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My Trip to Austen:: A short story (2 replies)

Stanton Fenwick — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 19:17:03 +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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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

The Kellynch Algorithm (JAOCTGOHONO) (3 replies)

Horridly Lurking Jaro — Sat, 01 Nov 2025 15:36:34 +0000

DNA (Thank you, NN S, for the fun prompt. Appreciate you for organizing! Hope you have a good response and a fun day, Jaro) RA

Blurb: An extremely well-educated baronet's daughter teams up with the 600-year-old ghost of an AI pioneer, and computes some fateful new trajectories. ~Per~

Part Wan: Ghost in the mansion

In Kellynch Hall’s excessively mirrored breakfast room, Anne felt a ghostly shiver. She fetched a warm shawl. While her father was still haranguing her about its unfashionable bulk, Mary ran in screaming.

“Horror! Error! Poooorrrrr!!!”

Anne carefully fetched the smelling salts, at a pace which gave time for Mary to faint into silence and Charles Musgrove to catch up with his wife. He explained.

“Father and I both invested our capital in the same scheme. The bubble burst and we’re ruined.”

“We can’t make room here for 14 people,” said Elizabeth quickly. “My intimate friend Isabella Thorpe is coming for a lengthy stay and cannot be put off.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “We are selling Uppercross Hall and Cottage to complete strangers and departing to live in simplicity in a small cottage. In the Lake District.”

Mary sat up to scream the better. “Farewell,” added Charles.

“Mary, you must stick with your husband,” said Sir Walter quickly. “The footman will see you both out.”

Anne heard her sister bansheeing for a full 10 minutes after the carriage rattled out of sight.

***

Just before dinner, Anne heard a strange tapping behind the mantlepiece mirror—and felt a ghostly shiver. She stepped closer to the fire. While Elizabeth was complaining about having to share the warmth, Lady Russell ran in screaming.

“Fire! Higher! Entire!” she shrieked.

“We can share. We have big fireplaces,” said Anne.

“No, no,” panted Lady Russell, the crow’s feet about her temples increasing even as they watched. “The fire is at Kellynch Lodge! It has burnt to the ground.”

“What shall you do?” asked Sir Walter anxiously. “And how shall I find a tenant for a burned-out hulk?”

“I shall go to Bath,” said Lady Russell haughtily. “And you…”

The footman interrupted with a message. Sir Walter paled as he read. “It is from Shepherd,” he said. “A plague has broken out simultaneously in Bath and London! What about our annual enjoyment?”

Anne fetched some sulfur disinfectant for the fire and made her father stand near it while he ranted. “Stay a minute, Richard,” she said to the footman.

Under the circumstances, Elizabeth could hardly refuse Lady Russell a bed for the night. Long after they had all retired, smelling rather brimstoney, Anne could still hear her sister complaining to her maids.

***

After Elizabeth at last fell silent, a gale began to beat at the windows. Anne gave up on sleep. She headed for the library; she’d just finished The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices, and had her eye on The Method of Finding the Longitude by Timekeepers. But halfway down the grand marble staircase, she felt a ghostly shiver, and a loud creaking started overhead.

Anne ran. KERaaaaashhhh! A wave of mirror shards chased her down the last of the steps, along with the entire roof of Kellynch Hall.

Anne had practiced tree climbing for private reasons of her own. Stopping only to tie on her strongest boots, she made her way through the debris pretty well, rescuing first Lady Russell, Richard and the maids, then her father, and finally Elizabeth. They huddled in the mirror-strewn breakfast room, where Elizabeth commandeered the shawl.

“What shall we do!” wailed everyone who wasn’t Anne.

“The stables appear intact,” said Anne, who had had a good view while climbing. “We can take the carriage to some fashionable coastal resort and engage rooms. We shouldn’t be infectious, thanks to the sulfur.”

They gave in, but then she had to listen to them arguing the merits of Brighton versus Sanditon for the rest of the night.

***

Part Twooooo: Puppets of Fate

Anne felt a ghostly shiver as the carriage creaked past Lyme in the late afternoon – halfway to Sanditon. They had been delayed in setting out while Sir Walter insisted she climb up and rescue his lavender-and-pearl suit, then his green-and-fuchsia, then his third-best hat, then…eventually Lady Russell had put her foot down.

Anne hooked her elbow through the straps, while taking firm hold of her reticule, now packed with smelling salts, sulfur, shawl, boots, a few other useful objects, and of course her bullwhip and spare hat.

The crash was nearly as loud as the roof collapse had been, though Anne thought her family were accounting for most of the noise. As the most injured, Sir Walter (disarranged hair) and Elizabeth (mussed dress) naturally were entitled to the only two free rooms at the inn.

“All the other lodgings in town are let,” announced the innkeeper. “But you might convince someone to share. There is a university student at Mrs. Edwards’ house…”

“A man?” gasped Lady Russell.

“A young gentleman in need of ready money,” said Anne gently, tying a jacquard handkerchief over the worst of Lady Russell’s cuts.

Ten minutes later, young Mr. Babbage had agreed to sleep in Mrs. Edwards’ washing shed until the Kellynch carriage should be repaired, and had even offered to show them the sights of Lyme. “The next thing is unquestionably to walk down to the sea,” he announced.

Ten minutes later still, Anne stood on the Cobb with her fretful godmother, kind new landlady, and excited new acquaintance. She was not shivering, but her mind hummed.

“f(b) = 4b2 – 6b + b – 15,” said Babbage. Anne and Mrs. Edwards shook their heads at once.

“f(b) = 4b2 – 6b + b3 – 15,” said Anne gently.

“Indeed,” added Mrs. Edwards. “But do not distress yourself, young man. The finite differences method works very well, but we must not forget…”.

Lady Russell drew Anne aside. “Do you ever feel like a puppet of fate?” she asked.

“No,” said Anne. “You may have persuaded me all those years ago, but I made my own choice. Everything about my current condition is entirely my own fault.”

“Er,” said Lady Russell. “I meant…do you not feel that we have somehow been steered to this exact spot by very extraordinary machinations?”

“Er,” said Anne, who had not realized anyone else had noticed. “I think–“ she began, when something caught her eye against the sunset. She whipped her spyglass out of her reticule at once.

***

As Anne searched the horizon, her heart began to thump. A ship, with all sail set, steering straight for the port. HMS Popham, 36 guns, her mind told her. Her heart was telling her things that neither language nor mathematics could express.

Then she saw, closer in, a small battered boat with four strange, stiff figures in it. One held a drum. One held a slender pipe, one a lute. “Why, that looks like…” she wondered.

“I know!” said Mrs. Edwards. “My goodness. But how?”

Boom-splash! Boooom-splasssshhh!

“The French are attacking!” screamed Lady Russell.

“No,” said Anne. “The Popham is firing on the rowboat. But doesn’t he know what it is—”

Boooom-splasssshhh-ploppp!

The third shot was closest yet, and a great gout of water slopped up and into the basin held by the endmost figure. As the liquid slowly drained, the other three figures began to move, stiff hands beating up and down on the drum, stiff fingers tapping the pipe and plucking the air where strings had long since rotted away. Ghostly music floated toward the watchers on the Cobb.

“What is it?” shivered Lady Russell.

“A valuable antique,” said Anne, absent-mindedly. She was rooting in her reticule for the signal flags.

“It is a water-powered mechanical orchestra, one of many ingenious devices invented by the polymath Al-Jazari six hundred years ago,” explained Mrs. Edwards kindly, as Anne knotted a blue-with-a-central-white-stripe above a white-with-a-blue-cross and a red-and-white checked. Quickly, she held the string above her head. “Relent,” whispered Anne. “Please Frederick, understand.”

For a moment, she held her breath. The little waves slapped the Cobb, the automata fluted…and no sound came from the Popham.

“Hold these for me,” Anne told Lady Russell. Her hands free, she trained her spyglass on the flags rising up the frigate’s mainmast.

“A-N-repeat-E,” she read. There was more activity at the mizzen. “Query.”

Anne snatched the red-with-a-white-cross from her reticule and danced up and down, waving it. “Affirmative! Affirmative! Affirmative!”

***

“It is an automaton!” shouted Babbage. Forgotten by the ladies, and not owning a spyglass himself, he had rushed to the end of the Cobb to see better. “I am determined! I will—”

KERsplash! In a moment, the young man was in the water and struggling for his life.

Anne stepped out of her dress and Circassian corset. “The horror of the moment!” gasped Lady Russell but Anne was already swimming strongly. From the corner of her eye, she saw another figure pull off a blue coat and dive from the frigate, and suddenly the sea did not feel cold at all.

They met just at Babbage’s struggling figure, and held him above water. “Tell me not that I am too late,” whispered Frederick.

“For you alone I think and plan,” breathed Anne.

“It’s still working!” spluttered Babbage. No longer busy drowning, he paddled their group towards the automaton and seized its gunwale. “Look at those decorative carvings. I wonder how—”

“Those aren’t decoration,” Anne explained. “It’s writing. In Classical Arabic. It says: ‘Spare automatic servant is stored in locker B’.”

“How do you know that?” asked both men, bemused.

“I went to school in Bath. Besides history and mathematics, it was quite good on languages.”

Frederick smiled as he leaned closer. “No one so capable as Anne.”

***

Part Eeeeeee: Reckoning with the Future

Captain Wentworth’s enormous fortune built himself and his bride a mirror-free mansion in a location with excellent sea-bathing, and further funds purchased a house in Bath for Lady Russell and Mrs. Smith to occupy together. A fine library shortly graced Edward Wentworth’s parsonage, and there was even a little left to enlarge the Musgrove cottage in the Lake District.

Mr. Babbage took the musical automata back to Cambridge with him. He offered the spare servant to Mrs. Edwards, but since it proved to be some sort of shaving-water butler, she let Sir Walter have it at his London house once the plague had passed. It was the talk of town for nine days at least. He felt it was worth every ghostly shiver, though Elizabeth did not. Steeling herself to unaccustomed exertion, she snagged a young man called Rushworth on the rebound and lived haughtily ever after.

Meanwhile, Anne took the Wentworth carriage back to Kellynch and rooted gently through the rubble. There was a surprising amount of text carved into the foundations. After reading it all, she sat on the largest remaining stone.

“السلام عليكم” she said politely. “Sir, I have read your messages and understand that you travelled here from Baghdad seeking materials for your metalwork, and built Kellynch Hall to be your resting place when you became too ill to return.”

She felt a ghostly warmth and smiling, pulled her Arabic dictionary from her reticule.

“But I also understand that the kh-l-s word-root –from which, I am quite sure, the name Kellynch has derived—carries connotations of purging and redemption.”

The shiver changed to one of excitement.

“Have we achieved this?” asked Anne. “Your tomb, though destroyed, has been freed from the vanity that sullied it. Your lost automata have been recovered. Your work has inspired one who I think might carry your ideas forward. His last letter spoke of an engine for calculating polynomial functions. This is, I hope, a more powerful legacy than mechanical playthings for kings?”

Peace washed over her, but the presence did not dissipate.

“And if we let you down again,” added Anne, “you can always come back and haunt those who misuse your ideas.”

The last remaining mirror broke with a rather joyous crash.

****

P.S.: You may have noticed some history-of-computing easter eggs :)

The board does not let me post more than two links, but they were all to Wikipedia so I hope you can find them on your own.

Al-Jazarī: Badīʿ az-Zaman Abu l-ʿIzz ibn Ismāʿīl ibn ar-Razāz al-Jazarī (1136-1206), the real author of The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices, and real inventor of the automata described. (Completely fabricated: a voyage to England and the haunting of Kellynch.)

Mrs. Edwards: Mary Edwards (1750-1815) really worked on mathematical calculations for the Royal Navy. (Complete fiction: letting rooms in Lyme.)

Mr. Babbage: Charles Babbage (1791-1871), real university student (and a member of a Ghost Club) in the 1810s, and really credited with originating the concept of a computer. (Completely made up: acquiring an inspiring haunted al-Jazari artifact.)

Extra credit: ghost in the mansion, jacquard handkerchief :)

Six Inches Deep in Mud (7 replies)

Alicia M and Jen P — Mon, 17 Nov 2025 23:41:33 +0000

DNA: Here is a very silly short story we wrote last weekend. Enjoy! RA

Six Inches Deep in Mud

Mr. Bennet trotted along the lane to Netherfield riding his favorite trusty steed, Artax. He was cursing the numerous trees that had been allowed to overhang the lane as he ducked and dodged branches along the way, muttering to himself, “I shall certainly make Mr. Bingley aware of the state of his estate.” While pondering this thought, he was not able to avoid a large branch in his way, which struck him in the face, causing him to fall backwards to the ground. As he sat, shaking his head, he noticed his hat a few yards off. He stood to retrieve it but before he could do so, a badger emerged from a hedgerow, snatched the hat and disappeared with it into a hole in the ground, but not before hissing savagely at the old man. “Blast!” said Mr. Bennet, startled as he stroked his bare head. He was relieved, at least, that the animal had not done more than steal his hat. “Probably a rabid beast,” he muttered to himself. He turned back towards his horse, but stepped into a puddle, thoroughly wetting his shoes and stockings. “Bingley definitely won’t want to marry one of my daughters if I show up hatless and sloshing into his drawing room with wet footwear.” Mr. Bennet screwed up his courage and marched to the badger’s hole, then plunged his arm blindly into the opening. He thought he felt a furry thing scurry away, “good riddance,” he muttered, as he felt around for his felt hat. At last his hand settled upon it and he yanked it back through the hole. He inspected the headgear and saw that it was frayed on the edge of the brim and only one or two small bites had been taken out of it. He placed it back on his head and sloshed forward.

He managed to mount Artax again and continue on his way. As he rounded past the road that led up to Oakham Mount, he heard a rumbling sound and, looking up, he saw, a few pebbles dropping from the summit, he turned away from them but suddenly a large boulder tumbled down the side of the mount and he had to spur his horse forward to avoid it. At last he stopped, out of breath and panicked. “We narrowly avoided certain death, Artax,” he exclaimed.

Mr. Bennet hadn’t noticed that the chase had led them off the lane. Artax whinnied in distress and Mr. Bennet wondered at the cause until, looking down, he saw the horse’s hooves stuck in a mud puddle that was deeper than it looked. “Your hooves, Artax, are at least six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain,” he pontificated urging the horse to break loose. “Come Artax, you can do it, just push forward.” But the horse floundered, causing it to sink ever deeper. Mr. Bennet did not panic until the mud reached his shoes. Then he thought it better to dismount and lead the horse out. He was surprised to find himself in mud up to his chest. He pushed against the horse’s flank to steady himself, which Artax to regain his footing and clamber towards safety, thus causing Mr. Bennet to sink further until he could no longer move. He tried to hang on and let himself be dragged along with the horse, but the reins slipped out of his hands. “Artax,” he cried. The horse looked back at him helplessly and Mr. Bennet thought he could see tears in its eyes. “Arrrtaaaaaax!” he cried again. But to no avail.

The poor beast watched his master slip under the mud. Loyally, he did not leave until the last bubble of breath gurgled to the surface. Sadly, Artax turned back toward Longbourn and hastened to the barn.

~~~~~

Elizabeth Bennet was taking one of her daily walks through the Longbourn garden. As she wandered through the prettyish kind of little wilderness on one side of the lawn, she noticed her father’s favorite steed coming towards her, riderless.

“What’s wrong, Artax? Has something happened to Papa?” As she took his reins, she noticed how muddy his legs were. “Were you in a deep mud puddle? Has Papa gotten lost? Where is he?” The horse whinnied in response.

Remembering that she was no horsewoman, Elizabeht guided Artax to the barn and sent a stable boy to the house to fetch Jane. While another groom wiped the horse down, Jane came hurrying to them. “Whatever is the matter, Lizzy?” she asked, concern furrowing her brow.

“I fear Papa has met with trouble,” Elizabeth responded. “You are a superior rider to myself, so let us mount Artax. He can take us to where our father is so we can help him.”

At once, the groom assisted the sisters onto Artax’s back. Jane sat neatly side-saddle, while Elizabeth was forced to mount astride behind her. “Propriety be damned,” she said. “Let’s go, Jane.”

“Forward, Artax! Show us the meaning of haste,” Jane cried, urging the horse into a gallop.

~~~~~

As the tired horse approached the puddle where his master had met his demise, the two ladies descried a figure standing nearby, looking over the mud and stroking his chin. Noticing their approach, he bowed.

“Good day, ladies,” he said gallantly.

Elizabeth leapt from the horse’s back. “There is no time for pleasantries, sir. We fear our father has met with trouble.”

“Maybe that explains the hat floating in the mud,” the gentleman said.

Elizabeth gasped and immediately began looking around for a stick with which to reach the hat. Meanwhile, the gentleman glanced at the other lady, and suddenly their eyes locked. They knew, but the current circumstances prevented any acknowledgment. Lizzy’s cry of “I think I’ve got it,” interrupted their mutual gaze and Mr. Bingley took charge of the hat retrieval.

As he handed the hat to Lizzy, the gentleman said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Bingley. I have just leased Netherfield Park.”

“At last,” murmured Jane.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Yes, the house has been vacant some time. I am Elizabeth Bennet. This is my eldest sister, Jane Bennet.” She glanced back at the hat in her hands and said, “But where is Papa? This hat has been bitten by a badger, I’d know those toothmarks anywhere.”

“Well, I’ve neither seen a gentleman nor a badger, only that hat in the mud,” replied Bingley in a manner clearly indicating he wished to be more helpful than he possibly could be, which endeared him all the more to Miss Bennet. “ was just walking the lane to survey these trees that overhang it. They almost knocked me off my horse, Dingley, yesterday.”

“Dingley?” asked Jane.

“It rhymes,” said Bingley. “My friend Darcy suggested it. He cannot abide for my horses to have virile names, but he calls all of his Zeus or Thunder or some such nonsense.”

“I like Dingley,” said Jane.

“This Darcy sounds like a real treasure,” said Lizzy sarcastically, “do you suppose he could assist in searching for my father?”

“Is that him?” asked a voice behind her.

“Where?” asked Lizzy, turning to face the voice. She was struck by the handsome features of a tall gentleman riding a noble all-white steed, a dead badger, in one hand. “Whoa Apollo,” he muttered, calming his horse. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but looked where he was pointing. There, emerging from the mud was a human hand!

Jane let out a blood-curdling scream. “Papa!”

“Indeed,” said Lizzy, sadly. “I recognize his wedding ring. It has the Bennet family crest engraved on it.”

“There might be breath in him yet,” exclaimed Bingley. “Come Darcy let us pull him out.”

“Perhaps, we should escort the ladies home and send some of your estate men to retrieve Mr. Bennet.”

“No!” said Lizzy resolutely. “I shan’t leave my father here!” She began removing her shoes and stockings.

“That won’t be necessary Miss Elizabeth,” said Darcy. He then fashioned a lasso from his rope and cast it towards Mr. Bennet, encircling his submerged torso. Then tying it to his horse he urged mighty stallion to pull. The ladies were looking at him curiously. “I learned that from an American,” he said proudly.

Finally, Mr. Bennet was lying before them, devoid of life. The girls collapsed into each other’s arms and wept. Mr. Bingley arranged for a wagon to take Mr. Bennet and his daughters home.

Mrs. Bennet was inconsolable on the death of her husband and blamed herself for sending him on his perilous journey to Netherfield. Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn before the funeral, to pay his respects and meet his grieving cousins from among whom he expected to choose a wife. He was not long in the house before he discerned that Jane was the prettiest of the sisters, which happily coincided with his intention to choose the eldest. Given the unhappy circumstances of the ladies, he thought it best to relieve their distress by making his intentions known as soon as possible. Thus, the day after the funeral, he sought a private interview with Miss Bennet.

He invited her for a walk in the garden and spoke at length of how unexpected the recent turn of events was for him. He had not anticipated that he would inherit Longbourn so soon. “My own prospects having recently improved,” he went on to explain, “I hope to marry as soon as possible.” As he was thereafter entering on his list of reasons for wishing to marry, Jane heard the pounding hoofbeats of an approaching horse.

She turned towards the sound to see Mr. Bingley on Dingley. He instantly inquired as to her health and that of her family, under their grave affliction. Mr. Collins responded before she could. “Miss Bennet is doing tolerably well. There will naturally be some melancholy occasioned by such a sudden and unexpected event, but she will rally. In fact, I expect she will soon have reason to rejoice. Some good may yet come of this calamity,” he added with a meaningful snicker.

“Forgive me, sir,” said Bingley, dismounting. “I too have lost my father, and I know the grief that she must be feeling.” He took Jane’s hand, as she stumbled through an introduction between the two gentlemen, before she and Bingley walked off together.

Mr. Collins called from behind them, “Miss Bennet, I was not quite finished talking.”

“Never mind him,” said Bingley. “I will make sure you are taken care of.”

Collins, for his part, could see the futility of further pursuit of Jane Bennet. Luckily, when he looked around at the sisters he was resolved. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course. “Well,” he said to himself, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” and he marched in her direction.

As he approached her and began anew to list his reasons for matrimony, hoofbeats again resounded in the distance. Both Elizabeth and Mr. Collins looked towards the sound to see Mr. Darcy hastening towards them on a powerful black stallion, furrowing his brow. “Whoa Maximus,” said Darcy, as he dismounted. “Miss Elizabeth, allow me to express my sincere sympathy at the loss of your father. I too have lost my father and know the grief you must be feeling.”

Mr. Collins threw up his arms in exasperation. He turned, defeated, back towards the house, cursing his bad luck. But, alas, he paused when heard the melodious sound of a piano. “Mary,” he said to himself decisively. He strode towards the house, but was distracted by the sound of hoofs once again. He looked up and saw a young man dismounting from his horse in front of the house, whom he recognized as Mr. Phillips’ clerk. “Oh, no, you don’t,” said Collins, shouldering his way in front of the man and entering the house first. He quickly found the object of his latest pursuit and said, “My dearest Miss Mary, I too know what it is like to lose a father…”

FINIS

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 28 (1 reply)

Anne V — Sat, 25 Oct 2025 00:41:44 +0100

Chapter 28

The next day, Elizabeth walked quietly with Jane, following behind Lydia and Kitty, who were eager to reach Meryton. Jane and Elizabeth were content to walk slowly behind, not saying much. Both had too much on their minds.

Yesterday, Elizabeth had caught herself multiply times thinking about Mr Darcy. She realised she’d gotten used to exchanging looks with him – she had gotten to know him so well that she could guess at what he was thinking with each particular look or upraised eyebrow or half smile. She thought of observations she would make to him, and wonder what his opinion would be, along with being thankful he wasn't there to see the behaviour of her mother and youngest sister.

The Lucas’s and Philips’s stayed longer after lunch than planned. It had started raining, and Mr Bennet had had to call for his carriage to take both families home. Elizabeth’s observation to Jane was that it would delay the spreading of the news of Jane’s engagement.

She thought back to her meeting with Mr Darcy that morning. She had been so eager to see him again and worried that he would not be there. Before she had loved and cherished her solitude in her walks, but now walking alone without him seemed lonely.

He had been waiting for her at the appointed spot, sitting on the Netherfield stump with his horse grazing nearby. He looked so handsome as his face lit up with a smile on seeing her. There was also that look in his eyes that made her heart flutter and her breath stop. He arose quickly from the stump and bowed. “Good morning, Miss..” he paused before continuing, “Elizabeth.”

She loved the way her name sounded when he said it. She gave him a bright smile. “I'm glad you found this spot. The story is that that stump you are sitting on was used to make the frame of Netherfield. And the one on the other side was used to make the frame for Longbourn.”

He gave her his arm and they walked together to the top of Oakham Mount. They spoke easily and she showed him the points of interest from the top, telling him the interesting historical stories of the region. She recollected when he would stand near her or just behind, that she could feel his presence and smell his scent. At times when she had turned to face him, to find him so close, she would wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him. By the way he looked at her, she thought he was thinking the same. But then she would curse herself as she would feel the impropriety of the situation and step or turn away.

He had asked to meet her again tomorrow, before kissing her hand as they parted. She felt sure that he intended to ask her to marry him tomorrow.

They approached the outskirts of Meryton, and Lizzy turned to Jane. “Let's see how effective the rumour mill has been and who has already found out about your engagement. Has our Aunt yet been out to spread the good news around?”

“With yesterday's downpour, she would not have gone out. And I suspect we have beaten her to getting out this morning.”

The attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentleman like appearance, walking with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr Denny, concerning whose return from London Lydia came to enquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if at all possible to find out, led the way across the street, under the pretence of wanting something in an opposite shop. Fortunately they had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen turning back had reached the same spot. Mr Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be, for the young man wanted only for regimental to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation – a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming.

Elizabeth watched him closely. He made eye contact with each of them as they spoke, but she noticed his eye drift more often to Jane with the attempt to hold her attention. Yet again Jane had made another conquest, though this time it would be for nought, thought Elizabeth.

They were still talking when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Mr Bingley and Darcy were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them.

“Oh Lord, have you heard our news yet?” exclaimed Lydia, on seeing Mr Bingley.

Lieutenant Denny shook his head. “What news would that be, Miss Lydia?”

“Jane is engaged!” exclaimed Lydia.

“To Mr Bingley!” added Kitty, not to be outdone.

It was at that moment the two men looked up to see Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy approaching them. Lizzy watched both the new comer and Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy’s gaze was directed at her, so he had not at first seen Mr Wickham. Lizzy however saw the look of shock on Mr Wickham’s face, which went white. Fear, she thought. She then looked back to Mr Darcy, who’s gaze was now on Mr Wickham, and he had turned red. It was more than anger; it was barely held rage.

Mr Wickham recovered first, touching his hat when Lieutenant Denny made the introductions after congratulating Jane and Mr Bingley on their engagement. Mr Darcy made the most basic of nods towards Mr Wickham, his mouth set in a thin line.

Elizabeth wondered at the meaning of it. It was impossible to imagine, and impossible not to long to know.

After a few minutes, Mr Bingley took his leave, promising to escort the ladies home after he had completed his business in Meryton. Mr Darcy by this stage had already turned his horse and rode off.

Lieutenant Denny and Mr Wickham walked with the ladies to their aunt’s house and made their bows, despite Lydia’s entreaties that they join them inside and despite their aunt opening the upstairs window and loudly seconding the invitation.

They called on their aunt for an update on news and any information about the new officer, of which their aunt could add no more information than they already knew. Their aunt invited them to cards that evening and promised to have Mr Phillips call on the new officer and add him to the invite to cards. An invite was issued to Mr Bingley, in honour of his engagement, and Jane promised faithfully to pass it onto her fiancé. Mr Bingley himself called upon Mrs Phillips before they left, but had to decline the card invitation, as he had already this morning accepted an offer to dine with Mr Goulding, whom he had happened upon in town.

Elizabeth looked for Mr Darcy, and as they left Aunt Phillip’s home, Mr Bingley informed them that Mr Darcy had decided to return to Netherfield. Elizabeth smiled but inwardly was disappointed.

A Haunting at Hunsford (11 replies)

DaveG — Sun, 30 Nov 2025 21:14:07 +0000

Hi, long time reader of this site but first time poster. I hope I've done this right.

With Halloween just around the corner, I thought I'd post a very short P&P piece about spooky goings on at Hunsford. I designed this as the prologue to a larger story - which I may even one day get around to writing - but I think it works on its own. This is my first piece of creative writing in about 30 years, so feedback is very welcome.

A HAUNTING AT HUNSFORD

Kent, October 1812

They wondered afterwards if he’d sensed it was coming. If there had been some sign, some omen, foretelling of his fate. Had the owl screeched thrice outside his window, or the black dog crossed his path? Had he glimpsed the blue-lit candle; watched it, dancing in delight, as it hunted for his grave? Had he looked up, into that ink black sky, and seen it wished to swallow him whole?

If asked, Mr Collins would have scoffed at such talk of signs and portents. After all he was a clergyman, the chosen of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh. So he trod on, uncaring of all around him, on that last, lonely walk along the lanes of Hunsford. He didn’t stop at the old willow tree, to hear if its branches whispered out his name. He didn’t notice the shadows move, shifting fickle and quick, like long fingers reaching to grab him from thin hands.

His mind was otherwise engaged. He was thinking of the torment of sinners, of the final judgement and the eternal fire, of the weeping and the gnashing of teeth.

The wind bit hard that night, the earth frost beneath his feet. He was cold. Cold and tired. He felt it more and more these days. He felt it in his bones. Sleep too often eluded him. That night he’d been too unsettled to rest. He could still scarcely believe what had happened. How they had defied him, made a fool of him. To punish them would be right. It would be just. On the morrow he would tell it all to Lady Catherine. She would know how to act.

He stumbled and let out a curse. It was then that he heard it. A scratching and a scraping, and then a long, low sound. Almost a moan. It had come from the barn to his left, the one where he kept his tithes. A place no man should be.

The noise came again, higher now, sharper.

The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed it open. He slowly moved inside.

‘Hello’, he called. ‘‘What goes on here’?

It was pitch black. All was still. Still, and black, and mocking.

He felt the ice run down his back, and the bumps rise upon his flesh. He could hear nothing now. Only his heart, as it hammered faster and faster inside his chest.

He wanted to run, but something gripped his legs. He wanted to shout, but something stilled his tongue.

He held his lantern aloft before him, a light to drive away the darkness.

That was when he saw the eyes.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 27 (3 replies)

Anne V — Thu, 09 Oct 2025 11:27:56 +0100

Chapter 27

Meanwhile it was a merry bunch that descended from the carriage at Longbourn. Elizabeth sighed happily as she took a look at her home, heartened to finally be back. With interest she studied the surrounds. Many of the evergreens had been stripped of their leaves, and the debris littered the ground around Longbourn, which hadn't been hidden by the light dusting of snow covering the ground. Other trees clearly had broken branches, but otherwise the house looked fine. She knew the main damage was behind the house.

All the family had gathered outside to greet them. Mrs Bennet raced to hug Jane first, then Elizabeth. “Oh it is so good to have all my dear girls back, and Jane back in good health. You look like you were well cared for at Netherfield. Mr Bingley, it was so good of you to see my girls get safely home.”

Mr Bingley nodded to Mrs Bennet. “Of course, though I was hoping to have a word alone with Mr Bennet.”

Mr Bennet indicated for Mr Bingley to follow him and they disappeared into the house. “Oh, a word alone.” Mrs Bennet looked at Jane. “Oh you sly girl. But I will say no more until your father returns.” But she winked at Jane, causing her to blush.

Lydia by this stage was impatient to share her news. “You missed out on all the excitement, though it's best you weren't here otherwise we wouldn't have had anywhere near as much fun. We had Lieutenant Carter and Chamberlain here in your rooms, and soldiers everywhere, but they returned yesterday. Apparently, their camp has dried enough for them to return. Oh, and did you hear, Miss Goulding’s father caught her and Lieutenant Sanderson in a compromising position, so they are now engaged to be married. They're getting married in three weeks...” Lydia carried on as they all went inside. Mrs Bennet also was eager to share all the gossip.

As Mrs Bennet ran out of gossip to share, Mr Bennet entered with Mr Bingley, who immediately went to Jane. Jane stood as Mr Bingley came to her, and he took her hands in his as they turned to face the room.

Mr Bennet cleared his throat. “Mrs Bennet, I have some good news. I have just given my blessing to Mr Bingley to marry Jane.”

“Oh, what good news! I knew Jane wasn't so beautiful for no reason.” Mrs Bennet fanned herself as she rose to hug the happy couple. Elizabeth, who had already congratulated them yesterday, stepped back.

Mr Bennet turned to leave but had some parting words. “Jane, I congratulate you, you will be a very happy woman.” Jane came to him and kissed his cheek and thanked him for his goodness. He bowed and left. When she saw her father retreat, Elizabeth followed him into his study.
“They will be happy. Their tempers are by no means unlike. They are each so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat them, and so generous, that they will always exceed their income.”

Elizabeth laughed at that. “You know Jane to be more sensible than that. She would be ashamed of exceeding her allowance. You know she would consider imprudence unpardonable. You have taught us too well for that.”

They sat down to play a game of chess and her father caught her up on the goings on in the neighbourhood and the progress with damage repairs, whilst Elizabeth gave a detailed account of Jane’s courtship and their stay at Netherfield.

It was at that point that there was a knock on the door, and Hill entered. “Pardon me sir, but there is a Constable Parker here to see you.”

Father and daughter looked at each other curiously. “Send him in.”

A tall, broad man of middle years entered. He bowed. “Pardon me sir, but I was hoping you could help me with a matter.” He looked at Elizabeth. “If I could have a minute alone with you sir?”

“Do you have anything that is that sensitive to ask that my daughter cannot stay?”

“It concerns a dead male we have found.”

Mr Bennet looked at Elizabeth as he asked Constable Parker the next question. “And did you bring the body here?”

“No sir, we were hoping you might be able to shed some light on his identity.”

Mr Bennet looked to Elizabeth. “Do you feel disturbed by talk of a dead man?”

Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow, too curious to know more and certain that she would remain in the study to find out. “No more disturbed than when I go past the graveyard.”

“There you have it; my daughter is fine with the talk of dead bodies. However, I’m uncertain how I can help you. To my knowledge all my tenants are accounted for and I know of no others that are missing.”

“We found a body washed down the river Colne. We presume he attempted to cross one of the flooded bridges and was washed downstream. Male, we think mid twenties, though his body is quite bloated and it is hard to tell. The only thing we could find to identify him was this letter in his coat pocket, and most of the ink was washed away. We could pick out a few words here and there.” From his own coat he withdrew a letter and smoothed it out on the desk in front of Mr Bennet. “All we could gather from the bottom was the name ‘Ben’ of ‘bourn, Hertfordshire’. We’ve been to the other Bennets of Fairborn, and the Bensons of Hattenbourn with no success. We were wondering if you were the one who wrote this letter and who it was to.”

Mr Bennet peered closely at the letter, studying it for several minutes, his brow furrowed. “Yes, I recognise a few words. I can confirm I wrote this letter to my cousin Mr Collins.”

“Would you be able to return with me to identify the body as being your cousin?”

