Darcy's Point of View: A Writing Exercise by Kate

To learn why I started this writing exercise, see the following posts: J is for Janites and Darcy's Point of View: First Impressions.

Darcy Rejects Elizabeth Without Realizing It

The assembly room was too hot and too crowded. People maneuvered close to the Bingley party. They were introduced to Bingley, to his sisters, to Mr. Hurst, to Darcy, to Bingley, to his sisters, to Mr. Hurst, to Darcy. Darcy wondered why they bothered; he would never remember their names. He was unlikely to spend much time at Netherfield anyway. Bingley would get bored soon and move on somewhere else. Darcy thought sometimes that Bingley only bought an estate because Darcy owned an estate. Bingley knew nothing about estates. Darcy gave the Netherfield experiment six months.

More faces—more introductions. People shrieked at him. An over-scented woman cried, "Doesn't the quartet sound lovely?"

There was nothing to say to that. It wasn't as if Darcy would hear the music with all the chattering and thumping and unending introductions. "What beautiful gowns," another woman shrieked. Darcy managed to detach himself. The women whispered as he edged away. Darcy shook his head. You'd think lace and ribbons were state secrets the way women carried on.

He circled the room, nodding to Mr. Hurst. "What an odd company," Miss Bingley mentioned as he passed her, "don't you think?" but he didn't pause. He'd already danced with her and didn't need to oblige again—she had plenty of partners. Most worthy women always could obtain partners. He started another circuit, looking for Bingley. They'd been here nearly two hours—long enough. Bingley could make his excuses, they could go back to Netherfield, Darcy could read and go to bed.

Bingley was ending a dance with a tall, serenely smiling woman, and Darcy waited near the edge of the woman's party. Bingley bounded over to him like a Pemberly pup. Wasn't this ball splendid? Weren't all the girls pretty? He was having a wonderful time—

Darcy felt the beginnings of a headache. They weren't going to leave early. Which didn't mean Darcy was going to dance—not with anyone he didn't know in an overheated room amongst a crowd of people exchanging pointless remarks.

Bingley was puzzled. Wasn't Darcy having fun? He'd have fun if he danced. Bingley would get him a partner-another Bennet sister, there, behind Darcy. Darcy turned his head, caught the eye of a sitting young woman and snapped a negative. Bingley laughed, slapped his back and strode back to the serenely smiling woman: Miss Bennet, Darcy supposed. His headache was getting worse.

Elizabeth Turns Down Darcy, and He Doesn't Mind

Elizabeth Bennet had lovely dark eyes. She was a trifle short, her smile was crooked, and she was far from elegant. She wasn't shrill though, being easy to listen to. At the Lucas's, Darcy placed himself in a group near her. He also listened to her sing. She wasn't as polished or as adept as his sister Georgiana, but the songs were well-rendered: pleasing. She was a pleasing, intelligent young woman.

The Lucas's entertainment went downhill after that, and some couples started to dance which didn't bode well for the rest of the evening: why did people want to hop around rather than converse on interesting subjects? Darcy glanced around for Mr. Long, hoping they could continue their conversation about tax laws.

He found he was next to Sir William who was prattling: "There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished society."

"Every savage can dance," Darcy pointed out, but Sir William was making pleasantries, not actual conversation, and Darcy subsided. Sir William began to ask Darcy pointless questions about his dance habits, and Darcy glowered—if he stopped answering, maybe Sir William would go away.

The questions finally ceased, and Darcy was ready to move off when he realized Sir William was presenting Miss Elizabeth Bennet to him as a potential dancing partner. Darcy held out a hand, but Miss Elizabeth refused. Correctly, Darcy allowed: this wasn't an appropriate venue for a dance. Still, he bowed and repeated Sir William's proposal. She was after all, preferable—much preferable—to another five minutes of questions about where and when Darcy liked to dance.

She raised her brows, and her eyes—dark brown with flecks of gold—met Darcy's momentarily. She was, he was disconcerted to see, amused—by Sir William, he guessed. It occurred to Darcy that amusement was probably a better tactic with someone like Sir William than monosyllabic responses, and he wondered if he should smile back, but Miss Elizabeth had moved away. He gazed after her, marking the straight line of her back and her dark curls. She turned to pass a remark to Miss Lucas, and he noted again the liveliness of her eyes when Miss Lucas made her laugh.

Miss Bingley had approached. She was talking in her rapid, caustic way. Darcy caught the last sentence: "What would I give to hear your strictures on them!"

On Miss Lucas and Miss Elizabeth, Darcy assumed. He had no strictures. He said so: "I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."

"Which lady has the credit of inspiring such reflections?"

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

She began to tease him about wanting to marry Miss Elizabeth—typical for a woman. Darcy shrugged and occupied himself with watching Miss Elizabeth until the evening finally ended.

Elizabeth Comes to Netherfield, and Darcy Gets All Flustered

Darcy and Charles returned to Netherfield from an evening at Colonel Forster's. Miss Bingley greeted them with the news that Miss Bennet, who had come for dinner, was ill. Charles began to pepper his sister with questions. "I hope she feels better," Darcy said and went to bed.

The next morning, he found that the local apothecary, Mr. Jones, had been sent for. Charles insisted on giving Darcy a detailed account of what he said to Mr. Jones and what Mr. Jones said to Charles and what Miss Bingley said to Mr. Jones and what Mr. Jones said Miss Bennet said to him and so on and so on. Darcy ate his kippers and waited for Mr. Hurst to finish with the newspaper.

Towards the end of breakfast, the door opened, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet entered. Darcy started to his feet and looked beyond her, expecting Mr. or Mrs. Bennet as well, but Miss Elizabeth was alone.

He frowned. He hadn't heard a carriage. "No," Miss Elizabeth was saying to Miss Bingley, "I walked from Longbourn" which was quite a distance even if one cut across fields which she obviously had. She looked exceptionally well, Darcy acknowledged, her eyes bright and her cheeks glowing.

Charles was shaking her hand and telling her all about what Mr. Jones said. Miss Bingley took Miss Elizabeth upstairs to her sister, and Darcy went to the library to figure out exactly how many miles it was between Longbourn and Netherfield. It was over three miles like he'd thought.

He spent the rest of the day with the stable master. Charles came out towards mid-afternoon, agreed with every recommendation Darcy and the master made and returned to the house. Darcy sighed. Maybe the Netherfield experiment would only last five months. He realized Miss Bennet was a concern, but Miss Elizabeth was more than capable of coping with any contingency.

His belief was confirmed at dinner. Miss Elizabeth answered all Charles' questions thoroughly and equably, allaying most of his concerns. Now, maybe Darcy could convince Charles to focus on his new property's easements. After Miss Elizabeth returned upstairs, Darcy retrieved Netherfield's plans from the library. When he re-entered the dining room, Miss Bingley was holding forth on some subject or other. Darcy unfolded the plans, forcing Mr. Hurst to move his dessert plate.

"You observed it, Mr. Darcy," Miss Bingley said, and he raised his head. "I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition."

"Certainly not," Darcy said. Georgiana never made exhibitions of herself.

"To walk three miles, or four miles—"

"Three point four," Darcy muttered.

"—shows a conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum."

"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said Charles.

Miss Bingley leaned towards Darcy over the table, disarranging Netherfield's plans.

"Likely, this adventure has affected your admiration of her fine eyes."

"Not at all. They were brightened by the exercise," he said and moved himself and the plans further down the table.

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst fell to discussing the Bennet relations: one of the uncles was an attorney; one was in trade. Charles contended that this did not affect the Bennet sisters' agreeableness which comment—however true—rather missed the point: relations directly influenced a woman's ability to marry well. Miss Bingley, for example, would marry well because of Charles. Darcy pointed this out, more or less, but no one seemed to understand what he was saying, so he went back to the plans.

Charles, however, wasn't in the mood for a discussion of easements; he, his sisters, and Mr. Hurst were going to play loo; Darcy should join them. Darcy reluctantly agreed and replaced the plans in the library on his way to the drawing room.

They were playing when Miss Elizabeth came downstairs. This meant her sister was feeling better or asleep which was a good sign, and Darcy nodded to her. She didn't see him though, as she was selecting a book from the shelves. The others began discussing libraries, and Charles mentioned that he would love to buy Pemberley for the sake of its library. Darcy smiled to himself at the idea and looking up, found Miss Elizabeth near him. She looked quite nice in some blue-greeny gown. She had a book closed on one finger, and she was half-smiling at Charles' cards.

Miss Bingley said to Darcy, "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring? Is she as tall as I am?"

Georgiana was five feet four. "She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height," Darcy said, "or rather taller."

Miss Bingley began to discuss Georgiana's accomplishments, then female accomplishments in general. Charles chimed in, listing typical female accomplishments such as painting and covering screens. Darcy considered the ability to make things out of paper to be rather useless. Being accomplished didn't mean producing crafts like a provincial at a village fete; it meant being graceful and talented and having the ability to converse on a range of subjects. Off the top of his head, he could think of six accomplished women: Georgiana, obviously. His own mother, now deceased. Mrs. Reynolds, his housekeeper. Mrs. Annesley, Georgiana's companion (he never would have engaged her if she weren't accomplished). His aunt by marriage, Lady Beatrice Fitzwilliam. And Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

He said so, more or less, but he must not have mentioned the part about Miss Elizabeth because she laughed:

"I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any."

She had a point, but Darcy had restricted his claim to six because he didn't know many more women than six-not well, at least.

As soon as Miss Elizabeth went upstairs to see her sister, Miss Bingley started discussing her. Darcy was getting rather tired of Miss Bingley discussing Miss Elizabeth when Miss Elizabeth wasn't in the room since Miss Bingley said the same things over and over. Now she was saying that Miss Elizabeth was the kind of woman who put down her own sex in order to make herself look better which completely missed the point of Miss Elizabeth's remark. Anyway, as far as Darcy could tell, Miss Bingley did that sort of thing more often than Miss Elizabeth. And he said so, which seemed to shut everybody up. Thank goodness.

The next morning, Mrs. Bennet came to check on her daughter's health. She was a shrill woman, and Darcy wished he could be like Mr. Hurst and wander out of the room. But one didn't. One was taught to stand and be courteous while this woman went on and on and on about her daughter's illness and her daughter's sweet temper and what Mr. Jones thought. They had heard more than enough about what Mr. Jones thought from Charles.

Mrs. Bennet hoped that Charles would occupy Netherfield for a long time. That was unlikely. In fact, Charles started bragging about his spontaneity when making plans. Darcy never could understand why people considered spontaneity a virtue. It always struck him as rather shallow and thoughtless. Miss Elizabeth had it right when she described Charles as uncomplicated. What you saw with Charles was what you got, which was rather refreshing except for Charles' penchant for spontaneity: Darcy couldn't cure that.

"Studying different characters must be amusing," Charles said to Miss Elizabeth after she called him uncomplicated, and she agreed that it was one of her favorite things to do.

She wouldn't get many chances in the country, and Darcy said so. She smiled at him and pointed out that people change over time: one could study a single person over many years rather than many people all at once. The idea interested Darcy, and he might have responded, but Mrs. Bennet interrupted with some declaration about the country being better than London. Darcy didn't know why people couldn't stay on topic.

The conversation moved on to a discussion of poetry which topic did interest Darcy. Miss Elizabeth claimed that her sister lost interest in a suitor who sent her poetry. Darcy smiled to himself but offered Shakespeare's opinion: poetry, like music, is the food of love.

"Of a fine, stout, healthy love," Elizabeth agreed. "Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."

Darcy had to think about that, and the conversation moved on before he could respond.

He was still thinking about literature and the nourishment of sensibility when he wrote a letter to Georgiana that evening. Miss Bingley was talking to him, and he made replies, but he mostly concentrated on asking Georgiana what she thought about poetry and requesting an update on Mrs. Annesley. He trusted Mrs. Annesley, but he had trusted companions of Georgiana before and been disappointed.

He reread the letter and crossed out a few words. Charles was bragging about spontaneity again: his ability to write quickly without proofing. Darcy frowned. There was nothing commendable about acting or reacting quickly any more than there was anything commendable about suddenly changing one's plans—unless there was a good reason, of course. Darcy said so.

Bingley laughed. Bingley always thought it was funny when Darcy wanted people to say exactly what they meant or when he asked for specific information, but, Darcy wondered, how could you decide anything without the facts? What was the point in talking in generalities? Darcy would never change his plans unless someone was ill, like Georgiana, for instance, or unless his steward needed his attention at Pemberley. But he wouldn't know the reasons until they occurred. How could he say ahead of time—now—what he would do at some later date?

The discussion was becoming an argument, and Darcy hated arguing with people. He liked to exchange ideas, not wrangle over who was right or wrong. If they wanted to argue, they could wait till he left the room. He said so.

Miss Elizabeth's smile went crooked. She had amused him again. He wasn't sure why.

She said, "What you ask is no sacrifice on my side; Mr. Darcy had better finish his letter," so he did, but Miss Elizabeth's amusement still bothered him. Was she amused because he didn't want to argue? Was she amused because she agreed that the argument was pointless? Was she amused because Darcy didn't like people to change their plans? Was she amused because Darcy had been too curt? He watched her cross to the pianoforte. She was still smiling slightly as she looked through the music-books stacked on the lid. She glanced back at him now and again, and he noted that she looked quite lovely in the reddish-brown thing she was wearing.

She'd been wearing a reddish-brown thing at the Lucas's and for the first time, it occurred to Darcy that her amusement there might have been directed at him, not at Sir William. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to dance because of Darcy's attitude, not because of Sir William's behavior.

He got up, crossed the room, and asked her if she wanted to dance a reel. She didn't respond or look at him. He really didn't understand this woman. He repeated the request.

