When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand

Posted on 2025-06-30

Summary: When Mary Bennet declares, “Jane must take the coach!”, Longbourn’s rhythms are upended. As her mother’s schemes and Lydia’s recklessness court scandal, Mary demands order and justice, much to the shock of everyone who ever thought her merely bookish.

From the hearthside dramas of Hertfordshire to the glittering ballrooms of London, alliances shift, loyalties are tested, and Mary finds herself at the center of a whirlwind.

Chapter 1

A little over twenty miles north of London, near the town of Meryton, lay the small village of Longbourn.

With an entail in place, and no son to inherit, the current residents of the estate and principal inhabitants of the area. The Bennet family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet and their five daughters Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia.

One morning, after breaking their fast, the entire family was in the parlour. Mary’s two youngest sisters discussed nothing but visiting their mother’s sister in Meryton, Aunt Phillips, Mr. Bingley’s large fortune, and the recent arrival of a militia regiment to be stationed in Meryton for the winter. Her mother became animated at the topic of officers and commented that a young colonel could be worth five or six thousand a year.

Sometimes, when the noise and chatter seemed to close in around her, Mary could not help but wonder what it would be like to belong to a different family, one where she was not always the misfit, but rather understood or even cherished for herself.

Mary took a deep breath and counted to ten in Latin to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. She refrained from commenting on the fallacies in her mother’s remarks and the general absurdity of her behaviour. She would never understand why her father exerted himself to make fun of his wife but never to admonish or correct her improper behaviour and uneducated statements.

As the middle child, and the only one of plain appearance, Mary often felt herself lonely, outshone, and overlooked by everyone in the house. She knew they considered her dull and more often than not, left her to her own devices. She never truly felt as though she belonged as part of this family at Longbourn.

She had long observed others when they thought she was reading Fordyce’s Sermons, and was adept at noticing what others overlooked.

Her mother’s outbursts had only worsened since Mr. Bingley had leased Netherfield Park, an estate but three miles from Longbourn. Once mama heard that Mr. Bingley had a large fortune, four or five thousand a year according to gossip, she grew near-obsessive with the idea of one of her daughters, preferably Jane or Lydia, becoming that man’s wife.

If she were being completely honest with herself, Mary knew that some of her mother’s determination was born of fear. All of Meryton assumed her father was not a wealthy man, and with five daughters, their dowries were modest, therefore the sisters were not likely to attract local suitors.

Mama had long feared being cast into the hedgerows when Papa’s cousin inherited, should no son be. Although many of mama’s fears had been resolved, there were not many men of marriageable age in Meryton, and those who did were already well known to the Bennet sisters.

The pessimistic side of Mary feared Mama’s motives were less about love and more about social triumph over Lady Lucas, their closest neighbour. That one of her favourite daughters became the mistress of Netherfield Park, while Charlotte Lucas remained unmarried at the age of twenty-seven.

Thankfully, the conversation was interrupted when a footman entered with a note for her eldest sister Jane. It came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer.

Mary’s mother’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, “Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us, make haste, my love.”

“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane before she read the note aloud.

My Dear Friend,

If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.

Yours ever,

Caroline Bingley

Mary was not fond of the inhabitants of Netherfield Park. Most of the landowners had paid calls on Mr. Bingley when he arrived at Netherfield about six weeks ago, but the ladies in the area were first introduced to their new neighbours at the Meryton Assembly almost a month ago. It was the work of but a moment to determine Mr. Bingley had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners, but as the assembly progressed it was an affront to Mary’s sense of decorum to watch his eyes wander from one pretty face to the next, to land on Jane, before he repeated the action, undoubtedly to see if new ladies had entered the room.

Mr. Bingley’s sisters, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, appeared to be fine women, with an air of decided fashion, but to Mary they were proud and conceited, with their noses firmly in the air. Mr. Hurst merely looked a gentleman, but as she encountered him more, found he clearly enjoyed too much wine and played cards to the exclusion of everything else.

Their friend, Mr. Darcy, had drawn the attention of the assembly room the moment he walked in because of his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. Mary had felt inclined to pity Mr. Darcy, until his manners were displayed for all to see and gossip about.

When Mary overheard a conversation between Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy that first evening, she felt unease.

“Come, Darcy,” said Mr. Bingley, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”

“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at Jane.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” and turning round Mr. Darcy looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Mr. Bingley had seemed too interested in all the pretty faces in attendance and she worried about his consistency as a suitor. Was he a rake? If he was, what other improprieties might he conceal? She could tell Jane enjoyed his company, but Mary hoped her eldest sister would guard her heart until they became better acquainted with their new neighbours.

What concerned Mary even more was Mr. Darcy. It was obvious to Mary, even if her sister had missed it in her anger, that Mr. Darcy’s uncomplimentary speech about Elizabeth was an attempt to get Mr. Bingley to leave him alone. Mary could tell that Mr. Darcy was uncomfortable and noticed that his eyes looked sad. She wondered what could make a young man who appeared to have almost every advantage fortune and station could bestow, seem so desolate.

She was slightly amused to see how often Mr. Darcy’s eyes were drawn to Elizabeth. To use her father’s favourite word, it would be diverting to see what would happen if Mr. Darcy decided to pursue her sister. After his offensive remark about Elizabeth’s looks and popularity at assemblies, the man would have no idea of the vehemence he would be unleashing upon himself.

“With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of that .”

“Dining out,” said Mama, looking crestfallen, “that is very unlucky.”

“Can I have the carriage?” asked Jane.

Mama’s expression quickly changed to calculating and she said, “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain, and then you must stay all night.”

Mary could not believe what she was hearing. Did her mother just insinuate Jane should compromise Mr. Bingley? They knew scarcely anything of the man, save he leased Netherfield Park, was reputed to have five thousand a year, two sisters, a brother-in-law, and a friend considered by many to be the proudest and most disagreeable man in the world.

“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth with a smile, “to send her on horseback expecting her to stay all night. It would be perfect if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home in one of their carriages.”

“Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton, and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”

“How can you be certain?” asked a now smirking Elizabeth. “Mayhap the gentlemen will go on horseback and they will be the ones caught in the rain.”

“I had much rather go in the coach,” Jane pled.

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

“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them,” her father said disinterestedly while reading the paper.

Mary could not believe what she was hearing. Suddenly, a haze of fury born of every slight, rude comment, and public embarrassment descended upon Mary and all her repressed feelings burst forth from her mouth as she stood up.

“Jane must take the coach!” Mary stated vehemently, surprising even herself. She felt embarrassed and awkward when everyone turned their stunned eyes on her and appeared unable to speak. She could feel the heat rising on her cheeks and neck and knew her face must be nearly crimson.

“Papa, surely you must see why Jane needs the coach?” she added desperately.

“Oh, hush child. You know not of what you speak,” her mother stated harshly.

“You would shame us and drive him away, Mama, just like Jane’s other suitors,” Mary practically yelled with her hands balled into fists at her side. “When Mr. Bingley, or more likely Mr. Darcy, realizes your intention is to arrange a compromise of the master of Netherfield, how do you think he will react?”

Mary struggled to compose herself, though indignation was rising. “For sure, Mr. Bingley will have a footman stationed in his room overnight and hurry back to London or, if he decides to stay in Meryton, refuse to socialize with any person named Bennet! Pray do not imagine yourself into thinking the Bingley sisters will not spread gossip about us before they leave Netherfield. Our reputations will be in tatters.”

“Compromise?” her mother sputtered. “I did not mean...”

“We are no longer children, Mama, what else could your purpose be?” Mary scoffed. “You want to send one of your daughters to Netherfield, alone, on horseback, when any sensible person could tell rain is imminent, indeed you yourself mentioned it when Jane asked for the carriage, which would force her to stay overnight? Enlighten me if there is another possible interpretation.”

Mary waited a moment to allow mama the opportunity to comment and continued when it was clear none would be forthcoming.

“True Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are in residence, but we are not acquainted with them well enough to ensure a proper chaperone would be present. Do you have no care for the fragility of our family’s reputation?”

Elizabeth muttered, “Clearly not,” her eyes flickering toward Jane.

Mary nearly held her tongue, until Lydia scoffed.

“With as much as you gossip with Aunt Phillips and Lady Lucas about the maidens of our acquaintance, you, of all people, know the loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable,” Mary said her voice trembling, tears in her eyes. “All it takes is one false step, whether true or not, to involve a woman in endless ruin. The reputation of a maiden is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and her actions reflect on her sisters. It is best that Jane, all of us in fact, cannot be too much guarded in our behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”

“Mary, what has come over you?” her father asked incredulously.

What had she done? Well, having gone thus far, she could not retreat now. She took a deep breath to fortify herself and asked, “Papa, I must ask you. Am I truly your daughter, or was I brought to your household by fate, as with Jimmy?”

“You are most certainly a Bennet, Mary,” her father answered with amusement showing clearly on his face. “You may ask Sir William and the Reverend if you do not believe me. Your mother started early labor pains for you while we were at church. It was quite the thing and all anyone spoke about for weeks.”

“Forgive me, Papa, I love you, but I cannot help but notice you pay too little attention to family matters. You hide behind your paper and say nothing while my mother tries to affect the compromise of your eldest daughter and retire away to your books while my youngest sisters run wild risking all our reputations,” said Mary, while her hands were shaking.

“We barely know Mr. Bingley. What assurances have we that Mr. Bingley is not possessed of habits upcoming a gentleman? What if he should prove to be a rake, a gamester, or worse, a deceiver in income or character?” she tried to explain. “Mama’s intention may not have been to affect a compromise, she did seem generally shocked at my suggestion, but what if Mr. Bingley is not a gentleman, takes advantage of the situation, and Jane is left ruined in misery of the acutest kind?”

“I agree, your concerns about Mr. Bingley are valid,” her father admitted while nodding his head.

“What?” her mother cried in alarm.

“Mary is correct that we do not know enough about Mr. Bingley, Mrs. Bennet. Would you be happy giving Jane to a gentleman who may not treat her well, may even purposefully mistreat her, just because you assume he is rich? Or have could use Jane ill and then abandon her because those sisters of his cannot be bothered to chaperone them?”

“Of course not!” Mama exclaimed.

“I do take umbrage with you saying I do not care about my family, though, Mary,” stated papa.

“Truly, father? I am a wallflower at most events and people rarely notice me standing nearby. You remember the gentleman who wrote some verses for Jane when she was but fifteen? During our visit to London, because mama insisted we meet his family, I accidentally overheard a conversation between the brothers after the last dinner at my uncle’s home,” Mary said to the clear surprise of her father.

“The older brother demanded the younger withdraw his attentions from Jane and cited mama’s behaviour as unacceptable. He even went so far as to threaten to cancel his younger brother’s allowance if he did not end their friendship. Jane was abandoned because the older brother did not want to risk their family being burdened with mama and my youngest sisters after you die, Papa,” Mary cried.

“That would be a concern for most men, especially a second son. All you did was confirm what I believed the situation to have been from the start,” her father responded with a nod and an amused expression on his face. “Besides, knowing what we do now, it was unquestionably for the best.”

“Perhaps, but you suffer my mother’s absurd pursuit to find us husbands without rebuke. We are the principal family in the neighbourhood so her behaviour, for the most part, is pardoned in Meryton. However , when we take our yearly shopping trip to my Uncle and Aunt Gardiner’s house in London, I see how people we encounter laugh and mock the things she says. Even the servants and shopkeepers have been heard to laugh behind their hands at her remarks,” she said before she turned to her mother.

“They most certainly do,” Elizabeth agreed. “And they are not discrete.”

“For example, mama, I recently read papas copy of The London Gazette. There was a story that listed how much soldiers earn. A Colonel in the army, depending on his duties, could earn between 400 and 750 pounds per annum and a Lieutenant might earn between 118 and 282 pounds per annum, though I am uncertain whether the militia receives the same remuneration. Would you want your daughters to marry a soldier who makes so little?” Mary asked before turning to her other parent.

“Papa, I know you read the same story, but when Mama said a colonel could be worth over five thousand a year, you did not set down your newspaper and take the opportunity to educate her to save my youngest sisters from folly,” Mary admonished her father.

“That is not true!” Lydia shouted at her. “They are worth more than that!”

“No, they are not,” Elizabeth confirmed. “I read the story as well.”

“Your sisters speak the truth, Lydia,” her father said. “A second son might enlist in the militia because it is safer than the army, if his family supplemented his income, but an heir would not.”

“I do not believe you,” Mary’s youngest sister stated as she crossed her arms.

“Neither do I,” Mama added with a disdainful tilt of her chin. “Lydia would do well to catch the eye of one of the officers.”

“Another one of my points was just illustrated,” stated Mary harshly with a shake of her head. “Lydia is allowed to run wild and, not only does mama not check her, but she encourages Lydia’s bad behaviour and overspending.” Mary felt a bit guilty. She did not mean for the conversation to turn against her youngest sister, but it was a necessary evil.

“Who are you to tell me what to do? I do not have to listen to you!”

“Lydia, I overheard the conversation you had with Kitty yesterday,” Mary responded, causing both sisters to gasp and start complaining. “Enough! I was in the music room, plainly visible at the pianoforte, when you entered and began your conversation. How is it my fault I heard what you said?”

“You should have let them know you were there,” her mother admonished Mary. “It is not proper to listen to a private conversation.”

“No, Mama. If they wanted their conversation to remain private, it was their responsibility to ensure the room was empty before speaking. I am sorry, Mama, but Mary is absolutely correct. You indulge Lydia too much and I am worried what she will do to endanger our reputations,” Jane said, shocking the occupants of the room, again.

“That may be the most unforgiving speech that I ever heard you utter, Jane. I am proud,” Elizabeth said. “And I also agree, completely and unequivocally. I am glad Mary started this conversation because the topic has been weighing heavily on my mind.”

“Papa, you rarely attend assemblies with us, sending Jimmy instead, but Kitty and Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner has been mentioned publicly,” Elizabeth continued. “I know Jimmy has spoken with you about it numerous times and no restrictions have been put in place. Truly, I am extremely concerned, especially regarding Lydia’s behaviour. She is volatile, lacks restraint, and is a determined flirt with an empty mind. She will be the ruin of us all.”

“You look shocked, Papa. Have you not seen everything we mentioned happen at Longbourn?” Mary asked. “Have you not noticed how low cut her gowns are? Why, they are more appropriate for a woman of loose morals than a young girl of Lydia’s age.”

“I know it was discussed in his presence last week,” Elizabeth said with an upset look on her face. “He dismissed my concerns about the very dress Lydia is wearing, without bothering to lower his paper.”

“Papa, have you not heard mama force Kitty to give Lydia anything she wants? Just a few weeks ago, Lydia stole one of Kitty’s bonnets, tore it up to be remade, and then when Kitty took it back, Lydia had the audacity to order mama, she actually shouted at mama, to make Kitty give it to her, which mama immediately did. How do you think that overindulgence has affected Lydia’s behaviour?” exclaimed Mary.

“What do you think, Jane? How do your youngest two sisters act in public?” papa asked, looking curious.

“Their comportment concerns me greatly, Papa,” Jane admitted quietly, causing papa’s eyes to widen slightly in shock. Coming from Jane, that was a damaging response.

“You are very generous with our pin money, Papa, but Lydia still spends all of her money, often borrows from Jane, without ever paying her back I might add, and frequently is given gifts of money by our mother,” Mary continued.

“Why does it matter how much I spend? It is no concern of yours, Mary!” her youngest sister said petulantly.

“Lydia,” Mary said with a sigh, “do you realize your pin money is more than Mrs. Hill’s yearly wages for being our housekeeper? I would not be surprised if Jane and mama give you enough to pay the yearly wages of one of our kitchen maids.”

“Jane, do you loan your sister money?”

“Yes, Papa,” Jane responded.

“Has she ever paid you back?” her father asked. When Jane shook her head no, he asked, “Have you been keeping track of how much she owes you?”

“No, Papa,” Jane said softly.

“But I could give you a reasonably accurate amount, Papa, since I had a conversation with Jane about this very subject a fortnight ago. Jane does not write it down, but I do when I am home,” Elizabeth said. “Over the course of her life, to my sure knowledge, Lydia has borrowed just over thirty pounds from Jane and has never repaid so much as a penny.”

“Do you know how much your mother has given her?”

“No, Papa,” Elizabeth responded. “Like Mary, I have seen mama give money to Lydia often, but have no way of knowing how much or the regularity.”

“Mrs. Bennet, how often do you give Lydia funds from your pin money?”

“I can spend my pin money any way I want,” Mama huffed.

“Indeed, you are correct, but not what I asked. For the past two years, you have begged me and Jimmy for additional funds by claiming your pin money and the household budget were not enough to keep Longbourn running smoothly and you and my daughters clothed properly for their station in life. Have you been misleading me?” Papa asked in a quiet voice.

Mary stared at her mother in shock. She had seen the account book for the household budget when she was taught how to keep a house and knew the amount allocated should have been sufficient, even if they lived in London.

“Answer me, Mrs. Bennet,” Papa said sternly. Mama looked guilty and tears fell from her eyes. “While my wife is trying to come up with a plausible explanation, let us return to Kitty and Lydia.”

Mary was torn. Guilt lingered at the thought she might have brought trouble upon her sisters, but stronger still was her relief. At last, perhaps Lydia would be taken in hand.

“Kitty, how often do you see your mother give Lydia money?” Papa asked.

Mary watched as Kitty coughed and looked down at her hands. Lydia crossed her arms, her expression darkening.

“I expect an answer, Kitty,” Papa said, more sternly than Mary had ever known.

“Mama gives Lydia money every time we walk into Meryton,” Kitty whispered, eyes still lowered.

“Every single time?” Mary asked, shocked.

“Keep your nose out of matters that do not concern you, Mary. You are merely jealous that Carter favours me and has never once spoken to you,” Lydia snapped.

“Another example is before you, papa.” Mary shook her head, anger lending her courage. “It is highly improper for Lydia to call Captain Carter by his surname only, yet she does so with ease.”

“I do not seek to dishonour you, Papa. But we were all brought out too soon, and Lydia should never have come out with Kitty. Not only was it unfair to Kitty, who ought to have had her own season, but Lydia was, and remains, utterly unready. She makes a mockery of the Bennet name.”

“I do not!” Lydia cried.

“Mama, what would you think if you found out one of your daughters spoke of an elopement, even in jest?” Mary asked, ignoring the gasps that came from Kitty and Lydia.

“None of my daughters would ever elope. They are upstanding gentlewomen!” Mama said with wide eyes, tears welling in her eyes again, and her right hand over her heart.

“I wonder what prompted such a question,” Papa said, casting a narrowed glance at Lydia. “Kitty, what did Mary overhear in the music room?”

Kitty blanched and rose hastily, as if to flee the room.

“You sit right back down, young lady. Tell me what you and Lydia were overheard discussing.” When Kitty did not move or respond, papa uncharacteristically barked out loudly, “Now!”

Once more, remorse struck Mary for the distress she had caused her timid sister. She stood a second before Jane and enfolded Kitty in a joint hug with her eldest sister. After a moment, they sat down with Kitty in-between them.

“I will tell you what I heard, Papa,” Mary told her father. “Please do not make Kitty explain.” Mary began to feel uncomfortable with the way her father was studying them. She saw papa nod and was not sure she wanted to hear what he was going to say next.

“Mary was right. If Kitty cannot withstand my raised voice, how would she fare under the attentions of an importunate man at a ball? I am beginning to see neither of my youngest two daughters are ready to be out,” Papa said while rubbing his chin. “Lydia, what did you and Kitty discuss in the music room?”

Lydia crossed her arms, tilted her chin defiantly, and replied coolly, “I do not have to tell you. Our private conversation is no concern of yours.”

Mama gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with, was it fear.

“Tell us, Mary,” Papa ordered.

“I am sorry to cause more pain, but Lydia was complaining that as the youngest, she had to experience everything last. She informed Kitty that she had decided to make it her mission in life to be the first Bennet daughter to marry so that Jane would be forced to go lower at least once in her life. Then they talked about ways to make sure Lydia was the first to marry before Mr. Bingley proposed to Jane. Chief among her schemes were to stage a compromise of one of the officers the next time we attend an outing where they are present or to demand one of them elope with her.”

“Oh, my nerves,” Mama said while waving her handkerchief. “I need Hill.”

“No, Mama, you must not send for Mrs. Hill,” Mary exclaimed. “This must be handled discreetly, or you risk all our reputations. Do you wish the four-and-twenty families we dine with to cast us all off in horror? If she is wild enough to elope or compromise an officer, what example does she set for the other maidens in Meryton?”

“Mama, listen to Mary,” Elizabeth urged.

“Mary is correct, my dear,” Papa said sternly. “We will deal with this situation immediately and quietly.”

“Please, Mama. Do you think Lady Lucas would allow Maria to be friendly with us if she knew Lydia even spoke about eloping?” Mary endeavoured to make her mother comprehend the gravity of the situation.

“What if Maria had been the one to speak of elopement? Would you continue our friendship with the Lucases, or summon the carriage to rush to Aunt Phillips and share the latest news with all Meryton?” Mary perceived, with some satisfaction, that her mother at last grasped the seriousness of the affair.

“I am convinced Charlotte would sever all acquaintance with Lydia and refuse to set foot in Longbourn while she remains here. What are we to do?” Elizabeth asked. “Short of confining Lydia and Kitty to our childhood nursery, how are they to be worked on?”

“That is precisely what we shall do,” papa declared. “Lydia and Kitty, you are confined to the nursery until further notice. Your first task will be to clean the dust from the room to make it livable. Mr. Hill will be stationed in the hall to ensure you stay there until I return from London.”

“London, papa?” Jane asked quietly.

“There is a matter I must discuss with your Aunt and Uncle Gardiner in London.”

“Indeed, Papa. Aunt Gardiner wrote recently of her cousin, Mrs. Walters. Do you recall meeting her in London? The resemblance is unmistakable. Mrs. Walters was once companion to the daughter of a wealthy merchant’s family, but was dismissed after an unfortunate accident, the youngest son knocked her down and broke her arm. She has not yet fully recovered, and now resides with the Gardiners.”

“That is an excellent suggestion, Lizzy,” Papa said. “I should feel far easier with a companion known to us, and related to my sister besides. What say you, Mrs. Bennet?”

“I believe it is yet early enough to dispatch a stable boy to London with a letter for my sister. Should Mrs. Walters be available, you might travel tomorrow, speak candidly with her, and bring her back, if you believe she could manage our incorrigible youngest,” Mama said, shocking her family. She continued quietly but forcefully, “Mrs. Walters lives the very life I most fear for myself. Her husband died intestate, and they had no children. When his scoundrel of a brother inherited, he turned her out of the house, and she was forced to find employment or starve.”

“Now, Mama,” Jane said gently, “you know that is not entirely fair. Mrs. Walters did not have to take a position, it was her own decision. She knew her settlement would not suffice for the whole of her life. She is not yet thirty, and was only being prudent. And she served but one family, and for a very short time, before she was injured.”

“That is not a choice I want any of my daughters to be forced to make. To be widowed at such a young age is heartbreaking.” Mama turned to her youngest daughters. “You will all marry worthy men, in a church, with the blessing of me and your father or so help me I will lock you in the attics until you learn to behave yourself.”

“No, Mama! ‘Tis not fair! You are always telling me how good-humoured I am and that I should find a husband. Why am I to be punished when you told me to make merry with the officers? I am doing what you told me to do!” Lydia screamed.

“I did not teach you to compromise unsuspecting gentlemen or speak of eloping. How could you even think about doing that to your family? Have you no care for my nerves? Have you any idea what could happen to our family if you were to publicly compromise someone? Even after the marriage, we could have been shunned and your sisters tarnished as unworthy to marry,” Mama responded.

“That is, of course, assuming your scheme were even to succeed,” papa added dryly. “The militia will not be here forever, you know. What is to stop a soldier from refusing to marry you?”

“He would kiss me in Meryton, Kitty would scream to call Aunt Phillips’ attention, and you would make them marry me,” Lydia answered with her arms crossed in front of her. “It would be such fun, Papa, dinners and assemblies.”

“How would I make them marry you?”

“I do not understand. You would go to Colonel Forster, tell him what happened, and the officer and I would be married.”

“You reckless child,” Mama declared with a sob.

“No, Lydia, not necessarily. The Colonel cannot force a man under his command to marry if he does not want to. Besides, the Colonel may even agree that a silly young girl who threw herself at a man she barely knew, and most likely gave her virtue to freely, was not worth marrying. Why would an officer with a career to consider want to marry a spoiled young child who is a loud, unruly spendthrift and does not know how to behave in polite society?” papa asked harshly.

Mary, astonished, saw tears begin to glisten in Lydia’s eyes.

Jane rose, crossed the room, and took Lydia’s shoulders in a firm yet gentle hold, fixing her with a stern look. “Papa is right, Lydia. We were all brought into society much too early, but you are certainly too young in both years and sense to consider marriage. Would you have any idea how to run your husband’s household?”

“No, Jane. If she married a soldier, even an officer, she would not have a household,” Elizabeth said. “At best, they might afford a rented room, or, with luck, a modest suite. There would be no servants, Lydia. You would be expected to cook, clean, and launder your own gowns, without even the pin money Papa gives you now.”

“Jane and Lizzy, take Kitty and Lydia to the nursery while I call for Mr. Hill,” papa ordered.

“I must first pen a note to Miss Bingley, declining her invitation,” Jane said.

“Good girl,” papa told Jane, while Mama sighed in weary exasperation.

“Papa, might Jimmy serve as guard instead of Mr. Hill?” Mary suggested. “This is a very grave matter that could be the cause of our family’s ruin with the slightest misstep and Jimmy would never, however inadvertently, betray our trust, even after an evening at the tavern.”

“Well thought out, Mary, I am impressed,” papa told her with a smile as he looked between her and Elizabeth. “I think you have been hiding your light under a bushel, my dear. You are more like Lizzy than anyone thought.”

“Thank you, papa,” Mary said softly.

“Jimmy said he would be at work in the stables for the day. Fetch him, and explain the matter on your return. When you three eldest girls come back, wait in the hall until I have finished with your mother.”

“Yes, papa,” Jane answered as she sanded and folded her response before leaving the parlour with her sisters.

~*~

As Mary made her way to the stables, she contemplated what she remembered about the circumstances that brought Jimmy to Longbourn. Papa had told them that one morning, shortly after Lydia was born, he was hunting with some local men, including the magistrate, apothecary, and Sir Lucas, who was then still a merchant. One of the dogs took off running and when papa and the rest of the men caught up, they found a young boy behind a tree, dressed in fine but bloodied clothes, and fast asleep.

When the apothecary and his assistant agreed he could be moved, papa had the boy brought to Longbourn where he was treated for a head injury and declared otherwise in good health, a child of about ten. When the boy woke, he had no memory of who he was or how he came to be in Meryton. When papa searched him for belongings, the only item the boy had on his person was a small book of prayers bearing a handwritten note on an elegant bookplate.

June 15, 1796

To Jimmy,

Happy 10th birthday, our cherished son.

Love,

Father and Mother

While Jimmy recovered, Papa discovered him to be both intelligent and well-educated, and asked Jane and Elizabeth to conduct their lessons in his room, that he might feel more at ease. Due to Jimmy’s refined manner, education, speech pattern, and quality of dress and prayer book, papa placed notices in a London paper, hoping to find his family. When time passed and nobody arrived to inquire about the young boy, Papa arranged for him to assist in the stables, for Jimmy was clearly at ease with horses, and it calmed his restless mind.

Five years after he arrived, Jimmy quietly began assisting in the management of the estate and persuaded the Bennets to adopt more economical habits. Under Jimmy’s continued management, Longbourn thrived, and its income had more than doubled. After a risky but extremely profitable investment that few knew about, mama no longer worried about being thrown into the hedgerows, but she remained eager to see her daughters well-married, to secure her standing as a notable matron.

Jimmy’s place in the household was uncommon, yet Meryton accepted him. He was neither servant nor kin, but something akin to a companion, existing beyond the usual household hierarchy. He had grown to become an elder brother to the Bennet sisters and a surrogate son to Mr. Bennet. Papa did not send Jimmy to Cambridge, but he did ensure Jimmy studied all the subjects and had all the knowledge a graduate would. Mary knew her mother cared for Jimmy, but kept her distance emotionally, most likely fearful he would leave or be found and taken away by his real family. The inhabitants of the area embraced Jimmy as a de facto member of the family and often referred to him as the younger Mr. Bennet, even occasionally to strangers.

Jimmy taught all the sisters to ride and escorted them to assemblies when papa did not attend. Jimmy was the one to convince papa that her youngest sisters needed to have consistent lessons, regardless of what mama claimed. Even if her sisters did not, Mary was aware of how much Jimmy’s presence had subtly altered the course of what their lives would have become and was grateful to him.

When she arrived at the stables, she said, “Jimmy, Papa requests your presence at the house. There is a matter of urgency that needs your attention.”

When they were far enough from the stables not to be overheard, Jimmy asked, “Mary, what has happened? You look upset.”

“Lydia,” Mary with restrained exasperation, before explaining the morning’s events to Jimmy.

“I am not surprised,” Jimmy said whilst shaking his head. “Since the militia’s arrival, I have told your father more than once that Kitty and Lydia’s conduct has become increasingly improper. He ought to have taken them more firmly in hand. I think it is time I told them, plainly, what happens to foolish girls who forsake their friends and the protection of their father to throw themselves into the power of men they scarcely know.”

Posted on 2025-07-03

Chapter 2

Mary, Elizabeth, and Jane stood quietly outside the closed parlour door.

“What do you suppose my parents are speaking about?” Elizabeth whispered. “Why is it taking so very long?”

“I cannot answer either question, Lizzy,” Jane whispered back. “We were bid to wait here and that is precisely what we shall do.”

“I am grateful they appear to be speaking civilly to each other. Perhaps they are deliberating on how best to inform our neighbours that Kitty and Lydia are no longer out in society?” Mary suggested softly.

“Perhaps we ought take the opportunity to have a long overdue conversation, Mary,” Jane said, her tone all but demanded.

The door opened and their father motioned for the sisters to enter the parlour.

“Thank you for waiting patiently and quietly, girls,” papa began. “First and foremost, your mother and I want to apologize to you as a group. We should never have allowed ourselves to fall as far as we have. We both started living separate lives and did not communicate with each other or our family.”

Mama added, “Your father and I have decided we will help each other leave our bad habits behind and become more active in your lives, together as a united pair. Please, if you see either of us falter, gently remind us of our vow.”

“Thank you both,” Elizabeth responded. “It did seem to happen so gradually that until Mary pointed it out, I am unsure any of us realized how far we had fallen as a family.”

“I would like to thank Mary,” Jane said. “It took courage to raise the subject to my parents, but it was for the best.”

“Mary, I am sorry for allowing you to feel overlooked and unloved,” Mama said with unshed tears glittering in her eyes. “You are just as precious to me as the rest of my daughters. I will do my best to no longer play favourites.”

“I also apologize to you, Mary,” Papa said gently. “I hid in my bookroom and let Jimmy assume my estate duties with no authority over my daughters and the youngest two behaved unchecked. I do love you, my child.”

Mary was stunned. It was as if every secret wish she ever harboured had come true.

After a few minutes of poignant silence, papa continued, “Your mother and I have decided to put it out that Kitty is feeling unwell and Lydia is being made to stay at home to keep her entertained.”

“That is believable, papa,” Elizabeth said slowly with a nod of her head. “It should also discourage all but the most determined gossips from visiting Longbourn.”

“Yes, everyone who knows Lydia would expect her to be throwing a tantrum of epic proportions at being forced to attend to Kitty,” Mary added with a slight smile.

“What about Mrs. Walters, papa?” Jane asked. “Will you collect her as soon as possible?”

“Your mother has, of course, met and spoken with Mrs. Walters more frequently than I have and shared a few in-depth conversations with the lady. After giving the idea more thought, she is under the impression there is no reason for me to meet with her. What do you girls think?”

“Mama is right, papa,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs. Walters is more than capable of handling our youngest sisters and would be eager for the chance should you both permit her to proceed without interference.”

“I have spent more time with Mrs. Walters than mama, and I agree with Lizzy,” Jane chimed in. “She is such a kind and caring woman who listens very well. The last time I saw Mrs. Walters was during her mourning period. Lydia demanded to join mama in escorting me to the Gardiner house. My mother and sister left after a two-day visit and Mrs. Walters told me she would welcome the opportunity to reform Lydia. If she accepts, she will know exactly what the position would require after being informed of my sister’s recent behaviour.”

“I had already agreed with your mother, but it makes me feel better about the decision to know that you both are supportive. Thank you,” Papa said.

“Will you send Mr. Hill to London immediately with a letter for my aunt and one for Mrs. Walters?” Mary asked. “Since you will not be following on the morrow, make sure you inform her of the salary she might anticipate.”

“Very good advice, Mary. Even if you do read too many older novels and occasionally slip words like morrow into a sentence,” papa responded with an indulgent smile. “Mrs. Bennet, would you write to our sister before I write an offer of employment for Mrs. Walters?”

Mama nodded and sat at the desk.

Papa dropped his head, was silent for a few moments, and took a deep breath before looking up and continuing. “Your mother and I had already agreed to enclose the position offer with our sister’s letter. If my sister agrees the idea has merit, she will discuss it with her cousin and hand Mrs. Walters my offer and invitation to Longbourn. Mr. Hill will be returning tomorrow morning, hopefully with the new companion, more of governess or nanny at first. I cannot express how sorry I am that my youngest daughter’s behaviour was allowed to become what it is. Jimmy tried to warn me, but it was easier to ignore him and continue reading.”

“I have finished, Mr. Bennet. You may stop berating yourself and write the offer of employment,” Mama said from behind them as she sanded the letter.

“That was quick work with a quill,” papa exclaimed.

Mary was fascinated to see her mother blush.

“Madeline has scolded me numerous times regarding Lydia’s behavior,” Mama said sheepishly. “The note is very short.”

My dear sister,

You were right, naturally. Lydia has indeed gone too far.

Send Mrs. Walters at first light if she would condescend to work for a family such as ours. She would have the complete support of me and Thomas.

Fanny

“Girls, I wish to discuss how the household should run once Mrs. Walters starts. In what ways would our normal routine need to change?”

Papa chuckled before sitting down to write his own letter.

~*~

After Mr. Hill had left for Gracechurch Street, the five older Bennets had an actual family discussion. Mary was amazed at how much calmer her mother seemed and how her father treated everyone.

“Do you intend to make Kitty and Lydia move into the nursery?” Jane asked during a lull in the conversation.

“I had given no thought to their sleeping arrangements,” Mama said after a moment. “I believe that is an excellent suggestion, Jane, my love.”

“I agree,” Papa said. “It will reinforce the other decisions we have made and should make it easier for Mrs. Walters to exert some authority.”

“May I walk to Meryton for one reason or other before you tell them?” asked Elizabeth with a smirk.

“For that, my dear Lizzy, I may make you tell them,” papa responded with a twinkle in his eye before a thoughtful look replaced his obvious mirth.

Mary was surprised when her father took her mother’s hand.

“There is one more thing I have been hesitant to mention,” Papa said while looking at his wife tenderly. “I have not broached the subject because I enjoyed the way we were talking. I am not sure we have spoken as many words to each other since before Lydia was born.”

Mrs. Bennet dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief, a soft, almost embarrassed laugh escaping her. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, you do say the most unexpected things. I remember when you used to quote poetry at me, before we had a house full of daughters and you retreated to your library.”

Mr. Bennet’s lips twitched. “I have not forgotten all my old habits, my dear. I simply found myself outnumbered and, at times, overwhelmed by so many lively young ladies. But you were always my first audience.”

She blushed, looking down at their joined hands. “You were always so clever, and I so silly. I never quite knew how to keep your attention.”

He squeezed her fingers gently. “You have always had it, Fanny. Even when you were scolding the girls or fretting over bonnets, I was listening. I only wish I had told you more often.”

Mrs. Bennet laughed again, this time more freely. “Well, I am glad you are telling me now. I do not mind a little silliness if it brings us back to this.”

Mr. Bennet leaned a little closer, his tone fond and teasing. “I recall the first time I saw you at the assembly in Meryton. You wore a blue ribbon in your hair and laughed so loudly, I could not help but notice. I thought you the prettiest, and the liveliest, girl in the room.”

She smiled, her cheeks pink. “And you were so very serious, I was certain you would never dance. I told my mother you looked as if you had swallowed a lemon.”

He chuckled. “And yet you danced with me, all the same.”

Mrs. Bennet gave a little shrug. “You asked so nicely, I could hardly refuse. Besides, I liked the way you looked at me, as if I were the only one there.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes softened before kissing her mother on the cheek. “You were, Fanny. You always have been.”

Mary’s jaw dropped in astonishment. She had never seen her parents display such open affection. She looked at her elder sisters and noticed Elizabeth’s eyes bright with amusement and Jane’s with gentle affection. Mary began to wonder with wonder, perhaps for the first time, that their parents’ marriage had once been, and might still be, a love story after all.

“I thought I would never see that sight again,” Elizabeth said softly.

“Me neither,” Jane agreed.

“Enough of that,” Mama declared with a flick of her handkerchief and a wink at papa. Did mama really just wink at papa? “What did you need to tell us?”

“About three weeks ago, I received a letter and one week ago I answered, for I thought it was a case of some delicacy and required early attention. It was from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may... he will inherit Longbourn.”

“Oh! my dear,” cried Mama, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man when we have enough things to worry about.”

“I am sorry, my love,” Papa said, causing mama to gasp, her eyes to open wide, and to Mary, it looked like her mother visibly melted into a puddle of mash, “but we need to discuss the contents of his letter.”

“Oh, Thomas,” Mama said softly with tears glistening in her eyes, yet again, “you have not called me ‘my love’ in so long, I feared I would never hear you utter those words again.”

“I do love you, my sweet Jane,” Papa said softly, “and I will try to once again be the husband you deserve me to be.”

Mary was surprised to hear her father call her mother Jane. It reminded her of the tradition in Mama’s family, where the eldest daughter was named after her mother. Since her grandmother had been Jane Gardiner, mama had always gone by Fanny, her middle name Frances. When her sister Jane had a daughter, a nickname would be chosen to help differentiate between mother and daughter.

“I will hold you to that,” Mama said with a sniffle. “Tell me about the letter.”

“As near as I can tell, he seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man.”

“What are you not saying, my heart?” Mama asked. “I can tell you are holding something back.”

Mary smiled when this time it was her father who gasped and then he smiled lovingly at mama.

“I believe his purpose for visiting is to select a wife among our daughters, as you will hear when I return with the letter,” Papa said before leaving the room.

“Mama,” Elizabeth said hesitantly, “please do not think about forcing any of us to marry our cousin.”

Mary was surprised when her mother looked at her intently for a moment before turning to answer Elizabeth.

“I did hear, and understand, what Mary said, my dears. I will not try to force a marriage if you are not so inclined, especially before meeting the young man and learning about his character.”

“I am very glad to hear you say that, my love,” Papa said as he entered the room and returned to his chair. “I think my daughters will also be glad once they hear this letter.”

”Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.

”Dear Sir,,

”The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance. My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends, but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se’ennight following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day., I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,

”William Collins”

Mary was dumbfounded. “I... I...” She looked at her mother and sisters to see they were as astonished as she was. Yet, her father was smirking, and it vexed her. “I am not sure how to respond to that letter, though, I do think papa is deriving entirely too much enjoyment from our expressions.”

With narrowed eyes, Mama said, “Thomas...”

Papa hurriedly interrupted, “My dear, you must remember I am a man who is set in his ways. Is it wrong for me to enjoy the humorous results of that letter? Besides, we ought to consider whether an express should be sent to my cousin with a plausible excuse for the change of plans. I am also endeavouring to demonstrate that our recent discussion about family harmony has not gone unheeded.”

“Do not attempt to argue logic with me, Mr. Bennet! You ought to know by now that ours is not a relationship built upon equity,” Mama said, causing her daughters to quietly giggle and papa’s eyebrow to rise. “I am your wife. I may or may not say what I want you to do, but I certainly reserve the right to become upset if I do not like what happens, regardless of what I may, or may not, have previously stated!”

“Mama is correct, papa,” Elizabeth smirked. “Frequently changing our minds with little to no warning is one of the things about women that makes us fascinating.”

“We need some way to keep the men in our lives vigilant and interested,” Jane added with a smile.

“It also makes us just a little frightening to men,” Mary sniggered.

“More than a little, I am afraid, Mary dear,” papa laughed ruefully with a shake of his head. “What are we to do about my cousin?”

“It is true the timing is inconvenient. We are claiming Kitty is ill, so it would seem odd to welcome a visitor,” Mama said. “We must first settle into our altered household, adjusting to the changes in our youngest daughters and the arrival of a new companion, before we can entertain guests or guard against unwelcomed suitors.”

As the discussion regarding Mr. Collins upcoming visit progressed, Mary again wondered what was said between her parents before she and her sisters were allowed to enter. In all Mary’s nineteen years, she could not recall a single time she had seen them interact with even the smallest portion of the affection they were openly showing.

A short time later, Mary noticed that it had started to rain hard and observed that if Jane had accepted Miss Bingley’s invitation, she would have just left for Netherfield and most certainly gotten wet if she had gone on horseback.

“As much as I hoped Jane could ingratiate herself with the Bingley sisters, it was lucky indeed that she did not travel to Netherfield on horse!” said mama, more than once complimenting herself on Jane’s near miss. “I know people do not die of little trifling colds, but I would have been terribly worried.”

Papa, Jane, and Elizabeth agreed they would have been too. Privately, Mary marvelled at her mother’s ability to wilfully disregard the previous trials of the day.

“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” Mama said to papa, “and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”

“Netherfield is your only qualification for one of our future sons, my dear?” papa asked with a teasing smile. “What about Mary’s concern over Mr. Bingley’s character?”

“Nonsense Thomas, you know very well we discussed earlier, in this very room, I want my daughters to marry respectable men above all other considerations. If we do not become more familiar with Mr. Bingley, how are we to learn his character, background, and the truth about his income? After all, he is also rather handsome and presumably wealthy enough to have paid the lease on Netherfield.”

“That is most likely a safe assumption, however, he could also be a gamester who had a good run at the tables and paid the full amount of the lease when he was flush. He could be here to hide from creditors,” papa countered with a wicked grin. His expression turned somber as he continued, “Not to frighten dear Jane, but a man like that could also be looking for a pretty face to dally with in the country while he thought about his plans and tried to find the most advantageous move for next season in London.”

“I know we also discussed how living in Meryton and rarely visiting London has made me forget some of the dangers young ladies face, but I prefer to Mr. Bingley is simply a young man, of good fortune, who is learning how to run an estate from his friend and is already half in love with my beautiful daughter,” Mama stated.

“I do hope you are right, my dear, for Mr. Bingley also appears to have the good luck to be rich and, from what you have told me, although I do not see it myself, rather easy on the eyes,” papa replied. “A combination that would certainly make many a young lady, and their mothers, immediately fall in love with him and start planning a wedding.”

“You are a trying companion, Mr. Bennet,” Mama playfully scolded.

“She is back to Mr. Bennet, papa, you had better be careful,” Elizabeth said with a twinkle in her eye.

“I had noticed, Lizzy dear.”

“Enough of that, you two. Surely, Mr. Bennet ,” Mama said pointedly, “you took notice that I started planning my first daughter’s wedding the day I found out I was with child.”

“And it does not hurt that Mr. Bingley gives the impression of having all of the desired attributes of the ideal companion of your daughter’s future life,” papa joked.

“You are not wrong, although, I must point out, it is just as easy for a gentlewoman to fall in love with a rich gentleman as it is a poor man. Do you not know that a gentleman being rich is like a gentlewoman being pretty? A gentleman might not marry a young lady just because she is pretty, but my goodness, does it not help things along?”

Mary, Elizabeth, Jane, and papa all laughed heartily.

Mary hoped the new and teasing atmosphere would continue when Mrs. Walters arrived and started taking her youngest sisters in hand.

Her father’s response was prevented by Mrs. Hill entering.

“Madam, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have arrived.”

“Thank you, Hill, show them in,” Mama answered with a curious look at papa.

Mary was curious herself for Miss Bingley’s note to Jane said the gentlemen were to dine with the officers.

“Begging pardon, madam, Mr. Darcy asked if you would receive them where they are,” Hill responded with an amused expression on her face.

Mary wondered what could cause Mr. Darcy to break with propriety, but given the levity on Mrs. Hill’s face, decided it must be a sight to see.

“Allow me to escort you, my dear,” Papa said as he extended an arm to his wife. “I have a feeling this will be a diverting sight.”

Her father was right, as usual. The sight of their stablemaster with two filthy, drenched, and bedraggled gentlemen, the taller, who was ordinarily so meticulous in his appearance, sporting a torn jacket, no hat or cravat, and bent to assist his shorter friend, left the family speechless.

~*~

Fitzwilliam Darcy, William to his family and closest friends, was miserable. Not only was he feeling unwell and a tad dizzy, he was stuck in a backwater town four hours outside of London, and residing in a house with Miss Caroline Bingley as his hostess. His friend’s youngest sister seemed to delight in every opportunity to entice or gain his notice at every turn. Her behaviour was disturbing, and he worried with her upcoming birthday she would become desperate enough to attempt to entrap him into an unwanted marriage.

Not only had Bingley accepted an invitation to play cards and then dine with the officers without asking his opinion, but he insisted they ride their horses instead of taking the carriage and would not be dissuaded. Naturally, as anyone who thought to look up at the sky could have predicted, it had started to drizzle before they arrived at the militia encampment and he arrived both chilled and damp.

William also worried he was coming down with the cold that had been circulating amongst the stable hands at Netherfield. He had been careful to keep his distance from the staff, but two days ago his horse had thrown a shoe and, in his haste to make sure Achilles was not injured, he had not paid attention to his nearness with a man who clearly should have been resting in his room under a physician’s care.

“Bingley, I want to leave. I would rather return to Netherfield, change into dry clothes and eat alone in my rooms than suffer through cards and dinner with the officers,” William informed his friend.

“I suppose if that is what you declare, I will have no choice but to leave too, Darcy. Hurst, at least, would have the option to stay if he wanted. Is something wrong?” Bingley asked with furrowed brows and a pout unbecoming on a lad of two years old, let alone a grown man.

William restrained the urge to roll his eyes at his clueless friend. The fact that he had a slight cough and a runny nose should have made it obvious to Bingley that he was feeling unwell. And what did Bingley mean by saying he would have no choice but to leave? It would have been awkward to sneak back into Netherfield so the ladies did not know he had returned alone, but he had accomplished the feat before. “I am afraid one of your grooms had a terrible cold over the past two days and it seems I have been unfortunate enough to feel the effect of his illness.”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Bingley said, “I had not noticed you or any of the servants were ill. I will have Caroline bring you a tray with something warm to drink when we return to Netherfield.”

“You cannot seriously be suggesting your sister attend to me in my private rooms?” William asked, aghast.

“I meant I would request she order the staff to see that everything was brought to your room,” Bingley responded quickly.

He looked closely at Bingley and a shiver of apprehension went through his body. Did Bingley expect, or desire, him to marry Miss Bingley or was his statement truly an innocent mistake?

When William had been in his last year at Cambridge, he was attacked by two men while walking back to his rooms. One materialized directly in front of him, he must have lain in wait in a doorway, and while he was startled, another grabbed his arms from behind. They proceeded to beat him and were searching his person for money when Bingley and his friend appeared and fought the ruffians off.

Bingley had been at Cambridge visiting a childhood neighbour and touring the university in anticipation of attending in the near future when the pair happened upon the scene and gave assistance. William and Bingley had randomly met around the school over the next few days and had become friendly. During one of their conversations, Bingley explained his family’s background in trade and mentioned that his father was hoping to buy an estate. As Bingley was preparing to return home, the new acquaintances agreed to start corresponding.

The next summer, William invited Bingley to visit Pemberley, his family estate in Derbyshire. Bingley arrived and William was surprised that he had brought his two sisters and brother-in-law with him. His father, George Darcy, disliked the younger Bingley daughter but tolerated her presence for the sake of William’s burgeoning friendship with Charles Bingley. William’s father ensured there were extra servants throughout the house while the Bingley’s were in residence and Mrs. Reynolds, their loyal housekeeper, continued the practice after his father passed away.

As the years progressed and the attentions of Miss Bingley became even more unbearable, William had started to distance himself from Bingley.

At the beginning of this summer past, Georgiana, his own sweet fifteen-year-old sister, went with Mrs. Younge, the woman who presided over Georgiana’s school, on a holiday to Ramsgate. Mrs. Younge had a previously unknown acquaintance with the son of Pemberley’s former steward, Mr. Wickham, and aided that man to persuade dear, sweet, naïve Georgiana that she was in love with a man almost twice her age and to consent to an elopement. A serendipitous sequence of events took William to Ramsgate just before the intended elopement and his sister acknowledged the entire plan and asked for his congratulations and that he walk her down the aisle.

William wished he could erase the next week from his mind, but it seemed that almost losing his sister would forever torment him. Poor Georgiana was a shell of her previous self. She had lost what little self-confidence she possessed and relied on him far too much for the simplest of tasks, such as when and what to eat. He tried to help Georgiana himself, but in the end put her into the care of his maternal aunt, Elaine Hastings the Dowager Countess of Huntingdon, who helped them both heal and him to find a gentle, trustworthy widow woman, Mrs. Annesley, to become his sister’s new companion.

William was grateful when his maternal uncle, David Fitzwilliam the Earl of Matlock, demanded the Darcy siblings spend the rest of the summer at his estate because it allowed William to write to Bingley with a suitable, and truthful, reason to cancel Bingley’s traditional summer visit to Pemberley, citing that the earl required the Darcy family presence at the Matlock estate in Derbyshire for an extended visit.

His Aunt Elaine was widowed shortly after his Uncle David became a widower. It seemed natural for Aunt Elaine to move in with her older brother and run the household she grew up in while they both mourned. William was glad his relatives were able to help each other through their grief of losing a spouse.

When Bingley wrote to inform William that he leased an estate and reminded him of the discussion they had shortly after meeting where William mentioned the possibility of teaching Bingley what was needed to run an estate, he felt trapped. Without deception, which was his abhorrence, there was no way for William to decline the invitation. He was grateful that he had managed to spare Georgiana the visit, at least one of them should enjoy their fall months.

Mrs. Reynolds demanded he bring extra footmen and maids from Pemberley to Netherfield. The footmen slept in his room on cots and discretely followed him around the manor while the maids attended to the cleaning of his suite of rooms and ensured he was never caught alone and unawares in the public rooms.

Now the thought crossed William’s mind that he would do well to take precautions when he was alone with Bingley. Would his friend aid his sister in a compromise attempt? All of a sudden, the thought weighed heavily on his mind, but Bingley was looking at him oddly due to his lack of response, so the concern must be put aside and contemplated later.

“Bingley, how can you claim not to have noticed anyone was ill? When we were given our horses, the poor groom was coughing loud enough to wake the dead and looked miserable. That is in addition to the fact I have clearly been out of sorts and not feeling well today. I was sitting next to you at the meal. Did you fail to notice my lack of appetite? I do not understand how you are so oblivious,” William said whilst shaking his head and breathing deeply.

“That is beside the point though, Bingley,” William continued. “You need to have an immediate conversation with your stablemaster. When someone is clearly ill, they should not be attending to their normal duties. I know it seems counter-intuitive, but an ill servant is not productive and easily makes mistakes. This is particularly vital in the stables because the simplest of tasks being overlooked could lead to someone being kicked, thrown from a horse, or a carriage accident happening. Sick servants also infect others, including members of the family, which would bring down the productivity of the entire estate. You would not know if it was anything other than a cold at the time, but a seemingly normal illness could also be the start of a horrible malady, such as pertussis or scarlet fever, which could sweep through everyone under your care. By allowing your servants to stay in their rooms and recover, you could not only avoid an unnecessary accident or death, but the illness will hopefully stop at one person instead of spreading through all your staff and household members.”

“I never worried about it before, Darcy. Surely that is Caroline’s duty,” Bingley said with a dismissive shrug.

“Did you not notice your own runny nose, Bingley? I find it hard to believe that escaped your attention as well,” he pointed out, annoyed.

“Not especially. I know not why, but I frequently have a runny nose and sore throat in the spring and fall months.” Again, Bingley shrugged.

Bingley was really trying William’s patience. He had done nothing to check his sister’s obvious pursuit of William and now, he had a suspicion that Bingley, who disliked confrontation, had never shared with Miss Bingley any of the warnings he issued regarding her behaviour. His worst fear was that Bingley might decide or be brow beaten into aiding his sister’s attempt. It was becoming an intolerable situation, and something had to give. Miss Bingley’s obvious desire to be his wife would never come to fruition.

“I must find Hurst to ask if he wants to stay for dinner or return to Netherfield with us,” Bingley said glumly.

As Bingley had expected, Mr. Hurst stayed to enjoy the cards, food, drink, and comradery of the officers. The two friends called for their horses and farewelled their host, Colonel Forster, the leader of the , , shire Militia.

When they walked outside, William noticed that it had started to rain harder.

“We had better hurry back to Netherfield as quickly and safely as possible, Bingley. I should not like to be caught in a downpour or injure Achilles,” Darcy said after he had smoothly mounted his favourite horse.

“I agree,” Bingley stated as he clumsily attempted to get his foot into the stirrup.

With a sigh, William added making Bingley ride horseback more often while attending to estate business to his ever-growing mental list of things requiring his attention. He had taught his sister how to ride so it should be simple to improve Bingley’s skill while they performed the necessary inspections around the estate.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, making it briefly as bright as a cloudless summer day, and a menacing crash of thunder sounded, shaking the ground. Achilles was used to the violent storms which occasionally struck in Derbyshire and did not react, but Bingley’s horse, like his rider, was not as well trained.

William looked on in horror as the frightened horse bolted as Bingley was in the process of swinging his left leg over the saddle. He watched as Bingley, barely hanging on to the reins with only his left foot in the stirrups, was carried into the sudden darkness.

Posted on 2025-07-06

Chapter 3

As he spurred Achilles to follow Bingley, William absently noticed the young soldier who had brought their horses stood frozen, mouth agape.

The militia, encamped on the edge of Meryton, had chosen a wide, open field. The openness made it easier for William to follow Bingley’s horse in the poor light, once his eyes had adjusted after a brilliant flash of lightning. He lost sight of them briefly as he approached a slight rise in the land and stopped short when he realized Bingley’s horse had slowed, and its rider was gone.

William marked the place where he first sighted the riderless horse. As another bolt of lightning lit the ground before him, he began advancing slowly in a straight line towards the wayward beast. He feared Bingley was seriously hurt and prayed he might be found swiftly, and without grievous injury.

To his relief, William spotted Bingley lying ahead along the path he was on. Seizing the light of another lightning flash, he looked about, noted his position and a bloodied rock, then dismounted and cautiously approached Bingley.

“Bingley, are you conscious?” he called out. When his friend moaned, he asked, “Are you much hurt?”

“Darcy? Is that you?” Bingley asked groggily, then groaned again. “I ache all over,” he murmured just as another boom of thunder caused his horse to bolt.

Mercifully, Achilles barely reacted. As William approached Bingley, his immediate concern was the head wound that was bleeding profusely. He untied his cravat and, making sure to keep the reins in one hand, pressed it firmly to Bingley’s wound.

“Bingley, can you move? I must know whether I may lift you onto Achilles, or if we must fetch a physician here.” William watched as his friend stirred. He examined him as best he could and was relieved to see no other visible bleeding.

“My left ankle and shoulder pain me to move, and my right arm throbs,” Bingley stated, his voice strained with pain.

William was able to manoeuvre Bingley into a seated position. “I must see to your ankle. Hold your arm close and do your best to keep steady. Speak at once if you feel yourself slipping, I would not have your condition worsen.”

A cursory examination assured William there were no further injuries. “We are near to Longbourn, Bingley. If I assist you onto Achilles, do you think you might sit upright whilst I walk beside you?”

“How... do... you know... we are... by... Long... bourn,” Bingley gasped, his voice strained by pain.

“I was taught from boyhood to mark landmarks, in case of accident or misdirection, a habit my father instilled. I observed the direction your horse fled, that small grove to our right, and the great oak to the left, all suggest we are close to Longbourn. Can you endure a short ride?”

“I believe so,” answered Bingley.

“Let us try to raise you,” William said as he slowly and gently assisted Bingley to his feet. “Are you dizzy?”

“No, but give me a moment, my stomach is quite unsettled.”

He waited impatiently while holding the soaked cravat to Bingley’s head. They needed to find aid with all possible speed.

“Given your ankle, it would be unwise for you to sit astride; and with your head injury, we must not let it loll to one side. I believe the best course is for you to sit as upon a side-saddle. I shall steady you during the walk, and you must keep pressure on your wound. I shall lift you now.” It was the work of a moment to put Bingley on the saddle and start the slow trek to Longbourn.

“Bingley, press the cravat back to your wound, immediately!” he admonished. “We are nearly there. Just a few minutes more.”

William exhaled in relief as they approached Longbourn and a groom came out to greet them.

“I will be right back, sir. Miller will wanna help you hiself,” the young man said, hurrying toward the stable.

As they halted, the groom returned with another man who was even taller than William and broad of frame.

“Mr. Darcy, I am Miller, the stablemaster and groundskeeper,” the man said with a nod. “Jack tells me Mr. Bingley is injured. Shall I assist in helping him down?”

William was surprised to find a man of such youth entrusted with so much. Stablemasters were generally older, with many years’ experience.

“Yes. If you take the right side, we shall manage to lower him with ease. Take care, his ankle and shoulder are injured.”

“Jack, once you’ve stabled Mr. Darcy’s horse, saddle up ride for Mr. Jones quick as you can. Inform him of the head injury ere you depart,” Miller said. “‘I shall tend the horse once I have seen the gentlemen inside.”

Again, William found himself surprised. Such an order might have been spoken by his own stablemaster, or even Mrs. Reynolds. It appeared the Bennets granted their servants a degree of autonomy uncommon in most households.

“Yes, sir,” Jack responded before rushing to the stables with Achilles.

“Mr. Jones lives in Meryton, Mr. Darcy. If he’s home, he’ll be here soon. Until then, Mrs. Hill and Miss Jane know how to tend wounds. Miss Lizzy’s always turning up with a twisted ankle or some scrape, worse when she was younger and climbing trees all the time,” Miller added with a small smile.

“I admit to being surprised Miss Bennet ,” he stressed the proper title, “has the strength to...”

“Stop right there.”

There was something in Miller’s tone of voice that made William cease speaking and look more closely at the man. Miller may be a servant, but he was a tall man, broad of shoulder, and his expression now bore a menacing look. It was not often William encountered men taller than himself, and Miller had a sudden alertness to his posture that was disconcerting.

“I was born here in Longbourn and I’ve known the Bennet girls all my life. Miss Bennet ,” Miller enunciated the appellation with a snarl of displeasure, “is proper to a fault. She’s kind, always thinking the best of folks, and she’s good with children. She might seem quiet at first, but she feels things deeply, sir, and she’s stronger than she looks. Being the eldest, she’s had to be dependable, reliant, and keeps her younger sisters in line, always worrying over things being just so.”

William stared at Miller for a few moments as he processed this unexpected defense of Miss Bennet’s character. He had always prided himself on his discernment, on seeing through artifice to the true nature of those around him. Yet, hearing Miller’s words, so earnest, so certain, he could not help but wonder if he had been too hasty, too proud in his own judgment. Was it possible he had mistaken Miss Bennet’s quiet composure for weakness, her gentleness for insipidity? The similarities to Georgiana, his own beloved sister, so often misunderstood by strangers, struck him with uncomfortable force.

Had he allowed his own prejudices, his wariness of the family’s circumstances, to blind him to Miss Bennet’s true worth? The thought unsettled him. He prided himself on fairness, yet perhaps he had been unfair to her from the start.

“Don’t let me hear you speak ill of the Bennets again, sir, or I’ll forget my place. They’re good people, fair and kind to everyone, whether it’s tradesmen, tenants, or servants. Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth, sometimes with Miss Mary, always make sure the tenant families have what they need. If someone’s sick or hurt, they’re the first to bring food or medicine, whatever’s needed,” Miller said, his voice firm. “They teach the children their letters and numbers, whether the little ones want it or not. My own brother is now a bank clerk in London, because Miss Jane and Miss Lizzy saw his potential and took the time to instruct him. So I’ll say it again, DO NOT speak against the Bennets in front of me.”

William felt a flush of shame rise to his cheeks. If Miller’s opinion of the family was not clouded by mere fondness, if these were facts and not exaggerations, then he had indeed been wrong. For a man of his station, so careful in all things, it was a sobering realization.

He would have to contemplate everything he thought he knew about the Bennets, and about Miss Bennet in particular. Had he misjudged her so completely?

“Mish Bennet is soooo prettttttyy,” B ingley slurred, drawing out the word like a drunken ballad. “Pretttttttiest girl in any room in Meryton.”

William barely heard Bingley, his mind turning over Miller’s words, and for the first time, he wondered if he truly deserved the clarity of judgment he so often claimed.

“Did Mr. Bingley have a bit too much to drink at dinner, sir?”

Miller’s question drew William from his reflections. “No, I think his loose tongue is related to his head wound. You have given me much to think upon Miller, thank you. As we walk Bingley inside, may I ask how you came to be in your role at so young an age?”

“I learned my letters and numbers from the Bennet sisters before I joined the army. After my father died and my regiment was disbanded, I came home to help with the harvest,” Miller said as he walked. “My eldest brother saw I wasn’t happy and spoke to Mr. Bennet.”

“I am sorry for your loss. You made a difficult decision.”

“To answer your question, Miss Jane and Miss Lizzy told Mr. Bennet I was good at my lessons, and he offered to send me to university.”

“Soooo prettttttyy,” Bingley muttered. “An angel.”

William shook his head and scowled at Bingley. “My father did something similar with his godson, who was the son of his steward. I think you would not have squandered the gift.”

“My father wanted me to go, but I couldn’t stand being indoors for lessons. I like the open air. University would’ve been misery. So instead, I learned with Jimmy until I left for the army.”

They reached the front steps, and William rapped the knocker.

The housekeeper opened the door and was unable to keep the surprise from showing on her face.

“Oh my, what happened to poor Mr. Bingley?”

“His injuries match a fall from a horse, Mrs. Hill, and they only had one horse between them,” Miller said.

“Come in, gentlemen.”

“Mrs. Hill, I know this is an unusual request, but would you ask Mrs. Bennet to come to us? We are quite wet and muddy, and I should regret bringing trouble upon the maids unnecessarily.”

“Very well, sir,” Mrs. Hill responded with an approving nod.

“Not many gentlemen consider the extra work for servants over muddy floors,” Miller quietly observed.

“My own housekeeper has known me since I was four years old and would have no qualms about boxing my ears if I tracked mud into Pemberley,” William said with a short huff of amusement.

Hearing footsteps, William looked up to see the entire Bennet family walking towards them. He watched Miss Bennet closely and saw a fleeting look of concern before a mask of tranquility settled upon her features.

“Welcome gentlemen,” Mr. Bennet began, “I am sure you have an amusing story for us.”

“Papa,” Miss Elizabeth interjected with a wicked gleam in her eye, “I daresay Mr. Darcy may not find Longbourn tolerable enough to tempt him to enter our humble manor. I am sure he is in no humour to give consequence to our family since we have been slighted by our neighbours and will be dining alone tonight.”

William started as he heard Miss Bennet hiss, “Lizzy, that is highly improper when Mr. Bingley is injured,” while Mr. Bennet tried to disguise his laugh as a cough.

“Sounds like you at sssembly, Dawwccccyyy,” Bingley said to William’s mortification and to the amusement of everyone else present, who all burst out laughing, even Miller and Mrs. Hill.

~*~

Thomas Bennet could see that Mr. Darcy was mortified and extremely uncomfortable. Though the impudent young man did not deserve it, he deflected the situation away from Mr. Darcy.

“My dear,” Thomas said to his wife, “it looks as though Mr. Bingley, at least, will be our guest overnight. I will help Mr. Darcy bring him in if you would direct me to the appropriate guest room?”

“Of course, Thomas. We will put him in the west hall’s end room, furthest from the family quarters. Hill and I will rush to pull the bedding back and lay down the old quilt we use for picnics in the garden,” his wife said and nodded her head. “Come along, Hill. We need to stop in the kitchen and ask cook to start boiling additional water before we prepare the room.”

Thomas looked at his eldest and said, “Jane, please have Jack fetch Mr. Jones right away.”

“I did that already, sir,” Miller offered.

“Thank you for thinking of the health of our unexpected guests, Miller,” Jane responded. “I apologize if I presume too much, Mr. Darcy. With two unmarried gentlemen staying the night, I mean to place a manservant in the west hall and ask Miller to fetch Miss Lucas to serve as an overnight guest. Lizzy and I will share a room, as will Kitty and Lydia. I would not have Mary alone, and Charlotte's presence will dispel any gossip. Having an extra set of hands will also be helpful when it comes to nursing Mr. Bingley and assuring proper chaperonage at all times.”

Thomas could tell Jane had shocked Mr. Darcy with her pronouncements. “Jane, Mr. Bingley is obviously injured. Do you not feel as though you are taking extreme measures?”

“No, I do not, Papa,” his eldest daughter said adamantly with a shake of her head. “Lady Lucas likes to spread the latest news in Meryton like my mother does and Charlotte is one of the few people she trusts implicitly. If Charlotte is here, Lady Lucas will think nothing of the gentlemen staying at Longbourn.”

“I must say, it is a shame His Majesty’s army does not allow women to join their ranks. You would make a spectacular general and military tactician, Jane as would Lizzy,” Thomas said whilst shaking his head.

“Papa!” Jane said, sounding scandalized while Lizzy laughed.

“Mr. Darcy, was Jane correct that you would prefer to stay overnight with Mr. Bingley? Given the state of the injury to his head and that his left leg is not touching the ground, it seems unrealistic that he will be in any shape to endure a carriage ride.”

“Yes, Mr. Bennet, I would appreciate the use of a room. Thank you.”

“Very well. When Miller returns from Lucas Lodge, would you like him to travel to Netherfield and inform your valet what happened? A bath and a change into dry clothes should help you feel better, Mr. Darcy.”

“Again, I thank you. That would be most welcome,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Miller, thank you for assisting Mr. Darcy to the house with Mr. Bingley. Please fetch Miss Lucas.”

“First, I’ll check Mr. Darcy’s horse and brush him down. Then I’ll head to Lucas Lodge, sir. If Jack comes back with Mr. Jones before I leave, I’ll have him go straight to Netherfield and tell Mr. Darcy’s valet.”

He chuckled. “Off with you, now, you impudent rascal.”

“I am, sir,” Miller said with a smirk. “As Mr. Hill is away in London, I shall assist keeping watch in the family rooms tonight.”

“It does seem we are currently short on male servants. Thank you, Miller,” he responded gratefully as he took the stablemaster’s place on Mr. Bingley’s right side. “Daughters, attend to your mother and ensure Mr. Darcy’s chamber is readied.”

“Yes, papa. Everything shall be ready,” Elizabeth responded. “I will go to the kitchen to see that broth is prepared for Mr. Bingley. Mary please check on our youngest sisters, and Jane help mama and Mrs. Hill until I arrive.”

Thomas watched his daughters walk away and turned his attention to the gentlemen. “Shall we, Mr. Darcy?”

“Lead the way, Mr. Bennet.”

The trio made their way slowly to the stairwell and began their ascent.

“I am sorry this is so painful, Mr. Bingley,” he said, hearing Bingley’s low moan of pain. “Mr. Darcy, do you have the strength to carry Mr. Bingley further?”

“Noooo, must wallllk,” Mr. Bingley mumbled. “Cannot let Mish Bennet see me being carried like a babe. Must enjoy every moment in her presence before Caro makes me marry Mish Dawcyyyyy. I wonder how many favours Mish Bennet may grant me before we leave Meryton.”

Thomas heard Mr. Darcy gasp and noted the disgusted glance he directed toward his friend.

“I apologize for Mr. Bingley, sir. He hit his head and is not thinking clearly or acting like himself.”

“I understand, Mr. Darcy,” he responded after a moment. “However, I will be informing Jimmy and Miller of what Mr. Bingley just said and see to it he is never left alone with my daughter. If this behaviour continues, I may have to insist he returns to Netherfield regardless of his injuries.”

“As you should,” Mr. Darcy agreed with clenched teeth. “I also feel the need to clarify that my sister is only fifteen and not yet out. I would never force her to marry anyone she did not choose and after what I just heard, regardless of his head injury, never to Bingley.”

“Who is ringing a belllll?” Mr. Bingley asked.

“I do not hear anything, Mr. Bingley,” he replied, noting Mr. Darcy’s silence.

“Why do I hear a belllll, Dawcyyyy?” Mr. Bingley asked. “Why does my shoulder hurt? I believe I may be ill.”

Thomas, highly amused, watched Mr. Darcy hoist his friend and carry him onward.

“Set him down here, sir,” Fanny ordered. “I insisted Mr. Bennet invest in a modern stove a few years back. Our cook now maintains a kettle near boiling at all times. A bath is ready for you, Mr. Darcy. I apologize that it is not as large a tub nor as hot a bath as you may be accustomed to, but I feel it is best to get you warm as soon as possible. We should not like you to take a chill. Mrs. Hill will keep watch over Mr. Bingley until Mr. Jones arrives. Do you remember the way to the parlour? I expect you to come downstairs and join us for dinner, sir.”

“Yes, I recall the way and thank you, Mrs. Bennet. I understand our arrival was unexpected and I appreciate all you and your staff are doing to ensure our comfort and continued health,” the young man said with a smile. “I will be down as soon as I am presentable.”

“Ah, here is Mr. Jones,” Thomas said. “Thank you for coming, my friend.”

“Bennet, good evening. I came across Jack on my way home from a visit. Yes, I would be most pleased to dine with you and your family this evening, thank you for asking, old friend,” Jones replied with a smirk as Fanny giggled. “Mr. Darcy, Miller sent Jack to Netherfield as soon as we arrived though it shall take some time for him to return with dry clothing for you and Mr. Bingley. Would you mind describing what transpired, and sharing your observations of Mr. Bingley's condition? I should be grateful for your assistance while we tend to him? It would help me figure out the full extent of his injuries. We could then get Mr. Bingley into one of Mr. Bennet’s nightshirts before you start your own bath. The delay should allow time for more water to heat and for Jack to return with dry clothes.”

“Of course, sir,” Mr. Darcy responded.

~*~

Mary sat quietly in her favourite chair and stitched quietly at her sampler while waiting for Mr. Darcy to join them in the parlour before dinner.

She was still mystified by her parents’ recent behaviour. The more she thought about the situation, the more she adored their renewed domestic harmony. Her father had ceased his usual barbs, which her mother so often failed to comprehend, or chose not to, and mama was not wailing and complaining about her nerves.

She had narrowly avoided her elder sisters, who were eager to resume their discussion of her recent remarks concerning her place in the family. Mary knew she would not evade them for long. One way or another, she would have to talk about her feelings.

Mr. Darcy entered and took a solitary seat upon the settee. Mary noticed that an unfamiliar footman had followed Mr. Darcy into the parlour and took a position by the door. Mr. Darcy looked very uncomfortable and his eyes circled the room, perhaps in search of Lydia and Kitty.

Jane made several attempts at conversation, but received only curt replies. Mary remembered Mr. Darcy acted this way towards Mrs. Long and wondered whether he was simply incapable of polite conversation. Sensing the growing awkwardness, she resolved to come to her sister’s aid.

“Mr. Darcy, after services this past week, I heard you mention a sister who is under your guardianship. Do you have other siblings?” Instead of answering right away, a glare was levelled at Mary for a moment before Mr. Darcy spoke through clenched teeth.

“Perhaps you are unaware, Miss Mary, but eavesdropping upon a private conversation is most certainly frowned upon in polite society.”

She heard gasps from mama and Jane and assumed her father and Elizabeth were glaring right back at their recalcitrant guest.

“Perhaps you are unaware, Mr. Darcy, that a conversation held in a churchyard, full of people, can scarcely be considered private, unless you hold to a definition of ‘private’ unknown to the rest of us,” she replied with spirit. “My goodness, I feel as though this is the second time that I have had to make this very point. Oh wait, it is.”

Mr. Darcy clenched his jaw yet harder but made no reply. Mary, in turn, sought to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“I observed you glance around the room as you entered. As it appears you shall remain our guest for an unknown duration of time, you should be made aware that my youngest sisters, Kitty and Lydia, were behaving rather poorly earlier today. My parents have confined them to the nursery as punishment and they are no longer considered out.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Mr. Darcy’s face before he nodded.

“From what I have observed, that is long overdue and certainly in the best interest of your family.”

In the hope of preserving the evening’s peace, Mary had been willing to let his previous comment pass, but this new one, however just, was beyond endurance.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy? Is it likewise frowned upon in polite society to continually give offence to your hosts, insult a gentlewoman at an assembly, and render yourself disagreeable to an entire town?”

“So it begins once more,” Papa muttered with evident relish.

“Mistress Mary, you are being quite contrary today,” Jane said with one side of her mouth raised in amusement.

“Well said, Jane,” Papa said with a laugh. “Very well said.”

“Now who is contrary, Jane?” Mary asked with a raised brow. “You know I despise that nursery rhyme. Are you trying to turn my ire on yourself?”

“What has come over you today, Mary?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“I cannot say for certain, but I quite like it,” she admitted. “Perhaps I have simply reached the end of my patience for being overlooked, eclipsed by my sisters, and ignored by my family.”

“I thought you preferred solitude, reading, and practicing the pianoforte, Mary. How long have you felt yourself so ill-used?” Jane asked, tears glistening in her eyes. “Oh, I am a failure as the eldest sister.”

“Mary, why have you never spoken of this previously?” Elizabeth asked, looking wounded. “We attempted to speak with you this afternoon, but you contrived to avoid the conversation.”

“This is neither the time nor the place, sisters,” Mary said, casting a meaningful glance toward Mr. Darcy. “We shall speak of it in private.

“Indeed, we shall ,” Jane said with uncharacteristic firmness.

“Back to Mr. Darcy,” Papa said, his amusement evident. “This is exceedingly diverting. I only wish I had a glass of port and perhaps a pipe. I have not been half so entertained in years, and without paying a farthing for the privilege.”

“Thomas!” Mama hissed with a scowl on her face. “This is no occasion for one of your quips. You would do better to consider how best to apologize to our middle daughter, and determine the means by which you will set things right.”

Mary was startled to see her father appear truly contrite and offer a solemn nod.

“I had not realized until earlier this evening that my ill-bred comment had been overheard. I have an apology of my own to make to Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said, continuing their previous conversation as though it was never interrupted. “Pray continue, Miss Mary. I would like to hear the particulars of your accusation.”

It reflected well on Mr. Darcy that he chose to engage rather than take offense and remove himself from the room.

“You shall hear it all then, but prepare yourself for something very dreadful, sir. The first time you were seen publicly in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at our monthly assembly. What did you do? You refused introductions to many people, sat close to Mrs. Long for half-an-hour without once opening your lips unless it could be helped. You danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce, and, to my certain knowledge,” Mary glanced meaningfully at Elizabeth, “more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny any of those facts, can you? Everyone in Meryton believes you are a disagreeable man who is eaten up with pride.”

After a moment of poignant silence, Papa said, “My dear, I think Mr. Darcy has need of your vinaigrette. I do not believe I have seen him so much as blink.”

Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and asked, “Is there more, Miss Mary?”

“Only my observations. Shall I proceed?” At his answering nod, she asked, “Would it surprise you to hear that you put me very much in mind of my youngest sister, Lydia?”

Mr. Darcy raised his brows in surprise. Papa laughed heartily. Lizzy smiled, then chuckled quietly. Jane and Mama gasped.

This time it was Mama who commented, “I cannot wait to hear this rationale.”

“Nor I,” Jane muttered back.

Mr. Darcy gave her a slight smile that was endearing, a nod, and said, “Though that statement is almost as disconcerting as the uncomplimentary list of my offences, I am just as eager to hear your explanation as Mrs. Bennet and Miss Bennet are.”

Mary observed Elizabeth regarding Mr. Darcy with a contemplative air. She hoped her sister had begun to revise her first impression of the man because this Mr. Darcy was swiftly rising in Mary’s esteem.

