Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter Five

Posted on Friday, 28 September 2007

Just as the report of Mr. Darcy's wealth had been spread about nearly every household in Meryton, so was his shocking secret now revealed with equal expedience. Mrs. Bennet's rather wildly embellished tale drew several different reactions, the most common being horror and disappointed hopes for the unwed young ladies and disbelief for their mothers. Some pitied him, some hardly thought of him – but all speculated, and wondered what sort of man he could be. What had his parents done to bring down upon their son such an affliction? What had he done?

Whispers began to spread, whispers concerning the Darcy family and its history. It seemed that there was a close relation – by turns an uncle, grandmother and cousin, depending upon who was telling the story – on Mr. Darcy's mother side (or his father's side) who had been committed to an asylum for lunacy! And that was the end – or rather, the beginning – of the matter. By the end of the week, the Darcys had unwittingly gained a host of disreputable connections, including a great--great--aunt convicted of witchcraft, several more Bedlamites, and even a murderer or two.

Considering that no one had heard of the Darcys before their arrival, it was amazing that so many should come into the knowledge of that ancient line in such convenient time as to be able to share the delightfully horrid information with their callers. Fact and fiction mingled (as to which held the greatest share in the news, I will leave the Reader to determine) and soon became indistinguishable from each other.

There was not a limit to the townspeople's zeal for the subject. A rich man was always worthy of some gossip, but a rich man tainted by madness was enough to set the most seasoned tale--bearer aglow. It spurred on a curiosity that was almost astonishing in its strength; and for several days, the demand for accounts of Mr. Darcy's person and manner were even higher than when he was simply an unknown bachelor.

The Bennets, being the only family fortunate enough to host him, were avidly accosted by their neighbors, and Longbourn received more visitors in two days than it was accustomed to seeing in two weeks. Mr. Bennet, vastly entertained by the clamor for information, remarked to Elizabeth that their present popularity did a great deal in keeping his wife from becoming inconsolable about the loss of Mr. Darcy; he was of far more use to them as a curiosity than a suitor.

Mrs. Bennet, although a good deal disheartened, cheered herself by providing differing accounts of their evening party; so engrossed in it was she that she could not have borne to be torn from her position as leading informant, even if there had been a chance for Jane to regain Mr. Darcy's favor.

The boldest of the gossips even ventured to pay a call at Netherfield itself, citing a transparently--spurious excuse for being there, and looking about for a glimpse of Mr. Darcy all the while.

They were to be disappointed – the gentleman was never in sight, and even Miss Darcy had quit her habitual walks to the village. Thus, the two were further condemned for the frustrated ambitions of Meryton's gossips. It did not seem to occur to anyone that their avaricious reactions had led to the Darcys' withdrawal from society, for there was no prevailing voice of reason to put a stop to it; there were few who outspokenly commiserated with the man's plight, and even fewer who did not listen with eager ears to news of him.

Finally, the rector of the Meryton church was forced to address the issue, which had raised to such a degree as to reach his notice. His somewhat sharp rebuke quieted the worst of the speculation, but it would undoubtedly still be happily discussed in whispers during afternoon visits over tea.

After a week's worth of this insanity, Elizabeth fully understood Miss Darcy's cryptic parting comment. She was ashamed that her neighbors should behave so childishly, but then, no one had ever seen such a man before. People with similar afflictions kept close to home or were confined in asylums; very few were known in society, or even ventured into it. The interest the villagers had toward Mr. Darcy perhaps was part fear and fascination; they none of them knew exactly what to expect from a person of his kind. Elizabeth certainly hadn't – and she still didn't quite know what to think of him.

Her sympathy for his circumstances was not enough to turn him into a saint. The very nature of his condition demanded her compassion, but she reserved the right to think him stern and dour and unpleasant, unfortunate or not, and though she could think of him with pity, she could not muse so with feelings of admiration. She did, however, do him the justice deserved by his action at the table. He had helped her to her feet with the utmost expression of gentlemanly cordiality, which told her that he had at least been taught manners, even if he but rarely applied them. His hold upon her hand had been gentle, not rough or brusque as would have befitted a man of his temperament.

A little more consideration on the subject also bade her wonder if his unseemly gaping at her had been an attempt at communication. Elizabeth had read extensively among her father's books and medical treatises, and had once come upon an article about a method used by the deaf called lipreading. Had his offensive stare been nothing more than his own particular type of listening? She concluded that it was the likeliest possibility, and in light of it, his behavior began to become more understandable.

But the condemnation or vindication of Mr. Darcy was not foremost on her mind – most troubling was the irreparable damage done to her burgeoning friendship with his sister. Knowing her family had violated the Darcys' carefully--preserved privacy, and feeling as though she were somehow responsible for the chaos after the dinner, Elizabeth did not venture any communication with Miss Darcy, nor did she expect any.

It was a great surprise then, when a note from Netherfield arrived on that next Tuesday morning. It was addressed to Jane from Miss Bingley, but the postscript was of Miss Darcy's composition. Eager to secure a companion for the day while her brother was out, Miss Bingley had fixed upon Jane as the best candidate, and extended an invitation for dinner among several patently false declarations of regard and friendship.

Miss Darcy, adding in delicate script at the bottom of the page, wrote to say that she would be most obliged if Miss Elizabeth would accompany her sister and join them for luncheon and an afternoon's tęte--ŕ--tęte; this final offer having been tendered, the letter was closed with both ladies' signatures.

Elizabeth smiled as she imagined Miss Bingley's unwilling acceptance of the latter part of the scheme. What a quandary it must have been! Wishing to oblige one girl and exclude the other...it must have been very unpleasant for a woman so accustomed to asserting her own will to have to bend to another's in order to remain on favorable terms.

Elizabeth half--expected her mother to refuse her consent to their going, or at least complain about it a little, so her happy effusions, when they did burst out upon reading the note, surprised her daughter more than they might otherwise have.

"Invited as the particular companions of Miss Bingley and Miss Darcy!" she cried, gazing at the letter with such reverence that it might as well have been a personal message from the Lord Himself. "All is not lost; I knew it would not be."

"Then you are of the opinion that we should accept?" Elizabeth asked cautiously.

"What a ridiculous question! Of course you shall go. There is still a chance for Jane."

"Pardon?"

"With Mr. Bingley," she replied slowly, in the manner of one trying to explain a simple concept to an equally simple person. "I know I had set him aside for you, Lizzy, but now that Mr. Darcy is...well...unavailable, Mr. Bingley will do just as well for Jane. He is vastly more agreeable and quite as handsome as Mr. Darcy, and Jane will catch him in no time at all. It is most fortunate that he didn't fall in love with you before we could get this all straightened out. It would have been very inconvenient."

And so the matter was decided. The girls dressed and gathered their cloaks, and seeing that the sky was dark and threatening rain, Jane requested that the carriage be brought out.

Mrs. Bennet surprised them, however, with a firm denial. "No, my dear, you two had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night."

"That would be a good scheme," said Elizabeth, "if you were sure that they would not offer to send us home."

"I had much rather go in the coach," Jane said again, tentatively.

"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?"

Mr. Bennet glanced up from his plate and exchanged a look with Elizabeth. "They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."

"But if you have got them today," said Elizabeth, "my mother's purpose will be answered."

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were engaged. Frustrated by her mother's scheming, and at the same time somewhat angry at her father's refusal to put a stop to it, Elizabeth let Jane ride the old mare, and, not being a particularly good horsewoman herself, elected to walk. Theo's gait was so slow and plodding that Elizabeth could keep pace very comfortably on foot.

The two girls wrapped up warmly against the day's chill, and their mother attended them to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Unfortunately, the weather was of a mind to oblige her. No sooner had they turned off the road to Netherfield than it began to pour. Rain came down hard and fast, spattering them mercilessly, and the mare shied uneasily. The girls, drenched to the toe, eventually were forced to take shelter in the crook of a big tree until the rain let up a little.

Jane was shivering before long, and begged that they might return to Longbourn, but Elizabeth, a little concerned by her sister's flushed cheeks, firmly said that they would go on, for Netherfield was closer, only a half--mile away. Nearly forced to push against the strong southern winds, the girls trudged back down the path, pulling a reluctant Theo along after them.

It was a profound relief to see Netherfield across the rise, and, becoming more and more alarmed at Jane's sniffling and feverish color, Elizabeth insisted that Jane ride on ahead and get into the warmth of the house. Her sister went with little argument, and the rain slowed to a drizzle as Elizabeth walked on alone. Her cloak was completely saturated, her boots coated with mud, and she was sure her windblown hair was a sorry mess, and she amused herself with the thought of how Miss Bingley would react.

Knowing herself to be in such a state, it should not really have surprised her to see who was coming down the front steps just as she neared them – Elizabeth once again found herself out in the yard, wet and disheveled, and facing an implacably grave Mr. Darcy. Well, she thought wryly, watching him spot her, pause, and stop a few feet away, at least I have my bonnet on this time.

After a few seconds passed and he made no attempt to come nearer, she assumed he was waiting for a reaction on her part; so, fixing a smile on her face, she called out a greeting and took a few careful steps forward. He stiffened, and with a sudden flash of insight, she realized what was happening. He is waiting for me to run from him – as if he thought I was afraid of him! He expects me to make excuses and go on to the house, to get away from him as soon as I can. Well, I certainly will not!

Stubborn resolution held her fast, and she moved forward until she stood just inches from his straight--backed, motionless body. As soon as she was sure she held his attention, she said, "Your sister has kindly invited me over for tea – will you take me to her, or direct me to a servant who can assist me?"

She thought she saw his dark eyes widen a little, and, without a change of expression, he held out his arm. Feeling as though she were somehow being tested, she hesitated but a moment before slipping her hand around his elbow. The tension in his stance eased, and he began walking, leading her up the flight of stone stairs – although she had to quicken her pace in order to keep up with his long--legged gait.

He escorted her to the hall, where a waiting footman took the sopping coat and bonnet. She expected Mr. Darcy to hand her over to the direction of the servant, but he kept a light hold on her elbow, steering her further down the hall to a pair of double doors on the right. After releasing her arm, he swung open one of the doors and gestured for her to go in.

Elizabeth immediately spotted Jane and Miss Darcy within, grouped around the blazing fireplace. Seeing the new arrival, the latter cordially invited her in, and Elizabeth turned to thank her escort – but he was gone.

"Do come in, Lizzy," Jane called, sniffling in between every other word. "I wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

"It sounds as though you already have." Elizabeth cast one last baffled glance over her shoulder before coming to stand with the others.

