Chapter 8


Lumberjack? Animal wrangler? Marine biologist? Ski bum. That would do it. Days outside, no schedules, no endless meetings about which numbers don’t match up and why next week’s stock price was going to adversely affect the second quarter’s debt ratings. Darcy leaned back in his chair and looked around the conference table. Would this meeting never end? He knew he had been right to question Robin about Delteon, but even he hadn’t foreseen the upheaval he created by noting a few numbers buried in a paragraph on page 306 of a secondary due-diligence report. He picked up his pen, clenched it, and refocused on Ken Whitley’s blistering rebuttal to Chris Brandon’s presentation.

Half an hour later, Darcy shut the door to his office, rolled his neck and stretched. Helluva way to kick off the new year, he groaned, gazing through the floor-to-ceiling window. The snow was coming down hard. It was a virtual white-out. Lucky Georgie, still in Palm Beach for a few more days.

His stomach rumbled. A glance at his watch elicited another, more heartfelt groan. It was nearly two o’clock. Late for lunch. He was starving and not going anywhere in that storm. Especially all the way uptown to Haven Hospital. Until a few days ago, he hadn’t realized it was over on 77th Avenue, only a few blocks from his apartment. Darcy remembered the building from his childhood, with the animal statues in front. But he hadn’t connected the name and its proximity to his apartment until he had Googled it. He’d hoped to get over there this afternoon on his way home and drop off Elizabeth’s shoe. He knew he could messenger it, but that seemed so businesslike. So like what she would expect of him.

Maybe if he could make it out of here early. Darcy peered up at the sky. Maybe if he left now. But he couldn’t. More meetings. And he was really hungry. Another stomach rumble brought to mind all the leftovers in his refrigerator at home; Mrs. Reynolds’ beef stew sounded good right about now. He leaned over his desk and buzzed his assistant. “Alison, can you please order me soup and a sandwich?”

The door flew open and Charles Bingley bounced in, a giant Panera bag in one hand and an overcoat in the other. “Special delivery!” He paused and took an exaggerated bow. “Darce! It’s a white-out! It’s like Y2K came a decade late! The city is disappearing! It’s amazing.”

Darcy bit back a smile and sat on the edge of his desk. “But you made it through, with baked goods?” His eyes were fixed on the bag and his question held a hopeful edge. My hero.

“Nope. Lunch.” Charles set the bag on the coffee table and hung his coat over a chair. He plopped down on the leather couch and shook his head like a wet dog. A shower of watery, melted snow flew off. “I called you twice and Alison said you were stuck in meetings and likely to bite her head off because you hadn’t been fed.”

His dimples deepening, Charles looked up at his best friend. “Oh, Will, stick your eyes back in your head and sit down. She felt awful that your first day back was so hellish.”

Charles slicked back his wet blond hair. “I was down this way to meet with some guys, but they’re stuck at LaGuardia. So I figured we’d have lunch.” He frowned at Darcy and began unpacking sandwiches and soup containers. “Now, come have a seat, young man, and tell me all about your New Year’s Eve,” he said in a high-pitched voice.

“My god, you still do the worst Mrs. Reynolds impersonation I’ve ever heard.” Darcy took off his jacket, tucked his tie into his shirt, sat down across from Charles and reached for a sandwich. “Napa chicken salad?”

Darcy devoured his sandwich and most of his creamy potato soup before he answered Charles’ query about New Year’s. The details were skimpy and left Charles dissatisfied. “You dropped Liz off and went home? At 10:30? Why didn’t you come back to the party? I mean, did you hear my mix? It was awesome.”

Liz? He calls her Liz?

“You really went home? You didn’t have a secret rendezvous for a midnight kiss?” Charles sighed. “Will, you’re being so damn careful. What am I going to do with you?”

“Stop channeling Mrs. Reynolds. I was tired.” And I am sick of this conversation.

Darcy switched to the topic he knew Charles preferred. “So you and Jane skated yesterday?” He gestured at the window. “Good timing.”

Charles folded up his napkin and leaned back. He took a deep breath. “Darcy, she’s the one. Jane is the one. She is so amazing.” He smiled and rubbed his chin. “I can’t believe I’ve only known her for two months.”

Darcy shook his head. And spent every waking moment with her.

“I mean it, Will,” Charles said. He reached over into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small, robin’s-egg blue bag.

Tiffany’s? Oh my god. This is too soon.

Will covered his shock by brushing the crumbs off his lap.

His blue eyes dancing merrily, Charles started laughing. “You should see your face, Darcy. You’d think I’d pulled a toad out of my pocket.”

“Okay, it’s a Tiffany’s bag. And it’s not for me. Must be Caroline’s birthday.”

Charles pulled a slim box out of the bag. He leaned forward and opened it, showing Will the elegant silver bracelet sporting an ice-skate charm.

Darcy, hiding his sigh of relief, exclaimed, “It’s beautiful. Jane will love it.” He leveled a look at his friend. “It is for Jane, right?”

An ear-to-ear grin split Charles’ face. “Yup. The one and only. Our two-month anniversary is next week. I know you’re going to think I’m nuts, Darce, but I’m gonna marry that girl.”

Wow. Tread lightly, Will thought. “Do I dare ask what you gave her for Christmas?” he ventured.

“A Kate Spade overnight bag and a long weekend at that B&B in Stowe. The one Marty and Thorpe always go on about. We can’t go till March, though. I think I might ask her then.”

Will reached for a bag of chips and ripped it open. He shoved a few chips in his mouth. “Why March?”

“Gotta go to Australia. Didn’t I tell you?” Charles’ face lit up and he started waving his hands. “It’s the Queensland Beer shoot. And there’s an account review on that canned kangaroo-meat company. KangaBurger.” He wrinkled his nose. “But Queensland owns like a dozen other companies, and I really want to score the skincare line.”

Darcy swallowed the last of the chips and reached for a water bottle. “How long will you be gone?”

“Two weeks, at least.” He sighed and furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s going to be so hard to leave Jane.”

“Hence the anniversary present?”

Charles smiled sadly. “Can’t let her forget about me.”

“Does that worry you?”

“No. I think she loves me too,” he answered plaintively. “But she is so beautiful. I mean, that red hair is gorgeous. Guys are always staring at her.” He cleared his throat. “She never notices it, but they do.”

Will looked up from the bag he had folded into a one-inch square. He’d never heard Charles sound so unsure of himself with a woman. He’s so needy. Was Jane not as demonstrative with her feelings?

“Why? Why doesn’t she notice?” he asked.

Charles smiled. “I think she’s used to it so it doesn’t mean anything to her. At least that’s what Liz says. Jane has always been beautiful. Even in her first-grade picture, when she was missing her front teeth.”

He’s like a puppy that fell in a puddle of love mush. Will coughed. “You’ve seen her school pictures? Where are she and Elizabeth from?”

“Outside Philadelphia. Mr. Bennet is a guidance counselor at Meryton High School; their youngest sister is a senior there. Another sister is in grad school. Neurobiology, I think. Their mom runs a gift shop.”

Four girls? Darcy thought. “So, sisters leave the suburbs of Philly and make good in New York?”

“Well, yeah. But Jane says they weren’t always from Philadelphia. Their parents grew up in West Virginia, in coal country. Still some family there.” Charles sighed.

“Coal miners’ daughters?” Darcy was shaking his head, trying to connect the dots between these two smart urban women and their working-class roots in coal mining. Every horrible stereotype he’d ever read or seen flashed through his mind. Blackened faces, overalls, missing teeth, banjos, tar-paper shacks….

“Nah, granddaughters. They have a few great uncles and aunts down there. Jane says their parents left as soon as they got out of high school.” Charles sighed again. “I’m the one from Jersey and Jane’s the one with a Springsteen soundtrack for her life.”

Or Loretta Lynn, mused Darcy. Fifteen years of friendship and he still couldn’t stop rolling his eyes at Charles and his melodramas. But that storytelling was what made him so good in advertising. Darcy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked his friend in the eye.

“Hey, before you strap yourselves on that street machine and roar off down Thunder Road, be sure about how you both feel. Australia is a 22-hour plane flight. You’re going to be ten thousand miles apart for two weeks. Use the time to make sure Jane is the one, Charles,” he urged.

“Says Mr. Romance Expert,” countered Charles.

“Touché,” Darcy replied, smarting just a little. He shrugged his shoulders and sat back. “If you’re still sure in March, then maybe she is the one. But be certain—you’ve been `in love’ a lot.”

Bingley looked unhappy. Then he nodded slowly. “You’re right. Though I wouldn’t say I’ve been `flighty in love.’”

Crap, did I say flighty? Darcy wondered.

Charles looked at Darcy’s raised eyebrows. “Caroline and Louisa told me I was flighty and to take it slow.”

Buzzzz….. “Mr. Darcy?” Alison’s perky voice filled the office. “Your conference call with Chicago is in 10 minutes.”

Lunch with Charles turned out to be the high point of Darcy’s workweek. Two more days of meetings and Skype conferences later, he was facing the prospect of trips to Brussels and Zurich. He scheduled a flight for late the following week, after Georgie was settled in school. He went home again that night to a quiet apartment and its sole houseguest—Elizabeth’s shoe. Tomorrow, he thought to himself. My morning is clear. I’ll go tomorrow.


***


By noon on Friday, the air was still crisp but the skies were clearer than they had been all week. The city had managed to clear most of the streets and sidewalks, and the previous day’s slightly warmer temperatures had melted a few inches off the snow mounds. As Darcy turned onto 77th Avenue and approached Haven Hospital, a memory of walking here with his mother flashed through his mind. He ran his fingers along the edge of the statue of the girl and the cat. “Peanut…” he whispered. I called it Peanut and the dog was Scout. He peered through the snow for the rabbit. Ducky. What an imagination. He smiled, remembering his mother’s gentle laugh.

The snow crested around the statuary. A few chips and scratches, but they looked the same as he remembered from 20 years earlier. One glance at the building itself made it clear that the passage of time had been less kind to Haven. Its white marble was mottled and dirty, some of the façade was missing, and it was in dire need of masonry repair.

Walking up the stairs, he glanced to his left and saw a long, sloping metal ramp. Darcy entered through the arching doors and looked around the vast rotunda. He walked up to a 1970s-era reception desk set in front of a faded mural and asked for directions to the elevators. Eighth floor.

The elevator moved slowly but efficiently and the doors opened to a circular entryway with narrow hallways branching off of it. Darcy stepped forward, then paused, unsure where to go. He felt eyes watching him.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

He turned toward the voice at the desk, where a thin young woman who appeared to be channeling the fashion sense of Amy Winehouse sat staring at him. “You lost?”

He shook his head. “I’m here to see Elizabeth Bennet.” Did she have a title? Crap. “The social worker.”

The brunette at the desk eyed him. “Okay. You have an appointment?”

“No. I’m dropping off something.”

“Oh, you can give it to me, I’ll get it to her.”

He looked at her name tag. “No thank you, Lydia. Could you point out her office to me, please?”

Disappointed, Lydia eyed him suspiciously. “Sure. To your left. Office 844. Wait, what’s your name?”

“Thank you.” Darcy walked away quickly, not liking how Lydia’s heavily made-up eyes seemed to be evaluating him. He turned the corner and saw 844 on a doorplate. Below it was a card: Elizabeth Bennet, LCSW. The door was open. He knocked and stepped inside.

It was empty. As in, Elizabeth was not there. But her presence was everywhere. There were some frames on the wall—diplomas from Penn and Columbia, photos of her with Jane and some other girls. Her sisters? The walls held some museum-store prints: Vermeer’s “Girl with a Pearl Earring,” Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks,” Andrew Wyeth’s “Christina’s World.”

The office was a tenth the size of his, and though it contained many of the same things, the atmosphere was worlds apart. There was a desk with a laptop, a stack of file folders, and what looked like blueprints sitting on it. A chair and a filing cabinet, a well-worn leather couch, and a scarred coffee table. He glanced at an easel holding a big posterboard and names in a grid, and a scratched-up bookcase filled with brainteaser puzzles, books and games. He bent down and saw everything from Thomas Merton to Dr. Seuss, as well as Sorry!, Mousetrap and Jenga. Ha, Robin’s favorite.

As soon as he finished his inventory of Elizabeth’s office, Darcy felt like an intruder. He took a step back and turned to the doorway. He walked out into the hall and leaned against the wall. After a few minutes during which he checked his watch, and started considering whether to leave her brown-bagged shoe and a note with his phone number, Darcy heard Elizabeth’s laughter. There were other voices, all speaking in hushed urgent tones. He turned and watched, quietly, as Elizabeth, surrounded by half a dozen teenagers, slowly emerged from a small meeting room across the hall. Two boys were chafing at some directive from Elizabeth but she was gently firm. “Yes, you can.”

As the kids shuffled off, one girl turned to Elizabeth and hugged her. “See you Monday, Ms. Bennet. Have a good weekend.”

Elizabeth smiled and waved her off. He could see her face now. She looked tired. Her hair was pulled back and she was wearing glasses. He stepped forward, out of the shadows and took a deep breath.

“Elizabeth?”

She looked up, surprised and, he thought, wary. “Darcy?”

He spoke quickly, gesturing to his briefcase. “You left something, your, um, shoe, in my car the other night. I’ve been trying to get it to you all week, but it’s been a bit crazy.”

She nodded and smiled. “Snowy too. Mr. Delegator- in-Chief came all the way here?”

“Turns out `all the way’ is only eight blocks from my apartment.”

She was nodding as he spoke and her eyes glittered behind the tortoiseshell frames.

“I used to walk by here with my mother, years ago, but I’d forgotten.”

She just stood there and didn’t say anything. “Here,” he reached into his briefcase and pulled out the bag. “Here’s your shoe.”

She reached in and pulled it out. “Thank you. I hadn’t realized it was gone. I’m lucky I was in your car when it fell out of my bag. Old thing has a crappy zipper.”

She led him into her office, where they both fell quiet. “I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he said.

Her hand flew up to her face. She blushed and pulled them off. He felt the loss immediately.

“Oh these,” she said, laughing lightly. “They help me focus.”

Will tilted his head. “Smart glasses? From Saks?”

“Uh, no. The bodega around the corner from my place.” She looked at him quizzically and smiled when he explained Georgie’s glasses and her theories on studying.

It fell quiet again. Darcy could hear himself breathing and the tap-tap of footsteps walking down the hallway. He looked at Elizabeth’s feet, noticing that she was wearing black boots with her skirt and sweater. He cleared his throat and looked up quickly. His heart was thudding in his chest. He never did this. He hadn’t wanted to ask out a woman since the debacle with Judith. I have to do this.

“I feel awful that I kept your shoe hostage all week. May I make it up to you and buy you lunch?” He watched and waited as she processed his hurried request. She blinked four or five times and didn’t answer.

“Er, Elizabeth?” He swallowed. He’d leapt before he looked. He was an idiot.

“It’s—you don’t need to buy me lunch, Will. I owe you. For the ride, and for the return of my glass slipper.” She smiled at him but her eyes were serious. “I only have a little over an hour till my next group arrives. Do you mind the coffeeshop around the corner? It’s no Gramercy Tavern or Le Cirque, but they have great soup.”

“That’d be great, if you’re sure,” he replied eagerly.

Elizabeth took her coat off the door hook. She closed and locked her office door, prompting him to turn red and apologize for wandering in earlier. She assured him she wasn’t worried about a man in a cashmere coat stealing prescription pads or her laptop. “Seriously, I know you’re a rich banker, but how big is your yearly cashmere budget?”

They walked to the elevator under the watchful eyes of Lydia. Darcy glanced at Elizabeth and pushed the down button. “Pretty big if you include the dry cleaning bills from sloshing and spillage,” he said.

She smirked and they fell silent as they stepped into the empty elevator. “So while I was invading your privacy back there….” he began.

“Yes, Mr. Nosy Pants?”

Darcy coughed back a laugh. “I noticed you had games in your office.”

"Yes, sometimes games are good prompts for conversation. We have a closetful of them. Sorry! can help a kid say out loud what they’re sorry for. Mousetrap is all about frustration and cooperation, and Jenga is a great game for learning cooperation or letting out anger.”

Darcy, watching the elevator floor lights blink on and off, grinned. “Yes, I have some familiarity with the emotions that Jenga can elicit.”

“Georgie? No way.”

“No, my cousin. Georgie was a vicious competitor at Twister back when we both young and limber but thank god puberty cured her of wanting to play that with her big brother.” He suddenly realized how awkward that sounded. “I’ve been told big brothers are terribly embarrassing.”

They stepped out of the elevator and walked toward the door. “I’m sure that’s true, but I have a lot of experience with embarrassing little sisters.”

She led him to Mickey’s, a classic New York diner. He followed her menu suggestion, and while they awaited chili and grilled cheese, Darcy asked about the prints in her office.

“Art evokes emotion, and pulls out otherwise suppressed feelings,” Elizabeth replied. She reached behind her head and pulled out her barrette. “I’ve found teenagers relate well to those three in particular. If they don’t I have some art books we look at.”

Darcy stared, transfixed, at her hair as it cascaded around her shoulders. It’s like wavy dark chocolate. “Why are you a social worker?”

“Why are you a banker?” she countered.

He sat back and ran his index finger back and forth on the edge of the linoleum tabletop. “Because my father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and carry on the family name. Because it’s the Darcy legacy. Because I was always really good with numbers.”

Her eyes rose from Darcy’s hand to his eyes. “And you like it? Or did you just want to do as he did?”

Darcy shrugged. “It’s important work. We’re able to do some good things with our lending programs and foundation work.”

She nodded. “And you came out unscathed in `08, didn’t you?”

“Everybody took a hit in the crash, but we’re a lot more conservative than most, so we were okay.” He paused and ventured ahead. “Elizabeth, do you have a thing about bankers?

She crinkled her nose and smiled. “For them or about them?”

The memory of her yelling at him and his beer-soaked sweater flashed through his head. He closed his eyes briefly to refocus. “I mean, some people are just anti-big business. I saw your diploma. You have a finance degree from Penn?”

Her eyes flared but her words were cut off when their waitress arrived with their order. “Thanks, Juanita,” Elizabeth said.

They ate quietly. “The chili is very good,” he commented.

She put down her spoon and looked at him. “I tried the world of high finance. It wasn’t for me. Power, ego and money are a scary mix. Or maybe it was just too much Polo and cashmere.”

Darcy put his hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“Sorry.” She looked like she meant it. “How’s your grilled cheese? Amazing?”

He nodded, his mouth full of creamy cheese and crispy bread.

“Great—now that I’ve got you where I want you, it’s my turn to ask questions.” Darcy’s deer-in-the- headlights expression prompted a laugh from Elizabeth. “Why are you a banker when your apartment is full of design books and handcrafted chairs?”

He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “They, the books, were my mother’s. She was an architect.”

“Ah, so you’ve got left-brain and right-brain talents. Your mother is the reason that you like architecture?”

He nodded and reached for his glass of water. “She loved art. We spent a lot of time at the museums, and looking at buildings, and drawing together.” He took a drink. “She worked at MOMA before I was born.”

“But you followed in your father’s footsteps instead.”

He shrugged. “I maintain an interest. I read Architectural Digest.”

“You, Mr. Darcy, are a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”*

“And you, Ms. Bennet, have read far too many history books. I bet you’ve never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit.”

“Once. Junior year at Penn. My opponent cheated. Strip Trivia Pursuit will do that to a guy.” She paused and watched Darcy’s expression as he processed this information, mid-swallow, and started choking.

Is she serious?

“Are you okay?”

He nodded and took a long drink. “Never met girls like you when I was at school.”

“Well, old man, maybe you spent too much time with the boys in your college drinking club. Was it Harvard or Yale?” She laughed. “Is that where you had your first experience with wet cashmere?”

