Mademoiselle Valerie Degas (who, in her days in rural Shropshire, was known as Polly Mills, but who eschewed such a common name in favor of a more refined appellation when she left the country for London five years back) slipped out of bed. The floor in her room was ice-cold, and she swore under her breath, for a moment losing the carefully-honed French accent she had perfected over the years. She had worked on it for so long, it had become her second nature to pronounce the "n" in "ange" with a slight nasal lilt, and to softly roll the "r" in "cherie" against the back of her throat. Wake her up in the middle of the night, and she would sound like a genuine Frenchwoman.

Well, she thought wryly, except possibly on a night like this. It was March all right, but in the middle of spring, the treacherous winter had returned, catching them unawares. Valerie cast a rueful glance upon the window; the night was hidden behind a pane full of frost-painted silvery designs. Mademoiselle Valerie shivered, pulled the shawl tighter about her shoulders and thought, longingly, about being able to sleep in a long, warm nightshift, which, on a night like this, seemed a survival minimum. Unfortunately, there was little seduction to be done in a flannel nightshift with cuffs and a collar. Her own night things, a bright, insubstantial finery, now lay tangled amidst the sheets-silk white stockings, pale-blue ribbon garters, a beautiful-and beautifully expensive-set of whalebone stays, designed to make her young, high bosom look even younger and higher.

She went into her dressing room, which felt, by now, like hell frozen over. Stooping, fumbling, she pulled a chamber pot from its shelf.

Two minutes later, tiptoeing towards the bed, she tripped over something. Only a precarious balancing act saved her from crashing into a tea table housing an arrangement of Chinese knickknacks. She paused, exhaling slowly, then leaned to pick up the object from the floor. It was a man's heavy winter coat. She smiled, not unlike a happy cream-fed cat, remembering how the coat had come to be there, tossed carelessly in the middle of the room. Its owner slept now soundly amidst the sheets and blankets, and she wanted nothing more than to return to his side. If nothing else, her sleeping lover would be an excellent source of warmth in the cold night, as the blankets have trapped the heat from his young body.

As she hanged the coat neatly upon a chair, she saw something white sticking out of its pocket. Reaching down, Mademoiselle Valerie tugged carefully on its corner. It was a letter; her fingers detected, immediately, expensive paper. After a moment's hesitation, she slunk back into her dressing room. There, she quickly lit a single candle, burning the tips of her fingers in the process and issuing another very English curse. She set the candle on a small dressing table, and swathing her lithe nude form in a huge shawl, sat down on the edge of the chair. Her teeth chattered a little as she read the letter. It paid to know things about her gentlemen-friends (she thought of them that way, avoiding that hideous word, customer, for they were a chosen few, and she developed with them relationships that were not unlike friendships).

Having finished the letter, Mademoiselle Valerie folded it thoughtfully and snuffed the candle. She sat in the dark for a few moments, trying to digest all she had just read. Yes, his fiancée. Immediately, she was resolved-and resolute-that she would not grieve this new intelligence. She had known as much, from something he had let slip once-when he had appeared on her doorstep two months ago (looking not unlike a snow-drifted ghost, so that she became frightened for him and urged him inside; it was a good thing, indeed, that she was not entertaining anyone else that night, or it might have been rather awkward. It seemed that the knowledge of that betrothal had distressed him terribly.). Yes, she thought, marry, why should he not marry? He was already four-and-twenty, and an heir to a great estate. He could not remain heir forever; one day, he would be called upon to become its Master, responsible for its future prosperity. He would need an heir himself, then. It was only natural that he should be betrothed. She reread his father's letter, the pertinent parts: she is no longer the little savage you remember, though a long way away from a lady fit to govern Pemberley at your side. Reading, she felt the man's optimism, and her heart squeezed. His father seemed to like this Miss Bennet, indeed, he seemed to be grooming her to become his son's wife. When would that happen? Mademoiselle Valerie thought longingly. How much longer until the "little savage" is fit to marry him? Not yet. Oh, she thought, please, not yet. It was one thing to know it might happen some day, and another-to see it written on a piece of paper, black on white. Rallying her spirits, she told herself that she would not lose him, not for certain. He was affianced now, and he still came to her-why should he cease to do so when married? His fiancée clearly had little claim on his affections. Whoever she was, this girl, this must not be an engagement of the heart. He had never spoken of her, beyond that one night, weeks ago. To confess, she had felt wistful and unhappy then, for it felt to her as if a pretty dream had broken. She banished all thoughts of that. There had never been a dream, not then, not now, not ever. Not consciously, in any case (and who was to know the deepest crannies of her soul, where all forgotten dreams had been banished?). They were too different for any kind of future together.

Still, she sighed uneasily. What a pity it would be to lose him. But perhaps not?

She tiptoed back into the room, slipped the letter, carefully, into the pocket of his coat. When she slid into the warmth next to him, her lover groaned and turned, instinctively moving away from her cold feet.

But he failed to wake.

Much of Elizabeth's time at Pemberley was spent writing letters. All of them, every single one, addressed to Lieutenant James R. Bennet, the 19th Light Dragoons, Colonel Forster's regiment. Wherever it might be, for she never knew for certain where the garrison might be stationed. Jamie's latest letter had come from Madras, the one just before that-from Calcutta. She penned a missive a week, at the least, though she knew they took months to get to India. She wrote of the goings-on at Pemberley, told him of Cat's excellent progress in terrorizing the population of Pemberley mice (which made him a great favorite with Mrs. Reynolds), of waking up and finding the orange beast on top of her head, as it was his penchant to sleep on pillows. She wrote to him about the family, too, trying to be cautious and kind in her judgments. She liked them much more than she let on; but she feared that any reminder of the Darcys would bring back painful memories for her brother. Therefore, she trod lightly. (And, however kindly she spoke of Mr. Darcy and his daughter, she said nothing, whatsoever, about the son. Indeed, conspicuously, not a single word. It was as if Fitzwilliam Darcy had disappeared off the face of the earth; indeed, as if he'd never been.)

Thoughts of the interminable distance between them intruded, leaving her to wonder whether Jamie even received her letters. He was so far away. Madras, Calcutta, Bombay. The Indian Ocean. The words felt like fragrant coffee beans, like the most flavorsome of spices, like the richest, most vibrant hues. But to apply them to the one she loved... to imagine Jamie in this faraway place! The distance between them never felt so real, never weighed so heavily, as when she wrote her letters, dating them, knowing that it would take them months to traverse the seas. If, indeed, they managed to at all. She hoped that they would catch up with him, wherever he went. Pemberley did not have a map of India, but, with Mr. Darcy's permission, she did scavenge a map of the world from the library. She hanged it on the wall in her room, above her escritoire. She could see it every night as she fell asleep, dim in the shadows. Looking up at that enormous, dangerous land, and an even greater expanse of land and sea that separated them, she fought her hardest not to despair.

Georgiana's companionship made Elizabeth feel a little less alone, easing her longing to a degree that a book or needlepoint or solitary walks could not. The girl's company was a pleasure to her-however unfinished a child Georgiana was at the age of twelve. On their long walks around Pemberley, on their bedtime chats, they talked of everything they knew in the world. Only one subject could make Elizabeth uneasy; indeed, she purposely avoided it. While Georgiana attempted, occasionally, to gush and wax poetic about the virtues of her brother, the subject pained Elizabeth, for she could not find it in herself to agree with the girl. Indeed, she would not be caught dead cataloguing the virtues of Fitzwilliam Darcy. She understood that Georgiana missed her brother (though for the life of her, she could not see what it was she missed about him), but she had nothing good to say about him. After all her attempts to speak well of the absent man were met with stubborn silence, Georgiana caught the hint. Soon, she, too, stopped her warblings on the subject.

And of course, the subject of their disgraceful betrothal was never brought up. Elizabeth believed, honestly, that Georgiana knew nothing of the subject. She would have it remain just so. Indeed, she hoped that by the time Georgiana were old enough to understand, the whole sordid matter would be done with and buried.

To her great chagrin, Jamie did not hurry home. She had received no letter from him after the one in November; she had assumed he was on his way to England. But April came, and then May, abundant in blooms. Starting at Easter, Elizabeth spent her mornings in a window-seat, with Cat curled up at her feet. She was watching the road, looking for the tell-tale cloud of dust that would announce her brother's arrival... indeed, her liberation. She believed that Jamie would save her from marrying Fitzwilliam Darcy. How, she did not know, for her father's will for her was to marry the man, so that she might be the mistress of Pemberley. She had raised the question with him during the last years of his life, and was rebuffed every time. Even as he breathed his last, his wish was for her to marry that awful, awful man.

In her darkest moments, Elizabeth despaired. She knew that all her determination aside, she had very little control over her own future. In Jamie's absence, her guardianship was in Mr. Darcy's hands. She tried her hardest not to lose heart. Jamie would help her. Perhaps, he and Mr. Darcy would arrange something ...she did not know what, the particulars of such an arrangement too complicated for her sixteen-year-old mind. But she did know that Jamie would save her, he would save her when he came. She felt guilty even thinking it like that, like she needed saving, for the Darcys were most gracious towards her... but she only had to remember the scorn in Fitzwilliam Darcy's eyes to forget all about her guilt.

She fought the weaker, gloomier parts of her heart, fought them not to lose hope. After all, Jamie had said to her, do not marry him in my absence. It had to count for something. The memories of his voice, his hand upon her shoulder, gave her strength. Jamie had never lied, had never broken a promise. He would do as he had said. He would come back for her. Her spirits rising with every thought of her brother, Elizabeth trained her eyes on the road, and watched, and watched, and watched for that cloud of dust.

But it did not come, and she grew steadily more and more worried, and more and more miserable. Mr. Darcy watched her shuffle around, quieter now, barely talking to anyone, and not a walk to be had out of her, not a single piece on the pianoforte, not a poem declaimed. Georgiana no longer had her company during her lessons, for she would not leave the window-seat, for fear of missing Jamie's carriage. Even Cat abandoned her more and more often, evidently finding her company very dull.

"This travesty of a marriage must not proceed!"

Fitzwilliam Darcy grimaced at his reflection in the window. A gentleman, he could not allow himself to make a face like that at the speaker, who, being his elderly aunt, had an advantage over him in sex, age and position. But Lady Catherine de Bourgh-his late mother's older sister had taken to her favorite diversion, pulling scabs off his old wounds. Every time he visited with her, she reminded him, rather forcefully, that he had contracted to marry beneath him. How she had come to learn of the fact, Darcy could not fathom: for he had not told her, and he doubted his father would have, for all communication between Mr. Darcy and his sister-in-law had ceased following Lady Anne's death. Therefore, he thought, an unscrupulous spy of a servant. He would have to speak with his father, alert him that he could not, perhaps, trust his stuff as he had before.

"What is she?" the irate lady ranted. "Who are her family? Where are her connections? What dowry does she bring with her?"

Pemberley, he thought, wryly. She brings Pemberley with her. She is a godsend, a boon of a bride. Over the past three years, he had begun to find a certain degree of bitter mirth in the idea. Aloud, he said nothing, merely shrugged, affecting the superior indifference, the polished haughtiness he adopted when he could not bear to face the world. He was very well aware of the low opinion his aunt held of the Darcy line in general: according to her, her younger sister had committed a misalliance all those years ago. Lady Catherine often decried her late father's laxness; had it been up to her, she would never have allowed Lady Anne to marry a commoner. Admittedly, the commoner had a few redeeming qualities-such as the largest estate in three counties, a strikingly handsome appearance and all the goodness of character one could hope for in a husband-but they hardly signified, when one considered his vulgar beginnings.

Darcy, well aware of his aunt's opinions as concerned his entire paternal line, only continued his acquaintance with her because she was his late mother's sister. That, and he was afraid that any rift between the two of them would lead to a great scandal, tarnishing his family name. He disliked the old shrew; her readiness to harangue him about his engagement to Miss Bennet unnerved him terribly-and another lovely habit of hers-reminding him that he had been promised to marry her daughter Anne, that such was the dearest wish of both the mothers-unsettled him even more. His visits with Lady Catherine were only of a perfunctory length.

"You must speak with your father!" Lady Catherine insisted in the meantime. Darcy sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. Such a thought was well-nigh revolutionary. Over the past three years, in his letters from London and the Continent, during his visits to Pemberley, he had never brought it up. It was not that he expected to be refused. Indeed, should he throw himself at his father's mercy... But it was unfathomable. It was his duty to keep Pemberley in the family. He would do a lot worse for that.

