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Chapter Seven

Posted on Friday, 1 September 2006

Much to Miss Bingley's chagrin, the plan of a Netherfield Ball had progressively turned from a passing thought into a certainty. There had been a point early in October, she remembered, when Charles had appeared to have given up the silly notion, but now it was very much the order of the day. Invitations had been written and sent, and the big wheels have been put in motion for the grandest event this godforsaken country had ever seen!

But of course. Now that Mr. Bennet is out of danger, it appears that his ladylove can attend! Bah! Charles had even insisted that we deliver the invitations in person to that ... that ... family! And Mr. Darcy would not even join us - and indeed who can blame him!

Miss Bingley and her sister were very much concerned about Charles's current infatuation.

A connection with that abominable family! It could not be borne!

They had attempted to discuss their concerns with Mr. Darcy, and while he had agreed that it might be a mistake for Charles to propose to Miss Bennet, neither Caroline nor Louisa could draw from him much more than that.

There was something quite odd about Mr. Darcy too, pondered Caroline. He had become even more disinclined for conversation and had taken to going for very long walks in Netherfield's extensive grounds, so that she did not see him for days, and when she did, he was withdrawn and taciturn, more than had ever been his wont.

Bingley was equally unaware of the causes of his friend's lack of spirits, and if he did not manage to wheedle them out of him, it had not been for want of trying. That evening, as he laid out the billiards for a shot, Bingley decided he would make one more attempt.

"I wish you would tell me what is troubling you, Darcy. I wish I could be of service."

You cannot, my friend.

"Thank you for your concern, Bingley, but there is nothing amiss with me."

"This is what you have been claiming for a while, ever since our last visit at Longbourn, in point of fact, but it does not wash with me, you know."

A lesser man would have missed his shot. Darcy did not.

"Leave be, Charles, oblige me. There is nothing to tell."

At least we have moved from 'there is nothing amiss' to 'there is nothing to tell', thought Bingley, who was not so unobservant as everyone would have him.

"If your cousin the Colonel were here, he would have threatened with drinking you under the table until you talked," Bingley observed, good-humouredly, "but you are quite safe from me. As we both know, you can hold your liquor much better!" he added, and made his friend laugh, as there was a lot of truth in that, if memory served.

Bingley set down his cue and advanced to Darcy with his hand outstretched.

"You have been a good friend to me for many years, Darcy. If you need me, you know where to find me, and this is the last I shall say on the matter."

"Thank you, my friend", Darcy replied and shook his hand, leaving Bingley to wonder if the thanks were for his offer of assistance or for his promise of silence.

True to his word, Bingley changed the topic of conversation.

"I hope you will spend Christmas with us," he said.

It was Darcy's turn to abandon his cue and return to his friend's side. Bingley waved towards the drinks and as Darcy nodded, he poured generous measures of port for both of them.

"I am afraid I cannot, Bingley," replied Darcy as he walked towards the great fireplace. "I will have to return to town. Georgiana and I have always spent Christmas together, and there are other maters to attend to. But you could come and spend Christmas with us in Berkeley Square. I am convinced your sisters would be delighted to return to town," he added with a barely concealed grimace.

Bingley came to stand beside his friend in front of the large hearth.

A great, merry fire was burning therein, casting red hues over their faces.

"I cannot leave her, Darcy," he said quietly.

"I beg your pardon?" his friend asked, not because he had not heard - he heard him quite well - but because he did not expect Bingley to be so forthright.

"I cannot leave her. I will not leave her," Bingley replied, this time louder, but with the same determination. "Not when her father's condition is so uncertain."

"You are not responsible for that!"

"Indeed not, but I would very much like to be responsible for her."

Darcy looked up sharply.

"Have you made her an offer?"

"No. Not yet. But I intend to. Very soon."

"And are you sure this is wise?"

"Whatever do you mean?!" Bingley snapped, with some consternation, almost spilling his drink.

Darcy fell silent for a while, choosing his words very carefully.

"As you said earlier," he finally began, "we have been friends, very good friends, for many years. As your friend, I do not believe this connection is in your best interest-"

"Not the disparity in our situations, Darcy, pray spare me!" Bingley interrupted, impatiently. "I would have thought that you and my sister Caroline did not have that much in common. Miss Jane Bennet is a gentleman's daughter. I am the son of a tradesman, albeit very reputable and reasonably rich. I should have thought that in the eyes of society, I stand to profit from the connection."

"You know too well that it will not be seen as such," replied Darcy, stung by the association with Miss Bingley.

"Do you speak for yourself, or for the rest of our acquaintance?"

Darcy pondered. He did not want to offend his friend, but he had to be truthful.

"Both, I believe..." At Bingley's gesture of impatience, he laid a hand on his arm. "As your closest friend, Charles, I want what is best for you."

Bingley turned towards Darcy, and for the first time in the entire evening's conversation, they looked each other in the eye.

"I love her," he said quietly.

"But does she love you? Or would she merely accept your addresses because her mother requires it of her, or because she feels she ought to secure her sisters' fortunes, should anything befall their father?"

"She does not need to. Have you not heard? They have just recently learned that an old friend of Mr. Bennet's from Cambridge had left him an estate in Devonshire."

Is that so? thought Darcy, with a distant smile.

It was good to learn that all was as it should be, and that the results of his labours had indeed reached their intended destination. He had known of the outcome of his endeavours of course, but his information had only come from his attorneys. He had not visited the family at Longbourn ever since he had made his decision that he could not possibly make Elizabeth an offer of marriage - he could not bear to see her and know that she would never be his; nor would he have wished to raise expectations that could not be fulfilled.

He would have liked to know what she thought of the entire scheme, though. Had she ever been to Devonshire? Did she like it? Would she be distressed to have to live there?

Of course she would, that was a very foolish question. The very nature of the circumstance that would require their removal to Devonshire was reason enough to be distressed, and the separation from everything familiar and everything she held dear could not but make matters worse. Darcy sighed. It could not be helped. It was not in his power to secure them Longbourn - not that he would have, even if he could. He would have stood no chance of accomplishing it in secret.

It suddenly occurred to him that Bingley was the only means of learning of their reaction, so he cautiously pressed on with a necessary falsehood - another!

"No, I have not heard. Did Miss Bennet give you any of the particulars?"

"No, she did not even mention it. It was Mrs. Bennet who informed me of it."

But of course.

"Mr. Bennet must be quite surprised at his old friend..."

"Actually, what makes it so odd is that the legator insists that he remains un-named."

"And have they no suspicion?"

"Mrs. Bennet says that her husband can think of a name or two."

So much the better. If Mr. Bennet credited his deception, then there was no reason why anyone else should not.

"This inheritance would obviously not be subject to the entail, so the Miss Bennets and their mother would be quite protected, if the worst were to befall their father," continued Bingley.

Yes, my friend, that was indeed the plan.

But of course he could not tell him that.

"How did you learn of the entail?" Darcy asked instead.

"Miss Lydia let it slip when we walked with them from Meryton, do you not remember? Was it not how you yourself heard of it?"

Darcy grimaced.

"Reverend Collins made a reference to it at some point. But surely, Bingley, the entail should not make you rush into a proposal..."

"Darcy, do not be obtuse. It does not become you. It is not the entail that gives me the incentive to 'rush', as you put it, and besides, it is no longer so much of a threat to the Miss Bennets anyway, ever since Miss Mary had become engaged to Mr. Collins."

"She had?" asked Darcy, surprised in no small measure.

He had not been aware of that - which was no wonder, since by his own design he had severed all connections to Longbourn - save for Charles of course, but he had been too engrossed in his own affairs to return daily with accounts of others'.

"Yes, some weeks ago. I do not know much of the particulars, other than he had proposed and had been accepted just before returning to his parish in Kent."

Darcy would have thought that even Miss Mary would have known better than to accept that man's hand in marriage, but then there was no telling. And in truth, she probably was better suited to him, in temper and in inclination, than any of her sisters.

So Longbourn would remain in the family, after a fashion, and it was becoming apparent to him that, by all accounts, Charles would not be dissuaded from offering for Miss Bennet.

It seemed that his own concern had rather been for naught, but Darcy harboured no regrets for having taken that course of action.

Elizabeth's affection for Longbourn aside, she would still have become uncomfortable, sooner or later, as a guest in her sister's and, more to the point, Mr. Collins's house. She would have probably been happy to live with the future Mrs. Bingley, but that still did not come close to having one's own home. And moreover, it would have necessarily increased the difficulties of his own situation, were he to encounter her every time he visited his friend.