“In appearance, you are both tall and handsome, of course,” she answered with a grin.

“Well, thank you for starting with our positive attributes. Pray continue,” Mr. Darcy responded with a slight gesture of his hand.

“You both are also accustomed to giving orders, and having them obeyed, and do not appear to be concerned about the feelings of those around you. Thus, you are continually giving offense and earning the disdain of those very people, though you do not seem to notice or care. It is true I do not know you very well, it is true, but appears to me you are both spoiled, over-indulged, self-assured, display selfish behaviour, and want whatever strikes your fancy, while heedless of the means employed,” she said passionately.

Mary took a deep breath and continued. “Such as wanting your friend to leave you be at the assembly, so you delivered an entirely improper rebuke, aloud, in public, rather too loudly without even the courtesy to take him aside. You thought to silence him by embarrassment, giving no thought to the feelings of the lady who sat but five feet way and was, regrettably, the object of your censure. Though, from the way you have watched Lizzy since that night, I daresay you regret that little spectacle all the more, now you know she heard you,” Mary concluded her rant with a huff.

Mr. Darcy silently appraised her for a few moments before nodding and saying, “‘I have greatly underestimated you, Miss Mary.”

“It would not be the first time, Mr. Darcy, nor the last, I dare say,” Mary responded pertly with a laugh.

Posted on 2025-07-11

Chapter 4

“Would it surprise you to hear that in some ways you remind me of my father?” Mr. Darcy asked.

Mary ceased laughing at once and turned to Mr. Darcy, who nodded gravely before continuing.

“You are one of the few people who have taken me to task and compelled me to reconsider my actions. That it should occur twice in one evening is most discomposing,” Mr. Darcy continued with a frown. “How far have I digressed from acceptable behaviour?”

Mary looked at Elizabeth before she answered. “Though you may not have perceived it, my sister also reproached you, in her own manner.”

“When? She has conducted herself with nothing but propriety,” Mr. Darcy asked, his brows raised in surprise.

“Is it proper,” Mary returned, “to pass a gentleman while laughing at him in amusement, continue to laugh while you share an overheard slight far and wide among your acquaintances, refuse to dance with him at a house party, and then repeat his own words before him, seemingly to provoke embarrassment?”

“You mean she was not being playful, was not favouring me with marked attentions, when we have conversed at outings?” Mr. Darcy asked, a crease forming between his brows.

Mary heard her sister gasp. Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth, his countenance suddenly shadowed with regret.

“I had begun to fear I have shown Miss Elizabeth too marked attention. That if I am not careful, she may soon anticipate a courtship proposal, and yet, she despises me?” Mr. Darcy asked quietly.

“I do not despise you, Mr. Darcy, for I do not truly know you,” Elizabeth said, her voice low but steady. “If you think back upon our acquaintance, how many words of substance have passed between us prior to this evening? Scarcely any. And yet I presumed to judge your character in its entirety. I believed myself singularly clever in forming such a decided dislike, clever and independent and sharp. But I see now that I was proud, proud and hasty, and worse still, unkind.”

Elizabeth paused, her cheeks coloured. “I could easily forgive your pride, Mr. Darcy, if you had not mortified mine . But I nursed the injury far beyond reason, and let it guide my every opinion of you. You were proud, yes, but I was willfully blind. I had not considered that you might be acting from reserve, or discomfort, or even a desire to protect yourself. I was all too eager to believe the worst.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath before turning to her. “Thank you, Mary. You have made me see how dreadfully I have behaved. I have misjudged Mr. Darcy most grievously.” She hesitated, her voice softening. “And I see now that I have not escaped your discerning eye. You have taken our parents to task, even Mr. Darcy himself, and now me. Yet your rebuke was gently delivered, and no less deserved for its gentleness. I am grateful for it, and for your clarity of thought when mine was so clouded by vanity and resentment. You have shown more sense and fairness than I, and I hope I shall remember it.”

Mary, though blinking in surprise, inclined her head. “I believe you both have shown humility tonight, and far more understanding than most.”

Mr. Darcy, his voice low and sincere, said, “Miss Elizabeth, I am honoured by your words, and humbled. You owe me no apology, and yet you have spoken with more candour and grace than I deserve. I am truly sorry for the slight I gave you. It was inexcusable.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowed with shame. “The words I uttered at the assembly were said in haste, and foolishness. Bingley was pressing me to dance, and I wished only to be left alone. I would have refused any partner that evening, regardless of merit or appearance. I had only just arrived at Netherfield and scarcely had time to catch my breath before I found myself thrust into society. Bingley had accepted an invitation on behalf of our entire party before I was even aware we were to attend.”

He met her eyes. “I cannot undo what was said, but I hope I may, in time, show myself to be something more than the man you once believed me to be.”

Mary noticed Elizabeth’s cheeks colour again, though her gaze did not waver from Mr. Darcy.

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said softly. “I see now how quick I was to judge you, and how little I understood. Your words do you credit, and I do believe I begin to see the man you truly are.”

“At a comfortable pace, it is four hours from London, presuming that is where you originated,” Mama observed. “I should have been most displeased to find myself obliged to attend a noisy gathering full of strangers.”

“I have an idea,” Papa said. “Shall we declare this evening a new beginning? Lizzy, do you suppose you might forgive Mr. Darcy his former lapse in judgment?”

“Yes, papa,” answered Elizabeth. “Mary has pointed out that my subsequent behaviour was not as it should have been.”

“And you, Mr. Darcy?” Papa asked with a raised brow.

Mr. Darcy smiled gently and nodded his acceptance at Elizabeth before turning to Mary. “I was only blessed with one sibling, Miss Mary. Georgiana is fifteen.”

“Is she still in London?” she asked, smiling to see that Mr. Darcy resumed their former subject, as though the prior conversation had not occurred. There was, Mary thought, a depth to his character which could not fail to intrigue Elizabeth.

“Yes, Miss Mary. Upon her leaving school, I established a household for Georgiana in London, where she resides with her companion.”

“Being under your care, and your only sister, I presume you are close. Had she no wish to accompany you to Hertfordshire?” Mary asked. She was surprised to see Mr. Darcy look uncomfortable again. “I apologize if my question was too personal, Mr. Darcy. You do not have to answer me.”

Mr. Darcy hesitated. “That is not the reason for my reluctance, Miss Mary.”

“Pardon me for interrupting, but my master is hesitant to answer due to the circumstances of Miss Darcy declining the invitation,” the footman answered from his position at the door.

Mary was shocked a footman would speak, especially in another household.

“Parker, I appreciate your assistance, but it is unnecessary,” Mr. Darcy said stiffly.

“I disagree, sir, and I expect a scolding,” the footman responded, but there was no fear in his expression.

“I apologize for Parker, Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said with a slight blush on his cheeks. “His parents served my late esteemed parents, and we are close in age.”

“We have a similar relationship with our maid Sarah, who is daughter to Mrs. Hill,” Jane offered with a smile.

“Very well, young man,” said Mr. Bennet with an arch look. “Explain the circumstances.”

“Miss Darcy declined to make the trip. She is exceedingly shy,” came the reply. “Mr. Darcy abhors deception and could not, in good conscience, offer the explanation himself.”

“I understand,” Elizabeth responded with a smile and nod.

“I do not,” said Papa, frowning.

“Though I have not often conversed with Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst, each encounter has demonstrated that Miss Bingley’s manner is most...”

“Forceful, perhaps, miss?” Parker said, with a sidelong glance.

“Yes, Parker, forceful is a fitting adjective,” Elizabeth responded, amusement in her tone. “You are rather impertinent for a footman.”

Papa laughed heartily. “That is quite bold coming from you, Lizzy,” he said between chuckles.

“My husband is correct, Lizzy. You are very headstrong and impertinent yourself,” Mama said. “It reflects favourably on Mr. Darcy’s character that his servant should feel so at ease in his presence.”

Mary, who had been quietly observing the exchange, considered the word forceful as applied to Miss Bingley. It struck her as a most charitable description, rather like calling a gale invigorating . She recalled the Meryton assembly, when Miss Bingley had swept into the room with such purpose that even Sir William Lucas, who prided himself on never being outdone in civility, had been reduced to a succession of uneasy bows as Miss Bingley claimed the best chairs and the attention of half the room. Mary had watched, half-amused and half-appalled, as Miss Bingley had managed to make introductions feel like interrogations and compliments sound like thinly veiled critiques.

If forcefulness were a virtue, Mary mused, Miss Bingley would surely be canonized. She stifled a smile, thinking that perhaps the only thing more formidable than Miss Bingley’s opinions was her ability to deliver them at a volume that could be heard from one end of the assembly hall to the other.

With that, Mary returned her attention to the conversation, content to let her observations remain unspoken as her own private amusement.

“I must agree, my dear. Though bold and impertinent in a servant, he has likely inferred from our conversation that such conduct is presently in vogue in our parlour,” said Papa, grinning at Mary. “It is plain that Parker is an intelligent fellow and feels secure in Mr. Darcy’s service. And, unless I am much mistaken, he has been dispatched to guard his master from being compromised in a household full of young ladies.”

You are mostly correct, Mr. Bennet,” Parker replied, his tone dry. “Mr. Darcy’s housekeeper in Derbyshire insisted Rogers, Lacy, and I accompany him to Netherfield Park with Mr. Darcy, on account of a certain young lady in that household. We are here to ensure Mr. Darcy’s presence causes no complications, particularly with Mr. Bingley indisposed.”

“That was most thoughtful. I daresay our housekeeper will welcome the extra pair of hands. As you may imagine, Longbourn being so full of young ladies, employs more maids than footmen,” Mama told the footman before addressing her daughter. “Lizzy, I am eager for you to explain what you understand to be the circumstances surrounding Miss Darcy’s decision to stay in London.”

“For a girl of fifteen, reared by an elder brother and likely both sheltered and innocent, the prospect of staying in a house where she knows no one beyond her brother and hosts, particularly when one of the ladies is of a rather forceful disposition, must indeed be daunting. My thanks, Parker, for the adjective,” Elizabeth answered.

Mary choked back a laugh, mortified that it emerged as a snort. “Pray forgive my outburst, it was most unseemly.”

“Come now, Mary, that will not do. You must share the thought that amused you,” Papa said, his expression alight with amusement.

Mary studied Parker for a moment before turning to Mr. Darcy. “If your housekeeper entrusted him with such a delicate matter, and you have travelled with him, I must presume he is wholly trustworthy?”

“He is,” Mr. Darcy replied with a nod. “As am I.”

“Your honesty, Mr. Darcy, is not in question, it goes without saying. You would not so much as reveal your sister’s reason for declining Mr. Bingley’s invitation. I should not hesitate to confide in you,” said Mary.

“I fear you will be disappointed in my answer, Papa. It struck me that Lizzy had conveyed, quite delicately, that Miss Darcy declined the invitation to Netherfield in order to avoid Miss Bingley’s rather overbearing manner. The image of Lizzy acting as a diplomatic envoy to some foreign court came so vividly to mind, I could not suppress my amusement. I beg your pardon.”

Mary was astonished when the entire room dissolved into laughter. Her father, mother, Elizabeth, Parker, and Mr. Darcy were soon wiping tears from their eyes, while Jane smiled, her countenance tinged with embarrassment.

Once the laughter had subsided, Jane inquired, “Mr. Darcy, you have been parted from your sister for a full month. Do you miss her?”

“Indeed, Miss Bennet. Georgiana and I are most affectionate siblings.”

“Given Mr. Bingley’s condition, it seems unlikely he shall return to Netherfield any time soon,” Mama observed. “Would you consider inviting your sister to join you here? The chamber adjoining yours could easily be prepared for her.”

Mary was amazed when Mr. Darcy glanced at Parker for confirmation before he spoke.

“I must warn you that my sister will bring her companion and, unless I am mistaken, my cousin, who is joined with me in guardianship, will insist upon attending Georgiana for her protection.”

“That shall be no problem, Mr. Darcy. We have sufficient rooms for all three,” Mama responded. “Especially with the girls sharing and Kitty and Lydia in the nursery. My brother has young children, you see. He delights in surprising us, so we have found it prudent to keep the nursery in constant readiness. It was the most prudent arrangement.”

“In that case, I shall gladly extend the invitation to Georgiana, as well as commend your household,” Mr. Darcy responded with an amused smile. “Whether she accepts, of course, remains her choice.”

“As it should be,” Papa laughed. “I have dwelt in a female-filled household these twenty years, Mr. Darcy. I must confess, I am impressed a man as young as you has already discovered the secret to domestic harmony.”

“There is a happy household, Papa, and there is the folly of letting your daughters run wild,” Mary told her father sternly. “Thankfully, I cannot imagine Mr. Darcy permitting in his household the sort of conduct we have endured in ours.”

Mary heard Mr. Darcy gasp and realized that she had one more chastised her father. She hung her head. “I beg your pardon, Papa. There I go again. I had no right to speak so.”

“No, Mary, you are entirely correct. Let me, once in my life, feel how much I have been to blame. For the sake of a quiet house and uninterrupted reading, I allowed the conduct of my youngest daughters decline so greatly it might have disgraced the whole family. Jimmy and Lizzy endeavoured to warn me, but I would not heed them.”

“Mr. Darcy,” Jane interjected gently, seeking to preserve the peace and redirect the conversation for everyone’s comfort, “would you care to write your sister a note? There is a desk with pen and paper behind you.”

“Thank you, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said as he stood. “I appreciate...”

Mary watched in horror as Mr. Darcy’s face paled, and he fainted, striking his head upon the pembroke table beside his chair as he fell.

Mama was the first to reach Mr. Darcy and pressed her handkerchief gently to his wound.

“Mary, fetch Mr. Jones as quickly as possible. Make haste, child.”

Mary hastened to the door, nodded her thanks to Parker, who had already opened it, and stopped abruptly to avoid colliding with Mr. Jones. “Please, sir, hurry. Mr. Darcy fell and his head is bleeding.”

From the rooms edge, Mary observed Mr. Jones and her mother discussing Mr. Darcy’s injury.

“How are you, Mary?”

“I am well, Lizzy,” Mary responded.

“I am glad. You seemed distressed.”

“I was horrified to think Mr. Darcy was seriously injured, Lizzy. I have recently grown to appreciate his finer qualities.”

“As have I,” Elizabeth mumbled softly.

Mary exchanged a faint smile with Parker before asking in a raised voice, “Mr. Jones, how grave is Mr. Darcy’s injury? Should we send for his footman to summon Miss Darcy?”

“Mr. Darcy shall recover soon, Miss Mary,” Mr. Jones replied. “I believe he has taken a chill from his time in the rain and the wound is not as bad as it seems.”

“You know head wounds tend to bleed profusely, Mary,” Papa added.

“Mr. Darcy had shown signs of a cold ere he left for dinner with the officers,” Parker added. “He ate very little today.”

“That does indeed make more sense,” said Mr. Jones. “You need not be alarmed, Bennet. I have called at Netherfield at the stablemaster’s request, and it appears the stable hand suffers from no more than a common cold. If that is indeed the source of Mr. Darcy’s indisposition, there is little reason to apprehend anything more serious.”

“Pardon, Miss Mary, but I know Miss Darcy very well,” Parker said quietly as Mr. Jones and her father continued their conversation. “I was raised at the Darcy estate, Pemberley, and the master and I were playmates in our youth. Though Mr. Jones is assured Master Fitz will recover, Miss Darcy will no doubt desire to know of his injury. I must ride to London this very night and return with her tomorrow morning so she may nurse her brother back to health.”

“ Master Fitz ?” Mary asked, tilting her head slightly. She saw Parker blush at his slip of the tongue and laughed. “An unexpected appellation for one so dignified. Was he always so grave, or did he once know how to misbehave? I suspect you have rather compromising tales of our staid Mr. Darcy’s youth?”

“What a bold declaration, Parker,” Elizabeth said with a mischievous smile. “I shall expect a full account of the master’s youthful transgressions at your earliest convenience, or shall I simply inquire whether Miss Darcy knows them already?”

Parker gave a sheepish smile. “He would prefer I never speak of them.”

Elizabeth, though amused, stepped forward. “You know the family best, Parker. If I might,” she hesitated. “Mr. Hill rode to London this morning to fetch a new companion for Kitty and Lydia. I was thinking... perhaps...”

“Please supply me with the address in London,” Parker said when Elizabeth faltered while making her bold request. “Mrs. Annesley, my mistress’s companion, would naturally wish to meet your new companion first, should they find themselves agreeable, I am certain she would prefer to travel with a larger group of ladies. Nor would I refuse the prospect of an additional outrider.”

“Thank you, Parker,” Elizabeth said with a faint sigh.

“Should we send a note of invitation to Miss Darcy?” Mary asked.

“Yes, Mary, I think that it a wise plan, and it will help ease your mind,” Elizabeth answered. “Parker, while Mary is busy writing the note, you may ask Jack to saddle whichever horse you prefer to ride to London.”

“Very well, Miss. I will be back shortly,” Parker responded.

“Wait a moment, Parker,” Mary said, a thought occurring to her. “How did you arrive so swiftly after Mr. Darcy’s own?”

“When Jack brought the note to Netherfield, I was dispatched immediately with a change of clothing and to assist the master in any way. His valet, Barton, and the maid Lacy will follow shortly, once they have gathered the master’s effects.”

“That makes sense, thank you, Parker,” Mary responded.

~*~

Georgiana Darcy was dining with her aunt, uncle, and cousin at Matlock House. She had just finished the final note of a song and was returning to her seat when her brother’s footman entered the room.

“Parker, what has happened to William?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

“Mr. Darcy will recover, miss. He and Mr. Bingley were caught in a storm on the way to Netherfield. Mr. Bingley’s horse bolted and threw him. They reached a neighbouring estate, where Mr. Darcy, likely weakened by a cold, swooned and struck his head. Since Mr. Jones was already there seeing to Mr. Bingley’s injuries, Mr. Darcy was treated right away. He will be well,” Parker assured her.

“Thank you, Parker,” she said with feeling.

“Why have you truly come, Parker?” asked Michael Fitzwilliam, Viscount Spenston.

“Mrs. Bennet has extended an invitation for Miss Darcy to remain at Longbourn so she may tend to her brother. The Bennet family has five daughters so Miss Darcy will not lack companionship during Mr. Darcy’s recovery.”

“Did I hear you correctly, Peter Parker?” Michael asked, his voice dangerously low. “You left my cousin alone in a house with five daughters?”

“You know me better than that, My Lordling,” Parker replied with a grin.

Georgiana smiled at the familiar exchange between the old friends. Her parents had long permitted the young Parker family to accompany the Darcys on their travels. Parker, much like her Fitzwilliam cousins, was an elder brother in all but name. Parker and Michael had grown up playing together with Richard and William, and in private, even in the presence of her aunt and uncle, were known to be rather informal, generally bordering on impertinence.

Georgiana often wondered what her aunt, Lady Catherine, would say, were she to overhear them. Fortunately, her Aunt Elaine and Uncle David were good natured people who loved to tease in the privacy of their home among family and trusted servants.

“I waited until Rogers, Barton, and Lacy arrived at Longbourn before I left for London. You know they will protect the master. Besides, Miss Bennet assigned one of their male servants to stay in the hallway outside of the guest quarters,” Parker explained, causing Michael’s eyebrows to rise. “She also insisted that the sisters share bedrooms and invited Miss Lucas, the eldest daughter of the local knight, to visit during their stay. Thus, each chamber accommodates two ladies.”

“My goodness, Parker,” her Aunt Elaine said. “Is this family of noble rank or considerable fortune?”

“I do not believe so, my lady.”

“Do you believe they are trying to reel my nephew in?” Uncle David questioned, suspicion clearly in his tone. “This Miss Bennet may well be scheming for William, purposefully placing the male servant, inviting this young lady as bait, all to lull him into a false sense of ease. And when he is well within their net, they shall strike, hooking him in some orchestrated compromise, with the girl and the servant conveniently present to bear witness.”

“Pray, Father, spare us further angling metaphors,” Michael said with a weary sigh. “I do hope the mood has passed. I am also inclined to observe that your speech was quite breathless, one might think you were reciting aloud from a Gothic novel. I highly doubt Parker would have left William alone were he in any danger from these ladies. Do recall, whoever William marries will become mistress of Pemberley.”

“Lacy is Mrs. Reynolds granddaughter,” Georgiana reminded her uncle. “She and Rogers would not leave William’s room if they felt him in danger. Besides, as William’s valet, Barton will not stir from his side if he is unwell.”

“Yes, that is reassuring,” Uncle David murmured, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Rogers is the grandson of Pemberley’s former housekeeper, and Barton is the son of my own valet. They will not suffer him to be caught off guard or compromised in any manner.”

“That is why we are always assigned to travel with the master,” Parker said. “If I may be so bold.”

“Bolder still, you mean?” Michael interrupted dryly. “You are already quite impertinent enough.”

“And you delight in every moment of it, My Lord,” Parker replied smoothly. “Besides, you would think far less of me were I a model servant.”

“That is certainly true,” Michael returned with a laugh.

“You two boys have been trying my patience since you were in leading strings,” Uncle David said with an indulgent smile on his face and a shake of his head. “I hope you do not resort to name calling and rolling around on the floor, engaging in fisticuffs as you did when younger.”

“I could not agree with my brother more,” Aunt Elaine said with a dry look. “I am quite certain a good portion of my grey hair may be attributed to the mischief you two contrived with my sons and nephews. Not to mention the heirlooms I was obliged to replace. Please continue, Parker, ignore my nephew.”

“As I was saying,” Parker continued, casting Michael a pointed glance, “I am certain the master is safer at Longbourn than he was at Netherfield Park.”

“Are you sure?” Aunt Elaine asked Parker.

“Indeed, madam,” Parker said, then added more quietly, “In most respects.”

“What do you mean ‘in most respects’?” Michael asked loudly. A devilish grin crossed his face. “Oh, ho! Pray tell me my cousin has lost his wits over one of the daughters?”

“He does appear to pay Miss Elizabeth more attention than I have seen him pay any other young lady, ever ,” Parker replied, smiling. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Georgiana, dear, you simply must accept Mrs. Bennet’s kind invitation,” Michael said with a mischievous smile. “And, since my brother was unable to get away from his duties long enough to attend a simple family dinner, I will be forced to escort you to Longbourn.”

“Yes, my lord, I can see it will be an onerous task for you,” Parker said with a dry tone.

“Boys,” Uncle David admonished good-naturedly. “I can understand Michael’s excitement. To see William well and truly smitten would be worth the carriage ride.”

“I am actually rather excited for that reason, father,” Michael responded. “I have yet to meet them, but this Bennet family intrigues me. A family full of beautiful, intelligent, and guileless young ladies? One is no more likely to find a purse full of guineas lying on the docks.”

“How did you come up with that list, Michael?” Uncle David asked, looking shocked.

“Come now, father, we are speaking of William. Do you truly believe he would be interested in a woman if she were not everything I mentioned?” Michael asked. “Do you agree with me, Petey?”

“Yes, my lord, I do,” Parker answered, pointedly ignoring the use of his childhood nickname. “Your list scarcely does them justice. There is a certain something about these ladies that makes them stand out from any I have met before, save Miss Darcy, of course.”

“Thank you again, Parker,” Georgiana said with a smile.

“I should add that the family appears to be undergoing a transformation. I have had little direct interaction with them, but at the assemblies I attended with the master, the two youngest sisters behaved somewhat wildly, unchecked by their parents,” Parker said.

“From what I overheard, Miss Mary, the middle daughter, publicly reproached her parents for their want of decorum. As a result, the two youngest have been sent back to the nursery and are no longer considered out,” explained Parker.

“Furthermore, the family has offered employment to a companion who, should she accept, is expected to depart London tomorrow to join them. With your permission, Miss Darcy, and Mrs. Annesley’s, I thought we might extend to her a more comfortable conveyance than the post chaise. I have the address.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” Georgiana said.

“The idea was Miss Elizabeth’s. She is the second sister.”

“Does she have fine eyes, by any chance?” Michael asked dryly with a knowing look.

“By some strange coincidence, yes, she does, my lord,” Parker responded with a grin.

“If I know my nephew, she must have fine, dark eyes and hair, with a light and pleasing figure, and a kind disposition,” Aunt Elaine observed with a smile. “I confess, I should quite enjoy calling upon the family myself, to ensure William's recovery, of course, and to witness his interactions with Miss Elizabeth.”

“From what I have observed, my lady,” Parker said, “the family would welcome your visit. Rooms are being prepared for Miss Darcy, her companion, and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mr. Bennet would, I daresay, find the situation amusing, and Mrs. Bennet appears a woman who delights in both hospitality and being of service, particulary to the anxious aunt of her ailing guest.”

“Parker,” her aunt gasped, “you cannot mean to suggest I impose upon the Bennets’ hospitality”

“You might accompany us, Aunt Elaine. And should Petey be mistaken, the carriage would bring you back to town directly,” Michael said, a devilish grin stealing across his face. “Although, if I have learned anything of Miss Bingley from my cousins, she would be most gratified to host you at the estate they are presently leasing.”

“Michael is quite right, Aunt Elaine,” she said, smiling. “Miss Bingley would undoubtedly feel honoured to offer you a room.”

“Parker is a sound judge of character. If he believes the Bennet’s would not be offended by William’s aunt calling on him, I am inclined to agree,” Uncle David said. A playful gleam lit his eye as he added,, “But sister, do keep Miss Bingley in mind as an alternative to returning to London immediately. I should hate for you to suffer the aches of an overly long ride.”

“Hold your tongue, David,” Aunt Elaine retorted with narrowed eyes. “You know full well I have always borne long carriage journeys with ease. We reside in Derbyshire, after all, and have travelled to London yearly for as long as I can remember.”

“I have a suggestion,” she said softly.

“Really, Georgiana?” Michael asked, brows raised. “You appear most eager to speak your mind before my father and our aunt.”

Georgiana felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she replied to her cousin. “I do. I wish to ensure my brother’s comfort and recovery. And, as you have said, the family intrigues me greatly. That William should extend such an invitation is rare indeed. My brother has written to me of the family and to hear Parker’s description of them was enough to convince me to accept.”

“What is your idea, Georgie?” Aunt Elaine asked.

“Earlier this week, Mrs. “Mrs. Annesley mentioned her niece is soon to be confined and wished for a day to visit,” Georgiana explained. “Perhaps Mrs. Annesley might remain in London, and you could accompany me to Longbourn, Aunt Elaine, in her stead? They are already expecting two ladies already. Would it signify greatly if I brought an aunt rather than a companion, particularly given William’s injury?”

“And I,” Michael cut in with a mock bow from his chair, “being the loving and dutiful nephew and cousin, would not dream of allowing two defenseless ladies to travel unescorted. Since they are expecting my brother, I must, of course, take his place.”

Uncle David gave an inelegant snort. “Too obvious, Michael. I should not be surprised if my sister devises a thousand subtle punishments for that remark during your journey to Meryton tomorrow.”

“It grows late, and Georgiana must return home to pack. Parker, I will write a note to our prospective travel companion and see it sent without delay,” Aunt Elaine said, then turned to Uncle David. “And rest assured, David, I shall not trouble myself with subtlety in correcting Michael along the way.”

“Yes, my lady. I shall deliver it myself. Mr. Hill can vouch I am known in Meryton, and I shall arrange for him to accompany us as well,” Parker responded with a dry smile.

“Very prudent, Petey. One may never be too cautious when it comes to outriders,” Michael nodded. “And aunt, I look forward to the many ingenious torments you no doubt have planned for me.”

Uncle David laughed and turned to his sister, “I do not envy you the journey, with Michael baiting Parker the whole way. Might I suggest you make them ride horseback beside the carriage, sister? It does look likely to rain, and you know how Michael despises anything that might disarrange his hair.”

“I had already determined that such would be the case,” Aunt Elaine replied pertly. “I intend to elegantly interrogate the Bennets’ new companion. As they seem not to have interviewed her, I presume she is already known to them. I am curious what may be discerned beforehand, and Michael’s presence would only prove a hindrance.”

“If anyone deserves to use the phrase ‘elegantly interrogate’, it is you, aunt,” Michael said with a grin. “Parker, before my aunt writes the invitation, do the Bennets know anything of our family?”

“No, my lord, Mr. Darcy merely mentioned that his cousin was joined in guardianship of his sister. Nothing of your family’s situation was explained,” Parker answered.

“I would appreciate being referred to as Mr. Fitzwilliam while I am in Meryton, and Aunt Elaine should be referred to as Mrs. Hastings,” Michael requested. “Such is the convenience of precedence, it has allowed me to avoid acquaintance with the Bingleys entirely. Were they to know our full connection, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst would no doubt insist on spending most of their time at Longbourn, to nurse their brother back to health, of course.”

“Michael,” Aunt Elaine said, “I am certain Miss Bingley has watched the Fitzwilliam box with her opera glasses rather than the stage. Do you truly think she will not recognize us?”

“If she does, we might let her suppose I am a cousin from a lesser branch of the Fitzwilliam family. And if you wear your simpler gowns from Matlock, she will likely assume you are my mother’s less affluent sister.”

“Michael is correct, aunt,” she agreed, inclining her head. “Miss Bingley has often hinted at her desire to make the acquaintance of Uncle David, Michael, and yourself. Were she to learn of your presence in Meryton, she would endeavour to secure every opportunity of being in your company.”

“Very well, I will use plain stationery and sign without reference to my rank.”

“To ease your mind, Aunt, I shall inform Mr. Bennet of our true identities,” Michael said with an indulgent smile. “You must be aware, aunt, when one possesses title and fortune, it is seldom easy, though not impossible, to discern whether interest stems from affection or ambition. In my case, it is my future rank in society. In your case, the worth of your jointure and widow’s portion. If William is indeed smitten with a Bennet daughter, I confess I harbour the hope I might at last find someone I am able to trust with my heart, enough to fall in love and offer for he.”

Georgiana was astonished to hear her cousin’s aspirations. For as long as she could remember, Michael had professed a thorough aversion to the notion of matrimony. As his friends successively announced their engagements, his remarks had grown increasingly cutting.

“Michael,” Uncle David slowly, his brows raised, “I had begun to fear you would never marry, and Richard would be left to provide the next heir to Matlock.”

“That was my supposition as well,” Aunt Elaine added, inclining her head.

“Do you truly mean to seek a bride in Meryton?” her uncle asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

“Seek a bride?” Michael repeated whilst shaking his head. “No, Father, I fear I do not. Yet I am not opposed to the idea, should I chance to meet someone with whom I might fall in love.”

“Oh, cousin, I hope you do,” she said, her eyes glistening. “You are most deserving of happiness.”

“Thank you, Georgie. And I wish the same for you,” Michael said, then cleared his throat. “Now, enough of this sentimental nonsense. Go see to your trunk while aunt pens an invitation to the Bennets new companion, and I apprise Richard of our departure at first light. With luck, it may even persuade my dutiful brother to request an impromptu leave.”

Posted on 2025-07-13

Chapter 5

Elizabeth Bennet and her sister Mary sat together in the parlour at Longbourn, awaiting Mr. Hill’s return from London with Mrs. Walters. Her father was in his study, her mother and Jane had departed for Meryton to honour their prior engagement with her Aunt Phillips, and Charlotte remained in the nursery with Kitty and Lydia, endeavouring to impress upon them the consequences of their conduct.

Elizabeth clenched her jaw at the memory of the previous evening. After Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy had arrived and been tended by Mr. Jones, her youngest sister’s behaviour had grown ever more disgraceful, Lydia’s display of temper being, by far, the most outrageous. Her outburst was so violent, that Papa insisted she be dosed with laudanum, lest she harm herself, Kitty, or destroy the nursery, which the family kept in readiness for the Gardiner children.

The necessity of apologizing to Mr. Darcy for Lydia’s commotion had been mortifying. She had screamed, pounded at the door, and wept to be released and permitted to go to Meryton, like a child in the midst of a tantrum. The entire household had gathered in the passage outside the nursery. It had required both Jimmy and Miller’s assistance to administer the laudanum. Fortunately, Mr. Bingley had remained unconscious through the entire disturbance, owing to his own medicinal draught.

“Mary, do you believe Mrs. Walters will be able to curb Kitty and Lydia’s behaviour? Last night was mortifying.”

“I was mortified as well, Lizzy,” Mary sighed. “Mrs. Walters has had the displeasure of experiencing our sisters before. If she accepts Papa’s offer of employment, she will be under no illusions about the challenges ahead.”

“You are correct, Mary,” she said with a sigh. “I shall no longer trouble myself with matters beyond my influence.”

“’Tis for the best, Lizzy,” Mary responded gently.

Hearing a carriage draw near, Elizabeth rose. “It seems as though we have visitors.”

Mary looked out the front window and exclaimed, “Thank the Lord, Lizzy! I see Mrs. Walters’ smiling face in the window of a most elegant carriage.”

Sharing a grin with Mary, she hastened to the front door, more like a servant than a lady. Stepping outside, she saw Mr. Hill, Parker, and another gentleman, whose face struck her as vaguely familiar, dismounting their horses.

“Mr. Hill, I am pleased to see you made it back safely,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. The return was far safer in company,” Mr. Hill replied with a smile.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Walters said warmly, inclining her head.

“Mrs. Walters, how fares your arm? I see it is wrapped tightly. Did the journey trouble you?” she asked worriedly.

“No, Miss. My new friend suggested I drink some willow bark tea before leaving. May I perform introductions?”

“By all means,” Elizabeth responded with a nod.

“Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Elaine Hastings, Mr. Michael Fitzwilliam, and Miss Georgiana Darcy. They are the aunt, cousin, and sister of Mr. Darcy.”

Mrs. Hastings was a tall woman of delicate proportions, bearing just enough resemblance to Miss Darcy to make their kinship apparent. She had light hair, blue eyes, and the gentle creases of laughter at their corners. Elizabeth believed she would find Mr. Darcy’s aunt very agreeable.

Mr. Fitzwilliam shared the light hair and blue eyes of his aunt and cousin. Elizabeth mused that he bore more resemblance to Miss Darcy than did her own brother. He shared his cousin’s height, handsome features, and noble mien. The way he handed his riding gloves to his servant showed the ease of a man long accustomed to deference.

Miss Darcy was a surprise to Elizabeth. Where her brother was dark and proud, Miss Darcy was gentle and unguarded. Though clearly shy, her concern for her brother was plain. Elizabeth sought to put her at ease.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I wish it were under more favourable circumstances. Mrs. Hastings and Miss Darcy, would you care to be shown to Mr. Darcy?”

“Thank you for the offer, Miss Elizabeth, but I believe Georgiana would prefer a few minutes alone with her brother. Mrs. Walters was just extolling the beauty of your garden. Might I take a turn about it to ease the stiffness from the journey?”

“Of course, Mrs. Hastings,” Mary responded. “I would be honoured to accompany you.”

“And I shall join you, for I too could benefit from a walk,” Mrs. Walters said with a smile.

“In that case, Mr. Fitzwilliam, would you care to accompany them?”

“I thank you, Miss Elizabeth, I would prefer to remain in the parlour and see my cousin once Georgiana has had a few moments alone with him.”

“Very well,” she said with a smile before asking, “I am curious, sir, have I not heard the name Fitzwilliam in connection with Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes, Miss Elizabeth. It is tradition in his father’s family to bestow the mother’s surname as the given name of the first-born son.”

“We have a similar tradition in my mother’s family,” Mary said. “The eldest daughter is always named Jane. If my sister ever decides to marry and has children, her first daughter will likely go by her middle name, for two Janes in a house can be quite confusing.”

“I understand entirely,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said with a rueful smile. “The same thing occurred at university, my cousin often turned his head when others addressed me and my brother as Fitzwilliam. But now, it is my turn to be curious. Might in inquire what you meant by ‘If my sister ever decides to marry?’ There appears to be a tale behind that remark.”

Elizabeth noticed Mary blushing and answered. “My eldest sister is everything that is lovely and has had a number of marriage offers.”

“Yet she is still Miss Bennet. Come now, ladies, I must have the full story. Nothing less will do,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said with a laugh.

“I believe we will become fast friends, sir,” Elizabeth said with a smile, then sighed. “Jane is a rare creature, as beautiful within as she is on the outside. Unfortunately, she has grown wary of gentlemen who admire only her beauty and never consider what she desires. To answer your question, sir, she has received many offers of marriage, but we have sworn to marry for love. Jane has yet to meet a man she can trust with both her heart and her future.”

Elizabeth was surprised by Mr. Fitzwilliam’s startled expression, and Miss Darcy’s soft gasp. She was very curious about the glance Mr. Fitzwilliam shared with his aunt.

“Your sister sounds like a singular young lady, and I look forward to meeting her,” Mr. Fitzwilliam answered earnestly while offering his arm. “May I escort you and Georgiana inside?”

At the door to the parlour, Elizabeth turned to him and asked, “Mr. Fitzwilliam, would you prefer to wait in the upper hallway, or are you content to remain here until I return for you?”

Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled wryly and replied, “I daresay I shall manage, Miss Elizabeth. Should I find myself in need of protection, or the solace of a nanny’s presence, I will ring for a servant at once.”

Miss Darcy laughed and said, “Oh Michael, do not tease Miss Elizabeth so.”

“The pull is over there, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth pointed with a mischievous smile. “You might require a chair, sir, should it prove beyond your reach.”

“Fast friends, indeed,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam with a chuckle. “Go along. Georgiana is desperate to make sure Fitz is well.”

“This way, Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said.

At the top of the stairs, Miss Darcy gasped, cried “Richard?”, and then screamed as Jimmy turned to face them.

“Miss Darcy, whatever is the matter?” Elizabeth asked as she heard footsteps thundering up the stairs.

“Georgiana,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said, “what has happened here?”

Miss Darcy, rendered speechless, could only point at Jimmy.

Mr. Fitzwilliam turned his head and gasped. His voice scarcely above a whisper said, “Jimmy?”

“Indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. His name is Jimmy,” Elizabeth said, noticing her father standing at the top of the steps. Jimmy studied Mr. Fitzwilliam with evident curiosity. “Do you recognize our visitors, Jimmy?”

“He bears a resemblance to me, Lizzy,” Jimmy stated slowly.

“I thought he looked familiar when he arrived, but I was too preoccupied with welcoming Mrs. Walters to give it further thought. Mr. Fitzwilliam, how do you know Jimmy’s name?” Elizabeth asked.

“Elizabeth,” her father said, “if you please, introduce me to our guests.”

“Yes, father,” she said. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, allow me to present my father, Mr. Thomas Bennet. Father, this is Mr. Michael Fitzwilliam and Miss Georgiana Darcy, Mr. Darcy’s cousin and sister.”

“When we found Jimmy, Mr. Fitzwilliam, there was a book in his pocket,” her father said, his voice hesitant.

“A prayer book my parents gifted him for his tenth birthday,” Mr. Fitzwilliam replied, his gaze never wavering from Jimmy. “Fifteen years ago, my mother and youngest brother were travelling to London to meet my father, after delivering me to Cambridge and Richard to Eton. When they failed to arrive, my father contacted the authorities in London and engaged the Bow Street Runners. Two days later, the carriage was found, its driver, footmen, and my mother were all tragically slain. Though the loss of my mother was grievous, the disappearance of my brother left a wound that never healed. Not a day has passed I have not wondered if he lived, where he might be, whether he was safe, and if I should ever see him again.”

More footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Mrs. Hastings appeared.

“Georgiana, I heard you...” Mrs. Hastings stopped short, her breath catching. “Jimmy? Michael, is that Jimmy? We must send Parker for my brother at once.”

“I heard Georgiana scream. Where is she? Is she well?” Mr. Darcy asked from the doorway, his voice hoarse with illness. “What has...”

Elizabeth, half-dazed, wondered just how many more gasps the household might endure before day’s end.

“Michael, is that Jimmy?” Mr. Darcy asked, his voice rough, his eyes wide.

“Given his resemblance to myself, and more so to Richard, I hope so, Fitz,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, still staring wide-eyed at Jimmy. “Mr. Bennet has yet to confirm whether the prayer book was indeed found upon Jimmy.”

“The one he received for his birthday? He never went anywhere without that book,” Mr. Darcy said with a cough.

“William,” Georgiana exclaimed, “please lie down. You ought not be out of bed.”

Mr. Darcy coughed. “I cannot believe we have found Jimmy. How have I not encountered him in Meryton before?”

“Because you were too busy looking down on everyone, insulting ladies at assemblies, and wishing yourself elsewhere,” Jimmy said, meeting Mr. Fitzwilliam’s gaze without flinching. “Mr. Bennet, how can we be certain these people know me? Might they not have found some old newspaper and contrived a cruel deception?”

“Jimmy,” Elizabeth said as she took his hand gently. “You know the article did not mention the prayer book. Besides, do you think they contrived such an elaborate ruse, including the expense of Mr. Bingley leasing Netherfield, inviting Mr. Darcy to visit, suffering injury, and then appearing at Longbourn?”

“No, Lizzy, but...”

Elizabeth stepped forward, placed a hand upon Jimmy’s cheek, and gently turned his face to hers, breaking eye contact between the brothers for the first time. “Jimmy, you know in your heart Mr. Fitzwilliam is your brother.”

Jimmy placed his forehead on the top of her head in a familiar gesture and whispered, “What if they do not like me, Lizzy?”

“It is not what you think,” Elizabeth heard her father say. “Jimmy is like an elder brother to all my daughters. There has never been a romantic attachment between him and Lizzy.”

Jimmy quickly stood to his full height, his expression pinched.

“I am not wholly uncomely, you know,” Elizabeth stated with hands on hips. “There is no need to look as though you bit into an unripe gooseberry.”

“Though each of my Bennet sisters is lovely,” Jimmy said diplomatically, “the notion of being romantically attached to any of them unsettles my very constitution.”

“Let us return to the matter at hand,” said Mrs. Hastings briskly. “We must make my brother aware his youngest son has been located. Parker must take the fastest horse to bring David and Richard here without delay.”

“Rogers and I will both go,” Parker said from behind Mr. Darcy. “I shall ride Achilles directly to the Colonel’s barracks in London.”

“Rogers may take my mount,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam. “We travelled at a moderate pace and Apollo is used to long-distance rides. He will relish a good run and make it back to London with energy to spare.”

“I will see to it at once, My Lord,” said Parker. He turned to Mr. Darcy. “Forgive me, sir. I ought to have noticed Jimmy at once, but I confess, I more often observe the ladies and their possible intentions rather than the men.”

“I did not notice either, Parker,” Mr. Darcy said hoarsely. “Please bring my uncle and cousin to Longbourn with all due haste.”

“My Lord?” Papa asked with a raised brow.

“I apologize for the subterfuge, Mr. Bennet. I desired anonymity while in Meryton,” Mr. Fitzwilliam answered.

“My nephew was going to inform you, Mr. Bennet,” Mrs. Hastings said without removing her eyes from Jimmy. “As the heir to my brother’s title, and quite wealthy in his own right, my nephew attracts a great deal of attention, particularly from the ladies of the town.”

“You were wise, Michael. Miss Bingley would not have rested until she contrived an introduction, had she known of your presence,” Mr. Darcy said with a cough.

“Brother,” said Miss Darcy, her voice tinged with surprise.

“He is unwell, Georgiana. He would not ordinarily speak so bluntly,” Mr. Fitzwilliam cut in.

Miss Darcy turned her clear eyes upon her brother, her brow creased with concern, though a small smile played at her lips. “I do not believe he has said anything untrue,” she murmured. “Though I confess, I had not thought Miss Bingley quite so determined.”

“She has aspirations,” Darcy muttered hoarsely. “And very little restraint.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam chuckled. “There, you see? A fever does not dull his perception, it only removes his discretion.”

“Then perhaps, for today, we ought to be grateful for illness. It seems to offer rare clarity,” said Miss Darcy, shaking her head fondly.

Mr. Fitzwilliam turned to her father. “Mr. Bennet, may I properly introduce myself and my aunt?”

After Mr. Bennet had nodded his assent and introductions were made, Lord Spenston said, “Parker will return with my father, the Earl of Matlock, and my brother, The Honorable Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. Might that prove burdensome to your household? They will bring another carriage and more servants.”

“Unless your father travels with a full retinue, there should be enough space, My Lord,” Elizabeth answered for her father and received an appreciative smile in return. “There is a dower house on the estate with four bedchambers and quarters for servants. It will require airing and a thorough cleaning.”

Parker walked out of Mr. Darcy’s room with another servant and two satchels. “Parker, inform my father the Bennets have offered the dower house. I believe he would like to have his own space. If he does, recommend he bring the under housekeeper and cook along with a few maids.”

“Very good, My Lord. I expect the Colonel will wish to depart at once. The Earl, I believe, had anticipated a quiet day at home. Miss Elizabeth, you should expect the entire party before evening.”

“It is not yet noon,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said. “If I know Richard, he will leave his barracks within the quarter and ride on horseback. You may expect him to join us for dinner, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Parker, please be safe,” said Elizabeth as he left on his journey. “Jimmy, you will escort your aunt, brother, and cousin to the smaller parlour. I shall inform cook to prepare for additional guests for luncheon.”

“Lizzy, what has happened? Mrs. Hill said...”

Elizabeth had to stifle a laugh as the newcomer stopped mid-sentence. Jane gasped, looking from Jimmy to Miss Darcy, then fixing her gaze on Mr. Fitzwilliam.

No words had been exchanged between Jane and Mr. Fitzwilliam, yet the moment was unmistakable.

His bearing, tense at first as though braced for some threat, eased the moment he understood Jane was a daughter of the house. His gaze, once guarded, gentled as it met Jane’s. Something passed between them, quiet, yet profound. A slight twitch of his lips hinted at a smile that transformed his countenance into something warmer, even tender.

Jane’s breath caught. She blinked slowly, as though rousing from a dream, while a bloom of colour rose delicately to her cheeks. Her expression was honest, instinctive, unguarded. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she lowered her gaze, only to lift it a heartbeat later, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his eyes.

There existed between them an undeniable connection, a quiet recognition, an awareness, a meeting of minds, or perhaps hearts, that promised to change the course of their lives forever.

Elizabeth nudged Mary and said, “I never thought to see it myself, but as the bard said in As You Like It ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’”

“Ought I warn Mr. Stevens to prepare the banns for Sunday’s services?” Mary asked, her tone dry.

Papa raised an eyebrow and dryly said, “If the rest of the relationship proceeds so swiftly, I shall hear of nothing but lace, ribbons, wedding clothes, and flowers until Michaelmas.”

Mrs. Hastings, lips twitching in amusement, said, “It is fortunate I brought ample writing paper and pens. With so many revelations and possible announcements, I shall be quite busy writing letters to keep the matchmakers puzzled and the gossips silent.”

“Is this truly how one falls in love with a stranger? It looks,” Georgiana paused, glancing from Jane to Mr. Fitzwilliam, “quite serious. Congratulations, Cousin. You did say you were not averse to marrying a Bennet, if your heart was so inclined.”

A brief pause followed her words. Then came a soft chuckle, joined by others who had borne witness to the unfolding of something rare and lovely.

Mr. Fitzwilliam offered Jane a smile and a small bow. “It does seem quite serious, Miss Bennet,” he said, with unmistakable promise in his tone.

“I believe it is,” Jane replied, colour rising in her cheeks, her eyes fixed upon his.

The warmth lingered for a moment longer. Then Jimmy, ever watchful of his adopted sisters, stepped in front of Jane and gave his brother a steady look as he asked, “Did Mrs. Bennet return with you, Jane?”

“Thank you for the reminder, Jimmy,” Papa said with a sigh. “She will take this very hard.”

“I always understood why she held herself somewhat apart from me,” Jimmy said quietly. “Please assure her this changes nothing. She is the only mother I have ever known.”

He glanced at Jane before saying, “I shall take my family to the parlour.”

~*~

After luncheon, Mary smiled to herself in the parlour. She discreetly watched Jane and Mr. Fitzwilliam conversing quietly on the settee, with Jimmy listening to every word.

At the sound of a carriage on the drive, Mary glanced toward the window. Her father sat nearby in a comfortable wingback chair, quietly reading.

Catching her eye, Papa looked out the window and announced, “A fine carriage has arrived and...”

Mary wondered why Elizabeth chuckled and muttered, “Another one.”

“Did we somehow end up in London while I was reading my book?” Papa asked. “This must be Miss Bingley who has mistaken Longbourn for Buckingham Palace. I fear our gravel drive will not live up to her silk train. Ah, there, you see the disgust? I do wish we thought to have the hedges gilded. How will she live with the disappointment? Mary, dear, fortunately she is wearing ivory silk with silver embroidery. It sets off the crumbling shutters magnificently.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam snorted and stated, “Indeed, the crumbling shutters are the height of rustic fashion. She will certainly insist on having her brother’s townhouse redone and start a new trend among the ton.”

“Perhaps I should have the livestock curtsey. Miller told me the hens are quite practiced,” Papa added with a smirk.

Elizabeth chimed in, “Well, the peacocks are out of season. She will have to settle for the hens.”

“Or the ducks,” Jane added. “The duck pond is rather charming, in its own way. Perhaps she will assume they were trained for her amusement.”

Mary chuckled at her sisters. “Shall we warn her the drawing room chairs are mismatched? Or let her discover it as a character-building exercise?”

“I told Hill we needed new curtains! Oh, I knew she would come when everything is in disarray! Oh Lord, why could not she come after the new upholstery arrived?” Mama said dramatically, with a wave of her handkerchief.

“You could offer her china and claim it was a gift from a French duchess. She would never dare question anything French,” Mrs. Hastings offered with a grin.

“I shall sit very still. Perhaps she will fail to notice me among the lesser Bennets, after all, my father is merely a knight,” Charlotte said with a twinkle in her eye. “If we are blessed, she will stay just long enough to remind us how fortunate we are to live simply.”

Jane, who had been quietly laughing along with everyone, suddenly looked thoughtful. She said in a quiet voice that nonetheless silenced the room, “I know we mean no harm, and I do understand the temptation to laugh at Miss Bingley’s airs. But let us remember she is a guest, and even if she was uninvited and forgets her manners, we must not forget ours. No matter how tempting it is.”

Mrs. Hastings dipped her head in amused admiration. “Well said, Miss Bennet. I shall fold up my sarcasm and tuck it away, for now.”

“Speak for yourself,” Papa muttered, though his eyes twinkled with merriment. “I shall attempt to appear benevolent, but I make no promises about silence.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam held up both hands in surrender. “Miss Bennet, you shame us all with your good sense and your golden heart. I shall strive to remember I was raised by a countess and not reared in a kennel.” When the others resumed their expectant chatter, he said quietly, “You have a gift, Miss Bennet. Not just for kindness, but for reminding others of their better selves.”

Jane blinked, caught off guard, and a slight, shy smile curved her lips.

Mary cast a long-suffering look toward Elizabeth, who responded with a barely contained giggle.

Mrs. Hill announced Miss Bingley, and everyone in the room rose, stunned into silence.

Mary could scarce believe the evening gown Miss Bingley had chosen for the occassion. The ivory silk dress had a high empire waistline, with a slight train, and layers of fine net and lace overlay. The neckline was scandalously low and square cut with silver embroidery and small pearls. Her father was right, this was a dress suited for an evening in London, most definitely not an afternoon call in the country.

Mama recovered first and welcomed Miss Bingley. “Allow me to introduce...”

Miss Bingley waved her hand, cutting her off. “Oh, I daresay I can presume who everyone is.” She swept into the room with practiced elegance and gave the faintest of curtsies toward Jane and Elizabeth.

Then she stared openly at Mrs. Hastings’s gown. “What a curious choice of fabric.” She glanced between Mr. Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Hastings and murmured, “One can always tell, can one not? The Bennet cheekbones are unmistakable.”

“It seems you are to be invaded by every Bennet in the country. No need for formalities, Mrs. Bennet. I shall become acquainted in due course. I am quite used to conversing with those beneath me, ah, that is, outside the ton.”

Mrs. Hastings, entirely unruffled, tilted her head with a serene smile. “My, what an impressive gift you have, Miss Bingley. To divine lineage and character in a single glance, why, it is nearly dizzying in its brilliance.” Without waiting for a response, she turned smoothly away, all interest in Miss Bingley extinguished.

“Jane, I meant to ask,” Mrs. Hastings said lightly, taking the chair beside Jane, “is it true the hens have been trained to curtsy? I was promised a full display of poultry pageantry before the week’s end.”

Jimmy gave a bark of laughter. “Only if bribed with enough seed. But I daresay the ducks have a better sense of timing. They waddle past the parlour window every day precisely at four o’clock. We’ve started calling it the parade.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam leaned forward slightly, a playful gleam in his eye. “I must say, I have been waiting for the peacocks to arrive and give us a fanfare. I was told Longbourn had rural grandeur.”

“They are shy,” Jane replied, suppressing a smile. “But very proud. Much like some of our human guests.”

Mrs. Hastings raised a brow, clearly delighted. “Then we must be on our best behaviour. Nothing offends a peacock more than neglect.”

As Mrs. Hastings turned her attention firmly away and the rest of the room fell into easy conversation, Miss Bingley shifted where she stood, momentarily ignored.

Mary, ever dutiful and quietly perceptive, stepped forward with composed grace and folded hands. “Would you care to be taken to your brother? I am sure Mr. Bingley will be quite surprised to learn you have come all this way.”

Miss Bingley replied, “He must be in such a pitiful state, though I am certain no one here truly understands the demands of proper nursing. Is he awake?”

“Mr. Bingley has been seen by Mr. Jones, our local physician,” Mary responded. “On his advice, your brother has been given steady doses of laudanum for the pain. It is uncertain he would be coherent enough to converse.”

“How very quaint. Poor Charles. It must be difficult for him, surrounded by so many well-meaning but untrained people. I suppose country physicians do what they can with what little they have.”

Mary’s smile remained fixed, though the slight tightening of her jaw betrayed her effort to maintain calm. “How fortunate we are, then, that your expertise in nursing has arrived at last,” she said with studied politeness. “Would you care for some tea before you see your brother, or would you prefer to offer your guidance at once?”

Her father quietly snorted, but she ignored him as Miss Bingley requested tea. Elizabeth muttered something that sounded like French china, and Mrs. Hastings laughed gaily before complimenting Jane on her dress.

“Oh, what an unusual flavour. I do not believe I have encountered this particular variety in London. How charmingly rustic. One forgets how different the blends can be in the country. One must admire how well country households do with the resources available to them.”

“Oh, but Miss Bingley, the tea comes from my Uncle Gardiner’s merchant house in London. He is quite discerning in such matters and will only secure the finest imports. We are fortunate to benefit from his generosity.”

“Oh, pray tell, where do the Gardiners reside in London?”

“My uncles office is on Gracechurch Street, near Cheapside,” Mary answered. The disgust was plain to see on Miss Bingley’s face.

Before Miss Bingley could reply, Mrs. Hastings leaned forward, her expression alight with recognition. “Madeline Gardiner? She is your aunt? Oh, she has spoken of Jane and Lizzy in her letters often, I should have guessed.”

At Mary’s nod, she continued warmly, “Why, we have known each other all our lives. Madeline and I both grew up in Derbyshire. We were practically neighbors.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Fitzwilliam added, “we had dinner with the Gardiners just last week. As it was an intimate dinner among friends, Aunt Elaine insisted the children join us.”

Mary caught a slight movement at the door and saw Miss Darcy, eyes wide and mouth agape, staring at Miss Bingley. She caught Miss Darcy’s eye, gave a subtle shake of her head, and watched as she turned and quietly left.

Miss Bingley scoffed. “Children at the dinner table? I should expect no less from the extended Bennet family tree. Such a thing would never happen in the first circles. Mr. Darcy would be mortified,” she finished with a sniff.

With a warm smile and a barely discernible smirk, Mrs. Hastings replied, “Ah, but Miss Bingley, I believe you mistake intimacy for indiscretion. In the true first circles, they do not banish their children from sight as if they were hired musicians. I have heard it told Lady Hawthorne herself dines with her grandchildren every Sunday, though I daresay she would not boast of it, even to Mr. Darcy.”

“Indeed, Miss Bingley,” Mr. Fitzwilliam continued, “it was a charming evening. The children were very well behaved, I assure you, though my aunt does say it is easier when they are raised by mothers of good sense and refinement, unlike some I could mention. I assure you, we all felt quite at ease.”

“Well,” Miss Bingley said sharply, “perhaps in some families, a tradesman’s table is the most refined a child might ever hope to see. No doubt the little darlings were impressed to be invited indoors.”

An uneasy hush followed. Mary was astonished by Miss Bingley’s audacity.

Elizabeth, with a cool but polite expression, tilted her head and said, “It is fortunate, then, that they are no strangers to refinement. I believe Mrs. Hastings herself had them to dine not long ago, though of course, that table is hardly worth mentioning.” She smiled sweetly and sipped her tea.

Miss Bingley blinked and muttered, “Hastings... Hastings... where have I heard that name?”

Mary watched as Miss Bingley’s gaze flickered between the aunt and nephew before settling on Mr. Fitzwilliam for a moment.

“Must have been in the scandal sheets, or when my father talked business,” she finished quietly.

Jane leaned forward with gentle warmth and interrupted Miss Bingley’s musings. “You would enjoy young Sophie, Miss Bingley. She has the most decided opinions and no fear of voicing them. I have heard her inform my uncle that it is most unjust that young ladies are not permitted to chase after their brothers and then she tried to bribe the footman for an extra lemon tart. I daresay kindness reveals far greater refinement than ceremony ever might.”

A silence followed, more telling than any reply.

Mr. Fitzwilliam, seated to Jane’s right, turned his head slowly. His expression did not change, yet there was a subtle sharpening to his gaze. He said nothing at first. Only looked at her.

Mary could not help but observe the look, rather too prolonged for decency. It was the sort of look one might expect to find in the novels beloved by her younger sisters. There was nothing that could be faulted in company, yet the intensity was such that she felt vaguely embarrassed.

Then, after a moment, his voice came low and deliberate. “A philosophy I admire more with every passing breath.” His gaze lingered, steady and warm, before he reached for his teacup with practiced ease, as though the moment had not just shifted the atmosphere of the room.

Jane appeared unmoved. Only someone who knew her well could tell how affected she was.

Across from them, Miss Bingley sat frozen, her fingers taut around the delicate porcelain of her own cup. Whatever clever retort she had been crafting was quite lost.

Mrs. Hastings, suppressing a smile, fluttered her fan once and murmured something about needing air.

Papa laughed and dryly muttered, “I might not have to wait until Michaelmas to enjoy a moment’s peace again at Longbourn.”

Jimmy, who had been sitting quietly, gave a loud sneeze, causing the hens to squawk and scatter. Mary’s lips twitched in amusement as a few people chuckled. She quickly masked her expression, noting how Miss Bingley’s countenance darkened, as though the rural interruption was an affront to her sensibilities.

“I presume Mr. Darcy is also recovering here. I heard he was feeling poorly,” Miss Bingley stated loudly, clearly unimpressed by the levity. “I shall go visit him. He must be dreadfully bored.”

Everyone stopped speaking and looked at Miss Bingley incredulously.

Mary coolly responded, “Surely, Miss Bingley, you are not suggesting we allow a single woman to enter the sickroom of an unmarried gentleman to whom she is not related or engaged. Even in the wilds of Hertfordshire, we observe the rules of propriety.”

There was pointed silence in the room, as though everyone understood Miss Bingley would not take the rebuke well.

Miss Bingley’s spine stiffened, her chin lifted a fraction too high, the practiced serenity of her expression cracking just enough to betray a flash of fury. Her eyes narrowed, and Mary, observing her keenly, saw the unmistakable disbelief, that she , Caroline Bingley, had been contradicted, and by Mary Bennet, no less.

“Yes, well, do give Mr. Darcy my best. I must apologize for the intrusion,” Miss Bingley said, her voice cutting through the room. “But I really must be going. Hopefully my brother will be more able to entertain guests tomorrow.”

She gave the faintest curtsey before adding another blow, “The conversation has grown... quite tedious for my refined taste. I am sure you have matters to attend.”

Her eyes flickered briefly on Mrs. Hastings and Mr. Fitzwilliam, her expression haughty, before delivering her final salvo. “Such a quaint and rustic parlour. Quite a feat to gather so many relations under one roof. It is quite the marvel these rustic floors bear so much family weight at once.”

Without another word, she departed as abruptly as she had arrived, leaving behind only the faintest trace of perfume.

“I find it utterly fascinating,” Mrs. Hastings said, her voice laced with irony, “how the refined can leave such an indelible impression without even the decency to announce their departure properly.” She fluttered her fan. “Do let us not waste too much energy regretting the absence of such a spirited guest.”

“At least our rustic floors have held thus far,” Papa added.

“There goes Miss Bingley,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said with a wry smile. “Her flair for elegance is unmatched. If only I were half so skilled in the art of a dramatic exit. I daresay we shall feel her absence keenly.”

“Indeed,” said Mary, “I can scarcely count the visits we have endured that have left such lasting impressions.”

Posted on 2025-07-20

Chapter 6

The Honorable Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam rode hard from the moment he left the barracks, having received news from Parker too astonishing to credit. There had been no question, no hesitation. He had changed into his traveling clothes, left his regiment, his orders, and even his supper untouched. Duty, discipline, every ingrained habit of a soldier, all forgotten in the face of this impossible hope. Dust clung to him like a second skin, his throat burned, his legs throbbed from the saddle. But none of it signified.

Jimmy had been found. Not a rumour. Not another cruel, winding dead end. It might truly be him. Parker, who had known Jimmy since they were boys, had seen him. Parker was certain. It had to be him.

As the manor house came into view, Richard’s pulse surged with a desperate, dizzying hope. He did not pause for a groom but flung the reins to the first bewildered hand he encountered and mounted the steps two at a time. Someone opened the front door, someone else called his name, but he barely heard them.

“Where is he? Where is Jimmy?” His voice, rough with disuse and desperation, sounded alien even to himself.

The servant who opened the door looked startled, but a daughter of the house, a calm, gentle-faced girl, met his wild gaze. “Jimmy is in the back parlour, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, her voice a balm on his raw nerves. “He is visiting with his family.”

Family. That word. It resonated within him, a deep, resonant cry across a quiet, desolate moor, awakening an ache he had thought long buried.

Without so much as a nod, he strode past her, heedless of the hem of his greatcoat six inches deep in mud, not caring that his gloved hands trembled violently. He paused only once, at the parlour door. His breath caught, trapped in his chest. He could hear voices, muffled, indistinct. Then, with a desperate surge of courage, he opened the door.

And then he saw him.

The world narrowed to that single, breathtaking sight. The years, the relentless journey, the crushing uncertainty, the gnawing grief, all of it fell away like dust from his boots. He was older than the small child he remembered. Taller. Leaner. A young man now. But the eyes... those eyes...

They had not changed. They held the same startlingly clear blue, the same deep, thoughtful gaze he had spent half his life trying to recall.

Richard stopped just inside the doorway, breathless, his heavy boots silent on the plush rug. For a long, suspended moment, neither moved. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the new arrival, a sudden, expectant hush.

There, at the corner of Jimmy’s lip, lay a faint, near-invisible scar from the blackberry hedge mishap. Richard remembered the day with agonizing clarity. Jimmy, a tiny whirlwind of mischief, tumbling down a grassy bank, snared by the thorns of the ancient hedgerow. He had pulled him free, both of them scratched and muddy, laughing with reckless abandon, while the governess shrieked ineffectually from the path. That small mark, tangible, undeniable proof that this was truly his brother, undid him completely.

Richard took a step forward before his mind caught up, drawn by something deeper than instinct. His mouth opened, closed, and finally found the only word he could manage, a raw, broken whisper. “Jimmy,” he breathed, the name a prayer, a lament, a desperate plea.

The boy, no, the young man, rose to his feet at the sound of his voice. There was confusion on his face, a kind of fragile, bewildered hope that mirrored Richard’s own. He looked from Richard’s dirt-streaked face to his boots.

“You are Richard?” asked Jimmy quietly, his eyes wide, searching, as if trying to reconcile the figure before him with some half-remembered image. “They said I looked like you.”

A ragged, choking sound escaped Richard’s throat, a strangled sob he barely recognized as his own. “It is you,” Richard’s voice caught, thick with unshed tears. “God in heaven, it really is you. My Jimmy.”

He reached out, his hands trembling violently, and grasped Jimmy’s shoulders. They were solid. Real. Warm. The contact, after so many years of phantom limbs and ghost memories, was a shock, a sudden, grounding reality that stole his breath. His hands tightened on Jimmy’s arms.

“I thought you were dead,” he managed, the words tearing from his chest. “I grieved you. We all did. Every single day. I... I thought you were gone, forever.” He could not resist tracing the scar on Jimmy’s lip with a trembling finger, a desperate reassurance that this was not a dream.

Richard had not expected the boy, no, the young man before him, to be so still, so silent. Jimmy did not cry. He only watched Richard with those wary, storm-dark eyes, as if he feared that at any moment, Richard might vanish, and with him, the fragile hope that had flickered to life in this reunion.

“I did not know who I was,” Jimmy said, his voice so low Richard almost missed it. There was a heaviness to it, a tiredness that seemed out of place on such young shoulders. Richard’s heart twisted as he listened. He could see, in the set of Jimmy’s jaw and the rigid line of his spine, the scars left by years of whispered rumors and careless cruelty.

“When I was younger, there were these two boys, brothers, who would follow me, calling out rhymes about ‘the boy with no name’. They said a name had to be earned, that I was a foundling who belonged to no one, and that I was not worthy of one. That is why I never chose a last name. I felt that doing so would be a lie. That it would be a false name.”

Jimmy’s jaw tightened. “But one day, Lizzy and John Lucas found them. I did not see what happened, but I heard the scuffle. When they came back, Lizzy had a scraped knee and John a black eye, but they were grinning. They told me those boys would not bother me again. And they never did. Lizzy just said they had taught them a lesson in civility, but I knew they had fought for me.”

Richard wanted to reach for him, to offer comfort, but when he moved forward, Jimmy recoiled ever so slightly, hands clenched at his sides. The gesture was small, but it spoke volumes. Richard imagined all the times the Bennet sisters must have closed ranks around him, their laughter a shield, their teasing a barrier against the world’s unkindness. Yet he saw that no amount of sisterly love could silence the doubts rooted in Jimmy’s heart.

Jimmy’s voice grew softer, trembling at the edges. “I remember how Mrs. Bennet would fuss over me when I scraped my knee or caught a cold, as if she could mother away the ache of not knowing. And Lizzy, she would read to me by candlelight, stories of knights and lost princes. For a little while, I could pretend I was someone important, someone who belonged.”

Richard followed Jimmy’s gaze to the window, where the last light of day stretched across the floor. He wondered how many nights Jimmy had lain awake, staring into that same darkness, longing for a face he could not remember, a family he could not name.

“But at night, when the house was silent, I would lie awake and wonder if somewhere, someone was missing me as much as I missed them. I tried to be grateful. I was, am, grateful. The Bennets gave me everything. But sometimes, I felt like a ghost haunting their happiness, always on the edge of belonging.”

Richard’s throat tightened. He saw, with painful clarity, the boy Jimmy must have been. Grateful, yes, but always searching, always wondering. He saw the courage it took to smile now, even if that smile trembled.

“Still, there was laughter and warmth. Jane’s gentle kindness, Mary’s quiet wisdom, Kitty and Lydia’s mischief. I was never truly alone. I had sisters, even if I had no name.”

Moved beyond words, Richard reached out, his own hand shaking. “You have a name now, Jimmy. And you have a family.”

For the first time, Richard saw hope flicker in Jimmy’s eyes, a fragile, precious thing. The years had left their mark, but Richard understood, with aching certainty, that the love Jimmy had found in the Bennet home had not merely healed him, but made him whole. And as Jimmy finally allowed himself to believe in belonging, Richard felt his own tears threaten, silent witnesses to a wound at last beginning to heal.

Richard’s chest ached with a pain more profound than any battle wound. He shook his head fiercely, his eyes burning. “No, no, you are not a foundling. You are James Fitzwilliam. You are my brother. You belong to us. You belong to me .” He clenched his jaw, battling the torrent of emotion.

Jimmy stared at him, stunned, his breath catching in a small, involuntary gasp. But still, no tears came. Not yet. The years of silent endurance had built too strong a wall. But in that moment, Richard saw the first cracks begin to form.

Then came Michael.

Their eldest brother, the Viscount, crossed the room slowly and deliberately, silent until he stood beside Richard. His face, always composed, always the picture of aristocratic calm, was undone now, his eyes glassy, red-rimmed, streaks of tears evident on his cheeks usually impassive. For once, the title meant nothing. He was simply a brother.

Michael looked at Jimmy, a profound tenderness in his gaze. “I would know that face anywhere,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, choked with emotion. “James. My brother. My little brother. Our little brother. Richard, it is truly Jimmy.”

That vanquished the last of Richard’s composure. He turned and pulled Jimmy into a full embrace, a desperate, crushing hug that pulled the younger man against him. Jimmy stiffened, caught between instinct and shock, but then, slowly, something within him gave way. His arms, tentative at first, came around both his brothers. Not strong, not tight. Just enough. Enough to say he was trying. Enough to acknowledge the decades of lost connection.

It was everything.

Richard buried his face in Jimmy’s shoulder and let out a broken gasp that ended in a deep, wrenching sob that shook his entire frame. Michael’s arms surrounded his two younger brothers, drawing them into a protective embrace. All three stood there, clinging, swaying slightly, a silent tableau of fractured family made whole once more. The weight of feeling in the room pressed upon all present.

Behind them, Georgiana, her face streaked with tears, sobbed openly, a quiet, heartbroken sound of relief and joy. Richard was grateful when some of the Bennet daughters moved to comfort his cousin and gently guided her to a chair.

Aunt Elaine said nothing. Her hand, steady and warm as ever, rested on Richard’s back, a silent testament to her own deep relief and joy.

In the warm stillness of the parlour, steeped by generations of unspoken sorrow, and now, overwhelming relief, Richard thought: We are whole again. We are home.

Richard finally pulled back, though he could not look away from Jimmy’s face. He searched every feature, comparing it to half-faded memories and long-buried hopes. The curve of the cheekbone, the angle of the jaw, so like his mother’s, his father’s proud nose. A lifetime of echoes in one face. The scar. No other could have the exact scar.

“I have waited fifteen years for this,” he murmured, his voice roughened with emotion, his eyes fixed on his brother. “For all three Fitzwilliam brothers to be united under one roof again. I shall not lose you a second time. Never.”

~*~

Mary remained quiet in the corner of the parlour, her hands folded over a book long neglected. Colonel Fitzwilliam had not let Jimmy leave his side since entering the room. He was a steady presence, at once a shield and a claim. Jimmy appeared equal parts comforted and overwhelmed.

The house seemed altered, imbued with a fleeing warmth. Yet the peace did not last.

Mrs. Hill entered and said, “Dinner is served.”

Before they could rise or respond, the heavy tread of boots and the sound of the front door echoed through the hall. A voice followed, steady, deep, and unfamiliar to Mary.

“I have come seeking my son.”

Mary stood at once. Her sisters stirred. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze flew to the door just as a man stepped into the room, tall, broad-shouldered, weather-beaten from travel, his plain riding coat caked with dust. He removed his hat slowly, revealing thick, grey-streaked hair and a face that had once been handsome and still bore the weight of command.

Georgiana gasped. “Uncle David!”

The man, Mary realized it must be the Earl, turned at once. His stern expression softened the instant he saw his niece.

“Georgiana,” he said with deep affection, but his eyes were drawn elsewhere.

To Jimmy.

And Jimmy stood, frozen.

The Earl dropped his hat. “James.”

Mary had never heard a name spoken with such reverence. The Earl crossed the room slowly, as if afraid the apparition might vanish. When he stood before Jimmy, he did not reach for him at once. He only looked, as though memorizing every feature might recover the years that had been lost.

Jimmy’s throat worked. “You are my father?” Mary noticed his eyes were bright.

“I am,” the Earl said hoarsely. “And I am so sorry.”

He did reach for him then, touched his cheek with a trembling hand, then both hands, holding Jimmy’s face as though anchoring him to the earth. “I searched, for so long. We all did. I was told you were most likely dead.”

Jimmy did not pull away. “I did not know who I was,” he said, voice low. “As much as I love my Bennet family, I always hoped someone might come for me.”

That was all it took. The Earl pulled him close and buried his face in his son’s shoulder.

Mary looked away, though not quickly enough to miss the way Jimmy’s arms rose, uncertain at first, then tightened around the man who held him. Colonel Fitzwilliam turned aside, rubbing fiercely at his face, while his elder brother simply laid a hand on his shoulder once more.

It was a scene too raw for embellishment, too sacred even for the pen of a poet. For a long time, the room held its breath.

At last, the Earl drew back slightly, though he kept one hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. His voice was quieter now, heavy with memory.

“I was to accompany you that day, to return your brothers to school and settle into the London townhouse. But just as we were to depart, word arrived of a tenant fire on the western edge of the estate. An accident involving a kitchen chimney, I believe. I stayed behind to tend to it. Your mother said it was only but a day’s delay, that you would all go ahead and, I might follow.”

His jaw tightened. “I watched the carriage go down the lane. I watched you go.”

He looked at Jimmy, the weight of years in his expression. “You were stopped scarcely ten miles from London. The coach was forced off the road near a river crossing, the bridge had been weakened by the storm the week before. It seemed at first like a tragic accident. But when we reached the wreckage...”

His voice faltered. For a moment, no one breathed.

“Your mother was dead. The servants and governess too. But you...” He shook his head. “You were simply gone.”

He straightened slightly, as if drawing strength from the telling. “At first, we thought perhaps you had wandered off, or that someone had rescued you unaware of your identity. But then, two days later, a letter arrived at my study. No name. No signature. Only instructions.”

Jimmy said nothing, but his eyes did not waver.

“They demanded I vote against a bill coming before the Lords, something to do with land tariffs, I believe. And I was told that, if I complied, you would be returned to me.” The Earl paused. “It was not a weighty measure. I did as they asked. But they never wrote again.”

“Why?” Jimmy asked, his voice rough with confusion. “Why take me and not the others?”

“I do not know,” the Earl said quietly. “I have asked myself that question every day. If it was merely a political act, it was a cruel one. If it was more...” He looked away. “I fear we may never have a full answer.”

The silence that followed was not empty, it was filled with all the lives left unlived, all the years unraveled.

But then Jimmy, slowly, laid a hand atop his father’s.

“You came,” he said.

“I never ceased looking,” the Earl replied, his voice thick with emotion.

“Then perhaps that is an answer enough.”

“I do not understand,” Papa said with a perplexed look on his face. “I placed notices in the London papers, announcing Jimmy had been found in Hertfordshire.”

“I must admit, I was grieving my wife and fearful for my missing son. I did not read the papers,” the Earl said quietly.

“But the Bow Street Runners would have read the papers, would they not, father?” Mr. Fitzwilliam asked.

“I do not know, Michael. We had the letter from the kidnappers. I shall speak to Sir Fielding myself to learn such a thing came to be overlooked.”

“Notices, sir. I placed them for a month.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennet. Rest assured, I shall looked into the matter,” the Earl said with a determined look on his face.

Mama’s sniffles broke the silence first. “Such drama,” she whispered, fanning herself. “Oh, it makes me quite faint. Mrs. Hill, do delay dinner by an hour. I will not have the pudding burned because of all this... this emotion and intrigue.”

Mrs. Hill looked caught between sympathy and panic. “But ma’am, the joints...”

“A kidnapping, reunion, and now beef on the brink of heartbreak. The joints will manage,” Mama stated. “My nerves, however, shall not. I shall require wine before pudding.”

Mr. Bennet murmured, “Let us hope the beef is not reduced to tears as well.”

“Come girls, let us retire to the back parlour to allow Jimmy a moment to speak with his family privately,” Mama said, casting a forlorn look at Jimmy.

“Mama,” Jimmy said, causing that woman to tear up at once. “Thank you for taking such good care of me. I do love you dearly.”

“It was my honour, my son,” Mama replied with a sniffle.

Jimmy embraced her, then stepped back slightly and turned to his father. “I would like to know more. About my birth mother, my brothers, you, and the family I never knew.”

“You shall,” the Earl promised. “All that I know shall be yours in time. But tonight, rest. This reunion is enough for one day.”

Richard cleared his throat. “We shall have all the privacy you require. The Bennets’ hospitality is unmatched, and I dare say their roast is even more comforting than their drawing room.”

