Of all the correspondence received that morning, only the note from Sir Frederick Blackwell was found to be unique, indeed very curious as Mr. Darcy wondered at its stark tone for some hours afterwards.

"I ask that you be accessible tomorrow at ten o'clock," the note had read, "for I intend to pay you a call on a pressing matter." The letter closed with an equally terse expression of gratitude, as though Darcy had no option but to comply as requested, no matter what other business might take precedence. Curious, indeed.

By the time Frederick's arrival was announced had Darcy decided that this meeting must have everything to do with their joint investment in the Cromford cotton mill, and that the concern was no profounder than pounds and shillings. His lifelong neighbor (and occasional friend) had not the best head for business, which was the very reason he sought the partnership in the first place. Chances were excellent he would have some figures for Darcy's perusal, if not a tale of some trivial tussle with the foreman that needed arbitration. But upon entrance was all speculation discredited as Frederick, after a perfunctory salutation, requested their privacy be ensured.

Almost instantly was Darcy alerted to Frederick's countenance. He looked wretched, like he had not slept in days, and with as much alarm as anticipation did Darcy grant his visitor's wish, locking the study door before the two men sat down in adjacent chairs. It took some time for Frederick to begin, as though he had come through no will of his own, and fully dreaded the impending conversation. A few introductory words were uttered, and then silence. Darcy leaned forward slightly, quietly encouraging the man to speak out, in such time formulating his own hypothesis; and with no precedent at all for this odd behavior, no prior instance of pithy notes demanding impromptu meetings in private quarters, his mind fixed on the likeliest (and lowest) of personal misfortunes.

"Is it your father?" Darcy gently inquired after too many seconds had passed.

Frederick answered in the negative, which was indeed surprising; for the stricken Lord Blackwell, at over seventy years of age, had sustained longer than any one of his predecessors, and yet clung to mortality fiercely whilst his senility advanced as steadily as his years. But why, then, did Frederick look so lost, almost frightened? Why were his hands clenched together so tightly that his knuckles matched his neckcloth?

"Whatever it is," said Darcy, "you have my discretion."

"I know," said Frederick, and then finally, in a hushed tone, made the confession. "It's Priscilla, she's had a…lover."

The last word, though almost inaudible, could not be misheard. "A lover?" Darcy quietly repeated, the disclosure nothing less than jarring. Without thinking, he blurted, "Are you certain?"

Frederick swallowed hard, choking out, "Of course I am," before his passions erupted—"and had he not fled the country, I should tear the bastard's heart out!"

"Frederick, wait—just a moment, please." Darcy left his chair to pour his friend a drink, and upon handing him the glass, said, "Now then, ol' boy. Start from the beginning."

"I'd suspected for some time," he began roughly, staring into the brandy then thrown down his gullet. "A couple of months, perhaps. Remember the Harpurs' ball, last autumn?" (Darcy nodded) "I'll never forget the way he looked at her when they danced, nor the grin on his blasted face. You know of whom I speak. Entreat me not to say his name."

Darcy gave but the slightest hint of acknowledgement, keeping just under the surface his vivid recollection of the foppish French count who had ruffled his own feathers after flirting so openly with his Elizabeth. His latent jealousy ere long subsided when she began making sport of the man's twitchy eyebrows and constant smelling of the hors d'oeuvres before tasting them. By the evening's end, the couple had taken to amusing themselves in observance of this brazen young bachelor making love to every pretty face in attendance, including the much-admired and ever-favored Priscilla Blackwell, his intolerable behavior too easily condoned by the Harpurs as a mark of his passionate culture.

"Did she confess to you the affair?" asked Darcy when Frederick went silent once more.

He nodded. "A week ago, after I confronted her with the evidence: a flowery French poem." In a perfect accent, Frederick quoted, "'Dans sa beauté se trouve ma mort et ma vie. In her beauty resides her death and my life.'"

"Scève," said Darcy.

"Pardon?"

"Maurice Scève. Renaissance, I believe. One of my sister's favorites."

At this bit of trivial information, Frederick laughed bitterly. "The prig could not be bothered to think of something original!"

"Which should leave you with plenty of doubt as to the sincerity of his regard. And how came you upon this evidence, pray?"

"By my own investigation." He hesitated before adding, "And the added help of her lady's maid."