"You are both drenched to the skin," Miss Darcy added. "Come, you need to change out of those wet things, or you certainly will be ill." Not allowing either more than a few weak protests, she herded them up the stairs to her bedchamber, where they were offered the full use of her own wardrobe. Miss Darcy's maid, after studying the two girls with a practiced eye, emerged from her mistress's chiffonier with a cream and violet gown for Jane, and a pale yellow one for Elizabeth.

Miss Darcy left them to the competent hands of her maid after assuring them once more that it was no imposition at all; Elizabeth's relief at being out of the saturated garments was equal only to the maid's, who had looked rather pained at the sight of all that water dripping onto the fine carpets.

Toweling off and repairing their hair as best they could, Jane and Elizabeth went back downstairs to the parlor, where they found Miss Bingley, who had finally deigned to join her guests. The woman, upon hearing of the downpour, was all fuss and attention for her dearest Jane, calling for tea and several more blankets – Elizabeth, seeing how Miss Bingley condoled with the unpleasant situation and soliloquized at length about how very shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively she disliked it herself, suspected their hostess's solicitousness had less to do with friendly concern and more to do with having nothing else to occupy herself with.

As Miss Bingley sat with Jane by the fire, Elizabeth joined Miss Darcy on the chaise. Miss Darcy did not speak at first, clearly considering how best to phrase what she wished to say.

"I wanted to talk to you about what happened last Friday."

Elizabeth sighed. "I suspected as much. I do not think I can apologize enough for all the impropriety of our actions."

Miss Darcy's next words surprised her. "I believe I owe you an explanation too, Miss Bennet. I do not blame your family for their reaction; the entire evening could have been handled much better by all of us."

"Perhaps if we had known about his condition before..."

That humorless little half--smile crossed the girl's face. "Can you honestly say that your parents would have offered the invitation if they had known beforehand that my brother was deaf?"

Elizabeth thought of her mother's reaction, and, filled with sudden guilty embarrassment, only shook her head.

Miss Darcy spoke gently. "I say this not to shame you; there are few people I have met who accept my brother as he is. Even my own aunt is ashamed to speak of him and tries to downplay our connection." She sighed. "Much of it is my own fault. I had not expected Fitzwilliam to accompany me that evening, and I did not think to inform you, at least, of his condition."

"I wish we could have known some part of what was wrong; had my mother known he was not intentionally slighting her, she would have been more tolerant."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't have been wise."

"But why let us go on believing him ungracious?" Elizabeth said without thinking. "Surely had some small part been explained, he would have been viewed..."

"With pity?" Miss Darcy interrupted sharply.

There was a strained silence. Miss Darcy took a shaky breath. "Forgive me; that was not fair."

"I spoke in haste, but I do wish to know."

"He would rather be shunned for being ill--mannered than being deaf," she said, so quietly that Elizabeth almost didn't hear her. "That, at least, is in his power to control." She sighed, and stood up to look out the stormy sky outside. "You do not understand us, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth could hardly reply.

"There is so much...sometimes it can be very hard for us – Fitzwilliam and I." Miss Darcy hesitated, as if considering how much to reveal. "Most people do not know how...unpleasant...it can be. Fitzwilliam is such..." She paused. "He is such a private man, and he does not like having his business aired about, and his...problem...exposes him to the notice of strangers. He dislikes being put on display."

"That is perfectly understandable. No one likes being judged by those too foolish to comprehend them." Even as she spoke, Elizabeth involuntarily – and somewhat sheepishly – thought of her mother.

"I hate it," her companion said glumly.

There was another pause as Miss Darcy gathered up the resolve to continue. "He is at his happiest at home, where everyone knows of him and accepts that he is not dangerous or unbalanced because he is different. And it is not only that. Sometimes I become so...so angry. People will ask me – ask me blatantly – if he is simple!" She broke off, as if the very mention of that cruelty was enough to spark up fresh rancor.

"But perhaps the worst is the exact opposite," she continued, almost to herself. "Too much sympathy can be just as painful as outright revulsion."

"I don't understand."

"He doesn't want pity." Miss Darcy's eyes flickered in the light of the fire, her mouth drawn into a hard, unyielding line. "Pity implies that something is wrong with him – that he is less than a person – pitiful, pathetic. Do you not see? It you want to show him kindness, all you need do is treat him exactly like everyone else." A note of urgency rose in her voice. "You must understand. My brother is not some deaf--and--dumb animal, nor should he be painted as a tragic figure – he is a man. That's all he is, and that's all he needs to be. I am begging you, Miss Bennet, to hear what I am saying. He thinks and feels as any other person does – he simply cannot express it."

Elizabeth, much affected by the impassioned plea, gave her promise to keep that thought in mind when she was around him.

Under Miss Bingley's direction, the ladies went into the dining parlor for a cold luncheon. The nature of their discourse had left Elizabeth with much to ponder and no patience for small talk. Miss Darcy had the subdued spirits of a person who had at once said too much and too little, and Jane, her face still flushed and head beginning to ache, was not feeling well enough to be very communicative. Miss Bingley was only too happy to fill the silence with her own voice.

Although Elizabeth had expected the rain to cease, it seemed to worsen as the hour passed; dark thunderclouds were gathering and the sun disappeared entirely. By three, Miss Darcy asked if she might send someone to fetch their trunks from Longbourn.

"I fear that the weather will not permit you to return anytime soon," she said, gazing out at the swirling mass of silver, black, and iron--grey overhead. "It looks to be a stormy evening, and as Miss Bennet is already feeling poorly, it would not do to subject her to the elements again."

Miss Bingley reluctantly voiced her agreement, and Jane, seeing no alternative and privately grateful to not be forced back out into the rain, accepted the invitation to stay the night. A note was dispatched to Longbourn along with a servant to fetch a change of clothes and some personal effects. Elizabeth could almost hear her mother's delighted exclamations on the great good fortune that had marooned the girls at Netherfield in the company of its eligible young master.

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Miss Bingley showed Jane to her room, and the other two amused themselves with a few simple card games. The conversation was kept light, for Miss Darcy seemed determined not to return to the subject which they had so intently discussed before, and Elizabeth did not feel the need to force any more confidences. Her mind was already alive and occupied with all she had learned. Besides, Mrs. Younge had joined them in the parlor, and Elizabeth did not feel comfortable speaking too freely in front of her.

Mr. Bingley arrived around suppertime, and, hearing that Miss Bennet was ill, immediately went off to the kitchens to send her up a good meal and ensure that her needs were being seen to. Mr. Darcy did not show himself that afternoon, or even at dinner – he came in only once, about a half--hour before the party was to dine.

Elizabeth, engrossed in a slim volume of poetry borrowed from the admittedly sparse library, was the first to see him, for he had slipped into the parlor so quietly that no one else had taken note of his presence. Their eyes locked, and he bowed in her direction before moving on toward the pianoforte, where his sister sat with Mrs. Younge. Miss Bingley, over at the card table, waylaid him with a loud, "Mr. Darcy, what a pleasure to see you at last; no more hiding away from us, if I can help it. Will you not join us?"

He gazed at his hostess, Elizabeth thought, with a faint look of distaste, but simply shook his head and went on to Miss Darcy. Brother and sister exchanged glances, and Mr. Darcy leaned forward, blocking the view of the ladies at the table. From her post, Elizabeth was able to see their movements, and, with self--conscious fascination, watched as Mr. Darcy began a sort of peculiar gesturing. His long, slender fingers flickered against his palms, twisting into shapes and patterns almost more quickly than Elizabeth could look at them. Firelight reflected off his nails, flashing every so often as the digits glided through the air, like dancers in some strange waltz.

Mesmerized, Elizabeth's eyes were drawn up from his hand to his face. Expressions were leaping on and off as swiftly as his fingers moved – emotions and thoughts conveyed as they tumbled past, etched in the sensitive contours of his mouth, the arch of an eyebrow, and the lines crinkling and smoothing across his forehead. With every turn of his hand, his countenance changed, and, with a startle of recognition, she realized that he was speaking – not with his voice, but with every nuance of expression and pose, every flicker in his eye and curve of his fingers.

He held her spellbound, and only when his hands dropped passively back to his sides did she realize that she had been openly staring at him. Miss Darcy seemed to understand whatever he had been communicating, for she answered him in hushed tones. Mr. Darcy nodded, and rested his hand briefly on his sister's shoulder before leaving the parlor as unobtrusively as he had entered.

Elizabeth attempted to return her attention back to the poetry, but in her mind's eye she could see only those graceful hands moving against the backdrop of light, and the unfathomable glimmer in eyes as dark as the clouds outside. She could not concentrate at all; the familiar words of Marlowe seemed suddenly unrecognizable, unreadable, and unimportant compared to the mystery presented in and about the man who stayed to himself and looked at her with such quiet dignity.

Author's Note: And now for a history lesson; bear with me ; ) Most physical and mental disabilities were then thought – among the uneducated – to be caused by demonic possession or Satan's influence. Another common belief was that people who were handicapped were being punished by God for some sin or were just innately "bad." These sentiments were prevalent in the early 1800s, when many disabled people were stigmatized and banished to asylums in which they were treated inhumanely. (Physical handicaps were thought by some to be connected to mental diseases or 'madness' of the mind, which in turn caused the defect in the body – so the physically disabled were often institutionalized as well.) The first attempts at scientifically diagnosing mental diseases and making asylums shelters instead of prisons were made in the late 1790s by Philippe Pinel, who advocated the fair treatment of the handicapped and observed their progress when they were allowed more freedom within the asylums and treated more as patients than as inmates. He oversaw the Bicętre and Salpętričre mental hospitals in France and started the beginnings of a movement for humane methods of caring for the disabled. Unfortunately, it would take many more years for these new ideas to spread and be accepted by the larger part of society.

Chapter Six

Posted on Friday, 5 October 2007

Sleep did not come easily to Elizabeth that night. Miss Darcy's words haunted her, repeating themselves over and over in her mind, and giving her no choice but to dwell on them as she lay staring at the shadowy canopy above the bed.

He is a man. That's all he is, and that's all he needs to be...He thinks and feels as any other person does...He doesn't want pity...less than a person – pitiful, pathetic.... Elizabeth turned over and gazed out at the sky outside the window; it was beautiful, clear and starry, the sort of night that often follows a violent storm. Restlessly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose, pulling on her dressing--gown as she went. Parting the lacy froth of curtains that marred the view beyond her window, she gazed up at the moon, full and glittering silver against the deep backdrop of sky.

Moving closer to the windowpane, she detected a shaded figure on the lawn, some distance away. It took her not a moment to recognize him, as he was pacing back and forth along the gravel pathway in long, loping strides, seeming almost to glide along the moonlight--bleached lane. She could not see his face, but his inky--black hair shone iridescent in the light, and his stance was that of frustrated tension, whether in anger or indecision she didn't know. He took a few more turns down the drive before slipping back into a side--door to battle inside whatever demons kept him awake.

