Chapter 1

Posted on Thursday, 7 June 2001

This is very loosely based on the 1943 movie (and title song, by Alfred Newman)) Heaven Can Wait, starring Don Ameche and Gene Tierney, source writer Lazlo Bus-Fekete, written for the screen by Samson Raphaelson, and directed and produced by Ernst Lubitsch.

Fitzwilliam Darcy reigned in his horse as he took in his clipped green pastures and stately, sprawling home. They all looked dark and insignificant to him. Sights he had seen a thousand times as a child, though not at all the past few months. Instead, he saw visions of Elizabeth swimming round in his head.

Swimming. Yes, that was a good idea. He would soak his weary bones in the lake and clear his head.

He swung his long, muscular leg over the saddle slowly to the ground. Pulling off his boots, jacket, and vest more out of habit than care, he waded into the lake and felt the water seep into his pant legs, causing that clinging sensation. Knowing the contours of the bottom of the lake as well as the layout of his own home, he knew that he would be near the drop off, and dove under the water, propelling with his legs, pushing aside water with his hands.

He had not thought of one detail, though. In his absence, the deep lake had become overgrown, and the seaweed had grown tall and dense. As he kicked with his feet and pulled with his arms, one winnowy branch wound itself around his calf, and another round his wrist. Panic was the dominant emotion that forced his blood to throb in his head, as he writhed to be free, only entangling himself more. He struggled against the overgrown weeds for as many minutes as a man can endure under such stress, and as his heart beat in his head, he felt himself become dizzy, and he closed his eyes, slowly releasing his stored breath. There was no more movement to be seen from above other than a few bubbles bursting on the surface as Fitzwilliam Darcy felt himself fall into a deep eternal sleep.

Elizabeth . . . .

Everything had just faded completely to black, when suddenly, Fitzwilliam was in the middle of a crowd of people. He didn't recognize any of them, and there was no separation of classes. A little peasant girl was climbing stairs next to a man obviously more wealthy than even Darcy. The crowd seemed to be going in two directions. Those with cast down eyes and slumping shoulders were going down a large staircase. Those with chins held high and shoulders back with confidence, or meek smiles and furrowed brows of hope, yet uncertainty, were going up the staircase. And those coming down from above the great staircase looked the most dejected of all. Then there were those standing along the edges of this mass seperatory system. Those like Fitzwilliam Darcy. Those looking hopefully upward and despairingly downward, then cautiously choosing their fate.

"What is this?" Fitzwilliam demanded incredulously of an old man sitting by and watching the process.

"Do you not know, Brother Darcy?"

"How do you know my name?" he demanded angrily.

"I am Peter," he replied simply, shrugging his shoulders and turning back to the massive process before him.

Fitzwilliam suddenly understood.

"So you've finally figured it out, have you?" Peter laughed, and rested his chin on his cane.

"Which way do I go?" Fitzwilliam turned to look at the massive sorting machine.

"That is for you to decide. You will be sent back if you've made a mistake. It's a very meticulous process," he laughed. "Now is the time for you to sit by and watch and evaluate your life."

"I . . . I don't quite know where to start. I can only think of . . . of home."

Peter nodded. "It takes some getting used to. Begin with your last thought before you came here."

"Elizabeth," Fitzwilliam whispered. To never see her beautiful face, hear her triumphant laugh, again! To never be able to apologize!

"Ah!" Peter smiled and winked knowingly. "She will be what you make of her."

Fitzwilliam continued to stare at the steps, not seeing, not truly hearing, just . . . remembering.

"And which way will you go?"

Darcy blinked and turned to Peter. "Well, there is not much to be considered, is there? I was fair with my staff and tenants. Loving to my sister. Friendly toward my friends, and civil with strangers."

"Were you?"

"Yes! . . . Wasn't I?" he sat next to Peter, suddenly second-guessing himself, something he had never done in his . . . life.

"I wouldn't know. You are supposed to tell me."

"Well, yes!"

"Tell me about Charles Bingley."

"He is my best friend. Overly friendly at times, but a good chap, and honest."

"And the Bennets?"

"Ugh! Where to begin? Mr. Bennet is sarcastic. Miss Bennet is simpering, though a beauty, Miss Mary is an opportunist and very bookish, Miss Catherine is ignorant, Miss Lydia is a tart. Mrs. Bennet I shudder to think of, and . . . Elizabeth? Elizabeth is witty and alive. . . . And a very good judge of character."

"Ah! She judged your character once, did she not?"

"Yes," Fitzwilliam sighed. "She said I was proud and arrogant and had destroyed her sister's one means of happiness."

