Section I, Next Section

Part 1

Posted on Tuesday, 14 May 2002

He asked for nothing more than the average modest clergyman: a... nice quiet week off. Spend a bit of time with his long-suffering sister; inspect the latest muslins; peruse an amusing little Gothic Romance; educate the populace on the finer points of proper grammar, diction, and syntax; maybe unwittingly charm the bejesus out of impressionable young girls.

But no.

Things were never arranged conveniently -- stop a minute. Take that out of the passive voice. More specifically (and grammatically), villains, in addition to their various moral and ethical deficiencies, are seriously lacking in common courtesy; so of course it would never have occurred to this self-centered bunch to be so thoughtful as to mount this farce (for that, in the eyes of this reasonable man, is what it was) at a more opportune time. (Then again, it may well have occurred to a few of the more far-sighted -- and malicious -- characters, but moving on...)

Holy smokes! A split infinitive!

Never mind that now ... and moving on...

And so it was that Reverend Henry Tilney's usually imperturbable face changed expression three times as he read that letter one fine spring morning...

Somewhere else in England, another respected emissary of the Anglican Church was contemplating over his breakfast. Precisely what he was contemplating is unknown; however, it most probably revolved around the steady progress of a carpenter ant towards his muffin.

These quiet reflections were shattered by the housekeeper's piercing voice. "Mr. Ferrars, sir! Post for you!"

Edward jumped out of his chair. People were writing to him -- him? He knew it wouldn't be Lucy Steele because she only wrote on the second Tuesday and the fourth Friday of every month. "Thank you Mrs. Masterson, be there in just a moment."

Edward had very kind thoughts toward the ant, but he also did not want him in his muffin. Gingerly, he picked up the ant and replaced him on the windowsill, with all the best of intentions. The moment Edward left the room, a sparrow swooped down -- Mmm.... breakfast.

Edward stumbled over a small clay frog and into the front parlor. "Terribly sorry," he murmured.

"What, sir?" Mrs. Masterson asked.

"What?" asked Edward, puzzled.

"You said something, sir?" she prompted.

"I did? Oh ... oh ... right, I did. I did." Mrs. Masterson looked at him expectantly. "I was just ah ... apologising to the ... frog ... there..." he finished lamely.

Mrs. Masterson opened her mouth, shut it, and opened it again. "Certainly sir." She handed him a rather smudgy envelope and left to make sure that giddy second housemaid wasn't off wasting time with the butcher's boy again.

Edward turned his concentration to the letter. It was even dirtier and more indifferently addressed than Lucy's letters. But it was addressed to him! He tore it open, eschewing a letter opener; they were rather useless, bothersome things, after all, never there when he needed them and always seeming to find their way onto a chair right before he sat on it...

He read the letter once before stumbling backwards in the general direction of a chair, only by happy accident managing to back into a footstool before his knees gave way. Then he read it again, and again...

Edward squinted into the sun. Why did he always seem to end up facing sun-side? He had to shout over the throngs of people crowding the Bath street. "Tilney! Hope you didn't have to wait long; I came as fast as I could!"

"Yes, of course," the other clergyman replied. "Thank you. I'd a much shorter distance to come but didn't have to wait long." Edward seemed about to speak again, but Henry cut in as they started to make their way through the crowds. "No no, not here."

"______'s club?" Edward enquired.

"I think we'd better not."

Edward's familiarity with Bath was not as advanced as Henry's, but he came to realize they we walking away from the center of town. "Ah yes, of course, very sensible."

Henry only nodded, not speaking until they reached a bit of a public park far from the baths and social clubs. Henry sat down on a bench, betraying but a trace of discomposure, and shook open the letter he'd received earlier. Edward did the same -- only he could not hide his worry.

"About the same, eh?" Henry commented, glancing over the two. "Still, we'll study them closer later on. Even the slightest difference in syntax could signify something."

"Like what?" Edward asked hopefully.

Henry paused before answering. "Many things," he said cautiously. He couldn't bring himself to say those three words. Other people said them. Henry Tilney did not. Fortunately, his stalling had rendered them unnecessary, because possibilities had occurred to him. "The state of mind of the writer, for example -- assuming it is the same writer." He looked at Edward. "Do you see?"

"Yes. So, it looks like you were right," Edward said glumly. He looked around. "Still, I'm glad we agreed to meet here if we got a warning."

"Yes," said Henry grimly. "Though I wish it were not necessary in the first place." Something his friend had said struck him. "You'd call it a warning, Edward?"

"Um, yes, perhaps, maybe...?" the other stammered, wondering if he was wrong.

"No no, Edward, what I mean is -- maybe it is a warning, maybe not. Or maybe it's a threat, a clue, a false herring, a betrayal? I don-- ah, we cannot be sure at this time."

Now Edward looked even more worried. "What do we do first?"

Henry folded the letters back up and dusted off his hands. "We have to work fast. All right. Who have we got from the clergy?"

"Ermm ... you, me..."

"Hayter, down in Somersetshire. Henry Hayter. Low-key, but very solid," said Henry in a business-like manner.

"Edmund Betram," Edward piped up.

Henry glanced heavenward. "Must we?" he groaned.

"Well..." Edward shrugged, though secretly he was somewhat pleased, because if anyone, Edmund Betram was made fun of more than him. It almost made the whole dreary ordeal of dragging Betram along worth it. Almost.

"That's all we've got, I suppose," Henry said. "We're not so well up on the clergy at all." He wagged his finger shrewdly at Edward. "Absent and corrupt priests, you know. Never a good sign..."

"We've got the corrupt priests all right," said Edward glumly. "Er, Henry?"

"Yes?"

"Where's that from again?"

"James Joyce -- Dubliners.

"Oh." Edward was silent a minute, then hissed in a stage whisper, "But Henry, that's not supposed to be written yet! I don't even think James Joyce is born!"

"Edward."

"Yes?"

"Just look at your clothes," Henry instructed patiently.

Edward gave his shoes a cursory glance. "Yes, so?"

Henry closed his eyes and sighed. "Never mind, look at my clothes."

Edward obliged. The tall, dark, and very nearly handsome man next to him was attired in a crisp black business suit, gray oxford shirt, and steel blue tie. To complete the effect, Henry coolly pulled a pair of dark sunglasses out of his breast pocket and put them on.

"It's ... somewhat... of a departure from ... the usual..." Edward said cautiously.

"Well observed," Henry replied. "It is."

"Maybe a bit anachronistic, isn't it?"

"Well observed," said Henry calmly. "Everything and nothing is anachronistic now."

Edward looked down and gathered he was wearing something fairly similar to Henry's attire, though he suspected (quite rightly) his own appearance might be somewhat less urbane. "So things are a bit screwy, are they?"

"Well observed," said Henry again, from behind the sunglasses. Edward wondered if he would get a pair too.

"But you haven't your overcoat!" Edward exclaimed, for lack of anything better to say.

"Well observed," Henry reiterated coolly.

"Don't you ... er ... need it?"

"Not in May. It's 21 C ... about 70 F, that is." Only Henry could do split-second conversion like that.

"Well yes, but I thought you needed it for ... special things?"

"Special things?" Henry looked at his friend and chuckled. "Ferrars, you're an Anglican minister. Don't tell me you think that coat has magical powers or some such nonsense. What did you think it did -- help me fly?"

Edward flushed, feeling a bit silly. And the slightest bit irritated by Henry Tilney's perpetual intellectual superiority. Then he thought of something that would get them off the subject. "But Dubliners live in Dublin!"

"Yes?"

"But -- but that's in Ireland and they're Catholic!"

"So?" asked Henry with monumental patience.

"Well, we're in England and we're Anglican!"

"Edward. The analogy still holds. You really must not take things so literally. It's a common failing of our time."

"What time is that?" Edward retaliated swiftly.

"It's a common failing of all time," Henry corrected smoothly. It was well that the sunglasses obscured his vision slightly for he missed an extremely uncharacteristic eyeroll executed by Edward.

"Moving along," said Henry cheerfully. Yes, they were in the throes of an impending crisis of disastrous proportions, but that aside, he was feeling really very pleased with himself. The pants were a bit more comfortable than he was used to, and he had fewer fears of his backside being ogled by the likes of Miss Isabella Thorpe & Co. The tie, too -- toss up as to whether or not it was less constricting than the cravats, but he rather thought the tie was a bit of an improvement. Certainly he preferred the way it looked. Might have to do something to help Ferrars when he had a chance, though. Poor sot simply couldn't see that the purple shirt and green tie were an unfortunate combination. A touch of the iron might do him a bit of good too...

"I believe we'll have better luck with our military support," he continued.

"There's your brother."

"Oh yes, Frederick will be an enormous help, as always," Frederick's younger brother said with a small snort. "Captain Frederick Wentworth, on the other hand, will be a great asset."

"William Price."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam, obviously."

"Weston, I think?"

"Brandon, certainly."

"Oh no, I don't think so," said Edward.

Henry looked up from his legal pad. "Why not?"

"Because."

"He has an excellent record, I don't see why..."

"Actually, come to think of it, I'm sure he'll be glad to help," Edward interrupted. Actually, come to think of it, that would keep Brandon away from Elinor Dashwood ... not that he, Edward, really cared or anything...

"Admiral Croft, I hope we can persuade out of retirement..." Henry continued busily. "Benwick and Harville. Lt. Denny and sundry..."

"Silly girls," Edward said with a groan. "Lots and lots of silly girls."

"Don't worry. Anyone else from the military end?"

"Not that I can think of now."