Mr Bennet shook his head. “Alas, I cannot. I never saw the man in my life - he was meant to visit here. We’ve exchanged a total of three letters. One with the news of his father’s passing, the next was his proposal to visit here last week, and the last one was confirmation of the date and time of his arrival.”

“Do you know anyone who could identify him? Where did he live?”

“He was the parson of Hunsford Parsonage, in Kent. I believe his patroness is a Lady Catherine De Bourg of Rosings Park. I suggest you go there to find someone who can confirm that this man is my cousin.”

Mr Bennet wrote the details on a piece of paper and passed it to the constable who took his leave. Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers to his chin.

“What does this mean, father? This man was your heir. Is there another?”

“I will have to ask my brother Phillips to investigate. There would have been more heirs had my grandfather not disinherited his brothers, uncles and aunts. I believe there was only one aunt whom he did not disinherit – she may have male descendants.”

“And if not?”

“Then Jane is my heir. Elizabeth, it may be best to keep this quiet until the constable returns with the confirmation of my cousin’s death and Mr Phillips confirms the presence of any other heirs. There's no point in getting your mother excited yet.”

With that, they were called to lunch, to find that the Phillips’ and Lucas’ had arrived, and who were at that moment congratulating the happy couple. “Everyone in Meryton will know of their engagement before sunset,” commented Elizabeth to her father.

After lunch, Mr Bingley declined to stay further, and left to share the good news with his own family. Their reception of the news was...polite. Mr Darcy gave heartfelt congratulations whilst wondering how soon he could propose to his intended. Louisa’s well-wishers were warmer than Caroline’s, who managed a stiff ‘congratulations. I had not realised that you were so serious about Jane.’

Later Caroline found Mr Darcy alone in the library. “This is awful. You must convince my brother to drop his engagement.”

“Why?” asked Mr Darcy, not even bothering to look up from his book.

“Why? Because she has no connections or fortune and her family is terrible.”

“That may be so, but the engagement is announced and to break it now would reflect badly on your brother...and your whole family.”

“But you must use your influence on him to interfere.”

Now Mr Darcy lay the book on his lap and looked Caroline directly in the eye. “I will not interfere in this matter. Jane is a beautiful woman with a disposition that matches your brother. She will never embarrass you in London- nay, I expect she will do very well. I'm certain my Aunt, the Countess of Matlock, will like her greatly. And just as I wouldn't expect your brother to have any say in who I marry, I will give him the same courtesy.” He paused and quickly debated whether to say the next or not, but as marriage has been broached, he figured it best to subtly kill any hope she may have held. “The only people to have any say in who I marry are myself, the woman herself and her father.” With that he picked up his book and made a show of going back to read. He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard her spin on her heels and slam the door to the library.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 26 (1 reply)

Anne V — Mon, 29 Sep 2025 22:53:20 +0100

Chapter 26

As was their habit, Mr Darcy waited for Elizabeth to join him for a walk. She appeared at the top of the stairs and smiled at him. She had a warm coat and scarf, but he noticed she only had her thin lady’s gloves. When she came to him, he took her hands in his own. “You'll need something warmer than these; it's snowing outside.” He got the attention of a passing maid. “Can you find Miss Elizabeth some mittens?” She ducked a quick curtsy and disappeared.

Elizabeth still felt surprised at his thoughtfulness, though she reasoned that she should expect it. “The first snow for the season. Though the 26th of November is a little earlier than usual but not by much. I am keen to see it.”

His eyes burned into hers as they stood there waiting together. He still had not let go of her hands, and she blushed under his intense gaze. He only dropped her hands when the maid returned with some mittens.

Elizabeth quickly put them on and they walked out. Mr Darcy wanted to offer his arm but knew it to be pointless. She walked far too quickly for walking arm in arm. He had had to shed any fantasies he had of coming to her aid in walking – her balance was too good and her ankles too sturdy to stumble on anything so minor as a muddy path or fallen log. She was a stubbornly independent woman. It was ironic that that was what he had wished for from his female acquaintance in London, and now that he had found it, it was less than satisfying. But he did enjoy looking at her fine figure from behind.

“So what will you do for morning entertainment when I am gone? Will you continue with a morning walk?” asked Elizabeth pertly.

Mr Darcy smiled back at her. “My horse has been neglected. I will take to riding to make sure he gets his daily exercise and does not become too fat and lazy in Bingley’s stables. Perhaps you could recommend good riding trails?”

“Oakham Mount would be a pleasant ride, and it has the best view of the Meryton region. It lies between Longbourn and Netherfield.” Elizabeth changed their path and they turned to walk to their right. "I can point out the start of the trail.”

“Is it a favourite walk of yours?”

“Yes, I do enjoy wandering up there quite often.”

“May I perhaps see you on that path tomorrow morning?” he asked and held his breath. This was a planned assignation. She could not miss the meaning of it and her answer would either give him hope or crush him.

Elizabeth was slightly surprised by the request. Their morning walks had at first seemed like coincidence and then became an unspoken habit. When she had thought about leaving Netherfield, she had felt regret at losing his company in the morning but had considered this as inevitable. She had not thought that someone of his station would continue his attentions to her after she left. This now spoke to two options: either he was serious in pursuing her with the intention of marriage or his intentions were less honourable. She recognised the impropriety of meeting a single man alone, however, she had learnt to trust him. “Yes, provided the weather is favourable and we are not beset by another storm.”

His heart leapt with joy. “You would not be missed at Longbourn?”

Elizabeth laughed. “This morning will be more than enough to come up to speed with all I have missed. I am certain I will have had my fill by supper and will require my usual morning escape. In fact, staying at home could only cause suspicion!”

They walked chatting easily together. After a quarter hour Elizabeth pointed to another path ahead. “That is the track to Oakham Mount. After about two miles it joins the track coming from Longbourn. You can't miss the joining track. There are two massive stumps on either side of the track where the tracks merge.” At this point they turned and returned for breakfast at Netherfield.

Mr Darcy faced the morning with a smile on his face. Later in the morning after all had had their breakfast, they gathered outside as the Bennet sisters climbed into the carriage with Mr Bingley and departed Netherfield. Caroline and Louisa both warmly farewelled the sisters and expressed their wishes to see them again soon.

As the carriage rolled down the drive, Caroline turned. “How nice it is to have one’s house back to one's self.” Mr Hurst had already left the moment the carriage started to roll away, leaving only the three of them on the steps. Louisa turned as well.

Mr Darcy turned. Caroline came and snaked her arm through his. “Mr Darcy, there's something we would like to discuss with you.”

“Of what would you wish to speak of?” asked Mr Darcy warily.

“You must have noticed the attention that our brother has been paying Miss Bennet,” said Louisa.

“Yes,” said he non-committal.

“You know how he falls in and out of love. We are worried that he may be raising expectations in dear Jane, and we would not like to see her get hurt. Or even worse, the servants and neighbourhood may start to gossip, leading to a scandal that forces our brother to offer for her. Could you talk to Charles for us? We know he listens to your advice.”

“I already have cautioned your brother to think carefully about his actions towards Miss Bennet,” was as much as he was willing to say. “Excuse me.” He disengaged his arm and almost ran into the house and away from the Bingley sisters.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 25 (2 replies)

Anne V — Fri, 26 Sep 2025 02:55:45 +0100

Chapter 25

Mr Bingley paced nervously at the front door, waiting for Jane to come down. Any moment he almost expected Louisa or Caroline to appear from behind a door. At last he saw her in her riding habit, smiling at him. He returned the smile and opened the door for her.

They walked quickly to the stables, both wanting to be on a horse and alone with no fear of interruption. Mr Bingley talked nervously as they walked. A groom already had two horses ready and as soon as he saw them approaching, went inside to lead the horses out. Jane had a beautiful roan mare with a white diamond on her nose. Jane went and gave the horse a pat. “She's just beautiful.”

Mr Bingley came and bent down so that he could lift her onto the horse. Jane put her right foot into his hand, and he boosted her up. As she positioned herself in the saddle, his hand naturally lingered on her lower leg. The warmth of the touch spread through her, and her eyes locked with Mr Bingley’s. He remembered himself and quickly went to mount his own horse. They trotted out of the stable yard and went behind Netherfield, moving quickly into the woods.

Mr Bingley admired Jane's figure and seat. She clearly was an experienced rider, handling her horse with ease and sat well upon the horse. Once he felt they were far enough from the house to avoid any potential interruption, he slowed his horse down to a trot.

“Now that we are alone, I will ask what I had wanted to ask you yesterday before we were interrupted, and I'll do it quickly before my sisters can conjure up a bear or wolf to interrupt me.”

“I'm certain they weren't deliberately trying to interrupt us.”

“I'm not chancing it. Dearest Jane, you are the sweetest, kindest and most beautiful woman I've ever met. When I'm not with you, all I can think of is you and when I can see you again. These last days here at Netherfield have been the happiest of my life and I can no longer imagine a life without you in it. I won't lie, I was delighted to hear that the bridge was washed away and that you would have to stay here longer. I dread your return home. Jane, marry me so that we can never be parted again.”

Tears welled in Jane’s eyes to hear such beautiful words. “Yes, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to become your wife.”

With that Mr Bingley brought his horse to a stop next to hers and he leaned over to give her a kiss. Jane went to close her eyes and then felt her own horse move away and Mr Bingley only just caught himself before he leaned too far and fell. He dismounted and stood before her.
Jane slid out of her saddle, and he caught her about the waist. He brought her close to him. Her eyes met his and the fire she had been hiding inside took hold of her. Her proximity to him, something which he had only dreamed of and not experienced before lit his desire. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Their mouths met once, then twice, then again before they broke away for air.

His hands came and cupped her face. “I can't believe this is real. We are engaged.”

“Oh Mr Bingley, I've never felt so happy!”

“Charles, you must call me Charles,” said he, grinning widely.

“Charles,” said Jane shyly.

That just caused him to kiss her again. Sometime later they broke away for air. “That’s the first time I've been kissed. I quite like it,” said Jane shyly.

“Really? None of the local boys have kissed you?”

Jane shook her head. “There was one who tried when I was sixteen, but Lizzy had seen him kissing one of the tenants’ daughters the week earlier, so she came up behind him and kicked him.”

They both started to walk, holding hands and with their other hand they held their respective mount. “Talking about your sister, have you noticed how much time she spends with my friend Darcy?”

“Yes, she seems to have changed her opinion of him and now likes him.”

“I've never seen him pay so much attention to any lady besides his sister. I think him quite taken with your sister.”

“Wouldn't that be marvellous!” exclaimed Jane. “Lizzy and I always dreamed of having a double wedding. But do you think he will propose?”

“I don't think he would spend this much time with her if he didn't. I'm certain he is walking with her right now.”

They walked, they stopped to kiss and eventually went back to riding. They rode to where the workmen and soldiers had gathered to start rebuilding the bridge then returned to Netherfield.

They entered the breakfast parlour to find Elizabeth and Mr Darcy in a spirited conversation over the advantages of marmalade over strawberry jam. They both looked up at the same time and saw Mr Bingley’s silly grin and the look of pure happiness on Jane’s face. “Well?” they both asked at the exact same time.

Jane just nodded and Mr Bingley confirmed it simply by taking Jane’s hand and bringing it up to his mouth for a kiss. “When Jane returns to Longbourn, I will go with her and ask her father for his consent.”

It was agreed by all to keep it quiet until Mr Bennet had provided his consent.

When Caroline and Louisa entered ten minutes later, it was to find the others happily eating their breakfast and talking quietly with each other. “How is one to sleep with all that racket going on?” complained Caroline.

“We've all been up for over an hour, Caroline,” replied Mr Bingley. “The sooner the men start, the sooner or bridge is fixed and we can venture forth from here, and the Miss Bennets can return to their home.”

Elizabeth noticed Caroline had frowned on knowing they had all been up for so long. She suspected the sisters of trying to keep them separated from being alone from the men. “Yes, Mr Darcy and I have already had a walk.”

“And Miss Bennet and I had a lovely ride. You really should take to waking earlier. You miss so much of the day,” said Charles. Elizabeth noticed Caroline’s scowl and Louisa’s frown and her suspicions were confirmed. They both hid their expressions quickly.

The Bingley sisters spent the rest of the day with the Bennet sisters. They read, they embroidered, played charades, played piano and went for many walks during the day to observe progress on the bridge. Louisa in particular enjoyed observing the workmen, who had all removed their coats, as they carried heavy planks of wood and secured them into place. By the afternoon, when observed by Louisa, one winked at her, causing her to blush and turn away.

By the end of the afternoon, as the sun approached the horizon, everyone was watching the final work for the new bridge being completed, followed by a strength test as they rode their cart back and forth over the bridge. In the morning, Jane and Elizabeth could return home.

When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand Chapter 17 (4 replies)

LizzyS — Wed, 19 Nov 2025 06:14:20 +0000

The epilogue will post next week.

Chapter 17

The following morning was beautiful with clear skies and gentle warmth, a rare gift in London’s damp embrace. The Fitzwilliam party, along with the Bennets, took the opportunity to walk out to Hyde Park. The park was in full splendor. Lawns bright, gravel walks alive with every color of the season. A veritable parade of riders, carriages, and strollers made stately their progress under the watchful eyes of London society.

Mary, though preferring a quieter stroll, found unexpected pleasure in the lively bustle. She walked rather apart with Lord Aubrey, a companionable silence bridged only now and then by his easy observations on the pageantry about them.

“I confess, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, his voice a low, pleasant murmur meant only for her, “these displays quite overwhelm me. One risks collision at every turn with a personage of, at minimum, three honorary titles and a hat plume a yard high.”

Mary smiled, a genuine, unguarded curve of her lips. “Indeed, I find myself in agreement. I fear I may be trampled beneath the social aspirations of London before we reach the Serpentine. It is a spectacle of surfaces, is it not? All polish and no depth.”

Lord Aubrey’s eyes, a deep, thoughtful brown, met hers with an answering warmth. “Exactly so. I have found, to my great delight, that I am far more suited to the quietude of a well-stocked library than the clamor of the season.”

Mary was about to reply when a small, runaway ball rolled across their path, followed by a panting child in a white frock, cheeks bright with exertion. Without hesitation, Lord Aubrey bent and retrieved the wayward toy, only to have a crumb-flecked hand tug eagerly at his coat. Instead of looking annoyed, he knelt at the child’s level and presented the ball with mock solemnity.

“And may I entrust this most valuable treasure to your keeping, young sir?” he intoned. The boy giggled and bobbed a wobbly curtsy, snatching the ball before dashing away.

Mary’s heart softened at the sight. There was a gentle, unstudied kindness in Lord Aubrey’s manner, no stiffness, no trace of self-conscious display, that made the moment linger for her.

“That was handsomely performed,” she said quietly, her eyes bright. “Now I suppose I must revise my earlier opinion. Perhaps London boasts a few men whose consequence is matched by their courtesy.”

He looked at her with mock gravity. “Miss Bennet, if I am to secure your good opinion, I must defend mislaid balls, vanquish errant urchins, and,” he glanced down at a patch of damp earth, then deftly guided her aside with the lightest touch of his hand on her elbow, “prevent ladies from soiling their slippers. It is a most demanding office.”

She laughed, the sound surprising herself. “A knight-errant indeed, my lord. I trust you have polished your armour?”

“Alas,” he replied with a smile, “my armour is sadly tarnished. But I had hoped your company might restore its shine.”

Mary blushed and, seeking to steady herself, observed, instead, “The world, when seen from the pages of a book, is far more orderly than when viewed from a park carriage. The hero’s honour is never in question, and the villain’s fate is always clear.”

He chuckled softly. “A point well-made. And yet, I think even the finest authors could not have contrived a heroine quite like you.” His gaze lingered, gentle but intent. “I have discovered that your good opinion, Miss Bennet, weighs more heavily with me than the applause of all London combined. It is a terrifying realization, to admit that your one voice has more power than the entire ton. But also, a most welcome one.”

Mary’s breath caught. She could only glance away, her cheeks colouring, but her lips curved in a shy, unmistakable smile.

Before Mary could respond, a small commotion arose ahead and Lord Aubrey stepped in front of her. A young gentleman on a spirited bay mare, looking flushed with drink and importance, attempted to cut across the path in front of Mr. Fitzwilliam. The former colonel, a man of much composure, simply held his line, forcing the young man to swerve clumsily and nearly unseat himself.

“Good heavens, do you see that?” Lord Aubrey murmured, his expression one of polite amusement. “The young man is more concerned with his consequence than his life. He seeks to make a great dash, but has only managed to make a fool of himself.”

“And no doubt he shall blame Mr. Fitzwilliam for his own folly,” Mary observed, a hint of her own sharp wit on her tongue.

Lord Aubrey turned his full attention to her, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice dropping in volume until it was almost a conspiratorial whisper, “you have a way of seeing the truth of a matter that is quite irresistible. I find myself quite disarmed in your presence.”

“I am glad to have you so,” Mary replied, her voice soft but steady.

Lord Aubrey’s next words came shyly, almost unguarded. “I think, after everything that has come to light, Miss Mary, I had wondered if any ordinary happiness might ever compensate. But just now, I think I could believe it.”

She looked up at him, cheeks tinged with color. “So could I.”

He paused, his gaze earnest. “I believe I must abandon my preference for a quiet life, for I find I should desire no life so much as one shared with you.”

Mary’s breath caught, and a small, unguarded smile touched her lips. She said nothing, only looked at him, and in the quiet understanding that passed between them, a silent promise was made.

They walked on, each a little more certain, their steps light. London’s grand parade carried on around them, but for Mary, the world had become, if not wholly orderly, then, for one morning, wonderfully sweet.

~*~

William Darcy’s carriage moved at a measured pace along the length of Bond Street, the air alive with the murmur of voices and the clatter of wheels over stone. He had not intended to be abroad here himself, but Elizabeth’s modiste, whose shop stood at the corner, required his attendance to confirm the particulars of lace for her wedding gown.

It was a commission he was more than willing to oblige. He was a man exacting in all matters. He would not have his future wife’s gown left to chance. As he looked through the glass upon the bright shopfronts and the ladies and gentlemen strolling arm in arm, he thought not of fashion, but of the life soon to be joined to his. His reflections were calm, deliberate, a rare contentment after the strife and revelations so lately past.

That peaceful window shattered with abruptness. The carriage jolted to a stop so violently that William’s hand gripped the ivory head of his cane. Then, nothing. The press of Bond Street continued around him, but within the carriage there was only a strange, unnatural stillness. The horses stamped and tossed their heads, the harness creaked, yet the wheels did not turn.

William frowned. His coachman was not a man to halt without cause, much less in the midst of Bond Street. That the vehicle should be checked so abruptly, and held so long, bespoke interference, and deliberate interference at that.

The suspicion was confirmed a moment later. The door was wrenched open before he could stir, and in rushed the spectacle of ruin.

Charles Bingley.

But not the sunny, obliging friend of former days. His fine coat was wrinkled, his neckcloth crooked, his hair damp with some mixture of sweat and desperation.

“Darcy!” Bingley cried, his voice hoarse and broken. “Darcy, I beg, only a word...”

But before a hand or foot could trespass, Parker was there. With the silent precision of drilled habit, the footman stepped into the breach, posture squared, arms firm behind his back. He did not touch the intruder, but his presence barred the way as decisively as any lock.

“Mr. Darcy is not at liberty, sir,” Parker said, his tone deep, imperturbable.

“Not at liberty?” Bingley’s laugh was a jagged sound. “You have not been at liberty for a week! Your butler has a new duty. He has been instructed to parrot ‘indisposed,’ and your footmen to return my notes unopened! What was I to do? What was left me? I had to pay the street-lads to hold your carriage fast, to hold the wheels and bar the horses, else I would never have had a chance to speak to you!”

The admission sent a murmur through onlookers who had gathered. William sat motionless, his countenance unyielding, while his thoughts recoiled. A gentleman did not boast of hiring children for petty stratagems. Here was degradation beyond redemption.

Bingley’s excuses poured out in a rush, wild and pitiable. “I was ruined before, ruined! My father’s man of business stripped me bare, gone, every shilling, every note! What was I to do but take advantage of opportunity? Caroline was desperate. What choice had I? She thought only to save us. You must believe me, Darcy! If you had but married her, all would have been restored!”

Parker did not shift an inch. “You will step back, sir,” he said again, his voice edged with iron.

William rested his gaze on Bingley, but his thoughts recoiled from the sight of such unmanly desperation. A man of honour stood firm. A man of principle did not make excuses for his actions, however dire the circumstance.

Bingley clutched at his breast with theatrical sincerity. “I did it all for her! Do you not see? If you had but married Caroline, all would have been made right. I did not mean her schemes to go so far. I did not. I could not stop her! She but sought to save us both!”

“Step back, sir,” Parker repeated, this time with sharper emphasis.

“No, no, hear me! You cannot abandon me thus! You were my friend. You were...” He tried to push against Parker’s solid frame, but the man did not yield. The exchange had drawn the attention of passersby. Heads turned, whispers stirred.

Parker’s composure did not waver. “Enough. Mr. Darcy’s regard has ever been reserved for men of honour. As for your acquaintance, sir, your friendship began in falsehood and ends in disgrace. My master does not know you.”

Bingley flinched as though struck.

Bingley faltered, and the exchange might have ended there, but at that very moment, one of the urchins suddenly darted toward the open door, his sooty face set with indignation. He pointed a grimy finger at Bingley and shouted, “Liar! You lied to us, sir! Said as how Mr. Darcy were owing you money, and we was to keep him from slippin’ away. But if he owes you nothing, then why should we block the wheels?”

There was laughter now, not whispers, rising from the crowd. The other boys scattered, abandoning their posts. Freed of their restraint, the horses stamped restlessly.

“Shameful,” a gentleman near the walk muttered aloud. “To stoop to employ street brats.”

A lady drew back her skirts with audible disdain. “Fortune lost may be forgiven. Honour lost never.”

William looked upon the small figure, the one ounce of honest courage in a sordid scene, and reached into his pocket. Wordlessly, he extended a card. The lad snatched it, eyes round in astonishment.

“If you call at the stables at Darcy House,” William said, his tone low but perfectly distinct, “your honesty shall not go unrewarded.”

The boy ducked his head and bolted into the crowd, clutching the card as if it were a crown jewel.

William inclined his chin once. Parker shut the door smartly and rapped the side of the coach. The whip cracked, the team surged forward, and Bond Street once more resumed its motion.

Through the small window William cast one last glance. Bingley stood alone in the roadway, coat askew, still mouthing broken pleas that were swallowed by the roar of the street. His hand half-lifted, as though still to knock upon the departing coach, but it fell uselessly to his side.

From the pavement came a voice, pitched to carry above the wheels, “A fine picture of friendship. Hiring beggars to stop a gentleman’s carriage!”

Another answered, quick as a rap on a snuffbox, “His fortune lost to thieves, and his honour to betrayal!”

A third voice, female, sharp and cutting, “He has sold his horses, his plate, his house. Pity he has no honour to sell as well!”

And from further off, in a rougher tone, “I’d sooner trust a cutpurse than a gentleman who sets boys to his quarrels!”

Laughter broke around him, rising and merciless, each remark sharper than the last. Bingley flinched beneath it, coat awry, his hand still in the air only to let it fall uselessly to his side.

Once he had been a friend, almost a brother. Now he was nothing but a ruin, undone not by poverty, but by vanity and weakness.

William’s grip tightened on his cane. The worst fall a man might suffer was not from fortune’s whims. It was the forfeiting of his honour.

And by evening, the tale of Charles Bingley’s abasement had already travelled from Bond Street to the furthest drawing rooms of Town. Society required no embroidery. His final fall was complete, and his name dismissed with a shrug and a smile.

~*~

The following month passed in a delightful flurry, a stark contrast to the dramatic revelations that had closed the evening at Matlock House. London, once a tinderbox of whispered speculation, now hummed with anticipation for the Bennet weddings.

The tarnish upon the Bingley name, so publicly and thoroughly earned, had become a cautionary anecdote traded at tea-tables and card parties, while the Bennets were praised, some admiring, some begrudging, for producing two such advantageous alliances. Of the darker truths behind Lord Aubrey’s confession, nothing more was breathed. Discretion held firm, protecting what mattered.

At Longbourn, usually so quiet, the rooms and lanes stirred with renewed life. Tailors and milliners came and went in brisk succession, each with their bandboxes, bolts, and cheerful instructions. Mama bustled from parlour to dressing-room in a state of perpetual triumph, declaring, at least once an hour, that she had always said her daughters would do well. Even Papa, amused though skeptical of his wife’s convenient recollection, allowed her self-congratulation without interruption. For once, the boast was justified.

Mary sat this morning in the parlour, a box of ribbon swatches arrayed before her like treasures. She had never been so content. The quiet domesticity of choosing silks and satins, of weighing shades of lavender or rose, was a balm after the tumult of London. With the chatter of maidservants running to and fro, and the sound of unpacking trunks in the corridor, Mary reflected on the contrast: while others fled from scandal or shame, the Bennets were here, together, preparing for a future not founded on pretence, but on genuine affection.

Kitty and Lydia entered, their accustomed chatter filling the room, tempered now by experience. Lydia especially bore a new tone; her lessons had pruned away the sharpest edges of her wild gaiety, leaving behind something quieter, and, though still Lydia, altogether more reflective. Together they bent eagerly over scraps for their bridesmaids’ gowns.

“I can scarcely believe it has only been a month,” Lydia mused, her voice more subdued than it once was. “It feels an age since that dreadful night in London.”

“Indeed,” Kitty agreed, holding up a length of pale blue to her cheek. “I try not to think of it. But tell us, Mary, has anything more been heard of the Bingleys?”

Mary’s fingers stilled on a lavender ribbon. “I have heard, from Miss Darcy herself, who sent a brief note to me. She was still in a state of shock over it. It seems Mr. Bingley’s last public act in London was to stop Mr. Darcy’s carriage in the middle of Bond Street, a most vulgar and desperate scene.”

Lydia’s mouth dropped open. Kitty gasped. The air in the room, so recently filled with comfortable domesticity, suddenly thick with the air of a public scandal.

“But what happened?” Lydia demanded, leaning forward. “Did he beg for money? Did he cry? What did Mr. Darcy say? You cannot keep us in suspense, Mary!”

Mary’s lips thinned. “He did not beg for money, not precisely. Miss Darcy wrote that he confessed everything to my brother’s footman, Parker, because Mr. Darcy would not grant him entrance. He admitted to hiring common street boys to hold the carriage wheels fast. He said he had been ruined by his father’s man of business, and that all he did was to save Caroline.”

“He blamed his sister?” Kitty whispered, horrified.

“He did,” Mary confirmed. “He claimed she was desperate to save them both. According to Georgiana, Mr. Bingley did not even have the dignity to keep his humiliation to himself. He made a grand spectacle of his ruin for all of London to see.”

Mary’s fingers stilled on a lavender ribbon. In truth, there was more than she wished to share, though she did not relish a full recital. Still, her sisters’ expectancy moved her.

“Only what one cannot help but know,” she said carefully. “Papa had a note from Mr. Fitzwilliam, via his solicitor. Mr. Bingley has sold everything. His houses, his carriages, the stables, every horse. All his artwork, furniture, even the jewels his father reserved for a future bride. All was disposed of at ruinous prices to cover debts. His business accounts remain in confusion, and what little remains could not keep him in London. He has crossed to the Continent, perhaps Switzerland, where creditors are less eager to follow.”

Lydia bit her lip. “To the Continent? With armies abroad?” Her tone, usually so careless, held real unease.

Mary nodded gravely. “Desperate measures. And from Emma, I learned of the ultimate humiliation. All his possessions, artwork, furniture, even his fine hunter, were sold at auction. As for Miss Bingley, her fall has been swifter still. She has been left to live upon the slender interest of her dowry, for Mr. Bingley had declared himself unwilling to have any further charge of her care. She has taken a single room in Cheapside...”

“Cheapside!” Lydia gasped. Kitty’s eyes went round.

“And,” Mary continued, her voice gaining a quiet force, “lives with very little, and less society. Aunt Gardiner wrote to Mama that Miss Bingley is now shunned even by the very merchant families she now dwells among. They see her pride and will have nothing to do with her. She has a portion to live on, but is, it is said, very much alone.”

Mary thought back to the letter. It was, Emma observed with merciless clarity, a punishment more humiliating than poverty, for society knew she had means, yet none to advocate for her.

Aunt Gardiner wrote it was a melancholy sight, for a woman with portion enough to be comfortable, but none to love her, nor any to defend her name.

The image struck Mary with force. One could lose carriages, jewels, even houses, and still salvage respect. But to be denied fellowship by the very world one had ridiculed, that was true isolation.

A hush fell. Even Lydia, whose tongue was not given to restraint, could summon nothing in triumph. The picture was a punishment so complete that it left them all silent.

From the window came Mama’s unmistakable tones, calling from the drive as she directed the delivery of another crate of French lace. A moment later, a fresh, more pressing concern settled over the parlour.

Kitty turned from the window, her brow furrowed. “Do you not find Mama a little... changed, of late?” she asked, her voice low. “She naps at all hours of the day, yet she cannot sit still for very long without rising to pace or rearrange the furniture.”

Lydia’s head shot up. “And she is always eating! I saw her just this morning, asking the cook for a slice of bread and butter with honey and pickled onions! It is quite the oddest thing!”

Mary, who had been observing her mother with a quiet, analytical mind, nodded slowly. “I have noticed,” she confirmed, picking up a swatch of pale green. “One moment she is in a state of the most glorious triumph over a new shipment of silk, and the next she is near tears over a misplaced pincushion. Her spirits are most unaccountably variable and are most unpredictable.”

A look of shared, unstated worry passed between the three sisters. They had never known their mother to be anything but boisterous in her emotions. However, this felt different, more pronounced and without her usual cause. It was a restlessness they could not comprehend.

“Perhaps it is only the excitement of the weddings?” Kitty suggested, though her tone lacked conviction.

Lydia just shook her head, a sober look on her face.

Mary said nothing, her mind cataloging every strange occurrence, from her mother’s persistent fatigue to her new and peculiar appetite. There was a reason for this, she was certain, though she had no medical text or volume of female humours to explain it.

“She is truly quite changed,” Kitty sighed, shaking her head.

As if summoned, Mama’s voice drifted from the hall, not triumphant but truly flustered. She entered the parlour clutching a bolt of silk, her face a study in distress.

“Oh, my dears! The dressmaker has sent the wrong shade of white for Jane’s petticoat! It is a catastrophe! It will clash horribly with the French lace, the whole trousseau is at risk of ruin!”

At that moment, a maidservant entered with a tray. On it sat a teacup and a plate with a thick slice of bread. Mama, without a word, snatched the plate, bit into the bread, and paused, her eyes widening. “Cook! There are no pickled onions! I asked for honey and pickled onions! And where is my posset? Oh, Mary, must I arrange everything myself?” She took another large bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then her face crumpled. “I am certain this bread is stale! Do you not see how I am put upon!” She threw herself into a chair, near to tears, her mouth full of bread and honey.

Lydia and Kitty exchanged a glance, their eyes wide with disbelief. Mary could only shake her head. The dramatic swing from monumental triumph to utter despair over a piece of bread was unlike any emotional display they had ever witnessed from their mother. It was both absurd and alarming.

Before Mary or her sisters could muster a word of consolation, Mama sprang upright with renewed urgency. “Well, there is nothing for it. I must find Jane at once, or the menus for the week will never be set right. If supper is late tonight, it shall be on my conscience!”

In a trice, she was out of her chair and bustling from the room, already issuing instructions to a footman with twice her usual animation, leaving behind the silks, her bread, and her astonished daughters.

As the sound of Mama’s flustered energy faded down the corridor, Mary felt a strange, centered calm settle within her. She found herself quietly grateful for the ordinary chaos of Longbourn, for its quarrels and triumphs and even its peculiar appetites.

The Bingleys’ downfall had been a spectacle of pride and folly, its lesson painfully clear. But here, here was resilience. Their family, if a little disordered, had come through storm and scandal the stronger. A small, inward celebration that honesty and loyalty, in the end, had bested every trick Miss Bingley could contrive.

Mary offered a quiet prayer of thanks. The Bingleys had undone themselves by arrogance and deceit. The Bennets, meanwhile, had been preserved by honesty, loyalty, and, though she admitted it shyly, even her own intervention when Miss Bingley’s schemes had come to light. Gratitude swelled in her heart.

Yet ribbons and lace were not the only matters filling their mornings. Letters arrived almost daily. One from Rosings, written in Anne’s careful hand, reporting that Lord Gresham had visited twice more, and that she found his company ‘steadier and far more enlivening than she had once thought possible.’ Kitty had read that line thrice over, and Lydia had declared with mock solemnity that Anne was ‘positively besotted,’ and Mary had joined their laughter, warmed by the thought.

Another brought Lady Amelia’s brisk and merry intelligence. She had been “obliged to drive out three mornings in succession with Richard, who insisted upon showing her all the parks of London, though she suspected he cared very little for trees.” Kitty and Lydia collapsed into helpless giggles over that one too, while Mary smiled at the picture so easily conjured.

Jimmy’s scrawl followed from Matlock. He wrote cheerfully of fishing and riding, though ‘never so lively as Longbourn of a morning,’ and confessed he missed them all keenly, and could not wait to join the wedding festivities. Beneath the humour Mary detected a note of wistfulness, as though he still moved between worlds, but she was glad at least of his contentment.

There were elegant assurances from Lady Huntingdon. More formal notes from Lord Aubrey sent to her father that always contained notes for the family.

Mary thought back to yesterday, when another note had arrived.

Lydia, now tasked with fetching the morning post, carried it in with a new sense of dignity that she liked very well. She stopped short, however, when she recognized the imperious hand upon one of the envelopes.

“It is addressed to me,” Lydia exclaimed, her eyes wide as she hugged the letter to her breast. “Lady Catherine herself has written. To me! I thought she only wrote to dukes and duchesses, or to Mr. Darcy, when she wishes to scold him.”

Kitty gasped and Mary looked up from her sewing, a stitch of thread suspended in mid-air. “Well,” said Lydia, tearing it open with an eager snap. “If she thinks me important enough to write, I shall know what it is at once.”