"And had you?"

"I was thinking of Charles, not Miss Bennet. I ultimately care more for what happens to Charles than her."

"And is Charles happy?"

" . . . No."

"Well, why not? You saved him, didn't you?"

"I did."

"But he was not appreciative."

"No. He . . . actually loved her."

"Well, what about Jane? Did she love him?"

"I . . . I thought not."

"Did she flirt? Stand up with him a scandalous number times? Spread rumors?"

"No, no. She was the epitome . . . of polite society," he said with sudden realization.

Peter nodded. "Something you didn't expect to find in the country, eh?"

"I was . . . condescending with my tenants and staff. Loving only to my sister and occasionally my good friends, and absolutely abominable to anyone else I ran across. . . . Or over, you might say," he finished in a whisper, eyes studying his spit-polished boots. "I judged people, and followed wherever my pride and conceit led me, shunning those with less means, instead of accepting them." He looked Peter in the eye. "She was right!"

The counselor waited patiently for him to continue.

"Elizabeth was right. I . . . Because of me, Bingley will never have the one woman whom he adored, and . . . and who adored him in return! Good God, why did I never see it before? Miss Bennet cared for Charles all along. With every smile, every nod, she showed it, but was too fine a lady to ever be as forward as someone like . . . Caroline! With Caroline, I always knew she fancied me. She was rich and got what she wanted. But Jane was the essence of perfection, betraying none of her feelings for fear of being improper! All this misfortune because I compared a true lady's behavior to that of her youngest sisters' and an old maid!" He locked Peter's eyes with his own. "And will Bingley and Jane never be together because of my blindness."

Peter steadily held his gaze, but remained silent.

"Good God. . . !" Fitzwilliam collapsed on the floor next to the wise man. "Where is all this coming from?"

Peter's eyes twinkled and he looked at the 'Up' staircase. "Ohhhh, Someone bigger than you and I."

He stared in awe for a moment, then hastily stood up, and began fidgeting.

"Made up your mind, have you?"

Biting his lip, Fitzwilliam looked to Peter for reassurance, and saw only question.

"Y-Yes," he clamped his hands together to keep them from moving aimlessly. "Yes!" He looked ruefully at Peter. "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. How apropos." He cleared his throat and straightened his jacket as he walked with determination toward the 'Down' staircase to meet his fate.

The hallway was dark and narrow, lit only by the vague reddish glow coming from the end. Some people clung to each other, others cried openly, and some had the gall the skip down the staircase, as if going home. Fitzwilliam had a hold on the kindly provided banister that would have crushed any man's hand.

A man dressed in black was standing at a podium, crossing off names. There was a long single file line between Fitzwilliam and he, and Darcy was allowed the torture of watching men and women sign their names and exit through the door on the left. Some made a fuss, demanding to be sent back up the staircase. Those who went through the door were swallowed up immediately; the only thing remaining was their ear piercing screams echoing as they went down.

The screams were driving Fitzwilliam insane. That would be him in a few minutes. Screaming as he fell down, down, down, into eternal purgatory. An innocent looking old man was standing in front of Fitzwilliam.

"What are you in for?" he turned around and said facetiously.

Fitzwilliam was stunned. Jesting at something like this? "I . . . I separated my best friend from his only true love."

The old man nodded sadly. "Suicide," he said, smiling dimly.

"Why?"

"This isn't Hell, boy," he shook his head. "Topside was Hell for me. . . . Seemed like . . . like God had forgotten about me. Couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't hear. The only sounds I had were my own lonely thoughts, and no one came to visit me. My family was all gone. But anyway, all in the past, now. Now I could dance a jig, if I wanted to!"

And then it was his turn.

"Hubert Humphrey Heimmerdinger," he cleared his throat, and signed his name.

"To the left, please."

"Yes, Sir."

Darcy watched silently as Hubert Humphrey Heimmerdinger gathered his courage and opened the door. As he was pulled through, he glanced back in agony at Fitzwilliam, but no scream came from his open lips.

Now it was Darcy's turn.

"Fit- " he cleared his throat and glanced at the attendant. "Peter!"

"Now, that's not your name!" the same face that had helped him at the staircase was holding the register, now.

"What are you doing here?"

"This is a busy job. And you're backing up the line. Sign, please."

"Fitzwilliam George Darcy," he scrawled his practiced signature across the line. It vanished. "Where did it go?"

Peter turned the book around to look. "Hmm . . . Try again."

He did so, and it disappeared once more.

"I'll send someone to check the records. In the meantime, go to the right."

"To the right?"

"Yes, your case will have to be reevaluated."