"Very well --"

"Mary Bennet!" Edward exclaimed suddenly.

"Mary Bennet has joined the military?" asked Henry in disbelief.

"No -- but if we get desperate we can recruit her into the clergy."

Henry thought about this and decided he approved. "Excellent, Edward, you are beginning to think more figuratively."

Edward felt pleased but somewhat patronised.

"...And the financial end. Who've we got there, Edward?"

"Knightley, of course, though most his assets are tied up in the land. Still, he is invaluable in other ways."

"I agree completely. And Miss Woodhouse may be persuaded to help us." Henry thought about this a minute. "Yes, almost certainly Miss Woodhouse will be persuaded to help us. And of course there is Darcy..."

Edward emitted a whimper and Henry looked at him. "Darcy, Darcy, Darcy," Edward elaborated. "You throw him in the mix and he overshadows us all. Just you wait, it'll be wet shirt this and wet shirt that..."

Henry leaned back smugly. "Ah, but Edward, you forget Kate's writing this story. Darcy could be chained to her bedpost or consumed for dinner by Lady Catherine, for all she cares. Might have to worry about the others, though. Darcy is rather popular in these circles." He casually tucked the letters into his breast pocket and adjusted his sunglasses. "No ... Kate likes a man of intelligence ... wit ... discrimination ... charm..."

Edward glared at him. "Oh do shut up."

George Knightley stifled a sneeze and wished his shoes were more advanced in waterproofing technology. It wasn't terribly cold, but it was terribly damp. He was used to accommodating Mr. Woodhouse's paranoid whims, but this was a trifle beyond the pale. Who would have any interest in the henhouse?

Well, aside from the rather obvious chicken-thieves, of course, but the Woodhouses had servants for that sort of thing. Mr. Knightley's patient reasoning had been to no avail; Mr. Woodhouse was vague, but insistent. Dark forces looked to prey upon that henhouse.

Knightley took out his watch and tried to focus in the murky moonlight. Half past one. Surely if anyone was coming he would have come by now.

Suddenly he heard a crash followed by an unholy squawking. Knightley made a dash for the henhouse, then remembered the firearm he'd left behind and turned back. If there really was someone there, best not to face him unarmed -- or even worse, give the intruder a chance at Knightley's weapon.

Within minutes he was at the base of the hill in front of the henhouse door. All noise had ceased save for a few half-hearted squawks. The grass was more than a little trampled around the entire vicinity, Knightley noticed. He sidled up against the door and cautiously opened it.

When nothing rushed him he took it as a good sign and slid through the door. The sight that greeted him surely would have caused a lesser man to faint.

Knightley being, well, Knightley (Mr. Knightley, to you), he managed (although just barely) to remain upright. And being a gentleman, he manage to not swear. "Merciful Heaven..." he whispered, leaning against the doorframe.

Dozens of decapitated chickens lay in a gory bloodbath, amidst sundry unmentionable obscenities. Knightley swallowed weakly, and picked his way through the mess. Kneeling charily in the middle of the henhouse, he examined the object laying on the floor.

Celery root.

Very incriminating.

Part 2: Commence Mobilization

Posted on Wednesday, 12 June 2002

Inside a singularly cheerless study sat a young man of romantic appearance a la tragic poet. Dark hair and deep set eyes contrasted with his pallor; coupled with his high cheekbones, long nose, and general melancholy air, he would very likely by called handsome by those whose tastes tended towards the Byronesque. The chances of this pronouncement would no doubt increase if said admirers neglected to notice the weak chin and the downright prudish purse of his lips as he glared at the friendly, earnest-looking man sitting across the heavy desk from him.

Edward Ferrars fidgeted with his hands as he searched for the best plan of attack with which to assail this implacable man, who was looking as if he wanted nothing more than for Ferrars to leave his study. Edward let his mind wander over the events of the previous day which had transpired this.

By the time Henry and Edward had retraced their steps back to Milsom-Street, a telegram had arrived for Reverend Tilney's urgent inspection. (Of course, telegraphs didn't quite exist then, technically, but then again neither did Brooks Brothers, and said Reverend Tilney has a healthy dependence upon both. And as Edward Ferrars has so eloquently stated: "Things are a bit screwy." So there.)

"Another one?" Edward had asked, knowing it was useless to try to look over Tilney's lofty shoulder.

Henry nodded.

"From who?"

"Knightley," was the succinct reply.

"Huh." Edward waited, then when more information did not seem to be forthcoming, tried again. "Bad?"

"Rather."

Edward was patiently mute a minute longer, then calmly picked up a brass paperweight, held it aloft, and let it go.

Henry glanced up. "Rather clumsy there, Ferrars."

"Oh yes," said Edward placidly. "You know how I am. Sorry about that, Tilney."

"Mmm," Henry replied, but laid down the telegram and beckoned the other over.

Edward had the rare satisfaction of feeling extremely smug. By George, he'd got his -- and over Henry Tilney, no less. He scanned the cryptic message. "Chickens?" He looked at Henry. "It sounds quite ... unpleasant." That was an understatement of monumental proportion; Knightley's brief description of the scene -- colorless as it was -- was making him feel slightly woozy. He paused a moment to settle his stomach then ventured a theory. "Heathen ritual, I suppose?"

Henry shrugged. "Or masquerading as one? That is not my specialty, nor is it yours." He paused, and Edward knew where this was going. "We need a scholar of theology."

Edward nodded. "I'll get right on it. And you?"

"Off to Surrey. Colonel Fitzwilliam has been on call for us and will meet me as soon as possible." Henry drummed his fingers on the table. "We shall await your joining us... you and our expert in residence," he had finished sardonically.

Edward snorted slightly at the recollection. Whatever was going on in Surrey, Henry had the easy job. Expert in residence indeed ... Not only a scholar of theology, but a practitioner and educator; this was another man of the cloth, and one with less tolerance for immorality and lawlessness you could not find in all of England. So persuading this man to join in the forces of combating an evil which embodied both ought to be easy.

Except for one thing, and Edward knew only too well what that was.

Edmund Bertram despised Henry Tilney.

"You know as well as I, Edward, that I cannot condone his behavior. The man has made a mockery of our profession. I'm afraid you will have to find someone who holds a more... liberal outlook. No doubt there are many who will take a looser view of their professional obligations, but I have my principles."

"Tilney is not unprincipled, Edmund," Edward retaliated, and feeling unjustly criticized, added, "Nor am I."

Bertram looked down his long nose. "He is irreverent -- even irreligious."

Edward smiled faintly. "No, not irreligious; Henry has a sense of humour." This earned him a cold look from Edmund.

"Unless his object was to make sport of his profession, I will never understand why he chose to enter the clergy."

"Well, because obviously he couldn't be in the FBI," said Edward frankly. "Wrong time, wrong place. Nor even CID, either."

Edmund felt they were straying from the topic and sought to dismiss Ferrars as quickly as possible. Really, the chap wasn't so bad himself -- a little too easy and pliable perhaps, but decent -- but if he insisted upon associating himself with the likes of that Tilney... "I am flattered you consider me a scholar, Ferrars, but I'm sure you must realise I cannot join this little adventure." He rose in dismissal.

"But Bertram, surely you can indulge a bit of a mockery in the face of a profanity? A perversion? Which is worse, Edmund... You speak of protecting our profession; will you please allow your common sense to join in the fight?"

Edmund frowned. "I thought I had made myself clear, Edward. Now I have work--"

Edward pulled his trump card. "Or is it just that you feel inferior in Tilney's proximity?" he asked shrewdly.

Bertram flushed and thought a few very unchristian-like things about the mild-mannered colleague sitting across from him. "Of course not."

"Then...?" Edward faced him squarely.

Edmund sat down and Edward knew then he had won. "I will not stand for any of Tilney's silly business."

Edward merely smiled.

"Have some coffee and sit down, Tilney," called a voice as Henry entered the cool, austere breakfast room of Donwell Abbey. Still, the owner of the voice stood and offered his hand.

"It is good to see you again, Fitzwilliam," said Henry, setting his cup on the table and shaking the Colonel's hand. "I'd rather it could have been under better circumstances, but as it is... By the way, how were you sure it was me coming?"

"Ah, well, I heard you arrive last night. If it wasn't you it only could have been Knightley or the housekeeper, so I was willing to risk it," Colonel Fitzwilliam said with humour, resuming his seat.

Henry took a seat across the table. "And where is Knightley this morning?"

"Tenant business. He may join us later, but I think there's quite a bit we should be able to accomplish without him." He passed a neat docket to Henry, who glanced at the top sheet.

"Richard, you cynical wretch."

Colonel Fitzwilliam's blue-green eyes were imperturbable. "Not so cynical as I'd hope for in that case, unfortunately. Still, we can place more credibility in the testimony knowing it isn't mere spite, and I suppose that is something."

Fitzwilliam rose politely as the girl entered the room, and reluctantly, Henry followed suite. Pleasantly plump figure, soft blonde ringlets, dilated light blue eyes, petrified expression on an otherwise vacant face. Oh daaaamn ... Be nice now, Henry.

"Thank you for obliging us, Miss Smith," Colonel Fitzwilliam said, bidding her to sit down, "It's a lovely morning and I'm sure you've many things to do, so we'll be as brief as we can." He flashed her an irresistible Richard-smile. Henry directed a sardonic look at the Colonel's back and tried to block out the frills and superfluities of Mrs. Goddard's overwhelmingly feminine sitting-room.