She turned to him then. No, she wouldn't dance with him. Darcy was testing her good taste; "I have therefore made up my mind that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now despise me if you dare." And she grinned up at him.

Darcy's heart turned over.

He was not interested in her, he told himself in his room that night. She was intelligent and lovely and quick-witted. She was good company. That was all.

He felt confident of his feelings when he went downstairs the next morning-until Miss Bingley began teasing him about Miss Elizabeth again; Darcy started to worry. Did she think he was pursuing Miss Elizabeth? Did everybody think that? Did Miss Elizabeth? Why would she? He hardly spoke to her.

You asked her to dance, he reminded himself and winced. That was fairly forward behavior. Had anyone noticed? He didn't even like to dance.

He worried on the matter, missing the rest of Miss Bingley's conversation.

"Are you looking forward to cards this evening?" she said as they parted.

"No," he said and went to drag Charles out to meet Netherfield's land steward. Charles didn't yet have a full complement of servants, but a land steward was necessary. Darcy wanted to discuss the steward's recommendations with Charles after dinner, but Miss Bennet came downstairs, obviously feeling better, and Charles bounced over to her and started to chat. About Mr. Jones, most likely.

Darcy picked up A general view of agriculture, vol. 2. The others were chattering. He heard mention of the Netherfield ball and turned a page. He heard Miss Elizabeth's name and looked up.

Miss Bingley wanted Miss Elizabeth to take a turn about the room. Darcy smiled to himself. This was an old ploy. The ladies wanted to show off their figures. Or gossip together, although that seemed unlikely; Miss Elizabeth wasn't much of a gossip. In any case, Darcy could admire them very well from where he sat. He said so.

Miss Bingley said she was offended. She wasn't really-Darcy could tell that much. "How shall we punish him?" she said to Miss Elizabeth.

Darcy felt himself tense. Miss Elizabeth had a sharp tongue and a knowing eye, and Darcy amused her for some reason. If she wanted to, she could make him look foolish.

"Tease him—laugh at him," Miss Elizabeth said.

Darcy tried not to glower. There were people who liked to mock others for the sake of mocking, not because there was anything to mock at. He said so.

"I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good," Miss Elizabeth said, but she did like to laugh at "follies and nonsense." Perhaps Mr. Darcy was without folly?

Darcy considered that he was intelligent, consistent, dependable with a good head for business and a strong sense of purpose. He was not lazy, vain, or stupid, which were the sorts of faults that deserved criticism. He was prideful, but that was understandable given his position and duties in life. He tried to make this clear.

Miss Elizabeth cocked her head. The amusement was there but something else as well: she was studying him, and Darcy felt a kind of panic. He didn't know if he liked being studied, but he didn't want Miss Elizabeth to form the wrong conclusions.

She began to turn away, and Darcy heard himself say, "I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, very profound." He wasn't flexible, like Charles. He didn't feel sympathy for people of low character nor did he easily excuse such behavior. "My good opinion once lost is lost for ever."

She didn't like that. "You have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me."

That didn't make Darcy feel better. He got the impression that Miss Elizabeth didn't like people who were safe from her. "Every disposition has a tendency to some particular evil," he pointed out rather desperately.

"And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody."

Darcy almost laughed. She was so smug in her playful way, but he had been watching and listening to her since he arrived in Hertfordshire: "Yours is willfully to misunderstand them."

She was surprised but not, Darcy was relieved to see, offended. She opened her mouth, and then Miss Bingley interrupted with a request for music. Miss Elizabeth turned away. Darcy found he was leaning forward in his chair and carefully sat back.

He was not interested in her. He was not foolish like his friend Bertram from college who went and married his landlady's daughter. Darcy had listened to a thousand panegyrics of the daughter's affectionate nature and lovely face and kind heart. The couple lived separately now, and Darcy believed the affectionate, lovely, kind daughter was being kept by another man.

Forming instantaneous affections was imprudent. It resulted in nothing but misery. But many men had been caught by a careless interest. He had been too obvious, too forward in his appreciation of Miss Elizabeth. He must not speak to her again while she remained at Netherfield with her sister.

And he didn't.

Darcy and Elizabeth Go to the Netherfield Ball and Neither Has a Good Time

Darcy hated fancy events. He put them on at Pemberley, of course, but there, he had things to do, such as consult with Mr. Talbot, his butler, on where to park any extra carriages. Moreover, he always knew his guests, and when things got too noisy, he just went to his study.

Charles had opened up Netherfield's study for the ball. Darcy stood in the front hall and tried not to look at his watch. He greeted Colonel Forster and several of the officers; Wickham wasn't among them. Darcy wasn't surprised. He had seen Wickham several days earlier with the Bennet sisters; he had guessed that Wickham, having seen Darcy, wouldn't attend the ball. Wickham had made his excuses no doubt. He was good at that. Even Darcy had thought him charming and plausible until he lost Darcy's good opinion.

The Bennets arrived. Darcy could hear Mrs. Bennet's voice. He found himself looking for Miss Elizabeth among the family group. He wasn't interested in her. He was just curious about her well-being.

She was wearing a pale blue dress. Her dark hair formed ringlets about her face. She was laughing as her eyes searched the company. Perhaps she was looking for Darcy, but he wasn't interested in her, so he retreated to the wall.

Not being interested didn't mean he shouldn't ask her to dance. This was Charles' first ball at Netherfield. Darcy wanted to help make it a success. He would even dance a few times. He approached Miss Elizabeth during the fourth dance and solicited her hand for the next. She agreed, and Darcy walked off smiling to himself. Apparently, Miss Elizabeth just needed the right venue to agree to dance.

He collected her for the fifth dance. She seemed unusually serious, but part way through the opening steps, she smiled and said, "Mr. Bingley has had good weather for his event."

Darcy nodded.

A few steps later, "It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy," she told him.

"I will say whatever you want me to say."

That amused her, which was rather a relief. She liked to talk, and he had no problem with her chatting if she wanted to, but instead she said thoughtfully, "Conversation ought to be so arranged that couples have the trouble of saying as little as possible."

That remark was aimed at him. He'd never been good at small-talk, but she needn't copy his example. He said so.

Miss Elizabeth raised her brows. Oh, they were very alike, she assured him. Neither of them would say a word unless it could impress others.

She was not describing herself. Was she describing Darcy? Did she think he gave his comments special weight? He worried over her insinuation through the next few moves. He didn't think he was a pompous man—

Miss Elizabeth's next remark stopped his train of thought. She said, "When you met us the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."

Wickham, she meant, and Darcy tensed. He had intended subtly, carefully, to warn her against Wickham, to say something like, "Not all of the officers in Meryton are of equal worth." She was bright; she would understand his point.

Instead of him warning her, she was challenging him. He said slowly, "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may insure his making friends; whether he may be equally capable of retaining them is less certain."

But Mr. Wickham had lost his friendship, Miss Elizabeth pointed out, and Darcy felt his temper rising. He should have guessed that Wickham was already spreading tales about their relationship. Why did Darcy never see it coming? He hadn't seen it coming when he was a boy. He hadn't seen it coming with Georgiana. His father hadn't seen it. For intelligent men, they had both been remarkably stupid about Wickham.

And now it was happening again. And with Miss Elizabeth who was bright and intelligent and kind and ready to believe anything that was said to her in a plausible manner.

"The orchestra is performing well," he said to change the subject.

Her mouth went crooked which meant she was amused, but Darcy was too upset to be charmed. He needed to say something about Wickham; he needed to warn her. They were standing across from each other, waiting to join hands. He would take her hands and say . . . and say . . .

Sir William interrupted his thoughts. As expected, Sir William had stopped to comment on the dancing. He also mentioned "a certain desirable event"—with a glance towards Miss Bennet and Charles; Darcy followed the glance—and Miss Elizabeth's bright eyes. On and on Sir William went, talking about nothing. Finally, he bowed and strolled on, leaving Darcy to Miss Elizabeth, and Darcy realized that he wouldn’t be able to say anything about Wickham—to Miss Elizabeth or anyone else. They would question him. They would want to know his reasons. Miss Elizabeth especially would never accept such a statement without explanation.

He prepared himself to ask a question about books. To his surprise, Miss Elizabeth reverted to the earlier subject: "You are very cautious, I suppose, as to your resentment being created?"

"I am."

"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"

"I hope not. May I ask to what these questions tend?"

She was trying to make out his character, she told him, and there was no amusement in her voice. "I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."

Wickham again. Darcy could imagine—he knew—the sorts of things Wickham would say about him. She shouldn't take the word of one man about Darcy. He tried to say this, but she cut him off lightly: "If I do not try to understand you now, I may never have another opportunity."

She said it as if they were barely acquainted. Darcy felt like he'd known her for years. He'd been forward with her. He'd told her things about himself. They were more than barely acquainted.

The dance ended; they separated. Darcy strode into the dining room, wishing he could go riding or help the gardener move rocks or shoot something. He leaned his head briefly against the doorframe and tried to block out all the noise and chatter.

Someone was speaking to him—a prim-looking man with flaccid hands; he introduced himself to Darcy. Darcy had no idea why. Darcy wasn't the head of the ball; this wasn't his house.

The man's name was Mr. Collins. He was a clergyman. He had the honor of holding a position at Hunsford. He humbly begged Darcy's pardon, but he could assure Darcy that Lady Catherine, Darcy's aunt, was in good health—on and on and on the man went. Monosyllabic responses didn't stop him. Darcy waited for a pause and moved away.

He remembered, as he sat at one of the supper tables, that his aunt had written him about finding a clergyman for the rectory in her parish. Darcy had never responded; apparently, she had found someone on her own. He remembered too that Miss Bingley had mentioned a Mr. Collins in connection with the Bennets—a cousin of Mr. Bennet's. If anyone had asked, Darcy would have guessed him a cousin of Mrs. Bennet's: their unending chatter was so similar.

He could hear that unending chatter now. He'd sat at the same table as the Bennets, diagonal to Miss Elizabeth. He tried to catch her eye; he needed to make up for what happened in the ballroom—he'd walked off rather abruptly—but Miss Elizabeth was busy shushing her mother.

Good luck, Darcy thought. The mother was nattering about her daughter's upcoming marriage. Darcy felt a qualm until he realized Mrs. Bennet was talking about Miss Bennet, not Miss Elizabeth. He hadn't known Miss Bennet was engaged; surely, Miss Bingley or Charles would have told him.

With an utter sense of shock, Darcy realized that Mrs. Bennet was talking about her daughter and Charles. Charles? Charles wasn't interested in Miss Bennet; he was friendly towards her, yes, but that was Charles' way.

Except—except Sir William had mentioned "a desirable event," and the lady to whom Mrs. Bennet was speaking seemed to agree that the engagement existed.

Ridiculous. Charles wasn't interested in Miss Bennet or Miss Bennet in Charles. She'd hardly shown Charles the same interest that, well, her sister had shown Darcy.

Darcy suddenly felt ill. His stomach hurt. If these people had decided that Miss Bennet was going to marry Charles, what had they decided about Darcy and Miss Elizabeth? Was he going to have to set matters right? Talk to people about his feelings? Since Darcy had no idea what his feelings really were regarding Miss Elizabeth, he couldn’t think of anything more dreadful.

No. It was nonsense. Nobody had behaved improperly—except for Mrs. Bennet. Charles was not interested in Miss Bennet. Miss Bennet was not interested in Charles. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth had not crossed the lines of decency. These assumptions were the ravings of a mad woman—not lunatic, maybe, but extremely silly.

Except . . . her friends and neighbors believed her.

Charles and his sisters were going to have to leave Netherfield. Soon.

The music hour had begun. Young ladies were exchanging places at the pianoforte. Miss Mary Bennet massacred "The Lass With the Delicate Air" in her weak, reedy voice, but all Darcy could think about was how to convince Charles to leave the area. Charles would tire of Netherfield eventually but not in the next week or so and engagements could be formed in less time.

Mr. Bennet's voice interrupted Darcy's thoughts: "You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit," and Darcy saw Miss Mary blush and scurry back to her seat. He frowned. No father should humiliate his own child. What kind of parents were these Bennets—publicly exposing their children right and left?

Avoiding Miss Elizabeth, Darcy left the supper room. Charles was going to have to leave—and not come back—before the Bennet parents exposed their oldest daughter, both their oldest daughters, to neighborly ridicule.

Charles did leave Netherfield the next morning to go up to London. He had to speak to his solicitors there about some of his father's stocks. Darcy rode with him to the Meryton junction. He watched Charles ride on, Charles waving his hand in a casual salute and shouting, "Look for me in a few days!"

Darcy wished suddenly, desperately, that he could talk to Miss Elizabeth about Charles. She knew what Charles was like. She knew her sister wasn't interested in Charles. She could solve this problem. She was good at problems. Darcy was not good at problems, not these sorts of problems anyway. He could figure out tax problems and weather problems and dirt problems and horse problems. But everything else he left up to people like Mrs. Reynolds. Like when the second housemaid got pregnant by Jarrad, one of the stable hands: Mrs. Reynolds talked to the girl and to Jarrad, Darcy approved the marriage, and the couple moved to one of the cottages. They were hard workers; Darcy liked them; he was glad not to lose them. He was very glad Mrs. Reynolds had done all the talking. Darcy surrounded himself with people who did all the talking.Right now, all he had was Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, but presumably they loved their brother and wanted the best for him. He rode back to Netherfield and asked their advice about Charles and Miss Bennet.

They were as horrified as Darcy at the idea of the engagement—which was a relief. He didn't like to think he was overreacting. But no, the sisters were stunned: What an inappropriate connection! Those parents! Miss Bingley started to say something disparaging about Miss Elizabeth, caught Darcy's eye, and said instead, "The three younger sisters have no discipline," which was true. Miss Mary had no musical discipline and the two youngest flirted with the officers: Darcy had noticed the flirtations, although not as much, it appeared, as Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. No matter. They all agreed that any connection should be severed.