She began to read, her voice firm, though her lips twitched with suppressed smiles. “‘Miss Lydia, I am not in the habit of writing to young ladies, but I find that when one displays both spirit and heedless folly, a firm hand is in order. You remind me too often of myself at your age, which is a matter of equal pride and apprehension.’”

Lydia paused, looking up with a radiant grin. “Imagine her saying I remind her of herself! She is not scolding, you see, she is giving me a compliment of the highest order!”

“‘The disgrace of that Miss Bingley has provided the town with sufficient spectacle. I trust you have marked the lesson. Vanity will topple itself, and nothing is more ridiculous than a young lady who presumes above her situation. See how she tumbles, no maid, no carriage, no invitations left.’”

“Miss Bingley got what she deserved,” Lydia said with a quiet, firm finality that made Kitty flinch. “And that is all there is to be said on the matter.”

She read on, her voice softer this time, as if sharing a secret. “‘Miss Bingley got what she deserved. ’ See, Lady Catherine agrees with me,” Lydia beamed before reading more. “‘And I have instructed my nephews to send me a full report of her living arrangements. I wish to know how a woman so given to vanity will survive without a proper lady’s maid. It should be a most amusing spectacle, I trust.’”

“I agree with Lady Catherine,” Kitty said gleefully.

“‘You, however, are my nephew’s sister by attachment. Do not forget it. Conduct yourself with spirit, but temper it, for nothing is so tedious as silliness unredeemed by sense. I expect, hereafter, no giggling or fluttering where gentlemen may observe you. If you must laugh, do it in private. If you must chatter, be sure your words are worth hearing. I permit you amusement, Lydia, but not impropriety. Remember that, and you will do very well.’”

When Lydia reached the end, she gave a triumphant little gasp, then a delighted laugh. “Do you hear that? She permits me amusement! Mama scolds and makes me feel wretched, but Lady Catherine scolds and makes me feel as though I have been handed a rule to win the world. I am to be amusing, but respectable! A rule I can follow perfectly!”

Kitty blinked. “I should not like such a letter. I would feel crushed.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Lydia declared, before her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as she leaned over and touched the paper with her finger. “She means it kindly, in her way. Do you not hear it? She is giving me a rule to follow! I am to be amusing, but respectable! It is a rule I can manage very well.”

Mary’s lips twitched upward, despite herself. She had heard all the sharpness in Lady Catherine’s reproof, but she had also glimpsed, just as Lydia had claimed, a surprising strand of indulgence wound through it. It was not precisely friendship, nor yet kindness, but something closer to mentorship. A protective authority that half-admonished, half-championed. And Lydia, astonishingly, seemed to thrive under it.

Mary thought of it with wry astonishment. Lydia Bennet, tutored and teased into composure by Lady Catherine of Rosings! Yet stranger things had already come to pass. A fierce, protective condescension seemed to take Lydia under its wing, a solemn and binding obligation between the two that was not kindness, but a different sort of care entirely.

So the weeks carried on. Jane’s gentle serenity at her fittings drew murmurs of admiration even from hardened modistes. Elizabeth guided her seamstress with a surer hand, decisive, practical, and delighted to plan only what mattered. Mama crowed over menus and lists. Papa chuckled at the absurdity of them all, even as his quiet diligence ensured nothing was left undone.

Mary, watching it unfold, thought that society might chatter, papers might embellish, and letters might exaggerate, but here, at Longbourn, the truth was plain. A family restored, altered, and prepared for joy.

And then, at last, the day arrived.

The morning mist still clung to the ancient oaks lining the road to Meryton’s parish church as carriages arrived one by one, bearing guests from London and beyond. Gardiner children, scrubbed bright as pennies, raced between the wheels to greet their cousins. The air hummed with anticipation, laced with the fragrance of orange blossom and freshly cut flowers. Mary watched the arrival with a quiet calm settling over her; today, she decided, would prove neither tragic nor farcical, but harmonious.

Inside, the service was held in the modest but venerable parish church. The local vicar, a kind man whose hands trembled only slightly from age or nerves, spoke with genuine warmth. Jane, radiant in white lace, looked ethereal as she pledged herself to Viscount Spenston. Her joy was a luminous, still thing, as though even breath would disturb its perfection. Elizabeth, no less lovely, stood beside her, her gaze softened with profound affection as she met Mr. Darcy’s steady eyes.

When their vows were exchanged and hands clasped, Mary felt a tear prick at the corner of her eye. A rare, unguarded emotion finding its way past all reason. Mr. Darcy, usually so contained, allowed the faintest smile to lift his mouth as he looked at Elizabeth, a silent vow etched deeper than words.

Outside in the churchyard, amid laughter and congratulation, the guests mingled beneath the gently rising sun. Fanny Gardiner carefully rearranged her sash while her younger brothers spun like tops in borrowed velvet coats, one boy’s stockings already laddered. Aunts and neighbours compared the bouquets and whispered about the arrivals. Aunt Philips bustled over to plant a loud kiss upon every niece in turn, crowing over Jane’s bloom and prophesying future sons.

Mary, standing a little apart, observed these currents with satisfaction. There was no rush or ostentation, only the quiet rightness of something long awaited and, at last, whole.

The swirl of ribbons and bonnets broke briefly as the Earl of Matlock, looking remarkably less burdened than he had a month prior, approached Mrs. Walters, who stood a little aside, her kind face alight with shared happiness.

“Mrs. Walters,” the Earl began, his voice low, “I find I must speak with you.”

Mrs. Walters turned, a soft smile on her lips. “My Lord, this is indeed a joyful day.”

“Joyful, yes,” the Earl agreed, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “And perhaps it is this very joy, this new beginning for Jimmy, that gives me the courage. We are both widowed, Mrs. Walters. We know the sorrow of loss, and the quiet companionship life can offer. We are, I daresay, well past the age for frivolous courtships or societal expectations.” A note of his old determination entered his voice. “I do not wish for a lengthy courtship, nor for tedious formalities. Will you do me the honour, Mrs. Walters, of becoming my wife?”

Mrs. Walters’s eyes widened, a delicate flush rising to her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her heart, a silent breath escaping her lips. “My Lord Matlock,” she murmured, a warmth in her voice that matched the gentle smile that now truly blossomed on her face, “I would be honoured indeed.”

The Earl gave a brief, satisfied nod. “Excellent. Now, as for the announcement, I believe we should keep this quiet for a short while longer. Today belongs wholly to my son and Mr. Darcy, and to their new wives. We shall not steal their thunder, eh Josephine?”

Mrs. Walters chuckled softly. “Indeed, David. A secret well-kept often doubles the pleasure.”

Mary’s lips twitched as she overheard the echo of another such secret. At that moment, a small commotion arose as Aunt Philips paraded the Gardiner children before her, three in a row, their shoes polished to a fearful shine. Aunt Philips, attempted to corral the boys, but one broke away, scattering sugared almonds over the path. “Mind your manners, Tom!” she scolded, though not unkindly. “We are in the presence of the peerage!”

Even Lady Catherine, examining the whole affair with pursed lips, was briefly distracted by a curling ribbon.

Not far off, Lord Gresham, who had spent the last month diligently calling upon Anne de Bourgh, now stood before her, a nervous but hopeful light in his eyes. Lady Catherine, ever watchful, was conveniently positioned nearby, pretending to adjust a rose in her bodice.

“Miss de Bourgh,” Lord Gresham began, his voice earnest, “my month of permitted courtship has only served to confirm what I felt from our first meeting. You possess a quiet strength, a discerning mind, and a goodness of heart that I admire above all else. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Anne, usually so demure, looked up at him, a rare, radiant smile gracing her lips. “Lord Gresham,” she replied, her voice surprisingly clear, “yes. I will.”

Lady Catherine, unable to contain herself, stepped forward. “Well done, Lord Gresham! A sensible match. And Anne, you have chosen wisely. However,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we shall wait to announce this formally. We shall not overshadow Jane and Elizabeth’s happiness today. Let them have their moment.”

Lord Gresham and Anne exchanged amused glances, a shared understanding already present between them.

A muffled screech from the direction of the house announced that Mrs. Bennet had discovered some mislaid dessert spoons, and the resulting hubbub sent a flurry of maids, trays, and lace-edged napkins into the sunshine.

Meanwhile, Mr. Fitzwilliam, ever the soul of discretion, had drawn Lady Amelia a little aside, his hand resting lightly, proprietarily, on her elbow. “Amelia,” he murmured, his gaze warm and direct, “I have long cherished our friendship. The past weeks have only cemented my belief that you are the most delightful, sensible, and utterly captivating woman I know. I should like to ask if you would permit me a formal courtship, with the intention of making you my wife.”

Lady Amelia’s eyes sparkled. “Richard,” she breathed, her voice filled with quiet joy, “yes. Most certainly, yes.” Her hand reached up, gently squeezing his arm.

They lingered near the cooling shade of the hedgerow, where Mrs. Gardiner’s youngest tried, and failed, to balance a rose upon the family spaniel’s head.

Through and above it all, Mary Bennet drifted contentedly, at ease as an observer. She found unexpected pleasure in the spectacle. Lady Catherine offering strategic advice to every mother in sight. Her own sisters radiant with happiness rather than anxiety. The smallest Gardiner, cheeks smeared with cake, solemnly presenting a ribbon to General Fitzwilliam.

Mary was contemplating the orderliness of the rose hedges when a familiar voice, low and hesitant, interrupted her thoughts.

“Miss Bennet.”

She turned and found Lord Aubrey Carmichael, very much the gentleman of title and consequence, standing before her. His expression was composed, but not confident. There was something tentative in the way he held himself, as though he were bracing for more than he had the right to ask.

“My lord,” Mary replied, with a smile.

He gave her a quick bow. “I do not mean to keep you from the festivities, but, may I walk with you a moment?”

She nodded, and together they turned down one of the gravel paths winding through the gardens, far enough for privacy, with the laughter and music of the party receding behind them.

“Mary!”

She turned at the sound of Elizabeth’s voice, her face alight with pleasure. She and Jane, arm in arm with their new husbands, approached them. Mr. Darcy gave a brief, polite nod to Lord Aubrey, and the Viscount followed suit.

“We were just looking for you,” Jane said, her expression soft with a happiness that seemed to radiate from her very person.

“We wanted to see if you were enjoying the festivities, Mary,” Elizabeth added, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she glanced between Mary and Lord Aubrey. “We have so rarely seen you without a book in your hand.”

“I have been enjoying the company,” Mary replied, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “The day is quite a lovely one.”

Mr. Darcy, ever observant, offered a rare, slight smile. “A lovely day, indeed. Though perhaps not as lovely as the prospect of future days.” His gaze lingered on his new wife with a tenderness that made Elizabeth’s eyes shine.

Just then, a familiar figure came into view, walking with a gentle, dignified slowness. It was Charlotte Lucas, her face etched with a peaceful contentment. She saw them, and her smile widened.

“Elizabeth, Jane,” she said, her voice warm, and the three women fell into a comfortable, natural embrace. The kind that needs no words to announce itself. “You are both truly a delight to behold. I was hoping for a chance to speak with you before you left.”

“Oh, Charlotte,” Elizabeth murmured, her voice filled with pure joy as she hugged her friend tightly. “How happy I am to see you.”

“It is so good to see you both so happy,” Charlotte said softly, holding Jane’s hands. She turned to the gentlemen. “My deepest and most sincere congratulations to you both.”

Charlotte then turned to Mr. Darcy, giving him a polite curtsy. Her voice, though low, was filled with a quiet, genuine respect. “Mr. Darcy, I am so very happy to see my dear friend looking so well, and so content. You have her happiness in your keeping now.”

“I shall do my utmost, Miss Lucas,” he replied, a gentle, kind smile on his lips. “It is a happy day for us all.”

He bowed to her and took Elizabeth’s arm. “Elizabeth, my love, your mother and my aunts are requesting our presence. We must go.”

As they walked away, Elizabeth paused, turning back to Charlotte. “You must promise to visit us at Pemberley, Charlotte. It is a house made for guests, and I would be so very happy to have you.”

Charlotte’s eyes twinkled with a knowing gleam. “Oh, my dear Lizzy, if it is as beautiful as Mr. Darcy says, you may never get me to leave.” She then leaned closer to Elizabeth and lowered her voice slightly, so only she could hear. “So, I shall end an old maid, and teach your ten children to embroider cushions, and play their instruments very ill.”

Elizabeth laughed, a sound of pure joy. “It would be my greatest pleasure, Charlotte.” She then took Mr. Darcy’s arm and walked with him to find their family.

Mary and Lord Aubrey stood in quiet observation for a moment as the others departed, their laughter fading into the distance. Lord Aubrey turned to Mary, a quiet sincerity in his eyes.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice low and considerate. “The moment has passed, but our conversation has not. Would you still care to take that walk now?”

She nodded, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. “I would, my lord.”

They turned and walked on, each a little more certain, their steps light. The laughter and music of the party receded behind them. The hush not uncomfortable but expectant. It was he who broke it first.

“I have been thinking a great deal on what it means to be accountable for the sins of one’s family.”

Mary looked up at him, her brow faintly furrowed.

“When my uncles actions came to light,” he continued, “I feared what you would think of me. Of my name. It is no small thing, what my uncle tried to do. Your extended family suffered greatly, nearly lost to his ambition. And yet you...”

He stopped abruptly, shaking his head once, then turned to face her.

“I cannot ask for your regard, Mary, if it causes you pain. But I find I cannot, will not, pretend I do not feel it.” He hesitated. “I admire you more than I can rightly say. Your fortitude, your honesty, your quiet discernment, these are qualities I have come to value more deeply than I ever expected. I would like to court you, with your father’s permission, and with no expectation beyond what you are willing to give.”

Mary studied him, her expression calm, though there was the faintest crease between her brows. “You are not your uncle, my lord. That you bear the weight of what happened only proves your integrity. If you are hesitant because of propriety or appearances...”

He stopped her with a quiet, rueful smile.

“It is not you I doubt, Miss Bennet.” His voice lowered, sincere and tinged with that old weight of duty. “It is myself. I am the second son of a duke. You are a country gentleman’s daughter. I fear what society would say not of you, but of me, what they would assume my intentions to be. And what they might do to your name if they thought them dishonourable.”

She looked at him, eyes clear and steady. “Let them try.” The words were quiet, but firm. He blinked, surprised, and she continued, more gently now. “If someone would impugn my character or yours, let them make the attempt. I believe you are well equipped to answer them.”

He gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “Miss Bennet, I would ruin them. And gladly.”

She inclined her head with a trace of amusement. “Then I believe we understand each other perfectly.”

He straightened, the last flicker of doubt leaving his eyes. “Then may I speak with your father? I would not proceed without his blessing.”

“Yes,” she said simply, with composed grace. Then, after a brief pause, she added, “Though I rather think he will already have an inkling.”

At that, Lord Aubrey smiled, a real smile, full of warmth and quiet triumph. He offered his arm.

“Shall we return to the house, Miss Bennet?”

“Yes,” she said again, more softly this time. And she took it.

“May I call you Mary, now?”

She looked up at him, something softening in her gaze. “You may. But not in front of Lady Catherine, or she will assume we already have my father’s blessings.”

He chuckled. “In that case, I shall be very careful indeed.”

As they turned back toward the others, their path lined by flowering hedges and the dusky light of early evening, there was a sense, unmistakable, if only to them, that something long delayed had quietly begun.

As the carriages departed and the last guests dwindled, Mary found herself standing on the porch of Longbourn, the setting sun casting long shadows across the lawn. Her sisters, now wives, were off to begin their new lives, and the house felt strangely quiet, yet filled with a resonant peace. The revelations of Lord Aubrey, the new courtships forming, the steady, quiet happiness that now seemed to settle upon those around her, it all felt like the turning of a page, not just for her family, but for herself. She had found her voice, not in song, but in conviction, and had discovered a depth within herself that she had long overlooked. The world, once a collection of facts and studies, had expanded to include the complex, vibrant tapestry of human connection, of courage found in unexpected places, and of love, in its many forms, always finding a way.

The future, Mary knew, was not a neatly plotted novel, but a continuing story, full of untold chapters. For Jane and Elizabeth, for Jimmy and the Earl, for Lord Aubrey and Lady Amelia, for Lord Gresham and Anne, and for herself, there were new roles to play, new lessons to learn, and new harmonies to discover. This was not an ending, but a beautiful, promising beginning, leaving the reader with the certainty that life, with all its complexities, would continue to unfold, offering both challenges and joys, and always, the quiet hope of growth and connection.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 24 (no replies)

Anne V — Tue, 09 Sep 2025 12:23:17 +0100

Chapter 24

For the first time in well over a decade, Jane felt exasperated and for a moment, it showed on her face as a narrowing in her eyes and a slightly open mouth, before her calm demeanour overtook her features.

Charles didn't hide his displeasure. “What are you doing up so early? It’s before eight.”

“I’ve done little else besides sleep and rest in my room for days. I simply cannot sleep any longer. I've already had breakfast and am ready to face the day.” Her attention wandered to all the damage done to the garden and the felled trees and messy paths. “You should tell the gardeners to come and fix this up. It's an absolute mess out here.”

Through gritted teeth, Mr Bingley replied. “Have you failed to notice the fact that there was a massive storm? The gardeners are busy restoring roofs and rebuilding houses. Fixing the garden is low on their list of priorities.”

Caroline chattered on about something. Mr Bingley completely ignored her as he cursed himself for not getting to the point sooner. But he had not been incorrect about Jane’s feelings. Next time he will ask her quickly. He exchanged a rueful smile with Jane, who returned it whilst politely nodding at whatever Caroline said.

“Charles, are you listening to me? I swear you haven't heard a word I said.“

Jane answered for him. “I would not be surprised if it snowed soon. December is only a week away. The temperature has certainly cooled enough in the last two days.”

Caroline stuck with them and Charles could think of no way to send her away.

They returned to the house where Caroline spirited Jane away with her. Mr Darcy was descending the stairs as the ladies disappeared from sight. Mr Darcy studied Charles and noted how Charles ran his hand through his hair with frustration. “I have some mail to post. Do you feel like a ride into Meryton? Crossing the stream now shouldn't be an issue for our horses.”

“Yes, that sounds good.”

It wasn't long before they were on their horses and crossing the stream that was now at its normal level.

“What happened?” asked Darcy.

“Caroline interrupted us. I never got the chance to ask.”

“She has a unique ability for being where she is not wanted.”

“I'm certain she and Louisa are deliberately trying to keep us separated.”

“Do remember Miss Bennet is their guest, not yours.”

“Can you help me to separate her from my sisters?”

“Miss Bennet rides, does she not?”

“Yes, she came here by horse.”

“Then ask her to ride with you tomorrow morning, before breakfast. Hopefully that is too early for either of your sisters.”

Meanwhile, Jane kept turning the conversation over and over in her head. Caroline and Louisa had to continuously repeat their questions, with Caroline quipping that it seemed like Jane had gone deaf (fortunately Jane did not hear that comment, though Elizabeth did).

Elizabeth was burning with curiosity as to what had happened, but guessed it wasn't a proposal as Jane did not seem happy. It wasn't till after lunch that Elizabeth was able to get Jane alone and ask.

“I think he was about to propose...”

“Why? What did he say? Did he get nervous or cold feet? Tell me everything.”

Jane described every word and every look and then the interruption.

“Oh what terrible timing. But I do agree, he was clearly leading into a proposal, else why say any of it? Now that he had started, he won't stop trying. Hopefully he is quicker next time.”

“Lizzy, can I ask a favour of you?”

“Yes, I will do whatever I can to orchestrate you having some time alone with Mr Bingley. Even if that means spending time with Caroline.”

Jane grabbed her hand and smiled gratefully at her little sister.

The ladies all retired to the music room. It was not long before the men came to ‘listen to the music’, and the comedy began. Charles sat next to Jane. But as only Louisa and Elizabeth could play, Caroline sat with Jane and prevented any private conversation.

Mr Darcy swallowed his pride and moved himself to sit next to Caroline and attempted to distract her attention. Mr Darcy received a raised eyebrow from Elizabeth, and his rueful return smile let her know that he was aware and assisting Mr Bingley. But for the first time ever, Caroline ignored Mr Darcy, returning monosyllabic answers to any questions. Her focus remained on Jane and Mr Bingley.

After forty minutes or so, Mr Bingley looked out the window and proposed a turn around the garden. “The weather looks so good and who knows how long the weather will continue to hold.”

Jane confirmed that she would join him. “What a good idea. I could do with a turn,” agreed Caroline eagerly.

Mr Darcy then felt that he had to join them to distract Caroline. Elizabeth thought Mr Darcy might need support in his efforts, which was followed by Louisa declaring herself tired of playing. Caroline and Louisa escorted the Bennet sisters to their rooms to collect their coats and gloves and were waiting for them when they left their rooms.

Once outside, when Charles offered his arm to Jane, Caroline went and took her brother’s other arm. Mr Darcy had no other choice but to offer his arm to both Elizabeth and Louisa. They started talking of music.

“What was the piece that Miss Bingley played the other night? Her playing was exquisite,” commented Elizabeth.

“It was Mozart’s latest piano concerto,” replied Louisa, pleased with the compliment from Elizabeth for her sister.

“Mr Darcy, did you say that your sister plays? Has she had a chance to try that piece yet?”

“I'm uncertain. I do not believe I have heard her play that piece yet and I don't think I have bought that music for her, but I do not keep close track of what music she is practising at any moment.”

“Perhaps Miss Bingley might help her with pointers on that piece?” said Elizabeth with a raised eyebrow.

Silently Mr Darcy sighed at the hint. He disengaged from both ladies and hurried to catch up with Mr Bingley and the other ladies. “Miss Bingley, what was that piece that you played last? Your playing of the piece was incredibly moving. I think my sister would like to try that piece.”

Miss Bingley immediately dropped Charles arm and took Mr Darcy’s and happily started talking about music. At the back of her mind, she wondered at the change. Had he tired off Miss Eliza? Or had her absence the other day and her lack of attention to him now made him more attentive to her? Had he realised what he was missing? She decided to be her engaging best.

Mr Bingley looked gratefully at Mr Darcy. He then looked to Louisa, who was in a deep conversation with Miss Elizabeth. However, both Mr Darcy and Miss Elizabeth would glance occasionally in his direction and he was feeling too nervous and afraid of interruption. He looked at Jane. “Do you like to ride, Miss Benet? You came here on horseback.”

“Yes, I do enjoy riding, though our horse, Nellie, she is the same horse I've had since I was thirteen and she is not quite as energetic as she once was, so I do not ride her as much as I once did.”

“We have many horses here and there are a couple of mares that I think would be quite suitable. I got them for Louisa and Caroline to use and neither have been ridden much at all. I think I've seen them both on the horses once since we've been here.”

“I would like that,“ replied Jane with a small smile.

“How would you like to go riding tomorrow morning, before breakfast? Just the two of us?” he asked nervously.

Jane understood the hint as his eyes shifted nervously to the others who were nearby. “I would like that very much.”

It was good that he had secured the private interview, as Caroline dragged Mr Darcy to them shortly after.

They had no time alone after that. At dinner, Caroline placed Jane next to her and near Mr Darcy, whilst placing Elizabeth next to Mr Bingley. After dinner there was also no chance for private conversation as Mr Hurst was keen for cards and Jane was convinced to play. Neither felt disappointed, as the next day held such promise.

Before retiring, Caroline went to Louisa’s room. “I was about to give up on Mr Darcy ever paying any attention to me, but did you see how he approached me when we walked outside? I thought he was infatuated with that Eliza. Maybe he has now seen how unsuitable she is for his attentions and returns to pay them in a more proper direction.”

“I did see that. I think Lizzy may have helped you along there. She was admiring your playing the other night and was inquiring the name of the piece and she prompted Mr Darcy as to whether his sister would wish to play it. That is what must have prompted him.”

Caroline frowned at that piece of news. “I'll be sure to thank Eliza tomorrow,” she said sarcastically. “As long as Mr Darcy’s attention remains on me.”

“I’m certain he remembers his responsibility to marry well. He's resisted the attempts of many others. I'm more concerned about Charles. His attentions to Jane seem more serious than we have previously seen. I fear he might be thinking of actually proposing to Jane.”

Caroline waved the thought away dismissively. “He's always been turned by a pretty girl and just as quickly forgotten. He will bore of her soon enough. He'll find another ‘angel’ to chase after when we return to London and Jane will be just like the others.“

“Still, he is spending all the time he can get alone with her. And with the roads a mess and the bridge washed away, we don't know when we can return to London. We can't even leave Netherfield, for goodness sake! The longer they spend together, the higher everyone's expectation will be that they marry. I’m more worried that with the Bennet’s long stay here, one of the servants will start to gossip or start a rumour, and Charles will be forced to offer for her.“

Caroline contemplated that. The thought of Mrs Bennet being a relative made her shudder. She thought about what she interrupted that morning. Charles had looked mighty cross. “We should talk with Mr Darcy and have him help us discourage Charles.”

“I fear he will be of little help. He has spent more time alone with Elizabeth than Charles has with Jane.”

“Then it would be best that we make sure that the men don't spend any time alone with the Bennet sisters until they leave.”

“I've been trying to do that whilst you have been convalescing,” snapped Louisa. “It hasn't always been effective as I can only cover one at a time unless I have them both together.”

“Thank goodness that they will only be here for another two days.”

When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand Chapter 16 (2 replies)

LizzyS — Mon, 08 Sep 2025 21:14:55 +0100

This got way too long, so I had to split the chapter into two. Depending on how long they end up being, I may post Chapter 17 and the epilogue next week.

Chapter 16

The morning light, though attempting to be cheerful, struggled to penetrate the heavy damask curtains of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s breakfast parlour. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, chasing away the lingering chill of dawn, but the air still held the faint, sweet scent of last night’s festivities.

Mary, always an early riser, found herself already seated at the polished mahogany table, a cup of strong tea in her hand. She rather liked these quiet moments before the day’s demands began in earnest.

Across from her, Lady Catherine presided with her usual formidable presence, as commanding at breakfast as she was in any ballroom. Emma Woodhouse, radiating an almost visible satisfaction, was just accepting a plate of buttered toast, while Mrs. Hurst, looking remarkably composed if a trifle pale, chose a single delicate pastry. Jimmy stifled a yawn as he poured himself coffee. Mary wondered if he would ever quite believe he belonged in such company. Elizabeth, Papa, and, most surprisingly, Lydia had joined the party, taking seats closer to the warmth of the fire.

“Lady Catherine,” Mrs. Hurst began, her voice soft but sincere, “I am profoundly grateful for your extraordinary kindness in allowing us to remain under your roof last night. Your generosity has provided us with a true sanctuary.”

Emma, catching Lady Catherine’s eye, added with her usual charming directness, “And I, Lady Catherine, am equally obliged for your hospitality. It will be invaluable to speak with the Bennet sisters and your daughter this morning to reflect on such a memorable ball.”

Lady Catherine offered Emma a brisk, approving nod. Then, turning her attention to Mrs. Hurst, her voice, while firm, held a distinct note of command that was, in this instance, entirely benevolent. “You are welcome here, Mrs. Hurst, for as long as it is necessary. Consider this your home until such time as you are able to arrange new lodgings to your satisfaction. A lady of your conduct deserves nothing less than proper comfort and suitable accommodation away from your siblings.” Her gaze sharpened slightly. “I understand Mr. Hurst is likewise disinclined to return to his brother-in-law’s lodgings?”

Mrs. Hurst nodded, her eyes wide with relief. “Indeed, Lady Catherine. He found the atmosphere most distressing. We both did. He believes, and I agree wholeheartedly, a change of scene is quite essential for his constitution, given all that has transpired. Perhaps his parents will allow us to return to their estate.”

“Quite right,” Lady Catherine declared, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “One cannot expect a gentleman to endure such a want of discernment in his household. Consider it settled, then.”

Mary sipped her tea, feeling a quiet satisfaction at Lady Catherine’s decisiveness. There was something strangely comforting about a woman who always seemed to know what ought to be done, and then simply did it.

Mrs. Hurst, feeling a profound sense of gratitude and safety, now spoke with unaccustomed frankness. “Thank you, my lady. My husband was quite beside himself last night. He could not bring himself to remain. He had known, of course, that both my sister and brother were ambitious. But we had no idea they were capable of such a thing. Not merely the public disgrace, which was mortifying enough, but the forgery, my lady! I confess, I knew nothing of it until I heard Lady Sedgewick speak.”

“It was that final, despicable act which proved to be the last straw. The rumors about my brother hiring ruffians had, of course, been circulating for some time, but we had hoped it was just malicious gossip. The spectacle at the ball, however, followed by the revelation of the forgery that was confirmation. That was the final, undeniable proof that there was a coldness in their hearts we could no longer excuse.” Mrs. Hurst took a shaky breath, the release of long-suppressed truth giving her the courage to voice the unvarnished truth.

“In a way, my lady, it is a relief to be free. The truth is, my husband and I have been enslaved by my sister’s ambition for years. Every social engagement, every comment, every decision was made to serve her endless pursuit of status. Her temper, her demands. Mr. Hurst, who is a gentleman of honor, if quiet, found it all utterly distasteful. He did not drink as much as people supposed, my lady. He sought some small comfort in his glass, to escape the constant and vulgar clamor of my sister’s plans.”

Lady Catherine’s face, for once, was wiped clean of all expression save utter, cold fury. Mrs. Hurst, having finally unburdened herself, sank back into her chair, her hands trembling, but her spirit feeling lighter than it had in months. She had chosen her new family. They, in turn, had chosen her.

Lydia, who had been listening with uncharacteristic stillness, now leaned forward, her bold nature overcoming her newfound decorum. “But if you knew they were so horrid,” she asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the hushed room, “why did you not simply leave them sooner?”

Mrs. Hurst looked at her, taken aback, then a sad, rueful smile touched her lips. “I am the eldest, Miss Lydia,” she explained quietly. “I had always believed that I could somehow temper my sister’s worst impulses. I was her confidante, her ally in our younger days. I always thought that I could guide her, could make her see reason. But she grew more ambitious, and I grew more weary. It was a failure of duty on my part, I suppose, to have been so weak as to not walk away before matters descended so very far beyond recall.”

Lydia’s eyes, wide with a dawning horror, swept over Mrs. Hurst’s distressed form. She took a small, involuntary gasp. “Oh,” she said, her voice a low, shaky whisper. “I... I see it now. The silly giggling, the bold glances, the flirting with officers. It was all a desperate striving after consequence, just like her. I was on my way to becoming exactly like Miss Bingley, was I not?”

Papa, who had been watching his youngest daughter with a rare, open fondness, gave a single, slow nod. His usual dry wit was absent, replaced by a profound sincerity.

Her voice, for once, was soft and entirely earnest as she turned to her father. “Papa,” she began, a hint of genuine tears in her eyes, “thank you for engaging Mrs. Walters. I... I see now that you did not do it to punish me, but to protect me from myself.”

Mr. Bennet merely reached across the space between them and patted her hand. “My dear,” he said, his voice unusually gentle, “a father’s duty is not to punish his children, but to provide them with the means to guide his children towards their better selves. Sometimes, that means hiring a woman who can teach them how to tell the difference between a foolish flight of fancy and a proper foundation. I believe, in this case, the measure was a wise one.”

Lady Catherine, whose own face had softened imperceptibly at Lydia’s confession, gave a sharp, decisive nod. “Indeed, Bennet,” she declared, her voice as decisive as ever. “It is a rare thing to see a parent act with such foresight. Your daughter’s discernment, though late in coming, is a credit to your judgment. One cannot always be protected from the folly of others, but a mind properly trained can defend itself from its own worst impulses. It seems you have found the only remedy for a flighty disposition.”

Mary felt a profound sense of shared understanding with her sister. Lydia’s eyes, glistening with unshed tears, were filled with a sincerity that Mary had rarely, if ever, seen before.

“And Mary,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I have not thanked you for making Papa and Mama finally see what I was blind to. You made them see how perilously I was proceeding. You helped them protect me from myself, too.”

“We are sisters,” she said, her voice soft and composed. “We protect one another. It was a simple thing to do, but I am glad it made a difference.” She gave Lydia a small, genuine smile, and for the first time in her life, she felt a true, uncomplicated bond with her youngest sister.

In this one moment, her careful observations and her quiet wisdom had been the very thing to save her sister. It was not a triumph, she thought, but a quiet, beautiful vindication.

A footman entered, bearing a silver tray laden with a selection of morning papers. Lady Catherine waved a dismissive hand at the more politically inclined sheets, fixing her gaze instead on a familiar, slightly less formal publication. “Ah, the Ton Times,” she announced, her voice cutting through the soft clatter of china. “Let us see what witless observations society has deemed worthy of print this morning.”

Mary, her curiosity piqued, watched as Lady Catherine unfolded the paper with a snap. Her Ladyship’s eyes, keen and discerning, scanned the columns. A faint, scarcely perceptible curve touched her lips. Mary felt her own anticipation rise, surely the morning’s news would be as eventful as the evening that had preceded it.

“Hmph,” she pronounced, “as expected. The usual vapid pronouncements. But ah, what is this?” Her gaze sharpened, resting upon a bold headline. She read aloud, her tone dry as parchment, “Bennet by Blood? Or By Brilliance? Two London Titans Bow to Longbourn’s Charms!”

Emma gave a small, knowing smile, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. Mrs. Hurst, a flicker of something of awe in her eyes, glanced quickly at Mary. Mary could not help but feel a small surge of pride, her family, once so easily dismissed, now the subject of London’s most pointed curiosity.

Lady Catherine continued, her voice gaining a certain relish, “And below it, this rather colourful little piece. One almost suspects a certain hand in its composition,” she remarked, glancing pointedly at Emma.

Mary hid a smile behind her teacup. Emma, after all, was a master at turning the wheels of society with nothing but a few well-placed words.

“B’s Scheme Bombastically - Social Self-Combustion at Sedgewick’s Soirée! A Gentleman’s Hand Forged, a Lady’s Dignity Undone, and a Mr. B Quite Incapacitated by His Own Indiscretion!”