Wide-eyed, Harriet nodded and lowered herself into a seat. Still standing, Richard went on, "Mrs. Goddard, I know, has told you we hope you may be able to give us some information pertaining to a series of crimes." Here he fudged a bit, since most of the crimes hadn't happened yet, but there was no reason to boggle Miss Smith's mind with those technicalities. "I do want you to know," he added, "you have no reason for worry -- we know of course you are not under suspicion." Another benign smile. Another mute nod. "Very good, Miss Smith. I am Colonel Fitzwilliam, investigator in the Special Forces. And this is Mr. Tilney, another specialist who is assisting me."

Henry noted Richard had said Mr., rather than Reverend, and had stated Henry's position in such a way that Miss Smith might infer him to be in the Special Forces as well. He pondered this with interest; knowing the Colonel, there was bound to be a logical and carefully calculated reason behind it. Interesting.

"I hope I shall be able to assist you," said Harriet softly. The officer's friendly, reassuring manner was beginning to put her more at ease. While he wasn't exactly handsome, to be sure (and certainly not nearly so much as Mr. Elton!), he had a very pleasant, open face, slightly freckled, and the fair hair which had a boyishly unruly tendency belied his nearly thirty-one years. And he had a very nice smile indeed. But weren't officers supposed to wear red coats? This puzzled Harriet exceedingly, for this officer instead was wearing an exceedingly streamlined dark suit, an unfussy shirt, and another article which appeared (in Harriet's opinion) a corruption of the cravat. Just like the other one.

Ah, the other one. He had a few inches on Colonel Fitzwilliam's tall-side-of-average stature, was, she guessed, two or three (or five or six, actually) years younger, and veered even closer to that elusive asymptote of being actually handsome rather than very nearly. (Though the probability of Harriet Smith having taken, much less comprehended, limit theory is somewhere approaching e^ -17.) Harriet was confused by this man's appearance as well. He was dark, but she didn't think of Romantic poets. She didn't think of tragic rejected lovers or seductive villains. She didn't even think of Mr. Elton. What did she think of, then? Harriet studied him, running through the novels she had read. The lean, rangy frame, intensely alert dark eyes, close-cropped black hair, and that extraordinary expression -- somehow bored, amused, and thoughtful all at once -- didn't square with anything she had yet encountered in literature or reality.

This one was scary.

"Miss Smith?" Richard cleared his throat. Harriet looked back to the nice one and saw he had taken a seat and was looking at her expectantly. "Mrs. Goddard tells me you have an appointment at Hartfield shortly, so we'll try to avoid delaying you. I suppose you go to Hartfield often? Miss Woodhouse is quite a remarkable young lady, I understand. I suppose through her you count amongst your acquaintances most of the notables of Highbury?" He said this with an easy smile, obliterating any suggestion of snobbery or condescension one might have suspected in any other.

Nice segue, Richard, thought Henry.

"Yes..."

"That must make society in a small village much more interesting for a lovely young lady such as yourself. The Westons are so hospitable, I know, and Mr. Elton, he is your clergyman, is he not?"

Harriet blushed. "Oh! He ah, yes. Yes, he is."

"Ahhh," said the Colonel. "You must have dined with him often then?"

"Oh! Yes." And then more quietly, "And his wife as well."

"Ah," said Richard again. "At Hartfield, I suppose, and perhaps the Westons."

"Yes..."

Richard leaned forward conspiratorially, sandy hair falling over his forehead with rakish charm. "Now, Miss Smith, Mr. Tilney and I will most likely be in Highbury for the next few days at the very least. In your honest opinion -- and do not worry, your confidence will go no further -- who has the best dinners?"

Harriet's pale blue eyes widened. "Ahhh..."

"Are you fond of celery root, Miss Smith? I am, particularly, and yet I find it is not used nearly as much as it ought, and so rarely to its advantage. Where, Miss Smith, where would you advise I go for celery root?"

Henry had a convenient coughing attack.

"Oh! I do not have a good opinion on that, to be sure, but Mr. Elton says --"

Henry and Richard shared the briefest of glances. Goooooooal.

"Ah, Mr. Elton is fond of celery root?"

"Oh yes, sir, far more than even myself. He says it is best with chicken. He has even a small part of his garden devoted to celery root. He showed me and Miss Woodhouse once..." Here Harriet endeavored to hide sentiments that the Colonel knew about anyway.

"A true connoisseur, then. I must meet the man. I've sometimes even thought of carrying a bit on my person, in case a meal was bland, but it seemed a bit silly."

"Oh no, not silly at all. Mr. Elton tells me he does it often. It is excellent for one's digestion, did you know?"

"Indeed I did," said the Colonel very seriously. "Now Miss Smith, I have been wasting your time long enough. I shall come to the question," he prevaricated. "Have you seen any gypsies in the vicinity recently?"

Harriet thought. "No sir, not since last fall."

Mr. Knightley was not, in fact, consulting with his tenants while Henry and Richard were making their morning plans over his breakfast table while drinking his coffee; rather, he was consulting with Emma. Something had to be told to Mr. Woodhouse about the crime scene which had once been his poultry house, and that something most definitely could not be the truth. Mr. Knightley had told Emma about it (the less-offensive eighty percent, anyway), but if Mr. Woodhouse knew even the tamest tenth of the circumstances he would either suffer a stroke or have a twenty-foot moat dug around Hartfield of both ... most likely both. They had concluded Emma would tell her father the gypsies had broken in and stolen the chickens, and then they would send Colonel Fitzwilliam to Mr. Woodhouse to assure him the military had apprehended every gypsy within twenty miles of Highbury.

Upon returning to Donwell, he was informed by the housekeeper that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Tilney had been to see Miss Harriet Smith at Mrs. Goddard's establishment, had stopped back at the Abbey just minutes ago, and were now en route to speak with Mr. Elton.

Mr. Knightley took the shortcut to Elton's. Those two were clever young fellows and he had great faith in them ... but nevertheless, he'd like to be sure they didn't do anything rash.

Part 3: When in Doubt, Lie

Posted on Saturday, 6 July 2002

A pretty parlourmaid of about fifteen barricaded the doorway of the Elton house with her small body and eyed the two gentlemen suspiciously. "You say you want to see Mr. Elton ... and you don't have any cards with you?"

Richard smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid not, Miss."

"You're supposed to have cards," Lilac reproved. "That is the way we do things in Highbury."

"I'm very sorry, Miss. I only arrived at Mr. Knightley's last night from London and have yet to get my bearings. I assumed perhaps Mr. Elton would not mind..."

"You're a guest of Mr. Knightley's, then?" The housemaid softened. A guest of Mr. Knightley's -- well, that must be all right. "And you've come from London?" London was exciting.

"Yes, I have. I suppose I may have left them there in my rush," said Richard, looking contrite.

"Oh yes, the Colonel is always misplacing things. So scatterbrained," said Henry ironically.

Lilac turned to the tall, aloof-looking man who had spoken for the first time. With the feelings that seem to affect every English girl of fifteen years old, she gestured to Richard. "That one, he's a Colonel?"

"Oh, indeed, one of his Majesty's finest," Henry deadpanned.

"Ooooh!" Lilac squealed, her neat plaits bobbing up and down. "But sir, he hasn't his red coat!"

Henry turned to Richard and looked him over. "No, he hasn't, has he? I'm afraid Colonel Fitzwilliam has lost that as well." The skeptical look began creeping back into the housemaid's expression, and Henry decided some name-dropping was in order. "Poor chap, he can't seem to keep anything in order unless his mummy the Countess is around to pin a note to his shirtsleeve so he won't forget. Did you know, Miss, this man nearly led a brigade to defeat Napoleon -- but he misplaced the map." Henry shook his head sadly.

"His mummy, a countess? You don't say!"

"Indeed, not only that, but his papa an earl. This man could have been a degenerate younger son, squandering the riches of his indulgent parents, but no. This man not only found himself an occupation, he found one in which he can serve his country. Is that not noble, Miss?"

"Oh, it is indeed, sir," Lilac breathed. "I'll go find Mr. Elton, right away, sir."

"Henry..." Richard muttered as the girl scurried into the house, "that was really the most ridiculous piffle I've ever heard."

"Do you think so? I thought it was flattering, Richard."

"I ... never ... lose things!!!" Richard subdued his outrage as Lilac returned.

"Please come this way, sirs." She led them into the Rococo/Greco-Roman/ Baroque/NeoGothic decorated sitting room, then scampered out before Mrs. Elton could find fault with her. Never knew when herself would go completely flippy over some little thing. Completely bats, the mistress was, that was Lilac's opinion, but she knew better than to make it known.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" inquired a faintly effeminate voice. "Sit down, please."

Henry gingerly lowered himself into an overstuffed rose-colored chair and let Richard do the formalities while he eyed the Reverend Phillip Elton. His immediate reaction was intense distaste. Sallow, simpering, supercilious, smug. He looked up to find Elton's dark beady eyes appraising him with commensurate hostility and returned a cool stare. Elton looked away and Henry felt a childish satisfaction. Tilney - 1; Elton - zip.

"As soon as I arrived, Reverend Elton, I knew to whom I must appeal," Richard was saying. "You -- the spiritual, the religious, the moral leader of this community."

Elton nodded with smug complacency and Henry had to choke back a snort. Richard had the most disturbing talent for delivering utter b.s. to ordinarily unimpressionable people with the straightest face in the world. Henry thought it might have something to do with Richard being possessed of a certain aunt whose very name invoked sundry feline connotations (and none of them good).

"I've spoken with a number of scholars about this, you see, and they have told me people, especially those of a rather ... provincial state of mind, have the most extraordinary ideas regarding gypsies," Richard continued, equivocating blithely. "Have you found this to be a problem in Highbury, Mr. Elton?"