Mary finally spoke. “Will you stay here tonight, Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

The Earl looked around the room, the modest furniture, the simple warmth, and his gaze lingered on Jimmy once more. “If I may. Yes. I would not leave him again. Not even for a single night. I regret the trouble taken to prepare the dowager house.”

“’Twas nothing,” Mama replied. “Anything for Jimmy.”

~*~

When at last they entered the dining room, it was in a curious procession. The table had been stretched to its utmost. Mrs. Hill had scrambled to fit them all with the late addition, and though the seating arrangement was hopelessly muddled, the mood had shifted, warmth had returned. Relief, too.

Still, a new problem emerged.

“I say,” Mr. Bennet remarked, glancing around the table once they had all settled in. “We appear to have far too many Fitzwilliams in the room. I count four.”

“Five,” Georgiana offered helpfully. “If you include Aunt Elaine.”

Mary bit back a smile at her new friend, who had so clearly blossomed.

“We shall have to devise a system,” Mr. Bennet continued. “Numbers, perhaps? Had I been aware of this trend, I might have named all my daughters Bennet just to confuse the parish registry.”

“Like monarchs in a dynasty,” said Elizabeth with mock solemnity. “Fitzwilliam the First through Fourth.”

“I suppose that makes Father ‘Fitz the Elder,’” said Richard, raising an eyebrow.

“I refuse to be ‘Fitz Four,’” Jimmy muttered under his breath. “That puts me in mind of a cart horse past its prime.”

Mary laughed before she could stop herself. It startled even her.

“Then perhaps we should resort to nicknames,” said Elizabeth, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Old Fitz, Stern Fitz, Brooding Fitz, Baby Fitz...”

“Absolutely not,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected, his tone perfectly dry.

“What about Fitzwilliam the Minor?” Georgiana offered.

“That makes me sound like a tragic footnote in a history book,” Jimmy said, grinning.

“Fitzwilliam the Found?” Mary suggested gently.

He turned toward her, visibly moved. “That might be my favourite yet.”

Richard held up his wine glass. “To Fitzwilliam the Found.”

“And to Fitz the Elder,” said Mr. Bennet, “without whom we would should be far less confused, but also far less entertained.”

Georgiana leaned toward Mary. “I think Jimmy should be Fitzwilliam the Younger.”

Jimmy gave her a lopsided smile. “I think I would like that.”

Even the Earl, still dressed plainly and recovering from the shock of finding his son, allowed himself a low chuckle. “It is good to see you so light of heart, Georgiana.”

Just then, the door opened again, and Mrs. Walters entered, hat still in hand. “My apologies. I did not mean to be late. I took a about the garden and...”

Her voice trailed off on a slight gasp. Mary heard Elizabeth murmur, “Yet another one.”

The Earl turned to look at Mrs. Walters, and she froze.

Something passed between them, a stillness, memory, unspoken but undeniable. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the table and its crowd disappeared. Mary saw the faintest shift in Mrs. Walters’s expression, recognition, sadness, perhaps even longing.

“Josephine Walters,” the Earl said softly.

“David Fitzwilliam,” she replied.

No one spoke. Not even papa. The silence was not awkward, but weighty, expectant.

“I see,” said Mrs. Hastings at last. “I should have recognized you.”

Mary stared at her teacup. So many old stories were being revised all at once. She could hardly keep up.

The silence held for another breath, then another, until Mrs. Hastings tilted her head and said thoughtfully, “You were the vicar’s daughter, were you not? At Bluecross Hall, Lord Tewksbury’s estate. David, you spent every summer there.”

Mrs. Walters gave a faint nod. “My father served the parish for nearly thirty years,” she said steadily, though Mary noticed her fingers curl tightly around the edge of her shawl.

“I remember now,” Mrs. Hastings went on, peering at her. “You were always around. Wild curls. Ink-stained fingers. You beat David at chess once, and he sulked for three days.”

“She cheated,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said, his voice warm with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mrs. Walters smiled for the first time, small but unmistakable. “You simply refused to believe I understood the Sicilian Defence.”

“I remember you too,” said Elizabeth suddenly, eyes narrowing in recognition. “You visited Longbourn once, many years ago. Your father was a visiting rector.”

“I had quite forgotten that,” Mrs. Walters murmured. “I suppose I never imagined returning.”

“And yet,” Mr. Bennet said mildly, “you arrived just in time for the next chapter of our household melodrama.”

“Indeed,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected. “If this continues, I shall publish my memoirs under Fitzwilliam the Theatrical .”

“Just as long as you refrain from dedicating it to yourself,” Mr. Fitzwilliam teased his brother. “I always thought you would title it The Trials of a Second Son . Will the first volume be devoted to your many injustices, or your many triumphs?”

“You boys do delight in auditioning for posterity,” Mrs. Hastings said, breaking up the good-natured teasing, though her eyes remained on Mrs. Walters. “At least Parker has kept his response to an amused expression.”

Then more gently, “David, do fetch Mrs. Walters a glass of wine, before you stare a hole through the poor woman and she thinks better of staying.”

He rose at once, unthinking. Mary noticed the slightest tremble in his hand as he poured, but it was the clench of his jaw that betrayed the depth of his reaction.

And all the while, Mrs. Walters stood in the doorway, very still, as though some part of her feared that taking another step might undo her resolve entirely.

~*~

The hush of morning still lingered on the upper floor of Longbourn, broken only by the occasional creak of old floorboards and the distant stir of servants. Mary carried a folded blanket for Mrs. Hill, who had appointed herself nurse to the convalescent Mr. Bingley. Georgiana accompanied her, book in hand and a hesitant hope in her expression, one of a young lady unsure whether she intruded or assisted.

They reached the sickroom door just as voices sounded from within.

“...I do not care what she says,” came Miss Bingley’s low, sharp voice. “You are my brother, and I will speak to you privately, whether your caretaker likes it or not.”

“She only asked for quiet,” Mr. Bingley replied weakly. “I have a dreadful ache in my head. I should prefer not to quarrel before I break my fast.”

“Oh, Charles, you have been babied half to death,” Miss Bingley said. “No doubt they have turned you into something between a saint and a simpleton by now.”

Georgiana took a step back. Mary touched her arm, stilling her. Neither of them moved.

A chair scraped against the floor.

“I am not here to fuss over your aching head,” Miss Bingley continued coolly. “I came to ensure you remember why we began all of this.”

“All what?” Mr. Bingley’s voice, though hoarse, carried a wary edge.

“This entire effort,” she said, voice rising slightly. “Mr. Darcy’s fixation with that country chit is threatening everything.”

Mary’s brow furrowed. Georgiana went still.

“Fixation? What do you mean, Caroline?”

“Do not be obtuse. His attentions to Miss Bennet, of course.”

“Jane Bennet?” Mr. Bingley asked, incredulous. “He is not...”

“Not Jane Bennet, Eliza Bennet.”

“Caroline...”

“Do not attempt excuses,” his sister snapped. “You must see how he watches her. If you had only kept your part, we would not be in this mess.”

“Caroline, what part?” Bingley asked weakly. “What mess?”

“You know exactly what part,” she hissed. “Cambridge. You paid those louts to stage a scuffle so you could intervene, impress Mr. Darcy, and ingratiate your way into his inner circle.”

A long pause followed. Mary could hear Mr. Bingley’s breath catch in his throat.

“That was years ago,” he said quietly. “I thought it was harmless. He could have seen through it in an instant, he nearly did.”

“But he did not,” she said sharply. “And we gained entry. The Bingleys of Scarborough, tied to the Darcys of Pemberley. That was the goal, Charles. You knew that. You owe me.”

Mary’s stomach turned. She did not look at Georgiana, for she dared not see her face.

“Owe you?”

“Yes, it was my idea,” Miss Bingley hissed. “You sought a connection to someone from the first circles. I gave it shape. I suggested orphaned siblings we could both marry. We acted on my plan.”

“I am in pain and exhausted,” Mr. Bingley muttered. “Please, just let me rest.”

“Very well,” Miss Bingley said with a sigh of exasperation. “But we are not done. You will help me compromise Mr. Darcy. Then we must devise a means of securing your arrangement with dear Georgiana.”

“I never agreed to trap him,” Bingley said, his voice cracking. “He is not... he is my friend.”

“Then act like it,” she spat. “A friend would not let him squander himself on some second daughter with neither name or fortune.”

Silence fell again, heavy with implication.

“I do not know what you expect me to do,” he said after a long pause. “He is not some pawn to be moved about.”

“You will help me arrange a scheme,” Miss Bingley replied, her tone glacial. “Something that will make him forget these country nobodies and remember where his future lies. You owe me that much.”

“And what of Miss Darcy?” Mr. Bingley asked at last. “You still mean to...”

“Of course I do.” Her tone was line ice. “We each take one. Or have you forgotten what Father left us? What we have lost?”

“It was not my fault,” Mr. Bingley said, voice thick with frustration. “How was I to know father’s man of business was stealing from the accounts? All we have left now is your dowry and the lease on Netherfield.”

“And we cannot use the principal of my dowry, for Father’s will was most explicit, we may only use the interest. That is why we must marry while we still appear to be wealthy.”

“It was all your idea,” he murmured, sounding tired.

“Yes,” she said. “Fortunately for us, the arrangements were made years before the theft was discovered, and the year’s lease had already been paid.”

“The lease may be what caused him to deplete the accounts, he feared we would make further large purchases. I do have some funds left in my private account, and there are items we can sell, Caroline. We do not need to rush.”

“Charles,” Miss Bingley hissed, “You owe me. For every invitation I secured, for every whisper I hushed, for every time I made you look more than what you are.”

“Caroline...”

“We will find a way to make Mr. Darcy forget Miss Eliza Bennet. And we shall orchestrate circumstances such that he and his sister have no recourse but to accept an arrangement, with us . You have no other option, Charles. And I will hear no more from you.”

The chill in Miss Bingley’s voice made Mary freeze.

Footsteps approached the door.

Mary seized Georgiana’s hand, and they slipped into the side passage leading to the servants’ stair, pressing against the cool wall until the rustle of Miss Bingley’s skirts receded down the corridor.

Only then did Georgiana speak, her voice a mere whisper. “She... she... was speaking of the day my brother met Mr. Bingley.”

Mary nodded grimly. “And she intends worse yet.”

“We must tell someone,” Georgiana pleaded. “We cannot remain entangled with the Bingleys.”

Mary hesitated only a moment before nodding. “We must proceed with care. They have schemed for years. I do not doubt Mr. Darcy will believe what we overheard, but what other plans might Miss Bingley already have in motion?”

Georgiana looked down at her trembling hands. “Do you think he knew? My brother?”

“He will know now,” Mary said, her voice firm. “We will make certain of it.”

Mary’s mind was already racing. Letters would need to be written, proofs gathered, and reason maintained. They would need all three. But for now, she took Georgiana’s hand more firmly and said, “We must proceed with care. Let us find Mr. Fitzwilliam the Second.”

As Mary had hoped, Georgiana laughed.

“Michael will be helpful, but we need to include the third too. Richard is a brilliant tactician. I shall see whether they are with my brother.”

“All will be well, Georgiana. As Proverbs says, ‘The prudent foresee evil, and hide themselves.’ We are forewarned, and we will be ready,” said Mary gently.

Georgiana closed her eyes, took a deep breath and nodded. “Let us find my cousins.”

Posted on 2025-07-24

The viscount doesn’t want Miss Bingley to know who the Fitzwilliams and Mrs. Hastings are, so they are not using their titles while in Meryton to avoid her camping out at Longbourn.

Chapter 7

Mr. Darcy’s temporary sanctuary at Longbourn, usually reserved for guests, resembled a quiet antechamber this morning. The fire in the hearth crackled companionably, chasing away the chill of his indisposition. He lay reclined on his bed, a book open but unread in his hand, silent testament to his lingering weakness. At a discreet distance, Parker moved about, ever the silent sentinel.

A quiet rap on the door heralded the arrival of the Fitzwilliam brothers. The Viscount, ever composed, entered first, alighting at once upon William, measuring his comfort with fraternal care. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, still showing faint signs of his hurried journey, followed close behind. And then, there was Jimmy, his youthful face alight with curiosity and a tentative ease born of their newfound brotherhood.

“William,” Michael said, his tone gentle, “I trust we do not disturb your repose. We thought you might welcome company beyond the silent ministrations of Petey.” He offered a nod to their childhood friend, who dipped his head in acknowledgment.

William managed a weak smile. “Not at all, Michael. My head aches less when I am not confined to my own thoughts. Richard, you arrived swiftly. I trust your journey was tolerable?”

“Expedient, William,” Richard replied, his eyes, however, fixed on Jimmy. “And worth every moment of discomfort.” He clapped Jimmy lightly on the shoulder, a gesture full of unspoken sentiment. “We hoped you might join us, Jimmy. There is much to discuss, more than the parlour may permit.”

Jimmy nodded, settling onto the floor. “I would like that, sir.”

“Richard, please,” Richard corrected with a warm smile. “We are simply brothers and cousins here.”

A comfortable silence settled, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

It was Jimmy who broke it, a shy smile touching his lips. “Speaking of tolerable,” Jimmy said with an amused look at him.

William groaned, causing Michael to raise a brow and Richard to grin widely.

“I must say, gentlemen, Longbourn is rather quieter than one might suppose. Though on the night of the Meryton Assembly, it was anything but.”

Richard raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “The Meryton Assembly? I confess, I heard little of provincial dances from London, but by William’s reaction, I will be enthralled.”

“Indeed,” Michael added, faint amusement in his eyes recalling William’s contempt for such gatherings.

Jimmy chuckled. “Well, it began, as such assemblies are wont to do, with much anticipation, particularly for the arrival of Mr. Bingley, and of course, Mr. Darcy.” He cast a quick, sideways glance at William, who merely raised a brow. “It was remarked upon, gentlemen, that Mr. Bingley danced every dance, and appeared in excellent spirits. However, William, though much encouraged, declined every invitation and stood apart, resolute in his solitude.”

Richard laughed and Michael muttered, “Resolute in his solitude? A very kind turn of phrase.”

“It was even said that he considered the company ‘not handsome enough to tempt him’ and that he would not give his hand to any lady in the room who was ‘tolerable, but not handsome enough’ to tempt him.” Jimmy paused, a mischievous glint in his eye, before adding, “That last remark was directed at Elizabeth Bennet.”

William let out a low groan, burying his face in his hand. Richard and Michael exchanged a look, then burst into laughter.

“Oh, William,” Richard said through his laughter, “you truly were a paragon of charm, were you not?”

“I daresay the air in Hertfordshire must have been particularly soporific that evening,” Michael added, wiping a tear from his eye. “But speaking of peculiar social engagements, Jimmy, you ought to have been in London this past season. There was a ball given by the Lord and Lady Giddings, who, in an effort to be terribly fashionable, delayed supper until two in the morning. Half the guests had fallen asleep in their carriages before so much as a dish was served.”

Richard leaned forward, picking up the thread. “And do you recall, Michael, the incident at the Duchess of Waverly’s house party? Lady Penelope, in her eagerness to impress the French Ambassador, attempted to converse entirely what she took for French. It was, in fact, a chaotic blend of Italian and emphatically mispronounced English. The Ambassador, poor man, looked as though he wished to be recalled to Paris immediately.”

Jimmy’s face was a picture of delight, a genuine, uninhibited laugh bubbling up from him. Parker allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“Then there was Sir Bartholomew, at the Hastings’ country ball,” Richard continued, warming to the subject. “He attempted a particularly spirited dance step, tripped over his own feet, and landed squarely in the lap of Mrs. Featherstonehaugh, upending an entire glass of claret down her very new, very white gown. Her shriek, I assure you, was heard two parishes over.”

William, despite himself, let out a soft chuckle from the chaise. The tension in the room, the awkwardness born of recent acquaintance, began to dissolve in shared laughter.

Michael, still grinning, turned to Darcy. “But William, you must tell Jimmy what it is to be the most eligible bachelor in London. I recall last season, you could not so much as attend Almack’s without finding yourself the object of every matchmaking mama’s ambitions.”

Richard laughed. “Indeed, Darcy, was it not at Lady Dalrymple’s soirée that you found yourself cornered by Lady Wilmot and her five daughters? I distinctly remember you escaping to the card room, only to be pursued by the youngest, who declared she would settle for nothing less than a walk in Hyde Park and a miniature painted before the week was out.”

Darcy, with a wry smile, shook his head. “It was a most singular ordeal. I had not realized that merely standing near the refreshment table could result in so many ‘accidental’ introductions. I believe Lady Wilmot even contrived to spill lemonade on my coat, that I might be obliged to fetch a cloth and so remain at her side.”

Michael added, “And let us not forget the time at the opera, when Mrs. Fitzherbert announced, quite audibly, that she had dreamt you proposed to her niece, and half the pit turned to stare. I thought you might never return to your box.”

Richard grinned. “You bore it with admirable fortitude, William. Though I do recall you spent the next morning barricaded in your study, claiming urgent correspondence with your steward.”

William’s eyes glinted with reluctant amusement. “It was the only way to avoid being enlisted as a judge for Lady Jersey’s poetry recitation. I had already been petitioned to sponsor a charity cotillion and to give an opinion on the colour of Miss Featherstone’s new carriage.”

The laughter that followed was warm and genuine, and William found himself quietly surprised by how it softened the edges of the gathering. The awkwardness that had lingered at the start, a subtle tension born of unfamiliarity and unspoken histories, seemed to dissolve with every shared recollection. Even William, who prided himself on his reserve, felt the comfort of belonging settle about him like a well-worn coat.

He watched as Michael, ever the gentle mediator, turned the conversation toward Jimmy.

“And what of your own adventures, Jimmy?” Michael prompted, his tone inviting and sincere. “You have seen a good deal of the world, albeit perhaps not the drawing-rooms of London.”

William studied Jimmy as he hesitated, noticing the way the younger man’s eyes grew distant, reflective. There was a gravity to Jimmy’s silence, as though he weighed each word before offering it up.

“It was mostly about learning to adapt. To be useful. To observe,” Jimmy said at last, his voice steady but soft. “I saw much of the countryside, and learned to read people’s faces more than their words. I came to know the seasons and the ways of the land.”

Jimmy’s gaze drifted to his brothers, and William caught a flicker of something profound. Gratitude, perhaps, or the ache of memory.

“And I learned what it meant to belong to a community, even when I did not know my own name. It was... different from the grand houses you speak of.”

Michael’s expression softened, and he leaned forward, his voice a low, comforting murmur. “It sounds as though you came to know the value of belonging far better than the rest of us ever did, Jimmy. It is a strength few men possess, to build a home for yourself where there was none.”

Richard, sitting beside Jimmy, reached out and clapped him gently on the knee. “You were never just a stranger, you know. Miss Mary told me from the moment you arrived, you were treated as family.”

Darcy acknowledged the truth of Jimmy’s statement. He had witnessed the Bennets’ kindness himself. The memory of hearing Mrs. Bennet fuss over Jimmy in the corridor, ensuring he had a dry coat, came to mind. It was a rare and genuine hospitality.

Jimmy offered a small, appreciative smile. “I was grateful and tried to be useful wherever I could. When Mr. Bennet began to seclude himself in his study, I simply took over his duties. I only wish I might have exercised greater authority where Kitty and Lydia were concerned, but we all did what we could under the circumstances.”

Michael’s brow furrowed slightly. “You sound as if you took on the role of a steward. Did you ever feel like a servant, a boy made to shoulder a man’s duties?”

Jimmy shook his head decisively, a gentle firmness in his expression. “Oh, never. I was a Bennet, no less than any other member of the family. Mr. Bennet entrusted me with the management of the estate and its accounts, granting me a degree of independence I had not expected. At the risk of appearing immodest, the estate has prospered under my care.”

William regarded his cousin with new admiration.

“My life was a happy one. More so than I could have ever imagined,” Jimmy finished softly.

William’s own mind reeled with the quiet force of Jimmy’s words. He was a Bennet. A simple, unadorned statement that held more weight than any title. William had always assumed such an unorthodox arrangement would be a mark of impropriety on the family, but in listening to Jimmy, he saw the truth. It was a mark of their humanity. He had judged a family on their lack of polish and decorum, rather than their capacity for goodness. He had been a proud, arrogant fool.

He considered the contrast with his own life. Pemberley, though magnificent and his birthright, was not of his own making. He had been given a home, but Jimmy had earned one. He had a family by name, but Jimmy was family by bond. William found himself humbled, not by a man of higher rank, but by one who had nothing, and built a life richer in spirit than his own. The Bennet family, in their eccentricity and their chaos, had done something truly noble. They had given a lost boy a sense of belonging, and in doing so, had proven their worth in a way no society ball or grand assembly ever could.

Richard placed a hand on Jimmy’s arm, a silent promise. “Indeed, Jimmy,” Richard said softly. “Very different. But perhaps, equally valuable.”

Michael nodded. “More so, I daresay, in many respects. We have much to learn from each other, little brother.”

A comfortable hush fell again, the laughter having faded into a deeper, more reflective quiet.

William, observing from his bed, felt a quiet warmth spread through him. The easy camaraderie, the shared stories and gentle teasing, it was more than just bonding. It was the weaving together of three disparate lives, finally finding their common thread. The room, once a temporary sick-room, now felt like a place of reunion, of beginnings. Even Parker, in the background, seemed to move with a lighter step.

The comfortable atmosphere was broken by a knock on the door.

Parker announced, “Miss Darcy, sir.”

“William, I must speak with you at once,” Georgianna said, looking pale. “I am glad my cousins are here as well.”

~*~

Mary’s wait outside Mr. Darcy’s door was brief. Georgiana opened the door a crack and said softly, “We are most fortunate. The second through the fourth are all within.”

Mary, whose mind was still reeling from the morning’s overheard revelations, could not help but recall the urgency in Miss Bingley’s voice, a desperation sharpened, no doubt, by the recent collapse of the Bingley fortune. The knowledge pressed at her, coloring every word she was about to share.

Mary watched as Jane and Elizabeth departed their room. “Sisters, come, we have urgent matters to discuss.”

“You would have us enter Mr. Darcy’s bedchamber?” Jane asked, shocked.

“Yes, Jane, we must. Jimmy and Georgiana will both be there to chaperone. We must !” Mary pleaded. “It shall be the most thoroughly chaperoned scandal in Hertfordshire.”

“Come, Jane,” Elizabeth said calmly. “Mary is correct, and she and Georgiana look upset.”

The bedchamber was bright with late morning light, filtered gently through drawn muslin curtains.

Mr. Darcy sat propped against several pillows, pale but alert, his red nose and handkerchief betraying his condition. A rather impressive lump had begun to form just above his temple, a testament to his unexpected meeting with the table edge as he fainted.

Mr. Fitzwilliam the Second lounged in a nearby armchair, legs stretched before him in a manner wholly indecorous for his station as a Viscount. Mr. Fitzwilliam the Third stood at the window, posture perfect, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed upon some distant point beyond the hedges like the military man he was. Fitzwilliam the Found sat cross-legged on the carpet.

“News?” Jimmy asked, glancing from Georgiana to Mary while standing up. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp.

Mary nodded and cast her glance to Mr. Darcy. “It concerns you most of all, sir. We overheard something this morning. Something serious.”

Elizabeth closed the door softly behind them. Jane hovered uncertainly near the foot of the bed, her face drawn with worry.

Georgiana stepped forward and clasped her brother’s hand. “William,” she whispered, “we overheard Miss Bingley.”

He looked at her with calm patience. “And?”

“She... said terrible things,” Georgiana continued, her voice faltering. “About the day you met Mr. Bingley. About how it was staged. The scuffle. The ruffians. Mr. Bingley paid them, so that he might rescue you, and form a bond.”

There was a moment of profound silence.

Mr. Darcy’s brow knit more tightly, though he said nothing at first. The room seemed to still around him.

“It was not merely a deception of circumstance,” Mary added. “Miss Bingley claimed the idea as hers, that she and her brother sought to ingratiate themselves with you, and through you, to reach Georgiana and your name. She spoke of arranging... further entanglements. A plan to compromise you, sir, and...”

She hesitated, then pressed on, her voice steady. “It was all spoken in the context of their recent misfortunes. Miss Bingley made no secret of their financial distress, she spoke of lost fortunes, their only income is the interest of her dowry, and the necessity of marrying well before the truth of their circumstances is known. It is clear their schemes are born of desperation as much as ambition.”

“To force an engagement between Mr. Bingley and my sister,” Darcy finished decidedly, his voice low but ice-edged.

Mary saw Georgiana flinch then Jane reach for her hand and clasp it comfortingly.

“You are certain?” Mr. Fitzwilliam the Third asked quietly, stepping toward them. “There is no possibility of mistake?”

“None,” Mary said firmly. “We heard it clearly. Miss Bingley herself declared that their father’s man of business had ruined them, and that only the appearance of wealth remains. She spoke of the lease on Netherfield as their last pretense of prosperity.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression darkened. “As one of Georgiana’s guardians, I give you my word, it shall not happen. If Miss Bingley believes she may entangle our family with hers through such disgraceful schemes, she is gravely mistaken. Aunt Elaine would see them thoroughly discredited in every drawing room in Town. No reputable person would credit their account, servants or no.”

Mr. Darcy exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “It appears my injury was not the worst blow of the week.”

“No,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam the Second, rising from his chair at last. “But it is one we must answer carefully.”

Mr. Darcy opened his eyes and looked first to Georgiana, then to Elizabeth. “I knew Miss Bingley was becoming more insistent, and I feared Bingley, out of misguided loyalty, might try to aid her. I confess, just before his injury, I decided to start taking precautions when alone with him. But I never imagined he would conspire to stage a meeting, or manipulate our friendship for such ends.”

He paused, his voice heavy. “I trusted him. I defended him. To think that he would betray that trust for his sister’s ambitions, it is a bitter blow, indeed.”

“He sounded ashamed,” Georgiana said hesitantly. “Not cruel. Only cowardly.”

“Cowardice can cause more harm than cruelty,” said Jimmy. “At least you can see a knife coming.”

“Indeed,” Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed. “But what is to be done? It is clear the Bingley family cannot be allowed access to Pemberley. Or to Georgiana.”

“I would not wish to see them again,” Georgiana said quietly, “but I know I must.”

“You shall not,” Darcy said firmly, reaching for her hand. “I will put an end to this.”

“How shall you do so?” Elizabeth asked gently. “We are at Longbourn, and Mr. Bingley recovers in our guest room.”

“I shall write to him,” Darcy replied. “A private letter. It will be my last.”

“And Miss Bingley?” the Viscount asked.

“I will speak to Mr. Bennet,” said Darcy. “He must know. If Miss Bingley attempts to compromise me or anyone else under his roof, he must be prepared.”

“She will try something,” Mary murmured. “She is not finished.” It was not mere vanity that drove Miss Bingley, but the fear of social ruin, a fear sharpened by the knowledge that their wealth had vanished, and only a successful marriage could restore their standing.

“So she staged a scuffle, planned a seduction, and now aims for a double engagement. One might take her for a dramatist in petticoats,” said the Colonel grimly. “All is well. We will see her schemes conclude to our satisfaction, not hers.”

Mr. Darcy looked down, his jaw taut. “It grieves me that Bingley was part of it. But Georgiana’s safety, her dignity, must be protected. I will not allow it to go further.”

Mary thought she saw, beneath his anger, a flicker of pity. He, too, understood the terror of falling from one’s place, though he could not forgive the means by which the Bingleys sought to save themselves.

There was a silence, broken only by the soft cough of Mr. Darcy.

Then Elizabeth said, “At least we have each other. And now the truth.”

Mary met her sister’s eyes and nodded. “Let us be grateful for Longbourn’s thin walls.”

Georgiana laughed faintly and leaned into her brother’s side. “You are not angry with me?”

“No,” he said quietly before he coughed. “I am only sorry you had to hear it.”

“Mr. Darcy, may I ask, what purpose would a letter to Mr. Bingley serve?” Elizabeth asked. “It would only warn him of our knowledge. From what little I know of Miss Bingley, it would only make her more determined.”

“Indeed, you are correct,” Mr. Darcy said slowly. “It would be best if they remained unaware of our knowledge. For now.”

“If only Richard and William were in the parlour for Miss Bingley’s earlier visit,” the Viscount said with a grin.

“Quite the sight, Mr. Fitzwilliam the Second,” Elizabeth returned, her eyes twinkling.

Mary’s spirits lifted when she saw Mr. Darcy look between Elizabeth and the Viscount with concern.

“I am only grateful the rustic floors bore the weight of all our revelations, and my father’s entrance.”

“Rustic Floors?” the Colonel asked. “I have no idea what that means, Michael.”

“Oh, Georgiana,” Jane said, taking her friend’s hand. “We will ensure Miss Bingley fails. If we speak to Papa, and Mr. Jones, who is most trustworthy, perhaps Mr. Bingley may return to Netherfield sooner than originally expected.”

“You must be cautious as well, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said, just before sneezing into his handkerchief. “Mr. Bingley made some most disturbing remarks about you while we escorted him to the guest room.”

Mary watched surprise flicker across Mr. Darcy’s face as the Viscount stepped protectively before Jane.

“What did he say, cousin?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

Mary’s gaze sharpened. She noted the Viscount’s sudden, visceral reaction, the dangerous stillness in his posture, and the stark clench of his jaw. His hands curling into fists at his sides, fury darkening his eyes with a predatory gleam. A male temper barely held in check, he looked like a man prepared for battle. It was a potent display of protective anger.

She glanced at Mr. Darcy, who, despite his own recent indisposition, appeared to study the rigid line of the Viscount’s jaw, as though weighing the profound depth of his cousin’s concern for Jane. A faint, almost imperceptible relief passed over Mr. Darcy’s countenance, a silent acknowledgement that the Viscount’s formidable affections were clearly directed towards Jane, rather than Elizabeth. It was a small, telling victory, confirming what Mary had already suspected about the growing importance of her sisters to their visitors.

“Easy, brother, lest you grind your teeth to powder,” Jimmy said. “I shall tell you what he said later. I assure you, my sister would not hesitate to strike him, were he to attempt anything improper.”

Elizabeth’s sharp intake of breath was a sound of pure outrage. Jane’s hand flew to her mouth in modest shock, her eyes wide. Even Miss Darcy emitted a soft, horrified gasp, nearly lost amidst their reactions.

But Mary merely straightened her spine, a familiar, steely resolve settling over her. Her extensive reading on human nature, and the often vulgar realities of male conduct, left her unsurprised. She knew the depths of male depravity. The familiar knot in her stomach was merely an affirmation of the world’s enduring imperfections.

The Viscount drew a sharp breath, like steel being sheathed. For a tense moment, Mary thought he might disregard Jimmy’s counsel entirely. His eyes, though fixed on Jimmy, seemed to burn with a desire to confront Bingley immediately.

“Let him,” he said at last, voice low and laced with chilling resolve. “Let him try. He would not leave with a single tooth to speak through.” His gaze then swept across the Bennet sisters, a silent promise of protection in its intensity, before resting on Jane, lingering with a possessive heat that a blush rose to her delicate cheeks.

Mary observed Mr. Darcy, his earlier fleeting relief solidified into something more profound, a visible release of tension across his shoulders. It was confirmation, perhaps, that his cousin’s fierce protectiveness was unequivocally directed at Jane’s suitor, not Elizabeth, leaving his own affections unthreatened. It was a telling moment of private clarity on his usually reserved features.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Darcy interjected, his voice unexpectedly firm despite his lingering indisposition, “it would be prudent to keep a close watch upon the Bingleys. They are clearly unbalanced, and may yet act with further impropriety.”

Elizabeth’s eyes, fixed on the Viscount’s protective stance, slowly shifted to Mr. Darcy. The initial flash of surprise on her face gave way to something softer, a dawning comprehension. Her lips parted slightly, and for a fleeting moment, genuine gratitude shone in her eyes. It was a silent acknowledgment of his unexpected concern, a glimpse of the deeper character beneath the pride she had once resented. Mary, ever observant, noted the subtle shift, a crack in the wall between them that promised something new.

“Jane and Georgiana must not be left alone if either Bingley is present,” said Elizabeth firmly.

“I should greatly prefer that Georgiana not reside beneath the same roof as any member of the Bingley family,” said Mr. Darcy. “Indeed, they must never be be alone while the Bingleys remain in Meryton.”

“No William,” the Colonel broke in. “If we are to foil the Bingleys’ plans, we must have Georgiana behave as though we remain unaware of their deception.”

The Colonel’s resolve was matched only by his scorn for those who, faced with adversity, would stoop to such schemes. In Mary’s mind, the Bingleys’ fall from fortune had become both their excuse and their condemnation.

“Richard is quite right,” agreed Jimmy. “I would not wish for Georgiana to feel herself under suspicion, nor to alarm her unnecessarily...”

Before he could finish, Mr. Fitzwilliam’s countenance darkened. “This is insufferable!” he exclaimed. “Must we stand idly by while the Bingleys weave their snares beneath our very noses? I cannot endure such duplicity! What of the strain upon Georgiana and Miss Bennet? Shall we gamble with their futures for the sake of strategy? I cannot, and will not, take that chance.”

He paused, his voice softening with a rare and unguarded tenderness, “Miss Bennet’s happiness is not a matter for strategy. It is the very thing I hold most dear, and to risk it so recklessly would be to betray my own heart.”

Mary’s brows lifted in surprise when Jane, gentle and earnest, reached for the Viscount’s hand. She clasped it between her own, her voice soft but steady.

“Dearest Mr. Fitzwilliam, pray do not distress yourself so. Mr. Bingley holds no claim upon my heart, nor could he ever hope to. You must believe me when I say, my affections are already bestowed, irrevocably.”

A hush settled over the room as Jane’s words lingered in the air. Mr. Fitzwilliam gazed at her, his stern features softened by a look of profound relief and wonder. With the utmost reverence, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss upon it, his eyes never leaving hers.

Jane’s lips curved in a gentle smile. “There now, Mr. Stern Fitz, you see how very little cause you have for alarm. If you persist in such solemnity, I shall be forced to bestow upon you an even more formidable title.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Mr. Fitzwilliam’s mouth. His eyes were alight with amusement.

Mary wondered if Jane’s gentle confidence was, in part, a balm for the wounds inflicted by the Bingleys’ desperation, a reminder that true affection could not be bought or schemed into being, no matter how dire one’s circumstances.

“Indeed, Miss Bennet? I shudder to think what fate awaits a man who dares to be protective in your presence. Perhaps you shall call me ‘Sir Serious’ next, and I shall be powerless to resist.”

Jane’s gaze softened, a playful glint dancing in her own eyes. “Be warned, Sir Serious, I am not so easily swayed by titles alone. You must prove yourself more entertaining if you wish to keep my attention.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled, his expression softened by an unmistakable affection he scarcely sought to conceal.

“With five Bennet sisters to contend with, it may soon fall to the gentlemen to fashion appropriate titles in response.”

“It appears I have been most unfortunate in choosing today for my indisposition,” Mr. Darcy remarked dryly from his bed, a faint wince crossing his face as he shifted, perhaps from a dull ache in his head. “If such diversions are to be expected, I shall make every effort to recover by tomorrow, lest I miss another opportunity to witness my cousins’ wit put to the test.”

Mr. Darcy settled more fully into the pillows, his breath still uneven, though his bearing remained unbowed.

Elizabeth stepped closer to the bed, her expression unreadable at first. Mary observed how Mr. Darcy subtly adjusted his position, attempting to keep the swelling on his forehead out of Elizabeth’s direct line of sight. A fleeting, almost imperceptible smile touched Elizabeth’s lips at his subtle, almost childish, attempt at concealment.

Then Elziabeth softly said, “You must rest now, Mr. Darcy. The battle will wait for the morning.”

His eyes searched hers. “You do not think me a fool for becoming friends with Bingley?”

“No,” she said. “Only a man who trusted too well. And perhaps... who bore too much alone, and longed for a friend.”

A long pause stretched between them, full of what neither dared yet name.

“Thank you,” he murmured, almost inaudibly.

Elizabeth inclined her head, but the gentleness in her gaze lingered a moment longer. Then she turned to go.

Mary, watching, said nothing. But in her heart, she marked the moment for what it was, the first true step toward something neither of them yet understood.

~*~

The study at Longbourn had seldom witnessed so grave an assembly, though the tea tray on Papa’s desk maintained its post with admirable fortitude.

Even the tea kettle, Mary mused, seemed to understand the gravity of the discussion.

Her father lounged in his familiar armchair, book closed on his knee and a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

The Earl of Matlock occupied a seat nearby, his manner dignified but alert, as if presiding over a particularly interesting session of the House of Lords.

Mary, Elizabeth, and Jane were arranged about the room in varying degrees of agitation. Elizabeth upright and frowning, Mary composed and resolute, and Jane visibly troubled.

Georgiana, pale, sat close beside her. Mary marvelled at the calm Georgiana displayed, knowing how deeply the revelations had shaken her.

Mary thought the Fitzwilliam brothers stood like sentinels, the Viscount silent, the Colonel with alarming focus, and Jimmy with deceptive ease.

“We ought to begin,” Mary said quietly.

At her father’s nod, Mary and Georgiana recounted the morning’s overheard revelations. They spoke of the staged scuffle, purchased ruffians, Miss Bingley’s plot to manipulate Mr. Darcy’s gratitude into a friendship, her plan to compromise him, and to force Georgiana into marriage with Mr. Bingley. They detailed Miss Bingley’s audacious claim that she and her brother, Charles, each intended to secure a Darcy by such means.

The room was hushed, save for the occasional intake of breath.

“My word,” Papa finally said, scratching his chin. “She has outdone even the most scheming of society matrons. A rare accomplishment.”

The Earl gave a harrumph. “Outdone? My dear sir, it is scarcely to be credited! The audacity of these Bingley’s. Why, I have not heard the like since my sister attempted to dictate the marriages of half the county. To imagine such presumption directed at my nephew and niece, it is intolerable. Were it my household, I should have her banished from the threshold at once.”

The Colonel nodded gravely. “Though I have, thus far, managed to avoid an introduction to Miss Bingley, I had begun to suspect, by remarks from William and Bingley, that her ambitions extended beyond polite scheming. But this, this is quite another matter. Calculated and disgraceful. The lengths to which she has gone.”

“Indeed,” murmured Jimmy. “To imagine the cost, had any of it succeeded, Georgiana’s reputation, Mr. Darcy’s standing, Jane’s peace of mind.”

Mary added, “The social ramifications are staggering. And yet Miss Bingley may still believe herself secure. That is her greatest error.”

“Secure?” the Earl repeated, his brow furrowed. “After such audacious villainy, how could she possibly imagine herself secure?”

Mary straightened, meeting his gaze. “Because, sir, she believes herself desperate. She and Mr. Bingley have suffered a significant reversal of fortune. Their father’s man of business, a Mr. Watson, it seems, has plundered their accounts. All that remains are some funds in Mr. Bingley’s private account, the interest from her dowry, and the lease on Netherfield. They believe they must secure wealthy spouses quickly, before their true circumstances become widely known.”

A fresh wave of shock rippled through the room. Mr. Bennet’s eyes widened, and the Earl’s face hardened further.

“A plundered fortune?” the Earl murmured, the implications settling heavily upon him. “That explains much. Desperation is a dangerous master, more so than mere ambition. It speaks to a certain... vulnerability in Mr. Bingley, that he would be so easily swayed.”

“We must be cautious,” said the Colonel. “She must not know we are aware. If she senses alarm, she will accelerate her efforts and become reckless.”

Mr. Bennet tapped his knuckles against the arm of his chair. “For once, I agree with a colonel. Discretion is our strongest defense.”

“Is that not always the case?” the Viscount added dryly.

The Earl’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he surveyed the room. “I must say, Mr. Bennet, it is a rare pleasure to witness such alliances forming under one’s very nose. Not only did I find my nephew utterly confounded by your second daughter’s wit, but I observe my own eldest son demonstrating a most uncharacteristic attentiveness to Miss Bennet, the elder Miss Bennet, that is.”

Mr. Bennet smiled, his gaze flitting between Jane and the Viscount. “Indeed, I have noticed a certain improvement in Mr. Fitzwilliam’s conversational powers whenever my eldest is present. I had thought your family renowned for its reserve, though it seems my Jane has the power to inspire unlooked-for eloquence.”

Jane blushed, while the Viscount, for his part, cleared his throat and made a show of examining the mantelpiece.

Mary smiled when Elizabeth found herself the subject of the Earl’s next remark.

“And as for you, Miss Elizabeth, I do hope you will not hold my nephew’s deficiencies too much against him. He is, after all, a Darcy, and thus prone to a certain... awkwardness in matters of society and the heart.”

Elizabeth coloured, and the Colonel, with a mischievous glint in his eye, added, “Indeed, father, Darcy has always been more at ease with ledgers than with ladies. I believe it is the Bennets’ singular talent to make even the most self-possessed gentlemen stumble over their own words.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Oh, I assure you, Fitzwilliam the First, if you had seen your nephew at the assembly in Meryton, you would understand the full measure of his social prowess. I shall have to tell you the tale in confidence later. But as for Lizzy, she is well accustomed to awkwardness. After all, she has had me for a father these years.”

The Earl grinned. “Excellent. Nothing like a spirited young lady to keep a Darcy, or a Fitzwilliam, in check. I must confess, it is most diverting to see my son and my nephew both so thoroughly outmatched. And now, Bennet, I shall look forward to hearing those tales of my nephew. I suspect I may acquire some highly entertaining stories to tease him with in future. Perhaps even a bit of playful blackmail to ensure his attendance when my sister sends invitations, if I am very fortunate.”

They briefly spoke lighter matters, Kitty and Lydia’s possible reintegration into the family party, Georgiana’s ongoing letters to her cousins, and the Earl’s private support of the effort. Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled at the idea of Miss Bingley being outmaneuvered because of two girls assisting the housekeeper.

The conversation turned when Elizabeth remarked upon Kitty and Lydia’s recent improvement, noting their eagerness to be of use to Mrs. Hill and their willingness to forgo the more frivolous amusements that had once occupied their days.

Jane smiled gently. “They have shown such earnestness in their efforts, Papa. Kitty has taken to reading aloud in the evenings, and Lydia, though still spirited, seems to comprehend at last the error of her ways. She has been most attentive to her lessons and to Georgiana’s comfort.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, a ghost of his usual wry smile playing on his lips. “A surprising turn of events, indeed. One might almost believe a miracle had occurred in the north wing. Who would have thought that a little genuine application, rather than constant flitting about in Meryton, could yield such domestication? Perhaps I ought to invest in more copies of sermons, if this is the outcome.”

“Is it not rather sudden, this transformation?” Elizabeth asked, skepticism heavy in her tone.

“My thought precisely, Lizzy,” Mary agreed. It worried her how quickly their behaviour changed. Was it a ruse? Was she being unjust?

“I believe Lydia’s intentions are sincere,” Georgiana ventured quietly. “As I am not her sister, I may observe with some objectivity. My Aunt Hastings, Charlotte, and Mrs. Walters have all spoken to her at length, of the consequences that befall young ladies who disregard propriety, of ruined reputations, the hardships endured by the officers wives, and the dignity to be found in useful employment within a household. Lydia, particularly after that tumultuous first night, when her distress was such that you sought a calming draught for her, has not merely listened, she has truly absorbed these lessons. She even apologized to Mrs. Hill for the disorder she caused with her ill-tempered outburst. Her conduct now reflects a genuine desire to amend.”

Georgiana then hesitated, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she added, “And... I believe that observing my own desire for proper conduct, and the comfort I derive from it, has perhaps served as some small example to them. They have seen that one may still find contentment without constant gaiety.”

Mr. Bennet, who had been listening intently, slowly nodded. “An excellent point, Miss Darcy,” he said, his usual dry wit softened by a touch of genuine thoughtfulness. “My youngest daughters, I must confess, have been rather too fond of gaiety for gaiety’s sake. A little quiet dignity, such as yours, might indeed be the very tonic they needed.” He looked at Georgiana with new respect, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

“Indeed,” Jane nodded, “Mrs. Hastings and Mrs. Walters told me when they first attempted to impress upon Lydia the gravity of her behaviour, they very nearly despaired. But something has clearly shifted. She is not merely contrite. She is, dare I say, attentive. She seeks to understand, rather than merely dismiss. Charlotte, too, has been invaluable in guiding her towards more temperate habits. It is truly a great kindness she performs for our family, remaining to oversee their improvement.”

Elizabeth gave a short, wry laugh. “I suspect Charlotte finds a certain satisfaction in the endeavour. I daresay she was quite thrilled to have the opportunity to set Lydia to rights. It suits her practical nature admirably.”

Mary nodded in agreement, a faint smile touching her lips.

“And Kitty also,” added Georgiana. “Mrs. Walters, who has spent much time instructing them in needlework and household accounts, confided only yesterday that their diligence has become exemplary. She remarked that she never thought to see such a change in either of them. They have been genuinely eager to learn the household duties, rather than merely complaining.”

The Earl, clearing his throat, offered, “Even my sister, Mrs. Hastings, who, as you may imagine, is not easily swayed by fleeting impressions, has taken note. She mentioned to me only this morning how truly amazed and encouraged she is by the marked improvement in their comportment and earnestness. For Elaine to be so openly supportive of such a rapid reformation is, I assure you, a testament in itself.”

Mary listened, a slight frown easing from her brow. She had observed it too, the newfound quietness in Lydia, the almost anxious desire to please, particularly in Georgiana’s presence. And Kitty, less prone to giggles, more apt to focus on her tasks. Perhaps it was not a ruse after all, but true repentance, born of genuine reflection and the sincere kindness they had received.

A thoughtful silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. At length, the Colonel spoke, his tone measured.

“Their improvement is heartening. Still, in light of recent events, it would be prudent to consider what further measures might be taken to ensure the safety of the household. I would recommend that the grounds be more closely watched, perhaps one or two trusted men from the estate could be asked to keep an eye upon the approaches to the house, particularly in the evenings.”

To hear the colonel speak, it seemed as if Longbourn would be under siege.

Mr. Bennet stroked his chin, a twinkle in his eye. “Under siege, you believe, Colonel? Well, at least we shall not lack for entertainment. Perhaps we might rig a few tripwires in the shrubbery, a most excellent deterrent for unwanted callers. And certainly more diverting than dull sermons. I shall speak with Hill and our groundsman. And perhaps the footmen might be persuaded to remain near the front door when we receive callers.”

Then Jane spoke softly. “Should we not prepare Papa? Miss Bingley is sure to visit again.”

“She will,” said Georgiana, voice quiet but firm. “And I do not intend to flinch.”

“Well said, Georgiana,” the Colonel said with admiration in his eyes.

“I will speak with Sally,” Elizabeth offered. “We might offer temporary employment to any young maids in the area who find themselves without a posting.”

“Now it is my turn to say good girl, Lizzy. I shall certainly authorize the extra funds. It would be an opportunity for a tenant’s daughter to learn a new skill,” Papa said, before his eyes sparkled with devilment. “Please be sure to select maids who speak softly. The last thing Longbourn needs is more ladies under the roof.”

Mary sighed, her voice firm. “Papa, this is scarcely a jest. The safety of the household, and indeed, the family’s peace of mind, are of paramount importance. There are times when gravity is a more appropriate companion than levity. You made a promise, Papa, to address these matters with earnestness, and not retreat into your usual diversions.”

Jimmy, who had been observing closely, spoke up. “Indeed, Mr. Bennet. While your wit is always appreciated, a consistent approach to the security of your home and the well-being of your family is not merely desirable, it is required. Retreating to the bookroom will not deter a determined intruder.” His words, though mild, carried the weight of an unspoken understanding of Mr. Bennet’s past tendencies.

Mr. Bennet’s eyes lost some of their mischievous sparkle, and he gave a curt nod. “You are quite right, Jimmy. And Mary, you are right as well. My apologies. Old habits die hard, but I assure you, I am sincere in my intentions to address these matters with the seriousness they deserve.” He cleared his throat. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The Turner girls.”

Mary smiled at her father’s remark before suggesting, “Lizzy, have Sally start with the Turner family. Their mother has been ill, and the elder daughters are of an age to look for employment.”

“Besides, it seems my daughters may soon be marrying and asking our maids to become their personal servants. I do hope you girls allow Sally and Sarah to choose between you,” Papa chortled.

With a vivid blush on her cheeks, Elizabeth stood and said, “Come sisters, let us speak with Sally.”

Mary smiled as Elizabeth, Jane, and Georgiana left. “Papa, you know Elizabeth better than that. She is in the midst of caring for Mr. Darcy and is only just starting to recognize her own feelings. Do not make her falter or grow defensive.”

“Off with you now, Mary. I do know my daughter well. This was just the sort of thing she needed to comprehend her feelings.”

The Earl gave a satisfied nod. “It is a rare household, Mr. Bennet, where so many young people find both sense and sensibility. I am proud to lend my support, and, if necessary, my voice, to see the Darcys and Bennets properly defended against the likes of Miss Bingley. Mark my words, sir, such grasping impertinence will not go unanswered by my family.”

Mary agreed with the Earl. There was, undeniably, a new peace within Longbourn—tense, perhaps, but full of promise.

~*~

The drawing room of Longbourn had scarcely settled into its late-morning quiet, mending baskets opened, books half-read, and teacups warmed, when Mrs. Hill entered with a wary expression. “Miss Bingley,” she announced.

A hush fell over the room. Threads paused mid-stitch, and pages were left unturned as all eyes looked toward the door.

Caroline Bingley swept in, the rustle of silk preceding her. Her face was arranged in an expression of mock concern, artfully studied to suggest both superiority and strained magnanimity.

Mary could scarcely suppress a gasp. Miss Bingley’s gown was a spectacle. Vivid blue satin, absurdly puffed sleeves trimmed in glinting gold fringe, and a skirt arranged in fussy swags that shimmered with embroidered sequins.

Around her waist, a chartreuse sash ended in a bow of such theatrical size that it nearly obscured the empire silhouette beneath. The neckline plunged daringly low, edged with clusters of artificial orange blossoms, a flourish Mary deemed both tasteless and seasonally inappropriate. It left little to the imagination and even less to propriety. It screamed of an overeager desire to impress, a frantic display of what one imagined wealth to be, rather than its confident, understated reality.

It was, Mary thought, a costume more suited to a masquerade at Vauxhall than a call at Longbourn.

Her gaze swept the room, skating past most of the company as though they were fixtures in need of dusting. She paused upon seeing Georgiana and produced a smile that had been sharpened by years of social ambition and, Mary reflected, newly desperate circumstances.

“Miss Darcy, what a surprise to find you here. I had not expected to encounter such distinguished company at Longbourn.”

She made no acknowledgment of Mary or the rest of the Bennets, her gaze gliding over them as though they were minor domestic staff. But when her eyes landed on the Earl of Matlock, seated in quiet observation, she hesitated. Her brows lifted in faint disdain.

“Oh,” she said, her voice an artful blend of surprise and superiority. “Have you more company? I do hope I am not intruding upon some private country affair, tea and turnips, no doubt.”

The Earl of Matlock, unbothered and effortlessly dignified, inclined his head. “Not at all, madam. One must always welcome new acquaintances, especially in such convivial surroundings.”

Miss Bingley regarded him coolly, with the air of one sniffing out an imposter. “Indeed? And from which rather prolific branch of the Bennet family tree do you descend, sir? I confess, the connections do tend to multiply in the country.”

“I am related to the Misses Bennet by family and sentiment,” the Earl replied, his smile untouched by her insolence. “Though my roots, madam, are more ancient than Hertfordshire, and somewhat harder to prune.”

Mary exchanged a glance with Elizabeth, both silently astonished by the exchange. Charlotte Lucas, seated beside Mrs. Hastings, tilted her head in quiet contemplation. Kitty and Lydia, uncharacteristically silent, watched Miss Bingley with wary eyes.

Caroline’s smile turned thin. “How quaint. There is such charm in simplicity, is there not? I imagine it must be a great comfort to the Bennets, so fond of their own company, and so modestly experienced in the world beyond Meryton.”

Miss Bingley turned her attention to Kitty. “I heard, Miss Catherine, that you were unwell. I trust you are recovered? Or perhaps the excitement of your sisters’ frequent engagements has taken its toll.” Her tone was at once solicitous and sly.

Kitty, momentarily startled, glanced at Lydia before composing herself and replying with more dignity than she might have days prior. “I am quite well, thank you, Miss Bingley. The fresh air and quiet of home have been most restorative.”

Lydia, who had hitherto remained silent, now spoke up, her voice steady but with surprising poise. “Indeed, Miss Bingley, my sister is in excellent health, and we find that the company of true friends and family is preferable to those who offer concern with one hand and gossip with the other.” She paused just long enough. “Though I daresay our life here is far too wholesome to hold your interest.”

Miss Bingley’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Indeed? I am glad to hear it. I had feared the diversions of country life, livestock fairs and assemblies, might prove too stimulating for delicate constitutions.”

Her tone, Mary noted, carried an extra layer of scorn, as if truly believing such simple pursuits were utterly beneath anyone forced to calculate their worth so carefully.

Mrs. Hastings, ever composed, interjected gently. “The Bennet sisters are blessed with robust health, and perhaps more importantly, the grounding influence of excellent friends and loyal family.”

Miss Bingley inclined her head, but her gaze flicked dismissively over Lydia and Charlotte with marked indifference. “My brother is still unwell, I presume? I shall go to him at once, he requires proper care, and I fear it cannot be entrusted to... country management.”

She made for the stairs with determination, her skirts swishing.

But Mr. Bennet, who had until now observed the proceedings with apparent detachment from his place by the hearth, stepped forward with surprising firmness.

“I fear that would be unwise, madam. Mr. Bingley is attended by my housekeeper, and under the physician’s orders, as well as mine, he is not to be disturbed.”

Miss Bingley blinked, visibly thrown. “Indeed? One should think a sister might be permitted to visit her own brother, particularly when his convalescence is in such provincial hands.”

“He has need of quiet and calm,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone acquiring a rare edge. “Too many visitors, too many heightened emotions, it is not conducive to recovery.”

He allowed the implication to linger.

Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed. Her curtsey was executed with precise grace, yet devoid of warmth, an elegant rebuke. “I shall return another time. Kindly inform my brother I called.”

Without awaiting a reply, she turned on her heel and swept toward the door, her shoulders rigid. She exited with her head held high, yet the rigidity of her posture betrayed more than wounded pride.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Mr. Bennet turned to his younger daughters and said warmly, “I must say, Lydia and Kitty, your comportment today has done you both great credit. I am proud of you. One might almost mistake you for young ladies of sense.”

Lydia beamed, her pride undisguised, while Kitty blushed with quiet pleasure, neither quite accustomed to such praise, and never before from their father.

A collective breath was released.

“She thinks Mr. Fitzwilliam the First is another Bennet relation,” Mary murmured, a wry glint in her eye. “Perhaps a long-lost cousin returned from India.

“I hope she never learns the truth,” Elizabeth said, her eyes alight with mischief. “Though I imagine the shock would be most instructive.”

“She will,” said the Viscount gleefully. “But I pray the revelation occurs before the full assembly at Almack’s.”

They laughed, but the air remained thick with tension.

The Earl merely said, “Let us not forget our greater tasks. There are still plans to destroy, and a reputation to bury.”

Posted on 2025-07-27

Chapter 8

Later that afternoon, Mr. Bennet sat in his study, joined by Mr. Jones, an old friend whose concern for the Bennet girls was as deep as for his own family. The Earl of Matlock, who had lingered after the earlier discussion, now occupied a chair by the fire, listening with quiet interest.

After recounting the latest tale of intrigue, Mr. Bennet finished with a wry smile. “Well, Jones, it seems your duties have expanded beyond leeches and draughts. I daresay you never expected to be consulted on matters of romance and conspiracy.”

Mr. Jones chuckled, shaking his head. “I have learned never to be surprised by anything in your household, Bennet. But tell me, how are the girls handling all these revelations? I worry for them more than for any patient under my care.”

“They are resilient,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone softening. “Though I would not wish such trials on them, I confess I am proud of how they have managed.”

Mr. Jones nodded thoughtfully. “They are good girls, all of them, yes, even Kitty and Lydia. I have always thought so. It is a comfort to observe the improvement in the younger girls’ conduct, for matters had grown trying indeed. But this business with Mr. Bingley, it is not good for his health, nor for theirs. Emotional strain, moral poison, and sleeplessness make for an unwholesome mixture, as you well know.”

The Earl, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. His gaze, intelligent and keen, met Mr. Bennet’s. “Bennet,” he began, his voice deep and measured, “pray, would you be so kind as to introduce me to your esteemed physician? A proper introduction, if you please, beyond merely overhearing our conversation.” He offered a subtle, knowing smirk. “I find myself most interested in his sagacity.”

Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he caught the Earl’s meaning. “Indeed, my lord?” he drawled. “A rare request from one of your exalted station. To seek an introduction to a mere country physician. Very well. Jones, allow me to formally present to you... Mr. Fitzwilliam, a gentleman whose interest in the particulars of country life has, of late, become rather conspicuous.” He paused, a dry twinkle in his eye. “And Mr. Fitzwilliam, this is Mr. Jones, whose acquaintance I assure you, you will find far more agreeable than many a grander personage.”

Mr. Jones started slightly, then rose and bowed, a flush rising to his cheeks. “My lord,” he stammered, then caught himself at Mr. Bennet’s almost imperceptible shake of the head. “Ahem, Mr. Fitzwilliam, it is an honour, sir.”

Lord Matlock waved a hand. “Please, sit, Mr. Jones. There is no need for ceremony among new friends, especially not with one who has rendered such a profound service to my family, albeit unknowingly until this moment.”

The Earl’s gaze softened, fixed intently on the physician. “I am grateful for your discretion and your concern for our young people, but more so, Mr. Jones, I must express my deepest, eternal gratitude for your presence that day, all those years ago. The day that child was found by the hunting party. That boy, whom you, Mr. Bennet, and his good family took into your hearts and home, was, in fact, my youngest son, James.”

Mr. Jones’s eyes, already wide with surprise, seemed to nearly pop from his head. He gasped, a short, sharp intake of breath, and slowly sank back into his chair, his face draining of all colour. He stared first at the Earl, then at Mr. Bennet, his mind evidently reeling.

“Your... your son?” he managed, a choked whisper. “Mr. James? He is your son? Good heavens above!” He shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “After all these years? My lord, my most profound congratulations to you, and to Mr. James, on this truly miraculous news! He is a son to be proud of, indeed, sir. A finer young man has never drawn breath, even if we all believed him to be of unknown provenance. I was there, that morning in the woods. I saw him, when one of the hunting dogs took off, he was sleeping behind a tree. He had a head injury and did not remember who he was.”

Mr. Bennet watched Mr. Jones’s stunned reaction with a familiar, yet still poignant, blend of emotions. It was one thing to know information yourself, quite another to witness its revelation, to see years of assumption crumble in another’s eyes. He had been prepared for this moment, had even helped orchestrate it, but seeing Jones’s raw, honest disbelief and joy stirred something deep within him.

It was bittersweet, this ending to Jimmy’s foundling story, a recognition of his true place in the world, yet a subtle shift in the familial landscape of Longbourn. He thought of the little boy they had raised, now a Fitzwilliam, an Earl’s son. The thought caused a strange mixture of pride and a small, quiet sense of loss for the simple, cherished narrative they had all shared.

Mr. Jones, still visibly trembling, then turned to him, his face a mixture of wonder and profound sadness. “Bennet, this means Longbourn loses him, truly. He has been like a son to you and Mrs. Bennet, like a brother to your girls, a blessing on the estate. It feels as though we are losing a part of our own family, even as I rejoice for his true station.” A tear traced a path down his weathered cheek.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, pushing aside his own sentimental reflections. “Indeed, Jones. A singular change to our household, to say the least. One might even say, an inconvenience, for those of us accustomed to such unpretentious company.” He looked pointedly at the Earl, a flicker of his usual dry wit returning, though softened by the shared emotion.

“To discover one’s adopted son is, in fact, the offspring of an Earl. It complicates matters, does it not? One must now consider how to address him without inadvertently insulting his exalted blood, or worse, inadvertently elevating him above his station, which has, until this moment, been rather comfortably ambiguous.”

He paused and drew a deep breath, “But do not fret, Jones. A good man finds a home wherever he is needed. And I daresay, a Fitzwilliam, even one who has spent his life thinking himself a mere foundling, will still appreciate a quiet bookroom and sensible conversation.”

Lord Matlock, understanding the complex emotions Mr. Bennet conveyed, offered a genuinely contrite and appreciative smile. “Bennet, I understand your very particular, painful circumstances, surrounding Jimmy. What is a blessing to my family is a poignant loss to yours. To find him now, healthy and well-loved, thanks to your family’s boundless generosity and Mr. Jones’s presence that day, is a gift beyond measure. Our gratitude is great indeed. We would, of course, wish for James to acknowledge and embrace his true family, but never to forget the kindness and affection he has received here. Longbourn will always be a home to him, if he wishes it so.”

He then turned back to Mr. Jones, his expression firm but grateful. “Mr. Jones, rest assured, your devotion will be amply rewarded. A generous endowment to your infirmary will be forthcoming, and a considerable sum for your years of devoted attention. You have both been guardian angels to my son.”

Mr. Jones, still wiping his eyes, managed a dignified nod. “Your lordship is too kind. It was my duty, and my pleasure, truly. James has a good heart, and a keen mind for details. I never doubted his worth, no matter his circumstance.” He looked at Mr. Bennet, a shared, understanding glance passing between the two old friends.

The Earl, his voice low and pointed, said, “And, Mr. Jones, I understand the initial shock might lead to a slip of the tongue, but as Bennet here indicated, I must ask that you please refer to me as Mr. Fitzwilliam in company, and keep my family’s true identity a confidence. Miss Bingley, you see, has hounded my nephew and niece for an introduction to my family, quite brazenly. Her persistence is... remarkable.”

“I understand, sir. I am aware she visited her brother several times already. Should she become privy to this information, I daresay her calls would only increase. This is indeed a matter of some delicacy. In my experience, sir, patients who crave introductions are rarely worth meeting.”

Mr. Bennet sighed. He thought of the Bingley sister’s brazen pursuit of wealth, the chilling desperation that drove her schemes, which Mary had recounted, born of their depleted coffers. “I thought delicacy was only fashionable in pianofortes and debutantes. But I take your meaning. What do you advise, Jones?”

“Mr. Bingley must leave Longbourn,” Mr. Jones said at once, his voice firm and protective.

Thomas nodded. “I agree, old friend,” he said.

Mr. Jones’s expression grew serious. “First, I am pleased to report that the swelling in Mr. Bingley’s ankle has gone down considerably, and the sprain is not nearly as grave as I first suspected. His shoulder, too, is much less severe than feared. He will have full use of it soon enough. The true concern, however, is the head wound. His brain has taken a shaking, as we say, and I must call it a concussion. He is fortunate it is no worse, but it will require careful management.”

He paused, glancing at both gentlemen for emphasis. “I recommend at least a fortnight of quiet at Netherfield. Longbourn is far too boisterous for his recovery. Indeed, if he finds the peace agreeable, I could be persuaded to extend his convalescence to three or even four weeks. The mind must be given time to mend, and I have no doubt the company at Netherfield will be more conducive to his rest.”

Lord Matlock nodded. “A wise recommendation. We should see to it that he is conveyed with all possible comfort and discretion. And,” he added, a glint in his eye, “without the knowledge of his ever-present sister, Miss Bingley. We would not want her to interrupt his ‘convalescence,’ would we?”

Mr. Bennet considered this, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. The thought of Miss Bingley’s ruthless determination, heightened by their ruined prospects and the sheer sums her brother had lost to his father’s dishonest man of business, rendered her brother’s hasty removal even more imperative. “So, the plan is to spirit him away before the dragon awakes? Shall I tie him to a chaise and hope for the best, or would you prefer a more dignified removal? Perhaps a blindfold and a gag, for discretion’s sake?”

Lord Matlock chuckled. “Spare the upholstery, at least,” he joked. “And Mr. Bingley’s delicate sensibilities. Be sure to put down blankets first, Bennet. We would not want to add insult to injury, or indeed, injury to concussion.”

Mr. Jones smiled. “A chaise will do nicely, provided we do not leave him to his own devices. I will make the arrangements quietly. The fewer who know the particulars, the better for all concerned. My own chaise will convey him. It is not so grand as to draw undue notice.”

“Excellent,” Lord Matlock mused, tapping his chin. “We shall inform Mr. Bingley that his recovery necessitates absolute peace, and that Netherfield, surprisingly, is the only suitable location. Perhaps a short, sharp note left on his pillow, stating that any attempt to visit Longbourn will result in a relapse that cannot be cured.” He looked at Mr. Bennet with a sly smile. “You have a knack for sharp prose, Bennet. Perhaps you could draft something dreadful.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes gleamed. “A delightful task, Fitzwilliam. I shall endeavour to make it suitably terrifying. And perhaps, a hint that Miss Bingley herself might be the very contagion he needs to avoid.”

“Splendid!” Lord Matlock laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “We shall call it a campaign of convalescence. A most appropriate military term, would you not agree, Mr. Jones? For the strategic removal of an individual for their own good.”

Mr. Jones chuckled. “Indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam, a brilliant manoeuvre. And I daresay, far more effective than any tincture I could prescribe for Miss Bingley’s... attachment.”

Mr. Bennet nodded. He considered the sheer brazenness of Miss Bingley’s scheme, born of her family’s desperate financial straits, and how easily the local merchants might be taken in by the appearance of wealth that Netherfield still projected. “For once, I welcome seeing you leave, Jones. Though I confess, I wish you could prescribe a dose of good sense for the rest of our company.”

Lord Matlock chuckled. “If only, Bennet. If only. But I have every confidence in your household, and in Mr. Jones’s excellent care.”

Mr. Jones laughed. “If only it were so simple, My...” Jones coughed. “Ahem, Mr. Fitzwilliam. But I have faith in you, and in your girls, Bennet. They will see this through, and so will we.”

“A thought occurs, Bennet,” Lord Matlock said, rising from his chair and pacing slowly. “Given the... precarious nature of the Bingley fortune, as your daughters overheard, and the less than scrupulous character of certain acquaintances they keep, might it not be prudent to gently, and quite discreetly, suggest caution to a few of the more prominent tradesmen in Meryton? They extend credit based on perceived solvency, and it would be a disservice to their own livelihoods if they were to be unduly generous with the Bingleys now.”

Mr. Bennet stroked his chin, a rare moment of genuine seriousness settling on his features. “An excellent point, Fitzwilliam. I confess, my mind was more on removing Bingley than on their creditors. Such a public display of diminished means, however subtly conveyed, might curb Miss Bingley’s more audacious plans.”

After a moment’s pause, he continued. “However, a general alarm would indeed invite questions we do not wish to answer, and might reach the wrong ears too soon. I shall instruct Hill to ensure that any unexpected questions about the Bingley family’s affairs, perhaps regarding their sudden appearance or future plans, are met with a polite, yet firm, lack of reassurance. Word travels quickly in Meryton. Perhaps a quiet word from Jones to a select few, couched as a concern about the free-spending habits of certain militia officers, might serve to cool their generosity towards all recent arrivals.”

Mr. Jones nodded thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming with understanding. “An astute observation, Bennet. A word from a medical man about the perils of over-extending oneself, particularly in these uncertain times, often proves more effective than any direct warning. I know just the individuals who would benefit from such discreet counsel. And once those key men decide upon a course of caution, it naturally filters to the other merchants. Consider it done, and without a ripple to stir the waters of village gossip. Indeed, you should also enlist Phillips. Having two men of business caution credit will only be more beneficial.”

Thomas watched his friend gather his things, grateful for his steady presence and the Earl’s surprising support. “Thank you, Jones, for seeing to Mr. Bingley’s removal. And you, old friend, may consider yourself absolved of further responsibility, at least until the next crisis. Though I suspect you will return with a fresh batch of leeches and an even wilder tale.”

“I shall hold you to that,” Mr. Jones said with a wink as he left. “Though I suspect I shall be summoned before the week is out, perhaps for a case of excessive sighing, or a fit of matrimonial ambition.”

Lord Matlock smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Mr. Jones is a true friend, Mr. Bennet. And now, let us see to our plans. The less Miss Bingley knows, the better. We shall have Mr. Bingley comfortably settled before she has even finished her morning chocolate.”

~*~

The tranquility of Longbourn was interrupted by a grand carriage that thundered up the drive, emblazoned with a family crest. Mary wondered if the Earl of Matlock’s express sent with the news of Jimmy’s return had been delivered on a swift horse to reach Rosings with remarkable speed.

Mary’s mother, hearing the commotion, rushed to the window. “Good gracious! What a luxurious carriage! And who is that inside? Oh, Mr. Bennet, I do hope they are not here to complain about the girls!”

Mary’s father, observing from the parlour window, sighed. “It appears we are to be graced by the presence of royalty,” he drawled to Lord Matlock. “I trust you are prepared for a family reunion, Fitzwilliam? Given the description of your sister, it can be no other but she.”

Lord Matlock offered a wry smile. “I am never quite ready for my sister, but I shall do my best. Her visit is not entirely unexpected. In fact, I am rather surprised it took her so long to arrive. Again, my apologies in advance.”

Lady Catherine swept into the hall, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Mr. Bennet! I demand an explanation for this most extraordinary situation. My nephew’s return is nothing short of a scandal! I cannot help but wonder at your involvement in all this. Have you played a part in what has befallen Jimmy, sir?”

She paused, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on a familiar face. “Elaine! I might have known you would be in the thick of this.”

Mrs. Hastings stepped forward, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “Catherine, it has been too long sister. I am well, thank you. And you?”

“As well as can be expected when one’s family is embroiled in such... unconventional affairs,” Lady Catherine sniffed, though her eyes held a spark of genuine affection for her sister. “And Anne, dear girl, you remember your Aunt Elaine?”

Miss de Bourgh, pale and reserved, lingered behind her mother, her eyes wide with a quiet curiosity as she absorbed the lively household, a stark contrast to the rigid order of Rosings. “Yes, I do. It is a pleasure to see all my relatives again.”

Papa offered a slight bow, his expression calm. “Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh, what an unexpected pleasure. I assure you, you have my full sympathy in your concerns, but you do me a great injustice if you believe I have had any hand in your nephew’s misfortunes.”

Flustered but determined to play the hostess, Mama curtsied. “Lady Catherine! Miss de Bourgh! What a delight to have you at Longbourn, though I confess I am quite overwhelmed by your sudden arrival. Will you take some tea?”

The Earl stepped forward, his voice steady. “Catherine, you are mistaken. Mr. Bennet has acted with nothing but kindness and discretion in this matter. He has been a friend to us all.”

The Viscount added, “Indeed, Aunt, you do yourself no credit by making such unfounded accusations. Mr. Bennet and his family have been our steadfast allies.”

The Colonel cleared his throat. “Aunt, if you will permit me, you should see Jimmy for yourself before passing judgment.”

Lady Catherine arched a brow. “And why should I? The very thought of an impostor claiming our name is insupportable! My heart aches at the thought of such deceit!” She clutched her chest, a genuine tremor in her voice, a raw flash of vulnerability rarely seen. “The family honor, David, the family honor! How can you stand there and suggest I entertain such a monstrous deception?”

Lord Matlock stepped forward. “Catherine, you must hear us out. Jimmy is no impostor. He carries the mark, the scar on his lip from that childhood fall into the blackberry hedge. Do you not remember the story?”

Lady Catherine’s expression faltered. “That scar? But that was so long ago, only the family knew of it. I remember Richard pacing, convinced he had damaged his brother’s face. And his mother, she was upset for days thinking about what could have happened.”

“Precisely,” the Colonel said gently. “Look at his resemblance to me. He is your nephew, Aunt. There is no doubt.”

Lady Catherine’s face softened further, a wave of profound emotion washing over her features, a complex mix of disbelief, a dawning realization, and a hint of longing. For a fleeting moment, the formidable matriarch seemed to shrink, lost in the echoes of a past she had long suppressed. Then, with a visible effort, she rallied, her voice regaining a fraction of its former tartness, though a tremor of something akin to fear still lingered beneath.

“Well, we shall see about that. I will not be taken in by sentiment. Not by tears or old stories. I...” She hugged herself, as if against a sudden chill, a deep sigh escaping her lips. “I simply cannot bear the thought of being wrong.”

Just as Lady Catherine was about to continue her harangue, Miss de Bourgh, who had remained pale and quiet, stepped forward. Her voice, though soft, was steady and clear. “Mama, I must beg you to be silent, at least until you have ascertained all the facts. For once, let us hear what others have to say before you form an opinion.”

Mary heard Georgiana gasp and then there was a stunned silence. Lady Catherine turned to her daughter, her eyes wide with surprise.

Miss de Bourgh did not flinch from her mother’s gaze. “Please, Mama. For Jimmy’s sake, and for our family’s.”

Mary, who had been observing with a scholar’s intensity, stepped forward slightly. Her voice, though quieter than Anne’s, carried a clear, unyielding note of logic. “Indeed, Lady Catherine. As a student of human nature, I have observed that premature judgment often blinds one to the truth. Is it not a greater testament to your discernment to suspend judgment until all evidence is presented, rather than to cling to a preconception, however cherished?” Her gaze, direct and unwavering, met Lady Catherine’s.

Ever eager to smooth things over, mama interjected, “Oh, dear! It is all so distressing. I am sure we all wish only for the truth to come out. Would you not care for some refreshment, Lady Catherine? I have just had the cook prepare some excellent cakes.”

After a pause, Lady Catherine drew herself up and replied, “Very well, Anne. I shall hear it all. And you, Miss Mary,” she added, her eyes narrowing, yet with a hint of appraisal, “your observations, though perhaps uninvited, possess a certain unusual candour. I will not be taken in by sentiment, nor by ill-considered pronouncements.”

Charlotte Lucas, ever perceptive, offered Miss de Bourgh a reassuring smile and a cup of tea, but it was clear to all that a new strength had emerged in the quiet girl from Rosings, a strength, Mary suspected, her mother had spent years suppressing in the name of decorum.

At this, Lydia, who had been watching the grand lady with a mixture of admiration and impatience, could not resist making herself known. She stepped forward with a curtsy just short of mocking, a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Indeed, your ladyship, sentiment is a luxury best saved for novels and poetry. But here at Longbourn, we find plain speaking does us just as well, if not better.”

“Lydia Bennet,” Mrs. Hastings gasped. “Must I remind you, young lady, that wit without wisdom soon leads to scandal?”

Lady Catherine turned, her gaze, though still somewhat clouded by her earlier emotion, now focused sharply on this impudent young lady. “And who, pray, are you?” she demanded, though the indignation was laced with an unexpected curiosity.

“Miss Lydia Bennet, your ladyship. The youngest of five, and generally considered the least likely to keep my opinions to myself.” Lydia’s grin was infectious.

Mary smiled indulgently. Her youngest sister would always be bold.

Lady Catherine’s lips pursed, but a glimmer of amusement, a genuine spark of delight, flickered in her eyes. “I see. Well, Miss Lydia, I suppose plain speaking has its merits, so long as it is not mistaken for impertinence.”

Lydia grinned. “Oh, I do hope not. Though I confess, I find a little impertinence keeps life interesting, especially when it uncovers truths everyone else is too polite to say aloud. Surely, your ladyship appreciates the value of candour?”

Lady Catherine regarded her for a long moment, the layers of her sternness momentarily stripped away. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, a soft chuckle escaped her lips, not the dismissive huff they expected, but a genuine sound of amusement. The sound was so foreign, even Miss de Bourgh blinked in mild alarm.

“You may be right, Miss Lydia,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Perhaps we could all benefit from a little more honesty. And perhaps,” she added, her gaze drifting towards Jimmy, “a little less fear of what that honesty might reveal.”

Lady Catherine listened with uncharacteristic patience as the Earl and her father laid out the details, the tragic accident, the ransom note, finding Jimmy, the notices placed, the lost years, and the unanswered questions that lingered.

They also explained the true extent of Mr. Bingley’s depravity, detailing how they recently discovered Charles Bingley had paid men to assault Mr. Darcy, allowing for Bingley’s introduction and their friendship to form. The Hursts, in their blissful naivete, remained unaware of their brother-in-law’s villainy, while Miss Bingley, ever the schemer, plotted to compromise Mr. Darcy into marriage and force her brother to marry Miss Darcy. Furthermore, they revealed the grim truth of the Bingley fortune. Theft by their father’s man of business had left them with limited private funds, the interest of Miss Bingley’s dowry, and the lease on Netherfield, driving their desperate and audacious schemes.