The thought gave him pause. Was this his reason for choosing Devonshire, because it put her even further out of his reach? No, not quite. It had been his only choice in the matter, but there was no denying that the distance, his own lack of connections in that part of the country and the unlikelihood of him ever visiting there were advantages that highly recommended it.

"But we have digressed form our discussion, Darcy," resumed Bingley with a mild smile. "I believe I owe you an answer."

Darcy blinked.

"I do apologise, Bingley, I was not attending."

"Clearly. You asked me a while ago whether I thought she loved me. Yes, I believe she does. But I should like to know what makes you doubt it."

Darcy again chose his words with great deliberation.

"Bingley, Miss Bennet's manners are cheerful and engaging, but I have not detected any symptom of peculiar regard, and though she receives your attentions with pleasure, there is a certain reserve about her, which leads me to believe she does not invite them by any participation of sentiment."

Bingley shook his head with an amused smile.

"Reserved, is she? That is quite an indictment, coming from you, for of course you have always worn your heart on the sleeve."

"It is not the same," Darcy responded, rather offended.

"Most certainly not, I grant you, for I harbour no inclination of ever making you an offer of marriage!"

"This is no laughing matter, Bingley! We are discussing the rest of your life!" snapped his friend, having come close to the limits of his patience, as he stalked back to the billiards table.

"I apologise, Darcy, I could not resist it," smiled Bingley, not a great deal of contrition in his address. He walked slowly towards his friend, and his countenance lost all unholy merriment, to become earnest and almost solemn. "I have the highest opinion of your judgement, Darcy, and the firmest reliance on the strength of your friendship, and I thank you for having my best interests at heart, but on this occasion allow me to doubt your powers of perception. You have seen her but - what? five? six times maybe? - and only in company. Miss Bennet is a fine lady, Darcy, of genteel breeding and impeccable manners. What would you have her do, to be assured of her interest? Pursue me in the same fashion that you yourself have been pursued by a large selection of the ladies of our acquaintance?" Bingley's delicacy prevented him from mentioning his own sister, but there was no need for him to do so. "Believe me, my friend," he continued, "there are ways for a lady such as Miss Bennet to make her sentiments known to the object of her affection, without attracting the untoward interest of the world at large."

Bingley clapped his friend's shoulder in an elder-brother fashion that surprised them both, as it suggested a complete reversal of their ages, and of their usual rapport.

"When you meet the future Mrs. Darcy, my friend, you will understand."

Darcy nodded, an overwhelming emptiness within. He doubted very much that he would.

Chapter Eight

Posted on Sunday, 10 September 2006

Elizabeth smoothed her attire as she emerged from one of the carriages that brought her family to Netherfield, on the night of the Ball. She was filled with anticipation, not so much for herself, but mainly on behalf of her sister Jane, as this, the grandest social event of Meryton and the environs, had in truth become her engagement ball, ever since it had become generally known in the neighbourhood - with the invaluable assistance of her own mother and aunt and that of Lady Lucas - that Mr. Bingley had proposed and had been joyfully accepted.

She followed her parents in the drawing room, happy that her father was sufficiently recovered, that her mother was by his side, as subdued as she had thankfully learned to be in his presence, and that a warm glow of requited love spread over her sister's countenance, as Mr. Bingley approached to greet them and offer Jane his arm to lead her to the receiving line. Even Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst's greetings have been civil and almost warm, although obviously insincere - but there was only so much one could have expected of them.

Netherfield looked at its very best, adorned with exquisite garlands and glittering with an abundance of light. Strains of remarkably well-performed music mingling with the buzz of conversation filled the rooms, adding to the all-pervading atmosphere of delighted anticipation. Elizabeth's eyes were alight with pleasure as she looked around, her enjoyment complete.

From his position against the dark paneling, Darcy could do nothing but stare.

'If I could write the beauty of your eyes...' (*)

This was the picture that he would take with him on the morrow, when he left Netherfield, Hertfordshire and Elizabeth behind.

Her beauty, her joy, the sparkling laughter in her fine eyes.

He would remember her and love her for as long as he lived.

Darcy tried to turn away but knew he could not. He would have been better advised to leave for town before the ball, he had always known it, but he could not have offended Bingley in this fashion ... He stopped.

Who would believe that this was what had kept him? Certainly not himself. The only reason he had not left Netherfield before the ball was that he could not bear the thought of not seeing her for one last time.

People milled between them, a moving sea of muslin and lace, dotted with dark hues and red, and Darcy simply stood there, drinking in the sight of her and committing to memory every detail of her appearance.

Elizabeth's enjoyment of the evening was by no means diminishing, as familiar faces greeted her and were cheerfully greeted in return and snippets of friendly conversation were exchanged with people she had known all her life - that is, until a brief exchange with Lieutenant Denny, a close acquaintance of Mr. Wickham's, had turned her mind to less agreeable thoughts. He had been commissioned, the Lieutenant had said, to convey to her Mr. Wickham's most particular regards and to let her know that, much to his regret, his friend had been obliged to go to town on business the day before and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, that he did not imagine his business would have called Mr. Wickham away just then, if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman there.

Elizabeth pursed her lips, remembering Mr. Wickham's boast that he had no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy - that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; and yet there he was avoiding him, only a few weeks later.

She thanked Mr. Denny for his communication and excused herself, rather pleased that she had been correct in her original estimation of Mr. Wickham and his tissue of lies.

Elizabeth had just a few nights previously related to her sister Jane all that had passed between Wickham and herself, during her visit at their Aunt Phillips. At the end of the disclosures, Jane had agreed with her that, despite Mr. Darcy's initial criticable manners, the whole of their acquaintance with the gentleman, and particularly his later conduct, had shown nothing that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust - nothing that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; that no man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character could be capable of treating his father's favourite in such a manner, and that friendship between a person capable of it and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley would have been incomprehensible.

'I believe you like Mr. Darcy more than you used to, Lizzy,' Jane had teased then, and Elizabeth had returned the smile.

'I have to admit that he does improve on acquaintance'.

'And pray, how much has he improved in your estimation?'

Elizabeth had leaned on her elbow across her sister's bed and confessed:

'I never thought I would say this of Mr. Darcy, of all people, particularly given the beginning of our acquaintance, but he might live in my memory as one of the most intriguing men I have ever met. But that is all. You must be aware, dear Jane, that there is a great disparity in our stations. He will never show any real interest in me. He had made it abundantly clear that he has no wish for our society; after all, he had not joined his friend in his visits to Longbourn in over a month, and I for one have no intention to make myself unhappy over him!'

Elizabeth was roused from her reminiscences as Sir John Ashworth of Ashworth Park, who had engaged her for her first two dances, approached to claim her hand for the first set.

He was a well-educated man of a most gentleman-like appearance, with a talent for intelligent conversation and a ready sense of humour. He was recently returned from his Grand Tour and his account of some of the places he had visited, as well as some of the anecdotes he had to relate, kept Elizabeth very well entertained for the duration of the first two dances.

Darcy walked along the set, grimly determined to steer himself away from the galling picture of Elizabeth dancing with her personable young man. For the longest of times, he could not tear his eyes away, her beauty, her laughter and her joie de vivre drawing him like nothing else ever had; and the sight of that enticing curl let loose at the back of her neck, bouncing with every move and caressing her creamy skin, driving him out of his senses.

Why was he punishing himself so? Why did he not withdraw to his chambers - or at least leave the ballroom?

He could not stir, as a fresh wave of jealousy swept over him.

Was this the man she had alluded to, that long-ago morning in the Netherfield library, after the note regarding her father's attack had been delivered?

What did it matter if he was! Darcy tried to tell himself. He was a pleasant-looking man, with an air of good breeding and more than a spark of intelligence in his countenance - but of course he would be. Elizabeth would not be attracted to a pompous fool!

Was she attracted to him, then?

One might have thought so, given her smiles and her obvious enjoyment of his conversation.

So much the better. She could do far worse! Darcy told himself, but it served no purpose. There was not a single part of him that was about to believe that it was for the best.

He had turned around and walked away then, lest he gave in to the fierce compulsion to walk to her and say all that should be left unsaid.

Her second set was promised to a young officer who, thankfully, neither reminded her of Mr. Wickham, nor spoke of him, and her enjoyment of the dance was unspoilt.

When those dances were over, she discovered her friend Charlotte Lucas amongst the guests and walked over to greet her and exchange their news.

Elizabeth was in conversation with her friend when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took her much by surprise in his application for her hand for the next set.