"Hmmm ... yes, oh yes. Certainly."

"Ah, well, superstition and all that. I suppose it is to be expected in a small village such as this."

"Peasants," said Elton with a condescending smile. "I find the ones with Scots blood are the absolute worst."

Richard Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrows into his red-blonde Scottish hair. "Ah ... of course. I suppose you have heard of the stories of vampires on the continent? Garlic and crosses and stakes through the heart and all that." Elton nodded, leaning forward, and an amused Henry wondered where his friend would take this piece of ingenuity.

"Well, we're more sensible than the continentals, of course, but one cannot disregard the unfortunate influence of various sects in Britain," said Elton seriously. "The Cornwalls, the Yorkshiremen ... and all the Celts." He tightened his lips disapprovingly, reflecting upon those unfortunate neighbors of England; the Scottish, the Welsh, and (oh horrors) the Irish. In Elton's very private opinion, Cromwell had not gone far enough.

"Blotheringscale says in Surrey and surrounding regions, a commonly used "counteragent" to the gypsies is celery root mixed with the blood of poultry, particularly chickens." Richard turned to Henry, betraying not even a twinkle. "Was it not Blotheringscale who told us of the many variations on the poultry theme, Henry? I seem to recall him mentioning this when he spoke of the cult practices and superstitions of Surrey."

Henry agreed that the imaginary expert had, indeed, said this, then demurred to Reverend Elton. "However, you must know for certain ... actually living and ah ... ministering in the region."

"Oh ... yes, certainly," said Elton, a shade of frog-belly pale.

Lilac ducked around the corner as the gentlemen left the room and Mr. Elton saw them out of the house. Oh dear... how distressing. It was a heavy door, but Lilac had gotten the gist of the conversation. Highbury was going to be attacked by gypsies and the only thing that could save them was celery root and chicken blood.

Miss Leah Coxe clambered up on a low stonewall to see better. With a bit more effort, the shorter Laura joined her. Leah shaded her eyes and squinted, then turned to her young orphaned cousin. "Do you think that's him ... oooh, yes it is." Leah tilted her head. And looking very dapper indeed, even more so than usual, if that is possible. Humming the melody of Tuxedo Junction, the vivacious redhead jumped lightly off the wall and skipped towards the path.

"Mr. Knightley! Oh, Mr. Knightley!" The gentleman turned upon hearing the dulcet feminine voice calling his name.

"Ah, Miss Leah." He tipped his hat politely. Laura skipped up, having needed more time to dismount the wall. "Miss Wilson. Can I help you?"

"You are coming to the ball Tuesday sennight, are you not?" Leah asked.

Ball? Oh, right. "Of course," Knightley reassured her, but without much enthusiasm. Balls were all about watching Emma look beautiful and dance with other men.

"That is excellent. But Mother wanted me to be sure you knew your guests are invited as well."

Guests??? Ah, of course, she must mean those two young rapscallions who had turned his Abbey into a military intelligence base. Speaking of which, he really should be getting to Elton's before any damage was done ... "Yes, of course, Miss Leah. However, I do not know for certain if Mr. Tilney and Colonel Fitzwilliam will still be here, but --"

"Oh, I hope they will!" she cried. "Are you planning to have any more guests? They are all invited as well, of course."

Knightley sighed. "Yes, Miss Leah, I think it is very likely I will."

Leah and Laura squeezed each other's hand in excitement. "Are you going to the Eltons, Mr. Knightley?" Leah inquired. He confirmed he was. "So are we," Leah continued. "Mrs. Elton has some new music she is letting me borrow. She says it is very popular in London. And Laura wants to see Lilac."

Knightley nodded tactfully. Laura Wilson was a "poor relation" of the Coxes, but she had been the lucky one. Her parents and Lilac's had all been killed in a carriage accident in Liverpool a few months ago. While the Coxes had taken in Laura, no one had stepped forward to claim Lilac. As she was too young to be a governess, the Coxes had helped to find her a position as 'lady's companion/parlourmaid' in Highbury. As luck would have it, the poor girl had ended up with the Eltons, where her main duty was entertaining and catering to the whims of Mrs. Elton. It could be worse, but Knightley would have rather seen the girl with pleasanter people. If only Emma could have been persuaded ... but no, she had been too preoccupied with the Smith girl. He was still a bit displeased with her over that.

Leah was chattering happily about the new waltzes. At eighteen the second youngest Coxe daughter, she was by far the best musician in Highbury when Jane Fairfax was not in town. (A fact which often caused Emma to be rather snippety with Miss Leah.) And even still, she was perhaps enjoyed more than Miss Fairfax, for she tended to play and sing things which were lighter, less serious, and above all, more suited for dancing.

They encountered Robert Martin just before the turn leading to the Elton residence. "If you're looking for your young friends, they've already left," Robert advised after the salutations. Leah and Laura had already gone ahead. "Said to tell you not to see him just yet." As Robert Martin was Knightley's most trusted tenant, and even more importantly, the man who had helped him clean out the Woodhouse's henhouse, he knew of the mission and had promised his assistance in any way possible.

Knightley groaned and turned back to Donwell.

Laura stood shyly outside the drawing-room door. She was still uncomfortable around Mrs. Elton and had said she would just wait in the hall for Lilac while Leah was getting her music, thank you ma'am. "Laura!" She turned to see her friend flying down the stairs.

Lilac leaned against the banister, gasping for breath. "Oh, Laura, it's so horrible!"

"What?"

"Two men from the government came to see Mr. Elton this morning, him being a clergyman and everything. The gypsies are going to invade!"

"What? Oh no! But what can Mr. Elton do?"

"He can help keep them away, like vampires."

"Vampires?" Laura wrinkled her nose. "But gypsies aren't vampires. Besides, they only have vampires in silly places like France and Prussia." Or something like that.

"I know, but this is what the government men said. The only thing that will keep the gypsies away is celery root and chicken blood."

Laura frowned. "But that sounds so silly. Are you sure they were right?"

"They were from the government," said Lilac simply. "They must be."

Elton drew back around the stairs thoughtfully. Those two cocksure young fellows had given him a bad scare. How much did they know? And what, exactly, had they tried to put over on him with that celery root business? Hmmm. He'd have to think on that.

But here were these two young girls who seemed to have a very confused idea of the business. Hmmm. He might be able to do something with that...

"That was a lovely load of slander you piled on the poor gypsies, Richard," Henry laughed as they walked back to Donwell. "Very imaginative."

"Had to use something as a scapegoat," said Colonel Fitzwilliam modestly. "Mrs. Goddard had mentioned there had been trouble with them last fall."

"Ah, so that's what made you put it to Miss Smith."

"Of course."

"You're a very clever man, Richard."

"We both are."

"Mmmm, yes," said Henry contentedly. "We certainly are."

Mrs. Douglass, the housekeeper, handed them the post when they returned to Donwell. Henry turned his letter over. "Bath...? Ah, Eleanor. Excellent."

He raised his eyebrows and smiled faintly. "Really Ellie, such invective is most unlike you," he murmured. Apparently some of her new Bath acquaintances had not met with her approval. Hmm, Isabella Thorpe? Ah yes, he remembered her now. Not surprising that Eleanor couldn't abide her. He couldn't either. And Miss Thorpe's brother -- he hadn't met him, but Eleanor found him even worse.

Who again? Ah, Miss Moreland ... ah, yes. A nice child. Very innocent Yes, Eleanor, I agree keeping company with the Thorpes will bring her no good. He smiled. It was very like Eleanor to take the poor child under her wing.

Wait a minute... "Very fond of you, Henry..."? What's this now? No, Eleanor, I didn't mean ... Oh dear. Hmmm, surely. Uh-oh. Well...

Whoops.

"How is your sister, Henry? Does she think we ought to go back to Bath?" Richard asked.

"What's that, Richard? Oh, no, certainly not." Henry refolded the letter and jammed it into his breast pocket. "But as a matter of fact, I was thinking ... we ought to go to Oxford."

Part 4: Chin up; Keep muddling through

Posted on Sunday, 14 July 2002

Edmund pondered whether murder, under certain circumstances, might not be so great a sin. The rear left wheel hit a stone and Edmund cracked his head against the back of the seat. No, not so great a sin at all.

"Whoopsadaisy!" chuckled Edward, steadying himself. "Careful there, Bertram. It can happen when you get too slack in your seat."

Edmund ground his teeth and silently raged. Insufferable food, insufferable lodging, insufferable weather, insufferable transport, and this insufferable blithering fool with whom he had to share this insufferable and not terribly spacious seat. And all in the name of God knows what -- which, Edward very seriously informed him, was quite literally true.

Well, he would bear it. No fair-weather Christian was he, by George, he was the only one of the bunch bringing piety to this spectacle. Though granted, a bit less fair weather would have been nice... it must be at least 26, 27 Celsius, and that outside the carriage. Edmund felt sure he was being slow-cooked much the same way as that nearly inedible mutton they'd had for luncheon earlier that day. Edward, of course, had pronounced it quite good and complimented the innkeeper by purchasing another round of drinks. And Ferrars simply would not keep an expense account. Edmund ground his teeth again.

And of all places, their destination had to be Surrey, that infamous Sodom of vegetation. Flowers were wicked, Satanic things, serving no higher purpose. And those... organs... they used for their concupiscent ambitions... it made him blush even to think about it. That botany class they had forced him to take in school had been heretofore the most degrading, profane experience of his life. Fortunately he had received failing marks; his soul was not corrupted. Hah, and Eve questioned why a fruit was forbidden.