Elizabeth stayed at the window, looking unseeingly out at the lawn. Her thoughts were jumbled enough already; yet at this, her mind could not seem to let go of that image of him silhouetted against the firelight – and now it mingled with this new picture of him bathed in shadow and moonbeams, inscrutable, unapproachable.

It was difficult to fit the two contradicting pieces together. He was at once both taciturn and expressive, brusque and gentle, cold and cordial – how was such a man to be comprehended? She had known him only a week, and never yet had heard a single word from his lips, but she could not erase him from her thoughts. He fascinated her in a way she didn't understand; not because he was different, but because he was an enigma, a complete enigma. She could not make out his character, his tastes, or his talents. Was he clever? Proud? Sullen? Had he been educated? Did he prefer Milton to Pope? What were his political views, religious beliefs?

She knew nothing of him; being a rather contrary person herself, the less someone revealed of themself, the more she wished to know them. She also sensed, however, that she would have to curb the edge of her impulsiveness around Mr. Darcy; he undoubtedly had his fill of inquisitive people, and it was unlikely that he would appreciate any excessive attention from her.

...If you want to show him kindness, all you need do is treat him exactly like everyone else.... Miss Darcy's words echoed in her ears. ...Treat him exactly like everyone else....

A simple instruction, with so many challenging facets! How was she to go about treating him normally when he would not even speak to her? There was nothing more awkward than carrying on a one--sided conversation with someone. Perhaps she didn't need to talk at all; perhaps a simple lack of curiosity and inquisitiveness on her part would make him feel more at ease. Extending the hand of friendship – or at least compassion – by essentially ignoring him seemed a strange way of going about the business, but if it was what Miss Darcy thought best...

A loud, wracking cough from the other side of the wall alerted her to the fact that she wasn't the only one awake in the night. Feeling a little guilty for not checking on Jane sooner, Elizabeth took up a candle and slipped out into the hallway to her sister's room.

She found Jane wide--awake and buried under a mound of covers – the only signs that she was in the bed at all were a bit of tangled blonde hair poking past the coverlet and the occasional emitted sniffle.

A quick accounting of the scene allowed Elizabeth to ascertain that Jane was more unwell than she had suspected; her sister's face was flushed, her nose a truly amazing shade of tomato--red, and her blue eyes were watery and rimmed with dark circles.

"Forgive me for not coming in sooner." Elizabeth sat down on the edge of the bed and felt Jane's forehead – she was feverish. "How long have you been feeling poorly?"

"Since dinner," was the weary reply. "But do not trouble yourself, Lizzy. I am sure it is only a trifling cold; I will soon be well again."

"As soon as Mr. Bingley is awake, I will ask him to send for Mr. Jones."

Jane protested the matter – there was no purpose in so unnecessarily alerting their host and disturbing the apothecary. She was certain she would be fine in no time at all. Her sister, however, was determined, and after a few more obligatory arguments, Jane finally yielded and allowed Mr. Jones's examination, on the condition that they return to Longbourn as soon as her health permitted them.

Elizabeth, knowing that her sister was thinking of their mother's reaction, agreed readily to the terms, and sat with Jane for the remainder of the night, sponging her forehead with cool water to bring down the fever and insisting she drink plenty of liquids.

Dawn brought no improvement, so Elizabeth quickly dressed and went downstairs, hoping that Mr. Bingley was an early riser. Fortune was on her side, for no sooner had she started down the stairs than Mr. Bingley crossed the landing, dressed for a morning ride.

Elizabeth immediately acquainted him with Jane's symptoms. Bingley, rather more alarmed than was rational and possessing all the impetuousness of an anxious lover, declared his intention of going for the apothecary himself to save time; and after ensuring that Elizabeth had everything she needed, he left for the stables.

Seeing that Jane was resting peacefully with a maidservant close at hand, Elizabeth bundled into her coat and took a brisk turn around the garden. The chilly air awakened her efficiently, and she returned to the house refreshed and ready to take up her bedside post again.

Mr. Jones arrived not a half--hour later, and, although a little miffed at being called from his home so early, easily diagnosed Jane's malady – a head cold, brought on by a severe chill and by no means serious. He did warn her to stay in bed and rest until her fever went down, and after imparting a few more bits of advice on how best to hasten her recovery, the apothecary presented them with his bill and left.

Mr. Bingley, who had been hovering anxiously outside the bedroom door, bombarded Elizabeth with questions the instant she stepped into the hall. Was Miss Bennet very ill? Should he call his doctor from London? What could he do to make her more comfortable?

"I assure you, sir, Jane only has a cold. She will be fine after getting some rest; if all goes well, we should not have to impose upon you more than a day or two."

Mr. Bingley's disappointment was apparent, and most earnestly did he try to impress upon her the absolute importance of their staying a week at least, for the sake of Miss Bennet's delicate health.

Elizabeth quashed the compulsion to smile and solemnly assured him that it was best they repair to Longbourn when Jane was well enough to travel. He could not argue with that, and after a moment's contemplation, decided he would go speak to the maidservant to see if Miss Bennet felt any better.

A thought seemed to check him as he climbed the stairs, and looking back at Elizabeth, he said apologetically, "Do pardon me – breakfast is being set out in the dining parlor. You need to eat; we don't want you to become ill too. I'll join you presently, if you don't mind my company this morning."

Elizabeth thanked him warmly, and though she had little appetite, she went down to the the dining room as he had directed. Expecting it to be empty, she was again surprised at the sight of Mr. Darcy seated near the end of the table, a half--full plate and cup of coffee set in front of him, while he sedately perused a newspaper.

He didn't look up at first; only after her movements caught his eye did he acknowledge her presence with an elegant dip of the head. Elizabeth nodded back, and, uncomfortable with the silence, busied herself at the side--bar, piling things on her plate without really attending to what she was taking.

Unable to distract herself any longer with the preparation, she turned to the table and paused – she had assumed Mr. Darcy would make a hasty retreat as he had done before, but there he was, still sitting there, his face hidden by the spread of paper.

Remembering her earlier resolution, Elizabeth boldly drew out a chair and sat directly across from him. Slowly, the newspaper lowered in incremental degrees until she could see his eyes peering over the top, steadily regarding her with an undecipherable expression. Determined to vanquish any nervousness the stare provoked, she let her own eyes drop back down to her breakfast; his gaze followed the line of hers, and glancing up, she saw traces of definite amusement on his countenance. It didn't take long for her to discover the source: she suddenly realized what her abstraction had led her to put on her plate. Hash and a wedge of cheese had been shoved together, topped with white pepper gravy, and dabs of jam and butter had bypassed the muffin all together, landing instead on a thick slab of boiled liver.

Her cheeks reddened even as she wrinkled her nose instinctively at the unholy combinations. Knowing that Mr. Darcy was watching her, she gingerly picked up her fork and knife, both of which remained suspended over the plate as she desperately attempted to find something salvageable on it.

A muffled sound broke into her distraction, and she jerked her head up, a retort on her lips – but what she saw made the words die away.

He was smiling.

She stared at him in astonishment. His mouth was drawn up high in the corners, ending in two dot--point dimples, his eyes crinkled with silent laughter. The chiseled planes of his face softened and transformed into a mild countenance, neither stiff with concealed feelings or alive with the extremes of emotion. There was something of gentleness in his eyes, even as his smile slowly faded away.

The two simply looked at each other from across the distance of the table. It was quiet again, but a peaceful sort of quiet, a quiet devoid of gracelessness or frustration. Mr. Darcy broke it by coming to his feet; he took up Elizabeth's plate, went over to the side--bar, and returned in a moment, the plate refilled in a more tasteful manner.

Elizabeth accepted it with subdued thanks, until her own sense of the ridiculous overtook her, and she found herself unable to keep from grinning at her companion. He didn't smile again, but there was a subtle alteration in his behavior – a lessening of tension.

This time he was the first to look away; he reached out for the abandoned newspaper, and soon he was again concealed behind its printed folds. Elizabeth made short work of her breakfast, eating more out of the habit of doing so than any real desire to. And in those attitudes they stayed until Mr. Bingley finally came downstairs. He seemed momentarily surprised to find the two of them together, but quickly enough his mind returned to the subject that concerned him most: namely, Jane. "She is resting now, but the maidservant said her temperature has already dropped a little. I'll have Cook send her up a tray as soon as she's awake."

Elizabeth smiled at the young man. "Thank you, Mr. Bingley, for attending to Jane so kindly. Please, come and have some breakfast; you must be hungry yourself."

He obligingly joined them at the table, and his congenial chatter filled the room. Elizabeth listened, but had little to say in reply. Indeed, she was watching the other gentleman more. At Bingley's entrance, Mr. Darcy had once more set aside his reading, and was presently leaning back in his chair, looking squarely at the man next to him. Elizabeth saw the focal point of his gaze and knew that her suspicions about lipreading were correct. He obviously understood what Bingley was saying, for his expression shifted from the bemused to the pensive to the diverted as the conversation went on.

Guiltily, she turned back to Mr. Bingley, hoping he hadn't taken note of her shameless inattention. She couldn't seem to help it – there was a magnetism about Mr. Darcy, some indefinable force that drew her eyes to his countenance time and time again. She was not so idealistic as to think it the call of one soul to another; there was a simple, less noble explanation: having seen him 'speak' once, she had the powerful desire to see it again – to watch that spread of naked emotion, the likes of which she had never before witnessed. It was not mere expressiveness of countenance – it was a baring of the spirit. When he revealed himself in such a way, it was as if she could peer straight through him to the innermost workings of his heart. It was an almost unbearably intimate experience, yet somehow beautiful, heady.

"...won't you, Miss Bennet?"

Elizabeth started at the sound of her host's voice. "I...Pardon?"

"I was just telling Darcy that your sister said you are very fond of reading, and I wondered whether you had had a chance to explore our library."

"I have, thank you."

"Rather pitiful, isn't it? I haven't much of a mind for books." He grinned. "Darcy here, on the other hand, is far too fond of those gigantic old histories, with all those words of three syllables. I admit I haven't much patience for long accounts of a person already dead some two thousand years."

Elizabeth smiled. "Then I take it the library has few of those?"

"Hardly any. I hope you are not too disappointed."

"I imagine I'll manage; my father has quite a collection himself."

"Well, at least there is some poetry, and a few novels." The clock that hung above the mantlepiece chimed the hour, and with an exaggerated groan, Bingley got to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Bennet, I've some business with my steward about the tenants." He glanced over at Darcy questioningly, almost pleadingly. "Although I still haven't the faintest idea what I'm to do about that land dispute."