"You enlisted her maid to spy on her?"

"For bloody good reason, by God!" the man barked. "And no woman is at liberty to keep anything from her husband. I was well within my rights."

Darcy fell silent on this legally accurate, though morally questionable point, reckoning no good could come from disputing a man in his state. Furthermore, it would seem Frederick's wife was guilty of a far worse transgression meriting far more sympathy. For all of Frederick Blackwell's faults, and there were several, compassion was entitled to the recipient of so vile a betrayal, and to that end was the visit owed; thus was Darcy's reply:

"I am truly sorry, ol' friend. I would not have thought Priscilla capable…"

"Nor I," said the poor fellow now suffused with more sadness than anger. "She was the sweetest, loveliest thing in the world. God, I loved her so."

Darcy raised his eyebrows, impelling Frederick to ask, "What, are you surprised, ol' boy?"

"Well, I…that is to say, I've never heard you speak of your wife in such terms."

"Nor have I heard you speak of yours thus," countered he, "and yet it is common knowledge just the same."

Frederick handed him the empty glass, implying that he should like another. Darcy moved to fulfill the unspoken request, straining to recall the number of times Priscilla was referenced in terms richer than youth, beauty, fertility, family, fortune or connections, the sum total at zero by the time he asked, "Where is your wife now?"

"Melbourne," he answered resentfully, "to her father's unequivocal delight. 'Tis likely her future with Lord Selvidge is being planned as we speak."

In this retort was verified one of several rumors circulated in the weeks before Frederick's nuptials; that the younger, meeker Lord Selvidge had been intended for Priscilla long before this older, prouder peacock sauntered into her life, brimming with unbecoming confidence and the worldliness comprising a man twice her age, easily winning Priscilla's favor, it was said, with far more bravado than her domineering father was used to. That Sir Frederick was but six months widowed before declaring himself ensued a heartier disapproval of the alliance, his indifference to propriety and her father's censure prompting a lasting contempt. Permission to wed his nineteen-year-old daughter was granted only after the promising of an absurdly immense fortune on the event of Frederick's death, which was reasoned could not be too far off given his twenty-year seniority. And once the settlement was finally agreed upon was he happily rewarded with his girl bride thereafter crowed about like she were a prized broodmare, effectively revolting his less vain and more introspective peers, including and especially Mrs. Darcy, who found Sir Frederick barely tolerable on his best day.

"Did she leave you willingly?" asked Darcy, and on Frederick's nod was moved to query further: "Indeed? Without discussion? Without asking forgiveness? With no offer of an explanation?" (no response) "For God's sake, Frederick, made you no attempt at all at reconciliation before you sent the woman packing?"

"I did not send her away, nor was I open – at the time – to her explanations or contrition. Of a truth, I was enraged, so much that it frightened her; and thus she absconded soon thereafter, with just a few possessions. I regret it now, but I could not—could not stop shouting. And I would not listen. You might say I'd gone a bit mad in my response to her admission."

With those words (and his unsettling aspect) came a moment of dread as Darcy asked plainly, "Did you beat her?"

To Darcy's relief was the answer a definitive "No!" followed by Frederick's assertion that he could never harm Priscilla—"no matter what she's done to earn it. Besides, no amount of pain delivered upon her would have purged my own, just as no explanation would have sufficed; and so I lashed out verbally, fitfully. She did manage to say a few words in-between; that the affair was brief, that she did not love him; that she was…that she only felt undervalued and unappreciated, and that he…he…"

Frederick's face contorted as though it physically hurt to go on, and mercifully was he assured that no further explanation was needed, though Darcy began to wonder if more brandy might be counterproductive, rather akin to stoking a bonfire than dousing the flame. Nonetheless he poured another glass. "Do you intend to dissolve the marriage?"

The question was met with a curious look, then another angry outburst: "And let that buggering little frog claim victory? Over me? Give her father or that sniveling Selvidge the satisfaction of being rid of me? Over my dead body!"

Darcy shook his head with pity, a motion unseen by Frederick as his eyes were fixed to the desk throughout his impassioned speech. Though he was not so adept at offering comfort as his friend might have hoped, Darcy supposed himself more proficient at offering perspective, and thus said:

"I think your wife's youth and inexperience might be taken into account. Not as an excuse for her actions, but in providing the dilemma its due context."