When the dancing recommenced and Elizabeth took her place, she was amazed anew at finding herself standing up with Mr. Darcy, and read in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it. If memory served, at the last ball he had danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, which led many of the people now present, Elizabeth included, to wonder at him choosing to stand up with someone who was not of his own party.

The gentlemen bowed very low and received a curtsey in return; then, with slow, stately grace, they all advanced to their partners and gloved hands met and held, and so did their eyes. Elizabeth looked up to see Darcy's solemn, almost stern countenance, and wondered why would he give himself the trouble to dance, if he clearly derived no enjoyment from it.

Speak, you fool! his last traces of sense urged, but Darcy felt his mouth dry and his mind devoid of all but the awareness of her proximity, as she circled around him in the pattern of the dance. He breathed in the delicate, barely perceptible scent - jasmine? lily-of-the-valley? - that surrounded her, and reached once more for her hand, as the figure required. He surreptitiously caressed the tip of her fingers with his thumb, not wishing to let go of the little gloved hand that fit so perfectly within his own, any more than he wished to let go of her.

She had tiny white flowers and delicate ribbons woven in her hair, and she looked the very picture of loveliness.

Elizabeth wondered if their silence was to last through the entire duration of their dances.

At one time, she would have been rather inclined to break it, for no other reason than her belief that it would be a punishment to her partner to oblige him to speak, but she felt herself no longer driven to teaze and plague him. She had barely resolved to leave him to his own devices however, when - to her surprise - Darcy turned to her and suddenly offered:

"Allow me to congratulate you for the engagement of your sister to my friend. I am very pleased for them" he added, hoping that he had not betrayed how much he envied Bingley's happiness.

With a smile, Elizabeth turned to follow his gaze that rested on her sister dancing with her fiancé no more than a few steps away, a warm glow of happiness lighting up their features.

"Thank you. I believe they will be very happy".

"Yes," replied Darcy grimly, giving her the mistaken impression that he disapproved in fact of the connection. This angered her in no small measure, and she said quite pointedly:

"There is no doubt that they will. I have scarcely seen two people more suited to each other!"

The dance separated them once more, and Darcy was left to wonder what had he said to earn the unmistakable look of displeasure that flashed in her eyes before she walked away from him down the set, on Bingley's arm.

He turned to give his arm to Jane, and his turmoil was quelled by the look of serene happiness on her face. How did he ever think her placid and devoid of any real feelings for Charles? Darcy spoke to her with affection for Bingley and of his friend's obvious delight at the turn of events, and Jane thanked him warmly for his sentiments.

When Elizabeth was returned to him, she could not miss the genuine kindness in his address to her sister, and her previous displeasure was softened somewhat, making her more inclined to desist from any attempts to argue with him, for the sake of her future brother.

"I understand you will see Miss Darcy soon", she offered, choosing a topic which she knew would not give him pain. "She will undoubtedly be delighted to be reunited with you."

"Yes," he agreed quietly, "we are very close. My sister is very young and not much in the ability of making many friends of her own. I would have wished she could make your acquaintance. She could only benefit from knowing ladies such as yourself ... and the future Mrs. Bingley," he added hastily.

Elizabeth was surprised at this compliment and finally came to accept that although he disapproved of most of her family - fact for which she herself had decided she could not really fault him - this did not necessarily extend to her sister or, for that matter, herself.

It was a small concession perhaps, but the distinction gratified her.

"Will you return to Pemberley for the Christmas season?"

"Possibly. Our plans are not yet fixed."

Their dances have come to their end, and Darcy escorted her off the floor. He should leave her now, he was well aware of that, but he remained rooted to the spot.

"Thank you for the pleasure of this dance, Miss Bennet," he said quietly, not yet ready to relinquish the hold of her hand. "I am glad I have had this opportunity to see you and take my leave. It had been an honour to make your acquaintance."

"Thank you", she said softly, her beautiful face turned up to him, and the finality of the situation tore at his heart. Words caught in his throat. There was so much he would have wanted to tell her, but there was nothing more that could - nay, should - be said, certainly not now and very likely never. He could not offer for her, and that was the end of it.

He stood there, lost in the beauty of her eyes, as the thought of a lifetime of happiness with her washed over him and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.

Darcy left the ballroom soon after and returned to his chambers. He left Netherfield at dawn the following day.

Despite his better instincts, he begged his friend to accept his apologies for declining the honour of standing up with him as Bingley's best man, at his wedding.

Darcy did not return to Hertfordshire for Jane and Mary's double wedding, held just after Christmas, nor for Mr. Bennet's funeral, which followed less than two months later.

On both occasions, he wrote to his friend and his new wife, expressing his sincere sentiments.

By mid December, he had returned to Pemberley.

(*)William Shakespeare's 17th Sonnet

Chapter Nine

Posted on Wednesday, 20 September 2006

As the lights dimmed in the vast auditorium, Darcy felt Georgiana's hand excitedly press his own and he turned to smile at his sister, momentarily drawn from his own concerns by the joy reflected in her eyes and by the brilliance in her countenance, so rarely seen since Ramsgate.

It had been mainly for her benefit that he found himself in the great Theatre Royal(*1) that night, as she had expressed a great desire to attend the performance of Beethoven's much acclaimed Fidelio(*2). As for himself, he would have preferred the quiet solitude of his own library in Berkeley Square, despite the unwelcome thoughts that would have assailed him therein, to the debatable pleasure of a brilliant performance, bought at the high price of having to make an appearance amongst people he could no longer abide.

Darcy frowned at the thought that he would have to make the requisite polite calls in some of the boxes, come the interlude. The insipidity of those people grated sorely on his frayed temper and he shook his head at the incomprehensibility of his hopes that he would end by forgetting Elizabeth and by finding a more fitting match for himself amongst them.

Whatever could have prompted such a notion? He had been unable to do so for these six or seven years, ever since he had been old enough to wander the hallowed halls of the London society as a very young man on the marriage mart. He had been repelled by their facile superficiality even before he had anything to judge them by. And now that he had met Elizabeth, and had become enthralled by her artlessness, her brilliance and wit, her beauty and everything about her, how could he still hope to find a remotely acceptable substitute amongst women of higher status, but lesser worth?

He cast a disinterested look around him. The picture, he had to own, was pleasing enough. A vast expanse of fine cloth and expensive jewellery glowed softly in the subdued light, on all the levels of the multi-tiered performance hall. The glitter, as well as the beauty, were, he had found, mostly skin-deep - and in some cases not even that.

What was he doing amongst these people when his heart was in Hertfordshire?

No, not in Hertfordshire any longer, he amended. Devonshire by now, as he had surmised, and one of Bingley's missives had confirmed.

The thought made him wince in pain. What must she have endured, since her father's passing! He did not doubt that she had been as close to her father as he had been to his, perhaps even more so, for the Darcys had never been prone to the open expressions of affection he had witnessed between Mr. Bennet and his favourite daughter.

He should have been at her side at a time like this! The thought of Elizabeth's suffering, in the midst of self-centred and ill-judged manifestations which had undoubtedly been forthcoming from her mother and younger sisters, with no-one but Mrs. Bingley and Charles for comfort, tore at his heart. He should have been there, with her. He longed to be with her, and hold her, and tell her that he would take care of everything.

He could say nothing of the sort, of course. All that was within his rights to offer was the lukewarm comfort of a near-stranger - and that would never do!

The first strains of the overture filled the great auditorium and Darcy leaned back in his seat, hoping that the beauty of the music would soothe him.

It did not. Nothing did. Not even Pemberley.

He could not bear being at Pemberley for above two months. He had attempted to engross himself in estate business and, for Georgiana's sake, to spend more time with her and pretend to a normalcy that was not there. They have visited their neighbours, people that he had known and respected - and some of them even liked - for as long as he could remember, but there was no one whose society he would truly enjoy, nor was there anything he could do to fill the emptiness within, or remove the crushing weight of sadness that he carried everywhere he went.

Not even the Christmas season could lift it. Christmas had never been quite cheerful at Pemberley in a number of years, as memories of the celebrations of years gone by, when both his parents were alive, only served to remind him of the premature diminution of their family circle, which is why in most years Darcy had persuaded Georgiana that they should remain in town, or travel to Matlock.

He could not bear to remain in town this year. The knowledge that Elizabeth was less than half a day's journey away, happily engrossed at the time in her sisters' wedding preparations, was more that he could tolerate with equanimity; and the thought of Bingley's nuptials and his forthcoming happiness with the woman he loved was more than enough to drive him away.