A collective gasp, soft but audible, rippled around the table. Mrs. Hurst winced, drawing her shoulders in slightly. Jimmy choked on his coffee, sputtering into his napkin.

“I believe you are quite right, aunt,” Jimmy said, a playful glint in his eye as he took a sip of coffee. “That particular phrase has a familiar scent of honeyed malice.”

“Oh, how dreadfully theatrical!” Mr. Bennet remarked, setting down his own teacup with a careful hand. “One might think they were performing on a stage. It does seem a great deal of effort to achieve so little.”

Mary could not help but marvel at how quickly society could turn. Just a week ago, the Bingleys had seemed so assured of their place. Now, their downfall was breakfast entertainment.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Jimmy, once he had recovered. “The entire affair laid bare for all to see!”

“Indeed, James,” Lady Catherine said, her tone coolly triumphant. “It seems some truths, however inconvenient, will always find their way to the light. And the author of this particular piece has seen fit to include details that leave little to the imagination.” She continued to read, her voice measured with deliberate effect, detailing the forgery, Miss Bingley’s ill-fated collapse, and Mr. Darcy’s explicit withdrawal of acquaintance.

Mary watched Mrs. Hurst closely, noting the tension in her posture. She could only imagine what it must feel like to see one’s family so publicly dissected. And yet, Mrs. Hurst bore it with remarkable composure, perhaps, Mary thought, because she knew herself to be blameless.

“It further elaborates on Miss Bingley’s audacious attempt to compromise William,” Lady Catherine read, a note of particular distaste in her voice. “‘The calculated theatricality of Miss B’s engineered collapse, designed no doubt to ensnare the scion of Derbyshire, was met with a display of gentlemanly evasion as swift as it was decisive.’ Ha! Quite rightly so. My nephew has always possessed a keen eye for presumption.”

Elizabeth, sitting straighter, merely smiled faintly. Mary suspected her sister was privately delighted by the public vindication of Mr. Darcy’s conduct.

Lydia, who had been listening with rapt attention, clapped her hands together. “Oh, that sounds thrilling! Like a novel!”

“And then this,” Lady Catherine added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush as she scanned the paper. “‘Following her ignominious fall, or rather, falls, witnesses report a spectacle of staggering proportions. The young lady was seen to be so undone by her mortification that she crumpled upon the floor once more, this time with her brother, the very source of her disgrace, abandoning her in full view of the assembly. He departed without a word, leaving her to be seen to by a mere footman. A most brutal, though perhaps deserved, display of fraternal disavowal.’”

“Bingley has always been a coward,” Mr. Bennet declared, his voice cutting through the soft murmurings. “He was ever willing to permit his sister to scheme and claw her way into society, but the instant it touched himself, he fled.”

“And there is more,” Lady Catherine continued, her voice gaining a sharp edge of amusement. “‘In a further display of her complete social ineptitude, the disgraced Miss B was given the cut direct by not one, but two ladies of consequence, Lady dB and Miss B herself, who delivered the most elegant public address of the season, a most instructive display of quiet devastation.’ The report is quite effusive on the subject of your eloquence, Miss Mary,” she added, a glint of approval in her eye. “It is rare to see such grace in adversity.”

Mary felt a blush creep up her neck. She had not expected her actions to be so publicly remarked upon, but a quiet satisfaction settled within her.

“Ha!” Jimmy barked, setting his coffee cup down with a clatter. “That was the most devastating thing I have ever seen. You should have been a general, Mary, you know how to win a war without raising a weapon.”

“The author of this piece appears to have a fondness for poetic justice,” Lady Catherine declared, her voice a triumphant flourish. “‘It is said that the assembled company, once so silent, erupted into open laughter at Miss B’s plight, a most fitting chorus for one so eager to mock others. It seems her descent, a most graceful plummet from the heights of arrogance, has been deemed more entertaining than all her witless conversation combined.’”

Papa let out a short, surprised bark of laughter. “Even in her ruin, she manages to be a bore. I must confess, I find myself in perfect agreement with this author. There is a certain poetic justice in it.”

Lady Catherine continued to read, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “‘One can only say that Miss B proved her true character, not in her aspirations, but in her disgrace. She did not merely fall from grace. She was laid bare by her own hubris, a public spectacle not soon to be forgotten. It is a lesson to us all that the ladder of ambition is often polished with a lack of integrity, and that such an ascent can prove a most precarious climb.’”

“And listen to this, Mrs. Hurst,” Lady Catherine added, her gaze resting pointedly on the other woman. “A truly excellent passage concerning your own conduct. It notes how ‘Mrs. H, a Lady of undeniable integrity, demonstrated commendable discretion in a situation of profound familial embarrassment, proving that true character shines brightest when its associations falter.’ A very neatly turned phrase, I must say.”

Mrs. Hurst flushed, her eyes suspiciously bright, and lowered her gaze quickly, as though unwilling to betray the emotion that pricked so near the surface.

“I... I am quite relieved, Lady Catherine. One never knows how such things will be perceived.”

“One does, if one conducts oneself with propriety, as you did,” Lady Catherine retorted, though without her usual sharpness. Her eyes, however, returned to the paper, scanning for more. “Ah, and a most pointed mention of Mr. Bingley’s condition.” She lifted her chin slightly. “It explicitly states that ‘Mr. B was observed to be in considerable discomfort throughout the evening, owing to a regrettable ankle injury that would, in the opinion of many, have been better served by quiet repose rather than public display. Indeed, one wonders at the judgment that would bring a gentleman so physically impaired into such a demanding social assembly.’ Most astute, if I may say so. It leaves no doubt as to the folly of their presence.”

Emma, unable to contain her satisfaction, offered a demure cough. “It seems the public is quite as discerning as our own private circles, Lady Catherine.”

“And it appears,” Lady Catherine continued, her voice lowering conspiratorially, “that the Ton Times has also gleaned some rather interesting intelligence regarding Mr. Bingley’s initial acquaintance with my nephew.” She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘Sources close to the matter suggest that Mr. B’s timely rescue of Mr. D from an apparent attack was, in fact, an elaborately staged affair, engineered by Mr. B himself through hired ruffians, purely to gain favourable introduction to the Master of P. Such an artifice, if true, speaks volumes of the lengths some will go to climb the social ladder.’ Despicable! Though entirely predictable for such an upstart.”

A low murmur of astonishment passed through the room.

Mary, sipping her tea, felt a quiet satisfaction bloom within her. That the paper named her among the instruments of Miss Bingley’s downfall astonished her yet. Once the most overlooked of five sisters, she found herself, improbably, a figure of consequence in the Ton’s morning amusement. It was not triumph she craved, but it was justice, and it was hers.

Suddenly, Lydia, who had been quietly absorbed in her tea, piped up, “Oh, so Mr. Bingley hired people to assault Mr. Darcy just so he could save him? That is dreadfully unfair! Mama always said gentlemen fought fair, even in a duel!”

Mary hid a smile. Trust Lydia to find the most direct, and entertaining, way through a scandal.

Lady Catherine turned to Lydia, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “My dear Miss Lydia, I do believe you are the only young lady in London who would find fault with the lack of proper dueling etiquette in a scandal.”

Lydia grinned, undaunted. “Well, if Mr. Darcy knew, why did he not just strike Mr. Bingley himself? That is what Kitty and I would do!”

Elizabeth sighed, a hand flying to her forehead. Mr. Bennet, however, let out a short, surprised bark of laughter.

Lady Catherine let out a delighted laugh. “You, my dear, have the heart of a lion and the tact of a terrier! But I assure you, my nephew’s methods are rather more devastating than fisticuffs. Last night’s public disavowal was the social equivalent of a decisive blow, without a single bruise to mar his waistcoat.”

Mary reflected that Lydia’s approach had a certain appeal, direct, uncomplicated, and entirely at odds with the elaborate maneuvers of polite society. Still, she could not help but agree with Lady Catherine. The quiet devastation of reputation was, in its way, far more thrilling than any physical altercation.

Lydia’s eyes danced. “Still, a little excitement never hurt anyone. I should have liked to see Mr. Darcy strike a blow, just once! And Mr. Darcy is so big, he could easily have done it.”

“Indeed, Miss Lydia,” Lady Catherine rejoined, a glint of shared humour in her eyes, “His size, as you so aptly put it, is one of his many advantages. However, gentlemen of his standing resolve matters with the weight of their consequence, not with their fists. As was quite amply demonstrated last night when he publicly disavowed the entire Bingley connection.” She tapped the newspaper with a manicured finger. “This, Miss Lydia, is far more devastating than any mere pugilistic encounter. It cuts to the quick of their ambition, rather than merely bruising a jaw.”

Lydia feigned a pout, though a corner of her mouth lifted in a budding smile. “But striking sounds much more exciting to witness.”

Lady Catherine wagged a finger at her, her tone fond. “Excitement, Miss Lydia, is your specialty. Leave the quiet devastation to the rest of us.”

Lydia merely sniffed, unconvinced, but the shared twinkle in her eye and Lady Catherine’s left no doubt as to their mutual, if unconventional, understanding and shared amusement.

Mary watched the exchange with amusement, feeling a warmth spread in her chest. There was something reassuring in the way Lady Catherine and Lydia could turn even the most scandalous news into a moment of shared laughter.

Lady Catherine merely hummed in acknowledgment, setting the paper down with a decisive rustle. “Well, the matter is settled, then. Society has rendered its verdict, and it aligns precisely with my own. Now, Mrs. Hurst, shall we discuss the details of your new dressmaker? It is quite clear that the previous one lacked any true understanding of proportion.”

Mary, sipping her tea, felt a quiet satisfaction bloom within her. The morning papers had indeed left no room for doubt. Justice, in the intricate theatre of the Ton, had been served, swiftly and publicly. The Bingley name was irrevocably tarnished, while her sisters’ happiness, and indeed, Mrs. Hurst’s redemption, had been proclaimed with resounding clarity. The social currents, once turbulent, now flowed in a decidedly harmonious direction, carrying them all towards a future brimming with unexpected possibilities.

As the laughter faded and the last of the scandal’s details were absorbed, Mary noticed Lady Catherine’s gaze settle on Emma Woodhouse, who was quietly buttering a slice of toast with the air of a general surveying a conquered field.

“Miss Woodhouse,” Lady Catherine said, her tone gruff but unmistakably admiring, “you are a dangerous woman, in the very best sense. I do not know whether to be grateful for your management of last night’s events, or to fear what you might accomplish if ever you set your mind against me.”

Emma’s eyes sparkled. “Why, Lady Catherine, I assure you, my only ambition is to see justice and harmony prevail. If I am dangerous, it is only to the undeserving.”

Lydia, ever ready to seize an opportunity for mischief, cried, “Oh, Lady Catherine, you must admit you enjoy a little gossip as much as any of us!”

Lady Catherine drew herself up, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “I do not gossip, Miss Lydia. I dispense cautionary truth. There is a considerable difference, though I do not expect the Ton Times to appreciate the nuance.”

Elizabeth smiled archly. “Indeed, Lady Catherine, but I believe the Ton Times is not nearly so formidable as you.”

“Nor half so accurate,” Emma added, raising her cup in a playful toast.

Mary hid a smile behind her teacup, thinking how very odd and wonderful it was to find herself in such company, where scandal could be dissected with wit, and even the most formidable ladies could be teased into laughter. She felt a quiet pride in her family and friends, and a secret thrill at the knowledge that, for once, they were not merely surviving the currents of society, but steering them.

Lady Catherine, with a final, regal sniff, declared, “Well, let us hope society takes the lesson to heart. And if it does not, I daresay Miss Woodhouse will see to it that it does.”

Mary’s heart lifted. In this new, brighter morning, it seemed even the Ton itself might be made to see sense, if only for a little while.

~*~

The days following the Sedgewick ball unfolded with a swiftness that left Mary almost breathless. London, it seemed, had collectively decided that the Bennet sisters, now firmly established by two momentous engagements, were to be absorbed into the very fabric of its most fashionable circles.

The morning after the ball, as Lady Catherine had perused the Ton Times, Mary had felt the shift in earnest. No longer merely tolerated, they were courted, admired, and, perhaps most surprisingly, genuinely welcomed.

Their week had been a delightful whirlwind. Mornings often found them at various calls, exchanging compliments and receiving invitations. One sunny afternoon saw them at the British Museum, where Mary, to her quiet delight, was captivated for near an hour by the Elgin Marbles, feeling a profound connection to ancient artistry. Lord Aubrey, who had accompanied them, had engaged her in a fascinating discussion on the very nature of beauty in antiquity, making the sculptures come alive with his quiet insights. Elizabeth, too, found much to ponder, while even Lydia and Kitty were momentarily awed by the sheer scale of the curiosities, though their attention predictably gravitated towards the more colourful and exotic artifacts.

Evenings were a tapestry of diversion. They had attended the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where they saw a rousing performance of a comedy by Mr. Sheridan, the witty dialogue sparking lively debate amongst them afterwards. Another night brought them to the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket for the opera, a grand spectacle that, for Mary, transcended mere entertainment. The soaring arias and dramatic staging of Mozart’s Don Giovanni filled the vast auditorium, leaving her with a sense of elevated beauty that even Lydia’s whispered complaints about their length could not entirely diminish. These outings, combined with strolls through Hyde Park and visits to the most exclusive circulating libraries, had woven a vibrant new rhythm into their London existence.

Now, on Saturday evening, they found themselves at Matlock House, Lady Huntingdon acting as hostess. The air within the grand residence was imbued with a warmth and casual elegance that spoke of long-established comfort. Mary observed the subtle touches that proclaimed Lady Huntingdon’s unique blend of sophistication and practicality, the vibrant wildflowers interspersed with more formal arrangements, the exquisite, yet comfortable, furniture that invited conversation rather than mere admiration. Kitty, Lydia, and Georgiana, usually relegated to the company of their own age, had been permitted to attend this dinner.

To Mary’s pleasant surprise, her younger sisters, buoyed by the week’s triumphs, displayed an unexpected poise. Kitty, usually prone to giggles, managed several composed remarks about the day’s shopping. Lydia, though still prone to bursts of enthusiasm, listened with an almost unnerving attention when older gentlemen spoke, occasionally interjecting with a surprisingly apt, if somewhat blunt, observation that sparked unexpected laughter. Georgiana, for her part, conversed quietly with Jane and Elizabeth, her soft smiles and thoughtful questions endearing her to all.

Lady Catherine, observing from her place at the head of the table beside Lady Huntingdon, offered several approving nods. “Upon my word, Miss Lydia,” she remarked, her tone dry but with a distinct note of grudging admiration, “you are quite the spectacle this evening. Such quietude! Such thoughtful interjections! You have certainly learned to hold your tongue... at least, until it suits you. I rather thought such discipline was beyond you, given our previous interactions. What precisely have these London drawing-rooms done to my once-formidable adversary?”

Lydia, with a dramatic sigh, yet playful twinkle, answered, “Oh, Lady Catherine, you always did appreciate a spirited argument! Even the most formidable must bow to necessity. One must save one’s best pronouncements for the most discerning ears, must one not? One learns that a whisper can carry just as far as a shout, especially when one is surrounded by such very important people.”

“So it would seem, Miss Lydia,” Lady Catherine drawled, a knowing smirk settling on her features. “A point well made. One would not have thought such wisdom resided in such a frivolous package. Though I daresay, a great many of these ‘very important people’ are now quite over-awed by your sudden discretion.”

Mary, observing the exchange, thought it a curious mercy that Lady Catherine, in her blunt honesty, had provided the very audience Lydia needed. It seemed her youngest sister found a strange kind of approval, and even a form of guidance, in the formidable lady’s barbed attention. And for Lady Catherine, Mary suspected, Lydia offered a rare, unvarnished spark in a world often too polite to be truly interesting.

The evening progressed delightfully, filled with congenial conversation and excellent fare. Mary observed Lord Gresham, who had been specifically invited, engaging Anne de Bourgh in prolonged conversation. His quiet attentiveness seemed to draw Anne out, and Mary noted a subtle softening in Anne’s features, a greater ease in her posture.

Mary saw Lord Gresham approach Lady Catherine, a serious expression on his face. When he reappeared in the drawing-room a few minutes later, he made directly for Anne. Taking her hand, he led her to a quiet alcove.

Mary could not hear their words, but she saw Lord Gresham incline his head, speaking earnestly, and Anne, after a moment’s thought, offered a small, shy smile and a gentle nod. The exchange was discreet, but the message was clear to Mary’s discerning eye. Lord Gresham had asked for, and been granted, permission to pay Anne his addresses, formalizing their friendship into a courtship. It was a union that would defy conventional expectations, a testament to understanding and quiet strength, rather than grand passion.

Throughout the evening, Mary found herself frequently in conversation with Lord Aubrey. He sought her out, not merely with polite enquiries, but with genuine interest in her thoughts on the various excursions they had made. He recalled, most particularly, her quiet admiration for the classical sculptures at the British Museum, and engaged her once more in a thoughtful discussion of Greek philosophy and art.

Mary, finding herself for once with a listener who truly appreciated the depth of her interests, felt her intellect invigorated, her responses quickening with a delight that surprised even herself. There was a comfortable rhythm to their exchanges, a sense of quiet companionship that felt both new and remarkably natural, a gentle concord of understanding that settled deep within her.

And yet beneath that ease there was something restless, something unsaid. More than once, as she spoke with animation, she caught his eyes not fixed on hers but turned inward, clouded by the same shadow of sorrow she had glimpsed before. His smile, though unfailingly kind, held a faint wistfulness that did not belong to the moment. Once, after she had remarked on the way art preserved truths that history too often obscured, he looked at her with sudden sharpness, as if her words had struck near some private wound. He seemed about to speak, and Mary’s heart quickened, but then he only inclined his head, masking the moment with another courteous observation.

Mary, recalling her father’s counsel, that some burdens were not meant to be forced into the light, bit back the question pressing at her lips. Still, a strange tension coiled within her. Part sympathy, part frustration, and part a quiet, unwelcome flutter of feeling. There was delight in his attention, certainly, but also unease, for she could not tell whether the depth she glimpsed in him was meant for her, or if she was only stumbling upon the private weight he carried.

So their conversation wove on, soothing and stimulating by turns, yet touched always with the faintest awkwardness, like music slightly out of tune. Mary found herself hoping, though she scarcely admitted it even to herself, that he would, in time, confide what lay so heavily upon him. For if he did not speak soon, she feared her heart might entangle itself in mysteries that would not bear the weight of silence.

Meanwhile, she observed the familiar, easy camaraderie between Mr. Fitzwilliam and Lady Amelia Carmichael. They shared an animated discussion over a particularly delicate Vol-au-Vent, their laughter ringing lightly across the table. Mr. Fitzwilliam, ever the charming former military man, listened intently to Lady Amelia’s spirited anecdotes about her time in Brighton, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. Lady Amelia, in turn, seemed to thrive under his attentive gaze, her vivacity shining all the more. Their connection was evident, not in grand declarations, but in comfortable silences, shared glances, and the palpable ease with which they existed in each other’s company. Mary sensed a deep, unspoken understanding between them, a friendship that had steadily deepened into something more profound and mutual.

Emma drew Mary aside, their conversation hushed amidst the lingering hum of the evening. “Mary,” Emma confided, with unaccustomed seriousness, “I have been observing your family this week. And I confess, there is a warmth amongst you, a genuine affection that I have not often witnessed. My own dear father, for all his love, has always been more concerned with proprieties. And my friendships, while dear, often feel managed. But with your sisters, with all of you, it seems quite natural. I find I envy it.” Her gaze softened, fixed somewhere beyond Mary’s shoulder, perhaps on Jane and Elizabeth, still conversing animatedly with their fiancés. “Perhaps there is more to true happiness than perfect connections and meticulous planning. Perhaps it lies in a warmth of heart that I have yet to fully cultivate.”

Mary, looking into Emma’s thoughtful eyes, felt a quiet thrill. This was not the Emma who had once been so certain of her own infallible judgment, but a new, more discerning Emma, a mind opening to deeper truths. The seeds of a profound maturity were indeed being planted, even in the heart of London.

~*~

The gentlemen retired to Lord Matlock’s smoking room, the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversation soon replacing the lighter chatter of the ladies. Mr. Bennet, finding a comfortable armchair by the unlit hearth, accepted a glass of port from a footman. The Earl of Matlock, Viscount Spenston, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Fitzwilliam gathered nearby, their discussion turning, as it often did, to matters of estate management and the shifting political landscape. Mr. Gardiner, ever the astute observer, listened with quiet interest, occasionally offering a pertinent question. Lord Gresham, looking rather more animated than usual after his conversation with Miss de Bourgh, conversed with Jimmy, their topic undoubtedly his advancing courtship.

Mr. Bennet watched them all, a faint, contented smile playing on his lips. His daughters, once destined for a quiet country existence, were now flourishing in London society, embraced by connections far beyond his wildest imaginings. He had little doubt they would acquit themselves with ease, especially with the formidable Lady Catherine and the strategic Emma Woodhouse seemingly acting as their unappointed social generals.

He took a sip of his port, allowing himself a rare moment of unburdened satisfaction. It was a peculiar sensation, this absence of worry for his girls’ futures, a lightness he had not realised he carried until it had been lifted. For the first time in years, he felt the weight of paternal worry ease from his shoulders.

Lord Aubrey, his hands clasped so tightly they were nearly bloodless at the knuckles, who had been lingering near the edge of the group, seemingly lost in thought, now approached the Earl of Matlock, hesitant yet restless, as one compelled against his own wishes by the force of a dreadful duty. His step faltered at first, for the weight of what he carried pressed visibly upon him, a shadow across features that were usually serene. He glanced at Mr. Bennet, then at Jimmy, before letting out a breath he seemed to have held for many days.

“Lord Matlock,” Lord Aubrey began, his voice low, almost a murmur, “and Mr. Bennet, I... I feel compelled to speak of a matter that has weighed heavily upon me ever since I have known them this past week. Particularly now, seeing young Mr. James Fitzwilliam here, and fully understanding the depth of your family’s past sorrow.”

The Earl turned, his brow furrowing slightly, sensing the gravity in Aubrey’s tone. Thomas set his glass down, his gaze sharpening.

“It concerns,” Lord Aubrey continued, his voice gaining a strained urgency, “the affairs of almost fifteen years past. The tragedy involving your late Countess and... James’s disappearance.” He swallowed hard, collecting himself, then pressed on. “Just before Lord Sedgewick’s ball, my father, the Duke of Roxburgh, entrusted to me a letter written by my uncle, Lord Grant Carmichael, on his deathbed. In it, he confessed his involvement.”

A hushed silence fell over the gentlemen. The Earl lurched backwards into his chair, the color in his face draining as though the very blood had fled his veins. His hand gripped the armrest with such force that the wood seemed to protest. Jimmy, hearing his name, looked up, his eyes wide, lips parted, as though he had been struck by a physical blow. He inhaled sharply, the sound harsh in the sudden silence, and Thomas swore the boy’s shoulders trembled in something near terror.

“He confessed,” Lord Aubrey forced out each word, seemingly a physical effort, “that he had a part in what occurred. The Countess’s death, my lord, it was not intended. She was protecting her son. The original scheme was to,” he paused looking pained, “to remove you, Lord Matlock, and to abduct the Countess, to take her to the Continent. My uncle was, in his youth, deeply, hopelessly enamoured of her. He believed that, once separated from you, and with time, she would eventually consent to marry him.”

His voice faltered as the Earl jerked violently upright, color flaring in his cheeks, his teeth clenched. The Viscount swore low under his breath and took a step toward Aubrey, hands balled at his sides, face set in grim wrath. Richard Fitzwilliam, his face pale with shock, took an instinctive step toward his brother and Jimmy, his hand coming to rest on Mr. Darcy’s arm in a silent, restraining plea. Darcy, his expression a mask of cold fury, remained motionless, but the tension in his shoulders bespoke a danger scarcely restrained. His gaze, fixed on Aubrey, was as unforgiving as a winter storm.

Lord Aubrey’s jaw tightened, a muscle throbbing in his temple. He raked a hand through his hair, a rare sign of his inner turmoil.

“The bill you mentioned, concerning land tariffs, was merely a diversion. An acquaintance of his, a man long since dead from a gambling debt, wished it to pass for financial gain, and my uncle made use his desire for the scheme. He never intended for the Countess to perish.”

Thomas was utterly bewildered. “So, it was not merely an accident? And Jimmy?”

“My uncle stated that James was to be taken to a place of concealment, beyond all danger, until the Countess was secured and the Earl removed,” Lord Aubrey continued, his gaze falling on Jimmy with profound remorse. “But in the chaos, James ran. He slipped away amidst the tumult, fleeing into the confusion of the wreckage and the rising waters of the riverbank. The conspirators, panicked by the Countess’s death and the failure of their plan, did not pursue him. They believed him lost, drowned, or simply vanished, and feared drawing further attention. My uncle, consumed by guilt and grief over the Countess’s death, made no further attempts to find him.”

At this pronouncement, Mr. Fitzwilliam cursed aloud, his voice a raw cry of grief and fury. The Viscount slammed one fist into the mantelpiece, rattling the crystal upon it. Thomas had never seen such anguish unmasked in noblemen. The veneer of poise was stripped bare, leaving only an agonized father, brothers, and cousin grappling with an unspeakable truth.

Jimmy staggered back, white as chalk, his hand finding the table behind him for support. His lips moved soundlessly, as though even his breath deserted him. The Earl buried his face in his hand, shoulders quaking. A hoarse, broken sound escaped his throat, half sob, half oath.

“The letter demanding the vote was merely a desperate, final attempt to retain some semblance of power, and perhaps, to quiet his conscience with a perverse self-justification.” Lord Aubrey’s voice was now thick with emotion, trembling slightly as he finished his confession. “I inherited his estate, his considerable wealth. He never married. Never recovered from that obsession. Knowing the truth, knowing the foundation of what I now possess, it is a heavy burden. I felt it imperative that you, Lord Matlock, and you, Mr. Bennet, who gave James a home, should know the truth, however ugly it may be.” He looked directly at the Earl, his gaze unwavering. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord, for my family’s monstrous part in your sorrow.”

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of this dreadful disclosure.

The Earl rose unsteadily to his feet, gripping the back of his chair as if the room itself pitched about him. “My wife, my Julia,” he whispered, his eyes blazing with unshed tears. He turned away, shoulders racking with the struggle to contain grief too vast for words.

His sons looked on, their faces contorted with equal horror. Mr. Fitzwilliam paced the length of the room like a caged beast, the Viscount rigid as though bracing against a cannon shot. Thomas, stunned, could only stare, his pipe forgotten in his hand. Jimmy, who had listened intently, now looked bewildered, the pieces of his past falling into place in a cruel and unexpected pattern.

Thomas was the first to recover, a lifetime of surprising declarations from his daughters having, perhaps, granted him a certain resilience to the extraordinary. He straightened in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate breath. Good heavens, would the revelations never cease. Yet, the sincerity in Lord Aubrey’s voice was undeniable.

“Lord Aubrey,” Thomas said, his voice quiet but firm, “thank you. Thank you for this most difficult confession. It took considerable courage to speak of such dark truths, especially when they touch so close to your own family. You have behaved with honour this evening, and I, for one, acknowledge the bravery of it.” He nodded, a gesture of profound respect.

The Earl of Matlock seemed to startle, as if Mr. Bennet’s words had jarred him from a terrible dream. He blinked, slowly turning his gaze from the floor to Lord Aubrey, and then back to Thomas. “Indeed, Bennet,” the Earl managed, his voice raspy, “you are quite right. Lord Aubrey, what Mr. Bennet says is true. This is a revelation of the most profound kind, and I thank you for bearing the strain of delivering it. You bear no guilt for your uncle’s sins, sir. None at all. Such treachery is a burden only for the one who commits it. Thank you for telling us.”

Lord Aubrey, visibly relieved by their measured responses, bowed his head slightly. “Your Lordships, Mr. Bennet, your forgiveness means more than I can express. The burden of this secret has been immense, and to share it, to be met with such understanding, is a profound kindness.”

Jimmy, who had been absorbing the enormity of it all, now stepped forward, his expression grave but resolute. He extended a hand to Lord Aubrey. “Lord Aubrey,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, “thank you. Truly. This answers so many questions. For years, I wondered if I had been abandoned, or whether danger yet shadowed me. To know it was confusion, not malice, that let me slip away, well, it is, in some measure, a relief, if a strange one. Please do not feel guilty for your inheritance. Perhaps it is a twisted kind of justice that it has come to one of your character. Perhaps you and my sister Mary,” he added with a devilish smile touching his lips, “may do some good with it. Restore, perhaps, some measure of redemption to this tragedy.”

Thomas added, “I put advertisements in the papers for a month after Jimmy was found. The Bow Street Runners never found a trace. I wondered if someone had been paid to keep quiet. It seems the reach of your uncle, and perhaps that gambler, extended further than we knew.”

The Earl nodded grimly. “It would not surprise me. The Bow Street men are not immune to influence, and a desperate man with debts might easily be persuaded to look the other way.”

Viscount Spenston, ever the pragmatist, cleared his throat. “Lord Aubrey, your candour is admirable. You risk much by telling us.” He paused, then offered a slight bow of his head. “But your forthrightness speaks volumes of your character. You have my confidence, and I trust all present will hold this matter in strictest confidence.”

Lord Aubrey turned to Mr. Fitzwilliam. “Mr. Fitzwilliam,” he said, his tone softening, “I must confess, my sister, Lady Amelia, confided in me earlier this evening. She is worried that this revelation might somehow harm your friendship, especially if it should become known to society.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, his usual jovial demeanour momentarily shattered, looked from Aubrey to Jimmy, his eyes glistening. He swallowed hard, his voice thick with emotion. “Lady Amelia has no cause for concern, Lord Aubrey. Our friendship is not so fragile. We have all weathered the tempest of society. What matters is truth, and how we bear it. And as for my family,” he added, glancing pointedly at Mr. Darcy, “we are hardly strangers to the vagaries of societal judgment. What matters is the truth, and how one chooses to bear it. Aubrey, what a frightful thing to bear. But you have handled it with courage. We all respect that.”

Mr. Darcy, his expression unreadable as ever, merely inclined his head. “A difficult truth, bravely spoken. It clears the air, Aubrey, however painful the process. My family’s honour will stand by yours.”

Mr. Gardiner, after a moment of thoughtful silence, simply said, “Such acts, Lord Aubrey, have a way of eventually finding the light. Your honesty today ensures that it shines through a dark history with honour. You have acted rightly.”

Lord Gresham, looking from Lord Aubrey to the Matlock family, simply placed a comforting hand on Aubrey’s shoulder. “A great weight is lifted. You are a man of integrity, Aubrey. That is clear.”

The heavy silence that had initially fallen began to dissipate, replaced by a shared understanding, a collective acknowledgement of the profound truth that had just been laid bare. The air in the smoking room, though still charged with the echoes of confession, now also held the quiet, resilient undercurrent of trust.

Thomas, with his glass of port in hand, allowed himself a rare, contented sigh. “Well, gentlemen, it seems even the grandest families have their secrets, and sometimes, the quietest men possess the greatest courage.”

A ripple of laughter followed, the mood lightening as the gentlemen found comfort in each other’s company and the knowledge that, at last, the past had been laid to rest.

~*~

The heavy oak door closed softlyt, leaving the ladies in the parlour to a quieter, if somewhat more restless, anticipation. Mary watched from her perch near the pianoforte, observing the subtle shifts in the room’s atmosphere.

Lady Catherine, having retired to a plush armchair, was engaged in a surprisingly animated discussion with Lady Huntingdon, Aunt Gardiner, and Mrs. Walters about the merits of various charitable endeavours. Jane and Elizabeth, seated on a sofa, conversed in low tones. Georgiana, Lydia, and Kitty were at the pianoforte, their scales a gentle backdrop. Lady Amelia and Emma were still lost in their own little circle of cheer. Mama, having found a comfortable spot by the fire, was already drifting into a gentle slumber, a state Mary found perpetually mystifying at social gatherings.

A short while later, the gentlemen, their faces still etched with the echoes of their somber conversation, began to return slowly to the parlour. The subtle shift in their demeanour was immediately apparent. Lord Matlock’s shoulders, though still heavy with the renewed grief, seemed to carry less of an unspoken burden. Papa, too, walked with a lighter step.

Mr. Darcy made directly for Elizabeth, his dark eyes searching hers for understanding as he offered his arm. Viscount Spenston, with a quiet tenderness, took Jane’s hand. Mr. Fitzwilliam, without a moment’s hesitation, crossed the room to Lady Amelia. He offered her his arm, his smile a reassuring comfort against her earlier anxiety, and Mary saw the immediate relief that softened her countenance as they exchanged a silent, meaningful glance. Lord Gresham, his face alight with a gentle happiness, sought out Anne, their easy conversation a quiet testament to their growling attachment. The Earl went to stand near his sisters and Mrs. Walters.

Lord Aubrey, however, lingered near the threshold, his countenance heavy with care.

Jimmy, his face paler than usual, his movements unusually subdued, walked directly to the center of the room, his gaze sweeping over the assembled women. Mary noted the profound gravity in his eyes, a stark contrast to his usual good humour. The room quieted, all eyes turning to him.

“Ladies,” Jimmy began, his voice slightly hoarse, but steady, “something rather significant has come to light this evening.” He paused, taking a breath. “It concerns my past. And the tragedy that occurred many years ago.”

Mary saw Elizabeth’s hand instinctively go to Jane’s. Georgiana stiffened, her gaze fixed on Jimmy. Lady Catherine’s eyes, already keen, narrowed. Even Mrs. Bennet stirred, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into her doze.

“Lord Aubrey,” Jimmy continued, his voice gaining strength, “has, with immense courage, confessed a truth about his late uncle, Lord Grant Carmichael. It appears my mother was not merely lost in an accident. She was protecting me during an attempted abduction. And my father was meant to be murdered.”

A collective gasp filled the parlour. Jane cried out softly, her hand flying to her mouth. Elizabeth’s face drained of colour, her eyes wide with horror and a dawning understanding. Mrs. Gardiner gasped, a hand pressed to her chest. Lady Catherine sat bolt upright, her formidable composure momentarily shattered by sheer outrage. Lady Elaine gripped the armrest, her fingers turning white. Lady Amelia and Emma’s eyes filled with a mixture of shock and concern.