"Does Miss Bennet care for Charles at all?" Darcy asked.

Of course not, they assured him. She was their friend, not their brother's.

They would all leave Netherfield immediately. They would go up to London and inform Bingley of the change in plans. Darcy went to his room to pack. He considered sending a note to Miss Elizabeth, then shook his head at the thought. They were not on such intimate terms.

Darcy, Miss Bingley, and the Hursts arrived in London, loaded down with trunks. Darcy would stay another few weeks and then depart for Pemberley. He didn't need to be there as often in the winter as the rest of the year, but he liked to check in with his steward and Mrs. Reynolds, and it was a good excuse to get away from London. From Pemberley, he would visit the Fitzwilliams and then Lady Catherine.

Charles looked at him blankly as Darcy explained his itinerary. "I thought you would come back with me to Netherfield," he said finally.

"I think you should stay in London."

"Why?"

Darcy was alone with Charles. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were upstairs unpacking. He said, "The families there seem to think you and Miss Bennet are engaged." He tried to laugh, then wished he hadn't. Charles wasn't laughing. He had got up and wandered over to the sitting room windows.

"Is that so bad?"

"It isn't a suitable match, Charles."

"She is—"

"She and Miss Elizabeth are genteel young ladies, but the family, Charles, is not what you should aim for."

"I'm from trade." Charles said to the curtains. His back was rigid.

"I'm not referring to the Bennet's relations. Though your father did hope better for you."

"Like owning an estate." Charles was as caustic as Charles could be. Darcy winced and was silent.

"I'm not good at that sort of thing," Charles said. "You know that."

Darcy took a deep breath. "What do you want for your children, Charles? The Bennet father does not tend to his family or his estate. You would not be so lax."

"She isn't like that."

"Perhaps not. But you inherit the family when you marry and the family's legacies. Charles, you can do better."

He shook his head.

Darcy said, "If you return, you will encourage the rumors and hurt her chances for a suitable match."

"She expects me to return."

Darcy almost smiled. "I don't think she is that committed," he said as gently as he could.

Charles hunched his shoulders.

Darcy said, "Has she teased you? Flirted with you? Commented on your character?"

Charles said stiffly, "We discuss many things."

"Personal things?" Darcy had never heard Miss Bennett ask Charles about his faults.

Charles came back from the curtain and collapsed into a chair.

"No," he said.

"She has no expectations, Charles. Only her mother and her neighbors do. You haven't hurt her."

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst came down then and reiterated everything Darcy had said with many more examples and expostulations until Darcy rather wished they would leave Charles alone.

But at least the matter was settled. In January, shortly before Darcy left for Pemberley, Miss Bennet visited the London house. She was staying with her uncle and aunt in Cheapside, Miss Bingley informed Darcy, "but of course, Charles needn't know."

No. It was better that Charles not know. The issue was over. The Bennet sisters were in the past. They could all move on with their lives.

Darcy and Elizabeth Meet at Rosings, and Darcy Makes a Huge Miscalculation

Darcy arrived at Rosings with his cousin, Colonel John Fitzwilliam. Lady Catherine greeted them in her usual way: condescension mixed with pleasure.

"The Collinses have the oddest visitor," she said at the dinner table. "A friend of Mrs. Collins from before she was married. I can't speak to modern manners, but the friend seems a very forward sort of person. Of course, she claims to know you Darcy, but I can't believe—"

Mr. Collins had married Charlotte Lucas: Darcy knew that from letters he had received from the Bingleys. Charlotte Lucas was friends with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He set down his knife and fork and concentrated on his aunt.

"—and very self-assured which I'm sure is not entirely proper for a young lady, even a young lady of twenty—"

Would she never state the visitor's name?

"—and all five sisters already out."

It was Miss Elizabeth. Darcy's stomach felt odd, and he realized he had no more appetite.

"Five sisters," John was saying in his mild humorous way. "Good heavens."

"Astonishing, isn't it," Lady Catherine said without hearing John's irony; she never did. Had Miss Elizabeth tried to laugh at her? If so, Darcy couldn't imagine the encounter had been a success.

"Do you remember this Miss Elizabeth?" John asked on their way to the drawing room to play cards.

"Yes," Darcy said.

"A bit more entertaining than our aunt?"

"Yes."

John was all for meeting the two young ladies—Mrs. Collins' sister was also visiting. The next morning, they headed to Hunsford, encountering Mr. Collins on the lane. Mr. Collins bowed and reminded Darcy of their last meeting and apologized for forcing Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam to walk all the way from Rosings without his companionship. Darcy decided that Miss Elizabeth's current living situation must provide her with a surfeit of follies and nonsense.

He entered the parsonage parlor after John. "Hello," John said, striding up to Miss Elizabeth. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Darcy turned to Mrs. Collins. John could afford to bypass such courtesies; no one ever noticed. Darcy sat besides Mrs. Collins, who seemed pleasant enough; he remembered her from Hertfordshire as a calm, intelligent person. Mr. Collins was rather lucky in his choice of mate.

John was discussing the countryside with Miss Elizabeth. She smiled and responded, glancing occasionally at Darcy. Their last conversation had been at the Netherfield ball. They had discussed Wickham. He could hardly raise that subject now. He could ask her about poetry, but no, that was too complex a subject for this brief meeting. John had already covered the countryside. Darcy could ask her about her travels to Hunsford, but no, John had already covered that topic too.

"How is your family?" Darcy said.

Miss Elizabeth broke off a light remark to John and turned to him.

"They are well," she said. "My eldest sister has been in London for several months. You didn't see her there?"

He'd known Miss Bennet was in London. He hadn't seen her. The correct response was "No" except the question implied knowledge of Miss Bennet's whereabouts, not just an actual meeting. But if he said, "Yes," Miss Elizabeth would want to know how her sister appeared, and he couldn't answer that, so, "No," he said.

She cocked her head slightly, and Darcy felt a sudden qualm, but he could hardly explain his thought process at the current moment.

"Very nice gel," John said as they left the parsonage, and Darcy nodded. Yes, she was.

He spent the next few days closeted with the house steward going over the household books. Lady Catherine had a tendency to underpay her land servants and lower house staff while vastly overpaying her upper house staff. The house steward made some rather pleading suggestions, and Darcy agreed to effect certain changes. He would simply tell Lady Catherine that the changes had been made. She would respond with long rants on her servants' habits—which rants Darcy never listened to—but she wouldn't counter-command the changes. Until Darcy left, anyway.

He told the steward this, and the steward agreed, looking depressed. But Rosings wasn't really Darcy's responsibility.

Every evening, John and he took a walk to view the grounds—Rosings was a lovely estate. During these walks, Darcy learned that John was spending almost every day at the parsonage; John would report on his visits: "Miss Elizabeth is very clever," he would say, or, "Miss Elizabeth agreed that Evelina lacks sparkle" or "Miss Elizabeth is quite the walker."

She was clever. She had interesting opinions about literature and people and other such things. She was quite a walker—in fact, Darcy could tell John . . . but he decided, No. John might not understand about Miss Elizabeth walking three miles to see her sister; he might put the wrong interpretation on Darcy remembering the incident. Darcy thought of Miss Elizabeth's dark eyes and glowing cheeks and friendly smile and kept his thoughts to himself.

He saw her at church where they all sat through a rather rambling sermon on the importance of respecting one's betters. He thought about speaking to her—he could ask her about . . . about . . . she was already gone, her arm linked with Mrs. Collins's.

"I've invited the Collinses and their guests for a small party," Lady Catherine announced that evening, and Darcy felt a wash of relief. He would have a whole evening to come up with a conversational gambit.

John got Miss Elizabeth's attention first, of course. Darcy was stuck listening to Lady Catherine's critique of Mr. Collins's sermon while Mr. Collins listened avidly. Darcy watched John question Miss Elizabeth about Kent and Hertfordshire—"And what do you think of Scott's latest?" Miss Elizabeth answered his questions with her usual ease, laughing occasionally.

John could be droll.

"—and of course, Fordyce is always an excellent resource," Lady Catherine was saying.

John was a younger son, of course, with little money. He had good prospects; he was a good dependable man. But Miss Elizabeth couldn't afford—

Darcy frowned at his train of thought. She was just being friendly. There was nothing personal about her conversation with John. Darcy was making untenable assumptions. He was getting as bad as Mrs. Bennett.

Lady Catherine ended her critique and shouted to John: "What are you telling Miss Bennett? Let me hear what it is."

John turned, brows raised. His eyes met Darcy's, and he winked. Darcy felt a sudden chill. Surely, John and Miss Elizabeth's conversation had been general, impersonal. One couldn't have intimate conversations in drawing rooms—

One could actually, as Darcy knew.

"We were talking of music, madam."

Darcy let out a breath.

Lady Catherine proclaimed that she loved music. "If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient." And what about Georgiana and her music?

"She is quite accomplished," Darcy said. He had seen Georgiana before he visited the Fitzwilliams. He had been impressed at how far she had come in both singing and playing. She had a clear mezzo-soprano and had mastered several Haydn sonatas. He said so.

"Pray tell her from me," said Lady Catherine, "that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a great deal."

Georgiana practiced constantly, Darcy explained, trying not to snap. Snapping never made any difference with Lady Catherine. She hardly heard him now.

"I have told Miss Bennett several times that she will never play really well unless she practices more."

Darcy glanced at Miss Elizabeth, expecting a mocking rejoinder, but Miss Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and looked demure. Darcy thought he saw her lip twitch.

Lady Catherine tapped his arm to regain his attention. "I have often told her to come to Rosings every day and play on the pianoforte—"

That was a kind offer, and Darcy looked back at Miss Elizabeth, hoping to see a smile of appreciation.

"—in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house."

Darcy winced and stared at the carpet. He hoped Miss Elizabeth would still play and sing tonight despite his aunt's rudeness.

She did at John's request. She chose an adagio, and Darcy sat back, relaxing as she began.

"Of course, Anne much prefers pieces by Charles Avison," Lady Catherine said, and Darcy tensed, annoyed. He hated people to interrupt performances, musical, theatrical, or otherwise. He got up abruptly and walked across the room, so he could watch Miss Elizabeth.

And she spoke to him, directly to him: "You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming so seriously to hear me. But I will not be alarmed though your sister does play so well—"

So she had attended to his comments about Georgiana. Darcy smiled.

Miss Elizabeth continued: Darcy wouldn't frighten her. "My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me."

That was true, only she wasn't really afraid of Darcy. She knew he would never try to discomfort her; she knew him pretty well, in fact. She was teasing, pretending alarm she didn't feel. He said so, and she laughed, and Darcy felt himself relax a little more. This was the kind of camaraderie they had had in Hertfordshire.

Miss Elizabeth was telling John that Darcy knew her real character and she could expose Darcy's character if she wished. Darcy wasn't worried. John already knew his character pretty well, and Darcy had learned that Miss Elizabeth was never as critical in her judgments as she threatened.

"I am not afraid of you," he told her.

John laughed and asked for particulars. Miss Elizabeth lowered her voice to a shocked murmur: Did he know, could he comprehend . . . the first time she'd met Darcy he had only danced four dances "though gentlemen were scarce; and more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner."

It took Darcy almost a minute to realize she was speaking of that first ball in Hertfordshire—when he had refused to dance with any one but Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. He had refused to dance with a young lady suggested by Bingley.

He had refused to dance with Miss Elizabeth.

He flushed. He hadn't noticed the imbalance of men and women. He had barely noticed who Bingley recommended, but Miss Elizabeth had noticed and remembered; all this time, she had thought him uncivil, deliberately rude.

He said, "I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers." She must understand that. She knew him well enough.

But she was shaking her head. Darcy said desperately, "I have not the talent of conversing easily with those I have never seen before." She must have noticed that.

She was still shaking her head. She took the time to practice the piano, she pointed out. Surely, Darcy could take the time to be sociable.

She didn't practice that much. But she did practice enough to give pleasure to her friends and family. Darcy was the same although he admitted that sometimes even his friends and family were a little confused by his behavior. He would have to try harder. He said so. "Neither of us perform well to strangers."

She grew serious again, her amusement dimming as she eyed him. Lady Catherine approached, and Miss Elizabeth began to play. Darcy sat down near the pianoforte, feeling confused. Miss Elizabeth had never mentioned that first ball when she stayed at Netherfield. But then she had been occupied with her sister. On the other hand, she and Darcy had had a number of conversations—Darcy could remember all of them, nearly verbatim. She had never seemed angry with him. She'd asked him questions and smiled and bantered with him.

She smiles and banters with John.

She didn't study John. She didn't ask John about his faults. Darcy glowered at the fireplace and hardly noticed when the party broke up.

The next morning, he left Rosings early, without John, and went to the parsonage. He would visit Mrs. Collins and Mrs. Collins' sister and perhaps, Elizabeth would be there, and he could make sure she bore him no ill-will.

She was alone. Darcy paused on the parlor threshold, confused. He wasn't prepared for a tête-à-tête. He didn't have his thoughts ordered. Mrs. Collins was supposed to be there to carry the conversational ball: that's what married ladies did.

He sat slowly. Miss Elizabeth asked after the occupants at Rosings. Darcy replied. He started to get his bearings. He hadn't expected a tête-à-tête, but he wasn't sorry. He sat in the parlor's armchair and watched Miss Elizabeth at the desk. She was dressed in something soft and bright. Her hair was informally arranged, and Darcy found he liked it better than a formal arrangement. He realized she was watching him, amused, and the anxiety in him lessened. Their relationship was back to normal—to the way it had been in Hertfordshire, to the way things should be between them.

The way they should always be. Darcy realized he had forgotten he was not interested in Miss Elizabeth. There was no point denying it: he was interested.