"Nephew, do you hear me? You must speak to your father! You must make it clear to him, you are already betrothed to Anne-"

Darcy pressed his flaming face against the glass; it was cool but for a moment, acquiring, a second later, all the warmth of his own skin. For a second, he contemplated throwing himself out the window, then discarded the undignified thought.

"Oh, to see the shades of Pemberley thus polluted!" his aunt cried, forgetting conveniently, that Pemberley had always belonged to the Darcy common line, not the considerably more well-born Fitzwilliam family.

Darcy wondered, in passing, whether Elizabeth Bennet had changed at all over the time he had not seen her. Three years ago, she and the Professor had left Trinity while he convalesced, following Bennet's abrupt departure. Once again, he frowned at his reflection in the glass, feeling an old pang in his arm, where Bennet's bullet had torn through his flesh. Then, he had wakened from his nightmares and his pain, having well-nigh lost his arm, to find that his friend... his former friend had gone. Ironically, it was Mr. Darcy-senior who had arranged to spirit Bennet away from inevitable prosecution, had procured for him a lieutenant's commission with the 19th Light Dragoons-in India. The Trinity authorities were furious with the duel, which had made the college the stuff of London newssheets for at least a fortnight. The authorities were keen to punish someone-anyone. Preferably the one who had started it all. Bennet's motives in calling Darcy out, however noble, mattered not at all (nor were they known, a bevy of wild rumors circulating around Trinity in their stead). It was Bennet's luck, really, that he had graduated already, or he would have been thrown out of Cambridge altogether. In any case, a career in the military, as far away as possible, was an alternative preferable to being flung to gaol.

Darcy remembered that, waking up, he spent hours in front of a window, staring at the green, at the graceful Elizabethan turrets. His father had wanted him to recuperate before taking him back to Pemberley... but he would not go back. For the longest time, he could not bear to go back, could not stand to be around all that Grecian splendor, so dearly purchased. It would be another year and a half before he would visit there. Then, after Trinity, he spent a month in London, then went, heedlessly, to the Continent. There, he consumed every pleasure, but all of it was bitter ashes to him. Every time he cast his eyes upon the glittering Mediterranean or a pretty girl, he could not help thinking that his pleasure from these beauties would have been far greater, had his best friend been next to him.

"Darcy!" He startled, turning around. "You are not listening to me!" His aunt pointed an accusative finger at him and scowled. The old bat. "You must write a letter to your father! You must tell him to put off all this nonsense about you marrying that girl!"

Darcy frowned again and squared his shoulders. "You must see it is impossible, Aunt."

"I do not see how it is impossible, nephew!" Lady Catherine pursed her lips, then went on a renewed offensive. "Indeed, if only your poor mother were alive!"

"I should never contradict my father's wishes," he said, politely, yet firmly. "Neither did my mother."

"Good God, the man is positively daft, to be forcing you into such a misalliance! What's in it for him, if I only knew!"

Darcy shivered. The last thing he wanted was for his aunt to know the truth behind his impending marriage to Elizabeth Bennet. He had told her the official version: that his father and his father's best friend had decided, years ago, to marry their children. It was a simple enough idea-and after all, whatever Lady Catherine said, marrying Miss Bennet was not such a misalliance. She was a gentleman's daughter and brought some inheritance with her, and that would be sufficient for many. After all, Lady Catherine claimed a similar arrangement between Darcy and her sickly, consumptive daughter. Darcy doubted severely that his mother would have betrothed him as a child. It was his father's province, he thought bitterly. As it was, his engagement to Elizabeth Bennet provided a rather convenient excuse from courting Anne, who was in such poor health that she could not possibly be counted upon to produce an heir for Pemberley. Not to mention that he found her downright distasteful, with bad teeth and sallow skin, and absolutely no sense of humor. He would not marry her for the world. Indeed, even Miss Bennet was preferable to her.

He heard the clock in the parlor strike two. This was enough, Darcy decided. His familial duty was done for this week... perhaps this month. He swung away from the window and bowed sharply.

"I must away, Aunt," he said coldly. He would not beg the old shrew's leave to go.

"You must away!" she repeated disagreeably. 'What business do you have, that you cannot spend an hour in my company?"

"Very sad business, Aunt," he replied, his lip curling in distaste. And I have already spent far too long in your company, you damnable hag. "Good-bye." He went, quickly, to her protestations that he must visit again, no later than tomorrow, did he hear that? And that Georgiana, too, must visit, for she was sorely in need of proper female instruction. He took his hat, his gloves, his ebony walking stick, from the footman at the door, and walked away without turning around at her harangue. Outside, a footman swung the carriage door open for him, and the driver bowed to him from his high seat, awaiting instructions. He thought for a moment, tarrying with one foot on the carriage step. Then, he told his man to drive to Miss Valerie's address.

Elizabeth awaited Jamie's letter desperately, and, in the middle of June, it finally came. Alas, it proved a bitter disappointment. Elizabeth had hoped it would herald her brother's return, but instead, Jamie wrote that the 19th Light Dragoons had been kept behind in Madras for another six-month at least, if not for a year. He wrote nothing of the reasons, but she knew, from having read Mr. Darcy's newssheets obsessively that the British contingent in India was under a constant threat of being massacred, and the Dragoons-its only hope of defense. The news had tugged at her heart, the harbingers of loneliness.

And now, it had come. She could see, by the date on his letter, that Jamie had received one or two of her missives from Pemberley, before he posted this one. Elizabeth went to hide in her window-seat; but she could not bear look upon the road, knowing that no cloud of dust would herald her brother's return. Tears streamed, bitter tears of disappointment. He was asking her to hold on. "Please remain at Pemberley whilst I am detained here; for I believe that Father would never have placed you with Mr. Darcy, had he not thought him able to take care of you." Elizabeth knew she could not fault Jamie, not if she were to be serious, not if she were to think like an adult. Jamie was a soldier; no, more than that: an officer. A man of honor. Who could blame him for going where his duty called?

And yet, and yet, she could not overcome the feeling of having been betrayed, of her trust having been somehow abused. Of all her hopes-dashed. She had not realized how much she had counted on Jamie's return. Even amidst all the kindnesses done to her by the Darcys, she longed for her brother to come back. Her soul had found nourishment in the knowledge that their separation was soon to end, that they would go home. He had been late; but perhaps, she had told herself, another day, another week, at most! And now... She could not bear think that his absence would be so extended! Oh, how thwarted she felt.

It was by a strange and fateful coincidence that on this same day, a handsome carriage stopped in front of the house at Pemberley. Elizabeth saw it from the window, and for a second, her heart gave. Despite Jamie's letter, despite knowing that he was still in India, one instance of mad hope: he is come! And then, the door of the carriage opened, and she knew how foolish she had been-for its occupant was not her brother, but a lady she did not know.

Immediately losing all interest in the visitor, Elizabeth turned her face away from the window and mused some more on the unfairness of it all. She had quite put the visitor out of her mind-until she saw Mary, her maid, running towards her, stumbling in her steps. Elizabeth started off the window-seat, even as Mary came to sink before her in a breathless curtsey.

"Ma'am," she said. "A grand lady-very grand-she says she is your aunt!" However much she tried to sound dignified, her girlish excitement was palpable. Elizabeth was dumbfounded, if only for a moment; then, she remembered her mother's relations, her brother and his wife, whom she had never seen, who had lived all their lives in Jamaica. Her uncle had a plantation there, one that grew sugar cane, or something else, perhaps coffee or cotton or whatever else one cultivated on plantations-and that was all she knew. She had never met her relations; it had not occurred to her-or her father-to apply to them in times of need, for they were simply too far.

And now they were here, it seemed. Well, at least her aunt was. Elizabeth wondered, a bit hostilely, what it was they wished with her. Instantly, she promised herself she would not go back to Jamaica with them (if that was, indeed, what they had come for). She was not a piece of baggage to be lugged about around the world.

"Master bids you come, ma'am," Mary informed her unnecessarily. Elizabeth nodded sullenly and followed the maid back to the large East drawing-room. Even as she approached, she heard her aunt's voice, telling Mr. Darcy about Jamaica:

"... very lovely, but the mosquitoes! Though one gets accustomed to-well, really, everything. We did not leave because of that, of course." There was a wry chuckle in her voice."

"Indeed," Mr. Darcy's sonorous baritone agreed with her. "We heard tales of insurrection-Ah," he said, "here she is."

Elizabeth, entering, schooled her features into a polite expression, though she felt nothing but turmoil inside. Upon seeing her, the lady-Mrs. Gardiner-rose from her seat, her countenance showing most joyful surprise.

"To think only!" she exclaimed. "A real young lady! And I have thought to find a little girl!"

Elizabeth curtseyed, then glanced up at the woman-and found her appearance pleasing. She had no airs about her, but her manner and smile were genuinely friendly. Elizabeth could not tell her age; perhaps, five-and-thirty or so, but in any case, ancient enough. She was dressed fashionably and tastefully, carrying a feathered turban with considerable grace upon her head.

"Elizabeth, do you know who I am?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Mrs. Gardiner, ma'am. My uncle's wife."

"You may call me "aunt", child." All of a sudden, she smirked like a young girl, and added, "if you so wish, of course. After such a long absence, one can hardly hope for easy familiarity."

Elizabeth did not remember ever feeling quite this awkward. What was expected of her? What was she to do? As if sensing her unease, Mr. Darcy rose from his chair.

"I think I shall leave you ladies alone to talk."

Mrs. Gardiner smiled up at him. "I was thinking, perhaps, Elizabeth could take a stroll with me? I did grow up around here, you know-just in Lambton," she added, to his unasked question. "I remember hearing that the grounds at Pemberley are exceptionally fine."

Mr. Darcy smiled graciously at the compliment. "Thank you, ma'am. They are at your service."

They walked in silence down the stairs, then outside. It was a hot, fair day, with the sun beating down upon them-but Elizabeth was not afraid of a tan, and did not go upstairs for her parasol. Mrs. Gardiner's own lacy creation threw an ornamental shadow upon her face, as they ambled away from the house and towards the woods. Elizabeth, not quite knowing what to say, said nothing-and her guest, on her part, seemed in no hurry to begin their conversation. Then, once the winding path took them into the deep purple woods, Mrs. Gardiner said:

"Your uncle regrets that he is unable to be here today. He is setting up our house in London." She smiled, tiny cobwebs forming at the corners of her eyes; despite them, she looked young, younger than the five-and-thirty Elizabeth had originally assigned her. "He sent me in his stead."

Elizabeth shrugged, not quite knowing what to say. It was immaterial to her that her uncle did not come to see her, for she did not know him at all. Wishing to be polite, she asked, unsurely:

"You have left Jamaica? You are to live in England now?"

"We have and we are." Mrs. Gardiner stopped to admire some flowers-bluebells-growing by the wayside. "It has been a good ten years since I have last seen flowers like these," she said.

"Surely Jamaica has its own flowers?"

"Of course. But none as modest and dear as these. The colors there were far too garish for my simple country tastes." She gave Elizabeth an amiable smile, laughter dancing in her eyes. The women resumed their walk. "Do you like Pemberley?"

"Very much so," Elizabeth said on a sigh, and could not resist adding, "Though I had so hoped to go back to Longbourn..."

She told Mrs. Gardiner about the letter she had just received; about Jamie not coming home. The lady's countenance expressed the deepest regret.

"I am ever so sorry, my dear," she said, as they walked on. Telling this woman-a stranger, really-that Jamie was not coming back had brought the worst emotions of this day up to the surface. As she walked, Elizabeth stared anywhere but her aunt's face, lest she see the turmoil in hers. Then, Mrs. Gardiner said:

"Do not think we have abandoned you. Your Uncle never forgot about you or James, but we had not left Jamaica in a decade-"

"I know," Elizabeth said, deeply uncomfortable that this lady should seek an understanding from her. After all, they did not know each other at all.

'Please understand. To visit you was the first thing I have done upon return to England. Your Uncle would have been here-and he will be-soon as he sets up our house in town."

"Ah," Elizabeth said faintly. "How long are you to stay in England, then?"

"Oh, we are come back to England. Mr. Gardiner has sold L'Etoile, our plantation in Jamaica."

