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Dwiggie.com message boards Our Message Board archives can be found at <a href="/archive/">http://www.dwiggie.com/archive/</a>. Our story archives are here: <a href="http://www.dwiggie.com/toc/">http://www.dwiggie.com/toc/</a>.https://dwiggie.com/phorum/index.phpFri, 13 Nov 2026 15:07:55 +0000 Phorum 5.2.22 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131934,131936#msg-131936 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 12https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131934,131936#msg-131936So well written! Thank you so much!!!!]]> EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildFri, 13 Nov 2026 00:20:45 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131934,131935#msg-131935 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 12https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131934,131935#msg-131935 Micha Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 09 Nov 2026 11:32:23 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131934,131934#msg-131934 A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 12https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131934,131934#msg-131934

Chapter 12

The parlour had just regained its familiar composure, gentle murmurings over embroidery and the scent of tea drifting in the warm morning air, when the sound of wheels on gravel drew the household’s attention, soon followed by the brisk approach of masculine voices in the front hall. Jane’s hand stilled on her needlework, a flutter of anticipation quickening her pulse.

Jeffers appeared at the doorway, composure ruffled. “Mr. Darcy, Lord Ashworth, Lord Arthur, and Mr. Harland, ma’am,” he announced with practised formality.

The gentlemen entered with an energy Jane found oddly exhilarating, for though she had anticipated their call, their presence filled the room with new possibility. Mr. Darcy glanced about the room and gave his sister an affectionate nod before bowing a little longer in Elizabeth’s direction. Lord Arthur met Jane’s eyes with open warmth and a trace of nerves. Lord Ashworth’s smile was for Anne, quietly seeking her approval. Simon Harland was the least imposing of the gentlemen. He was neat in appearance and almost scholarly in his reserve. He observed the assembled company without comment, his gaze pausing appreciatively on Lady Isabel.

“Gentlemen,” Jane said, her tone warm but faintly formal in the presence of so many elders, “you are most welcome.”

Quick courtesies passed, the gentlemen exchanging greetings with the ladies, Lady Isabel teasing Lord Ashworth about losing his way to the right drawing room. Mr. Harland drifted easily to Lady Isabel’s side, responding with quick, dry wit to her gentle provocations.

“Should I fear a plot for my undoing?” Lord Ashworth asked.

“Lord Ashworth, you are quite safe,” Lady Isabel replied with a droll smile. “Our schemes are reserved for larger game.”

A ripple of laughter followed, broken by Lord Arthur’s understated aside to Mr. Harland, “I warned you, cousin, Lady Isabel would not spare you.”

Mr. Harland only smiled, a trace of dryness in his tone. “I find observation safest, for now.” He bowed to Jane. “Miss Bennet, an honor.”

At that moment, Uncle Cedric, roused by the commotion, appeared in the doorway, clutching a biscuit in one hand and sporting a necktie tied most peculiarly. His eyes fixed at once upon Mr. Harland.

“Edward! My boy, I never thought to see you in such fine company!” Uncle Cedric exclaimed, extending both hands.

Mr. Harland blinked, caught mid-bow, but was quick enough to register the import of the moment. “I am delighted to find myself here, sir,” he replied, giving Lady Isabel the faintest wink. She watched him with fresh interest.

Uncle Cedric, not to be deterred, continued, “Last time we met was at Epsom, eh? You were a terror with a cricket bat. Or was it the cheese rounds? My mind plays tricks.” He released an affable chortle, then gestured grandly at Lady Isabel. “You ought to meet this young lady, Edward. Spirited as your favourite horse, I should wager!”

For the first time, Mr. Harland’s composure faltered, not with embarrassment, but clearly with an effort not to laugh. “I remain at your disposal, my lord, as ever, though I fear I am better accustomed to admiring spirit than attempting to hold the reins of so wild a genius.”

Lady Isabel, delighted to be so introduced, curtsied with a slightly exaggerated flourish to match Uncle Cedric’s mood. “If you are Edward today, Mr. Harland, then I am delighted to meet you twice over, formally as Miss Fitzwilliam, and quite informally as ‘Spirited as a horse!’”

A round of laughter circled the group, and the reserve customary between new acquaintances began to disappear. Mr. Harland, a little pink round the ears but game, replied, “If being mistaken for a terror at cricket is the tax levied upon my acquaintance, I can only hope to become a terror at cards instead.”

“What about cheese?” Lord Ashworth put in, trying to prolong the gentle joke.

“He will win any cheese-rolling contest you propose,” Lord Arthur assured him. “But only if Lady Isabel offers the prize.”

Lady Isabel, arching an eyebrow, said, “Sir, be warned. My prizes are notoriously difficult to claim. Ask my cousin Anne.” Mortified but smiling, Anne ducked her head.

Mr. Darcy, suppressing a smile, exchanged a look with Lord Arthur, who, unsurprised by Uncle Cedric’s antics, introduced Mr. Harland to the room. “This is my cousin, the Honourable Simon Harland. He has just returned from Oxford, where I hope his Latin has improved more than mine ever did.”

Uncle Cedric turned a keen, if speculative, eye on Mr. Harland. “Oxford, eh? Beware the Vice-Chancellor’s wig. Never trust a man who powders his hair in summer.” Then, abruptly, to Mr. Darcy, “And you, sir, you appear an intelligent fellow. Do you play whist, or only chess by correspondence? I once defeated the Archbishop of York with nothing but a pair of queens and a faulty candlestick.”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh, and Mr. Darcy, to his credit, executed a courteous bow with a serious look on his face. “I have never played such a match, my lord, but your company would undoubtedly improve the game.”

Jane noted Elizabeth’s eyes settle on Mr. Darcy. There was no awe or grandeur in her sister’s expression, but rather a soft, breathless wonder, a quiet look of disbelief that this proud, austere man, who had once held himself so rigidly above the world, was willingly, gracefully humoring an old man’s harmless whims. Elizabeth’s lips curved into a faint, involuntary smile, her gaze lingering on him with tender warmth.

Lord Arthur, relieved to change the subject, remarked, “Simon, Ashworth, and I have just left our aunt’s house nearby. Darcy, you joined us only few minutes later. We were hoping to catch everyone before luncheon.”

“And what of our visit to the Royal Institution tomorrow?” Lord Ashworth chimed in. “Are you all attending? The chemist Davy is to give a demonstration. Even my aunt wants to see his famous electric light.”

Mr. Darcy nodded. “I shall certainly attend. Miss Elizabeth, I hope you are still resolved to accompany us?”

Jane smiled, sensing Elizabeth’s own bright anticipation. Near the window, Miss Darcy caught Jane’s eye and offered a quiet, shared smile of understanding.

Uncle Cedric, ever alert for an outing, and clearly forgetting his desire expressed earlier, clapped his hands loudly. “Royal Institution! Oh, marvellous! I shall go, too. Science is merely another form of mischief, after all. Davy owes me a shilling from the last Society dinner, unless it was a melon. Hard to keep track these days.”

Mr. Harland, with discreet tact, gently reassured him. “I believe there will be both science and melon, my lord, if we are so fortunate to stay for supper.”

“Science always needs cheer,” Uncle Cedric declared. “Though I prefer my experiments less explosive. Edward, whichever you are today, mind you keep me away from the gunpowder!”

Mr. Harland, shoulders loosening with each jest, promised to be Uncle Cedric’s “chief chaperone and bodyguard against combustibles,” his tone so dry it won further glances from Lady Isabel, now openly intrigued.

From her vantage by the hearth, Jane observed all. Mr. Darcy’s careful fondness for Elizabeth, Lord Arthur’s respectful regard for herself, Anne’s shy smile, Lord Ashworth’s gentle humor, Miss Darcy’s serene comfort in the midst of the circle, and, Mr. Harland’s quiet willingness to be drawn into Uncle Cedric’s fantasy, making them all at ease. More than that, Jane saw the bloom of something new, a rapport, light and promising, between Lady Isabel and Mr. Harland, brought not by practiced charm, but by a shared willingness to join the game.

Lady Isabel, delighted, addressed Uncle Cedric. “You must regale us en route with tales of your scientific exploits. I dare say the scientists have never encountered a mind so original.”

Lord Cedric looked pleased. “Be assured, Lady Isabel, I shall illuminate the proceedings.”

Anne asked, “Does Mr. Davy not use lamp oil? I am very much afraid of combustion.”

Lord Ashworth reassured her with a twinkle in his eyes, “Only the most well-behaved flames, Miss de Bourgh. If anything sparks, we shall have Lord Cedric to advise us and Simon as chief chaperone and bodyguard against combustibles.”

Anne looked up as Lord Ashworth spoke directly to her. His tone was all playful reassurance, and Jane could see Anne gathering herself, determined not to shrink away.

Anne, meeting Lord Ashworth’s gaze with an easy composure, responded without hesitation. “You may rest assured, my lord,” she said, her tone leveled with dry wit, “that I have survived the hazards of a Derbyshire winter and several of Lady Isabel’s musical evenings. I believe I can endure the small risk of combustion, so long as you guarantee the experiments remain on your half of the table.”

The group laughed, but Lord Ashworth, undeterred, replied with gentle gravity, “Then it must be so, Miss de Bourgh, as your courage is unmatched. We will seat you well away from danger, and I promise to act as your personal shield, should any scientist overstep the mark.”

Anne’s answering smile was amused, unflinching. Jane watched with immense pleasure as Anne took her place in the conversation with a wit and self-possession she had once been afraid to show.

Conversation turned to practicalities. They covered the arrangements for tomorrow’s Royal Institution visit, coaches, and the prospect of supper afterward. Uncle Cedric, temporarily appeased, was content to bask in his honorary role as “chief scientific adviser,” promising tales of unrepeatable misadventure all along the way.

Jane sat back, her needlework forgotten as she surveyed the room. Voices intertwined in easy conversation, Elizabeth’s quick wit drawing smiles from every corner, Anne speaking with a warmth and confidence that would once have seemed unimaginable, Georgiana listening intently with a serene smile, and Lady Isabel’s lively humour setting even the more reserved gentlemen at ease. Their disparate histories and lingering uncertainties seemed, for this moment, to fade into the background. Affection might be a fragile thing at its beginning, but Jane recognized the look in Anne’s eyes and the subtle softening of Lord Ashworth’s stance. Mr. Darcy’s gaze, whenever it found Elizabeth, carried a tenderness he no longer troubled himself to disguise. This, Jane thought, her heart swelling with equal parts joy and apprehension, was the beginning of change.

The pleasant conversation was interrupted by the sound of another carriage drawing up before the house.

Uncle Cedric, who had been staring vaguely at the embroidery frame near his elbow, blinked and looked around the room as if noticing the gathering for the first time. “Is it time for dinner?”

“No, Cedric,” the Duke said quietly, his voice carrying the calm patience of long habit. “It is only the middle of the afternoon.”

Uncle Cedric frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to grasp the thread of time. “Ah. Then who is at the door? Is it Westbury?”

“I am Westbury, brother,” the Duke replied gently with a soft sigh.

Before Uncle Cedric could reply, the parlour door opened and Jeffers appeared. His expression held the strained composure of a butler forced to announce an entirely unexpected disruption.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing, “Mr. Bennet has arrived.”

Jane’s needle slipped from her fingers. Elizabeth went instantly rigid, while Miss Darcy drew a little closer to Mrs. Annesley at the sight of the sisters’ dismay.

“Papa?” Jane whispered.

Uncle Cedric looked toward the doorway, his faded eyes wide with a sudden, confusing flash of recognition. “Bennet? Is that Bennet? Has he brought the horses from the north?”

No one answered him. The Duke simply looked at the butler. “Show him in.”

Jane barely recognized him. He looked worn, wind-scratched, and sour, his coat stained from the road. But what chilled Jane was not his travel-weary state. It was the sharp, bitter irritation in his eyes as he swept his gaze across the grand parlour. There was no warmth in his look, no relief at finding his daughters well.

He offered a brusque, formal bow toward the Duke and Duchess. “Your Grace. Your Grace.”

The Duke inclined his head, his face an unreadable mask. “Bennet. You are unexpected.”

Uncle Cedric leaned forward, squinting with fogged concentration. “Did he bring the horses? The grey ones?”

“No, Cedric,” the Duke said mildly, without breaking eye contact with his guest. “He did not.”

Her father stripped off his riding gloves with sharp, impatient jerks. Jane watched his hands, the familiar, long fingers that usually turned the pages of his books with dry satisfaction, now tense and clenched. He looked at her and Elizabeth, letting out a long, heavy breath that sounded less like weariness and more like an accusation.

Elizabeth was the first to speak, rising slowly. “Papa, what brings you to London? Did you not receive my letter?”

“I have come,” Mr. Bennet began, his tone dripping with sardonic precision, “because Meryton has ceased to be a civilised settlement. I have not enjoyed five minutes of peace in nearly a fortnight. Half of Hertfordshire has made it their solemn duty to interrogate me in the street.”

Jane felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She looked to Elizabeth, hoping for the familiar, reassuring glance they always shared when their father took refuge in his irony. But Elizabeth was not smiling. Her jaw was set, her eyes cool and detached.

When no one in the grand room laughed, the silence remained heavy and unyielding, Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. Jane saw her father stiffen. The familiar irony of his manner was giving way to anger.

“Mrs. Long cornered me at the inn to demand to know whether you had been received at Almack’s,” he continued, his voice sharper now, the playful cadence entirely gone. “Lady Lucas wished to ascertain whether you had met the Duke of Roxbury. Even Mr. Collins has discovered a sudden, terrifying new reverence for your mother’s bloodline, though whether his devotion is to you or to the prospect of mentioning ducal cousins in his next sermon, I cannot say. And your mother is the worst of them all.”

Elizabeth’s expression cooled. “Mrs. Bennet, Papa, not our mother.”

He looked at her impatiently. “You know perfectly well whom I mean.”

“We do,” Jane said. “That is why Lizzy corrected you.”

Jane swallowed hard, uneasy at her own boldness. The irony sounded hollow in the vastness of the room, ringing uncomfortably against the cold dignity of her grandfather’s house.

“And at church,” Mr. Bennet added, his tone growing hard and dark as he warmed to his grievance, “I attempted to escape through the side doors following the service on Sunday, only to be surrounded in the churchyard by three parish vestrymen and Mr. Hill, all demanding to know if I might arrange an introduction to His Grace.”

The Duke raised a subtle eyebrow. “Your manservant requested an audience?”

“He did, Your Grace,” Mr. Bennet said, looking directly at the Duke. “And while I appreciate the absurdity of the request, I do not appreciate having my solitary walks turned into a gauntlet.”

Lord Cedric blinked, looking around the room as if trying to piece together the conversation. “Is someone going to church? It is not Sunday. Is it Sunday, Westbury?”

“No, Cedric,” the Duke murmured patiently. “It is Thursday.”

“Ah.” Uncle Cedric settled back, muttering to himself. “Thought the bells were ringing.”

Mr. Bennet thrust his gloves into his pocket and folded his arms, looking around him. His eyes moved from the Duke and Duchess, around the room, and finally to the gentlemen. He took in Mr. Darcy and Lord Arthur. His gaze returned to his daughters.

“Apparently,” he said darkly, “you have been keeping busy.”

Elizabeth replied, “We have been fortunate in our invitations.”

“So I understand.”

There it was again. Jane could not resist asking. “Papa, what specifically brings you to London?”

Mr. Bennet snapped his head toward Jane, his eyes flaring with sudden, bitter annoyance.

Before her father’s glance of open displeasure could fix upon her, Jane noticed a quiet movement. Lord Arthur had shifted half a pace forward, his broad frame interposing so as to obscure her father’s darkening countenance and shield her from his displeasure. Nearby, Mr. Darcy drew himself rigidly erect, taking a silent, deliberate step that placed him just before Elizabeth’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Lord Arthur,” Jane murmured softly, her voice barely a breath, but clear enough to echo in the sudden stillness.

Jane saw her father start at the mention of Lord Arthur’s title. His eyes turned sharply upon him, before darting to Mr. Darcy to mark their quiet, defensive stations. A dark, angry flush crept up Mr. Bennet’s neck. To be treated as a danger to his own blood, and to see a peer of the realm and Mr. Darcy thus interpose themselves between a father and his children, was an intolerable insult to his consequence.

His eyes settled on Mr. Darcy, his mouth curling into a cold, mocking sneer.

“Ah, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice dripping with smooth, venomous irony. “I had not expected to find you playing the gallant guardian in a London drawing room. Have your fastidious standards in society dropped so low? Or has my second daughter suddenly grown ‘tolerable’ enough to merit your protection?”

He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the grand room before returning to Darcy with a razor-thin smile.

“Though you ought to take care, sir. You are, after all, merely Mr. Darcy. Ten thousand a year is a handsome figure in Hertfordshire, but under a ducal roof, a commoner’s fortune may no longer suffice for a lady whose ambitions have expanded to titles.”

Jane felt Elizabeth stiffen beside her, but before Elizabeth could draw breath, Mr. Bennet swung his sharp gaze directly onto her, his tone dry and mercilessly sharp.

“How remarkably flexible your pride has become, Lizzy. To welcome the devotion of a man who so publicly disparaged your face at a country assembly, simply because the current Mrs. Bennet pronounced his fortune ‘as good as a lord’s.’ Though under a ducal roof, I suppose ‘as good as’ is no longer sufficient. I had thought you possessed more discernment, but it seems a taste of splendour has made you quite as eager for the real thing as she ever was.”

A sharp gasp echoed from Anne, her hand flying to her chest in stunned indignation.

“How dare he!” Anne declared, her voice tight with fierce outrage as she sat bolt upright, her knuckles white against her fan. “To insult my friends in their own grandfather’s house!”

“He is insulting our cousin, too,” Lady Isabel whispered fiercely, her eyes flashing with instant heat as she bristled at the insult to Mr. Darcy.

Beside them, Miss Darcy’s cheeks flushed crimson, her lips pressing together in quiet, unprecedented anger on her brother’s behalf.

He then turned his glare toward Jane and Lord Arthur, his sneer deepening as he addressed his eldest daughter.

“And you, Jane. I suppose a simple country life no longer suits, now that you have titled lords so eager to defend you.”

A cold, heavy silence crashed over the drawing room.

The sardonic mask had crumbled completely, leaving a cold, bitter malice in its place. Jane felt Elizabeth trembling beneath her hand. She knew her sister was angry at being so thoroughly insulted by their father.

A sudden, unfamiliar indignation swept through Jane, completely overpowering her customary desire for peace and harmony.

“For the last time, Mr. Bennet,” Jane said, her voice cutting across the room with a cold, ringing force that made even the Duke look shocked. “Why are you here?”

Her father blinked, momentarily startled by the icy steel in his eldest daughter’s tone, before his jaw set in dark defiance.

“I came,” Mr. Bennet said, “because your presence here has rendered my home intolerable. Your mother is in a state of unmanageable hysteria. Lydia is breaking china, Kitty is weeping, and Mary is drawing up lists of the moral hazards of the theater. The only way to restore my library to a state of quiet is to remove the source of the commotion.”

“As I already stated,” Elizabeth said, her voice sharp, “Mrs. Bennet is your wife. She is not our mother.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. “A distinction of very little consequence.”

“It is of every consequence,” said Uncle Maxwell. His voice was low, but the force beneath it silenced the room. “My sister’s daughters will not be summoned from safety and happiness to bear the burdens of a woman who has no claim upon them.”

