Section I, Next Section

Chapter 1

Posted on Thursday, 24 July 2003

Lizzie felt that she could never tire of looking out the windows of a coach. Her Aunt Gardiner was resting beside her, lulled by the rocking of the finely sprung chaise, but she was wide awake, enjoying the view of the Kentish countryside. They were returning from a visit with her aunt's sister where she had helped mind the two young children while Aunt Gardiner assisted her own sister, Mrs Lattimer, through the birth of her youngest child. It was an experience Lizzie would never forget, for though she had not been permitted to Mrs Lattimer's bedchamber during the labour and delivery, the house was small, and the servants loquacious. She had heard many things that a girl of her years is normally shielded from.

She did not dwell too much on what she had heard because most of it made little sense. One thing she knew for certain, though, was that children did not come into this world with ease. She always planned to fall in love and marry, but she had discovered that there were mystifying things connected to marriage that she never could have imagined. Things that, to her ears, were coarse and sinful. She chose not to think of matrimony in such terms and put these uncomfortable concepts in the back of her mind.

In the novels she and Jane read, the ones her Aunt Phillips provided, love between husband and wife was pure and beautiful. The pretty maiden always had an honourable and handsome gentleman who wanted nothing more than to lay bouquets of roses at her feet. She sighed and gazed through the slightly rippled glass. It added a dreamlike quality to all that she surveyed and she let her mind wander into delightful daydreams that drowned out the harsher realities of the world.

The carriage was trundling through a vast estate. To Lizzie's eyes it appeared prosperous and well kept. Her father's estate in Hertfordshire was very trim, but nothing to this. They were passing through a rolling meadow dotted with ancient oaks, when she espied a horseman. He carried himself well and his horse was magnificent, like something out of her novels. As he came closer she realised that though he was tall, he was young, probably not much older than she herself. He was wearing no hat; his rich, dark curls were swept back in the wind. He was just the sort of man she dreamed of in all her imaginings, only she could never have envisioned anyone quite so perfect.

If only she were pretty like her sister Jane, she thought, then she would have the chance of winning just such a gentleman's heart. Then she laughed at her foolishness, for though Lizzie had a romantic nature, she was also able to see the folly in the world. Her father had taught her to laugh at oddities and silliness, and she could laugh at these traits in herself as well as in others. She looked well enough, but she could not delude herself that with her lack of fortune she would be sought after by gentlemen of his stamp. She sighed and watched his horse gallop into the distance. She could still dream - what harm was there in that?

In the middle of a scene where the young gentleman was walking with her in the little wilderness at Longbourn and gazing adoringly into her eyes, she was rudely thrown to the floor, her aunt almost on top of her, just as a wheel fell off the coach. Neither she nor her aunt suffered any injury, but their carriage could not go on. The coachman hailed a labourer in the field and was given the information that a cottage was to be found just down the lane, and the village was not but three miles off.

"Come, Lizzie," said her aunt. "Let us walk to the widow's cottage down the lane and hope that she may afford us some hospitality. I do not think the carriage will be ready until the morrow. We must try and make the best of our plight." She put on a cheerful face as she took Lizzie's hand, and the girl did the same.

"We can think of it as an adventure, Aunt," she said with glowing eyes. As they neared the cottage she cried out in delight. "Isn't it the sweetest building, with the climbing roses all up one side and the mullioned windows? I dearly love it. I do hope she will let us stay."

"There is every chance of that, Lizzie," said Mrs Gardiner. "It has been my experience that peasant folk have big hearts and will do all they can for a traveler in distress."

Mrs Gardiner was not wrong. The Widow Davies was profuse in her apologies that her spare bedchamber would not be grand enough for the likes of them and that she could do no better than to serve them cold mutton with bread and cheese. They spent a convivial evening in front of the fire with the garrulous old woman who happened to be a midwife. They talked of other things, though, as neither of the older women thought that suitable conversation for Lizzie to partake in. From the widow they learned the large estate was named Rosings, the mistress of which was a tight-fisted landlady who condescended to advise her tenants about their minutest concerns.

"'Tis as if she were the magistrate, though mark my words she aint. If I were ta step foot from my house, she'd have wind of it. Believe me, at her dinner table she be discussing yer broken carriage wheel and sayin' that the smith will set the spokes wrong without her aid."

"Does she have any family?" asked Lizzie with measured unconcern.

"Aye. A daughter as sickly as ye ever saw, poor dear."

It was not the answer Lizzie had been hoping for. She had wanted to know whom the handsome young gentleman was, but she dared not mention him.

Although the cottage had such a charming aspect, Lizzie had to concede that comfort certainly should come before charm. She awoke in the morning from a night of little rest. The bed was lumpy, the blankets were thin, and there was a fierce draught seeping in through the chinking about the window. Lizzie was also certain that she had heard rats scrabbling in the thatch all night, though her aunt insisted that it was only birds nesting.

They were enjoying a breakfast of tea and porridge when a young lad burst through the front door, breathing heavily.

"Ye'd best come quick, Widder," he said as he tried to catch his breath. "Me ma is somethin' right bad. Sez t' babby's comin' an 'tis no joke."

"I'll be right there, Jack lad," she said as she jumped up from the table. "Tell her not ta fret - I'll be there fast as fast."

"She baint frettin', she be hollerin' fit ta wake t' dead."

"Mind yer tongue, lad, and get on home." She turned to Mrs, Gardiner after the boy left. "The baby didna turn. I fear we may lose them both. Pardon me fer leavin' ye this way. 'Tis been a pleasure."

Mrs Gardiner got up from her chair and fetched her pelisse. "I may be of some help," she said. "My sister went through just such a birth and I assisted the doctor."

"Bless you ma'am, but what of the young miss?"

"Lizzie, will you be all right on your own till I get back?"

Lizzie nodded the affirmative. Her aunt took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

"Do not go outside and do not open the door to anybody till we get back. I regret having to leave you, but this is a very serious matter of some urgency. Lives are at stake. Do you understand?"

"Yes aunt. I know that you must go. I am not such a child that I can't shift for myself for a few hours; why, next year I'll be old enough to be out. You have no need to worry about me. I hope that the baby can be saved."

There were tears in both their eyes as Lizzie closed the door between them and shot the bolt home.

Lizzie cleared all the dishes from the table and took them to the small, dark scullery. Once there she was completely at a loss about what to do, but she found a shelf in the pantry where she put the left over porridge and a slop bucket by the door where she tossed the plate scrapings. A kettle was on the hob, and she poured water from it into a basin and rinsed the dishes to the best of her abilities. She then dried them with the cleanest cloth that she could find and placed them on a shelf with the rest of the crockery.

She was more than happy to leave the place and thanked her stars that her mother ensured that there were ample maids in their home to do such menial tasks, although she did spare a thought of compassion for the girls. Back in the sitting room she discovered that there was no more to do than sit and look at the walls or out the windows. There were no books, and Lizzie had no needlework. The glass in the windows was grimy with dirt and full of imperfections. To have a good view of the gardens entailed opening them.

Lizzie was not accustomed to being trapped indoors with no company and nothing to do. She managed to open one of the windows and pulled a chair up close so she could sit and lean upon the sill, gazing into the forlorn garden. The roses were on the other side of the cottage. On this side were clumps of withered flowers and overgrown bushes. Beyond was a wizened orchard and farmers' fields. Clouds were scudding across the sky and accumulating overhead in a dark mass. The wind that was once gentle had become brisk and cold. There was nothing for it but to close the window unless she wanted to catch a cold.

She threw a shawl over her shoulders and set to building up the fire. When she had a cheery blaze going, she ran upstairs to fetch a book from her portmanteau. It was a romantic novel her Aunt Phillips had pressed upon her for the journey, but she was beginning to believe it was not quite the sort of book her father, or even her Aunt Gardiner would approve of. It was not elevating in the least. Part of her had no desire to read further in it, but another part of her was filled with curiosity. The heroine had allowed her suitor to kiss her on the lips - almost swooning from the sensation - and though she blushed again and again at the thought, Lizzie secretly wondered what it would feel like. Would she, like the heroine, know, in a blinding flash, the love was true?

Lizzie made herself comfortable as she could on the hard settee, bolstering herself with cushions from the armchair. The room became warm, and as the wind whistled in the chimneys and rain spattered upon the windows, she felt the oncoming of the sleep that was so elusive the night before. The last thoughts she had were of the young gentleman galloping through the trees, and if his steed took him directly to her dreams it is not to be wondered at.

Fitzwilliam Darcy gave Shadow his head, allowing him to gallop freely across the meadow as he himself attempted to escape the oppression of his aunt's house. It was not just Lady Catherine he wanted to free himself from, but it was also his cousin Anne who looked upon him with as proprietary an eye as his aunt herself. If only his mother were alive she would put a stop to this. Thoughts of his mother did nothing but bring tears to his eyes, and though his father had told him time and again that a gentleman did not cry, he let the tears flow. There was no one here to see him.

