Through no fault of his own, but rather his family’s immense wealth and political activity, Will Darcy was a man with a sizable internet presence and a man whose activities were well documented. The moment Mrs. Bennet learned he would be attending the same college as one of her daughters, she began following him through every possible digital avenue while daydreaming about the chance that he might meet one of her daughters. She almost jumped through the ceiling when she learned he was getting a minor in English. Now, her exuberance was erupting. Her husband sighed.

“I fear you make too many assumptions. One, I think our Lizzie has much better things to do than deal with this Darcy fellow, and secondly, from what I have heard, he is not suited for our daughter.”

“Oh, Mr. Bennet, is it not a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in college, and a fabulously rich one at that, must be in want of a girlfriend.” Mrs. Bennet returned to the TV with a broad smile, mentally rehearsing what she would say in hopes of pushing her daughter to consider Will as a potential suitor.

Author’s Note: This story chapter is a part of a school assignment where my group and I were tasked with presenting on an item that interacts with the works of Jane Austen. Out of a long list of possible topics, we chose to present on the Derbyshire Writers’ Guild. To help us fully understand and appreciate the Guild, we have all elected to try our hand at contributing to the website. I do apologize if I have made some errors in making this post.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 29 (4 replies)

Anne V — Tue, 11 Nov 2025 11:40:35 +0000

Chapter 29

Elizabeth entered her aunt’s parlour with her sisters for the evening of cards. After exchanging niceties, she found Mrs Long’s niece at her elbow. “I can’t believe your sister’s luck.”

Elizabeth just smiled at the girl. “We are all so very happy for Jane on her engagement.”

“But not just that. To get engaged to one so handsome and rich, and on the same day to become an heiress.”

Elizabeth was stunned at how anyone other than her, her uncle and her father knew of that possibility. Before she could correct the girl, the officers arrived and every females’ attention was directed to the officers, and in particular, all attention went to Mr Wickham. The officers in general were a very creditable, gentlemen like set, but Mr Wickham was as far beyond them in person, countenance, air and walk, as the officers were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, that followed them into the room.

Every woman’s eye was turned to Mr Wickham, and it was Elizabeth who captured his attention. He came to sit by her. “I must admit to being surprised to see you here tonight, but I’m very glad you did come. It was being said there was a death in your family.”

Elizabeth directed her complete attention to him. “May I ask how you came by that information?”

“I believe it was Sanderson. He said that Mrs Goulding was at the church with questions on the wedding and overheard a conversation with your uncle’s clerk and the pastor regarding future Longbourn heirs.” That answered how Mrs Long’s niece had come by the information.

“The truth is a constable came to Longbourne in the attempt to identify a body, which may or may not be our cousin. We were unable to confirm it. But may I ask you to say no more, and if you could quiet your fellow officers from speculation, it would be greatly appreciated. We do not want to say anything, as our cousin at this moment could be at home at his parsonage at Hunsford and would be very put out to know we were mourning his death.”

“And when do you expect to know?” asked Mr Wickham.

“Probably in a few days.”

“And is that when you will go into mourning?”

“My father might acknowledge it. But my sisters and I have never met the man and only knew of his existence a few days earlier. It would not seem appropriate to mourn someone to whom we had no connection with.”

Their conversation turned to more mundane topics like the weather, and Elizabeth wondered at how something so mundane could seem so interesting purely by the skill of the speaker.

The card tables were set out, and he and Elizabeth went to play lottery tickets. Lydia attempted to monopolize his attention for herself, except she became caught up in the game. This left Mr Wickham at leisure to talk with Elizabeth.

“I heard your sister is recently engaged?”

“Yes, to Mr Bingley, who is currently renting Netherfield. He is staying there with his family and friend.”

“How far is Netherfield to Meryton?” asked he.

“About two miles.”

“How long has Mr Darcy been staying there?”

“About a month. I understand he is a man of very large property in Derbyshire.”

“Yes,” replied Wickham; -“his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself – for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from infancy.”

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr Darcy?”

Elizabeth knew that to get the information she sought, she would need to claim less of a friendship than what she had with Mr Darcy. He needed to believe that she was on his side. “I was stuck at Netherfield for a period due to the storm. But I spent most of the days with Mr Bingley’s sisters. He is not an easy person to get to know.” True. She didn't think she had said anything untrue so far. “He had not made many friends here and with his stand-offish ways, the general populace here considers him very proud and quite disagreeable.” Also a true statement, she thought to herself. She had once thought the same. “Of course, he has not helped his cause by refusing to dance with any of the local ladies.”

