Epiphany with Tea: A Pride and Prejudice Variation
Author: McMann, Renata; Hanford, Summer
Date: 2016-11-30

Epiphany with Tea

A Christmas Tale
by

Renata McMann
and

Summer Hanford

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From Ashes to Heiresses

In the wake of a devastating fire at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Jane are taken in by their aunt and uncle in Meryton. Concerned about their situation, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come to Hertfordshire, but not before Mr. Wickham attempts to use Jane’s heartache to his advantage.

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With special thanks to our editor, Joanne Girard

Cover by Summer Hanford

Copyright 2016 by Renata McMann & Summer Hanford

All rights reserved

December 1822, Pemberley . . .

After nine years, Darcy knew Elizabeth well enough to guess she didn’t consider their disagreement of the day before resolved. His first and most salient clue was the look she’d leveled on him after his previous day’s declaration that he would not discuss the issue of Wickham’s son further. It was the first time he’d made that sort of arbitrary declaration to Elizabeth and he’d regretted the words, his father’s, as soon as they left his mouth. The glorious sight of her, shoulders back and eyes afire with emotion, was almost worth her anger, but he didn’t truly enjoy provoking his wife or mirroring certain traits of his sire.

If her reaction yesterday hadn’t been enough of an indication of her feelings, her absence that morning was. Normally, Elizabeth would appear, generally with one or both of their children in tow, as he was finishing dressing. From there, they would all go down to breakfast together, though little Jane, just three, generally stayed only a short time. Their son, Fitzwilliam, was eight now and took pride in exhibiting proper manners at the table, which, in turn, was a source of pride for Darcy. Today, however, Darcy dressed in suspicious silence, punctuated only by brief exchanges with a studiously bland valet.

Arriving in the breakfast parlor, Darcy found matters worse than expected. Instead of her usual place at his side, where she would sneak glances at his morning paper and converse with him on the topics, Elizabeth sat at the foot of the long table. She’d already served herself and sat straight backed, perched on the edge of her chair, slicing her food with deft strokes. She wore black. He knew it was out of respect for her recently deceased sister, Lydia, but Darcy still saw it as a grim omen. Though the color emphasized the fine quality of Elizabeth’s complexion, he would have spared her the necessity of wearing it if he could.

“Good morning,” Darcy said. He considered crossing the room to drop a kiss on her brow, but the somewhat savage and exceedingly efficient slicing warned him away. He crossed to the sideboard and served himself, motioning for one of the footmen to bring his coffee.

By the time Darcy took his seat, the silence from Elizabeth’s end of the table was becoming acute. He took a sip of coffee, glancing about the room. His gaze lingered on the bow-bedecked evergreen boughs, festively placed over the windows and draping the mantel. He’d never confided it to her, but he loved that Elizabeth insisted on decorating so much of their home for the Yuletide. A secret part of him, harkening back to somewhere in his youth, drew a spark of wonder from the trappings of the season.

His perusal of the room coming full circle, he returned his gaze to his wife, whom he knew desired a continuation of their discussion on Wickham’s son. “I believe this is where you supply a polite return greeting.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in a look of amusingly sincere innocence. “I take it, then, that having a good morning is a topic which we may discuss further?” She smiled sweetly.

Darcy cast another look around the room, this time noting the three footmen and two kitchen maids. “Would you excuse Mrs. Darcy and myself, please?” he said to the room at large.

They murmured ascent and shuffled out, not really hiding their disappointment. They would, he assumed, listen at the doors. At least that way they wouldn’t actually witness his defeat, if indeed he suffered one, only overhear it.

“You cannot expect anyone else to take him, Darcy,” Elizabeth said as soon as the door closed behind their staff.

Darcy suppressed a smile. One of the things he loved about his wife was her directness. “I can and I do. No one would fault me for not taking in George Wickham’s son. Especially in view of my history with the man.” Wickham had spread misconceptions about him, tried to elope with his sister when she was only fifteen, and cost him thousands of pounds. The last occurred shortly after he married Elizabeth, when Wickham ran off with Lydia but wouldn’t marry her unless Darcy paid him a substantial amount. Wickham had known Darcy would pay to save his wife’s sister from disgrace.

“Most people do not know the extent of your history with Mr. Wickham, and so would not weigh it when judging whether or not you should take in his son, but you cannot tell me that you truly care what most people think of your actions,” she said, setting aside her silverware.

“Well, then, those who know me well enough to provide opinions which matter to me would not expect me to open my home to the boy.” Surely, Elizabeth must understand that. He took another sip of coffee. “Think of our children.”

“Our children?” She raised her eyebrows. “Surely you don’t believe an eight-year-old boy is dangerous?”

“No, but he will be. If we take him in and raise him alongside Fitzwilliam, he will end up just as his father did. He’ll grow to be useless, penniless, a seducer of gentlemen’s daughters, a vagrant, and die in a duel over another man’s wife three years after wedding.” Or worse, Darcy added to himself.

“I suppose you believe he’ll also grow up to attempt eloping with our daughter?” Elizabeth’s tone was an equal mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“I do.” Darcy set a firm look upon his face. He was resolved not to be swayed in this. He hadn’t grieved the day Wickham died. He would not permit the man a postmortem foray into his life.

“Where, then, do you think my sister’s son will go?”

Darcy didn’t care, so long as it had nothing to do with his family, but he knew that was not the correct reply. “He shall live with your mother and Miss Mary. I’ll increase their stipend. It will please them and give greater meaning to their lives.”

“If there is anyone who would surely bring out the worst tendencies in the boy’s nature, it is my mother. She is the perfect person to turn young George into all you fear he may become, and a terribly negligent parent. Perhaps if my father . . .” She trailed off, shrugging. As always when her late father was mentioned, sorrow flickered in her gaze.

Darcy, too, thought it was a shame Mr. Bennet had already left them. Though Darcy wasn’t as confident in Mr. Bennet’s parenting skills as Elizabeth seemed to be, no one was a more stimulating conversationalist, both on the too-rare occasions they’d met in person and by correspondence. Darcy still had all of his late father-in-law’s letters, and sometimes referred to them for opinions, or simply to smile. He cleared his throat. “Miss Mary is there as well, to provide a sober influence.”

“Yes, that’s what the lad needs. My overly pious, insular sister spouting Bible verses she doesn’t quite comprehend at him day after day.”

“It will do him good,” Darcy said, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe any child would flourish under the neglect of Mrs. Bennet and the attention of Miss Mary.

Elizabeth leveled a look at him that spoke volumes on her opinion of the sincerity of his statement.

“Your sister Kitty was closest to Lydia,” he offered.

“Kitty’s health is increasingly precarious, rendering her nearly incapacitated most days, and her husband will never be promoted above lieutenant and has no family connections.” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. “Before you suggest it, you know he’s too proud to permit you to buy a promotion for him.”

“He wouldn’t need to know who was responsible.” Darcy knew there would be little doubt, though, that the promotion had been secured by him.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Darcy, you know we are the only choice. Would you send my sister’s child to an orphanage?”

“There are the Bingleys, the Gardiners and the Philips.” He leaned back in his chair, feeling slightly smug. Elizabeth couldn’t possibly have a good reason why none of the three would suit.

“My Aunt and Uncle Gardiner have five children of their own to care for, and much fewer resources than we have. My Aunt Phillips would hardly be a better parent than my mother. In case you have forgotten, ever since Longbourn passed into Mr. Collins’ care, my mother and Mary live two houses from the Phillips. You may as well subject the boy to Mother’s care.”

“You cannot have a reason your nephew can’t go to the Bingleys.” Darcy was confident enough in this to permit himself a celebratory grin.

Elizabeth’s answering smile doused his. “Did I forget to tell you, then, that Jane is with child again?”

Darcy winced. Still, the Bingleys obviously enjoyed a large family, so why not add one more? He opened his mouth to say as much.

“Given that she’s born two sets of twins already, and that she and Charles have six children already, I really don’t feel we can ask it of them,” Elizabeth said before Darcy could speak. Her smile fell. “You know Charles’ investments haven’t gone well,” she said in a lower voice. “I don’t want to put any more pressure on them. The strain is beginning to show.”