Mr. Darcy paused – Elizabeth had the impression his hesitation was due to her presence in the room – and withdrew a small notepad and pencil stub from his coat pocket. He flipped open the embossed cover and scribbled something down before handing the pad to his friend. Bingley's brow contracted in thought, but he appeared at a loss to comprehend whatever message had been written. Darcy patiently added to the note, and Bingley's face smoothed over in relief at whatever he had read. "Well, if that's best...Come, man, we'd better get it done sooner than later."

Mr. Darcy rose, and, tucking his newspaper under his arm, bowed to Elizabeth and followed Bingley out of the dining room.

Jane was still asleep when Elizabeth returned upstairs. Pleased that her sister was getting some well--deserved rest, she pulled up a chair by the bedside and opened the book of poetry she had started the night before. She hadn't gotten beyond the first stanza of Byron's 'The Tear' before the door opened, and Miss Darcy timidly peered around it. "Miss Elizabeth?" Lowering her voice so as not to wake Jane, she continued, "I heard that Miss Bennet is unwell. Has Mr. Jones been sent for?"

"Yes, he came about an hour ago. Please, come in and sit with us."

Miss Darcy sat next to her on the chaise--longue by the window. Casting a sympathetic glance in the invalid's direction, she said, "I hope that she will soon feel better. Is it a chill?"

Elizabeth explained the apothecary's conclusions and was satisfied in hearing Miss Darcy's affirmation that the Bennets were welcome at Netherfield as long as they required. "Despite what Miss Bingley may have you think, Mr. Bingley is very glad to have more guests. I'm afraid Fitzwilliam and I have not been very lively of late. Mr. Bingley is such an active person – he will delight in having new faces about the house. Miss Bennet has done him a favor by falling ill on this particular doorstep."

Elizabeth laughed. "Yes, he did seem quite determined to keep us here for a few days more. He certainly seemed ready enough to converse with Mr. Darcy and I at the table this morning."

"Fitzwilliam breakfasted with you?" Miss Darcy looked completely astonished, and Elizabeth, for some inexplicable reason, felt herself blushing in response.

"Yes, he did. He was already there when I came down."

An unreadable look was on the girl's face, and she shook her head, the merest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. A murmured, "Indeed," was her only comment.

Elizabeth shifted uneasily and sought to evade any further pursuit of the subject. "Did you have the opportunity for a walk? The weather is so beautiful today."

"I went out just a few minutes ago." With that strange combination of reticence and bluntness that so characterized her, Miss Darcy said, "But you don't really want to talk about the weather, do you? You want to ask me about my brother, but do not wish to appear as though you are prying."

Although taken aback by the uncanny guess, Elizabeth decided there was little use in denying it. She was curious, after all. "I suppose I do; and you are correct: I don't want to probe where I shouldn't, so I won't ask you anything. However, I would be very willing to listen if you wish to volunteer some information."

Miss Darcy's grave face broke into a smile at that. "Very diplomatic, Miss Bennet. If your ears are open, then I will be happy to oblige you. You will pardon me if I retain the right to leave some things unsaid."

"Of course."

She didn't speak at first, but Elizabeth, beginning to grow accustomed to the girl's measured, carefully--considered manner, was no longer uncomfortable with the silence. "You are probably wondering why I would want to tell you any of this at all; you, of all people, understand how highly my brother and I prize our privacy. I cannot really give you an answer. I don't know why either. Call it instinct, if you will." She turned searching dark eyes on her companion. "In any case, I trust that you will keep the information to yourself, or at least spread it no further than Miss Bennet.

"Let me start at the beginning: Fitzwilliam was born healthy and in possession of all his senses. Just before his first birthday, brain fever broke out in Lambton, the village near Pemberley, and somehow he contracted it. Our parents, even the physician, thought he would die, he was so sick – but somehow he lived. But as you know, Miss Elizabeth, his survival did not come without a price.

"As soon as they understood the nature of his difficulty, our parents were determined to have him educated, for his own sake as well as for practical reasons. He was the eldest son, you see, and since my mother was of a delicate constitution, our parents were not certain she could even have any more children. My father searched all across the Continent for a proper instructor who knew the latest methods of teaching, and he found one in London. You may have heard of the institution – Braidwood's Academy for the Deaf and Dumb. Fitzwilliam was taught by a Mr. Laurence Kelley, a former student of Thomas Braidwood himself.

"Father and Mother moved to London when Fitzwilliam was only two – that was the age that Mr. Kelley believed most essential for beginning the teaching of fingerspelling and lipreading. Fitzwilliam attended the Academy for the next nineteen years. Of course he couldn't go on to Cambridge, but the Academy was equipped with university level classes, simply taught in a different way.

"From the beginning, Father insisted that Fitzwilliam be treated like as he would have been if he was not deaf; he was taught to run the estate, do accounts, negociate business deals, and so on." She smiled. "Fortunately, my brother has always been clever. He went through his schooling and graduated with honors, and Father was left with few worries about the future of Pemberley and its tenants – or me."

"You?"

"My mother died when I was about six months old, and Father died when I was twelve. Fitzwilliam had full guardianship of me by the time he was three--and--twenty." She shrugged. "I suppose we took care of each other."

Elizabeth mulled over this new information. "A great deal of responsibility – for both of you, I mean."

"For him, yes. For me, not really. I love my brother, and there is no burden in watching out for him; I often wonder whether we might have been as close as we are had Fitzwilliam not been deaf." Miss Darcy settled back in her chair, her gaze turning out the window to the mild blue of the sky outside. "Anyway, I thank you for listening, Miss Elizabeth. Sometimes I think stories simply need to be told."

"Even the ones that are painful to tell," Elizabeth mused.

Miss Darcy turned away from the window, and, twisting around to face Elizabeth, smiled gently and said, "Especially those."

Chapter Seven

Posted on Friday, 12 October 2007

The passing of the next two days brought a fresh outlook to Elizabeth, in regard to both her relationship with Miss Darcy and her perception of the girl's brother. Every meeting with him seemed only to give her yet another piece of the puzzle that was Fitzwilliam Darcy, and valiantly but vainly did she try to put them together – yet on that Saturday morning, three days after she had first arrived at Netherfield, Elizabeth finally was handed one of the largest and most important pieces of all.

Jane's fever had broken the night before, and Mr. Jones, coming to check on his patient, confirmed that Miss Bennet was well enough to tolerate a removal to Longbourn. This was glad news for them, if not for Mr. Bingley, for three days of Miss Bingley's company had worn mightily on Elizabeth's temper.

Knowing that Mrs. Bennet would conjure up some excuse to keep the girls at Netherfield, Elizabeth didn't bother to send a note home; instead she applied to Bingley himself for a loan of his carriage to take them back to Longbourn. He was glad to be of service, but as payment, insisted that they stay long enough to dine. Jane agreed, and the girls packed their trunks and went their separate ways to whittle away the hours until dinner.

With the objective of avoiding her hostess, Elizabeth sought out a book in the library, one place that she knew Miss Bingley would never voluntarily spend time in. Expecting a few hours' peace and quiet, she was disappointed at first to realize the room was occupied, until she recognized the sound of Miss Darcy's voice from inside. Happy for the opportunity to spend one more afternoon in the presence of her new friend, Elizabeth opened the door, which swung wide without a creak or groan.

The Darcys sat together at a table by the fireplace; Miss Darcy was writing in a small notebook, while her brother held a heavy--looking book across his lap, his eyes fixed on the open pages. It was a cozy, almost domestic picture, and Elizabeth found she hadn't the heart to interrupt it. Her retreat was prevented, however, by the next moment's unexpected occurrence.

Miss Darcy, leaning forward in her chair, said something – the soft words were lost beneath the loud pop and hiss of the fire – and Mr. Darcy rose to take up position in front of the mantle, presenting the broad expanse of his back and shoulders to Elizabeth's view, the open book still held aloft in his hands.

It was so utterly silent in the room that when the sound of the deep, rasping voice reached Elizabeth's ears, she actually jumped. For a moment she just stood there against the doorjamb, doubting her own ears. Surely not...?

Then Mr. Darcy turned heel, and through the glow and spark of the firelight behind him, she could see his lips moving, just as surely as the flame--shadows moved across his nose and brow. "M--moreover th--there are other r--i--ivers also, n--not in size at all equal t--to the Ni--ile..."

He had spoken! But it sounded so unlike any speech she had heard before – the words were broken, stuttered, and articulated with the strangest slur, as if he could not quite fit his tongue around certain combinations of sounds.

"...w--which have p--performed great feat--ts; of w--w--which I can m--mention the names of s--s--several, and esp--pecially the Acheloös, w--which flowing through A--Acarnania and s--so issuing out int--to the sea has al--already made half of the Echinades from island--ds into m--mainland." The words fell awkwardly from his lips, but there was a rhythm in the sway of the faltering vowels and stammered consonants. "...h--houses of P--P--Pelusion, a distance of f--forty schoines, and c--counting it to ext--tend inland as f--far as the city of...."

He stumbled to a halt; his brow crinkled with concentration as he studied the unfamiliar word. Elizabeth saw his lips move, as if to form the individual letters, but no sound came forth. His shoulders shrugged faintly, his fingers flicking back out against his palm.

Miss Darcy reached out and grasped one of his hands, drawing it up to rest lightly against her mouth. Slowly and carefully, she repeated the word, annunciating every sound with meticulous precision. Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy softly drawled out each syllable as Miss Darcy spoke it. "Kair----cac–erus."

"Kercasoros," Miss Darcy said again.

"Ker----cah–sos."

Patiently, she shifted the position of his fingers. "Kercasoros."

He was quiet for a moment, and then, with conscientious deliberation, removed his fingers from her lips and said, "Kercasoros."

Miss Darcy didn't offer up any words of praise, or enthuse about his perfect pronunciation; she smiled serenely at him, reopened the tablet, and motioned for him to continue. His low, rumbling voice with its slur and stutter again filled the library, and Elizabeth drew away from the door, feeling as if she had intruded upon an almost painfully private moment. The sound of her rustling skirts against the wall betrayed her – Miss Darcy turned about. "Hello?"

Having no choice but to show herself, Elizabeth fixed a smile on her face and stepped inside the library, hoping that Miss Darcy would not realize how long she had been there. "Good morning. I hope I am not disturbing you?"

The warm sincerity of Miss Darcy's smile told Elizabeth that if the girl was indeed aware of the eavesdropping, she was not angry about it. "Please, come in and sit with us."

"I – I don't wish to interrupt..."

"You weren't,"– Miss Darcy glanced over at her brother; Elizabeth couldn't quite read the look on his face –"was she, Fitzwilliam?"

There was a faint spark in those eyes, a brief, inward struggle, and then came the murmured, "N--no, n--not at'all."

There was an almost triumphant expression on Miss Darcy's face, but Elizabeth was too taken aback at being directly addressed to notice. Again the siblings exchanged looks, and Elizabeth couldn't help but feel something very significant had just occurred. Was it the fact that he had spoken to her? Or was it something else entirely?