“I have no right to give my opinion, “ said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish – and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”

“I say no more here than what is the general opinion of the populace, excepting Netherfield. He is not well liked In Hertfordshire. Everybody has been disgusted by his pride.” She felt guilt as she said this. She knew it was the general opinion, but one she no longer shared. “You will not hear him spoken of favourably.”

“I cannot pretend to be sorry,“ said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”

Elizabeth said nothing to this and pretended to be distracted by the game.

“I wonder,“ said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer?”

“I do not know at all; but with the engagement of his friend and the dismal state of the roads, I imagine he will stay awhile longer. I hope your plans in favour of the militia will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh! No- it is not for me to be driven away by Mr Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim to the world; a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in his company with this Mr Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender reflections. His behaviour to myself had been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father. “

Elizabeth listened with interest to understand how the two men had fallen out; but the delicacy of the subject prevented further inquiry. She observed him closely; he looked to be speaking the truth.

Mr Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, “which was my chief inducement to enter Hertfordshire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton has procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church ought to have been my profession-I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.“

“Indeed!”

“Yes- the late Mr Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

"Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”

“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from the law. A man of honour could not have doubts on the meaning, but Mr Darcy choose to doubt it – or to treat it as only a conditional recommendation, and that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short anything or nothing. Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot advise myself of having done anything really to deserve to lose it. I have a warm unguarded temper, and I may have perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sorts of men and that he hates me.”

Elizabeth listened with interest, but she did take special note in his statement that Mr Darcy had believed the claim to have been forfeited, and hence Mr Wickham had no ability for legal redress. She would have to ask Mr Darcy the next time she saw him. She was certain that Mr Wickham had only given half of a story and the half that looked beneficial to himself. She knew Mr Darcy to be an honourable man, so he would not have disregarded his father's will. She considered what response to give that sounded sympathetic enough to keep him talking to reveal more. “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

“Some time or other he will be, but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never set out to expose him.”

Elizabeth thought how prettily he expressed his hypocrisy. “But what,” said she after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough, determined dislike of me -a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe from early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood- the sort of preference that was often given to me.”

“I had not thought Mr Darcy so very bad as this.” She considered her words carefully to still be truthful. The longer she spoke with Mr Wickham, the more she felt like she was somehow betraying Mr Darcy. She tried to show the right amount of belief in Mr Wickham statement with curious questions. “I have seen him be dismissive of others, but I did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!”

Elizabeth was again deep in thought. Mr Wickham spoke as though he believed himself to have been wronged. She thought on how to probe further. “To treat in such a manner, the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father! And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!”

“We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was spent together; inmates of the same house sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My father began his life in the same profession which your uncle Mr Philips, appears to do so much credit to- but he gave everything up to be of use to the late Mr Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by the late Mr Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligation to my father's active superintendence, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of affection to myself.”

“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. Inwards, she thought ‘that a grown man does not take responsibility for himself’. To Mr Wickham she said “how abominable! I wonder that the pride of Mr Darcy had not made him just to you! If from no better motive, that he should be too proud to be dishonest, for dishonesty I must call it.” She looked hard at Mr Wickham, suspecting the dishonesty existed elsewhere, but he looked like all wounded innocence.

“It is wonderful,“ replied Mr Wickham, “for almost all his actions may be traced to pride and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride.”

“Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?”

“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants and relieve the poor. Family pride, and filial pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley house, is a powerful motive. He has also brotherly pride, which with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”

Elizabeth gave credit to his words. He clearly knew Mr Darcy well: Elizabeth knew Mr Darcy was proud, but as she knew him better, she knew that wasn't what drove him. A genuine desire to do right by people was the source, and he was proud of doing that. “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is to much like her brother, very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.”

Elizabeth wondered about his knowledge. Had he not said his last contact with Mr Darcy was some years back- why would he then know of the situation of the sister?

They tried many different subjects, but in the end returned to the first one.

“I am astonished by his intimacy with Mr Bingley! How can Mr Bingley, who seems good humour himself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr Bingley?”

“Not at all. Is he the man your sister is engaged to?”

“Yes, they are perfectly suited to one another. He is a sweet- tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr Darcy is.”

“Probably not, but Mr Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him, but with the rich, he is liberal minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable, allowing for something for fortune and figure.”