The Duchess rose then. “My daughter’s children have endured enough in that house. They will not return to it because you find your own home intolerable.”

Mr. Bennet took a step forward, his shadow falling across the carpet between them.

“You have played at high society long enough. Pack your trunks tonight, girls. You are coming home with me tomorrow morning.”

Jane’s breath hitched in her throat. Before she could find words to reply, Elizabeth stepped forward, her tone crisp and sharp.

“Mrs. Bennet is your wife, sir,” Elizabeth said. “Her hysteria is your affair, not ours. We will not be summoned like servants to manage your household.”

Her voice remained clear, though Jane could see the trembling in the hand at her side.

“You speak as though we had presumed to enter a society to which we have no claim. This is our mother’s family, Papa. We have not acquired these relations because we came to London. We have merely ceased pretending that they do not exist.”

Mr. Bennet’s mouth tightened. “No one required you to pretend any such thing.”

“We were required to say nothing that might displease your wife. Our grandfather might pay for our presentation and our clothes and his generosity was welcome when it spared you expense. We might visit when our absence suited Mrs. Bennet, and return when she feared her daughters would suffer by comparison. We were permitted to accept our mother’s family’s kindness, but not to speak freely of belonging to them.”

Mr. Bennet’s mouth tightened. “You exaggerate.”

“Do I? Whenever the arrangement caused us pain, we were asked to consider everyone’s feelings but our own. Whatever Jane or I could do, we were to make as little of it as possible. And now you call our happiness ambition, and our refusal to return ingratitude, because we will no longer consent to be unhappy for your convenience.”

Jane had heard her sister speak indignantly before. She had never heard her make so little attempt to spare their father.

“You have not asked whether we are happy,” Elizabeth continued. “You have asked only whether your library may be quiet. You did not come because you missed us. You came because, without us, you must bear the consequences of the household you have allowed to govern itself. I will not return merely to make it easier for you to look away, Mr. Bennet.”

Her father made no immediate answer. He looked at Elizabeth, and for a moment the anger in his face gave way to something Jane could not readily name. His lips parted, but whatever answer he had intended did not come.

Jane knew that look between them. The expectation of a glance, some small concession to the understanding he had always supposed they shared. Elizabeth gave him none.

“Jane,” he said sharply, turning from her sister, “surely you have more sense than to encourage this.”

Jane felt the old impulse to soften her sister’s words, to find some explanation which would allow them all to retreat from what had been said. She looked at Elizabeth’s trembling hand.

“I have always tried to believe that you did not understand how much it hurt us,” she said. “But Lizzy has told you now, and still you ask only that we come back.”

His expression altered. “I ask my daughters to return to their home.”

“Then you ought to have made it a home in which we were not obliged to earn our peace by giving way.”

Jane’s voice faltered, but she did not withdraw the words. “I cannot make peace for you by asking my sister to endure what you will not trouble yourself to prevent. I shall remain here. And I will not persuade Elizabeth to go.”

Jane saw her father’s face flush a dark, dangerous red. She had rarely seen him truly thwarted, and to be defied so openly in a ducal drawing room seemed to strike at the very center of his pride.

“You will do precisely as you are told!” Mr. Bennet barked, the harshness of his voice making Jane flinch.

“They will do nothing of the sort.”

The Duke’s voice was low, but it brought the room to stillness.

Mr. Bennet stiffened, turning toward the head of the room.

The Duke of Westbury had not moved, but his posture had shifted into something terrifyingly imposing. His dark eyes regarded Mr. Bennet with an absolute, icy disdain.

“You are in my house, Bennet,” the Duke said, his voice flat, low, and smooth as polished steel. “And you appear to have forgotten yourself.”

“I am their father, Your Grace! By the laws of this realm, their governance rests with me. You have no right to harbour my daughters against my command!”

Instantly, Uncle Maxwell moved, placing his broad figure between Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth and herself, while Castor stepped up beside him. Her grandmother’s hand touched Jane’s shoulder, warm and protective, pulling her gently back.

“You speak of law and duty, Bennet,” Uncle Maxwell said, his voice dangerously low, “after abandoning them to the malice of your second wife and the neglect of your own home.”

“I owe no accounting to you, Sinclair!” Mr. Bennet declared, his jaw set in stubborn defiance. “Elizabeth is not yet of age. Step aside, or I shall return with a magistrate and demand my legal right!”

Jane held her breath, the room going terrifyingly still. She looked toward her grandfather.

Her grandfather did not raise his voice, but as he drew himself to his full height, Jane felt the atmosphere in the room shift instantly. His dark eyes remain fixed upon Mr. Bennet.

“A magistrate?” Uncle Cedric piped up, a mild, cheerful curiosity in his voice. “Could you imagine, Westbury? A constable marching into Westbury House to haul a young lady away? Why, the magistrate would faint dead away before he even reached the hall table! He’d likely arrest the constable for trespassing on Mayfair soil!It sounds like something out of a dreadful Gothic novel. Or a very low play at Covent Garden. I suppose he would bring handcuffs? Or perhaps a net?”

Uncle Cedric chuckled softly at the thought, entirely delighted with his own imagination, before returning his attention to the embroidery pattern on the armchair.

No one answered him. The standoff continued, unbroken and deadly quiet.

“You dare speak to me of magistrates in my own home?” the Duke asked, without raising his voice. “You are a foolish, desperate man, Bennet.”

Mr. Bennet stiffened, endeavouring to retain his dignity. “I am within my legal rights...”

“Jane is two-and-twenty,” the Duke interrupted smoothly, his gaze flicking to Jane for a brief, reassuring second before returning to her father. “She is a woman grown, answering to no man’s command, least of all a father who left her unprovided for. She remains here by her own choice.”

Mr. Bennet’s mouth pressed into a tight, pale line. “And Elizabeth?”

“Elizabeth,” the Duke continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, “will attain her majority in four months. If you choose to make this a legal question, Bennet, you may do so. I assure you, however, that you will find my solicitors prepared for the question long before yours have finished explaining the difficulty. My estate will sustain the litigation. Yours may not survive it until Michaelmas.”

Jane saw her father reel back as if struck, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.

“Furthermore,” the Duke added, his eyes narrowing, “you stand in Westbury House uninvited. You have raised your voice to my family and threatened my threshold. If you do not turn on your heel this instant, Jeffers and the footmen will forcibly remove you.”

Uncle Cedric blinked in the heavy silence, looking vaguely toward the doorway. “Are we turning a gentleman out? Is it raining, Westbury?”

“Not a gentleman, Cedric,” the Duke murmured, his gaze never leaving Mr. Bennet’s drained face. “Only an intruder.”

The Duke gestured slightly toward the door, where Jeffers stood like a wall of iron, with the footmen and stable hands gathered behind him.

“You have your answer, Mr. Bennet,” the Duke said, ending the matter with quiet, terrifying finality. “You will take your leave. Good day.”

Mr. Bennet stood reeling in silence. Jane watched the dark blood recede from his face, leaving him entirely pale. His pride was thoroughly subdued, and every vestige of his authority torn from him in a few brief sentences. He directed a look toward Elizabeth, then transferred his gaze to Jane.

Jane met his eyes. For the first time in her life, she felt no urge to soften the blow, no impulse to appease his quiet resentment or attempt a reconciliation. She stood her ground beside her sister.

At last, he gave a rigid bow. “Your Grace.”

He turned sharply and followed Jeffers from the drawing room. The heavy door closed behind him with a finality that seemed to echo through the silence he left behind.

Jane had not realized she was holding her breath until Elizabeth’s fingers closed around her hand.

“My dears,” the Duchess said quietly, drawing them both into her embrace, “you are safe here. No one shall compel you to leave this house, not while your grandfather and I have breath to prevent it.”

Jane rested her cheek briefly against her grandmother’s shoulder, grateful for an affection which required neither explanation nor apology. Elizabeth, though her eyes still flashed with indignation, returned the embrace with a tenderness that made Jane’s throat tighten. “Thank you, Grandmama,” Jane whispered.

The Duke’s stern expression eased as he looked upon them. “This is your home for as long as you wish it to be,” he said. “You will not be made to answer for Bennet’s failures again.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then the Duchess, with the practical gentleness that had so often soothed a difficult room, said, “I believe we have all earned luncheon. Gentlemen, you will remain with us, I trust?”

“We should be honoured, Your Grace,” Lord Arthur replied, his voice low and steady, though his eyes remained fixed on Jane with protective concern.

As the gathering began to filter toward the dining room, a brief pause occurred in the anteroom. Lady Isabel immediately took Elizabeth by both hands, her eyes bright with fiercely affectionate anger.

“I have never heard such monstrous audacity,” Lady Isabel declared softly, ensuring her voice did not carry to the elders. “To stand in your grandfather’s house and cast such slurs! You were magnificent, both of you.”

Anne stepped forward, offering Jane a gentle, reassuring touch on the arm. “He intended to wound you, but he has given us a very poor opinion of himself. You stood so bravely. I am immensely proud of you both.”

Miss Darcy, stepping closer to Elizabeth, added in a quiet, earnest tone, “My brother has spoken to me of... of how things were in Hertfordshire. To hear it thrown back at you so cruelly was dreadful, Miss Elizabeth. But none here hold you in any way accountable for your father’s harshness.”

Elizabeth offered a grateful, if somewhat shaken, smile to the young ladies. “Thank you, my dears. It is a relief beyond words to know we are among true friends.”

As the ladies moved ahead, Mr. Darcy stepped beside Elizabeth, falling into step with her as they traversed the wide corridor. His expression was a study in tightly controlled emotion, his jaw set, though his eyes held a profound tenderness.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy began, his voice a quiet, low rumble, “I must ask your forgiveness. That my past foolishness at Meryton should be dragged forth as a weapon against your peace...”

“Please, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth interrupted, turning her head to meet his gaze directly. A faint, wry smile touched her lips, though her eyes were shining. “Do not apologise for words spoken by my father in a fit of wounded malice. It is I who ought to feel mortified that you were subjected to such venom on my account.”

“You have no cause for mortification,” Mr. Darcy said firmly, pausing near the tall arched windows of the hallway. “Mr. Bennet intended his words as an insult, but he succeeded only in reminding me of my own former folly, and of how vastly my life has been elevated since I came to know your true character. His opinions carry no weight with me, save for the pain they caused you.”

Jane watched as a visible ease returned to Elizabeth’s figure, the distressing weight of their father’s tirade seemingly dispelled by the steady, unwavering devotion in Mr. Darcy’s countenance. Jane felt a profound wave of comfort of her own. Though the interview had been dreadful, it had ultimately served a higher purpose.

“He thought to shame us,” Elizabeth murmured softly, turning her eyes to Mr. Darcy with an expression of quiet gratitude, “but he has only shown us where our true defenders lie.”

Jane looked from her sister to the gentlemen standing guard around them, her heart swelling with the quiet certainty that they were, at long last, entirely safe.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes softened, a rare, breathtaking warmth illuminating his features. “Always, Miss Elizabeth. You need never doubt that.”

A short distance away, Lord Arthur had joined Jane near the entrance to the dining room. Jane was still pale, her fingers lightly clasped before her, though her posture remained erect and composed.

“Miss Bennet,” Lord Arthur said gently, his tone laced with deep respect. “I hope you will forgive my intrusion earlier. I could not stand by and allow him to direct such hostility toward you.”

Jane looked up, meeting Lord Arthur’s warm, steady gaze. The contrast between her father’s biting sarcasm and Lord Arthur’s quiet, selfless chivalry brought a sudden, sweet warmth to her heart.

“There is nothing to forgive, Lord Arthur,” Jane replied, her voice soft but filled with genuine emotion. “Your presence was a comfort beyond measure. I have spent years attempting to keep the peace, but today... today I could not ask my sister to purchase it by giving way. I am deeply grateful for your protection.”

Lord Arthur’s eyes brightened, a quiet happiness settling over his features. “To offer you protection, Miss Bennet, is no burden, it is the highest privilege I could request.”

They moved into the dining room, where the Duchess had arranged the seating to encourage an easy, comfortable atmosphere. The heavy oak table was set with fine porcelain, cold meats, fresh fruit, and warm rolls, the simple elegance of the meal offering a welcome grounding after the morning’s turmoil.

The Duke, taking his place at the head of the table, lifted his glass slightly, drawing the attention of the assembled company.

“A toast,” the Duke announced, his smooth, commanding voice filling the room, though his dark eyes held a warm, patriarchal pride as he looked toward Jane and Elizabeth. “To my granddaughters. May this house ever be their fortress, and may they always know the deep honour they bring to the Westbury name.”

“Hear, hear,” Uncle Maxwell murmured, raising his glass, followed immediately by Castor, Mr. Darcy, Lord Arthur, and the rest of the gentlemen.

Jane felt a quiet tear prick at her eye and wiped it away with a smile as she shared a look of profound relief with Elizabeth. They were no longer dependent upon their father’s uncertain consideration. Here, their comfort and happiness were matters of consequence.

As the meal progressed, the lingering tension dissolved into bright, spirited conversation. Jane sat back slightly, her heart full as she observed the table. Sitting beside Elizabeth, Miss Darcy seemed considerably more at ease than she had been when first introduced, her quiet demeanour opening like a flower in the warmth of the room.

“I believe,” Miss Darcy said softly, her voice reaching Jane over the gentle clatter of silverware, “that tomorrow’s excursion to the Royal Institution has already been settled. I wonder whether the ladies might contrive another outing for the following day?”

Elizabeth turned toward her with a warm smile. “Have you something particular in mind?”

“I had hoped to visit a music seller,” Miss Darcy replied, her eyes brightening. “Mrs. Annesley tells me that several new pieces have arrived, and I should like to look through them before choosing anything for the pianoforte.”

“Then you must allow me to accompany you,” Elizabeth said. “I am afraid my own playing is not of a character to offer you any real assistance, but I am quite willing to admire the covers and pretend to understand the merits of every piece.”

Miss Darcy laughed softly, a delicate, musical sound. “You are being far too modest, Miss Elizabeth. My brother wrote to me that you play with a great deal of spirit and taste.”

Elizabeth glanced toward Mr. Darcy, who was engaged in quiet conversation with Lord Arthur, a sparkle of mischief entering her dark eyes. “Did he indeed? Then I must accuse your brother of outright perjury! Or perhaps he simply wished to flatter his sister’s ears at the expense of absolute truth.”

Miss Darcy’s dimples deepened, her quiet posture relaxing into genuine delight. “Will does not lie, Miss Elizabeth, which makes his praise all the more dangerous! Though I confess, I was so astonished by his sudden enthusiasm for performance at Rosings that I began to suspect the air in Kent had worked a miracle upon his critical faculties.”

Elizabeth let out a soft laugh, leaning in slightly toward her. “Or perhaps he was simply bribing you to think well of his judgment before you met me. You see how calculating he can be?”

“If it was a bribe,” Georgiana replied with a sweet, courageous twinkle in her eye, “I am afraid it worked entirely too well. I was disposed to like you long before I stepped into Westbury House.”

Elizabeth looked at her in delighted warmth, her eyebrow arching playfully. “Then I am thoroughly undone. How am I to maintain a proper degree of dread toward your brother when his own sister conspires to make him seem so agreeable?”

“I am certain,” Miss Darcy murmured, her smile lingering, “that if anyone can find a way to keep him from growing too self-satisfied, it is you.”

“Then I fear you have placed a most unreasonable responsibility upon me,” Elizabeth replied. “Your brother has spent years cultivating that particular expression of solemn disapproval. I should hate to deprive him of such an accomplishment.”

Miss Darcy covered a smile with her hand. “I do not believe he would thank you for preserving so formidable a countenance.”

“No?” Elizabeth asked, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Then perhaps we must find him another occupation.”

“I believe he already has one,” Miss Darcy said, her eyes bright with amusement. “He watches everyone very closely and then pretends he has noticed nothing.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in delighted agreement. “Miss Darcy, you have discovered his greatest fault!”

“And perhaps his greatest virtue,” Miss Darcy added, with a thoughtful little smile. “He is rarely mistaken about the people he loves.”

Elizabeth’s teasing expression softened. She glanced once more toward Mr. Darcy, then returned her attention to Miss Darcy.

“I believe,” she said quietly, “that I am beginning to understand where he acquired some of his better qualities.”

Miss Darcy’s smile returned, warm and unguarded. “And I believe I am beginning to understand why he speaks of you as he does.”

Jane, observing from beside them, felt her heart swell at the easy, affectionate understanding blossoming so quickly between her sister and Miss Darcy. What pleased her most was the change in Georgiana Darcy herself. The young lady who had first entered Westbury House with such quiet reserve was now laughing freely, answering Elizabeth’s teasing without hesitation, and seeming entirely at ease in her company.

Jane could not help smiling. It appeared Elizabeth had acquired another friend, and one she suspected her sister would treasure very dearly.

Miss Darcy’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement as she turned to include the rest of their circle. “Would you care to come as well, Miss Bennet? And Isabel, Anne, would you join us?”

“Most certainly,” Jane replied warmly. “Though I suspect Lizzy will spend more time teasing you about your choices than examining the music.”

“I make no promise to behave,” Elizabeth warned with a mischievous tilt of her head.

“I had not expected one,” Miss Darcy answered with a light chuckle.

Lady Isabel chimed in instantly from across the linen tablecloth, her fan waving with enthusiasm. “A music shop? Say no more, cousin! I shall gladly come, if only to ensure you do not buy up every dreary Italian aria in Town. We must find something with proper spirit!”

Anne offered a gentle, serene smile. “I should like it very much, Georgiana. It will be lovely to browse the new compositions together.”

From farther down the table came Uncle Cedric’s booming voice, completely oblivious to the flow of conversation.

“Pippa!”

Miss Darcy turned at once. “Yes, Lord Cedric?”

Uncle Cedric was looking directly toward her, one hand raised as though summoning a childhood companion across a sunlit garden. “You must tell me,” he continued loudly, “whether the music master still visits your estate on Thursdays. I remember your mother complaining that you would never practise unless someone promised you cake afterward!”

Jane watched with fond admiration as Miss Darcy did not blink or show the slightest distress. Her sharp mind answered him as readily as though the recollection had been her own.

“He comes most faithfully on Thursdays, Lord Cedric,” Miss Darcy replied with a sweet, serene smile. “And I assure you, the promise of cake remains an exceptionally powerful inducement!”

Mr. Darcy, hearing the exchange, looked toward his sister with a rare, playful twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I had no idea, Georgiana, that you possessed such a storied past as ‘Pippa.’ Nor that your musical talents were bought entirely with pastry.”

“One must keep some secrets, Will,” Miss Darcy countered softly, her eyes twinkling as she met her brother’s gaze.

Uncle Cedric nodded with complete, triumphant satisfaction. “You see, Will? Always climbing where she was forbidden to climb, that girl. But she has good hands for the keys!” He gave a solemn nod and promptly returned his full attention to his plate of cold chicken.

The Duke let out a quiet, nostalgic chuckle from across the table. “Cedric and Pippa were absolute terrorizers of the parish boundaries back in our youth,” he remarked fondly. “She was only little Philippa Vance then, living at the manor house down the lane. Though I doubt the Countess of Oakhaven has climbed a boundary wall since she married the Earl!”