An uneasy silence then ruled; for a while, they walked without saying a word, both taking in the beauties of the estate around them. Finally, the guest said, stopping in the middle of a lane:

"Elizabeth, we have no wish to disrupt your existence ever further. I know that you have suffered. If you are happy at Pemberley, we wish you to continue being happy here. But if ever-if ever you long to leave here-please know that we are opening our home to you. Your Uncle and I-we would like-we would be very happy if you came to live with us in town."

Elizabeth, dumbfounded, knew not what to say: to acquire, within the space of half an hour, a family of relations and new prospects, was nothing short of amazing. That said, she knew not how to answer such a generous proposition. Her feelings about the Darcys and Pemberley always dual, she was torn between her love of the place and the knowledge that she had once longed to leave it... that indeed, she ought to want to leave, for it was his home first.

Her senses in confusion, she did the only thing she could at the time and asked her aunt's indulgence:

"May I think about it?"

"Of course," the lady said, and they walked on, in silence at first, and then, to Mrs. Gardiner's stories of the wonderful island of Jamaica.

That evening, Elizabeth begged Mr. Darcy's forgiveness and remained in her room. She was wistful and surly; she knew it was not good to be so, but she simply could not get over her slump. So she cried a little, and soon enough, her spirits calmed to a point of reasonable-though unhappy-reflection. She sat on the bed in her favorite manner-legs crossed like a Turk, feet tucked under-and thought about what she should do.

She did not know what made her more unhappy: that Jamie was not coming to her, or that her other relations had. To be sure, she liked her aunt well enough from first impression (or rather, she could not find any reason to dislike her). But she had hoped for Jamie's return... nay, she had planned for it, assuaging her longing for him with assurances that he would soon return. Now that he was detained, she knew not for how much longer, her pain burst forth full-strength, making her intensely miserable. Her aunt's unexpected arrival added even further to her confusion. Elizabeth would have been perfectly content to spend the evening sulking; now she was forced to decide what course of action to take next. Most vexing and rather inconsiderate of her aunt to appear in her life like so.

She had yearned to leave Pemberley, once. Had Jamie come for her, she would have left it now, without a shadow of regret. After all, 'twasn't her home. But it was only if Jamie had come for her; otherwise, she was not at all sure she wanted to substitute one stranger's home for another. True, her aunt was every thing pleasant, and she had no reason to suspect her uncle would prove otherwise. Still, though her relations, they were strangers to her; she would not fool herself into thinking otherwise. She would not fool herself into believing she cared nothing for Mr. Darcy and Georgiana. And yet-the very thought that she might run into Fitzwilliam Darcy here, at his father's home, chilled her to the bone. She would give something... a lot... to escape such a re-acquaintance.

What to do? She groaned and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

As if an answer, there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was Mary, Elizabeth lazily bid the maid enter. Her surprise and embarrassment were paramount when it was Mr. Darcy she espied at the door. Immediately, she flew to her feet, dropped a quick curtsey. For Miss Lucas' instruction did teach that gently-reared young ladies did not sit in the manner of uncivilized Turks.

Mr. Darcy laughed and waved his hand at her.

"Belay that, Elizabeth," he said gently. He had long quit calling her "Miss Bennet," and she found she did not mind at all. "You would forgive my intrusion upon your privacy?"

"Of course, sir." She watched him sit down in a chair, considered returning to her place on the bed, and found it unseemly. Therefore, she perched, awkwardly, on the very edge of a chair across from him.

"You look quite crestfallen, child."

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders at his observation. She was reluctant to reveal her misery to him. In the past months, she had come to regard him as a finest gentleman of her acquaintance. He was so kind to her. She did not wish to grieve him.

"Not at all," she lied, but then, immediately, hung her head and did not attempt to argue further-for while she did not wish to distress Mr. Darcy, neither could she bear to lie to him.

"Ah, Elizabeth." He smiled, wryly. "You would as soon be rid of us, would you not?"

Elizabeth's face grew hot, and she buried it in her hands. He could read her all too well, this man, could see into her, as if her most secret desires were written plain on her face. Her long, desperate nights of longing, of hoping she could go home; her breathless vigils for Jamie's return; her heartbreak, fresh at the news that he would not be coming back. Her turmoil at the appearance of new relations in her lonely life.

But it would not do to behave like a skittish child. Clearly, he expected an answer of her. Taking a better hold of herself, she moved her hands away from her face.

"Not true," she said firmly. "Sir, I shall forever be indebted to you. Everything you have done for me-" She sighed. "My own family could not do more."

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Your family appears to want to do more." Ah, pointing out the obvious.

She pursed her lips, tightly, bitterly.

"My mother died when I was born. This is the first I have heard from them-in my seventeenth year. Too little, too late, perhaps?"

"Do not be unkind, Elizabeth." Mr. Darcy frowned at her, and her heart fell. "It becomes you not at all. 'Tis a great distance between England and Jamaica, and the treacherous sea makes it all the greater. The lives of the English in the West Indies are not at all easy. They have come for you once they could." He frowned again. "It ought to be enough."

She said nothing to that, only sighed; deep inside her, she knew the truth of his words. Her words had been mean, unnecessarily so... After all, though her mother had been dead for sixteen years, until her father's death, she had neither wanted nor needed her relations' patronage. Until very recently, she had her father, she had Jamie-they were all the family she had ever needed.

"And if they now come to offer you their hospitality and benefaction, you ought to be suitably grateful to them."

Elizabeth sighed again. "Yes, sir." Grateful she was, but it did not ease her quandary.

His voice softening, he went on: "That said, this does not mean I wish for you to accept their invitation. You are welcome to remain at Pemberley as long as you wish. Indeed, it was your father's wish, and mine, that you should sojourn here."

"Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, I thank you."

"Have you thought," he asked cautiously, "have you thought on what you intend to do?"

She shrugged. Has she thought on it! Indeed, ever since her Aunt's arrival, she had dwelt on nothing else.

"Are you to leave us, then?" His voice was easy. Elizabeth dared not look at him, her hands twisting idly the fringed edge of her Kashmir shawl (Jamie's gift, sent to her from India two years back).

Finally, she forced herself to speak. "No," she said, slowly. "I have come to no decision."

He said nothing in response; unable to ascertain his reaction, she glanced, finally, at him, to see a perplexed look on his face, a small frown lodged between dark bushy eyebrows.

"You need not be concerned for any of us, Elizabeth," he said, finally. "Keep only your own well-being at heart."

"But-" she murmured, uncertain. He held up one hand, begging her to silence.

"You are welcome to stay at Pemberley," he continued, "But if you choose to move to London to live with your relations, remember that you will always have a home here-and friends. I will always be your friend-and so, I believe, will my daughter."

Nothing about his son, of course, Elizabeth thought. And rightly so: she was uncertain Fitzwilliam Darcy was capable of friendship. The sad friendship of his connection with Jamie was a testament to that.

But aloud, she said:

"I thank you. I am indebted to you, for everything you have done for me. For the welcome you have shown me at Pemberley. I consider you, sir, and Miss Darcy, my friends-no, no, more than friends. But," she added, "I should dearly like to see my brother again. I should like to go home."

"Ah," he said, smiling wistfully. "Home. It is always here, no?" He touched his forehead lightly.

"And here," she agreed, touching her chest lightly. She smiled unhappily. "As much of it as I have known. Three years only it had been my home."

He nodded. "I know. We have uprooted you, your father and I. You might still have been happy at Trinity-though God knows it was not a proper place for a young lady's upbringing!"

"Well, I liked it well enough," she said sullenly. "And then Longbourn-" Her voice trailed off. He watched her for a while, and then he asked, softly:

"And your relations-"

"Are somehow part of that home. I do not know how, or why, but I would be closer to Jamie, were I with them."

"But you would not be," he said, gently. "You know you would not be. And you know that were your brother to return, I should gladly give you up to him. But I am loathe to part with you for less than that." He smiled. "I admit, I am not impartial-I have become fond of you. I have come to care for you. My child, can you not be happy here? I have always thought that if ever there was a place where true happiness was possible, it was Pemberley."

Pemberley was lovely, indeed-and yet, her heart longed for Longbourn, for the safety of her brother's arms. For what once had been, and now was no longer possible: for Trinity's vine-covered walls, for the time when she had her father, and Jamie was no officer, but simply her beloved brother. For the time when she was happy, when she had no greater care than how one of her books ended. But however much she longed for the past, it was not Pemberley's fault. She must acknowledge the truth of Mr. Darcy's words-there was nothing here to interfere with her comfort. By all rights, she should be content here.

"It truly is a beautiful, happy place," she agreed grudgingly.

"Praise from your lips!" Mr. Darcy chuckled wryly.

She shrugged. "Who would not praise it? Indeed, there are few who would not approve of it."

He grinned at her, looking so very young, she could hardly credit it. "Ah," he said, "but your good opinion is rarely bestowed, and therefore more worth the earning."

Elizabeth started, surprised and displeased at his understanding of her: surely he did not think her difficult and hard-to-please?

"Yes," Mr. Darcy continued, his eyes twinkling mischievously. . "One would be willing to put up with a good deal to be a mistress of Pemberley!"

Before she could stop herself, she exclaimed: "The mistress of Pemberley will have to put up with a good deal!" Before she even finished speaking, she knew what she had said. Appalled, she held a hand to her mouth. But he only laughed at her mortified expression.

"I have never said it was otherwise," he said, waving her off. "But we all have our sins, do we not? Fitzwilliam may have a difficult nature, but he is a decent enough man, and he is not unkind. I believe there are rewards enough for the one who can manage him." He arched an eyebrow at her. Feeling more than a little perturbed, Elizabeth turned away. She had nothing to say to him, would not continue this conversation. Fitzwilliam Darcy was this man's son, surely the dearest thing to his heart, and yet she could find nothing good to say of him. Even when he was Jamie's friend, he was always reserved, and she could never understand what drew her lively, easy brother to this too-cold, stony-faced young man. And then, later... With a small shudder, she thought of her own encounter with him... heard, as clearly as if he stood a step away, the cruel words he had uttered to her. Not unkind, she thought. No, she could not say that about Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Mr. Darcy seemed to sense her hesitation; the smile faded off his lips, but his eyes remained trained on her, his gaze fatherly and warm. "Take heart, child," he said, "Your brother will come back."

She gave an exasperated sigh and bit her lip against an onslaught of emotion.. "Oh, but when?"

He frowned at her, as if she was a silly child. "Elizabeth, you must understand. Your brother is not his own person anymore." He rubbed his arm, just below his shoulder. "He is a soldier, a hired man. He will be here, soon as his orders allow him-of that I am sure."

"What is wrong?" She leaned forward, touched his sleeve, gingerly. He gifted her a gentle smile.

"Nothing. A spasm. I must have stayed out of doors too long yesterday. The weather is unreliable these days-cannot be trusted." He smiled at her again. "Elizabeth. Do not cry, child." She had leaned forward, allowing him to wipe the tears off her eyes with his thumbs, as one might do to a little girl.

She had not even noticed she was; mortified, she bit her lip and looked away, the way she always did when the truth was too painful to admit. She felt absurdly embarrassed, as if it was wrong to want to leave here. As if she was being ungrateful in her unhappiness.

He rose from his seat, holding out his hand to stop her from rising as well. "Please. Do not trouble yourself, my girl. I merely wished to assure you that Pemberley is now-and forevermore-your home." He smiled. "But the decision--whether to accept your Aunt's invitation-must be your own."

Elizabeth slept poorly that night, waking up to her sheets twisted around her legs and soaked with sweat. Had they told her, six months ago, how hard it would be to make this decision, she would have laughed. She had not wanted to be here, had argued to be allowed to stay behind at Longbourn... she had not known how much it would come to mean to her... how much these people would come to mean to her. But-the thought of meeting Fitzwilliam Darcy the day he came home chilled her; for surely, that day would come? The heir to the estate, he could not stay away forever... however much he must prefer the dissolute existence of a town dandy. Exhausted, she left her bed and went to sit in the window-seat; but the moonlit landscape failed to calm her heart, for at night, Pemberley looked like an enchanted wood, easy to get lost in; and Elizabeth shuddered every time a quick shadow crossed the grounds, her heart disturbed to its depths. The thoughts that visited her were more distressing, more maudlin than ever. She left the window-seat and sought refuge in lighting a candle and opening her Bible.

She sought some consolation, but the first page she chanced to open held the story of Job, the story of a man lost and wandering.