“Mr. Bingley did what?” Miss de Bourgh whispered, her fingers tightening around her teacup. “Poor William.”

Lastly, they explained Miss Bingley’s ambition to be acknowledged by the Fitzwilliam family and why they were not using their titles in Meryton.

When they had finished, the silence in the room was heavy, thick with disbelief and the weight of so many long-buried secrets.

Lady Catherine at last broke the quiet, her voice sharp with indignation. “I cannot believe the Bow Street Runners could be so utterly inept! To think that notices in the papers were not enough to prompt an investigation, it begs belief. Such incompetence is unforgivable or criminal. I would not be surprised to learn the person behind the scheme had paid someone to overlook the notices.”

Her eyes, now blazing with a fresh, deeper fury, fixed upon the very name of Bingley. “And as for these Bingleys,” she continued, her voice hardening, laced with an almost visceral disgust, “a sister who schemes and a brother who attacks from the shadows, all to secure a footing they have clearly lost? To attempt such vulgar stratagems, from a position of ruin ! It is beyond contempt. It is the height of disgrace to beggar oneself, then seek to marry into what one has squandered! Such presumptuous grasping! They are a blight upon any respectable society. Rest assured, their reputation in town will not long survive such revelations. I shall see to it personally. Society will devour them. No one attempts to dishonor a Fitzwilliam, even by association, and escapes my notice.”

Mama, eager to offer sympathy, sighed. “It is all too shocking, Lady Catherine. I cannot imagine what you must be feeling. I know for my part, it is bittersweet. While I am happy Jimmy has found his rightful family, I will miss him terribly. But we are all so very glad that dear Jimmy is now safe and well.”

Mary’s heart ached for her mother, for nothing pained her more than the thought of Jimmy’s departure.

“I understand your plight, Mrs. Bennet,” Lady Catherine said drawing a deep breath as she regained her customary composure. “Do not mistake me for sentimental, brother,” she said, her voice once more edged with iron. “But I will not have the Fitzwilliam name dragged through mud, whether by negligence or design.”

She turned to Jimmy, her gaze lingering on his face. After a moment, she rose from her seat with a rustle of silk and approached him. The room fell into a hush as she stood before him, her scrutiny penetrating and unyielding. “Let me see this scar for myself,” she commanded.

Jimmy, though looking surprised, did not flinch. He lifted his chin, allowing the light to catch the faint mark above his lip.

Lady Catherine studied it closely, her fingers hovering but not quite touching. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Then, almost imperceptibly, her rigid posture softened. She stepped back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“It is just as I remember,” she said at last, her voice steadier than anyone expected. “The mark from the blackberry hedge. Except for the physician, no one outside the family knew of it. You are a Fitzwilliam, child. There is no doubt in my mind. You were always climbing where you ought not,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I told your mother it would leave a mark.”

A murmur of relief and approval rippled through the room. Lady Catherine, for once, did not attempt to hide her emotion. Then, to the astonishment of all present, a single tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away with an impatient flick, as though irritated by her own display of weakness.

Her family watched, astonished, as the usually unbending and imperious Lady Catherine revealed this rare moment of vulnerability. It was the beginning of something new, a subtle change in the woman who had always seemed as immovable as Rosings itself.

“Well,” she said, her voice softer now, looking at her brother, “it seems there is more to this matter than I had supposed. I shall make my own inquiries. The family must not be made fools of again.”

The Earl, his eyes softened, gave a small nod of approval. “Thank you, Catherine. Your support means a great deal.”

She turned to Jimmy once more, her expression blending suspicion with reluctant hope. “We shall get to the bottom of this, young man. And if anyone still dares question your name, they shall answer to me.”

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “A most satisfactory morning. Who would have thought the blackberry hedge would come to our rescue?”

The room felt a little lighter. The journey toward healing, and perhaps even understanding, had begun.

Mama clapped her hands together. “Now, shall we have some tea? I am sure we could all use it after such a morning! I must apologize to you Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh. I fear you will find our accommodations humble, besides, we do not have an empty bed chamber. I do hope the Dowager House shall suffice, though I must say the ceilings are sadly without proper chandeliers.”

Lady Catherine inclined her head gravely. “Pray, Mrs. Bennet, you need not stand on ceremony for my sake. For my visit, permit me to be simply Mrs. de Bourgh, as my brother commands,” she declared, a glint of familiar hauteur in her eye.

“It is an odd circumstance, I confess. My family will derive no little amusement from the puzzled looks bestowed upon Mrs. de Bourgh, whose identity was once thought beyond dispute,” Lady Catherine remarked, her lips twitching in wry acknowledgment.

At this, a ripple of laughter passed among her kin.

“Mrs. de Bourgh,” Lydia said with a sly smile, “you are sure to make Miss Bingley’s next attempt to see her brother most entertaining.”

“Sister, how disruptive was she?” Lady Catherine asked.

“Disruptive, and clumsy,” Mrs. Hastings replied with cool precision. “She swept in as though she owned the place, and with only a greeting to Georgiana. One might have thought our brother a footman, the way she looked him up and down.”

“And after greeting me, I was ignored entirely while she abused my uncle and the Bennets,” Georgiana added quietly.

“She mistook pride for influence,” Mary murmured. “A common error.”

Lady Catherine turned sharply to Lydia, her earlier composure already fraying at the edges. “Miss Lydia, I insist, you must not omit a single word. Tell me precisely what this Miss Bingley said, and how she comported herself. I am not in the habit of suffering fools, particularly when they insult my family.”

“I was attending to my lessons the first time she visited,” Lydia responded. “Today, it was ever so amusing to see her assume your family were Bennets. She insulted everyone, time and again.”

“It was very disturbing, Aunt Catherine,” Georgiana said.

Mary looked around the parlour, where Lady Catherine, half avenger, half magistrate, was now conducting her own inquiry. Lydia had not been wrong. Tomorrow promised drama. But Mary suspected the upcoming weeks might be even more extraordinary.

~*~

Jimmy walked beside Lydia, his arm lightly linked with hers, as they led his Aunt Catherine and cousin Anne toward the Dowager House. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the gravel, and the scent of roses drifted from the Longbourn gardens. Jimmy was still reeling from the revelations of the day, his return, the family’s shock and acceptance, and the sudden, tumultuous arrival of his formidable aunt.

Lydia, ever irrepressible, broke the silence with her characteristic brightness. “Come along, Mrs. and Miss de Bourgh,” she said brightly, glancing at Anne with a warm smile, “though, Anne, please, do call me Lydia.”

Anne inclined her head slightly, a soft smile touching her lips. “Thank you, Lydia. That kindness is appreciated.” She spoke with gentle calm but with a quiet strength born of many years of restraint.

“We will escort you to the Dowager House. It is charming, though perhaps not as grand as Rosings. Still, you will find it comfortable, and Mama has seen to it that everything is in order. The windows face the sunrise, and the roses are especially fine this year. Though I suppose you have roses enough at Rosings, do you not?”

Jimmy offered a quiet smile, letting Lydia carry the conversation. He was grateful for her energy, which softened the tension that hung between them all. His aunt walked stiffly, her mind clearly churning over the earlier revelations. Anne, ever quiet, kept pace beside her mother, her expression thoughtful and calm.

As they walked, Lydia, ever the chatterbox, prattled on about Longbourn life.

“Mr. Darcy, you know, has become quite fond of Lizzy. Georgiana told me he always looks at her as if she just said something terribly clever, even when she is simply complaining about her tea getting cold. I do think he likes being surprised.”

Lady Catherine stiffened, her jaw tightening. “William? Attached to Miss Elizabeth Bennet? That is preposterous! He is destined for Anne! It is his duty, a long-standing understanding within our families! While in their cradles, we planned the union.” Her voice, though a furious whisper, carried the full weight of her imperiousness. She turned to Jimmy. “Nephew, you must impress upon him the gravity of his obligations! He has always known his place!”

Jimmy hesitated, searching for the right words. “Aunt Catherine, William is years Anne’s senior. How could you and my aunt have planned anything over their cradles?” he asked gently, hoping to soothe her agitation.

Anne, who had been silent until now, met her mother’s gaze with steady resolve. “Mama,” she said softly but firmly, “I have never wished for William’s hand. That was your desire, not mine.” Weariness softened her proud composure. “I am not strong enough for such a marriage. My will is resolved. I intend to leave Rosings to Richard.”

The blow was palpable. Aunt Catherine appeared nearly stricken. The words hung in the air, a devastating blow to her meticulously laid plans. Her face paled, and for a moment, she was utterly speechless. She opened her mouth to argue, to deny, but no sound emerged. She looked from Anne’s resolute face to Jimmy’s solemn expression, her carefully constructed world crumbling around her.

At that moment, Lydia, who had been watching the tempest brewing within Aunt Catherine, stepped forward with remarkable boldness. “Enough, Mrs. de Bourgh!” she cried, her voice ringing out across the garden. “You must stop this at once! You are not listening to anyone, not to Anne, not to Jimmy, and certainly not to yourself!”

Aunt Catherine turned to stare at Lydia, her eyes wide with shock. The sheer audacity of the girl, her interruption so unexpected and unrestrained, left her momentarily speechless.

Lydia pressed on, undeterred, her tone both playful and earnest. “It is not Anne’s match, it was yours. You wanted a daughter at Pemberley, did you not? It was convenient, to entrust your daughter to Mr. Darcy. But Anne and Mr. Darcy, oh, I shudder to think of it! They would sit together in the grand drawing room, each waiting for the other to speak, and the silence would grow so heavy one could almost see it hanging between them. They would be like two ghosts haunting the same house, never quite meeting.”

At this moment, Anne’s lips curved in a faint, rueful smile, and she joined softly but deliberately.

“Yes, Lydia paints a true picture. Our company, though rich in pedigree, can sometimes lack the warmth that makes a home. I have always cherished conversation, laughter, and those moments of awkward stillness tell their own tale. Perhaps some unions are best left unmade.”

Lady Catherine’s imperious gaze faltered, the imagined scene striking a chord she could not dismiss so easily

Lydia paused, letting the image settle, then continued with more seriousness. “Anne deserves more than a husband chosen for convenience or duty. She deserves someone who sees her, who listens when she speaks, who makes her laugh and brings her comfort. Mr. Darcy, for all his fine qualities, is not that man for her. He would not know how to make her happy, nor she him.”

Lydia’s voice softened, her own experiences lending weight to her words. “And marrying the wrong man, oh, Mrs. de Bourgh, it is a fate most dreadful. I have heard it described with such painful vividness, that marrying for anything less than affection and respect can lead to nothing but misery. Wealth and connections are cold comfort when the heart is lonely and the spirit crushed. A woman’s happiness, her very safety, depends on her husband’s character. If he is cold or careless, she is trapped, with nowhere to turn.”

She glanced at Anne, offering a conspiratorial wink. “And Anne is cleverer than she allows people to perceive. She may be quiet, but she has her own mind, and she deserves someone who will listen to her, not simply expect her to listen.”

Lydia turned back to Aunt Catherine, her eyes bright with conviction. “You are not losing Mr. Darcy, Mrs. de Bourgh. You are gaining Lizzy. She will argue with you, and certainly challenge you at every turn, but she will never be dull. And surely, after all these years, you must own that dullness is the most wretched fate imaginable!”

Aunt Catherine stared at Lydia, visibly stunned. The battle within her was clear to see, her long-ingrained habit of command clasing with an unexpected flicker of self-awareness. She began to reflect, her gaze distant.

Lydia, sensing a shift, offered a bright, mischievous grin. “Honestly, madam, think of it! Anne and Mr. Darcy? They would have been insufferably, excruciatingly boring together. A perpetual silent competition of who could be more reserved! And what if, after all your planning, they were both unhappy? What if Anne’s health suffered, or Mr. Darcy grew even more distant? Would you not blame yourself?”

The image, painted so vividly by Lydia’s irreverent humor and earnest concern, seemed to break through Aunt Catherine’s remaining defenses. A reluctant, almost imperceptible twitch of a smile touched her lips, quickly suppressed but undeniably there. The absurdity of it, the truth of it, slowly began to penetrate. She still looked shaken, but the fury had lessened, replaced by a deep, troubled thoughtfulness.

At last, Anne’s voice chimed in once more, quietly but firmly, breaking the lingering tension:

“Besides, I think it is better to be underestimated than overburdened. If one must live as a ghost in a house of obligations, perhaps it is merciful to be unseen.”

A ripple of warm laughter passed among the family members, the sound brightening the air.

Jimmy watched the exchange with a mixture of admiration for Lydia’s courage and sympathy for his aunt’s turmoil. He sensed that something fundamental had shifted, not just for Aunt Catherine, but for them all. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, it felt as though honesty and understanding, rather than duty and expectation, might guide their way.

Lydia, ever the optimist, took Aunt Catherine’s arm as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. “Come, Mrs. de Bourgh, the Dowager House awaits. I promise, you will find it far more comfortable than you might suppose, and the company, if I may say so, quite pleasant. And if you are lucky, you may even hear Anne laugh.”

And with that, they continued their walk, the tension eased, the air lighter, and the promise of change lingering on the breeze.

I hope everyone enjoys the way I went with Lady Catherine. I thought about having Mary give her more of a set down, but for some reason it played better in my mind with it being Lydia.

Posted on 2025-08-03

Chapter 9

Mary enjoyed the morning sunlight as it streamed through the windows of the Longbourn parlour, and casted a golden glow over the assembled party as they lingered after breaking their fast. The room buzzed with quiet conversation and the occasional burst of laughter, the air filled with the scent of tea and toast.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Mrs. Hastings sat together, their heads bent in quiet, conspiratorial conversation. The Earl of Matlock was playing chess with Papa, his expression thoughtful as he exchanged a glance with Mrs. Walters who was knitting quietly in a corner. The Viscount and Colonel Fitzwilliam, both in fine spirits, engaged Jimmy in lively discussion. Mary’s sisters, Georgiana, Charlotte Lucas, Anne, and Mama completed the gathering.

Mama, ever the attentive hostess, bustled about, ensuring everyone had fresh tea. “I do hope you are all comfortable,” she said brightly. “It is not every day we have such a distinguished gathering at Longbourn!”

At that moment, the parlour door opened, and Miss Caroline Bingley swept in without so much as a knock, Mrs. Hurst trailing behind. Mary noticed at once the contrast between the sisters. Miss Bingley’s chin was high and her eyes sharp, while Mrs. Hurst’s expression was pinched and uncertain, her gaze flickering apologetically about the room as though she would rather be anywhere else.

“Good morning, everyone,” Miss Bingley said, her tone carrying a familiar note of condescension. “The Bennets family seems to multiply with each passing hour! I wonder if there is a limit to your family’s hospitality, Mrs. Bennet.” Her gaze lingered on the de Bourghs, a calculating glint in her eye. “I have come to visit with my brother.”

Mrs. Hurst, cheeks coloring, offered a faint, embarrassed smile and a quick curtsy, murmuring a quiet greeting. As she took her seat, Mary caught the way Mrs. Hurst’s hands twisted in her lap, her posture stiff with discomfort. She glanced anxiously at Caroline, then at the assembled company, as though silently pleading for her sister to curb her tongue.

The room fell silent for a moment as all eyes turned to Miss Bingley. The Bennet sisters exchanged glances, while the Fitzwilliams and de Bourghs kept their expressions neutral.

Lady Catherine, ever unflappable, arched a brow, her voice a cool, cutting instrument. “Miss Bingley, I presume. While your concern for the Bennet household is quite touching, I must confess to being rather old-fashioned. In my experience, one typically waits to be announced and invited into a private residence before making so... forward an entrance. But then, perhaps the manners of the little small town that produced you differ greatly from those in society.”

Miss Bingley, her composure momentarily shaken, rallied with a brittle smile. “How very singular, madam, that you should take such an interest in the comings and goings of strangers. I had not realized the Bennet family boasted such formidable guardians of propriety. I wonder, do you make a habit of dispensing advice in every drawing room you visit?”

Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed with amusement and challenge. “Advice, Miss Bingley, is generally reserved for those who require it, or who mistake presumption for good breeding. I find it best to reserve my opinions for those who might benefit from them. However, I am always willing to make an exception for those who appear particularly in need of correction.”

Miss Bingley’s cheeks flushed, but she maintained her poise. She turned abruptly to Mrs. Bennet, her tone laced with irritation. “Mrs. Bennet, your house seems to be a veritable hive of activity today. Who are your new relatives? I do not recall seeing them in Meryton before. They seem quite... quite singular.”

Mrs. Hurst leaned in, her voice low and urgent, “Caroline, please.” But her gentle attempt at admonishment was brushed aside with a dismissive flick of Caroline’s hand. Mrs. Hurst’s eyes widened, a look of helplessness crossing her face. She shrank further into her chair, glancing around as if seeking support or escape, and Mary felt a pang of unexpected sympathy for the elder sister, so clearly in Caroline’s shadow.

The room fell silent for a moment as all eyes turned to Miss Bingley. The Bennet sisters exchanged glances, while the Fitzwilliams kept their expressions neutral.

Mrs. Bennet smiled sweetly, her voice edged with subtle steel. “Why, Miss Bingley, we find a little variety enlivens the country air. I do hope you are not overwhelmed by so much society. I know London must be so much quieter than our humble home.”

Mrs. Walters, always composed, inclined her head. “Indeed, Mrs. Bennet, one does find the countryside full of pleasant surprises.” She exchanged a brief, promising glance with the Earl, who offered her a small, approving nod.

Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed, and she directed her next remark at Mrs. Walters. “And you are...? I cannot recall your introduction. One meets so many companions these days, it is difficult to keep track.”

Before Mrs. Walters could reply, the Earl of Matlock set down his chess piece and addressed Miss Bingley with a cool civility. “Mrs. Walters is a valued member of this household, Miss Bingley. Her presence has been a credit to all, myself included. I trust you will extend her the courtesy due a lady of her standing.”

Miss Bingley’s lips tightened, but she said nothing further.

Lydia, ever quick-witted, stepped in. “Oh, these are just some distant cousins, Miss Bingley. You know how life is on a country estate, family always turning up when least expected! Oh, I do apologize. I forgot, this is your first experience living on an estate.”

Lydia’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, and she shot a quick, almost imperceptible look at Lady Catherine, who, to Mary’s surprise, met it with a fleeting, knowing smirk of her own.

The Viscount, suppressing a smile, murmured to Jimmy, “It seems Miss Bingley’s manners are as sharp as ever.”

Miss Bingley gave a thin smile. “Indeed. It seems the Bennet family tree is positively bursting with branches. One might even call it overgrown.”

Mary glanced at Mrs. Hurst, who looked mortified by her sister’s rudeness, her hands twisting in her lap. Mrs. Hurst caught Mama’s eye and offered a pleading, apologetic smile, as if to say, “I am not my sister.”

Elizabeth stepped forward, a wry smile playing on her lips. “Perhaps, Miss Bingley, it is simply a sign of a family that values closeness and mutual affection, rather than mere social advancement.”

Lady Catherine, her gaze fixed on Miss Bingley, cleared her throat, her voice cutting through the air like a perfectly aimed dart. “Perhaps, Miss Bingley, it is merely that the Bennet family has roots, unlike some who seem to sprout from... thinner soil.” Her eyes then flickered to Elizabeth, and a spark of genuine approval, brief but unmistakable, passed between them.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, ever the diplomat, turned to Miss Bingley with a polite nod. “We are grateful for the Bennets’ kindness. It is a generosity not often found.”

Anne, who had been quietly observing, at last spoke. “Indeed, Miss Bingley. The hospitality here is a welcome change from certain other places, where one may not always feel entirely at ease.” Her gentle tone carried an unmistakable undertone of subtle defiance, aimed directly at Miss Bingley’s intrusive presence.

“Mr. Bennet,” Miss Bingley declared, visibly flustered, yet her voice sharp, “I must insist upon seeing my brother. I will not be put off any longer.”

Mary observed the tense exchange with quiet interest. The parlour, usually a place of lively chatter, had grown hushed under the weight of unspoken rivalries and the presence of so many formidable personalities.

Miss Bingley’s demand echoed in the room, her insistence ringing with an air of command that brooked no argument. Mr. Bennet, ever unruffled, regarded her with mild amusement. Before he could reply, a gentle knock sounded at the door.

Mrs. Hill appeared, her face composed. “Mr. Jones is here, sir. He has come to escort Mr. Bingley to Netherfield.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Miss Bingley’s expression faltered for a moment, her composure slipping as she turned toward the entrance. Mrs. Hurst’s eyes widened, and Mary caught a fleeting look of relief mingled with embarrassment, as though she wished her sister would not make such a spectacle.

“My brother is being brought to Netherfield? I was not informed!”

Mr. Bennet inclined his head. “Indeed, Miss Bingley. Mr. Jones, our apothecary, has advised that the excitement at Longbourn is ill-suited to your brother’s recovery. Netherfield’s quiet is precisely what Mr. Bingley requires, especially after the shaking his brain received, what Mr. Jones calls a concussion. The swelling in his ankle has gone down revealing the sprain is not as severe as believed, as is his shoulder. The real concern is the head wound, and only rest and calm will do.”

Mr. Jones entered, his manner both respectful and efficient. He bowed to the assembled company. “Good morning. Mr. Bingley is ready to depart. I recommend at least two weeks’ quiet at Netherfield, perhaps longer, should he find the peace agreeable. Longbourn, while lively, is not conducive to recovery for a mind requiring rest.”

Miss Bingley’s eyes flashed with indignation. “That is quite impossible! My brother is far better off here, where he can be under the very best care. I must insist that he remain at Longbourn. I shall not have him jostled about in his condition.”

Mrs. Hastings, with a sly smile, interjected, “My dear Miss Bingley, I am sure you mean well, but surely you would not wish to contradict the advice of a medical man. That would be most improper.”

Mrs. Bennet added, “Indeed, and I do not think Longbourn can bear another day of such excitement. We must think of the other patients, after all.”

Miss Bingley, desperate, turned her ire to Mrs. Walters. “I suppose you will be taking over my brother’s care, Mrs. Walters? How very... progressive.”

The Earl, his tone suddenly steely, replied, “Mrs. Walters’s discretion and kindness have been invaluable. I would trust her judgment far more than that of those who mistake rudeness for concern.”

Miss Bingley, stung, spun to Elizabeth. “Perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, you will be next to play nurse. I daresay Mr. Darcy will require some... assistance, should he ever be so unwise as to linger here.”

Mary watched Miss Bingley’s voice rise with each word, her hands clenched at her sides. The room, already tense, seemed to hold its breath. Mrs. Hurst looked down at her gloves, her face coloring with embarrassment at her sister’s persistence.

Elizabeth met her gaze, unflinching. “I assure you, Miss Bingley, Mr. Darcy is quite capable of making his own decisions.”

Miss Bingley, her composure finally cracking, muttered, “Some ladies will stop at nothing to secure a match, even if it means trapping a gentleman under a roof not his own.”

Papa rose, his eyes cold. “Miss Bingley, I must ask that you remember yourself. This is a house of friends and family, and your insinuations are neither welcome nor appropriate. If you cannot conduct yourself with civility, you may wish to retire.”

Her father, with calm firmness, added, “Miss Bingley, I assure you, Mr. Jones is most competent. He has expressed concern that the excitement and activity of Longbourn may hinder Mr. Bingley’s recovery. Netherfield offers a quieter environment, and your brother will be properly attended by the care of his own family.”

Miss Bingley’s cheeks flushed. “But surely, Mr. Bennet, you do not mean to send him away when he is so unwell? It is most improper! I must speak with him myself before any decision is made.”

As the conversation continued, Mrs. Hurst’s discomfort only grew. When the door opened again and Mr. Bingley appeared, pale and supported by two men, Mrs. Hurst gasped audibly, her hand flying to her mouth. For a moment, all her embarrassment was forgotten. She sprang from her chair and hurried to his side, her composure replaced by genuine concern. “Charles! Oh, Charles, are you quite all right?” she cried, her voice trembling.

“I am well enough, Louisa, truly.” Mr. Bingley managed a weak smile for his eldest sister. “Caroline,” he said, his voice faint but steady, “pray do not distress yourself. I am not entirely certain I am ready to travel, but Mr. Jones believes I would be more comfortable at Netherfield, and...” His voice trailed off, a silent plea in his eyes as he looked towards her eldest sister.

Mary could see plainly that Mr. Bingley wished to remain at Longbourn, close to Jane.

Miss Bingley’s mouth opened, but no words came. She looked from her brother to the assembled company, her gaze lingering for a moment on Georgiana Darcy with an unnervingly speculative gleam, before settling on Miss Bennet, her expression a mixture of frustration and helplessness.

“Charles, I simply cannot agree. You are not thinking clearly. The Bennets have been most hospitable, but it cannot be good for your shoulder and ankle to be moved.”

Mr. Jones, sensing the need for a swift conclusion, stepped forward. “Miss Bingley, with all due respect, Mr. Bingley’s comfort and recovery are my primary concern. Netherfield offers the quiet and privacy he needs with the servants to assist in his recovery. Longbourn, though charming, is too lively for a patient in his condition, and the household staff is already overtaxed with so many guests. I have given him a dose of laudanum that is already making Mr. Bingley begin to feel sleepy. He will feel no pain.”

Mr. Jones gave a firm nod to the two men supporting Mr. Bingley, and with evident effort, they began to assist him through the doorway.

As Mr. Bingley was assisted out, Mrs. Hurst hovered at his side, fussing over his comfort and smoothing his hair, her worry for her brother momentarily eclipsing her usual deference to Caroline. Only when Charles was safely gone did she cast one last, apologetic look at the room, her shoulders slumping as she hurried after her brother, her face flushed with mortification at Caroline’s display.

Miss Bingley, seeing her brother undeniably on the move, let out a frustrated breath. Her eyes flashed, one last resentful glance cast at Georgiana and then Elizabeth, before she spun on her heel and followed her brother, her silk gown whispering sharply behind her.

The room, which had been holding its breath, seemed to exhale collectively. Mrs. Bennet let out a dramatic sigh. “Well! Thank goodness that is over! Such a trying visit, though I do hope Mr. Bingley recovers swiftly, at Netherfield.”

Lady Catherine, now leaning back in her chair, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips, addressed the room. “Indeed, Mrs. Bennet. One can only hope that young Mr. Bingley’s health improves, and that his sister develops a greater understanding of appropriate social conduct. Bursting into a private home without so much as a knock. One might imagine she had been raised in a barn.”

Mary watched her mother nod vigorously, then noted that Georgiana, usually so timid, had been unusually quiet during Miss Bingley’s presence. Mary had noticed the way Miss Bingley’s eyes had lingered on Georgiana, a calculating, almost predatory look. It had been unsettling.

The Earl chuckled softly. “Catherine, you are too kind. I rather think she has always had a flair for the dramatic. Though I confess, her interest in our family grows more tiresome with each passing day.” He glanced at Georgiana, a protective warmth in his eyes.

“I did not appreciate Mr. Bingley’s attentions to Georgiana and Miss Bennet,” the Viscount said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to fill the suddenly hushed room.

Mary watched, fascinated, as his eyes, dark and intense, found Jane. There was a possessiveness in his gaze, an unspoken claim that seemed to thicken the very air. Jane, for her part, met his look directly, a delicate blush spreading across her cheeks, a subtle tremor in her hands. Mary noticed Jane draw a steadying breath, as though bracing herself under the weight of his scrutiny.

“Do not be alarmed, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Jane said, her voice a little breathy, though still sweetly composed. “I am uninjured.”

Her fingers, Mary observed, instinctively went to the delicate lace at her throat, a gesture of almost unconscious defense or perhaps yearning. The Viscount’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, a silent conversation passing between them that Mary could only guess at, but which left no doubt as to his profound interest.

Lady Catherine, who had been observing this exchange with keen interest, gave a sharp, almost disapproving sniff. “Indeed, Miss Bennet, such expressions of concern are quite... vigorous. One might almost forget where one is. My fan, Elaine, where is my fan? This room grows insufferably warm.” She then shot a pointed look at the Viscount, a clear warning about the bounds of propriety.

Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned. “Her look at Georgiana was particularly... unpleasant. I trust, dearest Georgiana, that you paid it no mind?”

Georgiana, who had indeed been quiet, now looked up, her cheeks slightly flushed. “I... I confess it left me feeling rather uneasy, Richard. She seemed to be studying me.”

Anne, ever perceptive, reached out and gently squeezed Georgiana’s hand. “Do not fret, Georgiana. Miss Bingley’s assessments are always based on what benefits her, not on truth or genuine regard. Her interest in you stems solely from her desire to elevate her own standing.”

“Precisely,” Lady Catherine declared, her earlier fury at Miss Bingley now fully rekindled. “We have had letters about that woman. My sister and friends tell me she has always been an opportunist. She wishes to secure a match for her brother that is far above his station, and for herself through my nephew. She believes that by attaching herself to our family, her position will be secured. It is quite transparent, and frankly, rather sickening.”

Mrs. Hastings nodded gravely. “She truly is a disagreeable creature, always has been. I have heard of her ever seeking to insinuate herself into every respectable circle in London, despite her family’s rather dubious origins in trade. It never ceased to amaze me how brazen she could be.”

Lady Catherine turned her gaze to Lydia, a flicker of genuine approval in her sharp eyes. “Indeed, Miss Lydia,” she stated, a hint of admiration in her tone, “your earlier comment about country estates and Miss Bingley’s inexperience was remarkably well-placed. A subtle, yet pointed, reminder of certain... distinctions . You have certainly paid attention to the lessons Elaine, Mrs. Walters, and Miss Lucas have been delivering.”

“Oh, Mrs. de Bourgh!” Lydia practically bounced. “It was so much fun! I did not think being proper could still allow one to deliver such clever remarks! I wish to learn how to say clever things that make people wonder if they have been insulted, without saying anything overtly rude. It is far more satisfying than simply shouting!”

Mary listened, a silent observer of the frank discussion. It was rare to hear such open disdain for someone in their social circle, especially from the usually reserved Fitzwilliams. The knowledge of Mr. Bingley’s attempt to harm Mr. Darcy cast a dark shadow over the supposed charm of his family.

“To think,” Papa mused, a rare note of genuine reproach in his voice, “that young Mr. Bingley would resort to such artifice, and yet remain so entirely unaware that we are privy to his machinations. Miss Bingley continues to behave as though nothing is amiss, evidently convinced that her brother’s friendship with Mr. Darcy is genuine and unblemished. It is a curious thing, to watch such ambition in action when one knows the truth behind the façade.”

Lydia, ever dramatic, shuddered. “Oh, imagine being married to someone who paid ruffians to attack your friends! How utterly dreadful! Jane, you are quite safe from that odious man, thank goodness!”

Jane, who had been listening with a thoughtful expression, merely shook her head. “Lydia, it is truly beyond belief. Thankfully, I was never in any danger from Mr. Bingley. We had only just met. One can only hope they learn their lesson when our knowledge comes to light.”

“They will,” Lady Catherine said with chilling conviction, her gaze fixed on a distant point. “I shall ensure it. Such depravity cannot go unpunished, nor unremarked upon in society. Everyone will know what that man did to my nephew and to what lengths his sister will go.”

Just then, Charlotte Lucas rose from her seat, a polite but firm resolve in her posture. “Mrs. Bennet, Mrs. Hastings, Mrs. de Bourgh, Miss de Bourgh, I must beg my leave. With such esteemed company now gracing Longbourn, I believe it is time I returned to Lucas Lodge. My father will be expecting me.”

Mrs. Bennet, flustered, began to protest, “Oh, but Charlotte, dear! You need not hurry on our account!”

Charlotte offered a reassuring smile. “Indeed, ma’am, but my presence here would only add to the bustle. I trust you will manage matters admirably.” She curtsied neatly, catching Mary’s eye with a knowing glance that spoke volumes about the sudden shift in the Longbourn dynamic.

The conversation then drifted to more pleasant topics. Mary, however, found her mind still lingering on the Bingley family. Their easy smiles and apparently innocent flirtations now seemed a thin veneer over something far more sinister. The idea of Miss Bingley’s calculated ambition, particularly her look at Georgiana, filled Mary with a quiet unease. It seemed the morning’s drama had only just begun to unravel the true characters of those around them.

~*~

Dinner at Longbourn that evening was a subdued but anticipatory affair. The family gathered in the dining room just as the sun dipped below the hedgerows, casting golden light on the polished table and the silver gleam of the cutlery. Conversation stilled as Mr. Darcy, looking somewhat pale but composed, entered the room and took his place. His recovery from his recent indisposition was evident in the careful but steady way he moved.

Elizabeth, seated across from him, offered a gentle smile. “I trust you are feeling improved, Mr. Darcy?”

He inclined his head, a faint warmth in his eyes. “I am, thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I find that good company and the promise of a quiet evening with a book are the best remedies.”

Elizabeth’s lips curved in a faint smile. “I suppose that depends on the book, and the company. My sisters are notorious for teasing me about my choices.”

“Indeed?” Darcy replied, a subtle challenge in his tone. “Then I must hope my own reading habits would withstand such scrutiny.”

Jane, sitting beside Elizabeth, exchanged a glance with the Viscount. Their conversation, though quiet, was marked by the ease of two people growing ever more comfortable in each other’s presence. The Viscount, attentive and considerate, asked Jane about her favourite poets, and she responded with a soft enthusiasm that brought a rare brightness to her eyes.

Mary watched the scene unfold from her usual place at the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes moving from face to face as the conversation turned, unexpectedly, to matters of inheritance and duty.

Lydia, buoyed by her recent lessons and the attention of Mrs. Hastings, launched into her announcement with the confidence of someone who had never doubted her right to speak. “Mama, did you know a proper budget must account for every shilling? I was speaking with Anne earlier, and Sir Lewis’s will said she was to act as mistress at Rosings when she turned five and twenty, and she must start keeping the accounts in order. I think that is very sensible!”

Mary felt a flicker of amusement. Lydia’s boldness was often a source of embarrassment, but tonight it seemed unexpectedly fitting. She glanced at Anne, whose pale fingers trembled slightly against the tablecloth. Lady Catherine, as expected, bristled at the mention of accounts and the will.

“Nonsense, child!” Lady Catherine declared, her voice sharp enough to cut. “Anne has no need to take over as mistress. I have managed Rosings perfectly well these many years, and I assure you, it wants for nothing. Such matters are not for discussion at table, nor are they for Anne to trouble herself with. It is quite beyond her understanding, I daresay.”

Mary’s thoughts churned. She wondered if Lady Catherine truly believed her own words, or if some part of her feared the change that was coming, feared, perhaps, being rendered unnecessary in the very home she had ruled for so long.

Anne, her voice barely above a whisper, looked to the Earl. “If you please, uncle, I should like your advice. The steward has shown me the ledgers, and it seems Rosings could be earning more than it is. I fear we should make changes, but I do not know where to begin.”

Mary admired Anne’s courage, so quietly expressed, yet firm. She knew well the cost of speaking up in a family where stronger voices so often prevailed.

Lady Catherine’s lips pressed into a thin, angry line. “Interference! That is all this is! There is no need for such meddling. I am mistress of Rosings, and I assure you, all is perfectly well. My management has been without reproach for decades!”

The Earl’s reply was measured, but his gaze was steady. “Catherine, Sir Lewis’s will was quite clear. Anne is to act as mistress upon her five and twentieth birthday. It is her right, and her responsibility, to learn the management of the estate. To deny her this is to defy your late husband’s express wishes.”

Mary watched Lady Catherine’s struggle, the pride and fear warring across her features. She could not help but feel a pang of sympathy. To be asked to step aside, even gently, must be a bitter thing.

Mrs. Hastings, calm and composed, spoke next. “Sister, you forget yourself. Anne is no longer a child. Our own mother moved to the dowager house when the time came, and our sister became mistress at Matlock. It is not casting you out, but following the custom of the best families. Indeed, to resist it would be quite unusual.”

Lady Catherine’s voice rose, brittle with feeling, her eyes flashing. “So you would have me banished from my own home? Am I to be made a stranger at Rosings? Have I not sacrificed enough for that estate? I have given my life to it, and now you would have me merely step aside?”

Mary thought, not for the first time, how difficult it must be to relinquish power. She wondered if she herself would ever have anything so precious to surrender.

Lydia, undaunted, spoke up again, a thoughtful frown on her face. “But Mrs. de Bourgh, my teacher, Mrs. Hastings, says that a good mistress knows when to delegate. And the dowager house at Rosings is very comfortable, with a lovely view of the gardens. It would give you more time for your correspondence, perhaps, or to visit friends. Besides,” she added with a sage nod, “it is the proper thing to do.”

Mrs. Bennet gasped, “Lydia! That is not your place to advise Mrs. de Bourgh!”

But Mrs. Hastings nodded, her approval clear. “Lydia is correct. Anne must learn to manage, and you must learn to let go. It is the natural order, and it will do you both good. Rosings will benefit from fresh eyes, and you, sister, will finally have a moment’s true rest.”

The Viscount’s voice was gentle. “No one wishes you ill, Aunt. But Anne must assume her role, as Sir Lewis wished. You can guide her, but you must not prevent her. Her father, I assure you, made sound provisions.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his smile warm. “You have more sense than you know, Anne. I am proud of you for expressing your mind. I am certain you will be an excellent mistress, and I, for one, shall offer any assistance you require.”

Mr. Darcy, quiet until now, spoke with conviction. “Anne’s prudence and courage do her great credit. I am certain Rosings will prosper under her care, and with the support of her family. Sir Lewis would be pleased.”

Mary felt a curious swell of hope. Perhaps change, though painful, could bring about something better, something more just.

Anne’s eyes shone with gratitude, her voice steadier now. “Thank you, all of you. I only wish to do what is right for Rosings and for our family.”

The Earl nodded. “We shall look over the accounts together after dinner, Anne. You have done well to speak so freely. Your father would indeed be proud.”

Then, to Mary’s surprise, Anne turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Richard, you ought to know my will leaves Rosings Park to you. I will never marry, and even if I were to, I am told my constitution would not permit me heirs. You are the perfect person to carry on my legacy.”

The Colonel looked utterly shocked, his features softening with an expression of profound disbelief mixed with a nascent tenderness. “Anne,” he stammered, “I... I am honored beyond words. But what of Jimmy? And I am an old military man, I do cannot conceive of that changing. My life is devoted to the service.”

“Richard, pray, for my sake?” Anne’s voice was gentle but insistent, a quiet steel underlying her plea. “The papers say war may come to Spain and Portugal soon. I would not wish you to be sent away again, to risk your life so needlessly when your presence is so sorely needed here. I would very much like you to resign your commission and learn how to run Rosings with me. Besides,” she added, a faint blush rising to her cheeks, “it would do well for me to have the protection of a male relative to keep the fortune hunters at bay. Who better than my own cousin, who already knows the estate and its value?”

The Colonel’s expression shifted from surprise to resolute contemplation, then finally, to firm resolve. He reached across the table to take Anne’s trembling hand, his grip warm and steady. “If it is your wish, Anne, then I will do my best to honor it. And I will be proud to stand by your side. Rosings will have my utmost devotion, and I shall see it flourish.”

Mary had always prided herself on her powers of observation, and at present, she felt almost invisible, a vantage point both familiar and, until recently, oddly comforting.

But something had changed in her since her own recent outburst. She had spoken with a rare passion since then, surprising not only her family but herself. Mary had always believed her role was to observe, to remain in the background, but that morning the sky had not fallen, in fact, the world seemed to have shifted, just a little, in her favor.

Now, as Anne’s quiet resolve filled the room, Mary felt a jolt of recognition. Anne’s trembling but determined words, her willingness to challenge Lady Catherine and claim her rightful place, mirrored Mary’s own moment of courage. Mary understood the cost of such honesty, the risk of stepping out of the shadows.

The family’s attention turned, the room holding its breath for Anne. Mary realized, with a strange mix of pride and longing, that she too had begun to earn that same regard. She was no longer merely the plain, overlooked sister. She was someone who could speak, and be heard.

When Anne announced her intentions for Rosings and Richard’s future, the shock around the table was palpable. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s acceptance was met with warmth and quiet murmurs of approval, but all eyes soon turned, with trepidation, to Lady Catherine.

For a moment, Lady Catherine sat rigid, her expression unreadable, the battle evident only in the set of her imperious features. Then, with a trembling breath, she spoke, her voice softer than anyone expected, but no less proud. “It seems, Anne, that you are more your father’s daughter than I ever realised. Perhaps that is for the best. If this is your wish, and if Richard is indeed willing to sacrifice his career for such a weighty responsibility,” her gaze flickered to the Colonel, a hint of grudging respect in her eyes, “then I shall not stand in your way. But remember, the stewardship of Rosings is a grave responsibility, one that demands unwavering dedication and considerable acumen. Do not take it lightly.” Her gaze lingered on Anne, a mixture of resignation and reluctant admiration.

The air was charged with the sense of change. Anne, supported by her family, was no longer a shadow at the edge of the room, but the rightful mistress of Rosings, ready to step into her inheritance. Richard, once a military man, was now poised to learn a new life.

Mary felt the weight of the moment settle over them all. She wondered if anyone else perceived the subtle shift, how Anne, so often overlooked, had quietly claimed her place. Mary resolved to remember this night, to study its lessons, and perhaps, like Anne, to continue standing in the light.

Lady Catherine, for once Mary thought, found herself outnumbered. She looked from her daughter, to her siblings, her nephews, and finally to Lydia, who met her gaze with innocent confidence, her earlier pronouncements about budgets and dowager houses still hanging in the air. Mary could tell the matriarch’s pride was wounded, but the reality of her late husband’s will, and the united front of her family, could not be gainsaid.

Throughout the meal, Mary noticed Elizabeth watching Mr. Darcy’s quiet attentiveness to Jimmy. When Jimmy dropped his fork, Mr. Darcy retrieved it without fuss, offering a reassuring smile that softened the lines of reserve on his face. Elizabeth caught his eye, and for a moment, their shared amusement conveyed more than words, a silent understanding passing between them.

As soon as the final course was cleared, Mrs. Bennet declared, “Let us all go into the parlour, no need for the gentlemen to linger over port tonight! Such an important evening, we must all be together!” The company rose together, abandoning the usual separation of sexes.

In the parlour, the atmosphere was palpably lighter, imbued with a fresh sense of possibility. The sisters gathered near the hearth, their laughter mingling with the crackle of the fire, the tension of dinner having dissipated.

The Viscount, with a graceful sweep of his arm, drew Jane aside to a quiet settee near the window. “Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice a low, melodious murmur, “I confess, your enthusiasm for Cowper’s more contemplative verses quite intrigued me. Do you find his reflections on nature or human folly more compelling?”

Jane, her cheeks faintly flushed, responded with a soft, earnest smile. She spoke of her fondness for his gentler musings on domestic life, their heads bending together in quiet communion. Their conversation deepened, the ease between them a muted harmony in the background.

Anne, a notebook in hand, quietly conferred with her uncle about estate matters, her confidence growing with each suggestion. “The steward mentioned the west fields, Uncle. They have been yielded poorly for two seasons. Perhaps a new rotation of crops?” The Earl listened attentively, nodding with approval, occasionally interjecting with a piece of practical advice, clearly pleased with her newfound initiative.

Elizabeth settled onto a confortable armchair, and Mr. Darcy, with a subtle movement, drew up another beside her. “So, Miss Elizabeth,” he began, a faint smile playing on his lips, “I trust your sisters’ teasing about your literary choices has not deterred you from your pursuits?”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Hardly, Mr. Darcy. Indeed, it often provides me with excellent material for argument. Though I confess, a quiet hour with a book can be a rare luxury amidst the boisterousness of Longbourn.”

“A luxury I too appreciate,” he confessed, his gaze lingering on her. “Though I find, since my indisposition, a certain measure of quiet company has become rather more agreeable than solitary contemplation. Especially when that company possesses such discerning taste in literature, and, dare I say, in spirited debate.” His eyes held hers, a hint of genuine affection replacing his usual reserve. Elizabeth felt a warmth spread through her, a comfortable understanding forming between them that transcended mere words.

Mary watched as Anne, now the center of a small knot of sisters and cousins, spoke quietly with Georgiana, Kitty, and Lydia. The Earl and Mrs. Hastings, meanwhile, had drawn Lady Catherine aside. The matriarch’s composure waivered, her pride wounded but not wholly extinguished.

“Catherine,” the Earl began, his tone gentle but edged with curiosity, “I must confess, your acquiescence to Anne’s wishes, and even to Richard’s new direction, was quite unexpected. You have always been so steadfast in your convictions.”

Mrs. Hastings nodded, her expression a blend of surprise and admiration. “Indeed, sister. I had prepared for a siege. What has softened your formidable resolve?”

Lady Catherine’s hands, which had so often ruled a room with a mere gesture, now fidgeted with her handkerchief. She glanced, almost involuntarily, towards Lydia, who was animatedly describing the merits of various muslins and the ideal height of a new bonnet to Kitty, Georgiana, and Anne.

“It is difficult to explain,” Lady Catherine said at last, her voice tinged with a reluctant, bewildered fondness. “That child, Lydia, has been quite... persistent. She speaks with such innocence, such an unshakeable belief in what is ‘proper’ and ‘sensible,’ even when it contradicts my own judgment.”

She paused, her lips pursing. “She has been impossible to argue with. Lydia does not grasp the nuances of proper social discourse, nor does she care for them. She simply says what she believes is right, without artifice or hesitation. It is quite disconcerting. And yet,” Lady Catherine trailed off, a flicker of something akin to admiration in her eyes as she watched Lydia. “She does remind me of myself, in a most vexing way.”

The Earl and Mrs. Hastings exchanged a surprised look. The notion of Lydia Bennet, of all people, being the instrument of Lady Catherine’s concession seemed to be a truly astonishing thought.

Mary, listening from a discreet distance, felt a strange pride on Lydia’s behalf. Her younger sister’s candor had always been a source of embarrassment at Longbourn, but here, in the rarified air of Rosings, it had become a force Lady Catherine could not ignore.

Mrs. Hastings smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Lydia’s candor is her own kind of courage, Catherine. Not all battles are won with subtlety.”

Lady Catherine gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Courage, perhaps. Or a complete lack of self-restraint. Yet, when she confronted me in the garden, when she declared, in front of Anne and James, that I was not listening to Anne, nor to myself, it was as if she had stripped away every pretense. She made me see how much of my own will I had imposed upon Anne, and how little I had truly listened.”

The Earl’s gaze softened. “Sometimes it requires plain truth to break old habits.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes, for a moment, grew distant. “Lydia reminded me of myself, when I was young, before I learned to temper my words. She is infuriating, but she is also sincere. Her insistence that the dowager house is not a banishment, but a new chapter, was so absurdly optimistic that I could not help but consider it. And when she said I was not losing William, but gaining Elizabeth, well, it was so contrary to all my expectations, and yet, somehow, it rang true.”

Mary saw that Lydia, oblivious to the significance of her influence, was now demonstrating a particularly daring curtsy to a delighted Kitty. For the first time, Mary wondered if Lydia’s irrepressible spirit might be less a flaw than a rare and valuable gift.

Mrs. Hastings leaned in, her voice gentle. “You have always prized strength, Catherine. Lydia’s is of a different sort, but it has done what none of us could. It made you pause.”

Lady Catherine sighed, her pride yielding to a reluctant admiration. “Perhaps I am simply too weary to resist what cannot be altered. Anne’s wishes are clear. Richard’s acceptance was freely given. But it was Lydia who forced me to see the futility of clinging to old plans. She is a storm, that girl, impossible to ignore, and still more impossible to withstand.”

The Earl smiled. “And sometimes, a storm clears the air.”

Mary, quietly absorbing every word, felt the truth of it settle within her. She had always believed herself invisible, but tonight she saw that change could come from the most unexpected quarters. Anne’s courage had mirrored her own, but it was Lydia’s unvarnished honesty that had tipped the balance.

As the conversation drifted back to lighter topics, Lady Catherine looked once more at Lydia, a flicker of what might almost called pride in her eyes. “She is a most unlikely agent of change,” she murmured, half to herself. “But perhaps, in the end, that is what we needed.”

Mary resolved to remember this, that sometimes, it was not the quiet observer or the steadfast heir, but the bold and unrepentant spirit who could shift the course of a family’s fate.

“And, dare I ask,” Mrs. Hastings began, casting an uncertain glance from her sister to the other end of the parlour where Elizabeth and Darcy were engaged in quiet conversation. “What about William and Miss Elizabeth? I confess, after your former, most decided opinions on the matter of Anne and William marrying, your silence tonight regarding their obvious closeness is most curious.”

Lady Catherine sniffed, a ghost of her former hauteur returning, only to vanish almost at once. Her gaze, however, once again drifted towards Lydia, who was now attempting an even more extravagant curtsy to a giggling Kitty.

“Hmph. That, too, seems to be a matter beyond my direct influence. One would think, given William’s status, and my own tireless efforts in his upbringing, that he would exercise more... prudence. But that Lydia child,” Lady Catherine exhaled, as if battling a particularly stubborn burr. “She has been quite emphatic on the subject. Utterly without restraint, as you know. She has, on more than one occasion, taken it upon herself to explain, in her own blunt fashion, the various perils of marrying for wealth and consequence.”

The Earl’s eyes sparkled as he regarded his sister. “Well, Catherine, I daresay you have survived the Lydia tempest with more grace than I expected. Who would have thought your undoing would be a Bennet in petticoats and not a parliament of peers?”

Mrs. Hastings gave a soft, wicked laugh. “Indeed, dear sister, you have withstood the grand dames of London, and the bishops of Bath, but it is a country girl with a penchant for candor who has finally brought you to heel. I am almost disappointed. I had rather hoped for a duel at dawn.”

The Earl grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “Take heart, Catherine. If Lydia can reform you, perhaps there is hope for the rest of us yet. Though I do fear for the future of English decorum if she is to be our new standard-bearer.”

Mrs. Hastings added, eyes twinkling, “And as for William and Elizabeth, I suggest you start practicing your blessings now, before Lydia decides to officiate the ceremony herself. I suspect she would do it with a flower crown and a speech on the virtues of plain speaking.”

Lady Catherine gave them both a withering look, but the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying her amusement. “You are both insufferable,” she declared, though her voice was softer than before. “But I suppose, tonight, I shall allow it.”

The Earl bowed with mock solemnity. “Your magnanimity does you credit, Catherine. Perhaps we should all take a page from Lydia’s book, though, for the sake of our nerves, perhaps not all at once.”

Mrs. Hastings smiled, linking her arm with her sister’s. “Come, let us join the others. I find myself rather eager to see what further mischief Lydia has in store. After all, it seems the winds of change are blowing, and for once, they are blowing in our favor.”

As the three siblings moved towards the laughter and light of the drawing room, Mary, watching quietly, felt hope bloom in her heart, a hope born not of decorum, but of honesty, courage, and the unexpected power of a single, unfiltered voice.

Mary, continued observing from her corner, and noted the subtle but unmistakable shift in the room. Bonds were being forged, and old patterns, of separation, of silence, were quietly being undone.

And for the first time in many evenings, the Bennet home felt not just lively, but truly hopeful.

Posted on 2025-08-07

Chapter 10

The weekend that followed the Bingleys’ dramatic exit unfolded with a calm wholly unforeseen, allowing new currents to flow through Longbourn. Mary, ever the keen observer, found her attention drawn to the quiet blossoming of affection between her sisters and their distinguished guests.

Jane and the Viscount, in particular, seemed irresistibly drawn to each other. Mary often saw them in the garden, Jane’s gentle laughter carried on the breeze. The Viscount’s usually guarded expression softened as he leaned in to catch her every word. He would often bring her small, carefully chosen wildflowers, or simply offer his arm for a stroll, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. Their conversations, though often simple, seemed laden with unspoken understanding, a shared glance said much.

Mary distinctly noticed the Viscount’s intense, almost possessive gaze whenever Jane entered a room, and the way Jane’s cheeks would flush, a delicate blush that spoke of burgeoning feelings. The ease with which they fell into each other’s company, a quiet harmony that seemed to soothe the lingering tensions of the previous days, could not be overlooked. It was a courtship conducted in hushed tones and tender looks, a stark contrast to the liveliness of other relationships Mary had witnessed.

Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’s interactions, on the other hand, were a lively play of witty banter and intellectual sparring. Mary would often find them in the library, deep in discussion over a book, or engaged in lively debates during supper. Mr. Darcy, usually so reserved, seemed to unbend remarkably in Elizabeth’s presence, his stern features softening into a smile that rarely reached his eyes for others. Elizabeth, never one to shy from expressing her opinions, challenged him, teased him, and drew from him a warmth that surprised them all.

Their arguments, far from being contentious, seemed to deepen their mutual respect, a playful dance of intellect and spirit. Mary overheard fragments of their conversations, discussions of literature, observations on human nature, and even shared laughter over a particularly amusing anecdote. There was an undeniable connection between them, an almost tangible accord that suggested a profound understanding forming beneath the surface of their spirited exchanges. Mr. Darcy’s eyes, when fixed on Elizabeth, held a depth of admiration that left little doubt as to his growing attachment.

Monday afternoon, however, brought a fresh wave of disruption. The express sent to Mr. Collins, politely informing him that Longbourn was at capacity and unable to accommodate a visit, had evidently been disregarded.

Mary, looking up from her needle point, saw a ridiculous figure approaching the house. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, a flicker of dismay crossing her face. “It appears Mr. Collins has arrived, despite Papa’s express.”

Lady Catherine, whose back was to the window, stiffened at the name, exchanging a horrified glance with Anne. Before Mr. Collins could burst into the room, Lady Catherine made a swift, unexpectedly nimble movement. Grabbing Anne by the arm, she whispered fiercely, “The back entrance, Anne! Now! Before that tedious clergyman renders us utterly conspicuous!”

With surprising alacrity for a woman of her age and stature, Lady Catherine swept Anne out of the parlor through a less-used doorway that led directly to the garden, and thence, presumably, back to the Dowager House. Her exit was executed with all the precision of a general in retreat, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lavender and a profound absence.

No sooner had the door swung shut behind them than a loud, self-important cough resonated from the hall. The parlor door then opened with an almost theatrical flourish, and Mr. Collins strode in, unannounced, his face beaming with self-congratulation.

“My dearest cousins!” he boomed, his tone oozing false warmth and misplaced authority. He bowed so low that his head nearly touched his knees, then straightened with a jerking motion that sent his meager neckcloth askew. “I have arrived, as is my solemn duty and distinct privilege, to offer my humble comfort and solicitous assistance during this most trying time in accommodating your injured guests! One must, of course, rally to the aid of one’s esteemed connections, especially when unexpected circumstances have rendered their domestic arrangements unusually active.” He paused, puffing out his chest, clearly expecting applause for his magnanimity.

The room was deathly quiet. Mr. Collins, oblivious to Lady Catherine’s hasty retreat, continued his grand pronouncements.

“Indeed, I was quite distressed to hear of the injuries sustained by certain persons in the neighbourhood. A most unfortunate incident, to be sure, and one that speaks to the inherent perils of... well, of life itself, I suppose! But rest assured, my dear cousins, your humble kinsman is here to alleviate your burdens! My presence, I trust, will provide a much-needed bastion of decorum and moral rectitude amidst the temporary chaos.” He preened, adjusting his ill-fitting coat with a flourish.

Elizabeth and Mrs. Walters exchanged a swift, amused look, their eyes twinkling with shared anticipation of the glorious awkwardness for which Mr. Collins was so perfectly equipped. A subtle shake of Elizabeth’s head conveyed her amusement, while Mrs. Walters’ quiet smile spoke volumes of a gentle, yet keen, appreciation for the absurd.

“And now,” Mr. Collins declared, surveying the room with a proprietorial air, “I shall, of course, take up residence in the Dowager House. A most fitting arrangement, I believe, for one of my clerical standing, and so conveniently situated for frequent visits to offer my esteemed advice to all of you.”

Mr. Bennet, who had been observing his cousin with a characteristic mixture of detached amusement and mild dread, finally spoke. He inclined his head, a muscle twitching in his cheek that Mary knew signaled suppressed laughter.

“Mr. Collins,” he began, his voice carefully neutral, “while your zealous offer of assistance is truly touching, I must inform you that the Dowager House is currently occupied.”

Mr. Collins blinked, his self-important smile faltering. “Occupied, sir? By whom, pray tell? I was under the impression it was quite vacant and awaiting my gracious tenancy.”

“Indeed not,” Mr. Bennet replied smoothly. “A widowed aunt of my wife’s, rather frail and in need of quiet seclusion, has recently taken up residence there. Her health, you understand, requires the utmost tranquility. Longbourn, as you have so acutely observed, is quite overcrowded at present. Too many bustling feet for a delicate constitution, I daresay.” He gestured vaguely around the still bustling room, which while lively, was hardly crowded. “Therefore, I fear we cannot accommodate you here. However, the Meryton parsonage, a most respectable establishment, does have an extra room. I am sure you will find it entirely suitable for your temporary abode until the post comes through again.”

Mr. Collins’s mouth opened and closed in speechless agitation. He seemed to deflate slightly, his grand plans for residing amongst his esteemed relations evaporating like morning mist. The shift from offering ‘comfort and assistance’ to being unceremoniously redirected to the parsonage was clearly not the grand entrance he had envisioned. His comic self-importance, though bruised, did not entirely vanish, merely transformed into a bewildered affront.

“The... the parsonage? But... my dearest cousins, I had imagined... Your daughters...” he sputtered.

Mr. Collins trailed off, looking wholly bewildered, caught between his pompous expectations and the undeniable reality of his situation. His gaze fell upon the other gentlemen in the room, then lingered, a moment too long, on the Viscount and Mr. Darcy who were seated beside Jane and Elizabeth, respectively.

Mr. Darcy and the Viscount both bristled, a slight yet unmistakable stiffening of their shoulders. Mary, ever observant, saw Mr. Darcy’s hands clench imperceptibly at his sides, his jaw tightening. The Viscount’s usual serene composure faltered, as he gripped the arm of his chair with whitening knuckles. This implication that the Bennet daughters were somehow available for his attention stirred a deep, protective anger in both men. A flicker of cold disdain passed across Mr. Darcy’s aristocratic features, a silent promise of future retribution if the clergyman dared to continue his impertinence. The Viscount’s gaze hardened, his genial expression replaced by one of marked displeasure.

Papa, sensing the dangerous shift in atmosphere and, Mary thought, the imminent demise of his valuable furniture at the hands of two incensed gentlemen, cleared his throat with deliberate loudness.

“Mr. Collins,” he interrupted, his voice edged with a new, less patient tone, “I believe Mr. Miller, the groundskeeper, is awaiting you by the carriage. He will escort you to the parsonage and ensure your bags are conveyed with all haste.” Mr. Bennet turned his head slightly, raising his voice. “Mrs. Hill! Would you be so good as to send Miller to Mr. Collins at once, if you please?”

“Of course, sir,” Mrs. Hill’s steady voice replied from the doorway, and an instant later, the distinct, hurried footsteps of Mr. Miller could be heard.

Mr. Collins, still rather dazed, finally seemed to register his dismissal. “Oh! Ah, yes, of course. My luggage. And the parsonage. Very well. I shall return, my dear cousins, once I have settled myself properly, and trust my invaluable counsel will then be more eagerly received!” He puffed himself up one last time, bowed awkwardly, and then, with a final, lingering, and unsettling glance at the unmoving gentlemen, shuffled out of the room, to be escorted off the grounds by Miller.

The moment the door clicked shut, the Viscount let out a slow, controlled breath. “Forgive me, Mr. Bennet,” he said, flexing his hands, “but that man is truly beyond comprehension. How on earth could my aunt have offered that man the living?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded, running a hand through his hair. “He has a unique talent for provoking universal irritation. One would think, even with his singular lack of perception, that he would eventually grasp the true nature of his unwelcome. Thankfully, he is rather new to his position, otherwise he would have recognized us.”

Mary, who had been watching the entire exchange with a grave attention, turned her head to face her parents. Her voice, though still low, held a steadfast conviction. “I must be quite plain, Papa, that if any of my sisters were to entertain such an offer, I would consider it an act of profound self-destruction. A foolishness that would sacrifice all that is good in them for a mere position in life. I would sooner watch them live in poverty than in such a state of misery.”

She then turned her gaze to her mother. “And I thank you, Mama, for your promise not to force such a fate upon us, for the price of a secure future is far too high if it costs a daughter her happiness.”

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a glance of solemn agreement, while Lydia nodded vigorously, their expressions a mix of relief and mutual distaste.

Kitty, no longer content to simply nod along with Lydia, squared her shoulders. “Indeed, Mary!” she exclaimed, her voice ringing with newfound conviction. “I should think a fate worse than death is a good deal preferable to a lifetime of such tedious conversation. Such an affront to one’s good taste. I believe even a peacock would be quite ashamed to puff himself up so.”

“La! He truly is quite stupid,” said Lydia.

Mr. Darcy, still looking rather put out, managed a wry, almost pained, smile. “Indeed, Miss Lydia. And that, I fear, is the crux of the matter. While his immediate focus may be on settling into the parsonage, it will not take him long to start asking who lives in the Dowager House. Even someone as prodigiously dull‑witted as Mr. Collins is bound to put two and two together, especially when he hears the names de Bourgh, Fitzwilliam, and Darcy.”

The Viscount ran a hand over his face. “Precisely. He will assume they are related to Lady Catherine, and then his mind, however clouded, will connect it to father and to you, William. The implications for us, for Anne, and indeed, for the rest of the household, could be inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” Colonel Fitzwilliam scoffed, a dark laugh escaping him. “Michael, he will parade our identities through Meryton like a conquering hero. He will undoubtedly attempt to ingratiate himself with Lady Catherine yet further, boasting of his ‘intimate connection’ to us all. Our quiet convalescence, our carefully orchestrated plans for Bingley, Anne’s transition, all of it could be severely compromised.” He looked grim. “He will be a living, breathing town crier for the very information we wish to keep veiled.”

“Indeed, Richard,” Mr. Darcy conceded, rubbing his temples. “A vexing situation.”

“Oh, do not worry so much, William,” Jimmy said, waving a dismissive hand, though his own expression still held a faint glimmer of amusement at Mr. Collins’s antics. “Mr. Collins is so thoroughly satisfied with himself, he will probably just bore anyone who will listen. Most people in Meryton will be quite good at ignoring him in no time.”

“That may be true for the locals, my dear boy,” the Viscount replied, a sigh escaping him. “But I would imagine his particular brand of tediousness, coupled with a startling lack of discretion, can be potent.”

“Lest we forget, the militia is in Meryton,” Colonel Fitzwilliam added.

Almost on cue, the sound of the back door opening and closing reached them once more, and a moment later, Lady Catherine swept into the parlour, Anne trailing somewhat reluctantly close behind.

Lady Catherine held up a hand, a look of weary resignation on her face. “Very well, then, let us have it and be done!” she declared, her words emerging on a theatrical sigh. “Unleash your jests, your barbs, your every cutting remark. I am quite prepared for the deluge.”

The Earl, arms folded, fixed his sister with a look of exaggerated gravity.

“My dear Catherine,” the Earl intoned, “I must congratulate you. I have encountered many a fool in the course of my life, but never one so thoroughly, so exquisitely, unfit for polite society as your Mr. Collins. You have outdone yourself.”

The Fitzwilliam brothers and Mr. Darcy, still bristling from Mr. Collins’s recent display, pounced with gleeful, irreverent energy.

The Viscount, lounging with a rakish grin, added, “Truly, Aunt, I had always thought your taste in clergymen questionable at best. Imagine my surprise to find you had introduced a one-man farce into the neighborhood. Was the circus unavailable?”

Anne, cheeks pink with embarrassment, shot her cousins a pleading look. Lady Catherine, however, drew herself up, her feathers clearly ruffled.

“I assure you, I had no notion of his... peculiarities when I granted him the living,” she retorted, though her tone wavered between indignation and resignation.

Mrs. Hastings, never one to miss an opportunity, chimed in from her seat by the hearth. “Come now, Catherine, you must admit it was a masterstroke of self-preservation to flee the house at his approach. I have seen generals retreat with less haste.”

The Earl pressed a hand to his heart in mock distress. “To think, the redoubtable Catherine de Bourgh, routed by a parson! The annals of Rosings will never recover.”

Mr. Darcy, whose composure had only just returned, could not resist a dry barb. “I confess, Aunt, I had always believed your judgment infallible. But Mr. Collins? Even Bingley’s spaniel shows more discernment.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward, eyes alight with mischief. “At least you have provided Meryton with a new form of entertainment. I give it a fortnight before the militia start taking wagers on how long he can speak without drawing breath.”

Anne, finding her voice at last, murmured, “He did recite all of Leviticus at tea, once.”

The room erupted in laughter. Even Lady Catherine, though she tried to maintain her dignity, could not quite suppress a reluctant smile.

Mrs. Hastings gave her sister’s hand a squeeze. “Take comfort, Catherine. If nothing else, you have united the entire county in mutual exasperation. That is no small feat.”

The Earl raised his glass in a toast. “To Lady Catherine, may her next appointment be less memorable.”

Lady Catherine sniffed, but her eyes twinkled. “If any of you are so much as half as troublesome as that man, I shall not hesitate to take flight again.”

The Viscount grinned. “We shall hold you to it, Aunt. Though next time, do give us warning. I would like to hire an artist to commit the spectacle to paper.”

As laughter subsided from the Fitzwilliam brothers’ and Mr. Darcy’s barbed remarks about Lady Catherine’s unfortunate choice in clergymen, Mr. Bennet, who had watched the entire spectacle with his usual wry detachment, could not resist adding his own dry observation.

“Well, Mrs. de Bourgh,” he said, steepling his fingers and regarding her over his spectacles, “I must thank you for allowing Mr. Collins time off to visit our little corner of the world. I had always wondered what it would be like to witness a man attempt to out-strut a peacock, and now I need wonder no longer.” He paused, lips twitching at the corners. “I do hope you will not be too offended if I suggest that, in future, you send word before unleashing such a force of nature. My nerves are not what they once were.”

A ripple of amusement ran through the room. Mrs. Bennet, good-naturedly, with a dramatic sigh, chimed in, “Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are too cruel! Poor Mr. Collins means well, I am sure. Though I must say, Lady Catherine, I do wish you had given your living to a clergyman with a bit more sense!”

Lady Catherine, momentarily flustered but unable to suppress a reluctant smile, gave a regal sniff. “I assure you, Mrs. Bennet, had I known the extent of his peculiarities, I might have kept him safely tucked away in Kent.”

The Earl, delighted, raised his glass again. “To Lady Catherine’s next selection, may it be less memorable, and less likely to send her fleeing through the shrubbery!”

Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned. “And to Mr. Collins, may he never discover the true identity of the person living in the dowager house, lest he attempt to compose poetry in her honor.”

The room erupted in laughter once more, the camaraderie undimmed by the chaos Mr. Collins had left in his wake. For a moment, Lady Catherine seemed content to be at its center, even if only as the butt of the joke.

“Papa,” Kitty piped up suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention, her voice a little louder than usual. Clearly emboldened by the recent shift in the household’s dynamics, she continued, “Since Mr. Bingley is safely at Netherfield, and Mr. Collins is at the parsonage, perhaps we might take a walk into Meryton tomorrow? It has been quite some time since we have had a proper outing.”

Lydia’s eyes widened, quickly catching on to Kitty’s unexpected assertiveness. “Oh, yes, Papa! And perhaps the gentlemen would be so kind as to escort us? It would be quite proper, with so many of us!” She cast a hopeful glance at the Fitzwilliam brothers and Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed, Kitty, Lydia. A capital idea. I daresay the gentlemen might benefit from stretching their legs in Meryton’s bustling thoroughfares.” He turned to the gathered men, a challenge in his gaze. “What say you, gentlemen? Are you brave enough to face the perils of Meryton’s shops and citizenry?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded. “It would be our distinct pleasure, Mr. Bennet. A far more agreeable prospect than certain other, shall we say, domestic duties.” He winked conspiratorially at the Viscount and Mr. Darcy, who both inclined their heads in agreement.

“Excellent!” Anne said, her voice bright, stepping forward. “I should very much like to join such an excursion. There are a few things I wished to procure from the modiste.”

Lady Catherine, who had been listening with a shrewd expression, suddenly declared, “Very well. I shall accompany you all. It is essential to maintain proper decorum and, indeed, to ensure the proprieties are observed in such an unconventional party. One cannot simply allow young ladies and gentlemen to wander Meryton unsupervised.” She paused, then, with a most uncharacteristic smirk, gave Lydia a definite, knowing wink. “And besides,” she added, her voice a low murmur meant only for Lydia’s ears, “I daresay Meryton might benefit from a touch of Rosings grandeur.”

The unexpected wink caused Lydia to beam, while the others exchanged surprised glances.

Mary, emboldened by the moment, could not resist adding her own dry observation. “I do hope you have a map of Meryton in your reticule. It would be a tragedy to be caught unawares, should you need to retreat with haste from Mr. Collins’s dull conversation.”

A ripple of surprise went through the room at Mary’s unexpected sally, but before anyone could respond, Kitty stepped forward with a confident air.

“Perhaps, Mrs. de Bourgh, you should wear a disguise to Meryton,” she teased. “A large bonnet with a very thick veil would be most effective. It would be a tragedy if your grand promenade was interrupted by Mr. Collins’s endless pronouncements, and you had to hide amongst the goods.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. For the two most overlooked sisters to speak with such a mix of wit and audacity was completely unprecedented. Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled with evident pride, but the most astonishing reaction came from Lady Catherine.

She stared at Kitty for a long moment, a sharp, appraising look on her face. Then, a slow, genuine smile spread across her lips. “Well, Miss Kitty,” she said, her voice surprisingly soft, “it appears our families have been blind to your wit. To speak so plainly, and with such a keen understanding of the situation, that is not the mark of a child. You have a good head on your shoulders, and an eye for the ridiculous. I shall endeavor to remember that.”

The praise, so public and unexpected, caused Kitty to blush, but she stood her ground, offering a confident smile in return.

The air, already charged with new possibilities, now vibrated with the promise of tomorrow’s Meryton adventure. It was a day that would be far more than a simple excursion, it was a public statement that the Bennet sisters, with their formidable new connections, were no longer to be trifled with.

~*~

The following morning dawned bright and crisp, promising a perfect day for a stroll. Mary, ready before her sisters, watched from the drawing-room window as the impressive party assembled on the gravel sweep. Never before had so many distinguished individuals gathered to escort the Bennet sisters to Meryton. Mr. Darcy and the Viscount stood with an air of dignified anticipation, while Colonel Fitzwilliam and Jimmy, less constrained by formal politeness, conversed easily with her sisters. Georgiana, looking a little nervous but clearly excited for the outing, clutched Anne’s arm, with Charlotte Lucas on the other side, her practical good sense a welcome ballast to the group’s exuberance. Even Parker and Mr. Darcy’s maid, Lacy, had joined them.

When Lady Catherine, resplendent in a deep purple walking gown, finally emerged, a hushed reverence fell over the assembly. She surveyed them with a critical eye, then gave a curt nod of approval. The procession set off, a curious mix of high society and country simplicity, drawing interested glances from every cottage they passed.

Mary fell in step a little behind the main party, content to observe the shifting patterns of conversation and affection among her companions. She could not help but notice how naturally the couples gravitated toward one another, their closeness both subtle and unmistakable.

A few paces ahead, the Viscount stooped by the hedgerow, deftly plucking a small, perfect primrose. With a conspiratorial glance to be sure no one else was watching, he presented it to Jane with a flourish, bowing low. “For you, Miss Bennet, the first blossom of spring, though it cannot rival your own.” Jane’s cheeks colored prettily as she accepted the flower, her smile shy but radiant. The Viscount’s eyes lingered on her with unmistakable warmth, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

Mary’s gaze drifted to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, who walked side by side, their heads bent close together in animated discussion. Elizabeth’s laughter rang out, clear and bright, as she challenged Mr. Darcy’s opinion on the latest sensation from London, Maria Edgeworth’s Patronage, which they had both recently read. “You must admit, sir, that Lady Delacour’s wit is far superior to any of the gentlemen,” Elizabeth teased, her eyes sparkling.

Darcy, his expression uncharacteristically relaxed, replied, “I concede her wit, but I maintain that her judgment is not always sound. Still, I am persuaded the novel offers much to recommend it, though perhaps not as much as your own commentary.”

Elizabeth laughed again, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and Mary saw in their easy exchange a partnership of equals, intellectual, spirited, and affectionate.

Surrounded by such evident happiness, Mary felt a pang of longing and a quiet hope that one day she, too, might share such companionship. For now, she contented herself with the beauty of the morning and pleasure of witnessing her sisters so well cherished.

As they approached the main street of Meryton, the beat of military drums reached them, growing louder with every step. Mary felt a familiar tightening in her stomach. The militia. She cast a glance at Lydia, worried her sister would revert to her former ways.

Just as they turned the corner into the bustling heart of the town, three officers emerged from a mercer’s shop, laughing boisterously.

Mr. Denny, Mary recognized instantly. The second officer was handsome. But the third, however, caused a cold knot to form in her stomach. He was a striking figure with restless, dark eyes and a poetic cut to his profile. It was none other than Mr. Crispin Thorne.

Mary heard Miss Darcy gasp and felt her retreat subtly behind Jimmy, as if to avoid notice, and wondered that Lacy stepped to further shield the clearly discomposed girl.

The laughter died on the officers’ lips as their eyes fell upon the formidable group. The second man paled, and after a few moments, touched his hat, a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. Mr. Denny followed suit. But Mr. Thorne’s gaze, unsettling in its intensity, fixed immediately upon Jane. Mary saw his eyes, once so full of a youthful, earnest adoration when Jane was but fifteen, now held a disturbing, almost predatory glint.

Mary watched, a silent observer, as Mr. Thorne stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Jane.

“Miss Bennet,” he murmured, his voice a low, resonant tone that seemed to cut through the street’s usual din. “It has been... almost a year. I trust you are well?”

His tone implied a familiarity that was utterly inappropriate, given their brief acquaintance and the circumstances of its termination.

Jane froze, then recoiled. Only for a heartbeat, but enough. A slight, startled jerk backward at the sound of his voice, as if it struck some instinctive nerve. Her eyes widened, breath catching audibly before she mastered herself. Slowly, deliberately, she stilled her features, straightened her posture, and met his gaze with polite reserve.

But Mary saw it all. The tremor at her jaw, the way her gloved fingers curled tighter around her reticule, white at the knuckles.

A shiver ran down Mary’s spine. She remembered the hushed conversations, the awkward letters, the sudden withdrawal of his affections under pressure from his older brother, who deemed Jane’s portion too small. It had hurt Jane then, though she had borne it with her usual quiet dignity. But Mr. Thorne’s persistence, his continued appearance in London after time away, had long struck Mary as disquieting. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her, that this was no coincidence. He had sought out this posting. He had yet again contrived to put himself in Jane’s path.

Before Jane could formulate a polite, noncommittal reply, the Viscount stepped forward, placing himself in front of her, shielding her. His usually gentle eyes, now hard as flint, met Mr. Thorne’s stare.

“Lieutenant,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp, like the unsheathing of a rapier. “I believe you are quite mistaken. Miss Bennet does not, to my knowledge, count you among her acquaintances of any significance. Your address is quite unsolicited.”

The air between the two men was charged with unspoken challenge. Jane, her expression composed but pale, took a measured step backward, placing herself more fully behind the Viscount’s shoulder. Her hands, folded tightly at her waist, trembled.

Mr. Thorne’s mouth twitched, his dark gaze never wavering. “Then perhaps Miss Bennet will speak for herself,” he said, with a smoothness too studied to be genuine. “She has never struck me as a woman to require others to shield her.”

“She has never required shielding,” the Viscount said coolly, “yet it is the mark of any gentleman to place himself between a lady and discomfort, particularly discomfort of so pointed a nature.”

Mr. Thorne inclined his head, his smile thin. “Your gallantry does you credit, sir. But I meant no harm. Only to inquire after an old friend.”

“I believe,” said Mary suddenly, her voice clear and cool as spring water, “that the term ‘friend’ suggests mutual regard. You will forgive me, Mr. Thorne, if I observe that your acquaintance with my sister never reached such an understanding. Indeed, her memory of you seems to be as vague as yours of her, though perhaps for different reasons. A true gentleman does not seek to make a lady uncomfortable, nor does he pursue her against her will. To call yourself a friend of hers after your behaviour is an insult to the very notion of friendship.”