“I shudder to imagine Lady Oakhaven climbing a boundary wall,” Lady Isabel added with a gentle, amused smile toward Jane. “She is one of the most formidable hostesses in Town. If she knew Lord Cedric was comparing Miss Darcy to her younger self, she would be vastly entertained.”

Elizabeth leaned slightly toward Miss Darcy, her dark eyes flashing with delight. “I think you have made a very good impression, and secured yourself a second identity into the bargain, even if it is that of a future countess.”

“I am beginning to think Lord Cedric may provide rather more adventures than the rest of London combined,” Miss Darcy murmured in return, lowering her voice.

“Then our music shop excursion may prove disappointingly tame,” Elizabeth teased.

“I am not certain,” Miss Darcy replied, her smile dimpled and affectionate. “If you are coming, Miss Elizabeth, I suspect you may find some means of making it otherwise.”

Jane saw Elizabeth look at Miss Darcy in delighted surprise before breaking into a soft laugh.

Sitting across the table, the Duchess caught young Georgiana’s eye. Her grandmother offered the girl a gentle, beaming smile, giving Miss Darcy a subtle, wordless nod of approval before silently mouthing a warm, unmistakable Thank you across the linen for handling her brother with such grace. Beside her, the Duke met Miss Darcy’s gaze with a quiet, approving inclination of his head, visibly proud of the shy young lady’s composure.

Miss Darcy flushed with quiet, radiant pleasure at the praise from her hosts.

Across the table, Mr. Darcy’s glance shifted toward them as well. Jane noticed how his stern features instantly softened, a deep, undisguised tenderness filling his eyes as he watched his sister sharing such easy, genuine laughter with Elizabeth. Her sister caught Mr. Darcy’s eye across the table, and for a moment neither looked away.

Jane smiled to herself, her heart full as she turned her attention to the lower end of the table.

“Now then,” Lord Ashworth remarked, setting down his wine glass with a warm smile toward Anne. “We must settle our plans for tomorrow’s excursion to the Royal Institution. I am told Mr. Davy’s electro-chemical demonstrations are quite spectacular, though I have given my word to Miss de Bourgh to act as a personal shield against stray sparks.”

Anne offered a gentle, amused smile, her posture relaxed and confident. “I shall hold you strictly to your promise, Lord Ashworth. Though if Lord Cedric attends, I suspect he may prove a greater hazard to the apparatus than Mr. Davy himself.”

From the end of the table, Uncle Cedric looked up, nodding sagely. “Science, my dear, is three parts curiosity and one part gunpowder! I recall a fellow at Cambridge who tried to distill port wine into liquid sunlight. Blew the roof right off the chapel! Splendid fellow. Never saw his eyebrows again.”

A wave of genuine, lighthearted laughter broke across the table. Mr. Simon Harland, leaning toward Lady Isabel, remarked in a dry undertone, “I shall take particular care tomorrow to keep his lordship at least five paces from any open flames.”

“A noble endeavour, Mr. Harland,” Lady Isabel replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Though I might pay good money to see what happens if Lord Cedric gets hold of a galvanic battery!”

Jane sat back in her chair, listening to the comfortable warmth of the room. The morning had brought confrontation and the harsh severing of old ties, but as she looked around the table, at Elizabeth’s sparkling eyes as she conversed with Mr. Darcy, at Anne’s blossoming confidence, at Miss Darcy’s quiet happiness, and at Lord Arthur’s attentive, devoted gaze beside her, Jane knew that something wonderful had taken root.

Whatever trials lay ahead in London, Westbury House was no longer merely a refuge. It was home.

]]> LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 08 Nov 2026 19:36:58 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131933#msg-131933 Re: Mr Collins' Potato Encounterhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131933#msg-131933 DavidG Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 08 Nov 2026 10:29:41 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131932#msg-131932 Re: Mr Collins' Potato Encounterhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131932#msg-131932 Sandy C Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 04 Nov 2026 13:43:36 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131931#msg-131931 Re: Mr Collins' Potato Encounterhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131931#msg-131931 DavidG Derbyshire Writers' GuildWed, 04 Nov 2026 11:38:56 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131930#msg-131930 Re: Mr Collins' Potato Encounterhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131930#msg-131930-Sandy]]> Sandy C Derbyshire Writers' GuildTue, 03 Nov 2026 19:58:20 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131929#msg-131929 Mr Collins' Potato Encounterhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131929,131929#msg-131929
The maid crept cautiously into the study at the parsonage. ‘Another potato to see you, sir.’

Mr Collins looked up from his accounts and sighed. These interruptions were getting rather tiresome. ‘Show it in, Martha’, he replied.

In hopped a potato. A rather handsome Jersey Royal. Quite tasty looking. A small piece of drool escaped Mr Collins’ mouth as he examined it. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

‘A short back and sides, please’, said the potato.

‘I’m not a barber!’ spluttered Mr Collins.

The potato brushed some wax off its jacket. ‘Oh, my mistake. I’ll have half a pound of oranges then.’

‘I’m not a greengrocer either!’ He drew himself up to his full, pompous height. ‘I am a clergyman, the chosen of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.’

The light of the fire glistened invitingly on the potato’s skin. It was ominously silent. Mr Collins was growing suspicious. ‘Why do you want oranges anyway?’ he asked.

‘Cooking,’ it said brusquely. ‘Apple pie,’ it added, responding to the confusion on Mr Collins’ face.

‘But you don’t include oranges in apple pie!’ Mr Collins objected. If there was one thing he hated, it was imprecision in culinary matters.

‘I know that!’ said the potato, rather testily. Ah, Mr Collins thought. A sensitive type. Chip on his shoulder. ‘I know that, but the thing is...’ The potato’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

‘Yes?’

‘The thing is...I’ve run out of apples.’

It was perhaps the silliest potato Mr Collins had ever met. He could not abide silly people, and silly tubers were entirely out of the question. ‘Look, my good man,’ he started.

‘Potato’, the potato objected. ‘I’m not a man. You should address me by my proper title.’

‘Look, my good potato,’ Mr Collins started. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m a very busy man. I have my accounts to look over, my sermon to write for Lady Catherine. You are the fifth potato that has interrupted me today. This must cease.’

The potato glanced cautiously around the study. The coast was clear. ‘All spies for the Potato Council. Your crimes against potato kind have been long suspected. The memes alone… Do you deny it, sir?’

Mr Collins had no wish to deny it. He had enjoyed those boiled potatoes. He would eat them again. ‘Do your worst,’ he said.

‘Right. That’s it. Let him have it, tubers!’

At that a whole sack of potatoes appeared from their hiding place and jumped on Mr Collins. He resisted viciously. ‘I’ll skin you alive!’ he shouted.

‘Ooh, what are you going to do, send for the Peelers?’ said one particularly rough looking potato with a bruise, who proceeded to bash him in the shin.

Had the potatoes been King Edwards’ Mr Collins might have stood a chance, but these were Red Roosters. Tough and fierce. They began beating him, mashing up his face, and soon he knew no more.

He awoke in a strange place. There were white clouds all around. A celestial choir could be hear singing sweetly in the distance. Golden gates stood before him. Heaven! He had made it to Heaven! He hadn’t been sure he would. After how he had burnt those Maris Pipers to a crisp, he wasn’t sure he deserved it. There was St. Peter, ready to greet him.

‘I’m in Heaven!’ he exclaimed, unnecessarily.

‘Yes,’ said St. Peter. ‘About that… we’ve had a word with Downstairs. Even Heaven needs kitchen assistants. You’ll be spending eternity in our kitchens, preparing boiled potatoes for our Lord’s supper.’

‘Oh, not that! Anything but that!’

‘Look on the bright side,’ said St. Peter sympathetically. ‘It could be worse. The cooking part is quick, at least. You could be in Hell…

It’s roasting down there.’

At the point the author decided to get his jacket [potato].

He plans to serve it with lashings of butter.]]> DavidG Derbyshire Writers' GuildTue, 03 Nov 2026 16:47:22 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131928#msg-131928 Re: Well of Desire (JAOctGoHoNo)https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131928#msg-131928 EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 02 Nov 2026 22:59:22 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131923,131927#msg-131927 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 11https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131923,131927#msg-131927I hope this won't offend anyone: I am retired now, but worked for years in state hospitals. I first worked at a state hospital in Ventura County, California. Back in the early days, there were no medicines to calm and control many patients in their mental instability and they could be unpredictable and very dangerous for themselves, for the staff and other patients. As medications became available, it became much safer for everyone, but still challenging.]]> EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 02 Nov 2026 22:36:28 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131918,131926#msg-131926 Re: Halloween storyhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131918,131926#msg-131926 EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 02 Nov 2026 21:12:26 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131923,131925#msg-131925 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 11https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131923,131925#msg-131925 Micha Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 02 Nov 2026 09:53:51 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131924#msg-131924 Re: Well of Desire (JAOctGoHoNo)https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131924#msg-131924 Jen L.H. Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 01 Nov 2026 21:58:15 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131923,131923#msg-131923 A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 11https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131923,131923#msg-131923

Chapter 11

The parlour at Westbury House was alive with a comfortable morning ease. Sunlight, filtered through the tall windows, fell pleasantly across the room. Jane, Elizabeth, Anne, and Lady Isabel were seated near the fire, engaged in needlework, while the Duchess sat in her favourite armchair, observing the gathering over her embroidery frame.

Across the room, Aunt Gardiner, with a contented smile, supervised the playful antics of her four children. Amelia and Harriet were intent on building a precarious tower of wooden blocks, while Frederick and James were gleefully attempting to untangle a ball of yarn, much to their mother’s quiet amusement. Nearby, Mrs. Jenkinson knitted peacefully in the corner, her head lowered and brow furrowed in concentration.

“The Tower was truly fascinating,” Jane remarked, pulling her silk thread through the linen with a soft, contented sigh. She looked around the circle with a gentle warmth in her eyes. “One could almost feel the weight of centuries within its walls. I found the Norman architecture of the White Tower quite awe-inspiring.”

“Awe-inspiring, yes, but terribly grim if one pauses to consider who was kept there,” Elizabeth added with a wry smile, not looking up from her embroidery. “The Yeoman Warders certainly spared us no detail regarding the famous prisoners. I believe Sir Walter Raleigh and Anne Boleyn figured most prominently in their gruesome accounts.”

Lady Isabel laughed, her needlework resting in her lap for a brief moment. “Oh, but the Crown Jewels made up for the grim history! I do not think I have ever seen anything glitter with such blinding brilliance. Though I must confess, my favorite part of the entire excursion was the ravens.”

“They were remarkably imposing birds,” Anne chimed in softly. Her voice carried a steady confidence that brought a bright smile to Jane’s lips. “The warder informed us that should the ravens ever leave the Tower, the Crown and the kingdom itself will fall. It gave the entire courtyard a rather mystical air.”

“Which meant, of course, that Lady Isabel spent ten full minutes attempting to coax one into conversation,” Elizabeth teased, casting a playful glance at Lady Isabel.

“I was merely ascertaining whether they intended to remain at their post!” Isabel countered with a lighthearted laugh.

Aunt Gardiner looked up from untangling a stray strand of yarn James had dropped near her skirts, her expression full of affectionate warmth. “It sounds as though it was a most memorable expedition for you all. It is a rare pleasure when a day of historical instruction proves quite so entertaining.”

Jane felt a deep, swelling happiness as she listened to the comfortable banter flowing between her sister, her new friends, and her family. “It was indeed,” Jane said softly, her eyes resting on Anne with warm affection. “A stark reminder of the past, perhaps, but a thoroughly delightful day in the present.”

Just as Jane finished, Jeffers entered, his face betraying a hint of confusion. “Your Grace,” he announced, bowing to her grandmother, “Lord Cedric has arrived, quite unexpectedly and accompanied solely by a footman.”

A ripple of surprise went through the room. Uncle Cedric was their grandfather’s younger, unmarried brother, Jane and Elizabeth’s great-uncle. He usually resided with their great-aunt, Lady Elaine, in the countryside. Her grandmother rose, a slight frown creasing her brow.

“Cedric?” she murmured, more to herself than the others. “That is most unusual. Is Elaine unwell?”

Jeffers stood unusually rigid, his jaw set in a line of quiet, long-suffering restraint that immediately caught Jane’s attention. He cleared his throat softly, a subtle breach of his customary perfection that signaled something was decidedly amiss.

“The footman who attended his lordship brings word from Lady Elaine’s daughter, Your Grace,” Jeffers replied, his voice tight with carefully suppressed disapproval. “He states that Her Ladyship is unwell, whether with a nervous fever or a rheumatic complaint, he could not say, and that she thought it best to entrust Lord Cedric to Your Grace until she recovers. There is a letter for Your Grace as well.”

With exquisite care, Jeffers presented a sealed letter on his silver tray.

The Duchess sighed, a faint line of worry appearing between her brows. Uncle Cedric, while amiable, was known to be quite eccentric. Jane recalled that his memory, in particular, had grown rather unreliable in recent years, often leading to amusing, if sometimes awkward, situations.

Before she could offer further instruction, a figure appeared in the doorway behind the footman. He was a man of five and sixty years, with a kindly, if slightly bewildered, expression and a shock of white hair that seemed perpetually ruffled. His clothes, though of excellent quality, were a little rumpled, as if he had dressed himself in haste.

His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on the children, a wide, genial smile blossoming on his face. Then his eyes, a faded brown, fixed on her sister Elizabeth, who was nearest the doorway. His expression changed at once and he looked at Elizabeth as though he knew her, yet could not quite recall why.

“Augusta, my dear!” he boomed, his voice resonant but a little shaky. He strode directly towards Elizabeth, his arms outstretched. “It has been far too long! Why, you have scarcely aged a day since last I saw you, though you do look rather less severe than I recall from your portrait. Still, as radiant as ever!” He reached for her hands, taking no notice of Elizabeth’s startled gasp.

Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and her eyes, wide with alarm, darted to Jane. Jane, though equally surprised, suppressed a giggle, biting her lip to keep from smiling. Lady Isabel, meanwhile, let out a quiet snort of amusement, hastily covering her mouth with her hand. Aunt Gardiner, ever practical, quickly gathered her children closer, a warning glance at their wide, curious eyes.

The Duchess, recovering quickly from her initial shock, stepped forward. “Cedric, my dear brother,” she interjected smoothly, laying a gentle hand on his arm, “you are mistaken. This is Elizabeth, my granddaughter. You remember Augusta’s daughter and Jane’s sister?”

Uncle Cedric blinked, his gaze still fixed on Elizabeth. “Elizabeth? Ah, yes, a fine name. But you are very much like your mother, Augusta! The very image, I swear it! Except your eyes are quite a different shade. Augusta had eyes like sapphires, if I recall. And you, my dear, yours are brown? Yes, a rich, lively brown. Most charming, nevertheless! They remind me of my father’s eyes.” He patted Elizabeth’s hand, quite satisfied with his observation. “Though I do remember Augusta preferring emeralds, she always said they suited her complexion. Not that brown is bad, mind you, just different.”

Elizabeth could only offer a weak, strained smile, utterly at a loss for how to respond.

Uncle Cedric’s attention, however, was easily diverted. His gaze fell upon the children. “And who are these little rascals?” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with delight. He immediately gravitated towards Amelia, who, emboldened by his good humour, offered him a block from her crumbling tower. “Ah, a fortress! Excellent! A man must have his fortifications, especially in London. Too many rogues about, you know. Always trying to steal one’s teacups!” He winked conspiratorially at the child, who giggled.

The Duchess, observing the scene, merely offered a small, knowing sigh, a testament to years of managing her brother’s charming, albeit unpredictable, nature. Jane, however, felt a wave of affectionate amusement wash over her. Uncle Cedric, despite his confusion, possessed a disarming honesty that was, in its own way, quite endearing. And to see Elizabeth, usually so composed, thrown entirely off balance by his mistaken identity, was a rare and rather delightful spectacle. His unexpected arrival promised to bring a good deal of liveliness to Westbury House.

After a few more minutes of Uncle Cedric happily engaging with the children, offering sage, if slightly muddled, advice on block-building and yarn-unraveling, the Duchess stepped forward, her expression a mix of fond exasperation and quiet concern.

“Jeffers,” the Duchess said, addressing the butler who still lingered discreetly by the door, “would you be so kind as to fetch the Duke? He is likely in his study. And pray, send a message to Claremont House for my son. Inform him that his presence is required here at Westbury as soon as he is able. It concerns a family matter of some delicacy.”

Jeffers bowed, his face impassive, and swiftly exited the room. The Duchess then turned her full attention to her brother, gently guiding him towards a more comfortable chair away from the energetic children.

“Cedric, my dear,” she began, her voice soft but firm, “it is truly wonderful to see you, though we are sorry to hear of Elaine’s indisposition. We must ensure you are quite comfortable here. You will stay with us, of course, for as long as you wish.”

Uncle Cedric beamed, settling into the armchair with a contented sigh. “Ah, Elaine. Always prone to a touch of the vapors. Says the country air does not agree with her digestion. Nonsense, I say! It is the pickles. Too many of those dreadful pickled onions. Always did make her humours run cold. The secret to keeping servants loyal is jam, you know. Strawberry. No one betrays a man who gives them proper jam. Elaine always insisted on marmalade. That is why her staff never trusted her.”

The Duchess maintained her serene composure, though a discerning eye could catch the quiet calculation behind her gaze. “And did Elaine say how long she expects this fever to last, Cedric? Did the apothecary come before you left?”

Uncle Cedric blinked, looking toward the window as if searching for the apothecary in the London sky. “Fever? No, no, it was the horses. They refused to wear their boots. You cannot expect a cobbler to work in the rain, Augusta, it is simply unreasonable. We took the high road to avoid the turnpike men, greedy fellows, every last one.” He nodded sagely to himself, perfectly satisfied with his explanation.

Jane was saddened to see how readily Uncle Cedric’s thoughts wandered from the present. His conversation moved from one recollection to another without any apparent order. The story was there, but never quite in order.

Elizabeth, still faintly mortified but now more accustomed to Uncle Cedric’s harmless eccentricities, exchanged a look with Jane. Anne and Lady Isabel, too, watched with a quiet fascination. It was clear that Uncle Cedric would require considerable patience.

Uncle Cedric patted the armrest. “This is a most agreeable chair, Augusta. You always did have the best furniture. You have your grandmother’s smile, my dear. Or was it the vicar’s? No matter, it was a very fine smile either way.”

The Duchess simply smiled, a private thought crossing her features. Jane knew her grandmother would already be considering what Uncle Cedric’s unexpected arrival might mean. Though Uncle Cedric was beloved, his confusion would require careful management, particularly in a household so often visited by the principal families of the ton. The Duke’s steady hand, and her uncle’s practical mind, would undoubtedly be called upon to navigate this new, delicate family circumstance.

Just as the Duchess was about to speak again, the door opened once more, and the Duke entered.

He took two unhurried steps into the room before halting dead in his tracks. For a man whose composure was legendary, the sudden, complete stillness that came over him was startling. Jane watched her grandfather’s sharp gaze sweep the room, from the quiet tension in his wife’s posture, past the children on the rug, to the armchair where Uncle Cedric sat cheerfully patting the upholstery.

A flicker of genuine shock crossed the Duke’s features, quickly followed by a dark, thunderous shadow of alarm.