Darcy hoped that his friend would forgive him the slight of not standing up with him as his best man, as well as the even weightier transgression of not attending his wedding at all, but he could not bear it. The thought of waiting at the altar by his friend's side, and seeing Elizabeth advancing down the aisle as Jane and Mary's maid of honour, knowing all the while that he would not see her coming towards the altar to stand by his side as his bride was beyond anything he felt he could endure. He had sought refuge at Pemberley then, in the vain hope that the beloved place would provide the sanctuary and succour that it always did.

Darcy sighed.

Pemberley had always welcomed him whenever he returned, from school in earlier years, from endeavours in town, even from the wretchedness of Ramsgate. Like Antaeus(*2), he found his strength returning to him as he walked its halls, or even as he beheld the beloved house across the valley, from the top of the abrupt hill opposite, on each of his journeys home.

It had not been thus on this occasion. All that he could think of at the sight of Pemberley was that it would never have Elizabeth as its mistress.

The thought haunted him in every room. Elizabeth in the music room, playing for him at the end of a delightful evening. Elizabeth across from him at the vast table, entertaining their guests or presiding over an even more appealing intimate dinner. Elizabeth in his study, or in the library, as he had imagined her that distant day at Netherfield. Elizabeth laughing with his sister, cajoling her out of her subdued spirits and teaching her to enjoy life as much as she herself did. Elizabeth in his vast, empty, loveless and cheerless bedchamber, lighting up his home and his life with the glow of her presence and her love...

The music soared, filling the auditorium with the uplifting message of hope and glory that Beethoven's music had brought to enthralled audiences for over a decade. To Darcy, however, it brought no solace. He stared right through the brilliant performance below, barely seeing, barely listening. The picture he had conjured vanished in the air. All that remained was the weight of loss behind a countenance cast in stone.

(*1) Between 1732 and 1847, The Royal Opera House was known as 'Theatre Royal of Covent Garden'.

(*2)The premiere of the final version was held in Vienna in 1814, but as an earlier version had been performed, also in Vienna, in 1805, I thought I could venture to assume that it might have been performed in London soon after (I have decided to place my story somewhere in the blurry middle-ground between the time when First Impressions was written and the year P&P was published).

(*3)Antaeus, in Greek Mythology, a giant who would regain all his strength when he came in contact with the earth.

Elizabeth drew a long breath as she had finally reached the summit, after a rather strenuous ascent. The Devonshire downs were rather more of a challenge than the pleasant rolling hills of Hertfordshire - and she welcomed it. She filled her lungs again with the bracing air, and slowly turned to absorb the unfamiliar beauty of the countryside that opened at her feet. Fresh green hues of newly arrived spring clung to the open downs on the left, only to be contrasted by the vibrant tones of heather and gorse that richly dotted them in places, and the hanging woods on the opposite side drew the eye to their darker beauty. Deeper in the valleys, clusters of barely distinguishable cottages beckoned with a friendly welcome, away from the forbidding summits, and the tall spires of churches spoke of resilience and hope.

Gusts of wind tugged at her bonnet and, on impulse, Elizabeth loosened the ribbons, allowing it to fall on her back. She closed her eyes and lifted her face into the wind as it washed over her and turned her barely-tamed curls into a tangled mess. Her eyes flew open in delighted surprise, however, as Kitty suddenly came to embrace her and press her cheek against her own.

"Lizzy! Dearest Lizzy," she exclaimed with unrestrained joy, "you do look like yourself again!"

Elizabeth returned the embrace, suddenly humbled by her sister's open display of affection, as well as by the realisation of how much had her own depression of spirits affected the ones who cared for her. She could barely repress a wince of pain at the thought of the last months. The anguish of her father's passing had been somewhat expected, given his progressively worsening condition since little before Christmas, but it was by no means less acute when the dreaded event had eventually come to pass.

"I am happy you think I do, dearest. Thank you," she added with a smile, and Kitty looked up in surprise.

"Whatever for?"

"For being such a good sister to me!"

Kitty blushed and Elizabeth pressed her hand. They had become very close over the last few months, and this had been the only blessing Elizabeth could think of. A great change had been wrought in Kitty's temperament and demeanour, and she had progressively become Elizabeth's companion rather than Lydia's. They practiced their music together, they withdrew to the still room to companionably go about their business, much as she used to do with Jane, and since the weather had turned, it had become their habit to go for long walks over the high downs, which invited them from almost every window of the Lodge to seek the exquisite enjoyment of their summits. Kitty was becoming almost as avid a walker as herself, and they had spent many hours exploring the beauties around their new home, for the whole country about them abounded in delightful walks, which have gone a long way to finally restoring Elizabeth's dejected spirits to a state tolerably reminiscent of what they used to be. They rarely talked of matters of great import and both avoided, as though by mutual agreement, to mention the most momentous of them all, but perhaps it was time for that to change.

"Come, Kitty," Elizabeth urged with a smile. "Let us find someplace to sit."

Holding hands, they crossed to the other side of the plateau and descended a few steps on the sunny side of the hill, until they came across a large flat stone, wide enough for both of them. They sat, and produced a small lunch of fruit, bread and cheese from their satchels.

"I am so happy that the weather turned!" Kitty exclaimed as she finished munching on her apple. "Another morning cooped up with Mamma and Lydia, and I would have gone distracted!"

As the older and responsible sister, Elizabeth knew she ought not encourage the sentiment, but to disagree or censure would have been not only detrimental to their newly-established bond, but also hypocritical. How many times had she not expressed the same thought to Jane? How often had she not sought solace from silliness and impropriety in exactly the same fashion? It was astounding and by no means unpleasant to note how much like her old self Kitty had become!

So Elizabeth merely offered with a smile, "It would not have been just Mamma and Lydia, in any case. Mrs. Jennings would have been sure to call."

"And you would regard that as an improvement?"

Elizabeth laughed lightly in response. Mrs. Jennings was a widow, with an ample jointure, who lived for the best part of the year with her son-in-law and daughter, Sir John and Lady Middleton of Barton Park, a large and handsome residence not more than three miles from Farringdon Lodge, the Bennets' new home. Mrs. Jennings was neither well-informed, nor elegant in her expressions or address, but she had a warm heart and cheerful disposition, and although her society did not do anything to sate Elizabeth's more discerning appetite, she was glad for the occupation it provided for her mother and, in not much smaller measure, for her sister Lydia. They were forever visiting at Barton Park or Mrs. Jennings would come to call, and the three women would dissolve in laughter and inane conversation that would have made Lizzy roll her eyes, had she not known better. Kitty however had not many such scruples. She had started to show more discernment and real understanding and, not having had yet acquired - as Elizabeth recently had - some wisdom and forbearance with the little vexations of this world - was at times unable or unwilling to conceal her disapproval of their frivolous concerns, which made her elder sister smile with amused affection, as she would recognise her own former responses to their relations' outbursts.

"You will say I have started to sound like Jane," Elizabeth laughed, "but I cannot help liking her, Kitty. She is loud, to be sure, and more meddlesome than I should like, but it is all in good cheer and without a shred of malice. And she keeps Mamma happy!"

"In that you are right. They have become fast friends..."

"Indeed. One cannot miss the great similarities in temper and disposition..."

"Oh, no, Lizzy, there is more to it than that! There is something else that highly recommends Mrs. Jennings to Mamma's affections!"

"And what would that be?"

"The fact that she has only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry off the rest of the world! Mamma is delighted to have her assistance in creditably disposing of the rest of her brood!" laughed Kitty and Elizabeth could do nothing but join her.

"It is unkind of me, I know," Kitty owned, "particularly as she had been so welcoming and has done so much to introduce us to the society, the concerns and the amusements of our new neighbours, but I confess I find her hard to bear sometimes. I thought I should scream when she kept teazing you about being so forlorn and asking how many broken hearts have you left behind in Hertfordshire!"

Elizabeth took her hand again in silent expression of thanks and understanding, and Kitty raised her eyes to meet her sister's.

"Lizzy..." she whispered tentatively, then gathered her courage and pressed on. "Are you...? You look better now, much better than you have done for a long time! Do you think ... you will be well again?"

"Oh, Kitty!" exclaimed Elizabeth, touched by her sister's concern. "I ... I know not ... but ... I hope I will!"

"It's just that ... you have been so strong, you hardly ever said a word about... Papa, and everything ... You threw yourself into attending to every detail of our removal from Longbourn, and none of us did more than you to establish us in our new home, but when the work was done, there was nothing left..." She stopped.