Mr. Thorne turned to her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Miss Bennet, is it? I do not recall us being so well acquainted that you might judge the nature of my connection with your sister. Indeed, I do not remember your name,” he said to Mary, his eyes holding hers with a flash of malice, “but I will now. It is a lesson I shall not soon forget.”

“And yet you presume to speak on her behalf?” Mary met his gaze without flinching. “Your recollection appears selective.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the party, subtle but unmistakable. Charlotte Lucas, ever observant, shifted slightly to stand closer to Jane, her presence quiet but firm. Mary noticed Mr. Darcy shift subtly, positioning himself nearer to Elizabeth.

Mr. Thorne’s face flushed. “Indeed? I assure you, Miss Bennet and I are acquainted.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward, his military bearing suddenly evident, exuding a dangerous authority even in civilian dress. “Lieutenant Thorne, is it?” he asked, his voice a low, controlled growl. “This is a public thoroughfare, and you are causing a considerable spectacle. Your conduct is unbecoming a gentleman and a soldier.”

Mr. Thorne, stung by the rebuke, snapped back, his voice rising in indignation, “I am not a soldier. It is officer, idiot!”

A sudden, sharp giggle pierced the tension. Lydia, standing near the back of the group, clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with mischief. “Pray, did he just declare himself Officer Idiot?”

A gasp rippled through the party. Stifled snickers echoed from several directions, even among the more restrained. Mr. Darcy pressed his lips together, his shoulders stiff with the effort to maintain composure. Even Lady Catherine’s usually severe mouth twitched, once.

But only once.

“Enough,” Lady Catherine snapped, her voice imperious and slicing through the laughter like a blade through silk. “This has gone on far too long. James, come forward. You shall attend us as we proceed about the town. The modiste, booksellers, mercantile, apothecary, wherever the girls please. I expect attentiveness, not astonishment.” She shot her nephew a hard look that jolted him to attention.

Then, her eyes flicked to the officers, and her tone turned glacial.

“As for you, my nephews shall accompany these so-called gentlemen,” her gaze lingered longest, and most scornfully, on the handsome unidentified soldier, “to their commanding officer without delay. I daresay their superior will be most interested to learn what manner of soldiers are representing His Majesty in Meryton. Perhaps next time, they will remember not to bark insults in front of their betters, let alone their betters’ aunts.”

The last soldier, who had lingered behind Mr. Thorne and Mr. Denny with studied nonchalance, gave a lazy half-bow. “Ever a pleasure, La...”

He got no further. With a swift movement, Colonel Fitzwilliam closed the distance between them, seized the soldier firmly by the upper arm, and twisted it behind his back just enough to make him wince.

“Enough, Wickham.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice was low, deadly. “You will come quietly, or you will come with bruises. Choose.”

Mr. Wickham gave a hiss of breath through clenched teeth. “You would not dare.”

Mr. Darcy stepped forward at last, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “He does dare. And you forget, George, I most certainly would have no concern if you were bruised.”

The colour drained from Mr. Wickham’s face, and he fell silent. Colonel Fitzwilliam released just enough pressure to let him walk, though he kept a tight grip and started guiding him forward with unmistakable purpose. Mr. Denny, already looking mortified, turned to follow without a word.

Mr. Thorne, however, lingered a moment longer. His gaze found Jane’s once more, and his voice dropped.

“You were kinder once,” he said.

Jane did not flinch. She turned her head ever so slightly toward Mary, as though hearing only the wind.

Mr. Thorne remained a moment more, gaze fixed on Jane. Seeing no purchase in the silence, he scoffed and began to turn.

A cold fury, so unlike her usual gentle nature, once more radiated from her form.

Before he could take a single step, Mary stepped forward. The movement was swift and unexpected, placing her directly in his path. The air, already thick with unspoken tension, seemed to freeze.

Colonel Fitzwilliam halted, and Mr. Wickham stumbled beside him with the abruptness of it. Mary could feel the Colonel’s gaze fixed on her.

Mary’s long-held anger burst forth, an unstoppable torrent of years of suppressed frustration. Her eyes blazed with a fury that left her breathless.

“Kinder?” she spat, the word laced with a bitterness that startled even herself. “You dare to speak of kindness? What does a man like you know of it?”

Mr. Thorne blinked, clearly taken aback. Jane’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. She simply looked at her sister, eyes wide with mingled gratitude and heartbreak.

“This is not about kindness,” Mary declared, her voice ringing with indignation and every ounce of a sister’s love and protective rage. “This is about a man who pursued my sister when she was but fifteen. A man who wrote her verses, made her dream, and then vanished at the first whisper of disapproval, when it came time to be a gentleman!”

She took a step closer, the fire in her voice growing. “You abandoned her not out of conscience, but cowardice. Your brother deemed her portion too small, her family too noisy, her prospects too humble! He was too cowardly to bear the weight of my mother and my younger sisters. And you, you, folded like a letter left too long in the weather!”

A soft, strangled sound came from Kitty, who now stood rigid, fists clenched.

Mary’s hands clenched at her sides, her frame shaking with a righteous anger that left her breathless, yet she pressed on. “Do not speak to Jane of kindness. You are no friend, you are a coward! Do not feign innocence in your presence here. You are a man who has haunted her in London, now in Meryton, placing yourself in her path time and again, to satisfy what? Regret? Pride? Obsession? You say she was ‘kinder once’, but Jane has not changed. She remains the kindest, gentlest soul. It is your persistent disregard for her wishes, your repeated disrespect, that has made her weary of you. It is your harassment that has made her cold!”

Mr. Thorne’s jaw tightened. “You presume...”

“I presume nothing,” Mary cut in sharply. “I watched her weep at your silence. I saw her force a polite smile when she saw you again in London. And I saw her flinch moments ago, the instant you spoke.”

There was a pause. The silence of the street pressed close around them.

Kitty suddenly stepped forward, just behind Mary, her cheeks flushed with indignation, though her countenance remained composed. “You have tormented my sister long enough, sir. We all witnessed the strain it caused, such as no young lady ought bear. Her patience was tried beyond what any young lady should endure. It is rare indeed to see a man so obstinate as to trouble a lady long past the bounds of civility.”

A hush fell over the street, lending weight to Kitty’s words without delving into tears or overt theatrics.

Mary drew a sharp breath, her voice rising in pitch as she connected her rage to the pain she had witnessed with Jane and Mr. Bingley. “Just as a man’s sisters can judge a woman unfit for their brother because her family is not to their taste, so too can a man’s brother demand he cast her aside. They do not care about the woman’s character, her kindness, her very person! They only care about her social standing, her money, her connections! They are all the same, these men who seek to ruin a woman’s happiness and then dare to speak of kindness!”

Mary took another step forward as her voice dropped to a final, scathing whisper. “You are a man who thinks himself a poet, a lover, and a gentleman, but you are nothing more than a boy who has never grown up. You are a boy who needs to be put in his place, and one who must finally learn that a lady’s no means no.”

Elizabeth, her voice steady but fierce, stepped next to Kitty, her eyes fixed on Mr. Thorne. “You speak of kindness, yet your actions have been far from it. It is not only Jane’s composure you have sought to disturb. You underestimate the strength of blood and sisterhood that surrounds her.”

Lydia, whose mischief was often tempered by fierce loyalty, stepped forward next, creating a unified front of sisterly affection. She spoke with a rare seriousness in her tone. “You would do well to remember that this family is not so easily broken. We may differ in many ways, but we stand as one when it matters most. And I assure you, Lieutenant, your efforts have only steeled our resolve.”

Lady Catherine fixed Mr. Thorne with a sharp, imperious gaze. “This insolence shall not go unreported. Rest assured, your commanding officers shall be made fully aware of your conduct this day. I expect you to answer for this breach of discipline and decorum before the highest authority. Consider yourself warned, any further impropriety will carry consequences far more severe, and your reputation will not withstand the blow.”

Mr. Thorne’s face, a mask of simmering anger, now gave way to a cold, calculating smile. His gaze, full of a disturbing possessiveness, fixed on Jane’s composed face for a long moment.

The Viscount took a single step toward him, and said with quiet finality, “It appears, Lieutenant, you have misjudged not only Miss Bennet, but the full strength of her family. I believe you have heard all that needs to be said of your conduct. You have trespassed enough for one morning.”

“You have had your say,” Mr. Thorne said, his voice a low, venomous murmur. “We shall see who has the last laugh.” He gave a curt, mocking bow, his gaze lingering on Jane one last time before he turned to leave.

Colonel Fitzwilliam gave Mary a long, unreadable look, then resumed walking, his grip on Wickham as firm as ever.

At last, Mr. Thorne fell in step behind Mr. Denny and the forcibly escorted Mr. Wickham.

Mr. Darcy and the Viscount exchanged a glance, brief and grim. Once the officers were in motion, they fell in behind, flanking the odd procession as it made its way toward the militia barracks.

As the party divided, Lady Catherine swept forward, the hem of her gown rustling like silk thunder.

Lady Catherine gave a long-suffering sigh, then turned smartly on her heel. “Well,” she said briskly, “that was a disgrace. I shall write to the Home Office. I do hope,” she remarked archly to no one in particular, “that the young ladies of Meryton are not in the habit of engaging with men who speak like unruly stable boys. One cannot imagine the militia receives such poor training at headquarters, though perhaps I give the institution too much credit.”

Jimmy, still blinking in astonishment, offered Lady Catherine his arm with all the gravity he could muster. “Shall we begin with the modiste, Aunt?” he asked.

“That depends on Miss Bennet,” she said, nodding to Jane with an unusual degree of softness. “I do hope you intend to carry on with our morning, and not allow the day to be ruined by such impudence.”

Jane inclined her head. “I should like very much to visit the modiste, if it pleases you.”

“Indeed. It pleases me infinitely more than standing about in the street watching fools parade themselves as officers. These girls have been too long in country muslins. A touch of refinement is overdue.”

With that, she swept forward, Jimmy scampering to keep up, and the ladies resumed their path through Meryton. But Mary, walking a half-step behind Elizabeth, could not help glancing over her shoulder. The three men walked like a judgment descending, their silent composure more damning than words. Thorne’s shoulders were stiff with wounded pride, while Mr. Denny looked as though he wished to vanish into the paving stones.

Mary began to wonder, with a growing certainty, whether this confrontation was merely a prologue, and if Mr. Thorne had yet begun to show his true intentions.

Miss Darcy, having composed herself, walked beside Anne, her voice low. “That man,” she said quietly, “looked at Jane as if she were already his possession. I did not like it.”

“Nor did I,” Anne replied, surprising Mary. Her voice, usually so hesitant, held a steely edge. “He is the kind of man who mistakes politeness for permission.”

Mary drew nearer to them, her voice soft. “He is not to be trusted. I fear he has plans, and none of them honourable.”

Charlotte, walking just ahead, turned slightly. “Then we must be vigilant. Jane would never speak of it herself, but we may act on her behalf. There is strength in numbers, and in sisters.”

As they passed the bakery, the scent of warm bread wafted into the street. Lady Catherine halted abruptly.

“James, fetch a basket. We shall not make our calls on empty stomachs. That,” she said, pointing at a loaf in the window, “is the only thing I have seen today more stiff than Mr. Thorne’s manners.”

Jimmy, glancing toward Lady Catherine with a mischievous grin, added quietly, “One hopes we are spared an encounter with Mr. Collins today. One stiff fellow is quite enough for any morning, do you not think?”

Mary’s eyes sparkled as she replied softly, “Indeed. Twice such stiffness would surely be too much for even your aunt to endure at once.”

The two shared a discreet smile as Lady Catherine pursed her lips, pretending not to hear, though the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed amusement.

Mary stifled a laugh behind her glove. Whatever else the day held, it promised to be quite unlike any previous stroll through Meryton.

Posted on 2025-08-10

Chapter 11

As the party in Meryton dispersed, Richard Fitzwilliam, Colonel Fitzwilliam once more, tightened his grip on Wickham’s arm and steered him toward the militia barracks with Parker at his side. He could feel Denny and Thorne follow in strained silence and trusted Michael and William were trailing the group. The sense of purpose, of grim satisfaction, was pain to be felt.

At the barracks’ gate, two sentries stiffened the moment they saw Colonel Fitzwilliam’s bearing. He said nothing of rank or title. He had no need. His very presence, the quiet authority he exuded, was enough.

“We need a private word with Colonel Forster. At once,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Discretion is essential.”

Parker, as ever an efficient shadow, stepped close to the gate sentry, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. “It is in your best interest to say nothing and do as ordered. That gentleman outranks half the army. He only does not wear it on his sleeve. You would do well to remember that.” The sentry paled, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he hurried to obey.

Within minutes, Colonel Forster appeared, surprised but composed, though his gaze held a flicker of apprehension as he took in the formidable group. “Fitzwilliam,” he said cautiously, eyeing Richard’s civilian attire and the sullen figure of Wickham. “It has been ages, my good man. I believe you have come to ruin my day, and perhaps several of my weeks besides.”

At the sight of Forster, Wickham tensed, then made a sharp, panicked motion as if to bolt.

Richard reacted instantly.

He caught Wickham by the collar and twisted, dragging him back with a force that made the man stumble. With one arm across Wickham’s chest and the other securing both wrists behind his back, Richard held him fast, his voice calm yet iron-edged.

“I should advise you against further attempts at cowardice, George. There is no door you may run through that the men cannot reach before you.”

Wickham writhed in protest, but the hold was unyielding.

Colonel Forster walked over, admired the hold, and remarked, “I ought to seek some time training with the regulars. That is an impressive hold, Fitzwilliam.”

Richard nodded and said with a clipped tone, devoid of genuine warmth, “Forster, I believe your office is the more appropriate venue for what follows. This matter concerns both justice and, I assure you, a considerable degree of discretion. It is not a tale for the parade ground.”

Forster, sensing the gravity, said, “Lieutenant Thorne and Captain Denny, you are confined to quarters until further notice.” He led them into a sparse but tidy room, closing the door firmly behind them.

Once the latch clicked, Richard dropped all pretense of friendliness.

“I will be brief,” Richard began, his voice cutting through the silence. “George Wickham has been masquerading under your commission. He is wanted in London under various writs. Two for substantial debts and another for egregious fraud.”

William stepped forward, his expression cold and unyielding. “I have copies of the writs at Longbourn, Colonel Forster. The originals will be on their way from London as soon as humanly possible. My man, Parker, will take the fastest horse available to secure them.” He cast a sharp glance at Parker, who nodded once, a silent affirmation of his readiness to depart at a moment’s notice.

Forster looked at Wickham, quite stunned, his face blanching. “Good Lord,” he breathed, the words barely audible. “This is... unbelievable.”

Forster, his face a sudden mask of professional fury, straightened his shoulders. “This is an outrage, Fitzwilliam. That such a man could have duped us all, masquerading under His Majesty’s commission and bringing such disrepute to the colours, it is a stain on every man under my command. I am utterly disgusted to find this viper in my ranks.” His jaw was set, and the easy camaraderie they had shared moments before was replaced by the rigid posture of a man ready to purge an infection.

He walked to the door, his movements sharp. “Consider him held, and confined to the stockades forthwith. And when your man returns with those writs, he will face the full consequences of his actions. You have my absolute assurance, Fitzwilliam, that this disgrace will be purged from Meryton with swift and decisive action. No rumour will be allowed to fester. Wickham will not utter another word against your family, nor will he escape the justice he so richly deserves.”

Guards were immediately called to take Wickham in hand. Their former childhood friend, whose charm now seemed a hollow mockery, tried to summon a smirk, a flicker of his old insolence, but no one met his gaze. He was led away in silence, his protests unheard, his fate sealed.

“There is more,” Michael added grimly, his voice carrying an edge of steel. “Lieutenant Thorne’s conduct this morning violated both decorum and duty. His persistent, unwelcome attention to Miss Bennet has been a matter of concern for some time. His behaviour toward Miss Jane Bennet borders on the intolerable, and as her family is now under the protection of the Fitzwilliams and the Darcys, I believe you understand the gravity of that misstep.”

“Indeed I do,” Forster replied, running a hand over his face. “Miss Bennet is universally beloved in Meryton. This will not be taken lightly by the populace, let alone by such powerful families.”

“We will return to Longbourn shortly,” said Richard. “You will accompany us to speak with Mr. Bennet directly, and reassure him this man will not trouble them again. Not a single further instance of his offensive presence.”

“And Thorne?” Michael asked, with an edge to his voice. “What action will you take, Colonel?”

Forster’s mouth tightened. “He will be confined to quarters until arrangements can be made to transfer him. It will be swift. He will not set foot in Meryton, nor near Longbourn, again.”

“Good.” William folded his arms, his gaze piercing. “You may also mention that if this is not handled to our satisfaction, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who was with us this morning and witnessed his impertinence firsthand, will take up the matter with the War Office directly. And the Earl of Matlock will lend his considerable voice to the complaint.”

Forster turned distinctly pale, but there was a flicker of something new in his eyes, a dawning sense of the weight against Thorne. “I understand perfectly, gentlemen,” he said, the words spoken as a solemn vow. He opened the door, his movements sharp and deliberate. His orders were not merely given, they were delivered with the force of a coming gale. Thorne was to remain confined to his quarters, without the least indulgence, and kept under armed guard. A conveyance was to be made ready at once. The sternness of his tone left no doubt that the honour of the service had been affronted, and Thorne would be made answerable.

A modest military wagon was readied for the short journey to Longbourn. William, Colonel Forster, Richard, and Michael climbed aboard. The wheels jolted over the rutted road, but the air was tense with purpose and a shared sense of accomplishment.

As they rode, Richard leaned in to explain, “Forster, that Bingley sister is still trying to marry Darcy. We have avoided an introduction and do not want to be besieged at Longbourn. For now, we prefer to operate under plain titles. Mr. Darcy, and Misters Fitzwilliam.” He gave Forster a firm, meaningful look. “We would appreciate your utmost discretion in this. Our presence in Hertfordshire is, for the moment, a private family matter.”

Forster nodded solemnly. “You have it, gentlemen. Your wishes will be respected entirely.”

Michael turned to his brother. “Richard, do you know of any reliable men, former soldiers or those on leave, who might be persuaded to come to Meryton for a few weeks? I would feel better knowing we had a few more eyes in attendance. Discreet ones.”

Richard considered this, nodding slowly. “I might have a few in mind, men I trust. Not too many questions asked, but loyal to the last. Leave it with me. I will dispatch a few letters tonight.”

Michael smiled, a spark in his eye. “Excellent. But they must go by express. No dawdling along. I must have Miss Bennet protected.”

Richard grinned, “Express, you say? And who, pray, will cover the cost for such haste? The Viscount, I presume?”

Michael gave a mock bow of concession. “Naturally. As the older brother and heir to Matlock, I suppose it falls to me to keep my younger brother’s rescue party on the payroll. Though I would not want you running up expenses without consulting me first.”

Richard’s laugh was loud and genuine. “Oh, very well, my lord. But should these ‘expenses’ become frequent, I will expect a proper account and interest, lest this become an endless charity.”

Michael shot him a sharp, amused glance. “Interest? Richard, you wound me. I am merely indulging my prodigal brother. Besides, what are elder siblings for, if not to keep the coffers open and the mischief managed?”

“Very well,” Richard replied. “Then it is settled. As soon as we reach Longbourn, I will dispatch the letters with all due haste, courtesy of Viscount Spenston’s generosity. I will ask for receipts, my lord, and nothing less than prompt payment at Longbourn.”

Michael groaned theatrically. “Only a Fitzwilliam would turn a favor into a business transaction.”

Their easy camaraderie carried them through the final miles to Longbourn. As the trees gave way to the familiar gates of the estate, Michael’s expression grew serious once more.

“This is a serious matter, Richard. We cannot have a repeat of today’s incident. Not with this man, and not with Miss Bennet.”

Richard’s playful air vanished. “Agreed,” he said, his voice firm. “They will have all the protection they need. You have my word.”

Longbourn soon appeared through the trees, and the men disembarked. Mr. Bennet, summoned, appeared in his study doorway, brows raised in polite inquiry, but with a flicker of shrewdness in his eyes.

“Mr. Bennet,” Michael said gently, stepping forward. “We have come on a matter of some urgency. Colonel Forster has joined us to address certain late unpleasantries.”

As the men were ushered into the study, Richard took a seat at the writing desk without a word. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a quill, dipping it in ink and beginning to write with swift, precise strokes. The low scratching of his pen was the only sound in the room, a rhythmic counterpoint to the men’s conversation as Michael and William explained what had transpired.

Richard’s focus was absolute. The first letter was for Harris, a former sergeant who had a wound sustained to his left arm at Waterloo. Though it had ended his military career, his strength and loyalty were unquestioned, and he could still ride a horse with skill. The next was to Evans, a younger man who had left the service to care for his ailing mother. This temporary, well-paying work would be a godsend to him and his family.

Richard wrote with a soldier’s brevity, outlining the nature of the task. To provide discreet protection of a family and young lady important to his brother, and emphasizing the urgency of their presence as swiftly as possible. He had rarely seen his brother captivated by women, but never with such instantaneous and unwavering devotion. The unmitigated fury he had witnessed on Michael’s countenance in Meryton was proof enough of the strength of his attachment. Such ardent devotion laid upon him the gravity of the monumental charge his brother had entrusted to him, and he vowed to uphold it with the utmost care and vigilance.

With that in mind, he also penned a note to the stablemaster at the Matlock townhouse, authorizing horses and expenses should either man require them for the journey. Knowing the men well, and holding great respect and faith in their abilities, he sought to ease any burden on their arrival. He was certain they would keep Miss Bennet safe from harm, no matter the cost.

Once explanations were given regarding Wickham’s capture, Thorne’s egregious conduct, and the actions already taken, Mr. Bennet’s usually detached demeanor gave way to a cold, simmering rage. Mr. Bennet cast a sharp glance at Richard as he continued to write, his posture rigid with purpose. The unspoken message was clear. The time for talk was over. The time for action had begun.

“That man pursued my daughter when she was but fifteen,” he stated, his voice dangerously quiet. “His subsequent behavior has long been suspect, but I had hoped he would have given up his obsession. Now, to learn he sought a posting near us, merely to harass her with his unwelcome attentions in public?” He turned to Forster, his eyes sharp with indignation. “This is wholly intolerable, Colonel. It is a profound insult to my family and an act of extreme impropriety.”

The Earl of Matlock stepped forward, his expression grave. “Indeed, Colonel Forster,” he added, his voice deep and authoritative. “A young lady’s peace of mind and reputation are sacrosanct. This Lieutenant’s continued pursuit of Miss Bennet, despite clear indications of her disinterest, is not merely ill-mannered, but truly, an alarming obsession. Such behaviour reflects poorly on His Majesty’s uniform and cannot be countenanced.”

“I agree entirely, sirs,” Forster said, looking genuinely distressed. “He is confined to the encampment under close watch. Guards will be posted, discreetly, for Miss Bennet’s protection, both at Longbourn and in Meryton if she ventures out.”

Mr. Bennet gave a short, firm nod. “And Lieutenant Thorne’s transfer?”

“It is already in progress, Mr. Bennet. You have my word. He will be transferred to a distant, undesirable posting where he will have ample time to reflect on his gross misconduct.”

“Then I shall write to the War Office myself, Colonel Forster, with the formal complaint and full praise for the swift and decisive steps you have taken. And I am told I am not the only one prepared to do so.” He glanced meaningfully at the Fitzwilliam brothers and Mr. Darcy.

“No, Mr. Bennet,” he said softly, his voice firm. “You are not.” Richard allowed himself the briefest smile. A satisfying day, indeed.

Forster stood, a visible weight lifting from his shoulders. “Then I shall return to the barracks and see to the rest myself, Mr. Bennet. Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing this to my immediate attention.” He bowed and exited, leaving the three gentlemen with Mr. Bennet.

As he left, Michael lingered behind. “Mr. Bennet,” he said slowly, his gaze earnest, “I ask your permission to speak to Miss Bennet. Not merely as a protector, nor as a guest in your home, but as a suitor. With every hope of gaining her favour and, ultimately, your approval for a courtship.”

The Earl of Matlock, who had been listening intently from his chair by the fire, now cleared his throat. “Indeed, Bennet,” he added, his voice resonating with authority, yet tempered by a genuine warmth. “Michael speaks with my full approbation. My son has long held Miss Bennet in the highest esteem. And I, for my part, can think of no young lady more suited to become my future daughter-in-law. Her gentle disposition and amiable character. She possesses all the qualities one could wish for in the future Viscountess.”

There was a moment’s silence, heavy with unspoken significance. Mr. Bennet’s face softened slightly, his eyes losing their earlier sternness. He looked at the sincere hope in the Viscount’s eyes, then at the Earl, whose directness bespoke a true desire for the match. Almost imperceptibly, a small smile touched his lips.

“You have it, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice quiet but clear. “You have my permission.”

Richard, watching his brother, felt a surge of genuine joy. A quiet, knowing smile spread across his face. At last. Michael deserved all the happiness in the world, and Miss Bennet surely was the woman to give it to him.

The moment lingered, warm and expectant. It was then that William, who had stood silent throughout, cleared his throat, a rare note of uncertainty in his manner. The others turned, sensing the shift.

“If I may, Mr. Bennet,” William began, his voice steady but earnest, “I find myself inspired by my cousin’s candor, and by your generosity, sir. I, too, must ask your leave to speak to Miss Elizabeth. My feelings for her are longstanding, and my intentions most serious. With your blessing, I hope to pursue her hand in courtship, and, with time and her regard, her heart as well.”

Richard, watching his cousin, felt a quiet pride. William rarely spoke so openly, even among family. But here, in the presence of men who valued honour and forthrightness, he had found the courage to declare himself.

Mr. Bennet studied William with a new, appraising gaze. Then, the faintest glimmer of amusement appeared in his eyes. “Mr. Darcy,” he replied, “I believe you may have already won more than just my daughter’s heart. But you have my permission, and my trust.”

A ripple of satisfaction moved through the room. For Richard, it was a moment of rare contentment, two friends, two brothers, both seeking happiness where it was most deserved.

No sooner had Mr. Bennet given his second permission than a knock sounded at the study door. “Enter!” Mr. Bennet called, still smiling at the turn of events.

The door opened to reveal a portly, somewhat flustered gentleman in clerical attire. This was Reverend Giles Harding, the long-suffering Rector of Meryton of whom Richard had heard. He entered with a nervous cough, carrying a ledger under his arm.

“Ah, Reverend Harding!” Mr. Bennet greeted, a flicker of his usual ironic amusement in his eyes. “Come to escape the parsonage, have you? Fear not, we shall not drink all the port before you have had a drop.”

Richard chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Indeed, Reverend. I imagine the presence of our esteemed aunt’s clergyman has already tested the limits of your hospitality.”

Reverend Harding wrung his hands, his face a picture of mild exasperation. “Mr. Bennet, gentlemen, forgive my intrusion, but Mr. Collins has been quite zealous. He insisted on ‘assisting’ with the preparations for the harvest festival. I must confess, his unsolicited advice on the placement of every flower, every hymnal, proved overwhelming. Then came the banner!”

“The banner?” Michael prompted, a curious lift to his brow.

“Yes! He insisted on personally overseeing the hanging of the new banner for the churchyard. A rather grand, if perhaps ironically inscribed, thing. It reads, ‘The Humble Shall Be Exalted.’ He declared it a testament to his own future eminence, I believe.” Reverend Harding sighed, running a hand over his thinning hair. “I merely asked him to lend a hand, and he took over the entire operation.”

“I can just imagine,” Mr. Bennet said amusedly, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

Reverend Harding nodded vigorously, his brow furrowed. “Indeed, sir! He was quite resolved the banner should be fixed to the highest point on the church wall, believing, I presume, that it reflected his own burgeoning consequence.” The Reverend paused, his gaze drifting to some unseen point beyond the window. “He was up on the ladder, you see. A rickety affair, against which I had warned him. But he waved away my concerns, declaring that providence would surely guide his hand in such a righteous endeavor.”

A pause of silence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implication. Richard and Michael exchanged glances, their earlier amusement fading into something akin to morbid curiosity. William remained impassive, though a subtle shift in his posture suggested keen attention.

The Reverend swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And then... well, then providence, it seems, had a rather different plan for him. A beam, they say, gave way. Or perhaps the ladder simply... failed him with his elevated ambitions. He... he fell, gentlemen. From a considerable height.” Reverend Harding’s voice trembled. “They say it was instantaneous. A clean break, as it were, from earthly concerns.”

A profound silence descended upon the room. The men exchanged shocked glances, their previous joviality entirely departed, replaced by a mixture of solemnity and a certain, undeniable, grim fascination. William’s usually impassive face registered a flicker of disbelief. His father cleared his throat, a deep, rumbling sound.

“Dead?” Richard murmured, the word sounding strangely flat in the sudden quiet. “Good heavens.”

“A truly unexpected turn of events,” Michael said slowly, his voice tinged with a solemnity that belied his earlier jesting. “Hanging a banner that proclaimed ‘The Humble Shall Be Exalted.’ An oddly poetic, if morbid, end for him, would you not say, William?”

William nodded, his gaze distant. “Indeed. A man so utterly devoid of humility, brought down beneath a banner celebrating it. The irony is striking.” He paused, a strange expression on his face. “His death was certainly a sudden conclusion. One can only hope his final moments were free from his usual pronouncements.”

Mr. Bennet, who had listened with a mixture of shock and, perhaps, a very dark, unacknowledged flicker of surprise, finally spoke, his voice subdued. “Well, Reverend Harding,” he said, addressing the still-shaking clergyman, “it seems Mr. Collins has taken his final departure from Meryton. A most peculiar demise, to be sure. One might almost say a divine intervention to ensure the banner’s message was truly exalted.” A faint, almost imperceptible tremor of amusement returned to his voice at the very end.

Reverend Harding, still reeling, could only nod mutely, a faint sheen of perspiration on his brow. The air, which had moments before been thick with the satisfaction of justice meted out, now held the unsettling chill of an unforeseen, some of the theatrical, fatality. The immediate problem of Mr. Collins had been, in the most bizarre way imaginable, settled forever.

Reverend Harding dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “I confess, Mr. Bennet, I have never before lost a curate to the hazards of ecclesiastical decoration. One expects the odd bee sting or a wayward hymnbook, but not, well, not this.”

Mr. Bennet, ever the master of dry understatement, managed a sigh. “It seems, gentlemen, that Mr. Collins has finally found a pulpit from which he cannot descend. I do hope the angels are prepared for lengthy sermons and copious compliments.”

Richard, despite the gravity of the moment, could not help but remark, “Let us hope, for their sake, that heaven’s ladders are sturdier than ours.”

Michael added, “And that the banners are already hung.”

William, his composure returning, offered quietly, “At the very least, we may rest assured that the harvest festival will proceed without further unsolicited improvements.”

Father shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “A most singular end. I suppose it is only fitting that Mr. Collins should depart this world in pursuit of his own exaltation, if not in spirit, then at least in elevation.”

Mr. Bennet glanced at the ledger still clutched in Reverend Harding’s hand. “Well, Reverend, you may wish to record this as a cautionary tale for future curates. ‘Pride goeth before a fall, but banners, it seems, are particularly treacherous’.”

A gentle ripple of laughter broke the tension, and for a moment, the room was united in a strange blend of shock, relief, and the absurdity of the situation.

Reverend Harding, still dabbing at his brow, gave a weak but grateful smile. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I must see to the necessary arrangements. And,” he hesitated, glancing at the ledger, “I suppose I must write to Lady Catherine de Bourgh at Rosings to inform her of Mr. Collins’s most untimely demise. I do hope she will not blame me for the loss of her vicar.”

Mr. Bennet, with a glint of mischief, replied, “Take heart, Reverend. Lady Catherine is not known for her leniency, but I daresay even she cannot hold you responsible for a ladder’s lack of piety.”

Richard, unable to resist, added, “If she does, you might suggest she supply her next vicar with a helmet and a rope. Clearly, the living at Rosings is not for the faint of heart.”

The Reverend managed a nervous chuckle. He bowed and, with a last apologetic glance, took his leave.

As the door closed, the gentlemen exhaled as one, the mood shifting from shock to contemplation.

Michael broke the silence first. “Upon my word. That is a turn I did not expect when I rose this morning. With Mr. Collins gone, the future of Longbourn is rather less clouded, is it not, Mr. Bennet?”

Mr. Bennet, still processing the afternoon’s events, managed a wry smile. “Indeed. The entail has lost its most persistent champion. I must confess, I had begun to imagine myself haunting the halls, simply to keep Mr. Collins from rearranging the library.”

His father, ever practical, leaned forward. “This is an opportunity, Bennet. With the immediate threat to the estate removed, we ought to review the entail and the settlement of Longbourn now to determine its rightful heir, and make certain of its future. This allows us to clearly understand the legal disposition of the estate moving forward.”

“Beyond the legalities, there is much that could be done to increase the yield, better drainage in the lower fields, perhaps, or new tenants for the north pasture. We must also ensure the estate is properly managed for the benefit of its eventual owner,” his father finished.

William nodded gravely. “My uncle is correct. I have seen great results in Derbyshire from crop rotation and new breeds of sheep. If you wish, I can make inquiries with my steward and share what I have learned.”

Richard, glancing at the others, grinned. “It seems, sir, you are beset by suitors not only for your daughters, but for your estate as well.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled, genuine warmth in his tone. “At last, gentlemen, I am surrounded by men who wish to improve Longbourn, rather than inherit it by default. How novel.”

Michael smiled. “Shall we make an afternoon of it? I propose we begin with the entail and end with a walk and ride about the grounds. I am eager to see these infamous lower fields for myself.”

The Earl raised his glass. “To new beginnings, then, both for the estate and the family.”

Just then, the door swung open and Jimmy entered, his cheeks flushed from exertion. “Forgive me. I came as soon as I heard. Is it true? About Mr. Collins?”

Mr. Bennet nodded, his expression softening. “It is, Jimmy. The news is as unexpected as it is, well, final.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened. “What happens now?”

Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Now? Now we plan for the future, Jimmy. And perhaps, at long last, Longbourn may rest a little easier.”

The gentlemen exchanged glances, some solemn, some relieved, some quietly amused, before gathering their papers and preparing to discuss the estate’s prospects, the shadow of Mr. Collins finally lifted from their future.

~*~

The Longbourn parlour, thick with the scent of the recent supper, stirred with a strange mixture of relief and disbelief. Mary, settled on a chair, observed the shifting dynamics of the room. The initial shock of Mr. Collins’s recent passing had given way to a quieter, almost speculative air, particularly around her father.

Mary folded her hands and studied the faces around her. The sudden brightness in Mama’s eyes, Kitty’s anxious glance, and Lady Catherine’s pinched expression. She supposed grief wore curious forms in her family, and though she herself felt only a mild discomfort at the news, she could not help but wonder if any true sorrow would ever reach them from so distant a cousin.

Papa, having settled into his favourite armchair by the dying embers of the fire, cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him. “Well,” he began, a dry amusement returning to his tone, “it seems Mr. Collins has finally achieved an elevation he so earnestly craved, albeit not in the manner he anticipated.”
A ripple of muted laughter went through the room, quickly stifled out of deference to the deceased, or perhaps, simply from habit.

“His departure, while sudden, simplifies a great many things for us, my dears,” her father continued, his gaze sweeping over his daughters. “I have, in fact, just reviewed the terms of the entail with Mr. Fitzwilliam the First through the Fourth and Mr. Darcy.” He paused, permitting the words to sink in. “As you know, Longbourn is entailed to the male line. Mr. Collins was, regrettably, the last male heir designated in the deed of entail. With his unexpected removal from this mortal coil, the entail, having no further male descendants to follow the prescribed line of succession, is thereby rendered null and void, having no further object upon which to operate. This means, simply put, that Longbourn is now mine to leave as I see fit in my will.”

A collective gasp went through the room, followed by murmurs of surprise. Mary felt the shifting weight of hope, relief, and sudden fortune settle over her sisters. It was odd to think that the fate of their home depended on such distant men and such fragile lifelines. She was glad, if only for her mother’s sake.

Mama, who had been dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, suddenly brightened, her grief quite forgotten. “Oh, Thomas! Are you quite sure? This is truly wonderful news! To think, we shall not be turned out!”

“Indeed, Fanny, I am quite sure,” her husband replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “It is a most fortuitous turn of events for our family, would you not agree? And as Mr. Collins was a cousin in name only, from a rather distant line, he does not meet the requirements for mourning. We shall not, therefore, be inconvenienced on that account.”

Mary wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if anyone ever truly mourned Mr. Collins, or if he had always been considered more an inconvenience than a relation. She chastised herself. Such thoughts were un-Christian, but they came unbidden.

“I cannot believe I was so mistaken in his character.” Lady Catherine shook her head, looking disgusted with herself.

“His manner was apparent, to be sure, but it was much less,” Anne paused, as if searching for the correct word, “intense?”

Lady Catherine sighed. “Yes, Anne, you are correct. He was very conciliatory and agreeable to whatever we desired, yet it was not until his father passed away, and he became the direct heir of Longbourn, that he became so self-righteous. It is a true shame.”

Papa, who had been listening with a wry expression, cleared his throat. “A shame, to be sure,” he mused, “but hardly a surprise. You must understand, the younger Mr. Collins was a man held in check, a balloon full of air with a needle to it. His father, as I remember, was a rather formidable fellow, quite the tyrant in his own home.”

He leaned forward, a storytelling gleam in his eye. “The late Mr. Collins, a man of profound ignorance and little wit, was a force of nature. He held his son in tight rein, demanding complete obedience and subservience. For twenty-five years, the younger Collins was little more than an echo of his father’s will. He was toadying and agreeable because he had to be. He feared his father’s disapproval far more than he desired to express any opinion of his own.”

With a knowing look on his face, Papa continued. “Now, imagine what happens when you pop that balloon. The moment his father died, the deference and timidity he had been so long practicing vanished like mist. He became a man of property, and with it, he inflated himself to an insufferable size. He had spent his entire life being told he was worthless, and now, suddenly, he was the master of his own destiny. It is a common enough tale. A man who has been nothing for so long, when given something, becomes everything, and usually in the most absurd and disagreeable way imaginable.”

Kitty, who had been listening with rapt attention, ventured timidly. “So, his ridiculousness was a recent development? That man we met was not who he always was?”

“Indeed, my dear,” he said with a nod. “The man we met had been set free, and he had no idea what to do with his liberty except to vex everyone he met. It is a lesson for us all, I suppose. Some men are not meant to have power.”

Listening intently, Lady Catherine gave a sharp nod of her own. “That does explain much. He was full of a new, odious self-importance that I did not recognize. I had worried it was the beginnings of a malady.”

Lady Catherine pressed her lips together. “You must understand, when I appointed him to the living at Hunsford, I saw in him a certain pliability, a willingness to learn, and I quite believed that, properly guided, he could be shaped into a man of sense and substance. His father assured me that he was eager for improvement.”

She shook her head. “Yet when Mr. Collins senior died and the entail fell to the younger, something changed. The modesty I mistook for humility revealed itself as mere cowardice. Suddenly, unchecked by discipline, he lost any capacity for good judgment.”

Papa’s eyes glinted. “I daresay, madam, your ambitions for him were noble. Many a man has thrived under stern mentorship. But left to his own devices, no longer overshadowed, he became rather like a child let loose in a sweet shop.”

Lady Catherine allowed herself a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Perhaps I was too optimistic. I thought the living would anchor him. In the end, his father’s absence proved that some men only know restraint, never true humility.”

Anne laid a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. “You only meant to be kind.”

Lady Catherine nodded, subdued. “I did. And for a time, I truly believed he would flourish. It seems the measure of a man is not what he can become, but how he conducts himself when at liberty.”

There was a brief silence as the room absorbed Lady Catherine’s quiet regret and her father’s sardonic wisdom. It seemed a chapter had closed, one man’s lack of humility dealt with by fate.

The Earl of Matlock, who until now had observed the exchange in thoughtful silence, leaned forward, his voice gentle yet assured. “Catherine, you must not blame yourself so severely. There are few tasks harder than judging character, especially in a young man shaped so thoroughly by a father such as Bennet has described Collins senior. I have seen it often, a reserved youth grows under a stern hand, never daring to assert himself, and then, once freed of constraint, mistakes boldness for virtue and self-importance for sense.”

Mary watched as the Earl spoke, the deep timbre of his voice commanding attention even in softer moments. He did not often display tenderness, yet she thought she discerned it now.

He continued, “Your intentions were admirable, and you postponed judgment until experience taught you otherwise. I cannot count the number of men who proved different once fortune smiled upon them. Such changes are not easily predicted.”

Mrs. Hastings, seated not far from Lady Catherine, added quietly, “Do not forget, Catherine, that your kindness was genuine. You hoped young Collins might benefit from patience and guidance. You did what you thought best, as any kind soul would.” She gave Lady Catherine’s hand an encouraging squeeze, her voice warm with shared sympathy. “His father ruled with severity, and the loss of that restraint was bound to unsettle him. None of us could have quite foreseen how far he would fly.”

Mary found herself reassured, too. Mrs. Hastings had a talent for easing wounded pride without rendering it a trifle. Perhaps it was easier to be gentle about disappointment when one had learnt herself to accept the failings of others.

Lady Catherine managed a wan smile, her shoulders relaxing imperceptibly. “You are both very good,” she said. “I appreciate your confidence far more than my own judgment just now.”

With the family’s support, the shadow seemed to lift a little. The room, so lately strained, softened. There was still regret, but now it mingled with forgiveness.

Mary found herself reflecting. How many lives were shaped not only by fates and fortunes, but by the hands who tried, however imperfectly, to guide them?

But as Papa glanced around the room, his voice took on a new edge. “Of course, not all nuisances announce themselves with sermons and banners. Some choose darker methods.”

He leaned forward, his expression hardening. “Now, as for the other persistent trouble, the one who chose violence over vanity, Lieutenant Thorne.”

Mary noticed her father’s gaze becoming distant. “That fellow has a peculiar habit of reappearing, much like a persistent burr on one’s coat. This, if my memory serves me, is the fifth time he has returned to Jane’s life.”

He leaned forward, the familiar storytelling gleam returning to his eyes. “The first time was when Jane was but fifteen, a mere girl, and he penned those rather dreadful verses. He was a callow youth, but even then, he exhibited a remarkable single-mindedness. Recently, Mary, you told us you overheard his own older brother demand he cease his attentions to Jane. He initially accepted those demands, but then he began to ‘run into’ Jane quite frequently when she was visiting the Gardiners in London. It was always in London, never here, until now.”

“The second time he sought Jane out again in London. Young Thorne was quite insistent on his attentions, even then. We have always called him a stalker, you know.” He paused, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “When I was younger, I was quite the avid hunter. I could stalk a deer for hours, so quiet in the woods they never knew I was there. Thorne’s behaviour reminded me of it, you see. That is how the term caught on. At Longbourn, in private, we have always referred to him as Jane’s stalker.”

Lydia, who had been fidgeting impatiently, suddenly piped up. “Oh, you mean Officer Idiot!”

Lady Catherine, in mid-sip of her tea, let out a loud, surprised snort, causing her to nearly choke.

Mrs. Hastings, beside her, immediately burst into laughter. “Oh, Catherine, I have not heard you make that sound since we were children playing hide-and-seek and you tripped over the dog!” Mrs. Hastings exclaimed between gasps of mirth. The combined laughter was infectious, and soon, even Mr. Darcy had a faint smile playing on his lips.

Papa waited for the laughter to subside before resuming. “Indeed, Lydia. Officer Idiot seems a rather apt description for the fellow. The third and fourth times, it was again in London, and always with the same determined pursuit. This occasion, however, differs. It is the first time he has actually come to Meryton, which is truly, rather bold of him. His persistence, as you can see, is quite remarkable.” He shook his head, a wry expression on his face. “One would almost admire it, were it not so entirely objectionable.”

At that, Lydia piped up, entirely missing the undercurrent of unease. “I think it all rather thrilling. Imagine! A soldier in disgrace, a gallant rescue, perhaps even a duel...”

Georgiana turned sharply. “There is nothing romantic about impropriety.”

Lady Catherine rounded on Lydia, her voice sharp and commanding. “Girl! Let me disabuse you of such foolish notions immediately. There is nothing ‘thrilling,’ or ‘romantic,’ about a man who disregards a lady’s wishes, nor about impropriety of any kind. Such behavior leads to ruin, not rescues or duels of honour. It leads to scandal, to a blighted reputation, and to a life of misery. Mark my words, Miss Lydia, a woman’s good name is her most valuable possession, and it can be tarnished by even a whisper of association with such men. Do you understand?”

Lydia, visibly chastened and flushed, nodded, and said nothing further.

Georgiana leaned and whispered just loud enough for Mary to hear, “Lydia, do not make my aunt angry. You would not like her when she is angry.”

“I have experienced it already,” Lydia said with a slight smile, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “She is not so bad. All you must do is shout back. I do enjoy her company, even if she makes me rethink my actions.”

Again, the room erupted into grins and laughter.

Lady Catherine’s stern gaze softened just a fraction, and a rare smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Miss Lydia, while I do not encourage such impertinence, I must confess your spirit is refreshing. But do remember, a lady’s sharp tongue should be wielded with care, lest it cut more than intended. Now, be mindful, there is a fine line between spirited and scandalous, and I would prefer you dance upon the right side of it.” She gave a brief, almost affectionate nod. “I shall be able to continue tolerating your company, as long as you promise to think before you speak and keep me on my toes.”

Mrs. Walters, who had been listening intently, cleared her throat to redirect the conversation. “My cousin has spoken to me of Mr. Thorne before. She was very concerned every time Jane came to London and hired temporary footmen for the duration. It sounds as though he has a singular focus, Mr. Bennet. One can only hope that Colonel Forster’s intervention will finally put an end to his unwanted attentions.”

Her father nodded gravely. “Indeed, Mrs. Walters. I confess, I had hoped he would give up his obsession. But it seems some men are simply not swayed by reason, or by Jane’s very evident disinterest. Even with him confined to quarters, you must be vigilant when the girls leave the house.” He glanced at Jane, who was listening with a polite, if somewhat weary, expression. “But now, with the Fitzwilliams and Mr. Darcy involved, I believe we may finally be rid of him.”

“We shall,” the Colonel said firmly. “Colonel Forster is expediting a transfer to another regiment, hopefully in a land far, far away.”

“It had better be,” the Viscount muttered darkly. “I would cover the cost of sending an express to your general bringing this to his attention and suggesting Thorne be stationed in the Orient.”

“The militia’s primary role is to protect Britain, brother, he cannot be sent to the Orient,” the Colonel explained. “We can strongly request northern Scotland.”

“That is not far enough away, but it will have to do, for now.”

“In the meantime,” the Colonel continued, disregarding his brother, “as a training exercise, Colonel Forster has assigned men to patrol Longbourn and the surrounding estates.”

Mary felt content as the conversation gradually ebbed, the company settling into a companionable quiet as the hour grew late. The Colonel, who had remained thoughtful through the last exchange, now cleared his throat and addressed the room with a new gravity.

“If I may, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, and all assembled, there is one matter of business I must see to before we turn our minds entirely to brighter prospects. With the situation regarding Lieutenant Thorne resolved and the family’s future secured, I intend to deliver the news of Thorne’s conduct to my general in person. While I am there, I shall tender my resignation from the army.” He glanced at his father and brothers, his voice steady. “It is time I set aside my commission and see what peaceable country life, and new responsibilities, may offer.”

There was a beat of surprised silence, then a ripple of approval. The Earl nodded with quiet pride, and Michael reached over to clasp Richard’s shoulder. “You have served your country with honour, Richard. Now let us see if you can manage a harvest as well as a campaign.”

Before the conversation could turn further, Georgiana, who had been quietly observing with eyes bright with anticipation, caught her brother’s gaze. Mary saw a silent understanding pass between them and wondered why.

Georgiana rose and addressed the room in her gentle, clear voice. “It is such a fine evening, and the gardens are looking their best. Might we take a turn outside? I think the air would do us all good.”

Darcy met her eyes, a faint smile curving his lips. “An excellent suggestion, Georgiana.”

The Viscount, catching the subtle cue, stood as well. “Indeed. A walk would be most welcome after such a day.”

Papa, already rising, waved a hand in agreement. “By all means, let us stretch our legs. I suspect there are several matters still to be discussed, some, perhaps, best spoken of beneath the open sky.”

As the company began to disperse, as pairs and trios naturally formed, Mary lingered a moment longer by the fire. She looked around at the faces, family, friends, and those who might soon become both, and felt a sense of hope and belonging she had not known in years.

The company moved toward the doors, the promise of new beginnings and private conversations bright in the air. And as they stepped into the golden light of evening, the future of Longbourn seemed, at last, theirs to shape.

Posted on 2025-08-17

Chapter 12

Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy walked side by side along the winding paths at the far edge of the Longbourn garden, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of late-blooming roses. For a time, they moved in companionable silence, the hush broken only by the soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the distant laughter of their younger sisters. Elizabeth found herself oddly at ease. The awkwardness that had once marked their encounters had faded, replaced by a gentle anticipation she had not expected to feel in his company.

As they turned beneath an arch of climbing honeysuckle, Elizabeth’s thoughts wandered to all that had changed since their first, fraught acquaintance. She had once believed herself certain in her judgments, but recent weeks had shown her the error of pride and the quiet strength of humility. Her feelings for Mr. Darcy, so long colored by misunderstanding and wounded vanity, had softened and deepened until she could scarcely recall the sharpness of her former prejudice.

Mr. Darcy’s voice, low and sincere, drew her from her reverie. “Miss Bennet, I am glad to see your sister is handling today’s events so well. My cousin’s intentions are most honorable, and I believe she will find happiness with him.”

Elizabeth smiled warmly. “Yes, I am relieved beyond words. Jane’s happiness has always been my chief concern. I confess, I never imagined such a suitor for her, nor that our family would see such a change in fortune.”

Mr. Darcy hesitated, then said quietly, “It is strange, is it not, how easily we may misjudge others? I have often reflected on my own conduct, and I am not proud of it. In truth, my own failings have made me wince when I consider how quick I was to judge you, and how quick you were to judge me.”

Elizabeth looked up at him, sincerity shining in her eyes. “We have both been guilty of it, Mr. Darcy. I have thought much on my own errors, and your candor now does you credit.”

He stopped, turning to face her fully. “Elizabeth, I must apologize for my behavior at the assembly. I spoke without thought, and I acted as though my own wishes were all that mattered. I have regretted it every day since.”

Her heart fluttered when he used her Christian name, but she met his gaze steadily. “You are forgiven, if you will forgive me for my own sharpness and pride. I see now how wrong I was, and how much I misjudged you.”

A smile, soft and genuine, touched his lips. “There is nothing to forgive. If I may,” he paused, searching her face, “I would be honored if you would allow me to court you, with the hope that, in time, you might accept my hand.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed, but her answer was clear and bright. “I would like that very much, Mr. Darcy.”

From behind a nearby rosebush, a chorus of whispers and giggles erupted. Lydia, Kitty, and Georgiana were peeking around the trellis, their eyes wide with delight. Lydia nudged Kitty, who tried and failed to smother her laughter.

Georgiana, unable to contain herself, exclaimed rather too loudly, “She accepted! Oh, she truly accepted! I will finally have a sister.” Her voice carried on the evening air, prompting a new round of laughter from her companions.

Anne stepped forward, a rare, gentle smile gracing her lips. “Oh, Georgiana, how wonderful!” she said softly, then turned to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, her voice a little stronger. “My warmest congratulations to you both. I could not be more pleased.”

Lady Catherine emerged from behind the rhododendron bush, her expression a complex mixture of surprise and something akin to reluctant approval. Her formidable presence seemed to command the very air around her. She fixed her gaze on Mr. Darcy, then on Elizabeth. One could almost see the battle raging within her, pride warring with affection for her nephew. At last, with a visible effort, she drew herself up.

“Well, William,” she pronounced, her voice still carrying its usual authoritative tone, but with a surprising lack of its customary censure. “It appears you have, against all my former expectations, chosen... wisely.” She paused, her eyes flickering towards Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, you possess a spirit I have, begrudgingly, come to respect. You will, no doubt, keep my nephew... on his toes. I suppose... I suppose I must offer my felicitations. Endeavor not to make a mockery of the family name.” The last sentence was delivered with a faint, almost imperceptible softening of her features.

Elizabeth met Mr. Darcy’s gaze, both of them caught between embarrassment and delight. He offered his arm, and she took it, her heart light. The garden, the laughter, and the promise of new beginnings seemed to glow around them, as if the world itself approved of their quiet, happy understanding.

~*~

Jane walked beside the Viscount, her steps light despite the grave conversation that had just concluded in the study. Colonel Fitzwilliam strode on her other side. The three of them moved toward the main hall, where he would bid the Colonel farewell before departing for London. The air, carrying the faint, sweet scent of honeysuckle from the garden, seemed to hum with the lingering warmth of her father’s unexpected revelations. Jane felt a quiet contentment settle over her. Mr. Wickham would be going to debtors’ prison. Mr. Thorne, she trusted, to the far reaches of Northern Scotland. And her dear Elizabeth seemed to have found a surprising measure of happiness with Mr. Darcy.

Beyond this immediate relief, Jane’s mind, ever practical and considerate, began to ponder the deeper implications of her father’s news. Mr. Collins’s unexpected demise had shattered the looming threat of their eviction from Longbourn, a worry that had silently burdened them all for years. Her father’s newfound power to bequeath the estate as he wished was a change of the utmost consequence.

Would he leave Longbourn to Jimmy, who did so much for its growth? Would he, in his quiet fondness for her as his eldest daughter, consider making her his heir? And if so, what might that mean for her sisters, for their futures? The thought was daunting yet filled her with a profound sense of responsibility.

If she were granted her heart’s desire, she would be a future Viscountess. With her future hopefully settled so well, would he leave it to Elizabeth as the next eldest? Like her, Elizabeth was all but being courted by Mr. Darcy who was also a very wealthy man. Then perhaps Mary?

The prospect of Longbourn remaining in their direct family line, free from the entail’s archaic grip, brought a sense of stability she had not dared to dream of. It was a liberation, not just for her immediate family, but for generations to come. This unexpected turn of events, coupled with the dramatic resolutions concerning Wickham and Thorne, settled over her with the quiet warmth of a hearth in winter. A sense of genuine security, both personal and familial, blossomed within her. The path ahead, once shadowed by uncertainty, now seemed remarkably clear and promising.

As they reached the foot of the grand staircase, Colonel Fitzwilliam paused. “Well, Michael,” he said, clapping his brother on the shoulder, “I shall leave you to your... pursuits. Do endeavor not to cause too much of a stir in Meryton in my absence.” He glanced at Jane, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Miss Bennet, it has been a true pleasure.” With a final, shared smile between the brothers, he turned and ascended the stairs, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way to his room.

The Viscount turned to Jane, the brief moment of fraternal banter giving way to a sudden, palpable earnestness. The hall, though still echoing with the quiet sounds of the household settling, felt suddenly intimate.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice a low, melodic murmur that seemed to perfectly suit the warm, soft light filtering through the tall windows. “Now that we are, to all appearances, alone, I feel I must speak. Mr. Bennet has, most generously, given me leave to pursue a courtship with you, and it is my most fervent hope that you will allow me the privilege.”

Jane’s heart gave a delicate flutter. She had anticipated this, of course. His kindness, his steady gaze, the admiration so clear in his eyes, had not gone unnoticed. Yet, as the words left his lips, a strange, unbidden thought formed in her mind, surprising even herself with its clarity and boldness.

She met his gaze directly, her own blue eyes soft but unwavering. With a faint blush rising to her cheeks, she began, “I thank you for your most gentlemanly regard. And confess, I hold you in the highest esteem.” She paused, taking a breath. “However, I must... I must decline your offer of a courtship.”

The Viscount’s face, which a moment before had been alight with hopeful anticipation, fell. It was as though a lamp had been suddenly extinguished. His brow furrowed in genuine perplexity, and he took a small step back.

“Decline?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with bewilderment and hurt. “Miss Bennet, I... I confess I do not understand. Have I presumed too much? Have I in some way offended you? I had dared to hope... I believed my intentions were clear.”

Jane felt a pang of unexpected tenderness at his confusion. He looked so genuinely taken aback, so truly wounded, that she could not bear to prolong his distress. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “No, you have not presumed, nor have you offended. On the contrary.” Her gaze softened, filled with an unspoken affection. “It is precisely because your intentions are so clear, and because I believe I have come to know your character well enough, that I find a courtship... unnecessary.”

The transformation on his face was exquisite. It began in his eyes, a dawning comprehension that chased away the hurt, replacing it with an almost breathless wonder. His lips parted slightly, and then a slow, incredulous smile bloomed, spreading warmth across his features. It was a smile so utterly unguarded, so profoundly touched with disbelief and overwhelming joy, that Jane felt her own heart swell in response. A spark of pure, unadulterated happiness ignited in his eyes, shining like newly lit stars. He looked, for all the world, as though he had just been handed the sun.

“Unnecessary?” he breathed, the word a joyous exhalation. “Then... then what, my dearest Jane, do you propose?”

Jane’s smile widened. “I propose that we dispense with the formalities entirely. I believe we understand each other without the need for lengthy perambulations around the shrubbery.”

Without a word, his gaze still locked on hers, the Viscount swept her into his arms. His lips found hers in an ardent, breathless kiss, full of unspoken promises and overwhelming affection. Jane instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, returning the embrace with an ardour that shocked even herself. The world spun, and for a glorious moment, nothing existed but the warmth of his embrace and the taste of his lips.

A booming cough shattered the spell. They broke apart, flushed and slightly dishevelled, to find Colonel Fitzwilliam standing at the top of the stairs, a smile of knowing amusement on his face. “Forgive my untimely descent, brother,” he drawled, his eyes twinkling. “I believe I left my travelling cloak in the study. Or perhaps I merely decided I required a bracing cup of tea before my journey. Either way, carry on.” With that, the Colonel walked into the parlour and soundly closed the door.

Without a word, the Viscount sank gracefully to one knee. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, drawing forth a small, velvet box. Opening it, he revealed a ring of breathtaking simplicity and elegance, a single, brilliant sapphire nestled between two sparkling diamonds. It was clearly an heirloom, rich with history and meaning.

“Jane,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion, utterly devoid of any formal address now, “if a courtship is unnecessary, then let us dispense with it entirely. Will you, instead, do me the immense, unbounded honour of becoming my wife? This,” he added, holding up the ring, “was my mother’s. I sent for it from London the moment I dared to hope.”

Jane’s eyes welled with tears, her heart overflowing. She could only nod, a radiant smile illuminating her face. “Yes, Michael,” she whispered, “a thousandfold, yes!”

He rose, sweeping her into a gentle, chaste embrace, his hands trembling slightly as he placed the ring on her finger. The sapphire gleamed, a promise of a bright and beautiful future.

Hand in hand, still alight with the heady exhilaration of their new engagement, Jane and Michael walked towards the study. Mr. Bennet looked up from his papers as they entered, a knowing twinkle in his eye, which immediately settled on Jane’s left hand.

“Well, well, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” he drawled, his gaze lingering on her lips still betraying the traces of a recent kiss. “I approved of a courtship, if I recall correctly. Not quite so immediate a... binding, as this.” He looked at Jane, his lips twitching. “My dearest Jane, did you manage to extract a proposal with such remarkable speed, or was my future son-in-law simply unable to contain his ardour?”

Michael, still beaming, merely chuckled. “Indeed, sir. When one knows one’s heart, and is so fortunate as to be met with such understanding, formality seems quite superfluous.” He squeezed Jane’s hand. “Jane has done me the honour of accepting my hand, sir. We are engaged.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, a genuine smile replacing his usual irony. “Then you have my blessing, my dears. And my most sincere congratulations. Longbourn will, indeed, be a merrier place with such prospects.”

Just then, the door opened and the rest of the family came bustling in, led by a bustling Mrs. Bennet. She had been informed of Elizabeth’s joyous news by Mrs. Hastings and the Earl, who had remained inside with her and Mrs. Walters. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy followed close behind, their faces alight with their own happiness.

“Oh, Jane! My dearest girl!” Mrs. Bennet cried, spotting the ring and instantly bursting into tears of joy. “One daughter engaged and one courting! What blessings! What perfect happiness!”

The Earl of Matlock stepped forward, his face beaming. “Indeed, Mr. Bennet, it seems Longbourn is to be a house of endless celebration! I cannot express how delighted I am. To have not one, but two of your charming daughters joining our family. It truly is a most felicitous turn of events!”

Jimmy, who had darted in amongst the adults, looked up at Jane with wide, excited eyes. “So, Jane,” he announced with a grin, “you are really going to be my sister now! My sister by law!”

A chorus of delighted laughter erupted from Kitty, Lydia, and Georgiana, their giggles echoing through the hall. Lydia clapped her hands together, a mischievous grin on her face. “Oh, Jane! A wedding! And to Fitzwilliam the Second! This is infinitely better than Officer Idiot!”

Lady Catherine, surprisingly, merely inclined her head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips. Even the formidable matron seemed unable to resist the sheer, infectious happiness radiating from the newly engaged couple.

~*~

The morning’s golden promise, squandered on estate business, was replaced by the rustle of papers and the steady scratch of his quill. Estate business, though pressing, felt an irritating intrusion on the previous evening’s euphoria. His thoughts, rather than dwelling on tenant ledgers, kept drifting to Jane. Her luminous smile, the exquisite softness of her lips in that stolen kiss, the memory of her hand in his, and the future he was finally free to imagine. He curtailed his customary morning ride, promising himself a longer canter after lunch to clear his head and perhaps to simply revel in the knowledge that she was now, unequivocally, his.

The afternoon sun was warm on his face as he finally set out. The world seemed to expand with possibility. The rhythmic gait of his horse, the whisper of wind through the trees, and the dappled sunlight on the path soothed him, allowing his thoughts to drift.

He pictured Jane beside him, her bonnet ribbons fluttering, her smile brighter than the summer sky. He imagined a life not just of duty and title, but of true partnership, quiet mornings, laughter over tea, perhaps children tumbling through these very woods. Yet even as he conjured these happy visions, a shadow crept in. Namely, the Bingleys. Mr. Bingley’s affection for Jane seemed genuine, but his sister’s ambitions were another matter entirely.

Michael frowned, recalling Miss Bingley’s sharp glances and the way she hovered near William and Georgiana. Her previous schemes were hardly subtle. Possible attempts to compromise William for herself, and to entangle Mr. Bingley with Georgiana, had become the subject of speculation at Longbourn. Michael resolved to speak with William soon. The engagement and courtship would require adjustments to the plan to protect both Jane and Georgiana from Miss Bingley’s machinations, especially once Mr. Bingley’s ankle healed and he was free to move about. Perhaps a frank conversation with Mr. Bingley would be best. He seemed an honest fellow, if easily led.

He took the path that wound through the denser woods surrounding Longbourn, a route he had often chosen for its quiet solitude. The dappled light, the scent of damp earth and pine. It was precisely the kind of peaceful escape he craved. His mind drifted, envisioning future rides with Jane by his side, perhaps even a small cottage tucked away in these very woods.

His reverie was abruptly, violently shattered. A sudden, jarring impact exploded upon his head, a flash of white-hot pain, and then a dizzying lurch as he was pulled from the saddle. The world spun into a chaotic blur of green leaves and brown earth before darkness consumed him.

He awoke to agony. A pounding in his skull. The coppery taste of blood in his mouth. A burning ache in his ribs. His right eye was swelling shut, and his coat was torn, the sleeve rent and stained. His hands were bound tightly behind him, the rope biting into his wrists. He shifted and felt pain blooming along his side, evidence of a fall from his horse or perhaps damage bestowed while he was helpless.

The dim light of a neglected hunting cabin wavered across the room. Lieutenant Thorne stood in the shadows, his uniform disheveled, his eyes wild, triumphant, and ungoverned. He loomed over Michael, a candle casting grotesque shapes on the walls.

“So, the gentleman awakes,” Thorne drawled, his voice a low, grating sound that sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. “I trust you find your accommodations satisfactory?”

Michael, despite the pain, managed a crooked smile. “I have had warmer welcomes. And better company.”

He took a step closer, and Michael could see the faint bruising on Thorne’s knuckles, a sickening confirmation of what had transpired.

Thorne’s lips curled. “You are no doubt wondering how you came to be here. Colonel Forster thought a few guards would keep me contained. As if a mere order could keep me from what is mine. I slipped away easily enough. I have spent days watching Longbourn. Watching her. She is meant for me. Has been since she was a girl.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a feverish whisper. “You think you can just ride in and take her? You, with your fancy attire, fine manners, and airs, thinking you can sweep her away with a few soft words? She is too gentle to understand the depth of my devotion. But she will. I will make her see.”

Thorne straightened, his voice rising with fevered vehemence. “You think those verses I wrote were mere childish fancy? No. They were a promise. Every ‘chance’ meeting in London, every moment, I have been patient, cultivating her affection. And now, you and your meddling friends threaten to ruin everything. Her father, that pompous fool, and all those soldiers, always posturing. They know nothing of what it means to truly love.”

He began to pace, gesturing wildly. “I have waited years for this. Years! I have watched, planned, endured every slight and every obstacle. And now, when I am so close, you appear. But you are nothing. A minor inconvenience. I will remove you, and she will be grateful for it. She will see that I am the only one who truly understands her, who truly loves her.”

Michael, blinking against the blood in his eye, mustered a shaky laugh. “Is this the part where you explain your entire scheme, Lieutenant? I must say, your devotion to delivering speeches is impressive. If you keep going, I will have to accuse you of laying bare your motives in so indecorous a manner. Or is this just the warm-up for the main event?”

Thorne’s eyes flashed with rage, but Michael only grinned. “Go on, then. Pray, exhaust yourself entirely. I would hate to interrupt a man’s first, and, I sincerely hope, last, soliloquy.”

He laughed, a dry, unsettling sound that set Michael’s teeth on edge.

“Oh, she will thank me, eventually. When she sees how I have swept away the trivialities and delivered her to her true fate. She is mine. She has always been mine.”

The candlelight danced, making Thorne’s shadow loom monstrous on the wall, as Michael steeled himself for whatever madness would come next, determined not to give his captor the satisfaction of fear.

The tension in the cabin was thick, broken only by the erratic flicker of the candle and the ragged sound of Michael’s breathing. Suddenly, from somewhere beyond the shuttered window, the faint, unmistakable thunder of hooves reached their ears, a single rider at first, then more, the rhythm gathering and multiplying until it became a chorus of urgency.

Thorne stiffened, his head cocked, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Who could that be?” he muttered, voice edged with disbelief. “No one comes this way. These woods are deserted.”

Michael, despite the pain and the ropes biting into his wrists, managed a lopsided grin. “That is my brother.”

Thorne shot him a look of incredulous irritation. “Why would you tell me that?”

Michael’s smile grew, the glint of defiance in his good eye unmistakable. “Because he would want you to know.”

Thorne sneered, “And how, pray tell, would you know that, along with what goes on in your brother’s mind?”

Michael chuckled softly. “Oh, I have my ways. Growing up under the same roof has its advantages, especially when one’s brother is a man of honor and punctuality. It is not just the familiar pounding of hooves. There is a signal only he uses, the kind we shared as boys, and the steady gallop I know well. More than that, it is knowing that no one else would come at this hour, this way, when I need him the most, save my brother. It is a certainty born of loyalty and habit.”

He gave a faint, mocking bow of the head. “Your fate was sealed the moment you crossed me. Your reckoning has come. There is no escaping it.”

Thorne’s gaze darkened, but before he could retort, the hooves thundered louder.

The pounding of hooves were accompanied now by the sharp bark of voices outside. Thorne spun toward the door, panic flickering across his face.

The latch rattled, then gave way with a crash as Richard burst into the cabin, pistol raised, his clothes dusty from the ride. A soldier stepped forward promptly, voice low but clear.

“Sir, the men are in position.”

At the words, Thorne froze, his breath catching, fingers tightening into a trembling fist. He glanced from the soldier’s practiced air of deference to Richard’s clear command. The sheer professionalism of the men, the quiet authority in their voices, seemed to cut through his frantic state. This was not some local militia or private guard. This was an organized military rescue, and he had gravely underestimated his opponent.

Behind Richard surged two more men, grim-faced and determined.

“Step away from him, Thorne!” Richard’s voice rang out, cold and commanding.

Thorne hesitated, wild-eyed, but the others advanced with practiced efficiency. Within moments, Thorne was disarmed, his wrists bound with the very rope that bound Michael. He struggled, cursing fiercely, but they only tightened the knot with a deft twist of the rope.

Richard knelt beside Michael, helping him to his feet. Though bruised, Michael was defiant, rising slowly.

Thorne’s snarl twisted into a look of pure, unadulterated fury, his eyes darting wildly between the two men who had just humiliated him. He spat a curse at the ground near Michael’s feet. “You think you can take her from me?” he snarled, a chilling, predatory glint in his eyes. “You are nothing, nothing, compared to what I offer! I will find her! She is mine! She was always mine! No fortune will keep her from me, do you hear?”

Michael, bruised but unbowed, straightened to his full height. His voice cut through Thorne’s rant like steel.

“My name,” he said steadily, each word deliberate, “is Michael Fitzwilliam, Viscount Spenston, heir to the Earl of Matlock. And you will never so much as speak my fiancée’s name again.”

The word ‘fiancée’ hung in the air, a final, unassailable blow. The color drained from Thorne’s face, his snarl twisting into a mask of pure shock and disbelief. He stumbled back as if physically struck, his delusion crashing against the immovable fact of Michael’s words. He had been outmaneuvered, outclassed, and defeated not just by superior force, but by a social victory he had not even known was being waged. His clenched fists trembled slightly, eyes wild, searching for some chance, some escape that was not there.

“No,” Thorne whispered, the sound a hoarse, broken gasp. “No, she is mine! She was always mine! You cannot have her!” The denial was a desperate, childish wail, utterly defeated.

Michael’s faint smile deepened, low, sharp, triumphant. “I suggest you spend whatever freedom remains to you in prayer,” he whispered, voice cold as steel. “You will need it.”

Richard stepped forward, nodding sharply to one of the soldiers. “And I am Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, his brother.”

If possible, Thorne’s face grew paler as Richard’s rank was disclosed.

One of the men grunted. “You will answer for this, Lieutenant. The stockade will seem a mercy compared to what Colonel Forster has planned.”

They hauled Thorne to his feet, ignoring his furious protests.

Michael leaned heavily on Richard, drawing strength from his brother’s solid presence. The thunder of hooves faded into softer voices, the creak of saddles, the promise of safety restored.

Richard’s voice was gentle but firm. “Are you badly hurt?”

Michael managed a weak chuckle. “Nothing a bath, a bottle of spirits, and a week’s sleep will not cure.”

Richard clapped his brother’s shoulder, relief shining in his eyes. “You gave us quite a scare, you fool.”

Miller, the Longbourn stablemaster, was already there, steadying a horse and regarding Michael with a warm, approving smile. Without hesitation, he stepped forward to lend a steadying arm.

“Miss Jane will be very much relieved to see you safe, my lord,” Miller said quietly, his voice carrying a note of genuine relief.

Michael nodded as he drew in a long breath of cool air, then murmured, “Tell the driver to make straight for the house.”

Richard glanced at him. “You need a physician first.”

“I need Jane in my arms first,” Michael said, his voice rough but certain. “Everything else can wait.”

Richard shook his head at his brother before nodding in agreement. “Fool,” he muttered.

“I must hold her, Richard. She is mine. I am going to keep her protected forever.”

Richard sighed. “Michael, we just dispatched one stalker, and Miss Bennet, while lovely, does not require two.”

Michael heard Miller snigger and laughed despite himself. “Yes, that sounded bad, Richard.” He met his brother’s eyes, a confident tenderness in his gaze. “I have no need to chase, for our hearts were already joined. All that remains is to hold her close and to protect what is already mine.”

Richard’s grin widened. “Joined, you say? It seems you are a bigger fool in love than even I suspected. Very well, let us get you home to your other half before you become entirely useless.”

With Miller’s careful assistance and Richard’s steadying hold, Michael was gently assisted into the carriage. Once Richard climbed in beside him, the wheels clattered swiftly toward Longbourn, carrying them home.

Upon arrival, Miller was the first to dismount. He moved quickly to the carriage door, ready to assist Michael once more. With practiced ease, he helped him from the carriage, supporting his weight where needed.

By the time Michael’s feet touched the gravel path, word had already spread through the house. Jane was waiting on the steps, pale and trembling, her hands clutched tightly in front of her. The moment Michael descended, she rushed forward and threw herself into his arms, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh, Michael! I was so frightened, I thought...” She broke off, unable to finish, and he held her close, murmuring reassurances into her hair.

“This... this is what I needed, my dear,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “I needed you.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. “I am here, dearest. I am here.”

Inside, the parlour, anxious faces awaited. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, the Bennet sisters, his father, Jimmy, Aunt Catherine, Aunt Elaine, and the rest of the household. Michael was settled on the sofa, Jane never leaving his side, her hand clasped tightly in his.

After a moment, Michael managed a weary smile and looked to Richard. “How did you know where to find me? I thought I had been quite thoroughly spirited away.”

Richard leaned back, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “It was a fortunate chain of events. I was able to speak with my general before sunrise, described the situation with Thorne, and, incidentally, tendered my resignation. The general was most understanding, especially when he heard about Jimmy. He was delighted our family had found its long-lost son. He gave me official orders for Thorne’s immediate transfer to London, pending the finalization of his reassignment to Scotland, and sent a detachment of men with me who to Meryton had the appropriate authority and speed to oversee the matter.”

He continued, “On my way out of London, I stopped at Bow Street and hired two runners to escort Wickham to prison. We set out early, and when we reached the militia encampment, the whole place was in commotion. Thorne had vanished, and Forster was beside himself. He sent me with even more men, and we made for Longbourn at once.”

Richard’s lips curled into a fond smile. “We arrived just as Harris, my old friend, one of the men you hired to keep watch over Miss Bennet, rode up in haste. Since she was safe inside and Evans had arrived that morning, Harris discretely followed when you went riding to learn more about the grounds of the estate. Observing your capture and seeing himself too far away to render immediate assistance, he rode straightaway for help. Thanks to him, we were able to track you down before Thorne could do any more harm.”

Michael noticed the Bennet sisters, who had been listening intently, exchange glances. Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the danger, while Lydia, leaning forward with an unblinking stare, found the whole ordeal utterly fascinating.

Michael turned to Richard, his brother’s face etched with a look of tense relief and exhaustion. “You sent the letters to London yesterday afternoon? How in heaven’s name did he reach Longbourn so soon?”

Richard’s lips quirked. “I told him it was urgent, and Harris is a good man. He dropped everything, left his supper half-eaten, by his own account, and rode without pause. He arrived late in the evening, reported to Miller in the stables for lodging, and was in place before dawn.”

At this, Kitty gave a little gasp and covered her mouth. “He left his supper half‑eaten?” she whispered, looking from Jane to Michael with round eyes. “Oh, how dreadful, and how very heroic!”

Mrs. Bennet, fluttering her handkerchief, added, “Oh, but what a relief to know our dear Jane will be so well attended to. A footman who can carry her about if she were to swoon! Though I must say, what a frightful thing to think of a man half-starved and arriving in a lather! I trust Miller saw to it he ate before resting.”

Richard gave him a pointed look. “You were right to spare no expense on the express riders, brother. I shudder to think what might have happened had I trusted the regular post. Or if Harris had remained at Longbourn in case Miss Bennet ventured outside.”

Michael felt a warm surge of affection for his brother. He saw how Richard, a man who had been raised to value decorum above all else, had become so comfortable in the midst of Mrs. Bennet’s anxieties and Kitty’s dramatic exclamations. Richard’s easy-going manner with the family was a gift, a sign of his complete acceptance of Michael’s choice, and a comforting promise of the family they were all becoming.

Michael’s expression softened despite his fatigue. “Then I owe you, and Harris, more than I can say.”

Richard’s grin turned wry. “I could be persuaded to relay your gratitude through something more tangible. The Earl, perhaps, might wish to see such devotion rewarded?”

From his chair nearby, their father inclined his head gravely. “Indeed. Any man who rides through the night to guard my sons, and succeeds, shall have his due. I will see to it Harris receives a purse worthy of the service rendered, beyond his agreed fee.”