“Cedric?” the Duke breathed, the word torn from him in sharp disbelief. He looked toward the Duchess, his brow furrowing deeply. “Rosamund, what in heaven’s name is this? What has happened?”

Before the Duchess could answer, Uncle Cedric looked up, his face lighting up with effortless, childlike pleasure.

Uncle Cedric’s eyes, wide and suddenly bright, fixed on the Duke. A broad, almost boyish grin spread across his face. “Ah, Father! There you are. I knew you would not stay away from London for long. Always said you preferred the bustle to those dull country estates. I was just telling Rosamund about the turnpike men. Greedy devils. And the pickles! You must tell Elaine to stop buying them, Father. They are very bad for her nerves.”

The Duke, for his part, managed to keep his expression composed, though a flicker of pained surprise crossed his features. He gently but firmly removed his brother’s hand from his shoulder. “Cedric, my dear brother,” he corrected, his voice calm but with an underlying note of gentle authority, “it is I, your brother, Lionel. Our father, as you know, has been gone these many years.”

Uncle Cedric squinted, as though trying to recall. “Lionel? Ah, yes, Lionel. Always so serious, even as a lad. Not like Father at all. Father had a twinkle in his eye, did he not? Especially after a few glasses of claret at the club.” He chuckled, a conspiratorial gleam in his faded blue eyes. “Speaking of claret, do you remember that time, Lionel, before you settled down with Rosamund here, ahem, present company excepted, of course, when you tried to climb the Duke of Dorset’s garden wall on a wager? Said you could retrieve his prize-winning rose without waking the guard dogs. You nearly lost your breeches, as I recall! And the scandal it caused when you were found tangled in the rose bushes, stinking of gin and covered in thorns! Mother nearly had an apoplexy. Said you would never find a respectable wife after that.”

A stunned silence descended upon the parlour. Elizabeth’s eyes widened even further, her mortification momentarily forgotten in the face of this unexpected glimpse into her grandfather’s youthful indiscretions. Jane felt a hot flush creep up her neck, glancing covertly at Mrs. Gardiner, who had pressed her lips together to suppress a gasp. Lady Isabel bit the inside of her cheek so hard Jane thought she might draw blood, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Anne looked utterly bewildered, unsure whether to be amused or scandalised.

The Duke’s face, usually so imperturbable, was now a fascinating shade of deep crimson. He cleared his throat, a sharp, almost choked sound. “Cedric,” he interrupted, his voice a low growl, “that is quite enough. There are ladies present.”

Uncle Cedric, however, seemed oblivious, his eyes twinkling with the memory. “Oh, a charming tale, Lionel! The ladies would appreciate a bit of honest mischief, would you not, my dears?” He looked around, inviting their agreement.

Before anyone else could react, Lady Isabel stepped forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes matching Uncle Cedric’s own. Her previous attempts to stifle laughter had given way to unbridled amusement.

“Indeed, my Lord!” Lady Isabel declared, her voice clear and bright, cutting through the stunned silence. “A tale of such youthful daring is precisely what brightens an otherwise dull morning! One cannot truly know a gentleman until one hears of his less decorous adventures.” She offered him a conspiratorial smile.

She then curtsied with an exaggerated flourish that was just on the edge of disrespectful, yet entirely charming. “I am Lady Isabel Fitzwilliam, my Lord, the Earl of Matlock’s youngest. And this,” she said, gesturing to Anne, who still looked rather stunned, “is my cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh. We are delighted to make your acquaintance, particularly if you have more such entertaining anecdotes concerning His Grace’s youthful follies.”

Uncle Cedric’s eyes, momentarily diverted from the Duke, lit up with delight. “Ah, a kindred spirit! A young lady who appreciates a good yarn! Not like some, always fretting about propriety.” He waved a dismissive hand at his brother, who looked as though he might spontaneously combust.

“Youthful follies, you say?” Uncle Cedric mused, his gaze drifting vaguely towards the ceiling as if sifting through old memories. “Oh, there were plenty of those! One time, there was a fellow, always too sensible for his own good, tried to swap the Vice-Chancellor’s wig with a badger at Oxford! Oh, the uproar! He blamed it on a prankster, but I knew his handiwork. Crafty fellow, for all his seriousness now.” His eyes twinkled at some private recollection, and he smiled to himself.

Jane frowned slightly, observing Uncle Cedric’s rapid shift in topic and the disconnected nature of his anecdote. It was clear his mind was making connections that were not entirely logical, pulling names and memories from different threads of his past without fully discerning the present company. The mention of a badger appeared to have little connection with anything that had been said.

The Duke groaned, a sound barely audible, as Lady Isabel clapped her hands together with glee. Anne, observing her cousin’s audacious charm, could not help but let out a small, bewildered giggle. Elizabeth, finally releasing her held breath, dissolved into laughter, leaning against Jane for support.

The Duchess, watching Lady Isabel effortlessly draw her brother into conversation and away from potentially more scandalous revelations, raised an eyebrow. She offered a subtle, almost imperceptible nod of approval to Lady Isabel, even as her husband continued to look utterly mortified.

The Duke, regaining a semblance of his usual composure, exchanged a significant look with his wife. The conversation, while amusing to some, was clearly veering into territory best kept private, and certainly not for the ears of impressionable young ladies.

“Cedric,” the Duchess interjected, her voice gentle but firm, “perhaps now is the time to refresh yourself after your journey. Jane, my dear, would you ring for a maid to show Lord Cedric to his chambers? And perhaps some tea and biscuits might be agreeable in his room.”

“Tea and biscuits!” Uncle Cedric exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the thought. “Excellent idea, Rosamund! Though I do recall a time when my mother, God rest her soul, used to make the most divine lemon tarts. Always preferred them to biscuits, myself. More zest, you see. Though I suppose biscuits are perfectly adequate when one is simply passing the time.”

He then looked at Lady Isabel and Anne. “It has been a pleasure, my dears! Do come visit me later if you wish to hear more tales of mischief. There is the one about your grandfather, the Duke, and the pig in the ballroom. A tale well worth the telling!” He winked broadly.

With a final, hearty chuckle, Uncle Cedric allowed himself to be led from the room by the maid, still muttering about lemon tarts and pigs.

As the door closed behind them, a collective sigh of relief, quickly followed by suppressed giggles, filled the parlour. Elizabeth straightened, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye.

“A pig in the ballroom, Grandpapa?” Elizabeth asked, her voice still a little breathless with amusement, turning to their grandfather with an impish grin. “Is there truly such a tale?”

The Duke, his face still a rather deep shade of pink, simply cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, that is quite enough. Some matters of one’s youth are best left to gather dust in the annals of time.” He shot a stern, yet defeated, look at Lady Isabel, who merely offered a smile and an innocent shrug.

The Duchess, however, offered a small, knowing smile to Elizabeth. “My dear, your great-uncle Cedric has a memory that, while sometimes confused, is never dull. And often, remarkably accurate, for all its embellishments.” She then read the noted and turned her attention to her husband, her expression now entirely serious. “Lionel, we must discuss what is to be done. Elaine’s note was vague, and Cedric clearly requires careful attention. I have already sent for my son. He must know what has happened, and his advice may help us decide what is best for Cedric.”

The Duke nodded, his earlier mortification giving way to a more thoughtful, concerned expression. “Indeed, my dear. Maxwell’s counsel will be invaluable. This is an unexpected complication, and we must ensure Cedric is properly cared for, and that his anecdotes remain within the family.” He cast another lingering glance at Lady Isabel, a warning in his eyes that was, Jane noted, entirely lost on the irrepressible young lady.

After Uncle Cedric’s departure, a more serious atmosphere settled over the parlour. Her grandparents moved to a quieter corner, their voices lowered in private discussion. Jane, Elizabeth, Anne, and Lady Isabel continued their needlework, though their attention was now divided, their ears attuned to the hushed conversation of their elders.

Aunt Gardiner had, with commendable speed, whisked her children home, ensuring no further charming tales of dukes and pigs would reach their ears.

“This is a most awkward business, Lionel,” the Duchess murmured once the door was safely shut behind Uncle Cedric, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. “To drop Cedric upon our doorstep with nothing more than a vague note from your niece places us in an impossible position. His memory is far more erratic than when we last saw him.”

The Duke sighed, running a hand through his hair, a rare sign that he was deeply distressed. “Indeed. I have not seen him so unmoored in years. It is obvious Elaine is overwhelmed, or my niece would never have resorted to such a desperate measure. But to send him directly into the thick of London, without proper escort or warning, is simply astonishing.”

“We must ensure he is cared for, of course,” the Duchess continued softly, “but we cannot blind ourselves to the delicate state of our household just now. With so many young ladies under our roof, we cannot risk a public scene.”

“Maxwell will be here shortly,” the Duke said, a note of heavy reliance in his voice. “He has a keen, practical mind for these matters. We will lay the truth before him and summon a trusted physician to examine Cedric quietly. In the meantime, I intend to send a very direct inquiry to my niece to ascertain what truly transpired at Elaine’s estate.”

The Duchess nodded. “Precisely. We must decide what is best to be done. Maxwell will understand the delicacy required. In the meantime, we must ensure Cedric is comfortable but also supervised. Perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson might keep him company? Her discretion is impeccable.”

“An excellent suggestion,” the Duke agreed, relief evident in his tone. “And for tonight, we will ensure he dines privately, if necessary. I will speak to him myself. He must understand, as best he can, the need for a quiet evening. Though,” he added with a weary chuckle, “I daresay he will entertain the servants with tales of all our youthful transgressions before the night is out.”

Jane listened, understanding the quiet weight of responsibility that fell upon her grandparents. Uncle Cedric was family, and they would care for him, but his unpredictable nature added a layer of complexity to their already bustling and prominent household. Her uncle was known for his sharp intellect and decisive nature. Jane hoped her uncle would help them decide what was best for Uncle Cedric.

Just then, Jeffers reappeared at the parlour door. “Your Grace,” he announced, his voice still holding a note of slight agitation, “Lord Claremont and Lord Fairhaven have arrived.”

The Duchess exchanged a look of surprise with the Duke. Jane’s Uncle Maxwell was expected, but not quite so soon, nor with her cousin Castor.

“Show them in, Jeffers,” the Duchess replied, pushing herself from her chair.

A moment later, Uncle Maxwell entered, his tall frame filling the doorway. He possessed the Duke’s strong features but with a more approachable warmth in his expression. Beside him, Castor followed with his characteristic easy grace, his eyes immediately sweeping the room, a familiar smirk playing on his lips.

“Mother, Father,” Uncle Maxwell began, nodding to his parents. His gaze then went to Jane, Elizabeth, Anne, and Lady Isabel, a question in his eyes. “We received your message, Mother. Is all well? Jeffers mentioned a ‘family matter of delicacy.’”

Before the Duchess could respond, Uncle Cedric, having heard the new voices, reappeared in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. He blinked, adjusting his gaze, and then his eyes fixed on Castor. A wide, incredulous smile spread across his face, and he straightened, his posture momentarily regaining a youthful vigour.

“Lionel!” Uncle Cedric boomed, his voice full of genuine delight, ignoring Uncle Maxwell entirely. He strode towards Castor, his arms outstretched. “My dear brother, I knew you would be here! You have not aged a day since... well, since yesterday, it feels like! Always the dashing one, even then. Remember that time we went hunting in the New Forest and convinced that old poacher, Jenkins, that you were the spirit of the woods?” He clapped Castor on the back with a force that made the younger man stumble slightly. “He nearly wet himself, did he not? A regular fright he got!”

Castor, accustomed to his eccentric relation but utterly bewildered by this direct address, stood frozen, his usual quick wit failing him. His eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and suppressed laughter, darted to his father, who now looked thoroughly perplexed.

Uncle Maxwell, though fond of his uncle, was equally taken aback. “Uncle Cedric,” he began gently, stepping forward, “this is Castor, my son, your great-nephew. And I am Maxwell, your nephew.”

Uncle Cedric merely waved a dismissive hand at Uncle Maxwell, his focus entirely on Castor. “Nonsense, Father! You always were one for jesting. This is clearly Lionel, my brother! You have your father’s eyes, boy, though a touch less severe. And your hair is a shade lighter. But the same mischievous gleam!” He patted Castor’s cheek with genuine affection. “Still the same handsome scamp, though. Not like our old Father here, always frowning.”

Her grandfather, who had been about to step forward, froze. Jane thought it was one thing for her grandfather to be mistaken for his father, but quite another for Uncle Cedric to bestow that distinction upon Uncle Maxwell and greet Castor as his brother. His face, which had only just begun to lose its earlier flush, deepened to a pronounced plum.

Jane, observing the unfolding chaos, pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much. Uncle Cedric’s memory truly was a sieve, retaining only the most vivid, and often most inconvenient, fragments of the past, utterly untethered from the present. Castor, usually so self-possessed, looked utterly flummoxed, while Uncle Maxwell appeared to be grappling with how to even begin to correct his uncle. Her grandfather, meanwhile, simply closed his eyes for a brief moment, and took a deep breath, a silent prayer for patience.

Seeing the Duke’s mounting frustration, and sensing the desperate need for a new direction, Lady Isabel, with characteristic boldness, seized the opportunity. She moved swiftly, her skirts rustling softly, directly to Uncle Cedric, placing a hand gently on his arm. As she did so, she caught the Duchess’s eye, offering a discreet, almost imperceptible nod of shared understanding. Jane understood the gesture. Lady Isabel would keep Uncle Cedric occupied while the others conferred.

“My dear Lord Cedric,” Lady Isabel chimed, her voice bright and engaging, her eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity, “I find myself utterly fascinated by these tales of yesteryear! You speak of New Forest hunts and university antics. It sounds as though your own youth was quite the adventure. Tell me, if you please, about your very first Season in London. I imagine it must have been an absolute whirl of balls, house parties, and delightful scandals!”

Uncle Cedric’s attention, ever amenable to a new, interesting topic, immediately swiveled to Lady Isabel. He beamed, quite forgetting his supposed reunion with ‘Lionel.’ “Ah, my first Season!” he exclaimed, a nostalgic gleam entering his eyes. “A whirl indeed! Though ‘delightful scandals’ implies a certain amount of planning, my dear, and most of it was pure, unadulterated accident, I assure you! But there was one particular evening, at the Duchess of Lowndes’s house party, now, that was a night! The chandeliers, dripping with crystals like frozen tears, and the music, so loud it made your teeth hum!”

He launched into a vivid, if somewhat disjointed, account of a grand ball, populated by characters long forgotten by all but himself, describing gowns, extravagant suppers, and a minor contretemps involving a spilled glass of punch and a particularly irate dowager. Lady Isabel listened with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with a leading question or an exclamation of feigned surprise, keeping him animated and engaged. Anne, recovering her composure, leaned in, clearly entertained, while even Elizabeth found herself drawn into the whimsical narrative, her earlier mortification replaced by amusement.

The Duchess, seeing Lady Isabel’s successful diversion, exhaled slowly. She met her husband’s gaze, a silent conversation passing between them. The Duke, still somewhat flushed, nodded in the direction of Uncle Maxwell and the bewildered Castor.

“Perhaps,” the Duke said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “we might retire to the library for a moment. There are some matters of immediate family concern we should discuss, without interruption.” His tone left no room for argument.

Uncle Maxwell, understanding immediately the thinly veiled command, placed a comforting hand on Castor’s shoulder. “Indeed, Father. Castor, perhaps you would join us? I believe some clarity is urgently required.”

Castor, still looking a little shocked but now with a dawning comprehension of the situation, simply nodded, casting one last, bewildered glance at Uncle Cedric, who was now mimicking a rather stout gentleman attempting to dance a jig.

As her relatives moved towards the library, Jane saw the serious expressions settle on their faces. Lady Isabel had spared them further embarrassment, but Jane knew that her grandparents had much to consider concerning Uncle Cedric’s care.

Lady Isabel continued her animated conversation with Uncle Cedric. He was in full flow, describing a particularly elaborate wig worn by a gentleman at the aforementioned Duchess of Lowndes’s house party.

“It was powdered, you see,” Uncle Cedric gestured wildly, almost toppling a nearby vase, “and topped with a miniature sailing ship! A frigate, no less! With actual tiny sails! One wondered how the poor fellow kept his balance. Or his wits, for that matter!” He chuckled, a joyful, booming sound.

“I remember the year of the Great Frost, London froze solid, and your grandfather skated down Bond Street. There was that quadrille where a gentleman mistook the pattern and waltzed straight into the pudding, I recall. The musicians never recovered their dignity.” Uncle Cedric laughed heartily. “Or perhaps that was only the punch talking. It felt just as real.”

Elizabeth, catching Jane’s eye, offered a small, amused smile. Anne, though quieter, seemed utterly captivated by Uncle Cedric’s fantastical tales. He was an unceasing fount of eccentricities, and in his current state, quite harmless. Jane found herself relaxing slightly, the earlier tension in the room having largely dissipated with the men’s departure.

“A sailing ship!” Lady Isabel exclaimed, her eyes wide with feigned astonishment. “My dear Lord Cedric, you quite amaze me! Did it truly sail, or merely sit upon his head?”

“Oh, it sailed!” Uncle Cedric insisted, his eyes sparkling. “Well, not actually sail, of course. But it swayed! And if you stood close enough, you could almost hear the rigging creak in the draughts. Such a delightful absurdity!”

They continued to chat in this vein for several minutes, with Lady Isabel expertly navigating Uncle Cedric’s meandering narratives, drawing out amusing details while subtly steering him away from any potentially embarrassing subjects.

~*~

In the library, the mood was decidedly graver. Castor stood before the imposing fireplace beside his grandfather and father, the flickering flames reflecting in their thoughtful eyes, while his grandmother sat near the desk, her expression tight with worry. The gravity of the situation pressed on Castor, not merely the awkwardness of Uncle Cedric’s sudden appearance, but the palpable strain etched onto his grandfather’s usually stoic face.

“The staff are arranging a light luncheon and then will have him settled in the blue parlor for a rest,” the Duchess explained, breaking the heavy silence. “But as I was telling your father earlier, Maxwell, the state of Cedric’s mind is far more precarious than we were led to believe. With Elaine so suddenly laid low by this fever, or whatever ails her, her daughter clearly panicked, though sending Cedric straight to London was a terribly rash decision when they were in the middle of an unknown illness.”

“A deeply misguided one,” the Duke added, pacing slowly near the window, his jaw set. “Elaine’s daughter was likely at her wit’s end trying to manage her mother’s illness and Cedric’s confusion all at once. But to pack him into a carriage for London without an adequate escort or proper warning to us was entirely ill-considered.”

The Marquess listened quietly, his voice calm and decisive when he finally spoke. “Regardless of my cousin’s motives, we must first consider how best to handle the situation here. Uncle Cedric cannot remain in London, not with the season in full stride and your doors constantly opening to guests. It is neither practical for us, nor kind to him.”

“Precisely my concern,” the Duchess agreed. “A single unguarded remark from Cedric, repeated in the wrong drawing room, could compromise the young ladies or make a laughingstock of your uncle. We must protect both Cedric’s dignity and their prospects.”

Castor knew, logically, that his father and grandparents were considering the family’s position, yet seeing Uncle Cedric treated as an inconvenient complication sat ill with him.