"Nothing left to hide behind..." Elizabeth said, finishing her thought, and Kitty nodded.

It was true. She had deliberately sought to involve herself in all that had to be done, no matter how tedious or trifling, because the momentous task of sorting through their personal possessions in order to move and make room for the following occupants of Longbourn had somewhat helped stall the wretchedness of spirit, and employment of hands had led to the channelling of thoughts to the practical concerns pertaining to their change of abode.

Elizabeth had insisted, and had finally carried her point in persuading her family to agree to a very swift removal. Within the month, having bid adieu to Hertfordshire and all their friends, they were settled at Farringdon Lodge, a handsome and well proportioned building, no more than four or five miles north-west-wards from Exeter, smaller, but much better appointed than Longbourn, with extensive views over the surrounding downs.

It had been a time of upheaval and hard work, and Elizabeth had dedicated herself, to the exclusion of all else, to ensuring that everything was dealt with to satisfaction, and that nothing had been left to chance - and was grateful for the employment, to once more keep thoughts at bay. As soon as the settling in their new home gave way to a easily-kept routine though, there was much more time left for the intrusion of thoughts, and the weeks that followed were ones of great dejection for Elizabeth. It was beyond her abilities to even attempt to conceal this, nor would she had been successful had she tried, and Kitty had been distraught to witness the silent suffering she could not allay.

"Were you sorry to leave Longbourn so soon?" Elizabeth suddenly asked. "Mr. Collins had been surprisingly sensitive. He made a point in assuring me several times we should take as much time as we needed..."

"No doubt under Mary's influence!"

"Indeed! Should you have wished we did not rush, though?"

"No!" Kitty answered decidedly. "There was nothing to be gained by tarrying, other than the grief of refreshed memories!"

"Yes. That was exactly how I felt. I could not bear it. Under a misfortune as this, assistance is impossible; condolence, insufferable. I had been wild to be away from it all, to a place where people should not feel they must condole with me at every step!"

"I know. This is why I supported you in declining Jane's and Charles' offer".

The new Mrs. Bingley, seconded warmly by her husband, had pleaded with her family to accept their hospitality and live at Netherfield for a while, but Elizabeth had been adamant in her refusal. The separation from Jane and the thought of a two- or three-day-journey between them - after having shared confidences every night for so many years - were difficult to bear.

But Jane had her own life now, and a different allegiance; and for her own part, Elizabeth felt that she desperately needed to turn a new leaf.

"I, for one, could not bear to remain in the neighbourhood for long enough to see our cousin taking Papa's place," Kitty confessed quietly, " and you must have felt it just as keenly!"

Elizabeth pressed her hand again and Kitty added,

"I do not doubt the change was good for Mamma and Lydia as well - and doubly so for Jane and Charles. You know as well as I do that our mother's continued presence would have taxed beyond forbearance even the proverbial patience of our amiable new brother! Mamma was quite vexed at the time that we would not relent on the subject of living at Netherfield, she told me so more often than I can remember. She would have loved the prestige and the status above all else. And to at least try to interfere with every detail of Jane's domestic arrangements..."

"Heaven forbid!" laughed Elizabeth. "Then, aside from the excitement of novelty, it was undoubtedly good for her, as well as for all concerned, to know that she can come to Farringdon and once again be mistress of her own home..."

"Although for all intents and purposes, you are the mistress of Farringdon Lodge," Kitty interjected with a smile.

It was partially true. Mrs. Bennet would happily preside over their table, as was her right as well as her due, but had decided that since she had neither the head nor the inclination for figures, she would be perfectly happy to allow Elizabeth to take over her father's role in managing their affairs. It was not an overly difficult task, as their current income was almost as large as the one that Longbourn had provided, and that was quite sufficient for a smaller household of ladies who had little opportunity for extravagant expense, in that part of the country. As a result, Elizabeth had found herself blessing - and not for the first or the only time - the memory of the unknown gentleman, her father's friend, who had made all their present comfort possible.

"It is a relief to know that it is in your power to prevent us from living above our means," Kitty offered and Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"I must own that I had thought so myself, but I do not relish having to wrestle the purse-strings from Mamma every time she thinks we ought to spend more on some frippery or other!" laughed Elizabeth and Kitty joined her.

They lifted their faces to the mild April sun, and fell silent for a while, enjoying the beauty and tranquility that surrounded them.

"I wonder how is Jane enjoying Scarborough," Kitty mused. "It was good of Charles to delay their proposed tour to his relations in the north and come to us instead."

Merely weeks after the Bennets' removal from Longbourn, their sister and her new husband had visited them in Devonshire, as Jane would not rest easy until she had seen for herself where and how they were settled, and how was her dear family submitting to the change. Their visit was briefer than might otherwise have been, for Mr. Bingley's remaining family in Scarborough were impatient to become better acquainted with his new wife, but it had been nevertheless a delight to see Jane again, so unexpectedly soon after they had parted, to show her their new home and to be able to reassure her as to the comfort of their arrangements.

"It was indeed, but then so is Charles. I am truly happy for Jane. She could not have found a better man!"

"Would it not be lovely if he could purchase an estate in Devonshire, rather than extend the lease of Netherfield?"

"Why, have you heard of any such estate having come up for sale?"

"No, I was merely wishing there was. But I should ask Mrs. Jennings. Whatever she does not know about the concerns of everyone on a twenty-mile radius is not worth knowing!"

"Kitty!" giggled Elizabeth, all the while knowing that it was probably true.

They sat together a little while longer in companionable silence, enjoying the warmth and the view and their new-found closeness, until Elizabeth suddenly suggested:

"We should turn back now, don't you think?" and, as Kitty agreed, Elizabeth re-arranged her hair and her bonnet, and they begun to slowly retrace their steps towards the Lodge.

They leisurely descended into the valley and eventually found the bridleway from Delaford. Soon after it had joined the lane to Barton, they noticed a gentleman riding in their direction. Having recognised them, he dismounted and advanced to pay his respects.

"Good morning, Colonel," Elizabeth and Kitty greeted him, with undisguised pleasure.

"Ladies..." Colonel Brandon bowed to both of them. "Have you been visiting at the Park?"

There was a trace of well-bred surprise in his voice, which Elizabeth did not fail to recognise as well as understand, and it brought a smile to her lips. They had been acquainted for long enough for the Colonel to know that of the Bennet ladies, it was Mrs. Bennet and Lydia who would be the most frequent visitors at Barton Park.

Its owner, Sir John Middleton, was, in temper and disposition, more suited to be Mrs. Jennings son, rather than son-in-law. He was a pleasant man of about forty, with thoroughly good-humoured countenance and friendly manners. The Bennets' arrival in the neighbourhood seemed to have afforded him real satisfaction, and ever since the very beginning of their acquaintance, he had invited them frequently to dine at Barton Park, and had attempted to concoct many a scheme for their amusement. His lady was of a completely different sort. Though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved and cold and she had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her main employment was the spoiling of her four children, and her main concern was the elegance of her table and of all her domestic arrangements.

"No, sir, we have not," Elizabeth replied. "My sister and I have taken a long walk over the downs this morning. After all the rain we have been having lately, the weather was an inducement we could not resist."

"How have you enjoyed your walk?"

"Very much indeed! Devonshire has many beauties to recommend it!"

"And you are now returning to Farringdon Lodge?"

Upon confirmation that it was indeed so, permission was sought for the Colonel to escort them, which was gladly granted.

Of all her new acquaintance, Elizabeth could find but few who would in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give real pleasure as companions, but Colonel Brandon was decidedly one of those few.

He was a close friend of Sir John's, about five years his junior. The intimacy subsisting between the two was astonishing, as there was hardly any resemblance of temperament or manner. Colonel Brandon was as grave and quiet as Sir John was gregarious, and had little interest for the other gentleman's pursuits, which were mainly centred on hunting and shooting, and entertaining his neighbours with as many private balls in the winter and as many al fresco parties in the summer as could be arranged.

Brandon was subdued in manner, with a pleasant, sensible countenance and particularly gentlemanlike address. He was much better informed and more suited to intelligent conversation that any of the people recently introduced to Elizabeth's acquaintance, and a welcome antidote to some of her new neighbours' senseless frivolity.