Five years was a fair amount of time. He had been a young boy of eleven when his infant sister had been placed in his arms and he had been told to take her outside and play, and give his mother the rest that she needed. The rest that was supposed to make her well. Only that was the last time she had smiled upon him. The last time she had kissed little Georgiana's brow. If he had known he would never have left her room. He would have talked to her; not let her leave them alone forever the way she had done. He would have held death at bay. But five years later he knew the truth. Even his love could not have saved her. He still felt helpless, lost and alone. His father had retreated into a shell of austerity - aloof and distant to his children when they needed his love the most.

The thing that had saved Fitzwilliam was his cherubic sister. She lavished him with love and he cared for and protected her as no one else could. She was now six, and she followed him wherever he went, relying on his word, trusting his judgment, confiding in him. But there was one place she could not follow him - Aunt Catherine had no time for children, but she had an almost obsessive fascination for the young Darcy heir. Fitzwilliam was invited every year, and it tore his heart to see the big tears well up in Georgiana's blue eyes as he left her on the front steps of Pemberley.

That brought him full circle back to the source of his torment. His aunt insisted that he was betrothed to his cousin - pale insipid Anne who had nothing to say for herself that her mother did not say first. It was supposedly his mother's fondest wish, but Fitzwilliam knew his mother would never have wished a wife like Anne upon him. His father never deigned to comment on the match either way, so Lady Catherine gave herself free rein to forward it as she wished. It did not matter how often the young Fitzwilliam said that when the time came for marriage he would choose for himself - she ignored his protestations completely.

The wind was now blowing fiercely. Fitzwilliam took it head on, feeling the need of its cleansing powers. And with the wind came rain that slashed at his face and hands and drove through the fine fabric of his riding coat. But even the rain could not bring him solace. He came to his senses to realise that though it little mattered what hardships he put himself through, he had to think of his horse, and looked about for some form of shelter. The thatch of a cottage was just visible through the tangled boughs of a neglected orchard. He turned Shadow and they wound their way between the trees, bent low to avoid the knobbled branches.

There was a crude lean-to on one side of the cottage which gave the appearance of having housed livestock at one time. It was not much, but enough to afford Shadow shelter from the torrent. When Fitzwilliam did all that he could do for the comfort of his horse, he finally bethought his own needs and knocked upon the door of the cottage. Within he was sure to find a warm hearth and very possibly a hot drink. He was beginning to feel the cold of which he had previously been oblivious.

The insistent rapping on the door woke Lizzie. Her head was still afog from sleeping in the warm room. She shook it and noticed the house was almost in total darkness except for the light cast by the fire. She reached for a candle and lit it from the flames, and then followed the noise to the front door. Her aunt must have returned. Her fingers fumbled with the bolt, and as she released it the door flew open with such force that her candle blew out. In that brief moment before the light was quenched, the figure standing in the door was illuminated. It was not her aunt, and Lizzie was now quite sure that she was still dreaming. Though she had only spied him from a distance, she knew in that instant it was the young gentleman she had seen on the horse, and he was more handsome than she had ever imagined.

Fitzwilliam had only a moment to take in the face of the young woman who answered the door before her light blew out. She was not the peasant he had expected, and though dressed simply in a light muslin gown, she looked every inch the lady, though barely more than a girl. Her hair was loose and falling about her shoulders, but what impressed him most was her startled eyes.

"May I come in out of the rain, miss?"

"Oh! I do beg your pardon," whispered Lizzie, as she held the door open and motioned him in.

Fitzwilliam entered and closed the door, then followed the young lady down the passage. The image of her eyes stayed with him in the darkness.

"There is a sitting room with a fire - please excuse the dark - my candle . . ."

"There is no need to apologise, miss. I thank you for giving me shelter. I have stabled my horse in your . . . stall, if that is acceptable."

"I am sure he must need it - certainly."

They came through a door into the small parlour. The warm glow of the fire gave it a cheery and welcoming aspect and hid to some extent the shabbiness of the compartment.

"Please, sir, come stand in right close to the fire. I fear you are frozen." Lizzie led him close up to the hearth and then turned to face him. Her heart skipped a beat. "You are wet through. As there are no servants here, please allow me to help remove your coat."

Fitzwilliam looked down at her. The fire cast an amber glow over her face. Her expressive eyes held concern now where there had once been shock. He nodded agreement and then awkwardly she reached out to assist him as his frozen fingers stumbled with his buttons. She needed to come very close to him to help pull the wet garment off from his shoulders. The sweet smell of rose petals lingered on her hair, sparking a reaction in the recesses of his soul. As he pulled his arm from his sleeve and she turned to hang the coat upon the screen, his hand inadvertently brushed against her, sending a tingling shock up his arm.

Lizzie turned with the touch, startled. Her eyes flew to his face. What she saw there behind the polite smile were the traces of loneliness and despair, and she felt an overwhelming urge to give him comfort.

"I'm sorry - I . . ."

"Don't be." She took his hand and rubbed it. "You are so very cold." She looked up at him again. She no longer thought about what was proper and what was not. His pain was crying out to her and she responded. A lock of hair had fallen forward, in front of his eyes. She reached up and brushed it back. "So wet."

He captured her hand in his, without breaking contact with her eyes. He was overcome with a longing he had never before experienced - a feeling so fierce that he could not deny it. He took her in his arms and felt all her warmth seep into him. He brought his lips to hers, naturally, involuntarily, without thinking of the consequences, without any thought at all. He sought all the comfort that he so desperately needed and she gave it willingly, with as much fervor as himself. And as that empty place in him filled, love spilled forth. He returned all that she gave him with tender and caring passion. There was no one else in the world but the two of them, and nothing mattered but that they had found one another.

Lizzie lay before the fire in his arms - fulfilled, complete. "Tell me I am not dreaming," she murmured sleepily.

"You are not dreaming, my sweet," he whispered into her hair.

"I am not dreaming?" Suddenly the reality of her position sank in. "I am not dreaming?" she cried, and the full understanding of what had just taken place between them came to her. She was filled with shame and struggled to get up. "Oh! What you must think of me!"

"I think you a wonder. A light in the darkness of my soul."

"Please, you must let me go." She was suddenly aware of the state of her gown, which was up about her waist. She attempted to pull it down with one hand while covering her face with the other.

Fitzwilliam was still lost in the euphoria of his discovery - the sense of completeness he had found in this girl's arms. The warmth that filled him when he looked upon her sweet face. What was there to be concerned about? The feeling that had swept through his body and then left him satiated was pure bliss. He turned to soothe her, help her smooth her clothing, straighten his own, and with the loss of full contact with her came the awareness of what they truly had shared. He had compromised her - fully - irrevocably. How had he come to act in such a base and thoughtless manner? All the while it had felt pure and right.

He led her to the settee and sat beside her. She turned away, sobbing. She was so lovely, so innocent. What had he done? There was nothing he could do to change what had transpired, and in his heart he really had no wish to, but he knew what he had to do. What he wanted above all things.

"You can be assured I will stand by you."

"I could never tell anyone what I have just done."

"What we have done. I was as much a part of it as you. More. You had no idea what was happening. I at least should have had the sense . . ."

"Shhh." She held her hand up to his lips. "Say no more. I cannot bear it."

He grasped her hand and held it. "We can be married."

"No - don't even say it."

"Why not? I want nothing more than to marry you."

"I cannot expect it of you. Please, go. Leave and forget me."

"I could not."

"You must. My aunt will be back soon. How can I face her if you are here?"

"But I will return tomorrow, and we will talk and plan our life together."

She did not answer but only entreated him once more to go.

He wanted to take her in his arms again and kiss her lips but he understood that he could not do so - that he must wait until their marriage before sharing any intimacy again. Now he must show her every deference of propriety - prove that his respect for her was undiminished - that he was not a rake who preyed upon innocent girls. And for this very reason he had to go when she asked him. He reclaimed his coat from the screen and shrugged it on.

He kissed her hand reverently and placed it on her lap. "Until tomorrow, my sweet."

Lizzie bowed her head in tears. He had slipped down the passage and closed the door behind him before she cast a glance in the direction he had gone. "Goodbye, my love."

Fitzwilliam was halfway across the meadow before he realised that he did not even know her name. He laughed. That would be a discovery for tomorrow. He had never felt more at peace, nor so very alive. He had never so much looked forward to the coming day.

Chapter 2

Posted on Thursday, 31 July 2003, at 10:46 a.m.

With the passing of the storm the sky lightened and daytime reigned again. Lizzie was cast into confusion. What had appeared to her as night had not been so at all. Was she no longer competent to realise the difference between night and day, sleep and wake, dream and reality? She had never been so unsettled. If it were not for the damp patches by the door and the unaccustomed ache in her body she would be led to believe she had imagined the whole.