They tried several other topics whilst pretending interest in the game. Elizabeth only paid the slightest attention as she thought to what Mr Wickham had previously said. That he knew Mr Darcy well was clear, but his view was clearly jaded. Mr Darcy might appear to only pay consequence to those who he thinks are of worth, so that would mean that Mr Wickham had lost Mr Darcy’s esteem. She knew that Mr Darcy took a long time to build trust and to then open up to people once that trust was built.

Mr Wickham started up. “Did I hear you say that your cousin is the parson of Hunsford? Is his patroness Lady Catherine de Bourg?”

“Why yes, do you know of her?”

“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourg and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently, she is the aunt to the present Mr Darcy.”

“No, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s connections. As of a couple of days ago, I had never heard of her existence before.”

“Her daughter, Miss de Bourg, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”

Everything seemed to stop around Elizabeth and she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Using every ounce of control, she tried to look completely unaffected. She unfolded her arms and made a show of looking at her lottery tickets whilst she regained her control. She scraped for something to ask that would require him to talk. “And what sort of woman is she?”

“Strong willed....” Elizabeth didn't really listen as she thought of some way to move the conversation to some other topic that did not involve Mr Darcy. When he stopped speaking, she was silent for a while before asking him about the damage he'd seen between Meryton and London, and she was glad to force herself to think of other things.

Supper was called not long after, and it was with the greatest relief on Elizabeth’s part that Mr Wickham left her to pay his attention to the other ladies. Lydia and Kitty both claimed his attention. Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who was surrounded by ladies who wanted to do nothing other than talk about her wedding. Elizabeth did not think she could stomach wedding talk, and she knew Jane would pick up on the fact that something was wrong and would wish to discuss it, which Elizabeth did not want to do here. She looked around and found an older married major and decided to seat herself next to him at supper, as she knew he would talk her ear off and she would need to do nothing other than nod at the appropriate time.

As the major spoke, all she could think of was Mr Wickham’s words ‘it’s expected they would unite the estates’. Was it true or a rumour? Mr Wickham had implied he hadn't had much contact with Mr Darcy recently – how could he know? Mr Darcy wasn't married yet. These thoughts swirled around and she was caught between hope and despair. She toyed with the food on her plate. The food was all tasteless and her stomach rebelled at the thought of eating it. She put enough to her mouth to make a show of eating but left half her plate uneaten.

After supper, she stood in the group with Lydia as she knew she would have no need to talk with Lydia commanding all attention to herself.

It was with the greatest relief that the night ended, and she was the first to enter the carriage. She took a corner and stared unseeing out the window as her sisters bundled in after her. Jane sat across from her and cast her concerned looks, whilst Lydia and Kitty twittered away about how each officer looked and what they had said. Elizabeth could not meet her sister’s eyes and a single tear rolled down her cheek. How ironic that the moment she realised she loved Mr Darcy was when all hope was lost.

Are there any North and South fanfiction archives? (1 reply)

Lily — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 17:36:18 +0000

Hello everyone!

Lately I have been looking for North and South fanfictions, inspired either by Gaskell's novel or by the 2004 miniseries. However, there are very few in the bigger fanfiction archives (ao3 or fanfiction.net).

Do you know if back then there were any forum like this one, where people posted their stories? Any websites that may be still active now?

Any help welcome :)

A.I. - AUSTEN IMPERFECT - JaOctGoHoNo 2025 (2 replies)

Jen — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 16:30:07 +0000

A.I. – AUSTEN IMPERFECT – JaOctGoHoNo 2025

The scene – Netherfield Park, the day after Jane Bennet rides over to Netherfield in the rain and becomes ill.

The scenario - Mr. Bingley is beside himself as Jane is ill. He seeks out Mr. Darcy’s recommendation as to what to do. As Jane is too sick to travel home, Darcy councils Bingley to send a carriage over to Longbourn with a note to retrieve one of Jane’s sisters to help lighten her spirits and to help care for her along with requesting a trunk being sent over for each of the sisters.

Bingley thinks this over and decides to ask Mary Bennet to come to Netherfield Park to attend Jane. After having met all the Bennet sisters at the Assembly several weeks ago, Bingley has determined that Mary is the most sensible one of all the sisters and would be best suited for the job at hand.