Old man? She was teasing him on so many levels his head was spinning. He was never going to wear cashmere around her again.

“Cleaned your plate?” She glanced at his dishes and then at her watch. “We need to go. Sorry.”

Darcy signaled Juanita only to discover Elizabeth had already paid the bill.

“You got the jump on me,” he protested. “Please let me pay for lunch. I showed up unexpectedly and pulled you outside.”

“I like snow and a good walk. Don’t worry about it.” Elizabeth buttoned up her coat. “Besides, you bought me coffee. You never explained why you were at City Hall.”

Darcy bit his lip, slipped ten dollars under his soup bowl and followed Elizabeth to the door. As they walked outside, he explained that he was checking on the installation of ramps at Georgie’s school. “After she was hurt, I realized--the school realized--that even with all the ADA compliance they’d done, a girl in a wheelchair could not attend school there. So I was checking the plans and co-signing permit applications.”

“You were?” She looked at him as though considering him anew.

Yeah, I’m overprotective, he thought. A helicopter parent, brother, whatever.

“You work in a hospital,” he added quickly, “so you’re already outfitted for any circumstance.”

“But Haven needs a lot more than that, as you see. A lot of work.” Elizabeth gazed ahead at the building they were nearing.

“Is that why you were visiting the city planning department?” he asked.

“Sorta. I’m doing my part to save the building from the city.”

Talk about an enigma, Darcy thought. “So you love this building and art and history, earned a finance degree and became a social worker?”

“Life happens. That’s Georgie’s favorite game, right?”

“Fine, keep it secret. I just wondered why the transition,” he said. God, she was frustrating.

“Let’s just say that I realized that, despite my need to pay off school loans, making rich guys even richer was not what I wanted to do with my life.”

As they walked up the steps to Haven, he watched Elizabeth tap the heads of the statues. He felt the need to share with her his earlier revelation and told her the names he’d given the animals when his mother had brought him over to see the building.

“You know, I bet you’re not the only one,” she said softly. “Your mother sounds so interesting. She worked at MOMA?”

“She finished her degree and had her own firm for a few years. It shut down after she died.”

Elizabeth stared at his coat button. “You were young when she…”

“Twelve.”

She nodded. “Hence the difficulty of taking over that family firm.”

You could say that, Will thought. Dad made sure that was never a possibility.

“Oh, there’s a guy here whose father used to work with one of your parents. Do you know a George Wickham?”

“Never heard of him.”

They stood looking at each for a moment. A few bundled-up pedestrians hurried by below them on the sidewalk. Snowflakes started falling and they both swiped at their faces. Elizabeth put her hand on his arm.

“Thanks for returning my shoe, Will.” She looked up at the snowflakes swirling down. “Though it doesn’t look like I’ll be needing it soon.” She strode away and through the revolving doors.



~~*~~*~~



It had been an endless week and there was still an entire afternoon to endure until the official start of the weekend. Lydia was bored, intrigued by the handsome guy who had left with Lizzy Bennet, and annoyed that George was off working, or chatting up Mary King, or doing something that wasn’t entertaining her.

The bits of conversation she’d overheard between Lizzy and the guy weren’t all that interesting. They were too freaked out by each other to notice her standing just around the corner. He was a whole lot more awkward and dorky than his high cheekbones and gorgeous black Brioni overcoat would imply. In fact, Lizzy had seemed to be as weirded out by him as Lydia was, making it way too easy to spy on them. Lizzy was totally embarrassed when he’d handed her a brown paper bag and she’d pulled out the baddest, sexiest red stiletto Lydia had ever seen. Too bad George had missed it. She looked at her phone. He’d told her not to text him; Mary checked his phone sometimes.

Hmm. Lydia's thumbs began flying. Bring up Nov. 25 files. Checking scrips. Hopefully, he’d remember that Nov. 25 was Thanksgiving, the first time they’d hooked up. Seemed like a smart code.

They were such a clever pair. George figured it out right away and came up from the sixth floor with an empty file folder. She filled him in quickly on what she’d seen.

“You’re sure she called him Darcy?” he asked. “I think we’ve got a winner.” He leered at her and slowly ran a finger down her arm. “Later, my magnificent girl? I’ve got to make a call.”

I want to thank you all of you who have taken the time to comment. I'm sorry I've been negligent about replying--but I am reading all the comments. I'll try to do better this time. I work on stories of this sort as a break from JAFF, and I don't worry too much about historical accuracy, language, etc. It's just all for fun! Thanks for reading.

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Chapter 4


“Charming fellow,” remarked my friend drily, turning to me. “Are you well?”

I sank down onto the bench with a sigh of relief. “Yes, thanks to you! How can I thank you for coming to my rescue like that? And how did you know?”

“I was watching you,” he said simply. “I was kicking myself for handing you over for the whole dance, and when I saw him drag you in here I knew there would be trouble.”

“Yes, you were right, of course. I should have stopped him, but I didn’t know how without causing a fuss.” I looked at him, staring down at me with his arms crossed, his broad shoulders set and a slight smile around his sensitive mouth, while his eyes gleamed mysteriously from behind his mask. “I didn’t like him, even before he brought me here.”

“I’m glad.” He sat down next to me, and offered his hand. I put mine into it. “I won’t make the same mistake that other fellow did of trying to take your mask off, but perhaps I have earned some sort of confidence… a first name perhaps?” he asked hopefully.

I could think of no reason not to tell him. “Ella,” I said shyly.

“Ella,” he repeated. “Why that’s charming.”

He stood up and seemed about to draw me after him, but I held back, saying rather boldly, “And you, sir?”

He paused, surprised. “Me?’

“Can I—may I know some name by which I may thank you?”

He hesitated, then smiled. “Of course. Forgive me. You may call me Simon.”

“Simon,” I repeated, pleased, and took his arm to go for refreshments.

Now reader, don’t laugh at me. There must be thousands of Simons in this country.

We remained together for the rest of the evening. Safe behind our masks, heedless of propriety, we danced until we were breathless, then sat together and laughed until ready to start again.

“You know, there are plenty of other beautiful women you could be dancing with,” I reminded him at one point.

“I know,” he said.

When the room finally grew too stuffy, he took me outside to stroll down the terrace in the evening air. There we talked for—oh, it seemed like hours, although in actual fact it wasn’t quite that long. I questioned him about the war, and he answered me, and talked long about his experiences overseas with the army. He did not mention his rank and I did not ask, but it was obvious that he had had men under him, and equally obvious that he had not shrunk back from the battle himself. There in the moonlight, leaning on the balustrade, his voice grew distant as he talked of cannon fire and long marches; of maneuvers and charges; of loneliness, homesickness, and death’s grim face.

I listened to him raptly. Here was a man who had really done something—something real, something significant.

At last he turned to me with a sigh. I saw his teeth gleam in the moonlight. “I have been talked far too much,” he said. “You were probably bored long ago.”

I shook my head. “No, indeed,” I said earnestly, “I wanted to hear you. It all seems so…”

“Exciting?” he suggested sardonically.

“Important.”

His hand covered mine on the rail, and I did not draw back. “And what of you, Mistress Ella? You have told me nothing at all concerning yourself.”

I shook my head.

“Oh come, you must tell me something,” he coaxed. “It’s only fair.”

“Well…” I hesitated. “My mother died when I was a child. I remember her as the loveliest, gayest, sweetest woman ever. Look.” I pulled back the hem of my skirt. The slippers flashed and glittered. “I’m wearing her shoes.”

“Very pretty.” There was a laugh in his voice.

“I think that if she had lived I would have had a very different life,” I said seriously. “But when she died everything changed. My father, he was well-meaning, but, well, not very attentive.”

“And what has your life been?” he asked gently.

I did not answer him. Instead I said, with some difficulty, “It must seem strange to you that I have never gone into society before, but it’s the truth. There are reasons, but I cannot get into them tonight. But I want you to know that I am an honest and virtuous woman.” The last words came out with more force than I intended.

“I didn’t doubt it.” He was looking at me with a bit of a frown now, but he did not draw his hand back from mine. On the contrary, he seemed only to clasp it tighter, and I found myself returning its pressure.

His next remark surprised me. “Will you be at the Royal Ball next week?”

“I don’t really know. Why?”

“Will you try? Will you to try to make it, for my sake? That is—” he paused, and I could almost have sworn he blushed a little. “That is if you would be willing to see me again. Without masks.”

My heart pounded, and my breath caught uncomfortably. Simon’s tall form loomed over me, and I wondered for a moment if he was going to try to kiss me, but all he did was hold my hand in his, waiting for my answer.

“I—I will try.” I found myself saying, and I knew that I would. His quick white smile rewarded me, and he pressed my fingers.

“How will I recognize you?” his voice low. “I don’t think I shall have any trouble, even without a mask, but just in case—”

“Well—” I laughed suddenly. “By my slippers.”

He nodded. “By your glass slippers, then. I will look for them.”

A sudden cheer when up from the ballroom. I looked at Simon questioningly. “I believe they’re unmasking,” he informed me gravely.

I drew back a little. “No, it’s all right,” he said. “Not tonight, I know. I will escort you out by a side way, if you will allow me.”

“Thank you.”

“Well…” he let go my hand, but only to touch a small curl on my forehead, very lightly. I shivered at the touch like it was a caress. “It is good night, then, Ella. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an evening more.”

“Me either,” I whispered.

“Say you won’t fail me, Ella. Say you’ll be there.”

“I—I can’t,” I stumbled. “There are so many things it depends on.”

“Very well.” He sighed. “I’ll have to be content with that. Now let’s get you out of here.”

He led me around the house, through a side door, and down a hallway. The carriage was already waiting for me. As Simon handed me into it I felt grateful that there was no crest on the panel to give me away.

He kissed my fingertips before he let me go. “Til next week,” he murmured, and I know I blushed.

As the carriage set off I leaned back against the cushions, tired but exhilarated. To dance a few dances—to talk a little with high society people and observe their manners, was all I had hoped from this evening. Instead I had gotten—I flushed and refused to define what I had gotten. But whatever it was, it had a great deal to do with a pair of broad shoulders, and a white smile.

Mrs. Gainswood was waiting up for me when I returned. “Well, my dear?” she asked. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Mostly. I felt very strange at first, but not so much later.”

She nodded. “And did you speak with any agreeable people?”

“A few. And some not so agreeable.”

“Inevitable, I’m afraid.” She dismissed that. “And did you dance with many young men?”

“I danced a great deal,” I answered a bit evasively.

“Did anyone ever remark on your lack of breeding, or seemed offended, or stare at you like you were vulgar?”

“No,” I admitted.

“And did you feel that you were in any particular respect inferior to those other people present?”

“Well… my dancing…”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Oh. Well, then, no.”

“Then it’s settled! You shall remain with me and become Lady Elisabeth again.” She looked at me with satisfaction.

I hardly knew what to say to her. One evening at a masque had not convinced me that I wanted to become a society lady, and fear of step-mother’s retaliations still loomed large in my mind. But to return to a life of drudgery seemed scarcely possible now. When I had imagined my birthright irrevocably dead, I had found myself able to bear it, but now that it was all but resurrected, that life seemed already unbearable.

Then I thought of Simon. I had made him a promise, and keep it I must. Just the thought of seeing him again drove away many a protest.

“Do you really think you can deal with my step-mother?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

Mrs. Gainswood clapped her hands and beamed. “This is going to be so much fun!” she declared. “Just you leave everything to me!”

I was content to do that—until I found out that she never meant me to return home at all. “But I must!” I protested.

“Now, Ella.” Her face grew very nearly stern. “I’ll not have you go back to that—woman’s house, to be possibly coerced or even locked up. I have you here safe now, and she doesn’t know where you are at all—and so I intend to keep it!”

“But—my mother’s trunk. My money!”

“Money!” she exclaimed. “Child, I have money enough for both of us! Your paltry savings won’t matter.”

“But it’s my money,” I insisted stubbornly. “I worked for four years to save it, and I’m not giving it up. Or my mother’s picture.”

She stood up, went across the room to a desk, rummaged in the drawer, and returned with something which she placed in my hand. It was my mother’s likeness, an exact replica of what I had in my box. “Is that what you want?”

Wordlessly I cradled it in my hands, tears starting in my eyes. Then I felt her hand on my shoulder, and heard her voice, very gentle. “There, there now, my dear. Do not fear—you mother’s memory shall never die as long as I live, nor shall it be denied to you.”

I nodded. “I won’t take the risk of getting mine, then,” I managed to say, “but I’m still going back for my money.”

With a laugh and an admonishment, she gave in. I promised most strictly to stay only long enough to collect my possessions, and her coachman took me, dropping me off down the street.

I felt badly leaving Cook and the rest of the staff so abruptly, but I knew they would soon enough find someone else to take my place.

I am posting early this week. I will be travelling next week and do not know when I will be able to post again, but it will probably be about two weeks. So, as an added bonus, you get two chapters instead of one. :D

Chapter 33




9 April 1812

Coming onto the landing, Darcy was about to make his way to the breakfast parlour when he was approached by a footman. The man bowed and presented a letter.

“This just arrived moments ago by express, sir. The rider wishes to return with your answer.”

Darcy frowned as he took the post from the servant’s hand. Breaking the seal, he quickly scanned the contents:


Dear Mr. Darcy,

Mr. Endicott, whom I have endeavoured to engage on your behalf, wishes to close the deal on the property you have for sale on the Thames. As you know, this is my third dispatch to you in a fortnight on this matter. If you expect to settle this affair to your advantage, your presence is required in London post haste. Mr. Endicott is most impatient to secure riverfront property and has informed me that if you are not here by Monday noon, he will have to go elsewhere. Please respond and inform me if you wish to proceed with the sale of your property, which, as you are aware, we have been trying to sell for nearly a year. He is offering a goodly sum of five hundred pounds, which I advise you to accept. Please answer at once so that I may know how to proceed.

Sincerely,

David Mann


Darcy released a sigh. “Tell the rider to wait.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Moving to his aunt’s study, Darcy quickly withdrew a sheet of letter paper from the desk drawer and took a quill, hastily penning his response. Once it was sealed, he returned to the waiting footman and handed him the letter along with a coin for the rider.


“Thank you, Foxworthy. That will be all.”
Darcy then turned to make his way to breakfast. He would have to propose quickly and then leave for Town right away. That particular piece of property had come into his possession when his uncle, the judge, had died. He had been trying to sell it for nearly eleven months, and now, after finally finding a buyer, he could not allow the opportunity to pass him by. He must be off to London no later than Saturday morning. However, neither would he let the sudden change in plans affect his good mood. No indeed! Elizabeth and I shall marry as quickly as possible. I shall make those arrangements as well when I am in Town.

Entering the parlour, Darcy wore a rather large smile, which, being highly unusual for him, immediately provoked Lady Catherine’s notice.

“You are in very good spirits this morning, Darcy. What have you to smile about? Oh! Let me see…. It is because you are soon to become officially engaged,” she said, glancing at her daughter who dropped her head and sighed.

Darcy froze mid-step. For the first time in his memory, he must have blushed openly. Clearing his throat, he answered, “Yes, well—”

“There is no need to explain, Nephew. Our visit has been more enjoyable this Easter season than last. It is clear to see that you adore Rosings more and more each time you come. And how could you not! The beauty and splendour of Kent has a way of growing in one’s favour, for there is no estate more splendid than Rosings, unless it is Pemberley, of course.” Lady Catherine smiled and then proceeded to call for more tea.

“Yes, I am sure it is so, but as much as I have enjoyed my visit at Rosings, the time has come when I must depart; for, as you know, Fitzwilliam and I have been here for nearly three weeks, and, well, I received a letter from my solicitor only moments ago. And though my stay at Rosings has been most pleasurable, business calls me away. I must soon be back in London. We will leave Saturday morning.”

“Umm…I am sure you will be returning soon.” Lady Catherine looked up from her meal. “We can talk more then. You are, after all, of marriageable age, and it is time you took a wife. The combination of Rosings with Pemberley will make a splendid fortune for you, one that will elevate you to the pinnacle of our sphere. None will be finer. You will have high society at your disposal.” Her eyes darted to the Colonel who, up until this point, had been sporting a devilish grin.

“And what are you simpering about, Fitzwilliam? It is time you and Wex married, as well. I shall write to my sister Matlock and enquire after it. Surely she has found someone suitable for you and your brother by now. If not, perhaps I should intervene.”

Now it was the Colonel’s turn to flush beet-red as he dropped his head, suddenly more interested in his eggs and toast than teasing his cousin.

Feeling the heat of the moment, Darcy said not a word more as he took his plate to the sideboard and filled it with a goodly portion of food before finding his way to his place at Lady Catherine’s table. …Everything at my disposal and yet trapped in a loveless marriage. No, that is not the way it will be. I will not be leg-shackled. He glanced around the room. No one was speaking a word.

He sighed. …Proposing tonight is going to be difficult enough, but with Lady Catherine’s constant eye upon me, things could prove much more difficult… more difficult, indeed, though it does work in my favour that she is marriage minded. Now to turn her designs onto Fitzwilliam. Darcy smiled to himself and poured a cup of coffee. Yes, things are falling into place quite nicely. I almost feel sorry for what I am about to do to Fitzwilliam…almost—but not quite. He glanced at his cousin and inwardly laughed.

~*~

Cracking the billiard balls Fitzwilliam had just racked, Darcy sent them scattering in four directions, pocketing more solids than stripes.

“Good shot, Cousin,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “Now let’s see if you can clean the table. My luck at billiards seems to match my luck with cards lately.”

Darcy grinned as he pocketed two more balls. “Your problem, Fitzwilliam, is that when it comes to the ladies, you are much practiced, but at sport, you are sorely lacking. As Miss Bennet would say, you need to practice more.”

The Colonel laughed. “Speaking of Miss Bennet, why don’t we call on the Parsonage? It appears to be a lovely day for a walk. Perhaps we might persuade the ladies to join us in an afternoon stroll in the park. I might even allow you the opportunity to practice your skills at conversation. Darcy, you really do need to become more comfortable in the presence of a pretty woman—especially Miss Bennet. You hardly say a word when she is present, though you find plenty to say at other times.”

Darcy shot again, this time badly missing.

“I am comfortable enough,” he said. “I have no need to see her at present. I shall see her at tea along with everyone else. But let’s not talk of pretty women. It is your turn; let’s see if you can improve on your skills. We’ve played four games since our arrival in Kent, and you’ve lost them all. Shall we make it five for five?”

“Hardly,” the Colonel said. Taking his cue stick, he chalked the top and aimed carefully. First one ball and then another went into the designated pocket until the table was clear of all striped balls. The Colonel looked up and grinned. “The eight ball in the corner left pocket.”

After a loud clack, the black ball entered the pocket while the cue ball bounced off the side.

“Well,” Darcy remarked, eyeing the table, “I must say you have improved significantly since we last played. Now to master your skill at cards. Perhaps then you can best Mr. Collins.”

“Ha! Besting Mr. Collins should not prove too difficult once I put my mind to it. I was merely distracted last night.”

“Yes…I imagine you were,” Darcy replied coolly. “Fitzwilliam, has the thought ever occurred to you that Miss Bennet might get the impression that you have an interest in her, which you and I both know can never go anywhere?”

“Darcy, I think we have had this conversation before. I might enjoy her pretty smiles, but I am well aware of my circumstances. However, you, on the other hand, do have the means, and, I might add, everything in your favour to make her an offer. You know perfectly well how I feel on the subject, but let’s not talk of this any longer. Care for another game of billiards? I’ve got several games yet to win in order to even our score,” the Colonel said, racking the balls anew. “We still have time before dinner.”

“Not now,” Darcy replied. “I have personal business to attend to in my chamber. I shall see you at dinner and our guests after that at tea.”