“Good heavens, James!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, recovering herself with an effort. “An abduction? Murder? This is monstrous! But who? And why?”

Jimmy nodded, his gaze meeting hers directly. “Lord Aubrey’s uncle, Lord Grant Carmichael, was desperately enamoured with my mother. He wished to take her to the Continent, to compel her to marry him. The attack on the carriage was orchestrated by him and his associates. The Countess died protecting me, and I managed to escape in the ensuing chaos, to run into the woods.” He swallowed hard.

Mary’s gasp cut through the thick silence, her hand flying to her mouth as though to hold back a cry. She felt her body stiffen in her chair, a tremor starting at the base of her spine. Her voice, when she found it at all, shook as she whispered, “Your mother... for you...” Her eyes burned, the enormity of the sacrifice overwhelmed her, violent and unrelenting. Shock gave way swiftly to anger. Her hands clenched in her lap until the knuckles stood white.

“The vote my father was urged to give in Parliament was merely a diversion,” Jimmy pressed on, “a twisted means of leverage concocted by my uncle and a deceased gambler, to profit by a bill they sought to pass.”

Mary felt a cold dread take possession of her. The audacity, the sheer villainy of it, was almost too much to comprehend. She glanced at Georgiana, whose gentle face was now pale and streaked with silent tears, being hugged by Kitty and Lydia.

Mrs. Gardiner, ever the sensible one, was the first to speak, her voice measured and sensible. “And Lord Aubrey has revealed this to you now?”

“Yes,” Jimmy confirmed. “He inherited his uncle’s estate, but the confession was left with his father. When Lord Aubrey’s friendship with our family became known, his father disclosed it to him. He felt bound in honour to share the truth with us, however painful.”

Elizabeth, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed emotion, turned to Emma. “Emma,” she said, her tone serious, “you are not family by blood, but you are a dear friend, and you have heard this terrible tale. We would ask for your solemn promise of confidentiality. This is a matter of profound private grief and family honour.”

Emma, her usual vivacity entirely absent, nodded gravely. Her eyes, usually so calculating, were filled with a genuine, sincere sympathy. “Elizabeth, you have my word. I comprehend the gravity of this. Such a secret will be guarded as if it were my own. My heart aches for you all, particularly for Young James and the Earl.” Her gaze, for a fleeting moment, met Mary’s, and Mary saw in them a raw sympathy, a human connection that transcended any social ambition.

Mrs. Bennet, finally roused by the hushed, intense conversation, blinked owlishly. “What is it, dear? Has Mr. Bingley called again? I hope he knows better than to show his face here!” Her comment, though ill-timed, offered a brief, jarring moment of lightness, a tiny tear in the thick tapestry of grief and shock.

Lady Elaine, however, recovered quickly. She moved to Jimmy, pulling him into a comforting embrace. “My dear Jimmy,” she murmured, tears welling in her eyes, “to think of the uncertainty you have endured, all these years! We are so grateful to Lord Aubrey for his honesty.” She looked from Jimmy to her brother, her gaze filled with profound sympathy. “David, my deepest condolences for your long-held sorrow. To finally know the truth of my sister’s heroism, and the depravity of another is a terrible blessing.”

Lady Catherine, having listened with an intensity that seemed to vibrate in the air around her, finally spoke, her voice low and resonant. “The sheer audacity! The callous disregard for life and liberty! Lord Grant Carmichael was a villain of the blackest dye. Lord Aubrey has done his family a true service by unearthing this infamy, and an even greater one by delivering it with such courage. This knowledge, though painful, provides a measure of closure.” She looked at Jimmy, a rare softness in her gaze. “James, my boy, you are a survivor, and truly a Fitzwilliam, through and through.”

The immediate shock began to ebb, replaced by a quiet, shared understanding. The weight of the secret, now released, settled upon them all, but it was a shared burden, eased by the honesty that had brought it forth.

Mrs. Walters, her kind face etched with sympathy, quietly offered the Earl a small, steaming cup of chamomile tea, her hand briefly, reassuringly, touching his arm. “My Lord,” she murmured, her voice soft with genuine concern, “this is a sorrow too long borne. Perhaps this small warmth will be of some comfort.” The Earl, whose grief had always been so private, merely gave her a profound, grateful look, a silent acknowledgment of her understanding.

Mary looked at Lord Aubrey, standing by the door. He looked utterly vulnerable, a man who had stripped himself bare of a painful secret and was now awaiting the final judgment.

Mary’s heart clenched in recognition. She had known that look herself. The quiet desolation of being misunderstood and judged for things one could not control. To see a man of his standing bear it with such humility stirred a fierce, protective instinct within her. She would not let him suffer that burden alone. It was not his to bear.

Without a second thought, and with a sudden surge of an almost protective indignation, Mary rose from her seat. She crossed the polished floor with a swiftness that surprised even herself, moving past her sisters and her now-whispering mother. She stopped directly in front of Lord Aubrey, her chin tilted up, her eyes blazing with an intensity she rarely allowed to surface.

“Lord Aubrey,” she began, her voice low but piercing, cutting through the murmurs of the room. It held a similar steel to the day she had confronted her parents, defended Jane, or when she had challenged Mr. Darcy’s previous behaviour. “You shall not stand there as if the shame were yours! It is not! That burden belongs only to the villain who laid this plot, and he is dead. You,” she pointed, color rising in her cheeks, “have spoken the truth when it would have been far easier to remain silent. That is courage, sir, not guilt.”

Her voice grew in strength, ringing clear through the chamber. “Understand this. Whatever stain you imagine clings to you, I will not allow it. Your uncle’s wealth was gained through corruption, yes, but you are redeeming it with honesty, with integrity. To me, that places you far above most men who sit in Parliament this very hour.” She drew herself up, chin lifted. “So do not dare lower your eyes, my lord. You have done right, and I will not hear it denied.”

Lord Aubrey blinked, visibly startled by her sudden, passionate address. His own quiet, scholarly nature seemed utterly unprepared for Mary’s directness.

“To bear such a secret,” Mary continued, her voice rising slightly, the familiar heat of righteous anger colouring her cheeks, “to carry that weight, even briefly, and then to come forward with such honesty, risking your own reputation and your family’s standing? That is not guilt, sir. That is courage! That is honour! You inherited a fortune, yes, but you also inherited a profound moral debt, and you have paid it with the truth. How dare you stand there looking as if you deserve censure?”

Her voice, though not loud, certainly commanded the attention of those closest. Elizabeth and Jane exchanged wide-eyed glances. Mr. Darcy’s head tilted almost imperceptibly, a flicker of surprise in his gaze. Papa, watching from his armchair, allowed a small, private smile to play on his lips.

Lord Aubrey, initially stunned, now looked at Mary with an expression of profound, almost bewildered gratitude. The heavy lines of worry on his face softened, and a faint, hesitant smile touched his lips.

“Miss Mary,” he murmured, his voice touched with a new lightness, “I confess, I had not considered it in quite that light. Your words are most bracing. And perhaps, most true.” He straightened his shoulders, the last vestiges of self-reproach seeming to lift. “Thank you. Truly. You have a remarkable way of clarifying matters.”

Mary, feeling the fury drain away and a faint blush return to her cheeks, merely offered him a curt nod. She had said what needed to be said.

The heavy silence that had initially fallen began to dissipate, replaced by a shared understanding, a collective acknowledgement of the profound truth that had just been laid bare. The air in the smoking room, though still charged with the echoes of confession, now also held the quiet, resilient hum of trust.

Lord Matlock, after a long pause, spoke with a voice that, though ragged, carried the full authority of his station. “Let this be the last shadow cast over our family by that dark episode. We have all lost much to the past, but tonight, we have reclaimed something essential, truth, and the courage to face it. Let us go forward together, with gratitude for what we have found, and with hope for what lies ahead.”

Lady Catherine, rising to stand beside her brother, added, “Indeed, David. And let it be known, no Fitzwilliam, nor any friend of this house, need ever bear such burdens alone again. We are, if nothing else, a family. And that, I daresay, is the finest legacy we can claim.”

A ripple of agreement, soft but certain, passed through the room. Mary, standing quietly beside Lord Aubrey, felt the weight of the past finally lift. They had the joy of a double wedding in a month, and tonight, at last, the family was whole.

When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand Chapter 15 (3 replies)

LizzyS — Tue, 09 Sep 2025 08:04:18 +0100

Chapter 15

As the music drew to a close and the dancers returned to their circles, Mary found herself once again beside Elizabeth and Jane. The air was fragrant with summer roses and the warmth of perfume, the candlelight gilding every polished surface and pearl.

Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth lingered slightly apart from the others, speaking in quiet tones that, while not secretive, discouraged interruption. Viscount Spenston had claimed Jane’s attention with some observation that made her glance down in mild amusement before replying.

Just a few feet away, Lady Amelia stood with Mr. Fitzwilliam, their shared laughter gentle but intimate.

“You never told me how you truly fared in the battle of Waterloo,” she murmured, her laughter fading. Her voice, though low, held a distinct note of concern. “I heard from my brother you suffered an injury.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam’s smile softened, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow passed over his features. “It was merely a scratch, I assure you. The only thing truly wounded was my pride, when I was forced to sit out the victory parade. But I was well looked after. And to find such a lovely friend upon my return, that, I daresay, was a better remedy than any military physician could offer.”

Lady Amelia’s cheeks flushed, but her gaze did not waver from his. “I am glad to hear it,” she said, and a comfortable, gentle silence fell between them.

Mary stood beside Lord Aubrey, her parents, Emma Woodhouse, Lady Catherine, Lady Elaine, Lord Matlock, and Mrs. Walters, who had claimed a place near a column gilded in gold leaf and ivy with a newfound assurance.

Mrs. Walters’ reception by the Earl for the first dance had not just been noticed. It had shifted her place in the room’s unspoken hierarchy. Society now regarded her not merely as an unknown, but as a woman of consequence, her quiet dignity amplified by Lord Matlock’s unmistakable regard.

Jimmy stood slightly apart, observing the scene with the wary wonder of one still navigating his place. Lady Catherine’s hand rested protectively on his arm, a silent barricade against the curious glances he attracted.

Mary’s eyes, ever observant, caught a look on Lord Aubrey’s face that was at odds with the easy pleasantries of the moment. For a fleeting moment, the effortless charm he wore so well vanished, replaced by a strained and troubled expression. He was watching Jimmy, not with the warm, open affection he usually displayed, but with an expression of deep, troubled sorrow. He quickly masked it, but not before Mary saw the grim set of his jaw and the shadow of a profound disgrace in his eyes. He then looked to her, and his eyes held a silent, eloquent plea that Mary could not understand, but which made her heart ache in sympathy.

Mary, disturbed by the fleeting expression, looked away, her thoughts lingering on his troubled gaze. But the moment was hers alone. The rest of the company had not noticed.

The atmosphere was not one of formality, but ease. It was the ease of people whose company had grown familiar through thoughtful conversation, not mere proximity. Even Mama, emboldened by Lady Catherine’s warmth and Emma’s subtle orchestration, managed to offer a passing remark on the floral arrangements that caused Lady Elaine to laugh, not unkindly.

It was in this moment that their hostess approached, accompanied by a small party. She glided to the group with practiced ease and commanded the space like a sovereign.

“My dears,” she said, addressing everyone at once, “may I at last make proper introductions?”

At her side stood a striking woman in deep violet silk, tall and elegant, with eyes like polished onyx and a smile both intelligent and controlled. “Allow me to present my husband’s sister, the Countess of Grünwald, recently arrived from Vienna.”

The Countess offered a graceful bow, her eyes missing nothing. Introductions followed for her Continental entourage, names like music, carrying the weight of Austrian refinement and hinted secrets. Mary inclined her head, meeting the Countess’s perceptive gaze briefly, feeling distinctly assessed.

The Countess bowed her head slightly, her voice low and musical. “It is a pleasure to be received with such kindness. Lady Huntingdon, I am much obliged that we have continued our schoolroom correspondence despite years and miles.”

“Ours is a relationship I have treasured since our time at school,” Lady Elaine returned with a smile.

“And these,” Lady Sedgewick added, “are her family. My brother-in-law, the Marquess of Grünwald, my niece the Baroness Ilse von Harrenfels, and their cousin, the Chevalier Felix Lindenwald. They have only just arrived from the Continent and bring with them the refinement of Austrian society, and perhaps a few secrets.”

There was a ripple of polite laughter, and the names, so foreign, so melodious, hung in the air with the fragrance of something rare.

Mary inclined her head. The Countess’s eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, and Mary had the impression the woman saw more in one glance than most in five minutes’ conversation.

The Chevalier bowed to Elizabeth and then to Jane, the angle of his smile suggesting some private amusement. He was handsome in the dramatic way of continental men, dark curls, dark eyes, and a coat so well cut it could only have come from Paris.

Mary noticed how Lady Sedgewick’s glance swept subtly between the pairs. Jane and the Viscount. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Mary herself, standing not far from Lord Aubrey, who was presently engaged in conversation with her father. There was a particular calculation behind her eyes, as though she were setting pieces upon a chessboard, listening not with her ears but with her expectations.

Polite fishing. Delicately baited.

“Miss Bennet,” Lady Sedgewick said, addressing Jane with the kind of elaborate cheer that made the next phrase obvious before it was spoken, “how radiant you looked upon the floor! I daresay, had I not known better, I might have suspected a certain understanding between you and Lord Spenston.”

Jane, serene as ever, replied with gentle civility. “We have found much to speak of in recent weeks. He is very kind.”

“And Miss Elizabeth,” she continued, her gaze flicking slyly toward the side where Mr. Darcy stood with his hand lightly at Elizabeth’s back, “I could not help but notice your Mr. Darcy appears quite devoted. Such elegant restraint, such a refined silence. One almost forgets how loud affection can be, until it is practiced so... quietly.”

Elizabeth looked at her with one arched brow. “It is a skill he has perfected.”

Mr. Darcy gave no reply, he merely looked at Elizabeth with that steady, yet unmistakable expression that required no words.

Lady Sedgewick turned to Mary.

“And Miss Mary Bennet, I had not realized you were acquainted with Lord Aubrey.” A small, practiced pause. “Or perhaps I underestimate how much of London you have come to know.”

“We met in Hyde Park this Saturday past,” Mary replied.

“I was walking with my sister when I saw Viscount Spenston,” Lord Aubrey replied.

Lady Sedgewick smiled. “You have such a taste for... philosophy, I believe?” she said after a pause.

Lord Aubrey inclined his head. “Among other pursuits.”

Lady Sedgewick, still aglow with the pride of successful hospitality, turned toward the group with a lightly mischievous gleam. “Tell me, am I to be the last to know, or the first to be officially informed?” Her eyes flitted between Viscount Spenston and Jane, then to Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth with teasing warmth. “Either way, I shall pretend I guessed it from the start.”

Mr. Darcy coughed, but Elizabeth only smiled. “It will be made known soon enough, Lady Sedgewick. But as you are both discerning and discreet, you may claim the distinction of being told.”

“Both of you?” Lady Sedgewick asked discreetly and beamed at Jane’s nod. “Then I shall consider it a triumph and toast your happiness at supper.”

Mary, ever observant, noted how easily the Countess and her family adapted to the cadence of English society, speaking little but with just the right balance of mystique and charm. It was clear they were to be the evening’s centre of attention, and Lady Sedgewick had built the occasion around them with masterful subtlety.

But then the atmosphere, which had been light with curiosity and admiration, shifted.

It did not falter. It tilted.

Mary turned her head just as the Bingleys approached.

Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’s expressions held no anticipation. Viscount Spenston squeezed Jane’s hand and her sister’s posture remained unchanged, though her eyes flicked toward the newcomers with the calmness of a woman no longer invested. Mr. Fitzwilliam said something to Lady Amelia, low and wry, and she covered a smile with her fan.

Miss Bingley swept forward with a renewed brightness. Her brother followed, slower and stiffer, limping, and with none of his sister’s misplaced optimism.

The Hursts trailed behind them like weary courtiers to a fallen monarch. Mrs. Hurst’s countenance was tight with unease, her hand clutching her fan as if it might shield her. Mary did not miss the way Louisa flinched when Caroline spoke too loudly, the muscles in her jaw tightening at every pronouncement.

Mary observed Miss Bingley’s smile as she reached their group. It was too wide, too quick, like a performer missing her mark and choosing to improvise.

And Lady Sedgewick saw them too. Her expression did not change, at least, not overtly. Something in the line of her neck straightened, in the glint of her eye, seemed a shade cooler.

From the Bingley party, only Mrs. Hurst saw it, fully, plainly. She glanced at Mary, her fan now unmoving. Her mouth pressed thin, her eyes carrying a sheen of embarrassment that Mary had never seen there before. There was sadness in her expression, but no defense. Not tonight.

Mary returned her gaze with something bordering on compassion. Not sympathy, Caroline Bingley had not earned that, but a recognition of the inevitable. Miss Bingley was not being punished.

She was being ignored.

And there was no recovery from that.

Lady Sedgewick’s voice, soft but distinct, reached Mary’s ears. “A pity, when one fails to hear what the room is no longer saying.”

Beside her, the Countess of Grünwald gave the faintest response of, “Indeed.”

As Miss Bingley reached their circle, her eyes, bright with a brittle determination, fixed on Mr. Darcy. With a sudden, dramatic sway, she gasped faintly, her hand fluttering to her forehead. “Oh, Mr. Darcy!” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, as she deliberately tilted, clearly intending to collapse gracefully into his arms.

But Mr. Darcy, ever vigilant, took a swift, almost imperceptible step backward, effortlessly avoiding her intended trajectory. His eyes, cold and unwavering, found Elizabeth’s. With a movement of profound tenderness and unmistakable devotion, he took Elizabeth’s hand from his arm, lifted it, and pressed a brief, chaste kiss to her gloved knuckles.

Miss Bingley, deprived of her intended prop, did not merely stumble. Her face, a mask of desperate calculation, twisted in a moment of pure shock before she pitched forward, a single, sharp cry escaping her lips as she sprawled ungainly on the polished floor. The breath of the room seemed to halt as her coral silk gown fanned out around her like a discarded costume in some vulgar comedy.

The sound of her fall cracked through the company more effectively than any orchestral flourish. A ripple of gasps spread outward, quickly followed by stifled titters.

Mary’s gaze darted to Mrs. Hurst. She had recoiled when her sister struck the floor, brows pinched together, shoulders curling inward as if shrinking from the whispers already rising. A quick, trembling movement sent her fan half-collapsing in her hand. She caught it clumsily, the strain on her composure plain to see.

Gasps rippled through the immediate vicinity, a few nearby gentlemen stifling snickers into their cravats. One gentleman bit the inside of his cheek, though his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

The whispers were as swift as they were cruel.

“Attempted compromise,” murmured a lady behind her fan.

“How very desperate,” her companion replied, eyes gleaming.

“One might think she had taken a fall from a horse.”

Another voice, sharper and less kind, whispered, “I have seen circus performers fall with more grace.”

“She might have done better to faint outright,” added another. “At least then we could pretend to pity her.”

Even those inclined to civility betrayed their disdain. Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling in open disgust. Lord Aubrey deliberately turned his back to make some trivial remark. Lady Elaine lifted her chin and studied the chandelier with sudden fascination, though her fan trembled with barely restrained mirth. Mr. Fitzwilliam merely flicked a speck of dust from his cuff, the faintest smile betraying his contempt.

Mary, watching closely, noted how the company’s indifference cut deeper than their laughter. To ignore a scene was to declare it beneath notice, yet the sly glances and muffled snickers, made plain that Miss Bingley’s humiliation was both witnessed and enjoyed.

A footman, practiced in such spectacles, appeared at once and extended a hand. His expression betrayed nothing, but the quiet efficiency with which he aided her seemed almost mocking, as though he had assisted a hundred such fallen ladies before.

Miss Bingley rose with difficulty, her cheeks scarlet, her coiffure loosened, her gown rumpled, her dignity utterly destroyed. She attempted a laugh. High, brittle, and ill-judged.

“Oh! How very clumsy of me,” she trilled, brushing futilely at her rumpled skirts. “The floor here is polished beyond reason, one might easily mistake it for ice!”

No one laughed with her.

Flustered, she pressed on, her eyes darting toward Mr. Darcy. “Of course, I had been feeling faint all the morning, too much concern for dear friends, no doubt. My nerves are quite overborne with the anticipation of good news, I am sure.”

“Good news?” whispered one lady archly. “Whose, I wonder?”

“Not hers,” her companion replied, smothering a smile behind her fan.

Miss Bingley, sensing her audience’s coolness yet unable to cease, continued with desperate gaiety. “I daresay Mr. Darcy will forgive me for appearing so overcome. His presence is always most affecting.”

Gentlemen coughed into their cravats, hiding laughter. Mary, watching closely, saw Elizabeth’s brow rise in disdain while Mr. Darcy’s expression hardened into polished marble.

Miss Bingley floundered on, every syllable an additional stone to sink her reputation. “Indeed, I thought I might faint entirely! But I am quite restored, I assure you. Quite restored.”

“Restored?” muttered one man to his neighbor. “To what? She was undone before she fell.”

A muffled laugh swept the edge of the company. The sound was more wounding than any open mockery.

At last, Miss Bingley realized she had no allies.

Even Mrs. Hurst, pale and trembling, lowered her gaze, her shoulders stiff with equal parts shame and grief. It was not Miss Bingley’s downfall that undid her. It was that she had been dragged into it, her name pressed dangerously close to a scandal she never desired. A mottled flush burned her cheeks as whispers, cruel and unchecked, swirled mercilessly through the assembly.

“Poor dear,” one woman said sweetly, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “The floor must be quite as unforgiving as society.”

The attempt had not merely failed, it had branded her desperation upon every tongue in the room. It was a social death, and everyone knew it.

A gentleman, a peer of no party, leaned down to whisper to another, “I doubt we shall ever see her at Almack’s again. Not even with an apology and a King’s pardon.”

His companion merely sighed. “No, her name is ruined. And with it, her brother’s hopes, I daresay.”

Lady Sedgewick’s smile, which had been fixed in polite amusement, now tightened. She turned to Miss Bingley, her voice pitched just enough to reach the surrounding clusters of guests. “Miss Bingley, I must confess, this is a most unfortunate display. And I find myself quite perplexed. It was only due to a written request, purporting to be from Mr. Darcy himself, that I extended an invitation to your party this evening. A courtesy I would not have offered, given certain... recent considerations.”

A hush fell, deeper and more complete than any before. All eyes turned to Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy’s face remained impassive, but his gaze sharpened, moving from Lady Sedgewick to Miss Bingley. “A written request, Madam?” he inquired, his voice low, a dangerous undercurrent to his usual calm. “I assure you, I made no such request. My invitations for this evening were extended in person, or by my secretary with my direct instruction. I have penned no letter to you concerning the Bingleys’ presence here tonight, nor would I.”

Lady Sedgewick’s brow furrowed. She glanced at a passing footman, who swiftly produced a silver tray. She took the paper, her elegant fingers unfolding it. Her eyes scanned the script. “Indeed,” she said, her voice now chillingly clear, though still exquisitely polite, “this purports to be your hand, Mr. Darcy. But I had my suspicions when I saw how the Bingley party was greeted and asked for these items to be retrieved. Now that I see your genuine signature on your card for tonight, I detect a most glaring discrepancy. This is a crude forgery.”

The truth hung in the air, damning and undeniable. Miss Bingley had not only attempted a public compromise but had also forged Mr. Darcy’s correspondence to secure an invitation.

Mary glanced at Mrs. Hurst and was startled to find her expression naked with horror. Her lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief. A thin line of moisture glistened as her eyes welled against her will, the betrayal of tears revealing she had heard this charge for the first time with everyone else. She looked not angry but undone.

The whispers began, no longer subtle murmurs, but rising in a wave of stunned realization.

Lady Sedgewick, a woman of impeccable honour, straightened. Her gaze, cold as ice, swept over Miss Bingley, who now seemed to shrink beneath its force. “Earl Matlock, Lady Huntingdon, Viscount Spenston, Lady Catherine, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Richard Fitzwilliam, and Mr. James Fitzwilliam,” Lady Sedgewick announced, her voice ringing with newfound clarity and a palpable apology, “I beg your pardon for this grave imposition. And must express my deepest regrets for admitting one who would so egregiously misuse a gentleman’s name and hospitality.”

She turned her full attention to the surrounding room, her voice now clear and ringing with authority. “Let it be known that my invitation to the Bingley party this evening was extended under false pretences. The letter in question was a forgery, and Mr. Darcy bears no responsibility for their presence here.”

Miss Bingley, pale with shock and humiliation, stammered, “But... but I thought you were Bennet cousins! You were all so... so familiar with them!” Her voice, thin and desperate, cracked with the sudden, terrible realization of her colossal error.

A collective intake of breath swept through the ballroom. The Bennet cousins, the very phrase Miss Bingley had used all over London to dismiss them, now hung in the air, exposing the full extent of her disdain and ignorance.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had been observing with a grim, satisfied curl of her lip, now stepped forward, her voice cutting through the stunned silence like a diamond on glass. “Indeed, Miss Bingley,” she began, her tone a low, dangerous growl. “Had you possessed the good breeding to await a proper introduction rather than storming in with such impetuous vulgarity, you would not be suffering this particular mortification. Your haste, I am afraid, has served you ill.”

After a poignant pause, she continued. “It appears your powers of discernment are as lacking as your deportment. One might think you had been raised by the very tradesmen you so despise, rather than by a family who might have taught you how to read a pedigree. My brother, Lord Matlock, often remarks that such errors arise from a lack of proper attention, a failing for which even the finest modiste can offer no remedy.” Her gaze swept over Miss Bingley’s vivid gown, a dismissal more absolute than any verbal rebuke.

Viscount Spenston, stepping forward with a calm, amused smile, met Miss Bingley’s bewildered gaze. “You seemed quite sure I was a Bennet, Miss Bingley. I took it as a compliment, I assure you. The Bennets are excellent company.” He bowed slightly to Jane, a movement of elegant devotion that underscored his true feelings, before raising her hand to his lips.

Lady Huntingdon, her plum silk rustling as she stepped closer, fixed Miss Bingley with a gaze that held both disdain and a chilling amusement. “I quite liked being a Bennet, Miss Bingley. Such a warm and respectable family. You might count yourself so fortunate.” Her eyes, sharp and knowing, conveyed the vast chasm between Miss Bingley’s perceived superiority and her actual position.

Papa, standing behind Lady Catherine, gave a quiet, almost imperceptible nod of approval, a flicker of his dry wit acknowledged. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, “One must forgive Miss Bingley’s error. Given the agreeable company, I daresay we all feel quite like family already.” His gaze briefly touched Jane and Elizabeth, a hint of genuine warmth softening his usual sarcasm.

Emma Woodhouse, her expression one of profound, almost sympathetic concern, glided forward. “Such unfortunate misunderstandings Miss Bingley labors under,” she said, her voice sweet as honey, yet with an edge that pierced like a rapier. Upon learning the full truth, Miss Bingley’s face drained of all color, and she swayed precariously. She looked as though she might genuinely faint this time, her eyes rolling upward.

Emma watched her with a dry, almost clinical assessment. “You might have saved your breath, Miss Bingley. Or your dignity.”

Miss Bingley, wild-eyed, turned as though to appeal to the assembly, her mouth opening on a desperate protest.

But she was cut short.

Mary Bennet, who until now had stood quietly in her place, stepped forward. There was nothing hurried in her movement, nothing flurried or dramatic. She simply raised her chin and regarded Miss Bingley with a composure so unyielding it froze the woman mid-breath.

“Miss Bingley,” Mary began, her voice calm, steady, and shockingly clear, carrying to every corner of the hushed ballroom. “You speak of Bennet cousins as though it were an insult. Yet I recall, in Hertfordshire, how you so contrived that no proper introductions could ever be made, lest you be obliged to acknowledge the connexions of those you deemed beneath you. And now, here before the very highest company, your scheme lies exposed for all to see. It is most unfortunate, for you might have spared yourself this moment.”

Miss Bingley flushed scarlet. “I... Miss Bennet... you mistake... misunderstanding.”

Mary did not so much as acknowledge the interruption. “When you discover the consequence of your choice, you would plead misunderstanding?”

A ripple of laughter followed, thinly veiled behind fans and coughs.

Mary continued, unhurried, her composure unshaken. “Since you declined the opportunity then, allow me to perform the office now. Permit me to correct the misunderstanding and to present them to you, formally.”

She turned, her hand lifted with quiet dignity, first toward the elder gentleman. “The Earl of Matlock,” she said, her tone measured, “whose rank you profess to revere, though you seem unfamiliar with his countenance. Beside him, his sister, Lady Huntingdon, whose family needs no introduction save in the most exalted circles. The Earl’s son and heir, Viscount Spenston, who does my sister Jane the honour of his particular attention.”

Mary let the weight of each name fall with deliberate precision, every syllable a nail in Miss Bingley’s social coffin. Then, with a slow turn of her head, she indicated the rest. “Mr. Richard Fitzwilliam and Mr. James Fitzwilliam, his lordship’s younger sons. Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, known to you already, though perhaps not as well as you believed. I trust the names are plain enough, even without the convenience of forged stationery.”

Each name was delivered like a verdict, and with each, Miss Bingley’s shoulders seemed to bow lower under the weight of her humiliation.

The whispers began at once, sharp and merciless.

“Did she not once boast she would be mistress of Pemberley?” murmured a lady in yellow silk, her words loud enough to carry.

“Boast? She declared it daily,” came the arch reply.

Another voice, sly and amused, “I wonder, does she still mean to faint into his arms? Though she must learn to fall more gracefully.”

That provoked open laughter. One gentleman bent double, murmuring through his cravat, “The poor floor may never recover.”

Miss Bingley’s cheeks flamed scarlet. She tried for hauteur, but the effect was spoiled by her disordered gown and trembling hands.

When she attempted, in desperation, “I did not mean...”

Mary’s fan lifted with exquisite precision, her gaze sliding past Miss Bingley as though she were air as she turned. The cut direct.

That simple gesture was deadlier than any insult.

Even Lady Catherine, with a glance cool as winter frost, turned her back deliberately, as though Miss Bingley were no more deserving of attention than a servant who had spilled the wine.

The Viscount remained beside Jane, a private amusement playing on his lips as he gave his brother a look that spoke volumes. His eyes alight with barely suppressed mirth, he leaned close to whisper to Elizabeth. “I pray this is as good as Almack’s, for nothing shall ever again prove quite so diverting. I daresay the drama alone is worth the subscription.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, standing just behind him, gave a low snigger, a sound both affectionate and entirely out of place for a former Colonel.

Elizabeth, her eyes twinkling, met the Viscount’s gaze. “Indeed, my lord,” she replied in an equally low voice, “though I am not accustomed to such entertainments, I must confess to a certain morbid fascination. I had always thought a lady’s reputation was guarded more carefully, but it seems one’s own folly can be a far more effective executioner than any public hangman.”

The company seized upon it at once. “How deserved!” someone whispered. “The tables turned at last,” another said. “All her sneers, all her airs, and now this!”

Miss Bingley stood abandoned in the midst of the glittering company, her schemes laid bare, her reputation in tatters, her enemies triumphant. What she had sought to gain in admiration, she had won instead in ridicule, and recovery was impossible.

Miss Bingley gasped, staggered, and for a moment seemed unable to breathe. Around them, the silence was absolute, until, as though on cue, soft titters began to spread, quickly blossoming into open laughter among those who had long endured her airs.

Mary inclined her head once more, serene, and returned to her place among her family. She had spoken no insult, offered no coarse word.

Yet the blow she had dealt was mortal, and all knew it. For a moment, she watched Miss Bingley, her gown a coral stain on the floor, her carefully constructed world shattered. Mary did not feel triumph, only a quiet, resolute satisfaction. Justice had been done, not with anger, but with truth. Miss Bingley had not simply fallen, she had been undone by her own pride.

The words were a death knell.

Gossip exploded around them, no longer whispers, but open, delighted chatter. The revelation, delivered with such public clarity by Lady Sedgewick herself, combined with the crushing wit of Lady Catherine and the elegant composure of the rest of the party, was utterly devastating. The social fabric around the Bingleys unraveled with sickening speed. Their attempts at climbing, their snobbery, their disregard for others, it all returned upon them with compound interest.

Miss Bingley, desperate, turned to Mrs. Hurst, her hand weakly reaching out. “Louisa! You must...”

But Mrs. Hurst, her face a mask of profound mortification, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and cold disgust, simply met her sister’s gaze. Her fingers dug into her skirts, knuckles whitening, before she deliberately tore her gaze away. It was not cold-blooded abandonment so much as visible despair.

For a long, agonizing moment, she stared, before slowly, deliberately, turning her back without a single word. Mr. Hurst, pale and tight-lipped, only nodded curtly to the ground, avoiding his brother-in-law’s eye.

Lady Sedgewick, seeing this silent, public disavowal, stepped forward, addressing the room but directing her words particularly towards Mrs. Hurst. “It is a lamentable thing,” she announced, her voice pitched to carry, “when one’s relations betray all propriety. However, I believe we can all discern a lady of true integrity, even when unfortunate connections weigh upon her. Mrs. Hurst’s distress is, I trust, evident to all, and speaks volumes for her own upright character.”

Her gaze then hardened as she turned fully to Miss Bingley and Mr. Bingley. “I must insist that you and your brother remove yourselves from my ballroom. Your presence, under these circumstances, is a grave affront to my distinguished guests and to the standards of this house.”

The silence that followed Lady Sedgewick’s pronouncement was absolute. Not even the rustle of silks or the clink of crystal disturbed it. The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.

“I suppose Miss Bingley will now have ample leisure to reflect on the perils of forgery, and fashion,” Lady Catherine whispered to her sister.

Mary, like Lady Elaine, hid a grin.

Mrs. Hurst, trembling slightly, took one small step backward, distancing herself entirely from the disgraced pair. Her eyes did not seek sympathy, only escape. Caroline’s outstretched hand hung in the air for a moment longer before she withdrew it in a furious, jerking motion, her expression crumpling.