In the morning, she came down to breakfast, not quite sure whether she had made her decision, or whether she had dreamt it. But then, by the doors of the breakfast room, she ran into Georgiana, who looked thoroughly anxious, pacing from side to side.

"Are you to leave us, now?" she spat out, and then shrank back, mortified at her forwardness; but Elizabeth had already answered, with as much candor and impulsiveness:

"No!"

Georgiana's face expressed relief and consternation at the same time; she seemed to be vexed at whoever had given her the distressing news, which had now, thankfully, proven untrue. Thereupon, she grasped Elizabeth's hand and verily dragged her into the dining-room, crying out:

"Papa, papa!"

Mr. Darcy looked up from the table and, upon seeing Elizabeth, rose-an acknowledgement that in his eyes, she was not a child, but a young lady.

"Tell him!" Georgiana urged Elizabeth. "Tell him, Elizabeth?"

"Tell him what?" Mr. Darcy smiled wryly at his daughter. "What momentous news are to be delivered in such a dramatic manner?"

Losing her calm, all aflame with embarrassment, Elizabeth dropped a deep curtsey and murmured:

"Forgive me, sir, I did not-"

"Never mind that, Elizabeth. Tell me what?" His question of her was as direct as any; but his manner, his voice were nothing if not tender and paternal.

She looked up, straightening up from her curtsey. "Only that I am to stay at Pemberley... with your permission."

"Ah," he said, smiling at her. "I am glad to hear that." He watched her sit down at the table, a footman holding a chair out for her, watched Georgiana plop onto a chair next to her; then, as he sat down himself, he added: "Though I wager your aunt will not be quite so glad when she hears of it."

And so she was not. But neither was Mrs. Gardiner despondent over Elizabeth's decision to stay at Pemberley. Before leaving, she held Elizabeth's hands in hers and kissed her cheek:

"You are always welcome to visit with us in town. Please say that you will."

Elizabeth, her heart a little more at peace now that she had decided, made that promise easily.

Perhaps he had been feeling ill for some time, but he had not told a soul. The doctor had not been to the house more than once or twice in the past few months, and that was to tend to Miss Darcy's rather severe cold in March, as the weather had turned unexpectedly frigid. If the Master had stolen an audience with the doctor when he came to pay a visit to his daughter, no-one was the wiser.

But one morning in early June, Elizabeth woke to a great commotion. Behind her door, there was more movement and more running than usual. There was an undertone of anxiety in their hushed voices: something was clearly afoot. Elizabeth sprung out of bed, disturbing Cat, who had come to sleep by her side during the night, curled up in a warm circle. He gave a little discontented huff and jumped off the bed, landing gracefully on all fours, even as Elizabeth herself walked quickly to the doors.

She opened them just in time to see Mrs. Reynolds shuffle past her, without noticing her enough to say good-morning.. That, in itself, was a bad sign. Elizabeth called after the old lady.

"Oh! Miss Elizabeth." The old lady looked as if she had not slept the night. Wretched misery was written upon her wrinkled face. "Forgive me, I did not see you standing there!"

"What is happening?"

"Oh!" The housekeeper held a hand to her mouth for an instant, stifling a tiny sob. "Bad news, Miss Elizabeth, such bad news!"

"What is it?" Elizabeth demanded.

"The Master is ill-fell ill during the night-" She shook her head in distress.. "Oh! Miss Elizabeth, what grave news!" she said again. It was as if she had lost command of intelligent speech and was reduced, temporarily, to such helpless little cries of distress.

Elizabeth, still hazy from sleep, pressed her fingers to her temples, trying her hardest to gather her thoughts...they scattered and crawled away, as if alive.

"And the doctor-has the doctor been-"

"Yes, yes!" The old woman actually sobbed, then bit her fist to keep quiet. "Said to wait-see what will happen. He could nothing for him, Miss Elizabeth!"

Just like Father. Elizabeth turned and strode towards Mr. Darcy's room. Before anyone could stop her, she pushed the door angrily and stormed in.

Mr. Darcy was in bed, and awake. Elizabeth shrunk back, startled: he had aged a good ten years in one night. Still, upon seeing her, he managed a smile and a friendly nod, a half-bow. Always a gentleman, she thought in amazement. .

Elizabeth came closer. "Why have you not told me you were feeling ill?" she asked him, abruptly. "Why have you not told anyone?" She was biting her lips to keep from crying. It seemed a grown-up thing to do-to present herself as strong and composed-but she could barely contain her tears. It was happening, she thought, it was happening to her all over again.

"Good morning to you, too, Miss Bennet," he said archly. "Someone-someone ought to teach you manners, child." He wheezed as he spoke, gasping for air. Elizabeth steeled herself, fighting the panic that had quickly begun to take hold of her. To stem it, she sought contact with him, boldly reached for his hand on top of the blanket. She tried to give it a warm, encouraging squeeze, but it came out paltry.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, trying her best to bear up. "I ought to send for the doctor!"

Doing something was better than nothing, she thought, better than waiting for Death to come and claim him. She would not sit and wait, not again, not again, she thought.

"Come and gone, my child, come and gone," he said. "I am afraid he is useless in this business. Oh do not look at me like that." He frowned at her severely, then closed his eyes in exhaustion. "I need you to be strong, Miss Bennet. While Will is not here-" It took her a second to understand that he was talking about his son. Will. She had never before heard him referred to as Will. "Georgie will need you."

Succumbing to fear and grief, Elizabeth wagged her head from side to side. In fact, it was all she could do not to stick her fingers in her ears.

"No!" she said, squeezing his hand. "No, you cannot! Do not tell me that Georgie will need me! She does not need me! She needs you! All of them-all these people-they all need you!"

What she thought, but dared not say out loud was:I need you, maybe most of all.

The smile returned, sarcastic this time, making light of her misery. "Well, do not bury me just yet, girl. I might live after all. And if I do not-" His expression grew sterner, "-if I do not, then this is my time...and there is nothing to be done about it."

"Tis so unfair!" she spat.

He raised one eyebrow at her. "You are old enough to know it has never been about fairness."

She was crying now, openly. She had not known-could not have imagined-how attached she had become to him. Her heart had found a home at his side after her father's death; and now, the fragile structure was crumbling to dust before her very eyes. The thought of losing him, was unbearable. She kept thinking, two words throbbing in her mind like a military drum: so soon, so soon. So soon after her father. She was unlucky, cursed, she brought death and misery to those around her. She had not thought it was possible to feel more frightened and more alone than she had at her father's death... but here it was. If Mr. Darcy died now, she would have no rock in this world.

And Jamie still had not come back!

"Elizabeth," he said to her, softly. "Poor child. Do not ruin your eyes crying for me."

Mortified, she turned away, trying her hardest to stifle the desperate weeping rising in her breast. She knew, then, that she was not crying for him, but for herself and for her many losses. For a moment, she stood like that, eyes averted, fists squeezed tightly at her sides , fighting her panic and the powerful urge to run away He was quiet behind her, saying nothing, waiting while she rallied her spirits and her strength.

Then, he reached for her, his fingers wrapping quickly around her wrist.

"Sh-sh-sh-sh," he whispered to her, drawing her closer. She knelt, then, resting her forehead against his hand. His hand was patting her hair, gently. "You poor child," he whispered. "How much have you had to shoulder, already."

His compassion-his compassion, for her-made her terribly ashamed. Here was a man suffering, a man at the very doorstep of death... and he had found strength to console her... He was so ill, dying, perhaps, and he was telling her to be strong, concerned with her crumbling emotions.

He was right, of course. She must. For Georgiana's sake, and for his. And for her own, too. Somehow, calamity was more easily suffered when you kept your backbone. So young, she knew this much. Obliged to caring for others' pain, one would have no time for her own. Elizabeth rose back to her feet, gathering all her will, wrapping it around her fist like the reins of a runaway horse. Quickly, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and essayed a smile, telling herself she did not care if it came out crooked and forced.

Mr. Darcy saw her rally and smiled back at her, approvingly.

"What a good girl," he said, wheezing slightly. "Now would you kindly do something for me, Elizabeth?"

She smiled back at him, squeezing his hand.

"You need not ask."

"Well, then, go and write a letter to Will. Tell him I want him here forthwith."

Elizabeth shuddered inside. Here it is, she thought. She had so hoped to avoid seeing him. But it was unthinkable to refuse him. She hoped that she had managed to mask her distaste at the thought; but perhaps not, for he saw her hesitate, and said, with all the considerable sternness he could still muster:

"Madam! Do as I said."

Elizabeth still hesitated. Her feet felt leaden, stuck to the floor. "But you-" she said lamely. "You are not dying-surely-"

Wryly, he arched one eyebrow at her. "And what if I am? Would you deny him one last meeting with his father?"

That last effort at conversation seemed to drain him of all strength. He closed his eyes and fell back against the pillows. For a moment, Elizabeth tarried by his bed, then, aware that no different order was coming, shuffled out of his bedchamber. Her task, however unpleasant, must be done. She would write a letter, and that was that. She sighed heavily as she went up the stairs to her room. Thy will be done, she thought. She had thought to escape his company altogether, to be gone from Pemberley before he returned... but it was not to be. .

In her room, she sat down by the escritoire and played a little with the pen, twirling it in her fingers. She sharpened it thoughtfully, though she saw it needed no sharpening. She checked the level of ink in the inkwell and pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the stack. Finally, she put the pen to the paper, steeled herself, and wrote:

"Sir." Her pen stilled on the paper. She did not like him, could not stand him...but, recently orphaned herself, she could not bear deal him such a blow. How do you tell a son his father is deathly ill?

Still, there was only one way to say it, she thought, and wrote: "There is only one way to say this: your father is gravely ill (on reflection, she eschewed the word deathly, though it rang prominent in her mind). " The doctor says he might not recover. Please hurry back to Pemberley. I remain, Elizabeth Bennet." " She counted in her head: if indeed he set off immediately upon the receipt of this letter (as she believed he would), Fitzwilliam Darcy would be at Pemberley within four or five days. She shivered with distaste and poured too much sand over her letter before taking it to be posted.

Darcy ran up the steps of his father's townhouse, taking them two at a time. He had been walking in St. James' Park. Valerie had met him there, a leisurely, quiet companion, and they had walked together for a while. He had even kissed her under a tree, a sweet romantic thing to do, though there was nothing romantic about their liaison. He liked Valerie, appreciating her company more for what she did not say than for what she did. She was very pretty, too, a sparkling diamond of a woman to dress his arm. Despite her profession, despite her roots-which he suspected to have been very humble, and all the more impressive the transformation-she was never an embarrassment to him, as she was by no means stupid or unmindful of what their relationship represented. If anything, over the past year of their acquaintance, they had developed the kind of friendship... a friendship with an understanding, of course, one that would never develop into anything more, that would never leave the confines of her house, or a lane in St. James' Park. A friendship on his terms. But a friendship nonetheless, as much as it was possible. He walked her home after their promenade. She asked him to come in, to come up, smiling at him in the beguiling way that, he knew from experience, promised certain pleasures. He hesitated, but in the end, shook his head, suddenly restless. Something was pulling at him, calling him back. He kissed the tips of her fingers lightly and strode away. By the time he reached his father's town-house, he was almost running.

Clifton, the London butler, met him at the door, silent, holding out the silver tray with a single letter on it. Darcy's heart fell. The letter was sealed with his family's crest, but, just under his name, someone had scrawled in youthful handwriting: "Urgent. Please open soon as may be." He did not know this hand, but he guessed, immediately, to whom it belonged.

But he had not the time to consider the implications of Elizabeth Bennet's presence at Pemberley yet again. What had happened, why was she writing him urgent letters? He ran up the stairs to his apartments, slamming the door shut behind him. Standing by the window, he tore furiously at the letter.

As he read the letter, terrible feelings assailed him, panic being the most dreadful of all. For a moment, he lost his nerve compleatly, turning on one spot, not quite knowing what to do next. The letter crumpled in his fist.

"Cassidy!" he shouted.

His valet was at the door immediately, not unlike a genie appearing from his bottle.

"I am going to Pemberley," Darcy informed him, gruffly.

"May I ask when, sir?"

"Straight away. Have them saddle Kublai." He waved off the solicitous inquiry about whether to follow him.

"I-I do not know," he said, frowning at the nuisance of it. "Whatever you think best."