But she had not. She could not have imagined anything so potent in her wildest dreams. The feel of his arms around her and the touch of his lips was exquisite. The look in his eyes as they met hers caused a response in her entire body. She still felt light-headed. But the sensations that had flown through her were more than physical and because of that, much more difficult to contend with. She could not drive them away with a cloth soaked in lavender water, or a hot poultice. Somehow she knew that it was love - it was not just his handsome face, but something in his eyes that called to her heart. And she could not deny that after their intimacy he was kindness itself.

But marriage was out of the question. She had seen the anguish in his face and she had given him comfort. Was he to marry her for that - perhaps ruin himself in the eyes of the world when he was so young and had so much to look forward to? She could not hold him to it. Nor could she admit to anyone what had passed between them. There was only one thing to do. She went back to the dismal scullery and poured a fresh basin of water to bathe her face. She twisted her hair into a knot and pinned it up. She brushed out her skirts to smooth away the wrinkles. And when she felt that outwardly she still appeared to be the innocent young girl she had been in the morning, she strove to bring her emotions in check and lock all the yearning and desire that filled her into a safe dark place in the recesses of her soul.

When her aunt arrived she was sitting composedly on the sofa.

"Did I not ask you to bolt the door?"

Lizzie looked startled, but answered calmly. "I opened the door once, but must have forgotten to lock it again. I'm sorry Aunt."

"But why would you open it?"

"There was a storm." Lizzie's voice shook a little. She was prepared to prevaricate, but she would not lie. She hoped her aunt would question her no more.

"My dear girl! You were all alone and hoping for my return I presume? How many times must I tell you that peering out windows and waiting by doors does not bring someone back sooner? You must learn to be more patient. In all events I have returned now. Was it so very bad being alone for so long?"

Lizzie could control herself no longer. "Yes Aunt," she cried as she threw herself into her arms. She knew she had done something terrible - wonderful to her - but terrible in the eyes of the world. Though it was deceitful, she allowed her aunt to think that she had taken fright in the storm. The alternative was impossible.

"There, there child. And all the time you were probably worrying yourself over the mother and babe. I'm sorry I was short with you. It was an ordeal, but they are both alive - though the infant is weak and the mother barely clinging to life. The widow Davies cannot leave them."

Lizzie was shocked that she had forgotten all about them. She chastised herself severely for her selfishness. "But you do expect them to recover, Aunt, do you not?"

"Yes, my love, if they are given the care that they need. Now we must make ready. I met our coachman upon the road and he said the repairs to our carriage would be completed shortly. You must be hungry - I know I am. We can procure a late luncheon in Hunsford Village and then see what headway we can make before nightfall. By tomorrow evening you will finally be able to sleep in your own bed."

Within a half an hour they were underway. Lizzie turned back to look at the cottage before ascending the steps of the coach. She would never forget it - not ever.

"My dear," said her aunt as she hurried out of the house. "Look what I found - you almost forgot your book."

"Thank you, Aunt," she said, taking it and placing it on the seat beside her. She knew she would never open it again. It had nothing to do with real life. She looked out over the blurred hedgerows to the long, sloping meadow. Good bye my love. Soon trees rose up to obscure her view, but she did not shift her gaze.

Fitzwilliam's aunt eyed him warily across the dinner table. "You are strangely cheerful tonight for someone caught in one of the worst storms we have experienced yet this fall," she said, holding him with her hard glare. "I'll not be surprised if you ruined your coat. You looked a shambles when you came in."

"My coat matters nothing to me," he answered with unusual buoyancy. "The storm was heaven sent."

Anne looked up at him, an expression of wonder on her face. Lady Catherine snorted. "You are talking complete drivel. Your father may give you a generous allowance, but that does not mean you should be wasteful. Management, my dear boy, is what I am speaking of. Always making the best of what you have. I am not averse to you ordering fine coats, in fact that is your right, but it is what you do with the coats that concerns me. You will be in charge of vast estates one day and carelessness will not make them grander or more productive."

"It is only a coat, Aunt, and it does not signify in the great scheme of things."

"It is my belief exposure to the elements has addled your brain. You are frightening dear Anne with your nonsense."

"I do apologise, Anne," he said bowing in her direction and giving her a warm smile. Nothing his aunt had to say was about to dampen his spirits.

Anne looked back down at her plate and began to pick at her food again.

"In fact," said Lady Catherine, not wanting to let the subject rest, "Bristow tells me that there were scorch marks on one of the sleeves. Can you explain that?"

Fitzwilliam had no intention of enlightening his aunt for the world, but in his present state of elation he couldn't help but feel mischievous. "Lightning?"

"I will brook no insolence!" she thundered.

"I do apologise, Aunt Catherine. I sought shelter in a cottage and my sleeve must have come too close to the fire."

"Which cottage?" she asked imperiously.

Fitzwilliam abhorred disguise of any sort, but he was not going to have his aunt discover anything before he could assure the girl the protection of his hand. "One of the many on your estate."

"You must be aware of which one it was."

"One cottage is the same as another. All I know is that I could barely see because of the rain and a cottage providentially appeared."

"And where were you at the time?"

"Riding out on the meadow."

"There are no cottages on the meadow. Why are you being evasive? I am not going to roust out the peasant who burned your coat and expect restitution. I was merely attempting to ascertain which of my tenants afforded you shelter."

"I did not think you were, ma'am."

"You have not yet answered my question," said Lady Catherine in frigid accents.

Fitzwilliam found himself cornered and silently cursed the lack of restraint that had led him into this trap. One had always to be cautious in dealing with Aunt Catherine. When would he learn better? He was indeed a young fool. He paused to collect his thoughts - he had to protect her at all costs. If it were to come out that they had been alone together, her reputation would receive such a blemish that even their marriage could not erase for years to come - and it was completely his fault.

"Mother," Anne gasped. "I feel very faint." She suddenly slumped over her plate.

Fitzwilliam pushed his chair back and rushed to support his cousin. Lady Catherine began to imperiously call for Mrs. Jenkinson.

"Oh, where is that woman, confound her?"

"You sent her for another shawl not ten minutes ago," responded her nephew.

"And is she out carding the wool?"

Just then Mrs. Jenkinson entered, a shawl draped over one arm. She stopped cold when she saw her charge lying limp in Fitzwilliam's arms. The shawl fell to the floor. "Poor, dear Anne! Whatever has happened, my lady?"

"You have the temerity to ask me that? What have you been doing? Gossiping with the servants while my daughter is in a state of collapse? Is this what you call care and attention?"

"I'm sorry, my lady, but the shawl you required for Anne had been misplaced and I had great trouble finding it."

"Does she not have others?"

"But . . ."

Fitzwilliam stood with his limp burden. "Don't you think attending to Anne should be of first importance? Mrs Jenkinson, where would you have me put her?"

"On the settee in her sitting room, thank you sir."

Fitzwilliam strode out of the room with Anne's attendant fluttering behind him mumbling distractedly about salts and hartshorn and vinaigrette.

"Remember, I have not finished with you yet, Fitzwilliam," came his aunt's strident tones as she followed them.

After he saw his cousin comfortably placed, he excused himself and retired to his rooms for the evening. If it were at all believable he could have sworn that Anne's swoon was not real, but that made no sense at all. What reason would his cousin have for pretending illness? She could have no idea that he had a secret he did not want discovered, and if she did, what would lead her to aid him by deception? What would lead her to aid him at all?

Fitzwilliam pulled off his boots and sat on his bed, leaning up against the pillows. He let that question fade along with all his aunt's recriminations. His mind travelled back to the morning and he relived that wondrous experience without applying any of the worries and concerns to it that he would have to deal with in the days to come. He just floated in the memory of her eyes and the soft contours of her body. He had never imagined love could be quite like that - a complete meeting of body and soul - and that he would find it, amazingly, when he was so alone and in need. That it was love he had no doubt. His heart quickened with the thought of seeing her again on the morrow, and then his concerns for her safety resurfaced.

He would not have her maligned, for anything. No hint of scandal should touch her. How he was going to manage that he had no idea. He would visit in the morning and somehow find a way to speak to her alone. Then he would have to approach his father and convince him to allow an engagement. He knew he was young, but he would wait to marry until he gained his majority if he had to. The important thing was to show her he was sincere and to bind her to him with a promise until they could be united before God. Once promised, he could do all that was in his power to improve her condition in life. As his betrothed he could surely set her up in a nice home with a suitable companion. Her family should be only to happy to see her well established.

That she should live in such a crude cottage was unthinkable. It was obvious she did not belong there. Her voice was educated, cultured, her good breeding evident. What kind of reverses had her family suffered to cause her to reside in such a lowly dwelling? She had mentioned the lack of servants to him as if not only he but also she would have relied on their presence. And she had talked of an aunt. Had she been sent off to live with a poor relation on the event of her parents' death? The more he thought about it, the more it baffled him. In the morning he had simply accepted her presence and been carried away by the sensations of being close to her. He hadn't looked any further than that. He hadn't thought about the conditions she lived in and the circumstances of her family. He hadn't thought about anything but the miracle of their love.