Replied Frederick, "I should provide allowance for this one transgression, were I confident of its being the last. Never have I been blind to the reality of what I possess. Priscilla is far too beautiful not to meet temptation, too green to resist the lure of seduction, and too trusting to perceive the artfulness of her lover. But I blame not these characteristics for what's happened, Darcy. Rather—"

"Indeed that was not my point, Frederick—"

"Rather," he repeated, "I have come to realize my wife's susceptibility to persuasion has been paramount in her choice to walk this treacherous path."

Frederick was looking at him now, and with an aspect oddly accusatory. Drink in hand, Darcy stepped towards him, quite befuddled as to why he was being regarded thus. Surely the man cannot believe him in some way culpable in this affair? The very notion was ludicrous; for in the two-year span of her marriage had he spoke naught but a few words to Priscilla Blackwell, for no purpose but politeness and, of course, always in public.

If it were true, thought Darcy, if persuasion played as substantial a part as Frederick believes, the far more likely accomplice would be a woman, moreover a trusted friend, in which case…

Like a dead leaf his humor fell, and with a flagging urge to be hospitable did Darcy pause just short of handing his guest the replenished glass. Silently he dared the man to come right out with it, and at length said to him: "What sort of persuasion, pray?"

"Why your wife's persuasion, of course!" Frederick spat, the sheer venom in the foreseen allegation enough to ignite within Darcy a sudden, fierce disdain for this man stupid enough to emit such defamation in his home, his study, about his Elizabeth.

But he would take care to be tranquil, despite the provocation, and with remembrance that he was dealing with a man in great distress; hence he calmly but contemptuously replied, "And what, may I ask, has led you to that conclusion?"

Uttering a foul curse, Frederick shot out of his chair and made for the nearest window, his agitation such that he seemed entirely unable to manage himself, no matter how hard he tried. Staring out, he took a deep breath and answered, with better restraint, "It was not my intention to speak out in a manner so…abrupt. Forgive me, ol' boy. I am not quite myself."

"I see that," Darcy returned before he swallowed down the drink in his hand, set down the glass, and said, "So that is the reason you've come then? Not for my friendship, sympathy or guidance, but to accuse my wife of meddling in your marriage, and of persuading your wife to take a lover? Am I correct in that assumption?"

"I suppose now you will call me out, eh?"

His airy reply left Darcy livid."I have four children, you swaggering shit, and am far too old for this nonsense!"

At once Frederick seemed to realize his blunder as he abruptly turned from the window, but just a few words into a feeble apology was the pathetic wretch cut off with Darcy's brusque demand to show himself out and never return. Excessive, Darcy would later admit, but as his temper vanished so emerged his stubbornness in full swing.

Frederick watched in astonishment his host make for the door, and upon unlocking it declare their friendship and their business connection hereby severed, punctuated with, "You will hear from my solicitor directly."

"Oh come now, Darcy, you cannot mean that. You will lose thousands!"

"A sorely underrated luxury is my indifference to that fact."

"Wait, please!" cried Frederick, his eyes full of contrition, as the door was swung open. A more earnest apology and a desperate plea for one more minute of Darcy's time followed—"to explain myself, nothing more. Just one minute, and you will never see me again if that is your wish. On my father's life, I swear it."

Darcy glared at him, jaw set and rebuff prepared; and yet the tone of Frederick's voice stayed his tongue, moreover the despair never before witnessed in this proud, pompous man truly frightened by his predicament, a man who never once showed weakness, even as a boy.

"Have pity, Will," Frederick implored, having not addressed him thus since their youth. "One more minute, please."

Gripping the door's edge, Darcy thrust it forward, letting it slam. "Starting now," he said grudgingly, and with that began Frederick's hurried explanation:

"As you well know, my wife and Mrs. Darcy have formed a friendship in the last year or so, which I have found not in the least bit objectionable. On numerous occasions has Priscilla expressed to me her ardent admiration for the lady, for her intelligence, her wit, and her admittedly charming but rather…peculiar independence of spirit."