Richard leaned forward, his tone earnest. “If I may, Father. Harris was engaged to keep watch over Miss Bennet and took it upon himself to follow Michael whilst she remained safely at home. Had he done only as instructed, he might never have known my brother was in danger. That initiative is rare, and it saved the day. I would call it devotion above the common run, and I hope you will reward it as such.”

Father nodded. “You are correct, Richard. Such presence of mind and willingness to act merits special recognition.”

“That,” Richard said with satisfaction, “will please him almost as much as the knowledge he thwarted a scoundrel. Loyalty deserves to be recognised, especially when it is costly.”

Michael exhaled slowly, the tension in his frame easing. “You find the best men, Richard.”

“That is because I keep only the best,” his brother replied.

Michael turned thoughtfully to Richard. “Is Harris looking for work? Jane will soon need a dedicated footman of her own. I cannot think of anyone more deserving of the position than a man who has already proved his loyalty.”

Richard nodded, but hesitated. “He is certainly seeking respectable work, though, as you know, his arm. The wound ended his military service. He can ride and run, but he cannot lift heavy trays, not easily.”

The Earl glanced up, a flicker of doubt in his gaze. “Would a man so impaired truly suit such a position? My son’s household ought not to encourage sentiment at the expense of efficiency.”

Aunt Catherine, who had been listening with a rigid air of disapproval, finally spoke. “A footman’s duties are simple and require no thought, merely strength. A one-armed man is no use in a busy household, even for sentiment.” She paused, a glint in her eye as she considered it. “But his quick thinking and loyalty are not to be overlooked. A man of that character would be a perfect addition to a stable, to manage the horses. A man who rides like the wind and knows his duty is more valuable there than in a drawing-room.”

Aunt Elaine gave a sharp, incredulous sniff. “Stable or drawing‑room, the fact remains, a man risked his safety for my nephew and his future wife. That deserves more than a purse thrown at him. Mark me, David. In our day such loyalty was prized above polish. I should be ashamed if we could not find him a place worthy of such service.”

But Jane’s face brightened. “On the contrary, my Lord, Harris would make a perfect footman for me. I value discretion and devotion more than rigid ceremony. Besides, I am not so fragile as to require a nursing staff. The household will benefit more from a man of loyalty and sense than one who can merely carry china. His duties could be twofold. He could help in the stables when he is not needed to attend me.”

Mary spoke up from her quiet corner, her tone dry but not unkind. “Perhaps he prefers gardening to horses. Or cooking. In either case, he may yet surprise us all, and Jane most of all.”

“Well done, Jane,” Mr. Bennet said from his chair, his voice a low, dry drawl. “You have found a way to hire a man for one purpose while paying him for another. I should think that makes him an excellent addition to this family.”

Michael’s smile grew. “There is your answer, sir. Jane has made up her mind, and I doubt any argument will move her.”

Richard’s mouth twitched into a pleased grin. “I will speak to Harris and see him tomorrow. He will be honoured, and I daresay you will find no one more diligent in your service.”

Jane squeezed Michael’s hand, her voice warm. “Thank you for trusting my judgment. Good men need good homes. Let ours be one of them.”

The Earl inclined his head, yielding graciously to Jane’s advocacy. “Very well. Let it be as you wish. Let loyalty be rewarded in this house as well as abroad.

Jane squeezed Michael’s hand, her tears now mingled with relief. “Thank heaven for loyal friends and quick thinking. Your care honours me, but I hope you will trust me enough, in future, to share your plans. It is most unsettling to learn after the fact that I have been so closely guarded. I do not care to be the heroine of a secret campaign in a gothic novel.”

Michael grasped Jane’s hand gently, meeting her gaze with a rueful smile. “You are quite right, my dear. I confess, my intentions were to protect you, not to alarm you, but I see now that a little candour would have spared us both some anxiety. Next time, I promise you shall be the first to know if I am plotting any further secret campaigns, though I hope never to need such measures again.”

Before Jane could reply, Lydia, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, grinned and declared, “Oh, but Jane, you must admit it is rather romantic! If anyone ever hires guards for me, I should hope they are at least dashing and know how to dance. I would not mind a little excitement, provided there is a ball at the end of it!”

Lady Catherine, catching Lydia’s eye, let out an indulgent laugh and shook her head, her tone half-mocking, half-affectionate. “My dear Miss Lydia, if you are so determined to have guards and parties at your disposal, you must be sure to marry exceedingly well. A husband of sufficient means can provide you with a designated guard and a ballroom full of guests whenever you please. But do remember, such luxuries require both fortune and discernment in one’s choice!”

Lydia beamed, undeterred. “Then I shall set my sights accordingly, Lady Catherine! I should like nothing better than a house full of music and a guard at the door, if only to keep out the dull people.”

Michael watched in shock as his Aunt Catherine gave Miss Lydia a conspiratorial wink. “That is the spirit, dear child. Just promise me you will invite me to your first grand ball, and do try to keep your guards handsomer than your footmen.”

Their laughter mingled, lightening the room, before Richard added with a smile, “Between the two of you, I expect society will never recover from the excitement.”

Michael, with a tired but genuine chuckle, added, “If Lydia ever manages such a household, I suspect we shall all be clamoring for invitations, and perhaps a little extra security for ourselves.”

Richard, watching the exchange with a fond smile, said, “If ever there was a family better suited to weathering adventure and amusement, I have yet to find them. It was a close thing, but all is well that ends well. Thorne is on his way to the stockade, and Wickham will soon answer for his own misdeeds.”

Mrs. Bennet, dabbing her eyes, declared, “Oh, what a dreadful ordeal! But we are all together, and safe. That is all that matters.”

Michael smiled at Jane, and he knew exhaustion and gratitude mingled in his expression. “Indeed. That is all that matters now.”

The parlour, once filled with fear and uncertainty, now glowed with the warmth of reunion and the promise of peace restored.

His father, after a thoughtful pause, cleared his throat and drew the room’s attention. “As much as I have enjoyed the comforts of the countryside, I fear I cannot be away from London for much longer. The House of Lords is in session, and my absence will soon be noted.” He glanced at William, then at the assembled company. “Might I suggest we all remove to London? There will be much to arrange, and I daresay the city will provide the proper setting for the celebrations that are surely in order.”

Aunt Catherine, ever quick to seize the reins of any occasion, straightened in her chair. “An excellent notion, brother. London is precisely where we ought to be. The engagement must be announced in the proper style, and there is no time to lose if we are to secure the best musicians.”

Mrs. Bennet, who had been alternately sniffling and beaming, brightened at once. “Oh, Catherine, you are so right! We must have a ball. Nothing less will do to mark such a happy event. I have always said that nothing brings a family together like a well-planned ball. Oh, the arrangements! The invitations! The flowers!”

Aunt Elaine, who had been quietly observing the family’s joy, now spoke with gentle enthusiasm. “And we must not forget the supper. I know of a confectioner in Bond Street who makes the most delightful ices. The engagement deserves nothing but the very best.”

Aunt Catherine nodded approvingly. “Indeed, Elaine. And the guest list must be carefully considered. We cannot have just anyone crowding the floor, only the most respectable and accomplished people, of course. I shall write to my acquaintance at Almack’s at once.”

Mrs. Bennet, nearly breathless with excitement, clasped her hands. “And the gowns! Jane, Lizzy, you must have new gowns. Nothing less than silk will do. Oh, I am certain my nerves will not survive the next fortnight, but it will be worth it to see my girls so happy.”

Lydia, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, declared, “And I shall need a new gown and ribbons! If there are to be so many balls, I must look my best. I do hope I may attend the grandest of them all in London!”

Aunt Catherine fixed Lydia with a look both stern and affectionate. “Miss Lydia, you are far too young to attend a ball in London. Such events are not suitable for young ladies who have not yet been properly presented. There are rules, you know, and they exist for good reason.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping over Jane and Miss Elizabeth. A slight frown creased her brow. “Come to think of it, have either of you been presented at court?” She looked to Mrs. Bennet for confirmation.

Mrs. Bennet flushed and stammered, “Well, their aunt has taken them to a few assemblies, but...”

Aunt Catherine cut her off, her tone brisk and businesslike. “Assemblies are not the same as a formal presentation, Mrs. Bennet! It is quite another thing entirely. If they have not yet been presented, it is absolutely essential that we rectify the matter at once. There is no time to lose if they are to be included on this year’s list.”

She turned to the his father with a sense of urgency. “David, we must send an express to St. James’s without delay! I shall write to Lady Jersey myself and see what can be arranged. It would be most improper for the fiancée of a gentleman of standing to attend the season’s events without the proper introduction.”

Elizabeth exchanged a startled glance with Jane, but Aunt Catherine was already mentally composing her letter, her lips moving silently as she listed the necessary connections and favors to be called in.

Elizabeth, with a wry smile, replied, “We have been presented, Mrs. de Bourgh. I believe Mama is overwhelmed from the happenings earlier. I confess, Jane and I are not much inclined to the bustle of the season. Aunt Gardiner has always encouraged us to attend the more select gatherings, but we are happier with a quiet evening among friends than a crowded ballroom.”

Jane nodded serenely. “It is true. The experience was memorable, but I think we both prefer the comforts of home to the excitement of London society.”

Mrs. Bennet, undeterred, declared, “Well, you shall have both now, my dears! A proper ball in London, and all the world to admire you.”

Aunt Elaine, smiling, added, “And we must not forget the supper. The engagement deserves nothing but the very best.” Then, leaning slightly towards her sister, voice lowered a fraction, Aunt Elaine added, “The aunt Elizabeth refers to, Catherine, is Madeline Gardiner. You remember her, the youngest sister from the estate next to ours? Madeline, who climbed trees and out-fished every boy within ten miles? She sponsored their presentations at court.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes widened before she composed herself with a gentle smile, amused sniff, and subtle nod of approval. “Madeline Gardiner, indeed! I suppose she would know how to navigate such affairs, despite her... unconventional course in life. Ah, well, there is no doubt she possesses admiral good sense in such matters.”

Anne, quiet but serene, spoke with uncharacteristic assurance. “Aunt Madeline is one of Mother’s dearest friends. She is my godmother, and I adore her children. I always wished she would let me climb trees with her daughters, but she said I was too delicate.”

Her fond smile was met with a rare, genuine one from Aunt Catherine.

Georgiana, emboldened by the laughter, added shyly, “I remember her. She once taught me to play whist, and I won, though I think she let me, but she swore it was luck.”

Michael exchanged a glance with William and Richard, the three struggling to suppress matching grins. A few months ago, he would not have believed this scene possible. The great Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sniffling gently at social transgressions, tolerating teasing, even praising the wife of a tradesman. It was astonishing. Ever since Jimmy’s miraculous return, the family had shifted in ways he could scarcely articulate. The Bennets had not merely rescued his brother. They had softened something within his formidable aunt that no peer, no bishop, no royal decree ever could.

Michael leaned in, voice mock-serious “Mark it down, William. Aunt Catherine has friends in trade. The empire may not recover.”

William’s eyes sparkled. “It is worse than that. She is friendly with them. Positively warm.”

“She will be disinherited from her own standards,” Richard gasped in mock horror.

“Brother, we must protect her. Think of the scandal,” Michael folded his arms with an air of solemn duty.

“I must revise all I thought I knew of the world. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, bosom friend of a tradesman’s wife. Can it be the dawn of a new age?” William teased innocently, his tone light but respectful, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Michael leaned back, arms crossed, smiling broadly. “Who are you, and what have you done with our aunt?”

William nodded gravely. “A good question, Michael. She now compliments ladies in trade. We are in uncharted territory.”

“With the wind at our backs,” added Richard, feigning alarm. “Next she will be inviting Mrs. Gardiner to Rosings and offering her the head of the table!”

“As if I would cede my chair. Madeline knows better,” Aunt Catherine sniffed, though her tone lacked true indignation.

“She did say Aunt Madeline makes better conversation than most baronets,” Anne said softly.

Georgiana giggled. “That is true. And she never once bragged about her grandfather’s cousin’s carriage horses.”

In tones of mock solemnity, Aunt Catherine replied, “Well, I suppose even I must adapt, lest I grow moss.”

Speaking up unexpectedly, Lydia said, “I like Aunt Gardiner. She does not talk down to people. And neither does Lady Catherine now. Much.”

Aunt Catherine gave her a long, considering look before responding dryly, “How deeply flattering, Miss Lydia.”

Jimmy, eyes alight with mischief, added, “Aunt Gardiner might instruct us all in the art of economy, which is so much in fashion. Mayhap, Aunt Catherine, you will invest in warehouses next, or take tea with bankers’ daughters.”

Michael could not resist. “Take care, Aunt. If you grow too agreeable, your reputation for exclusivity may never recover. The drawing rooms of London will be abuzz!”

Anne, smiling faintly, added, “Mother, you must admit, Aunt Madeline’s resourcefulness is not easily matched, even in the best drawing rooms.”

At that, Aunt Catherine cast them all a withering look, one of her old, well-practiced glances, but the sparkle in her eye betrayed her amusement. “I will have you know,” she said dryly, “Madeline Gardiner is a woman of uncommon sense and spirit. And as for her husband’s profession...” She trailed off with an elegant shrug, the rest unspoken but unmistakable in meaning, it no longer signifies.

Michael watched her closely, a slow wonder blooming in his chest. He had expected resistance, perhaps even denunciation, when the truth of Jimmy’s origins emerged. Instead, he had seen something better, transformation. His aunt might still wear her pride like a coronet, but now, now she allowed others to sit beside her.

Here she turned, mock-severe, toward Mr. Bennet. “You, sir, are wealthier than you let on. Madeline told me all about that risky spice journey with her husband’s family, one hundred and forty percent profit, was it not?”

Mr. Bennet, entirely unruffled, inclined his head. “Indeed, Lady Catherine. Though I must confess, it was all your nephews’ doing. Jimmy insisted we invest Mrs. Bennet’s dowry and most of our savings. I merely signed the papers.”

Jimmy, grinning, added, “And Mr. Bennet has let me keep managing the proceeds ever since. Once we replaced the dowry, and put aside a portion of the profit, the remainder is returned to the fund, save for five percent. From the first, he insisted I take it for my trouble.”

Mr. Bennet observed, “Motivation, after all, is a powerful force. Even the most virtuous lad works faster when there is a shilling in prospect. And though Jimmy may not be a son of my blood, I consider him as such. Every young man ought to have the means of making his way in the world.”

The Earl, who had listened in thoughtful silence, now inclined his head in approval. “A most sensible arrangement, Bennet. Just as a prudent estate must be made to yield more than it consumes, so should a household’s resources be set in motion rather than left idle. I commend you. Far too many men of good birth would have sat upon that dowry until it dwindled away through neglect.”

Richard blinked. “So all this time, while we were hunting smugglers and losing at cards, you were quietly becoming a financier?”

Michael gave a low whistle. “One hundred and forty percent? What were you transporting, spices or magic beans?”

“Uncle Gardiner has contacts with spices, silks, and one extremely efficient Corsican broker,” Jimmy said modestly. “And it was not the only venture. There have been others.”

Aunt Catherine narrowed her eyes. “Others?”

Jimmy tilted his head. “A few modest successes. A river toll scheme, some tin in Cornwall, a merchant ship that runs between Lisbon and Plymouth, and one rather tragic mill enterprise I shall never speak of again.”

Anne looked intrigued. “Why not?”

“It involved a fire, a runaway inventor, and a goat,” he said solemnly. “Only one of those was insured.”

Georgiana laughed softly behind her hand.

Richard leaned forward, mock-accusatory. “You are telling us you have been trading across half the continent while we were wondering if you even liked blackberry jam?”

Jimmy spread his hands. “I like blackberry jam. I also like profit.”

Michael gave him an appraising look. “You have been full of surprises since the day you walked back into our lives. I did not expect you to have a merchant’s mind.”

“Neither did I,” Jimmy said quietly. “But the Bennets took me in when I had nothing. I could not give them a name, so I gave them returns instead.”

Mr. Bennet spoke then, his voice more serious than usual. “He did more than that. Our prospects were modest at best. I had five daughters, no son, and little to offer them but sharp observations and fading land. Jimmy gave us the means to choose differently. My family’s future shifted because he acted when most boys his age would have hesitated.”

Aunt Elaine reached across the space between them and touched Jimmy’s arm gently. “You have always been resourceful. But more than that, you have always cared. When you were a child, you were full of questions and quick to smile. I see now those qualities were not lost, they were tempered into something stronger.”

The Earl regarded his son with a thoughtful weight in his gaze. “There is no shame in honest enterprise. You were taken from us, but you found a way to thrive, and to give back. That is the kind of man I would have raised, had I been given the chance. That you became him regardless, is a source of pride I cannot easily express.”

Jimmy swallowed, visibly moved. “I was not alone. I had help, love, protection, second chances. That makes all the difference.”

Aunt Catherine’s expression wavered. For a moment, pride and discomfort warred in her features. “That was... commendable,” she said finally. “If entirely improper.”

“If it eases your distress, Aunt,” Jimmy said lightly, “I assure you I am still entirely improper.”

Georgiana and Anne giggled, and even Aunt Catherine looked as though she might smile.

He leaned back, arms crossed, amusement in his voice. “So let me understand, my youngest brother vanished for a decade, reappears having made a fortune, and now our aunt is praising investments in foreign spice markets?”

Richard put a hand to his heart. “I must sit down. The world is clearly ending.”

“Not ending,” said Jimmy, raising his teacup. “Just turning.”

Aunt Catherine gave a dignified sniff. “Turning or not, I will not be drawn into tea with bankers’ daughters or men who wear green waistcoats.”

Jimmy winked. “I would not dare suggest it. Unless the banker’s daughter plays the harp.”

At that, even Aunt Catherine’s lips twitched.

Anne, not to be outdone, added, “If you ever need a partner, Jimmy, I have a talent for numbers and a fondness for cinnamon.”

The room erupted in laughter, the old barriers between town and trade, fortune and family, dissolving for a moment in the glow of shared history and affection. Michael found himself quietly grateful for it all. The teasing, the revelations, and above all, the sense that, at least for now, they were safe, together, and ready for whatever London might bring next.

With a twinkle in his eye, his father remarked, “Speaking of balls, I have just received an invitation from Lord Sedgewick. His sister and her family are visiting from the continent, and he is holding a grand affair next week in their honour. It would be an excellent opportunity to introduce our happy couple to society.”

Aunt Catherine’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Perfect timing! We shall make a sensation, I am sure. The engagement will be the talk of the town before the week is out.”

Aunt Elaine smiled warmly at him and Jane. “You see, my dear, your happiness will be celebrated in the grandest style. London awaits us all.”

Mrs. Bennet dabbed at her eyes once more, overcome by the prospect of triumph and festivity. “Oh, what a blessing! To think how close we came to disaster, and now, balls, and music, and all of London to witness our joy. I declare, it is almost too much!”

As the company began animatedly discussing carriages, invitations, and the merits of various musicians, Lydia’s disappointment faded in the excitement of planning and anticipation. The parlour shimmered with the promise of new beginnings, laughter, and the dazzling lights of London.

Posted on 2025-08-24

Chapter 13

The conversation had turned to lighter topics, laughter and easy chatter filling the parlour. Mr. Darcy sat beside Elizabeth on a settee, their proximity a quiet testament to their growing understanding. Jane and Michael were equally close, their hands occasionally brushing, a silent language passing between them, a joy that settled deep in Jane’s heart.

Jane had just begun to feel the tension of the day slip from her shoulders when the familiar, measured tread of Mrs. Hill’s footsteps approached the parlour door. The housekeeper’s expression was the picture of composure, but her eyes betrayed a hint of mischief as she announced, “Miss Bingley, ma’am.”

A hush fell over the room. Jane’s heart fluttered with a mixture of amusement and dread.

Michael, seated beside Jane, bore the unmistakable marks of his recent ordeal, a purpling bruise along his jaw, a swollen eye, and a cut at his temple that even the best efforts of Hill’s salves could not quite conceal. Despite these injuries, there was a matching spark of mischief in his gaze as he bent very low, and whispered, “Hide your ring, my dear. Let us have a little fun with Miss Bingley, shall we?” His eyes sparkled, and Jane, unable to resist, slipped her hand discreetly behind a cushion.

The door opened with a flourish, and in swept Miss Bingley, resplendent in yet another gown more suited to Saint James’s than a country afternoon. The silk shimmered with every calculated step, her plume-topped bonnet bobbing.

She paused, surveying the room with a practiced air of superiority, her gaze immediately seeking out Mr. Darcy. Her smile, practiced and saccharine, seemed to falter only slightly as she registered his comfortable closeness to Elizabeth, though her assurance quickly reasserted itself. A faint, calculating light came into her eyes.

Jane could tell she was thinking about the need to rectify it, imagining the ease with which she might displace the country Miss Bennet and take her rightful place by Mr. Darcy’s side. It was all clearly on her face.

Miss Bingley offered the faintest of curtsies, if it could be called such, toward Jane.

“Oh my,” she remarked, her voice dripping with false concern, “I see the country offers its own amusements. I do hope the local pastimes are not quite so... vigorous as they appear.” Her eyes darted to Michael’s bruised face, then back to Jane, as if expecting her to explain. She continued, “I confess, I had not expected to encounter quite so many diversions in one parlour. One might almost think the countryside is not as dull as one hears, though I do hope the entertainment is not always so... physical.”

Jane exchanged a glance with Michael, her spirits lifted by the playful undercurrent in the room. For once, Miss Bingley’s arrival promised more amusement than anxiety.

With a practiced tilt of her head, Miss Bingley continued, “How very industrious you all are! I had not realized the countryside was so bustling, one might almost mistake it for a market day, if not for the bonnets.”

Miss Bingley allowed her gaze to drift, lingering with open disdain on Mrs. Walters’s modest muslin and simple jewelry. “What a curious choice of fabric,” she murmured, just loud enough for all to hear. “I see the latest fashion in London is to do away with unnecessary ornament. How commendable to be so ahead of the times, though I daresay it is easier when one has so little to begin with.”

She turned to Lady Catherine and Mrs. Hastings, her tone syrupy. “I daresay you both have found much to occupy you here. It must be a refreshing change from the more... select company of town.”

Jane felt the familiar prickle of embarrassment and indignation, but Lady Catherine only arched a brow, her manner cool and faintly amused. Mrs. Hastings exchanged a knowing glance with her sister, both women clearly recalling former encounters with Miss Bingley’s barbs.

Michael, undeterred by her scrutiny, offered a wry smile. “We do our best to keep things lively, Miss Bingley. The countryside may lack some of London’s refinements, but we find ways to amuse ourselves.”

Jane bit her lip to stifle a smile, her heart lightened by his playfulness. She caught Mrs. Hastings’s eye and saw the same spark of mischief there.

Miss Bingley’s lips thinned, but she pressed on. “And you, sir, I believe you were here on my last visit, though you seem to have suffered a most unfortunate accident since. I do hope it was not the result of any local custom.”

Lady Catherine, with a glint of amusement, replied, “In Hertfordshire, we pride ourselves on our resilience, Miss Bingley. It is a necessary quality, especially for those who aspire to keep pace with our company.”

Lydia, unable to resist, chimed in, “Oh, Miss Bingley, you must not worry. He is quite recovered, and if you stay long enough, you might find yourself swept up in our rustic adventures as well!”

Mrs. Hastings, with a twinkle in her eye, leaned closer to Lady Catherine and murmured, “I do so love a visit from Miss Bingley. One never knows what new degree of condescension she will scale.”

Lady Catherine’s lips twitched. “Quite. It is almost a sport.

Miss Bingley, having failed to disconcert anyone with her subtle insults, decided to turn her attention to her intended targets. “Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed, her voice a little too bright as she advanced towards him, seemingly oblivious to Elizabeth’s comfortable presence beside him. “And dear Miss Darcy! What a delightful surprise to find you here! I simply could not bear another moment without extending a proper invitation.”

She turned her attention to Georgiana, her smile widening. “My dearest Georgiana, I have come to beg you to visit me at Netherfield. It is quite dull without suitable female companionship, and I simply long for your elegant presence and your accomplishments to grace my drawing room.”

The effect was immediate. Jane, observing from across the room, saw the color drain from Georgiana’s cheeks. The girl’s hands fluttered nervously at her skirts, her eyes flitting between her brother and the formidable figures of her aunts. It was clear that being addressed so familiarly, and so publicly, unsettled her deeply.

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, and her voice, when it came, was icy with disapproval. “Miss Bingley, I must remind you that such familiarity is highly improper. She is Miss Darcy to all but her closest family. I trust you will remember yourself in future.”

Mrs. Hastings, ever the gentle diplomat, stepped in as well, her tone soothing but firm. “Indeed, it is easy to forget oneself in the warmth of country hospitality, but we must not let affection override propriety. Miss Darcy is not accustomed to such forward mode of address.”

Miss Bingley, momentarily chastened, faltered. “Of course. I meant only to express my genuine regard.”

Georgiana, still pale, managed a small, grateful smile toward her aunts, relieved to have the protection of their presence. Jane felt a surge of sympathy for the younger girl, so often the target of unwanted attention and schemes.

Miss Bingley, rallying, turned her attention back to Mr. Darcy, a possessive gleam in her eye. Jane immediately understood Miss Bingley’s intent, to use Georgiana’s presence at Netherfield as a means to compromise her into a match with Mr. Bingley, while simultaneously attempting to ensnare Mr. Darcy for herself. However, the damage had been done. The room’s mood had shifted, and Jane could see that Lady Catherine and Mrs. Hastings had positioned themselves, quite literally and figuratively, between Georgiana and further impropriety.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy, I quite rely on Miss Darcy to bring some liveliness to the house. She is such a comfort to me.”

Georgiana glanced nervously at Mr. Darcy, then at Jane and Elizabeth. “Miss Bingley, that is very kind of you,” she began, clearly uncomfortable.

Mr. Darcy, sensing Georgiana’s unease and Miss Bingley’s transparent machinations, intervened smoothly. “Miss Bingley, that is a most generous offer. However, my sister’s presence here is, I assure you, indispensable at this time.”

Mr. Darcy paused, his gaze briefly meeting Elizabeth’s, a flicker of shared amusement passing between them. Jane felt a quiet satisfaction at their unspoken understanding. There was no need to stir up undue agitation or desperation from Miss Bingley by revealing the engagement and courtship.

“Oh, but surely,” Miss Bingley pressed, a hint of desperation entering her tone, “a short visit would do her the world of good! The country air, the change of scenery... and think how much my brother would enjoy having us both there, to entertain him properly!” She cast a pointed look at Elizabeth, a faint sneer touching her lips, before redirecting her attention to Georgiana with forced cheerfulness.

Georgiana, finding her voice, offered a firm excuse, echoing what she had likely heard spoken. “Indeed, Miss Bingley, it is very kind, but I cannot. We are preparing to return to London very soon. There will be a great deal of packing and arrangements to make.”

Miss Bingley’s face remained blank for a moment, surprised by this new information. “To London?” she echoed, then her forced smile returned. “Ah, yes, London! How delightful! We, too, shall be returning to town very shortly. One simply cannot bear the country for too long, can one?” Her gaze then sharpened as she turned to Mr. Darcy. “Speaking of which, Mr. Darcy, now that your cold has quite subsided, why have you not yet returned to Netherfield? You are more than welcome to bring your sister. Surely you must find yourself quite bored amidst all this rustic domesticity.”

Mr. Darcy merely offered a polite, noncommittal murmur in response, his gaze firmly fixed on Elizabeth. Jane, however, felt a prickle of concern. Mr. Bingley’s broken ankle, though mending, was still several weeks from full recovery. To return to London now, before he was properly healed, seemed an odd decision, one surely not made with his comfort in mind. The others in the room exchanged knowing glances, a silent agreement passing between them to keep the truth of the engagement and courtship concealed from their oblivious guest.

Miss Bingley, sensing her efforts had yet to ruffle anyone’s composure, redoubled her attempts as she lingered near the hearth. “How very tranquil it must be here, with so little to disturb one’s peace, unless, of course, one counts the occasional... mishap.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to Michael’s bruised face, her tone falsely sympathetic.

Lady Catherine, unmoved, replied crisply, “In Hertfordshire, we are quite adept at mending both bodies and manners, Miss Bingley. I daresay you would be astonished at what can be accomplished with a little country ingenuity, and a great deal of patience.”

Miss Bingley, undeterred, turned to Elizabeth and Jane. “I suppose one must find amusements where one can. I imagine you are quite expert at making the best of limited resources. It is a skill, of sorts.”

Mrs. Hastings, her smile serene, interjected, “Indeed, Miss Bingley, necessity is the mother of invention. We find that a cheerful spirit and good company make up for any lack of novelty or excess.”

Lydia, eyes dancing, could not resist. “And sometimes the best amusement is watching visitors try to impress us with their London ways. It is nearly as diverting as the fair!”

Miss Bingley’s lips thinned. She turned to Mr. Darcy, her voice honeyed but edged. “Mr. Darcy, I do hope you are not too weary of such simple pleasures. I am sure you must long for the more refined diversions of town.”

Mr. Darcy, unruffled, replied, “On the contrary, I find the company here most agreeable.”

Lady Catherine, seizing the moment, added, “Indeed, some of us find that a surfeit of refinement can be quite fatiguing. There is much to be said for sincerity and fresh air over endless affectation.”

Miss Bingley’s composure wavered, but she rallied. “Well, I see you are all quite... content. I shall not keep you from your rustic pursuits any longer. My brother will be expecting me.”

She swept from the room, as dramatic in her departure as her entrance.

As the door closed, Elizabeth rose with a bright smile. “Shall we take a turn in the garden? The roses are in bloom, and the air is far less crowded with opinions.”

There was a ripple of laughter as the company made their way toward the garden. Michael, with a tired smile, murmured to Jane, “I believe I shall rest upstairs for a while. My constitution is not yet equal to Miss Bingley’s brand of excitement.”

Jane squeezed his hand. “Rest well. I shall send you some tea later.”

With that, the company dispersed, some to the garden, some to their rooms, leaving the parlour lighter and the afternoon full of promise once more.

~*~

Elizabeth stepped into the garden on Mr. Darcy’s arm, the hush of the house giving way to the gentle chorus of birdsong and the scent of blooming roses. The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet, and the sunlight, filtered through the leaves, dappled the path ahead. She glanced up at him, her heart full and unguarded in a way she had never before allowed.

The past day’s anxieties remained at the edges of her mind. The Viscount’s disappearance, the frantic search, the hours of uncertainty. In those moments, it was Mr. Darcy who had found her in the shadowed corridor, who had spoken to her quietly, offering not grand reassurances but the steady comfort of his presence. He had listened to her fears, never dismissing them, and when her composure had failed, he had simply taken her hand, permitting her to weep without embarrassment. She had realized then how much she had come to depend on him, not for rescue, but for understanding, for the rare and precious sense of being truly known.

Now, with the crisis past, Elizabeth saw her own heart clearly. She loved him, not merely for his constancy and strength, but for the gentleness he revealed only to her. She could not imagine her life without this man who had become both her confidant and her equal.

They walked in silence for a time, the closeness between them requiring no words. At last, Elizabeth spoke, her voice low but certain. “Mr. Darcy, I have been thinking.”

“That can be a dangerous pastime.”

“I know,” Elizabeth responded. “These past days have shown me how swiftly life can change, and how very dear certain people may become.” She paused, her cheeks warming, but she did not look away. “I find I am quite ready to embrace those changes, if you are of a mind to ask.”

Mr. Darcy stopped, turning to face her fully, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that took her breath away. He reached out, taking both her hands in his, his thumbs gently stroking her knuckles.

“Elizabeth,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “I love you. I have loved you almost from the moment we met, though I was too proud to admit it, even to myself. You are the very soul of my happiness. Your wit, your courage, your kindness, these have undone me. I cannot imagine a life in which I do not wake each day hoping to win your smile, to earn your trust, to be worthy of your love.”

He released one of her hands, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat and producing a small, elegant velvet box. Opening it, he revealed a ring that seemed to catch the light around them, a magnificent ruby flanked by diamonds, exquisitely set in gold. It was a ring of considerable age and undeniable beauty.

“This,” he said, his gaze meeting hers, with a look of mingled hope and humility in his eyes, “was my mother’s. I sent for it the very morning I first awoke under this roof, daring to hope that one day I might offer it to you. You have changed me, Elizabeth. You have made me a better man, and I am humbled by the depth of my feelings for you.” He paused, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. “My dearest, most beloved Elizabeth, will you do me the immeasurable honour of becoming my wife, not for duty or convenience, but for love alone?”

Elizabeth’s eyes brimmed with tears, a radiant smile breaking across her face, bright and unreserved. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, William,” she whispered, her voice trembling with happiness, “there is nothing I desire more. I love you with all my heart. Yes, most gladly, yes!”

He gently slid the ring onto her finger, the ruby cool against her skin, a perfect fit. He then brought her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the ring and then to her knuckles.

“I shall speak to your father at once,” he vowed, his eyes shining with profound joy. “This very day.”

They resumed their walk, Elizabeth’s heart light and sure. After a moment, she glanced toward the house, where Jane’s laughter drifted through the open window. “It occurs to me,” she said, her tone teasing, “that it would be a great convenience to the family if we were to share a wedding day with Jane and Michael. What say you to a double wedding, William?”

William’s answering smile was warm and amused. “I can think of no greater joy than to commence our married life alongside your sister and my cousin. Let us suggest it to them at once.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound ringing clear in the summer air. With her hand upon his arm and the future bright before them, she felt, at last, entirely at home.

~*~

After the quiet intimacy of Wednesday evening at Longbourn, when Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth’s engagement left the household in a celebratory mood, the following day was spent in the bustle of travel. Thursday dawned early, with trunks strapped to carriages and farewells exchanged in the cool morning air. Mary, always a little anxious before a journey, found herself both excited and apprehensive as the countryside slipped past the windows, replaced gradually by the crowded roads and smoke-hazed rooftops of London.

Their arrival in Town was met with all the noise and confusion Mary had imagined, the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the shouts of porters, and the unfamiliar press of people and horses. Yet, once they reached the comfort of their lodgings, a handsome townhouse belonging to Lady Catherine, the party were able to rest and recover from the journey. Mary was grateful for the quiet evening that followed, spent in the drawing room with her sisters and their friends, the city’s distant hum softened by thick velvet curtains and the warmth of shared laughter.

By Friday morning, the fatigue of travel had faded, replaced by a sense of anticipation. The ladies gathered after breakfast, their spirits high as they set out for Bond Street, eager to explore the famed shops and perhaps indulge in a little well-earned extravagance. Mary, walking with her sisters, Lady Catherine, Lady Elaine, and Georgiana, felt at once a curious pride and a becoming humility to be part of so distinguished a party.

They walked along bustling Bond Street, the group drawing more than a few admiring glances as they approached the renowned shop of Mrs. Duval, modiste to the best families. The group’s lively chatter was interrupted by the unmistakable figure of Miss Bingley, sweeping down the street with Mrs. Hurst in tow.

The ladies had just gathered outside the elegant storefront, admiring the latest Parisian fashions displayed in the window, when a familiar, imperious voice rang out.

“Well, Louisa, I see the Bennet battalion has taken London by storm,” Miss Bingley announced, her tone dripping with mockery as she swept toward the group, Mrs. Hurst trailing in her wake. “One might almost believe Mrs. Duval’s establishment has lowered its standards, allowing such a parade of pretenders to darken her doorstep. Not that I would know, of course. Mrs. Duval never seems to have time for me. Her appointments are always quite mysteriously full.”

Mary stepped forward, calm and composed. “Miss Bingley,” she said with practiced civility, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

Miss Bingley’s gaze swept over the assembled party. “Yes, quite. One does not expect to encounter such a gathering outside a modiste of repute. I was merely remarking to my sister how very full the pavement seems this morning.”

Mrs. Hurst murmured a subdued, “Indeed,” but her eyes were already drifting toward the street, as if hoping to disappear.

“I daresay Bond Street is always well-frequented,” Jane said gently, “especially on such a fine morning.”

“Yes,” Miss Bingley replied with a fixed smile, “though not all who frequent it belong here.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled, though her voice remained smooth. “It is remarkable how often one finds company one did not expect, and yet discovers them quite at home.”

Miss Bingley’s expression faltered. “I suppose country manners are more... adaptable than I had thought. Or perhaps it is simply that no invitation is required to appear in Town these days. So many people eager to elevate themselves, without quite understanding how far they still have to climb.”

“Indeed they are,” Mary said with a polite tilt of her head. “We have been told they show surprising resilience.”

“I imagine resilience is a requirement in households of such rustic character. One must endure so much, livestock, vulgar relatives, a lack of polish.” Her gaze landed meaningfully on Lydia and Kitty.

Lydia opened her mouth to retort, but a warning glance from Mary stilled her.

Lady Catherine interjected, her tone steely and deliberate. “I find that manners, like breeding, speak for themselves, and require neither defense nor display. Perhaps, Miss Bingley, Mrs. Duval prefers to reserve her talents for those with genuine taste, and the manners to match. It would be a shame to waste such artistry on those who cannot appreciate it.”

Miss Bingley flushed. “I should think genuine taste rather difficult to acquire in the provinces, where even one’s reading materials must be six months out of date. But perhaps you are right, some ladies require the aid of fashion to make any impression at all.”

Mary’s smile grew faintly wider. “And some rely too heavily on it.”

A few members of the group audibly failed to suppress laughter, Kitty coughed into her glove, and Georgiana lowered her head in a pretense of smoothing her bonnet ribbon.

A slight pause followed. Miss Bingley, visibly displeased, attempted to recover her usual air of superiority. “Well. I suppose even the finest establishments must have their off days. Come, Louisa, let us not linger among such rustic company.”

She turned on her heel, her skirts swirling dramatically, and swept away down the pavement.

Mrs. Hurst dipped a respectful nod toward Lady Catherine and gave a tentative smile to Mary before following her sister.

As the two women swept away, Kitty released a soft, irreverent whistle. “She is as horrid as ever.”

“Kitty,” Jane chided softly, though not without sympathy.

Lydia giggled. “At least she is gone. I thought she would never stop looking down her nose.”

Lady Catherine turned slightly toward Lydia, her brows arching with exaggerated severity. “I do hope you are not in the habit of mocking your social betters in public, Miss Lydia. It would be most unladylike.”

“That is correct, if any were here,” Lydia replied with a bright, unrepentant smile. “But fortunately, Miss Bingley is not my superior in any way. She has the appearance of wealth, while we have the reality. It is scarcely a firm foundation for such airs. It is a wonder she can hold her head so high.”

A regal sniff was Lady Catherine’s only reply, at first. Then, as she surveyed the group with narrowed eyes, she added, “Hmph. One would almost think you were raised by wolves.”

“I was,” Lydia replied with great cheer. “But we taught the wolves better manners than Miss Bingley.”

At this, even Lady Catherine could not contain a low, reluctant laugh. “Shocking girl,” she muttered. “You have no business being so amusing, and I have no business finding you so. That is more than can be said for half of London.”

“Then I consider it a great success,” Lydia said, giving her a playful curtsy.

Elizabeth shook her head fondly. “If Lydia is your favorite, we are all lost.”

“I should like to return my upbringing and be issued another,” Kitty said dryly, making Georgiana laugh behind her glove.

Mary glanced after the retreating figures. “Her disdain,” she said thoughtfully, “says more about her insecurity than our birth. A secure person finds no need to diminish others.”

Georgiana turned to her, surprised and impressed. “That is very true, Mary.”

Mary flushed but stood a little straighter.

As the sisters and their friends exchanged looks of amusement and relief, Mary noticed a quietly elegant young woman, familiar to Mary, who had been observing the entire exchange from the building next door.

~*~

Emma Woodhouse, standing in the shadow of a milliner’s awning, had observed the entire scene with a mixture of amusement and mild indignation. She had always prided herself on her discernment of character, and in Miss Bingley she found nothing to admire. The woman’s hauteur was as ill-placed as her taste in bonnets, both too loud and neither suited to the company she aspired to keep.

How very like Miss Bingley, Emma thought, to parade her supposed superiority before a crowd that could see through it in an instant. And poor Mrs. Hurst. Emma’s heart softened in sympathy as she watched the elder sister’s anxious glances and apologetic smiles. There was a softness in Mrs. Hurst, a hesitancy that spoke of a woman long accustomed to yielding her will to a more forceful personality. Emma, who had often reflected on the power of gentle influence, wondered how different Mrs. Hurst’s life might have been with a kinder companion.

But there was little time for speculation. The Bingley sisters swept away, leaving the air clearer and the street somehow brighter for their absence. Emma seized her opportunity and walked to the shop, her step light and purposeful.

“Jane! Elizabeth! Mary!” she called, her voice warm and musical. “How very fortunate I am to encounter you here, and with such a distinguished party!”

“Emma,” Jane greeted her. “How good to see you. Allow me to introduce you to our friends.”

The party had gathered in a cheerful knot before Mrs. Duval’s window. Emma’s eyes sparkled as she was introduced to Lady Catherine, Lady Huntingdon, Miss de Bourgh, and Miss Darcy. There was no mistaking the presence of rank, but also of ease, uncommon in Lady Catherine, if rumor was to be believed.

She had expected a dragon, all barbed words and imperious hauteur. Instead, she found someone more commanding than cruel, more mischievous than monstrous. Lady Catherine’s eyes were sharp, certainly, but not without humor. Perhaps the rumors, Emma mused, like so many, had been more smoke than fire.

The greetings were effusive and genuine, Jane’s embrace, Elizabeth’s quick wit, Mary’s serene smile, Kitty’s curious gaze, and Lydia’s irrepressible chatter. Emma found herself quite at home among them, as she always did. Their acquaintance, begun through Mrs. Gardiner’s charitable efforts, had grown into a correspondence full of affection and lively intelligence.

“As to Mrs. Gardiner,” Emma said, turning to Jane, “she and I exchanged letters just last week about the Whitechapel families. Her ideas for distributing blankets and coals were, as ever, wonderfully practical. We make an excellent team, even at a distance.”

Jane smiled. “Aunt Gardiner speaks of you often, Emma, and always with the greatest respect. She was most disappointed to miss our outing today.”

“Although I have never been formally introduced to Miss Bingley,” Emma continued, with a quick glance down the street, “I have seen her about town and have had many letters from my sister that mentioned her bad behavior at dinner parties. She seemed in rare form. I must say, I have seldom witnessed such determined condescension in so short a span.”

Mary exchanged a glance with Lady Catherine, her lips twitching with amusement. “Indeed, Emma, you may not realize the full extent of Miss Bingley’s error. When she visited Longbourn, she swept in and started speaking, never waiting for a proper introduction. She simply assumed that everyone in our party was a Bennet cousin or poor country relation.”

Lady Catherine, her tone dry and arch, added, “Every time we meet, she addresses me and my entire family as if we are some rustic cousins come to life off our gentry relatives. The poor girl has no notion of the company she just dismissed as country kin.”

Emma’s eyes widened, her amusement unfeigned. “You cannot be serious! She truly imagines she has snubbed no one but a circle of country cousins and provincial relations? That is a most delicious misapprehension. I daresay she will repent of that error most thoroughly, once the truth circulates through the proper drawing rooms. And to call your family a parade of pretenders! The irony is too perfect.”

“The Bennet battalion, indeed,” said Mary. “A charming nickname, so very egalitarian.”

“If only she knew,” Emma added, her smile deepening, “she had just insulted half the peerage.” She glanced meaningfully at Lady Catherine and Lady Huntingdon, who appeared perfectly pleased by the notion.

The group laughed, and Emma’s gaze lingered on Mrs. Hurst, who stood down the street a little apart from the crowd speaking with Miss Bingley, her expression troubled. Emma’s brow furrowed. There was such a clear difference between the women, Miss Bingley, flinty and brittle, Mrs. Hurst, pliable and melancholy.

Mary followed her gaze. “Poor Mrs. Hurst. She is nothing like her sister. Far more genteel. I think she merely follows, and seldom approves.”

Emma nodded, her mind already spinning. “Perhaps, with a little encouragement, she might find a way to stand apart.” Emma’s eyes then landed on Mary, and her smile warmed. “And that, my dear Mary, is a sentiment that also applies to you. From your sisters’ letters, I have had the pleasure of observing a most pleasing transformation. It seems the dutiful chrysalis has given way to a bold and magnificent butterfly. A veritable tigress protecting her family. It is a sight to be admired, I assure you.”

Mary sighed softly, a touch of humility in her voice. “You are too kind, Emma, and give me too much credit. I am merely a student of human nature, a rather slow one at that. I hope I have simply become more useful, not a creature of admiration. I have, however, been thinking of Miss Darcy. You see how quiet she is? Perhaps it is our duty to see that she thrives, that she finds her own voice and confidence, just as you say of Mrs. Hurst.”

Her eyes landed next on Miss Darcy, quiet, graceful, almost too still. There was something in Georgiana that caught Emma’s notice. The tentative posture of a girl who had been told too often to sit quietly and smile prettily. Emma’s instincts stirred. Not a match to make, not yet, but a friend to coax out into the world, certainly.

Emma nodded, her mind already spinning with the possibilities. “You must let me come for tea tomorrow,” Emma said brightly. “I insist. There is too much in your letters we must speak of in person. I should hate to miss a single detail, and after today, I suspect you will have no shortage of tales to share.”

“We would be delighted, Emma,” said Jane.

Emma’s smile turned sly. “And you must tell me more about those gentlemen you wrote of. Such tantalizing hints! I find myself quite impatient to judge their merits with my own eyes. Are they truly as captivating as you suggest? And entirely unattached? We must discuss every detail.”

Elizabeth’s answering smile was amused and edged with caution. “Do not be afraid to exercise your imagination, Emma. We will speak more tomorrow at tea.”

“Oh, I fully intend to,” Emma replied with a light laugh. “My imagination is already halfway to the altar with one of them, though which, I have yet to decide. Perhaps a walk in the morning will clear my thoughts. One always sees more clearly in fresh air.”

Lady Catherine, who had been observing the exchange with a keen, not unpleased expression, now interjected. “Miss Woodhouse,” she said, her voice imperious but not unkind, “your vivacity is refreshing. And your concern for the establishment of young ladies is commendable, if occasionally enthusiastic.” Her gaze flicked to Elizabeth and Jane. “Given that there will be much to discuss regarding the upcoming celebrations, I insist you dine with me tomorrow. We shall consider these matters in a more structured setting.”

Emma bowed her head. “Lady Catherine, you are too generous. I should be delighted.”

“And bring your companion, of course,” Lady Catherine added. “It would not do for a young lady to attend unchaperoned.”

“Indeed, yes. I shall bring my sister’s maid that I have with me today, or perhaps my sister herself, if she can be spared.” Emma beamed. Dinner with Lady Catherine! It would be an evening to remember, and likely an opportunity to gently steer the conversation toward matters of love, lineage, and more than one of questionable station.

Emma continued, “I am in Town visiting my sister Isabella, and we shall be at Lord Sedgewick’s ball on Tuesday. I hope I may see you all there, though I dare say it will not be the dancing that is remarked upon, but rather the society in which some families find themselves mingling.” Her tone was light, but the implication was clear. The Bingleys’ reputation, already precarious, would not survive much more of Miss Bingley’s public disdain.

“We shall also attend,” Jane confirmed.

She beamed, already mentally sketching out the guest list for Lady Catherine’s dinner and wondering if she might subtly introduce the topic of eligible bachelors over the soup.

“We must go inside or we will be late for our appointment,” Lady Catherine said. “Until tomorrow, Miss Woodhouse.”

As the party began to move toward Mrs. Duval’s shop, Emma lingered on the pavement, watching the Bennet sisters with something close to pride. She had always believed herself a matchmaker, yes, but today, she found a deeper satisfaction in simple allegiance. In ensuring that kindness was extended where it was deserved, and those who relied on cruelty and cunning were shown the door, and with it, the chill of society’s back.

Her gaze sharpened.

The letter that had arrived whispered of deeper schemes. Mr. Bingley hiring ruffians to assault Mr. Darcy, that he might pose as the hero. Miss Bingley scheming not only to entrap Mr. Darcy, but to trap poor Miss Darcy as well. It was not simply vanity, it was malevolence, dressed in silk.

No, Emma thought, this would not stand.

The sheer audacity of it! Not merely ill-bred, but truly malicious. This went beyond social blunders. This was calculated villainy. A plan, fully formed, began to crystallize in Emma’s keen mind. Miss Bingley’s public gaffes were merely the overture. The true artistry would be in subtly, delicately weaving threads of inconvenient truth into the fabric of London society. When the Bingleys’ more heinous misdeeds eventually came to light, they would be seen not as isolated incidents, but as the inevitable culmination of characters utterly devoid of true gentility or honor.

She smiled faintly. There were so many ways to unspool a reputation without a single direct accusation. A pause here. A widened eye. A phrase carefully dropped in a drawing room known for gossip. The art, after all, was in allowing others to draw the damning conclusions themselves.

Yes, London awaited, and with her sharp wit and even sharper sense of justice, Emma was more than ready to ensure that the Bingley siblings reaped precisely what they had sown.

She turned, spotting a familiar face across the street, a lady known for her discerning taste and love of a good scandal.

Emma adjusted the brim of her bonnet with one gloved hand as she stepped lightly from the curb, each movement deliberate, graceful, and entirely purposeful. In her mind, she composed a story most carefully fashioned. Across the street, Lady Honoria Mowbray was just leaving the silk merchant’s shop, her expression bored and predatory, exactly the sort of look that made her both feared and favored in equal measure. Her attention flicked to Emma with interest the moment their eyes met.

“Miss Woodhouse,” she drawled, extending a languid hand. “How perfectly amusing to find you amidst so much provincial elegance.”

Emma smiled, as if the remark had been complimentary. “Lady Honoria, how delightful to see you. I was just with Miss Bennet and her sisters. You must allow me to introduce you tomorrow, if, of course, you are attending Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s dinner party.”

Lady Honoria arched a brow. “Lady Catherine? Attending a dinner with the Bennets I have recently heard rumours about?” Her lips curled. “Are we living through a comedy or a revolution?”

“Ah,” said Emma, her tone silkier than the bolts in Lady Honoria’s arms, “but not all revolutions are loud. Some begin with nothing more than kindness offered to the right person at the wrong time.”

Lady Honoria narrowed her eyes, intrigued despite herself. “You always did speak in riddles, Emma. Has the countryside dulled your tongue, or sharpened it?”

“Oh, sharpened it,” Emma said with a light laugh. “And as for riddles, well, let us say some answers are already becoming plain.” She leaned in ever so slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Did you hear about the little incident at Longbourn, the Bennet estate? No? Well, it is said that Miss Bingley mistook an Earl, Dowager Countess, Viscount, and even a baron’s widow for cousins or poor country relations of the Bennets.”

Lady Honoria gasped, delighted. “Surely not!”

Emma gave the slightest shrug. “You know how swiftly assumptions can become embarrassments. Though I dare say, had she paused to observe even a moment, she might have noticed the Matlock emerald broach gleaming on Dowager Lady Huntingdon’s shoulder.”

Lady Honoria blinked, stunned. “That Lady Huntingdon?”

Emma tilted her head, smile untouched. “Indeed.”

A slow grin spread across Lady Honoria’s face, with the look of one who smelled opportunity. “Oh, this shall be the talk of Almack’s. Poor Miss Bingley will not know where to hide.”

Emma’s voice remained sweet. “No need to hide, merely to reflect. I always say, it is not where one is from, but how one conducts oneself that matters.”

“And what of Mr. Bingley?” Honoria asked, her tone now sharper. “Rumors are circulating. Something to do with Mr. Darcy, ruffians, and a rather ill-considered attempt at heroics?”

Emma’s expression remained mild, but a quiet, knowing thought formed in her mind. It was no surprise that such rumors were already afoot. One only had to imagine a furious Lady Catherine, having learned of the assault upon her nephew, of the audacious plot to use ruffians to make Mr. Bingley a hero in Darcy’s eyes. It was not merely an inconvenience. It was a profound insult to the Darcy family name, a dangerous and vulgar deception that would have sent her into a rage. The story would have spilled forth at her first opportunity, no doubt with all the fury and melodrama she could muster. The speed of the gossip was not due to some supernatural force, but to a very human one. Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her profound need to have her displeasure known to the world, particularly when her family’s honor was at stake.

“Oh, dear. It is a terrible thing when a man’s pride causes him to act in such an improper manner,” she added thoughtfully, her tone turning more serious. “And an even more dreadful thing when a person’s lack of standing makes them believe they can do so with impunity. Or perhaps when influenced by a sister who misunderstands their circle. I am told there was, in fact, violence, though it was all for a staged attempt at heroism.”

Honoria gave a slow, appreciative nod. “I see. And will your charming friends be at Sedgewick’s?”

“Of course, those who are out will attend,” Emma brightened. “I have known the Bennet sisters for years. They are all beautiful, intelligent, and honorable. They are as dear to me as my own family, and I have no doubt they will be the jewels of the season. Miss Darcy, though not yet out, is already spoken of with admiration, so poised, so self-possessed. Some say she will inherit the full elegance of Pemberley in time. For now, she is to remain behind with the youngest two Bennet girls.”

Lady Honoria’s eyebrows lifted. “A wise choice. London is no place for delicate sensibilities unseasoned by society.”

“Precisely,” Emma agreed, her voice touched with something protective. “They are in no haste, nor should they be.”

Lady Honoria’s smile turned sly. “Then I shall simply enjoy the rest of your party, for they sound positively brimming with material.”

Emma inclined her head. “I do try to keep things interesting.”

They parted with the smooth civility of practiced women, and Emma resumed her walk with the measured pace of one accustomed to strategy.

Behind her, she could feel the shift beginning, like the first pebble in a landslide. Word would spread, and with it, the rebalancing of reputations. By Tuesday’s ball, the truth would have danced its way into every corner of London society, that Miss Bingley, so eager to ascend, had trod squarely upon the toes of people far above her station, and not quietly.

It was not revenge that Emma sought. It was justice, delivered with lace gloves and a fan. She would not scream. She would not accuse. She would simply place the right detail in the right ear at the right time.

By the end of the Season, the Bingley name would be a cautionary tale whispered behind fans, embroidered into gossip, immortalized not in scandal sheets, but in polite dismissals and clipped invitations never sent.

And when her work was done, Emma thought, she would turn her attention once more to happier tasks, restoring friendships, matching hearts, and perhaps encouraging a certain Viscount to dance with Jane more than once.

For now, she had more work to do.

Posted on 2025-08-31

Chapter 14

The next morning, London summoned forth the distinguished party from Lady Catherine’s townhouse, all eager to take advantage of the fine spring weather with a promenade through Hyde Park. The air was crisp, sweetened by recent rain and the scent of budding leaves, a welcome contrast to the usual clamor of the city streets.

Mary Bennet, walking just behind the principal party, surveyed the gathering with quiet wonder. The company included all five Bennet sisters and their parents, the Earl of Matlock, Lady Huntingdon, Viscount Spenston, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Jimmy, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Miss Anne de Bourgh, Mrs. Walters, Mr. Darcy and his sister, Miss Darcy, Mrs. Annesley, Miss Emma Woodhouse, and her sister, Mrs. Isabella Knightley. It was an assembly worthy of the most refined salon, yet they strolled freely, surrounded by the mixed society of the Park, carriages and horsemen, nurses with children, idle peers, and observant matrons.

She found a peculiar comfort in its vastness, a sense of being both a part of, and yet pleasantly detached from, the vibrant spectacle.

The lively murmur of their conversations mingled with birdsong and the distant sound of wheels over gravel. Mary felt herself both among them and slightly apart, a position she no longer minded, for it afforded her the liberty to observe without interruption. She took note of the graceful fall of Jane’s gown as she walked beside the Viscount, the unspoken ease between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, and even Lydia and Kitty’s unusually composed demeanor, as they walked three abreast with Georgiana, their laughter softened into amiability.

Her mother’s voice broke through the hum of the party. “Mary, my dear? Your aunt and uncle Gardiner have arrived!”

Mary stepped forward with a ready smile, pleased to see the familiar figures. Her uncle had a calm countenance, intelligent, kind eyes. Her aunt, serene as ever, slightly younger than her husband and elegantly dressed, carried herself with an understated grace. Their children, Thomas, William, and little Sophie, stood neatly by their side.

Mary felt a rare sense of belonging, standing among relations who valued not only connection but conversation.

“Uncle Edward and Aunt Madeline, how delightful to see you here,” Mary said, curtsying.

“Mary, my dear,” Uncle Edward replied, his expression warm. “It does the heart good to see you looking so well. Your letters have kept us well informed of your many pursuits and recent happenings.”

Aunt Madeline embraced her fondly. “We would not have missed this gathering for anything. And Sophie has long wished to see her clever cousin Mary again.” The child gave a shy, precise curtsy.

As the larger party drew closer, her mother, ever eager for connections, bustled forward to perform the introductions. Before she could formally introduce her relations, Lady Catherine, seeing Mrs. Gardiner, stepped forward with an undeniable warmth that softened her formidable presence.

“Madeline! You are here at last!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, a genuine smile gracing her lips, quite unlike her usual reserved demeanor in public. “Anne, your godmother has arrived!”

Anne de Bourgh’s face lit up as she embraced Aunt Madeline with quiet affection. “Aunt Madeline, it is a great pleasure to see you again!”

“Catherine,” Aunt Madeline replied, equally warm, “you look every inch the grand matron of London. And Anne, my dear, how you have grown in confidence. It has been too long! Though it has been but a few months, it seems an age.” She then turned to her husband. “Edward, you remember Lady Catherine, of course, and her daughter Anne. And Lady Catherine’s sister, Lady Huntingdon, whom I believe you have met through our charitable works?”

Uncle Edward bowed deeply. “Lady Catherine, Lady Huntingdon, Miss de Bourgh, a true pleasure.”

Lady Catherine gestured toward the group. “Madeline, allow me to present those you may not yet know. Mr. Darcy, my nephew, and his sister, Miss Darcy.”

Mr. Darcy bowed. “Mrs. Gardiner, Mr. Gardiner, Elizabeth speaks of you both with great admiration.”

Georgiana followed with a soft curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you again, ma’am. I recall your kindness.”

Mrs. Gardiner’s smile deepened. “And I yours, Miss Darcy. You have grown so poised.”

Lady Catherine continued without delay. “Viscount Spenston, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Annesley, Mrs. Walters, all dear friends and connections.”

One by one, polite bows and curtsies were exchanged.

Emma Woodhouse stepped forward with particular animation. “Mrs. Gardiner! What a delight to see you again in person. Your letters regarding the Whitechapel effort have been such a blessing. Your insight into the hospital arrangements has been unequalled.”

Aunt Madeline laughed gently. “And your work in Highbury, Miss Woodhouse, has done much good. I only hope we may one day tour the foundlings’ school together.”

Viscount Spenston and Mr. Fitzwilliam also exchanged polite greetings with the Gardiners, acknowledging their connection to the Bennet sisters. Mrs. Annesley, who had joined the group for the promenade, was introduced, offering her compliments to the newly arrived London relations.

Just then, Aunt Madeline’s eyes fell upon a familiar face within the Bennet party. Her smile widened. “And Jimmy! My dear boy, how very good it is to see you!”

Jimmy, who had been chatting quietly with Kitty, turned at the sound of his aunt’s voice, a warm smile lighting his face. “Aunt Gardiner, Uncle Gardiner! It is a pleasure to see you both.” He stepped forward to take their hands warmly, a testament to the close bond he shared with the family who had taken him in.

“I was much gratified when my sister wrote to say your family had at last been found,” Uncle Edward said warmly.

“It has been something of an adventure, sir,” Jimmy replied, his smile tinged with both humour and fondness.

“How fortunate,” said Emma, stepping slightly closer, her gloved hands clasped lightly before her. “There is something profoundly reassuring in the return of a missing brother to his rightful place, like a note at last resolved in a long and well-loved air.”

Emma turned her gaze toward Jimmy, her expression kind but keen, as though she were still arranging the particulars in her mind. “Lost so many years ago, the youngest Fitzwilliam brother is now restored to a family that had never ceased to look for him. It is no small thing.”

Lady Catherine, who stood just behind her, gave a rare approving nod. “Indeed not. I had nearly despaired of ever seeing it set to rights, but this,” she gestured toward Jimmy, “this has been a most unexpected turn for the better.”

“Unexpected,” murmured Mr. Bennet, with a sardonic arch of his brow, “and very nearly poetic. Though I doubt the lad will thank us for dressing his childhood in epic verse.”

Jimmy laughed lightly at that, but Emma’s smile only grew.

“It is not poetry we seek, Mr. Bennet,” Emma said, “only justice and perhaps a fitting reunion at the end of a long and entangled history. I believe it is something of a habit among the Fitzwilliams to cause no small stir wherever they go.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, overhearing this as he approached, gave a mock-offended bow. “We must protest, Miss Woodhouse. Some of us cause no more stir than a teacup on a tray.”

Emma inclined her head. “Better still, balance restored.”

There was general laughter then, quiet, elegant, the sort permitted in such circles, but Mary noted how naturally Emma folded Jimmy into the company, how gently she presented him not as an interloper but as a long-lost note returned to harmony. There was neither spectacle nor performance, only belonging.

Just belonging.

And in society, that was more valuable than the grandest inheritance.

Just as the larger party began to move forward again, the Viscount, who had detached himself from Jane to speak with his brother, suddenly paused, his attention caught by an approaching pair.

“Good heavens, Richard. Is that not Carmichael?” he exclaimed, a delighted grin spreading across his face.

Approaching them was a gentleman of distinguished bearing, slightly younger than the Viscount, with a thoughtful brow and an air of quiet contemplation that immediately caught Mary’s interest. Beside him walked a young lady, graceful and composed, her eyes sparkling with quiet amusement as she took in the lively assembly.

“Carmichael!” the Viscount called again. “And Lady Amelia, I presume?”

The gentleman inclined his head. “Indeed. Spenston, it is good to see you. And yes, may I present my sister, Lady Amelia Carmichael.” He bowed politely. “You have quite the party assembled.”

“Welcome, both,” the Viscount said, then turned to the group. “Allow me to introduce Lord Aubrey Carmichael, second son of the Duke of Roxburgh, and no stranger to the more learned halls of Oxford.”

Lord Aubrey’s eyes, as he surveyed the gathering, widened slightly when they landed on Jimmy.

Lady Amelia’s eyes lit up as she saw Georgiana, and she greeted her with surprising warmth. “Georgiana! I had not realized you were in London. It is a pleasure to see you again after so long.”

Georgiana, usually reserved, was visibly pleased, returned the greeting with a soft smile. “It has been too long, Lady Amelia. I hope you have brought your wit and your sketches.”

“Always,” Lady Amelia said.

Lord Aubrey, still looking at Jimmy, then turned to Mr. Fitzwilliam, a look of profound astonishment on his face. “Good heavens, Fitzwilliam! Is that... is that Jimmy?”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, nodded. “Indeed, Aubrey. The very same.”

Lord Aubrey seemed almost speechless. “Unbelievable! I had heard whispers yet to see it with my own eyes is truly astonishing!” He shook his head, a mixture of wonder and delight in his expression.

Emma, who had been observing the exchange with keen interest, stepped forward, her usual composed demeanour replaced by an expression of fascinated surprise. “Oh!” she whispered. “Did you see that? Lord Aubrey Carmichael! And he recognized young Mr. Fitzwilliam, no less! It is quite the most extraordinary thing!” Her eyes sparkled with an almost irrepressible delight, clearly captivated by the unfolding drama.

Lady Amelia responded, “The two younger Fitzwilliam brothers do look much alike. It is a remarkable tale.”

“And here,” the Viscount added, turning slightly, “is Miss Mary Bennet. Mary, may I present Lord Aubrey Carmichael, a man well-versed in Latin, Greek, and any number of dead languages. You may at last have met your match.”

Mary blushed but met Lord Aubrey’s gaze steadily, and she saw a flicker of mutual interest. “Lord Aubrey,” she said, a rare warmth in her voice, “I do enjoy the company of those who find dead languages quite alive with meaning. I confess, I find myself often lost in the intricacies of classical texts.”

His answering smile was slow but sincere. “Miss Mary, I assure you, anyone who speaks well of Livy is a friend already won. Do you have a favourite passage?”

Mary, surprised into ease, laughed. “Too many, though I confess, I am partial to his account of Cincinnatus.”

“Ah,” he said, eyes brightening, “then you admire quiet virtue elevated by necessity. A noble taste.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Aubrey Carmichael stepped nearer to Mary. His tone, when he spoke, was courteous, but carried a confidence that seemed more innate than affected.

“Miss Mary,” he began, his expression entirely serious save for a hint of mischief at the corner of his mouth, “would you do me the honour of reserving the first set at Lord Sedgewick’s ball for me?”

Mary blinked, surprised into silence for half a breath. “I should be very pleased to do so, my lord,” she said at last, inclining her head.

“I am delighted,” he said. Then, with a boldness that caused Lady Amelia to glance sidelong at her brother with amused surprise, he added, “May I be so bold as to entreat the supper set also? I should never forgive myself if such a chance were lost to another.”

Mary’s eyes widened slightly, though not in displeasure. “You are very forward, my lord,” she said with a smile not wholly disapproving.

“I assure you, Miss Mary, it is only that I am aware of the value of rare things,” he replied with a bow. “And I do not take such opportunities lightly.”

Mr. Bennet’s glance at his daughter held no rebuke, only curiosity and, beneath that, a flicker of something gentler. He stepped forward from the edge of the company, where he had been standing with his usual air of mild detachment, and with a courteous nod to Lord Aubrey, inserted himself into the conversation.

“Lord Aubrey,” he said pleasantly, his tone light but not without seriousness, “as a father, I find myself suddenly curious. Do you make it a habit to charm young ladies into granting both the first and the supper sets before their guardians have had the pleasure of learning your intentions?”

Lord Aubrey looked momentarily taken aback. Then he bowed slightly, offering Mr. Bennet a smile marked by both respect and a quiet composure. “Mr. Bennet, I understand your concern entirely. And no, I do not generally make a habit of it. In truth, I had not anticipated meeting anyone who might so thoroughly unsettle my better judgment.”

Mary, startled and pink-cheeked, glanced at her father, but he kept his eyes fixed on Lord Aubrey with a mildly arched brow.

“You see,” the young lord continued with a touch more gravity, “I have been a part of London society for many years. I was expecting a polite acquaintance, perhaps a common fondness for letters. Instead, I find myself sincerely wishing to know Miss Mary better, if she will permit it. I should not presume beyond a few dances and a little conversation, but I hope that such an arrangement might be found acceptable to you, sir. And more importantly,” he added with a glance at Mary, “to your daughter.”

There was a pause. Mr. Bennet’s expression did not change, but his tone softened slightly.

“You speak with civility and appear to know your mind, traits not always found in the same gentleman. But it is no less important to me that Mary knows hers.”

He then turned to his daughter then, his gaze uncharacteristically open and direct.

“Well, Mary?” her father asked. “Do you wish to reserve the supper-set for this enthusiastic admirer of Livy and Cincinnatus? You are not obliged, though I confess myself curious what Tacitus would make of this scene.”

There was a murmur of laughter nearby, but Mary heard none of it. Her heart was beating rather too quickly, though not from embarrassment. Lord Aubrey’s regard, so quietly intent, and her father’s deference, his willingness, for once, to ask her what she wanted rather than assume it, gave her a feeling of unexpected clarity.

She looked between the two men and then spoke, her voice calm and sure. “Yes, Papa. I would very much like to dance the supper-set with Lord Aubrey.”

Mr. Bennet gave the smallest of nods. “Then I shall offer no objection,” he said, “though I hope your lordship’s conversational Latin is equal to the task of enduring one of Mary’s moral inquiries.”

“I look forward to it,” Lord Aubrey replied with a smile, bowing again to Mary. “With any luck, I shall endure many such inquiries, and not only in Latin.”

Mary looked down briefly, but her smile had brightened with quiet warmth.

As the party moved on again, the Viscount leaned toward Mr. Fitzwilliam and muttered behind a hand, “Well, Richard, that advanced with remarkable speed.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam grinned. “You must learn, Michael, never underestimate a Bennet with access to a well stocked library.”

Mary caught her father’s eye. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.

~*~

A little apart from the group, near a thicket of early-blooming rhododendrons, the Earl of Matlock and Mrs. Walters found themselves apart from the others for a few moments.

David’s gaze wandered toward his son, who stood conversing with Lady Amelia in animated tones. Richard seemed drawn by her gentle humour and evident refinement. He engaged her in a conversation about the recent exhibitions at the Royal Academy, his usual military brusqueness softened by an undeniable curiosity.

“It is a fine morning, my lord,” said Mrs. Walters, her voice gentle but assured.

David turned to her, eyes thoughtful. “Indeed, Mrs. Walters. Though I confess, the company renders it finer still.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes lowered. “You are gracious, sir.”

He regarded her with uncommon earnestness. “You carry yourself with such quiet strength, Josephine. It is... admirable.”

A faint colour touched her cheek. “You are too generous, my lord. I merely endeavour to be of service where I may.”

“And you are,” he replied, his voice low and steady. “More than you imagine. Grace such as yours is seldom seen, and never without value.”

Their eyes met, unhurried, unguarded, for a moment that spoke of mutual regard. Nothing more was said, nor needed. A shared understanding passed between them, unspoken yet unmistakable.

“You make me shy, my lord,” she said at length, her gaze drifting toward the rhododendrons.

“I only speak plainly,” he answered. “It is not in me to do otherwise.”

Another pause, easy and unforced, settled between them, a silence of the kind that need not be filled.

“Josephine,” David said after a measured pause, his tone both warm and deliberate, “might I hope for the honour of your hand in the first set at Lord Sedgewick’s ball?”

She looked at him, not startled, exactly, but clearly unprepared for the offer. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her expression before she replied, softly, “I thank you, my lord, but I believe such an honour would scarcely be proper, in my case.”

“And why is that?” he asked gently, though there was a firmness beneath the civility.

Josephine held his gaze with the quiet dignity that had first impressed him. “Because I was, until recently, in service as a companion in a merchant’s household. However brief the post, it places me outside the circles where such attentions from a man of your rank would be deemed acceptable.”

David’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in displeasure at her, but by the implications. “Mrs. Walters, you are not your circumstances. Nor will I allow the prejudices of idle tongues to define you.”

She gave a small, courteous smile, tinged with regret. “That is generous of you, my lord. But society is seldom so forgiving. You must know that many will disapprove. They will say I am reaching above my station.”

“They may say what they please,” he returned coolly. “We do not keep company with such people, and if they attempt to sully your name, I shall see their own reputations fall into ruin. And rest assured,” he added, with a slight but unmistakable smile, “I have rather more influence in those circles than they do.”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes searching his, wary but clearly moved.

“Forgive me, but are you certain?”

“Quite. I have never been more certain of anything.” His voice dropped. “From the first, Josephine, seeing you grown, I saw in you a woman of sense, feeling, and remarkable composure. Nothing in your past could diminish that. And anyone who thinks your association with a merchant’s household makes you less of a lady is an imbecile. We were never in the same circles, they and I, and I do not intend to start now.”

Colour rose gently in her cheeks, and though she glanced down, her lips curved with something very like amusement.

“You make it most difficult to refuse you, my lord.”

He held out his arm once more, this time not as a suitor, nor merely as a friend, but as a man making a public claim of respect. “Then do not refuse. Dance with me. Let them stare if they wish, I am quite used to it.”

“My lord, I am but ten years the Viscount’s senior. Will your sons be as understanding of my past as you are?”

“I do not care. Yet I know the answer is yes. They are the ones who encouraged me to ask you,” David replied with a smile.

After a moment, she inclined her head slowly. “Then I must accept. I only hope we do not begin the evening as a scandal.”

“Let it begin as one, if it must,” he said with a quiet smile. “It will end as a triumph.”

And with that, she placed her hand upon his arm, allowed herself to be led, not toward disgrace, but into the warm centre of a world that, for the first time in years, had begun to turn in her favour.

As they walked on together, David caught sight of Lord Aubrey Carmichael speaking animatedly with Miss Mary Bennet. He noted with no small amusement, that the young man had already secured her promise for the first set, and if his expression were any indication, had sought the supper-set as well. David could not help but approve. There were worse ways for a young man to direct his affections.

Yes, he thought as the sun filtered gently through the trees and the promenade pressed forward, there was change in the air. Quiet, perhaps, but unmistakable. And not unwelcome.

“I suspect,” he murmured, “this season may yet prove more interesting than I had supposed.”

Josephine glanced at him sidelong, her tone dry. “I suspect it already has.”

And so the promenade continued, Hyde Park offering more than its accustomed pageantry. Beneath the pale light of a London morning, connections were formed, some spirited, some tender, and a quiet season of change began, unnoticed by many, but not by all.

~*~

The Bennet carriage drew to a gentle halt before the grand entrance of Sedgewick House, its lanterns casting a soft glow against the golden stone facade. The house itself stood proud and serene in the evening light, its tall windows aglow with the reflections of countless candles. Wrought-iron balconies were adorned with draped garlands of early summer greenery, and the great double doors stood open beneath an arched portico, flanked by liveried footmen who made no attempt to conceal their anticipation of the fashionable crowd within.

As Mary descended with her sisters, she took in the elegant symmetry of the house, the sweeping staircase glimpsed through the vestibule, the polished floors, the rich gleam of mahogany and gilt. Inside, the entrance hall was filled with the warm flicker of candlelight and the muted hum of conversation. A cascade of pale roses, artfully arranged in silver urns, lined the corridors. The ballroom itself, visible beyond a pair of tall double doors, glowed like a scene from a painting, chandeliers glittering above a waxed floor, a small string ensemble beneath a bower of silk and greenery, and soft laughter threading through the air like a melody.

The Bennets were not, by long-standing habit, a family much discussed in London’s best circles. Their acquaintance had been largely limited to friends of the Gardiners and a few connections of her father’s more scholarly youth. But recent events, carefully tended by the right hands, had cast new light on their name. What had once been obscurity was now something more ambiguous and therefore more interesting. A hint of nobility, whispered affiliations, the brush of scandal resisted. These made the Bennets worthy of notice.

As they passed through the receiving line, Mary noted the change. Gentlemen bowed with greater formality. Ladies who had never before acknowledged their presence now dipped their heads with cautious politeness. Even Mama, swathed in blue taffeta and lace, moved with the uncertain bearing of a woman who knew she had something to boast of, but had not yet decided how loudly to boast.

Emma Woodhouse had arrived and was already seated at one end of the ballroom in quiet conversation with Lady Morven. She wore a gown of pale gold that shimmered like sunlit cream and carried herself with the calm assurance of one who had no need to vie for attention. She was not the most beautiful woman present, nor the most finely dressed, but those around her instinctively lowered their voices and leaned in when she spoke. One never knew whether she would offer an opinion, a favour, or a single, well-placed truth.

As the Bennets advanced farther into the ballroom, they approached a familiar and distinguished gathering at the foot of the grand staircase. The Earl of Matlock stood with upright bearing and a reserved expression, surveying the room as one long accustomed to its rituals. At his side, offering the warmth he deliberately withheld, stood his sisters.

Lady Elaine Hastings, Dowager Countess of Huntingdon, wore a gown of deep plum silk trimmed in sable lace, her silver hair elegantly coiffed, and her bearing was that of a woman who knew precisely where she stood, and where others ought to stand in relation to her.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood with imposing dignity. Her gown of forest green silk, trimmed with ivory and pearls, was elegant without ostentation, and her bearing, once severe, now carried the calm assurance of a woman who was content with her life.

Flanking them were Mr. Darcy, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Jimmy, and Anne.

Mr. Darcy, impeccably dressed and vigilant as ever, inclined his head with particular softness when his eyes fell on Elizabeth. Mr. Fitzwilliam’s genial expression brightened with unmistakable pleasure as he caught sight of the Bennets and their company.

Jimmy, transformed by the elegance of his new garments, looked almost a different man in the fashionable dark coat and expertly tied cravat. He shifted a little, perhaps still getting accustomed to the formal cut of the fabric. A subtle air of anticipation played on his features as he observed the bustling room, a quiet confidence settling upon him.

Anne de Bourgh was a vision of delicate beauty. Her gown of pale pink silk, subtly embroidered with silver threads, seemed to capture the soft glow of the chandeliers, complementing her fair complexion. Her usually reserved demeanor was softened by a faint, contented smile, a quiet grace emanating from her as she observed the vibrant assembly.