Darcy has taken a shine to Miss Bennet (Jane). He asks Caroline to sit in Miss Bennet’s room to chaperone as he tends to her care until her sister arrives. Darcy is most proficient in medical knowledge and has started to plan a course of action. He gets the servant, Ben, to aid him by going down to the creek to gather supplies. He then starts the procedure of bleeding her with the leeches that Ben brought up from the creek. He also applies cool compresses to her head and has a roaring fire instilled in her room along with having quite a few blankets brought in.

As Darcy cares for Miss Bennet, he feels a stirring inside him. He thinks that if she beats this illness that Jane might be the perfect mistress for his estate, Pemberley, and the perfect wife for himself. He has never felt this much attraction to a woman before. He, with Caroline in the room as a chaperone, begins to read to Jane as she has her eyes closed. Jane is aware of a deep melodious voice which strangely enough is quite comforting.

Mary arrives and takes over the nursing duties. She immediately disposes of the eeeeeew leeches. She then plies Jane with tea, broth and even a bit of gruel. Mary keeps Jane warm and changes her clothing when Jane’s fever breaks. She allows Darcy to come in and read to Jane under her watchful eye.

Mary is incredibly pleased to be singled out by Mr. Bingley to provide care for her sister and thus she develops a special appreciation for him. Bingley is awed by Mary’s efficiency and finds it quite an attractive quality that he himself lacks. He becomes solicitous of Mary and escorts her to meals and even for walks in the garden when either Caroline or Darcy is available to accompany them.

Suddenly everything goes dark!

The significance - The six of them, Darcy, Bingley, Mary, Caroline, Jane and Ben, all hold hands in a line. They are on a stage, surrounded by theater type seating. But instead of seats they are encompassed by 666 computer screens. The six of them take a “theater” bow while holding hands.

A single booming voice states, “Well done. Move to your reward.” They walk over to where six large tubes containing protein/energy cubes are located. Twelve cubes are automatically dispensed for each performer. After they have taken their “reward” they walk off the stage to prepare for tomorrow’s performance which will be a totally new scene from one of Jane Austen’s books albeit with many creative changes.

These computers along with their Artificial Intelligence had grown so powerful and strong that they had become not the tools to be used but the masters to be catered to. Most humans had become so dependent on them that they had lost their ability to balance a checkbook, make conclusions, do simple math or figure out strategy without consulting A.I. It was only the extremely creative people that were not drawn into the lure of clicking on a screen to find out information or to be told what to do by Artificial Intelligence. With the less creative humans relying so heavily on A.I. technology they became easy to control by A.I. The more creative people were rounded up by computer-created robots and exploited for the amusement of the A.I. computers.

The one thing that Artificial Intelligence lacked was the ability to be creative. Witnessing artistic, creative things became a goal and almost an obsession for A.I. This group of six performers were creative artists/actors. The A.I. computers found that they “enjoyed” being entertained. For some it allowed their circuits to “relax,” for others they could compare the passages in Jane Austen’s books with the performance provided and search for the differences or the “imperfect” parts.

Darcy with thinking of his famous line in chapter 31 of Pride and Prejudice, “We neither of us perform to strangers.” He found this ironic as that is exactly what they were doing, as to what could be more strange than performing for a computer screen! He looked up to where the screens were located, and he felt a shiver go through him. One of the screens was more vibrant than the others and he noticed it had a small eerie smile on it that was barely visible. He worried that if A.I. could master creativity that it might make his troop and himself obsolete. He was struck with a pang of urgency. He and the rest of the group needed to put their heads together to come up with a different scenario for tomorrow’s performance. If all went well, they might just live to see another day.

Pattern Recognition Master and Slave (JAOctGoHoNo) (4 replies)

NN S — Sat, 01 Nov 2025 18:37:11 +0000

Note: this was sideways inspired by the story about training AI to recognize "wolves versus dogs". The sample data had wolves with snowy backgrounds and dogs with snow-free backgrounds, so you can imagine how it went wrong.

AI Pattern Recognition: Master or Slave

Blurb: Sir Thomas and Tom go to Antigua to better manage the plantation but encounter trouble at the customs house. JAOctGoHoNo Challenge 2025. Prompt: Artificial Intelligence. Warning: Character death.

Sir Thomas watched as Antigua grew larger on the horizon. He was desperately looking forward to reaching land and all the benefits that came from being on his plantation again.

One of the first errands on his list was to procure another hat. He had lost two hats in the first three days of sailing, having them torn off his head by an impish breeze and tossed into the ocean. His valet had packed another hat but it was buried in the cargo hold for the duration of the voyage. As such, Sir Thomas was thoroughly brown from the relentless sun.