In the early weeks of her life in Devonshire, Elizabeth's dejected spirits have more than once made her impatient with Mrs. Jennings' and Sir John's empty cheerfulness, and she had found in Colonel Brandon a pleasant companion, who would not intrude upon her notice with misplaced jokes and impertinent innuendo. They would discuss books and art, people and places, the world as it was and the world as it had been, for the Colonel was not only well-read and well-travelled, but also in possession of an excellent understanding and, once he chose to overcome his reserve, his conversation was as stimulating as it was enjoyable.

Colonel Brandon found himself equally attracted to Elizabeth's conversation and manner, in contrast with that of the rest of their regular companions, as well as to her good understanding and her inclination towards a dry sense of humour. As a result, a decided preference for each other's society had gradually emerged, which had delighted Mrs. Bennet and, in almost the same measure, Mrs. Jennings. The latter had very soon pronounced it should be an excellent match, for he was rich, and she was handsome, and had, from that time onwards, often found many witty things to say to both about their supposed attachment.

Over the years, Mrs. Jennings' zeal in projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance had provided her with endless entertainment, as she had raised the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over a young man or another.

In this instance though, to her disappointment, there was little satisfaction to be had. After having met the first of her comments with amused incredulity, both objects of her interest have subsequently remained perfectly indifferent to her raillery and obliged neither with further protestation, nor with telling blush, regardless of being addressed in turn or together.

Mrs. Jennings however was not to be easily disheartened and, despite the decided lack of encouragement, her wit flew long.

"It appears you were in the right, we do have company," Kitty said to her sister, as they approached the house and the sound of Mrs. Jennings' merry laughter and Sir John's deeper voice came to them through the open windows of the drawing room.

The visitors welcomed them with exclamations of pleasure and commendations for their efforts as valiant walkers, despite the muddy paths, as Elizabeth and Kitty, followed by the Colonel, made their way within.

"Oh! And the Colonel, as well!" Mrs. Jennings exclaimed, with a wide smile and a knowing look in Elizabeth's direction. "Did you join the ladies in their walk by accident or design, Sir?"

"Neither, Ma'am," the gentleman replied, unperturbed. "I have only had the pleasure of encountering Miss Bennet and Miss Catherine when they were on their way back to the Lodge."

"And a real pleasure that must have been, eh, Brandon?" Sir John decided to join his mother-in-law's in what they both regarded as subtle taquinerie. "Well, young ladies," Sir John resumed, turning to Elizabeth and Kitty, "I am happy you are here, for I have great news, which I have already shared with your mother and sister. I have just received a letter from my cousin, Mrs. Dashwood from Norland Park. She and her daughters are very much in the same position as yourselves, as they have just recently lost Mr. Dashwood to an unexpected illness," he added, making Elizabeth wince at the thought that it was just as well that Sir John was kindness personified, for tact was not his forte. "They will have to quit their home in favour of Mr. Dashwood's son from a previous marriage, and I have written to offer them Barton Cottage. I have meant to do so for many weeks now, ever since I heard their sad news, in fact, but with your family settled in the area, it added fresh incentive. I am pleased to tell you that even though they intended to come and settle here sometime in the autumn, I have managed to persuade them to remove from Norland so much sooner, so I believe they will be at the cottage before Easter. I daresay you will be fast friends!"

"Yes, Easter will arrive much later this year, in mid May," Mrs. Bennet commented, not really attending. She was not particularly pleased by the news of more young ladies settling in the area. Now if they were to bring a brother or two, that would make it much better for, after all, one could not know too many young gentlemen.

It would damage the prospects of her own daughters, to be sure, for there were not too many eligible bachelors in the country. Colonel Brandon was one, and she would have been quite happy if one of her girls could have him, particularly her darling Lydia, but Lydia - although in raptures when she had learned he was a colonel - lost all interest when it became known that he was retired from active service. Elizabeth could perhaps secure him though, but she should make haste about it, lest any of the new girls caught his fancy!

Mrs. Bennet had another sip of tea and shrugged. Well, be that as it may. She was not as impatient to have her daughters well married as she used to be, because of course they will not lose Farringdon Lodge to an entail and become destitute.

Mrs. Bennet never had great curiosity to find out much about their mysterious benefactor. That she and her daughters had a roof above their heads and a comfortable income sufficed. Elizabeth, however, was more interested and had attempted to learn from her new neighbours about the previous owner of the Lodge, but even Mrs. Jennings, who made it her business to know everybody else's, could not be of much help. All she knew was that it used to belong to the Farringdon estate, now leased to the Whittakers, after Lord and Lady Farringdon's demise.

Elizabeth's acquaintance with the Whittakers was not as such as to permit the same level of intimacy as they had with Mrs. Jennings, nor were they as disposed to lay out all their private concerns open for everyone's perusal as the good lady was, but even as their acquaintance progressed, they could offer no further intelligence.

Elizabeth had eventually understood from the eldest Miss Whittaker that the lease was controlled by some London attorneys, and that she had no idea as to the identity of either the former or the current owner, nor of the history of the estate.

Colonel Brandon, when applied to, could not be of much assistance either, as he had been out of the country for so long in his military days as to not have a great deal of knowledge of the affairs of his neighbours.

Elizabeth had eventually let the matter drop, satisfied within herself that it would be the least she could do for the memory of her departed father's friend, to allow him the privacy he had so obviously desired.

Chapter Ten

Posted on Wednesday, 20 September 2006

The week after Mrs. Jennings' and Sir John's visit, the Bennets were invited, along with the family at Barton Park, to dine with Colonel Brandon at Delaford. The Colonel was not much in the habit of entertaining, but occasionally he would host a small informal dinner for the closest people of his acquaintance.

When Elizabeth and her family arrived, they were surprised to note that amongst the guests, there was a gentleman they had not previously met. He was soon introduced to them as Col. Richard Fitzwilliam, known to Col. Brandon from his previous years of active service. The newcomer, they were soon told, was visiting his erstwhile fellow officer and longstanding friend, on his way from Plymouth to London.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was a good-looking man of about thirty, not very handsome, but of easy manners and gentlemanlike address. He bore quite cheerfully and with admirable composure Lydia's interest in his regimentals and person, but in the end it was Elizabeth's person and conversation which had attracted him most.

After dinner, he seated himself by her and Col. Brandon and, with progressively more contribution from the latter, they all talked so agreeably of London and Devonshire, of the pleasures of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, as to render even the taciturn Brandon more talkative than Fitzwilliam had ever seen him before.

It was an agreeable evening, which not even Lydia's ill-judged occasional interference could spoil. At everyone's request, Elizabeth finished by playing for the company, and Col. Brandon offered his services in turning the pages.

Her playing had improved substantially over the past months, and was listened to with great pleasure by at least three of the people present. Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Elizabeth to sing a particular song, which Elizabeth had just finished. Mrs. Bennet, Mrs. Jennings and Lydia were engrossed in their merry conversation to the exclusion of all else, and it was only Kitty and the other two gentlemen who paid her the compliment of attention.

Col. Fitzwilliam found himself more attracted than he would have thought by the lady's fair countenance and lively spirit, but as he was a honourable gentleman and a good friend, he refrained from enjoying her conversation as much as he would have otherwise been inclined to, and rejoiced in the obvious improvement in Col. Brandon's spirits, which the charming Miss Bennet wrought.

They did not see him after that. Much to his expressed regret, Col. Fitzwilliam could not extend his stay in Devonshire beyond a week as, he had explained to his friend on his departure, he was expected in London to meet with his cousin and travel together in Kent.

In May, the cheerfully heralded and long-expected Miss Dashwoods and their widowed mother made their appearance in the neighbourhood and settled at Barton Cottage. Elizabeth and her mother and sisters were amongst their first callers, after Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, of course, as they could equal neither Sir John's solicitude as cousin and landlord, nor Mrs. Jennings' curiosity and penchant for gossip.

Elizabeth was delighted with her new neighbours which, happily, were now settled no further than two miles from her home. Mrs. Dashwood was a respectable, amiable woman, with little to say, but with kindness and well-breeding evident in all her communications. Her daughters were no less a pleasant addition to the neighbourhood, and Elizabeth found herself concurring with Sir John's friendly, but ill-informed opinion that they would become fast friends. He thought they would be drawn together by the similarities in age and situation, while she became aware, soon after making their acquaintance, that they were pleasant, well-informed young ladies, of good manners and no affectation, and was delighted to find them so. Her expectations were not high, but had they been, the elder Miss Dashwoods would have exceeded them all. The eldest, Miss Elinor, was two years her junior, but Elizabeth was almost disposed to regard her as older than herself, because in temperament and calmness of manner, she reminded her greatly of her sister Jane. The second eldest, Miss Marianne, was without doubt the handsomest of the two, and her mother's favourite. The preference, however, was not displayed in a manner to mortify and repel her other daughters - a fashion to which Elizabeth was well accustomed - but merely betrayed a similarity of temper, tastes and opinions between the mother and one of the daughters, which the others did not share. The youngest, Miss Margaret, was but thirteen, and while well-bread and quite charming, could not interest Elizabeth as a possible companion.