“Very well, then, have it your way. It is a glorious day, and since we are soon to depart for Town, I think I shall take my annual tour of the park.”

Gathering their cue sticks and chalk, the gentlemen placed everything back in its proper place, and each left to his own business. But as the Colonel watched his cousin climb the stairs to his chamber, he shook his head.

“Darcy, you are comfortable enough in every situation except matters of the heart. There you need much practice,” he said privately. Sighing, he shrugged his shoulders. Grabbing his hat and cane, he left for a stroll in the park.

~*~

Colonel Fitzwilliam made his way around the gardens and then out to the far end of the property where the fields met the woods. He had been thinking about his cousin and Miss Bennet all afternoon. He knew Darcy cared for her. He could see the longing in his eyes, and the fact that he was jealous of any attentions he paid to the lady also spoke of a strong attachment.

If the truth were to be told, the Colonel would like nothing more than to declare himself and ask for her hand himself, and he was quite sure she would accept him. But he knew perfectly well he could never do that in good faith, for he feared his father would indeed cut him off, and then what would they live on? A colonel’s salary was not very much.

As he walked on, he spied the object of his thoughts in the distance and began to make his way towards her. She appeared to be reading a letter, but when she looked up and their eyes met, she quickly put it away and smiled.

“I did not know before that you ever walked this way,” she said as they reached one another.

“I have been making my tour of the park,” the Colonel replied, “as I generally do every year, and intended to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”

“No, I should have turned in a moment.”

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together.

“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday, Colonel? I heard that you might. My cousin informed me. It seems Lady Catherine informed him on his morning visit, and I dare say she is lamenting it already.”

He laughed. “Yes, I am sure she is, and to your other point, yes, that is the plan—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”

“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”

“He likes to have his own way very well,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.”

“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, Colonel, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”

“These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.”

“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do.”

The Colonel frowned and looked off into the distance. Perhaps Darcy was right, and he had raised her expectations. Well, if she harboured any inclinations that he might make her an offer, it was best to crush that notion now. After some moments, he said, “Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.”

The Colonel glanced in her direction, attempting to read her emotions and garner if his declaration had had an effect on her. She appeared to tense but soon recovered and spoke lively. “And pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.”

“Miss Bennet, I…I…” He almost wished he had not come out today. His heart ached at the words they now exchanged.

She looked up at him and smiled. “Do not trouble yourself, Colonel. I was only supposing.”

After their exchange, silence fell between them until she spoke again.

“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder why he does not marry to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at her oddly, wondering where this conversation was going.

“No,” he said, “that is an advantage which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.”

“Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”

The Colonel furrowed his brow and looked at her in earnest. What can she know? Has someone spoken to her of Ramsgate?

She must have sensed his worry for she directly replied, “You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her, and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.”

“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”

“Oh, yes!” Elizabeth said drily. “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”

The Colonel tilted his head and studied her carefully. Perhaps he could provide a good word in his cousin’s favour. It was apparent to him his cousin needed all the help he could gather in affairs of the heart. And so with a smile, he said:

“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.”

“What is it you mean?”

“It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.”

“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”

“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage. Without mentioning names or any other particulars, I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer. Darcy does take prodigious good care of those in his circle.”

“Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”

“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”

“And what arts did he use to separate them?”

“Arts, Miss Bennet? He did not talk to me of his own arts.” Fitzwilliam smiled. “He only told me what I have now told you.”

Elizabeth made no answer, and they walked for some time.

After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked, “Miss Bennet, may I enquire as to why you are so thoughtful?”

“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” she said. “Your cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”

The Colonel frowned. “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”

“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.”

“That is not an unnatural surmise, but it lessens of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly,” he said in jest. “Miss Bennet, I would not have you think ill of Darcy. He only means to care for those whom he esteems. I am quite certain it is not as you think. Darcy really is a good fellow. I’ve known him to do many good things for people. Why just on this visit he—”

“Yes, of course. I am sure you are right. Colonel, if you please, I feel a headache coming on. I must be back to the Parsonage as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course, Miss Bennet,” he said, offering his arm.

Abruptly changing the conversation, they talked on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. The Colonel soon departed, not sure how his well laid plans had gone wrong, but he had an odd feeling things were not as he assumed. Surely the young lady in question could not have been known to Miss Bennet…perhaps even her sister? Surely Darcy would not prove to be so imprudent as that.

~*~

After dinner, Darcy sat near the window, patiently waiting for their guests to arrive. He had gone over his well laid plans countless times, rehearsing every detail of his proposal. He wanted to convey the deep struggle that had led him to make his declaration. He had determined that it must be thorough and yet romantic. Those were his plans, and, within a half hour of tea, he intended to act on them.

There was a noise at the front entrance, and he knew they had arrived. He smiled to himself and glanced at the doorway expecting to see her. However, once the party entered the room, Darcy’s heart fell. Elizabeth was not among them. Lady Catherine immediately noticed the absence as well and let her sentiments be known to the Hunsford party.

“Where is Miss Bennet? Is she not with you? This will not be borne. I am highly offended by such a slight.”

Darcy sat up in his seat and uncrossed his legs; worry and anxiety gripped his heart. She had to come. After all he had suffered, she had to come. He listened carefully as the parson explained.

“I do beg your pardon, Lady Catherine. It would seem that my cousin has fallen ill. She came down with a malady shortly after returning from her walk. We left her in her room with a headache, though she did express that she might take tea in our small parlour if she felt better.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced between Darcy and their aunt. “Lady Catherine, I was walking with Miss Bennet earlier today, and she did express to me that she was unwell. Perhaps it is a fleeting ailment and will pass quickly.”

Darcy rose to his feet and went to leave, but a bellowing voice called him back.

“And where are you going, Nephew? Not to see about Miss Bennet, I hope.”

“You must forgive me. I shall return directly,” he said, turning to leave.

A still silence filled the room. Mr. and Mrs. Collins exchange a surprised look as they all watched as Darcy quit the room; she smiled, and he gawked. The Colonel, delighted with his cousin’s boldness, gave a small laugh, careful to cough into his hand when his aunt’s disgruntled gaze turned on him.

~*~

Making his way to the foyer, he quickly grabbed his hat and cane and left for the Parsonage. Sam, who was there in the garden, saw him and quickly fell into step.

“Come along, ol’ boy, we must make haste. Miss Bennet is ill. I must propose today, or I will not have another chance.” He sighed and spoke privately. “I hope it is not serious. If something dreadful should happen to her, I don’t know how I would bear it. She has become very important to me.” He looked down at his hound. “She has become important to the both of us, has she not?”

Quickly making his way up the steps of the Parsonage, he gave three sharp raps, and the door was soon opened. He was promptly led to the parlour where he burst into the room and found Miss Bennet sitting in a chair near the window, looking pale and distressed.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, with great concern, “forgive me, but when I heard you were unwell, I came immediately to enquire after your health. They said you suffer a headache. I hope that you are feeling better and that it is not serious.”

“No, it isn’t. In fact, I believe I am a little better, thank you,” she answered with cold civility. “Won’t you have a seat?”

He released a hard breath, gazing at her with a creased brow, wondering at the coolness of her tone. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room in a restless manner, wondering how to proceed. All his carefully constructed strategies of a romantic proposal were now torn to bits, and he struggled for the right words. Pacing back and forth, he passed his hand over his face and turned in her direction. After several minutes of strained silence, he came towards her in great agitation. It would do no good to fret. He would make the best of it and tell her of his great battle and what it meant for him to come here and express his love and admiration for her. He took a deep breath, and thus began:

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

She gazed at him in pure astonishment and coloured but remained silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement. She was obviously waiting—no—expecting his proposal. The thought gave him comfort. Taking another deep breath, he continued.

“It has been many months now that I have felt such a high regard for you, but only in the last few weeks have I been able to conquer those obstacles that forbade me from expressing my feelings, which, I assure you, are intense.” He momentarily stopped and gazed at her. Seeing no clear indication of her feelings, he nodded and resumed pacing with his hands linked behind his back, his fingers twisting his signet ring, as he spoke yet again, trying to appear less nervous than he felt.

“I realize,” he said, glancing at her as he walked the floor, “given the inferiority of your low connections, the relative situation of our families, and my place in society, that any alliance between us will be judged reprehensible. My family, and, might I say, even my friends will find it so. Furthermore, as a man of good sense and reason, I cannot help but regard it as such myself. In the eyes of society—especially within the realm of which I belong, it will be considered a degradation. Therefore, in expressing myself thusly, I will be expressly going against the wishes of not only my family and friends, but even my own better judgment. However, it cannot be helped.” He paused and took another deep breath. Looking directly into her wide eyes with the confidence and assured of a positive response, he continued once more.

“Miss Bennet, in all honesty, I must tell you that I have come to feel for you...a most passionate…deeply held, admiration and regard, which, despite all my struggles, has overcome every rational objection of which I can conceive of. Therefore, I beg of you, most fervently, to relieve my suffering and consent to be my wife.”

When he ceased speaking, he gazed at her, looking for some indication that she returned his feelings. Her cheeks flushed, and, after some moments, to his great surprise, she finally spoke in a tone less comforting than he expected.

“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”

Leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, he caught her words with no less resentment than was his shock and surprise at her saying them. He could feel his features pale with anger as his mood darkened with wild thoughts reeling through his head. …she’s refusing me? Me? Does she not realize who I am and what it would mean to be my wife? What a great honour I have bestowed upon her?

Struggling for the appearance of composure, and, at length, with a voice of forced calmness, he finally found his tongue.

“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.” He pushed away from the mantelpiece and approached her.

“And I might as well enquire why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me you chose to tell me that you loved me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

As she pronounced these words, Darcy stiffened and smirked, but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued.

“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

Looking at her with a smile of affected incredulity, he slowly shook his head. He found it difficult to fathom the things she flung at him, and he gave a small humourless laugh to himself. This was the moment he had dreamt of, but never had he imagined it thus. He slowly turned and walked away, leaning against the mantelpiece once more with his back turned to her.

“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated, her voice raised in anger.

With assumed tranquillity he turned towards her and began to walk about the room again. Glancing at her, he replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”

He could clearly see the disdain she held of noticing his civil reflection, and neither did its meaning escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. He wondered how he had so badly misjudged her.

“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham.”

Upon hearing this fiend’s name, Darcy’s pacing stopped abruptly and a look of pure astonishment overtook him.

“On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” Darcy said, in a less tranquil tone, his eyes now burning with fire.

Of all men to be preferred over, George Wickham would be her choice? She is indeed a fool! And I am more than a little insulted.

“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in him?”

“His misfortunes!” Darcy repeated contemptuously, loathing reflected in his deep voice. “Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”

“And of your infliction,” Elizabeth cried with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his dessert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”

“And this,” Darcy cried, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully,” he said with great indignation. “Yes…my faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” he added, stopping in his walk and turning towards her, “these offenses might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination, by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

He could clearly see the fury gathering in her eyes and only presumed it matched his own.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy,” she said with a mixture of composure and contempt, “if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”

He started to reply but then judged it best not to speak in anger and so said nothing as she continued, her arguments stinging his sensibilities.

“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

The words she spoke cut like a knife and pierced his heart as he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. Never in his life had he been spoken to with such disdain and disrespect.

She went on: “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike. I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

Finally, he had had enough. He walked over to the table where he had laid his hat and cane. Retrieving them, he turned and said:

“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time…and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness. Good day.”

With these words, he hastily left the room and the next moment opened the front door and quit the house. The tumult of his mind was now painfully great. He quickly descended the steps and left for his trek back to Rosings. Sam, who had been waiting near the walkway, sensed his master’s distress and whimpered while joining him.

Stopping for a moment, Darcy took a deep breath, his body shaking with anger as their exchange rang in his ears. …Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose conditions in life is so below my own?”

You are mistaken, Mr Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.

Resentment swelled in his heart and his voice quivered. “I am always a gentleman, Miss Bennet, and someday you will know the truth of it. You do not know the opportunity you have thrown away as, with so little thought to civility, you have dismissed me. Your father’s estate is entailed. I am by far the best offer of marriage you will ever receive. My offer may very likely be the final one you will ever receive.”

He took a few more steps and then stopped again as her words once more sounded in his head. …Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham.

“Wickham! Well, at least in that I can defend myself. God only knows what lies that libertine has told her!”

Bounding up the steps of Rosings two at a time, his mind still reeling from the accusations so savagely thrown in his face by a wilful woman, he entered the house in no mood for tea or the tedious conversation that he was sure to suffer in Lady Catherine’s court.

Heading for the great staircase, his thoughts were interrupted by his cousin.

“Darcy! Where have you been? Lady Catherine has been asking after you!”

“Not now, Fitzwilliam.”

In great agitation, Darcy moved towards the stairs only to hear his aunt calling for him to present himself to her at once and explain his actions in leaving so abruptly.

“No,” he said, clearly shaken. “Give my regards to Lady Catherine, but I cannot see her at this moment. You will forgive me. I simply cannot see her.”

“Darcy, what has happened to you? Are you unwell?”

“Fitzwilliam, I have not the time or the inclination for this. You will forgive me, but I have a pressing matter of business to attend to. Make my apologies to Lady Catherine.”

Darcy turned and quickly took the stairs. After making his way to his chamber, he entered and shut the door. His man was there, arranging his clothes, preparing for the trip to London on Saturday.

“Winfred, we will be leaving sooner than expected. Make arrangements to leave tomorrow. Get me a bottle of brandy and then leave me to myself.”

“Mr. Darcy—”

“I am not in the mood to explain things. Just do as I say!”

Winfred Cunningham knew better than to speak another word. The last time he had seen this dark mood settle on his master, something dreadful had happened to Miss Georgiana. And, from the looks of Mr. Darcy now, something very bad had happened this time, too. Studying his master closely, he had an ominous feeling of foreboding that in some way this black temper undoubtedly involved Miss Bennet. However, he knew better than to step beyond the bounds of a servant, though, as servant to another master, he would most assuredly pray and place it in the Lord’s hands.



~*~*~*~

Chapter 34




In bitterness of spirit, Darcy ripped his cravat from his neck and stripped down to his breeches and shirttail. Then, sitting in his chair by the fire, holding a brandy in one hand while the other dangled freely from the chair arm, he stared into the flames, once again reliving his and Miss Bennet’s heated exchange. Parsing their conversation line by line with her accusations of Mr. Wickham’s misfortunes still ringing in his ears, his thoughts ran to his sister and how she had suffered at the hands of that black-hearted bastard whom he despised more than he could ever express. Of course, Elizabeth knew none of that. Few did. But the more he thought about it, the more it angered him. That was the most grievous accusation she had made, and he would answer it, as well as the others. What had he to lose at this point? He would tell her the truth—all of it—including that of her family. The fact that she preferred Mr. Wickham, with his smooth tongue and practiced manners, to him had wounded his pride more than any sword put to the heart.

Rising from his chair with great determination, he went over to the writing desk in his sitting room and pulled a sheet of manila letter paper from the letterbox. Dipping his pen in the inkwell, he began to write. He wrote first in anger, then in distress. Several times he started and then stopped, not pleased with the written words. Crumpling the first attempt, he began anew. All through the night he wrote, reading and rewriting, breaking several nibs in the process, until the letter was composed in a more thoughtful, reasoned tone than in the angry bitterness in which he had begun, though he knew that his raw emotion was still reflected therein.

He gave an accurate account of his family’s connection to Mr. Wickham and his family, how George Wickham had been his boyhood friend and how that friendship was betrayed over the years when they had become youths and gone off to school together, as Darcy’s father had seen fit to provide Wickham with a gentleman’s education. He relayed his disgust of Mr. Wickham’s libertine lifestyle and appetite for women and gambling, often cloaked by smiles and well-polished comportments. But of all that Darcy disclosed the most painful intelligence was the near seduction and elopement of his beloved sister, who was but fifteen years of age at the time, which, Darcy believed, was for the purpose of obtaining her fortune of thirty thousand pounds.

His pen moved fluidly over the pages as he recounted all that had transpired at the Netherfield ball—what he had witnessed and his reaction to it. Dipping his pen once more, he penned his final words:

This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either of us, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.

You may possibly wonder why all this was not told to you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.


Fitzwilliam A. Darcy

Finally, emotionally spent, he threw down his pen and sealed his letter in the early hours of the morning. Leaning back in his chair, he raked his fingers through his curls and released a hard breath as he swallowed back the pain in his chest. He had poured his heart and soul into this epistle, telling her things he had never spoken to anyone since the day he had found his sister in Ramsgate on the verge of making the worst mistake of her life, which, if she had followed through, would not only have extracted revenge upon himself, but would have also thoroughly ruined her reputation, and consequently, her life, for Mr. Wickham cared for neither.

Getting up from his desk, littered with broken nibs scattered about its surface and rumpled sheets of paper littering the floor, he walked over to the washstand and dipped his hands into the cool water left from the night before. Taking up a handful, he washed the weariness from his tired eyes. A rooster crowed in the distance, and he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was four o’clock in the morning. He then strolled over to the open window of his chamber and gazed out into the gardens lit by gas lamps. Beyond the hedgerow, he could see Hunsford Parsonage. A solitary bedchamber was still glowing in candlelight. He presumed it to be hers. Was she as distressed as he? He shook his head and walked back to his desk. Extinguishing the one lone candle lighting his room, he left for his bedchamber and went to bed. He would get an hour or two of sleep, and then be in the grove before breakfast, hoping by chance to meet her there and give her his letter. What happened after that, he cared not. Now all he wished was to forget her and his foolish desire to have her for his wife.

~*~

At a quarter of seven, Darcy donned his greatcoat and gloves and left for the groves, where he knew from his early morning rides that Elizabeth could often be found before breakfast. Hoping against hope, he prayed she would follow her usual routine and come to the wooded copse he believed to be her favourite haunt. Pacing back and forth in the part of the grove which edged the park, his mind was full with the events of the previous evening. If it was the last thing he did, he would place this letter in her hand, and then make ready for his return trip to London which would take place immediately. He had been in Kent long enough.

Glancing up from his deep thoughts, he spied her near a large willow oak. She appeared to have seen him and was moving away. He hurried his steps in eagerness.

“Miss Bennet!” he cried out.

Elizabeth turned away and moved towards the gate, but Darcy was determined to see her. Moving quickly, he reached the gate at the same time as she and held out the letter. She bore a contemptuous look, and the meaning behind that look was not lost on him; yet, he summoned his own steeled composure and spoke.

“I have been walking in the grove for some time in the hope of meeting you,” he said with a cool reserve. “Will you do me the honour of reading this letter?”

Darcy gave a slight bow, and then turned and walked away, heading back into the park. He did not know what her reaction was upon his very evident lack of decorum in approaching her as he did; nor did he care. He never looked back. From what little he felt he knew of her character, he was certain she would read his letter if for no other reason than mere curiosity.

Making his way back to Rosings, he was more determined than ever to leave Kent this very day, and the sooner the better. He would pay his regards to Mr. and Mrs. Collins, make his apologies to his aunt for their earlier than expected departure, and then they would leave. He had urgent business he must personally attend to. There was a piece of property to sell and things to do.

“I will conquer this,” he muttered aloud. “I will! I must!”



~*~*~*~

This place is still here after all this time! I've been out of touch too many years to count but its nice knowing this place is still going strong. Hoping to get a chance to read up on some amazing stories (always in abundance here!) and any recommendations would be appreciated! Thanks all and keep writing.