Suddenly unnerved, she found herself filled with the desire for solitude – to have some time to herself to fit her mind around the implications of what had happened. "I thank you, but I think I shall go on upstairs to Jane."

Miss Darcy, perhaps sensing the futility of further argument, expressed her regrets and wished her friend a pleasant afternoon.

Elizabeth turned to leave but was given pause at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Mr. Darcy held out toward her the book he had been reading. "Y--you t--t--told Bingley you lik--ked histories." As he spoke, his countenance bore a slightly pinched look – was talking painful for him?

"It would not do to take it, sir – you were reading it."

"P--please, t--take it." With gentle firmness he pushed it into her hands. She offered him somewhat incoherent thanks and accepted it; he acknowledged it with a dip of his head.

The instant she was able to, Elizabeth hurried out of the library, the book clutched against her chest. Two pairs of identical dark eyes watched her go, and only when the door shut did Georgiana turn to her brother. "Why?"

Darcy clasped his hands loosely behind his back, his expression belying his own bewilderment. "I d--don't know." Shaking his head, he folded his tall frame back into the nearby chair. "S--she is..." The words trailed off, but Georgiana, from the look of her smile, had no difficulty in understanding both the spoken and the unspoken. "Charles assured us that there was something different about Hertfordshire," she mused, "and he was correct."

Her brother was quiet for a moment. "G--Georgiana, wh--what do you s--say to going out this S--Sunday? We've h--hidden long enough."

She stilled, the pen in her hand remaining suspended over the pad. "Are you certain?"

"W--we're d--doing no good here. I--I've been s--s--selfish; you m--must want to see m--more of the country outside B--Bingley's h--hedgerows."

"Well, they are very fine hedgerows."

He smiled. "T--to be honest, I'm t--tired of restric--cting myself t--to these four wa--walls too. I'm s--surprised B--Bingley hasn't f--forced us out into s--society yet. You d--deserve to have a ch--chance here, the s--same as anyone else; I s--shouldn't hold you b--back." The grin faded, replaced with a contemplative frown. "Do you r--remember after F--Father died – how I s--stayed so long in L--London without you?"

"How could I forget?"

"I n--never told you this, b--but R--Richard called me out on my b--behavior; he s--said I was a c--coward and a damned f--fool for letting the world--d go on by w--while I s--s--shut myself away from it. And he was r--right."

Georgiana's eyes widened, but at the same time, she truly wasn't surprised. Only Richard, secure in the easy familiarity of a brother by name if not by blood, would dare to speak to him in such a way. It did not take much effort to imagine the scene; those unhappy days had not brought out the best in any of them. "He was only trying to get you to come back to Pemberley again; he didn't mean it. You're not a coward."

"N--no," he said softly, his gaze wandering involuntarily back to the now empty doorway, "but I am a d--damned fool."

The residents of Netherfield lined up on the drive that evening to bid their guests goodbye, each filled with varying degrees of relief, disappointment, and affection. (As to who felt what, and to what extent, I shall not scruple to guess – the Reader will undoubtedly have formed their own conclusions regarding the matter.)

Boarding the carriage, Elizabeth found that she could not regret leaving. Dinner had been an indifferent affair, over which much was said, but nothing of consequence related. Mr. Bingley had been all ease and friendliness, delighted to have Miss Bennet at his table at last – her presence there almost compensated for the dismay caused by her recovering enough to return home sooner than he would have liked. Jane received his marked attentions with gratitude and her habitual complacency, though Miss Bingley was seen to scowl each time her brother inquired after his lovely guest's comfort or enjoyment of the fare.

Elizabeth was not nearly so well--pleased by the company. Miss Darcy was unusually – even for her – silent, apparently of an introspective mood, and not at all receptive to much conversation; and Mr. Darcy was not there. Elizabeth had hoped that after this morning's events, he might feel comfortable enough to dine with them, but obviously he was not.

So that left her with the society of Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, and, of course, Miss Bingley. As the former seemed entirely absorbed with his dinner, any discourse at all seemed unlikely (although he did look up from his plate long enough to inquire whether she favored ragout over fricassée), and the latter two seemed interested in naught but the latest fashions in Town. The debate over the superiority of brocade to velvet for evening wear held little fascination for her, so for the most part, she kept her remarks to herself throughout the interminable meal.

It was a relief for Elizabeth to be able to step up into the coach and know that she and Jane would be home in a matter of minutes. Their host was of a different mind.

"I hope we shall see you again," Bingley said, coming up to the carriage window to say a last few words to Jane. "Very soon, I hope?"

Elizabeth let her sister dispense the usual farewell civilities – her focus was on the portico, where the other members of the party waited, finished with their goodbyes. Miss Darcy smiled at her from across the yard, and Elizabeth returned the gesture, given final reassurance that whatever had kept Miss Darcy uncommunicative during dinner, it was nothing that she had done.

Mr. Bingley withdrew and called for the coachman to carry on. The driver's whip cracked, the horses leapt forward, and the carriage pulled away from the steps, bound for the main road.

Elizabeth leaned back against the plush cushions, feeling no sorrow at the sight of the white--stone manor house shrinking into the distance. Her eyes and mind fixed on the path ahead, she did not hear Mr. Bingley's shout of farewell, nor did she see the man who stood at the upstairs window, watching the carriage roll away down the drive and out of the gate.

Neither sister spoke much. Jane was already tiring after all the day's excitement, and Elizabeth could not find a sufficiently flippant way to bring up the subject she wished most to discuss. An impasse of ideas was enough to prevent there being any other sound in the coach than that of the faint clop of hoof beats and the cheerful whistling of the driver up above them on the box.

Their arrival home was met with earnest pleasure on Mr. Bennet's part and great consternation on his wife's. Mrs. Bennet was, as expected, much alarmed about what she considered an unforgivable loss of opportunity, and scarcely had the girls removed their wraps and sat down in the parlor for tea than she began to reproach them for their carelessness.

"You could have had another week full at least!" was the repeated lamentation. "Mr. Bingley would have been glad of it, I'm sure, and his sisters are so very fond of Jane – what could have been the harm in it? Had you not insisted on being so hasty, perhaps even now he might have been in love with you! And you, Lizzy, you could have helped it on along! Ungrateful girls!"

Vain was any sort of placation; Mrs. Bennet was in high dudgeon. There was nothing more gratifying to her than well--energized theatrics – for all her faults, Frances Bennet had never been one to waste a good rant.

Mr. Bennet, after listening to a brief recounting of their stay at Netherfield, retreated post--haste to his library after remarking to Elizabeth that he was glad to have a return of some sense into the house; intellect had been in short supply for far too long.

After a quarter--hour of venting her spleen, Mrs. Bennet suddenly recalled another point of the greatest importance. "Oh – it had quite slipped my mind; you have got my nerves into a most dreadful tangle, Lizzy – but did you not see Mr. Darcy there? Tell me everything; I am fixed on knowing – did Miss Darcy mention anything else about him? Only this morning Mrs. Long had it from the seamstress that one of the Darcys' near relations was recently put in Newgate. I am sure it must have been a great scandal. Did Miss Darcy speak of it?"

"Had it from the seamstress, did she?" Elizabeth snapped. "Upon my word, everyone seems very well informed."

Her mother drew back with a look of affronted surprise. "There's no need to take out your temper on me, Miss Lizzy! I'm simply repeating what I was told, and I daresay the girl's word is as good as anyone's."

"Of course. And where did she get her news? What crime is it that this 'near relation' has been gaoled for? What is it this time? Cannibalism?"

Mrs. Bennet was speechless, taken aback by the vehemence of her daughter's rebuke, but it didn't take too long for her to regain her tongue. "You are set out to vex me – I told Lady Lucas I would give her a recounting of your stay, but since you seem bent on being disobliging..."

"I will not repay their kindness by telling tales on them!" she cried, leaping up from her seat, ignoring Jane's shocked gasp. "Will this never end? Why can you not let this go – why can't everyone else?" She knew she was going too far, but a violent anger had taken hold of her, pushing out words that had been carefully restrained for days. "I won't let you use me to turn someone's life into fodder for your gossip. For heaven's sake, leave him alone!"

She paused only long enough to see the astonishment sweep across her mother's face before she dashed out of the parlor and up the stairs, slamming her bedchamber door behind her.

Chapter Eight

Posted on Friday, 19 October 2007

Sunday followed Saturday – as it ought by right of time and transition – and never before had Elizabeth felt the day's coming to be so propitious. The argument with her mother weighed heavily on her mind; she had no desire for a renewal and exchange of those sentiments which had been so distasteful to her the night before, and such a conflict was neatly avoided by virtue of its being Sunday.

Mrs. Bennet had been raised to hold the Sabbath in reverence, and she continued the practice to the best of her ability even after leaving her father's house. This ingrained sense of duty prevented her from doing more than sending a few resentful looks in her second eldest's direction during breakfast. So for the time being, at least, Elizabeth was safe.

After dining, the family walked over to the church; the bell in the steeple rang, beckoning the parishioners into the old clay--brick building. Elizabeth paused by the door as her mother and sisters joined the Lucases – she had always loved this church. It was a typical country parish: cozy and rustic, full of wildflowers, unpolished furnishings, and the spicy scent of wood--smoke and pine.

Lingering outside for only a few moments, she stepped into the vestibule, where other families milled about, exchanging greetings and week's worth of the latest news. She wove through the crowd into the sanctuary. There was a delicate stillness in the large, dome--ceilinged chamber – more than once she had made the trek to the church to sit alone in this very room and think. The doors were open, and it was one place she was sure she would not be interrupted, as her mother and younger sisters had no patience for the solemnity of church but once every week, and Mary, when she did sally forth for a private place to delve into her spiritual study, was as quiet within these walls as – to use the cliché – a church--mouse.

It was the perfect place to reflect as well as worship, and lately, Elizabeth mused, she had certainly done more than reflecting than she ought.

"It seems to me, Miss Bennet," said a voice, rich with gentle amusement, from behind her, "that your mind is attempting to drift up to heaven itself. You need not put it in competition with your soul."

Elizabeth turned to grin at the speaker, an elderly, wizened fellow in clerical black, with flyaway white hair and mild blue eyes that were magnified to twice their size by a pair of wire--rimmed spectacles. "I suppose I have been rather distracted of late."

Lowering his reedy frame carefully into the nearest pew, Dr. Peter Lawrence chuckled at her remark. "Distraction, my dear, is the sign of a curious and active mind."

"In my case, perhaps overactive."