Lady Catherine greeted her mother with a warm smile and extended both gloved hands. “My dear Fanny,” she said, her voice rich with practiced charm, “what a pleasure to see you here. You look quite resplendent.”

Mama, nearly overcome by such distinguished attention, managed a curtsy and a breathless, “Your ladyship is too kind.”

Turning to her father, Lady Catherine offered a nod of sincere regard. “Mr. Bennet, I hope your library is as ill-disciplined and delightful as ever.”

Papa chuckled. “It is, madam. And all the better for its disorder.”

Anne stepped forward then, her demeanor composed and welcoming. “Miss Mary,” she said, her voice quiet but sure, “I have brought that volume of Seneca I promised. I hoped you might be willing to look over the marginal notes I made?”

Mary’s eyes lit with genuine surprise. “I would be honoured, Anne. Thank you.”

The Earl stepped up and said, “Mrs. Walters, it is a pleasure to see you here this evening.”

“And you, my lord,” she replied, her voice warm with composed familiarity, the tone of a woman who had once danced at court and remembered it with fond clarity.

Lady Elaine extended both gloved hands with genuine warmth. “My dear, we have had too little time to speak of old days, and the new ones pressing upon us. I hope you will not vanish behind a host of admirers before I may claim you for a proper conversation.”

Mrs. Walters smiled. “You flatter me, Lady Elaine. I shall make no such escape.”

“My lord,” Mama said, “we are so honoured to be included. What a grand occasion this is!”

“You are most welcome,” the Earl replied with a courteous nod, his tone warm.

Lady Elaine’s gaze lingered on Mary with marked interest. “Miss Mary,” she said, stepping forward, “I have only just this week finished that little volume you lent me. Your notes were more enlightening than the essay itself.”

Mary blushed, bowing her head slightly. “I am gratified that you found it of interest, Lady Elaine.”

“More than interest,” she replied, her voice warm and deliberate. “It was a pleasure to read a mind so clearly formed.”

At that moment, Viscount Spenston, resplendent in evening attire, stepped forward. His smile welcomed a contrast to his father’s formality, and his eyes found Jane immediately. Though his bow was perfectly executed, it lacked none of its quiet devotion.

“Miss Bennet,” he said with low warmth, “you look, unsurprisingly, radiant tonight.”

Jane returned his gaze, her smile gentle and sure. “You are too kind, sir. I am glad you are here.”

“Where else could I be?” he murmured, offering his arm with all the ease of long-standing affection.

Just behind him, Mr. Darcy stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice lowered just enough to be intimate without presumption, “you take my breath away.”

Elizabeth arched a brow with playful restraint. “In this gown? You are easily impressed, sir.”

“Not at all,” he returned, a rare smile just reaching his eyes. “It is merely a reflection of its wearer.”

She placed her hand on his offered arm with quiet assurance. The two couples turned slightly aside, the better to await the music’s start.

It was then that Emma Woodhouse made her way towards them, gliding through the guests with the natural ease of a woman who had never once doubted her place.

“My dear Mrs. Bennet,” she said brightly, before turning to Mary with a conspiratorial grin, “Mary, I must warn you, if your dance card fills too quickly, I fear there may be riots.”

Startled into a soft laugh, Mary replied, “Then I shall endeavour to preserve the peace, Emma.”

Emma’s gaze flitted to Mr. Bennet, whom she greeted with a respectful incline of the head and a knowing smile, before adding, “I believe we are about to be joined.”

Indeed, Lord Aubrey Carmichael was making his way through the crowd, his manner composed and unhurried. Beside him walked his sister, Lady Amelia Carmichael, whose violet gown shimmered with understated elegance. Lord Aubrey bowed deeply.

“Miss Mary,” he said, his voice warm and measured, “I trust I am not too late to claim our set?”

“You are precisely on time,” Mary replied, her tone composed though touched with anticipation. He offered his arm, and she accepted it with quiet dignity.

Lady Amelia turned toward Mr. Fitzwilliam, who had drawn near with evident purpose. His easy smile held a more serious edge now, though there was no mistaking the pleasure in his expression.

“Shall we join our brothers and my cousin near the floor, Lady Amelia?” he asked.

“With pleasure, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she replied, and allowed herself to be led.

As they moved away in pairs, Mary glanced once back at her father. He had said nothing, but his eyes rested on her with a look rare in his usual catalogue, neither skepticism nor bemusement.

Pride.

Mary remained close to her sisters, aware of the unusual nature of the evening. There had been no dramatic announcement, no fluttering debut, and yet something had shifted. The room seemed to receive them differently. Where once their presence might have been met with disinterest, or worse, condescension, there was now a curious kind of regard.

Not admiration, perhaps. Not yet.

But interest.

And in society, Mary had begun to understand, that was the more powerful force.

Emma Woodhouse told them what she had done. She had neither slandered nor shouted. She had simply stepped into London society with impeccable grace and placed the right truths, gently, precisely, into the ears of those who knew exactly what to do with them. By Saturday morning, Lady Honoria Mowbray had passed a remark over tea that sent Miss Bingley’s social ambitions stumbling. By Sunday evening, an anecdote involving a misplaced Viscount and the Matlock broach had made its way into three different drawing rooms and been repeated with increasing embellishment.

By Monday, Caroline Bingley’s name was a subject of quiet laughter and sudden subject changes.

She and her brother had found themselves seated farther and farther from the center of conversations, both literal and social. Invitations, once freely offered, had grown oddly mislaid or rescinded. Shopkeepers grew polite but cool. Acquaintances who had once flattered now claimed sudden engagements. At the opera, Caroline had turned to speak to a school mate only to find they had lifted her fan without acknowledging her. At Hatchard’s, she lingered too long near the table of a neighbour and was pointedly not greeted.

It was not overt cruelty. No one said her name aloud in censure. But London knew. And London, once it knows, becomes deaf to apologies and blind to past associations.

The musicians were warming up in preparation for the first to begin when the Bingleys arrived.

Caroline Bingley, resplendent in a shade of coral so insistent it seemed to vibrate against the candlelight, swept into the ballroom. She carried all the practiced grandeur of a woman who believed herself still admired. The pearls at her throat and ears were luminous but overabundant, as though more might draw the eyes of society to her entrance.

They did not.

Caroline smiled with radiance, as though it would bend the room into orbit around her.

But the room did not bend.

If anything, it recoiled.

A hush fell, fleeting but unmistakable, followed by the quiet rustling of society turning, backs, shoulders, attention, all subtly away. Mary watched it unfold like a silent ballet. Lord Dalrymple glanced at his wife, who glanced at Lady Honoria, who did not glance at all. A murmur stirred the air, faint but precise. Something about a viscount, a broach, and Miss Bingley’s ‘confusion.’ It was enough. The damage had been done days ago, tonight merely confirmed it.

Across the room, Emma turned her head, only briefly. There was no cruelty in her look. No triumph. Only dismissal. Calm, conclusive, and utterly irrevocable.

Mr. Bingley limped beside his sister, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. Mary noted the strain etched into his features, the paleness beneath his carefully arranged hair, the stiffness in his jaw as he took each step. The injury to his ankle was real. His discomfort seemed to deepen with every step.

He should not have come. Mary could see it plainly, so could Mr. Hurst, whose expression briefly betrayed a kind of silent exasperation. But Miss Bingley had insisted. Mary could almost hear her say it, with brittle cheer, “We must go, Mr. Darcy will be there.” And so, Mr. Bingley had been drawn here, not by vanity, but by obligation, or guilt. Or both.

The Hursts flanked the siblings, dressed with their usual care, expressions carefully unreadable. Mrs. Hurst clutched her fan as if it were a talisman. Mr. Hurst appeared more interested in locating the nearest claret than in braving the social chill already settling around them.

Mary felt it as surely as if a bell had tolled. This was not a stumble or a social misstep. The Bingleys had not simply fallen from their limited acceptance into society. They had been removed.

Mr. Bingley, poor man, seemed not yet to understand.

He brightened visibly at the sight of Mr. Darcy, only to hesitate as he saw the man already engaged, deep in quiet, companionable conversation with Elizabeth and his Matlock cousins.

Miss Bingley, more disastrously, seemed not to notice.

She held her head high, radiating the oblivious poise of a woman who still believed her smile sufficient currency for any room. She mistook the polite evasions for shyness, the bland refusals for chance.

Miss Bingley moved to stand by Lady Amelia Carmichael with a determined lift of her chin, but the noblewoman responded with a look so bland it bordered on dismissive. Even Mr. Fitzwilliam, always gracious, made no effort to draw her in.

And still, Miss Bingley did not see it.

Only Mrs. Hurst, glancing sidelong at Mary as Caroline passed, seemed to register the shift. Her fan fluttered slightly lower, her mouth drawn not in disdain, but resignation. She met Mary’s gaze with a look that was oddly pitiful, as if to say, “She has done this to herself, and we can do nothing more.”

Mary held that glance for a moment, nodded discreetly, then looked away.

There was no satisfaction in it.

Mary had always watched people, often unnoticed, often silent. But tonight, she watched with clarity. There was no spectacle here. No raised voices, no scandalous scenes. Only the quiet power of reputation undone.

The atmosphere shifted palpably when the musicians signaled the first set. A ripple of anticipation ran through the room. Then came the moment that sent a distinct shockwave through the assembled society.

Lord Matlock, with deliberate formality, turned to Mrs. Walters. “Mrs. Walters,” he announced, his voice clear and carrying, “I believe I have the honour of claiming you for the first set. If you would do me the pleasure?”

A collective, almost imperceptible intake of breath echoed around them. The Earl of Matlock, opening the ball with Mrs. Walters? It was a declaration far louder than words. Lady Catherine’s lips curved in a faint, satisfied smile. Lady Elaine nodded serenely. Lady Sedgewick, observing nearby, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, her expression unreadable but undoubtedly registering the significance.

Mrs. Walters, maintaining her exquisite composure, curtsied gracefully. “The honour is entirely mine, my lord.” She placed her hand on his offered arm.

Simultaneously, Lady Catherine tightened her grip on Jimmy’s arm. “Come, James,” she declared, her loud voice brooking no argument. “You shall partner your aunt for this first set. It is time society saw you where you belong.” Her gaze swept the room, a silent challenge to any who might question his place. Jimmy, though still looking slightly overwhelmed, stood a little taller.

The sight was powerful. The Earl leading Mrs. Walters onto the floor, and Lady Catherine, a pillar of the ton, claiming her long-lost nephew for the opening dance. It was a dual statement of acceptance, protection, and consequence that silenced lingering gossip about Jimmy’s origins and cemented Mrs. Walters’ position. Mary felt the weight of it, the sheer audacity of the gesture cutting through the ballroom’s glittering facade.

Mary allowed herself a single glance toward Emma, who stood now in conversation with Lady Frances Cavendish and the Dutch Ambassador’s wife. It was not triumph Emma wore, nor cruelty. But purpose, fulfilled. She had said once, quite calmly, that justice required no shouting. And tonight, justice had arrived in silk slippers and murmured mockery, carried on the breeze between fans.

As the music swelled and the first couples took their places, Mary, standing with Lord Aubrey, observed the unfolding tableau. Jane and the Viscount, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Mr. Fitzwilliam and Lady Amelia, all moved with ease.

Mary’s eyes were drawn to the two most significant pairs. The Earl and Mrs. Walters moving with a quiet, dignified harmony that spoke of deep understanding. Lady Catherine guiding Jimmy through the steps with a blend of stern instruction and fierce pride.

Society watched, whispered, and understood. The Fitzwilliams had drawn their lines, reclaimed their own, and elevated those they chose. The Bingley’s presence felt like a discordant note waiting to be played against this symphony of reestablished order.

Jane glowed as she danced with Viscount Spenston, his expression one of steady, growing awe. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy moved in perfect rhythm, not only with the music, but with each other. Mr. Fitzwilliam and Lady Amelia passed by, her laughter trailing behind them like a ribbon on the breeze.

And Miss Bingley?

She sat in the corner, her smile still fixed but fraying at the edges, speaking only to those who could not afford to look away. Her gown, her poise, her practiced brilliance, none could save her now. She was society’s cautionary tale and had yet to grasp the change in circumstances.

Her brother, grimacing faintly, shifted in his seat to relieve the pressure on his injured leg. Mrs. Hurst fanned herself without conviction. Mr. Hurst nursed his claret and his detachment.

Mary watched, and did not rejoice. She did not gloat. She simply understood. Society was not cruel, it was colder than that. It did not punish with heat, but with absence.

And Caroline Bingley had become its absence personified.

Posted on 2025-09-01

Chapter 15

As the music drew to a close and the dancers returned to their circles, Mary found herself once again beside Elizabeth and Jane. The air was fragrant with summer roses and the warmth of perfume, the candlelight gilding every polished surface and pearl.

Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth lingered slightly apart from the others, speaking in quiet tones that, while not secretive, discouraged interruption. Viscount Spenston had claimed Jane’s attention with some observation that made her glance down in mild amusement before replying.

Just a few feet away, Lady Amelia stood with Mr. Fitzwilliam, their shared laughter gentle but intimate.

“You never told me how you truly fared in the battle of Waterloo,” she murmured, her laughter fading. Her voice, though low, held a distinct note of concern. “I heard from my brother you suffered an injury.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam’s smile softened, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow passed over his features. “It was merely a scratch, I assure you. The only thing truly wounded was my pride, when I was forced to sit out the victory parade. But I was well looked after. And to find such a lovely friend upon my return, that, I daresay, was a better remedy than any military physician could offer.”

Lady Amelia’s cheeks flushed, but her gaze did not waver from his. “I am glad to hear it,” she said, and a comfortable, gentle silence fell between them.

Mary stood beside Lord Aubrey, her parents, Emma Woodhouse, Lady Catherine, Lady Elaine, Lord Matlock, and Mrs. Walters, who had claimed a place near a column gilded in gold leaf and ivy with a newfound assurance.

Mrs. Walters’ reception by the Earl for the first dance had not just been noticed. It had shifted her place in the room’s unspoken hierarchy. Society now regarded her not merely as an unknown, but as a woman of consequence, her quiet dignity amplified by Lord Matlock’s unmistakable regard.

Jimmy stood slightly apart, observing the scene with the wary wonder of one still navigating his place. Lady Catherine’s hand rested protectively on his arm, a silent barricade against the curious glances he attracted.

Mary’s eyes, ever observant, caught a look on Lord Aubrey’s face that was at odds with the easy pleasantries of the moment. For a fleeting moment, the effortless charm he wore so well vanished, replaced by a strained and troubled expression. He was watching Jimmy, not with the warm, open affection he usually displayed, but with an expression of deep, troubled sorrow. He quickly masked it, but not before Mary saw the grim set of his jaw and the shadow of a profound disgrace in his eyes. He then looked to her, and his eyes held a silent, eloquent plea that Mary could not understand, but which made her heart ache in sympathy.

Mary, disturbed by the fleeting expression, looked away, her thoughts lingering on his troubled gaze. But the moment was hers alone. The rest of the company had not noticed.

The atmosphere was not one of formality, but ease. It was the ease of people whose company had grown familiar through thoughtful conversation, not mere proximity. Even Mama, emboldened by Lady Catherine’s warmth and Emma’s subtle orchestration, managed to offer a passing remark on the floral arrangements that caused Lady Elaine to laugh, not unkindly.

It was in this moment that their hostess approached, accompanied by a small party. She glided to the group with practiced ease and commanded the space like a sovereign.

“My dears,” she said, addressing everyone at once, “may I at last make proper introductions?”

At her side stood a striking woman in deep violet silk, tall and elegant, with eyes like polished onyx and a smile both intelligent and controlled. “Allow me to present my husband’s sister, the Countess of Grünwald, recently arrived from Vienna.”

The Countess offered a graceful bow, her eyes missing nothing. Introductions followed for her Continental entourage, names like music, carrying the weight of Austrian refinement and hinted secrets. Mary inclined her head, meeting the Countess’s perceptive gaze briefly, feeling distinctly assessed.

The Countess bowed her head slightly, her voice low and musical. “It is a pleasure to be received with such kindness. Lady Huntingdon, I am much obliged that we have continued our schoolroom correspondence despite years and miles.”

“Ours is a relationship I have treasured since our time at school,” Lady Elaine returned with a smile.

“And these,” Lady Sedgewick added, “are her family. My brother-in-law, the Marquess of Grünwald, my niece the Baroness Ilse von Harrenfels, and their cousin, the Chevalier Felix Lindenwald. They have only just arrived from the Continent and bring with them the refinement of Austrian society, and perhaps a few secrets.”

There was a ripple of polite laughter, and the names, so foreign, so melodious, hung in the air with the fragrance of something rare.

Mary inclined her head. The Countess’s eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, and Mary had the impression the woman saw more in one glance than most in five minutes’ conversation.

The Chevalier bowed to Elizabeth and then to Jane, the angle of his smile suggesting some private amusement. He was handsome in the dramatic way of continental men, dark curls, dark eyes, and a coat so well cut it could only have come from Paris.

Mary noticed how Lady Sedgewick’s glance swept subtly between the pairs. Jane and the Viscount. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Mary herself, standing not far from Lord Aubrey, who was presently engaged in conversation with her father. There was a particular calculation behind her eyes, as though she were setting pieces upon a chessboard, listening not with her ears but with her expectations.

Polite fishing. Delicately baited.

“Miss Bennet,” Lady Sedgewick said, addressing Jane with the kind of elaborate cheer that made the next phrase obvious before it was spoken, “how radiant you looked upon the floor! I daresay, had I not known better, I might have suspected a certain understanding between you and Lord Spenston.”

Jane, serene as ever, replied with gentle civility. “We have found much to speak of in recent weeks. He is very kind.”

“And Miss Elizabeth,” she continued, her gaze flicking slyly toward the side where Mr. Darcy stood with his hand lightly at Elizabeth’s back, “I could not help but notice your Mr. Darcy appears quite devoted. Such elegant restraint, such a refined silence. One almost forgets how loud affection can be, until it is practiced so... quietly.”

Elizabeth looked at her with one arched brow. “It is a skill he has perfected.”

Mr. Darcy gave no reply, he merely looked at Elizabeth with that steady, yet unmistakable expression that required no words.

Lady Sedgewick turned to Mary.

“And Miss Mary Bennet, I had not realized you were acquainted with Lord Aubrey.” A small, practiced pause. “Or perhaps I underestimate how much of London you have come to know.”

“We met in Hyde Park this Saturday past,” Mary replied.

“I was walking with my sister when I saw Viscount Spenston,” Lord Aubrey replied.

Lady Sedgewick smiled. “You have such a taste for... philosophy, I believe?” she said after a pause.

Lord Aubrey inclined his head. “Among other pursuits.”

Lady Sedgewick, still aglow with the pride of successful hospitality, turned toward the group with a lightly mischievous gleam. “Tell me, am I to be the last to know, or the first to be officially informed?” Her eyes flitted between Viscount Spenston and Jane, then to Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth with teasing warmth. “Either way, I shall pretend I guessed it from the start.”

Mr. Darcy coughed, but Elizabeth only smiled. “It will be made known soon enough, Lady Sedgewick. But as you are both discerning and discreet, you may claim the distinction of being told.”

“Both of you?” Lady Sedgewick asked discreetly and beamed at Jane’s nod. “Then I shall consider it a triumph and toast your happiness at supper.”

Mary, ever observant, noted how easily the Countess and her family adapted to the cadence of English society, speaking little but with just the right balance of mystique and charm. It was clear they were to be the evening’s centre of attention, and Lady Sedgewick had built the occasion around them with masterful subtlety.

But then the atmosphere, which had been light with curiosity and admiration, shifted.

It did not falter. It tilted.

Mary turned her head just as the Bingleys approached.

Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’s expressions held no anticipation. Viscount Spenston squeezed Jane’s hand and her sister’s posture remained unchanged, though her eyes flicked toward the newcomers with the calmness of a woman no longer invested. Mr. Fitzwilliam said something to Lady Amelia, low and wry, and she covered a smile with her fan.

Miss Bingley swept forward with a renewed brightness. Her brother followed, slower and stiffer, limping, and with none of his sister’s misplaced optimism.

The Hursts trailed behind them like weary courtiers to a fallen monarch. Mrs. Hurst’s countenance was tight with unease, her hand clutching her fan as if it might shield her. Mary did not miss the way Louisa flinched when Caroline spoke too loudly, the muscles in her jaw tightening at every pronouncement.

Mary observed Miss Bingley’s smile as she reached their group. It was too wide, too quick, like a performer missing her mark and choosing to improvise.

And Lady Sedgewick saw them too. Her expression did not change, at least, not overtly. Something in the line of her neck straightened, in the glint of her eye, seemed a shade cooler.

From the Bingley party, only Mrs. Hurst saw it, fully, plainly. She glanced at Mary, her fan now unmoving. Her mouth pressed thin, her eyes carrying a sheen of embarrassment that Mary had never seen there before. There was sadness in her expression, but no defense. Not tonight.

Mary returned her gaze with something bordering on compassion. Not sympathy, Caroline Bingley had not earned that, but a recognition of the inevitable. Miss Bingley was not being punished.

She was being ignored.

And there was no recovery from that.

Lady Sedgewick’s voice, soft but distinct, reached Mary’s ears. “A pity, when one fails to hear what the room is no longer saying.”

Beside her, the Countess of Grünwald gave the faintest response of, “Indeed.”

As Miss Bingley reached their circle, her eyes, bright with a brittle determination, fixed on Mr. Darcy. With a sudden, dramatic sway, she gasped faintly, her hand fluttering to her forehead. “Oh, Mr. Darcy!” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, as she deliberately tilted, clearly intending to collapse gracefully into his arms.

But Mr. Darcy, ever vigilant, took a swift, almost imperceptible step backward, effortlessly avoiding her intended trajectory. His eyes, cold and unwavering, found Elizabeth’s. With a movement of profound tenderness and unmistakable devotion, he took Elizabeth’s hand from his arm, lifted it, and pressed a brief, chaste kiss to her gloved knuckles.

Miss Bingley, deprived of her intended prop, did not merely stumble. Her face, a mask of desperate calculation, twisted in a moment of pure shock before she pitched forward, a single, sharp cry escaping her lips as she sprawled ungainly on the polished floor. The breath of the room seemed to halt as her coral silk gown fanned out around her like a discarded costume in some vulgar comedy.

The sound of her fall cracked through the company more effectively than any orchestral flourish. A ripple of gasps spread outward, quickly followed by stifled titters.

Mary’s gaze darted to Mrs. Hurst. She had recoiled when her sister struck the floor, brows pinched together, shoulders curling inward as if shrinking from the whispers already rising. A quick, trembling movement sent her fan half-collapsing in her hand. She caught it clumsily, the strain on her composure plain to see.

Gasps rippled through the immediate vicinity, a few nearby gentlemen stifling snickers into their cravats. One gentleman bit the inside of his cheek, though his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

The whispers were as swift as they were cruel.

“Attempted compromise,” murmured a lady behind her fan.

“How very desperate,” her companion replied, eyes gleaming.

“One might think she had taken a fall from a horse.”

Another voice, sharper and less kind, whispered, “I have seen circus performers fall with more grace.”

“She might have done better to faint outright,” added another. “At least then we could pretend to pity her.”

Even those inclined to civility betrayed their disdain. Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling in open disgust. Lord Aubrey deliberately turned his back to make some trivial remark. Lady Elaine lifted her chin and studied the chandelier with sudden fascination, though her fan trembled with barely restrained mirth. Mr. Fitzwilliam merely flicked a speck of dust from his cuff, the faintest smile betraying his contempt.

Mary, watching closely, noted how the company’s indifference cut deeper than their laughter. To ignore a scene was to declare it beneath notice, yet the sly glances and muffled snickers, made plain that Miss Bingley’s humiliation was both witnessed and enjoyed.

A footman, practiced in such spectacles, appeared at once and extended a hand. His expression betrayed nothing, but the quiet efficiency with which he aided her seemed almost mocking, as though he had assisted a hundred such fallen ladies before.

Miss Bingley rose with difficulty, her cheeks scarlet, her coiffure loosened, her gown rumpled, her dignity utterly destroyed. She attempted a laugh. High, brittle, and ill-judged.

“Oh! How very clumsy of me,” she trilled, brushing futilely at her rumpled skirts. “The floor here is polished beyond reason, one might easily mistake it for ice!”

No one laughed with her.

Flustered, she pressed on, her eyes darting toward Mr. Darcy. “Of course, I had been feeling faint all the morning, too much concern for dear friends, no doubt. My nerves are quite overborne with the anticipation of good news, I am sure.”

“Good news?” whispered one lady archly. “Whose, I wonder?”

“Not hers,” her companion replied, smothering a smile behind her fan.

Miss Bingley, sensing her audience’s coolness yet unable to cease, continued with desperate gaiety. “I daresay Mr. Darcy will forgive me for appearing so overcome. His presence is always most affecting.”

Gentlemen coughed into their cravats, hiding laughter. Mary, watching closely, saw Elizabeth’s brow rise in disdain while Mr. Darcy’s expression hardened into polished marble.

Miss Bingley floundered on, every syllable an additional stone to sink her reputation. “Indeed, I thought I might faint entirely! But I am quite restored, I assure you. Quite restored.”

“Restored?” muttered one man to his neighbor. “To what? She was undone before she fell.”

A muffled laugh swept the edge of the company. The sound was more wounding than any open mockery.

At last, Miss Bingley realized she had no allies.

Even Mrs. Hurst, pale and trembling, lowered her gaze, her shoulders stiff with equal parts shame and grief. It was not Miss Bingley’s downfall that undid her. It was that she had been dragged into it, her name pressed dangerously close to a scandal she never desired. A mottled flush burned her cheeks as whispers, cruel and unchecked, swirled mercilessly through the assembly.

“Poor dear,” one woman said sweetly, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “The floor must be quite as unforgiving as society.”

The attempt had not merely failed, it had branded her desperation upon every tongue in the room. It was a social death, and everyone knew it.

A gentleman, a peer of no party, leaned down to whisper to another, “I doubt we shall ever see her at Almack’s again. Not even with an apology and a King’s pardon.”

His companion merely sighed. “No, her name is ruined. And with it, her brother’s hopes, I daresay.”

Lady Sedgewick’s smile, which had been fixed in polite amusement, now tightened. She turned to Miss Bingley, her voice pitched just enough to reach the surrounding clusters of guests. “Miss Bingley, I must confess, this is a most unfortunate display. And I find myself quite perplexed. It was only due to a written request, purporting to be from Mr. Darcy himself, that I extended an invitation to your party this evening. A courtesy I would not have offered, given certain... recent considerations.”

A hush fell, deeper and more complete than any before. All eyes turned to Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy’s face remained impassive, but his gaze sharpened, moving from Lady Sedgewick to Miss Bingley. “A written request, Madam?” he inquired, his voice low, a dangerous undercurrent to his usual calm. “I assure you, I made no such request. My invitations for this evening were extended in person, or by my secretary with my direct instruction. I have penned no letter to you concerning the Bingleys’ presence here tonight, nor would I.”

Lady Sedgewick’s brow furrowed. She glanced at a passing footman, who swiftly produced a silver tray. She took the paper, her elegant fingers unfolding it. Her eyes scanned the script. “Indeed,” she said, her voice now chillingly clear, though still exquisitely polite, “this purports to be your hand, Mr. Darcy. But I had my suspicions when I saw how the Bingley party was greeted and asked for these items to be retrieved. Now that I see your genuine signature on your card for tonight, I detect a most glaring discrepancy. This is a crude forgery.”

The truth hung in the air, damning and undeniable. Miss Bingley had not only attempted a public compromise but had also forged Mr. Darcy’s correspondence to secure an invitation.

Mary glanced at Mrs. Hurst and was startled to find her expression naked with horror. Her lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief. A thin line of moisture glistened as her eyes welled against her will, the betrayal of tears revealing she had heard this charge for the first time with everyone else. She looked not angry but undone.

The whispers began, no longer subtle murmurs, but rising in a wave of stunned realization.

Lady Sedgewick, a woman of impeccable honour, straightened. Her gaze, cold as ice, swept over Miss Bingley, who now seemed to shrink beneath its force. “Earl Matlock, Lady Huntingdon, Viscount Spenston, Lady Catherine, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Richard Fitzwilliam, and Mr. James Fitzwilliam,” Lady Sedgewick announced, her voice ringing with newfound clarity and a palpable apology, “I beg your pardon for this grave imposition. And must express my deepest regrets for admitting one who would so egregiously misuse a gentleman’s name and hospitality.”

She turned her full attention to the surrounding room, her voice now clear and ringing with authority. “Let it be known that my invitation to the Bingley party this evening was extended under false pretences. The letter in question was a forgery, and Mr. Darcy bears no responsibility for their presence here.”

Miss Bingley, pale with shock and humiliation, stammered, “But... but I thought you were Bennet cousins! You were all so... so familiar with them!” Her voice, thin and desperate, cracked with the sudden, terrible realization of her colossal error.

A collective intake of breath swept through the ballroom. The Bennet cousins , the very phrase Miss Bingley had used all over London to dismiss them, now hung in the air, exposing the full extent of her disdain and ignorance.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had been observing with a grim, satisfied curl of her lip, now stepped forward, her voice cutting through the stunned silence like a diamond on glass. “Indeed, Miss Bingley,” she began, her tone a low, dangerous growl. “Had you possessed the good breeding to await a proper introduction rather than storming in with such impetuous vulgarity, you would not be suffering this particular mortification. Your haste, I am afraid, has served you ill.”

After a poignant pause, she continued. “It appears your powers of discernment are as lacking as your deportment. One might think you had been raised by the very tradesmen you so despise, rather than by a family who might have taught you how to read a pedigree. My brother, Lord Matlock, often remarks that such errors arise from a lack of proper attention, a failing for which even the finest modiste can offer no remedy.” Her gaze swept over Miss Bingley’s vivid gown, a dismissal more absolute than any verbal rebuke.

Viscount Spenston, stepping forward with a calm, amused smile, met Miss Bingley’s bewildered gaze. “You seemed quite sure I was a Bennet, Miss Bingley. I took it as a compliment, I assure you. The Bennets are excellent company.” He bowed slightly to Jane, a movement of elegant devotion that underscored his true feelings, before raising her hand to his lips.

Lady Huntingdon, her plum silk rustling as she stepped closer, fixed Miss Bingley with a gaze that held both disdain and a chilling amusement. “I quite liked being a Bennet, Miss Bingley. Such a warm and respectable family. You might count yourself so fortunate.” Her eyes, sharp and knowing, conveyed the vast chasm between Miss Bingley’s perceived superiority and her actual position.

Papa, standing behind Lady Catherine, gave a quiet, almost imperceptible nod of approval, a flicker of his dry wit acknowledged. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, “One must forgive Miss Bingley’s error. Given the agreeable company, I daresay we all feel quite like family already.” His gaze briefly touched Jane and Elizabeth, a hint of genuine warmth softening his usual sarcasm.

Emma Woodhouse, her expression one of profound, almost sympathetic concern, glided forward. “Such unfortunate misunderstandings Miss Bingley labors under,” she said, her voice sweet as honey, yet with an edge that pierced like a rapier. Upon learning the full truth, Miss Bingley’s face drained of all color, and she swayed precariously. She looked as though she might genuinely faint this time, her eyes rolling upward.

Emma watched her with a dry, almost clinical assessment. “You might have saved your breath, Miss Bingley. Or your dignity.”

Miss Bingley, wild-eyed, turned as though to appeal to the assembly, her mouth opening on a desperate protest.

But she was cut short.

Mary Bennet, who until now had stood quietly in her place, stepped forward. There was nothing hurried in her movement, nothing flurried or dramatic. She simply raised her chin and regarded Miss Bingley with a composure so unyielding it froze the woman mid-breath.

“Miss Bingley,” Mary began, her voice calm, steady, and shockingly clear, carrying to every corner of the hushed ballroom. “You speak of Bennet cousins as though it were an insult. Yet I recall, in Hertfordshire, how you so contrived that no proper introductions could ever be made, lest you be obliged to acknowledge the connexions of those you deemed beneath you. And now, here before the very highest company, your scheme lies exposed for all to see. It is most unfortunate, for you might have spared yourself this moment.”

Miss Bingley flushed scarlet. “I... Miss Bennet... you mistake... misunderstanding.”

Mary did not so much as acknowledge the interruption. “When you discover the consequence of your choice, you would plead misunderstanding?”

A ripple of laughter followed, thinly veiled behind fans and coughs.

Mary continued, unhurried, her composure unshaken. “Since you declined the opportunity then, allow me to perform the office now. Permit me to correct the misunderstanding and to present them to you, formally.”

She turned, her hand lifted with quiet dignity, first toward the elder gentleman. “The Earl of Matlock,” she said, her tone measured, “whose rank you profess to revere, though you seem unfamiliar with his countenance. Beside him, his sister, Lady Huntingdon, whose family needs no introduction save in the most exalted circles. The Earl’s son and heir, Viscount Spenston, who does my sister Jane the honour of his particular attention.”

Mary let the weight of each name fall with deliberate precision, every syllable a nail in Miss Bingley’s social coffin. Then, with a slow turn of her head, she indicated the rest. “Mr. Richard Fitzwilliam and Mr. James Fitzwilliam, his lordship’s younger sons. Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, known to you already, though perhaps not as well as you believed. I trust the names are plain enough, even without the convenience of forged stationery.”

Each name was delivered like a verdict, and with each, Miss Bingley’s shoulders seemed to bow lower under the weight of her humiliation.

The whispers began at once, sharp and merciless.

“Did she not once boast she would be mistress of Pemberley?” murmured a lady in yellow silk, her words loud enough to carry.

“Boast? She declared it daily,” came the arch reply.

Another voice, sly and amused, “I wonder, does she still mean to faint into his arms? Though she must learn to fall more gracefully.”

That provoked open laughter. One gentleman bent double, murmuring through his cravat, “The poor floor may never recover.”

Miss Bingley’s cheeks flamed scarlet. She tried for hauteur, but the effect was spoiled by her disordered gown and trembling hands.

When she attempted, in desperation, “I did not mean...”

Mary’s fan lifted with exquisite precision, her gaze sliding past Miss Bingley as though she were air as she turned. The cut direct.

That simple gesture was deadlier than any insult.

Even Lady Catherine, with a glance cool as winter frost, turned her back deliberately, as though Miss Bingley were no more deserving of attention than a servant who had spilled the wine.

The Viscount remained beside Jane, a private amusement playing on his lips as he gave his brother a look that spoke volumes. His eyes alight with barely suppressed mirth, he leaned close to whisper to Elizabeth. “I pray this is as good as Almack’s, for nothing shall ever again prove quite so diverting. I daresay the drama alone is worth the subscription.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, standing just behind him, gave a low snigger, a sound both affectionate and entirely out of place for a former Colonel.

Elizabeth, her eyes twinkling, met the Viscount’s gaze. “Indeed, my lord,” she replied in an equally low voice, “though I am not accustomed to such entertainments, I must confess to a certain morbid fascination. I had always thought a lady’s reputation was guarded more carefully, but it seems one’s own folly can be a far more effective executioner than any public hangman.”

The company seized upon it at once. “How deserved!” someone whispered. “The tables turned at last,” another said. “All her sneers, all her airs, and now this!”

Miss Bingley stood abandoned in the midst of the glittering company, her schemes laid bare, her reputation in tatters, her enemies triumphant. What she had sought to gain in admiration, she had won instead in ridicule, and recovery was impossible.

Miss Bingley gasped, staggered, and for a moment seemed unable to breathe. Around them, the silence was absolute, until, as though on cue, soft titters began to spread, quickly blossoming into open laughter among those who had long endured her airs.

Mary inclined her head once more, serene, and returned to her place among her family. She had spoken no insult, offered no coarse word.

Yet the blow she had dealt was mortal, and all knew it. For a moment, she watched Miss Bingley, her gown a coral stain on the floor, her carefully constructed world shattered. Mary did not feel triumph, only a quiet, resolute satisfaction. Justice had been done, not with anger, but with truth. Miss Bingley had not simply fallen, she had been undone by her own pride.

The words were a death knell.

Gossip exploded around them, no longer whispers, but open, delighted chatter. The revelation, delivered with such public clarity by Lady Sedgewick herself, combined with the crushing wit of Lady Catherine and the elegant composure of the rest of the party, was utterly devastating. The social fabric around the Bingleys unraveled with sickening speed. Their attempts at climbing, their snobbery, their disregard for others, it all returned upon them with compound interest.

Miss Bingley, desperate, turned to Mrs. Hurst, her hand weakly reaching out. “Louisa! You must...”

But Mrs. Hurst, her face a mask of profound mortification, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and cold disgust, simply met her sister’s gaze. Her fingers dug into her skirts, knuckles whitening, before she deliberately tore her gaze away. It was not cold-blooded abandonment so much as visible despair.

For a long, agonizing moment, she stared, before slowly, deliberately, turning her back without a single word. Mr. Hurst, pale and tight-lipped, only nodded curtly to the ground, avoiding his brother-in-law’s eye.

Lady Sedgewick, seeing this silent, public disavowal, stepped forward, addressing the room but directing her words particularly towards Mrs. Hurst. “It is a lamentable thing,” she announced, her voice pitched to carry, “when one’s relations betray all propriety. However, I believe we can all discern a lady of true integrity, even when unfortunate connections weigh upon her. Mrs. Hurst’s distress is, I trust, evident to all, and speaks volumes for her own upright character.”

Her gaze then hardened as she turned fully to Miss Bingley and Mr. Bingley. “I must insist that you and your brother remove yourselves from my ballroom. Your presence, under these circumstances, is a grave affront to my distinguished guests and to the standards of this house.”

The silence that followed Lady Sedgewick’s pronouncement was absolute. Not even the rustle of silks or the clink of crystal disturbed it. The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.

“I suppose Miss Bingley will now have ample leisure to reflect on the perils of forgery, and fashion,” Lady Catherine whispered to her sister.

Mary, like Lady Elaine, hid a grin.

Mrs. Hurst, trembling slightly, took one small step backward, distancing herself entirely from the disgraced pair. Her eyes did not seek sympathy, only escape. Caroline’s outstretched hand hung in the air for a moment longer before she withdrew it in a furious, jerking motion, her expression crumpling.

Then came the moment that would decide Mrs. Hurst’s fate. She stood alone now, exposed, severed from the fallen branch of her family tree, and very much aware of it.

And that was when Emma Woodhouse stepped forward once again, smiling with the same bright ease that had undone so many pretenses already that evening.

“Surely Mrs. Hurst will not be punished for what she had no part in, nor wished for.” Emma turned deliberately toward Lady Catherine, then the Earl of Matlock, and finally Lady Huntingdon. “I know of no better judge of a lady’s character than this family. And I dare say none here saw Mrs. Hurst attempt deceit or dishonour. In fact, we saw her do precisely the opposite.”

Lady Huntingdon inclined her head. “Indeed, Miss Woodhouse. One’s strength is not proven in comfort, but in consequence. Mrs. Hurst showed discretion when many would have defended the indefensible.”

Lord Matlock stepped forward next, his deep voice cutting clean through the whispers. “Mrs. Hurst, if you would do us the honour of joining our party for the remainder of the evening, I should be most gratified.” He extended his arm in the unmistakable formality of public alliance.

Mary caught the instant transformation. Mrs. Hurst’s breath shuddered out of her chest, her chest rising as if she had been holding dread for hours. Tears glistened at the rim of her eyes, quickly blinked away, yet her mouth trembled in a momentary, fragile smile. Taking the Earl’s arm, she dipped her head gratefully, a faint whisper escaping as though she scarcely trusted her voice in so public a crowd.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, not at the gesture itself, but at what it meant. To be claimed publicly by the Fitzwilliams in the wake of scandal was no mere reprieve, it was a restoration.

Mrs. Hurst, caught between disbelief and gratitude, hesitated for only a heartbeat before placing her gloved hand on the Earl’s arm. She managed a quiet, “You are... very kind, my lord,” with a catch in her voice.

Emma, not content to let the matter rest delicately, gave it a gentle, strategic nudge into permanence. “And I believe we have an empty chair beside Lady Catherine,” she said with a knowing smile. “I dare say it shall not remain vacant for long.”

Lady Catherine turned her gaze upon Mrs. Hurst with imperial deliberation. “Indeed not. Come, Mrs. Hurst. You will find we value dignity here, even if some are only now learning the meaning of the word.”

Lady Elaine offered a sharp nod. “It is, after all, an excellent evening for honest company. We shall keep only the best of it.”

At this, Mrs. Hurst’s composure steadied minutely, her trembling subsiding, her lips pressed together in visible, earnest gratitude. Though still shaken, she carried herself with new resolve, clearly determined not to squander a reprieve she had never expected.

Lady Sedgewick, not one to be outmaneuvered in her own ballroom, recovered with seamless grace. She stepped forward and said with perfect poise, “I am pleased to say that Mrs. Hurst will be seated among our honoured guests tonight. I could ask for no better example of discretion under duress.”

With a nod of Lady Sedgewick’s head, a footman approached silently to escort the Bingleys away.

Miss Bingley began to sway, and her hand, instead of reaching out to a friend, grabbed for the arm of her brother, who, to the shock of all, did not pull her to him, but simply let her fall back onto the floor once more. Mr. Bingley’s face, now devoid of all color, was a mask of cold fury. He turned and without a single word, made his way slowly to the door and abandoned her to her fate.

The footman held out his arm with professional politeness, but his eyes were impassive, as though lifting a piece of furniture.

As the footman steadied Miss Bingley, her hair tumbling loose and her gown skewed, a gentleman near the card tables called out, “It seems Miss Bingley was not so adept at climbing as she led us to believe. One might almost commend her for her performance. Her descent, however, is a spectacle to behold. Her fall was far more graceful than her conversation ever was.”

The laughter that followed was bright, merciless, and impossible to suppress.

Just as the footman took her arm, a woman in the crowd, a former school friend of Miss Bingley’s, leaned forward with a sharp, malicious grin. “My dear Caroline,” she whispered loudly, her voice cutting through the hushed silence. “I always said you were destined to fall. And it appears you cannot fall any further.”

A wave of cruel laughter rippled through the onlookers, sealing her fate. The footman, with an almost imperceptible tug, guided her forward. Miss Bingley, her face a mask of shock and a final, desperate plea for help, vanished in silence, the door closing behind them with a finality that seemed to echo.

Lady Huntingdon murmured to her sister, “There they go, Catherine, proof that social climbing is best attempted with a ladder, not a rope made of forged notes.”

Lady Catherine responded, with a slight arch of her brow and a satisfied glance at Mrs. Hurst, “And let it be remembered, a true lady never needs to climb, she is always found precisely where she ought to be.”

And then, with the precision of a well-executed dance, the party reassembled itself. Lady Catherine reclaiming her place, Lord Matlock offering Mrs. Hurst his arm, Viscount Spenston gently patting Jane’s arm, Emma joining arms with Mary, and Lady Huntingdon murmuring a quiet word to Lady Sedgewick that left the hostess smiling with visible relief.

As the tide of conversation resumed and the musicians struck a new, elegant prelude, the gossip changed tone. No longer was it only of scandal. It was of contrast, of the disgrace of the Bingleys, yes, but also of the grace with which Mrs. Hurst had stepped back from the brink.

“She must have known, or at the very least suspected,” one matron whispered.

“And yet did not stoop to defend her sister’s schemes,” another replied.

“A clever woman,” a gentleman noted.

“Or simply a good one,” his wife answered.

Mary, beside Emma, glanced back once. She saw Mrs. Hurst seated beside Lady Catherine and Lady Huntingdon, the picture of collected dignity. Her fan moved slowly now, not with nerves, but ease.

“She will be fine,” Emma said softly, catching Mary’s glance. “When one is given the choice to remain in the shadows or step into the light, the best women always rise.”

Mary nodded. “And the worst?” she asked, her gaze flicking briefly toward the memory of Miss Bingley.

Emma’s lips curved with just the faintest hint of irony. “They vanish into darkness.”

And so they had.

As the last echoes of Mrs. Hurst’s reprieve settled, Mr. Darcy, who had remained stoic throughout the preceding chaos, now stepped forward, drawing the eyes of the remaining company. His voice, though not raised, carried with chilling clarity across the ballroom.

“Given the unfortunate and frankly unforgivable events of this evening,” Mr. Darcy began, his gaze sweeping over the space where the Bingleys had stood, then settling, cold and resolute, upon the hushed faces of the remaining guests, “and in light of the repeated affronts to propriety and indeed, to my own name, I find myself compelled to make a regrettable, yet necessary, declaration.”

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. A ripple of anticipation, laced with a nervous dread, passed through the room. Even Elizabeth looked at him with a slight surprise, recognizing the gravity of his tone.

“It has become clear,” he continued, his voice devoid of emotion, yet ringing with absolute finality, “that the conduct of Mr. and Miss Bingley is entirely at odds with the principles I hold most dear, and indeed, with the very fabric of honourable society.” His eyes, sharp and unwavering, met those of several prominent gentlemen who had once counted themselves among Mr. Bingley’s acquaintances.

“Therefore,” he stated, his voice dropping slightly, becoming a measured, deliberate pronouncement, “I can no longer, in good conscience, extend to them the privilege of my acquaintance. Henceforth, my house, my company, and indeed, my very recognition shall be entirely withdrawn from Mr. Charles Bingley and his sister, Miss Caroline Bingley.”

A collective intake of breath could be heard. To declare such a severing of ties, so publicly, in such a setting, was a rare and devastating act. It was more than a mere end to a friendship, it was a societal excommunication. No gentleman of standing would dare to offer hospitality or indeed, a polite nod, to those whom Mr. Darcy had so explicitly disavowed. The implication was clear. To associate with the Bingleys now was to invite Mr. Darcy’s profound disapproval, and likely, a chilling of one’s own social standing.

Lady Catherine gave a slow, approving nod, her lips curving in a faint, satisfied smile. Lady Huntingdon simply raised a single eyebrow, a silent acknowledgment of the definitive blow. Mr. Fitzwilliam, typically more genial, stood with a solemn expression, his agreement evident in his quiet posture.

Mr. Darcy then turned, with a slight, almost imperceptible softening of his features, back towards Elizabeth, his hand instinctively finding hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The message was clear. His loyalty, his protection, was now entirely devoted elsewhere.

“Mrs. Hurst,” he said loudly as he walked toward that lady, “would you do me the honour of dancing the next set with me?”

Mary looked at Mrs. Hurst, seated beside Lady Catherine and Lady Huntingdon, whose face, still pale from the preceding ordeal, lifted in stunned disbelief. To be addressed directly by Mr. Darcy, after such a public disavowal of her own family, was an astonishing reprieve. It was a mercy extended from the highest ranks of society. Her eyes, still red-rimmed but now wide with a dawning hope, darted from Mr. Darcy’s unwavering gaze to Emma, then to Mary, as if seeking confirmation that this was not some cruel jest.

Emma gave a subtle, encouraging nod, her expression one of warm approval. Mary offered a small, sincere smile.

“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hurst stammered, her voice trembling but gaining strength with each word, “I... I should be most honoured. It would be... a singular privilege.” She extended her gloved hand, her relief palpable, her gaze fixed on him with profound gratitude. She stood and managed a curtsy that, though not perfect, conveyed immense sincerity.

Mr. Darcy bowed, his gesture grave yet respectful. He took her hand, drawing it through his arm with a quiet dignity that signaled to the entire room his explicit endorsement. As he led her towards the preparing set of dancers, his very action became a powerful, visible statement.

A collective sigh of relief, subtle yet pervasive, rippled through the ballroom. The immediate vicinity, which had been frozen in awkward anticipation, now relaxed, the tension dissipating like mist. Mr. Darcy, by publicly withdrawing his favour from the Bingleys and then immediately extending such a marked courtesy to Mrs. Hurst, had not merely excommunicated two individuals, he had spared one innocent from the ruin of another. His intention to protect Mrs. Hurst was unmistakable, and his influence, formidable.

Gentlemen and ladies alike exchanged approving glances. Whispers, now of a different tenor, spread through the room. “What a man of honour, Mr. Darcy!” “Such admirable discretion regarding Mrs. Hurst!” “He truly knows where true worth lies!” The society that had just watched Caroline Bingley’s ruin now witnessed Louisa Hurst’s quiet salvation. The Hursts, though still shaken, knew they had been publicly cleared.

Mary observed it all with satisfaction. Emma, beside her, gave a knowing smile. “As I said, Mary, justice requires no shouting. And sometimes, it arrives with the very gentleman whose arm one hoped to claim,” she said, her eyes twinkling before finishing on a murmur, “Though I confess, a little well-placed laughter is sometimes irresistible.”

The grand ballroom at Sedgewick House, now vibrant with renewed chatter and the promise of supper, began to empty as guests drifted towards the dining hall. The air, still scented with roses and candlelight, hummed with the aftershocks of the evening’s drama. Mary, walking with her parents and Emma, observed the varied currents of society. The Bingleys were a quickly fading shadow, their names now whispered with a mix of scandal and dismissal. Mrs. Hurst, however, moved with a newfound dignity, her earlier distress replaced by a quiet composure, her husband’s hand resting lightly on hers as they proceeded toward the dining room.

The dining hall at Sedgewick House was a masterpiece of refined elegance. Long tables, laden with gleaming silver and crystal, stretched across the room, illuminated by chandeliers that cast a warm glow on the elaborate floral arrangements. Mary found herself seated between Lord Aubrey Carmichael and her father, with Elizabeth and Jane opposite her, their places meticulously arranged to foster conversation among certain parties.

Indeed, the seating plan offered immediate confirmation of the evening’s significant shifts. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, now undeniably reinstated in good graces, were seated with Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. Their table also included Viscount Spenston and Jane, a clear signal of the Fitzwilliam’s approval of the burgeoning connections. Lady Catherine, Lady Huntingdon, and Lord Matlock presided over a table, their expressions serene and triumphant.

As the first courses were served, the clinking of cutlery and the murmur of polite conversation filled the opulent room. A footman, navigating the crowded space with a tray of punch, stumbled slightly, his foot catching on the hem of a passing gown. The vibrant red liquid sloshed from the bowl, splashing directly onto Anne de Bourgh’s pale, delicate hand.

A collective gasp rippled through her immediate vicinity. Such a public mishap, particularly on one as seemingly delicate and reserved as Miss de Bourgh, might have provoked tears or a flustered retreat. But Anne, to Mary’s surprise, reacted with remarkable composure. She looked down at the crimson hand and stained tablecloth, then up at the mortified footman, and offered him a gentle, reassuring smile.

“Oh dear,” she said, her voice soft but clear, “a minor skirmish, quickly remedied. No harm done, I assure you.” Then, to everyone’s astonishment, a faint, genuine laugh escaped her lips, a sound rarely heard from the usually demure Miss de Bourgh. “Well, such small accidents will happen, and none for the worse, I trust. If nothing else, it certainly ensures one is remembered for the evening!”

Lord Gresham, seated two places down from Anne, a gentleman known in society for his quiet nature and particular empathy regarding ‘delicate matters,’ turned sharply at her laughter.

During their time in town, Mary had heard of Lord Gresham, whose own quiet existence was marked by a private tragedy that rendered him unable to pursue marriage, was a man of great sensibility. In his youth, a horse bolting in Hyde Park had resulted in a debilitating saddle injury, leaving him unable to father children. His younger brother was married with three robust sons, and it was widely understood the earldom would pass through that line. Widows and ladies requiring either a husband or a protector often sought him out, sensing his innate kindness and lack of personal ambition.

Mary was intrigued. She knew he was also aware, through society’s whispers, of Anne de Bourgh’s delicate constitution, which, it was said, could not withstand the rigors of childbirth.

Lord Gresham’s pale eyes, usually thoughtful and distant, fixed on Anne with a new, profound interest. He observed her quiet grace in the face of embarrassment, her gentle laugh, and the serene acceptance of her situation. He saw not a damaged woman, but one of quiet strength and profound dignity.

“Miss de Bourgh,” Lord Gresham said, his voice unusually clear across the small space between them, “your equanimity is most admirable. A truly rare quality, I assure you.”

Anne inclined her head, a faint blush touching her cheeks at his direct address, but her smile remained. “One tries, my Lord. Some things, after all, are not worth discomposing oneself over.”

Lord Gresham leaned slightly forward, his gaze thoughtful. “Indeed, Miss de Bourgh. There are often matters in life that test one’s composure, are there not? To meet them with such grace is a lesson to us all.” He paused, then added, with a subtle shift in his tone, “Perhaps a damp napkin might assist with that formidable splash?” He gestured discreetly towards the footman still hovering near, eager to redeem himself.

Anne’s smile deepened, acknowledging his quiet understanding and practical kindness. “You are too considerate, my Lord,” she murmured, accepting the napkin the now-recovering footman quickly offered. As she gently dabbed at her hand, her eyes met Lord Gresham’s again, a fleeting, shared moment of silent recognition passing between them, an unspoken acknowledgement of lives lived with peculiar restraints and quiet fortitude.

A subtle glance passed between Lord Gresham and Lady Catherine. Lady Catherine, for once, offered no imperious direction, only a thoughtful, almost hopeful, expression. It seemed that in a small, stained moment, Anne had, perhaps, forged a connection that none had anticipated.

At the Bennet table, Mary noticed that Mr. Darcy’s hand had already found Elizabeth’s beneath the cloth, his thumb brushing the back of hers in a gesture surprisingly intimate for so public a setting. Across from them, the Viscount leaned protectively towards Jane, his gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that made her colour bloom fresh and radiant.

Her mother, meanwhile, was nearly quivering in her seat, her eyes darting constantly between her daughters and their suitors. A look of such breathless triumph suffused her face that Mary half-fancied she might burst into applause before the host himself could speak. Lady Elaine, seated beyond, pressed Lady Catherine’s hand once in silent expectation, the anticipation crackling between them scarcely concealed.

The hum of conversation swelled and faded, a backdrop to the more pointed discussions unfolding at the various tables. As the main course was cleared, Lord Sedgewick, a genial man with an innate understanding of social timing, rose from his place at the head table, tapping a spoon gently against a crystal glass.

“My dear friends,” he announced, his voice carrying easily through the dining hall, “if I might claim your attention for but a moment before we proceed to dessert.”

A polite hush fell over the room. All eyes turned to him. Lord Sedgewick’s gaze swept over the tables, a warm smile gracing his lips as it settled, for a brief instant, upon the Bennet family and their distinguished companions.

“It is the distinct pleasure of me and my wife,” he continued, his tone filled with genuine warmth, “to announce not one, but two most felicitous engagements this evening. Engagements that promise to unite two of our most esteemed families, bringing much joy and prosperity to all concerned.” He paused, allowing the anticipation to build.

A ripple of excitement, both surprised and delighted, swept through the guests. Jane and Elizabeth, though prepared, exchanged quick, bright glances.

Lord Sedgewick turned first to the table where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth sat. “It is with the greatest joy that I announce the engagement of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn!”

A resounding burst of applause, louder and more sincere than any Mary had heard that evening, erupted. Cheers and congratulations filled the hall. Elizabeth, blushing brilliantly, squeezed Mr. Darcy’s hand. He, in turn, allowed a rare, tender smile to light his features, acknowledging the well-wishes with a slight bow.

As the applause began to subside, Lord Sedgewick raised his hand again. “And furthermore,” he proclaimed, his voice ringing with equal delight, “I am equally thrilled to announce the engagement of Viscount Spenston, heir to the Earl of Matlock, and Miss Jane Bennet!”

The applause surged anew, perhaps even more fervently, as Jane, her cheeks flushed with happiness, accepted the Viscount’s hand, a picture of blushing grace. The sheer magnitude of two such advantageous and highly anticipated alliances, announced simultaneously, was almost overwhelming. It was a triumph not just for the Bennets, but for the very fabric of London society, binding ancient lineage with new, admirable connections.

Mary watched, a profound sense of pride swelling in her chest. Her sisters, so beloved, so deserving, were now truly settled, and in the most remarkable fashion imaginable. Mr. Bennet, beside her, cleared his throat, a sound Mary recognized as his rare expression of profound emotion.

“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet murmured, loud enough for Lord Aubrey to hear, “given the agreeable company, I daresay we all feel quite like family already. It seems, my lord, my shelves may soon need to make room for a good many more volumes on the subject of domestic felicity.”

Lord Aubrey’s expression, however, did not reflect the lighthearted jest. The faint smile that touched his lips was filled with a poignant, almost sad wistfulness. His eyes, fixed on Mary, held a depth of silent communication she found impossible to decipher. She met his gaze, a question forming on her lips, and a brief, silent current of disquiet passed between them before he looked away, the mask of polite ease settling back over his features. Mary’s heart fluttered in an unwelcome but familiar way, a strange unease settling beside her contentment.

Her father leaned in, his voice a low, dry murmur meant only for her. “Leave him be, my dear,” he advised, without looking at her. “Some burdens are not to be shared in a ballroom. He will speak when he is ready. Be patient. Your concern, I daresay, is already a great kindness to him, whether he knows it or not.” He then turned his attention back to the table, a gentle reassurance passing between them that needed no further words.

Mary exhaled slowly, the heaviness of Lord Aubrey’s looks still pressing upon her, their meaning unresolved. Yet at the same moment her gaze was drawn to where her sisters sat, encircled by joy and admiration. It struck her that life was always thus, a mingling of others’ quiet sorrows with one’s own treasured happiness. And tonight, however complicated her own heart might feel, she could still rejoice in theirs.

Mary’s eyes, filled with happy tears, darted to Elizabeth and Jane, and she saw, at the very same moment, the two men they loved lift her sisters’ hands to their lips, a perfect synchronicity of public devotion. It was a gesture of unvarnished affection that left a lump in Mary’s throat.

Across the table, Lady Catherine and Lady Elaine shared a knowing, silent glance, their lips curling into satisfied smiles before they turned to Mrs. Bennet, who had gone quite pale. Lady Catherine leaned in close. “Breathe, my dear,” she murmured, a hint of something uncharacteristically warm in her tone. “You have done well.”

Lady Elaine, with a quiet grace, simply squeezed Mrs. Bennet’s trembling hand under the table.

The announcement hung in the air, a golden affirmation of the evening’s shift. Dessert and coffee were served amidst a heightened buzz of congratulation and speculation. Mary observed the triumphant gleam in Lady Catherine’s eye, the quiet satisfaction of Lady Huntingdon, and the genuine, if reserved, warmth of the Earl of Matlock as they accepted felicitations. Mrs. Walters, seated close to the Earl, received several knowing glances and discreet nods from ladies who at one time would have dismissed her. Her place gracefully secured by the Earl’s open partiality. Even Jimmy, seated at their table, seemed to absorb the celebratory mood, his smile broadening as he watched the joyful exchange between his newly engaged cousins and their fiancées.

As the company began to disperse from the dining hall, drifting back towards the ballroom for the remainder of the evening’s festivities, Mary watched for the movements of Lord Gresham. True to his earlier, subtle indication, he made a direct path for Anne de Bourgh, who was gracefully rising from her seat.

Anne’s fingers tightened ever so slightly upon the back of her chair, as though steadying herself, and Mary noticed the delicate flush that bloomed across her pale cheeks the moment she saw him approach.

“Miss de Bourgh,” Lord Gresham said, his voice quiet, yet clearly audible in the immediate vicinity, “if you would grant me the honour of the next set? I confess, your remarkable composure earlier has quite convinced me of the virtues of a steady hand, a quality one seldom finds so gracefully demonstrated.”

Anne, her eyes flickering up with surprise and shy pleasure, a soft blush returning, a faint, genuine smile playing on her lips. Mary thought she detected a sparkle there, as though Anne herself was startled by the warmth she felt.

“My Lord, I would be pleased to,” she replied, her voice gentle, accepting his proffered arm.

Lord Gresham bowed with exquisite formality, though there was a softness about his expression that no courtly manner could conceal. As Anne placed her hand lightly upon his sleeve, Mary thought she saw her lips curve into the smallest, almost involuntary smile, more radiant than any she had worn all evening.

As they moved onto the floor, Mary noted the curious glances, the whispers, but there was no malice in them now, only a quiet, speculative interest in this unexpected pairing. Lord Gresham, always considerate, led her through the figures with a careful grace, their conversation appearing as quiet and thoughtful as their movements.

At one turn Anne’s gaze slipped downward, only to lift again with surprising alacrity when she realized his eyes lingered on her. Their fingers brushed as they changed positions in the dance, and though nothing in his countenance betrayed impropriety, there was a quickening to her colour that spoke volumes.

It was clear he was a gentleman who valued companionship above the boisterous demands of a partner, and Anne, in turn, seemed to blossom under his gentle attention.

The ballroom was soon alive again with music and movement. Mary watched her sisters, radiant and undeniably happy. Jane, ever graceful, spoke with Viscount Spenston, their faces a picture of serene contentment. He seemed to watch her with an almost reverent devotion, his expression softening whenever their eyes met. Elizabeth, meanwhile, matched Mr. Darcy in their intellectual, spirited connection Mary had so often observed between them.

Mary could not help but glance again at Anne and Lord Gresham. Where Anne had once seemed a shadow in any gathering, now there was a quiet animation to her countenance. Each smile he drew forth from her felt like sunlight breaking through a long-cast cloud.

As the evening began to wind down, with fewer couples taking to the floor, the final set was approaching. It was a waltz, known to be a favorite among the most accomplished dancers and engaged couples. Mary saw Mr. Darcy approach Viscount Spenston.

“Michael,” Mr. Darcy said, a rare, almost playful gleam in his eye, “shall we exchange partners for the final set? I believe our fiancées might quite enjoy the novelty.”

Viscount Spenston’s smile broadened. “A capital idea, William. I daresay now that our engagement is official, we may dance three.”

A ripple of amusement spread through the onlookers. The exchange, both formal and deeply personal, solidified their new relationships.

When the music for the current set drew to a close, and the musicians began to play the languid, final waltz of the evening, Lord Gresham once more approached Anne.

“Miss de Bourgh,” he said, his pale eyes holding a gentle sincerity, “if I might be so bold as to claim your hand for the very last dance? I should very much like to conclude this most memorable evening with the most memorable of partners.”

Anne, her composure entirely unruffled, yet her eyes bright with a subtle pleasure, inclined her head. “My Lord, the honour would be entirely mine,” she replied, placing her hand in his.

They moved gracefully onto the floor, a quiet, dignified pair, their steps unhurried, their conversation soft and sustained. Mary watched them, a profound sense of rightness settling over her. In Lord Gresham, Anne had found not a husband to meet societal expectations, but a companion who understood her quiet strength, and perhaps, a protector for a life lived on its own terms. Their dance was not a grand display, but a tender, intimate tableau, witnessed with respectful silence by the few remaining guests.

Soon after the final strains of music faded, coaches began to be called, and guests made their farewells. The Sedgewicks stood by the grand entrance, accepting praise for their magnificent ball.

As the Bennet family prepared to depart, Lady Catherine de Bourgh approached, her expression a rare mixture of satisfaction and genuine warmth. She embraced Elizabeth and Jane, a gesture of remarkable affection. To Mary, she offered a nod of particular approval. “Miss Mary, your observations are always as acute as they are silent. A valuable trait in a world prone to excessive chatter.” She then turned to Mr. Bennet. “Mr. Bennet, I trust you have found the evening... educational?”

Mr. Bennet chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Indeed, Madam. I have discovered that even a quiet man may occasionally find himself surrounded by a delightful, if rather boisterous, expansion of his family.”

Lady Catherine gave a rare, genuine laugh. “Quite so. And it seems even my nephew, James, has found his footing quite nicely. It is good to have him back amongst us.” She glanced towards where Jimmy, a fond smile on her lips, as he was taking his leave of his brother and aunt.

As they finally stepped into their carriage, Mary leaned back against the plush velvet, her mind replaying the events of the evening. The grace of Mrs. Hurst’s re-acceptance, the decisive, public cutting-off of the Bingleys, the twin engagements, the quiet, budding understanding between Anne and Lord Gresham, and the sheer joy of Jimmy Fitzwilliam’s return. The world had shifted on its axis tonight, and the Bennet family stood firmly at its new, brighter centre. The air, cool and fresh with the early morning, seemed to hum with the promise of a future more remarkable than any of them could have imagined.

Posted on 2025-09-07

Chapter 16

The morning light, though attempting to be cheerful, struggled to penetrate the heavy damask curtains of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s breakfast parlour. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, chasing away the lingering chill of dawn, but the air still held the faint, sweet scent of last night’s festivities.

Mary, always an early riser, found herself already seated at the polished mahogany table, a cup of strong tea in her hand. She rather liked these quiet moments before the day’s demands began in earnest.

Across from her, Lady Catherine presided with her usual formidable presence, as commanding at breakfast as she was in any ballroom. Emma Woodhouse, radiating an almost visible satisfaction, was just accepting a plate of buttered toast, while Mrs. Hurst, looking remarkably composed if a trifle pale, chose a single delicate pastry. Jimmy stifled a yawn as he poured himself coffee. Mary wondered if he would ever quite believe he belonged in such company. Elizabeth, Papa, and, most surprisingly, Lydia had joined the party, taking seats closer to the warmth of the fire.

“Lady Catherine,” Mrs. Hurst began, her voice soft but sincere, “I am profoundly grateful for your extraordinary kindness in allowing us to remain under your roof last night. Your generosity has provided us with a true sanctuary.”

Emma, catching Lady Catherine’s eye, added with her usual charming directness, “And I, Lady Catherine, am equally obliged for your hospitality. It will be invaluable to speak with the Bennet sisters and your daughter this morning to reflect on such a memorable ball.”

Lady Catherine offered Emma a brisk, approving nod. Then, turning her attention to Mrs. Hurst, her voice, while firm, held a distinct note of command that was, in this instance, entirely benevolent. “You are welcome here, Mrs. Hurst, for as long as it is necessary. Consider this your home until such time as you are able to arrange new lodgings to your satisfaction. A lady of your conduct deserves nothing less than proper comfort and suitable accommodation away from your siblings.” Her gaze sharpened slightly. “I understand Mr. Hurst is likewise disinclined to return to his brother-in-law’s lodgings?”

Mrs. Hurst nodded, her eyes wide with relief. “Indeed, Lady Catherine. He found the atmosphere most distressing. We both did. He believes, and I agree wholeheartedly, a change of scene is quite essential for his constitution, given all that has transpired. Perhaps his parents will allow us to return to their estate.”

“Quite right,” Lady Catherine declared, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “One cannot expect a gentleman to endure such a want of discernment in his household. Consider it settled, then.”

Mary sipped her tea, feeling a quiet satisfaction at Lady Catherine’s decisiveness. There was something strangely comforting about a woman who always seemed to know what ought to be done, and then simply did it.

Mrs. Hurst, feeling a profound sense of gratitude and safety, now spoke with unaccustomed frankness. “Thank you, my lady. My husband was quite beside himself last night. He could not bring himself to remain. He had known, of course, that both my sister and brother were ambitious. But we had no idea they were capable of such a thing. Not merely the public disgrace, which was mortifying enough, but the forgery, my lady! I confess, I knew nothing of it until I heard Lady Sedgewick speak.”

“It was that final, despicable act which proved to be the last straw. The rumors about my brother hiring ruffians had, of course, been circulating for some time, but we had hoped it was just malicious gossip. The spectacle at the ball, however, followed by the revelation of the forgery that was confirmation. That was the final, undeniable proof that there was a coldness in their hearts we could no longer excuse.” Mrs. Hurst took a shaky breath, the release of long-suppressed truth giving her the courage to voice the unvarnished truth.

“In a way, my lady, it is a relief to be free. The truth is, my husband and I have been enslaved by my sister’s ambition for years. Every social engagement, every comment, every decision was made to serve her endless pursuit of status. Her temper, her demands. Mr. Hurst, who is a gentleman of honor, if quiet, found it all utterly distasteful. He did not drink as much as people supposed, my lady. He sought some small comfort in his glass, to escape the constant and vulgar clamor of my sister’s plans.”

Lady Catherine’s face, for once, was wiped clean of all expression save utter, cold fury. Mrs. Hurst, having finally unburdened herself, sank back into her chair, her hands trembling, but her spirit feeling lighter than it had in months. She had chosen her new family. They, in turn, had chosen her.

Lydia, who had been listening with uncharacteristic stillness, now leaned forward, her bold nature overcoming her newfound decorum. “But if you knew they were so horrid,” she asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the hushed room, “why did you not simply leave them sooner?”

Mrs. Hurst looked at her, taken aback, then a sad, rueful smile touched her lips. “I am the eldest, Miss Lydia,” she explained quietly. “I had always believed that I could somehow temper my sister’s worst impulses. I was her confidante, her ally in our younger days. I always thought that I could guide her, could make her see reason. But she grew more ambitious, and I grew more weary. It was a failure of duty on my part, I suppose, to have been so weak as to not walk away before matters descended so very far beyond recall.”

Lydia’s eyes, wide with a dawning horror, swept over Mrs. Hurst’s distressed form. She took a small, involuntary gasp. “Oh,” she said, her voice a low, shaky whisper. “I... I see it now. The silly giggling, the bold glances, the flirting with officers. It was all a desperate striving after consequence, just like her. I was on my way to becoming exactly like Miss Bingley, was I not?”

Papa, who had been watching his youngest daughter with a rare, open fondness, gave a single, slow nod. His usual dry wit was absent, replaced by a profound sincerity.

Her voice, for once, was soft and entirely earnest as she turned to her father. “Papa,” she began, a hint of genuine tears in her eyes, “thank you for engaging Mrs. Walters. I... I see now that you did not do it to punish me, but to protect me from myself.”

Mr. Bennet merely reached across the space between them and patted her hand. “My dear,” he said, his voice unusually gentle, “a father’s duty is not to punish his children, but to provide them with the means to guide his children towards their better selves. Sometimes, that means hiring a woman who can teach them how to tell the difference between a foolish flight of fancy and a proper foundation. I believe, in this case, the measure was a wise one.”

Lady Catherine, whose own face had softened imperceptibly at Lydia’s confession, gave a sharp, decisive nod. “Indeed, Bennet,” she declared, her voice as decisive as ever. “It is a rare thing to see a parent act with such foresight. Your daughter’s discernment, though late in coming, is a credit to your judgment. One cannot always be protected from the folly of others, but a mind properly trained can defend itself from its own worst impulses. It seems you have found the only remedy for a flighty disposition.”

Mary felt a profound sense of shared understanding with her sister. Lydia’s eyes, glistening with unshed tears, were filled with a sincerity that Mary had rarely, if ever, seen before.

“And Mary,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I have not thanked you for making Papa and Mama finally see what I was blind to. You made them see how perilously I was proceeding. You helped them protect me from myself, too.”

“We are sisters,” she said, her voice soft and composed. “We protect one another. It was a simple thing to do, but I am glad it made a difference.” She gave Lydia a small, genuine smile, and for the first time in her life, she felt a true, uncomplicated bond with her youngest sister.

In this one moment, her careful observations and her quiet wisdom had been the very thing to save her sister. It was not a triumph, she thought, but a quiet, beautiful vindication.

A footman entered, bearing a silver tray laden with a selection of morning papers. Lady Catherine waved a dismissive hand at the more politically inclined sheets, fixing her gaze instead on a familiar, slightly less formal publication. “Ah, the Ton Times,” she announced, her voice cutting through the soft clatter of china. “Let us see what witless observations society has deemed worthy of print this morning.”

Mary, her curiosity piqued, watched as Lady Catherine unfolded the paper with a snap. Her Ladyship’s eyes, keen and discerning, scanned the columns. A faint, scarcely perceptible curve touched her lips. Mary felt her own anticipation rise, surely the morning’s news would be as eventful as the evening that had preceded it.

“Hmph,” she pronounced, “as expected. The usual vapid pronouncements. But ah, what is this?” Her gaze sharpened, resting upon a bold headline. She read aloud, her tone dry as parchment, “Bennet by Blood? Or By Brilliance? Two London Titans Bow to Longbourn’s Charms!”

Emma gave a small, knowing smile, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. Mrs. Hurst, a flicker of something of awe in her eyes, glanced quickly at Mary. Mary could not help but feel a small surge of pride, her family, once so easily dismissed, now the subject of London’s most pointed curiosity.

Lady Catherine continued, her voice gaining a certain relish, “And below it, this rather colourful little piece. One almost suspects a certain hand in its composition,” she remarked, glancing pointedly at Emma.

Mary hid a smile behind her teacup. Emma, after all, was a master at turning the wheels of society with nothing but a few well-placed words.

“B’s Scheme Bombastically - Social Self-Combustion at Sedgewick’s Soirée! A Gentleman’s Hand Forged, a Lady’s Dignity Undone, and a Mr. B Quite Incapacitated by His Own Indiscretion!”

A collective gasp, soft but audible, rippled around the table. Mrs. Hurst winced, drawing her shoulders in slightly. Jimmy choked on his coffee, sputtering into his napkin.

“I believe you are quite right, aunt,” Jimmy said, a playful glint in his eye as he took a sip of coffee. “That particular phrase has a familiar scent of honeyed malice.”

“Oh, how dreadfully theatrical!” Mr. Bennet remarked, setting down his own teacup with a careful hand. “One might think they were performing on a stage. It does seem a great deal of effort to achieve so little.”

Mary could not help but marvel at how quickly society could turn. Just a week ago, the Bingleys had seemed so assured of their place. Now, their downfall was breakfast entertainment.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Jimmy, once he had recovered. “The entire affair laid bare for all to see!”

“Indeed, James,” Lady Catherine said, her tone coolly triumphant. “It seems some truths, however inconvenient, will always find their way to the light. And the author of this particular piece has seen fit to include details that leave little to the imagination.” She continued to read, her voice measured with deliberate effect, detailing the forgery, Miss Bingley’s ill-fated collapse, and Mr. Darcy’s explicit withdrawal of acquaintance.

Mary watched Mrs. Hurst closely, noting the tension in her posture. She could only imagine what it must feel like to see one’s family so publicly dissected. And yet, Mrs. Hurst bore it with remarkable composure, perhaps, Mary thought, because she knew herself to be blameless.

“It further elaborates on Miss Bingley’s audacious attempt to compromise William,” Lady Catherine read, a note of particular distaste in her voice. “‘ The calculated theatricality of Miss B’s engineered collapse, designed no doubt to ensnare the scion of Derbyshire, was met with a display of gentlemanly evasion as swift as it was decisive. ’ Ha! Quite rightly so. My nephew has always possessed a keen eye for presumption.”

Elizabeth, sitting straighter, merely smiled faintly. Mary suspected her sister was privately delighted by the public vindication of Mr. Darcy’s conduct.

Lydia, who had been listening with rapt attention, clapped her hands together. “Oh, that sounds thrilling! Like a novel!”

“And then this,” Lady Catherine added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush as she scanned the paper. “‘ Following her ignominious fall, or rather, falls, witnesses report a spectacle of staggering proportions. The young lady was seen to be so undone by her mortification that she crumpled upon the floor once more, this time with her brother, the very source of her disgrace, abandoning her in full view of the assembly. He departed without a word, leaving her to be seen to by a mere footman. A most brutal, though perhaps deserved, display of fraternal disavowal. ’”

“Bingley has always been a coward,” Mr. Bennet declared, his voice cutting through the soft murmurings. “He was ever willing to permit his sister to scheme and claw her way into society, but the instant it touched himself, he fled.”

“And there is more,” Lady Catherine continued, her voice gaining a sharp edge of amusement. “‘ In a further display of her complete social ineptitude, the disgraced Miss B was given the cut direct by not one, but two ladies of consequence, Lady dB and Miss B herself, who delivered the most elegant public address of the season, a most instructive display of quiet devastation. ’ The report is quite effusive on the subject of your eloquence, Miss Mary,” she added, a glint of approval in her eye. “It is rare to see such grace in adversity.”

Mary felt a blush creep up her neck. She had not expected her actions to be so publicly remarked upon, but a quiet satisfaction settled within her.

“Ha!” Jimmy barked, setting his coffee cup down with a clatter. “That was the most devastating thing I have ever seen. You should have been a general, Mary, you know how to win a war without raising a weapon.”

“The author of this piece appears to have a fondness for poetic justice,” Lady Catherine declared, her voice a triumphant flourish. “‘ It is said that the assembled company, once so silent, erupted into open laughter at Miss B’s plight, a most fitting chorus for one so eager to mock others. It seems her descent, a most graceful plummet from the heights of arrogance, has been deemed more entertaining than all her witless conversation combined. ’”

Papa let out a short, surprised bark of laughter. “Even in her ruin, she manages to be a bore. I must confess, I find myself in perfect agreement with this author. There is a certain poetic justice in it.”