Happy Holidays

From an old timer! lol

AN: It has been a very long time since I posted. I apologize for the long delay. I do intend on finishing this story. My first resolution is to finish this story before 2014. If you have forgotten what has happened so far or are just coming into the story and want to read previous chapters, just message me or leave a note in the comments with your email address and I'll send you a link to the other chapter. Or, you can google "Pride and Logic." It is the first or second thing that pops up. This has not been beta read since the email I have to my beta Julie R doesn't work anymore :(

Pride and Logic Chapter 24

Shuran’s antennae swiveled as he peered into the scanner, his lips contorted in a frown. Spock sat in the captain’s chair behind him, his shaking hands gripping the armrests of the chair. It had been at least thirty-five minutes since they received the last coordinates relayed by the distress beacon aboard Cadet Uhura’s vessel. Shuran’s scans of the area did not fill him with hope. He feared for the safety of the young cadet and for the emotional state of his normally stoic friend.

“Report, Lt. Shuran.”

Shuran took a deep breath before turning around in his seat to face his friend. He was met with the sight of Spock’s back, his shoulders rounded and tense.

“Scans of the area show a high level of photon radiation indicating that a barrage of photon torpedo fire has been exchanged within the area within the last three hours,” Shuran began. “Scans have also picked up small traces of ship debris, indicating that one or both vessels were damaged in the exchange.”

Spock listened to Shuran’s report with a growing disquiet. The level of debris present was not sufficient to indicate that a ship had been destroyed. However, Spock’s deteriorating emotional control left him vulnerable to fits of illogic. Anxiety and fear now warred with the pon farr induced bloodlust that had threatened to overtake him for the past three days. Spock hands gripped the armrest of the captain’s chair with enough force to crack the polycarbonate frame. It was imperative that he recover Nyota within the next three days before he was completely lost to the plak tow. He harbored no illusions that Nyota would be willing to bond with him and free him from the ravages of plak tow. Spock simply could not countenance the notion that he would be rendered unable to ensure her safety, whether due to the blood fever or his death.

“I’m also picking up a faint photon trail,” Kirk added. “Perhaps it was left behind by a leak in the damaged craft’s weapons systems. If we follow it, perhaps it will lead us to Uhura.”

Spock nodded, “A logical hypothesis. Continue, Cadet Kirk.”

“The trail extends in the general direction of Rigel IV,” Kirk replied. “An M class planet 20,000 kilometers from our location.”

“It is possible that a heavily damaged craft could travel that distance before a complete systems failure,” Shuran noted.

Spock rose from his seat and walked towards the view screen. “Set a course for Rigel IV, Cadet Kirk. Mr. Shuran, maintain observation of the photon trail. Cadet McCoy, go to the medical bay and prepare a field triage kit.”

McCoy cast a worried glance at Kirk before rising from his station to follow Commander Spock’s command. Kirk sat grim-faced as he quickly set the plot.

“15.8 minutes until we reach Rigel IV.”
______________________________________________________

Uhura woke coughing, her lungs burning. She opened her eyes, but she could see little through the plumes of grey smoke that hung thick in the air. The cabin was dark save for the blinking yellow emergency lights that lined the floor.

Before Uhura lost consciousness, the ship had been alive with claxons, crisply delivered computer warnings of impending shield failure, and Sybok’s mocking voice. Now the ship sat silent save for her coughs and the steady hissing of coolant being released from a burst pipe.
Uhura rolled over onto her side, her eyes adjusting to the smoke and dim light. She saw no sign of Sybok or their Orion pursuers. Still, she knew herself to be in danger. She had to get away from the ship before Sybok returned or the Orion boarded the ship. Even if the Orions left them for dead and Sybok had fled without her, she knew staying on the crashed ship was not an option. The heavy smoke filling the bridge told her that a fire must have started somewhere on the ship and the ship’s fire suppression systems were too damaged to respond.

Uhura rolled onto her belly and began to crawl towards the bridge doors, using the emergency lights set in the floor to guide her way. Her right knee and wrist throbbed with the effort of pulling her weight, but she dared not stop. When she reached the door, she put her palms flat against the doors. Finding the metal doors sufficiently cool, she took a deep breath, shut her eyes against the smoke and stood. She groped blindly for the manual door release. Just as her lungs began to burn, her fingers grasped the cool metal lever. She pulled down the lever and dropped to her hands and knees, inhaling a lungful of air.

The doors slid open to reveal a darkened hallway with flickering orange emergency lights obscured by plumes of blue-black smoke. Uhura resumed her crawl, this time making her way towards the emergency escape pods. She hoped that they remained undamaged. She wondered briefly whether Sybok had made his way there earlier when he left her to die on the bridge.

Uhura was surprised to find both escape pods intact. Even the blue escape hatch remained unopened, its blue light blinking steadily in the gloom of the hall. Uhura climbed into one of the pods and began gathering supplies. She found a standard issue sub-artic grade parka that was at least three sizes too large. Uhura quickly pulled on the coat and used the drawstring devices at the wrists and bottom of the coat allowed for some customization. Nyota gathered warming packets to slip into her stolen boots, a pair of heavy gloves, a water purification probe, emergency rations, canteen, camp stove and a knapsack. Most useful of all was the portable emergency beacon. Should she evade Sybok and the Orions, she would have no way off this moon without it.

Uhura packed the supplies she gathered into her pack, donned the gloves and climbed out of the escape pod into the cold and snow of Rigel IV. Their ship had crashed in a clearing in the valley between two snow-capped mountains. About a foot of snow covered the ground. To the east was a dense pine forest that gently sloped upwards over the side of one mountain. Further to the west was a pasture bordered by a slow moving river and more forest beyond. Nyota spied a set of tracks leading towards the forest to her east. Nyota stood contemplating which way to turn when the sound of the emergency door sliding open drew her attention.

She whirled around to find Sybok standing in the open doorway, a phaser in his hand. A gash on his forehead slowly oozed green blood, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. He too had donned cold weather gear and a backpack of supplies.

“So good to see you awake, Nyota,” he said as he leapt down from the ship. “And how good of you to pack. The going will be so much easier without my having to cart you through the snow.”

“Why don’t you just leave me here? I’ll only slow you down and make it that much easier for Thalack to capture you.”

“Let’s just say that you’re insurance,” Sybok replied. “Move.”

Sybok motioned with the barrel of the phaser towards the forest to the east. Uhura glared at him before complying. Sybok pressed the phaser hard against her back.

“Do not get any clever ideas, Nyota. If you attempt to flee, I will shoot you.”
________________________

Spock walked swiftly down the corridors toward the cargo bay of the ship, Shuran, McCoy and Kirk following closely behind. Spock and Kirk both donned sub-artic grade coats, gloves and pants while Shuran merely donned a thin thermal jacket. The Andorian did not need much protection against the cold of Rigel IV, but a Vulcan and a human would succumb to hypothermia within minutes if exposed to the elements unaided. McCoy followed them, scowling fiercely.

"I still think you all could use a medic out in the field. Who knows what condition Ny might be in."

"We have already discussed this, Cadet McCoy," Spock replied without breaking his stride. "You are not sufficiently healed from your injuries to be an asset in the field. Your presence aboard this ship is of greater value to the mission. You will monitor our frequencies and attend to the communicator. Should we require assistance, you will beam us aboard ship."

“You can’t expect me to sit here and do nothing while that hobgoblin has Nyota! If you think I’ll just sit here while she’s in danger...”

Spock stopped so abruptly that McCoy nearly collided with him. “You have your orders, Cadet,” Spock replied with gritted teeth. “If you cannot comply with those orders, you are welcome to spend the remainder of this mission in the brig.”

McCoy stepped back from the commander, his color heightening to an alarming shade of tomato red. Kirk looked between the pair nervously as Shuran stepped in between them.

“Cadet McCoy, as you are the only member of our party skilled in medicine, your skills will no doubt be invaluable here preparing the medical bay in case Nyota is in need of it. Kirk and I are soldiers not surgeons.” Shuran gave McCoy his most winning smile and a firm pat on the shoulder.

McCoy considered this for a moment, his anger visibly receeding. Finally, he threw up his hands and backed away from Shuran.

“Well, ya’ll just make damned sure you bring Nyota back alive,” McCoy grumbled.

“I intend to.”

Spock turned and strode purposefully away from the group towards four sleek silver hoverbikes parked at the top of the loading ramp. Kirk threw a bewildered look at Shuran and McCoy before jogging to catch up with Spock.

Kirk let out a long whistle when he saw the hoverbikes. Shuran activated the bikes with a few quick strokes of his fingers against the keypad on his wristband. The hoverbikes hummed to life, rising to float a foot above the ground, their engines near silent save for a gentle purr audible only to the Andorian’s sensitive hearing.

“How’d you get these beauties?” Kirk asked as he drew a hand admiringly over the seat of one bike.

“One of the perks of being an ambassador’s son,” Shuran replied as he carefully put on his helmet, guiding his antennae into place. “We get all the newest toys.”

Spock threw one long leg over the seat of one hoverbike, adjusted the visor of his helmet and activated the helmet’s computer.

“Set scans for a ten mile radius,” Spock ordered the computer as he turned his bike and began the short descent down the loading ramp towards the opening bay doors. “Set alerts for Orion, Vulcan and human bio-signatures.”

“Scans set. Alerts set,” the computer replied.

McCoy watched the trio shoot out of the cargo bay into the waning light of Rigel IV.

“Hold on just a bit longer, darling,” McCoy whispered to the closing shuttle bay doors. “The cavalry’s coming.”

-----------------

Uhura stumbled over a tree root for the fourth time that evening. Sybok merely hefted her to her feet with one arm before urging her forward. They had been hiking up the mountainside for hours, further and further into the dense forest in hopes of avoiding the Orions who Sybok was convinced still pursued them. As the hours drew on, Sybok grew more agitated. He stopped their progress frequently, bidding her to drop down to hide in the brush convinced he had heard a twig snap under the crunch of a boot.

When Uhura fell once more, Sybok cursed.

“I know you to be too graceful to be this clumsy. Do you think me a fool? Your attempts to slow us down will not work.”

“We’ve been running for hours with no breaks, Sybok. I’m hungry and thirsty. I can barely feel my feet much less run,” Nyota complained as she struggled to her feet and leaned against a tree. “Can we not rest for just a moment? I don’t fancy becoming an Orion slave any more than you do, but I at least need some nutrients to keep running.”

Sybok considered her request for a moment, his eyes scanning the area as he did so.

“Fine. You may reach into your pack and retrieve one protein bar. Be quick about it.”

Uhura removed her backpack and knelt down in the snow. She kept both eyes on Sybok who stood nervously over her, pointing his phaser at her head. Slowly she reached into the pack and felt around the contents of the bag. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of a dermal regenerator, the synthetic cloth cover of an extra warming packet, and a few plastic wrappers housing protein bars. Finally, her fingers brushed against the oblong casing of the emergency beacon. She quickly activated the beacon before removing a protein bar from the bag.

“Move,” Sybok ordered once Uhura regained her feet. “We press on until nightfall.”

Uhura walked forward, tearing open the protein packet with her teeth. Although the protein bar was chewy and unappetizing, Nyota ate the bar with relish. She had not lied to Sybok completely-she was almost faint with hunger. Now she held some hope of rescue. Yes, the beacon might alert the Orions to their location, but it might also alert someone else.

------------------------

Spock hugged the sides of the hoverbike with his thighs as he skillfully maneuvered around boulders and snow drifts. Scans had indicated that Nyota’s vessel crashed some three kilometers from their current location and that an Orion scouting vessel was located some 500 meters from the crash site. Their plan was to scout the crash site, determine as much as they could about the condition and whereabouts of Nyota, and neutralize the Orion threat.

Spock slowed as he spied what looked like two small vessels about two kilometers in the distance.

“Gentlemen, I believe we have found the cadet’s vessel,” Spock informed Shuran and Kirk through the helmet’s communicator. "It would be prudent to proceed with caution.”

“Indeed,” Shuran replied as he pulled up next to Spock. “I am detecting five humanoids at the crash site and another two aboard the Orion vessel.”

“Are any of these humanoids Vulcan or human?”

“Negative,” Kirk answered. “Their life signs are consistent with Orions, sir.”

“Noted,” Spock brought his bike to a halt behind a large boulder and dismounted. The other two men did the same

“We will proceed on foot from this point on,” Spock explained as he unholstered his phaser. “Lieutenant-Commander Shuran and Cadet Kirk, you both shall proceed to the Orion vessel. Use non-lethal force to subdue the Orions on board the vessel. I shall proceed to Cadet Uhura’s vessel and do the same.”

“Wait a goddamn second,” McCoy’s voice cut in through the headset. “You’re gonna take on five possibly armed Orions by yourself? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Spock raised one slender gloved finger to the side of his helmet and disconnected the audio in from the ship.

“He does have a point,” Kirk began.

“Men, you have your orders.” Spock nodded briefly to each of them before running towards the crash site.

Kirk and Shuran soon followed, matching Spock’s crouching lope across the snow, their phasers raised as the bent low. As they neared the site, Spock veered to the right toward the crashed ship while Shuran and Kirk split up, each approaching the Orion vessel from a different side.

Spock slowed his gait considerably as he neared the crash site. He had to tamp down the quick flare of panic that shot through him upon seeing the smoking remains of the vessel. While he calculated that the probability that Nyota escaped the vessel alive was high, he was less sure that she did so unharmed. Spock spied one Orion standing guard beside an open shuttle bay door as two other Orions carried supplies and parts scavenged from the heavily damaged vessel to an anti-gravity sled. Spock flattened himself against the side of the ship as he slowly made his way towards the Orion standing guard. Spock observed the Orions adding to the pile of ship parts on the anti-gravity sled and estimated that he had approximately thirty seconds to incapacitate the guard without immediately alerting his companions. Spock set his phaser to stun and crept to within touching distance of the Orion.

“You appear to have an eight legged creature on your shoulder.” Spock announced as he tapped the guard on the right shoulder.

Alarmed, the guard spun around, phaser raised. However, before he could shout for help or shoot, Spock rendered him unconscious with a quick press of his fingers to his neck. Spock caught the guard before he hit the ground and dragged him to the side of the ship. Just as Spock finished binding the Orion’s hands and ankles, he heard the other Orions making their way down the ramp.

A brief exchange of phaser fire ensued. One of the Orion’s was able to graze Spock’s shoulder with a phaser blast before he too was stunned. The commotion attracted the two remaining Orions. Spock managed to stun one Orion before he was charged and tackled from behind. Spock fell to the ground, his phaser skittering across the snow far out of his reach. The Orion turned him onto his back and delivered two good punches to Spocks face. Spock tasted the copper tang of blood in his mouth. He felt his vision go black.
With a roar, he flung the Orion aside. The Orion hit the side of the ship with a sickening crunch. Spock leapt to his feet and rounded on the Orion, snarling. The Orion managed to land another blow to Spock's jaw before Spock caught hold of his arm in a crushing grip. The Orion howled as Spock brought his other fist crashing down on the Orion's forearm, breaking it. The Orion cradled his broken arm to his chest and pulled out a dagger with his good hand. Spock knocked the blade aside and grasped the Orion by the neck with one hand. Spock tightened his grip on the Orion's neck, relishing the gurgles that escaped from his lips.

In the back of his mind, a part of Spock recoiled at the sight of the Orion struggling to breathe. However a darker, louder part of his psyche thrilled over the sensation of the Orion's slowing heartbeat, triumphed over the panic and pleas for mercy transmitted through the press of his fingers into the Orion's green flesh.

"Spock!" Shuran's voice was barely audible over the rush of blood in Spock's ears. "Spock, do not do this."

Spock ignored him and slowly lifted the Orion into the air. Spock smiled at the sight of the Orion's kicking feet and squeezed harder.

"Spock! Please, ne ki'ne, we must find Nyota!"

Spock dropped the now unconscious Orion and backed away from his inert body. Kirk ran over to the Orion's side and pulled out the medical scanner from the field triage kit.

"He's alive," Kirk called out. "Just barely."

Shuran walked over to Spock who stood facing the ship, his eyes shut and his hands clenched at his sides.

"Spock..."

"If you intend to reprimand me for the use of unnecessary force, you need not concern yourself. Once our current mission is complete, I intend to request a leave of absence so that I may sojourn to Vulcan to seek the assistance of healers. Should you submit a report recommending further censure, I will not pose a defense."

Shuran shook his head. "Well, I was just going to ask if you were okay. But I know the answer to that question. You have not been yourself lately and I know you better than to pry. The Orion is fine, just a bit battered. I won't be submitting any reports."

Spock sighed and turned towards his friend. "Th'i-oxalra."

Shuan nodded. "Think nothing of it. Now, how do we find your cadet?"

Spock lifted one eyebrow at Shuran before moving towards the Orion guard whom he first stunned. Spock placed the fingers of his right hand on the Orion’s temple and shut his eyes tight in concentration. Meanwhile, Shuran bound the hands of the Orion slaver lying at Kirk’s feet.

“What’s he doing?” Kirk asked Shuran. “Is that what I think it is?”

“A mind meld,” Shuran replied as he worked. “He is endeavoring to discover what the Orions know about Nyota’s location.”

After a few moments, Spock opened his eyes and focused on Shuran.

“Nyota and Sybok have been tracked to the forest to the east. Four heavily armed Orions are currently tracking them,” Spock stood and dropped his eyes to the ground. “They have orders to retrieve Sybok dead or alive. As for Nyota, they prefer to apprehend her unscathed, but she is deemed expendable.”

“What’s going on there?” McCoy’s voice cut through the communicators on their helmets.

“We’re fine, Bones,” Kirk replied before stepping away from Spock and Shuran to fill him in on the details.

“Shuran, please gather these three men and transport them to their ship. They should remain unconscious for the next four hours. I will pursue the cadet.”

Shuran leapt to his feet. “You can’t think that I’d let you pursue these men on your own,” he argued. “Especially not in your condition. I’m coming with you.”

“Sybok and the Orions have had at least two hours to travel prior to our arrival. Nyota could be captured or dead by now. It is imperative that I pursue them as soon as possible. Furthermore, these men will not long survive in this climate exposed to the elements. They must be relocated to safety.”

Shuran stared at his friend for a moment before nodding his acquiescence. He lifted his arm and quickly punched a few commands into the control pad on his wrist.

“Kirk and I will be right behind you.”

The three hoverbikes silently sped towards them, stopping and idling two meters from where they stood. Spock nodded to Shuran before mounting his bike and speeding off towards the forest.

“Where’s he going?” Kirk asked.

“To retrieve the cadet,” Shuran replied before jogging over to the anti-gravity cart loaded with salvaged ship parts. “We have work to do before we join him. Be a lad and give me a hand unloading this cart.”

Kirk watched the form of Commander Spock disappear into the forest before turning to join Shuran at his task.


Glossary

ne ki'ne: shield partner, the person a warrior could trust most in a battle; a trusted friend and skilled warrior
Th'i-oxalra: thank you, “I appreciate it.”

Chapter 3: It Had to Be Done

Standing on the pathway where she left him, he briefly explored the possibility of persuading his friend to return to Netherfield. That was what Elizabeth wanted. The Bingley sisters would rightly protest. And, Mrs. Bennet would pounce as soon as Bingley showed his face. The poor man might be leg-shackled by Michaelmas and sorely regretting his vulgar new connections by Christmas.

It would be a far different proposition were Darcy to pursue Elizabeth. Unlike Bingley, he understood the burdens inherent in such a course. He could keep the Bennets at bay. Poor, affable, naïve Bingley would be helpless against their demands and improprieties. So permanent and final a thing as marriage was not to be lightly risked. Darcy said aloud, “I cannot do that to a friend.” There were other women as beautiful as Jane Bennet, who came with less odious encumbrances.

If only Elizabeth had not heard about what he did for Bingley . . . He spent a few miserable minutes, his face pressed in the palm of his hand, trying to divine why his cousin had betrayed him. Darcy had mentioned it to no one else, and he concluded that the colonel must have rambled on to her in his usual fashion without knowing the identity of all the parties involved. He could not have done such damage on purpose.