The rector only smiled, a gesture which brought an extra twinkle to his eyes, as well as additional wrinkles across his leathery face. He had baptized the young woman when she was but a fortnight old and had overseen her first communion a decade later – it was fitting that he should have a special fondness for the spirited Miss Elizabeth. "You can never be too active, but you are too pensive for your own good." His eyes turned toward the frosted--glass doors which separated the antechamber from the sanctuary, where the faint buzz of voices and laughter could still be heard. "I'll have Bailey ring the bell again; it's nearly ten. I would advise you to head on up to your pew, Miss Bennet, before the mob pours in."

Elizabeth choked back a snort – there had always been something delightfully outlandish about the old rector – and was about to reply, but something interrupted her.

It was not a sound or an outcry or a voice...it was rather the absence of all these things. A sudden hush had fallen across the antechamber, as if someone had put a stopper in a bottle to quell the hiss of noise.

Dr. Lawrence rose from the pew, which creaked in protest, and stepped forward into the aisle. "What on God's green earth...?"

Elizabeth followed him; the rector flung open the front doors, and from over his shoulder, she saw what had caused the commotion.

The Darcys stood on the path alone, hedged on either side by clusters of the staring congregation. Brother and sister were perfectly silent, keeping their eyes trained ahead while they walked forward. Tension vibrated the air, and people shuffled forward, pressing for a closer to look at the pair.

Elizabeth watched as they approached, slowly but steadily. She could read the rising anxiety in Miss Darcy's colorless face and the stiff--backed posture of the girl's brother. Their expressions gave nothing away; they looked cool and collected, as nonchalant was two people in their present situation could be. The disguise, however, could not conceal the trembling fingers with which Miss Darcy clasped close her prayer book.

They mounted the steps; a young girl, no older than twelve, scurried out of their way, almost tripping in her haste. Mr. Darcy tipped his hat to her – she turned her face away, moving further back against the wall to put as much distance between them as possible.

Dr. Lawrence paced out of the hall and out into the sunshine. Ignoring the inquiring looks of his parishioners, he met the Darcys halfway and held out one crooked hand. "Good morning, Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy."

The young woman wished him a pleasant morning, and Mr. Darcy executed a neat half--bow. Turning to the assembled crowd, Dr. Lawrence spoke, his voice reverberating around the spacious courtyard as efficiently as any steeple--bell. "The hour grows late. Let us begin the service." With that, he turned heel and strode back into the church, his cassock and robes whipping behind him.

Taking his sister's arm, Darcy followed him; intent eyes trailed their movements until the two forms disappeared into the shade of the hall. As soon as the door swung shut, a loud clamor of agitated noise burst out from the people still standing by the lane. Elizabeth listened dispassionately to the exclamations and angry voices for only a moment longer before slipping through the doorway.

The crowd began to file its way inside after a few more minutes. The peaceful stillness of the sanctuary was gone; whispers and rustling filled the air instead. Elizabeth took her seat next to Jane and looked about as unobtrusively as she could to find the Darcys. It was not difficult. Had even the church not been rather snug, the location of the two was obvious – they sat alone in the pew a few rows ahead, with two rows behind and two ahead completely empty, the people crammed into the back rows. It looked as though a boundary line had been drawn through the center of the church, dividing it in neatly in half. The message was clear.

From her seat along the wall, Elizabeth had a direct view of the entire room, and she saw how Miss Darcy tightly gripped her brother's hand as they sat side by side, two lone figures amongst the solemn rows of cherry wood and the backdrop of muted voices.

An uprush of helpless indignation coursed through Elizabeth. She wanted to rise to her feet and shout at her neighbors, or use the weighty hymnal in her hands to knock some sense into them. Could they not see how cruel it all was? And in a church, no less!

Her momentary desire to do physical damage was dispelled by the entrance of the Bingleys, late as usual. Elizabeth turned around, watching Mr. Bingley's cheerful expression change as he noticed the solitary two in the front; it apparently didn't take long for him to get a grasp of the situation. With his smile firmly back in place, he bypassed the pew that had been set aside for his family and went to take his seat next to Mr. Darcy. Miss Bingley and the Hursts trailed after him very reluctantly, more out of a wish to avoid a scene than of any more altruistic motivation.

Another round of murmurs swept through the chamber at Mr. Bingley's action; the man himself seemed oblivious – or at least, was pretending to be – as he opened his own prayer book and looked over the day's lesson, whistling faintly under his breath. Dr. Lawrence remained standing at the altar, viewing the proceedings with a grim countenance.

At last, the final person was seated, though the gap around the Darcys and Bingleys was still unfilled. Dr. Lawrence went to take position behind the lectern, opening the large Bible contained thereon. Fixing unflinching eyes on the assembled congregation, he calmly turned a few pages and began, "Friends and neighbors, we come here today for the glorification of..."

His words were all but drowned out by a sudden uproar at the back of the church. A young man – presumably a farmhand, judging by the rough cut of his clothes and sun--scorched complexion – leapt to his feet, shaking his fist at the rector. "Ye can't mean ta go through wi' this farce? We won't tolerate none of 'is kind 'ere." He jerked his thumb in the Darcys' direction, and there were mumbles of agreement from the people around him. "Clear as day, 'tis – 'e's been touched by th' Devil's 'and!"

"You shame yourself, Mr. Simmons," Dr. Lawrence said sharply, in tones that brooked no disagreement. "This is God's house, and I will not have this service interrupted. Sit down." The man hesitated. "Now!"

"Silas." The woman next to him shifted the infant she held into one arm and tugged on his coattail. "For th' love of God, Silas, sit ye down."

Mr. Simmons grudgingly took his seat, amid some grumbling and hushed giggles, and the service began on that truly uncomfortable note.

Dr. Lawrence sedately reverted back to his initial greeting, and opened the order with a brief prayer and hymn. Elizabeth was unashamedly inattentive throughout the entire process – her gaze was settled not on the lectern but across the room. She watched with anxious regard, wishing to offer them some hope of acceptance in light of all the condemnation...but she knew she could not.

She was amazed, however, that Miss Darcy had managed to stay as utterly implacable as her brother. The girl's face had turned rather pink at Mr. Simmons's outburst, but otherwise she gave no indication of any discomfort as she sang along to the accompaniment of the harmonium.

The gentleman did not sing (Elizabeth distracted herself for a moment pondering whether he even could) but he looked at the page nonetheless, following the passing of the notes and verses.

Caught up in her observations, it took a none--too--gentle elbow in the side – courtesy of Mary – for her to recollect that she was supposed to be standing for the introit. She stumbled ungracefully to her feet, earning herself a giggle from Kitty and another glare from her mother.

The rest of the service rushed by in a blur of words and music. It did not even occur to Elizabeth that the last benediction had been spoken until her family rose up and began to shuffle out of the pew. Startled, she craned forward to see over Jane's head – the row across the chamber was already empty. Murmuring a feeble excuse to her father as scooted past him, she hastened down the aisle and out the side--door to avoid the crowd.

Outside, she found the Darcys at the edge of the courtyard in conference with Dr. Lawrence. She couldn't hear what was being said – nor was it any of her business – but the rector was vehemently shaking his head; for a brief moment, Elizabeth feared that Dr. Lawrence agreed with his parishioners' sentiments, but then he held out his hands to both of his companions, smiling easily. Seeing that they were apparently drawing the conversation to a close, she went on ahead to meet them.

Their discourse, however, was stopped by less amiable means than general consensus. A group of men, in which Elizabeth recognized Mr. Simmons and the owner of the drapery, Mr. Portland, were coming over with a reluctant--faced Sir William Lucas in tow.

"We 'ave a bit to discuss with ye, Lawrence," one man said, stepping forward and taking off his weather--beaten hat. He leveled a hostile stare at Mr. Darcy. "Folks won't take to 'aving 'im in th' church, sir. It don't matter if 'e's in town; but 'im in our church jest t'ain't right – not with our women and children there, no, sir."

Dr. Lawrence turned his eyes slowly from one man to another; his piercing gaze made one or two look away. Finally, he fixed his attention on the squire. "And what say you about this, Sir William?"

The man fidgeted at this address, his round, ruddy face drawn tight with anxiety. Having a strong dislike for quarreling and unaccustomed to making any decisions himself, despite being a town squire, he was sorely out of his element, and it showed in every nervous twitch of his brow. "I..." He fumbled with the beaver topper in his hand, glancing around him as if in the hope that someone might come up and speak for him. When no rescuer arrived, he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I suppose...I suppose I have to agree that something must be done."

"What?" Dr. Lawrence prompted, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

"This has been a dreadful business – dreadful business – such an uproar." He cleared his throat, looking apologetically at the Darcys. "I think – as do the gentlemen with me – that, perhaps, it might be best if you...refrained...from attending here. Such a commotion every Sunday would not do anyone good."

Silence followed his proclamation – Sir William squirmed in his shoes. "Of course," he stammered, "I...I could be wrong."

"Ye see?" Mr. Simmons interrupted. "Ye must 'ave the good of th' church in mind, sir."

"Do not lecture me about what is good or not for this church, Mr. Simmons," Dr. Lawrence said brusquely. "I've been preaching here longer than you've been alive. Now, if you gentlemen have anything more to say to me, I suggest you say it in a more private venue. Go home to your families and hold your peace."

Sir William, with an expression of almost comical relief, seconded this motion, and the group gradually dispersed. Mr. Simmons, however, lingered behind. "This be jest beginnin', sir," he said, not exactly threateningly, but with a certain note of defiance.

"Come back tomorrow, and we will discuss your concerns. For now, head you home. I suggest you contemplate this matter a little yourself before you speak of it again."

Mr. Simmons nodded grudgingly, like a boy who had been scolded for some act of mischief; he tipped his hat at Dr. Lawrence and Elizabeth before walking briskly back down the path to the woman who had been with him earlier; she bounced the now--wailing babe on her hip, watching Simmons approach with something very like exasperation on her face.

Dr. Lawrence summoned up a faint chuckle at the sight. "There won't be any more trouble today – Mary Ellen will see to that." He glanced over at the two women and then rested a hand lightly on Mr. Darcy's arm. "I think we had best finish discussing a few things ourselves, Mr. Darcy; the interruption was ill--timed. If you ladies will excuse us?"

The two men walked some distance away and stood under the old oak; Elizabeth saw with some surprise that Darcy was talking – or rather, replying to the rector's queries. She had not thought he spoke at all in public.

Miss Darcy undid the clasp on her parasol and held out her arm to Elizabeth. "Since we have been deserted by the gentlemen, perhaps we may walk a little ourselves? Or is your family waiting for you?"

Elizabeth looked around the deserted yard, having forgotten entirely about her family in the excitement of the past minutes. "The distance back to Longbourn is not far; I often take walks after church as it is."