They discussed Netherfield and whether Charles would let or sell it. They discussed the parsonage and Mr. Collins's marriage to Mrs. Collins. "It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends," Darcy said. Miss Elizabeth was surprised. "Easy distance" for Miss Elizabeth apparently meant in the same neighborhood. Miss Elizabeth blushed when Darcy said so, and Darcy's heart beat a little quicker.

This was marriage talk—how far a woman wanted to live from her family. Miss Elizabeth had never seemed someone who wanted to spend her married life a hop, skip, and a jump from her parents' door. He couldn't think of anything more frustrating than trying to manage a household with Mrs. Bennet's interference. Pemberley, at least, was a long way from Hertfordshire.

"You are not that attached to Longbourn," he said, leaning forward.

Miss Elizabeth looked surprised, and Darcy retreated. He was being too forward, making assumptions; he was hardly prepared to—to—

To propose?

He left the parsonage in a state of utter bewilderment. She was too genteel, too intelligent, to assume an offer where none was made, but she must know—she was so good at reading people—how Darcy felt. She wouldn't be surprised if he proposed.

Which put the decision back on Darcy. He had decided she was wrong for him. He decided that in Hertfordshire four months ago. Why would he change his mind now?

He had, he admitted, thought about Elizabeth often in the last four months. He had saved up things to tell her, things he could actually never tell her unless they were engaged. He had spoken of her to Georgiana—he distinctly remembered doing that—without, however, mentioning any kind of attachment.

He couldn't marry her. It was not an appropriate connection. He sat in his room, head in hands. He had expected to marry a woman of his own status with a similar background—someone to be chatelaine of Pemberley, who could handle the work involved and be a role model for Georgiana.

Elizabeth was an excellent role model, but with Elizabeth came her family. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were not acceptable role-models for any young person. Nor did they supply an appropriate environment for a future Mrs. Darcy. That Elizabeth could manage a household, Darcy had no doubt, but she'd had little experience with well-run estates. Longbourn was half the size or less of Pemberley, and Mr. Bennet ran it at less than full potential.

If only she was a member of his set. If only she had a stronger pedigree. His father had married Lady Anne Kenway, descended from a family of ancient Anglo-Saxon heritage. Darcy's mother had brought money and stability and worth to the Darcy line.

The line didn't need more money, but Darcy thought it could use stability. The incident with Wickham had shaken his sense of security. Georgiana would not make the same mistake again—he hoped—but she was young; she needed good examples.

Elizabeth is a good example. But not her sisters—except Jane, Jane who Bingley had wanted to court. Darcy had told him the connection was a bad one which was true. What would Bingley think if Darcy married a Bennet sister?

Elizabeth would understand Darcy's conflict. She had often blushed at her parents' behavior. She knew what they were like. She knew what Darcy was like.

But he couldn't discuss the matter with her—not unless he made an offer. Once she accepted, she would ease his mind.

If he offered. If. If. If.

He visited the parsonage several times over the next few days; he watched Elizabeth talk and laugh, listened to her good sense, observed her manners with John and Mr. and Mrs. Collins. He took her expressions and witticisms and occasional smiles at him back to his room at Rosings where he replayed them in his mind.

He shouldn't propose.

But he would.

He was going to get married.

What an absolutely astonishing thought.

Elizabeth and Darcy Have a Fight, and Darcy Tries to Explain Himself

The Collins party was invited to drink tea at Rosings. Elizabeth would be there; Darcy would pull her aside. He had prepared a short explanation of his thought process in asking her to marry him. After the explanation, he would propose. He wasn't sure he would tell Lady Catherine about their engagement. The idea made him rather tired. No, it would be inappropriate in any case. He would have to speak first to Elizabeth's father.

He washed his face and hands, dried them on a towel, straightened his collar and, heart pounding, went downstairs.

Elizabeth wasn't there. She had a headache, Mr. Collins explained amid multiple apologies. Lady Catherine looked temporarily annoyed and then promptly forgot about Miss Elizabeth's health.

Darcy sat and fretted. He was leaving soon, the day after tomorrow. His proposal couldn't wait. The last thing he wanted to do was visit Elizabeth in Hertfordshire. He might change his mind by then.

That might be for the best, he thought as he excused himself to the company. Only he'd decided to ask her today. He'd decided. He had to see her, propose to her, lay out everything for her understanding.

He hardly saw the lane as he walked to the parsonage. He knocked on the door and was admitted. He entered the parlor, greeted Elizabeth and sat. He couldn't remember his speech—what he'd intended to say or do. It would be easier if she said something, but she was silent. He got up and walked about the room, his feet scuffing the floor. He faced her:

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

It was easier then—he remembered everything he meant to say. He presented all the arguments for and against the marriage. He explained his feelings, his anxieties. He praised her attributes, especially in comparison to her family. He finished with a declaration that he could not conquer his attachment to her, and he hoped he would be rewarded with her hand in marriage.

He stopped. He wanted to sit down but decided it would probably be best to continue standing. For the first time, he looked at Elizabeth's face, studying her expression.

She looked rather blank. Darcy frowned slightly. Was she concerned about the social gap between them? Should he be more reassuring?

She began to speak. At first, Darcy wasn't sure what she was saying. He kept waiting for the "but, I will accept," only it never came. She was saying, "No." She was rejecting his proposal.

"I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly."

She had flirted with him. She had been friendly with him. They had discussed personal topics. She was behaving as if none of that had ever happened. She was acting as if she didn't know how Darcy felt.

She stopped speaking. Darcy realized he was gritting his teeth. He took a deep breath and said, "I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor with civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

He heard his petulance and didn't care. He wanted to goad her. She was too composed—as if their relationship was as light and careless as her discussions with John.

His goad worked. He had offended her, Elizabeth said. Insulted her. Moreover, he had ruined the happiness of her beloved sister—

Miss Bennet? He had never done anything to Miss Bennet.

Was he denying he'd interfered between her and Mr. Bingley?

Yes, he had interfered, but his actions were justifiable.

What about his treatment of Wickham?

Darcy's incredulity spilled into anger. Did Wickham mean something to her then, more than Darcy had imagined? "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns."

Elizabeth proclaimed a general interest: everyone must feel pity for Mr. Wickham's misfortunes which had been inflicted on him by Mr. Darcy, by Mr. Darcy who ridiculed Mr. Wickham's position in life.

Darcy felt numb. She believed Wickham over him. She believed Wickham's sorry excuses over Darcy's example. He'd told her to be wary of Wickham; he'd told her at the Netherfield ball, and she still believed Wickham's tales—as if she and Darcy had never spoken together, never shared thoughts, never experienced any camaraderie at all.

No—this wasn't because of Wickham. It couldn't be. She was reacting to Darcy's honesty. He'd thought she was better than the ordinary type of female who needed insincere praise. He said so.

She was standing by now. There was no amusement in her face. She was breathing hard.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me other than to spare me the compassion I might have felt if you had behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."

A more gentlemanlike manner. He had—he was—

"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it." She was disgusted by his arrogance, his conceit, his selfish disdain for the feelings of others.

The room was beginning to close in. He had to leave. He made the appropriate remarks, and then he was out in the lane, his head pounding. It was still dusk. Darcy felt as if a hundred hours had passed. He found he was standing at the gate to Rosings. He stared across the park, feeling sick and rather light-headed.

He was a fool. That was what happened when you made decisions based on emotion. You were a fool; you propose to a lovely girl who didn't care about or understand your character, your very appropriate reservations—

If you had behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. Darcy winced. Perhaps he had been too detailed with those reservations. But her reasons for rejecting him—her sister and Wickam—were completely unjustified. How could she be so blind? He had assumed she had more intelligence, more insight than she obviously did.

She loves her sister.

And Wickham?

He shouldn't have gotten angry. Darcy grimaced. If he hadn't gotten angry, he could have explained himself. He turned back towards the parsonage but stopped. He wouldn't stay calm, and she was angry, truly angry. Faced with that much anger, nothing he said would come out right. He wasn't even sure she would listen.

He would write her. He returned to the house through the kitchen. The servants nodded as he passed. In his room, he lit the lamp, sat at the desk, and began to write.

He wasn't going to propose to her again—he made that clear. No, he was going to address her accusations against him. He dealt with her sister first, explaining that he didn't believe Miss Bennet was attached to Charles. He confessed he had dissuaded Charles from pursuing the relationship. He even confessed that he knew Miss Bennet had been in London: "Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer."

He sat back, breathing heavily. The lamp was guttering, and he lit a fresh one. He reread the paragraphs he had written.

The tone was not civil. Darcy wasn't sure why. He was being objective, factual. He'd even admitted to knowing that Miss Bennet was in London and that he hadn't told Charles. Elizabeth might consider that a concealment—he'd admitted as much—but he honestly didn't think it was. He should rewrite the page. He reached for a new sheet.

He heard himself say, "She doesn't need to know," and stopped, appalled.

He wasn't being objective at all. His behavior with Miss Bennet had involved concealment. And now he was justifying himself—he, Darcy, was making excuses, as if he were someone like Wickham, as if he weren't a gentleman at all.

He could rewrite it, but he didn't know how else to explain his behavior her sister. He added a line: "Though the motives may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them."

He moved on to her accusation about Wickham. This involved disclosing Georgiana's troubles, but Elizabeth would be circumspect, and she needed to know Wickham's true character. He didn't know how far Elizabeth's attachment to Wickham had gone. He had heard that Wickham was engaged to a Miss King, but that wouldn't stop Wickham from ruining Elizabeth's reputation if such a course took his fancy.

And she needed to know that he, Darcy, wasn't as Wickham had painted him. He was not as good as he should be perhaps, but he wasn't so corrupt.

He told her everything: about growing up with Wickham, about his father's will, about Wickham's decision to go into law rather than the church. Darcy had realized several years before that Wickham was idle, dissipated, and licentious. His charm was a cover for plausible lies. He was a man who looked out only for himself. When Darcy's father died, Darcy had handed over Wickham's legacy and put him out of his mind.

Until Wickham applied to Darcy, stating that he wanted to become a clergyman after all. Darcy refused to help—Wickham had already had his legacy; Darcy would never fund such an inconstant libertine—so Wickham revenged himself on Darcy by trying to elope with Georgiana.

Darcy could admit now that Georgiana's companion, Mrs. Younge, had been Wickham's confidant from the beginning. At the time, he had been furious at the woman's stupidity: to let Georgiana meet freely with Wickham—to encourage Wickham's addresses! Lucky that Georgiana told Darcy about the planned elopement. He hadn't seen Wickham's perfidy coming. He hadn't imagined it as a possibility at all. Lucky stupid man.

He was, it seemed, altogether blind about people. He'd never guessed at Elizabeth's feelings. He had thought she liked him. But he couldn't accuse her of playing games with him. Truth was, she had behaved no differently with him than with John.

Except. Except—she had seemed to understand him. She was so quick, so friendly, so exactly the sort of person Darcy would be lucky to marry. Darcy leaned his head on his hands and watched the lamp guttered into oblivion.

He lit another towards dawn and added a few extra lines. She could go to Colonel Fitzwilliam if she wished to verify all Darcy had written. "God bless you," he wrote and signed his name.

He slept for a half-hour, changed, and went out into the still morning. Everything was pale dew and new spring green. He had seen Elizabeth strolling occasionally in a grove near the park gate, and he went there now, the letter clenched in his hands. If she didn't come—but she had to come. He didn't know what he would do if she didn't come.

She did though she began to retreat when she saw him. She looked drained and unhappy; she hid her feelings so well most of the time, and Darcy felt an odd ache at how similar they were in this regard: plausible faces presented to the world.

For a terrible moment, he thought she would reject the letter, but she took it, he asked her to read it, he retreated. He called at the parsonage, knowing she would remain outdoors to peruse the letter. Then, he returned to Rosings.

He and John were going back to London the next morning. Darcy sorted his shirts in his room. He concentrated on mundane things—clothes, cravats, boots. John strolled in towards mid-afternoon.

"Good work. I'm already packed."

Darcy nodded, eyeing him. Had Elizabeth asked him to verify the contents of the letter? He couldn't ask. Surely, John would tell him.

John said, "I understand you already said farewell to our parson's household."

"Yes," Darcy said.

"So did I. I missed the lovely Miss Elizabeth unfortunately. Ah, well. Life is made up of stray encounters, is it not," and he went off good-humoredly.

Had she avoided John? Was she still reading the letter? Would she believe anything Darcy had written? He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the sky darken and wished he was at Pemberley.

Darcy and Elizabeth Meet at Pemberley, and Darcy Gets All Excited About Showing Off His Property

"I'm needed at Pemberley," Darcy told Georgiana.

They sat in their private sitting room in an Oxford inn. The Bingleys occupied rooms on the floor above. Miss Bingley had suggested breakfasting together, but Darcy preferred to breakfast with just Georgiana.

Georgiana was smearing marmalade on toast and humming softly. Darcy held a letter in his hand. "Max"—his land steward—"has a question about the Merrydew's tenancy. You'll travel on with the Bingleys."

Georgiana put down her toast. Darcy folded up the letter and tucked it into his breast pocket. The Merrydews were good farmers, but Mr. Merrydew had no money sense. Darcy wondered if he should send Mr. Jetter, his house steward, to reorganize their books.

Georgiana said, "Can't I go with you?"

Darcy looked at her in surprise.

"I'm not taking the carriage," he said. "You'll be able to see Oxford with the Bingleys and come on with them."

Georgiana picked at the tablecloth. Darcy nabbed another piece of toast and pushed back from the table.

"I could follow you in the carriage," Georgiana said.

Darcy looked at her bent head. He was missing something, something Georgiana wanted and wasn't saying. He took a deep breath.

"The Bingleys are good company."