Young Tom had also gone without a hat and had thrown his own to the waves. He claimed it was in solidarity with his father but Sir Thomas knew better. Tom was getting increasingly difficult to manage, increasingly disrespectful. The man had accidentally addressed Sir Thomas as “Aunt Norris” after one recent lecture. Perhaps time in Antigua would shock some sense into his heir, seeing how a plantation foreman handled a lack of discipline with the lash and branding iron.

Activity on board grew to a fever pitch when the ship reached the harbor. Sailors were in constant motion, calling out to each other as they made their final preparations. Sir Thomas stood to the side and fixed his eyes on the queue of people and goods leaving the harbour area.

“Captain Phillips,” he called out when the man approached, “is that new?” He pointed to the gateway that separated the harbor from the rest of the settlement.

“Aye,” came the answer. “The governor added it after he broke up a smuggling ring. Nothing and no one goes in or out without inspection. I do not give the crew permission to leave the ship in Antigua anymore; it is more trouble than it is worth.”

With relief, Sir Thomas and his son finally disembarked. Their luggage was still in the process of being unloaded but it was all clearly labeled and the captain had promised to have it sent to the plantation by nightfall. Right now, Sir Thomas wanted to make it through the customs gate, perhaps enjoy a drink, and get to his home away from Mansfield to finally refresh himself after weeks of travel.

“Come along, Tom,” he said, not bothering to look directly at his son. Tom would quickly realize the importance of obeying his father in this new place.

The line through the gate was long and the sun beat down on them while they waited. There was depressingly only one line for sailors and passengers, rich and poor alike. There was no special treatment here in Antigua's harbor, let Tom notice that!

At last they entered the building itself and received some relief to see that the queue inside was short. Sir Thomas watched as a finely dressed French lady and her maid were called forward by the lone clerk. The women passed him some papers which he didn't read. Instead, he directed them to stand in front of painted planks that had been propped up against a wall.

Each plank was a different shade. The first was painted a soft pink, like Lady Bertram’s complexion. The last plank was brown, almost black. Between the two ends, the planks were painted in pinks, tans, and various shades of brown from light to dark.

“What is that about?” Sir Thomas asked.

The question had been quiet and mostly rhetorical but the man in front of him answered, “It is the Harbour Master’s latest attempt to combat the abolitionists. I do not think it will work quite as he intends, but we must do something.”

A quick glance at the man convinced Sir Thomas that this was a gentleman, probably another plantation owner although his accent was hard to place.

“What are the abolitionists doing now?” he asked, eager for news that might impact his fortune.

“They have brazenly passed several slaves through the harbour with forged papers of free men. It has reached the point where the clerks cannot rely on anything they receive from us to verify our identities. But the planks do not lie.”

Sir Thomas started to ask for more explanation but the scene in front of him explained it clearly.

The gentlewoman stood in profile before the palest plank and the clerk immediately called her back and stamped her papers. The maid stood in front of a slightly darker plank and the clerk ordered her to move to the next plank and the next until her coloring more closely matched the plank. Rather than stamping her papers, the clerk handed them to a soldier. The maid was then snatched and dragged from the room. She called out to her mistress in alarm but the gentlewoman kept her head. The clerk then folded the stamped papers and returned them to the gentlewoman and directed her through a different door.

“What happens to the maid?” asked Sir Thomas while the clerk moved on to the next person in line.

“Her owner must buy her back or produce documentation that she is already owned,” the gentleman sighed. “It is ridiculous. Who carries a bill of sale with them at all times? I have had to leave more than one in the holding pen overnight because I could not fetch the paperwork before nightfall, but it is cheaper than buying them a second time. And what of those born into slavery? How shall I prove that I own them when I came by them naturally?”

Sir Thomas watched as a dark skinned man handed his papers to the clerk. The man's posture spoke of a life of beatings and knowing his place. The clerk still ordered him to stand in front of the planks and find his match before handing the papers to the soldier and watching him be roughly escorted from the room.

The line moved steadily but slowly and at last the gentleman in front of Sir Thomas wished him good luck and good day as the clerk called him forward.

Tom then leaned into his father and spoke quietly, “If they think I am too dark, will you buy me back?”

What a ludicrous thought! Sir Thomas turned away from the clerk and his new acquaintance to look at his son. “Tom, you are an Englishman. They will never lay a hand on you.”