But Darcy had realized something else in his conversation with Elizabeth. His problem was greater than her anger about her sister. Much as it hurt when he had seen she liked his cousin more, it was far worse now to see she disliked him, so much so that she disdained to request a favor she very clearly wanted.

If she had asked him to change his advice to Bingley, he would have been able to reply, “I am sorely tempted to do it for the sake of pleasing you, but I believe it would be wrong. I hope I might please you in other ways, if you would consider my suit.” Instead, his only choice was silence when her eyes eloquently said that she would have no patience for pretty sentiments from him.

Ultimately, rather than the colonel, whose propensities he knew, he had to blame himself for having spoken of separating Bingley from a young lady. The incident had been on his mind, and perhaps he needed to reassure himself he had acted rightly. Still, he was surprised that whatever Miss Bennet had said to her younger sister would seem to suggest she felt injured. Certainly, he intended her no harm, and on the contrary, she, as a victim of the crass machinations of her matrimonially ambitious mother, should have appreciated what he did.

He had seen, not merely once, but time and time again in watching his quickly enamored friend with her, how Bingley bored her. Hopping around her like an overeager puppy, he would grin and talk on and on, and she would listen with cool serenity, her responses always perfectly appropriate. She gave the same smile to all the young men who approached her.

Bingley rather pathetically thought she shared his feelings and he needed to be schooled in reality. Some two months after the Bingleys left Netherfield, Darcy also knew what to do when his friend’s sisters described the horror of an unexpected Jane Bennet in their London drawing room.

*************

They told Darcy the minute they could get him alone, when Bingley went off with his brother-in-law Hurst to confer on family business. Mrs. Louisa Hurst looked saddened as she related it —“We could hardly have turned her away, but it was awkward. She should not have come here”— while Miss Bingley was frankly indignant. “Obviously, she hoped to find Charles. Shocking! I was sure I had seen the last of that awful family at the Netherfield Ball in November. Who would think any Bennet would turn up in London, especially now? You recall how that odd Mr. Bennet was so proud of saying he avoided town during the Season.”

Darcy's heart beat faster with the first question that leapt to his mind. As soon as he could get a word in, he asked as casually as he could if Miss Bennet was alone. “Her sister did not by any chance accompany her? Her sister Miss Elizabeth?”

“No, we can at least be grateful for that,” Miss Bingley replied with a crooked smile that unpleasantly twisted her lips higher on one side.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s strength and delicacy, of course, would keep her from doing anything that hinted of crassly pursuing a man. Unfortunately, her poor older sister was made of softer stuff. Her appearance must have been masterminded by Mrs. Bennet. “She is more cravenly determined than I gave her credit for being. Shameless!”

“I’m not sure I would call Jane shameless but she is more determined than I expected she would be,” Mrs. Hurst said mildly.

“I mean her mother,” Darcy said impatiently. “She has tired of waiting for your brother to return to Netherfield and has sent her daughter out to stalk him.” Mrs. Bennet had boldly declared her expectations the night of the Netherfield Ball. “Such a promising thing for my younger girls, too, you know. With Jane marrying so greatly, it will throw them in the way of other rich men.” When Elizabeth had asked her mother to show a care because Bingley’s friend could hear her, she seemed to speak louder: “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.”

“Scheming, shameless woman. You would think that after the letter I sent Jane saying we would not return to Netherfield, she would give up,” Miss Bingley said.

Aghast, Darcy asked, “You did what? Why would you write such a thing? Did you consider how her mother would respond if she thought Bingley was not returning?”

The sisters exchanged looks. The younger said defensively, “I certainly did not think she would send her daughter to London! Especially after I ignored all of Jane’s letters to me. Some people cannot take a hint.”

Darcy asked, “Why did you ignore all of Miss Bennet’s letters? What did she write?”

“She was attempting to continue the acquaintance, of course. I am sure it was only because of her mother, exactly as you say. I tried to do what you would if faced with a similar problem.”

“I? Whatever makes you think I would ignore a friend? I thought from seeing you with her that you considered her that.” He turned to the older sister, who at least had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Mrs. Hurst said, “We both thought it would be better for Jane to let the relationship go. Ignoring her seemed the kindest thing to do.”

Miss Bingley added eagerly, “Yes, it is just as you did in not letting all those people presume on you in the dreary neighborhood where Charles has his estate. We could not let her presume on an acquaintance now that we have left. We agree, do we not, that Jane Bennet is not the right woman for my brother?”

He most certainly did not think his treatment of Bingley’s neighbors could be rightly likened to their behavior toward Miss Bennet. He realized his face probably gave away what he felt because they both looked alarmed.

He took a breath and, as patiently and gently as he could, said, “You must see that your tactic had the opposite effect from what you desired. Mrs. Bennet sent her daughter to town because she feared she was losing her grip on the fatted gander. Had you continued writing, poor Miss Bennet would have been left alone and her mother would have patiently awaited your brother’s return. By the time she realized he was not coming back, perhaps Miss Bennet would have found another suitor to please her.”

Mrs. Hurst cleared her throat and replied, “We see the reason in what you are saying. Ignoring Jane’s letters was the wrong thing to have done. As the elder, I should have known.” She looked at her younger sister with an unmistakable look of accusation that seemed at odds with her words.

It made him wonder what had gone on between these two women, but he shrugged it off and noted, “I agree that your brother’s feelings are cooling — he barely ever mentions Miss Bennet now — but if he sees her, he may start to think himself in love again. How did she seem when you saw her?”

Miss Bingley rushed to answer. “As sweet, gentle Jane always is. The pity is, we really do like her. I am sure as are you that she is only doing this because her mother is making her. I told her Charles is very busy with you and — that is, with you, sir.”

Something about Miss Bingley’s last sentence made the fine hairs on the back of Darcy’s neck stand up. Bingley was not seeing any new woman, although they had gone to the theater several times and been occupied with other activities available to young men of wealth. Ignoring the disquiet that whispered he should ask what else she had told Miss Bennet, he merely commented, “Charles is at the time of his life when it is to be expected he will be constantly making new friends. Let us hope she tells her mother as much when she does not see him on any of her visits to you, and the woman will have to give up. When do you plan to return the visit?”

Incredulously, Miss Bingley repeated, “Return the visit? Her uncle, who is in trade as I think you will recall, lives near Gracechurch Street. Perhaps right above whatever shop or the other he owns. Oh, Mr. Darcy, I fear that such encouragement might deceive her that we view her as an equal, and then she will expect to see Charles eventually.”

The cruel contempt of her words repulsed him, and made him uncomfortably recall a remark he had once made at Netherfield. Speaking of the two elder Bennet sisters, Bingley said, “If they had uncles to fill all of Cheapside, it would not make them one less jot agreeable.” And, he had replied, “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world.”

It was still a fact, but hearing Miss Bingley voice her opinion made him wish he had never spoken in front of her. A thing did not need to be said simply because it was true and certain opinions were not worthy of the air it took to utter them. He could have pointed out to Miss Bingley that while her fortune was rooted in trade, Miss Jane Bennet was gently bred. While true, it would be as unkindly objectionable for him to say to her as her remark had been regarding Jane Bennet.

His fondness for the good-natured Bingley made him quiet. There was also Miss Bingley’s marvelous ability to ignore all hints that she was a newcomer to the ton. He thought he could probably tell her that all day long and she would never hear it. Looking past her, he said crisply, “I do understand your reluctance to travel to that part of the City. But I see no reason for concern that your brother and Miss Bennet will meet while she is town. Mrs. Bennet would not send her eldest daughter to look for him in my home.”

Miss Bingley started to say, “But, Mr. Darcy—“ Her elder sister spoke quietly as if she had not heard her, “I think this is excellent counsel. After the acquaintanceship we have had in Hertfordshire, we could hardly ignore her visit. We certainly recognize that while the Bennets are not very wealthy or fashionable, they are a gentle family — and that is to be respected.”

With a sniff and a shrug, Miss Bingley said, “I suppose it is safer to return the call than to have her turn up suddenly here at Louisa’s again — perhaps with some excuse that she thought I must be ill. I will let her know with finality that I have no wish to continue the relationship. Mr. Darcy, you will not mention to Charles that she is in London, will you?”

“If he asks me, I will not lie. But I see no reason he would ask.”

*************

The sickening feeling of recognizing an error in judgment threatened to overwhelm him. His meeting with Elizabeth might have been more pleasant if he had chosen differently in his meeting with Bingley’s sisters. At Netherfield, he had thought Miss Bingley liked Jane Bennet and sincerely wanted to protect her brother from a lady who cared too little for him. The two women were friends and would know each other’s feelings. Even when he had realized in London that was a mistaken assumption, he continued to support the sisters to keep Miss Bennet away from their brother. He admitted now what he could not or would not then. Desire to avoid personal temptation had mingled, in some small portion at least, with his desire to protect Bingley.

But, he reminded himself, he also had not relied upon Miss Bingley’s word. He had seen Miss Bennet’s indifference with his own eyes and he could not subject Bingley to a lifetime of that. The close quarters of marriage is more likely to make an indifferent heart colder than to seduce partners to fall in love after marrying. Familiarity can breed contempt. If Jane Bennet only tolerated Bingley now, years could easily harden that into something worse.

And, even were he willing to trade Bingley for Elizabeth’s approval, Darcy did not think it would earn him her sudden affections. He loved her with all the strength a rational man gives his feelings, but that same rationality would not allow him to indulge futile wishes. She wanted nothing from him and, to add an inadvertent insult, preferred his cousin. For a moment in his unhappy musings, Darcy conveniently forgot that his cousin was probably his most loved friend in the world. He grumbled that it did not speak well of her to like that rattle so much. How could she even countenance his constant chatter.

He did credit the colonel’s sagacity in one important respect. The choice of Elizabeth as a bride would not have been easily accepted by any number of their relatives and connections. Darcy had been prepared to ignore all of that. For her sake, he was willing to put aside considerations of heritage, family, rank. And, she did not care. Repeating this to himself, he strained to drown his sorrow with indignation. Really, it was she who was disappointing him in this affair by misunderstanding his good intentions.

It had all turned out for the best. Bingley was certainly better off without the Bennets and he — well, in time, he would forget Elizabeth Bennet.

After kissing him, I was determined to avoid George at all possible costs. I was convinced that I had ruined our friendship with my behavior and that there was no way George would ever want to see me again. I hid my room or on campus as much as possible and did everything in my power to avoid speaking to him. He tried to talk to me, but I would only give one or two word answers. I knew he was getting frustrated with me, and after about three days of this, I was expecting him to confront me about my behavior.
But on the morning of the fourth day after my rash kiss, I stepped on the bathroom scale after my shower to discover that I weight 171 pounds, thirty-one pounds more than I had weighed in February. And I started to cry. I sat down on the floor and sobbed.

It wasn’t seven in the morning yet, since I had to be on campus before eight o’clock. George didn’t have to be up at any particular time since he didn’t work on Tuesdays, but I was not so lucky.

And I was even more unlucky when George came into the bathroom wearing only a pair of low-riding pajama bottoms. “Emma, it is six-forty in the morning. What on earth could have gone wrong this early in the morning?”

I glared at him. “That thing says I weigh one hundred-seventy pounds.”

“And you’re six months pregnant,” he replied, slowly lowering himself to the floor. “What’s wrong with weighing one hundred-seventy pounds when you’re six months pregnant?”

I sighed dramatically. “I’m fat, George. I’m a big, fat whale. I’m only six months pregnant and I still have three more months until the baby comes. If I’ve already gained thirty pounds, how much more weight am I going to gain? Am I going to become obese?”

He tentatively put a hand on my arm. “Emma, we keep coming back to this. You think you’re fat, and I think you’re lovely. I think you’re attractive, and I don’t understand why you’re hiding from me.”

“Because I kissed you and I’m an ugly, fat whale,” I blubbered back.

George moved his hand from my arm and put it around my shoulder. “Why is it a problem that you kissed me?”

“Because I’m an ugly, fat whale,” I repeated.

“That’s a load of crap,” he replied. “You are stunning. I mean, right now, your face is a little tear-stained, and your eyes are a little red from crying, but that’s no big deal. I think you are lovely.”

I put my hands on my belly. “Even with this?”

“Good gravy, Emma,” he sighed and put his free hand on my belly. “I don’t mind this one bit.”

“But I kissed you.”

“Again, I don’t see why that’s a problem. We’re already planning on raising this baby together and probably getting married next summer. What’s wrong with a kiss?”

“Because you’re not in love with me and I don’t know if I’m in love with you or if that was just the result of pregnancy hormones.”

He smiled. “I’m not saying we need to define our relationship right now, but there was nothing wrong with that kiss. I have no objections to kissing you every now and then as the urge hits or sleeping in your bed sometimes if that makes you more comfortable.”

I smiled and leaned my head against his chest. “You’re perfect; you do know that, don’t you?”

“I snore,” he replied.

“As long as I have earplugs, I’ll survive.”

“Oh good,” he said with a smile. “Now, will you and Baby be able to make it through the day without me to hold your hand all day?”

I nodded. “Please just keep reminding me that you think I’m beautiful.”

“No problem, sweetie,” he replied. “I have no problems reminding you of the truth. But maybe we should hide the scale from now on?”

“But how will I know how much I weigh?” I asked.

George laughed. “Emma, I don’t want you to know how much you weigh if you’re going to keep having meltdowns over your weight. You’re pregnant; enjoy it.”

---

“George told me to enjoy being pregnant and not worry about my weight,” I told Betsy Williamson over lunch the next day.

“That’s good advice,” she replied.

“But I’m getting fat,” I protested.

“You’re pregnant. It happens.”

I sighed. “Betsy, I’ve gained thirty pounds already, and if I gain another thirty in the next three months, I’ll weigh two hundred pounds.”

“Full disclosure, Emma,” Betsy said. “I gained almost seventy pounds when I was pregnant with Natalie, and eight months later, I still haven’t lost all of it. Nursing helps. Exercising helps. But losing seventy pounds is hard.”

“I know,” I sighed morosely.

She smiled. “But Mark doesn’t seem to mind a little extra padding around my midsection or thighs. And from what you’re saying, I don’t think George is minding that on your body either.”

I put my hands on my belly. “I just don’t want to end up being Hattie or Hannah’s fat friend.”

She laughed. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Hannah will end up gaining just as much weight as you or me when she gets pregnant. She talks a good game, but she’s used to eating whatever she wants, and someday that may backfire for her.”

I smiled. “I kind of hope you’re right.”

Betsy smiled. “George is right. Enjoy being pregnant. Don’t overdo it, but don’t deny yourself all pleasures just because you’re afraid of the scale. It’s just a number. And you can lose the weight after you give birth.”

---

“George, we need to start talking about baby names,” I announced on Friday in late August.

“Georgia,” he replied without blinking.

“Be serious.”

“I am being serious,” he said. “And if you don’t like Georgia, there is always Georgiana.”

I sighed. “George, we’re not naming the baby after you.”

He pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Do you have any serious suggestions?”

“Alice,” he replied.

“No,” I said firmly. “I’m not a big fan of Alice.”

“What about Nora?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Add it to the list.”

“What names do you like?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I like Madeline.”

“That’s a possibility,” he replied as he pulling out his phone.

“And I like Beatrice.”

George grinned. “I love Beatrice. It’s an awesome name.”

“Or there’s also Audrey,” I said.

“Slow down,” he said. “I’m making a list in my phone. So far I have Nora, Madeline, Beatrice, and Audrey.”

“I think we like old-fashioned names,” I commented.

“I think we do. What do you think of Jane or Frances?”

I shook my head. “They’re too bland.”

“What about Amelia?”

“Amelia Pond,” I said.

He laughed. “So are we keeping it?”

“Naturally,” I replied with a smile.

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“Ruth?”

“Never,” he replied.

“But that was my grandma’s name.”

He shook his head. “I hate that name. It sounds like a grandma name and not a baby name.”

“What about Evelyn?” I asked.

George smiled. “I like Evelyn. That was my grandma’s name.”

“There’s always Felicity.”

“Uh, no,” he replied. “We’re not naming our daughter after a WB show.”

I laughed. “How do you feel about Charlotte?”

“It’s a maybe.”

“Or Caroline?”

“Another maybe,” George replied. “How do you feel about Abigail?”

“That’s Paul’s mom’s name.”

“Well, strike that from the record. We’re definitely not naming any of our kids after anything even remotely connected to Paul Churchill.”

“Aren’t Baby and I at least remotely connected to Paul?” I asked.

He sighed. “I suppose. Why don’t we rephrase to we’re not naming any of our kids after any members of Paul’s family or anyone else to whom he is particularly close?”

I smiled. “I’ll agree to that. Hannah might not like it, but I’ll agree to it.”

“Who cares what Hannah thinks?” George replied. “She married West. And while West is a perfectly nice guy and I like him, he’s still Paul’s brother and that makes me not like him so very much.”

I shook my head. George had never been a big fan of West, Hannah, or Paul. “We’ll stick with the list, and we won’t ask Hannah for any input on Baby’s name. Can you live with that?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

---

The Friday before Labor Day, George and I had to attend the English department’s semester opening party. The party was held at the department chair’s home, and under our current department chair, Chris White, it was a lovely affair. I was looking forward to the delightful company of colleagues such as Art Johnson and Mark Williamson. (In case you haven’t picked up on this before, I love working with Mark Williamson. I’ve heard it said that there are two kinds of geniuses-those who make you feel like you can never be enough and those who help you to become better at whatever it is that you do. And Mark is decidedly of the second kind; working with him makes me want to be a better instructor and a better researcher. He’s also a great friend.)

While I was looking forward to the event itself, I was not looking forward to buying a dress to wear to the party. It was a casual event, held as a strolling supper in the Whites’ backyard. But it was expected that men would wear shirts and ties while women ought to wear dresses or nice slacks with a dressy top. I opted for a dress-even though I didn’t own any maternity dresses.

So, I plucked up my courage and called in Hattie Smith to go shopping with me. I figured that Hattie was a sweet soul and she would have fun shopping with me.

In retrospect, this was a poor choice. Hattie did enjoy the outing-immensely, in fact. I, however, did not enjoy it one bit. Yes, I found a dress. But I didn’t enjoy spending two and a half hours at the mall listening to Hattie prattle about her potential future with Rob Martin. She enumerated on each of his good points. He had no flaws; of that she was certain. He was far superior to Blake Elton in every way imaginable. In fact, every major world religion was probably at that very moment considering elevating Rob to sainthood-or perhaps even declaring him a god. She had even decided that they would have three children together-two sons and a daughter. They would name their sons Jacob Robert Martin and Mason Edward Martin. And their daughter would be named Bella Anastasia Martin. When I pointed out that Bella Anastasia’s initials would spell BAM, Emeril Lagasse’s signature phrase, she told me I was being too practical and not having enough of an appreciation for romance and true love. No, they had to name their children Jacob, Mason, and Bella. It was fate. “We’re destined to be together,” she insisted. “This is like Edward and Bella, West and Hannah, you and George…it’s fate. He is my soulmate.”

And this was all after going on two dates with him. Hopefully, it’s needless to say that she drove me nuts. I don’t believe in fate or destiny. I just believe in the power of perseverance and endurance. And all I really wanted was to find a beautiful navy blue dress that would look classy with black ballet flats and my most comfortable black sweater.

I did find the dress. It was simple and elegant, and it didn’t scream, “Behold, I am almost seven months pregnant and I wear 170 pounds.” George told me that I looked “ravishing” in it. “In fact,” he told me while I was getting ready for the party. “The dress is giving me ideas. It’s got just the right amount of cleavage. It’s telling the world that you’ve got curves. And it’s got some good old-fashioned Emma Woodhouse flair.”