Edward was taking him East of Eden in hell's mail coach.

Elsewhere in England, the passengers of another mail coach enjoyed a more amicable companionship. "This Professor Conway -- he is a scholar of theology, I suppose?" Richard inquired.

"No, hardly. He is one of the deans, actually. He is a good friend of my mother's brother, and I came to know him well when I was at Oxford," Henry explained. "While he himself may not be able to help us directly, he certainly will know who can."

"I see," said Richard.

"It's been more than a year since I've seen him," said Henry. "I've no idea who is and isn't at home at the moment."

"What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Conway is long since deceased, but the Professor has several children. Six boys and a girl -- whom I believe is Daddy's favorite." Henry chuckled. "Also, Thurston, the oldest, is married and he and his wife live in the house as well. The second, Powell, is in the civil service in India, however, and the younger boys are all at school now, most likely. Wescott may be in Oxford by now, though, and of course Miss Conway will be at home."

Richard blinked at the inventory. "And where does she fit into the set?"

"Third born." Henry shook his head indulgently. "Mrs. Conway died giving birth to the youngest, who is about thirteen or fourteen, so Mara hasn't much feminine influence in her life. She went to boarding school for a short time, but the Professor became livid when he found she was learning more tea serving etiquette and landscape painting rather than, say, history and practical math. He promptly brought her back home, hired a tutor, and supplemented her instruction with his own tutelage. Rather unorthodox, but the Professor has definite ideas about education. Young Mrs. Conway, who married Thurston a few years ago, tried her best, but I'm afraid she was too late to do much."

"Mara?" Richard asked.

"Margaret... which seems such a prim, ladylike name. Ah Richard, if you knew her, you'd understand when no one ever calls her that."

"No -- I meant, you call her Mara?" Richard asked, somewhat scandalized. "Isn't that rather... well, familiar?"

Henry shrugged. "I know the Conways well."

"Hmmm," said Richard, imagining for some reason a plain, dark, graceless girl in a dress made of a flour sack, trying to catch tadpoles.

Sulking, Margaret Conway slipped out the sitting-room door into the garden. Julia was still miffed about her terrorizing of yet another "perfectly nice, perfectly suitable" young man the previous afternoon. All right, perhaps her sister-in-law had a point; some of the things she had said were rather too much. But, Mara rationalized, it was hardly her fault; if the suitor hadn't been so mercilessly stilted and tedious, she wouldn't have felt the need for such stratagems. Besides, she recalled wickedly, it had been so much fun.

Leaning against a tree, she opened her book and read a few lines. Hmmm, that didn't feel quite right. Mara shifted a bit and finally ended up reposed on her back in the grass, legs crossed at the ankles, with her heels rested a few feet up the trunk of the tree. An eccentric position, but surprisingly comfortable. She opened her book again.

When was Julie going to understand she wanted nothing to do with this prosaic, insipid men?!? She'd already found her prototype, and while it was unlikely she'd ever see the original again, his precedent rendered all other suitors insupportably lackluster, flat, vapid by comparison. But if he ever came back... she wasn't going to let him get away again. Never mind her trepidations; if she had another chance, she was going to pounce.

It was terribly unfair, to have her standards set to such alpine heights. No one would do unless he was brilliant, scintillating, confident, charming, imperturbable ... magnetically attractive ... with that low meditative voice...

"Henry, shouldn't we, I don't know, knock on the front door or something? Isn't that standard procedure?"

"Nonsense, that'll take forever to go through the whole business. Remember how long it took at Eltons'? Besides, there's Mara over there."

"Where?" Richard looked ahead and saw a honeyed flash of bronze and mass of pale green. "You can't just go waltzing into a private garden, especially not to see a young lady!"

"Of course I can." Richard had no choice but to follow reluctantly in Henry's confident long strides.

"Might I compliment you on the delicacy of your ankle, young lady?"

The amused, contemplative voice jolted Mara from her drowsy daydream. Dazed eyes tried to focus on the upside-down image: black hair just barely poking over the forehead, dark eyes with a sardonic glint, square chin, humorous half-grin ... oh dear Lord. And suddenly Mara realised that a good deal more than her ankles was on display.

She swung her legs down and around and scrambled to her feet, sputtering. "Mr. Tilney! Are you too good for the door or is this what you always do... sneaking up and..."

Henry shrugged. "Mr. Tilney, is it now? Ah Mara, you break my heart." He picked up her book. "Gulliver's Travels? Good girl."

She ignored the comment. "What are you doing here?"

"My my... lovely to see you as well. Is your father around?"

"He's in Vienna," Mara replied with malicious satisfaction.

"What?" How could the man be in Vienna (of all places) at a time like this??

"Well it isn't my fault," Mara shot back defensively.

"Oh yes it is ... but may I ask ... why??"

"He's accompanying Lord Castlereagh to Metternich's Congress." She shrugged. "Daddy knows things, and he speaks well." She turned to Richard. "If you ask me, though, I'm afraid it will turn out terribly reactionary. And not that I don't believe the French were terribly silly in what they did in their revolution, but I still think this will be rather like tossing The Rights of Man straight out the window. Of course, I don't think that will affect us much in Britain... but this house of cards they call a "balance of power" can lead to nothing but trouble, I'm sure." She paused and smiled at him. "Don't you agree?"

Richard cleared his throat. "Um ... of course." He blinked at this girl of about nineteen or twenty who was gazing at him out of dispassionate grey-green eyes, wide and startlingly clear. No sight of a burlap; the pale green dress she wore was quite what any of his more tasteful sisters and cousins would wear.

Henry snorted. "Good Lord, Mara, you've not even been introduced to the poor fellow and you're already asking his opinion of continental politics." He sighed. "Mara, this is Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, a friend of mine who is at the moment my primary partner in a very difficult situation which I will explain to you shortly. Fitzwilliam, this is Miss Margaret Conway, about whom I have told you so much." He flashed a teasing smirk at Mara, who raised her eyebrows skeptically.

She looked up at Henry demurely through long black lashes, but her tone was sarcastic. "And I suppose I must ask you in?"

"Lead on," said Henry, taking her arm.

Richard followed a little behind them, blinking in the glare of June sunlight reflecting off a lot of rather messy golden brown hair. And he wondered...

"By the way," Henry whispered, "I agree with you about Metternich."

Part 5: Oddly Enough...

Posted on Thursday, 1 August 2002

PETA's gonna sue me. ~ Kate

Darcy silently railed against his cousin with the same force as their aunt, at the same time, was doing most vocally. It was very unfair that Richard had been able to escape while he, Darcy, was stuck here, with that disgustingly obsequious clergyman, his overbearing Aunt Catherine, and her all-too-unsubtle hints regarding her desire for him to marry Anne. It hadn't been too bad with Richard there to back him up and alleviate the pressure, but then received some letter and jolted off to Surrey, of all places. Not that he'd stayed long, of course -- his most recent communication informed Darcy he was on his way to Oxfordshire. Oxfordshire? He'd given no reason at all for his departure from Rosing save for a few cryptic comment, but then, Richard loved making cryptic comments, especially ones his cousin couldn't understand. And Darcy couldn't make head or tail out of these. All the knew was it had something to do with that fellow, what was his name... Richard's old friend -- Tilly? Tierney? Ah ... Tilney. He'd met him once or twice before, could hardly remember what the chap looked like -- tallish? darkish? -- but Darcy remembered with perfect clarity being stuck with the irony of such irreverent comments flowing from the mouth of a clergyman. Rather put him in mind of...

...Well, on the other hand. To be fair, there was a good point in Richard's absence: the good Colonel, in Darcy's opinion, had become a mite too friendly with Miss Bennet. And everyone knew, Darcy reflected sourly, his cousin had an eye for the ladies... an eye, and plenty of charm to spare. Maybe it was better, then that Richard had left. Extraordinary, her being here when he thought he'd forsaken her forever to save Bingley. Ironic: he'd been kinder towards his friend than he was to himself. He still loved her; it was irresistible. He was no Bingley; he need not live at Netherfield. He would take her to Pemberley and they could be safe -- and far -- from that insane ghastly family. Yes. He would propose to her tomorrow.

You were in Bath but three days, Henry. How many young ladies could you have possibly met? Well, brother, the sad task has fallen to me to inform them all that you have quitted Bath for an indeterminate time, being obliged to take care of some urgent business. See, that is not even a lie. I have befriended that charming ingénue Catherine Moreland, whom I told you about in my last letter. She has ceased pining for you, despite the encouragements of the insufferably affected Isabella Thorpe -- I mentioned her before as well, if you do not remember. At the same time, her brother, also something short of a stellar character, has begun paying Catherine court, in his clumsy way. However, I do not believe Catherine realises this -- I must find some way I can delicately inform her of this fact, because I am quite sure she does not enjoy his company.

Frederick sends word he will be joining us shortly -- what would you have me do with him, Henry? No doubt he will be curious as to where you have got off to, and you know, he may be of use to you. Perhaps.

Please, Henry, please do be careful of yourself. Give me love to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Much love,
Eleanor

Henry's right eyebrow shot up. Very well ... He wandered into the Conways' library, where Richard sat organising piles of their notes. "You are ridiculously tidy," Henry remarked.

"Coming from you, Henry, that says very little."

"Ah, yes, the housekeeper was so impressed by the state of neatness of your room the last time you were at Northanger Abbey, she made special effort to remark upon it, rather pointedly in my presence, for the next two weeks." Richard shrugged, standing up. Henry continued casually, "I've had a letter from Eleanor today... she sends her love."