Darcy was aware that Bingley was in some financial difficulties, but hadn’t thought it anything significant. It wouldn’t be like Elizabeth to fabricate, though. He frowned, reviewing recent interactions with his friend. If looked at through the lens of Elizabeth’s words, he could construe some of Bingley’s statements and an increase in the tension evident in his mien as indication that things were more dire than Bingley let on. “I didn’t realize.”

“He doesn’t wish you to know, but Jane confided in me.” Elizabeth stirred her tea, her expression contemplative. When she met his eyes again, her smile returned. “So, you see, we are the best choice.”

“I do not see.” Darcy grimaced at the slightly sullen edge to his words. “I will not have a young George Wickham in our home.” He gentled his tone. “I am sorry Lydia died, especially so near Christmas, but you cannot ask me to welcome a repetition of the troubles inflicted on Georgiana and myself. What form of parent would I be if I willfully subjected our children to such trials?” He braced himself for her ire. Elizabeth was at least as strong willed as he was.

Her expression softened, much to Darcy’s surprise. “You would be a good parent, because that is what you are.” She pressed her lips into a contemplative line. “I believe the flaw here is in your basic assumption. Having refused to ever meet the boy, you do not know him. You assume he embodies the worst traits of both my sister and his father. You know I visited Lydia several times.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “He’s a good lad. You cannot condemn him for being his father’s son. At least meet him. If life has taught me two things, one is that you must come to know someone before you deem yourself capable of judging them and the other is that you can’t know a person based simply on their relations.”

Darcy blinked. He took a sip of coffee. He knew Elizabeth’s words were true, but it was George Wickham come again to intrude on the lives of Darcys. How could he condone that? Across the table from him, Elizabeth raised her teacup to her lips.

It was his mother’s favorite set, he noted. Elizabeth preferred it. When they’d first wed, he’d given her every permission to replace it, if she so desired, but she hadn’t. It was the same set, in fact, that his Aunt Catherine often used. The two, his mother and aunt, had both taken a liking to the pattern and commissioned them together, to match.

Seeing Elizabeth sitting across from him, cradling that delicate china cup with its expertly detailed roses, took Darcy back to the most important day in his life. The day Elizabeth Bennet agreed to be his.

Over Nine Years Earlier, April 1813, Rosings . . .

As usual, his Aunt Catherine was dominating the conversation. She was droning on about the weather, at what could only be considered an exhaustive length. She insisted it would rain that very evening. No one asked her what she based her forecast on. For his part, Darcy didn’t care to know, or to prolong the experience by arguing.

His aunt’s clergyman, Mr. Collins, seated to her right, didn’t ask either. Instead, he agreed with her enthusiastically. That wasn’t much worth noting, since he always agreed with her. Usually, Mrs. Collins was present to alleviate some of the tedium. She had a knack for turning the conversation to a new topic by asking Lady Catherine for advice. Today, however, Mrs. Collins was tending her visiting younger sister, who wasn’t feeling well, and Darcy couldn’t think of a single thing he was willing to ask Lady Catherine’s advice on, although she would be happy to give advice on any topic, regardless of how much she actually knew about it.

Across from them, Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, appeared amused, though likely not for reasons their aunt would appreciate. Darcy glanced at Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne, seated near Richard. She wore an unreadable expression and Darcy didn’t linger on it to attempt interpretation, or even spare a glance for her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson. Instead, he permitted his gaze to rest on the one person he wished most to observe, Elizabeth Bennet.

She sat, straight backed, on the edge of an overly-ornate settee, giving Lady Catherine her attention without the slightest trace of boredom or skepticism. It was one of the many things Darcy admired about Elizabeth. She was always polite. As he watched, she raised a delicate, rose-adorned teacup to her lips, taking a sip. From where he sat, he could observe she used the cup to hide a smile from his aunt, holding it before her until she regained control of her expression. Darcy admired the tactic.

Elizabeth’s sparkling gaze flicked toward him, sharing her amusement. It occurred to Darcy that, with her propensity for enlivened thought, she was likely entertained by how ludicrously his aunt was behaving. He ought to be offended. She should be more deferential. Elizabeth Bennet wasn’t of a high enough station to be amused by his aunt.

Yet, in what other positive light could anyone regard the conversation? Lady Catherine was bullying, arbitrary and self-absorbed. Were she not a titled lady and his aunt, he would object to her behavior. One must either take up Elizabeth’s tactic, be bored, or be affronted. Darcy generally elected boredom, but Elizabeth appeared to be having a much nicer time than he was.

It occurred to him, for all her inner merriment, Elizabeth likely did object to his aunt’s behavior. His cousin Anne had detailed to him how Lady Catherine asked Elizabeth impertinent questions, which Elizabeth responded to with both politeness and spirit. Darcy wished he’d been witness to one such exchange. He could spend every day listening to Elizabeth’s wit.

Elizabeth turned her attention back to his aunt, setting down the rose-adorned teacup. Darcy permitted his gaze to linger on her elegant profile, finding perfection there. He wondered if she had any notion of how he’d come to regard her? She must, for he took few pains to hide it. In light of that, her smile of moments ago must be viewed as encouraging. She must see him in a positive light, at the least.

Or must she? As his aunt droned on, Darcy mulled over his interactions with Elizabeth, looking for clues as to how she regarded him. He was perceived, he knew, as somewhat lofty. Did he appear to be similar to his aunt? Did others compare her obnoxious snobbishness with his reasonable recognition that he was better than most of those around him?

His gaze glided over Elizabeth’s elegantly curved figure, wondering how she would react to his thoughts on himself. Would she argue with him and let him know if she considered him to have bad manners? Or, would she give him polite smiles and hide broader ones behind teacups?

If she did argue with him, would she be right to?

“Lady Catherine,” a woman’s voice said.

His musing interrupted, Darcy turned toward the sound. He was surprised to find Anne’s companion was speaking. He couldn’t recall a time the prim, drab looking woman had ever initiated conversation. Her role was not to do so, but to reply when spoken to.

“I’m giving my one month’s notice,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued. “Mr. Collins, I would like to post banns for Mr. Kendall and myself. I’ve written out our full names, marital statuses and parishes for you.” Leaning forward, she offered Mr. Collins a piece of paper.

Mr. Collins’ hands shot up, palms out as if staving off a physical onrush. He looked wildly at Darcy’s aunt. Whatever guidance he expected to find wasn’t forthcoming, for she wasn’t looking at him. Her formidable attention was aimed at Mrs. Jenkinson.

“How dare you give notice in such a public location,” Lady Catherine demanded, the many creases on her face pulled downward into a scowl. “To speak to me of such things before a room full of people, some of them not family, is unforgiveable.”

Darcy admired his aunt’s choice of criticism. He knew she disliked anyone to make a decision without her advice, especially a large one, and the news that Anne’s companion wished to marry clearly upset her. She didn’t belittle herself by attempting to claim the notice was insufficient or expressing anger toward Mrs. Jenkinson for wishing to leave. After all, a month was adequate time to interview replacements and what real care could a lady have over the loss of a household member who was little more than a servant? Instead, Lady Catherine was clever enough to give a reason for her antagonism that didn’t degrade her station.

“I needed to speak to Mr. Collins about the banns,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her tone calm without being subservient.

“Who is this Mr. Kendall?” Lady Catherine glared about the room, causing Mr. Collins to cringe away from her.

Darcy’s cousin, Anne, scooted forward in her chair, her expression determined. “You remember him, Mama. When his wife died two years ago, you told me to make a condolence visit.”

“A visit?” Lady Catherine’s angry look found a resting point in Anne. “You cannot expect me to believe one visit, years ago, led to this effrontery.” She flipped a vein-etched hand toward Mrs. Jenkinson.

“Of course not,” Anne said. “We’ve visited regularly since then.”

“I didn’t ask you to go there more than once.” Lady Catherine’s scowl deepened. “Why didn’t you stop going before it got out of hand?”

“I don’t see it as out of hand,” Anne said. “I see it as two people finding happiness in marriage.”