He felt his voice break with emotion and turned away, mortified, for he was unaccustomed of making himself ridiculous, particularly in the eyes of the help. Thankfully, Cassidy went immediately.

Even waiting for his horse to be saddled was unbearable. Darcy paced around the room, considered changing his clothing, and swept the thought away. He was, after all, dressed for a riding excursion. He stood at the window for a while, looking out into the street. He picked the letter, defaced, up from the rug and stared at it, dissecting, once again, the grave news. The letter was spare, lacking in information, as if the writer wanted to torment him, to leave him to agonized guessing. His father-ill-with what? What had happened to him? Was it sudden, or was it long in coming? Could he have known earlier? Could it have been prevented? Stupid girl, could she not explain it better? Furious thoughts, creatures of filial guilt, tormented him..

He fell into a chair, spread the crumpled letter on his knee. Elizabeth Bennet. Thus introduced, his grown-up intended stared at him from a sheet of paper. She was nothing to him, merely a name, and he thought, demmed inconvenience that she should be there now. The last thing he needed right now was a surly, sullen, difficult adolescent. That was the last thought he spared her; he would think of her when he saw her. Better to occupy his mind in some useful manner. He forced himself to look around the room, trying his hardest to see whether he had forgotten anything. Ah, he thought. Malvina. He strode to the escritoire, and quickly penned a letter of his own, noting with distaste that his hand was shaking. He begged Bingley's widow to postpone her departure until he could oversee it, until he could assist her in procuring her passage upon a respectable ship. Until he could say good-bye properly. She had no family here, no relation to take her back to her father's in India; the least he could do was to take her to Southampton, as they had agreed.

He did not know whether she would listen to him. He supplied her with his Pemberley address, begging her to let him know of her decision, to write to him whether she would stay or go. He swore softly under his breath: this was another demmed nuisance... Women! He had always thought Malvina most sensible: but what idle idiocy had set in her head, pushing her to return to India? Why was she so stubborn about it? And if he truly could not prevent it, why was he feeling such guilt about her impending departure-indeed, as if he had failed his friend? He quickly sealed the note, set it on the tray for Cassidy to post. He was vexed with himself. Somehow, his thoughts had routed to another troubling subject, one upon which he chose not to dwell at the moment.

"Sir."

It was his man, here to inform him that his favorite horse, Kublai, had been saddled. Best to set out now. He nodded at the letter on the tray.

"Have it posted."

Four days after writing the letter to Fitzwilliam Darcy, Elizabeth was sitting in Mr. Darcy's room, reading to him from a book of her choosing (a tome of Samuel Coleridge's poetry). He had grown worse steadily for the past two days, and was now insensible most of the time. Elizabeth had long banished all thoughts of her own father, focusing on keeping Mr. Darcy alive at least until his son came home. She believed that as long as she talked to him, he would not die. It was a silly and childish thing to believe, a fancy, really, but she held fast to her faith. It seemed logical that her voice, floating over them, hoarse from hours of reading, served as a thread connecting her to him, a fragile bond keeping him in this world. Without it, it seemed, he would relinquish his hold on life within hours, would slip away all too soon.

She had been reading to him for a good three hours, not minding at all that he was asleep and not listening.. The words slurred wearily off her tongue, but she hardly noticed. He had taken a turn for the worse the night before, his breathing gasping, uneven, the life in his breast like the flimsy flame of a stooping candle. His sleep was a blessing. From time to time, she stopped for a moment-to listen, with her heart dipping in fear, to his fading breath. Elizabeth threw a glance at the clock: it was half-past-seven... which meant she had not slept for well-nigh thirty hours... She pushed herself up in the chair, shook the sleep out of her eyes, and continued reading.

The door cracked opened an inch. Elizabeth looked up from the book, squinting. Georgiana. She forced a smile off her lips, knowing precisely how the girl's world was now crumbling around her.

"Shall I read in your stead?" Georgiana asked. Her voice was trembling, a fine tense vibration, predicting hysterics, but she seemed to keep a hold of herself. Crying did unimaginable things to her porcelain skin, blurring angles and sending red blotches all over her pretty face.

"Would you?" Elizabeth slid off the chair and held the book out to her. "I should go down to the kitchen for a cup of tea."

"Reynolds has served you tea in your bedchamber."

Gratefully, Elizabeth watched Georgiana climb onto her chair, tucking her feet under herself. Standing next to the girl, she pointed out her place on the page. "Here."

Mr. Darcy's breathing seemed a calmer cadence, each light pant no longer a desperate fight it had been during the night. Georgiana nodded solemnly. "I do so hope you are right about this, Elizabeth."

"I am," Elizabeth said firmly, trying her hardest not to think about her own father, and how she was unable to keep him out of Death's clutches. "I am certain that I am." Moved by an impulse, she leaned and kissed the top of Georgiana's head. "I shall be back," she said. "Soon."

As Georgiana's voice rose over the room, Elizabeth slipped out, her mind on her tea. Perhaps she could steal an hour or so of sleep, she thought, as she nodded, absent-mindedly, to a curtseying maid.

Immediately, she reeled, having collided with a large, tall man that had only just run up the stairs. , Indeed, she had walked straight into him, bumping into him full-force. To her sleep-deprived senses, he seemed as hard and as large as a rock, an impressive pillar of dust and sweat and horse smell. The shock of the impact made her lightheaded. She would have fallen, but he caught her by the arm.

"Careful," her intended said curtly, releasing her. She could feel her arm where his fingers had gripped her a little too hard. Elizabeth looked up, seeing a dark, unhappy, scowling visage. Oh, no. She curtseyed reflexively, expecting her intended to utter something by way of greeting, but he merely turned away and headed for his father's doors.

Shocked, Elizabeth froze in her tracks. She had never thought the man particularly civil, but this was beyond the pale! Clearly, three years have done nothing to sweeten his disposition or teach him better manners! Next to Elizabeth, the young maid looked completely flabbergasted.

"Pardon me, ma'am, Miss Bennet," she muttered, finally, retreating towards the stairs.

Already at the door, Fitzwilliam Darcy turned around and stared at her as if she was a part of a county freak show. A homunculus, a -a bearded lady, a giant eight feet tall. And though she felt exactly an inch away from the ground, Elizabeth met his gaze-one of shocked and appalled variety-head-on, lifting her chin and crossing her arms on her chest.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, vesting her voice with as much scorn as she could muster at the moment (tricky business, for the floor was beginning to roll towards her, and the walls swayed gaily about). "Welcome home, I suppose." She did not curtsey to him, nor did she extend her hand. If he began by being uncivil, by God, she could match him.

He stared at her for another moment. "Miss Bennet," he said coldly, cutting her a short, curt bow. "Forgive me, I did not recognize you." "An easy mistake to make, as you have not seen me in years." God, what a poor introduction this was!

He flinched, as if slapped across the face. "Perhaps," he agreed coldly, "it would not be quite so easy, had you looked a little less like a dingy kitchen-maid!"

Elizabeth gasped at his affront. Though she had told herself she did not care for his good opinion, it would not be untrue to say that her pride was wounded grievously. His eyes held such scorn, such contempt for her! Nothing she could possibly say would make him see how wrong he was in speaking to her in such a manner. Indeed, she would not even bother; it was far beneath her to try and respond to this ungracious bait!

He bowed curtly and turned to go, only to be confronted by Georgiana. Standing by the open door, the girl appeared to have heard most of their recent exchange. He strode towards her, as if to take her in his arms.

To Elizabeth's open-mouthed surprise, Georgiana swept her brother's hands aside. "Will!" she cried, sounding irate. "I cannot believe how uncivil you were to Miss Bennet just now!"

A deeper frown crossed his face, and Elizabeth swayed on her feet, mortified. The last possible thing she needed was for the two siblings to have a row over her at their father's bedside. She wanted to tell Georgiana that it did not signify, that she should welcome her brother home, that-but in the next second, the floor sped towards her with overwhelming swiftness, and the walls curved and dipped above her. She heard Georgiana's alarmed cry, heard Cat dash away down the stairs, hissing. Then, and saw him, as a shadow, over her, lifting her in his arms, so easily as if she weighed merely a feather.

Someone held a bottle of smelling salts under her nose, making her sneeze. Opening her eyes, she found herself in her bedchamber, a circle of concerned faces leaning over her--Georgiana, Mrs. Reynolds, Mary, and even Cook. Attempting to move, she dislodged a cold compress on her forehead and was urged back onto the bed.

Georgiana was very pale, looking, for all intents and purposes, as if she was about to cry. She said not a word, stricken seemingly mute. Elizabeth reached for her hand, squeezing it, and felt a gentle squeeze in return.

Elizabeth found she was dressed, still wearing her dress, but that someone had pulled down the bodice of it. Her stays had been loosened indecently.

Suddenly shamed, she reached for a blanket. Her lips were dry, as if she had not drunk in a day; she licked at a rivulet of water running down her face from the compress.

"How are you feeling, ma'am?" Mary covered her solicitously. Elizabeth was not certain of the answer. It took her another moment to recollect all that had happened. Remembering, she felt ill to her stomach.

Like a dingy kitchen-maid. She frowned, crumpling her face in a grimace of distaste. How precisely he put it, and how unkindly.

"Ma'am?"

"No," she forced a smile to her lips. "I am all right. Really. But I should like an hour or so of rest."

At that, Mrs. Reynolds urged Georgiana out of the room-the girl went, still having not said a word-and helped Elizabeth to finish undressing, all the while murmuring about the burden she had taken up on her shoulders, the poor poppet.

Even as Mrs. Reynolds drew the covers over Elizabeth's prone body, the girl was already asleep.

She woke up to find that the day had already gone: the evening seeped, blue and black, through the half-open drapes on the tall windows. Disoriented at first, she sat up, groggily, trying her best to remember what had happened. Then, she did. Oh, she thought.

Slipping out of the bed, she dug in the covers for her gown and slipped it on. Her feet were still a little unsteady, her knees weak. There was a distant ringing in her head, as if she had slept for three days, and not three hours. Quickly, she sought a surface-a chair in front of her vanity-lest she should fall again. A haggard, sick countenance looked at her from the mirror.

Somewhere in the house, a clock sounded seven. Elizabeth seriously wondered whether to ask that supper be brought to her in her room. Surely, it would not be too much. She could go down to Mr. Darcy's room after she ate. The thought of solitude in her own room, a quiet meal, a reflection, a half an hour of a good read, appealed to her. But then, she thought: hardly. She was not ill, not truly, there was no sense in staying inside. She could tell herself she was unwell all she wanted, but if she were to tell the truth...

Thereupon, she considered her reasons and found them wanting-for the most prominent amongst them rang her fear of facing Fitzwilliam Darcy. Him, she thought, that man. That was how she thought of him now, loath to say his name even in her mind; she imagined his countenance like a dark cloud upon a lovely day, ruining all happiness and good spirits.

She reached for the bell-pull and rang, resolutely, twice. Have Mary come and dress her for supper. She would not hide in her room. Not from him. Yes, she did not wish to think of him, surely loathed seeing him-but she was not afraid of him. Instinctively, her jaw clenched; looking at herself in the mirror, she saw a drawn white face, dark rings under her eyes and a stern, furious expression. I look an old woman, she thought, darkly amused. But it was all just as well: she would not prettify herself. Most certainly not to appeal to the man who had been so uncivil to her, be he a thousand times her future husband (though inwardly, she shuddered at the thought; not if she could help it, she promised to herself).

Mary appeared, solicitous of her health. Elizabeth answered the inquiries on the subject, politely, though it cost her some composure. Her instructions to the girl were brief and to the point:

"Water to wash myself, lace me and set my hair, please." The water Mary brought was biting cold as Elizabeth splashed it, again and again, over her face and shoulders. It refreshed her, but not enough: and so she lowered her face down into the basin for as long as she could. Holding her breath under water, she bet to herself that if she could remain like so for a full minute, Fitzwilliam Darcy would not be in the dining-room when she came down. At forty-two seconds, she could bear it no longer and rose, gasping, regretful.

Inside the bedchamber, Mary laced her stays tightly, then stood behind her in front of the looking glass, ready to make magic with her hair. Obviously she was harboring pretensions of becoming a real French maid, therefore attempting to arrange Elizabeth's hair in a style of coy femininity. She even pulled a tiny black feather out of a box, ready to stick it behind her Mistress' ear.