Richard, who had worn his regimentals to luncheon to please Julia Conway, turned as scarlet as his coat. Henry leaned against the table, amusement lighting his dark features. "Richard..."

Richard swallowed and wondered where all the nice convenient holes in the floor were. "Ah... will you be writing to your sister soon?"

"Well, I had thought of it... yes, indeed, I think I will... would you prefer I did today, Richard?" Henry drawled with studiously casual deliberation.

"Well, rather ... I only thought...." despite his embarrassment, a stupid grin overspread his crimson face, "please send Eleanor my love as well."

"Richard..." said Henry again, but with no further comment than a Tilneyesque cock of the eyebrow he left the room, leaving the Colonel standing in the middle of the library looking like an amiable tow-headed lobster.

Darcy strode through Rosings Park, hardly admitting to himself he was hoping he might come across Elizabeth. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow ... The shade of the trees made way for the sun-shined little clearing. Darcy glanced up.

Oh Saints in Heaven ...God save the Queen...

Darcy collected himself, sort of. Satan in hell, perhaps, more like it?

What the hell had Catherine put in the pudding? It must be indigestion. He must be dreaming.

He wasn't dreaming.

Nervously swallowing, he encircled the ... the ... well, what would you call a ring of a dozen pikes, each topped by an impaled chicken? A regular Stonehenge of mutilation. Darcy scanned the area for Bacchantic followers, suddenly concerned he might be next. He gulped.

Nonsense. He was a man. A brave man. He must act like a man. A brave man.

But what the hell was any man supposed to do when he encountered this?

He rested his forehead against a tree. If only Richard were still here. Richard .. Along with the cryptic comments, he had issued a stern warning to Darcy to keep him informed of any strange events which might occur in his absence.

Darcy reasoned that this qualified as a strange event.

Julia Conway watched as her sister-in-law paced back and forth Mrs. Conway's private sitting room. "Mara, my dear, don't you think you're a little, ah, overheated?" she enquired delicately.

"No! ...well, yes, maybe a little," Mara admitted. She leaned her head against the cool stonewall and grimaced. Henry Tilney was maddening, infuriating ... irresistible. The utterly indifferent attitude with which he regarded her, the teasing, and the amused detachment -- it was enough to make her want to throw him against the wall ... or hmmm, something like that.

Julia sighed. "What about that Colonel Fitzwilliam? He seems such a nice man..."

"I don't like nice men," Mara retorted stubbornly.

"So I have noticed," Julia wryly replied.

There was a knock on the door. "Miss Conway?" the maid asked.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Tilney's been looking for you, Miss. Said as he'll meet you in the garden."

"Thank you, Sally." Mara threw a desperate look at Julia.

"Calmly, dearest, please." Julia smoothed an errant bronze curl off Mara's forehead. "Deep breath. Now, don't fly off the handle."

Mara met Henry at the garden gate. "Thank you for coming," he said, quite seriously for him. "In the absence of your father -- and as we have been encamped in your house for the past day -- I thought I ought to tell you precisely why we are here."

"Indeed," said Mara, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

"I did say I would tell you. I did not have the opportunity yesterday, forgive me."

"So you did." Mara smiled at him, then her expression turned to puzzlement as Henry remained silent, his features most uncharacteristically grave.

He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. "Mara ... I am going to tell you something very few people know the full details of, other than Fitzwilliam and myself. It is not an easy matter, nor a simple one. Come, let us walk this way."

It was a full mile before Henry had finished his story, although their pace had been leisurely. They stopped and settled beneath a tree, Mara's brow knitted thoughtfully. After not a few moments of silence, Henry touched her arm. "So you see..."

"Yes, I see." Mara fell silent again, then with a slow fortifying breath, looked up and met his eyes. "Let me help you."

"You? Mara--"

"Yes, me! Henry, if you had enough faith in my integrity and understanding to entrust me with the knowledge, why not my aid?"

"But Mara--"

"Why, because I am a girl? So easy for you to say, but you don't understand. With Father in Vienna and Powell in India... and Thurston and Scott are too busy even to be around much... Julia does her best, true; I love her, but she is so preoccupied with finding someone suitable for me to marry, and Henry, I cannot marry anyone here. They are all so dull -- everything is so dull! And the other girls and women here dislike me so much. Henry..."

"I sympathize more than you think," he said kindly. "There is Eleanor, you know. However, Mara, this is a very serious business. I cannot allow you to undertake such an endeavor merely because you are bored! Surely you must see that..."

"I do see that. And it is not merely because I bored -- Henry, I want to help. And I can; think of it..."

"Shhh." Henry held a finger to her lips, then drew it back, coolly studying her. A look of intense self-satisfaction slowly overspread his face, as if he'd had an extremely good idea. And to his mind, he had.

"Henry..." Mara blushed hotly under his scrutiny ... and under the influence of his finger on her lips.

"You'll do," he said brightly, springing up

"What?"

He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her up, giving her another detached once-over. "Yes, you will do very well..."

"Henry?"

"Clever, but you look harmless enough ... Very pretty, ah yes, I can see you doing extremely well with Mr. Elton, remember I mentioned him..."

"Henry," Mara frowned, "Where did you said Elton was again?"

"Highbury -- pleasant good-sized village in Surrey."

"I know someone in Highbury ... my father has a cousin, a Captain Weston, recently married--"

"Excellent!" Henry exclaimed. "That will no doubt be exceedingly useful. You could procure an invitation for a visit, I presume?"

"I suppose so ... you think we will go to Surrey?"

"Oh, most definitely, but not yet." Henry paused to look at her again, hardly believing he was consenting to such a thing, yet hardly believing he'd not already realised how much of an asset she might be. "I do think you'll do remarkably well..."

"Do you indeed?" asked Mara, with a slightly flirtatious glance at him.

"Yes. Just try to keep the spark out of those green eyes; that's the dangerous bit about you, you know."

Part Six: Holding Down the Fort

Posted on Saturday, 17 August 2002

Edward Ferrars returned to Donwell Abbey yet again with a small twig stuck behind one ear and a good deal of grass clinging to the seat of his pants. Edmund Bertram sniffed in contempt. "Was that really necessary, Ferrars?"

Edward nodded. "I believe I now have ascertained the household routine. Ought to be ready to go in for 'Operation Ferret' tomorrow afternoon."

Bertram grunted. Polite gentlemen did not do these types of things -- peeping through windows, sniffing about, crouching in the shrubbery -- "casing," Edward had called it at breakfast this morning. Casing?!? Edmund had nearly choked on his barley water -- what he think they were, London housebreakers? This was Jane Austen, not Charles Dickens. Ohhhh ... the abomination. "I'll have no part of this, I hope you understand."

"No need for it!" Edward smiled magnanimously. "Knightley and I will take care of it all." He patted Edmund on the shoulder as he passed out of the study. "Just study up, old chap, study up!"

In the face of these highly unpromising developments, however, Edmund still felt it his Christian obligation to remain hopeful. If Knightley and Ferrars were deported to Australia, Edmund would be able to go quietly and respectably back to Mansfield and no one need ever know. Still had that irreligious Tilney scoundrel to dispose of though.

Hmm. Pity they had to give up the American Colonies. He'd heard Georgia had swamps.

Go to Surrey. Go directly to Surrey. Do not linger at Rosings, do not interrogate Mr. Collins, do not propose to Miss Bennet.

Those were the orders issued to Darcy from Colonel Fitzwilliam, still in Oxfordshire. True, he had not explicitly forbidden Darcy from proposing to Elizabeth, but the object was fulfilled -- he'd have no time. Obviously, Richard was A) Completely mad, B) In love with Elizabeth, or C) A conniving sadist.

Darcy opted for choice D) All of the above.

Lilac conducted Mr. Knightley into the sitting room. "Knightley!" Mrs. Elton was delighted.

"Mr. Elton is not in?" he affected surprise. Of course Elton was not in -- that was the only reason he was here.

"Mr. E? Oh no, he's on business in town all afternoon. But you must stay to tea, Knightley, you must."

"If it will not inconvenience you...?" Knightley smiled gallantly, having no other intention but to stay with Mrs. Elton for at least the next ... oh, he'd give it forty minutes, to be safe.

Lady Catherine was very displeased about his impending departure. First Colonel Fitzwilliam, now Darcy? Business, indeed. Such disrespect; didn't they realise she was more important? Who was to entertain her now? It was exceedingly unfair. Mr. Collins and his toadying were only so amusing, after all.

"Currant sauce for your chicken, Mr. Darcy?" murmured the servant discreetly.

Chicken? Hastily pushing back his chair, Darcy fled the dining room.

Displaying an uncharacteristic competence of timing, Edward slipped in through the Elton's kitchen door while the cook was pleasantly distracted flirting with Robert Martin. He heard voices from the sitting room -- good. The long, lonely hours in the shrubbery had not gone to waste. Edward made his way straight to the target with nary a misstep or wrong turn -- although with more than a few superfluous ducks and wall slides thrown in for good measure. (Why let Henry Tilney have all the fun?)

He tried the door to Elton's study -- locked. Edward had prepared himself for this eventuality, however. (Actually, Henry had warned him of the possibility, but Edward surely would have thought of it himself -- probably paralyzed with hindsight in the front hallway just as the maid came running down the stairs.) He reached into his pocket and brought out a calling card stiffened with wax -- the Regency Visa. ("Takes You Anywhere You Want to Go.") And yes... Tilney had supplied that as well. After several increasingly frenzied attempts, the lock slipped back (hopefully Elton would not notice the chips of wax littering the floor) and Edward eased the knob over.