"Oh."

"Step aside, please."

Fitzwilliam went through the door to the right, not quite sure what was going on, and found himself in a very nice looking reception area with potted plants and a secretary and soft, calming music being piped in from somewhere above.

I recognize this! What is it? Mozart . . . Ave Maria.

There were two or three other people seated, flipping through newspapers, so Fitzwilliam followed their lead and sat next to the receptionist's desk. Presently a stout man marched through the door holding a portfolio, and entered what seemed to be the office beyond. The door swung open a moment later, and a tall, dark haired, dark eyed, middle-aged man clad in business attire swept his eyes across the room. One did not have to speak his name to know it.

"Fitzwilliam George Darcy."

"Yes, Sir." Darcy stood up and walked to the man, trying to make his voice steady.

The businessman smiled and ushered him into the office.

"Please, sit down."

Fitzwilliam complied. What else could he do?

"Now, there seems to be some sort of conundrum, here."

"Sir?"

"Your ultimatum has disappeared, leaving us with only a record of your life with which to evaluate you. More than likely it's merely a practical joke, but we'd like to continue on, regardless of the missing mandate. I'm sure you understand what it is like training new workers." He pulled a thick stack of papers from the portfolio.

"That's my life?" Fitzwilliam gaped. Everything he had ever done or thought or said or meant to do and never done?

He laughed a deep, heavy, belly laugh. "This is only the Index." He pushed the portfolio towards Fitzwilliam.

Darcy pulled the seemingly harmless data towards him and flipped to the first page. Instantly, a stack of parchment six feet high appeared on the desk. He turned to the last page, and the room was filled to the ceiling with orderly mountains of paper.

"Go ahead. Look around."

Fitzwilliam wandered between the narrow rows of his life and finally tugged at a piece that was sticking out awkwardly, while the others stacked symmetrically.

"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me."

"I shall not say that you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own."

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire-and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too-for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear."

"I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.

"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."

"You shall hear then-but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball-and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you-but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."

"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party."

"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."

"Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?"

"I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done."

"My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault-because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution."

Darcy smiled, and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."

"This is when-"

"When what?"

"When I first knew that I loved her. We had finally come to an agreement-"

He snapped the portfolio shut and Fitzwilliam's life vanished from his hands.

"As I have neither the time, nor the inclination to read through each day and hour, minute, second, and thought of your relatively short life, I was hoping you could summarize it for me. You chose to come down the staircase, I want you to tell me why you did. But first, begin at the beginning. Tell me about your mother."

"My mother?"

"Yes, Mr. Darcy."

"She was beautiful."

"Are looks important to you?"

"Not especially. Though grooming habits are very important, I believe."

"Tell me of your mother's grooming habits."

"Well, I don't remember much about her."

"Yes, you do."

"She always smelled of lavender."

"Who else smells of lavender?"

"No one."

"No one? Not even . . . who was it Peter said would be your undoing . . . . El . . . Elsbeth?"

"Elizabeth! And no-Elizabeth smells of li--!"

He smiled. "Elizabeth. That's her name. Elizabeth smells of . . . ? Lilacs?"

"No. . . . Lily of the Valley."

"Lily of the Valley? How- "

"It took some time to discover it. I could smell it when we spoke, it was stronger when we danced at Netherfield, and finally that night at Rosings when she played for us, she had sprigs of them woven into her hair, somehow. I sat pondering how she got them to stay in her curly hair and lay so perfectly, and then I realized- I was so jealous of Cousin Alexander, sitting next to her, turning pages, conversing charmingly with her and prompting easy smiles from her lips, when all I could receive were smirks or frowns. And then- "

"What?"

"What I said before, Sir. That was when I loved her first."

"I'm done."

"What?!"

"I'm through with our interview. You can exit here," he pointed to the wall, and a staircase opened out of it, dazzling white, the stairs moving, as if trying to get him to Heaven that much sooner.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, go already! This hole is already crowded, and I have other mortals to take care of, Darcy. Fare thee well."

"Thank you, Sir!" Fitzwilliam's long legs took the moving stairs two at a time, and then . . . he was there!

The ground seemed to have a layer of white fog a foot deep resting on it, and there in front of him, was Peter, clothed in white with an odd iridescence about him, grinning from ear to ear.

"Welcome home, Darcy!" he laughed. "Here, sign your name and put these on." Peter handed Fitzwilliam a quill and a white robe.

"Fitzwilliam! Fitzwilliam, we're here!"

There, on the other side of the huge, golden gate held up by walls of fog were Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, arms outstretched to their son through he bars.