"No." Elizabeth wagged her head, pushing pretty tendrils behind each ear. "None of this. Just pull it all back, please, Mary."

Mary stared at her in the mirror, nonplussed, two long pins between her teeth.

"But ma'am-" she murmured, her speech obstructed.

"Do as I said, please. Make a twist at the back and pin it, like so."

She took the pins out of Mary's hands and started on her hair herself, awkwardly raising her arms. Frowning, the maid obeyed, and finished the job, pulling Elizabeth's hair back so tightly, her face felt wooden.

"Use these." Mary said nothing, taking from her two plain ivory combs that would hold Elizabeth's hair in place. "Yes," Elizabeth said. The woman in the mirror presented a most severe visage. "Yes, just like this."

Mary stood in front of Elizabeth's wardrobe, flung open its doors, and inquired, in the insulted tone of a misunderstood talent:

"What dress will madam wear tonight?"

Now a bit steadier on her feet, Elizabeth came forward, to pull out the simplest and the darkest of her full-mourning dress. No jewelry of any kind, not even jet, only her father's cross, deep-red, nearly black, on a black velvet ribbon around her neck.

She laced her high, tight boots herself. Straightening out, her head spinning a little, she smiled at Mary.

"I am ready."

Mary regarded her disapprovingly. "That you are, ma'am, and I daresay look a right proper papist nun!"

Elizabeth frowned at the girl severely. "You are too free with your tongue," she said coldly. "Now leave me, please."

She came down to supper and stopped dead in her tracks at the very entrance to the dining room. It was all very well to bet on his absence, but here he was, at the window, his back turned. Whatever did he see in the total darkness that had crept upon Pemberley, having replaced the luxuriant blue evening. Not quite knowing what to say, or whether to say anything at all, Elizabeth took a tentative step across the threshold.

It must have been the rustle of her dress that caught his attention. He turned about, abruptly and surveyed her with a troubled, unhappy gaze. She stood, back ramrod-straight, chin up, fighting her very desire to run away. Fighting the natural instinct to hide her eyes from him.

"Miss Bennet." After an awkward pause, he cut her a bow. Obliged to return his civility, she dropped a perfunctory curtsey, barely bending her knees. He hardly deserved better, she thought meanly.

"How is your father tonight?"

He frowned at her, again. "Not very well. He is insensible, mostly. I tried speaking with him-he does not recognize me." He sounded pained.

"Is someone reading to him?"

She thought he might have smiled, but it was more of a nervous tick than a smile, his thin lips twitching unpleasantly.

"Indeed," he said. "My sister insisted on it. I have assigned a footman to the task, for now-a literate fellow, knows how to read, has a good voice." He coughed discreetly, clearing his throat; he was no longer looking at her, rather studying, assiduously, a pattern in the pale-yellow wallpaper-indeed, studying it as if there was nothing more fascinating in the whole world. "Georgiana said it was your idea of, ahem, keeping my father back." He looked sheepish, faintly embarrassed to be repeating such girlish nonsense aloud.

Elizabeth shrugged. "Perhaps you know of a better way."

"No," he agreed, looking, all of a sudden, rather lost. "No. I wish I did, but I do not."

"After supper, I shall return to his side."

"Indeed, there is no need of that. I believe you have done enough." Another careful cough. "I am-much obliged to you for that."

Elizabeth looked away, trained her eyes on the swaying of the darkness behind the window. What to say to that? How to react? This was as a good a praise as ever she had heard from him... and she could care less. Whatever she had done in care of Mr. Darcy, had been done in care of Mr. Darcy, not in any concern for his son. Indeed, she cared very little for the man; between writing her letter to him and their horrid confrontation, she had hardly ever thought of him. And now, now that she had met him... the only thing Elizabeth desired of him was to never speak with him again. Having him in her debt had been the furthest thing from her mind. Indeed, the last thing she wanted. She would be perfectly content to never again lay her eyes on the man.

She made to walk past him, to take her seat at the table. Behind them, a footman froze at the door.

"Miss Bennet."

She froze in shock, at the feeling of his hand upon her elbow.

"Unhand me," she said, all breath rushing out of her in furious indignation, in one long whistle between clenched teeth.

He ignored her.

"May I have a word?" His voice sounded grave. He was so polite, but she could hardly take her eyes off his hand gripping her. "Take your hand off me," she repeated. . She was beginning to sound hysterical, no longer recognizing her own voice. It was as if she had aged a decade in the past months, but had only just noticed it-not unlike waking up in the morning to find herself with a head full of silver hair...

He obeyed, then, his hand falling away-but his dark gaze haunted her still.

"May I have a word?" he repeated, seemingly oblivious to the anger ringing in her voice.

"Are you not having one now?" she demanded, deeply irritated by his obtuseness-and furious, furious at his presumption. How dare he, how dare he lay a hand on her, the insufferable man! Something cluttered loudly in her mind. If Jamie were here, if only Jamie were here!

"Indeed," he agreed. He cast a shamefaced glance at the footman by the door, his manner instantly turning from gruff to cold and off-hand. "Leave us," he said, indifferently, in a voice used to giving orders. The man obeyed, walking out silently, not looking at either of them. Disturbing thoughts swirled in Elizabeth's mind: what is this, why is he doing it, why am I alone with him? How improper this situation was! How dare this footman leave them alone, stupid man- But if Mr. Darcy had been of a mind to ravish her-which Elizabeth, upon reflection, would herself have found rather unlikely-he did change his mind after they were left alone. Turning away, he walked away to stand by the window. Elizabeth, seething, crossed her arms on her chest.

She would have liked to wait it out, but her anger forbade all pretense. She would play no games with him.

"Well?" she demanded, bristling. He turned back to look at her, and she saw nothing but contempt in his eyes. She thought back to Georgiana's warbling about how she would only marry a man like her brother. God save you if you do, child.

"I wish to beg your forgiveness," he said, flatly. "What I said to you-it was unpardonable-ungentlemanly."

Elizabeth first froze, then scoffed, her initial surprise at his deliberate humbling wiped out by her anger at his manner of it. Ungentlemanly! What he had said to her was not merely ungentlemanly, it was downright cruel. Words were not birds, but stones-carelessly thrown, they did not fly away, but bruised and scarred. His words had bruised her-for a while longer, there would remain a bitter aftertaste; she would look at herself and wonder-was she really so homely? ... For a while longer now, she would feel as if she had been kicked in the gut. Yet he only concerned himself with behaving a gentleman, with no regard whatsoever for her feelings!

Oh, she thought, he would never understand. One had to have a heart to understand.

"I shall make no judgment of that," she said, affecting her coldest demeanor.

He frowned at her, as if she were a child speaking nonsense.

"Pardon?" he demanded. "What is the meaning of that?" She shrugged.

"I do not know, nor care, whether you behaved a gentleman. It is not up to me to judge you a gentleman, or otherwise."

"I am my own harshest judge," he said, somberly. "I have found my behavior wanting, and am asking your forgiveness."

"You need not concern yourself with it. You words were of no import," she lied.

He looked at her, thoughtfully, and she had the uneasy feeling that he was studying her-nay, that he did not need to study her, that the truth was written on her face, plain as the day was bright.

"You do not easily forgive, I do not think..." he murmured.

Elizabeth flashed, hotly, her vexation with him-and herself-growing. Indeed, he had hurt her, but to simply grant him her pardon was unthinkable. For truly, wouldst that he did not apologize! His apology, accomplished in his insufferable manner-it injured more than it healed, opening up her wounds. She was even more hurt, and surprised, at the notion that his one careless word could bruise her feelings so.

"Why, to the contrary!" she cried. "I forgive, when there is anything to forgive." She took a deep breath. "I do not waste forgiveness on people so thoroughly inconsequential to me!"

He raised his eyebrows at her, affecting the same amused expression she had so often seen in his father-only without the warmth.

"I-inconsequential to you?" He sounded nearly pleased. "Why, Miss Bennet, I believe you wish it to be so. But surely you are clever enough to know how untrue it is?"

Elizabeth bit the inside of her lip. He had gotten the best of her: she had not intended to let the conversation go into this loop. The worst thing, she knew, was that he was correct: he was anything but inconsequential, having ruled and ruined her life for the past three years.

She knew, then, she felt the danger he presented. Perhaps, it would be wise to remove herself to her rooms-but her anger had already bubbled up to the surface, leaving her both powerless and unwilling to resist it. She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling every single cruel word as it rolled off her tongue:

"Mr. Darcy, you were almost killed once for being uncivil to me," she said, viciously biting off words. "I am sorry to see that you have not learned your lesson."

Clearly, she had hit a nerve, Elizabeth thought in mean pleasure. He turned whiter than his stock, and his shocked expression needed no words. Gasping at her effrontery, he opened his mouth to say something...but then clearly thought better of it. Instead, he cut her another curt bow and strode quickly from the room.

Darcy took his supper in the small drawing-room adjacent to his boyhood bedroom. He read as he ate, a bad habit he had developed years ago at Trinity; but tonight, it was he only way to keep his thoughts from driving him mad. He picked at his food absent-mindedly, leafing through a copy of The Pilgrim's Progress-the first book he had pulled off the shelf. But the philosophy and the theology drove him to restless distraction; and so, miles away from reaching the Celestial City, he closed the book and set it aside. The London newssheets, solicitously set near his plate by his valet, were a few days too old-he recalled reading them two nights ago in town-and in any case, idle London gossip was the last thing interesting him right now. He tossed the papers aside in annoyance.

Nor did he have any appetite, having picked at his food for a good half an hour and finally set aside a plate that was three-quarters full. His thoughts were dark and ponderous-despair at his father's illness and deep displeasure with himself. Not to mention fury at Miss Bennet-indeed, he tried his best to keep away from thinking of her, the impertinent chit. You were almost killed once for being uncivil to me. Did she know what agonies her cruel words caused him? Not so much because they reminded him of his dishonor, of a combat lost-but because they rung true. Three years ago, Bennet had had all the reasons to run him through; indeed, had it been his sister thus insulted... he would have run himself through.

Perhaps she was correct about him. Shameful to think he had not learned his lesson.

He forced himself out of the chair. It did not help any to sit and brood; he must make himself useful, must do something- He changed his clothing, removing his coat and donning a long house-robe instead. He would go down to his father's bedchamber, to keep watch.

At Mr. Darcy's doors, he stopped, frozen still. It was shut solidly, but he could hear, distinctly, from behind it, Miss Bennet's voice, reading quietly to his father. All of a sudden, it disturbed him less to hear her than he had thought it would. Her voice was low-and feminine-and surprisingly adult and sure.

He eavesdropped, leaning against the doorframe.

"Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown
But vainly flapped its tinsel wing."

Marvel, he thought, automatically. He knew this poem, he knew he knew it, and yet he could not remember the title. He pushed the door open. Miss Bennet looked up, startled, her book of poetry immediately sliding off her lap. She grasped at it, but too late-it had already landed on the rug with a dull thud. Striding towards her, Darcy picked it up and held it back out to her. She took it from him without a word of thanks. Ye gods she was ungracious. (And, he thought, throwing a cursory glance over her, rather plain. Perhaps he was unkind in his first assessment of her, but he had not been incorrect.)

With a small cough to clear her throat, she threw him a quick glance and began to read again:

"And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixed;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye doth see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close..."

Turning away from her, he stood by his father's bed, watched the slow rise and fall of Mr. Darcy's chest, listening to his labored breathing. Not yet, he thought, oh not yet. Just a little more time. Behind him, Miss Bennet stopped reading; he heard her slide off her chair. Then, she came to stand near him, holding the book tightly against her chest. Faith, she looked as if he would wrestle the tome away from her.

The ailing man moaned and shuddered in his uneasy sleep. Darcy closed his eyes; it tore at his heart to see his father like so. His months of absence from home, every day he had spent away from Pemberley in his wounded selfish pride now weighed a stone on his heart. Wouldst that he could turn back the clock!

For a short time, they stood next to each other, and next to the bed, looking at Mr. Darcy. Stood, not unlike two siblings. Darcy cast Miss Bennet a wary glance: who was she now in this household, this girl? Earlier, Georgiana, cried in her fury at him: she is like a sister to me! How dare he speak like that with a woman who had supplanted him, in his absence, as his little sister's best friend and confidante? He shook his head, disgusted with himself, with the self-pity in his thoughts. If anything, he ought to be grateful to her for keeping company with Georgie-and for watching over his father.