It did not take her long to discern that between the two, she found herself drawn more to the eldest Miss Dashwood. Although Elinor did not display Elizabeth's easy humour and open manners, her reserve was not repulsive, as she realised it wanted but a longer acquaintance to be overcome.

When their progressive intimacy allowed them to know each other better, Elizabeth discovered she had been correct in her estimation, and that Miss Elinor's good-sense and quietly expressed but sound and deeply held opinions suited her own common-sense better than Miss Marianne's youthfully romantic notions of a girl but seventeen. She could not but find the younger Miss Dashwood endearing, however, and believe that a few years will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of commonsense and observation, and then they may be more easy to define and justify than they now were, by anybody but herself.

"Perhaps we could call on Elinor and Marianne this morning, Elizabeth, what say you?" Kitty asked one morning in May, as the blustery weather that had plagued the last couple of days finally seemed to give way to something more constant.

Elizabeth acquiesced with good humour, once more pleased with their good luck to have people whose company was so thoroughly enjoyable settled so close to their home. It afforded a good substitute for the happy hours spent with her friend Charlotte, and almost went a long way to make her miss Jane less.

In the past few weeks, they have seen the Dashwoods every other day, as they were all living well within the radius of influence of Sir John's constant hospitality. Their intimacy had actually been promoted by their frequent invitations at the Park, in ways that Sir John had not envisaged; for there was a mutual tendency to shrink from the exuberance and intrusive manners that he himself and his good mother-in-law displayed, sufficient to make them desirous of each other's company even more than they would otherwise have been.

It did not take Kitty and Elizabeth long to reach Barton Cottage, only to discover that Miss Marianne had suffered a rather uncomfortable mishap. She and her sister Margaret, it emerged, had been lured out the day before by a temporary reprieve in the blustery showers, and they had made their way towards one of the summits that rose behind the Cottage. The weather had not been tempting enough to draw the others from one's sketches and the other's book, in spite Marianne's declaration that it would be lastingly fair and that every cloud would be drawn off from their hills, and the younger girls had set off together. They had gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in every glimpse of blue sky and resisting the high south-westerly wind with laughing delight, when suddenly the clouds had united over their heads and a driving rain had set full in their faces. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigency of the moment gave more than usual propriety: it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led to their garden gate. They had set off and at first Marianne had the advantage, but a false step had brought her suddenly to the ground.

"I was about to return to the house and call to Mamma and Elinor for assistance, but luckily Colonel Brandon was passing up the hill a few yards from us when the accident happened."

Sat on a stool by the side of a blushing Marianne, Margaret told the rest of her story. The Colonel had dismounted and ran to her assistance. Marianne had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in the fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services, and as there seemed to be no other option, took her up in his arms and carried her down the hill. Then he brought her into the house and seated her in a chair in the parlour and, despite the entreaties of a very grateful Mrs. Dashwood, declined her invitation to be seated, as he was dirty and wet, but requested and was readily granted the honour of calling on them the following day to enquire about the patient.

Elizabeth and Kitty expressed their concern and sympathy and enquired about Marianne's comfort. They were told that the pain had subsided, and more readily so after the draughts that Mr. Martin, the apothecary, had supplied. She was however unable to stir from her reclining position on the sofa, and confessed herself quite vexed by the inability to enjoy the truly good weather that had finally arrived.

"It could have been much worse, dearest," her elder sister offered with a smile, by way of consolation. "Had you been further from home, and had the Colonel not been at hand to offer his services, you might have been faced with a really dangerous cold."

Marianne smiled and held her hand, and Margaret giggled.

"I would not have thought the Colonel equal to such exertion, at his stage in life."

Elizabeth was shocked at such a statement from the well-bred youngest Miss Dashwood and wondered if she had been spending too much time in her sister Lydia's company. Her sentiments were, at least in the first respect, shared by the elder Miss Dashwood and her mother, who promptly checked her interference and bade her to refrain from such comments.

"But he wears a flannel waistcoat and complains of rheumatism! Marianne, you told me so yourself!" resumed Margaret, earning another 'Tsk!' from her mother and a blushing reprimand from the sister whose aid she had attempted to enlist.

"It appears that my younger girls think five-and-thirty on the brink of decrepitude and infirmity," smiled Mrs. Dashwood apologetically to the visitors, whom she had grown to think of as other daughters. "At this rate, my dears, you must be in continual terror of my decay, and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty!"

Everyone laughed and Marianne blushed again. Elizabeth regarded her with an amused smile, having heard in the past some of the younger girl's readily expressed opinions. It was clear to her that, at seventeen, Miss Marianne had relegated people like the Colonel to night caps, powder gowns, tisanes and slippers warmed in front of the fire, and it had come as a great surprise to see him in the posture of a romantic hero who had materialised from the mists of the downs to come to her rescue.

After a while, Elizabeth decided it was time to excuse themselves and did so, but Marianne begged so insistently for the pleasure of their company, pleading her inability to come in quest for it at Farringdon Lodge herself, that they were persuaded to stay a little longer. It was no hardship, as the conversation was amiable and witty, with a lot of good-humour and not lacking in sense.

"Will you read for us, Elizabeth?" Marianne asked some time later, at a lull in the conversation.

Elizabeth readily acquiesced and rose to choose a book from the pile Marianne kept on a small table by her side. Her eyes fell on the one on top, a slim volume of Shakespeare's sonnets, beautifully bound and lovingly worn, obviously a favourite. She opened it at a random page and began to read. She had a soft, warm voice and she read well, but her inflections did not do justice to Marianne's idea as to how Shakespeare's sonnets should be read.

"Oh, Elizabeth, for shame!" she exclaimed after she could hold herself back no longer, with all the tender admonishment of a close friend. "How can you read this so evenly and tamely?"

"It was well read, Marianne," her sister disagreed, lifting her eyes from the sketch she was putting the final touches to, a remarkably accurate rendition of Barton Cottage.

"I am sorry if it was not to your satisfaction, Marianne," Elizabeth replied with good-humour and offered her younger friend the book. "Please, show us how it is done."

With a smile, Marianne took the book, but she barely had the opportunity to declaim two verses, with all the deeply-felt passion which she believed they required, when the drawing room opened and Col. Brandon was announced.

He advanced and greeted the ladies with all the reserve they were accustomed to find in him, and it was only for Elizabeth that he had a friendlier, more open smile, as she was the only person in the room with whom he felt reasonably at ease. He then turned to Marianne and offered her a beautiful bouquet, no doubt plundered from his extensive and well-kept gardens, then begged leave to enquire as to the state of her health. Her cheeks overspreading with the deepest blush, Marianne bent over the flowers, inhaling their scent, then recollected herself to reply to his enquiries and thank him for his assistance the previous day. In that, she was seconded by her mother and elder sister, who insisted that the Colonel should be seated and take some refreshment. The invitation was accepted with quiet pleasure, and Brandon seated himself by Elizabeth's side.

It was difficult, if not impossible, to regain the gay spirit that had pervaded the young ladies' visit prior to the Colonel's arrival, and despite Elizabeth's efforts and Elinor's civil enquiries, supported by Mrs. Dashwood's, Brandon could not but be aware that he had interrupted a merry and light-hearted morning call between close friends. He stood to take his leave, but Marianne, shyly but determinedly, insisted that he ought not leave them so soon.

"I should not wish to interrupt your visit, young ladies," he said awkwardly.

"Perhaps if you would resume your reading, Marianne?" Elizabeth suggested.

Marianne protested against such a scheme, blushing violently, but in the end relented and took up the book. Brandon walked to the window at her left, his attention seemingly on the extensive view of the valley, which the drawing room prospect commanded.

Elizabeth smiled to herself to note that Marianne's own reading was even more subdued and 'tame' than her own had been when she had earned her censure, but as she read on, her friend became progressively unaware of her audience, and her passion and obvious enjoyment of poetry returned to levels which her friends could recognise.

Marianne had finished reading the 115th Sonnet and, turning the page, began the following. She had all but forgotten of her mother and sisters and friends, and quite forgotten of the gentleman whose presence had so intimidated her before.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love..." she read, until, to her utmost surprise, she heard another voice, reciting almost in a whisper, with a quiet intensity which even Marianne could not have found lacking.

"Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken..."(*)

It was only to Elizabeth and Marianne that the Colonel's quiet whisper was audible, from where they stood. With the wisdom of five years her senior, Elizabeth pretended not to hear the words, said almost to himself, as Brandon's gaze was fixed over the valley, into the country beyond, but Marianne stopped reading and turned her head to steadily regard him, her countenance a study in undisguised astonishment and surprised admiration.

As the room fell silent, Brandon turned back towards them, to find Marianne's gaze fixed on him. He coloured, apologised and hastily took his leave.

(*)William Shakespeare's 116th Sonnet

Chapter Eleven

Posted on Wednesday, 20 September 2006

"I say, Darcy, I wonder what would the Old General throw at us this time?" Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked jestingly as the carriage lurched and swayed at high speed.

"You'll know soon enough," Darcy smiled, as ever amused despite himself by the more than fitting name that his cousin had chosen for their Aunt. "We are making good time. We have just passed Westerham, I noticed. We should be at Rosings before noon".

"Heaven help us!" muttered Fitzwilliam and leaned back against the cushions.

Darcy nodded his assent and turned to look out of the window. The smile he had worn for his cousin dissolved into a frown as her face appeared before him, unbidden.

Will it ever stop?

She had been with him everywhere he went.

She had been in the house in Berkeley Square, smiling at him from across the long, dark mahogany table, she had walked with him the halls of Pemberley, leaned over his shoulder in the dark nights, as he sat at the desk in his study, and cut up his sleep and his peace with dreams of her, day and night.

Will she ever leave him?

A part of him prayed she never would.

Darcy poured a brandy for himself and one for his cousin and walked to stir the embers of the fire, still glowing in the great fireplace of Rosings' library.

It had been a long, tedious week, and he had found his Aunt's company more taxing than usual. He had attempted to withdraw to the study and occupy - or claim to occupy - as much time as possible with his Aunt's estate business, but he could not avoid her at dinner, nor retire from the drawing room in the evenings as soon as he would have wished to.

Darcy drew a long breath. He had found his Aunt's inclination to pontificate difficult to bear with at the best of times, but her constant veiled or not so veiled references to his duty to marry and continue the lineage at Pemberley were now grating sorely on his frayed temper.

Duty! he all but spat to himself, earning a sharp glance from Fitzwilliam, who looked up from a folio he was half-heartedly leafing through.

"Cousin? I beg your pardon, I was not attending. Did you say something?"

Darcy negatived with a wave of his hand and thankfully Richard did not pursue the matter.

He ought to be more careful, he reminded himself. Richard's perception surpassed that of the majority of his acquaintance.

A brief smile curved his lips, as he remembered Bingley's comment about Fitzwilliam attempting to drink him under the table to extract his secrets. His cousin probably would have done it, too, quite cheerfully, but fortunately he was not about to attempt it at Rosings!

The smile vanished as the dark, stately room, full of grandeur but very little comfort, brought back to him the weighty burden of expectations.

Duty to his family, his lineage, his estate.

What of the duty to oneself? What of the basic need for happiness, or comfort, or truth?

What of the deepest truth of his soul?

Was he to live a lie for the rest of his days?

Was he to forever lie to the unfortunate woman who may one day gain the position of Mistress of Pemberley, unaware that she had acquired nothing but an empty shell? There were dozens of women of his acquaintance who wanted only that, the station and the lustre, but he had never imagined that he would offer for any of them. He had always wanted a true communion, a marriage more than in name only, and never doubted that one day it would be his. It did not appear remotely possible anymore.

Not because he doubted that there were, somewhere, amongst his future acquaintance, fine young ladies, of good breeding, good fortune and with the right connections. It was unreasonable to assume that they would all be vain, artificial or empty-headed. He might one day come across the perfect example of the accomplished female.

But she would not be Elizabeth.

The sound of his cousin dropping the heavy folio on the table by his side made Darcy start.

"I do not know how you bear it, Darcy!" the Colonel said with a smile, as he walked towards him. "Our Aunt's constant prodding about your marriage to Anne," he clarified, in response to Darcy's anxious stare. "Why do you never set her to rights on that score?"

"Anne does not wish it," Darcy replied quietly, sipping his brandy.

"I beg your pardon? You mean to say that Anne desires the connection?"

Darcy shook his head.

"No, no more than I. But she is quite reluctant to have to face the storm of our Aunt's displeasure for longer than she has to. There will be time enough for that, she says, when I have decided I do want to marry."

"And will that be anytime soon?" Fitzwilliam ribbed good-naturedly.

Darcy turned towards the fire.

"You never told me of your trip," he attempted to change the subject, without much hope that he would be successful. Richard could be as obstinate as a hound with a bone if he did not wish to drop a topic.

To his surprise, this time he did.

"My trip?"

"Your trip from Plymouth. You said you were to call on an old friend."

"Oh, that! It was quite enjoyable, in point of fact. Brandon is a good man and great company, if you get him going. I know nothing of the particulars, of course, but I believe he had had more than his share of ill-luck."

"How so?" Darcy feigned interest, glad that the focus of the discussion was moving away from him.

"Darcy, I am shocked! Are you saying that you are now about to stoop to gossip?"

His cousin laughed at his own sally, then refilled his glass.

"I have always got the impression, in our times in active service together, that he did not choose to be a soldier, and was rather running away from some distress in his past. My guess was that it had something to do with a lady, of course."

"Why would that be the only reason?" scoffed Darcy, somewhat distemperedly, distress related to mystery ladies in one's past not currently being his favourite topic of conversation.

"Why not? He is too good a man to have run away with the military circus to escape some misdeeds and besides, there is just something he said..."

"One night, over brandy?" interjected Darcy with an odd smile.

"Something like that. Anyway, I may be a loud soldier with coarse manners to you, Cousin, but I am not about to repeat confidences, and particularly not those of the vino veritas sort."

"That is good use of Latin, for you at least!" Darcy shot, good-humouredly.

"Thank you, Cousin. Anyway, to return to the subject of matrimony, from which you have so skillfully drawn me - good attempt that, Darcy! - I am rather pleased for my friend. I believe he will soon be wed, or at least he should be, if he gathers his wits about him and proposes. And he would be a damn fool if he did not! The lady is delightful. Not in possession of a great fortune, I gather, but of a decidedly attractive disposition. She is witty and handsome and it appears that her society is doing wonders for my friend."

"I am happy for him," commented Darcy, dryly. "But what is with all this glowing praise? You will make me believe you are quite taken with her yourself!"

"You would not be so surprised if you had met her," Fitzwilliam replied, this time without the half-jesting manner that had pervaded his earlier discourse. "Yes, I might have been... If she did not appear to have Brandon's interest and if she had any fortune, or had I not been a second son, I might not have decamped from Delaford as soon as I have... And you would have had to visit the Old General by yourself this year, Cousin", he reverted back to raillery, to mask some genuine feeling he had no wish to share. "As it is, I will be pleased to wish him joy. Miss Bennet is the best he could have hoped for."

Darcy's only thought at the time was satisfaction that his hand did not shake as he took the glass to his lips. The fiery liquid burned all the way.

"Miss Bennet?" he finally brought himself to ask, and to his dismay, his voice did shake. He masked it with a cough.

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Her family lives at Farringdon Lodge, in Devonshire, just a few miles from my friend's estate."

Darcy's thoughts circled around him in an ungovernable whirl.

Fitzwilliam, however, was not quite finished.

"I had wondered at the time why this sounded familiar ... But of course. Farringdon. Was not your aunt married to Sir Edmund Farringdon? You inherited the Farringdon estate, did you not? I thought there were no children from that marriage..."

With no hope to gather his wits against such a sustained cannonade, Darcy made no answer. Fitzwilliam carried on to his own conclusion.

"In that case you must have at least heard of the Bennets then, Darcy. Are they your tenants?"

With an effort, Darcy brought himself to speak. He was not ready to open his heart to his cousin. Despite their closeness, he could not even entertain the thought of telling him anything of her. Another falsehood came much easier.

"No, they are not. The Lodge had not been part of the estate for years. It has been sold or given away by my uncle a long time ago - I believe to the curate of the parish."

Fitzwilliam nodded his acceptance of this. There was no reason why he should not.

Thankful for small mercies, Darcy soon took himself to his chambers, before Fitzwilliam might remember that he did not in point of fact answer whether he knew the Bennets or not.

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