"Mother!" Darcy ran to his parents, and clasped their hands.

"Hurry, son! Join us! We're off to visit Georgiana in a moment, and then there will be a feast in your honour- "

The white fog dissipated a few feet in front of the Darcy's, and there was Georgiana, peacefully asleep in the carriage, on her way to Pemberley, looking like an angel on Earth.
Another space appeared just inside the Heavenly gates, and there was Elizabeth Bennet, riding in a open carriage with two stately looking gentlefolk.

"How did that happen?"

"You did it, dear," his Mother laughed. "Whomever is foremost in your thoughts- "

But . . . that scenery looked familiar. Fitzwilliam recognized that lane-They were on their way to Pemberley! Elizabeth, coming to Pemberley! The home she should have been mistress of- Fitzwilliam looked at Peter for a moment.

The angel shook his head sadly. "They are not the only ones who miss. But there is no time, once inside these gates, and everyone waits patiently, here. Watching . . . guarding. . . . "

Fitzwilliam's hand regained the pen resignedly.

"This is Heaven, my boy!" he tried to boost Darcy's spirits. "Rejoice!"

Fitzwilliam George Darcy was scrawled across the page once more, and Fitzwilliam picked up his discarded robe and began pulling it over his head.

Peter coughed.

"N-Not quite so fast, Fitzwilliam."

He drew his head out of the tunic and looked where Peter pointed. His name had disappeared from the register!

Fitzwilliam threw off the tunic as his mother cried out, "But Fitzwilliam! This is Heaven!"

Fitzwilliam clutched his mother's hands once more, and he kissed her cheeks.
I'm sorry, Mother! Heaven can wait!"

He ran straight for the stair case leading back to the decision platform, but on the first stair, he tripped, and as he fell, down, down, down, he held his breath and prayed.

"GAH!" Fitzwilliam exploded from the water, having finally freed himself of the seaweed, and forced the fresh air into his burning lungs. He floated for a moment, panting, then gave three powerful strokes before letting himself float to shore, and lay gasping in the grass.

That was too close! Another moment, and I wouldn't have been able to get free! Oh, thank God!

"Thank God!" he wheezed, as he rolled onto his back.

The first thing I shall demand is for the pond to be cleared out! Oh, if I had lost Georgiana! My poor little girl, what would have become of her?

And I never would have been able to tell Charles about Jane! No more delay, Darcy. You must help the man!

Elizabeth . . . I never would have been able to- when does Bingley arrive? We must away to Netherfield immediately!

Darcy's energy rejuvenated, he jumped up, ordered his horse to the stables, and began planning everything that would need to be done before they could leave once more.

Caroline will likely not wish to go, and Charles cannot go without her. Perhaps Georgiana will speak with Caroline-There must be no delays!

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was her appearance, that it was impossible to avoid her sight. Elizabeth! Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.

"Miss Bennet!" he clutched his coat to his dripping chest. " . . . How do you do?"

"Well, Sir," she blushed and studied the ground.

"And your family, they are well?"

"Aye, Sir. . . . We are on a tour of Derbyshire."

"Where are you staying?"

"At the inn in Lambton."

"Oh, yes. Of course. And you family-they are all well?" Did I just ask that?

"Yes."

"And you- you are in good health, as well?" Have you a fever?

"Yes, Mr. Darcy."

"Please . . . excuse me."

It took all of his self control not to run to the house, but once he had entered the door, he shouted for his valet and dashed to his chamber, throwing off his wet clothing, and trying to straighten his hair. His ever-patient servant brought out new clothing.

"The pinstriped vest, brown breeches, and new Hessians. And for God's sake, get me a new neckcloth!" he bellowed. "No, no! The green coat!"

After Darcy shrugged into his perfectly fitted coat and adjusted his cravat, then dashed out of the house by the side entrance, and walked with equanimity he did not feel to the carriage that Elizabeth was boarding.

"You are leaving so soon?" he called, as Elizabeth seated herself.

"Indeed. We must away."

"You have not yet seen the grounds," Fitzwilliam insisted. " . . . Have you?"

He opened the carriage door, and extended his hand to Elizabeth. She watched him for but a moment before rising, and placed her hand within his.

"Please, allow me to show you Pemberley. Has it met with your satisfaction thus far?"

"Indeed!"

"Your opinion is of greater worth to me than most, though, for once lost, it is lost forever."

Her eyes locked with his warmly. "Never, Sir. Anyone who has seen Pemberley can think nothing wanting- "

With those words, Fitzwilliam Darcy offered Elizabeth Bennet his arm, and he led the three in the direction of the lake. "Thank you, Miss Bennet."