She turned away from the bed, walked back to her chair. He sat down near and listened to her read for a long time, poem after poem, all the time keeping his gaze at his father. She was reading from a book of Elizabethan poetry he himself had liked as a boy... strange that she should choose it, of the many. He struggled to recollect the name of that first poem, uselessly so, memory slipping away from him like a silk scarf on the wind. He caught, in her voice, a small hitch, a note of exhaustion.

Darcy rose from his seat.

'Tis late," he said. He came to stand near her, towering over her, and she stopped reading, a line of one of Ben Johnson's poems freezing dead on her lips. Looking up at him with a little frown lodged firmly upon her brow. "Perchance you should retire." His voice came out hoarse, startling.

He had steeled himself for an argument, for resistance, but she simply slid off her chair and held the book out to him.

"Here." Her finger stopped at the beginning of the next poem. He saw, then, in her face, a shifting, a lightness he had not seen before. "Do not lose heart," she murmured impulsively. "Do not let him go. Death takes those we leg go of too easily." For a moment, they stood, silently, facing each other in the dim light of the candle; then, e nodding, he took the book from her. He set it face down on his chair-to keep the page-- and reached for the bell pull. Its dull ringing, far in the servant quarters, would not wake his father, deep in his own world.

"No," she said, quickly. He frowned.

"Someone ought to walk you back-" It was improper that she should skulk around Pemberley all alone... particularly when the hour was so late.

"I shall be fine, thank you." They both spoke in hushed, hurried whispers. "I know the way to my room perfectly well."

"But-"

"Everyone is asleep, sir," she murmured, frowning at him severely. "It would be unkind to wake them--simply because you do not trust me to find the way to my own bed."

With that final retort, she turned around and was gone. Confounded, Darcy lowered himself into his chair once again and started to read. Words fell, dead, from his lips. Death takes those we let go of too easily. He sighed. Where was this from? Was it something she had thought of herself? Wouldst that he had her faith! He tried his best to focus on the poem. Bermudas.

What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own--

Oh what a long night this would be.

... "Oh do let him be, Peregrine! Do not wake the young Master!" "Don't you think he should want to know?" "He'll know soon enough, when he wakes-"

The hushed whispers and hisses filtered through the haze of sleep. Instinctively shielding himself from the intrusion, Darcy sought to burrow into slumber for another moment. It was blissful in his sleep, for he did not know who or where he was.

But it was not meant to be; he felt someone's hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

"Mr. Darcy!" A young female voice, trembling with great anxiety. He opened his eyes, groggily, forcing himself back to the reality. The curtains were drawn from the window, the sheer summer light pouring in with vexing self-assurance, as if it was alive and intruding, as if it meant to be here. Darcy squinted, straining to see against the bold brilliant streaming radiance.

In an attempt to sit up in his chair, he well-nigh slid to the floor and now clambered, awkwardly, back to his feet.

"Mr. Darcy."

It was, of course, Miss Bennet, dressed in a somber black dress, a blue Kashmir shawl around her shoulders. This smudge of color looked surprisingly refreshing on her.

"What-" He forced himself to focus on her face. His whole body ached from the uncomfortable night spent in his chair.

"Your father is awake."

All hope he felt at Miss Bennet's announcement was dashed upon spending a few moments with his father. Mr. Darcy was not better; he was merely awake and fully conscious of his misery and suffering. The doctor was no help at all, not even to tell Darcy of the fate that awaited his father. It drove him mad, this not knowing. For his part, he would always much rather know. It amazed him to see that Miss Bennet seemed to take the doctor's lack of certainty as a good sign-for she took his refusal to pronounce Mr. Darcy a dying man as a reason to hope.

Two days hence, she said to him (was one of the very few things she said to him these days, for ever since their confrontation in the dining room, they had barely said two dozen words to each other).

"The doctor told me straight away my Father was dying. You ought to be happy this is not the case with yours."

He was startled-and slightly shamed-by her understanding of him. Indeed, she saw into him better than he did himself. Of if only he could share her certainty that the doctor's silence was a good thing; but it seemed to him that the cruel Death merely prolonged his father's suffering-only to snatch him away later. He said nothing, merely shaking his head and walking away from her, to brood. He felt, all of a sudden, as if she looked into him, deep into the very middle and heart of him... and he did not like it. This homely girl, this strange dark girl affected him in a most peculiar, disquieting manner.

They developed a cautious, nearly silent camaraderie at Mr. Darcy's bedside. They spoke only when required, and yet they took turn reading poetry aloud, one beginning when the other lost his voice. Still, they hardly ever ate together, she always dining with Georgiana, he taking supper in his apartments. Sitting at the silent table with them would have been torture (with Georgiana still not talking to him, he felt like a leper in his own house!).

Still, somehow, they spent a prodigious amount of time together, and he could not help watching her, more and more. She was a curious sight. Would he marry her-such a girl? Not at all an attractive girl, a boyish figure, flat-chested and narrow-hipped, and almost unhealthily slender for her height...Her face was-no, could have been pleasant; but she did nothing to make it so, dressing her hair in a most austere manner, pulling it away from her face, so tightly it looked painful (indeed, he suspected she did it on purpose). Dressed constantly in mourning attire, she looked as dark as a crow. A young feisty crow, but a crow nonetheless. Darcy scolded himself for these unkind thoughts: after all, she spent countless sleepless nights tending to his father. But the fact that he would have to marry this girl kept intruding. She was not ugly... but nothing about her enticed or attracted.

He would have thought her boring, too, for he could hardly get a word out of her-but for her choice in her father's reading. She read to him from Johnson and Sidney, and Marvel, and Milton. She also read to him from the Bible, Old Testament and New, the Psalms in particular. Darcy was as impressed by her taste in literature, as he was by the effortless way with which she navigated the intricacies of Paradise Lost. Then, remembering Old Bennet's favorite subjects, he thought wistfully: she is, after all, her father's daughter.

So she was definitely well-read; he had to give her that. Or perhaps more: she seemed to possess an able greedy mind. She was also kind, he thought, as he watched her with Georgiana-kind in particular to those weaker than herself, to those in need of comfort. Once, he saw her on the stairs, soothing his weeping sister. He came near them, opening his mouth to speak, but she looked at him over the girls' head and shook her head no. He tiptoed away, somehow convinced that Miss Bennet would do well by his sister. Better, perhaps, than he could-for there seemed to have developed a curious bond, of the nature that only ever exists between females, and that no male could ever hope to foster with a person of the opposite sex. He envied Miss Bennet that.

If he were to be honest with himself, Elizabeth Bennet would make a better wife for the future Master of Pemberley than any of the brides he might find in London. Though she fainted upon their first meeting this year-faith, how it shamed him to think of that!-she was not the fainting kind. Though she looked as thin and fragile as a waif, he suspected that she was stronger than most. He watched her at his father's bedside (there were moments when he or Reynolds did insist that she step away from the bed, for modesty's sake... and she did, returning soon as she could), thinking that she would be awful-miserable-in town, and very well-placed in the country. A country squire's wife, he thought-for no matter what else he was, this what he would soon become, a country squire, with a country squire's cares. Perhaps he would need a wife like her-clever enough to manage the household, compassionate enough to supervise the people dependent on them? Plain enough to look the part (for as much as he tried, he could not imagine some of his more refined and attractive lady acquaintances taking soup to tenant households).

One morning, having spent a few excruciating hours in the chair, he woke to the sight of her, hunched over his father's bed. Their voices, quiet, drifted over the room, and he caught the tail end of the conversation, her saying, I dared not wake him, and then, she saw him, and startled and froze. He hated the look that came over her whenever their eyes met. He had seen the same on a wolf, frozen still in a clearing, at the sight of him with his rifle raised.

He rose, quickly, and came over to the bed. Miss Bennet sprang to her feet, then and was gone without a curtsey, without a word to him, without so much as a nod.

"She has not taken to you," his father said. He realized he had been looking after her, watching the edge of her black skirts disappear, as the door closed softly behind her. Turning back to face his father, he forced a smile and inquired after Mr. Darcy's health.

"Ah, Will, you are too clever by half to ask me such silly questions."

He shrugged, awkwardly; he never knew what to say to his father' sarcastic wit. "May I ring for something? If there anything you require?"

"A new heart, perhaps." The old man's lips twitched. Darcy was startled to think thus: his father, an old man! An old dying man, an unkind voice said inside, for it cannot be helped. He chased such thoughts away vehemently. "Sit down, Will."

He did, blindly pulling up a chair, thinking to himself that the last time his father had called him Will must have been years ago. He was uncertain if it was welcome, now-for it almost brought tears to his eyes to hear it.

"I wish to speak with you. There is one thing... one thing I could not leave unsettled before I go."

"Pray do not speak like so," Darcy murmured, averting his eyes. He had dreaded this conversation: it seemed to tip the scale away from Miss Bennet's stubborn hopefulness and towards his own miserable certainty that his father was dying. "You will get better." Somehow, he could not muster the girl's certainty that it would be so; indeed, his words sounded hollow to his ears.

"And what if I do not?" His father spoke harshly, each word a struggle against his heavy breathing. He sounds as if a mountain is heaped upon his chest, Darcy thought; what should he not give to move it?

"You will," he repeated desperately. "You will." Empty words he no longer believed himself.

"All the same, I want to plan for a different-er, eventuality," Mr. Darcy said, smiling wearily. "As my obedient son, you will hear me out, Will." He took a pause, breathing deeply. "And you will do as I say."

Darcy bowed his head, acquiescing. To argue with his father had never been easy; but it was unthinkable now.

"I want you to marry Miss Bennet."

Darcy looked up in surprise.

"I know that, Father, but why mention it now? We have spoken of it before."

"I want you to do it now. Soon as may be."

"But-" He froze for a moment, deeply shocked. Marrying anybody now was the last thing on his mind; and he was particularly poorly prepared to marry Miss Bennet, whom he found homely and though no longer a brash tree-climbing hellion, far from pleasant. In addition, a blind man could see how much she disliked him ... if not to say detested. Outside of his father's rooms, she had not said ten words to him; every time they met in the hallway, she made to pass by him, lips pursed, eyes lowered.

He had thought about marrying her-for indeed, their marriage has been in the works for years-but it was always a thing of the distant future. A time, in the distant future, when she looked a little less like a gaunt young crow. A time, when she would-perhaps-maybe smile at him.

"Hear me out." For the next several minutes, his father proffered to him the same arguments he had thought of himself: that indubitably, the girl was clever, with a developed and excellent mind; that she was also rather good (if one judged by her devotion to his father and her kindness to Georgiana). That already, at the age of sixteen, she had grown to be a head above any society beauty he might consider for a wife. That she had had hardship in her life, losing both her parents so early, losing, essentially, her beloved brother-and that such adversity had shaped her in ways to have made her most suitable for the role of the Mistress of Pemberley.

"But more than that," his father continued, "for the role of your wife."

More arguments, to Darcy's stunned ears: that on a life's harsh journey, one needed a true mate for a wife. A friend, a supporter, a shoulder to lay your head on.

"A friend!" Darcy cried, losing control. "A friend! Father, she can barely stand the sight of me!"

"And with good reason," was Mr. Darcy's immediate riposte. "You have behaved towards her in an unpardonable manner-"

"How-" Hot red stained his face, first of shame, then of anger- To imagine that she would complain of him to his father, who was so ill-why, he had thought better of her!

"Servants talk!" Mr. Darcy snapped. "Even in this house, servants can be indiscrete. Nothing you do is done in perfect solitude." He took a heavy, angry huff. "If I could, I should give you a whipping for it myself-no matter how big you think you've grown!" He sighed, frowning. "But no matter. I am certain you will find ways to apologize and make her forgive you."

Darcy remained in a state of bewildered disbelief, frozen awkwardly in his chair. "But-why now?" he murmured. "I have long resolved myself to marrying Miss Bennet, but Father-"

"Because I want it to happen before I die," was his father's harsh reply.

"You do not trust me to do it after-" He froze on the last word, after-the very word which he had forbidden himself to think.

Mr. Darcy gave a weak wave, a fading smile. "Oh, I trust you. I know you to be an obedient son and a man of your word." He smiled wistfully. "However faultily given. But her-" He sighed. "She is a good child, but she is willful."

"But do you wish me a willful wife, Father?" It was a pathetic attempt-and it met with a fitting reply.