Lady Catherine glared at her daughter. Anne, to Darcy’s surprise, did not shrink or look away. She bore her mother’s wrathful expression with pursed lips and steady eyes. Around their locked gazes, a strained silence took hold of the parlor. The only sound was the slight rustling of fabric as Mr. Collins looked frantically from mother to daughter and back again.

“Mrs. Jenkinson, I hope you will be very happy,” Elizabeth said, her warm tone setting them all free. “I think it delightful that you are getting married.”

“Yes,” Richard said. He cleared his throat. “Please introduce me to Mr. Kendall when you have the opportunity. I would like to congratulate him. He’s a lucky man.”

Lady Catherine awarded the room another of her formidable scowls. “But what are you going to do without Mrs. Jenkinson?” she demanded of Anne. “I cannot believe you permitted this to happen. Are you daft? You know you can’t be alone and it’s terribly difficult to find anyone who suits you.”

What was terribly difficult, Darcy knew, was to find anyone who could tolerate life with his aunt. Anne, for her part, was easy enough to get along with.

“I am not daft, Mother,” Anne replied. She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I’m sure we’ll find someone who suits, but until then I will simply have to be companionless.”

“You? Impossible. How will you live? What will you do with yourself?”

Darcy winced at his aunt’s incredulous tone. Anne was a grown woman, not a child of six.

“I don’t know, Mother, but I am going to find out.” The expression Anne lifted from her contemplation of the carpet was resolute, much to Darcy’s surprise.

“Impossible,” Lady Catherine snapped. “I won’t have it. Someone of your station should not be without a companion. How could you show your face anywhere?”

“We don’t go anywhere,” Anne muttered.

“This is not to be borne,” Darcy’s aunt continued over Anne’s words. “I will not have a daughter of mine belittled by people thinking she can’t find a suitable companion.” Lady Catherine pursed her lips. “I wonder . . .” Her gaze traveled the room again. Beady eyes skimmed over Elizabeth with a grimace, and Richard in a contemplative way, before reaching Darcy. “Well, there is a simple solution. We can get a special license and you and Darcy can marry before Mrs. Jenkinson does.” She reached for a bell. “I’ll write to the archbishop immediately and the two of you can be married by—”

Darcy felt a familiar anger flare up inside him, made ten times stronger than usual by the knowledge that Elizabeth was witnessing his aunt ordering him about and trying to force him to marry Anne. “No,” he said in his firmest tone.

Darcy had never considered giving in to his aunt’s wish that he marry Anne, and his opposition to the idea had only grown along with his regard for Elizabeth. He set his jaw firmly, in the way he recalled his father doing when his mind was made up. It was time to set his aunt straight, once and for all, before Lady Catherine discovered his attachment to Elizabeth and took whatever mad steps she would be driven to. “I will never, under any circumstances, for any reason, marry Anne. You will give up this idea here and now.”

His aunt’s eyes went wide. She wet her lips, appearing nervous. Darcy couldn’t recall her ever looking even a little unsure before. She must have recognized his father’s tone, for he’d been even more formidable than Lady Catherine. “You must marry Anne,” she cried in a surprisingly pleading voice. “How else can I have a Fitzwilliam inherit Rosings?”

“I’m not a Fitzwilliam, but a Darcy. Anne is as much a Fitzwilliam as I am. Besides, I don’t believe in first cousins marrying,” he added in a less strident voice, casting Anne an apologetic look as it occurred to him how insulting his vehemence was.

“No, Anne isn’t a Fitzwilliam, and she isn’t your cousin, not by blood at any rate,” Lady Catherine cried, surging to her feet. “I am to hold Rosings for her until she marries, and it will be to a Fitzwilliam. I did not endure half a lifetime wed to Sir Lewis only to lose Rosings to another family.” As quickly as she’d risen, Lady Catherine flung herself back into her chair, blinking rapidly, a sheen of unshed tears brightening her hawkish eyes.

It was the first time in Darcy’s life he could recall having to consciously close his mouth because it was hanging open. A quick glance showed similar astonishment on the other faces in the room, even Anne’s. Lady Catherine smoothed her skirts, a nervous gesture, but her expression turned hard.

“What did you just say?” Richard croaked into the silence.

“I am Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s second wife.” Lady Catherine tilted her chin to an arrogant angle. “He married beneath himself, in a hurried and quiet way, to a woman named Smith with no family or connections. She died in childbirth days after the wedding. He married me six months later.”

Darcy could only stare at his aunt in shock.

“I’ve heard the occasional rumor . . .” Richard’s low voice trailed off.

“Which I am sure you subdued.” Lady Catherine’s words were more an order than a question.

“Aggressively, if needed,” Richard said, his syllables drawn out, revealing his shock. “Because I thought they were lies. I once dueled a man over it. I left him crippled.”

“As he deserved for spreading such filth,” Lady Catherine snapped.

Darcy wrenched his gaze from his aunt to look at Richard, whose face was white and pinched.

“She’s not your daughter?” Mr. Collins blurted out.

“She is my daughter. She has known no other mother, and I have had no other child.”

“How could you keep this from me?” Anne said, her voice cracking with the strain of her emotions.

Richard turned toward her, holding out a hand, which she clasped.

“There was no point in confusing you. You are too much like your mother already. She, by all reports, was meek and ineffectual. Not even strong enough to withstand bearing a child. Not the stuff a lady is made of. Your father was lucky he escaped the union so quickly.”

Mrs. Jenkinson gasped, stifling the sound with her palm. Darcy raised his eyebrows. Had his aunt just implied it was a boon Anne’s mother had died? He glanced at Elizabeth, to weigh her reaction, but her expression was carefully blank.

“My mother, Miss Smith,” Anne repeated, sounding as stunned as Darcy felt.

“Yes, Miss Anne Smith.” A hard smile curved Lady Catherine’s lips. “People assume I named you after my sister, but your father named you after your mother. Anne is a common name and people are simpletons.” She shrugged. “You’re insecure enough being the granddaughter of an earl. Would it have helped you to know you’re really the granddaughter of a miller?”

“It might have,” Anne said. “It might explain why I could never fit.”

“A de Bourgh doesn’t need to fit,” Lady Catherine said. “The world fits itself to a de Bourgh.”

“Not to me,” Anne whispered.

Darcy shook his head. What arrogance his aunt had. To keep such things from Anne, to applaud Richard for wounding a man for speaking the truth, as if doing so was honorable, and to expect the entirety of the world to adjust itself to fit with her wishes. It was unreasonable. It was tyrannical. It went beyond pride.

Darcy had always assumed his aunt wished him to marry Anne because she wanted to know her daughter was well cared for, but it seemed that was untrue. Did Lady Catherine even care for Anne? Was Rosings her only true love? “You want me to marry Anne not because of any pact between you and my mother, but because you want Rosings to go to your sister’s grandchild?”

“When you were born, your mother and I speculated that if I ever had a daughter, the two of you might marry. When I married Sir Lewis, she knew about his child and we took it as confirmation for our earlier speculation. I’ve worked hard to make Anne into the prefect wife for you, Darcy. Your mother may be gone, but I’ve spent my life doing this for you. It’s best for the Fitzwilliam line, for Rosings, and for you. Now that you know the truth, and that your outlandish objection to cousins wedding is moot, I’m sure you see that you must marry her.”

Anne let out a small sound, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob. Though Richard still held one of her hands, Darcy could see the other trembled where it rested on the arm of her chair. He understood the inclination, for it seemed as if his gut has been rattled out of place. Elizabeth, in contrast, sat so still, he thought the others may have forgotten she was there.

He turned back to his aunt, realizing she was watching him through narrowed, assessing eyes. “I do not see any such thing. My marrying Anne may have seemed like a possibility when you were speculating with my mother, but it is not a possibility to me.”

“But I have overcome your objections. I’m offering you Rosings, you fool. Take it.”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Richard said before Darcy could formulate a reply through the anger her arrogance sparked in him. “If you want Rosings to be inherited by someone related to you, Aunt Catherine, how about if I marry Anne?”

“No,” Elizabeth said, speaking for the first time.