I smiled. “Hattie made me try on so many dresses. She said I was being too conservative and apparently being discreet with your pregnancy is passé. Nowadays, you’re supposed to flaunt your baby bump to the world.”

“I hate the term baby bump,” George sighed.

“I know. You’ve told me before,” I said, resting a hand on my large belly. “And besides, this is way more than just a bump. This is more like a hill than a mountain.”

He smiled and put his hands on my belly. “It’s our baby, and I love her.”

I put my arms around his shoulders and pressed my face against his neck. “You’re amazing, George. You are an amazing man, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”

He kissed my forehead. “Are you ready to go to the party?”

---

The party was fine. You could have even described it as lovely. Sure, it was a little awkward how almost every single woman felt the need to touch my belly and offer me a few words of advice about pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting. I had been confidently assured by five different women, four of whom have never had children, that I had to go with a midwife and a water birth. “It’s just more natural that way,” Dr. Joan Wright told me. Dr. Wright was known for being a devout feminist who had never married or had children. “It allows you to have a more intimate connection with your child and your partner starting at the moment of birth.”

“But is it safe?” George asked.

“Of course it is,” the older woman replied with a reassuring smile.

“Thank you for the advice,” I said. “But George and I are going to make this decision on our own based on our research and the input of medical professionals we know and trust.”

---

“Wow,” George said as we walked away. “That might be the most diplomatic thing I’ve ever heard you say, Emma. I’m impressed.”

“It’s all Baby. Apparently, she’s very diplomatic, and so she expects her mother to be diplomatic too.”

He snorted. “You’re ridiculous, Emma Clare.”

“And yet you still love me.”

“More than you could ever understand,” he replied.

I smiled and leaned my head against his shoulder. “I do appreciate you, George.”

“And I appreciate your appreciation.”

Before he could say anything more, Art and Ellie Johnson came up to us. Art and Ellie are Betsy Williamson’s godparents. They’re in their mid-seventies, and Art is probably the oldest professor in the English department. He only teaches two classes anymore, but his two sections of Shakespeare’s Tetralogy: Fact vs. Fiction are always the first classes to fill up and have waiting lists as long as George’s leg.

“You two really are darling,” Ellie told us, greeting each of us with a kiss on the cheek and not touching my belly. “It’s always delightful to see you together.”

“We do try to be delightful,” I replied. “And we’re always glad to see you.”

“Then you ought to come for dinner some evening next week,” Art said. “We love company. Perhaps we could invite Mark and Betsy the same evening. I love young and lively company.”

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “We’d love to come. And we’re always glad to see Mark and Betsy.”

“And Natalie,” George added. “We love seeing Natalie. We think she’s the most delightful little girl on earth.”

“But you won’t be holding that view much longer from what I hear,” Ellie said. “Someone has been buying up a great deal of pink yarn lately.”

“And purple yarn too,” I said. “I like pink and purple best on little girls.”

“And if this little one looks anything like her mother, pink and purple will be utterly charming on her,” George said.

Ellie’s eyes glanced over my honey-brown hair and George’s dark blond hair, never knowing that the baby could inherit Paul’s dark brown hair. “I’m sure that whatever the baby wears she will look utterly charming.”

“Well, given who her mother is, she’ll have no choice in the matter,” George said. “She will be born to be delightful.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” I scolded. “I’m not nearly as delightful as you think I am.”

“Oh Emma Clare,” George sighed. “What will I do with you?”

---

Chapter 5


I spent the next two weeks in seclusion, practicing my dancing, rehearsing table etiquette and getting a refresher course in the obligatory accomplishments. I couldn’t play an instrument but I could sing; I could read French well but my pronunciation, according to my godmother, was atrocious; I knew far too much about ancient history and not nearly enough about recent literature. Still, on the whole, I was declared more than passable.

My ball gown, when I was allowed to view it in all its splendor, was a beautiful shade of green frosted with a layer of fine lace and showed off my shoulders. This time I got my hair curled, a process I thought too long and painful to be worthwhile, but the result was rather nice. Again I wore my diamonds, and the sparkling shoes, and long white gloves. Again I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. Other than her serious brown eyes, she looked a frivolous creature. What would Simon think, I wondered, when he saw me? Would he be pleased?

The palace took my breath away when I saw it. It was enormous, brilliantly lit, surrounded by untold gardens laid out in intricate patterns. We waited in a line of carriages for about an hour, while I tried not to hang out of the window, staring at the high, symmetrical walls and thousand windows.

When our carriage finally reached the entrance, there was a whole double line of footmen waiting to receive us—to hand us out of the carriage, help us up the long stairs and direct us to the woman’s cloak room (as big as a small ballroom in and of itself) where maids took our cloaks and handed us bits of paper with numbers on them. “Keep that with you,” Mrs. Gainswood said. “You’ll need it to reclaim your cloak later.”

It was all so crowded and grand, it was overwhelming. At first I couldn’t see anything but arched ceilings, chandeliers, and the heads of people in front of me. Yet somehow the crowds began to break up as we moved through the rooms. I stayed near to my godmother, who seemed to know an astonishing number of people, considering the fact that she had been gone out of the country for so long. There was dancing in several rooms, even besides the main ballroom, which was so large and bright it boggled my mind. Godmother and I edged our way around it, stopping to greet people every few feet. Someone pointed out the prince to me, but I could not make out who they meant in the mass of dancers, and, to be honest, I wasn’t very interested. I kept looking for men who looked like my Simon, but even as I did my heart sank. How would I ever find him here, in this milieu?

Eventually I was introduced to a young man who asked me to dance. I went reluctantly, seeing from Mrs. Gainswood’s face how much she wished me to go. He was polite enough, but it was all I could do to be polite back. I know I didn’t give him the attention he deserved; I spent the whole time staring at the faces of other men, after all.

When the dance was over he escorted me to the side of the room again. Mrs. Gainswood was deep in conversation; I said something in her ear, I don’t remember what, but she waved me away, and I escaped.

It was so very, very different from what I was used to. One ball and a week living in luxury could not accustom me to such privilege again. I felt more affinity with the servants lining the walls than I did the fine ladies in their feathers and silks. My ball gown was, frankly, very uncomfortable, and inside my gloves my hands were beginning to sweat. It really was terribly hot. I wandered from room to room, gaping at the opulence, but mostly looking for Simon. I felt like a fool, a giddy, silly, absurd little fool, who had lost her head over a men whose full name she didn’t even know—but I couldn’t help myself. Perhaps it wasn’t just Simon himself—perhaps it was the hope of what he represented, that I could be desirable still, that I could find love with a man of sense and breeding, that after years of drudgery life could be beautiful again.

Inevitably, hot and dispirited and uncomfortable at the way men kept looking at me, I sought refuge in a small side room. I had already collapsed onto a small settee when I realized that I wasn’t alone. Across the room from me, standing in the shadows, a dark-haired girl stood hastily dabbing at her face. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I am—” Her sentence ended as she gasped.

I had been tugging at those wretched gloves, but at the gasp I looked up, and found myself staring directly into the face of my step-sister Camilla. I gave a small gasp myself, and for several moments all we did was look at each other across the room. Denial was impossible. “Hello, Camilla,” I said at last.

As if my words roused her from her surprise, she blinked, and her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Where did you get that dress?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“It’s my mother’s concern! She’s your guardian, and you’ve run away from home!”

“That house ceased to be my home years ago,” I said, standing jerkily to my feet.

“No, it’s our home now. For you, it’s just a place of work. Why, look at you!” She gave a small, forced laugh. “You almost look as if you belonged here, instead of working in the kitchens! Perhaps if you go downstairs they can give you some pots to scrub!”

“I do belong here,” I hissed, “more than you!”

“That’s not what my mother will say, when she finds out you’re here. I can’t wait to see what she’s going to do with you.”

I had to get out of here. Trading words with Camilla wasn’t going to help me at all—I just had to get away from her, and hide myself in the crowd so they wouldn’t find me again. Or my godmother. Yes, I would find my godmother. She would know what to do. Without another word I turned and left.

Coming hastily out of the room, I collided with a broad chest in an officer’s uniform, and fell back in confusion, gasping apologies. A male voice said, “No, forgive me, ma’am I didn’t—” then, “Ella?” it said eagerly. “Ella, is that you?”

I looked up into a lean, handsome, tanned face and blinked. The hair, the shoulders, the voice were all familiar. “Simon!” I exclaimed thankfully.

“Ella!” His hands came out and rested on my arms. “I’ve found you at last! I’ve been looking all night—” his voice suddenly changed. “Ella, what’s happened?” he asked sharply, looking behind me into the antechamber. “Has someone been bothering you?”

“No—that is—oh, just get me out of here, please!” I exclaimed. Immediately he took my hand, and led me through a small door I hadn’t even noticed, and into an empty hallway beyond. We went quickly down a few steps, and then he opened a door, and brought me into what looked like a private library. As he shut the door I sank thankfully into a chair, then looked up to see that he was leaning with his shoulders to it, watching me intently. Somehow I couldn’t help laughing under the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were a bright, golden hazel, very clear, even arresting. “What is it?” I asked self-consciously.

He shook his head, and I was surprised to see a little color rise up under his dark tan. “It’s just—my heavens, you are beautiful.” Now it was my turn to blush. “I knew you would be, of course,” he said, coming across the room and sitting down near me. “Your mask didn’t hide that much.” He took my hand, and held it firmly and comfortingly. “Now,” he said, “what’s been happening to distress you?”

I can hardly describe the sense of relief that flooded me at having him so near, holding my hand and looking at me so. The very set of his shoulders denoted confidence; there was intelligence and strength in his face, and gentleness in his voice and touch. Suddenly the confrontation with Francine seemed trivial; my anxiety, overblown. I had, for the first time since my mother died, two very real friends I felt I could trust: my godmother, and this man, this friend of an evening to whom I already felt so linked. Gratefully my fingers returned the pressure of his, and I smiled at him, happy again. “Nothing of significance,” I said. “I think I’m just not—used to all this, you know.”

“Yes, I think I do,” he said, and sighed, looking around him. “It’s hard to come home after a long absence. I must admit that after campfires and battles, so much pomp and finery seems a little—” he paused.

“Ridiculous?” I suggested.

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling his attractive smile. “Exactly.”

I smiled back. “At yet here we both are.”

“Yes, here we both are. And we both went to the masked ball, too, eh? I suppose for the same reason, too.”

I nodded, understanding him. Then for the first time he seemed to realize that he was still holding my hand, and looked down at it, rubbing the white satin softly with his thumb. Having no particular desire that he let it go, I waited. Watching the changing thoughts play across his sensitive face, I surprised myself by reaching out my hand and lightly touching his cheek with my fingers. “What is it?” I asked. It was a rather bold and intimate gesture, but it did not seem to offend him.

He shook his head and smiled slightly, releasing my hand (reluctantly, I thought). “I’m—I’m glad you’re here, Ella,” he said, stretching his long legs out. “It’s been an infernally long evening, bowing and making conversation, and dancing with an endless parade of girls.”

“But you like dancing,” I observed mildly.

He turned his head at that, looking at me with warm eyes. “With you, I do. But you don’t talk me to death, or titter and simper. Or flirt like a—like a—” he left it hanging.

I was amused. “Is that what the other girls did?”

“Yes.” Without seeming to think about it, he took my hand again, holding it lightly but firmly. “I’ve been looking for you all night, Ella. Where were you?”

“Dancing with the prince, of course,” I answered mischievously. He looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“Of course you were,” he chuckled, and raised my hand to his lips for a moment. “The prince, after all, is only a man.” His look was full of meaning, and I found myself blushing deeply. Immediately he turned his eyes away in consideration, and I found myself prompted to say, “Well, actually I haven’t even seen the prince. I was….”

“Yes?” he prompted me, looking back.

“I was looking for you,” I admitted.

“And now you found me,” he murmured. His grasp on my hand tightened, and he looked at me with such intensity that I thought for a moment that he was going to kiss me. And was I not waiting for it, dear reader? Yes, I most certainly was, with breath bated and my heart pounding, but in the end he turned his head. Letting my breath out, I tried to compose myself, and wondered almost impatiently why he kept holding my hand. When at last I pulled it back gently, he let it go with look that was almost surprised.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess—I guess you seem the only real thing here tonight, in a way.” He rubbed his hands through his short blond hair, and seemed to shake himself. “I guess I’ve just been away too long,” he said, standing up, and walking to the window.

“No,” I said thoughtfully, “it seems to me that you would have to get away from all this, wouldn’t you—if you wanted to stay a real person, that is.”

“A real person?” He raised his eyebrows.

I laughed at my own word choice. “I mean a person who remembers what the real world is like, for most people. Who—who remembers campfires and battles, and also hard work, and want, and—and obscurity.” I stood up and walked to the window beside him, staring out at the lawn where the exquisitely dressed gentry and nobility strode about laughing and talking. “This is all so beautiful,” I murmured, “it’s like a dream. But who can live in a dream without wanting to wake up eventually?”

“Most of them do,” he said with a nod. “And, believe me, they don’t want to wake up to the kind of a world you’re talking about! But I know what you mean. People need a greater purpose than just balls and pleasure. Those that don’t have it tend to slip into all kinds of destructive habits. I’ve seen it many times. And even—even a king, say, needs to see the world outside the palace, needs to understand it. How can you justly rule people whose lives are so far different from your own?”

“And yet,” I added to give a counter argument, “I can tell you that the common people wouldn’t want a king who was just like them. They wouldn’t think it was right. How can he rule over me if he’s just like me? That’s how they would think. Ordinary people—the ones who generally fight, and work, and do all the things that actually make nations run and allow the upper class to live in this splendor—they want to know that their sovereign really is superior to them. Otherwise, what’s the point in serving him?”

“What indeed?” He was looking at me again, keenly and brightly. “You are certainly not just in the common way, Ella Unknown. Will you tell me your name?”

Suddenly, I felt a completely irrational sense of panic. “Will you tell me yours?” I returned.

He hesitated. “Come now,” he said, taking my hand. “I’ll find it out sooner or later.”

“All right.” I eyed him defiantly. He laughed.

“It seems we’re at an impasse. For all our talk about the real world, I guess we’re both a little reluctant to return to it just yet. But at least tell me this: why has a woman like you not been attending parties and balls all along? You’re obviously educated and well bred, and someone has dressed you expensively.” He looked pointedly at my ball gown.

My mind worked quickly, reviewing the official story I had agreed with Godmother to tell. I had never meant to lie to Simon, of course, but somehow telling him the awful truth seemed impossible. “I’ve been living in strict seclusion,” I prevaricated. “Only now my Godmother has brought me to live with her for awhile, and she is bringing me out.”

“I see.” He eyed me thoughtfully. “And who is this godmother?”

I shook my head. “Not fair. A name for a name.”

That made him laugh. “You can be stubborn, can’t you? Do you not have any other family?”

“No.” I said the word firmly.

“None at all?”

“Well, I had a step-mother once, but she cast me off years ago.”

“Why?”

“Because I was prettier and smarter than her daughters.” I put up my chin as I said it, but he nodded quite gravely.

“I can easily believe that. And then the jealous step-mother packed you off to live with your reclusive grandmother, and no one’s seen or heard from you since?”

“Something like that.”

He appeared to consider that. “All right then.” He smiled into my eyes, and my heart pounded. “Ella from the north, will you dance with me?”

“Yes, please.”

I was reading PD James Death Comes to Pemberley, and it brought up an interesting point which I wondered if anyone had explored. What if Elizabeth never goes to Hunsford? Her next meeting with Darcy would be Pemberley, presuming the events follow the book. Has anyone written something exploring that possibility? If so, could anyone give me links to the stories, please? I've checked the JAFF.

I know very little about flowers, particularly in other places. Can anyone suggest some native flowers that would be in bloom during April-May in southern regency England? I would really appreciate it.

What would a dandyish, even foppish, gentleman have worried about in Jane Austen's day? The cut of his coat, obviously, and the tying of his cravat, but what else? Lace? Did they still wear lace? The quality of the fabric, maybe?

Chapter Seven

"Did you amuse yourself last night?" Lady Russell inquired at breakfast.

"It was a good idea to go and to be distracted. I hope you enjoyed it too. It is not your favourite sort of engagement."

"Oh, once in a while I do not mind making a concession. And," she lowered her voice. "I make concessions more often, though you may not know. There were some older people to talk to. Did you hear about Charles Hayter's prospects? Although I suspect his mother talked more about those than he did."

"True," Anne smiled. Mrs Hayter had indeed mentioned it. "I heard it from her. He never said a word."

"He was too busy sizing up the competition."

"Surely his understanding with Henrietta is not in danger?" She was more hopeful than certain, for it was understandable that either the captain or the baronet appeared more attractive at the moment, but in the long run they would not suit.

Lady Russell shrugged. "I do not know, but last evening he was certainly not very interesting to her. Henrietta danced with him only once."

"I did not really pay attention," she lied, although she knew Henrietta had danced twice with Captain Wentworth. She should not have noticed that. He had danced five times: twice with Henrietta, twice with Louisa and once with one of their cousins, who was probably young enough to be his daughter. Had she been sizing up the competition as well?

---

Poseidon was waiting. He always was. She was so unimaginative that she had not been able to think of another place to meet, even if Sir William always crept up on her there. She had her book ready and she sat there at eleven. Hopefully Sir William would not be the first to show up.

But it was Captain Wentworth who did.

"What did you ask the maid?" Anne inquired, so she would not think of the old days when he had met her here. That had nothing to do with today; it could ruin everything. "What do you think she could know?"

He remained on his feet. Perhaps he too thought that sitting down would remind him of too much. "Servants know everything. She will know, for example, whether Mrs Clay was generous with her favours."

"What does that mean precisely?" She did not want to sound ignorant, but she also did not want to misunderstand him and lose her position as his equal. It was not quite that yet, but it was close enough.

Captain Wentworth looked around himself. He did not want to be overheard. Or perhaps he did not know how to phrase the delicate question. "Did she favour anyone with special attention? Like Sir William? Or Sir Walter, for that matter?"

"He would never! He always mentioned her teeth and her freckles." Anne could not believe it, whatever it might mean. Well, Mrs Clay might have been extremely attentive to her father, but the captain implied a degree of reciprocality and Anne had never noticed anything of the sort.

"Men," said the captain and he seemed to struggle for words even more clearly. "They can be distracted by other qualities."

"Character?" She tried, but she did not think he meant that.

"No, not character. Physical qualities."

"Freckles."

"Lower."

Lower? Anne gave him a wry smile when she recalled Mrs Clay always leaning forward. "Oh, that."

"She possessed one of those other qualities."

"In ample supply."

He looked relieved to find she understood. "Yes, that one exactly."

"But not my father." Anne spoke decidedly, even though she had always been afraid of exactly that.

"But he did appreciate the human body. He had statues all over the park." He gave Poseidon a pointed look and then leant against the foot of the statue.

"Those are godly bodies and he appreciated them because they are more beautiful than humans, I should think." But in reality she was merely supposing.

Captain Wentworth appeared to disagree, for he gave Poseidon a doubtful inspection. "Mind you," he then said, "we looked at 'the other man', but we completely forgot to consider the opposite."

"Mrs Clay could have been killed by 'the other woman', the wife of a lover?" In that case they would definitely be looking outside the Hall. Anne wished it could be true. If only it could be someone she did not know!

"Exactly. I do not know why I never thought of this before. Perhaps we were so focused on the men she might have been meeting, but women can be vicious as well. I do not underestimate women, you know."

Anne was not so sure.

"But I really have no idea where else to look at the moment. Perhaps the maid can shed some light on the matter."

"I will speak to her," Anne said. "She may tell me something; she knows me."