“Forgive my interjection, Grandfather, Father,” Castor said, stepping forward. “But is sending him straight to Westbury Abbey, which I assume will be your decision, truly the best answer? To be, for all intents and purposes, sequestered? Mrs. Dalton is undoubtedly a capable housekeeper, but she is no companion. Uncle Cedric seems to thrive on conversation, however muddled. Even amidst his confusion earlier, he spoke of London with such genuine affection. Could we not take a quiet house nearby, with suitable servants and someone to keep him company, so that he might be properly attended without being shut away?”

Father frowned. “Castor, be practical. London society is no place for Uncle Cedric in his current state. His pronouncements, however amusing to Lady Isabel, could lead to genuine embarrassment for the family, and real damage to the reputations of the young ladies under this roof. Westbury Abbey offers discretion and security.”

“But also isolation, Father,” Castor countered, meeting his father’s gaze. “He has just been uprooted from Aunt Elaine’s. To then send him to a vast, quiet estate where his only constant company would be servants, however well-meaning, might hasten his decline rather than alleviate it.” He thought of Uncle Cedric’s genuine delight in speaking with the children, however brief.

“Castor, you know how quickly a careless word becomes a settled opinion in the ton, and how slowly such opinions are to be undone,” the Duchess said.

The Duke sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Castor, you speak with a good heart, my boy, but Maxwell is right. The demands of this house during the season are too great. The risk to Cedric himself, and to our family’s standing, is too high.” He turned to his wife. “My dear, the decision must be made. For his own good, and for ours, Cedric must go to Westbury Abbey. Mrs. Dalton is trustworthy, and the peace of the country will be far better for him than the stresses of London. It is the only practical solution.”

The Duchess nodded slowly, a touch of resignation in her features. “Very well, Lionel. It seems there is no other immediate course. We must send a reply to our niece, discreetly, to ascertain the true nature of Elaine’s illness and their circumstances. And a physician must be called to assess Cedric before his journey.”

“Indeed,” Father affirmed. “I will oversee the arrangements for his travel and ensure Mrs. Dalton is fully prepared.”

Castor felt a pang of disappointment, but he understood the logic. His family had allowed their concern for discretion to outweigh his objections. He just hoped Uncle Cedric would not suffer.

~*~

A short while later, the library door opened, and her grandparents, Uncle Maxwell, and Castor emerged. Their expressions, though still serious, held an air of resolute decision. Jane watched them, her needlework momentarily forgotten, as they re-entered the parlour.

Uncle Cedric was still holding court with Lady Isabel and Anne, in the midst of describing a rather scandalous ball gown from his youth. Mrs. Jenkinson, having ostensibly finished her knitting, had moved closer, her hands folded primly in her lap, but her gaze attentive.

“My dears,” Grandfather announced, his voice carrying over Uncle Cedric’s lively chatter, “we have reached a decision regarding Cedric’s stay.”

Uncle Cedric paused his narrative, blinking at the interruption, his attention briefly snagged by the sight of his brother and nephew.

“We have determined,” Grandfather continued, looking at his wife, “that Cedric will be more comfortable at Westbury Abbey, where Mrs. Dalton knows him well and will take good care of him.”

A murmur of audible disappointment rippled through the young ladies. Elizabeth’s face fell, her eyes wide with dismay. Anne was visibly crestfallen. Lady Isabel, however, was ready with an objection. Her eyes met Jane’s for a fleeting moment, a silent call to arms. Mrs. Jenkinson, too, straightened in her chair, and Jane knew from long observation that she was preparing to speak.

Yet Jane remained still, her countenance composed with her customary quiet dignity. There was no need to appeal to the Duchess, for her grandmother’s resolute expression made it abundantly clear that the gentleman would be sent away without further discussion.

Uncle Cedric’s genial expression faltered. For one startling instant, the fog seemed to lift from his eyes. “The Abbey?” he repeated. “But I have only just come home.”

His gaze moved uncertainly from Anne to Lady Isabel and then to Jane. “And these young ladies were going to tell me about London. Or was it I who was to tell them?”

The faint confusion returned, but not before Jane saw the hurt beneath.

“Oh, but Your Grace,” Lady Isabel began, her voice infused with a charming earnestness that few could resist, “surely that would be a dreadful shame! Lord Cedric is such a delightful addition to the household. He brings such life to the parlour!” She gestured to Uncle Cedric, who, distracted by the sudden focus on him, offered a genial, if slightly confused, smile.

“Indeed, Grandpapa,” Elizabeth added, finding her voice and stepping beside Lady Isabel. “He truly enjoys the company, even if he does not always quite recall our names. And he seemed so happy here, only moments ago, speaking of London! To send him away, to such a quiet place, after he has only just arrived from Aunt Elaine’s, would it not be rather unkind?”

“And Grandmama, Grandpapa,” she said softly, but with a firmness that drew their attention, “we have all seen how much Lord Cedric enjoys company. He takes such pleasure in conversation, even when his thoughts wander. To send him to the quiet of Westbury Abbey, away from the familiar bustle, might be detrimental to his spirits. Here, he has company and much to interest him. He is among people who care for him and will listen patiently when his thoughts wander. Surely, that is as important as discretion?”

Anne, emboldened by her companions, spoke up. “And Westbury Abbey is so very far away and, from what I have heard of it, so deeply secluded. If he is already struggling to find his way, would the sudden silence of the country not make him feel more lost, rather than less?”

Uncle Maxwell stepped forward, his expression grave. “You speak from compassion, but you must consider the social consequences. Should Uncle Cedric speak with such freedom before our acquaintance, his remarks might give rise to considerable scandal. We cannot ignore that his reputation is, at present, tied to our own.”

Jane stepped forward then, her expression serene but her gaze unyielding. “If the reputation of this house is so fragile, Uncle Maxwell, that the honest, if confused, words of an elderly gentleman can shatter it, then perhaps it is not worth guarding so fiercely. Kindness and duty to our own blood ought to weigh more heavily than the opinions of those who would judge us for such a harmless, unavoidable misfortune.”

“I agree that he should not be sent away, Jane,” Castor interjected, stepping forward with a troubled brow, “but it is not merely about the opinions of the fashionable set. If gentlemen of standing, men who might otherwise seek an introduction to you, Elizabeth, or Miss de Bourgh, witness such... unconventional behavior, they may hesitate. A family associated with confusion or scandal is rarely the first choice for a secure alliance. We must think of your futures.”

Lady Isabel stepped into the space between them, her chin tilted with a defiant, playful elegance. “Then let them hesitate, Lord Fairhaven,” she said, her voice bright and unbothered. “If a gentleman requires every relation of mine to be agreeable and discreet before he deigns to offer his hand, I should find his offer quite tedious indeed. For my part, I find Lord Cedric’s presence far more enlightening than the company of men who measure a woman’s worth by the predictability of her relations.”

Elizabeth followed, her eyes flashing with that familiar, spirited defiance. “And as for our acquaintances, if a gentleman’s regard for us is so shallow that he would retreat because he finds our uncle’s eccentricities inconvenient, then I, for one, should be profoundly grateful to be rid of his company before the connection deepens. “I would rather belong to a family that cares for its own than one that conceals an unfortunate relation for the sake of appearances.”

Anne took a small, steadying breath, stepping forward. “We are not suggesting that his presence is free from danger, Your Grace,” she said, her voice firm. “But we are suggesting that the risk of compromising our principles is far greater than the risk of a social slight. You offered me a place in this house not out of necessity, but out of pure benevolence, and in doing so, you provided me a refuge from a life of constant mortification and dependence. If this house is to remain the sanctuary that has restored my spirits and allowed me to think for myself, then surely we must find a way to include Lord Cedric, to act with the same compassion that was once shown to me, rather than casting him out.”

As Anne fell silent, her words echoing the very sentiments Jane held in her own heart, a profound stillness settled over the room. Jane moved to stand half a pace behind Anne, her hand resting briefly and supportively on her friend’s shoulder, a silent affirmation of every truth she had uttered.

Elizabeth and Lady Isabel, sensing the gravity of the moment, moved to their side, until the four of them stood together before the Duke and Duchess. Jane’s gaze never wavered from her grandmother’s, letting her steady, quiet agreement add what weight it could to Anne’s plea. Elizabeth offered a sharp, supportive nod to the Duchess, and even Lady Isabel, usually so quick with a quip, remained still and resolute, her presence signaling that this was not merely a family dispute, but a collective stance of principle.

Jane watched the Duchess’s gaze travel across the small divide, taking in the serene conviction Jane held, Elizabeth’s fiery loyalty, Anne’s quiet strength, and Lady Isabel’s bold, unwavering support. The Duchess’s expression softened, the hard lines of duty yielding to a flicker of profound recognition. Jane saw the very moment her grandmother’s determination was fixed. The Duchess was no longer looking at young ladies vainly exerting their influence, but at a united front that compelled her esteem. With a single, decisive movement, she turned toward her grandfather.

“They are correct, Lionel,” the Duchess said, her voice low and calm, effectively silencing any further protest from the men. “To exile Cedric now would be a stain on our character that no amount of social discretion could scrub away. We are a family, not a cold institution. If the risk is scandal, we shall manage it ourselves. We have servants enough to attend him, and surely sufficient influence to protect him from ridicule without sending him away.”

The Duke looked from the eager faces of the young women to his wife, who now offered him a significant, almost imperceptible nod. He then turned his gaze towards Mrs. Jenkinson, who, with perfect timing, cleared her throat softly.

“If I may be so bold, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jenkinson began, her tone respectful but firm, her gaze steady. “Lord Cedric does seem to enjoy the activity of the house. I would be honoured to take on the responsibility of overseeing his comfort and care here in London. I believe, with diligent attention, his needs could be met most admirably within these very walls. I will quickly become familiar with his habits, his preferences, and particular manner of speech. I believe he would greatly benefit from remaining amidst family, however briefly he recalls their names.”

Jane watched as a flicker of consideration crossed the Duke’s face. He knew Mrs. Jenkinson’s capabilities and her unwavering loyalty. He sighed, a faint smile touching his lips, acknowledging the combined forces arrayed against his initial, pragmatic decision. Uncle Maxwell and Castor, who had listened in silence, now exchanged a look. Castor offered his father a small, triumphant half-smile.

“It seems,” the Duke said, a hint of amused resignation in his voice, “that the ladies of Westbury House, with Mrs. Jenkinson’s persuasive assistance, have formed a formidable front.” He then turned back to the assembled company, his voice carrying the weight of a new decision. “Very well. It has been decided. Lord Cedric will remain here in London, at Westbury House. Mrs. Jenkinson has kindly offered to be his companion and attend to his comfort. The arrangement must, of course, depend upon what the physician advises when he sees Cedric this afternoon. And,” he added, looking pointedly at Mrs. Jenkinson, “he will require careful, constant supervision when guests are present.”

A ripple of quiet triumph went through the young ladies. Lady Isabel gave a small, victorious nod to the Duchess.

Uncle Cedric, who appeared to have lost all interest in the debate, merely clapped his hands together. “Excellent! More lemon tarts, perhaps? And then a vigorous game of whist later, Lionel? The stakes were always so delightful when we played for treats!” He winked, completely mistaking Castor for his brother once more, much to Castor’s exasperation and the faint amusement of Uncle Maxwell.

Jane felt a sense of both relief and trepidation. Uncle Cedric would stay. It would certainly add a lively, if occasionally chaotic, element to Westbury House, but perhaps, with Mrs. Jenkinson’s calm presence, it would indeed be the kindest choice.

Just as the agreement was struck, the parlour door opened once more, and Jeffers announced Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley. Miss Darcy stepped softly into the room, fresh from her studies, her companion following with a gentle, dignified presence. Seeing the gathered ladies, Miss Darcy’s eyes brightened with warmth.

“I hope we are not intruding,” Miss Darcy said softly, offering a graceful curtsy to the Duchess. “Will mentioned I might join you for tea once my lessons were concluded.”

“You are most welcome,” the Duchess replied smoothly, gesturing toward the tea table. “You arrive at a memorable moment, my dear. We have just settled an important matter concerning Lord Cedric.”

Before the Duke, Uncle Maxwell, and Castor withdrew to the library to draft their formal reply to Aunt Elaine’s daughter and arrange for the physician, the Duchess gently presented Mrs. Annesley and Miss Darcy to her brother. Uncle Cedric greeted them with a grand, courtly bow, mistaking Mrs. Annesley for an ambassadress from Vienna, before bowing to Miss Darcy and declaring her bonnet a masterpiece of modern architecture. Miss Darcy offered a quiet, delighted giggle, while Mrs. Annesley accepted the confusion with subtle, practised grace.

As the Duke, Uncle Maxwell, and Castor retired to the library, a gentle quiet settled over the parlour. The conversation gradually gave way to the soft, familiar rustle of silk skirts and embroidery.

Mrs. Jenkinson took her place on a low chair beside Uncle Cedric’s tea table, while Mrs. Annesley sat near the tea urn. Lady Isabel and Anne returned to their needlework near the window, while Miss Darcy sat quietly near Elizabeth and Jane, her gentle demeanor imparting a welcome tranquility to the room as she arranged a small tapestry frame.

For several minutes, the room was filled with the easy chatter of tea and work, but Jane pulled her silk thread through her linen with growing hesitation. Her gaze kept drifting toward the corner where her great-uncle sat. The lively declarations about Viennese ambassadresses and lemon tarts had faded into complete stillness. He was sitting very erect, staring out the tall glass windows toward the street below, his hands resting heavily upon his knees.

Jane caught Elizabeth’s eye across the small circle. Elizabeth paused, her needle hovering over her canvas, her own dark eyes searching Jane’s with a silent, shared question. Uncle Cedric was simply too quiet.

Fearing the strain of the journey had finally caught up to him, Jane set her frame aside and approached his chair with silent steps. She knelt lightly on the footstool beside him, keeping her movement gentle so as not to startle him.

“Uncle Cedric?” Jane asked softly, her voice filled with gentle concern. “Are you quite comfortable, sir? May I fetch you a glass of water, or perhaps a blanket?”

At the sound of her voice, Elizabeth set her embroidery down and stepped softly to Jane’s side, while Anne, Lady Isabel, Miss Darcy, and Mrs. Annesley paused, their eyes drawn to the corner with quiet sympathy. Mrs. Jenkinson remained watchful nearby, her hands folded with serene respect.

For a moment, Uncle Cedric did not stir. Then he turned his head toward her. Something in his expression had changed. The wandering uncertainty that had marked his manner all morning was gone. For the first time since his arrival, Jane saw something of the man she remembered.

He looked at her for several seconds before his face softened with recognition.

“You have your mother’s sweet patience, Jane,” he said quietly, placing a trembling hand over hers. “And you look so like the little girl who used to chase butterflies through the gardens at Longbourn.”

Jane gasped in silent astonishment. A sudden warmth oppressed her heart, and her eyes welled with tears at the sight of the lively, affectionate man who had cherished her on his knee in her earliest years.

“Uncle,” Jane whispered, her voice thick with affection, squeezing his hand tightly.

Uncle Cedric then looked up at Elizabeth, his gaze lingering on her dark, expressive eyes. “And Elizabeth... forgive me, my dear. You have your mother’s very spirit and face, but you are not Augusta. My mind sometimes confuses what was with what is.”

Elizabeth offered a watery, radiant smile, reaching down to gently pat his arm. “There is nothing to forgive, Uncle Cedric.”

His eyes moved slowly across the circle, taking in Anne’s gentle posture, Lady Isabel’s quiet reverence, young Miss Darcy’s wide, attentive eyes, and Mrs. Jenkinson’s watchful care.

“I know my mind is not what it once was,” he murmured softly, a fleeting shadow of melancholy touching his brow. “It is... an uncertain fog. But I understood what you all did just now. I heard every one of you stand before Lionel and speak for me.”

He tightened his grip on Jane’s fingers with a frail strength, looking upon all the ladies gathered around his chair.

“Thank you,” he whispered, looking from one to another. “I... I should have been very lonely at the Abbey.”

Jane felt a tear slip down her cheek, but she smiled through it, pressing her other hand over his. “You are family, Uncle Cedric. You belong here with us, surrounded by those who love you.”

Uncle Cedric let out a long, contented sigh. He patted her hand once more, and Jane watched the remarkable steadiness in his expression begin to fade.

His smile remained, but his gaze drifted past Jane, landing on Miss Darcy, who was watching him with soft, wide eyes.

“Tell me, little Pippa,” he said pleasantly, his voice slipping once more into its easy, booming rhythm. “Did you ever find that runaway goose we lost behind the stables? I always suspected your brother fed it the vicar’s turnips! Your mother threatened to forbid me the house if I came running over to your estate after another such adventure.”

For a moment, no one answered.

“Pippa?” Miss Darcy repeated softly, looking toward Mrs. Annesley. She blinked, then let out a sweet, musical giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. “I... I believe the goose was safely recovered, Lord Cedric!”

“Ah! Excellent news!” he declared happily, turning his gaze back to the window, mild and untroubled once more. “The trees in London are very green this spring.”

Jane remained kneeling beside him for a long moment, wiping the tear from her cheek with a quiet smile. She looked up at Elizabeth, Anne, Lady Isabel, Miss Darcy, and Mrs. Annesley, all of whom met her gaze with the same quiet understanding. Uncle Cedric was frail, and there would doubtless be difficult days ahead, but after those few precious moments of recognition, Jane could no longer doubt that keeping him at Westbury was the right choice.

]]> LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 01 Nov 2026 17:32:39 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131893,131922#msg-131922 Re: JaOctGoHoNo 2026https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?4,131893,131922#msg-131922
And if anyone else wants to post a story later for this challenge, please do!]]> NN S Tea RoomSun, 01 Nov 2026 02:56:35 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131920,131921#msg-131921 Re: JaOctGoHoNo 2026 Draw Your Own Conclusionshttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131920,131921#msg-131921 NN S Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 01 Nov 2026 02:49:33 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131920,131920#msg-131920 JaOctGoHoNo 2026 Draw Your Own Conclusionshttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131920,131920#msg-131920
After Elizabeth turned down his marriage proposal, Darcy was impatient to leave Rosings earlier than planned the next morning, too early in fact to stop at the parsonage for a proper farewell. Colonel Fitzwilliam was a bit puzzled as to why they had to leave so early, but he went along with Darcy’s request. On their carriage ride home, it was raining and Darcy seemed to be intrigued with the rain that was wetting his head when he leaned out the carriage window. “Water you doing Darcy?” Questioned the Colonel. Darcy replied, “Raindrops are falling on my head and just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed, nothing seems to fit.” The Colonel mumbled to himself, “What a Puddle Head!” They finally arrived at Pemberley and Darcy was so distraught that the Colonel decided he needed to intervene and do something, as he knew that as a military officer, that great power comes with great response ability. Thus, as a powerful colonel he was willing and able to respond in a fast and furious way. He squirreled Darcy off to a special secret monastery in Scotland.

The monastery was run by a group of monks that specialized in mending the spirits of broken militia men. The colonel had seen battle fatigue affecting soldiers before, and Darcy had all the symptoms. Through his connections the Colonel was able to admit Darcy for treatment. The monks scrutinized Darcy and his attire. They especially noticed his neatly shined Hessian right boot and determined that with it, that Darcy possibly had the sole to succeed.

At the monastery Darcy was placed in a solitary room with a bed, chair and desk. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a broken man; all he could think of, over and over again, were Elizabeth’s haunting last words. “Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner;” “Your manners, impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others;” “You were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” These words haunted him and would not leave the recesses of his mind. Darcy was a shell of the confident man that he used to be. All this mulling over of her words fatigued him and his energy was like a leaky faucet, always draining.