Darcy turned to her, aghast. Could she have feelings for Richard? Yes, they’d been cordial to one another but . . . Darcy’s hands curled into fists.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, I’d thought better of you than this,” Elizabeth continued. “Miss de Bourgh is of age. You don’t court her mother, but her. That is no way to propose marriage. Whoever her mother is, Miss de Bourgh deserves better from you, all of you.” She ended her speech with a look toward Lady Catherine, who glowered back.

Richard blinked several times, obviously surprised. “Well, yes, I know that, but this is not a romantic proposal. Anne realizes that, I’m sure. What must be made clear is that we get on well enough and that I meet the requirement of being a Fitzwilliam.”

Anne yanked her hand from Richard’s, her expression revealing hurt.

“Her stepmother’s requirement, not hers,” Elizabeth said. She shook her head. “A woman deserves better than a man who delivers words of logic to a parent, or even to her. She deserves at least a modicum of passion. Such a decision cannot be made wholly on logic. It would be better to remain unwed for all time than to submit to an emotionless union.” She darted a glance toward Mr. Collins, whom Darcy had forgotten, and colored slightly.

“This is not a topic for you, you impertinent girl,” Lady Catherine snapped. “Speak again and I shall ask you to leave, all of you. Darcy, you will marry Anne. You cannot have a worthy objection.”

Darcy ignored his aunt, his attention on Elizabeth. Suddenly, everything came into place. For days, he’d been arranging the details of his feelings for Elizabeth in his thoughts, sorting the objections and obstacles into neat categories and applying logic to positives and negatives alike. Upon realizing he actually intended to propose to her, he’d planned to lay them out to her as he had to himself. He’d assumed a woman of her intelligence would appreciate a clear delineation of both sides of his argument for her hand. Listening to her defense of Anne, though, he realized that was obviously not the way to propose. “Let me show you,” he said to Richard.

Richard nodded, his expression bemused.

Instead of going to Anne, as Darcy imagined the others expected, he got down on one knee in front of Elizabeth. Reaching out, he captured the rose-adorned teacup and saucer she cradled loosely, his fingers brushing hers as he took the porcelain dishes and set them aside. Her eyes widened and he wondered if she realized he was serious in his actions. He predicted the others in the room did not.

Looking up into her lovely visage, Darcy took a steadying breath. “Miss Bennet, I ardently love and admire you. Your beauty is unrivaled, your wit unmatched. I’ve seen you use tact with people who lack it, and admired you for it. I watched your loving care of your sister when she was ill.” He noted how her eyes softened at the mention of her sister. Encouraged, he sought about for something more he could say about her family. “Your father is clever and your mother hospitable. Your older sister is kind, your middle sister is industrious in her pursuit of accomplishments, and your younger two sisters are cheerful and friendly.” There. That should cover that. Did he have to say something about her uncle the attorney and his wife? No. He’d already used hospitable for her mother, and he couldn’t think of anything else nice to say about them.

Elizabeth regarded him with raised brows, her delicate lips round with surprise, but it was the amusement dancing in her gaze that stabbed him. She was surprised, yes, but not by the ardor of his proposal, only by his behavior, which she obviously took as a joke. Any thought he’d had that she knew about his courtship was quenched.

Starting to feel foolish, Darcy realized he needed to cover his emotions before anyone saw the truth in them. Still on one knee, he turned to Richard. “Stress the positives,” he said in a conversational tone. “You may not love Anne, but you like her.” He got up, dusting off his knees. “Try.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at Elizabeth and the laughter in her eyes.

Richard stood, turning to face Anne. Hesitantly, he lowered himself to one knee, looking up at her. “Marry me. I am a poor soldier with no hope of more than a soldier’s life.”

“Talk about her,” Darcy said.

“Don’t talk at all and stand up this instant,” Lady Catherine said. “I will not have my drawing room turned into a stage where you make absurd and insincere proposals.”

Darcy’s face heated. He glanced at Elizabeth, who was looking pityingly at Richard. He realized he shouldn’t have stood. This was his opportunity. He’d started his proposal and he would finish it. He couldn’t let things stand as they were, for that would be ruin. After all, what man could hope to recover from a botched proposal?

Squaring his shoulders, Darcy held out a hand to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet.”

She turned to him, taking in his proffered hand with surprise. Her expression curious, she placed her palm in his and he pulled her to her feet. He didn’t release her, but instead brought her fingers to his lips.

“Miss Bennet,” he repeated, lowering but not relinquishing her warm hand. He leaned closer, hoping his eyes expressed what was in his heart. “I wish your sister were here, so I could use your Christian name freely, even if I would still have to put the word Miss in front of it.” He lowered his voice, not to keep the others from hearing, but because the intimacy of his feelings demanded it. “I say it in my mind over and over, savoring every syllable. Sometimes, to vary it, I use the nickname your family uses.”

She appeared truly shocked now, all amusement gone from her gaze. The hand he held trembled slightly, and he reached for her other, clasping both between them.

“I want you to be by my side as I go through life. I want you to be the mother of my children. I want to see you holding our child in your arms. I want to show you the beauties of Pemberley. I want you to be there to correct me when I am wrong and to encourage me when I am right. Elizabeth Bennet, will you marry me?”

“This is going too far,” Lady Catherine cried.

From the corner of his eye, Darcy could see his aunt was on her feet, her face a deep red, but he didn’t take his gaze from Elizabeth’s. Hers searched his face, touching on it with an intensity he could almost feel. Her slender fingers tightened about his.

“You’re serious,” she breathed.

“He is not serious,” Lady Catherine shouted.

Mr. Collins appeared beside Darcy’s aunt, his gangly arms fluttering about. “Cousin Elizabeth, come away from Mr. Darcy this instant. Release his hands. How dare you behave in such a vulgar way in front of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” The clergyman sounded as if he might collapse into tears.

“You brought this fiend of a woman into my home,” Lady Catherine screeched, turning her anger on Collins.

“Enough,” Darcy said, relinquishing one of Elizabeth’s hands to face them. “Leave your lackey be, Aunt Catherine. I met Miss Bennet long before she came to Rosings.”

Lady Catherine was scowling at him, her chest heaving with the force of her anger. Mr. Collins cringed at her side, somehow crinkling his tall frame into something shorter than she was. Behind them, Mrs. Jenkinson sat in the corner looking perfectly composed, while Richard and Anne both wore surprised expressions.

“We are making a scene,” Darcy said, his tone quelling.

“We? You and Richard are making a scene. You are making jokes of yourselves,” Lady Catherine snapped.

“If we are, then I am not finished,” Richard said.

Darcy looked past Elizabeth to see Richard turn back to Anne, before whom he still knelt. “Anne, I can’t make an impassioned speech as Darcy did. I’m a simple man. I’m an honest man, as you know. I’ve never thought of you in a romantic way, but I can begin doing so. I think there is a great comfort in wedding someone you know well, and know you get along with. Many marriages don’t have passion. Many do, only to see it flicker out and leave nothing of substance in its wake. We already have the substance, you and I. That will carry us through all of the years, come what may, and, I dare to hope, it will see us happy.” Richard grinned. “Also, I am willing to sign a marriage contract which gives you half of the net income from Rosings and all of your dowry, and I believe you should have the freedom to spend what is yours.”

Lady Catherine threw up her hands, retaking her seat, arms folded across her chest and her face averted. Mr. Collins all but fell into his chair. Anne looked down at Richard, a deep line marring her brow as she considered him. Finally, she turned toward Darcy and Elizabeth.

“How am I meant to respond?” she asked, clearly addressing Elizabeth.

Elizabeth shot Darcy an inscrutable look, sparking worry in him. She turned back to Anne. “There are basically three choices. You can say yes. In your case, I would make it clear you do so contingent on the financial arrangements, since Colonel Fitzwilliam offered them and as you have much at stake.”

She fell silent, glancing at Darcy again. With a murmur of apology, Richard pulled himself to his feet, retaking the chair beside Anne. He held out a hand. She took it without looking, seeming almost unaware she did so. Richard, Darcy realized, had been looking after Anne for a long time. True, only when he was visiting, but he visited often. More often than Darcy did.

“What are the other two choices?” Anne prompted.