"I most certainly do!" Mr. Darcy's said irritably. "A strong-willed one to keep you on your toes. A sharp-tongued little shrew that will never let you forget yourself!"

Darcy groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Do you suppose she will repudiate her father's wishes-"

Mr. Darcy gave a small snort. "Surely you are not so naïve, Will? I know that she will repudiate Bennet's wishes. She does not want to marry you. All she ever talks of is her brother coming back. Saving her from you."

Darcy felt ill. "But Father!" he exclaimed. "Truly, if she detests me enough to wish to be saved from me-how can you force this marriage? Let her be willful, but I daresay the chit cannot bear the sound of my name!"

"As I said, you gave her all the reason in the world. But I believe-I believe you are good enough, Will-I believe that you can change. You can make this girl a good husband-and if you do, I daresay you will be rewarded."

"Oh Father!" he cried. "What if I am not rewarded? What if both of us are made miserable by this? Is it not better to arrange something for her? A living, so she would be secure--after all, it was her father's only wish... I am certain he saw no qualities in me to want me for a son-in-law!"

"Perhaps," Mr. Darcy agreed. His eyes drifted closed and his breathing grew heavier... as if every mouthful of air caused him unending pain. "But it is my wish for you to marry her. I told you my reasons. If you do not understand them, you will obey them."

With a flick of a wrist, he dismissed his son. Darcy sat in the chair by the bed for another moment, slowly digesting the shocking news.

"Who is-" he asked softly. "Who is to tell Miss Bennet?"

There was no answer, Mr. Darcy drifting away.

All day he avoided her, meeting her only late in the evening at his father's bedside. As he entered, she was reading to Mr. Darcy in a strong, even voice. Darcy noticed she held the book-having finished with Paradise Lost, she had moved on to the more hopeful Paradise Regained-a little too close to her face, and thought: her eyes are bad. As always, she barely looked up from the book when he entered. He watched her for a moment, thinking that perhaps she knew-but oh no. He could not fathom her reaction when she did know; surely she would not remain this composed. He caught himself shuddering inwardly and smiled at his cowardice. He should rather go to war against Bonaparte's troops-and yet she was a mere girl. A child, really, at sixteen years old.

Soon enough, he feigned exhaustion-though how much of it was feigned and how much was real, even he, himself, did not know. She told him to go to bed, then, and he was glad to-and ashamed, deeply, of his need to be away from her. What he knew, and she did not, the secret he kept from her, weighed heavily on him. Well, he thought, it could not remain a secret for much longer. He would have to do it in the morning.

Darcy spent a sleepless night, twisting and turning in the sheets, then rising to pace restlessly about the room in his nightshirt. His thoughts were poisonous, driving him slowly mad. He would tell her tomorrow-there was no reason to wait. But the very thought terrified him and he did not know why. He kept repeating to himself: she was a child, a child, a mere child. Surely her will in this matter was inferior to his?

It was unthinkable to deny his father's wishes-particularly now, when he was so ill. He had long accustomed himself to the thought of marrying Miss Bennet one day, and though that marriage was still far away-in the manner his own old age and death were, years away-he could have accustomed himself to the thought of its immediacy. After all, it made little difference when to put a ring on her finger. She was plain-but who said that a Mrs. Darcy had to be pretty? He had never thought to marry for love, therefore beauty mattered little. Having met her, having received his father's approbation of her, he had found no major faults in her, certainly far less of a fault than he could ever find in the best-born London beauty. They were even living in the same house already... little would change if they married.

If only she did not hate him quite so much!

There was no question: he had been in the wrong... there was no excuse for his incivility to her, not really... but he did apologize, after all. Yes, that. He had apologized, but could not shake the feeling, even still, that his apology was not accepted. And that it was, all in all, rather poorly accomplished. What had come over him that he should attempt to restrain her? Really, laying a hand on a lady! Perhaps it was the overwhelming feeling of guilt still lingering after their initial encounter that had led him to behave in such a thoroughly ungentlemanly manner.

Still, through the haze of displeasure with himself, he remembered, with peculiar curiosity, how her eyes had flashed at him. He had never been hated before... perhaps only by George Wickham... but no, Wickham hated him for what he was, what he had... it was greed and envy, simple as that...Darcy had long learned that he could do nothing to make Wickham like him more, or at least hate him less. But Miss Bennet-he had the dubious honor of having earned her resentment. The thought of it made him terribly uneasy, for he knew he had done wrong.

But she! The insufferable girl treated him as if she could not bear to be next to him. He thought of Bennet, then, immediately, with a twinge of real heartache (over the years, it had hardly subsided at all). Miss Bennet reminded him of her older brother in an uncanny way. If Bennet was angry with you, he would give you a beating-or rather, in Darcy's case, would attempt to, in the process garnering himself a black eye or once, a broken nose. But he would only ignore you completely if he were truly, deeply hurt-and Darcy had hardly known him like so, for Bennet was not easily hurt. He thought it strange-how this girl reminded him of her brother. How he saw his old friend... his best friend, long gone... in her.

She could not stand him, never particularly liked him, not even when he and Bennet were friends, and she-a mere girl. And then... lately, she has had plenty of reason to detest him. He had given her enough. His father's harsh words rang in his ears: all she ever talks about is her brother coming back, saving her from you. There was no question-he would do his best to make it up to her. She deserved no less. He could do no less, having behaved towards her in a most ungentlemanly manner.

But the immediate question remained: how would she react when told about Mr. Darcy's insistence that they should marry at once? He found, to his great surprise, that his opposition to the immediate marriage was built in large part on her defiance of him. If only she was milder... softer... if only she were indifferent to him. It was a sad business, indeed, to have so poorly recommended himself to a lady so many years ago-and to have now reinforced her unfavorable opinion of him. How do you marry someone who dreams of being saved from you? How do you make it work?

But perhaps-perhaps he would not need to make it work. Many couples of his station never attempted to make it work. Indeed, it is strange that such a maudlin thought had ever entered his mind, for surely were he to marry one of the ladies of the ton, he would not think of it. But then again, he thought grimly, no lady of the ton would behave with such obvious incivility-such that all she thought of him was written plainly on her face every time he looked at her. Incivility, he thought grimly. Dare you talk to her of incivility?

He groaned and pitched himself onto the bed, desperately hoping for peace. But sleep would not come, not until the early hours of the morning, when the sky behind the window acquired a peculiar grizzled quality. Thereupon, after merely an hour of sleep, he rose from the bed and rang for his valet, to order himself a bath. As he faced the daunting task before him, he would feel more certain looking immaculate.

"No."

He had expected her to rant and rave, to denounce him a scoundrel and to demand a carriage at once. God knows what else, really; he would not put it past her to throw something heavy at him. But she only looked at him and shook her head.

"You are compleatly mad to even ask me that."

Her serious, convinced tone threw him, leaving him uncertain as to his next step. If she walked out presently, what would he do? He had asked her to the music room straight after breakfast-a silent and gloomy affair, for Georgiana still said not a word to him, and Miss Bennet herself spoke to him as little as possible. When he had asked her, quietly and out of his sister's hearing, she looked up at him, and he thought, with sudden pleasure, that she was surprised. But now, now-how to behave in the face of her cold defiance? A "no" he had expected, but not a "no" spoken in such a cold, weighed, adult manner!

Wouldst that she actually threw something at him!

The worst thing was, he knew that she was correct. What marriage had ever worked built on such animosity as now existed between them?

Still, he affected the confidence he did not feel:

"Mad?" he inquired. "Pray tell, why is it so? After all, was it not the desire of your father, and lately, mine, that we should marry?"

She was standing, leaning slightly against the side of the pianoforte, rocking lightly on her tiptoes. An unladylike pose, but when did she ever attempt to look a lady to him?

"My father!" she said, still keeping her tone light and cold, but her soft brown eyes flashed at him, full of anguish. "You know that my father was blinded by what is not his. He coveted your estate, and for that, I am deeply sorry. He tied me to you by a promise extracted from your father, years ago, and for that, I hate him sometimes." She folded her arms on her chest and stuck out her chin at him. "I have no intention to holding you to Mr. Darcy's promise."

He could not contain a wistful smile: oh, how easy it seemed. She would release him from the obligation-if not now, then upon reaching the age of one-and-twenty-and out of kindness, he would settle a sum of a few thousand pounds on her, enabling her to marry well. They would each go their own way, and would see each other no more.

If only his father found such a departure agreeable.

He told her so; she looked up at him as if she thought him mad:

"Surely he cannot wish you such unhappiness!" she said.

"And yet he does." Darcy rose from the sofa and stood at the mantel, arms folded on the chest, protecting himself from her certainty that she wanted no part of him. "For some unfathomable reason, my father seems to think you and I are splendidly matched."

"He is sadly mistaken, sir." Finally a reaction: her lips trembled as she spoke.

"He has the benefit of years of experience," he suggested.

"I have the benefit of knowing my own nature!" she huffed, furiously scowling at him.

"But not mine," he riposted, and regretted it immediately, for a dark shadow covered her countenance. Goading her a little was all fine; but he had to know where to stop. Presently, her disagreement was immediate and fierce.

"I beg to differ," she said bitterly. "I think I know your nature well enough to say that you are the last man on earth I should want to marry."

Darcy felt as if someone had knocked all breath out of him He had prepared himself for this conversation-for this confrontation, indeed-but was shocked by her vehemence. Finally, regaining his composure, he

"I am certain there ought to be men in this world who would make less desirable prospects than do I," he said, and regretted it immediately, for it made him sound almost plaintive.

"None that I know," she replied. She spun around on one spot, walked to face the window. He could see her neck, fragile, vulnerable, open, just under her hair that was rolled into a tight chignon at the back of her head.

He clenched his teeth and silently cursed the two men who had tied him, so recklessly, to this impossible creature. And why was his father so certain that they were well-matched? Even if they did marry, what possible life could they have with so much vitriol between them? They would claw each other's eyes out before their honeymoon was over.

"I can see what you think of me," he said to her back. Without turning around, she shrugged in a manner that was so dismissive and uncivil, for a moment, he was very much of a mind to conclude the entire conversation.

"Despite what you might believe," she replied, evenly, "I do not consider you so very bad. I merely think you a selfish man, unaccustomed to thinking of anyone but yourself. A man who can afford to give offense wherever he goes, for he will always be liked for his yearly income."

Darcy rolled his eyes. Her self-righteousness made him ill; yet he strove to keep his manner civil, and to keep his biting words to himself. "Would you believe me if I told you that I have regretted my harsh words to you, more than I can say?"

Another infuriating little shrug, without turning around. "Perhaps," she said. "But it changes nothing. Nothing you do now should change the fact that you were cruel and thoughtless enough to say them. I should rather die an old maid than marry you."

He heaved a disgusted sigh. "Miss Bennet, I am not declaring my love for you. I am not a romantic knight on bended knee. This union was arranged by our fathers, years ago, and I now see no reason not to follow their arrangement. That is all, so perhaps if you could just spare me the theatrics-"

She turned around, staring at him in disbelief. "And you-you are prepared to marry me? Now?"

"This very minute." Well, he thought, maybe with a single night left for soul-searching and drowning himself in Malaga wine.

"But why?" she now sounded lost. "You do not love me, you do not even particularly like me-have you no care for your own heart?"

"My heart has little to do with this," he explained. The conversation had worn him out, leaving his physically drained. This was so obvious, almost self-evident: why did he have to pound it into her stubborn head? "I do not dislike you. There are many things about you... about your character... that I admire. Many marriages are based on far less."

"But you do not love me!"

He could not help smiling. "Only at the age of sixteen do such arguments have weight. I have never expected to marry for love. The only thing of importance to me is that my wife not shame the Darcy name. I do not think you would, madam. I might as well humor my father."

"Three years ago, you pronounced me unfit to wear it!" she said, with perhaps a little too much temper.

"Three years ago, I was young and foolish, and I have paid for my stupidity amply-as you, yourself, have reminded me but recently. Was my blood spilled for your honor not recompense enough?"

She made a frustrated little moan: the memory seemed to pain her just as much, Darcy discovered with surprise. "No matter," she murmured finally. "None of it signifies. I have no more wish to marry you now than I did three years ago. You may be willing to tie yourself to a person who dislikes you-but I have no such desire. I shall not marry you, now or in any conceivable future."

"Oh." He frowne