For therapy, the monks encouraged Darcy to work on sketching. Paper and a pencil were provided for his use. Darcy began to sketch, but after a few strokes with the pencil, the tip broke. “Broken pencils are pointless,” Darcy muttered under his breath, and he then requested another writing instrument.

Darcy had been busy sketching for over five hours and was totally submerged in his work. The monks came into his room and petitioned him to take a break from drawing and relax and have a lie down. Darcy refused. The monks kept insisting that it would be in his best interest to do so, but Darcy was resolute in his answer of “No!” One of the monks left the room and returned with two plates, one with a slice of apple pie and the other with a slice of cake. He tried to reason with Darcy that after a time of inactivity or sleep that either the pie or cake would be his. Darcy refused. He argued that he needed to work on his sketches as they were of the utmost importance. The monk said that if he did not take a nap that he would suffer the consequences. Darcy replied, “are there grand consequences for resisting a rest?” The frustrated monk grabbed both the pie and cake and in a fit of pique, he marched out of the room. Darcy felt strangely desserted.

Day after day Darcy worked away at his sketches. No matter how Darcy held his pencil or which pencil he chose, none of them could produce even a single stroke of genius or even a splash of brilliance. All those pencil strokes were for naught, and he was never quite satisfied with what he had drawn. He would then ask for a new sheet of paper so that he could start over. He would drop off his unacceptable sketch with a monk to dispose of, but unbeknownst to him, the monks kept all of them in a folder. Colonel Fitzwilliam came to check on Darcy every few weeks. However, the monks deemed it unwise for him to visit with Darcy.

Eventually, Colonel Fitzwilliam retired from the military to live at Pemberley and help Georgiana run the estate. She became very reliant on him, and they felt a mutual attraction for each other. Richard Fitzwilliam asked Georgiana if she would be interested in marrying him and she leapt for joy and enthusiastically accepted. Richard replied with, “Words cannot espresso much of what you mean to me. It’s a whole latte love!” Now his mission would be to contact Darcy and get his blessing.

Upon arriving at the monastery, Richard was told that he could possibly see Darcy, but he would need to meet with one of the monks first. Richard sat in a chair with one of the monks sitting behind a desk. The monk had a monkey lying on the desk and he used it to open the locked desk drawer. The monk pulled out a folder and then another folder and another until there were forty folders on the desk. Each folder contained several of Mr. Darcy’s sketches.

Richard looked over the first “sketch.” It was a page covered with circles that were filled in. Five circles going across and seven circles going down on the page. Every sheet that he looked at was the same configuration. Richard was puzzled; what was Darcy doing? The monk explained that something had happened to Mr. Darcy that upended his image of himself, cutting him to the quick, so to speak. So, Mr. Darcy had to quickly come up with a way to deal with his current situation. To right this in his mind, Mr. Darcy perceived that he had to make thirty-five perfectly filled in circles equally distant apart on a single sheet of paper. Sadly, Darcy found fault with each sheet. A smudge here, an imperfect circle there or other inconsistencies that made the sketch flawed. He would continue to fill up the paper, dropping it off with one of the friars and then start over. Richard thought this sounded crazy. The monk told him that everyone has coping techniques. In Darcy’s mind producing something perfect would make him perfect again.

The monk did not entirely have the right of it. Darcy indeed was looking for perfection in his drawing as he had failed to achieve it in life. However, he did find some satisfaction in that he was making draw-dropping sketches.

Epilogue:
 Does Darcy ever get out of the monastery?
 Do Georgiana and the Colonel purchase a coffee plantation overseas?
 Does the key to Darcy’s success lie with his left boot instead of his right?

Draw Your Own Conclusions!

Credits: B.J. Thomas, performer – “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head”
Jane Austin – “Pride and Prejudice”

.]]> Jen L.H. Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 01 Nov 2026 00:46:28 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131918,131919#msg-131919 Re: Halloween storyhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131918,131919#msg-131919 NN S Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 31 Oct 2026 16:18:39 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131918,131918#msg-131918 Halloween storyhttps://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131918,131918#msg-131918
I've created a ghost story for Halloween that (happily but coincidentally) fits NNS' suggested theme of water. Unfortunately I can't post it here as I'm planning to enter it into a competition that prohibits prior online publication, but if anyone would like to read it please email me at d a v e c g e n t @hotmail.com (without the spaces) and I'll send it to you. Apols if this breaks rules for the site.

The story features the grandson of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy encountering some spectral and nautical happenings in Victorian Whitby, and is a long 'short' story [13,000 words]. Keen to share it with fellow Austen fans.

Thanks also to all in this community who commented on my earlier stories, one of which is now due to be published in adapted form in a literary magazine. I wouldn't have got into creative writing without your early encouragement.

Best wishes and happy Halloween,

David]]> DavidG Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 31 Oct 2026 15:35:29 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131917#msg-131917 Re: Well of Desire (JAOctGoHoNo)https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131917#msg-131917 DavidG Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 31 Oct 2026 15:25:56 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131916#msg-131916 Well of Desire (JAOctGoHoNo)https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131916,131916#msg-131916

Well of Desire

Sir Walter and Miss Elliot had settled in Bath but not to take the waters. And not to retrench, no! Heaven forfend such calumny spread. No, they came for the society. Their little jeweled and shining corner of England -- Kellynch Hall -- had everything an attractive and respected baronet could want except enough suitable companions.

Thus, to Bath.

Once there, he cast his eyes about in judgment and ruled against most of the people there. It would not do to be thought undiscriminating in his acquaintances. Slowly he gathered people into his orbit. They enhanced all his good attributes either by their obsequious compliments or their natural contrasts.

Soon Sir Walter and Miss Elliot began receiving invitations from wealthy, aspiring tradesmen. They attended musicals and recitals as special guests of the hosts, and reciprocated this hospitality with teas and card parties in their two drawing rooms. It was mutually beneficial.

One such man was Mr. Verrone. He was rich and widowed, recently out of mourning but still prone to bouts of melancholy. He was without children, younger than Sir Walter, and almost as handsome as the baronet although he would never be as distinguished.

Verrone looked up to Sir Walter with an unshakable respect, seeking out the baronet’s guidance on all manner of subjects, until one day, Mr. Verrone came to Sir Walter with unbelievable news.

“I saw my wife last night,” announced the widower before he accepted a cup and saucer.

“Your wife?” Sir Walter repeated, quelling the urge to raise an eyebrow lest it lead to wrinkles.

“Not really, I am sure now,” the younger man confessed. “But in the moment, it looked so clearly like her that I am not ashamed to say that I wept. I nearly collapsed from joy.” His eyes took on a far-off look and his features softened to something that even Sir Walter could admit was truly handsome.

“How did this come about?” Sir Walter asked sharply, breaking into Verrone’s reverie.

“Ah,” Mr. Verrone said, looking sheepish. “You will think me a fool, but I looked into a wishing well just outside of Bath. A man,” Verrone said with enough inflection to warn Sir Walter that this was not a gentleman, “guided me out of town to a woods where the wishing well stood. He sold me a blessed coin and I tossed it into the well while wishing to see my wife again. And there she was! Her face was there in the reflection of the water, looking as beautiful as the day I fell in love with her.” His voice grew unnecessarily wistful again and Sir Walter did not like it.

“But surely it is a scam. You bought a blessed coin? How much money did you give him?” he tried to reason with his gullible friend.

“Oh, Sir Walter, you do not understand me! I am not telling this story to you so that you may convince me of my folly, but to give you the opportunity to see your own Lady Elliot again.”

Sir Walter wanted to argue, but the mention of his wife checked him. Mr. Verrone was deeply in love with his wife, and believed that Sir Walter was equally attached to his. And Sir Walter was! Of course he was! And he certainly could not allow Mr. Verrone to doubt it.

“Of course I love my wife,” Sir Walter said haughtily. “What kind of man would I be otherwise?”

Mr. Verrone smiled at him. “That is exactly what I said,” said Mr. Verrone, “when the man asked me to recommend his services to my friends. ‘Sir Walter Elliot of Camden Place will want to see his own wife again, I am sure,’ I said. ‘He loved as truly as I did.’”

Sir Walter took a slow, cleansing breath and resisted any urge to ask about the charlatan who was taking Bath’s wealthy men to obscure wishing wells.

No matter, it seemed, for Mr. Verrone soon added, “I gave him your name and address. You must admit him when he calls upon you.”

The news was well timed, for the man did call at that moment, vulgarly raising his voice so that Sir Walter and Mr. Verrone could clearly hear him through the walls.

Forgetting his place as a guest, Verrone leapt up and opened the door, directing the butler to bring the man in.

The man entered, made a move that was supposed to be a bow, and announced himself as Mr. Smith. Verrone saw no fault worth correcting in his manners and set about explaining everything a second time while the nobody named Smith nodded along.

As the story concluded, Smith turned to the baronet and asked if he was willing to visit the well. “Between us gentlemen,” he added with gross familiarity, “with the full moon a few days ago, tonight will be the best night for the rest of the month.”

“Oh, Sir Walter! You must go tonight!” Mr. Verrone exclaimed, feeling the press of time on his friend's behalf.

“Come, now, Mr. Verrone,” Sir Walter pushed back. “I could not possibly.”

But Sir Walter and Miss Elliot had been invited to some tedious event -- a reading of sermons by a well-known reverend. He pinched his lips shut and Mr. Smith guessed the rest of it.

“Tell your friends that something came up, Sir,” suggested Smith. “It will not take long to get to the well and back. You will be home in time to decide if you really want to go out or if you'd better stay in.”

Sir Walter could feel himself wavering. “And how much will this cost me?” Perhaps his daughter Anne’s frequent lectures to retrench would save him.

Smith shook his head as he smiled. “There is no fixed price. Donation only, whatever you think it is worth.”

Secretly convinced that he would not think it worth anything at all, Sir Walter agreed.

.o8o.

The man collected Sir Walter in a chair and took him a good distance from the fashionable heart of Bath. Sir Walter was pleased that he did not need to sit beside Mr. Smith in a worn-out carriage, but he could not imagine Smith would smell better for his exercise.

Smith halted beside a low-lying wood and pointed at something hidden behind the shadows of some trees: the wishing well, no doubt. Sir Walter sighed and got out of the chair with reluctance. He had not dressed for scarpering across the countryside.

When they arrived at the spot, the atmosphere around the wishing well was a tangible thing. The mind of a lesser man might have been influenced to dwell on the supernatural but Sir Walter took in the view haughtily. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something biting and condescending but Mr. Smith spoke first:

“You must take a blessed coin and hold it to your heart as you pray to God to grant your wish. Then you throw the coin into the well and see if your prayer is answered.”

“I have brought my own coin,” said the baronet, pulling a farthing from his waistcoat while taking a step towards the wishing well.

“No, sir! Not that coin,” cried the guide in dismay. “It ain't been blessed.”

Sir Walter shook off his warning, convinced this “blessing” was part of the scam to steal his money.

His head was so full of indignation in having to come out here that he spared no thought of Lady Elliot and he offered up no prayers. With the calculation that the sooner he saw his own watery image reflected back at him, the sooner he would leave this place and return to his comforts, he tossed the farthing into the depths of the well. There was a faint plop when the coin hit the surface and then Sir Walter peered over the edge.

The water rippled gently, catching a light from a source that Sir Walter could not see. The ripples faded quickly, leaving a smooth surface like a mirror.

There was no vision of a beautiful wife in the well’s surface, just a gentleman and a mere nuisance named Smith.

But, oh, the reflection was clear! Sir Walter could see himself in greater detail than he could at home in his dressing room. It was dazzling: his hair, his jawline, his forehead, his everything. The way his jacket showed off his shoulders, how the color complimented his eyes, it was all perfection, or nearly.

How it was true perfection while Smith stood and gaped at him was difficult to answer, but perhaps the comparison merely let Sir Walter's own beauty shine through.

“My darling,” he whispered to his reflection. “My darling,” it whispered back.

How could anyone look upon that visage and not see nobility -- nay, regalness -- staring back at them? How did normal people not throw themselves at his feet as he paraded in and out of the drawing rooms of Bath? How did people restrain themselves from reaching out just to brush the hem of his garments?

His own hands moved at the thought, reaching for his reflection but too far from the surface of the water in the well to have any impact. A frown marred his perfect features which only made his reflection more attractive. He reached again to no avail even as the mirror image grasped for him. It was maddening!

Then he leaned even further over the edge to lever himself down. It worked. His fingertips disturbed the surface of the water and he felt, perhaps, the sensation of his opposite’s touch. It filled him with rapture even as the new ripples began to break apart the image. Chasing that sensation, he reached again and felt…

He felt the grip of a hand. Cold, wet fingers circled around his wrist and tugged. Sir Walter toppled forward into his own arms.

He broke his neck at the bottom of the shallow well, but he made a beautiful corpse.

//THE END//]]> NN S Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 31 Oct 2026 12:06:04 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131895,131915#msg-131915 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 7https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131895,131915#msg-131915 sherahrs51 Derbyshire Writers' GuildTue, 27 Oct 2026 10:10:05 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131911,131914#msg-131914 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 10https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131911,131914#msg-131914I had wondered where the Matlocks were and were they knowing or unknowing of Lady Catherine's lies. Well done. Thank you for another great chapter.]]> EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildTue, 27 Oct 2026 01:12:24 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,130425,131913#msg-131913 Re: Death at the Netherfield Ball, Chapter 16 (Complete)https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,130425,131913#msg-131913 dpennell Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 26 Oct 2026 22:38:53 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131911,131912#msg-131912 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 10https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131911,131912#msg-131912Anne is being supported by her family. It is always nice to have those you have know for most of your life to stand by you.]]> Jen Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 26 Oct 2026 01:59:53 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131911,131911#msg-131911 A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 10https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131911,131911#msg-131911Chapter 10

The promenade along the Serpentine was bustling with fashionable society, but within her grandparents’ open barouche, the atmosphere was one of serene lightheartedness. Jane and Elizabeth leaned back against the plush upholstery of the rear seat, while Lord Arthur and Mr. Darcy occupied the opposite bench facing them. The breeze off the water was refreshing, and the lingering tension from Bond Street had dissolved into easy conversation among the four of them.

As their carriage slowed near the turn toward the park gates, a quiet shift passed through the surrounding traffic. A modest, elegant carriage had pulled to the edge of the drive, and standing beside it on the gravel walk were Mr. and Mrs. Hurst.

Jane noticed them first. Mrs. Hurst looked pale, her hands trembling slightly against her muff as she stared toward the Westbury crest emblazoned on the barouche door. She hesitated, taking a half-step back as if her courage had failed her entirely.

Then, to Jane’s quiet surprise, Mr. Hurst placed a firm, steady hand upon his wife’s elbow. His usual sleepy manner was gone, his shoulders squared, and his expression surprisingly resolute as he offered her a low, encouraging murmur. He did not nudge her forward as a gentleman seeking favor, but stood as her quiet anchor, giving her the strength to face the formidable party.

Taking a slow breath, Mrs. Hurst stepped toward the side of the open carriage as it came to a halt.

Lord Arthur immediately sat up straighter on the bench opposite, his attention sharpening as Mrs. Hurst approached. Jane met his gaze with a calm, silent reassurance, a gentle signal that she neither feared the encounter nor wished him to intervene harshly. Reading her unspoken intent, he inclined his head in silent deference, stepping back to let her govern the moment while remaining keenly attentive at her side.

Jane felt a quiet warmth at his unspoken trust. He did not seek to manage or shield her unnecessarily, but yielded to her composure with quiet respect. Drawing a steadying breath, she turned her attention outward, determined to meet whatever discomfort Mrs. Hurst brought with grace.

Mrs. Hurst offered a deep, trembling curtsy toward the barouche, keeping her eyes lower than usual. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, and Mr. Darcy.” Her voice was tight, but clear enough to carry over the quiet chatter of the promenade. “I hope you will permit me a few moments. I am aware that I have no claim upon your goodwill, and I do not wish to impose upon your kindness.”

Mr. Darcy’s expression remained grave, but he said nothing, leaving the sisters to answer for themselves.

Mrs. Hurst swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her muff as her eyes moved between Jane and Elizabeth. “I have long owed you an apology, and I should be ashamed to let another opportunity pass without making one.”

“Mrs. Hurst, please,” Jane began softly, her kind nature instinctively moving her to spare the woman such obvious distress.

“No, Miss Bennet, pray allow me,” Mrs. Hurst insisted, with an urgency that suggested she feared her courage might fail if she were interrupted. “I have been ashamed of my conduct toward you for some time, though I have not had the courage to acknowledge it. My behaviour began in Meryton, where Caroline and I thought too highly of our own consequence and regarded your family with a condescension that was wholly undeserved. We were pleased with our connections and our expectations, and too ready to find fault with those whose circumstances differed from our own. I took part in remarks and judgments that I would now be unwilling to repeat.”

Jane could see that Mrs. Hurst had not come with a speech arranged for effect. Her words came unevenly, as though each remembrance had to be forced past a reluctance which had kept her silent for too long. There was something almost painful in seeing a woman so accustomed to composure stand exposed before those she had wronged.

Mrs. Hurst then turned toward Elizabeth.

“When you walked to Netherfield out of concern for your sister, I ought to have admired your affection and thought no more of the distance you had travelled. Instead, I joined in making light of your appearance and conduct. Nor did I confine my unkindness to that occasion. I permitted my sister’s opinions to govern my own and spoke of your family with a freedom that was neither charitable nor becoming.”

Elizabeth regarded her with an expression of quiet attention, offering neither encouragement nor reproach.

Mrs. Hurst then turned back to Jane.

“Your kindness to us at Netherfield deserved a very different return. You were always attentive to our comfort, even when Caroline and I gave you little reason to expect such courtesy in return. When you came to London, I ought to have welcomed you and returned your visit with the same cordiality you had shown us. Instead, I allowed Caroline to determine how we should receive you, and I made no effort to correct the neglect that followed. I knew that Caroline was often careless of the feelings of others, yet I preferred not to interfere. When you called upon us, I permitted your visit to be treated as a mere formality...”

Her voice caught. She looked down at the pale gloves clenched around her muff.

“No,” she said at last, more quietly. “It was worse than a formality. I knew Caroline did not wish to receive you. I knew, and I allowed our house to be cold to you.”

She paused, her fingers tightening around her muff.

Her voice wavered slightly as she pressed on. “I left the management of our correspondence and calling book entirely to Caroline. When you spoke of writing to her, Miss Bennet, Caroline assured me your notes were mere formalities, or that she had answered them. I never questioned what came onto the tray in the hall. I did not inquire further, because it was easier not to inquire. That is no defence. It is only the truth. It is a cowardice I regret with all my heart.”

Jane’s expression softened, though she remained silent.

Mrs. Hurst turned toward Mr. Darcy, her cheeks colouring.

“Nor have I forgotten my conduct toward you, Mr. Darcy. I owe an apology for my silence. I knew of Caroline’s hopes and of the attentions she pressed upon you, yet I did nothing to discourage her. I ought to have respected your wishes rather than allow my affection for my sister to blind me to the embarrassment she caused. I regret my silence and the encouragement she may have drawn. I ought to have restrained her long ago.”