He was young but he was not completely naïve, and he at once perceived his visions of a blissful future being stripped away. His father would not countenance his marriage to a nobody, of that he was certain. Mr Darcy had a great deal of pride, and though he was a distant parent he had high expectations for his son. Fitzwilliam knew that marrying an unknown country girl was not one of them. But not only did he have an obligation to marry her, he wanted nothing else in the world than to have her as his own. He would have to confront his father and convince him of his regard and her worth, it was that or fleeing with her to the border, something he would only do if there were no recourse.

There was a knock at the door and Bristow entered with a candle.

"How came you to be sitting up here in the darkness, young master? Why was I not informed that you had retired for the evening?"

"I was in no mood for company."

Bristow was in the process of picking up the discarded boots, a look of distaste on his dour features. "Let me help you off with your things and prepare you for bed, sir."

"I wish no assistance, Bristow. You may leave the candle and go. Have a good night."

"Very well, sir," he said as he took the boots to the dressing room, and then quitted Fitzwilliam's compartment with a stiff bow.

One of Aunt Catherine's minions. Fitzwilliam eyed the retreating form with distaste. He was certain she had them spy on him. Bristow, the footmen, and even the groom. In the morning he was going to have to be cautious - head over to the home wood and then double back. He wouldn't even be surprised if she put one of the stable lads on his trail. She had an insatiable curiosity and could not bear to be in the dark about anything. Fitzwilliam knew that his behaviour at dinner had raised her suspicions.

This belief was corroborated in the morning when he sat down to breakfast. His aunt asked not a word about the location of the cottage. She talked instead of Anne's present wellbeing and delicate constitution. She implied that the discussion of the night before had worn on the dear girl's nerves, stressing that every care must be given to providing her with a tranquil setting. She shot him glances that he could not misconstrue. She meant to discover just what he had been about, but she could not act counter to her proclamation that peace should abound. She would be much more subtle today.

Fitzwilliam expressed the intent to go out riding and then excused himself. When he came down to the stables, he knew he would be followed. He meandered through the home wood until he noticed not one, but two servants shadowing him. He increased his pace and took them on a chase that led through a brook, out into a lane, over hedges, and back into the woods again. By the time he reached the open meadow he was free of them and he released Shadow to gallop furiously across the rolling plain. The run was not only good for his horse, it also relieved Fitzwilliam of the bottled up frustration that had been gnawing at him all morning. He passed the gnarled orchard and then circled round to the front door of the cottage. His heart was beating wildly in his chest. He was about to see her again. He knocked and willed that she would be the one to open the door, and she would be alone again. And he, though he wanted her in his arms, would pay her every respect due her.

The door was opened by a rough looking woman. Fitzwilliam was taken aback. He had been so certain it would be her.

"How may I help ye, young master?"

"Pardon me, but I was wondering if your niece was at home."

"Me niece? And what would ye be wantin' the likes o' her fer?"

"Yesterday I was caught in the storm and she offered shelter for myself and my horse. I have come to thank her for her kindness."

The old woman snorted loudly and broke into a grin. "Ye had me all befuddled, askin' fer me niece an' I couldna fer the life a me figger what a gennleman o' yer distinction would be wantin' her fer. But the young miss, now there's another thing entirely. A sweet lass."

Fitzwilliam could not make much more from this speech than that he had mistaken the woman's relationship to the girl. "Yes, if I could extend my thanks to the young miss I would be more than obliged to you."

"Well that be nigh impossible, I'm afeared. She be gone an' her aunt as well."

"Gone? That can't be!" The old woman stared at him in fascination as all the colour left his face and he began to reel.

"Me manners have gone a beggin'. Come in an' set yerself down afore ye faint dead away." She held the door wide, but Fitzwilliam declined the invitation. He could not enter the cottage or again see the room where they had met as one. Not if she was no longer here. He bolstered himself against the doorjamb and gasped for breath. As soon as he had control of his ravaged emotions he addressed her again.

"Where have they gone?"

"Now that I canna tell ye. I disremember where they was from."

Fitzwilliam was struck speechless for a moment. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"The aunt were from London, I recall, but they was headin' to the home o the lass, somewhere in the country."

"They do not live here? Are they not your family?"

"Nay sir, not but passin' travellers in distress. 'Twas a broken coach wheel."

"Could you tell me their names? Please? It is very important to me."

"I can see as it is, ye bein' so upset an all. But me mem'ry tis not so good. Seems the lady went by the name of Guarder or were it Ganderer?"

"And the young lady?" His voice was eager with a hint of repressed excitement.

"Ah! A nice name she had, if I could only recall. I'm sorry I canna be more help. Check at the smithy - they may know the direction."

Fitzwilliam thanked the woman and rode off to the smithy. He received no better information there. The owner of the carriage was from London - where it was bound was anyone's guess. The name was also a mystery - Gallagher, Garringer - something akin to that. He asked everyone who had been in contact with the coachman, the hostler at the inn where they had taken their lunch, and the post boys at the stables. He knew his aunt would hear of his questions, but he no longer cared. His world had just crashed down about his ears. He was lost, adrift on a dark sea without a rudder.

His eyes were open as he rode from the village but he could not see. There were not even tears to blind him - just the empty nothingness of blasted hopes, withered dreams, and insurmountable loss. He could not believe that she was gone as suddenly as she had come into his life. He had no name, no direction, nothing to help him find her but the strength of his love and the knowledge that he could not live without her.

Chapter Three

Posted on Friday, 8 August 2003, at 10:40 a.m.

The succeeding days proved that Fitzwilliam could, indeed, still live, but life held even less meaning for him than it had before. The depth of his pain had been replaced by a hollow numbness. He had no leads, no ideas, and no recourse. He was to go home to Pemberley in a week and though he hated to leave the only place he had ever seen her, the likelihood of her return was less than non-existent. Meanwhile, his aunt was making his days a torture with her constant questions and insinuations, driving him to spend his time in solitary rides upon the meadow. He went to the cottage once more, but the old woman could give him no further information, and the curious glances she directed his way brought him to realise that his continued enquiries would cause nothing but unwanted speculation.

His Aunt Catherine cornered him in the library one morning. "Fitzwilliam, I must speak to you in private. There are certain things I do not want brought to Anne's ears. I know that men will be men, but you are still little more than a boy. If you insist on discovering the mysteries of life with some milkmaid, I beg that you would be more discreet in your dealings, as behoves your position of dignity in this neighbourhood. I will not have my nephew be made a fool of and his name bandied in every tavern in the county."

Fitzwilliam looked at her in shock. "I . . . I am not a seducer of milkmaids. Such base behaviour is beneath me."

"So I would have thought, but you have been acting like a young, besotted fool, asking after some family that was staying at Widow Davies' cottage, and I mean to know why."

"It is not as you think! I was offered shelter from the storm and I only wanted to extend my appreciation."

"I know where a young man's interest lies with that sort of person, and I want to impress upon you that though I deplore such antics I know even gentlemen do indulge themselves and think nothing of it. Just remember that encounters of that nature are meaningless and the women who satisfy your male weaknesses are wanton tramps."

Fitzwilliam's face became suffused with fury. "I will not stay here to listen to your vile and groundless insinuations."

He strode from the library, slamming the door behind him. He would be leaving in three more days but he wished himself gone at that very moment. That his aunt had the audacity to speak to him of such things! He had acquaintances who boasted of philandering with parlour maids, but such behaviour was unthinkable to him. He knew his aunt was only speaking on conjecture, that no one could possibly know what had passed between the girl and himself, but that she should arrive at such a conclusion about him was preposterous. And to even consider that what had occurred at the cottage was no more than his male need to sow a few wild oats, caused fire to burn within him. It had not been like that. It had been pure and beautiful and meaningful, and nothing anyone said would shake his belief that it was anything other than love.

That evening at dinner, Fitzwilliam spoke only in monosyllables, letting his aunt drone on and on about who knows what. He did not listen to a word of it. He retired immediately to his room and sat in the darkness staring out the window at the vast display of stars that scattered to the far reaches of the heavens. He thought of how lonely and empty it must be out there and would probably have stayed with his cheek up against the glass all night if he had not been disturbed by a light knock. Upon its being repeated he called out for whomever it was to enter and, expecting a servant, was surprised when his cousin came into his room.

"I doubt you were expecting to see me," she said in her plain, stiff voice.

"This is highly irregular, is it not, Anne - visiting me in my room?" His voice was wary.

"My mother does not know, nor is she likely to find out," said Anne calmly. "Do you not have a light other than your fire?"

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Fitzwilliam found a branch of candles and lit them. "Is that more to your taste?"

"There is no need to be out of sorts, I am not here for any devious purpose."

"Please excuse my incivility, cousin. Do sit down," said Fitzwilliam with an excess of politeness.