"Oh, yes."

"You enjoy your time with them."

"Yes."

"And Mrs. Annesley is here."

"She's very nice," Georgiana said.

Then what was the problem?

Relationships, Darcy had discovered in the last four months, were quagmires filled with implications, suggestions, and underlying messages. Darcy didn't pick up on any of it.

"I thought you thought I was getting better," Georgiana had said just three days before after Darcy commented on her singing. He had stared at her, realizing that his comment had been unintentionally critical. He had stammered an explanation, and Georgiana had nodded gravely. But until she said what she did, Darcy hadn't heard how he sounded at all.

Sometimes he wondered that Elizabeth hadn't laughed him out of the parsonage when he started to propose.

Georgiana said to the tablecloth: "They compliment me a lot."

"Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst?"

"Yes."

"Compliments are nice."

Georgiana gave him a skeptical look, an echo, Darcy realized, of one of his expressions. He grinned. "They are a little overwhelming," he agreed. "I'll tell Charles to take you and Mrs. Annesley in his carriage. Bingley's sisters can have mine."

And that was all—she was happy again; he could go. Darcy went out of the room, wondering if Elizabeth would have figured out Georgiana's problem before Georgiana even mentioned it.

Probably. Yes.

In his breast pocket, next to the letter from Darcy's steward, was a letter Darcy had begun to Elizabeth. He would never send this one: she had rejected him; their relationship was over. But there were times when Darcy yearned to explain to her that he hadn't known he was being rude—in Hertfordshire, at Rosings. These days, when he looked back on their conversations in those places—replaying his remarks—he could only wince.

If you had behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.

He hadn't. He'd taken everything for granted: Elizabeth's understanding; her compliance. He'd never tried to woo her. She might as well have been Mrs. Reynolds or Max or any of his other servants. She might as well have been Charles. You didn't ask a woman to marry you without, at least, giving her some reason to agree.

He stayed overnight in Leicester and arrived at Pemberley in the morning. He didn't go straight to the main house but met Max at the Merrydews. Mr. Merrydew contritely laid down a token payment and a new rent schedule was drawn up. Afterward, Darcy spoke to George Merrydew, Jr. who shook his head over his father's business practices and advised Darcy that he was taking over the financial side of the farm. All in all, a good meeting.

Darcy rode with Max along the northern edge of the estate to examine some drainage problems. He left Max at the Chandlers—Max was married to Mr. Chandler's daughter—and cut across the estate to the Pemberley stables. He would talk to Mr. Talbot and Mrs. Reynolds about the coming guests and then he would go fishing. The Bingleys, with Georgiana, would not arrive until the next morning. He whistled as he walked from the stables to the house. He liked to have Pemberley to himself, guest-less, now and again.

"How old would you say it was?" said a voice, and Darcy turned his head to see a group of callers standing on the road, looking up at the house: a man and two women, one older, one younger. The younger woman turned, and Darcy looked straight into Elizabeth Bennet's eyes.

His brain stopped working. He said something. She said something. He got the impression that he was asking the same questions over and over and over. Elizabeth answered without looking at him. He stopped talking, nodded, and walked on.

Loomis, the head gardener, came alongside him, saying, "We didn't know you'd be back today, sir," and Darcy explained about Max and the Merrydews; Loomis praised the summer weather "especially in regard to the rhubarb." Darcy "uh huhed"; Loomis walked off as they reached the house.

Darcy stood in the cool north portico, staring blankly into the foyer. She was here. She was at Pemberley. She must—she couldn't—why was she here?

She was with friends obviously or relations. On tour, but why would she be here?

"Hello, sir," Mrs. Reynolds said, coming into the foyer. "We expected you tomorrow."

"I had to confer with Max."

"We've had some callers," Mrs. Reynolds took his dust coat. "The young lady is acquainted with you."

"Yes."

"They greatly admired the house. I took them into the gallery." Mrs. Reynolds twinkled. "The young lady praised your portrait."

"Did she?" Darcy said.

Mrs. Reynolds beamed and went away, and Darcy stood in the portico, feeling like several tons of rock had landed on his head and been gently brushed away.

Elizabeth was here—at his house—on his land. Elizabeth admired the house. Elizabeth admired his portrait.

Darcy went into the washroom in the servant's wing and scrubbed his hands and face. He tidied himself, then ran outside to the gardens. He cornered Loomis.

"The callers—where did they go?"

Loomis had seen them head towards the wood. Darcy followed the walk, stopping gardeners as he went. Elizabeth and her party had crossed the bridge and were examining the trout stream. Darcy followed. He saw the man first, speaking to Josh, who maintained the stream. A tallish woman with an elegant, if tired, air stood beside him, smiling faintly. Elizabeth was strolling in Darcy's direction along the bank, her eyes following the flow of the water. Darcy wanted to stop and watch her but reminded himself to be sociable.

He approached. He greeted her. He was less stunned this time though still unbelieving. He watched her face, listened to her tone. She didn't seem angry or cold. In fact, she was praising Pemberley.

"It's delightful," she said. "The coppice-wood we came through is full of charming windings. I'd love to explore—" she flushed, falling silent.

She meant it. She wasn't prone to flattery, even at her friendliest. He should show her the orchard and the duck pond. But she had friends with her, and he requested an introduction.

They were her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. Darcy was surprised. He'd understood Mr. Gardiner was a tradesman. He must have a thriving business indeed if he could take off several weeks during the summer. The Gardiners shook hands with Darcy, commenting civilly on Pemberley's grounds and answering Darcy's questions. They were staying at the inn at Lambton; Mrs. Gardiner grew up in Lambton. Everything they said was generous, to the point, friendly.

"I've never seen such a well-stocked stream," Mr. Gardiner said. "Your man says you keep it clear of oaks—"

Darcy nodded, and they began to discuss stream maintenance with Josh chiming in occasionally. Mr. Gardiner, Darcy found, was an avid fisherman, so Darcy offered him the use of fishing tackle "if you want to fish at Pemberley during your stay."

"The best spot is there below the bridge," he added, and Mr. Gardiner began to describe useful fishing techniques. They all stopped to admire some water-plants, and then Mrs. Gardiner took her husband's arm. Darcy found himself beside Elizabeth.

She had been unnaturally silent, and he studied her with concern, still amazed that she should be here.

"We didn't know any of the family would be at Pemberley," she said. "We wouldn't have called if we'd known—"

Of course not. Darcy understood that. But at any other time, Pemberley was open to callers. "I came ahead to speak to my steward," he said. "I'm traveling with my sister—and those who claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters."

He stopped then, wondering if she would refer to the letter, but she only nodded. He said, "Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to you?"

She lifted eyes to his face then, astonished, pleased, and Darcy wanted limp with relief. She wasn't angry at all! "Yes," she said, and they walked on.

She liked the grounds. She liked the house. She wanted to meet his sister. Darcy could hardly believe his luck. He stopped himself from demanding confirmation: Did she really like Pemberley's views? Had she really told Mrs. Reynolds she liked his portrait? Did she really want to meet Georgiana? But Elizabeth didn't lie or fib. He could trust she meant what she said.

They arrived at the house before her aunt and uncle. "Would you like to step in?" Darcy asked, thinking he could show her the improvements he'd made to the flue in the drawing room fireplace. But she had already seen the house, and she declined. So Darcy stood beside her, watching the glowing summer sky and thinking how marvelous it was that Elizabeth liked Pemberley.

"Have you visited Matlock?" she said, and they discussed Derbyshire towns until the Gardiners arrived.

"I'll bring my sister to visit once she arrives," he told her, and Elizabeth assented.

He could hardly believe his luck—Elizabeth in Derbyshire; Elizabeth staying in Lambton; Elizabeth here at Pemberley. He could never have imagined this after that terrible interview at Rosings.

She had read the letter—she must have read the letter. Had she believed him? Given him the benefit of the doubt? She must have, enough for her to be here at least, to not be angry with him. He would match her civility; he would show her he knew how to behave like a gentleman. He strode into the house and ordered a suitable repast. He hardly noticed eating it, and he went to bed with a more untroubled mind than he'd had in the last four months.

The Bingleys and Georgiana arrived the next morning. Mrs. Reynolds showed Charles, Mrs. Hurst, and Miss Bingley to their rooms. Darcy followed Georgiana to her sitting room.

"Do you remember me mentioning the Bennets?" he said, prepared to repeat his previous descriptions, but, "Yes," Georgiana said.

"Miss Elizabeth is staying at Lambton with her aunt and uncle. I'd like you to meet her."

Georgiana looked at him, and for a fleeting moment, Darcy thought she seemed amused. But no, he was reading Elizabeth's expressions into his sister's face, that was all.

"I would be pleased," Georgiana said.

"This afternoon," Darcy said. "If you're not too tired."

"No," Georgiana said, still looking at him.

"How was the trip?"

"I listened to Charles tell me all about the beauties of Hertfordshire," she said.

If he didn't know better, he'd think his sister was becoming coy.

Mrs. Annesley came in then; Darcy requested Georgiana's presence in half an hour—she would be prompt, his sister was not given to tardiness, thank goodness—and went down to the stables. He met Charles there, admiring Darcy's latest purchases (Charles never spent more than ten minutes unpacking).

"Where are you off to?" he said when Darcy ordered the curricle.

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet is visiting the area," Darcy said. "I am going to introduce Georgiana to her."

He hadn't considered how Charles would react to mention of a Bennet sister, if Charles would be upset or shame-faced, but Charles smiled hugely and said, "Oh, let me accompany you," and Darcy agreed.

Georgiana came down, and the three of them squashed into the front of the curricle. It was a beautiful day of crisp sunshine and cool breezes. Charles told Darcy about the trip from Oxford, nudging Georgiana to confirm his descriptions, and they drew up outside the Lambton inn well before the dinner hour.

Darcy went in first with Georgiana. Elizabeth and the Gardiners were waiting in the inn's upstairs parlor. Darcy greeted the Gardiners and brought Georgiana forward to meet Elizabeth. Georgiana found it hard to meet new people, but he trusted Elizabeth would put her at ease. He was proved correct. Elizabeth was asking sensible questions—the kinds of questions Georgiana could answer easily—and Georgiana was answering.

"You spend your summer months at Pemberley?" Elizabeth asked her.

"Yes," Georgiana said.

Perfect.

He fetched Bingley who came in with hands outstretched. "Hello, Miss Elizabeth. How splendid to see you again!"

Darcy turned to the Gardiners who posed several queries in their easygoing way. Yes, Darcy had met Miss Elizabeth in Hertfordshire. She was an excellent pianist and singer. She danced well. Did they know Miss Elizabeth had nursed her sister at Netherfield for a week? The Gardiners exchanged a glance, but they were well-bred people; Darcy wasn't afraid of strictures from them.

Elizabeth was looking towards him, and she smiled—though her gaze seemed quizzical. Darcy sat beside Bingley, who was still commenting on the pleasure of meeting Elizabeth. "How are all the dear friends in Hertfordshire? How is your family?"

Elizabeth answered his questions. Georgiana put her hand on Darcy's sleeve. He bent his head to her:

"They could come for dinner some night."

"You should ask them yourself," Darcy said gently.

Georgiana made the invitation; Mrs. Gardiner accepted for the day after tomorrow. On the way out, Darcy asked Mr. Gardiner to come fishing at noon the next day. Mr. Gardiner agreed.

"Isn't it remarkable?!" Bingley said in the curricle. "What a small world we live in! I never thought to see any of the Bennet sisters again."

Darcy gave him a considering look. It had been eight months since Bingley wanted to offer for Miss Bennet. Darcy had encountered him several times since, and Bingley had always seemed in good spirits. Darcy assumed Bingley had transferred his affections to a London beauty.

He felt suddenly ashamed. Bingley was impulsive but not shallow. Bingley had cared for Miss Bennet. Apparently, he still cared. Was I wrong to interfere there? For many months now, Darcy had deplored his deception in the matter, but he had not supposed Bingley's thoughts still dwelt on that tall, serene woman of limitless composure. It occurred to Darcy that Miss Bennet might even be a good balance to Bingley. He would need to speak to him.

There was no time for private conversation that night or the next morning. Darcy had to confer with Loomis and Josh about the fishing. Mrs. Reynolds, he knew, had sorted out the guests' needs, but he queried Mr. Talbot about the cook's stores (they were full). He rose early the next morning to visit the Sheldons—Mr. Sheldon wanted to purchase some trees from the estate proper; Darcy was inclined to agree, but he wanted to check the Sheldon land first. When he returned to Pemberley, Mr. Gardiner had arrived, so Darcy went immediately to the trout stream and had a fascinating conversation about gravel beds with Mr. Gardiner and Max.

Towards the end of the conversation, Mr. Gardiner said, "My wife and niece are visiting your sister this morning."

That was excessively civil. Darcy should return to the house to thank them. He said so and thought Mr. Gardiner looked amused.

When he entered the saloon at Pemberley, Elizabeth and Georgiana were sitting with Mrs. Annesley and Mrs. Gardiner near the windows. He crossed the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy," Miss Bingley called. She sat at the other end of the saloon with Mrs. Hurst. Darcy nodded to them and put a hand on Georgiana's shoulder.

Mrs. Gardiner glanced up at him. "We understand Miss Darcy is an accomplished musician."

"Miss Elizabeth is also quite accomplished," Darcy said.

"Miss Elizabeth likes Haydn," Georgiana said softly.

"You admire Haydn too, don't you, dear?" said Mrs. Annesley and gave Georgiana an encouraging glance. "Which piece in particular?"

"Le Matin," Georgiana said, and Elizabeth said, "Oh, yes, it's so cheerful, don’t you think?"

Darcy decided Mrs. Annesley deserved a raise.