Lady Catherine continued to read, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “‘ One can only say that Miss B proved her true character, not in her aspirations, but in her disgrace. She did not merely fall from grace. She was laid bare by her own hubris, a public spectacle not soon to be forgotten. It is a lesson to us all that the ladder of ambition is often polished with a lack of integrity, and that such an ascent can prove a most precarious climb. ’”

“And listen to this, Mrs. Hurst,” Lady Catherine added, her gaze resting pointedly on the other woman. “A truly excellent passage concerning your own conduct. It notes how ‘ Mrs. H, a Lady of undeniable integrity, demonstrated commendable discretion in a situation of profound familial embarrassment, proving that true character shines brightest when its associations falter. ’ A very neatly turned phrase, I must say.”

Mrs. Hurst flushed, her eyes suspiciously bright, and lowered her gaze quickly, as though unwilling to betray the emotion that pricked so near the surface.

“I... I am quite relieved, Lady Catherine. One never knows how such things will be perceived.”

“One does, if one conducts oneself with propriety, as you did,” Lady Catherine retorted, though without her usual sharpness. Her eyes, however, returned to the paper, scanning for more. “Ah, and a most pointed mention of Mr. Bingley’s condition .” She lifted her chin slightly. “It explicitly states that ‘ Mr. B was observed to be in considerable discomfort throughout the evening, owing to a regrettable ankle injury that would, in the opinion of many, have been better served by quiet repose rather than public display. Indeed, one wonders at the judgment that would bring a gentleman so physically impaired into such a demanding social assembly. ’ Most astute, if I may say so. It leaves no doubt as to the folly of their presence.”

Emma, unable to contain her satisfaction, offered a demure cough. “It seems the public is quite as discerning as our own private circles, Lady Catherine.”

“And it appears,” Lady Catherine continued, her voice lowering conspiratorially, “that the Ton Times has also gleaned some rather interesting intelligence regarding Mr. Bingley’s initial acquaintance with my nephew.” She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘ Sources close to the matter suggest that Mr. B’s timely rescue of Mr. D from an apparent attack was, in fact, an elaborately staged affair, engineered by Mr. B himself through hired ruffians, purely to gain favourable introduction to the Master of P. Such an artifice, if true, speaks volumes of the lengths some will go to climb the social ladder. ’ Despicable! Though entirely predictable for such an upstart.”

A low murmur of astonishment passed through the room.

Mary, sipping her tea, felt a quiet satisfaction bloom within her. That the paper named her among the instruments of Miss Bingley’s downfall astonished her yet. Once the most overlooked of five sisters, she found herself, improbably, a figure of consequence in the Ton’s morning amusement. It was not triumph she craved, but it was justice, and it was hers.

Suddenly, Lydia, who had been quietly absorbed in her tea, piped up, “Oh, so Mr. Bingley hired people to assault Mr. Darcy just so he could save him? That is dreadfully unfair! Mama always said gentlemen fought fair, even in a duel!”

Mary hid a smile. Trust Lydia to find the most direct, and entertaining, way through a scandal.

Lady Catherine turned to Lydia, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “My dear Miss Lydia, I do believe you are the only young lady in London who would find fault with the lack of proper dueling etiquette in a scandal.”

Lydia grinned, undaunted. “Well, if Mr. Darcy knew, why did he not just strike Mr. Bingley himself? That is what Kitty and I would do!”

Elizabeth sighed, a hand flying to her forehead. Mr. Bennet, however, let out a short, surprised bark of laughter.

Lady Catherine let out a delighted laugh. “You, my dear, have the heart of a lion and the tact of a terrier! But I assure you, my nephew’s methods are rather more devastating than fisticuffs. Last night’s public disavowal was the social equivalent of a decisive blow, without a single bruise to mar his waistcoat.”

Mary reflected that Lydia’s approach had a certain appeal, direct, uncomplicated, and entirely at odds with the elaborate maneuvers of polite society. Still, she could not help but agree with Lady Catherine. The quiet devastation of reputation was, in its way, far more thrilling than any physical altercation.

Lydia’s eyes danced. “Still, a little excitement never hurt anyone. I should have liked to see Mr. Darcy strike a blow, just once! And Mr. Darcy is so big, he could easily have done it.”

“Indeed, Miss Lydia,” Lady Catherine rejoined, a glint of shared humour in her eyes, “His size, as you so aptly put it, is one of his many advantages. However, gentlemen of his standing resolve matters with the weight of their consequence, not with their fists. As was quite amply demonstrated last night when he publicly disavowed the entire Bingley connection.” She tapped the newspaper with a manicured finger. “This, Miss Lydia, is far more devastating than any mere pugilistic encounter. It cuts to the quick of their ambition, rather than merely bruising a jaw.”

Lydia feigned a pout, though a corner of her mouth lifted in a budding smile. “But striking sounds much more exciting to witness.”

Lady Catherine wagged a finger at her, her tone fond. “Excitement, Miss Lydia, is your specialty. Leave the quiet devastation to the rest of us.”

Lydia merely sniffed, unconvinced, but the shared twinkle in her eye and Lady Catherine’s left no doubt as to their mutual, if unconventional, understanding and shared amusement.

Mary watched the exchange with amusement, feeling a warmth spread in her chest. There was something reassuring in the way Lady Catherine and Lydia could turn even the most scandalous news into a moment of shared laughter.

Lady Catherine merely hummed in acknowledgment, setting the paper down with a decisive rustle. “Well, the matter is settled, then. Society has rendered its verdict, and it aligns precisely with my own. Now, Mrs. Hurst, shall we discuss the details of your new dressmaker? It is quite clear that the previous one lacked any true understanding of proportion.”

Mary, sipping her tea, felt a quiet satisfaction bloom within her. The morning papers had indeed left no room for doubt. Justice, in the intricate theatre of the Ton, had been served, swiftly and publicly. The Bingley name was irrevocably tarnished, while her sisters’ happiness, and indeed, Mrs. Hurst’s redemption, had been proclaimed with resounding clarity. The social currents, once turbulent, now flowed in a decidedly harmonious direction, carrying them all towards a future brimming with unexpected possibilities.

As the laughter faded and the last of the scandal’s details were absorbed, Mary noticed Lady Catherine’s gaze settle on Emma Woodhouse, who was quietly buttering a slice of toast with the air of a general surveying a conquered field.

“Miss Woodhouse,” Lady Catherine said, her tone gruff but unmistakably admiring, “you are a dangerous woman, in the very best sense. I do not know whether to be grateful for your management of last night’s events, or to fear what you might accomplish if ever you set your mind against me.”

Emma’s eyes sparkled. “Why, Lady Catherine, I assure you, my only ambition is to see justice and harmony prevail. If I am dangerous, it is only to the undeserving.”

Lydia, ever ready to seize an opportunity for mischief, cried, “Oh, Lady Catherine, you must admit you enjoy a little gossip as much as any of us!”

Lady Catherine drew herself up, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “I do not gossip, Miss Lydia. I dispense cautionary truth. There is a considerable difference, though I do not expect the Ton Times to appreciate the nuance.”

Elizabeth smiled archly. “Indeed, Lady Catherine, but I believe the Ton Times is not nearly so formidable as you.”

“Nor half so accurate,” Emma added, raising her cup in a playful toast.

Mary hid a smile behind her teacup, thinking how very odd and wonderful it was to find herself in such company, where scandal could be dissected with wit, and even the most formidable ladies could be teased into laughter. She felt a quiet pride in her family and friends, and a secret thrill at the knowledge that, for once, they were not merely surviving the currents of society, but steering them.

Lady Catherine, with a final, regal sniff, declared, “Well, let us hope society takes the lesson to heart. And if it does not, I daresay Miss Woodhouse will see to it that it does.”

Mary’s heart lifted. In this new, brighter morning, it seemed even the Ton itself might be made to see sense, if only for a little while.

~*~

The days following the Sedgewick ball unfolded with a swiftness that left Mary almost breathless. London, it seemed, had collectively decided that the Bennet sisters, now firmly established by two momentous engagements, were to be absorbed into the very fabric of its most fashionable circles.

The morning after the ball, as Lady Catherine had perused the Ton Times, Mary had felt the shift in earnest. No longer merely tolerated, they were courted, admired, and, perhaps most surprisingly, genuinely welcomed.

Their week had been a delightful whirlwind. Mornings often found them at various calls, exchanging compliments and receiving invitations. One sunny afternoon saw them at the British Museum, where Mary, to her quiet delight, was captivated for near an hour by the Elgin Marbles, feeling a profound connection to ancient artistry. Lord Aubrey, who had accompanied them, had engaged her in a fascinating discussion on the very nature of beauty in antiquity, making the sculptures come alive with his quiet insights. Elizabeth, too, found much to ponder, while even Lydia and Kitty were momentarily awed by the sheer scale of the curiosities, though their attention predictably gravitated towards the more colourful and exotic artifacts.

Evenings were a tapestry of diversion. They had attended the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where they saw a rousing performance of a comedy by Mr. Sheridan, the witty dialogue sparking lively debate amongst them afterwards. Another night brought them to the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket for the opera, a grand spectacle that, for Mary, transcended mere entertainment. The soaring arias and dramatic staging of Mozart’s Don Giovanni filled the vast auditorium, leaving her with a sense of elevated beauty that even Lydia’s whispered complaints about their length could not entirely diminish. These outings, combined with strolls through Hyde Park and visits to the most exclusive circulating libraries, had woven a vibrant new rhythm into their London existence.

Now, on Saturday evening, they found themselves at Matlock House, Lady Huntingdon acting as hostess. The air within the grand residence was imbued with a warmth and casual elegance that spoke of long-established comfort. Mary observed the subtle touches that proclaimed Lady Huntingdon’s unique blend of sophistication and practicality, the vibrant wildflowers interspersed with more formal arrangements, the exquisite, yet comfortable, furniture that invited conversation rather than mere admiration. Kitty, Lydia, and Georgiana, usually relegated to the company of their own age, had been permitted to attend this dinner.

To Mary’s pleasant surprise, her younger sisters, buoyed by the week’s triumphs, displayed an unexpected poise. Kitty, usually prone to giggles, managed several composed remarks about the day’s shopping. Lydia, though still prone to bursts of enthusiasm, listened with an almost unnerving attention when older gentlemen spoke, occasionally interjecting with a surprisingly apt, if somewhat blunt, observation that sparked unexpected laughter. Georgiana, for her part, conversed quietly with Jane and Elizabeth, her soft smiles and thoughtful questions endearing her to all.

Lady Catherine, observing from her place at the head of the table beside Lady Huntingdon, offered several approving nods. “Upon my word, Miss Lydia,” she remarked, her tone dry but with a distinct note of grudging admiration, “you are quite the spectacle this evening. Such quietude! Such thoughtful interjections! You have certainly learned to hold your tongue... at least, until it suits you. I rather thought such discipline was beyond you, given our previous interactions. What precisely have these London drawing-rooms done to my once-formidable adversary?”

Lydia, with a dramatic sigh, yet playful twinkle, answered, “Oh, Lady Catherine, you always did appreciate a spirited argument! Even the most formidable must bow to necessity. One must save one’s best pronouncements for the most discerning ears, must one not? One learns that a whisper can carry just as far as a shout, especially when one is surrounded by such very important people .”

“So it would seem, Miss Lydia,” Lady Catherine drawled, a knowing smirk settling on her features. “A point well made. One would not have thought such wisdom resided in such a frivolous package. Though I daresay, a great many of these ‘very important people’ are now quite over-awed by your sudden discretion.”

Mary, observing the exchange, thought it a curious mercy that Lady Catherine, in her blunt honesty, had provided the very audience Lydia needed. It seemed her youngest sister found a strange kind of approval, and even a form of guidance, in the formidable lady’s barbed attention. And for Lady Catherine, Mary suspected, Lydia offered a rare, unvarnished spark in a world often too polite to be truly interesting.

The evening progressed delightfully, filled with congenial conversation and excellent fare. Mary observed Lord Gresham, who had been specifically invited, engaging Anne de Bourgh in prolonged conversation. His quiet attentiveness seemed to draw Anne out, and Mary noted a subtle softening in Anne’s features, a greater ease in her posture.

Mary saw Lord Gresham approach Lady Catherine, a serious expression on his face. When he reappeared in the drawing-room a few minutes later, he made directly for Anne. Taking her hand, he led her to a quiet alcove.

Mary could not hear their words, but she saw Lord Gresham incline his head, speaking earnestly, and Anne, after a moment’s thought, offered a small, shy smile and a gentle nod. The exchange was discreet, but the message was clear to Mary’s discerning eye. Lord Gresham had asked for, and been granted, permission to pay Anne his addresses, formalizing their friendship into a courtship. It was a union that would defy conventional expectations, a testament to understanding and quiet strength, rather than grand passion.

Throughout the evening, Mary found herself frequently in conversation with Lord Aubrey. He sought her out, not merely with polite enquiries, but with genuine interest in her thoughts on the various excursions they had made. He recalled, most particularly, her quiet admiration for the classical sculptures at the British Museum, and engaged her once more in a thoughtful discussion of Greek philosophy and art.

Mary, finding herself for once with a listener who truly appreciated the depth of her interests, felt her intellect invigorated, her responses quickening with a delight that surprised even herself. There was a comfortable rhythm to their exchanges, a sense of quiet companionship that felt both new and remarkably natural, a gentle concord of understanding that settled deep within her.

And yet beneath that ease there was something restless, something unsaid. More than once, as she spoke with animation, she caught his eyes not fixed on hers but turned inward, clouded by the same shadow of sorrow she had glimpsed before. His smile, though unfailingly kind, held a faint wistfulness that did not belong to the moment. Once, after she had remarked on the way art preserved truths that history too often obscured, he looked at her with sudden sharpness, as if her words had struck near some private wound. He seemed about to speak, and Mary’s heart quickened, but then he only inclined his head, masking the moment with another courteous observation.

Mary, recalling her father’s counsel, that some burdens were not meant to be forced into the light, bit back the question pressing at her lips. Still, a strange tension coiled within her. Part sympathy, part frustration, and part a quiet, unwelcome flutter of feeling. There was delight in his attention, certainly, but also unease, for she could not tell whether the depth she glimpsed in him was meant for her, or if she was only stumbling upon the private weight he carried.

So their conversation wove on, soothing and stimulating by turns, yet touched always with the faintest awkwardness, like music slightly out of tune. Mary found herself hoping, though she scarcely admitted it even to herself, that he would, in time, confide what lay so heavily upon him. For if he did not speak soon, she feared her heart might entangle itself in mysteries that would not bear the weight of silence.

Meanwhile, she observed the familiar, easy camaraderie between Mr. Fitzwilliam and Lady Amelia Carmichael. They shared an animated discussion over a particularly delicate Vol-au-Vent, their laughter ringing lightly across the table. Mr. Fitzwilliam, ever the charming former military man, listened intently to Lady Amelia’s spirited anecdotes about her time in Brighton, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. Lady Amelia, in turn, seemed to thrive under his attentive gaze, her vivacity shining all the more. Their connection was evident, not in grand declarations, but in comfortable silences, shared glances, and the palpable ease with which they existed in each other’s company. Mary sensed a deep, unspoken understanding between them, a friendship that had steadily deepened into something more profound and mutual.

Emma drew Mary aside, their conversation hushed amidst the lingering hum of the evening. “Mary,” Emma confided, with unaccustomed seriousness, “I have been observing your family this week. And I confess, there is a warmth amongst you, a genuine affection that I have not often witnessed. My own dear father, for all his love, has always been more concerned with proprieties. And my friendships, while dear, often feel managed. But with your sisters, with all of you, it seems quite natural. I find I envy it.” Her gaze softened, fixed somewhere beyond Mary’s shoulder, perhaps on Jane and Elizabeth, still conversing animatedly with their fiancés. “Perhaps there is more to true happiness than perfect connections and meticulous planning. Perhaps it lies in a warmth of heart that I have yet to fully cultivate.”

Mary, looking into Emma’s thoughtful eyes, felt a quiet thrill. This was not the Emma who had once been so certain of her own infallible judgment, but a new, more discerning Emma, a mind opening to deeper truths. The seeds of a profound maturity were indeed being planted, even in the heart of London.

~*~

The gentlemen retired to Lord Matlock’s smoking room, the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversation soon replacing the lighter chatter of the ladies. Mr. Bennet, finding a comfortable armchair by the unlit hearth, accepted a glass of port from a footman. The Earl of Matlock, Viscount Spenston, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Fitzwilliam gathered nearby, their discussion turning, as it often did, to matters of estate management and the shifting political landscape. Mr. Gardiner, ever the astute observer, listened with quiet interest, occasionally offering a pertinent question. Lord Gresham, looking rather more animated than usual after his conversation with Miss de Bourgh, conversed with Jimmy, their topic undoubtedly his advancing courtship.

Mr. Bennet watched them all, a faint, contented smile playing on his lips. His daughters, once destined for a quiet country existence, were now flourishing in London society, embraced by connections far beyond his wildest imaginings. He had little doubt they would acquit themselves with ease, especially with the formidable Lady Catherine and the strategic Emma Woodhouse seemingly acting as their unappointed social generals.

He took a sip of his port, allowing himself a rare moment of unburdened satisfaction. It was a peculiar sensation, this absence of worry for his girls’ futures, a lightness he had not realised he carried until it had been lifted. For the first time in years, he felt the weight of paternal worry ease from his shoulders.

Lord Aubrey, his hands clasped so tightly they were nearly bloodless at the knuckles, who had been lingering near the edge of the group, seemingly lost in thought, now approached the Earl of Matlock, hesitant yet restless, as one compelled against his own wishes by the force of a dreadful duty. His step faltered at first, for the weight of what he carried pressed visibly upon him, a shadow across features that were usually serene. He glanced at Mr. Bennet, then at Jimmy, before letting out a breath he seemed to have held for many days.

“Lord Matlock,” Lord Aubrey began, his voice low, almost a murmur, “and Mr. Bennet, I... I feel compelled to speak of a matter that has weighed heavily upon me ever since I have known them this past week. Particularly now, seeing young Mr. James Fitzwilliam here, and fully understanding the depth of your family’s past sorrow.”

The Earl turned, his brow furrowing slightly, sensing the gravity in Aubrey’s tone. Thomas set his glass down, his gaze sharpening.

“It concerns,” Lord Aubrey continued, his voice gaining a strained urgency, “the affairs of almost fifteen years past. The tragedy involving your late Countess and... James’s disappearance.” He swallowed hard, collecting himself, then pressed on. “Just before Lord Sedgewick’s ball, my father, the Duke of Roxburgh, entrusted to me a letter written by my uncle, Lord Grant Carmichael, on his deathbed. In it, he confessed his involvement.”

A hushed silence fell over the gentlemen. The Earl lurched backwards into his chair, the color in his face draining as though the very blood had fled his veins. His hand gripped the armrest with such force that the wood seemed to protest. Jimmy, hearing his name, looked up, his eyes wide, lips parted, as though he had been struck by a physical blow. He inhaled sharply, the sound harsh in the sudden silence, and Thomas swore the boy’s shoulders trembled in something near terror.

“He confessed,” Lord Aubrey forced out each word, seemingly a physical effort, “that he had a part in what occurred. The Countess’s death, my lord, it was not intended. She was protecting her son. The original scheme was to,” he paused looking pained, “to remove you, Lord Matlock, and to abduct the Countess, to take her to the Continent. My uncle was, in his youth, deeply, hopelessly enamoured of her. He believed that, once separated from you, and with time, she would eventually consent to marry him.”

His voice faltered as the Earl jerked violently upright, color flaring in his cheeks, his teeth clenched. The Viscount swore low under his breath and took a step toward Aubrey, hands balled at his sides, face set in grim wrath. Richard Fitzwilliam, his face pale with shock, took an instinctive step toward his brother and Jimmy, his hand coming to rest on Mr. Darcy’s arm in a silent, restraining plea. Darcy, his expression a mask of cold fury, remained motionless, but the tension in his shoulders bespoke a danger scarcely restrained. His gaze, fixed on Aubrey, was as unforgiving as a winter storm.

Lord Aubrey’s jaw tightened, a muscle throbbing in his temple. He raked a hand through his hair, a rare sign of his inner turmoil.

“The bill you mentioned, concerning land tariffs, was merely a diversion. An acquaintance of his, a man long since dead from a gambling debt, wished it to pass for financial gain, and my uncle made use his desire for the scheme. He never intended for the Countess to perish.”

Thomas was utterly bewildered. “So, it was not merely an accident? And Jimmy?”

“My uncle stated that James was to be taken to a place of concealment, beyond all danger, until the Countess was secured and the Earl removed,” Lord Aubrey continued, his gaze falling on Jimmy with profound remorse. “But in the chaos, James ran. He slipped away amidst the tumult, fleeing into the confusion of the wreckage and the rising waters of the riverbank. The conspirators, panicked by the Countess’s death and the failure of their plan, did not pursue him. They believed him lost, drowned, or simply vanished, and feared drawing further attention. My uncle, consumed by guilt and grief over the Countess’s death, made no further attempts to find him.”

At this pronouncement, Mr. Fitzwilliam cursed aloud, his voice a raw cry of grief and fury. The Viscount slammed one fist into the mantelpiece, rattling the crystal upon it. Thomas had never seen such anguish unmasked in noblemen. The veneer of poise was stripped bare, leaving only an agonized father, brothers, and cousin grappling with an unspeakable truth.

Jimmy staggered back, white as chalk, his hand finding the table behind him for support. His lips moved soundlessly, as though even his breath deserted him. The Earl buried his face in his hand, shoulders quaking. A hoarse, broken sound escaped his throat, half sob, half oath.

“The letter demanding the vote was merely a desperate, final attempt to retain some semblance of power, and perhaps, to quiet his conscience with a perverse self-justification.” Lord Aubrey’s voice was now thick with emotion, trembling slightly as he finished his confession. “I inherited his estate, his considerable wealth. He never married. Never recovered from that obsession. Knowing the truth, knowing the foundation of what I now possess, it is a heavy burden. I felt it imperative that you, Lord Matlock, and you, Mr. Bennet, who gave James a home, should know the truth, however ugly it may be.” He looked directly at the Earl, his gaze unwavering. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord, for my family’s monstrous part in your sorrow.”

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of this dreadful disclosure.

The Earl rose unsteadily to his feet, gripping the back of his chair as if the room itself pitched about him. “My wife, my Julia,” he whispered, his eyes blazing with unshed tears. He turned away, shoulders racking with the struggle to contain grief too vast for words.

His sons looked on, their faces contorted with equal horror. Mr. Fitzwilliam paced the length of the room like a caged beast, the Viscount rigid as though bracing against a cannon shot. Thomas, stunned, could only stare, his pipe forgotten in his hand. Jimmy, who had listened intently, now looked bewildered, the pieces of his past falling into place in a cruel and unexpected pattern.

Thomas was the first to recover, a lifetime of surprising declarations from his daughters having, perhaps, granted him a certain resilience to the extraordinary. He straightened in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate breath. Good heavens, would the revelations never cease. Yet, the sincerity in Lord Aubrey’s voice was undeniable.

“Lord Aubrey,” Thomas said, his voice quiet but firm, “thank you. Thank you for this most difficult confession. It took considerable courage to speak of such dark truths, especially when they touch so close to your own family. You have behaved with honour this evening, and I, for one, acknowledge the bravery of it.” He nodded, a gesture of profound respect.

The Earl of Matlock seemed to startle, as if Mr. Bennet’s words had jarred him from a terrible dream. He blinked, slowly turning his gaze from the floor to Lord Aubrey, and then back to Thomas. “Indeed, Bennet,” the Earl managed, his voice raspy, “you are quite right. Lord Aubrey, what Mr. Bennet says is true. This is a revelation of the most profound kind, and I thank you for bearing the strain of delivering it. You bear no guilt for your uncle’s sins, sir. None at all. Such treachery is a burden only for the one who commits it. Thank you for telling us.”

Lord Aubrey, visibly relieved by their measured responses, bowed his head slightly. “Your Lordships, Mr. Bennet, your forgiveness means more than I can express. The burden of this secret has been immense, and to share it, to be met with such understanding, is a profound kindness.”

Jimmy, who had been absorbing the enormity of it all, now stepped forward, his expression grave but resolute. He extended a hand to Lord Aubrey. “Lord Aubrey,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, “thank you. Truly. This answers so many questions. For years, I wondered if I had been abandoned, or whether danger yet shadowed me. To know it was confusion, not malice, that let me slip away, well, it is, in some measure, a relief, if a strange one. Please do not feel guilty for your inheritance. Perhaps it is a twisted kind of justice that it has come to one of your character. Perhaps you and my sister Mary,” he added with a devilish smile touching his lips, “may do some good with it. Restore, perhaps, some measure of redemption to this tragedy.”

Thomas added, “I put advertisements in the papers for a month after Jimmy was found. The Bow Street Runners never found a trace. I wondered if someone had been paid to keep quiet. It seems the reach of your uncle, and perhaps that gambler, extended further than we knew.”

The Earl nodded grimly. “It would not surprise me. The Bow Street men are not immune to influence, and a desperate man with debts might easily be persuaded to look the other way.”

Viscount Spenston, ever the pragmatist, cleared his throat. “Lord Aubrey, your candour is admirable. You risk much by telling us.” He paused, then offered a slight bow of his head. “But your forthrightness speaks volumes of your character. You have my confidence, and I trust all present will hold this matter in strictest confidence.”

Lord Aubrey turned to Mr. Fitzwilliam. “Mr. Fitzwilliam,” he said, his tone softening, “I must confess, my sister, Lady Amelia, confided in me earlier this evening. She is worried that this revelation might somehow harm your friendship, especially if it should become known to society.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam, his usual jovial demeanour momentarily shattered, looked from Aubrey to Jimmy, his eyes glistening. He swallowed hard, his voice thick with emotion. “Lady Amelia has no cause for concern, Lord Aubrey. Our friendship is not so fragile. We have all weathered the tempest of society. What matters is truth, and how we bear it. And as for my family,” he added, glancing pointedly at Mr. Darcy, “we are hardly strangers to the vagaries of societal judgment. What matters is the truth, and how one chooses to bear it. Aubrey, what a frightful thing to bear. But you have handled it with courage. We all respect that.”

Mr. Darcy, his expression unreadable as ever, merely inclined his head. “A difficult truth, bravely spoken. It clears the air, Aubrey, however painful the process. My family’s honour will stand by yours.”

Mr. Gardiner, after a moment of thoughtful silence, simply said, “Such acts, Lord Aubrey, have a way of eventually finding the light. Your honesty today ensures that it shines through a dark history with honour. You have acted rightly.”

Lord Gresham, looking from Lord Aubrey to the Matlock family, simply placed a comforting hand on Aubrey’s shoulder. “A great weight is lifted. You are a man of integrity, Aubrey. That is clear.”

The heavy silence that had initially fallen began to dissipate, replaced by a shared understanding, a collective acknowledgement of the profound truth that had just been laid bare. The air in the smoking room, though still charged with the echoes of confession, now also held the quiet, resilient undercurrent of trust.

Thomas, with his glass of port in hand, allowed himself a rare, contented sigh. “Well, gentlemen, it seems even the grandest families have their secrets, and sometimes, the quietest men possess the greatest courage.”

A ripple of laughter followed, the mood lightening as the gentlemen found comfort in each other’s company and the knowledge that, at last, the past had been laid to rest.

~*~

The heavy oak door closed softlyt, leaving the ladies in the parlour to a quieter, if somewhat more restless, anticipation. Mary watched from her perch near the pianoforte, observing the subtle shifts in the room’s atmosphere.

Lady Catherine, having retired to a plush armchair, was engaged in a surprisingly animated discussion with Lady Huntingdon, Aunt Gardiner, and Mrs. Walters about the merits of various charitable endeavours. Jane and Elizabeth, seated on a sofa, conversed in low tones. Georgiana, Lydia, and Kitty were at the pianoforte, their scales a gentle backdrop. Lady Amelia and Emma were still lost in their own little circle of cheer. Mama, having found a comfortable spot by the fire, was already drifting into a gentle slumber, a state Mary found perpetually mystifying at social gatherings.

A short while later, the gentlemen, their faces still etched with the echoes of their somber conversation, began to return slowly to the parlour. The subtle shift in their demeanour was immediately apparent. Lord Matlock’s shoulders, though still heavy with the renewed grief, seemed to carry less of an unspoken burden. Papa, too, walked with a lighter step.

Mr. Darcy made directly for Elizabeth, his dark eyes searching hers for understanding as he offered his arm. Viscount Spenston, with a quiet tenderness, took Jane’s hand. Mr. Fitzwilliam, without a moment’s hesitation, crossed the room to Lady Amelia. He offered her his arm, his smile a reassuring comfort against her earlier anxiety, and Mary saw the immediate relief that softened her countenance as they exchanged a silent, meaningful glance. Lord Gresham, his face alight with a gentle happiness, sought out Anne, their easy conversation a quiet testament to their growling attachment. The Earl went to stand near his sisters and Mrs. Walters.

Lord Aubrey, however, lingered near the threshold, his countenance heavy with care.

Jimmy, his face paler than usual, his movements unusually subdued, walked directly to the center of the room, his gaze sweeping over the assembled women. Mary noted the profound gravity in his eyes, a stark contrast to his usual good humour. The room quieted, all eyes turning to him.

“Ladies,” Jimmy began, his voice slightly hoarse, but steady, “something rather significant has come to light this evening.” He paused, taking a breath. “It concerns my past. And the tragedy that occurred many years ago.”

Mary saw Elizabeth’s hand instinctively go to Jane’s. Georgiana stiffened, her gaze fixed on Jimmy. Lady Catherine’s eyes, already keen, narrowed. Even Mrs. Bennet stirred, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into her doze.

“Lord Aubrey,” Jimmy continued, his voice gaining strength, “has, with immense courage, confessed a truth about his late uncle, Lord Grant Carmichael. It appears my mother was not merely lost in an accident. She was protecting me during an attempted abduction. And my father was meant to be murdered.”

A collective gasp filled the parlour. Jane cried out softly, her hand flying to her mouth. Elizabeth’s face drained of colour, her eyes wide with horror and a dawning understanding. Mrs. Gardiner gasped, a hand pressed to her chest. Lady Catherine sat bolt upright, her formidable composure momentarily shattered by sheer outrage. Lady Elaine gripped the armrest, her fingers turning white. Lady Amelia and Emma’s eyes filled with a mixture of shock and concern.

“Good heavens, James!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, recovering herself with an effort. “An abduction? Murder? This is monstrous! But who? And why?”

Jimmy nodded, his gaze meeting hers directly. “Lord Aubrey’s uncle, Lord Grant Carmichael, was desperately enamoured with my mother. He wished to take her to the Continent, to compel her to marry him. The attack on the carriage was orchestrated by him and his associates. The Countess died protecting me, and I managed to escape in the ensuing chaos, to run into the woods.” He swallowed hard.

Mary’s gasp cut through the thick silence, her hand flying to her mouth as though to hold back a cry. She felt her body stiffen in her chair, a tremor starting at the base of her spine. Her voice, when she found it at all, shook as she whispered, “Your mother... for you...” Her eyes burned, the enormity of the sacrifice overwhelmed her, violent and unrelenting. Shock gave way swiftly to anger. Her hands clenched in her lap until the knuckles stood white.

“The vote my father was urged to give in Parliament was merely a diversion,” Jimmy pressed on, “a twisted means of leverage concocted by my uncle and a deceased gambler, to profit by a bill they sought to pass.”

Mary felt a cold dread take possession of her. The audacity, the sheer villainy of it, was almost too much to comprehend. She glanced at Georgiana, whose gentle face was now pale and streaked with silent tears, being hugged by Kitty and Lydia.

Mrs. Gardiner, ever the sensible one, was the first to speak, her voice measured and sensible. “And Lord Aubrey has revealed this to you now?”

“Yes,” Jimmy confirmed. “He inherited his uncle’s estate, but the confession was left with his father. When Lord Aubrey’s friendship with our family became known, his father disclosed it to him. He felt bound in honour to share the truth with us, however painful.”

Elizabeth, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed emotion, turned to Emma. “Emma,” she said, her tone serious, “you are not family by blood, but you are a dear friend, and you have heard this terrible tale. We would ask for your solemn promise of confidentiality. This is a matter of profound private grief and family honour.”

Emma, her usual vivacity entirely absent, nodded gravely. Her eyes, usually so calculating, were filled with a genuine, sincere sympathy. “Elizabeth, you have my word. I comprehend the gravity of this. Such a secret will be guarded as if it were my own. My heart aches for you all, particularly for Young James and the Earl.” Her gaze, for a fleeting moment, met Mary’s, and Mary saw in them a raw sympathy, a human connection that transcended any social ambition.

Mrs. Bennet, finally roused by the hushed, intense conversation, blinked owlishly. “What is it, dear? Has Mr. Bingley called again? I hope he knows better than to show his face here!” Her comment, though ill-timed, offered a brief, jarring moment of lightness, a tiny tear in the thick tapestry of grief and shock.

Lady Elaine, however, recovered quickly. She moved to Jimmy, pulling him into a comforting embrace. “My dear Jimmy,” she murmured, tears welling in her eyes, “to think of the uncertainty you have endured, all these years! We are so grateful to Lord Aubrey for his honesty.” She looked from Jimmy to her brother, her gaze filled with profound sympathy. “David, my deepest condolences for your long-held sorrow. To finally know the truth of my sister’s heroism, and the depravity of another is a terrible blessing.”

Lady Catherine, having listened with an intensity that seemed to vibrate in the air around her, finally spoke, her voice low and resonant. “The sheer audacity! The callous disregard for life and liberty! Lord Grant Carmichael was a villain of the blackest dye. Lord Aubrey has done his family a true service by unearthing this infamy, and an even greater one by delivering it with such courage. This knowledge, though painful, provides a measure of closure.” She looked at Jimmy, a rare softness in her gaze. “James, my boy, you are a survivor, and truly a Fitzwilliam, through and through.”

The immediate shock began to ebb, replaced by a quiet, shared understanding. The weight of the secret, now released, settled upon them all, but it was a shared burden, eased by the honesty that had brought it forth.

Mrs. Walters, her kind face etched with sympathy, quietly offered the Earl a small, steaming cup of chamomile tea, her hand briefly, reassuringly, touching his arm. “My Lord,” she murmured, her voice soft with genuine concern, “this is a sorrow too long borne. Perhaps this small warmth will be of some comfort.” The Earl, whose grief had always been so private, merely gave her a profound, grateful look, a silent acknowledgment of her understanding.

Mary looked at Lord Aubrey, standing by the door. He looked utterly vulnerable, a man who had stripped himself bare of a painful secret and was now awaiting the final judgment.

Mary’s heart clenched in recognition. She had known that look herself. The quiet desolation of being misunderstood and judged for things one could not control. To see a man of his standing bear it with such humility stirred a fierce, protective instinct within her. She would not let him suffer that burden alone. It was not his to bear.

Without a second thought, and with a sudden surge of an almost protective indignation, Mary rose from her seat. She crossed the polished floor with a swiftness that surprised even herself, moving past her sisters and her now-whispering mother. She stopped directly in front of Lord Aubrey, her chin tilted up, her eyes blazing with an intensity she rarely allowed to surface.

“Lord Aubrey,” she began, her voice low but piercing, cutting through the murmurs of the room. It held a similar steel to the day she had confronted her parents, defended Jane, or when she had challenged Mr. Darcy’s previous behaviour. “You shall not stand there as if the shame were yours! It is not ! That burden belongs only to the villain who laid this plot, and he is dead. You,” she pointed, color rising in her cheeks, “have spoken the truth when it would have been far easier to remain silent. That is courage, sir, not guilt.”

Her voice grew in strength, ringing clear through the chamber. “Understand this. Whatever stain you imagine clings to you, I will not allow it. Your uncle’s wealth was gained through corruption, yes, but you are redeeming it with honesty, with integrity. To me, that places you far above most men who sit in Parliament this very hour.” She drew herself up, chin lifted. “So do not dare lower your eyes, my lord. You have done right, and I will not hear it denied.”

Lord Aubrey blinked, visibly startled by her sudden, passionate address. His own quiet, scholarly nature seemed utterly unprepared for Mary’s directness.

“To bear such a secret,” Mary continued, her voice rising slightly, the familiar heat of righteous anger colouring her cheeks, “to carry that weight, even briefly, and then to come forward with such honesty, risking your own reputation and your family’s standing? That is not guilt, sir. That is courage! That is honour! You inherited a fortune, yes, but you also inherited a profound moral debt, and you have paid it with the truth. How dare you stand there looking as if you deserve censure?”

Her voice, though not loud, certainly commanded the attention of those closest. Elizabeth and Jane exchanged wide-eyed glances. Mr. Darcy’s head tilted almost imperceptibly, a flicker of surprise in his gaze. Papa, watching from his armchair, allowed a small, private smile to play on his lips.

Lord Aubrey, initially stunned, now looked at Mary with an expression of profound, almost bewildered gratitude. The heavy lines of worry on his face softened, and a faint, hesitant smile touched his lips.

“Miss Mary,” he murmured, his voice touched with a new lightness, “I confess, I had not considered it in quite that light. Your words are most bracing. And perhaps, most true.” He straightened his shoulders, the last vestiges of self-reproach seeming to lift. “Thank you. Truly. You have a remarkable way of clarifying matters.”

Mary, feeling the fury drain away and a faint blush return to her cheeks, merely offered him a curt nod. She had said what needed to be said.

The heavy silence that had initially fallen began to dissipate, replaced by a shared understanding, a collective acknowledgement of the profound truth that had just been laid bare. The air in the smoking room, though still charged with the echoes of confession, now also held the quiet, resilient hum of trust.

Lord Matlock, after a long pause, spoke with a voice that, though ragged, carried the full authority of his station. “Let this be the last shadow cast over our family by that dark episode. We have all lost much to the past, but tonight, we have reclaimed something essential, truth, and the courage to face it. Let us go forward together, with gratitude for what we have found, and with hope for what lies ahead.”

Lady Catherine, rising to stand beside her brother, added, “Indeed, David. And let it be known, no Fitzwilliam, nor any friend of this house, need ever bear such burdens alone again. We are, if nothing else, a family. And that, I daresay, is the finest legacy we can claim.”

A ripple of agreement, soft but certain, passed through the room. Mary, standing quietly beside Lord Aubrey, felt the weight of the past finally lift. They had the joy of a double wedding in a month, and tonight, at last, the family was whole.

Posted on 2025-09-14

Chapter 17

The following morning was beautiful with clear skies and gentle warmth, a rare gift in London’s damp embrace. The Fitzwilliam party, along with the Bennets, took the opportunity to walk out to Hyde Park. The park was in full splendor. Lawns bright, gravel walks alive with every color of the season. A veritable parade of riders, carriages, and strollers made stately their progress under the watchful eyes of London society.

Mary, though preferring a quieter stroll, found unexpected pleasure in the lively bustle. She walked rather apart with Lord Aubrey, a companionable silence bridged only now and then by his easy observations on the pageantry about them.

“I confess, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, his voice a low, pleasant murmur meant only for her, “these displays quite overwhelm me. One risks collision at every turn with a personage of, at minimum, three honorary titles and a hat plume a yard high.”

Mary smiled, a genuine, unguarded curve of her lips. “Indeed, I find myself in agreement. I fear I may be trampled beneath the social aspirations of London before we reach the Serpentine. It is a spectacle of surfaces, is it not? All polish and no depth.”

Lord Aubrey’s eyes, a deep, thoughtful brown, met hers with an answering warmth. “Exactly so. I have found, to my great delight, that I am far more suited to the quietude of a well-stocked library than the clamor of the season.”

Mary was about to reply when a small, runaway ball rolled across their path, followed by a panting child in a white frock, cheeks bright with exertion. Without hesitation, Lord Aubrey bent and retrieved the wayward toy, only to have a crumb-flecked hand tug eagerly at his coat. Instead of looking annoyed, he knelt at the child’s level and presented the ball with mock solemnity.

“And may I entrust this most valuable treasure to your keeping, young sir?” he intoned. The boy giggled and bobbed a wobbly curtsy, snatching the ball before dashing away.

Mary’s heart softened at the sight. There was a gentle, unstudied kindness in Lord Aubrey’s manner, no stiffness, no trace of self-conscious display, that made the moment linger for her.

“That was handsomely performed,” she said quietly, her eyes bright. “Now I suppose I must revise my earlier opinion. Perhaps London boasts a few men whose consequence is matched by their courtesy.”

He looked at her with mock gravity. “Miss Bennet, if I am to secure your good opinion, I must defend mislaid balls, vanquish errant urchins, and,” he glanced down at a patch of damp earth, then deftly guided her aside with the lightest touch of his hand on her elbow, “prevent ladies from soiling their slippers. It is a most demanding office.”

She laughed, the sound surprising herself. “A knight-errant indeed, my lord. I trust you have polished your armour?”

“Alas,” he replied with a smile, “my armour is sadly tarnished. But I had hoped your company might restore its shine.”

Mary blushed and, seeking to steady herself, observed, instead, “The world, when seen from the pages of a book, is far more orderly than when viewed from a park carriage. The hero’s honour is never in question, and the villain’s fate is always clear.”

He chuckled softly. “A point well-made. And yet, I think even the finest authors could not have contrived a heroine quite like you.” His gaze lingered, gentle but intent. “I have discovered that your good opinion, Miss Bennet, weighs more heavily with me than the applause of all London combined. It is a terrifying realization, to admit that your one voice has more power than the entire ton. But also, a most welcome one.”

Mary’s breath caught. She could only glance away, her cheeks colouring, but her lips curved in a shy, unmistakable smile.

Before Mary could respond, a small commotion arose ahead and Lord Aubrey stepped in front of her. A young gentleman on a spirited bay mare, looking flushed with drink and importance, attempted to cut across the path in front of Mr. Fitzwilliam. The former colonel, a man of much composure, simply held his line, forcing the young man to swerve clumsily and nearly unseat himself.

“Good heavens, do you see that?” Lord Aubrey murmured, his expression one of polite amusement. “The young man is more concerned with his consequence than his life. He seeks to make a great dash, but has only managed to make a fool of himself.”

“And no doubt he shall blame Mr. Fitzwilliam for his own folly,” Mary observed, a hint of her own sharp wit on her tongue.

Lord Aubrey turned his full attention to her, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice dropping in volume until it was almost a conspiratorial whisper, “you have a way of seeing the truth of a matter that is quite irresistible. I find myself quite disarmed in your presence.”

“I am glad to have you so,” Mary replied, her voice soft but steady.

Lord Aubrey’s next words came shyly, almost unguarded. “I think, after everything that has come to light, Miss Mary, I had wondered if any ordinary happiness might ever compensate. But just now, I think I could believe it.”

She looked up at him, cheeks tinged with color. “So could I.”

He paused, his gaze earnest. “I believe I must abandon my preference for a quiet life, for I find I should desire no life so much as one shared with you.”

Mary’s breath caught, and a small, unguarded smile touched her lips. She said nothing, only looked at him, and in the quiet understanding that passed between them, a silent promise was made.

They walked on, each a little more certain, their steps light. London’s grand parade carried on around them, but for Mary, the world had become, if not wholly orderly, then, for one morning, wonderfully sweet.

~*~

William Darcy’s carriage moved at a measured pace along the length of Bond Street, the air alive with the murmur of voices and the clatter of wheels over stone. He had not intended to be abroad here himself, but Elizabeth’s modiste, whose shop stood at the corner, required his attendance to confirm the particulars of lace for her wedding gown.

It was a commission he was more than willing to oblige. He was a man exacting in all matters. He would not have his future wife’s gown left to chance. As he looked through the glass upon the bright shopfronts and the ladies and gentlemen strolling arm in arm, he thought not of fashion, but of the life soon to be joined to his. His reflections were calm, deliberate, a rare contentment after the strife and revelations so lately past.

That peaceful window shattered with abruptness. The carriage jolted to a stop so violently that William’s hand gripped the ivory head of his cane. Then, nothing. The press of Bond Street continued around him, but within the carriage there was only a strange, unnatural stillness. The horses stamped and tossed their heads, the harness creaked, yet the wheels did not turn.

William frowned. His coachman was not a man to halt without cause, much less in the midst of Bond Street. That the vehicle should be checked so abruptly, and held so long, bespoke interference, and deliberate interference at that.

The suspicion was confirmed a moment later. The door was wrenched open before he could stir, and in rushed the spectacle of ruin.

Charles Bingley.

But not the sunny, obliging friend of former days. His fine coat was wrinkled, his neckcloth crooked, his hair damp with some mixture of sweat and desperation.

“Darcy!” Bingley cried, his voice hoarse and broken. “Darcy, I beg, only a word...”

But before a hand or foot could trespass, Parker was there. With the silent precision of drilled habit, the footman stepped into the breach, posture squared, arms firm behind his back. He did not touch the intruder, but his presence barred the way as decisively as any lock.

“Mr. Darcy is not at liberty, sir,” Parker said, his tone deep, imperturbable.

“Not at liberty?” Bingley’s laugh was a jagged sound. “You have not been at liberty for a week! Your butler has a new duty. He has been instructed to parrot ‘indisposed,’ and your footmen to return my notes unopened! What was I to do? What was left me? I had to pay the street-lads to hold your carriage fast, to hold the wheels and bar the horses, else I would never have had a chance to speak to you!”

The admission sent a murmur through onlookers who had gathered. William sat motionless, his countenance unyielding, while his thoughts recoiled. A gentleman did not boast of hiring children for petty stratagems. Here was degradation beyond redemption.

Bingley’s excuses poured out in a rush, wild and pitiable. “I was ruined before, ruined! My father’s man of business stripped me bare, gone, every shilling, every note! What was I to do but take advantage of opportunity? Caroline was desperate. What choice had I? She thought only to save us. You must believe me, Darcy! If you had but married her, all would have been restored!”

Parker did not shift an inch. “You will step back, sir,” he said again, his voice edged with iron.

William rested his gaze on Bingley, but his thoughts recoiled from the sight of such unmanly desperation. A man of honour stood firm. A man of principle did not make excuses for his actions, however dire the circumstance.

Bingley clutched at his breast with theatrical sincerity. “I did it all for her! Do you not see? If you had but married Caroline, all would have been made right. I did not mean her schemes to go so far. I did not. I could not stop her! She but sought to save us both!”

“Step back, sir,” Parker repeated, this time with sharper emphasis.

“No, no, hear me! You cannot abandon me thus! You were my friend. You were...” He tried to push against Parker’s solid frame, but the man did not yield. The exchange had drawn the attention of passersby. Heads turned, whispers stirred.

Parker’s composure did not waver. “Enough. Mr. Darcy’s regard has ever been reserved for men of honour. As for your acquaintance, sir, your friendship began in falsehood and ends in disgrace. My master does not know you.”

Bingley flinched as though struck.

Bingley faltered, and the exchange might have ended there, but at that very moment, one of the urchins suddenly darted toward the open door, his sooty face set with indignation. He pointed a grimy finger at Bingley and shouted, “Liar! You lied to us, sir! Said as how Mr. Darcy were owing you money, and we was to keep him from slippin’ away. But if he owes you nothing, then why should we block the wheels?”

There was laughter now, not whispers, rising from the crowd. The other boys scattered, abandoning their posts. Freed of their restraint, the horses stamped restlessly.

“Shameful,” a gentleman near the walk muttered aloud. “To stoop to employ street brats.”

A lady drew back her skirts with audible disdain. “Fortune lost may be forgiven. Honour lost never.”

William looked upon the small figure, the one ounce of honest courage in a sordid scene, and reached into his pocket. Wordlessly, he extended a card. The lad snatched it, eyes round in astonishment.

“If you call at the stables at Darcy House,” William said, his tone low but perfectly distinct, “your honesty shall not go unrewarded.”

The boy ducked his head and bolted into the crowd, clutching the card as if it were a crown jewel.

William inclined his chin once. Parker shut the door smartly and rapped the side of the coach. The whip cracked, the team surged forward, and Bond Street once more resumed its motion.

Through the small window William cast one last glance. Bingley stood alone in the roadway, coat askew, still mouthing broken pleas that were swallowed by the roar of the street. His hand half-lifted, as though still to knock upon the departing coach, but it fell uselessly to his side.

From the pavement came a voice, pitched to carry above the wheels, “A fine picture of friendship. Hiring beggars to stop a gentleman’s carriage!”

Another answered, quick as a rap on a snuffbox, “His fortune lost to thieves, and his honour to betrayal!”

A third voice, female, sharp and cutting, “He has sold his horses, his plate, his house. Pity he has no honour to sell as well!”

And from further off, in a rougher tone, “I’d sooner trust a cutpurse than a gentleman who sets boys to his quarrels!”

Laughter broke around him, rising and merciless, each remark sharper than the last. Bingley flinched beneath it, coat awry, his hand still in the air only to let it fall uselessly to his side.

Once he had been a friend, almost a brother. Now he was nothing but a ruin, undone not by poverty, but by vanity and weakness.

William’s grip tightened on his cane. The worst fall a man might suffer was not from fortune’s whims. It was the forfeiting of his honour.

And by evening, the tale of Charles Bingley’s abasement had already travelled from Bond Street to the furthest drawing rooms of Town. Society required no embroidery. His final fall was complete, and his name dismissed with a shrug and a smile.

~*~

The following month passed in a delightful flurry, a stark contrast to the dramatic revelations that had closed the evening at Matlock House. London, once a tinderbox of whispered speculation, now hummed with anticipation for the Bennet weddings.

The tarnish upon the Bingley name, so publicly and thoroughly earned, had become a cautionary anecdote traded at tea-tables and card parties, while the Bennets were praised, some admiring, some begrudging, for producing two such advantageous alliances. Of the darker truths behind Lord Aubrey’s confession, nothing more was breathed. Discretion held firm, protecting what mattered.

At Longbourn, usually so quiet, the rooms and lanes stirred with renewed life. Tailors and milliners came and went in brisk succession, each with their bandboxes, bolts, and cheerful instructions. Mama bustled from parlour to dressing-room in a state of perpetual triumph, declaring, at least once an hour, that she had always said her daughters would do well. Even Papa, amused though skeptical of his wife’s convenient recollection, allowed her self-congratulation without interruption. For once, the boast was justified.

Mary sat this morning in the parlour, a box of ribbon swatches arrayed before her like treasures. She had never been so content. The quiet domesticity of choosing silks and satins, of weighing shades of lavender or rose, was a balm after the tumult of London. With the chatter of maidservants running to and fro, and the sound of unpacking trunks in the corridor, Mary reflected on the contrast: while others fled from scandal or shame, the Bennets were here, together, preparing for a future not founded on pretence, but on genuine affection.

Kitty and Lydia entered, their accustomed chatter filling the room, tempered now by experience. Lydia especially bore a new tone; her lessons had pruned away the sharpest edges of her wild gaiety, leaving behind something quieter, and, though still Lydia, altogether more reflective. Together they bent eagerly over scraps for their bridesmaids’ gowns.

“I can scarcely believe it has only been a month,” Lydia mused, her voice more subdued than it once was. “It feels an age since that dreadful night in London.”

“Indeed,” Kitty agreed, holding up a length of pale blue to her cheek. “I try not to think of it. But tell us, Mary, has anything more been heard of the Bingleys?”

Mary’s fingers stilled on a lavender ribbon. “I have heard, from Miss Darcy herself, who sent a brief note to me. She was still in a state of shock over it. It seems Mr. Bingley’s last public act in London was to stop Mr. Darcy’s carriage in the middle of Bond Street, a most vulgar and desperate scene.”

Lydia’s mouth dropped open. Kitty gasped. The air in the room, so recently filled with comfortable domesticity, suddenly thick with the air of a public scandal.

“But what happened?” Lydia demanded, leaning forward. “Did he beg for money? Did he cry? What did Mr. Darcy say? You cannot keep us in suspense, Mary!”

Mary’s lips thinned. “He did not beg for money, not precisely. Miss Darcy wrote that he confessed everything to my brother’s footman, Parker, because Mr. Darcy would not grant him entrance. He admitted to hiring common street boys to hold the carriage wheels fast. He said he had been ruined by his father’s man of business, and that all he did was to save Caroline.”

“He blamed his sister?” Kitty whispered, horrified.

“He did,” Mary confirmed. “He claimed she was desperate to save them both. According to Georgiana, Mr. Bingley did not even have the dignity to keep his humiliation to himself. He made a grand spectacle of his ruin for all of London to see.”

Mary’s fingers stilled on a lavender ribbon. In truth, there was more than she wished to share, though she did not relish a full recital. Still, her sisters’ expectancy moved her.

“Only what one cannot help but know,” she said carefully. “Papa had a note from Mr. Fitzwilliam, via his solicitor. Mr. Bingley has sold everything. His houses, his carriages, the stables, every horse. All his artwork, furniture, even the jewels his father reserved for a future bride. All was disposed of at ruinous prices to cover debts. His business accounts remain in confusion, and what little remains could not keep him in London. He has crossed to the Continent, perhaps Switzerland, where creditors are less eager to follow.”

Lydia bit her lip. “To the Continent? With armies abroad?” Her tone, usually so careless, held real unease.

Mary nodded gravely. “Desperate measures. And from Emma, I learned of the ultimate humiliation. All his possessions, artwork, furniture, even his fine hunter, were sold at auction. As for Miss Bingley, her fall has been swifter still. She has been left to live upon the slender interest of her dowry, for Mr. Bingley had declared himself unwilling to have any further charge of her care. She has taken a single room in Cheapside...”

“Cheapside!” Lydia gasped. Kitty’s eyes went round.

“And,” Mary continued, her voice gaining a quiet force, “lives with very little, and less society. Aunt Gardiner wrote to Mama that Miss Bingley is now shunned even by the very merchant families she now dwells among. They see her pride and will have nothing to do with her. She has a portion to live on, but is, it is said, very much alone.”

Mary thought back to the letter. It was, Emma observed with merciless clarity, a punishment more humiliating than poverty, for society knew she had means, yet none to advocate for her.

Aunt Gardiner wrote it was a melancholy sight, for a woman with portion enough to be comfortable, but none to love her, nor any to defend her name.

The image struck Mary with force. One could lose carriages, jewels, even houses, and still salvage respect. But to be denied fellowship by the very world one had ridiculed, that was true isolation.

A hush fell. Even Lydia, whose tongue was not given to restraint, could summon nothing in triumph. The picture was a punishment so complete that it left them all silent.

From the window came Mama’s unmistakable tones, calling from the drive as she directed the delivery of another crate of French lace. A moment later, a fresh, more pressing concern settled over the parlour.

Kitty turned from the window, her brow furrowed. “Do you not find Mama a little... changed, of late?” she asked, her voice low. “She naps at all hours of the day, yet she cannot sit still for very long without rising to pace or rearrange the furniture.”

Lydia’s head shot up. “And she is always eating! I saw her just this morning, asking the cook for a slice of bread and butter with honey and pickled onions! It is quite the oddest thing!”

Mary, who had been observing her mother with a quiet, analytical mind, nodded slowly. “I have noticed,” she confirmed, picking up a swatch of pale green. “One moment she is in a state of the most glorious triumph over a new shipment of silk, and the next she is near tears over a misplaced pincushion. Her spirits are most unaccountably variable and are most unpredictable.”

A look of shared, unstated worry passed between the three sisters. They had never known their mother to be anything but boisterous in her emotions. However, this felt different, more pronounced and without her usual cause. It was a restlessness they could not comprehend.

“Perhaps it is only the excitement of the weddings?” Kitty suggested, though her tone lacked conviction.

Lydia just shook her head, a sober look on her face.

Mary said nothing, her mind cataloging every strange occurrence, from her mother’s persistent fatigue to her new and peculiar appetite. There was a reason for this, she was certain, though she had no medical text or volume of female humours to explain it.

“She is truly quite changed,” Kitty sighed, shaking her head.

As if summoned, Mama’s voice drifted from the hall, not triumphant but truly flustered. She entered the parlour clutching a bolt of silk, her face a study in distress.

“Oh, my dears! The dressmaker has sent the wrong shade of white for Jane’s petticoat! It is a catastrophe! It will clash horribly with the French lace, the whole trousseau is at risk of ruin!”

At that moment, a maidservant entered with a tray. On it sat a teacup and a plate with a thick slice of bread. Mama, without a word, snatched the plate, bit into the bread, and paused, her eyes widening. “Cook! There are no pickled onions! I asked for honey and pickled onions! And where is my posset? Oh, Mary, must I arrange everything myself?” She took another large bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then her face crumpled. “I am certain this bread is stale! Do you not see how I am put upon!” She threw herself into a chair, near to tears, her mouth full of bread and honey.

Lydia and Kitty exchanged a glance, their eyes wide with disbelief. Mary could only shake her head. The dramatic swing from monumental triumph to utter despair over a piece of bread was unlike any emotional display they had ever witnessed from their mother. It was both absurd and alarming.

Before Mary or her sisters could muster a word of consolation, Mama sprang upright with renewed urgency. “Well, there is nothing for it. I must find Jane at once, or the menus for the week will never be set right. If supper is late tonight, it shall be on my conscience!”

In a trice, she was out of her chair and bustling from the room, already issuing instructions to a footman with twice her usual animation, leaving behind the silks, her bread, and her astonished daughters.

As the sound of Mama’s flustered energy faded down the corridor, Mary felt a strange, centered calm settle within her. She found herself quietly grateful for the ordinary chaos of Longbourn, for its quarrels and triumphs and even its peculiar appetites.

The Bingleys’ downfall had been a spectacle of pride and folly, its lesson painfully clear. But here, here was resilience. Their family, if a little disordered, had come through storm and scandal the stronger. A small, inward celebration that honesty and loyalty, in the end, had bested every trick Miss Bingley could contrive.

Mary offered a quiet prayer of thanks. The Bingleys had undone themselves by arrogance and deceit. The Bennets, meanwhile, had been preserved by honesty, loyalty, and, though she admitted it shyly, even her own intervention when Miss Bingley’s schemes had come to light. Gratitude swelled in her heart.

Yet ribbons and lace were not the only matters filling their mornings. Letters arrived almost daily. One from Rosings, written in Anne’s careful hand, reporting that Lord Gresham had visited twice more, and that she found his company ‘steadier and far more enlivening than she had once thought possible.’ Kitty had read that line thrice over, and Lydia had declared with mock solemnity that Anne was ‘positively besotted,’ and Mary had joined their laughter, warmed by the thought.

Another brought Lady Amelia’s brisk and merry intelligence. She had been “obliged to drive out three mornings in succession with Richard, who insisted upon showing her all the parks of London, though she suspected he cared very little for trees.” Kitty and Lydia collapsed into helpless giggles over that one too, while Mary smiled at the picture so easily conjured.

Jimmy’s scrawl followed from Matlock. He wrote cheerfully of fishing and riding, though ‘never so lively as Longbourn of a morning,’ and confessed he missed them all keenly, and could not wait to join the wedding festivities. Beneath the humour Mary detected a note of wistfulness, as though he still moved between worlds, but she was glad at least of his contentment.

There were elegant assurances from Lady Huntingdon. More formal notes from Lord Aubrey sent to her father that always contained notes for the family.

Mary thought back to yesterday, when another note had arrived.

Lydia, now tasked with fetching the morning post, carried it in with a new sense of dignity that she liked very well. She stopped short, however, when she recognized the imperious hand upon one of the envelopes.

“It is addressed to me,” Lydia exclaimed, her eyes wide as she hugged the letter to her breast. “Lady Catherine herself has written. To me! I thought she only wrote to dukes and duchesses, or to Mr. Darcy, when she wishes to scold him.”

Kitty gasped and Mary looked up from her sewing, a stitch of thread suspended in mid-air. “Well,” said Lydia, tearing it open with an eager snap. “If she thinks me important enough to write, I shall know what it is at once.”

She began to read, her voice firm, though her lips twitched with suppressed smiles. “‘ Miss Lydia, I am not in the habit of writing to young ladies, but I find that when one displays both spirit and heedless folly, a firm hand is in order. You remind me too often of myself at your age, which is a matter of equal pride and apprehension. ’”

Lydia paused, looking up with a radiant grin. “Imagine her saying I remind her of herself ! She is not scolding, you see, she is giving me a compliment of the highest order!”

“‘ The disgrace of that Miss Bingley has provided the town with sufficient spectacle. I trust you have marked the lesson. Vanity will topple itself, and nothing is more ridiculous than a young lady who presumes above her situation. See how she tumbles, no maid, no carriage, no invitations left. ’”

“Miss Bingley got what she deserved,” Lydia said with a quiet, firm finality that made Kitty flinch. “And that is all there is to be said on the matter.”

She read on, her voice softer this time, as if sharing a secret. “‘ Miss Bingley got what she deserved. ’ See, Lady Catherine agrees with me,” Lydia beamed before reading more. “‘ And I have instructed my nephews to send me a full report of her living arrangements. I wish to know how a woman so given to vanity will survive without a proper lady’s maid. It should be a most amusing spectacle, I trust. ’”

“I agree with Lady Catherine,” Kitty said gleefully.

“‘ You, however, are my nephew’s sister by attachment. Do not forget it. Conduct yourself with spirit, but temper it, for nothing is so tedious as silliness unredeemed by sense. I expect, hereafter, no giggling or fluttering where gentlemen may observe you. If you must laugh, do it in private. If you must chatter, be sure your words are worth hearing. I permit you amusement, Lydia, but not impropriety. Remember that, and you will do very well. ’”

When Lydia reached the end, she gave a triumphant little gasp, then a delighted laugh. “Do you hear that? She permits me amusement! Mama scolds and makes me feel wretched, but Lady Catherine scolds and makes me feel as though I have been handed a rule to win the world. I am to be amusing, but respectable! A rule I can follow perfectly!”

Kitty blinked. “I should not like such a letter. I would feel crushed.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Lydia declared, before her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, as she leaned over and touched the paper with her finger. “She means it kindly, in her way. Do you not hear it? She is giving me a rule to follow! I am to be amusing, but respectable! It is a rule I can manage very well.”

Mary’s lips twitched upward, despite herself. She had heard all the sharpness in Lady Catherine’s reproof, but she had also glimpsed, just as Lydia had claimed, a surprising strand of indulgence wound through it. It was not precisely friendship, nor yet kindness, but something closer to mentorship. A protective authority that half-admonished, half-championed. And Lydia, astonishingly, seemed to thrive under it.

Mary thought of it with wry astonishment. Lydia Bennet, tutored and teased into composure by Lady Catherine of Rosings! Yet stranger things had already come to pass. A fierce, protective condescension seemed to take Lydia under its wing, a solemn and binding obligation between the two that was not kindness, but a different sort of care entirely.

So the weeks carried on. Jane’s gentle serenity at her fittings drew murmurs of admiration even from hardened modistes. Elizabeth guided her seamstress with a surer hand, decisive, practical, and delighted to plan only what mattered. Mama crowed over menus and lists. Papa chuckled at the absurdity of them all, even as his quiet diligence ensured nothing was left undone.

Mary, watching it unfold, thought that society might chatter, papers might embellish, and letters might exaggerate, but here, at Longbourn, the truth was plain. A family restored, altered, and prepared for joy.

And then, at last, the day arrived.

The morning mist still clung to the ancient oaks lining the road to Meryton’s parish church as carriages arrived one by one, bearing guests from London and beyond. Gardiner children, scrubbed bright as pennies, raced between the wheels to greet their cousins. The air hummed with anticipation, laced with the fragrance of orange blossom and freshly cut flowers. Mary watched the arrival with a quiet calm settling over her; today, she decided, would prove neither tragic nor farcical, but harmonious.

Inside, the service was held in the modest but venerable parish church. The local vicar, a kind man whose hands trembled only slightly from age or nerves, spoke with genuine warmth. Jane, radiant in white lace, looked ethereal as she pledged herself to Viscount Spenston. Her joy was a luminous, still thing, as though even breath would disturb its perfection. Elizabeth, no less lovely, stood beside her, her gaze softened with profound affection as she met Mr. Darcy’s steady eyes.

When their vows were exchanged and hands clasped, Mary felt a tear prick at the corner of her eye. A rare, unguarded emotion finding its way past all reason. Mr. Darcy, usually so contained, allowed the faintest smile to lift his mouth as he looked at Elizabeth, a silent vow etched deeper than words.

Outside in the churchyard, amid laughter and congratulation, the guests mingled beneath the gently rising sun. Fanny Gardiner carefully rearranged her sash while her younger brothers spun like tops in borrowed velvet coats, one boy’s stockings already laddered. Aunts and neighbours compared the bouquets and whispered about the arrivals. Aunt Philips bustled over to plant a loud kiss upon every niece in turn, crowing over Jane’s bloom and prophesying future sons.

Mary, standing a little apart, observed these currents with satisfaction. There was no rush or ostentation, only the quiet rightness of something long awaited and, at last, whole.

The swirl of ribbons and bonnets broke briefly as the Earl of Matlock, looking remarkably less burdened than he had a month prior, approached Mrs. Walters, who stood a little aside, her kind face alight with shared happiness.

“Mrs. Walters,” the Earl began, his voice low, “I find I must speak with you.”

Mrs. Walters turned, a soft smile on her lips. “My Lord, this is indeed a joyful day.”

“Joyful, yes,” the Earl agreed, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “And perhaps it is this very joy, this new beginning for Jimmy, that gives me the courage. We are both widowed, Mrs. Walters. We know the sorrow of loss, and the quiet companionship life can offer. We are, I daresay, well past the age for frivolous courtships or societal expectations.” A note of his old determination entered his voice. “I do not wish for a lengthy courtship, nor for tedious formalities. Will you do me the honour, Mrs. Walters, of becoming my wife?”

Mrs. Walters’s eyes widened, a delicate flush rising to her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her heart, a silent breath escaping her lips. “My Lord Matlock,” she murmured, a warmth in her voice that matched the gentle smile that now truly blossomed on her face, “I would be honoured indeed.”

The Earl gave a brief, satisfied nod. “Excellent. Now, as for the announcement, I believe we should keep this quiet for a short while longer. Today belongs wholly to my son and Mr. Darcy, and to their new wives. We shall not steal their thunder, eh Josephine?”

Mrs. Walters chuckled softly. “Indeed, David. A secret well-kept often doubles the pleasure.”

Mary’s lips twitched as she overheard the echo of another such secret. At that moment, a small commotion arose as Aunt Philips paraded the Gardiner children before her, three in a row, their shoes polished to a fearful shine. Aunt Philips, attempted to corral the boys, but one broke away, scattering sugared almonds over the path. “Mind your manners, Tom!” she scolded, though not unkindly. “We are in the presence of the peerage!”

Even Lady Catherine, examining the whole affair with pursed lips, was briefly distracted by a curling ribbon.

Not far off, Lord Gresham, who had spent the last month diligently calling upon Anne de Bourgh, now stood before her, a nervous but hopeful light in his eyes. Lady Catherine, ever watchful, was conveniently positioned nearby, pretending to adjust a rose in her bodice.

“Miss de Bourgh,” Lord Gresham began, his voice earnest, “my month of permitted courtship has only served to confirm what I felt from our first meeting. You possess a quiet strength, a discerning mind, and a goodness of heart that I admire above all else. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Anne, usually so demure, looked up at him, a rare, radiant smile gracing her lips. “Lord Gresham,” she replied, her voice surprisingly clear, “yes. I will.”

Lady Catherine, unable to contain herself, stepped forward. “Well done, Lord Gresham! A sensible match. And Anne, you have chosen wisely. However,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we shall wait to announce this formally. We shall not overshadow Jane and Elizabeth’s happiness today. Let them have their moment.”

Lord Gresham and Anne exchanged amused glances, a shared understanding already present between them.

A muffled screech from the direction of the house announced that Mrs. Bennet had discovered some mislaid dessert spoons, and the resulting hubbub sent a flurry of maids, trays, and lace-edged napkins into the sunshine.

Meanwhile, Mr. Fitzwilliam, ever the soul of discretion, had drawn Lady Amelia a little aside, his hand resting lightly, proprietarily, on her elbow. “Amelia,” he murmured, his gaze warm and direct, “I have long cherished our friendship. The past weeks have only cemented my belief that you are the most delightful, sensible, and utterly captivating woman I know. I should like to ask if you would permit me a formal courtship, with the intention of making you my wife.”

Lady Amelia’s eyes sparkled. “Richard,” she breathed, her voice filled with quiet joy, “yes. Most certainly, yes.” Her hand reached up, gently squeezing his arm.

They lingered near the cooling shade of the hedgerow, where Mrs. Gardiner’s youngest tried, and failed, to balance a rose upon the family spaniel’s head.

Through and above it all, Mary Bennet drifted contentedly, at ease as an observer. She found unexpected pleasure in the spectacle. Lady Catherine offering strategic advice to every mother in sight. Her own sisters radiant with happiness rather than anxiety. The smallest Gardiner, cheeks smeared with cake, solemnly presenting a ribbon to General Fitzwilliam.

Mary was contemplating the orderliness of the rose hedges when a familiar voice, low and hesitant, interrupted her thoughts.

“Miss Bennet.”

She turned and found Lord Aubrey Carmichael, very much the gentleman of title and consequence, standing before her. His expression was composed, but not confident. There was something tentative in the way he held himself, as though he were bracing for more than he had the right to ask.

“My lord,” Mary replied, with a smile.

He gave her a quick bow. “I do not mean to keep you from the festivities, but, may I walk with you a moment?”

She nodded, and together they turned down one of the gravel paths winding through the gardens, far enough for privacy, with the laughter and music of the party receding behind them.

“Mary!”

She turned at the sound of Elizabeth’s voice, her face alight with pleasure. She and Jane, arm in arm with their new husbands, approached them. Mr. Darcy gave a brief, polite nod to Lord Aubrey, and the Viscount followed suit.

“We were just looking for you,” Jane said, her expression soft with a happiness that seemed to radiate from her very person.

“We wanted to see if you were enjoying the festivities, Mary,” Elizabeth added, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she glanced between Mary and Lord Aubrey. “We have so rarely seen you without a book in your hand.”

“I have been enjoying the company,” Mary replied, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “The day is quite a lovely one.”

Mr. Darcy, ever observant, offered a rare, slight smile. “A lovely day, indeed. Though perhaps not as lovely as the prospect of future days.” His gaze lingered on his new wife with a tenderness that made Elizabeth’s eyes shine.

Just then, a familiar figure came into view, walking with a gentle, dignified slowness. It was Charlotte Lucas, her face etched with a peaceful contentment. She saw them, and her smile widened.

“Elizabeth, Jane,” she said, her voice warm, and the three women fell into a comfortable, natural embrace. The kind that needs no words to announce itself. “You are both truly a delight to behold. I was hoping for a chance to speak with you before you left.”

“Oh, Charlotte,” Elizabeth murmured, her voice filled with pure joy as she hugged her friend tightly. “How happy I am to see you.”

“It is so good to see you both so happy,” Charlotte said softly, holding Jane’s hands. She turned to the gentlemen. “My deepest and most sincere congratulations to you both.”

Charlotte then turned to Mr. Darcy, giving him a polite curtsy. Her voice, though low, was filled with a quiet, genuine respect. “Mr. Darcy, I am so very happy to see my dear friend looking so well, and so content. You have her happiness in your keeping now.”

“I shall do my utmost, Miss Lucas,” he replied, a gentle, kind smile on his lips. “It is a happy day for us all.”

He bowed to her and took Elizabeth’s arm. “Elizabeth, my love, your mother and my aunts are requesting our presence. We must go.”

As they walked away, Elizabeth paused, turning back to Charlotte. “You must promise to visit us at Pemberley, Charlotte. It is a house made for guests, and I would be so very happy to have you.”

Charlotte’s eyes twinkled with a knowing gleam. “Oh, my dear Lizzy, if it is as beautiful as Mr. Darcy says, you may never get me to leave.” She then leaned closer to Elizabeth and lowered her voice slightly, so only she could hear. “So, I shall end an old maid, and teach your ten children to embroider cushions, and play their instruments very ill.”

Elizabeth laughed, a sound of pure joy. “It would be my greatest pleasure, Charlotte.” She then took Mr. Darcy’s arm and walked with him to find their family.

Mary and Lord Aubrey stood in quiet observation for a moment as the others departed, their laughter fading into the distance. Lord Aubrey turned to Mary, a quiet sincerity in his eyes.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice low and considerate. “The moment has passed, but our conversation has not. Would you still care to take that walk now?”

She nodded, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. “I would, my lord.”

They turned and walked on, each a little more certain, their steps light. The laughter and music of the party receded behind them. The hush not uncomfortable but expectant. It was he who broke it first.

“I have been thinking a great deal on what it means to be accountable for the sins of one’s family.”

Mary looked up at him, her brow faintly furrowed.

“When my uncles actions came to light,” he continued, “I feared what you would think of me. Of my name. It is no small thing, what my uncle tried to do. Your extended family suffered greatly, nearly lost to his ambition. And yet you...”

He stopped abruptly, shaking his head once, then turned to face her.

“I cannot ask for your regard, Mary, if it causes you pain. But I find I cannot, will not, pretend I do not feel it.” He hesitated. “I admire you more than I can rightly say. Your fortitude, your honesty, your quiet discernment, these are qualities I have come to value more deeply than I ever expected. I would like to court you, with your father’s permission, and with no expectation beyond what you are willing to give.”

Mary studied him, her expression calm, though there was the faintest crease between her brows. “You are not your uncle, my lord. That you bear the weight of what happened only proves your integrity. If you are hesitant because of propriety or appearances...”

He stopped her with a quiet, rueful smile.

“It is not you I doubt, Miss Bennet.” His voice lowered, sincere and tinged with that old weight of duty. “It is myself. I am the second son of a duke. You are a country gentleman’s daughter. I fear what society would say not of you, but of me, what they would assume my intentions to be. And what they might do to your name if they thought them dishonourable.”

She looked at him, eyes clear and steady. “Let them try.” The words were quiet, but firm. He blinked, surprised, and she continued, more gently now. “If someone would impugn my character or yours, let them make the attempt. I believe you are well equipped to answer them.”

He gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “Miss Bennet, I would ruin them. And gladly.”

She inclined her head with a trace of amusement. “Then I believe we understand each other perfectly.”

He straightened, the last flicker of doubt leaving his eyes. “Then may I speak with your father? I would not proceed without his blessing.”

“Yes,” she said simply, with composed grace. Then, after a brief pause, she added, “Though I rather think he will already have an inkling.”

At that, Lord Aubrey smiled, a real smile, full of warmth and quiet triumph. He offered his arm.

“Shall we return to the house, Miss Bennet?”

“Yes,” she said again, more softly this time. And she took it.

“May I call you Mary, now?”

She looked up at him, something softening in her gaze. “You may. But not in front of Lady Catherine, or she will assume we already have my father’s blessings.”

He chuckled. “In that case, I shall be very careful indeed.”

As they turned back toward the others, their path lined by flowering hedges and the dusky light of early evening, there was a sense, unmistakable, if only to them, that something long delayed had quietly begun.

As the carriages departed and the last guests dwindled, Mary found herself standing on the porch of Longbourn, the setting sun casting long shadows across the lawn. Her sisters, now wives, were off to begin their new lives, and the house felt strangely quiet, yet filled with a resonant peace. The revelations of Lord Aubrey, the new courtships forming, the steady, quiet happiness that now seemed to settle upon those around her, it all felt like the turning of a page, not just for her family, but for herself. She had found her voice, not in song, but in conviction, and had discovered a depth within herself that she had long overlooked. The world, once a collection of facts and studies, had expanded to include the complex, vibrant tapestry of human connection, of courage found in unexpected places, and of love, in its many forms, always finding a way.

The future, Mary knew, was not a neatly plotted novel, but a continuing story, full of untold chapters. For Jane and Elizabeth, for Jimmy and the Earl, for Lord Aubrey and Lady Amelia, for Lord Gresham and Anne, and for herself, there were new roles to play, new lessons to learn, and new harmonies to discover. This was not an ending, but a beautiful, promising beginning, leaving the reader with the certainty that life, with all its complexities, would continue to unfold, offering both challenges and joys, and always, the quiet hope of growth and connection.

When Mary Bennet Takes a Stand

By LizzyS