Anne sighed and sat in an armchair by the fire. "I am certain you were aware that I was not really ill the other evening when I swooned." Fitzwilliam nodded. "Let me explain myself. All that afternoon and during dinner, I noticed a great change in your behaviour. You were happy as I have never seen you, and more - you were filled with enthusiasm, anticipation. I noticed that my mother's questions were disturbing you, so I fabricated a fainting spell. All this time I have been trying to understand where your happiness came from and where it disappeared to the next day."

"I don't see that it is any business of yours," said Fitzwilliam, shortly. He had never heard such a long speech from his cousin before and her very presence in his room aroused suspicion. He felt his aunt must be behind it.

"I don't imagine you do. Let us just say that I am intrigued - I wonder what happiness feels like."

"Then you should attempt to find some for yourself."

"I just might one day. Was she very beautiful?"

"Wh. . . who?"

"This girl you are searching for."

"I was just wanting to pay my respects . . ."

"Yes, I know all about that. I have my spies too, you know. And I do not carry tales to my mother. I heard she browbeat you with indelicate accusations." Here Anne's colour rose. "I do not think what she thinks. I know you would do nothing reprehensible. That is one of the reasons I have always been willing to marry you. I just want to know if she was very beautiful."

Fitzwilliam looked at his cousin in astonishment. Did he ever know her? He sighed. Nothing mattered any more. "Yes, but she was more than just beautiful. She was caring and compassionate. She filled me with hope - she brought me joy - she showed me what it is to love." He turned his head away. He could not face the curious stare of her mild grey eyes.

"And now she has disappeared out of your life," she said dispassionately. "Happiness is so fleeting. Tell me - was it worth the pain?"

"Yes. Yes it was." It was said with feeling as he stared into the fire.

"Then one day I hope I may find some happiness too, before I die. Goodnight Fitzwilliam." She said it in her normal bland way, her face expressionless. Anne got up from her chair. "I will see myself out."

In a moment she was gone and Fitzwilliam was left wondering about the significance of the clandestine visit. The next morning, and for the rest of his visit, she behaved as she always had done, giving no indication that anything had ever passed between them.

Though Lizzie was happy to be home with her sisters again, she was far from feeling contentment. She knew she would never see him again, and the very thought brought tears threatening to spill forth. It was only at night, when Jane was asleep beside her, that she allowed them to break free and soak her fine cambric pillowcase.

On her way home in the carriage, she had found the courage to ask her Aunt Gardiner some questions that had been of concern to her. Because of the delicate subject matter she was glad that her aunt had given her an opening that would help her queries avoid appearing suspicious.

"My dear child, I am afraid this trip has not been quite what I had planned. You have been made privy to some distressing facts of life that I hope do not build groundless fears. Let me assure you that childbirth is not always such a frightening and dangerous occurrence." Mrs Gardiner patted her hand encouragingly.

"May I ask you a question, Aunt?" started Lizzie in a timid voice.

"By all means. If there is something troubling you I should be happy to settle your mind."

"When a lady marries, does she . . . become with child directly . . . I mean, how long does it take after marriage before a baby is expected to be born?" She looked down at her hands.

"Lizzie, you have no need to worry yourself about such things. You are not yet out and it will be a few years before you will have to concern yourself with such matters. But, I can plainly see that you are troubled. Do not fear marriage because of what you have learned about childbirth. Sometimes children come before the first year of marriage is out, sometimes later, and even, in unfortunate cases, not at all. Children are a blessing that bring fulfilment and joy to their parents." Mrs Gardiner had no desires to broach the subject of the finer points of conception - there would be time enough for that when Lizzie was older and it was to be hoped that her mother would perform the task appropriately. She reasoned that such information at this point might distress her niece even more.

"But . . . do babies happen because the husband and wife share intimacies?" Lizzie blushed deeply.

Her aunt looked at her in no little shock.

"Mrs. Lattimer's chambermaids were discussing . . ." Lizzie let her voice trail off. It was true - now she knew what it was they were referring to with their loose talk.

"A slatternly pair of girls, those, with no thought of how to speak in front of a young lady. I'm sorry, Lizzie, that you were left in their company. I have already advised my sister to replace them because they went about their work in such a slipshod manner. I am very happy that I did."

"So is it true?"

"Yes, my dear. But with the blessing of the Lord upon their union, there is nothing disgraceful about such things in marriage. Your mother will be sure to speak with you of this when the time comes."

"But, outside of wedlock, when a girl loses her virtue . . . and is disgraced, is it also a humiliation for the man who has compromised her?"

"Lizzie! Whatever would make you ask a question like that?"

"Well you said that such things are not disgraceful inside marriage . . . so it follows that they are outside of it, and . . . I only wondered because my mother says we must always be on our guard for our reputations and . . . well, is this what she was speaking of?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And a young lady in such circumstances is wanton and depraved?"

"Not always, Lizzie. Sometimes they are simply reckless and foolhardy, or innocent and ignorant. But the effect is the same - they are ruined."

"And the gentleman is ruined also?"

"You are very persistent today. A man who would compromise a young lady is no gentleman. However, though a rake may be looked upon with a certain amount of disapproval, he will always be accepted everywhere in society unless he is completely base. A woman only has to commit an indiscretion once to be shunned by the world."

"So, no gentleman would ever?"

"Oh, Lizzie. What I have told you may be misleading. You cannot count on every gentleman not to make improper advances. Some are not as gentlemanly as they seem. Even a gentleman may succumb to temptation, but he would right his wrong."

"You mean by marriage?"

"Yes, but it would still be a disgrace. People would continue to talk and look down upon the young lady even though she was a bride. But do not be unduly concerned, Lizzie. A girl, properly raised with every virtue, knows not to be alone with a gentleman."

"Yes Aunt. That is something I will not forget."

"Oh Lizzie! I would never have any worries about you in this regard - you are much too sensible."

Lizzie had to turn her head so her aunt could not see the look of embarrassment on her face. Her aunt's trust in her was completely misplaced, and it pained her. Was she reckless and foolhardy, or simply ignorant? Had she been improperly raised that she had invited a gentleman in when she was alone? That she had allowed him to have his way with her? She was being unfair and she knew it. She was the one that had reached up to pushed back his strand of wet hair. She was the one who had offered comfort. Maybe she was wanton. And he was not a rake, but a gentleman. Just as her aunt had said, he offered to make up for what had been done - to marry her though he knew nothing of her background or family. She had been right to keep it to herself and not tell her aunt, to protect him from a decision that had the potential to ruin his life. Her aunt had even said that marriage would not save her reputation. Better, much better, that nobody knew.

Mrs Gardiner watched her niece as she sat with her head bent, letting herself rock unsteadily with the motion of the carriage. She looked to be embarrassed by the questions she had asked, and possibly the answers too. Mrs Gardiner sighed. If only her sister, Fanny, could be counted on to give her daughters sensible advice. But she was afraid that the bulk of Lizzie's knowledge came from the books she read. She glanced at the novel that lay forgotten on the seat between them. Were novels like that responsible for this train of thought? She mentally made a note to find some edifying reading for her niece, and to talk to her sister Phillips about the sort of books she was buying for the Bennet girls. As the coach rocked on along the high road, the book slipped deeper and deeper between the cushions. She was pleased when it completely disappeared and not even a corner was visible. This time she would ensure it was left behind.

Lizzie could not forget what her aunt had said. She rolled over in the bed and stared at the ceiling. Babies were the result of marital intimacies. Lizzie was certain that when these intimacies happened outside of wedlock the result would be the same - she had heard of natural children - by blows. How could she tell if she were increasing? It could happen within the first year, or even longer. That is what her aunt had said. Or maybe never. She had said that too. But how did one know? She felt no different; she looked no different. But the inescapable fact was she had been compromised and could be with child. If she were it would mean the end of life as she knew it. She would not only disgrace herself, but her whole family - perhaps spoil the chances of even one of her sisters to marry well, if at all. As much as she would love to hold a baby boy in her arms who would look up at her with his eyes and smile at her with his smile, she knew it was better if she were barren. Never to have a child at all. She hid her face in her pillow as Jane stirred beside her.

"Lizzie, are you awake?"

She stifled a sob and willed her breathing to return to an even rhythm.

"I know you are awake. What is the matter dearest?"

"I am fine, Jane."

"You have not been fine since your return, Lizzie," said her older sister as she folded her into her arms. "Please tell me what is troubling you."

Lizzie turned and buried her face in her sister's shoulder, breaking into wrenching sobs. "I can't. I can never tell anybody. But hold me please, and know that I love you more than ever." She cried until she fell into a fitful sleep as Jane held her close and stroked her back. Jane did not sleep again that night.

Chapter 4

Posted on Thursday, 14 August 2003, at 10:03 a.m.