Georgiana was smiling at Elizabeth's analysis of Haydn when Miss Bingley cut in:

"Pray, Miss Eliza, has not Colonel Forster's militia removed from Meryton? That must be a great loss to your family."

Darcy frowned and glanced at Elizabeth. If she'd read the letter, if she'd believed the letter, she would have cut off any close relationship she had with Wickham. Darcy trusted her that far. But he had no guarantee that she had read or believed anything he wrote.

She didn't appear disconcerted, however. "Yes," she said, "the town greatly misses the militia's business," and returned immediately to a discussion of symphonies with Georgiana.

Darcy arranged for his carriage to take Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth back to Lambton. Elizabeth stood beside him as they waited for the groom, and he thought how much he had missed her brown curls and amused mouth. She was a warm presence against his shoulder—as natural there as everything at Pemberley. She said, "Your sister is lovely," and Darcy said, "Yes, she is," and their voices combined with the clop of the horse's hoofs and far-off gurgle of the stream. Darcy returned to the house feeling more content than he had even before he visited Hertfordshire.

Entering the saloon, he found Georgiana sitting stiff and unresponsive on the sofa while Miss Bingley held forth on some subject. To his astonishment, Darcy realized she was criticizing Elizabeth. On and on she went, disparaging Elizabeth's complexion and features and eyes.

Darcy could only wonder at the woman's lack of decorum. This was not Netherfield where Miss Bingley's notions held sway. Elizabeth and Miss Bingley were Georgiana's guests. Georgiana should rebuke Miss Bingley, but Darcy didn't expect it of her. Setting aside Georgiana's shyness, she was hardly prepared to challenge so much rudeness. Darcy listened to the stream of petty insults and wondered that Charles could have such a sister. For the first time, he considered that Miss Bingley may not have been the best person to consult in November about Charles' feelings.

"I believe you thought Miss Elizabeth rather pretty at one time," Miss Bingley said to him, and now, he could answer: "Yes, but that was only when I first knew her; for many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."

He couldn't storm out, but he did recollect an urgent need to confer with Mr. Jetter about some Pemberley business and left the room.

Later that night, after dinner (Miss Bingley was excessively silent, so they listened to Mrs. Hurst and Charles discuss shooting), Darcy wondered if Georgiana had caught the earlier reference to Wickham. Wickham hadn't entered the corps when Georgiana agreed to elope with him, but of course, that information was known. On the way to his room, Darcy saw a light beneath Georgiana's sitting room door and tapped.

"Come in."

Georgiana sat in a window seat. Darcy said, "Are you well?" and sighed with relief when she turned a tranquil face towards him. There had been many tears as well as self-reproaches in the months after the aborted elopement. Darcy had felt ineffectual. He hadn't returned Georgiana to school until her mood improved, and he could find her a suitable guardian which had taken over a month. He had submitted Mrs. Annesley to several long interviews with both he and Mrs. Reynolds.

Mrs. Annesley had proved a trustworthy and kind guardian. Georgiana was still cautious, even somber, but tonight, she looked reflective, absorbed, rather than sad.

She said, "I like her."

Darcy settled into an armchair. He knew what "she" Georgiana was referring to.

"She's genuine," Georgiana said.

Yes, she was. They were probably the only two siblings in the whole of England who understood the substantial worth of that quality. Brother and sister smiled at each other.

Georgiana turned back to the window. "I'd liked a sister," Georgiana said to it.

Without a doubt, his sister was becoming coy.

Darcy Learns about Elizabeth's Troubles and Goes Hunting for Wickham (but doesn't actually kill him)

The next morning, Darcy rode to Lambton alone to see Elizabeth.

He was not going to ask her to marry him: a proposal would embarrass and alarm her. But he could improve her opinion of him. He wasn't thinking further ahead than that.

He looped the horse's reins through the hitching post and requested a servant to announce him. He followed close on the servant's heels and had to jerk to a halt when the servant suddenly stopped. The door to the parlor had opened; Elizabeth darted through.

She was shaking. She saw the servant, then him, and blurted, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose."

Darcy begged her to send the servant, and she did, retreating into the parlor and collapsing onto a chair. She was white and breathing unsteadily. Darcy offered her wine. She refused; she had heard dreadful news from Longbourn, she said and started to cry.

Darcy stood over her, aghast. There was nothing he could do. He forced himself to sit and clenched his hands on his knees.

Elizabeth explained: her youngest sister had eloped with Mr. Wickham. It was unlikely that Wickham would marry her. "I might have prevented it!" Elizabeth cried. "I who knew what he was."

Darcy flinched, but she was not accusing him. She was reproaching herself.

"Is it certain, absolutely certain?" Darcy said.

"Yes!" Wickham and Lydia had left Brighton together. They had been traced to London. Her father had gone to London to search for them. Her sister had written for Mr. Gardiner's assistance. The Gardiners and Elizabeth would hopefully leave soon for Longbourn. "I have not the smallest hope," Elizabeth said and Darcy's insides twisted at the wretched unhappiness in her face and voice.

He had never felt so powerless. He hated this feeling. With Georgiana, the danger had been past. But this—this—

"My eyes were opened to his real character. But I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!"

And still she did not reproach him, though her words could have been Darcy's own. He had known Wickham's character. He had done nothing, and now this sister of Elizabeth's was paying for Darcy's inaction.

He realized he was pacing and stopped himself. He was useless here. He could do nothing to ameliorate Elizabeth's pain. In any case, this was a family matter; she would much prefer her uncle and aunt to Darcy's company.

He made his excuses, saw her gather herself to respond with courtesy. She requested secrecy, and he gave it: she didn't need to ask. He looked at her carefully before he left; she was white and shaky, but she would be alright until the Gardiners came. He ran down the inn steps, unhitched the horse.

This was where reticence got you. This was what happened when you protected yourself and your family from other people's snickers and sidelong glances and expressions of concern. Darcy had let Wickham operate freely amongst reputable folk. What had he thought would happen?

Ashamed, he realized he had assumed others would be wise enough to avoid the worst—as Darcy had with Georgiana. But he had only avoided the worst with Georgiana by luck. Perhaps the Bennets, the Lucases, and Colonel Forster should have recognized Wickham's basic insincerity, but no one would make the leap from insincerity to rake—not when Darcy remained so profoundly silent on the subject.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

It would not have been difficult to warn them. He would not have had to reveal much. A hint in Mrs. Bennet's ear would have exiled Wickham from all good homes. A word in Colonel Forster's ear would have given that military gentleman reliable, even necessary information about one of his officers.

Stupid.

He knew before he reached Pemberley what he needed to do, and he needed to do it. His London solicitors would follow instructions, but Darcy needed to move, act, do something.

He encountered Charles at the stables. "I'm called to London," he said as much to Hutchins, the stable master, as to Charles. "I'll leave tomorrow morning."

"Very good, sir," Hutchins said while Charles said, "What's wrong? Do you want me to accompany you?"

"I can't provide details. Please, stay on, enjoy yourself. I'll return as soon as I can."

Charles looked concerned, and Darcy felt a wrench of disappointment. He would have liked to confide in Charles; he would have liked Charles' help in London. But what he told Charles, Charles would tell his sisters, and Darcy had to keep Elizabeth's secret for as long as possible. Wickham's actions had tainted her, had tainted her whole family, including Miss Bennet; if Charles ever intended to propose to Miss Bennet, he could not know of this calamity.

Darcy alerted Mrs. Reynolds to his journey. She sent his valet to pack a valise, and Darcy went in search of Georgiana. She had escaped the Bingley sisters and was seated in the Yew garden, embroidering with Mrs. Annesley. Mrs. Annesley agreed good-humoredly when Darcy requested a moment alone with his sister.

"I have to go to London," Darcy said when Mrs. Annesley had departed.

"Why?"

"The Gardiners have been called back to Longbourn. There's been a misfortune in the Bennet family."

"Oh, no," Georgiana said, and he took her hand.

"I think I can fix it," he said. "But Miss Elizabeth had to leave also."

"Has someone died?"

Darcy pondered. They were a family of almost abnormal privacy, yet he had to tell someone even if the news hurt Georgiana.

"Wickham has run off with Elizabeth's youngest sister."

He wasn't sure what he expected: a swoon, perhaps tears, but Georgiana only breathed a little quicker. She frowned.

"I have to find Mrs. Younge," Darcy said, rising.

"You should ask Gloria Faintree," Georgiana said.

He re-sat abruptly. Georgiana's color was high, but she was serious and determined.

"They were friends," Georgiana said.

Gloria Faintree was a servant in the London house, had been when Mrs. Younge was Georgiana's guardian.

Darcy said, "Did she—?"

"No," Georgiana said quickly. "She wasn't at Ramsgate. I don't think she ever met Wickham, but she might still be in contact with Mrs. Younge."

"Yes." Darcy squeezed his sister's shoulders. Georgiana smiled at him sadly:

"I guess I'm not the only silly girl in England."

He'd been right to tell her. If he'd thought more about the situation, he wouldn't have said anything—but Georgiana had faced the news with maturity. And she had helped him.

So much for well-meaning reticence.

He had meetings with Max and various tenants that afternoon. More meetings were scheduled for the rest of the week. He discussed with Max which meetings could be postponed until Darcy returned and which Max should carry out on his own. They discussed all the estate business Darcy had meant to tackle over the next month. Max took notes. Darcy trusted him; Max would do alright.

He returned to Pemberley late. His valise was ready. He slept for a few hours, waking at dawn. Mrs. Reynolds had packed breakfast for him. The carriage was waiting. They departed Pemberley at a muffled trot. Darcy meant to make it to London in one day, which meant several stops to exchange horses, but speed mattered. The more time passed, the more likely the scandal would break. Darcy would lose any leverage he possessed with Wickham, and Elizabeth's reputation would be ruined.

It wasn't going to happen. Darcy could fix this. He would fix this.

They arrived in London near midnight. His groom, Paul, would return to Pemberley tomorrow, retrieving the Pemberley horses on the way. Darcy collapsed into bed and slept until late morning.

He asked the housekeeper to send in Gloria Faintree while he ate breakfast. As he was finishing, a short, plump maid entered the room. She froze like a hare at the end of the table. Only her fingers moved, endlessly pleating her apron.

Darcy said, "Do you know Mrs. Younge's whereabouts?"

The girl opened her mouth and whispered something. Darcy said, "What's that?"

"I've heard, sir," the girl said in a slightly louder voice, "that she's in Edward Street, sir—she keeps lodgings."

"Thank you," Darcy said. The girl was shivering now. He didn't think he'd been unduly harsh. Perhaps she thought Darcy would dismiss her.

"Do you have dealings with her?" he said gently.

"Oh, no, sir. I did, sir, when she was Miss Georgiana's companion. Before. She wrote me after when she moved to Edward Street—I never responded, sir."

"Good," Darcy said. "Thank you," he added and smiled, and the maid smiled awkwardly in return.

He went to Edward Street. Mrs. Younge wasn't there; he told the maid he would return but didn't leave his name. He loitered in the area, taking refreshment at a tap house that overlooked the length of the street.

A hackney carriage pulled up to Mrs. Younge's door. A trim woman in a velvet lined gown descended with several boxes: Mrs. Younge. Darcy paid for his drink and went out. He was at the lodging house door almost as soon as it closed. He knew he was bordering on incivility, but the longer he waited, the greater the chance that Wickham would leave London with or without the Bennet girl. He knocked. The maid answered.

"Oh, hullo," she said. "Mrs. Younge has just returned—"

He stepped in, handing over his card. His name meant nothing to the maid. She went into a room at the end of the narrow foyer. Darcy waited, a large immovable object. Voices murmured: the maid's, cheery, impassive; Mrs. Younge's, surprised, alarmed. Darcy sighed, crossed the foyer, and opened the parlor door.

"You were not invited in, Mr. Darcy!" Mrs. Younge cried, bounding to her feet.

She was a compact, stylish woman. She exuded an aura of tactful refinement: a veneer, Darcy knew, but no doubt, it impressed her lodgers. It had once impressed Darcy.

"I am looking for Wickham," Darcy said as the maid, brows raised in deliberate disinterest, sidled past him out the door.

"Why do you imagine he is here?"

Because Wickham always kept a guarantee, a woman he could fall back on for money and support. Darcy didn't say so. He needed this woman's good will, at least for the moment. He took a deep breath and said as civilly as he could, "I want to help him."

"You?" She snorted and then looked annoyed at her lack of dignity.

"He's going to need help. I can improve his situation. Tell him that."

"He will, of course, leap to trust you." Her sneer was obvious.

"My word is trustworthy."

She pursed her lips and looked unbelieving.

"More than his," Darcy said. "He never married you."

She reddened, and Darcy cursed himself for losing his temper, but he might as well speak the truth now: "He's taken another bride."

"He won't marry her." The veneer was nearly gone now. Mrs. Younge was almost triumphant. Darcy quelled his disgust.

He said, "Is he hoping for someone wealthier?"

She shrugged and rose, recovering some of her poise. "The maid will show you out."

He didn't move. He didn't understand why any woman would associate with Wickham once his character was exposed. Did Mrs. Younge honestly think Wickham would repay her devotion?

"He'll gamble away any money before you ever see it," he said.

That gave her pause.

Darcy said, "I am willing to compensate you for information."

She considered, eyes half-closed. Darcy watched her, at a loss. He could not comprehend a woman such as this—without decency or self-respect or basic kindness.

"My knowledge is valuable," she said, and Darcy understood. He took coins out of his purse and set them on a table near the door.

"This is a partial payment," he told her.

"I'll see what I can manage."

He could do nothing more except go. Wickham and the youngest Bennet could be anywhere. They would surface eventually; Darcy must find them before the world heard of their whereabouts which meant he had to rely on Mrs. Younge's greed.