---

Anne walked to the Hall and asked to speak to Martha. The maid appeared with a nervous look, evidently afraid she would not finish her work. Anne could reassure her. "I shall not keep you long, Martha, but there are some things I should like to ask you. Which bad things can you tell me about Mrs Clay?"

Martha was astonished at being asked such a question.

Anne thought she might be afraid of the consequences. "Do not tell anyone I asked you. If they ask what I wanted, tell them I asked about your mother and if she would appreciate a basket."

"Yes, Miss." Martha was still a long way from understanding why Miss Elliot, of all people, wanted her to speak ill of the dead. Miss Elliot was known for being all that was good and correct.

"Now, about Mrs Clay..."

"You are not the first to ask."

"Captain Wentworth?"

Martha blushed. "Yes, him. He offered me money. I did not take it. I do not trust men who offer me money."

"Quite right, Martha," Anne said encouragingly. "I think he only wanted information, however. Or has he bothered you?" She felt a sudden fear, but it could not be. He would hardly ask her to question a maid he had bothered, because then it would all come out.

"No, Miss, not him. I was afraid I had got that wrong when he offered me money."

"Now, Mrs Clay..."

"I think she liked being bothered," Martha said cautiously. She was still not entirely convinced that she could really say something bad about the woman. "Her door was wide open for men with money."

"Was there anyone particular in the house she invited in?"

"Everyone but the admiral, I should think."

"The captain too?" Anne tried to keep her face impassive. She did not want it to be so.

"She tried. I'm quite sure she did. I don't know if it worked."

That was not much of a relief, but she did not want to ask any more about him in case she heard something unsettling. "Sir William?"

"I think so. It was already before the captain arrived, so it must have been him if it wasn't the admiral."

"And you are very sure it was not the admiral?" Anne asked to be certain. She could not believe it of him either.

"He couldn't marry her. He has Mrs Croft."

"Was there anyone else?"

"Someone -- or more -- outside the house. Her shoes were sometimes wet in the morning, so she must have been out. I never asked. That is not my place."

"Thank you, Martha. You have been very helpful," Anne said thoughtfully. The wet shoes were important. It was interesting that Martha had immediately assumed that Mrs Clay must have been meeting a man. "I shall send your mother a basket."

The conversation had only taken a few minutes. Martha's mother had been poorly for a while. It was easily checked if anyone cared to ask what Miss Elliot had come to do.

She would have bubbled with excitement if there had not been the uncertainty about Captain Wentworth, who might or might not have used what Mrs Clay had offered. She would not like it if he had.

Given that Mrs Clay had regularly gone out during the night, one would say this had something to do with her death. Either the man she had presumably gone to meet, or someone jealous of him, could have been involved.

What could there be to be jealous of, however? Anne did not exactly know. It was more logical for a man outside to be jealous of a man inside. Could that still work? Yes, it could, if the man outside had discovered she was also dallying with a man inside -- assuming the men inside were wealthier and of higher rank. A man might not like being jilted in favour of a baronet. But the baronet might also not like sharing his mistress with a local shopkeeper and the like.

"You look so serious," Mrs Croft said all of a sudden. "Is anything the matter?"

"Oh, the usual," Anne said, trying to speak lightly. She was taken aback by Mrs Croft's sudden appearance, because she had thought she was all alone. "There is so much to think of these days. Are you nearly rid of your guests?"

"Did you notice a spring in my step?"

"Actually, I did not notice you approach at all."

"I have learnt to move silently through my own home to avoid everyone," Mrs Croft said jokingly.

"I am glad you did not avoid me."

Mrs Croft smiled and took her by the arm. They went to a small office where Mrs Croft did her accounts. Here Anne was made to sit. "Anne, now tell me what you are up to."

"Up to?" Anne was a little taken aback at her tone.

"Yes, you are extremely interested in Mrs Clay's death."

"I am?" So this was what being called in by the headmistress felt like. It had never happened to her at school, but she had heard about it from girls who had got into scrapes. They were called into the office and they were put in a chair.

Mrs Croft sat on the desk with her arms crossed and stared hard at her. "This is the second time you came into this house unannounced to...do things."

"I do not have anything to tell you," Anne squeaked. The admiral himself had assured her she was welcome to come in at any time. Mrs Croft now seemed to disapprove. She was confused.

"You left me a note that I have yet to answer, because I could not figure out your purpose. It is true that that hussy tried to seduce the admiral," Mrs Croft remarked in a steely voice. "But a few words from me put an end to that. I had no reason to kill her."

If Mrs Croft had had that same look in her eyes, Anne could well believe that Mrs Clay had given up. Anyone would give up when faced with the formidable figure of Mrs Croft. "Did you also not hire your brother to do it?" She shrunk after she had spoken. Mrs Croft would have her flogged.

Mrs Croft considered that question. She took her time, perhaps to prevent herself from indeed calling a servant to flog Anne. "Do you not think me capable of handling my own affairs?"

"I do, Madam."

Mrs Croft put on a high, helpless voice. "Frederick, please come and kill this woman who showed herself to James in her shift."

Anne said nothing. If she had not been so subdued she might have laughed. Now she could not. She was only regretting that she had spoken.

"The whole idea is as preposterous as appearing before the admiral in a state of undress."

It probably was, Anne conceded. Mrs Croft frightened her. Beyond a doubt she was eminently capable of handling her own affairs.

"The admiral was not impressed," Mrs Croft continued.

"I never thought he would be," Anne said, still in a little squeak. "He is devoted to you."

"Yes, my dear, he is impressed by me in a shift, not by some hussy."

Anne crawled as deep into the chair as possible. She wanted to hide. "I never thought you could not handle your own affairs and I certainly never though you had shoved Mrs Clay into the pond." But then she found enough strength to walk out before she could reveal that she had come here to ask Martha if the admiral -- among others -- had ever taken the hussy's bait.

Dwigfriends,
I wanted to let you know that I still remember your stories, Fearful Symmetry, A Lesson In The Theater, and Saving Grace!
I don't mean to be demanding or put undue pressure on you, however let me encourage you and offer some cyberchocolate covered strawberries, hot chocolate, or whatever you would like!!
If I can help, please contact me!
*\o/*

There are so many ways that society can separate our favorite P&P couple. Observing (or ignoring) different religious holidays is one I hadn't seen done before in a modern, and these traditions certainly can prove helpful in bringing together our young lovers. Pardon any mistakes as I stumble through some unfamiliar, perhaps touchy, terrain in this trilogy of festive tales. Part Two will follow whenever I'm allowed to post again.


Part 1: Menorahs & Mistletoe



When William Darcy was growing up, every house in his neighborhood sparkled with festive green and red lights. Red ribbons wound around columns, plastic penguins lined the walkways, inflatable Santas and plastic manger scenes populated the front yards. But his house was dark, the lawn bare.

His school’s holiday pageant included a Christmas tree and a menorah on stage. He was never chosen to light a candle, but when he was in second grade, his name was picked from a Santa hat. He would be his classroom’s honorary ornament presenter, and would hang the class ornament on the tree in front of the entire school. Will had never been near a real live Christmas tree before. He hadn’t known the needles were sharp and would prick his finger, bringing tears to his eyes and making him drop the pretty tinfoil snowflake he’d cut out. The entire school sat in silence, hearing his cries of “Ow!” and watching the snowflake drift slowly to the floor of the stage. The laughter began in the third row, when his most hated classmate, George Wickham, started chortling, “Told ya so!” The teachers shushed them, but Will remembered George’s complaints from earlier in the day: “Why is the Jewish kid hanging an ornament? That’s not fair!” Will dreaded the bus ride home. In his mind, not even the glimpse of Jamie McPhister’s Power Rangers underwear when she’d reached up to light the menorah could overcome such notoriety.

His parents heard the story at a neighborhood party. His father called him to his study and reminded him that he was not to celebrate Christmas, that he should have declined when his name was pulled. He was Jewish and should be proud of it. His mother, as usual, said nothing.

That memory returned every year, even now, twenty years later. He stood in the doorway at his best friend’s HanuKrismas party and wondered why holidays were supposed to be so fun. This party was fun, if you were moved by the spirit of the holiday or the spirits Charles had arrayed on his bar. But Will was not moved by any of it.

His parents had been gone for more than 10 years now. The breach their marriage had created between their families had never healed, not even with their deaths. His universe remained centered on boarding school, college and the kindness of friends who enjoyed his company at their Thanksgiving tables.

The winter holidays, he’d spent traveling. All of the important holidays his father had impressed upon him and which they had solemnly marked—Passover, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah—went by without notice. Much notice, anyway.

He did wander into synagogue occasionally, but he felt disconnected from the familiar words of the Torah. They made him grieve. By age 19, he’d decided to minor in comparative religions and figure out what bits and pieces felt right to him. As a result, “optimistic agnostic” was the best way he could describe himself now.

A peal of laughter caught his attention and drew him back to the party. Charles was laughing in the corner with his latest flame, Jane Bennet. Charles was always so happy. He was always with happy people. Sometimes Will wondered why they were friends. What did Charles find fun about him?

“Excuse me, can I squeeze by?”

He looked down. A brunette in a black sweater carrying two glasses of punch was trying to get through the doorway.

“I said, excuse me!”

Her eyes were a fiery green and she was giving him an annoyed, disapproving once-over.

He scooted to the side. “Sorry,” he mumbled. She passed through the doorway to a loud group of partygoers. He recognized one or two from previous parties, and gathered himself.Dammit, mingle.

He approached the group and stood silently, listening to their jokes about ugly Christmas sweaters.

“How about you, Mr. Tall, Dark and Quiet? No stories about hideous reindeer sweaters or mustachioed great-aunts?”

Will realized that it was the girl with the drinks talking to him. “Um, no. I think my grandmother had a bearded wattle, though.”

Four of the people standing in the group looked confused. The girl burst out laughing. “So did mine!”

She moved closer to him and reached out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth. My sister over there is dating Charles. I’m the hanger-on. Third-wheel. Designated driver.”

“Yada-yada-yada,” Will replied quietly. “Sounds familiar.”

She laughed again.

He nodded and realized he was smiling back at her. “I’m Will Darcy, resident humbug.”

“So I noticed.” Elizabeth suddenly looked past him and grinned wickedly. “You do realize you were standing under the mistletoe for like, 10 minutes, right?”

He spun around and spotted the offending greenery. “Oh god, no. Did I…I mean did I look desperate or anything?”

She wrinkled her nose and considered him “No. You just looked like you wanted to be anyplace but here.”

She swallowed the last of her drink and put the glass on a table. “Do you have someplace else you’d rather be?”

Will thought of his quiet apartment. The only signs of life were swimming in his fish tank. He often preferred it there, alone with a book and his music, but not right now.

“No.”

“So, you’re not a party guy. Hmmm,” Elizabeth said, stroking her chin in an exaggerated manner. “Let me see. Are you the designated “Debbie Downer” of this holiday fest?”

Will was smiling until he realized perhaps this very attractive, very friendly woman wasn’t joking around with him. Maybe she was just annoyed with his solemn personality at what was supposed to be a fun night. Crap.

“I’m afraid so,” he stuttered.

“Whew, good,” she replied. “I don’t know anybody here, and they all keep talking about who they want to sleep with and which overpriced, immediately obsolete electronic thingie they want for Christmas. Want to go for a walk and look at the lights?”

She stared at him for a second and looked away. “I’m not trying to pick you up, sorry. I’m just not in the mood for vacuous holiday banter.”

“Me either.” He nodded dumbly. “The coats are in Charles’ bedroom.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth whispered. “But be very careful. We have to pass under the mistletoe in every doorway. Could be a very dangerous mission.”

“I’ll protect you,” he said, his heart swelling.

They’d walked two blocks, commenting on nice window displays and taking turns dropping coins in the buckets of Salvation Army bell-ringers, before she said it.

“I love the red and the green lights, but I think the blue and white lights for Hanukkah are so beautiful. I want to mingle them, but it’s probably not politically correct.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“My mom is half-Jewish,” Elizabeth said. “But it was all Santa, all month long at our house. Her parents raised her that way. My sisters loved it. But I’ve always wondered if maybe a little mistletoe and a little menorah would make a good mix.”

She stopped and watched the train putter around the tracks in the Grimsley’s Toy Store window. “There’s magic in both.”

“A little gelt in your stocking?” Will said, his heart pounding.

Some long-ago lyrics popped into his head. Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel. I made it out of clay…

She turned her head and looked up at him. “Exactly. Dreidels and candy canes.”

They stepped back from under the store awning and Will felt snow falling on his face. It felt cold and wet. It felt wonderful. He brushed it off his lashes. “You wouldn’t mix Halloween and Valentine’s Day too, would you? Or New Year’s and Labor Day?”

He waited for her to answer, but she just smiled up at him, stifling a laugh and shrugged. A large snowflake drifted down slowly, landing on the tip of her nose. Will reached his finger to brush it off. She caught his hand.

“L’chaim.”

~%~

Hi, Guys,

Just in case no one looks all the way down at where the "Final Apology" thread is now, I though I should start a new subject.

An indirect message from Stan.

He's doing fine, and thinking about joining another JAFF group (one of those that can't be mentioned by name here, but think about the town nearest to Longbourn in P&P). He hasn't joined yet, AFAIK.

If you want to get in touch with him off-site, you can reach him at one of these two e-mails.

SHurd@TrioLotion.com

or

stanh@hititfitness.com

JIM D.

Chapter Eight

When Anne was outside, she saw Lady Russell walk towards the house. Although her godmother undoubtedly had other business and was not coming to find her, Anne wanted someone to like her after Mrs Croft had been so unexpectedly stern. She felt herself nearly crying. There was no one she could depend on to act predictably any more.

Lady Russell was so surprised that she had hesitated a second before comforting Anne, who was holding out her arms. This was quite unusual for both of them. "What is wrong? Why?"

"I do not know."

"Oh Anne!" Lady Russell squeezed her a little tighter.

Anne supposed she had last hugged Lady Russell after her mother died and perhaps not even then. She could not remember. It was so long ago, but she found she had desperately needed such close contact. She did not want to let go.

"It pains me to see you so unhappy, Anne," Lady Russell whispered. "Perhaps I have made mistakes, but I have always tried to make you happy. What is wrong now? Is there anything I could do?"

Anne wanted to find something else to cry about too, because she was no ready to lose this attention. She settled for a repetition when she could in all honesty not find anything life-threatening to complain about. She had merely been silly. "I do not know."

"What happened?"

She spoke reluctantly. "Mrs Croft gave me a sort of reprimand." She did not want to blame Mrs Croft, but she had to be honest about what had unsettled her.

This surprised Lady Russell. "Undeserved?"

"Not entirely; that is the worst."

"I cannot imagine you deserving a reprimand."

"She asked me a question and I did not answer it," Anne recalled. "And then I asked a very impertinent question. She had every right." Nobody could be blamed for not liking it. She did not know why she had asked it.

"Come with me," Lady Russell decided.

Anne tried to hold her back. "You are not going to speak to her about it, are you? Because really I --"

"No."

Lady Russell took her inside. Anne had no desire to see Mrs Croft again so soon, but they were shown into a room where Admiral and Mrs Croft were speaking earnestly in low voices. After greeting their visitors, the admiral took Anne's arm. "I have something to show you," he said jovially, as if he did not know what had transpired earlier.

She glady allowed herself to be taken to the greenhouse, where he showed her a plant.

"Pretty, is it not?" he asked, examining it from all sides.

"Rather,"Anne agreed, but she did not understand why he showed her a plant. They had never before spoken about plants and she had never known him to have any interest in potted plants. There were a few flowers, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Apparently the admiral had simply not been able to think of another excuse to get her out of the room. "Afraid of Sophy, were you?"

"Yes."

"There is no need. She is concerned about you."

"Concerned?" Not angry? Anne tried to review the conversation in that light.

"Someone gave Mrs Clay a thwack on the head," the admiral remarked as if such things happened every day.

She was surprised, having thought that only she and Captain Wentworth had bothered to think about the accident at all. Apparently two others knew what had happened too, for if the admiral knew, so did Mrs Croft. "Oh, you know."

"And," he lowed his voice, "I cannot bring myself to care."

She nodded, not shocked at all. "Because she was a temptress. I hope you did not ask Captain Wentworth to sort it out. Mrs Croft reprimanded me for asking that."

"Good grief," the admiral said in amusement. "One does not ask stupid young men to sort out temptresses. The dangers are too great."

"But he is not a stupid young man, is he?"

"A stupid not so young man, if you will."

"Oh." Anne felt like a stupid not so young woman.

"Always being at sea with no women around does that to a man. If one has not a wife to explain all the intricacies of women..."

"Intricacies? Admiral, I assure you I see very little difference between women and men."

"Well, do not tell him. You would take away half our fun."

---

Before dinner, Anne sat on her balcony again. She would soon have to get dressed, but Lady Russell sometimes took a little nap after they retired, giving Anne more than enough time to do as she pleased. Today she did not feel like reading, writing letters or rearranging her closets.

Her decision to sit outside was rewarded, for she could see the figure of Captain Wentworth approach. It was increasingly unsettling, for he came straight at the Lodge instead of simply taking an innocent walk through the park. She forgot about her tea and then he stopped under her balcony. She had to see what he came to do, because this was hardly the time for a visit. They ought to be dressing at the Hall as well.

"I have something to say," he said.

Anne waited, but he was not planning to say it there. He started climbing. She was very glad Lady Russell was on the other side of the house and so was the dining room. What would the servants think if they saw him climb past the window? And clearly he did not think he could fall. She had best not suggest the possibility either.

"I went to see Mr Ingleby, as you know," Captain Wentworth began after he had climbed up to the balcony and caught his breath. Gentlemen on the wrong side of thirty did not do these things so easily any more. "You think he is a boring old...er...bore."

Anne sat down. Evidently he had found something that indicated the contrary. She could not begin to imagine what it was. Mr Ingleby not a bore? It was hardly possible.

"Well, I too ask myself how he ever managed to get Mrs Ingleby to be interested in him, but that is irrelevant to our investigation. What is relevant is that Mr Ingleby knows a lot more than we thought --"

"We had not given any thought to what he might think," Anne cut in to regain some control over the situation.

"Because we did not think he might know anything, but he does and a lot of that is relevant as well."

"And he told you about it?"

"No, he did not."

She was confused. "Then how would you know?" And what had he come to tell her? It had to be of some importance, but he was not agitated, nor in a hurry.

"Ah," Captain Wentworth said with a smug, superior smile. "I am good at those things."

She would not argue that point with him. Very likely he would not let her win. Still, it puzzled her. "But it cannot have been too important, because you went to see him a few days ago and you are only telling me about it now."

"Ah, yes. I first had to ascertain whether you would be able to accept the news in a sensible manner. Or if it was even relevant enough to share with you in the first place. You see, most of what Mr Ingleby said is not fit for a lady's ears."

Anne could not believe it. "Mr Ingleby? He seems so dull!" She was now curious about the information that was not fit for a lady's ears and hoped Captain Wentworth would share it with her. He appeared to be willing.

"Oh, he is, terribly dull, but he has certain ideas about women that -- well, I know some women who would throw their teacups at his head. For example, he would think you too delicate to be sitting out on a balcony on a November day."

She gave him a defiant look. "I have a dressing gown, a blanket, gloves and a cup of tea."

"Yes, yes, so I see and it is not my place to argue with you. If you were locked out by accident, I should kick in the door, but now, no." Captain Wentworth perched himself on the ledge where Anne's cup of tea was standing. He did take care to place himself between her and the cup, in case she was going to throw it at some point.

"But you did not talk to him about me."

"No. But from what he said about the place and the role of women, and the needs of men, I concluded that I knew some women who would throw things at his head. Most of the conversation was actually about the needs of men. I told you I did not trust clergymen."

Anne understood very little and she certainly could not predict what he was going to tell her.