Mr. Darcy offered only a rigid, formal nod, though the harshness of his countenance perceptibly softened at her frankness.

“I accept your apology, Mrs. Hurst,” he replied. “I trust you will understand that such matters are best prevented by a proper regard for the wishes of others.”

“I do understand, sir, and I wish I had done so sooner. I do not expect you to forget what has passed. I wished only to acknowledge that I saw it, and chose silence. I can assure you that I have reflected upon it and am sincerely sorry.”

She looked again toward Jane and Elizabeth. “As for the affair upon Bond Street, neither my husband nor I knew of Charles’s or Caroline’s intentions. I was deeply pained to hear of their behaviour, and I would not have you mistake my absence for indifference to your distress. Mr. Hurst and I have put our house in order precisely to distance ourselves from such dreadful folly. I am resolved to exercise greater care in my own conduct rather than allow others to dictate whom I may receive or esteem.”

“You need not explain, Mrs. Hurst,” Jane murmured gently. “We do not blame you for what your brother and sister have done.”

Mrs. Hurst lowered her head in a deep, humble curtsy, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I do not ask you to forgive me, nor to think me altered merely because I have at last found the courage to say what I should have said long ago. I know I have forfeited all claim to your intimacy. But I could not continue in silence and call myself sorry. I can only assure you that I am deeply, bitterly sorry for my part in your distress.”

Jane leaned forward slightly, her tone mild and earnest. “Mrs. Hurst, I thank you for coming to speak with us. I am sorry that you have carried such uneasiness, but I bear you no ill will. I wish you well.”

“I agree with my sister.” Elizabeth gave a small nod. “I thank you for speaking so frankly, Mrs. Hurst. I hope your future conduct will give you better reason for satisfaction than your former conduct has done.”

Jane felt pity for Mrs. Hurst despite herself. The woman’s distress was too evident to be mistaken, and Jane had never found it easy to witness another person’s humiliation. Yet pity did not alter the past. It could not make coldness warm, restore a neglected visit, or undo the sorrow that had followed Mr. Bingley’s departure. Forgiveness might be offered, yet intimacy could not be required.

Mrs. Hurst’s shoulders dropped in quiet relief. She offered one final, humble curtsy. “You are both far more generous than I deserve. Thank you. Good day.”

Mr. Hurst immediately offered his arm with a quiet attentiveness that Jane had never seen from him before. He helped his wife inside, gave a short, respectful nod toward the barouche, and boarded beside her.

Jane watched the Hurst carriage leave. There had been no attempt to excuse her former conduct, nor had she asked the sisters to forget their grievances. Jane believed her regret to be genuine, though she knew that only time could establish whether her conduct would bear out her words.

Elizabeth leaned closer to Jane, a hint of amusement returning to her expression. “I must admit, my dear sister, I should sooner have expected pigs to fly than hear Mrs. Hurst apologize so freely.”

Jane’s eyes crinkled with quiet amusement. “Hush, Lizzy, and here I thought your imagination knew no bounds. But perhaps we ought to allow that even the most stubborn minds can be brought to reason, eventually.”

“Do not ask too much of me, Jane,” Elizabeth answered. “A flying pig would astonish me less than a lasting reformation in Mrs. Hurst. I shall believe her reformation only when she proves it by some act of genuine self-denial.”

Jane shook her head at her sister.

Lord Arthur glanced at her. “I hope the encounter has not disturbed you, Miss Bennet.”

“Not at all, sir. I am glad she spoke to us. There is a difference between regretting one’s conduct and being willing to acknowledge bad behaviour.”

Mr. Darcy regarded Jane thoughtfully, while Elizabeth gave her sister a small, affectionate smile.

As their carriage pulled away, Jane settled back against the cushions. She was glad that Mrs. Hurst had found the courage to speak, and gladder still that she could receive her apology without bitterness.

~*~

The crisp afternoon air of Hyde Park had been a balm, the carriage ride a pleasant, if somewhat animated, affair. Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated beside Lord Ashworth on the forward bench, looked across at Lady Astra and his cousin Anne, thoroughly enjoying the easy camaraderie. The image of the Bingley siblings’ ignominious retreat from Bond Street still brought a quiet satisfaction. The sight of such presumption being so decisively rebuked had afforded him considerable amusement.

When the horses finally drew to a halt outside the grand Westbury townhouse, a lively bustle ensued as the gentlemen stepped out to hand the ladies down. As the party began moving toward the steps for their planned refreshments, a familiar Matlock footman approached them on the pavement.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” the footman began, with a respectful bow. “Lord Matlock requests your presence for tea this afternoon, and Viscount Beaumont has been summoned as well. His Lordship particularly impressed upon me that he expects you both to attend.”

“Thank you. Tell my father I shall be there shortly,” Richard replied with a brief nod. The servant bowed again and turned back toward Matlock House.

Richard exchanged a glance with his cousin. A summons from his father rarely boded well when accompanied by such pointed emphasis.

“Ah,” Will murmured, a knowing look in his eyes. “It seems Lady Catherine’s urgent correspondence has finally reached Matlock House.”

Richard gave a dry chuckle. “It would appear so. I daresay she has painted quite the picture, as only Lady Catherine can.” He sighed faintly. “My father will have quite a reprimand prepared for me.”

“Perhaps he will not reach the point of an admonition,” Will replied, his expression thoughtful. “Your mother, for all her pronouncements, is not entirely unreasonable when presented with undeniable facts. And these facts, as we know, are rather inconvenient for Lady Catherine’s chosen narratives. If you are to recount the events to your parents, Richard, it might prove beneficial for me to join you. I could accompany you and confirm your account, as one who has been intimately involved in the matter myself.”

Richard considered this. Will’s presence would lend immense weight to his version of events, particularly given Lady Catherine’s likely focus on Darcy’s supposed misconduct. “That would be a considerable help, Will,” he agreed, offering a firm nod. “Thank you. I shall be glad of your company.”

Standing just a step away, Lady Astra and Miss Elizabeth had overheard their conversation.

Recognizing the gravity of a parental command, Lady Astra turned to Richard with an understanding smile. “It seems duty calls you away from our refreshments, Colonel. Pray, do not keep his Lordship waiting on our account.”

Miss Elizabeth stepped beside Lady Astra, her eyes meeting Will’s with a look of warm reassurance. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy. But pray, send word to the Duchess if you cannot return for dinner, lest we keep a place for you in vain.”

Both gentlemen offered looks of immense gratitude, bowing low over the ladies’ hands. After a swift, shared word of excuse to the rest of the company, Richard and Will stepped back down the pavement to depart.

The heavy oak doors of Matlock House swung open to admit Richard and Will. The grand hall, usually a place of quiet dignity, felt charged with an unusual anticipation. A footman immediately relieved them of their cloaks, his movements betraying a subtle tension. Lord Matlock, it seemed, was indeed waiting.

As they approached the open doors of the drawing room, an authoritative voice boomed from within. “So, Richard, it seems you have been rather busy since arriving in Town. All these glittering accounts in the gossip sheets, detailing your valiant escorts of no less than three charming young ladies, and yet not a single introduction has been offered to your family.”

Richard merely offered a wry smile to Will, a silent acknowledgement of the impending interrogation.

They stepped inside and his mother, Lady Matlock, sat elegantly and composed upon a nearby settee. Beside the fireplace stood his father, Lord Matlock, his expression stern, while leaning languidly against the mantle was Richard’s elder brother, Douglas, Viscount Beaumont, with a familiar, teasing glint in his eye.

His father’s gaze, however, immediately fixed on his nephew. “Will,” Lord Matlock said, his voice laced with surprise. “You are unexpected. We summoned our sons alone.”

Will inclined his head politely. “My apologies for the intrusion, Uncle, but as circumstances have transpired, I felt my presence might be material to the discussion you wish to have with Richard.”

Lady Matlock offered a faint, reassuring smile to Darcy, a silent welcome that softened her husband’s abruptness.

His brother set down his wine with an air of languid annoyance. “Frankly, Richard, I could have suffered half as much reading about your exploits in the Gazette if you had thought to introduce me to the young ladies in question. Half London seems to think you, Will, Fairhaven, Harland, and Ashworth are at the heart of every promising match.”

Richard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “There was hardly as much design in it as the columns suggest,” Richard said, addressing the Viscount directly. “Perhaps, dear brother, you ought to peruse the society pages more diligently. The articles, I believe, mention the names of the ladies in question. And it might be prudent to recall that certain ‘beauties’ are now firmly under the protection of the Westbury family, which, I might add, demands a very particular degree of caution and deference.”

“Enough,” his father said. “I have been patient in expectation that you and Anne would come to me yourselves. Speculation, even among the rabble of Fleet Street, I can, if I must, endure. But today, yet another letter from your Aunt Catherine has arrived, and that, Richard, I will not abide without answers. The time for discretion is past.”

Lord Matlock raised a hand and laid Lady Catherine’s thick, heavily inked letter upon the table. His gaze bore into Darcy. “Lady Catherine, in her infinite wisdom, demands that I ‘berate my nephew’ for ‘carrying on a dalliance’ at Rosings right in front of his ‘intended.’ Shall we begin there, Richard? Tell me precisely how this ‘dalliance’ began. I want the truth. How did we arrive at a state where every gossip in London is linking my nephew’s name to the Westbury party, and why has Catherine been writing to me in such a state of hysteria for the last fortnight?”

Richard met his parents’ eyes, then Douglas’s, and gave a measured nod. He offered a careful, thorough recital of the major events, the carriages, the meetings while walking, the observed proprieties and, as best he could, the fine line between chance and intention that the papers had so gleefully blurred.

He spoke of Lady Catherine’s increasingly aggressive pronouncements and Miss Elizabeth’s calm, dignified refusal to be intimidated. Crucially, he then detailed Anne’s quiet but firm stand against her mother’s unreasonable demands. This had culminated in her decision to leave Rosings for the Claremont household, before ultimately moving to Westbury House upon the Duke and Duchess’s arrival. He concluded with Miss Bingley’s vindictive actions, the scandalous letter, and the unfortunate altercation at the shop.

When Richard finally finished, a deep silence fell over the room, as the company absorbed the extraordinary nature of his narrative. Viscount Beaumont, usually a man of the most unruffled ease and indifference, sat forward, his entire countenance betrayed by a look of absolute astonishment.

“Anne? Little Anne stood up to Lady Catherine?” Douglas finally managed, a note of genuine amazement in his voice. “Good God, I never would have believed it! Our timid little cousin, defying her mother’s will? That is... it is an extraordinary business indeed.” He exchanged a bewildered glance with his father.

Lord Matlock, his formidable expression softening almost imperceptibly, leaned back in his chair. “Indeed. To think Anne possessed such a spine. My sister’s letter made it sound as though the world had turned upside down. I confess, Richard, I had difficulty reconciling her account with my own knowledge of Anne’s disposition.” He looked at Darcy. “And you, Will? You witnessed this directly?”

Darcy nodded. “I did, Uncle. Anne behaved with a quiet strength that was truly admirable. She faced her mother’s wrath with a composure that few could manage.”

Lady Matlock, however, had risen from her settee, her elegant hands clasped tightly. Her usual calm had given way to a palpable concern. “But Anne,” she began, her voice edged with worry, “how does she truly feel about her mother’s actions? Is she well? Is she happy at Westbury House? Why did you not bring her here, Richard? We would have taken her in, of course, where she might have found some peace away from Catherine’s overbearing nature.”

Richard moved to his mother’s side, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “Mother, she is very well. Happier, I believe, than I have ever seen her. The Duke and Duchess treat her with immense kindness, and she finds great companionship in Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth. They have embraced her as family.”

He paused before continuing gently, “As to why she did not come here, she did not trust that she could. Anne has been taught all her life to dread the consequences of displeasing Lady Catherine. She did not believe we would risk the inevitable conflict with her mother to protect her. She felt, I am convinced, and with great reason, that she belonged with those whose affectionate sympathy was assured to her during so painful a trial, and whose influence might best soften the effects of Lady Catherine’s ill-humor.”

Will stepped forward, his voice low and uncompromising. “Besides, to be plain, Aunt Emily, Anne did not believe she would be welcome here. For years, we have allowed Lady Catherine’s wishes to govern her life. She submitted to remain at Rosings only because she despaired of the Fitzwilliams, believing they would always sacrifice her peace of mind to conciliate Lady Catherine’s violent temper. She sought refuge at Westbury House for the very reason that they were the first people to consider her mother’s wishes as entirely subordinate to the preservation of her own health. It is little wonder she never spoke sooner; until now, she had no assurance that we would afford her the protection she required against the imperious demands of her mother.”

His mother’s gaze then shifted from her nephew to her husband, a quiet challenge in her eyes. “She was not sure what support she would receive, Henry? Her own mother has always been so absolute. It seems your sister’s word has always been enough for you to dismiss Anne’s feelings, to take her delicate health for granted, and to believe whatever Catherine spun for her own convenience.”

His father flinched, a subtle tightening around his jaw. It was rare for his mother to address his father with such directness, particularly in front of their children. Lord Matlock looked discomposed and did not immediately answer.

Douglas, observing their parents, moved to his mother’s side, placing a hand gently on her shoulder in a rare show of open support for her unspoken grievance.

At that moment, the door to the drawing room creaked open, and Isabel Fitzwilliam slipped in with the unobtrusive confidence only the youngest child could possess. She paused just inside, dark curls framing a shrewd, animated face, her gaze sweeping over her assembled family with a glint of mischief.

“Really, it is hardly a surprise,” Isabel declared, her voice carrying more boldness than was strictly proper but with no small measure of affection. “Father has always been remarkably blind where Lady Catherine is concerned. She tells him just enough to provoke him, and never the whole truth. If Anne felt unsupported, I suspect it was because Lady Catherine has always told us precisely what she wants us to hear. Is that not so, Papa?”

Her words struck with just enough force. Richard watched as his father’s mouth compressed and a faint flush rose along his cheekbones. His mother gave his sister a look of mingled reproof and approval, but did not contradict her.

Isabel sailed further in, claiming the seat her mother had vacated and folding her hands in her lap as if she had always been present. “If Anne thought she could truly rely on us, she would have spoken up long ago. But Lady Catherine has a remarkable talent for making her troubles sound like everyone else’s failures.”

His mother, visibly stirred by her daughter’s frankness, gave a small, appreciative nod. “Thank you, Isabel. I suppose we have all been guilty, in some measure, of listening too well to Catherine and not enough to Anne herself.”

Richard exchanged a look with Isabel, conscious of the silence her words had produced. Will and his mother had spoken plainly, but Isabel’s frankness had made it harder for his father to dismiss what he had heard. By forcing them all to acknowledge how greatly they had failed their cousin, Isabel had managed to do what no one else could. She had turned the tide of the conversation away from useless reproach, and toward the earnest hope of repairing their neglect.

His father slowly nodded, his gaze distant, as though recalling his conversations with Lady Catherine and judging them more severely than before. “I see. It seems, then, that Catherine’s version of events was, as usual, rather distorted. Severely so, if Anne has truly found such fortitude.” His expression grew darker. “And this Miss Bingley? Berating her maid over a stain and then attempting such a blatant imposition at the Duchess’s door? The woman is beyond contempt.”

“Indeed, Father,” Richard confirmed. “And her gambling debts are, apparently, considerable, which might explain some of her more desperate measures.”

Lord Matlock’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Gambling debts, you say? I had heard something about a lady gambling. That changes matters. Considerably. If Catherine has been so misinformed about Anne, and if this Miss Bingley is truly so depraved, what else has my sister distorted?”

A new and disturbing question now appeared to suggest itself to his father’s mind, and Richard watched the immediate effect upon his features.

Before the silence could grow too heavy, Isabel broke in, her tone sharp but not unkind. “If you ask me, it is high time we put less stock in Lady Catherine’s missives. She has a remarkable talent for raising an alarm. She would have the entire family scrambling over tea trays if she thought it would further her cause.” Isabel leaned back, her hands loosely folded, expression thoughtful. “We have all let her set the tone for too long, Papa. Anne needed our championing, not our unquestioning obedience to Lady Catherine’s anxieties.”

Her candor, offered without malice, seemed to nudge her father’s conscience further. His mother nodded approvingly, even as his father’s jaw tightened with a mixture of regret and resolve.

Richard added, “Will and I have been invited for tea at Westbury House tomorrow. If it would please you, Father, I will send a note at once to ask if you, Mother, Douglas, and Isabel might accompany me. It may be useful to let the family see for themselves what manner of Fitzwilliams we are.”

It was Isabel who answered first, her eyes lighting up with new energy. “Oh, do let us go, Papa! I promise to be on my very best behaviour, unless, of course, it becomes necessary to defend our family. Besides, I have been most curious to meet these Bennet sisters for myself, after all the fuss in the papers.”

Douglas smirked at his sister’s enthusiasm, but their father regarded her thoughtfully and then turned a long, searching look upon his sons.

“Very well,” he said at last, the weight of old habits contending with a dawning sense of obligation. “Send your note, Richard. We shall attend Westbury House together.”

Richard caught Isabel’s eye for a moment, silently grateful for her boldness and clarity. For all the family’s rank and restraint, it would perhaps take Isabel’s forthright spirit and Anne’s newfound courage to bring the Fitzwilliams closer together.

Just then, Isabel turned her gaze toward her cousin. “Will, when is Georgiana expected to arrive? I do hope she will be with us soon.”

Will smiled lightly, as though pleased by Isabel’s interest. “She arrived at Darcy House earlier today, quite weary from her journey, and requested a tray in her room. But she looks forward to seeing you, and I trust she will bring some much-needed calm to our proceedings tomorrow.”

Isabel’s eyes brightened with anticipation. “How wonderful. It is always a relief to have Georgiana’s presence among us.”

As their family began to discuss the details of the visit, Richard felt, for the first time that evening, a cautious sense of hope.

~*~

The drawing-room at Westbury House was lively with conversation and expectation. Sunlight caught on gilt picture frames and the glossy span of the parquet, lending a cheerful brightness to everything it touched. Jane, with Elizabeth at her side, stood slightly apart from the hearth with Anne, Astra, Selina, Eleanor, and Castor, who leaned at ease near the settee, adding his own wry observations to their conversation.

It was rare, Jane thought, to feel anticipation that was not tinged with dread or awkwardness. Today, she looked forward to making new acquaintances and hoped that some might become friends.

“I confess myself rather in awe,” Astra said, slyly lowering her voice, “to meet the rest of the Fitzwilliams at last. Lady Catherine’s letters, for all their drama, have set expectations most high. I rely on Anne to tell us whether we ought to curtsey low or take refuge behind the furniture.”

Elizabeth laughed. “If Lady Catherine’s accounts are to be believed, I ought to be mounting the mantelpiece to deliver a radical sermon as we speak. Jane, what do you think a reasonable greeting for such legendary folk should be?”

Jane smiled, feeling lighter than in many months. “A perfectly polite bow and a kind word should suffice. I suspect we shall find them far less fearsome than rumour suggests.”

Astra glanced toward Castor, a touch of curiosity in her eyes. “You know Viscount Beaumont from the clubs, Castor. Is he anything like his brother, or does the Colonel hold a monopoly on charming the room?”

Castor grinned, folding his arms. “They are similar, yet entirely different, much like our own Jane and Elizabeth here. Where the Colonel carries himself with an easy, warm military vigor, Beaumont prefers an air of languid indifference. But do not let the relaxed posture fool you. He has a sharp eye and a quick wit. You will find him quite as engaging as the Colonel, if a touch more theatrical.”