Then came the moment that would decide Mrs. Hurst’s fate. She stood alone now, exposed, severed from the fallen branch of her family tree, and very much aware of it.

And that was when Emma Woodhouse stepped forward once again, smiling with the same bright ease that had undone so many pretenses already that evening.

“Surely Mrs. Hurst will not be punished for what she had no part in, nor wished for.” Emma turned deliberately toward Lady Catherine, then the Earl of Matlock, and finally Lady Huntingdon. “I know of no better judge of a lady’s character than this family. And I dare say none here saw Mrs. Hurst attempt deceit or dishonour. In fact, we saw her do precisely the opposite.”

Lady Huntingdon inclined her head. “Indeed, Miss Woodhouse. One’s strength is not proven in comfort, but in consequence. Mrs. Hurst showed discretion when many would have defended the indefensible.”

Lord Matlock stepped forward next, his deep voice cutting clean through the whispers. “Mrs. Hurst, if you would do us the honour of joining our party for the remainder of the evening, I should be most gratified.” He extended his arm in the unmistakable formality of public alliance.

Mary caught the instant transformation. Mrs. Hurst’s breath shuddered out of her chest, her chest rising as if she had been holding dread for hours. Tears glistened at the rim of her eyes, quickly blinked away, yet her mouth trembled in a momentary, fragile smile. Taking the Earl’s arm, she dipped her head gratefully, a faint whisper escaping as though she scarcely trusted her voice in so public a crowd.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, not at the gesture itself, but at what it meant. To be claimed publicly by the Fitzwilliams in the wake of scandal was no mere reprieve, it was a restoration.

Mrs. Hurst, caught between disbelief and gratitude, hesitated for only a heartbeat before placing her gloved hand on the Earl’s arm. She managed a quiet, “You are... very kind, my lord,” with a catch in her voice.

Emma, not content to let the matter rest delicately, gave it a gentle, strategic nudge into permanence. “And I believe we have an empty chair beside Lady Catherine,” she said with a knowing smile. “I dare say it shall not remain vacant for long.”

Lady Catherine turned her gaze upon Mrs. Hurst with imperial deliberation. “Indeed not. Come, Mrs. Hurst. You will find we value dignity here, even if some are only now learning the meaning of the word.”

Lady Elaine offered a sharp nod. “It is, after all, an excellent evening for honest company. We shall keep only the best of it.”

At this, Mrs. Hurst’s composure steadied minutely, her trembling subsiding, her lips pressed together in visible, earnest gratitude. Though still shaken, she carried herself with new resolve, clearly determined not to squander a reprieve she had never expected.

Lady Sedgewick, not one to be outmaneuvered in her own ballroom, recovered with seamless grace. She stepped forward and said with perfect poise, “I am pleased to say that Mrs. Hurst will be seated among our honoured guests tonight. I could ask for no better example of discretion under duress.”

With a nod of Lady Sedgewick’s head, a footman approached silently to escort the Bingleys away.

Miss Bingley began to sway, and her hand, instead of reaching out to a friend, grabbed for the arm of her brother, who, to the shock of all, did not pull her to him, but simply let her fall back onto the floor once more. Mr. Bingley’s face, now devoid of all color, was a mask of cold fury. He turned and without a single word, made his way slowly to the door and abandoned her to her fate.

The footman held out his arm with professional politeness, but his eyes were impassive, as though lifting a piece of furniture.

As the footman steadied Miss Bingley, her hair tumbling loose and her gown skewed, a gentleman near the card tables called out, “It seems Miss Bingley was not so adept at climbing as she led us to believe. One might almost commend her for her performance. Her descent, however, is a spectacle to behold. Her fall was far more graceful than her conversation ever was.”

The laughter that followed was bright, merciless, and impossible to suppress.

Just as the footman took her arm, a woman in the crowd, a former school friend of Miss Bingley’s, leaned forward with a sharp, malicious grin. “My dear Caroline,” she whispered loudly, her voice cutting through the hushed silence. “I always said you were destined to fall. And it appears you cannot fall any further.”

A wave of cruel laughter rippled through the onlookers, sealing her fate. The footman, with an almost imperceptible tug, guided her forward. Miss Bingley, her face a mask of shock and a final, desperate plea for help, vanished in silence, the door closing behind them with a finality that seemed to echo.

Lady Huntingdon murmured to her sister, “There they go, Catherine, proof that social climbing is best attempted with a ladder, not a rope made of forged notes.”

Lady Catherine responded, with a slight arch of her brow and a satisfied glance at Mrs. Hurst, “And let it be remembered, a true lady never needs to climb, she is always found precisely where she ought to be.”

And then, with the precision of a well-executed dance, the party reassembled itself. Lady Catherine reclaiming her place, Lord Matlock offering Mrs. Hurst his arm, Viscount Spenston gently patting Jane’s arm, Emma joining arms with Mary, and Lady Huntingdon murmuring a quiet word to Lady Sedgewick that left the hostess smiling with visible relief.

As the tide of conversation resumed and the musicians struck a new, elegant prelude, the gossip changed tone. No longer was it only of scandal. It was of contrast, of the disgrace of the Bingleys, yes, but also of the grace with which Mrs. Hurst had stepped back from the brink.

“She must have known, or at the very least suspected,” one matron whispered.

“And yet did not stoop to defend her sister’s schemes,” another replied.

“A clever woman,” a gentleman noted.

“Or simply a good one,” his wife answered.

Mary, beside Emma, glanced back once. She saw Mrs. Hurst seated beside Lady Catherine and Lady Huntingdon, the picture of collected dignity. Her fan moved slowly now, not with nerves, but ease.

“She will be fine,” Emma said softly, catching Mary’s glance. “When one is given the choice to remain in the shadows or step into the light, the best women always rise.”

Mary nodded. “And the worst?” she asked, her gaze flicking briefly toward the memory of Miss Bingley.

Emma’s lips curved with just the faintest hint of irony. “They vanish into darkness.”

And so they had.

As the last echoes of Mrs. Hurst’s reprieve settled, Mr. Darcy, who had remained stoic throughout the preceding chaos, now stepped forward, drawing the eyes of the remaining company. His voice, though not raised, carried with chilling clarity across the ballroom.

“Given the unfortunate and frankly unforgivable events of this evening,” Mr. Darcy began, his gaze sweeping over the space where the Bingleys had stood, then settling, cold and resolute, upon the hushed faces of the remaining guests, “and in light of the repeated affronts to propriety and indeed, to my own name, I find myself compelled to make a regrettable, yet necessary, declaration.”

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. A ripple of anticipation, laced with a nervous dread, passed through the room. Even Elizabeth looked at him with a slight surprise, recognizing the gravity of his tone.

“It has become clear,” he continued, his voice devoid of emotion, yet ringing with absolute finality, “that the conduct of Mr. and Miss Bingley is entirely at odds with the principles I hold most dear, and indeed, with the very fabric of honourable society.” His eyes, sharp and unwavering, met those of several prominent gentlemen who had once counted themselves among Mr. Bingley’s acquaintances.

“Therefore,” he stated, his voice dropping slightly, becoming a measured, deliberate pronouncement, “I can no longer, in good conscience, extend to them the privilege of my acquaintance. Henceforth, my house, my company, and indeed, my very recognition shall be entirely withdrawn from Mr. Charles Bingley and his sister, Miss Caroline Bingley.”

A collective intake of breath could be heard. To declare such a severing of ties, so publicly, in such a setting, was a rare and devastating act. It was more than a mere end to a friendship, it was a societal excommunication. No gentleman of standing would dare to offer hospitality or indeed, a polite nod, to those whom Mr. Darcy had so explicitly disavowed. The implication was clear. To associate with the Bingleys now was to invite Mr. Darcy’s profound disapproval, and likely, a chilling of one’s own social standing.

Lady Catherine gave a slow, approving nod, her lips curving in a faint, satisfied smile. Lady Huntingdon simply raised a single eyebrow, a silent acknowledgment of the definitive blow. Mr. Fitzwilliam, typically more genial, stood with a solemn expression, his agreement evident in his quiet posture.

Mr. Darcy then turned, with a slight, almost imperceptible softening of his features, back towards Elizabeth, his hand instinctively finding hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The message was clear. His loyalty, his protection, was now entirely devoted elsewhere.

“Mrs. Hurst,” he said loudly as he walked toward that lady, “would you do me the honour of dancing the next set with me?”

Mary looked at Mrs. Hurst, seated beside Lady Catherine and Lady Huntingdon, whose face, still pale from the preceding ordeal, lifted in stunned disbelief. To be addressed directly by Mr. Darcy, after such a public disavowal of her own family, was an astonishing reprieve. It was a mercy extended from the highest ranks of society. Her eyes, still red-rimmed but now wide with a dawning hope, darted from Mr. Darcy’s unwavering gaze to Emma, then to Mary, as if seeking confirmation that this was not some cruel jest.

Emma gave a subtle, encouraging nod, her expression one of warm approval. Mary offered a small, sincere smile.

“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hurst stammered, her voice trembling but gaining strength with each word, “I... I should be most honoured. It would be... a singular privilege.” She extended her gloved hand, her relief palpable, her gaze fixed on him with profound gratitude. She stood and managed a curtsy that, though not perfect, conveyed immense sincerity.

Mr. Darcy bowed, his gesture grave yet respectful. He took her hand, drawing it through his arm with a quiet dignity that signaled to the entire room his explicit endorsement. As he led her towards the preparing set of dancers, his very action became a powerful, visible statement.

A collective sigh of relief, subtle yet pervasive, rippled through the ballroom. The immediate vicinity, which had been frozen in awkward anticipation, now relaxed, the tension dissipating like mist. Mr. Darcy, by publicly withdrawing his favour from the Bingleys and then immediately extending such a marked courtesy to Mrs. Hurst, had not merely excommunicated two individuals, he had spared one innocent from the ruin of another. His intention to protect Mrs. Hurst was unmistakable, and his influence, formidable.

Gentlemen and ladies alike exchanged approving glances. Whispers, now of a different tenor, spread through the room. “What a man of honour, Mr. Darcy!” “Such admirable discretion regarding Mrs. Hurst!” “He truly knows where true worth lies!” The society that had just watched Caroline Bingley’s ruin now witnessed Louisa Hurst’s quiet salvation. The Hursts, though still shaken, knew they had been publicly cleared.

Mary observed it all with satisfaction. Emma, beside her, gave a knowing smile. “As I said, Mary, justice requires no shouting. And sometimes, it arrives with the very gentleman whose arm one hoped to claim,” she said, her eyes twinkling before finishing on a murmur, “Though I confess, a little well-placed laughter is sometimes irresistible.”

The grand ballroom at Sedgewick House, now vibrant with renewed chatter and the promise of supper, began to empty as guests drifted towards the dining hall. The air, still scented with roses and candlelight, hummed with the aftershocks of the evening’s drama. Mary, walking with her parents and Emma, observed the varied currents of society. The Bingleys were a quickly fading shadow, their names now whispered with a mix of scandal and dismissal. Mrs. Hurst, however, moved with a newfound dignity, her earlier distress replaced by a quiet composure, her husband’s hand resting lightly on hers as they proceeded toward the dining room.

The dining hall at Sedgewick House was a masterpiece of refined elegance. Long tables, laden with gleaming silver and crystal, stretched across the room, illuminated by chandeliers that cast a warm glow on the elaborate floral arrangements. Mary found herself seated between Lord Aubrey Carmichael and her father, with Elizabeth and Jane opposite her, their places meticulously arranged to foster conversation among certain parties.

Indeed, the seating plan offered immediate confirmation of the evening’s significant shifts. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, now undeniably reinstated in good graces, were seated with Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. Their table also included Viscount Spenston and Jane, a clear signal of the Fitzwilliam’s approval of the burgeoning connections. Lady Catherine, Lady Huntingdon, and Lord Matlock presided over a table, their expressions serene and triumphant.

As the first courses were served, the clinking of cutlery and the murmur of polite conversation filled the opulent room. A footman, navigating the crowded space with a tray of punch, stumbled slightly, his foot catching on the hem of a passing gown. The vibrant red liquid sloshed from the bowl, splashing directly onto Anne de Bourgh’s pale, delicate hand.

A collective gasp rippled through her immediate vicinity. Such a public mishap, particularly on one as seemingly delicate and reserved as Miss de Bourgh, might have provoked tears or a flustered retreat. But Anne, to Mary’s surprise, reacted with remarkable composure. She looked down at the crimson hand and stained tablecloth, then up at the mortified footman, and offered him a gentle, reassuring smile.

“Oh dear,” she said, her voice soft but clear, “a minor skirmish, quickly remedied. No harm done, I assure you.” Then, to everyone’s astonishment, a faint, genuine laugh escaped her lips, a sound rarely heard from the usually demure Miss de Bourgh. “Well, such small accidents will happen, and none for the worse, I trust. If nothing else, it certainly ensures one is remembered for the evening!”

Lord Gresham, seated two places down from Anne, a gentleman known in society for his quiet nature and particular empathy regarding ‘delicate matters,’ turned sharply at her laughter.

During their time in town, Mary had heard of Lord Gresham, whose own quiet existence was marked by a private tragedy that rendered him unable to pursue marriage, was a man of great sensibility. In his youth, a horse bolting in Hyde Park had resulted in a debilitating saddle injury, leaving him unable to father children. His younger brother was married with three robust sons, and it was widely understood the earldom would pass through that line. Widows and ladies requiring either a husband or a protector often sought him out, sensing his innate kindness and lack of personal ambition.

Mary was intrigued. She knew he was also aware, through society’s whispers, of Anne de Bourgh’s delicate constitution, which, it was said, could not withstand the rigors of childbirth.

Lord Gresham’s pale eyes, usually thoughtful and distant, fixed on Anne with a new, profound interest. He observed her quiet grace in the face of embarrassment, her gentle laugh, and the serene acceptance of her situation. He saw not a damaged woman, but one of quiet strength and profound dignity.

“Miss de Bourgh,” Lord Gresham said, his voice unusually clear across the small space between them, “your equanimity is most admirable. A truly rare quality, I assure you.”

Anne inclined her head, a faint blush touching her cheeks at his direct address, but her smile remained. “One tries, my Lord. Some things, after all, are not worth discomposing oneself over.”

Lord Gresham leaned slightly forward, his gaze thoughtful. “Indeed, Miss de Bourgh. There are often matters in life that test one’s composure, are there not? To meet them with such grace is a lesson to us all.” He paused, then added, with a subtle shift in his tone, “Perhaps a damp napkin might assist with that formidable splash?” He gestured discreetly towards the footman still hovering near, eager to redeem himself.

Anne’s smile deepened, acknowledging his quiet understanding and practical kindness. “You are too considerate, my Lord,” she murmured, accepting the napkin the now-recovering footman quickly offered. As she gently dabbed at her hand, her eyes met Lord Gresham’s again, a fleeting, shared moment of silent recognition passing between them, an unspoken acknowledgement of lives lived with peculiar restraints and quiet fortitude.

A subtle glance passed between Lord Gresham and Lady Catherine. Lady Catherine, for once, offered no imperious direction, only a thoughtful, almost hopeful, expression. It seemed that in a small, stained moment, Anne had, perhaps, forged a connection that none had anticipated.

At the Bennet table, Mary noticed that Mr. Darcy’s hand had already found Elizabeth’s beneath the cloth, his thumb brushing the back of hers in a gesture surprisingly intimate for so public a setting. Across from them, the Viscount leaned protectively towards Jane, his gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that made her colour bloom fresh and radiant.

Her mother, meanwhile, was nearly quivering in her seat, her eyes darting constantly between her daughters and their suitors. A look of such breathless triumph suffused her face that Mary half-fancied she might burst into applause before the host himself could speak. Lady Elaine, seated beyond, pressed Lady Catherine’s hand once in silent expectation, the anticipation crackling between them scarcely concealed.

The hum of conversation swelled and faded, a backdrop to the more pointed discussions unfolding at the various tables. As the main course was cleared, Lord Sedgewick, a genial man with an innate understanding of social timing, rose from his place at the head table, tapping a spoon gently against a crystal glass.

“My dear friends,” he announced, his voice carrying easily through the dining hall, “if I might claim your attention for but a moment before we proceed to dessert.”

A polite hush fell over the room. All eyes turned to him. Lord Sedgewick’s gaze swept over the tables, a warm smile gracing his lips as it settled, for a brief instant, upon the Bennet family and their distinguished companions.

“It is the distinct pleasure of me and my wife,” he continued, his tone filled with genuine warmth, “to announce not one, but two most felicitous engagements this evening. Engagements that promise to unite two of our most esteemed families, bringing much joy and prosperity to all concerned.” He paused, allowing the anticipation to build.

A ripple of excitement, both surprised and delighted, swept through the guests. Jane and Elizabeth, though prepared, exchanged quick, bright glances.

Lord Sedgewick turned first to the table where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth sat. “It is with the greatest joy that I announce the engagement of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn!”

A resounding burst of applause, louder and more sincere than any Mary had heard that evening, erupted. Cheers and congratulations filled the hall. Elizabeth, blushing brilliantly, squeezed Mr. Darcy’s hand. He, in turn, allowed a rare, tender smile to light his features, acknowledging the well-wishes with a slight bow.

As the applause began to subside, Lord Sedgewick raised his hand again. “And furthermore,” he proclaimed, his voice ringing with equal delight, “I am equally thrilled to announce the engagement of Viscount Spenston, heir to the Earl of Matlock, and Miss Jane Bennet!”

The applause surged anew, perhaps even more fervently, as Jane, her cheeks flushed with happiness, accepted the Viscount’s hand, a picture of blushing grace. The sheer magnitude of two such advantageous and highly anticipated alliances, announced simultaneously, was almost overwhelming. It was a triumph not just for the Bennets, but for the very fabric of London society, binding ancient lineage with new, admirable connections.

Mary watched, a profound sense of pride swelling in her chest. Her sisters, so beloved, so deserving, were now truly settled, and in the most remarkable fashion imaginable. Mr. Bennet, beside her, cleared his throat, a sound Mary recognized as his rare expression of profound emotion.

“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet murmured, loud enough for Lord Aubrey to hear, “given the agreeable company, I daresay we all feel quite like family already. It seems, my lord, my shelves may soon need to make room for a good many more volumes on the subject of domestic felicity.”

Lord Aubrey’s expression, however, did not reflect the lighthearted jest. The faint smile that touched his lips was filled with a poignant, almost sad wistfulness. His eyes, fixed on Mary, held a depth of silent communication she found impossible to decipher. She met his gaze, a question forming on her lips, and a brief, silent current of disquiet passed between them before he looked away, the mask of polite ease settling back over his features. Mary’s heart fluttered in an unwelcome but familiar way, a strange unease settling beside her contentment.

Her father leaned in, his voice a low, dry murmur meant only for her. “Leave him be, my dear,” he advised, without looking at her. “Some burdens are not to be shared in a ballroom. He will speak when he is ready. Be patient. Your concern, I daresay, is already a great kindness to him, whether he knows it or not.” He then turned his attention back to the table, a gentle reassurance passing between them that needed no further words.

Mary exhaled slowly, the heaviness of Lord Aubrey’s looks still pressing upon her, their meaning unresolved. Yet at the same moment her gaze was drawn to where her sisters sat, encircled by joy and admiration. It struck her that life was always thus, a mingling of others’ quiet sorrows with one’s own treasured happiness. And tonight, however complicated her own heart might feel, she could still rejoice in theirs.

Mary’s eyes, filled with happy tears, darted to Elizabeth and Jane, and she saw, at the very same moment, the two men they loved lift her sisters’ hands to their lips, a perfect synchronicity of public devotion. It was a gesture of unvarnished affection that left a lump in Mary’s throat.

Across the table, Lady Catherine and Lady Elaine shared a knowing, silent glance, their lips curling into satisfied smiles before they turned to Mrs. Bennet, who had gone quite pale. Lady Catherine leaned in close. “Breathe, my dear,” she murmured, a hint of something uncharacteristically warm in her tone. “You have done well.”

Lady Elaine, with a quiet grace, simply squeezed Mrs. Bennet’s trembling hand under the table.

The announcement hung in the air, a golden affirmation of the evening’s shift. Dessert and coffee were served amidst a heightened buzz of congratulation and speculation. Mary observed the triumphant gleam in Lady Catherine’s eye, the quiet satisfaction of Lady Huntingdon, and the genuine, if reserved, warmth of the Earl of Matlock as they accepted felicitations. Mrs. Walters, seated close to the Earl, received several knowing glances and discreet nods from ladies who at one time would have dismissed her. Her place gracefully secured by the Earl’s open partiality. Even Jimmy, seated at their table, seemed to absorb the celebratory mood, his smile broadening as he watched the joyful exchange between his newly engaged cousins and their fiancées.

As the company began to disperse from the dining hall, drifting back towards the ballroom for the remainder of the evening’s festivities, Mary watched for the movements of Lord Gresham. True to his earlier, subtle indication, he made a direct path for Anne de Bourgh, who was gracefully rising from her seat.

Anne’s fingers tightened ever so slightly upon the back of her chair, as though steadying herself, and Mary noticed the delicate flush that bloomed across her pale cheeks the moment she saw him approach.

“Miss de Bourgh,” Lord Gresham said, his voice quiet, yet clearly audible in the immediate vicinity, “if you would grant me the honour of the next set? I confess, your remarkable composure earlier has quite convinced me of the virtues of a steady hand, a quality one seldom finds so gracefully demonstrated.”

Anne, her eyes flickering up with surprise and shy pleasure, a soft blush returning, a faint, genuine smile playing on her lips. Mary thought she detected a sparkle there, as though Anne herself was startled by the warmth she felt.

“My Lord, I would be pleased to,” she replied, her voice gentle, accepting his proffered arm.

Lord Gresham bowed with exquisite formality, though there was a softness about his expression that no courtly manner could conceal. As Anne placed her hand lightly upon his sleeve, Mary thought she saw her lips curve into the smallest, almost involuntary smile, more radiant than any she had worn all evening.

As they moved onto the floor, Mary noted the curious glances, the whispers, but there was no malice in them now, only a quiet, speculative interest in this unexpected pairing. Lord Gresham, always considerate, led her through the figures with a careful grace, their conversation appearing as quiet and thoughtful as their movements.

At one turn Anne’s gaze slipped downward, only to lift again with surprising alacrity when she realized his eyes lingered on her. Their fingers brushed as they changed positions in the dance, and though nothing in his countenance betrayed impropriety, there was a quickening to her colour that spoke volumes.

It was clear he was a gentleman who valued companionship above the boisterous demands of a partner, and Anne, in turn, seemed to blossom under his gentle attention.

The ballroom was soon alive again with music and movement. Mary watched her sisters, radiant and undeniably happy. Jane, ever graceful, spoke with Viscount Spenston, their faces a picture of serene contentment. He seemed to watch her with an almost reverent devotion, his expression softening whenever their eyes met. Elizabeth, meanwhile, matched Mr. Darcy in their intellectual, spirited connection Mary had so often observed between them.

Mary could not help but glance again at Anne and Lord Gresham. Where Anne had once seemed a shadow in any gathering, now there was a quiet animation to her countenance. Each smile he drew forth from her felt like sunlight breaking through a long-cast cloud.

As the evening began to wind down, with fewer couples taking to the floor, the final set was approaching. It was a waltz, known to be a favorite among the most accomplished dancers and engaged couples. Mary saw Mr. Darcy approach Viscount Spenston.

“Michael,” Mr. Darcy said, a rare, almost playful gleam in his eye, “shall we exchange partners for the final set? I believe our fiancées might quite enjoy the novelty.”

Viscount Spenston’s smile broadened. “A capital idea, William. I daresay now that our engagement is official, we may dance three.”

A ripple of amusement spread through the onlookers. The exchange, both formal and deeply personal, solidified their new relationships.

When the music for the current set drew to a close, and the musicians began to play the languid, final waltz of the evening, Lord Gresham once more approached Anne.

“Miss de Bourgh,” he said, his pale eyes holding a gentle sincerity, “if I might be so bold as to claim your hand for the very last dance? I should very much like to conclude this most memorable evening with the most memorable of partners.”

Anne, her composure entirely unruffled, yet her eyes bright with a subtle pleasure, inclined her head. “My Lord, the honour would be entirely mine,” she replied, placing her hand in his.

They moved gracefully onto the floor, a quiet, dignified pair, their steps unhurried, their conversation soft and sustained. Mary watched them, a profound sense of rightness settling over her. In Lord Gresham, Anne had found not a husband to meet societal expectations, but a companion who understood her quiet strength, and perhaps, a protector for a life lived on its own terms. Their dance was not a grand display, but a tender, intimate tableau, witnessed with respectful silence by the few remaining guests.

Soon after the final strains of music faded, coaches began to be called, and guests made their farewells. The Sedgewicks stood by the grand entrance, accepting praise for their magnificent ball.

As the Bennet family prepared to depart, Lady Catherine de Bourgh approached, her expression a rare mixture of satisfaction and genuine warmth. She embraced Elizabeth and Jane, a gesture of remarkable affection. To Mary, she offered a nod of particular approval. “Miss Mary, your observations are always as acute as they are silent. A valuable trait in a world prone to excessive chatter.” She then turned to Mr. Bennet. “Mr. Bennet, I trust you have found the evening... educational?”

Mr. Bennet chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Indeed, Madam. I have discovered that even a quiet man may occasionally find himself surrounded by a delightful, if rather boisterous, expansion of his family.”

Lady Catherine gave a rare, genuine laugh. “Quite so. And it seems even my nephew, James, has found his footing quite nicely. It is good to have him back amongst us.” She glanced towards where Jimmy, a fond smile on her lips, as he was taking his leave of his brother and aunt.

As they finally stepped into their carriage, Mary leaned back against the plush velvet, her mind replaying the events of the evening. The grace of Mrs. Hurst’s re-acceptance, the decisive, public cutting-off of the Bingleys, the twin engagements, the quiet, budding understanding between Anne and Lord Gresham, and the sheer joy of Jimmy Fitzwilliam’s return. The world had shifted on its axis tonight, and the Bennet family stood firmly at its new, brighter centre. The air, cool and fresh with the early morning, seemed to hum with the promise of a future more remarkable than any of them could have imagined.

When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand Chapter 14 (2 replies)

LizzyS — Thu, 25 Sep 2025 08:50:00 +0100

Chapter 14

The next morning, London summoned forth the distinguished party from Lady Catherine’s townhouse, all eager to take advantage of the fine spring weather with a promenade through Hyde Park. The air was crisp, sweetened by recent rain and the scent of budding leaves, a welcome contrast to the usual clamor of the city streets.

Mary Bennet, walking just behind the principal party, surveyed the gathering with quiet wonder. The company included all five Bennet sisters and their parents, the Earl of Matlock, Lady Huntingdon, Viscount Spenston, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Jimmy, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Miss Anne de Bourgh, Mrs. Walters, Mr. Darcy and his sister, Miss Darcy, Mrs. Annesley, Miss Emma Woodhouse, and her sister, Mrs. Isabella Knightley. It was an assembly worthy of the most refined salon, yet they strolled freely, surrounded by the mixed society of the Park, carriages and horsemen, nurses with children, idle peers, and observant matrons.

She found a peculiar comfort in its vastness, a sense of being both a part of, and yet pleasantly detached from, the vibrant spectacle.

The lively murmur of their conversations mingled with birdsong and the distant sound of wheels over gravel. Mary felt herself both among them and slightly apart, a position she no longer minded, for it afforded her the liberty to observe without interruption. She took note of the graceful fall of Jane’s gown as she walked beside the Viscount, the unspoken ease between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, and even Lydia and Kitty’s unusually composed demeanor, as they walked three abreast with Georgiana, their laughter softened into amiability.

Her mother’s voice broke through the hum of the party. “Mary, my dear? Your aunt and uncle Gardiner have arrived!”

Mary stepped forward with a ready smile, pleased to see the familiar figures. Her uncle had a calm countenance, intelligent, kind eyes. Her aunt, serene as ever, slightly younger than her husband and elegantly dressed, carried herself with an understated grace. Their children, Thomas, William, and little Sophie, stood neatly by their side.

Mary felt a rare sense of belonging, standing among relations who valued not only connection but conversation.

“Uncle Edward and Aunt Madeline, how delightful to see you here,” Mary said, curtsying.

“Mary, my dear,” Uncle Edward replied, his expression warm. “It does the heart good to see you looking so well. Your letters have kept us well informed of your many pursuits and recent happenings.”

Aunt Madeline embraced her fondly. “We would not have missed this gathering for anything. And Sophie has long wished to see her clever cousin Mary again.” The child gave a shy, precise curtsy.

As the larger party drew closer, her mother, ever eager for connections, bustled forward to perform the introductions. Before she could formally introduce her relations, Lady Catherine, seeing Mrs. Gardiner, stepped forward with an undeniable warmth that softened her formidable presence.

“Madeline! You are here at last!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, a genuine smile gracing her lips, quite unlike her usual reserved demeanor in public. “Anne, your godmother has arrived!”

Anne de Bourgh’s face lit up as she embraced Aunt Madeline with quiet affection. “Aunt Madeline, it is a great pleasure to see you again!”

“Catherine,” Aunt Madeline replied, equally warm, “you look every inch the grand matron of London. And Anne, my dear, how you have grown in confidence. It has been too long! Though it has been but a few months, it seems an age.” She then turned to her husband. “Edward, you remember Lady Catherine, of course, and her daughter Anne. And Lady Catherine’s sister, Lady Huntingdon, whom I believe you have met through our charitable works?”

Uncle Edward bowed deeply. “Lady Catherine, Lady Huntingdon, Miss de Bourgh, a true pleasure.”

Lady Catherine gestured toward the group. “Madeline, allow me to present those you may not yet know. Mr. Darcy, my nephew, and his sister, Miss Darcy.”

Mr. Darcy bowed. “Mrs. Gardiner, Mr. Gardiner, Elizabeth speaks of you both with great admiration.”

Georgiana followed with a soft curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you again, ma’am. I recall your kindness.”

Mrs. Gardiner’s smile deepened. “And I yours, Miss Darcy. You have grown so poised.”

Lady Catherine continued without delay. “Viscount Spenston, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Annesley, Mrs. Walters, all dear friends and connections.”

One by one, polite bows and curtsies were exchanged.

Emma Woodhouse stepped forward with particular animation. “Mrs. Gardiner! What a delight to see you again in person. Your letters regarding the Whitechapel effort have been such a blessing. Your insight into the hospital arrangements has been unequalled.”

Aunt Madeline laughed gently. “And your work in Highbury, Miss Woodhouse, has done much good. I only hope we may one day tour the foundlings’ school together.”

Viscount Spenston and Mr. Fitzwilliam also exchanged polite greetings with the Gardiners, acknowledging their connection to the Bennet sisters. Mrs. Annesley, who had joined the group for the promenade, was introduced, offering her compliments to the newly arrived London relations.

Just then, Aunt Madeline’s eyes fell upon a familiar face within the Bennet party. Her smile widened. “And Jimmy! My dear boy, how very good it is to see you!”

Jimmy, who had been chatting quietly with Kitty, turned at the sound of his aunt’s voice, a warm smile lighting his face. “Aunt Gardiner, Uncle Gardiner! It is a pleasure to see you both.” He stepped forward to take their hands warmly, a testament to the close bond he shared with the family who had taken him in.

“I was much gratified when my sister wrote to say your family had at last been found,” Uncle Edward said warmly.

“It has been something of an adventure, sir,” Jimmy replied, his smile tinged with both humour and fondness.

“How fortunate,” said Emma, stepping slightly closer, her gloved hands clasped lightly before her. “There is something profoundly reassuring in the return of a missing brother to his rightful place, like a note at last resolved in a long and well-loved air.”

Emma turned her gaze toward Jimmy, her expression kind but keen, as though she were still arranging the particulars in her mind. “Lost so many years ago, the youngest Fitzwilliam brother is now restored to a family that had never ceased to look for him. It is no small thing.”

Lady Catherine, who stood just behind her, gave a rare approving nod. “Indeed not. I had nearly despaired of ever seeing it set to rights, but this,” she gestured toward Jimmy, “this has been a most unexpected turn for the better.”

“Unexpected,” murmured Mr. Bennet, with a sardonic arch of his brow, “and very nearly poetic. Though I doubt the lad will thank us for dressing his childhood in epic verse.”

Jimmy laughed lightly at that, but Emma’s smile only grew.

“It is not poetry we seek, Mr. Bennet,” Emma said, “only justice and perhaps a fitting reunion at the end of a long and entangled history. I believe it is something of a habit among the Fitzwilliams to cause no small stir wherever they go.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, overhearing this as he approached, gave a mock-offended bow. “We must protest, Miss Woodhouse. Some of us cause no more stir than a teacup on a tray.”

Emma inclined her head. “Better still, balance restored.”

There was general laughter then, quiet, elegant, the sort permitted in such circles, but Mary noted how naturally Emma folded Jimmy into the company, how gently she presented him not as an interloper but as a long-lost note returned to harmony. There was neither spectacle nor performance, only belonging.

Just belonging.

And in society, that was more valuable than the grandest inheritance.

Just as the larger party began to move forward again, the Viscount, who had detached himself from Jane to speak with his brother, suddenly paused, his attention caught by an approaching pair.

“Good heavens, Richard. Is that not Carmichael?” he exclaimed, a delighted grin spreading across his face.

Approaching them was a gentleman of distinguished bearing, slightly younger than the Viscount, with a thoughtful brow and an air of quiet contemplation that immediately caught Mary’s interest. Beside him walked a young lady, graceful and composed, her eyes sparkling with quiet amusement as she took in the lively assembly.

“Carmichael!” the Viscount called again. “And Lady Amelia, I presume?”

The gentleman inclined his head. “Indeed. Spenston, it is good to see you. And yes, may I present my sister, Lady Amelia Carmichael.” He bowed politely. “You have quite the party assembled.”

“Welcome, both,” the Viscount said, then turned to the group. “Allow me to introduce Lord Aubrey Carmichael, second son of the Duke of Roxburgh, and no stranger to the more learned halls of Oxford.”