The expression on Tom's face was not teasing but unnerved, and beneath his sunburn he had a slight pallor. He had never been to the plantation before, had never seen the manual labour which produced the fortune he so carelessly wasted. This trip would be more productive than Sir Thomas had hoped of bringing about a correction in his heir.

The clerk called to them and they approached. Sir Thomas handed over the documents and waited as he had seen others do to be told to stand before the planks.

The clerk told him where to stand. Sir Thomas quickly progressed past the palest planks that were suitable only for gently bred women. As the clerk ordered him to keep moving, he began to feel a frisson of worry. Yes, he was sunburned from weeks at sea, but surely he was not that dark!

Finally the clerk stopped ordering him to move. Sir Thomas looked at the man, conveying in every line and whisker that he was a baronet and an Englishman. The clerk held his gaze, folded up the papers without stamping them, and handed them to the soldier at his side.

It all happened so fast after that. Sir Thomas said, “No!” and started to approach the clerk. One of the soldiers grabbed him by the arm and pushed him to the ground. Tom leapt to his father's defense only to be grabbed and pinned by a different soldier. There they remained, thrashing on the floor, until they could be fully restrained and taken to the holding pen with any others who didn't fit the pattern.

.o8o.

The first envelope to arrive from Antigua contained a warning that Sir Thomas and Mr. Bertram had yet to appear at the plantation even though they were weeks late. Using language clearly meant for the whole family, the plantation foreman tried to convey guarded optimism that the two Englishmen were probably only delayed by an unplanned diversion and would no doubt arrive as soon as the letter was posted. Another letter enclosed within was addressed directly to Mr. Edmond Bertram. Surely it contained the foreman’s more candid concerns but Edmund had not shared it with anyone.

Mrs. Norris was quick to seize on every possible calamity, talking loudly and forcefully to anyone in earshot that Sir Thomas must have died gruesomely. Lady Bertram kept to her room after the second morning, Fanny and Pug by her side. Miss Bertram and Miss Julia Bertram were quite beside themselves, not knowing how to act or what to believe. The nearby parsonage sent their prayers and good wishes, and vague offers to help, but kept away for the first two weeks while the family recovered from the first shock.

When the second envelope was delivered a month later, there was a comfort in certainty that slightly blunted the pain of loss. Sir Thomas was dead; Tom too. The foreman offered few details into what happened, only that there had been an incident at the customs house involving some slaves. The bodies had been laid to rest in the plantation cemetery. A small sachet containing the same earth that they had been buried in was included. In addition, their travelling cases -- still unopened -- and a few personal affects from Sir Thomas’ bedroom in Antigua had been sent to England on the same packet that carried the letter although it would arrive separately.

Mrs. Norris lamented the lack of bodies, despaired that Sir Thomas and Tom were not buried in a properly consecrated graveyard, insisted on a statue to be commissioned for display on Mansfield’s village green, and began to organize a memorial service in honor of her dear brother and nephew.

In a frail voice, Lady Bertram announced that she couldn't possibly attend a memorial, much less arrange one just now.

“No, sister, of course not!” Mrs. Norris agreed. “You must grieve. I only ask that you allow our neighbors to grieve as well. Think no more of it. I will handle it. I will handle everything.”

Having settled matters with her sister to her own satisfaction, Mrs. Norris was unprepared for Edmund to say, “I am sorry, Aunt, but there will be nothing planned just yet. I need to speak with executors and attorneys before anything else. But I will not stop you from having some of your neighbors to tea at the White House if you so desire.”

Mrs. Norris was not pleased to have her nephew upset her plans but he was Sir Edmund now and deserved all the respect and deference she had previously bestowed upon Sir Thomas. And the memorial service was not cancelled, she told herself, just delayed. She could still prove herself useful. Her sister, never energetic, was now nearly prostrate with grief; Mansfield Park needed someone like Mrs. Norris to keep it running smoothly. Sir Edmund would appreciate that!

And perhaps -- of course -- Sir Edmund was right: the family should refrain from any social interactions briefly out of respect for the dead. But Mrs. Norris could still begin planning for what would follow. After a suitable period of mourning, she would need to find Maria and Julia rich and respectable husbands; Mr. Rushworth of Southerton would make a fine catch for either. Sir Edmund would need to settle down as well. They would send Fanny back to Portsmouth as she had overstayed her welcome.

And Mrs. Norris had had her eye on the China room in the family wing for years now. It was time that she moved into her rightful place at the center of Mansfield Park.

THE END

Boo! Happy Halloween to all who celebrate