For two long years Lizzie waited and watched, hoped and prayed, but her body showed no signs of increasing. She did not know whether to be pleased or disappointed, but every morning when she checked her stomach she felt relief that she could put off the concern for another day. Though the strain of uncertainty was wearing, Lizzie was not a person to let her worries adversely affect her humour. Her experience had taken her innocence and opened her eyes to the ways of the world, but she was not about to wallow in despair and despondence. She was necessarily more serious and sensible than heretofore, but her naturally lively nature could not be subdued. Her wit was a little more cynical and she had high expectations of her neighbours that were rarely met. She had now been out for a year complete, but she measured every new acquaintance by a yardstick of such human perfection as left them all lacking. No one could compare.

Of all her family, Jane was the most aware of the change in her temperament and could sense the sorrow that Lizzie attempted to hide from everybody behind her constant activity and cheerful demeanour. Jane knew the exact date of this change but never pressed her sister for an explanation. All she did was open her heart to her more and a sisterly bond deepened and strengthened between them as did not exist with their younger siblings.

Mr Bennet had also noticed that his Lizzie was less interested in the superficialities of socialisation and fashion, and more introspective and thoughtful in her dealings with others, but he put it down to maturing and had hopes that one day the same miracle would happen to his younger daughters. Jane had always been steady and cautious by nature, but the younger girls he regarded as some of the silliest in all of Britain.

In Lizzie he saw something special and he spent long hours with her sharing the works of authors he most loved. He could also count on her to enter into the pleasure he took in the oddities of human nature that he found so amusing. Just a look and a wink her way were enough to bring a little smile to her face in a drawing room or dinner party. He was aware that she was not easily swayed by the young gentlemen she met, though they often showed her great partiality, and this too he respected in her. He did not want to see her swept off her feet by someone who was unworthy. It was only a very special somebody that he would accept for his Lizzie.

Mrs Bennet was a trifle frustrated with both her eldest daughters. Jane had been out three years and Lizzie one, and still neither was engaged. She had to admit that she had great hopes to marry Jane off to someone much richer than any in the neighbourhood as she was such a beauty, but it was distressing how Lizzie had turned her nose up at very promising suitors. Mary was to make her come out now, and how she was ever to have a chance with two much more attractive sisters still unmarried, Fanny Bennet had no idea. Her nerves were shred to ribbons, as she noted to her sister Phillips one morning.

"My dear sister, these girls will be the death of me. How I am to marry five creditably should they all prove to be this fussy, I have no idea."

"You need not worry about Kitty and Lydia. Yesterday they were hanging out my parlour window staring after some young officers in the most promising way," said Mrs Phillips encouragingly.

"And to think they are but fourteen and twelve!" Mrs Bennet beamed with pride.

"Sister have you heard the news from our sister Gardiner? Her monthly visits have stopped. She is with child again!"

Lizzie entered the parlour at the same moment as this announcement was made. She started in shock and blurted out without thinking. "Monthly visits stop when a lady is increasing?"

Her mother and her aunt both turned to look at her.

"That was not meant for your ears, Lizzie," said her mother, "but yes - it is a sure sign."

"And Aunt Gardiner is to have a third child?" asked Lizzie to cover up the tumult of her thoughts.

"Yes she is," said Aunt Phillips a little wistfully. "I would say by November, for her monthly visits have stopped for three months . . . that would date back to the great snowstorm in February when the whole of England was housebound for a week. I shouldn't be surprised to see a new crop of babies come into the world this November."

"Sister, please," said Mrs Bennet. "Lizzie does not know of such things yet. There will be time enough to tell her when she is married. Lizzie, it was very unwise of you to come in just now without knocking. Please leave the room and forget all you have heard."

"Yes mama," said Lizzie gladly and ran out into the garden. She wandered aimlessly, not looking at anything, and how she came to the riverbank she had no way of knowing. All she could think was that she had been worried about something for two years when, if she had been with child, she would have given birth nine months after the encounter in the cottage. Nine months! And she had been hoping for and dreading a child for so long. If she hadn't just then entered the parlour, how many years would it have been until she had understood the workings of nature? Why had no one ever given her such important information? Only nine months. But her aunt had said it could be before the first year of marriage was out, or later, or never. That must mean . . . that it did not always happen after . . . intimacies were shared.

She sank under the willow tree and grieved for the child that never was. The image of him. She grieved that she had nothing more to remember him by than the memory of being held close in his arms, his kisses, and his gentle reassurances that he would stand by her and marry her. Nothing of him. No keepsake. She knew it was for the best that there was no issue from their union, but that did nothing to stem the tide of tears, nothing to ease the emptiness that yawned within her. She felt his loss as greatly as she did that day when she had let the carriage take her further and further from his reach.

And she allowed herself to dream, something that she always held fast against. She gave in to her longing and let loose the image of him riding across the meadow on his horse, the sight of him at the cottage door, the feel of his hand on her arm, the look in his eyes. What if she had stayed? How would their life have been? She would surely have a child by now, and they would be living together, embraced by love. A family. She imagined a comfortable home, a garden full of roses, herself standing at the gate, their child in her arms, as he came towards her across the fields upon his horse. Or evenings by the fireside, reading to each other, their eyes meeting in gentle understanding. And instead of pain in his, there would be happiness and fulfilment.

Where was he now? What was he doing? How had he felt when he had come to the cottage to find her gone? Had he searched for her or returned home in anger? Did he still think of her now? Had she meant as much to him as he did to her, or was she already forgotten, replaced by someone else's pretty face and comforting touch? Would she ever, ever see him again?

Fitzwilliam Darcy stared into the fire. Two years and he had nothing but the memory of her face, her voice, and the soft warmth of her body. He had stopped at inns all his way home from Rosings and gained no more information than that a carriage of that description was indeed travelling to London and that it hailed from Cheapside.

Cheapside! His father would have been pleased with that. He could very well imagine that gentleman's reaction when he asked to be allowed to marry a girl with relations in Cheapside. But he had not found her, and the request remained unasked. Without a street or a name it was more than hopeless. Even now, two years later, he haunted the streets of that part of London, hoping to see her. He knew them all so well. On some the houses were small and grimy, but others flaunted the wealth of the newly rich merchants. There were little parks with plane trees and rose gardens, but she was never to be seen walking by a pond or sitting on a bench. At times he would look desperately at a mother with a young child, hoping for some sort of recognition. If she had conceived, his child would have been that age. But it was never her face, her eyes. It was never his child.

He knew that if she had been with child she would be ruined in the eyes of society, possibly cast out by her own family, and it grieved him that he was helpless to do anything to rectify the situation, not knowing where she could possibly be. Unable to give her his support and the protection of his name. She already had his heart - it was gone from him forever.

He found he was becoming more like his father every day, and he finally understood the man who had turned his back on his own children when the light had been blown out of his life. But he was determined not to do the same thing. To the world he was aloof and distant, but to the one person who remained in his life, the one person who needed all his strength and was there to receive it, he gave all he had to give. Georgiana was eight now, and closer to him than anyone in the world. She was the only thing that brought his life meaning anymore. His reason for continued existence. She alone had the power to bring him happiness.

He was by no means friendless. He had one or two school-fellows whom he joined for sport or conversation and they were accustomed to his quiet ways and demanded no more from him than what he chose to give. There were also his cousins. Aside from Anne, who he saw once a year on his obligatory visit to Rosings, there were also his two Fitzwilliam cousins who were some years older - the future earl and his younger brother, a newly made army captain. With Captain Fitzwilliam he shared a closeness that allowed him more openness than with any of his friends from school.

Darcy was currently at Pemberley for school break and so too was the captain who was on a short leave before starting his training in earnest. Captain Fitzwilliam watched his cousin dispassionately for a few more moments as he sat with his gaze lost in the fire, and then decided that the time had come to interrupt his reverie.

"You are in such a brown study - if I did not know better, I'd say you were crossed in love."

Darcy only snorted.

"What is it then, man?"

"So, you do not think I could be crossed in love. Why is that?" Darcy stared directly at his cousin now instead of the fire.

"It is well known that you never look at a woman but to criticise her." Captain Fitzwilliam matched his stare.

"I see. You think I am heartless."

"I think you should allow yourself a bit of fun. You're eighteen. Have you ever made love to a woman? I know of a place where the courtesans are very lively and accommodating. Why don't you accompany me some time? Discovering what the fair sex have to offer should help remove this dark cloud you are always under."

"I have no need of it."

"There is nothing that helps a man more than a frolic in the hay. Don't be a prude, Darcy. Once you have experienced it for the first time you will thank me for my advice."

"I have experienced it."

The captain stared at his cousin in amazement. "Where? With whom? Not in a London establishment - a serving wench possibly?" He slapped Darcy on the back. "You dog! You have hidden depths I would never have expected."

"It was not like that. I would never force my . . . attentions upon one of my servants."

"It would not take force. No, I think many of them would be quite willing. You are a very presentable young buck, you know." The captain grinned and winked at him.

"You know perfectly well what I mean," said Darcy blushing. "I would never take advantage of a young girl in service, or any young girl for that matter."

"So it was a courtesan."

"Definitely not."