Lord Aubrey’s eyes, as he surveyed the gathering, widened slightly when they landed on Jimmy.

Lady Amelia’s eyes lit up as she saw Georgiana, and she greeted her with surprising warmth. “Georgiana! I had not realized you were in London. It is a pleasure to see you again after so long.”

Georgiana, usually reserved, was visibly pleased, returned the greeting with a soft smile. “It has been too long, Lady Amelia. I hope you have brought your wit and your sketches.”

“Always,” Lady Amelia said.

Lord Aubrey, still looking at Jimmy, then turned to Mr. Fitzwilliam, a look of profound astonishment on his face. “Good heavens, Fitzwilliam! Is that... is that Jimmy?”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, nodded. “Indeed, Aubrey. The very same.”

Lord Aubrey seemed almost speechless. “Unbelievable! I had heard whispers yet to see it with my own eyes is truly astonishing!” He shook his head, a mixture of wonder and delight in his expression.

Emma, who had been observing the exchange with keen interest, stepped forward, her usual composed demeanour replaced by an expression of fascinated surprise. “Oh!” she whispered. “Did you see that? Lord Aubrey Carmichael! And he recognized young Mr. Fitzwilliam, no less! It is quite the most extraordinary thing!” Her eyes sparkled with an almost irrepressible delight, clearly captivated by the unfolding drama.

Lady Amelia responded, “The two younger Fitzwilliam brothers do look much alike. It is a remarkable tale.”

“And here,” the Viscount added, turning slightly, “is Miss Mary Bennet. Mary, may I present Lord Aubrey Carmichael, a man well-versed in Latin, Greek, and any number of dead languages. You may at last have met your match.”

Mary blushed but met Lord Aubrey’s gaze steadily, and she saw a flicker of mutual interest. “Lord Aubrey,” she said, a rare warmth in her voice, “I do enjoy the company of those who find dead languages quite alive with meaning. I confess, I find myself often lost in the intricacies of classical texts.”

His answering smile was slow but sincere. “Miss Mary, I assure you, anyone who speaks well of Livy is a friend already won. Do you have a favourite passage?”

Mary, surprised into ease, laughed. “Too many, though I confess, I am partial to his account of Cincinnatus.”

“Ah,” he said, eyes brightening, “then you admire quiet virtue elevated by necessity. A noble taste.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Aubrey Carmichael stepped nearer to Mary. His tone, when he spoke, was courteous, but carried a confidence that seemed more innate than affected.

“Miss Mary,” he began, his expression entirely serious save for a hint of mischief at the corner of his mouth, “would you do me the honour of reserving the first set at Lord Sedgewick’s ball for me?”

Mary blinked, surprised into silence for half a breath. “I should be very pleased to do so, my lord,” she said at last, inclining her head.

“I am delighted,” he said. Then, with a boldness that caused Lady Amelia to glance sidelong at her brother with amused surprise, he added, “May I be so bold as to entreat the supper set also? I should never forgive myself if such a chance were lost to another.”

Mary’s eyes widened slightly, though not in displeasure. “You are very forward, my lord,” she said with a smile not wholly disapproving.

“I assure you, Miss Mary, it is only that I am aware of the value of rare things,” he replied with a bow. “And I do not take such opportunities lightly.”

Mr. Bennet’s glance at his daughter held no rebuke, only curiosity and, beneath that, a flicker of something gentler. He stepped forward from the edge of the company, where he had been standing with his usual air of mild detachment, and with a courteous nod to Lord Aubrey, inserted himself into the conversation.

“Lord Aubrey,” he said pleasantly, his tone light but not without seriousness, “as a father, I find myself suddenly curious. Do you make it a habit to charm young ladies into granting both the first and the supper sets before their guardians have had the pleasure of learning your intentions?”

Lord Aubrey looked momentarily taken aback. Then he bowed slightly, offering Mr. Bennet a smile marked by both respect and a quiet composure. “Mr. Bennet, I understand your concern entirely. And no, I do not generally make a habit of it. In truth, I had not anticipated meeting anyone who might so thoroughly unsettle my better judgment.”

Mary, startled and pink-cheeked, glanced at her father, but he kept his eyes fixed on Lord Aubrey with a mildly arched brow.

“You see,” the young lord continued with a touch more gravity, “I have been a part of London society for many years. I was expecting a polite acquaintance, perhaps a common fondness for letters. Instead, I find myself sincerely wishing to know Miss Mary better, if she will permit it. I should not presume beyond a few dances and a little conversation, but I hope that such an arrangement might be found acceptable to you, sir. And more importantly,” he added with a glance at Mary, “to your daughter.”

There was a pause. Mr. Bennet’s expression did not change, but his tone softened slightly.

“You speak with civility and appear to know your mind, traits not always found in the same gentleman. But it is no less important to me that Mary knows hers.”

He then turned to his daughter then, his gaze uncharacteristically open and direct.

“Well, Mary?” her father asked. “Do you wish to reserve the supper-set for this enthusiastic admirer of Livy and Cincinnatus? You are not obliged, though I confess myself curious what Tacitus would make of this scene.”

There was a murmur of laughter nearby, but Mary heard none of it. Her heart was beating rather too quickly, though not from embarrassment. Lord Aubrey’s regard, so quietly intent, and her father’s deference, his willingness, for once, to ask her what she wanted rather than assume it, gave her a feeling of unexpected clarity.

She looked between the two men and then spoke, her voice calm and sure. “Yes, Papa. I would very much like to dance the supper-set with Lord Aubrey.”

Mr. Bennet gave the smallest of nods. “Then I shall offer no objection,” he said, “though I hope your lordship’s conversational Latin is equal to the task of enduring one of Mary’s moral inquiries.”

“I look forward to it,” Lord Aubrey replied with a smile, bowing again to Mary. “With any luck, I shall endure many such inquiries, and not only in Latin.”

Mary looked down briefly, but her smile had brightened with quiet warmth.

As the party moved on again, the Viscount leaned toward Mr. Fitzwilliam and muttered behind a hand, “Well, Richard, that advanced with remarkable speed.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam grinned. “You must learn, Michael, never underestimate a Bennet with access to a well stocked library.”

Mary caught her father’s eye. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.

~*~

A little apart from the group, near a thicket of early-blooming rhododendrons, the Earl of Matlock and Mrs. Walters found themselves apart from the others for a few moments.

David’s gaze wandered toward his son, who stood conversing with Lady Amelia in animated tones. Richard seemed drawn by her gentle humour and evident refinement. He engaged her in a conversation about the recent exhibitions at the Royal Academy, his usual military brusqueness softened by an undeniable curiosity.

“It is a fine morning, my lord,” said Mrs. Walters, her voice gentle but assured.

David turned to her, eyes thoughtful. “Indeed, Mrs. Walters. Though I confess, the company renders it finer still.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes lowered. “You are gracious, sir.”

He regarded her with uncommon earnestness. “You carry yourself with such quiet strength, Josephine. It is... admirable.”

A faint colour touched her cheek. “You are too generous, my lord. I merely endeavour to be of service where I may.”

“And you are,” he replied, his voice low and steady. “More than you imagine. Grace such as yours is seldom seen, and never without value.”

Their eyes met, unhurried, unguarded, for a moment that spoke of mutual regard. Nothing more was said, nor needed. A shared understanding passed between them, unspoken yet unmistakable.

“You make me shy, my lord,” she said at length, her gaze drifting toward the rhododendrons.

“I only speak plainly,” he answered. “It is not in me to do otherwise.”

Another pause, easy and unforced, settled between them, a silence of the kind that need not be filled.

“Josephine,” David said after a measured pause, his tone both warm and deliberate, “might I hope for the honour of your hand in the first set at Lord Sedgewick’s ball?”

She looked at him, not startled, exactly, but clearly unprepared for the offer. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her expression before she replied, softly, “I thank you, my lord, but I believe such an honour would scarcely be proper, in my case.”

“And why is that?” he asked gently, though there was a firmness beneath the civility.

Josephine held his gaze with the quiet dignity that had first impressed him. “Because I was, until recently, in service as a companion in a merchant’s household. However brief the post, it places me outside the circles where such attentions from a man of your rank would be deemed acceptable.”

David’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in displeasure at her, but by the implications. “Mrs. Walters, you are not your circumstances. Nor will I allow the prejudices of idle tongues to define you.”

She gave a small, courteous smile, tinged with regret. “That is generous of you, my lord. But society is seldom so forgiving. You must know that many will disapprove. They will say I am reaching above my station.”

“They may say what they please,” he returned coolly. “We do not keep company with such people, and if they attempt to sully your name, I shall see their own reputations fall into ruin. And rest assured,” he added, with a slight but unmistakable smile, “I have rather more influence in those circles than they do.”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes searching his, wary but clearly moved.

“Forgive me, but are you certain?”

“Quite. I have never been more certain of anything.” His voice dropped. “From the first, Josephine, seeing you grown, I saw in you a woman of sense, feeling, and remarkable composure. Nothing in your past could diminish that. And anyone who thinks your association with a merchant’s household makes you less of a lady is an imbecile. We were never in the same circles, they and I, and I do not intend to start now.”

Colour rose gently in her cheeks, and though she glanced down, her lips curved with something very like amusement.

“You make it most difficult to refuse you, my lord.”

He held out his arm once more, this time not as a suitor, nor merely as a friend, but as a man making a public claim of respect. “Then do not refuse. Dance with me. Let them stare if they wish, I am quite used to it.”

“My lord, I am but ten years the Viscount’s senior. Will your sons be as understanding of my past as you are?”

“I do not care. Yet I know the answer is yes. They are the ones who encouraged me to ask you,” David replied with a smile.

After a moment, she inclined her head slowly. “Then I must accept. I only hope we do not begin the evening as a scandal.”

“Let it begin as one, if it must,” he said with a quiet smile. “It will end as a triumph.”

And with that, she placed her hand upon his arm, allowed herself to be led, not toward disgrace, but into the warm centre of a world that, for the first time in years, had begun to turn in her favour.

As they walked on together, David caught sight of Lord Aubrey Carmichael speaking animatedly with Miss Mary Bennet. He noted with no small amusement, that the young man had already secured her promise for the first set, and if his expression were any indication, had sought the supper-set as well. David could not help but approve. There were worse ways for a young man to direct his affections.

Yes, he thought as the sun filtered gently through the trees and the promenade pressed forward, there was change in the air. Quiet, perhaps, but unmistakable. And not unwelcome.

“I suspect,” he murmured, “this season may yet prove more interesting than I had supposed.”

Josephine glanced at him sidelong, her tone dry. “I suspect it already has.”

And so the promenade continued, Hyde Park offering more than its accustomed pageantry. Beneath the pale light of a London morning, connections were formed, some spirited, some tender, and a quiet season of change began, unnoticed by many, but not by all.

~*~

The Bennet carriage drew to a gentle halt before the grand entrance of Sedgewick House, its lanterns casting a soft glow against the golden stone facade. The house itself stood proud and serene in the evening light, its tall windows aglow with the reflections of countless candles. Wrought-iron balconies were adorned with draped garlands of early summer greenery, and the great double doors stood open beneath an arched portico, flanked by liveried footmen who made no attempt to conceal their anticipation of the fashionable crowd within.

As Mary descended with her sisters, she took in the elegant symmetry of the house, the sweeping staircase glimpsed through the vestibule, the polished floors, the rich gleam of mahogany and gilt. Inside, the entrance hall was filled with the warm flicker of candlelight and the muted hum of conversation. A cascade of pale roses, artfully arranged in silver urns, lined the corridors. The ballroom itself, visible beyond a pair of tall double doors, glowed like a scene from a painting, chandeliers glittering above a waxed floor, a small string ensemble beneath a bower of silk and greenery, and soft laughter threading through the air like a melody.

The Bennets were not, by long-standing habit, a family much discussed in London’s best circles. Their acquaintance had been largely limited to friends of the Gardiners and a few connections of her father’s more scholarly youth. But recent events, carefully tended by the right hands, had cast new light on their name. What had once been obscurity was now something more ambiguous and therefore more interesting. A hint of nobility, whispered affiliations, the brush of scandal resisted. These made the Bennets worthy of notice.

As they passed through the receiving line, Mary noted the change. Gentlemen bowed with greater formality. Ladies who had never before acknowledged their presence now dipped their heads with cautious politeness. Even Mama, swathed in blue taffeta and lace, moved with the uncertain bearing of a woman who knew she had something to boast of, but had not yet decided how loudly to boast.

Emma Woodhouse had arrived and was already seated at one end of the ballroom in quiet conversation with Lady Morven. She wore a gown of pale gold that shimmered like sunlit cream and carried herself with the calm assurance of one who had no need to vie for attention. She was not the most beautiful woman present, nor the most finely dressed, but those around her instinctively lowered their voices and leaned in when she spoke. One never knew whether she would offer an opinion, a favour, or a single, well-placed truth.

As the Bennets advanced farther into the ballroom, they approached a familiar and distinguished gathering at the foot of the grand staircase. The Earl of Matlock stood with upright bearing and a reserved expression, surveying the room as one long accustomed to its rituals. At his side, offering the warmth he deliberately withheld, stood his sisters.

Lady Elaine Hastings, Dowager Countess of Huntingdon, wore a gown of deep plum silk trimmed in sable lace, her silver hair elegantly coiffed, and her bearing was that of a woman who knew precisely where she stood, and where others ought to stand in relation to her.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood with imposing dignity. Her gown of forest green silk, trimmed with ivory and pearls, was elegant without ostentation, and her bearing, once severe, now carried the calm assurance of a woman who was content with her life.

Flanking them were Mr. Darcy, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Jimmy, and Anne.

Mr. Darcy, impeccably dressed and vigilant as ever, inclined his head with particular softness when his eyes fell on Elizabeth. Mr. Fitzwilliam’s genial expression brightened with unmistakable pleasure as he caught sight of the Bennets and their company.

Jimmy, transformed by the elegance of his new garments, looked almost a different man in the fashionable dark coat and expertly tied cravat. He shifted a little, perhaps still getting accustomed to the formal cut of the fabric. A subtle air of anticipation played on his features as he observed the bustling room, a quiet confidence settling upon him.

Anne de Bourgh was a vision of delicate beauty. Her gown of pale pink silk, subtly embroidered with silver threads, seemed to capture the soft glow of the chandeliers, complementing her fair complexion. Her usually reserved demeanor was softened by a faint, contented smile, a quiet grace emanating from her as she observed the vibrant assembly.

Lady Catherine greeted her mother with a warm smile and extended both gloved hands. “My dear Fanny,” she said, her voice rich with practiced charm, “what a pleasure to see you here. You look quite resplendent.”

Mama, nearly overcome by such distinguished attention, managed a curtsy and a breathless, “Your ladyship is too kind.”

Turning to her father, Lady Catherine offered a nod of sincere regard. “Mr. Bennet, I hope your library is as ill-disciplined and delightful as ever.”

Papa chuckled. “It is, madam. And all the better for its disorder.”

Anne stepped forward then, her demeanor composed and welcoming. “Miss Mary,” she said, her voice quiet but sure, “I have brought that volume of Seneca I promised. I hoped you might be willing to look over the marginal notes I made?”

Mary’s eyes lit with genuine surprise. “I would be honoured, Anne. Thank you.”

The Earl stepped up and said, “Mrs. Walters, it is a pleasure to see you here this evening.”

“And you, my lord,” she replied, her voice warm with composed familiarity, the tone of a woman who had once danced at court and remembered it with fond clarity.

Lady Elaine extended both gloved hands with genuine warmth. “My dear, we have had too little time to speak of old days, and the new ones pressing upon us. I hope you will not vanish behind a host of admirers before I may claim you for a proper conversation.”

Mrs. Walters smiled. “You flatter me, Lady Elaine. I shall make no such escape.”

“My lord,” Mama said, “we are so honoured to be included. What a grand occasion this is!”

“You are most welcome,” the Earl replied with a courteous nod, his tone warm.

Lady Elaine’s gaze lingered on Mary with marked interest. “Miss Mary,” she said, stepping forward, “I have only just this week finished that little volume you lent me. Your notes were more enlightening than the essay itself.”

Mary blushed, bowing her head slightly. “I am gratified that you found it of interest, Lady Elaine.”

“More than interest,” she replied, her voice warm and deliberate. “It was a pleasure to read a mind so clearly formed.”

At that moment, Viscount Spenston, resplendent in evening attire, stepped forward. His smile welcomed a contrast to his father’s formality, and his eyes found Jane immediately. Though his bow was perfectly executed, it lacked none of its quiet devotion.

“Miss Bennet,” he said with low warmth, “you look, unsurprisingly, radiant tonight.”

Jane returned his gaze, her smile gentle and sure. “You are too kind, sir. I am glad you are here.”

“Where else could I be?” he murmured, offering his arm with all the ease of long-standing affection.

Just behind him, Mr. Darcy stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice lowered just enough to be intimate without presumption, “you take my breath away.”

Elizabeth arched a brow with playful restraint. “In this gown? You are easily impressed, sir.”

“Not at all,” he returned, a rare smile just reaching his eyes. “It is merely a reflection of its wearer.”

She placed her hand on his offered arm with quiet assurance. The two couples turned slightly aside, the better to await the music’s start.

It was then that Emma Woodhouse made her way towards them, gliding through the guests with the natural ease of a woman who had never once doubted her place.

“My dear Mrs. Bennet,” she said brightly, before turning to Mary with a conspiratorial grin, “Mary, I must warn you, if your dance card fills too quickly, I fear there may be riots.”

Startled into a soft laugh, Mary replied, “Then I shall endeavour to preserve the peace, Emma.”

Emma’s gaze flitted to Mr. Bennet, whom she greeted with a respectful incline of the head and a knowing smile, before adding, “I believe we are about to be joined.”

Indeed, Lord Aubrey Carmichael was making his way through the crowd, his manner composed and unhurried. Beside him walked his sister, Lady Amelia Carmichael, whose violet gown shimmered with understated elegance. Lord Aubrey bowed deeply.

“Miss Mary,” he said, his voice warm and measured, “I trust I am not too late to claim our set?”

“You are precisely on time,” Mary replied, her tone composed though touched with anticipation. He offered his arm, and she accepted it with quiet dignity.

Lady Amelia turned toward Mr. Fitzwilliam, who had drawn near with evident purpose. His easy smile held a more serious edge now, though there was no mistaking the pleasure in his expression.

“Shall we join our brothers and my cousin near the floor, Lady Amelia?” he asked.

“With pleasure, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she replied, and allowed herself to be led.

As they moved away in pairs, Mary glanced once back at her father. He had said nothing, but his eyes rested on her with a look rare in his usual catalogue, neither skepticism nor bemusement.

Pride.

Mary remained close to her sisters, aware of the unusual nature of the evening. There had been no dramatic announcement, no fluttering debut, and yet something had shifted. The room seemed to receive them differently. Where once their presence might have been met with disinterest, or worse, condescension, there was now a curious kind of regard.

Not admiration, perhaps. Not yet.

But interest.

And in society, Mary had begun to understand, that was the more powerful force.

Emma Woodhouse told them what she had done. She had neither slandered nor shouted. She had simply stepped into London society with impeccable grace and placed the right truths, gently, precisely, into the ears of those who knew exactly what to do with them. By Saturday morning, Lady Honoria Mowbray had passed a remark over tea that sent Miss Bingley’s social ambitions stumbling. By Sunday evening, an anecdote involving a misplaced Viscount and the Matlock broach had made its way into three different drawing rooms and been repeated with increasing embellishment.

By Monday, Caroline Bingley’s name was a subject of quiet laughter and sudden subject changes.

She and her brother had found themselves seated farther and farther from the center of conversations, both literal and social. Invitations, once freely offered, had grown oddly mislaid or rescinded. Shopkeepers grew polite but cool. Acquaintances who had once flattered now claimed sudden engagements. At the opera, Caroline had turned to speak to a school mate only to find they had lifted her fan without acknowledging her. At Hatchard’s, she lingered too long near the table of a neighbour and was pointedly not greeted.

It was not overt cruelty. No one said her name aloud in censure. But London knew. And London, once it knows, becomes deaf to apologies and blind to past associations.

The musicians were warming up in preparation for the first to begin when the Bingleys arrived.

Caroline Bingley, resplendent in a shade of coral so insistent it seemed to vibrate against the candlelight, swept into the ballroom. She carried all the practiced grandeur of a woman who believed herself still admired. The pearls at her throat and ears were luminous but overabundant, as though more might draw the eyes of society to her entrance.

They did not.

Caroline smiled with radiance, as though it would bend the room into orbit around her.

But the room did not bend.

If anything, it recoiled.

A hush fell, fleeting but unmistakable, followed by the quiet rustling of society turning, backs, shoulders, attention, all subtly away. Mary watched it unfold like a silent ballet. Lord Dalrymple glanced at his wife, who glanced at Lady Honoria, who did not glance at all. A murmur stirred the air, faint but precise. Something about a viscount, a broach, and Miss Bingley’s ‘confusion.’ It was enough. The damage had been done days ago, tonight merely confirmed it.

Across the room, Emma turned her head, only briefly. There was no cruelty in her look. No triumph. Only dismissal. Calm, conclusive, and utterly irrevocable.

Mr. Bingley limped beside his sister, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. Mary noted the strain etched into his features, the paleness beneath his carefully arranged hair, the stiffness in his jaw as he took each step. The injury to his ankle was real. His discomfort seemed to deepen with every step.

He should not have come. Mary could see it plainly, so could Mr. Hurst, whose expression briefly betrayed a kind of silent exasperation. But Miss Bingley had insisted. Mary could almost hear her say it, with brittle cheer, “We must go, Mr. Darcy will be there.” And so, Mr. Bingley had been drawn here, not by vanity, but by obligation, or guilt. Or both.

The Hursts flanked the siblings, dressed with their usual care, expressions carefully unreadable. Mrs. Hurst clutched her fan as if it were a talisman. Mr. Hurst appeared more interested in locating the nearest claret than in braving the social chill already settling around them.

Mary felt it as surely as if a bell had tolled. This was not a stumble or a social misstep. The Bingleys had not simply fallen from their limited acceptance into society. They had been removed.

Mr. Bingley, poor man, seemed not yet to understand.

He brightened visibly at the sight of Mr. Darcy, only to hesitate as he saw the man already engaged, deep in quiet, companionable conversation with Elizabeth and his Matlock cousins.

Miss Bingley, more disastrously, seemed not to notice.

She held her head high, radiating the oblivious poise of a woman who still believed her smile sufficient currency for any room. She mistook the polite evasions for shyness, the bland refusals for chance.

Miss Bingley moved to stand by Lady Amelia Carmichael with a determined lift of her chin, but the noblewoman responded with a look so bland it bordered on dismissive. Even Mr. Fitzwilliam, always gracious, made no effort to draw her in.

And still, Miss Bingley did not see it.

Only Mrs. Hurst, glancing sidelong at Mary as Caroline passed, seemed to register the shift. Her fan fluttered slightly lower, her mouth drawn not in disdain, but resignation. She met Mary’s gaze with a look that was oddly pitiful, as if to say, “She has done this to herself, and we can do nothing more.”

Mary held that glance for a moment, nodded discreetly, then looked away.

There was no satisfaction in it.

Mary had always watched people, often unnoticed, often silent. But tonight, she watched with clarity. There was no spectacle here. No raised voices, no scandalous scenes. Only the quiet power of reputation undone.

The atmosphere shifted palpably when the musicians signaled the first set. A ripple of anticipation ran through the room. Then came the moment that sent a distinct shockwave through the assembled society.

Lord Matlock, with deliberate formality, turned to Mrs. Walters. “Mrs. Walters,” he announced, his voice clear and carrying, “I believe I have the honour of claiming you for the first set. If you would do me the pleasure?”

A collective, almost imperceptible intake of breath echoed around them. The Earl of Matlock, opening the ball with Mrs. Walters? It was a declaration far louder than words. Lady Catherine’s lips curved in a faint, satisfied smile. Lady Elaine nodded serenely. Lady Sedgewick, observing nearby, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, her expression unreadable but undoubtedly registering the significance.

Mrs. Walters, maintaining her exquisite composure, curtsied gracefully. “The honour is entirely mine, my lord.” She placed her hand on his offered arm.

Simultaneously, Lady Catherine tightened her grip on Jimmy’s arm. “Come, James,” she declared, her loud voice brooking no argument. “You shall partner your aunt for this first set. It is time society saw you where you belong.” Her gaze swept the room, a silent challenge to any who might question his place. Jimmy, though still looking slightly overwhelmed, stood a little taller.

The sight was powerful. The Earl leading Mrs. Walters onto the floor, and Lady Catherine, a pillar of the ton, claiming her long-lost nephew for the opening dance. It was a dual statement of acceptance, protection, and consequence that silenced lingering gossip about Jimmy’s origins and cemented Mrs. Walters’ position. Mary felt the weight of it, the sheer audacity of the gesture cutting through the ballroom’s glittering facade.

Mary allowed herself a single glance toward Emma, who stood now in conversation with Lady Frances Cavendish and the Dutch Ambassador’s wife. It was not triumph Emma wore, nor cruelty. But purpose, fulfilled. She had said once, quite calmly, that justice required no shouting. And tonight, justice had arrived in silk slippers and murmured mockery, carried on the breeze between fans.

As the music swelled and the first couples took their places, Mary, standing with Lord Aubrey, observed the unfolding tableau. Jane and the Viscount, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Mr. Fitzwilliam and Lady Amelia, all moved with ease.

Mary’s eyes were drawn to the two most significant pairs. The Earl and Mrs. Walters moving with a quiet, dignified harmony that spoke of deep understanding. Lady Catherine guiding Jimmy through the steps with a blend of stern instruction and fierce pride.

Society watched, whispered, and understood. The Fitzwilliams had drawn their lines, reclaimed their own, and elevated those they chose. The Bingley’s presence felt like a discordant note waiting to be played against this symphony of reestablished order.

Jane glowed as she danced with Viscount Spenston, his expression one of steady, growing awe. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy moved in perfect rhythm, not only with the music, but with each other. Mr. Fitzwilliam and Lady Amelia passed by, her laughter trailing behind them like a ribbon on the breeze.

And Miss Bingley?

She sat in the corner, her smile still fixed but fraying at the edges, speaking only to those who could not afford to look away. Her gown, her poise, her practiced brilliance, none could save her now. She was society’s cautionary tale and had yet to grasp the change in circumstances.

Her brother, grimacing faintly, shifted in his seat to relieve the pressure on his injured leg. Mrs. Hurst fanned herself without conviction. Mr. Hurst nursed his claret and his detachment.

Mary watched, and did not rejoice. She did not gloat. She simply understood. Society was not cruel, it was colder than that. It did not punish with heat, but with absence.

And Caroline Bingley had become its absence personified.

I will post Chapter 15 tomorrow. I have the day off, so I figured a bonus chapter was in order.

Hurricane at Netherfield Chapter 23 (2 replies)

Anne V — Tue, 02 Sep 2025 18:22:43 +0100

Chapter 23

Mr Bingley’s frustration continued. When Jane did rejoin him for a walk, Louisa stuck with them for the entire time. Then she dragged Jane and Elizabeth to the music room and then to see Caroline, who’s mood had not improved, as was reported at dinner.

“I think she was quite struck by the magnitude of the damage, especially when she heard the bridge on the road to London was damaged and they aren’t certain when it will be repaired,” commented Jane.

Though he could talk with her after dinner, he could get no time alone. The next day was no better. He met her at breakfast and was about to propose a walk outside after breakfast when Mr Darcy proposed they go for a ride and exercise their horses. He did not feel like he could refuse this in front of all the others, but berated his friend privately once they were far from Netherfield.

“Sorry, I did not know you had to decided to propose now. Are you certain of her feelings?” asked Mr Darcy.

“Yes, I’m certain she has feelings for me. I can see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. Can I get you to help me to find some time alone with her?”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I have noticed that Louisa is most attentive towards both the Bennet sisters.”

They returned to find that Caroline had been up and about in their absence but had retired to her rooms to have her midday meal. Mr Bingley asked if anyone wanted a turn about the garden after lunch, to find Louisa agreeing to it. So after lunch he set off with both Jane and Louisa, with Elizabeth and Mr Darcy trailing behind. Mr Darcy walked slowly, and even called to Louisa with a question regarding the name of the last opera they had seen in town.

Louisa, turned back to answer, but was immediately made suspicious, and made certain to keep the two groups together. She flitted between both, with Mr Bingley trying to hurry Jane along, and Mr Darcy turning Elizabeth onto other paths, but Louisa kept going between and directing each pairs attention back to the other.

Elizabeth, who had a suspicion as to what was going on, found the entire situation comical. Both men looked frustrated. After a sufficient amount of time outside, Louisa went and linked arms with Jane and practically dragged her towards the house. “That wind is turning. We can’t have you getting a cold again.” Then she came along the path with Mr Darcy and Elizabeth. “Elizabeth, would you like to join me in the music room. We must practice our duet and then we can perform it tonight.” With no polite way out, she bid Mr Darcy a farewell and left.

Mr Bingley was yet again given no time alone with Jane and the evening went the same way as the previous night, with the only change being that Caroline finally came down to join them after dinner. Her right hand was no longer bandaged, with the faint hint of bruises still on it and her palm with scabs that were healing well. Her left hand was bandaged. She wore a turban which hid the bruise on her head.

“It will still be a good week before I can try and play again. But I can sing.” Louisa offered to play to allow Caroline to sing, followed by Louisa and Elizabeth’s duet. The evening was spent in such a manner. What was most marked was Caroline’s lack of attention to Mr Darcy. She said no more than was politely required of her to him and she assiduously avoided looking at him. Mr Darcy felt relieved that somehow she had finally taken the hint, and Elizabeth was curious as to what had caused the change in Caroline.

The next was much the same. Charles was first down to breakfast, nervously awaiting Jane. Jane joined him but all too soon, Mr Darcy and Elizabeth came in from their morning walk.

“Miss Bennet, would you care to take a turn about the garden this morning after breakfast.”

Jane agreed that would be lovely. Mr Bingley extended the invite to Mr Darcy, who said that he would write some letters to be delivered to Pemberley. Even though the south road was closed, there was no word that the roads north had suffered the same fate, and he theorised that he should be able to get letters through and assure his sister of his safety. Elizabeth equally declined the offer in favour of reading, as she had already had her morning exercise. The look of relief on Mr Bingley’s face was palpable.

Mr Bingley waited nervously for Jane to come down from getting her coat and gloves. He offered his arm as they exited the house and walked down the front stairs.

As they started walking, he realised he had been so busy trying to get her alone, he had not thought one jot about what he was going to say. Nervously he started. “Do you like Netherfield?”

“Yes, it's the finest house in the neighborhood.”

“Yes, I thought it quite fine when I came to look at it.” Awkward pause. “The view is very good and I thought all the rooms of good proportion. Caroline pointed out all the wallpaper and curtains were outdated.”

“That is to be expected in a house that hasn't been occupied for the last six years, and longer still when the owners last redecorated.”

“Yes, Caroline wanted all new curtains and wallpaper, but I held off.” Mr Bingley babbled for a while about the alterations that were and weren't made, before realising it wasn't a useful way of getting to a proposal. As they were far enough away from the house, he stopped. “I very much like the neighbourhood. I was thinking I would remain here. Would you want me to stay?” he asked hopefully, hoping it would give him the encouragement to proceed.

“Of course, Mr Bingley. Everyone in the neighborhood enjoys your company.”

“Yes, but I was hoping, more in particular, that you rather enjoyed my company. I hope I haven't read your face wrong. Darcy said he wasn't certain and that he couldn't tell whether you cared or not...”

Jane interrupted him with a hopeful smile, hoping that this was the long-awaited proposal. “Yes, Mr Bingley, I enjoy your company very much. In fact, your company is the one I enjoy most.” She felt very daring admitting this, blushing profusely, as she had never been so open with a man before with regard to her feelings.

“When I first saw you, I thought you an angel. Then as I got to know you, I found you actually were. I've never met anyone as kind and sweet as you. Dear Jane...”

“Ah, there you are Charles. I thought I saw you walking out here.” They turned to find Caroline coming towards them.

Authour's note: I realise I missed a real chance and should have called the story 'November Rain' in honour of my favourite Guns N Roses song. Ah well, I'll find a way to sneak it in - still a few more days of November left in this story.

When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand Chapter 13 (2 replies)

LizzyS — Wed, 27 Aug 2025 22:18:14 +0100

Chapter 13

The conversation had turned to lighter topics, laughter and easy chatter filling the parlour. Mr. Darcy sat beside Elizabeth on a settee, their proximity a quiet testament to their growing understanding. Jane and Michael were equally close, their hands occasionally brushing, a silent language passing between them, a joy that settled deep in Jane’s heart.

Jane had just begun to feel the tension of the day slip from her shoulders when the familiar, measured tread of Mrs. Hill’s footsteps approached the parlour door. The housekeeper’s expression was the picture of composure, but her eyes betrayed a hint of mischief as she announced, “Miss Bingley, ma’am.”

A hush fell over the room. Jane’s heart fluttered with a mixture of amusement and dread.

Michael, seated beside Jane, bore the unmistakable marks of his recent ordeal, a purpling bruise along his jaw, a swollen eye, and a cut at his temple that even the best efforts of Hill’s salves could not quite conceal. Despite these injuries, there was a matching spark of mischief in his gaze as he bent very low, and whispered, “Hide your ring, my dear. Let us have a little fun with Miss Bingley, shall we?” His eyes sparkled, and Jane, unable to resist, slipped her hand discreetly behind a cushion.

The door opened with a flourish, and in swept Miss Bingley, resplendent in yet another gown more suited to Saint James’s than a country afternoon. The silk shimmered with every calculated step, her plume-topped bonnet bobbing.

She paused, surveying the room with a practiced air of superiority, her gaze immediately seeking out Mr. Darcy. Her smile, practiced and saccharine, seemed to falter only slightly as she registered his comfortable closeness to Elizabeth, though her assurance quickly reasserted itself. A faint, calculating light came into her eyes.