Mrs. Elton jumped up. "Oh, Knightley, you must see how were have redecorated the vicarage! Miss Woodhouse was here last week and she was so impressed -" Here Mr. Knightley had to bite back a very ungentlemanly guffaw, thinking of what Miss Woodhouse really would have liked to say "-And while I do not profess to be an expert, my friends do say..."

He followed her down the hall, wincing when they came dangerously close to the study door. No.. Not that door... Augusta ... no ... please... "The dining room is quite ... striking, as is the sitting room. I see more and more of your hand. Surely I will see even more upstairs?" Mr. Knightley shocked himself by saying.

Mrs. Elton turned on him with a smile that said nothing so much as I thought you'd never ask ... Knightley. Triumphantly, she led him up the stairs. Mr. Knightley could only hope Edward was making this little excursion worthwhile.

With palpable relief at not discovering a housemaid or similar already occupying the room, Edward shut the door quietly behind him and went to the desk. After all the effort (not to mention trepidation) involved, Elton damn well better not lock his drawers -- he didn't. Top drawer -- what the heck?! Not strictly relevant to the case, perhaps, but ... interesting nevertheless. Smirking, Edward closed that drawer, having found nothing further of pertinence (or amusement).

Second drawer. What? He kept that -- in there? Heavens. Well, this was a man running about the countryside disemboweling poultry, after all. Allegedly. Innocent 'til proven guilty. Whatever.

The door to the library burst open. Edmund looked up peevishly and found himself confronted by a handsome well-dressed young woman, with very determined hazel eyes and crisply curling brown hair. "Ah, Mr. Bertram. Mrs. Douglass said I might find you in here. Where is Mr. Knightley?" she demanded.

He glared at her. How could he be expected to learn anything when his quiet domicile was being forever stormed by bumbling, semi-competent clergymen-turned-housebreakers and uppity young ladies who ought to know better. Edmund Bertram subordinated himself to no woman. Except Aunt Norris. And mother. And the housekeeper ... and his sisters ... and Mary Crawford ... and ... Oh, never mind.

"Miss Woodhouse, I am very busy, as you must see. Now I will forgive this intrusion if you will please-"

"Are Mr. Tilney and Colonel Fitzwilliam to be returning, do you know?"

Edmund gaped. The princess actually had the nerve to sit down! At his table! "I do not know. Not in the immediate future, I do not believe." Henry Tilney better not return to Donwell before Edmund left...

Emma considered this. Mr. Tilney was certainly very attractive, but she felt he might not toe her line as she wished. Humph. The amiable Colonel could be a more amenable diversion, however... "Are there any more gentlemen to come, do you know?" When Mr. Knightley had explained to her the larger issue surrounding the woodshed incident, he had told her Donwell Abbey would become the headquarters for the operation. He hadn't, exactly, explained to her just what the operation was ... but Emma didn't really think she needed to be bothered with all that.

"A Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy." Edmund sulked. Couldn't the girl just go away?

"Of?" Emma arched her eyebrow.

"I don't know. Of Derbyshire."

Emma bounced up and, with some difficulty, located the Baronetage on a shelf. It was scandalously dusty, she noted. She must speak to Mr. Knightley about this; he would not recognize a useful and authoritative source if it leapt up and bit him on the nose. (Not, of course, that anything could ever dare to do such a thing to a man with gentleman so plainly written on him as Mr. Knightley, but that was not the point.)

"Darcy ... Darcy ... Darcy ... Ah!" Emma read the entry with increasing satisfaction. Indeed ... He might do very nicely -- not that she ever planned to marry of course. But a diversion ... that was something different altogether. Provided, of course, that this Mr. Darcy was handsome, rich, well-informed, liberal in his opinions, gentlemanly, intelligent...

"Miss Woodhouse!!"

Emma rolled her eyes and deigned to acknowledge that stuffy clergyman's interruption. "Yes, Mr. Bertram? Will you please tell me where I may find Mr. Knightley?"

"Went to the vicarage," Edmund admitted resentfully. Well, at least the woman would leave now.

"Thank you, Mr. Bertram." With a dazzling smile, Emma swept out of the room.

Ah! Now this was interesting. Edward fingered the blade carefully, mindful to not flake off the coagulated substance coating it ( or add to it, for that matter.) Well. It looked like blood -- chicken blood? Could you tell? Edward sniffed; it smelled ... blood-like. Inconclusive and awaiting further study. He dropped it into the little pouch.

He looked in the next drawer. Old sermons, presumably Elton's own. Should he bother looking through them in search of promotion of animal sacrifice, government hostile take-over, death, destruction and plague, etc.? It was not an idea Edward found particularly stimulating. Anyway, surely Knightley would have noticed? Bertram might have fun with them ... but on the other hand, the disappearance of his sermon archive was likely something Elton would remark. Better leave them.

Of course, Elizabeth had no way of knowing that after Mr. Darcy had fled the dining room he had slipped out the side door to be sick in the kitchen garden, but she had noticed how just before his departure he had paled. And Charlotte had just that moment previous enquired after poor Mr. Wickham. Hmmm ...humph.

"And this," Mrs. Elton opened another door, "is my favorite. I'm sure you will agree, do you not, Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley stared in shock at the blow to his most emphatically male central nervous system. The room was very ... very ... pink. "It is, er, lovely," he said finally.

Mrs. Elton beamed and sat down on the flouncy bed. "I wanted this room to just be... romantic. You know, Knightley? Knightley?"

Last one. Bloody better be something here. Edward rummaged through the drawer, despairing as he neared the bottom.

What's this? Edward measured with his fingers. Surely...

Just papers. But if Elton had gone to such lengths to conceal them.. Edward flipped through, uncomprehending, then went back to the beginning and looked closer. Blue eyes widened, then he began to grin. He stuffed the papers into the pouch and headed for the door. Next stop, library. Knightley would still be occupied with Mrs. Elton, surely.

Mr. Knightley cleared his throat and strode over to this window in high terror. "Ah! There is Robert Martin," he exclaimed with inspiration. "Excuse me, Mrs. Elton, but I must speak with him ... It was a lovely tea, thank you, thank you very much..." He had meant to edge towards the door, but she'd already joined him at the window, standing rather too close to him and displaying a great deal of gratuitous décolleté. Mr. Knightley averted his eyes.

"Robert Martin? I do not see anyone there!" She trilled with laughter. "You must be losing your sharp sight, Knightley!" She smacked him playfully. "And it looks so like rain. Perhaps you better wait it out ... and stay here ... where it's ... cozy..."

Edmund closed the book with a thump and surreptitiously wondered, not for the first time, if it did not seem they had given him the boring job. Well yes, he was the scholar, of course, but... really! He didn't seem to be accomplishing much, either, not that he'd admit that to his less-diligent (in his opinion) cohorts. He took out his pocket-watch and sighed. Knightley and Ferrars were likely to be engaged a good while yet in he didn't want to know what.

Good Gracious, he was bored.

Edmund shoved the books aside and began making a list of all the things he detested about Henry Tilney.

Mr. Knightley jumped away, muttering something about the horses, taking hasty leave of a very dismayed Mrs. Elton. Yes, of course he was perfectly willing to "take one for the team" but that was beyond the pale. How did he possibly get himself in that position? Disgraceful. Edward would just have to be finished for the day. They could come back another time if necessary. He was damned if he was going to be roped into that again; perhaps Emma could be persuaded...?

DAMN DOOR WOULD NOT OPEN!!! Desperate, Edward attacked with the now battered card. What the...? How can...? Who ever heard of a door that locks ... the ... inside?!? Oh. Oh oh oh. Oh. Oh ... ssssssss......sugarplums. Voices in the hall. Elton's?? Edward dove for the window.

The door to Dean Conway's study flew open, bounced against the wall, and came to a stop at the obstruction of one very agitated military foot. "Tilney..." Richard Fitzwilliam began slowly, red-faced and gulping for air.

Henry glanced up.

"I was just speaking with Miss Conway..."

"As you are occupying the same house as she, I do not find that remarkable, but if you chose to, by all means, go ahead." Henry returned to his book.

"You did WHAT??" Richard roared.

Henry put down the book. "Clearly you have some objection to this, however ill-founded it may be. However, I can't exactly take it all back, can it?"

"Tilney..." Richard whispered weakly, head against the wall.

Henry stood up. "I trust her," he said simply, and left the room.

Edward landed in the hedgerows. With a neat tuck and roll he made his way out and found himself face to face with a pair of bright, inquisitive, disapproving eyes.

Edward picked himself up from the dirt and assumed a haughty manner. The eyes didn't budge.

"Well look," Edward said finally, "it's for your own good, you know. Sure, it's all chickens now, but who's to say he won't be going after the squirrels next? You'd raise less noise, that's a sure thing." And with that, he turned on his heel and headed back to Donwell.

Mr. Knightley rounded the corner and nearly ran into the person coming the opposite way. "Emma!" He laughed nervously.

"Mr. Knightley." Apparently Emma's purpose was activity rather than destination, for she abandoned her direction in favor of his. They walked in silence several minutes.

"Mr. Knightley," said Emma at last, "what were you doing in Mrs. Elton's bedroom?"

Elton pondered the little card. Interesting. He could have sworn someone had been in his study.

But who was Mrs. Allen of Fullerton, Wiltshire?

Part Seven: Confidential Initiative

Posted on Thursday, 7 November 2002

"Emma..."