He took a deep breath. "I have reasons to suspect Sir Walter married somebody -- in Bath, or another place away from here."

She gasped. "Who?"

"Not Mrs Clay; that much I can say for certain. The first question is, who was this woman? The second question is, was the marriage consummated? Evidently Mr Ingleby thinks it was, because men have needs," he added in an emphatical whisper.

Anne clutched her hands to her chest and looked embarrassed. "Why would you want to know?"

The captain gave her a patient look. "It is all very mortifying and improper, I am sure, but if there was a wife, Sir William can only be sure of his title in several months. Do I need to explain why?"

She shook her head.

"Precisely. Because there may be an heir, born or unborn."

"But I know nothing of this. I was not told."

"No, the only people who know are the woman in question and Mr Ingleby. I am not sure Mrs Clay's death was connected to this marriage. I cannot see why someone would want to get rid of her if she knew about it. Unless..." he said with a thoughtful look, "she lied and said Sir Walter had actually married her and no one else knew. She would of course have been cunning enough to consummate the marriage and get herself with child. Sir William would then consider her a danger to his position."

Anne felt sick.

"If it was someone else, the question is: has she borne him a son?" he concluded. "Or is she going to?"

She wanted to laugh hysterically, but she had to keep her voice down. "This is too much for me."

"Yes," he said with something akin to sympathy. "I thought you would be able to take it, but I spoke too soon, I see."

"I want to throw myself into the pond."

Captain Wentworth raised his eyebrows. "Why? What would that solve?"

She raised trembling fingers to her temples. "It would get these images out of my head!"

"I will have you know that the pond is cold."

"I told you so. You did not seem to believe me at the time."

"Women do not suffer the cold as well as men."

"Ten years ago I would have challenged you to a water duel. Now, I let you keep your faulty opinions."

Captain Wentworth looked almost appreciative of a water duel. He struggled visibly with its attraction and pulled a straight and serious face. "I am sorry I had to speak of this. The story would not be complete without it. The consequences of his possibly having had a wife are too important."

Yes, she understood that and she tried to pull herself together. It was difficult when it involved her father. She would feel betrayed if it was all true. "How will we find out? We must find out that this is all a big fabrication."

"I shall need to talk to Ingleby again. He would not tell me everything, because of course being unmarried at my age means I am up to all kinds of immoral activities due to my needs and my not being susceptible to his religious talk did not help much to establish a bond between us. He would tell me something out of some feeling of superiority, but in order to hear everything I must agree with him. And I cannot. There, I have shocked you. Do not prove Mr Ingleby right. Take it like a man." He swung a leg over the balcony. "I must dress for dinner."

Anne did not know if she could do the same.

---

"Is anything the matter, Anne?" Lady Russell inquired. "You were late for dinner and you are so distracted."

Anne could hardly tell her that Captain Wentworth had climbed up to her balcony to converse with her. And about what! That was even more impossible to say. She could not even come up with a lie. She could only look utterly bemused.

"Is it still Mrs Croft?"

It was perhaps wisest to say it was. "A bit." If she forced herself to think about Mrs Croft right now, she would not even be lying. But it was difficult to get her mind away from her father's possible marriage -- and the consequences of that -- and challenging Captain Wentworth to a water duel.

"But I told you what she said to me."

"I know." And thankfully Mrs Croft had said nothing at all about Mrs Clay, but she had only described it as a question about my guests. Lady Russell seemed utterly devoid of curiosity, for which Anne could only be glad.

"Do not think about it any more. She really was not bothered."

Blurb: An absurdly fluffy piece in which Dr. George Knightley and his best friend and nurse practitioner, Emma Woodhouse, realize their love for one another with a little help from some Christmas lights and some mistletoe

---

Emma Woodhouse loved everything about Christmas-music, snow, trees, presents, mistletoe, eggnog, everything. George Knightley, on the other hand, was not a big fan of Christmas. While Emma would listen to Christmas music non-stop from Thanksgiving until Christmas, George would prefer to never hear the stuff at all. If he had his way, Emma would not be allowed to have a Christmas tree in the lobby of their office or a miniature tree on her desk or a poinsettia on her desk. And she definitely would not be allowed to try to decorate his office or his apartment.

---

But George did not get his way. He never had where Emma was concerned. From the day that his ten-year-old self first met his father’s best friend’s newborn daughter, he hadn’t been able to stop the redheaded whirling dervish from turning his life upside down. From her infancy, she had always been remarkably strong-willed, and while he was always willing to try to make sure she maintained boundaries and was kept within the bound of reason she still managed to bring disorder and excitement to his life.

Up until a few years earlier, he had mostly managed to keep her at a distance from his life. But when Emma was officially licensed as a nurse practitioner three years earlier, her father had hired her on at his medical practice where George worked as a pediatrician. From that point on, George had learned to pick his battles, and he had decided after Emma’s first Christmas at the office, having a Christmas tree in his office was not worth fighting over.

---

About ten minutes after beginning to work with Drs. Woodhouse, Knightley, and Weston, Emma had appointed herself as the office’s official social coordinator. From Friday night post-work drinks to elaborate Christmas parties, Emma planned it all. In fact, now in her third year at the office, Emma almost seemed to be building a small side career as a party planner after having very successfully planned office manager Molly Taylor’s wedding to Dr. Geoff Weston over the summer and then handling nurse Jane Fairfax’s marriage to Dr. Frank Churchill.

---

But for now, December of 2013, Emma had decorated the office for Christmas. There was a large tree in the reception area and decorations hung in every exam room. There were even decorations in George’s office despite his protests. Emma had even hung mistletoe over Rita Smith’s front reception desk, which had created more than a bit of awkwardness among the staff.

---

Now, it was the evening of December 23, and Emma was happily buzzing about the office while humming “White Christmas.” George was reading over Jonas Elton’s files for the day. Jonas was a resident from the University of Michigan Hospital System who was spending three days a week at WKW, as George and Emma jokingly called the office. Jonas was a completely capable physician but he lacked something both in his record keeping and his bedside manner. George often wondered how Jonas had gotten so far in the practice of medicine without someone pointing out how disorganized his patient reports were or how terrible his bedside manner. He also occasionally wondered how someone could be so charming with women in social situations but so blunt and almost rude with patients.

George was puzzling over those questions when Emma’s cheerful face appeared in his doorway. The redhead was wearing a (stunning, if George was honest) green dress (that accentuated all of her body’s positive aspects, if George was honest) with snow-themed accessories chosen, no doubt, to distract her youngest patients. “George, it’s about six-thirty. Aren’t you going home tonight?”

“It’s six thirty?” he asked. “But Rita just stuck her head in her two or three minutes ago to tell me that she and Marty were going home and to wish me a Merry Christmas.”

Emma smiled brightly; she had finally come to terms with the relationship between Rita and office’s only male nurse. “Oh, George, that was over an hour ago. Marty and Rita left around five or five-fifteen. Come on. Leave Jonas’s shenanigans behind for a few days; they’ll still be here when you get back on Thursday.”

“Just a couple more minutes, you can go home, Em.”

She shook her head and plopped herself down in front of his desk. “I’ll sit here and wait. No one should stay this late at work alone two days before Christmas.”

George smiled at her. “You’re a gem, Em.”

“I try,” she replied. Humility never had been one of her strong suits. “I can’t leave my best friend alone after all.”

She really had become his best friend. And he truly enjoyed her company. “So are you excited to have Jake, Belle, and the kids come home tomorrow?”

Emma grinned. “I can’t wait to see the kids. They’re growing up so fast and we don’t get to see enough of them.”

Six years earlier, George’s younger brother, Jake, had married Emma’s older sister, Isabelle. The pair now had three children together-George, Emma, and Jacqueline. Baby Jacqueline was named after both of her grandfathers-Jack Woodhouse and Jack Knightley. Jake and Belle lived in Washington D.C., a far trip from their hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan. And for Jack Woodhouse, the idea of traveling to the nation’s capital was unthinkable, so the only time he ever saw his daughter and her family was when they came to visit hi. Jake Knightley had little patience with his father-in-law’s refusal to travel and would have preferred to have the rest of the family come to them for Christmas at least once, but Dr. John Aloysius Woodhouse had a will of iron and he would not be moved.

---

Fifteen minutes later, George was done with Elton’s reports for the day, and Emma had sung her way through an entire Michael Buble Christmas album. (Admittedly, it was his five-song album, not the longer one.)

“All right, Em,” he said, rising from his desk. “I’m done. We can head home.”

“Want to grab dinner on the way?” she asked.

“Sure, what were you thinking?”

As she shrugged, George noticed an odd light dancing in her bright blue eyes.

“Let me look at some of the takeout menus on Rita’s desk.”

“Sure thing,” he replied. “Let me shut down my computer and such, and I’ll meet you at the desk.”

“Sounds great,” she said as she headed out of the office.

---

When George came out into the reception area, the Christmas tree and all of the lights still brightly shining. He knew Emma wouldn’t want to turn them off until the last possible moment. She had turned off almost all of the other lights in the room, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere in the normally bustling reception area. Emma was standing next to the desk with a white wool coat over her festive green dress. And looking at her, George was struck by a thought. Emma was utterly beautiful, possibly the most beautiful woman he knew. And while she wasn’t quiet or humble or demure, she was warm, friendly, caring, and giving. She had one of the best hearts on earth. And then another realization flooded his senses-and not for the first time. He loved her. He had first realized this as they walked down the aisle together at Molly and Geoff’s wedding. But now, he knew it. He knew that she was the one he wanted to spend all of his Christmases (and Easters and Thanksgivings and everything in between) with. But he had to play it cool with her.

“Okay, Em,” he said as he approached her and the desk. “What do you have for me?”

Before he knew what was happening, Emma’s hands were around his shoulders and she was kissing him. And then his arms were around her and he was kissing her back. When they finally pulled apart, her hands were resting on his face and she was glowing with joy. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” she said.

“How long?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Since Frank and Jane’s wedding at least, I think.”

“I’ve wanted to do that since Molly and Geoff’s wedding,” he replied.

“Really? But I was such a monster then. I was like maid of honor-zilla.”

He laughed. “You were a whirlwind, but you were acting out of love.”

She smiled. “So you like me?”

“Emma, I love you. I think I’ve loved you for a long time. I realized that I loved you at Geoff and Molly’s wedding, but I think I’ve loved you far longer than that.”

“But you’re always criticizing me.”

“It’s called constructive criticism, Emma. I’ve only ever wanted the best for you.”

She smiled and ran a hand over his dark brown curls. “Well, I should admit that I really do want to become the person you see in me.”

He kissed her again quickly. “Oh Emma, I have full faith that you will become that person.”

She grinned. “George, I love you. I think you might be all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Well, you did have a crush on me when you were ten and I was twenty.”

“And you made fun of me.”

He shrugged. “You were adorable. I couldn’t help myself.”

“But now you love me,” she said with a teasing smile.

“Well, you’ve done a little growing up in the past fifteen years.”

Emma kissed him again. “How do you propose that we tell our families?”

“Oh, let’s just get married and shock them,” he replied jokingly.

“Okay, is the courthouse open tomorrow?” she replied. George knew immediately that she wasn’t kidding.

“Wait, did Emma Woodhouse just agree to elope with me? I always thought you’d want a big wedding.”

“In theory yes, but I’ve planned two big weddings this year. Let Molly and Jane have that. I just want to marry you.”

George smiled. “I love the idea, but I need to ask your dad for permission to marry you. And if I’m going to get married, I really want my brother there for me.”

“Small New Year’s wedding?” Emma suggested.

“Oh Emma, I love your impulsive side. But let’s take a step back and discuss this rationally. I want to marry you, but I want to do it the right way and without offending anyone in our family.”

“Always the logical one,” she replied. “But I agree. We need to do this the right away. Jake and Belle would kill us if we got married without them.”

“But you do want to marry me despite the fact that we’ve never dated?”

Emma grinned. “I’ve known you my entire life, George. I don’t need to date you. I know that I love you and I want to marry you.”

George kissed her again.

---

George and Emma told their families of their intent to marry on Christmas Eve, and no one was surprised. A week later, they were married on New Year’s Eve in a small courthouse ceremony in front of their parents, siblings, nieces, and nephew. Somehow that small wedding was actually exactly what Emma wanted.

---

And a year later on a snow-draped Christmas morning, George and Emma welcomed the first of their three children, Madeleine Noelle.

Blurb: After three years of marriage, George Knightley worries that Emma isn’t happy.

George Knightley had experienced jealously before- a kind of burning jealousy that had seared images of Emma and Frank into his brain. But, that had been before. Now, it was years later. Frank and Jane were, to all appearances, happily married. And, most importantly, he and Emma were perfectly happily married.

Even on the day of his marriage to Emma, George had not understood the endless possibilities of happiness that were opening to him. Of course, George had been indescribably happy to be (finally) marrying Emma. Their marriage had been in the making for twenty-five plus years. Saying the vows had been a relief. Until she had repeated her vows, eyes twinkling and impish smile in place, George had been worried that some calamity would occur, and yet another day would pass in which she was not his wife. Or, more realistically, that she would realize that her brightness of spirit had not met its match in a man ten years older with a distinctly more “stick in the mud” personality. But, then- they had gotten married, and George’s heart had been filled with both bliss and a sense of resolution.

However, even at that moment in the Church, his heart bursting with fullness, he had not comprehended all the endless sources of happiness that he would experience with Emma. He had not understood how waking up each morning to her face would reassure him and give him a sense of constancy that he had lost the day that his parents had died. He had not understood how even their fights could further imbue him with security as to their commitment to one another. He had not understood how coming home to her every night could fill his heart with even more happiness than he had felt on their wedding day. In short, on their wedding day, he could not have comprehended all the simple joys and happiness that were in store for him. Three years of marriage later, he understood this.

Of course, George had too strong a character to blind himself to Emma’s faults or think her to be some sort of virtuous paragon. He was not a silly man. But she was the perfect woman for him. In saner moments, moments in which he was capable of rational thought, he believed himself to be the perfect man for her. A lesser man would have allowed Emma to walk all over him. But, George had to acknowledge that he was not capable of rational thought at this moment.

Seeing Emma and Frank laughing and passionately discuss the merits of a painting in the gallery- a painting that George could not have discussed beyond a cursory “it’s nice, honey” comment- was not doing good things for his stomach. Oh he would not denigrate Emma’s character by inferring something improper in her interaction with Frank. She was too loyal and too firm in her moral integrity to betray their marital bonds. George would never doubt her. But, watching their shared laughter pervade the gallery and infuse the air with magnetism and golden charm, he wanted to crush the glass in his hand.

Did she regret her choice in men? Did she realize her easy camaraderie with Frank and wish things were different? Did even the tiniest part of her heart ache with the loss of Frank? Did she yearn to go home with him, instead of her staid husband? The picture that Emma and Frank presented was beautiful and charming. Unaware of his actions, George took a bigger gulp of his drink. Oh he knew, Emma would never betray him in action. Nevertheless, he didn’t know if he could survive if even a part of her heart or mind longed for Frank.

But how could she not regret her choice? George might be constant, faithful, and dependable. Yet, Frank and Emma shared the same interests- music, art, travel, culture, opera…. George had always been more a sports fan. He could appreciate a beautiful piece of art, but, ultimately, it was only paint on paper to him. He would never prefer museums to a baseball game. Forget the ballet, which seemed akin to the dentist to him, but which Emma adored. It was Emma who had insisted on attending the opening of a trendy gallery. While he felt wholly out of place, she could not have been more comfortable. She was a gorgeous butterfly, and never more had George felt more like an inadequate bug.

Before he was fully conscious of his actions, George found himself walking out of the gallery. He felt numb. He had known that his relationship with Emma stood on unequal ground- how could it not when knew that she did not, or could not, love him to the same degree with which he loved her? Never more had this inequality been presented with such stark clarity than it had today, however, and he felt every bit as if Emma had struck at his heart with the thin stiletto heels she was so fond of wearing. He was so consumed in his thoughts that he did not hear the sound of heels running on the sidewalk behind him. He only noticed her, when her hand tugged at his sleeve.

Her other hand was holding his winter jacket. Emma was rarely an intuitive person. Usually, she assumed she knew what someone else wanted and blazed on ahead with that assumption. Something must have alerted her to his state of mind, and she just silently helped him into his coat. Digging into some giant bag she was forever insisting on carrying, she found a pair of his mitten, shoved his hands into them, and began propelling him towards their car. This reminder of the indomitable force of her character shook him out of whatever fog he had been in.

“Emma,” he began.

“No- not until we get inside.” She shook her head, and George was vaguely convinced that he could hear her muttering things about stupid men and the lack of proper winter garments.

Before he knew it, she had shepherded him into the car, blasted the heat, and turned the full force of her glare onto him. “Since I refuse to believe that I married someone so stupid as to go out in the middle of December without a coat, I have to believe there’s some other explanation for why you were risking pneumonia.”

He did feel a tad bit ridiculous now, especially as he stared at her left hand tapping impatiently on her leg. She wore his ring on that hand, and he reached for that hand, needing to feel the tangible comfort of her. How could he explain his feelings? Rationally, he was aware that he was being foolish, yet these fears felt all too real. Would one day come where she realized how different they were and miss Frank’s company? Had that day already come where she was tired of him?

“I went a little crazy, when I saw you with Frank.” He could see that had had shocked her- she had not expected jealousy. He wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but he was sure that he was taken aback by his confession. She opened her mouth to respond, but he stilled her with shake of his head.

“No, Emma, I know you would never cheat on me. But, when I saw the two of you together….All I could wonder is if you wished you had picked him.” George had never been good at expressing his feelings. As an attorney, he was all too used to relying on logic and facts. It had taken him five years to realize the true nature of his feelings for Emma, and another two more years before he found the courage to tell her about those feelings. Now, however hesitantly, he told her of every doubt and insecurity he had felt this evening.

Drained, he stared at her apprehensively. She was biting her lip, a habit from her childhood days that she still reverted to when deep in thought. “Well, I take that back. I did marry a stupid man.” It was his turn to be shocked. Of all the possible gamut of reactions, he had not foreseen this.

“George, do you honestly think I’d be so shallow? So, Frank and I both like art! And, so you don’t! It takes more to build a life together than a few shared interests. You complete me, George. You bring me balance. Without you, I’d forget to eat, forget to pay bills, forget to do anything but write. Without you, I’d never question my stupid judgments and probably ruin the lives of everyone around me.

Plus, if you want to talk about insecurity- should I tell you how I feel at every single one of your law firm events? To hear everyone talking about my brilliant husband’s legal victories and know my professional achievements will never hold a candle to yours. Don’t you think I know what your colleagues think about me? That I’m some sort of trophy wife, stupid and only valuable for my looks?

I’ve never cared what they thought. I only care what you think, George. Your opinion is the most important thing in the world to me. Anytime anything good happens, you’re the first one that I want to tell. Anytime, my stories get rejected, and I feel like an enormous failure- you’re the only person in this planet that I want to talk to. I…..can’t believe that you don’t know how much I love you. I thank God every day that you’re my husband. I thank God for our life together. I can’t imagine being with anyone BUT you. How can you not know that?”

George could see that Emma’s eyes were suspiciously bright. And, really, what else could he do but kiss her, beg her forgiveness, and swear to never be such an idiot again? This would be the best Christmas of his life.

Well I now have an ipad... and a completely blank canvas (other than pinterest!!).

Any ideas for apps? What do you love/find useful? I have 2 kids under 4 if that helps :)

Thanks heaps, hope this is an ok topic for the tearoom...

Hi!

I saw the topic about "A Gentleman From Gloucestershire " so I went to look for it in JAFF. I found no Jimmy there, nor his story. How can it be? Are old stories not listed?

Thanks