“You can say you need to think it over, in which case you would politely offer a time limit. The time limit shouldn’t be more than a day or two. You can’t expect to hold him hanging.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Or, you can say no. In that case, you should thank him for the honor of his proposal. It is an honor, even if both gentlemen went about it in an exceedingly odd way and keep taking liberties with our persons.”

She tugged slightly and Darcy quickly released her hand, feeling a bit ill-used by the reprimand. Then again, she hadn’t said yes yet, so he had no right to her person. Did her removal of her hand signal she would decline? A harsh weight settled in the pit of his stomach.

“What do you plan to do?” Anne asked.

Darcy noticed Anne didn’t reclaim her hand. He cast a sideways look at Elizabeth, catching the pitying glance she was directing toward him. She was going to say no, he realized. He couldn’t permit it. Elizabeth, he’d come to appreciate, had a stubborn streak. If he let her refuse him, it would be difficult to change her mind. He shook off the panic trying to freeze his tongue, speaking before she could. “She is going to do the same thing you are, Anne. She is going to listen in private, voice whatever objections she has, explain her motives, ask me any questions, and then make an informed decision. This is too important to do without thought.” Lady Catherine let out a derisive snort, but Darcy ignored her, pressing on. “Anne, you’ve known Richard all of your life, but you probably have questions for him as well, in light of this possible change in your relationship.” He turned to face Elizabeth, proffering his arm. “Come, Miss Bennet, let’s walk in the shrubbery. I’m sure Anne and Richard can find a place for their conversation as well.”

“None of you will walk anywhere,” Lady Catherine said, but her tone was more peevish than angry. “You shall drop this nonsense and remain here.”

Her expression thoughtful, Elizabeth accepted Darcy’s arm.

“Anne,” Richard said, standing. “Would you care to walk in the garden with me?”

“She would not care to.” Lady Catherine’s tone had regained some of its earlier vehemence. “Anne, I am still your mother. I raised you. You will remain in your seat.”

“I would love to walk in the garden, Richard, thank you,” Anne said, rising to take the arm he offered. “Or should I call you Colonel Fitzwilliam, as we are not truly cousins?” She shot Lady Catherine a venomous look.

“I would prefer Richard.”

Lady Catherine raised a slightly shaking hand to her brow. “This is some kind of inexplicable joke. You have all conspired to make light of me.”

Ignoring his aunt, Darcy led Elizabeth from the room. Behind them, he could hear Anne and Richard following.

“But it’s going to rain.” Mr. Collins protest followed them down the hall.

Present Day, December, Pemberley . . .

Elizabeth watched Darcy over her teacup, employing the delicate porcelain to conceal her smile as his gaze grew abstract. After ten happy years, she knew that look well. He was evaluating, thinking, considering. It was a small victory, for his evaluation may not come out in her favor. She knew, though, that she’d chosen her words well. Darcy was as aware as she of the pitfalls of judging someone without knowing them.

She understood Darcy’s reluctance, likely better than any other person could. Mr. Wickham had overshadowed Darcy his entire childhood. He’d been a charming, pretty boy and a favorite of Darcy’s father. Elizabeth had never met the previous master of Pemberley, and never confided her feelings about him to her husband, but she didn’t quite like the man. What sort of father made his shy, serious son feel he wasn’t as good as the brash, amiable child of another?

Elizabeth’s smile grew. It amused her that she could speak of not judging people one wasn’t familiar with, her manner infused with righteousness, and then condemn the late Mr. Darcy in her thoughts. Still, in a way she was familiar with him, through his children. Of course, in that case, she must love him, for Darcy and Georgiana were wonderful people, with firm moral characters, and who brought great happiness into her life.

Composing her features, Elizabeth lowered her cup. Darcy was well into thought now. She could see it in his abstract gaze. She hoped he would agree to meet young George, at least. He was, as she’d said, a good lad. He showed little of his parents’ wildness and was always polite and happy to see Elizabeth when she visited. In truth, he reminded her more of her sister Jane than of Lydia or Wickham, though in his features he somewhat resembled his father.

She studied Darcy’s face, even more handsome than when they’d married. While she feared the passing years were adding lines to hers, though most were lines of laughter, they’d merely added greater consequence to Darcy’s visage. As she watched, his lips turned up slightly in a smile, and she couldn’t help but mirror it.

Elizabeth ran an idle finger over the roses circling her teacup. She used the set often, and had taken special care to ensure it was out today. It was her favorite, for it reminded her of one of the happiest days of her life, the one when she’d realized she loved Darcy. She had no way to know if it brought the same memories to him, but the roses always invoked a feeling of joy in her heart, and she’d wanted that today.

Retrieving her silverware, she took a bite of her now cooled food, turning her gaze out the window. She loved the grounds of Pemberley, which were stunning even now, snow kissed. Perhaps, if the day went well, she would take the children for a walk later, and Darcy would join them. He’d promised to throw snowballs with their son, and make a snowman with little Jane, and he would. Darcy always kept his promises. It was one of the things she loved about him.

Her eyes tracing the white-iced branches, Elizabeth’s mind turned to a different walk, on a different grounds. It was spring then. A beautiful, perfect spring day. A day on which she’d been misjudging Darcy terribly, and it hadn’t rained.

Over Nine Years Earlier, April 1813, Rosings . . .

Elizabeth walked through the grounds of Rosings in silence, her hand resting lightly on Mr. Darcy’s arm. She was waiting for him to tender an apology for involving her in his family’s tumult, or to beg her forgiveness for subjecting her to his charade. Perhaps she would even tease him a bit by pretending she believed his proposal.

She glanced at him askance, taking in his serious expression. He didn’t look as if he’d appreciate being teased. In truth, the idea didn’t appeal to her. His proposal had seemed much to sincere to make light of.

Yes, it had felt very sincere and, for a moment, she’d believed. Then logic had asserted itself. Mr. Darcy’s proposal couldn’t be an honest one. He barely knew her, or she him. She shook her head. The very idea was ridiculous. The grand Mr. Darcy, who found her only tolerable, would never lower himself to proposing marriage to her, a mere country girl. More than likely, he’d felt secure in making her play a part in his little drama because he imagined she would know there was no possibility he was sincerely interested in someone as low as he saw her to be.

Still, he had proposed, and before witnesses. Elizabeth would never ruin both of their lives by forcing him into a union, but she would use his imprudent behavior to some advantage. She had before her the perfect opportunity to improve the circumstances of her friend Mr. Wickham, for surely Mr. Darcy owed her something by way of apology for his behavior. Adopting a casual bearing she said, “I understand the living willed to Mr. Wickham was given to someone else. Don’t you feel he should be compensated for the loss?”

“You mean by more than the three thousand pounds he already received?” Mr. Darcy asked, frowning slightly.

“Three thousand pounds,” she exclaimed, momentarily taken aback. Could that possibly be true? “He never mentioned receiving that.”

“I don’t have the document he signed giving up the living with me, of course, but Colonel Fitzwilliam knows about it. Please ask him.”

Elizabeth stopped, pulling away from him. She turned to scrutinize his face. He appeared sincere enough, but this was a man who had, moments ago, put on a very convincing show of asking for her hand in marriage. “I don’t believe you.”

His frown deepened. “Then I repeat, ask Colonel Fitzwilliam. I believe he’s in the garden.” Mr. Darcy turned and headed toward the garden, walking rapidly. Elizabeth kept up with him, her certainty that he was lying diminishing in the face of his assurance.

They found Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss de Bourgh seated opposite each other on a set of low stone benches enshrouded by an arbor of climbing roses. It was obvious they were conversing, but broke off before Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy drew near enough to hear, turning to watch their approach. Miss de Bourgh looked back and forth between them, a line of confusion marring her brow.

“Miss Bennet, Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam greeted, standing as they drew near. “May we be of some service to you?”

“Richard, please tell Miss Bennet why Mr. Wickham didn’t receive the family living my father willed him,” Mr. Darcy said, his lack of preamble conveying more disquiet than his expression did.

“Because he received three thousand pounds to give it up,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said promptly, aiming an assessing look at Elizabeth. “It was Mr. Wickham’s idea.”