Darcy flushed at the pejorative manner in which these adjectives were expelled, his goodwill hanging by a spider's thread as Frederick went on:

"It has come to my attention of late, that Priscilla has taken to reading certain materials on the lady's recommendation, works I strongly object to and was inclined to forbid—for her own good, mind you. Such works are enticing to an especially young woman, and at one-and-twenty is Priscilla still so impressionable, so ripe for the perversions of these contemporary poets and authors. I'll not mince words, ol' boy, and how it pains me to say, that Mrs. Darcy has, whether consciously or not, awakened an urge within my wife to rebel."

"I see," was Darcy's cold reply. "Thirty seconds."

"What, you think me out of order?" Frederick snapped. "That I am not aware of the contempt in which your wife holds me, that her expressions have escaped my notice, that I have not read the inference in her remarks these twelve years, that I have been oblivious to her disparagement and derision? I have seen how she pities my Priscilla for marrying me, for enduring me, and on several occasions has my wife credited yours as a most enlightened woman of understanding. It was declared that her friendship has been invaluable, that she is dear, wise and sensible. Though it was never declared openly that the affair occurred as a direct result of the lady's influence, it is more than fair to assume these illicit ideas might have never entered my wife's head, had such a friendship never materialized. But before you cast me out, let me assure you I did not come here for the purpose of condemning either of you. You have always had my respect, Darcy—always! Your family, as well. And that respect has never wavered, not one bit."

Frederick began pacing the floor, growing evermore excitable as he continued:

"Of a truth, I care not a whit about how much or how little anyone is to blame for this. Do believe me when I say the extent of your wife's involvement is of no importance to me, her opinion of me irrelevant, her intent, or lack thereof, entirely immaterial. I only want…"

Frederick whipped around again, giving Darcy his back and slamming a palm hard against the wall. "I want my wife back!" he shouted, pounding the wall in repetition, rattling the decanter and shocking his host with the force of his desperate plea.

Darcy recognized such desperation. In his own reflection he had seen it, several years ago, and upon no one could he wish a burden so oppressive, no matter his offense. Whether such empathy was merited or not, the man's grief was felt with an acuteness that pierced his heart, awakened his empathy, and flipped his anger on its head.

"Sit down, Frederick," he bade softly, wondering if this man formerly bounded by the armor of his lineage had even the capacity to fully understand these feelings; for it seemed he should much rather expel them than comprehend them. And on the command's submission Darcy mulled over the best way to proceed. "You want her back, you say. Very well. And what is it you want from me? Surely you cannot think it within my power to save your marriage."

"It is not your power I need, Darcy. Have you not deduced that by now?"

Frederick looked at him, and indeed Darcy knew. With a pitying shake of his head, he opened his mouth to argue the impossibility of such a notion, only to be refuted preemptively, his tacit objections countered with more examples of Mrs. Darcy's profound influence over the pliable Priscilla Blackwell, from her increasingly decided opinions on various subjects to her fresh interest in taking long walks in solitude. By the end, Darcy imagined himself possessing the patience of a saint as he calmly retorted:

"Had Mrs. Darcy even half the power you presume, it is your own contention, Frederick, that she thinks so ill of you as to remove her friend from your power. And so I ask you: What reason has my wife to assist you by any method within her authority?" Before he'd finished the question Darcy knew its answer, and then asked, "Is this where I am to enter the scene, pray?"

"It is." As he said the words, Frederick seemed finally to realize the extent to which he was willing to humble himself, no doubt for the first time in his life. "Will you speak to her?"

"And what am I to say on your behalf, sir?"

"That I am willing to do anything; that I am truly at her mercy. And Priscilla's."

At length Darcy pondered, still quite reluctant, before replying, "Do you love her that much? Or is this all to do with your pride, Frederick? Are we to be embroiled in a situation amounting to nothing more delicate than your dignity, conceit and, I daresay, your arrogance, that a Blackwell's prized possession should have the gall to humiliate him in such a manner?"

Replied Frederick, with great melancholy, "Is it not clear enough how drained I am of such attributes? Indeed the vacancy I feel is overwhelming. Excruciating. Only drink has numbed the pain. But I am tired of drinking, Darcy. Tired of numbing myself lest I fall ill beyond repair. The master of Pemberley knows better than I do the consequences of so dreadful an outcome. It cannot be afforded. My duties are incalculable. My father is dying; I am without an heir, and so downhearted that I fear Kingston shall crumble under the weight of my despair. Help me, Darcy. I am begging you."