Jane could tell she was thinking about the need to rectify it, imagining the ease with which she might displace the country Miss Bennet and take her rightful place by Mr. Darcy’s side. It was all clearly on her face.

Miss Bingley offered the faintest of curtsies, if it could be called such, toward Jane.

“Oh my,” she remarked, her voice dripping with false concern, “I see the country offers its own amusements. I do hope the local pastimes are not quite so... vigorous as they appear.” Her eyes darted to Michael’s bruised face, then back to Jane, as if expecting her to explain. She continued, “I confess, I had not expected to encounter quite so many diversions in one parlour. One might almost think the countryside is not as dull as one hears, though I do hope the entertainment is not always so... physical.”

Jane exchanged a glance with Michael, her spirits lifted by the playful undercurrent in the room. For once, Miss Bingley’s arrival promised more amusement than anxiety.

With a practiced tilt of her head, Miss Bingley continued, “How very industrious you all are! I had not realized the countryside was so bustling, one might almost mistake it for a market day, if not for the bonnets.”

Miss Bingley allowed her gaze to drift, lingering with open disdain on Mrs. Walters’s modest muslin and simple jewelry. “What a curious choice of fabric,” she murmured, just loud enough for all to hear. “I see the latest fashion in London is to do away with unnecessary ornament. How commendable to be so ahead of the times, though I daresay it is easier when one has so little to begin with.”

She turned to Lady Catherine and Mrs. Hastings, her tone syrupy. “I daresay you both have found much to occupy you here. It must be a refreshing change from the more... select company of town.”

Jane felt the familiar prickle of embarrassment and indignation, but Lady Catherine only arched a brow, her manner cool and faintly amused. Mrs. Hastings exchanged a knowing glance with her sister, both women clearly recalling former encounters with Miss Bingley’s barbs.

Michael, undeterred by her scrutiny, offered a wry smile. “We do our best to keep things lively, Miss Bingley. The countryside may lack some of London’s refinements, but we find ways to amuse ourselves.”

Jane bit her lip to stifle a smile, her heart lightened by his playfulness. She caught Mrs. Hastings’s eye and saw the same spark of mischief there.

Miss Bingley’s lips thinned, but she pressed on. “And you, sir, I believe you were here on my last visit, though you seem to have suffered a most unfortunate accident since. I do hope it was not the result of any local custom.”

Lady Catherine, with a glint of amusement, replied, “In Hertfordshire, we pride ourselves on our resilience, Miss Bingley. It is a necessary quality, especially for those who aspire to keep pace with our company.”

Lydia, unable to resist, chimed in, “Oh, Miss Bingley, you must not worry. He is quite recovered, and if you stay long enough, you might find yourself swept up in our rustic adventures as well!”

Mrs. Hastings, with a twinkle in her eye, leaned closer to Lady Catherine and murmured, “I do so love a visit from Miss Bingley. One never knows what new degree of condescension she will scale.”

Lady Catherine’s lips twitched. “Quite. It is almost a sport.

Miss Bingley, having failed to disconcert anyone with her subtle insults, decided to turn her attention to her intended targets. “Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed, her voice a little too bright as she advanced towards him, seemingly oblivious to Elizabeth’s comfortable presence beside him. “And dear Miss Darcy! What a delightful surprise to find you here! I simply could not bear another moment without extending a proper invitation.”

She turned her attention to Georgiana, her smile widening. “My dearest Georgiana, I have come to beg you to visit me at Netherfield. It is quite dull without suitable female companionship, and I simply long for your elegant presence and your accomplishments to grace my drawing room.”

The effect was immediate. Jane, observing from across the room, saw the color drain from Georgiana’s cheeks. The girl’s hands fluttered nervously at her skirts, her eyes flitting between her brother and the formidable figures of her aunts. It was clear that being addressed so familiarly, and so publicly, unsettled her deeply.

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, and her voice, when it came, was icy with disapproval. “Miss Bingley, I must remind you that such familiarity is highly improper. She is Miss Darcy to all but her closest family. I trust you will remember yourself in future.”

Mrs. Hastings, ever the gentle diplomat, stepped in as well, her tone soothing but firm. “Indeed, it is easy to forget oneself in the warmth of country hospitality, but we must not let affection override propriety. Miss Darcy is not accustomed to such forward mode of address.”

Miss Bingley, momentarily chastened, faltered. “Of course. I meant only to express my genuine regard.”

Georgiana, still pale, managed a small, grateful smile toward her aunts, relieved to have the protection of their presence. Jane felt a surge of sympathy for the younger girl, so often the target of unwanted attention and schemes.

Miss Bingley, rallying, turned her attention back to Mr. Darcy, a possessive gleam in her eye. Jane immediately understood Miss Bingley’s intent, to use Georgiana’s presence at Netherfield as a means to compromise her into a match with Mr. Bingley, while simultaneously attempting to ensnare Mr. Darcy for herself. However, the damage had been done. The room’s mood had shifted, and Jane could see that Lady Catherine and Mrs. Hastings had positioned themselves, quite literally and figuratively, between Georgiana and further impropriety.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy, I quite rely on Miss Darcy to bring some liveliness to the house. She is such a comfort to me.”

Georgiana glanced nervously at Mr. Darcy, then at Jane and Elizabeth. “Miss Bingley, that is very kind of you,” she began, clearly uncomfortable.

Mr. Darcy, sensing Georgiana’s unease and Miss Bingley’s transparent machinations, intervened smoothly. “Miss Bingley, that is a most generous offer. However, my sister’s presence here is, I assure you, indispensable at this time.”

Mr. Darcy paused, his gaze briefly meeting Elizabeth’s, a flicker of shared amusement passing between them. Jane felt a quiet satisfaction at their unspoken understanding. There was no need to stir up undue agitation or desperation from Miss Bingley by revealing the engagement and courtship.

“Oh, but surely,” Miss Bingley pressed, a hint of desperation entering her tone, “a short visit would do her the world of good! The country air, the change of scenery... and think how much my brother would enjoy having us both there, to entertain him properly!” She cast a pointed look at Elizabeth, a faint sneer touching her lips, before redirecting her attention to Georgiana with forced cheerfulness.

Georgiana, finding her voice, offered a firm excuse, echoing what she had likely heard spoken. “Indeed, Miss Bingley, it is very kind, but I cannot. We are preparing to return to London very soon. There will be a great deal of packing and arrangements to make.”

Miss Bingley’s face remained blank for a moment, surprised by this new information. “To London?” she echoed, then her forced smile returned. “Ah, yes, London! How delightful! We, too, shall be returning to town very shortly. One simply cannot bear the country for too long, can one?” Her gaze then sharpened as she turned to Mr. Darcy. “Speaking of which, Mr. Darcy, now that your cold has quite subsided, why have you not yet returned to Netherfield? You are more than welcome to bring your sister. Surely you must find yourself quite bored amidst all this rustic domesticity.”

Mr. Darcy merely offered a polite, noncommittal murmur in response, his gaze firmly fixed on Elizabeth. Jane, however, felt a prickle of concern. Mr. Bingley’s broken ankle, though mending, was still several weeks from full recovery. To return to London now, before he was properly healed, seemed an odd decision, one surely not made with his comfort in mind. The others in the room exchanged knowing glances, a silent agreement passing between them to keep the truth of the engagement and courtship concealed from their oblivious guest.

Miss Bingley, sensing her efforts had yet to ruffle anyone’s composure, redoubled her attempts as she lingered near the hearth. “How very tranquil it must be here, with so little to disturb one’s peace, unless, of course, one counts the occasional... mishap.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to Michael’s bruised face, her tone falsely sympathetic.

Lady Catherine, unmoved, replied crisply, “In Hertfordshire, we are quite adept at mending both bodies and manners, Miss Bingley. I daresay you would be astonished at what can be accomplished with a little country ingenuity, and a great deal of patience.”

Miss Bingley, undeterred, turned to Elizabeth and Jane. “I suppose one must find amusements where one can. I imagine you are quite expert at making the best of limited resources. It is a skill, of sorts.”

Mrs. Hastings, her smile serene, interjected, “Indeed, Miss Bingley, necessity is the mother of invention. We find that a cheerful spirit and good company make up for any lack of novelty or excess.”

Lydia, eyes dancing, could not resist. “And sometimes the best amusement is watching visitors try to impress us with their London ways. It is nearly as diverting as the fair!”

Miss Bingley’s lips thinned. She turned to Mr. Darcy, her voice honeyed but edged. “Mr. Darcy, I do hope you are not too weary of such simple pleasures. I am sure you must long for the more refined diversions of town.”

Mr. Darcy, unruffled, replied, “On the contrary, I find the company here most agreeable.”

Lady Catherine, seizing the moment, added, “Indeed, some of us find that a surfeit of refinement can be quite fatiguing. There is much to be said for sincerity and fresh air over endless affectation.”

Miss Bingley’s composure wavered, but she rallied. “Well, I see you are all quite... content. I shall not keep you from your rustic pursuits any longer. My brother will be expecting me.”

She swept from the room, as dramatic in her departure as her entrance.

As the door closed, Elizabeth rose with a bright smile. “Shall we take a turn in the garden? The roses are in bloom, and the air is far less crowded with opinions.”

There was a ripple of laughter as the company made their way toward the garden. Michael, with a tired smile, murmured to Jane, “I believe I shall rest upstairs for a while. My constitution is not yet equal to Miss Bingley’s brand of excitement.”

Jane squeezed his hand. “Rest well. I shall send you some tea later.”

With that, the company dispersed, some to the garden, some to their rooms, leaving the parlour lighter and the afternoon full of promise once more.

~*~

Elizabeth stepped into the garden on Mr. Darcy’s arm, the hush of the house giving way to the gentle chorus of birdsong and the scent of blooming roses. The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet, and the sunlight, filtered through the leaves, dappled the path ahead. She glanced up at him, her heart full and unguarded in a way she had never before allowed.

The past day’s anxieties remained at the edges of her mind. The Viscount’s disappearance, the frantic search, the hours of uncertainty. In those moments, it was Mr. Darcy who had found her in the shadowed corridor, who had spoken to her quietly, offering not grand reassurances but the steady comfort of his presence. He had listened to her fears, never dismissing them, and when her composure had failed, he had simply taken her hand, permitting her to weep without embarrassment. She had realized then how much she had come to depend on him, not for rescue, but for understanding, for the rare and precious sense of being truly known.

Now, with the crisis past, Elizabeth saw her own heart clearly. She loved him, not merely for his constancy and strength, but for the gentleness he revealed only to her. She could not imagine her life without this man who had become both her confidant and her equal.

They walked in silence for a time, the closeness between them requiring no words. At last, Elizabeth spoke, her voice low but certain. “Mr. Darcy, I have been thinking.”

“That can be a dangerous pastime.”

“I know,” Elizabeth responded. “These past days have shown me how swiftly life can change, and how very dear certain people may become.” She paused, her cheeks warming, but she did not look away. “I find I am quite ready to embrace those changes, if you are of a mind to ask.”

Mr. Darcy stopped, turning to face her fully, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that took her breath away. He reached out, taking both her hands in his, his thumbs gently stroking her knuckles.

“Elizabeth,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “I love you. I have loved you almost from the moment we met, though I was too proud to admit it, even to myself. You are the very soul of my happiness. Your wit, your courage, your kindness, these have undone me. I cannot imagine a life in which I do not wake each day hoping to win your smile, to earn your trust, to be worthy of your love.”

He released one of her hands, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat and producing a small, elegant velvet box. Opening it, he revealed a ring that seemed to catch the light around them, a magnificent ruby flanked by diamonds, exquisitely set in gold. It was a ring of considerable age and undeniable beauty.

“This,” he said, his gaze meeting hers, with a look of mingled hope and humility in his eyes, “was my mother’s. I sent for it the very morning I first awoke under this roof, daring to hope that one day I might offer it to you. You have changed me, Elizabeth. You have made me a better man, and I am humbled by the depth of my feelings for you.” He paused, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. “My dearest, most beloved Elizabeth, will you do me the immeasurable honour of becoming my wife, not for duty or convenience, but for love alone?”

Elizabeth’s eyes brimmed with tears, a radiant smile breaking across her face, bright and unreserved. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, William,” she whispered, her voice trembling with happiness, “there is nothing I desire more. I love you with all my heart. Yes, most gladly, yes!”

He gently slid the ring onto her finger, the ruby cool against her skin, a perfect fit. He then brought her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the ring and then to her knuckles.

“I shall speak to your father at once,” he vowed, his eyes shining with profound joy. “This very day.”

They resumed their walk, Elizabeth’s heart light and sure. After a moment, she glanced toward the house, where Jane’s laughter drifted through the open window. “It occurs to me,” she said, her tone teasing, “that it would be a great convenience to the family if we were to share a wedding day with Jane and Michael. What say you to a double wedding, William?”

William’s answering smile was warm and amused. “I can think of no greater joy than to commence our married life alongside your sister and my cousin. Let us suggest it to them at once.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound ringing clear in the summer air. With her hand upon his arm and the future bright before them, she felt, at last, entirely at home.

~*~

After the quiet intimacy of Wednesday evening at Longbourn, when Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth’s engagement left the household in a celebratory mood, the following day was spent in the bustle of travel. Thursday dawned early, with trunks strapped to carriages and farewells exchanged in the cool morning air. Mary, always a little anxious before a journey, found herself both excited and apprehensive as the countryside slipped past the windows, replaced gradually by the crowded roads and smoke-hazed rooftops of London.

Their arrival in Town was met with all the noise and confusion Mary had imagined, the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the shouts of porters, and the unfamiliar press of people and horses. Yet, once they reached the comfort of their lodgings, a handsome townhouse belonging to Lady Catherine, the party were able to rest and recover from the journey. Mary was grateful for the quiet evening that followed, spent in the drawing room with her sisters and their friends, the city’s distant hum softened by thick velvet curtains and the warmth of shared laughter.

By Friday morning, the fatigue of travel had faded, replaced by a sense of anticipation. The ladies gathered after breakfast, their spirits high as they set out for Bond Street, eager to explore the famed shops and perhaps indulge in a little well-earned extravagance. Mary, walking with her sisters, Lady Catherine, Lady Elaine, and Georgiana, felt at once a curious pride and a becoming humility to be part of so distinguished a party.

They walked along bustling Bond Street, the group drawing more than a few admiring glances as they approached the renowned shop of Mrs. Duval, modiste to the best families. The group’s lively chatter was interrupted by the unmistakable figure of Miss Bingley, sweeping down the street with Mrs. Hurst in tow.

The ladies had just gathered outside the elegant storefront, admiring the latest Parisian fashions displayed in the window, when a familiar, imperious voice rang out.

“Well, Louisa, I see the Bennet battalion has taken London by storm,” Miss Bingley announced, her tone dripping with mockery as she swept toward the group, Mrs. Hurst trailing in her wake. “One might almost believe Mrs. Duval’s establishment has lowered its standards, allowing such a parade of pretenders to darken her doorstep. Not that I would know, of course. Mrs. Duval never seems to have time for me. Her appointments are always quite mysteriously full.”

Mary stepped forward, calm and composed. “Miss Bingley,” she said with practiced civility, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

Miss Bingley’s gaze swept over the assembled party. “Yes, quite. One does not expect to encounter such a gathering outside a modiste of repute. I was merely remarking to my sister how very full the pavement seems this morning.”

Mrs. Hurst murmured a subdued, “Indeed,” but her eyes were already drifting toward the street, as if hoping to disappear.

“I daresay Bond Street is always well-frequented,” Jane said gently, “especially on such a fine morning.”

“Yes,” Miss Bingley replied with a fixed smile, “though not all who frequent it belong here.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled, though her voice remained smooth. “It is remarkable how often one finds company one did not expect, and yet discovers them quite at home.”

Miss Bingley’s expression faltered. “I suppose country manners are more... adaptable than I had thought. Or perhaps it is simply that no invitation is required to appear in Town these days. So many people eager to elevate themselves, without quite understanding how far they still have to climb.”

“Indeed they are,” Mary said with a polite tilt of her head. “We have been told they show surprising resilience.”

“I imagine resilience is a requirement in households of such rustic character. One must endure so much, livestock, vulgar relatives, a lack of polish.” Her gaze landed meaningfully on Lydia and Kitty.

Lydia opened her mouth to retort, but a warning glance from Mary stilled her.

Lady Catherine interjected, her tone steely and deliberate. “I find that manners, like breeding, speak for themselves, and require neither defense nor display. Perhaps, Miss Bingley, Mrs. Duval prefers to reserve her talents for those with genuine taste, and the manners to match. It would be a shame to waste such artistry on those who cannot appreciate it.”

Miss Bingley flushed. “I should think genuine taste rather difficult to acquire in the provinces, where even one’s reading materials must be six months out of date. But perhaps you are right, some ladies require the aid of fashion to make any impression at all.”

Mary’s smile grew faintly wider. “And some rely too heavily on it.”

A few members of the group audibly failed to suppress laughter, Kitty coughed into her glove, and Georgiana lowered her head in a pretense of smoothing her bonnet ribbon.

A slight pause followed. Miss Bingley, visibly displeased, attempted to recover her usual air of superiority. “Well. I suppose even the finest establishments must have their off days. Come, Louisa, let us not linger among such rustic company.”

She turned on her heel, her skirts swirling dramatically, and swept away down the pavement.

Mrs. Hurst dipped a respectful nod toward Lady Catherine and gave a tentative smile to Mary before following her sister.

As the two women swept away, Kitty released a soft, irreverent whistle. “She is as horrid as ever.”

“Kitty,” Jane chided softly, though not without sympathy.

Lydia giggled. “At least she is gone. I thought she would never stop looking down her nose.”

Lady Catherine turned slightly toward Lydia, her brows arching with exaggerated severity. “I do hope you are not in the habit of mocking your social betters in public, Miss Lydia. It would be most unladylike.”

“That is correct, if any were here,” Lydia replied with a bright, unrepentant smile. “But fortunately, Miss Bingley is not my superior in any way. She has the appearance of wealth, while we have the reality. It is scarcely a firm foundation for such airs. It is a wonder she can hold her head so high.”

A regal sniff was Lady Catherine’s only reply, at first. Then, as she surveyed the group with narrowed eyes, she added, “Hmph. One would almost think you were raised by wolves.”

“I was,” Lydia replied with great cheer. “But we taught the wolves better manners than Miss Bingley.”

At this, even Lady Catherine could not contain a low, reluctant laugh. “Shocking girl,” she muttered. “You have no business being so amusing, and I have no business finding you so. That is more than can be said for half of London.”

“Then I consider it a great success,” Lydia said, giving her a playful curtsy.

Elizabeth shook her head fondly. “If Lydia is your favorite, we are all lost.”

“I should like to return my upbringing and be issued another,” Kitty said dryly, making Georgiana laugh behind her glove.

Mary glanced after the retreating figures. “Her disdain,” she said thoughtfully, “says more about her insecurity than our birth. A secure person finds no need to diminish others.”

Georgiana turned to her, surprised and impressed. “That is very true, Mary.”

Mary flushed but stood a little straighter.

As the sisters and their friends exchanged looks of amusement and relief, Mary noticed a quietly elegant young woman, familiar to Mary, who had been observing the entire exchange from the building next door.

~*~

Emma Woodhouse, standing in the shadow of a milliner’s awning, had observed the entire scene with a mixture of amusement and mild indignation. She had always prided herself on her discernment of character, and in Miss Bingley she found nothing to admire. The woman’s hauteur was as ill-placed as her taste in bonnets, both too loud and neither suited to the company she aspired to keep.

How very like Miss Bingley, Emma thought, to parade her supposed superiority before a crowd that could see through it in an instant. And poor Mrs. Hurst. Emma’s heart softened in sympathy as she watched the elder sister’s anxious glances and apologetic smiles. There was a softness in Mrs. Hurst, a hesitancy that spoke of a woman long accustomed to yielding her will to a more forceful personality. Emma, who had often reflected on the power of gentle influence, wondered how different Mrs. Hurst’s life might have been with a kinder companion.

But there was little time for speculation. The Bingley sisters swept away, leaving the air clearer and the street somehow brighter for their absence. Emma seized her opportunity and walked to the shop, her step light and purposeful.

“Jane! Elizabeth! Mary!” she called, her voice warm and musical. “How very fortunate I am to encounter you here, and with such a distinguished party!”

“Emma,” Jane greeted her. “How good to see you. Allow me to introduce you to our friends.”

The party had gathered in a cheerful knot before Mrs. Duval’s window. Emma’s eyes sparkled as she was introduced to Lady Catherine, Lady Huntingdon, Miss de Bourgh, and Miss Darcy. There was no mistaking the presence of rank, but also of ease, uncommon in Lady Catherine, if rumor was to be believed.

She had expected a dragon, all barbed words and imperious hauteur. Instead, she found someone more commanding than cruel, more mischievous than monstrous. Lady Catherine’s eyes were sharp, certainly, but not without humor. Perhaps the rumors, Emma mused, like so many, had been more smoke than fire.

The greetings were effusive and genuine, Jane’s embrace, Elizabeth’s quick wit, Mary’s serene smile, Kitty’s curious gaze, and Lydia’s irrepressible chatter. Emma found herself quite at home among them, as she always did. Their acquaintance, begun through Mrs. Gardiner’s charitable efforts, had grown into a correspondence full of affection and lively intelligence.

“As to Mrs. Gardiner,” Emma said, turning to Jane, “she and I exchanged letters just last week about the Whitechapel families. Her ideas for distributing blankets and coals were, as ever, wonderfully practical. We make an excellent team, even at a distance.”

Jane smiled. “Aunt Gardiner speaks of you often, Emma, and always with the greatest respect. She was most disappointed to miss our outing today.”

“Although I have never been formally introduced to Miss Bingley,” Emma continued, with a quick glance down the street, “I have seen her about town and have had many letters from my sister that mentioned her bad behavior at dinner parties. She seemed in rare form. I must say, I have seldom witnessed such determined condescension in so short a span.”

Mary exchanged a glance with Lady Catherine, her lips twitching with amusement. “Indeed, Emma, you may not realize the full extent of Miss Bingley’s error. When she visited Longbourn, she swept in and started speaking, never waiting for a proper introduction. She simply assumed that everyone in our party was a Bennet cousin or poor country relation.”

Lady Catherine, her tone dry and arch, added, “Every time we meet, she addresses me and my entire family as if we are some rustic cousins come to life off our gentry relatives. The poor girl has no notion of the company she just dismissed as country kin.”

Emma’s eyes widened, her amusement unfeigned. “You cannot be serious! She truly imagines she has snubbed no one but a circle of country cousins and provincial relations? That is a most delicious misapprehension. I daresay she will repent of that error most thoroughly, once the truth circulates through the proper drawing rooms. And to call your family a parade of pretenders! The irony is too perfect.”

“The Bennet battalion, indeed,” said Mary. “A charming nickname, so very egalitarian.”

“If only she knew,” Emma added, her smile deepening, “she had just insulted half the peerage.” She glanced meaningfully at Lady Catherine and Lady Huntingdon, who appeared perfectly pleased by the notion.

The group laughed, and Emma’s gaze lingered on Mrs. Hurst, who stood down the street a little apart from the crowd speaking with Miss Bingley, her expression troubled. Emma’s brow furrowed. There was such a clear difference between the women, Miss Bingley, flinty and brittle, Mrs. Hurst, pliable and melancholy.

Mary followed her gaze. “Poor Mrs. Hurst. She is nothing like her sister. Far more genteel. I think she merely follows, and seldom approves.”

Emma nodded, her mind already spinning. “Perhaps, with a little encouragement, she might find a way to stand apart.” Emma’s eyes then landed on Mary, and her smile warmed. “And that, my dear Mary, is a sentiment that also applies to you. From your sisters’ letters, I have had the pleasure of observing a most pleasing transformation. It seems the dutiful chrysalis has given way to a bold and magnificent butterfly. A veritable tigress protecting her family. It is a sight to be admired, I assure you.”

Mary sighed softly, a touch of humility in her voice. “You are too kind, Emma, and give me too much credit. I am merely a student of human nature, a rather slow one at that. I hope I have simply become more useful, not a creature of admiration. I have, however, been thinking of Miss Darcy. You see how quiet she is? Perhaps it is our duty to see that she thrives, that she finds her own voice and confidence, just as you say of Mrs. Hurst.”

Her eyes landed next on Miss Darcy, quiet, graceful, almost too still. There was something in Georgiana that caught Emma’s notice. The tentative posture of a girl who had been told too often to sit quietly and smile prettily. Emma’s instincts stirred. Not a match to make, not yet, but a friend to coax out into the world, certainly.

Emma nodded, her mind already spinning with the possibilities. “You must let me come for tea tomorrow,” Emma said brightly. “I insist. There is too much in your letters we must speak of in person. I should hate to miss a single detail, and after today, I suspect you will have no shortage of tales to share.”

“We would be delighted, Emma,” said Jane.

Emma’s smile turned sly. “And you must tell me more about those gentlemen you wrote of. Such tantalizing hints! I find myself quite impatient to judge their merits with my own eyes. Are they truly as captivating as you suggest? And entirely unattached? We must discuss every detail.”

Elizabeth’s answering smile was amused and edged with caution. “Do not be afraid to exercise your imagination, Emma. We will speak more tomorrow at tea.”

“Oh, I fully intend to,” Emma replied with a light laugh. “My imagination is already halfway to the altar with one of them, though which, I have yet to decide. Perhaps a walk in the morning will clear my thoughts. One always sees more clearly in fresh air.”

Lady Catherine, who had been observing the exchange with a keen, not unpleased expression, now interjected. “Miss Woodhouse,” she said, her voice imperious but not unkind, “your vivacity is refreshing. And your concern for the establishment of young ladies is commendable, if occasionally enthusiastic.” Her gaze flicked to Elizabeth and Jane. “Given that there will be much to discuss regarding the upcoming celebrations, I insist you dine with me tomorrow. We shall consider these matters in a more structured setting.”

Emma bowed her head. “Lady Catherine, you are too generous. I should be delighted.”

“And bring your companion, of course,” Lady Catherine added. “It would not do for a young lady to attend unchaperoned.”

“Indeed, yes. I shall bring my sister’s maid that I have with me today, or perhaps my sister herself, if she can be spared.” Emma beamed. Dinner with Lady Catherine! It would be an evening to remember, and likely an opportunity to gently steer the conversation toward matters of love, lineage, and more than one of questionable station.

Emma continued, “I am in Town visiting my sister Isabella, and we shall be at Lord Sedgewick’s ball on Tuesday. I hope I may see you all there, though I dare say it will not be the dancing that is remarked upon, but rather the society in which some families find themselves mingling.” Her tone was light, but the implication was clear. The Bingleys’ reputation, already precarious, would not survive much more of Miss Bingley’s public disdain.

“We shall also attend,” Jane confirmed.

She beamed, already mentally sketching out the guest list for Lady Catherine’s dinner and wondering if she might subtly introduce the topic of eligible bachelors over the soup.

“We must go inside or we will be late for our appointment,” Lady Catherine said. “Until tomorrow, Miss Woodhouse.”

As the party began to move toward Mrs. Duval’s shop, Emma lingered on the pavement, watching the Bennet sisters with something close to pride. She had always believed herself a matchmaker, yes, but today, she found a deeper satisfaction in simple allegiance. In ensuring that kindness was extended where it was deserved, and those who relied on cruelty and cunning were shown the door, and with it, the chill of society’s back.

Her gaze sharpened.

The letter that had arrived whispered of deeper schemes. Mr. Bingley hiring ruffians to assault Mr. Darcy, that he might pose as the hero. Miss Bingley scheming not only to entrap Mr. Darcy, but to trap poor Miss Darcy as well. It was not simply vanity, it was malevolence, dressed in silk.

No, Emma thought, this would not stand.

The sheer audacity of it! Not merely ill-bred, but truly malicious. This went beyond social blunders. This was calculated villainy. A plan, fully formed, began to crystallize in Emma’s keen mind. Miss Bingley’s public gaffes were merely the overture. The true artistry would be in subtly, delicately weaving threads of inconvenient truth into the fabric of London society. When the Bingleys’ more heinous misdeeds eventually came to light, they would be seen not as isolated incidents, but as the inevitable culmination of characters utterly devoid of true gentility or honor.

She smiled faintly. There were so many ways to unspool a reputation without a single direct accusation. A pause here. A widened eye. A phrase carefully dropped in a drawing room known for gossip. The art, after all, was in allowing others to draw the damning conclusions themselves.

Yes, London awaited, and with her sharp wit and even sharper sense of justice, Emma was more than ready to ensure that the Bingley siblings reaped precisely what they had sown.

She turned, spotting a familiar face across the street, a lady known for her discerning taste and love of a good scandal.

Emma adjusted the brim of her bonnet with one gloved hand as she stepped lightly from the curb, each movement deliberate, graceful, and entirely purposeful. In her mind, she composed a story most carefully fashioned. Across the street, Lady Honoria Mowbray was just leaving the silk merchant’s shop, her expression bored and predatory, exactly the sort of look that made her both feared and favored in equal measure. Her attention flicked to Emma with interest the moment their eyes met.

“Miss Woodhouse,” she drawled, extending a languid hand. “How perfectly amusing to find you amidst so much provincial elegance.”

Emma smiled, as if the remark had been complimentary. “Lady Honoria, how delightful to see you. I was just with Miss Bennet and her sisters. You must allow me to introduce you tomorrow, if, of course, you are attending Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s dinner party.”

Lady Honoria arched a brow. “Lady Catherine? Attending a dinner with the Bennets I have recently heard rumours about?” Her lips curled. “Are we living through a comedy or a revolution?”

“Ah,” said Emma, her tone silkier than the bolts in Lady Honoria’s arms, “but not all revolutions are loud. Some begin with nothing more than kindness offered to the right person at the wrong time.”

Lady Honoria narrowed her eyes, intrigued despite herself. “You always did speak in riddles, Emma. Has the countryside dulled your tongue, or sharpened it?”

“Oh, sharpened it,” Emma said with a light laugh. “And as for riddles, well, let us say some answers are already becoming plain.” She leaned in ever so slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Did you hear about the little incident at Longbourn, the Bennet estate? No? Well, it is said that Miss Bingley mistook an Earl, Dowager Countess, Viscount, and even a baron’s widow for cousins or poor country relations of the Bennets.”

Lady Honoria gasped, delighted. “Surely not!”

Emma gave the slightest shrug. “You know how swiftly assumptions can become embarrassments. Though I dare say, had she paused to observe even a moment, she might have noticed the Matlock emerald broach gleaming on Dowager Lady Huntingdon’s shoulder.”

Lady Honoria blinked, stunned. “That Lady Huntingdon?”

Emma tilted her head, smile untouched. “Indeed.”

A slow grin spread across Lady Honoria’s face, with the look of one who smelled opportunity. “Oh, this shall be the talk of Almack’s. Poor Miss Bingley will not know where to hide.”

Emma’s voice remained sweet. “No need to hide, merely to reflect. I always say, it is not where one is from, but how one conducts oneself that matters.”

“And what of Mr. Bingley?” Honoria asked, her tone now sharper. “Rumors are circulating. Something to do with Mr. Darcy, ruffians, and a rather ill-considered attempt at heroics?”

Emma’s expression remained mild, but a quiet, knowing thought formed in her mind. It was no surprise that such rumors were already afoot. One only had to imagine a furious Lady Catherine, having learned of the assault upon her nephew, of the audacious plot to use ruffians to make Mr. Bingley a hero in Darcy’s eyes. It was not merely an inconvenience. It was a profound insult to the Darcy family name, a dangerous and vulgar deception that would have sent her into a rage. The story would have spilled forth at her first opportunity, no doubt with all the fury and melodrama she could muster. The speed of the gossip was not due to some supernatural force, but to a very human one. Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her profound need to have her displeasure known to the world, particularly when her family’s honor was at stake.

“Oh, dear. It is a terrible thing when a man’s pride causes him to act in such an improper manner,” she added thoughtfully, her tone turning more serious. “And an even more dreadful thing when a person’s lack of standing makes them believe they can do so with impunity. Or perhaps when influenced by a sister who misunderstands their circle. I am told there was, in fact, violence, though it was all for a staged attempt at heroism.”

Honoria gave a slow, appreciative nod. “I see. And will your charming friends be at Sedgewick’s?”

“Of course, those who are out will attend,” Emma brightened. “I have known the Bennet sisters for years. They are all beautiful, intelligent, and honorable. They are as dear to me as my own family, and I have no doubt they will be the jewels of the season. Miss Darcy, though not yet out, is already spoken of with admiration, so poised, so self-possessed. Some say she will inherit the full elegance of Pemberley in time. For now, she is to remain behind with the youngest two Bennet girls.”

Lady Honoria’s eyebrows lifted. “A wise choice. London is no place for delicate sensibilities unseasoned by society.”

“Precisely,” Emma agreed, her voice touched with something protective. “They are in no haste, nor should they be.”

Lady Honoria’s smile turned sly. “Then I shall simply enjoy the rest of your party, for they sound positively brimming with material.”

Emma inclined her head. “I do try to keep things interesting.”

They parted with the smooth civility of practiced women, and Emma resumed her walk with the measured pace of one accustomed to strategy.

Behind her, she could feel the shift beginning, like the first pebble in a landslide. Word would spread, and with it, the rebalancing of reputations. By Tuesday’s ball, the truth would have danced its way into every corner of London society, that Miss Bingley, so eager to ascend, had trod squarely upon the toes of people far above her station, and not quietly.

It was not revenge that Emma sought. It was justice, delivered with lace gloves and a fan. She would not scream. She would not accuse. She would simply place the right detail in the right ear at the right time.

By the end of the Season, the Bingley name would be a cautionary tale whispered behind fans, embroidered into gossip, immortalized not in scandal sheets, but in polite dismissals and clipped invitations never sent.

And when her work was done, Emma thought, she would turn her attention once more to happier tasks, restoring friendships, matching hearts, and perhaps encouraging a certain Viscount to dance with Jane more than once.

For now, she had more work to do.

Emma is the only outside character I bring in. I thought about creating an original character but then I thought about Emma. I know the books were written years apart, but they are all fictional characters anyway.