She raised a cool eyebrow. "I believe it is your hand, Mr. Knightley." She wasn't going to let him bluster out of this one.

"Emma, don't look at me like that."

"Like what, Mr. Knightley? Is there something bothering you? For I assure you, my conscience is clear, so it can be nothing disgraceful I have done."

For goodness sake, it had happened three days ago. "Look here, Emma, she said she wanted to show me the new furnishings. I could hardly refuse the woman that."

"Yes, certainly."

"Emma!"

Elton entered the Highbury post office rain-soaked and in high dudgeon. A hard two days of riding to Wiltshire and back, only to discover the Allens were not to be found at home. He had, however, come away with one important piece of information. "Is there room aboard any mail coaches leaving for Bath?" he asked the man at the counter.

"Well, Reverend, there'll be one leaving one Thursday and one Monday, if either of those'll suit ye?"

Elton considered. If he left Thursday he may not be back for church Sunday. No good could come of exciting speculation. "I'd be most obliged if you could book me for Monday, sir."

"And for the lady also?"

Elton looked blank.

"Will the Mrs. Elton be going as well, sir?"

"Ah, no, just me. This is a trip of business, not pleasure."

"Ah, well, be sure we appreciate your hard work, sir. I understand you just returned from Wiltshire?"

Damn Augusta for her gossiping! He had rather no one knew about that excursion. "Yes, that is quite correct. I required to speak to a brother minister in the county," said Elton smoothly. "And if you'll excuse me I must be getting the horse back..."

"Yes, yes of course Reverend. Have a good night."

Edmund emerged out of the shadows and strolled over to the counter. "Excuse me sir, have you a mail coach leaving for Bath this week?"

"Yes sir. We have one Thursday and-"

"I'd like a seat for Thursday, thank you."

"Frankly, I don't know why I'm here," said Darcy, helping himself to more of Knightley's brandy. "If I am here, and Fitzwilliam is in Oxfordshire, who is to keep watch in Kent? I think there ought to be someone there and..."

"Relax Darcy, it is only the next county. Tilney believes this is strategically more advantageous."

"Yes, but -- Well, look here, Knightley. Tilney is a very intelligent and capable man, I will say, but really -- why is he calling all the moves? Of all people, I'm not sure he's the most qualified for the position. I think-"

"Who's the girl, Darce?"

"Pardon me?"

"I asked you who is this girl you have on your mind? Who did you leave at Rosings?"

"There is no girl. The idea is preposterous."

"I don't think it is, Darcy."

Mr. Darcy was spared from replying by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Knightley called. "Oh, hello Bertram. Anything to report?"

"I am going to Bath on Thursday."

"You are what-- Whatever for? Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Quite sure. If my research, I have encountered something which may be of some import. There is an expert on the subject, one Reverend Emerson Willifred, whom I wish to consult."

"Oh. Suppose you ought to go then," said Knightley vaguely, hoping Edmund would not begin a discourse on the theological points he was researching. It wasn't as if that boy would get himself into any trouble in Bath, anyway.

"I shouldn't worry, Darcy," he continued after Edmund had left. "All I can say is Kent is a bit more monitored than you might suspect."

No, they wouldn't give much thought to his trip, would they? They thought he was of no use but to pore through weighty theological tomes, searching for some obscure clue. They were perfectly willing to send that amiable dingbat Ferrars out on reconnaissance missions, but Edmund must stick to his books. And of course, Henry Tilney must carry all the glory. Well, that's what they thought.

Elton, Bath, and a minister from Wiltshire. He'd not squander this opportunity.

"Mara, we have a caller."

"I know that, Julia. I am reading."

"Margaret, you will come and sit with Mr. Jasper."

Simmering, Mara closed her book, lifted her chin, and coolly followed her sister-in-law. It had not been a good past few days. Henry and Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken their leave for a destination unknown; Richard with gracious words and a warm smile, Henry with a teasing remark, sardonic twinkle, and a kiss to her hand that Mara saw as adding insult to injury.

Since their departure, a local admirer had suddenly thrown his attentions to her into warp speed, much to her dismay. Mr. Jasper was a pleasant enough young man, idling about until it was time for him to take over his father's law practice, and quite frank in his -- as yet -- unvoiced adoration. In other words, he was exactly like each and every one of the others. And his pursuit was pushing Mara closer and closer over the edge of reasonable fortitude.

"Margaret Kathleen!!!"

"I am coming, Julia!"

"Eh, what do you think of that, Tilney?"

"Quite conclusive, Colonel, I'd have to agree." Henry packed the last tool away. "Well, looks like a good time to call out the Admiral. Will he be ready?"

"Croft has been awaiting our word the past month. I've no doubt he will be prepared. Surely he'll bring young Wentworth along as well."

"The Captain is back in time. Excellent." The two men reached the bottom of the hill and turned towards the village. "They are in Somersetshire, are they not? Surely they could be in Bath quickly."

"The Admiral said he could establish residence in Bath in but two days. He is efficient. Harville and Benwick have been keeping watch in Bath since Friday last."

"Excellent. Well Richard, what say we resume our normal attire and return to Oxford?"

"Mrs. Conway, madam..." the housekeeper hesitated in the doorway of the sitting room.

Julia half rose. "Is there anything the matter, Mrs. Walters?"

"I'm sorry madam, but if it isn't too much trouble-"

"No, no trouble at all..." Julia and Mrs. Walters hastened to the kitchen.

In spite of the audible shrieking from the kitchen, Mara's paranoid mind half-suspected a conspiracy.

Mr. Jasper leaned forward. Her heart sank. "Miss Conway," he began. "I cannot waste this opportunity that fate has so graciously bestowed upon me. I must tell you-"

"Sir, I-"

"You must allow me to tell you how truly and deeply I do esteem you."

Mara's eyes dropped in dismay. "Please, sir-"

"You are an angel!" Mr. Jasper exclaimed, gazing with joy upon her face -- eyes downcast, rosy flush overspreading the fair skin -- a good sign, surely. Such a lovely, modest girl.

"No, no ... I'm afraid you are quite mistaken, sir ... I am no angel."

"You are too modest. Hardly had I layed eyes on you before I knew you were the loveliest creature I had ever seen, and from the day we met, I was sure you, of all women, are the one to make me happy. None has such a sweet temper, gentle disposition, mild tongue, patient serenity..."

"Sir, please!" Exasperated, Mara stood up. The most logical reply could only be Sir, are you drunk? but no, that would never do. "Mr. Jasper, sir ... I am very flattered, but I think you cannot know me very well."

"Not know you well!" Mr. Jasper exclaimed. He stepped toward her. "How can that be, when every moment of every hour I have had the pleasure of being in your company, I have been awake to nothing but you? Every moment when we are apart, I think of nothing but you-"

"But Mr. Jasper," Mara took another step back, "you have such a mistaken opinion of me ... I am so far from this paragon you describe-"

"You are wrong. I am perfectly convinced no one -- no one! -- could ever make me so happy as you could. Please. Tell me you will agree to be my wife."

"I know myself, Mr. Jasper, and I am sorry. Much as I esteem you as a good man, I cannot marry you. I could never be what you desire in a wife and I am certain I could never make you happy, nor you me."

"Miss Conway, I am sorry if I did not give you to understand perfectly how much I do love you. Perhaps if-"

"Indeed, she has a temper, but not a sweet one; I would as soon call her tongue blue as mild; and for patient and gentle, well sir, I have no words," said a new voice.

"Henry!" Mara exclaimed, coloring.

"Yes, my angel it is me," he replied in a tone that boded mischief.

"Miss Conway," said Mr. Jasper reproachfully, "you did not tell me there was a prior claim. I believe myself to have been very ill-treated indeed!"

"Prior claim?" Henry put a hand on Mara's arm and looked down at her thoughtfully. "Is that how we shall refer to it?" Slowly, she lifted her chin and coldly met his gaze. Henry smiled at the cold fire blazing in the green eyes.

"I take my leave of you, Miss Conway. Please give my regards to Mrs. Conway." Mr. Jasper scuttled out with his tail between his legs.

"Henry!" Mara snapped. "You were listening the entire time? Why did you not come in sooner?"

"I wanted to see how you got yourself out of it. I did not intentionally mean to eavesdrop, but then it became rather amusing."

"Well, you could have made yourself more useful instead of entertaining yourself at my expense. And now what will Mr. Jasper think-"

"Damn what he thinks. His entire proposal irritated me to know end."

"Why would it do that?" asked Mara curiously ... and hopefully.

"Because he was so busy imputing to you imaginary virtues he missed all the charms."

Elizabeth hurried up to her room with the letter. Whyever should Colonel Fitzwilliam be writing to her? It was rather ... improper. That didn't mean she couldn't be curious.

Miss Bennet,

I have no doubt but that you find this correspondence from me most extraordinary. As I find it my only means of communicating with you, I hope you will forgive this impropriety. What I write of is a matter of utmost importance. It is a great favor I ask of you, and you are free to refuse. However, I ask you to speak of no one about the contents, whatever your decision. You will understand why soon. When you have finished, please burn this letter. First, however, I believe you may have some misconceptions about my cousin, Mr. Darcy, which I must clarify...

Forty minutes later, Elizabeth stared at the thrice-read letter in astonishment. Then collecting herself, she stood up. Yes. Yes, she would rise to Colonel Fitzwilliam's request. If she had so gained his trust and his respect for him to entrust her with both this information and responsibility, what else, as a good Englishwoman, could she do? She stared into the fire until satisfied the letter was destroyed.

She found him in the garden. "Sir William! Please, I must speak to you at once."

Continued In Next Section