"Why are you so severe? They serve a most needed purpose - most men enjoy their attractions. Who then? Some older lady of your acquaintance - married perhaps and looking for amusement? I would never have thought it of you." Captain Fitzwilliam smirked.

"You are trying to shock me, I know."

"I have heard they can be very generous, though I must admit even I would draw a line at that sort of pleasure. Give over, Darcy. Who is this lovely wench that has stolen your virginity?"

Darcy had never meant to speak of her to anyone and chided what must have been his male vanity for admitting that he was, indeed, experienced. That and his unflagging honesty. "She is not a wench, nor is this something that I would wish to bandy about. I have made love with one girl alone on only one occasion, and it was the most truly wonderful experience of my life, to share love like that."

"Love?" said Captain Fitzwilliam. "You are a young idealist. But ladies do not bestow such favours before marriage, and I know of no lady of our acquaintance who I could even imagine you to be in love with."

"You do not know her."

"Where did you meet this paragon?"

"Two years ago in a cottage on my aunt's estate."

Captain Fitzwilliam whistled. "This has been going on for two years, this love affair? No wonder you are ever eager to visit the old battleaxe. Oh - I just had an awful thought - it is not your dear cousin whom you are destined to marry is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Anne? The idea is . . . preposterous. I said that you don't know her. And there is no love affair. It happened two years ago."

"When you were sixteen? My but you are a sly one. You beat me to the . . . but in a cottage? Was it an assignation?"

"What do you take me for? I never intended to do what I did. It just . . . happened."

"But whatever was a lady doing in a cottage. You are not telling me the love of your life is a farm girl?"

"Do not mock me, cousin."

"I am sorry - but you must see Darcy - it was not love. It was pleasure. You are mistaking the two."

"I am not mistaken."

"You cannot expect me to believe that you fell in love with a young girl you met in a cottage, who is a lady, and that you consummated the act with her freely and that two years have passed since and you are still in love with her, though you have not been intimate again and neither are you engaged. Where is this girl now?"

"I have no idea."

"I wonder if all this staring at fires over the years has done something to the workings of your brain. You do not know where she is? Tell me at least you know who she is."

"If I knew her name do you not think I would have found her by now?" asked Darcy in a hounded voice. "Please do not make little of this. It means everything to me."

"I can see that it does," said his cousin softly, "but if you want my advice, you should come with me to this establishment in Mayfair and then you will be sure to discover that what you think is love is nothing other than sex. Afterwards you would be able to let go of your childish dream and marry a real lady when the time comes. I'll wager the experience you gain will come in handy on your wedding night."

"I have no need of practice. I can safely say that I have already proved to myself I will have no trouble with my performance," said Darcy ruefully. "And as for your second point, cousin, it is not some childish dream, but love. You cannot convince me otherwise. I know this is difficult for a man like you to understand, but believe me when I tell you I will love no other. All that I have seen are dross compared to her."

"Then I am very sorry for you. I want nothing but your happiness, but I see no solution to your problem. How will you discover an unnamed girl in all of England if not by chance? And what if she no longer loves you, or is already married, or has borne a child and is now somewhere ruined, living in abject poverty, or even dead?"

"Do you not think I have thought of all that, every day for the past two years?" Darcy turned his head and stared back at the fire.

His cousin watched him for some time and then let out a big sigh, walked over to the brandy decanter, and poured himself a stiff drink. He wondered at Darcy who never touched the stuff. He himself felt like getting good and drunk.

Chapter 5

Posted on Sunday, 17 August 2003, at 12:06 p.m.

Georgiana sighed. History was dull and so difficult to understand. Her governess had set her a lesson on William the Conqueror, and the succession to the throne was filled with intrigues that she had difficulty following. Why would King Edward the Confessor promise the kingdom to a Norman upon his death, and then why would the country choose Harold instead, a man who had sworn to support William I's claim? This had only forced the Norman Duke to invade and take the throne by force. Battles, battles, battles. There were too many battles. Why could not everything be resolved peaceably? She sighed again and began to consign all the dates to memory.

"Hello Miss Georgiana, my sweet."

Georgiana looked up in surprise at being addressed. An unknown gentleman stood in the doorway of her schoolroom. He had an extremely amiable expression on his handsome face, and he smiled at her charmingly.

"I am sorry if I have startled you, but I was so hoping that you would remember me. I am a friend from your childhood - I have been away at school, just as your brother has."

"Oh!" was all Georgiana could bring herself to say.

"You must remember me. You used to follow me about wherever I went. I'm George!"

Georgiana was still unsure - perhaps she had seen him before - there had been a young man on the estate of about her brother's age some years back, but she could not remember clearly. She was quite certain she had not followed anyone but Fitzwilliam about.

"Steward Wickham's son! Come now - is your old favourite so soon forgotten?" George advanced into the room as he spoke and drew near her desk where she had her books spread out.

"Ought you to be here?" asked Georgiana as she edged away from him.

"I have come to discuss some business with your brother, but I was so anxious to see you again that I have probably overstepped my bounds," he said apologetically. "You see when I was younger I spent countless hours in this very room. I will go away at once and this meeting can be our little secret."

"I do not keep secrets from Fitzwilliam."

"That is very commendable - for such a young girl you have well-developed principles. How old are you now, twelve?"

"I am but eleven, sir," Georgiana said with a small smile.

"I ask that you keep nothing from your brother. I will tell him of our encounter when I see him. What are you studying with such diligence?"

"History - William the Conqueror."

"Aha! The battle of Hastings! 1068."

"It was 1066."

"Was it indeed? I never paid too much attention to my history lessons I am afraid. Dreadfully dry stuff."

Georgiana giggled. "I think so too."

"Did I not tell you we had much in common? I will leave you to your lessons now so that I do not incur your governess' wrath, but I hope to see you again before I leave, madam." He executed a deep bow and winked at her.

After he was gone, Georgiana had difficult keeping her mind on the reign of William I. Although she had been uneasy at first, she had enjoyed the visit from her old friend. She sent her mind back and tried to remember anything she could about him, but all her recollections were shadowy. Well, if they had used to be good friends it must be true because he appeared to recall her so very well.

Fitzwilliam Darcy steeled himself as he turned towards to door. The servant had announced Mr Wickham - not an unexpected visitor but certainly an unwanted one. He hoped the interview would be short and painless.

"Darcy! What an age it has been." Wickham strode through the door with his hand outstretched.

"Sit down." Darcy ignored the hand as he indicated the chair. "Your letter said this meeting was of some urgency. What is it that you want of me?"

"I was hoping for a warmer greeting than that for an old friend."

"It seems I have a clearer memory regarding our former relationship than you do."

Wickham had the grace to blush. "Why don't we let bygones be bygones? Then we were but foolish boys, now you are the master of Pemberley at the young age of twenty-one. How that must please you, to finally be in control of the purse strings."

"I would prefer it were otherwise, and my father still alive."

"Well, undoubtedly it is a big responsibility, but think of what you will be able to do with the money. All of London will be at your feet. Your father kept you on a tight string."

"It was a string of my own choosing. Is this what you have come here to discuss, with not one word of regret at my father's passing? If so, I would ask that you leave right now."

"I was never more saddened to hear of a gentleman's death," said Wickham in a voice dripping with sincerity. "Please accept my deepest condolences."

"I will accept them in the spirit they were given," said Fitzwilliam stiffly.
"You cannot pretend you were attached to the old gentleman. He showed you no more favour than he did me."

"Remember that he was your benefactor. I would have you thrown from this house this minute if it were not for the respect in which I hold your father's memory. What is your business?"

"It is of a rather delicate nature. Your father's will has left me the living of Kympton, when it becomes vacant, but I really do not believe that I am suited to the cloth."

"There, at least, we are in agreement."

"I have the intention of studying law. I think it a much more profitable venture and distinctly more to my liking."

"You are certainly more suited to some aspects of it - but it takes years of diligent application to studies. Your aborted career at Cambridge does not bode well for your ability to stay on task."

"Have some faith in me, Darcy. Do you not think I have learned from my past mistakes? You see before you a man of only good intentions."

"And how do you propose to support this endeavour?"

"That is what I came to discuss. As I have no intentions of taking on the living at Kympton, I was hoping for some sort of financial restitution."

"What was the amount you had in mind?" Darcy opened a drawer and withdrew his draught book.

"Five thousand pounds."

"You must take me for a fool."

"I am giving up a valuable living. You owe me that much."

"I owe you nothing. Nowhere in my father's will does it state that I should buy you off if you refuse the living. I am being more than generous, and only because I want to honour my father's wish to have you established. I will give you three thousand and not a penny more, ever. This is the last time I want you to approach me. What you do with the money is your concern - I have washed my hands of you."

Wickham sat and smirked as Fitzwilliam carefully wrote the figures and then tore the page from his book and handed him the bank draught. "I am most obliged to you, old friend."

"You know your way out."