He returned to his house, paced in his study. There was no guarantee that Mrs. Younge would contact Wickham, no guarantee that Wickham would contact him. It was possible that Wickham had married Lydia, but if he had, he would have contacted Mr. Bennet for funds. Darcy should contact the Gardiners to find out if Wickham had made such a request.

He couldn't. He had nothing to offer them. He would be acting out of self-indulgence, a desire to share his burdens, to check on Elizabeth's health, her state of mind. He couldn't go to the Gardiners until he knew for certain that everything was fixed.

A message came from Mrs. Younge the next evening: "I have located your missing friend. I will give you more information if you call tomorrow at 11:00."

Darcy went. He handed over more coins, and Mrs. Younge gave him an address. He hoped it was valid, that he wouldn't have to return for another address for which he would have to pay more money. He didn't like being this vulnerable to rapacious people.

He was scowling when he finally came face to face with Wickham.

Darcy Finds Wickham, and Wickham Behaves More or Less as You Might Expect

"Hello," Wickham said. "I didn't know you were in London, Darcy."

"Do you have the youngest Bennet girl with you?

"The 'youngest Bennet girl'? Do you mean, Lydia Bennet?"

Darcy waited.

"I didn't expect anyone to know yet. Well, well, well, the rumors sure spread quickly. Did Miss Bingley burn your ears with scandal?"

"Why her?" Darcy said. "The family is not wealthy—"

"I'm not going to marry the girl." Wickham laughed. "I thought you knew me better than that."

"Why take her at all?" Darcy barked. "You had a good commission."

Wickham looked rueful. "And debts," he said. "Rather a lot of them. Let me tell you, Darcy, soldiers play for high stakes."

"So—" Darcy boggled. "Are you hoping the militia will just forget you owe its members money?"

"I'm resigning my commission." Wickham grinned. "Not a lawyer, not a soldier, not a vicar—your influence there—"

"You gave up that occupation," Darcy snapped, wishing he wouldn't react to Wickham's lies. He said as calmly as he could, "I want to see Miss Lydia."

"She's not your type."

Darcy waited. Wickham shrugged. "Upstairs."

Wickham was lodged near the Strand. The house had several apartments, grouped together around a dim stairwell. A single servant—there was also a live-in cook—showed Darcy to the upper room of Wickham's suite.

"Stay," Darcy told the servant. She gave him a baffled look but shrugged and followed him through the door.

A young, buxom woman sat by the windows, playing with a kitten. She rose as Darcy entered. He recognized her; he recognized too that, like Georgiana, she was well-formed despite her youth. Darcy felt a sudden aching desire to go down and kill the blithe man sitting in the room below. But that would not help anyone.

"Oh, la," Miss Lydia said, "it's Mr. Darcy."

"Hello, Miss Lydia."

"Why are you here?"

"I want you to return to your family."

"Why?

"They are worried about you. Your sister, Miss Elizabeth, was very upset when she learned you had eloped."

"Jealous, no doubt," Miss Lydia said. "I managed to capture Wickham's affections, not her."

"Are you sure he cares for you?"

Miss Lydia was not offended but rather astonished. "Of course. He gave me Bert—" she held out the kitten. It looked like a product of alley cat.

Darcy found himself exchanging a glance with the servant who shrugged.

He tried again: "He hasn't married you."

"He's just waiting to get some money that was promised him."

Darcy stared at her. She was possibly the most non-thinking creature he had ever met. And yet, there was something ingenuous about her; she was amiable if exasperating.

He went down to Wickham's sitting room, towing the interested servant behind him. It was a wise precaution. Wickham was ready with his smutty accusations—"Well, if you insist on seeing Lydia alone—" but stopped when he saw the servant.

"How much are your debts?" Darcy said, and Wickham told him: it was a huge amount, but it could have been worse.

"I'm assuming some are debts of honor," Darcy said. Wickham made a face. Darcy was suddenly fed up—with him, this place, the foolish girl upstairs—except Elizabeth's reputation was at risk, and Elizabeth loved her little sister, and neither she nor her sister would be in this situation if Darcy had been more responsible.

He said steadily, "You will draw up a list of your debts. You will remain here in this house. I don't have to remind you that duels, despite the pamphleteers, are still fought in England—over debts of honor."

Wickham blanched. Darcy exited after the servant and gave his feelings some vent by slamming the sitting room door.

At the outside door, the servant said, "Where can I reach you, sir, if he tries to decamp?"

Darcy looked down. The servant, a worn woman of any where from sixteen to thirty, looked back at him. Her clothes were grimy; her hair untidy. She had clearly been underfed for most of her life, but her eyes were lively, her mouth formed for laughter, and Darcy's heart suddenly felt a little lighter. Not everyone was taken in by Wickham.

"What's your name?"

"Kat, sir. Kat Giles."

He gave Miss Giles his card and several coins and went down the street, his objectives set out clearly before him: he was going to fix this!

He paid a visit to his solicitors the next morning. Now that he knew the amount of Wickham's debts, he knew what he could offer to gain Wickham's compliance. He knew, also, what Wickham would try for, but debts of honor were not like ordinary bills, not even for Wickham. If certain soldiers learned of Wickham's whereabouts, they would show far less restraint than Darcy. It was tempting to tell them. However, they would care little for Lydia Bennet's situation.

Darcy would handle everything. That meant paying out a great deal of money. He did not intend to raise his rents or to let go any of his servants. No one under his protection would suffer for Wickham's behavior. He would have to sell Munchen Farm. It was not part of the entailed estate but rather a farm his father had purchased during his lifetime. The servants there would have to be relocated to other parts of the Pemberley estate. Luckily, harvest time was near when extra laborers were hired by the Pemberley estate proper and by many of Darcy's tenants. The Munchen Farm servants would make up the extra labor force. Darcy would worry about their further employment come winter.

The solicitors were not pleased. Darcy wasn't pleased, but there was no point in dwelling on the repugnance of the situation. The farm must be sold; the money must be made available. Wickham's name was mentioned, and the solicitors became frigid with disapproval.

"I would suggest the money not be given directly to Mr. Wickham," the head solicitor, Mr. Garrison said.

"It won't be," Darcy promised.

He returned to Wickham's apartments. "They've been fighting," Miss Giles told Darcy, skipping up the stairs ahead of him. "She's not so sure of marriage since you came."

"Would she leave?" Darcy said, knowing the conversation was improper and not much caring.

"No, sir. He as good as told her he didn't care if she left, but she won't go. That age, they're sure they can get love just by wanting it."

Yes.

Wickham had made a list of his largest debts. Darcy looked them over, demanding particulars, receipts (some of which Wickham had).

"Are you really going to save my honor?" Wickham said smugly as the day wore on.

"Once you marry Miss Lydia."

Wickham looked pained. "I could make a better marriage."

"Miss King's uncle didn't think so," Darcy said. The uncle had broken Miss King and Wickham's engagement: Darcy had gotten that piece of information from Mr. Garrison.

Wickham actually flushed, glaring.

"You need immediate relief," Darcy said. "I'm offering it."

"I'm not going to marry the chit just to clear some bills."

"I'm aware of that."

A crafty look entered Wickham's face. He smoothed it out with a pleased laugh. As Darcy had expected, he suggested Darcy grant him an improbable sum which, of course, he wanted placed directly in his hands.

"Your debts will be paid," Darcy said, "through my solicitors. Money will be settled on Miss Lydia—in such a way, Wickham, that you will not be able to touch it. A better commission will be purchased for you, and a nominal amount of money will be settled on you."

Wickham protested. A pittance! How typical of Darcy not to be more generous! But all the time, there was wonder in his eyes: he knew Darcy owed him nothing. He wasn't sure why Darcy was offering such terms. But if he questioned Darcy's motives, he would lose his ability to bargain. Darcy had learned years earlier how Wickham's mind worked.

He went away with Wickham's list of debts, and when he returned the next morning, Wickham agreed to all his terms.

He must now inform the Gardiners of the arrangement, and he took a hackney carriage to Gracechurch Street. He rang the bell; a maid answered. Mr. Gardiner, she told Darcy, was engaged with Mr. Bennet.

Darcy hesitated. He didn't dislike Mr. Bennet. The man was a poor landowner but not actually neglectful. He would accept the terms Darcy had drawn up—and the money. In fact, he would need to pay Wickham's bills in Meryton.

The maid was waiting. Darcy just needed to say, "Tell Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Bennet that Mr. Darcy has called with information on Miss Lydia Bennet," and he would be welcomed into the current conference.

Darcy couldn't do it—he didn't know Mr. Bennett, not really. He didn't dislike him, but he didn't have full confidence in him. He did have full confidence, he realized, in Mr. Gardiner. Mr. Gardiner would be reasonable and objective. Darcy could work with Mr. Gardiner.

"I will return at a later date," he said and went to the London house.

He ate a light meal and slept fitfully, woke early. He was washing his face with cold water from the night before when he realized he had another reason for avoiding Mr. Bennet:

No one in Meryton could know what he'd done. The Gardiners were trustworthy. The Bennet parents were not. Elizabeth's reputation would be no better off if Darcy's part was known than if he had never played a part at all. Lydia must be removed to the Gardiners' home as soon as possible; the world must believe she had been there since she left Brighton.

Elizabeth, perhaps, had a right to the whole truth, but Darcy did not have the right to force the information on her. Let her believe her uncle had fixed everything.

He ate a small breakfast and took the carriage to Gracechurch Street. Mr. Gardiner was not engaged. He would be down directly. Darcy was admitted and left in Mr. Gardiner's study. He sank into a deep armchair and felt a sudden onslaught of exhaustion. It was almost over. It was almost fixed. Elizabeth's reputation was safe. No one, except Lydia, was going to pay for Darcy's mistakes, and Lydia didn't seem to know she was paying. Darcy knew, however, and was sorry for it.

He was half-asleep when Mr. Gardiner entered. He roused himself as Mr. Gardiner leapt forward hand out. "Mr. Darcy—what brings you here?" and then, before Darcy could respond, "We had such a pleasant time with you at Pemberley. We were sorry to leave so abruptly—and so was my niece."

Darcy nodded. "I hope you will visit again," he said. "I am not here, however, to extend an invitation. I have found Miss Lydia Bennet."

He explained everything. He was right; Mr. Gardiner was quick to appreciate the important point: the need to secure the marriage through the careful distribution of money, little of which would pass directly through Wickham's hands.

The only argument Darcy had with Mr. Gardiner—and later, Mrs. Gardiner—was about who the money should come from. Mr. Gardiner wanted to take on the whole expense. Darcy had looked over the Gardiners' home; it was large, well-proportioned with comfortable, tasteful furnishings. He admired the paintings on the wall, and the well-stocked bookcases. Mr. Gardiner was a well-off man. But he was not well-off to the tune of 9,653 pounds. He had, moreover, five children. Darcy would not allow this family, this overly generous family, to burden itself financially. Darcy would manage the whole; it was, in any case, his problem. He would fix it.

Lydia would come to Gracechurch Street. Darcy had to return to Pemberley, but he would come back for the wedding at which point Wickham would receive his commission and the money promised him for his own use (it would be given to help him "start a new life with his bride," but Darcy knew Wickham would spend it on himself; hence, the individual settlement on Lydia).

"Oh, you are obstinate," Mrs. Gardiner said to Darcy, half fretful, half laughing.

"That is not the worst of faults," Darcy said.

"I could also accuse you of a lack of liveliness," she said, "but I think marriage would cure that," and she kissed his cheek.

He returned to Pemberley two days later. Before he went, he issued an order to his London butler, Mr. Poole. Mr. Poole was to visit a certain house—Darcy gave him the address—and hired the services, should she agree, of a servant woman named Miss Katrina Giles.

Darcy Decides to Propose to Elizabeth (Again), Then Takes Awhile Getting Around to It

Charles intended to return to Netherfield for the shooting season. His sisters were going on to Scarborough.

"You'll come to Netherfield, won't you?" Charles said to Darcy, half-pleading, half-embarrassed.

Darcy agreed. He and Charles had not had a private chat since Darcy returned to Pemberley. Charles had not mentioned the Bennet sisters, and Darcy had wanted to forget the subject: he was hardly in a position, now, to court Elizabeth.

But Charles' suit still had merit. If Darcy went with him, he could see for himself how Miss Bennet felt. He could encourage Charles if Charles needed encouragement.

They arrived at Netherfield. They went shooting. Darcy walked the grounds and spoke to the land steward who seemed rather depressed, but Darcy couldn't summon up energy to badger Charles about Netherfield's lands.

Finally, they visited the Bennets. Charles proposed going as if the thought had just that moment occurred to him. Darcy smiled inwardly.

Mrs. Bennet, of course, was ecstatic to see Charles. Charles flushed and sat down near Miss Bennet. Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. She had greeted him, but she was focused now on her sewing. She didn't look at him. He asked after the Gardiners. She answered in a stilted manner.

Darcy sat on a hard little chair and felt miserable. What had he expected? She had suffered weeks of uncertainty when her sister eloped with Wickham. She knew how culpable Darcy was there, how much to blame for Wickham's behavior in the first place. Any kindness she may have felt for Darcy at Pemberley would have been wiped well away by now.

Mrs. Bennet rattled on about Miss Lydia and the shooting season, and Darcy sat and wished he had stayed away. But there was Charles to consider. Miss Bennet seemed pleased to see Charles, if quiet. But then that was her nature. It was not her sister's: why was Elizabeth so silent unless Darcy's coming embarrassed her?

Charles praised Miss Bennet repeatedly on the way home—so lovely, so good-natured. Didn't Darcy think so? Darcy agreed absently.

They went to dinner at the Bennets. Elizabeth spoke to Darcy a few times which eased his depression, but it wasn't like before. Nothing would ever be like before. Except for Charles, who spend the entire evening at Miss Bennet's side. On their way back to Netherfield, he said, "Isn't Miss Bennet remarkable? Even you have to admit that, Darcy."