She didn’t know what to say. Though she didn’t want to believe Mr. Wickham had so grossly misled her, or that she may have so vastly misunderstood Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed sincere as well. Furthermore, he’d given the same information Mr. Darcy had, without prompting.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to interrupt.” Mr. Darcy bowed to his cousins before turning to face Elizabeth, proffering his arm.

“Then, when Darcy refused to give Mr. Wickham the living after the incumbent died, he tried to persuade Darcy’s sister to elope with him,” Miss de Bourgh said before Elizabeth could decide if she wished to take the offered arm or not.

Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam both spun to face Miss de Bourgh, wearing matching expressions of shock.

Miss de Bourgh, however, was looking at Elizabeth, her face serious. “That was last year, when Georgiana Darcy was only fifteen.”

“How do you know that?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, his words clipped.

“She told me.”

If anything, both men appeared even more surprised.

Miss de Bourgh shrugged her narrow shoulder. “Well, she had to talk to someone. You and Darcy weren’t talking to her about it, except to repeatedly tell her it wasn’t her fault. She needed someone to sympathize with her, not tell her she was too young to be responsible for her actions.”

Mr. Darcy’s expression turned hard. “You will not go about sharing Georgiana’s shame, Anne.”

“You’re being the fool Mother labeled you, Darcy,” Miss de Bourgh said with more spirit than Elizabeth would have credited her. “I’m not going about it. I’m telling the woman you hope to marry, because she doesn’t like you much and a large part of that dislike stems from her erroneous perception of Mr. Wickham and his relationship with you.”

It was Elizabeth’s turn to be shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Collins often needs someone to talk with too,” Miss de Bourgh said, her expression smug.

Elizabeth had no notion of what to say to that, at least not to the three people she was with. She could think of several things to say to Charlotte, none of them very courteous.

Miss de Bourgh turned back to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Now, Richard, I believe you were telling me about why you should resign your commission.”

“Ah, yes, right,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. Giving them an apologetic shrug, he retook his seat.

His face a mask, Mr. Darcy offered his arm once more. This time, Elizabeth took it. With long strides, he led them back to their original path. They walked in silence while Elizabeth attempted to comprehend Miss de Bourgh’s and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words. Not only was Mr. Wickham a cad and Mr. Darcy not a brute, but, as unbelievable as it seemed, Mr. Darcy had obviously meant his proposal.

Elizabeth drew in a deep breath. Apparently, she owed Mr. Darcy an apology. “I’m sorry. I misjudged you.”

“It was understandable. You did not know me and had only Wickham’s words on the subject. I realize he is charming.” He raised his face, appearing to study the sky. “Anne said Wickham was a large part of why you don’t like me.” Did she imagine the pain in his voice as he spoke? “What other parts are there?”

“I’d rather not say. No good can come of it.” Even had she still thought Mr. Darcy the monster Wickham painted him as, there was no reason to torment him.

“Miss Bennet, I don’t mean to give up my pursuit of you quite so easily,” Mr. Darcy said, to her surprise. “I believe honesty is our only course, and am willing to try it even if it hurts my chances that you will accept my proposal. If I confess to doing something that cannot at all please you, will you share your grievances so I may have a chance to refute them?”

Elizabeth mulled over his words, turning her head to contemplate his profile. Her first thought was to refuse to discuss the matter further. She did not care for Mr. Darcy and therefore did not wish to marry him. But what if her dislike was woven of figments, as Miss de Bourgh implied? If so, he deserved fresh evaluation. If his proposal was not an act, then it seemed, astonishing as it was, that he did love her.

He loved her enough to propose to her, in spite of her lack of connections or funds. To propose to her before his relations, and bare his feelings for all to see, even his tyrannical aunt. Elizabeth had spoken to Miss de Bourgh of the passion a man should bring to a union. Mr. Darcy had shown her that passion, in spades.

Not to mention, when one wasn’t busy abhorring him, he was rather handsome. Tall, too, with a fine frame. Elizabeth felt her face heat slightly and she dropped her gaze to the path. “Assuming your confession is of a nature comparably momentous to mine, I agree. We shall trade, but as this is your proposal, you will not mind going first.”

He smiled slightly. “I will mind, but I will also agree.” He cleared his throat, tugging at his cravat. “I discouraged Mr. Bingley from proposing to your eldest sister.”

“I suspected as much,” she said, not masking the anger in her tone. “Why?”

“The most cogent reason is that I didn’t think she loved him.”

“She did.” Anyone who knew Jane well could see that.

“She seemed, well, too serene to be in love.”

Elizabeth clenched her fists, trying to keep control of her anger. He didn’t speak again, apparently waiting on her. Though thoughts of Jane’s sorrow twisted her heart, Elizabeth took a steadying breath. She would not fall into the trap of judging too quickly yet again. She cast Mr. Darcy another appraising look.

He said Jane had seemed too serene. Is that how her sister appeared to others? Elizabeth had spoken with Charlotte about that very issue. They’d discussed how little Jane showed her feelings. Charlotte’s opinion seemed, in fact, to mirror Mr. Darcy’s, and Charlotte did know Jane well. Not as well as Elizabeth knew her sister, but then, no one did. She finally said, “You have a point. You said most cogent. What were your other reasons?”

“One reason was a mistaken one. I realized that today. Who knew that tea at Rosings would bring such enlightenment?” This last he said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself, his gaze still turned upward. “I realized, for the first time, that most people justifiably dislike Lady Catherine. I could list her faults, but you probably know them better than I do. I don’t see them, because she is family. I could see the faults in your family because they weren’t mine. It was only when I seriously considered marrying you that I found those faults forgivable. I now realize that if I marry you, your family will become mine, and I will accept them as I do Lady Catherine. Before I fell in love with you, I could not accept your relatives, and I thought Mr. Bingley would dislike them enough that any chance at finding happiness with your sister would be ruined by them. Clearly, I was wrong in that. If loving you permits me to feel acceptance toward your family, Bingley would have no trouble doing so. He is a much more accepting person than I am. I’m certain he would come to care for them.”

It took all of Elizabeth’s concentration not to trip over her own feet during Mr. Darcy’s speech. Did he realize he’d said he loved her? Twice. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire, though her feelings were in too much turmoil for her to know if it was embarrassment or some other emotion that burned there. She was glad he wasn’t looking at her. She tried to marshal her thoughts, realizing she needed to respond. “That seems convoluted,” she finally said.

“That is why I almost didn’t understand it myself,” Mr. Darcy replied.

Elizabeth could say little to that, as she still wasn’t sure she understood. All she truly comprehended from his monologue was that he loved her, and he cared for her family. Mr. Darcy loved her?

“The last reason was Mr. Bingley,” Mr. Darcy said. He shook his head. “Bingley falls in and out of love on a regular basis. I thought that when he stopped seeing your sister, he would stop caring for her, proving his feelings were as fleeting as ever. She seems too kind a person to saddle with a man of fleeting affection.” He shrugged, the muscles of his arm rippling under her hand. “I was wrong on that, too. He hasn’t been involved with anyone else since being parted from your sister. Though he hasn’t said anything, it seems increasingly as if Bingley is pining for her. Are you certain she loved him?”

“Yes,” she said, still saddened by what he’d done, though her anger had dimmed with each of his reasons.

“Regardless of how you answer my proposal, I will write him this evening and tell him I was wrong to think Miss Bennet didn’t love him.”

“That is generous.” Most men wouldn’t admit they were wrong, especially in writing. Then, she was beginning to understand that Mr. Darcy was not most men.

“It is the least I can do, though also the most, I think, for the matter is not truly in my hands, but Bingley’s and your sister’s. It is possible nothing will come of it. His feelings may have changed since last I saw him or, if he does attempt to pursue her further, it may be hers have altered by now.”

Elizabeth did not think Jane so inconstant as that. Then, it had been some time, and it would have been foolish for Jane to keep pining. She’d no reason to think Mr. Bingley would ever return and renew their acquaintance. Without seeing Jane, Elizabeth realized she had no way to know, so she held her peace.

“I believe I have kept my side of our bargain,” Mr. Darcy said, his tone mild.