"I most certainly do. Your dear house is like a second home to me. It pains me that I am no longer welcome here." Wickham left the room with a smile and a light step. That had been much easier than he had expected. Darcy may say that this was the last he would get from him, but in a few years he would be good for a touch again, after all he had a fortune. 'There's no way I'm only going to settle for a few thousand pounds,' thought Wickham. 'Not by a long shot. I deserve much more than that.'

He walked down the steps and looked back at the stately mansion. He thought he saw a young face peering from one of the upper windows, and he waved and then blew a kiss towards the house. Now he had to hurry. He had arranged to meet a young parlour maid in the spinney. He could not disappoint her. He patted his breast pocket. It had been a very profitable visit indeed.

Fitzwilliam sat at his desk and stared out the window. The effrontery of the cad! He sighed knowing that he had given too much too easily, but he just wanted to rid himself of that loathsome presence. If ever there was a profligate, George Wickham was one. The only good to have come from the interview was the knowledge that a man so base had no intentions of entering the clergy. Gaming, womanising, lying and cheating - nothing was below him. The one thing that gratified Fitzwilliam was that his little sister had not been subjected to Wickham's presence. He took out his watch. She would be finished her studies now and practising in the music room. He tidied his desk and went off down the corridor in search of her.

After a morning taxing her brain with names and dates, Georgiana was pleased to take her place at the instrument and run through her scales. Fitzwilliam had recently hired a music master to teach her as he said he himself had taught her all that he was capable. She had at first been frightened to learn from a stranger, but Mr Hormsby was a kind, fatherly sort of man, and very patient with her. Not that her brother had not been patient - she just did not expect it from a tutor - her governess was always so insufferably cross with her when she made the slightest mistake. This she did not tell Fitzwilliam. She knew that he had shouldered great responsibilities when their father had died and she had no intentions of adding to his burden.

She was in the middle of a new piece when she heard a light footfall and glanced in the direction of the door to see her brother entering the room. She stopped immediately and ran towards him, her arms outstretched. "You are earlier than I expected!" she cried as she hugged him.

"I am sorry to have disturbed you. Your playing was very lovely." He leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"You always say that. Really, I played very ill - you must admit it."

"It sounded delightful to me," he said seriously.

She smiled up at him, pleased by his praise. "What are we to do today?"

"I was thinking of a walk in the garden after luncheon. It is a fine day for September. Maybe you could bring your paints and we could go to the stream."

"I would like that above all things. And you could bring your rod."

"You are too good to me, allowing me my favourite pursuits while I am supposed to be indulging you."

"To see you happy is my indulgence."

Fitzwilliam hugged her closer. His heart filled with love for her. If only it were enough for him, but he still longed for that love he had found and lost so suddenly, so many years ago. Would that he could forget her. But he knew deep down he had no wish to forget her, that he would be consumed by the need to search for her until he finally found her. He felt he was letting Georgiana down, but he could not help it.

"Let us sit for a moment, dearest. I have something to tell you." He led her to a settee and sat beside her, taking her hand and stroking it. "I am afraid I will be leaving you again for some months."

Georgiana felt sadness grip her, but she was determined that Fitzwilliam not know how lonely she was when he was gone. She did not want to tie him to her - she knew that there were many things a gentleman must do out in the world that a young girl like her could not take part in. "Where are you going?" she asked brightly.

"Do you remember my friend Charles Bingley? He has plans to buy his own estate and he is going on a tour of a few counties to look at likely prospects his agent has searched out for him. He relies on my judgement and wants me to accompany him as an advisor."

"I do remember him - he is very friendly and smiles a lot. I quite like him, even if he does take you from me," she joked. "He does very well to rely on you - there is no one who could advise him better."

"I thank you for your faith in me - I sincerely hope it is not misplaced. But I must own that Charles is such an amiable fellow he could be imposed upon very easily and without guidance would take the first estate offered no matter if the chimneys all smoked, or the drawing room faced north, or if the pastures were in dire need of draining."

Georgiana laughed. "Will anyone else be accompanying you?"

"I do not know for certain. I sincerely hope that his sisters will not join us. How he came to be saddled with such a pair of . . . no, I should not be uncharitable - but I cannot like them."

"Nor can I. They always want to kiss me and their scent is overpowering."

"Poor sweet. I wish I could procure you companions of your own age. It must be dreadfully dull for you with just myself and the few friends that sometimes visit - and now I am leaving you with only your governess."

"I also have Mrs. Reynolds and Cook, and there is a new litter of kittens in the stables. Have no worries on my account. I will be well entertained - but you will come home for Christmas, will you not?"

"Of course dearest - and with something special for you."

"My best present will be your return."

The afternoon was all that Georgiana could have wished. The troubled look lifted from her brother's brow as he stood, casting his line out into the sparkling waters, while she painted the statuesque beech trees that shadowed a nearby curve of the stream. After dinner they played cribbage together until it was time for her to go up to bed. She left him seated by the fire with a book, looking comfortable and content. It was only as she climbed into her bed that she realised she had forgotten to mention her morning visitor. It did not signify, however, because George had assured her that he would inform Fitzwilliam himself. She went to sleep remembering his dancing eyes and wondering why he had not appeared at all familiar. He must have changed indeed as he had grown older, that was all that could account for it. She hoped he would visit again - she had found him very agreeable.

"Mama is terribly excited about the new tenants at Netherfield, but I mean not to think of them at all," said Jane to Lizzie as they walked in the garden.

"She feels their very purpose in coming to the neighbourhood is to marry one or other of us! I have a great deal of sympathy for them, knowing they will have to endure mama's overtures. But I cannot doubt that once they lay their eyes on you, the two gentleman will realise that it was not sport that brought them at all - or, should I say - another sort of sport entirely."

Jane blushed. "Lizzie, you should not say such things."

"Why ever not? You are by far the prettiest girl in the entire county and any gentleman who does not realise that is nothing short of a fool."

"You are very pretty yourself, Lizzie."

"Your beauty casts mine quite in the shade. Besides, I have no interest in marriage as you well know, Jane."

"When you meet the right gentleman you may change your mind."

"If I should ever meet the right gentleman, I will consider reassessing my decision."

"I wish you would not be so stubborn. Could you really be happy as a spinster?"

"Jane, it is not happiness I seek, but contentment. If you find happiness in marriage and supply me with nieces and nephews to love, then I shall be content."

They arrived back at the house to find their mother recumbent on a divan and complaining of spasms.

"Oh Jane! We are undone! Your father refuses to visit the new tenants of Netherfield. Now how will he ever meet you so he can ask you to be his bride?"

"Which one are you referring to, mama?" asked Lizzie with a smile.

"Whichever of the two is richer and more handsome, of course! Oh! Bring me my salts."

"Mama, do not despair," said Lizzie. "They are certain to attend the next assembly and if I am a judge of such matters, they will seek out an introduction immediately so as to dance with Jane."

Mrs Bennet brightened appreciably. "Yes, they will! But - what a misfortune to have to wait to be introduced by Sir William, who will want them for Charlotte or Maria, or Mrs Long, who will only want them to dance with her nieces."

In the two weeks leading up to the assembly there was a great deal of news canvassed between the local citizens about the new tenants. The gentleman actually leasing Netherfield was thought to be worth at least four or five thousand a year and his friend considerably more. It would have proved even more exciting if they had been members of the peerage, but a plain Mr with five thousand pounds was nothing to be sneezed at. None of the Bennet girls had the good luck to see them prior to the ball, but they were touted to be as handsome as they were agreeable. They would be attending the assembly with a small party of their own, two ladies and another gentleman, reputed to be the husband of one of the ladies.

Lizzie looked in the glass as she put the final touches to her toilette. She had to admit that with her grandmother's pearls and her hair dressed in curls upon her head she was a fair way to being pretty - but to what purpose? She had no hopes of the assembly - there was no likelihood of his being there, and no one else held the least bit of interest for her. Oh, she would dance, sure enough, but she would do her best to be unencouraging.

The problem was that her liveliness and teasing tongue had a tendency to misinterpretation. Was it a fault in her that she wanted to take pleasure in an affair where she knew no future happiness could result? That she wanted to be light hearted because the only other alternative was emptiness and despair? She knew her own heart, but explaining it to young gentlemen in the throes of infatuation was something she preferred to avoid. She would attempt to temper her spirits without giving lie to her deeper feelings. She did not want to raise any suspicions in her sister. Jane was too good at reading her moods and she would spoil her sister's happiness for nothing. Lizzie was afraid that she was thinking too much like her mother, but she had great expectations concerning Jane and one of the new inhabitants of Netherfield.

She took a last look at her reflection as she arranged the lace at her neckline. If only things were different. If only she could walk into the assembly rooms and see him across the floor, leaning up against the wall, his eyes on the doorway, searching for hers. She was startled by the longing in the eyes that met hers - not his dark eyes, but her own, mirrored before her. She smiled wistfully and turned to go downstairs. The carriage was waiting.

Continued in the next section