The two ladies strolled at a leisurely pace around the perimeter of the church garden; the morning sunshine seemed a little too bright for Elizabeth – the sky colored too balmy a blue for the tumultuous activity of the day. She scarce could believe all that happened herself; as Miss Darcy remained quiet, she began to feel an irrational sense of responsibility for what had occurred.

She started the conversation in the only way she could think of. "It is a pleasure to see you again so soon."

Miss Darcy lowered her parasol. "You did not expect to see us here."

"I was only surprised to see your brother in church. I had thought..."

To Elizabeth's astonishment, the girl began to laugh softly. "You thought him set against the Church and God. My dear Miss Bennet, you are thinking too much in terms of fiction and novels. Personal trials do not necessarily result in a detestation for religion. Why should my brother not go to church with me?"

Elizabeth was rather abashed by this assessment, for it rang with too much truth for comfort. She had assumed that a man with his difficulties would turn away from any such practices.

"Never mind it," Miss Darcy said, seeing that she had embarrassed her friend. "I like Dr. Lawrence very much; he is a kind man."

"He is." Elizabeth was glad to move the topic on. "I have always thought him as good a man as I have ever known; he's been at this parish long before Jane was born, though he was from Surrey. I think his father was a barrister, or something, and had wanted him to be lawyer too, but he was set on the church. He said he never did have a mind for argument, except when the debate centered around the Bible." She was vaguely aware that she wasn't making much sense, and so cut right to the heart of the matter. "I'm sorry that you had to have such a poor experience today. I can't imagine what was wrong with everyone."

The girl did not answer, and Elizabeth, convinced that the insult was still grievously felt and wishing to explain her neighbors' actions as well as she could, went on hurriedly. "I hope that it has not put you off coming again. I am sorry for not saying something to you earlier. I am sure that their rudeness..." She trailed off, seeing the smile that had spread across Miss Darcy's face. "What?"

"Miss Bennet, you are the only person I know who has ever offered me an apology for not apologizing for saying something they didn't even say."

Elizabeth blushed and then laughed at her own ridiculousness. "It only seemed appropriate, I suppose."

"It hasn't been the first time, you know."

"Pardon?"

Miss Darcy gestured behind her at the church. "The first time a 'request' has been made to have us evicted from a service. At least this one was politely worded."

"You consider that polite? Mr. Simmons was hardly gentlemanly."

"At least he didn't spit on us."

For a moment Elizabeth thought Miss Darcy was jesting, but a quick glance at the girl's serious face erased any such thought from her mind.

"By the usual standards, this was a fair success," she continued, swinging her parasol idly into the overgrown grass by the fence. "We were not threatened or publicly denounced by the minister; Hertfordshire has treated us well."

Any remark Elizabeth could think of to make in reply to this seemed either patronizing or too flippant, so she settled with a vague, "Perhaps it will get better."

"And if it doesn't, so be it." Fatigue settled on the youthful features, again giving Elizabeth the impression of a girl world--weary and far too accustomed to its ways. A moment later, she straightened her shoulders and the momentary lapse was recovered. "C'est la vie," she sighed, smiling over at Elizabeth. "It is a good philosophy to have."

After a few more turns along the step, they returned to the where the men stood, obviously finished with their conversation. There was nothing in either of their faces to suggest that any unpleasant sentiments had been exchanged, and Dr. Lawrence bid them good day with a lighter expression than had been seen on him at any time during the morning.

The remaining three waited until the last bit of flapping robe had disappeared inside the church before moving on toward the street. Elizabeth expected to continue on alone at the fork in the road that led to Longbourn, but to her surprise, Mr. Darcy said, with the smallest trace of uncertainty in his voice, "D--do you g--go on alone, M--Miss Bennet? W--will you allow G--Georgiana and I t--t--to walk you home?"

Elizabeth looked him squarely in the eye. "It would be a pleasure."

She saw that soft half--smile curve upward his lips as he again extended his elbow; she tucked her hand through his left arm, while Miss Darcy made use of his right. Elizabeth's fingers slid against the smooth fabric of his coat, the twist of sinewy muscle apparent even under the thick broad--cloth. There was a strange comfort in the feel of that strength beneath her hands and in the lithe stretch of his stride as they retraced the route back to Longbourn.

Miss Darcy talked as they went on, but Elizabeth heard little of what she said. Constant mental abstraction seemed a natural consequence of being in vicinity to Fitzwilliam Darcy. With the sun on her face, lush grass beneath her feet, and the present company, Elizabeth felt the stress of the morning melting under more calming influences. Was there any felicity greater than that of the fellowship of friends?

Made rather lightheaded by his scent – the faint spice of cologne and lemon – and the closeness of that tall, svelte figure next to her, it did not take many more moments for Elizabeth to decide that indeed, there were many sources of happiness to be found.

Chapter Nine

Posted on Friday, 26 October 2007

It is often said that the most insignificant of events can change the course of history. A moment in time can define a life anew, blot out the growth and learning of past and present, and set forward a new trek toward the future. Whether this is a thing of good or evil I shall not attempt to determine, but let it be remembered that – in the words of the Poet Juvenal – ‘Fortune can, for her pleasure, fools advance; and toss them on the wheels of Chance.’

This quote was doubtless not at all in the minds of the residents of Meryton on that mild autumn morn, naught but three days after the debacle at the church, when the ----shire militia made their way into the village in a parade of crimson and gold braid.

The village had scarcely seen such an uproar since the arrival of the party at Netherfield. Everyone was full of conversation about Colonel Forster’s excellent regiment – how well-ordered the troops were, how fine they looked in their uniforms, and how the officers’ courtly manners and elegant ways made them pleasant additions to any ambitious matron’s dinner parties. Excitement ran high, and scarcely was this fact any more apparent than in the reactions of Meryton’s belles.

Kitty and Lydia could not have believed anything more truly heaven-sent than this outpouring of redcoats; they talked of nothing but the regiment and their favorite officers, of whom they already had several. Every morning they rose early to join the whispering, giggling hordes of shop-girls and young ladies who stood in canopied doorways along the main street to watch the soldiers commence the day’s muster.

Nothing could deter the two from their daily vigil, and Mrs. Bennet, who had always had a fondness for soldiers herself, did little to see that they were properly chaperoned or accompanied to and from Meryton. No one raised any objections, by reason of indolence, obliviousness, or the simple uselessness of it.

Elizabeth knew better than to say a word against it. Mrs. Bennet’s wounded pride had not yet been soothed sufficiently to allow much civility in her exchanges with her daughter; although, much to Elizabeth’s surprise, her mother had said nothing else about the Darcys, nor had she inquired any more about the happenings of those few days at Netherfield. She harbored no illusions that her mother had undergone a change of heart – it was more likely that, since the militia was the latest focus of the village, it took precedence over whatever gossip she might have about the Darcys.

Elizabeth earnestly hoped the gossip was extinguished for good – everyone had enough on their minds as it was. The plethora of new faces and situations brought in by the militia was enough to occupy even the most assiduous scandal-mongers.

She appreciated the fact that the Darcys were no longer forced out into the unforgiving notice of their neighbors...yet at the same time, the switch in the village’s focus prevented her from seeing them. Mrs. Bennet had been busily dragging her daughters from one evening party to another, all in honor of the officers. These excesses of welcome left Elizabeth with little time to herself – and not enough time to arrange a visit to Netherfield.

To forestall Miss Darcy from thinking that the absence was deliberate, Elizabeth had sent a brief note of inquiry off to Netherfield; she received one back not an hour later. Miss Darcy graciously thanked her for her concern, expressed a wish to see her again soon, and mentioned that her brother spent much of his time in recent days at the church, speaking with Dr. Lawrence. Elizabeth wondered at the detailed description – surely Miss Darcy didn’t think...? She colored at the notion. Was she so easily read as that?

It gave her a great deal to consider. In a short amount of time, her perception of herself had changed right along with her judgments of the Darcys. Miss Darcy was well on her way to becoming a trusted friend, while Mr. Darcy...well.... Elizabeth smiled to herself. From the very start, the man had incited in her the extremes of emotion. She had not liked him at their first encounter – the distaste had developed gradually into wariness, then to acceptance, then at last had come to rest at a curious mixture of interest and affability. Indifference was one feeling she had never been able to muster forth when he was in question. Whether he forced from her anger or cajoled out a smile, there was always a strong pull behind it.

When she thought about it, she realized that she truly knew very little about Mr. Darcy or his sister. She had not spoken to the former beyond stilted conversations here and there, and a rather longer but still far from verbose discussion on the merits of Aristotle over Plato on the day the Darcys had escorted her home from church. That particular bit of discourse had been revealing – Darcy was clever. His replies had been calm and reasonable; his words might be slow in the coming, but his mind was quick, with the agility of high intelligence.

It was not surprising. He had learned to communicate in an entirely different way...and was successful in doing it. Elizabeth was at a loss to see how he could even manage lipreading in itself; she could never tell exactly what words were being said with one person speaking – she could only imagine how difficult it would be to follow an entire conversation without being able to hear it.

The more she thought on this matter, the more the injustice of it gnawed at her. This man was considered dim-witted and animalistic by people who often had but a fraction of the mental nimbleness and powers of observation he possessed. It seemed dreadfully unfair that he should have to be essentially locked away from the wider world for all his life while those less deserving were free to mingle in society as they chose. It was not fair, and she rallied against the unjustness of it all.

But Acceptance is not the brother of Bias – Elizabeth was forced to admit that she had had the same initial reaction upon Miss Darcy’s first acknowledgment that Mr. Darcy was deaf. She had experienced that same instant uprush of shock and alarm, perhaps even some small part of fear. He was an unknown variable, a person as unpredictable as his gestures were unfathomable. At first she hadn’t been sure what to say to him, treading around him on tiptoes, uncomfortable in his presence. She was honest enough with herself to recognize that she could not take on the role of the indignant martyr against her neighbors – had she not met Miss Darcy or learned to better understand Mr. Darcy, she suspected she would have behaved much the same way as the parishioners had at church.

Superstition was still alive in the countryside – Elizabeth was not blind to its influence. She had seen the farmhands scatter seed to the winds to ensure a good harvest, and watched the kitchen maid predict the weather from the pattern of dying embers left in the hearth. It was harmless tradition and nothing but rigorous education could eliminate the bonds of hundreds of years of ritual. Unfortunately, education was not a prized commodity out in the fields or below-stairs.

Touched by the Devil’s hand... Mr. Simmons’s angry outburst still remained firmly entrenched in her thoughts. Elizabeth was not naive in this matter either. She knew that many people considered an affliction like Mr. Darcy’s to be gotten by supernatural means. His deafness was, to some, outright proof of wrongdoing, or possession by demons, or even Devil worship – and if he was not the culprit, then his parents were the ones stained with iniquity.