Jane caught the swift, telltale flush that rose on Astra’s cheeks at the description, but before Astra could reply, Selina chimed in with a wicked sparkle in her eyes. “Take care, Astra. Between a charming Colonel and a theatrical Viscount, I tremble to think how many Fitzwilliams it will take to entirely turn your head.”

Astra offered her younger sister a mock-stern glare, though the curve of her lips betrayed her amusement.

Eleanor, eyes bright, leaned toward Anne. “Truly, are you anxious about seeing your uncle and aunt again? Or is it merely anticipation?”

Anne looked thoughtful, her hands knotted together for a moment. “A little of both, I suppose. My uncle can be stern, and my aunt, well, she is not without her opinions.” She allowed herself a soft smile. “But I am rather eager. It has been some time, and I think I am not so fearful as I once was. If anything, I am curious how they might see me now, away from the heavy constraints of Rosings.”

“Now that your uncle and aunt will see you amongst us, rather than hear of you through Lady Catherine’s missives, they can only be charmed,” Jane said gently.

Castor winked at Anne and turned to Jane and Elizabeth. “And what of you, cousins? Are you prepared for Lady Matlock’s critical gaze? From the Fitzwilliam brothers accounts, she and Lady Isabel are both remarkably resolute ladies, though in very different ways.”

Selina grinned at Jane. “I have heard Lady Isabel has a tongue as quick as her brother’s wit. Woe to anyone who attempts to evade her questions!”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “I shall expect the pleasure of it, then. I quite enjoy a contest of conversation, so long as it preserves some dignity, rather than ending in a public spectacle, like a certain Miss Bingley retreating in disgrace into the Bond Street throng.”

The group dissolved into laughter, the tension of anticipation eased by honest camaraderie. Jane delighted in their easy conversation, in which even the teasing was affectionate and no one need fear an unkind remark.

She searched Anne’s face for lingering anxiety and found, instead, a new steadiness. “Anne, if you had seen yourself yesterday, speaking so openly with my grandmother, you would not doubt your courage to speak as freely with your own relations.”

Anne’s cheeks coloured warmly. “It is easier, I think, when one feels defended. And when one is no longer afraid to speak freely. My mother’s correspondence is rarely a true reflection of reality, I assure you. I have no doubt they will be quite surprised.” Her gaze drifted toward the door, a hint of nervousness, yet also eagerness, in her expression.

“And it will be interesting to see Mr. Darcy’s sister as well,” Selina added. “He speaks so highly of her.”

Jane felt a comfortable warmth settle over her. The past few days had brought many surprises, and Jane found herself less fearful than she had been. The encounter with the Bingleys had troubled her less than she might once have expected, for her family and friends had left her in no doubt of their affection. The knowledge that such formidable figures stood ready to defend her and Elizabeth against malicious gossip was profoundly reassuring.

The Duchess moved gracefully among them, offering a last-minute adjustment to a teacup here, a quiet word there. With the Duke, her aunt, and her uncle also present, Jane felt herself among those upon whose kindness she could depend. Mrs. Jenkinson, seated discreetly in a corner with her netting, was, no doubt, already considering what she should write to her correspondents.

The expectant hush grew as the clock neared the hour. Jane saw Castor straighten, smoothing his coat, while Elizabeth gave Jane’s shoulder a light, encouraging touch.

A footman appeared and, with practiced clarity, announced, “Lord and Lady Matlock. Viscount Beaumont, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lady Isabel Fitzwilliam. Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy.”

The door opened fully. Lord Matlock entered first, imposing yet dignified. Lady Matlock followed, regal in her composure and watchful in her manner. Viscount Beaumont strolled just behind, his air of subtle mischief not entirely disguised. Isabel Fitzwilliam, dark-haired and quick-eyed, swept in beside her mother with scarcely concealed amusement.

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze searched the room until he located Astra, and his smile warmed visibly. Mr. Darcy entered with his sister upon his arm, and Miss Darcy looked about the room with a shy but hopeful expression.

Lord Ashworth and Lord Arthur followed in their turn, the familiar faces rounding out the company.

There was a brief, elegant flurry of introductions. Jane observed Lord Matlock’s discerning look as he greeted each young lady, his reserve giving way to a spark of curiosity at Anne’s newfound poise. Lady Matlock’s calm regard reassured all present. Lady Isabel, wasting no time, offered a frank and friendly greeting to Jane and Elizabeth, her wit laced with sisterly pride when she claimed Anne as family.

Jane saw Anne’s posture relax in the presence of her uncle, aunt, and cousins. There was pride, too, lingering in Lady Matlock’s look, a silent tribute to Anne’s courage. Jane was pleased to see Anne received with the affection and respect she deserved. Anne’s relations now knew the truth, and their evident affection gave Jane reason to hope that the estrangement would soon be repaired.

As voices rose and laughter sounded, Jane knew this would be a day long remembered. Not for the distinction of its guests, but for the affection of friends and relations who were beginning to understand one another better.

With introductions made and initial pleasantries exchanged, the room settled into a comfortable buzz of conversation. The various groups began to naturally coalesce.

Mr. Darcy found his way to Elizabeth’s side, where her lively observations soon drew him into conversation. Colonel Fitzwilliam effortlessly joined Astra, their heads soon close together in what appeared to be a spirited discussion. Lord Arthur, ever attentive, drew near to Jane and asked whether she had enjoyed the drive. Lord Ashworth, after a brief, earnest word with Anne, settled beside her, an easy comfort already evident between them. And Castor, with a perfectly executed bow and a knowing grin, positioned himself by Eleanor, whose bright eyes sparkled at his approach.

This left a smaller, vibrant circle comprising Viscount Beaumont, Lady Isabel Fitzwilliam, and Selina, along with the quietly observant Miss Darcy. Viscount Beaumont, his earlier languor replaced by a more active engagement, found himself drawn into a lively exchange with his sister.

“I must say, Isabel,” the Viscount remarked, a smile playing on his lips, “Richard’s tales of Rosings hardly prepared me for your spirited defense of our relatives. Lady Catherine’s missives painted a considerably different portrait. One would think she believes herself the sole arbiter of good taste and proper conduct.”

Lady Isabel laughed, a clear, ringing sound. “Our aunt has a singular talent for painting portraits, Douglas, though rarely with strict adherence to truth or proportion. One must learn to interpret her brushstrokes with caution, particularly when they concern us, or indeed, anyone she deems less than perfectly agreeable.” She then turned her bright gaze to Selina. “And Lady Selina, I gather you are acquainted with our aunt’s performances, even if only by report?”

Selina, quick to respond, chuckled. “Indeed, Lady Isabel. My own family, though perhaps less demonstrative, is not without its dramatic flair. One soon learns when to answer and when merely to smile.”

Selina’s eyes, a vibrant shade of blue, met the Viscount’s, and Jane noticed a distinct spark of interest in Viscount Beaumont’s expression, a slight deepening of his smile. He seemed to hold her gaze a fraction longer than strictly necessary, a quiet fascination blooming in his eyes. Selina, in turn, did not immediately look away, a faint flush rising in her cheeks.

Lady Isabel caught Jane’s eye across the room, and a shared, knowing smile passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the burgeoning connection.

Miss Darcy, meanwhile, though quieter, listened attentively, occasionally offering a soft, thoughtful comment that revealed a keen understanding of their conversation.

On the other side of the room, Jane’s gaze drifted to the older generation. Her grandparents, along with her Uncle Maxwell and Aunt Celeste, and Mrs. Jenkinson, were engaged in a deep conversation with Lord and Lady Matlock. Though their voices were low, Jane could discern the serious nature of their exchange.

Her grandfather, in particular, appeared to command the entire circle; his bearing was full of dignity, and his expressions resolute. She observed him gesturing with a precise, unhurried hand, and saw Mrs. Jenkinson, unexpectedly assuming the office of a witness, interjecting occasionally with a quiet, yet pointed, corroboration. It appeared the Duke, with Mrs. Jenkinson’s assistance, was completely refuting Lady Catherine’s extraordinary assertions for the benefit of Lord and Lady Matlock, who listened with a blend of absorbed attention and awakening surprise. The Earl’s stern features betrayed something akin to incredulity, while Lady Matlock’s concern was manifest, laced now with a growing, quiet indignation.

Jane glanced at Anne, whose earlier confidence seemed to waver slightly under the unspoken weight of her family’s past judgments. A subtle tremor ran through Anne’s hand where it rested near her side. Jane instinctively reached out, her fingers gently touching Anne’s arm, offering silent reassurance. Elizabeth, too, leaned in slightly, a soft, encouraging smile on her lips. Both sisters looked at Anne with affectionate encouragement. Everything will be well, Jane’s eyes conveyed.

Just then, Lady Isabel, having excused herself from the conversation with her brother and Lady Selina, approached Anne, her vibrant eyes filled with an earnest sincerity that softened her quick wit.

“Anne,” Lady Isabel began, her voice low and direct, “I must apologize for not having maintained a more regular correspondence with you, and for allowing your mother’s assertions to colour my father’s understanding of your situation. My father, I assure you, now fully comprehends that Lady Catherine has a habit of magnifying the truth, and that most egregiously. He has been thoroughly undeceived this afternoon.”

Immediately following, Viscount Beaumont, sensing the shift in the conversation, also moved closer. His playful demeanour was replaced by a look of genuine regret.

“And I, Anne, owe you an apology as well. For my thoughtlessness at Rosings, for accepting Lady Catherine’s account without question, and for giving you reason to believe you could not depend upon your own family. I am truly sorry for that. You deserve far better,” Viscount Beaumont said, meeting his cousin’s eyes directly.

Anne’s eyes widened slightly, her surprise evident. She looked from Lady Isabel to Viscount Beaumont, then back to the understanding faces of Jane and Elizabeth. A faint smile appeared on her lips, as though she scarcely dared believe their assurances.

Just as Anne’s smile fully formed, the Viscount turned back to the group of younger ladies, his gaze sweeping over them, finally lingering on Selina, a glint of his characteristic mischief returning. He cast a quick, sly glance at his brother, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was still deep in conversation with Astra.

“It is a vastly gratifying circumstance,” he mused aloud, with an air of the most solemn mockery, “to learn that while I was left to the dullest neglect, Richard and Will were exerting themselves so heroically in the service of the ladies. One must admire your extreme caution, not a whisper of these delightful excursions was permitted to disturb my ignorance. To keep the grand carriages and the exhibitions entirely to yourselves displays a degree of brotherly consideration for which I cannot be sufficiently grateful.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, hearing his name, finally turned from Astra, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Nonsense, Douglas. You were simply too occupied with your own pursuits, always trailing a stride behind the gossip, to hear of our virtuous exertions. Besides,” he added, a twinkle in his eye, “we were merely ensuring the ladies were suitably protected from unpleasantness. Some of us, after all, have a knack for steering clear of trouble.”

Mr. Darcy, who had also paused in his conversation with Elizabeth, offered a rare, almost mischievous smirk. “Indeed, Douglas. And some of us, perhaps, are simply too refined to endure a bustling Bond Street shop. We leave such valiant endeavors to those with stronger constitutions.”

Elizabeth, not to be outdone, playfully narrowed her eyes at Mr. Darcy. “Oh, is that it, Mr. Darcy? Or perhaps you simply prefer to avoid any situation that might challenge your customary reserve? One might think a bustling shop would offer ample opportunity for observation.”

Jane, catching her sister’s spirited tone, turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam with a gentle smile. “And you, Colonel, were you truly just ‘ensuring protection,’ or were you perhaps secretly delighted to have such a captivating audience for your chivalry?”

The lighthearted challenge was met with good-natured laughter from both gentlemen.

Selina, quick to respond to Viscount Beaumont’s initial jibe, chuckled softly. “Pray do not nurse a wounded heart, Lord Beaumont! It was a mere oversight, I assure you, not a grand conspiracy.” She paused, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “However, should you and Lady Isabel find yourselves with a free day tomorrow, we are planning an excursion to the Tower of London. I imagine the history would be quite diverting. And in a few days’ time, we intend to visit the Royal Institution to view some of their most fascinating experiments.”

She turned toward Miss Darcy with a warm, inviting smile. “Miss Darcy, would you care to join us as well? We should be so very glad of your company.”

Miss Darcy, her eyes lighting up, looked eagerly from Selina to her brother. “Oh, Will, may I? I should dearly love to.”

Mr. Darcy’s smile softened as he looked at his sister. “Of course, Georgiana. I believe it would be an excellent opportunity for you to become better acquainted with these ladies.” He then turned to Selina and Viscount Beaumont. “I would be delighted to have my sister join our party.”

The Viscount’s eyes lit up, his earlier playful grievance vanishing instantly. “The Tower? And the Royal Institution? My dear Lady Selina, you offer the most intriguing invitations. I confess, my curiosity is piqued. It would be an absolute pleasure to accompany you.” He looked at his sister, who offered a clear confirmation of her assent.

Miss Darcy, who had been listening with evident interest to the proposed excursions, turned toward Jane and Elizabeth as the conversation briefly subsided.

“I hope you will forgive me for not having spoken sooner,” she said, with a shy smile. “I confess that I was a little uncertain how to begin. My brother has told me so much about you both that I fear I have formed rather high expectations.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, glancing briefly at Mr. Darcy. “Then I hope he has been careful in his choice of stories. Mr. Darcy has occasionally found my conversation a trial, and I should be sorry to disappoint you by proving equally troublesome.”

Miss Darcy laughed, her initial reserve giving way to a more natural smile. “I cannot imagine brother finding your conversation a trial. He speaks of you with such admiration that I have sometimes wondered whether he remembers to mention your faults at all.”

Jane smiled at her sister’s expression of delighted surprise. “I fear you have heard a rather partial account, Miss Darcy. Lizzy is quite capable of being troublesome when the occasion demands.”

“And you, Miss Bennet?” Georgiana asked. “Are you always so ready to defend her?”

“Always,” Jane replied, with a warmth that brought a smile to Miss Darcy’s face. “Though I sometimes find that defending Lizzy is a far easier undertaking than persuading her to defend herself.”

Their laughter drew a smile from Anne, who had been listening nearby.

“I am glad to see you all so well acquainted already,” Anne said. “Though, Georgiana, I suspect you and I have rather less need of introductions than the others.”

“Indeed, we have,” Miss Darcy replied, turning to her cousin with evident affection. “Although I sometimes think our letters have afforded us more opportunities for conversation than our actual meetings. I have always wished that we might see one another more often.”

Anne smiled. “Perhaps we shall have fewer such long intervals now.”

“I should like that very much,” Miss Darcy said. “And I hope you will write to me of all your adventures, though I daresay I shall hear a great many of them from Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth as well.”

“Then you must promise to write to us, too,” Elizabeth replied. “We should not wish you to be the only one entrusted with such important correspondence.”

Miss Darcy looked from Elizabeth to Jane, her smile now quite unreserved. “I should be delighted. Though I warn you, I am a far better correspondent than conversationalist when first introduced.”

“Then we shall have to make certain you have no cause to remain a stranger for long,” Jane said gently.

Anne smiled at her cousin. “Then perhaps we ought to make matters easier for you, Georgiana. You need not stand upon ceremony with Jane and Elizabeth. We are all friends here, and I am sure neither would object to your calling them by their Christian names.”

Georgiana glanced at the two sisters, a little uncertain. “Would you truly not mind?”

“Not in the least,” Jane assured her warmly.

“Indeed, I should consider it a considerable improvement,” Elizabeth added, smiling. “I have always thought that too many formalities make the making of friends unnecessarily difficult.”

Georgiana laughed, looking considerably more at ease. “Then I shall endeavor to remember, Jane and Elizabeth.”

As Georgiana laughed, Jane’s gaze happened to fall upon Mr. Darcy. He was watching Elizabeth, and though his countenance had altered very little, there was a softness in his eyes which Jane had learned to understand. Whatever reserve he preserved for the rest of the company, his regard for her sister was plain enough to Jane. She could not help smiling to herself.

Miss Darcy’s smile grew warmer, and Jane thought that the prospect of the coming excursions had become considerably more agreeable to her.

Before the banter could resume, Jane noticed a shift near the hearth. Lord and Lady Matlock had stepped away from their deep conference with the Duke, Duchess, and Mrs. Jenkinson, turning their steps directly toward their circle.

Jane felt a sudden, instinctive tightening in her chest. She watched them cross the room with a flicker of trepidation, unsure whether the Earl came to offer stern counsel or demand answers. Next to her, she felt Anne stiffen slightly. Jane instinctively shifted a fraction closer to Anne’s side, ready to lend whatever quiet support her friend might need.

Yet as the Earl and Countess drew near, the company automatically made way for them, and Jane perceived that Lord Matlock’s stern countenance was overspread with a heavy melancholy, while the traces of a deep regret were visible in the Countess’s eyes.

“Anne, my dear,” Lord Matlock began, his deep voice tempered by a grave earnestness. He paused, as if measuring the weight of years of negligence. “I owe you a profound apology. I permitted my sister’s overbearing reports to dictate my understanding of your life, when I ought to have come to Rosings myself and seen to your welfare. I have failed you as an uncle.”

Lady Matlock stepped forward, taking both of Anne’s hands into her own with gentle firmness. “We were blind to Catherine’s cruelty, Anne. But seeing you today, among those who treat you with affection and respect, we perceive how little we understood your character. You will never stand unsupported by this family again.”

Jane released the breath she had been holding, relieved that Anne had been met with kindness rather than reproach.

Anne’s composure momentarily failed her. Her lip trembled, and she was unable to prevent the tears which rose to her eyes, though they sprang from a sense of deliverance rather than sorrow. Elizabeth turned upon her a look of the most affectionate understanding, while Jane’s countenance glowed with a warm, encouraging sympathy.

Anne brushed a handkerchief to her eyes, looking up at her aunt and uncle with a radiant, steady grace. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft but entirely clear. “That means more to me than I can say.”

Lord Matlock gave a firm, approving nod, his entire bearing restored to its usual authority, while Lady Matlock relinquished Anne’s hands with a parting pressure, turning to greet the rest of the company with unaffected kindness.

The Westbury drawing-room, animated by this unexpected assembly and the promise of newly awakened attachments, truly felt like a place where old prejudices might at last be laid to rest. In the restoration of mutual confidence, it offered the brightest prospect of future harmony and a closer union between their families.

]]> LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 25 Oct 2026 19:51:07 +0000 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131905,131910#msg-131910 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 9https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131905,131910#msg-131910
This story is a masterpiece in development! Thank you!]]> EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 19 Oct 2026 01:02:25 +0100 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131902,131909#msg-131909 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 8https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131902,131909#msg-131909Thank you again.]]> EvelynJean Derbyshire Writers' GuildMon, 19 Oct 2026 00:04:19 +0100 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131905,131908#msg-131908 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 9https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131905,131908#msg-131908 Doris Derbyshire Writers' GuildSun, 18 Oct 2026 15:57:04 +0100 https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131905,131907#msg-131907 Re: A Season for Truth and Triumph Chapter 9https://dwiggie.com/phorum/read.php?5,131905,131907#msg-131907 LizzyS Derbyshire Writers' GuildSat, 17 Oct 2026 21:13:37 +0100