Will Darcy came down from Cambridge as soon as he had the news. His father's letter had been short: Mother dead, baby as well. Come as soon as you can.

The funeral was a hasty affair put together by his father's steward, though nonetheless well-attended. Anne Darcy was very popular, and for good reason. Yet her own husband abstained from the rituals, and it was left to Will and nine-year-old Georgie to greet the guests and accept their condolences.

It didn't end there. The Darcy's received an onslaught of guests afterward, people coming by to pay condolences, bringing gifts and lingering for hours afterward. Will didn't understand their purpose. He wanted to be alone, to sit quietly with his sister, to remember his mother. He did not want to entertain these people, most of whom he did not know, and especially not alone. For still Mr. Darcy remained locked up, a voluntary prisoner, lost for grief. Will had not seen him in days, nor did he dare approach his father's room.

Mr. Darcy had met Anne Weston when he was a boy and had loved her unconditionally ever since. From the start, there was no one else for him, everyone said. And he married her the day after she turned sixteen, and that marriage lasted twenty-five years. Mr. Darcy had known nor desired a life without Anne.

"Most people aren't so lucky," said Mrs. Gardiner, who was Mrs. Darcy's dearest friend from girlhood, "to have what your parents had. He'll need time, Will. And you, my love, will have to grow up."

But Will did not want to grow up. He was supposed to be a privileged young gentleman, enjoying his last year at university before returning home to learn how to run the estate. He was supposed to have family and youth and time, not the burden of sorrow and an absent father and responsibility thrust upon him.

So he retreated, to the library, far into the stacks, where he could remain undetected. He read and he slept and he wept and he dreamt of his mother. When Georgie came to find him, he rebuked her so sternly she cried. She did not return.

An eon later, he was found again.

"Will," said a voice from very faraway. "William."

Will's eyes shot open. The vague shape of Mrs. Gardiner appeared before him.

"Will, I've brought someone for you to meet," she said.

Before his mother's death, before his father took to his bed, Will never would have dared to speak a contrary word to Mrs. Gardiner. Both Mr. and Mrs. Darcy respected her too much. He himself respected her too much. Georgie called her "Aunt Marie."

But the order of things was all wrong. He should not be left alone to manage an estate and a fortune and a little girl, while his beautiful young mother lay in a grave and his father shut himself up.

"No," he said, shutting his eyes again, knowing he sounded petulant. "I don't want to meet anyone. I don't need your pity, Marie."

If Mrs. Gardiner was shocked at his use of her first name, she did not show it. "Well, it's not on your account I'm bringing her. She's new to town, staying with Edward and me for a few weeks, and I'd like to introduce her to our dearest friends. She's our niece, you see, from the country. She knows not a soul and I believe you could spare a half hour of your time. I thought of you first, Will, because you were always the sweetest and most kind-hearted boy, and I doubt that will ever change. I trusted a half an hour of conversation would not hurt you. I trusted that would not be an imposition."

Will opened his eyes again, finally seeing Mrs. Gardiner, his mother's confidante, a second mother to him, and now all he had left in this world that was willing to reach out to him. A wave of shame washed over him, and he sat up straight.

"I...I would be honored, madam," he said finally.

He rose as Mrs. Gardiner's niece entered the room.

She was plain enough, with her common features and clearly second-hand frock. Her nose was crooked and off-center; her hair unruly. Her smile revealed a slight gap between her two front teeth.

But her eyes - multiple shades of green that challenged and fixated him - her eyes were all Will saw.

Those eyes - Anne Darcy had them too. They were brown, but the resemblance was overpowering. For twenty-one years, she stared at her son through them, loving him, berating him, supporting him.

He'd thought them incomparable.

And here they were, on this girl, some country bumpkin relative of the Gardiners' without a farthing to her name.

Forgetting his guilt and his obligation, Will Darcy walked straight past her out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

What he hadn't expected was that she would follow him.

"Mr. Darcy! Wait, Mr. Darcy, sir!"

Part of the reason that Will didn't answer was that he did not want to be followed. And the other was that no one called him Mr. Darcy.

He wheeled around. "What? What is it?"

"I wanted to say that I am most sorry if I've offended you." Her words came out fast and furious. "I told Aunt Marie this would offend you most terribly, that you needed your time to grieve, but she was so certain that this would do you good. But I know...I know all you want to do is be alone. I shouldn't blame you, not at all."

Despite himself, Will remained planted in his spot.

"How did you know what I would want?"

"My father," she whispered back. "He passed last year. Aside from Jane, my sister, he was my greatest friend."

For the first time since his father's letter, something besides self-pity arose in Will.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said awkwardly, and he meant it.

"I miss him still," she said, meeting his gaze. "But time helps with that. It will not always be so bad."

Of all the mourners and well-wishers, no one had said this to Will.

"Thank you," he returned.

"I best be going, my aunt will be waiting," she said, and she curtsied, about to turn on her heel.

"Wait! Your name?"

She smiled at him, making Will feel something he'd never felt in his entire life.

"Elizabeth, sir," she said. "Elizabeth Bennet."