Elizabeth had no answer for it herself; she simply felt that God – the God she had been raised to believe in – would not curse a child for the sins of the parents. Though the Church had at once time agreed with Mr. Simmons’s assessment of the situation, Elizabeth could not. The man who had inspired such tender devotion in his sister and solid friendship in a gentleman of Mr. Bingley’s caliber could hardly be a product of Hell itself.

Nevertheless, when her indignation was again under control, she was able to admit that she understood why her neighbors and friends had reacted the way they had.

The Devil’s hand – if such a thing was to be believed, then Mr. Darcy’s entry into the sanctity of the church was a slap in God’s face...and in theirs. Elizabeth hadn’t overlooked the way the crowd moved away with each consecutive step the Darcys took forward. A verse suddenly came to mind. “Put yourselves in array against Babylon round about: all ye that bend the bow, shoot at her, spare no arrows: for she hath sinned against the Lord....take vengeance upon her; as she hath done, do unto her.” It seemed that everyone knew that proverb well.

That made Dr. Lawrence’s actions all the more impressive – she knew how tentative a rector’s position in his church could be. He had maintain careful balance among his parishioners to make everyone equally welcome while attempting to keep unhappy factions from leaving the church. It was necessary for him to skirt the edges of bad tempers and easily offended feelings, a task which required the utmost patience.

She wondered what Dr. Lawrence and Mr. Darcy had been talking over so intently in the churchyard. Surely the rector hadn’t asked Darcy not to attend again? Logically, it would have been the easiest route for the old preacher to take; the conflict would have been swiftly resolved in a show of somewhat one-sided diplomacy.

On one hand, Elizabeth was almost convinced it might have been better if the Darcys actually had kept to themselves in the safety of Netherfield. She hated watching them being insulted and shunned. She hated that they never rose up in their own defense. And for far more selfish reasons, she hated the fact that they were so exposed to her neighbors’ improprieties. It humiliated her to see her own family taking up arms against two people who had dealt them no injury. And for what? A bit of attention from tale-bearers around the village?

“Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth startled, looking up from her solitary vigil by the window. Mary came into her room, frowning as she pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose.

“Mama says we’re to go to Aunt Philips’s tonight.” Mary’s expression declared that she couldn’t think of a more useless way to spend an afternoon. “She wants you to be ready to go by the hour.”

“We dined there on Tuesday,” Elizabeth said, getting to her feet. “I thought we were to host them this week.”

“It’s a card party.” Mary spoke the words in the same manner one might say ‘cardinal sin.’ “I already told Mama I didn’t care to go, but she said I would do better to see if I might catch the eye of an officer.” She sniffed disdainfully. “It’s all perfectly frivolous.”

With a sigh of resignation, Elizabeth went over to chiffonier to find a gown suitable for the afternoon. Mary trailed after her, apparently not finished with her list of reasons why they shouldn’t be forced to go. “And Aunt Philips doesn’t have a pianoforte. There shall be nothing to do but waste three hours playing at foolish games of chance.”

Elizabeth, knowing what she did of her sister’s musical expertise, was privately grateful for this small mercy. She commiserated with Mary’s disappointment, all the while inwardly thanking her uncle Philips for being too tightfisted to take on the expense of an instrument.

Mary eventually left her sister to dress in peace. After pinning up her hair, Elizabeth settled back down to wait out the idle minutes before the carriage was called. Opening her chest of drawers of fetch her cross necklace, she was momentarily surprised to see a large, leather-bound book inside, nearly filling the tiny compartment it rested in. It was the history book Mr. Darcy had lent to her at Netherfield. The upstairs maid must have packed it in her trunk by mistake, and Sarah, thinking it belonged to her mistress, had put it away in the drawer.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Elizabeth took the book out and turned it over, admiring the perfectly-straight binding and crisp tooled cover. The pristine condition of the book reflected the meticulousness of its owner.

Gingerly opening the cover, as though she expected that the book might leap up and scuttle out of the room, she smoothed her hand over the smooth creme parchment that listed the title page in curling gilt letters: The History of Herodotus.

As she thumbed cautiously through the gold-leaf edges, her eye was caught by a blur of scarlet ink amongst the crisp white pages. She bent forward to study it more closely – an inscription was placed on a cover leaf, handwritten in elegant, flowing script.

To my dearest F,

You may recollect this as being one of my father’s favorite books in his collection; for many years I watched him draw this very edition down from the shelf to read in his leisure hours. I know it would have given him the greatest delight to see it pass to hands as worthy and careful as yours.

Fondly,

A.

Elizabeth paused and re-read the short message once, twice more. The slant and tilt of the letters bespoke a feminine hand, if the ‘dearest’ hadn’t been enough of an indication. Curiosity and another emotion she couldn’t quite puzzle out filled her breast as she considered the note and the loving attention that had been put into the writing of it. Who was ‘A’?...and what claim had she on Mr. Darcy to address him in so intimate a matter?

Her cheeks flaming, Elizabeth snapped the book shut and quickly buried it back into the drawer. Even reading the words now seemed dreadfully intrusive; she wondered whether Mr. Darcy had forgotten about the inscription when he gave her the book. Surely he would not knowingly have let her view such a private message?

The double signal of the carriage bell and her mother’s exclamations made Elizabeth reluctantly take to her feet again. With a final, bewildered glance back at the closed drawer, she hurried out the door and down the stairs.

It had been a fairly pleasant day for Miss Darcy. The weather was mild and warm, the sky blue and with just the faintest bit of cloud to provide shelter from the sun. Miss Bingley scarcely ever rose before noon, so Georgiana shared a lovely breakfast with her brother and Mr. Bingley, who had her laughing with tales of the latest contretemps of his steward and tenants; the art of managing an estate was new to him, and he was the first to admit that, thus far, he was making a royal muddle of it.

Fitzwilliam had been entertained by the stories – Georgiana saw him trying to hide his smile as Bingley described the antics of one eccentric old tenant – but he replied to his friend seriously, with that faint hint of paternal command that never ceased to amuse her. There was a six year difference in their ages, and Bingley’s inexperience made him apt to turn to his more worldly friend for advice. In return, Bingley gave him a far more priceless gift: his friendship.

The two had met through business. Their fathers had been involved in some business dealings together, and after his own father’s death, Darcy had approached the elder Mr. Bingley to settle some accounts. Over the course of the meetings and negotiations with other companies that were required to put the rest the joint-ventures, Mr. Bingley – concerned that Darcy might not be able to make himself heard among the stubborn and wary merchants – had charged his young son with the task of assisting Mr. Darcy. With his naturally accepting nature, Bingley had not been fazed by his companion’s deafness, and a friendship which would endure through the ensuing years was born.

Georgiana was glad of it. Her brother needed someone – and truth be told, so did she. The endless succession of outrage and ostracizing did not make for a tranquil life. Because of her connection to Fitzwilliam, she was tarred with the same brush. She had been called a dirty sinner, a hellion, a witch, a harlot of Lucifer...all the curses that a person could be titled with had been given to her at one time or another; few were addressed directly to her face. Instead most were carried on through the gossip vine until she heard of it herself.

She had eventually learned to brush them off in the same way her brother did – he had often told her to not give her tormentors the satisfaction of seeing her hurt, to sweep away the insults like a gust of wind – but she could vividly remember, as a small child, asking Fitzwilliam why their nearest neighbors, Lord and Lady Berwell, wouldn’t allow their young daughter to come to Pemberley for a visit. To this day she could recall the way his lips had tightened, the youthful face of the sixteen-year-old transformed in an instant into an emotionless mask; she could hear him say, in that grave, low-keyed voice, “B-Because of me.”

She had never mentioned the matter again.

A fair day is not one for melancholy reflections, however, and Georgiana took advantage of the weather to engage in an activity which has, over the centuries, proved a balm to countless wounded feminine feelings: shopping.

It had taken some effort to convince her brother that his protective company was not required on the jaunt to Meryton. His presence would have taken much of the pleasure from the outing, for, like any gentleman, he had no tolerance for the entire process of browsing the proffered wares; within minutes he would be hovering over her, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently.

Georgiana had triumphed through gentle argument, and he relented to her going on the condition that Mrs. Younge accompanied her. So the companion and her young charge had headed off to the village in the comfort of Fitzwilliam’s carriage. The first stop was the millinery, where Mrs. Younge had professed herself curious to view the selection, and as Georgiana was inclined to oblige her, the ladies entered the small shop together.

The room wasn’t crowded, undoubtedly due to the early hour; indeed, the only other occupant was the beak-nosed woman behind the counter, who looked up curtly, gave both women an assessing look, and, apparently deciding that their clothes spoke of money, smiled woodenly. Mrs. Younge nodded back; Georgiana’s attention was instantly drawn to a table set near the center of the room. The surface was cluttered with an array of brightly-colored ribbons and jeweled pins. A hand-lettered sign propped against the adjoining wall announced a sale, and Georgiana quietly moved over to the table to sort through the pile, if only to pass the time until Mrs. Younge was ready to leave.

Her notice was drawn to one particular item, a hair-comb glittering with tiny red-and-white gemstones and cheap gold paint. She lifted the comb up to see how it reflected in the light from the window – and another, deeper flash of crimson darted out in and out of the corner of her eye. She turned to face the object and found her eye directed outside the window to the street outside.

Across the cobbles was a group of gentlemen gathered outside the dingy tavern. Most were dressed in hunting clothes, but one was decked out in the red coat and scarlet braid of a lieutenant. She frowned, studying him – the lean figure and auburn-gold hair somehow seemed familiar...

Georgiana was about come back away from the window when the soldier suddenly whirled around. The fine-boned, handsome face that turned into the sunlight was as recognizable as it was unforgettable. Only the knowledge that the lady behind the counter was narrowly watching her every move kept Georgiana from gasping aloud. What in heaven’s name was he doing here in Hertfordshire?

A thousand scenarios leapt through her mind in quick succession, each more frightening than the last – but it was with all the power of her considerable will that she managed to pull herself away from the window. Trying to behave as though nothing had unsettled her, Georgiana set down the hair-comb and tapped Mrs. Younge on the shoulder.

“We have to leave,” she said under her breath.

“Now? Miss Darcy, surely...”

“Please don’t ask me any questions. We must return to Netherfield post-haste.”

Mrs. Younge cast one longing glance back at the bonnet she had been examining and nodded hesitantly, following her charge through the aisle.

Georgiana paused at the door and peered out the window again – the men were gone. Unwittingly exhaling a shaky breath, she curtsied briefly to the scowling lady and followed Mrs. Younge out to the carriage.

The coachman seemed surprised to see them back so soon, but he handed them into the conveyance. “Where to, Miss Darcy?”

“To Netherfield,” she called, a note of iron in her voice, “and hurry.”

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