Darcy had admitted it, rather incessantly, over the past twenty-four hours. He sighed, glancing at Charles and found that Charles was watching him earnestly.

"Do you intend to court her?" Darcy said. Surely Charles had already decided.

"Yes!" The reply was explosive. "So, you approve? You didn't approve a year ago."

"No," Darcy said. "I owe you an apology there, Charles. I presumed where I shouldn't have, and I kept information from you—Miss Bennet visited your sisters in London."

"She did? They never—"

"I convinced them the connection was a bad one."

"Oh." There was silence between them, then, "You had no right to do that," Bingley said stiffly.

"I was wrong. I was also wrong about Miss Bennet's feelings."

"In what way?"

"She cares for you."

"Really?"

Darcy gazed at him wonderingly. He had expected more recriminations, but Charles only looked pleased.

"Yes," he said. "She is pleased to see you when we visit Longbourn. She prefers your company to everyone else's."

"Then if I propose," Charles said, "you won't be upset?"

"Of course not," Darcy said, rather startled, and Charles beamed.

Darcy went up to London the next day. There were papers to sign regarding the Munchen Farm. It had been purchased by Lord Crambourne who owned land in Derbyshire. Darcy was pleased: Crambourne would be a good neighbor and landlord, and Darcy hoped he would rehire many of the Munchen Farm servants.

The London house was quiet—Georgiana would not return until after Christmas—with a partial staff. One morning, Darcy encountered a maid washing the stoop. She stepped back, said, "Good morning, sir," in a laughing way, and he recognized a primly dressed, well-fed Miss Giles.

He considered calling on the Gardiners where he could pretend for an hour or two that they were all back in Pemberley in the halcyon summer days before everything Darcy wanted collapsed forever.

He returned from the solicitors one afternoon to find the London house in an uproar. Lady Catherine was in London. She had stopped by that morning to see Darcy. She was most displeased that he was out. Darcy sighed, told Mr. Poole to ready the kitchen—Lady Catherine would insist on coming to dinner at least one night—and prepared to stay at home the following morning.

To his surprise, Lady Catherine returned that evening. She had many friends and relations in London; Darcy would have thought her wholly occupied in bothering them. Luckily, the cook, used to Lady Catherine's sudden assaults, had already restocked the larder. Darcy offered a meal; Lady Catherine swept it aside.

"I have alarming news," she announced. Darcy sat in the chilly drawing room—there was no point wasting fuel by lighting a fire—and waited for her to finish: perhaps, Lady Catherine's housekeeper had finally gotten fed up and left.

"Your name, my dear nephew, is being bandied about in the worst way."

Darcy cringed inwardly. Had she heard about Wickham and Miss Lydia (Mrs. Wickham now)? How could she have heard?

"In connection with Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Miss Elizabeth?"

"You are right to be astonished. I could hardly believe it. The rumors people spread—you know the oldest daughter is marrying your friend—"

Darcy didn't know, but he wasn't surprised: Charles and his spontaneity. Darcy quelled a rush of envy. Good for Charles.

"—an advantageous match for her, I must say. But there is no reason for people to suppose that simply because you are friends, you would marry the sister. I can confirm absolutely there was no suggestion of such an idea when you visited Rosings—"

Only a proposal which had been rejected.

"I have done what I can to squelch this odious gossip. I even visited the girl—"

"What?"

"Can you believe it, Darcy? She knows that such a connection would be improper, but she refused to deny the rumor. Yes, I can see that astonishes you—" Darcy had risen and was gaping at his aunt. "An obvious falsehood, yet she refused to admit it. I explained about Anne—"

Darcy looked confused. What about Anne?

Lady Catherine coughed and waved a hand—

"And she still refused to acknowledge that there is no engagement between you. She knows she would disgrace you—"

"No," Darcy said, but Lady Catherine didn't hear him. She continued, her voice rising: "She knows your family would never accept her—" (the Fitzwilliams would, John would, anyone who mattered to Darcy would)—"yet she remained obstinate. She thinks you would not care about her low connections—" (Darcy would be lucky to get the Gardiners as relations. As for Mrs. Bennet, well, Pemberley was a long way from Longbourn.) "She finally admitted there was no engagement, but she would not promise to never enter into one. I realize you would never offer for her, but her willingness to countenance the possibility will only further the rumors. She actually intimated that it was none of my business—"

On and on went Lady Catherine's voice. Darcy could only stare at the unlit fire and replay Lady Catherine's words in his head: She would not promise to never enter into one.

Into an engagement. With Darcy.

She would not promise to never enter into an engagement with me.

If she had decided against Darcy, she would have said so. She may have scrupled at being too blunt, but she would have been frank about her emotions, especially to Lady Catherine.

"You must persuade her to stop these rumors," his aunt was saying.

Darcy nodded absently. Had Elizabeth's feelings changed since April? He'd hoped so at Pemberley, but there hadn't been enough time to judge. If her emotions had changed, why hadn't she spoken to him when he visited Longbourn with Charles?

You didn't speak to her, he reminded himself. But Elizabeth was better at that sort of thing than he. He shrugged. It didn't matter. She wasn't opposed to the idea of engagement—that was what mattered.

He finished his business with the solicitors. Two days later he was back at Netherfield.

Charles was full of his engagement: Miss Bennet had said, "Yes." Wasn't it amazing? Wasn't it marvelous? They would be married before Christmas. Would Darcy be his best man? Charles was the happiest of men.

"It's rather hard to talk to her alone," he admitted. "Mrs. Bennet—" he paused judiciously—"likes to, ah, discuss the wedding. But I have a walk in mind for tomorrow. Will you come?"

Absolutely. They set out early. Mrs. Bennet was delighted to see them, even Darcy. She wanted to tell Darcy about Lady Catherine's visit. Darcy cringed, ready to apologize for his aunt's behavior, but Charles cut in with his offer of a walk, and all three sisters plus Charles and Darcy set off towards the Lucases.

Charles and Miss Bennet fell further and further behind. The youngest sister—Kitty?—left them at the Lucases' gate. Darcy was relieved that Elizabeth didn't want to go in. He needed time and relative solitude to order his thoughts, prepare himself to propose.

Suppose she said, "No."

She couldn’t say, "No."

She might. She might have said what she did to Lady Catherine out of anger—her relations with Darcy were, after all, none of Lady Catherine's business. Or Lady Catherine might have misunderstood or misread . . .

If she said, "No"—Darcy could hardly contemplate the idea, the emotional heartbreak. He wasn't good at heartbreak.

But suppose she meant to say, "Yes," and he didn't ask?

His thoughts were interrupted. Elizabeth was speaking of Darcy's intervention with Wickham. Darcy frowned, astonished. He'd trusted the Gardiners not to report his involvement.

It wasn't the Gardiners, Elizabeth reassured him, but Lydia. And Elizabeth was grateful: "Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications for the sake of discovering Wickham and Lydia."

Darcy felt some of his alarm ebb away. She wasn't angry because he hadn't acted sooner or faster. She was appreciative; she understood what he'd been though. He'd done it for her, not her family. He said so, which struck him, after the fact, as a little rude, but Elizabeth blushed and looked at the ground.

Darcy felt easier. Apparently, he had said the right thing. He continued while his courage was up: "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."

He waited, and it seemed as if the world shrunk, like a bubble, around him. He didn't hear the birds or wind or far-off rumbling carts. He waited in that narrow, quiet place where all he saw was Elizabeth's face.

"You are so generous—" she said, stammering—Elizabeth stammering!—"my feelings are nothing like they were that first time. I am ashamed of what I felt. I would be honored—happy to receive your addresses."

Darcy almost laughed. She had agreed. It seemed so completely unlikely that he stood for several more seconds in that bubble world, and then he was holding Elizabeth's hand which was warm, and he was back in the lane with the birds chirping and the wind rustling the trees. He could hear workers far-off in the fields, see the gray of early frost on the grass. He could see Elizabeth's cheek close against his coat, and he felt complete, unbelieving delight.

"I am very lucky," he told her because she needed to know. Her good sense, her good humor, her kindness and intelligence, her beautiful eyes—all these things made him the luckiest of men. He described them all, and it was the easiest thing Darcy had ever done.

They walked on, hands clasped. They discussed Lady Catherine, Elizabeth laughing at Darcy's explanation: "I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have said so."

He was right, Elizabeth said. He knew her very well. She referred, self-consciously, to his proposal at Rosings. She was sorry now that she had been so harsh, but she hadn't been harsh. Darcy had been an ass. He behaved better now. He told her that and asked about the letter. Had she even read it? She had; she had believed it; she had been ashamed at how grossly she had misjudged him. She nudged him then—he shouldn't dwell so on the past; they were different people now.

Darcy agreed. She was so wise, his Elizabeth, but he'd waited several months to explain to her his character, and he did so now, carefully, seriously, and she listened attentively.

They moved on then to happier subjects—Charles and her sister. Darcy explained what he had confessed to Charles, and Elizabeth smiled at him. She seemed to think he had pushed Charles to propose to Miss Bennet, but Charles had intended to offer when they returned to Netherfield—Darcy assured her on that point.

She grinned, and Darcy eyed her suspiciously, but she only leaned against him, and Darcy felt bone-deep relief and satisfaction. Elizabeth was going to marry him. How astonishing.

Marriage, Darcy knew, involved other people. He told himself sternly that he would bear up under Mrs. Bennet's raptures and the curiosity of Longbourn's neighbors. Speaking to Elizabeth's father was easy in comparison although Elizabeth seemed nervous. In fact, once the engagement was announced, Darcy thought she seemed more nervous than he. But she was happy enough when they could go on walks together.

The Collinses came for a visit, and Mr. Collins simpered. Darcy was surprised Mr. Collins didn't rouse Elizabeth to her usual sarcasm. "You bear all their fawning so composedly," she said.

"We're engaged," Darcy said, which he figured explained everything, but Elizabeth only shook her head fretfully. At least she was herself around Darcy.

The fawning continued. Sir William congratulated Darcy on "carrying away the brightest jewel of the country" and asked when he would see Darcy dance at St. James with his wife. Darcy just smiled. When Sir William was gone, he shrugged for Elizabeth's benefit, and they shared reminiscences of their dances together. "Will I still have to do most of the talking?" Elizabeth said, and Darcy said, "Yes."

Georgiana wrote to Elizabeth and to Darcy. Elizabeth showed Georgiana's letter to Darcy—four pages—but wouldn't let him read it. To Darcy, Georgiana wrote, "Thank you for my new sister. I will see you both soon." The weddings—his and Elizabeth's, Charles and Miss Bennet's—would occur in early December. Darcy and Elizabeth would spend Christmas at Pemberley with Georgiana and the Gardiners. The Gardiners were pleased, Elizabeth told Darcy, to gain such a worthy nephew. "I am pleased to gain such a kind uncle and aunt," Darcy said and spoke the truth.

A year ago, he had left Pemberley alone to visit Netherfield. Now, he would return to Pemberley with a new bride; at Pemberley, his sister and new aunt and uncle would be waiting. There were times during the courtship when, Elizabeth coming to meet Darcy on the road between Netherfield and Longbourn, Darcy would halt the horse, watch her come and think, "I am a man of remarkable good fortune."

Epilogue

Darcy came upstairs to find Mrs. Reynolds and his wife removing the curtains in the front guest bedroom. He tucked his hands behind his back. He had been helping Max and the Walston boys unearth the tree trunk in the south pasture, and his hands were filthy. Lizzy wouldn't care, but Mrs. Reynolds would scold.

"Those curtains should be hung in the back room," Lizzy said. "I'm thinking blue curtains in here—what do you think?"

"They won't be too dark?" Mrs. Reynolds said.

"Maybe—" Lizzy frowned. "Green, perhaps?"

"I'll bring up some swatches," Mrs. Reynolds said and went out with her arms full. She gave Darcy a sharp look, but he smiled at her—"You can charm anyone when you smile," Lizzy would tell him—and Mrs. Reynolds only sniffed.

He sat on the divan at the end of the bed and yawned. He hadn't meant to help with the tree trunk, but it was rather frustrating to watch people mishandled a task. He studied his hands and wondered if there was any more castile soap in the house.

Lizzy was walking back and forth in front of the windows. His wife had an eye for color and had evinced an interest in decorating that surprised and sometimes alarmed Darcy. She was, however, much more frugal than he had anticipated.

He said, "Charles is looking at estates in Stafford," and grinned as Lizzy spun towards him.

"That's wonderful. Oh—" she went a little white and sat abruptly on the divan.

Darcy looked at her in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Oh, Bill, it would be wonderful to have them so close."

"Yes. I thought you'd be pleased." He gave Lizzy a hug and started to rise—they probably had some castile soap in the downstairs washroom—then stopped: Lizzy was short of breath as well as pale.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

She shook her head, frustrated. "Lately—I haven't been feeling so good. I'll be fine by lunch."

"Maybe you're starting a baby," Darcy said and headed towards the door. Half-way across the room, Lizzy said, "Bill!" and he turned back. She sat on the divan, staring at him, her face pale, eyes large.

"I think you're right," she said, stunned.

Darcy shook his head. Why was she surprised? Her mother was fertile—she had given birth to five healthy daughters and survived.

He went back, kissed the top of his wife's head. He was pleased, though babies at this stage always seemed rather remote to Darcy.

"I've never had a baby," Lizzy said to his shirt which made Darcy laugh. She grimaced up at him. "I've taken care of children, but this—"

"Lizzy," Darcy said, still amused, "you can do anything."

She laughed then and pushed him away: "Get along, you," and Darcy went out to wash his hands. Sometimes, he thought as he ran down the stairs, his wife could be a bit clueless.