“Indeed, sir, you have.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together, trying to frame what she must say, for he had made an honest confession, and told her truths she hadn’t necessarily cared for, as he’d implied he would. Again, Mr. Darcy had proven a man of his word.

“Then there is something you would care to say?” he prompted.

Elizabeth looked up at him, finding his eyes on her face. “I did not care for your behavior at the assembly the first night you were in Hertfordshire.”

He frowned, but she had the impression it was a thoughtful look, not censorious. Then he grimaced. “I was not behaving as I ought. I was aloof. It wasn’t until I stopped to consider how my aunt’s actions must seem to others that it occurred to me to wonder how mine are perceived. I do have an explanation, but it isn’t justification.”

“Then explain,” she said, impressed he realized the difference between the two.

“Several of my friends in London invited me to a gathering the night before I left. They made me the focus of it, saying I wouldn’t be in town again for some time. That rendered it impossible for me to leave early. In consequence, I was up and departing London just a few hours after going to bed. I wanted to sleep in the carriage, but Bingley’s sisters insisted on talking to me.” He grimaced, and Elizabeth couldn’t help but sympathize.

“They also insisted on stopping at a tavern, which they claimed would take us only a few minutes,” Mr. Darcy continued. “Between having trouble finding it and the inevitable delays in getting a meal, it cost us another four or five hours. When we arrived, I wanted to rest, but Bingley wanted to show us around Netherfield Park.” Exasperation touched his tone. “I thought that at least I would get to bed at a reasonable time, but they all insisted we go to the assembly.”

Mr. Darcy looked at her, his expression a bit sheepish. “In protest, I informed Bingley of my state and said that if he insisted I go, I would only do the bare minimum, dance with his sisters. It was rude of me, I realize, especially as no one there knew I was at the end of my tolerance. Looking back, I can see how it must have appeared to you, but please believe that is not how I meant it. It wasn’t my intention to, in one night, offend the entirety of the community.”

“Not the entire community,” she allowed, smiling. “But of those you did offend, you managed to do so especially well with one in particular.”

“I did?” He frowned. “It sounds like something I might do, but I can’t recall how I could have. I did my best to keep myself, miserable company as I was that evening, away from everyone, to minimize my offensiveness. Who was it I especially insulted?”

“Me,” she said.

His expression betrayed his shock. “You?”

“I believe Mr. Bingley did not take your declaration that you would dance with no one but his sisters seriously and attempted to persuade you otherwise. He may even have suggested you dance with someone? Someone in particular? Someone who was standing near enough to hear your reply.”

Mr. Darcy halted midstride, taking Elizabeth off guard. She turned back to face him, clasping her hands before her.

“He suggested I dance with . . .” His voice trailed off. “I had forgotten.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if in pain. “I never meant . . . No, I spoke of honesty, and I did mean that. I wanted you to hear. I intended to be unkind. I was double annoyed that Bingley wouldn’t leave me be and that he’d hit upon the one woman at the assembly who tempted me. I knew that if I danced with you, I must dance with all, or rumors would begin. I was angry, and lashed out at both the source of my temptation and my tormentor. You have my profound apology.”

Had he just turned his insult into a compliment? As Mr. Darcy was not a skilled flatterer, she might even take his praise seriously. “It did get us off on the wrong foot,” she allowed, smiling.

“I should have simply refused to go to the assembly. Once I went, I had an obligation to participate. I did not meet that obligation. The world doesn’t adjust to de Bourghs or Darcys. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to understand that.”

She tried to read his expression, for his tone was strained, but he was looking away from her. Why didn’t he want to meet her eyes?

“I fulfilled my social duties to my friends in London, to those riding in the carriage with me, at the tavern, and once we reached Netherfield Park,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Then, when the people were beneath you, you treated them . . . rather, us . . . with contempt,” Elizabeth said, understanding his embarrassment.

“I did. There is no excuse for it. I know it seems odd it took until today for me to realize I was wrong. It took watching you observe Lady Catherine’s behavior for me to realize how ill-behaved I was.” His expression became resolute as he finally met her gaze. “Miss Bennet, please forgive my behavior. I was boorish. When next I am in Hertfordshire, I will endeavor to make amends.”

Everything she thought she knew about Mr. Darcy was disappearing like soap bubbles popping in the air. That didn’t mean she was ready to marry him, but her animosity had dwindled from existence. “Though I cannot speak for all of Hertfordshire, I am willing to accept your apology, Mr. Darcy. What would you say to beginning our acquaintance over?”

“I would say, thank you.” He offered his arm again.

Elizabeth took it. This time, they walked in a companionable way, their pace rambling. Elizabeth soon realized one thing she’d thought about Mr. Darcy was correct, he wasn’t one to initiate a conversation. As she wanted to learn more about him, she would need to draw him out. “Did the tavern live up to expectations?”

His brow creased in confusion for a moment, smoothing as he smiled. “It did. They served a delicious meal. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have considered the detour reasonable. However, next time I go there, I think I’ll plan to stay overnight.”

While they walked, Elizabeth employed gentle prompting to engage Mr. Darcy in conversation. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d first feared it would be, for he seemed eager to converse with her and they talked pleasantly for some time. When he talked about his home and his sister, she could tell he loved both. She’d never thought of Mr. Darcy as a man who could love a person or a place, but clearly he could, and deeply. She’d also never thought of him as a man of passion, but now understood that he was rather a person in which emotions ran deep, by far deep enough to generally keep below the surface.

Eventually, they found themselves on the path leading to the garden they’d met Miss de Bourgh and Colonel Fitzwilliam in earlier. After a slight hesitation, Mr. Darcy steered them down it. “We should likely check on them.”

They rounded the last turn in the path to find Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss de Bourgh now seated on the same bench. The colonel had his arm around her and their heads were close as they spoke in tones too low to hear. Mr. Darcy scuffed his foot, sending a stone clattering down the path. The couple on the bench started, Colonel Fitzwilliam standing. Elizabeth was surprised to see Miss de Bourgh blush.

“Darcy, Miss Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, nodding in greeting. He turned back to Miss de Bourgh, offering a hand, which she took as she came to stand at his side.

“May I assume you’ve accepted Richard’s proposal?” Mr. Darcy asked Miss de Bourgh.

“Yes, I have,” she said, still blushing. “I’m just a little nervous about telling my moth . . . That is, about telling Lady Catherine. I thought we could all go in together and face her.” She turned to Elizabeth. “What about you, Miss Bennet? Have you decided to accept my cousin?”

Elizabeth hesitated, surprised to be placed in the position of answering in that moment. She realized that in the course of their walk, something had come together. From the first time she set eyes on him, Mr. Darcy had captured her attention, even when she didn’t like him. In fact, though she’d been angry with him almost from the moment they met, she’d never been able to ignore him. He was forever in her thoughts. Somehow, with the reasons for her anger explained away, he still filled her mind. She realized a day without him would be an empty day indeed.

Turning to Mr. Darcy, she grinned up at him impishly. “Mr. Darcy is planning to take me to a certain out-of-the-way tavern for a very nice meal. I suppose it wouldn’t be appropriate to accept were we not at least betrothed.” She enjoyed watching his face as he understood her reference. She saw how well the expression of heartfelt delight became him.

A new set of footsteps on the path interrupted Miss de Bourgh’s happy exclamation. Elizabeth, Darcy at her side, turned to see Mrs. Jenkinson walking hurriedly toward them. Far from her usual decorous self, she was wringing her hands.

“Mr. Kendall is here,” Mrs. Jenkinson said. “He knew I planned to tell Lady Catherine today and was worried she would ask me to leave immediately, the dear man. He wanted to be here for me. Now she’s asking him all sorts of questions. She claims to want to know what I’m getting into, but she’s tormenting him. I was hoping you could deflect some of her attention. Will you come?”

“Yes, of course,” Miss de Bourgh said. She started up the path. “Come, Richard.”

Mr. Darcy made to follow, but Elizabeth put a hand on his arm, drawing him back. He turned to her, his look inquiring.

“There is just one more thing I need to know, before I can possibly permit you to declare our union to the world.”

“What is it?” he asked, concern overshadowing his features. “Name it. Anything.”

“Kiss me. I need to be sure we have passion, that--”

Apparently, Darcy didn’t care what else she needed to be sure of, for his arms were about her. Elizabeth was sure they had passion the moment their lips touched, but he was doing too good a job proving it for her to want to interrupt.

“And do hurry,” Mrs. Jenkinson’s voice called, drifting back to them. “Lady Catherine insists it’s going to rain.”

Darcy either didn’t hear her, or didn’t care, for he only deepened their kiss.

Present Day, December, Pemberley . . .

Darcy took in his wife’s smile, wondering what she was thinking about. It couldn’t be their argument, for she wore a look of sublime happiness. Unless, of course, Elizabeth was so sure she was about to win that victory was invoking her smile.

He sighed, pushing away his hardly touched meal. If she was sure she was going to win, she wasn’t far off the mark. At least, she was about to win the first part of the battle, for she was right. He’d learned long ago not to judge someone without knowing them. “I’ll meet the boy.”

She blinked, coming back from wherever her mind had taken her. “You will?”

“I will,” he affirmed. Elizabeth’s smile made the concession easy.

She jumped up from her chair. He noticed she hadn’t eaten much either. She was halfway to the door before she stopped and turned back. “Well, come on,” she said, gesturing for him to follow.

“To London, now?” he asked, standing even though he thought she was acting daft.

“No, to the front parlor.”

Darcy frowned as he crossed the room. “Our front parlor?”

“I can’t imagine barging into someone else’s, especially at this time of day.”

With mounting trepidation, Darcy followed her slender form from the breakfast parlor and through the house. “Why are we going to our front parlor?”

She didn’t reply, merely increasing her stride.

When they neared the parlor, she slowed, smoothing her dress. She looked back at him, holding a finger to her lips to indicate silence, and started forward at a slow pace. Still frowning, Darcy followed.

They reached the open parlor door to find a fair-haired boy standing in the middle of the room. His back was to them and he was gazing up at the Christmas decorations. Elizabeth started forward, but Darcy put a staying hand on her shoulder, overwhelmed by how much the child resembled his father at that age, at least in form, height and locks.

Young George reached toward a delicate ornament surrounded by branches of evergreens, but didn’t touch it. Instead, he dropped his hand, clasping both behind his back, and continued what appeared to be an examination of each piece. Even when his perusal brought him to a finely crafted miniature sailing ship and he leaned forward as if drawn closer by an unseen force, he didn’t touch anything, which was nothing like Wickham.

Elizabeth reached up and placed her hand on top of Darcy’s where it rested on her shoulder. He realized they’d been observing for several long minutes. He cleared his throat. The boy turned.

He looked like Wickham, and he didn’t. His eyes . . . they were Bennet eyes. With a start, Darcy realized they were Elizabeth’s eyes. Lydia Wickham hadn’t had them, her father’s eyes, but she’d passed on them to her son nonetheless. Those eyes were intelligent and, right now, worried.

“Hello George,” Elizabeth said, her tone warm. “I would like you to meet your Uncle Darcy.”

“Hello, sir,” George said. He bowed. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Thank you for inviting me here while . . .” The boy’s voice broke. He swallowed several times. “That is, Aunt Elizabeth said it may take a little while to discuss where it’s best for me to go, now my mum is gone.”

“You’re welcome, George,” Darcy said.

“I know it’s an impo . . . imposion . . .” He screwed up his face in thought. “I know it’s a bit of trouble, because it’s nearly Christmas and everyone has a lot of things to do at Christmas, so we can’t bother them. My mum always said so.”

Darcy darted a surprised look at his wife, recalling that, for the first few years after Wickham died, she’d tried to get him to allow her sister and young George to visit for the holiday. He’d said no, always. He’d told her to send them money to visit other relatives, if need be, but that he wouldn’t have Wickham’s son in his home. Taking in the boys worried, respectful expression, Darcy realized that all those years ago, Anne had been right to call him a fool.

“Well, you’re here now,” Darcy said, offering a smile. “We were going to take a walk about the grounds today. Quite possibly, there will be snowballs, and a snowman. Would you like to come?”

“Really, sir?”

“Yes, really. A Darcy doesn’t make an offer he doesn’t intend to make good on. No man should.” Darcy watched those intelligent Bennet eyes filing that information away.

“Then I should like that very much, sir. Thank you for inviting me.”

“You are welcome, and you do not need to call me sir. You are my nephew. I would be pleased if you would call me Uncle Darcy.”

“Thank you, Uncle Darcy.”

“I’m happy you’ve come to spend Christmas with us, George,” Elizabeth said, crossing to hug the boy.

Darcy took in his wife, a warm smile on her face and her arms about their nephew, the trimmings of the Yuletide surrounding them. He looked at the delicate sailing ship, an ornament his mother had given him as a child, and at the newly reupholstered chairs, that had seated generations of Darcys, set on either side of the fire.

Pemberley was his home. It was filled with the trappings of the Darcy family. It was also full of memories, both happy and sorrowful. Most of all, because of Elizabeth, it was filled with life and love. Darcy was not really a fool, and only a fool would turn the boy away.

~ The End ~

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Want to read more by Renata McMann and Summer Hanford? Take a look below.

By Renata McMann and Summer Hanford

The Second Mrs. Darcy

Georgiana's Folly (The Wickham Coin Book I)

Elizabeth's Plight (The Wickham Coin Book II)

The above two books have been published in a single volume as:

Georgiana's Folly & Elizabeth's Plight: Wickham Coin Series, Volumes I & II

The Scandalous Stepmother

Poor Mr. Darcy

A Death at Rosings

Caroline and the Footman

Mr. Collins’ Deception

Mary Younge

Lady Catherine Regrets

The above four stories (and two additional stories) are collected in:

Pride and Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined A Collection of Six Short Stories

Entanglements of Honor

From Ashes to Heiresses

The Fire at Netherfield Park

Courting Elizabeth

Epiphany with Tea

Miss Bingley’s Christmas

Her Final Wish

Believing in Darcy

By Renata McMann

Heiress to Longbourn

Anne de Bough Manages

Three Daughters Married

The Inconsistency of Caroline Bingley

Pemberley Weddings

The above five stories are collected in:

Pride and Prejudice Variations: A collection of Short Stories

By Summer Hanford

Ladies Always Shoot First Half Hour Reads Series Page

Included are:

Captured by a Duke

To Save a Lord

One Shot for a Gentleman

Anything for a Lord

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From Ashes to Heiresses

In the wake of a devastating fire at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Jane are taken in by their aunt and uncle in Meryton. Concerned about their situation, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley come to Hertfordshire, but not before Mr. Wickham attempts to use Jane’s heartache to his advantage.

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About the Authors

Renata McMann

Renata McMann is the pen name of Teresa McCullough, someone who likes to rewrite public domain works. She is fond of thinking "What if?" To learn more about Renata's work and collaborations, visit www.renatamcmann.com.

Summer Hanford

Summer Hanford writes Regency, fantasy and Pride and Prejudice variations. In May of 2017, her half-hour reads series, Ladies Always Shoot First, was released by Scarsdale Publishing. The first four books in her five book Thrice Born series are: Gift of the Aluien, Hawks of Sorga, Throne of Wheylia and Plains of Tybrunn. Book five is forthcoming in 2017. Shorter works appear in various magazines and anthologies, including Aoife's Kiss, Something Wicked Anthology Vol. II, Daughter of Icarus, The Ampersand Review and Nightmare Walkers and Dream Stalkers Vol. II.

Starting in 2014, Summer was offered the privilege of partnering with fan fiction author Renata McMann on her well-loved Pride and Prejudice variations. More information on these works is available at www.renatamcmann.com. Additionally, in 2016, Summer was lucky enough to be asked to join Austen Authors, a great place for fans to get more Jane Austen. To explore Austen Authors, visit www.austenauthors.net.

Summer is currently working with McMann, providing content for, creating and managing websites, and is the fantasy and science fiction faculty member at AllWriters' Workplace and Workshop, LLC., an international creative writing studio. She lives in Michigan with her husband and compulsory, deliberately spoiled, cats. For more about Summer, visit www.summerhanford.com.